Datasets:

renziify

/

MYSTLYE

like 0

1984

Chapter 1 t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him. The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran. Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of fig- 1984 ures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended. Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered. Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig-iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized. Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste—this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy 1984 garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow-herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken-houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of brightlit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible. The Ministry of Truth—Minitrue, in Newspeak [Newspeak was the official language of Oceania. For an account of its structure and etymology see Appendix.]—was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party: WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty. The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbedwire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine-gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons. Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark-coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice-spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved 1984 himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine. Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back to the living-room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto-sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover. For some reason the telescreen in the living-room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do. But it had also been suggested by the book that he had Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk-shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops (’dealing on the free market’, it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession. The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twentyfive years in a forced-labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink-pencil. Actually he was not used to 10 1984 writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speak-write which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote: April 4th, 1984. He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty-nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two. For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word DOUBLETHINK. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless. For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the pow- 11 er of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops: April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter 1 1984 when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle-aged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child’s arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never—— Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come 1 home and begin the diary today. It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen. It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably—since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner—she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unortho- 14 1984 doxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him. The other person was a man named O’Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O’Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming—in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O’Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O’Brien’s urbane manner and his prize-fighter’s physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief—or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope—that O’Brien’s political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. 1 And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O’Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind. The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s neck. The Hate had started. As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was 1 1984 none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party’s purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even—so it was occasionally rumoured—in some hidingplace in Oceania itself. Winston’s diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard—a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party—an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed—and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha- 1 bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein’s specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army—row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers’ boots formed the background to Goldstein’s bleating voice. Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were—in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked 18 1984 by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor THE BOOK was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it. In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O’Brien’s heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein’s nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act 19 a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledgehammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston’s hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization. It was even possible, at moments, to switch one’s hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one’s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to 0 1984 the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized WHY it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity. The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep’s bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio’d, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out 1 in bold capitals: WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone’s eyeballs was too vivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous murmur that sounded like ‘My Saviour!’ she extended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer. At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of ‘B-B!...B-B!’—over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first ‘B’ and the second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tomtoms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston’s entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chant- 1984 ing of ‘B-B!...B-B!’ always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened—if, indeed, it did happen. Momentarily he caught O’Brien’s eye. O’Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew—yes, he KNEW!—that O’Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes. ‘I am with you,’ O’Brien seemed to be saying to him. ‘I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don’t worry, I am on your side!’ And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O’Brien’s face was as inscrutable as everybody else’s. That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after all—perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls—once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything. He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O’Brien again. The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live. Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach. His eyes re-focused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals—DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER over and over again, filling half a page. He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not 4 1984 more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether. He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed—would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper—the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you. It was always at night—the arrests invariably happened at night. The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one-time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: VAPORIZED was the usual word. For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in a hurried untidy scrawl: theyll shoot me i don’t care theyll shoot me in the back of the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother—— He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the door. Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and moved heavily towards the door. 1984 Chapter 2 As he put his hand to the door-knob Winston saw that he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceivably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet. He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed-looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face, was standing outside. ‘Oh, comrade,’ she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, ‘I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It’s got blocked up and——’ It was Mrs Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. (’Mrs’ was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party—you were supposed to call everyone ‘comrade’— but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face. Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a window-pane for two years. ‘Of course it’s only because Tom isn’t home,’ said Mrs Parsons vaguely. The Parsons’ flat was bigger than Winston’s, and dingy in a different way. Everything had a battered, trampled-on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impedimenta—hockey-sticks, boxing-gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside out—lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dog-eared exercise-books. On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled-cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which— one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say how—was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen. ‘It’s the children,’ said Mrs Parsons, casting a half-apprehensive glance at the door. ‘They haven’t been out today. And of course——’ 8 1984 She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle-joint of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs Parsons looked on helplessly. ‘Of course if Tom was home he’d put it right in a moment,’ she said. ‘He loves anything like that. He’s ever so good with his hands, Tom is.’ Parsons was Winston’s fellow-employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms—one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty-five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every evening for the past four years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed 9 him about wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone. ‘Have you got a spanner?’ said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the angle-joint. ‘A spanner,’ said Mrs Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate. ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps the children— —’ There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the children charged into the living-room. Mrs Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room. ‘Up with your hands!’ yelled a savage voice. A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy’s demeanour, that it was not altogether a game. ‘You’re a traitor!’ yelled the boy. ‘You’re a thought-criminal! You’re a Eurasian spy! I’ll shoot you, I’ll vaporize you, I’ll send you to the salt mines!’ Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting ‘Traitor!’ and ‘Thought-criminal!’ the little girl imitating 0 1984 her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boy’s eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought. Mrs Parsons’ eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back again. In the better light of the livingroom he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face. ‘They do get so noisy,’ she said. ‘They’re disappointed because they couldn’t go to see the hanging, that’s what it is. I’m too busy to take them. and Tom won’t be back from work in time.’ ‘Why can’t we go and see the hanging?’ roared the boy in his huge voice. ‘Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!’ chanted the little girl, still capering round. Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult. 1 ‘Goldstein!’ bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman’s greyish face. Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been anchored between Iceland and the Faroe lslands. With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother—it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which ‘The Times’ did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak—’child hero’ was the 1984 phrase generally used—had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police. The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O’Brien again. Years ago—how long was it? Seven years it must be—he had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed: ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.’ It was said very quietly, almost casually—a statement, not a command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at the time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen O’Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he had first identified the voice as O’Brien’s. But at any rate the identification existed. It was O’Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark. Winston had never been able to feel sure—even after this morning’s flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship. ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,’ he had said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come true. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly: ’Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash— —’ Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty. Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling. The telescreen—perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate— crashed into ‘Oceania, ‘tis for thee’. You were supposed to stand to attention. However, in his present position he was invisible. ‘Oceania, ‘tis for thee’ gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over to the window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present. 4 1984 Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc. Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure FOR EVER? Like an answer, the three slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him: WAR IS PEACE FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH He took a twenty-five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet—everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed—no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future, for the past—for an age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive? The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be back at work by fourteen-thirty. Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote: To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone—to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink—greetings! 1984 He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote: Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death. Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark-haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old-fashioned pen, WHAT he had been writing—and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty darkbrown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose. He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across the page-ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter 3 Winston was dreaming of his mother. He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles of his father’s shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great purges of the fifties. At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean place—the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave—but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down into the green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to death, and they 8 1984 were down there because he was up here. He knew it and they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoidable order of things. He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one’s intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother’s death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason. His mother’s memory tore at his heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking. 9 Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women’s hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees. The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word ‘Shakespeare’ on his lips. The telescreen was giving forth an ear-splitting whistle which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It 40 1984 was nought seven fifteen, getting-up time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed—naked, for a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600—and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching. ‘Thirty to forty group!’ yapped a piercing female voice. ‘Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!’ Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym-shoes, had already appeared. ‘Arms bending and stretching!’ she rapped out. ‘Take your time by me. ONE, two, three, four! ONE, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! ONE, two, three four! ONE two, three, four!...’ The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston’s mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling 41 to think his way backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been called London. Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember his father’s hand clutching his own as they hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them. She was carrying his baby sister—or perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether 4 1984 his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station. There were people sitting all over the stone-flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved—a little granddaughter, perhaps—had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating: ’We didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted ‘em. I said so, Ma, didn’t I? That’s what comes of trusting ‘em. I said so all along. We didn’t ought to ‘ave trusted the buggers.’ But which buggers they didn’t ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember. Since about that time, war had been literally continu- 4 ous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible. The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles)—the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, IT NEVER HAPPENED—that, 44 1984 surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death? The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed— if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth. ‘Who controls the past,’ ran the Party slogan, ‘controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.’ And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. ‘Reality control’, they called it: in Newspeak, ‘doublethink’. ‘Stand easy!’ barked the instructress, a little more genially. Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the 4 moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word ‘doublethink’ involved the use of doublethink. The instructress had called them to attention again. ‘And now let’s see which of us can touch our toes!’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Right over from the hips, please, comrades. ONE-two! ONE-two!...’ Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit. The half-pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in great gleaming motor-cars or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no knowing how much of this legend was true 4 1984 and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before 1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form—’English Socialism’, that is to say—it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion—— ‘Smith!’ screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W.! Yes, YOU! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You’re not trying. Lower, please! THAT’S better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.’ A sudden hot sweat had broken out all over Winston’s body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment! A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and—one could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency—bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes. ‘THERE, comrades! THAT’S how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I’m thirty-nine and I’ve had four children. Now look.’ She bent over again. ‘You see MY 4 knees aren’t bent. You can all do it if you want to,’ she added as she straightened herself up. ‘Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don’t all have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can all keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses! Just think what THEY have to put up with. Now try again. That’s better, comrade, that’s MUCH better,’ she added encouragingly as Winston, with a violent lunge, succeeded in touching his toes with knees unbent, for the first time in several years. 48 1984 Chapter 4 With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day’s work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk. In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston’s arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building. Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had 49 unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon—not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words—which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran: times 17.3.84 bb speech malreported africa rectify times 19.12.83 forecasts 3 yp 4th quarter 83 misprints verify current issue times 14.2.84 miniplenty malquoted chocolate rectify times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling With a faint feeling of satisfaction Winston laid the fourth message aside. It was an intricate and responsible job and had better be dealt with last. The other three were routine matters, though the second one would probably mean some tedious wading through lists of figures. Winston dialled ‘back numbers’ on the telescreen and called for the appropriate issues of ‘The Times’, which slid out of the pneumatic tube after only a few minutes’ delay. The messages he had received referred to articles or news items which for one reason or another it was thought necessary to alter, or, as the official phrase had it, to rectify. For example, it appeared from ‘The Times’ of the seventeenth of March that Big Brother, in his speech of the previous day, had predicted that the South Indian front would remain quiet but that a Eurasian offensive would shortly be 0 1984 launched in North Africa. As it happened, the Eurasian Higher Command had launched its offensive in South India and left North Africa alone. It was therefore necessary to rewrite a paragraph of Big Brother’s speech, in such a way as to make him predict the thing that had actually happened. Or again, ‘The Times’ of the nineteenth of December had published the official forecasts of the output of various classes of consumption goods in the fourth quarter of 1983, which was also the sixth quarter of the Ninth Three-Year Plan. Today’s issue contained a statement of the actual output, from which it appeared that the forecasts were in every instance grossly wrong. Winston’s job was to rectify the original figures by making them agree with the later ones. As for the third message, it referred to a very simple error which could be set right in a couple of minutes. As short a time ago as February, the Ministry of Plenty had issued a promise (a ‘categorical pledge’ were the official words) that there would be no reduction of the chocolate ration during 1984. Actually, as Winston was aware, the chocolate ration was to be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty at the end of the present week. All that was needed was to substitute for the original promise a warning that it would probably be necessary to reduce the ration at some time in April. As soon as Winston had dealt with each of the messages, he clipped his speakwritten corrections to the appropriate copy of ‘The Times’ and pushed them into the pneumatic tube. Then, with a movement which was as nearly as possible unconscious, he crumpled up the original message and any notes that he himself had made, and dropped them into 1 the memory hole to be devoured by the flames. What happened in the unseen labyrinth to which the pneumatic tubes led, he did not know in detail, but he did know in general terms. As soon as all the corrections which happened to be necessary in any particular number of ‘The Times’ had been assembled and collated, that number would be reprinted, the original copy destroyed, and the corrected copy placed on the files in its stead. This process of continuous alteration was applied not only to newspapers, but to books, periodicals, pamphlets, posters, leaflets, films, sound-tracks, cartoons, photographs—to every kind of literature or documentation which might conceivably hold any political or ideological significance. Day by day and almost minute by minute the past was brought up to date. In this way every prediction made by the Party could be shown by documentary evidence to have been correct, nor was any item of news, or any expression of opinion, which conflicted with the needs of the moment, ever allowed to remain on record. All history was a palimpsest, scraped clean and reinscribed exactly as often as was necessary. In no case would it have been possible, once the deed was done, to prove that any falsification had taken place. The largest section of the Records Department, far larger than the one on which Winston worked, consisted simply of persons whose duty it was to track down and collect all copies of books, newspapers, and other documents which had been superseded and were due for destruction. A number of ‘The Times’ which might, because of changes in political alignment, or mistaken prophecies uttered by Big Brother, have 1984 been rewritten a dozen times still stood on the files bearing its original date, and no other copy existed to contradict it. Books, also, were recalled and rewritten again and again, and were invariably reissued without any admission that any alteration had been made. Even the written instructions which Winston received, and which he invariably got rid of as soon as he had dealt with them, never stated or implied that an act of forgery was to be committed: always the reference was to slips, errors, misprints, or misquotations which it was necessary to put right in the interests of accuracy. But actually, he thought as he re-adjusted the Ministry of Plenty’s figures, it was not even forgery. It was merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another. Most of the material that you were dealing with had no connexion with anything in the real world, not even the kind of connexion that is contained in a direct lie. Statistics were just as much a fantasy in their original version as in their rectified version. A great deal of the time you were expected to make them up out of your head. For example, the Ministry of Plenty’s forecast had estimated the output of boots for the quarter at 145 million pairs. The actual output was given as sixty-two millions. Winston, however, in rewriting the forecast, marked the figure down to fifty-seven millions, so as to allow for the usual claim that the quota had been overfulfilled. In any case, sixty-two millions was no nearer the truth than fifty-seven millions, or than 145 millions. Very likely no boots had been produced at all. Likelier still, nobody knew how many had been produced, much less Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com cared. All one knew was that every quarter astronomical numbers of boots were produced on paper, while perhaps half the population of Oceania went barefoot. And so it was with every class of recorded fact, great or small. Everything faded away into a shadow-world in which, finally, even the date of the year had become uncertain. Winston glanced across the hall. In the corresponding cubicle on the other side a small, precise-looking, darkchinned man named Tillotson was working steadily away, with a folded newspaper on his knee and his mouth very close to the mouthpiece of the speakwrite. He had the air of trying to keep what he was saying a secret between himself and the telescreen. He looked up, and his spectacles darted a hostile flash in Winston’s direction. Winston hardly knew Tillotson, and had no idea what work he was employed on. People in the Records Department did not readily talk about their jobs. In the long, windowless hall, with its double row of cubicles and its endless rustle of papers and hum of voices murmuring into speakwrites, there were quite a dozen people whom Winston did not even know by name, though he daily saw them hurrying to and fro in the corridors or gesticulating in the Two Minutes Hate. He knew that in the cubicle next to him the little woman with sandy hair toiled day in day out, simply at tracking down and deleting from the Press the names of people who had been vaporized and were therefore considered never to have existed. There was a certain fitness in this, since her own husband had been vaporized a couple of years earlier. And a few cubicles away a mild, ineffec- 4 1984 tual, dreamy creature named Ampleforth, with very hairy ears and a surprising talent for juggling with rhymes and metres, was engaged in producing garbled versions—definitive texts, they were called—of poems which had become ideologically offensive, but which for one reason or another were to be retained in the anthologies. And this hall, with its fifty workers or thereabouts, was only one sub-section, a single cell, as it were, in the huge complexity of the Records Department. Beyond, above, below, were other swarms of workers engaged in an unimaginable multitude of jobs. There were the huge printing-shops with their sub-editors, their typography experts, and their elaborately equipped studios for the faking of photographs. There was the teleprogrammes section with its engineers, its producers, and its teams of actors specially chosen for their skill in imitating voices. There were the armies of reference clerks whose job was simply to draw up lists of books and periodicals which were due for recall. There were the vast repositories where the corrected documents were stored, and the hidden furnaces where the original copies were destroyed. And somewhere or other, quite anonymous, there were the directing brains who co-ordinated the whole effort and laid down the lines of policy which made it necessary that this fragment of the past should be preserved, that one falsified, and the other rubbed out of existence. And the Records Department, after all, was itself only a single branch of the Ministry of Truth, whose primary job was not to reconstruct the past but to supply the citizens of Oceania with newspapers, films, textbooks, telescreen Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com programmes, plays, novels—with every conceivable kind of information, instruction, or entertainment, from a statue to a slogan, from a lyric poem to a biological treatise, and from a child’s spelling-book to a Newspeak dictionary. And the Ministry had not only to supply the multifarious needs of the party, but also to repeat the whole operation at a lower level for the benefit of the proletariat. There was a whole chain of separate departments dealing with proletarian literature, music, drama, and entertainment generally. Here were produced rubbishy newspapers containing almost nothing except sport, crime and astrology, sensational five-cent novelettes, films oozing with sex, and sentimental songs which were composed entirely by mechanical means on a special kind of kaleidoscope known as a versificator. There was even a whole sub-section—Pornosec, it was called in Newspeak—engaged in producing the lowest kind of pornography, which was sent out in sealed packets and which no Party member, other than those who worked on it, was permitted to look at. Three messages had slid out of the pneumatic tube while Winston was working, but they were simple matters, and he had disposed of them before the Two Minutes Hate interrupted him. When the Hate was over he returned to his cubicle, took the Newspeak dictionary from the shelf, pushed the speakwrite to one side, cleaned his spectacles, and settled down to his main job of the morning. Winston’s greatest pleasure in life was in his work. Most of it was a tedious routine, but included in it there were also jobs so difficult and intricate that you could lose yourself in 1984 them as in the depths of a mathematical problem—delicate pieces of forgery in which you had nothing to guide you except your knowledge of the principles of Ingsoc and your estimate of what the Party wanted you to say. Winston was good at this kind of thing. On occasion he had even been entrusted with the rectification of ‘The Times’ leading articles, which were written entirely in Newspeak. He unrolled the message that he had set aside earlier. It ran: times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling In Oldspeak (or standard English) this might be rendered: The reporting of Big Brother’s Order for the Day in ‘The Times’ of December 3rd 1983 is extremely unsatisfactory and makes references to non-existent persons. Rewrite it in full and submit your draft to higher authority before filing. Winston read through the offending article. Big Brother’s Order for the Day, it seemed, had been chiefly devoted to praising the work of an organization known as FFCC, which supplied cigarettes and other comforts to the sailors in the Floating Fortresses. A certain Comrade Withers, a prominent member of the Inner Party, had been singled out for special mention and awarded a decoration, the Order of Conspicuous Merit, Second Class. Three months later FFCC had suddenly been dissolved Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com with no reasons given. One could assume that Withers and his associates were now in disgrace, but there had been no report of the matter in the Press or on the telescreen. That was to be expected, since it was unusual for political offenders to be put on trial or even publicly denounced. The great purges involving thousands of people, with public trials of traitors and thought-criminals who made abject confession of their crimes and were afterwards executed, were special show-pieces not occurring oftener than once in a couple of years. More commonly, people who had incurred the displeasure of the Party simply disappeared and were never heard of again. One never had the smallest clue as to what had happened to them. In some cases they might not even be dead. Perhaps thirty people personally known to Winston, not counting his parents, had disappeared at one time or another. Winston stroked his nose gently with a paper-clip. In the cubicle across the way Comrade Tillotson was still crouching secretively over his speakwrite. He raised his head for a moment: again the hostile spectacle-flash. Winston wondered whether Comrade Tillotson was engaged on the same job as himself. It was perfectly possible. So tricky a piece of work would never be entrusted to a single person: on the other hand, to turn it over to a committee would be to admit openly that an act of fabrication was taking place. Very likely as many as a dozen people were now working away on rival versions of what Big Brother had actually said. And presently some master brain in the Inner Party would select this version or that, would re-edit it and set in motion 8 1984 the complex processes of cross-referencing that would be required, and then the chosen lie would pass into the permanent records and become truth. Winston did not know why Withers had been disgraced. Perhaps it was for corruption or incompetence. Perhaps Big Brother was merely getting rid of a too-popular subordinate. Perhaps Withers or someone close to him had been suspected of heretical tendencies. Or perhaps—what was likeliest of all—the thing had simply happened because purges and vaporizations were a necessary part of the mechanics of government. The only real clue lay in the words ‘refs unpersons’, which indicated that Withers was already dead. You could not invariably assume this to be the case when people were arrested. Sometimes they were released and allowed to remain at liberty for as much as a year or two years before being executed. Very occasionally some person whom you had believed dead long since would make a ghostly reappearance at some public trial where he would implicate hundreds of others by his testimony before vanishing, this time for ever. Withers, however, was already an UNPERSON. He did not exist: he had never existed. Winston decided that it would not be enough simply to reverse the tendency of Big Brother’s speech. It was better to make it deal with something totally unconnected with its original subject. He might turn the speech into the usual denunciation of traitors and thought-criminals, but that was a little too obvious, while to invent a victory at the front, or some triumph of over-production in the Ninth Three-Year Plan, might 9 complicate the records too much. What was needed was a piece of pure fantasy. Suddenly there sprang into his mind, ready made as it were, the image of a certain Comrade Ogilvy, who had recently died in battle, in heroic circumstances. There were occasions when Big Brother devoted his Order for the Day to commemorating some humble, rank-and-file Party member whose life and death he held up as an example worthy to be followed. Today he should commemorate Comrade Ogilvy. It was true that there was no such person as Comrade Ogilvy, but a few lines of print and a couple of faked photographs would soon bring him into existence. Winston thought for a moment, then pulled the speakwrite towards him and began dictating in Big Brother’s familiar style: a style at once military and pedantic, and, because of a trick of asking questions and then promptly answering them (’What lessons do we learn from this fact, comrades? The lesson—which is also one of the fundamental principles of Ingsoc—that,’ etc., etc.), easy to imitate. At the age of three Comrade Ogilvy had refused all toys except a drum, a sub-machine gun, and a model helicopter. At six—a year early, by a special relaxation of the rules—he had joined the Spies, at nine he had been a troop leader. At eleven he had denounced his uncle to the Thought Police after overhearing a conversation which appeared to him to have criminal tendencies. At seventeen he had been a district organizer of the Junior Anti-Sex League. At nineteen he had designed a hand-grenade which had been adopted by the Ministry of Peace and which, at its first trial, had killed thirty-one Eurasian prisoners in one burst. At twen- 0 1984 ty-three he had perished in action. Pursued by enemy jet planes while flying over the Indian Ocean with important despatches, he had weighted his body with his machine gun and leapt out of the helicopter into deep water, despatches and all—an end, said Big Brother, which it was impossible to contemplate without feelings of envy. Big Brother added a few remarks on the purity and single-mindedness of Comrade Ogilvy’s life. He was a total abstainer and a nonsmoker, had no recreations except a daily hour in the gymnasium, and had taken a vow of celibacy, believing marriage and the care of a family to be incompatible with a twenty-four-houra-day devotion to duty. He had no subjects of conversation except the principles of Ingsoc, and no aim in life except the defeat of the Eurasian enemy and the hunting-down of spies, saboteurs, thoughtcriminals, and traitors generally. Winston debated with himself whether to award Comrade Ogilvy the Order of Conspicuous Merit: in the end he decided against it because of the unnecessary cross-referencing that it would entail. Once again he glanced at his rival in the opposite cubicle. Something seemed to tell him with certainty that Tillotson was busy on the same job as himself. There was no way of knowing whose job would finally be adopted, but he felt a profound conviction that it would be his own. Comrade Ogilvy, unimagined an hour ago, was now a fact. It struck him as curious that you could create dead men but not living ones. Comrade Ogilvy, who had never existed in the present, now existed in the past, and when once the act of forgery was forgotten, he would exist just as authentical- 1 ly, and upon the same evidence, as Charlemagne or Julius Caesar. 1984 Chapter 5 I n the low-ceilinged canteen, deep underground, the lunch queue jerked slowly forward. The room was already very full and deafeningly noisy. From the grille at the counter the steam of stew came pouring forth, with a sour metallic smell which did not quite overcome the fumes of Victory Gin. On the far side of the room there was a small bar, a mere hole in the wall, where gin could be bought at ten cents the large nip. ‘Just the man I was looking for,’ said a voice at Winston’s back. He turned round. It was his friend Syme, who worked in the Research Department. Perhaps ‘friend’ was not exactly the right word. You did not have friends nowadays, you had comrades: but there were some comrades whose society was pleasanter than that of others. Syme was a philologist, a specialist in Newspeak. Indeed, he was one of the enormous team of experts now engaged in compiling the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. He was a tiny creature, smaller than Winston, with dark hair and large, protuberant eyes, at once mournful and derisive, which seemed to search your face closely while he was speaking to you. ‘I wanted to ask you whether you’d got any razor blades,’ he said. ‘Not one!’ said Winston with a sort of guilty haste. ‘I’ve Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com tried all over the place. They don’t exist any longer.’ Everyone kept asking you for razor blades. Actually he had two unused ones which he was hoarding up. There had been a famine of them for months past. At any given moment there was some necessary article which the Party shops were unable to supply. Sometimes it was buttons, sometimes it was darning wool, sometimes it was shoelaces; at present it was razor blades. You could only get hold of them, if at all, by scrounging more or less furtively on the ‘free’ market. ‘I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks,’ he added untruthfully. The queue gave another jerk forward. As they halted he turned and faced Syme again. Each of them took a greasy metal tray from a pile at the end of the counter. ‘Did you go and see the prisoners hanged yesterday?’ said Syme. ‘I was working,’ said Winston indifferently. ‘I shall see it on the flicks, I suppose.’ ‘A very inadequate substitute,’ said Syme. His mocking eyes roved over Winston’s face. ‘I know you,’ the eyes seemed to say, ‘I see through you. I know very well why you didn’t go to see those prisoners hanged.’ In an intellectual way, Syme was venomously orthodox. He would talk with a disagreeable gloating satisfaction of helicopter raids on enemy villages, and trials and confessions of thought-criminals, the executions in the cellars of the Ministry of Love. Talking to him was largely a matter of getting him away from such subjects and entangling him, 4 1984 if possible, in the technicalities of Newspeak, on which he was authoritative and interesting. Winston turned his head a little aside to avoid the scrutiny of the large dark eyes. ‘It was a good hanging,’ said Syme reminiscently. ‘I think it spoils it when they tie their feet together. I like to see them kicking. And above all, at the end, the tongue sticking right out, and blue—a quite bright blue. That’s the detail that appeals to me.’ ‘Nex’, please!’ yelled the white-aproned prole with the ladle. Winston and Syme pushed their trays beneath the grille. On to each was dumped swiftly the regulation lunch—a metal pannikin of pinkish-grey stew, a hunk of bread, a cube of cheese, a mug of milkless Victory Coffee, and one saccharine tablet. ‘There’s a table over there, under that telescreen,’ said Syme. ‘Let’s pick up a gin on the way.’ The gin was served out to them in handleless china mugs. They threaded their way across the crowded room and unpacked their trays on to the metal-topped table, on one corner of which someone had left a pool of stew, a filthy liquid mess that had the appearance of vomit. Winston took up his mug of gin, paused for an instant to collect his nerve, and gulped the oily-tasting stuff down. When he had winked the tears out of his eyes he suddenly discovered that he was hungry. He began swallowing spoonfuls of the stew, which, in among its general sloppiness, had cubes of spongy pinkish stuff which was probably a preparation of meat. Neither of them spoke again till they had emptied Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com their pannikins. From the table at Winston’s left, a little behind his back, someone was talking rapidly and continuously, a harsh gabble almost like the quacking of a duck, which pierced the general uproar of the room. ‘How is the Dictionary getting on?’ said Winston, raising his voice to overcome the noise. ‘Slowly,’ said Syme. ‘I’m on the adjectives. It’s fascinating.’ He had brightened up immediately at the mention of Newspeak. He pushed his pannikin aside, took up his hunk of bread in one delicate hand and his cheese in the other, and leaned across the table so as to be able to speak without shouting. ‘The Eleventh Edition is the definitive edition,’ he said. ‘We’re getting the language into its final shape—the shape it’s going to have when nobody speaks anything else. When we’ve finished with it, people like you will have to learn it all over again. You think, I dare say, that our chief job is inventing new words. But not a bit of it! We’re destroying words—scores of them, hundreds of them, every day. We’re cutting the language down to the bone. The Eleventh Edition won’t contain a single word that will become obsolete before the year 2050.’ He bit hungrily into his bread and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, then continued speaking, with a sort of pedant’s passion. His thin dark face had become animated, his eyes had lost their mocking expression and grown almost dreamy. ‘It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course 1984 the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn’t only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all, what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take ‘good’, for instance. If you have a word like ‘good’, what need is there for a word like ‘bad’? ‘Ungood’ will do just as well—better, because it’s an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of ‘good’, what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like ‘excellent’ and ‘splendid’ and all the rest of them? ‘Plusgood’ covers the meaning, or ‘doubleplusgood’ if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in the final version of Newspeak there’ll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words— in reality, only one word. Don’t you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.’s idea originally, of course,’ he added as an afterthought. A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston’s face at the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm. ‘You haven’t a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,’ he said almost sadly. ‘Even when you write it you’re still thinking in Oldspeak. I’ve read some of those pieces that you write in ‘The Times’ occasionally. They’re good enough, but they’re translations. In your heart you’d prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don’t grasp the beauty of the destruction of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?’ Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on: ‘Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we’re not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there’s no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It’s merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won’t be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,’ he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now?’ ‘Except——’ began Winston doubtfully, and he stopped. It had been on the tip of his tongue to say ‘Except the proles,’ but he checked himself, not feeling fully certain that 8 1984 this remark was not in some way unorthodox. Syme, however, had divined what he was about to say. ‘The proles are not human beings,’ he said carelessly. ‘By 2050—earlier, probably—all real knowledge of Oldspeak will have disappeared. The whole literature of the past will have been destroyed. Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron—they’ll exist only in Newspeak versions, not merely changed into something different, but actually changed into something contradictory of what they used to be. Even the literature of the Party will change. Even the slogans will change. How could you have a slogan like ‘freedom is slavery’ when the concept of freedom has been abolished? The whole climate of thought will be different. In fact there will be no thought, as we understand it now. Orthodoxy means not thinking—not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.’ One of these days, thought Winston with sudden deep conviction, Syme will be vaporized. He is too intelligent. He sees too clearly and speaks too plainly. The Party does not like such people. One day he will disappear. It is written in his face. Winston had finished his bread and cheese. He turned a little sideways in his chair to drink his mug of coffee. At the table on his left the man with the strident voice was still talking remorselessly away. A young woman who was perhaps his secretary, and who was sitting with her back to Winston, was listening to him and seemed to be eagerly agreeing with everything that he said. From time to time Winston caught some such remark as ‘I think you’re so right, 9 I do so agree with you’, uttered in a youthful and rather silly feminine voice. But the other voice never stopped for an instant, even when the girl was speaking. Winston knew the man by sight, though he knew no more about him than that he held some important post in the Fiction Department. He was a man of about thirty, with a muscular throat and a large, mobile mouth. His head was thrown back a little, and because of the angle at which he was sitting, his spectacles caught the light and presented to Winston two blank discs instead of eyes. What was slightly horrible, was that from the stream of sound that poured out of his mouth it was almost impossible to distinguish a single word. Just once Winston caught a phrase—’complete and final elimination of Goldsteinism’—jerked out very rapidly and, as it seemed, all in one piece, like a line of type cast solid. For the rest it was just a noise, a quack-quack-quacking. And yet, though you could not actually hear what the man was saying, you could not be in any doubt about its general nature. He might be denouncing Goldstein and demanding sterner measures against thought-criminals and saboteurs, he might be fulminating against the atrocities of the Eurasian army, he might be praising Big Brother or the heroes on the Malabar front—it made no difference. Whatever it was, you could be certain that every word of it was pure orthodoxy, pure Ingsoc. As he watched the eyeless face with the jaw moving rapidly up and down, Winston had a curious feeling that this was not a real human being but some kind of dummy. It was not the man’s brain that was speaking, it was his larynx. The stuff that was coming out of him consisted of words, but 0 1984 it was not speech in the true sense: it was a noise uttered in unconsciousness, like the quacking of a duck. Syme had fallen silent for a moment, and with the handle of his spoon was tracing patterns in the puddle of stew. The voice from the other table quacked rapidly on, easily audible in spite of the surrounding din. ‘There is a word in Newspeak,’ said Syme, ‘I don’t know whether you know it: DUCKSPEAK, to quack like a duck. It is one of those interesting words that have two contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it is abuse, applied to someone you agree with, it is praise.’ Unquestionably Syme will be vaporized, Winston thought again. He thought it with a kind of sadness, although well knowing that Syme despised him and slightly disliked him, and was fully capable of denouncing him as a thought-criminal if he saw any reason for doing so. There was something subtly wrong with Syme. There was something that he lacked: discretion, aloofness, a sort of saving stupidity. You could not say that he was unorthodox. He believed in the principles of Ingsoc, he venerated Big Brother, he rejoiced over victories, he hated heretics, not merely with sincerity but with a sort of restless zeal, an up-to-dateness of information, which the ordinary Party member did not approach. Yet a faint air of disreputability always clung to him. He said things that would have been better unsaid, he had read too many books, he frequented the Chestnut Tree Cafe, haunt of painters and musicians. There was no law, not even an unwritten law, against frequenting the Chestnut Tree Cafe, yet the place was somehow ill-omened. The 1 old, discredited leaders of the Party had been used to gather there before they were finally purged. Goldstein himself, it was said, had sometimes been seen there, years and decades ago. Syme’s fate was not difficult to foresee. And yet it was a fact that if Syme grasped, even for three seconds, the nature of his, Winston’s, secret opinions, he would betray him instantly to the Thought Police. So would anybody else, for that matter: but Syme more than most. Zeal was not enough. Orthodoxy was unconsciousness. Syme looked up. ‘Here comes Parsons,’ he said. Something in the tone of his voice seemed to add, ‘that bloody fool’. Parsons, Winston’s fellow-tenant at Victory Mansions, was in fact threading his way across the room— a tubby, middle-sized man with fair hair and a froglike face. At thirty-five he was already putting on rolls of fat at neck and waistline, but his movements were brisk and boyish. His whole appearance was that of a little boy grown large, so much so that although he was wearing the regulation overalls, it was almost impossible not to think of him as being dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirt, and red neckerchief of the Spies. In visualizing him one saw always a picture of dimpled knees and sleeves rolled back from pudgy forearms. Parsons did, indeed, invariably revert to shorts when a community hike or any other physical activity gave him an excuse for doing so. He greeted them both with a cheery ‘Hullo, hullo!’ and sat down at the table, giving off an intense smell of sweat. Beads of moisture stood out all over his pink face. His powers of sweating were extraordinary. At the Community Centre you could always tell when he 1984 had been playing table-tennis by the dampness of the bat handle. Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers. ‘Look at him working away in the lunch hour,’ said Parsons, nudging Winston. ‘Keenness, eh? What’s that you’ve got there, old boy? Something a bit too brainy for me, I expect. Smith, old boy, I’ll tell you why I’m chasing you. It’s that sub you forgot to give me.’ ‘Which sub is that?’ said Winston, automatically feeling for money. About a quarter of one’s salary had to be earmarked for voluntary subscriptions, which were so numerous that it was difficult to keep track of them. ‘For Hate Week. You know—the house-by-house fund. I’m treasurer for our block. We’re making an all-out effort— going to put on a tremendous show. I tell you, it won’t be my fault if old Victory Mansions doesn’t have the biggest outfit of flags in the whole street. Two dollars you promised me.’ Winston found and handed over two creased and filthy notes, which Parsons entered in a small notebook, in the neat handwriting of the illiterate. ‘By the way, old boy,’ he said. ‘I hear that little beggar of mine let fly at you with his catapult yesterday. I gave him a good dressing-down for it. In fact I told him I’d take the catapult away if he does it again.’ ‘I think he was a little upset at not going to the execution,’ said Winston. ‘Ah, well—what I mean to say, shows the right spirit, doesn’t it? Mischievous little beggars they are, both of them, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com but talk about keenness! All they think about is the Spies, and the war, of course. D’you know what that little girl of mine did last Saturday, when her troop was on a hike out Berkhamsted way? She got two other girls to go with her, slipped off from the hike, and spent the whole afternoon following a strange man. They kept on his tail for two hours, right through the woods, and then, when they got into Amersham, handed him over to the patrols.’ ‘What did they do that for?’ said Winston, somewhat taken aback. Parsons went on triumphantly: ‘My kid made sure he was some kind of enemy agent— might have been dropped by parachute, for instance. But here’s the point, old boy. What do you think put her on to him in the first place? She spotted he was wearing a funny kind of shoes—said she’d never seen anyone wearing shoes like that before. So the chances were he was a foreigner. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh?’ ‘What happened to the man?’ said Winston. ‘Ah, that I couldn’t say, of course. But I wouldn’t be altogether surprised if——’ Parsons made the motion of aiming a rifle, and clicked his tongue for the explosion. ‘Good,’ said Syme abstractedly, without looking up from his strip of paper. ‘Of course we can’t afford to take chances,’ agreed Winston dutifully. ‘What I mean to say, there is a war on,’ said Parsons. As though in confirmation of this, a trumpet call floated from the telescreen just above their heads. However, it was not the proclamation of a military victory this time, but 4 1984 merely an announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. ‘Comrades!’ cried an eager youthful voice. ‘Attention, comrades! We have glorious news for you. We have won the battle for production! Returns now completed of the output of all classes of consumption goods show that the standard of living has risen by no less than 20 per cent over the past year. All over Oceania this morning there were irrepressible spontaneous demonstrations when workers marched out of factories and offices and paraded through the streets with banners voicing their gratitude to Big Brother for the new, happy life which his wise leadership has bestowed upon us. Here are some of the completed figures. Foodstuffs——’ The phrase ‘our new, happy life’ recurred several times. It had been a favourite of late with the Ministry of Plenty. Parsons, his attention caught by the trumpet call, sat listening with a sort of gaping solemnity, a sort of edified boredom. He could not follow the figures, but he was aware that they were in some way a cause for satisfaction. He had lugged out a huge and filthy pipe which was already half full of charred tobacco. With the tobacco ration at 100 grammes a week it was seldom possible to fill a pipe to the top. Winston was smoking a Victory Cigarette which he held carefully horizontal. The new ration did not start till tomorrow and he had only four cigarettes left. For the moment he had shut his ears to the remoter noises and was listening to the stuff that streamed out of the telescreen. It appeared that there had even been demonstrations to thank Big Brother for raising the chocolate ration to twenty grammes a week. And only yesterday, he reflected, it had been announced that the ra- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com tion was to be REDUCED to twenty grammes a week. Was it possible that they could swallow that, after only twenty-four hours? Yes, they swallowed it. Parsons swallowed it easily, with the stupidity of an animal. The eyeless creature at the other table swallowed it fanatically, passionately, with a furious desire to track down, denounce, and vaporize anyone who should suggest that last week the ration had been thirty grammes. Syme, too—in some more complex way, involving doublethink, Syme swallowed it. Was he, then, ALONE in the possession of a memory? The fabulous statistics continued to pour out of the telescreen. As compared with last year there was more food, more clothes, more houses, more furniture, more cooking-pots, more fuel, more ships, more helicopters, more books, more babies—more of everything except disease, crime, and insanity. Year by year and minute by minute, everybody and everything was whizzing rapidly upwards. As Syme had done earlier Winston had taken up his spoon and was dabbling in the pale-coloured gravy that dribbled across the table, drawing a long streak of it out into a pattern. He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Al- 1984 ways in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient—nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one’s body aged, was it not a sign that this was NOT the natural order of things, if one’s heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one’s socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different? He looked round the canteen again. Nearly everyone was ugly, and would still have been ugly even if dressed otherwise than in the uniform blue overalls. On the far side of the room, sitting at a table alone, a small, curiously beetle-like man was drinking a cup of coffee, his little eyes darting suspicious glances from side to side. How easy it was, thought Winston, if you did not look about you, to believe that the physical type set up by the Party as an ideal—tall muscular youths and deep-bosomed maidens, blond-haired, vital, sunburnt, carefree—existed and even predominated. Ac- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com tually, so far as he could judge, the majority of people in Airstrip One were small, dark, and ill-favoured. It was curious how that beetle-like type proliferated in the Ministries: little dumpy men, growing stout very early in life, with short legs, swift scuttling movements, and fat inscrutable faces with very small eyes. It was the type that seemed to flourish best under the dominion of the Party. The announcement from the Ministry of Plenty ended on another trumpet call and gave way to tinny music. Parsons, stirred to vague enthusiasm by the bombardment of figures, took his pipe out of his mouth. ‘The Ministry of Plenty’s certainly done a good job this year,’ he said with a knowing shake of his head. ‘By the way, Smith old boy, I suppose you haven’t got any razor blades you can let me have?’ ‘Not one,’ said Winston. ‘I’ve been using the same blade for six weeks myself.’ ‘Ah, well—just thought I’d ask you, old boy.’ ‘Sorry,’ said Winston. The quacking voice from the next table, temporarily silenced during the Ministry’s announcement, had started up again, as loud as ever. For some reason Winston suddenly found himself thinking of Mrs Parsons, with her wispy hair and the dust in the creases of her face. Within two years those children would be denouncing her to the Thought Police. Mrs Parsons would be vaporized. Syme would be vaporized. Winston would be vaporized. O’Brien would be vaporized. Parsons, on the other hand, would never be vaporized. The eyeless creature with the quacking voice 8 1984 would never be vaporized. The little beetle-like men who scuttle so nimbly through the labyrinthine corridors of Ministries they, too, would never be vaporized. And the girl with dark hair, the girl from the Fiction Department—she would never be vaporized either. It seemed to him that he knew instinctively who would survive and who would perish: though just what it was that made for survival, it was not easy to say. At this moment he was dragged out of his reverie with a violent jerk. The girl at the next table had turned partly round and was looking at him. It was the girl with dark hair. She was looking at him in a sidelong way, but with curious intensity. The instant she caught his eye she looked away again. The sweat started out on Winston’s backbone. A horrible pang of terror went through him. It was gone almost at once, but it left a sort of nagging uneasiness behind. Why was she watching him? Why did she keep following him about? Unfortunately he could not remember whether she had already been at the table when he arrived, or had come there afterwards. But yesterday, at any rate, during the Two Minutes Hate, she had sat immediately behind him when there was no apparent need to do so. Quite likely her real object had been to listen to him and make sure whether he was shouting loudly enough. His earlier thought returned to him: probably she was not actually a member of the Thought Police, but then it was precisely the amateur spy who was the greatest danger of all. He did not know how long she had been looking at 9 him, but perhaps for as much as five minutes, and it was possible that his features had not been perfectly under control. It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself—anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, to wear an improper expression on your face (to look incredulous when a victory was announced, for example) was itself a punishable offence. There was even a word for it in Newspeak: FACECRIME, it was called. The girl had turned her back on him again. Perhaps after all she was not really following him about, perhaps it was coincidence that she had sat so close to him two days running. His cigarette had gone out, and he laid it carefully on the edge of the table. He would finish smoking it after work, if he could keep the tobacco in it. Quite likely the person at the next table was a spy of the Thought Police, and quite likely he would be in the cellars of the Ministry of Love within three days, but a cigarette end must not be wasted. Syme had folded up his strip of paper and stowed it away in his pocket. Parsons had begun talking again. ‘Did I ever tell you, old boy,’ he said, chuckling round the stem of his pipe, ‘about the time when those two nippers of mine set fire to the old market-woman’s skirt because they saw her wrapping up sausages in a poster of B.B.? Sneaked up behind her and set fire to it with a box of matches. Burned her quite badly, I believe. Little beggars, eh? But 80 1984 keen as mustard! That’s a first-rate training they give them in the Spies nowadays—better than in my day, even. What d’you think’s the latest thing they’ve served them out with? Ear trumpets for listening through keyholes! My little girl brought one home the other night—tried it out on our sitting-room door, and reckoned she could hear twice as much as with her ear to the hole. Of course it’s only a toy, mind you. Still, gives ‘em the right idea, eh?’ At this moment the telescreen let out a piercing whistle. It was the signal to return to work. All three men sprang to their feet to join in the struggle round the lifts, and the remaining tobacco fell out of Winston’s cigarette. 81 Chapter 6 Winston was writing in his diary: It was three years ago. It was on a dark evening, in a narrow side-street near one of the big railway stations. She was standing near a doorway in the wall, under a street lamp that hardly gave any light. She had a young face, painted very thick. It was really the paint that appealed to me, the whiteness of it, like a mask, and the bright red lips. Party women never paint their faces. There was nobody else in the street, and no telescreens. She said two dollars. I—— For the moment it was too difficult to go on. He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze out the vision that kept recurring. He had an almost overwhelming temptation to shout a string of filthy words at the top of his voice. Or to bang his head against the wall, to kick over the table, and hurl the inkpot through the window—to do any violent or noisy or painful thing that might black out the memory that was tormenting him. Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back; a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thir- 8 1984 ty-five to forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief-case. They were a few metres apart when the left side of the man’s face was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened again just as they were passing one another: it was only a twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the time: That poor devil is done for. And what was frightening was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see. He drew his breath and went on writing: I went with her through the doorway and across a backyard into a basement kitchen. There was a bed against the wall, and a lamp on the table, turned down very low. She—— His teeth were set on edge. He would have liked to spit. Simultaneously with the woman in the basement kitchen he thought of Katharine, his wife. Winston was married— had been married, at any rate: probably he still was married, so far as he knew his wife was not dead. He seemed to breathe again the warm stuffy odour of the basement kitchen, an odour compounded of bugs and dirty clothes and villainous cheap scent, but nevertheless alluring, because no woman of the Party ever used scent, or could be imagined as doing so. Only the proles used scent. In his mind the smell of it was inextricably mixed up with fornication. When he had gone with that woman it had been his first lapse in two years or thereabouts. Consorting with prosti- 8 tutes was forbidden, of course, but it was one of those rules that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It was dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forcedlabour camp: not more, if you had committed no other offence. And it was easy enough, provided that you could avoid being caught in the act. The poorer quarters swarmed with women who were ready to sell themselves. Some could even be purchased for a bottle of gin, which the proles were not supposed to drink. Tacitly the Party was even inclined to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless and only involved the women of a submerged and despised class. The unforgivable crime was promiscuity between Party members. But—though this was one of the crimes that the accused in the great purges invariably confessed to—it was difficult to imagine any such thing actually happening. The aim of the Party was not merely to prevent men and women from forming loyalties which it might not be able to control. Its real, undeclared purpose was to remove all pleasure from the sexual act. Not love so much as eroticism was the enemy, inside marriage as well as outside it. All marriages between Party members had to be approved by a committee appointed for the purpose, and—though the principle was never clearly stated—permission was always refused if the couple concerned gave the impression of being physically attracted to one another. The only rec- 84 1984 ognized purpose of marriage was to beget children for the service of the Party. Sexual intercourse was to be looked on as a slightly disgusting minor operation, like having an enema. This again was never put into plain words, but in an indirect way it was rubbed into every Party member from childhood onwards. There were even organizations such as the Junior Anti-Sex League, which advocated complete celibacy for both sexes. All children were to be begotten by artificial insemination (ARTSEM, it was called in Newspeak) and brought up in public institutions. This, Winston was aware, was not meant altogether seriously, but somehow it fitted in with the general ideology of the Party. The Party was trying to kill the sex instinct, or, if it could not be killed, then to distort it and dirty it. He did not know why this was so, but it seemed natural that it should be so. And as far as the women were concerned, the Party’s efforts were largely successful. He thought again of Katharine. It must be nine, ten— nearly eleven years since they had parted. It was curious how seldom he thought of her. For days at a time he was capable of forgetting that he had ever been married. They had only been together for about fifteen months. The Party did not permit divorce, but it rather encouraged separation in cases where there were no children. Katharine was a tall, fair-haired girl, very straight, with splendid movements. She had a bold, aquiline face, a face that one might have called noble until one discovered that there was as nearly as possible nothing behind it. Very early in her married life he had decided—though perhaps it was 8 only that he knew her more intimately than he knew most people—that she had without exception the most stupid, vulgar, empty mind that he had ever encountered. She had not a thought in her head that was not a slogan, and there was no imbecility, absolutely none that she was not capable of swallowing if the Party handed it out to her. ‘The human sound-track’ he nicknamed her in his own mind. Yet he could have endured living with her if it had not been for just one thing—sex. As soon as he touched her she seemed to wince and stiffen. To embrace her was like embracing a jointed wooden image. And what was strange was that even when she was clasping him against her he had the feeling that she was simultaneously pushing him away with all her strength. The rigidlty of her muscles managed to convey that impression. She would lie there with shut eyes, neither resisting nor co-operating but SUBMITTING. It was extraordinarily embarrassing, and, after a while, horrible. But even then he could have borne living with her if it had been agreed that they should remain celibate. But curiously enough it was Katharine who refused this. They must, she said, produce a child if they could. So the performance continued to happen, once a week quite regulariy, whenever it was not impossible. She even used to remind him of it in the morning, as something which had to be done that evening and which must not be forgotten. She had two names for it. One was ‘making a baby’, and the other was ‘our duty to the Party’ (yes, she had actually used that phrase). Quite soon he grew to have a feeling of positive dread when the appointed 8 1984 day came round. But luckily no child appeared, and in the end she agreed to give up trying, and soon afterwards they parted. Winston sighed inaudibly. He picked up his pen again and wrote: She threw herself down on the bed, and at once, without any kind of preliminary in the most coarse, horrible way you can imagine, pulled up her skirt. I—— He saw himself standing there in the dim lamplight, with the smell of bugs and cheap scent in his nostrils, and in his heart a feeling of defeat and resentment which even at that moment was mixed up with the thought of Katharine’s white body, frozen for ever by the hypnotic power of the Party. Why did it always have to be like this? Why could he not have a woman of his own instead of these filthy scuffles at intervals of years? But a real love affair was an almost unthinkable event. The women of the Party were all alike. Chastity was as deep ingrained in them as Party loyalty. By careful early conditioning, by games and cold water, by the rubbish that was dinned into them at school and in the Spies and the Youth League, by lectures, parades, songs, slogans, and martial music, the natural feeling had been driven out of them. His reason told him that there must be exceptions, but his heart did not believe it. They were all impregnable, as the Party intended that they should be. And what he wanted, more even than to be loved, was to break down that wall of virtue, even if it were only once in his 8 whole life. The sexual act, successfully performed, was rebellion. Desire was thoughtcrime. Even to have awakened Katharine, if he could have achieved it, would have been like a seduction, although she was his wife. But the rest of the story had got to be written down. He wrote: I turned up the lamp. When I saw her in the light—— After the darkness the feeble light of the paraffin lamp had seemed very bright. For the first time he could see the woman properly. He had taken a step towards her and then halted, full of lust and terror. He was painfully conscious of the risk he had taken in coming here. It was perfectly possible that the patrols would catch him on the way out: for that matter they might be waiting outside the door at this moment. If he went away without even doing what he had come here to do——! It had got to be written down, it had got to be confessed. What he had suddenly seen in the lamplight was that the woman was OLD. The paint was plastered so thick on her face that it looked as though it might crack like a cardboard mask. There were streaks of white in her hair; but the truly dreadful detail was that her mouth had fallen a little open, revealing nothing except a cavernous blackness. She had no teeth at all. He wrote hurriedly, in scrabbling handwriting: When I saw her in the light she was quite an old woman, fifty 88 1984 years old at least. But I went ahead and did it just the same. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again. He had written it down at last, but it made no difference. The therapy had not worked. The urge to shout filthy words at the top of his voice was as strong as ever. 89 Chapter 7 ‘ If there is hope,’ wrote Winston, ‘it lies in the proles.’ If there was hope, it MUST lie in the proles, because only there in those swarming disregarded masses, 85 per cent of the population of Oceania, could the force to destroy the Party ever be generated. The Party could not be overthrown from within. Its enemies, if it had any enemies, had no way of coming together or even of identifying one another. Even if the legendary Brotherhood existed, as just possibly it might, it was inconceivable that its members could ever assemble in larger numbers than twos and threes. Rebellion meant a look in the eyes, an inflexion of the voice, at the most, an occasional whispered word. But the proles, if only they could somehow become conscious of their own strength. would have no need to conspire. They needed only to rise up and shake themselves like a horse shaking off flies. If they chose they could blow the Party to pieces tomorrow morning. Surely sooner or later it must occur to them to do it? And yet——! He remembered how once he had been walking down a crowded street when a tremendous shout of hundreds of voices women’s voices—had burst from a side-street a little way ahead. It was a great formidable cry of anger and despair, a deep, loud ‘Oh-o-o-o-oh!’ that went humming on like the reverberation of a bell. His heart had leapt. It’s start- 90 1984 ed! he had thought. A riot! The proles are breaking loose at last! When he had reached the spot it was to see a mob of two or three hundred women crowding round the stalls of a street market, with faces as tragic as though they had been the doomed passengers on a sinking ship. But at this moment the general despair broke down into a multitude of individual quarrels. It appeared that one of the stalls had been selling tin saucepans. They were wretched, flimsy things, but cooking-pots of any kind were always difficult to get. Now the supply had unexpectedly given out. The successful women, bumped and jostled by the rest, were trying to make off with their saucepans while dozens of others clamoured round the stall, accusing the stall-keeper of favouritism and of having more saucepans somewhere in reserve. There was a fresh outburst of yells. Two bloated women, one of them with her hair coming down, had got hold of the same saucepan and were trying to tear it out of one another’s hands. For a moment they were both tugging, and then the handle came off. Winston watched them disgustedly. And yet, just for a moment, what almost frightening power had sounded in that cry from only a few hundred throats! Why was it that they could never shout like that about anything that mattered? He wrote: Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious. That, he reflected, might almost have been a transcrip- 91 tion from one of the Party textbooks. The Party claimed, of course, to have liberated the proles from bondage. Before the Revolution they had been hideously oppressed by the capitalists, they had been starved and flogged, women had been forced to work in the coal mines (women still did work in the coal mines, as a matter of fact), children had been sold into the factories at the age of six. But simultaneously, true to the Principles of doublethink, the Party taught that the proles were natural inferiors who must be kept in subjection, like animals, by the application of a few simple rules. In reality very little was known about the proles. It was not necessary to know much. So long as they continued to work and breed, their other activities were without importance. Left to themselves, like cattle turned loose upon the plains of Argentina, they had reverted to a style of life that appeared to be natural to them, a sort of ancestral pattern. They were born, they grew up in the gutters, they went to work at twelve, they passed through a brief blossoming-period of beauty and sexual desire, they married at twenty, they were middle-aged at thirty, they died, for the most part, at sixty. Heavy physical work, the care of home and children, petty quarrels with neighbours, films, football, beer, and above all, gambling, filled up the horizon of their minds. To keep them in control was not difficult. A few agents of the Thought Police moved always among them, spreading false rumours and marking down and eliminating the few individuals who were judged capable of becoming dangerous; but no attempt was made to indoctrinate them with the ideology of the Party. It was not desirable 9 1984 that the proles should have strong political feelings. All that was required of them was a primitive patriotism which could be appealed to whenever it was necessary to make them accept longer working-hours or shorter rations. And even when they became discontented, as they sometimes did, their discontent led nowhere, because being without general ideas, they could only focus it on petty specific grievances. The larger evils invariably escaped their notice. The great majority of proles did not even have telescreens in their homes. Even the civil police interfered with them very little. There was a vast amount of criminality in London, a whole world-within-a-world of thieves, bandits, prostitutes, drug-peddlers, and racketeers of every description; but since it all happened among the proles themselves, it was of no importance. In all questions of morals they were allowed to follow their ancestral code. The sexual puritanism of the Party was not imposed upon them. Promiscuity went unpunished, divorce was permitted. For that matter, even religious worship would have been permitted if the proles had shown any sign of needing or wanting it. They were beneath suspicion. As the Party slogan put it: ‘Proles and animals are free.’ Winston reached down and cautiously scratched his varicose ulcer. It had begun itching again. The thing you invariably came back to was the impossibility of knowing what life before the Revolution had really been like. He took out of the drawer a copy of a children’s history textbook which he had borrowed from Mrs Parsons, and began copying a passage into the diary: 9 In the old days (it ran), before the glorious Revolution, London was not the beautiful city that we know today. It was a dark, dirty, miserable place where hardly anybody had enough to eat and where hundreds and thousands of poor people had no boots on their feet and not even a roof to sleep under. Children no older than you had to work twelve hours a day for cruel masters who flogged them with whips if they worked too slowly and fed them on nothing but stale breadcrusts and water. But in among all this terrible poverty there were just a few great big beautiful houses that were lived in by rich men who had as many as thirty servants to look after them. These rich men were called capitalists. They were fat, ugly men with wicked faces, like the one in the picture on the opposite page. You can see that he is dressed in a long black coat which was called a frock coat, and a queer, shiny hat shaped like a stovepipe, which was called a top hat. This was the uniform of the capitalists, and no one else was allowed to wear it. The capitalists owned everything in the world, and everyone else was their slave. They owned all the land, all the houses, all the factories, and all the money. If anyone disobeyed them they could throw them into prison, or they could take his job away and starve him to death. When any ordinary person spoke to a capitalist he had to cringe and bow to him, and take off his cap and address him as ‘Sir’. The chief of all the capitalists was called the King, and—— But he knew the rest of the catalogue. There would be mention of the bishops in their lawn sleeves, the judges in their ermine robes, the pillory, the stocks, the treadmill, the 94 1984 cat-o’-nine tails, the Lord Mayor’s Banquet, and the practice of kissing the Pope’s toe. There was also something called the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, which would probably not be mentioned in a textbook for children. It was the law by which every capitalist had the right to sleep with any woman working in one of his factories. How could you tell how much of it was lies? It MIGHT be true that the average human being was better off now than he had been before the Revolution. The only evidence to the contrary was the mute protest in your own bones, the instinctive feeling that the conditions you lived in were intolerable and that at some other time they must have been different. It struck him that the truly characteristic thing about modern life was not its cruelty and insecurity, but simply its bareness, its dinginess, its listlessness. Life, if you looked about you, bore no resemblance not only to the lies that streamed out of the telescreens, but even to the ideals that the Party was trying to achieve. Great areas of it, even for a Party member, were neutral and non-political, a matter of slogging through dreary jobs, fighting for a place on the Tube, darning a worn-out sock, cadging a saccharine tablet, saving a cigarette end. The ideal set up by the Party was something huge, terrible, and glittering—a world of steel and concrete, of monstrous machines and terrifying weapons—a nation of warriors and fanatics, marching forward in perfect unity, all thinking the same thoughts and shouting the same slogans, perpetually working, fighting, triumphing, persecuting—three hundred million people all with the same face. The reality was decaying, dingy cities 9 where underfed people shuffled to and fro in leaky shoes, in patched-up nineteenth-century houses that smelt always of cabbage and bad lavatories. He seemed to see a vision of London, vast and ruinous, city of a million dustbins, and mixed up with it was a picture of Mrs Parsons, a woman with lined face and wispy hair, fiddling helplessly with a blocked waste-pipe. He reached down and scratched his ankle again. Day and night the telescreens bruised your ears with statistics proving that people today had more food, more clothes, better houses, better recreations—that they lived longer, worked shorter hours, were bigger, healthier, stronger, happier, more intelligent, better educated, than the people of fifty years ago. Not a word of it could ever be proved or disproved. The Party claimed, for example, that today 40 per cent of adult proles were literate: before the Revolution, it was said, the number had only been 15 per cent. The Party claimed that the infant mortality rate was now only 160 per thousand, whereas before the Revolution it had been 300— and so it went on. It was like a single equation with two unknowns. It might very well be that literally every word in the history books, even the things that one accepted without question, was pure fantasy. For all he knew there might never have been any such law as the JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, or any such creature as a capitalist, or any such garment as a top hat. Everything faded into mist. The past was erased, the erasure was forgotten, the lie became truth. Just once in his life he had possessed—AFTER the event: that was what 9 1984 counted—concrete, unmistakable evidence of an act of falsification. He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty seconds. In 1973, it must have been—at any rate, it was at about the time when he and Katharine had parted. But the really relevant date was seven or eight years earlier. The story really began in the middle sixties, the period of the great purges in which the original leaders of the Revolution were wiped out once and for all. By 1970 none of them was left, except Big Brother himself. All the rest had by that time been exposed as traitors and counter-revolutionaries. Goldstein had fled and was hiding no one knew where, and of the others, a few had simply disappeared, while the majority had been executed after spectacular public trials at which they made confession of their crimes. Among the last survivors were three men named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. It must have been in 1965 that these three had been arrested. As often happened, they had vanished for a year or more, so that one did not know whether they were alive or dead, and then had suddenly been brought forth to incriminate themselves in the usual way. They had confessed to intelligence with the enemy (at that date, too, the enemy was Eurasia), embezzlement of public funds, the murder of various trusted Party members, intrigues against the leadership of Big Brother which had started long before the Revolution happened, and acts of sabotage causing the death of hundreds of thousands of people. After confessing to these things they had been pardoned, reinstated in the Party, and given posts which were in fact sinecures but which sounded important. All three had written long, ab- 9 ject articles in ‘The Times’, analysing the reasons for their defection and promising to make amends. Some time after their release Winston had actually seen all three of them in the Chestnut Tree Cafe. He remembered the sort of terrified fascination with which he had watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were men far older than himself, relics of the ancient world, almost the last great figures left over from the heroic days of the Party. The glamour of the underground struggle and the civil war still faintly clung to them. He had the feeling, though already at that time facts and dates were growing blurry, that he had known their names years earlier than he had known that of Big Brother. But also they were outlaws, enemies, untouchables, doomed with absolute certainty to extinction within a year or two. No one who had once fallen into the hands of the Thought Police ever escaped in the end. They were corpses waiting to be sent back to the grave. There was no one at any of the tables nearest to them. It was not wise even to be seen in the neighbourhood of such people. They were sitting in silence before glasses of the gin flavoured with cloves which was the speciality of the cafe. Of the three, it was Rutherford whose appearance had most impressed Winston. Rutherford had once been a famous caricaturist, whose brutal cartoons had helped to inflame popular opinion before and during the Revolution. Even now, at long intervals, his cartoons were appearing in The Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier manner, and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were a rehashing of the ancient themes—slum tenements, starv- 98 1984 ing children, street battles, capitalists in top hats—even on the barricades the capitalists still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless effort to get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of greasy grey hair, his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At one time he must have been immensely strong; now his great body was sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in every direction. He seemed to be breaking up before one’s eyes, like a mountain crumbling. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how he had come to be in the cafe at such a time. The place was almost empty. A tinny music was trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought fresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with the pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute in all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they were playing changed, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into it—but it was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar, cracked, braying, jeering note: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And then a voice from the telescreen was singing: Under the spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me: There lie they, and here lie we Under the spreading chestnut tree. 99 The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at Rutherford’s ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for the first time he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder, and yet not knowing AT WHAT he shuddered, that both Aaronson and Rutherford had broken noses. A little later all three were re-arrested. It appeared that they had engaged in fresh conspiracies from the very moment of their release. At their second trial they confessed to all their old crimes over again, with a whole string of new ones. They were executed, and their fate was recorded in the Party histories, a warning to posterity. About five years after this, in 1973, Winston was unrolling a wad of documents which had just flopped out of the pneumatic tube on to his desk when he came on a fragment of paper which had evidently been slipped in among the others and then forgotten. The instant he had flattened it out he saw its significance. It was a half-page torn out of ‘The Times’ of about ten years earlier—the top half of the page, so that it included the date—and it contained a photograph of the delegates at some Party function in New York. Prominent in the middle of the group were Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford. There was no mistaking them, in any case their names were in the caption at the bottom. The point was that at both trials all three men had confessed that on that date they had been on Eurasian soil. They had flown from a secret airfield in Canada to a rendezvous somewhere in Siberia, and had conferred with members of the Eurasian General Staff, to whom they had betrayed im- 100 1984 portant military secrets. The date had stuck in Winston’s memory because it chanced to be midsummer day; but the whole story must be on record in countless other places as well. There was only one possible conclusion: the confessions were lies. Of course, this was not in itself a discovery. Even at that time Winston had not imagined that the people who were wiped out in the purges had actually committed the crimes that they were accused of. But this was concrete evidence; it was a fragment of the abolished past, like a fossil bone which turns up in the wrong stratum and destroys a geological theory. It was enough to blow the Party to atoms, if in some way it could have been published to the world and its significance made known. He had gone straight on working. As soon as he saw what the photograph was, and what it meant, he had covered it up with another sheet of paper. Luckily, when he unrolled it, it had been upside-down from the point of view of the telescreen. He took his scribbling pad on his knee and pushed back his chair so as to get as far away from the telescreen as possible. To keep your face expressionless was not difficult, and even your breathing could be controlled, with an effort: but you could not control the beating of your heart, and the telescreen was quite delicate enough to pick it up. He let what he judged to be ten minutes go by, tormented all the while by the fear that some accident—a sudden draught blowing across his desk, for instance—would betray him. Then, without uncovering it again, he dropped the photo- 101 graph into the memory hole, along with some other waste papers. Within another minute, perhaps, it would have crumbled into ashes. That was ten—eleven years ago. Today, probably, he would have kept that photograph. It was curious that the fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well as the event it recorded, was only memory. Was the Party’s hold upon the past less strong, he wondered, because a piece of evidence which existed no longer HAD ONCE existed? But today, supposing that it could be somehow resurrected from its ashes, the photograph might not even be evidence. Already, at the time when he made his discovery, Oceania was no longer at war with Eurasia, and it must have been to the agents of Eastasia that the three dead men had betrayed their country. Since then there had been other changes—two, three, he could not remember how many. Very likely the confessions had been rewritten and rewritten until the original facts and dates no longer had the smallest significance. The past not only changed, but changed continuously. What most afflicted him with the sense of nightmare was that he had never clearly understood why the huge imposture was undertaken. The immediate advantages of falsifying the past were obvious, but the ultimate motive was mysterious. He took up his pen again and wrote: I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY. 10 1984 He wondered, as he had many times wondered before, whether he himself was a lunatic. Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one. At one time it had been a sign of madness to believe that the earth goes round the sun; today, to believe that the past is inalterable. He might be ALONE in holding that belief, and if alone, then a lunatic. But the thought of being a lunatic did not greatly trouble him: the horror was that he might also be wrong. He picked up the children’s history book and looked at the portrait of Big Brother which formed its frontispiece. The hypnotic eyes gazed into his own. It was as though some huge force were pressing down upon you—something that penetrated inside your skull, battering against your brain, frightening you out of your beliefs, persuading you, almost, to deny the evidence of your senses. In the end the Party would announce that two and two made five, and you would have to believe it. It was inevitable that they should make that claim sooner or later: the logic of their position demanded it. Not merely the validity of experience, but the very existence of external reality, was tacitly denied by their philosophy. The heresy of heresies was common sense. And what was terrifying was not that they would kill you for thinking otherwise, but that they might be right. For, after all, how do we know that two and two make four? Or that the force of gravity works? Or that the past is unchangeable? If both the past and the external world exist only in the mind, and if the mind itself is controllable what then? But no! His courage seemed suddenly to stiffen of its own accord. The face of O’Brien, not called up by any obvi- 10 ous association, had floated into his mind. He knew, with more certainty than before, that O’Brien was on his side. He was writing the diary for O’Brien—TO O’Brien: it was like an interminable letter which no one would ever read, but which was addressed to a particular person and took its colour from that fact. The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command. His heart sank as he thought of the enormous power arrayed against him, the ease with which any Party intellectual would overthrow him in debate, the subtle arguments which he would not be able to understand, much less answer. And yet he was in the right! They were wrong and he was right. The obvious, the silly, and the true had got to be defended. Truisms are true, hold on to that! The solid world exists, its laws do not change. Stones are hard, water is wet, objects unsupported fall towards the earth’s centre. With the feeling that he was speaking to O’Brien, and also that he was setting forth an important axiom, he wrote: Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows. 104 1984 Chapter 8 From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee—real coffee, not Victory Coffee—came floating out into the street. Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seeming to cut off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound. He had walked several kilometres over pavements, and his varicose ulcer was throbbing. This was the second time in three weeks that he had missed an evening at the Community Centre: a rash act, since you could be certain that the number of your attendances at the Centre was carefully checked. In principle a Party member had no spare time, and was never alone except in bed. It was assumed that when he was not working, eating, or sleeping he would be taking part in some kind of communal recreation: to do anything that suggested a taste for solitude, even to go for a walk by yourself, was always slightly dangerous. There was a word for it in Newspeak: OWNLIFE, it was called, meaning individualism and eccentricity. But this evening as he came out of the Ministry the balminess of the April air had tempted him. The sky was a warmer blue than he had seen it that year, and suddenly the long, noisy evening at the Centre, the boring, exhausting games, the lectures, the creaking camaraderie oiled by gin, had seemed intolerable. On im- 10 pulse he had turned away from the bus-stop and wandered off into the labyrinth of London, first south, then east, then north again, losing himself among unknown streets and hardly bothering in which direction he was going. ‘If there is hope,’ he had written in the diary, ‘it lies in the proles.’ The words kept coming back to him, statement of a mystical truth and a palpable absurdity. He was somewhere in the vague, brown-coloured slums to the north and east of what had once been Saint Pancras Station. He was walking up a cobbled street of little two-storey houses with battered doorways which gave straight on the pavement and which were somehow curiously suggestive of ratholes. There were puddles of filthy water here and there among the cobbles. In and out of the dark doorways, and down narrow alley-ways that branched off on either side, people swarmed in astonishing numbers—girls in full bloom, with crudely lipsticked mouths, and youths who chased the girls, and swollen waddling women who showed you what the girls would be like in ten years’ time, and old bent creatures shuffling along on splayed feet, and ragged barefooted children who played in the puddles and then scattered at angry yells from their mothers. Perhaps a quarter of the windows in the street were broken and boarded up. Most of the people paid no attention to Winston; a few eyed him with a sort of guarded curiosity. Two monstrous women with brick-red forearms folded across thelr aprons were talking outside a doorway. Winston caught scraps of conversation as he approached. ‘’Yes,’ I says to ‘er, ‘that’s all very well,’ I says. ‘But if you’d 10 1984 of been in my place you’d of done the same as what I done. It’s easy to criticize,’ I says, ‘but you ain’t got the same problems as what I got.‘‘ ‘Ah,’ said the other, ‘that’s jest it. That’s jest where it is.’ The strident voices stopped abruptly. The women studied him in hostile silence as he went past. But it was not hostility, exactly; merely a kind of wariness, a momentary stiffening, as at the passing of some unfamiliar animal. The blue overalls of the Party could not be a common sight in a street like this. Indeed, it was unwise to be seen in such places, unless you had definite business there. The patrols might stop you if you happened to run into them. ‘May I see your papers, comrade? What are you doing here? What time did you leave work? Is this your usual way home?’—and so on and so forth. Not that there was any rule against walking home by an unusual route: but it was enough to draw attention to you if the Thought Police heard about it. Suddenly the whole street was in commotion. There were yells of warning from all sides. People were shooting into the doorways like rabbits. A young woman leapt out of a doorway a little ahead of Winston, grabbed up a tiny child playing in a puddle, whipped her apron round it, and leapt back again, all in one movement. At the same instant a man in a concertina-like black suit, who had emerged from a side alley, ran towards Winston, pointing excitedly to the sky. ‘Steamer!’ he yelled. ‘Look out, guv’nor! Bang over’ead! Lay down quick!’ ‘Steamer’ was a nickname which, for some reason, the 10 proles applied to rocket bombs. Winston promptly flung himself on his face. The proles were nearly always right when they gave you a warning of this kind. They seemed to possess some kind of instinct which told them several seconds in advance when a rocket was coming, although the rockets supposedly travelled faster than sound. Winston clasped his forearms above his head. There was a roar that seemed to make the pavement heave; a shower of light objects pattered on to his back. When he stood up he found that he was covered with fragments of glass from the nearest window. He walked on. The bomb had demolished a group of houses 200 metres up the street. A black plume of smoke hung in the sky, and below it a cloud of plaster dust in which a crowd was already forming around the ruins. There was a little pile of plaster lying on the pavement ahead of him, and in the middle of it he could see a bright red streak. When he got up to it he saw that it was a human hand severed at the wrist. Apart from the bloody stump, the hand was so completely whitened as to resemble a plaster cast. He kicked the thing into the gutter, and then, to avoid the crowd, turned down a side-street to the right. Within three or four minutes he was out of the area which the bomb had affected, and the sordid swarming life of the streets was going on as though nothing had happened. It was nearly twenty hours, and the drinking-shops which the proles frequented (’pubs’, they called them) were choked with customers. From their grimy swing doors, endlessly opening and shutting, there came forth a smell of urine, 108 1984 sawdust, and sour beer. In an angle formed by a projecting house-front three men were standing very close together, the middle one of them holding a folded-up newspaper which the other two were studying over his shoulder. Even before he was near enough to make out the expression on their faces, Winston could see absorption in every line of their bodies. It was obviously some serious piece of news that they were reading. He was a few paces away from them when suddenly the group broke up and two of the men were in violent altercation. For a moment they seemed almost on the point of blows. ‘Can’t you bleeding well listen to what I say? I tell you no number ending in seven ain’t won for over fourteen months!’ ‘Yes, it ‘as, then!’ ‘No, it ‘as not! Back ‘ome I got the ‘ole lot of ‘em for over two years wrote down on a piece of paper. I takes ‘em down reg’lar as the clock. An’ I tell you, no number ending in seven——’ ‘Yes, a seven ‘AS won! I could pretty near tell you the bleeding number. Four oh seven, it ended in. It were in February—second week in February.’ ‘February your grandmother! I got it all down in black and white. An’ I tell you, no number——’ ‘Oh, pack it in!’ said the third man. They were talking about the Lottery. Winston looked back when he had gone thirty metres. They were still arguing, with vivid, passionate faces. The Lottery, with its weekly pay-out of enormous prizes, was the one public event 109 to which the proles paid serious attention. It was probable that there were some millions of proles for whom the Lottery was the principal if not the only reason for remaining alive. It was their delight, their folly, their anodyne, their intellectual stimulant. Where the Lottery was concerned, even people who could barely read and write seemed capable of intricate calculations and staggering feats of memory. There was a whole tribe of men who made a living simply by selling systems, forecasts, and lucky amulets. Winston had nothing to do with the running of the Lottery, which was managed by the Ministry of Plenty, but he was aware (indeed everyone in the party was aware) that the prizes were largely imaginary. Only small sums were actually paid out, the winners of the big prizes being non-existent persons. In the absence of any real intercommunication between one part of Oceania and another, this was not difficult to arrange. But if there was hope, it lay in the proles. You had to cling on to that. When you put it in words it sounded reasonable: it was when you looked at the human beings passing you on the pavement that it became an act of faith. The street into which he had turned ran downhill. He had a feeling that he had been in this neighbourhood before, and that there was a main thoroughfare not far away. From somewhere ahead there came a din of shouting voices. The street took a sharp turn and then ended in a flight of steps which led down into a sunken alley where a few stall-keepers were selling tiredlooking vegetables. At this moment Winston remembered where he was. The alley led out into the main street, and 110 1984 down the next turning, not five minutes away, was the junkshop where he had bought the blank book which was now his diary. And in a small stationer’s shop not far away he had bought his penholder and his bottle of ink. He paused for a moment at the top of the steps. On the opposite side of the alley there was a dingy little pub whose windows appeared to be frosted over but in reality were merely coated with dust. A very old man, bent but active, with white moustaches that bristled forward like those of a prawn, pushed open the swing door and went in. As Winston stood watching, it occurred to him that the old man, who must be eighty at the least, had already been middleaged when the Revolution happened. He and a few others like him were the last links that now existed with the vanished world of capitalism. In the Party itself there were not many people left whose ideas had been formed before the Revolution. The older generation had mostly been wiped out in the great purges of the fifties and sixties, and the few who survived had long ago been terrified into complete intellectual surrender. If there was any one still alive who could give you a truthful account of conditions in the early part of the century, it could only be a prole. Suddenly the passage from the history book that he had copied into his diary came back into Winston’s mind, and a lunatic impulse took hold of him. He would go into the pub, he would scrape acquaintance with that old man and question him. He would say to him: ‘Tell me about your life when you were a boy. What was it like in those days? Were things better than they are now, or were they worse?’ 111 Hurriedly, lest he should have time to become frightened, he descended the steps and crossed the narrow street. It was madness of course. As usual, there was no definite rule against talking to proles and frequenting their pubs, but it was far too unusual an action to pass unnoticed. If the patrols appeared he might plead an attack of faintness, but it was not likely that they would believe him. He pushed open the door, and a hideous cheesy smell of sour beer hit him in the face. As he entered the din of voices dropped to about half its volume. Behind his back he could feel everyone eyeing his blue overalls. A game of darts which was going on at the other end of the room interrupted itself for perhaps as much as thirty seconds. The old man whom he had followed was standing at the bar, having some kind of altercation with the barman, a large, stout, hook-nosed young man with enormous forearms. A knot of others, standing round with glasses in their hands, were watching the scene. ‘I arst you civil enough, didn’t I?’ said the old man, straightening his shoulders pugnaciously. ‘You telling me you ain’t got a pint mug in the ‘ole bleeding boozer?’ ‘And what in hell’s name IS a pint?’ said the barman, leaning forward with the tips of his fingers on the counter. ‘’Ark at ‘im! Calls ‘isself a barman and don’t know what a pint is! Why, a pint’s the ‘alf of a quart, and there’s four quarts to the gallon. ‘Ave to teach you the A, B, C next.’ ‘Never heard of ‘em,’ said the barman shortly. ‘Litre and half litre—that’s all we serve. There’s the glasses on the shelf in front of you.’ ‘I likes a pint,’ persisted the old man. ‘You could ‘a drawed 11 1984 me off a pint easy enough. We didn’t ‘ave these bleeding litres when I was a young man.’ ‘When you were a young man we were all living in the treetops,’ said the barman, with a glance at the other customers. There was a shout of laughter, and the uneasiness caused by Winston’s entry seemed to disappear. The old man’s whitestubbled face had flushed pink. He turned away, muttering to himself, and bumped into Winston. Winston caught him gently by the arm. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ he said. ‘You’re a gent,’ said the other, straightening his shoulders again. He appeared not to have noticed Winston’s blue overalls. ‘Pint!’ he added aggressively to the barman. ‘Pint of wallop.’ The barman swished two half-litres of dark-brown beer into thick glasses which he had rinsed in a bucket under the counter. Beer was the only drink you could get in prole pubs. The proles were supposed not to drink gin, though in practice they could get hold of it easily enough. The game of darts was in full swing again, and the knot of men at the bar had begun talking about lottery tickets. Winston’s presence was forgotten for a moment. There was a deal table under the window where he and the old man could talk without fear of being overheard. It was horribly dangerous, but at any rate there was no telescreen in the room, a point he had made sure of as soon as he came in. ‘’E could ‘a drawed me off a pint,’ grumbled the old man as he settled down behind a glass. ‘A ‘alf litre ain’t enough. It 11 don’t satisfy. And a ‘ole litre’s too much. It starts my bladder running. Let alone the price.’ ‘You must have seen great changes since you were a young man,’ said Winston tentatively. The old man’s pale blue eyes moved from the darts board to the bar, and from the bar to the door of the Gents, as though it were in the bar-room that he expected the changes to have occurred. ‘The beer was better,’ he said finally. ‘And cheaper! When I was a young man, mild beer—wallop we used to call it— was fourpence a pint. That was before the war, of course.’ ‘Which war was that?’ said Winston. ‘It’s all wars,’ said the old man vaguely. He took up his glass, and his shoulders straightened again. ‘’Ere’s wishing you the very best of ‘ealth!’ In his lean throat the sharp-pointed Adam’s apple made a surprisingly rapid up-and-down movement, and the beer vanished. Winston went to the bar and came back with two more half-litres. The old man appeared to have forgotten his prejudice against drinking a full litre. ‘You are very much older than I am,’ said Winston. ‘You must have been a grown man before I was born. You can remember what it was like in the old days, before the Revolution. People of my age don’t really know anything about those times. We can only read about them in books, and what it says in the books may not be true. I should like your opinion on that. The history books say that life before the Revolution was completely different from what it is now. There was the most terrible oppression, injustice, poverty 114 1984 worse than anything we can imagine. Here in London, the great mass of the people never had enough to eat from birth to death. Half of them hadn’t even boots on their feet. They worked twelve hours a day, they left school at nine, they slept ten in a room. And at the same time there were a very few people, only a few thousands—the capitalists, they were called—who were rich and powerful. They owned everything that there was to own. They lived in great gorgeous houses with thirty servants, they rode about in motor-cars and four-horse carriages, they drank champagne, they wore top hats——’ The old man brightened suddenly. ‘Top ‘ats!’ he said. ‘Funny you should mention ‘em. The same thing come into my ‘ead only yesterday, I dono why. I was jest thinking, I ain’t seen a top ‘at in years. Gorn right out, they ‘ave. The last time I wore one was at my sister-inlaw’s funeral. And that was—well, I couldn’t give you the date, but it must’a been fifty years ago. Of course it was only ‘ired for the occasion, you understand.’ ‘It isn’t very important about the top hats,’ said Winston patiently. ‘The point is, these capitalists—they and a few lawyers and priests and so forth who lived on them—were the lords of the earth. Everything existed for their benefit. You—the ordinary people, the workers—were their slaves. They could do what they liked with you. They could ship you off to Canada like cattle. They could sleep with your daughters if they chose. They could order you to be flogged with something called a cat-o’-nine tails. You had to take your cap off when you passed them. Every capitalist went 11 about with a gang of lackeys who——’ The old man brightened again. ‘Lackeys!’ he said. ‘Now there’s a word I ain’t ‘eard since ever so long. Lackeys! That reg’lar takes me back, that does. I recollect oh, donkey’s years ago—I used to sometimes go to ‘Yde Park of a Sunday afternoon to ‘ear the blokes making speeches. Salvation Army, Roman Catholics, Jews, Indians—all sorts there was. And there was one bloke—well, I couldn’t give you ‘is name, but a real powerful speaker ‘e was. ‘E didn’t ‘alf give it ‘em! ‘Lackeys!’ ‘e says, ‘lackeys of the bourgeoisie! Flunkies of the ruling class!’ Parasites— that was another of them. And ‘yenas—’e definitely called ‘em ‘yenas. Of course ‘e was referring to the Labour Party, you understand.’ Winston had the feeling that they were talking at crosspurposes. ‘What I really wanted to know was this,’ he said. ‘Do you feel that you have more freedom now than you had in those days? Are you treated more like a human being? In the old days, the rich people, the people at the top——’ ‘The ‘Ouse of Lords,’ put in the old man reminiscently. ‘The House of Lords, if you like. What I am asking is, were these people able to treat you as an inferior, simply because they were rich and you were poor? Is it a fact, for instance, that you had to call them ‘Sir’ and take off your cap when you passed them?’ The old man appeared to think deeply. He drank off about a quarter of his beer before answering. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They liked you to touch your cap to ‘em. 11 1984 It showed respect, like. I didn’t agree with it, myself, but I done it often enough. Had to, as you might say.’ ‘And was it usual—I’m only quoting what I’ve read in history books—was it usual for these people and their servants to push you off the pavement into the gutter?’ ‘One of ‘em pushed me once,’ said the old man. ‘I recollect it as if it was yesterday. It was Boat Race night—terribly rowdy they used to get on Boat Race night—and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury Avenue. Quite a gent, ‘e was—dress shirt, top ‘at, black overcoat. ‘E was kind of zig-zagging across the pavement, and I bumps into ‘im accidental-like. ‘E says, ‘Why can’t you look where you’re going?’ ‘e says. I say, ‘Ju think you’ve bought the bleeding pavement?’ ‘E says, ‘I’ll twist your bloody ‘ead off if you get fresh with me.’ I says, ‘You’re drunk. I’ll give you in charge in ‘alf a minute,’ I says. An’ if you’ll believe me, ‘e puts ‘is ‘and on my chest and gives me a shove as pretty near sent me under the wheels of a bus. Well, I was young in them days, and I was going to ‘ave fetched ‘im one, only——’ A sense of helplessness took hold of Winston. The old man’s memory was nothing but a rubbish-heap of details. One could question him all day without getting any real information. The party histories might still be true, after a fashion: they might even be completely true. He made a last attempt. ‘Perhaps I have not made myself clear,’ he said. ‘What I’m trying to say is this. You have been alive a very long time; you lived half your life before the Revolution. In 1925, for instance, you were already grown up. Would you say from 11 what you can remember, that life in 1925 was better than it is now, or worse? If you could choose, would you prefer to live then or now?’ The old man looked meditatively at the darts board. He finished up his beer, more slowly than before. When he spoke it was with a tolerant philosophical air, as though the beer had mellowed him. ‘I know what you expect me to say,’ he said. ‘You expect me to say as I’d sooner be young again. Most people’d say they’d sooner be young, if you arst’ ‘em. You got your ‘ealth and strength when you’re young. When you get to my time of life you ain’t never well. I suffer something wicked from my feet, and my bladder’s jest terrible. Six and seven times a night it ‘as me out of bed. On the other ‘and, there’s great advantages in being a old man. You ain’t got the same worries. No truck with women, and that’s a great thing. I ain’t ‘ad a woman for near on thirty year, if you’d credit it. Nor wanted to, what’s more.’ Winston sat back against the window-sill. It was no use going on. He was about to buy some more beer when the old man suddenly got up and shuffled rapidly into the stinking urinal at the side of the room. The extra half-litre was already working on him. Winston sat for a minute or two gazing at his empty glass, and hardly noticed when his feet carried him out into the street again. Within twenty years at the most, he reflected, the huge and simple question, ‘Was life better before the Revolution than it is now?’ would have ceased once and for all to be answerable. But in effect it was unanswerable even now, since the few scattered sur- 118 1984 vivors from the ancient world were incapable of comparing one age with another. They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister’s face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones. And when memory failed and written records were falsified—when that happened, the claim of the Party to have improved the conditions of human life had got to be accepted, because there did not exist, and never again could exist, any standard against which it could be tested. At this moment his train of thought stopped abruptly. He halted and looked up. He was in a narrow street, with a few dark little shops, interspersed among dwelling-houses. Immediately above his head there hung three discoloured metal balls which looked as if they had once been gilded. He seemed to know the place. Of course! He was standing outside the junk-shop where he had bought the diary. A twinge of fear went through him. It had been a sufficiently rash act to buy the book in the beginning, and he had sworn never to come near the place again. And yet the instant that he allowed his thoughts to wander, his feet had brought him back here of their own accord. It was precisely against suicidal impulses of this kind that he had hoped to guard himself by opening the diary. At the same time he noticed that although it was nearly twenty-one hours the shop was still open. With the feeling that he would be less conspicuous inside than hanging about on the pavement, 119 he stepped through the doorway. If questioned, he could plausibly say that he was trying to buy razor blades. The proprietor had just lighted a hanging oil lamp which gave off an unclean but friendly smell. He was a man of perhaps sixty, frail and bowed, with a long, benevolent nose, and mild eyes distorted by thick spectacles. His hair was almost white, but his eyebrows were bushy and still black. His spectacles, his gentle, fussy movements, and the fact that he was wearing an aged jacket of black velvet, gave him a vague air of intellectuality, as though he had been some kind of literary man, or perhaps a musician. His voice was soft, as though faded, and his accent less debased than that of the majority of proles. ‘I recognized you on the pavement,’ he said immediately. ‘You’re the gentleman that bought the young lady’s keepsake album. That was a beautiful bit of paper, that was. Creamlaid, it used to be called. There’s been no paper like that made for—oh, I dare say fifty years.’ He peered at Winston over the top of his spectacles. ‘Is there anything special I can do for you? Or did you just want to look round?’ ‘I was passing,’ said Winston vaguely. ‘I just looked in. I don’t want anything in particular.’ ‘It’s just as well,’ said the other, ‘because I don’t suppose I could have satisfied you.’ He made an apologetic gesture with his softpalmed hand. ‘You see how it is; an empty shop, you might say. Between you and me, the antique trade’s just about finished. No demand any longer, and no stock either. Furniture, china, glass it’s all been broken up by degrees. And of course the metal stuff’s mostly been melted down. I 10 1984 haven’t seen a brass candlestick in years.’ The tiny interior of the shop was in fact uncomfortably full, but there was almost nothing in it of the slightest value. The floorspace was very restricted, because all round the walls were stacked innumerable dusty picture-frames. In the window there were trays of nuts and bolts, worn-out chisels, penknives with broken blades, tarnished watches that did not even pretend to be in going order, and other miscellaneous rubbish. Only on a small table in the corner was there a litter of odds and ends—lacquered snuffboxes, agate brooches, and the like—which looked as though they might include something interesting. As Winston wandered towards the table his eye was caught by a round, smooth thing that gleamed softly in the lamplight, and he picked it up. It was a heavy lump of glass, curved on one side, flat on the other, making almost a hemisphere. There was a peculiar softness, as of rainwater, in both the colour and the texture of the glass. At the heart of it, magnified by the curved surface, there was a strange, pink, convoluted object that recalled a rose or a sea anemone. ‘What is it?’ said Winston, fascinated. ‘That’s coral, that is,’ said the old man. ‘It must have come from the Indian Ocean. They used to kind of embed it in the glass. That wasn’t made less than a hundred years ago. More, by the look of it.’ ‘It’s a beautiful thing,’ said Winston. ‘It is a beautiful thing,’ said the other appreciatively. ‘But there’s not many that’d say so nowadays.’ He coughed. ‘Now, 11 if it so happened that you wanted to buy it, that’d cost you four dollars. I can remember when a thing like that would have fetched eight pounds, and eight pounds was—well, I can’t work it out, but it was a lot of money. But who cares about genuine antiques nowadays—even the few that’s left?’ Winston immediately paid over the four dollars and slid the coveted thing into his pocket. What appealed to him about it was not so much its beauty as the air it seemed to possess of belonging to an age quite different from the present one. The soft, rainwatery glass was not like any glass that he had ever seen. The thing was doubly attractive because of its apparent uselessness, though he could guess that it must once have been intended as a paperweight. It was very heavy in his pocket, but fortunately it did not make much of a bulge. It was a queer thing, even a compromising thing, for a Party member to have in his possession. Anything old, and for that matter anything beautiful, was always vaguely suspect. The old man had grown noticeably more cheerful after receiving the four dollars. Winston realized that he would have accepted three or even two. ‘There’s another room upstairs that you might care to take a look at,’ he said. ‘There’s not much in it. Just a few pieces. We’ll do with a light if we’re going upstairs.’ He lit another lamp, and, with bowed back, led the way slowly up the steep and worn stairs and along a tiny passage, into a room which did not give on the street but looked out on a cobbled yard and a forest of chimney-pots. Winston noticed that the furniture was still arranged as though the 1 1984 room were meant to be lived in. There was a strip of carpet on the floor, a picture or two on the walls, and a deep, slatternly arm-chair drawn up to the fireplace. An old-fashioned glass clock with a twelve-hour face was ticking away on the mantelpiece. Under the window, and occupying nearly a quarter of the room, was an enormous bed with the mattress still on it. ‘We lived here till my wife died,’ said the old man half apologetically. ‘I’m selling the furniture off by little and little. Now that’s a beautiful mahogany bed, or at least it would be if you could get the bugs out of it. But I dare say you’d find it a little bit cumbersome.’ He was holdlng the lamp high up, so as to illuminate the whole room, and in the warm dim light the place looked curiously inviting. The thought flitted through Winston’s mind that it would probably be quite easy to rent the room for a few dollars a week, if he dared to take the risk. It was a wild, impossible notion, to be abandoned as soon as thought of; but the room had awakened in him a sort of nostalgia, a sort of ancestral memory. It seemed to him that he knew exactly what it felt like to sit in a room like this, in an armchair beside an open fire with your feet in the fender and a kettle on the hob; utterly alone, utterly secure, with nobody watching you, no voice pursuing you, no sound except the singing of the kettle and the friendly ticking of the clock. ‘There’s no telescreen!’ he could not help murmuring. ‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘I never had one of those things. Too expensive. And I never seemed to feel the need of it, somehow. Now that’s a nice gateleg table in the corner there. 1 Though of course you’d have to put new hinges on it if you wanted to use the flaps.’ There was a small bookcase in the other corner, and Winston had already gravitated towards it. It contained nothing but rubbish. The hunting-down and destruction of books had been done with the same thoroughness in the prole quarters as everywhere else. It was very unlikely that there existed anywhere in Oceania a copy of a book printed earlier than 1960. The old man, still carrying the lamp, was standing in front of a picture in a rosewood frame which hung on the other side of the fireplace, opposite the bed. ‘Now, if you happen to be interested in old prints at all— —’ he began delicately. Winston came across to examine the picture. It was a steel engraving of an oval building with rectangular windows, and a small tower in front. There was a railing running round the building, and at the rear end there was what appeared to be a statue. Winston gazed at it for some moments. It seemed vaguely familiar, though he did not remember the statue. ‘The frame’s fixed to the wall,’ said the old man, ‘but I could unscrew it for you, I dare say.’ ‘I know that building,’ said Winston finally. ‘It’s a ruin now. It’s in the middle of the street outside the Palace of Justice.’ ‘That’s right. Outside the Law Courts. It was bombed in— oh, many years ago. It was a church at one time, St Clement Danes, its name was.’ He smiled apologetically, as though conscious of saying something slightly ridiculous, and add- 14 1984 ed: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s!’ ‘What’s that?’ said Winston. ‘Oh—‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s.’ That was a rhyme we had when I was a little boy. How it goes on I don’t remember, but I do know it ended up, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.’ It was a kind of a dance. They held out their arms for you to pass under, and when they came to ‘Here comes a chopper to chop off your head’ they brought their arms down and caught you. It was just names of churches. All the London churches were in it—all the principal ones, that is.’ Winston wondered vaguely to what century the church belonged. It was always difficult to determine the age of a London building. Anything large and impressive, if it was reasonably new in appearance, was automatically claimed as having been built since the Revolution, while anything that was obviously of earlier date was ascribed to some dim period called the Middle Ages. The centuries of capitalism were held to have produced nothing of any value. One could not learn history from architecture any more than one could learn it from books. Statues, inscriptions, memorial stones, the names of streets—anything that might throw light upon the past had been systematically altered. ‘I never knew it had been a church,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of them left, really,’ said the old man, ‘though they’ve been put to other uses. Now, how did that rhyme go? Ah! I’ve got it! ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, You 1 owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s——‘ there, now, that’s as far as I can get. A farthing, that was a small copper coin, looked something like a cent.’ ‘Where was St Martin’s?’ said Winston. ‘St Martin’s? That’s still standing. It’s in Victory Square, alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.’ Winston knew the place well. It was a museum used for propaganda displays of various kinds—scale models of rocket bombs and Floating Fortresses, waxwork tableaux illustrating enemy atrocities, and the like. ‘St Martin’s-in-the-Fields it used to be called,’ supplemented the old man, ‘though I don’t recollect any fields anywhere in those parts.’ Winston did not buy the picture. It would have been an even more incongruous possession than the glass paperweight, and impossible to carry home, unless it were taken out of its frame. But he lingered for some minutes more, talking to the old man, whose name, he discovered, was not Weeks—as one might have gathered from the inscription over the shop-front—but Charrington. Mr Charrington, it seemed, was a widower aged sixty-three and had inhabited this shop for thirty years. Throughout that time he had been intending to alter the name over the window, but had never quite got to the point of doing it. All the while that they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston’s head. Oranges and lemons say the bells of St Clement’s, You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s! It was curious, but when you said it to 1 1984 yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing. He got away from Mr Charrington and went down the stairs alone, so as not to let the old man see him reconnoitring the street before stepping out of the door. He had already made up his mind that after a suitable interval—a month, say—he would take the risk of visiting the shop again. It was perhaps not more dangerous than shirking an evening at the Centre. The serious piece of folly had been to come back here in the first place, after buying the diary and without knowing whether the proprietor of the shop could be trusted. However——! Yes, he thought again, he would come back. He would buy further scraps of beautiful rubbish. He would buy the engraving of St Clement Danes, take it out of its frame, and carry it home concealed under the jacket of his overalls. He would drag the rest of that poem out of Mr Charrington’s memory. Even the lunatic project of renting the room upstairs flashed momentarily through his mind again. For perhaps five seconds exaltation made him careless, and he stepped out on to the pavement without so much as a preliminary glance through the window. He had even started humming to an improvised tune Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, You owe me three farthings, say the—— 1 Suddenly his heart seemed to turn to ice and his bowels to water. A figure in blue overalls was coming down the pavement, not ten metres away. It was the girl from the Fiction Department, the girl with dark hair. The light was failing, but there was no difficulty in recognizing her. She looked him straight in the face, then walked quickly on as though she had not seen him. For a few seconds Winston was too paralysed to move. Then he turned to the right and walked heavily away, not noticing for the moment that he was going in the wrong direction. At any rate, one question was settled. There was no doubting any longer that the girl was spying on him. She must have followed him here, because it was not credible that by pure chance she should have happened to be walking on the same evening up the same obscure backstreet, kilometres distant from any quarter where Party members lived. It was too great a coincidence. Whether she was really an agent of the Thought Police, or simply an amateur spy actuated by officiousness, hardly mattered. It was enough that she was watching him. Probably she had seen him go into the pub as well. It was an effort to walk. The lump of glass in his pocket banged against his thigh at each step, and he was half minded to take it out and throw it away. The worst thing was the pain in his belly. For a couple of minutes he had the feeling that he would die if he did not reach a lavatory soon. But there would be no public lavatories in a quarter like this. Then the spasm passed, leaving a dull ache behind. The street was a blind alley. Winston halted, stood 18 1984 for several seconds wondering vaguely what to do, then turned round and began to retrace his steps. As he turned it occurred to him that the girl had only passed him three minutes ago and that by running he could probably catch up with her. He could keep on her track till they were in some quiet place, and then smash her skull in with a cobblestone. The piece of glass in his pocket would be heavy enough for the job. But he abandoned the idea immediately, because even the thought of making any physical effort was unbearable. He could not run, he could not strike a blow. Besides, she was young and lusty and would defend herself. He thought also of hurrying to the Community Centre and staying there till the place closed, so as to establish a partial alibi for the evening. But that too was impossible. A deadly lassitude had taken hold of him. All he wanted was to get home quickly and then sit down and be quiet. It was after twenty-two hours when he got back to the flat. The lights would be switched off at the main at twentythree thirty. He went into the kitchen and swallowed nearly a teacupful of Victory Gin. Then he went to the table in the alcove, sat down, and took the diary out of the drawer. But he did not open it at once. From the telescreen a brassy female voice was squalling a patriotic song. He sat staring at the marbled cover of the book, trying without success to shut the voice out of his consciousness. It was at night that they came for you, always at night. The proper thing was to kill yourself before they got you. Undoubtedly some people did so. Many of the disappearances were actually suicides. But it needed desperate courage to 19 kill yourself in a world where firearms, or any quick and certain poison, were completely unprocurable. He thought with a kind of astonishment of the biological uselessness of pain and fear, the treachery of the human body which always freezes into inertia at exactly the moment when a special effort is needed. He might have silenced the darkhaired girl if only he had acted quickly enough: but precisely because of the extremity of his danger he had lost the power to act. It struck him that in moments of crisis one is never fighting against an external enemy, but always against one’s own body. Even now, in spite of the gin, the dull ache in his belly made consecutive thought impossible. And it is the same, he perceived, in all seemingly heroic or tragic situations. On the battlefield, in the torture chamber, on a sinking ship, the issues that you are fighting for are always forgotten, because the body swells up until it fills the universe, and even when you are not paralysed by fright or screaming with pain, life is a moment-to-moment struggle against hunger or cold or sleeplessness, against a sour stomach or an aching tooth. He opened the diary. It was important to write something down. The woman on the telescreen had started a new song. Her voice seemed to stick into his brain like jagged splinters of glass. He tried to think of O’Brien, for whom, or to whom, the diary was written, but instead he began thinking of the things that would happen to him after the Thought Police took him away. It would not matter if they killed you at once. To be killed was what you expected. But before death (nobody spoke of such things, yet everybody 10 1984 knew of them) there was the routine of confession that had to be gone through: the grovelling on the floor and screaming for mercy, the crack of broken bones, the smashed teeth, and bloody clots of hair. Why did you have to endure it, since the end was always the same? Why was it not possible to cut a few days or weeks out of your life? Nobody ever escaped detection, and nobody ever failed to confess. When once you had succumbed to thoughtcrime it was certain that by a given date you would be dead. Why then did that horror, which altered nothing, have to lie embedded in future time? He tried with a little more success than before to summon up the image of O’Brien. ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,’ O’Brien had said to him. He knew what it meant, or thought he knew. The place where there is no darkness was the imagined future, which one would never see, but which, by foreknowledge, one could mystically share in. But with the voice from the telescreen nagging at his ears he could not follow the train of thought further. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Half the tobacco promptly fell out on to his tongue, a bitter dust which was difficult to spit out again. The face of Big Brother swam into his mind, displacing that of O’Brien. Just as he had done a few days earlier, he slid a coin out of his pocket and looked at it. The face gazed up at him, heavy, calm, protecting: but what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache? Like a leaden knell the words came back at him: WAR IS PEACE 11 FREEDOM IS SLAVERY IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH 1 1984 Part Two 1 Chapter 1 I t was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go to the lavatory. A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls. Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were ‘roughed in’. It was a common accident in the Fiction Department. They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain. A curious emotion stirred in Winston’s heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward 14 1984 to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body. ‘You’re hurt?’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. My arm. It’ll be all right in a second.’ She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale. ‘You haven’t broken anything?’ ‘No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.’ She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better. ‘It’s nothing,’ she repeated shortly. ‘I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!’ And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened. Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally. It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square. While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little 1 more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly, as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously. He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him. ‘Five minutes,’ he told himself, ‘five minutes at the very least!’ His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing close attention. Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning. So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared. He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground organization. Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very in- 1 1984 stant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably meant death— still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite. He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He readjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting: I LOVE YOU. For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, just to make sure that the words were really there. For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen. He felt as though a fire were burning in his belly. Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment. He had hoped to be alone for a little while during the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the 1 imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him, the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew, and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of Big Brother’s head, two metres wide, which was being made for the occasion by his daughter’s troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look in that direction again. The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a cloud. This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at, and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to be alone. Until he could be alone it was impossible to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a ‘discussion group’, played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled ‘Ingsoc in relation to 18 1984 chess’. His soul writhed with boredom, but for once he had had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I LOVE YOU the desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly seemed stupid. It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in bed—in the darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent—that he was able to think continuously. It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind. Only five nights ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone, but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youthful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred, her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body might slip away from him! What he feared more than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was enormous. It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to 19 him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think, he went over them one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments on a table. Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have been comparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building the Fiction Department lay, and he had no pretext for going there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he could have contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home; but to try to follow her home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry, which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine that was not even secret, all letters were opened in transit. Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally necessary to send, there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl’s name, let alone her address. Finally he decided that the safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a sufficient buzz of conversation all round—if these conditions endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few words. For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle having already blown. Presum- 140 1984 ably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image. He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him. The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds. On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine. But the girl was still alone 141 when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it. Then a voice behind him called, ‘Smith!’ He pretended not to hear. ‘Smith!’ repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use. He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe to refuse. After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it. The girl’s table filled up a few minutes later. But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early. Surely enough, she was at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl’s table. His hopes sank again. There was a vacant place at a table further away, but something in the little man’s appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table. With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little 14 1984 man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor. He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl’s table. He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking. Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless voices. ‘What time do you leave work?’ ‘Eighteen-thirty.’ ‘Where can we meet?’ 14 ‘Victory Square, near the monument.’ ‘It’s full of telescreens.’ ‘It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.’ ‘Any signal?’ ‘No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.’ ‘What time?’ ‘Nineteen hours.’ ‘All right.’ Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette. Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered round the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One. In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell. At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston. She was not coming, she had changed her mind! He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it 144 1984 had bells, had chimed ‘You owe me three farthings.’ Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, reading or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated. There were telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush. Winston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing. Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted, squirmed his way forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm’s length of the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips, then he had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them. A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow 14 men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting, jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of metal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he saw them only intermittently. The girl’s shoulder, and her arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth. She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling of the trucks. ‘Can you hear me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can you get Sunday afternoon off?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this. Go to Paddington Station——’ With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside her head. ‘Can you remember all that?’ she murmured finally. ‘Yes.’ 14 1984 ‘You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate’s got no top bar.’ ‘Yes. What time?’ ‘About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by another way. Are you sure you remember everything?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then get away from me as quick as you can.’ She need not have told him that. But for the moment they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gaping. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but it came only from the Party members among the crowd, and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them. Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the few who were hanged as war-criminals: the others simply vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type, dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheekbones eyes looked into Winston’s, sometimes with strange intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still 14 hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting squeeze. It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a long time that their hands were clasped together. He had time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour the girl’s eyes were. They were probably brown, but people with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies, they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully at Winston out of nests of hair. 148 1984 Chapter 2 Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade, stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss one’s skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves. He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than he would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the country than in London. There were no telescreens, of course, but there was always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might be picked up and recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not being followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of the summery weather. 149 The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon with ‘in-laws’ in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little blackmarket butter. The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no watch, but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a warning that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was relief, but as he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his 10 1984 own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him that till now she had probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bushes, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural clearing, a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned. ‘Here we are,’ she said. He was facing her at several paces’ distance. As yet he did not dare move nearer to her. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in the lane,’ she went on, ‘in case there’s a mike hidden there. I don’t suppose there is, but there could be. There’s always the chance of one of those swine recognizing your voice. We’re all right here.’ He still had not the courage to approach her. ‘We’re all right here?’ he repeated stupidly. ‘Yes. Look at the trees.’ They were small ashes, which at some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one’s wrist. ‘There’s nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I’ve been here before.’ They were only making conversation. He had managed 11 to move closer to her now. She stood before him very upright, with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical, as though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand. ‘Would you believe,’ he said, ‘that till this moment I didn’t know what colour your eyes were?’ They were brown, he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes. ‘Now that you’ve seen what I’m really like, can you still bear to look at me?’ ‘Yes, easily.’ ‘I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a wife that I can’t get rid of. I’ve got varicose veins. I’ve got five false teeth.’ ‘I couldn’t care less,’ said the girl. The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was in his his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and yes! actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck, she was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly unresisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad that this was happening, but he had no physical desire. It was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him, he was too much used to living without women—he did not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled 1 1984 a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her arm round his waist. ‘Never mind, dear. There’s no hurry. We’ve got the whole afternoon. Isn’t this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming you could hear them a hundred metres away.’ ‘What is your name?’ said Winston. ‘Julia. I know yours. It’s Winston—Winston Smith.’ ‘How did you find that out?’ ‘I expect I’m better at finding things out than you are, dear. Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I gave you the note?’ He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst. ‘I hated the sight of you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to rape you and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If you really want to know, I imagined that you had something to do with the Thought Police.’ The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a tribute to the excellence of her disguise. ‘Not the Thought Police! You didn’t honestly think that?’ ‘Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general appearance—merely because you’re young and fresh and healthy, you understand—I thought that probably——’ ‘You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word and deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, community hikes all that stuff. And you thought that if I had a quarter of a chance I’d denounce you as a thought-criminal 1 and get you killed off?’ ‘Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls are like that, you know.’ ‘It’s this bloody thing that does it,’ she said, ripping off the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging it on to a bough. Then, as though touching her waist had reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even before he had taken it he knew by the smell that it was very unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped in silver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crumbly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The first whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which he could not pin down, but which was powerful and troubling. ‘Where did you get this stuff?’ he said. ‘Black market,’ she said indifferently. ‘Actually I am that sort of girl, to look at. I’m good at games. I was a troop-leader in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I’ve spent pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one end of a banner in the processions. I always Iook cheerful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd, that’s what I say. It’s the only way to be safe.’ The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Winston’s tongue. The taste was delightful. But there was still 14 1984 that memory moving round the edges of his consciousness, something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape, like an object seen out of the corner of one’s eye. He pushed it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of some action which he would have liked to undo but could not. ‘You are very young,’ he said. ‘You are ten or fifteen years younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a man like me?’ ‘It was something in your face. I thought I’d take a chance. I’m good at spotting people who don’t belong. As soon as I saw you I knew you were against THEM.’ THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the Inner Party, about whom she talked with an open jeering hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, although he knew that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. A thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of her language. Party members were supposed not to swear, and Winston himself very seldom did swear, aloud, at any rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the Party, and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He did not dislike it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it seemed natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells bad hay. They had left the clearing and were wandering again through the chequered shade, with their arms round each other’s waists whenever it was wide enough to walk two abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed 1 to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak above a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little wood. She stopped him. ‘Don’t go out into the open. There might be someone watching. We’re all right if we keep behind the boughs.’ They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The sunlight, filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot on their faces. Winston looked out into the field beyond, and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a footpath wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves stirred faintly in dense masses like women’s hair. Surely somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be a stream with green pools where dace were swimming? ‘Isn’t there a stream somewhere near here?’ he whispered. ‘That’s right, there is a stream. It’s at the edge of the next field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, waving their tails.’ ‘It’s the Golden Country—almost,’ he murmured. ‘The Golden Country?’ ‘It’s nothing, really. A landscape I’ve seen sometimes in a dream.’ ‘Look!’ whispered Julia. A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away, 1 1984 almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Winston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations, never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Winston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watching it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether after all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush. Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, beetle-like man was listening intently—listening to that. But by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and merely felt. The girl’s waist in the bend of his arm was soft and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths 1 clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright and fled with a clatter of wings. Winston put his lips against her ear. ‘NOW,’ he whispered. ‘Not here,’ she whispered back. ‘Come back to the hideout. It’s safer.’ Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him. They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And, yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and took her hands in his. ‘Have you done this before?’ ‘Of course. Hundreds of times—well, scores of times, anyway.’ ‘With Party members?’ ‘Yes, always with Party members.’ ‘With members of the Inner Party?’ ‘Not with those swine, no. But there’s plenty that WOULD 18 1984 if they got half a chance. They’re not so holy as they make out.’ His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished it had been hundreds—thousands. Anything that hinted at corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew, perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing iniquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Anything to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down so that they were kneeling face to face. ‘Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?’ ‘Yes, perfectly.’ ‘I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don’t want any virtue to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the bones.’ ‘Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I’m corrupt to the bones.’ ‘You like doing this? I don’t mean simply me: I mean the thing in itself?’ ‘I adore it.’ That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely the love of one person but the animal instinct, the simple undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass, among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficulty. Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they 19 fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell asleep and slept for about half an hour. Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freckled face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beautiful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her surname or where she lived. The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tenderness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the overalls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old days, he thought, a man looked at a girl’s body and saw that it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emotion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a political act. 10 1984 Chapter 3 ‘ We can come here once again,’ said Julia. ‘It’s generally safe to use any hide-out twice. But not for another month or two, of course.’ As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She became alert and business-like, put her clothes on, knotted the scarlet sash about her waist, and began arranging the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaustive knowledge of the countryside round London, stored away from innumerable community hikes. The route she gave him was quite different from the one by which he had come, and brought him out at a different railway station. ‘Never go home the same way as you went out,’ she said, as though enunciating an important general principle. She would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour before following her. She had named a place where they could meet after work, four evenings hence. It was a street in one of the poorer quarters, where there was an open market which was generally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about among the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewingthread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk 11 past her without recognition. But with luck, in the middle of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour and arrange another meeting. ‘And now I must go,’ she said as soon as he had mastered his instructions. ‘I’m due back at nineteen-thirty. I’ve got to put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing out leaflets, or something. Isn’t it bloody? Give me a brushdown, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye!’ She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost violently, and a moment later pushed her way through the saplings and disappeared into the wood with very little noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her address. However, it made no difference, for it was inconceivable that they could ever meet indoors or exchange any kind of written communication. As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in the wood. During the month of May there was only one further occasion on which they actually succeeded in making love. That was in another hidlng-place known to Julia, the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost-deserted stretch of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years earlier. It was a good hiding-place when once you got there, but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest they could meet only in the streets, in a different place every evening and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast and never looking at one another, they carried on a curi- 1 1984 ous, intermittent conversation which flicked on and off like the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a telescreen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of a sentence, then abruptly cut short as they parted at the agreed spot, then continued almost without introduction on the following day. Julia appeared to be quite used to this kind of conversation, which she called ‘talking by instalments’. She was also surprisingly adept at speaking without moving her lips. Just once in almost a month of nightly meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were passing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak when they were away from the main streets) when there was a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air darkened, and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia’s face a few centimetres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against him and found that he was kissing a live warm face. But there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips. Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster. There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous and then had to walk past one another without a sign, because a patrol had just come round the corner or a helicopter was hovering overhead. Even if it had been less dangerous, it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Winston’s working week was sixty hours, Julia’s was even longer, and their free days varied according to the pressure of work 1 and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distributing literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, preparing banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was camouflage. If you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet another of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Party members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens. When they met in the church tower the gaps in their fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing afternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no one was coming. Julia was twenty-six years old. She lived in a hostel with thirty other girls (’Always in the stink of women! How I hate women!’ she said parenthetically), and she worked, as he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fiction Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky elec- 14 1984 tric motor. She was ‘not clever’, but was fond of using her hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe the whole process of composing a novel, from the general directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not interested in the finished product. She ‘didn’t much care for reading,’ she said. Books were just a commodity that had to be produced, like jam or bootlaces. She had no memories of anything before the early sixties and the only person she had ever known who talked frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grandfather who had disappeared when she was eight. At school she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troopleader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infallible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with titles like ‘Spanking Stories’ or ‘One Night in a Girls’ School’, to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were under the impression that they were buying something illegal. ‘What are these books like?’ said Winston curiously. ‘Oh, ghastly rubbish. They’re boring, really. They only have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course 1 I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite Squad. I’m not literary, dear—not even enough for that.’ He learned with astonishment that all the workers in Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls. The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less controllable than those of women, were in greater danger of being corrupted by the filth they handled. ‘They don’t even like having married women there,’ she added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here’s one who isn’t, anyway. She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen, with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide to avoid arrest. ‘And a good job too,’ said Julia, ‘otherwise they’d have had my name out of him when he confessed.’ Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it was quite simple. You wanted a good time; ‘they’, meaning the Party, wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules as best you could. She seemed to think it just as natural that ‘they’ should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you should want to avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criticism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never used Newspeak words except the ones that had passed into everyday use. She had never heard of the Brotherhood, and refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure, struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules and stay alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many 1 1984 others like her there might be in the younger generation people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution, knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog. They did not discuss the possibility of getting married. It was too remote to be worth thinking about. No imaginable committee would ever sanction such a marriage even if Katharine, Winston’s wife, could somehow have been got rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream. ‘What was she like, your wife?’ said Julia. ‘She was—do you know the Newspeak word GOODTHINKFUL? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of thinking a bad thought?’ ‘No, I didn’t know the word, but I know the kind of person, right enough.’ He began telling her the story of his married life, but curiously enough she appeared to know the essential parts of it already. She described to him, almost as though she had seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine’s body as soon as he touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any case, had long ceased to be a painful memory and became merely a distasteful one. ‘I could have stood it if it hadn’t been for one thing,’ he said. He told her about the frigid little ceremony that Katharine had forced him to go through on the same night every 1 week. ‘She hated it, but nothing would make her stop doing it. She used to call it—but you’ll never guess.’ ‘Our duty to the Party,’ said Julia promptly. ‘How did you know that?’ ‘I’ve been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for the over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it into you for years. I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites.’ She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, everything came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness. Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the Party’s sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex instinct created a world of its own which was outside the Party’s control and which therefore had to be destroyed if possible. What was more important was that sexual privation induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way she put it was: ‘When you make love you’re using up energy; and afterwards you feel happy and don’t give a damn for anything. They can’t bear you to feel like that. They want you to be bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour. If you’re happy inside yourself, why should you get excited about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot?’ That was very true, he thought. There was a direct intimate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy. 18 1984 For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were systematically turned against their parents and taught to spy on them and report their deviations. The family had become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded night and day by informers who knew him intimately. Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine would unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought Police if she had not happened to be too stupid to detect the unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled her to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon, which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had failed to happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon, eleven years ago. It was three or four months after they were married. They had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent. They had only lagged behind the others for a couple of minutes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently found themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with 19 boulders at the bottom. There was nobody of whom they could ask the way. As soon as she realized that they were lost Katharine became very uneasy. To be away from the noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had come and start searching in the other direction. But at this moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before, and he called to Katharine to come and look at it. ‘Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump down near the bottom. Do you see they’re two different colours?’ She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully come back for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff face to see where he was pointing. He was standing a little behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady her. At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere, not a leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like this the danger that there would be a hidden microphone was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tickled his face. And the thought struck him... ‘Why didn’t you give her a good shove?’ said Julia. ‘I would have.’ ‘Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I’d been the same 10 1984 person then as I am now. Or perhaps I would—I’m not certain.’ ‘Are you sorry you didn’t?’ ‘Yes. On the whole I’m sorry I didn’t.’ They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He pulled her closer against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected something from life, she did not understand that to push an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing. ‘Actually it would have made no difference,’ he said. ‘Then why are you sorry you didn’t do it?’ ‘Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that we’re playing, we can’t win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds, that’s all.’ He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She always contradicted him when he said anything of this kind. She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a secret world in which you could live as you chose. All you needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not understand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead, that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was better to think of yourself as a corpse. ‘We are the dead,’ he said. 11 ‘We’re not dead yet,’ said Julia prosaically. ‘Not physically. Six months, a year—five years, conceivably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably you’re more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So long as human beings stay human, death and life are the same thing.’ ‘Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or a skeleton? Don’t you enjoy being alive? Don’t you like feeling: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I’m real, I’m solid, I’m alive! Don’t you like THIS?’ She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth and vigour into his. ‘Yes, I like that,’ he said. ‘Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear, we’ve got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as well go back to the place in the wood. We’ve given it a good long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time. I’ve got it all planned out. You take the train—but look, I’ll draw it out for you.’ And in her practical way she scraped together a small square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon’s nest began drawing a map on the floor. 1 1984 Chapter 4 Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr Charrington’s shop. Beside the window the enormous bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness. In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets. The clock’s hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteentwenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty. Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous, suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actually the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance 1 and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy, he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even, seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, added that there were two entries to the house, one of them through the back yard, which gave on an alley. Under the window somebody was singing. Winston peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain. The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white things which Winston recognized as babies’ diapers. Whenever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was singing in a powerful contralto: It was only an ‘opeless fancy. It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an’ a word an’ the dreams they stirred! They ‘ave stolen my ‘eart awye! The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. 14 1984 The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of a telescreen. Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceivable that they could frequent this place for more than a few weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody. Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. ‘It’s all off,’ she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to speak. ‘Tomorrow, I mean.’ ‘What?’ 1 ‘Tomorrow afternoon. I can’t come.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Oh, the usual reason. It’s started early this time.’ For a moment he was violently angry. During the month that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensuality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act of the will. But after the second time it was different. The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity, something that he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He wished that they were a married couple of ten years’ standing. He wished that he were walking through the streets with her just as they were doing now but openly and without fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends for the household. He wished above all that they had some place where they could be alone together without feeling the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not actually at that moment, but at some time on the following day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington’s room had oc- 1 1984 curred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one’s consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times, preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened. At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly because she was still holding the tool-bag. ‘Half a second,’ she said. ‘Just let me show you what I’ve brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee? I thought you would. You can chuck it away again, because we shan’t be needing it. Look here.’ She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched it. ‘It isn’t sugar?’ he said. 1 ‘Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here’s a loaf of bread—proper white bread, not our bloody stuff—and a little pot of jam. And here’s a tin of milk—but look! This is the one I’m really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round it, because——’ But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant and then lost again. ‘It’s coffee,’ he murmured, ‘real coffee.’ ‘It’s Inner Party coffee. There’s a whole kilo here,’ she said. ‘How did you manage to get hold of all these things?’ ‘It’s all Inner Party stuff. There’s nothing those swine don’t have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and people pinch things, and—look, I got a little packet of tea as well.’ Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a corner of the packet. ‘It’s real tea. Not blackberry leaves.’ ‘There’s been a lot of tea about lately. They’ve captured India, or something,’ she said vaguely. ‘But listen, dear. I want you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit on the other side of the bed. Don’t go too near the window. And don’t turn round till I tell you.’ Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain. 18 1984 Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling: They sye that time ‘eals all things, They sye you can always forget; But the smiles an’ the tears acrorss the years They twist my ‘eart-strings yet! She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed. Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air, very tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if the June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes inexhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to oneself. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near the starvation level that they had anything to sing about. ‘You can turn round now,’ said Julia. He turned round, and for a second almost failed to recognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had happened was much more surprising than that. She had painted her face. She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian 19 quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up materials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her cheeks rouged, her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skilfully done, but Winston’s standards in such matters were not high. He had never before seen or imagined a woman of the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour in the right places she had become not only very much prettier, but, above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her in his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He remembered the half-darkness of a basement kitchen, and a woman’s cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter. ‘Scent too!’ he said. ‘Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I’m going to do next? I’m going to get hold of a real woman’s frock from somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I’ll wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I’m going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.’ They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge mahogany bed. It was the first time that he had stripped himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the varicose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and springiness of the bed astonished both of them. ‘It’s sure 180 1984 to be full of bugs, but who cares?’ said Julia. One never saw a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles. Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia had never been in one before, so far as she could remember. Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Winston woke up the hands of the clock had crept round to nearly nine. He did not stir, because Julia was sleeping with her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up had transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone. A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the pan was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in from the street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no clothes on, making love when they chose, talking of what they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply lying there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely there could never have been a time when that seemed ordinary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on her elbow to look at the oilstove. ‘Half that water’s boiled away,’ she said. ‘I’ll get up and make some coffee in another moment. We’ve got an hour. What time do they cut the lights off at your flats?’ ‘Twenty-three thirty.’ ‘It’s twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in earlier than that, because—Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!’ 181 She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a shoe from the floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as he had seen her fling the dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two Minutes Hate. ‘What was it?’ he said in surprise. ‘A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting. There’s a hole down there. I gave him a good fright, anyway.’ ‘Rats!’ murmured Winston. ‘In this room!’ ‘They’re all over the place,’ said Julia indifferently as she lay down again. ‘We’ve even got them in the kitchen at the hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of these streets a woman daren’t leave a baby alone for two minutes. It’s the great huge brown ones that do it. And the nasty thing is that the brutes always——’ ‘DON’T GO ON!’ said Winston, with his eyes tightly shut. ‘Dearest! You’ve gone quite pale. What’s the matter? Do they make you feel sick?’ ‘Of all horrors in the world—a rat!’ She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a nightmare which had recurred from time to time throughout his life. It was always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other 18 1984 side of it there was something unendurable, something too dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort, like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up without discovering what it was: but somehow it was connected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her short. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing. I don’t like rats, that’s all.’ ‘Don’t worry, dear, we’re not going to have the filthy brutes in here. I’ll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before we go. And next time we come here I’ll bring some plaster and bung it up properly.’ Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten. Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive. What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve- 18 hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always, by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass. ‘What is it, do you think?’ said Julia. ‘I don’t think it’s anything—I mean, I don’t think it was ever put to any use. That’s what I like about it. It’s a little chunk of history that they’ve forgotten to alter. It’s a message from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it.’ ‘And that picture over there’—she nodded at the engraving on the opposite wall—’would that be a hundred years old?’ ‘More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can’t tell. It’s impossible to discover the age of anything nowadays.’ She went over to look at it. ‘Here’s where that brute stuck his nose out,’ she said, kicking the wainscoting immediately below the picture. ‘What is this place? I’ve seen it before somewhere.’ ‘It’s a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes its name was.’ The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington had taught him came back into his head, and he added half-nostalgically: ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s!’ To his astonishment she capped the line: ’You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s, When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey——’ ‘I can’t remember how it goes on after that. But anyway 184 1984 I remember it ends up, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!‘‘ It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there must be another line after ‘the bells of Old Bailey’. Perhaps it could be dug out of Mr Charrington’s memory, if he were suitably prompted. ‘Who taught you that?’ he said. ‘My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a little girl. He was vaporized when I was eight—at any rate, he disappeared. I wonder what a lemon was,’ she added inconsequently. ‘I’ve seen oranges. They’re a kind of round yellow fruit with a thick skin.’ ‘I can remember lemons,’ said Winston. ‘They were quite common in the fifties. They were so sour that it set your teeth on edge even to smell them.’ ‘I bet that picture’s got bugs behind it,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll take it down and give it a good clean some day. I suppose it’s almost time we were leaving. I must start washing this paint off. What a bore! I’ll get the lipstick off your face afterwards.’ Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The room was darkening. He turned over towards the light and lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The inexhaustibly interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the interior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and yet it was almost as transparent as air. It was as though the surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feeling that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside 18 it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself. The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was Julia’s life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal. 18 1984 Chapter 5 Syme had vanished. A morning came, and he was missing from work: a few thoughtless people commented on his absence. On the next day nobody mentioned him. On the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the Records Department to look at the notice-board. One of the notices carried a printed list of the members of the Chess Committee, of whom Syme had been one. It looked almost exactly as it had looked before—nothing had been crossed out—but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had ceased to exist: he had never existed. The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal temperature, but outside the pavements scorched one’s feet and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a horror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and the staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime. Processions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks, displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had to be organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs faked. Julia’s unit in the Fiction Department had been taken off the production of novels and was rushing out a series of atrocity pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular work, spent long periods every day in going through back 18 files of ‘The Times’ and altering and embellishing news items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night, when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town had a curiously febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed oftener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance there were enormous explosions which no one could explain and about which there were wild rumours. The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate Week (the Hate Song, it was called) had already been composed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens. It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly be called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the midnight streets it competed with the still-popular ‘It was only a hopeless fancy’. The Parsons children played it at all hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a piece of toilet paper. Winston’s evenings were fuller than ever. Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons, were preparing the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting posters, erecting flagstaffs on the roofs, and perilously slinging wires across the street for the reception of streamers. Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native element and as happy as a lark. The heat and the manual work had even given him a pretext for reverting to shorts and an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once, pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jollying everyone along with comradely exhortations and giving 188 1984 out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaustible supply of acrid-smelling sweat. A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It had no caption, and represented simply the monstrous figure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four metres high, striding forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enormous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From whatever angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed to be pointed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the portraits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about the war, were being lashed into one of their periodical frenzies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general mood, the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins. The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for a long, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece of waste ground which was used as a playground and several dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further angry demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hundreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were torn down and added to the flames, and a number of shops were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless waves, and an old couple who were suspected of being of foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished 189 of suffocation. In the room over Mr Charrington’s shop, when they could get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness. The rat had never come back, but the bugs had multiplied hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had rallied and were massing for the counter-attack. Four, five, six—seven times they met during the month of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. He had grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of coughing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist. To know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk. Mr Charrington, thought Winston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs. The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors, 190 1984 and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had always vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman. With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap of rubbish or that—a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby’s hair—never asking that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musicalbox. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a cow with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor Cock Robin. ‘It just occurred to me you might be interested,’ he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more than a few lines of any one rhyme. Both of them knew—in a way, it was never out of their minds that what was now happening could not last long. There were times when the fact of impending death seemed as palpable as the bed they lay on, and they would cling together with a sort of despairing sensuality, like a damned soul grasping at his last morsel of pleasure when the clock 191 is within five minutes of striking. But there were also times when they had the illusion not only of safety but of permanence. So long as they were actually in this room, they both felt, no harm could come to them. Getting there was difficult and dangerous, but the room itself was sanctuary. It was as when Winston had gazed into the heart of the paperweight, with the feeling that it would be possible to get inside that glassy world, and that once inside it time could be arrested. Often they gave themselves up to daydreams of escape. Their luck would hold indefinitely, and they would carry on their intrigue, just like this, for the remainder of their natural lives. Or Katharine would die, and by subtle manoeuvrings Winston and Julia would succeed in getting married. Or they would commit suicide together. Or they would disappear, alter themselves out of recognition, learn to speak with proletarian accents, get jobs in a factory and live out their lives undetected in a back-street. It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one’s lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available. Sometimes, too, they talked of engaging in active rebellion against the Party, but with no notion of how to take the first step. Even if the fabulous Brotherhood was a reality, there still remained the difficulty of finding one’s way into it. He told her of the strange intimacy that existed, or 19 1984 seemed to exist, between himself and O’Brien, and of the impulse he sometimes felt, simply to walk into O’Brien’s presence, announce that he was the enemy of the Party, and demand his help. Curiously enough, this did not strike her as an impossibly rash thing to do. She was used to judging people by their faces, and it seemed natural to her that Winston should believe O’Brien to be trustworthy on the strength of a single flash of the eyes. Moreover she took it for granted that everyone, or nearly everyone, secretly hated the Party and would break the rules if he thought it safe to do so. But she refused to believe that widespread, organized opposition existed or could exist. The tales about Goldstein and his underground army, she said, were simply a lot of rubbish which the Party had invented for its own purposes and which you had to pretend to believe in. Times beyond number, at Party rallies and spontaneous demonstrations, she had shouted at the top of her voice for the execution of people whose names she had never heard and in whose supposed crimes she had not the faintest belief. When public trials were happening she had taken her place in the detachments from the Youth League who surrounded the courts from morning to night, chanting at intervals ‘Death to the traitors!’ During the Two Minutes Hate she always excelled all others in shouting insults at Goldstein. Yet she had only the dimmest idea of who Goldstein was and what doctrines he was supposed to represent. She had grown up since the Revolution and was too young to remember the ideological battles of the fifties and sixties. Such a thing as an independent political movement was outside her imagination: and 19 in any case the Party was invincible. It would always exist, and it would always be the same. You could only rebel against it by secret disobedience or, at most, by isolated acts of violence such as killing somebody or blowing something up. In some ways she was far more acute than Winston, and far less susceptible to Party propaganda. Once when he happened in some connexion to mention the war against Eurasia, she startled him by saying casually that in her opinion the war was not happening. The rocket bombs which fell daily on London were probably fired by the Government of Oceania itself, ‘just to keep people frightened’. This was an idea that had literally never occurred to him. She also stirred a sort of envy in him by telling him that during the Two Minutes Hate her great difficulty was to avoid bursting out laughing. But she only questioned the teachings of the Party when they in some way touched upon her own life. Often she was ready to accept the official mythology, simply because the difference between truth and falsehood did not seem important to her. She believed, for instance, having learnt it at school, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. (In his own schooldays, Winston remembered, in the late fifties, it was only the helicopter that the Party claimed to have invented; a dozen years later, when Julia was at school, it was already claiming the aeroplane; one generation more, and it would be claiming the steam engine.) And when he told her that aeroplanes had been in existence before he was born and long before the Revolution, the fact struck her as totally uninteresting. After all, what did it matter who had 194 1984 invented aeroplanes? It was rather more of a shock to him when he discovered from some chance remark that she did not remember that Oceania, four years ago, had been at war with Eastasia and at peace with Eurasia. It was true that she regarded the whole war as a sham: but apparently she had not even noticed that the name of the enemy had changed. ‘I thought we’d always been at war with Eurasia,’ she said vaguely. It frightened him a little. The invention of aeroplanes dated from long before her birth, but the switchover in the war had happened only four years ago, well after she was grown up. He argued with her about it for perhaps a quarter of an hour. In the end he succeeded in forcing her memory back until she did dimly recall that at one time Eastasia and not Eurasia had been the enemy. But the issue still struck her as unimportant. ‘Who cares?’ she said impatiently. ‘It’s always one bloody war after another, and one knows the news is all lies anyway.’ Sometimes he talked to her of the Records Department and the impudent forgeries that he committed there. Such things did not appear to horrify her. She did not feel the abyss opening beneath her feet at the thought of lies becoming truths. He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers. It did not make much impression on her. At first, indeed, she failed to grasp the point of the story. ‘Were they friends of yours?’ she said. ‘No, I never knew them. They were Inner Party members. Besides, they were far older men than I was. They belonged 19 to the old days, before the Revolution. I barely knew them by sight.’ ‘Then what was there to worry about? People are being killed off all the time, aren’t they?’ He tried to make her understand. ‘This was an exceptional case. It wasn’t just a question of somebody being killed. Do you realize that the past, starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere, it’s in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book has been rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Party is always right. I know, of course, that the past is falsified, but it would never be possible for me to prove it, even when I did the falsification myself. After the thing is done, no evidence ever remains. The only evidence is inside my own mind, and I don’t know with any certainty that any other human being shares my memories. Just in that one instance, in my whole life, I did possess actual concrete evidence after the event—years after it.’ ‘And what good was that?’ ‘It was no good, because I threw it away a few minutes later. But if the same thing happened today, I should keep it.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t!’ said Julia. ‘I’m quite ready to take 19 1984 risks, but only for something worth while, not for bits of old newspaper. What could you have done with it even if you had kept it?’ ‘Not much, perhaps. But it was evidence. It might have planted a few doubts here and there, supposing that I’d dared to show it to anybody. I don’t imagine that we can alter anything in our own lifetime. But one can imagine little knots of resistance springing up here and there—small groups of people banding themselves together, and gradually growing, and even leaving a few records behind, so that the next generations can carry on where we leave off.’ ‘I’m not interested in the next generation, dear. I’m interested in US.’ ‘You’re only a rebel from the waist downwards,’ he told her. She thought this brilliantly witty and flung her arms round him in delight. In the ramifications of party doctrine she had not the faintest interest. Whenever he began to talk of the principles of Ingsoc, doublethink, the mutability of the past, and the denial of objective reality, and to use Newspeak words, she became bored and confused and said that she never paid any attention to that kind of thing. One knew that it was all rubbish, so why let oneself be worried by it? She knew when to cheer and when to boo, and that was all one needed. If he persisted in talking of such subjects, she had a disconcerting habit of falling asleep. She was one of those people who can go to sleep at any hour and in any position. Talking to her, he realized how easy it was to present an appearance of or- 19 thodoxy while having no grasp whatever of what orthodoxy meant. In a way, the world-view of the Party imposed itself most successfully on people incapable of understanding it. They could be made to accept the most flagrant violations of reality, because they never fully grasped the enormity of what was demanded of them, and were not sufficiently interested in public events to notice what was happening. By lack of understanding they remained sane. They simply swallowed everything, and what they swallowed did them no harm, because it left no residue behind, just as a grain of corn will pass undigested through the body of a bird. 198 1984 Chapter 6 I t had happened at last. The expected message had come. All his life, it seemed to him, he had been waiting for this to happen. He was walking down the long corridor at the Ministry and he was almost at the spot where Julia had slipped the note into his hand when he became aware that someone larger than himself was walking just behind him. The person, whoever it was, gave a small cough, evidently as a prelude to speaking. Winston stopped abruptly and turned. It was O’Brien. At last they were face to face, and it seemed that his only impulse was to run away. His heart bounded violently. He would have been incapable of speaking. O’Brien, however, had continued forward in the same movement, laying a friendly hand for a moment on Winston’s arm, so that the two of them were walking side by side. He began speaking with the peculiar grave courtesy that differentiated him from the majority of Inner Party members. ‘I had been hoping for an opportunity of talking to you,’ he said. ‘I was reading one of your Newspeak articles in ‘The Times’ the other day. You take a scholarly interest in Newspeak, I believe?’ Winston had recovered part of his self-possession. ‘Hardly scholarly,’ he said. ‘I’m only an amateur. It’s not my 199 subject. I have never had anything to do with the actual construction of the language.’ ‘But you write it very elegantly,’ said O’Brien. ‘That is not only my own opinion. I was talking recently to a friend of yours who is certainly an expert. His name has slipped my memory for the moment.’ Again Winston’s heart stirred painfully. It was inconceivable that this was anything other than a reference to Syme. But Syme was not only dead, he was abolished, an unperson. Any identifiable reference to him would have been mortally dangerous. O’Brien’s remark must obviously have been intended as a signal, a codeword. By sharing a small act of thoughtcrime he had turned the two of them into accomplices. They had continued to stroll slowly down the corridor, but now O’Brien halted. With the curious, disarming friendliness that he always managed to put in to the gesture he resettled his spectacles on his nose. Then he went on: ‘What I had really intended to say was that in your article I noticed you had used two words which have become obsolete. But they have only become so very recently. Have you seen the tenth edition of the Newspeak Dictionary?’ ‘No,’ said Winston. ‘I didn’t think it had been issued yet. We are still using the ninth in the Records Department.’ ‘The tenth edition is not due to appear for some months, I believe. But a few advance copies have been circulated. I have one myself. It might interest you to look at it, perhaps?’ ‘Very much so,’ said Winston, immediately seeing where 00 1984 this tended. ‘Some of the new developments are most ingenious. The reduction in the number of verbs—that is the point that will appeal to you, I think. Let me see, shall I send a messenger to you with the dictionary? But I am afraid I invariably forget anything of that kind. Perhaps you could pick it up at my flat at some time that suited you? Wait. Let me give you my address.’ They were standing in front of a telescreen. Somewhat absentmindedly O’Brien felt two of his pockets and then produced a small leather-covered notebook and a gold ink-pencil. Immediately beneath the telescreen, in such a position that anyone who was watching at the other end of the instrument could read what he was writing, he scribbled an address, tore out the page and handed it to Winston. ‘I am usually at home in the evenings,’ he said. ‘If not, my servant will give you the dictionary.’ He was gone, leaving Winston holding the scrap of paper, which this time there was no need to conceal. Nevertheless he carefully memorized what was written on it, and some hours later dropped it into the memory hole along with a mass of other papers. They had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most. There was only one meaning that the episode could possibly have. It had been contrived as a way of letting Winston know O’Brien’s address. This was necessary, because except by direct enquiry it was never possible to discover where anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind. ‘If you ever want to see me, this is where I can 01 be found,’ was what O’Brien had been saying to him. Perhaps there would even be a message concealed somewhere in the dictionary. But at any rate, one thing was certain. The conspiracy that he had dreamed of did exist, and he had reached the outer edges of it. He knew that sooner or later he would obey O’Brien’s summons. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps after a long delay—he was not certain. What was happening was only the working-out of a process that had started years ago. The first step had been a secret, involuntary thought, the second had been the opening of the diary. He had moved from thoughts to words, and now from words to actions. The last step was something that would happen in the Ministry of Love. He had accepted it. The end was contained in the beginning. But it was frightening: or, more exactly, it was like a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive. Even while he was speaking to O’Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in, a chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body. He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him. 0 1984 Chapter 7 Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily against him, murmuring something that might have been ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘I dreamt—’ he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking. He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream. It was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred inside the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky, and inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances. The dream had also been comprehended by—indeed, in some sense it had consisted in—a gesture of the arm made by his mother, and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the helicopter blew them both to pieces. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that until this moment I believed I had murdered my mother?’ ‘Why did you murder her?’ said Julia, almost asleep. ‘I didn’t murder her. Not physically.’ 0 In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and within a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all come back. It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date, but he could not have been less than ten years old, possibly twelve, when it had happened. His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he could not remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances of the time: the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations, the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues outside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance—above all, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake. When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for 04 1984 something that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed—cooked, washed, mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece—always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist’s lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen. He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, closesmelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother’s statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan. Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way), or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than 0 his share. She took it for granted that he, ‘the boy’, should have the biggest portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister’s plate. He knew that he was starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt that he had a right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him. Between meals, if his mother did not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the shelf. One day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been no such issue for weeks or months past. He remembered quite clearly that precious little morsel of chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those days) between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he were listening to somebody else, Winston heard himself demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be given the whole piece. His mother told him not to be greedy. There was a long, nagging argument that went round and round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances, bargainings. His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both hands, exactly like a baby monkey, sat looking over her shoulder at him with large, mournful eyes. In the end his mother broke off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to Winston, giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold 0 1984 of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was. Winston stood watching her for a moment. Then with a sudden swift spring he had snatched the piece of chocolate out of his sister’s hand and was fleeing for the door. ‘Winston, Winston!’ his mother called after him. ‘Come back! Give your sister back her chocolate!’ He stopped, but did not come back. His mother’s anxious eyes were fixed on his face. Even now he was thinking about the thing, he did not know what it was that was on the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having been robbed of something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother drew her arm round the child and pressed its face against her breast. Something in the gesture told him that his sister was dying. He turned and fled down the stairs, with the chocolate growing sticky in his hand. He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured the chocolate he felt somewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several hours, until hunger drove him home. When he came back his mother had disappeared. This was already becoming normal at that time. Nothing was gone from the room except his mother and his sister. They had not taken any clothes, not even his mother’s overcoat. To this day he did not know with any certainty that his mother was dead. It was perfectly possible that she had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp. As for his sister, she might have been removed, like Winston himself, to one of the colonies for homeless children (Reclamation Centres, they were called) which had grown up as a result of the civil war, or she might have been sent to the labour 0 camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or other to die. The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained. His mind went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother had sat on the dingy whitequilted bed, with the child clinging to her, so she had sat in the sunken ship, far underneath him, and drowning deeper every minute, but still looking up at him through the darkening water. He told Julia the story of his mother’s disappearance. Without opening her eyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position. ‘I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,’ she said indistinctly. ‘All children are swine.’ ‘Yes. But the real point of the story——’ From her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep again. He would have liked to continue talking about his mother. He did not suppose, from what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman, still less an intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of nobility, a kind of purity, simply because the standards that she obeyed were private ones. Her feelings were her own, and could not be altered from outside. It would not have occurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless. If you loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still gave him love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother had clasped the child in her arms. It was no use, it changed 08 1984 nothing, it did not produce more chocolate, it did not avert the child’s death or her own; but it seemed natural to her to do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets than a sheet of paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade you that mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while at the same time robbing you of all power over the material world. When once you were in the grip of the Party, what you felt or did not feel, what you did or refrained from doing, made literally no difference. Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted clean out of the stream of history. And yet to the people of only two generations ago this would not have seemed all-important, because they were not attempting to alter history. They were governed by private loyalties which they did not question. What mattered were individual relationships, and a completely helpless gesture, an embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself. The proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in this condition. They were not loyal to a party or a country or an idea, they were loyal to one another. For the first time in his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely as an inert force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the world. The proles had stayed human. They had not become hardened inside. They had held on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by conscious effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent relevance, how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed 09 hand lying on the pavement and had kicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk. ‘The proles are human beings,’ he said aloud. ‘We are not human.’ ‘Why not?’ said Julia, who had woken up again. He thought for a little while. ‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that the best thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here before it’s too late, and never see each other again?’ ‘Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I’m not going to do it, all the same.’ ‘We’ve been lucky,’ he said ‘but it can’t last much longer. You’re young. You look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me, you might stay alive for another fifty years.’ ‘No. I’ve thought it all out. What you do, I’m going to do. And don’t be too downhearted. I’m rather good at staying alive.’ ‘We may be together for another six months—a year— there’s no knowing. At the end we’re certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly alone we shall be? When once they get hold of us there will be nothing, literally nothing, that either of us can do for the other. If I confess, they’ll shoot you, and if I refuse to confess, they’ll shoot you just the same. Nothing that I can do or say, or stop myself from saying, will put off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We shall be utterly without power of any kind. The one thing that matters is that we shouldn’t betray one another, although 10 1984 even that can’t make the slightest difference.’ ‘If you mean confessing,’ she said, ‘we shall do that, right enough. Everybody always confesses. You can’t help it. They torture you.’ ‘I don’t mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn’t matter: only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you—that would be the real betrayal.’ She thought it over. ‘They can’t do that,’ she said finally. ‘It’s the one thing they can’t do. They can make you say anything—ANYTHING—but they can’t make you believe it. They can’t get inside you.’ ‘No,’ he said a little more hopefully, ‘no; that’s quite true. They can’t get inside you. If you can FEEL that staying human is worth while, even when it can’t have any result whatever, you’ve beaten them.’ He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could spy upon you night and day, but if you kept your head you could still outwit them. With all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of finding out what another human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true when you were actually in their hands. One did not know what happened inside the Ministry of Love, but it was possible to guess: tortures, drugs, delicate instruments that registered your nervous reactions, gradual wearing-down by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning. Facts, at any rate, could not be kept hidden. They could be tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay 11 human, what difference did it ultimately make? They could not alter your feelings: for that matter you could not alter them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought; but the inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained impregnable. 1 1984 Chapter 8 They had done it, they had done it at last! The room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O’Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed Julia and Winston in. Winston’s heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would be able to speak. They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he could think. It had been a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly to arrive together; though it was true that they had come by different routes and only met on O’Brien’s doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-places of the Inner Party, or even penetrated into the quarter of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge block of flats, the richness and spaciousness of everything, the unfamiliar smells of good food and good tobacco, the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro—everything was intimidating. Although he had a good pretext for coming here, he was haunted at every step by the fear that a 1 black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round the corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out. O’Brien’s servant, however, had admitted the two of them without demur. He was a small, dark-haired man in a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he led them was softly carpeted, with creampapered walls and white wainscoting, all exquisitely clean. That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy from the contact of human bodies. O’Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying it intently. His heavy face, bent down so that one could see the line of the nose, looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the Ministries: ’Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion contained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging crimethink cancel stop unproceed constructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end message.’ He rose deliberately from his chair and came towards them across the soundless carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen away from him with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than 14 1984 usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that Winston already felt was suddenly shot through by a streak of ordinary embarrassment. It seemed to him quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake. For what evidence had he in reality that O’Brien was any kind of political conspirator? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even fall back on the pretence that he had come to borrow the dictionary, because in that case Julia’s presence was impossible to explain. As O’Brien passed the telescreen a thought seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had stopped. Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his tongue. ‘You can turn it off!’ he said. ‘Yes,’ said O’Brien, ‘we can turn it off. We have that privilege.’ He was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of them, and the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was waiting, somewhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the telescreen the room seemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed on O’Brien’s. Then 1 suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic gesture O’Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose. ‘Shall I say it, or will you?’ he said. ‘I will say it,’ said Winston promptly. ‘That thing is really turned off?’ ‘Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.’ ‘We have come here because——’ He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of his own motives. Since he did not in fact know what kind of help he expected from O’Brien, it was not easy to say why he had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was saying must sound both feeble and pretentious: ‘We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret organization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We want to join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulterers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your mercy. If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other way, we are ready.’ He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the door had opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in without knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses. ‘Martin is one of us,’ said O’Brien impassively. ‘Bring the drinks over here, Martin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is 1 1984 business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten minutes.’ The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded him out of the corner of his eye. It struck him that the man’s whole life was playing a part, and that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed personality even for a moment. O’Brien took the decanter by the neck and filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long ago on a wall or a hoarding—a vast bottle composed of electric lights which seemed to move up and down and pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked almost black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby. It had a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with frank curiosity. ‘It is called wine,’ said O’Brien with a faint smile. ‘You will have read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.’ His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: ‘I think it is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Emmanuel Goldstein.’ Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington’s half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate intoxi- 1 cating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He set down the empty glass. ‘Then there is such a person as Goldstein?’ he said. ‘Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.’ ‘And the conspiracy—the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an invention of the Thought Police?’ ‘No, it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. I will come back to that presently.’ He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘It is unwise even for members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here together, and you will have to leave separately. You, comrade’—he bowed his head to Julia—’will leave first. We have about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand that I must start by asking you certain questions. In general terms, what are you prepared to do?’ ‘Anything that we are capable of,’ said Winston. O’Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that Winston could speak for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers were known to him already. ‘You are prepared to give your lives?’ 18 1984 ‘Yes.’ ‘You are prepared to commit murder?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘To commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of innocent people?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘To betray your country to foreign powers?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases—to do anything which is likely to cause demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face—are you prepared to do that?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life as a waiter or a dock-worker?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another again?’ ‘No!’ broke in Julia. It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For a moment he seemed even to have been 19 deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not know which word he was going to say. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘You did well to tell me,’ said O’Brien. ‘It is necessary for us to know everything.’ He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more expression in it: ‘Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different person? We may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his movements, the shape of his hands, the colour of his hair—even his voice would be different. And you yourself might have become a different person. Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.’ Winston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin’s Mongolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that her freckles were showing, but she faced O’Brien boldly. She murmured something that seemed to be assent. ‘Good. Then that is settled.’ There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather absent-minded air O’Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, then stood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O’Brien looked at his wrist-watch again. 0 1984 ‘You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,’ he said. ‘I shall switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades’ faces before you go. You will be seeing them again. I may not.’ Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man’s dark eyes flickered over their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his manner. He was memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face was perhaps incapable of changing its expression. Without speaking or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, closing the door silently behind him. O’Brien was strolling up and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls, the other holding his cigarette. ‘You understand,’ he said, ‘that you will be fighting in the dark. You will always be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, without knowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will be full members of the Brotherhood. But between the general aims that we are fighting for and the immedi ate tasks of the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you whether it numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that it numbers even as many as a dozen. You will have three or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time as they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be 1 preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from me. If we find it necessary to communicate with you, it will be through Martin. When you are finally caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be able to betray more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will not even betray me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a different person, with a different face.’ He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable grace in his movements. It came out even in the gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipulated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged by irony. However much in earnest he might be, he had nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic. When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease, amputated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of persiflage. ‘This is unavoidable,’ his voice seemed to say; ‘this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we shall be doing when life is worth living again.’ A wave of admiration, almost of worship, flowed out from Winston towards O’Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O’Brien’s powerful shoulders and his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized, it was impossible to believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem that he was not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia 1984 seemed to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently. O’Brien went on: ‘You will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt you have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling messages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the Brotherhood have no way of recognizing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to be aware of the identity of more than a few others. Goldstein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, could not give them a complete list of members, or any information that would lead them to a complete list. No such list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to smuggle a razor blade into a prisoner’s cell. You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from individual to individual, generation after generation. In the face of the Thought Police there is no other way.’ He halted and looked for the third time at his wristwatch. ‘It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,’ he said to Julia. ‘Wait. The decanter is still half full.’ He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem. ‘What shall it be this time?’ he said, still with the same faint suggestion of irony. ‘To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?’ ‘To the past,’ said Winston. ‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien gravely. They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go. O’Brien took a small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he told her to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very observant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up and down, then stopped. ‘There are details to be settled,’ he said. ‘I assume that you have a hiding-place of some kind?’ 4 1984 Winston explained about the room over Mr Charrington’s shop. ‘That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for you. It is important to change one’s hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send you a copy of THE BOOK’—even O’Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to pronounce the words as though they were in italics—’Goldstein’s book, you understand, as soon as possible. It may be some days before I can get hold of one. There are not many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can produce them. It makes very little difference. The book is indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could reproduce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to work with you?’ he added. ‘As a rule, yes.’ ‘What is it like?’ ‘Black, very shabby. With two straps.’ ‘Black, two straps, very shabby—good. One day in the fairly near future—I cannot give a date—one of the messages among your morning’s work will contain a misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the following day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on the arm and say ‘I think you have dropped your brief-case.’ The one he gives you will contain a copy of Goldstein’s book. You will return it within fourteen days.’ They were silent for a moment. ‘There are a couple of minutes before you need go,’ said Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com O’Brien. ‘We shall meet again—if we do meet again——’ Winston looked up at him. ‘In the place where there is no darkness?’ he said hesitantly. O’Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. ‘In the place where there is no darkness,’ he said, as though he had recognized the allusion. ‘And in the meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you leave? Any message? Any question?.’ Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he wanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding generalities. Instead of anything directly connected with O’Brien or the Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room over Mr Charrington’s shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood frame. Almost at random he said: ‘Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s’?’ Again O’Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the stanza: ’Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s, You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s, When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey, When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.’ ‘You knew the last line!’ said Winston. ‘Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time 1984 for you to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.’ As Winston stood up O’Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed the bones of Winston’s palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O’Brien seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O’Brien would be back at his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter 9 Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood and lymph had been drained out of him by an enormous debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nerves, bones, and skin. All sensations seemed to be magnified. His overalls fretted his shoulders, the pavement tickled his feet, even the opening and closing of a hand was an effort that made his joints creak. He had worked more than ninety hours in five days. So had everyone else in the Ministry. Now it was all over, and he had literally nothing to do, no Party work of any description, until tomorrow morning. He could spend six hours in the hiding-place and another nine in his own bed. Slowly, in mild afternoon sunshine, he walked up a dingy street in the direction of Mr Charrington’s shop, keeping one eye open for the patrols, but irrationally convinced that this afternoon there was no danger of anyone interfering with him. The heavy brief-case that he was carrying bumped against his knee at each step, sending a tingling sensation up and down the skin of his leg. Inside it was the book, which he had now had in his possession for six days and had not yet 8 1984 opened, nor even looked at. On the sixth day of Hate Week, after the processions, the speeches, the shouting, the singing, the banners, the posters, the films, the waxworks, the rolling of drums and squealing of trumpets, the tramp of marching feet, the grinding of the caterpillars of tanks, the roar of massed planes, the booming of guns—after six days of this, when the great orgasm was quivering to its climax and the general hatred of Eurasia had boiled up into such delirium that if the crowd could have got their hands on the 2,000 Eurasian war-criminals who were to be publicly hanged on the last day of the proceedings, they would unquestionably have torn them to pieces—at just this moment it had been announced that Oceania was not after all at war with Eurasia. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Eurasia was an ally. There was, of course, no admission that any change had taken place. Merely it became known, with extreme suddenness and everywhere at once, that Eastasia and not Eurasia was the enemy. Winston was taking part in a demonstration in one of the central London squares at the moment when it happened. It was night, and the white faces and the scarlet banners were luridly floodlit. The square was packed with several thousand people, including a block of about a thousand schoolchildren in the uniform of the Spies. On a scarlet-draped platform an orator of the Inner Party, a small lean man with disproportionately long arms and a large bald skull over which a few lank locks straggled, was haranguing the crowd. A little Rumpelstiltskin figure, contorted with hatred, he gripped the neck of the 9 microphone with one hand while the other, enormous at the end of a bony arm, clawed the air menacingly above his head. His voice, made metallic by the amplifiers, boomed forth an endless catalogue of atrocities, massacres, deportations, lootings, rapings, torture of prisoners, bombing of civilians, lying propaganda, unjust aggressions, broken treaties. It was almost impossible to listen to him without being first convinced and then maddened. At every few moments the fury of the crowd boiled over and the voice of the speaker was drowned by a wild beast-like roaring that rose uncontrollably from thousands of throats. The most savage yells of all came from the schoolchildren. The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper was slipped into the speaker’s hand. He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different. Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremendous commotion. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous interlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping 0 1984 the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had been changed. The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me, I think you’ve dropped your briefcase.’ He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary. Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now completely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs—all had to be rectified at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, 1 or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved could not be called by their true names. Everyone in the Records Department worked eighteen hours in the twenty-four, with two threehour snatches of sleep. Mattresses were brought up from the cellars and pitched all over the corridors: meals consisted of sandwiches and Victory Coffee wheeled round on trolleys by attendants from the canteen. Each time that Winston broke off for one of his spells of sleep he tried to leave his desk clear of work, and each time that he crawled back sticky-eyed and aching, it was to find that another shower of paper cylinders had covered the desk like a snowdrift, halfburying the speakwrite and overflowing on to the floor, so that the first job was always to stack them into a neat enough pile to give him room to work. What was worst of all was that the work was by no means purely mechanical. Often it was enough merely to substitute one name for another, but any detailed report of events demanded care and imagination. Even the geographical knowledge that one needed in transferring the war from one part of the world to another was considerable. By the third day his eyes ached unbearably and his spectacles needed wiping every few minutes. It was like struggling with some crushing physical task, something which one had the right to refuse and which one was nevertheless neurotically anxious to accomplish. In so far as he had time to remember it, he was not troubled by the fact that every word he murmured into the speakwrite, every stroke 1984 of his ink-pencil, was a deliberate lie. He was as anxious as anyone else in the Department that the forgery should be perfect. On the morning of the sixth day the dribble of cylinders slowed down. For as much as half an hour nothing came out of the tube; then one more cylinder, then nothing. Everywhere at about the same time the work was easing off. A deep and as it were secret sigh went through the Department. A mighty deed, which could never be mentioned, had been achieved. It was now impossible for any human being to prove by documentary evidence that the war with Eurasia had ever happened. At twelve hundred it was unexpectedly announced that all workers in the Ministry were free till tomorrow morning. Winston, still carrying the brief-case containing the book, which had remained between his feet while he worked and under his body while he slept, went home, shaved himself, and almost fell asleep in his bath, although the water was barely more than tepid. With a sort of voluptuous creaking in his joints he climbed the stair above Mr Charrington’s shop. He was tired, but not sleepy any longer. He opened the window, lit the dirty little oilstove and put on a pan of water for coffee. Julia would arrive presently: meanwhile there was the book. He sat down in the sluttish armchair and undid the straps of the brief-case. A heavy black volume, amateurishly bound, with no name or title on the cover. The print also looked slightly irregular. The pages were worn at the edges, and fell apart, easily, as though the book had passed through many hands. The inscription on the title-page ran: Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF OLIGARCHICAL COLLECTIVISM by Emmanuel Goldstein Winston began reading: Chapter I Ignorance is Strength Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibrium, however far it is pushed one way or the other. The aims of these groups are entirely irreconcilable... Winston stopped reading, chiefly in order to appreciate the fact that he was reading, in comfort and safety. He was alone: no telescreen, no ear at the keyhole, no nervous impulse to glance over his shoulder or cover the page with his hand. The sweet summer air played against his cheek. From somewhere far away there floated the faint shouts of chil- 4 1984 dren: in the room itself there was no sound except the insect voice of the clock. He settled deeper into the arm-chair and put his feet up on the fender. It was bliss, it was etemity. Suddenly, as one sometimes does with a book of which one knows that one will ultimately read and re-read every word, he opened it at a different place and found himself at Chapter III. He went on reading: Chapter III War is Peace The splitting up of the world into three great super-states was an event which could be and indeed was foreseen before the middle of the twentieth century. With the absorption of Europe by Russia and of the British Empire by the United States, two of the three existing powers, Eurasia and Oceania, were already effectively in being. The third, Eastasia, only emerged as a distinct unit after another decade of confused fighting. The frontiers between the three super-states are in some places arbitrary, and in others they fluctuate according to the fortunes of war, but in general they follow geographical lines. Eurasia comprises the whole of the northern part of the European and Asiatic land-mass, from Portugal to the Bering Strait. Oceania comprises the Americas, the Atlantic islands including the British Isles, Australasia, and the southern portion of Africa. Eastasia, smaller than the others and with a less definite western frontier, comprises China and the countries to the south of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com it, the Japanese islands and a large but fluctuating portion of Manchuria, Mongolia, and Tibet. In one combination or another, these three super-states are permanently at war, and have been so for the past twenty-five years. War, however, is no longer the desperate, annihilating struggle that it was in the early decades of the twentieth century. It is a warfare of limited aims between combatants who are unable to destroy one another, have no material cause for fighting and are not divided by any genuine ideological difference This is not to say that either the conduct of war, or the prevailing attitude towards it, has become less bloodthirsty or more chivalrous. On the contrary, war hysteria is continuous and universal in all countries, and such acts as raping, looting, the slaughter of children, the reduction of whole populations to slavery, and reprisals against prisoners which extend even to boiling and burying alive, are looked upon as normal, and, when they are committed by one’s own side and not by the enemy, meritorious. But in a physical sense war involves very small numbers of people, mostly highly-trained specialists, and causes comparatively few casualties. The fighting, when there is any, takes place on the vague frontiers whose whereabouts the average man can only guess at, or round the Floating Fortresses which guard strategic spots on the sea lanes. In the centres of civilization war means no more than a continuous shortage of consumption goods, and the occasional crash of a rocket bomb which may cause a few scores of deaths. War has in fact changed its character. More exactly, the reasons for which war is waged have changed in their 1984 order of importance. Motives which were already present to some small extent in the great wars of the early twentieth centuury have now become dominant and are consciously recognized and acted upon. To understand the nature of the present war—for in spite of the regrouping which occurs every few years, it is always the same war—one must realize in the first place that it is impossible for it to be decisive. None of the three super-states could be definitively conquered even by the other two in combination. They are too evenly matched, and their natural defences are too formidable. Eurasia is protected by its vast land spaces, Oceania by the width of the Atlantic and the Pacific, Eastasia by the fecundity and indus triousness of its inhabitants. Secondly, there is no longer, in a material sense, anything to fight about. With the establishment of self-contained economies, in which production and consumption are geared to one another, the scramble for markets which was a main cause of previous wars has come to an end, while the competition for raw materials is no longer a matter of life and death. In any case each of the three super-states is so vast that it can obtain almost all the materials that it needs within its own boundaries. In so far as the war has a direct economic purpose, it is a war for labour power. Between the frontiers of the super-states, and not permanently in the possession of any of them, there lies a rough quadrilateral with its corners at Tangier, Brazzaville, Darwin, and Hong Kong, containing within it about a fifth of the population of the earth. It is for the possession of these thickly-populated regions, and of the northern Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ice-cap, that the three powers are constantly struggling. In practice no one power ever controls the whole of the disputed area. Portions of it are constantly changing hands, and it is the chance of seizing this or that fragment by a sudden stroke of treachery that dictates the endless changes of alignment. All of the disputed territories contain valuable minerals, and some of them yield important vegetable products such as rubber which in colder climates it is necessary to synthesize by comparatively expensive methods. But above all they contain a bottomless reserve of cheap labour. Whichever power controls equatorial Africa, or the countries of the Middle East, or Southern India, or the Indonesian Archipelago, disposes also of the bodies of scores or hundreds of millions of ill-paid and hard-working coolies. The inhabitants of these areas, reduced more or less openly to the status of slaves, pass continually from conqueror to conqueror, and are expended like so much coal or oil in the race to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, to control more labour power, to turn out more armaments, to capture more territory, and so on indefinitely. It should be noted that the fighting never really moves beyond the edges of the disputed areas. The frontiers of Eurasia flow back and forth between the basin of the Congo and the northern shore of the Mediterranean; the islands of the Indian Ocean and the Pacific are constantly being captured and recaptured by Oceania or by Eastasia; in Mongolia the dividing line between Eurasia and Eastasia is never stable; round the Pole all three powers lay claim to enormous terri- 8 1984 tories which in fact are largely unihabited and unexplored: but the balance of power always remains roughly even, and the territory which forms the heartland of each super-state always remains inviolate. Moreover, the labour of the exploited peoples round the Equator is not really necessary to the world’s economy. They add nothing to the wealth of the world, since whatever they produce is used for purposes of war, and the object of waging a war is always to be in a better position in which to wage another war. By their labour the slave populations allow the tempo of continuous warfare to be speeded up. But if they did not exist, the structure of world society, and the process by which it maintains itself, would not be essentially different. The primary aim of modern warfare (in accordance with the principles of DOUBLETHINK, this aim is simultaneously recognized and not recognized by the directing brains of the Inner Party) is to use up the products of the machine without raising the general standard of living. Ever since the end of the nineteenth century, the problem of what to do with the surplus of consumption goods has been latent in industrial society. At present, when few human beings even have enough to eat, this problem is obviously not urgent, and it might not have become so, even if no artificial processes of destruction had been at work. The world of today is a bare, hungry, dilapidated place compared with the world that existed before 1914, and still more so if compared with the imaginary future to which the people of that period looked forward. In the early twentieth century, the vision of a future society unbelievably rich, leisured, orderly, 9 and efficient—a glittering antiseptic world of glass and steel and snow-white concrete—was part of the consciousness of nearly every literate person. Science and technology were developing at a prodigious speed, and it seemed natural to assume that they would go on developing. This failed to happen, partly because of the impoverishment caused by a long series of wars and revolutions, partly because scientific and technical progress depended on the empirical habit of thought, which could not survive in a strictly regimented society. As a whole the world is more primitive today than it was fifty years ago. Certain backward areas have advanced, and various devices, always in some way connected with warfare and police espionage, have been developed, but experiment and invention have largely stopped, and the ravages of the atomic war of the nineteen-fifties have never been fully repaired. Nevertheless the dangers inherent in the machine are still there. From the moment when the machine first made its appearance it was clear to all thinking people that the need for human drudgery, and therefore to a great extent for human inequality, had disappeared. If the machine were used deliberately for that end, hunger, overwork, dirt, illiteracy, and disease could be eliminated within a few generations. And in fact, without being used for any such purpose, but by a sort of automatic process— by producing wealth which it was sometimes impossible not to distribute—the machine did raise the living standards of the average humand being very greatly over a period of about fifty years at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. 40 1984 But it was also clear that an all-round increase in wealth threatened the destruction—indeed, in some sense was the destruction—of a hierarchical society. In a world in which everyone worked short hours, had enough to eat, lived in a house with a bathroom and a refrigerator, and possessed a motor-car or even an aeroplane, the most obvious and perhaps the most important form of inequality would already have disappeared. If it once became general, wealth would confer no distinction. It was possible, no doubt, to imagine a society in which WEALTH, in the sense of personal possessions and luxuries, should be evenly distributed, while POWER remained in the hands of a small privileged caste. But in practice such a society could not long remain stable. For if leisure and security were enjoyed by all alike, the great mass of human beings who are normally stupefied by poverty would become literate and would learn to think for themselves; and when once they had done this, they would sooner or later realize that the privileged minority had no function, and they would sweep it away. In the long run, a hierarchical society was only possible on a basis of poverty and ignorance. To return to the agricultural past, as some thinkers about the beginning of the twentieth century dreamed of doing, was not a practicable solution. It conflicted with the tendency towards mechanization which had become quasi-instinctive throughout almost the whole world, and moreover, any country which remained industrially backward was helpless in a military sense and was bound to be dominated, directly or indirectly, by its more advanced rivals. 41 Nor was it a satisfactory solution to keep the masses in poverty by restricting the output of goods. This happened to a great extent during the final phase of capitalism, roughly between 1920 and 1940. The economy of many countries was allowed to stagnate, land went out of cultivation, capital equipment was not added to, great blocks of the population were prevented from working and kept half alive by State charity. But this, too, entailed military weakness, and since the privations it inflicted were obviously unnecessary, it made opposition inevitable. The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but they must not be distributed. And in practice the only way of achieving this was by continuous warfare. The essential act of war is destruction, not necessarily of human lives, but of the products of human labour. War is a way of shattering to pieces, or pouring into the stratosphere, or sinking in the depths of the sea, materials which might otherwise be used to make the masses too comfortable, and hence, in the long run, too intelligent. Even when weapons of war are not actually destroyed, their manufacture is still a convenient way of expending labour power without producing anything that can be consumed. A Floating Fortress, for example, has locked up in it the labour that would build several hundred cargo-ships. Ultimately it is scrapped as obsolete, never having brought any material benefit to anybody, and with further enormous labours another Floating Fortress is built. In principle the war effort is always so planned as to eat up any surplus that might exist after meet- 4 1984 ing the bare needs of the population. In practice the needs of the population are always underestimated, with the result that there is a chronic shortage of half the necessities of life; but this is looked on as an advantage. It is deliberate policy to keep even the favoured groups somewhere near the brink of hardship, because a general state of scarcity increases the importance of small privileges and thus magnifies the distinction between one group and another. By the standards of the early twentieth century, even a member of the Inner Party lives an austere, laborious kind of life. Nevertheless, the few luxuries that he does enjoy his large, well-appointed flat, the better texture of his clothes, the better quality of his food and drink and tobacco, his two or three servants, his private motor-car or helicopter—set him in a different world from a member of the Outer Party, and the members of the Outer Party have a similar advantage in comparison with the submerged masses whom we call ‘the proles’. The social atmosphere is that of a besieged city, where the possession of a lump of horseflesh makes the difference between wealth and poverty. And at the same time the consciousness of being at war, and therefore in danger, makes the handing-over of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. War, it will be seen, accomplishes the necessary destruction, but accomplishes it in a psychologically acceptable way. In principle it would be quite simple to waste the surplus labour of the world by building temples and pyramids, by digging holes and filling them up again, or even by producing vast quantities of goods and then setting fire to them. 4 But this would provide only the economic and not the emotional basis for a hierarchical society. What is concerned here is not the morale of masses, whose attitude is unimportant so long as they are kept steadily at work, but the morale of the Party itself. Even the humblest Party member is expected to be competent, industrious, and even intelligent within narrow limits, but it is also necessary that he should be a credulous and ignorant fanatic whose prevailing moods are fear, hatred, adulation, and orgiastic triumph. In other words it is necessary that he should have the mentality appropriate to a state of war. It does not matter whether the war is actually happening, and, since no decisive victory is possible, it does not matter whether the war is going well or badly. All that is needed is that a state of war should exist. The splitting of the intelligence which the Party requires of its members, and which is more easily achieved in an atmosphere of war, is now almost universal, but the higher up the ranks one goes, the more marked it becomes. It is precisely in the Inner Party that war hysteria and hatred of the enemy are strongest. In his capacity as an administrator, it is often necessary for a member of the Inner Party to know that this or that item of war news is untruthful, and he may often be aware that the entire war is spurious and is either not happening or is being waged for purposes quite other than the declared ones: but such knowledge is easily neutralized by the technique of DOUBLETHINK. Meanwhile no Inner Party member wavers for an instant in his mystical belief that the war is real, and that it is bound to end victoriously, with Oceania the undisputed master of 44 1984 the entire world. All members of the Inner Party believe in this coming conquest as an article of faith. It is to be achieved either by gradually acquiring more and more territory and so building up an overwhelming preponderance of power, or by the discovery of some new and unanswerable weapon. The search for new weapons continues unceasingly, and is one of the very few remaining activities in which the inventive or speculative type of mind can find any outlet. In Oceania at the present day, Science, in the old sense, has almost ceased to exist. In Newspeak there is no word for ‘Science’. The empirical method of thought, on which all the scientific achievements of the past were founded, is opposed to the most fundamental principles of Ingsoc. And even technological progress only happens when its products can in some way be used for the diminution of human liberty. In all the useful arts the world is either standing still or going backwards. The fields are cultivated with horse-ploughs while books are written by machinery. But in matters of vital importance—meaning, in effect, war and police espionage—the empirical approach is still encouraged, or at least tolerated. The two aims of the Party are to conquer the whole surface of the earth and to extinguish once and for all the possibility of independent thought. There are therefore two great problems which the Party is concerned to solve. One is how to discover, against his will, what another human being is thinking, and the other is how to kill several hundred million people in a few seconds without giving warning beforehand. In so far as scientific research still continues, this 4 is its subject matter. The scientist of today is either a mixture of psychologist and inquisitor, studying with real ordinary minuteness the meaning of facial expressions, gestures, and tones of voice, and testing the truth-producing effects of drugs, shock therapy, hypnosis, and physical torture; or he is chemist, physicist, or biologist concerned only with such branches of his special subject as are relevant to the taking of life. In the vast laboratories of the Ministry of Peace, and in the experimental stations hidden in the Brazilian forests, or in the Australian desert, or on lost islands of the Antarctic, the teams of experts are indefatigably at work. Some are concerned simply with planning the logistics of future wars; others devise larger and larger rocket bombs, more and more powerful explosives, and more and more impenetrable armour-plating; others search for new and deadlier gases, or for soluble poisons capable of being produced in such quantities as to destroy the vegetation of whole continents, or for breeds of disease germs immunized against all possible antibodies; others strive to produce a vehicle that shall bore its way under the soil like a submarine under the water, or an aeroplane as independent of its base as a sailing-ship; others explore even remoter possibilities such as focusing the sun’s rays through lenses suspended thousands of kilometres away in space, or producing artificial earthquakes and tidal waves by tapping the heat at the earth’s centre. But none of these projects ever comes anywhere near realization, and none of the three super-states ever gains a significant lead on the others. What is more remarkable is 4 1984 that all three powers already possess, in the atomic bomb, a weapon far more powerful than any that their present researches are likely to discover. Although the Party, according to its habit, claims the invention for itself, atomic bombs first appeared as early as the nineteen-forties, and were first used on a large scale about ten years later. At that time some hundreds of bombs were dropped on industrial centres, chiefly in European Russia, Western Europe, and North America. The effect was to convince the ruling groups of all countries that a few more atomic bombs would mean the end of organized society, and hence of their own power. Thereafter, although no formal agreement was ever made or hinted at, no more bombs were dropped. All three powers merely continue to produce atomic bombs and store them up against the decisive opportunity which they all believe will come sooner or later. And meanwhile the art of war has remained almost stationary for thirty or forty years. Helicopters are more used than they were formerly, bombing planes have been largely superseded by self-propelled projectiles, and the fragile movable battleship has given way to the almost unsinkable Floating Fortress; but otherwise there has been little development. The tank, the submarine, the torpedo, the machine gun, even the rifle and the hand grenade are still in use. And in spite of the endless slaughters reported in the Press and on the telescreens, the desperate battles of earlier wars, in which hundreds of thousands or even millions of men were often killed in a few weeks, have never been repeated. None of the three super-states ever attempts any ma- 4 noeuvre which involves the risk of serious defeat. When any large operation is undertaken, it is usually a surprise attack against an ally. The strategy that all three powers are following, or pretend to themselves that they are following, is the same. The plan is, by a combination of fighting, bargaining, and well-timed strokes of treachery, to acquire a ring of bases completely encircling one or other of the rival states, and then to sign a pact of friendship with that rival and remain on peaceful terms for so many years as to lull suspicion to sleep. During this time rockets loaded with atomic bombs can be assembled at all the strategic spots; finally they will all be fired simultaneously, with effects so devastating as to make retaliation impossible. It will then be time to sign a pact of friendship with the remaining worldpower, in preparation for another attack. This scheme, it is hardly necessary to say, is a mere daydream, impossible of realization. Moreover, no fighting ever occurs except in the disputed areas round the Equator and the Pole: no invasion of enemy territory is ever undertaken. This explains the fact that in some places the frontiers between the superstates are arbitrary. Eurasia, for example, could easily conquer the British Isles, which are geographically part of Europe, or on the other hand it would be possible for Oceania to push its frontiers to the Rhine or even to the Vistula. But this would violate the principle, followed on all sides though never formulated, of cultural integrity. If Oceania were to conquer the areas that used once to be known as France and Germany, it would be necessary either to exterminate the inhabitants, a task of great physical difficulty, or to assimi- 48 1984 late a population of about a hundred million people, who, so far as technical development goes, are roughly on the Oceanic level. The problem is the same for all three superstates. It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there should be no contact with foreigners, except, to a limited extent, with war prisoners and coloured slaves. Even the official ally of the moment is always regarded with the darkest suspicion. War prisoners apart, the average citizen of Oceania never sets eyes on a citizen of either Eurasia or Eastasia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides that however often Persia, or Egypt, or Java, or Ceylon may change hands, the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs. Under this lies a fact never mentioned aloud, but tacitly understood and acted upon: namely, that the conditions of life in all three super-states are very much the same. In Oceania the prevailing philosophy is called Ingsoc, in Eurasia it is called Neo-Bolshevism, and in Eastasia it is called by a Chinese name usually translated as Death-Worship, but perhaps better rendered as Obliteration of the Self. The citizen of Oceania is not allowed to know anything of the tenets of the other two philosophies, but he is taught to execrate them as barbarous outrages upon morality and common 49 sense. Actually the three philosophies are barely distinguishable, and the social systems which they support are not distinguishable at all. Everywhere there is the same pyramidal structure, the same worship of semi-divine leader, the same economy existing by and for continuous warfare. It follows that the three super-states not only cannot conquer one another, but would gain no advantage by doing so. On the contrary, so long as they remain in conflict they prop one another up, like three sheaves of corn. And, as usual, the ruling groups of all three powers are simultaneously aware and unaware of what they are doing. Their lives are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and without victory. Meanwhile the fact that there IS no danger of conquest makes possible the denial of reality which is the special feature of Ingsoc and its rival systems of thought. Here it is necessary to repeat what has been said earlier, that by becoming continuous war has fundamentally changed its character. In past ages, a war, almost by definition, was something that sooner or later came to an end, usually in unmistakable victory or defeat. In the past, also, war was one of the main instruments by which human societies were kept in touch with physical reality. All rulers in all ages have tried to impose a false view of the world upon their followers, but they could not afford to encourage any illusion that tended to impair military efficiency. So long as defeat meant the loss of independence, or some other result generally held to be undesirable, the precautions against defeat had to be 0 1984 serious. Physical facts could not be ignored. In philosophy, or religion, or ethics, or politics, two and two might make five, but when one was designing a gun or an aeroplane they had to make four. Inefficient nations were always conquered sooner or later, and the struggle for efficiency was inimical to illusions. Moreover, to be efficient it was necessary to be able to learn from the past, which meant having a fairly accurate idea of what had happened in the past. Newspapers and history books were, of course, always coloured and biased, but falsification of the kind that is practised today would have been impossible. War was a sure safeguard of sanity, and so far as the ruling classes were concerned it was probably the most important of all safeguards. While wars could be won or lost, no ruling class could be completely irresponsible. But when war becomes literally continuous, it also ceases to be dangerous. When war is continuous there is no such thing as military necessity. Technical progress can cease and the most palpable facts can be denied or disregarded. As we have seen, researches that could be called scientific are still carried out for the purposes of war, but they are essentially a kind of daydreaming, and their failure to show results is not important. Efficiency, even military efficiency, is no longer needed. Nothing is efficient in Oceania except the Thought Police. Since each of the three super-states is unconquerable, each is in effect a separate universe within which almost any perversion of thought can be safely practised. Reality only exerts its pressure through the needs of everyday life—the need to eat and drink, to get shelter and 1 clothing, to avoid swallowing poison or stepping out of topstorey windows, and the like. Between life and death, and between physical pleasure and physical pain, there is still a distinction, but that is all. Cut off from contact with the outer world, and with the past, the citizen of Oceania is like a man in interstellar space, who has no way of knowing which direction is up and which is down. The rulers of such a state are absolute, as the Pharaohs or the Caesars could not be. They are obliged to prevent their followers from starving to death in numbers large enough to be inconvenient, and they are obliged to remain at the same low level of military technique as their rivals; but once that minimum is achieved, they can twist reality into whatever shape they choose. The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous wars, is merely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain ruminant animals whose horns are set at such an angle that they are incapable of hurting one another. But though it is unreal it is not meaningless. It eats up the surplus of consumable goods, and it helps to preserve the special mental atmosphere that a hierarchical society needs. War, it will be seen, is now a purely internal affair. In the past, the ruling groups of all countries, although they might recognize their common interest and therefore limit the destructiveness of war, did fight against one another, and the victor always plundered the vanquished. In our own day they are not fighting against one another at all. The war is waged by each ruling group against its own subjects, and the object of the war is not to make or prevent 1984 conquests of territory, but to keep the structure of society intact. The very word ‘war’, therefore, has become misleading. It would probably be accurate to say that by becoming continuous war has ceased to exist. The peculiar pressure that it exerted on human beings between the Neolithic Age and the early twentieth century has disappeared and been replaced by something quite different. The effect would be much the same if the three super-states, instead of fighting one another, should agree to live in perpetual peace, each inviolate within its own boundaries. For in that case each would still be a self-contained universe, freed for ever from the sobering influence of external danger. A peace that was truly permanent would be the same as a permanent war. This—although the vast majority of Party members understand it only in a shallower sense—is the inner meaning of the Party slogan: WAR IS PEACE. Winston stopped reading for a moment. Somewhere in remote distance a rocket bomb thundered. The blissful feeling of being alone with the forbidden book, in a room with no telescreen, had not worn off. Solitude and safety were physical sensations, mixed up somehow with the tiredness of his body, the softness of the chair, the touch of the faint breeze from the window that played upon his cheek. The book fascinated him, or more exactly it reassured him. In a sense it told him nothing that was new, but that was part of the attraction. It said what he would have said, if it had been possible for him to set his scattered thoughts in order. It was the product of a mind similar to his own, but enormously more powerful, more systematic, less fear-rid- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com den. The best books, he perceived, are those that tell you what you know already. He had just turned back to Chapter I when he heard Julia’s footstep on the stair and started out of his chair to meet her. She dumped her brown tool-bag on the floor and flung herself into his arms. It was more than a week since they had seen one another. ‘I’ve got THE BOOK,’ he said as they disentangled themselves. ‘Oh, you’ve got it? Good,’ she said without much interest, and almost immediately knelt down beside the oil stove to make the coffee. They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half an hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston had seen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro between the washtub and the line, alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side and seemed to be already on the point of falling asleep. He reached out for the book, which was lying on the floor, and sat up against the bedhead. ‘We must read it,’ he said. ‘You too. All members of the Brotherhood have to read it.’ ‘You read it,’ she said with her eyes shut. ‘Read it aloud. That’s the best way. Then you can explain it to me as you go.’ 4 1984 The clock’s hands said six, meaning eighteen. They had three or four hours ahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and began reading: Chapter I Ignorance is Strength Throughout recorded time, and probably since the end of the Neolithic Age, there have been three kinds of people in the world, the High, the Middle, and the Low. They have been subdivided in many ways, they have borne countless different names, and their relative numbers, as well as their attitude towards one another, have varied from age to age: but the essential structure of society has never altered. Even after enormous upheavals and seemingly irrevocable changes, the same pattern has always reasserted itself, just as a gyroscope will always return to equilibnum, however far it is pushed one way or the other ‘Julia, are you awake?’ said Winston. ‘Yes, my love, I’m listening. Go on. It’s marvellous.’ He continued reading: The aims of these three groups are entirely irreconcilable. The aim of the High is to remain where they are. The aim of the Middle is to change places with the High. The aim of the Low, when they have an aim—for it is an abiding characteristic of the Low that they are too much crushed by drudgery to be more than intermittently conscious of anything outside their daily lives—is to abolish all distinctions and create a society in which all men shall be equal. Thus throughout history a struggle which is the same in its main outlines recurs over and over again. For long periods the High seem to be securely in power, but sooner or later Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com there always comes a moment when they lose either their belief in themselves or their capacity to govern efficiently, or both. They are then overthrown by the Middle, who enlist the Low on their side by pretending to them that they are fighting for liberty and justice. As soon as they have reached their objective, the Middle thrust the Low back into their old position of servitude, and themselves become the High. Presently a new Middle group splits off from one of the other groups, or from both of them, and the struggle begins over again. Of the three groups, only the Low are never even temporarily successful in achieving their aims. It would be an exaggeration to say that throughout history there has been no progress of a material kind. Even today, in a period of decline, the average human being is physically better off than he was a few centuries ago. But no advance in wealth, no softening of manners, no reform or revolution has ever brought human equality a millimetre nearer. From the point of view of the Low, no historic change has ever meant much more than a change in the name of their masters. By the late nineteenth century the recurrence of this pattern had become obvious to many observers. There then rose schools of thinkers who interpreted history as a cyclical process and claimed to show that inequality was the unalterable law of human life. This doctrine, of course, had always had its adherents, but in the manner in which it was now put forward there was a significant change. In the past the need for a hierarchical form of society had been the doctrine specifically of the High. It had been preached by kings 1984 and aristocrats and by the priests, lawyers, and the like who were parasitical upon them, and it had generally been softened by promises of compensation in an imaginary world beyond the grave. The Middle, so long as it was struggling for power, had always made use of such terms as freedom, justice, and fraternity. Now, however, the concept of human brotherhood began to be assailed by people who were not yet in positions of command, but merely hoped to be so before long. In the past the Middle had made revolutions under the banner of equality, and then had established a fresh tyranny as soon as the old one was overthrown. The new Middle groups in effect proclaimed their tyranny beforehand. Socialism, a theory which appeared in the early nineteenth century and was the last link in a chain of thought stretching back to the slave rebellions of antiquity, was still deeply infected by the Utopianism of past ages. But in each variant of Socialism that appeared from about 1900 onwards the aim of establishing liberty and equality was more and more openly abandoned. The new movements which appeared in the middle years of the century, Ingsoc in Oceania, Neo-Bolshevism in Eurasia, Death-Worship, as it is commonly called, in Eastasia, had the conscious aim of perpetuating UNfreedom and INequality. These new movements, of course, grew out of the old ones and tended to keep their names and pay lip-service to their ideology. But the purpose of all of them was to arrest progress and freeze history at a chosen moment. The familiar pendulum swing was to happen once more, and then stop. As usual, the High were to be turned out by the Middle, who would Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com then become the High; but this time, by conscious strategy, the High would be able to maintain their position permanently. The new doctrines arose partly because of the accumulation of historical knowledge, and the growth of the historical sense, which had hardly existed before the nineteenth century. The cyclical movement of history was now intelligible, or appeared to be so; and if it was intelligible, then it was alterable. But the principal, underlying cause was that, as early as the beginning of the twentieth century, human equality had become technically possible. It was still true that men were not equal in their native talents and that functions had to be specialized in ways that favoured some individuals against others; but there was no longer any real need for class distinctions or for large differences of wealth. In earlier ages, class distinctions had been not only inevitable but desirable. Inequality was the price of civilization. With the development of machine production, however, the case was altered. Even if it was still necessary for human beings to do different kinds of work, it was no longer necessary for them to live at different social or economic levels. Therefore, from the point of view of the new groups who were on the point of seizing power, human equality was no longer an ideal to be striven after, but a danger to be averted. In more primitive ages, when a just and peaceful society was in fact not possible, it had been fairly easy to believe it. The idea of an earthly paradise in which men should live together in a state of brotherhood, without laws and without brute labour, had haunted the human imagination for 8 1984 thousands of years. And this vision had had a certain hold even on the groups who actually profited by each historical change. The heirs of the French, English, and American revolutions had partly believed in their own phrases about the rights of man, freedom of speech, equality before the law, and the like, and have even allowed their conduct to be influenced by them to some extent. But by the fourth decade of the twentieth century all the main currents of political thought were authoritarian. The earthly paradise had been discredited at exactly the moment when it became realizable. Every new political theory, by whatever name it called itself, led back to hierarchy and regimentation. And in the general hardening of outlook that set in round about 1930, practices which had been long abandoned, in some cases for hundreds of years—imprisonment without trial, the use of war prisoners as slaves, public executions, torture to extract confessions, the use of hostages, and the deportation of whole populations—not only became common again, but were tolerated and even defended by people who considered themselves enlightened and progressive. It was only after a decade of national wars, civil wars, revolutions, and counter-revolutions in all parts of the world that Ingsoc and its rivals emerged as fully workedout political theories. But they had been foreshadowed by the various systems, generally called totalitarian, which had appeared earlier in the century, and the main outlines of the world which would emerge from the prevailing chaos had long been obvious. What kind of people would control this world had been equally obvious. The new aristocracy 9 was made up for the most part of bureaucrats, scientists, technicians, trade-union organizers, publicity experts, sociologists, teachers, journalists, and professional politicians. These people, whose origins lay in the salaried middle class and the upper grades of the working class, had been shaped and brought together by the barren world of monopoly industry and centralized government. As compared with their opposite numbers in past ages, they were less avaricious, less tempted by luxury, hungrier for pure power, and, above all, more conscious of what they were doing and more intent on crushing opposition. This last difference was cardinal. By comparison with that existing today, all the tyrannies of the past were half-hearted and inefficient. The ruling groups were always infected to some extent by liberal ideas, and were content to leave loose ends everywhere, to regard only the overt act and to be uninterested in what their subjects were thinking. Even the Catholic Church of the Middle Ages was tolerant by modern standards. Part of the reason for this was that in the past no government had the power to keep its citizens under constant surveillance. The invention of print, however, made it easier to manipulate public opinion, and the film and the radio carried the process further. With the development of television, and the technical advance which made it possible to receive and transmit simultaneously on the same instrument, private life came to an end. Every citizen, or at least every citizen important enough to be worth watching, could be kept for twenty-four hours a day under the eyes of the police and in the sound of official propaganda, with all other channels 0 1984 of communication closed. The possibility of enforcing not only complete obedience to the will of the State, but complete uniformity of opinion on all subjects, now existed for the first time. After the revolutionary period of the fifties and sixties, society regrouped itself, as always, into High, Middle, and Low. But the new High group, unlike all its forerunners, did not act upon instinct but knew what was needed to safeguard its position. It had long been realized that the only secure basis for oligarchy is collectivism. Wealth and privilege are most easily defended when they are possessed jointly. The so-called ‘abolition of private property’ which took place in the middle years of the century meant, in effect, the concentration of property in far fewer hands than before: but with this difference, that the new owners were a group instead of a mass of individuals. Individually, no member of the Party owns anything, except petty personal belongings. Collectively, the Party owns everything in Oceania, because it controls everything, and disposes of the products as it thinks fit. In the years following the Revolution it was able to step into this commanding position almost unopposed, because the whole process was represented as an act of collectivization. It had always been assumed that if the capitalist class were expropriated, Socialism must follow: and unquestionably the capitalists had been expropriated. Factories, mines, land, houses, transport—everything had been taken away from them: and since these things were no longer private property, it followed that they must be public property. Ingsoc, which grew out of the earlier So- 1 cialist movement and inherited its phraseology, has in fact carried out the main item in the Socialist programme; with the result, foreseen and intended beforehand, that economic inequality has been made permanent. But the problems of perpetuating a hierarchical society go deeper than this. There are only four ways in which a ruling group can fall from power. Either it is conquered from without, or it governs so inefficiently that the masses are stirred to revolt, or it allows a strong and discontented Middle group to come into being, or it loses its own selfconfidence and willingness to govern. These causes do not operate singly, and as a rule all four of them are present in some degree. A ruling class which could guard against all of them would remain in power permanently. Ultimately the determining factor is the mental attitude of the ruling class itself. After the middle of the present century, the first danger had in reality disappeared. Each of the three powers which now divide the world is in fact unconquerable, and could only become conquerable through slow demographic changes which a government with wide powers can easily avert. The second danger, also, is only a theoretical one. The masses never revolt of their own accord, and they never revolt merely because they are oppressed. Indeed, so long as they are not permitted to have standards of comparison, they never even become aware that they are oppressed. The recurrent economic crises of past times were totally unnecessary and are not now permitted to happen, but other and equally large dislocations can and do happen without 1984 having political results, because there is no way in which discontent can become articulate. As for the problem of over-production, which has been latent in our society since the development of machine technique, it is solved by the device of continuous warfare (see Chapter III), which is also useful in keying up public morale to the necessary pitch. From the point of view of our present rulers, therefore, the only genuine dangers are the splitting-off of a new group of able, under-employed, power-hungry people, and the growth of liberalism and scepticism in their own ranks. The problem, that is to say, is educational. It is a problem of continuously moulding the consciousness both of the directing group and of the larger executive group that lies immediately below it. The consciousness of the masses needs only to be influenced in a negative way. Given this background, one could infer, if one did not know it already, the general structure of Oceanic society. At the apex of the pyramid comes Big Brother. Big Brother is infallible and all-powerful. Every success, every achievement, every victory, every scientific discovery, all knowledge, all wisdom, all happiness, all virtue, are held to issue directly from his leadership and inspiration. Nobody has ever seen Big Brother. He is a face on the hoardings, a voice on the telescreen. We may be reasonably sure that he will never die, and there is already considerable uncertainty as to when he was born. Big Brother is the guise in which the Party chooses to exhibit itself to the world. His function is to act as a focusing point for love, fear, and reverence, emotions which are more easily felt towards an individual than towards an Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com organization. Below Big Brother comes the Inner Party. Its numbers limited to six millions, or something less than 2 per cent of the population of Oceania. Below the Inner Party comes the Outer Party, which, if the Inner Party is described as the brain of the State, may be justly likened to the hands. Below that come the dumb masses whom we habitually refer to as ‘the proles’, numbering perhaps 85 per cent of the population. In the terms of our earlier classification, the proles are the Low: for the slave population of the equatorial lands who pass constantly from conqueror to conqueror, are not a permanent or necessary part of the structure. In principle, membership of these three groups is not hereditary. The child of Inner Party parents is in theory not born into the Inner Party. Admission to either branch of the Party is by examination, taken at the age of sixteen. Nor is there any racial discrimination, or any marked domination of one province by another. Jews, Negroes, South Americans of pure Indian blood are to be found in the highest ranks of the Party, and the administrators of any area are always drawn from the inhabitants of that area. In no part of Oceania do the inhabitants have the feeling that they are a colonial population ruled from a distant capital. Oceania has no capital, and its titular head is a person whose whereabouts nobody knows. Except that English is its chief LINGUA FRANCA and Newspeak its official language, it is not centralized in any way. Its rulers are not held together by blood-ties but by adherence to a common doctrine. It is true that our society is stratified, and very rigidly stratified, on what at first sight appear to be hereditary lines. 4 1984 There is far less to-and-fro movement between the different groups than happened under capitalism or even in the pre-industrial age. Between the two branches of the Party there is a certain amount of interchange, but only so much as will ensure that weaklings are excluded from the Inner Party and that ambitious members of the Outer Party are made harmless by allowing them to rise. Proletarians, in practice, are not allowed to graduate into the Party. The most gifted among them, who might possibly become nuclei of discontent, are simply marked down by the Thought Police and eliminated. But this state of affairs is not necessarily permanent, nor is it a matter of principle. The Party is not a class in the old sense of the word. It does not aim at transmitting power to its own children, as such; and if there were no other way of keeping the ablest people at the top, it would be perfectly prepared to recruit an entire new generation from the ranks of the proletariat. In the crucial years, the fact that the Party was not a hereditary body did a great deal to neutralize opposition. The older kind of Socialist, who had been trained to fight against something called ‘class privilege’ assumed that what is not hereditary cannot be permanent. He did not see that the continuity of an oligarchy need not be physical, nor did he pause to reflect that hereditary aristocracies have always been shortlived, whereas adoptive organizations such as the Catholic Church have sometimes lasted for hundreds or thousands of years. The essence of oligarchical rule is not father-to-son inheritance, but the persistence of a certain world-view and a certain way of life, imposed by the dead upon the living. A Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ruling group is a ruling group so long as it can nominate its successors. The Party is not concerned with perpetuating its blood but with perpetuating itself. WHO wields power is not important, provided that the hierarchical structure remains always the same. All the beliefs, habits, tastes, emotions, mental attitudes that characterize our time are really designed to sustain the mystique of the Party and prevent the true nature of present-day society from being perceived. Physical rebellion, or any preliminary move towards rebellion, is at present not possible. From the proletarians nothing is to be feared. Left to themselves, they will continue from generation to generation and from century to century, working, breeding, and dying, not only without any impulse to rebel, but without the power of grasping that the world could be other than it is. They could only become dangerous if the advance of industrial technique made it necessary to educate them more highly; but, since military and commercial rivalry are no longer important, the level of popular education is actually declining. What opinions the masses hold, or do not hold, is looked on as a matter of indifference. They can be granted intellectual liberty because they have no intellect. In a Party member, on the other hand, not even the smallest deviation of opinion on the most unimportant subject can be tolerated. A Party member lives from birth to death under the eye of the Thought Police. Even when he is alone he can never be sure that he is alone. Wherever he may be, asleep or awake, working or resting, in his bath or in bed, he can be inspected 1984 without warning and without knowing that he is being inspected. Nothing that he does is indifferent. His friendships, his relaxations, his behaviour towards his wife and children, the expression of his face when he is alone, the words he mutters in sleep, even the characteristic movements of his body, are all jealously scrutinized. Not only any actual misdemeanour, but any eccentricity, however small, any change of habits, any nervous mannerism that could possibly be the symptom of an inner struggle, is certain to be detected. He has no freedom of choice in any direction whatever. On the other hand his actions are not regulated by law or by any clearly formulated code of behaviour. In Oceania there is no law. Thoughts and actions which, when detected, mean certain death are not formally forbidden, and the endless purges, arrests, tortures, imprisonments, and vaporizations are not inflicted as punishment for crimes which have actually been committed, but are merely the wiping-out of persons who might perhaps commit a crime at some time in the future. A Party member is required to have not only the right opinions, but the right instincts. Many of the beliefs and attitudes demanded of him are never plainly stated, and could not be stated without laying bare the contradictions inherent in Ingsoc. If he is a person naturally orthodox (in Newspeak a GOODTHINKER), he will in all circumstances know, without taking thought, what is the true belief or the desirable emotion. But in any case an elaborate mental training, undergone in childhood and grouping itself round the Newspeak words CRIMESTOP, BLACKWHITE, and DOUBLETHINK, makes him unwilling and unable to Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com think too deeply on any subject whatever. A Party member is expected to have no private emotions and no respites from enthusiasm. He is supposed to live in a continuous frenzy of hatred of foreign enemies and internal traitors, triumph over victories, and self-abasement before the power and wisdom of the Party. The discontents produced by his bare, unsatisfying life are deliberately turned outwards and dissipated by such devices as the Two Minutes Hate, and the speculations which might possibly induce a sceptical or rebellious attitude are killed in advance by his early acquired inner discipline. The first and simplest stage in the discipline, which can be taught even to young children, is called, in Newspeak, CRIMESTOP. CRIMESTOP means the faculty of stopping short, as though by instinct, at the threshold of any dangerous thought. It includes the power of not grasping analogies, of failing to perceive logical errors, of misunderstanding the simplest arguments if they are inimical to Ingsoc, and of being bored or repelled by any train of thought which is capable of leading in a heretical direction. CRIMESTOP, in short, means protective stupidity. But stupidity is not enough. On the contrary, orthodoxy in the full sense demands a control over one’s own mental processes as complete as that of a contortionist over his body. Oceanic society rests ultimately on the belief that Big Brother is omnipotent and that the Party is infallible. But since in reality Big Brother is not omnipotent and the party is not infallible, there is need for an unwearying, moment-to-moment flexibility in the treatment of facts. The keyword here is BLACKWHITE. Like so many 8 1984 Newspeak words, this word has two mutually contradictory meanings. Applied to an opponent, it means the habit of impudently claiming that black is white, in contradiction of the plain facts. Applied to a Party member, it means a loyal willingness to say that black is white when Party discipline demands this. But it means also the ability to BELIEVE that black is white, and more, to KNOW that black is white, and to forget that one has ever believed the contrary. This demands a continuous alteration of the past, made possible by the system of thought which really embraces all the rest, and which is known in Newspeak as DOUBLETHINK. The alteration of the past is necessary for two reasons, one of which is subsidiary and, so to speak, precautionary. The subsidiary reason is that the Party member, like the proletarian, tolerates present-day conditions partly because he has no standards of comparison. He must be cut off from the past, just as he must be cut off from foreign countries, because it is necessary for him to believe that he is better off than his ancestors and that the average level of material comfort is constantly rising. But by far the more important reason for the readjustment of the past is the need to safeguard the infallibility of the Party. It is not merely that speeches, statistics, and records of every kind must be constantly brought up to date in order to show that the predictions of the Party were in all cases right. It is also that no change in doctrine or in political alignment can ever be admitted. For to change one’s mind, or even one’s policy, is a confession of weakness. If, for example, Eurasia or Eastasia (whichever it may be) is the enemy today, then 9 that country must always have been the enemy. And if the facts say otherwise then the facts must be altered. Thus history is continuously rewritten. This day-to-day falsification of the past, carried out by the Ministry of Truth, is as necessary to the stability of the regime as the work of repression and espionage carried out by the Ministry of Love. The mutability of the past is the central tenet of Ingsoc. Past events, it is argued, have no objective existence, but survive only in written records and in human memories. The past is whatever the records and the memories agree upon. And since the Party is in full control of all records and in equally full control of the minds of its members, it follows that the past is whatever the Party chooses to make it. It also follows that though the past is alterable, it never has been altered in any specific instance. For when it has been recreated in whatever shape is needed at the moment, then this new version IS the past, and no different past can ever have existed. This holds good even when, as often happens, the same event has to be altered out of recognition several times in the course of a year. At all times the Party is in possession of absolute truth, and clearly the absolute can never have been different from what it is now. It will be seen that the control of the past depends above all on the training of memory. To make sure that all written records agree with the orthodoxy of the moment is merely a mechanical act. But it is also necessary to REMEMBER that events happened in the desired manner. And if it is necessary to rearrange one’s memories or to tamper with written records, then it is necessary to FORGET that one 0 1984 has done so. The trick of doing this can be learned like any other mental technique. It is learned by the majority of Party members, and certainly by all who are intelligent as well as orthodox. In Oldspeak it is called, quite frankly, ‘reality control’. In Newspeak it is called DOUBLETHINK, though DOUBLETHINK comprises much else as well. DOUBLETHINK means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them. The Party intellectual knows in which direction his memories must be altered; he therefore knows that he is playing tricks with reality; but by the exercise of DOUBLETHINK he also satisfies himself that reality is not violated. The process has to be conscious, or it would not be carried out with sufficient precision, but it also has to be unconscious, or it would bring with it a feeling of falsity and hence of guilt. DOUBLETHINK lies at the very heart of Ingsoc, since the essential act of the Party is to use conscious deception while retaining the firmness of purpose that goes with complete honesty. To tell deliberate lies while genuinely believing in them, to forget any fact that has become inconvenient, and then, when it becomes necessary again, to draw it back from oblivion for just so long as it is needed, to deny the existence of objective reality and all the while to take account of the reality which one denies—all this is indispensably necessary. Even in using the word DOUBLETHINK it is necessary to exercise DOUBLETHINK. For by using the word one admits that one is tampering with reality; by a fresh act of DOUBLETHINK one erases this knowledge; and so on indefinitely, with the lie always one 1 leap ahead of the truth. Ultimately it is by means of DOUBLETHINK that the Party has been able—and may, for all we know, continue to be able for thousands of years—to arrest the course of history. All past oligarchies have fallen from power either because they ossified or because they grew soft. Either they became stupid and arrogant, failed to adjust themselves to changing circumstances, and were overthrown; or they became liberal and cowardly, made concessions when they should have used force, and once again were overthrown. They fell, that is to say, either through consciousness or through unconsciousness. It is the achievement of the Party to have produced a system of thought in which both conditions can exist simultaneously. And upon no other intellectual basis could the dominion of the Party be made permanent. If one is to rule, and to continue ruling, one must be able to dislocate the sense of reality. For the secret of rulership is to combine a belief in one’s own infallibility with the Power to learn from past mistakes. It need hardly be said that the subtlest practitioners of DOUBLETHINK are those who invented DOUBLETHINK and know that it is a vast system of mental cheating. In our society, those who have the best knowledge of what is happening are also those who are furthest from seeing the world as it is. In general, the greater the understanding, the greater the delusion; the more intelligent, the less sane. One clear illustration of this is the fact that war hysteria increases in intensity as one rises in the social scale. Those whose attitude towards the war is most nearly rational are the sub- 1984 ject peoples of the disputed territories. To these people the war is simply a continuous calamity which sweeps to and fro over their bodies like a tidal wave. Which side is winning is a matter of complete indifference to them. They are aware that a change of overlordship means simply that they will be doing the same work as before for new masters who treat them in the same manner as the old ones. The slightly more favoured workers whom we call ‘the proles’ are only intermittently conscious of the war. When it is necessary they can be prodded into frenzies of fear and hatred, but when left to themselves they are capable of forgetting for long periods that the war is happening. It is in the ranks of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, that the true war enthusiasm is found. World-conquest is believed in most firmly by those who know it to be impossible. This peculiar linking-together of opposites—knowledge with ignorance, cynicism with fanaticism—is one of the chief distinguishing marks of Oceanic society. The official ideology abounds with contradictions even when there is no practical reason for them. Thus, the Party rejects and vilifies every principle for which the Socialist movement originally stood, and it chooses to do this in the name of Socialism. It preaches a contempt for the working class unexampled for centuries past, and it dresses its members in a uniform which was at one time peculiar to manual workers and was adopted for that reason. It systematically undermines the solidarity of the family, and it calls its leader by a name which is a direct appeal to the sentiment of family loyalty. Even the names of the four Ministries by which we are governed exhibit a sort Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com of impudence in their deliberate reversal of the facts. The Ministry of Peace concerns itself with war, the Ministry of Truth with lies, the Ministry of Love with torture and the Ministry of Plenty with starvation. These contradictions are not accidental, nor do they result from ordinary hypocrisy; they are deliberate exercises in DOUBLETHINK. For it is only by reconciling contradictions that power can be retained indefinitely. In no other way could the ancient cycle be broken. If human equality is to be for ever averted—if the High, as we have called them, are to keep their places permanently—then the prevailing mental condition must be controlled insanity. But there is one question which until this moment we have almost ignored. It is; WHY should human equality be averted? Supposing that the mechanics of the process have been rightly described, what is the motive for this huge, accurately planned effort to freeze history at a particular moment of time? Here we reach the central secret. As we have seen. the mystique of the Party, and above all of the Inner Party, depends upon DOUBLETHINK But deeper than this lies the original motive, the never-questioned instinct that first led to the seizure of power and brought DOUBLETHINK, the Thought Police, continuous warfare, and all the other necessary paraphernalia into existence afterwards. This motive really consists... Winston became aware of silence, as one becomes aware of a new sound. It seemed to him that Julia had been very still for some time past. She was lying on her side, na- 4 1984 ked from the waist upwards, with her cheek pillowed on her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her breast rose and fell slowly and regularly. ‘Julia.’ No answer. ‘Julia, are you awake?’ No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book, put it carefully on the floor, lay down, and pulled the coverlet over both of them. He had still, he reflected, not learned the ultimate secret. He understood HOW; he did not understand WHY. Chapter I, like Chapter III, had not actually told him anything that he did not know, it had merely systematized the knowledge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority, even a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad. A yellow beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the window and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his face and the girl’s smooth body touching his own gave him a strong, sleepy, confident feeling. He was safe, everything was all right. He fell asleep murmuring ‘Sanity is not statistical,’ with the feeling that this remark contained in it a profound wisdom. ***** When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while; Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com then the usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard below: ‘It was only an ‘opeless fancy, It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an’ a word an’ the dreams they stirred They ‘ave stolen my ‘eart awye!’ The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Let’s make some more coffee. Damn! The stove’s gone out and the water’s cold.’ She picked the stove up and shook it. ‘There’s no oil in it.’ ‘We can get some from old Charrington, I expect.’ ‘The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I’m going to put my clothes on,’ she added. ‘It seems to have got colder.’ Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on: ‘They sye that time ‘eals all things, They sye you can always forget; But the smiles an’ the tears acrorss the years They twist my ‘eart-strings yet!’ As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flag- 1984 stones were wet as though they had just been washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro, corking and uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line, her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded, it struck him for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an over-ripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower? ‘She’s beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘She’s a metre across the hips, easily,’ said Julia. ‘That is her style of beauty,’ said Winston. He held Julia’s supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com down there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wild-rose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney-pots into interminable distance. It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same—everywhere, all over the world, hundreds of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another’s existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same—people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of THE BOOK, he knew that that must be Goldstein’s final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later 8 1984 it would happen, strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at the edge of the wood?’ ‘He wasn’t singing to us,’ said Julia. ‘He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.’ The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan—everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four. ‘We are the dead,’ he said. ‘We are the dead,’ echoed Julia dutifully. ‘You are the dead,’ said an iron voice behind them. They sprang apart. Winston’s entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of 9 Julia’s eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath. ‘You are the dead,’ repeated the iron voice. ‘It was behind the picture,’ breathed Julia. ‘It was behind the picture,’ said the voice. ‘Remain exactly where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.’ It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late—no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it. ‘Now they can see us,’ said Julia. ‘Now we can see you,’ said the voice. ‘Stand out in the middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one another.’ They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was being dragged across the stones. The woman’s singing had stopped abruptly. There was a long, rolling clang, as though the washtub had been flung across the yard, and then a confusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell of pain. ‘The house is surrounded,’ said Winston. 80 1984 ‘The house is surrounded,’ said the voice. He heard Julia snap her teeth together. ‘I suppose we may as well say good-bye,’ she said. ‘You may as well say good-bye,’ said the voice. And then another quite different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had the impression of having heard before, struck in; ‘And by the way, while we are on the subject, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head’!’ Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston’s back. The head of a ladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame. Someone was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with ironshod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands. Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved. One thing alone mattered; to keep still, to keep still and not give them an excuse to hit you! A man with a smooth prize-fighter’s jowl in which the mouth was only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon meditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met his eyes. The feeling of nakedness, with one’s hands behind one’s head and one’s face and body all exposed, was almost unbearable. The man protruded the tip of a white tongue, licked the place where his lips should have been, and then passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked up the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it to pieces on the hearth-stone. The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sug- 81 ar rosebud from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small it always was! There was a gasp and a thump behind him, and he received a violent kick on the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of the men had smashed his fist into Julia’s solar plexus, doubling her up like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the floor, fighting for breath. Winston dared not turn his head even by a millimetre, but sometimes her livid, gasping face came within the angle of his vision. Even in his terror it was as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to get back her breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, agonizing pain which was there all the while but could not be suffered yet, because before all else it was necessary to be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted her up by knees and shoulders, and carried her out of the room like a sack. Winston had a glimpse of her face, upside down, yellow and contorted, with the eyes shut, and still with a smear of rouge on either cheek; and that was the last he saw of her. He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts which came of their own accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit through his mind. He wondered whether they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what they had done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badly wanted to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he had done so only two or three hours ago. He noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, meaning twentyone. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light 8 1984 be fading at twenty-one hours on an August evening? He wondered whether after all he and Julia had mistaken the time—had slept the clock round and thought it was twenty-thirty when really it was nought eight-thirty on the following morning. But he did not pursue the thought further. It was not interesting. There ws another, lighter step in the passage. Mr Charrington came into the room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became more subdued. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington’s appearance. His eye fell on the fragments of the glass paperweight. ‘Pick up those pieces,’ he said sharply. A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disappeared; Winston suddenly realized whose voice it was that he had heard a few moments ago on the telescreen. Mr Charrington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his hair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was not wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp glance, as though verifying his identity, and then paid no more attention to him. He was still recognizable, but he was not the same person any longer. His body had straightened, and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete transformation. The black eyebrows were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, 8 with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police. 84 1984 Part Three 8 Chapter 1 He did not know where he was. Presumably he was in the Ministry of Love, but there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens, one in each wall. There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed. He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the 8 1984 pocket of his overalls. It was even possible—he thought this because from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg—that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket. ‘Smith!’ yelled a voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!’ He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evilsmelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed 8 to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was ‘all right’ in the camps, he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals. There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine to suppress them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across Winston’s lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with a yell of ‘F—— bastards!’ Then, noticing that she was sitting on something uneven, she slid off Winston’s knees on to the bench. 88 1984 ‘Beg pardon, dearie,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t ‘a sat on you, only the buggers put me there. They dono ‘ow to treat a lady, do they?’ She paused, patted her breast, and belched. ‘Pardon,’ she said, ‘I ain’t meself, quite.’ She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. ‘Thass better,’ she said, leaning back with closed eyes. ‘Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it’s fresh on your stomach, like.’ She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. ‘Wass your name, dearie?’ she said. ‘Smith,’ said Winston. ‘Smith?’ said the woman. ‘Thass funny. My name’s Smith too. Why,’ she added sentimentally, ‘I might be your mother!’ She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age and physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-labour camp. No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. ‘The polITS,’ they called them, with a sort of uninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a 89 reference to something called ‘room one-oh-one’, which he did not understand. It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O’Brien, with a flickering hope. O’Brien might know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting 90 1984 another ten minutes’ life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it. Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls of the cell. It should have been easy, but he always lost count at some point or another. More often he wondered where he was, and what time of day it was. At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be turned out. It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O’Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion. In the Ministry of Love there were no windows. His cell might be at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved himself mentally from place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the air or buried deep underground. There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading. The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell. The door clanged shut again. Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then began to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston’s presence. 91 His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the level of Winston’s head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks. He was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements. Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade. ‘Ampleforth,’ he said. There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston. ‘Ah, Smith!’ he said. ‘You too!’ ‘What are you in for?’ ‘To tell you the truth—’ He sat down awkwardly on the bench opposite Winston. ‘There is only one offence, is there not?’ he said. ‘And have you committed it?’ ‘Apparently I have.’ He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as though trying to remember something. ‘These things happen,’ he began vaguely. ‘I have been able to recall one instance—a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were producing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word ‘God’ to remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!’ he added al- 9 1984 most indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. ‘It was impossible to change the line. The rhyme was ‘rod”. Do you realize that there are only twelve rhymes to ‘rod’ in the entire language? For days I had racked my brains. There WAS no other rhyme.’ The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and scrubby hair. ‘Has it ever occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that the whole history of English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?’ No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting. ‘Do you know what time of day it is?’ he said. Ampleforth looked startled again. ‘I had hardly thought about it. They arrested me—it could be two days ago—perhaps three.’ His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. ‘There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see how one can calculate the time.’ They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to 9 keep still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour—it was difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of boots outside. Winston’s entrails contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had come. The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. With a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth. ‘Room 101,’ he said. Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely perturbed, but uncomprehending. What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston’s belly had revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O’Brien; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt. This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. ‘YOU here!’ he said. Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor surprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still. Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring look, as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at 94 1984 something in the middle distance. ‘What are you in for?’ said Winston. ‘Thoughtcrime!’ said Parsons, almost blubbering. The tone of his voice implied at once a complete admission of his guilt and a sort of incredulous horror that such a word could be applied to himself. He paused opposite Winston and began eagerly appealing to him: ‘You don’t think they’ll shoot me, do you, old chap? They don’t shoot you if you haven’t actually done anything—only thoughts, which you can’t help? I know they give you a fair hearing. Oh, I trust them for that! They’ll know my record, won’t they? YOU know what kind of chap I was. Not a bad chap in my way. Not brainy, of course, but keen. I tried to do my best for the Party, didn’t I? I’ll get off with five years, don’t you think? Or even ten years? A chap like me could make himself pretty useful in a labour-camp. They wouldn’t shoot me for going off the rails just once?’ ‘Are you guilty?’ said Winston. ‘Of course I’m guilty!’ cried Parsons with a servile glance at the telescreen. ‘You don’t think the Party would arrest an innocent man, do you?’ His frog-like face grew calmer, and even took on a slightly sanctimonious expression. ‘Thoughtcrime is a dreadful thing, old man,’ he said sententiously. ‘It’s insidious. It can get hold of you without your even knowing it. Do you know how it got hold of me? In my sleep! Yes, that’s a fact. There I was, working away, trying to do my bit—never knew I had any bad stuff in my mind at all. And then I started talking in my sleep. Do you know what they heard me saying?’ 9 He sank his voice, like someone who is obliged for medical reasons to utter an obscenity. ‘’Down with Big Brother!’ Yes, I said that! Said it over and over again, it seems. Between you and me, old man, I’m glad they got me before it went any further. Do you know what I’m going to say to them when I go up before the tribunal? ‘Thank you,’ I’m going to say, ‘thank you for saving me before it was too late.‘‘ ‘Who denounced you?’ said Winston. ‘It was my little daughter,’ said Parsons with a sort of doleful pride. ‘She listened at the keyhole. Heard what I was saying, and nipped off to the patrols the very next day. Pretty smart for a nipper of seven, eh? I don’t bear her any grudge for it. In fact I’m proud of her. It shows I brought her up in the right spirit, anyway.’ He made a few more jerky movements up and down, several times, casting a longing glance at the lavatory pan. Then he suddenly ripped down his shorts. ‘Excuse me, old man,’ he said. ‘I can’t help it. It’s the waiting.’ He plumped his large posterior into the lavatory pan. Winston covered his face with his hands. ‘Smith!’ yelled the voice from the telescreen. ‘6079 Smith W! Uncover your face. No faces covered in the cells.’ Winston uncovered his face. Parsons used the lavatory, loudly and abundantly. It then turned out that the plug was defective and the cell stank abominably for hours afterwards. Parsons was removed. More prisoners came and went, 9 1984 mysteriously. One, a woman, was consigned to ‘Room 101’, and, Winston noticed, seemed to shrivel and turn a different colour when she heard the words. A time came when, if it had been morning when he was brought here, it would be afternoon; or if it had been afternoon, then it would be midnight. There were six prisoners in the cell, men and women. All sat very still. Opposite Winston there sat a man with a chinless, toothy face exactly like that of some large, harmless rodent. His fat, mottled cheeks were so pouched at the bottom that it was difficult not to believe that he had little stores of food tucked away there. His pale-grey eyes flitted timorously from face to face and turned quickly away again when he caught anyone’s eye. The door opened, and another prisoner was brought in whose appearance sent a momentary chill through Winston. He was a commonplace, mean-looking man who might have been an engineer or technician of some kind. But what was startling was the emaciation of his face. It was like a skull. Because of its thinness the mouth and eyes looked disproportionately large, and the eyes seemed filled with a murderous, unappeasable hatred of somebody or something. The man sat down on the bench at a little distance from Winston. Winston did not look at him again, but the tormented, skull-like face was as vivid in his mind as though it had been straight in front of his eyes. Suddenly he realized what was the matter. The man was dying of starvation. The same thought seemed to occur almost simultaneously to everyone in the cell. There was a very faint stirring all 9 the way round the bench. The eyes of the chinless man kept flitting towards the skull-faced man, then turning guiltily away, then being dragged back by an irresistible attraction. Presently he began to fidget on his seat. At last he stood up, waddled clumsily across the cell, dug down into the pocket of his overalls, and, with an abashed air, held out a grimy piece of bread to the skull-faced man. There was a furious, deafening roar from the telescreen. The chinless man jumped in his tracks. The skull-faced man had quickly thrust his hands behind his back, as though demonstrating to all the world that he refused the gift. ‘Bumstead!’ roared the voice. ‘2713 Bumstead J.! Let fall that piece of bread!’ The chinless man dropped the piece of bread on the floor. ‘Remain standing where you are,’ said the voice. ‘Face the door. Make no movement.’ The chinless man obeyed. His large pouchy cheeks were quivering uncontrollably. The door clanged open. As the young officer entered and stepped aside, there emerged from behind him a short stumpy guard with enormous arms and shoulders. He took his stand opposite the chinless man, and then, at a signal from the officer, let free a frightful blow, with all the weight of his body behind it, full in the chinless man’s mouth. The force of it seemed almost to knock him clear of the floor. His body was flung across the cell and fetched up against the base of the lavatory seat. For a moment he lay as though stunned, with dark blood oozing from his mouth and nose. A very faint whimper- 98 1984 ing or squeaking, which seemed unconscious, came out of him. Then he rolled over and raised himself unsteadily on hands and knees. Amid a stream of blood and saliva, the two halves of a dental plate fell out of his mouth. The prisoners sat very still, their hands crossed on their knees. The chinless man climbed back into his place. Down one side of his face the flesh was darkening. His mouth had swollen into a shapeless cherry-coloured mass with a black hole in the middle of it. From time to time a little blood dripped on to the breast of his overalls. His grey eyes still flitted from face to face, more guiltily than ever, as though he were trying to discover how much the others despised him for his humiliation. The door opened. With a small gesture the officer indicated the skull-faced man. ‘Room 101,’ he said. There was a gasp and a flurry at Winston’s side. The man had actually flung himself on his knees on the floor, with his hand clasped together. ‘Comrade! Officer!’ he cried. ‘You don’t have to take me to that place! Haven’t I told you everything already? What else is it you want to know? There’s nothing I wouldn’t confess, nothing! Just tell me what it is and I’ll confess straight off. Write it down and I’ll sign it—anything! Not room 101!’ ‘Room 101,’ said the officer. The man’s face, already very pale, turned a colour Winston would not have believed possible. It was definitely, unmistakably, a shade of green. ‘Do anything to me!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve been starving me 99 for weeks. Finish it off and let me die. Shoot me. Hang me. Sentence me to twenty-five years. Is there somebody else you want me to give away? Just say who it is and I’ll tell you anything you want. I don’t care who it is or what you do to them. I’ve got a wife and three children. The biggest of them isn’t six years old. You can take the whole lot of them and cut their throats in front of my eyes, and I’ll stand by and watch it. But not Room 101!’ ‘Room 101,’ said the officer. The man looked frantically round at the other prisoners, as though with some idea that he could put another victim in his own place. His eyes settled on the smashed face of the chinless man. He flung out a lean arm. ‘That’s the one you ought to be taking, not me!’ he shouted. ‘You didn’t hear what he was saying after they bashed his face. Give me a chance and I’ll tell you every word of it. HE’S the one that’s against the Party, not me.’ The guards stepped forward. The man’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘You didn’t hear him!’ he repeated. ‘Something went wrong with the telescreen. HE’S the one you want. Take him, not me!’ The two sturdy guards had stooped to take him by the arms. But just at this moment he flung himself across the floor of the cell and grabbed one of the iron legs that supported the bench. He had set up a wordless howling, like an animal. The guards took hold of him to wrench him loose, but he clung on with astonishing strength. For perhaps twenty seconds they were hauling at him. The prisoners sat quiet, their hands crossed on their knees, looking straight in front of them. The howling stopped; the man had no 00 1984 breath left for anything except hanging on. Then there was a different kind of cry. A kick from a guard’s boot had broken the fingers of one of his hands. They dragged him to his feet. ‘Room 101,’ said the officer. The man was led out, walking unsteadily, with head sunken, nursing his crushed hand, all the fight had gone out of him. A long time passed. If it had been midnight when the skull-faced man was taken away, it was morning: if morning, it was afternoon. Winston was alone, and had been alone for hours. The pain of sitting on the narrow bench was such that often he got up and walked about, unreproved by the telescreen. The piece of bread still lay where the chinless man had dropped it. At the beginning it needed a hard effort not to look at it, but presently hunger gave way to thirst. His mouth was sticky and evil-tasting. The humming sound and the unvarying white light induced a sort of faintness, an empty feeling inside his head. He would get up because the ache in his bones was no longer bearable, and then would sit down again almost at once because he was too dizzy to make sure of staying on his feet. Whenever his physical sensations were a little under control the terror returned. Sometimes with a fading hope he thought of O’Brien and the razor blade. It was thinkable that the razor blade might arrive concealed in his food, if he were ever fed. More dimly he thought of Julia. Somewhere or other she was suffering perhaps far worse than he. She might be screaming with pain at this moment. He thought: ‘If I could 01 save Julia by doubling my own pain, would I do it? Yes, I would.’ But that was merely an intellectual decision, taken because he knew that he ought to take it. He did not feel it. In this place you could not feel anything, except pain and foreknowledge of pain. Besides, was it possible, when you were actually suffering it, to wish for any reason that your own pain should increase? But that question was not answerable yet. The boots were approaching again. The door opened. O’Brien came in. Winston started to his feet. The shock of the sight had driven all caution out of him. For the first time in many years he forgot the presence of the telescreen. ‘They’ve got you too!’ he cried. ‘They got me a long time ago,’ said O’Brien with a mild, almost regretful irony. He stepped aside. From behind him there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand. ‘You know this, Winston,’ said O’Brien. ‘Don’t deceive yourself. You did know it—you have always known it.’ Yes, he saw now, he had always known it. But there was no time to think of that. All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard’s hand. It might fall anywhere; on the crown, on the tip of the ear, on the upper arm, on the elbow—— The elbow! He had slumped to his knees, almost paralysed, clasping the stricken elbow with his other hand. Everything had exploded into yellow light. Inconceivable, inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down 0 1984 at him. The guard was laughing at his contortions. One question at any rate was answered. Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could wish only one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no heroes, he thought over and over as he writhed on the floor, clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm. 0 Chapter 2 He was lying on something that felt like a camp bed, except that it was higher off the ground and that he was fixed down in some way so that he could not move. Light that seemed stronger than usual was falling on his face. O’Brien was standing at his side, looking down at him intently. At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat, holding a hypodermic syringe. Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually. He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different world, a sort of underwater world far beneath it. How long he had been down there he did not know. Since the moment when they arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight. Besides, his memories were not continuous. There had been times when consciousness, even the sort of consciousness that one has in sleep, had stopped dead and started again after a blank interval. But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or only seconds, there was no way of knowing. With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he was to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary, a routine interrogation to which nearly all prisoners were subjected. There was a long range of crimes—espionage, sabotage, and the like—to which everyone had to confess as a matter of course. The confession 04 1984 was a formality, though the torture was real. How many times he had been beaten, how long the beatings had continued, he could not remember. Always there were five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously. Sometimes it was fists, sometimes it was truncheons, sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots. There were times when he rolled about the floor, as shameless as an animal, writhing his body this way and that in an endless, hopeless effort to dodge the kicks, and simply inviting more and yet more kicks, in his ribs, in his belly, on his elbows, on his shins, in his groin, in his testicles, on the bone at the base of his spine. There were times when it went on and on until the cruel, wicked, unforgivable thing seemed to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not force hirnself into losing consciousness. There were times when his nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the beating began, when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make him pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes. There were other times when he started out with the resolve of confessing nothing, when every word had to be forced out of him between gasps of pain, and there were times when he feebly tried to compromise, when he said to himself: ‘I will confess, but not yet. I must hold out till the pain becomes unbearable. Three more kicks, two more kicks, and then I will tell them what they want.’ Sometimes he was beaten till he could hardly stand, then flung like a sack of potatoes on to the stone floor of a cell, left to recuperate for a few hours, and then taken out and beaten again. There were also longer 0 periods of recovery. He remembered them dimly, because they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor. He remembered a cell with a plank bed, a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall, and a tin wash-basin, and meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee. He remembered a surly barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike, unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse, tapping his reflexes, turning up his eyelids, running harsh fingers over him in search for broken bones, and shooting needles into his arm to make him sleep. The beatings grew less frequent, and became mainly a threat, a horror to which he could be sent back at any moment when his answers were unsatisfactory. His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellectuals, little rotund men with quick movements and flashing spectacles, who worked on him in relays over periods which lasted—he thought, he could not be sure—ten or twelve hours at a stretch. These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain, but it was not chiefly pain that they relied on. They slapped his face, wrung his ears, pulled his hair, made him stand on one leg, refused him leave to urinate, shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water; but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would 0 1984 weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew. He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party members, the distribution of seditious pamphlets, embezzlement of public funds, sale of military secrets, sabotage of every kind. He confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1968. He confessed that he was a religious believer, an admirer of capitalism, and a sexual pervert. He confessed that he had murdered his wife, although he knew, and his questioners must have known, that his wife was still alive. He confessed that for years he had been in personal touch with Goldstein and had been a member of an underground organization which had included almost every human being he had ever known. It was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody. Besides, in a sense it was all true. It was true that he had 0 been the enemy of the Party, and in the eyes of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed. There were also memories of another kind. They stood out in his mind disconnectedly, like pictures with blackness all round them. He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes. Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly. The eyes grew larger and more luminous. Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes, and was swallowed up. He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials, under dazzling lights. A man in a white coat was reading the dials. There was a tramp of heavy boots outside. The door clanged open. The waxed-faced officer marched in, followed by two guards. ‘Room 101,’ said the officer. The man in the white coat did not turn round. He did not look at Winston either; he was looking only at the dials. He was rolling down a mighty corridor, a kilometre wide, full of glorious, golden light, roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice. He was confessing everything, even the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already. With him were the guards, the other questioners, the men in white coats, O’Brien, Julia, Mr Charrington, all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter. Some dreadful thing which had lain embedded in the fu- 08 1984 ture had somehow been skipped over and had not happened. Everything was all right, there was no more pain, the last detail of his life was laid bare, understood, forgiven. He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O’Brien’s voice. All through his interrogation, although he had never seen him, he had had the feeling that O’Brien was at his elbow, just out of sight. It was O’Brien who was directing everything. It was he who set the guards on to Winston and who prevented them from killing him. It was he who decided when Winston should scream with pain, when he should have a respite, when he should be fed, when he should sleep, when the drugs should be pumped into his arm. It was he who asked the questions and suggested the answers. He was the tormentor, he was the protector, he was the inquisitor, he was the friend. And once—Winston could not remember whether it was in drugged sleep, or in normal sleep, or even in a moment of wakefulness—a voice murmured in his ear: ‘Don’t worry, Winston; you are in my keeping. For seven years I have watched over you. Now the turning-point has come. I shall save you, I shall make you perfect.’ He was not sure whether it was O’Brien’s voice; but it was the same voice that had said to him, ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,’ in that other dream, seven years ago. He did not remember any ending to his interrogation. There was a period of blackness and then the cell, or room, in which he now was had gradually materialized round him. He was almost flat on his back, and unable to move. His body was held down at every essential point. Even the back 09 of his head was gripped in some manner. O’Brien was looking down at him gravely and rather sadly. His face, seen from below, looked coarse and worn, with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin. He was older than Winston had thought him; he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty. Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face. ‘I told you,’ said O’Brien, ‘that if we met again it would be here.’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. Without any warning except a slight movement of O’Brien’s hand, a wave of pain flooded his body. It was a frightening pain, because he could not see what was happening, and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him. He did not know whether the thing was really happening, or whether the effect was electrically produced; but his body was being wrenched out of shape, the joints were being slowly torn apart. Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead, the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap. He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose, trying to keep silent as long as possible. ‘You are afraid,’ said O’Brien, watching his face, ‘that in another moment something is going to break. Your especial fear is that it will be your backbone. You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking, is it not, Winston?’ Winston did not answer. O’Brien drew back the lever on 10 1984 the dial. The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come. ‘That was forty,’ said O’Brien. ‘You can see that the numbers on this dial run up to a hundred. Will you please remember, throughout our conversation, that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to whatever degree I choose? If you tell me any lies, or attempt to prevaricate in any way, or even fall below your usual level of intelligence, you will cry out with pain, instantly. Do you understand that?’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. O’Brien’s manner became less severe. He resettled his spectacles thoughtfully, and took a pace or two up and down. When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient. He had the air of a doctor, a teacher, even a priest, anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish. ‘I am taking trouble with you, Winston,’ he said, ‘because you are worth trouble. You know perfectly well what is the matter with you. You have known it for years, though you have fought against the knowledge. You are mentally deranged. You suffer from a defective memory. You are unable to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other events which never happened. Fortunately it is curable. You have never cured yourself of it, because you did not choose to. There was a small effort of the will that you were not ready to make. Even now, I am well aware, you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a virtue. Now we will take an example. At this moment, which power is Oceania at war with?’ 11 ‘When I was arrested, Oceania was at war with Eastasia.’ ‘With Eastasia. Good. And Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia, has it not?’ Winston drew in his breath. He opened his mouth to speak and then did not speak. He could not take his eyes away from the dial. ‘The truth, please, Winston. YOUR truth. Tell me what you think you remember.’ ‘I remember that until only a week before I was arrested, we were not at war with Eastasia at all. We were in alliance with them. The war was against Eurasia. That had lasted for four years. Before that——’ O’Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand. ‘Another example,’ he said. ‘Some years ago you had a very serious delusion indeed. You believed that three men, three one-time Party members named Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford—men who were executed for treachery and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession— were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with. You believed that you had seen unmistakable documentary evidence proving that their confessions were false. There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination. You believed that you had actually held it in your hands. It was a photograph something like this.’ An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O’Brien’s fingers. For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Winston’s vision. It was a photograph, and there was no question of its identity. It was THE photograph. It was another copy of the photograph of Jones, Aaronson, 1 1984 and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly destroyed. For only an instant it was before his eyes, then it was out of sight again. But he had seen it, unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate, agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free. It was impossible to move so much as a centimetre in any direction. For the moment he had even forgotten the dial. All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it. ‘It exists!’ he cried. ‘No,’ said O’Brien. He stepped across the room. There was a memory hole in the opposite wall. O’Brien lifted the grating. Unseen, the frail slip of paper was whirling away on the current of warm air; it was vanishing in a flash of flame. O’Brien turned away from the wall. ‘Ashes,’ he said. ‘Not even identifiable ashes. Dust. It does not exist. It never existed.’ ‘But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory. I remember it. You remember it.’ ‘I do not remember it,’ said O’Brien. Winston’s heart sank. That was doublethink. He had a feeling of deadly helplessness. If he could have been certain that O’Brien was lying, it would not have seemed to matter. But it was perfectly possible that O’Brien had really forgotten the photograph. And if so, then already he would have forgotten his denial of remembering it, and forgotten the act of forgetting. How could one be sure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could 1 really happen: that was the thought that defeated him. O’Brien was looking down at him speculatively. More than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promising child. ‘There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,’ he said. ‘Repeat it, if you please.’ ‘’Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past,‘‘ repeated Winston obediently. ‘’Who controls the present controls the past,‘‘ said O’Brien, nodding his head with slow approval. ‘Is it your opinion, Winston, that the past has real existence?’ Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston. His eyes flitted towards the dial. He not only did not know whether ‘yes’ or ‘no’ was the answer that would save him from pain; he did not even know which answer he believed to be the true one. O’Brien smiled faintly. ‘You are no metaphysician, Winston,’ he said. ‘Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence. I will put it more precisely. Does the past exist concretely, in space? Is there somewhere or other a place, a world of solid objects, where the past is still happening?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then where does the past exist, if at all?’ ‘In records. It is written down.’ ‘In records. And——?’ ‘In the mind. In human memories.’ ‘In memory. Very well, then. We, the Party, control all 14 1984 records, and we control all memories. Then we control the past, do we not?’ ‘But how can you stop people remembering things?’ cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial. ‘It is involuntary. It is outside oneself. How can you control memory? You have not controlled mine!’ O’Brien’s manner grew stern again. He laid his hand on the dial. ‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘YOU have not controlled it. That is what has brought you here. You are here because you have failed in humility, in self-discipline. You would not make the act of submission which is the price of sanity. You preferred to be a lunatic, a minority of one. Only the disciplined mind can see reality, Winston. You believe that reality is something objective, external, existing in its own right. You also believe that the nature of reality is selfevident. When you delude yourself into thinking that you see something, you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you. But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. Not in the individual mind, which can make mistakes, and in any case soon perishes: only in the mind of the Party, which is collective and immortal. Whatever the Party holds to be the truth, is truth. It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party. That is the fact that you have got to relearn, Winston. It needs an act of selfdestruction, an effort of the will. You must humble yourself before you can become sane.’ He paused for a few moments, as though to allow what 1 he had been saying to sink in. ‘Do you remember,’ he went on, ‘writing in your diary, ‘Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four’?’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. O’Brien held up his left hand, its back towards Winston, with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended. ‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’ ‘Four.’ ‘And if the party says that it is not four but five—then how many?’ ‘Four.’ The word ended in a gasp of pain. The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five. The sweat had sprung out all over Winston’s body. The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop. O’Brien watched him, the four fingers still extended. He drew back the lever. This time the pain was only slightly eased. ‘How many fingers, Winston?’ ‘Four.’ The needle went up to sixty. ‘How many fingers, Winston?’ ‘Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!’ The needle must have risen again, but he did not look at it. The heavy, stern face and the four fingers filled his vision. The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars, enormous, blurry, and seeming to vibrate, but unmistakably four. ‘How many fingers, Winston?’ 1 1984 ‘Four! Stop it, stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!’ ‘How many fingers, Winston?’ ‘Five! Five! Five!’ ‘No, Winston, that is no use. You are lying. You still think there are four. How many fingers, please?’ ‘Four! five! Four! Anything you like. Only stop it, stop the pain!’ Abruptly he was sitting up with O’Brien’s arm round his shoulders. He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. The bonds that had held his body down were loosened. He felt very cold, he was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth were chattering, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. For a moment he clung to O’Brien like a baby, curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders. He had the feeling that O’Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside, from some other source, and that it was O’Brien who would save him from it. ‘You are a slow learner, Winston,’ said O’Brien gently. ‘How can I help it?’ he blubbered. ‘How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.’ Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.’ He laid Winston down on the bed. The grip of his limbs tightened again, but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped, leaving him merely weak and cold. O’Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white coat, who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings. The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely 1 into Winston’s eyes, felt his pulse, laid an ear against his chest, tapped here and there, then he nodded to O’Brien. ‘Again,’ said O’Brien. The pain flowed into Winston’s body. The needle must be at seventy, seventy-five. He had shut his eyes this time. He knew that the fingers were still there, and still four. All that mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was over. He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or not. The pain lessened again. He opened his eyes. O’Brien had drawn back the lever. ‘How many fingers, Winston?’ ‘Four. I suppose there are four. I would see five if I could. I am trying to see five.’ ‘Which do you wish: to persuade me that you see five, or really to see them?’ ‘Really to see them.’ ‘Again,’ said O’Brien. Perhaps the needle was eighty—ninety. Winston could not intermittently remember why the pain was happening. Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and four. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable fingers, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut 18 1984 his eyes again. ‘How many fingers am I holding up, Winston?’ ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. You will kill me if you do that again. Four, five, six—in all honesty I don’t know.’ ‘Better,’ said O’Brien. A needle slid into Winston’s arm. Almost in the same instant a blissful, healing warmth spread all through his body. The pain was already half-forgotten. He opened his eyes and looked up gratefully at O’Brien. At sight of the heavy, lined face, so ugly and so intelligent, his heart seemed to turn over. If he could have moved he would have stretched out a hand and laid it on O’Brien’s arm. He had never loved him so deeply as at this moment, and not merely because he had stopped the pain. The old feeling, that at bottom it did not matter whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy, had come back. O’Brien was a person who could be talked to. Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. O’Brien had tortured him to the edge of lunacy, and in a little while, it was certain, he would send him to his death. It made no difference. In some sense that went deeper than friendship, they were intimates: somewhere or other, although the actual words might never be spoken, there was a place where they could meet and talk. O’Brien was looking down at him with an expression which suggested that the same thought might be in his own mind. When he spoke it was in an easy, conversational tone. ‘Do you know where you are, Winston?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. I can guess. In the Ministry of Love.’ ‘Do you know how long you have been here?’ 19 ‘I don’t know. Days, weeks, months—I think it is months.’ ‘And why do you imagine that we bring people to this place?’ ‘To make them confess.’ ‘No, that is not the reason. Try again.’ ‘To punish them.’ ‘No!’ exclaimed O’Brien. His voice had changed extraordinarily, and his face had suddenly become both stern and animated. ‘No! Not merely to extract your confession, not to punish you. Shall I tell you why we have brought you here? To cure you! To make you sane! Will you understand, Winston, that no one whom we bring to this place ever leaves our hands uncured? We are not interested in those stupid crimes that you have committed. The Party is not interested in the overt act: the thought is all we care about. We do not merely destroy our enemies, we change them. Do you understand what I mean by that?’ He was bending over Winston. His face looked enormous because of its nearness, and hideously ugly because it was seen from below. Moreover it was filled with a sort of exaltation, a lunatic intensity. Again Winston’s heart shrank. If it had been possible he would have cowered deeper into the bed. He felt certain that O’Brien was about to twist the dial out of sheer wantonness. At this moment, however, O’Brien turned away. He took a pace or two up and down. Then he continued less vehemently: ‘The first thing for you to understand is that in this place there are no martyrdoms. You have read of the religious 0 1984 persecutions of the past. In the Middle Ages there was the Inquisitlon. It was a failure. It set out to eradicate heresy, and ended by perpetuating it. For every heretic it burned at the stake, thousands of others rose up. Why was that? Because the Inquisition killed its enemies in the open, and killed them while they were still unrepentant: in fact, it killed them because they were unrepentant. Men were dying because they would not abandon their true beliefs. Naturally all the glory belonged to the victim and all the shame to the Inquisitor who burned him. Later, in the twentieth century, there were the totalitarians, as they were called. There were the German Nazis and the Russian Communists. The Russians persecuted heresy more cruelly than the Inquisition had done. And they imagined that they had learned from the mistakes of the past; they knew, at any rate, that one must not make martyrs. Before they exposed their victims to public trial, they deliberately set themselves to destroy their dignity. They wore them down by torture and solitude until they were despicable, cringing wretches, confessing whatever was put into their mouths, covering themselves with abuse, accusing and sheltering behind one another, whimpering for mercy. And yet after only a few years the same thing had happened over again. The dead men had become martyrs and their degradation was forgotten. Once again, why was it? In the first place, because the confessions that they had made were obviously extorted and untrue. We do not make mistakes of that kind. All the confessions that are uttered here are true. We make them true. And above all we do not allow the dead to rise up against us. You must 1 stop imagining that posterity will vindicate you, Winston. Posterity will never hear of you. You will be lifted clean out from the stream of history. We shall turn you into gas and pour you into the stratosphere. Nothing will remain of you, not a name in a register, not a memory in a living brain. You will be annihilated in the past as well as in the future. You will never have existed.’ Then why bother to torture me? thought Winston, with a momentary bitterness. O’Brien checked his step as though Winston had uttered the thought aloud. His large ugly face came nearer, with the eyes a little narrowed. ‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that since we intend to destroy you utterly, so that nothing that you say or do can make the smallest difference—in that case, why do we go to the trouble of interrogating you first? That is what you were thinking, was it not?’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. O’Brien smiled slightly. ‘You are a flaw in the pattern, Winston. You are a stain that must be wiped out. Did I not tell you just now that we are different from the persecutors of the past? We are not content with negative obedience, nor even with the most abject submission. When finally you surrender to us, it must be of your own free will. We do not destroy the heretic because he resists us: so long as he resists us we never destroy him. We convert him, we capture his inner mind, we reshape him. We burn all evil and all illusion out of him; we bring him over to our side, not in appearance, but genuinely, heart and soul. We make him one of ourselves before we kill him. It is intolerable to us that 1984 an erroneous thought should exist anywhere in the world, however secret and powerless it may be. Even in the instant of death we cannot permit any deviation. In the old days the heretic walked to the stake still a heretic, proclaiming his heresy, exulting in it. Even the victim of the Russian purges could carry rebellion locked up in his skull as he walked down the passage waiting for the bullet. But we make the brain perfect before we blow it out. The command of the old despotisms was ‘Thou shalt not”. The command of the totalitarians was ‘Thou shalt”. Our command is ‘THOU ART”. No one whom we bring to this place ever stands out against us. Everyone is washed clean. Even those three miserable traitors in whose innocence you once believed—Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford—in the end we broke them down. I took part in their interrogation myself. I saw them gradually worn down, whimpering, grovelling, weeping—and in the end it was not with pain or fear, only with penitence. By the time we had finished with them they were only the shells of men. There was nothing left in them except sorrow for what they had done, and love of Big Brother. It was touching to see how they loved him. They begged to be shot quickly, so that they could die while their minds were still clean.’ His voice had grown almost dreamy. The exaltation, the lunatic enthusiasm, was still in his face. He is not pretending, thought Winston, he is not a hypocrite, he believes every word he says. What most oppressed him was the consciousness of his own intellectual inferiority. He watched the heavy yet graceful form strolling to and fro, in and out Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com of the range of his vision. O’Brien was a being in all ways larger than himself. There was no idea that he had ever had, or could have, that O’Brien had not long ago known, examined, and rejected. His mind CONTAINED Winston’s mind. But in that case how could it be true that O’Brien was mad? It must be he, Winston, who was mad. O’Brien halted and looked down at him. His voice had grown stern again. ‘Do not imagine that you will save yourself, Winston, however completely you surrender to us. No one who has once gone astray is ever spared. And even if we chose to let you live out the natural term of your life, still you would never escape from us. What happens to you here is for ever. Understand that in advance. We shall crush you down to the point from which there is no coming back. Things will happen to you from which you could not recover, if you lived a thousand years. Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.’ He paused and signed to the man in the white coat. Winston was aware of some heavy piece of apparatus being pushed into place behind his head. O’Brien had sat down beside the bed, so that his face was almost on a level with Winston’s. ‘Three thousand,’ he said, speaking over Winston’s head to the man in the white coat. Two soft pads, which felt slightly moist, clamped them- 4 1984 selves against Winston’s temples. He quailed. There was pain coming, a new kind of pain. O’Brien laid a hand reassuringly, almost kindly, on his. ‘This time it will not hurt,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes fixed on mine.’ At this moment there was a devastating explosion, or what seemed like an explosion, though it was not certain whether there was any noise. There was undoubtedly a blinding flash of light. Winston was not hurt, only prostrated. Although he had already been lying on his back when the thing happened, he had a curious feeling that he had been knocked into that position. A terrific painless blow had flattened him out. Also something had happened inside his head. As his eyes regained their focus he remembered who he was, and where he was, and recognized the face that was gazing into his own; but somewhere or other there was a large patch of emptiness, as though a piece had been taken out of his brain. ‘It will not last,’ said O’Brien. ‘Look me in the eyes. What country is Oceania at war with?’ Winston thought. He knew what was meant by Oceania and that he himself was a citizen of Oceania. He also remembered Eurasia and Eastasia; but who was at war with whom he did not know. In fact he had not been aware that there was any war. ‘I don’t remember.’ ‘Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Do you remember that now?’ ‘Yes.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia. Since the beginning of your life, since the beginning of the Party, since the beginning of history, the war has continued without a break, always the same war. Do you remember that?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Eleven years ago you created a legend about three men who had been condemned to death for treachery. You pretended that you had seen a piece of paper which proved them innocent. No such piece of paper ever existed. You invented it, and later you grew to believe in it. You remember now the very moment at which you first invented it. Do you remember that?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Just now I held up the fingers of my hand to you. You saw five fingers. Do you remember that?’ ‘Yes.’ O’Brien held up the fingers of his left hand, with the thumb concealed. ‘There are five fingers there. Do you see five fingers?’ ‘Yes.’ And he did see them, for a fleeting instant, before the scenery of his mind changed. He saw five fingers, and there was no deformity. Then everything was normal again, and the old fear, the hatred, and the bewilderment came crowding back again. But there had been a moment—he did not know how long, thirty seconds, perhaps—of luminous certainty, when each new suggestion of O’Brien’s had filled up a patch of emptiness and become absolute truth, and when two and two could have been three as easily as five, if that 1984 were what was needed. It had faded but before O’Brien had dropped his hand; but though he could not recapture it, he could remember it, as one remembers a vivid experience at some period of one’s life when one was in effect a different person. ‘You see now,’ said O’Brien, ‘that it is at any rate possible.’ ‘Yes,’ said Winston. O’Brien stood up with a satisfied air. Over to his left Winston saw the man in the white coat break an ampoule and draw back the plunger of a syringe. O’Brien turned to Winston with a smile. In almost the old manner he resettled his spectacles on his nose. ‘Do you remember writing in your diary,’ he said, ‘that it did not matter whether I was a friend or an enemy, since I was at least a person who understood you and could be talked to? You were right. I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane. Before we bring the session to an end you can ask me a few questions, if you choose.’ ‘Any question I like?’ ‘Anything.’ He saw that Winston’s eyes were upon the dial. ‘It is switched off. What is your first question?’ ‘What have you done with Julia?’ said Winston. O’Brien smiled again. ‘She betrayed you, Winston. Immediately—unreservedly. I have seldom seen anyone come over to us so promptly. You would hardly recognize her if you saw her. All her rebelliousness, her deceit, her folly, her dirty-mindedness—everything has been burned out of her. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com It was a perfect conversion, a textbook case.’ ‘You tortured her?’ O’Brien left this unanswered. ‘Next question,’ he said. ‘Does Big Brother exist?’ ‘Of course he exists. The Party exists. Big Brother is the embodiment of the Party.’ ‘Does he exist in the same way as I exist?’ ‘You do not exist,’ said O’Brien. Once again the sense of helplessness assailed him. He knew, or he could imagine, the arguments which proved his own nonexistence; but they were nonsense, they were only a play on words. Did not the statement, ‘You do not exist’, contain a logical absurdity? But what use was it to say so? His mind shrivelled as he thought of the unanswerable, mad arguments with which O’Brien would demolish him. ‘I think I exist,’ he said wearily. ‘I am conscious of my own identity. I was born and I shall die. I have arms and legs. I occupy a particular point in space. No other solid object can occupy the same point simultaneously. In that sense, does Big Brother exist?’ ‘It is of no importance. He exists.’ ‘Will Big Brother ever die?’ ‘Of course not. How could he die? Next question.’ ‘Does the Brotherhood exist?’ ‘That, Winston, you will never know. If we choose to set you free when we have finished with you, and if you live to be ninety years old, still you will never learn whether the answer to that question is Yes or No. As long as you live it will be an unsolved riddle in your mind.’ 8 1984 Winston lay silent. His breast rose and fell a little faster. He still had not asked the question that had come into his mind the first. He had got to ask it, and yet it was as though his tongue would not utter it. There was a trace of amusement in O’Brien’s face. Even his spectacles seemed to wear an ironical gleam. He knows, thought Winston suddenly, he knows what I am going to ask! At the thought the words burst out of him: ‘What is in Room 101?’ The expression on O’Brien’s face did not change. He answered drily: ‘You know what is in Room 101, Winston. Everyone knows what is in Room 101.’ He raised a finger to the man in the white coat. Evidently the session was at an end. A needle jerked into Winston’s arm. He sank almost instantly into deep sleep. 9 Chapter 3 ‘ There are three stages in your reintegration,’ said O’Brien. ‘There is learning, there is understanding, and there is acceptance. It is time for you to enter upon the second stage.’ As always, Winston was lying flat on his back. But of late his bonds were looser. They still held him to the bed, but he could move his knees a little and could turn his head from side to side and raise his arms from the elbow. The dial, also, had grown to be less of a terror. He could evade its pangs if he was quick-witted enough: it was chiefly when he showed stupidity that O’Brien pulled the lever. Sometimes they got through a whole session without use of the dial. He could not remember how many sessions there had been. The whole process seemed to stretch out over a long, indefinite time—weeks, possibly—and the intervals between the sessions might sometimes have been days, sometimes only an hour or two. ‘As you lie there,’ said O’Brien, ‘you have often wondered—you have even asked me—why the Ministry of Love should expend so much time and trouble on you. And when you were free you were puzzled by what was essentially the same question. You could grasp the mechanics of the Society you lived in, but not its underlying motives. Do you remember writing in your diary, ‘I understand HOW: I do not understand WHY’? It was when you thought about 0 1984 ‘why’ that you doubted your own sanity. You have read THE BOOK, Goldstein’s book, or parts of it, at least. Did it tell you anything that you did not know already?’ ‘You have read it?’ said Winston. ‘I wrote it. That is to say, I collaborated in writing it. No book is produced individually, as you know.’ ‘Is it true, what it says?’ ‘As description, yes. The programme it sets forth is nonsense. The secret accumulation of knowledge—a gradual spread of enlightenment—ultimately a proletarian rebellion—the overthrow of the Party. You foresaw yourself that that was what it would say. It is all nonsense. The proletarians will never revolt, not in a thousand years or a million. They cannot. I do not have to tell you the reason: you know it already. If you have ever cherished any dreams of violent insurrection, you must abandon them. There is no way in which the Party can be overthrown. The rule of the Party is for ever. Make that the starting-point of your thoughts.’ He came closer to the bed. ‘For ever!’ he repeated. ‘And now let us get back to the question of ‘how’ and ‘why”. You understand well enough HOW the Party maintains itself in power. Now tell me WHY we cling to power. What is our motive? Why should we want power? Go on, speak,’ he added as Winston remained silent. Nevertheless Winston did not speak for another moment or two. A feeling of weariness had overwhelmed him. The faint, mad gleam of enthusiasm had come back into O’Brien’s face. He knew in advance what O’Brien would say. That the Party did not seek power for its own ends, but only 1 for the good of the majority. That it sought power because men in the mass were frail, cowardly creatures who could not endure liberty or face the truth, and must be ruled over and systematically deceived by others who were stronger than themselves. That the choice for mankind lay between freedom and happiness, and that, for the great bulk of mankind, happiness was better. That the party was the eternal guardian of the weak, a dedicated sect doing evil that good might come, sacrificing its own happiness to that of others. The terrible thing, thought Winston, the terrible thing was that when O’Brien said this he would believe it. You could see it in his face. O’Brien knew everything. A thousand times better than Winston he knew what the world was really like, in what degradation the mass of human beings lived and by what lies and barbarities the Party kept them there. He had understood it all, weighed it all, and it made no difference: all was justified by the ultimate purpose. What can you do, thought Winston, against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy? ‘You are ruling over us for our own good,’ he said feebly. ‘You believe that human beings are not fit to govern themselves, and therefore——’ He started and almost cried out. A pang of pain had shot through his body. O’Brien had pushed the lever of the dial up to thirty-five. ‘That was stupid, Winston, stupid!’ he said. ‘You should know better than to say a thing like that.’ He pulled the lever back and continued: 1984 ‘Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?’ Winston was struck, as he had been struck before, by the tiredness of O’Brien’s face. It was strong and fleshy and brutal, it was full of intelligence and a sort of controlled passion before which he felt himself helpless; but it was tired. There were pouches under the eyes, the skin sagged from the cheekbones. O’Brien leaned over him, deliberately bringing the worn face nearer. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘You are thinking,’ he said, ‘that my face is old and tired. You are thinking that I talk of power, and yet I am not even able to prevent the decay of my own body. Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. Do you die when you cut your fingernails?’ He turned away from the bed and began strolling up and down again, one hand in his pocket. ‘We are the priests of power,’ he said. ‘God is power. But at present power is only a word so far as you are concerned. It is time for you to gather some idea of what power means. The first thing you must realize is that power is collective. The individual only has power in so far as he ceases to be an individual. You know the Party slogan: ‘Freedom is Slavery”. Has it ever occurred to you that it is reversible? Slavery is freedom. Alone—free—the human being is always defeated. It must be so, because every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he IS the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal. The second thing for you to realize is that power is power over human beings. Over the body—but, above all, over the mind. Power over matter—external reality, as you would call it—is not important. Already our control over matter is absolute.’ For a moment Winston ignored the dial. He made a violent effort to raise himself into a sitting position, and merely succeeded in wrenching his body painfully. ‘But how can you control matter?’ he burst out. ‘You don’t 4 1984 even control the climate or the law of gravity. And there are disease, pain, death——’ O’Brien silenced him by a movement of his hand. ‘We control matter because we control the mind. Reality is inside the skull. You will learn by degrees, Winston. There is nothing that we could not do. Invisibility, levitation—anything. I could float off this floor like a soap bubble if I wish to. I do not wish to, because the Party does not wish it. You must get rid of those nineteenth-century ideas about the laws of Nature. We make the laws of Nature.’ ‘But you do not! You are not even masters of this planet. What about Eurasia and Eastasia? You have not conquered them yet.’ ‘Unimportant. We shall conquer them when it suits us. And if we did not, what difference would it make? We can shut them out of existence. Oceania is the world.’ ‘But the world itself is only a speck of dust. And man is tiny—helpless! How long has he been in existence? For millions of years the earth was uninhabited.’ ‘Nonsense. The earth is as old as we are, no older. How could it be older? Nothing exists except through human consciousness.’ ‘But the rocks are full of the bones of extinct animals— mammoths and mastodons and enormous reptiles which lived here long before man was ever heard of.’ ‘Have you ever seen those bones, Winston? Of course not. Nineteenth-century biologists invented them. Before man there was nothing. After man, if he could come to an end, there would be nothing. Outside man there is nothing.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘But the whole universe is outside us. Look at the stars! Some of them are a million light-years away. They are out of our reach for ever.’ ‘What are the stars?’ said O’Brien indifferently. ‘They are bits of fire a few kilometres away. We could reach them if we wanted to. Or we could blot them out. The earth is the centre of the universe. The sun and the stars go round it.’ Winston made another convulsive movement. This time he did not say anything. O’Brien continued as though answering a spoken objection: ‘For certain purposes, of course, that is not true. When we navigate the ocean, or when we predict an eclipse, we often find it convenient to assume that the earth goes round the sun and that the stars are millions upon millions of kilometres away. But what of it? Do you suppose it is beyond us to produce a dual system of astronomy? The stars can be near or distant, according as we need them. Do you suppose our mathematicians are unequal to that? Have you forgotten doublethink?’ Winston shrank back upon the bed. Whatever he said, the swift answer crushed him like a bludgeon. And yet he knew, he KNEW, that he was in the right. The belief that nothing exists outside your own mind—surely there must be some way of demonstrating that it was false? Had it not been exposed long ago as a fallacy? There was even a name for it, which he had forgotten. A faint smile twitched the corners of O’Brien’s mouth as he looked down at him. ‘I told you, Winston,’ he said, ‘that metaphysics is not your strong point. The word you are trying to think of is 1984 solipsism. But you are mistaken. This is not solipsism. Collective solipsism, if you like. But that is a different thing: in fact, the opposite thing. All this is a digression,’ he added in a different tone. ‘The real power, the power we have to fight for night and day, is not power over things, but over men.’ He paused, and for a moment assumed again his air of a schoolmaster questioning a promising pupil: ‘How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?’ Winston thought. ‘By making him suffer,’ he said. ‘Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of world we are creating? It is the exact opposite of the stupid hedonistic Utopias that the old reformers imagined. A world of fear and treachery and torment, a world of trampling and being trampled upon, a world which will grow not less but MORE merciless as it refines itself. Progress in our world will be progress towards more pain. The old civilizations claimed that they were founded on love or justice. Ours is founded upon hatred. In our world there will be no emotions except fear, rage, triumph, and self-abasement. Everything else we shall destroy—everything. Already we are breaking down the habits of thought which have survived from before the Revolution. We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman. No one dares trust a wife or a child or a friend Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com any longer. But in the future there will be no wives and no friends. Children will be taken from their mothers at birth, as one takes eggs from a hen. The sex instinct will be eradicated. Procreation will be an annual formality like the renewal of a ration card. We shall abolish the orgasm. Our neurologists are at work upon it now. There will be no loyalty, except loyalty towards the Party. There will be no love, except the love of Big Brother. There will be no laughter, except the laugh of triumph over a defeated enemy. There will be no art, no literature, no science. When we are omnipotent we shall have no more need of science. There will be no distinction between beauty and ugliness. There will be no curiosity, no enjoyment of the process of life. All competing pleasures will be destroyed. But always—do not forget this, Winston—always there will be the intoxication of power, constantly increasing and constantly growing subtler. Always, at every moment, there will be the thrill of victory, the sensation of trampling on an enemy who is helpless. If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.’ He paused as though he expected Winston to speak. Winston had tried to shrink back into the surface of the bed again. He could not say anything. His heart seemed to be frozen. O’Brien went on: ‘And remember that it is for ever. The face will always be there to be stamped upon. The heretic, the enemy of society, will always be there, so that he can be defeated and humiliated over again. Everything that you have undergone since you have been in our hands—all that will continue, 8 1984 and worse. The espionage, the betrayals, the arrests, the tortures, the executions, the disappearances will never cease. It will be a world of terror as much as a world of triumph. The more the Party is powerful, the less it will be tolerant: the weaker the opposition, the tighter the despotism. Goldstein and his heresies will live for ever. Every day, at every moment, they will be defeated, discredited, ridiculed, spat upon and yet they will always survive. This drama that I have played out with you during seven years will be played out over and over again generation after generation, always in subtler forms. Always we shall have the heretic here at our mercy, screaming with pain, broken up, contemptible—and in the end utterly penitent, saved from himself, crawling to our feet of his own accord. That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become part of it.’ Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. ‘You can’t!’ he said weakly. ‘What do you mean by that remark, Winston?’ ‘You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a dream. It is impossible.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. It would never endure.’ ‘Why not?’ 9 ‘It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit suicide.’ ‘Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the individual is not death? The party is immortal.’ As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O’Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O’Brien had said, he returned to the attack. ‘I don’t know—I don’t care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you.’ ‘We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity is the Party. The others are outside—irrelevant.’ ‘I don’t care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.’ 40 1984 ‘Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it should?’ ‘No. I believe it. I KNOW that you will fail. There is something in the universe—I don’t know, some spirit, some principle—that you will never overcome.’ ‘Do you believe in God, Winston?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then what is it, this principle that will defeat us?’ ‘I don’t know. The spirit of Man.’ ‘And do you consider yourself a man?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘If you are a man, Winston, you are the last man. Your kind is extinct; we are the inheritors. Do you understand that you are ALONE? You are outside history, you are nonexistent.’ His manner changed and he said more harshly: ‘And you consider yourself morally superior to us, with our lies and our cruelty?’ ‘Yes, I consider myself superior.’ O’Brien did not speak. Two other voices were speaking. After a moment Winston recognized one of them as his own. It was a sound-track of the conversation he had had with O’Brien, on the night when he had enrolled himself in the Brotherhood. He heard himself promising to lie, to steal, to forge, to murder, to encourage drug-taking and prostitution, to disseminate venereal diseases, to throw vitriol in a child’s face. O’Brien made a small impatient gesture, as though to say that the demonstration was hardly worth making. Then he turned a switch and the voices stopped. ‘Get up from that bed,’ he said. 41 The bonds had loosened themselves. Winston lowered himself to the floor and stood up unsteadily. ‘You are the last man,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are the guardian of the human spirit. You shall see yourself as you are. Take off your clothes.’ Winston undid the bit of string that held his overalls together. The zip fastener had long since been wrenched out of them. He could not remember whether at any time since his arrest he had taken off all his clothes at one time. Beneath the overalls his body was looped with filthy yellowish rags, just recognizable as the remnants of underclothes. As he slid them to the ground he saw that there was a three-sided mirror at the far end of the room. He approached it, then stopped short. An involuntary cry had broken out of him. ‘Go on,’ said O’Brien. ‘Stand between the wings of the mirror. You shall see the side view as well.’ He had stopped because he was frightened. A bowed, grey-coloured, skeleton-like thing was coming towards him. Its actual appearance was frightening, and not merely the fact that he knew it to be himself. He moved closer to the glass. The creature’s face seemed to be protruded, because of its bent carriage. A forlorn, jailbird’s face with a nobby forehead running back into a bald scalp, a crooked nose, and battered-looking cheekbones above which his eyes were fierce and watchful. The cheeks were seamed, the mouth had a drawn-in look. Certainly it was his own face, but it seemed to him that it had changed more than he had changed inside. The emotions it registered would be different from the ones he felt. He had gone partially bald. For the 4 1984 first moment he had thought that he had gone grey as well, but it was only the scalp that was grey. Except for his hands and a circle of his face, his body was grey all over with ancient, ingrained dirt. Here and there under the dirt there were the red scars of wounds, and near the ankle the varicose ulcer was an inflamed mass with flakes of skin peeling off it. But the truly frightening thing was the emaciation of his body. The barrel of the ribs was as narrow as that of a skeleton: the legs had shrunk so that the knees were thicker than the thighs. He saw now what O’Brien had meant about seeing the side view. The curvature of the spine was astonishing. The thin shoulders were hunched forward so as to make a cavity of the chest, the scraggy neck seemed to be bending double under the weight of the skull. At a guess he would have said that it was the body of a man of sixty, suffering from some malignant disease. ‘You have thought sometimes,’ said O’Brien, ‘that my face—the face of a member of the Inner Party—looks old and worn. What do you think of your own face?’ He seized Winston’s shoulder and spun him round so that he was facing him. ‘Look at the condition you are in!’ he said. ‘Look at this filthy grime all over your body. Look at the dirt between your toes. Look at that disgusting running sore on your leg. Do you know that you stink like a goat? Probably you have ceased to notice it. Look at your emaciation. Do you see? I can make my thumb and forefinger meet round your bicep. I could snap your neck like a carrot. Do you know that you have lost twenty-five kilograms since you have been in our 4 hands? Even your hair is coming out in handfuls. Look!’ He plucked at Winston’s head and brought away a tuft of hair. ‘Open your mouth. Nine, ten, eleven teeth left. How many had you when you came to us? And the few you have left are dropping out of your head. Look here!’ He seized one of Winston’s remaining front teeth between his powerful thumb and forefinger. A twinge of pain shot through Winston’s jaw. O’Brien had wrenched the loose tooth out by the roots. He tossed it across the cell. ‘You are rotting away,’ he said; ‘you are falling to pieces. What are you? A bag of filth. Now turn around and look into that mirror again. Do you see that thing facing you? That is the last man. If you are human, that is humanity. Now put your clothes on again.’ Winston began to dress himself with slow stiff movements. Until now he had not seemed to notice how thin and weak he was. Only one thought stirred in his mind: that he must have been in this place longer than he had imagined. Then suddenly as he fixed the miserable rags round himself a feeling of pity for his ruined body overcame him. Before he knew what he was doing he had collapsed on to a small stool that stood beside the bed and burst into tears. He was aware of his ugliness, his gracelessness, a bundle of bones in filthy underclothes sitting weeping in the harsh white light: but he could not stop himself. O’Brien laid a hand on his shoulder, almost kindly. ‘It will not last for ever,’ he said. ‘You can escape from it whenever you choose. Everything depends on yourself.’ ‘You did it!’ sobbed Winston. ‘You reduced me to this 44 1984 state.’ ‘No, Winston, you reduced yourself to it. This is what you accepted when you set yourself up against the Party. It was all contained in that first act. Nothing has happened that you did not foresee.’ He paused, and then went on: ‘We have beaten you, Winston. We have broken you up. You have seen what your body is like. Your mind is in the same state. I do not think there can be much pride left in you. You have been kicked and flogged and insulted, you have screamed with pain, you have rolled on the floor in your own blood and vomit. You have whimpered for mercy, you have betrayed everybody and everything. Can you think of a single degradation that has not happened to you?’ Winston had stopped weeping, though the tears were still oozing out of his eyes. He looked up at O’Brien. ‘I have not betrayed Julia,’ he said. O’Brien looked down at him thoughtfully. ‘No,’ he said; ‘no; that is perfectly true. You have not betrayed Julia.’ The peculiar reverence for O’Brien, which nothing seemed able to destroy, flooded Winston’s heart again. How intelligent, he thought, how intelligent! Never did O’Brien fail to understand what was said to him. Anyone else on earth would have answered promptly that he HAD betrayed Julia. For what was there that they had not screwed out of him under the torture? He had told them everything he knew about her, her habits, her character, her past life; he had confessed in the most trivial detail everything that had happened at their meetings, all that he had said to her 4 and she to him, their black-market meals, their adulteries, their vague plottings against the Party—everything. And yet, in the sense in which he intended the word, he had not betrayed her. He had not stopped loving her; his feelings towards her had remained the same. O’Brien had seen what he meant without the need for explanation. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘how soon will they shoot me?’ ‘It might be a long time,’ said O’Brien. ‘You are a difficult case. But don’t give up hope. Everyone is cured sooner or later. In the end we shall shoot you.’ 4 1984 Chapter 4 He was much better. He was growing fatter and stronger every day, if it was proper to speak of days. The white light and the humming sound were the same as ever, but the cell was a little more comfortable than the others he had been in. There was a pillow and a mattress on the plank bed, and a stool to sit on. They had given him a bath, and they allowed him to wash himself fairly frequently in a tin basin. They even gave him warm water to wash with. They had given him new underclothes and a clean suit of overalls. They had dressed his varicose ulcer with soothing ointment. They had pulled out the remnants of his teeth and given him a new set of dentures. Weeks or months must have passed. It would have been possible now to keep count of the passage of time, if he had felt any interest in doing so, since he was being fed at what appeared to be regular intervals. He was getting, he judged, three meals in the twenty-four hours; sometimes he wondered dimly whether he was getting them by night or by day. The food was surprisingly good, with meat at every third meal. Once there was even a packet of cigarettes. He had no matches, but the never-speaking guard who brought his food would give him a light. The first time he tried to smoke it made him sick, but he persevered, and spun the packet out for a long time, smoking half a cigarette after each meal. 4 They had given him a white slate with a stump of pencil tied to the corner. At first he made no use of it. Even when he was awake he was completely torpid. Often he would lie from one meal to the next almost without stirring, sometimes asleep, sometimes waking into vague reveries in which it was too much trouble to open his eyes. He had long grown used to sleeping with a strong light on his face. It seemed to make no difference, except that one’s dreams were more coherent. He dreamed a great deal all through this time, and they were always happy dreams. He was in the Golden Country, or he was sitting among enormous glorious, sunlit ruins, with his mother, with Julia, with O’Brien—not doing anything, merely sitting in the sun, talking of peaceful things. Such thoughts as he had when he was awake were mostly about his dreams. He seemed to have lost the power of intellectual effort, now that the stimulus of pain had been removed. He was not bored, he had no desire for conversation or distraction. Merely to be alone, not to be beaten or questioned, to have enough to eat, and to be clean all over, was completely satisfying. By degrees he came to spend less time in sleep, but he still felt no impulse to get off the bed. All he cared for was to lie quiet and feel the strength gathering in his body. He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter. Finally it was established beyond a doubt that he was growing fatter; his thighs were now definitely thicker than his knees. After that, reluctantly at first, he began exercising himself regularly. In a little while he 48 1984 could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell, and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He attempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days—a few more mealtimes—even that feat was accomplished. A time came when he could do it six times running. He began to grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an intermittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal. Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back at him out of the mirror. His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees, and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating himself. He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside the Ministry of Love—and yes, even during those minutes when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice from the telescreen told them what to do—he had grasped the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself 49 up against the power of the Party. He knew now that for seven years the Thought Police had watched him like a beetle under a magnifying glass. There was no physical act, no word spoken aloud, that they had not noticed, no train of thought that they had not been able to infer. Even the speck of whitish dust on the cover of his diary they had carefully replaced. They had played sound-tracks to him, shown him photographs. Some of them were photographs of Julia and himself. Yes, even... He could not fight against the Party any longer. Besides, the Party was in the right. It must be so; how could the immortal, collective brain be mistaken? By what external standard could you check its judgements? Sanity was statistical. It was merely a question of learning to think as they thought. Only——! The pencil felt thick and awkward in his fingers. He began to write down the thoughts that came into his head. He wrote first in large clumsy capitals: FREEDOM IS SLAVERY Then almost without a pause he wrote beneath it: TWO AND TWO MAKE FIVE But then there came a sort of check. His mind, as though shying away from something, seemed unable to concentrate. He knew that he knew what came next, but for the moment he could not recall it. When he did recall it, it was only by consciously reasoning out what it must be: it did not 0 1984 come of its own accord. He wrote: GOD IS POWER He accepted everything. The past was alterable. The past never had been altered. Oceania was at war with Eastasia. Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford were guilty of the crimes they were charged with. He had never seen the photograph that disproved their guilt. It had never existed, he had invented it. He remembered remembering contrary things, but those were false memories, products of self-deception. How easy it all was! Only surrender, and everything else followed. It was like swimming against a current that swept you backwards however hard you struggled, and then suddenly deciding to turn round and go with the current instead of opposing it. Nothing had changed except your own attitude: the predestined thing happened in any case. He hardly knew why he had ever rebelled. Everything was easy, except——! Anything could be true. The so-called laws of Nature were nonsense. The law of gravity was nonsense. ‘If I wished,’ O’Brien had said, ‘I could float off this floor like a soap bubble.’ Winston worked it out. ‘If he THINKS he floats off the floor, and if I simultaneously THINK I see him do it, then the thing happens.’ Suddenly, like a lump of submerged wreckage breaking the surface of water, the thought burst into his mind: ‘It doesn’t really happen. We imagine it. It is hallucination.’ He pushed the thought under instantly. The fallacy was obvious. It presupposed that 1 somewhere or other, outside oneself, there was a ‘real’ world where ‘real’ things happened. But how could there be such a world? What knowledge have we of anything, save through our own minds? All happenings are in the mind. Whatever happens in all minds, truly happens. He had no difficulty in disposing of the fallacy, and he was in no danger of succumbing to it. He realized, nevertheless, that it ought never to have occurred to him. The mind should develop a blind spot whenever a dangerous thought presented itself. The process should be automatic, instinctive. CRIMESTOP, they called it in Newspeak. He set to work to exercise himself in crimestop. He presented himself with propositions—’the Party says the earth is flat’, ‘the party says that ice is heavier than water’—and trained himself in not seeing or not understanding the arguments that contradicted them. It was not easy. It needed great powers of reasoning and improvisation. The arithmetical problems raised, for instance, by such a statement as ‘two and two make five’ were beyond his intellectual grasp. It needed also a sort of athleticism of mind, an ability at one moment to make the most delicate use of logic and at the next to be unconscious of the crudest logical errors. Stupidity was as necessary as intelligence, and as difficult to attain. All the while, with one part of his mind, he wondered how soon they would shoot him. ‘Everything depends on yourself,’ O’Brien had said; but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer. It might be ten minutes hence, or ten years. They might keep him 1984 for years in solitary confinement, they might send him to a labour-camp, they might release him for a while, as they sometimes did. It was perfectly possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enacted all over again. The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment. The tradition— the unspoken tradition: somehow you knew it, though you never heard it said—was that they shot you from behind; always in the back of the head, without warning, as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell. One day—but ‘one day’ was not the right expression; just as probably it was in the middle of the night: once—he fell into a strange, blissful reverie. He was walking down the corridor, waiting for the bullet. He knew that it was coming in another moment. Everything was settled, smoothed out, reconciled. There were no more doubts, no more arguments, no more pain, no more fear. His body was healthy and strong. He walked easily, with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight. He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors in the Ministry of Love, he was in the enormous sunlit passage, a kilometre wide, down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs. He was in the Golden Country, following the foottrack across the old rabbit-cropped pasture. He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face. At the edge of the field were the elm trees, faintly stirring, and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows. Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror. The Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com sweat broke out on his backbone. He had heard himself cry aloud: ‘Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!’ For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help. He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness? In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that—O’Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry. He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since 4 1984 last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst. One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face—suddenly the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the batteries of his hatred. Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame. And almost in the same instant bang! would go the bullet, too late, or too early. They would have blown his brain to pieces before they could reclaim it. The heretical thought would be unpunished, unrepented, out of their reach for ever. They would have blown a hole in their own perfection. To die hating them, that was freedom. He shut his eyes. It was more difficult than accepting Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com an intellectual discipline. It was a question of degrading himself, mutilating himself. He had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth. What was the most horrible, sickening thing of all? He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide), with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro, seemed to float into his mind of its own accord. What were his true feelings towards Big Brother? There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage. The steel door swung open with a clang. O’Brien walked into the cell. Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards. ‘Get up,’ said O’Brien. ‘Come here.’ Winston stood opposite him. O’Brien took Winston’s shoulders between his strong hands and looked at him closely. ‘You have had thoughts of deceiving me,’ he said. ‘That was stupid. Stand up straighter. Look me in the face.’ He paused, and went on in a gentler tone: ‘You are improving. Intellectually there is very little wrong with you. It is only emotionally that you have failed to make progress. Tell me, Winston—and remember, no lies: you know that I am always able to detect a lie—tell me, what are your true feelings towards Big Brother?’ ‘I hate him.’ ‘You hate him. Good. Then the time has come for you to take the last step. You must love Big Brother. It is not enough to obey him: you must love him.’ 1984 He released Winston with a little push towards the guards. ‘Room 101,’ he said. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter 5 At each stage of his imprisonment he had known, or seemed to know, whereabouts he was in the windowless building. Possibly there were slight differences in the air pressure. The cells where the guards had beaten him were below ground level. The room where he had been interrogated by O’Brien was high up near the roof. This place was many metres underground, as deep down as it was possible to go. It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in. But he hardly noticed his surroundings. All he noticed was that there were two small tables straight in front of him, each covered with green baize. One was only a metre or two from him, the other was further away, near the door. He was strapped upright in a chair, so tightly that he could move nothing, not even his head. A sort of pad gripped his head from behind, forcing him to look straight in front of him. For a moment he was alone, then the door opened and O’Brien came in. ‘You asked me once,’ said O’Brien, ‘what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world.’ The door opened again. A guard came in, carrying some- 8 1984 thing made of wire, a box or basket of some kind. He set it down on the further table. Because of the position in which O’Brien was standing. Winston could not see what the thing was. ‘The worst thing in the world,’ said O’Brien, ‘varies from individual to individual. It may be burial alive, or death by fire, or by drowning, or by impalement, or fifty other deaths. There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing, not even fatal.’ He had moved a little to one side, so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table. It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by. Fixed to the front of it was something that looked like a fencing mask, with the concave side outwards. Although it was three or four metres away from him, he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compartments, and that there was some kind of creature in each. They were rats. ‘In your case,’ said O’Brien, ‘the worst thing in the world happens to be rats.’ A sort of premonitory tremor, a fear of he was not certain what, had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage. But at this moment the meaning of the mask-like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into him. His bowels seemed to turn to water. ‘You can’t do that!’ he cried out in a high cracked voice. ‘You couldn’t, you couldn’t! It’s impossible.’ ‘Do you remember,’ said O’Brien, ‘the moment of panic that used to occur in your dreams? There was a wall of blackness in front of you, and a roaring sound in your ears. 9 There was something terrible on the other side of the wall. You knew that you knew what it was, but you dared not drag it into the open. It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall.’ ‘O’Brien!’ said Winston, making an effort to control his voice. ‘You know this is not necessary. What is it that you want me to do?’ O’Brien made no direct answer. When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected. He looked thoughtfully into the distance, as though he were addressing an audience somewhere behind Winston’s back. ‘By itself,’ he said, ‘pain is not always enough. There are occasions when a human being will stand out against pain, even to the point of death. But for everyone there is something unendurable—something that cannot be contemplated. Courage and cowardice are not involved. If you are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope. If you have come up from deep water it is not cowardly to fill your lungs with air. It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed. It is the same with the rats. For you, they are unendurable. They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand, even if you wished to. You will do what is required of you.’ ‘But what is it, what is it? How can I do it if I don’t know what it is?’ O’Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table. He set it down carefully on the baize cloth. Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears. He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness. He was in the middle 0 1984 of a great empty plain, a flat desert drenched with sunlight, across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances. Yet the cage with the rats was not two metres away from him. They were enormous rats. They were at the age when a rat’s muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey. ‘The rat,’ said O’Brien, still addressing his invisible audience, ‘although a rodent, is carnivorous. You are aware of that. You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town. In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house, even for five minutes. The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones. They also attack sick or dying people. They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless.’ There was an outburst of squeals from the cage. It seemed to reach Winston from far away. The rats were fighting; they were trying to get at each other through the partition. He heard also a deep groan of despair. That, too, seemed to come from outside himself. O’Brien picked up the cage, and, as he did so, pressed something in it. There was a sharp click. Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair. It was hopeless; every part of him, even his head, was held immovably. O’Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a metre from Winston’s face. ‘I have pressed the first lever,’ said O’Brien. ‘You understand the construction of this cage. The mask will fit over your head, leaving no exit. When I press this other lever, 1 the door of the cage will slide up. These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets. Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air? They will leap on to your face and bore straight into it. Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue.’ The cage was nearer; it was closing in. Winston heard a succession of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head. But he fought furiously against his panic. To think, to think, even with a split second left—to think was the only hope. Suddenly the foul musty odour of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of nausea inside him, and he almost lost consciousness. Everything had gone black. For an instant he was insane, a screaming animal. Yet he came out of the blackness clutching an idea. There was one and only one way to save himself. He must interpose another human being, the BODY of another human being, between himself and the rats. The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of anything else. The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face. The rats knew what was coming now. One of them was leaping up and down, the other, an old scaly grandfather of the sewers, stood up, with his pink hands against the bars, and fiercely sniffed the air. Winston could see the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him. He was blind, helpless, mindless. ‘It was a common punishment in Imperial China,’ said O’Brien as didactically as ever. The mask was closing on his face. The wire brushed his 1984 cheek. And then—no, it was not relief, only hope, a tiny fragment of hope. Too late, perhaps too late. But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just ONE person to whom he could transfer his punishment— ONE body that he could thrust between himself and the rats. And he was shouting frantically, over and over. ‘Do it to Julia! Do it to Julia! Not me! Julia! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!’ He was falling backwards, into enormous depths, away from the rats. He was still strapped in the chair, but he had fallen through the floor, through the walls of the building, through the earth, through the oceans, through the atmosphere, into outer space, into the gulfs between the stars—always away, away, away from the rats. He was light years distant, but O’Brien was still standing at his side. There was still the cold touch of wire against his cheek. But through the darkness that enveloped him he heard another metallic click, and knew that the cage door had clicked shut and not open. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter 6 The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a window fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. A tinny music trickled from the telescreens. Winston sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, a waiter came and filled his glass up with Victory Gin, shaking into it a few drops from another bottle with a quill through the cork. It was saccharine flavoured with cloves, the speciality of the cafe. Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was coming out of it, but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the Ministry of Peace. The news from the African front was disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying about it all day. A Eurasian army (Oceania was at war with Eurasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia) was moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite area, but it was probable that already the mouth of the Congo was a battlefield. Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely 4 1984 a question of losing Central Africa: for the first time in the whole war, the territory of Oceania itself was menaced. A violent emotion, not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated excitement, flared up in him, then faded again. He stopped thinking about the war. In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp. As always, the gin made him shudder and even retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The cloves and saccharine, themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way, could not disguise the flat oily smell; and what was worst of all was that the smell of gin, which dwelt with him night and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of those—— He never named them, even in his thoughts, and so far as it was possible he never visualized them. They were something that he was half-aware of, hovering close to his face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin rose in him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter since they released him, and had regained his old colour— indeed, more than regained it. His features had thickened, the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red, even the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A waiter, again unbidden, brought the chessboard and the current issue of ‘The Times’, with the page turned down at the chess problem. Then, seeing that Winston’s glass was empty, he brought the gin bottle and filled it. There was no need to give orders. They knew his habits. The chessboard was always waiting for him, his corner table was always reserved; even when Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the place was full he had it to himself, since nobody cared to be seen sitting too close to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill, but he had the impression that they always undercharged him. It would have made no difference if it had been the other way about. He had always plenty of money nowadays. He even had a job, a sinecure, more highly-paid than his old job had been. The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Winston raised his head to listen. No bulletins from the front, however. It was merely a brief announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter, it appeared, the Tenth Three-Year Plan’s quota for bootlaces had been overfulfilled by 98 per cent. He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky ending, involving a couple of knights. ‘White to play and mate in two moves.’ Winston looked up at the portrait of Big Brother. White always mates, he thought with a sort of cloudy mysticism. Always, without exception, it is so arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of the world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal, unvarying triumph of Good over Evil? The huge face gazed back at him, full of calm power. White always mates. The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much graver tone: ‘You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at fifteen-thirty. Fifteenthirty! This is news of the highest importance. Take care not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty!’ The tinkling music struck up 1984 again. Winston’s heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front; instinct told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with little spurts of excitement, the thought of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarming across the never-broken frontier and pouring down into the tip of Africa like a column of ants. Why had it not been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of the West African coast stood out vividly in his mind. He picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. THERE was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black horde racing southward he saw another force, mysteriously assembled, suddenly planted in their rear, cutting their comunications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he was bringing that other force into existence. But it was necessary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Africa, if they had airfields and submarine bases at the Cape, it would cut Oceania in two. It might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the redivision of the world, the destruction of the Party! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley of feeling—but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive layers of feeling, in which one could not say which layer was undermost—struggled inside him. The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place, but for the moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the dust on the table: Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com 2+2=5 ‘They can’t get inside you,’ she had said. But they could get inside you. ‘What happens to you here is FOR EVER,’ O’Brien had said. That was a true word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out. He had seen her; he had even spoken to her. There was no danger in it. He knew as though instinctively that they now took almost no interest in his doings. He could have arranged to meet her a second time if either of them had wanted to. Actually it was by chance that they had met. It was in the Park, on a vile, biting day in March, when the earth was like iron and all the grass seemed dead and there was not a bud anywhere except a few crocuses which had pushed themselves up to be dismembered by the wind. He was hurrying along with frozen hands and watering eyes when he saw her not ten metres away from him. It struck him at once that she had changed in some ill-defined way. They almost passed one another without a sign, then he turned and followed her, not very eagerly. He knew that there was no danger, nobody would take any interest in him. She did not speak. She walked obliquely away across the grass as though trying to get rid of him, then seemed to resign herself to having him at her side. Presently they were in among a clump of ragged leafless shrubs, useless either for concealment or as protection from the wind. They halted. It was vilely cold. The wind whistled through the twigs and fretted the occasional, dirty-looking crocuses. He put his 8 1984 arm round her waist. There was no telescreen, but there must be hidden microphones: besides, they could be seen. It did not matter, nothing mattered. They could have lain down on the ground and done THAT if they had wanted to. His flesh froze with horror at the thought of it. She made no response whatever to the clasp of his arm; she did not even try to disengage herself. He knew now what had changed in her. Her face was sallower, and there was a long scar, partly hidden by the hair, across her forehead and temple; but that was not the change. It was that her waist had grown thicker, and, in a surprising way, had stiffened. He remembered how once, after the explosion of a rocket bomb, he had helped to drag a corpse out of some ruins, and had been astonished not only by the incredible weight of the thing, but by its rigidity and awkwardness to handle, which made it seem more like stone than flesh. Her body felt like that. It occurred to him that the texture of her skin would be quite different from what it had once been. He did not attempt to kiss her, nor did they speak. As they walked back across the grass, she looked directly at him for the first time. It was only a momentary glance, full of contempt and dislike. He wondered whether it was a dislike that came purely out of the past or whether it was inspired also by his bloated face and the water that the wind kept squeezing from his eyes. They sat down on two iron chairs, side by side but not too close together. He saw that she was about to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and deliberately crushed a twig. Her feet seemed to have grown 9 broader, he noticed. ‘I betrayed you,’ she said baldly. ‘I betrayed you,’ he said. She gave him another quick look of dislike. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘they threaten you with something something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, ‘Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to so-and-so.’ And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself, and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You WANT it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.’ ‘All you care about is yourself,’ he echoed. ‘And after that, you don’t feel the same towards the other person any longer.’ ‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t feel the same.’ There did not seem to be anything more to say. The wind plastered their thin overalls against their bodies. Almost at once it became embarrassing to sit there in silence: besides, it was too cold to keep still. She said something about catching her Tube and stood up to go. ‘We must meet again,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we must meet again.’ He followed irresolutely for a little distance, half a pace behind her. They did not speak again. She did not actually try to shake him off, but walked at just such a speed as to 0 1984 prevent his keeping abreast of her. He had made up his mind that he would accompany her as far as the Tube station, but suddenly this process of trailing along in the cold seemed pointless and unbearable. He was overwhelmed by a desire not so much to get away from Julia as to get back to the Chestnut Tree Cafe, which had never seemed so attractive as at this moment. He had a nostalgic vision of his corner table, with the newspaper and the chessboard and the everflowing gin. Above all, it would be warm in there. The next moment, not altogether by accident, he allowed himself to become separated from her by a small knot of people. He made a halfhearted attempt to catch up, then slowed down, turned, and made off in the opposite direction. When he had gone fifty metres he looked back. The street was not crowded, but already he could not distinguish her. Any one of a dozen hurrying figures might have been hers. Perhaps her thickened, stiffened body was no longer recognizable from behind. ‘At the time when it happens,’ she had said, ‘you do mean it.’ He had meant it. He had not merely said it, he had wished it. He had wished that she and not he should be delivered over to the—— Something changed in the music that trickled from the telescreen. A cracked and jeering note, a yellow note, came into it. And then—perhaps it was not happening, perhaps it was only a memory taking on the semblance of sound—a voice was singing: ‘Under the spreading chestnut tree 1 I sold you and you sold me——’ The tears welled up in his eyes. A passing waiter noticed that his glass was empty and came back with the gin bottle. He took up his glass and sniffed at it. The stuff grew not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was gin that sank him into stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning. When he woke, seldom before eleven hundred, with gummed-up eyelids and fiery mouth and a back that seemed to be broken, it would have been impossible even to rise from the horizontal if it had not been for the bottle and teacup placed beside the bed overnight. Through the midday hours he sat with glazed face, the bottle handy, listening to the telescreen. From fifteen to closing-time he was a fixture in the Chestnut Tree. No one cared what he did any longer, no whistle woke him, no telescreen admonished him. Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Ministry of Truth and did a little work, or what was called work. He had been appointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee which had sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the Eleventh Edition of the Newspeak Dictionary. They were engaged in producing something called an Interim Report, but what it was that they were reporting on he had never definitely found out. It was something to do with the question of whether commas should be placed inside brackets, 1984 or outside. There were four others on the committee, all of them persons similar to himself. There were days when they assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly admitting to one another that there was not really anything to be done. But there were other days when they settled down to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous show of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda which were never finished—when the argument as to what they were supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over definitions, enormous digressions, quarrels—threats, even, to appeal to higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out of them and they would sit round the table looking at one another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at cock-crow. The telescreen was silent for a moment. Winston raised his head again. The bulletin! But no, they were merely changing the music. He had the map of Africa behind his eyelids. The movement of the armies was a diagram: a black arrow tearing vertically southward, and a white arrow horizontally eastward, across the tail of the first. As though for reassurance he looked up at the imperturbable face in the portrait. Was it conceivable that the second arrow did not even exist? His interest flagged again. He drank another mouthful of gin, picked up the white knight and made a tentative move. Check. But it was evidently not the right move, because—— Uncalled, a memory floated into his mind. He saw a candle-lit room with a vast white-counterpaned bed, and himself, a boy of nine or ten, sitting on the floor, shaking Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com a dice-box, and laughing excitedly. His mother was sitting opposite him and also laughing. It must have been about a month before she disappeared. It was a moment of reconciliation, when the nagging hunger in his belly was forgotten and his earlier affection for her had temporarily revived. He remembered the day well, a pelting, drenching day when the water streamed down the window-pane and the light indoors was too dull to read by. The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped bedroom became unbearable. Winston whined and grizzled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the room pulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbours banged on the wall, while the younger child wailed intermittently. In the end his mother said, ‘Now be good, and I’Il buy you a toy. A lovely toy— you’ll love it’; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a little general shop which was still sporadically open nearby, and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and Ladders. He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard. It was a miserable outfit. The board was cracked and the tiny wooden dice were so ill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides. Winston looked at the thing sulkily and without interest. But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they sat down on the floor to play. Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up the ladders and then came slithering down the snakes again, almost to the startingpoint. They played eight games, winning four each. His tiny sister, too young to understand what the game was about, 4 1984 had sat propped up against a bolster, laughing because the others were laughing. For a whole afternoon they had all been happy together, as in his earlier childhood. He pushed the picture out of his mind. It was a false memory. He was troubled by false memories occasionally. They did not matter so long as one knew them for what they were. Some things had happened, others had not happened. He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight again. Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a clatter. He had started as though a pin had run into him. A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet-call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the cafe. Even the waiters had started and pricked up their ears. The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretly assembled a sudden blow in the enemy’s rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: ‘Vast strategic manoeuvre—perfect co-ordination—utter rout—half a million prisoners—complete demoralization—control of the whole of Africa—bring the war within Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com measurable distance of its end—victory—greatest victory in human history—victory, victory, victory!’ Under the table Winston’s feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago—yes, only ten minutes—there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment. The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The waiters were turning back to their work. One of them approached with the gin bottle. Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guard at his back. The long-hoped-for bullet was entering his brain. He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had tak- 1984 en him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two ginscented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother. THE END APPENDIX. The Principles of Newspeak Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and had been devised to meet the ideological needs of Ingsoc, or English Socialism. In the year 1984 there was not as yet anyone who used Newspeak as his sole means of communication, either in speech or writing. The leading articles in ‘The Times’ were written in it, but this was a TOUR DE FORCE which could only be carried out by a specialist. It was expected that Newspeak would have finally superseded Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should call it) by about the year 2050. Meanwhile it gained ground steadily, all Party members tending to use Newspeak words and grammatical constructions more and more in their everyday speech. The version in use in 1984, and embodied in the Ninth and Tenth Editions of the Newspeak Dictionary, was a provisional one, and contained many superfluous words and archaic formations which were due to be suppressed later. It is with the final, perfected version, as embodied in the Eleventh Edition of the Dictionary, that we are concerned here. The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com medium of expression for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other modes of thought impossible. It was intended that when Newspeak had been adopted once and for all and Oldspeak forgotten, a heretical thought—that is, a thought diverging from the principles of Ingsoc—should be literally unthinkable, at least so far as thought is dependent on words. Its vocabulary was so constructed as to give exact and often very subtle expression to every meaning that a Party member could properly wish to express, while excluding all other meanings and also the possibility of arriving at them by indirect methods. This was done partly by the invention of new words, but chiefly by eliminating undesirable words and by stripping such words as remained of unorthodox meanings, and so far as possible of all secondary meanings whatever. To give a single example. The word FREE still existed in Newspeak, but it could only be used in such statements as ‘This dog is free from lice’ or ‘This field is free from weeds’. It could not be used in its old sense of ‘politically free’ or ‘intellectually free’ since political and intellectual freedom no longer existed even as concepts, and were therefore of necessity nameless. Quite apart from the suppression of definitely heretical words, reduction of vocabulary was regarded as an end in itself, and no word that could be dispensed with was allowed to survive. Newspeak was designed not to extend but to DIMINISH the range of thought, and this purpose was indirectly assisted by cutting the choice of words down to a minimum. Newspeak was founded on the English language as we 8 1984 now know it, though many Newspeak sentences, even when not containing newly-created words, would be barely intelligible to an English-speaker of our own day. Newspeak words were divided into three distinct classes, known as the A vocabulary, the B vocabulary (also called compound words), and the C vocabulary. It will be simpler to discuss each class separately, but the grammatical peculiarities of the language can be dealt with in the section devoted to the A vocabulary, since the same rules held good for all three categories. THE A VOCABULARY. The A vocabulary consisted of the words needed for the business of everyday life—for such things as eating, drinking, working, putting on one’s clothes, going up and down stairs, riding in vehicles, gardening, cooking, and the like. It was composed almost entirely of words that we already possess words like HIT, RUN, DOG, TREE, SUGAR, HOUSE, FIELD—but in comparison with the present-day English vocabulary their number was extremely small, while their meanings were far more rigidly defined. All ambiguities and shades of meaning had been purged out of them. So far as it could be achieved, a Newspeak word of this class was simply a staccato sound expressing ONE clearly understood concept. It would have been quite impossible to use the A vocabulary for literary purposes or for political or philosophical discussion. It was intended only to express simple, purposive thoughts, usually involving concrete objects or physical actions. The grammar of Newspeak had two outstanding peculiarities. The first of these was an almost complete 9 interchangeability between different parts of speech. Any word in the language (in principle this applied even to very abstract words such as IF or WHEN) could be used either as verb, noun, adjective, or adverb. Between the verb and the noun form, when they were of the same root, there was never any variation, this rule of itself involving the destruction of many archaic forms. The word THOUGHT, for example, did not exist in Newspeak. Its place was taken by THINK, which did duty for both noun and verb. No etymological principle was followed here: in some cases it was the original noun that was chosen for retention, in other cases the verb. Even where a noun and verb of kindred meaning were not etymologically connected, one or other of them was frequently suppressed. There was, for example, no such word as CUT, its meaning being sufficiently covered by the noun-verb KNIFE. Adjectives were formed by adding the suffix -FUL to the noun-verb, and adverbs by adding -WISE. Thus for example, SPEEDFUL meant ‘rapid’ and SPEEDWISE meant ‘quickly’. Certain of our presentday adjectives, such as GOOD, STRONG, BIG, BLACK, SOFT, were retained, but their total number was very small. There was little need for them, since almost any adjectival meaning could be arrived at by adding -FUL to a noun-verb. None of the now-existing adverbs was retained, except for a very few already ending in -WISE: the -WISE termination was invariable. The word WELL, for example, was replaced by GOODWISE. In addition, any word—this again applied in principle to every word in the language—could be negatived by add- 80 1984 ing the affix UN-, or could be strengthened by the affix PLUS-, or, for still greater emphasis, DOUBLEPLUS-. Thus, for example, UNCOLD meant ‘warm’, while PLUSCOLD and DOUBLEPLUSCOLD meant, respectively, ‘very cold’ and ‘superlatively cold’. It was also possible, as in presentday English, to modify the meaning of almost any word by prepositional affixes such as ANTE-, POST-, UP-, DOWN-, etc. By such methods it was found possible to bring about an enormous diminution of vocabulary. Given, for instance, the word GOOD, there was no need for such a word as BAD, since the required meaning was equally well—indeed, better—expressed by UNGOOD. All that was necessary, in any case where two words formed a natural pair of opposites, was to decide which of them to suppress. DARK, for example, could be replaced by UNLIGHT, or LIGHT by UNDARK, according to preference. The second distinguishing mark of Newspeak grammar was its regularity. Subject to a few exceptions which are mentioned below all inflexions followed the same rules. Thus, in all verbs the preterite and the past participle were the same and ended in -ED. The preterite of STEAL was STEALED, the preterite of THINK was THINKED, and so on throughout the language, all such forms as SWAM, GAVE, BROUGHT, SPOKE, TAKEN, etc., being abolished. All plurals were made by adding -S or -ES as the case might be. The plurals OF MAN, OX, LIFE, were MANS, OXES, LIFES. Comparison of adjectives was invariably made by adding -ER, -EST (GOOD, GOODER, GOODEST), irregular forms and the MORE, MOST formation being 81 suppressed. The only classes of words that were still allowed to inflect irregularly were the pronouns, the relatives, the demonstrative adjectives, and the auxiliary verbs. All of these followed their ancient usage, except that WHOM had been scrapped as unnecessary, and the SHALL, SHOULD tenses had been dropped, all their uses being covered by WILL and WOULD. There were also certain irregularities in word-formation arising out of the need for rapid and easy speech. A word which was difficult to utter, or was liable to be incorrectly heard, was held to be ipso facto a bad word; occasionally therefore, for the sake of euphony, extra letters were inserted into a word or an archaic formation was retained. But this need made itself felt chiefly in connexion with the B vocabulary. WHY so great an importance was attached to ease of pronunciation will be made clear later in this essay. THE B VOCABULARY. The B vocabulary consisted of words which had been deliberately constructed for political purposes: words, that is to say, which not only had in every case a political implication, but were intended to impose a desirable mental attitude upon the person using them. Without a full understanding of the principles of Ingsoc it was difficult to use these words correctly. In some cases they could be translated into Oldspeak, or even into words taken from the A vocabulary, but this usually demanded a long paraphrase and always involved the loss of certain overtones. The B words were a sort of verbal shorthand, often packing whole ranges of ideas into a few syllables, and at the same time more accurate and forcible than ordinary 8 1984 language. The B words were in all cases compound words. [Compound words such as SPEAKWRITE, were of course to be found in the A vocabulary, but these were merely convenient abbreviations and had no special ideologcal colour.] They consisted of two or more words, or portions of words, welded together in an easily pronounceable form. The resulting amalgam was always a noun-verb, and inflected according to the ordinary rules. To take a single example: the word GOODTHINK, meaning, very roughly, ‘orthodoxy’, or, if one chose to regard it as a verb, ‘to think in an orthodox manner’. This inflected as follows: noun-verb, GOODTHINK; past tense and past participle, GOODTHINKED; present participle, GOOD-THINKING; adjective, GOODTHINKFUL; adverb, GOODTHINKWISE; verbal noun, GOODTHINKER. The B words were not constructed on any etymological plan. The words of which they were made up could be any parts of speech, and could be placed in any order and mutilated in any way which made them easy to pronounce while indicating their derivation. In the word CRIMETHINK (thoughtcrime), for instance, the THINK came second, whereas in THINKPOL (Thought Police) it came first, and in the latter word POLICE had lost its second syllable. Because of the great difficulty in securing euphony, irregular formations were commoner in the B vocabulary than in the A vocabulary. For example, the adjective forms of MINITRUE, MINIPAX, and MINILUV were, respectively, MINITRUTHFUL, MINIPEACEFUL, and MINILOVELY, 8 simply because -TRUEFUL, -PAXFUL, and -LOVEFUL were slightly awkward to pronounce. In principle, however, all B words could inflect, and all inflected in exactly the same way. Some of the B words had highly subtilized meanings, barely intelligible to anyone who had not mastered the language as a whole. Consider, for example, such a typical sentence from a ‘Times’ leading article as OLDTHINKERS UNBELLYFEEL INGSOC. The shortest rendering that one could make of this in Oldspeak would be: ‘Those whose ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles of English Socialism.’ But this is not an adequate translation. To begin with, in order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak sentence quoted above, one would have to have a clear idea of what is meant by INGSOC. And in addition, only a person thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate the full force of the word BELLYFEEL, which implied a blind, enthusiastic acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the word OLDTHINK, which was inextricably mixed up with the idea of wickedness and decadence. But the special function of certain Newspeak words, of which OLDTHINK was one, was not so much to express meanings as to destroy them. These words, necessarily few in number, had had their meanings extended until they contained within themselves whole batteries of words which, as they were sufficiently covered by a single comprehensive term, could now be scrapped and forgotten. The greatest difficulty facing the compilers of the Newspeak Dictionary was not to 84 1984 invent new words, but, having invented them, to make sure what they meant: to make sure, that is to say, what ranges of words they cancelled by their existence. As we have already seen in the case of the word FREE, words which had once borne a heretical meaning were sometimes retained for the sake of convenience, but only with the undesirable meanings purged out of them. Countless other words such as HONOUR, JUSTICE, MORALITY, INTERNATIONALISM, DEMOCRACY, SCIENCE, and RELIGION had simply ceased to exist. A few blanket words covered them, and, in covering them, abolished them. All words grouping themselves round the concepts of liberty and equality, for instance, were contained in the single word CRIMETHINK, while all words grouping themselves round the concepts of objectivity and rationalism were contained in the single word OLDTHINK. Greater precision would have been dangerous. What was required in a Party member was an outlook similar to that of the ancient Hebrew who knew, without knowing much else, that all nations other than his own worshipped ‘false gods’. He did not need to know that these gods were called Baal, Osiris, Moloch, Ashtaroth, and the like: probably the less he knew about them the better for his orthodoxy. He knew Jehovah and the commandments of Jehovah: he knew, therefore, that all gods with other names or other attributes were false gods. In somewhat the same way, the party member knew what constituted right conduct, and in exceedingly vague, generalized terms he knew what kinds of departure from it were possible. His sexual life, for example, was entirely 8 regulated by the two Newspeak words SEXCRIME (sexual immorality) and GOODSEX (chastity). SEXCRIME covered all sexual misdeeds whatever. It covered fornication, adultery, homosexuality, and other perversions, and, in addition, normal intercourse practised for its own sake. There was no need to enumerate them separately, since they were all equally culpable, and, in principle, all punishable by death. In the C vocabulary, which consisted of scientific and technical words, it might be necessary to give specialized names to certain sexual aberrations, but the ordinary citizen had no need of them. He knew what was meant by GOODSEX—that is to say, normal intercourse between man and wife, for the sole purpose of begetting children, and without physical pleasure on the part of the woman: all else was SEXCRIME. In Newspeak it was seldom possible to follow a heretical thought further than the perception that it WAS heretical: beyond that point the necessary words were nonexistent. No word in the B vocabulary was ideologically neutral. A great many were euphemisms. Such words, for instance, as JOYCAMP (forced-labour camp) or MINIPAX Ministry of Peace, i.e. Ministry of War) meant almost the exact opposite of what they appeared to mean. Some words, on the other hand, displayed a frank and contemptuous understanding of the real nature of Oceanic society. An example was PROLEFEED, meaning the rubbishy entertainment and spurious news which the Party handed out to the masses. Other words, again, were ambivalent, having the connotation ‘good’ when applied to the Party and 8 1984 ‘bad’ when applied to its enemies. But in addition there were great numbers of words which at first sight appeared to be mere abbreviations and which derived their ideological colour not from their meaning, but from their structure. So far as it could be contrived, everything that had or might have political significance of any kind was fitted into the B vocabulary. The name of every organization, or body of people, or doctrine, or country, or institution, or public building, was invariably cut down into the familiar shape; that is, a single easily pronounced word with the smallest number of syllables that would preserve the original derivation. In the Ministry of Truth, for example, the Records Department, in which Winston Smith worked, was called RECDEP, the Fiction Department was called FICDEP, the Teleprogrammes Department was called TELEDEP, and so on. This was not done solely with the object of saving time. Even in the early decades of the twentieth century, telescoped words and phrases had been one of the characteristic features of political language; and it had been noticed that the tendency to use abbreviations of this kind was most marked in totalitarian countries and totalitarian organizations. Examples were such words as NAZI, GESTAPO, COMINTERN, INPRECORR, AGITPROP. In the beginning the practice had been adopted as it were instinctively, but in Newspeak it was used with a conscious purpose. It was perceived that in thus abbreviating a name one narrowed and subtly altered its meaning, by cutting out most of the associations that would otherwise cling to it. The words COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL, for instance, call up 8 a composite picture of universal human brotherhood, red flags, barricades, Karl Marx, and the Paris Commune. The word COMINTERN, on the other hand, suggests merely a tightly-knit organization and a well-defined body of doctrine. It refers to something almost as easily recognized, and as limited in purpose, as a chair or a table. COMINTERN is a word that can be uttered almost without taking thought, whereas COMMUNIST INTERNATIONAL is a phrase over which one is obliged to linger at least momentarily. In the same way, the associations called up by a word like MINITRUE are fewer and more controllable than those called up by MINISTRY OF TRUTH. This accounted not only for the habit of abbreviating whenever possible, but also for the almost exaggerated care that was taken to make every word easily pronounceable. In Newspeak, euphony outweighed every consideration other than exactitude of meaning. Regularity of grammar was always sacrificed to it when it seemed necessary. And rightly so, since what was required, above all for political purposes, was short clipped words of unmistakable meaning which could be uttered rapidly and which roused the minimum of echoes in the speaker’s mind. The words of the B vocabulary even gained in force from the fact that nearly all of them were very much alike. Almost invariably these words—GOODTHINK, MINIPAX, PROLEFEED, SEXCRIME, JOYCAMP, INGSOC, BELLYFEEL, THINKPOL, and countless others—were words of two or three syllables, with the stress distributed equally between the first syllable and the last. The use of them encouraged a gabbling style of 88 1984 speech, at once staccato and monotonous. And this was exactly what was aimed at. The intention was to make speech, and especially speech on any subject not ideologically neutral, as nearly as possible independent of consciousness. For the purposes of everyday life it was no doubt necessary, or sometimes necessary, to reflect before speaking, but a Party member called upon to make a political or ethical judgement should be able to spray forth the correct opinions as automatically as a machine gun spraying forth bullets. His training fitted him to do this, the language gave him an almost foolproof instrument, and the texture of the words, with their harsh sound and a certain wilful ugliness which was in accord with the spirit of Ingsoc, assisted the process still further. So did the fact of having very few words to choose from. Relative to our own, the Newspeak vocabulary was tiny, and new ways of reducing it were constantly being devised. Newspeak, indeed, differed from most all other languages in that its vocabulary grew smaller instead of larger every year. Each reduction was a gain, since the smaller the area of choice, the smaller the temptation to take thought. Ultimately it was hoped to make articulate speech issue from the larynx without involving the higher brain centres at all. This aim was frankly admitted in the Newspeak word DUCKSPEAK, meaning ‘to quack like a duck’. Like various other words in the B vocabulary, DUCKSPEAK was ambivalent in meaning. Provided that the opinions which were quacked out were orthodox ones, it implied nothing but praise, and when ‘The Times’ referred to one of the orators 89 of the Party as a DOUBLEPLUSGOOD DUCKSPEAKER it was paying a warm and valued compliment. THE C VOCABULARY. The C vocabulary was supplementary to the others and consisted entirely of scientific and technical terms. These resembled the scientific terms in use today, and were constructed from the same roots, but the usual care was taken to define them rigidly and strip them of undesirable meanings. They followed the same grammatical rules as the words in the other two vocabularies. Very few of the C words had any currency either in everyday speech or in political speech. Any scientific worker or technician could find all the words he needed in the list devoted to his own speciality, but he seldom had more than a smattering of the words occurring in the other lists. Only a very few words were common to all lists, and there was no vocabulary expressing the function of Science as a habit of mind, or a method of thought, irrespective of its particular branches. There was, indeed, no word for ‘Science’, any meaning that it could possibly bear being already sufficiently covered by the word INGSOC. From the foregoing account it will be seen that in Newspeak the expression of unorthodox opinions, above a very low level, was well-nigh impossible. It was of course possible to utter heresies of a very crude kind, a species of blasphemy. It would have been possible, for example, to say BIG BROTHER IS UNGOOD. But this statement, which to an orthodox ear merely conveyed a self-evident absurdity, could not have been sustained by reasoned argument, because the necessary words were not available. Ideas inim- 90 1984 ical to Ingsoc could only be entertained in a vague wordless form, and could only be named in very broad terms which lumped together and condemned whole groups of heresies without defining them in doing so. One could, in fact, only use Newspeak for unorthodox purposes by illegitimately translating some of the words back into Oldspeak. For example, ALL MANS ARE EQUAL was a possible Newspeak sentence, but only in the same sense in which ALL MEN ARE REDHAIRED is a possible Oldspeak sentence. It did not contain a grammatical error, but it expressed a palpable untruth—i.e. that all men are of equal size, weight, or strength. The concept of political equality no longer existed, and this secondary meaning had accordingly been purged out of the word EQUAL. In 1984, when Oldspeak was still the normal means of communication, the danger theoretically existed that in using Newspeak words one might remember their original meanings. In practice it was not difficult for any person well grounded in DOUBLETHINK to avoid doing this, but within a couple of generations even the possibility of such a lapse would have vaished. A person growing up with Newspeak as his sole language would no more know that EQUAL had once had the secondary meaning of ‘politically equal’, or that FREE had once meant ‘intellectually free’, than for instance, a person who had never heard of chess would be aware of the secondary meanings attaching to QUEEN and ROOK. There would be many crimes and errors which it would be beyond his power to commit, simply because they were nameless and therefore unimaginable. And it was to be foreseen that with 91 the passage of time the distinguishing characteristics of Newspeak would become more and more pronounced—its words growing fewer and fewer, their meanings more and more rigid, and the chance of putting them to improper uses always diminishing. When Oldspeak had been once and for all superseded, the last link with the past would have been severed. History had already been rewritten, but fragments of the literature of the past survived here and there, imperfectly censored, and so long as one retained one’s knowledge of Oldspeak it was possible to read them. In the future such fragments, even if they chanced to survive, would be unintelligible and untranslatable. It was impossible to translate any passage of Oldspeak into Newspeak unless it either referred to some technical process or some very simple everyday action, or was already orthodox (GOODTHINKFUL would be the Newspeak expression) in tendency. In practice this meant that no book written before approximately 1960 could be translated as a whole. Pre-revolutionary literature could only be subjected to ideological translation—that is, alteration in sense as well as language. Take for example the well-known passage from the Declaration of Independence: WE HOLD THESE TRUTHS TO BE SELF-EVIDENT, THAT ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL, THAT THEY ARE ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR WITH CERTAIN INALIENABLE RIGHTS, THAT AMONG THESE ARE LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 9 1984 THAT TO SECURE THESE RIGHTS, GOVERNMENTS ARE INSTITUTED AMONG MEN, DERIVING THEIR POWERS FROM THE CONSENT OF THE GOVERNED. THAT WHENEVER ANY FORM OF GOVERNMENT BECOMES DESTRUCTIVE OF THOSE ENDS, IT IS THE RIGHT OF THE PEOPLE TO ALTER OR ABOLISH IT, AND TO INSTITUTE NEW GOVERNMENT... It would have been quite impossible to render this into Newspeak while keeping to the sense of the original. The nearest one could come to doing so would be to swallow the whole passage up in the single word CRIMETHINK. A full translation could only be an ideological translation, whereby Jefferson’s words would be changed into a panegyric on absolute government. A good deal of the literature of the past was, indeed, already being transformed in this way. Considerations of prestige made it desirable to preserve the memory of certain historical figures, while at the same time bringing their achievements into line with the philosophy of Ingsoc. Various writers, such as Shakespeare, Milton, Swift, Byron, Dickens, and some others were therefore in process of translation: when the task had been completed, their original writings, with all else that survived of the literature of the past, would be destroyed. These translations were a slow and difficult business, and it was not expected that they would be finished before the first or second decade of the twenty-first century. There were also large quantities of merely utilitarian literature—indispensable technical man- 9 uals, and the like—that had to be treated in the same way. It was chiefly in order to allow time for the preliminary work of translation that the final adoption of Newspeak had been fixed for so late a date as 2050.

BAnimal Farm

MR. JONES, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicked off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs. Jones was already snoring. As soon as the light in the bedroom went out there was a stirring and a fluttering all through the farm buildings. Word had gone round during the day that old Major, the prize Middle White boar, had had a strange dream on the previous night and wished to communicate it to the other animals. It had been agreed that they should all meet in the big barn as soon as Mr. Jones was safely out of the way. Old Major (so he was always called, though the name under which he had been exhibited was Willingdon Beauty) was so highly regarded on the farm that everyone was quite ready to lose an hour's sleep in order to hear what he had to say. At one end of the big barn, on a sort of raised platform, Major was already ensconced on his bed of straw, under a lantern which hung from a beam. He was twelve years old and had lately grown rather stout, but he was still a majestic-looking pig, with a wise and benevolent appearance in spite of the fact that his tushes had never been cut. Before long the other animals began to arrive and make themselves comfortable after their different fashions. First came the three dogs, Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher, and then the pigs, who settled down in the straw immediately in front of the platform. The hens perched themselves on the window-sills, the pigeons fluttered up to the rafters, the sheep and cows lay down behind the pigs and began to chew the cud. The two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover, came in together, walking very slowly and setting down their vast hairy hoofs with great care lest there should be some small animal concealed in the straw. Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal. Boxer was an enormous beast, nearly eighteen hands high, and as strong as any two ordinary horses put together. A white stripe down his nose gave him a somewhat stupid appearance, and in fact he was not of first-rate intelligence, but he was universally respected for his steadiness of character and tremendous powers of work. After the horses came Muriel, the white goat, and Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin was the oldest animal on the farm, and the worst tempered. He seldom talked, and when he did, it was usually to make some cynical remark-for instance, he would say that God had given him a tail to keep the flies off, but that he would sooner have had no tail and no flies. Alone among the animals on the farm he never laughed. If asked why, he would say that he saw nothing to laugh at. Nevertheless, without openly admitting it, he was devoted to Boxer; the two of them usually spent their Sundays together in the small paddock beyond the orchard, grazing side by side and never speaking. The two horses had just lain down when a brood of ducklings, which had lost their mother, filed into the barn, cheeping feebly and wandering from side to side to find some place where they would not be trodden on. Clover made a sort of wall round them with her great foreleg, and the ducklings nestled down inside it and promptly fell asleep. At the last moment Mollie, the foolish, pretty white mare who drew Mr. Jones's trap, came mincing daintily in, chewing at a lump of sugar. She took a place near the front and began flirting her white mane, hoping to draw attention to the red ribbons it was plaited with. Last of all came the cat, who looked round, as usual, for the warmest place, and finally squeezed herself in between Boxer and Clover; there she purred contentedly throughout Major's speech without listening to a word of what he was saying. All the animals were now present except Moses, the tame raven, who slept on a perch behind the back door. When Major saw that they had all made themselves comfortable and were waiting attentively, he cleared his throat and began: 'Comrades, you have heard already about the strange dream that I had last night. But I will come to the dream later. I have something else to say first. I do not think, comrades, that I shall be with you for many months longer, and before I die, I feel it my duty to pass on to you such wisdom as I have acquired. I have had a long life, I have had much time for thought as I lay alone in my stall, and I think I may say that I understand the nature of life on this earth as well as any animal now living. It is about this that I wish to speak to you. 'Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short. We are born, we are given just so much food as will keep the breath in our bodies, and those of us who are capable of it are forced to work to the last atom of our strength; and the very instant that our usefulness has come to an end we are slaughtered with hideous cruelty. No animal in England knows the meaning of happiness or leisure after he is a year old. No animal in England is free. The life of an animal is misery and slavery: that is the plain truth. 'But is this simply part of the order of nature? Is it because this land of ours is so poor that it cannot afford a decent life to those who dwell upon it? No, comrades, a thousand times no! The soil of England is fertile, its climate is good, it is capable of affording food in abundance to an enormously greater number of animals than now inhabit it. This single farm of ours would support a dozen horses, twenty cows, hundreds of sheep-and all of them living in a comfort and a dignity that are now almost beyond our imagining. Why then do we continue in this miserable condition? Because nearly the whole of the produce of our labour is stolen from us by human beings. There, comrades, is the answer to all our problems. It is summed up in a single word-Man. Man is the only real enemy we have. Remove Man from the scene, and the root cause of hunger and overwork is abolished for ever. 'Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals. He sets them to work, he gives back to them the bare minimum that will prevent them from starving, and the rest he keeps for himself. Our labour tills the soil, our dung fertilises it, and yet there is not one of us that owns more than his bare skin. You cows that I see before me, how many thousands of gallons of milk have you given during this last year? And what has happened to that milk which should have been breeding up sturdy calves? Every drop of it has gone down the throats of our enemies. And you hens, how many eggs have you laid in this last year, and how many of those eggs ever hatched into chickens? The rest have all gone to market to bring in money for Jones and his men. And you, Clover, where are those four foals you bore, who should have been the support and pleasure of your old age? Each was sold at a year old-you will never see one of them again. In return for your four confinements and all your labour in the fields, what have you ever had except your bare rations and a stall? 'And even the miserable lives we lead are not allowed to reach their natural span. For myself I do not grumble, for I am one of the lucky ones. I am twelve years old and have had over four hundred children. Such is the natural life of a pig. But no animal escapes the cruel knife in the end. You young porkers who are sitting in front of me, every one of you will scream your lives out at the block within a year. To that horror we all must come-cows, pigs, hens, sheep, everyone. Even the horses and the dogs have no better fate. You, Boxer, the very day that those great muscles of yours lose their power, Jones will sell you to the knacker, who will cut your throat and boil you down for the foxhounds. As for the dogs, when they grow old and toothless, Jones ties a brick round their necks and drowns them in the nearest pond. 'Is it not crystal clear, then, comrades, that all the evils of this life of ours spring from the tyranny of human beings? Only get rid of Man, and the produce of our labour would be our own. A1most overnight we could become rich and free. What then must we do? Why, work night and day, body and soul, for the overthrow of the human race! That is my message to you, comrades: Rebellion! I do not know when that Rebellion will come, it might be in a week or in a hundred years, but I know, as surely as I see this straw beneath my feet, that sooner or later justice will be done. Fix your eyes on that, comrades, throughout the short remainder of your lives! And above all, pass on this message of mine to those who come after you, so that future generations shall carry on the struggle until it is victorious. 'And remember, comrades, your resolution must never falter. No argument must lead you astray. Never listen when they tell you that Man and the animals have a common interest, that the prosperity of the one is the prosperity of the others. It is all lies. Man serves the interests of no creature except himself. And among us animals let there be perfect unity, perfect comradeship in the struggle. All men are enemies. All animals are comrades. ' At this moment there was a tremendous uproar. While Major was speaking four large rats had crept out of their holes and were sitting on their hindquarters, listening to him. The dogs had suddenly caught sight of them, and it was only by a swift dash for their holes that the rats saved their lives. Major raised his trotter for silence. 'Comrades, ' he said, 'here is a point that must be settled. The wild creatures, such as rats and rabbits-are they our friends or our enemies? Let us put it to the vote. I propose this question to the meeting: Are rats comrades? ' The vote was taken at once, and it was agreed by an overwhelming majority that rats were comrades. There were only four dissentients, the three dogs and the cat, who was afterwards discovered to have voted on both sides. Major continued: 'I have little more to say. I merely repeat, remember always your duty of enmity towards Man and all his ways. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. And remember also that in fighting against Man, we must not come to resemble him. Even when you have conquered him, do not adopt his vices. No animal must ever live in a house, or sleep in a bed, or wear clothes, or drink alcohol, or smoke tobacco, or touch money, or engage in trade. All the habits of Man are evil. And, above all, no animal must ever tyrannise over his own kind. Weak or strong, clever or simple, we are all brothers. No animal must ever kill any other animal. All animals are equal. 'And now, comrades, I will tell you about my dream of last night. I cannot describe that dream to you. It was a dream of the earth as it will be when Man has vanished. But it reminded me of something that I had long forgotten. Many years ago, when I was a little pig, my mother and the other sows used to sing an old song of which they knew only the tune and the first three words. I had known that tune in my infancy, but it had long since passed out of my mind. Last night, however, it came back to me in my dream. And what is more, the words of the song also came back-words, I am certain, which were sung by the animals of long ago and have been lost to memory for generations. I will sing you that song now, comrades. I am old and my voice is hoarse, but when I have taught you the tune, you can sing it better for yourselves. It is called Beasts of England. ' Old Major cleared his throat and began to sing. As he had said, his voice was hoarse, but he sang well enough, and it was a stirring tune, something between Clementine and La Cucaracha. The words ran: Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips no more shall crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its waters be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toil for freedom's sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time. The singing of this song threw the animals into the wildest excitement. Almost before Major had reached the end, they had begun singing it for themselves. Even the stupidest of them had already picked up the tune and a few of the words, and as for the clever ones, such as the pigs and dogs, they had the entire song by heart within a few minutes. And then, after a few preliminary tries, the whole farm burst out into Beasts of England in tremendous unison. The cows lowed it, the dogs whined it, the sheep bleated it, the horses whinnied it, the ducks quacked it. They were so delighted with the song that they sang it right through five times in succession, and might have continued singing it all night if they had not been interrupted. Unfortunately, the uproar awoke Mr. Jones, who sprang out of bed, making sure that there was a fox in the yard. He seized the gun which always stood in a corner of his bedroom, and let fly a charge of number 6 shot into the darkness. The pellets buried themselves in the wall of the barn and the meeting broke up hurriedly. Everyone fled to his own sleeping-place. The birds jumped on to their perches, the animals settled down in the straw, and the whole farm was asleep in a moment. II THREE nights later old Major died peacefully in his sleep. His body was buried at the foot of the orchard. This was early in March. During the next three months there was much secret activity. Major's speech had given to the more intelligent animals on the farm a completely new outlook on life. They did not know when the Rebellion predicted by Major would take place, they had no reason for thinking that it would be within their own lifetime, but they saw clearly that it was their duty to prepare for it. The work of teaching and organising the others fell naturally upon the pigs, who were generally recognised as being the cleverest of the animals. Pre-eminent among the pigs were two young boars named Snowball and Napoleon, whom Mr. Jones was breeding up for sale. Napoleon was a large, rather fierce-looking Berkshire boar, the only Berkshire on the farm, not much of a talker, but with a reputation for getting his own way. Snowball was a more vivacious pig than Napoleon, quicker in speech and more inventive, but was not considered to have the same depth of character. All the other male pigs on the farm were porkers. The best known among them was a small fat pig named Squealer, with very round cheeks, twinkling eyes, nimble movements, and a shrill voice. He was a brilliant talker, and when he was arguing some difficult point he had a way of skipping from side to side and whisking his tail which was somehow very persuasive. The others said of Squealer that he could turn black into white. These three had elaborated old Major's teachings into a complete system of thought, to which they gave the name of Animalism. Several nights a week, after Mr. Jones was asleep, they held secret meetings in the barn and expounded the principles of Animalism to the others. At the beginning they met with much stupidity and apathy. Some of the animals talked of the duty of loyalty to Mr. Jones, whom they referred to as 'Master, ' or made elementary remarks such as 'Mr. Jones feeds us. If he were gone, we should starve to death. ' Others asked such questions as 'Why should we care what happens after we are dead? ' or 'If this Rebellion is to happen anyway, what difference does it make whether we work for it or not? ', and the pigs had great difficulty in making them see that this was contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The stupidest questions of all were asked by Mollie, the white mare. The very first question she asked Snowball was: 'Will there still be sugar after the Rebellion? ' 'No, ' said Snowball firmly. 'We have no means of making sugar on this farm. Besides, you do not need sugar. You will have all the oats and hay you want. ' 'And shall I still be allowed to wear ribbons in my mane? ' asked Mollie. 'Comrade, ' said Snowball, 'those ribbons that you are so devoted to are the badge of slavery. Can you not understand that liberty is worth more than ribbons? ' Mollie agreed, but she did not sound very convinced. The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to persuade them that there was no such place. Their most faithful disciples were the two cart-horses, Boxer and Clover. These two had great difficulty in thinking anything out for themselves, but having once accepted the pigs as their teachers, they absorbed everything that they were told, and passed it on to the other animals by simple arguments. They were unfailing in their attendance at the secret meetings in the barn, and led the singing of Beasts of England, with which the meetings always ended. Now, as it turned out, the Rebellion was achieved much earlier and more easily than anyone had expected. In past years Mr. Jones, although a hard master, had been a capable farmer, but of late he had fallen on evil days. He had become much disheartened after losing money in a lawsuit, and had taken to drinking more than was good for him. For whole days at a time he would lounge in his Windsor chair in the kitchen, reading the newspapers, drinking, and occasionally feeding Moses on crusts of bread soaked in beer. His men were idle and dishonest, the fields were full of weeds, the buildings wanted roofing, the hedges were neglected, and the animals were underfed. June came and the hay was almost ready for cutting. On Midsummer's Eve, which was a Saturday, Mr. Jones went into Willingdon and got so drunk at the Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on Sunday. The men had milked the cows in the early morning and then had gone out rabbiting, without bothering to feed the animals. When Mr. Jones got back he immediately went to sleep on the drawing-room sofa with the News of the World over his face, so that when evening came, the animals were still unfed. At last they could stand it no longer. One of the cows broke in the door of the store-shed with her horn and all the animals began to help themselves from the bins. It was just then that Mr. Jones woke up. The next moment he and his four men were in the store-shed with whips in their hands, lashing out in all directions. This was more than the hungry animals could bear. With one accord, though nothing of the kind had been planned beforehand, they flung themselves upon their tormentors. Jones and his men suddenly found themselves being butted and kicked from all sides. The situation was quite out of their control. They had never seen animals behave like this before, and this sudden uprising of creatures whom they were used to thrashing and maltreating just as they chose, frightened them almost out of their wits. After only a moment or two they gave up trying to defend themselves and took to their heels. A minute later all five of them were in full flight down the cart-track that led to the main road, with the animals pursuing them in triumph. Mrs. Jones looked out of the bedroom window, saw what was happening, hurriedly flung a few possessions into a carpet bag, and slipped out of the farm by another way. Moses sprang off his perch and flapped after her, croaking loudly. Meanwhile the animals had chased Jones and his men out on to the road and slammed the five-barred gate behind them. And so, almost before they knew what was happening, the Rebellion had been successfully carried through: Jones was expelled, and the Manor Farm was theirs. For the first few minutes the animals could hardly believe in their good fortune. Their first act was to gallop in a body right round the boundaries of the farm, as though to make quite sure that no human being was hiding anywhere upon it; then they raced back to the farm buildings to wipe out the last traces of Jones's hated reign. The harness-room at the end of the stables was broken open; the bits, the nose-rings, the dog-chains, the cruel knives with which Mr. Jones had been used to castrate the pigs and lambs, were all flung down the well. The reins, the halters, the blinkers, the degrading nosebags, were thrown on to the rubbish fire which was burning in the yard. So were the whips. All the animals capered with joy when they saw the whips going up in flames. Snowball also threw on to the fire the ribbons with which the horses' manes and tails had usually been decorated on market days. 'Ribbons, ' he said, 'should be considered as clothes, which are the mark of a human being. All animals should go naked. ' When Boxer heard this he fetched the small straw hat which he wore in summer to keep the flies out of his ears, and flung it on to the fire with the rest. In a very little while the animals had destroyed everything that reminded them of Mr. Jones. Napoleon then led them back to the store-shed and served out a double ration of corn to everybody, with two biscuits for each dog. Then they sang Beasts of England from end to end seven times running, and after that they settled down for the night and slept as they had never slept before. But they woke at dawn as usual, and suddenly remembering the glorious thing that had happened, they all raced out into the pasture together. A little way down the pasture there was a knoll that commanded a view of most of the farm. The animals rushed to the top of it and gazed round them in the clear morning light. Yes, it was theirs-everything that they could see was theirs! In the ecstasy of that thought they gambolled round and round, they hurled themselves into the air in great leaps of excitement. They rolled in the dew, they cropped mouthfuls of the sweet summer grass, they kicked up clods of the black earth and snuffed its rich scent. Then they made a tour of inspection of the whole farm and surveyed with speechless admiration the ploughland, the hayfield, the orchard, the pool, the spinney. It was as though they had never seen these things before, and even now they could hardly believe that it was all their own. Then they filed back to the farm buildings and halted in silence outside the door of the farmhouse. That was theirs too, but they were frightened to go inside. After a moment, however, Snowball and Napoleon butted the door open with their shoulders and the animals entered in single file, walking with the utmost care for fear of disturbing anything. They tiptoed from room to room, afraid to speak above a whisper and gazing with a kind of awe at the unbelievable luxury, at the beds with their feather mattresses, the looking-glasses, the horsehair sofa, the Brussels carpet, the lithograph of Queen Victoria over the drawing-room mantelpiece. They were lust coming down the stairs when Mollie was discovered to be missing. Going back, the others found that she had remained behind in the best bedroom. She had taken a piece of blue ribbon from Mrs. Jones's dressing-table, and was holding it against her shoulder and admiring herself in the glass in a very foolish manner. The others reproached her sharply, and they went outside. Some hams hanging in the kitchen were taken out for burial, and the barrel of beer in the scullery was stove in with a kick from Boxer's hoof,-otherwise nothing in the house was touched. A unanimous resolution was passed on the spot that the farmhouse should be preserved as a museum. All were agreed that no animal must ever live there. The animals had their breakfast, and then Snowball and Napoleon called them together again. 'Comrades, ' said Snowball, 'it is half-past six and we have a long day before us. Today we begin the hay harvest. But there is another matter that must be attended to first. ' The pigs now revealed that during the past three months they had taught themselves to read and write from an old spelling book which had belonged to Mr. Jones's children and which had been thrown on the rubbish heap. Napoleon sent for pots of black and white paint and led the way down to the five-barred gate that gave on to the main road. Then Snowball (for it was Snowball who was best at writing) took a brush between the two knuckles of his trotter, painted out MANOR FARM from the top bar of the gate and in its place painted ANIMAL FARM. This was to be the name of the farm from now onwards. After this they went back to the farm buildings, where Snowball and Napoleon sent for a ladder which they caused to be set against the end wall of the big barn. They explained that by their studies of the past three months the pigs had succeeded in reducing the principles of Animalism to Seven Commandments. These Seven Commandments would now be inscribed on the wall; they would form an unalterable law by which all the animals on must live for ever after. With some difficulty (for it is not easy for a pig to balance himself on a ladder) Snowball climbed up and set to work, with Squealer a few rungs below him holding the paint-pot. The Commandments were written on the tarred wall in great white letters that could be read thirty yards away. They ran thus: THE SEVEN COMMANDMENTS 1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. 2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. 3. No animal shall wear clothes. 4. No animal shall sleep in a bed. 5. No animal shall drink alcohol. 6. No animal shall kill any other animal. 7. All animals are equal. It was very neatly written, and except that 'friend ' was written 'freind ' and one of the 'S's ' was the wrong way round, the spelling was correct all the way through. Snowball read it aloud for the benefit of the others. All the animals nodded in complete agreement, and the cleverer ones at once began to learn the Commandments by heart. 'Now, comrades, ' cried Snowball, throwing down the paint-brush, 'to the hayfield! Let us make it a point of honour to get in the harvest more quickly than Jones and his men could do. ' But at this moment the three cows, who had seemed uneasy for some time past, set up a loud lowing. They had not been milked for twenty-four hours, and their udders were almost bursting. After a little thought, the pigs sent for buckets and milked the cows fairly successfully, their trotters being well adapted to this task. Soon there were five buckets of frothing creamy milk at which many of the animals looked with considerable interest. 'What is going to happen to all that milk? ' said someone. 'Jones used sometimes to mix some of it in our mash, ' said one of the hens. 'Never mind the milk, comrades! ' cried Napoleon, placing himself in front of the buckets. 'That will be attended to. The harvest is more important. Comrade Snowball will lead the way. I shall follow in a few minutes. Forward, comrades! The hay is waiting. ' So the animals trooped down to the hayfield to begin the harvest, and when they came back in the evening it was noticed that the milk had disappeared. HOW they toiled and sweated to get the hay in! But their efforts were rewarded, for the harvest was an even bigger success than they had hoped. Sometimes the work was hard; the implements had been designed for human beings and not for animals, and it was a great drawback that no animal was able to use any tool that involved standing on his hind legs. But the pigs were so clever that they could think of a way round every difficulty. As for the horses, they knew every inch of the field, and in fact understood the business of mowing and raking far better than Jones and his men had ever done. The pigs did not actually work, but directed and supervised the others. With their superior knowledge it was natural that they should assume the leadership. Boxer and Clover would harness themselves to the cutter or the horse-rake (no bits or reins were needed in these days, of course) and tramp steadily round and round the field with a pig walking behind and calling out 'Gee up, comrade! ' or 'Whoa back, comrade! ' as the case might be. And every animal down to the humblest worked at turning the hay and gathering it. Even the ducks and hens toiled to and fro all day in the sun, carrying tiny wisps of hay in their beaks. In the end they finished the harvest in two days' less time than it had usually taken Jones and his men. Moreover, it was the biggest harvest that the farm had ever seen. There was no wastage whatever; the hens and ducks with their sharp eyes had gathered up the very last stalk. And not an animal on the farm had stolen so much as a mouthful. All through that summer the work of the farm went like clockwork. The animals were happy as they had never conceived it possible to be. Every mouthful of food was an acute positive pleasure, now that it was truly their own food, produced by themselves and for themselves, not doled out to them by a grudging master. With the worthless parasitical human beings gone, there was more for everyone to eat. There was more leisure too, inexperienced though the animals were. They met with many difficulties-for instance, later in the year, when they harvested the corn, they had to tread it out in the ancient style and blow away the chaff with their breath, since the farm possessed no threshing machine-but the pigs with their cleverness and Boxer with his tremendous muscles always pulled them through. Boxer was the admiration of everybody. He had been a hard worker even in Jones's time, but now he seemed more like three horses than one; there were days when the entire work of the farm seemed to rest on his mighty shoulders. From morning to night he was pushing and pulling, always at the spot where the work was hardest. He had made an arrangement with one of the cockerels to call him in the mornings half an hour earlier than anyone else, and would put in some volunteer labour at whatever seemed to be most needed, before the regular day's work began. His answer to every problem, every setback, was 'I will work harder! '-which he had adopted as his personal motto. But everyone worked according to his capacity The hens and ducks, for instance, saved five bushels of corn at the harvest by gathering up the stray grains. Nobody stole, nobody grumbled over his rations, the quarrelling and biting and jealousy which had been normal features of life in the old days had almost disappeared. Nobody shirked-or almost nobody. Mollie, it was true, was not good at getting up in the mornings, and had a way of leaving work early on the ground that there was a stone in her hoof. And the behaviour of the cat was somewhat peculiar. It was soon noticed that when there was work to be done the cat could never be found. She would vanish for hours on end, and then reappear at meal-times, or in the evening after work was over, as though nothing had happened. But she always made such excellent excuses, and purred so affectionately, that it was impossible not to believe in her good intentions. Old Benjamin, the donkey, seemed quite unchanged since the Rebellion. He did his work in the same slow obstinate way as he had done it in Jones's time, never shirking and never volunteering for extra work either. About the Rebellion and its results he would express no opinion. When asked whether he was not happier now that Jones was gone, he would say only 'Donkeys live a long time. None of you has ever seen a dead donkey, ' and the others had to be content with this cryptic answer. On Sundays there was no work. Breakfast was an hour later than usual, and after breakfast there was a ceremony which was observed every week without fail. First came the hoisting of the flag. Snowball had found in the harness-room an old green tablecloth of Mrs. Jones's and had painted on it a hoof and a horn in white. This was run up the flagstaff in the farmhouse garden every Sunday 8, morning. The flag was green, Snowball explained, to represent the green fields of England, while the hoof and horn signified the future Republic of the Animals which would arise when the human race had been finally overthrown. After the hoisting of the flag all the animals trooped into the big barn for a general assembly which was known as the Meeting. Here the work of the coming week was planned out and resolutions were put forward and debated. It was always the pigs who put forward the resolutions. The other animals understood how to vote, but could never think of any resolutions of their own. Snowball and Napoleon were by far the most active in the debates. But it was noticed that these two were never in agreement: whatever suggestion either of them made, the other could be counted on to oppose it. Even when it was resolved-a thing no one could object to in itself-to set aside the small paddock behind the orchard as a home of rest for animals who were past work, there was a stormy debate over the correct retiring age for each class of animal. The Meeting always ended with the singing of Beasts of England, and the afternoon was given up to recreation. The pigs had set aside the harness-room as a headquarters for themselves. Here, in the evenings, they studied blacksmithing, carpentering, and other necessary arts from books which they had brought out of the farmhouse. Snowball also busied himself with organising the other animals into what he called Animal Committees. He was indefatigable at this. He formed the Egg Production Committee for the hens, the Clean Tails League for the cows, the Wild Comrades' Re-education Committee (the object of this was to tame the rats and rabbits), the Whiter Wool Movement for the sheep, and various others, besides instituting classes in reading and writing. On the whole, these projects were a failure. The attempt to tame the wild creatures, for instance, broke down almost immediately. They continued to behave very much as before, and when treated with generosity, simply took advantage of it. The cat joined the Re-education Committee and was very active in it for some days. She was seen one day sitting on a roof and talking to some sparrows who were just out of her reach. She was telling them that all animals were now comrades and that any sparrow who chose could come and perch on her paw; but the sparrows kept their distance. The reading and writing classes, however, were a great success. By the autumn almost every animal on the farm was literate in some degree. As for the pigs, they could already read and write perfectly. The dogs learned to read fairly well, but were not interested in reading anything except the Seven Commandments. Muriel, the goat, could read somewhat better than the dogs, and sometimes used to read to the others in the evenings from scraps of newspaper which she found on the rubbish heap. Benjamin could read as well as any pig, but never exercised his faculty. So far as he knew, he said, there was nothing worth reading. Clover learnt the whole alphabet, but could not put words together. Boxer could not get beyond the letter D. He would trace out A, B, C, D, in the dust with his great hoof, and then would stand staring at the letters with his ears back, sometimes shaking his forelock, trying with all his might to remember what came next and never succeeding. On several occasions, indeed, he did learn E, F, G, H, but by the time he knew them, it was always discovered that he had forgotten A, B, C, and D. Finally he decided to be content with the first four letters, and used to write them out once or twice every day to refresh his memory. Mollie refused to learn any but the six letters which spelt her own name. She would form these very neatly out of pieces of twig, and would then decorate them with a flower or two and walk round them admiring them. None of the other animals on the farm could get further than the letter A. It was also found that the stupider animals, such as the sheep, hens, and ducks, were unable to learn the Seven Commandments by heart. After much thought Snowball declared that the Seven Commandments could in effect be reduced to a single maxim, namely: 'Four legs good, two legs bad. ' This, he said, contained the essential principle of Animalism. Whoever had thoroughly grasped it would be safe from human influences. The birds at first objected, since it seemed to them that they also had two legs, but Snowball proved to them that this was not so. 'A bird's wing, comrades, ' he said, 'is an organ of propulsion and not of manipulation. It should therefore be regarded as a leg. The distinguishing mark of man is the hand, the instrument with which he does all his mischief. ' The birds did not understand Snowball's long words, but they accepted his explanation, and all the humbler animals set to work to learn the new maxim by heart. FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAD, was inscribed on the end wall of the barn, above the Seven Commandments and in bigger letters When they had once got it by heart, the sheep developed a great liking for this maxim, and often as they lay in the field they would all start bleating 'Four legs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad! ' and keep it up for hours on end, never growing tired of it. Napoleon took no interest in Snowball's committees. He said that the education of the young was more important than anything that could be done for those who were already grown up. It happened that Jessie and Bluebell had both whelped soon after the hay harvest, giving birth between them to nine sturdy puppies. As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education. He took them up into a loft which could only be reached by a ladder from the harness-room, and there kept them in such seclusion that the rest of the farm soon forgot their existence. The mystery of where the milk went to was soon cleared up. It was mixed every day into the pigs' mash. The early apples were now ripening, and the grass of the orchard was littered with windfalls. The animals had assumed as a matter of course that these would be shared out equally; one day, however, the order went forth that all the windfalls were to be collected and brought to the harness-room for the use of the pigs. At this some of the other animals murmured, but it was no use. All the pigs were in full agreement on this point, even Snowball and Napoleon. Squealer was sent to make the necessary explanations to the others. 'Comrades! ' he cried. 'You do not imagine, I hope, that we pigs are doing this in a spirit of selfishness and privilege? Many of us actually dislike milk and apples. I dislike them myself. Our sole object in taking these things is to preserve our health. Milk and apples (this has been proved by Science, comrades) contain substances absolutely necessary to the well-being of a pig. We pigs are brainworkers. The whole management and organisation of this farm depend on us. Day and night we are watching over your welfare. It is for your sake that we drink that milk and eat those apples. Do you know what would happen if we pigs failed in our duty? Jones would come back! Yes, Jones would come back! Surely, comrades, ' cried Squealer almost pleadingly, skipping from side to side and whisking his tail, 'surely there is no one among you who wants to see Jones come back? ' Now if there was one thing that the animals were completely certain of, it was that they did not want Jones back. When it was put to them in this light, they had no more to say. The importance of keeping the pigs in good health was all too obvious. So it was agreed without further argument that the milk and the windfall apples (and also the main crop of apples when they ripened) should be reserved for the pigs alone. IV BY THE late summer the news of what had happened on had spread across half the county. Every day Snowball and Napoleon sent out flights of pigeons whose instructions were to mingle with the animals on neighbouring farms, tell them the story of the Rebellion, and teach them the tune of Beasts of England. Most of this time Mr. Jones had spent sitting in the taproom of the Red Lion at Willingdon, complaining to anyone who would listen of the monstrous injustice he had suffered in being turned out of his property by a pack of good-for-nothing animals. The other farmers sympathised in principle, but they did not at first give him much help. At heart, each of them was secretly wondering whether he could not somehow turn Jones's misfortune to his own advantage. It was lucky that the owners of the two farms which adjoined were on permanently bad terms. One of them, which was named Foxwood, was a large, neglected, old-fashioned farm, much overgrown by woodland, with all its pastures worn out and its hedges in a disgraceful condition. Its owner, Mr. Pilkington, was an easy-going gentleman farmer who spent most of his time in fishing or hunting according to the season. The other farm, which was called Pinchfield, was smaller and better kept. Its owner was a Mr. Frederick, a tough, shrewd man, perpetually involved in lawsuits and with a name for driving hard bargains. These two disliked each other so much that it was difficult for them to come to any agreement, even in defence of their own interests. Nevertheless, they were both thoroughly frightened by the rebellion on , and very anxious to prevent their own animals from learning too much about it. At first they pretended to laugh to scorn the idea of animals managing a farm for themselves. The whole thing would be over in a fortnight, they said. They put it about that the animals on the Manor Farm (they insisted on calling it the Manor Farm; they would not tolerate the name ' ') were perpetually fighting among themselves and were also rapidly starving to death. When time passed and the animals had evidently not starved to death, Frederick and Pilkington changed their tune and began to talk of the terrible wickedness that now flourished on . It was given out that the animals there practised cannibalism, tortured one another with red-hot horseshoes, and had their females in common. This was what came of rebelling against the laws of Nature, Frederick and Pilkington said. However, these stories were never fully believed. Rumours of a wonderful farm, where the human beings had been turned out and the animals managed their own affairs, continued to circulate in vague and distorted forms, and throughout that year a wave of rebelliousness ran through the countryside. Bulls which had always been tractable suddenly turned savage, sheep broke down hedges and devoured the clover, cows kicked the pail over, hunters refused their fences and shot their riders on to the other side. Above all, the tune and even the words of Beasts of England were known everywhere. It had spread with astonishing speed. The human beings could not contain their rage when they heard this song, though they pretended to think it merely ridiculous. They could not understand, they said, how even animals could bring themselves to sing such contemptible rubbish. Any animal caught singing it was given a flogging on the spot. And yet the song was irrepressible. The blackbirds whistled it in the hedges, the pigeons cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and the tune of the church bells. And when the human beings listened to it, they secretly trembled, hearing in it a prophecy of their future doom. Early in October, when the corn was cut and stacked and some of it was already threshed, a flight of pigeons came whirling through the air and alighted in the yard of in the wildest excitement. Jones and all his men, with half a dozen others from Foxwood and Pinchfield, had entered the five-barred gate and were coming up the cart-track that led to the farm. They were all carrying sticks, except Jones, who was marching ahead with a gun in his hands. Obviously they were going to attempt the recapture of the farm. This had long been expected, and all preparations had been made. Snowball, who had studied an old book of Julius Caesar's campaigns which he had found in the farmhouse, was in charge of the defensive operations. He gave his orders quickly, and in a couple of minutes every animal was at his post. As the human beings approached the farm buildings, Snowball launched his first attack. All the pigeons, to the number of thirty-five, flew to and fro over the men's heads and muted upon them from mid-air; and while the men were dealing with this, the geese, who had been hiding behind the hedge, rushed out and pecked viciously at the calves of their legs. However, this was only a light skirmishing manoeuvre, intended to create a little disorder, and the men easily drove the geese off with their sticks. Snowball now launched his second line of attack. Muriel, Benjamin, and all the sheep, with Snowball at the head of them, rushed forward and prodded and butted the men from every side, while Benjamin turned around and lashed at them with his small hoofs. But once again the men, with their sticks and their hobnailed boots, were too strong for them; and suddenly, at a squeal from Snowball, which was the signal for retreat, all the animals turned and fled through the gateway into the yard. The men gave a shout of triumph. They saw, as they imagined, their enemies in flight, and they rushed after them in disorder. This was just what Snowball had intended. As soon as they were well inside the yard, the three horses, the three cows, and the rest of the pigs, who had been lying in ambush in the cowshed, suddenly emerged in their rear, cutting them off. Snowball now gave the signal for the charge. He himself dashed straight for Jones. Jones saw him coming, raised his gun and fired. The pellets scored bloody streaks along Snowball's back, and a sheep dropped dead. Without halting for an instant, Snowball flung his fifteen stone against Jones's legs. Jones was hurled into a pile of dung and his gun flew out of his hands. But the most terrifying spectacle of all was Boxer, rearing up on his hind legs and striking out with his great iron-shod hoofs like a stallion. His very first blow took a stable-lad from Foxwood on the skull and stretched him lifeless in the mud. At the sight, several men dropped their sticks and tried to run. Panic overtook them, and the next moment all the animals together were chasing them round and round the yard. They were gored, kicked, bitten, trampled on. There was not an animal on the farm that did not take vengeance on them after his own fashion. Even the cat suddenly leapt off a roof onto a cowman's shoulders and sank her claws in his neck, at which he yelled horribly. At a moment when the opening was clear, the men were glad enough to rush out of the yard and make a bolt for the main road. And so within five minutes of their invasion they were in ignominious retreat by the same way as they had come, with a flock of geese hissing after them and pecking at their calves all the way. All the men were gone except one. Back in the yard Boxer was pawing with his hoof at the stable-lad who lay face down in the mud, trying to turn him over. The boy did not stir. 'He is dead, ' said Boxer sorrowfully. 'I had no intention of doing that. I forgot that I was wearing iron shoes. Who will believe that I did not do this on purpose? ' 'No sentimentality, comrade! ' cried Snowball from whose wounds the blood was still dripping. 'War is war. The only good human being is a dead one. ' 'I have no wish to take life, not even human life, ' repeated Boxer, and his eyes were full of tears. 'Where is Mollie? ' exclaimed somebody. Mollie in fact was missing. For a moment there was great alarm; it was feared that the men might have harmed her in some way, or even carried her off with them. In the end, however, she was found hiding in her stall with her head buried among the hay in the manger. She had taken to flight as soon as the gun went off. And when the others came back from looking for her, it was to find that the stable-lad, who in fact was only stunned, had already recovered and made off. The animals had now reassembled in the wildest excitement, each recounting his own exploits in the battle at the top of his voice. An impromptu celebration of the victory was held immediately. The flag was run up and Beasts of England was sung a number of times, then the sheep who had been killed was given a solemn funeral, a hawthorn bush being planted on her grave. At the graveside Snowball made a little speech, emphasising the need for all animals to be ready to die for if need be. The animals decided unanimously to create a military decoration, 'Animal Hero, First Class, ' which was conferred there and then on Snowball and Boxer. It consisted of a brass medal (they were really some old horse-brasses which had been found in the harness-room), to be worn on Sundays and holidays. There was also 'Animal Hero, Second Class, ' which was conferred posthumously on the dead sheep. There was much discussion as to what the battle should be called. In the end, it was named the Battle of the Cowshed, since that was where the ambush had been sprung. Mr. Jones's gun had been found lying in the mud, and it was known that there was a supply of cartridges in the farmhouse. It was decided to set the gun up at the foot of the Flagstaff, like a piece of artillery, and to fire it twice a year-once on October the twelfth, the anniversary of the Battle of the Cowshed, and once on Midsummer Day, the anniversary of the Rebellion. V AS WINTER drew on, Mollie became more and more troublesome. She was late for work every morning and excused herself by saying that she had overslept, and she complained of mysterious pains, although her appetite was excellent. On every kind of pretext she would run away from work and go to the drinking pool, where she would stand foolishly gazing at her own reflection in the water. But there were also rumours of something more serious. One day, as Mollie strolled blithely into the yard, flirting her long tail and chewing at a stalk of hay, Clover took her aside. 'Mollie, ' she said, 'I have something very serious to say to you. This morning I saw you looking over the hedge that divides from Foxwood. One of Mr. Pilkington's men was standing on the other side of the hedge. And-I was a long way away, but I am almost certain I saw this-he was talking to you and you were allowing him to stroke your nose. What does that mean, Mollie? ' 'He didn't! I wasn't! It isn't true! ' cried Mollie, beginning to prance about and paw the ground. 'Mollie! Look me in the face. Do you give me your word of honour that that man was not stroking your nose? ' 'It isn't true! ' repeated Mollie, but she could not look Clover in the face, and the next moment she took to her heels and galloped away into the field. A thought struck Clover. Without saying anything to the others, she went to Mollie's stall and turned over the straw with her hoof. Hidden under the straw was a little pile of lump sugar and several bunches of ribbon of different colours. Three days later Mollie disappeared. For some weeks nothing was known of her whereabouts, then the pigeons reported that they had seen her on the other side of Willingdon. She was between the shafts of a smart dogcart painted red and black, which was standing outside a public-house. A fat red-faced man in check breeches and gaiters, who looked like a publican, was stroking her nose and feeding her with sugar. Her coat was newly clipped and she wore a scarlet ribbon round her forelock. She appeared to be enjoying herself, so the pigeons said. None of the animals ever mentioned Mollie again. In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron, and nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote. This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point where disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right for cabbages, the other would declare that it was useless for anything except roots. Each had his own following, and there were some violent debates. At the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by his brilliant speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for himself in between times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of late the sheep had taken to bleating 'Four legs good, two legs bad ' both in and out of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It was noticed that they were especially liable to break into 'Four legs good, two legs bad ' at crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball had made a close study of some back numbers of the Farmer and Stockbreeder which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans for innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains, silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of his own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and seemed to be biding his time. But of all their controversies, none was so bitter as the one that took place over the windmill. In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small knoll which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground, Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill, which could be made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with electrical power. This would light the stalls and warm them in winter, and would also run a circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking machine. The animals had never heard of anything of this kind before (for the farm was an old-fashioned one and had only the most primitive machinery), and they listened in astonishment while Snowball conjured up pictures of fantastic machines which would do their work for them while they grazed at their ease in the fields or improved their minds with reading and conversation. Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked out. The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had belonged to Mr. Jones - One Thousand Useful Things to Do About the House, Every Man His Own Bricklayer, and Electricity for Beginners. Snowball used as his study a shed which had once been used for incubators and had a smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for hours at a time. With his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of chalk gripped between the knuckles of his trotter, he would move rapidly to and fro, drawing in line after line and uttering little whimpers of excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a complicated mass of cranks and cog-wheels, covering more than half the floor, which the other animals found completely unintelligible but very impressive. All of them came to look at Snowball's drawings at least once a day. Even the hens and ducks came, and were at pains not to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon held aloof. He had declared himself against the windmill from the start. One day, however, he arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked heavily round the shed, looked closely at every detail of the plans and snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a little while contemplating them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg, urinated over the plans, and walked out without uttering a word. The whole farm was deeply divided on the subject of the windmill. Snowball did not deny that to build it would be a difficult business. Stone would have to be carried and built up into walls, then the sails would have to be made and after that there would be need for dynamos and cables. (How these were to be procured, Snowball did not say.) But he maintained that it could all be done in a year. And thereafter, he declared, so much labour would be saved that the animals would only need to work three days a week. Napoleon, on the other hand, argued that the great need of the moment was to increase food production, and that if they wasted time on the windmill they would all starve to death. The animals formed themselves into two factions under the slogan, 'Vote for Snowball and the three-day week ' and 'Vote for Napoleon and the full manger. ' Benjamin was the only animal who did not side with either faction. He refused to believe either that food would become more plentiful or that the windmill would save work. Windmill or no windmill, he said, life would go on as it had always gone on-that is, badly. Apart from the disputes over the windmill, there was the question of the defence of the farm. It was fully realised that though the human beings had been defeated in the Battle of the Cowshed they might make another and more determined attempt to recapture the farm and reinstate Mr. Jones. They had all the more reason for doing so because the news of their defeat had spread across the countryside and made the animals on the neighbouring farms more restive than ever. As usual, Snowball and Napoleon were in disagreement. According to Napoleon, what the animals must do was to procure firearms and train themselves in the use of them. According to Snowball, they must send out more and more pigeons and stir up rebellion among the animals on the other farms. The one argued that if they could not defend themselves they were bound to be conquered, the other argued that if rebellions happened everywhere they would have no need to defend themselves. The animals listened first to Napoleon, then to Snowball, and could not make up their minds which was right; indeed, they always found themselves in agreement with the one who was speaking at the moment. At last the day came when Snowball's plans were completed. At the Meeting on the following Sunday the question of whether or not to begin work on the windmill was to be put to the vote. When the animals had assembled in the big barn, Snowball stood up and, though occasionally interrupted by bleating from the sheep, set forth his reasons for advocating the building of the windmill. Then Napoleon stood up to reply. He said very quietly that the windmill was nonsense and that he advised nobody to vote for it, and promptly sat down again; he had spoken for barely thirty seconds, and seemed almost indifferent as to the effect he produced. At this Snowball sprang to his feet, and shouting down the sheep, who had begun bleating again, broke into a passionate appeal in favour of the windmill. Until now the animals had been about equally divided in their sympathies, but in a moment Snowball's eloquence had carried them away. In glowing sentences he painted a picture of as it might be when sordid labour was lifted from the animals' backs. His imagination had now run far beyond chaff-cutters and turnip-slicers. Electricity, he said, could operate threshing machines, ploughs, harrows, rollers, and reapers and binders, besides supplying every stall with its own electric light, hot and cold water, and an electric heater. By the time he had finished speaking, there was no doubt as to which way the vote would go. But just at this moment Napoleon stood up and, casting a peculiar sidelong look at Snowball, uttered a high-pitched whimper of a kind no one had ever heard him utter before. At this there was a terrible baying sound outside, and nine enormous dogs wearing brass-studded collars came bounding into the barn. They dashed straight for Snowball, who only sprang from his place just in time to escape their snapping jaws. In a moment he was out of the door and they were after him. Too amazed and frightened to speak, all the animals crowded through the door to watch the chase. Snowball was racing across the long pasture that led to the road. He was running as only a pig can run, but the dogs were close on his heels. Suddenly he slipped and it seemed certain that they had him. Then he was up again, running faster than ever, then the dogs were gaining on him again. One of them all but closed his jaws on Snowball's tail, but Snowball whisked it free just in time. Then he put on an extra spurt and, with a few inches to spare, slipped through a hole in the hedge and was seen no more. Silent and terrified, the animals crept back into the barn. In a moment the dogs came bounding back. At first no one had been able to imagine where these creatures came from, but the problem was soon solved: they were the puppies whom Napoleon had taken away from their mothers and reared privately. Though not yet full-grown, they were huge dogs, and as fierce-looking as wolves. They kept close to Napoleon. It was noticed that they wagged their tails to him in the same way as the other dogs had been used to do to Mr. Jones. Napoleon, with the dogs following him, now mounted on to the raised portion of the floor where Major had previously stood to deliver his speech. He announced that from now on the Sunday-morning Meetings would come to an end. They were unnecessary, he said, and wasted time. In future all questions relating to the working of the farm would be settled by a special committee of pigs, presided over by himself. These would meet in private and afterwards communicate their decisions to the others. The animals would still assemble on Sunday mornings to salute the flag, sing Beasts of England, and receive their orders for the week; but there would be no more debates. In spite of the shock that Snowball's expulsion had given them, the animals were dismayed by this announcement. Several of them would have protested if they could have found the right arguments. Even Boxer was vaguely troubled. He set his ears back, shook his forelock several times, and tried hard to marshal his thoughts; but in the end he could not think of anything to say. Some of the pigs themselves, however, were more articulate. Four young porkers in the front row uttered shrill squeals of disapproval, and all four of them sprang to their feet and began speaking at once. But suddenly the dogs sitting round Napoleon let out deep, menacing growls, and the pigs fell silent and sat down again. Then the sheep broke out into a tremendous bleating of 'Four legs good, two legs bad! ' which went on for nearly a quarter of an hour and put an end to any chance of discussion. Afterwards Squealer was sent round the farm to explain the new arrangement to the others. 'Comrades, ' he said, 'I trust that every animal here appreciates the sacrifice that Comrade Napoleon has made in taking this extra labour upon himself. Do not imagine, comrades, that leadership is a pleasure! On the contrary, it is a deep and heavy responsibility. No one believes more firmly than Comrade Napoleon that all animals are equal. He would be only too happy to let you make your decisions for yourselves. But sometimes you might make the wrong decisions, comrades, and then where should we be? Suppose you had decided to follow Snowball, with his moonshine of windmills-Snowball, who, as we now know, was no better than a criminal? ' 'He fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed, ' said somebody. 'Bravery is not enough, ' said Squealer. 'Loyalty and obedience are more important. And as to the Battle of the Cowshed, I believe the time will come when we shall find that Snowball's part in it was much exaggerated. Discipline, comrades, iron discipline! That is the watchword for today. One false step, and our enemies would be upon us. Surely, comrades, you do not want Jones back? ' Once again this argument was unanswerable. Certainly the animals did not want Jones back; if the holding of debates on Sunday mornings was liable to bring him back, then the debates must stop. Boxer, who had now had time to think things over, voiced the general feeling by saying: 'If Comrade Napoleon says it, it must be right. ' And from then on he adopted the maxim, 'Napoleon is always right, ' in addition to his private motto of 'I will work harder. ' By this time the weather had broken and the spring ploughing had begun. The shed where Snowball had drawn his plans of the windmill had been shut up and it was assumed that the plans had been rubbed off the floor. Every Sunday morning at ten o'clock the animals assembled in the big barn to receive their orders for the week. The skull of old Major, now clean of flesh, had been disinterred from the orchard and set up on a stump at the foot of the flagstaff, beside the gun. After the hoisting of the flag, the animals were required to file past the skull in a reverent manner before entering the barn. Nowadays they did not sit all together as they had done in the past. Napoleon, with Squealer and another pig named Minimus, who had a remarkable gift for composing songs and poems, sat on the front of the raised platform, with the nine young dogs forming a semicircle round them, and the other pigs sitting behind. The rest of the animals sat facing them in the main body of the barn. Napoleon read out the orders for the week in a gruff soldierly style, and after a single singing of Beasts of England, all the animals dispersed. On the third Sunday after Snowball's expulsion, the animals were somewhat surprised to hear Napoleon announce that the windmill was to be built after all. He did not give any reason for having changed his mind, but merely warned the animals that this extra task would mean very hard work, it might even be necessary to reduce their rations. The plans, however, had all been prepared, down to the last detail. A special committee of pigs had been at work upon them for the past three weeks. The building of the windmill, with various other improvements, was expected to take two years. That evening Squealer explained privately to the other animals that Napoleon had never in reality been opposed to the windmill. On the contrary, it was he who had advocated it in the beginning, and the plan which Snowball had drawn on the floor of the incubator shed had actually been stolen from among Napoleon's papers. The windmill was, in fact, Napoleon's own creation. Why, then, asked somebody, had he spoken so strongly against it? Here Squealer looked very sly. That, he said, was Comrade Napoleon's cunning. He had seemed to oppose the windmill, simply as a manoeuvre to get rid of Snowball, who was a dangerous character and a bad influence. Now that Snowball was out of the way, the plan could go forward without his interference. This, said Squealer, was something called tactics. He repeated a number of times, 'Tactics, comrades, tactics! ' skipping round and whisking his tail with a merry laugh. The animals were not certain what the word meant, but Squealer spoke so persuasively, and the three dogs who happened to be with him growled so threateningly, that they accepted his explanation without further questions. VI ALL that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in their work; they grudged no effort or sacrifice, well aware that everything that they did was for the benefit of themselves and those of their kind who would come after them, and not for a pack of idle, thieving human beings. Throughout the spring and summer they worked a sixty-hour week, and in August Napoleon announced that there would be work on Sunday afternoons as well. This work was strictly voluntary, but any animal who absented himself from it would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found necessary to leave certain tasks undone. The harvest was a little less successful than in the previous year, and two fields which should have been sown with roots in the early summer were not sown because the ploughing had not been completed early enough. It was possible to foresee that the coming winter would be a hard one. The windmill presented unexpected difficulties. There was a good quarry of limestone on the farm, and plenty of sand and cement had been found in one of the outhouses, so that all the materials for building were at hand. But the problem the animals could not at first solve was how to break up the stone into pieces of suitable size. There seemed no way of doing this except with picks and crowbars, which no animal could use, because no animal could stand on his hind legs. Only after weeks of vain effort did the right idea occur to somebody-namely, to utilise the force of gravity. Huge boulders, far too big to be used as they were, were lying all over the bed of the quarry. The animals lashed ropes round these, and then all together, cows, horses, sheep, any animal that could lay hold of the rope-even the pigs sometimes joined in at critical moments-they dragged them with desperate slowness up the slope to the top of the quarry, where they were toppled over the edge, to shatter to pieces below. Transporting the stone when it was once broken was comparatively simple. The horses carried it off in cart-loads, the sheep dragged single blocks, even Muriel and Benjamin yoked themselves into an old governess-cart and did their share. By late summer a sufficient store of stone had accumulated, and then the building began, under the superintendence of the pigs. But it was a slow, laborious process. Frequently it took a whole day of exhausting effort to drag a single boulder to the top of the quarry, and sometimes when it was pushed over the edge it failed to break. Nothing could have been achieved without Boxer, whose strength seemed equal to that of all the rest of the animals put together. When the boulder began to slip and the animals cried out in despair at finding themselves dragged down the hill, it was always Boxer who strained himself against the rope and brought the boulder to a stop. To see him toiling up the slope inch by inch, his breath coming fast, the tips of his hoofs clawing at the ground, and his great sides matted with sweat, filled everyone with admiration. Clover warned him sometimes to be careful not to overstrain himself, but Boxer would never listen to her. His two slogans, 'I will work harder ' and 'Napoleon is always right, ' seemed to him a sufficient answer to all problems. He had made arrangements with the cockerel to call him three-quarters of an hour earlier in the mornings instead of half an hour. And in his spare moments, of which there were not many nowadays, he would go alone to the quarry, collect a load of broken stone, and drag it down to the site of the windmill unassisted. The animals were not badly off throughout that summer, in spite of the hardness of their work. If they had no more food than they had had in Jones's day, at least they did not have less. The advantage of only having to feed themselves, and not having to support five extravagant human beings as well, was so great that it would have taken a lot of failures to outweigh it. And in many ways the animal method of doing things was more efficient and saved labour. Such jobs as weeding, for instance, could be done with a thoroughness impossible to human beings. And again, since no animal now stole, it was unnecessary to fence off pasture from arable land, which saved a lot of labour on the upkeep of hedges and gates. Nevertheless, as the summer wore on, various unforeseen shortages began to make them selves felt. There was need of paraffin oil, nails, string, dog biscuits, and iron for the horses' shoes, none of which could be produced on the farm. Later there would also be need for seeds and artificial manures, besides various tools and, finally, the machinery for the windmill. How these were to be procured, no one was able to imagine. One Sunday morning, when the animals assembled to receive their orders, Napoleon announced that he had decided upon a new policy. From now onwards would engage in trade with the neighbouring farms: not, of course, for any commercial purpose, but simply in order to obtain certain materials which were urgently necessary. The needs of the windmill must override everything else, he said. He was therefore making arrangements to sell a stack of hay and part of the current year's wheat crop, and later on, if more money were needed, it would have to be made up by the sale of eggs, for which there was always a market in Willingdon. The hens, said Napoleon, should welcome this sacrifice as their own special contribution towards the building of the windmill. Once again the animals were conscious of a vague uneasiness. Never to have any dealings with human beings, never to engage in trade, never to make use of money-had not these been among the earliest resolutions passed at that first triumphant Meeting after Jones was expelled? All the animals remembered passing such resolutions: or at least they thought that they remembered it. The four young pigs who had protested when Napoleon abolished the Meetings raised their voices timidly, but they were promptly silenced by a tremendous growling from the dogs. Then, as usual, the sheep broke into 'Four legs good, two legs bad! ' and the momentary awkwardness was smoothed over. Finally Napoleon raised his trotter for silence and announced that he had already made all the arrangements. There would be no need for any of the animals to come in contact with human beings, which would clearly be most undesirable. He intended to take the whole burden upon his own shoulders. A Mr. Whymper, a solicitor living in Willingdon, had agreed to act as intermediary between and the outside world, and would visit the farm every Monday morning to receive his instructions. Napoleon ended his speech with his usual cry of 'Long live ! ' and after the singing of Beasts of England the animals were dismissed. Afterwards Squealer made a round of the farm and set the animals' minds at rest. He assured them that the resolution against engaging in trade and using money had never been passed, or even suggested. It was pure imagination, probably traceable in the beginning to lies circulated by Snowball. A few animals still felt faintly doubtful, but Squealer asked them shrewdly, 'Are you certain that this is not something that you have dreamed, comrades? Have you any record of such a resolution? Is it written down anywhere? ' And since it was certainly true that nothing of the kind existed in writing, the animals were satisfied that they had been mistaken. Every Monday Mr. Whymper visited the farm as had been arranged. He was a sly-looking little man with side whiskers, a solicitor in a very small way of business, but sharp enough to have realised earlier than anyone else that would need a broker and that the commissions would be worth having. The animals watched his coming and going with a kind of dread, and avoided him as much as possible. Nevertheless, the sight of Napoleon, on all fours, delivering orders to Whymper, who stood on two legs, roused their pride and partly reconciled them to the new arrangement. Their relations with the human race were now not quite the same as they had been before. The human beings did not hate any less now that it was prospering; indeed, they hated it more than ever. Every human being held it as an article of faith that the farm would go bankrupt sooner or later, and, above all, that the windmill would be a failure. They would meet in the public-houses and prove to one another by means of diagrams that the windmill was bound to fall down, or that if it did stand up, then that it would never work. And yet, against their will, they had developed a certain respect for the efficiency with which the animals were managing their own affairs. One symptom of this was that they had begun to call by its proper name and ceased to pretend that it was called the Manor Farm. They had also dropped their championship of Jones, who had given up hope of getting his farm back and gone to live in another part of the county. Except through Whymper, there was as yet no contact between and the outside world, but there were constant rumours that Napoleon was about to enter into a definite business agreement either with Mr. Pilkington of Foxwood or with Mr. Frederick of Pinchfield-but never, it was noticed, with both simultaneously. It was about this time that the pigs suddenly moved into the farmhouse and took up their residence there. Again the animals seemed to remember that a resolution against this had been passed in the early days, and again Squealer was able to convince them that this was not the case. It was absolutely necessary, he said, that the pigs, who were the brains of the farm, should have a quiet place to work in. It was also more suited to the dignity of the Leader (for of late he had taken to speaking of Napoleon under the title of 'Leader ') to live in a house than in a mere sty. Nevertheless, some of the animals were disturbed when they heard that the pigs not only took their meals in the kitchen and used the drawing-room as a recreation room, but also slept in the beds. Boxer passed it off as usual with 'Napoleon is always right! ', but Clover, who thought she remembered a definite ruling against beds, went to the end of the barn and tried to puzzle out the Seven Commandments which were inscribed there. Finding herself unable to read more than individual letters, she fetched Muriel. 'Muriel, ' she said, 'read me the Fourth Commandment. Does it not say something about never sleeping in a bed? ' With some difficulty Muriel spelt it out. 'It says, 'No animal shall sleep in a bed with sheets, '' she announced finally. Curiously enough, Clover had not remembered that the Fourth Commandment mentioned sheets; but as it was there on the wall, it must have done so. And Squealer, who happened to be passing at this moment, attended by two or three dogs, was able to put the whole matter in its proper perspective. 'You have heard then, comrades, ' he said, 'that we pigs now sleep in the beds of the farmhouse? And why not? You did not suppose, surely, that there was ever a ruling against beds? A bed merely means a place to sleep in. A pile of straw in a stall is a bed, properly regarded. The rule was against sheets, which are a human invention. We have removed the sheets from the farmhouse beds, and sleep between blankets. And very comfortable beds they are too! But not more comfortable than we need, I can tell you, comrades, with all the brainwork we have to do nowadays. You would not rob us of our repose, would you, comrades? You would not have us too tired to carry out our duties? Surely none of you wishes to see Jones back? ' The animals reassured him on this point immediately, and no more was said about the pigs sleeping in the farmhouse beds. And when, some days afterwards, it was announced that from now on the pigs would get up an hour later in the mornings than the other animals, no complaint was made about that either. By the autumn the animals were tired but happy. They had had a hard year, and after the sale of part of the hay and corn, the stores of food for the winter were none too plentiful, but the windmill compensated for everything. It was almost half built now. After the harvest there was a stretch of clear dry weather, and the animals toiled harder than ever, thinking it well worth while to plod to and fro all day with blocks of stone if by doing so they could raise the walls another foot. Boxer would even come out at nights and work for an hour or two on his own by the light of the harvest moon. In their spare moments the animals would walk round and round the half-finished mill, admiring the strength and perpendicularity of its walls and marvelling that they should ever have been able to build anything so imposing. Only old Benjamin refused to grow enthusiastic about the windmill, though, as usual, he would utter nothing beyond the cryptic remark that donkeys live a long time. November came, with raging south-west winds. Building had to stop because it was now too wet to mix the cement. Finally there came a night when the gale was so violent that the farm buildings rocked on their foundations and several tiles were blown off the roof of the barn. The hens woke up squawking with terror because they had all dreamed simultaneously of hearing a gun go off in the distance. In the morning the animals came out of their stalls to find that the flagstaff had been blown down and an elm tree at the foot of the orchard had been plucked up like a radish. They had just noticed this when a cry of despair broke from every animal's throat. A terrible sight had met their eyes. The windmill was in ruins. With one accord they dashed down to the spot. Napoleon, who seldom moved out of a walk, raced ahead of them all. Yes, there it lay, the fruit of all their struggles, levelled to its foundations, the stones they had broken and carried so laboriously scattered all around. Unable at first to speak, they stood gazing mournfully at the litter of fallen stone Napoleon paced to and fro in silence, occasionally snuffing at the ground. His tail had grown rigid and twitched sharply from side to side, a sign in him of intense mental activity. Suddenly he halted as though his mind were made up. 'Comrades, ' he said quietly, 'do you know who is responsible for this? Do you know the enemy who has come in the night and overthrown our windmill? SNOWBALL! ' he suddenly roared in a voice of thunder. 'Snowball has done this thing! In sheer malignity, thinking to set back our plans and avenge himself for his ignominious expulsion, this traitor has crept here under cover of night and destroyed our work of nearly a year. Comrades, here and now I pronounce the death sentence upon Snowball. 'Animal Hero, Second Class,' and half a bushel of apples to any animal who brings him to justice. A full bushel to anyone who captures him alive! ' The animals were shocked beyond measure to learn that even Snowball could be guilty of such an action. There was a cry of indignation, and everyone began thinking out ways of catching Snowball if he should ever come back. Almost immediately the footprints of a pig were discovered in the grass at a little distance from the knoll. They could only be traced for a few yards, but appeared to lead to a hole in the hedge. Napoleon snuffed deeply at them and pronounced them to be Snowball's. He gave it as his opinion that Snowball had probably come from the direction of Foxwood Farm. 'No more delays, comrades! ' cried Napoleon when the footprints had been examined. 'There is work to be done. This very morning we begin rebuilding the windmill, and we will build all through the winter, rain or shine. We will teach this miserable traitor that he cannot undo our work so easily. Remember, comrades, there must be no alteration in our plans: they shall be carried out to the day. Forward, comrades! Long live the windmill! Long live ! ' IT WAS a bitter winter. The stormy weather was followed by sleet and snow, and then by a hard frost which did not break till well into February. The animals carried on as best they could with the rebuilding of the windmill, well knowing that the outside world was watching them and that the envious human beings would rejoice and triumph if the mill were not finished on time. Out of spite, the human beings pretended not to believe that it was Snowball who had destroyer the windmill: they said that it had fallen down because the walls were too thin. The animals knew that this was not the case. Still, it had been decided to build the walls three feet thick this time instead of eighteen inches as before, which meant collecting much larger quantities of stone. For a long i.ne the quarry was full of snowdrifts and nothing could be done. Some progress was made in the dry frosty weather that followed, but it was cruel work, and the animals could not feel so hopeful about it as they had felt before. They were always cold, and usually hungry as well. Only Boxer and Clover never lost heart. Squealer made excellent speeches on the joy of service and the dignity of labour, but the other animals found more inspiration in Boxer's strength and his never-failing cry of 'I will work harder! ' In January food fell short. The corn ration was drastically reduced, and it was announced that an extra potato ration would be issued to make up for it. Then it was discovered that the greater part of the potato crop had been frosted in the clamps, which had not been covered thickly enough. The potatoes had become soft and discoloured, and only a few were edible. For days at a time the animals had nothing to eat but chaff and mangels. Starvation seemed to stare them in the face. It was vitally necessary to conceal this fact from the outside world. Emboldened by the collapse of the windmill, the human beings were inventing fresh lies about . Once again it was being put about that all the animals were dying of famine and disease, and that they were continually fighting among themselves and had resorted to cannibalism and infanticide. Napoleon was well aware of the bad results that might follow if the real facts of the food situation were known, and he decided to make use of Mr. Whymper to spread a contrary impression. Hitherto the animals had had little or no contact with Whymper on his weekly visits: now, however, a few selected animals, mostly sheep, were instructed to remark casually in his hearing that rations had been increased. In addition, Napoleon ordered the almost empty bins in the store-shed to be filled nearly to the brim with sand, which was then covered up with what remained of the grain and meal. On some suitable pretext Whymper was led through the store-shed and allowed to catch a glimpse of the bins. He was deceived, and continued to report to the outside world that there was no food shortage on . Nevertheless, towards the end of January it became obvious that it would be necessary to procure some more grain from somewhere. In these days Napoleon rarely appeared in public, but spent all his time in the farmhouse, which was guarded at each door by fierce-looking dogs. When he did emerge, it was in a ceremonial manner, with an escort of six dogs who closely surrounded him and growled if anyone came too near. Frequently he did not even appear on Sunday mornings, but issued his orders through one of the other pigs, usually Squealer. One Sunday morning Squealer announced that the hens, who had just come in to lay again, must surrender their eggs. Napoleon had accepted, through Whymper, a contract for four hundred eggs a week. The price of these would pay for enough grain and meal to keep the farm going till summer came on and conditions were easier. When the hens heard this, they raised a terrible outcry. They had been warned earlier that this sacrifice might be necessary, but had not believed that it would really happen. They were just getting their clutches ready for the spring sitting, and they protested that to take the eggs away now was murder. For the first time since the expulsion of Jones, there was something resembling a rebellion. Led by three young Black Minorca pullets, the hens made a determined effort to thwart Napoleon's wishes. Their method was to fly up to the rafters and there lay their eggs, which smashed to pieces on the floor. Napoleon acted swiftly and ruthlessly. He ordered the hens' rations to be stopped, and decreed that any animal giving so much as a grain of corn to a hen should be punished by death. The dogs saw to it that these orders were carried out. For five days the hens held out, then they capitulated and went back to their nesting boxes. Nine hens had died in the meantime. Their bodies were buried in the orchard, and it was given out that they had died of coccidiosis. Whymper heard nothing of this affair, and the eggs were duly delivered, a grocer's van driving up to the farm once a week to take them away. All this while no more had been seen of Snowball. He was rumoured to be hiding on one of the neighbouring farms, either Foxwood or Pinchfield. Napoleon was by this time on slightly better terms with the other farmers than before. It happened that there was in the yard a pile of timber which had been stacked there ten years earlier when a beech spinney was cleared. It was well seasoned, and Whymper had advised Napoleon to sell it; both Mr. Pilkington and Mr. Frederick were anxious to buy it. Napoleon was hesitating between the two, unable to make up his mind. It was noticed that whenever he seemed on the point of coming to an agreement with Frederick, Snowball was declared to be in hiding at Foxwood, while, when he inclined toward Pilkington, Snowball was said to be at Pinchfield. Suddenly, early in the spring, an alarming thing was discovered. Snowball was secretly frequenting the farm by night! The animals were so disturbed that they could hardly sleep in their stalls. Every night, it was said, he came creeping in under cover of darkness and performed all kinds of mischief. He stole the corn, he upset the milk-pails, he broke the eggs, he trampled the seedbeds, he gnawed the bark off the fruit trees. Whenever anything went wrong it became usual to attribute it to Snowball. If a window was broken or a drain was blocked up, someone was certain to say that Snowball had come in the night and done it, and when the key of the store-shed was lost, the whole farm was convinced that Snowball had thrown it down the well. Curiously enough, they went on believing this even after the mislaid key was found under a sack of meal. The cows declared unanimously that Snowball crept into their stalls and milked them in their sleep. The rats, which had been troublesome that winter, were also said to be in league with Snowball. Napoleon decreed that there should be a full investigation into Snowball's activities. With his dogs in attendance he set out and made a careful tour of inspection of the farm buildings, the other animals following at a respectful distance. At every few steps Napoleon stopped and snuffed the ground for traces of Snowball's footsteps, which, he said, he could detect by the smell. He snuffed in every corner, in the barn, in the cow-shed, in the henhouses, in the vegetable garden, and found traces of Snowball almost everywhere. He would put his snout to the ground, give several deep sniffs, ad exclaim in a terrible voice, 'Snowball! He has been here! I can smell him distinctly! ' and at the word 'Snowball ' all the dogs let out blood-curdling growls and showed their side teeth. The animals were thoroughly frightened. It seemed to them as though Snowball were some kind of invisible influence, pervading the air about them and menacing them with all kinds of dangers. In the evening Squealer called them together, and with an alarmed expression on his face told them that he had some serious news to report. 'Comrades! ' cried Squealer, making little nervous skips, 'a most terrible thing has been discovered. Snowball has sold himself to Frederick of Pinchfield Farm, who is even now plotting to attack us and take our farm away from us! Snowball is to act as his guide when the attack begins. But there is worse than that. We had thought that Snowball's rebellion was caused simply by his vanity and ambition. But we were wrong, comrades. Do you know what the real reason was? Snowball was in league with Jones from the very start! He was Jones's secret agent all the time. It has all been proved by documents which he left behind him and which we have only just discovered. To my mind this explains a great deal, comrades. Did we not see for ourselves how he attempted-fortunately without success-to get us defeated and destroyed at the Battle of the Cowshed? ' The animals were stupefied. This was a wickedness far outdoing Snowball's destruction of the windmill. But it was some minutes before they could fully take it in. They all remembered, or thought they remembered, how they had seen Snowball charging ahead of them at the Battle of the Cowshed, how he had rallied and encouraged them at every turn, and how he had not paused for an instant even when the pellets from Jones's gun had wounded his back. At first it was a little difficult to see how this fitted in with his being on Jones's side. Even Boxer, who seldom asked questions, was puzzled. He lay down, tucked his fore hoofs beneath him, shut his eyes, and with a hard effort managed to formulate his thoughts. 'I do not believe that, ' he said. 'Snowball fought bravely at the Battle of the Cowshed. I saw him myself. Did we not give him 'Animal Hero, first Class,' immediately afterwards? ' 'That was our mistake, comrade. For we know now-it is all written down in the secret documents that we have found-that in reality he was trying to lure us to our doom. ' 'But he was wounded, ' said Boxer. 'We all saw him running with blood. ' 'That was part of the arrangement! ' cried Squealer. 'Jones's shot only grazed him. I could show you this in his own writing, if you were able to read it. The plot was for Snowball, at the critical moment, to give the signal for flight and leave the field to the enemy. And he very nearly succeeded-I will even say, comrades, he would have succeeded if it had not been for our heroic Leader, Comrade Napoleon. Do you not remember how, just at the moment when Jones and his men had got inside the yard, Snowball suddenly turned and fled, and many animals followed him? And do you not remember, too, that it was just at that moment, when panic was spreading and all seemed lost, that Comrade Napoleon sprang forward with a cry of 'Death to Humanity!' and sank his teeth in Jones's leg? Surely you remember that, comrades? ' exclaimed Squealer, frisking from side to side. Now when Squealer described the scene so graphically, it seemed to the animals that they did remember it. At any rate, they remembered that at the critical moment of the battle Snowball had turned to flee. But Boxer was still a little uneasy. 'I do not believe that Snowball was a traitor at the beginning, ' he said finally. 'What he has done since is different. But I believe that at the Battle of the Cowshed he was a good comrade. ' 'Our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, ' announced Squealer, speaking very slowly and firmly, 'has stated categorically-categorically, comrade-that Snowball was Jones's agent from the very beginning-yes, and from long before the Rebellion was ever thought of. ' 'Ah, that is different! ' said Boxer. 'If Comrade Napoleon says it, it must be right. ' 'That is the true spirit, comrade! ' cried Squealer, but it was noticed he cast a very ugly look at Boxer with his little twinkling eyes. He turned to go, then paused and added impressively: 'I warn every animal on this farm to keep his eyes very wide open. For we have reason to think that some of Snowball's secret agents are lurking among us at this moment! ' Four days later, in the late afternoon, Napoleon ordered all the animals to assemble in the yard. When they were all gathered together, Napoleon emerged from the farmhouse, wearing both his medals (for he had recently awarded himself 'Animal Hero, First Class, ' and 'Animal Hero, Second Class '), with his nine huge dogs frisking round him and uttering growls that sent shivers down all the animals' spines. They all cowered silently in their places, seeming to know in advance that some terrible thing was about to happen. Napoleon stood sternly surveying his audience; then he uttered a high-pitched whimper. Immediately the dogs bounded forward, seized four of the pigs by the ear and dragged them, squealing with pain and terror, to Napoleon's feet. The pigs' ears were bleeding, the dogs had tasted blood, and for a few moments they appeared to go quite mad. To the amazement of everybody, three of them flung themselves upon Boxer. Boxer saw them coming and put out his great hoof, caught a dog in mid-air, and pinned him to the ground. The dog shrieked for mercy and the other two fled with their tails between their legs. Boxer looked at Napoleon to know whether he should crush the dog to death or let it go. Napoleon appeared to change countenance, and sharply ordered Boxer to let the dog go, whereat Boxer lifted his hoof, and the dog slunk away, bruised and howling. Presently the tumult died down. The four pigs waited, trembling, with guilt written on every line of their countenances. Napoleon now called upon them to confess their crimes. They were the same four pigs as had protested when Napoleon abolished the Sunday Meetings. Without any further prompting they confessed that they had been secretly in touch with Snowball ever since his expulsion, that they had collaborated with him in destroying the windmill, and that they had entered into an agreement with him to hand over to Mr. Frederick. They added that Snowball had privately admitted to them that he had been Jones's secret agent for years past. When they had finished their confession, the dogs promptly tore their throats out, and in a terrible voice Napoleon demanded whether any other animal had anything to confess. The three hens who had been the ringleaders in the attempted rebellion over the eggs now came forward and stated that Snowball had appeared to them in a dream and incited them to disobey Napoleon's orders. They, too, were slaughtered. Then a goose came forward and confessed to having secreted six ears of corn during the last year's harvest and eaten them in the night. Then a sheep confessed to having urinated in the drinking pool-urged to do this, so she said, by Snowball-and two other sheep confessed to having murdered an old ram, an especially devoted follower of Napoleon, by chasing him round and round a bonfire when he was suffering from a cough. They were all slain on the spot. And so the tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of corpses lying before Napoleon's feet and the air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones. When it was all over, the remaining animals, except for the pigs and dogs, crept away in a body. They were shaken and miserable. They did not know which was more shocking-the treachery of the animals who had leagued themselves with Snowball, or the cruel retribution they had just witnessed. In the old days there had often been scenes of bloodshed equally terrible, but it seemed to all of them that it was far worse now that it was happening among themselves. Since Jones had left the farm, until today, no animal had killed another animal. Not even a rat had been killed. They had made their way on to the little knoll where the half-finished windmill stood, and with one accord they all lay down as though huddling together for warmth-Clover, Muriel, Benjamin, the cows, the sheep, and a whole flock of geese and hens-everyone, indeed, except the cat, who had suddenly disappeared just before Napoleon ordered the animals to assemble. For some time nobody spoke. Only Boxer remained on his feet. He fidgeted to and fro, swishing his long black tail against his sides and occasionally uttering a little whinny of surprise. Finally he said: 'I do not understand it. I would not have believed that such things could happen on our farm. It must be due to some fault in ourselves. The solution, as I see it, is to work harder. From now onwards I shall get up a full hour earlier in the mornings. ' And he moved off at his lumbering trot and made for the quarry. Having got there, he collected two successive loads of stone and dragged them down to the windmill before retiring for the night. The animals huddled about Clover, not speaking. The knoll where they were lying gave them a wide prospect across the countryside. Most of was within their view-the long pasture stretching down to the main road, the hayfield, the spinney, the drinking pool, the ploughed fields where the young wheat was thick and green, and the red roofs of the farm buildings with the smoke curling from the chimneys. It was a clear spring evening. The grass and the bursting hedges were gilded by the level rays of the sun. Never had the farm-and with a kind of surprise they remembered that it was their own farm, every inch of it their own property-appeared to the animals so desirable a place. As Clover looked down the hillside her eyes filled with tears. If she could have spoken her thoughts, it would have been to say that this was not what they had aimed at when they had set themselves years ago to work for the overthrow of the human race. These scenes of terror and slaughter were not what they had looked forward to on that night when old Major first stirred them to rebellion. If she herself had had any picture of the future, it had been of a society of animals set free from hunger and the whip, all equal, each working according to his capacity, the strong protecting the weak, as she had protected the lost brood of ducklings with her foreleg on the night of Major's speech. Instead-she did not know why-they had come to a time when no one dared speak his mind, when fierce, growling dogs roamed everywhere, and when you had to watch your comrades torn to pieces after confessing to shocking crimes. There was no thought of rebellion or disobedience in her mind. She knew that, even as things were, they were far better off than they had been in the days of Jones, and that before all else it was needful to prevent the return of the human beings. Whatever happened she would remain faithful, work hard, carry out the orders that were given to her, and accept the leadership of Napoleon. But still, it was not for this that she and all the other animals had hoped and toiled. It was not for this that they had built the windmill and faced the bullets of Jones's gun. Such were her thoughts, though she lacked the words to express them. At last, feeling this to be in some way a substitute for the words she was unable to find, she began to sing Beasts of England. The other animals sitting round her took it up, and they sang it three times over-very tunefully, but slowly and mournfully, in a way they had never sung it before. They had just finished singing it for the third time when Squealer, attended by two dogs, approached them with the air of having something important to say. He announced that, by a special decree of Comrade Napoleon, Beasts of England had been abolished. From now onwards it was forbidden to sing it. The animals were taken aback. 'Why? ' cried Muriel. 'It's no longer needed, comrade, ' said Squealer stiffly. 'Beasts of England was the song of the Rebellion. But the Rebellion is now completed. The execution of the traitors this afternoon was the final act. The enemy both external and internal has been defeated. In Beasts of England we expressed our longing for a better society in days to come. But that society has now been established. Clearly this song has no longer any purpose. ' Frightened though they were, some of the animals might possibly have protested, but at this moment the sheep set up their usual bleating of 'Four legs good, two legs bad, ' which went on for several minutes and put an end to the discussion. So Beasts of England was heard no more. In its place Minimus, the poet, had composed another song which began: Never through me shalt thou come to harm! and this was sung every Sunday morning after the hoisting of the flag. But somehow neither the words nor the tune ever seemed to the animals to come up to Beasts of England. VIII A FEW days later, when the terror caused by the executions had died down, some of the animals remembered-or thought they remembered-that the Sixth Commandment decreed 'No animal shall kill any other animal. ' And though no one cared to mention it in the hearing of the pigs or the dogs, it was felt that the killings which had taken place did not square with this. Clover asked Benjamin to read her the Sixth Commandment, and when Benjamin, as usual, said that he refused to meddle in such matters, she fetched Muriel. Muriel read the Commandment for her. It ran: 'No animal shall kill any other animal without cause. ' Somehow or other, the last two words had slipped out of the animals' memory. But they saw now that the Commandment had not been violated; for clearly there was good reason for killing the traitors who had leagued themselves with Snowball. Throughout the year the animals worked even harder than they had worked in the previous year To rebuild the windmill, with walls twice as thick as before, and to finish it by the appointed date, together with the regular work of the farm, was a tremendous labour. There were times when it seemed to the animals that they worked longer hours and fed no better than they had done in Jones's day. On Sunday mornings Squealer, holding down a long strip of paper with his trotter, would read out to them lists of figures proving that the production of every class of foodstuff had increased by two hundred per cent, three hundred per cent, or five hundred per cent, as the case might be. The animals saw no reason to disbelieve him, especially as they could no longer remember very clearly what conditions had been like before the Rebellion. All the same, there were days when they felt that they would sooner have had less figures and more food. All orders were now issued through Squealer or one of the other pigs. Napoleon himself was not seen in public as often as once in a fortnight. When he did appear, he was attended not only by his retinue of dogs but by a black cockerel who marched in front of him and acted as a kind of trumpeter, letting out a loud 'cock-a-doodle-doo ' before Napoleon spoke. Even in the farmhouse, it was said, Napoleon inhabited separate apartments from the others. He took his meals alone, with two dogs to wait upon him, and always ate from the Crown Derby dinner service which had been in the glass cupboard in the drawing-room. It was also announced that the gun would be fired every year on Napoleon's birthday, as well as on the other two anniversaries. Napoleon was now never spoken of simply as 'Napoleon. ' He was always referred to in formal style as 'our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, ' and this pigs liked to invent for him such titles as Father of All Animals, Terror of Mankind, Protector of the Sheep-fold, Ducklings' Friend, and the like. In his speeches, Squealer would talk with the tears rolling down his cheeks of Napoleon's wisdom the goodness of his heart, and the deep love he bore to all animals everywhere, even and especially the unhappy animals who still lived in ignorance and slavery on other farms. It had become usual to give Napoleon the credit for every successful achievement and every stroke of good fortune. You would often hear one hen remark to another, 'Under the guidance of our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, I have laid five eggs in six days '; or two cows, enjoying a drink at the pool, would exclaim, 'Thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon, how excellent this water tastes! ' The general feeling on the farm was well expressed in a poem entitled Comrade Napoleon, which was composed by Minimus and which ran as follows: Friend of fatherless! Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Oh, how my soul is on Fire when I gaze at thy Calm and commanding eye, Like the sun in the sky, Comrade Napoleon! Thou are the giver of All that thy creatures love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon! Had I a sucking-pig, Ere he had grown as big Even as a pint bottle or as a rolling-pin, He should have learned to be Faithful and true to thee, Yes, his first squeak should be 'Comrade Napoleon! ' Napoleon approved of this poem and caused it to be inscribed on the wall of the big barn, at the opposite end from the Seven Commandments. It was surmounted by a portrait of Napoleon, in profile, executed by Squealer in white paint. Meanwhile, through the agency of Whymper, Napoleon was engaged in complicated negotiations with Frederick and Pilkington. The pile of timber was still unsold. Of the two, Frederick was the more anxious to get hold of it, but he would not offer a reasonable price. At the same time there were renewed rumours that Frederick and his men were plotting to attack and to destroy the windmill, the building of which had aroused furious jealousy in him. Snowball was known to be still skulking on Pinchfield Farm. In the middle of the summer the animals were alarmed to hear that three hens had come forward and confessed that, inspired by Snowball, they had entered into a plot to murder Napoleon. They were executed immediately, and fresh precautions for Napoleon's safety were taken. Four dogs guarded his bed at night, one at each corner, and a young pig named Pinkeye was given the task of tasting all his food before he ate it, lest it should be poisoned. At about the same time it was given out that Napoleon had arranged to sell the pile of timber to Mr. Pilkington; he was also going to enter into a regular agreement for the exchange of certain products between and Foxwood. The relations between Napoleon and Pilkington, though they were only conducted through Whymper, were now almost friendly. The animals distrusted Pilkington, as a human being, but greatly preferred him to Frederick, whom they both feared and hated. As the summer wore on, and the windmill neared completion, the rumours of an impending treacherous attack grew stronger and stronger. Frederick, it was said, intended to bring against them twenty men all armed with guns, and he had already bribed the magistrates and police, so that if he could once get hold of the title-deeds of they would ask no questions. Moreover, terrible stories were leaking out from Pinchfield about the cruelties that Frederick practised upon his animals. He had flogged an old horse to death, he starved his cows, he had killed a dog by throwing it into the furnace, he amused himself in the evenings by making cocks fight with splinters of razor-blade tied to their spurs. The animals' blood boiled with rage when they heard of these things beingdone to their comrades, and sometimes they clamoured to be allowed to go out in a body and attack Pinchfield Farm, drive out the humans, and set the animals free. But Squealer counselled them to avoid rash actions and trust in Comrade Napoleon's strategy. Nevertheless, feeling against Frederick continued to run high. One Sunday morning Napoleon appeared in the barn and explained that he had never at any time contemplated selling the pile of timber to Frederick; he considered it beneath his dignity, he said, to have dealings with scoundrels of that description. The pigeons who were still sent out to spread tidings of the Rebellion were forbidden to set foot anywhere on Foxwood, and were also ordered to drop their former slogan of 'Death to Humanity ' in favour of 'Death to Frederick. ' In the late summer yet another of Snowball's machinations was laid bare. The wheat crop was full of weeds, and it was discovered that on one of his nocturnal visits Snowball had mixed weed seeds with the seed corn. A gander who had been privy to the plot had confessed his guilt to Squealer and immediately committed suicide by swallowing deadly nightshade berries. The animals now also learned that Snowball had never-as many of them had believed hitherto-received the order of 'Animal Hero7 First Class. ' This was merely a legend which had been spread some time after the Battle of the Cowshed by Snowball himself. So far from being decorated, he had been censured for showing cowardice in the battle. Once again some of the animals heard this with a certain bewilderment, but Squealer was soon able to convince them that their memories had been at fault. In the autumn, by a tremendous, exhausting effort-for the harvest had to be gathered at almost the same time-the windmill was finished. The machinery had still to be installed, and Whymper was negotiating the purchase of it, but the structure was completed. In the teeth of every difficulty, in spite of inexperience, of primitive implements, of bad luck and of Snowball's treachery, the work had been finished punctually to the very day! Tired out but proud, the animals walked round and round their masterpiece, which appeared even more beautiful in their eyes than when it had been built the first time. Moreover, the walls were twice as thick as before. Nothing short of explosives would lay them low this time! And when they thought of how they had laboured, what discouragements they had overcome, and the enormous difference that would be made in their lives when the sails were turning and the dynamos running-when they thought of all this, their tiredness forsook them and they gambolled round and round the windmill, uttering cries of triumph. Napoleon himself, attended by his dogs and his cockerel, came down to inspect the completed work; he personally congratulated the animals on their achievement, and announced that the mill would be named Napoleon Mill. Two days later the animals were called together for a special meeting in the barn. They were struck dumb with surprise when Napoleon announced that he had sold the pile of timber to Frederick. Tomorrow Frederick's wagons would arrive and begin carting it away. Throughout the whole period of his seeming friendship with Pilkington, Napoleon had really been in secret agreement with Frederick. All relations with Foxwood had been broken off; insulting messages had been sent to Pilkington. The pigeons had been told to avoid Pinchfield Farm and to alter their slogan from 'Death to Frederick ' to 'Death to Pilkington. ' At the same time Napoleon assured the animals that the stories of an impending attack on were completely untrue, and that the tales about Frederick's cruelty to his own animals had been greatly exaggerated. All these rumours had probably originated with Snowball and his agents. It now appeared that Snowball was not, after all, hiding on Pinchfield Farm, and in fact had never been there in his life: he was living-in considerable luxury, so it was said-at Foxwood, and had in reality been a pensioner of Pilkington for years past. The pigs were in ecstasies over Napoleon's cunning. By seeming to be friendly with Pilkington he had forced Frederick to raise his price by twelve pounds. But the superior quality of Napoleon's mind, said Squealer, was shown in the fact that he trusted nobody, not even Frederick. Frederick had wanted to pay for the timber with something called a cheque, which, it seemed, was a piece of paper with a promise to pay written upon it. But Napoleon was too clever for him. He had demanded payment in real five-pound notes, which were to be handed over before the timber was removed. Already Frederick had paid up; and the sum he had paid was just enough to buy the machinery for the windmill. Meanwhile the timber was being carted away at high speed. When it was all gone, another special meeting was held in the barn for the animals to inspect Frederick's bank-notes. Smiling beatifically, and wearing both his decorations, Napoleon reposed on a bed of straw on the platform, with the money at his side, neatly piled on a china dish from the farmhouse kitchen. The animals filed slowly past, and each gazed his fill. And Boxer put out his nose to sniff at the bank-notes, and the flimsy white things stirred and rustled in his breath. Three days later there was a terrible hullabaloo. Whymper, his face deadly pale, came racing up the path on his bicycle, flung it down in the yard and rushed straight into the farmhouse. The next moment a choking roar of rage sounded from Napoleon's apartments. The news of what had happened sped round the farm like wildfire. The banknotes were forgeries! Frederick had got the timber for nothing! Napoleon called the animals together immediately and in a terrible voice pronounced the death sentence upon Frederick. When captured, he said, Frederick should be boiled alive. At the same time he warned them that after this treacherous deed the worst was to be expected. Frederick and his men might make their long-expected attack at any moment. Sentinels were placed at all the approaches to the farm. In addition, four pigeons were sent to Foxwood with a conciliatory message, which it was hoped might re-establish good relations with Pilkington. The very next morning the attack came. The animals were at breakfast when the look-outs came racing in with the news that Frederick and his followers had already come through the five-barred gate. Boldly enough the animals sallied forth to meet them, but this time they did not have the easy victory that they had had in the Battle of the Cowshed. There were fifteen men, with half a dozen guns between them, and they opened fire as soon as they got within fifty yards. The animals could not face the terrible explosions and the stinging pellets, and in spite of the efforts of Napoleon and Boxer to rally them, they were soon driven back. A number of them were already wounded. They took refuge in the farm buildings and peeped cautiously out from chinks and knot-holes. The whole of the big pasture, including the windmill, was in the hands of the enemy. For the moment even Napoleon seemed at a loss. He paced up and down without a word, his tail rigid and twitching. Wistful glances were sent in the direction of Foxwood. If Pilkington and his men would help them, the day might yet be won. But at this moment the four pigeons, who had been sent out on the day before, returned, one of them bearing a scrap of paper from Pilkington. On it was pencilled the words: 'Serves you right. ' Meanwhile Frederick and his men had halted about the windmill. The animals watched them, and a murmur of dismay went round. Two of the men had produced a crowbar and a sledge hammer. They were going to knock the windmill down. 'Impossible! ' cried Napoleon. 'We have built the walls far too thick for that. They could not knock it down in a week. Courage, comrades! ' But Benjamin was watching the movements of the men intently. The two with the hammer and the crowbar were drilling a hole near the base of the windmill. Slowly, and with an air almost of amusement, Benjamin nodded his long muzzle. 'I thought so, ' he said. 'Do you not see what they are doing? In another moment they are going to pack blasting powder into that hole. ' Terrified, the animals waited. It was impossible now to venture out of the shelter of the buildings. After a few minutes the men were seen to be running in all directions. Then there was a deafening roar. The pigeons swirled into the air, and all the animals, except Napoleon, flung themselves flat on their bellies and hid their faces. When they got up again, a huge cloud of black smoke was hanging where the windmill had been. Slowly the breeze drifted it away. The windmill had ceased to exist! At this sight the animals' courage returned to them. The fear and despair they had felt a moment earlier were drowned in their rage against this vile, contemptible act. A mighty cry for vengeance went up, and without waiting for further orders they charged forth in a body and made straight for the enemy. This time they did not heed the cruel pellets that swept over them like hail. It was a savage, bitter battle. The men fired again and again, and, when the animals got to close quarters, lashed out with their sticks and their heavy boots. A cow, three sheep, and two geese were killed, and nearly everyone was wounded. Even Napoleon, who was directing operations from the rear, had the tip of his tail chipped by a pellet. But the men did not go unscathed either. Three of them had their heads broken by blows from Boxer's hoofs; another was gored in the belly by a cow's horn; another had his trousers nearly torn off by Jessie and Bluebell. And when the nine dogs of Napoleon's own bodyguard, whom he had instructed to make a detour under cover of the hedge, suddenly appeared on the men's flank, baying ferociously, panic overtook them. They saw that they were in danger of being surrounded. Frederick shouted to his men to get out while the going was good, and the next moment the cowardly enemy was running for dear life. The animals chased them right down to the bottom of the field, and got in some last kicks at them as they forced their way through the thorn hedge. They had won, but they were weary and bleeding. Slowly they began to limp back towards the farm. The sight of their dead comrades stretched upon the grass moved some of them to tears. And for a little while they halted in sorrowful silence at the place where the windmill had once stood. Yes, it was gone; almost the last trace of their labour was gone! Even the foundations were partially destroyed. And in rebuilding it they could not this time, as before, make use of the fallen stones. This time the stones had vanished too. The force of the explosion had flung them to distances of hundreds of yards. It was as though the windmill had never been. As they approached the farm Squealer, who had unaccountably been absent during the fighting, came skipping towards them, whisking his tail and beaming with satisfaction. And the animals heard, from the direction of the farm buildings, the solemn booming of a gun. 'What is that gun firing for? ' said Boxer. 'To celebrate our victory! ' cried Squealer. 'What victory? ' said Boxer. His knees were bleeding, he had lost a shoe and split his hoof, and a dozen pellets had lodged themselves in his hind leg. 'What victory, comrade? Have we not driven the enemy off our soil-the sacred soil of ? ' 'But they have destroyed the windmill. And we had worked on it for two years! ' 'What matter? We will build another windmill. We will build six windmills if we feel like it. You do not appreciate, comrade, the mighty thing that we have done. The enemy was in occupation of this very ground that we stand upon. And now-thanks to the leadership of Comrade Napoleon-we have won every inch of it back again! ' 'Then we have won back what we had before, ' said Boxer. 'That is our victory, ' said Squealer. They limped into the yard. The pellets under the skin of Boxer's leg smarted painfully. He saw ahead of him the heavy labour of rebuilding the windmill from the foundations, and already in imagination he braced himself for the task. But for the first time it occurred to him that he was eleven years old and that perhaps his great muscles were not quite what they had once been. But when the animals saw the green flag flying, and heard the gun firing again-seven times it was fired in all-and heard the speech that Napoleon made, congratulating them on their conduct, it did seem to them after all that they had won a great victory. The animals slain in the battle were given a solemn funeral. Boxer and Clover pulled the wagon which served as a hearse, and Napoleon himself walked at the head of the procession. Two whole days were given over to celebrations. There were songs, speeches, and more firing of the gun, and a special gift of an apple was bestowed on every animal, with two ounces of corn for each bird and three biscuits for each dog. It was announced that the battle would be called the Battle of the Windmill, and that Napoleon had created a new decoration, the Order of the Green Banner, which he had conferred upon himself. In the general rejoicings the unfortunate affair of the banknotes was forgotten. It was a few days later than this that the pigs came upon a case of whisky in the cellars of the farmhouse. It had been overlooked at the time when the house was first occupied. That night there came from the farmhouse the sound of loud singing, in which, to everyone's surprise, the strains of Beasts of England were mixed up. At about half past nine Napoleon, wearing an old bowler hat of Mr. Jones's, was distinctly seen to emerge from the back door, gallop rapidly round the yard, and disappear indoors again. But in the morning a deep silence hung over the farmhouse. Not a pig appeared to be stirring. It was nearly nine o'clock when Squealer made his appearance, walking slowly and dejectedly, his eyes dull, his tail hanging limply behind him, and with every appearance of being seriously ill. He called the animals together and told them that he had a terrible piece of news to impart. Comrade Napoleon was dying! A cry of lamentation went up. Straw was laid down outside the doors of the farmhouse, and the animals walked on tiptoe. With tears in their eyes they asked one another what they should do if their Leader were taken away from them. A rumour went round that Snowball had after all contrived to introduce poison into Napoleon's food. At eleven o'clock Squealer came out to make another announcement. As his last act upon earth, Comrade Napoleon had pronounced a solemn decree: the drinking of alcohol was to be punished by death. By the evening, however, Napoleon appeared to be somewhat better, and the following morning Squealer was able to tell them that he was well on the way to recovery. By the evening of that day Napoleon was back at work, and on the next day it was learned that he had instructed Whymper to purchase in Willingdon some booklets on brewing and distilling. A week later Napoleon gave orders that the small paddock beyond the orchard, which it had previously been intended to set aside as a grazing-ground for animals who were past work, was to be ploughed up. It was given out that the pasture was exhausted and needed re-seeding; but it soon became known that Napoleon intended to sow it with barley. About this time there occurred a strange incident which hardly anyone was able to understand. One night at about twelve o'clock there was a loud crash in the yard, and the animals rushed out of their stalls. It was a moonlit night. At the foot of the end wall of the big barn, where the Seven Commandments were written, there lay a ladder broken in two pieces. Squealer, temporarily stunned, was sprawling beside it, and near at hand there lay a lantern, a paint-brush, and an overturned pot of white paint. The dogs immediately made a ring round Squealer, and escorted him back to the farmhouse as soon as he was able to walk. None of the animals could form any idea as to what this meant, except old Benjamin, who nodded his muzzle with a knowing air, and seemed to understand, but would say nothing. But a few days later Muriel, reading over the Seven Commandments to herself, noticed that there was yet another of them which the animals had remembered wrong. They had thought the Fifth Commandment was 'No animal shall drink alcohol, ' but there were two words that they had forgotten. Actually the Commandment read: 'No animal shall drink alcohol to excess. ' IX BOXER'S split hoof was a long time in healing. They had started the rebuilding of the windmill the day after the victory celebrations were ended Boxer refused to take even a day off work, and made it a point of honour not to let it be seen that he was in pain. In the evenings he would admit privately to Clover that the hoof troubled him a great deal. Clover treated the hoof with poultices of herbs which she prepared by chewing them, and both she and Benjamin urged Boxer to work less hard. 'A horse's lungs do not last for ever, ' she said to him. But Boxer would not listen. He had, he said, only one real ambition left-to see the windmill well under way before he reached the age for retirement. At the beginning, when the laws of were first formulated, the retiring age had been fixed for horses and pigs at twelve, for cows at fourteen, for dogs at nine, for sheep at seven, and for hens and geese at five. Liberal old-age pensions had been agreed upon. As yet no animal had actually retired on pension, but of late the subject had been discussed more and more. Now that the small field beyond the orchard had been set aside for barley, it was rumoured that a corner of the large pasture was to be fenced off and turned into a grazing-ground for superannuated animals. For a horse, it was said, the pension would be five pounds of corn a day and, in winter, fifteen pounds of hay, with a carrot or possibly an apple on public holidays. Boxer's twelfth birthday was due in the late summer of the following year. Meanwhile life was hard. The winter was as cold as the last one had been, and food was even shorter. Once again all rations were reduced, except those of the pigs and the dogs. A too rigid equality in rations, Squealer explained, would have been contrary to the principles of Animalism. In any case he had no difficulty in proving to the other animals that they were not in reality short of food, whatever the appearances might be. For the time being, certainly, it had been found necessary to make a readjustment of rations (Squealer always spoke of it as a 'readjustment, ' never as a 'reduction '), but in comparison with the days of Jones, the improvement was enormous. Reading out the figures in a shrill, rapid voice, he proved to them in detail that they had more oats, more hay, more turnips than they had had in Jones's day, that they worked shorter hours, that their drinking water was of better quality, that they lived longer, that a larger proportion of their young ones survived infancy, and that they had more straw in their stalls and suffered less from fleas. The animals believed every word of it. Truth to tell, Jones and all he stood for had almost faded out of their memories. They knew that life nowadays was harsh and bare, that they were often hungry and often cold, and that they were usually working when they were not asleep. But doubtless it had been worse in the old days. They were glad to believe so. Besides, in those days they had been slaves and now they were free, and that made all the difference, as Squealer did not fail to point out. There were many more mouths to feed now. In the autumn the four sows had all littered about simultaneously, producing thirty-one young pigs between them. The young pigs were piebald, and as Napoleon was the only boar on the farm, it was possible to guess at their parentage. It was announced that later, when bricks and timber had been purchased, a schoolroom would be built in the farmhouse garden. For the time being, the young pigs were given their instruction by Napoleon himself in the farmhouse kitchen. They took their exercise in the garden, and were discouraged from playing with the other young animals. About this time, too, it was laid down as a rule that when a pig and any other animal met on the path, the other animal must stand aside: and also that all pigs, of whatever degree, were to have the privilege of wearing green ribbons on their tails on Sundays. The farm had had a fairly successful year, but was still short of money. There were the bricks, sand, and lime for the schoolroom to be purchased, and it would also be necessary to begin saving up again for the machinery for the windmill. Then there were lamp oil and candles for the house, sugar for Napoleon's own table (he forbade this to the other pigs, on the ground that it made them fat), and all the usual replacements such as tools, nails, string, coal, wire, scrap-iron, and dog biscuits. A stump of hay and part of the potato crop were sold off, and the contract for eggs was increased to six hundred a week, so that that year the hens barely hatched enough chicks to keep their numbers at the same level. Rations, reduced in December, were reduced again in February, and lanterns in the stalls were forbidden to save Oil. But the pigs seemed comfortable enough, and in fact were putting on weight if anything. One afternoon in late February a warm, rich, appetising scent, such as the animals had never smelt before, wafted itself across the yard from the little brew-house, which had been disused in Jones's time, and which stood beyond the kitchen. Someone said it was the smell of cooking barley. The animals sniffed the air hungrily and wondered whether a warm mash was being prepared for their supper. But no warm mash appeared, and on the following Sunday it was announced that from now onwards all barley would be reserved for the pigs. The field beyond the orchard had already been sown with barley. And the news soon leaked out that every pig was now receiving a ration of a pint of beer daily, with half a gallon for Napoleon himself, which was always served to him in the Crown Derby soup tureen. But if there were hardships to be borne, they were partly offset by the fact that life nowadays had a greater dignity than it had had before. There were more songs, more speeches, more processions. Napoleon had commanded that once a week there should be held something called a Spontaneous Demonstration, the object of which was to celebrate the struggles and triumphs of . At the appointed time the animals would leave their work and march round the precincts of the farm in military formation, with the pigs leading, then the horses, then the cows, then the sheep, and then the poultry. The dogs flanked the procession and at the head of all marched Napoleon's black cockerel. Boxer and Clover always carried between them a green banner marked with the hoof and the horn and the caption, 'Long live Comrade Napoleon! ' Afterwards there were recitations of poems composed in Napoleon's honour, and a speech by Squealer giving particulars of the latest increases in the production of foodstuffs, and on occasion a shot was fired from the gun. The sheep were the greatest devotees of the Spontaneous Demonstration, and if anyone complained (as a few animals sometimes did, when no pigs or dogs were near) that they wasted time and meant a lot of standing about in the cold, the sheep were sure to silence him with a tremendous bleating of 'Four legs good, two legs bad! ' But by and large the animals enjoyed these celebrations. They found it comforting to be reminded that, after all, they were truly their own masters and that the work they did was for their own benefit. So that, what with the songs, the processions, Squealer's lists of figures, the thunder of the gun, the crowing of the cockerel, and the fluttering of the flag, they were able to forget that their bellies were empty, at least part of the time. In April, was proclaimed a Republic, and it became necessary to elect a President. There was only one candidate, Napoleon, who was elected unanimously. On the same day it was given out that fresh documents had been discovered which revealed further details about Snowball's complicity with Jones. It now appeared that Snowball had not, as the animals had previously imagined, merely attempted to lose the Battle of the Cowshed by means of a stratagem, but had been openly fighting on Jones's side. In fact, it was he who had actually been the leader of the human forces, and had charged into battle with the words 'Long live Humanity! ' on his lips. The wounds on Snowball's back, which a few of the animals still remembered to have seen, had been inflicted by Napoleon's teeth. In the middle of the summer Moses the raven suddenly reappeared on the farm, after an absence of several years. He was quite unchanged, still did no work, and talked in the same strain as ever about Sugarcandy Mountain. He would perch on a stump, flap his black wings, and talk by the hour to anyone who would listen. 'Up there, comrades, ' he would say solemnly, pointing to the sky with his large beak- 'up there, just on the other side of that dark cloud that you can see-there it lies, Sugarcandy Mountain, that happy country where we poor animals shall rest for ever from our labours! ' He even claimed to have been there on one of his higher flights, and to have seen the everlasting fields of clover and the linseed cake and lump sugar growing on the hedges. Many of the animals believed him. Their lives now, they reasoned, were hungry and laborious; was it not right and just that a better world should exist somewhere else? A thing that was difficult to determine was the attitude of the pigs towards Moses. They all declared contemptuously that his stories about Sugarcandy Mountain were lies, and yet they allowed him to remain on the farm, not working, with an allowance of a gill of beer a day. After his hoof had healed up, Boxer worked harder than ever. Indeed, all the animals worked like slaves that year. Apart from the regular work of the farm, and the rebuilding of the windmill, there was the schoolhouse for the young pigs, which was started in March. Sometimes the long hours on insufficient food were hard to bear, but Boxer never faltered. In nothing that he said or did was there any sign that his strength was not what it had been. It was only his appearance that was a little altered; his hide was less shiny than it had used to be, and his great haunches seemed to have shrunken. The others said, 'Boxer will pick up when the spring grass comes on '; but the spring came and Boxer grew no fatter. Sometimes on the slope leading to the top of the quarry, when he braced his muscles against the weight of some vast boulder, it seemed that nothing kept him on his feet except the will to continue. At such times his lips were seen to form the words, 'I will work harder '; he had no voice left. Once again Clover and Benjamin warned him to take care of his health, but Boxer paid no attention. His twelfth birthday was approaching. He did not care what happened so long as a good store of stone was accumulated before he went on pension. Late one evening in the summer, a sudden rumour ran round the farm that something had happened to Boxer. He had gone out alone to drag a load of stone down to the windmill. And sure enough, the rumour was true. A few minutes later two pigeons came racing in with the news: 'Boxer has fallen! He is lying on his side and can't get up! ' About half the animals on the farm rushed out to the knoll where the windmill stood. There lay Boxer, between the shafts of the cart, his neck stretched out, unable even to raise his head. His eyes were glazed, his sides matted with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of his mouth. Clover dropped to her knees at his side. 'Boxer! ' she cried, 'how are you? ' 'It is my lung, ' said Boxer in a weak voice. 'It does not matter. I think you will be able to finish the windmill without me. There is a pretty good store of stone accumulated. I had only another month to go in any case. To tell you the truth, I had been looking forward to my retirement. And perhaps, as Benjamin is growing old too, they will let him retire at the same time and be a companion to me. ' 'We must get help at once, ' said Clover. 'Run, somebody, and tell Squealer what has happened. ' All the other animals immediately raced back to the farmhouse to give Squealer the news. Only Clover remained, and Benjamin7 who lay down at Boxer's side, and, without speaking, kept the flies off him with his long tail. After about a quarter of an hour Squealer appeared, full of sympathy and concern. He said that Comrade Napoleon had learned with the very deepest distress of this misfortune to one of the most loyal workers on the farm, and was already making arrangements to send Boxer to be treated in the hospital at Willingdon. The animals felt a little uneasy at this. Except for Mollie and Snowball, no other animal had ever left the farm, and they did not like to think of their sick comrade in the hands of human beings. However, Squealer easily convinced them that the veterinary surgeon in Willingdon could treat Boxer's case more satisfactorily than could be done on the farm. And about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was with difficulty got on to his feet, and managed to limp back to his stall, where Clover and Benjamin had prepared a good bed of straw for him. For the next two days Boxer remained in his stall. The pigs had sent out a large bottle of pink medicine which they had found in the medicine chest in the bathroom, and Clover administered it to Boxer twice a day after meals. In the evenings she lay in his stall and talked to him, while Benjamin kept the flies off him. Boxer professed not to be sorry for what had happened. If he made a good recovery, he might expect to live another three years, and he looked forward to the peaceful days that he would spend in the corner of the big pasture. It would be the first time that he had had leisure to study and improve his mind. He intended, he said, to devote the rest of his life to learning the remaining twenty-two letters of the alphabet. However, Benjamin and Clover could only be with Boxer after working hours, and it was in the middle of the day when the van came to take him away. The animals were all at work weeding turnips under the supervision of a pig, when they were astonished to see Benjamin come galloping from the direction of the farm buildings, braying at the top of his voice. It was the first time that they had ever seen Benjamin excited-indeed, it was the first time that anyone had ever seen him gallop. 'Quick, quick! ' he shouted. 'Come at once! They're taking Boxer away! ' Without waiting for orders from the pig, the animals broke off work and raced back to the farm buildings. Sure enough, there in the yard was a large closed van, drawn by two horses, with lettering on its side and a sly-looking man in a low-crowned bowler hat sitting on the driver's seat. And Boxer's stall was empty. The animals crowded round the van. 'Good-bye, Boxer! ' they chorused, 'good-bye! ' 'Fools! Fools! ' shouted Benjamin, prancing round them and stamping the earth with his small hoofs. 'Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van? ' That gave the animals pause, and there was a hush. Muriel began to spell out the words. But Benjamin pushed her aside and in the midst of a deadly silence he read: ' 'Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon. Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.' Do you not understand what that means? They are taking Boxer to the knacker's! ' A cry of horror burst from all the animals. At this moment the man on the box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the yard at a smart trot. All the animals followed, crying out at the tops of their voices. Clover forced her way to the front. The van began to gather speed. Clover tried to stir her stout limbs to a gallop, and achieved a canter. 'Boxer! ' she cried. 'Boxer! Boxer! Boxer! ' And just at this moment, as though he had heard the uproar outside, Boxer's face, with the white stripe down his nose, appeared at the small window at the back of the van. 'Boxer! ' cried Clover in a terrible voice. 'Boxer! Get out! Get out quickly! They're taking you to your death! ' All the animals took up the cry of 'Get out, Boxer, get out! ' But the van was already gathering speed and drawing away from them. It was uncertain whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said. But a moment later his face disappeared from the window and there was the sound of a tremendous drumming of hoofs inside the van. He was trying to kick his way out. The time had been when a few kicks from Boxer's hoofs would have smashed the van to matchwood. But alas! his strength had left him; and in a few moments the sound of drumming hoofs grew fainter and died away. In desperation the animals began appealing to the two horses which drew the van to stop. 'Comrades, comrades! ' they shouted. 'Don't take your own brother to his death! ' But the stupid brutes, too ignorant to realise what was happening, merely set back their ears and quickened their pace. Boxer's face did not reappear at the window. Too late, someone thought of racing ahead and shutting the five-barred gate; but in another moment the van was through it and rapidly disappearing down the road. Boxer was never seen again. Three days later it was announced that he had died in the hospital at Willingdon, in spite of receiving every attention a horse could have. Squealer came to announce the news to the others. He had, he said, been present during Boxer's last hours. 'It was the most affecting sight I have ever seen! ' said Squealer, lifting his trotter and wiping away a tear. 'I was at his bedside at the very last. And at the end, almost too weak to speak, he whispered in my ear that his sole sorrow was to have passed on before the windmill was finished. 'Forward, comrades!' he whispered. 'Forward in the name of the Rebellion. Long live ! Long live Comrade Napoleon! Napoleon is always right.' Those were his very last words, comrades. ' Here Squealer's demeanour suddenly changed. He fell silent for a moment, and his little eyes darted suspicious glances from side to side before he proceeded. It had come to his knowledge, he said, that a foolish and wicked rumour had been circulated at the time of Boxer's removal. Some of the animals had noticed that the van which took Boxer away was marked 'Horse Slaughterer, ' and had actually jumped to the conclusion that Boxer was being sent to the knacker's. It was almost unbelievable, said Squealer, that any animal could be so stupid. Surely, he cried indignantly, whisking his tail and skipping from side to side, surely they knew their beloved Leader, Comrade Napoleon, better than that? But the explanation was really very simple. The van had previously been the property of the knacker, and had been bought by the veterinary surgeon, who had not yet painted the old name out. That was how the mistake had arisen. The animals were enormously relieved to hear this. And when Squealer went on to give further graphic details of Boxer's death-bed, the admirable care he had received, and the expensive medicines for which Napoleon had paid without a thought as to the cost, their last doubts disappeared and the sorrow that they felt for their comrade's death was tempered by the thought that at least he had died happy. Napoleon himself appeared at the meeting on the following Sunday morning and pronounced a short oration in Boxer's honour. It had not been possible, he said, to bring back their lamented comrade's remains for interment on the farm, but he had ordered a large wreath to be made from the laurels in the farmhouse garden and sent down to be placed on Boxer's grave. And in a few days' time the pigs intended to hold a memorial banquet in Boxer's honour. Napoleon ended his speech with a reminder of Boxer's two favourite maxims, 'I will work harder ' and 'Comrade Napoleon is always right '-maxims, he said, which every animal would do well to adopt as his own. On the day appointed for the banquet, a grocer's van drove up from Willingdon and delivered a large wooden crate at the farmhouse. That night there was the sound of uproarious singing, which was followed by what sounded like a violent quarrel and ended at about eleven o'clock with a tremendous crash of glass. No one stirred in the farmhouse before noon on the following day, and the word went round that from somewhere or other the pigs had acquired the money to buy themselves another case of whisky. yeARS passed. The seasons came and went, the short animal lives fled by. A time came when there was no one who remembered the old days before the Rebellion, except Clover, Benjamin, Moses the raven, and a number of the pigs. Muriel was dead; Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher were dead. Jones too was dead-he had died in an inebriates' home in another part of the country. Snowball was forgotten. Boxer was forgotten, except by the few who had known him. Clover was an old stout mare now, stiff in the joints and with a tendency to rheumy eyes. She was two years past the retiring age, but in fact no animal had ever actually retired. The talk of setting aside a corner of the pasture for superannuated animals had long since been dropped. Napoleon was now a mature boar of twenty-four stone. Squealer was so fat that he could with difficulty see out of his eyes. Only old Benjamin was much the same as ever, except for being a little greyer about the muzzle, and, since Boxer's death, more morose and taciturn than ever. There were many more creatures on the farm now, though the increase was not so great as had been expected in earlier years. Many animals had been born to whom the Rebellion was only a dim tradition, passed on by word of mouth, and others had been bought who had never heard mention of such a thing before their arrival. The farm possessed three horses now besides Clover. They were fine upstanding beasts, willing workers and good comrades, but very stupid. None of them proved able to learn the alphabet beyond the letter B. They accepted everything that they were told about the Rebellion and the principles of Animalism, especially from Clover, for whom they had an almost filial respect; but it was doubtful whether they understood very much of it. The farm was more prosperous now, and better organised: it had even been enlarged by two fields which had been bought from Mr. Pilkington. The windmill had been successfully completed at last, and the farm possessed a threshing machine and a hay elevator of its own, and various new buildings had been added to it. Whymper had bought himself a dogcart. The windmill, however, had not after all been used for generating electrical power. It was used for milling corn, and brought in a handsome money profit. The animals were hard at work building yet another windmill; when that one was finished, so it was said, the dynamos would be installed. But the luxuries of which Snowball had once taught the animals to dream, the stalls with electric light and hot and cold water, and the three-day week, were no longer talked about. Napoleon had denounced such ideas as contrary to the spirit of Animalism. The truest happiness, he said, lay in working hard and living frugally. Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown richer without making the animals themselves any richer-except, of course, for the pigs and the dogs. Perhaps this was partly because there were so many pigs and so many dogs. It was not that these creatures did not work, after their fashion. There was, as Squealer was never tired of explaining, endless work in the supervision and organisation of the farm. Much of this work was of a kind that the other animals were too ignorant to understand. For example, Squealer told them that the pigs had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things called 'files, ' 'reports, ' 'minutes, ' and 'memoranda. ' These were large sheets of paper which had to be closely covered with writing, and as soon as they were so covered, they were burnt in the furnace. This was of the highest importance for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said. But still, neither pigs nor dogs produced any food by their own labour; and there were very many of them, and their appetites were always good. As for the others, their life, so far as they knew, was as it had always been. They were generally hungry, they slept on straw, they drank from the pool, they laboured in the fields; in winter they were troubled by the cold, and in summer by the flies. Sometimes the older ones among them racked their dim memories and tried to determine whether in the early days of the Rebellion, when Jones's expulsion was still recent, things had been better or worse than now. They could not remember. There was nothing with which they could compare their present lives: they had nothing to go upon except Squealer's lists of figures, which invariably demonstrated that everything was getting better and better. The animals found the problem insoluble; in any case, they had little time for speculating on such things now. Only old Benjamin professed to remember every detail of his long life and to know that things never had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse-hunger, hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of life. And yet the animals never gave up hope. More, they never lost, even for an instant, their sense of honour and privilege in being members of . They were still the only farm in the whole county-in all England!-owned and operated by animals. Not one of them, not even the youngest, not even the newcomers who had been brought from farms ten or twenty miles away, ever ceased to marvel at that. And when they heard the gun booming and saw the green flag fluttering at the masthead, their hearts swelled with imperishable pride, and the talk turned always towards the old heroic days, the expulsion of Jones, the writing of the Seven Commandments, the great battles in which the human invaders had been defeated. None of the old dreams had been abandoned. The Republic of the Animals which Major had foretold, when the green fields of England should be untrodden by human feet, was still believed in. Some day it was coming: it might not be soon, it might not be with in the lifetime of any animal now living, but still it was coming. Even the tune of Beasts of England was perhaps hummed secretly here and there: at any rate, it was a fact that every animal on the farm knew it, though no one would have dared to sing it aloud. It might be that their lives were hard and that not all of their hopes had been fulfilled; but they were conscious that they were not as other animals. If they went hungry, it was not from feeding tyrannical human beings; if they worked hard, at least they worked for themselves. No creature among them went upon two legs. No creature called any other creature 'Master. ' All animals were equal. One day in early summer Squealer ordered the sheep to follow him, and led them out to a piece of waste ground at the other end of the farm, which had become overgrown with birch saplings. The sheep spent the whole day there browsing at the leaves under Squealer's supervision. In the evening he returned to the farmhouse himself, but, as it was warm weather, told the sheep to stay where they were. It ended by their remaining there for a whole week, during which time the other animals saw nothing of them. Squealer was with them for the greater part of every day. He was, he said, teaching them to sing a new song, for which privacy was needed. It was just after the sheep had returned, on a pleasant evening when the animals had finished work and were making their way back to the farm buildings, that the terrified neighing of a horse sounded from the yard. Startled, the animals stopped in their tracks. It was Clover's voice. She neighed again, and all the animals broke into a gallop and rushed into the yard. Then they saw what Clover had seen. It was a pig walking on his hind legs. Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly, as though not quite used to supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with perfect balance, he was strolling across the yard. And a moment later, out from the door of the farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their hind legs. Some did it better than others, one or two were even a trifle unsteady and looked as though they would have liked the support of a stick, but every one of them made his way right round the yard successfully. And finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him. He carried a whip in his trotter. There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified, huddling together, the animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the yard. It was as though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a moment when the first shock had worn off and when, in spite of everything-in spite of their terror of the dogs, and of the habit, developed through long years, of never complaining, never criticising, no matter what happened-they might have uttered some word of protest. But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep burst out into a tremendous bleating of- 'Four legs good, two legs better! Four legs good, two legs better! Four legs good, two legs better! ' It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the pigs had marched back into the farmhouse. Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder. He looked round. It was Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying anything, she tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of the big barn, where the Seven Commandments were written. For a minute or two they stood gazing at the tatted wall with its white lettering. 'My sight is failing, ' she said finally. 'Even when I was young I could not have read what was written there. But it appears to me that that wall looks different. Are the Seven Commandments the same as they used to be, Benjamin? ' For once Benjamin consented to break his rule, and he read out to her what was written on the wall. There was nothing there now except a single Commandment. It ran: ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS After that it did not seem strange when next day the pigs who were supervising the work of the farm all carried whips in their trotters. It did not seem strange to learn that the pigs had bought themselves a wireless set, were arranging to install a telephone, and had taken out subscriptions to John Bull, TitBits, and the Daily Mirror. It did not seem strange when Napoleon was seen strolling in the farmhouse garden with a pipe in his mouth-no, not even when the pigs took Mr. Jones's clothes out of the wardrobes and put them on, Napoleon himself appearing in a black coat, ratcatcher breeches, and leather leggings, while his favourite sow appeared in the watered silk dress which Mrs. Jones had been used to wear on Sundays. A week later, in the afternoon, a number of dogcarts drove up to the farm. A deputation of neighbouring farmers had been invited to make a tour of inspection. They were shown all over the farm, and expressed great admiration for everything they saw, especially the windmill. The animals were weeding the turnip field. They worked diligently hardly raising their faces from the ground, and not knowing whether to be more frightened of the pigs or of the human visitors. That evening loud laughter and bursts of singing came from the farmhouse. And suddenly, at the sound of the mingled voices, the animals were stricken with curiosity. What could be happening in there, now that for the first time animals and human beings were meeting on terms of equality? With one accord they began to creep as quietly as possible into the farmhouse garden. At the gate they paused, half frightened to go on but Clover led the way in. They tiptoed up to the house, and such animals as were tall enough peered in at the dining-room window. There, round the long table, sat half a dozen farmers and half a dozen of the more eminent pigs, Napoleon himself occupying the seat of honour at the head of the table. The pigs appeared completely at ease in their chairs The company had been enjoying a game of cards but had broken off for the moment, evidently in order to drink a toast. A large jug was circulating, and the mugs were being refilled with beer. No one noticed the wondering faces of the animals that gazed in at the window. Mr. Pilkington, of Foxwood, had stood up, his mug in his hand. In a moment, he said, he would ask the present company to drink a toast. But before doing so, there were a few words that he felt it incumbent upon him to say. It was a source of great satisfaction to him, he said-and, he was sure, to all others present-to feel that a long period of mistrust and misunderstanding had now come to an end. There had been a time-not that he, or any of the present company, had shared such sentiments-but there had been a time when the respected proprietors of had been regarded, he would not say with hostility, but perhaps with a certain measure of misgiving, by their human neighbours. Unfortunate incidents had occurred, mistaken ideas had been current. It had been felt that the existence of a farm owned and operated by pigs was somehow abnormal and was liable to have an unsettling effect in the neighbourhood. Too many farmers had assumed, without due enquiry, that on such a farm a spirit of licence and indiscipline would prevail. They had been nervous about the effects upon their own animals, or even upon their human employees. But all such doubts were now dispelled. Today he and his friends had visited and inspected every inch of it with their own eyes, and what did they find? Not only the most up-to-date methods, but a discipline and an orderliness which should be an example to all farmers everywhere. He believed that he was right in saying that the lower animals on Animal Farm did more work and received less food than any animals in the county. Indeed, he and his fellow-visitors today had observed many features which they intended to introduce on their own farms immediately. He would end his remarks, he said, by emphasising once again the friendly feelings that subsisted, and ought to subsist, between Animal Farm and its neighbours. Between pigs and human beings there was not, and there need not be, any clash of interests whatever. Their struggles and their difficulties were one. Was not the labour problem the same everywhere? Here it became apparent that Mr. Pilkington was about to spring some carefully prepared witticism on the company, but for a moment he was too overcome by amusement to be able to utter it. After much choking, during which his various chins turned purple, he managed to get it out: 'If you have your lower animals to contend with, ' he said, 'we have our lower classes! ' This bon mot set the table in a roar; and Mr. Pilkington once again congratulated the pigs on the low rations, the long working hours, and the general absence of pampering which he had observed on . And now, he said finally, he would ask the company to rise to their feet and make certain that their glasses were full. 'Gentlemen, ' concluded Mr. Pilkington, 'gentlemen, I give you a toast: To the prosperity of ! ' There was enthusiastic cheering and stamping of feet. Napoleon was so gratified that he left his place and came round the table to clink his mug against Mr. Pilkington's before emptying it. When the cheering had died down, Napoleon, who had remained on his feet, intimated that he too had a few words to say. Like all of Napoleon's speeches, it was short and to the point. He too, he said, was happy that the period of misunderstanding was at an end. For a long time there had been rumours-circulated, he had reason to think, by some malignant enemy-that there was something subversive and even revolutionary in the outlook of himself and his colleagues. They had been credited with attempting to stir up rebellion among the animals on neighbouring farms. Nothing could be further from the truth! Their sole wish, now and in the past, was to live at peace and in normal business relations with their neighbours. This farm which he had the honour to control, he added, was a co-operative enterprise. The title-deeds, which were in his own possession, were owned by the pigs jointly. He did not believe, he said, that any of the old suspicions still lingered, but certain changes had been made recently in the routine of the farm which should have the effect of promoting confidence stiff further. Hitherto the animals on the farm had had a rather foolish custom of addressing one another as 'Comrade. ' This was to be suppressed. There had also been a very strange custom, whose origin was unknown, of marching every Sunday morning past a boar's skull which was nailed to a post in the garden. This, too, would be suppressed, and the skull had already been buried. His visitors might have observed, too, the green flag which flew from the masthead. If so, they would perhaps have noted that the white hoof and horn with which it had previously been marked had now been removed. It would be a plain green flag from now onwards. He had only one criticism, he said, to make of Mr. Pilkington's excellent and neighbourly speech. Mr. Pilkington had referred throughout to ' . ' He could not of course know-for he, Napoleon, was only now for the first time announcing it-that the name ' ' had been abolished. Henceforward the farm was to be known as 'The Manor Farm '-which, he believed, was its correct and original name. 'Gentlemen, ' concluded Napoleon, 'I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm! ' There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the pigs? Clover's old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the animals crept silently away. But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each played an ace of spades simultaneously. Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. , London, 1946

captive Prince

PROLOGUE ‘WE HEAR THAT your Prince,’ said Lady Jokaste, ‘keeps his own harem. These slaves will please any traditionalist, but I have asked Adrastus to prepare something special in addition, a personal gift for your Prince from the King. A gem in the rough, as it were.’ ‘His Majesty has already been so generous,’said Councillor Guion, the Ambassador of Vere. They strolled the length of the viewing gallery. Guion had dined on mouth-watering spiced meats wrapped in grape leaves, the noon-day heat fanned away from his reclining form by attentive slaves. He felt generously willing to admit that this barbaric country had its charms. The food was rustic but the slaves were impeccable: faultlessly obedient and trained to efface and anticipate, nothing like the spoiled pets at the court of Vere. The gallery was decorated by two dozen slaves on display. All were either naked or barely clad in transparent silks. Around their necks, the slaves wore gold collars decorated with rubies and tanzanite and on their wrists golden wrist-cuffs. These were purely ornamental. The slaves knelt in demonstration of their willing submissiveness. They were to be a gift from the new King of Akielos to the Regent of Vere—a highly generous gift. The gold alone was worth a small fortune, while the slaves were surely some of the finest in Akielos. Privately, Guion had already earmarked one of the palace slaves for his personal use, a demure youth with a beautifully slender waist and heavily lashed dark eyes. As they reached the far end of the gallery, Adrastus, the Keeper of the Royal Slaves, bowed sharply, the heels of his laced brown leather boots drawing together. ‘Ah. Here we are,’said Lady Jokaste, smiling. They proceeded into an antechamber, and Guion’s eyes widened. Bound and under heavy guard was a male slave unlike any Guion had ever seen. Powerfully muscled and physically imposing, he was not wearing the trinket-chains that adorned the other slaves in the gallery. His restraints were real. His wrists were lashed behind his back and his legs and torso were bound with thick cords. Despite this, the force of his body looked only barely contained. His dark eyes flashed furiously above the gag, and if you looked closely at the expensive cords that bound his torso and legs you could see the red weals where he had fought, hard, against his restraints. Guion’s pulse sped up, an almost panicked reaction. A gem in the rough? This slave was more like a wild animal, nothing like the twenty-four tame kittens who lined the hall. The sheer power of his body was barely held in check. Guion looked at Adrastus, who was hanging back, as though the slave’s presence made himnervous. ‘Are all the new slaves bound?’ asked Guion, trying to regain his composure. ‘No, just him. He, that is—’ Adrastus hesitated. ‘Yes?’ ‘He isn’t used to being handled,’said Adrastus, with an uneasy sideways look at Lady Jokaste. ‘He hasn’t been trained.’ ‘The Prince, we hear, enjoys a challenge,’said Lady Jokaste. Guion tried to quell his reaction as he turned his gaze back to the slave. It was highly questionable whether this barbarous gift would appeal to the Prince, whose feelings towards the savage inhabitants of Akielos lacked warmth, to say the least. ‘Does he have a name?’ asked Guion. ‘Your Prince is, of course, free to name him whatever he likes,’said Lady Jokaste. ‘But I believe it would greatly please the King if he were to call him “Damen.”’ Her eyes glittered. ‘Lady Jokaste,’said Adrastus, seemingly in objection, though of course that was impossible. Guion looked from one to the other of them. He saw that he was expected to make some comment. ‘That is certainly—an interesting choice of name,’said Guion. In fact he was appalled. ‘The King thinks so,’said Lady Jokaste, stretching her lips slightly. They killed his slave Lykaios with the quick slice of a sword across her throat. She was a palace slave, untrained in combat and so sweetly obedient that, had he commanded it of her, she would have knelt and bared her own throat for the stroke. She was not given a chance to obey or resist. She folded soundlessly, her pale limbs lying quite still on the white marble. Beneath her, blood began slowly to spread out over the marble floor. ‘Seize him!’said one of the soldiers that poured into the room, a man with lank brown hair. Damen might have allowed it simply out of shock, but it was in that instant that two of the soldiers lay hands on Lykaios and cut her down. At the end of the first exchange, three of the soldiers were dead, and Damen had possession of a sword. The men facing him wavered and held back. ‘Who sent you?’said Damen. The lank-haired soldier said, ‘The King.’ ‘Father?’ He almost lowered his sword. ‘Kastor. Your father is dead. Take him.’ Fighting came naturally to Damen, whose abilities were born of strength, natural aptitude and relentless practice. But these men had been sent against him by one who knew all of that very well, and further, was not stinting in his judgement of how many soldiers it would take to overcome a man of Damen’s calibre. Overwhelmed by numbers, Damen could only last so long before he was taken, his arms twisted behind his back, a sword at his throat. He had then, naively, expected to be killed. Instead he was beaten, restrained and—when he fought free, doing a gratifying amount of damage for one who had no weapon—beaten again. ‘Get him out of here,’ said the lank-haired soldier, wiping the back of his hand across the thin line of blood at his temple. He was thrown into a cell. His mind, which ran along straight and candid lines, could not make sense of what was happening. ‘Take me to see my brother,’ he demanded, and the soldiers laughed and one kicked him in the stomach. ‘Your brother’s the one who gave the order,’ one of them sneered. ‘You’re lying. Kastor’s no traitor.’ But the door of his cell slammed shut, and doubt raised its head for the first time. He had been naive, a small voice began to whisper, he hadn’t anticipated, he hadn’t seen; or perhaps he had refused to see, giving no credence to the dark rumours that seemed to disrespect the honour with which a son should treat the final days of a sick and dying father. In the morning they came for him, and understanding now all that had occurred, and wishing to meet his captor with courage and bitter pride, he allowed his arms to be lashed behind his back, submitting to rough handling and moving forward when he was propelled by a hard shove between the shoulders. When he realised where he was being taken, he began to struggle again, violently. The room was simply carved in white marble. The floor, also marble, sloped faintly, terminating at an unobtrusive carved runnel. From the ceiling hung a pair of shackles, to which Damen, forcefully resisting, was chained against his will, his arms pulled up above his head. These were the slave baths. Damen jerked against the restraints. They didn’t budge. His wrists were already bruised. On this side of the water, a miscellany of cushions and towels were arranged in an appealing tumble. Coloured glass bottles in a variety of shapes, containing a variety of oils, glimmered like jewels amid the cushions. The water was scented, milky, and decorated with slowly drowning rose petals. All the niceties. This could not be happening, Damen felt a surge in his chest; fury, outrage and somewhere buried beneath these a new emotion that twisted and roiled in his belly. One of the soldiers immobilised him in a practised hold from behind. The other began to strip him. His garments were unpinned and drawn off swiftly. His sandals were cut from his feet. The burn of humiliation hot as steam across his cheeks, Damen stood shackled, naked, the moist warmth of the baths curling up against his skin. The soldiers withdrew to the archway, where a figure dismissed them, his chiselled face handsome, and familiar. Adrastus was the Keeper of the Royal Slaves. His was a prestigious position that had been bestowed on him by King Theomedes. Damen was hit by a wave of anger so powerful it almost robbed him of vision. When he came back to himself he saw the way Adrastus was considering him. ‘You wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me,’said Damen. ‘I’m under orders,’said Adrastus, though he was holding back. ‘I’ll kill you,’said Damen. ‘Maybe a—a woman—’ said Adrastus, backing up a step and whispering into the ear of one of the attendants, who bowed and left the room. A slave entered a few moments later. Hand picked, she matched all that was known of Damen’s tastes. Her skin was as white as the marble of the baths, and her yellow hair was simply pinned, exposing the elegant column of her throat. Her breasts were full and swelled beneath the gauze; her pink nipples were faintly visible. Damen watched her approach with the same wariness with which he would follow the movements of an opponent on the field, though he was no stranger to being serviced by slaves. Her hand rose to the clasp at her shoulder. She exposed the curve of a breast, a slender waist, the gauze sliding down to her hips, and lower. Her garments dropped to the floor. Then she picked up a water scoop. Naked, she bathed his body, soaping and rinsing, heedless of the way the water spilled against her own skin and splashed her round breasts. Finally she wet and soaped his hair, washing it thoroughly, finishing by rising up on her toes and tipping one of the smaller tubs of warm water over the back of his head. Like a dog, he shook it off. He looked around for Adrastus, but the Keeper of the Slaves seemed to have disappeared. The slave took up one of the coloured vials and poured some of its oil into her palm. Coating her hands, she began to work the stuff into his skin with methodical strokes, applying it everywhere. Her eyes remained downcast, even when her strokes deliberately slowed, and she moved against him. Damen’s fingers bit into his chains. ‘That’s enough,’said Jokaste, and the slave jerked back from Damen, prostrating herself on the wet marble floor instantly. Damen, manifestly aroused, weathered Jokaste’s calmly appraising gaze. ‘I want to see my brother,’said Damen. ‘You have no brother,’ said Jokaste. ‘You have no family. You have no name, rank or position. By now, you should know that much at least.’ ‘Do you expect me to submit to this? To be mastered by—who—Adrastus? I’ll tear his throat out.’ ‘Yes. You would. But you won’t be serving in the palace.’ ‘Where.’ Flatly. She gazed at him. Damen said, ‘What have you done?’ ‘Nothing,’she said, ‘but choose between brothers.’ They had last spoken in her rooms in the palace; her hand had pressed to his arm. She looked like a painting. Her curls were coiled and perfect, and her high smooth brow and classical features were composed. Where Adrastus had held back, her delicate sandals picked their way with calm and sure steps across the wet marble towards him. He said, ‘Why keep me alive? What—need—does this satisfy? It’s neat enough, except for that. Is it—’ He bit down on it; she deliberately misunderstood his words. ‘A brother’s love? You don’t know him at all, do you. What’s a death but easy, quick. It’s supposed to haunt you forever that the one time he beat you was the one time that mattered.’ Damen felt his face changing shape. ‘—What?’ She touched his jaw, unafraid. Her fingers were slender, white and faultlessly elegant. ‘I see why you prefer pale skin,’she said. ‘Yours hides the bruising.’ After they locked him into the gold collar and wrist-cuffs, they painted his face. There was no taboo in Akielos regarding male nudity but the paint was the mark of a slave, and it was mortifying. He thought there was no greater humiliation than when he was thrown to the ground in front of Adrastus. Then he saw Adrastus’s face, and saw the esurient expression. ‘You look . . .’ Adrastus gazed at him. Damen’s arms were bound behind his back, and further restraints had restricted his movements to little more than a hobble. Now he was sprawled on the ground at Adrastus’s feet. He drew himself up onto his knees, but was prevented from rising further by the restraining grip of his two guards. ‘If you did it for a position,’ said Damen, flat hatred in his voice, ‘you’re a fool. You’ll never advance. He can’t trust you. You’ve already betrayed for gain once.’ The blow snapped his head to one side. Damen ran his tongue over the inside of his lip and tasted blood. ‘I did not give you permission to speak,’said Adrastus. ‘You hit like a milk-fed catamite,’said Damen. Adrastus took a step back, his face white. ‘Gag him,’ he said, and Damen was struggling again, in vain, against the guards. His jaw was expertly prised open, and a thickly cloth-bound iron bit forced into his mouth and swiftly tied. He could make no more than a muffled sound, but he glared at Adrastus over the gag with defiant eyes. ‘You don’t understand it yet,’ said Adrastus. ‘But you will. You’ll come to understand that what they are saying in the palace, in the taverns and in the streets is true. You’re a slave. You’re worth nothing. Prince Damianos is dead.’ CHAPTER 1 DAMEN CAME BACK to himself in stages, his drugged limbs heavy against the silk cushions, the gold cuffs on his wrists like lead weights. His eyelids raised and lowered. The sounds he heard made no sense at first: the murmur of voices speaking Veretian. Instinct said: Get up. He gathered himself, pushing up onto his knees. Veretian voices? His muddled thoughts, arriving at this conclusion, could make nothing of it at first. His mind was harder than his body to muster. He could not immediately remember anything after his capture, though he knew that time had passed between now and then. He was aware that at some point he had been drugged. He searched for that memory. Eventually he found it. He had tried to escape. He had been transported inside a locked wagon under heavy guard to a house on the edge of the city. He had been pulled from the wagon into a closed courtyard and . . . he remembered bells. The courtyard had filled with the sudden sound of bells, a cacophony of sound from the highest places in the city, carrying in the warm evening air. Bells at dusk, heralding a new King. Theomedes is dead. All hail Kastor. At the sound of the bells, the need to escape had overwhelmed any urge to caution or subterfuge, part of the fury and grief that came upon him in waves. The starting of the horses had given him his opportunity. But he had been unarmed, and surrounded by soldiers, in a closed courtyard. The subsequent handling had not been delicate. They had thrown him into a cell deep in the bowels of the house, after which, they had drugged him. Days had bled into one another. Of the rest he recalled only brief snatches including—his stomach sank—the slap and spray of salt water: transportation aboard a ship. His head was clearing. His head was clearing for the first time in—how long? How long since his capture? How long since the bells had rung? How long had he allowed this to go on? A surge of will drove Damen from his knees onto his feet. He must protect his household, his people. He took a step. A chain rattled. The tiled floor slid under his feet, dizzily; his vision swam. He struck out for support and steadied himself, one shoulder against the wall. With an effort of will, he did not slide back down it. Holding himself upright, he forced the dizziness back. Where was he? He made his hazy mind take inventory of himself and his surroundings. He was dressed in the brief garments of an Akielon slave, and from head to toe he was clean. He supposed this meant he had been tended, though his mind could supply him with no memory of it happening. He retained the gold collar and the gold cuffs on his wrists. His collar was chained to an iron link in the floor by means of a chain and a lock. Thin hysteria threatened for a moment: he smelled faintly of roses. As for the room, everywhere he looked his eyes were assaulted with ornamentation. The walls were overrun by decoration. The wooden doors were delicate as a screen and carved with a repeated design that included gaps in the wood; through them you could glimpse shadowy impressions of what lay on the other side. The windows were similarly screened. Even the floor tiles were parti-coloured and arranged in a geometric pattern. Everything gave the impression of patterns within patterns, the twisty creations of the Veretian mind. It came together then, suddenly—Veretian voices—the humiliating presentation to Councillor Guion, ‘Are all the new slaves bound?’—the ship—and its destination. This was Vere. Damen stared around himself in horror. He was in the heart of enemy territory, hundreds of miles from home. It didn’t make sense. He was breathing, without holes, and had not suffered the regrettable accident he might have expected. The Veretian people had good reason to hate Prince Damianos of Akielos. Why was he still alive? The sound of a bolt being thrown back jerked his attention to the door. Two men strode into the room. Watching them warily, Damen indistinctly recognised the first as a Veretian handler from the ship. The second was a stranger: dark-haired, bearded, wearing Veretian clothing, with silver rings on each of the three joints of every finger. ‘This is the slave that is being presented to the Prince?’said the ringed man. The handler nodded. ‘You say he’s dangerous. What is he? A prisoner of war? A criminal?’ The handler shrugged a, Who knows? ‘Keep him chained.’ ‘Don’t be foolish. We can’t keep him chained forever.’ Damen could feel the ringed man’s gaze lingering on him. The next words were almost admiring. ‘Look at him. Even the Prince is going to have his hands full.’ ‘Aboard the ship, when he made trouble, he was drugged,’said the handler. ‘I see.’ The man’s gaze turned critical. ‘Gag him and shorten the chain for the Prince’s viewing. And arrange an appropriate escort. If he makes trouble, do whatever you have to.’ He spoke with dismissive words, as though Damen was of minimal importance to him, no more than a task on a checklist. It was dawning on Damen, through the clearing drug-haze, that his captors did not know the identity of their slave. A prisoner of war. A criminal. He let out a careful breath. He must stay quiet, inconspicuous. Enough presence of mind had returned to him to know that as Prince Damianos he would be unlikely to last a night alive in Vere. Better by far to be thought a nameless slave. He allowed the handling. He had judged the exits, and the quality of the guards in his escort. The quality of the guards was less significant than the quality of the chain around his neck. His arms were lashed behind his back and he was gagged, the collar chain shortened to only nine links, so that even kneeling, his head was bowed, and he could barely look up. Guards took up position on either side of him, and on either side of the doors, which he faced. He had time then to feel the expectant silence of the room, and the tightening string of heartbeats in his chest. There was a sudden flurry of activity, voices and footsteps approaching. The Prince’s viewing. The Regent of Vere held the throne for his nephew, the Crown Prince. Damen knew almost nothing about the Prince except that he was the younger of two sons. The older brother and former heir, Damen well knew, was dead. A scattering of courtiers was entering the room. The courtiers were nondescript except for one: a young man with an astonishingly lovely face—the kind of face that would have earned a small fortune on the slave-block in Akielos. Damen’s attention caught and held. The young man had yellow hair, blue eyes and very fair skin. The dark blue of his severe, hardlaced clothing was too harsh for his fair colouring, and stood in stark contrast to the overly ornate style of the rooms. Unlike the courtiers who trailed in his wake, he wore no jewellery, not even rings on his fingers. As he approached, Damen saw that the expression that sat on the lovely face was arrogant and unpleasant. Damen knew the type. Self-absorbed and self-serving, raised to overestimate his own worth, and indulge in petty tyrannies over others. Spoilt. ‘I hear the King of Akielos has sent me a gift,’ said the young man, who was Laurent, Prince of Vere. ‘An Akielon grovelling on its knees. How fitting,’said Laurent. Around him, Damen was aware of the attention of courtiers, gathered to witness the Prince’s receipt of his slave. Laurent had stopped dead the moment he had seen Damen, his face turning white as though in reaction to a slap, or an insult. Damen’s view, half-truncated by the short chain at this neck, had been enough to see that. But Laurent’s expression had shuttered quickly. That he was only one of a larger consignment of slaves was something Damen had guessed, and the murmurs from the two courtiers nearest to him confirmed it, gratingly. Laurent’s eyes were passing over him, as though viewing merchandise. Damen felt a muscle slide in his jaw. Councillor Guion spoke. ‘He’s intended as a pleasure slave, but he isn’t trained. Kastor suggested that you might like to break him at your leisure.’ ‘I’m not desperate enough that I need to soil myself with filth,’said Laurent. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ ‘Break him on the cross. I believe that will discharge my obligation to the King of Akielos.’ ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ He could feel the relief in Councillor Guion. Handlers were quickly motioned to take him away. Damen supposed that he had presented rather a challenge to diplomacy: Kastor’s gift blurred the line between munificent and appalling. The courtiers were making to leave. This mockery was over. He felt the handler bend to the iron link in the floor. They were going to unchain him to take him to the cross. He flexed his fingers, gathering himself, his eyes on the handler, his single opponent. ‘Wait,’said Laurent. The handler halted, straightening. Laurent came forward a few paces to stand in front of Damen, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. ‘I want to speak to him. Remove the gag.’ ‘He’s got a mouth on him,’ warned the handler. ‘Your Highness, if I might suggest—’ began Councillor Guion. ‘Do it.’ Damen ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth after the handler released the cloth. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’said Laurent, not quite pleasantly. He knew better than to answer any question posed in that saccharine voice. He lifted his eyes to Laurent’s. That was a mistake. They gazed at each other. ‘Perhaps he’s defective,’suggested Guion. Pellucid blue eyes rested on his. Laurent repeated the question slowly in the language of Akielos. The words came out before he could stop them. ‘I speak your language better than you speak mine, sweetheart.’ His words, carrying only the barest trace of an Akielon accent, were intelligible to all, which earned him a hard blow from the handler. For good measure, a member of the escort pushed his face right down to the floor. ‘The King of Akielos says, if it pleases you, call him “Damen,”’ said the handler, and Damen felt his stomach drop. There were a few shocked murmurs from the courtiers in the chamber; the atmosphere, already prurient, became electric. ‘They thought a slave nicknamed for their late Prince would amuse you. It’s in poor taste. They are an uncultured society,’said Councillor Guion. This time Laurent’s tone didn’t change. ‘I heard that the King of Akielos may marry his mistress, the Lady Jokaste. Is that true?’ ‘There was no official announcement. But there was talk of the possibility, yes.’ ‘So the country will be ruled by a bastard and a whore,’said Laurent. ‘How appropriate.’ Damen felt himself react, even restrained as he was, a hard jerk aborted by chains. He caught the self-satisfied pleasure on Laurent’s face. Laurent’s words had been loud enough to carry to every courtier in the room. ‘Shall we have him taken to the cross, Your Highness?’said the handler. ‘No,’said Laurent, ‘Restrain him here in the harem. After you teach him some manners.’ The two men entrusted to the task went about it with methodical and matter-of-fact brutality. But they had a natural reluctance to damage Damen totally beyond repair, being that he was the Prince’s possession. Damen was aware of the ringed man issuing a series of instructions, then departing. Keep the slave restrained here in the harem. The Prince’s orders. No one is to come in or out of the room. The Prince’s orders. Two guards at the door at all times. The Prince’s orders. Don’t let him off the chain. The Prince’s orders. Though the two men lingered, it seemed that the blows had stopped; Damen pushed himself up slowly to his hands and knees. Gritty tenacity made something of the situation: his head, at least, was now perfectly clear. Worse than the beating had been the viewing. He had been more shaken by it than he would admit. If the collar-chain had not been so short—so impossibly secure—he might have resisted, despite his earlier resolve. He knew the arrogance of this nation. He knew how the Veretians thought of his people. Barbarian. Slave. Damen had gathered all his good intentions about himself and endured it. But the Prince—Laurent’s particular blend of spoilt arrogance and petty spite—had been unbearable. ‘He doesn’t look much like a pet,’said the taller of the two men. ‘You heard. He’s a bed slave from Akielos,’said the other. ‘You think the Prince fucks him?’ Sceptically. ‘More like the other way around.’ ‘Pretty sweet orders for a bed slave.’ The taller’s mind stuck on the subject as the other grunted noncommittally in reply. ‘Think what that’d be like, getting a leg over the Prince.’ I imagine it would be a lot like lying down with a poisonous snake, thought Damen, but he kept the thought to himself. As soon as the men left, Damen reviewed his situation: getting free was not yet possible. His hands were untied again, and the collar chain had been lengthened, but it was too thick to separate from the iron link in the floor. Nor could the collar be opened. It was gold, technically a soft metal, but it was also too thick to manipulate, a constant, heavy weight around his neck. It struck him how ridiculous it was to collar a slave with gold. The gold wrist-cuffs were even more foolish. They would be a weapon in a close fight and currency on the journey back to Akielos. If he stayed alert while pretending to compliance, opportunity would follow. There was enough length in the chain to allow him perhaps three steps of movement in every direction. There was a wooden carafe of water well within reach. He would be able to lie comfortably on the cushions and even relieve himself in a gilt copper pot. He had not been drugged—or bludgeoned all the way to unconsciousness—as had happened in Akielos. Only two guards at the door. An unbolted window. Freedom was attainable. If not now, then soon. It must be soon. Time was not on his side: the longer he was kept here, the longer Kastor would have to cement his rule. It was unbearable not to know what was happening in his country, to his supporters, and to his people. And there was another problem. No one had yet recognised him, but that didn’t mean that he was safe from discovery. Akielos and Vere had had few dealings since the decisive battle of Marlas six years ago, but somewhere in Vere there would surely be a person or two who knew his face, having visited his city. Kastor had sent himto the one place where he could expect to be treated worse as a prince than he was treated as a slave. Elsewhere, one of his captors, learning his identity, might be convinced to help him, either out of sympathy for his situation, or for the promise of a reward from Damen’s supporters in Akielos. Not in Vere. In Vere, he couldn’t risk it. He remembered the words of his father on the eve of the battle of Marlas, warning him to fight, never to trust, because a Veretian would not keep his word. His father had been proven right that day on the battlefield. He would not think of his father. It would be best to be well rested. With that in mind, he drank water from the carafe, watching the last of the afternoon light slowly drain from the room. When it was dark, he lay his body, with all its aches, down on the cushions, and, eventually, he slept. And woke. Dragged up, a hand on his collar chain, until he was on his feet, flanked by two of the faceless, interchangeable guards. The room was flaring into brightness as a servant lit torches and placed them in the wall-brackets. The room was not over-large, and the flickering of the torches transformed its intricate designs into a continuously moving, sinuous play of shape and light. In the centre of this activity, regarding him with cool blue eyes, was Laurent. Laurent’s severe dark blue clothing fitted him repressively, covering him from toe to neck, and was long sleeved to his wrists, with no openings that weren’t done up with a series of tight intricate ties that looked like they would take about an hour to loosen. The warm light of the torches did nothing to soften the effect. Damen saw nothing that did not confirm his earlier opinion: spoilt, like fruit too long on the vine. Laurent’s slightly lidded eyes, the slackness around his mouth, spoke of a night wasted in a dissolute courtier’s overindulgence in wine. ‘I’ve been thinking about what to do with you,’ said Laurent. ‘Break you on a flogging post. Or maybe use you the way Kastor intended you be used. I think that would please me a great deal.’ Laurent came forward, until he stood just four paces away. It was a carefully chosen distance: Damen judged that if he strained the chain to its limit, pulling it taut, they would almost, but not quite, touch. ‘Nothing to say? Don’t tell me you’re shy now that you and I are alone.’ Laurent’s silken tone was neither reassuring nor pleasant. ‘I thought you wouldn’t soil yourself with a barbarian,’ said Damen, careful to keep his voice neutral. He was aware of the beat of his heart. ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Laurent. ‘But if I gave you to one of the guards, I might lower myself as far as watching.’ Damen felt himself recoil, couldn’t keep his reaction off his face. ‘You don’t like that idea?’said Laurent. ‘Maybe I can think of a better one. Come here.’ Distrust and dislike of Laurent roiled within him, but Damen recalled his situation. In Akielos, he had thrown himself against his restraints and they had grown ever tighter as a result. Here, he was just a slave, and a chance to escape would come, if he did not ruin it with hot-headed pride. He could endure Laurent’s juvenile, pin-prick sadism. Damen must get back to Akielos, and that meant that for now, he must do as he was told. He took a wary step forward. ‘No,’said Laurent, with satisfaction. ‘Crawl.’ Crawl. It was as though everything ground to a halt in the face of that single order. The part of Damen’s mind that told him he must feign obedience was drowned out by his pride. But Damen’s reaction of scornful disbelief only had time to register on his face for a split second before he was sent sprawling onto his hands and knees by the guards, after a wordless signal fromLaurent. In the next moment, again responding to a signal from Laurent, one of the guards drove his fist into Damen’s jaw. Once, then again. And again. His head rang. Blood from his mouth dripped onto the tile. He stared at it, forcing himself, with an effort of will, not to react. Take it. Opportunity would come later. He tested his jaw. Not broken. ‘You were insolent this afternoon, too. That is a habit that can be cured. With a horse whip.’ Laurent’s gaze tracked over Damen’s body. Damen’s garments had loosened under the rough hands of the guards, baring his torso. ‘You have a scar.’ He had two, but the one that was now visible lay just below his left collarbone. Damen felt for the first time the stir of real danger, the flicker of his own quickening pulse. ‘I—served in the army.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘So Kastor sends a common soldier to rut with a prince. Is that it?’ Damen chose his words carefully, wishing he had his half-brother’s facility for falsehood. ‘Kastor wished to humiliate me. I suppose I—angered him. If he had another purpose in sending me here, I don’t know what it is.’ ‘The Bastard King disposes of his waste by tossing it at my feet. Is that supposed to appease me?’ said Laurent. ‘Would anything?’said a voice behind him. Laurent turned. ‘You find fault in so much, lately.’ ‘Uncle,’said Laurent. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ Uncle? Damen experienced his second shock of the night. If Laurent addressed him as ‘uncle’, this man whose imposing shape filled the doorway was the Regent. There was no physical resemblance between the Regent and his nephew. The Regent was a commanding man in his forties, bulky, with heavy shoulders. His hair and beard were dark brown, without even the highlights to suggest that a blond of Laurent’s fair colouring could have sprung fromthe same branch of the family tree. The Regent looked Damen briefly up and down. ‘The slave appears to have self-inflicted bruising.’ ‘He’s mine. I can do with him what I like.’ ‘Not if you intend having him beaten to death. That’s not a suitable use for the gift of King Kastor. We have a treaty with Akielos, and I won’t see it jeopardised by petty prejudice.’ ‘Petty prejudice,’said Laurent. ‘I expect you to respect our allies, and the treaty, as do we all.’ ‘I suppose the treaty says that I am to play pet with the dregs of the Akielon army?’ ‘Don’t be childish. Bed who you like. But value the gift of King Kastor. You have already shirked your duty on the border. You will not avoid your responsibilities at court. Find some appropriate use for the slave. That is my order, and I expect you to obey it.’ It seemed for a moment as if Laurent would rebel, but he bit down on the reaction, and said only, ‘Yes, uncle.’ ‘Now. Come. Let us put this matter behind us. Thankfully I was informed of your activities before they progressed far enough to cause serious inconvenience.’ ‘Yes. How lucky that you were informed. I would hate to inconvenience you, uncle.’ This was said smoothly, but there was something behind the words. The Regent answered in a similar tone. ‘I am glad we are in accord.’ Their departure should have been a relief. So should the Regent’s intervention with his nephew. But Damen recalled the look in Laurent’s blue eyes, and though left alone, with the remainder of the night to rest undisturbed, he could not have said whether the Regent’s mercy had improved his situation, or worsened it. CHAPTER 2 ‘THE REGENT WAS here last night?’ The man with the rings on his fingers greeted Damen with no preamble. When Damen nodded, he frowned, two lines in the centre of his forehead. ‘What was the Prince’s mood?’ ‘Delightful,’said Damen. The ringed man gave him a hard stare. He broke from it to give a brief order to the servant who was clearing away the remains of Damen’s meal. Then he spoke again to Damen. ‘I am Radel. I am the Overseer. I have only one thing to explain to you. They say in Akielos, you attacked your guards. If you do that here, I will have you drugged as you were aboard the ship, and have various privileges removed. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes.’ Another stare, as though this answer was in some way suspect. ‘It is your honour to have joined the Prince’s household. Many desire such a position. Whatever your disgrace in your own country, it has brought you to a position of privilege here. You should bow down on your knees in gratitude to the Prince that this is so. Your pride should be put aside, and the petty business of your former life forgotten. You exist only to please the Crown Prince, for whom this country is held in stewardship—who will ascend the throne as King.’ ‘Yes,’said Damen, and did his best to look grateful and accepting. Waking, there had been no confusion as to where he was, unlike yesterday. His memory was very clear. His body had immediately protested Laurent’s mistreatment, but Damen, taking a brief inventory, had judged his hurts no worse than those he had occasionally received in the training arena, and put the matter to one side. As Radel spoke, he heard the far away sound of an unfamiliar stringed instrument playing a Veretian melody. Sound travelled through these doors and windows with their many little apertures. The irony was that in some ways Radel’s description of his situation as privileged was correct. This was not the rank cell he had inhabited in Akielos, nor was it the drugged, hazily remembered confinement aboard the ship. This room was not a prison room, it was part of the royal pet residences. Damen’s meal had been served on a gilt plate intricately modelled with foliage, and when the evening breeze lifted, in through the screened windows came the delicate scent of jasmine and frangipani. Except that it was a prison. Except that he had a collar and chain around his neck, and was alone, among enemies, many miles from home. His first privilege was to be blindfolded and taken, complete with escort, to be washed and readied—a ritual he had learned in Akielos. The palace outside of his rooms remained a blindfolded mystery. The sound of the stringed instrument grew briefly louder, then faded into a half-heard echo. Once or twice he heard the low, musical sound of voices. Once, a laugh, soft and lover-like. As he was taken through the pet residences, Damen remembered that he was not the only Akielon to have been gifted to Vere, and felt a groundswell of concern for the others. Sheltered Akielon palace slaves would likely be disoriented and vulnerable, never having learned the skills they needed to fend for themselves. Could they even talk to their masters? They were schooled in various languages, but Veretian was not likely to be one of them. Dealings with Vere were limited and, until the arrival of Councillor Guion, largely hostile. The only reason Damen had that language was that his father had insisted that, for a prince, learning the words of an enemy was as important as learning the words of a friend. The blindfold was removed. He would never get used to the ornamentation. From its arched ceiling to the depression in which lapped the water of the baths, the room was covered in tiny painted tiles, gleaming in blues, greens and gold. All sound was reduced to hollow echoes and curling steam. A series of curved alcoves for dalliance (currently empty) ringed the walls, by each of them braziers in fantastic shapes. The fretted doors were not wood, but metal. The only instrument of restraint was an incongruous heavy wooden dock. It did not match the rest of the baths at all, and Damen tried not to think that it had been brought here expressly for him. Averting his eyes from it, he found himself looking at the metal intaglio of the door. Figures twined around one another, all male. Their positions were not ambiguous. He shifted his eyes back to the baths. ‘They are natural hot springs,’ Radel explained, as though to a child. ‘The water comes from a great underground river that is hot.’ A great underground river that is hot. Damen said, ‘In Akielos, we use a system of aqueducts to achieve the same effect.’ Radel frowned. ‘I suppose you think that is very clever.’ He was already signalling to one of the servants, his manner slightly distracted. They stripped him and washed him without tying him up, and Damen behaved with admirable docility, resolved to prove that he could be trusted with small freedoms. Perhaps it worked, or perhaps Radel was used to tractable charges—an overseer, not a jailor—for he said, ‘You will soak. Five minutes.’ Curved steps descended into the water. His escort retreated outside; his collar was released fromits chain. Damen immersed himself in the water, enjoying the brief, unexpected sensation of freedom. The water was so hot it was almost on the threshold of tolerance, yet it felt good. The heat seeped into him, melting the ache of abused limbs and loosening muscles that were locked hard with tension. Radel had thrown a substance onto the braziers as he left, so that they flared and then smoked. Almost immediately, the room had filled with an over-sweet scent, mingling with the steam. It perfused the senses, and Damen felt himself relax further. His thoughts, drifting a little, found their way to Laurent. You have a scar. Damen’s fingers slid across his wet chest, reaching his collarbone and then following the line of the faint pale scar, feeling an echo of the uneasiness that had stirred in him last night. It was Laurent’s older brother who had inflicted that scar, six years ago, in battle at Marlas. Auguste, the heir and pride of Vere. Damen recalled his dark golden hair, the starburst blazon of the Crown Prince on his shield splattered over with mud, with blood, dented and almost unrecognisable, like his once-fine filigree armour. He recalled his own desperation in those moments, the scrape of metal against metal, the harsh sounds of breathing that might have been his own, and the feeling of fighting as he never had, all out, for his life. He pushed the memory to one side, only to have it replaced by another. Darker than the first, and older. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, one fight resonated with another. Damen’s fingers dropped below the water line. The other scar Damen carried was lower on his body. Not Auguste. Not on a battlefield. Kastor had run him through on his thirteenth birthday, during training. He remembered that day very clearly. He had scored a hit against Kastor for the first time, and when he had pulled off his helm, giddy with triumph, Kastor had smiled and suggested that they swap their wooden practice blades for real swords. Damen had felt proud. He had thought, I am thirteen and a man, Kastor fights me like a man. Kastor had not held back against him, and he had been so proud of that, even as the blood pushed out frombeneath his hands. Now he remembered the black look in Kastor’s eyes and thought that he had been wrong about many things. ‘Time’s up,’said Radel. Damen nodded. He placed his hands on the edge of the baths. The ridiculous golden collar and cuffs still adorned his throat and wrists. The braziers were now covered, but the lingering scent of the incense was a little dizzying. Damen shook the momentary weakness away and pushed himself up out of the hot baths, streaming water. Radel was staring at him, wide-eyed. Damen ran a hand through his hair, wringing out the water. Radel’s eyes widened. When Damen took a step forward, Radel took an involuntary step back. ‘Restrain him,’said Radel, a little hoarsely. ‘You don’t have to—’said Damen. The wooden dock closed over his wrists. It was heavy and solid, immovable as a boulder or the trunk of a great tree. He rested his forehead against the dock, the wet tendrils of his hair turning the grain dark where they touched the wood. ‘I wasn’t planning to fight,’said Damen. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’said Radel. Dried, oiled with scent, the excess oil wiped off with a cloth. No worse than had happened to himin Akielos. The touches of the servants were brisk and perfunctory, even when they handled his genitals. There was no whiff of sensuality in the preparations as there had been when Damen had been touched by the slave with the yellow hair in the Akielon baths. It was not the worst thing that he had been asked to bear. One of the servants stepped behind him, and began to prepare the entrance to his body. Damen jerked so forcefully that the wood creaked, and behind him he heard the smash of an oil container against the tile and a yelp from one of the servants. ‘Hold him down,’said Radel, grimly. They released him from the dock when it was over, and this time his docility was faintly laced with shock, and he was, for a few moments, less aware of what was going on around him. He felt changed by what had just happened to him. No. He was not changed. It was his situation that was changed. He realised that this aspect of his captivity, this danger, despite Laurent’s threats, had not previously been real. ‘No paint,’ Radel was telling one of the servants. ‘The Prince doesn’t like it. Jewellery—no. The gold is adequate. Yes, those garments. No, without the embroidery.’ The blindfold was tied around his eyes, tight. A moment later, Damen felt ringed fingers on his jawline, lifting it, as though Radel wished simply to admire the picture he made, blindfolded, arms lashed behind his back. Radel said, ‘Yes, that will do, I think.’ This time when the blindfold was lifted, it was on a set of double doors, heavily gilded, that were pushed open. The room was thronging with courtiers, and decked out for an indoor spectacle. Cushioned stands ringed each of the room’s four sides. The effect was that of a claustrophobic, silk-draped amphitheatre. There was an air of considerable excitement. Ladies and young lords leaned in and whispered into one another’s ears, or murmured behind raised hands. Servants attended courtiers, and there was wine and refreshments, and silver trays heaped with sweetmeats and candied fruit. In the centre of the room was a circular depression, with a series of iron links set into the floor. Damen’s stomach twisted. His gaze swung back to the courtiers in the stands. Not just courtiers. Among the more soberly dressed lords and ladies were exotic creatures in brightly coloured silks, showing glimpses of flesh, their beautiful faces daubed with paint. Here was a young woman wearing almost more gold than Damen, two long, circling armbands, shaped like snakes. Here, a stunning red-haired youth with a coronet of emeralds and a delicate chain around his waist of silver and peridot. It was as though the courtiers displayed their wealth through their pets, like a noble showering jewels on an already expensive courtesan. Damen saw an older man in the stands with a young child beside him, a proprietary arm around the boy, perhaps a father who had brought his son to view a favourite sport. He smelled a sweet scent, familiar from the baths, and saw a lady breathing deeply from a long, thin pipe, curled at one end; her eyes were half closed as she was fondled by the jewelled pet beside her. All across the stands hands moved slowly over flesh in a dozen minor acts of debauchery. This was Vere, voluptuous and decadent, country of honeyed poison. Damen recalled the last night before dawn at Marlas, with the Veretian tents over the river, rich silk pennants lifting in the night air, the sounds of laughter and superiority, and the herald who had spat on the ground in front of his father. Damen realised he had baulked on the threshold when the chain on his collar yanked him forward. One step. Another. Better to walk than be dragged by the neck. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disturbed when he was not taken directly to the ring, but was instead flung down in front of a seat draped with blue silk and bearing that familiar starburst pattern in gold, mark of the Crown Prince. His chain was cinched to a link in the floor. His view, as he looked up, was of an elegant boot-clad leg. If Laurent had been drinking to excess last night, nothing in his manner today showed it. He looked fresh, unconcerned and fair, his golden hair bright above clothing of a blue so dark it was almost black. His blue eyes were as innocent as the sky; only if you looked carefully could you see something genuine in them. Such as dislike. Damen would have attributed it to spite—that Laurent intended to make him pay for having overheard the exchange last night with his uncle. But the truth was Laurent had looked at him like that from the first moment he had laid eyes on him. ‘You have a cut on your lip. Someone hit you. Oh, that’s right, I recall. You stood still and let him. Does it hurt?’ He was worse sober. Damen purposefully relaxed his hands, which, restrained behind his back, had become fists. ‘We must have some conversation. You see: I have asked after your health, and now I amreminiscing. I fondly remember our night together. Have you been thinking about me this morning?’ There was no good answer to that question. Damen’s mind unexpectedly supplied him with a memory of the baths, the heat of the water, the sweet scent of the incense, the curl of steam. You have a scar. ‘My uncle interrupted us just as things were getting interesting. It left me curious.’ Laurent’s expression was guileless, but he was systematically turning over stones, searching for weakness. ‘You did something to make Kastor hate you. What was it?’ ‘Hate me?’ said Damen, looking up, hearing the reaction in his voice, despite his resolution not to engage. Those words worked on him. ‘Did you think he sent you to me out of love? What did you do to him? Beat him in a tournament? Or fuck his mistress—what was her name?—Jokaste. Maybe,’said Laurent, his eyes widening a little, ‘you strayed after he fucked you.’ That idea revolted him so much, took him so unawares, that he tasted bile in his throat. ‘No.’ Laurent’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘So that’s it. Kastor mounts his soldiers like horses in the yard. Did you grit your teeth and take it because he was the King, or did you like it? You really,’ said Laurent, ‘have no idea how happy that idea makes me. It’s perfect: a man who holds you down while he fucks you, with a cock like a bottle, and a beard like my uncle’s.’ Damen realised he had physically drawn back—the chain had pulled taut. There was something obscene about someone with a face like that speaking those words in a conversational voice. Further unpleasantness was prevented by the approach of a select group of courtiers, to whomLaurent presented an angelic countenance. Damen stiffened when he recognised Councillor Guion, dressed in heavy dark clothing, with his councillor’s medallion around his neck. From the brief words that Laurent spoke in greeting, he gathered that the woman with the commanding air was called Vannes, and the man with the peaked nose was Estienne. ‘It’s so rare to see you at these entertainments, Your Highness,’said Vannes. ‘I was in the mood to enjoy myself,’said Laurent. ‘Your new pet is causing quite a stir.’ Vannes walked around Damen as she spoke. ‘He’s nothing like the slaves that Kastor gifted to your uncle. I wonder if Your Highness has had the chance to see them? They’re much more . . .’ ‘I’ve seen them.’ ‘You don’t sound pleased.’ ‘Kastor sends two dozen slaves trained to worm their way into the bedchambers of the most powerful members of court. I’m overjoyed.’ ‘What an entirely pleasant sort of espionage,’ said Vannes, arranging herself comfortably. ‘But the Regent keeps the slaves on a tight leash, I hear, and has not loaned them out at all. Regardless, I highly doubt we’ll see them in the ring. They didn’t quite have the—élan.’ Estienne sniffed and gathered his pet to him, a delicate flower who looked like he would bruise if you so much as brushed a petal. ‘Not everyone has your taste for pets who can sweep the ring competitions, Vannes. I, for one, am relieved to hear that all the slaves in Akielos are not like this one. They’re not, are they?’ This last a little nervously. ‘No.’ Councillor Guion spoke with authority. ‘None of them are. Among the Akielon nobility, dominance is a sign of status. The slaves are all submissive. I suppose it’s intended as a compliment to you, Your Highness, to imply that you can break a slave a strong as this one—’ No. It wasn’t. Kastor was amusing himself at everyone’s expense. A living hell for his half-brother, and a backhand insult to Vere. ‘—as for his provenance, they have arena matches regularly—sword, trident, dagger—I’d guess he was one of the display fighters. It’s truly barbaric. They wear almost nothing during the sword fights, and they fight the wrestling matches nude.’ ‘Like pets,’ laughed one of the courtiers. The conversation turned to gossip. Damen heard nothing useful in it, but then, he was having difficulty concentrating. The ring, with its promise of humiliation and violence, was holding most of his attention. He thought: so the Regent keeps a close watch on his slaves. At least that is something. ‘This new alliance with Akielos can’t sit easily with you, Your Highness,’ said Estienne. ‘Everyone knows how you feel about that country. Their barbaric practices—and of course what happened at Marlas—’ The space around him was suddenly very quiet. ‘My uncle is Regent,’ Laurent said. ‘You are twenty one in spring.’ ‘Then you would do well to be prudent in my presence as well as my uncle’s.’ ‘Yes, Your Highness,’ said Estienne, bowing briefly and moving off to one side, acknowledging it for the dismissal it was. Something was happening in the ring. Two male pets had entered, and were standing off with slight wariness, in the manner of competitors. One was a brunet, with long-lashed almond eyes. The other, to whom Damen’s attention naturally gravitated, was blond, though his hair was not the buttercup yellow of Laurent’s, it was darker, a sandy colour, and his eyes weren’t blue, they were brown. Damen felt a shift in the constant, low-grade tension that had been with him since the baths—since he woke up in this place on silk cushions. In the ring, the pets were being stripped of their clothes. ‘Sweetmeat?’ said Laurent. He held the confection delicately, between thumb and forefinger, just far enough out of reach that Damen would have to rise up onto his knees in order to eat it fromLaurent’s fingertips. Damen jerked his head back. ‘Stubborn,’ Laurent remarked mildly, bringing the treat to his own lips instead, and eating it. A range of equipment was on display alongside the ring: long gilt poles, various restraints, a series of golden balls such as a child might play with, a little pile of silver bells, long whips, the handles decorated with ribbons and tassels. It was obvious that the entertainments in the ring were varied, and inventive. But the one that unfolded in front of him now was simple: rape. The pets knelt with their arms around one another, and an officiator held a red scarf aloft, then dropped it, fluttering, to the ground. The pretty picture that the pets made quickly dissolved into a heaving tussle before the sounds of the crowd. Both pets were attractive and both were lightly muscled—neither possessed the build of a wrestler, but they did look marginally stronger than some of the willowy exquisites who curled around their masters in the audience. The brunet was first to gain the advantage, stronger than the blond. Damen realised what was happening in front of him, as every whisper he had heard in Akielos of the depravities of the Veretian court began unfolding before his eyes. The brunet was on top, his knee forcing the blond’s thighs open. The blond was trying desperately to throw him off and it wasn’t working. The brunet held the blond’s arms behind his back, and scrabbled, humping ineffectually. And then he was in, smooth as entering a woman, though the blond was struggling. The blond had been— —prepared— The blond let out a cry and tried to buck his captor off, but the motion only drove him deeper. Damen’s eyes swung away, but it was almost worse to look at the audience. Lady Vannes’s pet sat with flushed cheeks, her mistress’s fingers well occupied. To Damen’s left, the red-haired boy was unlacing the front of his master’s garments, and wrapping a hand around what he found there. In Akielos, slaves were discreet, public performances were erotic without being overt, the charms of a slave to be enjoyed in private. The court did not gather to watch two of them fucking. Here, the atmosphere was almost orgiastic. And it was impossible to block out the sounds. Only Laurent seemed immune. He was probably so jaded that this display did not even cause his pulse to flicker. He sat in a graceful sprawl, one wrist balanced on the armrest of the box seat. At any moment, he might contemplate his nails. In the ring, the performance was approaching its culmination. And, by now, it was a performance. The pets were adept and playing to their audience. The sounds that the blond was making had changed in quality, and were rhythmic, in time with the thrusts. The brunet was going to ride him to climax. The blond was stubbornly resisting, biting his lip to try and hold himself back, but with every jarring thrust he was driven closer, until his body shivered and gave of itself. The brunet pulled out and came, messily, all over his back. Damen knew what was coming, even as the blond’s eyes opened, even as he was helped from the ring by a servant of his master, who fussed over him solicitously, and gifted him with a long diamond earring. Laurent lifted refined fingers in a prearranged signal to the guard. Hands clamped down on his shoulders. Damen’s chain was detached from his collar, and when he did not spring into the ring like a dog released to the hunt, he was sent there at sword point. ‘You kept pestering me to put a pet in the ring,’ Laurent was saying to Vannes and the other courtiers who had joined him. ‘I thought it was time I indulged you.’ It was nothing like entering the arena in Akielos, where the fight was a show of excellence and the prize was honour. Damen was released from the last of his bonds and stripped of his garments, which were not many. It was impossible that this was happening. He felt again a strange sort of sick dizziness . . . Shaking his head slightly, needing to clear it, he looked up. And saw his opponent. Laurent had threatened to have him raped. And here was the man who was going to do it. There was no way that this brute was a pet. He outweighed Damen, big-boned and heavy-muscled, with a thick layer of flesh overlying the muscle. He had been chosen for his size, not his looks. His hair was a lank black cap. His chest was a thick pelt of hair that extended all the way down to his exposed groin. His nose was flat and broken; he was clearly no stranger to fights, though it was actually difficult to imagine anyone suicidal enough to punch this man in the nose. He had probably been dragged out of some mercenary company and told: fight the Akielon, fuck him, and you’ll be well rewarded. His eyes were cold as they passed over Damen’s body. All right, he was outweighed. Under normal circumstances, that would not be a cause for anxiety. Wrestling was a trained discipline in Akielos, and one Damen excelled at and enjoyed. But he had had days in harsh confinement, and, yesterday, had endured a beating. His body was tender in places, and his olive skin did not hide all of the bruising: here and there were the telltale signs that would show an opponent where to press down. He thought about that. He thought about the weeks since his capture in Akielos. He thought about the beatings. He thought about the restraints. His pride was lashing its tail. He would not be raped in front of a room full of courtiers. They wanted to see a barbarian in the ring? Well, the barbarian could fight. It began, a little sickeningly, as it had begun with the two pets: on their knees, with their arms around one another. The presence of two powerful adult men in the ring released something in the crowd that the pets had not, and the shouted insults, bets and ribald speculation filled the room with noise. Closer, Damen could hear the breath of his mercenary opponent, could smell the rank, masculine smell of the man, over the cloying perfumed roses of his own skin. The red scarf lifted. The first heave had enough force to break an arm. The man was a mountain, and when Damen matched strength to strength, he found, a little worryingly, that his earlier dizziness was with him still. There was something strange in the way that his limbs felt . . . sluggish . . . There was no time to think about it. Thumbs were suddenly seeking for his eyes. He twisted. Those parts of the body that were soft and tender, and that, in fair sport, would be avoided, must now be protected at all costs; his opponent was willing to tear, rip and gouge. And Damen’s body, otherwise hard and smooth, was newly vulnerable where it was bruised. The man he fought knew it. The pounding blows Damen suffered were all brutally aimed to land on old hurts. His opponent was vicious and formidable, and he had been instructed to do damage. Despite all this, the first advantage was Damen’s. Outweighed and fighting that strange dizziness, skill still counted for something. He gained a hold on the man, but when he tried to call on his strength to finish things, he found instead unsteady weakness. The air was suddenly expelled from his lungs after a driving blow to his diaphragm. The man had broken his hold. He found new leverage. He bore down with all his weight on the man’s body and felt him shudder. It took more out of him than it should have. The man’s muscles bunched under him, and this time when the hold was broken Damen felt a burst of pain in his shoulder. He heard his breath go uneven. Something was wrong. The weakness he felt was not natural. As another wave of dizziness passed over him, he thought suddenly of the over-sweet smell in the baths . . . the incense in the brazier . . . a drug, he realised as his breath heaved. He had inhaled some sort of drug. Not just inhaled, had stewed in it. Nothing had been left to chance. Laurent had acted to make the outcome of this fight certain. A sudden renewed onslaught came and he staggered. It took too long to regain himself. He grappled ineffectually; for a few moments neither man could sustain a grip. Sweat on the man’s body glistened, making purchase more difficult. Damen’s own body had been slightly oiled; the scented slave preparation gave him an ironic, unlooked for advantage, momentarily protecting his virtue. He thought it was not the moment for stricken laughter. He felt the man’s warm breath against his neck. In the next second he was on his back, pinned, blackness threatening the edge of his vision as the man applied a crushing pressure against his windpipe, above the gold collar. He felt the push of the man against him. The sound of the crowd surged. The man was trying to mount. Thrusting against Damen, his breath now coming in soft grunts. Damen struggled to no avail, not strong enough to break this hold. His thighs were forced apart. No. He sought desperately for some weakness that could be exploited, and found none. Goal in his sights, the man’s attention split between restraint and penetration. Damen flung the last of his strength at the hold, and felt it quaver—enough to shift their positions slightly—enough to find leverage—an arm freed— He drove his fist sideways, so that the heavy gold cuff on his wrist slammed hard into the man’s temple, with the sick sound of an iron bar impacting on flesh and bone. A moment later, Damen followed up, perhaps unnecessarily, with his right fist, and smashed his stunned, swaying opponent into the dirt. He fell, heavy flesh collapsing, partially across Damen. Damen somehow pushed away, instinctively inserting distance between himself and the prone man. He coughed, his throat tender. When he found that he had air, he began the slow process of rising to his knees and from there to his feet. Rape was out of the question. The little spectacle with the blond pet had been all performance. Even these jaded courtiers did not expect him to fuck a man who was unconscious. Except that he could feel, now, the displeasure of the crowd. No one wanted to see an Akielon triumph over a Veretian. Least of all Laurent. The words of Councillor Guion came back to him, almost crazily. It’s in poor taste. It was not over. It was not enough to fight through a drug haze and win. There was no way to win. It was already clear that the Regent’s diktats did not extend to the entertainments in the ring. And whatever now happened to Damen would happen with the crowd’s approbation. He knew what he had to do. Against every rebelling instinct, he forced himself forward, and dropped to his knees before Laurent. ‘I fight in your service, Your Highness.’ He searched his memory for Radel’s words, and found them. ‘I exist only to please my Prince. May my victory reflect on your glory.’ He knew better than to look up. He spoke as clearly as he could, his words for the onlookers as much as they were for Laurent. He tried to look as deferential as possible. Exhausted and on his knees, he thought that wasn’t difficult. If someone hit him right now, he’d fall over. Laurent extended his right leg slightly, the tip of his well-turned boot presenting itself to Damen. ‘Kiss it,’ Laurent said. Damen’s whole body reacted against that idea. His stomach heaved; his heart, in the cage of his chest, was pounding. One public humiliation substituted for another. But it was easier to kiss a foot than be raped in front of a crowd . . . wasn’t it? Damen bent his head and pressed his lips to the smooth leather. He forced himself to do it with unhurried respect, as a vassal might kiss the ring of a liege lord. He kissed just the curve of the toe tip. In Akielos an eager slave might have continued upward, kissing the arch of Laurent’s foot, or, if they were daring, higher, his firm calf muscle. He heard Councillor Guion: ‘You’ve worked miracles. That slave was completely unmanageable aboard the ship.’ ‘Every dog can be brought to heel,’said Laurent. ‘Magnificent!’ A smooth, cultured voice, one Damen didn’t know. ‘Councillor Audin,’said Laurent. Damen recognised the older man he had glimpsed in the audience earlier. The one who had sat with his son, or nephew. His clothing, though it was dark like Laurent’s, was very fine. Not, of course, as fine as a prince’s. But close to it. ‘What a victory! Your slave deserves a reward. Let me offer one to him.’ ‘A reward.’ Laurent, flatly. ‘A fight like that—truly magnificent—but with no climax—allow me to offer him a pet, in place of his intended conquest. I think,’said Audin, ‘that we are all eager to see him really perform.’ Damen’s gaze swung around to the pet. It was not over. Perform, he thought, and felt sick. The young boy was not the man’s son. He was a pet, not yet adolescent, with thin limbs and his growth spurt still far in his future. It was obvious that he was petrified of Damen. The little barrel of his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was, at the oldest, fourteen. He looked more like twelve. Damen saw his chances of returning to Akielos gutter and die like candle flame, and all the doors to freedom close. Obey. Play by the rules. Kiss the Prince’s shoe. Jump through his hoops. He had really thought he would be able to do that. He gathered the last of his strength to himself and said: ‘Do whatever you want to me. I’m not going to rape a child.’ Laurent’s expression flickered. Objection came from an unexpected quarter. ‘I’m not a child.’ Sulkily. But when Damen looked incredulously at him, the boy promptly went white and looked terrified. Laurent was looking from Damen to the boy and back again. Frowning as if something didn’t make sense. Or wasn’t going his way. ‘Why not?’ he said, abruptly. ‘Why not?’ said Damen. ‘I don’t share your craven habit of hitting only those who cannot hit back, and take no pleasure in hurting those weaker than myself.’ Driven past reason, the words came out in his own language. Laurent, who could speak his language, stared back at him, and Damen met his eyes and did not regret his words, feeling nothing but loathing. ‘Your Highness?’said Audin, confused. Laurent turned to him eventually. ‘The slave is saying that if you want the pet unconscious, split in half, or dead of fright, then you will need to make other arrangements. He declines his services.’ He pushed up out of the box seat and Damen was almost driven backwards as Laurent strode past, ignoring his slave. Damen heard him say to one of the servants: ‘Have my horse brought to the north courtyard. I’m going for a ride.’ And then it was over—finally, and unexpectedly—it was somehow over. Audin frowned and departed. His pet trotted after him, after an indecipherable look at Damen. As for Damen, he had no idea what had just happened. In the absence of other orders, his escort had him dressed and prepared to return to the harem. Looking around himself, he saw that the ring was now empty, though he hadn’t noticed whether the mercenary had been carried out, or had risen and walked out of his own accord. Across the ring was a thin trail of blood. A servant was on his knees mopping at it. Damen was being manoeuvred past a blur of faces. One of them was Lady Vannes who, unexpectedly, addressed him. ‘You look surprised . . . were you hoping to enjoy that boy after all? You had better get used to it. The Prince has a reputation for leaving pets unsatisfied.’ Her laughter, a low glissando, joined the sounds of voices and entertainment, as across the amphitheatre the courtiers returned, with almost no ripple of interruption, to their afternoon pastime. CHAPTER 3 BEFORE THE BLINDFOLD was fixed in place, Damen saw that the men returning him to his room were the same two men who, yesterday, had administered the beating. He didn’t know the taller one’s name, but he knew from overheard exchanges that the shorter was called Jord. Two men. It was the smallest escort of his imprisonment, but blindfolded and securely bound, not to mention worn out, he had no way to take advantage of it. The restraints were not taken off until he was once again back in his room, chained by the neck. The men didn’t leave. Jord stood by while the taller man closed the door with himself and Jord on the inside. Damen’s first thought was that they had been told to deliver a repeat performance, but then he saw that they were lingering of their own accord, not under orders. That might be worse. He waited. ‘So you like a fight,’said the taller man. Hearing the tone, Damen prepared himself for the fact that he might be facing another one. ‘How many men did it take to collar you in Akielos?’ ‘More than two,’said Damen. It did not go down well. Not with the taller man, at any rate. Jord took his arm, holding him back. ‘Leave it,’said Jord. ‘We’re not even supposed to be in here.’ Jord, although shorter, was also broader across the shoulders. There was a brief moment of resistance, before the taller man left the room. Jord remained, his own speculative attention now on Damen. ‘Thank you,’said Damen, neutrally. Jord looked back at him, obviously weighing up whether or not to speak. ‘I’m no friend of Govart,’ he said finally. Damen thought at first that ‘Govart’ was the other guard, but he learned otherwise when Jord said, ‘You must have a death wish to knock out the Regent’s favourite thug.’ ‘. . . the Regent’s what?’said Damen, feeling his stomach sink. ‘Govart. He was thrown out of the King’s Guard for being a real son of a bitch. The Regent keeps him around. No idea how the Prince got him in the ring, but that one would do anything to piss off his uncle.’ And then, seeing Damen’s expression: ‘What, you didn’t know who he was?’ No. He hadn’t known. Damen’s understanding of Laurent rearranged itself, in order that he might despise him more accurately. Apparently—in case a miracle happened and his drugged slave managed to win the ring fight—Laurent had arranged for himself a consolation prize. Damen had unwittingly earned himself a new enemy. Govart. Not only that, but beating Govart in the ring could be taken as a direct slight by the Regent. Laurent, selecting Damen’s opponent with precise malice, would, of course, have known that. This was Vere, Damen reminded himself. Laurent might talk like he’d been raised on the floor of a brothel, but he had a Veretian courtier’s mind, used to deception and double dealing. And his petty plots were dangerous to someone as much in his power as Damen. It was mid-morning the next day when Radel entered, here once again to see to Damen’s transport to the baths. ‘You were successful in the ring, and even paid the Prince a respectful obeisance. That is excellent. And I see you haven’t struck anyone all morning, well done,’ Radel said. Damen digested this compliment. He said, ‘What was the drug you doused me with before the fight?’ ‘There was no drug,’said Radel, sounding a bit appalled. ‘There was something,’said Damen. ‘You put it in the braziers.’ ‘That was chalis, a refined divertissement. There is nothing sinister about it. The Prince suggested that it might help you relax in the baths.’ ‘And did the Prince also suggest the amount?’said Damen. ‘Yes,’ said Radel. ‘More than the usual. Since you’re quite large. I wouldn’t have thought of that. He has a mind for details.’ ‘Yes, I’m learning that,’said Damen. He thought that it would be the same as the previous day: that he was being taken to the baths to be prepared for some new grotesquery. But all that happened was that the handlers bathed him, returned him to his room, and brought him lunch on a platter. The bathing was more pleasant than it had been the day before. No chalis, no handling of intrusive intimacy, and he was given a luxurious body massage, his shoulder checked for any sign of strain or injury, his lingering bruises treated very gently. As the day waned and nothing whatsoever occurred, Damen realised he felt a sense of anticlimax, almost disappointment, which was absurd. Better to spend the day bored on silk cushions than spend it in the ring. Maybe he just wanted another chance to fight something. Preferably an insufferable yellow-haired princeling. Nothing happened on the second day, or the third, or the fourth, or the fifth. The passing of time inside this exquisite prison became its own ordeal; the only thing that interrupted his days was the routine of his meals, and the morning bath. He used the time to learn what he could. The change of guard at his door happened at times that were intentionally irregular. The guards no longer behaved towards him as though he were a piece of furniture, and he learned several of their names; the ring-fight had changed something. No one else broke orders to enter his room without instruction, but once or twice one of the men handling himwould speak words to him, though the exchanges were brief. A few words, here and there. It was something he worked on. He was attended by servants who provided his meals, emptied the copper pot, lit torches, extinguished torches, plumped the cushions, changed them, scrubbed the floor, aired the room, but it was—so far—impossible to build a relationship with any of them. They were more obedient to the order not to speak to him than the guards. Or they were more afraid of Damen. Once, he had gotten as much as startled eye contact and a blush. That had happened when Damen, sitting with a knee drawn up and his head resting against the wall, had taken pity on the servant boy attempting to do his work while cleaving to the door, and said, ‘It’s all right. The chain’s very strong.’ The abortive attempts he made to get information from Radel met with resistance, and a series of patronising lectures. Govart, said Radel, was not a royally sanctioned thug. Where had Damen gotten that idea? The Regent kept Govart in employ out of some kind of obligation, possibly to Govart’s family. Why was Damen asking about Govart? Did he not recall that he was here only to do as he was told? There was no need to ask questions. There was no need to concern himself with the goings on in the palace. He should put everything out of his mind but the thought that he must please the Prince, who, in ten months, would be King. By now, Damen had the speech memorised. By the sixth day, the trip to the baths had become routine, and he expected nothing from it. Except that today, the routine varied. His blindfold was removed outside the baths, not in it. Radel’s critical gaze was on him, as one surveying merchandise: Was it in fit condition? It was. Damen felt himself being released from his restraints. Here, outside. Radel said, briefly: ‘Today, in the baths, you will serve.’ ‘Serve?’said Damen. That word conjured up the curved alcoves, and their purpose, and the etched figures, intertwined. There was no time to absorb the idea, or to ask questions. Much as he had been propelled into the ring, he was pushed forward into the baths. The guards closed the doors with themselves on the outside, and became half-seen shadows behind the latticed metal. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Perhaps a debauched tableau such as had greeted him in the ring. Perhaps pets sprawled out on every surface, naked and steam-drenched. Perhaps a scene in motion, bodies already moving, soft sounds, or splashes in the water. In fact the baths were empty, except for one person. As yet untouched by the steam, clothed from toe-tip to neck, and standing in the place where slaves were washed before they entered the soaking bath. When Damen saw who it was, he instinctively lifted a hand to his gold collar, unable to quite believe that he was unrestrained, and that they were alone together. Laurent reclined against the tiled wall, settling his shoulders flat against it. He regarded Damen with a familiar expression of golden-lashed dislike. ‘So my slave is bashful in the arena. Don’t you fuck boys in Akielos?’ ‘I’m quite cultured. Before I rape anyone I first check to see if their voice has broken,’said Damen. Laurent smiled. ‘Did you fight at Marlas?’ Damen did not react to the smile, which was not authentic. The conversation was now on a knife edge. He said: ‘Yes.’ ‘How many did you kill?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Lost count?’ Pleasantly, as one might inquire about the weather. Laurent said, ‘The barbarian won’t fuck boys, he prefers to wait a few years and then use a sword in place of his cock.’ Damen flushed. ‘It was battle. There was death on both sides.’ ‘Oh, yes. We killed a few of you too. I would like to have killed more, but my uncle is unaccountably clement with vermin. You’ve met him.’ Laurent resembled one of the etched figures of the intaglio, except that he was done in white and gold, not silver. Damen looked at him and thought: This is the place where you had me drugged. ‘Have you waited six days to talk to me about your uncle?’ Damen said. Laurent rearranged himself against the wall into a position that looked even more indolently comfortable than the one before. ‘My uncle has ridden to Chastillon. He hunts boar. He likes the chase. He likes the kill, too. It’s a day’s ride, after which he and his party will stay five nights at the old keep. His subjects know better than to bother him with missives from the palace. I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone.’ Those sweet blue eyes gazed at him. It was, when you shook off the sugared tone, a threat. ‘Alone, with your men guarding the doors,’said Damen. ‘Are you going to complain again that you’re not allowed to hit back?’ said Laurent. The voice sweetened further. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t hit you unless I have a good reason.’ ‘Did I seem worried?’said Damen. ‘You seemed a little agitated,’ said Laurent, ‘in the ring. I liked it best when you were on your hands and knees. Cur. Do you think I will tolerate insolence? By all means, try my patience.’ Damen was silent; he could feel the steam now, curling heat against his skin. He could feel, too, the danger. He could hear himself. No soldier would talk this way to a prince. A slave would have been on his hands and knees the second he saw that Laurent was in the room. ‘Shall I tell you the part you liked?’said Laurent. ‘There was nothing I liked.’ ‘You’re lying. You liked knocking that man down, and you liked it when he didn’t get up. You’d like to hurt me, wouldn’t you? Is it very difficult to control yourself? Your little speech about fair play fooled me about as much as your show of obedience. You have worked out, with whatever native intelligence you possess, that it serves your interests to appear both civilised and dutiful. But the one thing you’re hot for is a fight.’ ‘Are you here to goad me into one?’ said Damen, in a new voice that seemed to rise up from deep within him. Laurent pushed off the wall. ‘I don’t roll in the sty with swine,’ said Laurent, coolly. ‘I’m here to bathe. Have I said something astonishing? Come here.’ It was a moment before Damen found he could obey. The instant he had entered the room, he had weighed the option of physically overpowering Laurent, and dismissed it. He would not make it out of the palace alive if he hurt or killed Vere’s Crown Prince. That decision had not come without some regret. He came to stand two steps away. As well as dislike, he was surprised to find there was something assessing in Laurent’s expression, as well as something self-satisfied. He had expected bravado. Certainly there were guards outside the door, and at a sound from their Prince they would likely come bursting in bristling with swords, but there was no guarantee that Damen wouldn’t lose his temper and kill Laurent before that happened. Another man might. Another man might think that the inevitable retribution—some sort of public execution, ending with his head on a spike—was worth it for the pleasure of wringing Laurent’s neck. ‘Strip,’said Laurent. Nudity had never bothered him. He knew by now that it was proscribed among the Veretian nobility. But even if Veretian customs had concerned him, everything that there was to see had been seen, very publicly. He unpinned his garments and let them fall. He was unsure what the point of this was. Unless this feeling was the point. ‘Undress me,’said Laurent. The feeling intensified. He ignored it, and stepped forward. The foreign clothing gave him pause. Laurent extended a coolly peremptory hand, palm up, indicating a starting point. The tight little lacings on the underside of Laurent’s wrist continued about halfway up his arm, and were of the same dark blue as the garment. Untying them took several minutes; the laces were small, complicated and tight, and he must pull each one individually through its hole, feeling the drag of the tie against the material of the eyelet. Laurent lowered one arm, trailing laces, and extended the other. In Akielos, clothing was simple and minimal, with a focus on the aesthetics of the body. By contrast, Veretian clothing was concealing, and seemed designed to frustrate and impede, its complexity serving no obvious purpose other than to make disrobing difficult. The methodical ritual of unlacing made Damen wonder, scornfully, if Veretian lovers suspended their passion for a half hour in order to disrobe. Perhaps everything that happened in this country was deliberate and bloodless, including love making. But no, he remembered the carnality of the ring. The pets had dressed differently, offering ease of access, and the red-haired pet had unlaced only that part of his master’s clothing that was required for his purpose. When all the various lacings were untied, he drew the garment off; it was revealed to be an outer layer only. Beneath it was a simple white shirt (also laced), which had not previously been visible. Shirt, pants, boots. Damen hesitated. Golden brows arched. ‘Am I here to wait on the modesty of a servant?’ So he knelt. The boots must be taken off; the pants were next. Damen stepped back when it was done. The shirt (now unlaced) had slipped slightly, exposing a shoulder. Laurent reached behind himself and drew it off. He was wearing nothing else. Damen’s flinty dislike of Laurent forestalled his usual reaction to a well-shaped body. If not for that, he might have experienced a moment of difficulty. For Laurent was all of a piece: his body had the same impossible grace as his face. He was lighter built than Damen, but his body wasn’t boyish. Instead, he possessed the beautifully proportioned musculature of a young man on the new cusp of adulthood, made for athletics, or statuary. And he was fair. So fair, skin as fair as a young girl’s, smooth and unmarked, with a glimmer of gold trailing down from his navel. In this over-clothed society Damen might have expected Laurent to display some selfconsciousness, but Laurent seemed as coolly immodest about his nudity as he was about everything else. He stood much like a young god before whom a priest was about to make an offering. ‘Wash me.’ Damen had never performed a servile task before in his life, but he supposed that this one would not overwhelm either his pride or his comprehension. By now he knew the customs of the baths. But he felt a sense of subtle satisfaction from Laurent, and a corresponding internal resistance. It was an uncomfortably intimate form of attendance; he was not restrained, and they were alone, one man serving another. All the appurtenances had been carefully laid out: a fat-bellied silver pitcher, soft cloths, and bottles of oil and frothy liquid soap, made from clear spun glass, their stoppers capped in silver. The one that Damen picked up depicted a vine heavy with grapes. He felt their contours under his fingers as he unstopped the little bottle with a tug against the resistant suction. He filled the silver pitcher. Laurent presented his back. Laurent’s very fine skin, when Damen poured water over it, was like white pearl. His body under the slick soap was nowhere soft or yielding, but taut like an elegantly sprung bow. Damen supposed that Laurent partook of those refined sports that courtiers sometimes indulged in, and which the other participants would allow him, being their prince, to win. He continued from shoulders to lower back. The spill of water wet his own chest and thighs, where it ran in rivulets, leaving behind suspended droplets that glimmered and threatened at any moment to trail suddenly downwards. The water was hot when it pulsed up from the ground, and hot when he poured it from the silver pitcher. The air was hot. He was conscious of it. He was conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, of his breathing, of more than that. He remembered that in Akielos he had been washed by a slave with yellow hair. Her colouring had matched Laurent’s so closely they might have been twinned. She had been far less disagreeable. She had closed the distance of inches and pressed her body against his. He remembered her fingers curling around him, her nipples soft as bruised fruit where they pressed into his chest. A pulse beat in his neck. It was a poor time to lose control of his thoughts. He had now progressed far enough in his undertaking that he encountered curves. They were firm under his hands, and the soap made everything slippery. He looked down, and the wash cloth slowed. The hothouse atmosphere of the baths only increased the impression of sensuality, and despite himself, Damen felt the first hardening between his legs. There was a change in the quality of the air, his desire suddenly tangible in the thick humidity of the room. ‘Don’t be presumptuous,’said Laurent, coldly. ‘Too late, sweetheart,’said Damen. Laurent turned, and with calm precision unleashed a backhanded blow that had easily enough force to bloody a mouth, but Damen had had quite enough of being hit, and he caught Laurent’s wrist before the blow connected. They were motionless like that for a moment. Damen looked down into Laurent’s face, the fair skin a little heat-flushed, the yellow hair wet at the tips, and under those golden lashes the arctic blue eyes, and when Laurent made a little spasming motion to free himself, he felt his grip on Laurent’s wrist tighten. Damen let his gaze wander downwards—wet from chest to taut abdomen—and further. It was really a very, very nice body, but the cold outrage was genuine. Laurent was not even a little amorous, Damen noted; that part of him, quite as sweetly made as the rest, was quiescent. He felt the tension hit Laurent’s body, though the tone didn’t change overmuch from its usual drawl. ‘But my voice has broken. That was the only prerequisite, wasn’t it?’ Damen released his grip, as though burned. A moment later, the blow he had thwarted landed, harder than he could have imagined, smashing across his mouth. ‘Get him out of here,’ said Laurent. It was no louder than his speaking voice, but the doors swung open. Not even out of earshot. Damen felt hands on him as he was pulled roughly backwards. ‘Put him on the cross. Wait for me to arrive.’ ‘Your Highness, regarding the slave, the Regent instructed—’ ‘You can do as I say, or you can go there in his place. Choose. Now.’ It was not a choice at all, with the Regent in Chastillon. I have waited six days so that you and I could be alone. There was no further prevarication. ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ In a moment of oversight, they forgot the blindfold. The palace was revealed to be a labyrinth, in which corridors flowed one into another, and every archway framed a different aspect: chambers of different shapes, stairs of patterned marble, courtyards that were tiled, or filled with cultivated greenery. Some archways, screened by latticed doors, offered no views, only hints and suggestions. Damen was led from passage to chamber to passage. Once, they moved through a courtyard with two fountains, and he heard the trill of birds. He remembered, carefully, the route. The guards who accompanied him were the only ones he saw. He assumed there would be security on the perimeter of the harem, but when they stopped in one of the larger rooms, he realised they had passed the perimeter, and he had not even noticed where it was. He saw, with a change in his pulse, that the archway at the end of this room framed another courtyard, and that this one was not as well kept as the others, containing detritus and a series of irregular objects, including a few slabs of unworked stone, and a wheelbarrow. In one corner, a broken pillar was leaned up against the wall, creating a kind of ladder. This led to the roof. The convoluted roof, with its obscuring curves and overhangs and niches and sculptings. It was, clear as daylight, a path to freedom. So as not to stare at it like a moonstruck idiot, Damen turned his attention back to the room. There was sawdust on the floor. It was some kind of training area. The ornamentation remained extravagant. Except that the fittings were older and of a slightly rougher quality, it still looked like part of the harem. Probably everything in Vere looked like part of a harem. The cross, Laurent had said. It stood at the far end of the room. The centre beam was made from the single straight trunk of a very large tree. The cross beam was less thick, but equally sturdy. Around the centre beam was tied a sheaf of quilted padding. A servant was tightening the ties that bound the padding to the beam, and the lacing recalled to mind Laurent’s clothing. The servant began testing the strength of the cross by throwing his weight against it. It didn’t budge. The cross, Laurent had called it. It was a flogging post. Damen had held his first command at seventeen, and flogging was a part of army discipline. As a commander and a prince, flogging was not something that he had personally experienced, but neither was it something that he disproportionately feared. It was familiar to him as a hard punishment that men, with difficulty, endured. At the same time, he knew that strong men broke under the lash. Men died under the lash. Though—even at seventeen—death under the lash was not something he would have allowed to happen under his command. If a man was not responsive to good leadership and the rigours of normal discipline—and the fault was not with his superiors—he was turned off. Such a man should not have been taken on in the first place. Probably, he was not going to die; there was just going to be a great deal of pain. Most of the anger that he felt about this fact he proportioned to himself. He had resisted the provocation to violence exactly because he had known he would end up suffering consequences. And now here he was, for no better reason than that Laurent, possessing a pleasing shape, had left off talking just long enough for Damen’s body to forget his disposition. Damen was strapped to the wooden post face-first with his arms spread and shackled to the cross section. His legs were untied. There was enough give in the position to squirm; he would not. The guards tugged on his arms, and on the restraints, testing them, positioning his body, even kicking his legs apart. He had to force himself not to struggle against it. It wasn’t easy. He could not have said how much time had passed when Laurent finally entered the room. Enough time for Laurent to dry, and to dress, and to do up all those hundreds of laces. As Laurent entered, one of the men began testing the lash in his hands, calmly, as they had tested all the equipment. Laurent’s face had the hard, strapped-down look of a man resolved on a course of action. He took up a position against the wall in front of Damen. From this vantage, he would not be able to see the impact of the lash, but he would see Damen’s face. Damen’s stomach turned over. Damen felt a dull sensation in his wrists and realised that he had begun unconsciously pulling against the restraints. He forced himself to stop. There was a man at his side with something twined through his fingers. He was lifting it to Damen’s face. ‘Open your mouth.’ Damen accepted the foreign object past his lips in the moment before he realised what it was. It was a piece of wood covered in soft brown leather. It was not like the gags or bits that he had been subjected to throughout his captivity, rather it was the kind that you give a man to bite down on to help him endure pain. The man tied it behind Damen’s head. As the man with the lash moved behind him, he tried to prepare himself. ‘How many stripes?’said the man. ‘I’m not sure yet,’said Laurent. ‘I’m sure I’ll decide eventually. You can begin.’ The sound came first: the soft whistle of air, then the crack, lash against flesh, a split second before the jagged pain ripped at him. Damen jerked against the restraints as the lash struck his shoulders, obliterating in that instant his consciousness of anything else. The bright burst of pain was barely given a moment to fade before the second lash hit with brutal force. The rhythm was ruthlessly efficient. Again and again the lash fell on Damen’s back, varying only in the place where it landed, yet that tiny difference grew to have critical importance, his mind clinging to any hope of a fraction less pain, as his muscles bunched and his breathing changed. Damen found himself reacting not only to the pain but to the rhythm of it, the sick anticipation of the blow, trying to steel himself against it, and reaching a point, as the lash fell again and again across the same welts and marks, when that was no longer possible. He pressed his forehead to the wood of the post then and just—took it. His body shuddered against the cross. Every nerve and sinew strained, the pain spreading out from his back and consuming all his body, then invading his mind, which was left with no barriers or partitions that could hold against it. He forgot where he was, and who was watching him. He was unable to think, or feel anything other than his own pain. Finally the blows stopped. Damen took a while to realise it. Someone was untying the gag and freeing his mouth. After that, Damen became aware of himself in stages, that his chest was heaving and his hair was soaking. He unlocked his muscles and tested his back. The wave of pain that washed over him convinced him that it was much better to be still. He thought that if his wrists were released from the restraints he would simply collapse onto his hands and knees in front of Laurent. He fought against the weakness that made him think that. Laurent. His returned awareness of the existence of Laurent arrived at the same moment that he realised that Laurent had come forward, and was now standing a single pace away, regarding him, his face wiped clean of any expression. Damen recalled Jokaste pressing cool fingers against his bruised cheek. ‘I should have done this to you the day you arrived,’said Laurent. ‘It’s exactly what you deserve.’ ‘Why didn’t you?’ Damen said. A little roughened, the words just came out. There was nothing left to keep them in check. He felt raw, as though a protective outer layer had been stripped away; the problem was that what had been exposed was not weakness but core metal. ‘You are cold-blooded and honourless. What held back someone like you?’ It was the wrong thing to say. ‘I’m not sure,’ said Laurent, in a detached voice. ‘I was curious what kind of man you were. I see we have stopped too early. Again.’ Damen tried to brace himself for another strike, and something in his mind splintered when it did not, immediately, come. ‘Your Highness, I’m not certain he’ll survive another round.’ ‘I think he will. Why don’t we make a wager?’ Laurent spoke again in that cold, flat voice. ‘A gold coin says he lives. If you want to win it from me, you’ll have to exert yourself.’ Lost to pain, Damen could not have said for how long the man exerted himself, only that he did. When it was over, he was well beyond further impertinence. Blackness was threatening his vision, and it took all he had to keep it back. It was a while before he realised that Laurent had spoken, and even then for the longest time the emotionless voice didn’t connect to anything. ‘I was on the field at Marlas,’said Laurent. As the words penetrated, Damen felt the world reshape itself around him. ‘They wouldn’t let me near the front. I never had the chance to face him. I used to wonder what I’d say to him if I did. What I’d do. How dare any one of you speak the word honour? I know your kind. A Veretian who treats honourably with an Akielon will be gutted with his own sword. It’s your countryman who taught me that. You can thank him for the lesson.’ ‘Thank who?’ Damen pushed the words out, somehow, past the pain, but he knew. He knew. ‘Damianos, the dead Prince of Akielos,’said Laurent. ‘The man who killed my brother.’ CHAPTER 4 ‘OW,’ SAID DAMEN, through gritted teeth. ‘Be still,’said the physician. ‘You are a clumsy, poking lout,’said Damen, in his own language. ‘And be quiet. This is a medicinal salve,’said the physician. Damen disliked palace physicians. During the last weeks of his father’s illness, the sickroom had thronged with them. They had chanted, muttered pronouncements, thrown divining bones into the air, and administered various remedies, but his father had only grown sicker. He felt differently about the pragmatic field surgeons who had worked tirelessly alongside the army on campaign. The surgeon who had tended him at Marlas had sewn up his shoulder with a minimum of fuss, restraining his objection to a frown when Damen got on a horse five minutes later. The Veretian physicians were not of this ilk. It was admonitions not to move and endless instructions and dressings that were continually being changed. This physician wore a gown that reached to the floor, and a hat shaped like a loaf of bread. The salve was having absolutely no effect on his back that Damen could discern, though it smelled pleasantly of cinnamon. It was three days since the lashing. Damen did not clearly remember being taken down off the flogging post and returned to his room. The blurry impressions that he had of the journey reassured him that he had made the trip upright. For the most part. He did remember being supported by two of the guards, here, in this room, while Radel stared at his back in horror. ‘The Prince really . . . did this.’ ‘Who else?’ Damen said. Radel had stepped forward, and slapped Damen across the face; it was a hard slap, and the man wore three rings on each finger. ‘What did you do to him?’ Radel demanded. This question had struck Damen as funny. It must have shown on his face, because a second much harder slap followed the first. The sting of it momentarily cleared the blackness that was pressing in on his vision; Damen had taken this further hold on consciousness and held to it. Passing out was not something he had ever done before, but it was a day of firsts, and he was taking no chances. ‘Don’t let him die yet,’ was the last thing Laurent had said. The Prince’s word was law. And so, for the small price of the skin off his back, there were a number of compromises to Damen’s imprisonment, including the dubious perquisite of regular pokes from the physician. A bed replaced the floor cushions, so that he could lie comfortably on his stomach (to protect his back). He was also given blankets and various coloured silk wraps, though he must use them to cover the lower half of his body only (to protect his back). The chain remained, but instead of attaching to his collar it was locked to one golden wrist-cuff (to protect his back). The concern for his back also struck him as funny. He was bathed frequently, his skin softly sponged with water drawn from a tub. Afterwards, the servants disposed of the water, which, on the first day, was red. Remarkably, the biggest change was not in the furnishings and routines, it was in the attitude of the servants and the men guarding him. Damen might have expected them to react like Radel, with animosity and outrage. Instead, there was sympathy from the servants. From the guards there was, even more unexpectedly, camaraderie. Where the ring fight had positioned Damen as a fellow fighter, being pulverised under the Prince’s lash had apparently made him one of the fraternity. Even the taller guard, Orlant, who had threatened Damen after the ring fight, seemed to have somewhat warmed to him. Inspecting Damen’s back, Orlant had—not without some pride—proclaimed the Prince a castiron bitch, and clapped Damen cheerfully on the shoulder, turning him momentarily ashen. In turn, Damen was careful not to ask any questions that would earn him suspicion. Instead, he embarked on a determined cultural exchange. Was it true that in Akielos they blinded those who looked on the King’s harem? No, it wasn’t. Was it true that Akielon women went bare-breasted in summer? Yes, it was. And the wrestling matches were fought naked? Yes. And the slaves also went naked? Yes. Akielos might have a bastard King and a whore Queen but it sounded like paradise to Orlant. Laughter. A bastard King and a whore Queen; Laurent’s crude apothegm had, Damen discovered, entered common usage. Damen unlocked his jaw and let it pass. Security was relaxing in small increments, and he now knew a way out of the palace. He tried, impartially, to view this as a fair exchange for a lashing (two lashings, his back reminded him tenderly). He ignored his back. He focused on anything and everything else. The men guarding him were the Prince’s Guard, and had no affiliation with the Regent whatsoever. It surprised Damen how loyal they were to their Prince, and how diligent in his service, airing none of the grudges and complaints that he might have expected, considering Laurent’s noxious personality. Laurent’s feud with his uncle they took up wholeheartedly; there were deep schisms and rivalries between the Prince’s Guard and the Regent’s Guard, apparently. It had to be Laurent’s looks that inspired the allegiance of his men, and not Laurent himself. The closest the men got to disrespect was a series of ribald comments regarding Laurent’s appearance. Their loyalty apparently did not prohibit the fantasy of fucking the Prince taking on mythic proportions. Was it true, asked Jord, that in Akielos the male nobility kept female slaves, and the ladies fucked men? ‘They don’t in Vere?’ Damen recalled that, inside the ring and out of it, he had seen only same-sex pairings. His knowledge of Veretian culture did not extend to the practices of intimacy. ‘Why not?’ ‘No one of high birth invites the abomination of bastardry,’said Jord, matter-of-factly. Female pets were kept by ladies, male pets were kept by lords. ‘You mean that men and women—never—’ Never. Not among the nobility. Well, sometimes, if they were perverse. It was taboo. Bastards were a blight, Jord said. Even among the guard, if you screwed women, you kept quiet about it. If you got a woman pregnant and didn’t marry her your career was over. Better to avoid the problem, follow the example of the nobility, and screw men. Jord preferred men. Didn’t Damen? You knew what was what, with men. And you could spurt without fear. Damen was wisely silent. His own preference was for women; it seemed ill-advised to admit this. On the rare occasions when Damen pleased himself with men, he did so because he was attracted to them as men, not because he had any reason to avoid women, or substitute for them. Veretians, thought Damen, made things needlessly complicated for themselves. Here and there, useful information emerged. Pets weren’t guarded, which explained the lack of men at the perimeter of the harem. Pets came and went as they pleased. Damen was the exception. It meant that once past these guards, it was unlikely that he would encounter others. Here and there, the subject of Laurent was raised. ‘Have you . . . ?’said Jord to Damen, with a slowly spreading smile. ‘Between the ring fight and the lashing?’said Damen, sourly. ‘No.’ ‘They say he’s frigid.’ Damen stared at him. ‘What? Why?’ ‘Well,’said Jord, ‘because he doesn’t—’ ‘I meant why is he so,’said Damen, cutting off Jord’s prosaic explanation firmly. ‘Why is snow cold?’said Jord with a shrug. Damen frowned and changed the subject. Damen was not interested in Laurent’s proclivities. Since the cross, his feelings towards Laurent had solidified from prickling dislike into something hard and implacable. It was Orlant, finally, who asked the obvious question. ‘How’d you end up here, anyway?’ ‘I wasn’t careful,’said Damen, ‘and I made an enemy of the King.’ ‘Kastor? Someone should stick it to that whoreson. Only a country of barbarian scum would put a bastard on the throne,’said Orlant. ‘No offense.’ ‘None taken,’said Damen. On the seventh day, the Regent returned from Chastillon. The first Damen knew of it was the entrance of guards into his room that he didn’t recognise. They were not wearing the Prince’s livery. They had red cloaks, disciplined lines and unfamiliar faces. Their arrival provoked a heated argument between the Prince’s physician and a new man, one Damen had never seen before. ‘I don’t think he should move,’ said the Prince’s physician. Under the loaf of bread, he was frowning. ‘The wounds might open.’ ‘They look closed to me,’said the other. ‘He can stand.’ ‘I can stand,’ Damen agreed. He demonstrated this remarkable ability. He thought he knew what was happening. Only one man other than Laurent had the authority to dismiss the Prince’s Guard. The Regent came into the room in full state, flanked by his red-cloaked Regent’s Guard and accompanied by liveried servants and two men of high rank. He dismissed both physicians, who made obeisances and vanished. Then he dismissed the servants and everyone else but the two men who had entered with him. His resulting lack of entourage did not detract from his power. Though technically he only held the throne in stewardship, and was addressed with the same honorific of ‘Royal Highness’ as Laurent, this was a man with the stature and presence of a King. Damen knelt. He would not make the same mistake with the Regent that he had made with Laurent. He remembered that he had recently slighted the Regent by beating Govart in the ring, which Laurent had arranged. The emotion he felt towards Laurent surfaced briefly; on the ground beside him, the chain from his wrist pooled. If someone had told him, six months ago, that he’d kneel, willingly, for Veretian nobility, he would have laughed in their face. Damen recognised the two men accompanying the Regent as Councillor Guion and Councillor Audin. Each wore the same heavy medallion on a thick linked chain: their chain of office. ‘Witness with your own eyes,’said the Regent. ‘This is Kastor’s gift to the Prince. The Akielon slave,’ said Audin, in surprise. A moment later he fished out a square of silk and lifted it to his nose, as if to screen his sensibilities from affront. ‘What happened to his back? That’s barbaric.’ It was, thought Damen, the first time he had heard the word ‘barbaric’ used to describe anything other than himself or his country. ‘This is what Laurent thinks of our careful negotiations with Akielos,’ said the Regent. ‘I ordered him to treat Kastor’s gift respectfully. Instead, he had the slave flogged almost to death.’ ‘I knew the Prince was willful. I never thought him this destructive, this wild,’ said Audin, in a shocked, silk-muffled voice. ‘There’s nothing wild about it. This is a piece of intentional provocation, aimed at myself, and at Akielos. Laurent would like nothing better than for our treaty with Kastor to founder. He mouths platitudes in public, and in private—this.’ ‘You see, Audin,’said Guion. ‘It’s as the Regent warned us.’ ‘The flaw is deep in Laurent’s nature. I thought he’d outgrow it. Instead, he grows steadily worse. Something must be done to discipline him.’ ‘These actions cannot be supported,’ agreed Audin. ‘But what can be done? You cannot rewrite a man’s nature in ten months.’ ‘Laurent disobeyed my order. No one knows that better than the slave. Perhaps we should ask himwhat should be done with my nephew.’ Damen did not imagine he was serious, but the Regent came forward, and stood directly in front of him. ‘Look up, slave,’ the Regent said. Damen looked up. He saw again the dark hair and the commanding aspect, as well as the slight frown of displeasure that it seemed Laurent habitually elicited from his uncle. Damen remembered thinking that there was no familial resemblance between the Regent and Laurent, but now he saw that this was not quite true. Though his hair was dark, and silvered at the temples, the Regent had blue eyes. ‘I hear that you were once a soldier,’ said the Regent. ‘If a man disobeyed an order in the Akielon army, how would he punished?’ ‘He would be publicly flogged and turned off,’ Damen said. ‘A public flogging,’ said the Regent, turning back to the two men who accompanied him. ‘That is not possible. But Laurent has grown so unmanageable in recent years, I wonder what would help him. What a shame that soldiers and princes are held to a different accounting.’ ‘Ten months before his ascension . . . is it really a wise time to chastise your nephew?’ Audin spoke from behind the silk. ‘Shall I let him run wild, wrecking treaties, destroying lives? Warmongering? This is my fault. I have been too lenient.’ ‘You have my support,’said Guion. Audin was nodding slowly. ‘The Council will stand behind you, when they hear word of this. But perhaps we should discuss these matters elsewhere?’ Damen watched the men depart. Long term peace with Akielos was obviously something that the Regent was working hard to bring about. The part of Damen that did not wish to raze to the ground the cross, the ring, and the palace containing them, reluctantly acknowledged that goal as admirable. The physician returned, and fussed, and servants came to make him comfortable, and then departed. And Damen was left alone in his rooms to think about the past. The battle of Marlas six years ago had ended with twinned, bloody successes for Akielos. An Akielon arrow, a stray lucky arrow on the wind, had taken the Veretian King in the throat. And Damen had killed the Crown Prince, Auguste, in single combat on the northern front. The battle had turned on Auguste’s death. The Veretian forces had quickly fallen into disarray, the death of their prince a staggering, dispiriting blow. Auguste had been a beloved leader, an indomitable fighter and an emblem of Veretian pride: he had rallied his men after the death of the King; he had lead the charge that decimated the Akielon northern flank; he had been the point on which wave after wave of Akielon fighters had broken. ‘Father, I can beat him,’ Damen had said, and receiving his father’s blessing he had ridden out frombehind the lines and into the fight of his life. Damen hadn’t known that the younger brother had been on the field. Six years ago, Damen had been nineteen. Laurent would have been—thirteen, fourteen? It was young to fight in a battle like Marlas. It was too young to inherit. And with the Veretian King dead, and the Crown Prince dead, the King’s brother had stepped in as Regent, and his first act had been to call parley, accepting the terms of surrender, and ceding to Akielos the disputed lands of Delpha, which the Veretians called Delfeur. It was the reasonable act of a reasonable man; in person, the Regent seemed similarly levelheaded and sensible, though afflicted with an intolerable nephew. Damen did not know why his mind was returning to the fact of Laurent’s presence on the field that day. There was no fear of discovery. It was six years ago, and Laurent had been a boy, who by his own admission had been nowhere near the front. Even if that were not the case, Marlas had been chaos. Any glimpse of Damen would have been early in the battle, with Damen in full armour, including helm—or if by some miracle he had been seen later, shield and helm lost, by that time Damen had been covered in mud and blood and fighting for his life as they all had been. But if he were recognised: every man and woman in Vere knew the name of Damianos, princekiller. Damen had known how dangerous it would be for him if his identity were discovered; he had not known how near to discovery he had come, and by the very person who had the most cause to want him dead. All the more reason why he had to get free of this place. You have a scar, Laurent had said. ‘What did you tell the Regent?’ Radel demanded. The last time Radel had looked at him like that, he’d lifted his hand and hit Damen, hard. ‘You heard me. What did you tell him about the lashing?’ ‘What should I have told him?’ Damen gazed back at him calmly. ‘What you should have done,’said Radel, ‘is shown loyalty to your Prince. In ten months—’ ‘—he will be King,’said Damen. ‘Until then, aren’t we subject to the rule of his uncle?’ There was a long, cold pause. ‘I see it has not taken you long to learn how to make your way here,’ Radel said. Damen said, ‘What has happened?’ ‘You have been summoned to court,’said Radel. ‘I hope you can walk.’ With that, a parade of servants entered the room. The preparations that they began eclipsed any Damen had experienced, including those that had been made before the ring. He was washed, pampered, primped and perfumed. They carefully skirted his healing back but oiled everywhere else, and the oil they used contained gold pigment, so that his limbs gleamed in the torchlight like those of a golden statue. A servant approached with a series of three small bowls and a delicate brush, and brought his face close to Damen’s, gazing at his features with an expression of concentration, the brush poised. The bowls contained paint for his face. He had not had to suffer the humiliation of paint since Akielos. The servant touched the paint-wet brush-tip to skin, gilt paint to line his eyes, and Damen felt the cold thickness of it on his lashes, and cheeks, and lips. This time Radel did not say, ‘No jewellery,’ and four enamelled silver caskets were brought into the room and thrown open. From their gleaming contents, Radel made several selections. The first was a series of fine, near-invisible strings, on which hung tiny rubies spaced at intervals; they were woven into Damen’s hair. Then gold for his brow and gold for his waist. Then a leash, snapped onto the collar. The leash was gold too, a fine gold chain, terminating in a golden rod for his handler, the cat carved at one end holding a garnet in its mouth. Much more of this and he was going to clank as he walked. But there was more. There was a final piece; another fine gold chain looped between twin gold devices. Damen didn’t recognise what it was until a servant stepped forward and snapped the nipple clamps in place. He jerked away—too late, besides which it only took a jab to his back to send him to his knees. As his chest rose and fell, the little chain swayed. ‘The paint’s smudged,’ said Radel to one of the servants, after assessing Damen’s body and face. ‘There. And there. Reapply it.’ ‘I thought the Prince didn’t like paint,’said Damen. ‘He doesn’t,’said Radel. It was the custom of the Veretian nobility to dress in subdued splendour, distinguishing themselves from the garish brightness of the pets, on whom they lavished their greatest displays of wealth. It meant that Damen, cast in gold and escorted through the double doors at the end of a leash, could be mistaken for nothing but what he was. In the crowded chamber, he stood out. So did Laurent. His bright head was instantly recognisable. Damen’s gaze fixed on him. Left and right, the courtiers were falling silent and stepping back, clearing a path to the throne. A red carpet stretched from the double doors to the dais, woven with hunting scenes and apple trees and a border of acanthus. The walls were draped in tapestries, where the same rich red predominated. The throne was swathed in the same colour. Red, red, red. Laurent clashed. Damen felt his thoughts scattering. Concentration was keeping him upright. His back ached and throbbed. He forcibly detached his gaze from Laurent, and turned it to the director of whatever public spectacle was now about to unfold. At the end of the long carpet, the Regent sat on the throne. In his left hand, resting across his knee, he held a golden sceptre of office. And behind him, in full robes of state, was the Veretian Council. The Council was the seat of Veretian power. In the days of King Aleron, the Council’s role had been to advise on matters of state. Now the Regent and Council held the nation in stewardship until Laurent’s ascension. Comprised of five men and no women, the Council was arrayed in a formidable backdrop on the dais. Damen recognised Audin and Guion. A third man he knew from his extreme age to be Councillor Herode. The others must therefore be Jeurre and Chelaut, though he could not tell one from the other. All five wore their medallions around their necks, the mark of their office. Also on the dais standing slightly back from the throne, Damen saw Councillor Audin’s pet, the child, done up even more garishly than Damen. The only reason Damen outdid him in sheer volume of gilt was because, being several times the little boy’s size, he had substantially more skin available to act as canvas. A herald called out Laurent’s name, and all of his titles. Walking forward, Laurent joined Damen and his handler in their approach. Damen was starting to view the carpet as an endurance trial. It was not just the presence of Laurent. The correct series of prostrations before the throne seemed specifically designed to ruin a week’s worth of healing. Finally it was done. Damen knelt, and Laurent bent his knee the appropriate amount. From the courtiers lining the chamber, Damen heard one or two murmured comments about his back. He supposed that set against the gold paint, it looked rather gruesome. That, he realised suddenly, was the point. The Regent wanted to discipline his nephew, and, with the Council behind him, had chosen to do it in public. A public flogging, Damen had said. ‘Uncle,’said Laurent. Straightening, Laurent’s posture was relaxed and his expression was undisturbed, but there was something subtle in the set of his shoulders that Damen recognised. It was the look of a man settling in for a fight. ‘Nephew,’said the Regent. ‘I think you can guess why we are here.’ ‘A slave laid hands on me and I had him flogged for it.’ Calmly. ‘Twice,’said the Regent. ‘Against my orders. The second time, against the advice that it might lead to his death. Almost, it did.’ ‘He’s alive. The advice was incorrect.’ Again, calmly. ‘You were also advised of my order: that in my absence the slave wasn’t to be touched,’ said the Regent. ‘Search your memory. You’ll find that advice was accurate. Yet you ignored it.’ ‘I didn’t think you’d mind. I know you are not so subservient towards Akielos that you would want the slave’s actions to go unpunished just because he is a gift from Kastor.’ The blue-eyed composure was faultless. Laurent, Damen thought with contempt, was good at talking. He wondered if the Regent was regretting doing this in public. But the Regent did not look perturbed, or even surprised. Well, he would be used to dealing with Laurent. ‘I can think of several reasons why you should not have a King’s gift beaten almost to death immediately after the signing of a treaty. Not the least because I ordered it. You claim to have administered a just punishment. But the truth is different.’ The Regent gestured, and a man stepped forward. ‘The Prince offered me a gold coin if I could flog the slave to death.’ It was the moment when sympathy palpably swung away from Laurent. Laurent, realising it, opened his mouth to speak, but the Regent cut him off. ‘No. You’ve had your chance to make apologies, or give reasonable excuses. You chose instead to show unrepentant arrogance. You do not yet have the right to spit in the face of kings. At your age, your brother was leading armies and bringing glory to his country. What have you achieved in the same time? When you shirked your responsibilities at court, I ignored it. When you refused to do your duty on the border at Delfeur, I let you have your way. But this time your disobedience has threatened an accord between nations. The Council and I have met and agreed we must take action.’ The Regent spoke in a voice of unquestioned power that was heard in every corner of the chamber. ‘Your lands of Varenne and Marche are forfeit, along with all troops and monies that accompany them. You retain only Acquitart. For the next ten months, you will find your income reduced, and your retinue diminished. You will petition to me directly for any expenses. Be grateful you retain Acquitart, and that we have not taken this decree further.’ Shock at the sanctions rippled across the assembly. There was outrage on some faces. But on many others there was something quietly satisfied, and the shock was less. In that moment, it was obvious which of the courtiers comprised the Regent’s faction, and which Laurent’s. And that Laurent’s was smaller. ‘Be grateful I retain Acquitart,’ said Laurent, ‘which by law you cannot take away and which besides has no accompanying troops and little strategic importance?’ ‘Do you think it pleases me to discipline my own nephew? No uncle acts with a heavier heart. Shoulder your responsibilities—ride to Delfeur—show me you have even a drop of your brother’s blood and I will joyfully restore it all.’ ‘I think there is an old caretaker at Acquitart. Shall I ride to the border with him? We could share armour.’ ‘Don’t be facile. If you agreed to fulfil your duty you would not lack for men.’ ‘Why would I waste my time on the border when, at Kastor’s whim, you roll over?’ For the first time, the Regent looked angry. ‘You claim this is a matter of national pride, but you are unwilling to lift a finger to serve your own country. The truth is that you acted out of petty malice, and now you’re smarting at discipline. This is on your own head. Embrace the slave in apology, and we are done.’ Embrace the slave? Anticipation among the gathered courtiers winched tighter. Damen was urged onto his feet by his handler. Expecting Laurent to baulk at his uncle’s order, Damen was startled when, after a lingering look at his uncle, Laurent approached, with soft, obedient grace. He hooked a finger in the chain that stretched across Damen’s chest, and drew him forward by it. Damen, feeling the sustained pull at twin points, came as he was bid. With cool detachment, Laurent’s fingers gathered rubies, inclining Damen’s head down far enough to kiss him on the cheek. The kiss was insubstantial: not a single mote of gold paint transferred itself to Laurent’s lips in the process. ‘You look like a whore.’ The soft words barely stirred the air by Damen’s ear, inaudible to anyone else. Laurent murmured: ‘Filthy painted slut. Did you spread for my uncle the way you did for Kastor?’ Damen recoiled violently, and gold paint smeared. He was staring at Laurent from two paces away, revolted. Laurent lifted the back of his hand to his cheek, now streaked with gold, then turned back to the Regent with a wide-eyed expression of injured innocence. ‘Witness the slave’s behaviour for yourself. Uncle, you wrong me cruelly. The slave’s punishment on the cross was deserved: you can see for yourself how arrogant and rebellious he is. Why do you punish your own blood when the fault lies with Akielos?’ Move, and counter move. There was a danger in doing something like this publicly. And indeed, there was a slight shift of sympathy within the assembly. ‘You claim the slave was at fault, and deserved punishment. Very well. He has received it. Now you receive yours. Even you are subject to the rule of Regent and Council. Accept it gracefully.’ Laurent lowered his blue eyes, martyring himself. ‘Yes, uncle.’ He was diabolical. Perhaps this was the answer to how he won loyalty from the Prince’s Guard; he simply wrapped them around his finger. On the dais, the elderly Councillor Herode was frowning a little, and looking at Laurent for the first time with troubled sympathy. The Regent ended proceedings, rose, and departed, perhaps for some awaiting entertainment. The councillors left with him. The symmetry of the chamber broke down as courtiers unlocked themselves from their positions on either side of the carpet and began to mingle more freely. ‘You may hand me the leash,’said a pleasant voice, very close. Damen looked up into a pair of pellucid blue eyes. Beside him, the handler hesitated. ‘Why do you delay?’ Laurent held out his hand and smiled. ‘The slave and I have embraced and are joyously reconciled.’ The handler passed him the leash. Laurent immediately drew the chain taut. ‘Come with me,’ Laurent said. CHAPTER 5 IT WAS A little too ambitious of Laurent to think that he could extricate himself, easily and discreetly, from a court gathering of which his own censure had been the centrepiece. Damen, held at the end of a leash, watched as Laurent’s progress was thwarted again and again by those who wished to commiserate. There was a press of silk and cambric and solicitude. For Damen, it was not a reprieve, just a delay. He felt at every moment Laurent’s hold on the leash, like a promise. Damen felt a tension that wasn’t fear. Under different circumstances, without guards or witnesses, he might relish the chance to be alone in a room with Laurent. Laurent was indeed good at talking. He accepted sympathy gracefully. He put his position rationally. He stopped the flow of talk when it became dangerously critical of his uncle. He said nothing that could be taken as an open slight on the Regency. Yet no one who talked to him could have any doubt that his uncle was behaving at best misguidedly and at worst treasonously. But even to Damen, who had no great knowledge of the politics of this court, it was significant that all five councillors had left with the Regent. It was a sign of the Regent’s comparative power: he had the full backing of the Council. Laurent’s faction, left here griping in the audience chamber, did not like it. They did not have to like it. They could do nothing about it. This, then, was the time for Laurent to do his best to shore up support, not disappear off somewhere for a private tête-à-tête with his slave. And yet, despite all of this, they were leaving the audience chamber, and moving through a series of interior courtyards large enough to contain trees, geometric greenery, fountains and winding paths. Across the courtyard, glimpses of the continuing revelry could be seen; the trees moved and the lights from the entertainment across the way winked, brightly. They were not alone. Following at a discreet distance were two guards for Laurent’s protection. As always. And the courtyard itself was not empty. More than once, they passed couples promenading on the paths, and once, Damen saw a pet and courtier twining around one another on a bench, sensuously kissing. Laurent led them to an arbour, vine-bowered. Beside it was a fountain and a long pool tangled with lilies. Laurent tied Damen’s leash to the metalwork of the bower, as he might tie a horse’s lead to a post. He had to stand very close to Damen in order to do it, but gave no sign that he was bothered by the proximity. The tether was nothing more than an insult. Not being a dumb animal, Damen was perfectly capable of untying the leash. What kept him in place was not the thin golden chain casually looped around the metal, it was the liveried guard, and the presence of half the court, and a great many men besides that, between him and freedom. Laurent moved off a few steps. Damen saw him lift a hand to the back of his own neck, as if to release tension. Saw him do nothing for a moment but stand and be quiet and breathe the cool air scented with night flowers. It occurred to Damen for the first time that Laurent might have his own reasons for wanting to escape the attention of the court. The tension rose, surfacing, as Laurent turned back to him. ‘You don’t have a very good sense of self-preservation, do you, little pet? Bleating to my uncle was a mistake,’said Laurent. ‘Because you got your hand slapped?’said Damen. ‘Because it’s going to anger all those guards you’ve taken so much trouble cultivating,’ said Laurent. ‘They tend to dislike servants who place self-interest above loyalty.’ Expecting a direct assault, he was unprepared for one that came at him obliquely, sideways. He set his jaw, let his gaze rake up and down Laurent’s form. ‘You can’t touch your uncle, so you lash out where you can. I’m not afraid of you. If there’s something you’re going to do to me, do it.’ ‘You poor, misguided animal,’said Laurent. ‘Whatever made you think I came here for you?’ Damen blinked. ‘Then again,’ said Laurent, ‘maybe I do need you for one thing.’ He wound the thin chain once around his own wrist, and then, with a sharp jerk, he snapped it. The two ends slithered away fromhis wrist and dropped, dangling. Laurent took a step backwards. Damen looked at the broken chain in confusion. ‘Your Highness,’said a voice. Laurent said, ‘Councillor Herode.’ ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,’ began Herode. Then he saw Damen and hesitated. ‘Forgive me. I . . . assumed you would come alone.’ ‘Forgive you?’said Laurent. A silence opened up around Laurent’s words. In it, their meaning changed. Herode began, ‘I—’ Then he looked at Damen, and his expression grew alarmed. ‘Is this safe? He’s broken his leash. Guard!’ There was the shrill sound of a sword drawn from a sheath. Two swords. The guards pushed their way into the arbour and interposed themselves between Damen and Herode. Of course. ‘You’ve made your point,’ Herode said, with a wary eye on Damen. ‘I hadn’t seen the slave’s rebellious side. You seemed to have him under control in the ring. And the slaves gifted to your uncle are so obedient. If you attend the entertainments later, you’ll see that for yourself.’ ‘I’ve seen them,’said Laurent. There was a little silence. ‘You know how close I was to your father,’ said Herode. ‘Since his death, I have given my loyalty unswervingly to your uncle. I’m concerned that in this case it may have led me to make an error of judgement—’ ‘If you’re concerned that my memory for wrongs against me is longer than ten months,’ said Laurent, ‘there’s no need for anxiety. I am sure you can persuade me you were genuinely mistaken.’ Herode said, ‘Perhaps we can take a turn in the garden. The slave can avail himself of the garden seat and rest his injuries.’ ‘How thoughtful of you, Councillor,’said Laurent. He turned to Damen and said in a melting voice, ‘Your back must hurt terribly.’ ‘It’s fine,’said Damen. ‘Kneel on the ground, then,’ Laurent said. A hard grip on his shoulder forced him down; as soon as Damen’s knees hit the ground, a sword was held to his throat to dissuade him from rising. Herode and Laurent were disappearing away together, just one more couple wandering the perfumed garden paths. The revelry across the way began to spill out into the garden, and, steadily, its population increased, and lanterns were hung, and servants began to wander about with refreshments. The place where Damen knelt remained reasonably out of the way, but occasionally courtiers passed him, and remarked on him: look, there is the Prince’s barbarian slave. Frustration curled in him like a lash. He was once again tied up. The guard was less nonchalant about restraining him than Laurent. He was chained to the metal bower by his collar, and this time it was a real chain, not something he could snap. Little pet, thought Damen with disgust. From Herode’s fraught exchange with Laurent he picked the only salient piece of information. Somewhere inside, not far away, were the other Akielon slaves. Damen’s mind returned to them. His concern for their wellbeing persisted, but their proximity raised perturbing questions. What was the provenance of these slaves? Were they palace slaves, trained by Adrastus, and brought as Damen had been directly from the capital? Held in solitary confinement aboard the ship, Damen had not yet seen the slaves, nor had they seen him. But if they were palace slaves, handpicked from the best of those who served royalty in Akielos, there was a chance that they would recognise him. In the unfolding quiet of the courtyard, he heard the soft chime of small bells. Chained up in an obscure part of the garden away from the courtly entertainments, it was just sheer bad luck that one of the slaves was brought to him. On the end of a leash, led by a Veretian pet. The slave wore a petite version of Damen’s gold collar and wrist-cuffs. The pet was the source of the bells. He was belled like a cat, at his throat. He was wearing a great deal of paint. And he was familiar. It was Councillor Audin’s pet, the child. Damen cheerlessly supposed that to those susceptible to little boys, this pet probably had charms in abundance. Under the paint, he had a child’s fine clear skin. If his features had been possessed by a girl of the same age, they would have promised, given half a dozen years, a superlatively beautiful young woman. A learned grace disguised, for the most part, the limitations of his undersized child’s limbs. Like Damen, he had precious stones woven into his hair, though in his case they were seed pearls, glinting like stars in a tumble of brown curls. His best feature was a pair of amazing blue eyes, unmatched by any Damen had ever seen, except for the ones he had recently been staring into. The boy’s pretty bow lips formed the shape of a kiss, and he spat, right into Damen’s face. ‘My name is Nicaise,’ he said. ‘You’re not important enough to refuse me. Your master had all his land and money taken away. Even if he hadn’t, you’re just a slave. The Regent sent me to find the Prince. Where is he?’ ‘He went back to the audience chamber,’ Damen said. To say that he was taken aback by Nicaise was an understatement. The lie just came out. Nicaise stared at him. Then he tugged brutally on the slave’s leash. The slave was wrenched forward and almost overbalanced, like a colt on over-long legs. ‘I’m not going to drag you around all night. Wait here for me.’ Nicaise tossed the slave’s leash onto the ground and turned on his heel, bells chiming. Damen lifted his hand to his wet face. Instantly, the slave was on his knees beside him, and a soft hand was on his wrist, drawing it back. ‘Please, let me. You will smudge the paint.’ The slave was looking right at him. Damen saw no recognition in his face. The slave simply lifted the hem of his tunic and used it to dab gently at Damen’s cheek. Damen relaxed. He thought, a little ruefully, that it was probably arrogant of him to have assumed that the slave would know him. He supposed that he looked rather unlike a prince, in gold shackles and gold paint, shackled to an arbour in the middle of a Veretian garden. He also felt sure that this slave was not from the palace in Akielos; Damen would have noticed him. The slave’s colouring was eye-catching. His skin was fair and his curling light brown hair was burnished with gold. He was exactly the type that Damen could have drawn down onto the sheets and spent a very pleasant couple of hours enjoying. The slave’s careful fingers touched his face. Damen felt a moment of obscure guilt for having sent Nicaise off on a wild goose chase. But he was also glad for this unexpected moment alone with a slave from his homeland. ‘What’s your name?’said Damen, softly. ‘Erasmus.’ ‘Erasmus, it’s good to talk to another Akielon.’ He meant it. The contrast between this demure, lovely slave and the spiteful Nicaise made himcrave the straightforward simplicity of home. At the same time, Damen felt a throb of concern for the Akielon slaves. Their sweet-natured obedience was hardly a blueprint for survival in this court. Damen guessed Erasmus to be about eighteen or nineteen, yet he would be eaten alive by thirteenyear-old Nicaise. Let alone Laurent. ‘There was a slave who was kept drugged and bound aboard the ship,’ Erasmus said, tentatively. From the first, he had spoken Akielon. ‘They said he was given to the Prince.’ Damen nodded slowly, answering the unspoken question. As well as tousled light brown curls, Erasmus had a pair of the most hopelessly artless hazel eyes Damen had ever seen. ‘What a charming picture,’said a woman’s voice. Jerking back from Damen, Erasmus instantly prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the ground. Damen stayed where he was. Kneeling and shackled was quite submissive enough. The woman who had spoken was Vannes. She was strolling the garden paths with two noblemen. One of the men had a pet with him, a red-haired youth who Damen also faintly recognised from the ring. ‘Don’t stop on our account,’said the redhead, tartly. Damen glanced sideways at Erasmus, who hadn’t moved. It was unlikely that Erasmus could speak Veretian. His master laughed: ‘Another minute or two and we might have caught them kissing.’ ‘I wonder if the Prince could be persuaded to have his slave entertain with the others?’ said Vannes. ‘It’s not often you get to see a really powerful male perform. It was a shame to pull him out of the ring before he had a chance to mount anyone.’ ‘I’m not sure I’d care to watch him, after what we saw tonight.’ The master of the redhead spoke. ‘I think it’s more exciting now that we know he’s really dangerous,’said the red-headed pet. ‘It’s a shame his back is ruined, but the front is very nice,’ said Vannes. ‘We saw more of it at the ring, of course. As for the danger . . . Councillor Guion suggested that he wasn’t trained to perform as a pleasure slave. But training isn’t everything. He might have natural talent.’ Damen was silent. To react to these courtiers would be madness; the only possible course of action was to stay quiet and hope they would grow bored and drift off; and that was what Damen was determinedly doing, when the one thing happened that was guaranteed to make any situation spectacularly worse. ‘Natural talent?’said Laurent. He strolled into the gathering. The courtiers all bobbed respectfully, and Vannes explained the subject under consideration. Laurent turned to Damen. ‘Well?’ Laurent said. ‘Can you couple adequately, or do you just kill things?’ Damen thought that given the choice between the lash and a conversation with Laurent, he might actually choose the lash. ‘He’s not very talkative,’ remarked Vannes. ‘It comes and goes,’said Laurent. ‘I’d happily perform with him.’ It was the pet with the red hair. Ostensibly, he spoke to his master, but the words carried. ‘Ancel, no. He could hurt you.’ ‘Would you like that?’said the pet, sliding his arms around his master’s neck. Just before he did so, he glanced sideways at Laurent. ‘No. I wouldn’t.’ His master frowned. But it was obvious that Ancel’s provocative question had been aimed not at his master, but at Laurent. The boy was angling for royal attention. Damen was sickened by the idea of some nobleman’s boy offering himself up to be hurt on the assumption that it would play to Laurent’s tastes. Then he thought of all he knew of Laurent, and only felt sicker, because of course the boy’s assumptions were probably correct. ‘What do you think, Your Highness?’said Ancel. ‘I think your master would prefer you intact,’said Laurent, dryly. ‘You could tie the slave up,’said Ancel. It was a testament to Ancel’s lacquered skill that it came out teasing and seductive, rather than what it was, a last attempt of a climber to catch and hold a prince’s attention. It almost didn’t work. Laurent seemed unmoved by Ancel’s flirtatiousness, even bored by it. He had tossed Damen into the ring, but in the sex-drenched atmosphere of the stands, Laurent’s pulse had not even appeared to flicker. He had been singularly immune to the carnality of what the Veretians called ‘performance’, the only courtier without a pet fawning all over him. They say he’s frigid, Jord had said. ‘What about something small, while we wait for the main entertainment?’ said Vannes. ‘Surely it’s past time for the slave to learn his place?’ Damen saw Laurent absorb those words. Saw him stop and give the idea his full attention, turning the decision over in his mind. And saw him make it, his mouth curling, his expression hardening. ‘Why not?’ Laurent said. ‘No,’ said Damen, a surge in his chest, half-stymied as he felt hands on him. Fighting in earnest against armed guards, in front of witnesses and in the middle of a crowded court, was an act of selfdestruction. But his mind and body rebelled, dragging instinctively at the handling. A lovers’ bench nestled inside the bower, creating two curved semi-circles. The courtiers made themselves at ease on it, occupying one side. Vannes suggested wine and a servant was fetched with a tray. One or two other courtiers wandered over, and Vannes struck up a conversation with one of themabout the embassy from Patras, due to arrive in a few days. Damen was lashed to the seat on the other side, facing them. There was an air of unreality about what was happening. Ancel’s master was delineating the encounter. The slave would be tied up, and Ancel would use his mouth. Vannes protested that it was so rare for the Prince to agree to a performance, they should make the most of it. Ancel’s master would not be swayed. This was really going to happen. Damen gripped the metalwork of the bower, his wrists cuffed to it above his head. He was going to be pleasured for a Veretian audience. He was probably just one of a dozen discreet entertainments that would unfold in this garden. Damen’s eyes fixed on Ancel. He almost told himself that this was not the pet’s fault, except that, in a large part, it was. Ancel dropped to his knees and found his way into Damen’s slave garments. Damen looked down at him and could not have felt less aroused. Even under the best of circumstances, green-eyed, redhaired Ancel was not his type. He looked about nineteen, and though his was not the obscene youth of Nicaise, his body was delicately boyish. His beauty was in fact polished, self-conscious prettiness. Pet, thought Damen. The word fit. Ancel pushed his long hair to one side, and began without any formality. He was practised, and manipulated Damen expertly with mouth and hands. Damen wondered if he should feel sympathetic or pleased that Ancel was not going to have his moment of triumph: not even half hard under Ancel’s ministrations, Damen doubted he would be able to come for the pleasure of an audience. If there was anything explicit on view, it must be the absence of all desire to be where he was. There was a faint rustle, and, cool as the water beneath the lily, Laurent came to sit beside him. ‘I wonder if we can do better than this,’ Laurent said. ‘Stop.’ Ancel detached himself from his endeavours and looked up, lips wet. ‘You’re more likely to win a game if you don’t play your whole hand at once,’ said Laurent. ‘Start more slowly.’ Damen reacted to Laurent’s words with inevitable tension. Ancel was close enough for Damen to feel his breath, a hot, focused cloud of heat that rolled in place, a susurration over sensitive skin. ‘Like this?’ Ancel asked. His mouth was an inch from its destination, and his hands slid softly up Damen’s thighs. His wet lips parted slightly. Damen, against his will, reacted. ‘Like that,’said Laurent. ‘Shall I . . . ?’said Ancel, leaning forward. ‘Don’t use your mouth yet,’said Laurent. ‘Just your tongue.’ Ancel obeyed. He tongued the head, an elusive touch, barely the suggestion of itself. Not enough pressure. Laurent was watching Damen’s face with the same cerebral attention that he might apply to a strategic problem. Ancel’s tongue pressed into the slit. ‘He likes that. Do it harder,’said Laurent. Damen swore, a single Akielon word. Unable to resist the flickering lures being played across its flesh, his body was awakening, and beginning to crave rhythm. Ancel’s tongue curled lazily around the head. ‘Now lick him. The whole length.’ Cool words preceded a long, hot lick, wet from base to tip. Damen could feel his thighs tighten, then, minutely, spread, his breath quickening in his chest. He wanted out of the restraints. There was a metallic sound as he pulled against the cuffs, his hands fists. He turned towards Laurent. It was a mistake to look at him. Even in the shadows of evening, Damen could see the relaxed arrangement of Laurent’s body, the marmoreal perfection of his features, and the detached unconcern with which he gazed at Damen, not bothering to so much as glance down at Ancel’s moving head. If you believed the Prince’s Guard, Laurent was the impregnable citadel, and took no lovers at all. Right now Laurent gave the impression of a mind somewhat engaged, and a body wholly aloof, untouched by ardour. The ribald fancy of the Prince’s Guard held a kernel of plausibility. On the other hand, the aloof, untouched Laurent was at this moment delivering a precise treatise on cocksucking. And Ancel obeyed instruction, his mouth doing what it was told. Laurent’s commands were leisurely, unhurried, and he had the refined practice of suspending his engagements at the very moment they began to get interesting. Damen was used to taking pleasure where he wished, touching where he wanted, coaxing responses from his partners as he pleased. Frustration peaked as gratification was stymied, relentlessly. Every part of him suffused with thwarted sensation, the cool air over his hot skin, the head in his lap just one part of a whole that included the awareness of where he was and who was sitting beside him. ‘Push down on it,’ Laurent said. Damen felt the breath release shatteringly from his chest at the first long wet slide, down onto his cock. Ancel couldn’t quite take it all, though his throat was exquisitely trained, lacking a gag reflex. Laurent’s next order came like a tap on the shoulder, and Ancel drew obediently back up to do no more than suckle the head. Damen could hear the sound of his own breathing now, even over the clamouring of his flesh. Even without rhythmical attention, diffuse pleasure was beginning to coalesce into something more urgent; he could feel the shift, the orientation of his body towards climax. Laurent uncrossed his legs, and rose. ‘Finish him off,’ said Laurent, incidentally and without a backwards glance, returning to the other courtiers to make a few remarks about the subject currently under discussion, as though he had no particular need to see out the conclusion now that it was inevitable. The image of Ancel absorbing his erection was joined in his fragmenting thoughts by the sudden harsh desire to get his hands on Laurent’s body and exact revenge—both for his actions and for his airy absence. Orgasm rolled up like flame over a hot surface, striping out seed that was, professionally, swallowed. ‘A little slow in the beginning, but quite a satisfactory climax,’said Vannes. Damen was unshackled from the lovers’ seat and pushed back down onto his knees. Laurent was seated opposite, legs crossed. Damen’s eyes fixed on him, and looked nowhere else; his breathing was still noticeable, and his pulse rapid, but anger produced all the same effects. The musical sound of bells intruded on the gathering; Nicaise interrupted without any sign of deference to those of higher rank at all. ‘I’m here to speak to the Prince,’said Nicaise. Laurent lifted his fingers minutely, and Vannes, Ancel and the others took it as a signal to make a brief obeisance, and depart. Nicaise came to stand in front of the bench and stared at Laurent with an expression of hostility. Laurent, for his part, was relaxed, one arm spread out over the back of the bench. ‘Your uncle wants to see you.’ ‘Does he? Let’s make him wait.’ One pair of unlikeable blue eyes stared at another. Nicaise sat down. ‘I don’t mind. The longer you wait the more trouble you’ll be in.’ ‘Well, as long as you don’t mind,’said Laurent. He sounded amused. Nicaise lifted his chin. ‘I’m going to tell him you waited on purpose.’ ‘You can if you like. I just assumed he’d guess, but you can save him the effort. Since we’re waiting, shall I call for refreshments?’ He gestured to the last of the tray-bearing servants, who stopped his retreat and approached. ‘Do you take wine, or aren’t you old enough yet?’ ‘I’m thirteen. I drink whenever I like.’ Nicaise scorned the tray, pushing at it so hard it almost overbalanced. ‘I’m not going to drink with you. We don’t need to start pretending politeness.’ ‘Don’t we? Very well: I think it is fourteen by now, isn’t it?’ Nicaise turned red, under the paint. ‘I thought so,’said Laurent. ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do, after? If I know your master’s tastes, you have another year, at most. At your age the body begins to betray itself.’ And then, reacting to something in the boy’s face: ‘Or has it started already?’ The red grew strident. ‘That isn’t any of your business.’ ‘You’re right, it isn’t,’said Laurent. Nicaise opened his mouth, but Laurent continued before he could speak. ‘I’ll offer for you, if you like. When the time comes. I wouldn’t want you in my bed, but you’d have all the same privileges. You might prefer that. I’d offer.’ Nicaise blinked, and then sneered. ‘With what?’ A breath of amusement from Laurent. ‘Yes, if I have any land left at all, I may have to sell it to buy bread, never mind pets. We will both have to navigate the next ten months on the tips of our toes.’ ‘I don’t need you. He’s promised. He’s not going to give me up.’ Nicaise’s voice was smug and self-satisfied. ‘He gives them all up,’said Laurent, ‘even if you’re more enterprising than the others have been.’ ‘He likes me better than the others.’ A scornful laugh. ‘You’re jealous.’ And then it was Nicaise’s turn to react to something he saw in Laurent’s face, and he said, with a horror Damen didn’t understand, ‘You’re going to tell him you want me.’ ‘Oh,’said Laurent. ‘No. Nicaise . . . no. That would wreck you. I wouldn’t do that.’ Then his voice became almost tired. ‘Maybe it’s better if you think that I would. You have quite a good mind for strategy, to have thought of that. Maybe you will hold him longer than the others.’ For a moment it seemed as if Laurent would say something else, but in the end he just stood up from the bench, and held his hand out to the boy. ‘Come on. Let’s go. You can watch me get told off by my uncle.’ CHAPTER 6 ‘YOUR MASTER SEEMS kind,’said Erasmus. ‘Kind?’said Damen. The word was difficult to get his mouth around, grating in his throat as he pushed it out. He looked across in disbelief at Erasmus. Nicaise had trailed off hand in hand with Laurent, leaving Erasmus behind, his leash forgotten on the ground beside him where he knelt. A soft breeze shifted his fair curls, and above them foliage moved like an awning of black silk. ‘He cares for your pleasure,’ explained Erasmus. It took a moment for those words to attach to their correct meaning, and when they did a breath of helpless laughter was the only possible response. Laurent’s precise instructions and their inevitable result had not been intended as a kindness, but rather the opposite. There was no way to explain Laurent’s cool, intricate mind to the slave, and Damen didn’t try. ‘What is it?’said Erasmus. ‘Nothing. Tell me. I wished for news of you and the others. How is it for you, so far from home? Are you well treated by your masters? I wondered . . . can you understand their language?’ Erasmus shook his head at the last question. ‘I—have a little skill with Patran and the northern dialects. Some words are similar.’ Haltingly, he said a few of them. Erasmus managed the Veretian well enough; that was not what made Damen frown. The words Erasmus had been able to decipher from what had been said to him were: Silence. Kneel down. Don’t move. ‘Did I misspeak?’said Erasmus, misinterpreting the expression. ‘No, you spoke well,’ Damen said, though his consternation remained. He didn’t like the choice of words. He didn’t like the idea that Erasmus and the others were rendered doubly powerless by an inability to speak or understand what was being said around them. ‘You . . . do not have the manner of a palace slave,’ offered Erasmus, hesitantly. That was an understatement. No one from Akielos would mistake Damen for a body slave, he had neither the manner nor the physique. Damen regarded Erasmus thoughtfully, wondering how much to say. ‘I was not a slave in Akielos. I was sent here by Kastor, as punishment,’ he said, eventually. There was no point lying about that part of it. ‘Punishment,’said Erasmus. His gaze dropped to the ground. His whole manner changed. Damen said, ‘But you were trained in the palace? How long were you there?’ He couldn’t account for the fact that he had not seen this slave before. Erasmus attempted a smile, rallying himself from whatever had disheartened him. ‘Yes. I—But I never saw the main palace, I was in training silks until I was chosen by the Keeper to come here. And my training in Akielos was very strict. It was thought . . . that is . . .’ ‘That is?’said Damen. Erasmus blushed and said in a very soft voice: ‘In case he found me pleasing, I was being trained for the Prince.’ ‘Were you?’said Damen, with some interest. ‘Because of my colouring. You can’t see it in this light, but in daylight, my hair is almost blond.’ ‘I can see it in this light,’said Damen. He could hear the approval saturating his own voice. He felt it shift the dynamic between them. He might as well have said, Good boy. Erasmus reacted to the words like a flower inclining towards sunlight. It didn’t matter that he and Damen were technically the same rank, Erasmus was trained to respond to strength, to yearn for it and submit to it. His limbs subtly rearranged themselves, a flush spreading on his cheeks, his eyes dropping to the ground. His body became a supplication. The breeze toyed irresistibly with a curl that had tumbled over his forehead. In the softest little voice he said, ‘This slave is beneath your attention.’ In Akielos, submission was an art, and the slave was the artisan. Now that he was showing his form, you could see that Erasmus was surely the prize pick of the Regent’s gift-slaves. Ridiculous, that he was being dragged around by the neck like an unwilling animal. It was like possessing a finely tuned instrument and using it to smash shells open. Misusing it. He should be in Akielos, where his training would be fêted and prized. But it occurred to Damen that Erasmus might have been lucky in being chosen for the Regent, lucky in never having come to the attention of Prince Damianos. Damen had seen what had happened to the closest of his personal slaves. They had been killed. He pushed the memory forcibly out of his mind and returned his attention to the slave in front of him. Damen said, ‘And is your own master kind?’ ‘This slave lives to serve,’said Erasmus. It was a formulaic set-phrase, and meant nothing. The behaviour of slaves was tightly proscribed, with the result that what was unsaid was often more important than what was said. Damen was already frowning a little when he chanced to look down. The tunic Erasmus wore had been slightly disordered when he used it to wipe Damen’s cheek, and he’d had no chance to right it. The hem had lifted high enough to expose the top of his thigh. Erasmus, seeing the direction of Damen’s gaze, quickly pulled the cloth down to cover himself, stretching it as far as it would go. ‘What happened to your leg?’said Damen. Erasmus had gone ivory white. He didn’t want to answer, but would force himself to because he’d been asked a direct question. ‘What’s wrong?’ Erasmus’s voice was barely audible, his hands clutching the hem of his tunic. ‘I am ashamed.’ ‘Show me,’said Damen. Erasmus’s fingers loosened, trembling, and then slowly lifted the fabric. Damen looked at what had been done. At what, three times, had been done. ‘The Regent did this? Speak freely.’ ‘No. On the day we arrived, there was a test of obedience. I f-failed.’ ‘This was your punishment for failure?’ ‘This was the test. I was ordered not to make any sound.’ Damen had seen Veretian arrogance, and Veretian cruelty. He had suffered Veretian insults, had endured the sting of the lash and the violence of the ring. But he had not known anger until now. ‘You didn’t fail,’ said Damen. ‘That you tried at all proves your courage. What was asked of you was impossible. There’s no shame in what happened to you.’ Except for the people who had done this. There was shame and disgrace on every one of them, and Damen would hold them to account for what they had done. Damen said, ‘Tell me everything that has happened to you since you left Akielos.’ Erasmus spoke matter-of-factly. The story was disturbing. The slaves had been transported aboard the ship in cages, below deck. Handlers and sailors alike had taken liberties. One of the women, worried about the lack of access to any usual means of preventing pregnancy, had tried to communicate the problem to her Veretian handlers, not realising that to them illegitimate birth was a horror. The idea that they might be delivering a slave to the Regent with a sailor’s bastard growing in her belly caused them to panic. The ship’s physic had given her some sort of concoction that induced sweats and nausea. Concerned it would not be enough, her stomach was beaten with rocks. That was before they docked in Vere. In Vere, the problem was one of neglect. The Regent had not taken any of the slaves to bed. The Regent was a largely absent figure, busy with affairs of state, served by pets of his own choosing. The slaves were left to their handlers, and to the vagaries of a bored court. Reading between the lines, they were treated as animals, their obedience a parlour trick, and the ‘tests’ thought up by the sophisticated court, which the slaves struggled to perform, were in some cases truly sadistic. As in the case of Erasmus. Damen felt sick. ‘You must crave freedom more than I do,’ said Damen. The slave’s courage made him feel ashamed. ‘Freedom?’said Erasmus, sounding scared for the first time. ‘Why would I want that? I cannot . . . I am made for a master.’ ‘You were made for better masters than these. You deserve someone who appreciates your worth.’ Erasmus flushed and said nothing. ‘I promise you,’said Damen. ‘I will find a way to help you.’ ‘I wish—’said Erasmus. ‘You wish?’ ‘I wish I could believe you,’said Erasmus. ‘You talk like a master. But you are a slave, like I am.’ Before Damen could reply, there was a sound from the paths, and, as he had done once before, Erasmus prostrated himself, anticipating the arrival of another courtier. Voices from the path: ‘Where’s the Regent’s slave?’ ‘Back there.’ And then, rounding the corner: ‘There you are.’ And then: ‘And look who else they let out.’ It was not a courtier. It was not petite, malicious, exquisite Nicaise. It was coarse-featured, broken-nosed Govart. He spoke to Damen, who had last faced him in the ring in a desperate grapple for purchase and mastery. Govart casually clasped the back of Erasmus’s gold collar and dragged him up by it, as an uncaring owner might heft a dog around. Erasmus, a boy not a dog, choked violently as the collar dug into his tender throat, caught at the join of neck and jaw, just above his Adam’s apple. ‘Shut up.’ Govart, irritated by the coughing, slapped him hard across the face. Damen felt the jerk of restraint as his body hit the limits of his chains, heard the metallic sound before he even realised he’d reacted. ‘Let him go.’ ‘You want me to?’ He shook Erasmus by the collar for punctuation. Erasmus, who had understood shut up, was wet-eyed from the brief choking, but silent. ‘Don’t think I will. Got told to haul himback. No one said I couldn’t enjoy myself on the way.’ Damen said, ‘If you want another go around, all you have to do is take a step forward.’ It would please him a great deal to hurt Govart. ‘I’d rather fuck your sweetheart,’said Govart. ‘The way I figure it, I’m owed a fuck.’ As he spoke, Govart pushed up the slave tunic, revealing the curves beneath. Erasmus didn’t struggle when Govart kicked his ankles apart and lifted his arms up. He let himself be manhandled, and then stayed in position, awkwardly bent over. The realisation that Govart was going to fuck Erasmus right here in front of him hit with the same sense of unreality that he’d felt when faced with Ancel. It wasn’t possible that something like this was going to happen—that this court was so depraved that a mercenary could rape a royal slave a scant distance from the gathered court. There was no one within hearing distance except for the disinterested guard. Erasmus’s face, red with humiliation, was turned determinedly away fromDamen. ‘The way I figure it—’ Govart used this phrase again. ‘—your master’s the one who fucked us both. He’s the one who should really be getting it. But in the dark, one blond’s as good as another. Better,’ said Govart. ‘Stick your cock in that frigid bitch, he’d freeze it off. This one likes it.’ He did something with his hand under the bunched up tunic. Erasmus made a sound. Damen jerked, and this time the harsh metallic noise suggested loudly that the ancient iron was about to give. The sound of it shook the guard loose from his post. ‘There some problem?’ ‘He doesn’t like me fucking his little slave friend,’ said Govart. Erasmus, mortifyingly exposed, looked like he was silently breaking down. ‘Fuck him somewhere else then,’ the guard said. Govart smiled. Then he pushed Erasmus hard in the small of the back. ‘I will,’ Govart said. Shoving Erasmus ahead of him, he disappeared along the paths, and there was absolutely nothing Damen could do to stop him. Night turned to morning. The garden entertainments ended. Damen was deposited back in his room, clean and tended and chained and powerless. Laurent’s prediction regarding the reaction of the guards—and the servants, and all the members of his retinue—turned out to be stingingly accurate. Laurent’s household reacted to collusion with the Regent with anger and enmity. The fragile relationships Damen had managed to build were gone. It was the worst possible time for a change in attitude. Now, when those relationships might have brought him news, or been able in some small way to influence the treatment of the slaves. He had no thought of his own freedom. There was only the constant pull of concern and of responsibility. To escape alone would be an act of selfishness and betrayal. He could not leave, not if it meant abandoning the others to their fate. And yet, he was totally without power to affect any change in their circumstances. Erasmus was right. His promise to help was an empty one. Outside his room, several things were happening. The first was that, in response to the Regent’s edicts, the Prince’s household was being cut back. Without access to income from his various estates, Laurent’s retinue was substantially diminished and his spending curtailed. In the whirlwind of changes, Damen’s room was moved from the royal pet residences to somewhere inside Laurent’s wing of the palace. It didn’t help him. His new room had the same number of guards, the same pallet, the same silks and cushions, the same iron link in the floor, though this one looked newly installed. Even short of funds, Laurent didn’t seem inclined to skimp on security for his Akielon prisoner. Unfortunately. From snippets of overheard conversation Damen learned that, elsewhere, the delegation fromPatras had arrived to discuss trade with Vere. Patras bordered on Akielos, and was a country of similar culture—not traditionally an ally of Vere. The news of talks concerned him. Was the delegation here simply to discuss trade, or was it part of some larger shift in the political landscape? He had about as much luck finding out the business of the Patran delegation as he had had in helping the slaves, which was to say none at all. There had to be something he could do. There was nothing he could do. To face his own powerlessness was awful. He had at no point since his capture truly thought of himself as a slave. He had played lip service to the role, at best. He had viewed punishments as no more than minor obstacles, because this situation in his mind was temporary. He had believed that escape was in his future. He still believed that. He wanted to be free. He wanted to find his way home. He wanted to stand in the capital, raised on its marble pillars, and look out over the greens and blues of mountains and ocean. He wanted to face Kastor, his brother, and ask him, man to man, why he had done what he had done. But life in Akielos went on without Damianos. These slaves had no one else to help them. And what did it mean, to be a prince, if he did not strive to protect those weaker than himself? The sun, sinking low in the sky, brought light into his room through the grilled windows. When Radel entered, Damen begged an audience with the Prince. Radel, with obvious relish, refused. The Prince, said Radel, did not care to trouble himself with a turncoat Akielon slave. He had more exalted business to attend to. Tonight there was a banquet in honour of the Patran Ambassador. Eighteen courses, and the most talented pets entertaining with dance and games and performance. Knowing Patran culture, Damen could only imagine the reaction of the delegation to the more inventive entertainments of the Veretian court, but he stayed silent as Radel described the glory of the table, and the courses in detail, and the wines: mulberry wine and fruit wine and sinopel. Damen was not fit for that company. Damen was not fit to eat the leavings fromthe table. Radel, having made his point at satisfactory length, left. Damen waited. He knew that Radel would be obliged to pass on the request. He had no illusions about his relative importance in Laurent’s household, but if nothing else, his inadvertent role in Laurent’s power struggle with his uncle meant that his request for an audience would not be ignored. Would probably not be ignored. He settled in, knowing that Laurent would make him wait. Surely not longer than a day or two, he thought. That was what he thought. And so, when night came, he slept. He woke amid crushed pillows and disturbed silken sheets to find that Laurent’s cool blue gaze was on him. The torches were lit and the servants who had lit them were withdrawing. Damen moved; silk, skin-warm, slid away completely to pool among the cushions as he pushed himself up. Laurent paid it no attention. Damen recalled that a visit from Laurent had woken him from sleep once before. It was closer to dawn than sunset. Laurent was dressed in court clothes, having come, presumably, after the eighteenth course and whatever nightly entertainments had followed. Not drunk this time. Damen had expected a long, excruciating wait. There was slight resistance from the chain as it dragged across the cushions, following his movement. He thought about what he had to do, and why he had to do it. Very deliberately, he knelt, and bowed his head, and lowered his eyes to the floor. For a moment, it was so quiet that he could hear the flames from the torches fluttering in the air. ‘This is new,’said Laurent. ‘There’s something I want,’said Damen. ‘Something you want.’ The same words, precisely enunciated. He had known it was not going to be easy. Even with someone else, not this cold, unpleasant prince, it would not be easy. ‘You get something in return,’said Damen. He set his jaw as Laurent slowly paced around him, as though simply interested in viewing himfrom all angles. Laurent stepped mincingly over the chain that lay slack on the ground, completing his tour. ‘Are you misguided enough to try to bargain with me? What could you possibly offer that I would want?’ ‘Obedience,’said Damen. He felt Laurent react to that idea. Subtly but unmistakably, the interest was there. Damen tried not to think too much about what he was offering, what it would mean to keep this promise. He would face that future when he came to it. ‘You want me to submit. I’ll do it. You want me to publicly earn the punishment that your uncle won’t let you mete out? Whatever performance you want from me, you’ll have it. I will throw myself on the sword. In exchange for one thing.’ ‘Let me guess. You want me to take off your chains. Or reduce your guard. Or put you in a roomwhere the doors and windows are unbarred. Don’t waste your breath.’ Damen forced the anger down. It was more important to be clear. ‘I don’t think the slaves in your uncle’s care are well treated. Do something about it, and the bargain is made.’ ‘The slaves?’ Laurent said, after a slight pause. And then, with renewed drawling scorn: ‘Am I supposed to believe you care about their welfare? How exactly would they be treated better in Akielos? It is your barbaric society that forced them into slavery, not mine. I would not have thought it possible to train the will out of a man, but you have managed it. Congratulations. Your show of compassion rings false.’ Damen said, ‘One of the handlers took a heated iron from the fire to test whether the slave would obey an order to stay silent while he used it. I don’t know if that is usual practice in this place, but good men don’t torture slaves in Akielos. Slaves are trained to obey in all things, but their submission is a pact: they give up free will in exchange for perfect treatment. To abuse someone who cannot resist—isn’t that monstrous?’ Damen said, ‘Please. They’re not like me. They’re not soldiers. They haven’t killed anyone. They’re innocent. They will serve you willingly. And so will I, if you do something to help them.’ There was a long silence. Laurent’s expression had changed. Finally, Laurent said, ‘You overestimate my influence over my uncle.’ Damen began to speak, but Laurent cut him off. ‘No. I—’ Laurent’s golden brows had drawn slightly together, as though he had encountered something that did not make sense. ‘You would really sacrifice your pride over the fate of a handful of slaves?’ He had worn the same look on his face at the ring; he was gazing at Damen as though he was searching for an answer to an unexpected problem. ‘Why?’ Anger and frustration broke free of their bonds. ‘Because I am stuck here in this cage and I have no other way to help them.’ He heard the rage lash in his voice, and tried to force it down, with limited success. His breathing was uneven. Laurent was staring at him. The little golden frown was etched deeper. After a moment, Laurent gestured to the guard at the door and Radel was summoned. He arrived presently. Without taking his eyes off Damen, Laurent said, ‘Has anyone been in or out of this room?’ ‘No one but your own staff, Your Highness. As you ordered.’ ‘Which of the staff?’ Radel recited a list of names. Laurent said, ‘I want to speak to the guards who were watching over the slave in the gardens.’ ‘I’ll send for them personally,’said Radel, departing on the errand. ‘You think this is a trick,’said Damen. He could see from the assessing look on Laurent’s face that he was right. The bitter laughter just came out. ‘Something amuses you?’ Laurent. ‘What would I have to gain from—’ Damen broke off. ‘I don’t know how to convince you. You don’t do anything without a dozen motives. You lie even to your own uncle. This is country of deviousness and deception.’ ‘Whereas pure Akielos is free of treachery? The heir dies on the same night as the King and it is merely coincidence that smiles on Kastor?’ said Laurent, silkily. ‘You should kiss the floor when you beg for my favour.’ Of course Laurent would invoke Kastor. They were alike. Damen forcibly reminded himself of why he was here. ‘I apologise. I spoke out of turn.’ Grittily. Laurent said, ‘If this is a fabrication—if I find you have been moonlighting with emissaries frommy uncle—’ ‘I haven’t,’said Damen. The guard took a little longer to rouse than Radel, who presumably never slept, but they arrived reasonably promptly. Dressed in livery and looking alert, rather than, as might be expected, yawning and trailing bed linen. ‘I want to know who spoke with the slave the night you watched over him in the gardens,’ said Laurent. ‘Nicaise and Vannes I know about.’ ‘That was it,’ came the answer. ‘There was no other.’ And then, as Damen felt a sick sensation in his stomach: ‘No. Wait.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘After you left,’ the guard said, ‘he got a visit from Govart.’ Laurent turned back to Damen, blue eyes like ice. ‘No,’ said Damen, knowing Laurent believed this now to be some scheme of his uncle’s. ‘It’s not what you think.’ But it was too late. ‘Shut him up,’said Laurent. ‘Try not to leave any new marks. He’s caused enough trouble for me as it is.’ CHAPTER 7 SEEING NO REASON whatsoever to cooperate with that order, Damen stood up. It had an interesting effect on the guard who brought up short and swung his gaze back to Laurent, seeking further guidance. Radel was also in the room, and at the door stood the two guards who were on watch. Laurent narrowed his eyes at the problem, but offered no immediate solution. Damen said, ‘You could bring in more men.’ Behind him were strewn the cushions and rumpled silk sheets, and trailing across the floor was the single chain linked to his wrist-cuff that was no impediment to movement at all. ‘You are really courting danger tonight,’ Laurent said. ‘Am I? I thought I was appealing to your better nature. Order whatever punishment you like, fromthe coward’s distance of a chain-length. You and Govart are two of a kind.’ It was not Laurent but the guard who reacted, steel flashing out of the sheath. ‘Watch your mouth.’ He was wearing livery, not armour. The threat was negligible. Damen looked at his drawn sword with scorn. ‘You’re no better. You saw what Govart was doing. You did nothing to stop him.’ Laurent raised a hand, halting the guard before he could take another angry step forward. ‘What was it he was doing?’said Laurent. The guard stepped back, then shrugged. ‘Raping one of the slaves.’ There was a pause, but if Laurent had any reaction to these words, it didn’t show on his face. Laurent transferred his gaze back to Damen and said, pleasantly, ‘Does that bother you? I recall you being free with your own hands, not so very long ago.’ ‘That was—’ Damen flushed. He wanted to deny that he’d done anything of the kind, but he remembered rather unequivocally that he had. ‘I promise you, Govart did a great deal more than simply enjoy the view.’ ‘To a slave,’ Laurent said. ‘The Prince’s Guard doesn’t interfere with the Regency. Govart can stick his cock into anything of my uncle’s he likes.’ Damen made a sound of disgust. ‘With your blessing?’ ‘Why not?’ said Laurent. His voice was honeyed. ‘He certainly had my blessing to fuck you, but it turned out he’d rather take a blow to the head. Disappointing, but I can’t fault his taste. Then again, maybe if you’d spread in the ring, Govart wouldn’t have been so hot to get inside your friend.’ Damen said, ‘This isn’t a scheme of your uncle’s. I don’t take orders from men like Govart. You’re wrong.’ ‘Wrong,’said Laurent. ‘How lucky I am to have servants to point out my shortcomings. What makes you think I will tolerate any of this, even if I believed what you are saying to be true?’ ‘Because you can end this conversation any time you like.’ With so much at stake, Damen was sick of certain kinds of exchanges; the kind Laurent favoured, and enjoyed, and was good at. Wordplay for its own sake; words that built traps. None of it meant anything. ‘You’re right. I can. Leave us,’ Laurent said. He was gazing at Damen while he said it, but it was Radel and the guards who bowed and went out. ‘Very well. Let us play this out. You’re concerned for the wellbeing of the other slaves? Why hand me that kind of advantage?’ ‘Advantage?’said Damen. ‘When someone doesn’t like you very much, it isn’t a good idea to let them know that you care about something,’said Laurent. Damen felt himself turn ashen, as the threat sank in. ‘Would it hurt worse than a lashing for me to cut down someone you care for?’said Laurent. Damen was silent. Why do you hate us so much? he almost said, except that he knew the answer to that question. ‘I don’t think I need to bring in more men,’said Laurent. ‘I think all I have to do is tell you to kneel, and you’ll do it. Without me lifting a finger to help anyone.’ ‘You’re right,’said Damen. ‘I can end this any time I like?’said Laurent. ‘I haven’t even begun.’ ‘The Prince’s orders,’ Damen was told the next day, stripped and re-dressed, and when he asked what these preparations were for, he was told that tonight he would serve the Prince at the high table. Radel, clearly disapproving of the fact that Damen was being taken into refined company, delivered a peripatetic lecture, striding up and down in Damen’s room. Few pets were invited to serve their masters at the high table. To offer him this opportunity, the Prince must see something in Damen that surpassed Radel’s understanding. It was pointless to instruct someone like Damen in the rudiments of polite etiquette, but he should try to keep silent, obey the Prince and refrain fromattacking or molesting anyone. In Damen’s experience, being taken out of his rooms at Laurent’s request did not end well. His three excursions had comprised the ring, the gardens and the baths, with a subsequent trip to the flogging post. His back was by now mostly healed, but that was of no consequence; the next time Laurent struck out, it would not be directly at him. Damen had very little power, but there was a crack that ran right down the middle of this court. If Laurent would not be persuaded, Damen must turn his attention to the Regent’s faction. Out of habit, he observed the security outside of his room. They were on the second floor of the palace, and the passage they walked along had a number of windows fretted by grilles, looking out on an uninviting sheer drop. They also passed a number of armed men, all wearing the livery of the Prince’s Guard. Here were the guards that had been absent from the pet residences. A surprising number of men: they could not all be here for his benefit. Did Laurent keep this kind of security about him all the time? They passed through a pair of ornate bronze doors and Damen realised that he had been brought into Laurent’s own chambers. Damen’s eyes raked the interior derisively. These rooms were everything he would have expected of a princeling pampered lavishly, extravagantly, beyond reason. Decoration overran everything. The tiles were patterned, the walls intricately carved. The vantage was enchanting; this second-floor chamber had a loggia of semi-circular arches that hung above gardens. Through an archway the bedchamber could be seen. The bed was swathed in sumptuous curtains, a panoply of luxurious embellishment and carved wood. All that was missing was a rumpled, perfumed trail of clothing strewn across the floor, and a pet lounging on one of the silk-draped surfaces. There was no such evidence of habitation. In fact, amid the opulence, there were only a few personal effects. Close to Damen was a reclining couch and a book, fanned open, revealing illuminated pages and scrollwork glinting with gold leaf. The leash Damen had worn in the gardens also lay on the couch, as though tossed there casually. Laurent emerged from the bedchamber. He had not yet closed the delicate band that collared his shirt, and white laces trailed, exposing the hollow of his throat. When he saw that Damen had arrived, he paused beneath the archway. ‘Leave us,’said Laurent. He spoke to the handlers who had brought Damen to this chamber. They freed Damen from his restraints and departed. ‘Stand up,’said Laurent. Damen stood. He was taller than Laurent, and physically stronger, and wearing no restraints at all. And they were alone together, as they had been last night, as they had been in the baths. But something was different. He realised that at some point he had begun to think of being alone in a room with Laurent as dangerous. Laurent detached himself from the doorway. As he drew close to Damen, his expression soured, his blue eyes curdled with distaste. Laurent said, ‘There is no bargain between us. A prince does not make deals with slaves and insects. Your promises are worth less to me than dirt. Do you understand me?’ ‘Perfectly,’said Damen. Laurent was staring at him coldly. ‘Torveld of Patras may be persuaded to request that the slaves go with him to Bazal, as part of the trade deal being negotiated with my uncle.’ Damen felt his brow furrow. This information did not make sense. ‘If Torveld insists strongly enough, I think my uncle will agree to some sort of—loan—or, more accurately, a permanent arrangement couched as a loan, so that it will not offend our allies in Akielos. It’s my understanding that Patran sensibilities regarding the treatment of slaves are similar to your own.’ ‘They are.’ ‘I have spent the afternoon seeding the idea with Torveld. The deal will be finalised tonight. You will accompany me to the entertainments. It is my uncle’s custom to conduct business in relaxed surroundings,’said Laurent. ‘But—’said Damen. ‘But?’ Icily. Damen rethought that particular approach. He turned over the information he’d just been given. Re-examined it. Turned it over again. ‘What changed your mind?’ Damen said, carefully. Laurent didn’t answer him, just looked at him with hostility. ‘Don’t speak, unless you’re asked a question. Don’t contradict anything that I say. These are the rules. Break them and I will joyfully leave your countrymen to rot.’ And then: ‘Bring me the leash.’ The staff to which the leash was affixed had the heavy weight of pure gold. The fragile chain was intact; it had either been repaired or replaced. Damen picked it up, not very quickly. ‘I’m not sure that I believe anything that you’ve just told me,’ Damen said. ‘Do you have a choice?’ ‘No.’ Laurent had closed the lacings on his shirt, and the picture he now presented was immaculate. ‘Well? Put it on,’ he said, with a touch of impatience. The leash, he meant. Torveld of Patras was in the palace to negotiate a trade agreement. That much was true. Damen had heard the news from several sources. He remembered Vannes discussing the Patran delegation, several nights ago, in the garden. Patras had a culture similar to that of Akielos; that, also, was true. Perhaps the rest followed. If a consignment of slaves was on offer, Torveld would conceivably bargain for them, knowing their value. It might be true. Perhaps. Maybe. Might. Laurent was not feigning any change of heart, or warmth of feeling. His wall of contempt was firmly in place—was even more evident than usual, as though this act of benevolence was forcing all his considerable dislike to the surface. Damen found that the necessity of winning Laurent over to his cause was giving way to the sobering realisation that he had put the fate of the others into the hands of a volatile, malicious man he did not trust and could not predict, nor understand. He felt no new rush of warmth for Laurent. He was not inclined to believe that cruelty delivered with one hand was redeemed by a caress from the other, if that’s even what this was. Nor was he naive enough to think that Laurent was acting out of any altruistic impulse. Laurent was doing this for some twisty reason of his own. If it was true. When the leash was affixed, Laurent took hold of the handler’s staff and said, ‘You’re my pet. You outrank others. You do not need to submit to the orders of anyone except myself and my uncle. If you blurt out tonight’s plans to him, he will be very, very annoyed with me, which you might enjoy, but you won’t like my riposte. It’s your choice, of course.’ Of course. Laurent paused on the threshold. ‘One more thing.’ They were standing beneath a high arch, which threw shadows on Laurent’s face and made it difficult to read. It was a moment before he spoke. ‘Be careful of Nicaise, the pet you saw with Councillor Audin. You rejected him in the ring, and that is not a slight he is likely to forget.’ ‘Councillor Audin’s pet? The child?’ Incredulous. ‘Don’t underestimate him because of his age. He has experienced things many adults have not, and his mind is no longer that of a child. Though even a child may learn how to manipulate an adult. And you’re mistaken: Councillor Audin is not his master. Nicaise is dangerous.’ ‘He’s thirteen years old,’ said Damen, and found himself subjected to Laurent’s long-lidded gaze. ‘Is there anyone at this court who isn’t my enemy?’ ‘Not if I can help it,’ Laurent said. ‘So he’s tame,’said Estienne, and reached out tentatively, as though to pat a wild animal. It was a question of which part of the animal he was patting. Damen knocked his hand away. Estienne gave a yelp and snatched his hand back, nursing it against his chest. ‘Not that tame,’said Laurent. He didn’t reprimand Damen. He didn’t seem particularly displeased with barbaric behaviour, as long as it was directed outward. Like a man who enjoys owning an animal who will rake others with its claws but eat peacefully from his own hand, he was giving his pet a great deal of license. As a result, courtiers kept one eye on Damen, giving him a wide berth. Laurent used that to his advantage, using the propensity of courtiers to fall back in reaction to Damen’s presence as a means of extricating himself smoothly from conversation. The third time this happened Damen said, ‘Shall I make a face at the ones you don’t like, or is it enough to just look like a barbarian?’ ‘Shut up,’said Laurent, calmly. It was said that the Empress of Vask kept two leopards tied up by her throne. Damen tried not to feel like one of them. Before the negotiations there were to be entertainments, before the entertainments a banquet, before the banquet this reception. There were not as many pets as there had been at the ring, but Damen did see one or two familiar faces. Across the room he saw a flash of red hair, found a pair of emerald eyes; Ancel uncurled himself from his master’s arm, pressed fingers to his lips, and blew Damen a kiss. The Patran delegation, when they arrived, were obvious from the cut of their clothes. Laurent greeted Torveld like an equal, which he was. Almost. In negotiations of consequence, it was common to send a man of high birth to act as ambassador. Torveld was Prince Torveld, younger brother to King Torgeir of Patras, though in his case ‘younger’ was relative. Torveld was a handsome man in his forties, close to twice Damen’s age. He had a neatly trimmed brown beard in the Patran style, brown hair still largely untouched by grey. Relations between Akielos and Patras were friendly and extensive, but Prince Torveld and Prince Damianos had never met. Torveld had spent most of the last eighteen years on Patras’s northern border, in dealings with the Vaskian Empire. Damen knew of him by reputation. Everyone knew of him. He had distinguished himself in the campaigns to the north when Damen was still in swaddling. He was fifth in line to inherit, after the King’s litter of three sons and a daughter. Torveld’s brown eyes grew markedly warm and appreciative when he looked at Laurent. ‘Torveld,’ said Laurent. ‘I’m afraid my uncle is delayed. While we wait, I thought you could join my pet and I for some air on the balcony.’ Damen thought Laurent’s uncle probably wasn’t delayed. He reconciled himself to an evening of listening to Laurent lying a great deal, about everything. ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Torveld, with real pleasure, and gestured for one of his own servants to accompany them also. They strolled together in a small party, Laurent and Torveld in front, and Damen and the servant following a few steps behind. The balcony had a bench for courtiers to recline on and a shadowed alcove for servants to discreetly retire to. Damen, his proportions suited to battle, was not built to be discreet, but if Laurent insisted on dragging him about by the neck he could suffer the intrusion, or find a balcony with a bigger alcove. It was a warm night, and the air was perfumed with all the beauty of the gardens. Conversation unfolded easily between the two men, who surely had nothing at all in common. But of course, Laurent was good at talking. ‘What news from Akielos?’ Laurent asked Torveld, at one point. ‘You were there recently.’ Damen looked at him, startled. Laurent being Laurent, the topic was not an accident. From anyone else, it would have been kindness. He couldn’t help his pulse quickening at his first word of home. ‘Have you ever visited the capital, at Ios?’ asked Torveld. Laurent shook his head. ‘It’s very beautiful. A white palace, built high on the cliffs to command the ocean. On a clear day you can look out and see Isthima across the water. But it was a dark place when I arrived. The whole of the city was still in mourning for the old King and his son. That terrible business. And there were some factional disputes among the kyroi. The beginnings of conflict, dissent.’ ‘Theomedes united them,’said Laurent. ‘You don’t think Kastor can do the same?’ ‘Perhaps. His legitimacy is an issue. One or two of the kyroi have royal blood running through their veins. Not as much as Kastor, but gotten inside of a marriage bed. That situation breeds discontent.’ ‘What impression did you have of Kastor?’ asked Laurent. ‘A complicated man,’ said Torveld. ‘Born in the shadow of a throne. But he does have many of the qualities needed in a king. Strength. Judiciousness. Ambition.’ ‘Is ambition needed in a king?’said Laurent. ‘Or is it simply needed to become king?’ After a pause: ‘I heard those rumours too. That the death of Damianos was no accident. But I don’t credit them. I saw Kastor in his grief. It was genuine. It cannot have been an easy time for him. To have lost so much and gained so much, all in the space of a moment.’ ‘That is the fate of all princes destined for a throne,’said Laurent. Torveld favoured Laurent with another of those long, admiring looks that were starting to come with grating frequency. Damen frowned. Laurent was a nest of scorpions in the body of one person. Torveld looked at him and saw a buttercup. To hear that Akielos was weakened was as painful as Laurent must have meant it to be. Damen’s mind tangled with the thought of factional disputes and dissent. If there was unrest, it would come first from the northern provinces. Sicyon, maybe. And Delpha. The arrival of a servant, trying not to show that he was out of breath, forestalled whatever Torveld might have said next. ‘Your Highness, forgive my interruption. The Regent sends that he is awaiting you inside.’ ‘I’ve kept you to myself too long,’said Laurent. ‘I wish we had more time together,’said Torveld, showing no inclination to rise. The Regent’s face, when he saw the two princes enter the room together, was a series of unsmiling lines, though his greeting to Torveld was genial, and all the right formalities were exchanged. Torveld’s servant bowed and departed. It was what etiquette demanded, but Damen could not follow his example, not unless he was prepared to wrench the leash bodily out of Laurent’s hand. Formalities done, the Regent said, ‘Could you excuse my nephew and I for a moment?’ His gaze came to rest heavily on Laurent. It was Torveld’s turn to withdraw, good naturedly. Damen assumed that he was to do the same, but he felt Laurent’s grip tighten subtly on the leash. ‘Nephew. You were not invited to these discussions.’ ‘And yet, here I am. It’s very irritating, isn’t it?’said Laurent. The Regent said, ‘This is serious business between men. It’s no time for childish games.’ ‘I seem to recall being told to take on more responsibility,’ said Laurent. ‘It happened in public, with a great deal of ceremony. If you don’t remember it, check your ledgers. You came out of it richer by two estates and enough revenue to choke every horse in the stables.’ ‘If I thought you were here to take on responsibility, I’d welcome you to the table with open arms. You have no interest in trade negotiations. You’ve never applied yourself seriously to anything in your life.’ ‘Haven’t I? Well, then it’s nothing serious, uncle. You have no cause to worry.’ Damen saw the Regent’s eyes narrow. It was an expression that reminded him of Laurent. But the Regent said only, ‘I expect appropriate behaviour,’ before preceding them to the entertainments, displaying far more patience than Laurent deserved. Laurent didn’t follow him immediately; his gaze stayed on his uncle. ‘Your life would be a lot easier if you stopped baiting him,’said Damen. This time coldly, flatly, ‘I told you to shut up.’ CHAPTER 8 EXPECTING A SLAVE’S inconspicuous place on the sidelines, Damen was surprised to find himself seated beside Laurent, albeit with a cool distance of nine inches interposed between them, not half in his lap, like Ancel and his master across the way. Laurent sat consciously well. He was dressed as always severely, though his clothing was very fine, as befitting his rank. No jewellery except for a fine gold circlet on his brow that was mostly hidden by the fall of his golden hair. When they sat, he unclipped Damen’s leash, wound it around the handler’s rod, then tossed it to one of the attendants, who managed to catch it with only a slight fumble. The table stretched out. On the other side of Laurent sat Torveld, evidence of a small coup for Laurent. On the other side of Damen was Nicaise. Possibly also evidence of a coup for Laurent. Nicaise was separated from Councillor Audin, who sat elsewhere, close by the Regent; Nicaise didn’t seem to have a master anywhere near him. It seemed like a blunder of etiquette to have Nicaise at the high table, considering the sensibilities of the Patrans. But Nicaise was dressed respectably, and wore very little paint. The only flash of pet gaudiness was a long earring in his left ear; twin sapphires dangled, almost brushing his shoulder, too heavy for his young face. In every other way, he could be mistaken for a member of the nobility. No one from Patras would suppose that a child catamite sat at table alongside royalty; Torveld would likely make the same incorrect assumption that Damen had made, and think that Nicaise was somebody’s son, or nephew. Despite the earring. Nicaise also sat well. His beauty at close range was striking. So was his youth. His voice, when he spoke, was unbroken. It had the clear fluting tone of a knife tapped against crystal, without cracks. ‘I don’t want to sit next to you,’said Nicaise. ‘Fuck off.’ Instinctively, Damen looked around to see if anyone from the Patran delegation had heard, but no one had. The first course of meat had arrived, and the food had everyone’s attention. Nicaise had picked up a gilt three-pronged fork, but had paused before sampling the dish in order to speak. The fear he’d shown of Damen at the ring seemed to still be there. His knuckles, clenched around the fork, were white. ‘It’s all right,’said Damen. He spoke to the boy as gently as he could. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Nicaise stared back at him. His huge blue eyes were fringed like a whore’s, or like a doe’s. Around them, the table was a coloured wall of voices and laughter, courtiers caught up in their own amusements, paying them no attention. ‘Good,’said Nicaise, and stabbed the fork viciously into Damen’s thigh under the table. Even through a layer of cloth, it was enough to make Damen start, and instinctively grab the fork, as three drops of blood welled up. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Laurent said smoothly, turning from Torveld to face Nicaise. ‘I made your pet jump,’said Nicaise, smugly. Not sounding at all displeased: ‘Yes, you did.’ ‘Whatever you’re planning, it’s not going to work.’ ‘I think it will, though. Bet you your earring.’ ‘If I win, you wear it,’said Nicaise. Laurent immediately lifted his cup and inclined it towards Nicaise in a little gesture sealing the bet. Damen tried to shake the bizarre impression that they were enjoying themselves. Nicaise waved an attendant over and asked for a new fork. Without a master to entertain, Nicaise was left free to prick at Damen. He began with a stream of insults and explicit speculation about Damen’s sexual practices, pitched in a voice too quiet for anyone else to hear. When, at length, he saw that Damen was not rising to this bait, he turned his commentary on Damen’s owner. ‘You think sitting at the high table with him means something? It doesn’t. He won’t fuck you. He’s frigid.’ This subject was almost a relief. No matter how crude the boy was, there was nothing he could say about Laurent’s proclivities that Damen had not already heard speculated about extensively and in coarse language by bored guards on indoor duty. ‘I don’t think he can. I think it doesn’t work, what he has. When I was younger, I used to think he’d had it cut off. What do you think? Have you seen it?’ When he was younger? Damen said, ‘He hasn’t had it cut off.’ Nicaise’s eyes narrowed. Damen said, ‘How long have you been a pet in this court?’ ‘Three years,’said Nicaise, in the sort of tone that said: You won’t last here three minutes. Damen looked at him and wished he hadn’t asked. Whether he had a ‘child’s mind’ or not, physically Nicaise had not yet crossed over from child to adolescent. He was still prepubescent. He looked younger than any of the other pets Damen had seen at this court, all of whom had at least passed puberty. Three years. The Patran delegation continued oblivious. With Torveld, Laurent was on his best behaviour. He had apparently—incredibly—divested himself of malice and washed his mouth out with soap. He talked intelligently about politics, and about trade, and if every now and then a little edge glimmered, it came across as wit—not barbed, just enough to say: You see? I can keep up. Torveld showed less and less inclination to look at anyone else. It was like watching a man smile as he surrendered himself to drown in deep water. Thankfully, it did not go on too long. In a miracle of restraint, there were only nine courses, served ribboned and artfully arranged on jewelled plates by attractive pages. The pets themselves ‘served’ not at all. Sitting nestled alongside their owners, some of them were hand fed, and one or two of themeven brazenly helped themselves, playfully filching choice morsels from their masters, like pampered lapdogs who have learned that whatever they do, their doting owners will find them charming. ‘It’s a shame I haven’t been able to arrange for you to view the slaves,’ said Laurent, as the pages began to cover the table with sweets. ‘You don’t need to. We saw palace slaves in Akielos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen slaves of that quality, even in Bazal. And I trust your taste, of course.’ ‘I’m glad,’said Laurent. Damen was aware that beside him, Nicaise had started intently listening. ‘I’m sure my uncle will agree to the exchange if you push for it strongly enough,’said Laurent. ‘If he does, I will owe it to you,’said Torveld. Nicaise got up from the table. Damen bridged the nine chilly inches at the first opportunity. ‘What are you doing? You were the one who warned me about Nicaise.’ He spoke in a low voice. Laurent went very still; then he deliberately shifted in his seat and leaned in, bringing his lips right to Damen’s ear. ‘I think I’m out of stabbing range, he’s got short arms. Or perhaps he’ll try to throw a sugar plum? That is difficult. If I duck he’ll hit Torveld.’ Damen gritted his teeth. ‘You know what I meant. He heard you. He’s going to act. Can’t you do something about it?’ ‘I’m occupied.’ ‘Then let me do something.’ ‘Bleed on him?’said Laurent. Damen opened his mouth to reply, and found his words stopped by the startling touch of Laurent’s fingers against his lips, a thumb brushing his jawline. It was the sort of absent touch that any master at the table might give to a pet. But from the shocked reaction that rolled over the courtiers at the table, it was clear that Laurent did not do this sort of thing often. Or ever. ‘My pet was feeling neglected,’ Laurent apologised to Torveld. ‘He’s the captive Kastor sent you to train?’said Torveld, curiously. ‘He’s—safe?’ ‘He looks combative, but he’s really very docile and adoring,’said Laurent, ‘like a puppy.’ ‘A puppy,’said Torveld. To demonstrate, Laurent picked up a confection of crushed nuts and honey and held it out to Damen as he had at the ring, between thumb and forefinger. ‘Sweetmeat?’said Laurent. In the stretched-out moment that followed, Damen thought explicitly about killing him. Damen leaned in. It was sickly sweet. He didn’t let his lips touch Laurent’s fingers. A great many people were looking at them. Laurent washed his fingers fastidiously in the gold washing bowl when he was done, and dried them on a little square cloth of silk. Torveld stared. In Patras, slaves fed masters—peeling fruit and pouring drinks—not the other way around. It was that way also in Akielos. The conversation recovered from its pause and turned to trivial matters. Around them the creations of sugar and candied spices and glazed pastries in fantastical shapes were slowly being demolished. Damen looked around for Nicaise, but the boy had gone. In the relaxed end-of-meal lull before the entertainments, Damen was given free rein to wander about, and went to find him. Laurent was occupied, and for the first time there were not two guards looming perpetually over him. He could have walked out. He could have walked right out of the palace doors and from there into the surrounding city of Arles. Except he couldn’t leave this place until Torveld’s embassy departed with the slaves, which was of course the only reason he was off the leash at all. He didn’t make very good progress. The guards might be gone, but Laurent’s caress had bought Damen another type of attention. ‘I predicted when the Prince brought him to the ring that he was going to become quite popular,’ Vannes was saying to the noblewoman beside her. ‘I saw him perform in the gardens, but it was almost a waste of his talents, the Prince wouldn’t let him take an active role.’ Damen’s attempts to excuse himself had no impact on her at all. ‘No, don’t leave us just yet. Talik wished to meet you,’ Vannes told Damen. She was saying to the noblewoman, ‘Of course, the idea of one of us keeping males is grotesque. But if one could—don’t you think he and Talik would make a good matched pair? Ah. Here she is. We’ll give you two a moment together.’ They were departing. ‘I am Talik,’ the pet declared. Her voice carried the strong accent of Ver-Tan, the eastern province of Vask. Damen recalled someone saying that Vannes liked pets who could sweep the ring competitions. Talik was almost as tall as Damen, her bare arms well muscled. There was something slightly predatory about her gaze, her wide mouth and the arc of her brows. Damen had assumed that pets, like slaves, were sexually submissive to their masters, as was the custom in Akielos. But he could only guess at the arrangements between Vannes and this woman in bed. She said, ‘I think a warrior from Ver-Tan would easily kill a warrior from Akielos.’ ‘I think it would depend on the warrior,’ he said, carefully. She appeared to consider him along with his answer, and, eventually, to find both acceptable. She said, ‘We are waiting. Ancel will perform. He is popular, “in fashion.” You’ve had him.’ She didn’t wait for him to confirm this statement. ‘How was he?’ Well instructed. Damen’s mind supplied the answer, sly as a suggestion murmured in his ear. He frowned at it. He said, ‘Adequate.’ Talik said, ‘His contract with Lord Berenger ends soon. Ancel will seek a new contract, a high bidder. He wants money, status. He is foolish. Lord Berenger may offer less money, but he is kind, and never puts pets into the ring. Ancel has made many enemies. In the ring, someone will scratch his green eyes out, an “accident.”’ Damen was drawn in against his will. ‘That’s why he’s chasing royal attention? He wants the Prince to—’ He tried out the unfamiliar vocabulary. ‘—offer for his contract?’ ‘The Prince?’said Talik, scornfully. ‘Everyone knows the Prince does not keep pets.’ ‘None at all?’said Damen. She said, ‘You.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Perhaps the Prince has a taste for men, not these painted Veretian boys who squeal if you pinch them.’ Her tone suggested that she approved of this on general principle. ‘Nicaise,’ said Damen, since they were speaking of painted Veretian boys. ‘I was looking for Nicaise. Have you seen him?’ Talik said, ‘There.’ Across the room, Nicaise had reappeared. He was speaking into the ear of Ancel who had to bend almost in half to reach the little boy’s level. When he was done, Nicaise made straight for Damen. ‘Did the Prince send you? You’re too late,’said Nicaise. Too late for what? was the reply in any court except this one. He said, ‘If you’ve hurt any one of them—’ ‘You’ll what?’ Nicaise was smirking. ‘You won’t. You don’t have time. The Regent wants to see you. He sent me to tell you. You should hurry. You’re keeping him waiting.’ Another smirk. ‘He sent me ages ago.’ Damen stared at him. ‘Well? Off you go,’said Nicaise. It was possibly a lie, but he couldn’t risk the offense if it wasn’t. He went. It wasn’t a lie. The Regent had summoned him, and when he arrived, the Regent dismissed all those around him, so that Damen was alone at his chair. At the end of the softly lit hall, it was a private audience. Around them, heavy with food and wine, the noise of the court was warm and loosened. Damen made all the deferences that protocol required. The Regent spoke. ‘I suppose it excites a slave to plunder the treasures of a prince. You have taken my nephew?’ Damen stayed very still; he tried not to disturb the air when he breathed. ‘No, Your Highness.’ ‘The other way around, perhaps.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yet you eat out of his hand. The last time I spoke to you, you wished him flogged. How else do you account for the change?’ You won’t like my riposte, Laurent had said. Damen said, carefully, ‘I’m in his service. I have that lesson written on my back.’ The Regent gazed at him for a while. ‘I’m almost disappointed, if it’s no more than that. Laurent could benefit from a steadying influence, someone close to him with his best interests at heart. A man with sound judgement, who could help guide him without being swayed.’ ‘Swayed?’said Damen. ‘My nephew is charming, when he wishes it. His brother was a true leader, he could inspire extraordinary loyalty from his men. Laurent has a superficial version of his brother’s gifts, which he uses to get his own way. If anyone could have a man eating from the hand that struck him, it’s my nephew,’said the Regent. ‘Where is your loyalty?’ And Damen understood that he was not being asked a question. He was being given a choice. He badly wanted to step across the chasm that separated the two factions of this court: on the other side was this man who had long since won his respect. It was grittily painful for him to realise that it was not in his nature to do that—not while Laurent was acting on his behalf. If Laurent was acting on his behalf . . . even if Laurent was acting on his behalf, he had so little stomach for the drawn out game that was being played tonight. And yet. ‘I’m not the man you want,’ he said. ‘I don’t have influence over him. I’m not close to him. He has no love for Akielos, or its people.’ The Regent gave him another long, considering look. ‘You are honest. That is pleasing. As for the rest, we will see. That will do for now,’ said the Regent. ‘Go and fetch me my nephew. I prefer him not to be left alone with Torveld.’ ‘Yes, Your Highness.’ He wasn’t sure why it felt like reprieve, but it did. A few inquiries made of other servants, and Damen learned that Laurent and Torveld had retreated once again to one of the balconies, escaping the stifling crush inside the palace. Reaching the balcony, Damen slowed. He could hear the sound of their voices. He looked back at the thronging court chamber; he was out of sight of the Regent. If Laurent and Torveld were discussing trade negotiations, it would be better to delay a little, and give them whatever extra time they might need. ‘—told my advisors that I was past the age to be distracted by beautiful young men,’ he heard Torveld say, and it was suddenly eminently clear that they were not discussing trade negotiations. It was a surprise, but on reflection, it had been happening all night. That a man of Torveld’s honourable reputation would choose Laurent as the object of his affections was difficult to swallow, but perhaps Torveld admired reptiles. Curiosity blossomed. There had been no topic that engendered more speculation than this one among courtiers and members of the Prince’s Guard alike. Damen paused, and listened. ‘And then I met you,’said Torveld, ‘and then I spent an hour in your company.’ ‘More than an hour,’ said Laurent. ‘Less than a day. I think you get distracted more easily than you admit.’ ‘And you not at all?’ There was a slight pause in the rhythm of their exchange. ‘You . . . have been listening to gossip.’ ‘Is it true, then?’ ‘That I am—not easily courted? It can’t be the worst thing you heard about me.’ ‘By far the worst, from my perspective.’ It was said warmly, and won a breath of insubstantial amusement from Laurent. Torveld’s voice changed, as though they stood closer together. ‘I have heard a great deal of gossip about you, but I judge as I find.’ Laurent said, in the same intimate voice, ‘And what do you find?’ Damen stepped forward determinedly. Hearing his footfall, Torveld started and looked round; in Patras, affairs of the heart—or of the body—were usually private. Laurent, reclined elegantly against the balustrade, did not react at all except to shift his gaze in Damen’s direction. They were indeed standing close together. Not quite kissing distance. ‘Your Highness, your uncle has sent for you,’said Damen. ‘Again,’said Torveld, a line appearing in the middle of his forehead. Laurent detached himself. ‘He’s overprotective,’ he said. The line disappeared when Torveld looked at Laurent. ‘You took your time,’ Laurent murmured as he passed Damen. He was left alone with Torveld. It was peaceful out here on the balcony. The court sounds were muted, as though they were very distant. Louder and more intimate were the sounds of insects in the gardens below, and the slow back and forth of greenery. At some point it occurred to Damen that he was supposed to have lowered his eyes. Torveld’s attention was elsewhere. ‘He is a prize,’ said Torveld, warmly. ‘I’ll wager you never thought a prince could be jealous of a slave. Right now I would exchange places with you in a heartbeat.’ You don’t know him, thought Damen. You don’t know anything about him. You’ve known him one night. ‘I think the entertainment will begin shortly,’ Damen said. ‘Yes, of course,’said Torveld, and they followed Laurent back to the court. Damen had, in his life, been required to sit through many spectacles. In Vere ‘entertainment’ had taken on new meaning. When Ancel came forward holding a long stick in his hands, Damen readied himself for the kind of performance that would make the Patran delegation faint. Then Ancel touched each end of the stick to the torch in the wall bracket, and they burst into flame. It was a kind of fire dance in which the stick was thrown and caught, and the flame, tossed and twirled, created sinuous shapes, circles and ever-moving patterns. Ancel’s red hair created a pleasing aesthetic alongside the red and orange fire. And even without the hypnotic movement of the flame, the dance was beguiling, its difficulties made to look effortless, its physicality subtly erotic. Damen looked at Ancel with new respect. This performance required training, discipline and athleticism, which Damen admired. It was the first time that Damen had seen Veretian pets display skill in anything other than wearing clothes or climbing on top of one another. The mood was relaxed. Damen was back on the leash, being used very possibly as a chaperone. Laurent was acting with the carefully bland manners of one trying politely to manage a difficult suitor. Damen thought with some amusement: boxed in by your own cleverness. As Damen watched, Torveld’s servant produced a peach, then a knife, then cut a slice at Torveld’s instruction, offering it to Laurent, who blandly accepted. When he had finished the morsel, the servant brought forth a little cloth from his sleeve with a flourish for Laurent to clean his immaculate fingers. The cloth was transparent silk, edged in gold thread. Laurent returned it crumpled. ‘I’m enjoying the performance,’ Damen couldn’t resist saying. ‘Torveld’s servant is better supplied than you are,’ was all Laurent said. ‘I don’t have sleeves to carry handkerchiefs in,’said Damen. ‘I wouldn’t mind being given a knife.’ ‘Or a fork?’said Laurent. A ripple of applause and a small commotion forestalled a reply. The flame dance was finished, and something was happening at the far end of the room. Baulking like a green colt at the rein, Erasmus was being dragged forward by a Veretian handler. He heard a girl’s fluting voice say, ‘Since you like them so much, I thought we could watch one of the slaves from Akielos perform.’ It was Nicaise, here on the small matter of an earring. Torveld was shaking his head, congenially enough. ‘Laurent,’ he said. ‘You’ve been swindled by the King of Akielos. That can’t be a palace slave. He isn’t showing form at all. He can’t even sit still. I think Kastor just dressed up some serving boys and shipped them off to you. Although he is pretty,’ said Torveld. And then, in a slightly different voice, ‘Very pretty.’ He was very pretty. He was exceptional even among slaves chosen to be exceptional, handpicked to be served up to a prince. Except he was clumsy and graceless and was showing no sign of training. He had finally dropped to his knees, but he looked like he was staying there only because his limbs had seized up, his hands clenched as though cramped. ‘Pretty or not, I can’t take two dozen untrained slaves back with me to Bazal,’ Torveld was saying. Damen took Nicaise by the wrist. ‘What have you done?’ ‘Let go! I haven’t done anything,’ said Nicaise. He rubbed his wrist when Damen released it. To Laurent: ‘You let him speak to his betters like that?’ ‘Not to his betters,’said Laurent. Nicaise flushed at that. Ancel was still lazily twirling the fire stick. The flickering of the flames cast an orange light. The heat, when it came near, was surprising. Erasmus had turned white, as though about to vomit in front of everyone. ‘Stop this,’said Damen to Laurent. ‘It’s cruel. That boy was badly burned. He’s afraid of the fire.’ ‘Burned?’said Torveld. Nicaise said, quickly, ‘Not burned, branded. He has the scars all over his leg. They’re ugly.’ Torveld was looking at Erasmus, whose eyes were glassy and showed a kind of stupefied hopelessness. If you knew what he thought he was facing, it was hard to believe he was kneeling down waiting for it. Torveld said, ‘Have the fire put out.’ The sudden acrid smell of smoke drowned out the Veretian perfumes. The fire was out. Summoned forward, Erasmus managed a slightly better prostration, and seemed to calm further in the presence of Laurent, which made little sense until Damen recalled that Erasmus had thought of Laurent as ‘kind’. Torveld asked Erasmus several questions, which Erasmus answered in Patran with shy but improving form. After that, Torveld’s fingers somehow found their way to rest for a moment protectively on the top of Erasmus’s head. After that, Torveld asked Erasmus to sit beside him during the trade negotiations. After that, Erasmus kissed Torveld’s toe, then ankle, his curls brushing against Torveld’s firm calf muscle. Damen looked at Laurent, who had simply let all of this unfold before him. He could see what had made Torveld transfer his affections. There was a superficial resemblance between the Prince and the slave. Erasmus’s fair skin and burnished hair were the closest thing in the room to Laurent’s gold and ivory colouring. But Erasmus had something Laurent lacked: a vulnerability, a need for caring, and a yearning to be mastered that was almost palpable. In Laurent there was only a patrician coolness, and if the purity of Laurent’s profile drew the eye, Damen had the scars on his back to prove that one could look, but not touch. ‘You planned this!’ said Nicaise, his low voice was a hiss. ‘You wanted him to see—you tricked me!’ In the same voice a lover might have said: How could you! Except there was anger there too. And spite. ‘You had a choice,’said Laurent. ‘You didn’t have to show me your claws.’ ‘You tricked me,’said Nicaise. ‘I’m going to tell—’ ‘Tell him,’ said Laurent. ‘All about what I’ve done, and how you helped me. How do you think he’ll react? Shall we find out? Let’s go together.’ Nicaise gave Laurent a look that was desperately, spitefully calculating. ‘Oh, will you—enough,’ said Laurent. ‘Enough. You’re learning. It won’t be as easy to do next time.’ ‘I promise you, it won’t,’ said Nicaise venomously, and he left without, Damen noted, giving Laurent his earring. Fed, sated and entertained, the court dispersed and the Council and Regent sat down and began negotiations. When the Regent called for wine, it was Ancel who poured it. And when he was done, Ancel was invited to sit beside the Regent, which he did, very decoratively, with a well-pleased expression on his face. Damen had to smile. He supposed that he couldn’t blame Ancel for ambition. And it wasn’t a bad achievement, for an eighteen-year-old boy. There were courtiers aplenty in Damen’s homeland who would consider it the height of accomplishment to attain a king’s bed. The more so if it was a position of any permanence. Ancel was not the only one to have gotten what he wanted tonight. Laurent had delivered all Damen had asked for, tied up neatly in a bow. All within the space of a day. If you put everything else aside, you had to admire it for sheer organisational efficiency. If you did not put everything else aside, you recalled that this was Laurent, and that he had lied and cheated in order to bring this about; you thought about Erasmus, dragged through a night of horrors, and about what it meant for an adult to trick and use a boy who, for all he soundly deserved it, was still only thirteen. ‘It’s done,’said Laurent, who had come to stand beside him. Laurent seemed, bizarrely, to be in a good mood. He leaned a shoulder rather casually against the wall. His voice was not exactly warm, but nor was the ice edge polished to cut. ‘I’ve arranged for Torveld to meet with you later, to discuss the transportation of the slaves. Did you know that Kastor sent them to us without any handlers from Akielos?’ ‘I thought you and Torveld would have other plans.’ It just came out. Laurent said, ‘No.’ Damen realised that he was pushing at the limits of Laurent’s good mood. So he said, not without difficulty, ‘I don’t know why you did any of this, but I think the others will be well treated in Bazal. Thank you.’ ‘You are permanently disgusted by us, aren’t you?’ said Laurent. And then, before Damen could speak: ‘Don’t answer that question. Something made you smile earlier. What was it?’ ‘It was nothing. Ancel,’said Damen. ‘He’s finally found the royal patronage he was looking for.’ Laurent followed his gaze. He calmly appraised the way that Ancel leaned in to pour wine, the way that the Regent’s ringed fingers lifted to trace the line of Ancel’s cheek. ‘No,’ said Laurent, without much interest. ‘That’s done for appearance’s sake only. I think not all the practices of this court would meet with the approval of Torveld’s delegation.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Laurent detached his gaze from the Regent and turned it back on Damen, his blue eyes showing neither his usual hostility, nor arrogance, nor contempt, but instead something that Damen could not make out at all. ‘I warned you about Nicaise because he is not Councillor Audin’s pet. Haven’t you guessed yet whose pet he is?’ Laurent said, and then, when he didn’t answer: ‘Ancel is too old to interest my uncle.’ CHAPTER 9 HE WAS TAKEN to see Torveld in the early morning, after a long interview with two Patran servants in which he dredged up all the knowledge he had regarding the treatment of slaves. Some of the questions he was asked he had no idea how to answer. Others he was more comfortable with: Were they trained in Patran protocols, and which guests could they be expected to entertain? Yes, they had language and protocol training in Patran, as well as Vaskian, though perhaps not the provincial dialects. And of course they knew all that was needed of Akielos and Isthima. Not Vere, he heard himself saying. No one had ever believed there would be a treaty, or an exchange. Torveld’s rooms resembled Laurent’s, though they were smaller. Torveld came out of the bedchamber looking well rested, wearing only pants and an overrobe. It fell straight to the ground on either side of his body, revealing a well-defined chest, lightly haired. Through the archway Damen could see the tumble of milky limbs on the bed, and the burnished head. Just for a moment he remembered Torveld making love to Laurent on the balcony, but the hair was a shade too dark, and curled. ‘He’s sleeping,’said Torveld. He spoke in a low voice, so as not to disturb Erasmus. He motioned Damen towards a table where they both sat. Torveld’s robe settled in folds of heavy silk. ‘We have not yet—’ Torveld said, and there was a silence. Damen had grown so used to explicit Veretian talk that he waited, in the silence, for Torveld to say what he meant. It took him a moment to realise that this silence said all that was needed, to a Patran. Torveld said, ‘He is . . . very willing, but I suspect there has been some mistreatment, not only the branding. I brought you here because I wanted to ask you the extent of it. I am concerned that I will inadvertently . . .’ Another silence. Torveld’s eyes were dark. ‘I think it would help for me to know.’ Damen thought, this is Vere, and there is no delicate Patran way to describe the things that happen here. ‘He was being trained as a personal slave for the Prince of Akielos,’ said Damen. ‘It’s likely that he was a virgin before he arrived in Vere. But not after.’ ‘I see.’ ‘I don’t know the extent of it,’said Damen. ‘You don’t need to say more. It’s as I thought,’ said Torveld. ‘Well, I thank you for your candour, and for your work this morning. I understand it’s customary to give pets a gift after they perform a service.’ Torveld gave him a considering look. ‘You don’t look like the type for jewellery.’ Damen, smiling a little, said, ‘No. Thank you.’ ‘Is there something else I can offer you?’ He thought about it. There was something he wanted, very badly. It was dangerous to ask. The grain of the table was dark, and only the edge was carved; the rest was a smooth plain surface. ‘You were in Akielos. You were there after the funeral ceremonies?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘What happened to the Prince’s household—after his death?’ ‘I assume it was disbanded. I did hear that his personal slaves slit their own throats from grief. I don’t know anything more.’ ‘From grief,’ said Damen, remembering the ringing of swords, and his own surprise—the surprise that had meant he had not understood what was happening until it was too late. ‘Kastor was furious. The Keeper of the Royal Slaves was executed for letting it happen. And several of the guard.’ Yes. He had warned Adrastus. Kastor would have wanted the evidence of what he had done blotted out. Adrastus, the guards, probably even the yellow-haired slave who had tended him in the baths. Everyone who knew the truth, systematically, would have been killed. Almost everyone. Damen took a steadying breath. He knew with every locked-down particle in his body that he shouldn’t let himself ask, and yet he couldn’t help it. ‘And Jokaste?’ Damen said. He said her name as he would have said it to her, without a title. Torveld gazed at himspeculatively. ‘Kastor’s mistress? She was in good health. The pregnancy is proceeding without incident . . . You didn’t know? She carries Kastor’s child. Whether there will be a wedding or not is still in question, but certainly it’s in Kastor’s interests to secure the succession. He gives every indication that he will raise the child as—’ ‘His heir,’said Damen. It would have been her price. He remembered every perfect coil of her hair, like winding silk. Close those doors. He looked up. And suddenly he was aware, from the way Torveld was looking back at him, that he had lingered on this topic too long. ‘You know,’ said Torveld, slowly, ‘you resemble Kastor a little. It’s something in the eyes. In the shape of the face. The more I look at you—’ No. ‘—the more I see it. Has anyone ever—’ No. ‘—remarked on it before? I’m sure Laurent would—’ ‘No,’said Damen. ‘I—’ It came out sounding too loud and too urgent. His heartbeat was loud in his chest, as he was dragged from thoughts of home back to this—deception. He knew that the only thing standing between himself and discovery at this moment was the sheer audacity of what Kastor had done. A right-minded man like Torveld would never guess at this kind of brazen, inventive treachery. ‘Forgive me. I meant to say that—I hope you won’t tell the Prince you think I look like Kastor. He wouldn’t be pleased by the comparison at all.’ It wasn’t a lie. Laurent’s mind would have no trouble jumping from clue to answer. Laurent was too close to guessing the truth already. ‘He has no love for the Akielon royal family.’ He should say something about being flattered to hear there was a likeness, but he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get his mouth around the words. For the moment at least, it distracted Torveld. ‘Laurent’s feelings about Akielos are too well known,’ Torveld said, with a troubled look. ‘I’ve tried to talk to him about it. I’m not surprised he wanted those slaves gone from the palace—if I were Laurent, I’d be suspicious of any gift from Akielos. With conflict brewing among the kyroi, the last thing Kastor can afford is a hostile neighbour on his northern border. The Regent is open to friendship with Akielos, but Laurent . . . it would be in Kastor’s interests to keep Laurent off the throne.’ Trying to imagine Kastor plotting against Laurent was like trying to imagine a wolf plotting against a serpent. ‘I think the Prince can hold his own,’said Damen, dryly. ‘Yes. You could be right. He has a rare mind.’ Torveld rose as he spoke, indicating that the interview was done. In the same moment, Damen became aware that there were signs of stirring fromthe bed. ‘I’m looking forward to a renewed relationship with Vere, after his ascension.’ Because he’s bewitched you, Damen thought. Because you’re moonstruck and you have no idea of his nature. ‘You can tell him I said that if you like. Oh, and tell him I’m looking forward to beating him to the mark today,’said Torveld with a grin, as Damen made his way out. Damen, thankfully for his sense of self-preservation, had no chance to tell Laurent anything of the kind, but instead was thrust into a change of clothing. He was to be taken out to accompany the Prince. He didn’t have to ask, ‘Accompany him where?’ It was Torveld’s last day, and Torveld was well known for his enjoyment of the hunt. The real sport was in Chastillon, but it was too far to go in a day, and there were some reasonable runs in the lightly wooded lands around Arles. So—only slightly the worse for wine the night before —half the court picked itself up around mid-morning and moved outside. Damen was transported, ridiculously, on a litter, as was Erasmus and a few of the wispier pets. Their role was not to participate, but to attend their masters after the sport was done. Damen and Erasmus both were bound for the royal tent. Until the Patran delegation departed, Damen was unable to attempt escape. He couldn’t even use the outing as a chance to see the city of Arles and its environs. The litter was covered. He did have a very good view of a series of figures copulating, which was the scene embroidered on the inside of the silk cover. The nobility were hunting boar, which the Veretians called sanglier, a northern breed that was larger, with longer tusks on the male. A stream of servants, up before dawn—or perhaps even working through the night—had brought all of the opulence of the palace outside, erecting tented pavilions, richly coloured and covered in pennants and flags. There were a great deal of refreshments served by attractive pages. The horses were beribboned and their saddles encrusted with precious stones. This was hunting with every leather exquisitely polished, every pillow plumped, and every need met. But despite all the luxury, it was still a dangerous sport. A boar was more intelligent than a deer or even a hare, who would run until they escaped or were overcome. A boar, fearsome, furious and aggressive, would occasionally turn and fight. They arrived, rested, lunched. The party mounted. The beaters fanned out. To Damen’s surprise, there were one or two pets among the riders milling about; he saw Talik on a horse alongside Vannes, and riding very neatly indeed on a pretty strawberry roan, was Ancel, accompanying his master Berenger. Inside the tent, there was no sign whatsoever of Nicaise. The Regent was riding, but the child pet had been left behind. Laurent’s words last night had been a shock. It was hard to reconcile what he now knew with the manner and the bearing of the man. The Regent gave no sign of his—tastes. Damen might almost have thought Laurent was lying. Except he could see in Nicaise’s actions all the ways it was true. Who but the Regent’s pet would behave as brazenly as Nicaise did in the company of princes? Considering Nicaise’s loyalties, it was strange that Laurent had seemed drawn to him—had seemed even oddly to like him—but who knew what went on in that maze of a mind? There was nothing to do but watch while the riders mounted and waited for the first signal of game. Damen wandered over to the mouth of the tent and looked out. The hunting party, sunlit, spanned the hill, flashing with jewels and polished saddlery. The two princes were mounted alongside one another, close by the tent. Torveld looked powerful and competent. Laurent dressed in black hunting leathers was an even more austere sight than normal. He was riding a bay mare. She was a beautiful mount, with perfectly balanced proportions and long hips made for hunting, but she was fractious and difficult, already covered in a thin sheen of sweat. It gave Laurent, controlling her under a light rein, a chance to show off his seat, which was excellent. But it was show without substance. The hunt, like the art of war, required strength, stamina, and skill with a weapon. But more important than all three was a calm horse. Dogs wove their way through the legs of the horses. They were trained to be calm around large animals, trained to ignore hares and foxes and deer, and focus on nothing but sanglier. Laurent’s fussy horse began acting out again, and he leaned forward in the saddle, murmuring something as he stroked her neck in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture to quiet her. Then he looked up at Damen. It was wasteful of nature to have bestowed those looks on one whose character was so unpleasant. Laurent’s fair skin and blue eyes were a combination that was rare in Patras, rarer in Akielos, and a particular weakness of Damen’s. The golden hair made it worse. ‘Can’t afford a good horse?’said Damen. ‘Try to keep up,’said Laurent. He said it to Torveld, after a chilly look at Damen. A touch of his heels, and his mount moved out like she was part of him. Torveld, who was grinning, followed. In the distance, a horn blew, announcing game. The riders kicked their mounts and the whole party streamed towards the sound of the horn. Hooves thundered after the baying of hounds. The terrain was only lightly wooded, with trees scattered here and there. A large party could canter. There was a clear view of the dogs and the front runners, who were approaching a more heavily wooded area. The boar was somewhere under the cover. It was not long before the party was out of sight, through the trees, over the crest of a hill. Inside the royal tent, servants were clearing away the last of the luncheon, which had been eaten reclining on strewn cushions, the occasional hound wandering in only to be pushed good-naturedly off the cloths. Erasmus was like an exotic ornament, kneeling obediently on a cushion the colour of yellow apples. He had done a beautifully unobtrusive job of serving Torveld at lunch, and later in arranging his riding leathers. He was wearing a short tunic in Patran style that exposed his arms and legs, yet was long enough to cover his scarring. Re-entering the tent, Damen looked nowhere else. Erasmus looked down and tried not to smile, and instead blushed, slowly and thoroughly. ‘Hello,’said Damen. ‘I know that you have somehow arranged this,’ said Erasmus. He was incapable of hiding what he felt, and just seemed to radiate embarrassed happiness. ‘You kept your promise. You and your master. I told you he was kind,’ Erasmus said. ‘You did,’said Damen. He was pleased to see Erasmus happy. Whatever Erasmus believed about Laurent, Damen wasn’t going to dissuade him. ‘He’s even nicer in person. Did you know he came and talked to me?’said Erasmus. ‘—He did?’said Damen. It was something he couldn’t imagine. ‘He asked about . . . what happened in the gardens. Then he warned me. About last night.’ ‘He warned you,’said Damen. ‘He said that Nicaise would make me perform before the court and it would be awful, but that if I was brave, something good might come at the end of it.’ Erasmus looked up at Damen curiously. ‘Why do you look surprised?’ ‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t be. He likes to plan things in advance,’said Damen. ‘He wouldn’t have even known about someone like me if you hadn’t asked him to help me,’ said Erasmus. ‘He’s a prince, his life is so important, so many people must want him to do things for them. I’m glad I have this chance to say thank you. If there is a way to repay you, I will find it. I swear that I will.’ ‘There’s no need. Your happiness is repayment enough.’ ‘And what about you?’said Erasmus. ‘Won’t you be lonely, all by yourself?’ ‘I have a kind master,’said Damen. He did pretty well in getting the words out, all things considered. Erasmus bit his lip, and all his burnished curls fell over his forehead. ‘You’re—in love with him?’ ‘Not quite,’said Damen. There was a moment of silence. It was Erasmus who broke it. ‘I . . . was always taught that a slave’s duty was sacred, that we honoured our masters through submission and they honoured us in return. And I believed that. But when you said that you were sent here as punishment, I understood that for men here, there is no honour in obedience, and it is shameful to be a slave. Perhaps I had already started to understand that—even before you spoke to me. I tried to tell myself that it was an even greater submission, to become nothing, to have no value, but—I couldn’t—I think it is in my nature to submit, as it is not in yours, but I need someone—to belong to.’ ‘You have someone,’said Damen. ‘Slaves are prized in Patras, and Torveld is smitten with you.’ ‘I like him,’ said Erasmus, shyly, blushing. ‘I like his eyes. I think he’s handsome.’ And then he blushed again at his own boldness. ‘More handsome than the Prince of Akielos?’ Damen teased. ‘Well, I never saw him, but I really don’t think he could be more handsome than my master,’ said Erasmus. ‘Torveld wouldn’t tell you this himself, but he’s a great man,’ said Damen, smiling. ‘Even among princes. He spent most of his life in the north, fighting on the border with Vask. He’s the man who finally brokered the peace between Vask and Patras. He’s King Torgeir’s most loyal servant, as well as his brother.’ ‘Another kingdom . . . In Akielos, none of us thought we’d ever leave the palace.’ ‘I’m sorry that you’ll have to be uprooted again. But it won’t be like last time. You can look forward to the journey.’ ‘Yes. That is—I . . . I will be a little frightened, but so obedient,’said Erasmus. And blushed again. The first to return were the foot-huntsmen and the dog handlers from the first station, who were bringing back a set of exhausted hounds, having released a second fresh set as the riders swept past. To them also fell the job of destroying any dogs that were wounded past recovery by the sharp-tusked boar. There was a strange atmosphere among them, not only the heavy, tongue-lolling fatigue of the hounds. It was something in the faces of the men. Damen felt a twist of unease. Boar hunting was a dangerous sport. At the mouth of the tent, he called to one of them. ‘Has something happened?’ The dogsman said, ‘Tread lightly. Your master’s in a vicious mood.’ Well, that was order restored. ‘Let me guess. Someone else brought down the boar.’ ‘No. He did,’ said the dogsman, a sour note in his voice. ‘He ruined his horse to do it—she never had a chance. Even before he rode her into the fight that shattered her rear ankle, she was blood fromflank to shoulder from the spur.’ He pointed his chin at Damen’s back. ‘You’d know something about that,’ he said. Damen stared at him, suddenly feeling faintly nauseated. ‘She was a brave goer,’ he said. ‘The other one—Prince Auguste—he was a great one with horses, he helped break her in as a filly.’ It was as close as any man of his station would come to criticising a prince. One of the other men, eyeing them, approached a moment later. ‘Don’t mind Jean. He’s in a foul mood. He was the one had to stick a sword through the mare’s throat and put her down. The Prince tore strips off him for not doing it fast enough.’ When the riders returned, Laurent was riding a well-muscled grey gelding, which meant that somewhere in the hunting party a courtier was riding double. The Regent came first into the tent, stripping off his riding gloves, his weapon taken by a servant. Outside, there was a sudden baying; the boar had arrived and was likely being stripped down, its belly skin cut open and all the internal organs taken out, the offal given to the dogs. ‘Nephew,’said the Regent. Laurent had come with soft, padding grace into the tent. There was an aseptic lack of expression in the cool blue eyes and it was very clear that vicious mood was an understatement. The Regent said, ‘Your brother never had any difficulty running down a mark without slaughtering his horse. But we aren’t going to talk about that.’ ‘Aren’t we?’said Laurent. ‘Nicaise tells me you influenced Torveld to bargain for the slaves. Why do it in secret?’ said the Regent. His gaze tracked over Laurent slowly and consideringly. ‘I suppose the real question is what motivated you to do it at all?’ ‘I thought it was terribly unfair of you,’ drawled Laurent, ‘to burn the skin of your slaves when you would not let me flay mine even a little.’ Damen felt all the breath leave his body. The Regent’s expression changed. ‘I see you can’t be talked to. I won’t indulge your current mood. Petulance is ugly in a child and worse in a man. If you break your toys, it is no one’s fault but your own.’ The Regent left through the folded tent flaps that were held open by red silk ropes. From outside there came voices and the chink of saddlery and all the milling hubbub of a hunting party, and nearer to was the sound of the tent canvases flapping in the wind. Laurent’s blue eyes were on him. ‘Something to say?’said Laurent. ‘I heard you killed your horse.’ ‘It’s just a horse,’said Laurent. ‘I’ll have my uncle buy me a new one.’ These words seemed savagely to amuse him; there was a jagged, private edge to his voice. Damen thought, tomorrow morning Torveld departs, and I am once again free to try and leave this sickening, treacherous, overripe place however I can. The chance came two nights later, though not in any way that he had anticipated. Woken in the dead of night, torches flaring and the doors to his room flung open. He was expecting it to be Laurent—when it came to these nocturnal visits, these abrupt awakenings, it was always Laurent—but he saw only two men in livery, the Prince’s livery. He didn’t recognise the men. ‘You’ve been sent for,’ one said, unlocking his chain from the floor and giving it a tug. ‘Sent where?’ ‘The Prince,’said the one, ‘wants you in his bed.’ ‘What?’said Damen, bringing up short, so that the chain pulled taut. He felt a sharp push from behind. ‘Get a move on. Don’t want to keep him waiting.’ ‘But—’ Digging his heels in after the push. ‘Move it.’ He took a step forward, still resisting. Another. It was going to be a slow journey. The man behind him swore. ‘Half the guard is hot to fuck him. You think you’d be happier about the idea.’ ‘The Prince doesn’t want me to fuck him,’said Damen. ‘Will you move it,’ the man behind him said, and Damen felt the prick of a knife point behind him, and he let himself be taken out of the room. CHAPTER 10 DAMEN HAD SURVIVED summons from Laurent before. He had no reason for the tension across his shoulders, the anxiety in his stomach, curled and hot. His journey was made in total privacy, giving the false outward impression of a secret rendezvous. But whatever this looked like, whatever it felt like—whatever he’d been told—was wrong. If he thought about it too much, hysteria threatened: Laurent was not the type to smuggle men into his rooms for midnight assignations. That wasn’t what this was. It didn’t make sense, but Laurent was impossible to second guess. Damen’s eyes raked the passageway, and found another inconsistency. Where were the guards who had held position all along these corridors the last time Damen had walked them? Did they stand down at night? Or had they been cleared out for a reason? ‘Did he use those words—his bed? What else did he say?’ Damen asked and received no answer. The knife at his back pricked him forward. There was nothing to do but continue along the corridor. With every step he took, the tension tightened, the uneasiness increased. The grilled windows along the passage threw squares of moonlight that passed over the faces of his escort. No sound but their footsteps. There was a thin line of light under the doors of Laurent’s room. There was only one guard at the door, a dark-haired man wearing the Prince’s livery and, at his hip, a sword. He nodded at his two fellows and said, briefly, ‘He’s inside.’ They stopped long enough at the door to unlock the chain and free Damen completely. The chain dropped in a heavy coil, and was simply left there on the floor. Maybe he knew then. The doors were pushed open. Laurent was on the reclining couch, his feet tucked up under him in a relaxed, boyish posture. A book of scrollworked pages was open before him. There was a goblet on the small table beside him. At some point during the night, a servant must have spent the requisite half hour unlacing his austere outer garments, for Laurent wore only pants and a white shirt, the material so fine it did not require embroidery to declaim its expense. The room was lamp lit. Laurent’s body was a series of graceful lines under the shirt’s soft folds. Damen’s eyes lifted to the white column of his throat, and above that the golden hair, parting around the shell cup of an unjewelled ear. The image was damascened, as beaten metal. He was reading. He looked up when the doors opened. And blinked, as though refocusing his blue eyes was difficult. Damen looked again at the goblet and recalled that he had seen Laurent once before with his senses blurred by alcohol. It might have prolonged the illusion of an assignation a few seconds longer, because Laurent drunk was surely capable of all kinds of mad demands and unpredictable behaviour. Except that it was perfectly clear from the first moment that he looked up that Laurent was not expecting company. And that Laurent did not recognise the guards either. Laurent carefully closed the book. And rose. ‘Couldn’t sleep?’said Laurent. As he spoke, he came to stand before the open archway of the loggia. Damen wasn’t sure that a straight two-storey drop into unlit gardens could be counted as an escape route. But certainly otherwise—with the three shallow steps leading up to where he stood, the small finely carved table and decorative objects all providing a series of obstacles—it was, tactically, the best position in the room. Laurent knew what was happening. Damen, who had seen the long, empty corridor, dark and quiet and absent of men, knew also. The guard at the door had entered behind them; there were three men, all armed. ‘I don’t think the Prince is in an amorous mood,’said Damen, neutrally. ‘I take a while to warm up,’said Laurent. And then it was happening. As though on cue, the sound of a sword being unsheathed to his left. Later, he’d wonder what it was that caused him to react as he did. He had no love for Laurent. Given time to think, he would surely have said, in a hardened voice, that the internal politics of Vere weren’t his business, and that whatever acts of violence Laurent brought down upon himself were thoroughly deserved. Maybe it was bizarre empathy, because he’d lived through something like this, the betrayal of it, violence in a place he’d thought was safe. Maybe it was a way of reliving those moments, of repairing his failure, because he had not reacted as quickly as he should have, then. It must have been that. It must have been the echo of that night, all the chaos and the emotion of it that he had locked up behind closed doors. The three men split their attention: two of them moved towards Laurent, while the third remained with a knife, guarding Damen. He obviously expected no trouble. His grip on the knife was slack and casual. After days, weeks spent waiting for an opportunity, it felt good to have one, and to take it. To feel the heavy, satisfying impact of flesh on flesh in the blow that numbed the man’s arm and caused him to drop the knife. The man was wearing livery and not armour, a blunder. His whole body curved around Damen’s fist as it drove into his abdomen, and he made a guttural sound that was half a choke for air, half a response to pain. The second of the three men, swearing, turned back—presumably deciding that one man was enough to dispatch the Prince, and that his attention was better spent subduing the unexpectedly troublesome barbarian. Unfortunately for him, he thought just having a sword would be enough. He came in fast, rather than approaching cautiously. His two-handed sword, with its large grip, could cleave into a man’s side and go some way towards cutting him in half, but Damen was already inside his guard and in grappling distance. There was a crash on the far side of the room, but Damen was only distantly aware of it, all his attention on the task of immobilising the second of his assailants, no thought to spare on the third man and Laurent. The swordsman in his grip gasped out, ‘He’s the Prince’s bitch. Kill him,’ which was all the warning Damen needed to move. He swung his entire body weight against the swordsman, reversing their positions. And the knife stroke meant for him ran into the swordsman’s unarmoured sternum. The man with the knife had pulled himself up and recovered his weapon; he was agile, with a scar running down his cheek under the beard, a survivor. Not someone Damen wanted darting around himwith a knife. Damen didn’t let him pull his knife from its grisly sheath, but pushed forward, so that the man stumbled backwards, his fingers opening. Then he simply took hold of the man at hip and shoulder and swung his body hard into the wall. It was enough to leave him dazed, his features slackened, unable to muster any initial resistance when Damen restrained him in a hold. This done, Damen looked over, half expecting to see Laurent struggling, or overcome. He was surprised to see instead that Laurent was alive and intact, having dispatched his opponent, and was rising from a position bent over the third man’s still form, relieving his dead fingers of a knife. He supposed that Laurent had possessed, at the very least, the wits to utilise his surroundings. Damen’s eyes caught on the knife. His gaze swung down to the dead swordsman. There, too, a knife. A serrated blade-edge finished with the characteristic fretted hilt design of Sicyon, one of the northern provinces of Akielos. The knife Laurent held was of the same design. It was bloody up to the hilt, he saw, as Laurent descended the shallow steps. It looked incongruous in his hand, since his fine white shirt had survived the struggle in immaculate condition and the lamplight was just as flattering to him as it had been before. Damen recognised Laurent’s cold, strapped-down expression. He didn’t envy the man he held the interrogation that was coming. ‘What do you want me to do with him?’ ‘Hold him still,’said Laurent. He came forward. Damen did as he was told. He felt the man make a renewed attempt to free himself, and simply tightened his grip, aborting the ripple of struggle. Laurent lifted the serrated knife, and, calmly as a butcher, sliced open the man’s bearded throat. Damen heard the choked sound, and felt the first spasms of the body within his grip. He let go, partly out of surprise, and the man’s hands came up to his own throat in a hopeless, instinctive gesture, too late. The thin red crescent drawn across his throat widened. He toppled. Damen didn’t even think before he reacted—as Laurent slanted a look at him, changing his grip on the knife—he moved instinctively to neutralise the threat. Body collided hard with body. Damen’s grip closed on the fine bones of Laurent’s wrist, but instead of having things immediately his own way, he was surprised to encounter a moment of muscled resistance. He applied greater pressure. He felt the resistance in Laurent’s body pushed to its limit, though he was still far from his own. ‘Let go of my arm,’said Laurent, in a controlled voice. ‘Drop the knife,’said Damen. ‘If you do not let go of my arm,’said Laurent, ‘it will not go easily for you.’ Damen pushed just slightly harder, and felt the resistance shudder and give way; the knife clattered to the ground. As soon as it did, he let Laurent go. In the same motion Damen stepped backwards out of range. Instead of following him, Laurent also took two steps backwards, widening the distance between himself and Damen. They stared at one another over the wreckage of the room. The knife lay between them. The man with the slit throat was dead or dying, his body gone still and his head turned sideways. The blood had soaked through the livery that he wore, blotting out the starburst device of gold on blue. Laurent’s struggles had not been as contained as Damen’s; the table was knocked over, the shattered pieces of a fine ceramic were strewn across the floor, and the goblet rolled on the tile. A wall hanging had been partly torn down. And there was a great deal of blood. Laurent’s first kill of the night had been even messier than his second. Laurent’s breathing was shallow with exertion. So was Damen’s. Into the tense, wary moment, Laurent said, steadily: ‘You seem to vacillate between assistance and assault. Which is it?’ ‘I’m not surprised you’ve driven three men to try and kill you, I’m only surprised there weren’t more,’said Damen, bluntly. ‘There were,’said Laurent, ‘more.’ Understanding his meaning, Damen flushed. ‘I didn’t volunteer. I was brought here. I don’t know why.’ ‘To cooperate,’said Laurent. ‘Cooperate?’said Damen, with complete disgust. ‘You were unarmed.’ Damen remembered the lax way that man had held a knife on him; they had indeed expected him to cooperate, or at the very least, stand by and watch. He frowned at the closest of the still faces. He disliked the idea that anyone at all believed him capable of cutting down an unarmed man, four on one. Even if that man was Laurent. Laurent stared at him. ‘Like the man you just killed,’said Damen, looking back at him. ‘In my part of the fight the men were not helpfully killing each other,’ Laurent said. Damen opened his mouth. Before he could speak, there was a sound from the corridor. They both instinctively squared off towards the bronze doors. The sound became the clatter of light armour and weaponry, and soldiers in the Regent’s livery were pouring into the room—two—five—seven—the odds started to become daunting. But— ‘Your Highness, are you hurt?’ ‘No,’said Laurent. The soldier in charge gestured to his men to secure the room, then to check the three lifeless bodies. ‘A servant found two of your men dead at the perimeter of your apartments. He ran immediately to the Regent’s Guard. Your own men have yet to be informed.’ ‘I gathered that,’said Laurent. They were rougher with Damen, manhandling him into a restraining grip like the ones he remembered from the early days of his capture. He surrendered to it, because what else could he do? He felt his hands pulled behind his back. A meaty hand clasped the back of his neck. ‘Take him,’said the soldier. Laurent spoke very calmly. ‘May I ask why you are arresting my servant?’ The soldier in charge gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘Your Highness—there was an attack—’ ‘Not by him.’ ‘The weapons are Akielon,’said one of the men. ‘Your Highness, if there’s been an Akielon attack against you, you can bet this one’s in on it.’ It was too neat by half. It was, Damen realised, exactly why the three assailants had brought him here: to be blamed. Of course, they would have expected to survive the encounter, but their intentions held all the same. And Laurent, who spent his every waking moment searching for ways to have Damen humiliated, hurt or killed, had just been given the excuse he needed handed to him on a platter. He could see—he could feel—that Laurent knew it. He could feel too how badly Laurent wanted it, wanted to see him taken, wanted to trump both Damen and his uncle. He bitterly regretted the impulse that had led him to save Laurent’s life. ‘You’re misinformed,’ said Laurent. He sounded like he was tasting something unpleasant. ‘There has been no attack against me. These three men attacked the slave, claiming some sort of barbarian dispute.’ Damen blinked. ‘They attacked—the slave?’ said the soldier, who was apparently having almost as much difficulty digesting this information as Damen. ‘Release him, soldier,’ Laurent said. But the hands on him didn’t let go. The Regent’s men didn’t take orders from Laurent. The soldier in charge actually shook his head slightly at the man holding Damen, negating Laurent’s order. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness, but until we can be sure of your safety, I would be negligent if I didn’t —’ ‘You’ve been negligent,’said Laurent. This statement, calmly delivered, caused a silence, which the soldier in charge weathered, flinching only a little. It was probably why he was in charge. The grip on Damen slackened noticeably. Laurent said, ‘You’ve arrived late and manhandled my property. By all means, compound your faults by arresting the good-will gift of the King of Akielos. Against my orders.’ The hands on Damen lifted. Laurent didn’t wait for an acknowledgement from the soldier in charge. ‘I require a moment of privacy. You can use the time until dawn to clear my apartments and informmy own men of the attack. I’ll send for one of them when I’m ready.’ ‘Yes, Your Highness,’said the soldier in charge. ‘As you wish. We’ll leave you to your rooms.’ As the soldiers made the first movements towards leaving, Laurent said, ‘I assume I am to drag these three derelicts out myself?’ The soldier in charge flushed. ‘We’ll remove them. Of course. Is there anything else you require from us?’ ‘Haste,’said Laurent. The men complied. It was not long before the table was righted, the goblet returned to its place. The pieces of fine ceramic were swept into a neat pile. The bodies were removed and the blood was mopped at, in most cases ineffectually. Damen had never before seen half a dozen soldiers reduced to compliant housekeeping by the sheer force of one man’s personal arrogance. It was almost instructive. Halfway through proceedings, Laurent stepped backwards to lean his shoulders against the wall. Finally, the men were gone. The room had been superficially righted, but had not returned to its former tranquil beauty. It had the air of a sanctuary disturbed, but it was not only the atmosphere that was disrupted; there were tangible blots on the landscape too. The men were soldiers, not house servants. They had missed more than one spot. Damen could feel the beat of his pulse, but he could not make sense his own feelings, let alone of what had happened. The violence, the killing and the bizarre lies that followed had been too sudden. His eyes scrolled around the room, surveying the damage. His gaze snagged on Laurent, who was watching him in return rather warily. Asking to be left alone for the rest of the night really didn’t make much sense. Nothing that had happened tonight made any sense, but there was one thing that while the soldiers performed their work Damen had come slowly to realise. Laurent’s posture was perhaps slightly more exaggerated than his usual insouciant lean. Damen tipped his head to one side and gave Laurent a long, scrutinising look all the way down to his boots, then back up again. ‘You’re wounded.’ ‘No.’ Damen didn’t remove his gaze. Any man but Laurent would have flushed or looked away or given some sign that he was lying. Damen half expected it, even from Laurent. Laurent returned the look, and then some. ‘If you mean excluding your attempt to break my arm.’ ‘I mean excluding my attempt to break your arm,’said Damen. Laurent was not, as Damen had first thought, drunk. But if you looked closely, he was controlling his breathing, and there was a faint, slightly febrile look in his eyes. Damen took a step forward. He stopped when he ran into a blue-eyed look like a wall. ‘I would prefer you to stand further away,’ said Laurent, each word finely chiselled, as though in marble. Damen swung his gaze over to the goblet that had been knocked over during the fight, its contents spilt; the Regent’s men, unthinkingly, had righted it. When he looked back, he knew from Laurent’s expression that he was right. ‘Not wounded. Poisoned,’said Damen. ‘You can restrain your delight. I am not going to die from it,’said Laurent. ‘How do you know that?’ But Laurent, delivering him a killing look, refused to elaborate. He told himself, feeling oddly detached, that it was no more than justice: Damen perfectly recalled the experience of being doused with a drug then thrown into a fight. He wondered if the drug was chalis: could it be drunk as well as inhaled? It explained why the three men had been so casually assured of their own success in tackling Laurent. It also lay the blame all the more firmly at his own feet, Damen realised. It was sordidly believable that he would revenge himself on Laurent with the same tactics that Laurent had thrown at him. This place sickened him. Anywhere else, you simply killed your enemy with a sword. Or poisoned him, if you had the honourless instincts of an assassin. Here, it was layer upon layer of constructed double-dealing, dark, polished and unpleasant. He would have assumed tonight the product of Laurent’s own mind, if Laurent were not so clearly the victim. What was really going on? Damen went over to the goblet and lifted it. A shallow slide of liquid remained in the cup. It was water, surprisingly, not wine. That was why the thin rim of pinked colour on the inside of the cup was visible. It was the distinctive mark of a drug Damen knew well. ‘It’s an Akielon drug,’said Damen. ‘It’s given to pleasure slaves, during training. It makes them—’ ‘I am aware of the effect of the drug,’ Laurent said, in a voice like cut glass. Damen looked at Laurent with new eyes. The drug, in his own country, was infamous. He had sampled it himself, once, as a curious sixteen year old. He had taken only a fraction of a normal dose, and it had provided him with an embarrassment of virility for several hours, exhausting three cheerfully tumbled partners. He had not bothered with it since. A stronger dose led from virility to abandonment. To leave residue in the goblet the amount had been generous, even if Laurent had taken only a mouthful. Laurent was hardly abandoned. He was not speaking with his usual ease, and his breathing was shallow, but these were the only signs. Damen realised, suddenly, that what he was witnessing was an exercise in sheer, iron-willed selfcontrol. ‘It wears off,’said Damen. Adding, because he was not above enjoying the truth as a form of minor sadism, ‘After a few hours.’ He could see in the look Laurent levelled at him that Laurent would rather have cut off his own armthan have anyone know about his condition; and further, that he was the last person that Laurent wished to know, or be left alone with. He was not above enjoying that fact either. ‘Think I’m going to take advantage of the situation?’said Damen. Because the one thing that emerged clearly from whatever tangled Veretian plot had unfolded this evening was the fact that he was free of restraints, free of obligations, and unguarded for the first time since his arrival in this country. ‘I am. It was good of you to clear your apartments,’ said Damen. ‘I thought I’d never have the chance to get out of here.’ He turned. Behind him, Laurent swore. Damen was halfway to the door before Laurent’s voice turned him back. ‘Wait,’ said Laurent, as though he forced the word out, and hated saying it. ‘It’s too dangerous. Leaving now would be seen as an admission of guilt. The Regent’s Guard wouldn’t hesitate to have you killed. I can’t . . . protect you, as I am now.’ ‘Protect me,’said Damen. Flat incredulity in his voice. ‘I am aware that you saved my life.’ Damen just stared at him. Laurent said: ‘I dislike feeling indebted to you. Trust that, if you don’t trust me.’ ‘Trust you?’ said Damen. ‘You flayed the skin from my back. I have seen you do nothing but cheat and lie to every person you’ve encountered. You use anything and anyone to further your own ends. You are the last person I would ever trust.’ Laurent’s head tipped backwards against the wall. His eyelids had dropped to half mast, so that he regarded Damen through two golden-lashed slits. Damen was half expecting a denial, or an argument. But Laurent’s only reply was a breath of laughter, which strangely showed more than anything else how close to the edge he was. ‘Go, then.’ Damen looked again at the door. With the Regent’s men on heightened alert, there was real danger, but escape would always mean risking everything. If he hesitated now and waited for another chance . . . if he managed to find a way out of the perpetual restraints, if he killed his guard or got past them some other way . . . Right now Laurent’s apartments were empty. He had a head start. He knew a way out of the palace. A chance like this one might not come again for weeks, or months, or at all. Laurent would be left alone and vulnerable in the aftermath of an attempt on his life. But the immediate danger was past, and Laurent had lived through it. Others had not. Damen had killed tonight, and witnessed killing. Damen set his jaw. Whatever debt was between them had been paid. He thought, I don’t owe him anything. The door opened beneath his hand, and the corridor was empty. He went. CHAPTER 11 HE KNEW OF only one sure way out, and that was through the courtyard from the first floor training arena. He forced himself to walk calmly and purposefully, like a servant who has been sent on an errand for his master. His mind was full of slit throats and close fighting and knives. He pushed all of that down and thought instead about his path through the palace. The passage was empty at first. Passing his own room was strange. It had surprised him from the moment he’d been moved there how close his room was to Laurent’s, nestled inside Laurent’s own apartments. The doors were slightly ajar, as they had been left by the three men who now lay dead. It looked—empty and wrong. Out of some instinct, perhaps an instinct to hide the telltale signs of his own escape, Damen stopped to close them. When he turned, there was someone watching him. Nicaise was standing in the middle of the passage, as though brought up short on his way to Laurent’s bedchamber. Somewhere distant, the urge to laugh accompanied a spill of tight, ridiculous panic. If Nicaise reached it—if he sounded the alarm— Damen had prepared himself for fighting men, not small boys with frothy silken over-robes thrown on top of bedshirts. ‘What are you doing here?’said Damen, since one of them was going to say it. ‘I was sleeping. Someone came and woke us up. They told the Regent there had been an attack,’ said Nicaise. Us, thought Damen, sickly. Nicaise took a step forward. Damen’s stomach lurched and he stepped forward into the corridor, blocking Nicaise’s path. He felt absurd. He said, ‘He ordered everyone out of his apartments. I wouldn’t try to see him.’ ‘Why not?’ Nicaise said. He looked past Damen towards Laurent’s chamber. ‘What happened? Is he all right?’ Damen thought of the most dissuasive argument he could make. ‘He’s in a foul mood,’ he said, briefly. If nothing else, it was accurate. ‘Oh,’ said Nicaise. And then, ‘I don’t care. I just wanted to . . .’ But then he lapsed into a weird silence, just staring at Damen without trying to get past him. What was he doing here? Every moment Damen spent with Nicaise was a moment in which Laurent could emerge from his chambers, or the guard could return. He felt the seconds of his life ticking past. Nicaise lifted his chin and announced: ‘I don’t care. I’m going back to bed.’ Except that he was just standing there, all brown curls and blue eyes, light from the occasional torches falling on every perfect plane of his face. ‘Well? Go on,’said Damen. More silence. There was obviously something on Nicaise’s mind, and he wouldn’t leave until he said it. Eventually: ‘Don’t tell him I came.’ ‘I won’t,’ said Damen, with complete truthfulness. Once out of the palace, he didn’t intend to see Laurent ever again. More silence. Nicaise’s smooth brow corrugated. Finally, he turned, and disappeared back down the passage. Then— ‘You,’ came the command. ‘Stop.’ He stopped. Laurent had ordered that his apartments be left empty, but Damen had reached the perimeter now, and faced the Regent’s Guard. He said, as calmly as he could, ‘The Prince sent me to fetch two men of his own guard to him. I assume they’ve been alerted.’ So much could go wrong. Even if they did not stop him, they could send an escort with him. A hint of suspicion was all it would take. The guard said, ‘Our orders are no one in or out.’ ‘You can tell the Prince that,’said Damen, ‘after you tell him you let through the Regent’s pet.’ That got a flicker of reaction. Invoking Laurent’s bad mood was like a magical key, unlocking the most forbidding doors. ‘Get on with it,’said the guard. Damen nodded, and walked away at a normal pace, feeling their eyes on his back. He couldn’t relax, even when he got out of sight. He was continually aware of the palace activity around him as he walked. He passed two servants, who ignored him. He prayed that the training hall would be as he remembered it, remote, unguarded and empty. It was. He felt a rush of relief when he saw it, with its older fittings, and sawdust scattered across the floor. In the centre stood the cross, a dark, solid bulk. Damen felt an aversion to going near it, his instinct to skirt around the periphery of the room, rather than walk across it openly. Disliking this reaction so much in himself, he deliberately took a precious few moments to walk over to the cross, to place a hand on the solid centre beam. He felt the immovable wood beneath his hand. He had somehow expected to see the quilted covering, darkened by sweat or blood—some sign of what had happened—but there was nothing. He looked up at the place where Laurent had stood and watched him. There was no reason to have laced Laurent’s drink with that particular drug if the intent had been only to incapacitate. Rape, therefore, was to have preceded murder. Damen had no idea whether he’d been intended as a participant or merely an observer. Both ideas sickened him. His own fate, as the supposed perpetrator, would probably have been even more drawn out than Laurent’s, a long, lingering execution before crowds. Drugs, and a trio of assailants. A scapegoat, brought in for the sacrifice. A servant running to inform the Regent’s Guard at just the right time. It was a thorough plan, rendered shoddy by a failure to predict how Damen himself would react. And by underestimating Laurent’s adamantine will resisting the drug. And by being overly elaborate, but that was a common failing of the Veretian mind. Damen told himself that Laurent’s current predicament was not so terrible. In a court like this, Laurent could simply summon a pet to help relieve him of his difficulties. It was stubbornness if he didn’t. He didn’t have time for this. He left the cross. On the sidelines of the training area, close to one of the benches, there were a few mismatched pieces of armour, and a few pieces of old, discarded clothing. He was glad they were here as he had remembered, because outside the palace he would not go unnoticed in flimsy slave garments. Thanks to his close instruction in the baths, he was familiar with the foolish idiosyncrasies of Veretian clothing and could dress quickly. The pants were very old, and the fawncoloured fabric was worn threadbare in places, but they fit. The ties were two long, thin strips of softened leather. He looked down while hurriedly tying and tightening them; they served both to close the open ‘v’ and to create an external criss-cross of ornamentation. The shirt didn’t fit. But since it was in an even worse state of disrepair than the pants, with one of the sleeve seams already coming open along the join between sleeve and shoulder, it was easy to quickly tear the arms off, then tear a split in the collar, until it did fit. It was otherwise loose enough; it would cover the telltale scars on his back. He discarded his slave garments, hiding them out of the way behind the bench. The armour pieces were uniformly useless, consisting as they did of a helm, a rusted breastplate, a single shoulder guard and a few belts and buckles. A leather vambrace would have helped to hide his gold cuffs. It was a shame there weren’t any. It was a shame there were no weapons. He couldn’t afford to look for other armaments: too much time had passed already. He headed for the roof. The palace did not make things easy for him. There was no friendly route up and over, leading to a painless first-storey descent. The courtyard was surrounded by higher edifices that must be climbed. Still, he was lucky this was not the palace at Ios, or any Akielon stronghold. Ios was a fortification, built on the cliffs, designed to repel intruders. There was no unguarded way down, excluding a beetling vertical drop of smooth white stone. The Veretian palace, afroth with ornament, paid only lip service to defence. The parapets were purposeless curving decorative spires. The slippery domes that he skirted would be a nightmare in an attack, hiding one part of the roof from the other. Once, Damen used a machicolation as a handhold, but it seemed to have no function besides ornament. This was a place of residence, not a fort or a castle built to resist an army. Vere had fought its share of wars, its borders drawn and redrawn, but for two hundred years there had been no foreign army in the capital. The old defensive keep at Chastillon had been replaced, the court moving north to this new nest of luxury. At the first sound of voices, he flattened himself against a parapet and thought, only two, judging from the sounds of their feet and the voices. Only two meant he could still succeed, if he could do it quietly, if they did not sound an alarm. His pulse quickened. Their voices seemed casual, as though they were here for some routine reason, rather than part of a search party hunting down a lost prisoner. Damen waited, tense, and their voices grew distant. The moon was up. To the right, the river Seraine, which oriented him: west. The town was a series of dark shapes with edges picked out in moonlight; sloping rooves and gables, balconies and gutters met one another in a chaotic, shadowed jumble. Behind him, the far-flung darkness of what must be the great northern forests. And to the south . . . to the south, past the dark shapes of the city, past the lightly wooded hills and rich central provinces of Vere, lay the border, prickling with true castles, Ravenel, Fortaine, Marlas . . . and across the border Delpha, and home. HOME. Home, though the Akielos he had left behind him was not the Akielos he would return to. His father’s reign was ended, and it was Kastor who at this moment lay sleeping in the King’s chamber—with Jokaste beside him, if she had not yet begun her lying-in. Jokaste, her waist thickening with Kastor’s child. He took a steadying breath. His luck held. There was no sound of alarm from the palace, no search party on the roof or on the streets. His escape was unnoticed. And there was a way down, if you were prepared to climb. It would feel good to test his physicality, to pit himself against an arduous challenge. When he had first arrived in Vere, he had been in peak condition, and staying fight-ready was something that he worked at, during long hours of confinement in which there was little else to do. But several weeks of slow recuperation from the lash had taken a toll. Tussling with two men of mediocre training was one thing, scaling a wall was something else altogether, a feat of stamina that drew continually on upper arm strength and the muscles of the back. His back, his weakness, newly healed and untested. He was unsure how much continual strain it could stand, before muscle strength gave out. One way to find out. Night would provide a cover for descent, but after that—night was not a good time to move through the streets of a city. Perhaps there was a curfew, or perhaps it was simply the custom here, but the streets of Arles looked empty and silent. One man creeping around at street level would stand out. By contrast, the grey light of dawn, with its accompanying bustle of activity, would be a perfect time for him to find his way out of the city. Perhaps he could even move earlier. An hour or so before dawn was an active time in any town. But he had to get down first. After that, a darkened corner of the town—an alleyway or (back permitting) a rooftop—would be an ideal place to wait until the bustle of morning came. He was thankful that the men on the palace rooves were gone, and the patrols were not yet out. The patrols were out. The Regent’s Guard burst out of the palace, mounted and carrying torches, only minutes after Damen’s feet first touched the ground. Two dozen men on horses, split into two groups: exactly the right amount to wake a town. Hooves struck the cobblestones, lamps lit up, shutters banged open. Complaining shouts could be heard. Faces appeared at windows until, grumbling sleepily, they disappeared again. Damen wondered who had finally sounded the alarm. Had Nicaise put two and two together? Had Laurent, emerging from his drugged stupor, decided he wanted his pet back? Had it been the Regent’s Guard? It didn’t matter. The patrols were out, but they were loud and easy to avoid. It was not long before he was neatly ensconced on a rooftop, hidden between sloping tiles and chimney. He looked at the sky and judged it would be another hour, perhaps. The hour passed. One patrol was out of sight and earshot, the other was a few streets away, but retreating. Dawn began threatening from the wings; the sky was no longer perfectly black. Damen couldn’t stay where he was, crouched like a gargoyle, waiting while the light slowly exposed him like a curtain rising on an unexpected tableau. Around him, the town was waking. It was time to get down. The alley was darker than the rooftop. He could make out several doorways of different shapes, the wood old, the stone mouldings crumbling. Other than that, it had only a dead end, piled with refuse. He preferred to get out of it. One of the doors opened. He smelled a waft of perfume and stale beer. There was a woman in the doorway. She had curly brown hair, and a prettyish face from what he could see in the dark, and an ample chest, partially exposed. Damen blinked. Behind her the shadowy shape of a man, and behind that warm light from redcovered lamps, a particular atmosphere, and faint sounds that were unmistakable. Brothel. No hint of it on the outside, not even light coming from the shuttered windows, but if this act was a social taboo between unmarried men and women, it was understandable that a brothel be discreet, tucked out of sight. The man didn’t seem to have any self-consciousness about what he’d been doing, exiting with the heavy body language of one recently sated, hefting his pants. When he saw Damen, he stopped and gave him a look of impersonal territorialism. And then he really stopped, and the look changed. And Damen’s luck, which had so far held, deserted him in a rush. Govart said, ‘Let me guess, I fucked one of yours, so you’ve come here to fuck one of mine.’ The distant sound of hooves on the cobblestones was followed by the sound of voices coming fromthe same direction, the cries that had woken the town a complaining hour ahead of schedule. ‘Or,’ said Govart, in the slow voice of one who nevertheless gets there in the end, ‘are you the reason the Guard’s out?’ Damen avoided the first swing, and the second. He kept a distance between their bodies, remembering Govart’s bear-like holds. The night was becoming an obstacle course of outlandish challenges. Stop an assassination. Scale a wall. Fight Govart. What else? The woman, with her impressive, half-unclothed lung capacity, opened her mouth and screamed. After that, things happened very quickly. Three streets away, shouts and the clatter of hooves as the nearer patrol wheeled and made for the scream at full pelt. His only chance then was that they would miss the narrow opening of the alley. The woman realised this too, and screamed again, then ducked inside. The brothel door slammed, and bolted. The alley was narrow, and could not comfortably manage three horses abreast, but two was enough. As well as horses and torches, the patrol had crossbows. He couldn’t resist, unless he wished to commit suicide. Beside him, Govart was looking smug. He perhaps hadn’t realised that if the guard fired on Damen, he was going to be collateral damage. Somewhere behind the two horses, a man dismounted, and came forward. It was the same soldier who had been in charge of the Regent’s Guard in Laurent’s apartments. More smugness. From the look on his face, being proven right about Damen had him extremely gratified. ‘On your knees,’said the soldier in charge. Were they going to kill him here? If so, he would fight, though he knew, against this many men with crossbows, how the fight would end. Behind the soldier in charge, the mouth of the alley bristled like a pine with crossbow bolts. Whether they planned to do it or not, they would certainly kill him here if given a single reasonable excuse. Damen went, slowly, to his knees. It was dawn. The air had that still, translucent quality that came with sunrise, even in a town. He looked around himself. It wasn’t a very pleasant alley. The horses didn’t like it, more fastidious than the humans who lived there. He let a breath out. ‘I arrest you for high treason,’ said the soldier. ‘for your part in the plot to assassinate the Crown Prince. Your life is forfeit to the Crown. The Council has spoken.’ He had taken his chance, and it had led him here. He felt not fear but the hard tangled sensation between his ribs of freedom dangled before him then snatched from his grasp. What rankled the most was that Laurent had been right. ‘Tie his hands,’said the soldier in charge, tossing a piece of thin rope to Govart. Then he moved to one side, sword at Damen’s neck, giving the men in range a clear shot with the bow. ‘Move and die,’said the soldier in charge. Which was an apt summary. Govart caught the rope. If Damen was going to fight, he would have to do it now, before his hands were tied. He knew that, even as his mind, trained to fighting, saw the clear line to the crossbows and the twelve men on horseback, and returned with no tactic that would do more than make a commotion and a dent. Perhaps a few dents. ‘The punishment for treason is death,’said the soldier. In the moments before his sword lifted, before Damen moved, before the last, desperate act played out in the filthy alley, there was another burst of hooves, and Damen had to force down a breath of disbelieving laughter, remembering the second half of the patrol. Arriving now, like an unnecessary flourish. Really, even Kastor hadn’t sent as many men against him as this. ‘Hold!’ called a voice. And in the dawn light, he saw that the men reining in their horses were not wearing the red cloaks of the Regent’s Guard, but instead were turned out in blue and gold. ‘It’s the bitch’s pups,’said the soldier in charge, with total contempt. Three of the Prince’s Guard had forced their horses past the impromptu blockade, and into the cramped space of the alley. Damen even recognised two of them, Jord in front on a bay gelding, and behind him the larger figure of Orlant. ‘You’ve got something of ours,’said Jord. ‘The traitor?’ said the soldier in charge. ‘You’ve no rights here. Leave now, and I’ll let you go peacefully back.’ ‘We’re not the peaceful sort,’ said Jord. His sword was unsheathed. ‘We don’t leave without the slave.’ ‘You’d defy Council orders?’said the soldier in charge. The soldier in charge was left in the unenviable position of facing down three riders on foot. It was a small alley. And Jord had his sword out. Behind him, the reds and the blues were about equal in numbers. But the soldier in charge didn’t seem fazed. He said, ‘Drawing on the Regent’s Guard is an act of treason.’ In answer, with casual contempt, Orlant drew his sword. Instantly, metal flashed all along the ranks behind him. Crossbows bristled on both sides. Nobody breathed. Jord said, ‘The Prince is before the Council. Your orders are an hour old. Kill the slave, and you’ll be the next one with your head on the block.’ ‘That’s a lie,’said the soldier in charge. Jord pulled something out of a fold in his uniform, and dangled it. It was a councillor’s medallion. It swung on its chain in the torchlight, glinting gold as a starburst. Into the silence, Jord said: ‘Want to bet?’ ‘You must be the fuck of a lifetime,’ said Orlant, just before he shoved Damen into the audience chamber where Laurent stood alone, in front of the Regent and Council. It was the same diorama as last time, with the Regent enthroned and the Council in full dress, formidably arrayed alongside him, except that there were no courtiers thronging the chamber, it was just Laurent, alone, facing them. Damen immediately looked to see which councillor was missing his medallion. It was Herode. Another shove. Damen’s knees hit the carpet, which was red like the cloaks of the Regent’s Guard. He was right near a part of the tapestry where a boar was speared under a tree heavy with pomegranates. He looked up. ‘My nephew has argued for you very persuasively,’ said the Regent. And then, oddly echoing Orlant’s words, ‘You must have hidden charm. Maybe it’s your physique he finds so appealing. Or do you have other talents?’ Laurent’s cold, calm voice: ‘Do you imply I take the slave into my bed? What a revolting suggestion. He’s a brute soldier from Kastor’s army.’ Laurent had assumed, once again, the intolerable self-possession, and was dressed for a formal audience. He was not, as Damen had last seen him, languid and somnolent-eyed, head tipped back against a wall. The handful of hours that had passed since Damen’s escape was enough time for the drug to have passed from his system. Probably. Though of course there was no way of telling how long Laurent had been in this room, arguing with the Council. ‘Only a soldier? And yet, you’ve described the bizarre circumstance in which three men broke into your chambers in order to attack him,’ said the Regent. He regarded Damen briefly. ‘If he doesn’t lie with you, what was he doing in your private space so late at night?’ The temperature, already cool, dropped sharply. ‘I don’t lie in the cloying sweat of men fromAkielos,’said Laurent. ‘Laurent. If there has been an Akielon attack against you that you are concealing for some reason, we must and will know about it. The question is serious.’ ‘So was my answer. I don’t know how this interrogation found its way into my bed. May I ask where I can expect it to travel next?’ The heavy folds of a state robe swathed the throne on which the Regent sat. With the curve of a finger, he stroked the line of his bearded jaw. He looked again at Damen, before returning his attention to his nephew. ‘You wouldn’t be the first young man to find himself at the mercy of a flush of new infatuation. Inexperience often confuses bedding with love. The slave could have convinced you to lie to us for him, having taken advantage of your innocence.’ ‘Taken advantage of my innocence,’said Laurent. ‘We’ve all seen you favour him. Seated beside you at table. Fed by your own hand. Indeed, you’ve barely been seen without him, the last few days.’ ‘Yesterday I brutalised him. Today I am swooning into his arms. I would prefer the charges against me to be consistent. Pick one.’ ‘I don’t need to pick one, nephew, you have a full range of vices, and inconsistency is the cap.’ ‘Yes, apparently I have fucked my enemy, conspired against my future interests, and colluded in my own murder. I can’t wait to see what feats I will perform next.’ It was only by looking at the councillors that you could see that this interview had been going on a long time. Older men, dragged out of their beds, they were all showing signs of weariness. ‘And yet, the slave ran,’said the Regent. ‘Are we back to this?’ said Laurent. ‘There was no assault against me. If I’d been attacked by four armed men, do you really think I would have survived, killing three? The slave ran for no more sinister reason than that he is difficult and rebellious. I believe I have mentioned his intractable nature to you—all of you—before. You chose to disbelieve me then, also.’ ‘It isn’t a question of belief. This defence of the slave bothers me. It isn’t like you. It speaks to an uncharacteristic attachment. If he has led you to sympathise with forces outside your own country—’ ‘Sympathise with Akielos?’ The cold disgust with which Laurent said these words was more persuasive than any hot burst of outrage. One or two of the councillors shifted in place. Herode said, awkwardly, ‘I hardly think he could be accused of that, not when his father—and brother—’ ‘No one,’ said Laurent, ‘has more reason to oppose Akielos than I have. If Kastor’s gift slave had attacked me, it would be grounds for war. I would be overjoyed. I stand here for one reason only: the truth. You have heard it. I will not argue further. The slave is innocent or he is guilty. Decide.’ ‘Before we decide,’ said the Regent. ‘You will answer this: If your opposition towards Akielos is genuine, as you maintain, if there is not some collusion, why do you continually refuse to do service on the border at Delfeur? I think, if you were loyal as you claimed, you would pick up your sword, gather what little there is of your honour, and do your duty.’ ‘I,’said Laurent. The Regent sat back on the throne, spread his hands palm down on the dark, carved wood of the curled armrests, and waited. ‘I—don’t see why that should be—’ It was Audin who said, ‘It is a contradiction.’ ‘But one that’s easily resolved,’said Guion. Behind him, there were one or two murmurs of assent. Councillor Herode slowly nodded. Laurent passed his gaze over each member of the Council. Anyone appraising the situation at that moment would have seen how precarious it was. The councillors were weary of this argument, and ready to accept any solution that the Regent was offering, however artificial it might seem. Laurent had only two options: earn himself their censure by continuing a beleaguered wrangle mired in accusations and failure, or agree to border duty and get what he wanted. More than that, it was late, and human nature being what it was, if Laurent did not agree to his uncle’s offer, the councillors might turn on him simply for drawing this out further. And Laurent’s loyalty was in question now too. Laurent said, ‘You’re right, uncle. Avoiding my responsibilities has led you understandably to doubt my word. I will ride to Delfeur and fulfil my duty on the border. I dislike the idea that there are questions about my loyalty.’ The Regent spread his hands in a pleased gesture. ‘That answer must satisfy everyone,’ said the Regent. He received his agreement from the Council, five verbal affirmations, given one after the other, after which he looked at Damen, and said, ‘I believe we can acquit the slave, with no more questions about loyalty.’ ‘I humbly submit to your judgement, uncle,’said Laurent, ‘and to the judgement of the Council.’ ‘Release the slave,’ the Regent ordered. Damen felt hands at his wrists, unbinding the rope. It was Orlant, who had been standing behind him, this whole time. The motions were short jerks. ‘There. It is done. Come,’ said the Regent to Laurent, extending his right hand. On the smallest finger was his ring of office, gold, capped with a red stone: ruby, or garnet. Laurent came forward, and knelt before him gracefully, a single kneecap to the floor. ‘Kiss it,’said the Regent, and Laurent lowered his head in obedience to kiss his uncle’s signet ring. His body language was calm and respectful; the fall of his golden hair hid his expression. His lips touched the hard red kernel of the gem without haste, then parted from it. He did not rise. The Regent gazed down at him. After a moment, Damen saw the Regent’s hand lift again to rest in Laurent’s hair and stroke it with slow, familiar affection. Laurent remained quite still, head bowed, as strands of fine gold were pushed back from his face by the Regent’s heavy, ringed fingers. ‘Laurent. Why must you always defy me? I hate it when we are at odds, yet you force me to chastise you. You seem determined to wreck everything in your path. Blessed with gifts, you squander them. Given opportunities, you waste them. I hate to see you grown up like this,’said the Regent, ‘when you were such a lovely boy.’ CHAPTER 12 THE RARE MOMENT of avuncular affection ended the meeting, and the Regent and Council left the chamber. Laurent remained, rising from where he knelt, watching his uncle and the councillors file out. Orlant, who had bowed his way out after releasing Damen from his bonds, was gone also. They were alone. Damen rose without thinking. He remembered after a second or two that he was supposed to wait for some sort of order from Laurent, but by then it was too late: he was on his feet and the words were out of his mouth. ‘You lied to your uncle to protect me,’ he said. Six feet of tapestried carpet lay between them. He didn’t mean it the way it sounded. Or maybe he did. Laurent’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have I once again offended your high-minded principles? Perhaps you can suggest a more wholesome détente. I seem to recall telling you not to wander off.’ Damen could hear, distantly, the shock in his own voice. ‘I don’t understand why you would do that to help me, when telling the truth would have served you far better.’ ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ve heard enough said about my character for one night, or am I to go twelve rounds with you too? I will.’ ‘No, I—didn’t mean—’ What did he mean? He knew what he was supposed to say: gratitude fromthe rescued slave. It wasn’t how he felt. He’d been so close. The only reason he’d been discovered at all was because of Govart, who would not be his enemy if not for Laurent. Thank you, meant thank you for being dragged back to be shackled and tied up inside this cage of a palace. Again. Yet, unequivocally, Laurent had saved his life. Laurent and his uncle were close to being a match when it came to bloodless verbal brutality. Damen had felt exhausted just listening to it. He wondered exactly how long Laurent had stood his ground before he had been brought in. I can’t protect you as I am now, Laurent had said. Damen hadn’t thought about what protection might entail, but he would never have imagined that Laurent would step into the ring on his behalf. And stay in it. ‘I meant—that I am gratef—’ Laurent cut him off. ‘There is nothing further between us, certainly not thanks. Expect no future niceties from me. Our debt is clear.’ But the slight frown with which Laurent regarded Damen was not wholly one of hostility; it accompanied a long, searching look. After a moment: ‘I meant it when I said I disliked feeling indebted to you.’ And then: ‘You had far less reason to help me than I did to help you.’ ‘That’s certainly true.’ ‘You don’t prettify what you think, do you?’said Laurent, still frowning. ‘A more artful man would. An artful man would have stayed put, and won advantage by fostering the sense of obligation and guilt in his master.’ ‘I didn’t realise you had a sense of guilt,’said Damen, bluntly. An apostrophe appeared at one corner of Laurent’s lips. He moved a few steps away from Damen, touching the worked armrest of the throne with his fingertips. And then, in a sprawling, relaxed posture, he sat down on it. ‘Well, take heart. I am riding to Delfeur, and we will be rid of each other.’ ‘Why does the idea of border duty bother you so much?’ ‘I’m a coward, remember?’ Damen thought about that. ‘Are you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you shy away from a fight. More like the opposite.’ The apostrophe deepened. ‘True.’ ‘Then—’ Laurent said, ‘It doesn’t concern you.’ Another pause. Laurent’s relaxed sprawl on the throne had a boneless quality, and Damen wondered, as Laurent continued to gaze at him, whether the drug still lingered in his veins. When Laurent spoke, the tone was conversational. ‘How far did you get?’ ‘Not far. A brothel somewhere in the southern quarter.’ ‘Had it really been that long since Ancel?’ The gaze had taken on a lazy quality. Damen flushed. ‘I wasn’t there for pleasure. I did have one or two other things on my mind.’ ‘Pity,’ said Laurent, in an indulgent tone. ‘You should have taken your pleasure while you had the chance. I am going to lock you up so tightly you won’t be able to breathe, let alone inconvenience me like this again.’ ‘Of course,’said Damen, in a different voice. ‘I told you you shouldn’t thank me,’said Laurent. And so they took him back into his small, familiar, over-decorated room. It had been a long, sleepless night, and he had a pallet and cushions on which to rest, but there was a feeling in his chest that prevented sleeping. As he looked around the room, the feeling intensified. There were two arched windows along the wall to his left, with low wide sills, each covered with patterned grilles. They looked out on the same gardens as Laurent’s loggia, which he knew from the position of his room in Laurent’s apartments, not from personal observation. His chain would not stretch far enough to give him a view. He could imagine below the tumbled water and cool greenery that characterised Veretian interior courtyards. But he could not see them. What he could see, he knew. He knew every inch of this room, every curl of the ceiling, every frond-curve of the window grille. He knew the opposite wall. He knew the unmovable iron link in the floor, and the drag of the chain, and its weight. He knew the twelfth tile which marked the limit of his movements when the chain pulled taut. It had all been exactly the same each and every day since his arrival, with a change only in the colour of the cushions on the pallet, which were whisked in and out as though from some inexhaustible supply. Around mid-morning, a servant entered, bearing the morning meal, left him with it, and hastened away. The doors closed. He was alone. The delicate platter contained cheeses, warm flaking breads, a handful of wild cherries in their own shallow silver dish, a pastry artfully shaped. Each item was considered, designed, so that the display of food, like everything else, was beautiful. He threw it across the room in an expression of total violent impotent rage. He regretted this almost as soon as he’d done it. When the servant reentered later, and white-faced with nerves began creeping around the edges of the room picking up cheese, he felt ridiculous. Then of course Radel had to enter and view the disorder, fixing Damen with a familiar look. ‘Throw as much food as you like. Nothing will change. For the duration of the Prince’s stay at the border, you will not leave this room. The Prince’s orders. You will wash here, and dress here, and remain here. The excursions you have enjoyed to banquets, to hunts and to the baths are ended. You will not be let off that chain.’ For the duration of the Prince’s stay at the border. Damen closed his eyes briefly. ‘When does he leave?’ ‘Two days hence.’ ‘How long will he be gone?’ ‘Several months.’ It was incidental information to Radel, who spoke the words oblivious to their effect on Damen. Radel dropped a small pile of clothing onto the ground. ‘Change.’ Damen must have shown some reaction in his expression, because Radel continued: ‘The Prince dislikes you in Veretian clothing. He ordered the offense remedied. They are clothes for civilised men.’ He changed. He picked up the clothes Radel had dropped from their little folded pile, not that there was much fabric to fold. It was back to slave garments. The Veretian clothing in which he’d escaped was removed by the servants as though it had never been. Time, excruciatingly, passed. That one brief glimpse of freedom made him ache for the world outside this palace. He was aware, too, of an illogical frustration: escape, he had thought, would end in freedom or death—but whatever the outcome, it would make some kind of difference. Except now he was back here. How was it possible that all of the fantastical events of last night had affected no change in his circumstances at all? The idea of being trapped inside this room for several months— Perhaps it was natural, trapped like a fly in this filigree web, that his mind should fixate on Laurent, with his spider’s brain under the yellow hair. Last night, Damen had not given much thought to Laurent or the plot that centred on him: his mind had been filled with thoughts of escape; he’d had neither the time nor the inclination to muse on Veretian treachery. But now he was alone with nothing to think about except the strange, bloody attack. And so, as the sun climbed its way from morning to afternoon, he found himself remembering the three men, with their Veretian voices and Akielon knives. These three men attacked the slave, Laurent had said. Laurent needed no reason to lie, but why deny he’d been attacked at all? It helped the perpetrator. He remembered Laurent’s calculating cut with the knife, and the struggle after, Laurent’s body hard with resistance, the breath in his chest drug-quickened. There were easier ways to kill a prince. Three men, armed with weapons from Sicyon. The Akielon gift-slave brought in to be blamed. The drug, the planned rape. And Laurent, winnowing around talking. And lying. And killing. He understood. He felt, momentarily, as though the floor was sliding out from under him, the world rearranging itself. It was simple and obvious. It was something he should have seen straight away—would have seen, if he had not been blinded by the need to escape. It lay before him, dark and consummate in design and intent. There was no way out of this room, so he had to wait, and wait, and wait, until the next gorgeous platter. He gave all his thanks that the silent servant was accompanied by Radel. He said, ‘I have to talk to the Prince.’ The last time he had made a request like this Laurent had appeared promptly, in court clothes, with brushed hair. Damen expected no less now, in these urgent circumstances, and he scrambled up fromthe pallet when the door was pushed open no more than an hour later. Into his room, alone, dismissing the guards, came the Regent. He entered with the slow strolling walk of a lord touring his lands. This time there were no councillors, no retinue, no ceremony. The overwhelming impression remained one of authority; the Regent had an imposing physical presence, and his shoulders wore the robes well. The silver shot through his dark hair and beard spoke to his experience. He was not Laurent, lounging idly on the throne. He was to his nephew as a warhorse to a show pony. Damen made his obeisance. ‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘You’re a man. Stand,’said the Regent. He did so, slowly. ‘You must be relieved that my nephew is leaving,’ said the Regent. It was not a good question to answer. ‘I’m sure he’ll do honour to his country,’said Damen. The Regent gazed at him. ‘You are quite diplomatic. For a soldier.’ Damen took a steadying breath. This high, the air was thin. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, submissively. ‘I wait for a real answer,’said the Regent. Damen made the attempt. ‘I’m—glad he does his duty. A prince should learn how to lead men before he becomes a king.’ The Regent considered his words. ‘My nephew is a difficult case. Most men would think that leadership was a quality that ran naturally in the blood of a king’s heir—not something that must be forced on him against his own flawed nature. But then, Laurent was born a second son.’ So were you, came the thought, unbidden. The Regent made Laurent feel like a warm up. He was not here for an exchange of views, whatever it might look like. For a man of his status to visit a slave at all was unlikely and bizarre. ‘Why don’t you tell me what happened last night?’said the Regent. ‘Your Highness. You already have the story from your nephew.’ ‘Perhaps, in the confusion, there was something my nephew misunderstood, or left out,’ said the Regent. ‘He is not used to fighting, as you are.’ Damen was silent, though the urge to speak dragged at him like an undertow. ‘I know your first instinct is to honesty,’said the Regent. ‘You will not be penalised for it.’ ‘I—’said Damen. There was movement in the doorway. Damen shifted his gaze, almost with a guilty start. ‘Uncle,’said Laurent. ‘Laurent,’said the Regent. ‘Did you have some business with my slave?’ ‘Not business,’said the Regent. ‘Curiosity.’ Laurent came forward with the twinned deliberation and disinterest of a cat. It was impossible to tell how much he had overheard. ‘He isn’t my lover,’said Laurent. ‘I’m not curious about what you do in bed,’ said the Regent. ‘I’m curious about what happened in your rooms last night.’ ‘Hadn’t we settled that?’ ‘Half settled. We never heard the slave’s account.’ ‘Surely,’said Laurent, ‘you wouldn’t value a slave’s word over mine?’ ‘Wouldn’t I?’said the Regent. ‘Even your tone of surprise is feigned. Your brother could be trusted. Your word is a tarnished rag. But you can rest easy. The slave’s account matches yours, as far as it goes.’ ‘Did you think there was some deeper plot here?’said Laurent. They gazed at each other. The Regent said, ‘I only hope your time on the border will improve and focus you. I hope you will learn what you need as the leader of other men. I don’t know what else I can teach you.’ ‘You keep offering me all these chances to improve myself,’ said Laurent. ‘Teach me how to thank you.’ Damen expected the Regent to reply, but he was silent, his eyes on his nephew. Laurent said, ‘Will you come to see me off tomorrow, uncle?’ ‘Laurent. You know I will,’said the Regent. ‘Well?’ said Laurent when his uncle had left. The steady blue gaze was on him. ‘If you ask me to rescue a kitten from a tree, I’m going to refuse.’ ‘I don’t have a petition. I just wanted to speak with you.’ ‘Fond goodbyes?’ ‘I know what happened last night,’said Damen. Laurent said, ‘Do you?’ It was the tone he used with his uncle. Damen drew a breath. ‘So do you. You killed the survivor before he could be interrogated,’said Damen. Laurent moved to the window, and sat, arranging himself on the sill. His pose was side-saddle. The fingers of one hand slid idly into the ornate grillework that covered the window. The last of the day’s sunlight lay on his hair and face like bright coins, shaped by the fretted openings. He gazed at Damen. ‘Yes,’ Laurent said. ‘You killed him because you didn’t want him interrogated. You knew what he was going to say. You didn’t want him to say it.’ After a moment: ‘Yes.’ ‘I assume he was to say that Kastor sent him.’ The scapegoat was Akielon, and the weapons were Akielon: every detail had been carefully arranged to throw the blame southward. For verisimilitude, the assassins would also have been told they were agents of Akielos. ‘Better for Kastor to have friend uncle on the throne than nephew prince who hates Akielos,’ said Laurent. ‘Except that Kastor can’t afford war now, not with dissent among the kyroi. If he wanted you dead, he’d do it secretly. He’d never send assassins like this: crudely armed with Akielon weapons, announcing their provenance. Kastor didn’t hire those men.’ ‘No,’ agreed Laurent. He’d known, but to hear it was another matter, and the confirmation sent a shock down into him. In the warmth of the late afternoon, he felt himself turn cold. ‘Then . . . war was the aim,’ he said. ‘A confession like that—if your uncle heard it, he would have no choice but to retaliate. If you’d been found—’ Raped by an Akielon slave. Murdered by Akielon knives. ‘Someone is trying to provoke war between Akielos and Vere.’ ‘You have to admire it,’ said Laurent, in a detached voice. ‘It’s the perfect time to attack Akielos. Kastor is dealing with factional problems from the kyroi. Damianos, who turned the tide at Marlas, is dead. And the whole of Vere would rise up against a bastard, especially one who had cut down a Veretian prince. If only my murder weren’t the catalyst, it’s a scheme I would wholeheartedly support.’ Damen stared at him, his stomach churning in distaste at the casual words. He ignored them; ignored the final honeyed tones of regret. Because Laurent was right: the timing was perfect. Pit a galvanised Vere against a fractured, feuding Akielos, and his country would fall. Worse, it was the northern provinces that were unstable —Delpha, Sicyon—the very provinces that lay closest to the Veretian border. Akielos was a powerful military force when the kyroi were united under a single king, but if that bond dissolved, it was no more than a collection of city states with provincial armies, none of which could stand against a Veretian attack. In his mind’s eye he saw the future: the long train of Veretian troops moving southward, the provinces of Akielos falling one by one. He saw Veretian soldiers streaming through the palace at Ios, Veretian voices echoing in his father’s hall. He looked at Laurent. ‘Your welfare hinges on this plot. If only for your own sake, don’t you want it stopped?’ ‘I have stopped it,’said Laurent. The astringent blue gaze was resting on him. ‘I meant,’ said Damen, ‘can’t you put aside whatever family quarrel you have, and speak honestly to your uncle?’ He felt Laurent’s surprise, transmitting itself through the air. Outside, the light was just beginning to turn orange. The fair face did not change. ‘I don’t think that would be wise,’said Laurent. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because,’said Laurent, ‘my uncle is the murderer.’ CHAPTER 13 ‘BUT—IF THAT’S true—’ Damen began. It was true; it was somehow not even a surprise, more like a truth that had grown for some time on the edge of his awareness, now brought into sharp relief. He thought: two thrones for the price of a few hire swords and a dose of pleasure drug. He remembered Nicaise, appearing in the hallway with his huge blue eyes, wearing bed clothes. ‘You can’t go to Delfeur,’ Damen said. ‘It’s a death trap.’ The moment he said it, he understood that Laurent had always known this. He recalled Laurent avoiding border duty again, and again, and again. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t take tactical advice from a slave, scant moments after he is dragged back from a failed attempt to escape.’ ‘You can’t go. It isn’t just a matter of staying alive. You forfeit the throne as soon as you set foot outside the city. Your uncle will hold the capital. He has already—’ Casting his mind back over the Regent’s actions, Damen saw the series of moves that had led to this, each one played out precisely, and far in advance. ‘He has already cut off your supply lines through Varenne and Marche. You don’t have finances or troops.’ The words were an unfolding realisation. It was clear now why Laurent had worked to exonerate his slave and obfuscate the attack. If war was declared, Laurent’s life expectancy would be even shorter than it was going to be in Delfeur. To actually ride out to the border with a company of his uncle’s men was madness. ‘Why are you doing this? Is it a forced move? You can’t think of a way around it?’ Damen searched Laurent’s face. ‘Is your reputation so far in the dirt that you think the Council will choose your uncle for the throne anyway, unless you prove yourself?’ ‘You are right on the edge of what I will allow from you,’said Laurent. ‘Take me with you to Delfeur,’said Damen. ‘No.’ ‘Akielos is my country. Do you think I want her overrun by your uncle’s troops? I will do anything in my power to prevent war. Take me with you. You will need someone you can trust.’ Speaking those last words, he almost winced, immediately regretting them. Laurent had asked himfor trust last night, and he had thrown the words back in his face. He would receive the same treatment. Laurent just gave him a blankly curious look. ‘Why would I need that?’ Damen stared at him, suddenly aware that if he asked, ‘Do you think you can juggle attempts on your life, military command, and your uncle’s tricks and traps by yourself?’ the answer was going to be: Yes. ‘I would have thought,’ said Laurent, ‘that a soldier like you would be quite happy to see Kastor dethroned, after all he’s done to you. Why not side with the Regency against him—and against me? I’m sure my uncle has approached you to spy for him, on very generous terms.’ ‘He has.’ Remembering the banquet: ‘He asked me to bed you, then report back to him.’ Damen was forthright. ‘Not in those words.’ ‘And your answer?’ That, unreasonably, annoyed him. ‘If I’d bedded you, you’d know it.’ There was a dangerous, narrow-eyed pause. Eventually: ‘Yes. Your style of grabbing your partner and kicking their legs open does stand out in the memory.’ ‘That isn’t—’ Damen set his jaw, in no mood to get drawn into one of Laurent’s infuriating exchanges. ‘I’m an asset. I know the region. I will do whatever it takes to stop your uncle.’ He looked into the impersonal blue gaze. ‘I’ve helped you before. I can again. Use me however you will. Just—take me with you.’ ‘You’re hot to help me? The fact that we ride towards Akielos factors in your request not at all?’ Damen flushed. ‘You will have one more person standing between you and your uncle. Isn’t that what you want?’ ‘My dear brute,’said Laurent, ‘I want you to rot here.’ Damen heard the metallic sound of the chain links before he realised that he had jerked against his restraints. They were Laurent’s parting words, spoken with relish. Laurent had turned for the door. ‘You can’t leave me here while you ride off into your uncle’s trap. There’s more than your life at stake.’ The words were harsh with frustration. They had no effect; he could not prevent Laurent leaving. Damen swore. ‘Are you that sure of yourself?’ Damen called after him. ‘I think if you could beat your uncle on your own, you would have done it already.’ Laurent stopped in the doorway. Damen saw the cupped yellow of his head, the straight line of his back and shoulders. But Laurent didn’t turn back to face him; the hesitation only lasted for a moment before he continued out the door. Damen was left to jerk once more, painfully, at the chains, alone. Laurent’s apartments filled with the sounds of preparation, the hallways busy, men tramping to and fro in the delicate garden below. It was no small task to arrange an armed expedition in two days. Everywhere, there was activity. Everywhere except here, in Damen’s rooms, where the only knowledge of the mission came fromthe sounds outside. Laurent was leaving tomorrow. Laurent, infuriating, intolerable Laurent, was pursuing the worst possible course, and there was nothing Damen could do to stop him. The Regent’s plans were impossible to guess. Damen had frankly no idea why he had waited as long as he had to move against his nephew. Was Laurent simply lucky that the Regent’s ambitions spanned two kingdoms? The Regent could have dispensed with his nephew years ago, with little fuss. It was easier to blame the death of a boy on mischance than that of a young man about to ascend to the throne. Damen could see no reason why boy-Laurent should have escaped that fate. Perhaps familial loyalty had held the Regent back . . . until Laurent had blossomed into poisonous maturity, sly-natured and unfit to rule. If that was the case, Damen felt a certain amount of empathy with the man: Laurent could inspire homicidal tendencies simply by breathing. It was a family of vipers. Kastor, he thought, had no idea what lay across the border. Kastor had embraced an alliance with Vere. He was vulnerable, ill-equipped to fight a war, the bonds within his own country showing cracks to which a foreign power had only to apply pressure. The Regent must be stopped, Akielos must be rallied, and for that, Laurent must survive. It was impossible. Stuck here, Damen was powerless to act. And whatever cunning Laurent possessed was neutralised by the arrogance that prevented him from grasping how completely his uncle had himoutmatched, once he left the capital to go traipsing across the countryside. Did Laurent really believe he could do this alone? Laurent would need every weapon at his disposal in order to navigate this course alive. Yet Damen had not been able to persuade him of that. He was aware, not for the first time, of a fundamental inability to communicate with Laurent. It was not only that he was navigating a foreign language. It was as though Laurent was an entirely other species of animal. He had nothing but the stupid hope that somehow Laurent would change his mind. The sun slid slowly across the sky outside, and in Damen’s locked chamber the shadows cast by the furniture moved in a dawdling semi-circle. It happened in the hours before dawn the next morning. He woke to find servants in his room, and Radel, the overseer who never slept. ‘What is it? Is there some word from the Prince?’ He pushed himself up, one arm braced among the cushions, hand fisting in silk. He felt himself being manhandled before he was fully upright, the hands of the servants on him, and instinct almost shrugged them off, until he realised they were unlocking his restraints. The chain ends fell with a muffled chink into the cushions. ‘Yes. Change,’said Radel, and dropped a bundle unceremoniously down onto the floor beside him, much as he had done the night before. Damen felt the thudding of his heart as he looked down at it. Veretian clothing. It was a clear message. The long, drawn-out frustration of the last day meant that he almost couldn’t absorb it, couldn’t trust it. He bent slowly to pick the clothes up. The pants resembled those he had found in the training arena, but were very soft and very fine, of a quality well beyond that of the threadbare pair he had hurried into that night. The shirt was made to fit. The boots looked like riding boots. He looked back at Radel. ‘Well? Change,’said Radel. He put a hand to the fastening at his waist, and felt a bemused curve tug at his mouth as Radel somewhat awkwardly averted his eyes. Radel only interrupted once, ‘No, not like that,’ and shooed his hands away, gesturing for a servant to step forward and retie some idiotic piece of lacing. ‘Are we—?’ Damen began, as the last lace was tied to Radel’s satisfaction. ‘The Prince ordered you brought down into the courtyard, dressed to ride. You’ll be fitted for the rest there.’ ‘The rest?’ Dryly. He looked down at himself. It was already more clothing than he had worn at any one time since his capture in Akielos. Radel didn’t answer, just made a sharp gesture for him to follow. After a moment, Damen did, feeling a strange awareness of the lack of restraints. The rest? he’d asked. He did not think much about that, as they wound their way through the palace to emerge in an outer courtyard near the stables. Even if he had, he would not have come up with the answer. It was so unlikely that it simply didn’t occur to him—until he saw with his own eyes—and even then, he almost didn’t believe it. He almost laughed aloud. The servant who came forward to meet them had his arms full of leather, straps and buckles, and some larger, hardened leather pieces, the largest with chest mouldings. It was armour. The courtyard by the stables was filled with the activity of servants and armourers, stableboys and pages, the shout of orders, the chinking sounds of saddlery. Punctuating these was the discharge of breath through equine nostrils, and the occasional strike of a hoof against paving. Damen recognised several faces. There were the men who had guarded him in stony-faced twos throughout his confinement. There was the physician who had tended his back, now out of his floorlength robes and dressed for riding. There was Jord who had waved Herode’s medallion in the alleyway and saved his life. He saw a familiar servant ducking riskily under the belly of one of the horses on some errand, and across the courtyard he caught a glimpse of a man with a black moustache who he knew from the hunt as a horse-master. The predawn air was cool, but soon it would warm. The season was ripening from spring into summer: a good time for a campaign. In the south, of course, it would be hotter. He flexed his fingers and deliberately straightened his back, let the feeling of freedom sink down into him, a powerful physical sensation. He was not particularly thinking of escape. He would after all be riding with a contingent of heavily armed men, and besides, there was now another urgent priority. For now it was enough that he was unshackled and outside in the open air, and that very soon the sun would rise, warming leather and skin, and they would mount up, and ride. It was light riding armour, with enough nonessential decoration that he took it to be parade armour. The servant told him, yes, they would properly equip at Chastillon. His fitting took place by the stable doors, near to a water pump. The last buckle was tightened. Then, startlingly, he was given a sword belt. Even more startlingly, he was given a sword to put in it. It was a good sword. Under the decoration, it was good armour, though not what he was used to. It felt . . . foreign. He touched the starburst pattern at his shoulder. He was dressed in Laurent’s colours, and bearing his insignia. That was a strange feeling. He never thought he’d ride out under a Veretian banner. Radel, who had departed on some errand, now returned, to give him a list of duties. Damen listened with part of his mind. He was to be a functional member of the company, he would report to his ranking senior, who would report to the Captain of the Guard, who in turn would report to the Prince. He was to serve and obey, as any man. He would also have the additional duties of attendant. In that capacity, he would report directly to the Prince. The duties described to him seemed to be a mixture of man at arms, adjutant and bed slave—ensuring the Prince’s safety, attending to his personal comfort, sleeping in his tent—Damen’s whole attention swung back to Radel. ‘Sleeping in his tent?’ ‘Where else?’ He passed a hand over his face. Laurent had agreed to this? The list continued. Sleeping in his tent, carrying his messages, attending to his needs. He would be paying for any relative freedom with a period of enforced proximity to Laurent. With the other part of his mind, Damen surveyed the activity in the courtyard. It was not a large group. When you looked past the ruckus, it was the supplies for perhaps fifty men, armed to the teeth. At most, seventy five, more lightly armed. Those he recognised were Prince’s Guard. The majority of them, at least, would be loyal. Not all of them. This was Vere. Damen drew in a breath and let it out, looking at each of the faces, and wondering which of them had been coaxed or coerced into the employ of the Regent. How the taint of this place had sunk down into his bones: he was certain betrayal would come, he was only unsure from where. He thought logistically about what it would take to ambush and slaughter this number of men. It would not be discreet, but it would also not be difficult. At all. ‘This can’t be everyone,’said Damen. He spoke to Jord, who had come to splash his face with some water from the nearby pump. It was his first concern: too few men. ‘It isn’t. We ride to Chastillon, and form up with the Regent’s men stationed there,’ said Jord, adding, ‘Don’t get your hopes up. It’s hardly much more than this.’ ‘Not enough to make a dent in a real battle. Enough for the Regent’s men to outnumber the Prince’s several to one,’ was Damen’s guess. ‘Yes,’said Jord, shortly. He looked at Jord’s dripping face, the set of his shoulders. He wondered if the Prince’s Guard knew what they were facing: outright treachery at worst, and at best months on the road, subject to the rule of the Regent’s men. The thin line of Jord’s mouth suggested that they did. He said, ‘I owe you my thanks for the other night.’ Jord gave him a steady look. ‘I was following orders. The Prince wanted you back alive, like he wants you here. I just hope he knows what he’s doing with you, and that he’s not like the Regent says, distracted by his first taste of cock.’ After a long moment, Damen said, ‘Whatever else you think, I don’t share his bed.’ It was not a new insinuation. Damen wasn’t sure why it rankled so much now. Perhaps because of the uncanny speed with which the Regent’s speculations had spread from the audience chamber to the guard. The rewording smacked of Orlant. ‘However you’ve turned his head, he sent us right to you.’ ‘I won’t ask how he knew where to find me.’ ‘I didn’t send them after you,’ said the cool, familiar voice. ‘I sent them after the Regent’s Guard, who were making enough racket to raise the dead, the drunk, and those without ears.’ ‘Your Highness,’said Jord, red. Damen turned. ‘If I’d sent them after you,’ said Laurent, ‘I would have told them you went out the only way you knew, through the courtyard off the northern training arena. Did you?’ ‘Yes,’said Damen. The pre-dawn light bleached Laurent’s hair from gold to something paler and finer; the bones of his face appeared as delicate as the calamus of a feather. He was relaxed against the doorway of the stables as though he’d been there quite a while, which would explain the colour of Jord’s face. He must have come not indolently from the direction of the palace, but from the stables, long up, attending to some other matter. He was dressed for the day in riding leathers, the severity of which ruthlessly cancelled out any effect of the fragile light. Damen had half expected a gaudy parade costume, but Laurent had always defined himself against the opulence of the court. And he did not need gilt to be recognised under a parade standard, only the uncovered bright of his hair. Laurent paced forward. His eyes passed over Damen in turn, displaying jagged distaste. Seeing him in armour seemed to have drawn something unpleasant from the depths. ‘Too civilised?’ ‘Hardly,’said Laurent. About to speak, Damen caught sight of Govart’s familiar form. Immediately, he stiffened. ‘What is he doing here?’ ‘Captaining the Guard.’ ‘What?’ ‘Yes, it’s an interesting arrangement, isn’t it?’said Laurent. ‘You should throw him a pet to keep him off the men,’said Jord. ‘No,’said Laurent, after a moment. He said it thoughtfully. ‘I’ll tell the servants to sleep with their legs closed,’said Jord. ‘And Aimeric,’said Laurent. Jord gave a snort. Damen, who didn’t know the man in question, followed Jord’s eyes to one of the soldiers on the far side of the courtyard. Brown hair, reasonably young, reasonably attractive. Aimeric. ‘Speaking of pets,’said Laurent in a different voice. Jord bowed his head and moved off, his part done. Laurent had noticed the small figure on the periphery of the activity. Nicaise, wearing a simple white tunic, his face free of paint, had come out into the courtyard. His arms and legs were bare, his feet wore sandals. He picked his way towards them, until he faced Laurent, and then he just stood there, looking up. His hair was a careless tumble. Under his eyes were the faintest shadows, mark of a sleepless night. Laurent said, ‘Come to see me off?’ ‘No,’said Nicaise. He held out something to Laurent, the gesture peremptory and full of repugnance. ‘I don’t want it. It makes me think of you.’ Blue, limpid, twin sapphires dangled from his fingers. It was the earring he’d worn to the banquet. And that he’d lost, spectacularly, in a bet. Nicaise held it away from himself as though it was made of something fetid. Laurent took it without saying anything. He tucked it carefully into a fold of his riding clothes. Then after a moment, he reached out, and touched Nicaise’s chin with one knuckle. ‘You look better without all the paint,’said Laurent. It was true. Without the paint, Nicaise’s beauty was like an arrow-shaft to the heart. He had something of that in common with Laurent, but Laurent possessed the confident, developed looks of a young man entering his prime, while Nicaise’s was the epicene beauty peculiar to young boys of a certain age, short-lived, unlikely to survive adolescence. ‘Do you think a compliment will impress me?’said Nicaise. ‘It won’t. I get them all the time.’ ‘I know you do,’said Laurent. ‘I remember the offer you made me. Everything you said then was a lie. I knew it was,’ said Nicaise. ‘You’re leaving.’ ‘I’m coming back,’said Laurent. ‘Is that what you think?’ Damen felt the hair rise all over his body. He remembered again Nicaise in the hallway after the attempt on Laurent’s life. He resisted with difficulty the urge to crack Nicaise open and spill all his secrets out from inside. ‘I’m coming back,’said Laurent. ‘To keep me as a pet?’said Nicaise. ‘You’d love that. To make me your servant.’ Dawn passed over the courtyard. Colours changed. A sparrow landed on one of the stable posts close by him, but lifted off again at the sound of one of the men dropping an armful of tack. ‘I would never ask you to do anything you found distasteful,’said Laurent. ‘Looking at you is distasteful,’said Nicaise. There was no loving goodbye between uncle and nephew, only the impersonal ritual of public ceremony. It was a spectacle. The Regent was in full robes of state, and Laurent’s men were turned out with perfect discipline. Lined and polished, they stood arrayed in the outer courtyard, while the Regent at the top of wide steps received his nephew. It was a morning of warm, breathless weather. The Regent pinned some sort of jewelled badge of office to Laurent’s shoulder, then urged him to rise, and kissed him calmly on both cheeks. When Laurent turned back to face his men, the clasp on his shoulder winked in the sunlight. Damen felt almost dizzy as the full sense memory of a long-ago fight took him: Auguste had worn that same badge on the field. Laurent mounted. Banners furled out around him in a series of starbursts, blue and gold. Trumpets blared and Govart’s horse kicked, despite its training. It was not only courtiers who were here to watch, but commoners, crowding near the gate. The scores of people who had turned out to see their Prince made a wall of approving sound. It didn’t surprise Damen that Laurent was popular with the townspeople. He looked the part, all bright hair and astonishing profile. A golden prince was easy to love if you did not have to watch him picking wings off flies. Straight-backed and effortless in the saddle, he had an exquisite seat, when he was not killing his horse. Damen, who had been given a horse as good as his sword and a place in the formation close by Laurent, kept his place as they rode out. But as they passed beyond the inner walls, he could not resist turning in his seat and looking back at the palace that had been his prison. It was beautiful, the tall doors, the domes and towers, and the endless, intricate, interwoven patterns carved into the creamy stone. Alight with marble and polished metal, stretching themselves up to the sky were the curving roof spires that had hidden him from the sight of guards during his attempt to escape. He was not insensible to the irony of his situation, riding out to protect the man who had done all he could to grind him under his heel. Laurent was his jailor, dangerous and malicious. Laurent was as likely to rake Akielos with his claws as his uncle. None of that mattered before the urgency of stopping the machinery of the Regent’s plans. If it was the only way to prevent war, or postpone it, then Damen would do whatever was necessary to keep Laurent safe. He had meant that. But having passed out of the walls of the Veretian palace, he knew one thing more. Whatever he had promised, he was leaving the palace behind him, and he did not intend, ever, to come back. He returned his eyes to the road, and the first part of his journey. South, and home. THE TRAINING OF ERASMUS THE MORNING THAT he woke to feel the sheets sticky beneath him, Erasmus did not understand at first what had happened. The dream faded slowly, leaving an impression of warmth; he stirred, sleepily, his limbs heavy with pleasure that lingered. The cosy bedding felt good against his skin. It was Pylaeus who drew back the bedding and knew the signs, and sent Delos to ring the bell, and a boy runner to the palace, the bottoms of his feet flashing over the marble. Erasmus scrambled up, dropped, knelt, his forehead pressed against the stone. He didn’t dare to believe, yet his chest filled with hope. With every mote of his body he was aware that the sheets were being taken from the bed, wrapped with great care, and tied with a ribbon of gold thread to signify what—at last, oh please at long last—had happened. The body won’t be rushed, old Pylaeus had said to him once, kindly. Erasmus had flushed at the thought that he might have shown his yearning on his face; yet every night he had wished for it, wished that it would come before the sun rose, and he was another day older. The yearning had in those later days taken on a new quality, a physical note that hummed through his body like the quivering of a plucked string. The bell started to clang through the gardens of Nereus as Delos heaved on the rope, and Erasmus rose, his chest filled with heartbeats, to follow Pylaeus to the baths. He felt gangly and over-tall. He was old for it. He was older by three years than the oldest to take training silks before him, despite all his fervent wishes that his body would offer up what was needed to show him ready. In the baths, the steam jets were turned on, and the air in the room grew heavy. He soaked first, then he was laid out on the white marble and his skin was steamed until it seemed to throb with the perfumes of the air. He lay in the submissive posture with his wrists crossed above his head, which, some nights, he had practiced alone in his own room, as if in practicing he could conjure this very moment into being. His limbs grew pliant against the smooth stone beneath him. He had imagined it. At first excitedly, and then tenderly, and then, as years passed, achingly. How he would lie still for the ministrations, how he would lie perfectly still. How, at the end of the day’s rituals, the gold ribbon from the sheets would be tied around his wrists, and he would be arranged just so on the cushioned litter, the ribbon’s ties so very fine, so that a single breath might cause the knot to slither open, and he must lie so still as the litter was carried out of the gates to begin his training in the palace. He had practiced that too, wrists and ankles pressed together. He emerged from the baths heat-dazed and yielding, so that when he knelt in the ritual pose, it felt natural, his limbs pliant and willing. Nereus the owner of the gardens flung out the sheets, and everyone admired the stains, and the younger boys clustered around, and while he knelt gave himtouches and happy tributes, kisses on the cheek, a garland of white morning glory dropped around his neck, chamomile flowers tucked behind his ear. When he had imagined it, Erasmus had not imagined that he would feel so affectionately towards each moment, the shy little proffering of flowers from Delos, the shaking voice of old Pylaeus as he said the ritual words, the fact of parting making everything suddenly very dear. He felt, with a sudden swell, that he didn’t want to stay where he knelt; he wanted to rise, to give Delos a fierce goodbye hug. To rush out to the narrow bedroom he would leave behind forever, the bare bed, his little relics that he must leave also, the spray of magnolia blossom in the vase on the sill. He thought of the day the bell had rung for Kallias, the long embrace as they clung to one another at parting. The bell will ring for you soon, I know it, Kallias had said. I know it, Erasmus. That had been three summers ago. It had taken so long, but suddenly it was too soon that boys were sent out, and the bolts on the doors were being thrown open. And that was when the man came into the hallway. Erasmus did not realise that he had fallen to his knees until he felt the cool marble against his forehead. The obliterating image of the man silhouetted in the doorway had struck him down. It beat inside Erasmus, dark hair framing a commanding face, features indomitable as the eagle. The power of him, the hard curve of a bicep where a leather strap gripped it, the muscles of a bronzed thigh between knee sandal and leather skirt. He wanted to look again, and did not dare lift his gaze from the stone. Pylaeus addressed the man with the grace of his long-ago palace career, but Erasmus was barely aware of him, his skin hot. He didn’t take in the words that Pylaeus and the man spoke to one another. He didn’t know how much time passed after the man left before Pylaeus was coaxing him to look up. Pylaeus said, ‘You’re trembling.’ He heard the soft, stunned quality of his voice. ‘That . . . was a master from the palace?’ ‘A master?’ Pylaeus’s voice was not unkind. ‘That was a soldier of your retinue, sent to protect your litter. He is to your master as a single droplet to the great storm that comes from the ocean and splits open the sky.’ It was hot in summer. Under the relentless blue sky, the walls, the steps and the paths heated steadily, so that by the time night fell the marble gave off heat, like a warming brick taken straight from the fire. The ocean, which could be seen from the eastern courtyard, seemed to withdraw from dry rocks each time it rolled back from the cliffs. Palace slaves-in-training did what they could to keep cool: they kept to the shade; they practiced the art of the fan; they slipped in and out of the refreshing waters of the baths; they lay, sprawled like starfish beside the outdoor pools, the smooth stone hot beneath them, a friend propped up beside them, perhaps, drizzling cool water over their skin. Erasmus liked it. He liked the extra strain that heat brought to his training, the extra effort of concentration that was required. It was right that training here in the palace should be more arduous than in the gardens of Nereus. It was befitting of the golden ribbon around his neck, a symbol of the golden collar he would earn when his three years as a palace slave-in-training were done. It was befitting of the golden pin he wore, a little weight at his shoulder that made his heart pound every time he thought of it, carved as it was with a tiny lion’s head, the device of his future master. He took his morning lessons with Tarchon in one of the small marble training rooms filled with accoutrements that he did not use, because from dawn until the sun reached the middle of the sky, it was the three forms, over and over and over again. Tarchon gave impassive corrections that Erasmus struggled to perform. At the end of each sequence, ‘Again.’ Then, when his muscles were aching, when his hair was drenched in the heat and his limbs slippery with sweat from holding a pose, Tarchon would tell him curtly, ‘Again.’ ‘So Nereus’s prize flower has finally blossomed,’ Tarchon had said on the day of his arrival. His inspection had been systematic and thorough. Tarchon was First Trainer. He had spoken inflectionlessly. ‘Your looks are exceptional. This is an accident of birth for which you are not entitled to praise. You are training now for the royal household, and looks are not enough to earn you a place there. And you are old. You are older than the oldest I have worked with. Nereus hopes to have one of his slaves chosen to train for a First Night, but in twenty seven years he has produced only one hopeful, the rest bath boys, table attendants.’ He had not known what to do, or say. Arriving in the stifled dark of the litter, Erasmus had tried with each painful heartbeat to hold himself still. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over him at the terror of being outside. Outside the gardens of Nereus, the calming, comforting gardens that contained all that he knew of life. He had been glad of the litter’s coverings, the thick fabric that was dropped down to snuff out the light. There to protect him from the debasing stares of outside eyes, it had been all that had stood between him and vast, unknown space, the muffled unfamiliar sounds, clatters and shouts, the blinding light as the litter’s coverings were thrown back. But now the palace paths were as familiar as the palace routines, and when the noon-time bell rang, he touched his forehead to the marble and said the ritual words of thanks, his limbs trembling with exhaustion, then stumbled out to his afternoon lessons: languages, etiquette, ceremonies, massage, recitation, singing and the kithara— Shock stopped him when he stepped out into the courtyard, and he stood, numb. A spray of hair, a body limp. Blood on Iphegin’s face where he lay on the shallow marble steps, a trainer supporting his head, two others kneeling in concern. Coloured silk bent over him like exotic feeding birds. Slaves-in-training were gathering around him, a semi-circle of onlookers. ‘What happened?’ ‘Iphegin slipped on the stairs.’ And then, ‘You think Aden pushed him?’ The joke was awful. There were dozens of male slaves-in-training, but only four wore a golden pin, and Aden and Iphegin were the only two who wore the pin of the King. A voice at his elbow. ‘Come away, Erasmus.’ Iphegin was breathing. His chest was rising and falling. Blood down Iphegin’s chin had stained the front of his training silks. He would have been on his way to a kithara lesson. ‘Erasmus, come away.’ Distantly, Erasmus felt a hand on his arm. He looked around blindly and saw Kallias. Trainers were lifting Iphegin and carrying him indoors. In the palace, he would be tended by concerned trainers and palace physicians. ‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ ‘No,’said Kallias. ‘It will scar.’ Erasmus would never forget how it had felt to see him again: a slave-in-training rising from a prostration to his trainer, heart-wrenchingly lovely, with a tumble of dark brown curls and wide set blue eyes. There had always been something untouchable about his beauty, his eyes like the unreachable blue sky. Nereus had always said of him, A man only has to look at him to want to possess him. Aden’s mouth had turned down. ‘Kallias. You can moon over him all you want, everyone does. He won’t look twice at you. He thinks he’s better than everyone else.’ ‘Erasmus?’ Kallias had said, stopping as Erasmus had stopped, staring as Erasmus was staring, and in the next moment Kallias was throwing his arms around Erasmus, holding him tight, pressing his cheek to Erasmus’s cheek, the highest intimacy allowed to those who were forbidden to kiss. Aden was staring at them, open mouthed. ‘You’re here,’said Kallias. ‘And you’re for the Prince.’ Erasmus saw that Kallias also wore a pin, but that it was plain gold, without a lion’s head. ‘I’m for the other Prince,’said Kallias. ‘Kastor.’ They were inseparable, close as they had been in the gardens of Nereus, as though the three years of separation had never been. Close as brothers, the trainers said, smiling because this was a charming conceit, young slaves echoing the relationship of their princely masters. In the evenings, and in the moments snatched around training, they spilled out their words and seemed to talk about everything. Kallias talked in his quiet, serious voice about vast, wide-ranging topics, politics, art, mythology, and he always knew the best of the palace gossip. Erasmus talked hesitatingly and for the first time about his most private feelings, his responsiveness to his training, his eagerness to please. All of this with a new consciousness of Kallias’s beauty. Of how far beyond him Kallias seemed. Of course, Kallias was three years ahead of him in training, although they were the same age. That was because the age at which one took training silks differed, and was not marked in years. The body knows when it is ready. But Kallias was ahead of everyone. The slaves-in-training who weren’t jealous hero-worshipped him. Yet there was a distance between Kallias and the others. He wasn’t conceited. He often offered help to the younger boys, who blushed and grew awkward and flustered. But he never really talked to them, beyond politeness. Erasmus never really knew why Kallias singled him out, glad of it though he was. When Iphegin’s room was cleared out and his kithara given to one of the new boys, all Kallias had said was, ‘He was named for Iphegenia, the most-loyal. But they don’t remember your name if you fall.’ Erasmus had said, meaning it, ‘You won’t fall.’ That afternoon, Kallias flung himself down in the shade, and let his head rest in Erasmus’s lap, his legs tumbled out on the soft grass. His eyes were closed, dark lashes resting against his cheeks. Erasmus barely moved at all, not wanting to disturb him, over-conscious of his heartbeats, of the weight of Kallias’s head against his thigh, unsure of what to do with his hands. Kallias’s unselfconscious ease made Erasmus feel happy and very shy. ‘I wish we could stay like this forever,’ he said, softly. And then flushed. A curl of hair lay across Kallias’s smooth forehead. Erasmus wanted to reach out and touch it, but he wasn’t brave enough. Instead this daring had blurted out of his mouth. The garden was drenched with the heat of summer, the piping of a bird, the slow buzzing of an insect. He watched a dragonfly land on a pepperstalk. The slow movement only made him more conscious of Kallias. After a moment, ‘I’ve started training for my First Night.’ Kallias didn’t open his eyes. It was Erasmus’s heart that was suddenly beating too fast. ‘When?’ ‘I’m to be Kastor’s welcome when he returns from Delpha.’ He said Kastor’s name with its honorific, as all slaves did when they spoke of those above them, Kastor-exalted. It had never made sense that Kallias was being trained for Kastor. Yet for some reason the Keeper of the Royal Slaves had decreed that his finest slave-in-training should go not to the heir, or the King, but to Kastor. ‘Do you ever wish for a lion pin? You’re the finest slave in the palace. If anyone deserves to be in the retinue of the future King, it’s you.’ ‘Damianos doesn’t take male slaves.’ ‘Sometimes he—’ ‘I don’t have your colouring,’ Kallias said, and he opened his eyes, reaching up to put his finger around a curl of Erasmus’s hair. His colouring, if truth were told, had been carefully cultivated to the Prince’s taste. His hair was daily rinsed with chamomile, so that it brightened and improved in lustre, and his skin kept from the sun until it changed from the golden cream of his early boyhood in the gardens of Nereus to a milky white. ‘It’s the cheapest way to get noticed,’ Aden said, his eyes displeased as he stared at Erasmus’s hair. ‘A slave with real form doesn’t draw attention to himself.’ Kallias said later, ‘Aden would give his arm for fair hair. He wants a Prince’s pin more than anything.’ ‘He doesn’t need a Prince’s pin. He’s training for the King.’ ‘But the King is sick,’said Kallias. The Prince’s taste was for songs and verses of battle, which were more difficult to remember than the love poetry Erasmus preferred, and longer. A full performance of The Fall of Inachtos was four hours, and the Hypenor was six, so that every spare moment was spent in internal recitation. Cut of from his brothers, he strikes too short at Nisos, and, Held steady in single purpose, twelve thousand men, and, In relentless victory cleaves Lamakos with his sword. He fell asleep murmuring the long heroic genealogies, the lists of weapons and of deeds that Isagoras wrote into his epics. But that night, he let his mind drift to other poems, In the long night, I wait, Laechthon’s yearning for Arsaces, as he unpinned his silks and felt the evening air against his skin. Everyone whispered about First Night. It was rare for boys to wear the pin. The pin meant a permanent place in the retinue of a member of the royal family. The pin meant more than that. Of course, any slave might be called on to serve in private, if the royal eye fell on them. But the pin meant the certainty of a First Night, in which the slave was presented to the royal bed. Those who wore a pin received the best rooms, the strictest training, and first privileges. Those without dreamed of acquiring one, and worked day and night in the attempt to prove worthy. In the male gardens, Aden said with a flick of his shiny brown hair, that was almost impossible. In the female gardens, of course, pins were more common. The tastes of the King and his two sons ran along predictable lines. And since the birth of Damianos, there was no Queen to select slaves for her own retinue. The King’s permanent mistress Hypermenestra had full rights and kept slaves as befitted her status, but was too politic to take any but the King into her bed, said Aden. Aden was nineteen and in the last year of his training, and spoke about First Night with sophistication. Laying himself down on the bedsheets, Erasmus was aware of the lingering responsiveness of his body, which he could not touch himself. Only those with special dispensation were allowed to handle him there, to wash him in the baths. Some days he liked it. He liked the ache of it. He liked the feeling that he was denying himself something to please his Prince. It felt strict, virtuous. Some days he just wanted, beyond reason, and it made the feeling of self denial, of obedience, stronger, wanting it yet wanting to do as he was told, until he was all confusion. The idea of lying untouched on a bed and the Prince entering the room. . . it was an obliterating thought that overwhelmed him. As yet untutored, he had no idea how it would be. He knew what the Prince liked, of course. He knew his favourite foods, those that might be selected for him at table. He knew his morning routine, the way that he liked to have his hair brushed, his preferred style of massage. He knew . . . he knew the Prince had many slaves. The attendants spoke of this with approval. The Prince had healthy appetites, and took lovers frequently, slaves and nobles too, when the need was on him. That was good. He was liberal with his affections, and a King should always have a large retinue. He knew the Prince’s eye tended to roam, that he was always pleased by something new, that his slaves were looked after, kept in permanent style, while his eye, roaming, frequently fell on new conquests. He knew that when he wanted men, the Prince rarely took slaves. He was more likely to come fromthe arena with his blood up and pick out some display fighter. There was a gladiator from Isthima who had lasted in the arena for twelve minutes against the Prince before he’d fallen to him, and had spent six hours in the Prince’s chambers, after. He was told those stories too. And of course he only had to choose a fighter and they would yield to him as any slave, for he was the son of the King. Erasmus remembered the soldier he had seen in the gardens of Nereus, and the idea of the Prince mounting him was stunning image in his mind. He could not imagine that power, and then he thought, but he will take me like that, and the deep shiver went all the way through his body. He shifted his legs together. What it would be like, to be the receptacle for the Prince’s pleasure? He lifted a hand to his own cheek and it felt hot, flushed as he lay back on the bed, exposed. The air felt like silk, his curls trailing like fronds across his forehead. He drew his hand to his forehead and pushed the curls back and even that gesture felt over-sensual, the slow motion of one underwater. He raised his wrists above his head and imagined the ribbon binding them, his body the Prince’s to touch. His eyes closed. He thought of weight, dipping the mattress, an unformed image of the soldier he had seen silhouetted above him, the words of a poem, Arsaces, undone. The night of the fire festival, Kallias sang the ballad of Iphegenia, who had loved her master so much that she waited for him though she knew what it meant to do so, and Erasmus felt the tears well up in his throat. He left the recital and walked out into the dark gardens, where the breeze was cool in the scented trees. He did not care that the music was growing distant behind him, needing suddenly to see the ocean. In the moonlight it was different, dark and unknowable, but he felt it before him nonetheless, felt its vast openness. He looked out from the stone balustrade in the eastern courtyard and felt the reckless wind against his face, the ocean like a part of himself. He could hear the waves, imagined themsplashing his body, filling his sandals, the foaming water swirling around him. He’d never felt it before that yearning, tossed feeling, and he became aware that the familiar shape of Kallias was coming up behind him. He spoke the words swelling up inside him for the first time. ‘I want to be taken across the ocean. I want to see other lands. I want to see Isthima, and Cortoza, I want to see the place where Iphegenia waited, the great palace where Arsaces gave himself to a lover,’ he said, recklessly. The yearning inside him crested. ‘I want—to feel what it is to—’ ‘Live in the world,’said Kallias. It wasn’t what he had meant to say, and he stared at Kallias, and felt himself flush. And he was aware of something different in Kallias, too, as Kallias drew alongside him, and leaned on the stone balustrade, his eyes on the ocean. ‘What is it?’ ‘Kastor has returned from Delpha early. Tomorrow will be my First Night.’ He looked at Kallias, saw that distant expression on his face as he gazed out at the water, looking out to a world Erasmus couldn’t imagine. ‘I’ll work hard,’ Erasmus heard himself saying, the words a tumble. ‘I’ll work so hard to catch up with you. You promised me in the gardens of Nereus that we’d see each other again, and I promise you now. I’ll come to the palace, and you’ll be a fêted slave, you’ll perform on the kithara at the King’s table every night, and Kastor will never be without you. You’ll be magnificent. Nisos will write songs about you, and every man in the palace will look at you and envy Kastor.’ Kallias didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched out until Erasmus grew self conscious of the words he had spoken. And then Kallias spoke in a raw little voice. ‘I wish you could be my first.’ He felt the words in his body, little explosions. It was as if he lay uncovered on the pallet as he had done in his small room, offering up his longing. His own lips parted without sound. Kallias said, ‘Would you . . . would you put your arms around my neck?’ His heart beat painfully. He nodded, then wanted to hide his head. He felt lightheaded with daring. He slid his arms around Kallias’s neck, feeling the smooth skin of his neck. His eyes closed to just feel. Snippets of verse floated through his mind. In the columned halls, we embrace His cheek rests against mine Happiness like this comes once in a thousand years He put his forehead against Kallias’s. ‘Erasmus,’said Kallias, unsteadily. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right as long as we don’t—’ He felt Kallias’s fingers on his hips. It was a delicate, helpless touch that preserved the space between their bodies. But it was as if he had completed a circle, Erasmus’s arms around Kallias’s neck, Kallias’s fingers at his hips. The space between their bodies felt clouded and hot. He understood why those three places on his body were forbidden to him, because all of them began to ache. He couldn’t open his eyes, as he felt the embrace tighten, their cheeks pressing against one another, rubbing together, blindly, lost to the sensation, and just for a moment he felt— ‘We can’t!’ It was Kallias who pushed him away with a strangled cry. Kallias was panting, two feet away, his body curved around itself, as a breeze lifted the leaves of the tree, and they swayed back and forth, as the ocean swelled far below. On the morning of Kallias’s First Night ceremony, he ate apricots. Little round halves, ripened just past their early tang to perfect sweetness. Apricots, figs stuffed with a paste of almonds and honey, slices of salty cheese that crumbled against the tongue. Festival food for everyone: the ceremonies of First Night eclipsed anything he had seen in the gardens of Nereus, the height of a slave’s career. And at the centre of it all, Kallias, paint on his face, the gold collar around his neck. Erasmus looked at him from a distance, holding on to the promise he had made to Kallias, tightly. Kallias performed his role in the ceremony with perfect form. He never once looked at Erasmus. Tarchon said, ‘He is fit for a King. I always questioned Adrastus’s decision to send him to Kastor.’ Your friend is a triumph, the attendants whispered to him the next morning. And in the weeks after that, He is the jewel of Kastor’s household. He performs on kithara every night at table, displacing Ianessa. The King would covet him, if he weren’t sick. Aden was shaking him awake. ‘What is it?’ He rubbed his eyes sleepily. Aden was kneeling next to his narrow bed. ‘Kallias is here. He had an errand for Kastor. He wants to see you.’ It was like a dream, but he hurried to put on his silks, pinning them as best he could. ‘Come quickly,’ Aden said. ‘He’s waiting.’ He stepped out into the garden, following Aden out, past the courtyard to the paths winding through the trees. It was past midnight, and the gardens were so quiet that he could hear the sounds of the ocean, a soft murmur. He felt the paths under his bare feet. In the moonlight, he saw a slender, familiar figure gazing out at the water beyond the high cliffs. He was barely aware of Aden retreating. Kallias’s cheeks were brushed with paint, his lashes heavy with it. There was a single beauty mark high on his cheekbone that drew the gaze to his wide blue eyes. Painted like that, he had come from entertainments in the palace, or from his place in Kastor’s household, at Kastor’s side. He had never looked so beautiful, the moon above him, the gleaming stars falling slowly into the sea. ‘I’m so glad to see you, so glad you’ve come,’said Erasmus, feeling happy but suddenly shy. ‘I amforever asking my attendants for stories of you, and saving stories of my own, thinking this or that I must tell Kallias.’ ‘Are you?’said Kallias. ‘Glad to see me?’ There was something strange about his voice. ‘I missed you,’said Erasmus. ‘We haven’t talked to each other since—that night.’ He could hear the sounds of the water. ‘When you—’ ‘Tried to dine from a prince’s table?’ ‘Kallias?’said Erasmus. Kallias laughed, the sound uneven. ‘Tell me again that we’ll be together. That you’ll serve the Prince and I’ll serve his brother. Tell me how it will be.’ ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Then I will teach you,’said Kallias, and kissed him. Shock, Kallias’s painted lips against his, the hard press of teeth, Kallias’s tongue in his mouth. His body was yielding, but his mind was clamouring, his heart felt that it was going to burst. He was dazed, reeling, clutching his tunic to himself, to keep it from falling. Standing two paces away, Kallias was holding Erasmus’s golden pin in his hand where he’d torn it from the silk. And then the first real understanding of what they had done, the bruised throb of his lips, the stunned feeling of the ground opening up beneath his feet. He was staring at Kallias. ‘You can’t serve the Prince now, you’re tainted.’ The words were sharp, jagged. ‘You’re tainted. You could scrub at it for hours and you’d never wash it off.’ ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Tarchon’s voice. Aden was suddenly there with Tarchon in tow, and Kallias was saying, ‘He kissed me.’ ‘Is this true?’ Tarchon took hold of his arm roughly, the grip painful. I don’t understand, he had said, and still he didn’t understand it, even when he heard Aden saying, ‘It’s true, Kallias even tried to push him away.’ ‘Kallias,’ he gasped, but Tarchon was tipping his face up into the moonlight, and the evidence was smeared all over his lips, Kallias’s red paint. Kallias said, ‘He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me. That he wanted to be with me, not with the Prince. I told him it was wrong. He said he didn’t care.’ ‘Kallias,’ he said. Tarchon was shaking him. ‘How could you do this? Were you trying to lose him his position? It is you who have wrecked yourself. You have thrown away everything that you have been given, the work of dozens, the time and attention that has been lavished on you. You will never serve inside these walls.’ His eyes, desperately searching found Kallias’s gaze, cool and untouchable. ‘You said you wanted to cross the ocean,’said Kallias. Three days of confinement, while trainers came in and out, and spoke about his fate. And then the unthinkable. There weren’t witnesses. There wasn’t a ceremony. They put a gold collar around his neck and dressed him in slave silks that he hadn’t earned, that he didn’t yet deserve. He was a full slave, two years early, and they were sending him away. He didn’t start shaking until he was brought into a white marble room in an unknown part of the palace. The sounds were strange echoes, as though it was a vast cavern containing water. He tried to look around himself but the figures wavered like the flame of a candle behind warped glass. He could still feel the kiss, the violence of it, his lips felt swollen. But slowly he was becoming aware that the activity in this room was to some larger purpose. There were other slaves-in-training in the room with him. He recognised Narsis, and Astacos. Narsis was about nineteen years of age, with a simple but sweet temperament. He would never wear a pin, but he would make an excellent table attendant, and perhaps a trainer himself one day, patient with the younger boys. There was a strange atmosphere, bursts of sound here and there from outside. The rise and fall of voices were the voices of free men, masters, in whose presence he had never been allowed before. Narsis whispered, ‘It’s been like that all morning. No one knows what’s happening. There are rumours—there have been soldiers in the palace. Astacos said he saw soldiers speaking with Adrastus, asking for the names of all the slaves who belonged to Damianos. Everyone wearing a lion pin was taken away. That’s where we thought you’d be. Not here with us.’ ‘But where are we? Why have we—why have we been brought here?’ ‘You don’t know? We’re being sent across the water. There are twelve of us, and twelve from the female training quarters.’ ‘To Isthima?’ ‘No, along the coast, to Vere.’ For a moment it seemed that the outside sounds grew louder. There was a distant metallic clash that he couldn’t interpret. Another. He looked for answers to Narsis and saw his confused expression. It occurred to him, stupidly, that Kallias would know what was happening, that he should ask Kallias, and that was when the screams began.

Caroline

I started this for Holly I finished it for Maddy Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten. —G. K. Chesterton I. CORALINE DISCOVERED THE DOOR a little while after they moved into the house. It was a very old house—it had an attic under the roof and a cellar under the ground and an overgrown garden with huge old trees in it. Coraline’s family didn’t own all of the house—it was too big for that. Instead they owned part of it. There were other people who lived in the old house. Miss Spink and Miss Forcible lived in the flat below Coraline’s, on the ground floor. They were both old and round, and they lived in their flat with a number of ageing Highland terriers who had names like Hamish and Andrew and Jock. Once upon a time Miss Spink and Miss Forcible had been actresses, as Miss Spink told Coraline the first time she met her. “You see, Caroline,” Miss Spink said, getting Coraline’s name wrong, “both myself and Miss Forcible were famous actresses, in our time. We trod the boards, luvvy. Oh, don’t let Hamish eat the fruitcake, or he’ll be up all night with his tummy.” “It’s Coraline. Not Caroline. Coraline,” said Coraline. In the flat above Coraline’s, under the roof, was a crazy old man with a big mustache. He told Coraline that he was training a mouse circus. He wouldn’t let anyone see it. “One day, little Caroline, when they are all ready, everyone in the whole world will see the wonders of my mouse circus. You ask me why you cannot see it now. Is that what you asked me?” “No,” said Coraline quietly, “I asked you not to call me Caroline. It’s Coraline.” “The reason you cannot see the mouse circus,” said the man upstairs, “is that the mice are not yet ready and rehearsed. Also, they refuse to play the songs I have written for them. All the songs I have written for the mice to play go oompah oompah. But the white mice will only play toodle oodle, like that. I am thinking of trying them on different types of cheese.” Coraline didn’t think there really was a mouse circus. She thought the old man was probably making it up. The day after they moved in, Coraline went exploring. She explored the garden. It was a big garden: at the very back was an old tennis court, but no one in the house played tennis and the fence around the court had holes in it and the net had mostly rotted away; there was an old rose garden, filled with stunted, flyblown rosebushes; there was a rockery that was all rocks; there was a fairy ring, made of squidgy brown toadstools which smelled dreadful if you accidentally trod on them. There was also a well. On the first day Coraline’s family moved in, Miss Spink and Miss Forcible made a point of telling Coraline how dangerous the well was, and they warned her to be sure she kept away from it. So Coraline set off to explore for it, so that she knew where it was, to keep away from it properly. She found it on the third day, in an overgrown meadow beside the tennis court, behind a clump of trees—a low brick circle almost hidden in the high grass. The well had been covered up by wooden boards, to stop anyone falling in. There was a small knothole in one of the boards, and Coraline spent an afternoon dropping pebbles and acorns through the hole and waiting, and counting, until she heard the plop as they hit the water far below. Coraline also explored for animals. She found a hedgehog, and a snakeskin (but no snake), and a rock that looked just like a frog, and a toad that looked just like a rock. There was also a haughty black cat, who sat on walls and tree stumps and watched her but slipped away if ever she went over to try to play with it. That was how she spent her first two weeks in the house—exploring the garden and the grounds. Her mother made her come back inside for dinner and for lunch. And Coraline had to make sure she dressed up warm before she went out, for it was a very cold summer that year; but go out she did, exploring, every day until the day it rained, when Coraline had to stay inside. “What should I do?” asked Coraline. “Read a book,” said her mother. “Watch a video. Play with your toys. Go and pester Miss Spink or Miss Forcible, or the crazy old man upstairs.” “No,” said Coraline. “I don’t want to do those things. I want to explore.” “T don’t really mind what you do,” said Coraline’s mother, “as long as you don’t make a mess.” Coraline went over to the window and watched the rain come down. It wasn’t the kind of rain you could go out in—it was the other kind, the kind that threw itself down from the sky and splashed where it landed. It was rain that meant business, and currently its business was turning the garden into a muddy, wet soup. Coraline had watched all the videos. She was bored with her toys, and she’d read all her books. She turned on the television. She went from channel to channel to channel, but there was nothing on but men in suits talking about the stock market, and talk shows. Eventually, she found something to watch: it was the last half of a natural history program about something called protective coloration. She watched animals, birds, and insects which disguised themselves as leaves or twigs or other animals to escape from things that could hurt them. She enjoyed it, but it ended too soon and was followed by a program about a cake factory. It was time to talk to her father. Coraline’s father was home. Both of her parents worked, doing things on computers, which meant that they were home a lot of the time. Each of them had their own study. “Hello Coraline,” he said when she came in, without turning round. “Mmph,” said Coraline. “It’s raining.” “Yup,” said her father. “It’s bucketing down.” “No,” said Coraline. “It’s just raining. Can I go outside?” “What does your mother say?” “She says you’re not going out in weather like that, Coraline Jones.” “Then, no.” “But I want to carry on exploring.” “Then explore the flat,” suggested her father. “Look—here’s a piece of paper and a pen. Count all the doors and windows. List everything blue. Mount an expedition to discover the hot water tank. And leave me alone to work.” “Can I go into the drawing room?” The drawing room was where the Joneses kept the expensive (and uncomfortable) furniture Coraline’s grandmother had left them when she died. Coraline wasn’t allowed in there. Nobody went in there. It was only for best. “If you don’t make a mess. And you don’t touch anything.” Coraline considered this carefully, then she took the paper and pen and went off to explore the inside of the flat. She discovered the hot water tank (it was in a cupboard in the kitchen). She counted everything blue (153). She counted the windows (21). She counted the doors (14). Of the doors that she found, thirteen opened and closed. The other—the big, carved, brown wooden door at the far corner of the drawing room—was locked. She said to her mother, “Where does that door go?” “Nowhere, dear.” “Tt has to go somewhere.” Her mother shook her head. “Look,” she told Coraline. She reached up and took a string of keys from the top of the kitchen doorframe. She sorted through them carefully, and selected the oldest, biggest, blackest, rustiest key. They went into the drawing room. She unlocked the door with the key. The door swung open. Her mother was right. The door didn’t go anywhere. It opened onto a brick wall. ° “When this place was just one house,” said Coraline’s mother, “that door went somewhere. When they turned the house into flats, they simply bricked it up. The other side is the empty flat on the other side of the house, the one that’s still for sale.” She shut the door and put the string of keys back on top of the kitchen doorframe. “You didn’t lock it,” said Coraline. Her mother shrugged. “Why should I lock it?” she asked. “It doesn’t go anywhere.” Coraline didn’t say anything. It was nearly dark outside now, and the rain was still coming down, pattering against the windows and blurring the lights of the cars in the street outside. Coraline’s father stopped working and made them all dinner. Coraline was disgusted. “Daddy,” she said, “you’ve made a recipe again.” “It’s leek and potato stew with a tarragon garnish and melted Gruyére cheese,” he admitted. Coraline sighed. Then she went to the freezer and got out some microwave chips and a microwave minipizza. “You know I don’t like recipes,” she told her father, while her dinner went around and around and the little red numbers on the microwave oven counted down to zero. “Tf you tried it, maybe you'd like it,” said Coraline’s father, but she shook her head. That night, Coraline lay awake in her bed. The rain had stopped, and she was almost asleep when something went f-f-t-t-t-t. She sat up in bed. Something went kreeee ... ... daaak Coraline got out of bed and looked down the hall, but saw nothing strange. She walked down the hall. From her parents’ bedroom came a low snoring—that was her father—and an occasional sleeping mutter—that was her mother. Coraline wondered if she’d dreamed it, whatever it was. Something moved. It was little more than a shadow, and it scuttled down the darkened hall fast, like a little patch of night. She hoped it wasn’t a spider. Spiders made Coraline intensely uncomfortable. The black shape went into the drawing room, and Coraline followed it a little nervously. The room was dark. The only light came from the hall, and Coraline, who was standing in the doorway, cast a huge and distorted shadow onto the drawing room carpet—she looked like a thin giant woman. Coraline was just wondering whether or not she ought to turn on the lights when she saw the black shape edge slowly out from beneath the sofa. It paused, and then dashed silently across the carpet toward the farthest corner of the room. There was no furniture in that corner of the room. Coraline turned on the light. There was nothing in the corner. Nothing but the old door that opened onto the brick wall. She was sure that her mother had shut the door, but now it was ever so slightly open. Just a crack. Coraline went over to it and looked in. There was nothing there—just a wall, built of red bricks. Coraline closed the old wooden door, turned out the light, and went to bed. She dreamed of black shapes that slid from place to place, avoiding the light, until they were all gathered together under the moon. Little black shapes with little red eyes and sharp yellow teeth. They started to sing, We are small but we are many We are many we are small We were here before you rose We will be here when you fall. Their voices were high and whispering and slightly whiney. They made Coraline feel uncomfortable. Then Coraline dreamed a few commercials, and after that she dreamed of nothing at all. I. T HE NEXT DAY IT HAD stopped raining, but a thick white fog had lowered over the house. “T’m going for a walk,” said Coraline. “Don’t go too far,” said her mother. “And dress up warmly.” Coraline put on her blue coat with a hood, her red scarf, and her yellow Wellington boots. She went out. Miss Spink was walking her dogs. “Hello, Caroline,” said Miss Spink. “Rotten weather.” “Yes,” said Coraline. “T played Portia once,” said Miss Spink. “Miss Forcible talks about her Ophelia, but it was my Portia they came to see. When we trod the boards.” Miss Spink was bundled up in pullovers and cardigans, so she seemed more small and circular than ever. She looked like a large, fluffy egg. She wore thick glasses that made her eyes seem huge. “They used to send flowers to my dressing room. They did,” she said. nel “Who did?” asked Coraline. Miss Spink looked around cautiously, looking over first one shoulder and then over the other, peering into the mists as though someone might be listening. “Men,” she whispered. Then she tugged the dogs to heel and waddled off back toward the house. Coraline continued her walk. She was three quarters of the way around the house when she saw Miss Forcible, standing at the door to the flat she shared with Miss Spink. “Have you seen Miss Spink, Caroline?” Coraline told her that she had, and that Miss Spink was out walking the dogs. “I do hope she doesn’t get lost—it’ll bring on her shingles if she does, you’ll see,” said Miss Forcible. ““You’d have to be an explorer to find your way around in this fog.” “T’m an explorer,” said Coraline. “Of course you are, luvvy,” said Miss Forcible. “Don’t get lost, now.” Coraline continued walking through the gardens in the gray mist. She always kept in sight of the house. After about ten minutes of walking she found herself back where she had started. The hair over her eyes was limp and wet, and her face felt damp. “Ahoy! Caroline!” called the crazy old man upstairs. “Oh, hullo,” said Coraline. She could hardly see the old man through the mist. He walked down the steps on the outside of the house that led up past Coraline’s front door to the door of his flat. He walked down very slowly. Coraline waited at the bottom of the stairs. “The mice do not like the mist,” he told her. “It makes their whiskers droop.” “T don’t like the mist much, either,” admitted Coraline. The old man leaned down, so close that the bottoms of his mustache tickled Coraline’s ear. “The mice have a message for you,” he whispered. Coraline didn’t know what to say. “The message is this. Don’t go through the door.” He paused. “Does that mean anything to you?” “No,” said Coraline. The old man shrugged. “They are funny, the mice. They get things wrong. They got your name wrong, you know. They kept saying Coraline. Not Caroline. Not Caroline at all.” He picked up a milk bottle from the bottom of the stairs and started back up to his attic flat. Coraline went indoors. Her mother was working in her study. Her mother’s study smelled of flowers. “What shall I do?” asked Coraline. “When do you go back to school?” asked her mother. “Next week,” said Coraline. “Hmph,” said her mother. “I suppose I shall have to get you new school clothes. Remind me, dear, or else I'll forget,” and she went back to typing things on the computer screen. “What shall I do?” repeated Coraline. “Draw something,” Her mother passed her a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. Coraline tried drawing the mist. After ten minutes of drawing she still had a white sheet of paper with 1 written on it in one corner in slightly wiggly letters. She grunted and passed it to her mother. “Mm. Very modern, dear,” said Coraline’s mother. Coraline crept into the drawing room and tried to open the old door in the corner. It was locked once more. She supposed her mother must have locked it again. She shrugged. Coraline went to see her father. He had his back to the door as he typed. “Go away,” he said cheerfully as she walked in. “T’m bored,” she said. “Learn how to tap-dance,” he suggested, without turning around. Coraline shook her head. “Why don’t you play with me?” she asked. “Busy,” he said. “Working,” he added. He still hadn’t turned around to look at her. “Why don’t you go and bother Miss Spink and Miss Forcible?” Coraline put on her coat and pulled up her hood and went out of the house. She went downstairs. She rang the door of Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s flat. Coraline could hear a frenzied woofing as the Scottie dogs ran out into the hall. After a while Miss Spink opened the door. “Oh, it’s you, Caroline,” she said. “Angus, Hamish, Bruce, down now, luvvies. It’s only Caroline. Come in, dear. Would you like a cup of tea?” The flat smelled of furniture polish and dogs. “Yes, please,” said Coraline. Miss Spink led her into a dusty little room, which she called the parlor. On the walls were black-and-white photographs of pretty women, and theater programs in frames. Miss Forcible was sitting in one of the armchairs, knitting hard. They poured Coraline a cup of tea in a little pink bone china cup, with a saucer. They gave her a dry Garibaldi biscuit to go with it. Miss Forcible looked at Miss Spink, picked up her knitting, and took a deep breath. “Anyway, April. As I was saying: you still have to admit, there’s life in the old dog yet.” “Miriam, dear, neither of us is as young as we were.” “Madame Arcati,” replied Miss Forcible. “The nurse in Romeo. Lady Bracknell. Character parts. They can’t retire you from the stage.” “Now, Miriam, we agreed,” said Miss Spink. Coraline wondered if they’d forgotten she was there. They weren’t making much sense; she decided they were having an argument as old and comfortable as an armchair, the kind of argument that no one ever really wins or loses but which can go on forever, if both parties are willing. She sipped her tea. “T’ll read the leaves, if you want,” said Miss Spink to Coraline. “Sorry?” said Coraline. “The tea leaves, dear. I'll read your future.” Coraline passed Miss Spink her cup. Miss Spink peered shortsightedly at the black tea leaves in the bottom. She pursed her lips. “You know, Caroline,” she said, after a while, “you are in terrible danger.” Miss Forcible snorted, and put down her knitting. “Don’t be silly, April. Stop scaring the girl. Your eyes are going. Pass me that cup, child.” Coraline carried the cup over to Miss Forcible. Miss Forcible looked into it carefully, shook her head, and looked into it again. “Oh dear,” she said. “You were right, April. She is in danger.” “See, Miriam,” said Miss Spink triumphantly. “My eyes are as good as they ever were... .” “What am I in danger from?” asked Coraline. Misses Spink and Forcible stared at her blankly. “It didn’t say,” said Miss Spink. “Tea leaves aren’t reliable for that kind of thing. Not really. They’re good for general, but not for specifics.” “What should I do then?” asked Coraline, who was slightly alarmed by this. “Don’t wear green in your dressing room,” suggested Miss Spink. “Or mention the Scottish play,” added Miss Forcible. Coraline wondered why so few of the adults she had met made any sense. She sometimes wondered who they thought they were talking to. “And be very, very careful,” said Miss Spink. She got up from the armchair and went over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a small jar, and Miss Spink took off the top of the jar and began to pull things out of it. There was a tiny china duck, a thimble, a strange little brass coin, two paper clips and a stone with a hole in it. She passed Coraline the stone with a hole in it. “What’s it for?” asked Coraline. The hole went all the way through the middle of the stone. She held it up to the window and looked through it. “Tt might help,” said Miss Spink. “They’re good for bad things, sometimes.” Coraline put on her coat, said good-bye to Misses Spink and Forcible and to the dogs, and went outside. The mist hung like blindness around the house. She walked slowly to the stairs up to her family’s flat, and then stopped and looked around. In the mist, it was a ghost-world. Jn danger? thought Coraline to herself. It sounded exciting. It didn’t sound like a bad thing. Not really. Coraline went back upstairs, her fist closed tightly around her new stone. HI. T HE NEXT DAY THE sun shone, and Coraline’s mother took her into the nearest large town to buy clothes for school. They dropped her father off at the railway station. He was going into London for the day to see some people. Coraline waved him good-bye. They went to the department store to buy the school clothes. Coraline saw some Day-Glo green gloves she liked a lot. Her mother refused to buy them for her, preferring instead to buy white socks, navy blue school underpants, four gray blouses, and a dark gray skirt. “But Mum, everybody at school’s got gray blouses and everything. Nobody’s got green gloves. I could be the only one.” Her mother ignored her; she was talking to the shop assistant. They were talking about which kind of sweater to get for Coraline, and were agreeing that the best thing to do would be to get one that was embarrassingly large and baggy, in the hopes that one day she might grow into it. Coraline wandered off and looked at a display of Wellington boots shaped like frogs and ducks and rabbits. Then she wandered back. “Coraline? Oh, there you are. Where on earth were you?” “I was kidnapped by aliens,” said Coraline. “They came down from outer space with ray guns, but I fooled them by wearing a wig and laughing in a foreign accent, and I escaped.” “Yes, dear. Now, I think you could do with some more hair clips, don’t you?” “No.” “Well, let’s say half a dozen, to be on the safe side,” said her mother. Coraline didn’t say anything. In the car on the way back home, Coraline said, “What’s in the empty flat?” “T don’t know. Nothing, I expect. It probably looks like our flat before we moved in. Empty rooms.” “Do you think you could get into it from our flat?” “Not unless you can walk through bricks, dear.” “Oh.” They got home around lunchtime. The sun was shining, although the day was cold. Coraline’s mother looked in the fridge and found a sad little tomato and a piece of cheese with green stuff growing on it. There was only a crust in the bread bin. “I'd better dash down to the shops and get some fish fingers or something,” said her mother. “Do you want to come?” “No,” said Coraline. “Suit yourself,” said her mother, and left. Then she came back and got her purse and car keys and went out again. Coraline was bored. She flipped through a book her mother was reading about native people in a distant country; how every day they would take pieces of white silk and draw on them in wax, then dip the silks in dye, then draw on them more in wax and dye them some more, then boil the wax out in hot water, and then finally, throw the now-beautiful cloths on a fire and burn them to ashes. It seemed particularly pointless to Coraline, but she hoped that the people enjoyed it. She was still bored, and her mother wasn’t yet home. Coraline got a chair and pushed it over to the kitchen door. She climbed onto the chair and reached up. She got down, then got a broom from the broom cupboard. She climbed back on the chair again and reached up with the broom. Chink. She climbed down from the chair and picked up the keys. She smiled triumphantly. Then she leaned the broom against the wall and went into the drawing room. The family did not use the drawing room. They had inherited the furniture from Coraline’s grandmother, along with a wooden coffee table, a side table, a heavy glass ashtray, and the oil painting of a bowl of fruit. Coraline could never work out why anyone would want to paint a bowl of fruit. Other than that, the room was empty: there were no knickknacks on the mantelpiece, no statues or clocks; nothing that made it feel comfortable or lived-in. The old black key felt colder than any of the others. She pushed it into the keyhole. It turned smoothly, with a satisfying clunk. Coraline stopped and listened. She knew she was doing something wrong, and she was trying to listen for her mother coming back, but she heard nothing. Then Coraline put her hand on the doorknob and turned it; and, finally, she opened the door. It opened on to a dark hallway. The bricks had gone as if they’d never been there. There was a cold, musty smell coming through the open doorway: it smelled like something very old and very slow. Coraline went through the door. She wondered what the empty flat would be like—if that was where the corridor led. Coraline walked down the corridor uneasily. There was something very familiar about it. The carpet beneath her feet was the same carpet they had in her flat. The wallpaper was the same wallpaper they had. The picture hanging in the hall was the same that they had hanging in their hallway at home. She knew where she was: she was in her own home. She hadn’t left. She shook her head, confused. She stared at the picture hanging on the wall: no, it wasn’t exactly the same. The picture they had in their own hallway showed a boy in old-fashioned clothes staring at some bubbles. But now the expression on his face was different—he was looking at the bubbles as if he was planning to do something very nasty indeed to them. And there was something peculiar about his eyes. Coraline stared at his eyes, trying to figure out what exactly was different. She almost had it when somebody said, “Coraline?” It sounded like her mother. Coraline went into the kitchen, where the voice had come from. A woman stood in the kitchen with her back to Coraline. She looked a little like Coraline’s mother. Only... Only her skin was white as paper. Only she was taller and thinner. Only her fingers were too long, and they never stopped moving, and her dark red fingernails were curved and sharp. “Coraline?” the woman said. “Is that you?” And then she turned around. Her eyes were big black buttons. “Lunchtime, Coraline,” said the woman. “Who are you?” asked Coraline. “T’m your other mother,” said the woman. “Go and tell your other father that lunch is ready,” She opened the door of the oven. Suddenly Coraline realized how hungry she was. It smelled wonderful. “Well, go on.” Coraline went down the hall, to where her father’s study was. She opened the door. There was a man in there, sitting at the keyboard, with his back to her. “Hello,” said Coraline. “I—I mean, she said to say that lunch is ready.” The man turned around. His eyes were buttons, big and black and shiny. “Hello Coraline,” he said. “I’m starving.” He got up and went with her into the kitchen. They sat at the kitchen table, and Coraline’s other mother brought them lunch. A huge, golden-brown roasted chicken, fried potatoes, tiny green peas. Coraline shoveled the food into her mouth. It tasted wonderful. “We’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” said Coraline’s other father. “For me?” “Yes,” said the other mother. “It wasn’t the same here without you. But we knew you’d arrive one day, and then we could be a proper family. Would you like some more chicken?” It was the best chicken that Coraline had ever eaten. Her mother sometimes made chicken, but it was always out of packets or frozen, and was very dry, and it never tasted of anything. When Coraline’s father cooked chicken he bought real chicken, but he did strange things to it, like stewing it in wine, or stuffing it with prunes, or baking it in pastry, and Coraline would always refuse to touch it on principle. She took some more chicken. “T didn’t know I had another mother,” said Coraline, cautiously. “Of course you do. Everyone does,” said the other mother, her black button eyes gleaming. “After lunch I thought you might like to play in your room with the rats.” “The rats?” “From upstairs.” Coraline had never seen a rat, except on television. She was quite looking forward to it. This was turning out to be a very interesting day after all. After lunch her other parents did the washing up, and Coraline went down the hall to her other bedroom. It was different from her bedroom at home. For a start it was painted in an off-putting shade of green and a peculiar shade of pink. Coraline decided that she wouldn’t want to have to sleep in there, but that the color scheme was an awful lot more interesting than her own bedroom. There were all sorts of remarkable things in there she’d never seen before: windup angels that fluttered around the bedroom like startled sparrows; books with pictures that writhed and crawled and shimmered; little dinosaur skulls that chattered their teeth as she passed. A whole toy box filled with wonderful toys. This is more like it, thought Coraline. She looked out of the window. Outside, the view was the same one she saw from her own bedroom: trees, fields, and beyond them, on the horizon, distant purple hills. Something black scurried across the floor and vanished under the bed. Coraline got down on her knees and looked under the bed. Fifty little red eyes stared back at her. “Hello,” said Coraline. “Are you the rats?” They came out from under the bed, blinking their eyes in the light. They had short, soot-black fur, little red eyes, pink paws like tiny hands, and pink, hairless tails like long, smooth worms. “Can you talk?” she asked. The largest, blackest of the rats shook its head. It had an unpleasant sort of smile, Coraline thought. “Well,” asked Coraline, “what do you do?” The rats formed a circle. Then they began to climb on top of each other, carefully but swiftly, until they had formed a pyramid with the largest rat at the top. The rats began to sing, in high, whispery voices, We have teeth and we have tails We have tails we have eyes We were here before you fell You will be here when we rise. It wasn’t a pretty song. Coraline was sure she’d heard it before, or something like it, although she was unable to remember exactly where. Then the pyramid fell apart, and the rats scampered, fast and black, toward the door. The other crazy old man upstairs was standing in the doorway, holding a tall black hat in his hands. The rats scampered up him, burrowing into his pockets, into his shirt, up his trouser legs, down his neck. The largest rat climbed onto the old man’s shoulders, swung up on the long gray mustache, past the big black button eyes, and onto the top of the man’s head. In seconds the only evidence that the rats were there at all were the restless lumps under the man’s clothes, forever sliding from place to place across him; and there was still the largest rat, who stared down, with glittering red eyes, at Coraline from the man’s head. The old man put his hat on, and the last rat was gone. “Hello Coraline,” said the other old man upstairs. “I heard you were here. It is time for the rats to have their dinner. But you can come up with me, if you like, and watch them feed.” There was something hungry in the old man’s button eyes that made Coraline feel uncomfortable. “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m going outside to explore.” The old man nodded, very slowly. Coraline could hear the rats whispering to each other, although she could not tell what they were saying. She was not certain that she wanted to know what they were saying. Her other parents stood in the kitchen doorway as she walked down the corridor, smiling identical smiles, and waving slowly. “Have a nice time outside,” said her other mother. “We'll just wait here for you to come back,” said her other father. When Coraline got to the front door, she turned back and looked at them. They were still watching her, and waving, and smiling. Coraline walked outside, and down the steps. IV. T.. house looked exactly the same from the outside. Or almost exactly the same: around Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s door were blue and red lightbulbs that flashed on and off spelling out words, the lights chasing each other around the door. On and off, around and around. astounding! was followed by a theatrical and then triumph!!! It was a sunny, cold day, exactly like the one she’d left. There was a polite noise from behind her. She turned around. Standing on the wall next to her was a large black cat, identical to the large black cat she’d seen in the grounds at home. “Good afternoon,” said the cat. Its voice sounded like the voice at the back of Coraline’s head, the voice she thought words in, but a man’s voice, not a girl’s. “Hello,” said Coraline. “I saw a cat like you in the garden at home. You must be the other cat.” The cat shook its head. “No,” it said. “I’m not the other anything. I’m me.” It tipped its head to one side; green eyes glinted. “You people are spread all over the place. Cats, on the other hand, keep ourselves together. If you see what I mean.” “T suppose. But if you’re the same cat I saw at home, how can you talk?” Cats don’t have shoulders, not like people do. But the cat shrugged, in one smooth movement that started at the tip of its tail and ended in a raised movement of its whiskers. “I can talk.” “Cats don’t talk at home.” “No?” said the cat. “No,” said Coraline. The cat leaped smoothly from the wall to the grass near Coraline’s feet. It stared up at her. “Well, you’re the expert on these things,” said the cat dryly. “After all, what would I know? ’m only a cat.” It began to walk away, head and tail held high and proud. “Come back,” said Coraline. “Please. I’m sorry. I really am.” The cat stopped walking, sat down, and began to wash itself thoughtfully, apparently unaware of Coraline’s existence. “We... we could be friends, you know,” said Coraline. “We could be rare specimens of an exotic breed of African dancing elephants,” said the cat. “But we’re not. At least,” it added cattily, after darting a brief look at Coraline, “7’m not.” Coraline sighed. “Please. What’s your name?” Coraline asked the cat. “Look, I’m Coraline. Okay?” The cat yawned slowly, carefully, revealing a mouth and tongue of astounding pinkness. “Cats don’t have names,” it said. “No?” said Coraline. “No,” said the cat. “Now, you people have names. That’s because you don’t know who you are. We know who we are, so we don’t need names.” There was something irritatingly self-centered about the cat, Coraline decided. As if it were, in its opinion, the only thing in any world or place that could possibly be of any importance. Half of her wanted to be very rude to it; the other half of her wanted to be polite and deferential. The polite half won. “Please, what is this place?” The cat glanced around briefly. “It’s here,” said the cat. “T can see that. Well, how did you get here?” “Like you did. I walked,” said the cat. “Like this.” Coraline watched as the cat walked slowly across the lawn. It walked behind a tree, but didn’t come out the other side. Coraline went over to the tree and looked behind it. The cat was gone. She walked back toward the house. There was another polite noise from behind her. It was the cat. “By the by,” it said. “It was sensible of you to bring protection. I’d hang on to it, if I were you.” “Protection?” “That’s what I said,” said the cat. “And anyway—” It paused, and stared intently at something that wasn’t there. Then it went down into a low crouch and moved slowly forward, two or three steps. It seemed to be stalking an invisible mouse. Abruptly, it turned tail and dashed for the woods. It vanished among the trees. Coraline wondered what the cat had meant. She also wondered whether cats could all talk where she came from and just chose not to, or whether they could only talk when they were here—wherever here was. She walked down the brick steps to the Misses Spink and Forcible’s front door. The blue and red lights flashed on and off. The door was open, just slightly. She knocked on it, but her first knock made the door swing open, and Coraline went in. She was in a dark room that smelled of dust and velvet. The door swung shut behind her, and the room was black. Coraline edged forward into a small anteroom. Her face brushed against something soft. It was cloth. She reached up her hand and pushed at the cloth. It parted. She stood blinking on the other side of the velvet curtains, in a poorly lit theater. Far away, at the edge of the room, was a high wooden stage, empty and bare, a dim spotlight shining onto it from high above. There were seats between Coraline and the stage. Rows and rows of seats. She heard a shuffling noise, and a light came toward her, swinging from side to side. When it was closer she saw the light was coming from a flashlight being carried in the mouth of a large black Scottie dog, its muzzle gray with age. “Hello,” said Coraline. The dog put the flashlight down on the floor, and looked up at her. “Right. Let’s see your ticket,” he said gruffly. “Ticket?” “That’s what I said. Ticket. I haven’t got all day, you know. You can’t watch the show without a ticket.” Coraline sighed. “I don’t have a ticket,” she admitted. “Another one,” said the dog gloomily. “Come in here, bold as anything. ‘Where’s your ticket?’ ‘Haven’t got one,’ I don’t know . . .” It shook its head, then shrugged. “Come on, then.” He picked up the flashlight in his mouth and trotted off into the dark. Coraline followed him. When he got near the front of the stage he stopped and shone the flashlight onto an empty seat. Coraline sat down, and the dog wandered off. As her eyes got used to the darkness she realized that the other inhabitants of the seats were also dogs. There was a sudden hissing noise from behind the stage. Coraline decided it was the sound of a scratchy old record being put onto a record player. The hissing became the noise of trumpets, and Miss Spink and Miss Forcible came onto the stage. Miss Spink was riding a one-wheeled bicycle and juggling balls. Miss Forcible skipped behind her, holding a basket of flowers. She scattered the flower petals across the stage as she went. They reached the front of the stage, and Miss Spink leaped nimbly off the unicycle, and the two old women bowed low. All the dogs thumped their tails and barked enthusiastically. Coraline clapped politely. Then they unbuttoned their fluffy round coats and opened them. But their coats weren’t all that opened: their faces opened, too, like empty shells, and out of the old empty fluffy round bodies stepped two young women. They were thin, and pale, and quite pretty, and had black button eyes. The new Miss Spink was wearing green tights, and high brown boots that went most of the way up her legs. The new Miss Forcible wore a white dress and had flowers in her long yellow hair. Coraline pressed back against her seat. Miss Spink went off the stage, and the noise of trumpets squealed as the gramophone needle dug its way across the record, and was pulled off. “This is my favorite bit,” whispered the little dog in the seat next to her. The other Miss Forcible picked a knife out of a box on the corner of the stage. “Is this a dagger that I see before me?” she asked. “Yes!” shouted all the little dogs. “It is!” Miss Forcible curtsied, and all the dogs applauded again. Coraline didn’t bother clapping this time. Miss Spink came back on. She slapped her thigh, and all the little dogs woofed. “And now,” Miss Spink said, “Miriam and I proudly present a new and exciting addendum to our theatrical exposition. Do I see a volunteer?” The little dog next to Coraline nudged her with its front paw. “That’s you,” it hissed. Coraline stood up, and walked up the wooden steps to the stage. “Can I have big round of applause for the young volunteer?” asked Miss Spink. The dogs woofed and squealed and thumped their tails on the velvet seats. “Now Coraline,” said Miss Spink, “what’s your name?” “Coraline,” said Coraline. “And we don’t know each other, do we?” Coraline looked at the thin young woman with black button eyes and shook her head slowly. “Now,” said the other Miss Spink, “stand over here.” She led Coraline over to a board by the side of the stage, and put a balloon on top of Coraline’s head. Miss Spink walked over to Miss Forcible. She blindfolded Miss Forcible’s button eyes with a black scarf, and put the knife into her hands. Then she turned her round three or four times and pointed her at Coraline. Coraline held her breath and squeezed her fingers into two tight fists. Miss Forcible threw the knife at the balloon. It popped loudly, and the knife stuck into the board just above Coraline’s head and twanged there. Coraline breathed out. The dogs went wild. Miss Spink gave Coraline a very small box of chocolates and thanked her for being such a good sport. Coraline went back to her seat. “You were very good,” said the little dog. “Thank you,” said Coraline. Miss Forcible and Miss Spink began juggling with huge wooden clubs. Coraline opened the box of chocolates. The dog looked at them longingly. “Would you like one?” she asked the little dog. “Yes, please,” whispered the dog. “Only not toffee ones. They make me drool.” “TI thought chocolates weren’t very good for dogs,” she said, remembering something Miss Forcible had once told her. “Maybe where you come from,” whispered the little dog. “Here, it’s all we eat.” Coraline couldn’t see what the chocolates were, in the dark. She took an experimental bite of one which turned out to be coconut. Coraline didn’t like coconut. She gave it to the dog. “Thank you,” said the dog. “You’re welcome,” said Coraline. Miss Forcible and Miss Spink were doing some acting. Miss Forcible was sitting on a stepladder, and Miss Spink was standing at the bottom. “What’s in a name?” asked Miss Forcible. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” “Have you got any more chocolates?” said the dog. Coraline gave the dog another chocolate. “I know not how to tell thee who I am,” said Miss Spink to Miss Forcible. “This bit finishes soon,” whispered the dog. “Then they start folk dancing.” “How long does this go on for?” asked Coraline. “The theater?” “All the time,” said the dog. “For ever and always.” “Here,” said Coraline. “Keep the chocolates.” “Thank you,” said the dog. Coraline stood up. “See you soon,” said the dog. “Bye,” said Coraline. She walked out of the theater and back into the garden. She had to blink her eyes at the daylight. Her other parents were waiting for her in the garden, standing side by side. They were smiling. “Did you have a nice time?” asked her other mother. “It was interesting,” said Coraline. The three of them walked back up to Coraline’s other house together. Coraline’s other mother stroked Coraline’s hair with her long white fingers. Coraline shook her head. “Don’t do that,” said Coraline. Her other mother took her hand away. “So,” said her other father. “Do you like it here?” “T suppose,” said Coraline. “It’s much more interesting than at home.” They went inside. “[’m glad you like it,” said Coraline’s mother. “Because we’d like to think that this is your home. You can stay here for ever and always. If you want to.” “Hmm,” said Coraline. She put her hand in her pockets, and thought about it. Her hand touched the stone that the real Misses Spink and Forcible had given her the day before, the stone with the hole in it. “If you want to stay,” said her other father, “there’s only one little thing we’ll have to do, so you can stay here for ever and always.” They went into the kitchen. On a china plate on the kitchen table was a spool of black cotton, and a long silver needle, and, beside them, two large black buttons. “T don’t think so,” said Coraline. “Oh, but we want you to,” said her other mother. “We want you to stay. And it’s just a little thing.” “It won’t hurt,” said her other father. Coraline knew that when grown-ups told you something wouldn’t hurt it almost always did. She shook her head. Her other mother smiled brightly and the hair on her head drifted like plants under the sea. “We only want what’s best for you,” she said. She put her hand on Coraline’s shoulder. Coraline backed away. “I’m going now,” said Coraline. She put her hands in her pockets. Her fingers closed around the stone with the hole in it. Her other mother’s hand scuttled off Coraline’s shoulder like a frightened spider. “Tf that’s what you want,” she said. “Yes,” said Coraline. “We’ll see you soon, though,” said her other father. “When you come back.” “Um,” said Coraline. “And then we’ll all be together as one big happy family,” said her other mother. “For ever and always.” Coraline backed away. She turned and hurried into the drawing room and pulled open the door in the corner. There was no brick wall there now—just darkness, a night-black underground darkness that seemed as if things in it might be moving. Coraline hesitated. She turned back. Her other mother and her other father were walking toward her, holding hands. They were looking at her with their black button eyes. Or at least she thought they were looking at her. She couldn’t be sure. Her other mother reached out her free hand and beckoned, gently, with one white finger. Her pale lips mouthed, “Come back soon,” although she said nothing aloud. Coraline took a deep breath and stepped into the darkness, where strange voices whispered and distant winds howled. She became certain that there was something in the dark behind her: something very old and very slow. Her heart beat so hard and so loudly she was scared it would burst out of her chest. She closed her eyes against the dark. Eventually she bumped into something, and opened her eyes, startled. She had bumped into an armchair, in her drawing room. The open doorway behind her was blocked by rough red bricks. She was home. V. C ORALINE LOCKED THE DOOR of the drawing room with the cold black key. She went back into the kitchen and climbed onto a chair. She tried to put the bunch of keys back on top of the doorframe again. She tried four or five times before she was forced to accept that she just wasn’t big enough, and she put them down on the counter next to the door. Her mother still hadn’t returned from her shopping expedition. Coraline went to the freezer and took out the spare loaf of frozen bread in the bottom compartment. She made herself some toast, with jam and peanut butter. She drank a glass of water. She waited for her parents to come back. When it began to get dark, Coraline microwaved herself a frozen pizza. Then Coraline watched television. She wondered why grown-ups gave themselves all the good programs, with all the shouting and running around in. After a while she started yawning. Then she undressed, brushed her teeth, and put herself to bed. In the morning she went into her parents’ room, but their bed hadn’t been slept in, and they weren’t around. She ate canned spaghetti for breakfast. For lunch she had a block of cooking chocolate and an apple. The apple was yellow and slightly shriveled, but it tasted sweet and good. For tea she went down to see Misses Spink and Forcible. She had three digestive biscuits, a glass of limeade, and a cup of weak tea. The limeade was very interesting. It didn’t taste anything like limes. It tasted bright green and vaguely chemical. Coraline liked it enormously. She wished they had it at home. “How are your dear mother and father?” asked Miss Spink. “Missing,” said Coraline. “I haven’t seen either of them since yesterday. I’m on my own. I think I’ve probably become a single child family.” “Tell your mother that we found the Glasgow Empire press clippings we were telling her about. She seemed very interested when Miriam mentioned them to her.” “She’s vanished under mysterious circumstances,” said Coraline, “‘and I believe my father has as well.” “T’m afraid we’ll be out all day tomorrow, Caroline, luvvy,” said Miss Forcible. “We’ll be staying over with April’s niece in Royal Tunbridge Wells.” They showed Coraline a photographic album, with photographs of Miss Spink’s niece in it, and then Coraline went home. She opened her money box and walked down to the supermarket. She bought two large bottles of limeade, a chocolate cake, and a new bag of apples, and went back home and ate them for dinner. She cleaned her teeth, and went into her father’s office. She woke up his computer and wrote a story. CORALINE’S STORY. THERE WAS A GIRL HER NAME WAS APPLE. SHE USED TO DANCE A LOT. SHE DANCED AND DANCED UNTIL HER FEET TURND INTO SOSSAJES THE END. She printed out the story and turned off the computer. Then she drew a picture of the little girl dancing underneath the words on the paper. She ran herself a bath with too much bubble bath in it, and the bubbles ran over the side and went all over the floor. She dried herself, and the floor as best she could, and went to bed. Coraline woke up in the night. She went into her parents’ bedroom, but the bed was made and empty. The glowing green numbers on the digital clock glowed 3:12 AM. All alone, in the middle of the night, Coraline began to cry. There was no other sound in the empty flat. She climbed into her parents’ bed, and, after a while, she went to sleep. Coraline was woken by cold paws batting her face. She opened her eyes. Big green eyes stared back at her. It was the cat. “Hullo,” said Coraline. “How did you get in?” The cat didn’t say anything. Coraline got out of bed. She was wearing a long T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “Have you come to tell me something?” The cat yawned, which made its eyes flash green. “Do you know where Mummy and Daddy are?” The cat blinked at her, slowly. “Ts that a yes?” The cat blinked again. Coraline decided that that was indeed a yes. “Will you take me to them?” The cat stared at her. Then it walked out into the hall. She followed it. It walked the length of the corridor and stopped down at the very end, where a full-length mirror hung. The mirror had been, a long time before, the inside of a wardrobe door. It had been hanging there on the wall when they moved in, and, although Coraline’s mother had spoken occasionally of replacing it with something newer, she never had. Coraline turned on the light in the hall. The mirror showed the corridor behind her; that was only to be expected. But reflected in the mirror were her parents. They stood awkwardly in the reflection of the hall. They seemed sad and alone. As Coraline watched, they waved to her, slowly, with limp hands. Coraline’s father had his arm around her mother. In the mirror Coraline’s mother and father stared at her. Her father opened his mouth and said something, but she could hear nothing at all. Her mother breathed on the inside of the mirror glass, and quickly, before the fog faded, she wrote 2U G1IHH with the tip of her forefinger. The fog on the inside of the mirror faded, and so did her parents, and now the mirror reflected only the corridor, and Coraline, and the cat. “Where are they?” Coraline asked the cat. The cat made no reply, but Coraline could imagine its voice, dry as a dead fly on a windowsill in winter, saying Well, where do you think they are? “They aren’t going to come back, are they?” said Coraline. “Not under their own steam.” The cat blinked at her. Coraline took it as a yes. “Right,” said Coraline. “Then I suppose there is only one thing left to do.” She walked into her father’s study. She sat down at his desk. Then she picked up the telephone, and she opened the phone book and telephoned the local police station. “Police,” said a gruff male voice. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Coraline Jones.” “You’re up a bit after your bedtime, aren’t you, young lady?” said the policeman. “Possibly,” said Coraline, who was not going to be diverted, “but I am ringing to report a crime.” “And what sort of crime would that be?” “Kidnapping. Grown-up-napping really. My parents have been stolen away into a world on the other side of the mirror in our hall.” “And do you know who stole them?” asked the police officer. Coraline could hear the smile in his voice, and she tried extra hard to sound like an adult might sound, to make him take her seriously. “T think my other mother has them both in her clutches. She may want to keep them and sew their eyes with black buttons, or she may simply have them in order to lure me back into reach of her fingers. I’m not sure.” “Ah. The nefarious clutches of her fiendish fingers, is it?” he said. “Mm. You know what I suggest, Miss Jones?” “No,” said Coraline. “What?” “You ask your mother to make you a big old mug of hot chocolate, and then give you a great big old hug. There’s nothing like hot chocolate and a hug for making the nightmares go away. And if she starts to tell you off for waking her up at this time of night, why you tell her that that’s what the policeman said.” He had a deep, reassuring voice. Coraline was not reassured. “When I see her,” said Coraline, “I shall tell her that.” And she put down the telephone. The black cat, who had sat on the floor, grooming his fur, through this entire conversation now stood up and led the way into the hall. Coraline went back into her bedroom and put on her blue dressing gown and her slippers. She looked under the sink for a flashlight, and found one, but the batteries had long since run down, and it barely glowed with the faintest straw-colored light. She put it down again and found a box of in-case-of-emergency white wax candles, and thrust one into a candlestick. She put an apple into each pocket. She picked up the ring of keys and took the old black key off the ring. She walked into the drawing room and looked at the door. She had the feeling that the door was looking at her, which she knew was silly, and knew on a deeper level was somehow true. She went back into her bedroom, and rummaged in the pocket of her jeans. She found the stone with the hole in it, and put it into her dressing-gown pocket. She lit the candlewick with a match and watched it sputter and light, then she picked up the black key. It was cold in her hand. She put it into the keyhole in the door, but did not turn the key. “When I was a little girl,” said Coraline to the cat, “when we lived in our old house, a long, long time ago, my dad took me for a walk on the wasteland between our house and the shops. “It wasn’t the best place to go for a walk, really. There were all these things that people had thrown away back there—old cookers and broken dishes and dolls with no arms and no legs and empty cans and broken bottles. Mum and Dad made me promise not to go exploring back there, because there were too many sharp things, and tetanus and such. “But I kept telling them I wanted to explore it. So one day my dad put on his big brown boots and his gloves and put my boots on me and my jeans and sweater, and we went for a walk. “We must have walked for about twenty minutes. We went down this hill, to the bottom of a gully where a stream was, when my dad suddenly said to me, “Coraline—run away. Up the hill. Now!” He said it in a tight sort of way, urgently, so I did. I ran away up the hill. Something hurt me on the back of my arm as I ran, but I kept running. “As I got to the top of the hill I heard somebody thundering up the hill behind me. It was my dad, charging like a rhino. When he reached me he picked me up in his arms and swept me over the edge of the hill. “And then we stopped and we puffed and we panted, and we looked back down the gully. “The air was alive with yellow wasps. We must have stepped on a wasps’ nest in a rotten branch as we walked. And while I was running up the hill, my dad stayed and got stung, to give me time to run away. His glasses had fallen off when he ran. “T only had the one sting on the back of my arm. He had thirty-nine stings, all over him. We counted later, in the bath.” The black cat began to wash its face and whiskers in a manner that indicated increasing impatience. Coraline reached down and stroked the back of its head and neck. The cat stood up, walked several paces until it was out of her reach, then it sat down and looked up at her again. “So,” said Coraline, “later that afternoon my dad went back again to the wasteland, to get his glasses back. He said if he left it another day he wouldn’t be able to remember where they’d fallen. “And soon he got home, wearing his glasses. He said that he wasn’t scared when he was standing there and the wasps were stinging him and hurting him and he was watching me run away. Because he knew he had to give me enough time to run, or the wasps would have come after both of us.” Coraline turned the key in the door. It turned with a loud clunk. The door swung open. There was no brick wall on the other side of the door: only darkness. A cold wind blew through the passageway. Coraline made no move to walk through the door. “And he said that wasn’t brave of him, doing that, just standing there and being stung,” said Coraline to the cat. “It wasn’t brave because he wasn’t scared: it was the only thing he could do. But going back again to get his glasses, when he knew the wasps were there, when he was really scared. That was brave.” She took her first step down the dark corridor. She could smell dust and damp and mustiness. The cat padded along beside her. “And why was that?” asked the cat, although it sounded barely interested. “Because,” she said, “when you’re scared but you still do it anyway, that’s brave.” The candle cast huge, strange, flickering shadows along the wall. She heard something moving in the darkness—beside her or to one side of her, she could not tell. It seemed as if it was keeping pace with her, whatever it was. “And that’s why you’re going back to her world, then?” said the cat. “Because your father once saved you from wasps?” “Don’t be silly,” said Coraline. “I’m going back for them because they are my parents. And if they noticed I was gone I’m sure they would do the same for me. You know you’re talking again?” “How fortunate I am,” said the cat, “in having a traveling companion of such wisdom and intelligence.” Its tone remained sarcastic, but its fur was bristling, and its brush of a tail stuck up in the air. Coraline was going to say something, like sorry or wasn’t it a lot shorter walk last time? when the candle went out as suddenly as if it had been snuffed by someone’s hand. There was a scrabbling and a pattering, and Coraline could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. She put out one hand . . . and felt something wispy, like a spider’s web, brush her hands and her face. At the end of the corridor the electric light went on, blinding after the darkness. A woman stood, silhouetted by the light, a little ahead of Coraline. “Coraline? Darling?” she called. “Mum!” said Coraline, and she ran forward, eager and relieved. “Darling,” said the woman. “Why did you ever run away from me?” Coraline was too close to stop, and she felt the other mother’s cold arms enfold her. She stood there, rigid and trembling as the other mother held her tightly. “Where are my parents?” Coraline asked. “We’re here,” said her other mother, in a voice so close to her real mother’s that Coraline could scarcely tell them apart. “We’re here. We’re ready to love you and play with you and feed you and make your life interesting.” Coraline pulled back, and the other mother let her go, with reluctance. The other father, who had been sitting on a chair in the hallway, stood up and smiled. “Come on into the kitchen,” he said. “I'll make us a midnight snack. And you’ll want something to drink— hot chocolate perhaps?” Coraline walked down the hallway until she reached the mirror at the end. There was nothing reflected in it but a young girl in her dressing gown and slippers, who looked like she had recently been crying but whose eyes were real eyes, not black buttons, and who was holding tightly to a burned-out candle in a candlestick. She looked at the girl in the mirror and the girl in the mirror looked back at her. I will be brave, thought Coraline. No, J am brave. She put down the candlestick on the floor, then turned around. The other mother and the other father were looking at her hungrily “T don’t need a snack,” she said. “I have an apple. See?” And she took an apple from her dressing-gown pocket, then bit into it with relish and an enthusiasm that she did not really feel. The other father looked disappointed. The other mother smiled, showing a full set of teeth, and each of the teeth was a tiny bit too long. The lights in the hallway made her black button eyes glitter and gleam. “You don’t frighten me,” said Coraline, although they did frighten her, very much. “I want my parents back.” The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges. “Whatever would I have done with your old parents? If they have left you, Coraline, it must be because they became bored of you, or tired. Now, I will never become bored of you, and I will never abandon you. You will always be safe here with me.” The other mother’s wet-looking black hair drifted around her head, like the tentacles of a creature in the deep ocean. “They weren’t bored of me,” said Coraline. “You’re lying. You stole them.” “Silly, silly Coraline. They are fine wherever they are.” Coraline simply glared at the other mother. “T’ll prove it,” said the other mother, and brushed the surface of the mirror with her long white fingers. It clouded over, as if a dragon had breathed on it, and then it cleared. In the mirror it was daytime already. Coraline was looking at the hallway, all the way down to her front door. The door opened from the outside and Coraline’s mother and father walked inside. They carried suitcases. “That was a fine holiday,” said Coraline’s father. “How nice it is, not to have Coraline any more,” said her mother with a happy smile. “Now we can do all the things we always wanted to do, like go abroad, but were prevented from doing by having a little daughter.” “And,” said her father, “I take great comfort in knowing that her other mother will take better care of her than we ever could.” The mirror fogged and faded and reflected the night once more. “See?” said her other mother. “No,” said Coraline. “I don’t see. And I don’t believe it either.” She hoped that what she had just seen was not real, but she was not as certain as she sounded. There was a tiny doubt inside her, like a maggot in an apple core. Then she looked up and saw the expression on her other mother’s face: a flash of real anger, which crossed her face like summer lightning, and Coraline was sure in her heart that what she had seen in the mirror was no more than an illusion. Coraline sat down on the sofa and ate her apple. “Please,” said her other mother. “Don’t be difficult.” She walked into the drawing room and clapped her hands twice. There was a rustling noise and a black rat appeared. It stared up at her. “Bring me the key,” she said. The rat chittered, then it ran through the open door that led back to Coraline’s own flat. The rat returned, dragging the key behind it. “Why don’t you have your own key on this side?” asked Coraline. “There is only one key. Only one door,” said the other father. “Hush,” said the other mother. “You must not bother our darling Coraline’s head with such trivialities.” She put the key in the keyhole and twisted. The lock was stiff, but it clunked closed. She dropped the key into her apron pocket. Outside, the sky had begun to lighten to a luminous gray. “If we aren’t going to have a midnight snack,” said the other mother, “we still need our beauty sleep. I am going back to bed, Coraline. I would strongly suggest that you do the same.” She placed her long white fingers on the shoulders of the other father, and she walked him out of the room. Coraline walked over to the door at the far corner of the drawing room. She tugged on it, but it was tightly locked. The door of her other parents’ bedroom was now closed. She was indeed tired, but she did not want to sleep in the bedroom. She did not want to sleep under the same roof as her other mother. The front door was not locked. Coraline walked out into the dawn and down the stone stairs. She sat down on the bottom step. It was cold. Something furry pushed itself against her side in one smooth, insinuating motion. Coraline jumped, then breathed a sigh of relief when she saw what it was. “Oh. It’s you,” she said to the black cat. “See?” said the cat. “It wasn’t so hard recognizing me, was it? Even without names.” “Well, what if I wanted to call you?” The cat wrinkled its nose and managed to look unimpressed. “Calling cats,” it confided, “tends to be a rather overrated activity. Might as well call a whirlwind.” “What if it was dinnertime?” asked Coraline. “Wouldn’t you want to be called then?” “Of course,” said the cat. “But a simple cry of ‘dinner!’ would do nicely. See? No need for names.” “Why does she want me?” Coraline asked the cat. “Why does she want me to stay here with her?” “She wants something to love, I think,” said the cat. “Something that isn’t her. She might want something to eat as well. It’s hard to tell with creatures like that.” “Do you have any advice?” asked Coraline. The cat looked as if it were about to say something else sarcastic. Then it flicked its whiskers and said, “Challenge her. There’s no guarantee she’ll play fair, but her kind of thing loves games and challenges.” “What kind of thing is that?” asked Coraline. But the cat made no answer, simply stretched luxuriantly and walked away. Then it stopped, and turned, and said, “I’d go inside if I were you. Get some sleep. You have a long day ahead of 29 you. And then the cat was gone. Still, Coraline realized, it had a point. She crept back into the silent house, past the closed bedroom door inside which the other mother and the other father ... what? she wondered. Slept? Waited? And then it came to her that, should she open the bedroom door she would find it empty, or more precisely, that it was an empty room and it would remain empty until the exact moment that she opened the door. Somehow, that made it easier. Coraline walked into the green-and-pink parody of her own bedroom. She closed the door and hauled the toy box in front of it—it would not keep anyone out, but the noise somebody would make trying to dislodge it would wake her, she hoped. The toys in the toy box were still mostly asleep, and they stirred and muttered as she moved their box, and then they went back to sleep. Coraline checked under her bed, looking for rats, but there was nothing there. She took off her dressing gown and slippers and climbed into bed and fell asleep with barely enough time to reflect, as she did so, on what the cat could have meant by a challenge. VI. C ORALINE WAS WOKEN BY the midmorning sun, full on her face. For a moment she felt utterly dislocated. She did not know where she was; she was not entirely sure who she was. It is astonishing just how much of what we are can be tied to the beds we wake up in in the morning, and it is astonishing how fragile that can be. Sometimes Coraline would forget who she was while she was daydreaming that she was exploring the Arctic, or the Amazon rain forest, or Darkest Africa, and it was not until someone tapped her on the shoulder or said her name that Coraline would come back from a million miles away with a start, and all in a fraction of a second have to remember who she was, and what her name was, and that she was even there at all. Now there was sun on her face, and she was Coraline Jones. Yes. And then the green and pinkness of the room she was in, and the rustling of a large painted paper butterfly as it fluttered and beat its way about the ceiling, told her where she had woken up. She climbed out of the bed. She could not wear her pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers during the day, she decided, even if it meant wearing the other Coraline’s clothes. (Was there an other Coraline? No, she realized, there wasn’t. There was just her.) There were no regular clothes in the cupboard, though. They were more like dressing-up clothes or (she thought) the kind of clothes she would love to have hanging in her own wardrobe at home: there was a raggedy witch costume; a patched scarecrow costume; a future-warrior costume with little digital lights in it that glittered and blinked; a slinky evening dress all covered in feathers and mirrors. Finally, in a drawer, she found a pair of black jeans that seemed to be made of velvet night, and a gray sweater the color of thick smoke with faint and tiny stars in the fabric which twinkled. She pulled on the jeans and the sweater. Then she put on a pair of bright orange boots she found at the bottom of the cupboard. She took her last apple out of the pocket of her dressing gown and then took, from the same pocket, the stone with the hole in it. She put the stone into the pocket of her jeans, and it was as if her head had cleared a little. As if she had come out of some sort of a fog. She went into the kitchen, but it was deserted. Still, she was sure that there was someone in the flat. She walked down the hall until she reached her father’s study, and discovered that it was occupied. “Where’s the other mother?” she asked the other father. He was sitting in the study, at a desk which looked just like her father’s, but he was not doing anything at all, not even reading gardening catalogs as her own father did when he was only pretending to be working. “Out,” he told her. “Fixing the doors. There are some vermin problems.” He seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to. “The rats, you mean?” “No, the rats are our friends. This is the other kind. Big black fellow, with his tail high.” “The cat, you mean?” “That’s the one,” said her other father. He looked less like her true father today. There was something slightly vague about his face— like bread dough that had begun to rise, smoothing out the bumps and cracks and depressions. “Really, I mustn’t talk to you when she’s not here,” he said. “But don’t you worry. She won’t be gone often. I shall demonstrate our tender hospitality to you, such that you will not even think about ever going back.” He closed his mouth and folded his hands in his lap. “So what am I to do now?” asked Coraline. The other father pointed to his lips. Silence. “If you won’t even talk to me,” said Coraline, “I am going exploring.” “No point,” said the other father. “There isn’t anywhere but here. This is all she made: the house, the grounds, and the people in the house. She made it and she waited.” Then he looked embarrassed and he put one finger to his lips again, as if he had just said too much. Coraline walked out of his study. She went into the drawing room, over to the old door, and she pulled it, rattled and shook it. No, it was locked fast, and the other mother had the key. She looked around the room. It was so familiar—that was what made it feel so truly strange. Everything was exactly the same as she remembered: there was all her grandmother’s strangesmelling furniture, there was the painting of the bowl of fruit (a bunch of grapes, two plums, a peach and an apple) hanging on the wall, there was the low wooden table with the lion’s feet, and the empty fireplace which seemed to suck heat from the room. But there was something else, something she did not remember seeing before. A ball of glass, up on the mantelpiece. She went over to the fireplace, went up on tiptoes, and lifted it down. It was a snow globe, with two little people in it. Coraline shook it and set the snow flying, white snow that glittered as it tumbled through the water. Then she put the snow globe back on the mantelpiece, and carried on looking for her true parents and for a way out. She went out of the flat. Past the flashing-lights door, behind which the other Misses Spink and Forcible performed their show forever, and she set off into the woods. Where Coraline came from, once you were through the patch of trees, you saw nothing but the meadow and the old tennis court. In this place, the woods went on farther, the trees becoming cruder and less treelike the farther you went. Pretty soon they seemed very approximate, like the idea of trees: a grayish-brown trunk below, a greenish splodge of something that might have been leaves above. Coraline wondered if the other mother wasn’t interested in trees, or if she just hadn’t bothered with this bit properly because nobody was expected to come out this far. She kept walking. And then the mist began. It was not damp, like a normal fog or mist. It was not cold and it was not warm. It felt to Coraline like she was walking into nothing. I’m an explorer, thought Coraline to herself. And I need all the ways out of here that I can get. So I shall keep walking. The world she was walking through was a pale nothingness, like a blank sheet of paper or an enormous, empty white room. It had no temperature, no smell, no texture, and no taste. It certainly isn’t mist, thought Coraline, although she did not know what it was. For a moment she wondered if she might not have gone blind. But no, she could see herself, plain as day. But there was no ground beneath her feet, just a misty, milky whiteness. “And what do you think you’re doing?” said a shape to one side of her. It took a few moments for her eyes to focus on it properly: she thought it might be some kind of lion, at first, some distance away from her; and then she thought it might be a mouse, close beside her. And then she knew what it was. “T’m exploring,” Coraline told the cat. Its fur stood straight out from its body and its eyes were wide, while its tail was down and between its legs. It did not look a happy cat. “Bad place,” said the cat. “If you want to call it a place, which I don’t. What are you doing here?” “I’m exploring.” “Nothing to find here,” said the cat. “This is just the outside, the part of the place she hasn’t bothered to create.” “She?” “The one who says she’s your other mother,” said the cat. “What is she?” asked Coraline. The cat did not answer, just padded through the pale mist beside Coraline. A shape began to appear in front of them, something high and towering and dark. “You were wrong!” she told the cat. “There is something there!” And then it took shape in the mist: a dark house, which loomed at them out of the formless whiteness. “But that’s—” said Coraline. “The house you just left,” agreed the cat. “Precisely.” “Maybe I just got turned around in the mist,” said Coraline. The cat curled the high tip of its tail into a question mark, and tipped its head to one side. “You might have done,” it said. “J certainly would not. Wrong, indeed.” “But how can you walk away from something and still come back to it?” “Easy,” said the cat. “Think of somebody walking around the world. You start out walking away from something and end up coming back to it.” “Small world,” said Coraline. “It’s big enough for her,” said the cat. “Spiders’ webs only have to be large enough to catch flies.” Coraline shivered. “He said that she’s fixing all the gates and the doors,” she told the cat, “to keep you out.” “She may try,” said the cat, unimpressed. “Oh yes. She may try.” They were standing under a clump of trees now, beside the house. These trees looked much more likely. “There’s ways in and ways out of places like this that even she doesn’t know about.” “Did she make this place, then?” asked Coraline. “Made it, found it—what’s the difference?” asked the cat. “Either way, she’s had it a very long time. Hang on—” And it gave a shiver and a leap and before Coraline could blink the cat was sitting with its paw holding down a big black rat. “It’s not that I like rats at the best of times,” said the cat, conversationally, as if nothing had happened, “but the rats in this place are all spies for her. She uses them as her eyes and hands . . .” And with that the cat let the rat go. It ran several feet and then the cat, with one bound, was upon it, batting it hard with one sharpclawed paw, while with the other paw it held the rat down. “I love this bit,” said the cat, happily. “Want to see me do that again?” “No,” said Coraline. “Why do you do it? You’re torturing it.” “Mim,” said the cat. It let the rat go. The rat stumbled, dazed, for a few steps, then it began to run. With a blow of its paw, the cat knocked the rat into the air, and caught it in its mouth. “Stop it!” said Coraline. The cat dropped the rat between its two front paws. “There are those,” it said with a sigh, in tones as smooth as oiled silk, “who have suggested that the tendency of a cat to play with its prey is a merciful one—after all, it permits the occasional funny little running snack to escape, from time to time. How often does your dinner get to escape?” And then it picked the rat up in its mouth and carried it off into the woods, behind a tree. Coraline walked back into the house. All was quiet and empty and deserted. Even her footsteps on the carpeted floor seemed loud. Dust motes hung in a beam of sunlight. At the far end of the hall was the mirror. She could see herself walking toward the mirror, looking, reflected, a little braver than she actually felt. There was nothing else there in the mirror. Just her, in the corridor. A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up. The other mother stared down at Coraline with big black button eyes. “Coraline, my darling,” she said. “I thought we could play some games together this morning, now you're back from your walk. Hopscotch? Happy Families? Monopoly?” “You weren’t in the mirror,” said Coraline. The other mother smiled. “Mirrors,” she said, “are never to be trusted. Now, what game shall we play?” Coraline shook her head. “I don’t want to play with you,” she said. “I want to go home and be with my real parents. I want you to let them go. To let us all go.” The other mother shook her head, very slowly. “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” she said, “is a daughter’s ingratitude. Still, the proudest spirit can be broken, with love.” And her long white fingers waggled and caressed the air. “T have no plans to love you,” said Coraline. “No matter what. You can’t make me love you.” “Let’s talk about it,” said the other mother, and she turned and walked into the lounge. Coraline followed her. The other mother sat down on the big sofa. She picked up a shopping bag from beside the sofa and took out a white, rustling, paper bag from inside it. She extended the hand with it to Coraline. “Would you like one?” she asked politely. Expecting it to be a toffee or a butterscotch ball, Coraline looked down. The bag was half filled with large shiny blackbeetles, crawling over each other in their efforts to get out of the bag. “No,” said Coraline. “I don’t want one.” “Suit yourself,” said her other mother. She carefully picked out a particularly large and black beetle, pulled off its legs (which she dropped, neatly, into a big glass ashtray on the small table beside the sofa), and popped the beetle into her mouth. She crunched it happily. “Yum,” she said, and took another. “You’re sick,” said Coraline. “Sick and evil and weird.” “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” her other mother asked, with her mouth full of blackbeetles. “You aren’t my mother,” said Coraline. Her other mother ignored this. “Now, I think you are a little overexcited, Coraline. Perhaps this afternoon we could do a little embroidery together, or some watercolor painting. Then dinner, and then, if you have been good, you may play with the rats a little before bed. And I shall read you a story and tuck you in, and kiss you good night.” Her long white fingers fluttered gently, like a tired butterfly, and Coraline shivered. “No,” said Coraline. The other mother sat on the sofa. Her mouth was set in a line; her lips were pursed. She popped another blackbeetle into her mouth and then another, like someone with a bag of chocolatecovered raisins. Her big black button eyes stared into Coraline’s hazel eyes. Her shiny black hair twined and twisted about her neck and shoulders, as if it were blowing in some wind that Coraline could not touch or feel. They stared at each other for over a minute. Then the other mother said, “Manners!” She folded the white paper bag carefully so no blackbeetles could escape, and she placed it back in the shopping bag. Then she stood up, and up, and up: she seemed taller than Coraline remembered. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out, first the black door key, which she frowned at and tossed into her shopping bag, then a tiny silver-colored key. She held it up triumphantly. “There we are,” she said. “This is for you, Coraline. For your own good. Because I love you. To teach you manners. Manners makyth man, after all.” She pulled Coraline back into the hallway and advanced upon the mirror at the end of the hall. Then she pushed the tiny key into the fabric of the mirror, and she twisted it. It opened like a door, revealing a dark space behind it. “You may come out when you’ve learned some manners,” said the other mother. ““And when you’re ready to be a loving daughter.” She picked Coraline up and pushed her into the dim space behind the mirror. A fragment of beetle was sticking to her lower lip, and there was no expression at all in her black button eyes. Then she swung the mirror door closed, and left Coraline in darkness. VI. S OMEWHERE INSIDE HER Coraline could feel a huge sob welling up. And then she stopped it, before it came out. She took a deep breath and let it go. She put out her hands to touch the space in which she was imprisoned. It was the size of a broom closet: tall enough to stand in or to sit in, not wide or deep enough to lie down in. One wall was glass, and it felt cold to the touch. She went around the tiny room a second time, running her hands over every surface that she could reach, feeling for doorknobs or switches or concealed catches—some kind of way out— and found nothing. A spider scuttled over the back of her hand and she choked back a shriek. But apart from the spider she was alone in the closet in the pitch dark. And then her hand touched something that felt for all the world like somebody’s cheek and lips, small and cold; and a voice whispered in her ear, “Hush! And shush! Say nothing, for the beldam might be listening!” Coraline said nothing. She felt a cold hand touch her face, fingers running over it like the gentle beat of a moth’s wings. Another voice, hesitant and so faint Coraline wondered if she were imagining it, said, “Art thou—art thou alive?” “Yes,” whispered Coraline. “Poor child,” said the first voice. “Who are you?” whispered Coraline. “Names, names, names,” said another voice, all faraway and lost. “The names are the first things to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names. I still keep pictures in my mind of my governess on some May morning, carrying my hoop and stick, and the morning sun behind her, and all the tulips bobbing in the breeze. But I have forgotten the name of my governess, and of the tulips too.” “T don’t think tulips have names,” said Coraline. “They’re just tulips.” “Perhaps,” said the voice, sadly. “But I have always thought that these tulips must have had names. They were red, and orange and red, and red and orange and yellow, like the embers in the nursery fire of a winter’s evening. I remember them.” The voice sounded so sad that Coraline put out a hand to the place where the voice was coming from, and she found a cold hand, and she squeezed it tightly. Her eyes were beginning to get used to the darkness. Now Coraline saw, or imagined she saw, three shapes, each as faint and pale as the moon in the daytime sky. They were the shapes of children about her own size. The cold hand squeezed her hand back. “Thank you,” said the voice. “Are you a girl?” asked Coraline. “Or a boy?” There was a pause. “When I was small I wore skirts and my hair was long and curled,” it said, doubtfully. “But now that you ask, it does seem to me that one day they took my skirts and gave me britches and cut my hair.” “°Tain’t something we give a mind to,” said the first of the voices. “A boy, perhaps, then,” continued the one whose hand she was holding. “I believe I was once a boy.” And it glowed a little more brightly in the darkness of the room behind the mirror. “What happened to you all?” asked Coraline. “How did you come here?” “She left us here,” said one of the voices. “She stole our hearts, and she stole our souls, and she took our lives away, and she left us here, and she forgot about us in the dark.” “You poor things,” said Coraline. “How long have you been here?” “So very long a time,” said a voice. “Aye. Time beyond reckoning,” said another voice. “T walked through the scullery door,” said the voice of the one that thought it might be a boy, “and I found myself back in the parlor. But she was waiting for me. She told me she was my other mamma, but I never saw my true mamma again.” “Flee!” said the very first of the voices—another girl, Coraline fancied. “Flee, while there’s still air in your lungs and blood in your veins and warmth in your heart. Flee while you still have your mind and your soul.” “T’m not running away,” said Coraline. “She has my parents. I came to get them back.” “Ah, but she’ll keep you here while the days turn to dust and the leaves fall and the years pass one after the next like the tick-tick-ticking of a clock.” “No,” said Coraline. “She won’t.” There was silence then in the room behind the mirror. “Peradventure,” said a voice in the darkness, “if you could win your mamma and your papa back from the beldam, you could also win free our souls.” “Has she taken them?” asked Coraline, shocked. “Aye. And hidden them.” “That is why we could not leave here, when we died. She kept us, and she fed on us, until now we’ve nothing left of ourselves, only snakeskins and spider husks. Find our secret hearts, young mistress.” “And what will happen to you if I do?” asked Coraline. The voices said nothing. “And what is she going to do to me?” she said. The pale figures pulsed faintly; she could imagine that they were nothing more than afterimages, like the glow left by a bright light in your eyes, after the lights go out. “Tt doth not hurt,” whispered one faint voice. “She will take your life and all you are and all you care’st for, and she will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. She’ll take your joy. And one day you’ll awake and your heart and your soul will have gone. A husk you’ll be, a wisp you’ll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten.” “Hollow,” whispered the third voice. “Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow.” “You must flee,” sighed a voice faintly. “T don’t think so,” said Coraline. “I tried running away, and it didn’t work. She just took my parents. Can you tell me how to get out of this room?” “If we knew then we would tell you.” “Poor things,” said Coraline to herself. She sat down. She took off her sweater and rolled it up and put it behind her head as a pillow. “She won’t keep me in the dark forever,” said Coraline. “She brought me here to play games. Games and challenges, the cat said. I’m not much of a challenge here in the dark.” She tried to get comfortable, twisting and bending herself to fit the cramped space behind the mirror. Her stomach rumbled. She ate her last apple, taking the tiniest bites, making it last as long as she could. When she had finished she was still hungry. Then an idea struck her, and she whispered, “When she comes to let me out, why don’t you three come with me?” “We wish that we could,” they sighed to her, in their barely-there voices. “But she has our hearts in her keeping. Now we belong to the dark and to the empty places. The light would shrivel us, and burn.” “Oh,” said Coraline. She closed her eyes, which made the darkness darker, and she rested her head on the rolled-up sweater, and she went to sleep. And as she fell asleep she thought she felt a ghost kiss her cheek, tenderly, and a small voice whisper into her ear, a voice so faint it was barely there at all, a gentle wispy nothing of a voice so hushed that Coraline could almost believe she was imagining it. “Look through the stone,” it said to her. And then she slept. VU. T HE OTHER MOTHER looked healthier than before: there was a little blush to her cheeks, and her hair was wriggling like lazy snakes on a warm day. Her black button eyes seemed as if they had been freshly polished. She had pushed through the mirror as if she were walking through nothing more solid than water and had stared down at Coraline. Then she had opened the door with the little silver key. She picked Coraline up, just as Coraline’s real mother had when Coraline was much younger, cradling the half-sleeping child as if she were a baby. The other mother carried Coraline into the kitchen and put her down very gently upon the countertop. Coraline struggled to wake herself up, conscious only for the moment of having been cuddled and loved, and wanting more of it, then realizing where she was and who she was with. “There, my sweet Coraline,” said her other mother. “I came and fetched you out of the cupboard. You needed to be taught a lesson, but we temper our justice with mercy here; we love the sinner and we hate the sin. Now, if you will be a good child who loves her mother, be compliant and fair-spoken, you and I shall understand each other perfectly and we shall love each other perfectly as well.” Coraline scratched the sleep grit from her eyes. “There were other children in there,” she said. “Old ones, from a long time ago.” “Were there?” said the other mother. She was bustling between the pans and the fridge, bringing out eggs and cheeses, butter and a slab of sliced pink bacon. “Yes,” said Coraline. “There were. I think you’re planning to turn me into one of them. A dead shell.” Her other mother smiled gently. With one hand she cracked the eggs into a bowl; with the other she whisked them and whirled them. Then she dropped a pat of butter into a frying pan, where it hissed and fizzled and spun as she sliced thin slices of cheese. She poured the melted butter and the cheese into the egg-mixture, and whisked it some more. “Now, I think you’re being silly, dear,” said the other mother. “I love you. I will always love you. Nobody sensible believes in ghosts anyway—that’s because they’re all such liars. Smell the lovely breakfast I’m making for you.” She poured the yellow mixture into the pan. “Cheese omelette. Your favorite.” Coraline’s mouth watered. “You like games,” she said. “That’s what I’ve been told.” The other mother’s black eyes flashed. “Everybody likes games,” was all she said. “Yes,” said Coraline. She climbed down from the counter and sat at the table. The bacon was sizzling and spitting under the grill. It smelled wonderful. “Wouldn’t you be happier if you won me, fair and square?” asked Coraline. “Possibly,” said the other mother. She had a show of unconcernedness, but her fingers twitched and drummed and she licked her lips with her scarlet tongue. “What exactly are you offering?” “Me,” said Coraline, and she gripped her knees under the table, to stop them from shaking. “Tf I lose I'll stay here with you forever and I'll let you love me. I’ll be a most dutiful daughter. P’Il eat your food and play Happy Families. And I’Il let you sew your buttons into my eyes.” Her other mother stared at her, black buttons unblinking. “That sounds very fine,” she said. “And if you do not lose?” “Then you let me go. You let everyone go—my real father and mother, the dead children, everyone you’ ve trapped here.” The other mother took the bacon from under the grill and put it on a plate. Then she slipped the cheese omelette from the pan onto the plate, flipping it as she did so, letting it fold itself into a perfect omelette shape. She placed the breakfast plate in front of Coraline, along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a mug of frothy hot chocolate. “Yes,” she said. “I think I like this game. But what kind of game shall it be? A riddle game? A test of knowledge or of skill? “An exploring game,” suggested Coraline. “A finding-things game.” “And what is it you think you should be finding in this hide-and-go-seek game, Coraline Jones?” Coraline hesitated. Then, “My parents,” said Coraline. “And the souls of the children behind the mirror.” The other mother smiled at this, triumphantly, and Coraline wondered if she had made the right choice. Still, it was too late to change her mind now. “A deal,” said the other mother. “Now eat up your breakfast, my sweet. Don’t worry—it won’t hurt you.” Coraline stared at the breakfast, hating herself for giving in so easily, but she was starving. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?” asked Coraline. “T swear it,” said the other mother. “I swear it on my own mother’s grave.” “Does she have a grave?” asked Coraline. “Oh yes,” said the other mother. “I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.” “Swear on something else. So I can trust you to keep your word.” “My right hand,” said the other mother, holding it up. She waggled the long fingers slowly, displaying the clawlike nails. “I swear on that.” Coraline shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “It’s a deal.” She ate the breakfast, trying not to wolf it down. She was hungrier than she had thought. As she ate, her other mother stared at her. It was hard to read expressions into those black button eyes, but Coraline thought that her other mother looked hungry, too. She drank the orange juice, but even though she knew she would like it she could not bring herself to taste the hot chocolate. “Where should I start looking?” asked Coraline. “Where you wish,” said her other mother, as if she did not care at all. Coraline looked at her, and Coraline thought hard. There was no point, she decided, in exploring the garden and the grounds: they didn’t exist; they weren’t real. There was no abandoned tennis court in the other mother’s world, no bottomless well. All that was real was the house itself. She looked around the kitchen. She opened the oven, peered into the freezer, poked into the salad compartment of the fridge. The other mother followed her about, looking at Coraline with a smirk always hovering at the edge of her lips. “How big are souls anyway?” asked Coraline. The other mother sat down at the kitchen table and leaned back against the wall, saying nothing. She picked at her teeth with a long crimson-varnished fingernail, then she tapped the finger, gently, tap-tap-tap against the polished black surface of her black button eyes. “Fine,” said Coraline. “Don’t tell me. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if you help me or not. Everyone knows that a soul is the same size as a beach ball.” She was hoping the other mother would say something like “Nonsense, they’re the size of ripe onions—or suitcases—or grandfather clocks,” but the other mother simply smiled, and the taptap-tapping of her fingernail against her eye was as steady and relentless as the drip of water droplets from the faucet into the sink. And then, Coraline realized, it was simply the noise of the water, and she was alone in the room. Coraline shivered. She preferred the other mother to have a location: if she were nowhere, then she could be anywhere. And, after all, it is always easier to be afraid of something you cannot see. She put her hands into her pockets and her fingers closed around the reassuring shape of the stone with the hole in it. She pulled it out of her pocket, held it in front of her as if she were holding a gun, and walked out into the hall. There was no sound but the tap-tap of the water dripping into the metal sink. She glanced at the mirror at the end of the hall. For a moment it clouded over, and it seemed to her that faces swam in the glass, indistinct and shapeless, and then the faces were gone, and there was nothing in the mirror but a girl who was small for her age holding something that glowed gently, like a green coal. Coraline looked down at her hand, surprised: it was just a stone with a hole in it, a nondescript brown pebble. Then she looked back into the mirror where the stone glimmered like an emerald. A trail of green fire blew from the pebble in the mirror and drifted toward Coraline’s bedroom. “Hmm,” said Coraline. She walked into the bedroom. The toys fluttered excitedly as she walked in, as if they were pleased to see her, and a little tank rolled out of the toy box to greet her, its tread rolling over several other toys. It fell from the toy box onto the floor, tipping as it fell, and it lay on the carpet like a beetle on its back, grumbling and grinding its treads before Coraline picked it up and turned it over. The tank fled under the bed in embarrassment. Coraline looked around the room. She looked in the cupboards, and the drawers. Then she picked up one end of the toy box and tipped all the toys in it out onto the carpet, where they grumbled and stretched and wiggled awkwardly free of each other. A gray marble rolled across the floor and clicked against the wall. None of the toys looked particularly soul-like, she thought. She picked up and examined a silver charm bracelet from which hung tiny animal charms that chased each other around the perimeter of the bracelet, the fox never catching the rabbit, the bear never gaining on the fox. Coraline opened her hand and looked at the stone with the hole in it, hoping for a clue but not finding one. Most of the toys that had been in the toy box had now crawled away to hide under the bed, and the few toys that were left (a green plastic soldier, the glass marble, a vivid pink yoyo, and such) were the kind of things you find in the bottoms of toy boxes in the real world: forgotten objects, abandoned and unloved. She was about to leave and look elsewhere. And then she remembered a voice in the darkness, a gentle whispering voice, and what it had told her to do. She raised the stone with a hole in it and held it in front of her right eye. She closed her left eye and looked at the room through the hole in the stone. Through the stone, the world was gray and colorless, like a pencil drawing. Everything in it was gray—no, not quite everything: something glinted on the floor, something the color of an ember in a nursery fireplace, the color of a scarlet-and-orange tulip nodding in the May sun. Coraline reached out her left hand, scared that if she took her eye off it it would vanish, and she fumbled for the burning thing. Her fingers closed about something smooth and cool. She snatched it up, and then lowered the stone with a hole in it from her eye and looked down. The gray glass marble from the bottom of the toy box sat, dully, in the pink palm of her hand. She raised the stone to her eye once more and looked through it at the marble. Once again the marble burned and flickered with a red fire. A voice whispered in her mind, “Indeed, lady, it comes to me that I certainly was a boy, now I do think on it. Oh, but you must hurry. There are two of us still to find, and the beldam is already angry with you for uncovering me.” If I’m going to do this, thought Coraline, /’m not going to do it in her clothes. She changed back into her pajamas and her dressing gown and her slippers, leaving the gray sweater and the black jeans neatly folded up on the bed, the orange boots on the floor by the toy box. She put the marble into her dressing-gown pocket and walked out into the hall. Something stung her face and hands like sand blowing on a beach on a windy day. She covered her eyes and pushed forward. The sand stings got worse, and it got harder and harder to walk, as if she were pushing into the wind on a particularly blustery day. It was a vicious wind, and a cold one. She took a step backwards, the way she had come. “Oh, keep going,” whispered a ghost voice in her ear, “for the beldam is angry.” She stepped forward in the hallway, into another gust of wind, which stung her cheeks and face with invisible sand, sharp as needles, sharp as glass. “Play fair,” shouted Coraline into the wind. There was no reply, but the wind whipped about her one more time, petulantly, and then it dropped away, and was gone. As she passed the kitchen Coraline could hear, in the sudden silence, the drip-drip of the water from the leaking tap or perhaps the other mother’s long fingernails tapping impatiently against the table. Coraline resisted the urge to look. In a couple of strides she reached the front door, and she walked outside. Coraline went down the steps and around the house until she reached the other Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s flat. The lamps around the door were flickering on and off almost randomly now, spelling out no words that Coraline could understand. The door was closed. She was afraid it was locked, and she pushed on it with all her strength. First it stuck, then suddenly it gave, and, with a jerk, Coraline stumbled into the dark room beyond. Coraline closed one hand around the stone with the hole in it and walked forward into blackness. She expected to find a curtained anteroom, but there was nothing there. The room was dark. The theater was empty. She moved ahead cautiously. Something rustled above her. She looked up into a deeper darkness, and as she did so her feet knocked against something. She reached down, picked up a flashlight, and clicked it on, sweeping the beam around the room. The theater was derelict and abandoned. Chairs were broken on the floor, and old, dusty spiderwebs draped the walls and hung from the rotten wood and the decomposing velvet hangings. Something rustled once again. Coraline directed her light beam upward, toward the ceiling. There were things up there, hairless, jellyish. She thought they might once have had faces, might even once have been dogs; but no dogs had wings like bats or could hang, like spiders, like bats, upside down. The light startled the creatures, and one of them took to the air, its wings whirring heavily through the dust. Coraline ducked as it swooped close to her. It came to rest on a far wall, and it began to clamber, upside down, back to the nest of the dog-bats upon the ceiling. Coraline raised the stone to her eye and she scanned the room through it, looking for something that glowed or glinted, a telltale sign that somewhere in this room was another hidden soul. She ran the beam of the flashlight about the room as she searched, the thick dust in the air making the light beam seem almost solid. There was something up on the back wall behind the ruined stage. It was grayish white, twice the size of Coraline herself, and it was stuck to the back wall like a slug. Coraline took a deep breath. “I’m not afraid,” she told herself. “I’m not.” She did not believe herself, but she scrambled up onto the old stage, fingers sinking into the rotting wood as she pulled herself up. As she got closer to the thing on the wall, she saw that it was some kind of a sac, like a spider’s egg case. It twitched in the light beam. Inside the sac was something that looked like a person, but a person with two heads, with twice as many arms and legs as it should have. The creature in the sac seemed horribly unformed and unfinished, as if two plasticine people had been warmed and rolled together, squashed and pressed into one thing. Coraline hesitated. She did not want to approach the thing. The dog-bats dropped, one by one, from the ceiling and began to circle the room, coming close to her but never touching her. Perhaps there are no souls hidden in here, she thought. Perhaps I can just leave and go somewhere else. She took a last look through the hole in the stone: the abandoned theater was still a bleak gray, but now there was a brown glow, as rich and bright as polished cherrywood, coming from inside the sac. Whatever was glowing was being held in one of the hands of the thing on the wall. Coraline walked slowly across the damp stage, trying to make as little noise as she could, afraid that, if she disturbed the thing in the sac, it would open its eyes, and see her, and then... But there was nothing that she could think of as scary as having it look at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. She took another step forward. She had never been so scared, but still she walked forward until she reached the sac. Then she pushed her hand into the sticky, clinging whiteness of the stuff on the wall. It crackled softly, like a tiny fire, as she pushed, and it clung to her skin and clothes like a spiderweb clings, like white cotton candy. She pushed her hand into it, and she reached upward until she touched a cold hand, which was, she could feel, closed around another glass marble. The creature’s skin felt slippery, as if it had been covered in jelly. Coraline tugged at the marble. At first nothing happened: it was held tight in the creature’s grasp. Then, one by one, the fingers loosened their grip, and the marble slipped into her hand. She pulled her arm back through the sticky webbing, relieved that the thing’s eyes had not opened. She shone the light on its faces: they resembled, she decided, the younger versions of Miss Spink and Miss Forcible, but twisted and squeezed together, like two lumps of wax that had melted and melded together into one ghastly thing. Without warning, one of the creature’s hands made a grab for Coraline’s arm. Its fingernails scraped her skin, but it was too slippery to grip, and Coraline pulled away successfully. And then the eyes opened, four black buttons glinting and staring down at her, and two voices that sounded like no voice that Coraline had ever heard began to speak to her. One of them wailed and whispered, the other buzzed like a fat and angry bluebottle at a windowpane, but the voices said, as one person, “Thief! Give it back! Stop! Thief!” The air became alive with dog-bats. Coraline began to back away. She realized then that, terrifying though the thing on the wall that had once been the other Misses Spink and Forcible was, it was attached to the wall by its web, encased in its cocoon. It could not follow her. The dog-bats flapped and fluttered about her, but they did nothing to hurt Coraline. She climbed down from the stage, shone the flashlight about the old theater looking for the way out. “Flee, Miss,” wailed a girl’s voice in her head. “Flee, now. You have two of us. Flee this place while your blood still flows.” Coraline dropped the marble into her pocket beside the other. She spotted the door, ran to it, and pulled on it until it opened. IX. O UTSIDE, THE WORLD HAD become a formless, swirling mist with no shapes or shadows behind it, while the house itself seemed to have twisted and stretched. It seemed to Coraline that it was crouching, and staring down at her, as if it were not really a house but only the idea of a house—and the person who had had the idea, she was certain, was not a good person. There was sticky web stuff clinging to her arm, and she wiped it off as best she could. The gray windows of the house slanted at strange angles. The other mother was waiting for her, standing on the grass with her arms folded. Her black button eyes were expressionless, but her lips were pressed tightly together in a cold fury. When she saw Coraline she reached out one long white hand, and she crooked a finger. Coraline walked toward her. The other mother said nothing. “T got two,” said Coraline. “One soul still to go.” The expression on the other mother’s face did not change. She might not have heard what Coraline said. “Well, I just thought you’d want to know,” said Coraline. “Thank you, Coraline,” said the other mother coldly, and her voice did not just come from her mouth. It came from the mist, and the fog, and the house, and the sky. She said, “You know that I love you.” And, despite herself, Coraline nodded. It was true: the other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves its gold. In the other mother’s button eyes, Coraline knew that she was a possession, nothing more. A tolerated pet, whose behavior was no longer amusing. “T don’t want your love,” said Coraline. “I don’t want anything from you.” “Not even a helping hand?” asked the other mother. “You have been doing so well, after all. I thought you might want a little hint, to help you with the rest of your treasure hunt.” “I’m doing fine on my own,” said Coraline. “Yes,” said the other mother. “But if you wanted to get into the flat in the front—the empty one—to look around, you would find the door locked, and then where would you be?” “Oh,” Coraline pondered this, for a moment. Then she said, “Is there a key?” The other mother stood there in the paper-gray fog of the flattening world. Her black hair drifted about her head, as if it had a mind and a purpose all of its own. She coughed suddenly in the back of her throat, and then she opened her mouth. The other mother reached up her hand and removed a small, brass front-door key from her tongue. “Here,” she said. “You’ll need this to get in.” She tossed the key, casually, toward Coraline, who caught it, one-handed, before she could think about whether she wanted it or not. The key was still slightly damp. A chill wind blew about them, and Coraline shivered and looked away. When she looked back she was alone. Uncertainly, she walked around to the front of the house and stood in front of the door to the empty flat. Like all the doors, it was painted bright green. “She does not mean you well,” whispered a ghost voice in her ear. “We do not believe that she would help you. It must be a trick.” Coraline said, “Yes, you’re right, I expect.” Then she put the key in the lock and turned it. Silently, the door swung open, and silently Coraline walked inside. The flat had walls the color of old milk. The wooden boards of the floor were uncarpeted and dusty with the marks and patterns of old carpets and rugs on them. There was no furniture in there, only places where furniture had once been. Nothing decorated the walls; there were discolored rectangles on the walls to show where paintings or photographs had once hung. It was so silent that Coraline imagined that she could hear the motes of dust drifting through the air. She found herself to be quite worried that something would jump out at her, so she began to whistle. She thought it might make it harder for things to jump out at her if she was whistling. First she walked through the empty kitchen. Then she walked through an empty bathroom, containing only a cast-iron bath, and, in the bath, a dead spider the size of a small cat. The last room she looked at had, she supposed, once been a bedroom; she could imagine that the rectangular dust shadow on the floorboards had once been a bed. Then she saw something, and smiled, grimly. Set into the floorboards was a large metal ring. Coraline knelt and took the cold ring in her hands, and she tugged upward as hard as she could. Terribly slowly, stiffly, heavily, a hinged square of floor lifted: it was a trapdoor. It lifted, and through the opening Coraline could see only darkness. She reached down, and her hand found a cold switch. She flicked it without much hope that it would work, but somewhere below her a bulb lit, and a thin yellow light came up from the hole in the floor. She could see steps, heading down, but nothing else. Coraline put her hand into her pocket and took out the stone with the hole in it. She looked through it at the cellar but saw nothing. She put the stone back into her pocket. Up through the hole came the smell of damp clay, and something else, an acrid tang like sour vinegar. Coraline let herself down into the hole, looking nervously at the trapdoor. It was so heavy that if it fell she was sure she would be trapped down in the darkness forever. She put up a hand and touched it, but it stayed in position. And then she turned toward the darkness below, and she walked down the steps. Set into the wall at the bottom of the steps was another light switch, metal and rusting. She pushed it until it clicked down, and a naked bulb hanging from a wire from the low ceiling came on. It did not give up enough light even for Coraline to make out the things that had been painted onto the flaking cellar walls. The paintings seemed crude. There were eyes, she could see that, and things that might have been grapes. And other things, below them. Coraline could not be sure that they were paintings of people. There was a pile of rubbish in one corner of the room: cardboard boxes filled with mildewed papers and decaying curtains in a heap beside them. Coraline’s slippers crunched across the cement floor. The bad smell was worse, now. She was ready to turn and leave, when she saw the foot sticking out from beneath the pile of curtains. She took a deep breath (the smells of sour wine and moldy bread filled her head) and she pulled away the damp cloth, to reveal something more or less the size and shape of a person. In that dim light, it took her several seconds to recognize it for what it was: the thing was pale and swollen like a grub, with thin, sticklike arms and feet. It had almost no features on its face, which had puffed and swollen like risen bread dough. The thing had two large black buttons where its eyes should have been. Coraline made a noise, a sound of revulsion and horror, and, as if it had heard her and awakened, the thing began to sit up. Coraline stood there, frozen. The thing turned its head until both its black button eyes were pointed straight at her. A mouth opened in the mouthless face, strands of pale stuff sticking to the lips, and a voice that no longer even faintly resembled her father’s whispered, “Coraline.” “Well,” said Coraline to the thing that had once been her other father, “at least you didn’t jump out at me.” The creature’s twiglike hands moved to its face and pushed the pale clay about, making something like a nose. It said nothing. “T’m looking for my parents,” said Coraline. “Or a stolen soul from one of the other children. Are they down here?” “There is nothing down here,” said the pale thing indistinctly. “Nothing but dust and damp and forgetting.” The thing was white, and huge, and swollen. Monstrous, thought Coraline, but also miserable. She raised the stone with the hole in it to her eye and looked through it. Nothing. The pale thing was telling her the truth. “Poor thing,” she said. “I bet she made you come down here as a punishment for telling me too much.” The thing hesitated, then it nodded. Coraline wondered how she could ever have imagined that this grublike thing resembled her father. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “She’s not best pleased,” said the thing that was once the other father. “Not best pleased at all. You’ve put her quite out of sorts. And when she gets out of sorts, she takes it out on everybody else. It’s her way.” Coraline patted its hairless head. Its skin was tacky, like warm bread dough. “Poor thing,” she said. “You’re just a thing she made and then threw away.” The thing nodded vigorously; as it nodded, the left button eye fell off and clattered onto the concrete floor. The thing looked around vacantly with its one eye, as if it had lost her. Finally it saw her, and, as if making a great effort, it opened its mouth once more and said in a wet, urgent voice, “Run, child. Leave this place. She wants me to hurt you, to keep you here forever, so that you can never finish the game and she will win. She is pushing me so hard to hurt you. I cannot fight her.” “You can,” said Coraline. “Be brave.” She looked around: the thing that had once been the other father was between her and the steps up and out of the cellar. She started edging along the wall, heading toward the steps. The thing twisted bonelessly until its one eye was again facing her. It seemed to be getting bigger, now, and more awake. “Alas,” it said, “I cannot.” And it lunged across the cellar toward her then, its toothless mouth opened wide. Coraline had a single heartbeat in which to react. She could only think of two things to do. Either she could scream and try to run away, and be chased around a badly lit cellar by the huge grub thing, be chased until it caught her. Or she could do something else. So she did something else. As the thing reached her, Coraline put out her hand and closed it around the thing’s remaining button eye, and she tugged as hard as she knew how. For a moment nothing happened. Then the button came away and flew from her hand, clicking against the walls before it fell to the cellar floor. The thing froze in place. It threw its pale head back blindly, and opened its mouth horribly wide, and it roared its anger and frustration. Then, all in a rush, the thing swept toward the place where Coraline had been standing. But Coraline was not standing there any longer. She was already tiptoeing, as quietly as she could, up the steps that would take her away from the dim cellar with the crude paintings on the walls. She could not take her eyes from the floor beneath her, though, across which the pale thing flopped and writhed, hunting for her. Then, as if it was being told what to do, the creature stopped moving, and its blind head tipped to one side. It’s listening for me, thought Coraline. J must be extra quiet. She took another step up, and her foot slipped on the step, and the thing heard her. Its head tipped toward her. For a moment it swayed and seemed to be gathering its wits. Then, fast as a serpent, it slithered for the steps and began to flow up them, toward her. Coraline turned and ran, wildly, up the last half dozen steps, and she pushed herself up and onto the floor of the dusty bedroom. Without pausing, she pulled the heavy trapdoor toward her, and let go of it. It crashed down with a thump just as something large banged against it. The trapdoor shook and rattled in the floor, but it stayed where it was. Coraline took a deep breath. If there had been any furniture in that flat, even a chair, she would have pulled it onto the trapdoor, but there was nothing. She walked out of that flat as fast as she could, without actually ever running, and she locked the front door behind her. She left the door key under the mat. Then she walked down onto the drive. She had half expected that the other mother would be standing there waiting for Coraline to come out, but the world was silent and empty. Coraline wanted to go home. She hugged herself, and told herself that she was brave, and she almost believed herself, and then she walked around to the side of the house, in the gray mist that wasn’t a mist, and she made for the stairs, to go up. X. C ORALINE WALKED UP THE stairs outside the building to the topmost flat, where, in her world, the crazy old man upstairs lived. She had gone up there once with her real mother, when her mother was collecting for charity. They had stood in the open doorway, waiting for the crazy old man with the big mustache to find the envelope that Coraline’s mother had left, and the flat had smelled of strange foods and pipe tobacco and odd, sharp, cheesy-smelling things Coraline could not name. She had not wanted to go any farther inside than that. “I’m an explorer,” said Coraline out loud, but her words sounded muffled and dead on the misty air. She had made it out of the cellar, hadn’t she? And she had. But if there was one thing that Coraline was certain of, it was that this flat would be worse. She reached the top of the house. The topmost flat had once been the attic of the house, but that was long ago. She knocked on the green-painted door. It swung open, and she walked in. We have eyes and we have nerveses We have tails we have teeth You'll all get what you deserveses When we rise from underneath. whispered a dozen or more tiny voices, in that dark flat with the roof so low where it met the walls that Coraline could almost reach up and touch it. Red eyes stared at her. Little pink feet scurried away as she came close. Darker shadows slipped through the shadows at the edges of things. It smelled much worse in here than in the real crazy old man upstairs’s flat. That smelled of food (unpleasant food, to Coraline’s mind, but she knew that was a matter of taste: she did not like spices, herbs, or exotic things). This place smelled as if all the exotic foods in the world had been left out to go rotten. “Little girl,” said a rustling voice in a far room. “Yes,” said Coraline. /’m not frightened, she told herself, and as she thought it she knew that it was true. There was nothing here that frightened her. These things—even the thing in the cellar—were illusions, things made by the other mother in a ghastly parody of the real people and real things on the other end of the corridor. She could not truly make anything, decided Coraline. She could only twist and copy and distort things that already existed. And then Coraline found herself wondering why the other mother would have placed a snowglobe on the drawing-room mantelpiece; for the mantelpiece, in Coraline’s world, was quite bare. As soon as she had asked herself the question, she realized that there was actually an answer. Then the voice came again, and her train of thought was interrupted. “Come here, little girl. I know what you want, little girl.” It was a rustling voice, scratchy and dry. It made Coraline think of some kind of enormous dead insect. Which was silly, she knew. How could a dead thing, especially a dead insect, have a voice? She walked through several rooms with low, slanting ceilings until she came to the final room. It was a bedroom, and the other crazy old man upstairs sat at the far end of the room, in the near darkness, bundled up in his coat and hat. As Coraline entered he began to talk. ““Nothing’s changed, little girl,” he said, his voice sounding like the noise dry leaves make as they rustle across a pavement. “And what if you do everything you swore you would? What then? Nothing’s changed. You'll go home. You’ll be bored. You'll be ignored. No one will listen to you, not really listen to you. You’re too clever and too quiet for them to understand. They don’t even get your name right. “Stay here with us,” said the voice from the figure at the end of the room. “We will listen to you and play with you and laugh with you. Your other mother will build whole worlds for you to explore, and tear them down every night when you are done. Every day will be better and brighter than the one that went before. Remember the toy box? How much better would a world be built just like that, and all for you?” “And will there be gray, wet days where I just don’t know what to do and there’s nothing to read or to watch and nowhere to go and the day drags on forever?” asked Coraline. From the shadows, the man said, “Never.” “And will there be awful meals, with food made from recipes, with garlic and tarragon and broad beans in?” asked Coraline. “Every meal will be a thing of joy,” whispered the voice from under the old man’s hat. “Nothing will pass your lips that does not entirely delight you.” “And could I have Day-Glo green gloves to wear, and yellow Wellington boots in the shape of frogs?” asked Coraline. “Frogs, ducks, rhinos, octopuses—whatever you desire. The world will be built new for you every morning. If you stay here, you can have whatever you want.” Coraline sighed. “You really don’t understand, do you?” she said. “I don’t want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted? Just like that, and it didn’t mean anything. What then?” “IT don’t understand,” said the whispery voice. “Of course you don’t understand,” she said, raising the stone with the hole in it to her eye. “You’re just a bad copy she made of the crazy old man upstairs.” “Not even that anymore,” said the dead, whispery voice. There was a glow coming from the raincoat of the man, at about chest height. Through the hole in the stone the glow twinkled and shone blue-white as any star. She wished she had a stick or something to poke him with: she had no wish to get any closer to the shadowy man at the end of the room. Coraline took a step closer to the man, and he fell apart. Black rats leapt from the sleeves and from under the coat and hat, a score or more of them, red eyes shining in the dark. They chittered and they fled. The coat fluttered and fell heavily to the floor. The hat rolled into one corner of the room. Coraline reached out one hand and pulled the coat open. It was empty, although it was greasy to the touch. There was no sign of the final glass marble in it. She scanned the room, squinting through the hole in the stone, and caught sight of something that twinkled and burned like a star at floor level by the doorway. It was being carried in the forepaws of the largest black rat. As she looked, it slipped away. The other rats watched her from the corners of the rooms as she ran after it. Now, rats can run faster than people, especially over short distances. But a large black rat holding a marble in its two front paws is no match for a determined girl (even if she is small for her age) moving at a run. Smaller black rats ran back and forth across her path, trying to distract her, but she ignored them all, keeping her eyes fixed on the one with the marble, who was heading straight out of the flat, toward the front door. They reached the steps on the outside of the building. Coraline had time to observe that the house itself was continuing to change, becoming less distinct and flattening out, even as she raced down the stairs. It reminded her of a photograph of a house, now, not the thing itself. Then she was simply racing pell-mell down the steps in pursuit of the rat, with no room in her mind for anything else, certain she was gaining on it. She was running fast—too fast, she discovered, as she came to the bottom of one flight of stairs, and her foot skidded and twisted and she went crashing onto the concrete landing. Her left knee was scraped and skinned, and the palm of one hand she had thrown out to stop herself was a mess of scraped skin and grit. It hurt a little, and it would, she knew, soon hurt much more. She picked the grit out of her palm and climbed to her feet and, as fast as she could, knowing that she had lost and it was already too late, she went down to the final landing at the ground level. She looked around for the rat, but it was gone, and the marble with it. Her hand stung where the skin had been scraped, and there was blood trickling down her ripped pajama leg from her knee. It was as bad as the summer that her mother had taken the training wheels off Coraline’s bicycle; but then, back then, in with all the cuts and scrapes (her knees had had scabs on top of scabs) she had had a feeling of achievement. She was learning something, doing something she had not known how to do. Now she felt nothing but cold loss. She had failed the ghost children. She had failed her parents. She had failed herself, failed everything. She closed her eyes and wished that the earth would swallow her up. There was a cough. She opened her eyes and saw the rat. It was lying on the brick path at the bottom of the stairs with a surprised look on its face—which was now several inches away from the rest of it. Its whiskers were stiff, its eyes were wide open, its teeth visible and yellow and sharp. A collar of wet blood glistened at its neck. Beside the decapitated rat, a smug expression on its face, was the black cat. It rested one paw on the gray glass marble. “T think I once mentioned,” said the cat, “that I don’t like rats at the best of times. It looked like you needed this one, however. I hope you don’t mind my getting involved.” “T think,” said Coraline, trying to catch her breath, “I think you may—have said—something of the sort.” The cat lifted its paw from the marble, which rolled toward Coraline. She picked it up. In her mind a final voice whispered to her, urgently. “She has lied to you. She will never give you up, now she has you. She will no more give any of us up than change her nature.” The hairs on the back of Coraline’s neck prickled, and Coraline knew that the girl’s voice told the truth. She put the marble in her dressing-gown pocket with the others. She had all three marbles, now. All she needed to do was to find her parents. And, Coraline realized with surprise, that bit was easy. She knew exactly where her parents were. If she had stopped to think, she might have known where they were all along. The other mother could not create. She could only transform, and twist, and change. The mantelpiece in the drawing room back home was quite empty. But knowing that, she knew something else as well. “The other mother. She plans to break her promise. She won’t let us go,” said Coraline. “T wouldn’t put it past her,” admitted the cat. “Like I said, there’s no guarantee she’ll play fair.” And then he raised his head. “Hullo. . . did you see that?” “What?” “Look behind you,” said the cat. The house had flattened out even more. It no longer looked like a photograph—more like a drawing, a crude, charcoal scribble of a house drawn on gray paper. “Whatever’s happening,” said Coraline, “thank you for helping with the rat. I suppose I’m almost there, aren’t I? So you go off into the mist or wherever you go, and I'll, well, I hope I get to see you at home. If she lets me go home.” The cat’s fur was on end, and its tail was bristling like a chimney sweep’s brush. “What’s wrong?” asked Coraline. “They’ve gone,” said the cat. “They aren’t there anymore. The ways in and out of this place. They just went flat.” “Ts that bad?” The cat lowered its tail, swishing it from side to side angrily. It made a low growling noise in the back of its throat. It walked in a circle, until it was facing away from Coraline, and then it began to walk backwards, stiffly, one step at a time, until it was pushing up against Coraline’s leg. She put down a hand to stroke it, and could feel how hard its heart was beating. It was trembling like a dead leaf in a storm. “You'll be fine,” said Coraline. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll take you home.” The cat said nothing. “Come on, cat,” said Coraline. She took a step back toward the steps, but the cat stayed where it was, looking miserable and, oddly, much smaller. “If the only way out is past her,” said Coraline, “then that’s the way we’re going to go.” She went back to the cat, bent down, and picked it up. The cat did not resist. It simply trembled. She supported its bottom with one hand, rested its front legs on her shoulders. The cat was heavy but not too heavy to carry. It licked at the palm of her hand, where the blood from the scrape was welling up. Coraline walked up the stairs one step at a time, heading back to her own flat. She was aware of the marbles clicking in her pocket, aware of the stone with a hole in it, aware of the cat pressing itself against her. She got to her front door—now just a small child’s scrawl of a door—and she pushed her hand against it, half expecting that her hand would rip through it, revealing nothing behind it but blackness and a scattering of stars. But the door swung open, and Coraline went through. XI. O NCE INSIDE, IN HER FLAT, or rather, in the flat that was not hers, Coraline was pleased to see that it had not transformed into the empty drawing that the rest of the house seemed to have become. It had depth, and shadows, and someone who stood in the shadows waiting for Coraline to return. “So you’re back,” said the other mother. She did not sound pleased. “And you brought vermin with you.” “No,” said Coraline. “I brought a friend,” She could feel the cat stiffening under her hands, as if it were anxious to be away. Coraline wanted to hold on to it like a teddy bear, for reassurance, but she knew that cats hate to be squeezed, and she suspected that frightened cats were liable to bite and scratch if provoked in any way, even if they were on your side. “You know I love you,” said the other mother flatly. “You have a very funny way of showing it,” said Coraline. She walked down the hallway, then turned into the drawing room, steady step by steady step, pretending that she could not feel the other mother’s blank black eyes on her back. Her grandmother’s formal furniture was still there, and the painting on the wall of the strange fruit (but now the fruit in the painting had been eaten, and all that remained in the bowl was the browning core of an apple, several plum and peach stones, and the stem of what had formerly been a bunch of grapes). The lion-pawed table raked the carpet with its clawed wooden feet, as if it were impatient for something. At the end of the room, in the corner, stood the wooden door, which had once, in another place, opened onto a plain brick wall. Coraline tried not to stare at it. The window showed nothing but mist. This was it, Coraline knew. The moment of truth. The unraveling time. The other mother had followed her in. Now she stood in the center of the room, between Coraline and the mantelpiece, and looked down at Coraline with black button eyes. It was funny, Coraline thought. The other mother did not look anything at all like her own mother. She wondered how she had ever been deceived into imagining a resemblance. The other mother was huge—her head almost brushed the ceiling—and very pale, the color of a spider’s belly. Her hair writhed and twined about her head, and her teeth were sharp as knives... . “Well?” said the other mother sharply. “Where are they?” Coraline leaned against an armchair, adjusted the cat with her left hand, put her right hand into her pocket, and pulled out the three glass marbles. They were a frosted gray, and they clinked together in the palm of her hand. The other mother reached her white fingers for them, but Coraline slipped them back into her pocket. She knew it was true, then. The other mother had no intention of letting her go or of keeping her word. It had been an entertainment, and nothing more. “Hold on,” she said. “We aren’t finished yet, are we?” The other mother looked daggers, but she smiled sweetly. “No,” she said. “I suppose not. After all, you still need to find your parents, don’t you?” “Yes,” said Coraline. J must not look at the mantelpiece, she thought. J must not even think about it. “Well?” said the other mother. “Produce them. Would you like to look in the cellar again? I have some other interesting things hidden down there, you know.” “No,” said Coraline. “I know where my parents are.” The cat was heavy in her arms. She moved it forward, unhooking its claws from her shoulder as she did so. “Where?” “Tt stands to reason,” said Coraline. “I’ve looked everywhere you’d hide them. They aren’t in the house.” The other mother stood very still, giving nothing away, lips tightly closed. She might have been a wax statue. Even her hair had stopped moving. “So,” Coraline continued, both hands wrapped firmly around the black cat. “I know where they have to be. You’ve hidden them in the passageway between the houses, haven’t you? They are behind that door.” She nodded her head toward the door in the corner. The other mother remained statue still, but a hint of a smile crept back onto her face. “Oh, they are, are they?” “Why don’t you open it?” said Coraline. “They’Il be there, all right.” It was her only way home, she knew. But it all depended on the other mother’s needing to gloat, needing not only to win but to show that she had won. The other mother reached her hand slowly into her apron pocket and produced the black iron key. The cat stirred uncomfortably in Coraline’s arms, as if it wanted to get down. Just stay there for a few moments longer, she thought at it, wondering if it could hear her. /’// get us both home. I said I would. I promise. She felt the cat relax ever so slightly in her arms. The other mother walked over to the door and pushed the key into the lock. She turned the key. Coraline heard the mechanism clunk heavily. She was already starting, as quietly as she could, step by step, to back away toward the mantelpiece. The other mother pushed down on the door handle and pulled open the door, revealing a corridor behind it, dark and empty. “There,” she said, waving her hands at the corridor. The expression of delight on her face was a very bad thing to see. “You’re wrong! You don’t know where your parents are, do you? They aren’t there.” She turned and looked at Coraline. “Now,” she said, “you’re going to stay here for ever and always.” “No,” said Coraline. “I’m not.” And, hard as she could, she threw the black cat toward the other mother. It yowled and landed on the other mother’s head, claws flailing, teeth bared, fierce and angry. Fur on end, it looked half again as big as it was in real life. Without waiting to see what would happen, Coraline reached up to the mantlepiece and closed her hand around the snow globe, pushing it deep into the pocket of her dressing gown. The cat made a deep, ululating yowl and sank its teeth into the other mother’s cheek. She was flailing at it. Blood ran from the cuts on her white face—not red blood but a deep, tarry black stuff. Coraline ran for the door. She pulled the key out of the lock. “Leave her! Come on!” she shouted to the cat. It hissed, and swiped its scalpel-sharp claws at the other mother’s face in one wild rake which left black ooze trickling from several gashes on the other mother’s nose. Then it sprang down toward Coraline. “Quickly!” she said. The cat ran toward her, and they both stepped into the dark corridor. It was colder in the corridor, like stepping down into a cellar on a warm day. The cat hesitated for a moment; then, seeing the other mother was coming toward them, it ran to Coraline and stopped by her legs. Coraline began to pull the door closed. It was heavier than she imagined a door could be, and pulling it closed was like trying to close a door against a high wind. And then she felt something from the other side starting to pull against her. Shut! she thought. Then she said, out loud, “Come on, please.” And she felt the door begin to move, to pull closed, to give against the phantom wind. Suddenly she was aware of other people in the corridor with her. She could not turn her head to look at them, but she knew them without having to look. “Help me, please,” she said. “All of be) you. The other people in the corridor—three children, two adults—were somehow too insubstantial to touch the door. But their hands closed about hers, as she pulled on the big iron door handle, and suddenly she felt strong. “Never let up, Miss! Hold strong! Hold strong!” whispered a voice in her mind. “Pull, girl, pull!” whispered another. And then a voice that sounded like her mother’s—her own mother, her real, wonderful, maddening, infuriating, glorious mother—just said, ““Well done, Coraline,” and that was enough. The door started to slip closed, easily as anything. “No!” screamed a voice from beyond the door, and it no longer sounded even faintly human. Something snatched at Coraline, reaching through the closing gap between the door and the doorpost. Coraline jerked her head out of the way, but the door began to open once more. “We’re going to go home,” said Coraline. “We are. Help me.” She ducked the snatching fingers. They moved through her, then: ghost hands lent her strength that she no longer possessed. There was a final moment of resistance, as if something were caught in the door, and then, with a crash, the wooden door banged closed. Something dropped from Coraline’s head height to the floor. It landed with a sort of a scuttling thump. “Come on!” said the cat. “This is not a good place to be in. Quickly.” Coraline turned her back on the door and began to run, as fast as was practical, through the dark corridor, running her hand along the wall to make sure she didn’t bump into anything or get turned around in the darkness. It was an uphill run, and it seemed to her that it went on for a longer distance than anything could possibly go. The wall she was touching felt warm and yielding now, and, she realized, it felt as it were covered in a fine downy fur. It moved, as if it were taking a breath. She snatched her hand away from it. Winds howled in the dark. She was scared she would bump into something, and she put out her hand for the wall once more. This time what she touched felt hot and wet, as if she had put her hand in somebody’s mouth, and she pulled it back with a small wail. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark. She could half see, as faintly glowing patches ahead of her, two adults, three children. She could hear the cat, too, padding in the dark in front of her. And there was something else, which suddenly scuttled between her feet, nearly sending Coraline flying. She caught herself before she went down, using her own momentum to keep moving. She knew that if she fell in that corridor she might never get up again. Whatever that corridor was was older by far than the other mother. It was deep, and slow, and it knew that she was there. ... Then daylight appeared, and she ran toward it, puffing and wheezing. “Almost there,” she called encouragingly, but in the light she discovered that the wraiths had gone, and she was alone. She did not have time to wonder what had happened to them. Panting for breath, she staggered through the door, and slammed it behind her with the loudest, most satisfying bang you can imagine. Coraline locked the door with the key, and put the key back into her pocket. The black cat was huddled in the farthest corner of the room, the pink tip of its tongue showing, its eyes wide. Coraline went over to it and crouched down beside it. “T’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I threw you at her. But it was the only way to distract her enough to get us all out. She would never have kept her word, would she?” The cat looked up at her, then rested its head on her hand, licking her fingers with its sandpapery tongue. It began to purr. “Then we’re friends?” said Coraline. She sat down on one of her grandmother’s uncomfortable armchairs, and the cat sprang up into her lap and made itself comfortable. The light that came through the picture window was daylight, real golden late-afternoon daylight, not a white mist light. The sky was a robin’s-egg blue, and Coraline could see trees and, beyond the trees, green hills, which faded on the horizon into purples and grays. The sky had never seemed so sky, the world had never seemed so world. Coraline stared at the leaves on the trees and at the patterns of light and shadow on the cracked bark of the trunk of the beech tree outside the window. Then she looked down at her lap, at the way that the rich sunlight brushed every hair on the cat’s head, turning each white whisker to gold. Nothing, she thought, had ever been so interesting. And, caught up in the interestingness of the world, Coraline barely noticed that she had wriggled down and curled catlike on her grandmother’s uncomfortable armchair, nor did she notice when she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. XII. H ER MOTHER SHOOK HER gently awake. “Coraline?” she said. “Darling, what a funny place to fall asleep. And really, this room is only for best. We looked all over the house for you.” Coraline stretched and blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I fell asleep.” “IT can see that,” said her mother. “And wherever did the cat come from? He was waiting by the front door when I came in. Shot out like a bullet as I opened it.” “Probably had things to do,” said Coraline. Then she hugged her mother so tightly that her arms began to ache. Her mother hugged Coraline back. “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” said her mother. “Don’t forget to wash your hands. And just /ook at those pajama bottoms. What did you do to your poor knee?” “T tripped,” said Coraline. She went into the bathroom, and she washed her hands and cleaned her bloody knee. She put ointment on her cuts and scrapes. She went into her bedroom—her real bedroom, her true bedroom. She pushed her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown, and she pulled out three marbles, a stone with a hole in it, the black key, and an empty snow globe. She shook the snow globe and watched the glittery snow swirl through the water to fill the empty world. She put it down and watched the snow fall, covering the place where the little couple had once stood. Coraline took a piece of string from her toy box, and she strung the black key on the string. Then she knotted the string and hung it around her neck. “There,” she said. She put on some clothes and hid the key under her T-shirt. It was cold against her skin. The stone went into her pocket. Coraline walked down the hallway to her father’s study. He had his back to her, but she knew, just on seeing him, that his eyes, when he turned around, would be her father’s kind gray eyes, and she crept over and kissed him on the back of his balding head. “Hullo, Coraline,” he said. Then he looked around and smiled at her. “What was that for?” “Nothing,” said Coraline. “I just miss you sometimes. That’s all.” “Oh good,” he said. He put the computer to sleep, stood up, and then, for no reason at all, he picked Coraline up, which he had not done for such a long time, not since he had started pointing out to her she was much too old to be carried, and he carried her into the kitchen. Dinner that night was pizza, and even though it was homemade by her father (so the crust was alternately thick and doughy and raw, or too thin and burnt), and even though he had put slices of green pepper on it, along with little meatballs and, of all things, pineapple chunks, Coraline ate the entire slice she had been given. Well, she ate everything except for the pineapple chunks. And soon enough it was bedtime. Coraline kept the key around her neck, but she put the gray marbles beneath her pillow; and in bed that night, Coraline dreamed a dream. She was at a picnic, under an old oak tree, in a green meadow. The sun was high in the sky and while there were distant, fluffy white clouds on the horizon, the sky above her head was a deep, untroubled blue. There was a white linen cloth laid on the grass, with bowls piled high with food—she could see salads and sandwiches, nuts and fruit, jugs of lemonade and water and thick chocolate milk. Coraline sat on one side of the tablecloth while three other children took a side each. They were dressed in the oddest clothes. The smallest of them, sitting on Coraline’s left, was a boy with red velvet knee britches and a frilly white shirt. His face was dirty, and he was piling his plate high with boiled new potatoes and with what looked like cold, whole, cooked, trout. “This is the finest of pic-nics, lady,” he said to her. “Yes,” said Coraline. “TI think it is. I wonder who organized it.” “Why, I rather think you did, Miss,” said a tall girl, sitting opposite Coraline. She wore a brown, rather shapeless dress, and had a brown bonnet on her head which tied beneath her chin. “And we are more grateful for it and for all than ever words can say.” She was eating slices of bread and jam, deftly cutting the bread from a large golden-brown loaf with a huge knife, then spooning on the purple jam with a wooden spoon. She had jam all around her mouth. “Aye. This is the finest food I have eaten in centuries,” said the girl on Coraline’s right. She was a very pale child, dressed in what seemed to be spider’s webs, with a circle of glittering silver set in her blonde hair. Coraline could have sworn that the girl had two wings—like dusty silver butterfly wings, not bird wings—coming out of her back. The girl’s plate was piled high with pretty flowers. She smiled at Coraline, as if it had been a very long time since she had smiled and she had almost, but not quite, forgotten how. Coraline found herself liking this girl immensely. And then, in the way of dreams, the picnic was done and they were playing in the meadow, running and shouting and tossing a glittering ball from one to another. Coraline knew it was a dream then, because none of them ever got tired or winded or out of breath. She wasn’t even sweating. They just laughed and ran in a game that was partly tag, partly piggy-in-the-middle, and partly just a magnificent romp. Three of them ran along the ground, while the pale girl fluttered a little over their heads, swooping down on butterfly wings to grab the ball and swing up again into the sky before she tossed the ball to one of the other children. And then, without a word about it being spoken, the game was done, and the four of them went back to the picnic cloth, where the lunch dishes had been cleared away, and there were four bowls waiting for them, three of ice cream, one of honeysuckle flowers piled high. They ate with relish. “Thank you for coming to my party,” said Coraline. “If it is mine.” “The pleasure is ours, Coraline Jones,” said the winged girl, nibbling another honeysuckle blossom. “If there were but something we could do for you, to thank you and to reward you.” “Aye,” said the boy with the red velvet britches and the dirty face. He put out his hand and held Coraline’s hand with his own. It was warm now. “Tt’s a very fine thing you did for us, Miss,” said the tall girl. She now had a smear of chocolate ice cream all around her lips. “I’m just pleased it’s all over,” said Coraline. Was it her imagination, or did a shadow cross the faces of the other children at the picnic? The winged girl, the circlet in her hair glittering like a star, rested her fingers for a moment on the back of Coraline’s hand. “It is over and done with for us,” she said. “This is our staging post. From here, we three will set out for uncharted lands, and what comes after no one alive can say....” She stopped talking. “There’s a but, isn’t there?” said Coraline. “I can feel it. Like a rain cloud.” The boy on her left tried to smile bravely, but his lower lip began to tremble and he bit it with his upper teeth and said nothing. The girl in the brown bonnet shifted uncomfortably and said, “Yes, Miss.” “But I got you three back,” said Coraline. “I got Mum and Dad back. I shut the door. I locked it. What more was I meant to do?” The boy squeezed Coraline’s hand with his. She found herself remembering when it had been she, trying to reassure him, when he was little more than a cold memory in the darkness. “Well, can’t you give me a clue?” asked Coraline. “Isn’t there something you can tell me?” “The beldam swore by her good right hand,” said the tall girl, “but she lied.” “M-my governess,” said the boy, “used to say that nobody is ever given more to shoulder than he or she can bear.” He shrugged as he said this, as if he had not yet made his own mind up whether or not it was true. “We wish you luck,” said the winged girl. “Good fortune and wisdom and courage—although you have already shown that you have all three of these blessings, and in abundance.” “She hates you,” blurted out the boy. “She hasn’t lost anything for so long. Be wise. Be brave. Be tricky.” “But it’s not fair,” said Coraline, in her dream, angrily. “It’s just not fair. It should be over.” The boy with the dirty face stood up and hugged Coraline tightly. “Take comfort in this,” he whispered. “Th’art alive. Thou livest.” And in her dream Coraline saw that the sun had set and the stars were twinkling in the darkening sky. Coraline stood in the meadow, and she watched as the three children (two of them walking, one flying) went away from her across the grass, silver in the light of the huge moon. The three of them came to a small wooden bridge over a stream. They stopped there and turned and waved, and Coraline waved back. And what came after was darkness. Coraline woke in the early hours of the morning, convinced she had heard something moving, but unsure what it was. She waited. Something made a rustling noise outside her bedroom door. She wondered if it was a rat. The door rattled. Coraline clambered out of bed. “Go away,” said Coraline sharply. “Go away or you’ll be sorry.” There was a pause, then the whatever it was scuttled away down the hall. There was something odd and irregular about its footsteps, if they were footsteps. Coraline found herself wondering if it was perhaps a rat with an extra leg... . “Tt isn’t over, is it?” she said to herself. Then she opened the bedroom door. The gray, predawn light showed her the whole of the corridor, completely deserted. She went toward the front door, sparing a hasty glance back at the wardrobe-door mirror hanging on the wall at the other end of the hallway, seeing nothing but her own pale face staring back at her, looking sleepy and serious. Gentle, reassuring snores came from her parents’ room, but the door was closed. All the doors off the corridor were closed. Whatever the scuttling thing was, it had to be here somewhere. Coraline opened the front door and looked at the gray sky. She wondered how long it would be until the sun came up, wondered whether her dream had been a true thing while knowing in her heart that it had been. Something she had taken to be part of the shadows under the hall couch detached itself from beneath the couch and made a mad, scrabbling rush on its long white legs, heading for the front door. Coraline’s mouth dropped open in horror and she stepped out of the way as the thing clicked and scuttled past her and out of the house, running crablike on its too-many tapping, clicking, scurrying feet. She knew what it was, and she knew what it was after. She had seen it too many times in the last few days, reaching and clutching and snatching and popping blackbeetles obediently into the other mother’s mouth. Five-footed, crimson-nailed, the color of bone. It was the other mother’s right hand. It wanted the black key. XIII. C ORALINE’S PARENTS NEVER SEEMED to remember anything about their time in the snow globe. At least, they never said anything about it, and Coraline never mentioned it to them. Sometimes she wondered whether they had ever noticed that they had lost two days in the real world, and came to the eventual conclusion that they had not. Then again, there are some people who keep track of every day and every hour, and there are people who don’t, and Coraline’s parents were solidly in the second camp. Coraline had placed the marbles beneath her pillow before she went to sleep that first night home in her own room once more. She went back to bed after she saw the other mother’s hand, although there was not much time left for sleeping, and she rested her head back on that pillow. Something scrunched gently as she did. She sat up, and lifted the pillow. The fragments of the glass marbles that she saw looked like the remains of eggshells one finds beneath trees in springtime: like empty, broken robin’s eggs, or even more delicate—wren’s eggs, perhaps. Whatever had been inside the glass spheres had gone. Coraline thought of the three children waving good-bye to her in the moonlight, waving before they crossed that silver stream. She gathered up the eggshell-thin fragments with care and placed them in a small blue box which had once held a bracelet that her grandmother had given her when she was a little girl. The bracelet was long lost, but the box remained. Miss Spink and Miss Forcible came back from visiting Miss Spink’s niece, and Coraline went down to their flat for tea. It was a Monday. On Wednesday Coraline would go back to school: a whole new school year would begin. Miss Forcible insisted on reading Coraline’s tea leaves. “Well, looks like everything’s mostly shipshape and Bristol fashion, luvvy,” said Miss Forcible. “Sorry?” said Coraline. “Everything is coming up roses,” said Miss Forcible. “Well, almost everything. I’m not sure what that is.” She pointed to a clump of tea leaves sticking to the side of the cup. Miss Spink tutted and reached for the cup. “Honestly, Miriam. Give it over here. Let me be) see. ... She blinked through her thick spectacles. “Oh dear. No, I have no idea what that signifies. It looks almost like a hand.” Coraline looked. The clump of leaves did look a little like a hand, reaching for something. Hamish the Scottie dog was hiding under Miss Forcible’s chair, and he wouldn’t come out. “T think he was in some sort of fight,” said Miss Spink. “He has a deep gash in his side, poor dear. We’ll take him to the vet later this afternoon. I wish I knew what could have done it.” Something, Coraline knew, would have to be done. That final week of the holidays, the weather was magnificent, as if the summer itself were trying to make up for the miserable weather they had been having by giving them some bright and glorious days before it ended. The crazy old man upstairs called down to Coraline when he saw her coming out of Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s flat. “Hey! Hi! You! Caroline!” he shouted over the railing. “It’s Coraline,” she said. “How are the mice?” “Something has frightened them,” said the old man, scratching his mustache. “I think maybe there is a weasel in the house. Something is about. I heard it in the night. In my country we would have put down a trap for it, maybe put down a little meat or hamburger, and when the creature comes to feast, then—bam!—it would be caught and never bother us more. The mice are so scared they will not even pick up their little musical instruments.” “T don’t think it wants meat,” said Coraline. She put her hand up and touched the black key that hung about her neck. Then she went inside. She bathed herself, and kept the key around her neck the whole time she was in the bath. She never took it off anymore. Something scratched at her bedroom window after she went to bed. Coraline was almost asleep, but she slipped out of her bed and pulled open the curtains. A white hand with crimson fingernails leapt from the window ledge onto a drainpipe and was immediately out of sight. There were deep gouges in the glass on the other side of the window. Coraline slept uneasily that night, waking from time to time to plot and plan and ponder, then falling back into sleep, never quite certain where her pondering ended and the dream began, one ear always open for the sound of something scratching at her windowpane or at her bedroom door. In the morning Coraline said to her mother, “I’m going to have a picnic with my dolls today. Can I borrow a sheet—an old one, one you don’t need any longer—as a tablecloth?” “I don’t think we have one of those,” said her mother. She opened the kitchen drawer that held the napkins and the tablecloths, and she prodded about in it. “Hold on. Will this do?” It was a folded-up disposable paper tablecloth covered with red flowers, left over from some picnic they had been on several years before. “That’s perfect,” said Coraline. “T didn’t think you played with your dolls anymore,” said Mrs. Jones. “T don’t,” admitted Coraline. “They’re protective color-ation.” “Well, be back in time for lunch,” said her mother. “Have a good time.” Coraline filled a cardboard box with dolls and with several plastic doll’s teacups. She filled a jug with water. Then she went outside. She walked down to the road, just as if she were going to the shops. Before she reached the supermarket she cut across a fence into some wasteland and along an old drive, then crawled under a hedge. She had to go under the hedge in two journeys in order not to spill the water from the jug. It was a long, roundabout looping journey, but at the end of it Coraline was satisfied that she had not been followed. She came out behind the dilapidated old tennis court. She crossed over it, to the meadow where the long grass swayed. She found the planks on the edge of the meadow. They were astonishingly heavy—almost too heavy for a girl to lift, even using all her strength, but she managed. She didn’t have any choice. She pulled the planks out of the way, one by one, grunting and sweating with the effort, revealing a deep, round, brick-lined hole in the ground. It smelled of damp and the dark. The bricks were greenish, and slippery. She spread out the tablecloth and laid it, carefully, over the top of the well. She put a plastic doll’s cup every foot or so, at the edge of the well, and she weighed each cup down with water from the jug. She put a doll in the grass beside each cup, making it look as much like a doll’s tea party as she could. Then she retraced her steps, back under the hedge, along the dusty yellow drive, around the back of the shops, back to her house. She reached up and took the key from around her neck. She dangled it from the string, as if the key were just something she liked to play with. Then she knocked on the door of Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s flat. Miss Spink opened the door. “Hello dear,” she said. “T don’t want to come in,” said Coraline. “I just wanted to find out how Hamish was doing.” Miss Spink sighed. “The vet says that Hamish is a brave little soldier,” she said. “Luckily, the cut doesn’t seem to be infected. We cannot imagine what could have done it. The vet says some animal, he thinks, but has no idea what. Mister Bobo says he thinks it might have been a weasel.” “Mister Bobo?” “The man in the top flat. Mister Bobo. Fine old circus family, I believe. Romanian or Slovenian or Livonian, or one of those countries. Bless me, I can never remember them anymore.” It had never occurred to Coraline that the crazy old man upstairs actually had a name, she realized. If she’d known his name was Mr. Bobo she would have said it every chance she got. How often do you get to say a name like “Mr. Bobo” aloud? “Oh,” said Coraline to Miss Spink. “Mister Bobo. Right. Well,” she said, a little louder, “I’m going to go and play with my dolls now, over by the old tennis court, round the back.” “That’s nice, dear,” said Miss Spink. Then she added confidentially, “Make sure you keep an eye out for the old well. Mister Lovat, who was here before your time, said that he thought it might go down for half a mile or more.” Coraline hoped that the hand had not heard this last, and she changed the subject. “This key?” said Coraline loudly. “Oh, it’s just some old key from our house. It’s part of my game. That’s why I’m carrying it around with me on this piece of string. Well, good-bye now.” “What an extraordinary child,” said Miss Spink to herself as she closed the door. Coraline ambled across the meadow toward the old tennis court, dangling and swinging the black key on its piece of string as she walked. Several times she thought she saw something the color of bone in the undergrowth. It was keeping pace with her, about thirty feet away. She tried to whistle, but nothing happened, so she sang out loud instead, a song her father had made up for her when she was a little baby and which had always made her laugh. It went, Oh—my twitchy witchy girl I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge And I give you bowls of ice Cream. I give you lots of kisses, And I give you lots of hugs, But I never give you sandwiches With bugs Tn. That was what she sang as she sauntered through the woods, and her voice hardly trembled at all. The dolls’ tea party was where she had left it. She was relieved that it was not a windy day, for everything was still in its place, every water-filled plastic cup weighed down the paper tablecloth as it was meant to. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now was the hardest part. “Hello dolls,” she said brightly. “It’s teatime!” She walked close to the paper tablecloth. “I brought the lucky key,” she told the dolls, “to make sure we have a good picnic.” And then, as carefully as she could, she leaned over and, gently, placed the key on the tablecloth. She was still holding on to the string. She held her breath, hoping that the cups of water at the edges of the well would weigh the cloth down, letting it take the weight of the key without collapsing into the well. The key sat in the middle of the paper picnic cloth. Coraline let go of the string, and took a step back. Now it was all up to the hand. She turned to her dolls. “Who would like a piece of cherry cake?” she asked. “Jemima? Pinky? Primrose?” and she served each doll a slice of invisible cake on an invisible plate, chattering happily as she did so. From the corner of her eye she saw something bone white scamper from one tree trunk to another, closer and closer. She forced herself not to look at it. “Jemima!” said Coraline. “What a bad girl you are! You’ve dropped your cake! Now I’Il have to go over and get you a whole new slice!” And she walked around the tea party until she was on the other side of it to the hand. She pretended to clean up spilled cake, and to get Jemima another piece. And then, in a skittering, chittering rush, it came. The hand, running high on its fingertips, scrabbled through the tall grass and up onto a tree stump. It stood there for a moment, like a crab tasting the air, and then it made one triumphant, nail-clacking leap onto the center of the paper tablecloth. Time slowed for Coraline. The white fingers closed around the black key... . And then the weight and the momentum of the hand sent the plastic dolls’ cups flying, and the paper tablecloth, the key, and the other mother’s right hand went tumbling down into the darkness of the well. Coraline counted slowly under her breath. She got up to forty before she heard a muffled splash coming from a long way below. Someone had once told her that if you look up at the sky from the bottom of a mine shaft, even in the brightest daylight, you see a night sky and stars. Coraline wondered if the hand could see stars from where it was. She hauled the heavy planks back onto the well, covering it as carefully as she could. She didn’t want anything to fall in. She didn’t want anything ever to get out. Then she put her dolls and the cups back in the cardboard box she had carried them out in. Something caught her eye while she was doing this, and she straightened up in time to see the black cat stalking toward her, its tail held high and curling at the tip like a question mark. It was the first time she had seen the cat in several days, since they had returned together from the other mother’s place. The cat walked over to her and jumped up onto the planks that covered the well. Then, slowly, it winked one eye at her. It sprang down into the long grass in front of her, and rolled over onto its back, wiggling about ecstatically. Coraline scratched and tickled the soft fur on its belly, and the cat purred contentedly. When it had had enough it rolled over onto its front once more and walked back toward the tennis court, like a tiny patch of midnight in the midday sun. Coraline went back to the house. Mr. Bobo was waiting for her in the driveway. He clapped her on the shoulder. “The mice tell me that all is good,” he said. “They say that you are our savior, Caroline.” “It’s Coraline, Mister Bobo,” said Coraline. “Not Caroline. Coraline.” “Coraline,” said Mr. Bobo, repeating her name to himself with wonderment and respect. “Very good, Coraline. The mice say that I must tell you that as soon as they are ready to perform in public, you will come up and watch them as the first audience of all. They will play tumpty umpty and toodle oodle, and they will dance, and do a thousand tricks. That is what is they say.” “T would like that very much,” said Coraline. “When they’re ready.” She knocked at Miss Spink and Miss Forcible’s door. Miss Spink let her in and Coraline went into their parlor. She put her box of dolls down on the floor. Then she put her hand into her pocket and pulled out the stone with the hole in it. “Here you go,” she said. “I don’t need it anymore. I’m very grateful. I think it may have saved my life, and saved some other people’s death.” She gave them both tight hugs, although her arms barely stretched around Miss Spink, and Miss Forcible smelled like the raw garlic she had been cutting. Then Coraline picked up her box of dolls and went out. “What an extraordinary child,” said Miss Spink. No one had hugged her like that since she had retired from the theater. That night Coraline lay in bed, all bathed, teeth cleaned, with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. It was warm enough that, now that the hand was gone, she had opened her bedroom window wide. She had in-sisted to her father that the curtains not be entirely closed. Her new school clothes were laid out carefully on her chair for her to put on when she woke. Normally, on the night before the first day of term, Coraline was apprehensive and nervous. But, she realized, there was nothing left about school that could scare her anymore. She fancied she could hear sweet music on the night air: the kind of music that can only be played on the tiniest silver trombones and trumpets and bassoons, on piccolos and tubas so delicate and small that their keys could only be pressed by the tiny pink fingers of white mice. Coraline imagined that she was back again in her dream, with the two girls and the boy under the oak tree in the meadow, and she smiled. As the first stars came out Coraline finally allowed herself to drift into sleep, while the gentle upstairs music of the mouse circus spilled out onto the warm evening air, telling the world that the summer was almost done. INTRODUCTION I T WOULD HAVE BEEN easy to put together an “unseen material” section on American Gods, my last novel. Once the book was done, there were about ten thousand words ready to be cut. There was a whole short story that didn’t seem to belong in the book, so I wound up sending it out as a very wordy Christmas card. That wasn’t going to happen with Coraline. I wrote it very slowly, a word at a time, making, unintentionally, something that left no room for cuts and elisions. I only removed one bit from the whole thing; many years ago I showed it to a very eminent and brilliant author, who wanted to publish it in her line of books, but who felt that it needed something at the beginning to tell you what sort of a book it was. This is the story of Coraline, 1 wrote, who was small for her age, and found herself in darkest danger. Before it was all over Coraline had seen what lay behind mirrors, and had a close call with a bad hand, and had come face to face with her other mother; she had rescued her true parents from a_ fate worse than death and_ triumphed against overwhelming — odds. This is the story of Coraline, who lost her parents, and found them again, and (more or less) escaped (more or less) unscathed. But the author’s career as a publisher was pretty much over, and when, some years after that, I sat down to write the last two-thirds of the book (in August 1992 I'd got up to “Hullo,” said Coraline. “How did you get in?” The cat didn’t say anything. Coraline got out of bed and then stopped, without ending the sentence, for six years), the first thing I did was to remove that opening. I think I just wanted the book to creep up on you slowly. While we don’t have any cut sections in this part of the book (except for that one), we do have a few interesting things in here for you to look at. Dave McKean is a prolific and brilliant illustrator: we’ve included versions of the illustrations he did for the book that have never seen print. I went and dug out the battered black notebook I wrote Coraline in, by hand, with occasional notes to myself on what was going to happen later in the book, which tended to be right in spirit but wrong in the details. You’ll find some reproductions of notebook pages, in my handwriting, which J can actually read, although some people doubt this. The ink color, which ranged from a dried-blood brown to a new-wine purple, is unfortunately not reproduced, although all my crossings-out are. There are also some questions, with answers that may or may not be very helpful but are at least true (or do I mean that the other way around?). NEIL GAIMAN April 1, 2002 WHY I WROTE CORALINE M ORE THAN TEN YEARS ago I started to write a children’s book. It was for my daughter, Holly, who was five years old. I wanted it to have a girl as a heroine, and I wanted it to be refreshingly creepy. When I was a boy I lived in a house that had been made when a larger house had been divided up. The irregular shape of the house meant that one door of the house opened onto a stark brick wall. I would open it from time to time, always suspicious that one day the brick wall would be gone, and a corridor would be there instead. I started to write a story about a girl named Coraline. I thought that the story would be five or ten pages long. The story itself had other plans. We moved to America. The story, which I had been writing in my own time, between things that people were waiting for, ground to a halt. Years passed. One day I looked up and noticed that Holly was now in her teens, and her younger sister, Maddy, was the same age Holly had been when I had started it for her. I sent the story so far to Jennifer Hershey, my editor at HarperCollins. She read it. “I love it,’ she said. “What happens next?” I suggested she give me a contract, and we would both find out. She agreed enthusiastically. I bought a notebook, and started to write in it. It sat on my bedside table, and for the next couple of years I would scrawl fifty words, sometimes a hundred words, every night, before I went to sleep. A three-day train journey across America was an opportunity to work, uninterrupted, on Coraline. Getting stuck on American Gods, a long novel I was working on, gave me the opportunity I needed to finish Coraline’s story. A year later I wrote a chapter I had meant to write but had never got around to, and Coraline was finished. Where it all came from—the other mother with her button eyes, the rats, the hand, the sad voices of the ghost-children—I have no real idea. It built itself and told itself, a word at a time. A decade before, I had begun to write the story of Coraline, who was small for her age, and would find herself in darkest danger. By the time I finished writing, Coraline had seen what lay behind mirrors, and had a close call with a bad hand, and had come face-to-face with her other mother; she had rescued her true parents from a fate worse than death and triumphed against overwhelming odds. It was a story, I learned when people began to read it, that children experienced as an adventure, but which gave adults nightmares. It’s the strangest book I’ve written, it took the longest time to write, and it’s the book I’m proudest of. QUESTIONS & ANSWERS ABOUT CORALINE How did you think up the name “Coraline’’? It was from typing “Caroline” and it was coming out wrong. Larry Niven, the science fiction author, said in an essay that writers should treasure their typing mistakes. Once I typed it, I knew it was somebody’s name, and I wanted to know what happened to her. I recently discovered it was actually a real name, although it’s not been used much in Englishspeaking countries for a long time. And, at the turn of the last century, it was a name for a brand of corset. Coraline is called a fairy tale. Do you really believe in fairies? Well, the only fairy in Coraline has been dead for hundreds of years, and some people read the book and never notice her at all. Coraline’s a fairy tale in the same way that “Hansel and Gretel” is a fairy tale. As for believing in fairies . .. many years ago I wrote the copyright notice for a comic called The Books of Magic, in which I said words to the effect of “All the characters, human or otherwise, are imaginary, excepting only certain of the faerie folk, whom it might be unwise to offend by casting doubts on their existence. Or lack thereof.” A position I still wholeheartedly support and defend. Did your parents insist on cooking “recipes” rather than regular food? Actually, it was me who did that, and I stole that aspect of Coraline from my son, Mike, when he was young, and still called Mikey. If ever I made anything adventurous he’d shake his head and say, “Dad, you’ve made a recipe, haven’t you?” and he’d head off to the freezer compartment to find a box of microwaveable french fries. Whenever we’d go out to eat he’d order peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, until one day a waiter persuaded him to explore the rest of the menu, and he’s never looked back. How did you deal with long, boring, rainy days during the school holidays? Well, on the good ones I’d get someone to drop me off at the local library, and I’d read. On the bad ones I'd stare out of the window and wonder what to do, and eventually wind up rereading the Narnia books. What was the door that you were most scared to go through? Well, Coraline’s door really was in the “drawing room” of our house. The house, long since knocked down, had been divided into two, and behind the door at the far end of the room was a red-brick wall. I was never certain there would always be a brick wall there, though. Are things really magical, or do you make them magical by believing in them? I think most things are pretty magical, and that it’s less a matter of belief than it is one of just stopping to notice. What is the biggest key you have on your key ring and what does it open? When I was a boy I collected keys, for no real reason I could explain, and somewhere in the attic I still have a box filled with them, keys of all sizes and shapes and designs. There aren’t any fun ones on the everyday key ring, though: the biggest opens the cabin, overlooking a lake, where I go and write each day. The cabin doesn’t have a phone, which helps. What chocolate do you eat first if you’re given a whole box? In a perfect world, I would first identify the chocolates from the Identify Your Chocolate guide and eat something with a name like “Caramel Surprise.” In the real world, I tend normally to accidentally pull out the chocolate truffles. By the way, I cannot see the point of “tangerine cremes.” Why do the batteries in things always run out just when you really need them? It’s one of the rules. I don’t try to explain them. I just live here. Did you let your children read Coraline before anyone else? Well, I read it to Maddy, who was six when I finished it; and I forgot to give it to Holly (who is sixteen), so she just read it. “I hope you weren’t too old for it,” I told her, when she was done. “I don’t think you can be too old for Coraline,” she said, which made me very happy. What is your favorite time of day? Really, really early in the morning, just as the sun is coming up. I don’t see it too often, but I love it when I do. Have you ever had your fortune told? Once, while waiting for a theater to open in New York, by an old woman. She told me I would die on an island. It hasn’t happened yet. Will there be a film of Coraline? Quite possibly. The film rights have been bought, and Henry Selick, who is most famous for directing The Nightmare Before Christmas and James and the Giant Peach, has written the script and plans to direct it. So many of my stories have been bought by Hollywood that I’ve long since stopped expecting any of them actually to happen, and will simply be pleasantly surprised if any of them actually do. Will you write another children’s book? Yes. The next one I want to write has a working title of The Graveyard Book. A NOTE ON WORKING WITH DAVE McKEAN L.. KNOWN DAVE MCKEAN for hundreds of years now. Almost twenty, anyway. When we met I was a young journalist, and he was an even younger art student. We’ve made comics together (Black Orchid, Mr. Punch, Violent Cases, Signal to Noise). He did the covers for the Sandman comics and books (collected in a book called Dustcovers). We’ve done a children’s picture book (The Day I Swapped My Dad for 2 Goldfish), which proved so popular in certain quarters that Dave redid the book cover as a CD cover, and it was on the side of buses all over the world. We have another picture book, called The Wolves in the Walls, which will come out when Dave finishes the drawings. This is why Dave McKean has illustrated Coraline. When I finished Coraline I needed some guinea pigs to read it. Dave has a daughter named Yolanda. (He also has a son named Liam and a wife named Clare, but they don’t come into this explanation, except in this sentence, where they don’t do very much, even though in real life Clare plays the violin and Liam runs in and out of rooms wearing different hats to surprise you.) Dave read Coraline to Yolanda, who decided that it was her favorite book, and that she wanted it to be the theme of her birthday party. So the invitation to Yolanda’s birthday party was the picture of the Mouse Circus that finishes this book. When Dave e-mailed that drawing to me, I knew that I wanted him to do the rest of the pictures. Which, to my great delight, he did. And the pictures are very creepy, and very odd and very true. He even went to the house I used to live in, in Nutley, Sussex, and drew it. I like working with Dave, and hope he keeps drawing things I write forever. NEIL GAIMAN is the critically acclaimed and award-winning author of the novels AMERICAN GODS, NEVERWHERE, STARDUST (winner of the American Library Association’s Alex Award as one of 2000’s top ten adult novels for young adults), the short fiction collection SMOKE AND MIRRORS, and the children’s book THE DAY I SWAPPED MY DAD FOR 2 GOLDFISH (illustrated by Dave McKean). He is also the author of the Sandman series of graphic novels. Among his many awards are the World Fantasy Award and the Bram Stoker Award. Originally from England, Gaiman

Crime and Punishment

Part I Chapter I On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge. He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her. This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen. This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his fears. ‘I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles,’ he thought, with an odd smile. ‘Hm … yes, all is in a man’s hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that’s an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most…. But I am talking too much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking … of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.’ The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer—all worked painfully upon the young man’s already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot- houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food. He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man’s heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a 10 heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: ‘Hey there, German hatter’ bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him—the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman’s, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him. ‘I knew it,’ he muttered in confusion, ‘I thought so! That’s the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable…. It looks absurd and that makes it noticeable…. With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered…. What matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as possible…. Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it’s just such trifles that always ruin everything….’ He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this ‘hideous’ dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still 11 did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a ‘rehearsal’ of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more and more violent. With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by working people of all kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four doorkeepers were employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded. ‘If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that I were really going to do it?’ he could not help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. ‘That’s a good thing anyway,’ he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman’s flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of 1 copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it clearly before him…. He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked like a hen’s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again. ‘Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,’ the young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more polite. ‘I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,’ the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his face. 1 ‘And here … I am again on the same errand,’ Raskolnikov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman’s mistrust. ‘Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the other time,’ he thought with an uneasy feeling. The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her: ‘Step in, my good sir.’ The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the setting sun. ‘So the sun will shine like this then too!’ flashed as it were by chance through Raskolnikov’s mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a dressingtable with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows, chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands—that was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything shone. ‘Lizaveta’s work,’ thought the young man. There was not a speck of dust to be seen in the whole flat. ‘It’s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds 1 such cleanliness,’ Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman’s bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat. ‘What do you want?’ the old woman said severely, coming into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in the face. ‘I’ve brought something to pawn here,’ and he drew out of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel. ‘But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday.’ ‘I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little.’ ‘But that’s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell your pledge at once.’ ‘How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?’ ‘You come with such trifles, my good sir, it’s scarcely worth anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweler’s for a rouble and a half.’ ‘Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father’s. I shall be getting some money soon.’ ‘A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!’ ‘A rouble and a half!’ cried the young man. ‘Please yourself’—and the old woman handed him back the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that he 1 was on the point of going away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming. ‘Hand it over,’ he said roughly. The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers. ‘It must be the top drawer,’ he reflected. ‘So she carries the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring…. And there’s one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep notches; that can’t be the key of the chest of drawers … then there must be some other chest or strong-box … that’s worth knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that … but how degrading it all is.’ The old woman came back. ‘Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch. Here it is.’ ‘What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!’ ‘Just so.’ The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still something he wanted to say 1 or to do, but he did not himself quite know what. ‘I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna —a valuable thing—silver—a cigarettebox, as soon as I get it back from a friend …’ he broke off in confusion. ‘Well, we will talk about it then, sir.’ ‘Good-bye—are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with you?’ He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the passage. ‘What business is she of yours, my good sir?’ ‘Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick…. Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna.’ Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in the street he cried out, ‘Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly…. No, it’s nonsense, it’s rubbish!’ he added resolutely. ‘And how could such an atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!—and for a whole month I’ve been….’ But no words, no exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and 1 only came to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became clear. ‘All that’s nonsense,’ he said hopefully, ‘and there is nothing in it all to worry about! It’s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and in one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!’ But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not normal. There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were 1 a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these: ‘His wife a year he fondly loved His wife a—a year he— fondly loved.’ Or suddenly waking up again: ‘Walking along the crowded row He met the one he used to know.’ But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation. 1 Chapter II Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern. The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an atmosphere might well make a man drunk. There are chance meetings with strangers that interest 0 us from the first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At the other persons in the room, including the tavern- keeper, the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense feeling—perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he ruffled 1 up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: ‘May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite conversation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have always respected education when in conjunction with genuine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor in rank. Marmeladov—such is my name; titular counsellor. I make bold to inquire—have you been in the service?’ ‘No, I am studying,’ answered the young man, somewhat surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary desire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irritable and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached or attempted to approach him. ‘A student then, or formerly a student,’ cried the clerk. ‘Just what I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense experience, sir,’ and he tapped his forehead with his fingers in self-approval. ‘You’ve been a student or have attended some learned institution! … But allow me….’ He got up, staggered, took up his jug and glass, and sat down beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too had not spo- ken to a soul for a month. ‘Honoured sir,’ he began almost with solemnity, ‘poverty is not a vice, that’s a true saying. Yet I know too that drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that’s even truer. But beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary—never—no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of human society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right, too, forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to humiliate myself. Hence the pot-house! Honoured sir, a month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you understand? Allow me to ask you another question out of simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay barge, on the Neva?’ ‘No, I have not happened to,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve slept so….’ He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not undressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, particularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black nails. His conversation seemed to excite a general though languid interest. The boys at the counter fell to sniggering. The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently on purpose to listen to the ‘funny fellow’ and sat down at a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently Marmeladov was a familiar figure here, and he had most Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from the habit of frequently entering into conversation with strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home. Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify themselves and even if possible obtain consideration. ‘Funny fellow!’ pronounced the innkeeper. ‘And why don’t you work, why aren’t you at your duty, if you are in the service?’ ‘Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,’ Marmeladov went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as though it had been he who put that question to him. ‘Why am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Lebeziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, didn’t I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened to you … hm … well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?’ ‘Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly?’ ‘Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know beforehand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for instance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this most reputable and exemplary citizen, will on no consideration give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with modern ideas explained the other day that compassion is forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s what is done now in England, where there is political economy. Why, I ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I know beforehand that he won’t, I set off to him and …’ ‘Why do you go?’ put in Raskolnikov. ‘Well, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! For every man must have somewhere to go. Since there are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then I had to go … (for my daughter has a yellow passport),’ he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness at the young man. ‘No matter, sir, no matter!’ he went on hurriedly and with apparent composure when both the boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper smiled—‘No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of their heads; for everyone knows everything about it already, and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it all, not with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! ‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young man, can you…. No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not can you but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?’ The young man did not answer a word. ‘Well,’ the orator began again stolidly and with even increased dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the room to subside. ‘Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my spouse, is a person of education and an officer’s daughter. Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And yet … oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place where Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com people feel for him! But Katerina Ivanovna, though she is magnanimous, she is unjust…. And yet, although I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does it out of pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls my hair, young man,’ he declared with redoubled dignity, hearing the sniggering again—‘but, my God, if she would but once…. But no, no! It’s all in vain and it’s no use talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did come true and more than once she has felt for me but … such is my fate and I am a beast by nature!’ ‘Rather!’ assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov struck his fist resolutely on the table. ‘Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes—that would be more or less in the order of things, but her stockings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting blood too. We have three little children and Katerina Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrubbing and cleaning and washing the children, for she’s been used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you suppose I don’t feel it? And the more I drink the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and feeling in drink…. I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!’ And as though in despair he laid his head down on the table. ‘Young man,’ he went on, raising his head again, ‘in your face I seem to read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving she danced the shawl dance before the governor and other personages for which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal … well, the medal of course was sold—long ago, hm … but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she wanted to tell someone or other of her past honours and of the happy days that are gone. I don’t condemn her for it, I don’t blame her, for the one thing left her is recollection of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won’t allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That’s why she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov’s rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father’s house. She was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and with that he died. He used to beat her Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com at the end: and although she paid him back, of which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up to me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been happy…. And she was left at his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sort, I don’t feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too, excessively proud…. And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and distinguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don’t understand yet…. And for a whole year, I performed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not touch this’ (he tapped the jug with his finger), ‘for I have feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I lost my place too, and that through no fault of mine but through changes in the office; and then I did touch it! … It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found ourselves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities in this magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable monuments. Here I ob- tained a situation…. I obtained it and I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it was through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come out…. We have now part of a room at Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevechsel’s; and what we live upon and what we pay our rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living there besides ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam … hm … yes … And meanwhile my daughter by my first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to put up with from her step-mother whilst she was growing up, I won’t speak of. For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of generous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and short—tempered…. Yes. But it’s no use going over that! Sonia, as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and universal history, but as I was not very well up in those subjects myself and we had no suitable books, and what books we had … hm, anyway we have not even those now, so all our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity, she has read other books of romantic tendency and of late she had read with great interest a book she got through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, Lewes’ Physiology—do you know it?—and even recounted extracts from it to us: and that’s the whole of her education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest work? Not fifteen farthings a day can she earn, if she is respectable and has no special talent and that without putting her work down for an instant! Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com And what’s more, Ivan Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor—have you heard of him?—has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen shirts she made him and drove her roughly away, stamping and reviling her, on the pretext that the shirt collars were not made like the pattern and were put in askew. And there are the little ones hungry…. And Katerina Ivanovna walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks flushed red, as they always are in that disease: ‘Here you live with us,’ says she, ‘you eat and drink and are kept warm and you do nothing to help.’ And much she gets to eat and drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three days! I was lying at the time … well, what of it! I was lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a gentle creature with a soft little voice … fair hair and such a pale, thin little face). She said: ‘Katerina Ivanovna, am I really to do a thing like that?’ And Darya Frantsovna, a woman of evil character and very well known to the police, had two or three times tried to get at her through the landlady. ‘And why not?’ said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, ‘you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!’ But don’t blame her, don’t blame her, honoured sir, don’t blame her! She was not herself when she spoke, but driven to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry children; and it was said more to wound her than anything else…. For that’s Katerina Ivanovna’s character, and when children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating them at once. At six o’clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her kerchief and her cape, and go out of the room and about nine o’clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina 0 Ivanovna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look at her, she simply picked up our big green drap de dames shawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de dames), put it over her head and face and lay down on the bed with her face to the wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shuddering…. And I went on lying there, just as before…. And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in the same silence go up to Sonia’s little bed; she was on her knees all the evening kissing Sonia’s feet, and would not get up, and then they both fell asleep in each other’s arms … together, together … yes … and I … lay drunk.’ Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared his throat. ‘Since then, sir,’ he went on after a brief pause—‘Since then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and through information given by evil- intentioned persons—in all which Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that she had been treated with want of respect—since then my daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yellow ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living with us. For our landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna would not hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna before) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov too … hm…. All the trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia’s account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself and then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: ‘how,’ said he, ‘can a highly educated man like me live in the same rooms 1 with a girl like that?’ And Katerina Ivanovna would not let it pass, she stood up for her … and so that’s how it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she can…. She has a room at the Kapernaumovs’ the tailors, she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off…. Hm … yes … very poor people and all with cleft palates … yes. Then I got up in the morning, and put on my rags, lifted up my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyvitch, do you know him? No? Well, then, it’s a man of God you don’t know. He is wax … wax before the face of the Lord; even as wax melteth! … His eyes were dim when he heard my story. ‘Marmeladov, once already you have deceived my expectations … I’ll take you once more on my own responsibility’—that’s what he said, ‘remember,’ he said, ‘and now you can go.’ I kissed the dust at his feet—in thought only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, being a statesman and a man of modern political and enlightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced that I’d been taken back into the service and should receive a salary, heavens, what a to-do there was …!’ Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that moment a whole party of revellers already drunk came in from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina and the cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing ‘The Hamlet’ were heard in the entry. The room was filled with noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the new-comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new arrivals continued his story. He appeared by now to be extremely weak, but as he became more and more drunk, he became more and more talkative. The recollection of his recent success in getting the situation seemed to revive him, and was positively reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. Raskolnikov listened attentively. ‘That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes…. As soon as Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. ‘Semyon Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, shh!’ They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled cream for me! They began to get real cream for me, do you hear that? And how they managed to get together the money for a decent outfit— eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I can’t guess. Boots, cotton shirt- fronts—most magnificent, a uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles and a half. The first morning I came back from the office I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked two courses for dinner— soup and salt meat with horse radish—which we had never dreamed of till then. She had not any dresses … none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going on a visit; and not that she’d anything to do it with, she smartened herself up with nothing at all, she’d done her hair nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there she was, quite a different person, she was younger and better looking. Sonia, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com my little darling, had only helped with money ‘for the time,’ she said, ‘it won’t do for me to come and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can see.’ Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap after dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Ivanovna had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady Amalia Fyodorovna only a week before, she could not resist then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were sitting, whispering together. ‘Semyon Zaharovitch is in the service again, now, and receiving a salary,’ says she, ‘and he went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semyon Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.’ Do you hear, do you hear? ‘To be sure,’ says he, ‘Semyon Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,’ says he, ‘and in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since you promise now and since moreover we’ve got on badly without you,’ (do you hear, do you hear;) ‘and so,’ says he, ‘I rely now on your word as a gentleman.’ And all that, let me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no, she believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own fancies, upon my word she does! And I don’t blame her for it, no, I don’t blame her! … Six days ago when I brought her my first earnings in full—twenty-three roubles forty copecks altogether—she called me her poppet: ‘poppet,’ said she, ‘my little poppet.’ And when we were by ourselves, you understand? You would not think me a beauty, you would not think much of me as a husband, would you? … Well, she pinched my cheek, ‘my little poppet,’ said she.’ Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin began to twitch. He controlled himself however. The tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five nights in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Raskolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt vexed that he had come here. ‘Honoured sir, honoured sir,’ cried Marmeladov recovering himself— ‘Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only worrying you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I can feel it all…. And the whole of that heavenly day of my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting dreams of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore her to the bosom of her family…. And a great deal more…. Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir’ (Marmeladov suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed intently at his listener) ‘well, on the very next day after all those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, and now look at me, all of you! It’s the fifth day since I left home, and they are looking for me there and it’s the end of my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern on the Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have on … and it’s the end Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com of everything!’ Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado, he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said: ‘This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for a pick-me-up! He-he-he!’ ‘You don’t say she gave it to you?’ cried one of the newcomers; he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw. ‘This very quart was bought with her money,’ Marmeladov declared, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. ‘Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, all she had, as I saw…. She said nothing, she only looked at me without a word…. Not on earth, but up yonder … they grieve over men, they weep, but they don’t blame them, they don’t blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts more when they don’t blame! Thirty copecks yes! And maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my dear sir? For now she’s got to keep up her appearance. It costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you know? Do you understand? And there’s pomatum, too, you see, she must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes, too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you understand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own father, here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink! And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, who will have pity on a man like me, eh? Are you sorry for me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-he!’ He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. The pot was empty. ‘What are you to be pitied for?’ shouted the tavern-keeper who was again near them. Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter and the oaths came from those who were listening and also from those who had heard nothing but were simply looking at the figure of the discharged government clerk. ‘To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?’ Marmeladov suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arm outstretched, as though he had been only waiting for that question. ‘Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! there’s nothing to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me but pity me! And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it’s not merrymaking I seek but tears and tribulation! … Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: ‘Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, consumptive stepmother and for the little children of another? Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunkard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?’ And He will say, ‘Come to me! I have already forgiven thee once…. I have forgiven thee once…. Thy sins which are many are forgiv- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com en thee for thou hast loved much….’ And he will forgive my Sonia, He will forgive, I know it … I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek…. And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. ‘You too come forth,’ He will say, ‘Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!’ And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before him. And He will say unto us, ‘Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye also!’ And the wise ones and those of understanding will say, ‘Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?’ And He will say, ‘This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself to be worthy of this.’ And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before him … and we shall weep … and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all! … and all will understand, Katerina Ivanovna even … she will understand…. Lord, Thy kingdom come!’ And he sank down on the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, apparently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep thought. His words had created a certain impression; there was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were heard again. ‘That’s his notion!’ ‘Talked himself silly!’ ‘A fine clerk he is!’ And so on, and so on. ‘Let us go, sir,’ said Marmeladov all at once, raising his head and addressing Raskolnikov—‘come along with me … Kozel’s house, looking into the yard. I’m going to Katerina Ivanovna—time I did.’ Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the young man. They had two or three hundred paces to go. The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay and confusion as they drew nearer the house. ‘It’s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,’ he muttered in agitation—‘and that she will begin pulling my hair. What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That’s what I say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it, that’s not what I am afraid of … it’s her eyes I am afraid of … yes, her eyes … the red on her cheeks, too, frightens me … and her breathing too…. Have you noticed how people in that disease breathe … when they are excited? I am frightened of the children’s crying, too…. For if Sonia has not taken them food … I don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But blows I am not afraid of…. Know, sir, that such blows are not a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can’t get on without it…. It’s better so. Let her strike me, it relieves her heart … it’s better so … There is the house. The house of Kozel, the cabinet-maker … a German, well-to-do. Lead the way!’ They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly eleven o’clock and although in summer in Peters- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com burg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs. A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially children’s garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but their room was practically a passage. The door leading to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia Lippevechsel’s flat was divided stood half open, and there was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time. Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon 0 it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for Marmeladov…. She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother’s neck. She was trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a sudden scream on 1 seeing her husband on his knees in the doorway. ‘Ah!’ she cried out in a frenzy, ‘he has come back! The criminal! the monster! … And where is the money? What’s in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the money! Speak!’ And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there. ‘Where is the money?’ she cried—‘Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all? There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!’ and in a fury she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees. ‘And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,’ he called out, shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was shaking like a leaf. ‘He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,’ the poor woman screamed in despair —‘and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!’—and wringing her hands she pointed to the children. ‘Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not ashamed?’—she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov— ‘from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have been drinking with him, too! Go away!’ The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed his mind and would have gone back. ‘What a stupid thing I’ve done,’ he thought to himself, ‘they have Sonia and I want it myself.’ But reflecting that it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging. ‘Sonia wants pomatum too,’ he said as he walked along the street, and he laughed malignantly—‘such smartness costs money…. Hm! And maybe Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting big game … digging for gold … then they would all be without a crust to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they’ve dug Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com there! And they’re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most of it! They’ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to everything, the scoundrel!’ He sank into thought. ‘And what if I am wrong,’ he cried suddenly after a moment’s thought. ‘What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind—then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and it’s all as it should be.’ Chapter III He waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious, irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it and felt every moment that he would knock his head against the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole of one wall and half the floor space of the room; it was once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his old student’s overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of the sofa. It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of disorder, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from everyone, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com of a servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked sometimes into his room made him writhe with nervous irritation. He was in the condition that overtakes some monomaniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only servant, was rather pleased at the lodger’s mood and had entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She waked him up that day. ‘Get up, why are you asleep?’ she called to him. ‘It’s past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? I should think you’re fairly starving?’ Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognised Nastasya. ‘From the landlady, eh?’ he asked, slowly and with a sickly face sitting up on the sofa. ‘From the landlady, indeed!’ She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side of it. ‘Here, Nastasya, take it please,’ he said, fumbling in his pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a handful of coppers—‘run and buy me a loaf. And get me a little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher’s.’ ‘The loaf I’ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn’t you rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It’s capital soup, yesterday’s. I saved it for you yesterday, but you came in late. It’s fine soup.’ When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began chatting. She was a country peasant-woman and a very talkative one. ‘Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police about you,’ she said. He scowled. ‘To the police? What does she want?’ ‘You don’t pay her money and you won’t turn out of the room. That’s what she wants, to be sure.’ ‘The devil, that’s the last straw,’ he muttered, grinding his teeth, ‘no, that would not suit me … just now. She is a fool,’ he added aloud. ‘I’ll go and talk to her to-day.’ ‘Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if you are so clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?’ ‘I am doing …’ Raskolnikov began sullenly and reluctantly. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Work …’ ‘What sort of work?’ ‘I am thinking,’ he answered seriously after a pause. Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was given to laughter and when anything amused her, she laughed inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she felt ill. ‘And have you made much money by your thinking?’ she managed to articulate at last. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘One can’t go out to give lessons without boots. And I’m sick of it.’ ‘Don’t quarrel with your bread and butter.’ ‘They pay so little for lessons. What’s the use of a few coppers?’ he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to his own thought. ‘And you want to get a fortune all at once?’ He looked at her strangely. ‘Yes, I want a fortune,’ he answered firmly, after a brief pause. ‘Don’t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall I get you the loaf or not?’ ‘As you please.’ ‘Ah, I forgot! A letter came for you yesterday when you were out.’ ‘A letter? for me! from whom?’ ‘I can’t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the postman for it. Will you pay me back?’ ‘Then bring it to me, for God’s sake, bring it,’ cried Raskolnikov greatly excited—‘good God!’ A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: from his mother, from the province of R——. He turned pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had received a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his heart. ‘Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness’ sake; here are your three copecks, but for goodness’ sake, make haste and go!’ The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to open it in her presence; he wanted to be left alone with this letter. When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the mother who had once taught him to read and write. He delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he opened it; it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with very small handwriting. ‘My dear Rodya,’ wrote his mother—‘it’s two months since I last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame me for my inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are all we have to look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, our one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had given up the university some months ago, for want of means to keep yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work! How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a year pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is a kind-hearted man and was a friend of your father’s too. But having given him the right to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and that is only just done, so that I’ve been unable to send you anything all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on our good fortune now, of which I Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com hasten to inform you. In the first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall not be separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed from you. When you wrote to me two months ago that you had heard that Dounia had a great deal to put up with in the Svidrigraïlovs’ house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all about it—what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown up everything and have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What made it all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles in advance when she took the place as governess in their family, on condition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) she took chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed so terribly then and which you received from us last year. We deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dounia’s savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all about it, because, thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At 0 first indeed Mr. Svidrigaïlov treated her very rudely and used to make disrespectful and jeering remarks at table…. But I don’t want to go into all those painful details, so as not to worry you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigaïlov’s wife, and all the rest of the household, Dounia had a very hard time, especially when Mr. Svidrigaïlov, relapsing into his old regimental habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning, but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Possibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that made him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an open and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her to another estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went through! To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia could not hope to escape from that awful 1 house for another six weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is and what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and even in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude to maintain her firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear of upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting quite a wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame upon her, believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant’s cart, into which they flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet what could you do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia would not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month the town was full of gossip about this scandal, and it came to such a pass that Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the contemptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were intending to insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this was set going by Marfa Petrovna who managed to slander Dounia and throw dirt at her in every family. She knows everyone in the neighbourhood, and that month she was continually coming into the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping about her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each of her husband—which is not at all right —so in a short time she had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole surrounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better than I did, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God’s mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigaïlov returned to his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of Dounia’s innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in the garden. This letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigaïlov’s hands after her departure, she had written to refuse personal explanations and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her. In that letter she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Petrovna, reminding him that he was the father and head of a family and telling him how infamous it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless girl, unhappy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the servants, too, cleared Dounia’s reputation; they had seen and known a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigaïlov had himself supposed —as indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was completely taken aback, and ‘again crushed’ as she said herself to us, but she was completely convinced of Dounia’s innocence. The very next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to bear this new trial and to do her duty. Then she came straight from the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully penitent, she embraced Dounia and besought her to forgive her. The same morning without any delay, she went round to all the houses in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most flattering terms Dounia’s innocence and the nobility of her feelings and her behavior. What was more, she showed and read to everyone the letter in Dounia’s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigaïlov and even allowed them to take copies of it— which I must say I think was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving about the whole town, because some people had taken offence through precedence having been given to others. And therefore they had to take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she ar- rived, and everyone knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people assembled for every reading of it, even many who had heard it several times already both in their own houses and in other people’s. In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unnecessary; but that’s Marfa Petrovna’s character. Anyway she succeeded in completely re-establishing Dounia’s reputation and the whole ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her husband, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. All of a sudden everyone began to treat her with marked respect and all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry him. I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been arranged without asking your consent, I think you will not be aggrieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on the spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It began with his expressing through her his desire to make our acquaintance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the very next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly surprised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old, but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance and might still be thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes to Petersburg, as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make a favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming prejudices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by many indications, is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, many of the convictions ‘of our most rising generation’ and he is an opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for he seems a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this is scarcely a vice. I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and seems to be good-natured. You know your sister’s character, Rodya. She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and has the heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her husband happy who on his side will make her happiness his care. Of that we have no good reason to doubt, though it must be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of great prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him. And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even certain differences of opinion —which indeed are inevitable even in the happiest marriages— Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relationship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck me, for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia’s consent, in the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia’s acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good reputation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced poverty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and only remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that ‘words are not deeds,’ and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided. ‘I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants to open a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in conducting civil and commercial litigation, and only the other day he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because he has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may be of the greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and I have agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon your career and might consider that your future is marked out and assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential blessing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted for the duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted!) but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a regular plan for your becoming in the end an associate and even a partner in Pyotr Petrovitch’s business, which might well be, seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petrovitch’s evasiveness, very natural at present (since he does not know you), Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her good influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your own efforts become his right hand in the office, and receive this assistance Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work. Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with enthusiasm about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without seeing him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for my own personal, perhaps old- womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by myself, apart, than with them, after the wedding. I am convinced that he will be generous and delicate enough to invite me and to urge me to remain with my daughter for the future, and if he has said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has been taken for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in my life that husbands don’t quite get on with their mothers-in- law, and I don’t want to be the least bit in anyone’s way, and for my own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dounia. If possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most joyful piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter: know then, my dear boy, that we may, perhaps, be all together in a very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation of almost three years! It is settled for certain that Dounia and I are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when I 0 don’t know, but very, very soon, possibly in a week. It all depends on Pyotr Petrovitch who will let us know when he has had time to look round him in Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if it could be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately after. Oh, with what happiness I shall press you to my heart! Dounia is all excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she said one day in joke that she would be ready to marry Pyotr Petrovitch for that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, and has only told me to write that she has so much, so much to tell you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a few lines would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself; she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money as I can in a day or two. Now that everyone has heard that Dounia is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and I know that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy-five roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall be able to send you twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send you more, but I am uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to undertake part of the expenses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the conveyance of our bags and big trunk (which will be conveyed through some acquaintances of his), we must reckon upon some expense on our arrival in Petersburg, where we can’t be left without a halfpenny, 1 at least for the first few days. But we have calculated it all, Dounia and I, to the last penny, and we see that the journey will not cost very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the railway and we have come to an agreement with a driver we know, so as to be in readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two sheets already and there is no space left for more; our whole history, but so many events have happened! And now, my precious Rodya, I embrace you and send you a mother’s blessing till we meet. Love Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is an angel and you, Rodya, you are everything to us—our one hope, our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may have been visited by the new spirit of infidelity that is abroad today; If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your childhood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Good-bye, till we meet then— I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses. ‘Yours till death, ‘PULCHERIA RASKOLNIKOV.’ Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolnikov’s face was wet with tears; but when he finished it, his face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and ma- lignant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long time. His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a turmoil. At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow room that was like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this time without dread of meeting anyone; he had forgotten his dread. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though hastening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was, without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by. Many of them took him to be drunk. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter IV His mother’s letter had been a torture to him, but as regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not one moment’s hesitation, even whilst he was reading the letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably settled, in his mind: ‘Never such a marriage while I am alive and Mr. Luzhin be damned!’ ‘The thing is perfectly clear,’ he muttered to himself, with a malignant smile anticipating the triumph of his decision. ‘No, mother, no, Dounia, you won’t deceive me! and then they apologise for not asking my advice and for taking the decision without me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and can’t be broken off; but we will see whether it can or not! A magnificent excuse: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch is such a busy man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost by express.’ No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking about, when you walked up and down all night, and what your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan who stands in mother’s bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to Golgotha…. Hm … so it is finally settled; you have determined to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has already made his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive) a man who holds two government posts and who shares the ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and who seems to be kind, as Dounia herself observes. That seems beats everything! And that very Dounia for that very ‘seems’ is marrying him! Splendid! splendid! ‘… But I should like to know why mother has written to me about ‘our most rising generation’? Simply as a descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should like to know one thing more: how far they were open with one another that day and night and all this time since? Was it all put into words or did both understand that they had the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to speak of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother’s letter it’s evident: he struck her as rude a little and mother in her simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she was sure to be vexed and ‘answered her angrily.’ I should think so! Who would not be angered when it was quite clear without any naïve questions and when it was understood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she write to me, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more than herself’? Has she a secret conscience-prick at sacrificing her daughter to her son? ‘You are our one comfort, you are everything to us.’ Oh, mother!’ His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might have murdered him. ‘Hm … yes, that’s true,’ he continued, pursuing the whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, ‘it is true that ‘it needs time and care to get to know a man,’ but Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is he is ‘a man of business and seems kind,’ that was something, wasn’t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A kind man, no doubt after that! But his bride and her mother are to drive in a peasant’s cart covered with sacking (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is only ninety versts and then they can ‘travel very comfortably, third class,’ for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. One must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, but what about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride…. And you must be aware that her mother has to raise money on her pension for the journey. To be sure it’s a matter of business, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares and expenses;—food and drink provided, but pay for your tobacco. The business man has got the better of them, too. The luggage will cost less than their fares and very likely go for nothing. How is it that they don’t both see all that, or is it that they don’t want to see? And they are pleased, pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, and that the real fruits are to come! But what really matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after marriage, it’s a foretaste of it. And mother too, why should she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she gets to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two ‘paper ones’ as she says…. that old woman … hm. What does she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not live with Dounia after the marriage, even for the first few months. The good man has no doubt let slip something on that sub- ject also, though mother would deny it: ‘I shall refuse,’ says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she counting on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old eyes. And all her shawls don’t add more than twenty roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know that. So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin’s generosity; ‘he will offer it of himself, he will press it on me.’ You may wait a long time for that! That’s how it always is with these Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last moment every goose is a swan with them, till the last moment, they hope for the best and will see nothing wrong, and although they have an inkling of the other side of the picture, yet they won’t face the truth till they are forced to; the very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out in false colours puts a fool’s cap on them with his own hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole and that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding, too! Enough of him, confound him! ‘Well, … mother I don’t wonder at, it’s like her, God bless her, but how could Dounia? Dounia darling, as though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when I saw you last: I understood you then. Mother writes that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ I know that very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for the last two and a half years I have been thinking about it, thinking of just Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com that, that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigaïlov and all the rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of the superiority of wives raised from destitution and owing everything to their husband’s bounty—who propounds it, too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he ‘let it slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the man, of course, but she will have to live with the man. Why! she’d live on black bread and water, she would not sell her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein, much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that sort when I knew her and … she is still the same, of course! Yes, there’s no denying, the Svidrigaïlovs are a bitter pill! It’s a bitter thing to spend one’s life a governess in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with a German master than degrade her soul, and her moral dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she does not respect and with whom she has nothing in common—for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had been of unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why is she consenting then? What’s the point of it? What’s the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her comfort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for someone else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one she adores, she will sell herself! That’s what it all amounts to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself! She will sell everything! In such cases, ‘we overcome our moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience even, all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade ourselves that it is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just like us, it’s as clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one else. Oh, yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in the university, make him a partner in the office, make his whole future secure; perhaps he may even be a rich man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, precious Rodya, her first born! For such a son who would not sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts! Why, for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia’s fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you, Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin. ‘There can be no question of love,’ mother writes. And what if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? So you will have to ‘keep up your appearance,’ too. Is not that so? Do you understand what that smartness means? Do you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in your case, Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but with Sonia it’s simply a question of starvation. It has to be paid for, it has to be paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And what if it’s more than you can bear afterwards, if you regret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Petrovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now she is uneasy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you taken me for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t have it, mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shall not, it shall not! I won’t accept it!’ He suddenly paused in his reflection and stood still. ‘It shall not be? But what are you going to do to prevent it? You’ll forbid it? And what right have you? What can you promise them on your side to give you such a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will devote to them when you have finished your studies and obtained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and that’s all words but now? Now something must be done, now, do you understand that? And what are you doing now? You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigaïlovs. How are you going to save them from Svidrigaïlovs, from Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who would arrange their lives for them? In another ten years? In another ten years, mother will be blind with knitting shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn to a shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a moment what may have become of your 0 sister in ten years? What may happen to her during those ten years? Can you fancy?’ So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such questions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him, they were old familiar aches. It was long since they had first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic question, which tortured his heart and mind, clamouring insistently for an answer. Now his mother’s letter had burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, or else … ‘Or throw up life altogether!’ he cried suddenly, in a frenzy—‘accept one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity, life and love!’ ‘Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?’ Marmeladov’s question came suddenly into his mind, ‘for every man must have somewhere to turn….’ He gave a sudden start; another thought, that he had had yesterday, slipped back into his mind. But he did not start at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had felt beforehand that it must come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday’s thought. The difference was that a 1 month ago, yesterday even, the thought was a mere dream: but now … now it appeared not a dream at all, it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself…. He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a darkness before his eyes. He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K—— Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It had happened to him many times going home not to notice the road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But there was at first sight something so strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to be a girl quite young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She drew Raskolnikov’s whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner; she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of a quite young, fairhaired girl—sixteen, perhaps not more than fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street. Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much frequented; and now, at two o’clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He, too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked towards the gentleman. ‘Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?’ he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage. ‘What do you mean?’ the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty astonishment. ‘Get away, that’s what I mean.’ ‘How dare you, you low fellow!’ He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a police constable stood between them. ‘That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What do you want? Who are you?’ he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his rags. Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straightforward, sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers. ‘You are just the man I want,’ Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm. ‘I am a student, Raskolnikov…. You may as well know that too,’ he added, addressing the gentleman, ‘come along, I have something to show you.’ And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat. ‘Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard. There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a professional. It’s more likely she has been given drink and deceived somewhere … for the first time … you understand? and they’ve put her out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has not dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man’s hands; that’s evident. And now look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I was going to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too, has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she is in this state … that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to make a cigarette…. Think how can we keep her out of his hands, and how are we to get her home?’ The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman was easy to understand, he turned to consider the girl. The policeman bent over to examine her more closely, and his face worked with genuine compassion. ‘Ah, what a pity!’ he said, shaking his head—‘why, she is quite a child! She has been deceived, you can see that at once. Listen, lady,’ he began addressing her, ‘where do you live?’ The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand. ‘Here,’ said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and finding twenty copecks, ‘here, call a cab and tell him to drive her to Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com her address. The only thing is to find out her address!’ ‘Missy, missy!’ the policeman began again, taking the money. ‘I’ll fetch you a cab and take you home myself. Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?’ ‘Go away! They won’t let me alone,’ the girl muttered, and once more waved her hand. ‘Ach, ach, how shocking! It’s shameful, missy, it’s a shame!’ He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic and indignant. ‘It’s a difficult job,’ the policeman said to Raskolnikov, and as he did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him: dressed in rags and handing him money! ‘Did you meet her far from here?’ he asked him. ‘I tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the seat and sank down on it.’ ‘Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that’s a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too…. Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe…. There are many like that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as though she were a lady,’ and he bent over her once more. Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, ‘looking like ladies and refined’ with pretensions to gentility and smartness…. ‘The chief thing is,’ Raskolnikov persisted, ‘to keep her out of this scoundrel’s hands! Why should he outrage her! It’s as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is not moving off!’ Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentleman heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage again, but thought better of it, and confined himself to a contemptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces away and again halted. ‘Keep her out of his hands we can,’ said the constable thoughtfully, ‘if only she’d tell us where to take her, but as it is…. Missy, hey, missy!’ he bent over her once more. She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him intently, as though realising something, got up from the seat and walked away in the direction from which she had come. ‘Oh shameful wretches, they won’t let me alone!’ she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, but along another avenue, keeping his eye on her. ‘Don’t be anxious, I won’t let him have her,’ the policeman said resolutely, and he set off after them. ‘Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!’ he repeated aloud, sighing. At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over him. ‘Hey, here!’ he shouted after the policeman. The latter turned round. ‘Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! Let him amuse himself.’ He pointed at the dandy, ‘What is it to Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com do with you?’ The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him openeyed. Raskolnikov laughed. ‘Well!’ ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of contempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl, probably taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something even worse. ‘He has carried off my twenty copecks,’ Raskolnikov murmured angrily when he was left alone. ‘Well, let him take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere? Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them devour each other alive—what is to me? How did I dare to give him twenty copecks? Were they mine?’ In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. He sat down on the deserted seat. His thoughts strayed aimlessly…. He found it hard to fix his mind on anything at that moment. He longed to forget himself altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and begin life anew…. ‘Poor girl!’ he said, looking at the empty corner where she had sat— ‘She will come to herself and weep, and then her mother will find out…. She will give her a beating, a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn her out of doors…. And even if she does not, the Darya Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be the hospital directly (that’s always the luck of those girls with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) and then … again the hospital … drink … the taverns … and more hospital, in two or three years—a wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen…. Have not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought to it? Why, they’ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But what does it matter? That’s as it should be, they tell us. A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go … that way … to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! What splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so consolatory…. Once you’ve said ‘percentage’ there’s nothing more to worry about. If we had any other word … maybe we might feel more uneasy…. But what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another one if not that one? ‘But where am I going?’ he thought suddenly. ‘Strange, I came out for something. As soon as I had read the letter I came out…. I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to Razumihin. That’s what it was … now I remember. What for, though? And what put the idea of going to Razumihin into my head just now? That’s curious.’ He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old comrades at the university. It was remarkable that Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he kept aloof from everyone, went to see no one, and did not welcome anyone who came to see him, and indeed everyone soon gave him up. He took no part in the students’ gatherings, amusements or conversations. He worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was very poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and reserve about him, as though he were keeping something to himself. He seemed to some of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com his comrades to look down upon them all as children, as though he were superior in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their beliefs and interests were beneath him. With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more unreserved and communicative with him. Indeed it was impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin. He was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid youth, good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth and dignity lay concealed under that simplicity. The better of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. He was extremely intelligent, though he was certainly rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance—tall, thin, blackhaired and always badly shaved. He was sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great physical strength. One night, when out in a festive company, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on his back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks altogether. Another thing striking about Razumihin, no failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He could lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger. He was very poor, and kept himself entirely on what he could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of no end of resources by which to earn money. He spent one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to declare that he liked it better, because one slept more soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, 0 had been obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time, and he was working with all his might to save enough to return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to see him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not even know his address. About two months before, they had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away and even crossed to the other side that he might not be observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed him by, as he did not want to annoy him. 1 Chapter V ‘Of course, I’ve been meaning lately to go to Razumihin’s to ask for work, to ask him to get me lessons or something …’ Raskolnikov thought, ‘but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so that I could get some boots and make myself tidy enough to give lessons … hm … Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers I earn? That’s not what I want now. It’s really absurd for me to go to Razumihin….’ The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even more than he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this apparently ordinary action. ‘Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out by means of Razumihin alone?’ he asked himself in perplexity. He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head. ‘Hm … to Razumihin’s,’ he said all at once, calmly, as though he had reached a final determination. ‘I shall go to Razumihin’s of course, but … not now. I shall go to him … on the next day after It, when It will be over and everything will begin afresh….’ And suddenly he realised what he was thinking. ‘After It,’ he shouted, jumping up from the seat, ‘but is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?’ He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all this had for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random. His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round, he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention; he gazed Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he had thirty copecks. ‘Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday,’ he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing an eatinghouse or tavern, and felt that he was hungry…. Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a long while since he had taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though he only drank a wineglassful. His legs felt suddenly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep. In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system. Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He was a child about seven years old, walking into the country with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in his dream than he had done in memory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, when he walked by it with his father. There was always a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hideous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking figures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was a winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his father and mother, when a service was held in memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmoth- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com er’s grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was holding his father’s hand and looking with dread at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at those great cart- horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, one of those peasants’ nags which he had often seen straining their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even about the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the balalaïka, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunken peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown over their shoulders. ‘Get in, get in!’ shouted one of them, a young thicknecked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. ‘I’ll take you all, get in!’ But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd. ‘Take us all with a beast like that!’ ‘Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?’ ‘And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!’ ‘Get in, I’ll take you all,’ Mikolka shouted again, leaping first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. ‘The bay has gone with Matvey,’ he shouted from the cart—‘and this brute, mates, is just breaking my heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She’s just eating her head off. Get in, I tell you! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll gallop!’ and he picked up the whip, preparing himself with relish to flog the little mare. ‘Get in! Come along!’ The crowd laughed. ‘D’you hear, she’ll gallop!’ ‘Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!’ ‘She’ll jog along!’ ‘Don’t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!’ ‘All right! Give it to her!’ They all clambered into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com making jokes. Six men got in and there was still room for more. They hauled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded headdress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they help laughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready to help Mikolka. With the cry of ‘now,’ the mare tugged with all her might, but far from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips which were showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashed the mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop. ‘Let me get in, too, mates,’ shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was aroused. ‘Get in, all get in,’ cried Mikolka, ‘she will draw you all. I’ll beat her to death!’ And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himself with fury. ‘Father, father,’ he cried, ‘father, what are they doing? Father, they are beating the poor horse!’ ‘Come along, come along!’ said his father. ‘They are drunken and foolish, they are in fun; come away, don’t look!’ and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling. ‘Beat her to death,’ cried Mikolka, ‘it’s come to that. I’ll do for her!’ ‘What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?’ shouted an old man in the crowd. ‘Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cartload,’ said another. ‘You’ll kill her,’ shouted the third. ‘Don’t meddle! It’s my property, I’ll do what I choose. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop! …’ All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick! Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her about the ribs. One ran each side. ‘Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,’ cried Mikolka. ‘Give us a song, mates,’ shouted someone in the cart and everyone in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking nuts and laughing. … He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, his tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he tore him- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com self from her and ran back to the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more. ‘I’ll teach you to kick,’ Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw down the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort brandished it over the mare. ‘He’ll crush her,’ was shouted round him. ‘He’ll kill her!’ ‘It’s my property,’ shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud. ‘Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?’ shouted voices in the crowd. And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow. ‘She’s a tough one,’ was shouted in the crowd. ‘She’ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,’ said an admiring spectator in the crowd. ‘Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,’ shouted a third. ‘I’ll show you! Stand off,’ Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. ‘Look out,’ he shouted, and with 0 all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on the ground like a log. ‘Finish her off,’ shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything they could come across—whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died. ‘You butchered her,’ someone shouted in the crowd. ‘Why wouldn’t she gallop then?’ ‘My property!’ shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to beat. ‘No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,’ many voices were shouting in the crowd. But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips…. Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried him out of the crowd. ‘Come along, come! Let us go home,’ he said to him. ‘Father! Why did they … kill … the poor horse!’ he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest. 1 ‘They are drunk…. They are brutal … it’s not our business!’ said his father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He tried to draw a breath, to cry out—and woke up. He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror. ‘Thank God, that was only a dream,’ he said, sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. ‘But what is it? Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!’ He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands. ‘Good God!’ he cried, ‘can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open … that I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered in the blood … with the axe…. Good God, can it be?’ He was shaking like a leaf as he said this. ‘But why am I going on like this?’ he continued, sitting up again, as it were in profound amazement. ‘I knew that I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that … experiment yesterday I realised completely that I could never bear to do it…. Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile … the very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror. ‘No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arithmetic…. My God! Anyway I couldn’t bring myself to it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am I still … ?’ He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though surprised at finding himself in this place, and went towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul. ‘Lord,’ he prayed, ‘show me my path—I renounce that accursed … dream of mine.’ Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness he was not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession! Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, which, though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate. He could never understand and explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. It is true that Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com it happened to him dozens of times to return home without noticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose! It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his watch and make his experiment…. He already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this meeting. ‘You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,’ the huckster was saying aloud. ‘Come round tomorrow about seven. They will be here too.’ ‘To-morrow?’ said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her mind. ‘Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,’ gabbled the huckster’s wife, a lively little woman. ‘I look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not your own sister either-nothing but a step-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!’ ‘But this time don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,’ her husband interrupted; ‘that’s my advice, but come round to us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have a notion.’ ‘Am I to come?’ ‘About seven o’clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for yourself.’ ‘And we’ll have a cup of tea,’ added his wife. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘All right, I’ll come,’ said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away. Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven o’clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock precisely the old woman would be left alone. He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided. Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the plan than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone. Chapter VI Later on Raskolnikov happened to find out why the huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a very ordinary matter and there was nothing exceptional about it. A family who had come to the town and been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods and clothes, all women’s things. As the things would have fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer. This was Lizaveta’s business. She undertook such jobs and was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always fixed a fair price and stuck to it. She spoke as a rule little and, as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid. But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always afterwards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as it were, the presence of some peculiar influences and coincidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversation to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had remembered the address; he had two articles that could be pawned: his father’s old silver watch and a little gold ring Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting. He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him. Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a student, whom he did not know and had never seen, and with him a young officer. They had played a game of billiards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once he heard her name. Of course it was a chance, but he could not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here someone seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student began telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovna. ‘She is first-rate,’ he said. ‘You can always get money from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings with her. But she is an awful old harpy….’ And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an article and took five and even seven percent a month on it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was continually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high. ‘There’s a phenomenon for you,’ cried the student and he laughed. They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta was younger than the old woman and was her half-sister, being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not dare to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister’s permission. The old woman had already made her will, and Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all the money was left to a monastery in the province of N——, that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore battered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What the student expressed most surprise and amusement about was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘But you say she is hideous?’ observed the officer. ‘Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it is that lots of people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet.’ ‘You seem to find her attractive yourself,’ laughed the officer. ‘From her queerness. No, I’ll tell you what. I could kill that damned old woman and make off with her money, I assure you, without the faintest conscience-prick,’ the student added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was! ‘Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,’ the student said hotly. ‘I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You understand? You understand?’ ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ answered the officer, watching his excited companion attentively. ‘Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman’s money which will be buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set 100 on the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals—and all with her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives in exchange—it’s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence! No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated.’ ‘Of course she does not deserve to live,’ remarked the officer, ‘but there it is, it’s nature.’ ‘Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that, there would never have been a single great man. They talk of duty, conscience—I don’t want to say anything against duty and conscience; —but the point is, what do we mean by them. Stay, I have another question to ask you. Listen!’ ‘No, you stay, I’ll ask you a question. Listen!’ ‘Well?’ ‘You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the old woman yourself?’ ‘Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it…. It’s nothing to do with me….’ 101 ‘But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about it…. Let us have another game.’ Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just conceiving … the very same ideas? And why, just at the moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint…. ***** On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing him. He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again in her own tea-pot. ‘My goodness, how he sleeps!’ she cried indignantly. ‘And 10 he is always asleep.’ He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again. ‘Going to sleep again,’ cried Nastasya. ‘Are you ill, eh?’ He made no reply. ‘Do you want some tea?’ ‘Afterwards,’ he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning to the wall. Nastasya stood over him. ‘Perhaps he really is ill,’ she said, turned and went out. She came in again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully rousing him. ‘Why are you lying like a log?’ she shouted, looking at him with repulsion. He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and stared at the floor. ‘Are you ill or not?’ asked Nastasya and again received no answer. ‘You’d better go out and get a breath of air,’ she said after a pause. ‘Will you eat it or not?’ ‘Afterwards,’ he said weakly. ‘You can go.’ And he motioned her out. She remained a little longer, looked at him with compassion and went out. A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the bread, took up a spoon and began to eat. He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, as it were mechanically. His head ached less. After his meal 10 he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the pillow. He was haunted by day-dreams and such strange day-dreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the palms stood all around in a complete circle; all the party were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened here and there like gold…. Suddenly he heard a clock strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly jumped up wide awake as though someone had pulled him off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if everyone was asleep…. It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet…. And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsiness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, feverish, as it were distracted haste. But the preparations to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on thinking of everything and forgetting nothing; and his heart kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat—a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and picked out 10 amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only outer garment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed outside when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still have had to support it with his hand, which would have been noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold the end of the handle all the way, so that it did not swing; and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could not be seen from outside that he was holding something with the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had designed a fortnight before. When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a little opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the left corner and drew out the pledge which he had got ready long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there 10 was some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened them very firmly, crossing and re-crossing the thread round them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the first minute that the ‘thing’ was made of wood. All this had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had only just got the pledge out when he heard someone suddenly about in the yard. ‘It struck six long ago.’ ‘Long ago! My God!’ He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do—to steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one strange characteristic: the more final they were, the more hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never 10 for a single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out of his plans. And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the least point could have been considered and finally settled, and no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncertainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling business cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nastasya was continually out of the house, especially in the evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the landlady was always scolding her about. And so, when the time came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything was over) go in and put it back again. But these were doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the axe, look for it, make an outcry —that would mean suspicion or at least grounds for suspicion. But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the chief point, and put off trifling details, until he could believe in it all. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed to himself at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that he would sometime leave off thinking, get up and simply go there…. Even his late experiment (i.e. his vis- 10 it with the object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though one should say ‘come, let us go and try it—why dream about it!’—and at once he had broken down and had run away cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last resort he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for them, as though someone were forcing and drawing him to it. At first—long before indeed—he had been much occupied with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly concealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of will power attacked a man like a disease, developed gradually and reached its highest point just before the perpetration of the crime, continued with equal violence at the moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, according to the individual case, and then passed off like any other disease. The question whether the disease 10 gives rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of disease, he did not yet feel able to decide. When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his own case there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of carrying out his design, for the simple reason that his design was ‘not a crime….’ We will omit all the process by means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have run too far ahead already…. We may add only that the practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied a secondary position in his mind. ‘One has but to keep all one’s will-power and reason to deal with them, and they will all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised oneself with the minutest details of the business….’ But this preparation had never been begun. His final decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were accidentally and unexpectedly. One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady’s kitchen, the door of which was open as usual, he glanced cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya’s absence, the landlady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the 10 time he was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of everything; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed. ‘What made me think,’ he reflected, as he went under the gateway, ‘what made me think that she would be sure not to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I assume this so certainly?’ He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have laughed at himself in his anger…. A dull animal rage boiled within him. He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, to go a walk for appearance’ sake was revolting; to go back to his room, even more revolting. ‘And what a chance I have lost for ever!’ he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gateway, just opposite the porter’s little dark room, which was also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter’s room, two paces away from him, something shining under the bench to the right caught his eye…. He looked about him—nobody. He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into it and in a faint voice called the porter. ‘Yes, not at home! Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide open.’ He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks of wood; at once, before going out, he made it fast in the noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of the room; no one had noticed him! ‘When reason fails, the devil helps!’ he thought with a strange grin. This chance raised his spirits extraordinarily. He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to 110 avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of his hat. ‘Good heavens! I had the money the day before yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!’ A curse rose from the bottom of his soul. Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. He had to make haste and at the same time to go someway round, so as to approach the house from the other side…. When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at all, indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov garden, he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction that if the summer garden were extended to the field of Mars, and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he waked up to reality. ‘What nonsense!’ he thought, ‘better think of nothing at all!’ 111 ‘So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every object that meets them on the way,’ flashed through his mind, but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss this thought…. And by now he was near; here was the house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck once. ‘What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must be fast!’ Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. At that very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the waggon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrelling; but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that moment, but he did not raise his head—he had not the strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman’s room was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was already on the stairs…. Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs, listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, thought a minute and went on. ‘Of course it would be better if they had not been here, but … it’s two storeys above them.’ 11 And there was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old woman’s was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed on the door had been torn off—they had gone away! … He was out of breath. For one instant the thought floated through his mind ‘Shall I go back?’ But he made no answer and began listening at the old woman’s door, a dead silence. Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and intently … then looked about him for the last time, pulled himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the axe in the noose. ‘Am I very pale?’ he wondered. ‘Am I not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful…. Had I better wait a little longer … till my heart leaves off thumping?’ But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the bell and rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly. No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits … and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. someone was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed to have her ear to the door…. He moved a little on purpose and muttered something aloud that he might not have the 11 appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, soberly, and without impatience, Recalling it afterwards, that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was almost unconscious of his body…. An instant later he heard the latch unfastened. 11 Chapter VII The door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly made a great mistake. Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it towards him to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him. ‘Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,’ he began, trying to speak easily, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and shook. ‘I have come … I have brought something … but we’d better come in … to the light….’ And leaving her, he passed straight into the room uninvited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was unloosed. ‘Good heavens! What it is? Who is it? What do you want?’ 11 ‘Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me … Raskolnikov … here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other day …’ And he held out the pledge. The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if she were to look like that and not say a word for another half minute, he thought he would have run away from her. ‘Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?’ he said suddenly, also with malice. ‘Take it if you like, if not I’ll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry.’ He had not even thought of saying this, but it was suddenly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and her visitor’s resolute tone evidently restored her confidence. ‘But why, my good sir, all of a minute…. What is it?’ she asked, looking at the pledge. ‘The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you know.’ She held out her hand. ‘But how pale you are, to be sure … and your hands are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?’ ‘Fever,’ he answered abruptly. ‘You can’t help getting pale … if you’ve nothing to eat,’ he added, with difficulty articulating the words. His strength was failing him again. But his answer 11 sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge. ‘What is it?’ she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand. ‘A thing … cigarette case…. Silver…. Look at it.’ ‘It does not seem somehow like silver…. How he has wrapped it up!’ Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall…. A sudden giddiness came over him. ‘But what has he tied it up like this for?’ the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him. He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe quite out, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once brought the axe down, his strength returned to him. The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light hair, streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was plaited in a rat’s tail and fastened by a broken horn comb which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried out, but 11 very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still held ‘the pledge.’ Then he dealt her another and another blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood gushed as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and contorted convulsively. He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming body)—the same right-hand pocket from which she had taken the key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his faculties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get smeared with blood…. He pulled out the keys at once, they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive and might recover her 11 senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood, after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken—it was a purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with him. He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one and would not 11 fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress, then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood- stained hands on the red brocade. ‘It’s red, and on red blood will be less noticeable,’ the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself. ‘Good God, am I going out of my senses?’ he thought with terror. But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes—probably all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed—bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he had not 10 time to take many…. He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of the bedroom. In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies’ mouths, when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just on the skull and split at one 11 blow all the top of the head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry. Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even into the room for anything in the world. But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood 1 where there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind—the idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something utterly different from what he was now doing. ‘Good God!’ he muttered ‘I must fly, fly,’ and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited him such as he had never known before. He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall! He dashed to the door and fastened the latch. 1 ‘But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away….’ He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the staircase. He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding. ‘What are they about?’ He waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone began going downstairs humming a tune. ‘How is it they all make such a noise?’ flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps. The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming there to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms. At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth 1 floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when the door divided them and he was listening. The visitor panted several times. ‘He must be a big, fat man,’ thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly. As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him again. ‘I shall fall down!’ flashed through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he recovered himself at once. ‘What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!’ he bawled in a thick voice, ‘Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey, my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?’ 1 And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority and an intimate acquaintance. At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far off, on the stairs. someone else was approaching. Raskolnikov had not heard them at first. ‘You don’t say there’s no one at home,’ the new-comer cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor, who still went on pulling the bell. ‘Good evening, Koch.’ ‘From his voice he must be quite young,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Who the devil can tell? I’ve almost broken the lock,’ answered Koch. ‘But how do you come to know me? ‘Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times running at billiards at Gambrinus’.’ ‘Oh!’ ‘So they are not at home? That’s queer. It’s awfully stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone? I’ve come on business.’ ‘Yes; and I have business with her, too.’ ‘Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose, Aie—aie! And I was hoping to get some money!’ cried the young man. ‘We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come herself. It’s out of my way. And where the devil she can have got to, I can’t make out. She sits here from year’s end to year’s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of a sudden she is out for a walk!’ ‘Hadn’t we better ask the porter?’ 1 ‘What?’ ‘Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.’ ‘Hm…. Damn it all! … We might ask…. But you know she never does go anywhere.’ And he once more tugged at the door-handle. ‘Damn it all. There’s nothing to be done, we must go!’ ‘Stay!’ cried the young man suddenly. ‘Do you see how the door shakes if you pull it?’ ‘Well?’ ‘That shows it’s not locked, but fastened with the hook! Do you hear how the hook clanks?’ ‘Well?’ ‘Why, don’t you see? That proves that one of them is at home. If they were all out, they would have locked the door from the outside with the key and not with the hook from inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don’t you see. So there they are sitting inside and don’t open the door!’ ‘Well! And so they must be!’ cried Koch, astonished. ‘What are they about in there?’ And he began furiously shaking the door. ‘Stay!’ cried the young man again. ‘Don’t pull at it! There must be something wrong…. Here, you’ve been ringing and pulling at the door and still they don’t open! So either they’ve both fainted or …’ ‘What?’ ‘I tell you what. Let’s go fetch the porter, let him wake them up.’ 1 ‘All right.’ Both were going down. ‘Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.’ ‘What for?’ ‘Well, you’d better.’ ‘All right.’ ‘I’m studying the law you see! It’s evident, e-vi-dent there’s something wrong here!’ the young man cried hotly, and he ran downstairs. Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and looking about him, began touching the door-handle pulling it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be seen. Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was in a sort of delirium. He was even making ready to fight when they should come in. While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, while they could not open the door! ‘Only make haste!’ was the thought that flashed through his mind. ‘But what the devil is he about? …’ Time was passing, one minute, and another—no one came. Koch began to be restless. ‘What the devil?’ he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and 1 thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died away. ‘Good heavens! What am I to do?’ Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door— there was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs. He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice below—where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going back to the flat. ‘Hey there! Catch the brute!’ Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice. ‘Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!’ The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. ‘They!’ Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling ‘come what must!’ If they stopped him—all was lost; if they let him pass—all was lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only a flight from him—and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. 1 The floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs. No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the street. He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. ‘Should he slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless, hopeless!’ At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could scarcely 10 move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet. ‘My word, he has been going it!’ someone shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank. He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from quite a different direction. He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his house! he was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard. But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room was closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him, ‘What do you want?’ he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room; the landlady’s door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just as he was—he did not sleep, but sank into blank 11 forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts…. 1 Part II 1 Chapter I So he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed to wake up, and at such moments he noticed that it was far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up. At last he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He was lying on his back, still dazed from his recent oblivion. Fearful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which he heard every night, indeed, under his window after two o’clock. They woke him up now. ‘Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,’ he thought, ‘it’s past two o’clock,’ and at once he leaped up, as though someone had pulled him from the sofa. ‘What! Past two o’clock!’ He sat down on the sofa—and instantly recollected everything! All at once, in one flash, he recollected everything. For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from the fever that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he was suddenly taken with violent shivering, so that his teeth chattered and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and began listening—everything in the house was asleep. With amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room around him, wondering how he could have come in the night before without fastening the door, and have flung 1 himself on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near his pillow. ‘If anyone had come in, what would he have thought? That I’m drunk but …’ He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and he began hurriedly looking himself all over from head to foot, all his clothes; were there no traces? But there was no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began taking off everything and looking over again. He turned everything over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting himself, went through his search three times. But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were clinging to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big claspknife and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to be nothing more. Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he had taken out of the old woman’s box were still in his pockets! He had not thought till then of taking them out and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When he had pulled out everything, and turned the pocket inside out to be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all the things into the hole under the paper: ‘They’re in! All out of sight, and the purse too!’ he thought gleefully, getting up and gaz- 1 ing blankly at the hole which bulged out more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with horror; ‘My God!’ he whispered in despair: ‘what’s the matter with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?’ He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hidingplace. ‘But now, now, what am I glad of?’ he thought, ‘Is that hiding things? My reason’s deserting me—simply!’ He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically he drew from a chair beside him his old student’s winter coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and delirium. He lost consciousness. Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped up a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his clothes again. ‘How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!’ He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw the bits among his linen under the pillow. ‘Pieces of torn linen couldn’t rouse suspicion, whatever happened; I think not, I think not, any way!’ he repeated, standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concentration he fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten anything. The conviction that all his faculties, even memory, 1 and the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to be an insufferable torture. ‘Surely it isn’t beginning already! Surely it isn’t my punishment coming upon me? It is!’ The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them! ‘What is the matter with me!’ he cried again, like one distraught. Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces … his reason was clouded…. Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the purse too. ‘Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the wet purse in my pocket!’ In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!— there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket! ‘So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself,’ he thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief; ‘it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s delirium,’ and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He flung off his boots; ‘traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with blood;’ he must have unwarily stepped into that pool…. ‘But what am I to do with this now? Where am 1 I to put the sock and rags and pocket?’ He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the room. ‘In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,’ he repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, ‘and at once, this minute, without lingering …’ But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him. And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to ‘go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!’ Several times he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not. He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door. ‘Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!’ shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. ‘For whole days together he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s past ten.’ ‘Maybe he’s not at home,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Ha! that’s the porter’s voice…. What does he want?’ He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a positive pain. ‘Then who can have latched the door?’ retorted Nastasya. ‘He’s taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth steal- 1 ing! Open, you stupid, wake up!’ ‘What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open? Come what may! …’ He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door. His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there. Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax. ‘A notice from the office,’ he announced, as he gave him the paper. ‘From what office?’ ‘A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.’ ‘To the police? … What for? …’ ‘How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.’ The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to go away. ‘He’s downright ill!’ observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. ‘He’s been in a fever since yesterday,’ she added. Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without opening it. ‘Don’t you get up then,’ Nastasya went on compassionately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. ‘You’re ill, and so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?’ He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. 1 So he had been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so fallen asleep again. ‘Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has got hold of a treasure …’ And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle. Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that with a person who was going to be arrested. ‘But … the police?’ ‘You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.’ ‘No … I’m going; I’ll go at once,’ he muttered, getting on to his feet. ‘Why, you’ll never get downstairs!’ ‘Yes, I’ll go.’ ‘As you please.’ She followed the porter out. At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags. ‘There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed, thank God!’ Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an ordinary summons from the district police-station to ap- 10 pear that day at half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent. ‘But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with the police! And why just to-day?’ he thought in agonising bewilderment. ‘Good God, only get it over soon!’ He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into laughter —not at the idea of prayer, but at himself. He began, hurriedly dressing. ‘If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care! Shall I put the sock on?’ he suddenly wondered, ‘it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone.’ But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again— and again he laughed. ‘That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way of looking at it,’ he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, ‘there, I’ve got it on! I have finished by getting it on!’ But his laughter was quickly followed by despair. ‘No, it’s too much for me …’ he thought. His legs shook. ‘From fear,’ he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. ‘It’s a trick! They want to decoy me there and confound me over everything,’ he mused, as he went out on to the stairs—‘the worst of it is I’m almost light-headed … I may blurt out something stupid …’ On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as they were in the hole in the wall, ‘and very likely, it’s on purpose to search when I’m out,’ he thought, 11 and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. ‘Only to get it over!’ In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going round—as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the street on a bright sunny day. When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony of trepidation he looked down it … at the house … and at once averted his eyes. ‘If they question me, perhaps I’ll simply tell,’ he thought, as he drew near the police-station. The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with a book in his hand. ‘A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is here,’ and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of anyone. ‘I’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything …’ he thought, as he reached the fourth floor. The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost the whole day. So there was a fearful 1 smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms. After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking set. He went up to one of them. ‘What is it?’ He showed the notice he had received. ‘You are a student?’ the man asked, glancing at the notice. ‘Yes, formerly a student.’ The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye. ‘There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no interest in anything,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Go in there to the head clerk,’ said the clerk, pointing towards the furthest room. He went into that room—the fourth in order; it was a small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the 1 chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face, excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: ‘Wait a minute,’ and went on attending to the lady in mourning. He breathed more freely. ‘It can’t be that!’ By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have courage and be calm. ‘Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself! Hm … it’s a pity there’s no air here,’ he added, ‘it’s stifling…. It makes one’s head dizzier than ever … and one’s mind too …’ He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess something from his face. He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly correctly. ‘Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,’ he said casually to the gaily- dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as 1 though not venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her. ‘Ich danke,’ said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness. The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on him, so that he felt positively affronted. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance. 1 ‘I was summoned … by a notice …’ Raskolnikov faltered. ‘For the recovery of money due, from the student ’ the head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. ‘Here!’ and he flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. ‘Read that!’ ‘Money? What money?’ thought Raskolnikov, ‘but … then … it’s certainly not that. ’ And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A load was lifted from his back. ‘And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?’ shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more aggrieved. ‘You are told to come at nine, and now it’s twelve!’ ‘The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,’ Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. ‘And it’s enough that I have come here ill with fever.’ ‘Kindly refrain from shouting!’ ‘I’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who are shouting at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.’ The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat. ‘Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be impudent, sir!’ ‘You’re in a government office, too,’ cried Raskolnikov, 1 ‘and you’re smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect to all of us.’ He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this. The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant superintendent was obviously disconcerted. ‘That’s not your business!’ he shouted at last with unnatural loudness. ‘Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don’t pay your debts! You’re a fine bird!’ But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second time, and still did not understand. ‘What is this?’ he asked the head clerk. ‘It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you according to the law.’ ‘But I … am not in debt to anyone!’ ‘That’s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore summon you, hereupon.’ 1 ‘But she is my landlady!’ ‘And what if she is your landlady?’ The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire for the first time—as though he would say: ‘Well, how do you feel now?’ But what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in with an exceedingly silly smile. ‘You shameful hussy!’ he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the office.) ‘What was going on at your house last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you’re a scandal to the whole street. Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you … you … !’ The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked 1 wildly at the smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh … all his nerves were on edge. ‘Ilya Petrovitch!’ the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not be stopped except by force. As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the storm. But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her word: and at last she found it. ‘There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,’ she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent, ‘and no sort of scandal, and his honour came drunk, and it’s the whole truth I am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to blame…. Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dislike any scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not at all right in an honourable house, and he ganz broke the piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so. And he took up a bottle and began hitting everyone with it. And then I called the porter, and Karl came, and he 1 took Karl and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye, too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek. And it was so ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and stood in the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a disgrace. The idea of squealing like a little pig at the window into the street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Captain, he tore sein rock. And then he shouted that man muss pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. Captain, five roubles for sein rock. And he is an ungentlemanly visitor and caused all the scandal. ‘I will show you up,’ he said, ‘for I can write to all the papers about you.’’ ‘Then he was an author?’ ‘Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in an honourable house….’ ‘Now then! Enough! I have told you already …’ ‘Ilya Petrovitch!’ the head clerk repeated significantly. The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly shook his head. ‘… So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, and I tell it you for the last time,’ the assistant went on. ‘If there is a scandal in your honourable house once again, I will put you yourself in the lock-up, as it is called in polite society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took five roubles for his coat-tail in an ‘honourable house’? A nice set, these authors!’ And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. ‘There was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An 10 author had eaten his dinner and would not pay; ‘I’ll write a satire on you,’ says he. And there was another of them on a steamer last week used the most disgraceful language to the respectable family of a civil councillor, his wife and daughter. And there was one of them turned out of a confectioner’s shop the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men, students, town-criers…. Pfoo! You get along! I shall look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be careful! Do you hear?’ With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying in all directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at the door, she stumbled backwards against a good-looking officer with a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair whiskers. This was the superintendent of the district himself, Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she fluttered out of the office. ‘Again thunder and lightning—a hurricane!’ said Nikodim Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. ‘You are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the stairs!’ ‘Well, what then!’ Ilya Petrovitch drawled with gentlemanly nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each step. ‘Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student, has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an I O U, won’t clear out of his room, and complaints are constantly being lodged against him, and here he has been pleased to make a protest against my smoking in his presence! He be- 11 haves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please. Here’s the gentleman, and very attractive he is!’ ‘Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go off like powder, you can’t bear a slight, I daresay you took offence at something and went too far yourself,’ continued Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. ‘But you were wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, and no stopping him! And then it’s all over! And at the bottom he’s a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment was the Explosive Lieutenant….’ ‘And what a regiment it was, too,’ cried Ilya Petrovitch, much gratified at this agreeable banter, though still sulky. Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something exceptionally pleasant to them all. ‘Excuse me, Captain,’ he began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, ‘will you enter into my position? … I am ready to ask pardon, if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now, but I shall get money…. I have a mother and sister in the province of X. They will send it to me, and I will pay. My landlady is a goodhearted woman, but she is so exasperated at my having lost my lessons, and not paying her for the last four months, that she does not even send up my dinner … and I don’t understand this I O U at all. She is asking me to pay her on this I O U. How am I to pay her? Judge for yourselves! …’ ‘But that is not our business, you know,’ the head clerk was observing. 1 ‘Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to explain …’ Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously oblivious of him. ‘Allow me to explain that I have been living with her for nearly three years and at first … at first … for why should I not confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal promise, freely given … she was a girl … indeed, I liked her, though I was not in love with her … a youthful affair in fact … that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life of … I was very heedless …’ ‘Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no time to waste,’ Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph; but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to speak. ‘But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain … how it all happened … In my turn … though I agree with you … it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said to me … and in a friendly way … that she had complete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never, never—those were her own words—make use of that I O U till I could pay of myself … and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to eat, she takes ac- 1 tion against me. What am I to say to that?’ ‘All these affecting details are no business of ours.’ Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. ‘You must give a written undertaking but as for your love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that.’ ‘Come now … you are harsh,’ muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed. ‘Write!’ said the head clerk to Raskolnikov. ‘Write what?’ the latter asked, gruffly. ‘I will dictate to you.’ Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to anyone’s opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police- offices? If he had been 1 sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation. And what was most agonising—it was more a sensation than a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the sensations he had known in his life. The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on. ‘But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,’ observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. ‘Are you ill?’ ‘Yes, I am giddy. Go on!’ ‘That’s all. Sign it.’ The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others. Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to him, to 1 get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat to carry it out. ‘Hadn’t I better think a minute?’ flashed through his mind. ‘No, better cast off the burden without thinking.’ But all at once he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him: ‘It’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his way if he had been going with such an object? As for Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith’s below, before he went up to the old woman and he left him at exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider …’ ‘But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? They state themselves that they knocked and the door was locked; yet three minutes later when they went up with the porter, it turned out the door was unfastened.’ ‘That’s just it; the murderer must have been there and bolted himself in; and they’d have caught him for a certainty if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the porter 1 too. He must have seized the interval to get downstairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing himself and saying: ‘If I had been there, he would have jumped out and killed me with his axe.’ He is going to have a thanksgiving service—ha, ha!’ ‘And no one saw the murderer?’ ‘They might well not see him; the house is a regular Noah’s Ark,’ said the head clerk, who was listening. ‘It’s clear, quite clear,’ Nikodim Fomitch repeated warmly. ‘No, it is anything but clear,’ Ilya Petrovitch maintained. Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the door, but he did not reach it…. When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting in a chair, supported by someone on the right side, while someone else was standing on the left, holding a yellowish glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch standing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from the chair. ‘What’s this? Are you ill?’ Nikodim Fomitch asked, rather sharply. ‘He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,’ said the head clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his work again. ‘Have you been ill long?’ cried Ilya Petrovitch from his place, where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, of course, come to look at the sick man when he fainted, but retired at once when he recovered. ‘Since yesterday,’ muttered Raskolnikov in reply. 1 ‘Did you go out yesterday?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Though you were ill?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘At what time?’ ‘About seven.’ ‘And where did you go, my I ask?’ ‘Along the street.’ ‘Short and clear.’ Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes before Ilya Petrovitch’s stare. ‘He can scarcely stand upright. And you …’ Nikodim Fomitch was beginning. ‘No matter,’ Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather peculiarly. Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, but glancing at the head clerk who was looking very hard at him, he did not speak. There was a sudden silence. It was strange. ‘Very well, then,’ concluded Ilya Petrovitch, ‘we will not detain you.’ Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager conversation on his departure, and above the rest rose the questioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faintness passed off completely. ‘A search—there will be a search at once,’ he repeated to himself, hurrying home. ‘The brutes! they suspect.’ His former terror mastered him completely again. 1 Chapter II ‘And what if there has been a search already? What if I find them in my room?’ But here was his room. Nothing and no one in it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in the hole? He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, pulled the things out and lined his pockets with them. There were eight articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked like a decoration…. He put them all in the different pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all traces before then. He must clear everything up while he still had some strength, some reasoning power left him…. Where was he to go? That had long been settled: ‘Fling them into the canal, 1 and all traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an end.’ So he had decided in the night of his delirium when several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it, turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or more and looked several times at the steps running down to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; either rafts stood at the steps’ edge, and women were washing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, everyone he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they had nothing to do but to watch him. ‘Why is it, or can it be my fancy?’ he thought. At last the thought struck him that it might be better to go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he would be less observed, and it would be more convenient in every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how he could have been wandering for a good half- hour, worried and anxious in this dangerous past without thinking of it before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was aware of it. He certainly must make haste. He walked towards the Neva along V—— Prospect, but 10 on the way another idea struck him. ‘Why to the Neva? Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?’ And though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. For coming out of V—— Prospect towards the square, he saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of different sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner of a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop, peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a carriage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place from the entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place to throw it, he thought. Not seeing anyone in the yard, he slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is often put in yards where there are many workmen or cabdrivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in chalk the time-honoured witticism, ‘Standing here strictly forbidden.’ This was all the better, for there would be nothing suspicious about his going in. ‘Here I could throw it all in a heap and get away!’ Looking round once more, with his hand already in his pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the entrance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps 11 sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. He could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he could not be seen from the entrance, unless someone came in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there was need of haste. He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in both hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immediately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was in the same position again, though it stood a very little higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed. Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an instant, as it had in the police-office. ‘I have buried my tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No clue!’ And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laughing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he reached the K—— Boulevard where two days before he had come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would be loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful, too, to meet that 1 whiskered policeman to whom he had given the twenty copecks: ‘Damn him!’ He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single point, and he felt that there really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that point—and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months. ‘Damn it all!’ he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury. ‘If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is! … And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It is not that at all!’ Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him. ‘If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen either … how’s that?’ Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though it could not 1 possibly be otherwise…. Yes, he had known it all, and understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out of it…. Yes, so it was. ‘It is because I am very ill,’ he decided grimly at last, ‘I have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing…. Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been worrying myself…. I shall get well and I shall not worry…. But what if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!’ He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces, their movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten him…. He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. ‘Why, he lives here, in that house,’ he thought, ‘why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same thing over again…. Very interesting to know, though; have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the day after; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further now.’ 1 He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor. The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise. ‘Is it you?’ he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. ‘As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!’ he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. ‘Come sit down, you are tired, I’ll be bound.’ And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his visitor was ill. ‘Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?’ He began feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I have come for this: I have no lessons…. I wanted, … but I don’t really want lessons….’ ‘But I say! You are delirious, you know!’ Razumihin observed, watching him carefully. ‘No, I am not.’ Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold. 1 ‘Good-bye,’ he said abruptly, and walked to the door. ‘Stop, stop! You queer fish.’ ‘I don’t want to,’ said the other, again pulling away his hand. ‘Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this is … almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.’ ‘Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could help … to begin … because you are kinder than anyone— cleverer, I mean, and can judge … and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all … no one’s services … no one’s sympathy. I am by myself … alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.’ ‘Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov— and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a half signatures 1 into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scandals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘Is woman a human being?’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share. And when you have finished the signature there will be another three roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?’ Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article and the three roubles, went out again, still without 1 uttering a word. ‘Are you raving, or what?’ Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last. ‘What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too … what did you come to see me for, damn you?’ ‘I don’t want … translation,’ muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs. ‘Then what the devil do you want?’ shouted Razumihin from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence. ‘Hey, there! Where are you living?’ No answer. ‘Well, confound you then!’ But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He heard laughter, of course. ‘Serves him right!’ ‘A pickpocket I dare say.’ ‘Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.’ ‘It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.’ But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his 1 back, he suddenly felt someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol. ‘Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.’ He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him. He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly 1 recalled those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him … so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all…. He felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment. Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion…. It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had never heard. He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But 10 the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors banging. ‘But why, why, and how could it be?’ he repeated, thinking seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they would come to him then next, ‘for no doubt … it’s all about that … about yesterday…. Good God!’ He would have fastened his door with the latch, but he could not lift his hand … besides, it would be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed him…. But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses…. But at last he, too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. ‘Can he have gone away? Good Lord!’ Yes, and 11 now the landlady is going too, still weeping and moaning … and then her door slammed…. Now the crowd was going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. There must have been numbers of them—almost all the inmates of the block. ‘But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come here!’ Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, a spoon. ‘You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.’ ‘Nastasya … what were they beating the landlady for?’ She looked intently at him. ‘Who beat the landlady?’ ‘Just now … half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent, on the stairs…. Why was he ill-treating her like that, and … why was he here?’ Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes. ‘Nastasya, why don’t you speak?’ he said timidly at last in a weak voice. ‘It’s the blood,’ she answered at last softly, as though 1 speaking to herself. ‘Blood? What blood?’ he muttered, growing white and turning towards the wall. Nastasya still looked at him without speaking. ‘Nobody has been beating the landlady,’ she declared at last in a firm, resolute voice. He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe. ‘I heard it myself…. I was not asleep … I was sitting up,’ he said still more timidly. ‘I listened a long while. The assistant superintendent came…. Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.’ ‘No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying things…. Will you eat something?’ He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him. ‘Give me something to drink … Nastasya.’ She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness. 1 Chapter III He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious. He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him; they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness. It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days 1 the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short- waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up. ‘Who is this, Nastasya?’ he asked, pointing to the young man. ‘I say, he’s himself again!’ she said. ‘He is himself,’ echoed the man. Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, and absurdly bashful. ‘Who … are you?’ he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in. ‘What a cabin it is!’ he cried. ‘I am always knocking my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.’ ‘He has just come to,’ said Nastasya. ‘Just come to,’ echoed the man again, with a smile. ‘And who are you?’ Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. ‘My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a 1 student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are you?’ ‘I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and I’ve come on business.’ ‘Please sit down.’ Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the table. ‘It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,’ he went on to Raskolnikov. ‘For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a name. Come, I won’t keep you,’ he said, addressing the man again. ‘Will you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to him. Who was it came before?’ ‘That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.’ ‘He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?’ ‘Yes, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.’ ‘Quite so; go on.’ ‘At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,’ the man 1 began, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘If you are in an intelligible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivanovitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?’ ‘Yes, I remember … Vahrushin,’ Raskolnikov said dreamily. ‘You hear, he knows Vahrushin,’ cried Razumihin. ‘He is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an intelligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words of wisdom.’ ‘That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch. And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a remittance once before in the same manner through him, he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirtyfive roubles in the hope of better to come.’ ‘That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve said, though ‘your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?’ ‘That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.’ ‘He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?’ ‘Yes, here’s the book.’ ‘Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.’ ‘I don’t want it,’ said Raskolnikov, pushing away the pen. ‘Not want it?’ ‘I won’t sign it.’ 1 ‘How the devil can you do without signing it?’ ‘I don’t want … the money.’ ‘Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all times though…. You are a man of judgment and we will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and he will sign it. Here.’ ‘But I can come another time.’ ‘No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of judgment…. Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you see he is waiting,’ and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s hand in earnest. ‘Stop, I’ll do it alone,’ said the latter, taking the pen and signing his name. The messenger took out the money and went away. ‘Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘Is there any soup?’ ‘Some of yesterday’s,’ answered Nastasya, who was still standing there. ‘With potatoes and rice in it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.’ ‘Very well.’ Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonishment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind to keep quiet and see what would happen. ‘I believe I am not wandering. I believe it’s reality,’ he thought. 1 In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean. ‘It would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could empty them.’ ‘Well, you are a cool hand,’ muttered Nastasya, and she departed to carry out his orders. Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swallowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumihin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov whether he ought to have more. Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer. ‘And will you have tea?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!’ He moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for three days. ‘I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day 1 now,’ he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, ‘and it’s all Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some beer?’ ‘Get along with your nonsense!’ ‘A cup of tea, then?’ ‘A cup of tea, maybe.’ ‘Pour it out. Stay, I’ll pour it out myself. Sit down.’ He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though this process was the principal and most effective means towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to sit up on the sofa without support and could not merely have held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he conceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repugnance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed that, too, and took note of it. ‘Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to 10 make him some raspberry tea,’ said Razumihin, going back to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again. ‘And where is she to get raspberries for you?’ asked Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers and sipping tea through a lump of sugar. ‘She’ll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all sorts of things have been happening while you have been laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, because I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but Buch’s. How one muddles up sound sometimes! So I lost my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! Your name is down there.’ ‘My name!’ ‘I should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, and the house- porter and Mr. Zametov, Alexandr Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, and, last, but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here 11 knows….’ ‘He’s got round her,’ Nastasya murmured, smiling slyly. ‘Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya Nikiforovna?’ ‘You are a one!’ Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into a giggle. ‘I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,’ she added suddenly, recovering from her mirth. ‘I’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so … prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?’ Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed upon him, full of alarm. ‘And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,’ Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence. ‘Ah, the sly dog!’ Nastasya shrieked again. This conversation afforded her unspeakable delight. ‘It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the right way at first. You ought to have approached her differently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. But we will talk about her character later…. How could you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending you your dinner? And that I O U? You must have been mad to sign an I O U. And that promise of marriage when her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? … I know all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would think 1 at first sight?’ ‘No,’ mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that it was better to keep up the conversation. ‘She isn’t, is she?’ cried Razumihin, delighted to get an answer out of him. ‘But she is not very clever either, eh? She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you…. She must be forty; she says she is thirty- six, and of course she has every right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of symbolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, seeing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to lose the I O U, for you assured her yourself that your mother would pay.’ ‘It was base of me to say that…. My mother herself is almost a beggar … and I told a lie to keep my lodging … and be fed,’ Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly. ‘Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, ‘Is there any hope of realising the I O U?’ Answer: there is, 1 because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage for his sake. That’s what he was building upon…. Why do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in-law, and I say all this as a friend…. But I tell you what it is; an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she gave the I O U by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security for you, brother. Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, flung him ten roubles and got the I O U back from him, and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have torn it.’ Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. Even Razumihin felt a twinge. ‘I see, brother,’ he said a moment later, ‘that I have been playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.’ ‘Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?’ Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning his head. 1 ‘Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I brought Zametov one day.’ ‘Zametov? The head clerk? What for?’ Raskolnikov turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin. ‘What’s the matter with you? … What are you upset about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I talked to him a lot about you…. How could I have found out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, brother, first-rate … in his own way, of course. Now we are friends— see each other almost every day. I have moved into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice…. Do you remember Luise, Luise Ivanovna? ‘Did I say anything in delirium?’ ‘I should think so! You were beside yourself.’ ‘What did I rave about?’ ‘What next? What did you rave about? What people do rave about…. Well, brother, now I must not lose time. To work.’ He got up from the table and took up his cap. ‘What did I rave about?’ ‘How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about earrings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he 1 gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!’ ‘He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!’ said Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin. No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him. ‘Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up, and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they have only … What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I 1 remembered a minute ago.’ He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything on it. ‘Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, but now … now I have been ill. But what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?’ he muttered, helplessly sitting on the sofa again. ‘What does it mean? Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real…. Ah, I remember; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes … but where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat—they passed that over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U … I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me! … Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find 1 me, Razumihin will find me. Better escape altogether … far away … to America, and let them do their worst! And take the I O U … it would be of use there…. What else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!’ He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old, ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep. He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall something. ‘Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!’ Razumihin shouted down the stairs. ‘You shall have the account directly.’ ‘What time is it?’ asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily. 1 ‘Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.’ ‘Good heavens! Have I?’ ‘And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it? We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle living with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And how do you feel now, brother?’ ‘I am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been here long?’ ‘I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.’ ‘No, before.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘How long have you been coming here?’ ‘Why I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you remember?’ Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly at Razumihin. ‘Hm!’ said the latter, ‘he has forgotten. I fancied then that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for your sleep…. You really look much better. First-rate! Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.’ 1 He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested him. ‘Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from the top. Do you see this cap?’ he said, taking out of the bundle a fairly good though cheap and ordinary cap. ‘Let me try it on.’ ‘Presently, afterwards,’ said Raskolnikov, waving it off pettishly. ‘Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for I bought it by guess, without measure. Just right!’ he cried triumphantly, fitting it on, ‘just your size! A proper head-covering is the first thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tolstyakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his pudding basin when he goes into any public place where other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a boastful fellow! Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this Palmerston’—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, battered hat, which for some unknown reason, he called a Palmerston—‘or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!’ he said, turning to her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak. ‘Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,’ answered Nastasya. ‘Twenty copecks, silly!’ he cried, offended. ‘Why, nowadays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And 10 that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on condition that when’s it’s worn out, they will give you another next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the United States of America, as they called them at school. I assure you I am proud of these breeches,’ and he exhibited to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey woollen material. ‘No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the fashion. And its being worn really is an improvement, it’s softer, smoother…. You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been buying summer things— warmer materials will be wanted for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any case … especially as they will be done for by then from their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will never go there again of your own free will. Now for the boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold them last week— he had only worn them six days, but he was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A bargain?’ 11 ‘But perhaps they won’t fit,’ observed Nastasya. ‘Not fit? Just look!’ and he pulled out of his pocket Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. ‘I did not go empty- handed—they took the size from this monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front…. Well now then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks the suit— together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for the underclothes—they were bought in the lo— which makes exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks and other things, I leave them to you; we’ve twenty-five roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she’ll trust you for anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your shirt.’ ‘Let me be! I don’t want to!’ Raskolnikov waved him off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to be playful about his purchases. ‘Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around for nothing,’ Razumihin insisted. ‘Nastasya, don’t be bashful, but help me—that’s it,’ and in spite of Raskolnikov’s resistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the 1 pillows and for a minute or two said nothing. ‘It will be long before I get rid of them,’ he thought. ‘What money was all that bought with?’ he asked at last, gazing at the wall. ‘Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotten that, too?’ ‘I remember now,’ said Raskolnikov after a long, sullen silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy. The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in. 1 Chapter IV Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, cleanshaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproachable, his watchchain was massive. In manner he was slow and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work. ‘I’ve been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he’s come to himself,’ cried Razumihin. ‘I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?’ said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could. ‘He is still depressed,’ Razumihin went on. ‘We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.’ ‘That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it…. His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?’ ‘I am well, I am perfectly well!’ Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and 1 looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently. ‘Very good…. Going on all right,’ he said lazily. ‘Has he eaten anything?’ They told him, and asked what he might have. ‘He may have anything … soup, tea … mushrooms and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better not have meat either, and … but no need to tell you that!’ Razumihin and he looked at each other. ‘No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, today even … but never mind …’ ‘To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,’ said Razumihin. ‘We are going to the Yusupov garden and then to the Palais de Crystal.’ ‘I would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t know … a little, maybe … but we’ll see.’ ‘Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. You are coming?’ Razumihin said to Zossimov. ‘Don’t forget, you promised.’ ‘All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?’ ‘Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie … just our friends.’ ‘And who?’ ‘All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five years.’ 1 ‘What is he?’ ‘He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about…. But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here … But you know him.’ ‘Is he a relation of yours, too?’ ‘A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?’ ‘I don’t care a damn for him.’ ‘So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.’ ‘Do tell me, please, what you or he’—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov— ‘can have in common with this Zametov?’ ‘Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.’ ‘Though he does take bribes.’ ‘Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,’ Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. ‘I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself … perhaps with you thrown in.’ ‘That’s too little; I’d give two for you.’ ‘And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more 1 of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw him not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dullards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another man down…. But if you want to know, we really have something in common.’ ‘I should like to know what.’ ‘Why, it’s all about a house-painter…. We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.’ ‘A painter?’ ‘Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbrokerwoman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it …’ ‘Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it … partly … for one reason…. I read about it in the papers, too….’ ‘Lizaveta was murdered, too,’ Nastasya blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening. ‘Lizaveta,’ murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly. ‘Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.’ Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how 1 many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower. ‘But what about the painter?’ Zossimov interrupted Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent. ‘Why, he was accused of the murder,’ Razumihin went on hotly. ‘Was there evidence against him then?’ ‘Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we have to prove. It was just as they pitched on those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night…. By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it.’ Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir. ‘But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!’ Zossimov observed. ‘Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,’ shouted Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘What’s the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying…. I respect Porfiry, but … What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov were 1 the murderers—that was their logic!’ ‘But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they could not help that…. And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman? Eh?’ ‘Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their sickening rotten, petrified routine…. And this case might be the means of introducing a new method. One can show from the psychological data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!’ ‘Can you interpret them, then?’ ‘Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only…. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?’ ‘I am waiting to hear about the painter.’ ‘Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took and it was as plain as a pikestaff- an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case containing some gold ear-rings, and told a long rigamarole. ‘The day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the day and the hour!—‘a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give 1 him two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—‘for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all come to the same thing—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay Dementyev, from a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraïsk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the rouble he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the earrings at once, for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, ‘Is Nikolay here?’ Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, 00 stayed in the house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I did not say a word to anyone’—that’s Dushkin’s tale—‘but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o’clock this morning’— that was the third day, you understand—‘I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. ‘Have you seen Dmitri?’ said I. ‘No, I haven’t,’ said he. ‘And you’ve not been here either?’ ‘Not since the day before yesterday,’ said he. ‘And where did you sleep last night?’ ‘In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.’ ‘And where did you get those ear-rings?’ I asked. ‘I found them in the street,’ and the way he said it was a bit queer; he did not look at me. ‘Did you hear what happened that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase?’ said I. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I had not heard,’ and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. ‘Wait a bit, Nikolay,’ said I, ‘won’t you have a drink?’ And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could be….’’ ‘I should think so,’ said Zossimov. 01 ‘Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station— that is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?’— answer: ‘To be sure folks may have gone up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And where did you find the earrings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement. ‘Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because 0 I was awfully frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?’ ‘Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.’ ‘I am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Why, Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it all not for temper but in a friendly way, for sport. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I 0 stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the ear-rings….’’ ‘Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?’ Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumihin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand. ‘Yes … why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’ Razumihin, too, got up from his seat. ‘Nothing,’ Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. All were silent for a while. ‘He must have waked from a dream,’ Razumihin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly shook his head. ‘Well, go on,’ said Zossimov. ‘What next?’ ‘What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I know nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yesterday.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I was frightened.’ ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ ‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ ‘That I should be accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?’ ‘Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?’ ‘Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They 0 haven’t a shadow of doubt.’ ‘That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s a good deal in such a case.’ ‘How did they get there? How did they get there?’ cried Razumihin. ‘How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at once that the answers he has given in the examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.’ ‘The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told a lie at first?’ ‘Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the witnesses) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take 0 careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolay alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning, robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!’ ‘Of course it is strange! It’s impossible, indeed, but …’ ‘No, brother, no buts. And if the ear-rings being found in Nikolay’s hands at the very day and hour of the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him—although the explanation given by him accounts for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against him—one must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact— resting simply on a psychological impossibility—as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won’t accept it, they certainly won’t, because they found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he could not have done if he hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites me, you must understand!’ 0 ‘Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?’ ‘That’s been proved,’ said Razumihin with apparent reluctance, frowning. ‘Koch recognised the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his.’ ‘That’s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?’ ‘Nobody did see him,’ Razumihin answered with vexation. ‘That’s the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not notice them on their way upstairs, though, indeed, their evidence could not have been worth much. They said they saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it.’ ‘Hm! … So the only evidence for the defence is that they were beating one another and laughing. That constitutes a strong presumption, but … How do you explain the facts yourself?’ ‘How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It’s clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those ear- rings. The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too; for he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the por- 0 ter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a conclusive proof that he did stand there…. That’s how I explain it.’ ‘Too clever! No, my boy, you’re too clever. That beats everything.’ ‘But, why, why?’ ‘Why, because everything fits too well … it’s too melodramatic.’ ‘A-ach!’ Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a personage came in who was a stranger to all present. 0 Chapter V This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov’s low and narrow ‘cabin.’ With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this ‘cabin’ by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov: ‘Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?’ Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him. 0 ‘Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?’ This familiar ‘what do you want’ seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again. ‘This is Raskolnikov,’ mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunter’s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back. Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said ‘This is Raskolnikov’ he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated: ‘Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?’ The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?’ But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, 10 as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time. ‘Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information?’ asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted. In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment. ‘I had presumed and calculated,’ he faltered, ‘that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago …’ ‘I say, why are you standing in the doorway?’ Razumihin interrupted suddenly. ‘If you’ve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Here’s a chair, thread your way in!’ He moved his chair back from the table, made a little space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather cramped position for the visitor to ‘thread his way in.’ The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying and stumbling. Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking suspiciously at Razumihin. ‘No need to be nervous,’ the latter blurted out. ‘Rodya has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of Rodya’s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nursing him; so don’t you take any notice of us, but go on with 11 your business.’ ‘Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my presence and conversation?’ Pyotr Petrovitch asked of Zossimov. ‘N-no,’ mumbled Zossimov; ‘you may amuse him.’ He yawned again. ‘He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,’ went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like unaffected good- nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and impudent person had introduced himself as a student. ‘Your mamma,’ began Luzhin. ‘Hm!’ Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly. ‘That’s all right, go on.’ Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonishment …’ ‘I know, I know!’ Raskolnikov cried suddenly with impatient vexation. ‘So you are the fiancé? I know, and that’s enough!’ There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being offended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent effort to understand what it all meant. There was a moment’s silence. 1 Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good look at him yet, or as though something new had struck him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him. There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the title of ‘fiancé’ so unceremoniously applied to him. In the first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation of his betrothed—a perfectly innocent and permissible proceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appearance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeing that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rôle of fiancé. All his clothes were fresh from the tailor’s and were all right, except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in Pyotr Petrovitch’s attire. He wore a charming summer jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face looked younger than his for- 1 ty-five years at all times. His dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on both sides, growing thickly upon his shining, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser’s, did not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due to quite other causes. After scanning Mr. Luzhin unceremoniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to determine to take no notice of their oddities. ‘I feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,’ he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. ‘If I had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. But you know what business is. I have, too, a very important legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other preoccupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting your mamma and sister any minute.’ Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: ‘… Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on their arrival.’ ‘Where?’ asked Raskolnikov weakly. ‘Very near here, in Bakaleyev’s house.’ ‘That’s in Voskresensky,’ put in Razumihin. ‘There are 1 two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I’ve been there.’ ‘Yes, rooms …’ ‘A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and, what’s more, of doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there about a scandalous business. It’s cheap, though …’ ‘I could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am a stranger in Petersburg myself,’ Pyotr Petrovitch replied huffily. ‘However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, and as it is for so short a time … I have already taken a permanent, that is, our future flat,’ he said, addressing Raskolnikov, ‘and I am having it done up. And meanwhile I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev’s house, too …’ ‘Lebeziatnikov?’ said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling something. ‘Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the Ministry. Do you know him?’ ‘Yes … no,’ Raskolnikov answered. ‘Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once his guardian…. A very nice young man and advanced. I like to meet young people: one learns new things from them.’ Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all. ‘How do you mean?’ asked Razumihin. ‘In the most serious and essential matters,’ Pyotr Petrovitch replied, as though delighted at the question. ‘You see, 1 it’s ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it’s my notion that you observe and learn most by watching the younger generation. And I confess I am delighted …’ ‘At what?’ ‘Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more practicality …’ ‘That’s true,’ Zossimov let drop. ‘Nonsense! There’s no practicality.’ Razumihin flew at him. ‘Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, if you like, are fermenting,’ he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, ‘and desire for good exists, though it’s in a childish form, and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of brigands. Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes well shod.’ ‘I don’t agree with you,’ Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with evident enjoyment. ‘Of course, people do get carried away and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause and of abnormal external environment. If little has been done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak. It’s my personal view, if you care to know, that something has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new valuable works are circulating in the place of our old dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a maturer form, many injurious prejudice have been rooted up and turned 1 into ridicule…. In a word, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my thinking, is a great thing …’ ‘He’s learnt it by heart to show off!’ Raskolnikov pronounced suddenly. ‘What?’ asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; but he received no reply. ‘That’s all true,’ Zossimov hastened to interpose. ‘Isn’t it so?’ Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably at Zossimov. ‘You must admit,’ he went on, addressing Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness—he almost added ‘young man’—‘that there is an advance, or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and economic truth …’ ‘A commonplace.’ ‘No, not a commonplace! Hitherto, for instance, if I were told, ‘love thy neighbour,’ what came of it?’ Pyotr Petrovitch went on, perhaps with excessive haste. ‘It came to my tearing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, ‘Catch several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells us, love yourself before all men, for everything in the world rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Economic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised in society—the more whole coats, so to say—the firmer are its foundations and the better is the common welfare organised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and exclusively for myself, I am acquiring, so to speak, for all, and helping to 1 bring to pass my neighbour’s getting a little more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reaching us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive it …’ ‘Excuse me, I’ve very little wit myself,’ Razumihin cut in sharply, ‘and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with an object, but I’ve grown so sick during the last three years of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don’t blame you, that’s quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted in their own interests everything they touched, that the whole cause has been dragged in the mire. That’s enough!’ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking with excessive dignity. ‘Do you mean to suggest so unceremoniously that I too …’ ‘Oh, my dear sir … how could I? … Come, that’s enough,’ Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to Zossimov to continue their previous conversation. Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the disavowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another minute or two. ‘I trust our acquaintance,’ he said, addressing Raskolnikov, ‘may, upon your recovery and in view of the circumstances 1 of which you are aware, become closer … Above all, I hope for your return to health …’ Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch began getting up from his chair. ‘One of her customers must have killed her,’ Zossimov declared positively. ‘Not a doubt of it,’ replied Razumihin. ‘Porfiry doesn’t give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges with her there.’ ‘Examining them?’ Raskolnikov asked aloud. ‘Yes. What then?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘How does he get hold of them?’ asked Zossimov. ‘Koch has given the names of some of them, other names are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come forward of themselves.’ ‘It must have been a cunning and practised ruffian! The boldness of it! The coolness!’ ‘That’s just what it wasn’t!’ interposed Razumihin. ‘That’s what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated crime and a cunning criminal doesn’t work. Suppose him to have been inexperienced, and it’s clear that it was only a chance that saved him—and chance may do anything. Why, he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set to work? He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuffing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman’s trunks, her rags— and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides notes, in 1 a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his head. And he got off more by luck than good counsel!’ ‘You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I believe?’ Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression and his vanity overcame his prudence. ‘Yes. You’ve heard of it?’ ‘Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.’ ‘Do you know the details?’ ‘I can’t say that; but another circumstance interests me in the case— the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a student’s robbing the mail on the high road; in another place people of good social position forge false banknotes; in Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was murdered from some obscure motive of gain…. And if this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by someone of a higher class in society—for peasants don’t pawn gold trinkets— how are we to explain this demoralisation 0 of the civilised part of our society?’ ‘There are many economic changes,’ put in Zossimov. ‘How are we to explain it?’ Razumihin caught him up. ‘It might be explained by our inveterate impracticality.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the question why he was forging notes? ‘Everybody is getting rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich too.’ I don’t remember the exact words, but the upshot was that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or working! We’ve grown used to having everything readymade, to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. Then the great hour struck,[*] and every man showed himself in his true colours.’ [*] The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.— TRANSLATOR’S NOTE. ‘But morality? And so to speak, principles …’ ‘But why do you worry about it?’ Raskolnikov interposed suddenly. ‘It’s in accordance with your theory!’ ‘In accordance with my theory?’ ‘Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating just now, and it follows that people may be killed …’ ‘Upon my word!’ cried Luzhin. ‘No, that’s not so,’ put in Zossimov. Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, breathing painfully. ‘There’s a measure in all things,’ Luzhin went on superciliously. ‘Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, and one has but to suppose …’ 1 ‘And is it true,’ Raskolnikov interposed once more suddenly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in insulting him, ‘is it true that you told your fiancée … within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you most … was that she was a beggar … because it was better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have complete control over her, and reproach her with your being her benefactor?’ ‘Upon my word,’ Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, crimson with confusion, ‘to distort my words in this way! Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has reached you, or rather, let me say, has been conveyed to you, has no foundation in truth, and I … suspect who … in a word … this arrow … in a word, your mamma … She seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, of a somewhat high-flown and romantic way of thinking…. But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way…. And indeed … indeed …’ ‘I tell you what,’ cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, ‘I tell you what.’ ‘What?’ Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. ‘Why, if ever again … you dare to mention a single word … about my mother … I shall send you flying downstairs!’ ‘What’s the matter with you?’ cried Razumihin. ‘So that’s how it is?’ Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. ‘Let me tell you, sir,’ he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, ‘at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you … never after this …’ ‘I am not ill,’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘So much the worse …’ ‘Go to hell!’ But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received. ‘How could you—how could you!’ Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity. ‘Let me alone—let me alone all of you!’ Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. ‘Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!’ ‘Come along,’ said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin. ‘But we can’t leave him like this!’ ‘Come along,’ Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him. ‘It might be worse not to obey him,’ said Zossimov on the stairs. ‘He mustn’t be irritated.’ ‘What’s the matter with him?’ ‘If only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com would do it! At first he was better…. You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him…. I am very much afraid so; he must have!’ ‘Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness….’ ‘Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited—that’s the murder?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Razumihin agreed, ‘I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted.’ ‘Tell me more about that this evening and I’ll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I’ll go and see him again…. There’ll be no inflammation though.’ ‘Thanks! And I’ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya….’ Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered. ‘Won’t you have some tea now?’ she asked. ‘Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.’ He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out. Chapter VI But as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought in that evening and had tied up again and began dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in them. ‘To-day, today,’ he muttered to himself. He understood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual concentration gave him strength and self-confidence. He hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down in the street. When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at the money lying on the table, and after a moment’s thought put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to him, blowing up the landlady’s samovar. She heard nothing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? A minute later he was in the street. It was nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage energy Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not think where he was going, he had one thought only: ‘that all this must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; that he would not return home without it, because he would not go on living like that. ’ How, with what to make an end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed ‘one way or another,’ he repeated with desperate and immovable self-confidence and determination. From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel organ was standing in the road in front of a little general shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder ‘Come on,’ and both moved on to the next shop. ‘Do you like street music?’ said Raskolnikov, addressing a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked at him, startled and wondering. ‘I love to hear singing to a street organ,’ said Raskolnikov, and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the subject—‘I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings— they must be damp—when all the passers-by have pale green, sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight down, when there’s no wind—you know what I mean?—and the street lamps shine through it …’ ‘I don’t know…. Excuse me …’ muttered the stranger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the street. Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. Recognising the place, he stopped, looked round and addressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping before a corn chandler’s shop. ‘Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this corner?’ ‘All sorts of people keep booths here,’ answered the young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov. ‘What’s his name?’ ‘What he was christened.’ ‘Aren’t you a Zaraïsky man, too? Which province?’ The young man looked at Raskolnikov again. ‘It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district. Graciously forgive me, your excellency!’ ‘Is that a tavern at the top there?’ ‘Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and you’ll find princesses there too…. La-la!’ Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unaccountable inclination to enter into conversation with people. But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shouting in groups together. He stood and thought a little and took a turning to the right in the direction of V. He had often crossed that little street which turns at an angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so. Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram shops and eating- houses; women were continually running in and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially about the entrances to various festive establishments in the lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of singing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pavement, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, swearing; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of forty and some not more than seventeen; almost all had blackened eyes. He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise and uproar in the saloon below…. someone could be heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping inquisitively in from the pavement. ‘Oh, my handsome soldier Don’t beat me for nothing,’ trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great desire to make out what he was singing, as though everything depended on that. ‘Shall I go in?’ he thought. ‘They are laughing. From drink. Shall I get drunk?’ ‘Won’t you come in?’ one of the women asked him. Her voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was young and not repulsive—the only one of the group. ‘Why, she’s pretty,’ he said, drawing himself up and looking at her. She smiled, much pleased at the compliment. ‘You’re very nice looking yourself,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he thin though!’ observed another woman in a deep bass. ‘Have you just come out of a hospital?’ ‘They’re all generals’ daughters, it seems, but they have all snub noses,’ interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on his face, wearing a loose coat. ‘See how jolly they are.’ ‘Go along with you!’ ‘I’ll go, sweetie!’ And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com moved on. ‘I say, sir,’ the girl shouted after him. ‘What is it?’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six copecks for a drink, there’s a nice young man!’ Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks. ‘Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!’ ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Ask for Duclida.’ ‘Well, that’s too much,’ one of the women observed, shaking her head at Duclida. ‘I don’t know how you can ask like that. I believe I should drop with shame….’ Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and earnestly. ‘Where is it,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Where is it I’ve read that someone condemned to death says or thinks, an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high rock, on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to stand, and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain standing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be! … How true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a vile creature! … And vile is he who calls him vile for that,’ he added a moment later. He went into another street. ‘Bah, the Palais de Cristal! 0 Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Cristal. But what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers…. Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Have you the papers?’ he asked, going into a very spacious and positively clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were, however, rather empty. Two or three people were drinking tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drinking champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. ‘What if it is?’ he thought. ‘Will you have vodka?’ asked the waiter. ‘Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones for the last five days, and I’ll give you something.’ ‘Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?’ The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov sat down and began to look through them. ‘Oh, damn … these are the items of intelligence. An accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shopkeeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski … a fire in the Petersburg quarter … another fire in the Petersburg quarter … and another fire in the Petersburg quarter…. Ah, here it is!’ He found at last what he was seeking and began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the following numbers. His hands shook with nervous impatience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly someone sat down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, parted and pomaded, with the 1 smart waistcoat, rather shabby coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. ‘What, you here?’ he began in surprise, speaking as though he’d known him all his life. ‘Why, Razumihin told me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! And do you know I’ve been to see you?’ Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was apparent in that smile. ‘I know you have,’ he answered. ‘I’ve heard it. You looked for my sock…. And you know Razumihin has lost his heart to you? He says you’ve been with him to Luise Ivanovna’s— you know, the woman you tried to befriend, for whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to understand—it was quite clear, wasn’t it?’ ‘What a hot head he is!’ ‘The explosive one?’ ‘No, your friend Razumihin.’ ‘You must have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free to the most agreeable places. Who’s been pouring champagne into you just now?’ ‘We’ve just been … having a drink together…. You talk about pouring it into me!’ ‘By way of a fee! You profit by everything!’ Raskolnikov laughed, ‘it’s all right, my dear boy,’ he added, slapping Za- metov on the shoulder. ‘I am not speaking from temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of the old woman….’ ‘How do you know about it?’ ‘Perhaps I know more about it than you do.’ ‘How strange you are…. I am sure you are still very unwell. You oughtn’t to have come out.’ ‘Oh, do I seem strange to you?’ ‘Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘There’s a lot about the fires.’ ‘No, I am not reading about the fires.’ Here he looked mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a mocking smile. ‘No, I am not reading about the fires,’ he went on, winking at Zametov. ‘But confess now, my dear fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading about?’ ‘I am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why do you keep on … ?’ ‘Listen, you are a man of culture and education?’ ‘I was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,’ said Zametov with some dignity. ‘Sixth class! Ah, my cock-sparrow! With your parting and your rings— you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo! what a charming boy!’ Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew back, more amazed than offended. ‘Foo! how strange you are!’ Zametov repeated very seri- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ously. ‘I can’t help thinking you are still delirious.’ ‘I am delirious? You are fibbing, my cock-sparrow! So I am strange? You find me curious, do you?’ ‘Yes, curious.’ ‘Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was looking for? See what a lot of papers I’ve made them bring me. Suspicious, eh?’ ‘Well, what is it?’ ‘You prick up your ears?’ ‘How do you mean—‘prick up my ears’?’ ‘I’ll explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare to you … no, better ‘I confess’ … No, that’s not right either; ‘I make a deposition and you take it.’ I depose that I was reading, that I was looking and searching….’ he screwed up his eyes and paused. ‘I was searching—and came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of the old pawnbroker woman,’ he articulated at last, almost in a whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all the while. ‘What if you have been reading about it?’ he cried at last, perplexed and impatient. ‘That’s no business of mine! What of it?’ ‘The same old woman,’ Raskolnikov went on in the same whisper, not heeding Zametov’s explanation, ‘about whom you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I fainted. Well, do you understand now?’ ‘What do you mean? Understand … what?’ Zametov brought out, almost alarmed. Raskolnikov’s set and earnest face was suddenly transformed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and laugh! ‘You are either mad, or …’ began Zametov, and he broke off, as though stunned by the idea that had suddenly flashed into his mind. ‘Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!’ ‘Nothing,’ said Zametov, getting angry, ‘it’s all nonsense!’ Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Raskolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The silence lasted for some time. ‘Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold,’ said Zametov. ‘What! Tea? Oh, yes….’ Raskolnikov sipped the glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly looking at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its original Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com mocking expression. He went on drinking tea. ‘There have been a great many of these crimes lately,’ said Zametov. ‘Only the other day I read in the Moscow News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge tickets!’ ‘Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month ago,’ Raskolnikov answered calmly. ‘So you consider them criminals?’ he added, smiling. ‘Of course they are criminals.’ ‘They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object—what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they want to have more faith in one another than in themselves! One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simpletons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the notes— what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to change the notes either; the man who changed the notes took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth thousand—he was in such a hurry to get the money into his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is it possible?’ ‘That his hands trembled?’ observed Zametov, ‘yes, that’s quite possible. That, I feel quite sure, is possible. Sometimes one can’t stand things.’ ‘Can’t stand that?’ ‘Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn’t. For the sake of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience? To go with false notes into a bank where it’s their business to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to do it. Would you?’ Raskolnikov had an intense desire again ‘to put his tongue out.’ Shivers kept running down his spine. ‘I should do it quite differently,’ Raskolnikov began. ‘This is how I would change the notes: I’d count the first thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, looking at every note and then I’d set to the second thousand; I’d count that half-way through and then hold some fifty-rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light again—to see whether it was a good one. ‘I am afraid,’ I would say, ‘a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the other day through a false note,’ and then I’d tell them the whole story. And after I began counting the third, ‘No, excuse me,’ I would say, ‘I fancy I made a mistake in the seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.’ And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, I’d pick out one from the fifth and one from the second thousand and take them again to the light and ask again, ‘Change them, please,’ and put the clerk into such a stew that he would not know how to get rid of me. When I’d finished and had gone out, I’d come back, ‘No, excuse me,’ and ask for some explanation. That’s how I’d do it.’ ‘Foo! what terrible things you say!’ said Zametov, laugh- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ing. ‘But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to deeds you’d make a slip. I believe that even a practised, desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less you and I. To take an example near home—that old woman murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, was saved by a miracle—but his hands shook, too. He did not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn’t stand it. That was clear from the …’ Raskolnikov seemed offended. ‘Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?’ he cried, maliciously gibing at Zametov. ‘Well, they will catch him.’ ‘Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? You’ve a tough job! A great point for you is whether a man is spending money or not. If he had no money and suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any child can mislead you.’ ‘The fact is they always do that, though,’ answered Zametov. ‘A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as you are. You wouldn’t go to a tavern, of course?’ Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov. ‘You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know how I should behave in that case, too?’ he asked with displeasure. ‘I should like to,’ Zametov answered firmly and seriously. Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his words and looks. ‘Very much?’ ‘Very much!’ ‘All right then. This is how I should behave,’ Raskolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov’s, again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the latter positively shuddered. ‘This is what I should have done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should have walked out of there and have gone straight to some deserted place with fences round it and scarcely anyone to be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hundredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from the time the house was built. I would lift that stone—there would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the jewels and money in that hole. Then I’d roll the stone back so that it would look as before, would press it down with my foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There’d be no trace.’ ‘You are a madman,’ said Zametov, and for some reason he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Raskolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fearfully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, like the latch on that door; in another moment it will break out, in another mo- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ment he will let it go, he will speak out. ‘And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and Lizaveta?’ he said suddenly and—realised what he had done. Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. ‘But is it possible?’ he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov looked wrathfully at him. ‘Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?’ ‘Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,’ Zametov cried hastily. ‘I’ve caught my cock-sparrow! So you did believe it before, if now you believe less than ever?’ ‘Not at all,’ cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. ‘Have you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?’ ‘You don’t believe it then? What were you talking about behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? Hey, there,’ he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, ‘how much?’ ‘Thirty copecks,’ the latter replied, running up. ‘And there is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of money!’ he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes in it. ‘Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my landlady, I’ll be bound…. Well, that’s enough! Assez causé! Till we meet again!’ He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild 0 hysterical sensation, in which there was an element of insufferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as quickly when the stimulus was removed. Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up his mind for him conclusively. ‘Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,’ he decided. Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They did not see each other till they almost knocked against each other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes. ‘So here you are!’ he shouted at the top of his voice—‘you ran away from your bed! And here I’ve been looking for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?’ ‘It means that I’m sick to death of you all and I want to be alone,’ Raskolnikov answered calmly. ‘Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! … What have you been doing in the Palais de Cristal? Own up at once!’ 1 ‘Let me go!’ said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly by the shoulder. ‘Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you know what I’ll do with you directly? I’ll pick you up, tie you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock you up!’ ‘Listen, Razumihin,’ Raskolnikov began quietly, apparently calm— ‘can’t you see that I don’t want your benevolence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a man who … curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn’t I tell you plainly enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was … sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because it’s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for goodness’ sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by force? Don’t you see that I am in possession of all my faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to persecute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake, let me be! Let me be, let me be!’ He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for breath, in a frenzy, as he had been with Luzhin. Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop. ‘Well, go to hell then,’ he said gently and thoughtfully. ‘Stay,’ he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. ‘Listen to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, posing idiots! If you’ve any little trouble you brood over it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in that! There isn’t a sign of independent life in you! You are made of spermaceti ointment and you’ve lymph in your veins instead of blood. I don’t believe in anyone of you! In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be unlike a human being! Stop!’ he cried with redoubled fury, noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement—‘hear me out! You know I’m having a house-warming this evening, I dare say they’ve arrived by now, but I left my uncle there—I just ran in—to receive the guests. And if you weren’t a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were an original instead of a translation … you see, Rodya, I recognise you’re a clever fellow, but you’re a fool!—and if you weren’t a fool you’d come round to me this evening instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you have gone out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a snug easy chair, my landlady has one … a cup of tea, company…. Or you could lie on the sofa—any way you would be with us…. Zossimov will be there too. Will you come?’ ‘No.’ ‘R-rubbish!’ Razumihin shouted, out of patience. ‘How do you know? You can’t answer for yourself! You don’t know anything about it…. Thousands of times I’ve fought tooth and nail with people and run back to them afterwards…. One feels ashamed and goes back to a man! So remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third storey….’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody beat you from sheer benevolence.’ ‘Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere idea! Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat….’ ‘I shall not come, Razumihin.’ Raskolnikov turned and walked away. ‘I bet you will,’ Razumihin shouted after him. ‘I refuse to know you if you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in there?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Did you see him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Talked to him?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What about? Confound you, don’t tell me then. Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat, remember!’ Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short of the stairs. ‘Confound it,’ he went on almost aloud. ‘He talked sensibly but yet … I am a fool! As if madmen didn’t talk sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid of.’ He struck his finger on his forehead. ‘What if … how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself…. Ach, what a blunder! I can’t.’ And he ran back to overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Cristal to question Zametov. Raskolnikov walked straight to X—— Bridge, stood in the middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gathering twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an uncanny and hideous sight. He became aware of someone standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the current, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a balloon over her back. ‘A woman drowning! A woman drowning!’ shouted dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskolnikov, pressing up behind him. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Mercy on it! it’s our Afrosinya!’ a woman cried tearfully close by. ‘Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!’ ‘A boat, a boat’ was shouted in the crowd. But there was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wiping her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. ‘She’s drunk herself out of her senses,’ the same woman’s voice wailed at her side. ‘Out of her senses. The other day she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the shop just now, left my little girl to look after her—and here she’s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, we live close by, the second house from the end, see yonder….’ The crowd broke up. The police still remained round the woman, someone mentioned the police station…. Raskolnikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and apathy. He felt disgusted. ‘No, that’s loathsome … water … it’s not good enough,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Nothing will come of it,’ he added, ‘no use to wait. What about the police office … ? And why isn’t Zametov at the police office? The police office is open till ten o’clock….’ He turned his back to the railing and looked about him. ‘Very well then!’ he said resolutely; he moved from the bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now of the energy with which he had set out ‘to make an end of it all.’ Complete apathy had succeeded to it. ‘Well, it’s a way out of it,’ he thought, walking slowly and listlessly along the canal bank. ‘Anyway I’ll make an end, for I want to…. But is it a way out? What does it matter! There’ll be the square yard of space—ha! But what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? Ah … damn! How tired I am! If I could find somewhere to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of is its being so stupid. But I don’t care about that either! What idiotic ideas come into one’s head.’ To reach the police office he had to go straight forward and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or possibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking at the ground; suddenly someone seemed to whisper in his ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the very gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unaccountable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. He Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com stopped at each landing and looked round him with curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window had been taken out. ‘That wasn’t so then,’ he thought. Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and Dmitri had been working. ‘It’s shut up and the door newly painted. So it’s to let.’ Then the third storey and the fourth. ‘Here!’ He was perplexed to find the door of the flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on the floor. And now, bare walls, no furniture; it seemed strange. He walked to the window and sat down on the window-sill. There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much younger than the other. They were papering the walls with a new white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming in; they were talking. Raskolnikov folded his arms and listened. ‘She comes to me in the morning,’ said the elder to the younger, ‘very early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you preening and prinking?’ says I. ‘I am ready to do anything to please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of going on! And she dressed up like a regular fashion book!’ ‘And what is a fashion book?’ the younger one asked. He obviously regarded the other as an authority. ‘A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they come to the tailors here every Saturday, by post from abroad, to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the female. They’re pictures. The gentlemen are generally wearing fur coats and for the ladies’ fluffles, they’re beyond anything you can fancy.’ ‘There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg,’ the younger cried enthusiastically, ‘except father and mother, there’s everything!’ ‘Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,’ the elder declared sententiously. Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance. ‘What do you want?’ he asked suddenly. Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note. He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and remembered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more satisfaction. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Well, what do you want? Who are you?’ the workman shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again. ‘I want to take a flat,’ he said. ‘I am looking round.’ ‘It’s not the time to look at rooms at night! and you ought to come up with the porter.’ ‘The floors have been washed, will they be painted?’ Raskolnikov went on. ‘Is there no blood?’ ‘What blood?’ ‘Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here. There was a perfect pool there.’ ‘But who are you?’ the workman cried, uneasy. ‘Who am I?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tell you.’ The workmen looked at him in amazement. ‘It’s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. We must lock up,’ said the elder workman. ‘Very well, come along,’ said Raskolnikov indifferently, and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. ‘Hey, porter,’ he cried in the gateway. At the entrance several people were standing, staring at the passers- by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up to them. ‘What do you want?’ asked one of the porters. ‘Have you been to the police office?’ ‘I’ve just been there. What do you want?’ ‘Is it open?’ 0 ‘Of course.’ ‘Is the assistant there?’ ‘He was there for a time. What do you want?’ Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in thought. ‘He’s been to look at the flat,’ said the elder workman, coming forward. ‘Which flat?’ ‘Where we are at work. ‘Why have you washed away the blood?’ says he. ‘There has been a murder here,’ says he, ‘and I’ve come to take it.’ And he began ringing at the bell, all but broke it. ‘Come to the police station,’ says he. ‘I’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave us.’ The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted as impressively as he could. ‘I am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a student, I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, flat Number 14, ask the porter, he knows me.’ Raskolnikov said all this in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking intently into the darkening street. ‘Why have you been to the flat?’ ‘To look at it.’ ‘What is there to look at?’ ‘Take him straight to the police station,’ the man in the long coat jerked in abruptly. Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and said in the same slow, lazy tones: ‘Come along.’ 1 ‘Yes, take him,’ the man went on more confidently. ‘Why was he going into that what’s in his mind, eh?’ ‘He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with him,’ muttered the workman. ‘But what do you want?’ the porter shouted again, beginning to get angry in earnest—‘Why are you hanging about?’ ‘You funk the police station then?’ said Raskolnikov jeeringly. ‘How funk it? Why are you hanging about?’ ‘He’s a rogue!’ shouted the peasant woman. ‘Why waste time talking to him?’ cried the other porter, a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. ‘Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!’ And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, looked at the spectators in silence and walked away. ‘Strange man!’ observed the workman. ‘There are strange folks about nowadays,’ said the woman. ‘You should have taken him to the police station all the same,’ said the man in the long coat. ‘Better have nothing to do with him,’ decided the big porter. ‘A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may be sure, but once take him up, you won’t get rid of him…. We know the sort!’ ‘Shall I go there or not?’ thought Raskolnikov, standing in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross-roads, and he looked about him, as though expecting from someone a de- cisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him alone…. All at once at the end of the street, two hundred yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood a carriage…. A light gleamed in the middle of the street. ‘What is it?’ Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his mind to go to the police station and knew that it would all soon be over. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter VII An elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; the horses were being held by the bridle…. A mass of people had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on something lying close to the wheels. Everyone was talking, shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and kept repeating: ‘What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!’ Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. ‘Merciful heaven!’ wailed the coachman, ‘what more could I do? If I’d been driving fast or had not shouted to him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Everyone could see I was going along just like everybody else. A drunken man can’t walk straight, we all know…. I saw him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he did it on purpose or he was very tipsy…. The horses are young and ready to take fright … they started, he screamed … that made them worse. That’s how it happened!’ ‘That’s just how it was,’ a voice in the crowd confirmed. ‘He shouted, that’s true, he shouted three times,’ another voice declared. ‘Three times it was, we all heard it,’ shouted a third. But the coachman was not very much distressed and frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upsetting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one knew his name. Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate man’s face. He recognised him. ‘I know him! I know him!’ he shouted, pushing to the front. ‘It’s a government clerk retired from the service, Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel’s house…. Make haste for a doctor! I will pay, see?’ He pulled money out of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in violent agitation. The police were glad that they had found out who the man was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Just here, three houses away,’ he said eagerly, ‘the house belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family there, a wife, children, he has one daughter…. It will take time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least he will be looked after at home … they will help him at once. But he’ll die before you get him to the hospital.’ He managed to slip something unseen into the policeman’s hand. But the thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people volunteered to help. Kozel’s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked behind, carefully holding Marmeladov’s head and showing the way. ‘This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head foremost. Turn round! I’ll pay, I’ll make it worth your while,’ he muttered. Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did not understand, understood very well that her mother needed her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight before him —heels together and toes turned out. He was listening to what his mother was saying to his sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed to have grown even thinner during that week and the hectic flush on her face was brighter than ever. ‘You wouldn’t believe, you can’t imagine, Polenka,’ she said, walking about the room, ‘what a happy luxurious life we had in my papa’s house and how this drunkard has brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that everyone who came to see him said, ‘We look upon you, Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!’ When I … when …’ she coughed violently, ‘oh, cursed life,’ she cried, clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, ‘when I … when at the last ball … at the marshal’s … Princess Bezzemelny saw me—who gave me the blessing when your father and I were married, Polenka—she asked at once ‘Isn’t that the pretty girl who danced the shawl dance at the breakingup?’ (You must mend that tear, you must take your needle Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com and darn it as I showed you, or to-morrow—cough, cough, cough—he will make the hole bigger,’ she articulated with effort.) ‘Prince Schegolskoy, a kammerjunker, had just come from Petersburg then … he danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and told him that my heart had long been another’s. That other was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry…. Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! Lida,’ said she to the youngest one, ‘you must manage without your chemise to-night … and lay your stockings out with it … I’ll wash them together…. How is it that drunken vagabond doesn’t come in? He has worn his shirt till it looks like a dish- clout, he has torn it to rags! I’d do it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running! Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What’s this?’ she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the men, who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. ‘What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!’ ‘Where are we to put him?’ asked the policeman, looking round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with blood, had been carried in. ‘On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his head this way,’ Raskolnikov showed him. ‘Run over in the road! Drunk!’ someone shouted in the passage. Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over. Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to Katerina Ivanovna. ‘For God’s sake be calm, don’t be frightened!’ he said, speaking quickly, ‘he was crossing the road and was run over by a carriage, don’t be frightened, he will come to, I told them bring him here … I’ve been here already, you remember? He will come to; I’ll pay!’ ‘He’s done it this time!’ Katerina Ivanovna cried despairingly and she rushed to her husband. Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the luckless man’s head a pillow, which no one had thought of and began undressing and examining him. She kept her head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling the screams which were ready to break from her. Raskolnikov meanwhile induced someone to run for a doctor. There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. ‘I’ve sent for a doctor,’ he kept assuring Katerina Ivanovna, ‘don’t be uneasy, I’ll pay. Haven’t you water? … and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as you can…. He is injured, but not killed, believe me…. We shall see what the doctor says!’ Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water had been stood, in readiness for washing her children’s and husband’s linen that night. This washing was done by Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they were practically without change of linen, and Katerina Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see dirt in Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning. She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov’s request, but almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and began washing the blood off Marmeladov’s face. Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of attention herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. The policeman, too, stood in hesitation. ‘Polenka,’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, ‘run to Sonia, make haste. If you don’t find her at home, leave word that her father has been run over and that she is to come here at once … when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on the shawl.’ ‘Run your fastest!’ cried the little boy on the chair suddenly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread out. Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you couldn’t have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevechsel’s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina Ivanovna flew into a fury. ‘You might let him die in peace, at least,’ she shouted at 0 the crowd, ‘is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well keep your hats on…. And there is one in his hat! … Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!’ Her cough choked her—but her reproaches were not without result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfaction which may be observed in the presence of a sudden accident, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest sympathy and compassion. Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the hospital and saying that they’d no business to make a disturbance here. ‘No business to die!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevechsel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irresponsible German. ‘Ah, my God!’ she cried, clasping her hands, ‘your husband drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with him! I am the landlady!’ ‘Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are saying,’ Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might ‘remember her place’ and even now could not deny herself this satisfaction). ‘Amalia Ludwigovna …’ 1 ‘I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.’ ‘You are not Amalia Ivanovna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. Lebeziatnikov, who’s laughing behind the door at this moment (a laugh and a cry of ‘they are at it again’ was in fact audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in peace! Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and has often been a benefactor to him. Everyone knows that Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and protectors, whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pride, knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assistance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest assured, Amalia Ludwigovna …’ All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivanovna’s eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The injured man opened his eyes and without recognition or understanding gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the corners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. ‘My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleeding,’ she said in despair. ‘We must take off his clothes. Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can,’ she cried to him. Marmeladov recognised her. ‘A priest,’ he articulated huskily. Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head against the window frame and exclaimed in despair: ‘Oh, cursed life!’ ‘A priest,’ the dying man said again after a moment’s silence. ‘They’ve gone for him,’ Katerina Ivanovna shouted to him, he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his pillow. He seemed a little easier but not for long. Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring at him with her wondering childish eyes. ‘A-ah,’ he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to say something. ‘What now?’ cried Katerina Ivanovna. ‘Barefoot, barefoot!’ he muttered, indicating with frenzied eyes the child’s bare feet. ‘Be silent,’ Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, ‘you know why she is barefooted.’ ‘Thank God, the doctor,’ exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, looking about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, and bared the injured man’s chest. It was gashed, crushed and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister-looking yellowish-black bruise—a cruel kick from the horse’s hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty yards on the road. ‘It’s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,’ the doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. ‘What do you think of him?’ he asked. ‘He will die immediately.’ ‘Is there really no hope?’ ‘Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp…. His head is badly injured, too … Hm … I could bleed him if you like, but … it would be useless. He is bound to die within the next five or ten minutes.’ ‘Better bleed him then.’ ‘If you like…. But I warn you it will be perfectly useless.’ At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He shrugged his shoulders and remained. All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The dying man probably understood little; he could only utter indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself with precision and bowed down, touching the floor with his forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy’s shirt, and managed to cover the girl’s bare shoulders with a kerchief, which she took from the chest without rising from her knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene. At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and said, ‘She’s coming, I met her in the street.’ Her mother made her kneel beside her. Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com betraying its shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame-coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into the room, still keeping close to the door. The service was over. Katerina Ivanovna went up to her husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivanovna on leaving. ‘What am I to do with these?’ she interrupted sharply and irritably, pointing to the little ones. ‘God is merciful; look to the Most High for succour,’ the priest began. ‘Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.’ ‘That’s a sin, a sin, madam,’ observed the priest, shaking his head. ‘And isn’t that a sin?’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing to the dying man. ‘Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his earnings.’ ‘You don’t understand!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily waving her hand. ‘And why should they compensate me? Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank God he’s dying! One less to keep!’ ‘You must forgive in the hour of death, that’s a sin, madam, such feelings are a great sin.’ Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him almost in a frenzy. ‘Ah, father! That’s words and only words! Forgive! If he’d not been run over, he’d have come home to-day drunk and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he’d have fallen asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing till daybreak, washing his rags and the children’s and then drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight I should have been darning them. That’s how I spend my nights! … What’s the use of talking of forgiveness! I have forgiven as it is!’ A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handker- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com chief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and said nothing. Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to him: ‘Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say!’ And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia. Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the shadow in a corner. ‘Who’s that? Who’s that?’ he said suddenly in a thick gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to sit up. ‘Lie down! Lie do-own!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna. With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he recognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. ‘Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!’ he cried, and he tried to hold out his hand to her, but losing his balance, he fell off the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so without moving. He died in her arms. ‘He’s got what he wanted,’ Katerina Ivanovna cried, seeing her husband’s dead body. ‘Well, what’s to be done now? How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow to eat?’ Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna. ‘Katerina Ivanovna,’ he began, ‘last week your husband told me all his life and circumstances…. Believe me, he spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we became friends…. Allow me now … to do something … to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles, I think—and if that can be of any assistance to you, then … I … in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come again … I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow…. Good-bye!’ And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he suddenly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of the accident and had come to give instructions in person. They had not met since the scene at the police station, but Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly. ‘Ah, is that you?’ he asked him. ‘He’s dead,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘The doctor and the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don’t worry the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. Try and cheer her up, if possible … you are a kind-hearted man, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com I know …’ he added with a smile, looking straight in his face. ‘But you are spattered with blood,’ observed Nikodim Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Raskolnikov’s waistcoat. ‘Yes … I’m covered with blood,’ Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs. He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Halfway down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. someone overtook him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling ‘Wait! wait!’ He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child’s thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright childish smile. She had run after him with a message which she was evidently glad to give. ‘Tell me, what is your name? … and where do you live?’ she said hurriedly in a breathless voice. He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, he could not have said why. 0 ‘Who sent you?’ ‘Sister Sonia sent me,’ answered the girl, smiling still more brightly. ‘I knew it was sister Sonia sent you.’ ‘Mamma sent me, too … when sister Sonia was sending me, mamma came up, too, and said ‘Run fast, Polenka.’’ ‘Do you love sister Sonia?’ ‘I love her more than anyone,’ Polenka answered with a peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver. ‘And will you love me?’ By way of answer he saw the little girl’s face approaching him, her full lips naïvely held out to kiss him. Suddenly her arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face against him. ‘I am sorry for father,’ she said a moment later, raising her tear- stained face and brushing away the tears with her hands. ‘It’s nothing but misfortunes now,’ she added suddenly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people. ‘Did your father love you?’ ‘He loved Lida most,’ she went on very seriously without a smile, exactly like grown-up people, ‘he loved her because she is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me grammar and scripture, too,’ she added with dignity. ‘And mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach me French, for it’s time my education began.’ 1 ‘And do you know your prayers?’ ‘Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the ‘Ave Maria’ and then another prayer: ‘Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonia,’ and then another, ‘Lord, forgive and bless our second father.’ For our elder father is dead and this is another one, but we do pray for the other as well.’ ‘Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. ‘And Thy servant Rodion,’ nothing more.’ ‘I’ll pray for you all the rest of my life,’ the little girl declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him and hugged him warmly once more. Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite enchanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at the spot where the woman had jumped in. ‘Enough,’ he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. ‘I’ve done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! Life is real! haven’t I lived just now? My life has not yet died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her—and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for the reign of reason and light … and of will, and of strength … and now we will see! We will try our strength!’ he added defiantly, as though challenging some power of darkness. ‘And I was ready to consent to live in a square of space! ‘I am very weak at this moment, but … I believe my illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. By the way, Potchinkov’s house is only a few steps away. I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close by … let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfaction, too—no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won by strength—that’s what they don’t know,’ he added proudly and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, ‘could live, that there was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old woman.’ Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his conclusions, but he did not think of that. ‘But I did ask her to remember ‘Thy servant Rodion’ in her prayers,’ the idea struck him. ‘Well, that was … in case of emergency,’ he added and laughed himself at his boyish sally. He was in the best of spirits. He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already known at Potchinkov’s and the porter at once showed him the way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and animated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and discussion. Razumihin’s room was fairly large; the company consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the entry, where two of the landlady’s servants were busy behind a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie and savouries, brought up from the landlady’s kitchen. Ras- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com kolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razumihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it. ‘Listen,’ Raskolnikov hastened to say, ‘I’ve only just come to tell you you’ve won your bet and that no one really knows what may not happen to him. I can’t come in; I am so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good evening and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.’ ‘Do you know what? I’ll see you home. If you say you’re weak yourself, you must …’ ‘And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has just peeped out?’ ‘He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle’s, I expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited … I’ll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I can’t introduce you to him now. But confound them all now! They won’t notice me, and I need a little fresh air, for you’ve come just in the nick of time—another two minutes and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a lot of wild stuff … you simply can’t imagine what men will say! Though why shouldn’t you imagine? Don’t we talk nonsense ourselves? And let them … that’s the way to learn not to! … Wait a minute, I’ll fetch Zossimov.’ Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; he showed a special interest in him; soon his face brightened. ‘You must go to bed at once,’ he pronounced, examining the patient as far as he could, ‘and take something for the night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago … a powder.’ ‘Two, if you like,’ answered Raskolnikov. The powder was taken at once. ‘It’s a good thing you are taking him home,’ observed Zossimov to Razumihin—‘we shall see how he is to-morrow, to-day he’s not at all amiss—a considerable change since the afternoon. Live and learn …’ ‘Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we were coming out?’ Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they were in the street. ‘I won’t tell you everything, brother, because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he’s got a notion in his head that you are … mad or close on it. Only fancy! In the first place, you’ve three times the brains he has; in the second, if you are not mad, you needn’t care a hang that he has got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and what’s brought him to this conclusion about you was your conversation to-day with Zametov.’ ‘Zametov told you all about it?’ ‘Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means and so does Zametov…. Well, the fact is, Rodya … the point is … I am a little drunk now…. But that’s … no matter … the point is that this idea … you understand? was just being hatched in their brains … you understand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that painter, that bubble’s Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com burst and gone for ever. But why are they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the time— that’s between ourselves, brother; please don’t let out a hint that you know of it; I’ve noticed he is a ticklish subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s. But to-day, to-day it’s all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that …’ Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk enough to talk too freely. ‘I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of paint,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘No need to explain that! And it wasn’t the paint only: the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn’t believe! ‘I am not worth his little finger,’ he says. Yours, he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de Cristal, that was too good for anything! You frightened him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous nonsense, and then you suddenly—put out your tongue at him: ‘There now, what do you make of it?’ It was perfect! He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, it’s what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn’t there! He was hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your acquaintance …’ ‘Ah! … he too … but why did they put me down as mad?’ ‘Oh, not mad. I must have said too much, brother…. What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you; knowing all the circumstances … and how that irritated you and worked in with your illness … I am a little drunk, brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own … I tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you mind him …’ For half a minute both were silent. ‘Listen, Razumihin,’ began Raskolnikov, ‘I want to tell you plainly: I’ve just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died … I gave them all my money … and besides I’ve just been kissed by someone who, if I had killed anyone, would just the same … in fact I saw someone else there … with a flamecoloured feather … but I am talking nonsense; I am very weak, support me … we shall be at the stairs directly …’ ‘What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?’ Razumihin asked anxiously. ‘I am a little giddy, but that’s not the point, I am so sad, so sad … like a woman. Look, what’s that? Look, look!’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Don’t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through the crack …’ They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at the level of the landlady’s door, and they could, as a fact, see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov’s garret. ‘Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,’ observed Razumihin. ‘She is never in my room at this time and she must be in bed long ago, but … I don’t care! Good-bye!’ ‘What do you mean? I am coming with you, we’ll come in together!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘I know we are going in together, but I want to shake hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your hand, good-bye!’ ‘What’s the matter with you, Rodya?’ ‘Nothing … come along … you shall be witness.’ They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razumihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. ‘Ah, I’ve upset him with my chatter!’ he muttered to himself. When they reached the door they heard voices in the room. ‘What is it?’ cried Razumihin. Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered. His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never expected, never thought of them, though the news that they had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was standing before them and had told them everything by now. They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of his ‘running away’ to-day, ill and, as they understood from her story, delirious! ‘Good Heavens, what had become of him?’ Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish for that hour and a half. A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov’s entrance. Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and cried. He took a step, tottered and fell to the ground, fainting. Anxiety, cries of horror, moans … Razumihin who was standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the sofa. ‘It’s nothing, nothing!’ he cried to the mother and sister— ‘it’s only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!’ And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated it, he made her bend down to see that ‘he is all right again.’ The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his illness, by this ‘very competent young man,’ as Pulcheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in conversation with Dounia. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Part III 0 Chapter I Raskolnikov got up, and sat down on the sofa. He waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was addressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her brother’s. ‘Go home … with him,’ he said in a broken voice, pointing to Razumihin, ‘good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow everything … Is it long since you arrived?’ ‘This evening, Rodya,’ answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, near you …’ ‘Don’t torture me!’ he said with a gesture of irritation. ‘I will stay with him,’ cried Razumihin, ‘I won’t leave him for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to their hearts’ content! My uncle is presiding there.’ ‘How, how can I thank you!’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin’s hands, but 1 Raskolnikov interrupted her again. ‘I can’t have it! I can’t have it!’ he repeated irritably, ‘don’t worry me! Enough, go away … I can’t stand it!’ ‘Come, mamma, come out of the room at least for a minute,’ Dounia whispered in dismay; ‘we are distressing him, that’s evident.’ ‘Mayn’t I look at him after three years?’ wept Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Stay,’ he stopped them again, ‘you keep interrupting me, and my ideas get muddled…. Have you seen Luzhin?’ ‘No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We have heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit you today,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat timidly. ‘Yes … he was so kind … Dounia, I promised Luzhin I’d throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell….’ ‘Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don’t mean to tell us …’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but she stopped, looking at Dounia. Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in painful perplexity and suspense. ‘Dounia,’ Raskolnikov continued with an effort, ‘I don’t want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name again.’ ‘Good Heavens!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Brother, think what you are saying!’ Avdotya Romanovna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. ‘You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired,’ she added gently. ‘You think I am delirious? No … You are marrying Luzhin for my sake. But I won’t accept the sacrifice. And so write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him … Let me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!’ ‘That I can’t do!’ the girl cried, offended, ‘what right have you …’ ‘Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow … Don’t you see …’ the mother interposed in dismay. ‘Better come away!’ ‘He is raving,’ Razumihin cried tipsily, ‘or how would he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over … to-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so. And Luzhin got angry, too…. He made speeches here, wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest- fallen….’ ‘Then it’s true?’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,’ said Dounia compassionately—‘let us go, mother … Good-bye, Rodya.’ ‘Do you hear, sister,’ he repeated after them, making a last effort, ‘I am not delirious; this marriage is—an infamy. Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn’t … one is enough … and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn’t own such a sister. It’s me or Luzhin! Go now….’ ‘But you’re out of your mind! Despot!’ roared Razumihin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall, utterly Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively started at her glance. Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed. ‘Nothing would induce me to go,’ she whispered in despair to Razumihin. ‘I will stay somewhere here … escort Dounia home.’ ‘You’ll spoil everything,’ Razumihin answered in the same whisper, losing patience—‘come out on to the stairs, anyway. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you,’ he went on in a half whisper on the stairs- ‘that he was almost beating the doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do himself some mischief….’ ‘What are you saying?’ ‘And Avdotya Romanovna can’t possibly be left in those lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn’t find you better lodgings … But you know I’ve had a little to drink, and that’s what makes me … swear; don’t mind it….’ ‘But I’ll go to the landlady here,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna insisted, ‘Ill beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and me for the night. I can’t leave him like that, I cannot!’ This conversation took place on the landing just before the landlady’s door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with astonishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed their hands painfully as in a vise. He stared at Avdotya Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew them all the closer to him. If they’d told him to jump head foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccentric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous disposition, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes without wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded confidence inspired by Nastasya’s account of her brother’s queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible now. Ten minutes later, however, she was considerably reassured; it was characteristic of Razumihin Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com that he showed his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal with. ‘You can’t go to the landlady, that’s perfect nonsense!’ he cried. ‘If you stay, though you are his mother, you’ll drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will happen! Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: Nastasya will stay with him now, and I’ll conduct you both home, you can’t be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that way…. But no matter! Then I’ll run straight back here and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I’ll bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. Then, listen! Then I’ll run home in a twinkling—I’ve a lot of friends there, all drunk—I’ll fetch Zossimov—that’s the doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I’ll drag him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you’ll get two reports in the hour—from the doctor, you understand, from the doctor himself, that’s a very different thing from my account of him! If there’s anything wrong, I swear I’ll bring you here myself, but, if it’s all right, you go to bed. And I’ll spend the night here, in the passage, he won’t hear me, and I’ll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady’s, to be at hand. Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home then! But the landlady is out of the question; it’s all right for me, but it’s out of the question for you: she wouldn’t take you, for she’s … for she’s a fool … She’d be jealous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, if you want to know … of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character! But I am a fool, too! … No matter! Come along! Do you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?’ ‘Let us go, mother,’ said Avdotya Romanovna, ‘he will certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the night here, what could be better?’ ‘You see, you … you … understand me, because you are an angel!’ Razumihin cried in ecstasy, ‘let us go! Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I’ll come in a quarter of an hour.’ Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly convinced, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good-natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He seemed in such a condition…. ‘Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!’ Razumihin broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, however. ‘Nonsense! That is … I am drunk like a fool, but that’s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It’s seeing you has turned my head … But don’t mind me! Don’t take any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of you…. I am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I’ve taken you home, I’ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right…. If only you knew how I love you both! Don’t laugh, and don’t be angry! You may be angry with anyone, but not with me! I am his friend, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com and therefore I am your friend, too, I want to be … I had a presentiment … Last year there was a moment … though it wasn’t a presentiment really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I expect I shan’t sleep all night … Zossimov was afraid a little time ago that he would go mad … that’s why he mustn’t be irritated.’ ‘What do you say?’ cried the mother. ‘Did the doctor really say that?’ asked Avdotya Romanovna, alarmed. ‘Yes, but it’s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here…. Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow. It’s a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk! And I shan’t be drunk…. And what made me get so tight? Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I’ve sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost came to blows! I’ve left my uncle to preside. Would you believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and that’s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as unlike themselves as they can. That’s what they regard as the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were their own, but as it is …’ ‘Listen!’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but it only added fuel to the flames. ‘What do you think?’ shouted Razumihin, louder than ever, ‘you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That’s man’s one privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; but we can’t even make mistakes on our own account! Talk nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and I’ll kiss you for it. To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in someone else’s. In the first case you are a man, in the second you’re no better than a bird. Truth won’t escape you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. And what are we doing now? In science, development, thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, experience and everything, everything, everything, we are still in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on other people’s ideas, it’s what we are used to! Am I right, am I right?’ cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two ladies’ hands. ‘Oh, mercy, I do not know,’ cried poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Yes, yes … though I don’t agree with you in everything,’ added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully. ‘Yes, you say yes … well after that you … you …’ he cried in a transport, ‘you are a fount of goodness, purity, sense … and perfection. Give me your hand … you give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, on my knees …’ and he fell on his knees on the pavement, fortunately at that time deserted. ‘Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed. ‘Get up, get up!’ said Dounia laughing, though she, too, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com was upset. ‘Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That’s it! Enough! I get up and we’ll go on! I am a luckless fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk … and I am ashamed…. I am not worthy to love you, but to do homage to you is the duty of every man who is not a perfect beast! And I’ve done homage…. Here are your lodgings, and for that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch away…. How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodgings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his betrothed? Yes? Well, then, I’ll tell you, your fiancé is a scoundrel.’ ‘Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting …’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning. ‘Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed of it,’ Razumihin made haste to apologise. ‘But … but you can’t be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak sincerely and not because … hm, hm! That would be disgraceful; in fact not because I’m in … hm! Well, anyway, I won’t say why, I daren’t…. But we all saw to-day when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not because he had his hair curled at the barber’s, not because he was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a spy, a speculator, because he is a skinflint and a buffoon. That’s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do you see, ladies?’ he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs to their rooms, ‘though all my friends there are drunk, yet they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth 0 at last, for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch … is not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all sorts of names just now, I do respect them all … though I don’t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that bullock Zossimov, because he is an honest man and knows his work. But enough, it’s all said and forgiven. Is it forgiven? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor, I’ve been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3…. Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock yourselves in for the night, then. Don’t let anybody in. In a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news, and half an hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you’ll see! Good- bye, I’ll run.’ ‘Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with anxiety and dismay. ‘Don’t worry yourself, mother,’ said Dounia, taking off her hat and cape. ‘God has sent this gentleman to our aid, though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for Rodya….’ ‘Ah. Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How could I bring myself to leave Rodya? … And how different, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen he was, as though not pleased to see us….’ Tears came into her eyes. ‘No, it’s not that, mother. You didn’t see, you were crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness—that’s the reason.’ ‘Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? 1 And how he talked to you, Dounia!’ said the mother, looking timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts and, already half consoled by Dounia’s standing up for her brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. ‘I am sure he will think better of it to-morrow,’ she added, probing her further. ‘And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow … about that,’ Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching her daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna’s and the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter’s mood at such moments. Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart from his eccentric condition, many people would have thought it justified if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, especially at that moment when she was walking to and fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, strikingly well-proportioned, strong and self-reliant— the latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did not in the least detract from the grace and softness of her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly individual and almost haughty expression. Her face was always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well smiles, how well youthful, lighthearted, irresponsible, laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a warm, open, simplehearted, honest giant like Razumihin, who had never seen anyone like her and was not quite sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful words—and his fate was sealed. He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be jealous of Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was fortythree, her face still retained traces of her former beauty; she looked much younger than her age, indeed, which is almost always the case with women who retain serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to preserve all this is the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com only means of retaining beauty to old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over again, twenty years older, but without the projecting underlip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not sentimental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She could give way and accept a great deal even of what was contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which nothing would induce her to cross. Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure, there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: he had come back. ‘I won’t come in, I haven’t time,’ he hastened to say when the door was opened. ‘He sleeps like a top, soundly, quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do anything….’ And he ran off down the corridor. ‘What a very competent and … devoted young man!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted. ‘He seems a splendid person!’ Avdotya Romanovna replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down the room. It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both wom- en waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. Zossimov had agreed at once to desert the drinking party to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not display the slightest desire to enter into more personal relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly also a moral origin, ‘was, so to speak, the product of several material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, troubles, certain ideas … and so on.’ Noticing stealthily that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly inquiring as to ‘some suspicion of insanity,’ he replied with Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com a composed and candid smile that his words had been exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was now particularly studying this interesting branch of medicine—but that it must be recollected that until to-day the patient had been in delirium and … and that no doubt the presence of his family would have a favourable effect on his recovery and distract his mind, ‘if only all fresh shocks can be avoided,’ he added significantly. Then he got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased with his visit and still more so with himself. ‘We’ll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!’ Razumihin said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. ‘I’ll be with you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my report.’ ‘That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,’ remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both came out into the street. ‘Fetching? You said fetching?’ roared Razumihin and he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. ‘If you ever dare…. Do you understand? Do you understand?’ he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him against the wall. ‘Do you hear?’ ‘Let me go, you drunken devil,’ said Zossimov, struggling and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in gloomy and earnest reflection. ‘Of course, I am an ass,’ he observed, sombre as a storm cloud, ‘but still … you are another.’ ‘No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming of any folly.’ They walked along in silence and only when they were close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence in considerable anxiety. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re a first-rate fellow, but among your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads one straight into the dirt. You’ve let yourself get so slack that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and get up at night to your patients! In another three or four years you won’t get up for your patients … But hang it all, that’s not the point! … You are going to spend to-night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to persuade her!) And I’ll be in the kitchen. So here’s a chance for you to get to know her better…. It’s not as you think! There’s not a trace of anything of the sort, brother …!’ ‘But I don’t think!’ ‘Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a savage virtue … and yet she’s sighing and melting like wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s unholy! She’s most prepossessing … I’ll repay you, I’ll do anything….’ Zossimov laughed more violently than ever. ‘Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you won’t regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all began with that song; Now you’re a regular performer, a maître a Rubinstein…. I assure you, you won’t regret it!’ ‘But have you made her some promise? Something signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! Besides she is not that sort at all…. Tchebarov tried that….’ ‘Well then, drop her!’ ‘But I can’t drop her like that!’ ‘Why can’t you?’ ‘Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element of attraction here, brother.’ ‘Then why have you fascinated her?’ ‘I haven’t fascinated her; perhaps I was fascinated myself in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing…. I can’t explain the position, brother … look here, you are good at mathematics, and working at it now … begin teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not joking, I’m in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian House of Lords (for one must talk of something)—she just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love—she’s bashful to hysterics— but just let her see you can’t tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully comfortable; you’re quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.’ ‘But what do I want with her?’ ‘Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are made for each other! I have often been reminded of you! … You’ll come to it in the end! So does it matter whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed element here, brother—ach! and not only that! There’s an attraction here—here you have the end of the world, an anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of pancakes, of savoury fish- pies, of the evening samovar, of soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what stuff I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake up at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no need, it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself, yet if you like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice anything—delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there can’t be….’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter II Razumihin waked up next morning at eight o’clock, troubled and serious. He found himself confronted with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly that the dream which had fired his imagination was hopelessly unattainable—so unattainable that he felt positively ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that ‘thrice accursed yesterday.’ The most awful recollection of the previous day was the way he had shown himself ‘base and mean,’ not only because he had been drunk, but because he had taken advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse her fiancé in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? But after all how could he 00 know the character of the lodgings? He was furnishing a flat … Foo! how despicable it all was! And what justification was it that he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come out, ‘that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious heart’! And would such a dream ever be permissible to him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl—he, the drunken noisy braggart of last night? Was it possible to imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition? Razumihin blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be jealous of Avdotya Romanovna … that was simply intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying. ‘Of course,’ he muttered to himself a minute later with a feeling of self-abasement, ‘of course, all these infamies can never be wiped out or smoothed over … and so it’s useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence and do my duty … in silence, too … and not ask forgiveness, and say nothing … for all is lost now!’ And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more carefully than usual. He hadn’t another suit—if he had had, perhaps he wouldn’t have put it on. ‘I would have made a point of not putting it on.’ But in any case he could not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent; in that re- 01 spect he was especially clean. He washed that morning scrupulously—he got some soap from Nastasya— he washed his hair, his neck and especially his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital razors that had been left by her late husband), the question was angrily answered in the negative. ‘Let it stay as it is! What if they think that I shaved on purpose to …? They certainly would think so! Not on any account!’ ‘And … the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, he had the manners of a pothouse; and … and even admitting that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman … what was there in that to be proud of? Everyone ought to be a gentleman and more than that … and all the same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things … not exactly dishonest, and yet…. And what thoughts he sometimes had; hm … and to set all that beside Avdotya Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he’d make a point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!’ He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlour, came in. He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn’t wake him and promised to see him again about eleven. ‘If he is still at home,’ he added. ‘Damn it all! If one can’t 0 control one’s patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are coming here?’ ‘They are coming, I think,’ said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, ‘and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I’ll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I.’ ‘But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I’ve plenty to do besides looking after them.’ ‘One thing worries me,’ interposed Razumihin, frowning. ‘On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him … all sorts of things … and amongst them that you were afraid that he … might become insane.’ ‘You told the ladies so, too.’ ‘I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seriously?’ ‘That’s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him … and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I’d known what happened then at the police station and that some wretch … had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm … I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill … and see their fancies as solid realities…. As far as I remember, it was Zametov’s story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the 0 throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t endure the jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, the insolent police officer, the fever and this suspicion! All that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! … And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, but hm … he shouldn’t have told all that last night. He is an awful chatterbox!’ ‘But whom did he tell it to? You and me?’ ‘And Porfiry.’ ‘What does that matter?’ ‘And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his mother and sister? Tell them to be more careful with him to-day….’ ‘They’ll get on all right!’ Razumihin answered reluctantly. ‘Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with money and she doesn’t seem to dislike him … and they haven’t a farthing, I suppose? eh?’ ‘But what business is it of yours?’ Razumihin cried with annoyance. ‘How can I tell whether they’ve a farthing? Ask them yourself and perhaps you’ll find out….’ ‘Foo! what an ass you are sometimes! Last night’s wine has not gone off yet…. Good-bye; thank your Praskovya Pavlovna from me for my night’s lodging. She locked herself in, made no reply to my bonjour through the door; she was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken into her from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal interview….’ 0 At nine o’clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings at Bakaleyev’s house. Both ladies were waiting for him with nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o’clock or earlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awkwardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kissing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and unlooked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks and illdisguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he made haste to snatch at it. Hearing that everything was going well and that Rodya had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that she was glad to hear it, because ‘she had something which it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.’ Then followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way that the ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked the lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrassment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him. He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly 0 interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year of Raskolnikov’s life, concluding with a circumstantial account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things, which were better omitted, including the scene at the police station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly begun. ‘Tell me, tell me! What do you think … ? Excuse me, I still don’t know your name!’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna put in hastily. ‘Dmitri Prokofitch.’ ‘I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch … how he looks … on things in general now, that is, how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes and, so to say, his dreams? Under what influences is he now? In a word, I should like …’ ‘Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?’ observed Dounia. ‘Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least like this, Dmitri Prokofitch!’ ‘Naturally,’ answered Razumihin. ‘I have no mother, but my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a clever man; and your three years’ separation means a great deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, and 0 of late—and perhaps for a long time before—he has been suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Sometimes, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and inhumanly callous; it’s as though he were alternating between two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things, not because he hasn’t the wit, but as though he hadn’t time to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to him. He is never interested in what interests other people at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him.’ ‘God grant it may,’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, distressed by Razumihin’s account of her Rodya. And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at once. Avdotya Romanovna sat at the table, listening attentively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Romanovna been dressed like a queen, he felt that 0 he would not be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surroundings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident. ‘You’ve told us a great deal that is interesting about my brother’s character … and have told it impartially. I am glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to him,’ observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. ‘I think you are right that he needs a woman’s care,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t say so; but I daresay you are right, only …’ ‘What?’ ‘He loves no one and perhaps he never will,’ Razumihin declared decisively. ‘You mean he is not capable of love?’ ‘Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like your brother, in everything, indeed!’ he blurted out suddenly to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t help laughing when she looked at him. ‘You may both be mistaken about Rodya,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. ‘I am not talking of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I 0 am sure that he might do something now that nobody else would think of doing … Well, for instance, do you know how a year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that girl—what was her name—his landlady’s daughter?’ ‘Did you hear about that affair?’ asked Avdotya Romanovna. ‘Do you suppose——‘ Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued warmly. ‘Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all obstacles. And yet it isn’t that he doesn’t love us!’ ‘He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,’ Razumihin answered cautiously. ‘But I did hear something from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange.’ ‘And what did you hear?’ both the ladies asked at once. ‘Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the marriage, which only failed to take place through the girl’s death, was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna’s liking. They say, too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively ugly … and such an invalid … and queer. But she seems to have had some good qualities. She must have had some good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable…. She had no money either and he wouldn’t have considered her money…. But it’s always difficult to judge in such matters.’ ‘I am sure she was a good girl,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed briefly. ‘God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though I 0 don’t know which of them would have caused most misery to the other—he to her or she to him,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesitating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the latter’s annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evidently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin described it in detail again, but this time he added his own conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the score of his illness. ‘He had planned it before his illness,’ he added. ‘I think so, too,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a certain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, too, was struck by it. ‘So this is your opinion of Pyotr Petrovitch?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna could not resist asking. ‘I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future husband,’ Razumihin answered firmly and with warmth, ‘and I don’t say it simply from vulgar politeness, but because … simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly drunk and … mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head completely … and this morning I am ashamed of it.’ He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered 10 a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin. Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceedingly worried by one circumstance. ‘You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,’ she began. ‘I’ll be perfectly open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?’ ‘Of course, mother,’ said Avdotya Romanovna emphatically. ‘This is what it is,’ she began in haste, as though the permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her mind. ‘Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would be here himself this morning. But this morning this note came from him. You’d better read it yourself; there is one point in it which worries me very much … you will soon see what that is, and … tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri Prokofitch! You know Rodya’s character better than anyone and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don’t feel sure how to act and I … I’ve been waiting for your opinion.’ Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous evening and read as follows: ‘Dear Madam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to inform you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was 11 rendered unable to meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow evening at eight o’clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romanovitch may not be present at our interview—as he offered me a gross and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to withdraw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what pains you were at to raise that sum. Herewith expressing 1 my special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I beg you to accept the respectful homage of ‘Your humble servant, ‘P. LUZHIN.’ ‘What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?’ began Pulcheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. ‘How can I ask Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, and … what will happen then?’ ‘Act on Avdotya Romanovna’s decision,’ Razumihin answered calmly at once. ‘Oh, dear me! She says … goodness knows what she says, she doesn’t explain her object! She says that it would be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it’s absolutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being here at eight o’clock and that they must meet…. I didn’t want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from coming by some stratagem with your help … because he is so irritable…. Besides I don’t understand about that drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have given the daughter all the money … which …’ ‘Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,’ put in Avdotya Romanovna. ‘He was not himself yesterday,’ Razumihin said thoughtfully, ‘if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant yesterday, though there was sense in it too…. Hm! He did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, about a dead man and a girl, but I didn’t understand a 1 word…. But last night, I myself …’ ‘The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him ourselves and there I assure you we shall see at once what’s to be done. Besides, it’s getting late—good heavens, it’s past ten,’ she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. ‘A present from her fiancé ’ thought Razumihin. ‘We must start, Dounia, we must start,’ her mother cried in a flutter. ‘He will be thinking we are still angry after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heavens!’ While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air of special dignity, which is always found in people who know how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. ‘The queen who mended her stockings in prison,’ he thought, ‘must have looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than at sumptuous banquets and levées.’ ‘My God!’ exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘little did I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, darling Rodya! I am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch,’ she added, glancing at him timidly. ‘Don’t be afraid, mother,’ said Dounia, kissing her, ‘better have faith in him.’ ‘Oh, dear, I have faith in him, but I haven’t slept all night,’ exclaimed the poor woman. 1 They came out into the street. ‘Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna … she was all in white … she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, but so sternly as though she were blaming me…. Is that a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t know, Dmitri Prokofitch, that Marfa Petrovna’s dead!’ ‘No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?’ ‘She died suddenly; and only fancy …’ ‘Afterwards, mamma,’ put in Dounia. ‘He doesn’t know who Marfa Petrovna is.’ ‘Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch, I don’t know what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation…. Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?’ ‘Yes, I bruised it,’ muttered Razumihin overjoyed. ‘I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that Dounia finds fault with me…. But, dear me, what a cupboard he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall annoy him with my … weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, you know.’ ‘Don’t question him too much about anything if you see him frown; don’t ask him too much about his health; he doesn’t like that.’ 1 ‘Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! But here are the stairs…. What an awful staircase!’ ‘Mother, you are quite pale, don’t distress yourself, darling,’ said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she added: ‘He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are tormenting yourself so.’ ‘Wait, I’ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.’ The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, and when they reached the landlady’s door on the fourth storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and that two keen black eyes were watching them from the darkness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost cried out. 1 Chapter III ‘He is well, quite well!’ Zossimov cried cheerfully as they entered. He had come in ten minutes earlier and was sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully washed and combed, as he had not been for some time past. The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen. Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there was a restlessness in his movements. He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother 1 and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that almost every word of the following conversation seemed to touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word. ‘Yes, I see myself now that I am almost well,’ said Raskolnikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. ‘And I don’t say this as I did yesterday ’ he said, addressing Razumihin, with a friendly pressure of his hand. ‘Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,’ began Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he had not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient for ten minutes. ‘In another three or four days, if he goes on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a month ago, or two … or perhaps even three. This has been coming on for a long while…. eh? Confess, now, that it has been perhaps your own fault?’ he added, with a tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him. ‘It is very possible,’ answered Raskolnikov coldly. ‘I should say, too,’ continued Zossimov with zest, ‘that your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fundamental causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. These fundamental causes I don’t know, but 1 they must be known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial.’ ‘Yes, yes; you are perfectly right…. I will make haste and return to the university: and then everything will go smoothly….’ Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night. ‘What! he saw you last night?’ Raskolnikov asked, as though startled. ‘Then you have not slept either after your journey.’ ‘Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia and I never go to bed before two at home.’ ‘I don’t know how to thank him either,’ Raskolnikov went on, suddenly frowning and looking down. ‘Setting aside the question of payment— forgive me for referring to it (he turned to Zossimov)—I really don’t know what I have done to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don’t understand it … and … and … it weighs upon me, indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you so candidly.’ ‘Don’t be irritated.’ Zossimov forced himself to laugh. ‘Assume that you are my first patient—well—we fellows just 1 beginning to practise love our first patients as if they were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. And, of course, I am not rich in patients.’ ‘I say nothing about him,’ added Raskolnikov, pointing to Razumihin, ‘though he has had nothing from me either but insult and trouble.’ ‘What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a sentimental mood to-day, are you?’ shouted Razumihin. If he had had more penetration he would have seen that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother. ‘As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,’ he went on, as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. ‘It is only today that I have been able to realise a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back.’ When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute the previous day. The mother’s face lighted up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconciliation. ‘Yes, that is what I love him for,’ Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in his chair. ‘He has these movements.’ ‘And how well he does it all,’ the mother was thinking to herself. ‘What generous impulses he has, and how simply, 0 how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding with his sister—simply by holding out his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that…. And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is! … He is even better looking than Dounia…. But, good heavens, what a suit —how terribly he’s dressed! … Vasya, the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better dressed! I could rush at him and hug him … weep over him—but I am afraid…. Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s talking kindly, but I’m afraid! Why, what am I afraid of? …’ ‘Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,’ she began suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, ‘how unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it’s all over and done with and we are quite happy again—I can tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that woman—ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! … She told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the streets. You can’t imagine how we felt! I couldn’t help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s— you can’t remember him, Rodya—who ran out in the same way in a high fever and fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn’t pull him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask him to help…. Because we were alone, utterly alone,’ she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, although ‘we are quite happy again.’ 1 ‘Yes, yes…. Of course it’s very annoying….’ Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity. ‘What else was it I wanted to say?’ He went on trying to recollect. ‘Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please don’t think that I didn’t mean to come and see you to-day and was waiting for you to come first.’ ‘What are you saying, Rodya?’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised. ‘Is he answering us as a duty?’ Dounia wondered. ‘Is he being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were performing a rite or repeating a lesson?’ ‘I’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask her … Nastasya … to wash out the blood … I’ve only just dressed.’ ‘Blood! What blood?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in alarm. ‘Oh, nothing—don’t be uneasy. It was when I was wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man who had been run over … a clerk …’ ‘Delirious? But you remember everything!’ Razumihin interrupted. ‘That’s true,’ Raskolnikov answered with special carefulness. ‘I remember everything even to the slightest detail, and yet—why I did that and went there and said that, I can’t clearly explain now.’ ‘A familiar phenomenon,’ interposed Zossimov, ‘actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and de- pendent on various morbid impressions— it’s like a dream.’ ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me almost a madman,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,’ observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov. ‘There is some truth in your observation,’ the latter replied. ‘In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens—perhaps hundreds of thousands—hardly one is to be met with.’ At the word ‘madman,’ carelessly dropped by Zossimov in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned. Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still meditating on something. ‘Well, what about the man who was run over? I interrupted you!’ Razumihin cried hastily. ‘What?’ Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. ‘Oh … I got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money you sent me … to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature … three little children, starving … nothing in the house … there’s a daughter, too … perhaps you’d have given it yourself if you’d seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n’êtes Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com pas contents. ’ He laughed, ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Dounia?’ ‘No, it’s not,’ answered Dounia firmly. ‘Bah! you, too, have ideals,’ he muttered, looking at her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. ‘I ought to have considered that…. Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s better for you … and if you reach a line you won’t overstep, you will be unhappy … and if you overstep it, maybe you will be still unhappier…. But all that’s nonsense,’ he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. ‘I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,’ he concluded, shortly and abruptly. ‘That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you do is very good,’ said his mother, delighted. ‘Don’t be too sure,’ he answered, twisting his mouth into a smile. A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it. ‘It is as though they were afraid of me,’ Raskolnikov was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the longer she kept silent. ‘Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,’ flashed through his mind. ‘Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. ‘What Marfa Petrovna?’ ‘Oh, mercy on us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I wrote you so much about her.’ ‘A-a-h! Yes, I remember…. So she’s dead! Oh, really?’ he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. ‘What did she die of?’ ‘Only imagine, quite suddenly,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. ‘On the very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.’ ‘Why, were they on such bad terms?’ he asked, addressing his sister. ‘Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost patience.’ ‘Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?’ ‘No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!’ Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into thought. ‘That had happened in the morning,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. ‘And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am told….’ ‘After the beating?’ ‘That was always her … habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the bath- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com house…. You see, she was undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!’ ‘I should think so,’ said Zossimov. ‘And did he beat her badly?’ ‘What does that matter!’ put in Dounia. ‘H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,’ said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself. ‘Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,’ broke from Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Why, are you all afraid of me?’ he asked, with a constrained smile. ‘That’s certainly true,’ said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at her brother. ‘Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the stairs.’ His face worked, as though in convulsion. ‘Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry, please, Rodya…. Why did you say that, Dounia?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed—‘You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything together…. And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now…. You should not, Dounia…. I am happy now—simply in seeing you, Rodya….’ ‘Hush, mother,’ he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but pressing her hand. ‘We shall have time to speak freely of everything!’ As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had just told a fearful lie—that he would never now be able to speak freely of everything—that he would never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not looking at anyone walked towards the door. ‘What are you about?’ cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm. He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity. ‘But what are you all so dull for?’ he shouted, suddenly and quite unexpectedly. ‘Do say something! What’s the use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk…. We meet together and sit in silence…. Come, anything!’ ‘Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning again,’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. ‘What is the matter, Rodya?’ asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully. ‘Oh, nothing! I remembered something,’ he answered, and suddenly laughed. ‘Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right! … I was beginning to think …’ muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. ‘It is time for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps … if I can …’ He made his bows, and went out. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘What an excellent man!’ observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,’ Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. ‘I can’t remember where I met him before my illness…. I believe I have met him somewhere—— … And this is a good man, too,’ he nodded at Razumihin. ‘Do you like him, Dounia?’ he asked her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed. ‘Very much,’ answered Dounia. ‘Foo!—what a pig you are!’ Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud. ‘Where are you off to?’ ‘I must go.’ ‘You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don’t go. What’s the time? Is it twelve o’clock? What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking.’ ‘It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,’ answered Dounia. ‘And a very expensive one!’ added Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.’ ‘I like that sort,’ said Dounia. ‘So it is not a present from her fiancé ’ thought Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted. ‘I thought it was Luzhin’s present,’ observed Raskol- nikov. ‘No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.’ ‘A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get married?’ he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it. ‘Oh, yes, my dear.’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin. ‘H’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember much indeed. She was such a sickly girl,’ he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again. ‘Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don’t know what drew me to her then—I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still,’ he smiled dreamily. ‘Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.’ ‘No, it was not only spring delirium,’ said Dounia, with warm feeling. He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down. ‘You love her even now?’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched. ‘Her? Now? Oh, yes…. You ask about her? No … that’s Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com all now, as it were, in another world … and so long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems somehow far away.’ He looked attentively at them. ‘You, now … I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away … but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what’s the use of asking about it?’ he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence again. ‘What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a tomb,’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. ‘I am sure it’s quite half through your lodging you have become so melancholy.’ ‘My lodging,’ he answered, listlessly. ‘Yes, the lodging had a great deal to do with it…. I thought that, too…. If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just now, mother,’ he said, laughing strangely. A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister, with him after three years’ absence, this intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the other that day—so he had decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape. ‘Listen, Dounia,’ he began, gravely and drily, ‘of course I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to look on you as a sister.’ 0 ‘Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. ‘And why do you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You said the same yesterday.’ ‘Brother,’ Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. ‘In all this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision….’ ‘She is lying,’ he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively. ‘Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate…. Oh, how I … hate them all!’ ‘In fact,’ continued Dounia, ‘I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him…. Why did you smile just now?’ She, too, flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes. ‘All?’ he asked, with a malignant grin. ‘Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch’s courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too…. Why are you laughing again?’ ‘And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. 1 You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me…. You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it.’ ‘It is not true. I am not lying,’ cried Dounia, losing her composure. ‘I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it this very day … and such a marriage is not a vileness, as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself…. I am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the matter?’ ‘Good heavens! You have made him faint,’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness—not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H’m, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and that he … esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?’ ‘Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,’ said Dounia. With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at Dounia. ‘It is strange,’ he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. ‘What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!’ He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something particular. ‘What surprises me,’ he began, after a short pause, handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, ‘is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such an uneducated letter.’ They all started. They had expected something quite different. ‘But they all write like that, you know,’ Razumihin observed, abruptly. ‘Have you read it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘We showed him, Rodya. We … consulted him just now,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed. ‘That’s just the jargon of the courts,’ Razumihin put in. ‘Legal documents are written like that to this day.’ ‘Legal? Yes, it’s just legal—business language—not so very uneducated, and not quite educated—business language!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made his own way,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat offended by her brother’s tone. ‘Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things stand. There is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’ put in very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, or one of us?’ ‘N-no,’ answered Dounia, with more animation. ‘I saw clearly that it was too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps he simply has no skill in writing … that is a true criticism, brother. I did not expect, indeed …’ ‘It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)—but to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and with a very naïve eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows the man and … I don’t think he has a great esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish for your good …’ Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. She was only awaiting the evening. ‘Then what is your decision, Rodya?’ asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk. ‘What decision?’ ‘You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come. So will you … come?’ ‘That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you think best,’ he added, drily. ‘Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare. ‘I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to be with us at this interview,’ said Dounia. ‘Will you come?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,’ she said, addressing Razumihin. ‘Mother, I am inviting him, too.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,’ added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘so be it. I shall feel easier myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let us have the whole truth…. Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry or not, now!’ Chapter IV At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorlydressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old- fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly finding the room full of people, she was not so much embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like a little child. She was even about to retreat. ‘Oh … it’s you!’ said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and sister knew through Luzhin’s letter of ‘some young woman of notorious behaviour.’ He had only just been protesting against Luzhin’s calumny and declaring that he had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not protested against the expression ‘of notorious behaviour.’ All this passed vaguely and fleetingly Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com through his brain, but looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it sent a pang to his heart. ‘I did not expect you,’ he said, hurriedly, with a look that made her stop. ‘Please sit down. You come, no doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me—not there. Sit here….’ At Sonia’s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov’s three chairs, close to the door, got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed, was too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumihin’s chair. ‘You sit here,’ he said to Razumihin, putting him on the sofa. Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Raskolnikov. ‘I … I … have come for one minute. Forgive me for disturbing you,’ she began falteringly. ‘I come from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina Ivanovna told me to beg you … to be at the service … in the morning … at Mitrofanievsky … and then … to us … to her … to do her the honour … she told me to beg you …’ Sonia stammered and ceased speaking. ‘I will try, certainly, most certainly,’ answered Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could not finish his sentence. ‘Please sit down,’ he said, suddenly. ‘I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,’ and he drew up a chair for her. Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, his eyes glowed. ‘Mother,’ he said, firmly and insistently, ‘this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodya’s urgent and challenging look, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever. ‘I wanted to ask you,’ said Raskolnikov, hastily, ‘how things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by the police, for instance?’ ‘No, that was all right … it was too evident, the cause of death … they did not worry us … only the lodgers are angry.’ ‘Why?’ ‘At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was un- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com willing, but now she sees herself that it’s necessary …’ ‘To-day, then?’ ‘She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the funeral lunch.’ ‘She is giving a funeral lunch?’ ‘Yes … just a little…. She told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have had nothing for the funeral.’ All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again. During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl—almost a child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd. ‘But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral lunch?’ Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the conversation. ‘The coffin will be plain, of course … and everything will be plain, so it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough left 0 … and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should be so. You know one can’t … it’s a comfort to her … she is like that, you know….’ ‘I understand, I understand … of course … why do you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it is like a tomb.’ ‘You gave us everything yesterday,’ Sonia said suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov’s poor surroundings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia. ‘Rodya,’ she said, getting up, ‘we shall have dinner together, of course. Come, Dounia…. And you, Rodya, had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down before you come to see us…. I am afraid we have exhausted you….’ ‘Yes, yes, I’ll come,’ he answered, getting up fussily. ‘But I have something to see to.’ ‘But surely you will have dinner together?’ cried Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Yes, yes, I am coming … of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?’ ‘Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the favour of dining with us?’ ‘Please do,’ added Dounia. Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, 1 they were all strangely embarrassed. ‘Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said good-bye again.’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room. But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna’s courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her. ‘Dounia, good-bye,’ called Raskolnikov, in the passage. ‘Give me your hand.’ ‘Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?’ said Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him. ‘Never mind, give it to me again.’ And he squeezed her fingers warmly. Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off quite happy. ‘Come, that’s capital,’ he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. ‘God give peace to the dead, the living have still to live. That is right, isn’t it?’ Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The whole history of the dead father floated before his memory in those moments…. ***** ‘Heavens, Dounia,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, ‘I really feel relieved myself at coming away—more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that.’ ‘I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiven.’ ‘Well, you were not very patient!’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. ‘Do you know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both morose and hot-tempered, both haughty and both generous…. Surely he can’t be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!’ ‘Don’t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.’ ‘Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?’ poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously. ‘He won’t be worth much if he does,’ answered Dounia, sharply and contemptuously. ‘We did well to come away,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. ‘He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air … it is fearfully close in his room…. But where is one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town! … stay … this side … they will crush you—carrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I declare … how they push! … I am very much afraid of that Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com young woman, too.’ ‘What young woman, mother? ‘Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the trouble….’ ‘Nothing of the sort!’ cried Dounia, in vexation. ‘What nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know her when she came in.’ ‘Well, you will see…. She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us—to you! So he must think a great deal of her.’ ‘People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense.’ ‘God grant it may be!’ ‘And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,’ Dounia snapped out, suddenly. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed. ***** ‘I will tell you what I want with you,’ said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumihin to the window. ‘Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,’ Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart. ‘One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!’ he turned suddenly to Razumihin again. ‘You know that … what’s his name … Porfiry Petrovitch?’ ‘I should think so! He is a relation. Why?’ added the latter, with interest. ‘Is not he managing that case … you know, about that murder? … You were speaking about it yesterday.’ ‘Yes … well?’ Razumihin’s eyes opened wide. ‘He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too—trifles—a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father’s silver watch—they are only worth five or six roubles altogether … but I value them. So what am I to do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia’s watch. It is the only thing of father’s left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? The matter might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before dinner.’ ‘Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry,’ Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. ‘Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Very well, let us go.’ ‘And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that’s it! It is all turning out splendidly…. Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna …’ ‘Sofya Semyonovna,’ corrected Raskolnikov. ‘Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good man.’ ‘If you have to go now,’ Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed. ‘Let us go,’ decided Raskolnikov. ‘I will come to you today, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.’ He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went out together. ‘Don’t you lock up?’ asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs. ‘Never,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘I have been meaning to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks,’ he said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway. ‘Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the way?’ he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy. ‘Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.’ ‘Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister? Did I give her the address?’ ‘Why, had you forgotten?’ ‘No, I remember.’ ‘I had heard my father speak of you … only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came … and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day, ‘Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you had only a room too…. Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna.’ She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, perhaps at once! ‘Only not to-day, please, not to-day!’ she kept muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. ‘Mercy! to me … to that room … he will see … oh, dear!’ She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started on hearing Sonia’s words: ‘and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?’ He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and that Sonia was going home. ‘Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,’ he thought. ‘I must find out.’ At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her. He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years. When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seem- ing rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. ‘Bah!’ muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, ‘Kapernaumov, Tailor.’ ‘Bah!’ the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart. ‘You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,’ he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. ‘He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame Resslich’s. How odd!’ Sonia looked at him attentively. ‘We are neighbours,’ he went on gaily. ‘I only came to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present.’ Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy. ***** On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumihin was obviously excited. ‘That’s capital, brother,’ he repeated several times, ‘and I am glad! I am glad!’ ‘What are you glad about?’ Raskolnikov thought to himself. ‘I didn’t know that you pledged things at the old woman’s, too. And … was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?’ ‘What a simple-hearted fool he is!’ ‘When was it?’ Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. ‘Two or three days before her death it must have been. But Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com I am not going to redeem the things now,’ he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things. ‘I’ve not more than a silver rouble left … after last night’s accursed delirium!’ He laid special emphasis on the delirium. ‘Yes, yes,’ Razumihin hastened to agree—with what was not clear. ‘Then that’s why you … were stuck … partly … you know in your delirium you were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes … that’s clear, it’s all clear now.’ ‘Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it cleared up why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of them!’ ‘Shall we find him?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Oh, yes,’ Razumihin answered quickly. ‘He is a nice fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas…. He is incredulous, sceptical, cynical … he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method…. But he understands his work … thoroughly…. Last year he cleared up a case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious to make your acquaintance!’ ‘On what grounds is he so anxious?’ ‘Oh, it’s not exactly … you see, since you’ve been ill I happen to have mentioned you several times…. So, when he heard about you … about your being a law student and 0 not able to finish your studies, he said, ‘What a pity!’ And so I concluded … from everything together, not only that; yesterday Zametov … you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk … I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you see.’ ‘What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right,’ he said with a constrained smile. ‘Yes, yes…. That is, pooh, no! … But all that I said (and there was something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense.’ ‘But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!’ Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however. ‘I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One’s ashamed to speak of it.’ ‘If you are ashamed, then don’t speak of it.’ Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had just said about Porfiry. ‘I shall have to pull a long face with him too,’ he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, ‘and do it naturally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, carefully would not be natural again…. Oh, well, we shall see how it turns out…. We shall see … directly. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that’s what’s bad!’ ‘In this grey house,’ said Razumihin. ‘The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was 1 at the old hag’s flat yesterday … and asked about the blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise … I’ll find out, if it’s my ruin.’ ‘I say, brother,’ he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly smile, ‘I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously excited. Isn’t it so?’ ‘Excited? Not a bit of it,’ said Razumihin, stung to the quick. ‘Yes, brother, I assure you it’s noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed awfully.’ ‘Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?’ ‘But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there he’s blushing again.’ ‘What a pig you are!’ ‘But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I’ll tell of you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I’ll make mother laugh, and someone else, too …’ ‘Listen, listen, listen, this is serious…. What next, you fiend!’ Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. ‘What will you tell them? Come, brother … foo! what a pig you are!’ ‘You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you’ve washed to-day—you cleaned your nails, I declare. Eh? That’s something unheard of! Why, I do believe you’ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.’ ‘Pig!’ Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch’s flat. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the passage. ‘Not a word here or I’ll … brain you!’ Razumihin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter V Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this ‘spontaneous’ mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose. ‘Fool! You fiend,’ he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. ‘But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it’s a loss to the Crown,’ Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily. Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch’s, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitors’ entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov’s unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly. ‘I’ve got to think of that,’ he thought. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. ‘Raskolnikov.’ ‘Not at all, very pleasant to see you … and how pleasantly you’ve come in…. Why, won’t he even say good-morning?’ Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin. ‘Upon my honour I don’t know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo … and proved it. And that was all, I think!’ ‘Pig!’ ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round. ‘There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at the word,’ Porfiry laughed. ‘Oh, you sharp lawyer! … Damn you all!’ snapped Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. ‘That’ll do! We are all fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?’ ‘What does this mean?’ thought Raskolnikov uneasily. Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. ‘Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,’ he said easily. ‘Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your tobacco?’ Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight. As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest. ‘Fool,’ Raskolnikov swore to himself. ‘You have to give information to the police,’ Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, ‘that having learnt of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them … or … but they will write to you.’ ‘That’s just the point, that at the present moment,’ Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, ‘I am not quite in funds … and even this trifling sum is beyond me … I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money….’ ‘That’s no matter,’ answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, ‘but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com as your property, you beg …’ ‘On an ordinary sheet of paper?’ Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question. ‘Oh, the most ordinary,’ and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov’s fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why. ‘He knows,’ flashed through his mind like lightning. ‘Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,’ he went on, a little disconcerted, ‘the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard …’ ‘That’s why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!’ Razumihin put in with obvious intention. This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself. ‘You seem to be jeering at me, brother?’ he said to him, with a well- feigned irritability. ‘I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn’t think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it’s not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father’s. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here,’ he turned suddenly to Porfiry, ‘and if she knew,’ he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, ‘that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!’ ‘Not a bit of it! I didn’t mean that at all! Quite the contrary!’ shouted Razumihin distressed. ‘Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?’ Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. ‘Why did I say that about women?’ ‘Oh, your mother is with you?’ Porfiry Petrovitch inquired. ‘Yes.’ ‘When did she come?’ ‘Last night.’ Porfiry paused as though reflecting. ‘Your things would not in any case be lost,’ he went on calmly and coldly. ‘I have been expecting you here for some time.’ And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin’s cigarette. ‘What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges there?’ cried Razumihin. Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov. ‘Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on which you left them with Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com her …’ ‘How observant you are!’ Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added: ‘I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges … that it must be difficult to remember them all…. But you remember them all so clearly, and … and …’ ‘Stupid! Feeble!’ he thought. ‘Why did I add that?’ ‘But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn’t come forward,’ Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony. ‘I haven’t been quite well.’ ‘I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still.’ ‘I am not pale at all…. No, I am quite well,’ Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not repress it. ‘And in my anger I shall betray myself,’ flashed through his mind again. ‘Why are they torturing me?’ ‘Not quite well!’ Razumihin caught him up. ‘What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!’ ‘Really delirious? You don’t say so!’ Porfiry shook his head in a womanish way. ‘Nonsense! Don’t you believe it! But you don’t believe it anyway,’ Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petro- 0 vitch did not seem to catch those strange words. ‘But how could you have gone out if you hadn’t been delirious?’ Razumihin got hot suddenly. ‘What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly.’ ‘I was awfully sick of them yesterday.’ Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, ‘I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn’t find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday; settle our dispute.’ He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him. ‘In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable,’ Zametov pronounced dryly. ‘And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,’ put in Porfiry Petrovitch, ‘that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over.’ ‘And there,’ said Razumihin, ‘weren’t you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all the twentyfive at once!’ ‘Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that’s why I was liberal yesterday…. Mr. Zametov knows I’ve found a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities,’ he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. ‘We 1 are boring you, aren’t we?’ ‘Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It’s interesting to look on and listen … and I am really glad you have come forward at last.’ ‘But you might give us some tea! My throat’s dry,’ cried Razumihin. ‘Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn’t you like … something more essential before tea?’ ‘Get along with you!’ Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea. Raskolnikov’s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation. ‘The worst of it is they don’t disguise it; they don’t care to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn’t know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don’t care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.’ He was shaking with rage. ‘Come, strike me openly, don’t play with me like a cat with a mouse. It’s hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won’t allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you’ll see how I despise you.’ He could hardly breathe. ‘And what if it’s only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and don’t keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it’s all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them…. It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, ‘With her’? Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone…. Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of course it’s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it’s ill fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude…. Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it’s my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They’re as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they’d make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat he let it pass…. I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of use afterwards…. Delirious, indeed … ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last night! He didn’t know of my mother’s arrival! The hag had written the date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won’t catch me! There are no facts … it’s all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn’t a fact but delirium. I know what to say to them…. Do they know about the flat? I won’t go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that’s right; to play the invalid…. He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?’ All this flashed like lightning through his mind. Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial. ‘Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather…. And I am out of sorts altogether,’ he began in quite a differ- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ent tone, laughing to Razumihin. ‘Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?’ ‘Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space.’ ‘Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off.’ ‘What is there strange? It’s an everyday social question,’ Raskolnikov answered casually. ‘The question wasn’t put quite like that,’ observed Porfiry. ‘Not quite, that’s true,’ Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. ‘Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming…. It began with the socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes admitted! …’ ‘You are wrong there,’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever. ‘Nothing is admitted,’ Razumihin interrupted with heat. ‘I am not wrong. I’ll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is ‘the influence of environment,’ and nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it’s not supposed to exist! They don’t recognise that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That’s why they instinctively dislike history, ‘nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,’ and they explain it all as stupidity! That’s why they so dislike the living process of life; they don’t want a living soul! The living soul demands life, the soul won’t obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won’t revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery—it wants life, it hasn’t completed its vital process, it’s too soon for the graveyard! You can’t skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That’s the easiest solution of the problem! It’s seductively clear and you musn’t think about it. That’s the great thing, you mustn’t think! The whole secret of life in two pages of print!’ ‘Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!’ laughed Porfiry. ‘Can you imagine,’ he turned to Raskol- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com nikov, ‘six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I can assure you of that.’ ‘Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?’ ‘Well, strictly speaking, it did,’ Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; ‘a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment.’ Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. ‘Oh, if you like,’ he roared. ‘I’ll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great’s being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?’ ‘Done! Let’s hear, please, how he will prove it!’ ‘He is always humbugging, confound him,’ cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. ‘What’s the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose; you don’t know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!’ ‘Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in.’ ‘Are you such a good dissembler?’ Raskolnikov asked carelessly. ‘You wouldn’t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I’ll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. ‘On Crime’ … or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the Periodical Review. ’ ‘My article? In the Periodical Review?’ Raskolnikov asked in astonishment. ‘I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the Weekly Review. ’ ‘But it came out in the Periodical. ’ ‘And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that’s why it wasn’t printed at the time.’ ‘That’s true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Review was amalgamated with the Periodical and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn’t you know?’ Raskolnikov had not known. ‘Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It’s a fact, I assure you.’ ‘Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!’ cried Razumihin. ‘I’ll run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn’t Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling us!’ ‘How did you find out that the article was mine? It’s only signed with an initial.’ ‘I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him…. I was very much interested.’ ‘I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime.’ ‘Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but … it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can … that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them.’ Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea. ‘What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment?’ Razumihin inquired with some alarm even. ‘No, not exactly because of it,’ answered Porfiry. ‘In his article all men are divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary.’ Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don’t you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?’ ‘What do you mean? That can’t be right?’ Razumihin muttered in bewilderment. Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge. ‘That wasn’t quite my contention,’ he began simply and modestly. ‘Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so.’ (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) ‘The only difference is that I don’t contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an ‘extraordinary’ man has the right … that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep … certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn’t definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound … to eliminate the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all … well, legislators and leaders of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed—often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law—were of use to their cause. It’s remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals— more or less, of course. Otherwise it’s hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can’t submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it’s somewhat arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable sub- divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love 0 to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It’s only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There’s no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me—and vive la guerre éternelle—till the New Jerusalem, of course!’ ‘Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?’ ‘I do,’ Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet. 1 ‘And … and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity.’ ‘I do,’ repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. ‘And … do you believe in Lazarus’ rising from the dead?’ ‘I … I do. Why do you ask all this?’ ‘You believe it literally?’ ‘Literally.’ ‘You don’t say so…. I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary …’ ‘Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then …’ ‘They begin executing other people?’ ‘If it’s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty.’ ‘Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn’t they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn’t they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to ‘eliminate obstacles’ as you so happily expressed it, then …’ ‘Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, ‘destroyers,’ and to push themselves into the ‘new movement,’ and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really new people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don’t think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn’t necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands…. They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you’ve nothing to be uneasy about…. It’s a law of nature.’ ‘Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there’s another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it’s alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?’ ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about that either,’ Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. ‘People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something new are Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps—I speak roughly, approximately—is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance.’ ‘Why, are you both joking?’ Razumihin cried at last. ‘There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?’ Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face. ‘Well, brother, if you are really serious … You are right, of course, in saying that it’s not new, that it’s like what we’ve read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed in the name of conscience and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism…. That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind … more terrible than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed….’ ‘You are quite right, it is more terrible,’ Porfiry agreed. ‘Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can’t think that! I shall read it.’ ‘All that is not in the article, there’s only a hint of it,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘Yes, yes.’ Porfiry couldn’t sit still. ‘Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but … excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you’ve removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but … there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet—a future one of course—and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles…. He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it … and tries to get it … do you see?’ Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him. ‘I must admit,’ he went on calmly, ‘that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially.’ ‘Yes, you see. Well then?’ ‘What then?’ Raskolnikov smiled in reply; ‘that’s not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There’s no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief.’ ‘And what if we do catch him?’ ‘Then he gets what he deserves.’ ‘You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?’ ‘Why do you care about that?’ ‘Simply from humanity.’ ‘If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment—as well as the prison.’ ‘But the real geniuses,’ asked Razumihin frowning, ‘those who have the right to murder? Oughtn’t they to suffer at all even for the blood they’ve shed?’ ‘Why the word ought? It’s not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth,’ he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation. He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up. ‘Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,’ Porfiry Petrovitch began again, ‘but I can’t resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it.’ ‘Very good, tell me your little notion,’ Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him. ‘Well, you see … I really don’t know how to express it properly…. It’s a playful, psychological idea…. When you were writing your article, surely you couldn’t have helped, he-he! fancying yourself … just a little, an ‘extraordinary’ man, uttering a new word in your sense…. That’s so, isn’t it?’ ‘Quite possibly,’ Raskolnikov answered contemptuously. Razumihin made a movement. ‘And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity— to overstep obstacles? … For instance, to rob and murder?’ And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before. ‘If I did I certainly should not tell you,’ Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt. ‘No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view …’ ‘Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!’ Raskolnikov thought with repulsion. ‘Allow me to observe,’ he answered dryly, ‘that I don’t consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act.’ ‘Oh, come, don’t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?’ Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity. Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice. ‘Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?’ Zametov blurted out from Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the corner. Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go. ‘Are you going already?’ Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. ‘Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two … to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o’clock for certain. We’ll arrange it all; we’ll have a talk. As one of the last to be there you might perhaps be able to tell us something,’ he added with a most good-natured expression. ‘You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?’ Raskolnikov asked sharply. ‘Oh, why? That’s not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and … I’ve talked with all who had pledges…. I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last…. Yes, by the way,’ he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, ‘I just remember, what was I thinking of?’ he turned to Razumihin, ‘you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay … of course, I know, I know very well,’ he turned to Raskolnikov, ‘that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too…. This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensa- tion at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it. ‘Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn’t you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn’t you notice them? It’s very, very important for them.’ ‘Painters? No, I didn’t see them,’ Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. ‘No, I didn’t see them, and I don’t think I noticed a flat like that open…. But on the fourth storey’ (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) ‘I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna’s…. I remember … I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters … no, I don’t remember that there were any painters, and I don’t think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn’t.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. ‘Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?’ ‘Foo! I have muddled it!’ Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!’ he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. ‘It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com fancied you could perhaps have told us something…. I quite muddled it.’ ‘Then you should be more careful,’ Razumihin observed grimly. The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness. They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath. 0 Chapter VI ‘I don’t believe it, I can’t believe it!’ repeated Razumihin, trying in perplexity to refute Raskolnikov’s arguments. They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings, where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expecting them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about it. ‘Don’t believe it, then!’ answered Raskolnikov, with a cold, careless smile. ‘You were noticing nothing as usual, but I was weighing every word.’ ‘You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their words … h’m … certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov! … You are right, there was something about him—but why? Why?’ ‘He has changed his mind since last night.’ ‘Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so as to catch you afterwards…. But it was all impudent and careless.’ ‘If they had had facts—I mean, real facts—or at least grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would have made a search long ago besides). But they have no facts, 1 not one. It is all mirage—all ambiguous. Simply a floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted it out in his vexation—or perhaps he has some plan … he seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. Stop!’ ‘And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But … since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent thing that we have at last—I am glad) I will own now frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of course the merest hint only—an insinuation—but why an insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness (note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his nose, the I.O.U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of people, the talk about the murder of a person where he had been just before, and all that on an empty stomach—he might well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all directions. I’d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I’d put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be downhearted. It’s a shame!’ ‘He really has put it well, though,’ Raskolnikov thought. ‘Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to-morrow?’ he said with bitterness. ‘Must I really enter into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restaurant….’ ‘Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry. I will squeeze it out of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins and outs of it all! And as for Zametov …’ ‘At last he sees through him!’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Stay!’ cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder again. ‘Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the question about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done that could you have said you had seen them painting the flat … and the workmen? On the contrary, you would have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own it against himself?’ ‘If I had done that thing I should certainly have said that I had seen the workmen and the flat,’ Raskolnikov answered, with reluctance and obvious disgust. ‘But why speak against yourself?’ ‘Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to admit all the external facts that can’t be avoided, but will seek other explanations of them, will introduce some special, unexpected turn, that will give them another significance and put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com that I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to give an air of truth, and then make some explanation.’ ‘But he would have told you at once that the workmen could not have been there two days before, and that therefore you must have been there on the day of the murder at eight o’clock. And so he would have caught you over a detail.’ ‘Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen could not have been there two days before.’ ‘But how could you forget it?’ ‘Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think….’ ‘He is a knave then, if that is so!’ Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frankness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explanation, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from necessity. ‘I am getting a relish for certain aspects!’ he thought to himself. But almost at the same instant he became suddenly uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s. ‘Go in alone!’ said Raskolnikov suddenly. ‘I will be back directly.’ ‘Where are you going? Why, we are just here.’ ‘I can’t help it…. I will come in half an hour. Tell them.’ ‘Say what you like, I will come with you.’ ‘You, too, want to torture me!’ he screamed, with such bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, looking gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their long absence. When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fastened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reaching the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly fancied that something, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it, might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, conclusive evidence against him. He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humiliated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway. ‘Here he is himself,’ shouted a loud voice. He raised his head. The porter was standing at the door of his little room and was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly. ‘What is it?’ Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly and went out of the gate into the street without saying a word. ‘What is it?’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It’s funny.’ The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back to his room. Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught sight of him walking along the other side of the street with the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but for some time walked behind him. At last, moving on to a level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; and so they walked for a minute side by side without uttering a word. ‘You were inquiring for me … of the porter?’ Raskolnikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice. The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. Again they were both silent. ‘Why do you … come and ask for me … and say nothing…. What’s the meaning of it?’ Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to articulate the words clearly. The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy sinister look at Raskolnikov. ‘Murderer!’ he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and distinct voice. Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for about a hundred paces, side by side in silence. The man did not look at him. ‘What do you mean … what is…. Who is a murderer?’ muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. ‘You are a murderer,’ the man answered still more articulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred, and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and stricken eyes. They had just reached the cross-roads. The man turned Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov remained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph. With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank exhausted on the sofa and with a weak moan of pain he stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour. He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated before his mind—faces of people he had seen in his childhood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table in a restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and strewn with egg-shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from somewhere…. The images followed one another, whirling like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, sometimes it was even pleasant…. The slight shivering still persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesitating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cautiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper: ‘Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his dinner later.’ ‘Quite so,’ answered Razumihin. Both withdrew carefully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Raskolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping his hands behind his head. ‘Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And how could he see? Is it possible? Hm …’ continued Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, ‘and the jewel case Nikolay found behind the door—was that possible? A clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it possible?’ He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how physically weak he had become. ‘I ought to have known it,’ he thought with a bitter smile. ‘And how dared I, knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand…. Ah, but I did know!’ he whispered in despair. At times he came to a standstill at some thought. ‘No, those men are not made so. The real Master to whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. And al- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com tars are set up to him after his death, and so all is permitted. No, such people, it seems, are not of flesh but of bronze!’ One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napoleon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—it’s a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they digest it! It’s too inartistic. ‘A Napoleon creep under an old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!’ At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state of feverish excitement. ‘The old woman is of no consequence,’ he thought, hotly and incoherently. ‘The old woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! The old woman was only an illness…. I was in a hurry to overstep…. I didn’t kill a human being, but a principle! I killed the principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped on this side…. I was only capable of killing. And it seems I wasn’t even capable of that … Principle? Why was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are industrious, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never have it again; I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. I simply couldn’t pass by my mother starving, keeping my rouble in my pocket while I waited for the ‘happiness of all.’ I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let me slip? I only live once, I too want…. Ech, I am an æsthetic louse and nothing more,’ he added suddenly, laughing like a madman. ‘Yes, I am certainly a louse,’ he went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing with it with vindic- 0 tive pleasure. ‘In the first place, because I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I undertake it, but with a grand and noble object— ha-ha! Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of all the lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am utterly a louse,’ he added, grinding his teeth, ‘is that I am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I killed, and I felt beforehand that I should tell myself so after killing her. Can anything be compared with the horror of that? The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right, he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! It’s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have desires for that’s not for you! … I shall never, never forgive the old woman!’ His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. ‘Mother, sister—how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I can’t bear them near me…. I went up to my mother and kissed her, I remember…. To embrace her and think if she only knew … shall I tell her then? That’s just what I might 1 do…. She must be the same as I am,’ he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. ‘Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she come in? … It’s strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed her? Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle eyes…. Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why don’t they moan? They give up everything … their eyes are soft and gentle…. Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!’ He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn’t remember how he got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious; he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to him. ‘Stay, did he really beckon?’ Raskolnikov wondered, but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. ‘Does he know I am following him?’ thought Raskolnikov. The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the court-yard the man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work … but how was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. ‘So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.’ He reached the third storey, should he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful…. But he went on. The sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. ‘It’s the moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery,’ thought Raskolnikov. He stood and waited, waited a long while, and the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com more silent the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something like a cloak hanging on the wall. ‘Why is that cloak here?’ he thought, ‘it wasn’t there before….’ He went up to it quietly and felt that there was someone hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood over her. ‘She is afraid,’ he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move…. He tried to scream and woke up. He drew a deep breath—but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently. Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. ‘Is it still a dream?’ he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him. He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost whitish beard. Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa. ‘Come, tell me what you want.’ ‘I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,’ the Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. ‘Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, allow me to introduce myself….’ Part IV Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter I ‘Can this be still a dream?’v Raskolnikov thought once more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor. ‘Svidrigaïlov! What nonsense! It can’t be!’ he said at last aloud in bewilderment. His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation. ‘I’ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against me, but with your assistance I reckon on …’ ‘You reckon wrongly,’ interrupted Raskolnikov. ‘They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?’ Raskolnikov made no reply. ‘It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don’t consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this business, speaking without prejudice, with common sense?’ Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence. ‘That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and ‘insulted her with my infamous proposals’—is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you’ve only to assume that I, too, am a man et nihil humanum … in a word, that I am capable of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then everything can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to myself than anyone!’ ‘But that’s not the point,’ Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. ‘It’s simply that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don’t want to have anything to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!’ Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh. ‘But you’re … but there’s no getting round you,’ he said, laughing in the frankest way. ‘I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!’ ‘But you are trying to get round me still!’ ‘What of it? What of it?’ cried Svidrigaïlov, laughing openly. ‘But this is what the French call bonne guerre and the most innocent form of deception! … But still you have interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have been any unpleasantness except for what Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna …’ ‘You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?’ Raskolnikov interrupted rudely. ‘Oh, you’ve heard that, too, then? You’d be sure to, though…. But as for your question, I really don’t know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that score. Don’t suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing else. But I’ll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn’t I contribute to all that … calamity, morally, in a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that that, too, was quite out of the question.’ Raskolnikov laughed. ‘I wonder you trouble yourself about it!’ ‘But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a switch—there were no marks even … don’t regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act was to order the carriage to be got out…. Not to speak of the 00 fact that there are cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. There are instances of it with everyone; human beings in general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it’s particularly so with women. One might even say it’s their only amusement.’ At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence made him linger for a moment. ‘You are fond of fighting?’ he asked carelessly. ‘No, not very,’ Svidrigaïlov answered, calmly. ‘And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I’ve forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that very year I believe, the ‘disgraceful action of the Age’ took place (you know, ‘The Egyptian Nights,’ that public reading, you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, because 01 after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there are sometimes such provoking ‘Germans’ that I don’t believe there is a progressive who could quite answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point of view then, but that’s the truly humane point of view, I assure you.’ After saying this, Svidrigaïlov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his mind and able to keep it to himself. ‘I expect you’ve not talked to anyone for some days?’ he asked. ‘Scarcely anyone. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adaptable man?’ ‘No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man.’ ‘Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But why take offence? As you asked, so I answered,’ he replied, with a surprising expression of simplicity. ‘You know, there’s hardly anything I take interest in,’ he went on, as it were dreamily, ‘especially now, I’ve nothing to do…. You are quite at liberty to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told you I want to see your sister about something. But I’ll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you…. Don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there’s something wrong with you, and now, too … not this very minute, I mean, but now, generally…. Well, well, I won’t, I won’t, don’t scowl! I am 0 not such a bear, you know, as you think.’ Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him. ‘You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,’ he said. ‘I fancy indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave like one.’ ‘I am not particularly interested in anyone’s opinion,’ Svidrigaïlov answered, dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, ‘and therefore why not be vulgar at times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate … and especially if one has a natural propensity that way,’ he added, laughing again. ‘But I’ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, ‘not without connections.’ What can you want with me, then, unless you’ve some special object?’ ‘That’s true that I have friends here,’ Svidrigaïlov admitted, not replying to the chief point. ‘I’ve met some already. I’ve been lounging about for the last three days, and I’ve seen them, or they’ve seen me. That’s a matter of course. I am well dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn’t affected me; my property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not fallen off; but … I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I’ve been here three days and have called on no one…. What a town it is! How has it come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there’s a great deal I didn’t notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up my heels…. My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!’ ‘Anatomy?’ 0 ‘But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, maybe —well, all that can go on without me,’ he went on, again without noticing the question. ‘Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?’ ‘Why, have you been a card-sharper then?’ ‘How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners are found among those who’ve been thrashed, have you noticed that? I’ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country. And, take note, that all my life she held a document over me, the IOU for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in that.’ ‘If it hadn’t been for that, would you have given her the slip?’ ‘I don’t know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, but I’ve been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the 0 sea—you look at them and it makes you sad. What’s most revolting is that one is really sad! No, it’s better at home. Here at least one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, because j’ai le vin mauvais and hate drinking, and there’s nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I’ve been told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is it true?’ ‘Why, would you go up?’ ‘I … No, oh, no,’ muttered Svidrigaïlov really seeming to be deep in thought. ‘What does he mean? Is he in earnest?’ Raskolnikov wondered. ‘No, the document didn’t restrain me,’ Svidrigaïlov went on, meditatively. ‘It was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back the document on my name- day and made me a present of a considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. ‘You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch’— that was actually her expression. You don’t believe she used it? But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid of my over-studying.’ ‘You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?’ ‘Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe in ghosts?’ ‘What ghosts?’ 0 ‘Why, ordinary ghosts.’ ‘Do you believe in them?’ ‘Perhaps not, pour vous plaire…. I wouldn’t say no exactly.’ ‘Do you see them, then?’ Svidrigaïlov looked at him rather oddly. ‘Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,’ he said, twisting his mouth into a strange smile. ‘How do you mean ‘she is pleased to visit you’?’ ‘She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I was alone.’ ‘Were you awake?’ ‘Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door—always at the door. I can almost hear her.’ ‘What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?’ Raskolnikov said suddenly. At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited. ‘What! Did you think so?’ Svidrigaïlov asked in astonishment. ‘Did you really? Didn’t I say that there was something in common between us, eh?’ ‘You never said so!’ Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat. ‘Didn’t I?’ 0 ‘No!’ ‘I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once, ‘Here’s the man.’’ ‘What do you mean by ‘the man?’ What are you talking about?’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘What do I mean? I really don’t know….’ Svidrigaïlov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled. For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other’s faces. ‘That’s all nonsense!’ Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. ‘What does she say when she comes to you?’ ‘She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and—man is a strange creature—it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door. ‘You’ve been so busy to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining- room clock,’ she said. All those seven years I’ve wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. I got out at the station at daybreak; I’d been asleep, tired out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. ‘Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?’ She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides, the bell rang. 0 I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can’t make like this.’ (Aniska was a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. ‘I wonder you trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.’ ‘Good gracious, you won’t let one disturb you about anything!’ To tease her I said, ‘I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.’ ‘That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you’ve hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good choice, at least, but I know it won’t be for your happiness or hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.’ Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn’t it nonsense, eh?’ ‘But perhaps you are telling lies?’ Raskolnikov put in. ‘I rarely lie,’ answered Svidrigaïlov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the rudeness of the question. ‘And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?’ ‘Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting ‘Filka, my pipe!’ He came in and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought ‘he is doing it out of revenge,’ because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. ‘How dare you come in with a hole in 0 your elbow?’ I said. ‘Go away, you scamp!’ He turned and went out, and never came again. I didn’t tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed.’ ‘You should go to a doctor.’ ‘I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don’t know what’s wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn’t ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist.’ ‘No, I won’t believe it!’ Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger. ‘What do people generally say?’ muttered Svidrigaïlov, as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. ‘They say, ‘You are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.’ But that’s not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they don’t exist.’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Raskolnikov insisted irritably. ‘No? You don’t think so?’ Svidrigaïlov went on, looking at him deliberately. ‘But what do you say to this argument (help me with it): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously ill one is, the closer 0 becomes one’s contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could believe in that, too.’ ‘I don’t believe in a future life,’ said Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov sat lost in thought. ‘And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort,’ he said suddenly. ‘He is a madman,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that.’ ‘Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?’ Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of anguish. ‘Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it’s what I would certainly have made it,’ answered Svidrigaïlov, with a vague smile. This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigaïlov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing. ‘Only think,’ he cried, ‘half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; we’ve thrown it aside, and away we’ve gone into the abstract! Wasn’t I right in saying that we were birds of a feather?’ 10 ‘Kindly allow me,’ Raskolnikov went on irritably, ‘to ask you to explain why you have honoured me with your visit … and … and I am in a hurry, I have no time to waste. I want to go out.’ ‘By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?’ ‘Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name? I can’t understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are Svidrigaïlov.’ ‘Why, but I’ve come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning her?’ ‘Very good, speak, but make haste.’ ‘I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of … for the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be very glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it.’ ‘All this is very naïve … excuse me, I should have said impudent on your part,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don’t be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I 11 am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me tell you that I’ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something …’ ‘Through idleness and depravity,’ Raskolnikov put in. ‘I certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. But that’s all nonsense, as I see myself now.’ ‘Have you seen that long?’ ‘I began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna’s hand and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.’ ‘Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want to go out …’ ‘With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and determining on a certain … journey, I should like to make some necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That’s enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It’s not that I detest him so much, but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna when I learned that she had dished up this mar- 1 riage. I want now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. Luzhin. Then, begging her pardon for all past unpleasantness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the way to it.’ ‘You are certainly mad,’ cried Raskolnikov not so much angered as astonished. ‘How dare you talk like that!’ ‘I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Romanovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish way. That’s the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna and you will know. The point is, that I did actually cause your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and unpleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want—not to compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there were a millionth fraction of self-interest in my offer, I should not have made it so openly; and I should not have offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered her more, Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me say that in marrying Mr. 1 Luzhin, she is taking money just the same, only from another man. Don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.’ Svidrigaïlov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he was saying this. ‘I beg you to say no more,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘In any case this is unpardonable impertinence.’ ‘Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from doing the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. That’s absurd. If I died, for instance, and left that sum to your sister in my will, surely she wouldn’t refuse it?’ ‘Very likely she would.’ ‘Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on occasion. In any case I beg you to repeat what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna.’ ‘No, I won’t.’ ‘In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to try and see her myself and worry her by doing so.’ ‘And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?’ ‘I don’t know really what to say. I should like very much to see her once more.’ ‘Don’t hope for it.’ ‘I’m sorry. But you don’t know me. Perhaps we may become better friends.’ ‘You think we may become friends?’ ‘And why not?’ Svidrigaïlov said, smiling. He stood up and took his hat. ‘I didn’t quite intend to disturb you and 1 I came here without reckoning on it … though I was very much struck by your face this morning.’ ‘Where did you see me this morning?’ Raskolnikov asked uneasily. ‘I saw you by chance…. I kept fancying there is something about you like me…. But don’t be uneasy. I am not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-sharpers, and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about Raphael’s Madonna in Madam Prilukov’s album, and I never left Marfa Petrovna’s side for seven years, and I used to stay the night at Viazemsky’s house in the Hay Market in the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, perhaps.’ ‘Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, may I ask?’ ‘What travels?’ ‘Why, on that ‘journey’; you spoke of it yourself.’ ‘A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, that’s a wide subject…. if only you knew what you are asking,’ he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. ‘Perhaps I’ll get married instead of the journey. They’re making a match for me.’ ‘Here?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘How have you had time for that?’ ‘But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I earnestly beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes. I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will 1 and left her three thousand roubles. That’s absolutely certain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will be able to receive the money in two or three weeks.’ ‘Are you telling the truth?’ ‘Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very near you.’ As he went out, Svidrigaïlov ran up against Razumihin in the doorway. 1 Chapter II I t was nearly eight o’clock. The two young men hurried to Bakaleyev’s, to arrive before Luzhin. ‘Why, who was that?’ asked Razumihin, as soon as they were in the street. ‘It was Svidrigaïlov, that landowner in whose house my sister was insulted when she was their governess. Through his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned out by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged Dounia’s forgiveness afterwards, and she’s just died suddenly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don’t know why I’m afraid of that man. He came here at once after his wife’s funeral. He is very strange, and is determined on doing something…. We must guard Dounia from him … that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you hear?’ ‘Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Romanovna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that…. We will, we will guard her. Where does he live?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Why didn’t you ask? What a pity! I’ll find out, though.’ ‘Did you see him?’ asked Raskolnikov after a pause. ‘Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.’ ‘You did really see him? You saw him clearly?’ Raskolnikov insisted. ‘Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a 1 thousand; I have a good memory for faces.’ They were silent again. ‘Hm! … that’s all right,’ muttered Raskolnikov. ‘Do you know, I fancied … I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination.’ ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand you.’ ‘Well, you all say,’ Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, ‘that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be only imagination.’ ‘Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! … But what did he say, what did he come for?’ Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute. ‘Now let me tell you my story,’ he began, ‘I came to you, you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry’s, Zametov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn’t speak in the right way. They don’t seem to understand and can’t understand, but are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I’d brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn’t say a word. But, you see, I thought I’d made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why 1 should we trouble? Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You needn’t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they’ll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let’s laugh at them now!’ ‘To be sure,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘But what will you say to-morrow?’ he thought to himself. Strange to say, till that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought it, Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin’s account of his visit to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come and gone since then. In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so that all three went in together without greeting or looking at one another. The young men walked in first, while Pyotr Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, hastened to make them all sit down at the round table where a samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were facing one another on opposite sides of the table. Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alexandrovna, Razumihin was next 1 to Luzhin and Raskolnikov was beside his sister. A moment’s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliberately drew out a cambric handkerchief reeking of scent and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them feel the gravity of the position. But he could not bring himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty, and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that case it was better to find it out beforehand; it rested with him to punish them and there would always be time for that. ‘I trust you had a favourable journey,’ he inquired officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.’ ‘I am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is not over-fatigued either?’ ‘I am young and strong, I don’t get tired, but it was a great strain for mother,’ answered Dounia. ‘That’s unavoidable! our national railways are of terrible length. ‘Mother Russia,’ as they say, is a vast country…. In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience?’ ‘Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly disheartening,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare with peculiar intonation, ‘and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we should have 0 been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch Razumihin,’ she added, introducing him to Luzhin. ‘I had the pleasure … yesterday,’ muttered Pyotr Petrovitch with a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; then he scowled and was silent. Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the surface very polite in society, who make a great point of punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in anything, are completely disconcerted, and become more like sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society. Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversation too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria Alexandrovna was anxious again. ‘Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?’ she began having recourse to her leading item of conversation. ‘To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, and I have come to make you acquainted with the fact that Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov set off in haste for Petersburg immediately after his wife’s funeral. So at least I have excellent authority for believing.’ ‘To Petersburg? here?’ Dounia asked in alarm and looked at her mother. ‘Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, having in view the rapidity of his departure, and all the circumstances preceding it.’ ‘Good heavens! won’t he leave Dounia in peace even here?’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘I imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna 1 have any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him. For my part I am on my guard, and am now discovering where he is lodging.’ ‘Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a fright you have given me,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on: ‘I’ve only seen him twice, but I thought him terrible, terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa Petrovna’s death.’ ‘It’s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence, so to say, of the affront; but as to the general conduct and moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will relapse at once into his old ways. He is the most depraved, and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna, who was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and homicidal brutality for which he might well have been sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That’s the sort of man he is, if you care to know.’ ‘Good heavens!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov listened attentively. ‘Are you speaking the truth when you say that you have good evidence of this?’ Dounia asked sternly and emphatically. ‘I only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner, who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other commissions, and with this woman Svidrigaïlov had for a long while close and mysterious relations. She had a relation, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later on, information was given that the child had been … cruelly outraged by Svidrigaïlov. It is true, this was not clearly established, the information was given by another German woman of loose character whose word could not be trusted; no statement was actually made to the police, thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s money and exertions; it did not get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition of serfdom.’ ‘I heard, on the contrary, that this Philip hanged himself.’ ‘Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps dis- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com posed him, to suicide was the systematic persecution and severity of Mr. Svidrigaïlov.’ ‘I don’t know that,’ answered Dounia, dryly. ‘I only heard a queer story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, ‘he read himself silly,’ and that he hanged himself partly on account of Mr. Svidrigaïlov’s mockery of him and not his blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly did blame him for Philip’s death.’ ‘I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed to undertake his defence all of a sudden,’ Luzhin observed, twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, ‘there’s no doubt that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladies are concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be anticipated from him. For my part it’s my firm conviction, that he will end in a debtor’s prison again. Marfa Petrovna had not the slightest intention of settling anything substantial on him, having regard for his children’s interests, and, if she left him anything, it would only be the merest sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which would not last a year for a man of his habits.’ ‘Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,’ said Dounia, ‘say no more of Mr. Svidrigaïlov. It makes me miserable.’ ‘He has just been to see me,’ said Raskolnikov, breaking his silence for the first time. There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to him. Even Pyotr Petrovitch was roused. ‘An hour and a half ago, he came in when I was asleep, waked me, and introduced himself,’ Raskolnikov continued. ‘He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite hopes that we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious, by the way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the money very shortly.’ ‘Thank God!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself. ‘Pray for her soul, Dounia!’ ‘It’s a fact!’ broke from Luzhin. ‘Tell us, what more?’ Dounia urged Raskolnikov. ‘Then he said that he wasn’t rich and all the estate was left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don’t know, I didn’t ask….’ ‘But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. ‘Did he tell you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What was it?’ ‘I’ll tell you afterwards.’ Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention to his tea. Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch. ‘I am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so I shall not be in your way,’ he added with an air of some pique Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com and he began getting up. ‘Don’t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,’ said Dounia, ‘you intended to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you wanted to have an explanation with mother.’ ‘Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,’ Pyotr Petrovitch answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding his hat. ‘I certainly desired an explanation with you and your honoured mother upon a very important point indeed. But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of some proposals of Mr. Svidrigaïlov, I, too, do not desire and am not able to speak openly … in the presence of others … of certain matters of the greatest gravity. Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been disregarded….’ Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified silence. ‘Your request that my brother should not be present at our meeting was disregarded solely at my instance,’ said Dounia. ‘You wrote that you had been insulted by my brother; I think that this must be explained at once, and you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted you, then he should and will apologise.’ Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line. ‘There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no goodwill can make us forget. There is a line in everything which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been overstepped, there is no return.’ ‘That wasn’t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr Petrovitch,’ Dounia interrupted with some impatience. ‘Please understand that our whole future depends now on wheth- er all this is explained and set right as soon as possible. I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in any other light, and if you have the least regard for me, all this business must be ended to-day, however hard that may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will ask your forgiveness.’ ‘I am surprised at your putting the question like that,’ said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. ‘Esteeming, and so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very well indeed, be able to dislike some member of your family. Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot accept duties incompatible with …’ ‘Ah, don’t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,’ Dounia interrupted with feeling, ‘and be the sensible and generous man I have always considered, and wish to consider, you to be. I’ve given you a great promise, I am your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for you. When I insisted on his coming to our interview to-day after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do. Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose between you— it must be either you or he. That is how the question rests on your side and on his. I don’t want to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother’s sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; and of you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem me, whether you are the hus- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com band for me.’ ‘Avdotya Romanovna,’ Luzhin declared huffily, ‘your words are of too much consequence to me; I will say more, they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy, you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. You say ‘you or he,’ showing thereby of how little consequence I am in your eyes … I cannot let this pass considering the relationship and … the obligations existing between us.’ ‘What!’ cried Dounia, flushing. ‘I set your interest beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life, what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are offended at my making too little account of you.’ Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but Pyotr Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the contrary, at every word he became more persistent and irritable, as though he relished it. ‘Love for the future partner of your life, for your husband, ought to outweigh your love for your brother,’ he pronounced sententiously, ‘and in any case I cannot be put on the same level…. Although I said so emphatically that I would not speak openly in your brother’s presence, nevertheless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a necessary explanation on a point of great importance closely affecting my dignity. Your son,’ he turned to Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin (or … I think that’s it? excuse me I have forgotten your surname,’ he bowed politely to Razumihin) ‘insulted me by misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advantageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the significance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to convince me of an opposite conclusion, and thereby considerately reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion Romanovitch.’ ‘I don’t remember,’ faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘I repeated them as I understood them. I don’t know how Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated.’ ‘He could not have exaggerated them, except at your instigation.’ ‘Pyotr Petrovitch,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with dignity, ‘the proof that Dounia and I did not take your words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here.’ ‘Good, mother,’ said Dounia approvingly. ‘Then this is my fault again,’ said Luzhin, aggrieved. ‘Well, Pyotr Petrovitch, you keep blaming Rodion, but you yourself have just written what was false about him,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage. ‘I don’t remember writing anything false.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘You wrote,’ Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to Luzhin, ‘that I gave money yesterday not to the widow of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daughter (whom I had never seen till yesterday). You wrote this to make dissension between me and my family, and for that object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl whom you don’t know. All that is mean slander.’ ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Luzhin, quivering with fury. ‘I enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely in response to your sister’s and mother’s inquiries, how I found you, and what impression you made on me. As for what you’ve alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn’t throw away your money, and that there are not worthless persons in that family, however unfortunate.’ ‘To my thinking, you, with all your virtues, are not worth the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw stones.’ ‘Would you go so far then as to let her associate with your mother and sister?’ ‘I have done so already, if you care to know. I made her sit down to-day with mother and Dounia.’ ‘Rodya!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crimsoned, Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with lofty sarcasm. ‘You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,’ he said, ‘whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this question is at an end, once and for all. I will withdraw, that I may not hinder the pleasures of family intimacy, and the 0 discussion of secrets.’ He got up from his chair and took his hat. ‘But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for the future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say, compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pulcheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter was addressed to you and to no one else.’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended. ‘You seem to think we are completely under your authority, Pyotr Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your desire was disregarded, she had the best intentions. And indeed you write as though you were laying commands upon me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a command? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, because we have thrown up everything, and have come here relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your hands.’ ‘That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially at the present moment, when the news has come of Marfa Petrovna’s legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, judging from the new tone you take to me,’ he added sarcastically. ‘Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that you were reckoning on our helplessness,’ Dounia observed irritably. ‘But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I particularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the secret proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov, which he has entrusted to your brother and which have, I perceive, a great and possibly a very agreeable interest for you.’ 1 ‘Good heavens!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Razumihin could not sit still on his chair. ‘Aren’t you ashamed now, sister?’ asked Raskolnikov. ‘I am ashamed, Rodya,’ said Dounia. ‘Pyotr Petrovitch, go away,’ she turned to him, white with anger. Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after such a dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is not to be shaken.’ ‘What insolence!’ cried Dounia, springing up from her seat. ‘I don’t want you to come back again.’ ‘What! So that’s how it stands!’ cried Luzhin, utterly unable to the last moment to believe in the rupture and so completely thrown out of his reckoning now. ‘So that’s how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that I might protest?’ ‘What right have you to speak to her like that?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna intervened hotly. ‘And what can you protest about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We are to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above all….’ ‘But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,’ Luzhin stormed in a frenzy, ‘by your promise, and now you deny it and … besides … I have been led on account of that into expenses….’ This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petrovitch, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious. ‘Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot, not we!’ ‘Enough, mother, no more please,’ Avdotya Romanovna implored. ‘Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!’ ‘I am going, but one last word,’ he said, quite unable to control himself. ‘Your mamma seems to have entirely forgotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might very well reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict….’ ‘Does the fellow want his head smashed?’ cried Razumihin, jumping up. ‘You are a mean and spiteful man!’ cried Dounia. ‘Not a word! Not a movement!’ cried Raskolnikov, holding Razumihin back; then going close up to Luzhin, ‘Kindly leave the room!’ he said quietly and distinctly, ‘and not a word more or …’ Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com pale face that worked with anger, then he turned, went out, and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vindictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, all might ‘very well indeed’ be set right again. Chapter III The fact was that up to the last moment he had never expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and defenceless women could escape from his control. This conviction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self-admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who had been his superiors. When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely indignant at such ‘black ingratitude.’ And yet, when he made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the groundlessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved by all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia’a defence. And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not understand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agreeable flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised. Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was unthinkable. For many years he had had voluptuous dreams of marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image of a girl—virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, worship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty and education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slavishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would have absolute, unbounded power over her! … Not long before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, made an important change in his career and was now entering on a wider circle of business. With this change his cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society seemed likely to be realised…. He was, in fact, determined to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, virtuous, highly educated woman might make his way easier, might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had simply made a joke, been carried away —and it had ended so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his own way; he already possessed her in his dreams—and all at once! No! The next day, the very next day, it must all be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush that conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but, he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow like that could be put on a level with him! The man he really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigaïlov…. He had, in short, a great deal to attend to…. ***** ‘No, I, I am more to blame than anyone!’ said Dounia, kissing and embracing her mother. ‘I was tempted by his money, but on my honour, brother, I had no idea he was such a base man. If I had seen through him before, nothing would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, brother!’ ‘God has delivered us! God has delivered us!’ Pulcheria Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though scarcely able to realise what had happened. They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were laughing. Only now and then Dounia turned white and frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excitement as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve them…. Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imagination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna watched him timidly. ‘What did Svidrigaïlov say to you?’ said Dounia, approaching him. ‘Yes, yes!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskolnikov raised his head. ‘He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles and he desires to see you once in my presence.’ ‘See her! On no account!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘And how dare he offer her money!’ Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation with Svidrigaïlov, omitting his account of the ghostly visitations of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary talk. ‘What answer did you give him?’ asked Dounia. ‘At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview with you without my help. He assured me that his passion for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling for you. He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin…. His talk was altogether rather muddled.’ ‘How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did he strike you?’ ‘I must confess I don’t quite understand him. He offers you ten thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says he is going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. Then he says is he going to be married and has already fixed on the girl…. No doubt he has a motive, and probably a bad one. But it’s odd that he should be so clumsy about it if he had any designs against you…. Of course, I refused this money on your account, once for all. Altogether, I thought him very strange…. One might almost think he was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the part he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have made a great impression on him.’ ‘God rest her soul,’ exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. ‘I shall always, always pray for her! Where should we be now, Dounia, without this three thousand! It’s as though it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this morning we had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing from Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com that man until he offered help.’ Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigaïlov’s offer. She still stood meditating. ‘He has got some terrible plan,’ she said in a half whisper to herself, almost shuddering. Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror. ‘I fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,’ he said to Dounia. ‘We will watch him! I will track him out!’ cried Razumihin, vigorously. ‘I won’t lose sight of him. Rodya has given me leave. He said to me himself just now. ‘Take care of my sister.’ Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya Romanovna?’ Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand roubles had obviously a soothing effect on her. A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively for some time, though he did not talk. Razumihin was the speaker. ‘And why, why should you go away?’ he flowed on ecstatically. ‘And what are you to do in a little town? The great thing is, you are all here together and you need one another—you do need one another, believe me. For a time, anyway…. Take me into partnership, and I assure you we’ll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I’ll explain it all in detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head this morning, before anything had happened … I tell you what; I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (a most ac- 0 commodating and respectable old man). This uncle has got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his pension and has no need of that money. For the last two years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; he simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we have enough for a start, so we’ll go into partnership, and what are we going to do?’ Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he explained at length that almost all our publishers and booksellers know nothing at all of what they are selling, and for that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had been working in publishers’ offices, and knew three European languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days before that he was ‘schwach’ in German with an object of persuading him to take half his translation and half the payment for it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew he was lying. ‘Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have one of the chief means of success—money of our own!’ cried Razumihin warmly. ‘Of course there will be a lot of work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion…. You get a splendid profit on some books nowadays! And the great point of the business is that we shall know just what 1 wants translating, and we shall be translating, publishing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I have experience. For nearly two years I’ve been scuttling about among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know—and I kept the secret—two or three books which one might get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate—they are such blockheads! And as for the business side, printing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about. We’ll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our capital.’ Dounia’s eyes shone. ‘I like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch!’ she said. ‘I know nothing about it, of course,’ put in Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘it may be a good idea, but again God knows. It’s new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at least for a time.’ She looked at Rodya. ‘What do you think, brother?’ said Dounia. ‘I think he’s got a very good idea,’ he answered. ‘Of course, it’s too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there’s no doubt about that either. He knows the business…. But we can talk it over later….’ ‘Hurrah!’ cried Razumihin. ‘Now, stay, there’s a flat here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. It’s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take them to begin with. I’ll pawn your watch to-morrow and bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. But where are you off to, Rodya?’ ‘What, Rodya, you are going already?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in dismay. ‘At such a minute?’ cried Razumihin. Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave them. ‘One would think you were burying me or saying goodbye for ever,’ he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, but it did not turn out a smile. ‘But who knows, perhaps it is the last time we shall see each other …’ he let slip accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow was uttered aloud. ‘What is the matter with you?’ cried his mother. ‘Where are you going, Rodya?’ asked Dounia rather strangely. ‘Oh, I’m quite obliged to …’ he answered vaguely, as though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look of sharp determination in his white face. ‘I meant to say … as I was coming here … I meant to tell you, mother, and you, Dounia, that it would be better for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace…. I will Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com come afterwards, I will come of myself … when it’s possible. I remember you and love you…. Leave me, leave me alone. I decided this even before … I’m absolutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me altogether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When I can, I’ll come of myself or … I’ll send for you. Perhaps it will all come back, but now if you love me, give me up … else I shall begin to hate you, I feel it…. Good-bye!’ ‘Good God!’ cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was also. ‘Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as before!’ cried his poor mother. He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the room. Dounia overtook him. ‘Brother, what are you doing to mother?’ she whispered, her eyes flashing with indignation. He looked dully at her. ‘No matter, I shall come…. I’m coming,’ he muttered in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he was saying, and he went out of the room. ‘Wicked, heartless egoist!’ cried Dounia. ‘He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you see it? You’re heartless after that!’ Razumihin whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. ‘I shall be back directly,’ he shouted to the horror- stricken mother, and he ran out of the room. Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the pas- sage. ‘I knew you would run after me,’ he said. ‘Go back to them—be with them … be with them to-morrow and always…. I … perhaps I shall come … if I can. Good-bye.’ And without holding out his hand he walked away. ‘But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? How can you go on like this?’ Razumihin muttered, at his wits’ end. Raskolnikov stopped once more. ‘Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing to tell you. Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here…. Leave me, but don’t leave them. Do you understand me?’ It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life. Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, passed between them…. Some idea, some hint, as it were, slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood on both sides…. Razumihin turned pale. ‘Do you understand now?’ said Raskolnikov, his face twitching nervously. ‘Go back, go to them,’ he said suddenly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house. I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, the best doctor, a consultation…. In fact from that evening Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a brother. Chapter IV Raskolnikov went straight to the house on the canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green house of three storeys. He found the porter and obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts of Kapernaumov, the tailor. Having found in the corner of the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery that ran round the whole second storey over the yard. While he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn for Kapernaumov’s door, a door opened three paces from him; he mechanically took hold of it. ‘Who is there?’ a woman’s voice asked uneasily. ‘It’s I … come to see you,’ answered Raskolnikov and he walked into the tiny entry. On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper candlestick. ‘It’s you! Good heavens!’ cried Sonia weakly, and she stood rooted to the spot. ‘Which is your room? This way?’ and Raskolnikov, trying not to look at her, hastened in. A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened by his unexpected visit. The colour rushed suddenly Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com to her pale face and tears came into her eyes … She felt sick and ashamed and happy, too…. Raskolnikov turned away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned the room in a rapid glance. It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the right hand wall was another door, always kept locked. That led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia’s room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so that one corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see in it without very strong light. The other corner was disproportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute angle stood a small plain wooden chest of drawers looking, as it were, lost in a desert. That was all there was in the room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall- paper was black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty; even the bedstead had no curtain. Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so attentively and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and even began at last to tremble with terror, as though she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her destinies. ‘I am late…. It’s eleven, isn’t it?’ he asked, still not lifting his eyes. ‘Yes,’ muttered Sonia, ‘oh yes, it is,’ she added, hastily, as though in that lay her means of escape. ‘My landlady’s clock has just struck … I heard it myself….’ ‘I’ve come to you for the last time,’ Raskolnikov went on gloomily, although this was the first time. ‘I may perhaps not see you again …’ ‘Are you … going away?’ ‘I don’t know … to-morrow….’ ‘Then you are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to-morrow?’ Sonia’s voice shook. ‘I don’t know. I shall know to-morrow morning…. Never mind that: I’ve come to say one word….’ He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed that he was sitting down while she was all the while standing before him. ‘Why are you standing? Sit down,’ he said in a changed voice, gentle and friendly. She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compassionately at her. ‘How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, like a dead hand.’ He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly. ‘I have always been like that,’ she said. ‘Even when you lived at home?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Of course, you were,’ he added abruptly and the expres- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com sion of his face and the sound of his voice changed again suddenly. He looked round him once more. ‘You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs?’ ‘Yes….’ ‘They live there, through that door?’ ‘Yes…. They have another room like this.’ ‘All in one room?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I should be afraid in your room at night,’ he observed gloomily. ‘They are very good people, very kind,’ answered Sonia, who still seemed bewildered, ‘and all the furniture, everything … everything is theirs. And they are very kind and the children, too, often come to see me.’ ‘They all stammer, don’t they?’ ‘Yes…. He stammers and he’s lame. And his wife, too…. It’s not exactly that she stammers, but she can’t speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to be a house serf. And there are seven children … and it’s only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply ill … but they don’t stammer…. But where did you hear about them?’ she added with some surprise. ‘Your father told me, then. He told me all about you…. And how you went out at six o’clock and came back at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt down by your bed.’ Sonia was confused. ‘I fancied I saw him to-day,’ she whispered hesitatingly. ‘Whom?’ 0 ‘Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the corner, about ten o’clock and he seemed to be walking in front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Katerina Ivanovna….’ ‘You were walking in the streets?’ ‘Yes,’ Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with confusion and looking down. ‘Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I dare say?’ ‘Oh no, what are you saying? No!’ Sonia looked at him almost with dismay. ‘You love her, then?’ ‘Love her? Of course!’ said Sonia with plaintive emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. ‘Ah, you don’t…. If you only knew! You see, she is quite like a child…. Her mind is quite unhinged, you see … from sorrow. And how clever she used to be … how generous … how kind! Ah, you don’t understand, you don’t understand!’ Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she was stirred to the very depths, that she was longing to speak, to champion, to express something. A sort of insatiable compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every feature of her face. ‘Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know nothing, nothing about it…. She is so unhappy … ah, how unhappy! And ill…. She is seeking righteousness, she is pure. She has such faith that there must be righteousness everywhere 1 and she expects it…. And if you were to torture her, she wouldn’t do wrong. She doesn’t see that it’s impossible for people to be righteous and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is good!’ ‘And what will happen to you?’ Sonia looked at him inquiringly. ‘They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on your hands before, though…. And your father came to you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Sonia articulated mournfully. ‘Will they stay there?’ ‘I don’t know…. They are in debt for the lodging, but the landlady, I hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid of them, and Katerina Ivanovna says that she won’t stay another minute.’ ‘How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?’ ‘Oh, no, don’t talk like that…. We are one, we live like one.’ Sonia was agitated again and even angry, as though a canary or some other little bird were to be angry. ‘And what could she do? What, what could she do?’ she persisted, getting hot and excited. ‘And how she cried to-day! Her mind is unhinged, haven’t you noticed it? At one minute she is worrying like a child that everything should be right to-morrow, the lunch and all that…. Then she is wringing her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair. Then she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on you; she says that you will help her now and that she will borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in her fancies! One can’t contradict her. And all the day long she has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed, gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn out. Only the money we’d reckoned wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots, for she has taste, you don’t know. And there in the shop she burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn’t enough…. Ah, it was sad to see her….’ ‘Well, after that I can understand your living like this,’ Raskolnikov said with a bitter smile. ‘And aren’t you sorry for them? Aren’t you sorry?’ Sonia flew at him again. ‘Why, I know, you gave your last penny yourself, though you’d seen nothing of it, and if you’d seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how often I’ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, I! Only a week before his death. I was cruel! And how often I’ve done it! Ah, I’ve been wretched at the thought of it all day!’ Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remembering it. ‘You were cruel?’ ‘Yes, I—I. I went to see them,’ she went on, weeping, ‘and father said, ‘read me something, Sonia, my head aches, read to me, here’s a book.’ He had a book he had got from Andrey Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said, ‘I can’t stay,’ as I didn’t want to read, and I’d gone in chiefly to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the pedlar, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much; she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was delighted with them. ‘Make me a present of them, Sonia,’ she said, ‘please do.’ ‘Please do ‘ she said, she wanted them so much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of her own, hasn’t had all these years! And she never asks anyone for anything; she is proud, she’d sooner give away everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much. And I was sorry to give them. ‘What use are they to you, Katerina Ivanovna?’ I said. I spoke like that to her, I ought not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she was so grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was so sad to see…. And she was not grieved for the collars, but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it all back, change it, take back those words! Ah, if I … but it’s nothing to you!’ ‘Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?’ ‘Yes…. Did you know her?’ Sonia asked with some surprise. ‘Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; she will soon die,’ said Raskolnikov after a pause, without answering her question. ‘Oh, no, no, no!’ And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though imploring that she should not. ‘But it will be better if she does die.’ ‘No, not better, not at all better!’ Sonia unconsciously repeated in dismay. ‘And the children? What can you do except take them to live with you?’ ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she put her hands to her head. It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her before and he had only roused it again. ‘And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen then?’ he persisted pitilessly. ‘How can you? That cannot be!’ And Sonia’s face worked with awful terror. ‘Cannot be?’ Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. ‘You are not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They will be in the street, all of them, she will cough and beg and knock her head against some wall, as she did to-day, and the children will cry…. Then she will fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, she will die, and the children …’ ‘Oh, no…. God will not let it be!’ broke at last from Sonia’s overburdened bosom. She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands in dumb entreaty, as though it all depended upon him. Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her head hanging in terrible dejection. ‘And can’t you save? Put by for a rainy day?’ he asked, stopping suddenly before her. ‘No,’ whispered Sonia. ‘Of course not. Have you tried?’ he added almost ironically. ‘Yes.’ ‘And it didn’t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.’ And again he paced the room. Another minute passed. ‘You don’t get money every day?’ Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into her face again. ‘No,’ she whispered with a painful effort. ‘It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,’ he said suddenly. ‘No, no! It can’t be, no!’ Sonia cried aloud in desperation, as though she had been stabbed. ‘God would not allow anything so awful!’ ‘He lets others come to it.’ ‘No, no! God will protect her, God!’ she repeated beside herself. ‘But, perhaps, there is no God at all,’ Raskolnikov answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at her. Sonia’s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter sobs, hiding her face in her hands. ‘You say Katerina Ivanovna’s mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged,’ he said after a brief silence. Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her; his eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. And certainly he looked like a madman. ‘What are you doing to me?’ she muttered, turning pale, and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart. He stood up at once. ‘I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffering of humanity,’ he said wildly and walked away to the window. ‘Listen,’ he added, turning to her a minute later. ‘I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth your little finger … and that I did my sister honour making her sit beside you.’ ‘Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?’ cried Sonia, frightened. ‘Sit down with me! An honour! Why, I’m … dishonourable…. Ah, why did you say that?’ ‘It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said that of you, but because of your great suffering. But you are a great sinner, that’s true,’ he added almost solemnly, ‘and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing. Isn’t that fearful? Isn’t it fearful that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at the same time you know yourself (you’ve only to open your eyes) that you Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com are not helping anyone by it, not saving anyone from anything? Tell me,’ he went on almost in a frenzy, ‘how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better, a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and end it all!’ ‘But what would become of them?’ Sonia asked faintly, gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised at his suggestion. Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her face; so she must have had that thought already, perhaps many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair how to end it and so earnestly, that now she scarcely wondered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his peculiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position was torturing her and had long tortured her. ‘What, what,’ he thought, ‘could hitherto have hindered her from putting an end to it?’ Only then he realised what those poor little orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivanovna, knocking her head against the wall in her consumption, meant for Sonia. But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her character and the amount of education she had after all received, she could not in any case remain so. He was still confronted by the question, how could she have remained so long in that position without going out of her mind, since she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of course he knew that Sonia’s position was an exceptional case, though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, indeed; but that very exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previous life might, one would have thought, have killed her at the first step on that revolting path. What held her up—surely not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her as she stood before him…. ‘There are three ways before her,’ he thought, ‘the canal, the madhouse, or … at last to sink into depravity which obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone.’ The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could not help believing that the last end was the most likely. ‘But can that be true?’ he cried to himself. ‘Can that creature who has still preserved the purity of her spirit be consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has only been able to bear it till now, because vice has begun to be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!’ he cried, as Sonia had just before. ‘No, what has kept her from the canal till now is the idea of sin and they, the children…. And if she has not gone out of her mind … but who says she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger? Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn’t that all mean mad- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ness?’ He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that explanation indeed better than any other. He began looking more intently at her. ‘So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?’ he asked her. Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an answer. ‘What should I be without God?’ she whispered rapidly, forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and squeezing his hand. ‘Ah, so that is it!’ he thought. ‘And what does God do for you?’ he asked, probing her further. Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not answer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion. ‘Be silent! Don’t ask! You don’t deserve!’ she cried suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him. ‘That’s it, that’s it,’ he repeated to himself. ‘He does everything,’ she whispered quickly, looking down again. ‘That’s the way out! That’s the explanation,’ he decided, scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, angular little face, those soft blue eyes, which could flash with such fire, such stern energy, that little body still shaking with indignation and anger—and it all seemed to him more and more strange, almost impossible. ‘She is a religious maniac!’ he repeated to himself. There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had 0 noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and worn. ‘Where did you get that?’ he called to her across the room. She was still standing in the same place, three steps from the table. ‘It was brought me,’ she answered, as it were unwillingly, not looking at him. ‘Who brought it?’ ‘Lizaveta, I asked her for it.’ ‘Lizaveta! strange!’ he thought. Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle and began to turn over the pages. ‘Where is the story of Lazarus?’ he asked suddenly. Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not answer. She was standing sideways to the table. ‘Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.’ She stole a glance at him. ‘You are not looking in the right place…. It’s in the fourth gospel,’ she whispered sternly, without looking at him. ‘Find it and read it to me,’ he said. He sat down with his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked away sullenly, prepared to listen. ‘In three weeks’ time they’ll welcome me in the madhouse! I shall be there if I am not in a worse place,’ he muttered to himself. 1 Sonia heard Raskolnikov’s request distrustfully and moved hesitatingly to the table. She took the book however. ‘Haven’t you read it?’ she asked, looking up at him across the table. Her voice became sterner and sterner. ‘Long ago…. When I was at school. Read!’ ‘And haven’t you heard it in church?’ ‘I … haven’t been. Do you often go?’ ‘N-no,’ whispered Sonia. Raskolnikov smiled. ‘I understand…. And you won’t go to your father’s funeral to-morrow?’ ‘Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too … I had a requiem service.’ ‘For whom?’ ‘For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.’ His nerves were more and more strained. His head began to go round. ‘Were you friends with Lizaveta?’ ‘Yes…. She was good … she used to come … not often … she couldn’t…. We used to read together and … talk. She will see God.’ The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta and both of them— religious maniacs. ‘I shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It’s infectious!’ ‘Read!’ he cried irritably and insistently. Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at the ‘unhappy lunatic.’ ‘What for? You don’t believe? …’ she whispered softly and as it were breathlessly. ‘Read! I want you to,’ he persisted. ‘You used to read to Lizaveta.’ Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin and could not bring out the first syllable. ‘Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany …’ she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a catch in her breath. Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself to read to him and the more he saw this, the more roughly and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all that was her own. He understood that these feelings really were her secret treasure which she had kept perhaps for years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an unhappy father and a distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and reproaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for certain that, although it filled her with dread and suffering, yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to him that he might hear it, and to read now whatever might come of it! … He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm in her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St. John. She went on to the nineteenth verse: Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to comfort them concerning their brother. ‘Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming went and met Him: but Mary sat still in the house. ‘Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. ‘But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee….’ Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her voice would quiver and break again. ‘Jesus said unto her, thy brother shall rise again. ‘Martha saith unto Him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day. ‘Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live. ‘And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. Believest thou this? ‘She saith unto Him,’ (And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and forcibly as though she were making a public confession of faith.) ‘Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God Which should come into the world.’ She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling herself went on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to the thirty-second verse. ‘Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. ‘When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and was troubled, ‘And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto Him, Lord, come and see. ‘Jesus wept. ‘Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him! ‘And some of them said, could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?’ Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical fever. He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew what she was reading by heart. At the last verse ‘Could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind …’ dropping her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, the reproach and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in another moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, sobbing and believing…. ‘And he, he—too, is blinded and unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! At once, now,’ was what she was dreaming, and she was quivering with happy anticipation. ‘Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. ‘Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.’ She laid emphasis on the word four. ‘Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? ‘Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me. ‘And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that Thou hast sent Me. ‘And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. ‘And he that was dead came forth.’ (She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as though she were seeing it before her eyes.) ‘Bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him and let him go. ‘Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen the things which Jesus did believed on Him.’ She could read no more, closed the book and got up from her chair quickly. ‘That is all about the raising of Lazarus,’ she whispered severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled feverishly. The candle-end was flickering out in the battered candlestick, dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been read- ing together the eternal book. Five minutes or more passed. ‘I came to speak of something,’ Raskolnikov said aloud, frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there was a sort of savage determination in it. ‘I have abandoned my family to-day,’ he said, ‘my mother and sister. I am not going to see them. I’ve broken with them completely.’ ‘What for?’ asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting with his mother and sister had left a great impression which she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with horror. ‘I have only you now,’ he added. ‘Let us go together…. I’ve come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our way together!’ His eyes glittered ‘as though he were mad,’ Sonia thought, in her turn. ‘Go where?’ she asked in alarm and she involuntarily stepped back. ‘How do I know? I only know it’s the same road, I know that and nothing more. It’s the same goal!’ She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy. ‘No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to you.’ ‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Sonia. ‘You’ll understand later. Haven’t you done the same? You, too, have transgressed … have had the strength to transgress. You have laid hands on yourself, you have destroyed Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com a life … your own (it’s all the same!). You might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you’ll end in the Hay Market…. But you won’t be able to stand it, and if you remain alone you’ll go out of your mind like me. You are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on the same road! Let us go!’ ‘What for? What’s all this for?’ said Sonia, strangely and violently agitated by his words. ‘What for? Because you can’t remain like this, that’s why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and not weep like a child and cry that God won’t allow it. What will happen, if you should really be taken to the hospital to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she’ll soon die and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won’t come to grief? Haven’t you seen children here at the street corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I’ve found out where those mothers live and in what surroundings. Children can’t remain children there! At seven the child is vicious and a thief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: ‘theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ He bade us honour and love them, they are the humanity of the future….’ ‘What’s to be done, what’s to be done?’ repeated Sonia, weeping hysterically and wringing her hands. ‘What’s to be done? Break what must be broken, once for all, that’s all, and take the suffering on oneself. What, you don’t understand? You’ll understand later…. Freedom and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling creation and all the ant-heap! … That’s the goal, remember that! That’s my farewell message. Perhaps it’s the last time I shall speak to you. If I don’t come to-morrow, you’ll hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some day later on, in years to come, you’ll understand perhaps what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I’ll tell you who killed Lizaveta…. Good-bye.’ Sonia started with terror. ‘Why, do you know who killed her?’ she asked, chilled with horror, looking wildly at him. ‘I know and will tell … you, only you. I have chosen you out. I’m not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago to hear this, when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive, I thought of it. Good-bye, don’t shake hands. To-morrow!’ He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head was going round. ‘Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? What did those words mean? It’s awful!’ But at the same time the idea did not enter her head, not for a moment! ‘Oh, he must be terribly unhappy! … He has abandoned his mother and sister…. What for? What has happened? And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? He had kissed her foot and said … said (yes, he had said it clearly) that he could not live without her…. Oh, merciful heavens!’ Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands, then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and him … him with pale face, with burning eyes … kissing her Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com feet, weeping. On the other side of the door on the right, which divided Sonia’s room from Madame Resslich’s flat, was a room which had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room’s being uninhabited. But all that time Mr. Svidrigaïlov had been standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one, brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led to Sonia’s room. The conversation had struck him as interesting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it—so much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the future, to-morrow, for instance, have to endure the inconvenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in comfort. 0 Chapter V When next morning at eleven o’clock punctually Raskolnikov went into the department of the investigation of criminal causes and sent his name in to Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he stood in the waiting- room, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room which looked like an office, several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Either the man had not yet given information, or … or simply he knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen anything?) and so all that had happened to him the 1 day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling— and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch. He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing-table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several chairs—all government furniture, of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov’s entrance Porfiry Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his reckoning or caught in something very secret. ‘Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are … in our domain’ … began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. ‘Come, sit down, old man … or perhaps you don’t like to be called ‘my dear fellow’ and ‘old man!’—/tout court? Please don’t think it too familiar…. Here, on the sofa.’ Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. ‘In our domain,’ the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase tout court were all characteristic signs. ‘He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one—he drew it back in time,’ struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning they looked away. ‘I brought you this paper … about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right or shall I copy it again?’ ‘What? A paper? Yes, yes, don’t be uneasy, it’s all right,’ Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. ‘Yes, it’s all right. Nothing more is needed,’ he declared with the same rapidity and he laid the paper on the table. A minute later when he was talking of something else he took it from the table and put it on his bureau. ‘I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me … formally … about my acquaintance with the murdered woman?’ Raskolnikov was beginning again. ‘Why did I put in ‘I believe’’ passed through his mind in a flash. ‘Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ‘I believe’?’ came in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. ‘It’s bad, it’s bad! I shall say too much again.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes! There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry,’ muttered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face. His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back. ‘We’ve plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your own? Here, a cigarette!’ he went on, offering his visitor a cigarette. ‘You know I am receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my government quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to have some repairs done here. It’s almost finished now…. Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, what do you think?’ ‘Yes, a capital thing,’ answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironically. ‘A capital thing, a capital thing,’ repeated Porfiry Petrovitch, as though he had just thought of something quite different. ‘Yes, a capital thing,’ he almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him. This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor. But this stirred Raskolnikov’s spleen more than ever and he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious challenge. ‘Tell me, please,’ he asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. ‘I believe it’s a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition—for all investigating lawyers—to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are crossexamining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal question. Isn’t that so? It’s a sacred tradition, mentioned, I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?’ ‘Yes, yes…. Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government quarters … eh?’ And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes and winked; a good-humoured, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov’s repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in his visitor’s face and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The lat- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov’s eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and in another moment would break upon him … He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his cap. ‘Porfiry Petrovitch,’ he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, ‘yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you for some inquiries’ (he laid special stress on the word ‘inquiries’). ‘I have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare…. I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you … know also,’ he added, feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at his anger. ‘I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It’s partly what made me ill. In short,’ he shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was still more out of place, ‘in short, kindly examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the proper form! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now.’ ‘Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?’ cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. ‘Please don’t disturb yourself,’ he began fidgeting from place to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. ‘There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry, it’s all nonsense. Oh, no, I’m very glad you’ve come to see me at last … I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? That is your name? … It’s my nerves, you tickled me so with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time…. I’m often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry …’ Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap. ‘I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,’ Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding his visitor’s eyes. ‘You see, I’m a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I’m set, I’m running to seed and … and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for conversation—they are dumb, they sit opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversation, ladies for instance … people in high society always have their subjects of conversation, c’est de rigueur but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don’t want to deceive one another, I don’t know. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com What do you think? Do put down your cap, it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable … I am so delighted …’ Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. ‘Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble?’ ‘I can’t offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a friend?’ Porfiry pattered on, ‘and you know all these official duties … please don’t mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I’m always sitting and so glad to be moving about for five minutes … I suffer from my sedentary life … I always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science … yes, yes…. But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such formalities … you mentioned inquiries yourself just now … I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated…. You made the observation yourself just now very aptly and wittily.’ (Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind.) ‘One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-he-he!—your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you really imagined that I meant by ‘government quarters’ … he-he! You are an ironical person. Come. I won’t go on! Ah, by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what’s the use of formality? In many cases it’s nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he-he-he!’ Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as though he were listening. ‘Is he expecting anything?’ ‘You are certainly quite right about it,’ Porfiry began gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and instantly put him on his guard); ‘certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres too closely to the forms. Yes … I am talking of forms again. Well, if I recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to me … you’re reading for the law, of course, Rodion Romanovitch?’ ‘Yes, I was …’ ‘Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future—though don’t suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn’t I let him walk about the town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don’t quite understand, so I’ll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You’re laughing?’ Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch’s. ‘Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so different. You say ‘evidence’. Well, there may be evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof! 0 And if I shut him up too soon—even though I might be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You’re laughing, you don’t believe me again? Of course, you’re right, too. You’re right, you’re right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, for the reason that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any that’s gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don’t touch him and don’t worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he’ll be bound to lose his head. He’ll come of himself, or maybe do something which will make it as plain as twice two are four—it’s delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it’s a dead certainty. 1 For, my dear fellow, it’s a very important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable! … And then how they all suffer from spleen! That I assure you is a regular gold-mine for us. And it’s no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him, let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I’ve caught him and that he won’t escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that’s all nonsense, and on the surface. It’s not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is psychologically unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law of nature he can’t escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That’s how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He’ll begin to brood, he’ll weave a tangle round himself, he’ll worry himself to death! What’s more he will provide me with a mathematical proof—if I only give him long enough interval…. And he’ll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then—flop! He’ll fly straight into my mouth and I’ll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You don’t believe me?’ Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry’s face. ‘It’s a lesson,’ he thought, turning cold. ‘This is beyond the cat playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can’t be showing off his power with no motive … prompting me; he is far too clever for that … he must have another object. What is it? It’s all nonsense, my friend, you are pretending, to scare me! You’ve no proofs and the man I saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won’t do it! But why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my friend, you are wrong, you won’t do it even though you have some trap for me … let us see what you have in store for me.’ And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the right moment. He realised that this was the best policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for. ‘No, I see you don’t believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke on you,’ Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling at every instant and again pacing round the room. ‘And to be sure you’re right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com man still young, so to say, in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that’s for all the world like the old Austrian Hof-kriegsrath as far as I can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they’d beaten Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered with all his army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a civilian like me, taking examples out of military history! But I can’t help it, it’s my weakness. I am fond of military science. And I’m ever so fond of reading all military histories. I’ve certainly missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn’t have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major, he-he! Well, I’ll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this special case I mean: actual fact and a man’s temperament, my dear sir, are weighty matters and it’s astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation! I—listen to an old man—am speaking seriously, Rodion Romanovitch’ (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who was scarcely five-andthirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) ‘Moreover, I’m a candid man … am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don’t even expect a reward for it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he’s liable to be carried away by his own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal’s temperament, worse luck for him! But young people carried away by their own wit don’t think of that ‘when they overstep all obstacles,’ as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie—that is, the man who is a special case the incognito, and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he’s given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he didn’t reckon on his temperament. That’s what betrays him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will be too natural too much like the real thing, again he has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn’t you take me long ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see! But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window?’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Oh, don’t trouble, please,’ cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into a laugh. ‘Please don’t trouble.’ Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical laughter. ‘Porfiry Petrovitch,’ he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. ‘I see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and worried …’ His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain his voice. ‘I won’t allow it!’ he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won’t allow it.’ ‘Good heavens! What does it mean?’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently quite frightened. ‘Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?’ ‘I won’t allow it,’ Raskolnikov shouted again. ‘Hush, my dear man! They’ll hear and come in. Just think, what could we say to them?’ Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov’s. ‘I won’t allow it, I won’t allow it,’ Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper. Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window. ‘Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You’re ill!’ and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a decanter of water in the corner. ‘Come, drink a little,’ he whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. ‘It will be sure to do you good.’ Porfiry Petrovitch’s alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take the water, however. ‘Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you’ll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little.’ He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust. ‘Yes, you’ve had a little attack! You’ll bring back your illness again, my dear fellow,’ Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather disconcerted. ‘Good heavens, you must take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yesterday—I know, I know, I’ve a nasty, ironical temper, but what they made of it! … Good heavens, he came yesterday after you’d been. We dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy’s sake, sit down!’ ‘No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,’ Raskolnikov answered sharply. ‘You knew?’ ‘I knew. What of it?’ ‘Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you; I know about everything. I know how you Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com went to take a flat at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I understand your state of mind at that time … but you’ll drive yourself mad like that, upon my word! You’ll lose your head! You’re full of generous indignation at the wrongs you’ve received, first from destiny, and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That’s so, isn’t it? I have guessed how you feel, haven’t I? Only in that way you’ll lose your head and Razumihin’s, too; he’s too good a man for such a position, you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for him … I’ll tell you about it when you are more yourself…. But do sit down, for goodness’ sake. Please rest, you look shocking, do sit down.’ Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to believe. Porfiry’s unexpected words about the flat had utterly overwhelmed him. ‘How can it be, he knows about the flat then,’ he thought suddenly, ‘and he tells it me himself!’ ‘Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a case of morbid psychology,’ Porfiry went on quickly. ‘A man confessed to murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tuttut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I’ve studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing…. It’s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced doctor, what’s the good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You were delirious when you did all this!’ For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round. ‘Is it possible, is it possible,’ flashed through his mind, ‘that he is still lying? He can’t be, he can’t be.’ He rejected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad. ‘I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,’ he cried, straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry’s game, ‘I was quite myself, do you hear?’ ‘Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell me! A-ach! … Listen, Ro- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com dion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible? Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious. That’s so, isn’t it?’ There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him. ‘Another thing about Razumihin—you certainly ought to have said that he came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you don’t conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation.’ Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back. ‘You keep telling lies,’ he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, ‘you are trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand,’ he said, conscious himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. ‘You want to frighten me … or you are simply laughing at me …’ He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of intense hatred in his eyes. ‘You keep lying,’ he said. ‘You know perfectly well that the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible … to conceal as little as possible. I don’t believe you!’ 0 ‘What a wily person you are!’ Porfiry tittered, ‘there’s no catching you; you’ve a perfect monomania. So you don’t believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a quarter; I’ll soon make you believe the whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good.’ Raskolnikov’s lips trembled. ‘Yes, I do,’ went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov’s arm genially, ‘you must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but frighten them …’ ‘What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?’ ‘Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don’t notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin, too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your suspiciousness makes you lose the common-sense view of things. To return to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down blow (your expression) saying: ‘And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman’s flat and why 1 did you ring the bell and why did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant?’ That’s how I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps have arrested you, too … so I have no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But you can’t look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again.’ Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to perceive it. ‘You are lying all the while,’ he cried, ‘I don’t know your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be mistaken!’ ‘I am lying?’ Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a good-humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov’s opinion of him. ‘I am lying … but how did I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He-he-he! Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don’t remember—that’s all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have been others, eh? He-he-he!’ Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him. ‘Briefly,’ he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, ‘briefly, I want to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!’ ‘What a business I’m having with you!’ cried Porfiry with a perfectly good-humoured, sly and composed face. ‘And why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, since they haven’t begun to worry you? Why, you are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He-he-he!’ ‘I repeat,’ Raskolnikov cried furiously, ‘that I can’t put up with it!’ ‘With what? Uncertainty?’ interrupted Porfiry. ‘Don’t jeer at me! I won’t have it! I tell you I won’t have it. I can’t and I won’t, do you hear, do you hear?’ he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again. ‘Hush! Hush! They’ll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of yourself. I am not joking,’ Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification. But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury. ‘I will not allow myself to be tortured,’ he whispered, instantly recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. ‘Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com form and don’t play with me! Don’t dare!’ ‘Don’t worry about the form,’ Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. ‘I invited you to see me quite in a friendly way.’ ‘I don’t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?’ He took up his cap and went to the door. ‘And won’t you see my little surprise?’ chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door. He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured which maddened Raskolnikov. ‘What surprise?’ he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm. ‘My little surprise, it’s sitting there behind the door, hehe-he!’ (He pointed to the locked door.) ‘I locked him in that he should not escape.’ ‘What is it? Where? What? …’ Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked. ‘It’s locked, here is the key!’ And he brought a key out of his pocket. ‘You are lying,’ roared Raskolnikov without restraint, ‘you lie, you damned punchinello!’ and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed. ‘I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray myself to you …’ ‘Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don’t shout, I shall call the clerks.’ ‘You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your facts! I understand it all. You’ve no evidence, you have only wretched rubbishly suspicions like Zametov’s! You knew my character, you wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies…. Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce them?’ ‘Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you say, you don’t know the business, my dear fellow…. And there’s no escaping form, as you see,’ Porfiry muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard. ‘Ah, they’re coming,’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘You’ve sent for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what you like! … I am ready!’ But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for such a conclusion to their interview. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter VI When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it. The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a little. ‘What is it?’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. ‘Why, I gave orders …’ For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody back. ‘What is it?’ Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily. ‘The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,’ someone answered. ‘He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What’s he doing here? How irregular!’ cried Porfiry, rushing to the door. ‘But he …’ began the same voice, and suddenly ceased. Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room. This man’s appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching. He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away. Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously. ‘Go away, it’s too soon! Wait till you are sent for! … Why have you brought him so soon?’ Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning. But Nikolay suddenly knelt down. ‘What’s the matter?’ cried Porfiry, surprised. ‘I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,’ Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly. For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood immovable. ‘What is it?’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction. ‘I … am the murderer,’ repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause. ‘What … you … what … whom did you kill?’ Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered. Nikolay again was silent for a moment. ‘Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I … Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com killed … with an axe. Darkness came over me,’ he added suddenly, and was again silent. He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter. ‘You’re in too great a hurry,’ he shouted at him, almost angrily. ‘I didn’t ask you what came over you…. Speak, did you kill them?’ ‘I am the murderer…. I want to give evidence,’ Nikolay pronounced. ‘Ach! What did you kill them with?’ ‘An axe. I had it ready.’ ‘Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?’ Nikolay did not understand the question. ‘Did you do it alone?’ ‘Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.’ ‘Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!’ ‘It was to put them off the scent … I ran after Mitka,’ Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer. ‘I knew it!’ cried Porfiry, with vexation. ‘It’s not his own tale he is telling,’ he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again. He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback. ‘My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!’ he flew up to him, ‘this won’t do; I’m afraid you must go … it’s no good your staying … I will … you see, what a surprise! … Goodbye!’ And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door. ‘I suppose you didn’t expect it?’ said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage. ‘You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!’ ‘You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!’ ‘Yes, I am; I didn’t expect it.’ They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone. ‘And your little surprise, aren’t you going to show it to me?’ Raskolnikov said, sarcastically. ‘Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!’ ‘I believe we can say good-bye!’ ‘That’s in God’s hands,’ muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile. As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com the two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath. ‘One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s in God’s hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you … so we shall meet again, shan’t we?’ And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. ‘Shan’t we?’ he added again. He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out. ‘You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed … I lost my temper,’ began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. ‘Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,’ Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. ‘I myself, too … I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we may see a great deal of one another.’ ‘And will get to know each other through and through?’ added Raskolnikov. ‘Yes; know each other through and through,’ assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. ‘Now you’re going to a birthday party?’ ‘To a funeral.’ ‘Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get 00 well.’ ‘I don’t know what to wish you,’ said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. ‘I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one.’ ‘Why comical?’ Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. ‘Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you’ll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are lying,’ you’ll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be! It’s not your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s a comical business!’ ‘He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?’ ‘How could I help noticing it!’ ‘He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You’ve really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side … he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.’ ‘Yes, of Gogol.’ ‘Yes, of Gogol…. I shall look forward to meeting you.’ ‘So shall I.’ Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he 01 felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing—something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay’s confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry’s aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry’s ‘lead’ had been for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There’s no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay? Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had risked something in showing them—and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he 0 would have shown that, too. What was that ‘surprise’? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday’s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him…. He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door. He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna’s. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia. He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips. ‘To-day! To-day,’ he repeated to himself. ‘Yes, to-day! So it must be….’ But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure—yesterday’s visitor from underground. The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his 0 hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman. ‘What do you want?’ asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with his finger. ‘What is it?’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘I have sinned,’ the man articulated softly. ‘How?’ ‘By evil thoughts.’ They looked at one another. ‘I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you….’ ‘Who came?’ Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect. ‘I did, I’ve wronged you.’ ‘Then you come from that house?’ ‘I was standing at the gate with them … don’t you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home … most of all I was vexed….’ And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov’s mind; he recollected that there had been several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police- station. He 0 could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some answer…. So this was the solution of yesterday’s horror. The most awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on account of such a trivial circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that delirium no facts but this psychology which cuts both ways nothing positive. So if no more facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then … then what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before. ‘Was it you who told Porfiry … that I’d been there?’ he cried, struck by a sudden idea. ‘What Porfiry?’ ‘The head of the detective department?’ ‘Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.’ ‘To-day?’ ‘I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he worried you.’ ‘Where? What? When?’ ‘Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.’ ‘What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my word!’ ‘I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,’ began the man; ‘for it’s too late, said they, and maybe he’ll be angry that we did not come at the time. I was vexed and I 0 lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first time I went he wasn’t there, when I came an hour later he couldn’t see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room and punching himself on the chest. ‘What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I’d known about it I should have arrested him!’ Then he ran out, called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that you didn’t dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and that you didn’t recognise me. And he fell to running about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and running about, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. ‘Sit there a bit,’ he said. ‘Don’t move, whatever you may hear.’ And he set a chair there for me and locked me in. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I may call you.’ And when Nikolay’d been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. ‘I shall send for you again and question you,’ he said.’ ‘And did he question Nikolay while you were there?’ ‘He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay.’ The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground with his finger. ‘Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.’ ‘May God forgive you,’ answered Raskolnikov. And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not 0 to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room. ‘It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,’ repeated Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever. ‘Now we’ll make a fight for it,’ he said, with a malicious smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and contempt he recollected his ‘cowardice.’ 0 Part V 0 Chapter I The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dounia and her mother brought sobering influences to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely unpleasant as it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact beyond recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, Pyotr Petrovitch immediately looked in the looking-glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clear-skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride and, perhaps, even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his present position, he turned aside and spat vigorously, which excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his young friend’s account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyonovitch about the result of yesterday’s interview. That was the second mistake he had made in temper, through impulsiveness and irritability…. Moreover, all that 0 morning one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being redecorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German tradesman, would not entertain the idea of breaking the contract which had just been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the instalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat. ‘Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?’ Pyotr Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam of desperate hope. ‘Can all that be really so irrevocably over? Is it no use to make another effort?’ The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the wish. ‘It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,’ he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov’s room, ‘and why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them! foo! If I’d spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for the trousseau and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, jewellery, materials, and all that sort of trash from Knopp’s and the English shop, my position would have been better 10 and … stronger! They could not have refused me so easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if they broke it off; and they would find it hard to do it! And their conscience would prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been so generous and delicate?…. H’m! I’ve made a blunder.’ And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called himself a fool— but not aloud, of course. He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna’s excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he had been invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery, he heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair, that all the lodgers had been invited, among them some who had not known the dead man, that even Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the recent unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was moreover dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petrovitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov’s, somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be 11 one of the guests. Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. The attitude of Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was strange, though perhaps natural. Pyotr Petrovitch had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from parsimony, though that had been perhaps his chief object. He had heard of Andrey Semyonovitch, who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive who was taking an important part in certain interesting circles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient circles who despised everyone and showed everyone up had long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague alarm. He had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate notion of what they meant. He, like everyone, had heard that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of some sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared more than anything was being shown up and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some years before, when he was just entering on his own career, he had come upon two cases in which rather important personages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the 1 person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, if necessary, to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour of ‘our younger generation.’ He relied on Andrey Semyonovitch for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He soon discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were fools like him, it would not have allayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems, with which Andrey Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had his own object—he simply wanted to find out at once what was happening here. Had these people any power or not? Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn’t he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented themselves. Andrey Semyonovitch was an anæmic, scrofulous little man, with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted, but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not get drunk and paid reg- 1 ularly for his lodgings. Andrey Semyonovitch really was rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress and ‘our younger generation’ from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half-animate abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vulgarise it and who caricature every cause they serve, however sincerely. Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was beginning to dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrey Semyonovitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr Petrovitch was duping him and secretly despising him, and that ‘he was not the right sort of man.’ He had tried expounding to him the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late Pyotr Petrovitch began to listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton, but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked things up third-hand; and that very likely he did not even know much about his own work of propaganda, for he was in too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show anyone up! It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the strangest praise from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not protested, for instance, when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of the new ‘commune,’ or to abstain from christening 1 his future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a lover a month after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch so enjoyed hearing his own praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were attributed to him. Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise some five- per-cent bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch who hardly ever had any money walked about the room pretending to himself to look at all those bank notes with indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really look on the money unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept thinking bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding him of his inferiority and the great difference between them. He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite subject, the foundation of a new special ‘commune.’ The brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr Petrovitch between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the ‘humane’ Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch’s ill-humour to his recent breach with Dounia and he was burning with impatience to discourse on that theme. He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console his worthy friend and ‘could not fail’ to promote his development. 1 ‘There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that … at the widow’s, isn’t there?’ Pyotr Petrovitch asked suddenly, interrupting Andrey Semyonovitch at the most interesting passage. ‘Why, don’t you know? Why, I was telling you last night what I think about all such ceremonies. And she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday …’ ‘I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines! Several people are invited. It’s beyond everything!’ continued Pyotr Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the conversation. ‘What? You say I am asked too? When was that? I don’t remember. But I shan’t go. Why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of the possibility of her obtaining a year’s salary as a destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn’t she? He-he-he!’ ‘I don’t intend to go either,’ said Lebeziatnikov. ‘I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You might well hesitate, he-he!’ ‘Who thrashed? Whom?’ cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered and blushing. ‘Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday … so that’s what your convictions amount to … and the woman question, too, wasn’t quite sound, he-he-he!’ and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though comforted, went back to clicking his beads. 1 ‘It’s all slander and nonsense!’ cried Lebeziatnikov, who was always afraid of allusions to the subject. ‘It was not like that at all, it was quite different. You’ve heard it wrong; it’s a libel. I was simply defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my whiskers…. It’s permissable for anyone, I should hope, to defend himself and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on principle, for it’s an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply pushed her back.’ ‘He-he-he!’ Luzhin went on laughing maliciously. ‘You keep on like that because you are out of humour yourself…. But that’s nonsense and it has nothing, nothing whatever to do with the woman question! You don’t understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are equal to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintained now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to arise, for there ought not to be fighting and in the future society fighting is unthinkable … and that it would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so stupid … though, of course, there is fighting … there won’t be later, but at present there is … confound it! How muddled one gets with you! It’s not on that account that I am not going. I am not going on principle, not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that’s why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it…. I am sorry there won’t be any priests at it. I should certainly go if there were.’ ‘Then you would sit down at another man’s table and insult it and those who invited you. Eh?’ 1 ‘Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It’s a duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda and the more harshly, perhaps, the better. I might drop a seed, an idea…. And something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them? They might be offended at first, but afterwards they’d see I’d done them a service. You know, Terebyeva (who is in the community now) was blamed because when she left her family and … devoted … herself, she wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn’t go on living conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh, that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think that’s all nonsense and there’s no need of softness; on the contrary, what’s wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, she abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight out in a letter: ‘I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another organisation of society by means of the communities. I have only lately learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me back, you are too late. I hope you will be happy.’ That’s how letters like that ought to be written!’ ‘Is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free marriage?’ 1 ‘No, it’s only the second, really! But what if it were the fourth, what if it were the fifteenth, that’s all nonsense! And if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is now, and I sometimes think if my parents were living what a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done something on purpose … I would have shown them! I would have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no one!’ ‘To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,’ Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted, ‘but tell me this; do you know the dead man’s daughter, the delicate-looking little thing? It’s true what they say about her, isn’t it?’ ‘What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal conviction that this is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, distinguons. In our present society it is not altogether normal, because it is compulsory, but in the future society it will be perfectly normal, because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another significance, rational and in harmony with her environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when I look at her!’ ‘I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings.’ Lebeziatnikov was enraged. ‘That’s another slander,’ he yelled. ‘It was not so at all! 1 That was all Katerina Ivanovna’s invention, for she did not understand! And I never made love to Sofya Semyonovna! I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest…. All I wanted was her protest and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway!’ ‘Have you asked her to join your community?’ ‘You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me to tell you. You don’t understand! There is no such rôle in a community. The community is established that there should be no such rôles. In a community, such a rôle is essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the environment. It’s all the environment and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the community, but on quite, quite a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone further in our convictions. We reject more! And meanwhile I’m still developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character!’ ‘And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? Hehe!’ ‘No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.’ ‘Oh, on the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!’ ‘Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself how timid, chaste and modern she is with 0 me!’ ‘And you, of course, are developing her … he-he! trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?’ ‘Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly—excuse me saying so—you misunderstand the word development! Good heavens, how … crude you still are! We are striving for the freedom of women and you have only one idea in your head…. Setting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that’s for her to decide. Of course if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much; but as it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more respect for her dignity … I wait in hopes, that’s all!’ ‘You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never thought of that.’ ‘You don’t understand, as I’ve told you already! Of course, she is in such a position, but it’s another question. Quite another question! You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don’t know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting—which she has already shown once—she has little self-reliance, little, so to say, independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some 1 questions, for instance about kissing of hands, that is, that it’s an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, because it’s a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an account of the workmen’s associations in France, too. Now I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the future society.’ ‘And what’s that, pray?’ ‘We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of the community the right to enter another member’s room, whether man or woman, at any time … and we decided that he has!’ ‘It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!’ Lebeziatnikov was really angry. ‘You are always thinking of something unpleasant,’ he cried with aversion. ‘Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the question of personal privacy! It’s always a stumbling-block to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! I’ve often maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like. And it’s not a question of self-sacrifice, it’s simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more useful.’ ‘And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he!’ ‘What do you mean by ‘more honourable’? I don’t understand such expressions to describe human activity. ‘More honourable,’ ‘nobler’— all those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is of use to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: useful! You can snigger as much as you like, but that’s so!’ Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The ‘cesspool question’ had already been a subject of dispute between them. What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while it amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young friend. ‘It’s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and annoying,’ blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his ‘independence’ and his ‘protests’ did not venture to oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years. ‘You’d better tell me this,’ Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted with haughty displeasure, ‘can you … or rather are you really friendly enough with that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they’ve all come back from the cemetery … I heard the sound of steps … I want to see her, that young person.’ ‘What for?’ Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise. ‘Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow and therefore I wanted to speak to her about … However, you may be present during the interview. It’s better you should be, indeed. For there’s no knowing what you might Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com imagine.’ ‘I shan’t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you’ve anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I’ll go directly and you may be sure I won’t be in your way.’ Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such circumstances and was always afraid of new people, she had been as a child and was even more so now…. Pyotr Petrovitch met her ‘politely and affably,’ but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so young and so interesting as she. He hastened to ‘reassure’ her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, looked about her—at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov. ‘Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?’ he asked him in a whisper. ‘Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in…. Why?’ ‘Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me alone with this … young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God knows what they may make of it. I shouldn’t like Raskolnikov to repeat anything…. You understand what I mean?’ ‘I understand!’ Lebeziatnikov saw the point. ‘Yes, you are right…. Of course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy, but … still, you are right. Certainly I’ll stay. I’ll stand here at the window and not be in your way … I think you are right …’ Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonia, looked attentively at her and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say, ‘don’t you make any mistake, madam.’ Sonia was overwhelmed with embarrassment. ‘In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my excuses to your respected mamma…. That’s right, isn’t it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in the place of a mother to you?’ Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity, though affably. It was evident that his intentions were friendly. ‘Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,’ Sonia answered, timidly and hurriedly. ‘Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in spite of your mamma’s kind invitation.’ ‘Yes … I’ll tell her … at once.’ And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat. ‘Wait, that’s not all,’ Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners, ‘and you know me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a person like you for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I have another object.’ Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the grey-and-rainbow-coloured notes that re- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com mained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it horribly indecorous, especially for her to look at another person’s money. She stared at the gold eye-glass which Pyotr Petrovitch held in his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in the face. After a pause of still greater dignity he continued. ‘I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a position— preternatural, if one may so express it.’ ‘Yes … preternatural …’ Sonia hurriedly assented. ‘Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, ill.’ ‘Yes, simpler and more comprehen … yes, ill.’ ‘Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to speak compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her in any way, foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now entirely on you?’ ‘Allow me to ask,’ Sonia rose to her feet, ‘did you say something to her yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had undertaken to get her one. Was that true?’ ‘Not in the slightest, and indeed it’s an absurdity! I merely hinted at her obtaining temporary assistance as the widow of an official who had died in the service—if only she has patronage … but apparently your late parent had not served his full term and had not indeed been in the service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that case, far from it…. And she is dreaming of a pension already, he-he-he! … A go-ahead lady!’ ‘Yes, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes everything from the goodness of her heart and … and … and she is like that … yes … You must excuse her,’ said Sonia, and again she got up to go. ‘But you haven’t heard what I have to say.’ ‘No, I haven’t heard,’ muttered Sonia. ‘Then sit down.’ She was terribly confused; she sat down again a third time. ‘Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service, that is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might for instance get up a subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it might be done.’ ‘Yes, yes … God will repay you for it,’ faltered Sonia, gazing intently at Pyotr Petrovitch. ‘It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it to-day, we will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation so to speak. Come to me at seven o’clock. Mr. Lebeziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com which I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it’s unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna’s own hands. The dinner to-day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a crust of bread for to-morrow and … well, boots or shoes, or anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I believe, Madeira and … and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. To-morrow it will all fall upon you again, they won’t have a crust of bread. It’s absurd, really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for instance. Am I right?’ ‘I don’t know … this is only to-day, once in her life…. She was so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the memory…. And she is very sensible … but just as you think and I shall be very, very … they will all be … and God will reward … and the orphans …’ Sonia burst into tears. ‘Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able to spare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here … having so to speak anxieties of my own, I cannot do more …’ And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten-rouble note carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petrovitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion. All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Pyotr Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand. ‘I heard and saw everything,’ he said, laying stress on the last verb. ‘That is honourable, I mean to say, it’s humane! You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with pleasure—yes, yes, I like it.’ ‘That’s all nonsense,’ muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikov. ‘No, it’s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as you did yesterday and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others, such a man … even though he is making a social mistake—is still deserving of respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch, especially as according to your ideas … oh, what a drawback your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for instance by your ill-luck yesterday,’ cried the simple-hearted Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of affection for Pyotr Petrovitch. ‘And, what do you want with marriage, with legal marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn’t come off, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for humanity…. you see, I’ve spo- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ken my mind!’ ‘Because I don’t want in your free marriage to be made a fool of and to bring up another man’s children, that’s why I want legal marriage,’ Luzhin replied in order to make some answer. He seemed preoccupied by something. ‘Children? You referred to children,’ Lebeziatnikov started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. ‘Children are a social question and a question of first importance, I agree; but the question of children has another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the institution of the family. We’ll speak of children later, but now as to the question of honour, I confess that’s my weak point. That horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean indeed? It’s nonsense, there will be no deception in a free marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed it’s not humiliating … and if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my wife: ‘My dear, hitherto I have loved you, now I respect you, for you’ve shown you can protest!’ You laugh! That’s because you are of incapable of getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I understand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it’s simply a despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist, it’s unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she respects you 0 by considering you incapable of opposing her happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to be married, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it’s just the same, I should present my wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. ‘My dear,’ I should say, ‘I love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect me. See!’ Am I not right?’ Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was preoccupied with something else and even Lebeziatnikov at last noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited and rubbed his hands. Lebeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it afterwards. 1 Chapter II I t would be difficult to explain exactly what could have originated the idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina Ivanovna’s disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov’s funeral, were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to honour the memory of the deceased ‘suitably,’ that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might know ‘that he was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very much their superior,’ and that no one had the right ‘to turn up his nose at him.’ Perhaps the chief element was that peculiar ‘poor man’s pride,’ which compels many poor people to spend their last savings on some traditional social ceremony, simply in order to do ‘like other people,’ and not to ‘be looked down upon.’ It is very probable, too, that Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the moment when she seemed to be abandoned by everyone, to show those ‘wretched contemptible lodgers’ that she knew ‘how to do things, how to entertain’ and that she had been brought up ‘in a genteel, she might almost say aristocratic colonel’s family’ and had not been meant for sweeping floors and washing the children’s rags at night. Even the poorest and most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the form of an irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was not broken-spirited; she might have been killed by circumstance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be crushed. Moreover Sonia had said with good reason that her mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane, but for a year past she had been so harassed that her mind might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect. There was no great variety of wines, nor was there Madeira; but wine there was. There was vodka, rum and Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all prepared in Amalia Ivanovna’s kitchen. Two samovars were boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the provisions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame Lippevechsel’s. He promptly put himself at Katerina Ivanovna’s disposal and had been all that morning and all the day before running about as fast as his legs could carry him, and very anxious that everyone should be aware of it. For every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting her out at the bazaar, at every instant called her ‘Pani. ’ She was heartily sick of him before the end, though she had declared at first that she could not have got on without this ‘serviceable and magnanimous man.’ It was one of Katerina Ivanovna’s characteristics to paint everyone she met in the most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance and quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptuously repulse the person she had only a few hours before been literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively and peace-loving disposition, but from continual failures and misfortunes she had come to desire so keenly that all should live in peace and joy and should not dare to break the peace, that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the brightest hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and knocking her head against the wall. Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary importance in Katerina Ivanovna’s eyes and was treated by her with extraordinary respect, probably only because Amalia Ivanovna had thrown herself heart and soul into the preparations. She had undertaken to lay the table, to provide the linen, crockery, etc., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen, and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone herself to the cemetery. Everything had been well done. Even the table-cloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives, forks and glasses were, of course, of all shapes and patterns, lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly laid at the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done her work well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with some pride. This pride, though justifiable, displeased Katerina Ivanovna for some reason: ‘as though the table could not have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!’ She disliked the cap with new ribbons, too. ‘Could she be stuck up, the stupid German, because she was mistress of the house, and had consented as a favour to help her poor lodgers! As a favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna’s father who had been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the table set for forty persons, and then anyone like Amalia Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been allowed into the kitchen.’ Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feelings for the time and contented herself with treating her coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set her in her proper place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying herself. Katerina Ivanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them not quite sober. The older and more respectable of them all, as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to be the most respectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina Ivanovna had the evening before told all the world, that is Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property and vast connections, who had been a friend of her first husband’s, and a guest in her father’s house, and that he had promised to use all his influence to secure her a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com considerable pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna exalted anyone’s connections and fortune, it was without any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere pleasure of adding to the consequence of the person praised. Probably ‘taking his cue’ from Luzhin, ‘that contemptible wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up either. What did he fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and because he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch and was a friend of his, so that it would have been awkward not to invite him.’ Among those who failed to appear were ‘the genteel lady and her old- maidish daughter,’ who had only been lodgers in the house for the last fortnight, but had several times complained of the noise and uproar in Katerina Ivanovna’s room, especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarrelling with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole family out of doors, had shouted at her that they ‘were not worth the foot’ of the honourable lodgers whom they were disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to invite this lady and her daughter, ‘whose foot she was not worth,’ and who had turned away haughtily when she casually met them, so that they might know that ‘she was more noble in her thoughts and feelings and did not harbour malice,’ and might see that she was not accustomed to her way of living. She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with allusions to her late father’s governorship, and also at the same time to hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he was really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but it appeared that he had been ‘not himself’ for the last two days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a word to say for himself, and smelt abominably, a deaf and almost blind old man who had once been in the post office and who had been from immemorial ages maintained by someone at Amalia Ivanovna’s. A retired clerk of the commissariat department came, too; he was drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only fancy—was without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat straight down to the table without even greeting Katerina Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in his dressing-gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. The Pole brought with him, however, two other Poles who did not live at Amalia Ivanovna’s and whom no one had seen here before. All this irritated Katerina Ivanovna intensely. ‘For whom had they made all these preparations then?’ To make room for the visitors the children had not even been laid for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on a bench in the furthest corner with their dinner laid on a box, while Polenka as a big girl had to look after them, feed them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children’s. Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her guests with increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She stared at some of them with special severity, and loftily invited them to take their seats. Rushing to the conclusion Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com that Amalia Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a beginning was no good omen for the end. All were seated at last. Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted to see him, in the first place, because he was the one ‘educated visitor, and, as everyone knew, was in two years to take a professorship in the university,’ and secondly because he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been unable to be at the funeral. She positively pounced upon him, and made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right). In spite of her continual anxiety that the dishes should be passed round correctly and that everyone should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown worse during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in a half whisper to Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and her just indignation at the failure of the dinner, interspersing her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter at the expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady. ‘It’s all that cuckoo’s fault! You know whom I mean? Her, her!’ Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. ‘Look at her, she’s making round eyes, she feels that we are talking about her and can’t understand. Pfoo, the owl! Haha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she wants everyone to consider that she is patronising me and doing me an honour by being here? I asked her like a sensible woman to invite people, especially those who knew my late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And those wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I’ve never set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? There they sit in a row. Hey, pan!’ she cried suddenly to one of them, ‘have you tasted the pancakes? Take some more! Have some beer! Won’t you have some vodka? Look, he’s jumped up and is making his bows, they must be quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They don’t make a noise, anyway, though I’m really afraid for our landlady’s silver spoons … Amalia Ivanovna!’ she addressed her suddenly, almost aloud, ‘if your spoons should happen to be stolen, I won’t be responsible, I warn you! Ha-ha-ha!’ She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally. ‘She didn’t understand, she didn’t understand again! Look how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, a real owl! An owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!’ Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration stood out on her forehead and her handkerchief was stained with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in silence, and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on her cheeks. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter, you understand of whom I am speaking? It needed the utmost delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed things so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts in the government offices, because at fifty she paints her face (everybody knows it) … a creature like that did not think fit to come, and has not even answered the invitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! I can’t understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? But where’s Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you been? It’s odd that even at your father’s funeral you should be so unpunctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside you. That’s your place, Sonia … take what you like. Have some of the cold entrée with jelly, that’s the best. They’ll bring the pancakes directly. Have they given the children some? Polenka, have you got everything? (Cough-cough-cough.) That’s all right. Be a good girl, Lida, and, Kolya, don’t fidget with your feet; sit like a little gentleman. What are you saying, Sonia?’ Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch’s apologies, trying to speak loud enough for everyone to hear and carefully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attributed to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added that Pyotr Petrovitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss business alone with her and to consider what could be done for 0 her, etc., etc. Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, would flatter her and gratify her pride. She sat down beside Raskolnikov; she made him a hurried bow, glancing curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she seemed to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Ivanovna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna had been able to get mourning; Sonia was wearing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her only dress, a dark striped cotton one. The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna inquired with equal dignity how Pyotr Petrovitch was, then at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it certainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petrovitch’s position and standing to find himself in such ‘extraordinary company,’ in spite of his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her father. ‘That’s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in such surroundings,’ she added almost aloud. ‘But I am sure that it was only your special affection for my poor husband that has made you keep your promise.’ Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her visitors, and suddenly inquired aloud across the table of the deaf man: ‘Wouldn’t he have some more meat, and had he been given some wine?’ The old man made no answer and for a long while could not understand what he was asked, 1 though his neighbours amused themselves by poking and shaking him. He simply gazed about him with his mouth open, which only increased the general mirth. ‘What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? But as to Pyotr Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,’ Katerina Ivanovna continued, ‘and, of course, he is not like …’ with an extremely stern face she addressed Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was quite disconcerted, ‘not like your dressed up draggletails whom my father would not have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and my late husband would have done them honour if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart.’ ‘Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did drink!’ cried the commissariat clerk, gulping down his twelfth glass of vodka. ‘My late husband certainly had that weakness, and everyone knows it,’ Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, ‘but he was a kind and honourable man, who loved and respected his family. The worst of it was his good nature made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his shoe. Would you believe it, Rodion Romanovitch, they found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was dead drunk, but he did not forget the children!’ ‘A cock? Did you say a cock?’ shouted the commissariat clerk. Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She sighed, lost in thought. ‘No doubt you think, like everyone, that I was too se- vere with him,’ she went on, addressing Raskolnikov. ‘But that’s not so! He respected me, he respected me very much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I was for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look at me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be kind to him and then would think to myself: ‘Be kind to him and he will drink again,’ it was only by severity that you could keep him within bounds.’ ‘Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,’ roared the commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka. ‘Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as well as having their hair pulled. I am not talking of my late husband now!’ Katerina Ivanovna snapped at him. The flush on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her chest heaved. In another minute she would have been ready to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering, evidently delighted. They began poking the commissariat clerk and whispering something to him. They were evidently trying to egg him on. ‘Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,’ began the clerk, ‘that is to say, whose … about whom … did you say just now … But I don’t care! That’s nonsense! Widow! I forgive you…. Pass!’ And he took another drink of vodka. Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He only ate from politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina Ivanovna was continually putting on his plate, to avoid hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia intently. But Sonia became Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com more and more anxious and distressed; she, too, foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw with terror Katerina Ivanovna’s growing irritation. She knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the ‘genteel’ ladies’ contemptuous treatment of Katerina Ivanovna’s invitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna that the mother was positively offended at the invitation and had asked the question: ‘How could she let her daughter sit down beside that young person?’ Sonia had a feeling that Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an insult to Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to herself, her children, or her father, Sonia knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, ‘till she had shown those draggletails that they were both …’ To make matters worse someone passed Sonia, from the other end of the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man who sent it was ‘a drunken ass!’ Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and at the same time deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna’s haughtiness, and to restore the good-humour of the company and raise herself in their esteem she began, apropos of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers ‘Karl from the chemist’s,’ who was driving one night in a cab, and that ‘the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl very much begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart.’ Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; the latter was still more offended, and she retorted that her ‘Vater aus Berlin was a very important man, and always went with his hands in pockets.’ Katerina Ivanovna could not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia Ivanovna lost patience and could scarcely control herself. ‘Listen to the owl!’ Katerina Ivanovna whispered at once, her good- humour almost restored, ‘she meant to say he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his hands in people’s pockets. (Cough- cough.) And have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we! Can you fancy anyone of us telling how ‘Karl from the chemist’s’ ‘pierced his heart from fear’ and that the idiot, instead of punishing the cabman, ‘clasped his hands and wept, and much begged.’ Ah, the fool! And you know she fancies it’s very touching and does not suspect how stupid she is! To my thinking that drunken commissariat clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these foreigners are always so well behaved and serious…. Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough.)’ Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at once telling Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her pension, she intended to open a school for the daughters of gentlemen in her native town T——. This was the first time she had spoken to him of the project, and she launched out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate of honour of which Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his wife, had danced the shawl dance before the governor and other great personages on leaving school. This certificate of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina Ivanovna’s right to open a boarding-school; but she had armed herself with it chiefly with the object of overwhelming ‘those two stuck-up draggletails’ if they came to the dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna was of the most noble, ‘she might even say aristocratic family, a colonel’s daughter and was far superior to certain adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late.’ The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes lettres that her father was of the rank of a major, and also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost the daughter of a colonel. Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on the peaceful and happy life they would lead in T——, on the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give lessons in her boarding-school, one a most respectable old Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Ivanovna herself in old days and was still living in T——, and would no doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T—— and help her in all her plans. At this someone at the further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw. Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be disdainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at once speaking with conviction of Sonia’s undoubted ability to assist her, of ‘her gentleness, patience, devotion, generosity and good education,’ tapping Sonia on the cheek and kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately observing that she was ‘nervous and silly, that she was too much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner was over, it was time to hand round the tea.’ At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at taking no part in the conversation, and not being listened to, made one last effort, and with secret misgivings ventured on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation, that ‘in the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular attention to die Wäsche and that there certainly must be a good dame to look after the linen, and secondly that the young ladies must not novels at night read.’ Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very tired, as well as heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut short Amalia Ivanovna, saying ‘she knew nothing about it and was talking nonsense, that it was the business of the laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high- class boardingschool to look after die Wäsche and as for novel- reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be silent.’ Amalia Ivanovna fired up and getting angry observed that she only ‘meant her good,’ and that ‘she had meant her very good,’ and that ‘it was long since she had paid her gold for the lodgings.’ Katerina Ivanovna at once ‘set her down,’ saying that it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only yester- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com day when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna very appropriately observed that she had invited those ladies, but ‘those ladies had not come, because those ladies are ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.’ Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she was a slut she could not judge what made one really a lady. Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her ‘Vater aus Berlin was a very, very important man, and both hands in pockets went, and always used to say: ‘Poof! poof!’’ and she leapt up from the table to represent her father, sticking her hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague sounds resembling ‘poof! poof!’ amid loud laughter from all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Ivanovna, hoping for a fight. But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at once declared, so that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna probably never had a father, but was simply a drunken Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook and probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna never had a father, ‘but she had a Vater aus Berlin and that he wore a long coat and always said poof-poof-poof!’ Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew what her family was and that on that very certificate of honour it was stated in print that her father was a colonel, while Amalia Ivanovna’s father—if she really had one—was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Ludwigovna. At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, and not Ludwigovna, ‘that her Vater was named Johann and that he was a burgomeister, and that Katerina Ivanovna’s Vater was quite never a burgomeister.’ Katerina Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and apparently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was heaving) observed that ‘if she dared for one moment to set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her head and trample it under foot.’ Amalia Ivanovna ran about the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she was mistress of the house and that Katerina Ivanovna should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for some reason to collect the silver spoons from the table. There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about ‘the yellow ticket,’ Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed at the landlady to carry out her threat. At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning the party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to him. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter III ‘ Pyotr Petrovitch,’ she cried, ‘protect me … you at least! Make this foolish woman understand that she can’t behave like this to a lady in misfortune … that there is a law for such things…. I’ll go to the governor-general himself…. She shall answer for it…. Remembering my father’s hospitality protect these orphans.’ ‘Allow me, madam…. Allow me.’ Pyotr Petrovitch waved her off. ‘Your papa as you are well aware I had not the honour of knowing’ (someone laughed aloud) ‘and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna…. I have come here to speak of my own affairs … and I want to have a word with your stepdaughter, Sofya … Ivanovna, I think it is? Allow me to pass.’ Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite corner where Sonia was. Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as though thunderstruck. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjoyed her father’s hospitility. Though she had invented it herself, she believed in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the businesslike, dry and even contemptuous menacing tone of Pyotr Petrovitch. All the clamour gradually died away at his entrance. Not only was this ‘serious business man’ strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was evident, 0 too, that he had come upon some matter of consequence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him and that therefore something was going to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed. ‘Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it’s a matter of some importance,’ Pyotr Petrovitch observed, addressing the company generally. ‘I am glad indeed to find other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,’ he went on, addressing Sonia, who was very much surprised and already alarmed, ‘immediately after your visit I found that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in the room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way whatever you know and will tell us where it is now, I assure you on my word of honour and call all present to witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious measures and then … you must blame yourself.’ Complete silence reigned in the room. Even the crying children were still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at Luzhin and unable to say a word. She seemed not to understand. Some seconds passed. ‘Well, how is it to be then?’ asked Luzhin, looking intently at her. 1 ‘I don’t know…. I know nothing about it,’ Sonia articulated faintly at last. ‘No, you know nothing?’ Luzhin repeated and again he paused for some seconds. ‘Think a moment, mademoiselle,’ he began severely, but still, as it were, admonishing her. ‘Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for consideration. Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture to accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct accusation before witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I should myself in a certain sense be made responsible, I am aware of that. This morning I changed for my own purposes several five-per-cent securities for the sum of approximately three thousand roubles. The account is noted down in my pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded to count the money—as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear witness—and after counting two thousand three hundred roubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. About five hundred roubles remained on the table and among them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At that moment you entered (at my invitation)—and all the time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; so that three times you jumped up in the middle of the conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can bear witness to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably will not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with you the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend), and the advisability of getting up something of the nature of a subscription, lottery or the like, for her benefit. You thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly to show you that not the slightest detail has escaped my recollection. Then I took a ten- rouble note from the table and handed it to you by way of first instalment on my part for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all this. Then I accompanied you to the door—you being still in the same state of embarrassment— after which, being left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten minutes— then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count it and to put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly consider the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. I am ashamed to allude to such a supposition. I cannot have made a mistake in my reckoning, for the minute before your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embarrassment, your eagerness to get away and the fact that you kept your hands for some time on the table, and taking into consideration your social position and the habits associated with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively against my will, compelled to entertain a suspicion—a cruel, but justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in spite of my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not let it pass. I have taken action and I will tell you why: solely, madam, solely, owing to your black in- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com gratitude! Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is too bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a true friend I beg you— and you could have no better friend at this moment—think what you are doing, otherwise I shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?’ ‘I have taken nothing,’ Sonia whispered in terror, ‘you gave me ten roubles, here it is, take it.’ Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a corner of it, took out the ten-rouble note and gave it to Luzhin. ‘And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?’ he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note. Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with such awful, stern, ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at Raskolnikov … he stood against the wall, with his arms crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes. ‘Good God!’ broke from Sonia. ‘Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the police and therefore I humbly beg you meanwhile to send for the house porter,’ Luzhin said softly and even kindly. ‘Gott der Barmherzige! I knew she was the thief,’ cried Amalia Ivanovna, throwing up her hands. ‘You knew it?’ Luzhin caught her up, ‘then I suppose you had some reason before this for thinking so. I beg you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your words which have been uttered before witnesses.’ There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. All were in movement. ‘What!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the position, and she rushed at Luzhin. ‘What! You accuse her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretches, the wretches!’ And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round her and held her as in a vise. ‘Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at once—here! And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin’s face. It hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Ivanovna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his temper. ‘Hold that mad woman!’ he shouted. At that moment several other persons, besides Lebeziatnikov, appeared in the doorway, among them the two ladies. ‘What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!’ shrieked Katerina Ivanovna. ‘You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, base man! Sonia, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief! Why, she’d give away her last penny!’ and Katerina Ivanovna broke into hysterical laughter. ‘Did you ever see such an idiot?’ she turned from side to side. ‘And you too?’ she suddenly saw the landlady, ‘and you too, sausage eater, you declare that she is a thief, you trashy Prussian hen’s leg in a crinoline! She hasn’t been out of this room: she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down beside me, everyone saw her. She sat here, by Rodion Romanovitch. Search her! Since she’s not left the room, the money would have to be on her! Search her, search her! But if you don’t find it, then Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com excuse me, my dear fellow, you’ll answer for it! I’ll go to our Sovereign, to our Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself at his feet, to-day, this minute! I am alone in the world! They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn’t? You’re wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned on her meekness! You relied upon that! But I am not so submissive, let me tell you! You’ve gone too far yourself. Search her, search her!’ And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and dragged him towards Sonia. ‘I am ready, I’ll be responsible … but calm yourself, madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so submissive! … Well, well, but as to that …’ Luzhin muttered, ‘that ought to be before the police … though indeed there are witnesses enough as it is…. I am ready…. But in any case it’s difficult for a man … on account of her sex…. But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna … though, of course, it’s not the way to do things…. How is it to be done?’ ‘As you will! Let anyone who likes search her!’ cried Katerina Ivanovna. ‘Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! Look, monster, the pocket is empty, here was her handkerchief! Here is the other pocket, look! D’you see, d’you see?’ And Katerina Ivanovna turned—or rather snatched— both pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of paper flew out and describing a parabola in the air fell at Luzhin’s feet. Everyone saw it, several cried out. Pyotr Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in two fingers, lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a hundred-rouble note folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held up the note showing it to everyone. ‘Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!’ yelled Amalia Ivanovna. ‘They must to Siberia be sent! Away!’ Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, keeping his eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia stood still, as though unconscious. She was hardly able to feel surprise. Suddenly the colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands. ‘No, it wasn’t I! I didn’t take it! I know nothing about it,’ she cried with a heartrending wail, and she ran to Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as though she would shelter her from all the world. ‘Sonia! Sonia! I don’t believe it! You see, I don’t believe it!’ she cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying her to and fro in her arms like a baby, kissing her face continually, then snatching at her hands and kissing them, too, ‘you took it! How stupid these people are! Oh dear! You are fools, fools,’ she cried, addressing the whole room, ‘you don’t know, you don’t know what a heart she has, what a girl she is! She take it, she? She’d sell her last rag, she’d go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that’s what she is! She has the yellow passport because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all standing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don’t you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now, at least!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised, wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips, the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child’s, the trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so piteous that everyone seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petrovitch at any rate was at once moved to compassion. ‘Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!’ he cried impressively, ‘no one would take upon himself to accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in it, especially as you have proved her guilt by turning out her pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of it. I am most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so to speak, drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you refuse to confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the disgrace? The first step? You lost your head, perhaps? One can quite understand it…. But how could you have lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,’ he addressed the whole company, ‘gentlemen! Compassionate and, so to say, commiserating these people, I am ready to overlook it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the future,’ he said, addressing Sonia, ‘and I will carry the matter no further. Enough!’ Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna apparently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia on all sides, and Polenka—though she did not fully understand what was wrong—was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her pretty little face, swollen with weeping, on Sonia’s shoulder. ‘How vile!’ a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway. Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly. ‘What vileness!’ Lebeziatnikov repeated, staring him straight in the face. Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start—all noticed it and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the room. ‘And you dared to call me as witness?’ he said, going up to Pyotr Petrovitch. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ muttered Luzhin. ‘I mean that you … are a slanderer, that’s what my words mean!’ Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at him with his short- sighted eyes. He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at him, as though seizing and weighing each word. Again there was a silence. Pyotr Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumbfounded for the first moment. ‘If you mean that for me, …’ he began, stammering. ‘But what’s the matter with you? Are you out of your mind?’ ‘I’m in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to understand it, for I must own even now it is not quite logical…. What you have done it all for I can’t understand.’ ‘Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your nonsensical riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘You may be a drunkard, perhaps, vile man, but I am not! I never touch vodka, for it’s against my convictions. Would you believe it, he, he himself, with his own hands gave Sofya Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note—I saw it, I was a witness, I’ll take my oath! He did it, he!’ repeated Lebeziatnikov, addressing all. ‘Are you crazy, milksop?’ squealed Luzhin. ‘She is herself before you —she herself here declared just now before everyone that I gave her only ten roubles. How could I have given it to her?’ ‘I saw it, I saw it,’ Lebeziatnikov repeated, ‘and though it is against my principles, I am ready this very minute to take any oath you like before the court, for I saw how you slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I thought you did it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it!’ Luzhin turned pale. ‘What lies!’ he cried impudently, ‘why, how could you, standing by the window, see the note? You fancied it with your short-sighted eyes. You are raving!’ ‘No, I didn’t fancy it. And though I was standing some way off, I saw it all. And though it certainly would be hard to distinguish a note from the window—that’s true—I knew for certain that it was a hundred-rouble note, because, when you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles, you took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at 0 once, so that I did not forget you had it in your hand). You folded it and kept it in your hand all the time. I didn’t think of it again until, when you were getting up, you changed it from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it! I noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you meant to do her a kindness without my seeing. You can fancy how I watched you and I saw how you succeeded in slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I’ll take my oath.’ Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose on all hands chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were menacing in tone. They all crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch. Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov. ‘I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the only one to take her part! She is an orphan. God has sent you!’ Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, sank on her knees before him. ‘A pack of nonsense!’ yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, ‘it’s all nonsense you’ve been talking! ‘An idea struck you, you didn’t think, you noticed’—what does it amount to? So I gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for? With what object? What have I to do with this …?’ ‘What for? That’s what I can’t understand, but that what I am telling you is the fact, that’s certain! So far from my being mistaken, you infamous criminal man, I remember how, on account of it, a question occurred to me at once, just when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from 1 me, knowing that my convictions are opposed to yours and that I do not approve of private benevolence, which effects no radical cure? Well, I decided that you really were ashamed of giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a whole hundred-rouble note in her pocket. (For I know, some benevolent people are very fond of decking out their charitable actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand should not know … something of that sort, in fact. I thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it, but still thought it indelicate to show you that I knew your secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyonovna might easily lose the money before she noticed it, that was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatnikov’s to take them the ‘General Treatise on the Positive Method’ and especially to recommend Piderit’s article (and also Wagner’s); then I come on here and what a state of things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and reflections if I had not seen you put the hundredrouble note in her pocket?’ When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas, even express himself correctly in Russian, though he knew no other language, so that he was quite exhausted, almost emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech produced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehemence, with such conviction that everyone obviously believed him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things were going badly with him. ‘What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?’ he shouted, ‘that’s no evidence. You may have dreamt it, that’s all! And I tell you, you are lying, sir. You are lying and slandering from some spite against me, simply from pique, because I did not agree with your free-thinking, godless, social propositions!’ But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs of disapproval were heard on all sides. ‘Ah, that’s your line now, is it!’ cried Lebeziatnikov, ‘that’s nonsense! Call the police and I’ll take my oath! There’s only one thing I can’t understand: what made him risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man!’ ‘I can explain why he risked such an action, and if necessary, I, too, will swear to it,’ Raskolnikov said at last in a firm voice, and he stepped forward. He appeared to be firm and composed. Everyone felt clearly, from the very look of him that he really knew about it and that the mystery would be solved. ‘Now I can explain it all to myself,’ said Raskolnikov, addressing Lebeziatnikov. ‘From the very beginning of the business, I suspected that there was some scoundrelly intrigue at the bottom of it. I began to suspect it from some special circumstances known to me only, which I will ex- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com plain at once to everyone: they account for everything. Your valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I beg all, all to listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) was recently engaged to be married to a young lady—my sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But coming to Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday, at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room —I have two witnesses to prove it. He is a very spiteful man…. The day before yesterday I did not know that he was staying here, in your room, and that consequently on the very day we quarrelled—the day before yesterday—he saw me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a note to my mother and informed her that I had given away all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna but to Sofya Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to the … character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this you understand was with the object of dividing me from my mother and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had given the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance with Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. At the same time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, with all his virtues, was not worth Sofya Semyonovna’s little finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his question—would I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at his insinuations, he gradually began being unpardonably rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was turned out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now succeeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he would have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my putting my sister on a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that, in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honour of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through all this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say nothing of revenging himself on me personally, for he has grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what he was working for! That’s how I understand it. That’s the whole reason for it and there can be no other!’ It was like this, or somewhat like this, that Raskolnikov wound up his speech which was followed very attentively, though often interrupted by exclamations from his audience. But in spite of interruptions he spoke clearly, calmly, exactly, firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of conviction and his stern face made a great impression on everyone. ‘Yes, yes, that’s it,’ Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, ‘that must be it, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyonovna came into our room, whether you were here, whether I had Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com seen you among Katerina Ivanovna’s guests. He called me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was essential for him that you should be here! That’s it, that’s it!’ Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he was very pale. He seemed to be deliberating on some means of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up everything and get away, but at the moment this was scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth of the accusations brought against him. Moreover, the company, which had already been excited by drink, was now too much stirred to allow it. The commissariat clerk, though indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting louder than anyone and was making some suggestions very unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were drunk; lodgers came in from all the rooms. The three Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shouting at him: ‘The pan is a lajdak!’ and muttering threats in Polish. Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more stupid than anyone, with her mouth wide open, unable to make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr Petrovitch had somehow come to grief. Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did not let him. Everyone was crowding round Luzhin with threats and shouts of abuse. But Pyotr Petrovitch was not intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia had completely failed, he had recourse to insolence: ‘Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don’t squeeze, let me pass!’ he said, making his way through the crowd. ‘And no threats, if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you will gain nothing by it. On the contrary, you’ll have to answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and … not so drunk, and will not believe the testimony of two notorious infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse me from motives of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to admit…. Yes, allow me to pass!’ ‘Don’t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly leave at once, and everything is at an end between us! When I think of the trouble I’ve been taking, the way I’ve been expounding … all this fortnight!’ ‘I told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried to keep me; now I will simply add that you are a fool. I advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!’ He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk was unwilling to let him off so easily: he picked up a glass from the table, brandished it in the air and flung it at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at Amalia Ivanovna. She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid by nature, had felt before that day that she could be ill- treated Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com more easily than anyone, and that she could be wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had fancied that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness and submissiveness before everyone. Her disappointment was too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph and her justification—when her first terror and stupefaction had passed and she could understand it all clearly—the feeling of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately after Luzhin’s departure. When amidst loud laughter the glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the landlady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything. ‘Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!’ And with these words she began snatching up everything she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Ivanovna, and throwing it on the floor. Katerina Ivanovna, pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped up from the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the landlady waved her away like a feather. ‘What! As though that godless calumny was not enough— this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my husband’s funeral I am turned out of my lodging! After eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street, with my orphans! Where am I to go?’ wailed the poor woman, sobbing and gasping. ‘Good God!’ she cried with flashing eyes, ‘is there no justice upon earth? Whom should you protect if not us orphans? We shall see! There is law and justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit, godless creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I’ll come back. Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will see whether there is justice on earth!’ And throwing over her head that green shawl which Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Ivanovna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and tearful, she ran into the street—with a vague intention of going at once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the two little ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk in the corner of the room, where she waited trembling for her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she came across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, some commented to the best of their ability on what had happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while others struck up a song…. ‘Now it’s time for me to go,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you’ll say now!’ And he set off in the direction of Sonia’s lodgings. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter IV Raskolnikov had been a vigorous and active champion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But having gone through so much in the morning, he found a sort of relief in a change of sensations, apart from the strong personal feeling which impelled him to defend Sonia. He was agitated too, especially at some moments, by the thought of his approaching interview with Sonia: he had to tell her who had killed Lizaveta. He knew the terrible suffering it would be to him and, as it were, brushed away the thought of it. So when he cried as he left Katerina Ivanovna’s, ‘Well, Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you’ll say now!’ he was still superficially excited, still vigorous and defiant from his triumph over Luzhin. But, strange to say, by the time he reached Sonia’s lodging, he felt a sudden impotence and fear. He stood still in hesitation at the door, asking himself the strange question: ‘Must he tell her who killed Lizaveta?’ It was a strange question because he felt at the very time not only that he could not help telling her, but also that he could not put off the telling. He did not yet know why it must be so, he only felt it, and the agonising sense of his impotence before the inevitable almost crushed him. To cut short his hesitation and suffering, he quickly opened the door and looked at Sonia from the doorway. She was sitting with her 0 elbows on the table and her face in her hands, but seeing Raskolnikov she got up at once and came to meet him as though she were expecting him. ‘What would have become of me but for you?’ she said quickly, meeting him in the middle of the room. Evidently she was in haste to say this to him. It was what she had been waiting for. Raskolnikov went to the table and sat down on the chair from which she had only just risen. She stood facing him, two steps away, just as she had done the day before. ‘Well, Sonia?’ he said, and felt that his voice was trembling, ‘it was all due to ‘your social position and the habits associated with it.’ Did you understand that just now?’ Her face showed her distress. ‘Only don’t talk to me as you did yesterday,’ she interrupted him. ‘Please don’t begin it. There is misery enough without that.’ She made haste to smile, afraid that he might not like the reproach. ‘I was silly to come away from there. What is happening there now? I wanted to go back directly, but I kept thinking that … you would come.’ He told her that Amalia Ivanovna was turning them out of their lodging and that Katerina Ivanovna had run off somewhere ‘to seek justice.’ ‘My God!’ cried Sonia, ‘let’s go at once….’ And she snatched up her cape. ‘It’s everlastingly the same thing!’ said Raskolnikov, irritably. ‘You’ve no thought except for them! Stay a little with 1 me.’ ‘But … Katerina Ivanovna?’ ‘You won’t lose Katerina Ivanovna, you may be sure, she’ll come to you herself since she has run out,’ he added peevishly. ‘If she doesn’t find you here, you’ll be blamed for it….’ Sonia sat down in painful suspense. Raskolnikov was silent, gazing at the floor and deliberating. ‘This time Luzhin did not want to prosecute you,’ he began, not looking at Sonia, ‘but if he had wanted to, if it had suited his plans, he would have sent you to prison if it had not been for Lebeziatnikov and me. Ah?’ ‘Yes,’ she assented in a faint voice. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, preoccupied and distressed. ‘But I might easily not have been there. And it was quite an accident Lebeziatnikov’s turning up.’ Sonia was silent. ‘And if you’d gone to prison, what then? Do you remember what I said yesterday?’ Again she did not answer. He waited. ‘I thought you would cry out again ‘don’t speak of it, leave off.’’ Raskolnikov gave a laugh, but rather a forced one. ‘What, silence again?’ he asked a minute later. ‘We must talk about something, you know. It would be interesting for me to know how you would decide a certain ‘problem’ as Lebeziatnikov would say.’ (He was beginning to lose the thread.) ‘No, really, I am serious. Imagine, Sonia, that you had known all Luzhin’s intentions beforehand. Known, that is, for a fact, that they would be the ruin of Katerina Ivanovna and the children and yourself thrown in—since you don’t count yourself for anything—Polenka too … for she’ll go the same way. Well, if suddenly it all depended on your decision whether he or they should go on living, that is whether Luzhin should go on living and doing wicked things, or Katerina Ivanovna should die? How would you decide which of them was to die? I ask you?’ Sonia looked uneasily at him. There was something peculiar in this hesitating question, which seemed approaching something in a roundabout way. ‘I felt that you were going to ask some question like that,’ she said, looking inquisitively at him. ‘I dare say you did. But how is it to be answered?’ ‘Why do you ask about what could not happen?’ said Sonia reluctantly. ‘Then it would be better for Luzhin to go on living and doing wicked things? You haven’t dared to decide even that!’ ‘But I can’t know the Divine Providence…. And why do you ask what can’t be answered? What’s the use of such foolish questions? How could it happen that it should depend on my decision—who has made me a judge to decide who is to live and who is not to live?’ ‘Oh, if the Divine Providence is to be mixed up in it, there is no doing anything,’ Raskolnikov grumbled morosely. ‘You’d better say straight out what you want!’ Sonia cried in distress. ‘You are leading up to something again…. Can you have come simply to torture me?’ She could not control herself and began crying bitterly. He looked at her in gloomy misery. Five minutes passed. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Of course you’re right, Sonia,’ he said softly at last. He was suddenly changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly weak. ‘I told you yesterday that I was not coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I’ve said is to ask forgiveness…. I said that about Luzhin and Providence for my own sake. I was asking forgiveness, Sonia….’ He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that that minute had come. He hid his face in his hands again and bowed his head. Suddenly he turned pale, got up from his chair, looked at Sonia, and without uttering a word sat down mechanically on her bed. His sensations that moment were terribly like the moment when he had stood over the old woman with the axe in his hand and felt that ‘he must not lose another minute.’ ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened. He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had intended to ‘tell’ and he did not understand what was happening to him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through Sonia’s heart. ‘What’s the matter?’ she repeated, drawing a little away from him. ‘Nothing, Sonia, don’t be frightened…. It’s nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it,’ he muttered, like a man in delirium. ‘Why have I come to torture you?’ he added suddenly, looking at her. ‘Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia….’ He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all over. ‘Oh, how you are suffering!’ she muttered in distress, looking intently at him. ‘It’s all nonsense…. Listen, Sonia.’ He suddenly smiled, a pale helpless smile for two seconds. ‘You remember what I meant to tell you yesterday?’ Sonia waited uneasily. ‘I said as I went away that perhaps I was saying good-bye for ever, but that if I came to-day I would tell you who … who killed Lizaveta.’ She began trembling all over. ‘Well, here I’ve come to tell you.’ ‘Then you really meant it yesterday?’ she whispered with difficulty. ‘How do you know?’ she asked quickly, as though Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com suddenly regaining her reason. Sonia’s face grew paler and paler, and she breathed painfully. ‘I know.’ She paused a minute. ‘Have they found him?’ she asked timidly. ‘No.’ ‘Then how do you know about it?’ she asked again, hardly audibly and again after a minute’s pause. He turned to her and looked very intently at her. ‘Guess,’ he said, with the same distorted helpless smile. A shudder passed over her. ‘But you … why do you frighten me like this?’ she said, smiling like a child. ‘I must be a great friend of his … since I know,’ Raskolnikov went on, still gazing into her face, as though he could not turn his eyes away. ‘He … did not mean to kill that Lizaveta … he … killed her accidentally…. He meant to kill the old woman when she was alone and he went there … and then Lizaveta came in … he killed her too.’ Another awful moment passed. Both still gazed at one another. ‘You can’t guess, then?’ he asked suddenly, feeling as though he were flinging himself down from a steeple. ‘N-no …’ whispered Sonia. ‘Take a good look.’ As soon as he had said this again, the same familiar sensation froze his heart. He looked at her and all at once seemed to see in her face the face of Lizaveta. He remem- bered clearly the expression in Lizaveta’s face, when he approached her with the axe and she stepped back to the wall, putting out her hand, with childish terror in her face, looking as little children do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands on the point of crying. Almost the same thing happened now to Sonia. With the same helplessness and the same terror, she looked at him for a while and, suddenly putting out her left hand, pressed her fingers faintly against his breast and slowly began to get up from the bed, moving further from him and keeping her eyes fixed even more immovably on him. Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost with the same childish smile. ‘Have you guessed?’ he whispered at last. ‘Good God!’ broke in an awful wail from her bosom. She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort—and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com thing. ‘Stop, Sonia, enough! don’t torture me,’ he begged her miserably. It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but this is how it happened. She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her knees before him, she did not know why. ‘What have you done—what have you done to yourself?’ she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him tightly. Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile. ‘You are a strange girl, Sonia—you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that…. You don’t think what you are doing.’ ‘There is no one—no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!’ she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping. A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes. ‘Then you won’t leave me, Sonia?’ he said, looking at her almost with hope. ‘No, no, never, nowhere!’ cried Sonia. ‘I will follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am! … Why, why didn’t I know you before! Why didn’t you come before? Oh, dear!’ ‘Here I have come.’ ‘Yes, now! What’s to be done now? … Together, together!’ she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. ‘I’ll follow you to Siberia!’ He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,’ he said. Sonia looked at him quickly. Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking. She looked at him bewildered. She knew nothing as yet, why, how, with what object it had been. Now all these questions rushed at once into her mind. And again she could not believe it: ‘He, he is a murderer! Could it be true?’ ‘What’s the meaning of it? Where am I?’ she said in complete bewilderment, as though still unable to recover herself. ‘How could you, you, a man like you…. How could you bring yourself to it? … What does it mean?’ ‘Oh, well—to plunder. Leave off, Sonia,’ he answered wearily, almost with vexation. Sonia stood as though struck dumb, but suddenly she cried: ‘You were hungry! It was … to help your mother? Yes?’ ‘No, Sonia, no,’ he muttered, turning away and hanging Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com his head. ‘I was not so hungry…. I certainly did want to help my mother, but … that’s not the real thing either…. Don’t torture me, Sonia.’ Sonia clasped her hands. ‘Could it, could it all be true? Good God, what a truth! Who could believe it? And how could you give away your last farthing and yet rob and murder! Ah,’ she cried suddenly, ‘that money you gave Katerina Ivanovna … that money…. Can that money …’ ‘No, Sonia,’ he broke in hurriedly, ‘that money was not it. Don’t worry yourself! That money my mother sent me and it came when I was ill, the day I gave it to you…. Razumihin saw it … he received it for me…. That money was mine—my own.’ Sonia listened to him in bewilderment and did her utmost to comprehend. ‘And that money…. I don’t even know really whether there was any money,’ he added softly, as though reflecting. ‘I took a purse off her neck, made of chamois leather … a purse stuffed full of something … but I didn’t look in it; I suppose I hadn’t time…. And the things—chains and trinkets—I buried under a stone with the purse next morning in a yard off the V—— Prospect. They are all there now…. .’ Sonia strained every nerve to listen. ‘Then why … why, you said you did it to rob, but you took nothing?’ she asked quickly, catching at a straw. ‘I don’t know…. I haven’t yet decided whether to take that money or not,’ he said, musing again; and, seeming to wake up with a start, he gave a brief ironical smile. ‘Ach, what silly 0 stuff I am talking, eh?’ The thought flashed through Sonia’s mind, wasn’t he mad? But she dismissed it at once. ‘No, it was something else.’ She could make nothing of it, nothing. ‘Do you know, Sonia,’ he said suddenly with conviction, ‘let me tell you: if I’d simply killed because I was hungry,’ laying stress on every word and looking enigmatically but sincerely at her, ‘I should be happy now. You must believe that! What would it matter to you,’ he cried a moment later with a sort of despair, ‘what would it matter to you if I were to confess that I did wrong? What do you gain by such a stupid triumph over me? Ah, Sonia, was it for that I’ve come to you to-day?’ Again Sonia tried to say something, but did not speak. ‘I asked you to go with me yesterday because you are all I have left.’ ‘Go where?’ asked Sonia timidly. ‘Not to steal and not to murder, don’t be anxious,’ he smiled bitterly. ‘We are so different…. And you know, Sonia, it’s only now, only this moment that I understand where I asked you to go with me yesterday! Yesterday when I said it I did not know where. I asked you for one thing, I came to you for one thing—not to leave me. You won’t leave me, Sonia?’ She squeezed his hand. ‘And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?’ he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. ‘Here you expect an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see that. But what 1 can I tell you? You won’t understand and will only suffer misery … on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I couldn’t bear my burden and have come to throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?’ ‘But aren’t you suffering, too?’ cried Sonia. Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it. ‘Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn’t have come. But I am a coward and … a mean wretch. But … never mind! That’s not the point. I must speak now, but I don’t know how to begin.’ He paused and sank into thought. ‘Ach, we are so different,’ he cried again, ‘we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.’ ‘No, no, it was a good thing you came,’ cried Sonia. ‘It’s better I should know, far better!’ He looked at her with anguish. ‘What if it were really that?’ he said, as though reaching a conclusion. ‘Yes, that’s what it was! I wanted to become a Napoleon, that is why I killed her…. Do you understand now?’ ‘N-no,’ Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. ‘Only speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand in myself!’ she kept begging him. ‘You’ll understand? Very well, we shall see!’ He paused and was for some time lost in meditation. ‘It was like this: I asked myself one day this question— what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had been no other means? Wouldn’t he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental and … and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself fearfully over that ‘question’ so that I was awfully ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not monumental … that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too … left off thinking about it … murdered her, following his example. And that’s exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that’s just how it was.’ Sonia did not think it at all funny. ‘You had better tell me straight out … without examples,’ she begged, still more timidly and scarcely audibly. He turned to her, looked sadly at her and took her hands. ‘You are right again, Sonia. Of course that’s all nonsense, it’s almost all talk! You see, you know of course that my Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com mother has scarcely anything, my sister happened to have a good education and was condemned to drudge as a governess. All their hopes were centered on me. I was a student, but I couldn’t keep myself at the university and was forced for a time to leave it. Even if I had lingered on like that, in ten or twelve years I might (with luck) hope to be some sort of teacher or clerk with a salary of a thousand roubles’ (he repeated it as though it were a lesson) ‘and by that time my mother would be worn out with grief and anxiety and I could not succeed in keeping her in comfort while my sister … well, my sister might well have fared worse! And it’s a hard thing to pass everything by all one’s life, to turn one’s back upon everything, to forget one’s mother and decorously accept the insults inflicted on one’s sister. Why should one? When one has buried them to burden oneself with others—wife and children—and to leave them again without a farthing? So I resolved to gain possession of the old woman’s money and to use it for my first years without worrying my mother, to keep myself at the university and for a little while after leaving it—and to do this all on a broad, thorough scale, so as to build up a completely new career and enter upon a new life of independence…. Well … that’s all…. Well, of course in killing the old woman I did wrong…. Well, that’s enough.’ He struggled to the end of his speech in exhaustion and let his head sink. ‘Oh, that’s not it, that’s not it,’ Sonia cried in distress. ‘How could one … no, that’s not right, not right.’ ‘You see yourself that it’s not right. But I’ve spoken truly, it’s the truth.’ ‘As though that could be the truth! Good God!’ ‘I’ve only killed a louse, Sonia, a useless, loathsome, harmful creature.’ ‘A human being—a louse!’ ‘I too know it wasn’t a louse,’ he answered, looking strangely at her. ‘But I am talking nonsense, Sonia,’ he added. ‘I’ve been talking nonsense a long time…. That’s not it, you are right there. There were quite, quite other causes for it! I haven’t talked to anyone for so long, Sonia…. My head aches dreadfully now.’ His eyes shone with feverish brilliance. He was almost delirious; an uneasy smile strayed on his lips. His terrible exhaustion could be seen through his excitement. Sonia saw how he was suffering. She too was growing dizzy. And he talked so strangely; it seemed somehow comprehensible, but yet … ‘But how, how! Good God!’ And she wrung her hands in despair. ‘No, Sonia, that’s not it,’ he began again suddenly, raising his head, as though a new and sudden train of thought had struck and as it were roused him—‘that’s not it! Better … imagine—yes, it’s certainly better—imagine that I am vain, envious, malicious, base, vindictive and … well, perhaps with a tendency to insanity. (Let’s have it all out at once! They’ve talked of madness already, I noticed.) I told you just now I could not keep myself at the university. But do you know that perhaps I might have done? My mother would have sent me what I needed for the fees and I could have earned enough for clothes, boots and food, no doubt. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Lessons had turned up at half a rouble. Razumihin works! But I turned sulky and wouldn’t. (Yes, sulkiness, that’s the right word for it!) I sat in my room like a spider. You’ve been in my den, you’ve seen it…. And do you know, Sonia, that low ceilings and tiny rooms cramp the soul and the mind? Ah, how I hated that garret! And yet I wouldn’t go out of it! I wouldn’t on purpose! I didn’t go out for days together, and I wouldn’t work, I wouldn’t even eat, I just lay there doing nothing. If Nastasya brought me anything, I ate it, if she didn’t, I went all day without; I wouldn’t ask, on purpose, from sulkiness! At night I had no light, I lay in the dark and I wouldn’t earn money for candles. I ought to have studied, but I sold my books; and the dust lies an inch thick on the notebooks on my table. I preferred lying still and thinking. And I kept thinking…. And I had dreams all the time, strange dreams of all sorts, no need to describe! Only then I began to fancy that … No, that’s not it! Again I am telling you wrong! You see I kept asking myself then: why am I so stupid that if others are stupid—and I know they are— yet I won’t be wiser? Then I saw, Sonia, that if one waits for everyone to get wiser it will take too long…. Afterwards I understood that that would never come to pass, that men won’t change and that nobody can alter it and that it’s not worth wasting effort over it. Yes, that’s so. That’s the law of their nature, Sonia, … that’s so! … And I know now, Sonia, that whoever is strong in mind and spirit will have power over them. Anyone who is greatly daring is right in their eyes. He who despises most things will be a lawgiver among them and he who dares most of all will be most in the right! So it has been till now and so it will always be. A man must be blind not to see it!’ Though Raskolnikov looked at Sonia as he said this, he no longer cared whether she understood or not. The fever had complete hold of him; he was in a sort of gloomy ecstasy (he certainly had been too long without talking to anyone). Sonia felt that his gloomy creed had become his faith and code. ‘I divined then, Sonia,’ he went on eagerly, ‘that power is only vouchsafed to the man who dares to stoop and pick it up. There is only one thing, one thing needful: one has only to dare! Then for the first time in my life an idea took shape in my mind which no one had ever thought of before me, no one! I saw clear as daylight how strange it is that not a single person living in this mad world has had the daring to go straight for it all and send it flying to the devil! I … I wanted to have the daring … and I killed her. I only wanted to have the daring, Sonia! That was the whole cause of it!’ ‘Oh hush, hush,’ cried Sonia, clasping her hands. ‘You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!’ ‘Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?’ ‘Hush, don’t laugh, blasphemer! You don’t understand, you don’t understand! Oh God! He won’t understand!’ ‘Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!’ he repeated with gloomy insistence. ‘I know it all, I have thought it Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com all over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the dark…. I’ve argued it all over with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking. And you don’t suppose that I went into it headlong like a fool? I went into it like a wise man, and that was just my destruction. And you mustn’t suppose that I didn’t know, for instance, that if I began to question myself whether I had the right to gain power—I certainly hadn’t the right— or that if I asked myself whether a human being is a louse it proved that it wasn’t so for me, though it might be for a man who would go straight to his goal without asking questions…. If I worried myself all those days, wondering whether Napoleon would have done it or not, I felt clearly of course that I wasn’t Napoleon. I had to endure all the agony of that battle of ideas, Sonia, and I longed to throw it off: I wanted to murder without casuistry, to murder for my own sake, for myself alone! I didn’t want to lie about it even to myself. It wasn’t to help my mother I did the murder—that’s nonsense —I didn’t do the murder to gain wealth and power and to become a benefactor of mankind. Nonsense! I simply did it; I did the murder for myself, for myself alone, and whether I became a benefactor to others, or spent my life like a spider catching men in my web and sucking the life out of men, I couldn’t have cared at that moment…. And it was not the money I wanted, Sonia, when I did it. It was not so much the money I wanted, but something else…. I know it all now…. Understand me! Perhaps I should never have committed a murder again. I wanted to find out something else; it was something else led me on. I wanted to find out then and quickly whether I was a louse like everybody else or a man. Whether I can step over barriers or not, whether I dare stoop to pick up or not, whether I am a trembling creature or whether I have the right …’ ‘To kill? Have the right to kill?’ Sonia clasped her hands. ‘Ach, Sonia!’ he cried irritably and seemed about to make some retort, but was contemptuously silent. ‘Don’t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I’ve come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman’s I only went to try…. You may be sure of that!’ ‘And you murdered her!’ ‘But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all, for ever…. But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!’ he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, ‘let me be!’ He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in a vise. ‘What suffering!’ A wail of anguish broke from Sonia. ‘Well, what am I to do now?’ he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com by despair. ‘What are you to do?’ she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine. ‘Stand up!’ (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) ‘Go at once, this very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, ‘I am a murderer!’ Then God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?’ she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire. He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy. ‘You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?’ he asked gloomily. ‘Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that’s what you must do.’ ‘No! I am not going to them, Sonia!’ ‘But how will you go on living? What will you live for?’ cried Sonia, ‘how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!’ she cried, ‘why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?’ ‘Don’t be a child, Sonia,’ he said softly. ‘What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That’s only a phantom…. They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And 0 what should I say to them—that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?’ he added with a bitter smile. ‘Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn’t understand and they don’t deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won’t. Don’t be a child, Sonia….’ ‘It will be too much for you to bear, too much!’ she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication. ‘Perhaps I’ve been unfair to myself,’ he observed gloomily, pondering, ‘perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I’ve been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I’ll make another fight for it.’ A haughty smile appeared on his lips. ‘What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!’ ‘I shall get used to it,’ he said grimly and thoughtfully. ‘Listen,’ he began a minute later, ‘stop crying, it’s time to talk of the facts: I’ve come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track….’ ‘Ach!’ Sonia cried in terror. ‘Well, why do you cry out? You want me to go to Siberia and now you are frightened? But let me tell you: I shall not give myself up. I shall make a struggle for it and they won’t do anything to me. They’ve no real evidence. Yesterday I was in great danger and believed I was lost; but to-day things are going better. All the facts they know can be explained two ways, that’s to say I can turn their accusations to my credit, do you understand? And I shall, for I’ve learnt 1 my lesson. But they will certainly arrest me. If it had not been for something that happened, they would have done so to-day for certain; perhaps even now they will arrest me today…. But that’s no matter, Sonia; they’ll let me out again … for there isn’t any real proof against me, and there won’t be, I give you my word for it. And they can’t convict a man on what they have against me. Enough…. I only tell you that you may know…. I will try to manage somehow to put it to my mother and sister so that they won’t be frightened…. My sister’s future is secure, however, now, I believe … and my mother’s must be too…. Well, that’s all. Be careful, though. Will you come and see me in prison when I am there?’ ‘Oh, I will, I will.’ They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before. ‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘you’d better not come and see me when I am in prison.’ Sonia did not answer, she was crying. Several minutes passed. ‘Have you a cross on you?’ she asked, as though suddenly thinking of it. He did not at first understand the question. ‘No, of course not. Here, take this one, of cypress wood. I have another, a copper one that belonged to Lizaveta. I changed with Lizaveta: she gave me her cross and I gave her my little ikon. I will wear Lizaveta’s now and give you this. Take it … it’s mine! It’s mine, you know,’ she begged him. ‘We will go to suffer together, and together we will bear our cross!’ ‘Give it me,’ said Raskolnikov. He did not want to hurt her feelings. But immediately he drew back the hand he held out for the cross. ‘Not now, Sonia. Better later,’ he added to comfort her. ‘Yes, yes, better,’ she repeated with conviction, ‘when you go to meet your suffering, then put it on. You will come to me, I’ll put it on you, we will pray and go together.’ At that moment someone knocked three times at the door. ‘Sofya Semyonovna, may I come in?’ they heard in a very familiar and polite voice. Sonia rushed to the door in a fright. The flaxen head of Mr. Lebeziatnikov appeared at the door. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter V Lebeziatnikov looked perturbed. ‘I’ve come to you, Sofya Semyonovna,’ he began. ‘Excuse me … I thought I should find you,’ he said, addressing Raskolnikov suddenly, ‘that is, I didn’t mean anything … of that sort … But I just thought … Katerina Ivanovna has gone out of her mind,’ he blurted out suddenly, turning from Raskolnikov to Sonia. Sonia screamed. ‘At least it seems so. But … we don’t know what to do, you see! She came back—she seems to have been turned out somewhere, perhaps beaten…. So it seems at least, … She had run to your father’s former chief, she didn’t find him at home: he was dining at some other general’s…. Only fancy, she rushed off there, to the other general’s, and, imagine, she was so persistent that she managed to get the chief to see her, had him fetched out from dinner, it seems. You can imagine what happened. She was turned out, of course; but, according to her own story, she abused him and threw something at him. One may well believe it…. How it is she wasn’t taken up, I can’t understand! Now she is telling everyone, including Amalia Ivanovna; but it’s difficult to understand her, she is screaming and flinging herself about…. Oh yes, she shouts that since everyone has abandoned her, she will take the children and go into the street with a barrel-organ, and the children will sing and dance, and she too, and collect money, and will go every day under the general’s window … ‘to let everyone see well-born children, whose father was an official, begging in the street.’ She keeps beating the children and they are all crying. She is teaching Lida to sing ‘My Village,’ the boy to dance, Polenka the same. She is tearing up all the clothes, and making them little caps like actors; she means to carry a tin basin and make it tinkle, instead of music…. She won’t listen to anything…. Imagine the state of things! It’s beyond anything!’ Lebeziatnikov would have gone on, but Sonia, who had heard him almost breathless, snatched up her cloak and hat, and ran out of the room, putting on her things as she went. Raskolnikov followed her and Lebeziatnikov came after him. ‘She has certainly gone mad!’ he said to Raskolnikov, as they went out into the street. ‘I didn’t want to frighten Sofya Semyonovna, so I said ‘it seemed like it,’ but there isn’t a doubt of it. They say that in consumption the tubercles sometimes occur in the brain; it’s a pity I know nothing of medicine. I did try to persuade her, but she wouldn’t listen.’ ‘Did you talk to her about the tubercles?’ ‘Not precisely of the tubercles. Besides, she wouldn’t have understood! But what I say is, that if you convince a person logically that he has nothing to cry about, he’ll stop crying. That’s clear. Is it your conviction that he won’t?’ ‘Life would be too easy if it were so,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘Excuse me, excuse me; of course it would be rather dif- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ficult for Katerina Ivanovna to understand, but do you know that in Paris they have been conducting serious experiments as to the possibility of curing the insane, simply by logical argument? One professor there, a scientific man of standing, lately dead, believed in the possibility of such treatment. His idea was that there’s nothing really wrong with the physical organism of the insane, and that insanity is, so to say, a logical mistake, an error of judgment, an incorrect view of things. He gradually showed the madman his error and, would you believe it, they say he was successful? But as he made use of douches too, how far success was due to that treatment remains uncertain…. So it seems at least.’ Raskolnikov had long ceased to listen. Reaching the house where he lived, he nodded to Lebeziatnikov and went in at the gate. Lebeziatnikov woke up with a start, looked about him and hurried on. Raskolnikov went into his little room and stood still in the middle of it. Why had he come back here? He looked at the yellow and tattered paper, at the dust, at his sofa…. From the yard came a loud continuous knocking; someone seemed to be hammering … He went to the window, rose on tiptoe and looked out into the yard for a long time with an air of absorbed attention. But the yard was empty and he could not see who was hammering. In the house on the left he saw some open windows; on the window-sills were pots of sickly-looking geraniums. Linen was hung out of the windows … He knew it all by heart. He turned away and sat down on the sofa. Never, never had he felt himself so fearfully alone! Yes, he felt once more that he would perhaps come to hate Sonia, now that he had made her more miserable. ‘Why had he gone to her to beg for her tears? What need had he to poison her life? Oh, the meanness of it!’ ‘I will remain alone,’ he said resolutely, ‘and she shall not come to the prison!’ Five minutes later he raised his head with a strange smile. That was a strange thought. ‘Perhaps it really would be better in Siberia,’ he thought suddenly. He could not have said how long he sat there with vague thoughts surging through his mind. All at once the door opened and Dounia came in. At first she stood still and looked at him from the doorway, just as he had done at Sonia; then she came in and sat down in the same place as yesterday, on the chair facing him. He looked silently and almost vacantly at her. ‘Don’t be angry, brother; I’ve only come for one minute,’ said Dounia. Her face looked thoughtful but not stern. Her eyes were bright and soft. He saw that she too had come to him with love. ‘Brother, now I know all, all. Dmitri Prokofitch has explained and told me everything. They are worrying and persecuting you through a stupid and contemptible suspicion…. Dmitri Prokofitch told me that there is no danger, and that you are wrong in looking upon it with such horror. I don’t think so, and I fully understand how indignant you Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com must be, and that that indignation may have a permanent effect on you. That’s what I am afraid of. As for your cutting yourself off from us, I don’t judge you, I don’t venture to judge you, and forgive me for having blamed you for it. I feel that I too, if I had so great a trouble, should keep away from everyone. I shall tell mother nothing of this but I shall talk about you continually and shall tell her from you that you will come very soon. Don’t worry about her; I will set her mind at rest; but don’t you try her too much—come once at least; remember that she is your mother. And now I have come simply to say’ (Dounia began to get up) ‘that if you should need me or should need … all my life or anything … call me, and I’ll come. Good-bye!’ She turned abruptly and went towards the door. ‘Dounia!’ Raskolnikov stopped her and went towards her. ‘That Razumihin, Dmitri Prokofitch, is a very good fellow.’ Dounia flushed slightly. ‘Well?’ she asked, waiting a moment. ‘He is competent, hardworking, honest and capable of real love…. Good-bye, Dounia.’ Dounia flushed crimson, then suddenly she took alarm. ‘But what does it mean, brother? Are we really parting for ever that you … give me such a parting message?’ ‘Never mind…. Good-bye.’ He turned away, and walked to the window. She stood a moment, looked at him uneasily, and went out troubled. No, he was not cold to her. There was an instant (the very last one) when he had longed to take her in his arms and say good-bye to her, and even to tell her, but he had not dared even to touch her hand. ‘Afterwards she may shudder when she remembers that I embraced her, and will feel that I stole her kiss.’ ‘And would she stand that test?’ he went on a few minutes later to himself. ‘No, she wouldn’t; girls like that can’t stand things! They never do.’ And he thought of Sonia. There was a breath of fresh air from the window. The daylight was fading. He took up his cap and went out. He could not, of course, and would not consider how ill he was. But all this continual anxiety and agony of mind could not but affect him. And if he were not lying in high fever it was perhaps just because this continual inner strain helped to keep him on his legs and in possession of his faculties. But this artificial excitement could not last long. He wandered aimlessly. The sun was setting. A special form of misery had begun to oppress him of late. There was nothing poignant, nothing acute about it; but there was a feeling of permanence, of eternity about it; it brought a foretaste of hopeless years of this cold leaden misery, a foretaste of an eternity ‘on a square yard of space.’ Towards evening this sensation usually began to weigh on him more heavily. ‘With this idiotic, purely physical weakness, depending on the sunset or something, one can’t help doing something stupid! You’ll go to Dounia, as well as to Sonia,’ he muttered bitterly. He heard his name called. He looked round. Lebeziatnikov rushed up to him. ‘Only fancy, I’ve been to your room looking for you. Only Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com fancy, she’s carried out her plan, and taken away the children. Sofya Semyonovna and I have had a job to find them. She is rapping on a frying-pan and making the children dance. The children are crying. They keep stopping at the cross-roads and in front of shops; there’s a crowd of fools running after them. Come along!’ ‘And Sonia?’ Raskolnikov asked anxiously, hurrying after Lebeziatnikov. ‘Simply frantic. That is, it’s not Sofya Semyonovna’s frantic, but Katerina Ivanovna, though Sofya Semyonova’s frantic too. But Katerina Ivanovna is absolutely frantic. I tell you she is quite mad. They’ll be taken to the police. You can fancy what an effect that will have…. They are on the canal bank, near the bridge now, not far from Sofya Semyonovna’s, quite close.’ On the canal bank near the bridge and not two houses away from the one where Sonia lodged, there was a crowd of people, consisting principally of gutter children. The hoarse broken voice of Katerina Ivanovna could be heard from the bridge, and it certainly was a strange spectacle likely to attract a street crowd. Katerina Ivanovna in her old dress with the green shawl, wearing a torn straw hat, crushed in a hideous way on one side, was really frantic. She was exhausted and breathless. Her wasted consumptive face looked more suffering than ever, and indeed out of doors in the sunshine a consumptive always looks worse than at home. But her excitement did not flag, and every moment her irritation grew more intense. She rushed at the children, shouted at them, coaxed them, told them before the crowd how to dance and 00 what to sing, began explaining to them why it was necessary, and driven to desperation by their not understanding, beat them…. Then she would make a rush at the crowd; if she noticed any decently dressed person stopping to look, she immediately appealed to him to see what these children ‘from a genteel, one may say aristocratic, house’ had been brought to. If she heard laughter or jeering in the crowd, she would rush at once at the scoffers and begin squabbling with them. Some people laughed, others shook their heads, but everyone felt curious at the sight of the madwoman with the frightened children. The frying-pan of which Lebeziatnikov had spoken was not there, at least Raskolnikov did not see it. But instead of rapping on the pan, Katerina Ivanovna began clapping her wasted hands, when she made Lida and Kolya dance and Polenka sing. She too joined in the singing, but broke down at the second note with a fearful cough, which made her curse in despair and even shed tears. What made her most furious was the weeping and terror of Kolya and Lida. Some effort had been made to dress the children up as street singers are dressed. The boy had on a turban made of something red and white to look like a Turk. There had been no costume for Lida; she simply had a red knitted cap, or rather a night cap that had belonged to Marmeladov, decorated with a broken piece of white ostrich feather, which had been Katerina Ivanovna’s grandmother’s and had been preserved as a family possession. Polenka was in her everyday dress; she looked in timid perplexity at her mother, and kept at her side, hiding her tears. She dimly realised her mother’s condition, and looked uneasily about 01 her. She was terribly frightened of the street and the crowd. Sonia followed Katerina Ivanovna, weeping and beseeching her to return home, but Katerina Ivanovna was not to be persuaded. ‘Leave off, Sonia, leave off,’ she shouted, speaking fast, panting and coughing. ‘You don’t know what you ask; you are like a child! I’ve told you before that I am not coming back to that drunken German. Let everyone, let all Petersburg see the children begging in the streets, though their father was an honourable man who served all his life in truth and fidelity, and one may say died in the service.’ (Katerina Ivanovna had by now invented this fantastic story and thoroughly believed it.) ‘Let that wretch of a general see it! And you are silly, Sonia: what have we to eat? Tell me that. We have worried you enough, I won’t go on so! Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, is that you?’ she cried, seeing Raskolnikov and rushing up to him. ‘Explain to this silly girl, please, that nothing better could be done! Even organ-grinders earn their living, and everyone will see at once that we are different, that we are an honourable and bereaved family reduced to beggary. And that general will lose his post, you’ll see! We shall perform under his windows every day, and if the Tsar drives by, I’ll fall on my knees, put the children before me, show them to him, and say ‘Defend us father.’ He is the father of the fatherless, he is merciful, he’ll protect us, you’ll see, and that wretch of a general…. Lida, tenez vous droite! Kolya, you’ll dance again. Why are you whimpering? Whimpering again! What are you afraid of, stupid? Goodness, what am I to do with them, Rodion Romanovitch? If 0 you only knew how stupid they are! What’s one to do with such children?’ And she, almost crying herself—which did not stop her uninterrupted, rapid flow of talk—pointed to the crying children. Raskolnikov tried to persuade her to go home, and even said, hoping to work on her vanity, that it was unseemly for her to be wandering about the streets like an organ-grinder, as she was intending to become the principal of a boarding-school. ‘A boarding-school, ha-ha-ha! A castle in the air,’ cried Katerina Ivanovna, her laugh ending in a cough. ‘No, Rodion Romanovitch, that dream is over! All have forsaken us! … And that general…. You know, Rodion Romanovitch, I threw an inkpot at him—it happened to be standing in the waiting-room by the paper where you sign your name. I wrote my name, threw it at him and ran away. Oh, the scoundrels, the scoundrels! But enough of them, now I’ll provide for the children myself, I won’t bow down to anybody! She has had to bear enough for us!’ she pointed to Sonia. ‘Polenka, how much have you got? Show me! What, only two farthings! Oh, the mean wretches! They give us nothing, only run after us, putting their tongues out. There, what is that blockhead laughing at?’ (She pointed to a man in the crowd.) ‘It’s all because Kolya here is so stupid; I have such a bother with him. What do you want, Polenka? Tell me in French, parlez-moi français. Why, I’ve taught you, you know some phrases. Else how are you to show that you are of good family, well brought-up children, and not at all like other organ-grinders? We aren’t going to have a Punch 0 and Judy show in the street, but to sing a genteel song…. Ah, yes, … What are we to sing? You keep putting me out, but we … you see, we are standing here, Rodion Romanovitch, to find something to sing and get money, something Kolya can dance to…. For, as you can fancy, our performance is all impromptu…. We must talk it over and rehearse it all thoroughly, and then we shall go to Nevsky, where there are far more people of good society, and we shall be noticed at once. Lida knows ‘My Village’ only, nothing but ‘My Village,’ and everyone sings that. We must sing something far more genteel…. Well, have you thought of anything, Polenka? If only you’d help your mother! My memory’s quite gone, or I should have thought of something. We really can’t sing ‘An Hussar.’ Ah, let us sing in French, ‘Cinq sous,’ I have taught it you, I have taught it you. And as it is in French, people will see at once that you are children of good family, and that will be much more touching…. You might sing ‘Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre,’ for that’s quite a child’s song and is sung as a lullaby in all the aristocratic houses. ‘Marlborough s’en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra …’ she began singing. ‘But no, better sing ‘Cinq sous.’ Now, Kolya, your hands on your hips, make haste, and you, Lida, keep turning the other way, and Polenka and I will sing and clap our hands! ‘Cinq sous, cinq sous Pour monter notre menage.’ (Cough-cough-cough!) ‘Set your dress straight, Polenka, it’s slipped down on your shoulders,’ she observed, panting from coughing. ‘Now it’s particularly necessary to behave 0 nicely and genteelly, that all may see that you are well-born children. I said at the time that the bodice should be cut longer, and made of two widths. It was your fault, Sonia, with your advice to make it shorter, and now you see the child is quite deformed by it…. Why, you’re all crying again! What’s the matter, stupids? Come, Kolya, begin. Make haste, make haste! Oh, what an unbearable child! ‘Cinq sous, cinq sous. ‘A policeman again! What do you want?’ A policeman was indeed forcing his way through the crowd. But at that moment a gentleman in civilian uniform and an overcoat—a solid- looking official of about fifty with a decoration on his neck (which delighted Katerina Ivanovna and had its effect on the policeman)— approached and without a word handed her a green three-rouble note. His face wore a look of genuine sympathy. Katerina Ivanovna took it and gave him a polite, even ceremonious, bow. ‘I thank you, honoured sir,’ she began loftily. ‘The causes that have induced us (take the money, Polenka: you see there are generous and honourable people who are ready to help a poor gentlewoman in distress). You see, honoured sir, these orphans of good family—I might even say of aristocratic connections—and that wretch of a general sat eating grouse … and stamped at my disturbing him. ‘Your excellency,’ I said, ‘protect the orphans, for you knew my late husband, Semyon Zaharovitch, and on the very day of his death the basest of scoundrels slandered his only daughter.’ … That policeman again! Protect me,’ she cried to the official. ‘Why is that policeman edging up to me? We have only just run 0 away from one of them. What do you want, fool?’ ‘It’s forbidden in the streets. You mustn’t make a disturbance.’ ‘It’s you’re making a disturbance. It’s just the same as if I were grinding an organ. What business is it of yours?’ ‘You have to get a licence for an organ, and you haven’t got one, and in that way you collect a crowd. Where do you lodge?’ ‘What, a license?’ wailed Katerina Ivanovna. ‘I buried my husband to-day. What need of a license?’ ‘Calm yourself, madam, calm yourself,’ began the official. ‘Come along; I will escort you…. This is no place for you in the crowd. You are ill.’ ‘Honoured sir, honoured sir, you don’t know,’ screamed Katerina Ivanovna. ‘We are going to the Nevsky…. Sonia, Sonia! Where is she? She is crying too! What’s the matter with you all? Kolya, Lida, where are you going?’ she cried suddenly in alarm. ‘Oh, silly children! Kolya, Lida, where are they off to? …’ Kolya and Lida, scared out of their wits by the crowd, and their mother’s mad pranks, suddenly seized each other by the hand, and ran off at the sight of the policeman who wanted to take them away somewhere. Weeping and wailing, poor Katerina Ivanovna ran after them. She was a piteous and unseemly spectacle, as she ran, weeping and panting for breath. Sonia and Polenka rushed after them. ‘Bring them back, bring them back, Sonia! Oh stupid, ungrateful children! … Polenka! catch them…. It’s for your sakes I …’ 0 She stumbled as she ran and fell down. ‘She’s cut herself, she’s bleeding! Oh, dear!’ cried Sonia, bending over her. All ran up and crowded around. Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov were the first at her side, the official too hastened up, and behind him the policeman who muttered, ‘Bother!’ with a gesture of impatience, feeling that the job was going to be a troublesome one. ‘Pass on! Pass on!’ he said to the crowd that pressed forward. ‘She’s dying,’ someone shouted. ‘She’s gone out of her mind,’ said another. ‘Lord have mercy upon us,’ said a woman, crossing herself. ‘Have they caught the little girl and the boy? They’re being brought back, the elder one’s got them…. Ah, the naughty imps!’ When they examined Katerina Ivanovna carefully, they saw that she had not cut herself against a stone, as Sonia thought, but that the blood that stained the pavement red was from her chest. ‘I’ve seen that before,’ muttered the official to Raskolnikov and Lebeziatnikov; ‘that’s consumption; the blood flows and chokes the patient. I saw the same thing with a relative of my own not long ago … nearly a pint of blood, all in a minute…. What’s to be done though? She is dying.’ ‘This way, this way, to my room!’ Sonia implored. ‘I live here! … See, that house, the second from here…. Come to me, make haste,’ she turned from one to the other. ‘Send for the doctor! Oh, dear!’ 0 Thanks to the official’s efforts, this plan was adopted, the policeman even helping to carry Katerina Ivanovna. She was carried to Sonia’s room, almost unconscious, and laid on the bed. The blood was still flowing, but she seemed to be coming to herself. Raskolnikov, Lebeziatnikov, and the official accompanied Sonia into the room and were followed by the policeman, who first drove back the crowd which followed to the very door. Polenka came in holding Kolya and Lida, who were trembling and weeping. Several persons came in too from the Kapernaumovs’ room; the landlord, a lame one-eyed man of strange appearance with whiskers and hair that stood up like a brush, his wife, a woman with an everlastingly scared expression, and several openmouthed children with wonder-struck faces. Among these, Svidrigaïlov suddenly made his appearance. Raskolnikov looked at him with surprise, not understanding where he had come from and not having noticed him in the crowd. A doctor and priest wore spoken of. The official whispered to Raskolnikov that he thought it was too late now for the doctor, but he ordered him to be sent for. Kapernaumov ran himself. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna had regained her breath. The bleeding ceased for a time. She looked with sick but intent and penetrating eyes at Sonia, who stood pale and trembling, wiping the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief. At last she asked to be raised. They sat her up on the bed, supporting her on both sides. ‘Where are the children?’ she said in a faint voice. ‘You’ve brought them, Polenka? Oh the sillies! Why did you run 0 away…. Och!’ Once more her parched lips were covered with blood. She moved her eyes, looking about her. ‘So that’s how you live, Sonia! Never once have I been in your room.’ She looked at her with a face of suffering. ‘We have been your ruin, Sonia. Polenka, Lida, Kolya, come here! Well, here they are, Sonia, take them all! I hand them over to you, I’ve had enough! The ball is over.’ (Cough!) ‘Lay me down, let me die in peace.’ They laid her back on the pillow. ‘What, the priest? I don’t want him. You haven’t got a rouble to spare. I have no sins. God must forgive me without that. He knows how I have suffered…. And if He won’t forgive me, I don’t care!’ She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognised everyone for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and difficult, there was a sort of rattle in her throat. ‘I said to him, your excellency,’ she ejaculated, gasping after each word. ‘That Amalia Ludwigovna, ah! Lida, Kolya, hands on your hips, make haste! Glissez, glissez! pas de basque! Tap with your heels, be a graceful child! ‘Du hast Diamanten und Perlen ‘What next? That’s the thing to sing. ‘Du hast die schonsten Augen Madchen, was willst du mehr? ‘What an idea! Was willst du mehr? What things the fool 0 invents! Ah, yes! ‘In the heat of midday in the vale of Dagestan. ‘Ah, how I loved it! I loved that song to distraction, Polenka! Your father, you know, used to sing it when we were engaged…. Oh those days! Oh that’s the thing for us to sing! How does it go? I’ve forgotten. Remind me! How was it?’ She was violently excited and tried to sit up. At last, in a horribly hoarse, broken voice, she began, shrieking and gasping at every word, with a look of growing terror. ‘In the heat of midday! … in the vale! … of Dagestan! … With lead in my breast! …’ ‘Your excellency!’ she wailed suddenly with a heart-rending scream and a flood of tears, ‘protect the orphans! You have been their father’s guest … one may say aristocratic….’ She started, regaining consciousness, and gazed at all with a sort of terror, but at once recognised Sonia. ‘Sonia, Sonia!’ she articulated softly and caressingly, as though surprised to find her there. ‘Sonia darling, are you here, too?’ They lifted her up again. ‘Enough! It’s over! Farewell, poor thing! I am done for! I am broken!’ she cried with vindictive despair, and her head fell heavily back on the pillow. She sank into unconsciousness again, but this time it did not last long. Her pale, yellow, wasted face dropped back, her mouth fell open, her leg moved convulsively, she gave a deep, deep sigh and died. Sonia fell upon her, flung her arms about her, and remained motionless with her head pressed to the dead 10 woman’s wasted bosom. Polenka threw herself at her mother’s feet, kissing them and weeping violently. Though Kolya and Lida did not understand what had happened, they had a feeling that it was something terrible; they put their hands on each other’s little shoulders, stared straight at one another and both at once opened their mouths and began screaming. They were both still in their fancy dress; one in a turban, the other in the cap with the ostrich feather. And how did ‘the certificate of merit’ come to be on the bed beside Katerina Ivanovna? It lay there by the pillow; Raskolnikov saw it. He walked away to the window. Lebeziatnikov skipped up to him. ‘She is dead,’ he said. ‘Rodion Romanovitch, I must have two words with you,’ said Svidrigaïlov, coming up to them. Lebeziatnikov at once made room for him and delicately withdrew. Svidrigaïlov drew Raskolnikov further away. ‘I will undertake all the arrangements, the funeral and that. You know it’s a question of money and, as I told you, I have plenty to spare. I will put those two little ones and Polenka into some good orphan asylum, and I will settle fifteen hundred roubles to be paid to each on coming of age, so that Sofya Semyonovna need have no anxiety about them. And I will pull her out of the mud too, for she is a good girl, isn’t she? So tell Avdotya Romanovna that that is how I am spending her ten thousand.’ ‘What is your motive for such benevolence?’ asked Raskolnikov. 11 ‘Ah! you sceptical person!’ laughed Svidrigaïlov. ‘I told you I had no need of that money. Won’t you admit that it’s simply done from humanity? She wasn’t ‘a louse,’ you know’ (he pointed to the corner where the dead woman lay), ‘was she, like some old pawnbroker woman? Come, you’ll agree, is Luzhin to go on living, and doing wicked things or is she to die? And if I didn’t help them, Polenka would go the same way.’ He said this with an air of a sort of gay winking slyness, keeping his eyes fixed on Raskolnikov, who turned white and cold, hearing his own phrases, spoken to Sonia. He quickly stepped back and looked wildly at Svidrigaïlov. ‘How do you know?’ he whispered, hardly able to breathe. ‘Why, I lodge here at Madame Resslich’s, the other side of the wall. Here is Kapernaumov, and there lives Madame Resslich, an old and devoted friend of mine. I am a neighbour.’ ‘You?’ ‘Yes,’ continued Svidrigaïlov, shaking with laughter. ‘I assure you on my honour, dear Rodion Romanovitch, that you have interested me enormously. I told you we should become friends, I foretold it. Well, here we have. And you will see what an accommodating person I am. You’ll see that you can get on with me!’ 1 Part VI 1 Chapter I A strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that period long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up incidents and had explained events as due to circumstances which existed only in his imagination. At times he was a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting sometimes to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours, perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be compared with the abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to escape from a full and clear understanding of his position. Certain essential facts which required immediate consideration were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would have been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin. He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might 1 be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From the time of Svidrigaïlov’s too menacing and unmistakable words in Sonia’s room at the moment of Katerina Ivanovna’s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break down. But although this new fact caused him extreme uneasiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry for an explanation of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he suddenly thought of Svidrigaïlov. He recognised suddenly, clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an understanding with that man and to make what terms he could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positively fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was waiting for Svidrigaïlov. Another time he woke up before daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could not at first understand how he had come there. But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanovna’s death, he had two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at Sonia’s lodging, where he had gone aimlessly for a moment. They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak of it for a time. Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin, Svidrigaïlov was busy making arrangements for the funeral. Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigaïlov informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement, and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna’s children; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded 1 in getting hold of certain personages by whose help the three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable institutions; that the money he had settled on them had been of great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans with some property than destitute ones. He said something too about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that ‘he would like to consult with him, that there were things they must talk over….’ This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs. Svidrigaïlov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly, after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: ‘But how is it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don’t seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don’t seem to understand. Cheer up! We’ll talk things over; I am only sorry, I’ve so much to do of my own business and other people’s. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch,’ he added suddenly, ‘what all men need is fresh air, fresh air … more than anything!’ He moved to one side to make way for the priest and server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for the requiem service. By Svidrigaïlov’s orders it was sung twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov went his way. Raskolnikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the priest into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly, slowly and mournfully singing the service. From his childhood the thought of death and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem service. And there was something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the cof- 1 fin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly and, as it were, timidly weeping. ‘These last two days she hasn’t said a word to me, she hasn’t glanced at me,’ Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds; the priest read, ‘Give rest, oh Lord….’ Raskolnikov stayed all through the service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it. Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to some solitude, he would have thought himself lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost always been by himself of late, he had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to the high road, once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he 1 had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his conscience smote him. ‘Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be doing?’ he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring immediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly understand or put into words. It was a hopeless tangle. ‘No, better the struggle again! Better Porfiry again … or Svidrigaïlov…. Better some challenge again … some attack. Yes, yes!’ he thought. He went out of the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of Dounia and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a panic. That night he woke up before morning among some bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever; he walked home, and it was early morning when he arrived. After some hours’ sleep the fever left him, but he woke up late, two o’clock in the afternoon. He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had been fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not present at it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresher and he was calmer than he had been for the last three days. He even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks of panic. The door opened and Razumihin came in. ‘Ah, he’s eating, then he’s not ill,’ said Razumihin. He took a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov. He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurry or raising his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed 1 determination. ‘Listen,’ he began resolutely. ‘As far as I am concerned, you may all go to hell, but from what I see, it’s clear to me that I can’t make head or tail of it; please don’t think I’ve come to ask you questions. I don’t want to know, hang it! If you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn’t stay to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to find out once for all whether it’s a fact that you are mad? There is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so. I admit I’ve been disposed to that opinion myself, judging from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions, and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister. Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have; so you must be mad.’ ‘When did you see them last?’ ‘Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve been to you three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill since yesterday. She had made up her mind to come to you; Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn’t hear a word. ‘If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look after him like his mother?’ she said. We all came here together, we couldn’t let her come alone all the way. We kept begging her to be calm. We came in, you weren’t here; she sat down, and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence. She got up and said: ‘If he’s gone out, that is, if he is well, and has forgotten his mother, it’s humiliating and unseemly for his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.’ She returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. ‘I 1 see,’ she said, ‘that he has time for his girl. ‘ She means by your girl Sofya Semyonovna, your betrothed or your mistress, I don’t know. I went at once to Sofya Semyonovna’s, for I wanted to know what was going on. I looked round, I saw the coffin, the children crying, and Sofya Semyonovna trying them on mourning dresses. No sign of you. I apologised, came away, and reported to Avdotya Romanovna. So that’s all nonsense and you haven’t got a girl; the most likely thing is that you are mad. But here you sit, guzzling boiled beef as though you’d not had a bite for three days. Though as far as that goes, madmen eat too, but though you have not said a word to me yet … you are not mad! That I’d swear! Above all, you are not mad! So you may go to hell, all of you, for there’s some mystery, some secret about it, and I don’t intend to worry my brains over your secrets. So I’ve simply come to swear at you,’ he finished, getting up, ‘to relieve my mind. And I know what to do now.’ ‘What do you mean to do now?’ ‘What business is it of yours what I mean to do?’ ‘You are going in for a drinking bout.’ ‘How … how did you know?’ ‘Why, it’s pretty plain.’ Razumihin paused for a minute. ‘You always have been a very rational person and you’ve never been mad, never,’ he observed suddenly with warmth. ‘You’re right: I shall drink. Good-bye!’ And he moved to go out. ‘I was talking with my sister—the day before yesterday, I think it was—about you, Razumihin.’ 0 ‘About me! But … where can you have seen her the day before yesterday?’ Razumihin stopped short and even turned a little pale. One could see that his heart was throbbing slowly and violently. ‘She came here by herself, sat there and talked to me.’ ‘She did!’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What did you say to her … I mean, about me?’ ‘I told her you were a very good, honest, and industrious man. I didn’t tell her you love her, because she knows that herself.’ ‘She knows that herself?’ ‘Well, it’s pretty plain. Wherever I might go, whatever happened to me, you would remain to look after them. I, so to speak, give them into your keeping, Razumihin. I say this because I know quite well how you love her, and am convinced of the purity of your heart. I know that she too may love you and perhaps does love you already. Now decide for yourself, as you know best, whether you need go in for a drinking bout or not.’ ‘Rodya! You see … well…. Ach, damn it! But where do you mean to go? Of course, if it’s all a secret, never mind…. But I … I shall find out the secret … and I am sure that it must be some ridiculous nonsense and that you’ve made it all up. Anyway you are a capital fellow, a capital fellow! …’ ‘That was just what I wanted to add, only you interrupted, that that was a very good decision of yours not to find out these secrets. Leave it to time, don’t worry about it. You’ll 1 know it all in time when it must be. Yesterday a man said to me that what a man needs is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air. I mean to go to him directly to find out what he meant by that.’ Razumihin stood lost in thought and excitement, making a silent conclusion. ‘He’s a political conspirator! He must be. And he’s on the eve of some desperate step, that’s certain. It can only be that! And … and Dounia knows,’ he thought suddenly. ‘So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,’ he said, weighing each syllable, ‘and you’re going to see a man who says we need more air, and so of course that letter … that too must have something to do with it,’ he concluded to himself. ‘What letter?’ ‘She got a letter to-day. It upset her very much—very much indeed. Too much so. I began speaking of you, she begged me not to. Then … then she said that perhaps we should very soon have to part … then she began warmly thanking me for something; then she went to her room and locked herself in.’ ‘She got a letter?’ Raskolnikov asked thoughtfully. ‘Yes, and you didn’t know? hm …’ They were both silent. ‘Good-bye, Rodion. There was a time, brother, when I…. Never mind, good-bye. You see, there was a time…. Well, good-bye! I must be off too. I am not going to drink. There’s no need now…. That’s all stuff!’ He hurried out; but when he had almost closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again, and said, looking away: ‘Oh, by the way, do you remember that murder, you know Porfiry’s, that old woman? Do you know the murderer has been found, he has confessed and given the proofs. It’s one of those very workmen, the painter, only fancy! Do you remember I defended them here? Would you believe it, all that scene of fighting and laughing with his companions on the stairs while the porter and the two witnesses were going up, he got up on purpose to disarm suspicion. The cunning, the presence of mind of the young dog! One can hardly credit it; but it’s his own explanation, he has confessed it all. And what a fool I was about it! Well, he’s simply a genius of hypocrisy and resourcefulness in disarming the suspicions of the lawyers—so there’s nothing much to wonder at, I suppose! Of course people like that are always possible. And the fact that he couldn’t keep up the character, but confessed, makes him easier to believe in. But what a fool I was! I was frantic on their side!’ ‘Tell me, please, from whom did you hear that, and why does it interest you so?’ Raskolnikov asked with unmistakable agitation. ‘What next? You ask me why it interests me! … Well, I heard it from Porfiry, among others … It was from him I heard almost all about it.’ ‘From Porfiry?’ ‘From Porfiry.’ ‘What … what did he say?’ Raskolnikov asked in dismay. ‘He gave me a capital explanation of it. Psychologically, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com after his fashion.’ ‘He explained it? Explained it himself?’ ‘Yes, yes; good-bye. I’ll tell you all about it another time, but now I’m busy. There was a time when I fancied … But no matter, another time! … What need is there for me to drink now? You have made me drunk without wine. I am drunk, Rodya! Good-bye, I’m going. I’ll come again very soon.’ He went out. ‘He’s a political conspirator, there’s not a doubt about it,’ Razumihin decided, as he slowly descended the stairs. ‘And he’s drawn his sister in; that’s quite, quite in keeping with Avdotya Romanovna’s character. There are interviews between them! … She hinted at it too … So many of her words…. and hints … bear that meaning! And how else can all this tangle be explained? Hm! And I was almost thinking … Good heavens, what I thought! Yes, I took leave of my senses and I wronged him! It was his doing, under the lamp in the corridor that day. Pfoo! What a crude, nasty, vile idea on my part! Nikolay is a brick, for confessing…. And how clear it all is now! His illness then, all his strange actions … before this, in the university, how morose he used to be, how gloomy…. But what’s the meaning now of that letter? There’s something in that, too, perhaps. Whom was it from? I suspect …! No, I must find out!’ He thought of Dounia, realising all he had heard and his heart throbbed, and he suddenly broke into a run. As soon as Razumihin went out, Raskolnikov got up, turned to the window, walked into one corner and then into another, as though forgetting the smallness of his room, and sat down again on the sofa. He felt, so to speak, renewed; again the struggle, so a means of escape had come. ‘Yes, a means of escape had come! It had been too stifling, too cramping, the burden had been too agonising. A lethargy had come upon him at times. From the moment of the scene with Nikolay at Porfiry’s he had been suffocating, penned in without hope of escape. After Nikolay’s confession, on that very day had come the scene with Sonia; his behaviour and his last words had been utterly unlike anything he could have imagined beforehand; he had grown feebler, instantly and fundamentally! And he had agreed at the time with Sonia, he had agreed in his heart he could not go on living alone with such a thing on his mind! ‘And Svidrigaïlov was a riddle … He worried him, that was true, but somehow not on the same point. He might still have a struggle to come with Svidrigaïlov. Svidrigaïlov, too, might be a means of escape; but Porfiry was a different matter. ‘And so Porfiry himself had explained it to Razumihin, had explained it psychologically. He had begun bringing in his damned psychology again! Porfiry? But to think that Porfiry should for one moment believe that Nikolay was guilty, after what had passed between them before Nikolay’s appearance, after that tête-à-tête interview, which could have only one explanation? (During those days Raskolnikov had often recalled passages in that scene with Porfiry; he could not bear to let his mind rest on it.) Such words, such gestures had passed between them, they had exchanged Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com such glances, things had been said in such a tone and had reached such a pass, that Nikolay, whom Porfiry had seen through at the first word, at the first gesture, could not have shaken his conviction. ‘And to think that even Razumihin had begun to suspect! The scene in the corridor under the lamp had produced its effect then. He had rushed to Porfiry…. But what had induced the latter to receive him like that? What had been his object in putting Razumihin off with Nikolay? He must have some plan; there was some design, but what was it? It was true that a long time had passed since that morning— too long a time—and no sight nor sound of Porfiry. Well, that was a bad sign….’ Raskolnikov took his cap and went out of the room, still pondering. It was the first time for a long while that he had felt clear in his mind, at least. ‘I must settle Svidrigaïlov,’ he thought, ‘and as soon as possible; he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him of my own accord.’ And at that moment there was such a rush of hate in his weary heart that he might have killed either of those two—Porfiry or Svidrigaïlov. At least he felt that he would be capable of doing it later, if not now. ‘We shall see, we shall see,’ he repeated to himself. But no sooner had he opened the door than he stumbled upon Porfiry himself in the passage. He was coming in to see him. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a minute, but only for one minute. Strange to say, he was not very much astonished at seeing Porfiry and scarcely afraid of him. He was simply startled, but was quickly, instantly, on his guard. ‘Perhaps this will mean the end? But how could Porfiry have approached so quietly, like a cat, so that he had heard nothing? Could he have been listening at the door?’ ‘You didn’t expect a visitor, Rodion Romanovitch,’ Porfiry explained, laughing. ‘I’ve been meaning to look in a long time; I was passing by and thought why not go in for five minutes. Are you going out? I won’t keep you long. Just let me have one cigarette.’ ‘Sit down, Porfiry Petrovitch, sit down.’ Raskolnikov gave his visitor a seat with so pleased and friendly an expression that he would have marvelled at himself, if he could have seen it. The last moment had come, the last drops had to be drained! So a man will sometimes go through half an hour of mortal terror with a brigand, yet when the knife is at his throat at last, he feels no fear. Raskolnikov seated himself directly facing Porfiry, and looked at him without flinching. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting a cigarette. ‘Speak, speak,’ seemed as though it would burst from Raskolnikov’s heart. ‘Come, why don’t you speak?’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter II ‘ Ah these cigarettes!’ Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having lighted one. ‘They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I can’t give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to Dr. B——n; he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He positively laughed looking at me; he sounded me: ‘Tobacco’s bad for you,’ he said, ‘your lungs are affected.’ But how am I to give it up? What is there to take its place? I don’t drink, that’s the mischief, he-he-he, that I don’t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything is relative!’ ‘Why, he’s playing his professional tricks again,’ Raskolnikov thought with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon him then. ‘I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn’t know?’ Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. ‘I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and I thought I’d return your call. I walked in as your door was wide open, I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with your servant. Don’t you lock your door?’ Raskolnikov’s face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess his state of mind. ‘I’ve come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! I owe you an explanation and must give it to you,’ he continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov’s knee. But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face. ‘A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then … and one thing after another! This is the point: I have perhaps acted unfairly to you; I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your nerves were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were mine. And, you know, our behaviour was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? … and it was quite indecorous.’ ‘What is he up to, what does he take me for?’ Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on Porfiry. ‘I’ve decided openness is better between us,’ Porfiry Petrovitch went on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former wiles. ‘Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolay put a stop to it, or I don’t know what we might not have come to. That damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room—can you realise that? You know that, of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com course; and I am aware that he came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had not sent for anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I hadn’t? What shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly. I had scarcely sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out, I dare say). An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the time, you see, Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought—even if I let one thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else—I shan’t lose what I want, anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion Romanovitch, by temperament; it’s out of proportion with other qualities of your heart and character, which I flatter myself I have to some extent divined. Of course I did reflect even then that it does not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out his whole story. It does happen sometimes, if you make a man lose all patience, though even then it’s rare. I was capable of realising that. If I only had a fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon, something I could lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial out of him; one may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch, on your temperament above all things! I had great hopes of you at that time.’ ‘But what are you driving at now?’ Raskolnikov muttered at last, asking the question without thinking. ‘What is he talking about?’ he wondered distractedly, ‘does he really take me to be innocent?’ ‘What am I driving at? I’ve come to explain myself, I con- 0 sider it my duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business, the whole misunderstanding arose. I’ve caused you a great deal of suffering, Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud, imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without elements of magnanimity, though I don’t agree with all your convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite sincerely, for above all I don’t want to deceive you. When I made your acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first and indeed you’ve no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to show that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely.’ Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent began to make him uneasy. ‘It’s scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail,’ Porfiry Petrovitch went on. ‘Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours came to me … and how they affected you, I need not go into. My suspicions were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as easily not have happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need to go into that either. Those rumours and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly—for one may as well 1 make a clean breast of it—I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman’s notes on the pledges and the rest of it—that all came to nothing. Yours was one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office, from a man who described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can’t make a horse, a hundred suspicions don’t make a proof, as the English proverb says, but that’s only from the rational point of view—you can’t help being partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought, too, of your article in that journal, do you remember, on your first visit we talked of it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and … had felt a great deal I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the same, so that your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm. And that proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I am awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth. There is a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there’s a transparent sincerity, a youthful incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It’s a gloomy article, but that’s what’s fine in it. I read your article and put it aside, thinking as I did so ‘that man won’t go the common way.’ Well, I ask you, after that as a prelimi- nary, how could I help being carried away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there in it? I reflected. There’s nothing in it, that is really nothing and perhaps absolutely nothing. And it’s not at all the thing for the prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions: here I have Nikolay on my hands with actual evidence against him—you may think what you like of it, but it’s evidence. He brings in his psychology, too; one has to consider him, too, for it’s a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand, and not blame my malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn’t come to search your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when you were lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own person, but I was here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first suspicion; but umsonst! I thought to myself, now that man will come, will come of himself and quickly, too; if he’s guilty, he’s sure to come. Another man wouldn’t, but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that he might discuss the case with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant ‘I killed her.’ It was too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was expecting you. But you simply bowled Za- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com metov over and … well, you see, it all lies in this—that this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and so it was, you came! My heart was fairly throbbing. Ach! ‘Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn’t expected you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter. You see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then—ah, that stone, that stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told Zametov and afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we began picking your article to pieces, how you explained it! One could take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another meaning hidden. ‘So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself what I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another sense if you like, and it’s more natural so, indeed. I couldn’t help admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! ‘No, I’d better get hold of some little fact’ I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing, I held my breath and was all in a tremor. ‘Here is my little fact,’ thought I, and I didn’t think it over, I simply wouldn’t. I would have given a thousand roubles at that minute to have seen you with my own eyes, when you walked a hundred paces beside that workman, after he had called you murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him a question all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about your bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-delirium? ‘And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks on you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to have sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us … and do you remember Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn’t believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for yourself; and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he began making very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I was surprised at him myself, even then I didn’t believe his story! You see what it is to be as firm as a rock! No, thought I, Morgenfrüh. What has Nikolay got to do with it!’ ‘Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had yourself assured him of it….’ His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through him, went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive. ‘Mr. Razumihin!’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question from Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. ‘He-he-he! But I had to put Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin is not the right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me with a pale face…. But never mind him, why bring him in? To return to Nikolay, would you like to know what sort of a Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com type he is, how I understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and not exactly a coward, but something by way of an artist. Really, don’t laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to influence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs till he cries if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself senseless—not as a regular vice, but at times, when people treat him, like a child. And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself, for ‘How can it be stealing, if one picks it up?’ And do you know he is an Old Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers[*] in his family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from his fellow villagers. And what’s more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old books, ‘the true’ ones, and read himself crazy. [*] A religious sect.—TRANSLATOR’S NOTE. ‘Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that. I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and see him, and now this business came upon him. ‘Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal proceedings? The very word ‘trial’ frightens some of them. Whose fault is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder; the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovitch, the force of the word ‘suffering’ among some of these people! It’s not a question of suffering for someone’s benefit, but simply, ‘one must suffer.’ If they suffer at the hands of the authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy, do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and flung it at the governor; though he had done him no harm. And the way he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an officer with a weapon. So ‘he took his suffering.’ ‘So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only he doesn’t know that I know. What, you don’t admit that there are such fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But he’ll come and tell me all himself. You think he’ll hold out? Wait a bit, he’ll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolay and am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered me very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn’t even suspect that Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com he doesn’t know! ‘No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn’t come in! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood ‘renews,’ when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn’t take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a stone. It wasn’t enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bellringing, he wanted to feel the cold shiver over again…. Well, that we grant, was through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence. No, that’s not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion Romanovitch!’ All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been stabbed. ‘Then … who then … is the murderer?’ he asked in a breathless voice, unable to restrain himself. Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question. ‘Who is the murderer?’ he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. ‘Why, you Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer,’ he added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction. Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively. ‘Your lip is twitching just as it did before,’ Porfiry Petrovitch observed almost sympathetically. ‘You’ve been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch,’ he added after a brief pause, ‘that’s why you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and deal openly with you.’ ‘It was not I murdered her,’ Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act. ‘No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else,’ Porfiry whispered sternly, with conviction. They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry. ‘You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method again. I wonder you don’t get sick of it!’ ‘Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone. You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself, I am convinced without it.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘If so, what did you come for?’ Raskolnikov asked irritably. ‘I ask you the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don’t you take me to prison?’ ‘Oh, that’s your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest.’ ‘How so? If you are convinced you ought….’ ‘Ach, what if I am convinced? That’s only my dream for the time. Why should I put you in safety? You know that’s it, since you ask me to do it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to him ‘were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to be drunk, and you were drunk, too.’ Well, what could I answer, especially as your story is a more likely one than his? for there’s nothing but psychology to support his evidence—that’s almost unseemly with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the rascal is an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you. And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come—quite contrary to etiquette—to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it won’t be to my advantage. Well, secondly, I’ve come to you because …’ ‘Yes, yes, secondly?’ Raskolnikov was listening breathless. ‘Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an 0 explanation. I don’t want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I’ve come to you with a direct and open proposition—that you should surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open on my part or not?’ Raskolnikov thought a minute. ‘Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but psychology to go on, yet now you’ve gone on mathematics. Well, what if you are mistaken yourself, now?’ ‘No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then, Providence sent it me.’ ‘What little fact?’ ‘I won’t tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven’t the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it over: it makes no difference to me now and so I speak only for your sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch.’ Raskolnikov smiled malignantly. ‘That’s not simply ridiculous, it’s positively shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don’t admit, what reason should I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?’ ‘Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don’t put too much faith in words, perhaps prison will not be altogether a restful place. That’s only theory and my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I am hiding something 1 from you? I can’t lay bare everything, he-he! And how can you ask what advantage? Don’t you know how it would lessen your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man has taken the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange that your confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of a suspicion against you, so that your crime will appear to have been something like an aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man, Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word.’ Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his smile was sad and gentle. ‘No!’ he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up appearances with Porfiry, ‘it’s not worth it, I don’t care about lessening the sentence!’ ‘That’s just what I was afraid of!’ Porfiry cried warmly and, as it seemed, involuntarily. ‘That’s just what I feared, that you wouldn’t care about the mitigation of sentence.’ Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him. ‘Ah, don’t disdain life!’ Porfiry went on. ‘You have a great deal of it still before you. How can you say you don’t want a mitigation of sentence? You are an impatient fellow!’ ‘A great deal of what lies before me?’ ‘Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it? Seek and ye shall find. This may be God’s means for bringing you to Him. And it’s not for ever, the bondage….’ ‘The time will be shortened,’ laughed Raskolnikov. ‘Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that you are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But anyway you shouldn’t be afraid of giving yourself up and confessing.’ ‘Ach, hang it!’ Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as though he did not want to speak aloud. He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in evident despair. ‘Hang it, if you like! You’ve lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out something base, that’s true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At least you didn’t deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is right in wanting to suffer. I know you don’t believe in it—but don’t be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation; don’t be afraid—the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use some Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com time. That’s why I speak. It’s as well that you only killed the old woman. If you’d invented another theory you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous. You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the demands of justice. I know that you don’t believe it, but indeed, life will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!’ Raskolnikov positively started. ‘But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?’ ‘Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that’s all. A man perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for you. Though, who knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass into another class of men? It’s not comfort you regret, with your heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It’s not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all will see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? At my being such a Schiller? I bet you’re imagining that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you’d better not believe my word, perhaps you’d better never believe it altogether—I’m made that way, I confess it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of man and how far I am honest.’ ‘When do you mean to arrest me?’ ‘Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my dear fellow, and pray to God. It’s more in your interest, believe me.’ ‘And what if I run away?’ asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile. ‘No, you won’t run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man’s thought, for you’ve only to show him the end of your little finger and he’ll be ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you’ve ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with? And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would you have? If you ran away, you’d come back to yourself. You can’t get on without us. And if I put you in prison—say you’ve been there a month, or two, or three— remember my word, you’ll confess of yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won’t know an hour beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced that you will decide, ‘to take your suffering.’ You don’t believe my words now, but you’ll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same. Don’t laugh at it, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com there’s an idea in suffering, Nokolay is right. No, you won’t run away, Rodion Romanovitch.’ Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose. ‘Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don’t have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air.’ He, too, took his cap. ‘Porfiry Petrovitch, please don’t take up the notion that I have confessed to you to-day,’ Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. ‘You’re a strange man and I have listened to you from simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing, remember that!’ ‘Oh, I know that, I’ll remember. Look at him, he’s trembling! Don’t be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you won’t be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request to make of you,’ he added, dropping his voice. ‘It’s an awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don’t believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic fashion—laying hands on yourself—(it’s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but precise note, only two lines, and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!’ Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter III He hurried to Svidrigaïlov’s. What he had to hope from that man he did not know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once recognised this, he could not rest, and now the time had come. On the way, one question particularly worried him: had Svidrigaïlov been to Porfiry’s? As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not. He pondered again and again, went over Porfiry’s visit; no, he hadn’t been, of course he hadn’t. But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the present he fancied he couldn’t. Why? He could not have explained, but if he could, he would not have wasted much thought over it at the moment. It all worried him and at the same time he could not attend to it. Strange to say, none would have believed it perhaps, but he only felt a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future. Another, much more important anxiety tormented him—it concerned himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover, he was conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was working better that morning than it had done of late. And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to manœuvre that Svidrigaïlov should not go to Porfiry’s? Was it worth while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like Svidrigaïlov? Oh, how sick he was of it all! And yet he was hastening to Svidrigaïlov; could he be expecting something new from him, information, or means of escape? Men will catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigaïlov but some other whom he needed, and Svidrigaïlov had simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigaïlov? And he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt that he must see him for some reason. But what could they have in common? Their very evildoing could not be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly malignant. Such stories were told about him. It is true he was befriending Katerina Ivanovna’s children, but who could tell with what motive and what it meant? The man always had some design, some project. There was another thought which had been continually hovering of late about Raskolnikov’s mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It was so painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He sometimes thought that Svidrigaïlov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigaïlov had found out his Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com secret and had had designs on Dounia. What if he had them still? Wasn’t it practically certain that he had? And what if, having learnt his secret and so having gained power over him, he were to use it as a weapon against Dounia? This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigaïlov. The very thought moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would transform everything, even his own position; he would have at once to confess his secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up perhaps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This morning Dounia had received a letter. From whom could she get letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It’s true Razumihin was there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing of the position. Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of it with repugnance. In any case he must see Svidrigaïlov as soon as possible, he decided finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if Svidrigaïlov were capable … if he were intriguing against Dounia— then … Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that month that he could only decide such questions in one way; ‘then I shall kill him,’ he thought in cold despair. A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle of the street and began looking about to see where he was and which way he was going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Hay Market, 0 through which he had come. The whole second storey of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the windows were wide open; judging from the figures moving at the windows, the rooms were full to overflowing. There were sounds of singing, of clarionet and violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering why he had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at one of the end windows he saw Svidrigaïlov, sitting at a tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigaïlov was silently watching and scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking absent-mindedly away, while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating violently. Yet, it was evident that Svidrigaïlov did not want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on the point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. What had passed between them was much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room. A sly smile came into Svidrigaïlov’s face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigaïlov broke into a loud laugh. ‘Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!’ he shouted from the window. Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svid- 1 rigaïlov in a tiny back room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to the desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigaïlov stood an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room he found also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking red- cheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants’ hall song in a rather husky contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ. ‘Come, that’s enough,’ Svidrigaïlov stopped her at Raskolnikov’s entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully. She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful expression in her face. ‘Hey, Philip, a glass!’ shouted Svidrigaïlov. ‘I won’t drink anything,’ said Raskolnikov. ‘As you like, I didn’t mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don’t want anything more to-day, you can go.’ He poured her out a full glass, and laid down a yellow note. Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigaïlov’s hand, which he allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy trailed after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street. Svidrigaïlov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything about him was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and very obsequious. The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigaïlov was at home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was dirty and wretched, not even secondrate. ‘I was going to see you and looking for you,’ Raskolnikov began, ‘but I don’t know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X. Prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from the Hay Market. And this isn’t the way to you. I simply turned and here you are. It is strange!’ ‘Why don’t you say at once ‘it’s a miracle’?’ ‘Because it may be only chance.’ ‘Oh, that’s the way with all you folk,’ laughed Svidrigaïlov. ‘You won’t admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you say that it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here, about having an opinion of their own, you can’t fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I don’t mean you, you have an opinion of your own and are not afraid to have it. That’s how it was you attracted my curiosity.’ ‘Nothing else?’ ‘Well, that’s enough, you know,’ Svidrigaïlov was obviously exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a glass of wine. ‘I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of having what you call an opinion of my own,’ observed Raskolnikov. ‘Oh, well, it was a different matter. everyone has his own plans. And apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com think you have been asleep for the last two or three days. I told you of this tavern myself, there is no miracle in your coming straight here. I explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you could find me here. Do you remember?’ ‘I don’t remember,’ answered Raskolnikov with surprise. ‘I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and yet precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware of it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing, I’m convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we had scientific men, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make most valuable investigations in Petersburg each in his own line. There are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and queer influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of climate mean so much. And it’s the administrative centre of all Russia and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But that is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several times watched you. You walk out of your house—holding your head high—twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind your back. You look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you. At last you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself, and sometimes you wave one hand and declaim, and at last stand still in the middle of the road. That’s not at all the thing. Someone may be watching you besides me, and it won’t do you any good. It’s nothing really to do with me and I can’t cure you, but, of course, you understand me.’ ‘Do you know that I am being followed?’ asked Raskolnikov, looking inquisitively at him. ‘No, I know nothing about it,’ said Svidrigaïlov, seeming surprised. ‘Well, then, let us leave me alone,’ Raskolnikov muttered, frowning. ‘Very good, let us leave you alone.’ ‘You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed me twice to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away just now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it.’ ‘He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in your doorway? I saw it.’ ‘I may have had … reasons. You know that yourself.’ ‘And I may have had my reasons, though you don’t know them.’ Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigaïlov. For a full minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him before. It was a strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright red lips, with a flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes were somehow too blue and their expression somehow too heavy and fixed. There was something awfully unpleasant in that handsome face, which looked so wonderfully young for his age. Svid- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com rigaïlov was smartly dressed in light summer clothes and was particularly dainty in his linen. He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it. ‘Have I got to bother myself about you, too, now?’ said Raskolnikov suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point. ‘Even though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to injure me, I don’t want to put myself out any more. I will show you at once that I don’t prize myself as you probably think I do. I’ve come to tell you at once that if you keep to your former intentions with regard to my sister and if you think to derive any benefit in that direction from what has been discovered of late, I will kill you before you get me locked up. You can reckon on my word. You know that I can keep it. And in the second place if you want to tell me anything —for I keep fancying all this time that you have something to tell me—make haste and tell it, for time is precious and very likely it will soon be too late.’ ‘Why in such haste?’ asked Svidrigaïlov, looking at him curiously. ‘Everyone has his plans,’ Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently. ‘You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first question you refuse to answer,’ Svidrigaïlov observed with a smile. ‘You keep fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me with suspicion. Of course it’s perfectly natural in your position. But though I should like to be friends with you, I shan’t trouble myself to convince you of the contrary. The game isn’t worth the candle and I wasn’t intending to talk to you about anything special.’ ‘What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging about me.’ ‘Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked the fantastic nature of your position—that’s what it was! Besides you are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which I gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn’t that enough? Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to me not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing something new. Isn’t that so? Isn’t that so?’ persisted Svidrigaïlov with a sly smile. ‘Well, can’t you fancy then that I, too, on my way here in the train was reckoning on you, on your telling me something new, and on my making some profit out of you! You see what rich men we are!’ ‘What profit could you make?’ ‘How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend all my time and it’s my enjoyment, that’s to say it’s no great enjoyment, but one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now—you saw her? … If only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see I can eat this.’ He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a terrible-looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish. ‘Have you dined, by the way? I’ve had something and want nothing more. I don’t drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I never touch anything, and not more Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com than a glass of that all the evening, and even that is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it just now to wind myself up, for I am just going off somewhere and you see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I hid myself just now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid you would hinder me. But I believe,’ he pulled out his watch, ‘I can spend an hour with you. It’s half-past four now. If only I’d been something, a landowner, a father, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist … I am nothing, no specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you would tell me something new.’ ‘But what are you, and why have you come here?’ ‘What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the cavalry, then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!’ ‘You are a gambler, I believe?’ ‘No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper—not a gambler.’ ‘You have been a card-sharper then?’ ‘Yes, I’ve been a card-sharper too.’ ‘Didn’t you get thrashed sometimes?’ ‘It did happen. Why?’ ‘Why, you might have challenged them … altogether it must have been lively.’ ‘I won’t contradict you, and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women.’ ‘As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?’ ‘Quite so,’ Svidrigaïlov smiled with engaging candour. ‘What of it? You seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about women?’ ‘You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?’ ‘Vice! Oh, that’s what you are after! But I’ll answer you in order, first about women in general; you know I am fond of talking. Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up women, since I have a passion for them? It’s an occupation, anyway.’ ‘So you hope for nothing here but vice?’ ‘Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But anyway I like a direct question. In this vice at least there is something permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on fantasy, something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember, for ever setting one on fire and, maybe, not to be quickly extinguished, even with years. You’ll agree it’s an occupation of a sort.’ ‘That’s nothing to rejoice at, it’s a disease and a dangerous one.’ ‘Oh, that’s what you think, is it! I agree, that it is a disease like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one must exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in one way or another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to be moderate and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to do? If I hadn’t this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but yet …’ ‘And could you shoot yourself?’ ‘Oh, come!’ Svidrigaïlov parried with disgust. ‘Please Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com don’t speak of it,’ he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had shown in all the previous conversation. His face quite changed. ‘I admit it’s an unpardonable weakness, but I can’t help it. I am afraid of death and I dislike its being talked of. Do you know that I am to a certain extent a mystic?’ ‘Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting you?’ ‘Oh, don’t talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg, confound them!’ he cried with an air of irritation. ‘Let’s rather talk of that … though … H’m! I have not much time, and can’t stay long with you, it’s a pity! I should have found plenty to tell you.’ ‘What’s your engagement, a woman?’ ‘Yes, a woman, a casual incident…. No, that’s not what I want to talk of.’ ‘And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings, doesn’t that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?’ ‘And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so. You preach to me about vice and æsthetics! You—a Schiller, you—an idealist! Of course that’s all as it should be and it would be surprising if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality…. Ah, what a pity I have no time, for you’re a most interesting type! And, by-the-way, are you fond of Schiller? I am awfully fond of him.’ ‘But what a braggart you are,’ Raskolnikov said with some disgust. 0 ‘Upon my word, I am not,’ answered Svidrigaïlov laughing. ‘However, I won’t dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I come across an intelligent person like you—intelligent and highly interesting—I am simply glad to talk and, besides, I’ve drunk that half-glass of champagne and it’s gone to my head a little. And besides, there’s a certain fact that has wound me up tremendously, but about that I … will keep quiet. Where are you off to?’ he asked in alarm. Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and, as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that Svidrigaïlov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth. ‘A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!’ Svidrigaïlov begged. ‘Let them bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won’t talk nonsense, about myself, I mean. I’ll tell you something. If you like I’ll tell you how a woman tried ‘to save’ me, as you would call it? It will be an answer to your first question indeed, for the woman was your sister. May I tell you? It will help to spend the time.’ ‘Tell me, but I trust that you …’ ‘Oh, don’t be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like me, Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect.’ 1 Chapter IV ‘You know perhaps—yes, I told you myself,’ began Svidrigaïlov, ‘that I was in the debtors’ prison here, for an immense sum, and had not any expectation of being able to pay it. There’s no need to go into particulars how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to what a point of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest woman, and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you believe that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of hysterics and reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of contract with me which she kept throughout our married life? She was considerably older than I, and besides, she always kept a clove or something in her mouth. There was so much swinishness in my soul and honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her straight out that I couldn’t be absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove her to frenzy, but yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that’s the first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I—which God forbid—should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that’s where the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we must renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your judgment rather than in anyone’s. Perhaps you have already heard a great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I feel really sorry for the innumerable woes of which I was the cause. Well, and that’s enough, I think, by way of a decorous oraison funèbre for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled, I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly conduct rarely failed to attain its object, it influenced her, it pleased her, indeed. These were times when she was positively proud of me. But your sister she couldn’t put up with, anyway. And however she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as a governess. My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and impressionable woman and simply fell in love herself—literally fell in love—with your sister. Well, little Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com wonder—look at Avdotya Romanovna! I saw the danger at the first glance and what do you think, I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna herself made the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it too that Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first for my persistent silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don’t know what it was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling literally everyone all our family secrets and continually complaining of me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were current about me…. I don’t mind betting that you too have heard something of the sort already?’ ‘I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child. Is that true?’ ‘Don’t refer to those vulgar tales, I beg,’ said Svidrigaïlov with disgust and annoyance. ‘If you insist on wanting to know about all that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now …’ ‘I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom you treated badly.’ ‘I beg you to drop the subject,’ Svidrigaïlov interrupted again with obvious impatience. ‘Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your pipe? … you told me about it yourself.’ Raskolnikov felt more and more irritated. Svidrigaïlov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigaïlov restrained himself and answered very civilly: ‘Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass for a romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful I must be to Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in my interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna’s natural aversion and in spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect—she did at least feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl’s heart is moved to pity it’s more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to ‘save him,’ to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness—well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at once that the bird was flying into the cage of herself. And I too made ready. I think you are frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There’s no need. As you know, it all ended in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I am drinking!) Do you know, I always, from the very beginning, regretted that it wasn’t your sister’s fate to be born in the second or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or some governor or pro-consul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled when they branded her bosom with Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com hot pincers. And she would have gone to it of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting to face some torture for someone, and if she can’t get her torture, she’ll throw herself out of a window. I’ve heard something of a Mr. Razumihin—he’s said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it, indeed. He’s probably a divinity student. Well, he’d better look after your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be more heedless and stupid. One doesn’t see clearly. Hang it all, why is she so handsome? It’s not my fault. In fact, it began on my side with a most irresistible physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you this about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in spite of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. There happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a black-eyed wench, whom I had never seen before—she had just come from another village—very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst into tears, wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and caused scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes insisted on my leaving poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves. I, of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties, supplications, even tears—would you believe it, even tears? Think what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting for light, and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It’s the well-known resource—flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be sure to seem true. That’s so for all stages of development and classes of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can never remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was devoted to her husband, her children, and her principles. What fun it was and how little trouble! And the lady really had principles—of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so that I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled. I maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com firmly convinced that she was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations and had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me when I explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on the side of flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all her property settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won’t be angry if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it all. Avdotya Romanovna had several times—and one time in particular—been greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes, would you believe it? There was sometimes a light in them which frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a tremendous to-do. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how your sister’s eyes can flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at this moment and having had a whole glass of wine. I am speaking the truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very rustle of her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really began to think that I might become epileptic. I could never have believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential, indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch. I reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar (ach, excuse me, that’s not the word … but does it matter if it expresses the meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and you to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved to offer her all my money—thirty thousand roubles I could have realised then—if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of course I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she had told me to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry herself, it would have been done at once! But it ended in the catastrophe of which you know already. You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin, and had almost made a match between them—which would really have been just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it? I notice that you’ve begun to be very attentive … you interesting young man….’ Svidrigaïlov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him— and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov. ‘Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister,’ he Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com said directly to Svidrigaïlov, in order to irritate him further. ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Svidrigaïlov, seeming to rouse himself. ‘Why, I told you … besides your sister can’t endure me.’ ‘Yes, I am certain that she can’t, but that’s not the point.’ ‘Are you so sure that she can’t?’ Svidrigaïlov screwed up his eyes and smiled mockingly. ‘You are right, she doesn’t love me, but you can never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress. There’s always a little corner which remains a secret to the world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with aversion?’ ‘From some words you’ve dropped, I notice that you still have designs —and of course evil ones—on Dounia and mean to carry them out promptly.’ ‘What, have I dropped words like that?’ Svidrigaïlov asked in naïve dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet bestowed on his designs. ‘Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened? What are you so afraid of now?’ ‘Me—afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, cher ami. But what nonsense…. I’ve drunk too much though, I see that. I was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!’ He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony out of the window. Philip brought the water. ‘That’s all nonsense!’ said Svidrigaïlov, wetting a towel and putting it to his head. ‘But I can answer you in one 0 word and annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get married?’ ‘You told me so before.’ ‘Did I? I’ve forgotten. But I couldn’t have told you so for certain for I had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now I really have a betrothed and it’s a settled thing, and if it weren’t that I have business that can’t be put off, I would have taken you to see them at once, for I should like to ask your advice. Ach, hang it, only ten minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must tell you, for it’s an interesting story, my marriage, in its own way. Where are you off to? Going again?’ ‘No, I’m not going away now.’ ‘Not at all? We shall see. I’ll take you there, I’ll show you my betrothed, only not now. For you’ll soon have to be off. You have to go to the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich, the woman I am lodging with now, eh? I know what you’re thinking, that she’s the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter. Come, are you listening? She arranged it all for me. You’re bored, she said, you want something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a gloomy, depressed person. Do you think I’m light-hearted? No, I’m gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking a word for three days at a time. And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell you. I know what she has got in her mind; she thinks I shall get sick of it, abandon my wife and depart, and she’ll get hold of her and make a profit out of her—in our class, of course, or higher. She told me the father was a broken-down retired official, who has been sitting in a chair 1 for the last three years with his legs paralysed. The mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving in the provinces, but he doesn’t help; there is a daughter, who is married, but she doesn’t visit them. And they’ve two little nephews on their hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they’ve taken from school their youngest daughter, a girl who’ll be sixteen in another month, so that then she can be married. She was for me. We went there. How funny it was! I present myself—a landowner, a widower, of a well- known name, with connections, with a fortune. What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But it’s fascinating, isn’t it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying to have seen me at that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy, still in a short frock—an unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset—she had been told, no doubt. I don’t know how you feel about female faces, but to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and tears of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect little picture, too. Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb’s, full little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer! … Well, we made friends. I told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her there…. Well, she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her mamma of course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this must be so. It’s simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called la nature et la vérité ha-ha! I’ve talked to her twice, she is far from a fool. Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her face is like Raphael’s Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna’s face has something fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy. Haven’t you noticed it? Well, she’s something in that line. The day after we’d been betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of fifteen hundred roubles—a set of diamonds and another of pearls and a silver dressing-case as large as this, with all sorts of things in it, so that even my Madonna’s face glowed. I sat her on my knee, yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously—she flushed crimson and the tears started, but she didn’t want to show it. We were left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first time of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me, and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife, would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in return is my respect and that she wants ‘nothing, nothing more from me, no presents.’ You’ll admit that to hear such a confession, alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinating! Isn’t it fascinating? It’s worth paying for, isn’t it? Well … listen, we’ll go to see my betrothed, only not just now!’ ‘The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Why, of course. Everyone thinks of himself, and he lives most gaily who knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so keen about virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful man. Ha- ha-ha!’ ‘But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna. Though … though you had your own reasons…. I understand it all now.’ ‘I am always fond of children, very fond of them,’ laughed Svidrigaïlov. ‘I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven years I simply rushed at them. You probably notice that I am not in a hurry to renew acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the country, I was haunted by the thought of these places where anyone who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes, upon my soul! The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out from activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money, and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour the town reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful den—I like my dens dirty—it was a dance, so called, and there was a cancan such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one visà-vis. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can’t fancy what a cancan that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began whirling her round and performing before her; everyone laughed and—I like your public, even the cancan public—they laughed and shouted, ‘Serves her right— serves her right! Shouldn’t bring children!’ Well, it’s not my business whether that consoling reflection was logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by the mother, and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that people here were ill-bred and that they couldn’t distinguish decent folks and treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of money, offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home and got to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hole and had only just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her daughter could only regard my acquaintance as an honour. I found out that they had nothing of their own and had come to town upon some legal business. I proffered my services and money. I learnt that they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it was a genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl’s education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm as an honour—and we are still friendly…. If you like, we’ll go and see them, only not just now.’ ‘Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!’ ‘Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O la vertu va-t-elle se nicher? But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries!’ ‘I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,’ muttered Raskolnikov angrily. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Svidrigaïlov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up. ‘I say, but I am drunk, assez causé ’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’ ‘I should rather think it must be a pleasure!’ cried Raskolnikov, getting up. ‘No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind—especially under such circumstances and to such a man as me…. It’s stimulating!’ ‘Well, if you come to that,’ Svidrigaïlov answered, scrutinising Raskolnikov with some surprise, ‘if you come to that, you are a thorough cynic yourself. You’ve plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal … and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan’t lose sight of you…. Only wait a bit.’ Svidrigaïlov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigaïlov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svidrigaïlov and resolved to follow him. They came out on to the pavement. ‘You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way. Only adieu, mon plaisir may we meet again.’ And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter V Raskolnikov walked after him. ‘What’s this?’ cried Svidrigaïlov turning round, ‘I thought I said …’ ‘It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.’ ‘What?’ Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their strength. ‘From all your half tipsy stories,’ Raskolnikov observed harshly, ‘I am positive that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time…. You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself.’ Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he wished to make certain. ‘Upon my word! I’ll call the police!’ ‘Call away!’ Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigaïlov’s face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air. ‘What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It’s a fantas- tic affair. I’ve put it off till another time, but you’re enough to rouse the dead…. Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?’ ‘I’m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to say I’m sorry not to have been at the funeral.’ ‘That’s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her. That’s why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time.’ ‘No matter, I’ll come all the same.’ ‘As you like, it’s nothing to me, but I won’t come with you; here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you with questions … you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don’t mind betting it’s that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!’ ‘And to listen at doors!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘Ah, that’s it, is it?’ laughed Svidrigaïlov. ‘Yes, I should have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can’t understand. For goodness’ sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!’ ‘You couldn’t have heard anything. You’re making it all up!’ ‘But I’m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I’m talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that’s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance: you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that one mustn’t listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one’s pleasure, you’d better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man! There may still be time. I’m speaking sincerely. Haven’t you the money? I’ll give you the fare.’ ‘I’m not thinking of that at all,’ Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. ‘I understand (but don’t put yourself out, don’t discuss it if you don’t want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over— moral ones, aren’t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You’ll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It’s no use taking up a 0 job you are not fit for. Well, you’d better shoot yourself, or don’t you want to?’ ‘You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.’ ‘What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that’s the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don’t you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won’t be till late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn’t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich’s not at home. She is a woman who is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you…. She might have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five-per-cent bond out of the bureau— see what a lot I’ve got of them still—this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn’t waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I’m going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? I’ll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, we’ll put down the hood….’ Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigaïlov get out not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. 1 Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigaïlov. ‘To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!’ he cried. Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigaïlov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this. When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him. He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigaïlov coming quickly from the direction of the Hay Market. He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov’s seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had been making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come to him. That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to Svidrigaïlov. ‘Let us make haste away,’ Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, ‘I don’t want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I’ve been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me up and I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn’t you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then?’ ‘Well, we’ve turned the corner now,’ Dounia interrupted, ‘and my brother won’t see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street.’ ‘In the first place, I can’t say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers…. Oh well, if you won’t agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brother’s is entirely in my keeping.’ Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with searching eyes. ‘What are you afraid of?’ he observed quietly. ‘The town is not the country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you.’ ‘Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?’ ‘No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to-day: she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For the time I don’t want to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That’s the porter of our house—he knows me very well; you see, he’s bowing; he sees I’m coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so coarsely. I haven’t a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna’s room is next to mine—she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?’ Svidrigaïlov’s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to her. ‘Though I know that you are not a man … of honour, I am not in the least afraid of you. Lead the way,’ she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale. Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia’s room. ‘Allow me to inquire whether she is at home…. She is not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she’s gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead…. I’ve been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of evidence: this door from my bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are … You must look into them with some attention.’ Svidrigaïlov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was looking about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance, that Svidrigaïlov’s flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady’s two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Svidrigaïlov showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was called to look upon, but Svidrigaïlov hastened to explain. ‘Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it’s locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofya Semyonovna’s table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours each time—and of course I was able to learn something, what do you think?’ ‘You listened?’ ‘Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can’t sit down here.’ He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sittingroom and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but probably Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com there was the same glow in his eyes which had once frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigaïlov’s lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress. ‘Here is your letter,’ she said, laying it on the table. ‘Can it be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren’t deny it now. I must tell you that I’d heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don’t believe a word of it. It’s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!’ Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed to her face. ‘If you didn’t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?’ ‘Don’t torment me. Speak, speak!’ ‘There’s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It’s spirited of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But everything is divine in you…. About your brother, what am I to say to you? You’ve just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?’ ‘Surely that’s not the only thing you are building on?’ ‘No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I’ve shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various things…. He told all this, word for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don’t be anxious, she won’t betray him.’ ‘It cannot be,’ muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for breath. ‘It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground…. It’s a lie, a lie!’ ‘He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It’s true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or things, but hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he dared not make use of them.’ ‘But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?’ cried Dounia, and she jumped up from the chair. ‘Why, you know him, and you’ve seen him, can he be a thief?’ She seemed to be imploring Svidrigaïlov; she had entirely forgotten her fear. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ‘There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I’ve heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have believed it myself if I’d been told of it as you have, but I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya Semyonovna too, but she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last.’ ‘What … were the causes?’ ‘It’s a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here’s … how shall I tell you?—A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It’s galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister’s and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too…. I am not blaming him, please don’t think it; besides, it’s not my business. A special little theory came in too—a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It’s all right as a theory, une théorie comme une autre. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius too—that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that’s humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially….’ ‘But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?’ ‘Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas, Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it’s a misfortune to be broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotya Romanovna. At the best someone will make them up somehow for himself out of books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all old fogeys, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com we’ve talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my opinions…. You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna.’ ‘I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all is permitted. Razumihin brought it to me.’ ‘Mr. Razumihin? Your brother’s article? In a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn’t know. It must be interesting. But where are you going, Avdotya Romanovna?’ ‘I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,’ Dounia articulated faintly. ‘How do I go to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once. Perhaps she …’ Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her. ‘Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe not. She was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will not be in till quite late.’ ‘Ah, then you are lying! I see … you were lying … lying all the time…. I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!’ cried Dounia, completely losing her head. Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigaïlov made haste to give her. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little….’ He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to herself. ‘It has acted violently,’ Svidrigaïlov muttered to himself, frowning. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a ticket in three days. 0 And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel?’ ‘Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go …’ ‘Where are you going?’ ‘To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in at that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?’ ‘We couldn’t be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am far from jeering; it’s simply that I’m sick of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being watched; they are already on his track. You will simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it thoroughly. But do sit down!’ ‘How can you save him? Can he really be saved?’ Dounia sat down. Svidrigaïlov sat down beside her. ‘It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,’ he begin with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion. Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over. ‘You … one word from you, and he is saved. I … I’ll save him. I have money and friends. I’ll send him away at once. I’ll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends … capable people…. If you like, I’ll take 1 a passport for you … for your mother…. What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too…. I love you beyond everything…. Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me…. The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, ‘do that,’ and I’ll do it. I’ll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I’ll do anything —anything! Don’t, don’t look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me? …’ He was almost beginning to rave…. Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door. ‘Open it! Open it!’ she called, shaking the door. ‘Open it! Is there no one there?’ Svidrigaïlov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile. ‘There is no one at home,’ he said quietly and emphatically. ‘The landlady has gone out, and it’s waste of time to shout like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly.’ ‘Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!’ ‘I have lost the key and cannot find it.’ ‘This is an outrage,’ cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a little table. She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made. Svidrigaïlov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face. ‘You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you may be sure I’ve taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The Kapernaumovs are far away—there are five locked rooms between. I am at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings? So that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing. It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna.’ ‘Scoundrel!’ whispered Dounia indignantly. ‘As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general proposition. It’s my personal conviction that you are perfectly right —violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no remorse even if … you were willing to save your brother of your own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think about it. Your brother’s and your mother’s fate are in your hands. I will be your slave … all my life … I will wait here.’ Svidrigaïlov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigaïlov jumped up. ‘Aha! So that’s it, is it?’ he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously. ‘Well, that completely alters the aspect of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com affairs. You’ve made things wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it’s my revolver, an old friend! And how I’ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons I’ve given you in the country have not been thrown away.’ ‘It’s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed, wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I swear I’ll kill you.’ She was frantic. ‘But your brother? I ask from curiosity,’ said Svidrigaïlov, still standing where he was. ‘Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer! I’ll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!’ She held the revolver ready. ‘Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?’ ‘You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison…. I know you went to get it … you had it in readiness…. It was your doing…. It must have been your doing…. Scoundrel!’ ‘Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake … you would have been the cause.’ ‘You are lying! I hated you always, always….’ ‘Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?’ ‘That’s a lie,’ there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes, ‘that’s a lie and a libel!’ ‘A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not to be reminded of such things,’ he smiled. ‘I know you will shoot, you pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!’ Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and laughed softly. ‘The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What’s this? Blood?’ he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just grazed the skin. Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what she was doing and what was going on. ‘Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,’ said Svidrigaïlov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. ‘If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again.’ Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it. ‘Let me be,’ she cried in despair. ‘I swear I’ll shoot again. I … I’ll kill you.’ ‘Well … at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t … then.’ His eyes flashed and he took two steps for- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ward. Dounia shot again: it missed fire. ‘You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.’ He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. ‘And … now, of course she would kill him, at two paces!’ Suddenly she flung away the revolver. ‘She’s dropped it!’ said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart—perhaps not only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter, which he could not himself have defined. He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound. ‘Let me go,’ Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different. ‘Then you don’t love me?’ he asked softly. Dounia shook her head. ‘And … and you can’t? Never?’ he whispered in despair. ‘Never!’ There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it. Another moment passed. ‘Here’s the key.’ He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia. ‘Take it! Make haste!’ He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to take the key. ‘Make haste! Make haste!’ repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that ‘make haste.’ Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge. Svidrigaïlov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went out. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter VI He spent that evening till ten o’clock going from one low haunt to another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain ‘villain and tyrant began kissing Katia.’ Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three- year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a ‘Vauxhall,’ which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon be- longing to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything. It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening stormclouds came over the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each flash lasted while one could count five. Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home. She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror. Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen. ‘I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,’ said Svidrigaïlov, ‘and as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to you, you need not tell me.’ (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) ‘Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them I’ve put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take them! Well now, that’s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now.’ ‘I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my stepmother,’ said Sonia hurriedly, ‘and if I’ve said so little … please don’t consider …’ ‘That’s enough! that’s enough!’ ‘But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you, but I don’t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don’t think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money….’ ‘It’s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don’t waste words over it. I haven’t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia.’ (Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) ‘Don’t be uneasy, I know all about it from himself and I am not a gossip; I won’t tell anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much bet- 00 ter for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That’s so, isn’t it? And if so, you’ll need money. You’ll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what’s owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna’s debt and not yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can’t get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about me—to-morrow or the day after you will be asked—don’t say anything about my coming to see you now and don’t show the money to anyone or say a word about it. Well, now good- bye.’ (He got up.) ‘My greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you’d better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin’s keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He’s not a bad fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or … when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully.’ Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigaïlov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin. ‘How can you … how can you be going now, in such rain?’ ‘Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good- bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use to others. By the way … tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure to.’ 01 He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague apprehension. It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigaïlov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see Svidrigaïlov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something—for instance, when Svidrigaïlov would like to have the wedding—she would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with, that she had already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared. Svidrigaïlov informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, 0 and therefore brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Svidrigaïlov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth—there was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high society didn’t think of what was said of them and didn’t stand on ceremony. Pos- 0 sibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya, the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up whispering till two o’clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful. Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and 0 led him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly. ‘Is there tea?’ asked Svidrigaïlov. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘What else is there?’ ‘Veal, vodka, savouries.’ ‘Bring me tea and veal.’ ‘And you want nothing else?’ he asked with apparent surprise. ‘Nothing, nothing.’ The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned. ‘It must be a nice place,’ thought Svidrigaïlov. ‘How was it I didn’t know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stay here?’ He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain- stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour—yellow—could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs. Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted 0 his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice. Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed. The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn’t want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. 0 He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. ‘It would have been better to be well for the occasion,’ he thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. ‘It must be a garden under the window,’ he thought. ‘There’s a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling.’ He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. ‘I never have liked water,’ he thought, ‘even in a landscape,’ and he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea: ‘Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place … for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations! … By the way, why haven’t I put out the candle?’ he blew it out. ‘They’ve gone to bed next door,’ he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. ‘Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won’t come!’ He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s keeping. ‘I suppose I really did 0 say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he’s got over his nonsense. But now he’s too eager for life. These young men are contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him please himself, it’s nothing to do with me.’ He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia’s image rose before him, and a shudder ran over him. ‘No, I must give up all that now,’ he thought, rousing himself. ‘I must think of something else. It’s queer and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularly desired to avenge myself even, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper— that’s a bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too— Damnation! But—who knows?—perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow….’ He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia’s image rose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at that instant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at his heart … ‘Aïe! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!’ He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He started. ‘Ugh! hang it! I believe 0 it’s a mouse,’ he thought, ‘that’s the veal I left on the table.’ He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill he bent down to examine the bed: there was nothing. He shook the blanket and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand and suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up. The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window. ‘How disgusting,’ he thought with annoyance. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to the window. ‘It’s better not to sleep at all,’ he decided. There was a cold damp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A 0 fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed 10 that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled…. Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as in a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Svidrigaïlov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. ‘Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing,’ he thought. ‘By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time is it now?’ And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three. ‘Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain, so that as soon as one’s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one’s head.’ He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the 11 candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. ‘It’s the best minute; I couldn’t choose a better.’ He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. ‘How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night.’ He began questioning her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language, something about ‘mammy’ and that ‘mammy would beat her,’ and about some cup that she had ‘bwoken.’ The child chattered on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken a cup of her mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere 1 outside in the rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again. ‘What folly to trouble myself,’ he decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. ‘What idiocy!’ In vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away. ‘Damn the child!’ he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. ‘It’s a flush of fever,’ thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying 1 to control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin, a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited him…. There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. ‘What, at five years old?’ Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. ‘What does it mean?’ And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms…. ‘Accursed child!’ Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to strike her, but at that moment he woke up. He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows. ‘I’ve had nightmare all night!’ He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up, put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch 1 it. At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he was in the street. A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the bush…. He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. ‘Bah!’ he shouted, ‘here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway….’ He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly 1 printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word. ‘What do you want here?’ he said, without moving or changing his position. ‘Nothing, brother, good morning,’ answered Svidrigaïlov. ‘This isn’t the place.’ ‘I am going to foreign parts, brother.’ ‘To foreign parts?’ ‘To America.’ ‘America.’ Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows. ‘I say, this is not the place for such jokes!’ ‘Why shouldn’t it be the place?’ ‘Because it isn’t.’ ‘Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.’ He put the revolver to his right temple. ‘You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,’ cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger. Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger. 1 Chapter VII The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother’s and sister’s lodging—the lodging in Bakaleyev’s house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision was taken. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,’ he thought, ‘and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.’ He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a night’s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. ‘Here you are!’ she began, faltering with joy. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got into such a stupid habit of 1 shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever since your father’s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.’ ‘I was in the rain yesterday, mother….’ Raskolnikov began. ‘No, no,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, ‘you thought I was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don’t be anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy … ? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: ‘There, foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he is busy about; that’s the solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him.’ I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natural—how should I?’ ‘Show me, mother.’ Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation 1 that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. ‘But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading—if not the leading man—in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it—what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines—the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they should be taken—they weren’t! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters….’ ‘Dounia’s not at home, mother?’ ‘No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don’t say that Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have 1 mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me … but I don’t know what it will all lead to. You’ve made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I’ll tell her: ‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now to comfort your mother, I see that.’ Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry. ‘Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here?’ she cried, jumping up. ‘There is coffee and I don’t offer you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of old age. I’ll get it at once!’ ‘Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come for that. Please listen to me.’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly. ‘Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now?’ he asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them. ‘Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? 0 Besides, I shouldn’t believe anyone, I should refuse to listen.’ ‘I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,’ he went on with the same impulse. ‘I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you…. Well, that’s enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this….’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently. ‘I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that’s why you are miserable. I’ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn’t make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are going away somewhere?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly—and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter 1 even … Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together. But … where … are you going?’ ‘Good-bye, mother.’ ‘What, to-day?’ she cried, as though losing him for ever. ‘I can’t stay, I must go now….’ ‘And can’t I come with you?’ ‘No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach Him.’ ‘Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That’s right, that’s right. Oh, God, what are we doing?’ Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had realised that something awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him. ‘Rodya, my darling, my first born,’ she said sobbing, ‘now you are just as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I’ve been crying lately, it’s that my mother’s heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?’ ‘No!’ ‘You’ll come again?’ ‘Yes … I’ll come.’ ‘Rodya, don’t be angry, I don’t dare to question you. I know I mustn’t. Only say two words to me—is it far where you are going?’ ‘Very far.’ ‘What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?’ ‘What God sends … only pray for me.’ Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror. ‘Enough, mother,’ said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come. ‘Not for ever, it’s not yet for ever? You’ll come, you’ll come to-morrow?’ ‘I will, I will, good-bye.’ He tore himself away at last. It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him intently. ‘Can anyone have come to see me?’ he wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew. ‘Am I to come in or go away?’ he asked uncertainly. ‘I’ve been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come there.’ Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair. ‘I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself.’ He glanced at her mistrustfully. ‘Where were you all night?’ ‘I don’t remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there, but … I couldn’t make up my mind,’ he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again. ‘Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!’ Raskolnikov smiled bitterly. ‘I haven’t faith, but I have just been weeping in mother’s arms; I haven’t faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don’t know how it is, Dounia, I don’t understand it.’ ‘Have you been at mother’s? Have you told her?’ cried Dounia, horror- stricken. ‘Surely you haven’t done that?’ ‘No, I didn’t tell her … in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in go- ing to see her. I don’t know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia.’ ‘A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I’d better not be afraid of disgrace,’ he said, hurrying on. ‘It’s pride, Dounia.’ ‘Pride, Rodya.’ There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud. ‘You don’t think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?’ he asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile. ‘Oh, Rodya, hush!’ cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up. ‘It’s late, it’s time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I don’t know why I am going to give myself up.’ Big tears fell down her cheeks. ‘You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?’ ‘You doubted it?’ She threw her arms round him. ‘Aren’t you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?’ she cried, holding him close and kissing him. ‘Crime? What crime?’ he cried in sudden fury. ‘That I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com use to no one! … Killing her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? ‘A crime! a crime!’ Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It’s simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that … Porfiry … suggested!’ ‘Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?’ cried Dounia in despair. ‘Which all men shed,’ he put in almost frantically, ‘which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed…. (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison…. But I … I couldn’t carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that’s what’s the matter! And yet I won’t look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I’m trapped.’ ‘But that’s not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?’ ‘Ah, it’s not picturesque, not æsthetically attractive! I fail to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I’ve never, never recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I’ve never, never been stronger and more convinced than now.’ The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia’s eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the cause … ‘Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won’t dispute. It’s time, high time to go. Don’t follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go…. But you go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It’s my last request of you. Don’t leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be with you. I’ve been talking to him…. Don’t cry about me: I’ll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won’t disgrace you, you will see; I’ll still show…. Now good-bye for the present,’ he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Dounia’s eyes at his last words and promises. ‘Why are you crying? Don’t cry, don’t cry: we are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I’d forgotten!’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady’s daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dounia. ‘I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,’ he returned to Dounia, ‘she was as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two,’ he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. ‘Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What’s the object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years’ penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!’ At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly. ‘I am wicked, I see that,’ he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. ‘But why are they so fond of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never loved anyone! Nothing of all this would have happened. But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal? Yes, that’s it, that’s it, that’s what they are sending me there for, that’s what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they’d be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!’ He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately—humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Chapter VIII When he went into Sonia’s room, it was already getting dark. All day Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigaïlov’s words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became. Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask, but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia’s gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life. Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were 0 less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives—Siberia or … Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith. ‘Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to make him live?’ she thought at last in despair. Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to feel sure of his death—he walked into the room. She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned pale. ‘Yes,’ said Raskolnikov, smiling. ‘I have come for your cross, Sonia. It was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened now it’s come to that?’ Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid meeting her eyes. ‘You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so. There is one fact…. But it’s a long story and there’s no need to discuss it. But do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid questions, which I shall have to answer—they’ll point their fingers at me…. Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I’d rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how 1 I shall surprise him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I’ve become too irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my sister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It’s a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the crosses?’ He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly. Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck. ‘It’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,’ he laughed. ‘As though I had not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta’s—you will wear yourself, show me! So she had it on … at that moment? I remember two things like these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old woman’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I ought to put on now…. But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what matters; I’m somehow forgetful…. You see I have come to warn you, Sonia, so that you might know … that’s all— that’s all I came for. But I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I am going to prison and you’ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying for? You too? Don’t. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!’ But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. ‘Why is she grieving too?’ he thought to himself. ‘What am I to her? Why does she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She’ll be my nurse.’ ‘Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,’ Sonia begged in a timid broken voice. ‘Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely….’ But he wanted to say something quite different. He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put it over her head. It was the green drap de dames shawl of which Marmeladov had spoken, ‘the family shawl.’ Raskolnikov thought of that looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia meant to go with him. ‘What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I’ll go alone,’ he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved towards the door. ‘What’s the use of going in procession?’ he muttered going out. Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt surged in his heart. ‘Was it right, was it right, all this?’ he thought again as he went down the stairs. ‘Couldn’t he stop and retract it all … and not go?’ But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn’t ask himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he had not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com not daring to stir after he had shouted at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike him then. ‘Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her—on business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was going; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!’ He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it went to the Hay Market. He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. ‘In another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember this!’ slipped into his mind. ‘Look at this sign! How shall I read those letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a thing to remember, that letter a and to look at it again in a month—how shall I look at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then? … How trivial it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be interesting … in its way … (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how people shove! that fat man—a German he must be—who pushed against me, does he know whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby, begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five copeck piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here … take it, my good woman!’ ‘God bless you,’ the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice. He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to be in a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that he would not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk and disorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falling down. There was a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd, stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a short jerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him, though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where he was; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenly came over him, overwhelming him body and mind. He suddenly recalled Sonia’s words, ‘Go to the crossroads, bow down to the people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and say aloud to the whole world, ‘I am a murderer.’’ He trembled, remembering that. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especial- Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com ly of the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positively clutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It came over him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul and spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and the tears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot…. He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, and kissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and bowed down a second time. ‘He’s boozed,’ a youth near him observed. There was a roar of laughter. ‘He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his children and his country. He’s bowing down to all the world and kissing the great city of St. Petersburg and its pavement,’ added a workman who was a little drunk. ‘Quite a young man, too!’ observed a third. ‘And a gentleman,’ someone observed soberly. ‘There’s no knowing who’s a gentleman and who isn’t nowadays.’ These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, ‘I am a murderer,’ which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips, died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without looking round, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had a glimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had felt that it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market he saw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She had followed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment felt and knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung his heart … but he was just reaching the fatal place. He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the third storey. ‘I shall be some time going up,’ he thought. He felt as though the fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of time left for consideration. Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiral stairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens and the same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, but still they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, to collect himself, so as to enter like a man. ‘But why? what for?’ he wondered, reflecting. ‘If I must drink the cup what difference does it make? The more revolting the better.’ He imagined for an instant the figure of the ‘explosive lieutenant,’ Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actually going to him? Couldn’t he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s lodgings? At least then it would be done privately…. No, no! To the ‘explosive lieutenant’! If he must drink it, drink it off at once. Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office. There were very few people in it this time— only a house porter and a peasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. ‘Perhaps I still need not speak,’ passed Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform was settling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk was seating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch. ‘No one in?’ Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau. ‘Whom do you want?’ ‘A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent the Russian … how does it go on in the fairy tale … I’ve forgotten! ‘At your service!’’ a familiar voice cried suddenly. Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room. ‘It is the hand of fate,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Why is he here?’ ‘You’ve come to see us? What about?’ cried Ilya Petrovitch. He was obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifle exhilarated. ‘If it’s on business you are rather early.[*] It’s only a chance that I am here … however I’ll do what I can. I must admit, I … what is it, what is it? Excuse me….’ [*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for coming too late.—TRANSLATOR. ‘Raskolnikov.’ ‘Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t imagine I’d forgotten? Don’t think I am like that … Rodion Ro—Ro—Rodionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?’ ‘Rodion Romanovitch.’ ‘Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. I made many inquiries about you. I assure you I’ve been genuinely grieved since that … since I behaved like that … it was explained to me afterwards that you were a literary man … and a learned one too … and so to say the first steps … Mercy on us! What literary or scientific man does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I have the greatest respect for literature, in my wife it’s a genuine passion! Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can be gained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat—well, what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; but what’s under the hat, what the hat covers, I can’t buy that! I was even meaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you’d … But I am forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear your family have come?’ ‘Yes, my mother and sister.’ ‘I’ve even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister—a highly cultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot with you. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your fainting fit—that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging on account of your family’s arriving?’ ‘No, I only looked in … I came to ask … I thought that I should find Zametov here.’ ‘Oh, yes! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov is not here. Yes, we’ve lost Zametov. He’s not been here since yesterday … he quarrelled with everyone on Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com leaving … in the rudest way. He is a feather-headed youngster, that’s all; one might have expected something from him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men. He wanted to go in for some examination, but it’s only to talk and boast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it’s a very different matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Your career is an intellectual one and you won’t be deterred by failure. For you, one may say, all the attractions of life nihil est—you are an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! … A book, a pen behind your ear, a learned research—that’s where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself…. Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know, and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? I ask you. But we thought … you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer me openly, openly!’ ‘N-no …’ ‘Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself! Official duty is one thing but … you are thinking I meant to say friendship is quite another? No, you’re wrong! It’s not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and of love for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always bound to feel myself a man and a citizen…. You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of bad reputation, over a glass of champagne … that’s all your Zametov is good for! While I’m perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and lofty feelings, and besides I have rank, conse- 0 quence, a post! I am married and have children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who is he, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education … Then these midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous.’ Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of Ilya Petrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part a stream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. He looked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end. ‘I mean those crop-headed wenches,’ the talkative Ilya Petrovitch continued. ‘Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactory one, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, am I to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!’ Ilya Petrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. ‘It’s an immoderate zeal for education, but once you’re educated, that’s enough. Why abuse it? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how common they are, you can’t fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and kill themselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heard about a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, what was the name of that gentleman who shot himself?’ ‘Svidrigaïlov,’ someone answered from the other room with drowsy listlessness. Raskolnikov started. ‘Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov has shot himself!’ he cried. ‘What, do you know Svidrigaïlov?’ 1 ‘Yes … I knew him…. He hadn’t been here long.’ ‘Yes, that’s so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits and all of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way…. He left in his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of his faculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, they say. How did you come to know him?’ ‘I … was acquainted … my sister was governess in his family.’ ‘Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You had no suspicion?’ ‘I saw him yesterday … he … was drinking wine; I knew nothing.’ Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stifling him. ‘You’ve turned pale again. It’s so stuffy here …’ ‘Yes, I must go,’ muttered Raskolnikov. ‘Excuse my troubling you….’ ‘Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It’s a pleasure to see you and I am glad to say so.’ Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand. ‘I only wanted … I came to see Zametov.’ ‘I understand, I understand, and it’s a pleasure to see you.’ ‘I … am very glad … good-bye,’ Raskolnikov smiled. He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror- stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office. Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Before him stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs. ‘Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What’s the matter?’ Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer. He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to say something, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible. ‘You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!’ Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on the face of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed unpleasant surprise. Both looked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought. ‘It was I …’ began Raskolnikov. ‘Drink some water.’ Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly, but distinctly said: ‘It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them.’ Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides. Raskolnikov repeated his statement. Epilogue Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com I Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress, in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a year and a half has passed since his crime. There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the secret of the pledge (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which was found in the murdered woman’s hand. He described minutely how he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta’s murder; described how Koch and, after him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had said to one another; how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nikolay and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the stone in the yard off the Voznesensky Prospect under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred and seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes lying uppermost had suffered from the damp. They were a long while trying to discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this, when about everything else he had made a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally some of the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn’t know what was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the deduction that the crime could only have been committed through temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover Raskolnikov’s hypochondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his landlady and her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element in the case. To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost coarse…. The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally the murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a man commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally, the confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word) —all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too, in the prisoner’s favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six months, and when this student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov’s landlady bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an impression in his favour. And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a term of eight years only. At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov’s mother fell ill. Dounia and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg, so as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied by a partial derangement of her intellect. When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother’s questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother’s benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and reputation. But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son’s sudden departure; she told them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her, hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which might have been enough to awaken her suspicions. They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was the cause of great uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son’s fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dounia saw clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties. It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Al- 0 exandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain points; but it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dounia remembered her brother’s telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigaïlov and before the fatal day of the confession: had not she made out something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his future…. Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her (she saw perhaps that they were pretending), but she still went on talking. Five months after Raskolnikov’s confession, he was sentenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that the separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same. Razumihin, in his youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the 1 town where Rodya was and all together would begin a new life. They all wept at parting. Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about his mother’s illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigaïlov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in which he was despatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final leavetaking he smiled strangely at his sister’s and Razumihin’s fervent anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of prison. He predicted that their mother’s illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off. Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited however. During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute determination. Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans and indeed she could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future; both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they rested their hopes on Sonia. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her bless- ing to Dounia’s marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In public conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener, she would begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on! Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement, there was the risk of someone’s recalling Raskolnikov’s name and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her. At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be home, that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com fancies, in joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal more about her son’s terrible fate than they had supposed. For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother’s death, though a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they found Sonia’s letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother’s life. Sonia’s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov’s surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts—that is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts. But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was con- stantly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off from everyone—he took a very direct and simple view of his new life; that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time, had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from inattention and indifference. Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits, had almost been vexed with her indeed for Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com coming, unwilling to talk and rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the banks of the Irtish. About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task was lightened and so on. At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone, that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of the hospital. II He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships! he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him—the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com himself and submit to ‘the idiocy’ of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace. Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing—that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others. And if only fate would have sent him repentance—burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime. At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in prison, in freedom he thought over and criticised all his actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time. ‘In what way,’ he asked himself, ‘was my theory stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so … strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you halt half-way!’ ‘Why does my action strike them as so horrible?’ he said to himself. ‘Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law … and that’s enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and so they were right and I didn’t, and so I had no right to have taken that step.’ It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it. He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death? In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He didn’t understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples. In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians 0 who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they even began to hate him at last—why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime. ‘You’re a gentleman,’ they used to say. ‘You shouldn’t hack about with an axe; that’s not a gentleman’s work.’ The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury. ‘You’re an infidel! You don’t believe in God,’ they shouted. ‘You ought to be killed.’ He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been bloodshed. There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them, sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow him knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would 1 write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. ‘Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,’ coarse branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her for help in their illnesses. He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices. Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The second week after Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward. One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out. He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it. Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time. Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come…. They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other. They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—she only lived in his life. On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed? He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all, all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind. Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it. He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: ‘Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least….’ She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so unexpectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready Free eBooks at Planet eBook.com to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering. But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.

Dearest Father

Schelesen Dearest Father, You asked me recently why I claim to be afraid of you. I did not know, as usual, how to answer, partly for the very reason that I am afraid of you, partly because an explanation of my fear would require more details than I could even begin to make coherent in speech. And if I now try to answer in writing it will still be nowhere near complete, because even in writing my fear and its consequences raise a barrier between us and because the magnitude of material far exceeds my memory and my understanding. To you the matter always seemed very simple, at least in as far as you spoke about it in front of me and, indiscriminately, in front of many others. To you it seemed like this: you had worked hard your whole life, sacrificed everything for your children, particularly me, as a result I lived “like a lord”, had complete freedom to study whatever I wanted, knew where my next meal was coming from and therefore had no reason to worry about anything; for this you asked no gratitude, you know how children show their gratitude, but at least some kind franz kafka 18 of cooperation, a sign of sympathy; instead I would always hide away from you in my room, buried in books, with crazy friends and eccentric ideas; we never spoke openly, I never came up to you in the synagogue, I never visited you in Franzensbad,* nor otherwise had any sense of family, I never took an interest in the business or your other concerns, I saddled you with the factory and then left you in the lurch, I encouraged Ottla’s* obstinacy and while I have never to this day lifted a finger to help you (I never even buy you the occasional theatre ticket), I do all I can for perfect strangers. If you summarize your judgment of me, it is clear that you do not actually reproach me with anything really indecent or malicious (with the exception, perhaps, of my latest marriage plans), but rather with coldness, alienation, ingratitude. And, what is more, you reproach me as if it were my fault, as if I might have been able to arrange everything differently with one simple change of direction, while you are not in the slightest to blame, except perhaps for having been too good to me. This, your usual analysis, I agree with only in so far as I also believe you to be entirely blameless for our estrangement. But I too am equally and utterly blameless. If I could bring you to acknowledge this, then – although a new life would not be possible, for that we are both much too old – there could yet be a sort of peace, not an end to your unrelenting reproaches, but at least a mitigation of them. dearest father 19 Strangely enough, you seem to have some idea of what I mean. This might have been why you recently said to me, “I have always been fond of you; if, on the outside, I have not treated you as fathers usually treat their children, it is just because I cannot pretend as others can.” Now, Father, I have on the whole never doubted your goodness towards me, but this statement I consider wrong. You cannot pretend, that is true, but purely for this reason to claim that other fathers pretend was either sheer indisputable bigotry, or – and this, in my view, is more plausible – a veiled way of saying that something is wrong between us, and that you are partly responsible for it, albeit through no fault of your own. If this is what you really meant, then we are agreed. I am not saying, of course, that I have become what I am purely under your influence. That would be a very great exaggeration (although I do have a tendency to exaggerate). It is very possible that, had I grown up entirely free of your influence, I still could not have become a person after your own heart. I would probably still have become a weak, anxious, hesitant, restless person, neither Robert Kafka nor Karl Hermann,* yet still very different from what I am today, and we would have been able to get on very well. I would have been happy to have you as a friend, a boss, an uncle, a grandfather, even indeed (though rather more hesitantly) as a father-in-law. It is only as a father that you franz kafka 20 were too strong for me, particularly since my brothers died young and my sisters did not come along until much later, so I had to endure the initial conflicts all alone, for which I was far too weak. Compare the two of us: me, to put it very briefly, a Löwy* with a certain Kafka core that is simply not driven by the Kafka will to live, prosper and conquer, but by a Löwy-like force that moves more secretly, more timidly, in a different direction, and which often breaks down completely. You, by contrast, a true Kafka in strength, health, appetite, loudness of voice, eloquence, self-satisfaction, worldly superiority, stamina, presence of mind, understanding of human nature, a certain generosity, of course with all the faults and weaknesses that go with these advantages, into which you are driven by your natural disposition and sometimes your hot temper. Perhaps you are not wholly a Kafka in your general worldly outlook, in as far as I can compare you with Uncles Philipp, Ludwig and Heinrich.* That is odd, and here the picture is no clearer. However, they were all cheerier, fresher, more casual, more relaxed, less strict than you. (In this respect, incidentally, I have inherited much from you and have taken far too great a care of that inheritance, admittedly without having the necessary counter-qualities that you do.) Yet on the other hand, you too have gone through various phases in this respect, you were perhaps cheerier before your children dearest father 21 (I especially) disappointed and depressed you at home (you were quite different when visitors came), and you have perhaps become cheerier again, now that your grandchildren and your son-in-law show you some of the warmth that your own children, except perhaps Valli,* never could. In any case, we were so different, and in our differences such a danger to each other that, had anyone wanted to predict how I, the slowly developing child, and you, the fully-grown man, would behave towards one another, they could have presumed that you would simply trample me underfoot until nothing of me remained. Well, that did not happen, what happens in life cannot be predicted, but maybe something even worse happened. In saying this, I ask you not to forget that I in no way find you guilty. Your effect on me was the effect you could not help having, but you should stop considering it some particular perversity on my part that I succumbed to that effect. I was an anxious child, and yet I am sure I was also disobedient, as children are, I am sure that Mother spoilt me too, but I cannot believe that I was particularly difficult to handle, I cannot believe that you, by directing a friendly word my way, by quietly taking my hand or by giving me a kind look, could not have got everything you wanted from me. And you are fundamentally a kind and tender person (what follows does not contradict that, after all it refers franz kafka 22 only to how I saw you as a child) but not every child has the tenacity and fearlessness to search until he finds the kindness within. You, Father, are only capable of treating a child with the same means by which you were moulded, with vigour, noise and fits of rage, and in my case you found these means especially appropriate because you wanted to bring me up to be a strong, courageous boy. Of course, I cannot accurately recall and describe your way of bringing me up in the very early years, but I can form some idea of it, drawing on my more recent experience and on your treatment of Felix. In doing this I am increasingly aware that you were younger then, therefore fresher, wilder, more natural and carefree than you are today, and that in addition you were largely occupied with the business, meaning you barely had time to see me once a day, so the impression you made on me would have been all the greater, and virtually impossible for me to become accustomed to. There is only one episode from those early years that I remember directly, perhaps you remember it too. I was whining persistently for water one night, certainly not because I was thirsty, but in all probability partly to be annoying, partly to amuse myself. After a number of fierce threats had failed, you lifted me out of my bed, carried me out onto the pavlatche* and left me awhile all alone, standing outside the locked door in my nightshirt. I do not mean to say that this dearest father 23 was wrong of you, perhaps at that time there really was no other way of having a peaceful night, but I mention it as a characteristic example of the way you brought me up and the effect it had on me. This incident almost certainly made me obedient for a time, but it damaged me on the inside. I was by nature unable to reconcile the simple act (as it seemed to me) of casually asking for water with the utter horror of being carried outside. Years later it still tormented me that this giant man, my father, the ultimate authority, could enter my room at any time and, almost unprovoked, carry me from my bed out onto the pavlatche, and that I meant so little to him. That was merely the beginning of things, but this feeling of powerlessness which still regularly overcomes me (in other respects admittedly a noble and productive feeling) stems in many ways from how you treated me. What I needed was a little encouragement, a little friendliness, a little help to keep my future open, instead you obstructed it, admittedly with the good intention of persuading me to go down a different path. But I was not fit for the path you chose. You encouraged me, for example, whenever I saluted or marched well, but I was no budding soldier, or you encouraged me when I could bring myself to eat heartily, especially when I drank beer, or when I managed to sing songs that I did not understand, or to parrot your own favourite clichés back to you, but none franz kafka 24 of it had a place in my future. And even today, it is typical of you only to encourage me in something when it engages your interest, when your own self-esteem is at stake, threatened either by me (for example with my marriage plans) or by others through me (for example when Pepa* insults me). Then you give me encouragement, remind me of what I am worth, what sort of woman I could marry, and condemn Pepa out of hand. But apart from the fact that I am, even at my present age, already virtually impervious to encouragement, I have to ask myself what good it could do me anyway, as it is only ever offered when I am not its primary object. At that time, and throughout all that time, what I really needed was encouragement. I was already weighed down by your sheer bodily presence. I remember, for example, how we often undressed together in the same cubicle. I skinny, frail, fragile, you strong, tall, thickset. Even in the cubicle I felt a puny wretch, and not only in front of you but in front of the whole world, because for me you were the measure of all things. But when we stepped out before all the people, I with my hand in yours, a little skeleton, unsteady and barefoot on the planks, afraid of the water, unable to copy your swimming strokes which you kept on demonstrating with the best of intentions but actually to my profound shame, then I would lose myself in despair and at such moments all my past failures would come back to haunt me. I felt happiest when you dearest father 25 sometimes undressed first and I could stay in the cubicle alone and delay the shame of my public appearance until you finally came looking for me and forced me to leave the cubicle. I was thankful to you for seeming not to sense my despair, besides, I was proud of my father’s body. Incidentally, this difference between us remains much the same to this day. Your intellectual domination had a similar effect on me. You had reached such heights, solely by your own efforts, that you had unbounded confidence in your own opinions. That was nowhere near so dazzling for me as a child, as it was for me later as a maturing young man. In your armchair you ruled the world. Your opinion was right, any other was mad, eccentric, meshugge,* not normal. In fact, your self-confidence was so great that you did not even have to be at all consistent, and could still never be wrong. It was even possible for you to have no opinion whatsoever on a matter, and in such cases all potential opinions on that matter had to be wrong without exception. You might rail against the Czechs, for example, then the Germans, then the Jews, and not only selectively but in all respects, and by the end of it you would be the only one left standing. You took on, for me, that enigmatic quality of all tyrants whose right to rule is founded on their identity rather than on reason. At least, it seemed that way to me. Now, where I was concerned, you were in fact astonishingly often right, not only in conversation (and this would not have franz kafka 26 been surprising, for we hardly ever conversed), but also in reality. Although even that was not especially difficult to understand. I suffered, after all, in my every thought under intense pressure from you, even (and in fact especially) where my thoughts were completely different from yours. All these thoughts that seemed independent of you buckled from the outset under the burden of your derogatory judgments; for me to endure this and still to achieve the complete and lasting development of any thought was virtually impossible. I am not talking here of any lofty thoughts, rather of every little childhood undertaking. I had only to be happy about something or other, be inspired by it, come home and mention it and your response was an ironic sigh, a shake of the head, a finger rapping the table: “Is that what all the fuss is about?” or “I wish I had your worries!” or “What a waste of time!” or “That’s nothing!” or “That won’t put food on the table!” Naturally one could not expect you to be enthusiastic about every childish triviality, since you had your own worries. Even that was not the point. The point was rather that, thanks to your antagonistic nature, you disappointed the child with such determination and principle, and your antagonism constantly intensified as it accumulated material, until it became a pemanent habit, even when your opinion was for once the same as mine, and these childhood disappointments were by the end not just everyday disappointments; but, since

Decent

In the dark, silent void of space, we journeyed to keppler-90 in search of answers. Little did we know, it was the answers that would find us, in the shadowed corridors of a base that held secrets beyond our imagination. Into the Abyss As I soared through the vast cosmic expanse, the desolate landscape of Keppler-90d beckoned me closer, its rusty red surface like a sea of forgotten dreams. The barren plains stretched endlessly beneath my spacecraft, and the cold, unwelcoming planet seemed to whisper ancient secrets to the stars. My heart quickened as the Martian base came into view, a collection of stark metallic structures amid the desolation. It loomed like a haunted citadel, the very embodiment of a forsaken realm. I had been chosen to lead this mission, to uncover the enigma shrouding the base, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being drawn into a cosmic nightmare. With a jolt, my spacecraft touched down on the Martian surface, the cold winds of the Red Planet howling ominously. As I stepped out onto the foreign soil, I felt a presence, an unseen watcher lurking just beyond my field of vision. The barren landscape felt alive, like the remnants of some forgotten civilization, waiting to reveal its haunting secrets. My footsteps echoed in the desolation as I made my way towards the base, its metallic walls rising like a fortress of the unknown. The air was still, and the silence was suffocating. It was as though the very essence of Keppler held its breath, awaiting my arrival. As I approached the entrance, a shiver crawled up my spine, and I knew that I was not alone. The base's doors slid open with an eerie, metallic creak, revealing a corridor that vanished into darkness. The cold, dimly lit passageway seemed to pulse with a hidden malevolence, and I took a hesitant step forward, feeling the weight of ancient secrets pressing down upon me. The mission had begun, but I was acutely aware that something otherworldly and sinister lurked in the shadows, ready to unveil its terrifying presence. The nightmare on Keppler-90d had only just begun, and I was its reluctant protagonist, trapped in a cosmic tale of fear and mystery. Captain Drexler, Cadet Timur Merkel, and I stood on either side of the imposing metal doorframe, the entrance to the enigmatic Martian base. Our mission was clear, but the ominous atmosphere had already begun to cast its shadow over us. With our keycards ready, we synchronized our movements, ready to swipe them simultaneously to gain access to the base. However, as our cards met the readers, there was no response. The door remained resolutely shut, and an unsettling realization settled in—the base was lifeless, and it appeared that we were not alone. Cadet Merkel, young and eager, called out to me, 'Commander Alexa, the door's not responding.' I turned to him, my expression stern, and my voice cold, 'Who allowed you to call me by my first name? To you, it's Dip-Commander Groth.' The formality was not only a reminder of the chain of command but a shield against the growing unease that threatened to consume us. Something was not right, and we were about to step into a nightmare from which there might be no return. With the main entrance sealed, we knew our only chance was to restore power to the Martian base. Captain Drexler quickly made the call. 'Alright, team, we need to head to the external power supply. Alexa, Sasha, you know the drill. Timur, stay close, and remember, you address your superior officers with the appropriate titles.' We rushed back to our spacecraft, the same vessel that had brought us to this forsaken place. The Martian landscape outside was unforgiving, and the oppressive silence was punctuated only by the sound of our boots on the rusty-red soil. As we boarded the spacecraft, I couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows cast by the Martian hills held secrets darker than the cosmos itself. The interior of the spacecraft was dimly lit, and the atmosphere was tense. Timur seemed like a deer caught in the headlights, clearly not prepared for the eerie turn of events. Captain Drexler piloted the craft, guiding us towards the external power supply, while I manned the navigation and communication systems. As we flew over the barren terrain, the Martian landscape seemed to shift and writhe, as though it were a sentient entity watching our every move. Upon reaching the power supply, we found the area eerily deserted. The hum of the machinery had fallen silent, and the air was heavy with an unsettling stillness. We disembarked from the spacecraft, and the howling Martian winds whipped around us, whispering foreboding tales of a past civilization. We approached the power supply building cautiously. The heavy doors opened with a groan, revealing a dimly lit interior. The control panels were dark, and the once-familiar sounds of machinery were absent. I took a deep breath, my gloved hand trembling slightly as I activated my flashlight, illuminating the eerie silence that surrounded us. Captain Drexler quickly assessed the situation, his voice steady but laced with concern. 'We need to check the main control room. Alexa, Sasha, you know the layout. Timur, stay close, and keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual.' As we made our way through the dark corridors, our flashlights revealed an unsettling scene. Equipment lay abandoned, as if the base's occupants had fled in haste. Strange markings adorned the walls, and the air was heavy with an alien scent, like a mix of ancient knowledge and decay. We reached the main control room, and dread washed over us as we gazed at the power plant's control panels. Captain Drexler attempted to access the systems, but it was clear that something catastrophic had occurred. The once-vibrant lights were extinguished, and the machinery was in a state of disarray. Drexler's voice trembled as he uttered the grim words, 'We can't restore the power plant; it's completely gone.' A cold chill swept through the room, as we stood in the heart of a Martian mystery, an ancient enigma that had awakened to confront us. The mission had taken a terrifying turn, and the question that loomed before us was whether we could ever hope to escape the cosmic horror that had become our reality. As the realization of the base's power plant being irreversibly damaged set in, a palpable sense of despair swept over us. We were stranded on a desolate Martian base, the icy grip of the unknown tightening around our hearts. In the midst of this dire situation, Cadet Timur Merkel, our youngest team member, spoke up. His voice trembled with a hint of desperation, but his eyes sparkled with an audacious idea. 'Captain Drexler, Commander Alexa, I might have a solution, though it's a long shot. Our spacecraft is equipped with an experimental, cutting-edge power source known as a Quantum Flux Reactor. It generates energy through the manipulation of quantum particles, creating a nearly limitless and stable power supply. While this technology is experimental and not intended for base power, we could adapt it in an emergency situation.' His explanation continued, delving into the intricate details of the Quantum Flux Reactor. He described how it harnessed quantum entanglement to create a continuous energy loop, practically extracting energy from the fabric of the universe. His voice filled the room with complex scientific jargon, detailing the intricate process of quantum tunnelling and particle superposition, and how this reactor had been a breakthrough in harnessing these phenomena. 'In theory,' Timur concluded, 'we could link the Quantum Flux Reactor to the base's power grid and provide the base with an almost limitless power source. It's our best chance at restoring the facility's systems, life support, and communications. We may also discover clues about what happened here. However, it's a high-risk endeavour, and there's a chance it could destabilize the entire base.' Captain Drexler and I exchanged a long, contemplative look. The uncertainty of our situation weighed heavily upon us, and Timur's proposal was both audacious and daring. We knew that the fate of not just our team but potentially all of humanity on Mars rested on this decision. Drexler hesitated, concern etched across his face. 'Timur, this is a perilous course of action. The Quantum Flux Reactor is untested in this context, and if something goes wrong, it could have catastrophic consequences. We need to consider every option carefully.' The room fell into a tense silence as the weight of our decision hung in the air. The cosmic horror of our situation had deepened, and our choices would determine whether we could escape the clutches of this Martian enigma or fall deeper into the abyss of the unknown. Captain Drexler's scepticism hung heavily in the air, his face etched with concern. 'Alexa, I understand the potential of this Quantum Flux Reactor, but it's still experimental technology. Timur, he's just a cadet. We can't entrust him with such a critical operation. He's too inexperienced, and there's too much at stake.' In response, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of frustration. 'Drexler, you of all people should know not to underestimate the abilities of a cadet. Remember back on Phobos during the Quinarian War? I was the only female cadet in SpaceCorps at the time, and you were my commander. We were thrust into a dire situation with no hope of survival. It was Timur's age when we joined forces, remember?' As I spoke, memories of the war flooded back, a time when Drexler and I had been the lone survivors of a brutal skirmish on the Martian moon. I had used my quick thinking and resourcefulness to save our lives when all hope had seemed lost. Drexler's eyes softened as he recalled those dire days. 'You're right, Alexa. You saved my life, and I owe you for that. But the stakes are even higher now. You're the only female Dip-Commander in SpaceCorps, and the responsibility is immense. If we make the wrong choice here, it could have catastrophic consequences.' I nodded, acknowledging the gravity of the situation. 'I understand the risk, Drexler, and I'll take responsibility. If anything goes wrong, it's on me. But I believe in Timur. He's proven himself in the training simulations, and I've seen his potential. This may be his trial by fire, but it's also our only chance to restore power to this base and uncover the mysteries lurking in the darkness.' After a moment of contemplation, Captain Drexler relented, his trust in me evident in his eyes. 'Very well, Alexa. The decision is yours. If you believe in Timur's abilities, then let's proceed, but be prepared to take full responsibility for this.' Timur, who had been listening to our heated exchange, looked both eager and nervous. I took a deep breath and met his gaze. 'Timur, you have the green light. Do it exactly as you've described.' With the weight of the decision resting squarely on my shoulders, I couldn't help but feel the enormity of the responsibility. The cosmic horror that had enveloped us demanded bold choices, and we were about to embark on a journey into the unknown, where the lines between science and mysticism blurred, and only time would reveal the consequences of our actions. As Timur prepared to engage the Quantum Flux Reactor, he meticulously followed the complex protocol he had outlined earlier. The reactor chamber was a mesmerizing spectacle of blinking lights and humming machinery, casting eerie shadows across the metallic walls. 'Alright, Sasha,' Timur called out, addressing me by my newly permitted name. 'I need you to monitor the reactor's energy levels. Ensure that it remains within safe parameters. We can't afford any fluctuations during this process.' I nodded and took my position at a control panel, my gloved fingers dancing over the touch-sensitive screen. The intricate interface displayed an array of fluctuating graphs and numerical readouts, each representing a different facet of the reactor's operation. My focus remained unbroken as I monitored the quantum particle oscillations, ensuring they danced in perfect harmony. Timur proceeded to manipulate the control systems with practiced precision. His fingers glided over the holographic interface, entering intricate commands and sequences, while his eyes remained locked on the reactor's core. He continued to explain every step he took, ensuring that I understood the intricacies of the process. 'Next, we'll initiate the quantum entanglement. Sasha, I need you to calibrate the resonance field to exactly 5.3 gigahertz. This is the sweet spot for stable quantum tunnelling. Any deviation, and we risk destabilizing the entire system.' I followed his instructions, my eyes darting between the control panel and the reactor chamber. As the resonance field stabilized, I could feel the room's tension rise. Timur's calm demeanour under pressure was impressive, a testament to the rigorous training he had undergone. 'Last step,' Timur announced, his voice steady. 'We'll engage the quantum particle superposition. This is where the magic happens. It should start to create a stable energy loop that we can feed into the base's power grid.' He manipulated the controls once more, and I watched as the reactor came to life, pulsating with energy that seemed to defy the laws of the cosmos. The room was bathed in an eerie, otherworldly glow as the Quantum Flux Reactor generated an energy field that held untold potential. The anticipation was palpable as we stood on the precipice of success or catastrophic failure. Timur's expertise and my guidance had brought us to this critical moment. The cosmos held its breath, and for a brief instant, it seemed that the mysteries of Mars were within our grasp. And then, in the midst of our collective hope and uncertainty, it happened. The Quantum Flux Reactor sputtered, and its spectral luminescence flickered ominously. A sense of foreboding washed over us as the power source we had relied upon began to falter, and the eerie glow faded into nothingness. We exchanged troubled glances, our hearts sinking. The cosmic horror that had seized our mission had not relented, and it seemed that the enigmatic forces at play were not yet ready to release their grip on the Martian base. The disappointment in Captain Drexler's eyes was evident, his frustration mounting as the Quantum Flux Reactor faltered. He clenched his fists, his voice laced with anger and urgency. 'This is it. We can't risk the whole mission on an untested reactor. I'm going to contact the mothership and get us out of here.' As he reached for the communication panel, Timur, still standing before the reactor, raised a hand to halt him. 'Wait, Captain, let me try one more thing. I think I can make it work.' Drexler's irritation was palpable, but he paused, giving Timur one last chance to prove himself. Timur's hands flew over the controls, and he initiated a complex sequence of adjustments. I stood by, my gaze fixed on the reactor, my heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and hope. Timur's explanation of what he was doing delved into the realm of science fiction intricacies that were as fascinating as they were baffling. He spoke of manipulating subspace resonance frequencies to enhance quantum particle stability. He referred to the reactor's core, its warp potential, and the quantum filament threading that connected it to the base's power grid. I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer complexity of his knowledge and his ability to make sense of the exotic technology. As Timur executed his final set of commands, a low, resonating hum filled the reactor chamber. The Quantum Flux Reactor's eerie glow rekindled, its spectral luminescence pulsating with newfound Vigor. The room was bathed in a mesmerizing dance of light, the walls casting eerie, ever-shifting shadows. Then, it happened. The reactor's output surged, and its energy field stabilized in a breathtaking display of radiant power. The room was awash with the reactor's unearthly glow, and the hum of its operation resonated through the chamber. The entire base seemed to come to life as lights flickered on along the perimeter, illuminating the once-dark corridors and chambers. The hum of machinery returned, and the base's systems whirred back to life. Our success was tangible, a triumphant moment in the face of cosmic horror. Turning to Captain Drexler, I couldn't resist a triumphant smile. 'I told you he could do it.' Drexler, his anger replaced by a mixture of astonishment and relief, nodded in begrudging agreement. Our decision to trust in Timur had paid off, and the Martian base was no longer cloaked in darkness. We had brought light and power back to a place shrouded in mysteries, but the cosmic horror still loomed, awaiting our next steps in the enigmatic depths of Mars. Timur, his face still flushed with the excitement of their success, turned to us and said, 'Now we walk back to the main entrance.' Drexler raised an eyebrow, his logical mind kicking into gear. 'Why walk if we have the spaceship? It's a nine-kilometre hike, and we've got the craft right here.' I interjected, a note of caution in my voice, 'Drexler, the spacecraft is currently our only source of power. If we fly it to the main entrance, we'll be without power here at the reactor. I can't guarantee that we'll be able to get it back to retrieve the reactor if we leave it behind.' Drexler nodded, understanding the dilemma. The situation had evolved into a delicate balancing act, and every decision carried immense weight in this cosmic dance with the unknown. As we embarked on the hike back to the main entrance of the base on Kepler-90d, the otherworldly landscape around us seemed to stretch infinitely. The horizon was a vision of desolation, with crimson plains that appeared to go on forever. The thin, cold air brushed against our spacesuit visors, a constant reminder that we were on an alien world far from Earth. Each step in the thin Martian atmosphere felt heavier than the last, and the dull red sand crunched beneath our boots. The sun, smaller and dimmer than our own, cast long shadows across the barren landscape. The oppressive silence that had accompanied us throughout our mission was broken only by the rhythmic sound of our respirators and the crunching of sand with each footfall. Our path was a winding trail through the Martian hills, a treacherous journey marked by rugged terrain and steep inclines. The landscape was marred by strange rock formations, sculpted by countless eons of wind and erosion. The sky above was a deep, otherworldly shade of crimson, and the distant mountains were silhouetted against the alien horizon. The hike was gruelling, and the relentless terrain seemed to conspire against us. The oppressive atmosphere weighed upon our shoulders, and the knowledge that we were alone on a distant exoplanet, surrounded by cosmic mysteries, added an eerie dimension to our journey. We pressed on, the silence broken only by the occasional exchange of words among our team. The burden of the Quantum Flux Reactor weighed heavily on Timur, who was determined to ensure its safe return to the power plant. Drexler's gaze was fixed on the Martian horizon, his thoughts shrouded in contemplation. With each step, the Martian base grew nearer, its metallic structures coming into view on the distant horizon. The hike was a test of endurance, and the desolation of Kepler-90d was a stark reminder of the cosmic isolation in which we found ourselves. Hours passed, and as we reached the base's main entrance, the sense of accomplishment was palpable. We had reclaimed the reactor, breathed life back into the base, and navigated the enigmatic terrain of an alien world. But the mysteries of Kepler-90d were far from over. The cosmic horror that had greeted us upon our arrival still lurked in the shadows, and our mission was far from complete. The treacherous journey had been just the beginning of our descent into the unknown on this distant exoplanet. As we stood in front of the main entrance of the Martian base on Kepler-90d, our anticipation was tinged with a sense of foreboding. The entrance, which had been our initial portal to this cosmic enigma, now loomed before us like a silent sentinel guarding ancient secrets. The base's metallic walls glistened with a faint sheen of frost, a testament to the frigid Martian climate. The entrance itself was a massive structure of reinforced metal, its surface marred with intricate markings and symbols that hinted at the civilization that had once thrived on this desolate world. Drexler, his gaze fixed on the sealed entrance, let out a heavy sigh. 'We've come full circle, back to where it all began. The reactor is here, but the mysteries of this base remain.' Timur, ever the optimist, turned to face us with determination in his eyes. 'Now that we have power, we can explore further, unlock the secrets that lie within. But we should be cautious. The cosmic horrors that have haunted us may still be lurking in the shadows.' I couldn't help but feel a shiver run down my spine. The silence that enveloped the base was ominous, and the memory of the strange occurrences and eerie sensations we had encountered weighed heavily on my mind. As we reached for the main entrance, we realized that it was sealed tightly, as if it were designed to keep something out or, perhaps, to keep something in. The enigmatic markings on its surface seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy, casting strange shadows that danced upon the metal. We exchanged glances, our resolve unbroken, but the unknown challenges that lay ahead were a haunting reminder of the cosmic horror that had become an inescapable part of our mission on Kepler-90d. Our quest for answers had led us back to the very threshold of the enigma, and the mysteries that awaited us within the Martian base were shrouded in darkness and uncertainty. As Timur and I stood by each side of the main entrance, our keycards ready, there was a palpable sense of tension in the air. The door, which had been sealed when we left for the power plant, appeared as imposing as ever. Its surface was cold to the touch, a metallic behemoth that had stood as a sentinel to the unknown for centuries. With synchronized precision, Timur and I swiped our keycards through the readers, the electronic signals racing through the mechanisms with an eerie hum. And then, it happened. The main entrance of the Martian base responded with a deafening, grinding growl, like a colossal beast awoken from its slumber. The heavy metal doors shuddered, and with a final, resounding groan, they slowly parted, revealing the inky blackness within. A chilling draft wafted out, carrying the scent of stale air and foreboding. The threshold of the base was an abyss of shadows, swallowing the corridor beyond. We remained on the threshold, our hesitation palpable. The inside of the base was shrouded in darkness, an abyss of the unknown. The dim emergency lights along the corridor flickered with uncertainty, casting eerie, intermittent illumination on the metallic walls. The silence that greeted us was stifling, the echoes of our presence seemingly absorbed by the void. The once-familiar environment had transformed into a desolate realm, devoid of life, as if it had been abandoned in haste, frozen in time. The dimly lit corridor stretched into the distance, disappearing into the shadows. The path ahead was a twisting labyrinth of metallic walls, its secrets hidden in the darkness. As we gazed into the abyss, we couldn't help but feel the weight of the mysteries that awaited us within. Timur and I exchanged a meaningful look, the unspoken acknowledgment of the cosmic horror that had become an ever-present companion on our mission. The decision to venture further into the Martian base was an irrevocable step into the unknown, and the enigmatic darkness that lay ahead was an unsettling reminder that the answers we sought might come at a grave cost. Captain Drexler, taking a determined step forward, led our party into the dimly lit corridor. His footsteps echoed, a haunting reminder of our isolation within the metallic confines of the Martian base. The metallic walls seemed to watch us with silent intent, and the shadows danced as the emergency lights flickered erratically. Drexler turned to us, his voice carrying a note of reassurance despite the eerie environment. 'Stay close, everyone. We'll proceed cautiously. Our primary objective is to gather data and search for any signs of the missing crew. Timur, you've got the handheld scanner, keep it ready. Alexa, keep an eye on the power levels and ensure the reactor remains stable.' Timur nodded and activated the scanner, its dim screen casting an eerie blue glow on his face. 'Roger that, Captain.' As we moved deeper into the base, we noticed that the metallic walls were adorned with strange symbols and enigmatic markings, as if the base itself had become a canvas for an alien script. The corridor was punctuated by sealed doorways leading to different sections of the base, each one seemingly untouched by human presence for an eternity. As we approached one of the sealed doorways, Drexler gestured towards it. 'Let's see what's behind door number one.' The heavy door shuddered as Drexler activated the controls, revealing a chamber that appeared to be a control room. The dim lighting within cast an eerie ambiance on rows of empty workstations, their screens dark, and control panels abandoned. It was as if the crew had simply vanished, leaving their posts in haste. Timur scanned the room with his handheld device, but it registered no signs of life. 'There's no one here, Captain. It's like they all just disappeared.' Drexler's expression remained stoic, though the unease was evident in his eyes. 'Let's continue. There might be something in the next room.' The base's interior remained lifeless, a testament to the cosmic mystery that had befallen the crew. As we pressed forward, the eerie atmosphere clung to us like a shroud, and the silence was a haunting presence, its weight growing heavier with each passing moment. Our conversations were hushed, the words carefully chosen as we ventured further into the unknown. The mysteries of the Martian base were far from unravelled, and the cosmic horror that had drawn us into its enigmatic web showed no signs of relenting. With each step we took, we descended deeper into the abyss of the unknown, and the true nature of the horrors that awaited us within the base remained a chilling enigma.

Epichearts

The Enigmatic Dream [Chapter one] I sat at my desk in the back of the classroom, struggling to keep my eyes open. The history teacher's monotone voice washed over me, and I felt the heaviness of my eyelids closing. Just as I was about to drift off into dreamland, a faint, ethereal voice called out, 'Sohn.' Startled, I jolted upright in my chair, rubbing my eyes to shake off the drowsiness. Did I just imagine that? I glanced around the classroom, but everyone seemed engrossed in their notes, unaware of the strange occurrence. 'Sohn,' the voice called again, this time more urgent. It was as if the voice came from inside my head. My heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone or something was trying to communicate with me. 'Sohn,' the voice repeated, and this time I could sense a hint of familiarity as if I should recognize it. Before I could ponder further, my best friend, Sarah, sitting beside me, gave me a sharp nudge. 'Hey, wake up! The quiz just started!' she whispered urgently. Blinking rapidly, I shook off the strange encounter and grabbed my pencil, glancing at the quiz paper in front of me. I had to focus. As much as I wanted to unravel the mystery of that haunting voice, I couldn't let it distract me from my studies. Throughout the quiz, my mind wandered back to the inexplicable incident. Who or what was calling me 'son'? Was it a prank, a hallucination, or something more profound? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something extraordinary happening just beneath the surface of my ordinary life. As soon as the quiz ended, Sarah turned to me, her blue eyes filled with concern. 'Are you okay? You seemed really out of it during the quiz.' I hesitated for a moment before responding, 'I... I heard a voice. It was calling me 'son.'' Sarah raised an eyebrow. 'A voice? Are you sure you're not just tired or stressed? It's probably nothing.' I considered her words, knowing that she might have been right. Maybe I was just fatigued, and my mind was playing tricks on me. I nodded, trying to convince myself that it was indeed nothing. 'Yeah, you're right. It's probably just stress getting to me,' I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Sarah patted my shoulder reassuringly. 'Don't worry about it too much. You'll get some rest tonight, and everything will be fine. Let's focus on enjoying the rest of the day.' I mustered a smile, grateful for Sarah's support and her ability to keep me grounded. She always had a way of easing my worries. Together, we packed up our belongings and headed to our next class. The day went on as usual, with lectures, discussions, and the usual chatter among classmates. I did my best to put the mysterious voice out of my mind and concentrate on my studies. But despite my efforts, that lingering sense of curiosity persisted. During lunch break, Sarah and I sat at our favourite spot under the big oak tree. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a soothing atmosphere. As we chatted about upcoming plans and weekend activities, I found my thoughts drifting back to the voice. I decided to confide in Sarah once more, sharing my doubts about whether it was all in my head. She listened attentively, her gaze steady and supportive. 'Look, Nico, you've always had an imaginative mind. It's what makes you unique and creative. But sometimes, our imagination can lead us to perceive things that aren't there. It's part of being human.' Her words made sense, and yet, there was something inside me that refused to let go of the possibility that the voice was real. 'I know, but it felt so... real, Sarah. Like it was trying to tell me something important.' Sarah placed a hand on my shoulder, her expression filled with empathy. 'If it really is something important, it'll reveal itself in due time. Maybe it's just your subconscious processing things you're not aware of yet. Let's not jump to conclusions, okay?' Her genuine concern helped ease my worries once more. She was right. Maybe I was overthinking it all. With Sarah's encouragement, I managed to push the mysterious voice to the back of my mind and focus on the present. As the final school bell rang, signalling the end of the day, Sarah and I headed out of the school building. The late afternoon sunbathed the campus in a golden glow, and the fresh breeze carried a sense of renewal. We walked side by side, chatting and laughing as we made our way home. Later that evening, as I lay in bed, the events of the day played through my mind. The voice still lingered in the depths of my thoughts, refusing to be forgotten. Although Sarah's words provided comfort, a part of me couldn't ignore. the feeling that something extraordinary was unfolding in my life. As I closed my eyes, I whispered to myself, 'It's probably nothing. Tomorrow is a new day, and I'll face it with an open heart and an open mind.' With that resolve in my heart, I drifted off to sleep, ready for the next day, hopefully as usual as it should be without any extraordinary voices. But as sleep took hold of me, the dream that unfolded was unlike any other I had experienced before. I found myself standing in the living room of an old farmhouse, the same one we used to visit during summer vacations when I was a child. The room was filled with an inviting warmth, the aroma of freshly baked goods filling the air. In the centre of the room was a long wooden table, covered with a checkered cloth, just like the ones my mom used to use. And there, before my eyes, was a scene from a long-forgotten memory - a table set up for my 7th birthday celebration. I watched in awe as my young self-came bounding into the room, his face lighting up with joy as he saw the spread before him. The memory brought back a rush of emotions - the laughter of friends (which I can’t see anywhere), the love of my family, and the happiness that enveloped that special day. And then, as if part of the memory itself, I saw him - my dad, I haven’t seen him since then I barley even remember his face, sitting at the head of the table. He was smiling, his eyes filled with pride and affection for his young son. The image was so vivid, and for a moment, I felt like I was reliving that cherished memory once more. My dad was tall and strong, with a warm and comforting presence that made me feel safe and loved. His dark hair was peppered with grey, and his beard had a few streaks of white, adding to his wisdom and maturity. His eyes, a warm shade of hazel, sparkled with happiness as he watched me, his only child, revelling in the joy of my birthday celebration. The room around us was adorned with colourful decorations, streamers hanging from the ceiling, and balloons floating in the air. The walls were adorned with family pictures and artwork, creating a cosy and inviting atmosphere. The sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room, and I could hear the distant chirping of birds outside, adding to the idyllic ambience. The table itself was adorned with my favourite foods and treats - a colourful array of cupcakes, a homemade cake with seven candles, and bowls filled with candies and snacks. My mom, a kind and nurturing woman with a heart of gold, had prepared the feast, and her love was evident in every dish. The room was filled with laughter and chatter as my friends and family gathered around the table, singing happy birthday to me. I blew out the candles with a big grin, making a wish that my heart was too full of joy to put into words. My dad's eyes never left me, and I could feel his immense pride in his gaze. He leaned forward, ruffling my hair playfully, and whispered, 'Make a wish, my little one, and may all your dreams come true.' The memory of that moment was so vivid that I could almost taste the sweetness of the cake, feel the warmth of my dad's embrace, and hear the familiar voices of my loved ones wishing me well. It was a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of a time when life seemed simpler and full of wonder. As the dream continued, I marvelled at the bond I shared with my dad in that long-ago moment. He was my hero, my protector, and my biggest supporter. We had shared so many special moments together in that farmhouse, from playful afternoons in the meadows to cozy evenings by the fireplace, and each memory was etched into my heart. But then, something peculiar happened. The dream shifted, and suddenly, I was no longer just an observer of the memory; I was experiencing it as my present self. I was aware that I was standing in my adult form, watching my younger self with a mix of emotions - nostalgia, longing, and a deep sense of loss. My dad, in this altered version of the memory, turned to face me, his eyes now looking directly into mine. It was as if he could see me, the grown-up Nico, standing there in the living room with tears welling up in my eyes. At that moment, it felt like a bridge had formed between the past and the present. I could feel the love and support my dad had showered upon me in that farmhouse all those years ago, and I could sense his presence in my life even now, guiding me through the challenges and triumphs that had occurred in present live. His smile was both reassuring and bittersweet as if he knew that this dream was a pivotal moment for me - a moment of realization and acceptance. It was as if he was telling me that it was time to embrace my heritage, to embrace the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. And just like that, the dream began to fade, and the memory of the farmhouse slipped away like grains of sand through my fingers. Only my dad in his chair remains, as if nothing could bother him. Everything disappears only he remains. As the dream continued to dissolve around me, I stood there, alone with my dad in the living room. The familiar warmth and comfort of the farmhouse faded, replaced by a surreal and ethereal ambience. The room transformed, becoming grander and more awe-inspiring as if it were no longer just an ordinary living room but a divine space. My dad's chair seemed to elevate, and he sat tall and dignified, a regal aura surrounding him. The checkered cloth on the table turned to pure gold, shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The aroma of freshly baked goods is now blended with the scent of incense and divine essence. As I gazed around in astonishment, the room seemed to expand infinitely, stretching into the cosmos. Stars twinkled in the distance, forming celestial patterns that I couldn't comprehend, and yet, they resonated with an inherent familiarity. And then, a brilliant light enveloped the room, radiating from the centre of the table. It was as if the very essence of the universe had condensed into this luminous glow. My heart raced with a mix of wonder, fear, and reverence. Amid this celestial illumination, I saw a figure emerge from the radiance - a god-like being of colossal proportions. He stood tall and majestic, with a physique that seemed carved from the very essence of strength and power. His skin glowed with a divine radiance, and his eyes gleamed with wisdom and compassion. The god wore a magnificent golden crown, adorned with intricate patterns and dazzling gemstones. It rested on his brow with an air of regality, as if he were the ruler of all realms. His attire was a blend of ethereal fabrics, draped in a way that suggested both grace and authority. As I stood in awe of this magnificent sight, I felt an overwhelming sense of recognition. It was as if I had known this divine figure all my life, and yet, he was beyond anything I had ever encountered in the mortal realm. His presence exuded a cosmic energy that transcended time and space. The god's gaze locked onto mine, and in that moment, I felt like he could see every fibre of my being, every memory, every aspiration, and every fear. It was as if he could read the very essence of my soul. A deep, resonating voice echoed within me, without words yet somehow comprehensible. It spoke not in a language of mortals but in the language of the universe itself. It was a message that transcended the limitations of human comprehension. In that divine encounter, I felt an unspoken guidance, a profound understanding that I was part of something greater than myself. It was as if the god was revealing to me a purpose that had been woven into the fabric of my existence since the beginning of time. As I stood before the god, memories flooded my mind - not just the cherished memory of my 7th birthday in the farmhouse but the memories of my ancestors, the stories of ancient gods, and the forgotten myths that lay dormant within me. I realized that I was more than just Nico, the ordinary student trying to navigate the complexities of everyday life. I was a thread in the tapestry of cosmic history, connected to a lineage of gods and heroes, a lineage that had transcended generations and realms. The god's presence filled me with a sense of awe and humility, knowing that the universe had chosen me to carry the legacy of the divine. It was a responsibility that felt both overwhelming and empowering. In that ethereal encounter, time seemed to lose all meaning. It was as if I existed outside the constraints of the mortal world, in a realm where past, present, and future converged into one eternal moment. As the vision of the god began to fade, a sense of tranquillity washed over me. I knew that this encounter was not a mere dream or illusion; it was a revelation, a glimpse into my true self and the destiny that awaited me. The god's presence had awakened something deep within me - a sense of purpose and calling that I could no longer ignore. It was a calling to embrace my heritage, to accept the extraordinary path that lay ahead, and to honour the ancient lineage that flowed through my veins. With a newfound sense of clarity and determination, I knew that I could no longer be content with an ordinary life. I had been chosen for a greater purpose, and it was time to embark on a journey of self-discovery and destiny. As the dream came to its end, and the god's brilliance faded into the distant cosmos, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. I was grateful for the mysteries that had unfolded before me, for the guidance that had been bestowed upon me, and for the realization that I was not alone in this extraordinary journey. With the memory of the god and the love of my dad etched into my heart, I knew that I was ready to face the challenges and wonders that awaited me. The next day, when I woke up, I knew that my life had been forever transformed, and I was filled with a sense of purpose and an eagerness to embrace the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. As the divine figure began to fade into the cosmos, his radiant form transformed into a golden statue that stood tall and majestic. The celestial glow enveloped the statue, giving it an ethereal aura that seemed to transcend the boundaries of the mortal world. It was a breathtaking sight, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from its mesmerizing beauty. In the last moments of the dream, the godly figure uttered those powerful words, 'This is my true me, SON.' The voice that emanated from the statue was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It was deep and resonant, yet it carried a gentle and reassuring tone. It felt as though the very fabric of the universe vibrated with his words, and the sound seemed to echo in the depths of my soul. As the godly voice addressed me as 'SON,' it was as if a cosmic connection formed between us. The word 'SON' echoed not just in my ears but in the core of my being. It wasn't just a title; it was a recognition of my divine heritage and a confirmation of my place in the grand tapestry of existence. The words carried a profound weight, and in that moment, I felt a surge of emotions. It was a mixture of awe, humility, and a sense of belonging. The godly figure referred to me as his own, a part of his divine family, and it stirred something deep within me, resonating with a truth that surpassed rational understanding. Just as I was about to respond or ask questions, my mother's gentle voice shattered the dream's illusion. Her tender shaking pulled me back to reality, and the godly figure's words lingered in my mind like an echo of a long-forgotten melody. In that brief moment of transition, all the memories of my ancestors, the stories of ancient gods, and the divine revelations that had filled the dream began to slip away like grains of sand through my fingers. The vivid emotions that had accompanied those memories started to fade, leaving behind a sense of loss and yearning. The connection to my divine lineage felt distant now, as if it were obscured by a fog of forgotten dreams. I could still sense the presence of the godly statue that had addressed me as 'SON,' but its brilliance was dimming, and its voice became fainter with each passing second. The dream's clarity started to dissolve, and I struggled to hold on to the profound experiences I had just encountered. It was as if I was slipping away from a realm of divine knowledge and returning to the limitations of the mortal world. All the feelings of awe, purpose, and belonging that had overwhelmed me in the dream began to slip away, leaving a void in their wake. It was a bittersweet moment, as I desperately tried to grasp the fading memories and hold on to the deep insights that had been revealed to me. But as my mother's gentle voice persisted, I slowly opened my eyes to the familiar surroundings of my room. The dream had slipped away, leaving behind a lingering sense of wonder and uncertainty. I felt a mix of emotions - gratitude for the extraordinary experience, but also a tinge of sorrow for the vanishing memories. In that moment, all that remained was the presence of the godly statue in my mind. It was a reminder of the encounter with the divine, a connection to a higher purpose that I couldn't fully comprehend but knew to be true. As I sat up in bed, I tried to recollect the details of the dream, the grandeur of the farmhouse memory, and the awe-inspiring encounter with the godly figure. However, the more I grasped for those memories, the more they seemed to slip through my fingers, like a fading dream at the break of dawn. Yet, deep inside, I felt a resonance, an indescribable sense of knowing that the dream had left an indelible mark on my soul. It wasn't just a mere figment of my imagination; it was a divine revelation, a glimpse into a reality beyond the confines of the material world. As I glanced around my room, the mundane surroundings reminded me of the limitations of the mortal realm. But that divine connection, that godly statue in my mind, remained as a testament to the extraordinary encounter I had experienced. In the days that followed, the memory of the dream stayed with me like a faint whisper in the wind. It would surface in quiet moments, in the stillness of the night, and moments of introspection. The words of the godly figure echoed in my mind, reminding me of my divine heritage and the destiny that awaited me. Though I could no longer access the vivid details of the dream, I carried within me a sense of purpose and a deeper understanding of my place in the grand cosmic scheme. It was a journey of self-discovery that had just begun, one that would lead me to explore the depths of my soul and embrace the extraordinary path laid out before me. The godly statue in my mind remained a guiding light, a symbol of divine connection that inspired me to seek wisdom, truth, and meaning in every aspect of my life. It was a reminder that there was more to my existence than met the eye, and that the journey of a son of the divine was just beginning. As I slowly emerged from the remnants of the dream, the soft glow of the morning light greeted my eyes. My mother stood beside my bed, her loving gaze filled with a mixture of affection and concern. She gently placed her hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my slumber. 'Nico, sweetheart, it's time to wake up. You don't want to be late for your class trip to Paris,' she said in her soothing voice, her words carrying the warmth of a mother's love. I blinked a few times, still trying to shake off the lingering effects of the dream. The memory of the godly figure and the farmhouse celebration felt like distant echoes in my mind, but the sense of awe and wonder lingered, like a faint fragrance in the air. „Paris... right,' I replied, my voice still tinged with sleepiness. Graduating from German High-school was a momentous occasion, and the prospect of a weekend trip to Paris with my classmates filled me with excitement and anticipation. As I stretched and sat up, my mother smiled, a mixture of pride and nostalgia in her eyes. 'I can't believe you're almost graduating, my dear. It feels like just yesterday you were starting school.' She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, her touch gentle and familiar. Memories of my childhood rushed back; each moment etched in her loving care. The farmhouse memory from the dream had stirred something deep within me, and now, with my mother by my side, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the love and support that had shaped me into the person I was today. As I got out of bed, my mother handed me a neatly folded set of clothes. 'I laid out your outfit for the trip. It's going to be an exciting weekend, and you'll want to look your best,' she said, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. I smiled, feeling grateful for her thoughtfulness. My mother had always been meticulous in ensuring I had everything I needed for important events, and this was no exception. After getting dressed, I made my way downstairs to the living room, where the excitement of the trip was palpable. My younger sister, Emily, was already there, eagerly discussing the upcoming adventures with Sarah, my best friend. They were chatting animatedly about the places they wanted to visit and the memories they hoped to create. Sarah turned towards me as I entered the room, her eyes lighting up with joy. 'Nico! Finally, you're awake. We were starting to think we'd have to leave without you,' she teased playfully. I chuckled, feeling a sense of warmth and familiarity wash over me. Sarah had been my closest friend since childhood, and our bond was unbreakable. Together, we had shared countless adventures and supported each other through the highs and lows of life. My mother, standing by the doorway, looked at us with a twinkle in her eye. 'You two better hurry. The bus will be here soon, and you don't want to miss it,' she advised, her maternal instincts kicking in. With a nod of agreement, Sarah and I grabbed our bags, brimming with excitement and anticipation for the weekend ahead. Paris was a city of dreams, and the thought of exploring its streets, tasting its cuisine, and immersing ourselves in its rich history filled us with an indescribable thrill. As we stepped outside, the morning air was cool and refreshing. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue over the landscape. Our classmates were gathering at the meeting point, their faces filled with enthusiasm and joy. 'Hey, Nico, are you ready for an unforgettable weekend?' one of our classmates called out, his voice exuding excitement. 'Absolutely!' I replied, feeling a surge of energy and anticipation course through me. The dream and its divine encounter felt like a distant memory now, replaced by the palpable excitement of embarking on this journey with my friends. As we boarded the bus, my mother waved us off, her eyes brimming with maternal pride and love. She had always been my biggest cheerleader, and I could see the mixture of excitement and bittersweet emotions in her smile. The journey to Paris was filled with laughter, chatter, and a sense of camaraderie. We sang songs, played games, and shared stories along the way, creating memories that would be cherished for a lifetime. The excitement in the bus was infectious, and the anticipation for the adventure ahead kept us all wide awake. Sarah and I found ourselves sitting together near the back, just as we always did on school trips. We learned in closer, our heads almost touching, as I began to recount the dream that had left me with a sense of wonder and uncertainty. 'Sarah, you won't believe what I dreamed last night,' I started, my voice hushed so only she could hear. Sarah turned to me, her eyes curious. 'What was it? Tell me everything.' I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to describe the dream that felt both profound and enigmatic. 'It was... surreal. I found myself in this old farmhouse, the same one we used to visit when we were kids. It was like a memory, but so much more vivid.' As I continued to narrate the dream, Sarah listened attentively, her gaze unwavering. I described the warm ambiance, the familiar faces of family and friends, and the joyous celebration of my 7th birthday. But it was the encounter with the godly figure that had left the deepest impact on me. '... and then, I saw him, Sarah. He was this towering, majestic being, like a god or something. He called me 'SON' and spoke to me in this powerful, ethereal voice. I can't shake the feeling that it was real, like a message from beyond.' Sarah looked thoughtful; her brow furrowed as she processed the tale. 'Nico, it sounds incredible, but dreams can be just dreams, you know? Our minds are complex, and they can create all sorts of illusions, especially when we're under a lot of stress.' I nodded, knowing that Sarah was right. Dreams were products of our subconscious, and they often reflected our fears, hopes, and desires. Yet, there was a part of me that couldn't dismiss the dream as a mere figment of my imagination. The encounter with the godly figure had felt so vivid, so real. 'I know, Sarah, but there was something about that voice and the way he looked at me. It felt like he was trying to tell me something important, something I need to understand,' I replied, trying to convey the weight of the experience. Sarah placed a comforting hand on my arm, her eyes softening with understanding. 'It's natural to feel that way, Nico. Dreams can be powerful, and sometimes, they tap into the deeper parts of ourselves. Maybe it's a reflection of the stress we're all under right now with graduation and everything. Your mind might be trying to process it all in its own way.' Her words brought a sense of reassurance, and yet, the dream continued to linger in my thoughts. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it, that it held a message that I needed to decipher. 'But, Sarah, there's one more thing,' I continued, my voice growing softer. 'Remember that voice I heard yesterday, just before the dream? The one that called me 'Sohn'? What if that's connected somehow?' Sarah looked thoughtful, and I could see her mind working to piece the puzzle together. 'It could be, Nico. Maybe your subconscious mind was trying to process that voice, and it found its way into the dream. Dreams can be like that, picking up on things we might not even be aware of.' She had a point, and I appreciated her logical approach to the situation. But deep down, I still had this nagging feeling that there was more to the story, that the dream and the voice were somehow interconnected in a way that transcended the ordinary. As the bus journey continued, Sarah and I fell silent, lost in our thoughts. The rolling countryside outside the window passed in a blur as I delved deeper into the memories of the dream. I tried to recall every detail, every emotion, and every word spoken by the godly figure. It was as if I was piecing together a puzzle that held the key to an extraordinary truth. Amid my contemplation, Sarah's voice cut through the silence. 'You know, Nico, sometimes dreams can be like messages from our subconscious, trying to guide us or offer insight into things we might be struggling with.' Her words resonated with me, and I knew she was trying to offer a comforting perspective. Yet, there was a part of me that yearned for the dream to be more than just a reflection of my thoughts and worries. 'I guess you're right, Sarah,' I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty. 'But it felt so real, like a glimpse into something beyond the ordinary. It's hard to shake the feeling that it means something more.' Sarah smiled gently, understanding my conflicted emotions. 'It's okay, Nico. Dreams can be mysterious, and sometimes, we might never fully understand their meaning. But what's important is how you feel about it. If it feels significant to you, then maybe it is.' Her words brought me a sense of solace, knowing that Sarah supported me regardless of whether the dream was a mere product of my imagination or something more profound. She was always there for me, offering her unwavering support and understanding. As the bus journey continued, I found myself drifting in and out of contemplation, my thoughts torn between the dream and the exciting adventure that awaited us in Paris. The city of lights held its allure, and I knew that the trip would be a cherished memory in its own right. When we finally arrived in Paris, the city welcomed us with open arms. The beauty of the architecture, the rich history, and the vibrant culture enveloped us, leaving us in awe. Sarah and I walked hand in hand along the cobbled streets, taking in the sights and sounds of this magical city. As the day unfolded, we explored famous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre Museum. Each site was more breathtaking than the last, and the history behind them left us both fascinated and humbled. The evening descended upon the city, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. We found a cozy café tucked away in a quaint alley, where we savoured delicious French cuisine and sipped on warm coffee. As we chatted and laughed, the cares of the world seemed to fade away, replaced by the joy of the present moment. Throughout the day, I tried my best to immerse myself in the experience, savouring every sight, sound, and taste. Paris was a city of wonders, and I didn't want to miss a single moment of its magic. As the night settled in, Sarah and I strolled along the Seine River, the city lights reflecting on the water's surface. The ambiance was enchanting, and the dream I had the previous night felt like a distant memory in the midst of the vibrant city. But deep down, I knew that the dream had left a profound impact on me, even amidst the allure of Paris. The encounter with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration remained etched in my mind, like pieces of a puzzle that begged to be connected. As we made our way back to the hotel, exhaustion from the day's adventures began to settle in. The excitement of the city had given way to a sense of tranquillity, and I welcomed the opportunity to rest and reflect on the experiences of the day. The hotel we stayed in was a charming boutique establishment, with a classic Parisian charm. The lobby was adorned with elegant furnishings, and the atmosphere exuded a sense of sophistication and warmth. Our hotel room was cozy and inviting, with a large window that offered a view of the city below. The soft glow of the streetlights bathed the room in a warm embrace. The bed was adorned with plush pillows and a luxurious duvet, promising a comfortable night's sleep. As I settled into bed, memories of the dream began to resurface, blending with the experiences of the day. The encounter with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration seemed to intertwine, forming a tapestry of emotions and questions. The room was quiet, and the distant sounds of the city outside lulled me into a state of relaxation. As I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but wonder about the significance of the dream. Was it just a product of my imagination, or was it a message from something beyond the ordinary? I tried to recall the godly figure's words, the feeling of connection and belonging, and the sense of purpose that had accompanied the dream. It was as if the dream had tapped into a part of myself that had long been dormant, a part of me that yearned for something greater than the ordinary. But amidst the wonder and uncertainty, one thing was clear - the dream had awakened a desire within me to seek meaning and purpose in my life. It had sparked a curiosity about my heritage and the lineage that I carried within me. As I lay there, enveloped in the stillness of the night, I knew that the journey of self-discovery had only just begun. The encounters with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration were like signposts along the path, guiding me toward an extraordinary destiny. With a contented sigh, I drifted off to sleep, knowing that the adventures of the day were just the beginning. The dreams of the night would continue to unfold, leading me on a journey of wonder, self-discovery, and a deeper understanding of the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. And as the night passed in serene slumber, a comforting thought lingered in my mind - that even amidst the vastness of the cosmos and the mysteries of the universe, I was not alone. The godly figure's words echoed in my heart, reassuring me that I was a part of something grand, connected to a lineage of gods and heroes that transcended time and space. In that quiet moment, I embraced the profound truth that I was a son of the divine, destined for an extraordinary path, and that the adventures of the dream and the waking world were intertwined in a dance of wonder and destiny. The second day in Paris was just as enchanting as the first. Sarah and I explored iconic landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre Museum, and Notre-Dame Cathedral. We strolled along the Seine River, taking in the romantic atmosphere and enjoying the sight of artists painting by the riverbanks. In the afternoon, we visited Montmartre, a lively neighbourhood known for its bohemian charm and artistic history. We climbed up the hill to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, where we were treated to breathtaking views of the city below. The quaint cafes and artistic ambiance of Montmartre inspired us, and we even had a local artist sketch our caricatures as a fun souvenir. After a day filled with excitement and exploration, we returned to the hotel to rest and freshen up for the evening. Sarah and I decided to treat ourselves to a relaxing dinner at a cozy bistro. We indulged in delicious French cuisine, savouring every bite as we reminisced about the day's adventures and shared stories of our favourite moments. As the night descended, we found ourselves at a charming bar, enjoying the vibrant nightlife of Paris. The atmosphere was lively, with live music and laughter filling the air. Sarah and I joined the festivities, dancing and laughing with newfound friends we had made on the trip. With the night still young, we decided to continue the celebration with a bit of wine. As the drinks flowed, our inhibitions loosened, and we found ourselves sharing deep and meaningful conversations. Sarah and I talked about our hopes and dreams, our fears and uncertainties, and the insecurities that often plagued us as young adults on the cusp of a new chapter in our lives. In the midst of the laughter and confessions, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia creeping in. Thoughts of the dream from the previous night resurfaced, and I couldn't shake the image of my father's warm smile in the farmhouse living room. As the night wore on, the wine had taken its toll, and a warm and fuzzy feeling enveloped me. Sarah and I were laughing heartily at some inside joke when I noticed the time on my phone. 'Wow, it's getting late. We should head back to the hotel,' I said with a slight slur, attempting to sound responsible. Sarah agreed, and we said our goodbyes to our new friends, promising to meet up again the next day for more adventures. As we stumbled back to the hotel, the streets of Paris were hazy and dreamlike, the city lights painting a picturesque scene. Once back at the hotel, we collapsed into bed, still giggling like teenagers. The wine had brought a sense of euphoria and closeness between us, and I felt grateful for Sarah's friendship and support. As I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, the image of my father in the dream came back to me. It was as if the wine had unlocked a portal to that surreal experience, and I found myself back in the farmhouse living room, standing next to him without a word exchanged. In the midst of the dream, as I stood in the living room of the farmhouse, I suddenly felt a powerful presence behind me. Turning around, I was met with an awe-inspiring sight – my father stood there, his presence commanding and reassuring. His eyes held a wisdom that seemed to transcend time and space. 'Hermes will tell you everything, Listen Son,' he said in a voice that resonated with both strength and tenderness. His words carried an otherworldly weight, and I could feel their significance in the depths of my soul. 'Hermes? Who is Hermes?' I asked, my curiosity piqued, but before I could get more answers, a strange sensation engulfed me. It was as if the ground beneath my feet gave way, and I started descending into an infinite void. The fall was disorienting and surreal, and a rush of emotions coursed through me – fear, excitement, uncertainty. It felt like I was being pulled into an abyss, yet there was an underlying sense of trust, as if this descent was part of a divine plan. The void enveloped me, and I felt weightless, as if I were floating in the cosmos. Stars and galaxies surrounded me, a breathtaking display of the universe's vastness. I could almost hear the celestial hum of creation. Time lost its meaning in this mysterious space, and I felt as though I was drifting through eternity. In the midst of the void, fragmented images flashed before my eyes – symbols, ancient scriptures, and cosmic patterns that I couldn't comprehend. I wanted to call out, to ask questions about Hermes and the significance of this journey, but my voice seemed muted, lost in the expanse of the void. There was a sense that I was being guided, that this was a transformative experience meant to awaken something within me. The fall continued, and the intensity of the void's embrace grew. It was as if I was shedding layers of my old self, leaving behind the doubts and insecurities that had held me back. This was a journey of revelation and initiation, a rite of passage into a deeper understanding of my identity and destiny. And then, just as abruptly as it began, the fall came to an end. I found myself jolted awake, gasping for breath, my heart pounding with the remnants of the dream's intensity. It took a moment for me to regain my bearings, to realize that I was back in the hotel room, safe and sound. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I had truly fallen from the sky, that the void had been more than just a dream. It felt like a profound encounter with the realms beyond, a meeting with forces far greater than my understanding. As I sat up in bed, my mind was a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. The memory of my father's words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder about Hermes and the significance of his message. Who was this figure, and why was he meant to tell me everything? The experience left me with a profound sense of purpose, as if I were being called to embark on a quest of self-discovery and enlightenment. The void had stripped away the mundane layers of existence, leaving me with a yearning to uncover the truth hidden beneath the surface. As the morning light filtered through the curtains, I knew that the journey was just beginning. The enigmatic dream, my father's message, and the encounter with the void had set the stage for an extraordinary adventure, one that would lead me to revelations beyond imagination. With a newfound determination and a heart filled with both trepidation and excitement, I embraced the day ahead, knowing that destiny's path would guide me, and that Hermes would reveal the answers I sought. Little did I know that this dream was just the beginning of a profound odyssey that would take me to the furthest reaches of my soul and beyond, unravelling the mysteries of the cosmos and my place within it. The journey of a lifetime awaited, and I was ready to embark on the path of the unknown, guided by the enigmatic words of my father and the promise of Hermes. On the third and final day of our trip, the morning started with a visit to an old museum, which, to be honest, seemed a bit dull compared to the exciting adventures we had experienced so far. The museum housed ancient artifacts and historical exhibits, but it lacked the spark that had ignited our curiosity in the previous days. Nevertheless, we wandered through the exhibits, trying to find something that would capture our interest. As the day progressed, there was a sense of anticipation building among us. The teachers seemed unusually secretive, and we couldn't help but wonder what surprise they had in store for us. Little did we know that the evening would hold an unforgettable celebration at Bellevilloise, a world-renowned Club/Bar. As the night fell, we made our way to Bellevilloise, and the atmosphere was electric. The place buzzed with excitement, and we knew we were in for a night to remember. The teachers had truly outdone themselves, and everyone was in high spirits, dancing and enjoying the festivities. Amidst the celebration, as I was chatting with friends and swaying to the music, a strange encounter disrupted the revelry. An old-looking guy, who appeared to be in his nineties, approached me with surprising force and took me by the hand. He had a somewhat stern expression, and his demeanor was rather serious, almost boring, like a typical grandpa one might encounter at a family gathering. Curious and slightly bewildered, I allowed him to lead me away from the crowd and into one of the private rooms, an area that was strictly off-limits to most partygoers. The room was dimly lit, and an air of mystery surrounded it. As we stood there, I couldn't help but wonder why this old man had singled me out of the entire crowd. And then, in a moment that defied all reason and comprehension, the old man's appearance began to change before my very eyes. The wrinkles on his face seemed to smooth out, and a radiant aura enveloped him. His boring, mundane appearance transformed into something extraordinary. In an instant, the old man stood before me no more. Instead, I found myself in the presence of a figure that seemed to transcend the boundaries of time and space. Before me stood the world-known Hermes, the messenger of the gods, with his unmistakable caduceus staff in hand. His eyes sparkled with ancient wisdom, and his presence exuded an air of divine authority. Hermes' appearance was a magnificent sight to behold. He wore an ethereal robe that shimmered like stardust, and his hair cascaded in waves of celestial radiance. The room seemed to glow with a celestial light as if it were welcoming a being from another realm. The transformation itself was a mesmerizing dance of cosmic energy. It was as if the old man's earthly shell had dissolved, revealing the true essence of Hermes, a being of unparalleled grace and power. The mundane had given way to the extraordinary, and I stood there in awe, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what was unfolding before me. At that moment, I knew that this encounter was no mere coincidence. It was a revelation, a testament to the mysteries that lie beyond our ordinary perception. I felt a profound sense of purpose, as if I were chosen for something far greater than I could ever imagine. And there, in the hallowed space of Bellevilloise's private room, my journey took an unexpected turn, guided by the presence of Hermes, the messenger of the gods. What lay ahead, I couldn't fathom, but I knew that destiny had intertwined its threads with mine, and my life would never be the same again. As Hermes stood before me in all his divine splendour, I couldn't help but feel a mix of astonishment and disbelief. His presence seemed to radiate a sense of otherworldly power and wisdom. I stammered, trying to find the right words to address this extraordinary being. Hermes, with a serene smile on his radiant face, spoke in a voice that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the cosmos. 'Fear not, mortal,' he said, his words carrying a melodic cadence that captivated my attention. 'I am Hermes, messenger of the gods, known by many names across the world. And you, my dear child, are no ordinary mortal.' Confused and still in awe, I managed to ask, 'Who am I, then? And what do you mean, 'not an ordinary mortal'?' 'Hermes, my father,' he said, pointing to himself, 'has chosen you to be the bearer of a remarkable heritage. You are the son of Proteus, a sea god of boundless wisdom and knowledge. Your lineage is divine, and your destiny is intertwined with the threads of Olympus.' I blinked, struggling to comprehend what I was hearing. Son of a sea god? Divine lineage? It all sounded too fantastical to be true. 'You must be mistaken,' I said hesitantly. 'I'm just an ordinary high school student. This can't be real.' Hermes chuckled warmly, his laughter echoing through the room. 'Oh, but it is real, young one. The blood of the gods flows in your veins, and the potential within you is vast. Your father, Proteus, has been watching over you from the depths of the sea, and now it is time for you to embrace your true self.' 'But why me?' I asked, feeling a sense of apprehension building within me. 'Why would the gods take an interest in a mere mortal like me?' Hermes placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, and a gentle warmth washed over me. 'The gods work in mysterious ways, and their reasons are not always clear to us mortals. But rest assured, you are special. Your curiosity, your thirst for knowledge, and your compassion have caught the attention of the divine. You possess qualities that make you worthy of this heritage.' As he spoke, memories of my father surfaced in my mind. I recalled how he had always encouraged me to explore the world, to seek answers to life's mysteries, and to be kind to others. Perhaps, deep down, I had sensed a connection to something greater, but I had never imagined it to be linked to the realm of the gods. 'I can't just leave everything behind and go to Olympus,' I said, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. 'I have a life here, friends, family, responsibilities...' Hermes nodded understandingly. 'I comprehend your hesitation but know that your journey to Olympus would not be without purpose. Your presence there is needed, and the wisdom of Proteus could offer much to both the mortal and immortal realms. However, I cannot force you to come with me. The choice must be yours to make.' For a moment, I wavered, torn between the comfort of the known world and the allure of a divine destiny. But in the end, I shook my head, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. 'I'm sorry, Hermes,' I said, my voice trembling with uncertainty. 'I just can't believe all of this. It feels like a dream, a beautiful yet impossible dream.' Hermes smiled sympathetically. 'Such is the nature of encounters between mortals and gods. The veil that separates our realms is thin, and sometimes, our presence can be overwhelming to mortal minds. I understand your disbelief, and I bear you no ill will for your decision.' As he finished speaking, Hermes' radiant form began to fade, the celestial light dimming around him. 'Remember this, though,' he said, his voice now distant but filled with a profound sense of wisdom. 'The gods never truly abandon those they have chosen. The door to Olympus will always be open to you, should you ever change your mind.' And with those words, he vanished, leaving me alone in the private room of Bellevilloise. I stood there, trying to comprehend the surreal encounter I had just experienced. A part of me wanted to believe it was all real, that I was truly the son of a sea god destined for greatness. But another part of me dismissed it as a fantastical delusion. As I stepped out of the private room, I found myself back in the vibrant atmosphere of Bellevilloise. The pulsating music and the joyous chatter of the crowd surrounded me once more. It was as if the encounter with Hermes had never happened, yet the memory of it lingered in the back of my mind like a distant dream. I scanned the crowded club, looking for Sarah. As I made my way through the sea of dancing bodies and colourful lights, I caught sight of her near the bar, talking to some friends. Relief washed over me, knowing that she was safe and hadn't been too worried during my sudden disappearance. Approaching Sarah, I tapped her shoulder gently to get her attention. 'Hey, there you are,' she exclaimed with a smile. 'I was looking all over for you! Where did you disappear to?' The words caught in my throat as I contemplated how to explain what had just happened. I couldn't possibly tell her about the encounter with Hermes; it would sound too bizarre, even to my own ears. 'Oh, you know,' I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. 'I just needed some fresh air, so I stepped outside for a moment.' Sarah raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced, but she let it go for the time being. 'Well, alright then. Let's enjoy the rest of the night!' she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back to the dance floor. The music and the dancing helped to distract me from the strange events of the evening. I lost myself in the rhythm of the music, moving and swaying with the crowd. The energy of the place was infectious, and soon I found myself immersed in the celebration, laughing and dancing with Sarah and our friends. As the night wore on, we shared stories and laughter, making memories that would last a lifetime. I caught glimpses of Sarah, her eyes sparkling with joy, her smile radiant as she moved to the beat. She was the anchor that kept me grounded in the moment, and I was grateful for her presence. Eventually, the celebration began to wind down, and the crowd started to disperse. We decided to call it a night and head back to our hotel. The cool night air greeted us as we stepped outside, and a sense of calm washed over me. Walking side by side, Sarah and I navigated the quiet streets of Paris. The city that had seemed so unfamiliar just a few days ago now felt like a place of memories and shared experiences. I felt a connection to this city, as if it had become a part of me in some inexplicable way. As we approached our hotel, fatigue began to set in, and a yawn escaped my lips. 'I'm pretty tired,' Sarah admitted, echoing my sentiments. Once inside our hotel room, we both flopped down onto our respective beds. 'Today was definitely eventful,' Sarah said, her voice filled with a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. I nodded in agreement, my mind still swirling with thoughts of the encounter with Hermes and the revelations he had shared. 'You have no idea,' I replied with a wry smile, deciding that it was best to keep the details of the private room to myself, at least for now. Sarah looked at me curiously, but she didn't press further. 'Well, let's get some rest. We have one more day in Paris, and I want to make the most of it,' she said, pulling the covers over herself. I followed suit, slipping under the covers and closing my eyes. As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I couldn't help but wonder about the mysteries that lay beyond the ordinary world. The encounter with Hermes had opened a door to possibilities I had never imagined, and I knew that the journey of self-discovery was far from over. But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present. I was in Paris, the City of Light, with my best friend by my side. And as sleep claimed me, I knew that no matter what the future held, these moments would forever be cherished in my heart. After the eventful night at Bellevilloise, I returned to the hotel room with a mild alcohol intoxication. The room swayed slightly as I moved, and a light buzz filled my head. Despite the alcohol, I was so physically and emotionally drained that sleep came easily, and I drifted off into a deep slumber. The alcohol in my system seemed to dull my dreams that night, and I found myself in a blissful state of dreamless sleep. The world of imagination and subconscious thoughts was quiet for once, allowing me to rest peacefully. Morning arrived quicker than I expected, and the bright sunlight filtering through the curtains woke me up from my deep sleep. I squinted against the light and turned to my side, noticing that Sarah was already up and getting ready. She seemed to have shaken off any traces of tiredness from the night before, her energy infectious. Just as I was about to close my eyes again for a few more minutes of sleep, the door to our hotel room swung open, and there stood Mr. Bertelmann, our history teacher. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a thick beard and glasses. His well-kept appearance and slightly formal demeanor always made him seem like a professor from a historical movie. 'Good morning, students!' Mr. Bertelmann announced in his deep, authoritative voice. 'It's time to wake up and get ready for our journey back to the school.' I groggily sat up, rubbing my eyes and trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. 'Good morning, Mr. Bertelmann,' Sarah replied with enthusiasm. She was already fully dressed and organized, as always. I stumbled out of bed, finally realizing that we had overslept a bit. Panic set in as I rushed to get myself ready for the long 13-hour bus ride back home. We quickly packed our bags, making sure not to leave anything behind, and did some last-minute checks of the room to ensure we hadn't forgotten anything. After freshening up and grabbing a quick breakfast at the hotel, we joined the rest of the group in the lobby. Everyone seemed equally tired but excited to head back home. Mr. Bertelmann did a final headcount to make sure no one was left behind, and then we boarded the bus. The bus was comfortable and spacious, with enough legroom to stretch out during the long journey. As we departed from Paris and hit the freeway, I felt a mix of nostalgia and relief. It had been an incredible trip, but I was looking forward to returning home. As the hours passed, we made occasional rest stops to stretch our legs and use the facilities. The scenery outside the window changed as we travelled through different regions and landscapes. Some students listened to music, some played games, while others napped to pass the time. At one of the rest stops, Sarah shook me awake gently. 'Hey, we're stopping for a walk, and I thought you might want to join us,' she said, smiling. I nodded groggily, feeling a bit disoriented from the sudden awakening. We stepped out of the bus into the fresh air, stretching and yawning as we walked around the rest area. It was good to move after being seated for so long. With everyone back on the bus, we continued our journey, and soon enough, hunger struck. It was time for lunch, and we decided to stop at a nearby McDonald's for a quick and familiar meal. The golden arches seemed like a beacon of comfort amidst the long bus ride. Sitting there with our McDonald's meals, Sarah and I reminisced about the trip, laughing at the fun moments and sharing our thoughts about the unexpected events. As the bus engine rumbled back to life, we settled in for the final stretch of the journey, grateful for the memories we had created and the friendships we had strengthened during this unforgettable adventure. As the bus continued its journey, Sarah and I found ourselves talking about the celebration party from the previous night. The memories of Hermes and the strange encounter seemed to resurface in my mind, and I hesitated before sharing the details with Sarah. 'Hey, Sarah,' I began, unsure of how to broach the topic. 'I... I had the strangest encounter last night at the party.' Her eyes lit up with curiosity. 'Really? What happened? Tell me everything!' I took a deep breath and recounted the events of the party. I described how an old-looking guy, like a 90-year-old grandpa, had grabbed my hand and drawn me into one of the private rooms. I went on to explain how he had transformed into the world-known Hermes, the messenger of the gods, and claimed that I was the son of Proteus, a shape-shifting sea god. Sarah listened intently, her brow furrowing as she processed the information. 'Wow, that's... that's quite a story,' she said hesitantly. 'But you know, it's probably just a mix of alcohol, stress, tiredness, and maybe some crazy guy trying to mess with your head.' Her words made sense, and I knew deep down that she was likely right. The combination of alcohol and the whirlwind of emotions from the trip might have led to an elaborate dream or hallucination. 'I guess you're right,' I replied with a hint of relief. 'It does sound crazy when I say it out loud. I mean, gods and Olympus. It's like something out of a fantasy novel.' Sarah nodded, offering a reassuring smile. 'Exactly. Sometimes our minds can play tricks on us, especially when we're tired and overwhelmed. But hey, the important thing is that we had a great trip and made amazing memories together.' I couldn't help but smile back at her. Sarah had a way of bringing things into perspective, and her friendship was truly invaluable. As we continued chatting and laughing, the bus approached the Eurotunnel entrance. The excitement of traveling through the underwater tunnel added a sense of novelty to the journey back home. We crossed under the English Channel, and soon enough, we were back in Wales, nearing our beloved Queen Elizabeth High School. The bus finally pulled up in front of the school, and we all disembarked, feeling a mix of exhaustion and contentment. It was bittersweet to say goodbye to our classmates and teachers after such an eventful trip. As I stepped off the bus, I felt a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, I was glad to be back home and reunited with familiar surroundings. On the other hand, I couldn't shake off the lingering thoughts of Hermes and the encounter at the celebration. Sarah gave me a warm hug before we parted ways. 'Remember, it's just a wild story,' she said softly. 'Don't let it bother you too much.' 'I'll try,' I replied, grateful for her support. With a final wave, I made my way home, ready to unwind and rest after the whirlwind of adventures and emotions. The trip had been unforgettable, and even though I wasn't sure what to make of the encounter with Hermes, I knew that the memories of this journey would stay with me for a lifetime. The morning sun streamed through my bedroom window, gently coaxing me awake. As I stretched and yawned, I realized that today was the last day before the graduation ceremony. It was a day off from school, a rare chance to relax before the festivities began. I decided to make the most of it by having a quiet day at home. After a leisurely breakfast with my family, I retreated to my room. I grabbed my laptop and settled comfortably on my bed, intending to watch a movie to pass the time. As I scrolled through various streaming platforms, one title caught my eye: 'The Odyssey of a Dreamer.' Intrigued by the name, I read the synopsis. The movie was about a young boy named Leo who had an insatiable thirst for adventure and a deep fascination with dreams. He believed that his dreams held the key to unlocking mysteries of the universe. One night, Leo has a vivid dream that transports him to ancient Greece, where he embarks on a mythical journey through various realms of dreams, encountering gods, heroes, and legendary creatures. The movie sounded like a perfect blend of fantasy and adventure, and I hit play. As the opening scenes unfolded, I found myself engrossed in Leo's journey. The stunning cinematography and captivating storytelling kept me hooked, and I could empathize with Leo's yearning for something more. As the movie progressed, there were moments that struck a chord with me. When Leo encountered the god of dreams, Morpheus, he was told that dreams were not just random images but reflections of one's deepest desires and fears. I couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to that. Had my own encounter with Hermes been a manifestation of my longing to connect with a father I barely knew? The movie took a poignant turn when Leo found himself face to face with his long-lost father, who had left when he was just a child. Their conversation was heartfelt, filled with emotions that resonated with my own feelings about my absent father. The realization that Leo's father had a reason for leaving, albeit a painful one, reminded me that life was often more complex than it seemed. After the movie ended, I closed my laptop and lay back on my bed, lost in thought. Memories of my childhood flashed before me, and I couldn't help but recall the few memories I had of my father. He had left when I was around seven years old, and since then, contact had been sporadic at best. As I lay there, contemplating the past, I didn't feel anger or bitterness. Instead, a sense of acceptance washed over me. I had grown up without a strong father figure, but my mother and other family members had always been there for me. They had provided love and support, and they were the reason I had become the person I was today. In the afternoon, I decided to take a break from my thoughts and indulge in a hobby I enjoyed – painting. The gentle strokes of the brush and the vibrant colours on the canvas served as a therapeutic outlet, helping me process my emotions and find solace in creativity. As the day drew to a close, I found myself with an inexplicable urge to learn more about Greek mythology. I opened my laptop again and delved into a digital journey through the realms of ancient stories and legends. I read about the Titans, the Olympian gods, and the various mythical creatures that inhabited the ancient Greek world. One name, in particular, caught my attention – Proteus. Described as a shape-shifting sea god and a wise prophet, Proteus was known for his ability to change his form to elude those seeking his insights. I found myself fascinated by the idea of a being so fluid and adaptable, capable of embodying countless manifestations. As I dug deeper into the myth, I couldn't help but wonder if there was any connection between the Proteus of Greek mythology and the figure I had encountered in my dream. Perhaps it was all just coincidence, but the curious part of me wanted to explore the possibility further. Hours passed, and the night sky adorned itself with stars as I continued my research. I found ancient texts, poetry, and interpretations of Proteus's significance in the context of dreams and transformation. I was captivated by the idea that this mythical being might hold some hidden wisdom that could shed light on my own journey of self-discovery. With a sense of satisfaction and curiosity still burning in my mind, I finally closed my laptop. The day had been uneventful to the outside observer, but internally, it had been a day of introspection and learning. I had revisited memories of my father, explored the realms of dreams through a movie, and embarked on a quest of understanding through mythology. As I lay in bed, surrounded by the comforting embrace of darkness, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The next day would be the graduation ceremony, a milestone marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. I knew that the road ahead would be filled with uncertainties and challenges, but I also knew that I had the strength to face them. With that comforting thought, I drifted off to sleep, feeling a sense of contentment and resolution. My dreams that night was unremarkable, but the knowledge that I had taken a step closer to understanding myself and my past filled me with a newfound sense of hope and determination. The journey of self-discovery, much like Leo's mythical odyssey, had only just begun. It´s Urgent [Chapter two] The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room as the day of the graduation ceremony began. My eyes fluttered open as I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. It was my mother, smiling down at me with pride and love. 'Good morning, my dear. Today's the big day!' she said, her voice tinged with excitement. I nodded and smiled back, a mix of nerves and anticipation building inside me. Graduation day was finally here, the day I had been working so hard for. I got out of bed and stretched, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. My mother had already prepared a hearty breakfast to fuel us for the day ahead. We sat at the kitchen table, savouring the meal, and sharing anecdotes about my journey through school. After breakfast, we headed to my room to get ready. My graduation gown and cap were neatly laid out, waiting for me. My mother helped me put them on, making sure everything was perfect. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. Despite the challenges and the hardships, I faced, I had made it to this moment. As we made our way to the graduation venue, my heart pounded in my chest. The excitement and nervousness intensified with each step. When we arrived, the hall was abuzz with students and their families, all dressed in their finest attire. The ceremony commenced, and one by one, names were called, and students crossed the stage to receive their diplomas. Finally,” NICO ADAMS” the Head teacher called; it was my turn. Stepping onto the stage, I took a deep breath to steady myself. The applause from the audience felt like a wave of support, urging me forward. As the best student in my year, I was also given the opportunity to give a speech. Taking the microphone in hand, I looked out at the sea of faces before me. My heart swelled with emotions, and I began to speak. 'Dear teachers, fellow students, and families, today is a momentous day in our lives, a day of triumph and celebration. Looking back on the journey that led us here, we've encountered countless challenges, both inside and outside the classroom. Some of us faced academic hurdles, others navigated personal struggles, but we all persevered and grew stronger together. I stand before you today not only as a student but also as a survivor of bullying. I know firsthand the pain and isolation that comes with being a target of ridicule and cruelty. But I also know the strength that lies within each one of us. We are not defined by the hardships we face, but by the courage and resilience we show in overcoming them. I want to take a moment to acknowledge the incredible support system that surrounds us. Our teachers, who believed in our potential and nurtured our curiosity, our families, who stood by us through thick and thin, and our friends, who became our pillars of strength. Thank you for being the driving force behind our success. As we step into the next chapter of our lives, let us carry with us the lessons we've learned. Let us be compassionate, understanding, and inclusive, so that no one feels left behind. Let us be the change we wish to see in the world. Lastly, I want to share a personal realization. Sometimes, life takes unexpected turns, and we may find ourselves questioning our identity and purpose. But remember, within each of us lies the strength of heroes and the resilience of warriors. We are more than the labels society puts on us. We are unique, powerful, and capable of shaping our destinies. As we graduate today, let us not forget the journey that brought us here and the people who helped us along the way. Thank you for this incredible honour, and congratulations to the Class of 2023. We did it!' As I finished my speech, the audience erupted in applause. I stepped back from the podium, feeling a mixture of relief and pride. Throughout my speech, I couldn't help but notice a figure in the crowd, standing among the parents. It was my father, or at least what I believed is his human form, looking at me with a mix of emotions I couldn't quite decipher. Despite the surprising sight, I chose not to react during the ceremony. It wasn't the time or place to address such matters. Instead, I allowed myself to be fully present in the moment, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work and dedication. The rest of the graduation ceremony proceeded with speeches from teachers and school officials, as well as musical performances by talented students. The atmosphere was filled with joy and accomplishment. Finally, the ceremony concluded with the traditional tossing of caps into the air, a symbolic gesture of embarking on new adventures. After the ceremony, I reunited with my mother, who enveloped me in a tight hug, her eyes glistening with tears of pride. We greeted friends and family, celebrating this momentous day together. The sense of accomplishment and joy was palpable in the air. As the day wound down, my mother and I returned home. We sat in the living room, reflecting on the day's events and the journey that led us here. She spoke fondly of my father, reminiscing about the time we spent together before he left, back when I was seven years old. While I didn't mention the recent events involving Hermes and Proteus, my mother's words stirred a curiosity in me. Later that evening, as the sun began to set, I found myself alone in my room. I sat at my desk; my laptop open before me. Instead of searching for information about Proteus as I had intended, I found myself typing in my father's name. Pages of search results filled the screen, each leading to potential pieces of the puzzle I so desperately sought to solve. But I hesitated. Part of me feared that delving into this search would lead me down a path I wasn't ready to explore. I closed the laptop and decided that for now, I would let fate unfold at its own pace. Perhaps one day, the truth would reveal itself when I was truly ready to face it. With a newfound sense of contentment, I turned my attention to a movie that caught my eye earlier. It was a fantastical tale of heroes and mythical creatures, a story of self-discovery and destiny. I immersed myself in the narrative, drawing parallels to my own life and the journey I had undertaken. As the movie played on, I felt a sense of peace settling over me. Graduation day had been a whirlwind of emotions, but now, I was ready to embrace the uncertainty of the future and the mysteries of my past. With the knowledge that my mother stood by my side, supporting me every step of the way, I felt a newfound strength within myself. The day ended with a serene calmness. Tomorrow would bring a new chapter, filled with possibilities and adventures. But for now, I would allow myself to rest, knowing that I had overcome obstacles and accomplished more than I had ever imagined. As I lay in bed, the glow of the moon filtering through the curtains, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude. Graduation day had been a day of closure, but also a day of new beginnings. With a smile on my face and a heart full of hope, I drifted off to sleep, ready to face whatever the future held. As the night enveloped me, I lay in bed, my mind still filled with the memories of the graduation ceremony and the enigmatic figure of my father. The events of the day had left me emotionally charged, and as I closed my eyes, I hoped for a peaceful slumber. In my dream, I found myself back on the stage during the graduation ceremony. The crowd's applause and cheers echoed around me, but all I could focus on was the solitary figure standing in the middle of the red carpet. It was my father, his presence magnetic and enigmatic at once. Our eyes locked, and despite the distance between us, it felt as if we were the only two people in the room. No words were exchanged, but our gazes conveyed a myriad of emotions. There was pride in my father's eyes, but also a hint of sadness and regret. It was as if he longed to say something, to bridge the gap between us, but was unable to find the words. And just as the silence threatened to overwhelm me, I woke up. The midday sun shone through the curtains, and I realized I had overslept. My mother was at the hospital, where she worked as a resolute nurse. As I stretched and got out of bed, I felt a lingering sense of longing from the dream. The image of my father stood vividly in my mind, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than I knew. In the midst of my thoughts, an unexpected desire arose within me—to go swimming. Now, this was strange because I had never particularly enjoyed swimming. However, today was different. It was as if an inexplicable force pulled me towards the water, urging me to immerse myself in its embrace. Without hesitation, I grabbed my swimming trunks and headed to the local pool. The sun was high in the sky, and the weather was warm. The pool area was bustling with people, laughter, and splashing sounds. I found an unoccupied spot and eagerly made my way into the water. The moment my body touched the cool, refreshing surface, a sense of belonging washed over me. It was as if the water recognized me, and I, in turn, embraced its familiar touch. With each stroke, I felt an uncanny agility, as if I were gliding effortlessly through the water. It was an inexplicable sensation; unlike anything I had experienced before. The pool's blue expanse became my sanctuary, and I lost myself in the rhythmic motion of swimming. I felt liberated, as if the water held the answers to my unspoken questions. With every movement, I could sense my connection to something greater, as if I belonged to this element more than the land I had always known. Time seemed to bend around me as I swam lap after lap. The hours passed like minutes, and I scarcely noticed the world outside the pool. People around me marvelled at my speed, but I was too absorbed in the water's embrace to pay much attention. In this aquatic haven, I had a sense of purpose. The water held me close, guiding my movements like a dance partner leading a ballroom waltz. It was both soothing and invigorating, a paradoxical blend of serenity and excitement. As the day wore on, the pool area began to thin out, and I found myself alone in the water. I took a moment to float on my back, gazing up at the sky. The sun's warm rays kissed my skin, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me. In the tranquil solitude, my thoughts returned to the dream, the graduation ceremony, and the image of my father. Was there more to the story than I knew? Did my connection to the water hold a deeper meaning? I didn't have the answers, but I felt a newfound sense of purpose in seeking them. As the evening approached, I reluctantly pulled myself from the water, a mix of contentment and curiosity in my heart. I dressed quickly and headed home, my mind still swimming with questions and wonderings. Upon arriving home, I found a note from my mother, explaining that she wouldn't be back until later in the evening due to an emergency at the hospital. In search of distraction, I opted to watch a movie on my laptop. I chose a classic adventure film that took me on a journey to far-off lands and mythical realms, reminding me of the tales of gods and heroes I had been delving into. The movie captured my imagination, and for a few hours, I was transported to another world, allowing my mind to escape the complexities of my own life. As the movie came to an end, the realization that my mother still hadn't returned home struck me. Concern tugged at my heart, but I reminded myself that she was a capable nurse and often had unpredictable work hours. Despite that, her absence left a void in the house, emphasizing the solitude that surrounded me. The clock struck midnight, and an inexplicable urge to head to the sea washed over me. It felt as if the water was calling to me, its siren song beckoning me to its embrace. The pool earlier had ignited a newfound love for swimming, and now the vast expanse of the sea seemed to promise an even deeper connection. I didn't question the impulse; instead, I found myself slipping out of the house and making my way to the beach. The night was calm, and the moon's silvery light painted a path on the water's surface, leading me forward. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore felt like a familiar lullaby, soothing my restless soul. When I reached the water's edge, I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect. But as soon as my feet touched the cool, soft sand, any apprehension melted away. The sea called to me like an old friend, inviting me to step into its depths. Without hesitation, I waded into the water. The waves lapped gently against my body, and with each step, I felt a sense of belonging. The vastness of the sea was humbling yet comforting, like being wrapped in a warm embrace. I started swimming, the moonlight guiding my way as I ventured further into the sea. The water was cool and invigorating, energizing my body and mind. I swam with a newfound sense of freedom, feeling as though I had found my element, a place where I truly belonged. The worries and uncertainties that had weighed on me seemed to dissolve in the water. It was as if the sea held the answers I sought, whispering ancient secrets as I glided through its depths. For a moment, I felt connected not only to the water but to something greater—the universe itself. As I swam, the memories of the graduation ceremony and the dream of my father resurfaced in my mind. But this time, they didn't bring confusion or sadness. Instead, I felt a sense of clarity, as if the water had cleansed my spirit and brought me closer to understanding my place in this enigmatic tapestry of life. The minutes turned into an hour, and still, I swam, not wanting to leave the sea's embrace. But eventually, the pull of exhaustion and the realization of the late hour compelled me to return to the shore. As I emerged from the water, a sense of peace settled over me, like a warm blanket wrapping around my soul. I made my way back home, my heart lighter and my mind clearer than it had been in a long time. The house was still empty, but I no longer felt lonely. Instead, I felt a deep connection to the world around me, as if the mysteries that surrounded me were no longer something to be feared but rather embraced as part of my journey. As I lay in bed, the memory of the midnight swim lingered in my thoughts. I knew that my path had been altered, that the discovery of my connection to the water was a turning point in my life. The urge to learn more about Proteus and my father remained, but now it felt like an exploration of my own identity, rather than a quest for answers. With a sense of contentment, I closed my eyes, ready to embrace whatever the future held. The dreams that awaited me were uncertain, but I felt a newfound courage to face them. For now, I was at peace, knowing that the sea would always be there to welcome me, its vast expanse a reminder that the journey of self-discovery was just beginning. And as sleep embraced me once again, I drifted into dreams of the sea, the moon, and the stars, feeling the pull of the water in every Fiber of my being. In my dream, the water was a vast, shimmering expanse, and I felt its gentle embrace surrounding me. The voice of my father, lingering in its godly resonance, echoed through the depths, offering cryptic guidance, 'The water will find you, my son.' The words held a mix of mystery and reassurance, leaving me with a sense of wonder and curiosity. But before I could comprehend the meaning behind those words, my alarm abruptly pulled me back to reality. I woke up, feeling a strange mix of emotions—grateful for the dream's message, yet eager to decipher its significance. The day ahead held a date with Sarah, my best and only friend since we were both seven years old. Our bond had formed in the aftermath of my father's departure. It was just a few days after he had left, leaving me bewildered and lost. The kids at school didn't understand why my dad had vanished, and they teased me relentlessly. It was during one of those tough days that Sarah came to my rescue. I remember vividly how she approached me on the playground, her fiery red hair reflecting the afternoon sun. She had a determined look in her eyes, and without saying a word, she pulled me away from the bullies, making it clear that I wasn't alone. From that day on, we became inseparable. As I got ready for my day out with Sarah, I couldn't help but reflect on our journey together. We had faced numerous challenges and joys, and through it all, Sarah had been my rock, unwavering in her support and friendship. When I met Sarah at our favourite spot in town, a cozy café with a rustic ambiance, she greeted me with a warm smile. We ordered our usual drinks—hot chocolate for her and a caramel latte for me—and settled into a corner booth. The café was quiet, and the soothing aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. We spent the day reminiscing about our adventures as children, laughing at the mischief we used to get into and the innocent dreams we had. But the conversation eventually turned to my recent experiences in Greece. I shared the tales of the trip, carefully leaving out the mysterious encounters with Hermes and the dream about my father. As we delved into stories of ancient ruins, cultural experiences, and the wild celebrations in Paris, Sarah listened with genuine enthusiasm, hanging on every word. She was always the one who saw the best in me, even when I doubted myself. I felt a pang of guilt for not telling her about the encounters with the godly figures and the mysteries surrounding my father. But it all seemed too fantastical to share, and I wasn't even sure if I fully believed it myself. After a delicious lunch at a nearby restaurant, we decided to take a stroll through the park, enjoying the pleasant weather and each other's company. Sarah's presence was comforting, and as we walked side by side, I felt an unspoken understanding between us. It was as if she sensed that something was occupying my thoughts, but she didn't push me to share. As the sun began to set, we made our way back to our neighbourhood. Sarah suggested we visit the community pool for a swim, a spontaneous idea that surprised me. I had never been fond of swimming, but in the spirit of embracing new experiences, I agreed. Arriving at the pool, we found it nearly empty, and the water sparkled invitingly under the fading light. With a hint of playfulness, Sarah dared me to a race, and before I knew it, we were both jumping into the water, splashing and laughing like carefree children. As we swam, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu, almost as if I were reliving the dream, I had the night before. The water enveloped me like a familiar embrace, and for a moment, I felt connected to something greater than myself. Sarah draws me out of my DeJa’Vu “I didn’t know you could swim that fast” As Sarah's playful words drew me out of my momentary trance, I chuckled, trying to shake off the strange feeling. ' . 'Yeah, me neither,' I replied, still feeling a little disoriented. 'I guess I surprised myself.' We sat on the edge of the pool, our legs dipped into the water, gently swaying back and forth. Sarah's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked at me, waiting for an explanation. I took a deep breath, deciding it was time to share the extraordinary experiences I had been keeping to myself. 'Sarah, there's something I need to tell you,' I began, my voice tinged with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. 'During the trip, some bizarre things happened. At the club, an old man transformed into the god Hermes right before my eyes. He claimed to be the messenger of the gods, and he said something about me being the son of Proteus.' Sarah's eyes widened with surprise, and she let out a soft laugh. 'Nico, which sounds like something out of a fantasy novel! Are you sure you weren't just caught up in the excitement of the trip and the mythology stuff?' I nodded earnestly, trying to convince her that I wasn't making this up. 'I thought the same thing at first, but it felt so real, Sarah. And then, at the graduation ceremony, I saw him again—my father, in his human form. He was just there in the crowd, watching, but I didn't know how to react.' Sarah furrowed her brow, concern etched on her face. 'Nico, I think all of this is just your mind playing tricks on you. It's been a whirlwind of emotions lately, with the trip and everything else. Your subconscious might be trying to process everything by creating these vivid dreams.' I understood her scepticism, but deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to these encounters than mere dreams. 'I know it sounds crazy, but there's something about it that feels different, Sarah. Like it's a part of me, of who I am,' I explained, trying to convey the intensity of the experiences. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. 'Nico, I'm your best friend, and I'll always be here for you. But you have to consider the possibility that this is just your mind trying to make sense of things. Maybe you're searching for a connection to your father because he left when you were young.' I took a moment to absorb her words, understanding her point of view. 'You're right, Sarah. Maybe I am grasping at something that isn't there. It's just been so hard not knowing anything about him, and now all of this happens. I don't know what to believe.' Sarah gave me a reassuring smile. 'It's okay not to have all the answers right now. Maybe, with time, things will become clearer. But for now, focus on what you do know—your friendship with me, your accomplishments, and your future. You're not alone in this, Nico.' Her words were like a balm to my soul, easing the turmoil within me. I nodded, grateful for her unwavering support. 'Thank you, Sarah. You're right, I have so much to be grateful for, and I'm lucky to have you by my side.' We sat there by the pool, enjoying the peaceful moment together, as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The weight of uncertainty still lingered, but Sarah's presence brought a sense of comfort and stability. As the day drew to a close, we decided to head back home. Walking side by side, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude for Sarah and the friendship we shared. She was right—I needed to focus on the present and not let myself get lost in the complexities of the past. As I settled into bed that night, I thought about the dreams and the encounters with Hermes and my father. Even though Sarah dismissed them as products of my imagination, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper truth hidden within them. But for now, I would cherish the moments with my best friend and let life unfold one step at a time. The journey of self-discovery was still ongoing, and I had a feeling that the water's guidance was yet to be fully understood. The days passed in a blur after my conversation with Sarah, and life settled into a familiar routine. The dreams and visions seemed like distant memories, fading away like ripples in a pond. I found solace in spending time with Sarah, and whenever we were together, I felt an inexplicable sense of calm and contentment. It was as if her presence had the power to ward off any lingering doubts or fears. Throughout the week, we spent time together as friends often do. We watched movies, explored the local markets, and shared laughter over inside jokes. Sarah was a constant source of support, and her unwavering friendship helped me navigate the mysteries that had stirred within me during the trip. Saturday morning arrived with a sense of peace in the air. As I walked down the quiet neighbourhood streets, I noticed a boy rushing towards me. He had short, skinny, black hair, and his eyes sparkled with an otherworldly glint. His appearance reminded me of Aidan Gallagher, the actor who played Number Five in the TV show 'The Umbrella Academy.' But this was no time to think about celebrity resemblances. 'Hey, you!' the boy called out, panting as he stopped in front of me. 'You're Nico, right?' I nodded, slightly taken aback by the abrupt encounter. 'Yeah, that's me. Do I know you?' 'My name's Evan. Your father sent me,' he said, catching his breath. 'You have to come with me. The Olymp needs you.' My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my father. This was the second time someone claimed that my father had sent them, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. 'The Olymp? Are you talking about the Greek gods and all that?' I asked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Evan nodded eagerly. 'Yes, exactly! Your father, Proteus, he's one of them. He needs you to come with me to the Olymp. There's something important waiting for you there.' Despite the bizarre nature of the situation, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the idea. The memories of the encounters with Hermes and the dreams of my father flashed before my eyes, and I couldn't deny the curiosity that surged within me. 'But how do I know I can trust you?' I questioned cautiously, my mind trying to process everything. 'How do I know this isn't some elaborate prank or a misunderstanding?' Evan sighed, understanding my scepticisms. 'I get it; it sounds insane. But you've got to trust me. I can show you something that only someone connected to the Olymp would recognize.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient-looking pendant. It had a unique design, with intricate patterns etched onto the surface. As he held it out for me to see, I felt an inexplicable pull in my gut, as if the pendant held some unspoken significance. 'That's the symbol of the Olymp,' Evan said, his voice low and serious. 'Your father gave it to me to give to you when the time was right. You're the son of a god, Nico, and it's time for you to embrace your destiny.' I stared at the pendant, unsure of what to make of all this. A part of me wanted to dismiss it all as an elaborate hoax, but deep down, I knew there was truth in Evan's words. There was a world beyond what I knew, a realm of gods and mythologies, and somehow, I was entwined with it. 'I need some time to think,' I finally said, trying to buy myself a moment to process everything. Evan nodded understandingly. 'Of course. Take all the time you need. But remember, the Olymp waits for no one, and your father needs you.' With that, he turned and disappeared down the street, leaving me standing there, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I had questions, doubts, and uncertainties, but deep down, I knew that this journey was far from over. As I walked back home, the pendant still clutched in my hand, I couldn't help but wonder if this was the answer to the questions that had plagued me for so long. My father, the Olymp, and the mysteries of my existence—all converging into a path that I could no longer ignore. The walk back home felt surreal, as if I had stepped into an alternate reality. The pendant nestled in my hand, its weight a constant reminder of the encounter with Evan. Part of me wanted to dismiss it all as a wild fantasy, but the undeniable connection to my father and the cryptic dreams made it difficult to simply brush off as mere coincidence. Upon arriving home, I found the house empty once again, with my mother at work. She had left a note on the kitchen counter, reassuring me that she would be home late and to help myself to dinner. It had become a common occurrence lately, as she worked tirelessly as a nurse, dedicating herself to helping others. I took the opportunity to retreat to my room and lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts of Evan and the pendant consumed my mind. Was it really possible that I was connected to the Olymp, as he claimed? Could my father truly be a god? As the evening wore on, my mind delved deeper into the mysteries that had surfaced in my life. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure of whether to step into the unknown or retreat into the safety of the familiar. The rational part of me screamed that this was all too fantastical, that gods and mythical realms belonged in books and movies, not in real life. Yet, the dreams and visions couldn't be ignored. They felt too vivid, too real to be mere figments of my imagination. The encounters with Hermes and the conversations with Evan echoed in my mind like a persistent whisper, urging me to embrace the truth that lay hidden within. As I lay in bed, my thoughts drifted to my father, who had left when I was just seven years old. My memories of him were faint, like faded photographs tucked away in the corners of my mind. I remembered his laughter, his warmth, and the feeling of safety when he was around. But the memories were tinged with a sense of loss and abandonment, and I couldn't help but wonder if his departure had been related to his godly nature. In the quiet solitude of my room, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like if all of Evan's claims were true. If my father truly was Proteus, a powerful god of the sea, then that would mean I was part divine too. It was a notion that both thrilled and terrified me. The idea of being connected to something greater than myself was exhilarating, but it also carried a weight of responsibility. What did the gods want with me? Why was I being summoned to the Olymp? And what did it mean for my future? As the night deepened, my thoughts slowly drifted away from Evan and the pendant, and instead, my mind wandered to the graduation ceremony earlier that week. The memory of seeing my father's human form among the parents haunted me. I had deliberately chosen not to react, fearing that acknowledging his presence would shatter the illusion. But now, lying in my bed, I couldn't help but wonder if I had missed an opportunity. Could it have been a chance to connect with my father, to understand why he had left and what role the Olymp played in all of this? I felt a mixture of regret and curiosity, but ultimately, I knew that there was no going back. The ceremony had passed, and the moment had slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. All that remained were unanswered questions and a sense of longing. As the clock struck midnight, I found myself still wide awake, my mind swirling with thoughts and emotions. The urge to go to the sea and swim, which had been so strong earlier, had now waned in the presence of doubt and uncertainty. I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever have the chance to confront my father again, to ask him the questions that had been haunting me for years. As my thoughts gradually quieted, I realized that I needed time to process everything. The weight of the pendant still rested against my palm, a tangible reminder of the mysteries that had unfolded in my life. I knew that I couldn't make any hasty decisions. Whatever lay ahead, I needed to approach it with a clear mind and an open heart. With that realization, I finally allowed myself to succumb to exhaustion. As sleep enveloped me, my mind drifted back to the graduation day, to the figure of my father standing amidst the parents. And in that moment, as I slipped into dreams once again, I whispered to the universe, hoping that somehow, the answers I sought would find their way to me. My heart raced as I watched Hermes and Evan enter my room through the broken window. Their urgent expressions and hushed voices sent shivers down my spine. The pendant around my neck seemed to grow warmer, as if it sensed the tension in the room. 'What's going on? Why are you here? And how did you find me?' I asked, my voice shaking with both fear and curiosity. Hermes glanced at Evan, and then back at me. 'There's no time to explain everything now. Your father needs you in the Olymp. It's urgent, Nico,' he said, his eyes searching mine for any sign of understanding. 'But I can't just leave without knowing what's happening. I have responsibilities here, a life,' I protested, my mind reeling with the sudden turn of events. Evan stepped forward; his face serious. 'I know it's a lot to take in, but this is bigger than you can imagine. Your father, Proteus, is in danger, and only you can help.' I looked from Hermes to Evan, trying to make sense of their words. The doubts and uncertainties from before resurfaced, but there was an intensity in their eyes that I couldn't ignore. They were scared, and that scared me. Hermes spoke again, his voice gentle yet urgent. 'I understand this is overwhelming, but trust me, Nico. Your destiny is intertwined with the Olymp, and your father needs you. We wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't crucial.' I sat there, torn between the life I knew and the mysterious call of the Olymp. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet, deep down, I knew that I couldn't turn my back on my father, especially if he was in danger. 'Okay,' I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. 'I'll go with you, but please, tell me more about what's happening. I need to know.' Hermes and Evan exchanged a glance, as if silently communicating. Then, Hermes nodded and began to explain. The spoke of ancient prophecies, of a rising threat that could endanger not only the Olymp but the mortal world as well. He told me about my father, Proteus, and his unique abilities to shape-shift and see into the future. 'And you, Nico,' Hermes continued, 'you possess a special gift too. Your connection to the water is not just a coincidence. It's a sign of your divine heritage. You have the potential to wield great power, to help protect the balance between the realms.' I listened intently, my mind grappling with the weight of the revelations. It felt like I was being pulled into a mythical tale, one that I had only read about in books or seen in movies. 'Come with us, Nico,' Evan urged. 'We don't have much time. The Olymp is in turmoil, and your father needs you to restore order.' Taking a deep breath, I stood up and nodded resolutely. 'Okay, I'm ready. But I need to say goodbye to my mom. She's a nurse, and I can't just disappear without letting her know.' Hermes nodded in understanding. 'Of course, family comes first. We'll wait but make it quick.' I rushed to find a piece of paper and a pen and quickly scribbled a note to my mother, explaining that I had to leave urgently for something important but that I would return as soon as I could. I left the note on the kitchen counter, hoping it would be enough to ease her worries. Back in my room, I took one last look around, uncertain of when I would return. The pendant glowed softly, as if encouraging me forward. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. 'Alright, I'm ready,' I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Hermes and Evan both smiled, relief evident in their expressions. Hermes stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'You're doing the right thing, Nico. Your father will be proud,' he said, his voice filled with a mixture of warmth and determination. With that, I stepped closer to them, and together, we crossed the threshold of my room, embarking on a journey that would change the course of my life forever. As Hermes spoke his final words, the air seemed to shimmer around him, and his form began to fade like an ethereal mist. It was as if he was slowly becoming one with the surrounding atmosphere, and his voice echoed in my mind, 'Son of gods, I'm waiting for you in Olympus.' I stood there, mesmerized by the sight, unsure if I was witnessing some divine magic or if it was all just a dream. Evan gently nudged me, bringing me back to reality. 'We should go,' Evan said softly, his eyes still fixed on where Hermes had been. Nodding, I followed Evan as we made our way through the broken window and into the cool night air. The pendant around my neck glowed faintly, guiding us toward our destination. We walked in silence for a while, the weight of the unknown pressing on both of us. 'You know, you're not the only one with a unique heritage,' Evan finally spoke up, breaking the silence. 'What do you mean?' I asked, curious about his own story. 'I'm a demigod, just like you. Well, sort of,' he replied with a half-smile. 'My mother is a mortal, but my father is a god.' 'A demigod?' I repeated, trying to wrap my head around the revelation. 'So, you have powers too?' Evan chuckled. 'Yeah, something like that. I can manipulate shadows and darkness, which comes in handy sometimes. But being a demigod also means that I have a connection to the Olymp and the divine world. That's how I found out about you and your father.' As we walked, Evan shared some of his experiences as a demigod, the challenges he faced, and the strange and dangerous creatures he encountered. It was like listening to a fantastical adventure, and part of me couldn't believe that I was now a part of this hidden world. 'So, how do we get to the portal that leads to Olympus?' I asked, realizing that we were approaching an unfamiliar part of town. Evan pointed ahead to where a faint glimmer of light seemed to be pulsating in the distance. 'That's it. The portal is hidden from mortal sight, but we can see it because of our divine heritage.' As we got closer, the glimmer grew brighter, and I could feel a strange energy in the air. The pendant around my neck pulsed in sync with the light, as if acknowledging the presence of the portal. 'The portal is a gateway between the mortal world and Olympus,' Evan explained. 'It's a powerful and ancient magic, and only demigods and gods can use it to travel between realms.' Evan and I navigated through the dimly lit streets, the night air filled with a sense of urgency and anticipation. Every step we took seemed to bring us closer to our destiny, and my heart pounded in my chest with a mix of fear and excitement. The pendant around my neck grew warmer, as if guiding us to our destination. As we turned a corner, the glimmer of light ahead grew more pronounced, casting an otherworldly glow on the surrounding buildings. The streets seemed to shift, and I could swear that the city had transformed into something different, something more magical. The source of the light became apparent as we arrived at a small, secluded square nestled between old, forgotten buildings. In the centre of the square stood a statue of a majestic, winged creature, its stone wings outstretched as if guarding the portal that lay beyond. 'It's the Sphinx,' Evan whispered, pointing at the statue. 'A guardian of ancient knowledge and secrets. The portal is behind it.' As we approached the Sphinx, its stone eyes seemed to follow our every move, as if judging whether we were worthy of passing through. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being tested, that the fate of my journey hung in the balance. The portal itself was unlike anything I had ever seen. It appeared as a shimmering, translucent archway, its edges adorned with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and dance like living things. The colours shifted between shades of blue, gold, and silver, creating an otherworldly spectacle that mesmerized and terrified me all at once. 'It's beautiful,' I whispered, awestruck by the sight before me. Evan nodded, a solemn expression on his face. 'Indeed. But remember, once you step through, there's no turning back. Are you sure you're ready for this?' Taking a deep breath, I thought about everything that had led me to this moment. My dreams, the encounter with Hermes, the revelations about my heritage – it was all too surreal, yet I couldn't deny the pull that tugged at my heartstrings. 'I have to do this,' I replied, determination in my voice. 'My father needs me, and I can't ignore that call.' Evan smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes. 'That's the spirit, Nico. Just remember, once you're in Olympus, you'll be surrounded by gods and powerful beings. It won't be easy, but you're not alone. I'll be there for you every step of the way.' With Evan's encouragement, I felt a surge of courage welling up inside me. I took one last look at the mortal world, at the city that had been my home for so long, and then turned to face the portal. Stepping forward, I could feel the energy of the portal enveloping me, tingling against my skin like an electric current. As I passed through the shimmering archway, the world around me seemed to shift and bend. It was as if I was being transported through a cosmic tunnel, hurtling through space and time. The colours blurred together, and I closed my eyes, trusting in the journey that lay ahead. When I finally opened my eyes again, I found myself in a place unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a realm of grandeur and majesty, with towering marble pillars that reached toward the heavens and lush gardens that seemed to stretch on for eternity. The air was thick with power and magic, and I could sense the presence of divine beings all around me. I had arrived in Olympus, the realm of the gods. And there, waiting for me, was my father. We stood in front of the portal, and I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. Stepping through would mean leaving the life I knew behind and venturing into the unknown. But I also knew that my father needed me, and I couldn't turn my back on him. „Evan, what will happen once we step through? Will I be able to come back?' I asked, feeling a surge of nervousness. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'Don't worry, Nico. You'll be able to return to the mortal world if you choose to. The portal works both ways. But once you enter Olympus, things will never be the same.' I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. With Evan by my side, I knew I wasn't alone in this journey. Together, we stepped through the portal, and a rush of energy enveloped us, transporting us to the other side. Olymp [Chapter Three] Stepping through the portal was an experience unlike any other. It felt like being engulfed in a whirlwind of energy, where time and space ceased to exist. The air crackled with power, and I could feel the very essence of Olympus coursing through my veins. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming, as if I were being embraced by the very heart of the gods themselves. But as I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings, my heart sank. The majestic Olympus I had imagined was now in ruins. The once-glorious marble pillars lay broken and toppled, their grandeur replaced by decay and destruction. The gardens that were once lush and vibrant were now withered and lifeless. The skies above were shrouded in dark clouds, giving the ruins an even more haunting appearance. It was as if the very heavens mourned the loss of this once-great realm. The air, once filled with the power of the divine, now felt heavy with sorrow and despair. Evan stood beside me; his face etched with devastation. He looked around in disbelief, his eyes searching for any sign of life or hope. But there was nothing. The Olymp that had been his home, the place where he had found belonging and purpose, was now a desolate wasteland. 'I don't understand,' Evan muttered, his voice choked with emotion. 'What could have done this? Where are the gods?' I had no answers to give him. All I could do was grasp his shoulder in silent support, sharing in his grief and confusion. The weight of the situation settled heavily on my shoulders. I had come here with the hope of finding my father, of discovering the truth about my heritage, but instead, I was faced with a world in ruins. As we cautiously moved through the ruins, the silence was deafening. There was no sign of life, no sound of laughter or divine voices. It was as if Olympus had been abandoned, left to crumble into the pages of forgotten history. The palace, once resplendent with its divine architecture, now stood as a haunting reminder of the past. Broken statues of gods lay scattered on the ground, their once-proud features now worn away by time and neglect. The halls echoed with emptiness, each step a painful reminder of the life that once thrived within these walls. The devastation extended beyond the palace grounds, stretching to the farthest corners of Olympus. The once-majestic temples were reduced to rubble, and the sacred groves were now overgrown with weeds. It was a landscape of sorrow, a testament to the fall of a once-great civilization. Evan and I searched tirelessly, hoping against hope that there might be some survivors, some glimmer of hope amidst the ruins. But there was no one. It seemed that the gods themselves had vanished, leaving behind only the remnants of their once-glorious realm. In the midst of the ruins, I couldn't help but feel a sense of helplessness and despair. The weight of the responsibility I had taken on weighed heavily on my shoulders. How could I, a mere mortal, hope to save Olympus and find my father in this desolate wasteland? But as I looked at Evan, his determination unwavering despite the devastation, I knew that we couldn't give up. There had to be answers, there had to be a way to uncover the truth behind the fall of Olympus. Together, we vowed to find out what had happened and to restore this fallen realm to its former glory. Even in the face of despair, we would stand strong, for the sake of Olympus and for the sake of all those who had called it home. As I gazed at the figures in the distance, my heart skipped a beat. One of them undeniably resembled Hermes—the same elegant and ethereal presence that had visited me in my dreams. His figure exuded an otherworldly aura, and his golden wings shimmered in the faint light that managed to penetrate through the darkened skies of Olympus. The second figure was tall and imposing, with a powerful and commanding presence. His muscular frame was accentuated by the intricate armour he wore, adorned with symbols of strength and power. His face was stern, chiselled with determination, and his eyes held an intensity that seemed to pierce through to my very soul. Both figures stood in stark contrast to the ruins around them. While the world of Olympus lay in decay, they remained untouched, as if they were the last bastions of a forgotten era. Their very presence sent shivers down my spine, a mix of awe and trepidation. Hermes, with his soft yet penetrating gaze, seemed to look directly into my heart, as if he could see all my fears and doubts. His lips moved, and even from this distance, I felt a faint echo of his words in my mind—the same words he had spoken to me before, 'Son of gods, I'm waiting for you in Olympus.' The other figure remained silent; his expression unreadable. He watched me with a mix of curiosity and caution, as if assessing whether I was friend or foe. His eyes held a glint of something familiar, something that tugged at the corners of my memory, but I couldn't quite place it. Evan stood beside me, and I could sense his unease as well. We exchanged a quick glance, silently acknowledging the gravity of the situation. We had come this far, and now, we were face to face with figures that seemed to hold the answers we sought. Yet, I hesitated to approach them. I was torn between the desire to know more and the fear of what I might discover. The ruins around us served as a stark reminder of the consequences that had befallen Olympus. Was I ready to face the truth, whatever it might be? For a moment, I considered turning away, retreating back to the safety of the portal and returning to the mortal world where I belonged. But a stronger feeling gripped me—the need to know, the need to understand, and the need to face whatever lay ahead. Summoning my courage, I took a step forward. Evan followed suit, matching my resolve. As we moved closer, the figures seemed to shimmer and flicker, as if they were still only half-formed in this broken world. Their presence felt surreal, as if they were not entirely grounded in the realm of reality. As I stood before them, I felt a mixture of reverence and trepidation. Hermes' eyes held a mixture of compassion and wisdom, while the other figure's gaze remained inscrutable. I knew that there was more to these encounters than mere chance. They were part of a larger tapestry, a web of destinies that had brought us all together. But before I could speak, before I could ask the questions that weighed heavily on my heart, the figure beside Hermes raised his hand in a gesture of caution. His voice was deep and resonant, tinged with an ancient power that echoed through the very fabric of Olympus. 'Not now, Nico,' he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority. 'There are things you must learn, but the time is not right. You have taken the first step, but there is much more to be revealed.' With those words, my heart sank. I had come so far, and yet it seemed that the answers I sought were still out of reach. The figure turned to Hermes, and they exchanged a knowing look—a silent conversation that spoke volumes. Then, without a word, Hermes extended his hand toward me, offering a small, enigmatic smile. I knew that this encounter was only the beginning, and there was much more to come. As I took his hand, a surge of energy passed between us, as if a connection had been forged—a bond that would shape the path of my destiny. Hermes' eyes held a depth of sorrow and concern as he began to speak. 'Nico, we knew that the time of reckoning would come—when Kronos, the ancient titan, would rise to seek vengeance and destruction upon Olympus. It is a battle that has been foretold for eons, and we have been preparing for this moment.' 'Evan,' he turned to my companion, 'you were chosen because of your lineage, your bloodline, and your unique abilities. Your heritage makes you a powerful ally, and we have been training you to harness that strength for the coming conflict.' Evan nodded, absorbing the weight of his role in this unfolding saga. 'But why us? Why do you need me and Nico? There must be others, stronger and more experienced.' Hermes' smile held a hint of fondness for Evan's humility. 'You both possess a rare combination of mortal and divine heritage. Your father, Nico, is Proteus, the ancient sea god, and your mother, Evan, is a mortal. This unique blend of bloodlines grants you abilities and potential that even seasoned gods may lack.' I listened intently, trying to comprehend the enormity of what was unfolding. It was as if the world of myth and legend was converging with my reality, and I found myself at the epicentre of it all. Hermes continued, 'You are also the children of the prophecy—the ones who hold the key to Kronos' defeat. The bonds of fate and destiny have intertwined your lives, and it is through your combined strength and courage that the tide of this battle can be turned.' 'But we're just teenagers,' I interjected, my voice tinged with doubt. 'How can we possibly be the ones to face such a formidable foe?' Hermes' expression softened with understanding. 'It is not your age that matters, Nico. It is your spirit, your heart, and your willingness to stand against the darkness. The strength of heroes lies not only in their physical prowess but in their compassion, resilience, and the bonds they form with others.' 'Evan has been training for this his entire life,' Hermes continued, 'and with the awakening of your divine heritage, Nico, you have shown remarkable potential. But you must learn to control and channel these newfound powers. The path ahead will not be easy, and the challenges you face will test your resolve. Evan and I exchanged glances, the weight of our responsibilities settling upon our shoulders. The enormity of the task ahead was both terrifying and exhilarating. I could feel the power of Olympus pulsing through my veins, awakening something primal and ancient within me. Hermes placed a hand on each of our shoulders, his touch imbuing us with a sense of reassurance and purpose. 'You are not alone in this journey,' he said. 'The gods and allies of Olympus will stand beside you. You will face trials and adversaries but remember that the strength of Olympus lies in its unity. Together, you can overcome the darkness.' He turned his gaze to the ruins of Olympus behind us, a profound sadness in his eyes. 'For now, you must return to the mortal world. Train, hone your skills, and strengthen your bonds with those you hold dear. The time will come when you must face Kronos, but until then, prepare yourselves.' Evan nodded resolutely; his determination evident. 'We won't let you down.' Hermes smiled warmly. 'I know you won't.' With that, a soft glow enveloped us, and I felt myself being drawn back through the portal, leaving Olympus and its mysteries behind—for now. As we emerged on the other side, I was filled with a newfound sense of purpose and determination. The path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but I knew that I was not alone. As my father stepped into the conversation, a sombre aura surrounded him. His presence commanded respect and authority, and I couldn't help but feel a mixture of awe and trepidation. His words carried the weight of centuries, and his eyes held a profound sadness that reflected the gravity of the situation. 'Nico, Evan,' he began, his voice steady yet tinged with sorrow, 'what Hermes has told you is true. Kronos has risen to unimaginable power, and his malevolence knows no bounds. He has captured the souls of the gods and demigods, imprisoning them within himself, using their essence to fuel his insatiable hunger for dominion.' My heart sank at the realization of the dire situation. The fate of Olympus, the world, and everything I held dear hung in the balance. I knew we couldn't afford to fail, but the weight of such a monumental task threatened to overwhelm me. 'You both possess gifts that can make a difference,' my father continued. 'The blood of gods and mortals flows within your veins, giving you strength and abilities beyond the ordinary. But know this—defeating Kronos will require more than raw power.' Evan and I listened intently, our minds racing to grasp the enormity of the responsibility laid upon our shoulders. 'Kronos' strength is matched only by his cunning and ruthlessness,' my father continued. 'He will seek to divide and conquer, using every weakness and fear against you. He will test your resolve, your beliefs, and your bond as friends.' Evan's expression hardened with determination, mirroring my own resolve. We were both aware that our friendship would be put to the test, but we trusted each other implicitly. 'You may feel overwhelmed and doubt your abilities,' my father said gently. 'But remember, the essence of Olympus lies not just in its gods and demigods but in the unwavering spirit of its heroes. Courage, loyalty, and the willingness to sacrifice for the greater good—it is these qualities that will tip the scales in your favour.' I nodded, absorbing my father's words and committing them to memory. The weight of the world's fate rested on our shoulders, and we had to stand united against the forces of darkness. 'You have no allies in Olympus, for Kronos has isolated and captured us all,' my father continued. 'But perhaps that is an advantage. The element of surprise will be your ally, and you must act swiftly and decisively.' As the weight of the task settled upon me, I knew that time was of the essence. Kronos' reign of terror threatened not only Olympus but the world I had known before embarking on this extraordinary journey. My father looked at Evan and me with a mixture of pride and sadness. 'I have faith in both of you,' he said. 'You have the potential to rise above the challenges ahead, to forge your own destinies as heroes.' Evan and I exchanged a determined glance, our hearts aligned in purpose. We were just teenagers, but we had faced trials and tribulations that had prepared us for this moment. 'You must find the strength within yourselves to withstand whatever trials Kronos throws your way,' my father emphasized. 'And remember, even in the darkest of times, the light of hope can pierce through the shadows.' With those words, my father stepped back, fading into the ethereal background, leaving Evan, Hermes and me alone in the Ruins of Olympus. As Hermes spoke, his words reverberated through the ruins of Olympus. The gravity of the prophecy he shared sent shivers down my spine. The mention of a fallen angel who would bring destruction to Olympus and a Son of God who would rise to oppose him seemed like an ancient tale, a clash of titanic forces that had been written in the star’s aeons ago. 'The fallen angel, known as Kronos, was once a powerful ruler of the Titans,' Hermes continued. 'In a desperate bid for supremacy, he sought to overthrow the gods and plunge Olympus into chaos. The gods of Olympus stood united against him, and in a fierce and arduous battle, they defeated and banished him to the darkest depths of Tartarus.' 'But such ancient evils never stay truly vanquished,' Evan interjected, his voice tinged with concern. Hermes nodded gravely. 'Indeed. Through dark magic and the cunning manipulation of time, Kronos managed to return. He sought revenge on the gods and vowed to reshape the world in his image. His malevolence knows no bounds, and he has spent millennia amassing power and followers, preparing for the day of reckoning.' As I listened, my mind tried to grasp the enormity of the prophecy. I, a mere mortal, stood on the precipice of a battle that had been foretold since time immemorial. The weight of destiny bore down on my shoulders, and I could feel the weight of generations of heroes before me, those who had faced the wrath of gods and titans alike. 'But within this darkness, there is hope,' Hermes continued, his eyes gleaming with a glimmer of optimism. 'The prophecy also speaks of a Son of God, a being of unparalleled power, who will rise to face Kronos and restore balance to the world.' Evan and I exchanged astonished glances. Could it be that the Son of God referred to in the prophecy was one of us? I, the son of Proteus, and Evan, a half-blood with divine heritage, were both overwhelmed by the possibility of our destinies intertwining with the fate of Olympus. 'You both possess powers beyond mortal comprehension,' Hermes said, addressing us directly. 'But it is not merely your abilities that define you. It is your spirit, your character, and your unwavering belief in the power of good that will determine the outcome of this battle.' 'I never asked for any of this,' Evan muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. 'And I never sought to be a part of some ancient prophecy,' I added, feeling the weight of my newfound identity as the son of Proteus. Hermes smiled gently, understanding the turmoil within us. 'No one ever chooses their destiny, but destiny chooses them. It is the way of the gods and mortals alike. But fear not, for you are not alone in this journey.' 'Where are the other gods?' Evan asked, glancing around at the ruins of Olympus. 'They have been captured and imprisoned by Kronos,' Hermes replied solemnly. 'He seeks to drain their power and claim their domains as his own. This is why you must act swiftly and decisively. With every passing moment, his grip on Olympus tightens, and the world suffers under his tyranny.' As Hermes spoke, the weight of the prophecy settled upon us. We were the last hope of Olympus, the only ones who could stand against Kronos and prevent the world from descending into darkness. I knew that there was no turning back now. We had been called upon by destiny itself, and we had to rise to the challenge. 'Believe in yourselves, for the power lies within you,' Hermes said, his voice firm with conviction. 'Embrace your heritage, harness your abilities, and let the light of hope guide your way. Only then can you face Kronos and emerge victorious.' With those words, Hermes stepped back, and a profound silence settled over us. I felt a sense of determination surging within me, and I knew that I was ready to embrace my destiny, no matter how perilous the path ahead may be. As Hermes finished imparting the weight of our destinies upon us, he looked at Evan and me with a compassionate gaze. 'I understand that this is all overwhelming for both of you,' he said, his voice gentle. 'You need time to process everything, and I will respect that. Tomorrow, we will begin your training, but for now, you should find a place to rest and gather your strength.' Evan and I exchanged glances, our minds swirling with a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts. The weight of the prophecy, the responsibility of saving Olympus, and the revelation of our godly heritage left us both feeling unsteady and uncertain. 'I don't know if I'm ready for all of this,' Evan admitted, his voice tinged with doubt. 'I feel the same way,' I confessed. 'I never asked for any of this, and I don't know if I have what it takes to face Kronos.' Hermes nodded, understanding our hesitations. 'It's natural to feel afraid and unsure in the face of such a daunting task,' he said. 'But remember, you were chosen for a reason. You possess unique qualities and strengths that make you the right ones for this journey.' As we stood amidst the ruins of Olympus, I felt a sense of awe and reverence for the ancient place. The pillars and statues that once stood tall were now broken and scattered, a reflection of the devastation that Kronos had wrought upon this sacred realm. I knew that I couldn't allow this destruction to go unchallenged, but the fear of failure gnawed at the edges of my resolve. 'We are just mortals,' I said, my voice wavering slightly. 'How can we hope to stand against a being as powerful as Kronos?' Hermes placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'You are not just mortals. You have divine blood flowing through your veins, a legacy that connects you to the very fabric of the universe. And with proper training and guidance, you can unlock the full potential of your godly heritage.' As the words sank in, I felt a spark of determination ignite within me. I knew that I couldn't let fear hold me back. If there was even a chance that I could help save Olympus and prevent the destruction of the world, I had to try. 'You're right,' I said, my voice steadier now. 'I won't let fear stop me from doing what needs to be done.' Evan nodded in agreement. 'I may not fully understand everything yet, but I won't back down either.' Hermes smiled, pleased with our resolve. 'That's the spirit. Rest now, for tomorrow, we begin your training. You'll need to learn to harness your godly abilities and unlock your true potential.' With that, Hermes faded away, leaving Evan and me alone in the ruins of Olympus. We found a secluded spot amidst the debris, where we could rest and contemplate the path that lay ahead. Lying there, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. The thought of training to unlock my godly powers was exhilarating, but the weight of the responsibility weighed heavily on my shoulders. I knew that there was no turning back now. The fate of Olympus and the world rested on our shoulders, and we had to rise to the occasion. As I closed my eyes, I thought about my mother back in Wales, completely unaware of the incredible journey her son was embarking upon. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving her in the dark, but I knew that she would be safer not knowing the dangers that awaited me in Olympus. My mind drifted back to Sarah, my best and only friend. I wondered how she would react if she knew the truth about my identity and the destiny that awaited me. Would she be proud? Scared? Confused? I didn't know, but I couldn't bring myself to burden her with the weight of this secret. I also thought about my father, who had disappeared from my life when I was just a child. The dreams I had been having of him in the farmhouse and at the graduation ceremony weighed heavily on my heart. I longed to know the truth about him, to understand why he had left and what role he played in all of this. But there was no time for answers now. The urgency of the situation demanded that I focus on the task at hand. I needed to train, to prepare myself for the battle that awaited me. The fate of Olympus, the gods, and the world depended on it. As the night wore on, I found myself drifting into a restless sleep. Images of Kronos and the ruins of Olympus haunted my dreams, but amidst the darkness, I saw glimmers of light, of hope, and of the power that lay dormant within me. The Training [Chapter Four] FIRST DAY The first day of training dawned with a sense of anticipation and nerves. Evan and I had barely slept the night before, our minds still reeling from the revelations and responsibilities that lay ahead. But there was no time for hesitation. We knew that we had to throw ourselves into the training if we had any hope of standing against Kronos. Hermes appeared before us as the sun rose, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of wisdom and mischief. 'Are you ready for your first day of training?' he asked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 'As ready as we'll ever be,' I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Hermes led us to a clearing amidst the ruins of Olympus. The air was charged with energy, and I could feel a tingling sensation in my veins. It was a reminder of the divine blood that flowed through me, a connection to the world of gods and immortals. 'Today, we'll focus on the basics,' Hermes said. 'We'll start by tapping into your godly powers and learning to control them.' He gestured for us to stand in the centre of the clearing and close our eyes. 'Clear your minds of all distractions,' he instructed. 'Focus on the power that lies within you.' I took a deep breath, trying to silence the doubts and fears that threatened to overwhelm me. I reached out with my senses, searching for that spark of divinity that Hermes spoke of. At first, there was nothing but darkness, but then, I felt a flicker of warmth deep within me. 'You've found it,' Hermes said, his voice encouraging. 'Now, try to bring it to the surface. Let it flow through you.' I concentrated on that inner flame, allowing it to grow brighter and stronger with each passing moment. It was like tapping into an infinite reservoir of power, and it filled me with a sense of awe and wonder. Evan seemed to be struggling, his brow furrowed in concentration. But then, with a burst of determination, I saw his eyes light up as he too connected with his godly heritage. 'Now, try to channel that power,' Hermes said. 'Let it manifest in a tangible way.' I held out my hand, and to my amazement, a small ball of light appeared in my palm. It shimmered and danced like a tiny star, and I couldn't help but marvel at the sight. Evan managed to create a ball of light as well, though it wavered and flickered in his hand. But he looked at it with a mixture of wonder and pride, knowing that he had tapped into something extraordinary. Hermes nodded in approval. 'Good, very good. Now, I'll show you how to use this power to defend yourselves.' He conjured a wooden training dummy and demonstrated how to direct the energy we had harnessed into a blast. The blast hit the dummy with a burst of force, sending it flying backwards. 'Now you try,' Hermes said, stepping aside to give us room. Evan and I exchanged nervous glances, but we took a deep breath and focused our power on the dummy. I summoned all my concentration and willpower, and with a surge of energy, I released the blast. To my surprise, it hit the dummy with precision, sending it skidding across the ground. Evan's attempt was a bit less controlled, but it still had enough force to knock the dummy off its feet. Hermes clapped his hands in delight. 'Well done! You're both natural learners.' As the day went on, we practiced honing our powers, learning to control and direct them. Hermes taught us different techniques for defense and offence, and we tried our best to absorb everything he said. By the time the sun began to set, we were exhausted but exhilarated. It was incredible to discover the extent of our abilities and to know that we had the power to protect ourselves and others. As we returned to our makeshift camp, Hermes spoke to us about the importance of discipline and perseverance in our training. He emphasized that we had only scratched the surface of our potential and that there was much more to learn in the days ahead. We spent the evening discussing our experiences and practising what we had learned. Evan was particularly eager to improve, pushing himself to the limits to master his newfound abilities. I couldn't help but admire his determination. Despite the daunting task that lay ahead, Evan faced it with unwavering resolve, and it inspired me to do the same. That night, as I lay under the stars, I felt a sense of gratitude for this unexpected journey. I had been thrust into a world of gods and prophecies, and while the weight of it all was overwhelming at times, there was also a sense of purpose and destiny that I couldn't ignore. The next three days of training were equally intense and challenging. We learned to summon and control elemental powers, mastering fire, water, earth, and air. Hermes taught us ancient fighting techniques and honed our combat skills, preparing us for the battles that lay ahead. Throughout it all, Evan and I grew closer, supporting each other through moments of doubt and exhaustion. We became a team, each relying on the other's strengths to compensate for our weaknesses. As the training came to an end, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation. We had come so far in such a brief time, but the hardest part of our journey still lay ahead. Now, standing amidst the ruins of Olympus, I could feel the weight of our task pressing down upon us. The world was counting on us to stop Kronos, save the gods and demigods, and prevent the destruction of everything we knew and loved. Evan looked at me with determination in his eyes, and I knew that we were both ready to face whatever came our way. With Hermes by our side and the power of Olympus flowing through us, we were prepared to take on the fallen angel and his dark forces. SECOND DAY The second day of training began with the sun rising over the horizon, casting a warm glow on the ruins of Olympus. Evan and I were already awake, eager to continue our training and unlock more of our godly potential. Hermes greeted us with a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 'Are you ready for another day of discovery?' he asked, his voice filled with excitement. We nodded eagerly, ready to dive deeper into the world of gods and powers. 'Today, we will focus on the element of water,' Hermes announced. 'Water is a powerful and versatile element, and it holds great significance in the realm of the gods.' He led us to a nearby spring, its crystal-clear waters shimmering in the sunlight. 'To harness the power of water, you must first connect with its essence,' Hermes explained. 'Feel the flow of the water, its fluidity and adaptability.' We closed our eyes and dipped our hands into the cool water, allowing ourselves to be enveloped by its soothing embrace. I felt a sense of tranquillity wash over me, and I could almost hear the gentle whispers of the water as if it were inviting me to become one with it. 'Now, try to manipulate the water,' Hermes instructed. 'Control its movement and shape it to your will.' I concentrated on the water in my hands, visualizing it rising and falling like waves. To my astonishment, the water responded to my thoughts, forming small ripples and waves in my palms. Evan seemed to be having a bit more difficulty, his brows furrowed in concentration. But with a little encouragement from Hermes, he managed to coax the water into responding to his commands as well. 'Excellent progress,' Hermes praised. 'Now, let's take it a step further. Try to summon larger amounts of water and shape it into different forms.' We extended our hands towards the spring, and with a surge of focus and power, we summoned a small whirlpool in the centre of the pool. The water swirled and danced in intricate patterns, responding to our will. 'Amazing,' Evan said in awe, his eyes wide with wonder. But Hermes reminded us that mastering the element of water required more than just manipulation. 'Water is also a source of healing and rejuvenation,' he said. 'You must learn to use its powers to heal and restore.' He led us to a wounded tree on the outskirts of the clearing. Its leaves were wilting, and its branches sagged under the weight of decay. 'Focus on the water's healing properties,' Hermes instructed. 'Imagine it flowing through the tree, nourishing and revitalizing it.' We closed our eyes and extended our hands towards the tree, channelling the water's healing energy into it. Slowly, the tree began to respond, its leaves perking up and its branches regaining strength. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I witnessed the transformation. It was incredible to see the direct impact of our abilities on the world around us. After mastering the element of water, Hermes guided us to a secluded part of the ruins. 'Today, we'll work on your combat skills,' he said. 'Fighting is not just about brute strength; it's about strategy and finesse.' He conjured a pair of wooden staffs and handed one to each of us. 'In battle, your weapon can be an extension of yourself,' he explained. 'Feel the energy flowing through it, and let it guide your movements.' We sparred with each other, practising different strikes and defensive manoeuvres. Hermes offered guidance and advice, encouraging us to find our own fighting style and capitalize on our strengths. As the day wore on, I could feel myself growing more confident in my abilities. The water flowed through me like a river, and the staff became an extension of my limbs. Evan's progress was equally impressive, his movements fluid and precise. It was evident that he had a natural talent for combat, and with the guidance of Hermes, he was honing that talent into a formidable skill. As the sun began to set, we returned to our campsite, exhausted but exhilarated. Hermes commended us on our progress and reminded us that there was still much to learn in the days ahead. That night, as we sat around the campfire, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this opportunity to train with a god. It was a chance that few mortals ever received, and I was determined to make the most of it. As I lay down to sleep, I felt the power of water coursing through my veins. It was a reminder of the incredible journey we were on and the responsibility that came with it. But I also felt a sense of peace, knowing that I was not alone in this fight. With Evan by my side and the guidance of Hermes, I knew that we stood a chance against Kronos and his dark forces. The second day of training had been filled with revelations and growth, and I couldn't wait to see what the next two days held in store for us. With the power of water flowing through us and the wisdom of a god to guide us, we were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. THIRD DAY On the third day of training, the sun rose with a radiant glow, casting a golden hue over the ruins of Olympus. We knew that today's focus would be on honing our combat skills even further, and we were eager to continue our journey towards becoming powerful demigods. Hermes greeted us with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes. 'Today, we delve into the art of combat,' he announced. 'Fighting is not just about physical strength; it's about strategy, agility, and the ability to think on your feet.' He led us to a spacious training ground within the ruins. The area was surrounded by ancient columns, giving it an almost amphitheatre-like feel. 'Let's start with some warm-up exercises,' Hermes said, conjuring a set of wooden dummies. 'Focus on your footwork and strikes.' We spent the morning practising different combat stances, learning how to dodge and weave around the dummies while delivering powerful strikes. Hermes observed our movements, offering valuable tips and corrections to improve our techniques. 'Your movements are fluid, but you need to work on your reaction time,' he advised. 'The key to winning a battle is anticipating your opponent's moves and countering them swiftly.' With that guidance, we continued to spar with each other, putting Hermes' advice into practice. As the day progressed, I felt my reflexes sharpening, and I could sense Evan growing more agile and precise with each exchange. After a short break, Hermes introduced us to some weapons training. He conjured a selection of ancient weapons, from swords and spears to bows and arrows. 'Each weapon has its own strengths and weaknesses,' he explained. 'It's essential to familiarize yourself with various weapons and learn how to use them effectively.' Evan and I experimented with different weapons, discovering which ones felt most comfortable in our hands. I found myself drawn to the bow and arrow, feeling a natural affinity for the precision and long-range capability it offered. Hermes demonstrated advanced techniques with each weapon, showing us how to maximize their potential in combat. He emphasized the importance of maintaining balance and control, even in the midst of a fierce battle. As the sun reached its zenith, Hermes introduced us to a new challenge – a series of combat simulations. He used his godly powers to create holographic opponents that mimicked the fighting styles of various mythical creatures and enemies we might encounter. The holographic opponents were formidable adversaries, each with unique abilities and attack patterns. It was a test of not only our combat skills but also our ability to adapt and strategize on the spot. Evan and I faced the simulations together, relying on each other's strengths to overcome the challenges. With each battle, we learned more about ourselves and our abilities, discovering new ways to work as a team. As the day drew to a close, Hermes commended us on our progress. 'You're both becoming exceptional fighters,' he praised. 'But remember, true strength comes from unity – from working together as a team.' With that in mind, we decided to spend the rest of the evening practising combat exercises together. We worked on coordinating our attacks and defences, finding a rhythm that complemented each other's skills. As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, we settled by the campfire. Hermes joined us, and we discussed the day's training and what we had learned about ourselves. 'I'm proud of your dedication and progress,' Hermes said warmly. 'But the journey is far from over. Tomorrow, we will focus on harnessing your godly powers even further.' With a sense of anticipation and excitement, we looked forward to the final day of training. The third day had been intense and challenging, but it also strengthened our bond as friends and allies. As we lay down to sleep, the stars above us seemed to shine a little brighter, as if reflecting the divine potential within us. FOURTH DAY The fourth day of training dawned with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The weight of our impending battle with Hermes hung heavily in the air, and the ruins of Olympus seemed to crackle with anticipation. Evan and I knew that today was the day we would face Hermes in combat, and we were ready to give it our all. Hermes looked at us with a mix of pride and seriousness. 'Today, we will push your limits like never before,' he said. 'Defeating a god requires not only immense power but also clever strategy and teamwork.' We nodded, our determination burning bright. The fate of Olympus rested on our shoulders, and we were prepared to do whatever it took to protect it. With a flick of his wrist, Hermes conjured an arena within the ruins, a vast open space that crackled with divine energy. 'In this battle, you'll need to work together,' he explained. 'Attack and defend as a team, and most importantly, trust each other.' Evan and I stood side by side, knowing that we had to synchronize our movements and attacks if we were to stand a chance against the god of speed. As the battle commenced, Hermes moved with lightning speed, striking at us from every direction. We focused on dodging and blocking his attacks, trying to find an opening to strike back. But Hermes was swift and elusive, and it became clear that brute force alone wouldn't be enough to defeat him. We needed to be smarter and more strategic. Hermes' laughter echoed through the arena. 'Come on, boys! Show me what you've got!' he taunted. Evan and I exchanged a determined glance, silently communicating our plan. We decided to divide our roles – Evan would focus on defence, using his shield to protect both of us, while I would take on the offensive. With a burst of speed, I darted towards Hermes, swinging my sword in a series of precise strikes. He dodged most of them effortlessly, but I could see that my attacks were starting to wear him down. Meanwhile, Evan skillfully parried Hermes' strikes, using his shield with expert precision. Despite his injuries, he remained steadfast, determined to stand by my side until the end. But Hermes wasn't finished yet. He gathered the air around him, creating a powerful gust that sent us flying backwards. We struggled to regain our footing, but the god of speed was already upon us, his movements a blur. Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, a surge of energy rushed through me. My entire body began to glow in a radiant golden shimmer. I could feel the power of all the gods coursing through my veins. In my hand, a magnificent golden sceptre materialized. It was adorned with intricate carvings of the elements – air, water, fire, and earth – symbolizing the mastery I now possessed over them. With newfound strength, I unleashed a torrent of fire towards Hermes, catching him off guard. He tried to evade the flames, but they danced around him, relentless in their pursuit. Evan watched in awe as I wielded the power of the elements like a master. With each strike, the earth trembled, and waves of water surged forth, amplifying the force of my attacks. As I focused on my newfound abilities, I felt a deep connection to the world around me. It was as if the elements themselves responded to my every command. Hermes' expression shifted from arrogance to surprise as he struggled to keep up with my onslaught. He tried to counterattack, but I deflected his strikes effortlessly. With a swift and calculated movement, I sent a powerful blast of air towards Hermes, knocking him off balance. Evan seized the opportunity and landed a decisive blow with his shield, sending the god stumbling backwards. Hermes chuckled; his eyes now filled with respect. 'You boys have grown stronger than I anticipated,' he admitted. 'But let's see if you can keep up with this.' In an instant, Hermes blurred into motion, moving faster than the eye could follow. But I was ready – my senses heightened by my connection to the elements. Using the water around us, I created a barrier of ice to slow down Hermes' movements. It was enough to give Evan and me a chance to strike back. We fought with newfound determination and coordination, combining our powers in a dance of elements. With each attack, Hermes grew more frustrated, realizing that he could no longer predict our moves. In a final, powerful assault, we channelled the combined forces of air, water, fire, and earth into a single devastating blow. Hermes tried to defend himself, but he couldn't withstand the onslaught. With a resounding crash, Hermes fell to his knees, defeated. The god of speed had met his match in the unity of two half-bloods, bound by friendship and the power of the elements. As the dust settled, Evan and I stood victorious. The arena fell silent, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. Hermes looked up at us with a smile, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. 'You've done well, my sons,' he said. 'You have proven yourselves worthy of your divine heritage.' As the golden shimmer around me began to fade, I felt a sense of profound gratitude and accomplishment. The journey had been long and challenging, but we had emerged stronger and united. With our training complete, Evan and I returned to the ruins of Olympus. The once-devastated city now glowed with newfound hope and resilience, a testament to the power of unity and determination. As the sun set over the ruins, casting a warm glow over the landscape, I knew that our journey was far from over. Kronos still loomed on the horizon, and we had a duty to protect both Olympus and our world from his wrath. But for now, we would rest, knowing that we had faced the god of speed and emerged victorious. Together, Evan and I would stand against the darkness, united in our friendship and the power of the elements that flowed through us. Our journey was just beginning, and we were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. As I lay down to rest, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the path that had led me to this point. From a seemingly ordinary high school student, I had become the son of Proteus, a god, wielder of the elements, and protector of Olympus. But with all this power came great responsibility, and I knew that the fate of not just Olympus, but the entire world rested on my shoulders. Kronos posed a threat unlike any other, and I had to be prepared for whatever he might throw at me. As I closed my eyes, images of our training flashed before me – the exhilaration of wielding the elements, the strength I felt surging through my veins, and the unwavering support of Evan by my side. Together, we were a force to be reckoned with. But amidst the excitement, there was also a tinge of fear. The weight of expectation sat heavily on my chest. What if I couldn't live up to the prophecy? What if I failed to defeat Kronos and protect everything, I held dear? I pushed those doubts aside, reminding myself that I was not alone. With Hermes as our guide and Evan as my loyal friend, we had faced challenges before and come out stronger. I had to believe in myself and my abilities. Sleep finally claimed me, and in my dreams, I found myself back on the stage of my graduation day. The cheers and applause of the crowd echoed in my ears, but this time, there was no figure standing in the distance. The stage was empty, and I was alone. As I walked towards the centre of the stage, the scene shifted, and I found myself in a vast and desolate landscape. The ruins of Olympus stretched out before me, and in the distance, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Kronos, his eyes burning with malice and power. He looked at me with a chilling smile, and I felt a surge of fear course through me. But then, a golden light enveloped me, and I felt a sense of strength and determination like never before. The golden sceptre appeared in my hand once more, and with it, I knew I had the power to face Kronos. I raised the sceptre, and the elements responded to my call. The earth trembled beneath me, water surged in mighty waves, flames danced around me, and the air crackled with electricity. Kronos' smile faltered as he realized the extent of my power. 'You are nothing but a mere mortal,' he sneered, 'and yet you dare to challenge a god?' 'I am not just a mortal,' I replied, my voice steady and resolute. 'I am the son of a god, and I have the power of all the elements at my command. You will not destroy Olympus or harm anyone I care about.' Kronos roared with fury, and the battle began. The ground shook with each clash, and the air was thick with energy. But I held my ground, drawing strength from the elements and the knowledge that I was not alone in this fight. As the battle raged on, I could feel the weight of the prophecy on my shoulders. It was not just about defeating Kronos; it was about fulfilling my destiny and proving that I was worthy of the power I had been given. With a final surge of power, I unleashed the full force of the elements on Kronos. The ground split open, flames roared around him, and the wind howled with fury. The god of the time struggled to withstand the onslaught, but he was no match for the combined might of the elements. In the end, Kronos fell to his knees, defeated and powerless. The prophecy had been fulfilled, and I had proven myself as the son of a god, worthy of the power I wielded. As I stood there, panting and victorious, I felt a sense of peace and fulfilment wash over me. I had faced the greatest challenge of my life and emerged triumphant, not just because of my power, but because of the strength of my heart and the support of those I cared about. As I opened my eyes, I found myself back in the ruins of Olympus, surrounded by the golden glow of the setting sun. Evan stood by my side, a mixture of awe and pride in his eyes. 'You did it,' he said, his voice filled with admiration. 'You defeated Kronos.' I nodded, a sense of humility settling over me. 'It wasn't just me,' I replied. 'We did it together. We are a team, and together, there is nothing we can't overcome.' Hermes approached us, a smile playing on his lips. 'You have both shown great courage and strength,' he said. 'You are true heroes, and Olympus is grateful for your bravery.' I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of gratitude for all that he had taught us. 'Thank you, Hermes,' I said. 'You have been an incredible mentor, and we couldn't have done this without you.' Hermes nodded, his eyes gleaming with pride. 'You have come into your own, my sons,' he said. 'You have embraced your divine heritage and proved yourselves worthy of the power you possess.' As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the ruins of Olympus, I knew that our journey was far from over. There would always be new challenges and threats to face, but as long as we stood together, we would be unstoppable. With Evan by my side and the power of the elements flowing through me, I felt an overwhelming sense of hope and purpose. I was no longer just a high school student from Wales; I was the son of a god, protector of Olympus, and a true hero. And as we looked out over the ruins of the once-great city, I knew that this was just the beginning of our adventures. The world was vast and filled with countless wonders and dangers, and together, Evan and I were ready to face whatever came our way. With a sense of unity and determination, we turned our gaze towards the horizon, ready to embrace whatever the future held. The journey had been long and challenging, but we had emerged stronger, wiser, and united in our purpose. As we prepared to leave Olympus and return to our world, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the experiences we had shared and the friendships we had forged. Our journey as demigods had only just begun, and I knew that whatever the future held, we would face it together – as friends, as warriors, and as the protectors of Olympus. And so, with hearts full of hope and anticipation, we stepped away from the ruins of Olympus, ready to face whatever adventures awaited us. Our path was uncertain, but one thing was clear – we were not alone, and together, we would change the course of history. Journey [Chapter Five] Leaving behind the ruins of Olympus, Evan and I found ourselves in an unfamiliar land. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, but our hearts were heavy with the weight of our mission. We had defeated Hermes, the trickster messenger of the gods, but Kronos, the ancient titan lord, still loomed on the horizon, threatening to unleash chaos and destruction upon the mortal world. Our journey to the realm of the dead was fraught with uncertainty, but we knew that it was the only path to find my father, Hades, and to prevent the apocalypse that Kronos sought to unleash upon the world. 'Where the fuck are we even going?' I couldn't help but blurt out, the frustration and uncertainty building inside me like a tempest. Evan looked equally puzzled. 'I'm not entirely sure,' he admitted, 'but Hermes gave me this.' He pulled out a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age, from the depths of his backpack. Unfolding it, he revealed ancient instructions written in faded ink, symbols and runes of a forgotten age etched across its surface. 'These are instructions on how a mortal can journey to Hades,' Evan said, his voice filled with awe and uncertainty. 'And from there, we can find the Island der Seligen, the fabled Island of the Blessed.' 'The Island of the Blessed,' I translated, my heart racing with both excitement and fear. 'That's where we need to go to find my father and the key to defeating Kronos.' Evan nodded. 'According to this parchment, there are seven steps we need to follow to reach Hades and the Island of the Blessed.' I leaned in, studying the ancient instructions carefully. The parchment was filled with cryptic symbols and archaic language, but as I focused, the words seemed to come alive before my eyes, as if touched by the divine. Step One: The Offering To enter the realm of Hades, we would need to make an offering to Charon, the grim and enigmatic ferryman of the dead. The parchment detailed the specific items required for the offering, including coins to pay for passage across the Styx and sacred herbs to appease the guardian of the river. Step Two: Crossing the Styx Once we had made the offering, Charon would transport us across the river Styx, the boundary between the mortal world and the underworld. The Styx was said to possess powerful magic and crossing it would mark the beginning of our journey into the realm of the dead. I couldn't help but wonder what mysteries and dangers awaited us on the other side. Step Three: The Gates of Hades Upon reaching the shores of Hades, we would be confronted by the fearsome three-headed dog, Cerberus, guardian of the Underworld. The parchment advised us to carry a gift for the monstrous sentinel, something that would appease his savage nature and allow us to pass unharmed. Step Four: The Judgment Passing through the Gates of Hades, we would face the judgment of the dead. The parchment warned that we would be questioned by the spirits of the departed, our hearts and souls laid bare before their penetrating gazes. We would need to answer truthfully and wisely to gain their favor and continue our quest. Step Five: The River Lethe Beyond the judgment, we would encounter the river Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. The mere touch of its waters was said to erase all memories and experiences, leaving one adrift in an eternal haze of oblivion. The parchment cautioned us not to drink from its waters, lest we forget our purpose and become trapped in the underworld forever. Step Six: Seeking Persephone's Blessing To find the path to the Island of the Blessed, we would need the blessing of Persephone, the queen of the underworld. The parchment provided a ritual to seek her favor, which included offerings of pomegranates and prayers to the goddess. Persephone's moods were as unpredictable as the seasons she controlled, and we would have to approach her with utmost respect and humility. Step Seven: The Final Gate Finally, after receiving Persephone's blessing, we would come to the final gate that led to the Island of the Blessed. The parchment spoke of a trial that we would need to pass, a test of our strength, courage, and determination. The nature of the trial remained unknown, and the uncertainty only added to the weight of our journey. As I finished reading the instructions, a mix of excitement and anxiety washed over me. The journey ahead would be perilous and filled with unknown dangers, but I knew that we had to press on. My father's fate, and the fate of Olympus, depended on our success. The gods and the mortal world alike hung in the balance, and we were the last hope to prevent its catastrophic downfall. 'Evan,' I said, looking into his eyes, 'we have to do this. We have to find my father and stop Kronos.' Evan nodded solemnly. 'I know,' he said. 'We can't let Olympus fall. We have to be strong, Nico, and we have to stick together.' I felt a surge of gratitude for Evan's unwavering support. He had been with me every step of the way, and I knew that I could rely on him no matter what challenges lay ahead. 'Let's get some rest for now,' I suggested. 'We'll start our journey to Hade’s tomorrow. We'll face whatever comes our way together.' As we found a sheltered spot to rest for the night, I couldn't help but wonder what awaited us in the realm of the dead. The ancient instructions on the parchment seemed both daunting and mysterious, but I knew that we had to be brave and determined. We were but mortals, facing gods and ancient forces beyond our comprehension, yet we carried the weight of the world upon our shoulders. Closing my eyes, I felt a mix of anticipation and fear swirl within me. I knew that our journey had only just begun, and that the trials and obstacles ahead would test us like never before. The dreams that visited me that night was filled with visions of the ancient world and the trials that awaited us. They were vivid and unsettling, but I knew that I had to endure them to gain the wisdom and strength necessary for the trials ahead. The night was filled with both trepidation and hope, and as the first light of dawn painted the horizon, I knew that our adventure had only just begun. We had left the ruins of Olympus behind, but now we were on a journey that would take us through the very heart of the mythological cosmos. It was a journey of epic proportions, one that would test not only our physical strength but also the depths of our character and the strength of our bonds. We were but two mortals against the might of the gods and the fury of ancient titans. Yet, our determination burned bright, fueled by love, friendship, and a sense of responsibility to protect the world from the impending doom that threatened to engulf it. And so, with hearts steeled and minds focused, we set forth on our epic quest, determined to navigate the treacherous path to Hades, seek the Island of the Blessed, and ultimately confront the looming threat of Kronos. It was a journey that would take us to the very edge of existence, and we knew that there would be no turning back. But we were ready to face whatever challenges the realm of the dead had in store for us, for it was not just our lives that hung in the balance, but the fate of all creation. As I lay there in the darkness, the events of the day replayed in my mind like a vivid movie. The training with Hermes had been intense and rigorous, pushing my physical and mental limits to new heights. The newfound powers that surged through me were overwhelming, leaving me both exhilarated and anxious about the responsibility they entailed. The ancient instructions, passed down through generations, now held the key to our journey to Hades—the perilous mission to retrieve a crucial artifact that could tip the scales in the impending war against the Titans. It all felt like a surreal and daunting whirlwind, and as I lay on my makeshift bed, the musty smell of the cavernous hideout permeated the air, reminding me of the seriousness of the task ahead. My body was exhausted from the day's grueling training, yet my mind refused to rest, constantly racing with thoughts of the trials that awaited us and the fate of Olympus that rested upon our shoulders. Finally, as sleep began to overtake me, I drifted into a dream, or perhaps it was a vision—an otherworldly experience that blurred the line between reality and the supernatural. In this dream, I found myself standing on the edge of a vast battlefield, its desolate landscape mirroring the turmoil that now engulfed my thoughts. The air crackled with tension and power as the forces of light and darkness clashed before me. The energy emanating from the warring factions sent shivers down my spine, and a deep sense of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach. Among the ruins of an ancient civilization, two imposing figures emerged as the focal points of the battle—my father, the powerful Proteus, and the dark and malevolent figure of Kronos, the Titan lord. Their battle was a spectacle of raw power, each move they made reshaping the very landscape. The earth trembled beneath my feet, and I could feel the force of each blow reverberating through my body. Beside me stood my loyal friend and companion, Evan, his unwavering presence bolstering my courage. With a shared understanding, we charged forward, our combined powers surging around us like an aura of determination. The battlefield blurred around us as we sprinted towards the epicenter of the fight, as if time itself had slowed to witness this pivotal moment. The sounds of battle crescendoed around us—the clash of swords, the crackling of lightning, and the roar of mythical creatures joining the fray. The weight of the imminent fate of Olympus loomed heavy, pressing down on my shoulders. Finally, we reached my father and Kronos, their godlike power emanating like a tempest. Kronos turned his malevolent gaze upon us, his sneer conveying contempt for mere mortals challenging him. Yet, we stood tall, resolute and undeterred. In that moment, my father's voice, steady despite the fatigue etched into his features, urged us to retreat, to leave the battle to the gods. But we couldn't back down. Our determination and belief in the cause compelled us to fight alongside him. With our combined strength and power, we unleashed attacks against Kronos, each strike a testament to the hope we carried in our hearts. The air crackled with the intensity of our efforts, and our resolve only intensified as the battle raged on. However, Kronos was a relentless adversary, and despite our tenacity, his dark powers seemed boundless. The struggle was relentless, and exhaustion gnawed at our very core. Yet, we couldn't allow doubt to creep into our minds—the fate of Olympus depended on our unwavering courage. In a final desperate attempt, my father mustered his remaining strength, launching a powerful attack aimed at bringing down Kronos once and for all. But the cunning Titan deflected the blow, seizing the opportunity to strike my father with a fatal blow. Time seemed to slow as my father fell, and I rushed to his side, my heart heavy with grief and loss. His parting words echoed in my mind, urging me to remember the strength within me—the divine legacy I carried as the son of gods. Awakening with a start, my body drenched in sweat, the memory of the dream felt like a weight on my soul. I glanced at Evan, peacefully sleeping beside me, unaware of the turmoil that had gripped my mind. As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, I made a silent vow. The journey to Hades and the Island of the Blessed would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but I was determined to embrace the power within me and face the challenges head-on. With the memory of my father's sacrifice and the weight of his legacy guiding me, I knew I had to honor his memory by protecting the ones I loved and safeguarding Olympus. The fate of the world depended on the strength within me, and I was resolute in my determination to rise to the occasion. As I stared at the rising sun, its warm rays symbolizing hope and renewal, I knew that my journey had just begun. The path to Hades would test my courage, resilience, and determination like never before, but I was ready to face the trials and uncertainties that lay ahead. With my father's words etched in my heart, I prepared to embark on the perilous quest that could determine the fate of Olympus—the epic journey that would change the course of history and define my destiny. As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, I sat next to Evan, his slumbering form nestled close to mine. The events of the past days, the dreams of my father's sacrifice, and the weight of our impending journey to Hades weighed heavily on my mind. But in this moment, as the sun rose before us, my attention was drawn solely to Evan. His features were softened in sleep, and he looked peaceful, almost childlike. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyelids fluttered slightly as he dreamed. It was a sight I had seen countless times before—Evan, sleeping soundly, his guard down, his vulnerability on display. But this time, it was different. I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming surge of protectiveness towards him. It was more than friendship—it was a bond that I couldn't comprehend, something deeper and more profound. Evan had been there for me when I needed him most, a steady presence in my life since the day we met, back when we were both just seven years old. I remembered that day vividly—the day my father left. I was devastated, lost in a sea of confusion and hurt. And then there was Evan, a new kid in school, who seemed to sense my pain without me even saying a word. He reached out to me, offering a hand of friendship when I needed it most. From that moment on, we became inseparable. Evan was my confidante, my partner in mischief, and my rock when the world seemed to crumble around me. We shared laughter, tears, and countless adventures together. He knew me better than anyone else, sometimes even better than I knew myself. As I watched him sleep now, I realized how much he meant to me. The thought of anything happening to him filled me with a primal fear, one that I couldn't ignore. I had to protect him, just as he had protected me so many times before. But at the same time, I felt a profound sense of gratitude towards Evan. He had given me the gift of unwavering friendship, something that I had craved ever since my father's departure. He had been my constant, my anchor, and I couldn't imagine my life without him. As the sun continued to rise, bathing us in its warm glow, I couldn't help but reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Evan's forehead. He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, but he didn't wake up. I found myself captivated by the play of light on his features—the way the golden rays accentuated the curve of his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only Evan and me in this tranquil and intimate bubble. A mixture of emotions swirled within me—gratitude, love, fear, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I had to be strong, not just for myself but for Evan too. We were in this together, facing a danger that threatened not only Olympus but the entire world. My father's words echoed in my mind—about the overwhelming power that lay within me, the power of the Son of God. It was a power I didn't fully understand, but I knew I had to harness it for the sake of those I loved and for the greater good. As I continued to watch Evan sleep, a sense of determination washed over me. I couldn't let fear hold me back, couldn't let doubt cloud my judgment. We had a mission, and I would do whatever it took to see it through. I gently leaned back against the tree behind me, never taking my eyes off Evan. He was my partner, my brother-in-arms, and I knew that together, we would face whatever challenges lay ahead. The bond between us was something extraordinary, something that defied explanation or logic. It was a bond that would carry us through even the darkest of times. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the landscape. But my attention remained fixed on Evan. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to express, but the words seemed inadequate. Instead, I simply sat in silence, cherishing this moment of tranquility before the storm that awaited us. As time passed, Evan stirred and finally opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily, his gaze meeting mine. 'Morning,' he said, his voice still thick with sleep. 'Morning,' I replied, offering him a small smile. 'Sleep well?' He nodded, stretching slightly. 'Yeah, I guess so. You?' I shrugged, trying to push away the weight of my dreams and the thoughts that plagued my mind. 'As well as can be expected, I suppose.' Evan's brow furrowed with concern. 'You okay, Nico? You seem... distant.' I hesitated for a moment, then decided to share some of my thoughts with him. 'I had a dream last night,' I began, carefully choosing my words. 'About my father and Kronos. It was... intense.' Evan's eyes softened, and he reached out to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. 'I'm here for you, Nico. Whatever you need, whatever you're going through, I've got your back.' I couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards Evan. He was always there for me, a constant source of support and strength. 'Thank you,' I said, my voice catching slightly. 'I don't know what I'd do without you.' Evan smiled, a warm and genuine expression. 'You don't have to worry about that. We're in this together, right?' I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. 'Right. No matter what happens, we stick together.' And with those words, we both knew that our bond would carry us through whatever trials awaited us on our journey to Hades. The world was a dangerous and unpredictable place, but with Evan by my side, I knew we could face anything that came our way. Together, we were stronger than we could ever be alone. After sharing a simple breakfast of packed meals, Evan and I stood up, shouldering our bags and preparing to embark on the next leg of our journey. The sun was now high in the sky, casting its warm rays upon us as we set out on this perilous quest to Hades. As we walked, I couldn't help but steal glances at Evan from time to time. He had a unique charm about him that I had always admired. His dark hair had a habit of falling slightly over his eyes, and he would absentmindedly tuck it back behind his ear, only for it to fall again moments later. It was a little quirk of his that I found endearing. Evan's eyes were a deep shade of brown, warm and expressive, always reflecting the emotions he felt. They sparkled with mischief when he was up to something mischievous, but they also held an immense amount of kindness and empathy. It was something I had always admired about him—his ability to understand and connect with others on a deep level. He had a smile that could light up a room, and I often found myself drawn to it, even in the darkest of times. His laughter was infectious, and he had a way of making even the most mundane tasks enjoyable with his playful sense of humor. As we continued on our journey, I noticed how he had a slight bounce in his step, a youthful energy that seemed to radiate from him. It was contagious, and I found myself feeling lighter and more hopeful just by being in his presence. The path we followed led us through dense forests and winding trails. We crossed babbling brooks and trekked up steep hillsides. It was physically demanding, but we pressed on, knowing that each step brought us closer to our goal. Finally, we arrived at the river Styx, where the ferryman Charon awaited to take souls to the realm of the dead. It was time for the ceremony of offering—an ancient ritual that would allow us passage across the river. Evan and I stood on the bank of the river, looking out at the dark waters. Charon's boat, a skeletal structure made of blackened wood, floated silently in the middle. I could feel the weight of the moment, knowing that our success depended on this crucial step. Evan reached into his bag and pulled out a small bundle of herbs—a mix of lavender, rosemary, and sage. These were offerings to appease Charon, to show respect for the ferryman who guided souls to their final destination. With a deep breath, Evan stepped forward and sprinkled the herbs into the water. 'O mighty Charon,' he called out, his voice strong and unwavering, 'we humbly offer these herbs as a token of our respect and gratitude. We seek passage to the realm of Hades, where we must retrieve something of great importance. We ask for your guidance and protection on our journey.' The air seemed to grow still as Evan finished the ceremony. I could feel a sense of reverence in the air, as if the very river itself was listening to his words. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and I found myself holding my breath. Then, as if in response, the boat began to move towards us. Charon, a tall and imposing figure, stood at the helm, his skeletal hands gripping the oar with an otherworldly strength. He wore a tattered cloak that seemed to billow in a nonexistent breeze, and his eyes glowed with an eerie green light. Without a word, Charon gestured for us to board the boat. Evan and I exchanged a nervous glance, but we knew we had no choice. We stepped onto the creaking deck, and the boat set off across the dark waters. As we sailed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. The river Styx was said to be a boundary between the mortal world and the realm of the dead, and I could feel the weight of the souls that had passed through here. The air was heavy with the weight of their stories, their hopes and dreams, their regrets, and sorrows. Charon remained silent; his eyes fixed on the waters ahead. The journey was a somber one, and I couldn't help but think of my father and all the other souls who had passed through here. I wondered if he had once crossed this very river on his way to the afterlife. Eventually, the boat reached the other side, and Charon brought it to a stop. He turned to us, his green eyes seeming to pierce right through us. 'You have crossed the river Styx,' he said, his voice echoing with a haunting resonance. 'You may proceed to the realm of Hades. With a nod of thanks, Evan and I stepped off the boat and onto solid ground once more. The weight of the ceremony still lingered in the air, and I could feel the gravity of our mission bearing down on us. As we continued on our journey, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were stepping into the unknown. The realm of Hades was said to be a place of darkness and shadows, a world of the dead where few mortals dared to tread. But we had a purpose, a mission to fulfill, and with Evan by my side, I knew we could face whatever awaited us in that dark and forbidding realm. Having successfully crossed the river Styx, Evan and I found ourselves standing at the shores of Hades. The atmosphere here was heavy and foreboding, the air filled with an eerie silence that sent shivers down my spine. We knew that we were on the right path, but the thought of facing Cerberus, the fearsome three-headed dog, made my heart race with fear. The parchment from Hermes had warned us about this formidable guardian of the Underworld. To proceed, we needed to find a gift that would appease Cerberus and allow us safe passage. Evan reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of freshly cooked meat—a gift for the monstrous sentinel. As we cautiously made our way further into the realm of Hades, the darkness seemed to intensify, and I could hear faint growls echoing in the distance. The anticipation weighed heavily on me as we approached the massive gates that guarded the entrance to the Underworld. There, standing guard with three sets of menacing eyes, was Cerberus. The sight of the gigantic, three-headed dog was enough to send chills down my spine. Each head was larger than a grown man, and they bared their sharp teeth, dripping with saliva, as they fixated on us. Evan stepped forward, holding out the bundle of meat as an offering. 'O mighty Cerberus,' he said, his voice surprisingly steady, 'we come seeking passage to the realm of Hades. We bring this gift as a token of our respect and a humble request for safe passage. Please accept our offering and allow us to proceed on our journey.' Cerberus sniffed the air, and I could see his eyes darting between us. For a moment, it seemed as if he might attack, but then he let out a low growl and cautiously approached the meat. With all three heads, he grabbed the offering and devoured it in one gulp. The tension in the air eased slightly, and Cerberus seemed to relax. He regarded us with a less hostile gaze, and I could almost sense a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. It was as if our offering had touched something in him—a small spark of humanity buried beneath his fearsome exterior. Taking this as a sign, we carefully stepped past Cerberus and through the massive gates of Hades. The gateway was unlike anything I had ever seen—immense, dark, and forbidding. As we passed through, a chill washed over us, and the air seemed to grow heavier. Inside, we found ourselves in a vast and desolate landscape, a world of shadows and echoes. The souls of the deceased wandered aimlessly, their faces etched with sorrow and regret. We could hear their whispers and moans, a haunting chorus that filled the air with a mournful melody. Evan and I stuck close together, navigating the dark and winding paths of the Underworld. The further we went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, and I could feel a sense of despair weighing heavily on my chest. At one point, we encountered a lost soul—a woman who seemed to be searching for something she had lost in life. She looked at us with hollow eyes, and her voice trembled as she spoke. 'Please, have you seen my daughter?' she asked, her words filled with desperation. 'I can't find her. I've been searching for so long...' Her pain was palpable, and I felt a pang of sorrow in my heart. I wanted to help her, to ease her suffering, but I knew that we had a mission to fulfill. Evan gently took her hand and offered some words of comfort, assuring her that she would find peace someday. As we continued on, the path seemed to grow darker, and the air grew colder. The weight of the Underworld pressed down on us, and I could feel the burden of the souls' sorrow settling on my shoulders. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we came upon a massive gate guarded by a solemn figure—a man with a stern expression and a set of keys dangling from his belt. This was Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld. He regarded us with a knowing gaze and said in a deep, rumbling voice, 'You have passed through the Gates of Hades. Beyond this point lies the heart of the Underworld. Proceed with caution, for the road ahead is treacherous and full of peril.' We nodded in understanding, knowing that our journey was far from over. With each step, we were descending deeper into the realm of the dead, and I could feel the weight of our quest growing heavier with each passing moment. But we pressed on, knowing that the fate of Olympus and the mortal world depended on our success. As Evan and I proceeded deeper into the Underworld, the weight of our surroundings grew even heavier. The air was thick with sorrow and despair, and the souls of the departed surrounded us, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope and anguish. We knew that the next step of our journey—The Judgment—would be a daunting challenge, one that would test not only our wits but also the very essence of our beings. We walked through a dimly lit corridor, the walls adorned with ancient inscriptions and murals depicting the deeds and misdeeds of mortal souls. The whispers of the departed echoed in our ears, urging us to be cautious and true in our responses. The atmosphere was tense, as if every step we took was being scrutinized by unseen eyes. Eventually, we reached a vast hall with a throne at its center. Seated upon the throne was a majestic figure—an ethereal being whose presence exuded authority and wisdom. This was Minos, the wise king of ancient times, known for his role as a judge of the dead. Minos regarded us with a penetrating gaze, as if he could see into the depths of our souls. 'Welcome, mortals,' he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to echo throughout the hall. 'You have ventured far into the realm of the dead. Now, you shall face the judgment of your deeds in life.' I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I stood before Minos. It was as if every action, every choice I had ever made, was being laid bare for scrutiny. I could not hide from the truth, and I knew that my answers would determine our fate. Minos began to ask us questions, delving into the core of our characters and the essence of our beings. He asked about our virtues and our flaws, our greatest triumphs, and our deepest regrets. Each question seemed to strip away another layer of our souls, revealing the raw and vulnerable parts of ourselves. With each question, I felt a mixture of fear and determination. I knew that I had to answer truthfully, for any deception would be instantly detected by Minos. And so, I spoke from the heart, baring my soul and laying my past actions before the ancient judge. As I answered, I saw emotions flicker across Minos's face—moments of approval, moments of contemplation, and moments of solemn understanding. He seemed to weigh our words carefully, as if determining the course of our destinies. Evan, too, answered with a sincerity that moved me. His courage in facing his own past and his determination to make amends for his mistakes were evident in his words. I felt a sense of admiration for my friend, realizing that we were both on a journey of redemption and self-discovery. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Minos nodded solemnly. 'You have faced your judgment with honesty and courage,' he said. 'Your hearts are heavy with the weight of your deeds, but you have shown remorse and a willingness to change. Your souls are not beyond redemption.' Relief washed over me, and I saw a glimmer of hope in Evan's eyes as well. We had passed the first part of The Judgment, and Minos seemed to acknowledge our sincerity. 'But the path ahead is not an easy one,' Minos continued. 'To continue your quest, you must prove your worthiness and strength of character. You will face trials that will challenge your resolve and test your abilities. Only then will you be deemed worthy of the island der Seligen—the Blessed Isles.' He motioned toward a door at the far end of the hall. 'Beyond that door lies the next trial. Proceed with caution and remember the weight of your deeds. The spirits of the departed will be watching, and your actions will be judged.' We nodded, steeling ourselves for what lay ahead. The door creaked open, revealing a dark and mysterious chamber beyond. As we stepped through, I could feel the weight of the Underworld pressing down upon us once more. The next trial awaited, and we were determined to face it with the strength of our hearts and the wisdom of our souls. As we ventured further into the depths of the Underworld, the air grew heavy with an eerie stillness, and the dim light cast strange shadows on the ground. The river Lethe appeared before us, a dark and tranquil expanse that seemed to stretch infinitely into the distance. Its waters glistened with an otherworldly glow, and the whispers of forgotten memories echoed from its depths. Evan and I approached the river with caution, mindful of the warnings inscribed on the parchment. The temptation to drink from the Lethe was powerful, as if the very air was saturated with a longing for oblivion. The voices whispered in our ears, enticing us to surrender our memories and be free from the burdens of our past. I hesitated, drawn toward the river by an inexplicable force. The voices became more insistent, and I could feel myself slipping into a trance-like state. The weight of my memories, both painful and joyful, seemed almost too much to bear. In that moment, the allure of forgetting was almost irresistible. But just as I was about to succumb to the enchantment of the Lethe, Evan acted with remarkable swiftness. He lunged forward, grabbing me by the shoulders, and pulled me away from the river's edge. His touch snapped me out of the trance, and I blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented. 'Evan,' I gasped, clutching him tightly. 'Thank you. I don't know what came over me.' He gave me a reassuring smile. 'We're in this together, Nico. We have to look out for each other.' His words grounded me, reminding me of our shared purpose and the bond that had grown between us throughout this journey. With renewed determination, I knew that we had to stay strong and vigilant. The Lethe may have offered the allure of forgetting, but to lose our memories would be to lose a part of ourselves. However, as we continued our journey, the whispers of the Lethe persisted, a haunting siren's call that tempted us at every turn. It was as if the very river itself sought to ensnare our minds and drown us in a sea of oblivion. Evan and I faced multiple instances where we were drawn toward the river, the voices growing louder and more insistent. Each time, Evan acted as my steadfast anchor, pulling me away from the Lethe's edge and refusing to let me fall under its spell. As we struggled against the relentless allure of the River Lethe, I couldn't help but be struck by Evan's unwavering determination and selflessness. He put himself in harm's way to protect me, risking his own safety to ensure that I remained strong and focused. The bond between us grew stronger with each passing moment, and I found myself relying on Evan not just as a friend, but as a guiding light in the darkness of the Underworld. Despite the challenges and the relentless pull of the Lethe, we pressed on, refusing to let the river claim us. As we journeyed through the Underworld, we encountered other obstacles and trials, each one testing our resolve and determination. We faced the tormented souls of the damned, their anguished cries reverberating through the darkness. We encountered monstrous creatures and vengeful spirits, all intent on deterring us from our path. But through it all, Evan and I stood side by side, facing each challenge together, drawing strength from each other's presence. Our journey was arduous and fraught with danger, but with Evan at my side, I felt a newfound sense of courage and purpose. His unwavering support and bravery became my beacon of hope, guiding me through the darkness and reminding me of our ultimate goal—to confront Kronos and free the imprisoned gods and demigods. As we pressed onward, the whispers of the Lethe gradually faded, as if the river had finally accepted its defeat in ensnaring us. And with each step, our resolve only strengthened, and our bond deepened. We were no longer just two mortals on a perilous quest; we were a formidable team, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And so, with Evan as my unwavering companion, we continued on our journey through the Underworld, our hearts set on saving the Olymp and restoring peace to the world. The trials had tested us, but we emerged stronger, our spirits unbroken, and our determination unwavering. As we neared the final steps of the parchment's instructions, I knew that we were ready to face whatever lay ahead, for together, there was nothing we couldn't overcome. The realization that we needed the blessing of Persephone, the queen of the Underworld, to find the path to the Island of the Blessed weighed heavily on our minds. The parchment provided us with a ritual that we would have to perform to seek her favor, but the task was not to be taken lightly. Persephone's moods were as unpredictable as the seasons she controlled and approaching her required utmost respect and humility. As we journeyed deeper into the Underworld, our anticipation mixed with trepidation. We knew that seeking an audience with Persephone was no simple feat, but we were determined to follow the parchment's instructions to the letter. Evan carefully unfolded the parchment and read aloud the ritual. 'We need to gather offerings of pomegranates,' he said, looking around the desolate landscape. 'I don't see any pomegranate trees here.' I scanned the surroundings, and indeed, there were no signs of vegetation, let alone pomegranates. The Underworld was a barren and desolate place, devoid of life. But the parchment's instructions were clear, and we had to find a way. 'We have to believe that the Underworld will provide,' I said, trying to bolster our spirits. 'Let's keep searching, Evan.' We continued walking, and after what felt like an eternity, we spotted a small glimmer of hope—a lone pomegranate tree in the distance. Its vibrant red fruits stood out like jewels against the gloomy backdrop of the Underworld. With newfound determination, we made our way to the tree and carefully collected the ripest pomegranates. As we plucked them from the branches, I couldn't help but marvel at the symbolism of the fruit. Pomegranates were often associated with the cycle of life, death, and rebirth—a fitting offering for the queen of the Underworld. With the pomegranates in hand, we retraced our steps, following the parchment's guidance to a secluded spot where we could perform the ritual. The location seemed significant, as if it had been designed for this very purpose. A small clearing, framed by towering black trees, allowed just enough sunlight to filter through, casting a mystical glow upon the ground. Taking a deep breath, we laid the pomegranates on a makeshift altar of stones, arranging them in a sacred pattern. The parchment instructed us to offer prayers and invoke Persephone's name with utmost reverence. I closed my eyes and spoke from the depths of my heart, 'Persephone, queen of the Underworld, we humbly seek your blessing and guidance. We come not as trespassers but as seekers of hope and redemption. We ask for your favor to find the path to the Island of the Blessed and free the imprisoned gods and demigods.' Evan added his own prayers, his voice a gentle murmur that seemed to echo the sincerity of his words. We felt a presence, a subtle shift in the air, as if Persephone was listening to our pleas. 'We offer these pomegranates as a symbol of the cycle of life and rebirth,' I continued. 'May their seeds represent the seeds of hope that we carry within us.' As we concluded the ritual, a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and for a moment, it felt as if the Underworld itself was acknowledging our prayers. The offering was made, but whether it would be enough to win Persephone's favour remained uncertain. Days passed, and the weight of uncertainty hung heavy over us. We pressed on, continuing our journey through the Underworld, never losing sight of our goal. The memory of the pomegranate offering was a constant reminder of the task before us, and we held onto the hope that Persephone had heard our prayers. Then, one evening as the sun began to set, we sensed a change in the atmosphere. The air seemed to shimmer with a subtle energy, and a soft, ethereal light suffused the surroundings. We knew that something extraordinary was about to happen. Suddenly, before us, a figure appeared, draped in flowing robes that seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows. It was Persephone, her beauty both striking and otherworldly. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of deep green, and her presence exuded a sense of power and authority. We knelt before her, bowing our heads in deference. Persephone regarded us with a penetrating gaze, her expression unreadable. 'You seek my blessing,' she said, her voice a soft melody that held a touch of both warmth and detachment. 'Yes, mighty queen,' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. 'We seek your favour to find the path to the Island of the Blessed and free the imprisoned gods and demigods.' Persephone's eyes seemed to pierce through us, as if she could see into our very souls. 'You are not like the others who have ventured into the Underworld seeking favours,' she mused. 'Your hearts are pure, and your intentions noble. You do not seek power or wealth, but the restoration of balance and harmony.' We nodded, humbled by her assessment, and Evan added, 'We only wish to do what is right, to bring an end to the suffering caused by Kronos.' Persephone seemed to contemplate our words for a moment before nodding approvingly. 'Very well. I grant you my blessing on your quest. May you find the path to the Island of the Blessed and fulfil your noble purpose.' A sense of gratitude and relief washed over us as we thanked Persephone profusely for her favour. The weight of the world seemed to lift from our shoulders, and we knew that with her blessing, we had the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. With a soft smile, Persephone gestured toward the horizon. 'Go forth, seekers of hope, and may the Fates guide your steps.' And so, with the blessing of Persephone, we continued our journey through the Underworld, our spirits renewed and our determination unwavering. The next steps of the parchment's instructions awaited us, but we were now armed with the knowledge that the queen of the Underworld herself had bestowed her favour upon us. As we ventured forth, the light of the Underworld seemed to brighten, and a glimmer of hope shone in the darkness. We knew that the path to the Island of the Blessed would not be easy, but with Persephone's blessing, we were ready to face whatever challenges awaited us. Our hearts brimming with courage and determination, Evan and I took each step with purpose, bound together by a shared mission and a newfound hope for the future. As we approached the final gate that led to the Island of the Blessed, a sense of anticipation and nervousness enveloped us. The towering gate loomed before us, adorned with intricate carvings that depicted ancient mythological scenes. It seemed to radiate an aura of power and mystery, and we knew that whatever trial awaited us beyond this gate would be the ultimate test of our worthiness. Taking a deep breath, we exchanged a determined glance, silently acknowledging the significance of this moment. The air around us crackled with a palpable energy, as if the very fabric of the Underworld was aware of our presence. The gate seemed immovable, a formidable barrier that separated us from our destination. But the parchment had instructed us to approach the gate with courage and determination, so we steeled ourselves for what lay ahead. As we stepped closer, the carvings on the gate seemed to come to life, morphing and shifting like a living tapestry. Scenes of ancient battles, heroic deeds, and tragic destinies played out before our eyes. It was as if the gate was reading our very souls, revealing our deepest fears and desires. Then, a booming voice filled the air, resonating through the Underworld. 'Who dares to seek passage to the Island of the Blessed?' it thundered. 'We are the seekers of hope and redemption,' Evan replied, his voice steady and resolute. 'We have come to free the imprisoned gods and demigods and restore balance to the world.' The gate seemed to vibrate with energy, and a series of symbols appeared, glowing brightly in an ethereal light. It was the trial—a series of challenges that we would have to overcome. The first challenge materialized before us—a labyrinth of twisting paths and shifting walls that seemed to change with each step we took. It was a test of our intelligence and resourcefulness, requiring us to navigate through the labyrinth to reach the other side. With Evan's quick thinking and my ability to control the elements, we forged a path through the labyrinth, relying on each other's strengths and trust. As we emerged from the maze, a sense of triumph washed over us, and the gate responded with a low rumble, as if acknowledging our success. The second challenge was a trial of strength, as an enormous stone golem materialized before us. Its towering form seemed invincible, and its eyes glowed with an otherworldly fire. Evan and I stood side by side, ready to face the golem together. Drawing on the newfound powers we had acquired through our journey, I summoned the elements to aid us in battle. The wind howled around us, the earth trembled beneath our feet, and the flames of determination burned brighter than ever. With a display of teamwork and determination, we managed to weaken the golem, delivering the final blow in a coordinated effort. The stone creature crumbled to pieces, and the gate reacted with a resounding vibration, signalling that we had passed the second trial. The third challenge took us by surprise, as we found ourselves in a room filled with mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of ourselves, revealing our deepest doubts and insecurities. It was a test of self-acceptance and inner strength. Evan looked at his reflections with a mix of apprehension and determination, while I struggled to confront the shadows of my past—the memories of being a victim of bullying, the loss of my father, and the doubts that had haunted me for years. But together, we faced our reflections with courage and compassion. We reminded each other of our worth and strength, supporting one another through the emotional journey of self-discovery. As we emerged from the room of mirrors, the gate responded with a soft glow, acknowledging our triumph over the third challenge. The fourth challenge was a trial of sacrifice, as we were confronted with a choice that could alter the course of our quest. We were presented with a crystal vial containing a mysterious potion, said to grant great power but at a steep cost. Drinking the potion would mean giving up something dear to us. Evan and I exchanged a knowing look, realizing that the potion was a test of our resolve and commitment to our mission. The temptation of power was alluring, but we knew that it could come at a great price. In the end, we chose to forgo the potion, opting to rely on our own strengths and the blessings we had received from Persephone. The gate trembled as we made our decision, and we felt a surge of energy pass through us. The fifth challenge awaited, and it tested our ability to trust and support one another unconditionally. We found ourselves in a dark chamber with no visible exit, and the air was filled with an unsettling aura of uncertainty. The only way forward was to take a leap of faith, to step into the darkness and trust that the path would reveal itself. Evan and I held hands, drawing strength from our bond. With a deep breath, we stepped forward together, embracing the unknown. And just as we took the leap, the darkness gave way to a shimmering light, guiding us to the other side. The gate responded with a brilliant flash of light, a testament to our unwavering trust in each other. The sixth challenge was a test of endurance, as we were confronted with an endless desert of scorching sands. The sun beat down mercilessly, sapping our strength and testing our resolve to continue. But we pressed on, drawing on the inner reservoirs of courage that had brought us this far. With each step, we encouraged one another, reminding ourselves of the importance of our mission and the lives we sought to save. The seventh challenge was a trial of wisdom, as we encountered a wise oracle who posed riddles and questions that probed the depths of our understanding. It was a test of our ability to think critically and make sound judgments. Through a series of thoughtful responses and discussions, we navigated the complex web of questions, unravelling the mysteries presented to us. The oracle nodded approvingly, acknowledging our wisdom and insight. Finally, with the seventh and final challenge completed, the gate before us began to glow with a dazzling radiance. It slowly swung open, revealing the path to the Island of the Blessed. We exchanged a glance, feeling a mix of awe and gratitude for having come this far. The journey had tested us in ways we never could have imagined, but we had faced each challenge with determination, courage, and trust in one another. Hand in hand, we stepped through the gate, leaving the trials of the Underworld behind us. The Island of the Blessed awaited, and with our newfound strengths and Persephone's blessing, we were ready to confront Kronos and free the imprisoned gods and demigods. The path ahead was uncertain, and the weight of our mission still bore heavily upon us. But we knew that we were not alone in this quest. Bound by a friendship that had withstood the trials of the Underworld, Evan and I faced the future with unwavering resolve and hope for a brighter world. With our hearts filled with determination and our hands tightly clasped together, Evan and I stood before the imposing fortress of Kronos, ready to face the ultimate challenge. In that moment, as the weight of the world rested upon our shoulders, Evan's words echoed in the air, filling us with a heroic sense of unity and purpose. 'Together we are going to rock this.' The Castle [Chapter six] As we gazed at the towering fortress, I could sense a mixture of fear and doubt in Evan's eyes. He took a deep breath and hesitated before speaking, 'Nico, I don't know if I'm ready for this. I mean, taking on Kronos, the fallen angel, it's just so... overwhelming. What if I mess up? What if I can't control my powers when we face him?' I placed a reassuring hand on Evan's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, 'Evan, I understand your fears, and it's okay to feel unsure. But we've come this far, and we've faced every challenge together. I believe in you, and I know that you're strong enough to do this. You've shown incredible bravery throughout this entire journey, and I know you have the power within you to defeat Kronos.' Evan shook his head, a flicker of uncertainty still presents in his expression, 'But what if I let you down? What if I can't live up to your expectations?' I smiled warmly, 'Evan, you've never let me down, and you don't need to live up to any expectations. We're a team, and we'll face this together. We'll have each other's backs, just like we always have. Trust in yourself, in your abilities, and in our bond. We're stronger together.' Evan's gaze softened, and he took a moment to absorb my words. 'You're right, Nico. We've faced so much together, and we can't stop now. I don't want to let you down, and I don't want to let the Olympia or anyone else suffer because of Kronos.' I nodded, 'Exactly, Evan. This isn't just about us anymore. It's about protecting everything we hold dear and everyone we love. We can do this; I know we can.' Evan took a deep breath, his resolve strengthening, 'Okay, let's do it. Let's face Kronos and show him that he can't destroy everything we hold dear. We'll give it our all, together.' I grinned, feeling a surge of pride for my friend, 'That's the spirit, Evan! Together, we can overcome anything. Let's give it everything we've got.' The fortress stood before us like a colossal monolith, an imposing structure that seemed to touch the very heavens. Its walls were made of obsidian stone, gleaming with an eerie darkness that seemed to absorb all light around it. Towering spires reached towards the sky, adorned with intricate carvings of ancient symbols and demonic figures. At the entrance, a massive gate loomed, adorned with twisted ironwork that resembled the gnarled fingers of a monstrous creature. The gate was flanked by two menacing statues of gargoyles, their eyes seemingly alive with malevolence. The fortress seemed to emit an aura of malevolence, as if it were aware of the battles, it had witnessed and the suffering it had caused. As we drew closer, we could see ancient engravings etched into the stone walls, depicting scenes of chaos and destruction. The air around the fortress crackled with an otherworldly energy, sending shivers down our spines. It was as if the fortress itself was alive, breathing with dark intent. A massive moat surrounded the fortress, filled not with water, but with a swirling black mist that seemed to writhe with unseen horrors. A narrow stone bridge spanned the moat, leading to the forbidding entrance. It felt like a gateway to the unknown, beckoning us to step into the heart of darkness. The windows of the fortress were small and narrow, like watchful eyes peering out from the shadows. Dark clouds gathered above the fortress, obscuring the sun, and casting an eerie gloom over the entire area. The wind carried haunting whispers, as if the very walls of the fortress held secrets of ancient battles and forgotten sorrows. Despite its intimidating appearance, we knew we had to press forward. This was the final test, the last hurdle we needed to overcome to confront Kronos and put an end to his reign of terror. The fortress was a symbol of all that was evil and twisted, but we were driven by the belief that good could triumph over darkness. With our hearts pounding and our determination burning like an unquenchable flame, we stepped onto the stone bridge. Each footfall echoed through the silence, as if the fortress itself was awaiting our arrival. We exchanged a glance, reassuring each other that we were not alone in this daunting task. As we approached the entrance, the air seemed to thicken with malevolence. We took a deep breath, steeling ourselves for whatever lay beyond those imposing gates. The fortress exuded an aura of challenge, daring us to test our limits and face the darkness within. With a deep breath, we crossed the threshold, and the gates closed behind us with a resounding boom. We were now inside the fortress, where darkness and danger lurked around every corner. But we were not alone, for we had each other, and with our bond as strong as ever, we braced ourselves for the trials that awaited us within. As we stepped inside the main entrance hall of the fortress, an eerie silence greeted us. The air felt heavy and stale, as if the place had been abandoned for centuries. The grand hall was vast and imposing, with towering ceilings supported by massive stone pillars that seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness above. Cobwebs draped across the corners, testifying to the lack of recent visitors. The hall was dimly lit, with faint rays of sunlight filtering through narrow slits in the high walls. Dust particles danced in the air, illuminated by the soft glow of the sunlight. The floor beneath us was made of cold, gray stone, worn down by the footsteps of those who had once inhabited this place. As we ventured further into the hall, our footsteps echoed loudly, breaking the eerie silence that enveloped the fortress. The echoes seemed to reverberate through the very walls, as if the fortress itself was alive and listening to our every move. We felt like intruders in this ancient, abandoned domain. S The walls of the hall were adorned with faded tapestries and paintings, depicting scenes of battles and conquests. These once-magnificent artworks now hung in tatters, their vibrant colours faded by the passage of time. They spoke of a glorious past, now lost and forgotten. The main entrance hall seemed to stretch on endlessly, with multiple doorways leading to other parts of the fortress. Each doorway was shrouded in darkness, and we couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden behind them. We moved cautiously, our senses alert to any sign of danger. The absence of any living presence made the silence even more ominous. It felt as if the fortress was holding its breath, waiting for us to make the first move. Despite the desolation, the hall held an air of grandeur and mystery. The intricate carvings on the pillars and the ornate details on the walls hinted at a time when this fortress was a place of power and authority. We approached a large, ancient-looking staircase that led to an upper level. The steps creaked under our weight, and the sound seemed to echo through the deserted halls. At the top of the staircase, we found ourselves in a long corridor adorned with more faded paintings and old suits of armour, standing as silent sentinels of a bygone eara. As we continued exploring, we came across remnants of what seemed to be a grand dining hall, now reduced to nothing but broken tables and shattered dishes. The once-gleaming chandeliers now hung crookedly from the ceiling, their crystal pendants dull and lifeless. It was both eerie and fascinating to explore this abandoned fortress, to walk in the footsteps of those who had lived and fought here. We could almost feel the weight of history in every step we took, as if the very walls were whispering their stories to us. Yet, despite the emptiness and decay, there was an air of anticipation and foreboding. We knew that our journey had only just begun, and that deeper within the fortress, the true challenges awaited us. With our hearts steeled and our minds focused, we ventured further into the depths of the fortress, ready to face whatever lay ahead. We decided to explore two adjacent rooms branching off from the main entrance hall. The first room we entered was a grand library, its shelves lined with dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. The room was large, and the ceiling soared high above us. Tall windows allowed feeble rays of sunlight to filter through, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air. The shelves were made of dark, polished wood, though now they were marred by the passage of time. The books themselves were weathered; their pages yellowed with age. As we ran our fingers over the spines, a cloud of dust rose into the air, making us cough and sneeze. The room was a treasure trove of knowledge, a testament to the wisdom and intellect of those who had once frequented this fortress. A sense of reverence washed over us as we surveyed the rows upon rows of books, wondering at the secrets and stories they held. In the center of the room stood a large, ornate desk, covered in papers and parchments. The inkwells were dried, and the quills were brittle with age. It was as if the person who had last used this desk had simply walked away, leaving their work behind forever. As we reluctantly left the library and entered the next room, a sudden shiver ran down my spine. This room was smaller and dimly lit, with a cold, damp atmosphere that seemed to seep into our bones. The walls were lined with stone alcoves, each holding a dusty, cobweb-covered statue. The statues depicted a variety of figures, some human and some more otherworldly. Their expressions were frozen in time, their faces a mix of sorrow, rage, and longing. The air in this room felt heavy with emotion, as if the very stones held the memories of those they portrayed. As we cautiously approached the center of the room, a strange sensation overcame me. It was as if the air had grown thicker, and a weighty presence seemed to fill the space. My heart began to race as a deep, echoing voice reverberated through the chamber, saying, 'I smell mortal.' Evan and I exchanged nervous glances, our senses on high alert. The voice seemed to come from all around us, yet there was no visible source. The room itself felt alive, as if it were watching and assessing us. 'Who's there?' Evan called out, his voice wavering slightly. There was no response, only an eerie silence that hung in the air like a heavy fog. 'Perhaps it's just our imagination,' I whispered, trying to reassure both Evan and me. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being observed by something ancient and powerful. We quickly left the room, the unsettling encounter still sending shivers down our spines. As we retreated back into the main hall, the memory of the voice lingered, a haunting reminder that we were not alone within the walls of this forsaken fortress. As we ventured deeper into the fortress, the mystery of its emptiness persisted. It was perplexing; we had expected to encounter hordes of Kronos' minions, a malevolent army guarding their dark master. Yet, the halls remained eerily silent, devoid of any signs of life. The only sound that accompanied us was the echoing of our own footsteps, a constant reminder of our presence within the abandoned stronghold. 'Why would Hermes say that Kronos had an army of evil if there's no one here?' Evan pondered aloud, voicing the very question that had been gnawing at my own thoughts. 'I don't know,' I replied, scanning our surroundings warily. 'Perhaps they were once here, but now they're gone? Or maybe they're lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush us when we least expect it.' Evan nodded, understanding the gravity of our situation. We had to remain vigilant and prepared for any potential threats, even if the fortress appeared deserted. After what seemed like an eternity of exploration, we came upon a massive chamber, larger and grander than any we had seen before. It was a sight to behold, with towering pillars adorned with intricate carvings, and at the far end of the room, a colossal throne made of obsidian stone. Upon that throne sat Kronos, the fallen angel, his imposing figure shrouded in darkness. His eyes burned with an ancient malevolence that sent a shiver down my spine. He exuded power and dominance, his very presence suffocating. But despite his fearsome appearance, there was a touch of sadness in his gaze. Evan and I exchanged a tense glance, both knowing that this was the moment we had been preparing for. This was the ultimate test of our strength and determination. We had to face Kronos, confront the embodiment of evil, and put an end to his sinister plans. Drawing upon our newfound powers and courage, we approached the throne, determination etched upon our faces. Kronos regarded us with an air of superiority, his lips curling into a cruel smile. 'You've come to challenge me, have you?' he taunted, his voice deep and resonant, sending ripples of dread through our very beings. 'We have,' I declared, trying to keep my voice steady, even as my heart pounded in my chest. 'We won't let you destroy everything,' Evan added, his voice unwavering despite the fear I could sense in his eyes. Kronos chuckled darkly, his laughter echoing through the chamber. 'You are but mortals, feeble and insignificant. What makes you think you can stand against me?' 'We may be mortals, but we possess a strength that goes beyond our humanity,' I said, recalling the words of my father. 'We have the power of all gods within us.' Evan nodded, drawing strength from my words. 'Together, we can defeat you.' Kronos' laughter grew louder, reverberating through the chamber. 'Such arrogance, to believe you can challenge a fallen angel, a being of unimaginable power.' As Kronos rose from his throne, a dark aura enveloped him, radiating malevolence and destruction. But I could feel the power within me surging in response. The golden scepter in my hand glowed with an intense brilliance, a symbol of the godly strength that coursed through my veins. As Kronos rose from his throne, his dark aura swirling around him, I could feel the weight of his malevolence pressing down upon me. My heart pounded in my chest, and my grip on the golden scepter tightened. I knew this battle would be the ultimate test of my newfound powers and determination. Evan and I launched ourselves at Kronos, attacking with all the strength and skill we could muster. But Kronos was a formidable opponent, his movements swift and precise. He effortlessly parried our blows, his dark laughter echoing through the chamber. 'You are but mortals, weak and insignificant,' Kronos sneered, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. 'You cannot hope to defeat me.' Anger and frustration swirled within me, mingling with a deep sense of love and concern for Evan. I couldn't bear to see him hurt or defeated. As Kronos launched Evan into a wall, my heart clenched in fear. Evan lay still, unmoving, and panic surged through me. 'No!' I cried, my voice trembling with emotion. 'Evan, get up!' But Evan remained motionless, and a surge of power unlike anything I had ever felt before coursed through me. It was as if all of my emotions, my anger, love, fear, and determination, were merging into one. The golden scepter in my hand glowed brighter, and I could feel the elements responding to my emotions. In a moment of clarity, I realized that I didn't have to rely solely on my individual powers. Instead, I could combine them, drawing strength from the very essence of the world around me. With newfound determination, I raised the golden scepter high above my head, and a golden light enveloped me. The torches lining the chamber burst into brilliant flames, the stones from the ground and walls began to levitate, and the air crackled with energy. I felt connected to everything around me, as if I were a conduit for the elemental forces of the world. My senses heightened, and I could feel the ebb and flow of energy coursing through me. I was no longer just a mortal; I was a vessel of power beyond comprehension. As Kronos launched himself at me, I held my ground, channeling the combined forces of fire, earth, air, and the deep well of emotions within me. The golden light intensified, enveloping both Kronos and me in its radiance. With a mighty cry, I unleashed the full force of my powers upon Kronos. The flames of the torches shot out like scorching arrows, the stones became deadly projectiles, and the air itself seemed to bend and swirl around us. The chamber shook with the sheer power of our clash. For a moment, it seemed as if time stood still. Kronos was no longer the all-powerful fallen angel; he was just a being made of gray dust, struggling to hold his form. The weight of his malevolence and cruelty crumbled under the onslaught of my combined powers. With one final surge of energy, I unleashed a torrent of golden light, engulfing Kronos entirely. And then, he was gone, reduced to nothing more than a fine powder scattered in the air. I stood there, breathing heavily, surrounded by the aftermath of our battle. The chamber was in ruins, but we were victorious. I had defeated Kronos, not just with physical strength, but with the power of my emotions and the elemental forces of the world. Looking over at Evan, my heart swelled with relief and love. He was still lying there, but as I approached him, I saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. 'Evan,' I whispered, gently shaking him. 'Come on, wake up.' His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at me with a mixture of awe and gratitude. 'Nico, you did it. You defeated him.' As Evan's lips touched mine, a surge of emotions washed over me like a tidal wave. It was a mix of relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love and connection. In that moment, I felt as if everything around us faded away, and there was only the two of us, bound together by the trials we had faced and the victory we had achieved. My heart pounded in my chest, and my hands trembled slightly as I gently pulled back from the kiss. Evan's eyes bore into mine, and I could see the depth of his emotions mirrored in them. It was a tender and vulnerable moment, one that felt like it held the weight of the world. 'Thank you, Nico,' Evan whispered, his voice filled with gratitude and awe. 'Thank you for saving me, for saving everyone.' Tears welled up in my eye as I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close in a tight embrace. 'I couldn't have done it without you, Evan,' I replied, my voice choked with emotion. 'You were there every step of the way, supporting me, believing in me. We did this together.' As we stood there, our foreheads touching, the realization of what we had accomplished sank in. We had faced insurmountable odds and emerged victorious. Together, we had defied fate and fulfilled the ancient prophecy, a destiny that had been foretold eons ago. But our moment of celebration was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out my name. 'NICO!!' Proteus's voice echoed through the chamber, filled with urgency and concern. I knew he must have been searching for me, worried about my safety. For a moment, I considered ignoring him, wanting to savor this moment with Evan a little longer. But I knew that whatever Proteus had to say was important. Reluctantly, I pulled away from Evan and turned towards the entrance of the chamber. Proteus stood there, his eyes filled with pride and love. 'Son, you did it,' he said, his voice full of admiration. 'Kronos is defeated, and Olympus is safe. You've fulfilled the prophecy, just as I knew you would.' I felt a swell of pride and gratitude at my father's words, but I quickly interjected, 'It wasn't just me, Dad. Evan was there with me every step of the way. We did this together.' Proteus nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. 'I know, Nico. And I couldn't be prouder of both of you. The bond you share, the strength you draw from each other, it's truly remarkable.' He stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder and then on Evan's. 'You are both extraordinary individuals, and together, you are a force to be reckoned with. The love and connection between you two are a power beyond anything I've seen before.' I glanced at Evan, a warm smile spreading across my face. There was no denying the deep bond we shared, a bond that had grown stronger through every trial we had faced together. Proteus continued, 'Now, there is much to discuss and plan. Kronos may be defeated, but there will always be new challenges to face. The world needs protectors like you, ones who possess not only great power but also compassion and wisdom.' As he spoke, I realized that our journey was far from over. There were still many uncertainties and dangers that lay ahead. But I also knew that as long as Evan and I were together, we could face anything that came our way. With a nod, I turned to Evan, squeezing his hand reassuringly. 'We're in this together, Evan,' I said, my voice filled with determination. 'No matter what comes next, we'll face it as a team.' Evan smiled back at me, his eyes shining with the same determination. 'Absolutely, Nico,' he replied. 'We've got each other's backs, no matter what.' And with that, we stood side by side, ready to face whatever the future held, knowing that together, we were unstoppable. The journey ahead would be filled with challenges and adventures, but we were prepared to face them together, bound by a love and connection that transcended mortal boundaries. As we followed Proteus out of the chamber, I felt a sense of excitement and trepidation for what was to come. But more than anything, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for Evan, for his unwavering support and love, and for the incredible journey we had shared. We walked out of the castle, leaving behind the grandeur and the echoes of our battle with Kronos. The air outside was different, cleaner somehow, as if the very atmosphere had sensed the defeat of the fallen angel. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun casting its warm golden rays upon us. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if in anticipation of what was to come next. Evan and I walked side by side, our steps in sync as we took in the view around us. There was a sense of peace in that moment, a profound stillness that felt almost surreal after the chaos and intensity of our battle. I glanced over at Evan, unable to resist the urge to look into his eyes. They were a shade of deep brown, like polished mahogany, and they held a world of emotions within them. In that moment, they were filled with a sense of wonder and awe, as if he couldn't quite believe that we had emerged victorious. But there was something else in his eyes, something that went beyond words. It was a connection, an unspoken understanding that bound us together. It was the knowledge that we had faced the impossible and come through it stronger and more united than ever. As our eyes met, a small smile tugged at the corners of Evan's lips. It was a smile that spoke of gratitude, of love, of the profound bond that had grown between us. It was a smile that made my heart swell with warmth and affection. Without saying a word, we continued to walk, our steps steady and sure. We knew that there was much to be done, many questions to be answered, and challenges to face. But in that moment, none of it seemed insurmountable. As we made our way towards an uncertain future, the world around us seemed to come alive with colour and vibrancy. It was as if the very earth celebrated our victory, as if the universe itself acknowledged the power of our love and our bond. And in the silence of that moment, as we walked together into the unknown, I couldn't help but feel that we were exactly where we were meant to be, that our journey was far from over, and that whatever lay ahead, we would face it together, stronger than ever before. As we continued to walk, the landscape around us seemed to shift and change, as if responding to the powerful emotions that filled the air. The world appeared to be in a state of constant flux, with vibrant colors and surreal shapes dancing at the edges of my vision. It was as if the very fabric of reality itself was in motion. I glanced over at Evan, and he looked equally awestruck by the surreal beauty of our surroundings. It was clear that we had entered a realm unlike anything we had ever experienced before, a place where the ordinary laws of nature no longer applied. The silence between us was broken by the voice of my father, Proteus. His words carried a weight and a sadness that I could feel deep in my soul. He began, 'Nico, I know you want to ask me why I left, but I can't answer that in a way that will make it all make sense. It's not that I wanted to leave you and your mother. I had to. There were forces at play, ancient powers that I couldn't defy.' I felt a mixture of emotions welling up within me, a complex blend of anger, hurt, and longing. I had carried the pain of his absence for so long, and now, here he was, standing before me. It was both a relief and a torment to see him again. My voice trembled as I responded, 'But you left without a word, without any explanation. I was just a child, and I didn't understand why you were gone. We both suffered, my mother and I, and I felt abandoned.' Proteus nodded; his eyes filled with regret. 'I know, Nico, and I can't begin to express how sorry I am for the pain I caused you and your mother. But I want you to know that I never stopped loving you both. I watched over you from afar, even when I couldn't be with you. There were forces beyond my control that demanded my absence.' Evan walked beside me, offering his support silently, his presence a reassuring anchor in this surreal world. He could sense the raw emotions that filled the air, and he knew that this conversation was long overdue. I took a deep breath, trying to process all of this. 'What are these forces you speak of? Why couldn't you defy them? And why are we here now? Why did you send Evan to find me?' Proteus sighed, and for a moment, the shifting landscape around us seemed to still, as if the very world held its breath to listen to his words. 'Nico, there are things that I haven't told you, things that I couldn't tell you until the time was right. The world you know is just a fraction of reality, a thin veil that hides the true nature of the universe. There are powers, ancient and powerful, that shape the destinies of gods and mortals alike.' He continued, 'Kronos, the fallen angel we faced, is one of those beings. He sought to bring about the destruction of Olympus and everything it stands for. But there is more to his plan, a darkness that threatens not only the gods but the very fabric of existence. It was foretold that in this dark hour, a Son of God, of overwhelming power, would appear to challenge him.' My mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what he was saying. 'You mean... I'm that Son of God? That's why you sent Evan to find me?' Proteus nodded solemnly. 'Yes, Nico. You have a power within you, a power that goes beyond anything you can imagine. It's the power to bring about change, to challenge the darkest of forces, and to protect the world from unimaginable destruction. But you can't do it alone. You need allies, like Evan, who possesses his own unique strengths.' Evan squeezed my hand in support, and I could feel his unwavering determination. We were in this together, facing a destiny we couldn't escape. My father's gaze turned to Evan, and there was a profound respect in his eyes. 'Evan, you've been by Nico's side, supporting him, guiding him. I'm grateful for what you've done, and I know that together, you can achieve great things.' I looked between them, a sense of purpose and responsibility settling over me like a heavy mantle. I couldn't deny the weight of the destiny that had been thrust upon me, but I also couldn't deny the love and connection that bound us together. I turned to Proteus and said, 'I appreciate your explanation, but there's still so much I don't understand. What do we do now? How do we stop Kronos and the darkness he represents?' Proteus looked out into the shifting landscape, his gaze filled with a mixture of determination and concern. 'Our journey is far from over, Nico. We must gather our strength, seek allies, and prepare for the battles that lie ahead. There are secrets, ancient and hidden, that hold the key to defeating Kronos. But first, we must return to the mortal world, to your mother and the life you left behind.' I nodded, knowing that there was much work to be done and many challenges to face. The road ahead was uncertain and filled with danger, but I couldn't deny the sense of purpose that now burned within me. As we continued our journey through this surreal realm, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets and revelations awaited us. But one thing was certain—I was no longer alone, and together with Evan and my father, we would face whatever darkness lay ahead. The shifting landscape around us continued to morph and change, as if responding to the powerful emotions that hung in the air. I couldn't help but be struck by the surreal beauty of this place, a realm that defied the laws of nature and reality. As we walked, I occasionally glanced at Evan, who was walking beside me. His presence was a constant source of strength and reassurance. I couldn't help but think about how we had come to this point, how our lives had become intertwined in ways I could never have imagined. Evan and I had known each other since we were just seven years old, back when life was simpler, and the mysteries of the universe felt distant and unimportant. We had met on the first day of school, both nervous and uncertain about what lay ahead. But over the years, we had become inseparable, our friendship growing stronger with each passing day. I remembered the day when Evan had shown me a hidden spot in the woods behind our houses, a small clearing by a babbling brook. It was our secret place, a sanctuary where we could escape from the pressures and expectations of the world. We had spent countless hours there, sharing our hopes and dreams, our fears and insecurities. It was where I had first confided in Evan about my father's sudden disappearance when I was seven years old. Evan had listened, his young eyes filled with empathy and understanding. He had been a source of comfort during those difficult times, a friend who had stood by my side even when I couldn't make sense of the world around me. Now, as we walked together in this surreal realm, I couldn't help but feel that our bond was deeper and more profound than I had ever realized. It was as if fate had brought us together for a reason, that our friendship was destined to play a crucial role in the events that were unfolding. The silence between us was broken once again as my father, Proteus, began to speak. His voice carried a heaviness, a weight of centuries of existence and untold experiences. He was no longer the distant figure I had once known but a complex being with his own struggles and regrets. 'Nico,' he said, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the ever-shifting landscape, 'I understand that my absence has caused you and your mother unimaginable pain. There is no excuse for the suffering you both endured, and for that, I am truly sorry.' I looked at him, a mixture of emotions swirling within me. It was difficult to reconcile the absent father I had grown up with and the figure before me now, a god burdened by the weight of his choices. Proteus continued, 'But there are truths that I couldn't reveal until now, truths about the nature of the universe and the forces that shape our destinies. The world you know is just a fraction of reality, a thin veneer that conceals the true complexities of existence. There are powers, ancient and incomprehensible, that move the threads of fate.' I nodded, trying to absorb the enormity of what he was saying. It was as if the boundaries of my understanding of the world were expanding with each passing moment. Proteus turned to me, his gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and determination. 'Kronos, the fallen angel we faced, is one of those powers. He sought to bring about the destruction of Olympus and all it represents. But there is more to his plan, a darkness that threatens not only the gods but the very fabric of existence. It was foretold that in this dark hour, a Son of God, of overwhelming power, would appear to challenge him.' I couldn't deny the weight of his words, the realization that I was somehow a part of a larger cosmic plan. 'So, I'm that Son of God? That's why you sent Evan to find me?' Proteus nodded solemnly. 'Yes, Nico. You possess a power within you, a power that goes beyond anything you can imagine. It's the power to bring about change, to challenge the darkest of forces, and to protect the world from unimaginable destruction. But you can't do it alone. You need allies, like Evan, who possess their own unique strengths.' Evan squeezed my hand, a silent affirmation of his commitment to this newfound purpose. I knew that we were in this together, bound by a destiny that we couldn't escape. My father's gaze shifted to Evan, and I could see a profound respect in his eyes. 'Evan, you've been by Nico's side, supporting him, guiding him. I'm grateful for what you've done, and I know that together, you can achieve great things.' Evan nodded; his eyes filled with determination. 'I'll do whatever it takes to help Nico and protect the world. We're in this together.' As we continued to walk through the ever-changing landscape of this surreal realm, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets and revelations awaited us. But one thing was clear—we were united by a common purpose, and together with my father, we would face whatever darkness lay ahead. The shifting, surreal landscape gradually began to change. The swirling mists that surrounded us started to disperse, revealing a majestic and awe-inspiring sight before our eyes. It was as if the very fabric of reality had transformed to accommodate our journey. Before us stood a place of unimaginable beauty and grandeur—Olympus. Its towering peaks scraped the heavens, crowned with gleaming structures that seemed to defy gravity itself. The architecture was beyond anything I had ever seen, an intricate blend of classical elegance and divine craftsmanship. As we approached, I could see that the city of the gods was bustling with activity. Immortal beings moved about with grace and purpose, while radiant beings of light soared through the skies, their wings leaving shimmering trails of energy. The air was filled with celestial music, a symphony of harmony that resonated in every fiber of my being. Evan and I exchanged astonished glances. It was incomprehensible how we had arrived here so swiftly when our journey had felt like an odyssey of its own. But there was no time to dwell on the mystery, for there were questions that demanded answers. My father, Proteus, gazed upon the splendor of Olympus with a mixture of nostalgia and longing. 'Nico, Evan, we have reached our destination—Olympus, the realm of the gods.'mEvan couldn't contain his amazement. 'But... how is this possible? It should have taken us much longer to get here.' Proteus offered a small, enigmatic smile. 'Time flows differently in this realm, my son. What may seem like a journey of days or weeks in your world can pass in mere moments here. The fabric of Olympus is woven with the essence of eternity.' As we continued to approach the heart of Olympus, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of awe and reverence. This was a place of legends, a realm where gods and heroes resided, and I was about to step foot into it. Proteus turned to me, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. 'Nico, this is your heritage, your birthright. You are a Son of God, and Olympus is your home.' I couldn't deny the overwhelming emotions that welled up within me—the sense of belonging, the weight of destiny, and the realization that I was standing on the threshold of a world I had only ever dreamed of. Evan placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I knew that we were in this together, ready to face whatever awaited us in this extraordinary realm. The grandeur of Olympus never ceased to amaze me. Every corner of this divine realm seemed to be crafted with meticulous care and unparalleled beauty. Everywhere I looked, there were awe-inspiring sights and wonders beyond imagination. The buildings that made up the cityscape of Olympus were like nothing I had ever seen before. They stretched skyward, reaching dizzying heights, and were adorned with intricate carvings and delicate patterns that shimmered with ethereal light. Columns of alabaster and marble lined the streets, while gardens filled with otherworldly flora and fauna created a vibrant tapestry of colours and scents. Evan and I walked through the bustling streets, catching glimpses of gods and mythical creatures going about their business. I saw Athena, radiant in her wisdom, engaged in a spirited debate with Hermes, whose quicksilver wit was as sharp as ever. Apollo strummed his lyre beneath a grove of golden trees, the music sending ripples of harmony through the air. As we ventured further into Olympus, we came across a marketplace unlike any other. Stalls and kiosks offered divine wares and artifacts, from enchanted jewellery to ambrosial fruits. The bustling crowd of gods and immortals bartered and chatted with fervour, creating a lively atmosphere that resonated with vibrant energy. Evan couldn't help but marvel at the sights. 'This place is incredible, Nico. It's like stepping into the myths themselves.' I nodded in agreement, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. 'Yeah, it's beyond anything I ever imagined.' However, amid the splendour and grandeur of Olympus, a growing sense of responsibility weighed on me. I couldn't forget that I had a life waiting for me in the mortal realm, a mother who had been left in the dark about my journey. Guilt gnawed at the edges of my excitement. 'We should get back,' I told Evan, my voice tinged with worry. 'My mom must be wondering where I am. She's been through enough.' Evan understood, and his expression turned serious. 'You're right, Nico. We can't stay here forever. But remember, you're not alone in this. We'll find a way to balance your life here and your responsibilities back home.' As we made our way back to the point where we had entered Olympus, I couldn't help but look back one last time at the astonishing realm of the gods. This was my heritage, my destiny, but I knew that there were still challenges and choices ahead that would shape the course of my life. (Or is it not the last time???) Back to Normal? [Chapter seven] Returning to the mortal realm from the magnificent Olympus was no less surreal than arriving there. Evan and I stood at the threshold of the divine realm, looking back one last time at the ethereal cityscape before us. Hermes, who had been our guide through this extraordinary journey, appeared before us with his trademark mischievous smile. 'Well, it's been quite a trip, hasn't it?' he quipped. I nodded, feeling a mix of emotions. 'Yes, it has. But I need to go back. My mother...' Hermes held up a hand to stop me. 'I understand, Nico. You've got responsibilities waiting for you back in the mortal world. But don't forget where you come from, and don't forget what you're capable of.' He reached into his robes and produced a small, golden vial. 'A little divine nectar, a gift from Olympus. You might find it useful.' I took the vial, my fingers trembling. 'Thank you, Hermes.' With a wink, he said, 'Anytime, kid. Remember, you've got a home here in Olympus whenever you want to visit.' Then, he led us to a massive, ornate gateway that stood as a portal between the two realms. The portal pulsed with a radiant light, and it was clear that this was our way back home. Evan squeezed my shoulder, offering silent reassurance. 'Ready?' he asked. I nodded, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. With a deep breath, we stepped through the portal, and I felt an indescribable sensation wash over me. It was as though I was being stretched and compressed simultaneously, existing in multiple places at once. When the world stopped spinning, we found ourselves back in the quiet woods where our extraordinary journey had begun. The gateway to Olympus had vanished, leaving us in the dappled shade of the trees. Evan and I exchanged a glance, and I couldn't help but smile. 'We made it.' Evan chuckled. 'Yeah, we did.' We started the journey back to my house, walking side by side in comfortable silence. I knew there were so many things to explain to my mother, so many questions that needed answers. But for now, I relished the simplicity of the moment. As we approached my house, the familiar sight of the small, cozy cottage nestled among the trees brought a surge of warmth to my heart. It was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Olympus, but it was my home, and I was eager to return to it. Evan and I paused in front of the gate leading to my front yard. I looked at him, gratitude and affection swelling within me. 'Evan, I don't know how to thank you for everything.' He grinned, his eyes reflecting the same depth of emotion. 'Nico, you don't have to thank me. We're in this together, remember? I've got your back.' I nodded, feeling the bond between us grow even stronger. 'Yeah, we're a team.' With that, we opened the gate and walked up the path to my front door. As I reached for the doorknob, ready to step inside my cozy cottage and face my mother after this unbelievable journey, I heard Evan's voice, strong and heartfelt. 'Nico, wait!' I turned around, and before I knew it, Evan was running towards me with purpose in his eyes. He closed the distance between us in a matter of seconds and enveloped me in a warm, fierce hug. It was as if he needed to convey everything, he felt in that one embrace, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and the unspoken bond that had grown between us during our extraordinary adventure. We stood there in that tight embrace for a moment, the world around us fading away. I could hear his heart beating against mine. It was a silent affirmation of the trials we'd faced, the dangers we'd conquered, and the friendship that had emerged stronger than ever. When Evan finally released me, he looked deeply into my eyes, his expression filled with sincerity. 'Nico, take care of yourself. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.' I nodded; my own voice choked with emotion. 'I will, Evan. Thank you, for everything.' With one last shared glance, Evan stepped back, and I turned back towards my front door. I pushed it open, stepping into the familiar warmth and coziness of my home. As the door closed behind me, I couldn't help but feel that this was just the beginning of an extraordinary journey that would shape the rest of my life. But for now, I was home, and I had a lot of explaining to do to my mother, who I knew would be waiting with a mixture of worry and curiosity. Evan, on the other hand, remained outside, a silent sentinel watching over me from the yard. I knew that our paths would cross again, that we were bound by something greater than ourselves. With that thought in my heart. I stood in the doorway of my home, the place that had been untouched by time during my extraordinary journey to the realm of the gods. Everything looked exactly as it had when I'd left with Evan, as if the world inside had been frozen in time. The familiar scent of my mother's cooking lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of the life I had temporarily left behind. The cozy living room was bathed in a warm, golden light, courtesy of the evening sun streaming in through the windows. My mother's collection of antique teacups still adorned the shelves, each with its own unique story and character. I moved further into the house, my footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor. The note I had left for my mother was still on the kitchen counter, exactly where I'd placed it before departing on my journey. It seemed that not a single thing had been disturbed in my absence. My phone, which had been silent for the duration of my adventure, now rested on the dining table. I picked it up and checked the time. To my astonishment, only a few hours had passed since I'd left. I marvelled at how time flowed differently in the godly realm. For me, it had felt like days, but for the world of mortals, it had been mere hours. I wandered through the house, taking in the details that had once been so ordinary but now felt like treasures. The family photographs on the walls, the well-worn sofa where my mother and I had shared countless evenings, and the sunflower-shaped clock that had hung in the hallway for as long as I could remember—all of them held a newfound significance. My mother was still at work, doing her night shift at the hospital. It struck me that I needed to explain everything to her, to let her in on the incredible journey I had undertaken. I could only imagine the worry and anxiety she had experienced during my unexplained absence. I moved to the window, gazing out at the setting sun. It’s warm, golden rays painted the world in hues of orange and pink. The garden outside was a riot of colours, with flowers in full bloom and the gentle sway of tall grasses. It was a stark contrast to the otherworldly landscapes I had recently witnessed. As I continued to explore the silent house, I couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the life I had left behind. The gods and their realms were now a part of my existence, intertwined with the reality I had always known. I wondered how I could ever explain this to my mother, how I could bridge the gap between the ordinary and the extraordinary. But for now, I would wait for her to return, to hear her familiar footsteps at the door, and to share the incredible tale of my journey. The house, frozen in time, held its secrets close, and I was eager to unravel them in the hours that lay ahead. The familiar sound of water running filled the bathroom as I prepared to take a much-needed shower. The events of the past few days had left me feeling both physically and emotionally drained, and the soothing embrace of warm water was exactly what I needed to wash away the fatigue and confusion that clung to me. I undressed slowly, my muscles protesting each movement as I removed my clothes. I couldn't help but glance at myself in the mirror as I stood there, bare and vulnerable. I looked the same as I always had, yet I knew that something profound had changed within me. I had glimpsed the realms of gods and monsters, and it was a knowledge that I couldn't easily forget. Stepping into the shower, I adjusted the water temperature to the perfect balance of warmth. The sensation of the water cascading over my body was a welcome relief, washing away the layers of sweat, dust, and uncertainty that clung to my skin. I lathered up with my favorite soap, reveling in the simple act of cleansing. With each swipe of my hands, I felt like I was shedding not just dirt but the weight of the otherworldly experiences I had endured. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me, a small but necessary act of self-care in a world that had become anything but ordinary. After what felt like an eternity, I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, my skin tingling with newfound vitality. I wrapped a towel around myself and padded back to my bedroom. The house was still as quiet as ever, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of solitude that I hadn't experienced in days. I intended to wait for my mother, to share with her the incredible journey I had undertaken, but the exhaustion that had been building up within me overcame my determination. I sat on my bed, the towel still draped around me, and thought of how to explain the unexplainable to her. As minutes turned into hours, the weight of my eyelids grew heavier. The bed, with its familiar comfort and scent of home, beckoned me to rest. I lay down, intending to close my eyes for just a moment, to gather my thoughts and summon the energy to recount my tale. But as I lay there, the softness of the mattress beneath me and the soothing rhythm of my own breathing lulled me into a deep and dreamless slumber. My body had finally succumbed to the exhaustion of the past few days, and I drifted into a peaceful sleep, the events of my extraordinary journey temporarily forgotten. In the depths of slumber, I found myself in a dream, and it was unlike any I had experienced before. This dream wasn't woven from the threads of my recent otherworldly encounters, nor was it populated by gods or monsters. Instead, it was a dream that laid bare the deepest recesses of my heart, exposing emotions I had been reluctant to acknowledge. In this dream, I was back in the human realm, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of my everyday life. The setting was our high school, where Evan and I had first become friends, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It felt like a serene afternoon, just before sunset, a time when everything seemed to be bathed in a soft, ethereal light. I was standing at the edge of the school courtyard, looking out at a small grove of trees that bordered the campus. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of spring blossoms. Birds sang in the distance, their melodies carrying on the wind. As I gazed out at the peaceful scene, I became acutely aware of Evan's presence beside me. He stood there; his profile bathed in that warm, golden light. The way his dark hair caught the sun's rays, creating a halo of shimmering strands around his head, was nothing short of breathtaking. His eyes, a shade of deep brown that I had always found mesmerizing, seemed to hold a universe of secrets and emotions. Evan turned to me, and our eyes locked. In that moment, I felt a connection between us that transcended mere friendship. It was a profound understanding, a recognition of something deeper, something I had been avoiding. He smiled, a gentle and genuine smile that reached his eyes and filled them with warmth. The sensation of warmth spread through my chest, filling me with a sense of joy and contentment that I had never known before. But as our eyes remained locked, the truth of what I was feeling slowly crept in, casting a shadow over the dream. It wasn't just friendship that I felt for Evan; it was something more. Something I had been suppressing, perhaps out of fear, uncertainty, or denial. I realized that I was falling in love with Evan, and that realization sent shockwaves through my dream-self. It wasn't that I hadn't felt this way before; it was that I had never allowed myself to acknowledge it. Society's expectations, my own insecurities, and the weight of tradition had always stood in the way of this truth. In the dream, as I grappled with these emotions, I could sense the wrongness of it all. It was as if an invisible barrier had descended between Evan and me, a barrier that I had constructed within myself. I felt conflicted, torn between my burgeoning feelings and the constraints of my own preconceived notions. Evan reached out and gently took my hand, his touch sending shivers down my spine. He spoke, his voice a soothing melody that filled the dream. 'Nico, it's okay,' he said, his eyes filled with understanding. 'Love is love, and it knows no boundaries. Don't be afraid to embrace what you feel.' His words resonated with a profound truth, one that transcended the dream world and touched the depths of my soul. Love, I realized, was not something that could be controlled or defined by societal norms. It was a force of nature, a primal and undeniable emotion that could not be denied. As I looked into Evan's eyes, I felt a sense of acceptance, not just from him but from within myself. It was as if the dream was urging me to confront my own fears and insecurities, to break down the walls I had built around my heart. But even in this dream, I couldn't escape the reality of my situation. I couldn't ignore the fact that I was a young man who had been thrust into a world of gods and prophecies, a world where the boundaries between human and divine were blurred. As I stood there with Evan, the dream began to shift, the tranquil school courtyard fading into an otherworldly landscape that echoed with echoes of Olympus. The dream seemed to be reminding me that my destiny was entwined with a much larger narrative, one that I couldn't easily escape. Evan's voice echoed in my ears, a poignant reminder of the complexities of my reality. 'Nico, remember who you are,' he said, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. With those words, the dream began to unravel, the vivid colours and sensations fading into the ether. I felt myself being pulled away from Evan, from the dream that had forced me to confront my own heart. And as I awakened in the dim light of my room, I couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy. The dream had shown me a truth I had been avoiding, but it had also reminded me of the harsh realities of my existence. I was a son of gods, with a destiny that stretched beyond the boundaries of human understanding. As I lay there, tangled in my bedsheets, I couldn't escape the overwhelming sense of confusion and uncertainty that clung to me. The dream had left me with more questions than answers, and I knew that I was far from reaching the resolution I so desperately sought. I awoke to the gentle rapping of knuckles on my bedroom door. My mother's voice followed, accompanied by a soft sigh. 'Nico, it's time to get up.' But I was already awake, lying there with a heavy sense of discontentment that seemed to have taken root within me. I knew I should respond, acknowledge her, but instead, I remained silent. The unspoken weight of my recent experiences clung to me like a stubborn shadow. 'Sahra's been calling and texting you,' she continued, her voice carrying a tone of concern. 'You should at least talk to her.' I glanced over at my phone, which lay on the bedside table, its screen a tableau of missed calls and unread messages. Sahra, my best friend, had reached out several times, but I couldn't find the energy to respond. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate her concern; it was just that the world outside my room felt distant and uninviting. With a sigh, I sat up in bed, rubbing a hand across my face. My mother's attempts to engage me in conversation about my plans for the summer break grated on my already frayed nerves. The way she asked, with a mix of curiosity and hope, made me feel even more isolated. In response, I muttered something noncommittal, my voice laced with annoyance. The day stretched before me, a canvas of endless possibilities that I had no interest in exploring. I could hear the hum of activity beyond my bedroom walls, the distant rumble of the city outside. But I felt no inclination to join the world that waited beyond. Instead, I reached for my laptop, which had become a constant companion in recent days. It was as if the digital realm offered a solace that the physical world could not. With a few keystrokes, I was transported into the labyrinthine corridors of the internet, a place where I could lose myself in the distractions of virtual reality. I decided to pass the time by watching a few comedy films, seeking refuge in the laughter of fictional characters and the absurdity of their antics. As the hours rolled by, I allowed myself to be swept away by the hilarity of their misadventures, if only for a brief respite from the weight of my own thoughts. I chuckled at the antics of bumbling protagonists, finding a strange comfort in their ability to navigate a world filled with chaos and absurdity. In some strange way, their trials and tribulations felt like a mirror to my own journey, a reminder that life was often a series of unpredictable and comical events. One film led to another, and I lost track of time as I delved deeper into the world of comedy. It was as if the laughter of these fictional characters had become a lifeline, a tether to a reality that seemed increasingly distant and surreal. But even as I laughed, a part of me remained detached, unable to fully embrace the mirth that played out on the screen. The events of recent days had left a mark on me, a profound sense of disconnection from the world around me. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across my room, I knew that the day was drawing to a close. The laptop, which had been my constant companion throughout the day, remained perched on my lap, its screen a silent testament to the hours I had spent in virtual solitude. My mother's voice called out from the other side of the door, asking if I wanted dinner. I hesitated for a moment, my gaze fixed on the screen, before finally responding with a reluctant nod. I knew I couldn't stay locked in my room forever, no matter how tempting the prospect might seem. With a sigh, I closed the laptop, the glow of the screen fading into darkness. The room felt suddenly quiet, the absence of laughter and the familiar click of keys a stark reminder of the solitude that surrounded me. I pushed myself off the bed and made my way to the door, ready to face the world beyond, even if it felt like an uphill battle. Sahra's calls and messages still lingered in my mind, a reminder that there were people who cared about me, people who were willing to stand by me even in my darkest moments. As I stepped out of my room and into the dimly lit hallway, I knew that I couldn't continue to shut myself off from the world. The summer break stretched ahead, a canvas of possibilities waiting to be explored, and I couldn't let the weight of recent events hold me back. With that thought in mind, I made my way downstairs, ready to embrace whatever challenges and adventures the world had in store for me. The evening sun cast a warm, golden glow across the dining room as my mother and I sat down for dinner. The table was set with care, the faint aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the air. It was a scene of domesticity, a moment of normalcy amidst the tumultuous events that had unfolded in my life. As we began to eat, our conversation flowed naturally, like a gentle river winding its way through familiar landscapes. My mother asked about my day, about the plans I might have for the summer break. She spoke with a mother's concern, her eyes reflecting both curiosity and a touch of hope. I responded in kind, offering snippets of my thoughts and vague intentions. The weight of my recent experiences still hung heavy within me, and I found it challenging to fully engage in the conversation. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate my mother's concern; it was just that the world beyond our home felt distant and alien. Midway through our meal, my phone buzzed on the table, a familiar tune that signaled an incoming call. I glanced down at the screen and saw Evan's name illuminated there. It felt like a shock to the system, a jolt of electricity that stirred a complex mix of emotions within me. My mother noticed the call and suggested that I might want to answer it. Her words carried a subtle encouragement, an acknowledgment of the fact that there was something unresolved between Evan and me. She understood the significance of that name on the screen, even if I wasn't quite ready to admit it to myself. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen as I debated whether to accept the call. Memories flooded back—the dreams, the visions, the unspoken feelings that had emerged during my journey with Evan. It was as if a Pandora's box of emotions had been unleashed, and I wasn't sure how to navigate the chaotic contents within. Evan's image flashed in my mind, a vivid portrait that I had carried with me since the moment we had met. His dark, tousled hair framed a face that was both handsome and enigmatic. His eyes, an intense shade of green, held a depth that seemed to penetrate the very core of my being. And his smile, warm and infectious, could light up the darkest of moments. But there was more to Evan than just his physical appearance. It was the connection we had shared during our journey, the unspoken bond that had formed between us. It was the moments of vulnerability, the shared laughter, and the understanding that transcended words. It was the realization that I cared for him in a way that defied easy categorization. As I continued to stare at my phone, I couldn't deny the truth any longer. I was in love with Evan. It was a realization that both terrified and exhilarated me, a revelation that had been lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness. But that love came with its own set of complexities and uncertainties. It was a love that defied the conventions of my world and challenged the boundaries of my identity. It was a love that felt right and yet wrong, a contradiction that left me torn between my heart's desires and the expectations of society. With trembling fingers, I accepted the call, bringing the phone to my ear. Evan's voice, warm and familiar, flowed through the line, and for a moment, I was transported back to the days we had spent together. The memories flooded back, and with them, a mixture of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. 'Hey, Nico,' he greeted me, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I responded, 'Hey, Evan.' There was a pause, a silence that seemed to stretch into infinity. It was as if we were both standing on the precipice of something profound, unsure of whether to take the next step. Finally, Evan spoke, his words breaking the tension that had hung between us. 'I've been thinking about you a lot,' he admitted. I closed my eyes, my heart racing as I acknowledged the truth of his words. 'I've been thinking about you too,' I confessed, the weight of my emotions hanging heavy in the air. And in that moment, as our voices crossed the miles that separated us, I knew that there was no turning back. Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges and uncertainties awaited us, I was willing to face them, if only to be near him once more. The evening stretched on; an inky expanse punctuated by the soft glow of streetlights. Evan's voice on the other end of the line held a sense of anticipation, as if he were weaving a tapestry of plans and possibilities with every word. 'Tomorrow, Nico,' he said, his voice tinged with excitement, 'I was thinking we could meet up.' I leaned back against the plush cushions of my sofa, my phone pressed to my ear. The suggestion hung in the air, an invitation that held both promise and uncertainty. 'Where?' I asked, my curiosity piqued. Evan chuckled, a warm and familiar sound that sent a shiver down my spine. 'How about we meet at Aberglasney Gardens in Carmarthen?' he proposed. 'It's a beautiful place, and I thought it might be a good spot to catch up.' I pictured Aberglasney Gardens in my mind—lush greenery, meticulously manicured gardens, and the gentle trickle of water in ornate fountains. It was a place of serenity and natural beauty, a stark contrast to the fantastical landscapes I had recently traversed. 'That sounds lovely,' I replied, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The prospect of spending time with Evan in such an idyllic setting was undeniably appealing. Evan's enthusiasm was palpable as he continued, 'And after that, we can head over to the Youth Project Clubhouse. They're having an event there, and I thought it might be fun to check it out together.' The Youth Project Clubhouse—a place where young people gathered to socialize, engage in creative activities, and find support. It was a hub of camaraderie and shared experiences, a space where friendships were forged, and dreams were nurtured. The thought of exploring the Clubhouse with Evan filled me with a sense of excitement and trepidation. It was a chance to step back into the realm of ordinary life, to reacquaint ourselves with the routines and rituals that had once defined our existence. But it was also an opportunity to forge a new path, one that had been shaped by our extraordinary journey. 'That sounds great,' I agreed, my heart quickening at the prospect of our upcoming reunion. We spent a few more minutes on the phone, ironing out the details of our meeting. The time, the place, the organization—it was all carefully arranged, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. As we said our goodbyes, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Tomorrow, I would see Evan again, and together, we would navigate the uncertain terrain of our changed lives. The dreams and visions that had woven a tapestry of wonder and strangeness around us had left an indelible mark, and I knew that our connection ran deeper than I had ever imagined. With that thought in mind, I ended the call, my heart aflutter with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Tomorrow was a new day, a new chapter in our story, and I was eager to see where it would lead. Tangled Hearts [Chapter eight] The night pressed on, and the house settled into its familiar creaks and sighs. My room, usually a sanctuary of solitude, had become a labyrinth of conflicting emotions. I couldn't escape the memory of Evan's voice, its resonance still echoing in the corners of my mind. After the call, I returned to my mother, who was still sitting at the dining table, her eyes weary from a long day of work. She looked up at me, concern etched in the lines of her face. 'Who was that on the phone, Nico?' Her voice was gentle, a lighthouse of curiosity shining through the dark sea of her fatigue. I hesitated for a moment, torn between the instinct to keep Evan's existence a secret and the desire to share this strange, overwhelming feeling that had begun to seep into my life. My mother had always been my confidante, my source of wisdom, but how could I explain something I couldn't yet comprehend myself? 'It's just a friend,' I replied, keeping my tone casual, as if this friend was nothing more than an acquaintance. I didn't want to worry her or invite further questions. She nodded, accepting my vague response without probing further. It was one of the things I loved most about her—her ability to respect my privacy when I needed it. 'Alright, dear,' she said, offering a small, tired smile. 'Just let me know if you ever want to talk about anything.' I returned her smile, guilt weighing heavy in my chest. Little did she know that I yearned to talk about everything, to unravel the tangled threads of my thoughts and emotions. But some knots were too complex to untangle alone. As the evening wore on, I found myself sitting on my bed, the glow of my laptop casting a soft, eerie light across the room. The screen displayed the list of films I had intended to watch that day. Comedies, they were supposed to be—a brief escape from the turmoil within. But now, their titles blurred together, and laughter felt like a distant memory. The laptop seemed like a lifeline to another world, a world where I could distract myself from the swirling maelstrom of emotions that had become my reality. With trembling fingers, I selected one of the films, hoping that its humour might pull me out of the abyss that threatened to consume me. For a while, I watched the movie, or at least I tried to. The characters on the screen went through their comedic antics, but my mind wandered, always returning to the same focal point—Evan. The laughter in the film sounded hollow, like a distant echo of happiness. Each punchline felt like an attempt to pierce the thick fog of my thoughts. I longed for something to distract me, to pull me away from the inexorable gravity of my feelings. Finally, I closed the laptop, surrendering to the weariness that had settled in my bones. The room was plunged into darkness, and I lay there, my heart a tumultuous sea of longing and uncertainty. As I drifted into sleep, my dreams were haunted by Evan. He appeared before me, his eyes, those captivating emerald pools, searching mine. There was something in those eyes—something that pulled at the very core of my being. In the dream, we stood on the precipice of something unknown. The world around us shifted and blurred, leaving only the two of us suspended in a void of emotions. His voice was a whisper, a melody that danced on the edges of my consciousness. 'Nico,' he said, and the sound of my name on his lips sent shivers down my spine. 'Nico, don't be afraid.' But I was afraid. Afraid of the intensity of the emotions I felt when I looked into those eyes. Afraid of what it meant to be drawn to someone so fiercely. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the turmoil of my soul. The dream felt both eternal and fleeting, as if time itself had lost its grip on us. Evan reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, and in that touch, I felt the weight of everything I couldn't say. It was a silent confession, an admission of a truth I had been denying. As we stood there, on the precipice of our dreams, I realized that I had fallen in love with Evan. The realization struck me with a force that was both beautiful and terrifying. I wanted to pull away, to run from this truth, but I couldn't escape the magnetic pull of my heart. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the dream dissipated, leaving me in the darkness of my room. I was left with a sense of longing so profound that it ached in every fibre of my being. I lay there for hours, my thoughts a tumultuous sea, until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. The world outside my window was a canvas of muted colours, the promise of a new day. But in my heart, the night's revelations weighed heavy. My room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the morning sun as I groggily woke up. I reached for my phone on the bedside table and squinted at the screen. It was already 10 in the morning. My mother, an early riser, had left for work hours ago. I had obviously overslept, lost in the tangle of dreams that had filled my night. The reality of the day hit me like a wave. Today was the day I would meet Evan, the boy who had invaded my dreams and occupied my thoughts. The anticipation, a buzzing undercurrent in my veins, surged to the forefront of my mind. Throwing back the covers, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The room was quiet, and I could hear the distant hum of life outside my window. I stretched, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to me. As I padded to the kitchen, my stomach rumbled in agreement. Breakfast seemed like a good idea. I settled on a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast, something quick and easy to prepare. My mind, however, was elsewhere. I couldn't help but wonder what Evan was doing at this very moment. With breakfast done and the kitchen cleaned up, I faced the monumental task of getting ready. I stood before my closet, staring at the jumble of clothes. What does one wear to meet someone who had invaded their dreams and their thoughts? I began to pull out different outfits, laying them out on my bed as I considered my options. Each piece of clothing seemed to mock me, a silent reminder of my indecision. I needed something that could capture the turmoil within, something that could reflect the chaos of my emotions. Minutes turned into hours as I deliberated over my choices. I couldn't shake the feeling that my outfit needed to convey the storm of emotions raging inside me. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of deliberation, I settled on an ensemble that captured the essence of my inner turmoil. A dark, oversized shirt, left unbuttoned, revealed a crisp white T-shirt underneath. Silver chains adorned my neck, their cool gleam a stark contrast against the dark fabric. I chose a pair of black, baggy pants, their loose silhouette a reflection of my tangled thoughts. As I laced up my Converse shoes, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My appearance was a contradiction, a clash of dark and light, chaos, and order. I couldn't help but feel that it was a fitting reflection of the emotional whirlwind I had found myself in. With one last look in the mirror, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out the door. Evan awaited me, and I couldn't deny the flutter of excitement that danced in my chest. Today, we would face the unknown together, and I couldn't wait to see where this journey would lead us. The journey to our meeting point was a winding path of emotions, every step echoing the conflict within me. I navigated the familiar streets of Carmarthen, the town I had called home for as long as I could remember. The sun painted the world in hues of gold and blue, a stark contrast to the tempestuous tempest within my chest. Each step felt heavy, as though I were walking into uncharted territory. Evan occupied my thoughts, his presence a looming enigma that I couldn't decipher. My heart, treacherous and wild, seemed to beat in rhythm with the uncertainty that had taken root in my mind. As I approached our destination, I spotted Evan in the distance. He stood there; a figure bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. His presence was magnetic, drawing me in with an irresistible pull. My heart quickened, a surge of emotion flooding my senses. Evan's attire reflected his unique individuality. He wore a worn, black leather jacket that seemed to hug his form, emphasizing the lithe strength of his frame. A simple white T-shirt peeked out from underneath, a stark contrast to the darkness of his jacket. His jeans were a deep, inky black, and his sneakers, scuffed and well-loved, completed the ensemble. I couldn't deny the way my heart somersaulted at the sight of him. There was an undeniable allure to Evan, an enigmatic quality that drew me in like a moth to a flame. The inner conflict raged on within me, a battle between what I knew and what I felt. I told myself that this attraction was nothing more than a fleeting infatuation. After all, I barely knew Evan. He was a stranger, and yet, in the depths of my heart, I couldn't help but feel that he was more than that. There was a connection, an inexplicable bond that defied logic and reason. As I approached Evan, I couldn't help but steal glances in his direction, my eyes drinking in the details of his appearance. His hair, tousled and dark, seemed to frame his face in a way that was almost poetic. His eyes, a shade of hazel that shifted with the changing light, held a depth that was both captivating and mysterious. The inner conflict raged on, a tempest of emotions that I struggled to contain. How could I feel this way about someone I barely knew? How could my heart betray me so easily? I tried to push these thoughts aside, to bury the tumultuous feelings that threatened to consume me. But as I stood before Evan, my heart pounding like a drum, I couldn't deny the undeniable truth. I was drawn to him, inexplicably and undeniably. And in that moment, as we stood face to face, I realized that the journey I was embarking on was not just a physical one. It was a journey of the heart, a path filled with uncertainty and possibility. As I stood before Evan, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. We were no longer just voices on the phone or distant figures in my dreams. This was real, tangible, and I was acutely aware of every beat of my heart. Evan flashed a warm smile, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. His gaze locked onto mine, and in that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us standing there on the sun-dappled street. 'Hey, Nico,' he greeted me, his voice a soothing melody that resonated deep within me. My heart raced, and I couldn't help but return his smile. 'Hey, Evan,' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The air between us was charged with an unspoken tension, a magnetic pull that drew us closer. I wanted to reach out and hug him, to close the distance that separated us, but my limbs felt heavy, as if they were weighted down by the intensity of my emotions. Evan must have sensed my hesitation because he took a step forward, closing the gap between us. With a gentle, almost imperceptible nod, he wrapped his arms around me, and I melted into his embrace. It was as if the universe had aligned, and for that moment, everything felt right. We stood there, holding each other, the world around us fading into insignificance. I breathed in the scent of his cologne, a warm and comforting aroma that made my head spin. It was a feeling I couldn't quite put into words, a sense of belonging that transcended the boundaries of time and space. Eventually, we pulled away, our gazes locked once more. The unspoken connection between us lingered, an invisible thread that bound our souls together. 'Shall we?' Evan asked, gesturing down the sunlit street. I nodded, and together we began our journey. The day stretched out before us, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with moments and memories. We started with a visit to a quaint café that served the most exquisite ice cream. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of waffle cones. Evan insisted on paying for both of us, and though I protested, his insistence was gentle yet unwavering. As we sat at a small, sunlit table, our conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about our favourite books, shared childhood stories, and laughed at each other's quirks. It was as if we had known each other for a lifetime, and yet, there was still so much left to discover. With our ice cream finished, we strolled through a nearby garden, a hidden gem in the heart of Carmarthen. Blooms of vibrant colours painted the landscape, and the air was alive with the soft hum of bees. Evan pointed out different flowers and their meanings, and I listened, captivated by his knowledge and enthusiasm. We wandered down winding pathways, our fingers brushing against the petals of delicate roses. The world seemed to slow down around us, and I found myself savouring every moment. It was as if time had become a malleable entity, allowing us to linger in this perfect day. As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over everything, Evan led me toward our final destination—the Youth Project Clubhouse. The building, nestled amidst a grove of trees, exuded an air of welcoming familiarity. We arrived just outside the clubhouse, and for a moment, we stood there, our gazes locked. The unspoken words hung in the air, a question of what lay ahead, of the uncharted territory we were about to explore. As Evan and I entered the Youth Project Clubhouse, I couldn't help but feel a surge of nerves. This place, once an enigma, was now a part of my world, and it was Evan who had introduced me to this hidden corner of Carmarthen. The door creaked open, revealing the lively interior of the clubhouse. The walls were adorned with colourful posters, and the room was abuzz with laughter and chatter. It was clear that this was a space where young minds came to create, connect, and collaborate. The atmosphere was inviting, a melting pot of creativity and camaraderie. Evan guided me further inside, and I couldn't help but notice the subtle differences in the way he moved, the way he interacted with the people here. This was his domain, his world, and I was merely a visitor. But there was something comforting about being by his side, like I had found my place in this unfamiliar setting. We had barely taken a few steps when I heard a familiar voice calling my name. Turning toward the source of the sound, I spotted Sarah, my best friend since childhood. Her face lit up with a mixture of joy and concern as she approached. 'Nico! Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for days!' she exclaimed, her voice tinged with reproach. I offered her an apologetic smile, though I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. 'I'm sorry, Sarah. I've just been caught up with stuff. You know how it is.' Sarah frowned, her hazel eyes narrowing. 'Caught up with what, exactly?' Before I could respond, Evan stepped in, a subtle tension in his stance. 'Hey, I'm Evan,' he introduced himself, extending a hand toward Sarah. She regarded him sceptically before shaking his hand reluctantly. 'Sarah. Nico's best friend.' Evan's lips curled into a polite smile, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes. 'Nice to meet you, Sarah.' She turned her attention back to me, her tone laced with scepticism. 'Nico, why are you hanging out with this... guy?' I bristled at her choice of words, my protective instincts kicking in. 'Hey, don't call him 'this guy.' His name is Evan, and he's not weird. He's...' I trailed off, searching for the right words. Evan sat next to me, his smile fading slightly, as if he had sensed my internal struggle. 'He's a really good friend,' I finally said, my voice firm and resolute. Sarah's expression softened, and she let out an exasperated sigh. 'Nico, you can be so impulsive sometimes. I just worry about you.' I could see the concern in her eyes, and I wanted to reassure her. 'I know, Sarah, but you've got to trust me on this. Evan's a good guy.' With that, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate, and Sarah moved away to rejoin her group of friends. I watched her go, a mixture of emotions swirling within me. She had been my anchor for as long as I could remember, and now, I was forging a new connection, one that felt inexplicably important. I turned to Evan, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and I could see a solitary teardrop trickling down his cheek. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. I couldn't explain why I felt compelled to comfort him, but in that moment, it just felt right. Evan's body tensed for a brief second before he relaxed into the hug, his arms encircling me in return. We sat there, two souls connected by an unspoken bond, in the heart of a place where friendships were forged, and creativity thrived. The clubhouse buzzed with life around us, but in that corner, it was as if time had slowed, allowing us to savour this unexpected connection. The hug from Evan was like a lifeline in that moment. As our bodies pressed together, I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. My heart raced, and I was acutely aware of the rise and fall of Evan's chest against mine. It was a moment of pure connection, one that transcended words. In that embrace, I felt safe, cherished, and alive. I wanted to cry, not from sadness, but from an overwhelming sense of joy. It was as if all the uncertainty, the doubts, and the confusion that had plagued me lately were washed away in that single hug. Evan's presence was a balm to my wounded soul, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that everything would be okay. But then, like a thunderclap on a clear day, I heard Sarah's voice, cutting through the moment like a knife. Her words were like poison, and they hit me with a force I hadn't expected. 'Just look at them, ugh disgusting.' I turned my head, and there she was, standing right beside the couch, her face contorted in disgust. It felt as if the world had shifted on its axis. Sarah, my best friend since childhood, was now the source of this hurtful venom. 'NICO, YOU AREN'T ONE OF THOSE GAY MAGGOTS, ARE YOU??? THAT'S DISGUSTING UGH!' she screamed, her words echoing in the room. The impact of her words was like a punch to the gut. I felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath my feet. I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. The shock and pain were overwhelming, and all I could think of was running away from it all. Without a second thought, I broke away from Evan's embrace and fled. It was as if my body moved on its own, driven by an instinct to escape the hurt and confusion that swirled around me. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, the tears streaming down my face blurring the world around me. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care. All I knew was that I couldn't bear to be in that place, surrounded by judgment and hatred. The clubhouse, once a sanctuary of creativity and connection, had turned into a chamber of anguish. I ran until my legs ached and my lungs burned, until I found myself in a quiet park, far removed from the chaos of the clubhouse. I sank to the ground, my sobs wracking my body. It was as if my heart had been torn in two, the pain too much to bear. Sarah, my best friend, had rejected me. She had looked at me with such disdain, as if the very essence of who I was had become repulsive to her. And for what? For hugging Evan, for seeking solace and comfort in the arms of someone who had shown me kindness and acceptance. As I cried there in the park, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of anger and sadness. Anger at a world that could be so cruel and judgmental, and sadness at the loss of a friendship that had meant so much to me. I had never imagined that a simple hug could unravel the bonds of years of friendship. In that moment of despair, I felt utterly alone. I had no one to turn to, no one who could understand the tumultuous emotions churning within me. All I had was the memory of Evan's embrace, a brief moment of respite in a world that seemed determined to tear me apart. I fled the chaos of the clubhouse like a wounded animal escaping a predator. My legs carried me as far away as they could, driven by an instinct to put as much distance as possible between me and the hurtful words Sarah had hurled at me. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, the tears blurring my vision as I darted through the streets of Carmarthen. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions, and I couldn't make sense of what had just happened. It felt as if a chasm had opened up beneath me, swallowing everything I had known and believed in. Sarah, my best friend since childhood, had spewed hatred at me, all because I had hugged Evan. I found myself in a quiet park, my sobs echoing in the stillness of the evening. The park, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, seemed like a world apart from the chaos I had just left behind. I stumbled over to a bench and sank onto it, my emotions overwhelming me. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight, but I couldn't find solace in its beauty. My heart ached, and I felt a profound sense of loss. How had everything unravelled so quickly? Pulling out my phone, I saw that I had missed five calls from Evan. Guilt gnawed at me as I realized that he must have been worried about me. I composed a simple text message, my fingers trembling as I typed, 'I'm Sorry.' Then, without waiting for a response, I turned off my phone completely. The rain began to fall, a gentle drizzle that seemed to match the tears on my cheeks. I didn't have an umbrella, and I didn't care. The raindrops mingled with my tears, and for a moment, it felt cleansing, as if washing away some of the pain. I made my way home, each step heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The world around me had lost its vibrancy, and the streets I had walked so many times now felt alien and unforgiving. I didn't dare to look at anyone I passed, fearing judgment or ridicule. When I finally reached our doorstep, I hesitated for a moment. I knew my mother would be home from her night shift, and I couldn't bear to face her with the turmoil that raged inside me. Instead, I slipped into the house as quietly as possible and headed straight for my room. I threw myself onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow to muffle my sobs. It was a strange mix of anger, sadness, and confusion that coursed through me. How had things gone so wrong? Why had a simple hug triggered such a reaction from Sarah? I replayed the events of the evening in my mind, searching for answers that eluded me. Had Sarah always harboured these prejudices, or had something changed in her? And what did it mean for our friendship, a bond that had been a constant in my life? The minutes turned into hours as I lay there, lost in my thoughts and the tumultuous sea of emotions. My phone remained switched off, a barrier between me and the outside world. I didn't want to confront the reality of missed calls and unread messages, not yet. I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty, grappling with a truth I had long denied to myself. It wasn't just the rejection from Sarah that weighed on me; it was the realization that my feelings for Evan ran deeper than friendship. But how could I come to terms with that when the world seemed so unaccepting? The world had dimmed to a muted haze of emotions as I lay on my bed, still reeling from the painful encounter at the clubhouse. The confusion, sadness, and anger wrestled within me like warring titans. I wanted to scream, to lash out at the universe for the unfairness of it all. But most of all, I wanted answers. I mustered all the strength I could, trying to regain some semblance of composure. My mother's gentle knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. She entered, her face a picture of concern as she scanned the room, taking in my dishevelled appearance and the tear stains on my cheeks. 'Sweetheart, what happened?' she asked, her voice a soothing melody. It was the kind of voice that had comforted me countless times throughout my life, but now, I couldn't bring myself to confide in her. Not yet. I sat up on the bed, rubbing my temples as if trying to dispel the emotional storm raging inside me. 'It's nothing, Mom,' I replied, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. 'Just a rough day. I'll be fine, I promise.' She studied me for a moment, her eyes filled with a mix of worry and maternal love. I could tell that she wanted to press further, to pry the truth from me, but she respected my need for space. 'Alright,' she said finally, her tone softening. 'But if you ever want to talk, remember that I'm here for you, Nico. No matter what.' I managed a weak smile, a small, inadequate offering in return for her unwavering support. 'Thanks, Mom,' I whispered. As she closed the door behind her, I collapsed back onto my bed, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. I needed answers. I needed to understand what I was feeling, what had been awakened within me. And so, I turned to the one source of knowledge that had been my refuge throughout my life—my laptop. With trembling fingers, I retrieved my laptop from the nightstand, the cold metal feeling strangely comforting against my skin. As I opened the lid, the soft glow of the screen bathed me in a dim, bluish light. I launched Chrome, my default web browser, and without hesitation, I began typing in my questions. 'How to know if I'm gay.' The search results filled my screen, a mosaic of articles, forums, and quizzes promising answers to the very questions that haunted me. But the sheer volume of information was overwhelming, each source offering slightly different advice or perspectives. It felt like staring into an abyss, and I was uncertain if I could ever find my way out. My cursor hovered over a link that read, '10 Signs You Might Be Gay,' and I clicked on it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. As I scrolled through the list, my heart sank. The 'signs' were vague and subjective things like 'you feel different,' or 'you're drawn to people of the same sex.' It was hardly the concrete guidance I longed for. Frustration gnawed at me as I closed that tab and returned to the search bar, typing in 'gay test.' Perhaps there was a quiz, a definitive questionnaire that would categorically tell me who I was. But again, I was met with uncertainty. The tests I found were mostly for entertainment purposes, not the serious self-discovery I craved. With each fruitless search, I became increasingly disheartened. It seemed that my quest for answers had led me into a labyrinth of ambiguity and uncertainty. The internet, vast and boundless, couldn't provide the clarity I sought. I couldn't simply tick a few boxes or answer multiple-choice questions to unlock the truth about my own identity. 'Am I Gay?' This simple query returned the same refrain I'd encountered before: 'Be yourself,' 'It's okay not to know,' 'You'll figure it out in time.' It was as if the world was telling me to embrace the ambiguity, to accept that this journey of self-discovery was uniquely mine, and that there was no one-size-fits-all answer. I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of isolation. I wanted certainty, a clear path to understanding myself, but I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. How did one go about discovering their own identity when the compass points were so elusive? Hours passed as I delved deeper into the digital labyrinth, reading articles, scrolling through forums, and clicking on links that promised insight but delivered only more questions. The outside world faded away, leaving me alone in the glow of the screen. I realized that my search wasn't just about seeking answers; it was about acknowledging a truth I had long denied. I was afraid of what it meant, of what others might think, and most of all, of what I might think of myself. The very essence of who I was seemed to hang in the balance, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to confront it. Sleep that night was a reluctant visitor, a realm I entered with trepidation. My bed felt too large, too empty, as if it echoed the hollowness I felt inside. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the moon casting faint shadows across the room. The events of the past days played in an unending loop in my mind, like a movie I couldn't escape. As exhaustion finally began to overtake my racing thoughts, I drifted into a fitful slumber. My dream was a distorted reflection of reality, a funhouse mirror that warped my emotions into grotesque shapes. There he was, Evan, standing before me with a sadness in his eyes that cut to my core. In the dream, we were back at the clubhouse, the same scene that had unfolded earlier that day. I could see myself standing beside Evan, the two of us locked in an embrace. But my words, the ones I had spoken so carelessly in real life, hung in the air like a storm cloud. 'Just a friend,' I heard myself say, the words dripping with a callousness I hadn't intended. Evan's face crumpled, a teardrop rolling down his cheek like a tiny crystal. The pain etched in his expression was palpable, and I knew, even in the dream, that I had wounded him deeply. As if on cue, Sarah entered the scene, her laughter ringing like a taunting melody. 'Just a friend,' she mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The room seemed to close in around me as her laughter grew louder, more derisive. I tried to speak, to defend Evan, but my voice was drowned out by the cruel chorus. The dream spiralled into chaos. I felt as though I was being pulled in multiple directions, torn between my loyalty to Evan and my fear of judgment from others. The walls of the clubhouse closed in around me, the ceiling descending with every oppressive second. I awoke with a start, my heart pounding in my chest, my sheets clinging to my sweat-soaked body. It took me a moment to realize that it had all been a dream, a distorted reflection of my inner turmoil. But the emotions it had dredged up were painfully real. A profound sense of guilt washed over me. I had treated Evan so poorly, so callously, all because I couldn't face my own feelings and fears. In the dream, I had seen the consequences of my actions, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. I didn't want to move; didn't want to face the day and the mistakes I had made. I felt like a coward, hiding from the world and from myself. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, fumbling to check the time. It was still early, the world outside wrapped in the comforting embrace of pre-dawn stillness. But I couldn't find solace in the tranquillity of the hour. The weight of my actions bore down on me, a heavy burden that threatened to suffocate me. Tears welled in my eyes as I replayed the dream in my mind. The image of Evan, his tear-streaked face etched into my memory, haunted me. I had to make amends, had to find a way to make things right. But the path forward remained shrouded in uncertainty. The hours passed in a languid haze. I lay in my bed, cocooned in my own misery, as the sun painted warm, golden streaks across the room. Time seemed to blur and distort, and I couldn't muster the strength to confront it. Was it morning? Afternoon? I didn't care. The outside world felt like a distant memory, a place where I no longer belonged. The weight of guilt, like an anchor, kept me tethered to my tangled sheets. Every breath felt like a laborious effort, every thought a torment. I couldn't face the day, couldn't face the reality of my actions and their consequences. Instead, I let myself drift in the sea of self-loathing. And then, a soft knock on my door disrupted my torpor. My heart fluttered, and I tried to ignore it, to will the unwelcome visitor away. I couldn't bear to see anyone, to face their judgment or pity. My body felt leaden, anchored to the bed as if by invisible chains. 'Someone is here to see you,' my mother's voice called through the door, gentle but insistent. The words hung in the air, laden with mystery. I couldn't discern the identity of this unexpected visitor, and I didn't want to. My head spun, a dizzying sensation that mirrored the turmoil within. Should I pretend I wasn't home? Should I feign illness and beg for solitude? The mere prospect of human interaction was overwhelming, a mountain I didn't have the strength to climb. Minutes ticked by the silence stretching between us like an unspoken plea. I could almost envision my mother on the other side of the door, her patience waning, her concern deepening. But I couldn't bring myself to answer her summons, to acknowledge the world beyond my room. The uncertainty gnawed at me, an itch I couldn't scratch. Who could it be? Sarah? Evan? The suspense was like a cruel joke, a reminder of the mess I had created. I wanted to scream, to tear at my own skin, but I remained frozen, a prisoner of my own making. The room seemed to hold its breath as Evan stepped in, his presence a paradox of emotions. It was him, standing there in the same clothes from yesterday, like a sentinel of uncertainty. He looked different today, a mix of sadness and determination etched into his features. Dark circles clung to his eyes, testament to nights spent in restless contemplation. I watched him, my heart heavy with a maelstrom of feelings. 'It's me,' he said, his voice soft yet resolute as he moved towards the small wooden chair by my table, not meeting my eyes. He took a seat, the creaking of the chair the only sound in the room. My mother stood at the doorway, a witness to this encounter, her eyes holding a knowing glint. Evan didn't waste any time. He turned to her, his voice steady, 'Miss Adams, could you leave us alone for a moment, please?' It was a simple request, but it carried the weight of the world. She smiled, a mother's understanding, and gently closed the door behind her, leaving us in a space defined by our own complexities. Evan's eyes finally met mine, and I felt an inexplicable shift in the room, as though we were two celestial bodies circling each other, caught in an invisible gravitational pull. Silence hung between us, heavy with unspoken words, the residue of a turbulent day. My heart raced, a cacophony of emotions drowning out any rational thought. Evan sat there, those soulful eyes never wavering, and I felt like an open book, my vulnerabilities exposed. What did he want? What could he possibly say after everything that had transpired? But he didn't speak. He just looked at me, an intensity in his gaze that made me feel seen in a way I hadn't before. It was unsettling, like standing on the precipice of an unknown abyss. I had been so sure of myself, so sure of who I was, and now I felt adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I wanted to say something, to break the silence that stretched between us like an unspoken vow. But I didn't know where to begin. What could I possibly say to him now? The weight of my actions hung heavy in the room, a reminder of my own shortcomings. Evan's face bore the traces of sleepless nights and unanswered questions, yet there was something resolute in his expression. He hadn't come here to rehash the events of yesterday; that much was clear. His presence was a silent testament to something deeper, something unspoken. I watched as he finally spoke, his voice a soft caress on the edges of the room. 'Nico,' he began, his voice filled with a vulnerability that mirrored my own, 'I wanted to come here, not to explain or justify anything, but to talk to you, person to person.' His words hung in the air, like a bridge between us, beckoning me to cross. I swallowed hard, trying to find my own voice amidst the turmoil of my thoughts. 'Talk about what?' I managed to whisper, my voice betraying the inner turmoil that threatened to consume me. Evan leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. 'About us, Nico,' he replied, his words carrying a weight I couldn't comprehend. 'About what happened yesterday, about who we are, and what we mean to each other.' There it was the unspoken question that had haunted my thoughts. Who were we? What did our actions mean? And why did it matter so much? I felt a knot in my chest, a storm of emotions that I couldn't quell. The room, once wrapped in silence, was now filled with the cacophony of my own emotions. Tears streamed down my cheeks, my sobs escaping in anguished cries that reverberated off the walls. It felt like a release, a catharsis that had been building for far too long. And in that moment, I couldn't hold it in any longer. 'I'm so, so, so sorry, Evan,' I managed to choke out between sobs, my voice ragged and raw. 'I think I love you, but I'm in a full-on gay crisis.' As the words left my lips, I felt like I had bared my soul, stripped away the layers of denial and confusion that had shrouded me for so long. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. The weight of my confession hung in the air, a bridge between us that I wasn't sure he would want to cross. I sat on the edge of my bed, my body trembling with the intensity of my emotions. Evan didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He drove closer to me on the chair, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of my turmoil. His fingers gently found their way to my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. There was understanding in his eyes, a depth of emotion that mirrored my own. In that moment, as our eyes locked, I felt a connection so profound that it left me breathless. 'Nico,' he whispered, his voice a soothing balm to my fractured soul. 'We will go through this together. I'm always by your side.' His words were a lifeline, a promise of unwavering support that I had never dared to hope for. And then, with a tenderness that was almost surreal, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a meeting of lips that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. In that moment, I felt a warmth spread through me, a sensation of being truly seen and accepted. It was a feeling I had longed for, a feeling that had eluded me for so long. But before the kiss could deepen, before the world could fade away into the background, my mother stormed into the room like a whirlwind of chaos. She was armed with a broom, her face twisted in a mix of concern and confusion. 'I heard screaming, what hap—' Her words halted abruptly as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes widened in shock, her grip on the broom slackening. I pulled away from Evan, my heart pounding in my chest as I faced my mother's bewildered gaze. What could I possibly say to explain this? How could I put into words the tangle of emotions and revelations that had unfolded in this room? Evan, ever composed and resolute, spoke first. 'Mrs. Adams,' he began, his voice steady, 'I hope this doesn't come as a shock, but Nico and I have been going through some... personal things. We're trying to figure out who we are, and it's been a bit of a rollercoaster.' My mother seemed to digest his words, her expression slowly shifting from shock to a more contemplative look. She lowered the broom, leaning it against the wall as she sighed. 'Nico, why didn't you talk to me about this?' I lowered my gaze, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief. Guilt for not confiding in her sooner, and relief that she hadn't reacted with anger or disgust. 'I didn't know how,' I mumbled. She moved closer to me, sitting down on the bed beside me. Her hand found its way to mine, squeezing it gently. 'Nico, you can always talk to me about anything. You know that, right?' I nodded, tears still threatening to spill from my eyes. It was a heavy moment, a reckoning of sorts, but it was also a beginning. My mother's acceptance meant the world to me, and I knew that with Evan by my side, we would navigate this journey together. Evan reached out and took my other hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. We were in this together, no matter where this path led us. Evan's arms enveloped me in a comforting embrace as I continued to sob, the weight of everything that had transpired finally catching up to me. His presence, his acceptance, was like a soothing balm to my battered soul. I clung to him as if he were my lifeline, and in that moment, he was. My mother's words, though light-hearted, carried a warmth that eased the tension in the room. Her acceptance of Evan was more than I had ever hoped for, and it brought a sense of relief that washed over me like a gentle wave. Evan released me from the hug, but he didn't move far. He sat beside me on the bed, his arm draped over my shoulder, offering silent support. It was a simple gesture, but it meant the world to me. 'Thank you, Mrs. Adams,' Evan said, his voice sincere. 'I appreciate your understanding.' My mother smiled, a smile that held both warmth and wisdom. 'Evan, you're always welcome here. Nico's happiness means everything to me.' As the three of us sat in my room, the tension that had gripped me slowly dissipated, replaced by a sense of peace and acceptance. The journey ahead was still uncertain, but with Evan by my side and my mother's support, I felt more prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead. My mother's mention of dinner reminded us of the present moment. It had been a long, emotional day, and the prospect of sharing a meal together felt like a small but significant step forward. 'I'll let you two freshen up,' my mother said as she rose from the bed. 'Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.' With a final smile, she left the room, giving us some much-needed privacy. Evan and I sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our emotions still heavy in the air. 'Thank you, Evan,' I finally managed to say, my voice shaky but earnest. 'For being here, for understanding. I... I don't know what I would've done without you.' Evan's gaze met mine, and there was a depth of emotion in his eyes that mirrored my own. 'Nico, you don't have to go through this alone. I meant what I said earlier—we'll face this journey together.' His words, once again, were a lifeline, a promise of unwavering support that I clung to. We had taken the first steps on a path of self-discovery, and though it wouldn't be easy, I knew that having Evan by my side made all the difference. As the minutes passed in my room, Evan and I found ourselves engaging in small, everyday gestures that somehow felt incredibly intimate. It was as if we were discovering a deeper connection, a bond that had been there all along but had been waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. I couldn't help but notice the way Evan's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, how he absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair when lost in thought, and the way his laughter was like music, filling the room with warmth. We shared stories from our childhood, talked about our dreams and fears, and even discussed our favourite books and movies. The more we opened up to each other, the more I realized just how amazing Evan was—not just as a friend, but as someone I deeply cared about. At one point, I reached for a small plush toy on my bookshelf. It was a relic from my childhood, a reminder of simpler times. I handed it to Evan with a shy smile. 'This is Lenny,' I said, feeling a bit embarrassed by the sentimentality of it. 'He's been with me since I was a kid.' Evan accepted Lenny with a grin, cradling the stuffed toy in his hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 'Lenny, huh? He's adorable, just like his owner.' A warm blush crept up my cheeks at the compliment, and I couldn't help but smile. Before we knew it, my mother's voice rang out from downstairs, calling us to dinner. It was a reminder that, despite the emotional whirlwind of the day, life continued on its usual course. 'Dinner is ready!' she shouted, her tone carrying a mix of excitement and warmth. Evan and I exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had transpired. We both knew that our journey was just beginning, and there would be challenges ahead. But in that moment, sitting together in my room, we also knew that we had each other. As we made our way downstairs to join my mother for dinner, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. The future was uncertain, and there were still questions I needed to answer about myself, but with Evan by my side, I felt stronger and more capable of facing whatever lay ahead. As the rich aroma of lasagna filled the room, I settled into my seat, and Evan, with a subtle grace, pushed the chair closer to the table. My mother watched this gentlemanly gesture with an approving smile. 'Such a gentleman,' she commented playfully, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 'Nico, you've made quite a choice.' Evan's cheeks turned a subtle shade of pink as he chuckled. 'Thank you, Mrs. Adams. My parents always taught me to treat others with respect, especially those I care about.' A knowing glance passed between my mother and me. She had already glimpsed Evan's qualities and appreciated his courtesy. The scent of the lasagna grew stronger as we started to serve ourselves. It was a complex and Savory masterpiece, a testament to my mother's love and care. Evan, ever the thoughtful conversationalist, decided to break the ice with a compliment directed at my mother. 'Mrs. Adams, you're a truly remarkable mother. Your calm and accepting reaction—it's quite incredible. Most parents might react differently.' My mother acknowledged Evan's words with a warm smile. 'Well, Evan, I've always believed that love and acceptance are the keys to understanding one another. Nico means the world to me, and I trust his judgment.' With that, our conversation naturally shifted to Evan. My mother, curious and caring, asked him about his family, upbringing, and aspirations. Evan spoke candidly, allowing us to learn more about his journey. His father had been absent from his life since he was a young child, leaving his mother to raise him alone. It was a weighty burden for a young boy, and it was evident that Evan had matured quickly in the face of adversity. 'I recently graduated from high school,' Evan shared, a mix of pride and uncertainty in his voice. 'I'm not entirely sure what the future holds, but I'm determined to make something of myself.' My mother listened empathetically, recognizing the pain behind Evan's words. It was clear that he had faced challenges and hardships that no one should have to endure. As the conversation continued, my mother's curiosity led her to inquire about Evan's interests, hobbies, and dreams. Evan responded with enthusiasm, sharing his love for music, his passion for art, and his dream of making a positive impact on the world. Evan's eyes lit up as he described his artistic endeavours and the joy he found in creating something beautiful. My mother listened attentively, a newfound appreciation for Evan blossoming within her. 'I've always loved music,' Evan confessed, his voice filled with warmth. 'It's a way for me to express emotions and connect with others.' My mother nodded, genuinely intrigued by Evan's artistic pursuits. 'And what about your plans for the future? Do you have any specific goals or dreams?' Evan paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. 'I want to create art that speaks to people's hearts, that makes them feel something. And I hope to use my talents to help others in any way I can.' My mother's eyes held a mixture of respect and admiration. 'That's a noble aspiration, Evan. It's clear that you have a genuine passion for what you do.' As the conversation flowed, my mother and Evan formed a connection built on mutual understanding and respect. Evan's openness about his life allowed my mother to glimpse the depth of his character and the resilience he had developed over the years. Amidst the discussions about dreams and aspirations, the aroma of lasagna and the warmth of our family gathering, a stray thought escaped my lips. It was a thought I hadn't quite processed myself, but it left me momentarily flustered. 'You know,' I mused aloud, 'it's quite strange to have a boyfriend, but Evan is different.' Both Evan and my mother turned their gaze toward me, their eyes locking onto mine. It was one of those moments when a fleeting thought inadvertently slipped into the audible world. 'Oops,' I stammered, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 'Did I say that out loud?' Evan's response was a gentle, affectionate smile. 'You did, but don't worry. I think you're pretty cute too, Nico.' My mother simply smiled, her eyes conveying understanding and support. In that instant, I felt a unique blend of vulnerability and acceptance. As we continued our meal, I couldn't shake the feeling that our little family had grown, and that despite the challenges we might encounter, we were united in facing them together. The conversation flowed easily between Evan and my mother. The lasagna was delicious, but the warmth around the table was even more satisfying. My mother, being the insightful woman she was, leaned in and asked, 'Evan, you complimented me for my reaction when you two arrived. Seeing Nico and all. But what was your mother's reaction to... well, everything?' Evan's expression shifted, and he hesitated for a moment before responding. 'Honestly, I haven't told her yet. All of this is still pretty new to me. But if I had to guess, I think she either wouldn't care much about it or would kick me out.' My mother, Sarah, nodded thoughtfully, her eyes filled with empathy. 'Evan, I want you to know something. Regardless of what happens, you're always welcome here. You're part of our extended family now.' Evan's gaze met hers, and he smiled warmly. 'Thank you, Miss Adams.' My mother corrected him gently, 'Please, call me Alice.' With dinner winding down, my mother began to clear the dishes and prepare for her night shift at the hospital. Evan and I exchanged glances but hadn't made any concrete plans for the evening. As my mother gathered her things and headed for the door, she turned to Evan. 'It was lovely meeting you, Evan. Nico's very fortunate to have you in his life. Now, you two enjoy your evening, and don't stay up too late.' Evan nodded graciously. 'Thank you, Alice. It was a pleasure meeting you too.' With that, my mother left for work, leaving Evan and me in the cozy embrace of our family home. We still had a world of uncertainty ahead of us, but in that moment, it felt like we could navigate anything together. As the evening sun began its descent toward the horizon, Evan and I decided to go for a leisurely walk. The air was cool and refreshing, and the golden light of the setting sun bathed everything in a warm, ethereal glow. It was one of those perfect summer evenings that felt like it could last forever. We strolled down the familiar streets of our neighborhood, the sound of our footsteps filling the air along with the occasional laughter of children playing in nearby yards. It was a peaceful scene, and the comfortable silence between us spoke volumes. We talked about everything and nothing, our conversation ebbing and flowing like a gentle stream. Evan shared stories about his childhood, growing up without his father and his mother's struggles. I listened intently, my heart aching for the challenges he had faced. As Evan and I strolled through the tranquil neighborhood, the ambient sounds of the evening filled the air. Crickets chirped a symphony, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees lining the streets. The world seemed to take on a dreamlike quality as the colors of twilight painted everything in soft, ethereal hues. Our footsteps echoed on the pavement, punctuating the hushed conversations that flowed effortlessly between us. Evan talked animatedly about his love for music, how he'd picked up the guitar as a child and had been entranced by its melodies ever since. His eyes lit up with each note he described, and I couldn't help but be drawn into his world of rhythm and harmony. Listening to him speak so passionately about music was captivating. He shared stories of late nights strumming chords, of songs that had carried him through tough times, and those that had etched indelible memories into his heart. The vulnerability he showed in those moments was endearing, and it made me admire him even more. In turn, I shared stories of my childhood, of growing up with a single mother who had worked tirelessly to provide for us. I talked about my dreams of traveling the world, of experiencing new cultures, and of the adventures I hoped to have. It felt liberating to open up like this, to let Evan see parts of my life that I'd rarely shared with anyone else. We found common ground in our mutual desire for adventure. We both longed to escape the ordinary, to explore the world beyond our hometown, and to seize the opportunities that life had to offer. It was as if our dreams were aligning, and in that moment, I felt a deeper connection forming between us. As we continued our walk, the stars began to appear, one by one, in the darkening sky above us. A vast celestial canvas unfolded overhead, dotted with shimmering points of light. It was a serene evening, the kind that made you forget about the rush and noise of the world, allowing you to focus on the present moment. The gentle sway of our intertwined fingers was a comforting presence as we wandered through the quiet streets. Time seemed to stand still, and any worries that had weighed on my mind earlier were now a distant memory. It was just Evan and me, sharing this peaceful moment under the night sky. Eventually, we reached a point where the sun had fully set, casting the world in a dusky twilight. I turned to Evan, our eyes locking in the dim light. 'I think it's time to head back,' I said, a hint of reluctance in my voice. Evan nodded, but I could see a glimmer of hesitation in his gaze. 'Yeah, you're right. It's getting late.' I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret at the thought of our evening coming to an end. It had been such a wonderful time together, and I didn't want it to be over just yet. So, with a soft smile, I suggested, 'Or you could stay at my house for the night.' Evan's reaction was a mix of surprise and delight. He raised an eyebrow, a playful spark in his eyes. 'Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose.' I squeezed his hand affectionately, reassurance in my touch. 'You're not imposing at all. In fact, I'd love the company.' Evan's grin widened, and he chuckled. 'Well, in that case, I accept your offer.' The playful banter and the shared laughter made the decision feel natural, as if it were the next step in our journey together. With our fingers still entwined, we headed back to my house, a sense of anticipation hanging in the air. It was a night filled with promise, and I couldn't help but wonder what the hours ahead would bring. As Evan and I entered the familiar warmth of my home, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. There was something comforting about having him here, as if he belonged in this space just as much as I did. I motioned for Evan to step inside, holding the door open for him with a smile. 'Welcome to my humble abode,' I said, my tone light as I gestured to the cozy living room and the inviting couch. Evan returned my smile, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation. 'Thanks for having me,' he replied, his voice soft and sincere. I led Evan to the living room, where he took a seat on the couch, looking around at the room's decor with interest. I followed him, taking a seat beside him, our shoulders brushing against each other. The proximity was electrifying, and I couldn't help but steal a quick glance at him. His presence felt magnetic, drawing me closer with each passing moment. As the hunger pangs began to make their presence known, I couldn't ignore my grumbling stomach any longer. 'Are you hungry?' I asked Evan, my tone playful as I raised an eyebrow. Evan's response was immediate. 'Starving,' he admitted with a sheepish grin. 'Great,' I said, getting up from the couch. 'I'll whip up something quick and delicious.' I headed into the kitchen, mentally scanning the contents of my refrigerator and pantry. I decided on making a simple yet satisfying dish – pasta with a homemade tomato sauce. It was a recipe I'd learned from my mom, and it never failed to hit the spot. As I set about chopping onions and garlic, I could feel Evan's presence in the doorway. His arms wrapped around me from behind, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my neck. The sensation sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn't help but close my eyes, savoring the moment. 'I really love you,' Evan whispered, his breath warm against my skin. My heart swelled at his words, and I turned in his embrace to face him. Our eyes met, and I couldn't help but smile. 'I love you too,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. It felt incredible to finally say those words out loud, to let Evan know just how deeply I cared for him. Once the sauce was simmering on the stove, I cooked the pasta to perfection – al dente, just the way I liked it. I plated the dish with care, making sure it looked as delicious as it smelled. Carrying two steaming plates of pasta back to the living room, I set them on the coffee table before taking a seat beside Evan once more. We ate in contented silence, the flavors of the homemade meal filling the room. It was a simple pleasure, sharing a meal with someone you cared about. Evan and I exchanged occasional smiles, savoring both the food and each other's company. With our hunger satisfied, we settled back on the couch and decided to watch a show on the television. It was a lighthearted comedy that had always been a favorite of mine. Evan seemed to enjoy it too, and the laughter that filled the room was contagious. As the show continued, I couldn't help but steal sidelong glances at Evan. His profile was bathed in the soft glow of the television screen, and the play of light and shadow danced across his features. He looked so handsome, so completely captivating, that I couldn't help but feel my heart swell with affection. In the midst of one particularly funny scene, Evan's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with mine. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was as if he were saying, 'I'm here with you, and I'm not going anywhere.' I squeezed his hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection between us. The evening had taken an unexpectedly beautiful turn, and I couldn't have asked for a more perfect moment. We continued to watch the show, content in each other's presence, the world outside fading away as we shared this intimate space. As the credits rolled on the television screen, signaling the end of our chosen show, Evan and I found ourselves basking in a serene silence. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the evening, casting gentle shadows that seemed to dance across Evan's features. I couldn't help but admire the way his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief and tenderness. Evan turned toward me, his gaze locking onto mine, and a soft smile played on his lips. 'You know,' he began, his voice a gentle whisper, 'this has been one of the most wonderful evenings I've had in a long time.' I couldn't agree more. 'I feel the same way,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. 'Having you here, sharing this time together, it means everything to me.' The warmth in Evan's eyes deepened, and he inched closer, closing the gap between us. His fingers found mine once again, and he entwined them with a loving squeeze. The connection between us felt stronger than ever, as if we were silently communicating a thousand unspoken emotions. 'You make everything better, Nico,' Evan murmured, his words laced with affection. 'Just being with you feels like coming home.' A shiver of delight tingled down my spine at his words. Home. It was such a simple word, yet in that moment, it held a profound and beautiful meaning. Evan was right – being with him felt like coming home, like finding a place where I truly belonged. Leaning in, Evan pressed a soft, tender kiss to my lips. It was a kiss filled with all the love and tenderness we'd been holding back, a kiss that spoke of promises and unspoken futures. I could feel the weight of our newfound connection in that kiss, and it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. When we finally parted, our foreheads rested against each other, and our breaths mingled in the small space between us. 'I'm so glad I met you,' I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. 'You've changed everything for me, Evan.' Evan's eyes shimmered with emotion as he gazed into mine. 'Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, Nico. You've brought light into my life, and I'll cherish every moment we share.' With those heartfelt words, we stayed there for a moment, simply basking in the love that enveloped us. It was a love that felt right, a love that had the power to overcome doubts and fears. It was a love that had blossomed unexpectedly but was now thriving, stronger than ever. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in twilight, we knew that this was just the beginning of our journey together. Our hearts were entwined, and our futures were uncertain but filled with promise. We were two souls, drawn together by fate, and as we held each other close, we embraced the beautiful uncertainty of the path ahead. As Evan and I ascended the stairs to my room, a sense of anticipation and intimacy hung in the air. We were taking another step forward in our budding relationship, and it felt like an adventure into the unknown, filled with both excitement and nervousness. Inside my room, I let out a genuine yawn, my earlier fatigue catching up with me. 'I'm really tired,' I admitted, my voice tinged with exhaustion. Evan, always considerate, nodded in understanding. 'You should get some rest then,' he suggested, his eyes filled with warmth. 'I'll join you.' I couldn't help but smile at his words. The prospect of having Evan by my side as I slept felt comforting, like a protective cocoon of love and trust. I gestured to the bed, inviting him to join me, and we both settled in, arranging ourselves for the night. However, before sleep could claim us, there was a matter of changing into more comfortable sleepwear. I hesitated for a moment, aware of Evan's presence, and then decided it was best to be upfront about it. 'Would you mind turning around for a minute while I change?' I asked, feeling a slight blush creep onto my cheeks. Evan's response was nothing short of mischievous. His lips curled into a playful grin, and he replied, 'No, I think I'd rather watch.' My heart skipped a beat at his unexpected response. The playful glint in his eyes hinted at a deeper desire, one that I was more than willing to explore. With a teasing wink, he continued to gaze at me, his eyes filled with anticipation. I turned to my wardrobe and quickly changed into my pajamas, trying not to feel self-conscious under Evan's watchful eyes. It was a simple act, but with Evan, even the simplest moments felt charged with intimacy and meaning. When I turned back, Evan had already made himself comfortable in bed, wearing a pair of boxers and one of my oversized T-shirts. He looked incredibly endearing, and I couldn't help but smile as I approached him. As we settled into bed, the soft glow of my bedside lamp casting a warm, intimate atmosphere, I couldn't help but reflect on how far we'd come. Just a few days ago, I had been grappling with my own feelings and insecurities, uncertain about where this connection with Evan would lead. Now, we were here, together in my bed, sharing an unspoken understanding and affection that filled the room. We lay side by side, our bodies close but not touching just yet. The weight of Evan's presence beside me was reassuring, like a steady anchor in the sea of uncertainty. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the gentle rhythm of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. It was a soothing lullaby, a reminder that I was not alone in this journey. Although fatigue still weighed heavily on me, I didn't want this moment to end just yet. I turned my head to gaze at Evan, his profile bathed in the soft light, and he turned to meet my gaze. Our eyes locked, and there was an unspoken understanding that passed between us. I reached out and gently intertwined my fingers with his, our hands resting on the bed between us. It was a simple touch, yet it spoke volumes, a silent promise of the connection we shared. I felt a sense of contentment wash over me, a feeling that this was where I was meant to be, with Evan by my side. As the minutes passed, the room filled with a peaceful silence, broken only by the soft sounds of our breathing. It was a moment of quiet intimacy, where words were unnecessary, and the unspoken language of our hearts said it all. Eventually, the embrace of sleep began to claim us, our eyelids growing heavy with fatigue. But as I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but smile, knowing that I was falling asleep with Evan by my side. It was a feeling of warmth and security, a promise of a future filled with shared dreams and whispered secrets. As I settled into my position, my back pressed against Evan's chest, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of closeness. It was a simple act, seeking solace in his embrace, but it carried a weight of intimacy that transcended words. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck was a soothing lullaby, lulling me closer to the edge of slumber. But before I surrendered to the embrace of sleep, I turned slightly, my gaze locking with Evan's. His eyes, those beautiful windows to his soul, held a depth of emotion that left me breathless. They were filled with tenderness, understanding, and an unwavering love that had grown between us. 'Evan?' I whispered, my voice barely more than a murmur in the quiet of the room. He hummed softly in response, the vibrations against my back sending a shiver down my spine. It was a sensation that spoke of our connection, a silent affirmation that we were together in this moment, in this journey. 'Can you promise me something?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret. Evan's fingers gently traced patterns on my arm, a comforting touch that reassured me of his presence. 'Of course, Love,' he replied, his voice soft and warm. I took a deep breath, my words filled with vulnerability. 'Can we please never go there again?' Evan's brows furrowed in confusion for a moment, but then realization dawned in his eyes. He knew exactly what I meant, the place that had been the epicenter of both our trials and triumphs – the Olymp. It was a realm of gods and destiny, a place that had forever altered the course of our lives. 'Where?' Evan asked softly, his fingers stilling on my arm. 'The Olymp,' I replied, my gaze locked with his. 'Promise me we'll leave it behind, that we'll build our own destiny together, far from the chaos and battles of that world.' Evan's eyes held mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a silent agreement that transcended words. In that moment, I saw his love, his commitment to our future, and the promise of a life together filled with love and happiness. 'Never,' Evan whispered, his voice filled with determination. 'I promise' TO BE CONTINUED…

Epichearts Vol.2

© 2023 Erik Merkel Coverdesign von: Erik Merkel Illustration von: Erik Merkel 'Though the road's been rocky, it sure feels good to me.' — Bob Marley, 'Positive Vibration' ´ Love’s Ascent [Chapter one] As I sat in the hallowed lecture hall of our prestigious Trinity university in Carmarthen, my head found its familiar place on Evan's shoulder. His warm presence beside me was a constant reminder of the extraordinary journey we had embarked on together. I couldn't help but smile as I gazed at the front of the classroom, where our professor droned on about ancient civilizations. A few short months ago, the idea of being in love with a boy was as foreign to me as the mysteries of the universe. Yet, here I was, nestled against the person who had not only become my partner in life but also my greatest confidant. Love had an uncanny way of finding its path, and with Evan, every step of this unexpected journey had been filled with wonder. The professor's words blurred into the background as I allowed my thoughts to drift back to our odyssey of dreams. Together, we had faced gods, monsters, and the very essence of destiny itself. The Island of the Blessed, where myths converged with reality, now felt like a distant memory, yet the emotions it had ignited in us remained vivid. It was in that sacred place that I had first realized the depth of my feelings for Evan, a truth I could no longer deny. The strength of our bond had grown, and every moment spent together was a testament to the extraordinary connection we shared. Evan's presence was a constant source of wonder. His laughter was the sweetest melody, and his eyes held a world of stories waiting to be told. The way his hand found mine, even in the most ordinary of moments, was a reminder that love transcended the extraordinary feats we had achieved. As the lecture continued, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the ordinary wonders of life — for the everyday moments spent with the person who had opened my heart to a love I had never imagined. Our journey together was far from over, and I knew that as long as we faced it together, there would be no limit to the wonders we would discover along the way. But First Let's go back in time to tell you how it's gotten to this point. It all started during those enchanting summer holidays after our first adventure, 'The Odyssey of Dreams.' Evan and I found ourselves savouring every moment, filling the days with romance, laughter, and a hint of adventure. After the defeat of Kronos and our triumphant return from the mystical realms of the gods, life seemed to take on a new hue. The days stretched out before us, brimming with possibilities, and we were eager to explore every facet of our newfound love. Our summer days were a tapestry of unforgettable moments, each woven with the threads of our growing connection. We wandered hand in hand through the vibrant streets of Carmarthen, exploring hidden nooks and crannies, sharing secrets beneath the dappled shade of ancient trees. The soft, golden sands of Carmarthen Bay bore witness to our playful antics. We built sandcastles, chased waves, and watched the sunset melt into the horizon, its fiery hues reflecting in Evan's eyes. It was as if the universe itself painted a masterpiece just for us, a vivid reminder that love, like nature, was a force of boundless beauty. Our evenings often found us under the star-studded canopy of the night sky. We would spread out a blanket in the garden, tracing constellations and sharing stories of our dreams and aspirations. In those quiet moments, I felt like the luckiest person alive, with Evan by my side and the universe above, conspiring to create a perfect world. Picnics in the park became a cherished tradition. Evan would pack a basket filled with our favourite treats, and we'd lie on a checkered blanket, trading bites and stories. I discovered that Evan had a hidden talent for playing the guitar, and he would serenade me with songs that made my heart soar. We embarked on countless adventures, from hiking along the rugged Welsh coast to exploring the enchanting forests that seemed to hold secrets of their own. Each adventure brought us closer, deepening our bond as we uncovered the magic of the world around us. But it wasn't all about grand adventures and breathtaking vistas. Some of our most cherished moments were the simple ones. Lazy mornings spent in bed, tangled limbs, and whispered confessions. Evan's smile as he watched me cook breakfast, the scent of pancakes filling the air. These were the moments that defined our love, the quiet, intimate spaces where we shared our hopes, fears, and dreams. As the summer days melted into one another, we discovered that love wasn't just a destination; it was a journey, a voyage of self-discovery and mutual growth. We laughed together, cried together, and learned to navigate the intricacies of each other's hearts. It was during those magical summer holidays that I realized the true depth of my feelings for Evan. Love wasn't about conforming to expectations or societal norms; it was about embracing the extraordinary in the ordinary, about finding solace in each other's arms and knowing that, together, we could conquer any challenge that lay ahead. So, as we sat side by side in that university lecture hall, with the echoes of academia surrounding us, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Our love had blossomed during those unforgettable summer days, and now, as we embarked on this new chapter of our lives, I knew that our journey together was far from over. The university lecture hall was a vast expanse of polished wood and hushed anticipation. Rows of students sat in orderly fashion, notebooks open, pens poised. The scent of academia hung in the air like a subtle promise of knowledge yet to be uncovered. Evan and I sat together, our chairs nearly touching, our shoulders brushing occasionally. It was a new semester at Carmarthen University, and this was our first class. The professor, a distinguished figure with salt-and-pepper hair and an air of scholarly authority, stood at the front, ready to impart wisdom. My head rested comfortably on Evan's shoulder, and I couldn't help but smile as I glanced up at him. His dark hair fell gently over his forehead, and his lips curved into a contented half-smile. To think that a few months ago, I would never have imagined I'd be here, sharing this moment with him. 'Evan,' I whispered softly, my voice barely more than a breath. 'I can't believe we're actually in university together.' He turned to me, his eyes sparkling with warmth. 'I know, Nico,' he replied, equally hushed. 'Life has a funny way of surprising us, doesn't it?' We exchanged a quiet laugh, and I felt a surge of affection for him. It was true; life had a habit of leading us down unexpected paths. Just a few months ago, the idea of being in a same-sex relationship was a distant notion, and now it felt as natural as breathing. As the professor began the lecture, I couldn't help but reflect on how far we had come. The journey of self-discovery had brought us here, to this moment, and I wouldn't change a single step of that journey. Our relationship had deepened in ways I hadn't imagined. We had learned to communicate, to navigate the complexities of our emotions, and to support each other through the ups and downs of life. It wasn't always easy, but it was always worth it. Evan had become my confidant, my best friend, and my partner in every sense of the word. He was the one I turned to when I needed advice, the one who made me laugh when I felt down, and the one whose presence brought me an inexplicable sense of peace. Despite the challenges we had faced and the uncertainties that lay ahead, one thing was clear: I felt utterly content in Evan's company. There was a sense of completeness, a feeling that I had found my place in the world, right beside him. The lecture continued, and I tried to focus on the professor's words, jotting down notes and immersing myself in the subject matter. But my thoughts kept drifting back to Evan, to the way his hand rested comfortably on my knee, to the gentle warmth of his presence. After the class ended, we joined the bustling stream of students in the corridor. It was a cacophony of voices, a symphony of youthful energy. Evan and I fell into step together, navigating the crowd with ease. 'So, how do you feel about this semester?' Evan asked, his voice filled with genuine interest. I considered his question for a moment. 'Excited, I think,' I replied, smiling. 'But also, a bit nervous. This is a new chapter for both of us.' Evan nodded in agreement. 'True. But we've faced bigger challenges together, haven't we?' We had indeed faced incredible challenges together, from battling ancient gods to navigating the complexities of our own hearts. Those experiences had strengthened our bond, forging a connection that I knew was unbreakable. As we made our way to our next class, I couldn't help but feel a surge of optimism. The future held countless uncertainties, but I was certain of one thing: as long as Evan was by my side, I was ready to face whatever came our way. Our love story had started with unexpected twists and turns, but I had a feeling that the chapters yet to be written would be even more extraordinary. The second class of the day was a joint lecture on the intersection of technology and art, a subject that had always intrigued me. Professor Anderson, a charismatic figure with a penchant for colourful scarves, had a reputation for making even the most complex topics engaging. It was a class I had chosen out of sheer curiosity, and I was glad that Evan had decided to join me. As we settled into our seats, Evan and I exchanged knowing glances. The prospect of learning together always brought a sense of excitement to our shared academic journey. We whispered to each other, our voices hushed, as we discussed what lay ahead. 'I've heard Professor Anderson is quite the character,' Evan remarked with a mischievous grin. I chuckled, nodding in agreement. 'That's what they say. But they also say you'll learn more from this class than any other.' Evan's eyes sparkled with anticipation. 'Well, I'm up for the challenge. And it's a bonus that we get to experience it together.' The lecture began with Professor Anderson's dramatic entrance, complete with a flourish of their colourful scarf. They launched into the topic with fervours, weaving a narrative that connected the worlds of code and creativity. It was a mesmerizing blend of art and technology, and I found myself completely engrossed. Evan and I took notes, occasionally sharing a whispered comment or a knowing smile. The class felt like a shared adventure, a journey into uncharted territory where every concept was a new discovery. As the lecture continued, I couldn't help but steal glances at Evan. His eyes were alight with enthusiasm, his hand scribbling notes furiously. It was moments like these that made me appreciate the synchronicity of our academic interests. When the class finally came to an end, I reluctantly gathered my belongings. It was time to part ways, at least for a little while. Evan was headed to the music department for his next class, while I had a computer science seminar awaiting me. We walked out of the lecture hall together, the chatter of other students filling the corridor. There was an unspoken heaviness in the air, a reminder that our paths would diverge for a time. Evan turned to me, his gaze tender. 'I'll see you later, Nico,' he said softly, his hand finding mine. I nodded, my heart heavy with the knowledge that I would miss his presence. 'Yeah, later. Good luck in your class.' He flashed me a reassuring smile before heading down the corridor, his steps echoing in my ears. I watched him until he disappeared from view, a sense of longing settling in my chest. Turning in the opposite direction, I made my way to the computer science seminar. It was a subject I was passionate about, and I knew I would enjoy the class. But the absence of Evan's presence beside me left an empty space that nothing could quite fill. As the day progressed, I couldn't help but reflect on the moments we had shared in our classes together. Those stolen glances, the whispered conversations, and the unspoken understanding that came from being in each other's company—they were the threads that wove our love story together, even in the midst of our separate academic pursuits. I knew that our individual paths were essential to our personal growth, but I also cherished the moments when those paths converged. The promise of reuniting at the end of the day was a beacon of hope that kept me going, a reminder that, no matter how far apart we might be, our love would always bridge the distance. After all of those blurred-out classes, the campus was abuzz with students. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pathways. I found a quiet spot, a bench beneath the shade of a massive oak tree. It was a favourite spot of mine, a place where I could observe the world rushing by while waiting for Evan. As I settled onto the bench, I pulled out my phone to check for any messages. A few texts from friends and reminders about assignments popped up, but what I was really hoping for was a message from Evan. Time seemed to stretch out as I watched students go about their day. Some were deep in conversation, others were rushing to their next class, and a few simply sat on the grass, enjoying the warmth of the sun. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my phone buzzed with a message. It was from Evan: 'Just one more class to go! Can't wait to see you.' A rush of excitement coursed through me. I couldn't help but smile as I typed out my reply: 'I'll be waiting by our tree.' With that, I tucked my phone back into my bag and settled back on the bench. The anticipation of seeing Evan again filled me with a sense of joy that was hard to put into words. Minutes turned into what felt like hours, but finally, I spotted Evan making his way towards me. His backpack slung over one shoulder, his steps purposeful yet unhurried. His eyes, the colour of rich coffee, met mine, and a smile spread across his face. As he drew closer, I couldn't contain my excitement any longer. I jumped up from the bench and practically ran into his waiting arms. The moment we embraced, it was as though all the distance and time apart had never existed. Evan's laughter was warm against my ear as he held me close. 'Someone missed me,' he teased. I nodded, my voice filled with affection. 'I always do.' We walked hand in hand through the bustling campus, sharing stories of our respective classes and the interesting things we had learned. It was moments like these, the simple act of being together, that made me cherish our love all the more. As the day slowly transitioned into evening, I realized that it was these moments, the ones we shared in between classes and the stolen minutes before we parted ways, that made our love story unique. Our love was woven into the fabric of our daily lives, a constant presence that brightened even the most ordinary of days. And as we headed towards our next adventure together, I couldn't help but feel grateful for every moment we had, both big and small. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, Evan and I began our journey home from the university campus. We walked hand in hand, our fingers intertwined, a silent testament to the love that bound us together. The walk home was a serene one, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the trees that lined our path. I couldn't help but steal sidelong glances at Evan, taking in the way the fading sunlight played upon his features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the softness of his lips. Our conversations flowed effortlessly, a seamless blend of laughter and thoughtful contemplation. We talked about our plans for the evening, the assignments we had to complete, and the dreams we held for the future. Each word exchanged felt like a cherished gift, a reminder of the deep connection we shared. As we approached my house, I felt a mixture of excitement and contentment. My mother's car was parked in the driveway, ready for her night shift at the hospital. She emerged from the front door, a tired but welcoming smile on her face. 'Hey, you two,' she greeted us, her eyes filled with warmth. 'How was your day at uni?' Evan replied first, his voice filled with enthusiasm. 'It was great, Sarah. Nico and I had a class together, and we grabbed lunch at the campus cafe.' My mother nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. She knew about Evan and me, and her acceptance and support had been a source of comfort for us both. 'That sounds lovely,' she said. 'Well, I've got to head to work now. You two behave, alright?' We grinned at each other (if my mom would know what we do home alone😅), But both nodded, offering her our farewells and well wishes for her shift. She climbed into her car, and with a wave, she drove off into the fading light of day. As we entered my house, the familiar warmth enveloped us. It was a cozy, welcoming space that had seen countless moments of joy and comfort. Evan and I kicked off our shoes and settled onto the couch in the living room. The soft glow of the table lamp cast a warm ambiance in the room, creating an intimate atmosphere. I snuggled close to Evan, my head finding its familiar spot on his shoulder. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was a soothing presence beside me. The evening was ours to Savor. We talked about our favourite books, our shared love for music, and the places we dreamed of visiting one day. Time seemed to slow down as we lost ourselves in the world of conversation, each word deepening our connection. As the hours passed, our conversation gradually gave way to comfortable silence. It was a silence filled with the unspoken understanding that we didn't need words to convey our love. Evan's fingers traced patterns on my arm, sending shivers of delight down my spine. I couldn't help but think about how far we had come, from the uncertainty of our first meeting to the deep, abiding love we now shared. It was a journey I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. As the night wore on, the cozy living room seemed to embrace us, cocooning us in its warmth. Evan and I lay together on the couch, our bodies entwined, fingers tracing aimless patterns on each other's skin. The world outside darkened, and the only sound that filled the room was the soft, rhythmic beating of our hearts. In that moment, I realized that home wasn't just a place; it was the feeling of being with the person you loved, of finding solace and belonging in their presence. The evening stretched before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with moments of togetherness. Evan and I decided that watching a movie would be the perfect way to unwind and continue our peaceful evening. We browsed through the collection of DVDs, a mix of classic films and newer releases. Evan suggested a romantic comedy he had seen before and enjoyed, and I readily agreed. With the film selected, we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, ready to lose ourselves in a world of laughter and love. Evan settled in behind me, his warm body enveloping mine as he became the big spoon in our cuddling session. I leaned into his embrace, resting my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing backdrop to our evening. As the movie began to play, I soon realized that I was more focused on Evan's commentary than the actual plot unfolding on the screen. He had a witty remark or insightful observation for nearly every scene, and I couldn't help but be captivated by his words. 'Did you see that?' he asked, his voice filled with amusement as a comical mishap occurred on screen. I nodded absentmindedly, not wanting to admit that my attention had been divided between the film and the wonderful person cuddling me. 'Uhu,' I replied, a soft smile tugging at my lips as Evan continued to narrate the movie with enthusiasm. It didn't matter that I wasn't fully immersed in the plot; what mattered was the shared experience, the intimacy of the moment. Evan's fingers traced idle patterns on my arm, his touch a gentle reassurance that he was there, holding me close. The glow of the television screen cast a soft, flickering light across our entwined bodies, creating a cocoon of warmth and affection. We laughed at the film's humorous moments, our laughter harmonizing in the air. Sometimes, Evan's laughter would erupt into a hearty chuckle that vibrated through me, making me giggle in response. As the movie approached its climax, I could feel Evan's breath against my neck, his soft kisses trailing along my skin. It was a tender, loving gesture that sent a rush of warmth through me. I tilted my head to the side, inviting his affection. His lips met my skin in a series of gentle, lingering kisses, each one a testament to the love and desire we shared. In that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection with Evan, a profound understanding that went beyond words. As the credits rolled and the film came to an end, I turned to face Evan, my heart overflowing with love and gratitude. Our eyes met, and the unspoken emotions that passed between us were more powerful than any dialogue in the movie. With a soft smile, I whispered, 'Thank you for making even a simple movie night feel so special.' Evan's response was a sweet kiss that sealed our shared moment of intimacy, a promise of many more to come. Looking into Evans endless beautiful eyes, my heart feeling lighter than air, and gazed into his warm, expressive eyes. It was as if we could communicate whole worlds through our shared glances, as if words were unnecessary in this moment of quiet intimacy. A question had been lingering in my mind, one that had been teasing the edges of my thoughts throughout our evening together. It had been gnawing at me, a curious itch that I couldn't ignore any longer. 'Are we weird?' I finally blurted out, my voice hesitant as I voiced my uncertainty. Evan, the ever-joyful and quick-witted Evan, burst into laughter. His laughter was like a soothing balm to my soul, easing my doubts and bringing a smile to my face. He hugged me tightly, his arms wrapped around me as if to reassure me of his presence. 'Why would you ask that after I just kissed you?' he said between his infectious laughter, his eyes twinkling with mirth. I couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed by my own question. I had voiced my thoughts aloud without much consideration, and now I felt like a fool. 'Well, I don't know,' I admitted, my cheeks flushing slightly. 'I just thought out loud, maybe… I don't know.' Evan's laughter gradually subsided, but his smile remained as he looked down at me with affection. 'Well, if we're weird or not, I don't care as long as we're weird together.' His words were like a warm embrace, wrapping around my heart and filling me with a sense of belonging. It was a reminder that it didn't matter if our relationship was different from what others might expect; what mattered was the love and connection we shared. I sighed contentedly and nestled my head against Evan's chest, closing my eyes as I absorbed the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat. The world outside our little cocoon seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us in this perfect moment. But our conversation didn't end there. There was something else I needed to express, something that had been on my mind for a while. 'No, it's not just that,' I began, my voice soft and thoughtful. 'Other people our age, they go to parties, they drink alcohol, they meet new people, they have… relationships.' I struggled to find the right words. 'But all we do is just… be together. And honestly, I don't have any problem with that.' Evan's fingers gently traced patterns on my back, his touch a reassuring presence as I bared my thoughts to him. 'Aww, I love you,' he murmured, his voice filled with warmth and affection. My heart swelled at his words, and I looked up to meet his gaze once more. 'I love you too,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. It felt incredible to finally say those words out loud, to let Evan know just how deeply I cared for him. We lay together in our cozy cocoon, not needing any more words to bridge the gap between us. Our shared love and understanding spoke volumes, and I knew that we were right where we were meant to be. As the night deepened, the warmth of our shared affection enveloped us, creating a sense of serenity that I had never experienced before. With Evan by my side, I felt safe, loved, and complete. It didn't take long for the gentle embrace of sleep to claim us. Wrapped in Evan's arms, I closed my eyes, my breathing falling into sync with his. Our dreams merged with reality as we drifted into a peaceful slumber, two hearts beating as one, ready to face whatever adventures there will be in live. 'Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.' — Henry David Thoreau, 'A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers” ´ Awakening Shadows [Chapter two] The night had been filled with dreams. Dreams that swirled in the depths of my subconscious, weaving a tapestry of emotions, memories, and desires. They were a persistent presence in my life, often leaving me with more questions than answers. But that night, one dream stood out from the others. In that dream, I found myself in a familiar setting, a place I had visited countless times in my memories. It was the park where Evan and I had shared our first real moment together, a place that held a special significance in our journey. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the surroundings. As I walked through the park, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The air was filled with the soft rustling of leaves, the distant laughter of children, and the soothing chirping of birds. It was as if the world itself had paused to Savor the moment. And then, there she was, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, her long, chestnut hair catching the sunlight. It was Sarah, but not the Sarah I had last seen in reality, filled with bitterness and disdain. No, this was the Sarah of old, the friend I had cherished for years. In the dream, her eyes met mine, and they held a mixture of sadness and regret. Without words, she extended her hand toward me, a silent invitation. I hesitated for a moment, my heart filled with both longing and apprehension. But in the end, I took that step, closing the distance between us. As I reached out to touch her hand, a profound feeling of forgiveness washed over me. It was as if the dream itself was granting us a chance to mend what had been broken, to heal the wounds that had torn our friendship apart. Sarah's lips parted, and she spoke, her voice a gentle whisper in the dream's ethereal landscape. 'I'm so sorry, Nico,' she said, her words laden with sincerity. 'I never should have said those things. I was wrong, and I hurt you deeply.' In that dream, I felt a weight lift from my chest, a burden of resentment and anger that had been carried for so long. I wanted to tell her that it was okay, that I forgave her, that I missed our friendship. But the dream shifted, the scene fading away like mist in the morning sun. When I woke up that morning, the dream lingered in the corners of my mind, like a fragile whisper of hope. I found myself alone in bed, the soft light of morning filtering through the curtains. My thoughts drifted to Evan, wondering where he was. Still half-asleep, I padded through the familiar rooms of our home. And then, I found him in the kitchen, standing before the stove, a warm smile on his face as he expertly flipped a pancake in the air. The scent of freshly cooked breakfast filled the room, and my stomach rumbled in response. I silently approached him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. 'Good morning, love,' I murmured, my voice a soft greeting. Evan turned to face me, his eyes dancing with warmth and affection. 'I hope you slept well,' he replied, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on my lips. 'Your mom just came home, so I'm making us breakfast. I hope you like my pancakes.' I couldn't help but smile at his words. They held a promise of a simple, cherished moment—a breakfast shared together, a morning filled with love. And yet, despite the warmth of that moment, I couldn't shake the dream that had haunted my night. But I didn't bring it up. Not yet. I wanted to Savor this moment, to hold onto the peace and happiness that had eluded me for so long. The dream could wait, its meaning hidden in the recesses of my mind. For now, I chose to focus on the present, on the love that enveloped me in Evan's arms, and the delicious pancakes that smelled so yummy. The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm, golden glow over everything it touched. I settled into a chair at the small dining table, watching Evan as he expertly flipped another pancake onto a waiting plate. His concentration was absolute, and the kitchen was filled with the comforting sounds of sizzling batter and his occasional hum of contentment. As I sat there, I couldn't help but reflect on how much our lives had changed in such a short time. It seemed like not too long ago, I had been navigating the complexities of friendship and self-discovery. Now, I was sharing my life with Evan, the person who had become my anchor, my love, and my constant companion. 'Breakfast is served,' Evan announced with a flourish, placing a stack of pancakes in front of me. They were perfectly golden and adorned with a dollop of whipped cream and a scattering of fresh berries. My mouth watered in anticipation. 'You're spoiling me,' I said, my voice filled with gratitude as I picked up my fork. Evan chuckled, taking a seat across from me. 'Spoiling you is one of my favourite things to do,' he replied, his eyes locking onto mine in an affectionate gaze. It was moments like these that made me feel like the luckiest person in the world. We ate in contented silence, savouring the delicious meal that Evan had prepared. The pancakes were light and fluffy, the sweetness of the whipped cream and berries complementing the rich maple syrup perfectly. It was a simple breakfast, but it held a special significance. It was a testament to our newfound happiness, to the love that had blossomed between us. Between bites, we shared snippets of our plans for the day. Evan had a music theory class in the afternoon, and I had a coding project that I needed to tackle. Despite our different academic pursuits, we relished the fact that we could still find pockets of time to be together. As we finished our meal, Evan surprised me by reaching across the table and taking my hand in his. His touch was warm and reassuring, a silent reminder of the love that bound us. We gazed at each other, our eyes speaking volumes, even when words seemed unnecessary. 'You know,' Evan began, his voice soft, 'I've been thinking about something.' I tilted my head, curiosity piqued. 'What's on your mind?' Evan's thumb traced small circles on the back of my hand as he spoke. 'I know that we've both been through a lot, especially recently. And I want you to know that I'm here for you, Nico. No matter what comes our way, we'll face it together.' His words touched my heart, and I felt a surge of emotion. The journey we had embarked upon had been filled with challenges, but it had also brought us to this moment, a moment of profound understanding and connection. 'Thank you, Evan,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. 'I feel the same way. I know that we'll face whatever life throws at us together, and that gives me so much comfort.' With our breakfast plates cleared away, Evan and I lingered at the table, lost in our own world. The morning stretched before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with moments of togetherness. Evan and I decided that watching a movie would be the perfect way to unwind and continue our peaceful morning. As we browsed through our collection of DVDs, a mix of classic films and newer releases, Evan suggested a romantic comedy he had seen before and enjoyed. I readily agreed, knowing that his taste in films was impeccable. With the movie selected, we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, ready to lose ourselves in a world of laughter and love. Evan settled in behind me, his warm body enveloping mine as he became the big spoon in our cuddling session. I leaned into his embrace, resting my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing backdrop to our morning. As the movie played on the screen, I nestled comfortably in Evan's embrace, the familiar warmth of his body soothing my senses. The romantic comedy provided the perfect backdrop for a leisurely morning together. Yet, amidst the laughter and on-screen romance, there was a nagging thought that tugged at the edges of my mind, a thought that had been haunting me since I woke up. 'You remember how my dreams always predict something and get kinda true, right?' I began tentatively, my voice a soft murmur against the backdrop of the film's soundtrack. Evan's arms tightened around me, a silent reassurance that he was listening. 'Yeah, I remember,' he replied, his voice equally soft. I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain the unsettling dream I had experienced the night before. 'Last night, I had a dream about Sarah,' I confessed, my tone hesitant. 'It was... different from the dreams I've had about her before.' Evan's curiosity was piqued, and he turned his attention away from the movie, focusing entirely on me. 'Different how?' I searched for the right words to describe the dream. 'In the dream, Sarah apologized to me,' I explained, my voice tinged with uncertainty. 'It was... strange. She seemed genuinely remorseful, and she said things that she would never say in real life.' Evan's brow furrowed with concern. 'What did she say?'. “She said she was sorry for everything that happened between us,' I continued, 'and that she wished things could have been different. It felt so real, Evan, like I was actually talking to her.' Evan was silent for a moment, processing my words. 'Do you think it means something?' he finally asked. I sighed, feeling a mixture of confusion and frustration. 'I don't know,' I admitted. 'But my dreams have a way of hinting at things, of showing me glimpses of the future or unresolved issues. It's just... I thought I had moved on from all of that, from Sarah and everything that happened.' Evan's fingers gently traced circles on my arm, his touch a comforting presence. 'Dreams can be mysterious,' he said softly. 'Maybe it's a way for you to process your feelings, to find closure.' I nodded, appreciating Evan's understanding. 'Yeah, maybe you're right,' I replied, leaning into his embrace. 'It's just been on my mind since I woke up, and I wanted to share it with you.' Evan pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his actions filled with affection. 'I'm glad you did,' he said. 'And if you ever want to talk about your dreams or anything else that's bothering you, know that I'm here for you, Nico.' With Evan's words of support, the weight of the dream and its lingering questions began to lift. I realized that I didn't have to face these uncertainties alone, that I had Evan by my side, ready to embrace whatever challenges or mysteries life presented us with. We returned our attention to the movie, allowing its light-hearted humour to wash over us. The dream, while still a puzzle, no longer felt as daunting as it once had. In Evan's arms, I found solace and comfort, and I knew that whatever the future held, we would face it together. Usually, Saturday mornings would have meant getting ready for classes, but today was different. It was a rare day off from university, and the promise of a sunny August day beckoned us outside. Evan suggested that we go for a walk, and I couldn't have agreed more. With a sense of anticipation, we decided to take our time getting ready, savouring the simple pleasure of preparing for a day together. Our small, shared moments, like helping each other pick outfits or finding each other's missing socks, held a special kind of intimacy that only deepened our connection. Evan and I stood side by side in my bedroom, our reflections dancing in the mirror. The sun streamed through the open curtains, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. It was moments like these, where time seemed to stand still, that I cherished the most. I reached for my shirt, but Evan gently took it from my hand, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. 'Let me help you with that,' he said, his fingers expertly undoing the buttons. His touch was gentle yet confident, a silent promise of the care he would always take with me. I couldn't help but smile as Evan's warm gaze met mine. 'You know, you make everything feel so much more special,' I confessed, my voice filled with gratitude. Evan returned my smile, his own expression tender. 'That's because everything is more special when I'm with you,' he replied, his words a reflection of the deep affection that bound us together. As we continued to get ready, I found myself reflecting on the ordinary yet extraordinary moments that defined our relationship. Whether it was sharing breakfast or helping each other with mundane tasks, these simple acts of togetherness had a way of strengthening the bond between us. Once we were dressed and ready, we stood together in the hallway, ready to embark on our day's adventure. The prospect of a leisurely walk under the August sun filled me with excitement, and I couldn't wait to see where the day would lead us. Evan took my hand in his, his fingers lacing through mine with a reassuring grip. We exchanged a wordless look, a silent acknowledgment of the love and connection that filled the spaces between us. With our hearts aligned, we stepped outside, ready to embrace the warmth of the day and the boundless possibilities that awaited us. As Evan and I stepped outside into the vibrant August morning, a gentle breeze ruffled our hair. The scent of freshly mowed grass and blooming flowers filled the air, casting a sense of serenity over our surroundings. We decided to head to the nearby park, a place that held a special significance in our hearts as it was where we had our first date. The walk to the park was a leisurely one, with no rush or agenda. We strolled hand in hand, our fingers interlocked as if refusing to let go. It was a simple act, but it carried a depth of emotion that bound us together. Evan's voice broke the comfortable silence between us. 'You know, I've been thinking,' he began, a playful glint in his eye. I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 'What's on your mind?' He chuckled softly. 'Well, it's just that we've had quite a journey, haven't we?' I smiled, recalling the ups and downs, the moments of uncertainty and the undeniable connection that had brought us to this point. 'Yes, we have. It's been quite an adventure.' Evan nodded in agreement. 'But you know what I've realized?' I tilted my head, urging him to continue. He looked at me with warmth in his eyes. 'No matter where we are or what we're doing, as long as we're together, it feels like home.' His words resonated deeply within me, filling me with a profound sense of belonging. 'I feel the same way,' I confessed, my voice soft and sincere. Our footsteps carried us closer to the park, the familiar sights and sounds triggering memories of our first date. As we entered the park, we made our way to the same bench where we had sat that day, our laughter and conversations filling the space around us. Evan turned to me, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 'Do you remember our first date here?' I nodded, a fond smile tugging at my own lips. 'How could I forget? It was one of the best days of my life.' Evan's eyes sparkled with nostalgia. 'It was the beginning of something beautiful, something I wouldn't trade for anything in the world.' I leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his lips, the kiss filled with all the emotions and promises we had shared since that day. 'I wouldn't trade it either,' I whispered against his lips. We sat together on the bench, our fingers intertwined, watching the world go by. The park was alive with activity – children playing, couples walking hand in hand, and families enjoying picnics on the grass. It was a snapshot of life's simple pleasures, a reminder of the beauty that surrounded us. As we soaked in the ambiance of the park, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of contentment. The journey we had embarked on, the trials and tribulations we had faced, had brought us to this moment. It was a moment of clarity, of knowing that no matter where life took us, as long as we were together, we had found our home. With a smile and a heart full of love, we sat together on that park bench, grateful for the journey that had led us to this point and excited for the adventures that still lay ahead. As Evan and I sat together on that park bench, basking in the warmth of the moment, the peaceful serenity of the day was shattered by a sudden scream. It was my name, but the voice that called it was one I hadn't expected to hear. I turned to Evan, my heart racing. 'I told you the dreams meant something,' I said in a hushed tone, my eyes wide with disbelief and trepidation. And then, as if emerging from the depths of my subconscious fears, there she was. Sarah stood behind us, her face etched with a mix of remorse and anxiety. Her voice trembled as she began to speak, 'Nico, I'm so, so sorry.' I exchanged a quick glance with Evan, who remained silent, his grip on my hand reassuring and steadfast. I couldn't deny that a part of me had yearned for this moment, for an apology, for closure. But I also couldn't deny the hurt that still lingered, the wounds that had yet to heal. Sarah continued, 'I've been trying to reach out to you. I called you several times, but you never answered.' I turned to her, my tone as cold and detached as I could muster. 'I know,' I said, my voice devoid of any warmth. 'That's why I blocked you.' Her face fell, her remorse deepening. 'Can you please just forgive me?' she implored, her eyes pleading with me. I took a deep breath, my gaze unwavering. 'Sarah,' I began, 'you've known me for what? Ten, eleven years? You know that forgiveness isn't something freely given. It's something that's earned. And even then, forgiveness doesn't erase the past. It doesn't erase the pain.' Her shoulders slumped, the weight of her actions and my response hitting her all at once. She didn't have any words left to say, and neither did I. I turned away from her, taking Evan's hand firmly in mine. 'Let's go,' I said to him, my voice steady. 'We're leaving.' As we walked away from that park bench, I couldn't help but glance back one last time. Sarah stood there, her figure growing smaller in the distance. The past had caught up with us, and while forgiveness might come someday, it wasn't today. Evan squeezed my hand, a silent reassurance that he was by my side, just as he had always been. Together, we walked away from the ghosts of the past, ready to embrace the future that lay ahead. As Evan and I walked away from the park, the weight of the encounter with Sarah still hung heavily in the air between us. We both knew that this was a pivotal moment, one that had the power to reshape our lives and our relationship. The silence was broken by Evan, his voice hesitant and filled with concern. 'Nico, I've never seen you like this...' But I was still seething with anger and pain, unable to contain my emotions any longer. I cut him off sharply, my voice laced with frustration. 'Like what, Evan? Sad? Angry? Like what?' Evan stopped in his tracks, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. He released my hand and stepped in front of me, his eyes searching mine. 'Like... cold,' he said softly, his words carrying a weight of their own. I couldn't deny it. My reaction to Sarah had been cold, calculated, and distant. It was a defence mechanism, a way to protect myself from further hurt. But I also understood that it had hurt Evan, and I didn't want my pain to push him away. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at Evan, my anger now directed inward. 'I'm sorry, Evan,' I said, my voice cracking with remorse. 'It's just... she meant so much to me. She was my best friend for a decade. And now... I don't even know who she is anymore.' Evan's expression softened, and he pulled me into a tight embrace. I buried my face in his chest, allowing myself to cry, to let out the flood of emotions that had been building up inside me. Evan held me close, his arms a comforting anchor in the storm of my feelings. 'It's okay, Nico,' he whispered, his voice soothing and gentle. 'I understand. Sometimes, we need to protect ourselves, even if it means pushing others away. But you don't have to go through this alone. I'm here for you, no matter what.' I clung to him, the warmth of his embrace melting away the coldness that had taken hold of me. In that moment, I realized just how lucky I was to have Evan in my life. He was my anchor, my safe haven in a world that could be tumultuous and unpredictable. As we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, I knew that we would face whatever challenges lay ahead together. And with Evan by my side, I felt stronger and more resilient than ever before. After the emotional encounter with Sarah and the subsequent heart-to-heart with Evan, our walk home took on a different tone. The air was filled with a sense of solidarity and understanding, as if we had weathered a storm together and come out the other side stronger. We strolled through the familiar streets, the warmth of the late summer sun casting a golden glow on everything it touched. It was a picturesque day, with blue skies overhead and a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the trees that lined our path. Evan and I held hands as we walked, our fingers interlocked in a silent affirmation of our connection. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the depth of our bond. With each step, I could feel my heart gradually returning to its normal rhythm, the residual tension from our encounter with Sarah dissipating. As we approached my house, a mixture of relief and trepidation washed over me. I was relieved to be home, where I felt safe and secure. But I was also nervous about facing my mother after the tumultuous morning I had experienced. My worries were momentarily forgotten when we stepped inside, and my mother's enthusiastic greeting filled the air. She practically beamed at us, her eyes twinkling with warmth and affection. 'Boys, finally you're home!' she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine delight. 'I hope you're hungry, I made Nico's favourite.' My heart swelled with gratitude as I looked at my mother. Despite the challenges I had faced that day, her unwavering support and love were a constant source of strength in my life. And as Evan and I settled in for a home-cooked meal, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of contentment and belonging. The events of the day had tested our resilience and pushed us to confront difficult emotions, but they had also brought Evan and me closer together. As we sat down to enjoy my mother's delicious cooking, I knew that we were ready to face whatever the future held, hand in hand. The tantalizing aroma of my mother's cooking filled the kitchen, setting our stomachs rumbling in anticipation. The centrepiece of the meal was her famous lasagna, a dish that had been a favourite of mine since childhood. It was a rich and hearty concoction, with layers of pasta, cheese, and a Savory meat sauce that had simmered for hours on the stove. As we settled around the table, our plates piled high with lasagna and a fresh salad on the side, the conversation flowed naturally. My mother, Alice, was as warm and welcoming as ever, and it was clear that Evan felt comfortable in her presence. 'So, Evan,' Alice (my mom obv) began, her eyes curious but kind, 'have you talked to your parents since you told them about your relationship with Nico?' I shot Evan a warning glance, but he simply smiled and shook his head, his expression calm and composed. 'It's okay, Nico,' he said gently, 'I don't mind talking about it.' I took a deep breath, knowing that Evan's relationship with his parents was a sensitive topic. He had been through a lot, and I admired his resilience. 'No, Alice,' Evan replied, his voice steady, 'I haven't talked to them. To be honest, I haven't been home since then.' I reached out and placed my hand on Evan's, offering him silent support. He continued, 'But I've been in touch with my stepsister, Vica. We chat every now and then. It's... complicated with my mom. She's Russian, and she came here in 1995. She's just different from you, Alice.' Alice nodded understandingly, her expression sympathetic. 'Family can be challenging, Evan. We all have our differences and our struggles. But I'm glad you have Vica to talk to. And remember, you're always welcome here.' Evan's gratitude was evident as he looked at Alice. 'Thank you,' he said sincerely. 'I appreciate that more than I can express.' As we continued to eat, our conversation turned to lighter topics. We talked about our plans for the upcoming week, the movies we wanted to watch, and the new exhibit at the local art gallery that had caught my mother's interest. The atmosphere was warm and relaxed, and I couldn't help but feel grateful for the sense of family and acceptance that surrounded us. In that moment, as we shared a meal and connected with one another, it was clear that love had a way of transcending boundaries and differences. Evan and I may have come from different backgrounds, faced our own challenges, and navigated complex family dynamics, but we were united by a deep and unwavering bond. As we cleared the plates and prepared to enjoy a quiet evening together, I couldn't help but smile at the thought of Me and Evan against all the adventures and challenges that lay ahead. With Evan by my side and my mother's unwavering support, I knew that we were ready to face whatever the future held, one step at a time. With dinner behind us, the evening stretched before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with moments of togetherness. Evan and I decided that watching a movie would be the perfect way to unwind and continue our peaceful evening. We browsed through the collection of DVDs, a mix of classic films and newer releases. Evan suggested a romantic comedy he had seen before and enjoyed, and I readily agreed. With the film selected, we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, ready to lose ourselves in a world of laughter and love. Evan settled in behind me, his warm body enveloping mine as he became the big spoon in our cuddling session. I leaned into his embrace, resting my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing backdrop to our evening. As the movie began to play, I soon realized that I was more focused on Evan's commentary than the actual plot unfolding on the screen. He had a witty remark or insightful observation for nearly every scene, and I couldn't help but be captivated by his words. 'Did you see that?' he asked, his voice filled with amusement as a comical mishap occurred on screen. I nodded absentmindedly, not wanting to admit that my attention had been divided between the film and the wonderful person cuddling me.'Uhu,' I replied, a soft smile tugging at my lips as Evan continued to narrate the movie with enthusiasm. It didn't matter that I wasn't fully immersed in the plot; what mattered was the shared experience, the intimacy of the moment. Evan's fingers traced idle patterns on my arm, his touch a gentle reassurance that he was there, holding me close. The glow of the television screen cast a soft, flickering light across our entwined bodies, creating a cocoon of warmth and affection. We laughed at the film's humorous moments, our laughter harmonizing in the air. Sometimes, Evan's laughter would erupt into a hearty chuckle that vibrated through me, making me giggle in response. As the movie approached its climax, I could feel Evan's breath against my neck, his soft kisses trailing along my skin. It was a tender, loving gesture that sent a rush of warmth through me. I tilted my head to the side, inviting his affection. His lips met my skin in a series of gentle, lingering kisses, each one a testament to the love and desire we shared. In that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection with Evan, a profound understanding that went beyond words. As the credits rolled and the film came to an end, I turned to face Evan, my heart overflowing with love and gratitude. Our eyes met, and the unspoken emotions that passed between us were more powerful than any dialogue in the movie. With a soft smile, I whispered, 'Thank you for making even a simple movie night feel so special.' Evan's response was a sweet kiss that sealed our shared moment of intimacy, a promise of many more to come. The evening stretched before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with moments of togetherness. Evan and I decided that watching a movie would be the perfect way to unwind and continue our peaceful evening. We browsed through the collection of DVDs, a mix of classic films and newer releases. Evan suggested a romantic comedy he had seen before and enjoyed, and I readily agreed. With the film selected, we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, ready to lose ourselves in a world of laughter and love. Evan settled in behind me, his warm body enveloping mine as he became the big spoon in our cuddling session. I leaned into his embrace, resting my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing backdrop to our evening. As the movie began to play, I soon realized that I was more focused on Evan's commentary than the actual plot unfolding on the screen. He had a witty remark or insightful observation for nearly every scene, and I couldn't help but be captivated by his words. 'Did you see that?' he asked again, his voice filled with amusement as a comical mishap occurred on screen. I nodded absentmindedly, not wanting to admit that my attention had been divided between the film and the wonderful person cuddling me. 'Uhu,' I replied, a soft smile tugging at my lips as Evan continued to narrate the movie with enthusiasm. It didn't matter that I wasn't fully immersed in the plot; what mattered was the shared experience, the intimacy of the moment. Evan's fingers traced idle patterns on my arm, his touch a gentle reassurance that he was there, holding me close. The glow of the television screen cast a soft, flickering light across our entwined bodies, creating a cocoon of warmth and affection. We laughed at the film's humorous moments, our laughter harmonizing in the air. Sometimes, Evan's laughter would erupt into a hearty chuckle that vibrated through me, making me giggle in response. As the movie approached its climax, I could feel Evan's breath against my neck, his soft kisses trailing along my skin. It was a tender, loving gesture that sent a rush of warmth through me. I tilted my head to the side, inviting his affection. His lips met my skin in a series of gentle, lingering kisses, each one a testament to the love and desire we shared. In that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection with Evan, a profound understanding that went beyond words. As the credits rolled and the film came to an end, I turned to face Evan, my heart overflowing with love and gratitude. Our eyes met, and the unspoken emotions that passed between us were more powerful than any dialogue in the movie. With a soft smile, I whispered, 'Thank you for making even a simple movie night feel so special.' Evan's response was a sweet kiss that sealed our shared moment of intimacy, a promise of many more to come. Evan's gentle inquiry broke through the wall of my thoughts. As the credits still rolled on the screen, he turned to me, his eyes filled with concern. 'Nico,' he began, 'you seem like you're lost in your thoughts. Is something bothering you?' I blinked, my gaze shifting from the blank television screen to Evan's concerned face. For a moment, I hesitated, unsure if I should voice the thoughts that had been gnawing at me since Sarah's reappearance. But then, I realized that Evan deserved to know what was on my mind. 'It's Sarah,' I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. 'What else could it be, right? I pushed her away in my head, so I completely forgot about her. I didn't want to think of her at all, but there she was today.' Evan regarded me with understanding in his eyes. He reached out and gently took my hand, his touch offering solace. 'I can see why seeing her again would stir up old memories and feelings,' he said softly. 'But Nico, have you ever thought that maybe she means it this time? People can change, you know.' I sighed, feeling torn between the past and the present. 'I know,' I replied, 'but it's hard to forget how she hurt me. I mean, she used to be my best friend, Evan, and then she just turned her back on me.' Evan nodded thoughtfully. 'I get that,' he said. 'And I'm not saying you should forget what happened. But maybe you could give her a chance to explain and apologize. It might help you find some closure, even if you don't become best friends again.' I considered Evan's words carefully. He had a way of looking at things from a perspective I sometimes struggled to see. 'You really think I should talk to her?' I asked. Evan smiled warmly, his thumb gently tracing circles on the back of my hand. 'I think it's worth a try,' he said. 'You don't have to be best friends again, but maybe talking to her will help you both heal.' I let out a long breath, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. 'You're right,' I conceded. 'I'll talk to her, see what she has to say.' Evan squeezed my hand affectionately. 'That's the spirit,' he said, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on my forehead. 'Just remember, no matter what happens, I'm here for you, Nico.' I smiled, grateful for Evan's unwavering support. 'We can talk to her tomorrow, or the day after. Or maybe not at all,' I whispered, the weight of Sarah's words still heavy on my heart. A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek, and I fought back the urge to let the floodgates open. Evan's response was immediate. 'Tomorrow,' he said firmly, brushing a thumb over the tear on my cheek. 'We will talk to her tomorrow, Nico.' His reassurance was like a balm to my wounded soul. With Evan beside me, I felt stronger, more capable of facing the past and whatever the future held. It was still early in the evening, but the emotional turmoil of the day had taken its toll on me. With tears in my eyes, I found solace in Evan's arms, and together, we drifted into a peaceful sleep. That night, as the weight of the day's emotional turmoil settled upon me, I didn't dream anything at all. It was as if my mind had finally granted me a respite from the vivid and often cryptic dreams that had been haunting me. The morning sun cast a soft glow through the curtains, gently rousing me from my slumber. I turned to my side, finding Evan still curled up in peaceful sleep beside me. His presence brought a sense of comfort, like a lifeline in the turbulent sea of my thoughts. Slipping out of bed, I moved quietly, not wanting to disturb Evan's rest. I washed up quickly, my mind racing with thoughts of the impending conversation with Sarah. Perhaps it was the unease that had settled in my chest, or maybe it was the desire to make Evan happy after all he'd done for me, but I decided to surprise him with breakfast. In the kitchen, I set to work, determined to make him a batch of pancakes. I'd seen Evan whip up delicious meals effortlessly, and I was convinced that I could do the same. However, as I mixed the ingredients, I couldn't help but feel that something was off. The batter was too thick, and the first pancake I attempted ended up a lumpy mess. I frowned at the stove, wondering how something so simple could go so wrong. I tried again, pouring the batter more carefully this time, but the result was still far from perfect. I sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter, my heart heavy with frustration. It was just pancakes, for goodness' sake. Why was it so difficult? I glanced at the clock and realized that time was slipping away. Evan would wake up soon, and I didn't want him to find me in the midst of a culinary disaster. In a last-ditch effort, I poured another batch of batter onto the hot skillet, praying that this one would turn out better. As I watched the edges of the pancake bubble and the surface begin to set, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could salvage this breakfast surprise. But as I attempted to flip the pancake, disaster struck once again. It folded in on itself, breaking into a chaotic mess of half-cooked batter and a gooey centre. I groaned in frustration, feeling utterly defeated. Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. I turned to see Evan, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning. His hair was adorably tousled, and he wore a sleepy smile that melted away my frustration. 'Morning,' he mumbled, his gaze moving from me to the pancake disaster on the stove. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. 'Morning,' I replied, shaking my head at the mess. 'I tried to make you breakfast, but I think I need a few more cooking lessons.' Evan chuckled, walking over to me and wrapping his arms around my waist. 'Well, I appreciate the effort,' he said, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. 'But I think we'll go for a pancake breakfast at our favourite diner instead. What do you say?' Relief washed over me, and I smiled, grateful for Evan's understanding. 'That sounds perfect,' I replied, leaning into his embrace. 'I promise I'll work on my pancake skills for next time.' Evan laughed again, his warm laughter filling the kitchen. 'I'll hold you to that, Love. Now, shall we get ready for our pancake adventure?' As we left the kitchen behind, hand in hand, I couldn't help but feel a sense of warmth and contentment. Even when things didn't go as planned, Evan had a way of turning any situation into a beautiful moment. Evan's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as he made his offer. 'Let me show you how my grandma taught me to make pancakes. It's a family recipe, and I think you'll love it.' I couldn't help but be intrigued. Evan rarely spoke about his family, and the idea of sharing a cherished family recipe felt like a small window into his world. I nodded eagerly, excited to learn and, more importantly, to create a special memory together. With a grin, Evan went to work, gathering ingredients and setting them out on the kitchen counter. He moved with a practiced ease, a testament to the many times he must have prepared this meal with his grandmother. As I watched him, a warmth spread through my chest, appreciating the privilege of being included in this family tradition. Evan began by whisking together flour, sugar, and a pinch of salt in a large mixing bowl. He had a gentle touch, and his movements were fluid, a testament to the love and care he poured into every step. As the dry ingredients melded together, he added a generous scoop of baking powder, which would give our pancakes that signature fluffy texture. The next step was the most surprising and delightful part of his family recipe—a secret ingredient that added a unique twist to the classic pancake. Evan reached for a small jar labelled 'Grandma's Magic Spice.' He winked at me, keeping the exact contents a mystery. 'I can't reveal the secret,' he teased, pouring a pinch of the spice into the bowl. The aroma that wafted up was heavenly, a blend of warm cinnamon, nutmeg, and a hint of vanilla. It was a scent that instantly made me feel at home. Evan continued to work, adding milk, eggs, and a drizzle of honey to the mixture. He whisked everything together until it formed a smooth, fragrant batter. The batter was thicker than what I had attempted earlier, and I could tell this would lead to the perfect pancakes. With the batter ready, Evan preheated a skillet, lightly greased with a pat of butter. He ladled spoonsful of the aromatic batter onto the skillet, each one sizzling as it made contact. The kitchen filled with the delicious scent of our cooking breakfast. As the pancakes cooked, Evan began to explain how this recipe had been passed down through generations in his family. His grandmother, a talented cook, had shared her love for food with Evan and taught him all her culinary secrets. These pancakes, he said, were a special breakfast treat she had made for him since he was a child. Listening to Evan speak with such fondness about his grandmother brought a new depth to my understanding of him. It was clear that she held a special place in his heart, and now, I was partaking in a tradition she had passed on to him. I felt honoured and privileged to be sharing this moment with him. As the pancakes cooked to a beautiful golden brown, Evan demonstrated the art of the perfect flip. He made it look effortless, and soon, a plate of steaming hot pancakes was ready for us to enjoy. We moved to the dining table, our plates piled high with the fluffy, spice-infused pancakes. With the first bite, I knew that these pancakes were something truly extraordinary. The spices added a depth of flavour that was unlike any pancake I had ever tasted. Each mouthful was a warm, comforting embrace, and I savoured every bite. Evan watched me with a satisfied smile, delighted that his family recipe had been a success. 'See, not so hard, right?' he teased. I chuckled, shaking my head in amazement. 'You're right. These are incredible. Thank you for sharing this with me.' Evan's smile grew softer, more intimate, and he reached across the table to take my hand. 'I'm happy I could share a part of my family with you,' he said, his voice warm and tender. As we enjoyed our pancakes, I couldn't help but feel a sense of closeness and connection that transcended words. In that moment, I realized that our love was not just about the grand gestures or romantic moments but also the simple, everyday experiences we shared. Evan's family recipe had become a part of our story, a cherished memory we would carry with us. Evan's proposal hung in the air like a question mark, and I couldn't help but feel a swirl of emotions. A part of me was reluctant to revisit the past, to open up old wounds. But another part of me, one that had been softened by Evan's reassurance, was curious. Maybe it was time to hear Sarah out. Evan noticed my internal struggle and gently squeezed my hand. 'Nico, we don't have to do this if you don't want to. It's your choice.' I appreciated his understanding, but I also knew that confronting Sarah was something that had to be done sooner or later. I nodded, giving Evan's hand a reassuring squeeze in return. 'Let's do it. But we'll set some boundaries and make it clear that what happened can't be undone.' With that, we made our way to the café, a small, cozy spot with warm lighting and a soothing atmosphere. It was a place that held fond memories for me, as it was where I had first met Sarah all those years ago. As we walked, Evan seemed to be in deep thought, his brow furrowed as if mentally preparing himself for the conversation ahead. I appreciated his dedication to supporting me, even if it meant facing a past, he would rather forget. Once inside the café, we spotted Sarah sitting at a corner table, her face illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. She looked up as we approached, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Evan beside me. 'Nico,' she began, her voice tentative. 'And Evan, too. I didn't expect... I mean, I didn't know you were...together.' Evan and I exchanged a glance, and I could see the hurt in his eyes as he remembered Sarah's words from the previous day. But we were here to confront the past, not dwell on it. I took a deep breath and replied, 'A lot has changed, Sarah.' She nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap for a moment before she looked up at us. 'I know, and I'm so sorry about what I said. It was thoughtless and cruel. I should never have judged you two like that.' Evan spoke up, his voice calm but firm. 'What you said hurt us, Sarah. You've known Nico for so long, and you know how much I care about him. We deserved better than to be dismissed like that.' Sarah seemed genuinely remorseful, her shoulders slumping as she let out a heavy sigh. 'You're right. I messed up. But I'm here now because I want to make amends.' I looked at her, searching her eyes for sincerity. 'What changed, Sarah? Why now?' She hesitated, as if debating how much to reveal. 'Honestly, it's taken me a while to see the error of my ways. I've been doing some self-reflection, and I realized how wrong I was. Losing your friendship was a wake-up call for me, Nico. I miss you.' Evan leaned forward, his voice softening. 'He missed you too, Sarah. But you need to understand that trust is fragile. You can't just say sorry and expect everything to be okay.' Sarah nodded, her expression serious. 'I know, and I'm willing to work on rebuilding that trust. I want to make things right.' I glanced at Evan, silently seeking his opinion. He met my gaze and nodded, a silent agreement that we were willing to give Sarah a chance. It was clear she was genuinely remorseful, and everyone deserved a second chance. 'Okay, Sarah,' I said, my voice softening. 'We'll take this one step at a time. But know that it won't be easy to rebuild what was broken.' She nodded, her eyes filled with gratitude. 'Thank you, Nico. Thank you, Evan. I promise I'll do everything I can to make things right.' As we continued our conversation, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives, one where old wounds could heal and friendships could be mended. As our conversation with Sarah continued, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Sarah seemed different, not the friend I had known for years. She was apologetic, but there was a strange undercurrent to her words. Sarah spoke about how she had been traveling for the past year, exploring new places and meeting new people. She described her experiences in detail, sharing stories about her adventures. Evan, usually an attentive and engaged listener, seemed unusually entranced by her stories. I couldn't help but notice how Evan's attention was fixated on Sarah. His eyes followed her every movement, and he seemed to hang on her every word. It was as if he had fallen under her spell, and I couldn't understand why. Sarah continued to speak, but I found it increasingly difficult to focus on her words. My unease grew as I watched Evan's reaction. I discreetly nudged his foot under the table, trying to get his attention. He glanced at me briefly but quickly returned his gaze to Sarah. The more she spoke, the more I felt like an outsider in their conversation. It was as if I had become invisible, a bystander in a discussion between two people who shared a secret language I couldn't comprehend. After what felt like an eternity, Sarah finally wrapped up her stories and turned to Evan with a warm smile. 'It's been great catching up, Evan. I missed you so much.' Evan nodded, his eyes still locked onto Sarah's. 'I missed you too, Sarah. It's good to see you again.' As the two of them exchanged a heartfelt goodbye, I couldn't help but feel a sense of isolation. Something was definitely amiss, and I needed to figure out what had changed between Evan and Sarah. Once we left the café, I confronted Evan. 'What was that all about, Evan? You were acting so strange in there. It was like you were in a trance.' Evan looked bewildered. 'I was? I didn't notice. I guess I was just caught up in our conversation.' I wasn't convinced. 'It felt like you were hanging on her every word. What happened to the Evan who was upset about what she said yesterday?' Evan's expression darkened, and he sighed. 'I don't know, Nico. I guess I wanted to give her a chance. She seemed sincere about wanting to make amends.' I understood the importance of forgiveness and second chances, but something about Sarah's sudden return and the way she had captivated Evan made me uneasy. 'I'm not saying we shouldn't give her a chance,' I replied. 'But I think we should be cautious. There's something about her that doesn't feel right.' Evan nodded slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. 'You're right, Nico. I'll be more careful. I just got caught up in the moment.' We continued our walk, each of us lost in our thoughts. The unease lingered, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss with Sarah. I knew that we needed to be cautious as we navigated the uncertain waters of rebuilding our friendship with her. As Evan and I walked back home, I couldn't help but think about our encounter with Sarah. There was a knot of unease in my stomach that I couldn't seem to shake. The entire situation felt surreal and unfamiliar. The sun hung low in the sky as we approached our cozy little house. The warm rays of the late afternoon sunbathed our neighbourhood in a golden glow, casting long shadows along the tree-lined streets. With every step, I felt a bit more at ease, knowing that we were returning to the familiarity of our home. The simple act of walking through our front gate felt like stepping into a haven of warmth and security. Upon entering the house, we were greeted by the comforting aroma of home-cooked food. It was one of my mother's signature dishes, a Savory chicken and mushroom casserole that never failed to lift our spirits. My mom, Alice, had always been a wonderful cook, and she had passed down her culinary skills to me. I had learned to appreciate the art of preparing a delicious meal, and I often enjoyed cooking for my mom and Evan. Evan and I exchanged smiles as we entered the kitchen, where the scent of the casserole grew even stronger. The kitchen was bright and inviting, with light streaming in through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. My mom was humming a soft tune as she worked her magic in the kitchen. Her red hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and she moved with a graceful ease that came from years of experience. 'Hey, Mom,' I said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. 'Something smells amazing in here.' She turned to me with a warm smile. 'Well, someone special is coming over for dinner tonight, so I thought I'd make his favourite.' I exchanged a knowing look with Evan. My mom's choice of words wasn't lost on us. She had always been incredibly accepting of our relationship and supportive of my decisions. To her, Evan was just another member of our close-knit family. Evan, always the gentleman, took it upon himself to help with dinner preparations. He grabbed an apron and tied it around his waist, ready to lend a hand in the kitchen. 'Need any help, Alice?' he asked, flashing his charming smile. My mom chuckled. 'Evan, you're always welcome in my kitchen. How about you chop up some fresh herbs for the salad while Nico and I finish up the casserole?' The three of us moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, working in harmony. Evan's fingers expertly handled the herbs, his knife skills on full display. Meanwhile, I stirred the creamy mushroom sauce for the casserole, taking in the tantalizing aroma of garlic and herbs as they wafted through the air. My mom, ever the perfectionist, double-checked the casserole, adjusting the seasoning with a discerning palate. Cooking was more than a chore for her; it was a labour of love, and her dedication to the craft was evident in every dish she created. As we worked together, the tension from our earlier meeting with Sarah seemed to dissipate. The familiar rhythm of cooking and the comfort of being in our own home wrapped around us like a warm embrace. With dinner preparations well underway, we took a moment to chat about our day. My mom asked about our classes, and we filled her in on the events of our morning. We didn't mention the encounter with Sarah, wanting to preserve the tranquil atmosphere in our home. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the kitchen, my mom's casserole was finally ready. She pulled the golden-brown dish from the oven, and the scent that wafted from it was utterly mouthwatering. The three of us gathered around the table, and my mom served generous portions of the Savory casserole onto our plates. The steam rising from the dish only added to the anticipation of the meal. We began to eat, and the flavours of the dish did not disappoint. The chicken was tender, the mushrooms were perfectly sautéed, and the creamy sauce had just the right balance of herbs and spices. It was a meal that wrapped around us like a cozy blanket, comforting and filling. As we savoured each bite, the unease from earlier in the day seemed to be a distant memory. The warm glow of the kitchen, the delicious meal, and the company of my loved ones filled me with a sense of contentment. It was moments like these that reminded me of the importance of family, however we defined it. As we enjoyed the meal, my mom couldn't resist a playful dig. 'Evan, you must be quite the catch to be invited over for dinner twice in one week.' Evan smiled warmly at her. 'I consider myself very lucky to be a part of this family. You make it feel like home.' My mom's eyes twinkled with affection as she looked at him. 'Well, you are always welcome here, Evan.' The evening stretched before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with moments of togetherness. Evan and I decided that watching a movie would be the perfect way to unwind and continue our peaceful evening. We browsed through the collection of DVDs, a mix of classic films and newer releases. Evan suggested a romantic comedy he had seen before and enjoyed, and I readily agreed. With the film selected, we made ourselves comfortable on the couch, ready to lose ourselves in a world of laughter and love. Evan settled in behind me, his warm body enveloping mine as he became the big spoon in our cuddling session. I leaned into his embrace, resting my head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing backdrop to our evening. As the movie began to play, I soon realized that I was more focused on Evan's commentary than the actual plot unfolding on the screen. He had a witty remark or insightful observation for nearly every scene, and I couldn't help but be captivated by his words. 'Did you see that?' he asked, his voice filled with amusement as a comical mishap occurred on screen. I nodded absentmindedly, not wanting to admit that my attention had been divided between the film and the wonderful person cuddling me. 'Uhu,' I replied, a soft smile tugging at my lips as Evan continued to narrate the movie with enthusiasm. It didn't matter that I wasn't fully immersed in the plot; what mattered was the shared experience, the intimacy of the moment. Evan's fingers traced idle patterns on my arm, his touch a gentle reassurance that he was there, holding me close. The glow of the television screen cast a soft, flickering light across our entwined bodies, creating a cocoon of warmth and affection. We laughed at the film's humorous moments, our laughter harmonizing in the air. Sometimes, Evan's laughter would erupt into a hearty chuckle that vibrated through me, making me giggle in response. As the movie approached its climax, I could feel Evan's breath against my neck, his soft kisses trailing along my skin. It was a tender, loving gesture that sent a rush of warmth through me. I tilted my head to the side, inviting his affection. His lips met my skin in a series of gentle, lingering kisses, each one a testament to the love and desire we shared. In that moment, I felt a deep sense of connection with Evan, a profound understanding that went beyond words. As the credits rolled and the film came to an end, I turned to face Evan, my heart overflowing with love and gratitude. Our eyes met, and the unspoken emotions that passed between us were more powerful than any dialogue in the movie. With a soft smile, I whispered, 'Thank you for making even a simple movie night feel so special.' Evan's response was a sweet kiss that sealed our shared moment of intimacy, a promise of many more to come. As Evan and I made our way up the stairs to our bedroom, there was a sense of excitement in the air. It was an ordinary evening, but the love and connection we shared had a way of making even the simplest moments feel extraordinary. The soft glow of the hallway light filtered into our room, casting a warm and inviting aura. We had created a space that was uniquely ours, filled with our shared memories and the promise of many more to come. Evan stood by the door, a silhouette in the dim light. He turned to me, a playful grin tugging at his lips. I couldn't help but admire him in this moment. The way the soft light illuminated his features, highlighting the contours of his body, was utterly mesmerizing. He had always been fit, but now there was a newfound strength in his physique. His shoulders were broad, and his arms were defined, a testament to his dedication to his music and fitness. There was a subtle confidence in the way he held himself, a quiet assurance that had grown with time. My gaze lingered on his chest, where a tantalizing hint of a six-pack peeked through. It was a sight that never failed to make my heart race. He had that magnetic quality, the kind that drew me in effortlessly. As he began to unbutton his shirt, my eyes followed every movement. His fingers danced lightly across the fabric, revealing more of the masterpiece that lay beneath. With each button that gave way, the anticipation in the room grew, a palpable energy that sent shivers down my spine. When he finally removed his shirt, I was treated to the full view. The muscles in his chest and abdomen were sculpted to perfection. His skin was smooth, and the way it stretched over his toned physique was nothing short of art. Evan turned to face me, his eyes meeting mine. There was an openness in his gaze, as if he bared not only his body but his soul. It was a vulnerability that spoke volumes, a silent declaration of the trust we had built together. As my eyes met his, I couldn't help but smile. 'You look so hot, Evan,' I whispered, 'gosh, I Really Fucking love you' my voice filled with admiration. He grinned, a playful spark in his eyes. 'Hot, huh? What does 'really' mean in this context?' he teased. I chuckled, tracing my fingers along the defined lines of his abdomen. 'It means that every day, I discover new reasons to love you, to be captivated by you. 'Really' means that you're more than I could have ever hoped for.' Evan leaned in, his lips meeting mine in a tender kiss. The electricity of our connection coursed through us, igniting a passion that was as fiery as it was tender. We tumbled onto the bed, limbs intertwined, our love and desire fuelling our every touch. The room seemed to disappear, and in that intimate space, it was just us, a symphony of shared affection. The night stretched out before us, a canvas waiting to be filled with the depth of our love. Our hearts and souls danced together, as we lost ourselves in each other's arms. As our kisses deepened, a wave of warmth washed over me. Evan's lips were soft and inviting, and the taste of his desire was like a sweet symphony in my mouth. I savoured the sensation of his breath mingling with mine, the gentle caress of his hands on my body. Our fingers roamed, exploring the landscape of each other's desires. Every touch was electric, sending sparks of pleasure through our bodies. The room seemed to fade away, and it was just us, lost in a world of passion and connection. Evan shifted, positioning himself on my lap, our bodies pressing together with a delicious friction. The intensity of our desire grew the yearning between us palpable. I reached to my nightstand, retrieving something special, something that would take our connection that night, to new heights. As I held it in my hand, a mischievous grin played on my lips. -------------------------------------- I wish I could tell you what unfolded next, but alas, those ever-so-protective laws are like the chaperones at the wildest party in town, ensuring we all behave or at least attempting to. You'll have to use your imagination to fill in the blanks of that intimate scene yourself 😉. The morning dawned with a soft glow filtering through the curtains, a gentle reminder of the world waking up outside. As my eyes fluttered open, the first thing I noticed was the warmth beside me. Evan, still wrapped in the afterglow of our shared moments, lay beside me with a serene expression. The sheets were a tangled testimony to the passion that had unfolded the night before. The room held the sweet scent of intimacy, and for a moment, I couldn't help but smile at the lingering memories. Evan stirred beside me, his eyes slowly opening to meet mine. 'Good morning,' he said, his voice husky with a hint of playfulness. 'Good morning,' I replied, my cheeks warming at the realization of the shared secret between us. Evan's lips curled into a mischievous grin. 'Did you dream of me?' he teased, his eyes dancing with a knowing glint. I chuckled, feeling a playful shyness creep in. 'Maybe,' I said, avoiding a direct answer but letting the implication linger. He leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in a lingering morning kiss. 'I certainly dreamt of you,' he admitted, his tone suggesting a shared connection that extended beyond the waking world. As we disentangled ourselves from the embrace of the bedsheets, there was a subtle shift in the air. Evan, though still the same person I knew and loved, seemed different. The nuances of his expressions, the way his gaze lingered a bit longer, hinted at the shared experience that now bound us together in a new way. Despite the impending responsibilities of the day — Monday meant classes, and life had a way of pressing pause on romance — there was a serene undercurrent to our morning. An unspoken understanding passed between us, a silent agreement to carry the warmth of the night into the light of day. With a shared glance, we silently acknowledged that life would go on, but the magic we'd woven in the quiet hours of the night would linger as a sweet undercurrent beneath the surface of our ordinary day. As we prepared for the day ahead, there was an electric energy that crackled between us, a subtle reminder of the intimacy we had shared just hours before. Evan's touch lingered a fraction longer as we got dressed, his fingers brushing against mine with a warmth that sent shivers down my spine. The air was charged with anticipation as we made our way to the kitchen, our footsteps echoing softly against the floor. Evan's playful banter filled the space between us, a welcome distraction from the weight of the morning's responsibilities. As we entered the kitchen, the scent of brewing coffee mingled with the aroma of breakfast, creating a comforting atmosphere that wrapped around us like a warm embrace. My mom, Alice, greeted us with a smile as she bustled about, preparing a hearty breakfast to fuel us for the day ahead. 'Good morning, you two,' she said, her voice filled with warmth. 'I hope you slept well.' 'We did, thanks,' Evan replied, his grin widening as he shot me a knowing glance. Alice raised an eyebrow, a playful twinkle in her eye. 'I'm glad to hear that,' she said with a knowing smile. As we settled at the kitchen table, the conversation flowed easily between us. Evan regaled my mom with exaggerated tales of our adventures from the night before, embellishing each detail with a flair for the dramatic that had us all laughing. Between bites of pancakes and sips of coffee, we discussed our plans for the day ahead. Despite the looming spectre of classes and deadlines, there was an undercurrent of excitement that pulsed beneath the surface. After breakfast, Evan and I gathered our things and prepared to head to the university. As we stepped out into the crisp morning air, the sun cast long shadows across the pavement, bathing everything in a golden glow. The walk to campus was filled with comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional shared glance or knowing smile. It was as if we were cocooned in our own little bubble, shielded from the outside world by the warmth of our connection. As we approached the university gates, reality began to seep back in, reminding us of the responsibilities that awaited us. After our classes ended for the day, Evan and I agreed to meet outside the university gates to head home together. As I stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight, I scanned the bustling crowd, searching for Evan's familiar figure. It didn't take long for me to spot him, leaning against a nearby tree with his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looked relaxed, a contented smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watched the students milling about. 'Hey,' I called out as I approached, a smile spreading across my face. Evan's gaze shifted to meet mine, and his smile widened in response. 'Hey,' he replied, pushing himself off the tree and falling into step beside me as we made our way out of the university grounds. The walk home was filled with easy conversation and comfortable silence, the rhythm of our footsteps matching the cadence of our shared thoughts. We talked about our classes, our plans for the evening, and everything in between, our words flowing effortlessly as if we had known each other for a lifetime. As we walked, I couldn't help but steal sidelong glances at Evan, marvelling at the way the sunlight caught in his hair and the easy grace with which he moved. There was a magnetism to him, a quiet confidence that drew me in like a moth to a flame. Before I knew it, we had arrived home, our footsteps echoing softly against the pavement as we climbed the steps to the front door. I fished the keys out of my pocket and unlocked the door, ushering Evan inside with a playful grin. As we stepped into the warmth of the house, I felt a sense of relief wash over me, as if I were shedding the weight of the outside world with each passing step. Home was a sanctuary, a place where I could be myself without fear or reservation. 'Welcome home,' I said with a smile as I closed the door behind us, the sound echoing softly in the hallway. Evan returned my smile, his eyes sparkling with warmth and affection. 'It's good to be home,' he replied, his voice soft and sincere. We kicked off our shoes and made our way into the living room, where my mom, Alice, was seated on the couch, engrossed in a book. She looked up as we entered, a smile lighting up her face at the sight of us. 'Hey, you two,' she said, setting her book aside and rising to her feet. 'How was your day?' 'Good,' I replied with a nod, sinking into the couch beside her. 'Classes were fine, nothing too exciting.' Evan nodded in agreement, taking a seat on the other side of the couch. 'Yeah, pretty uneventful,' he added with a shrug. Mom studied us for a moment, her gaze lingering on Evan with a curious expression. 'You two seem awfully chipper,' she remarked, a playful twinkle in her eye. 'Did something happen?' I felt a flush of warmth creep into my cheeks, and I shot a quick glance at Evan, who was grinning at me knowingly. 'Oh, you know,' I said, my voice tinged with a hint of mischief. 'Just another day in paradise.' As the words 'Just another day in paradise' left my lips, there was no knock at the door to interrupt the moment. Instead, my mom, Alice, seized the opportunity to steer the conversation in a different direction. 'Speaking of paradise,' Alice began, a mischievous glint in her eye, 'your birthday is coming up in just a few days, isn't it?' I blinked in surprise at the sudden change in topic, my mind still reeling from the unexpected appearance of Sahra. But as the significance of Alice's words sank in, a rush of excitement bubbled up inside me. My birthday was indeed just around the corner, and the prospect of celebrating with my loved ones filled me with anticipation. 'Yeah, it is,' I replied, a smile spreading across my face as I turned to face Alice. 'I can't believe it's almost here.' Alice returned my smile, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. 'So, have you given any thought to how you want to celebrate?' I paused to consider her question, my mind racing with possibilities. Birthdays had always been special occasions in our household, a time to come together and make cherished memories. I wanted this year to be no exception, a day filled with laughter, love, and joy. 'Well,' I began, tapping my chin thoughtfully, 'I was thinking maybe we could have a small gathering at home. Nothing too fancy, just close friends and family, good food, and maybe a few games or something.' Alice nodded in agreement, her expression thoughtful. 'That sounds lovely,' she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 'We could have a barbecue in the backyard, set up some decorations, and just enjoy each other's company.' I nodded eagerly, the image of a backyard barbecue taking shape in my mind. It sounded perfect – relaxed, laid-back, and filled with the warmth of friendship and love. 'Yeah, that sounds great,' I replied, my excitement growing with each passing moment. 'And maybe we could even have a bonfire later in the evening, roast some marshmallows, tell ghost stories...' Alice's eyes lit up at the suggestion, her smile widening into a grin. 'I love it!' she exclaimed, her enthusiasm contagious. 'It'll be like a mini summer camp right in our own backyard.' I chuckled at the comparison, the idea of a backyard campfire filling me with nostalgia for simpler times. It was moments like these, surrounded by loved ones and enveloped in the warmth of shared laughter, that made life truly special. As we continued to brainstorm ideas for my birthday celebration, the tension from Sahra's unexpected visit began to melt away, replaced by a sense of excitement and anticipation for the days ahead. I couldn't wait to see my birthday vision come to life, surrounded by the people who meant the most to me. After we had hashed out the details of the party – from the menu to the decorations to the guest list – Alice excused herself to make dinner, leaving Evan and me alone in the living room once more. I turned to Evan, a smile playing at the corners of my lips. 'Well, that was unexpected,' I said, a hint of amusement in my voice. Evan chuckled softly, his eyes warm as he regarded me. 'Yeah, but it's good to have something to look forward to,' he replied, reaching out to take my hand in his. 'Your birthday is going to be amazing, I just know it.' His words filled me with warmth, and I squeezed his hand gently in response. 'Thanks,' I said, a soft smile spreading across my face. 'I'm glad you'll be there to celebrate with me.' Evan's smile widened, and he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to my cheek. 'Wouldn't miss it for the world,' he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. In the days leading up to my birthday, anticipation hung thick in the air, like the sweet scent of flowers in bloom. Each day was filled with a palpable sense of excitement, as preparations for the upcoming celebration continued in earnest. With the party just around the corner, there was much to be done. Alice and I spent hours planning and organizing, from finalizing the menu to decorating the backyard with strings of twinkling lights and colourful bunting. Together, we transformed our humble abode into a festive oasis, ready to welcome guests and create lasting memories. Meanwhile, Evan and I found moments of quiet amidst the hustle and bustle, stealing precious hours together to simply enjoy each other's company. Whether it was lounging in the backyard hammock, hand in hand, or taking leisurely strolls through the neighbourhood, every moment spent in Evan's presence felt like a cherished gift. As the days passed, I found myself reflecting on the year that had gone by, the highs and lows, the laughter and tears. It had been a journey filled with unexpected twists and turns, but through it all, one thing remained constant – the unwavering support and love of those closest to me. In the evenings, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world grew quiet, I would often find myself lost in thought, gazing up at the stars and marvelling at the beauty of the universe. It was during these quiet moments of reflection that I found solace and peace, a chance to recharge and prepare for the excitement that lay ahead. And through it all, Evan was there by my side, a constant source of strength and encouragement. His presence brought me comfort and joy, his laughter a balm to soothe my weary soul. Together, we faced each new day with renewed determination and a sense of optimism, ready to embrace whatever the future held. As my birthday drew closer, the anticipation continued to build, like the crescendo of a symphony reaching its climax. With each passing moment, I could feel the excitement mounting, until it felt as though my heart would burst with joy. But for now, I savoured the quiet moments, the stolen glances, and tender touches, knowing that soon, the celebration would begin in earnest. And when the time came, I would be ready to greet the day with open arms, surrounded by the love and laughter of those who mattered most. The morning of my birthday arrived with a soft whisper, stirring me from the depths of sleep. As I slowly blinked my eyes open, I realized that Evan was not beside me, his warmth absents from the bed we shared. Confusion clouded my mind for a moment before I remembered that he had mentioned something about an early morning errand. With a sigh, I stretched my limbs and rose from the bed, feeling a pang of disappointment at not waking up to Evan's familiar presence. Quickly dressing in casual attire, I made my way downstairs to the comforting aroma of pancakes wafting from the kitchen. 'Good morning, birthday boy!' my mom exclaimed cheerfully as I entered the kitchen. Her smile was infectious, and I couldn't help but return it as I approached the table. 'Morning, Mom,' I replied, my voice still groggy with sleep. 'Have you seen Evan by any chance?' My mom shook her head, her brow furrowing with concern. 'No, I haven't. Is he not here? I shrugged, a sense of unease gnawing at my insides. My mom nodded understandingly before gesturing to the plate of pancakes she had prepared. 'Well, why don't you have some breakfast? You need your energy for the day ahead.' I nodded gratefully, taking a seat at the table, and digging into the fluffy stack of pancakes. Each bite was a comforting reminder of the love and care my mom poured into every aspect of my life. After finishing breakfast, I gathered my things and headed out the door, the morning sun casting a warm glow over the familiar streets of our neighbourhood. The walk to campus was quiet, the usual chatter of students absents as I made my way to class alone. Arriving at the lecture hall, I took my usual seat near the front, a sense of solitude settling over me. The absence of Evan's playful banter and comforting presence left a void in my heart, one that I couldn't quite shake. Throughout the lectures, my mind wandered, unable to focus on the professor's words as thoughts of Evan danced through my head. Where could he be? Had something happened to him? The uncertainty gnawed at me, casting a shadow over what should have been a day of celebration. As the class drew to a close, I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the lecture hall, scanning the crowded hallway for any sign of Evan. But he was nowhere to be found, and a sense of frustration washed over me as I realized that I would have to face the rest of the day alone. With a heavy heart, I trudged through the campus, the weight of Evan's absence pressing down on me like a leaden cloak. Each passing moment only served to deepen my worry, and by the time I reached the end of my classes, I was consumed by a sense of unease. But despite my concerns, there was still a glimmer of hope in my heart. Surely Evan wouldn't miss my birthday, would he? I clung to that hope as I made my way back home, my footsteps heavy with anticipation. As I reached our front door, I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to steel myself for what lay ahead. Whatever the reason for Evan's absence, I knew that I had to stay strong, to keep the faith that everything would be just okay. With that thought in mind, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, ready to face whatever the day had in store. 'Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.' — Emily Dickinson Into Darkness [Chapter Three] As I stepped into the house on the morning of my 18th birthday, anticipation buzzed through me like electricity. The air was filled with a palpable sense of excitement, and I couldn't help but smile as I imagined the celebrations that awaited me. My backpack slung over one shoulder, I made my way to my room, the familiar creak of the floorboards echoing in the silence of the house. As I entered my room, I noticed that it seemed unusually quiet, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle that accompanied special occasions like birthdays. A sense of unease tugged at the corners of my mind, but I brushed it aside, determined to focus on the festivities ahead. With a quick glance at the clock, I realized that it was almost time for the party my mom had mentioned earlier. Excitement bubbled up inside me as I hurriedly changed into a fresh outfit, eager to join the celebrations. Making my way to the backyard, I stepped out into the warm sunshine, the scent of freshly cut grass mingling with the tantalizing aroma of barbecue wafting through the air. My heart raced with anticipation as I scanned the crowd, hoping to catch sight of Evan among the familiar faces. But as I looked around, my heart sank. Evan was nowhere to be seen, his absence like a gaping hole in the midst of the festivities. Confusion and disappointment gnawed at me as I tried to make sense of his absence. Had something happened? Had he forgotten about my birthday? I pushed aside my worries, forcing a smile as I greeted the guests who had gathered to celebrate with me. Among them were some of my closest friends, each face bringing back memories of shared laughter and unforgettable moments. There was Alex, my childhood friend from down the street, who had been by my side through thick and thin. And then there was Maya, my high school sweetheart, whose infectious laughter never failed to brighten my day. Their presence brought me a sense of comfort, a reminder that I was surrounded by love and support. But even as I laughed and chatted with my friends, the absence of Evan weighed heavily on my mind. Where could he be? Why hadn't he shown up to celebrate with me? The questions swirled in my mind, casting a shadow over what should have been a joyous occasion. As the hours passed, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the backyard as the sky turned shades of pink and orange. The chatter of guests filled the air, mingling with the sizzle of the barbecue and the strains of music playing softly in the background. But just as the party was reaching its peak, there was a sudden knock at the front door, interrupting the festivities. My heart leaped with hope as I hurried to answer it, convinced that it must be Evan finally arriving. But as my mom opened the door, my hopes were dashed. Standing on the doorstep was Sarah, a sheepish smile on her face as she apologized for being late. My heart sank at the sight of her, the memory of our earlier encounter still fresh in my mind. With a forced smile, I greeted Sarah and ushered her inside, trying to push aside the lingering sense of disappointment. But even as I tried to enjoy the rest of the party, my mind was elsewhere, consumed by thoughts of Evan and the unanswered questions that lingered between us. As the evening wore on and the party began to wind down, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Despite the laughter and chatter that filled the air, there was an underlying sense of unease that refused to be ignored. As the last guests bid their farewells and the music faded into the background, I couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment that lingered like a shadow over the festivities. Evan's absence weighed heavily on my mind, casting a pall over what should have been a joyous occasion. With a heavy heart, I retreated to the sanctuary of my room, seeking solace in the familiar comforts of home. The house was quiet now, the echoes of laughter and conversation fading into the night as I closed the door behind me. Alone in the dim light of my room, I sank onto the edge of my bed, the events of the day replaying in my mind like a broken record. The unanswered questions swirled in my thoughts, tormenting me with their elusive answers. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, noting with a pang of disappointment that it was already late. The exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me, pulling at my eyelids and coaxing me towards sleep. But despite my weariness, sleep eluded me, my mind too consumed by worry and uncertainty to find any semblance of peace. Tossing and turning restlessly, I tried to quiet the relentless chatter of my thoughts, but they refused to be silenced. Outside my window, the night was alive with the gentle rustle of leaves and the distant hum of crickets, a soothing backdrop to my restless thoughts. But even the comforting sounds of the night failed to ease the turmoil that raged within me. With a frustrated sigh, I reached for my phone, hoping that a distraction might offer some respite from my troubled mind. But as I scrolled through my messages and notifications, I found no solace, only a nagging sense of emptiness that seemed to grow with each passing moment. In the silence of my room, the weight of Evan's absence bore down on me like a crushing weight, filling the space with a suffocating sense of loneliness. The ache of longing gnawed at me, a silent reminder of the bond that had been fractured by his inexplicable disappearance. As the minutes stretched into hours, I resigned myself to the futility of sleep, knowing that rest would not come easily in the wake of such uncertainty. With a heavy heart, I sank back against the pillows, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. And so, enveloped in the stillness of the night, I lay awake, lost in a sea of thoughts and emotions, grappling with the unanswered questions that plagued my restless mind. As the hours slipped by and the darkness deepened, I found myself longing for the light of dawn, hoping that with it would come some measure of clarity and peace. As the night wore on and my mind continued to race with worry and uncertainty, a new thought began to take hold. What if something terrible had happened to Evan? The mere notion sent a shiver of fear down my spine, igniting a primal instinct to protect the one I loved. With each passing moment, my anxiety mounted, fuelled by the silence that enveloped the house and the absence of any sign of Evan. I paced the length of my room, my thoughts spinning in a frantic whirlwind of fear and desperation. Tears welled up in my eyes as I entertained the possibility of the worst-case scenario. What if Evan had been hurt, or worse, what if he was...dead? The thought was too horrifying to contemplate, sending a wave of panic coursing through my veins. But even as fear threatened to overwhelm me, a flicker of determination ignited within me. No, I refused to believe that Evan was gone. He was too strong, too resilient to be taken down so easily. After all, he was a demigod, with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. Drawing strength from that thought, I wiped away my tears and squared my shoulders, steeling myself for the task ahead. If there was any chance of finding Evan, of unravelling the mystery of his disappearance, it lay in my hands. With a newfound sense of purpose, I resolved to leave no stone unturned in my search for Evan. I would scour every corner of the city, chase down every lead, and leave no avenue unexplored until I found him. As I made my way downstairs, a sense of determination settled over me, driving out the fear and uncertainty that had plagued me only moments before. I may be alone in this quest, but I was determined to see it through to the end. As I approached the living room, the flickering light of the candle caught my eye, casting eerie shadows across the walls. My heart raced with apprehension as I stepped into the room, the darkness enveloping me like a suffocating blanket. As I drew closer, I could make out two dark figures seated on the couch, their silhouettes barely visible in the dim light. My pulse quickened with a surge of adrenaline, my senses on high alert as I tried to discern their identities. But before I could react, a sudden burst of energy erupted within me, a raw power that surged through my veins like a raging river. In an instant, my hand was enveloped in a shimmering glow, the cold steel of my sceptre materializing in my grasp. With a steely resolve, I advanced further into the room, my eyes locked on the two figures seated before me. I could feel the anger boiling within me, a primal fury that threatened to consume my very being. And then, as if on cue, a voice echoed through the darkness, sending a chill down my spine. 'Well, well, Nico,' the voice sneered, dripping with malice. 'We've been waiting for you.' With a flick of a switch, the room was flooded with light, illuminating the scene before me in stark clarity. There, seated on the couch, was Sarah, her eyes gleaming with a sinister intensity. And next to her, bound and gagged, was my mother, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. A surge of disbelief washed over me as I took in the sight before me. How had Sarah managed to infiltrate our home? And what had she done to my mother? But even as these questions swirled through my mind, a steely determination settled over me. I would not let Sarah or anyone else threaten my family, not while I still drew breath. With a clenched jaw, I levelled my gaze at Sarah, my voice cold and unwavering. 'What have you done?' I demanded, my words laced with anger and defiance. 'Release my mother at once.' Sarah's lips curled into a wicked smile, her eyes glittering with malice. 'Oh, Nico,' she purred, her voice dripping with venom. 'You have no idea what's in store for you.' But before she could utter another word, I raised my sceptre, its glowing light casting a halo of power around me. 'Release her,' I commanded, my voice ringing with authority. Sarah's mocking laughter filled the room, sending a shiver down my spine. 'And what if I don't?' she taunted, her voice dripping with malice. 'You don't even know who I am.' The anger within me surged like a raging inferno, fuelling my determination to put an end to Sarah's wicked schemes once and for all. With a primal roar, I hurled my sceptre with all my might, aiming directly at her malevolent form. The glowing weapon soared through the air, its trajectory true and unwavering as it hurtled toward its target. With a sickening thud, the sceptre pierced through the couch where Sarah had been seated, embedding itself deep into the wall behind her with a resounding crash. But to my shock and horror, Sarah was no longer there. In her place, a swirling trail of darkness snaked its way through the room, vanishing into the night beyond. I watched in disbelief as Sarah's mocking voice echoed from the shadows. 'Kronos wants to see you,' she taunted, her words carrying on the wind. And then, with a final, contemptuous laugh, she vanished into thin air, leaving me standing alone in the wake of her treachery. With a heavy heart, I raced outside, my eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of Sarah's presence. But she was nowhere to be found, her insidious trail disappearing into the night like a phantom. Frustration and anger boiled within me as I realized the gravity of the situation. Sarah's cryptic message could only mean one thing: Kronos, the ancient Titan of time, was somehow involved in her twisted plot. But as the weight of this realization settled over me, a steely resolve hardened within my heart. I would not allow Kronos or anyone else to threaten the safety of my loved ones. With determination coursing through my veins, I vowed to confront this new threat head-on, whatever dangers may lie ahead. With a deep breath, I turned back toward the house, my mind racing with thoughts of the perilous journey that lay before me. But one thing was certain: I would not rest until I found Evan and have uncovered the truth behind Sarah. As I set my mother free from the remnants of the shattered couch, my mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. I had to tell her about Sarah, about Kronos, about everything that had happened. But before I could even form the words, my mother spoke, her voice calm and steady despite the chaos surrounding us. 'So, you know about your dad?' she asked, her gaze piercing through the darkness to meet mine. I froze, my heart skipping a beat as her words washed over me. How could she know? How could she possibly know about my father, about Proteus, the ancient sea god who had fathered me? My mother's eyes softened with understanding as she saw the shock written plainly across my face. 'I wanted to protect you, Nico,' she explained gently. 'I wanted to shield you from the dangers of the world, from the knowledge of your true heritage. But it seems fate has other plans.' I struggled to find my voice, to make sense of the tumultuous storm of emotions raging within me. 'Why didn't you tell me?' I finally managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. My mother sighed, her shoulders slumping with the weight of regret. 'I thought I was doing what was best for you,' she admitted, her voice tinged with sorrow. 'But now, it seems the time for secrets has passed.' I felt a surge of anger and frustration welling up inside me, threatening to consume me whole. But as I looked into my mother's eyes, I saw only love and regret reflected back at me. Despite everything, she had always wanted what was best for me. With a heavy heart, I made a decision. 'I have to find Evan,' I said firmly, determination blazing in my eyes. 'Sarah has him, and Kronos is involved somehow. I can't let them get away with this.' My mother nodded solemnly, her expression grave. 'I understand,' she said quietly. 'But before you go, there's something I want to give you.' She reached into the pocket of her tattered robe and withdrew a small, intricately carved medallion. Its surface glinted softly in the dim light, casting an otherworldly glow across the room. 'This belonged to your father,' my mother explained, her voice trembling slightly with emotion. 'He told me that you would know when the time was right to receive it.' I took the medallion from her outstretched hand, feeling a strange sense of familiarity wash over me as I held it in my palm. The metal was cool against my skin, but it seemed to thrum with an unseen energy, pulsing with a power that I couldn't quite comprehend. As I gazed down at the medallion, my eyes began to glow with an ethereal light, my senses tingling with an electrifying sensation unlike anything I had ever experienced before. It was as if the medallion held the key to unlocking some deep, hidden truth within me, a truth that had been waiting to be revealed. With a sense of purpose coursing through my veins, I enveloped my mother in a tight embrace, the medallion clutched tightly in my hand. 'I will come back,' I promised her, my voice filled with determination. And with that, I stepped out into the dark, freezing night, my heart set on one thing and one thing only: finding Evan and unravelling the mysteries that lay ahead. “Into the darkness we must venture, guided by the light within our hearts.” — Nico Adams Again [Chapter Four] With a sense of urgency propelling me forward, I stepped out into the night, the cool breeze of the early morning air stirring the hem of my clothes. The city stretched out before me, a labyrinth of streets and alleyways, each one holding the potential to lead me closer to Evan. With a deep breath, I set out into the darkness, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and determination. I didn't know where this journey would lead me, or what dangers lay ahead, but one thing was certain: I would not rest until Evan was found. I ventured into the night, the dim glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the empty streets. The city seemed to slumber beneath the moon's watchful gaze, but my heart raced with an urgency that refused to be stilled. Every step I took carried me closer to the unknown, closer to the truth I sought. Navigating the familiar streets with a sense of purpose, I retraced the path Evan had once led me down. Memories flooded my mind as I passed by landmarks we had once explored together, each one a bittersweet reminder of the journey we had shared. As I reached the outskirts of the city, the urban landscape gave way to the quiet embrace of nature. The darkness of the night enveloped me as I ventured deeper into the wilderness, the rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets the only sounds to break the silence. Eventually, I found myself standing before the old house in the woods, its weathered facade a silent sentinel against the passage of time. Memories of my previous journey flooded back, the sense of wonder and trepidation mingling in my mind. Approaching the house, I felt a surge of anticipation coursing through my veins. This was where it had all begun, where Evan had first revealed the existence of the portal that would change everything. With a trembling hand, I reached out to touch the rough-hewn wood of the door, half expecting it to dissolve beneath my touch. But the door remained solid and unyielding, a silent guardian standing between me and the unknown. With a deep breath, I pushed it open, the hinges creaking in protest as they swung wide to admit me. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dust and decay, a testament to the passage of time. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the grimy windows, casting long shadows across the empty room. Making my way through the house, I followed the same path Evan had once led me down. Each step felt like a journey into the unknown, the anticipation building with every passing moment. Finally, I reached the room where the portal lay hidden, its ancient stone archway beckoning me forward. The air hummed with energy, a palpable sense of anticipation filling the room. Standing before the portal, I felt a surge of emotion wash over me. This was it – the gateway to another world, the key to unlocking the mysteries that had eluded me for so long. With a steadying breath, I reached out to touch the smooth surface of the portal, the cool stone sending a shiver down my spine. Closing my eyes, I focused my thoughts on Evan, on the love that bound us together across time and space. And then, with a rush of air and a blinding flash of light, I stepped through the portal, leaving behind the familiar world I knew in search of the one I had lost. a sensation of weightlessness washed over me, as though I were being pulled through the fabric of reality itself. Colours swirled around me in a dizzying whirlwind, blending and shifting until they coalesced into a blinding light that engulfed my senses. When the light finally subsided, I found myself standing in the heart of Olympus, the legendary home of the gods. But this was not the desolate ruin I had encountered on my previous journey. Instead, I stood amidst a landscape of breathtaking beauty – rolling hills covered in lush greenery, crystal-clear streams winding their way through the verdant valleys, and towering mountains that pierced the sky. The air was alive with the sound of birdsong and the rustle of leaves, a symphony of life that echoed through the tranquil landscape. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the idyllic scene. I took in the sight before me, a sense of awe washed over me. This was Olympus, the realm of the gods, a place of untold wonders and ancient mysteries. And yet, despite its grandeur, there was a palpable sense of peace and tranquillity that filled the air, as though the very essence of the land had been infused with serenity. With a sense of reverence, I began to explore this new Olympus, marvelling at its beauty and soaking in the magic that seemed to infuse every inch of the landscape. Each step filled me with a sense of wonder and awe, as though I were walking through a living dream. As I wandered through the verdant valleys and climbed the towering peaks, I felt a sense of connection to this place, as though it were calling out to me on some primal level. It was as though I had come home to a place that had been waiting for me since the dawn of time. As I traversed the wondrous landscapes of Olympus, I found myself in awe of the beauty that surrounded me. Everywhere I looked, there were wonders to behold – from majestic waterfalls cascading down rocky cliffs to lush forests teeming with life. The air was imbued with a sense of magic, and I couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement coursing through my veins. As I wandered deeper into the heart of Olympus, I suddenly caught sight of a figure standing amidst a grove of ancient trees. As I drew closer, I realized that it was Hermes, the messenger of the gods, his lithe form wrapped in a cloak of shimmering gold. Hermes turned to face me, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in my presence. 'Nico,' he exclaimed, his voice filled with astonishment. 'What are you doing here?' 'I've come to find my father,' I replied, my voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach. 'Do you know where I can find him?' Hermes regarded me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. 'Your father...' he murmured, as though considering his words carefully. 'Yes, I know where he is. Follow me.' With that, Hermes began to lead me through the winding paths of Olympus, his steps quick and sure. As we walked, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude towards him – after all, he was the one who had guided me through this mystical realm on my previous journey. As Hermes and I walked through the enchanting landscapes of Olympus, I found myself falling into step with him, eager to learn more about this mystical realm and the gods who dwelled within it. 'So, Hermes,' I began, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. 'What has been happening in Olympus since I was last here?' Hermes cast me a sidelong glance, his expression thoughtful. 'Much has changed since your last visit, Nico,' he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. 'The gods have been grappling with their own struggles and conflicts, as they always do. But there have been moments of peace and prosperity as well.' I nodded, absorbing his words as we continued our journey. I couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for the vibrant and bustling Olympus of my childhood, with its lively gatherings and majestic feasts. 'And what about you, Hermes?' I asked, curiosity tugging at my mind. 'How have you been faring?' Hermes offered me a wry smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 'Oh, you know me, Nico,' he replied, his voice light. 'Always busy, always on the move. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Being the messenger of the gods keeps me on my toes, that's for sure.' I chuckled at his words, unable to suppress a sense of fondness for the mischievous messenger. Hermes had always been a constant presence in my life, guiding me through the trials and tribulations of the mortal and immortal worlds alike. 'Where did you get this?' he asked, his eyes narrowing in concern as he took in the gleaming pendant. 'You'd better ask your father about that.' His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden within the medallion. But for now, my focus was on finding my father and unravelling the mysteries that awaited me in this enchanted realm. As we walked, I found myself drawing closer to my destination – the throne room of my father, the mighty Proteus. And with each step, my resolve grew stronger, fuelled by the determination to uncover the secrets that lay hidden within the heart of Olympus. As I stood before my father, the mighty Proteus, I couldn't help but feel a swirl of emotions coursing through me – a mixture of apprehension, longing, and a deep-seated need for answers. 'Father,' I began, my voice steady but tinged with uncertainty. 'It's been too long since I last stood in your presence.' Proteus regarded me with a warm smile, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. 'Indeed, it has, my son,' he replied, his voice resonating with the power of ages. 'But you are always welcome here in Olympus. What brings you to my throne room today?' I took a deep breath, gathering my thoughts before continuing. 'I come seeking answers, Father,' I said, my voice trembling slightly. 'Answers about Evan, about Kronos, about everything that has been happening in my life.' Proteus's expression softened, his gaze turning thoughtful as he regarded me. 'Ah, Evan,' he mused, a hint of understanding flickering in his eyes. 'Your mortal companion. Tell me, son, what has happened to him?' I felt a lump form in my throat as I recounted the events of the past days – Evan's sudden disappearance, the ominous presence of Sarah, and the chilling realization that Kronos may have returned to exact his revenge. As I spoke, Proteus listened intently, his features betraying no hint of emotion. But when I mentioned Kronos, a shadow seemed to pass over his face, his eyes darkening with a sense of foreboding. 'Kronos,' he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'The Titan of Time, the ancient enemy of the gods. I had hoped that he was banished from this realm forever.' I nodded, my heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty. 'I thought so too, Father,' I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. 'But now... now I fear that he may have returned, and that Evan is in grave danger.' Proteus's gaze hardened, his features becoming stern as he regarded me. 'You seem angry, son,' he observed, his voice gentle but probing. 'What is it that troubles you? Is it merely concern for your friend, or is there something else?' I hesitated, unsure of how to voice the turmoil that churned within me. But then, with a sigh, I knew that I could no longer keep the truth hidden. 'Dad,' I began, my voice faltering. 'There's something I need to tell you. Something that I've kept hidden for far too long.' Proteus raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. 'Go on, Nico,' he urged, his voice soft but encouraging. 'You can tell me anything.' I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. 'Evan,' I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. 'He's not just my friend. He's... he’s, my boyfriend.' For a moment, there was silence in the throne room, as my words hung in the air between us. Then, to my surprise, Proteus burst into laughter, his booming voice echoing off the walls of the chamber. 'Oh, Nico,' he chuckled, a warm smile spreading across his face. 'Why would I be angry about that? Do you truly think I wouldn't keep an eye on my own son, even in matters of the heart?' I blinked in astonishment, hardly daring to believe what I was hearing. 'You... you knew?' I stammered, my mind reeling with disbelief. Proteus nodded, his expression filled with paternal affection. 'Of course, I knew,' he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. 'And I couldn't be prouder of you, my son. Love is a powerful force, Nico, and it should be cherished wherever it is found.' Tears welled up in my eyes as I gazed at my father, overwhelmed by his acceptance, and understanding. In that moment, I knew that I was truly blessed to have him by my side, guiding me through the trials and tribulations of life. 'Thank you, Dad,' I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. 'Thank you for accepting me, for loving me, just as I am.' Proteus smiled, his eyes shining with pride. 'Always, Nico,' he said, his voice filled with warmth. 'Always.' As I stood before my father, the mighty Proteus, I couldn't help but marvel at his awe-inspiring presence. In his true form, he towered above me, his figure shrouded in an ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from within. His features were regal and commanding, with piercing eyes that held the wisdom of the ages. But then, with a graceful motion, Proteus began to shift and change before my eyes. His form rippled like water, morphing, and twisting until he stood before me in the guise of a mortal man – tall and dignified, with a kind smile upon his lips. 'Dad,' I whispered, awestruck by his transformation. 'How do you do that?' Proteus chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 'It's a skill that comes with age, my son,' he replied, his voice warm and reassuring. 'But enough about me. Tell me, Nico, what is it that troubles you?' I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation that lay ahead. 'Dad,' I began, my voice tinged with uncertainty. 'Mom gave me this,' I said, holding up the medallion that she had entrusted to me. 'What is it, and how do I use it?' Proteus's eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the medallion, his expression turning serious. 'Ah, the medallion,' he mused, reaching out to take it from my hands. 'This is a powerful artifact, Nico, one that has been passed down through our family for generations.' I listened intently as Proteus explained the significance of the medallion – how it was imbued with ancient magic, capable of unlocking hidden powers and revealing secrets long forgotten. He told me of its origins, of how it had been forged by the gods themselves and entrusted to mortal hands. 'As for how to use it,' Proteus continued, his voice growing solemn. 'That, my son, is a question that only you can answer. The medallion responds to the strength of your will, unlocking its power when you need it most.' I nodded, feeling a sense of determination welling up inside me. 'Thank you, Dad,' I said, my voice filled with gratitude. 'I'll keep it safe, and I'll use it wisely.' Proteus smiled, his eyes shining with pride. 'I know you will, Nico,' he said, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'You have the heart of a hero, my son, and I have every faith that you will rise to whatever challenges lie ahead.' With his words echoing in my mind, I felt a renewed sense of purpose stirring within me. Whatever trials awaited me on my journey, I knew that I would face them with courage and determination, guided by the love and wisdom of my father. As I stood before my father, the weight of my worries pressing down upon me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort in his presence. His eyes held a depth of wisdom that seemed to pierce through the darkness of my doubts, offering me guidance and reassurance in equal measure. 'Dad,' I began, my voice trembling slightly with uncertainty. 'What should I do now? How can I find Evan and stop Kronos?' Proteus regarded me thoughtfully for a moment before speaking, his gaze intense and penetrating. 'Tell me, Nico,' he said, his voice deep and resonant. 'What did you do last time? How did you defeat Kronos?' I took a deep breath, summoning forth the memories of our previous encounter with the Titan lord. 'Well,' I began, 'last time, I confronted Kronos in battle. I used all the powers at my disposal – my strength, my agility, and the elemental magic that flows through my veins. And when I finally defeated him, he crumbled to dust.' Proteus nodded, his expression grave. 'Yes,' he said. 'But you made a mistake, Nico. You failed to collect the dust – the essence of Kronos – before it dissipated into the wind. And as a result, his essence was able to reform and rise again from the ashes.' My heart sank as I realized the gravity of my oversight. 'But what can I do now?' I asked, feeling a sense of desperation creeping into my voice. 'Kronos is stronger than ever, and this time, he's not alone. He has Sarah by his side, and I have no one.' Proteus placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me in the midst of my turmoil. 'Oh, Nico,' he said, his voice gentle yet firm. 'You have me. You have the whole Olymp by your side. But more importantly, you have yourself. You're my son, and you possess the power of all the gods within you.' I looked up at my father, my eyes searching his face for reassurance. 'But how can I stop Kronos?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Proteus smiled, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes. 'You have the medallion, Nico,' he said, gesturing towards the ancient artifact that hung around my neck. 'The Medallion of Olympus. With its power at your command, you can face any challenge that comes your way.' I felt a surge of determination coursing through my veins, buoyed by the belief that I held the key to victory within me. 'Thank you, Dad,' I said, my voice steady with resolve. 'I won't let you down.' With those words ringing in my ears, I turned to face the daunting task that lay ahead. But as I stepped forward into the unknown, I knew that I carried with me the strength and courage of my father, guiding me every step of the way. I turned back to my father, a glimmer of hope igniting within me as I sought his guidance once more. 'Where would I find Kronos and Evan?' I asked, my voice tinged with urgency. Proteus regarded me with a solemn expression, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the horizon. 'Like last time,' he said, his voice steady and unwavering, 'Kronos resides in his fortress, a bastion of darkness hidden from mortal eyes.' A surge of determination coursed through my veins as I absorbed his words. 'And Evan?' I pressed, my heart aching with the need to find him, to ensure his safety. Proteus nodded, his eyes meeting mine with unwavering resolve. 'Evan will be with Kronos,' he said, his voice grave. 'But fear not, Nico. You will find them both, and you will bring them home.' I felt a sense of relief wash over me at my father's words, a flicker of hope burning bright within the depths of my soul. 'How will I get there?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Proteus smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. 'Hermes can open a portal for you,' he said, gesturing towards the god of messengers, who stood nearby, his expression unreadable. I turned to Hermes, a surge of gratitude welling up within me. 'Thank you,' I said, my voice filled with emotion. 'I won't forget this.' With a sense of purpose driving me forward, I stepped towards Hermes, ready to embark on the next leg of my journey. And as the portal opened before me, a path stretching out into the unknown, I knew that I was ready to face whatever trials lay ahead. As I approached Hermes, the god of messengers regarded me with a knowing smile, his eyes alight with the spark of divine power. With a flick of his wrist, he raised his staff high above his head, the polished wood gleaming in the dim light of the Olymp. A surge of energy rippled through the air, crackling with otherworldly power as Hermes called upon the forces of the cosmos to heed his command. With each movement of his staff, the air seemed to shimmer and dance, as if bending to his will. And then, with a final flourish, Hermes brought his staff crashing down to the ground, the impact sending shockwaves reverberating through the earth beneath our feet. In an instant, the space before us was rent asunder, torn open by the sheer force of Hermes' divine magic. A swirling vortex of darkness and light erupted into existence, a mesmerizing display of celestial power that filled the air with a crackling energy. At its centre, a radiant purple hue pulsed and throbbed, casting an ethereal glow that bathed the surrounding landscape in its otherworldly light. I stood transfixed before the portal, the sheer magnitude of its presence washing over me like a tidal wave. It seemed to stretch out into infinity, a gateway to realms unknown, beckoning me to step forward and embark on a journey of epic proportions. With a deep breath, I steeled myself for what lay ahead, my heart pounding with anticipation as I prepared to cross the threshold into the unknown. As I stepped forward, the swirling energies of the portal enveloped me, wrapping me in a cocoon of pulsating light and shadow. For a brief moment, I felt as though I was suspended in limbo, a timeless void where past, present, and future converged in a kaleidoscope of sensation. Then, with a sudden rush of motion, I was hurtling forward, hurtling through the heart of the portal with dizzying speed. The world around me blurred and shifted, a whirlwind of colour and sound that seemed to stretch on for eternity. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tumultuous journey came to an end, and I found myself standing on the other side of the portal, my feet planted firmly on solid ground once more. I took a moment to gather my bearings, the echoes of the portal's magic still reverberating in my mind. And as I looked out upon the unfamiliar landscape that stretched out before me, I knew that my quest had only just begun. The fortress, a grim bastion of darkness, rose before me like a foreboding monument to ancient malevolence. Its sheer walls, crafted from weathered stone and reinforced with blackened iron, stretched high into the sky, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. Turrets and battlements adorned its ramparts, their jagged forms silhouetted against the murky horizon, while ominous clouds gathered overhead, obscuring the feeble light of the waning moon. Approaching the fortress, I felt a palpable sense of trepidation gnawing at my insides, a cold knot of fear tightening in my chest with every step. The very air seemed to grow heavy with foreboding, as if the very stones of the fortress whispered tales of ancient evils that lay within. As I drew closer, the enormity of the fortress became increasingly apparent, its imposing silhouette dominating the bleak landscape. The gateway, flanked by towering pillars adorned with grotesque carvings and inscrutable runes, stood as a forbidding threshold, barring entry to all but the most daring or foolhardy. The heavy iron doors, festooned with elaborate patterns of twisted metal and riveted studs, loomed ominously before me, their darkened surfaces seeming to absorb what little light remained in the dreary surroundings. Each creak of their hinges sent shivers down my spine, as if the very fabric of reality protested my intrusion into this accursed place. Summoning all of my courage, I reached out to push open the doors, the weight of centuries of history and suffering bearing down upon me like an invisible burden. With a grinding groan, the doors slowly swung inward, revealing the dimly lit interior of the fortress beyond. Stepping across the threshold, I entered a vast, cavernous chamber that seemed to stretch on into infinity, its walls lined with flickering torches that cast dancing shadows across the cold stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, mingled with the faint tang of ancient magic that permeated the very stones of the fortress. Every sound echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the walls like whispers of forgotten secrets and lost souls. Each footstep seemed to ring out like a death knell, a reminder of the perilous journey that lay ahead. With wary eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, I pressed forward, the weight of my mission heavy upon my shoulders. I knew that within these darkened halls, Kronos awaited, along with the horrors he had unleashed upon the world. But despite the fear that threatened to consume me, I steeled myself for the challenges ahead, determined to confront the darkness and emerge victorious. For Evan's sake, and for the sake of all those who had fallen victim to Kronos' tyranny, I would not falter. As I ventured deeper into the fortress, the memories of my previous encounter with Kronos flooded my mind, guiding my steps through the labyrinthine corridors with an eerie sense of familiarity. The stone walls, worn smooth by the passage of time, loomed ominously overhead, their surfaces adorned with ancient symbols and faded inscriptions that spoke of forgotten powers and dark magics. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and decay, mingling with the faint tang of ozone that clung to the shadows like a malevolent presence. The only sound was the echoing tread of my footsteps, each one a solitary echo in the oppressive silence that surrounded me. Despite the darkness that shrouded the fortress, the path ahead was clear in my mind, illuminated by the faint glow of the medallion clasped tightly in my hand. Its soft light cast long shadows along the cold stone walls, revealing glimpses of intricate carvings and faded murals that adorned the ancient corridors. As I passed through each chamber and antechamber, I felt a sense of dejá vu wash over me, as if I were retracing the steps of a forgotten dream. The familiar twists and turns of the fortress seemed to stretch on endlessly, leading me ever deeper into the heart of darkness. Finally, I arrived at the chamber where I had faced Kronos in battle so many months before. The room was empty now, devoid of the oppressive presence that had once filled it with dread. The walls stood silent sentinels, their ancient stones bearing silent witness to the passage of time. With a sense of unease gnawing at my gut, I pressed on, determined to uncover the truth behind Kronos' disappearance and Evan's whereabouts. The dim light of the medallion cast long shadows along the corridor, its flickering glow revealing glimpses of twisted statues and crumbling tapestries that lined the walls. As I continued my search, my footsteps echoing through the empty halls, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every shadow seemed to writhe and shift in the flickering light, whispering secrets that I could not comprehend. But I refused to be deterred by fear or uncertainty. With each step forward, I drew closer to the answers I sought, my resolve unshaken by the darkness that threatened to consume me. For Evan's sake, and for the sake of all those who had fallen victim to Kronos' wrath, I would not rest until the truth was revealed. As I delved deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of the fortress, I encountered chambers and rooms that held both wonder and dread. In one chamber, I stumbled upon a vast library, its shelves lined with ancient tomes and scrolls containing untold secrets of the universe. Dusty manuscripts lay scattered across tables, their faded pages whispering of forgotten knowledge and forbidden lore. In another room, I found myself standing before a vast chamber filled with intricate machinery and arcane devices, their purpose shrouded in mystery. Strange symbols adorned the walls, glowing softly in the dim light, while strange contraptions hummed and whirred with otherworldly energy. As I ascended the winding staircase that led to the tower at the top of the fortress, I felt a sense of anticipation building within me. The air grew colder with each step, and a chill wind whipped at my cloak as I emerged onto the battlements. From the vantage point of the tower, I could see the sprawling landscape spread out before me, the distant mountains shrouded in mist and shadow. But my gaze was drawn to a figure standing alone at the edge of the fortress, their form obscured by a dark cloak that billowed in the wind. My heart quickened as I approached, the sense of foreboding growing stronger with each step. Who could this mysterious figure be, and what did they want with me? I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking into a trap, but I pressed on, driven by a need to uncover the truth. As I drew closer, I could make out the faint outline of the figure's features, their silhouette cast against the fading light of the setting sun. My pulse raced with anticipation as I stood just a few meters away, the tension thick in the air between us. With a deep breath, I stepped forward, my eyes fixed on the figure before me. There was no turning back now, no retreat from the path that lay ahead. Whatever awaited me in the darkness, I would face it head-on, armed with nothing but courage and determination. With trembling hands, the figure slowly pulled back the hood of the cloak, revealing the face beneath. My heart skipped a beat as I beheld the familiar features of Evan, but what I saw filled me with a profound sense of dread. His eyes, once warm and kind, now burned with an intense, fiery red glow that seemed to pierce straight through me. Before I could react, Evan's hands moved with lightning speed, retrieving a bow from his back, and drawing an arrow with lethal precision. With a swift motion, he released the arrow, sending it whistling past my ear with deadly accuracy. I staggered back in shock, my mind reeling from the sudden turn of events. 'Evan... what... what's happening?' I stammered, my voice choked with fear and confusion. But Evan's response was not what I expected. Instead of offering an explanation, he let out a chilling laugh that sent shivers down my spine. 'You're searching for me,' he said, his voice echoing with an otherworldly resonance that sent a chill down my spine. Before I could comprehend his words, Evan turned and began to run, his movements unnaturally swift and fluid. But as I watched in horror, I realized that he wasn't running—he was flying. Wings, dark and leathery, unfurled from his back, propelling him into the air with a speed and grace that defied belief. I stood frozen in place, my mind struggling to process the surreal sight before me. My beloved Evan, transformed into something dark and otherworldly, was now fleeing from me with a speed and agility that seemed impossible. Tears welled up in my eyes as the reality of the situation crashed down upon me. My heart shattered into a million pieces as I realized that the Evan I knew and loved was gone, replaced by this twisted, demonic version of himself. With a strangled cry, I sank to my knees, the weight of despair crushing me like a leaden weight. I felt as though I were drowning in an ocean of grief and confusion, my mind consumed by a whirlwind of emotions too overwhelming to bear. The fortress loomed over me like a silent sentinel, its cold stone walls mocking my pain and suffering. I pressed my hands against the rough surface of the fence wall, my body wracked with sobs as I struggled to make sense of the nightmare unfolding around me. In that moment, I felt utterly alone, adrift in a sea of darkness with no hope of rescue. The world around me seemed to blur and fade, the sounds of the night swallowed up by the deafening roar of my own despair. And as I knelt there, broken, and defeated, I knew that I was truly lost. Lost in a world where the boundaries between friend and foe, love, and hatred, had been irrevocably shattered, leaving me adrift in a void of uncertainty and fear. As I sat there, crumpled against the fortress wall, the weight of my grief pressing down on me like an insurmountable burden, I felt as though I could barely summon the strength to lift my head. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of the anguish that gripped my soul. In the distance, a faint flicker of movement caught my eye, drawing my gaze toward the horizon where shadows danced against the backdrop of the night. At first, it was just a solitary figure, barely discernible against the darkened landscape. But as I watched, the figure began to multiply, multiplying until it became a small group of individuals moving steadily closer. I tried to rise to my feet, to greet them with some semblance of dignity, but my body refused to cooperate. I felt rooted to the spot, weighed down by the enormity of my despair, unable to move as the figures drew nearer. As they approached, their forms became clearer, taking shape in the dim light of the fortress. There was my father, Proteus, the ancient god of the sea, his weathered face etched with concern as he surveyed the scene before him. Beside him stood Hermes, the messenger of the gods, his golden wings glinting in the moonlight as he scanned the area with sharp, observant eyes. And then there were others, faces that I recognized from tales told around the hearth, from the myths and legends of ancient Greece. There was Athena, the wise goddess of wisdom and warfare, her piercing gaze filled with a sense of determination. And there was Apollo, the radiant god of the sun, his golden chariot trailing behind him as he rode through the night sky. As they drew closer, I could see the concern etched into their expressions, the gravity of the situation reflected in their solemn demeanour. They had come in response to my distress call, summoned by the ancient bonds that connected us all as children of Olympus. My heart swelled with a mixture of relief and gratitude at the sight of them, knowing that I was not alone in this dark hour. Though I had felt abandoned and forsaken, they had not forgotten me, had not turned their backs on me in my time of need. But even as a glimmer of hope began to stir within me, I knew that my troubles were far from over. The journey ahead would be fraught with peril, the path uncertain and treacherous. Yet with the gods at my side, I felt a newfound sense of courage, a determination to face whatever challenges lay ahead with unwavering resolve. With a heavy heart and a determined spirit, I waited for them to approach, knowing that together, we would confront the darkness that threatened to engulf us and emerge victorious on the other side. As my father approached, his form towering over me with an air of paternal authority, I felt a surge of mixed emotions wash over me. Relief, gratitude, and a lingering sense of trepidation mingled together as he extended his hand toward me, a silent offer of support and reassurance. With trembling fingers, I reached out to grasp his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet with a strength that belied his age. As I rose unsteadily, I found myself face to face with the god who had been both a distant figure of awe and an absent presence throughout much of my life. 'Dad,' I murmured, my voice choked with emotion as I struggled to find the words to express my gratitude and confusion. He simply smiled down at me, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of warmth and understanding. 'There, there, Nico,' he said gently, patting me on the shoulder. 'No need for tears now. We're here to help you.' I nodded, swallowing hard as I tried to compose myself in front of the assembled group of gods. Hermes, ever the swift-footed messenger, stood beside my father, his expression a curious mix of concern and curiosity as he surveyed me from head to toe. 'Hey there, kiddo,' he said, flashing me a lopsided grin. 'Long time no see. What's got you all in a tizzy?' I managed a weak smile in return, grateful for the familiar banter that eased some of the tension coiled tight within my chest. 'It's a long story,' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. Before I could say more, my mother emerged from the shadows, her presence a comforting presence amidst the gathering storm. Her eyes were filled with concern as she approached, her gaze flickering between me and my father as if searching for answers. 'Nico, darling, are you all right?' she asked, her voice soft with worry. I nodded, unable to trust my voice as I met her gaze. 'I'm okay, Mom,' I assured her, reaching out to take her hand in mine. 'Just...a little shaken up, is all.' She squeezed my hand gently, her eyes filled with unspoken understanding. 'Whatever it is, we'll face it together,' she said, her voice steady and reassuring. As we stood there, surrounded by the gods of Olympus, a sense of calm settled over me, dispelling some of the lingering fear and uncertainty that had gripped my heart. With my family by my side, I knew that I could overcome whatever challenges lay ahead, no matter how daunting they might seem. But even as I drew strength from their presence, a nagging question lingered at the back of my mind, begging for an answer. 'What are you doing here, Mom?' I asked, turning to her with a furrowed brow. 'And what do we do now?' My mother's expression softened, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve as she met my gaze. 'I came here to help you, Nico,' she said quietly. 'And as for what comes next...well, I suppose we'll have to figure that out together.' My father's voice cut through the air like a knife, sharp and authoritative. 'Your mother, Nico, is no ordinary woman,' he began, his tone grave and solemn. 'She is the daughter of Hephaistos, the god of fire and forge, a demigoddess born of divine blood.' The words hit me like a thunderbolt, sending shockwaves of realization rippling through my mind. My mother, a demigoddess? It was almost too much to comprehend, too fantastical to believe. And yet, deep down, I knew that it explained so much—the strange dreams, the flickering flames of power that danced within me, the sense of otherworldly destiny that had always lingered just beyond my grasp. 'She has kept her true identity hidden from you for your own protection,' my father continued, his voice softening with sympathy. 'But now that you have come of age, it is time for you to embrace the full extent of your heritage, to wield the powers that lie dormant within you.' I nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy cloak. It was a lot to take in, a revelation that turned my world upside down and inside out. But as the initial shock began to fade, a sense of clarity emerged, a newfound understanding of who I was and what I was destined to become. 'And what about you, Dad?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. 'What role do you play in all of this? My father's gaze softened, a hint of sadness flickering in his eyes. 'I am but a humble servant of the sea, Nico,' he replied, his voice tinged with regret. 'Though I may not possess the fiery power of your mother, I have always watched over you from afar, guiding you and protecting you as best I could.' A surge of gratitude welled up inside me, mingled with a twinge of guilt. My father had always been there for me, even when I had turned my back on him in anger and frustration. And now, as I stood on the precipice of a new chapter in my life, I realized just how much his guidance and support meant to me. 'Thank you, Dad,' I said, my voice choked with emotion. 'For everything. 'Why did you leave us, then?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. 'Why did you leave me with Mom?' Proteus sighed, his expression pained. 'I am a god, Nico,' he replied, his voice tinged with regret. 'I cannot remain in the mortal realm for long, and I can only have one child in a millennium. It was not my choice to leave you, but rather a necessity dictated by the laws of my kind.' His words struck a chord within me, stirring up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. On one hand, I understood the constraints that bound him, the limitations of his divine nature. But on the other hand, I couldn't shake the lingering sense of abandonment that had plagued me for so long. 'But why couldn't you stay?' I pressed, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into my voice. 'Why couldn't you be there for me, like a real father?' Proteus's gaze softened, his eyes filled with sorrow. 'I wish things could have been different, Nico,' he said, his voice heavy with regret. 'But know that I have always been with you, in spirit if not in person. Everywhere the water flows, my eyes are there, watching over you, protecting you from harm.' His words struck a chord within me, thawing the icy tendrils of resentment that had wrapped themselves around my heart. For the first time, I began to see my father not as an absentee deity, but as a loving parent who had done everything in his power to ensure my safety and well-being. 'I understand, Dad,' I said, my voice softening with newfound understanding. 'And I forgive you.' A warm smile spread across my father's face, his eyes shimmering with gratitude. 'Thank you, Nico,' he said, his voice filled with emotion. 'That means more to me than you could ever know.' With those words, a weight lifted from my shoulders, replaced by a sense of peace and acceptance. Though the wounds of the past would never fully heal, I knew that I could move forward with my father's love and guidance to light my way. And as we stood together beneath the starry sky, father and son reunited at last, I felt a sense of hope and renewal stirring within me, a belief that no matter what challenges lay ahead, we would face them together, as a family. My father's commitment to aiding me in my quest filled me with a glimmer of hope, a fragile beacon amidst the encroaching darkness. 'Will you help me find Evan?' I ventured, my voice quivering with a mix of desperation and longing. Proteus met my gaze with unwavering resolve, his eyes brimming with paternal warmth. 'Of course, Nico,' he replied, his voice a steady anchor in the tumultuous sea of my thoughts. 'We will spare no effort in bringing him back to safety.' His words offered solace in the face of uncertainty, a reminder that I was not alone in my struggle to rescue the man I loved from the clutches of darkness. 'But how will we find them?' I pressed, my voice tinged with anxiety. 'Kronos could be anywhere, and Evan... he's not himself. I don't even know where to begin.' Before my father could respond, Hermes interjected, his tone laced with urgency. 'Why don't we continue this discussion in the Olymp, where it's safer? We can strategize without fear of prying ears.' His suggestion resonated with me, a beacon of practicality in the midst of chaos. With a deft motion, Hermes opened a portal before us, its swirling depths a mesmerizing whirlpool of ethereal light and shadow. Stepping through the portal was like being swept up in a whirlwind of sensation, my senses assailed by the disorienting rush of transition. And then, in the blink of an eye, we emerged in the Olymp, surrounded by the opulent splendour of its grand halls. The room in which we found ourselves was a testament to the majesty of the gods, its walls adorned with intricate carvings and gilded tapestries that shimmered in the soft glow of celestial light. At the centre of it all stood a magnificent marble table, its surface polished to a pristine sheen that reflected the radiance of the Olymp itself. Taking a seat at the table, I marvelled at the beauty of my surroundings, the weight of my purpose hanging heavy in the air around me. Here, amidst the grandeur of the Olymp, I knew that I stood on the precipice of a journey that would test me in ways I could scarcely imagine. But with my father and Hermes by my side, I felt a flicker of hope ignite within me, a flame of determination that refused to be extinguished. Seated around the grand marble table within the Olymp's hallowed halls, we deliberated with a sense of urgency that seemed to reverberate through the very air around us. The room was adorned with intricate carvings and golden accents, a testament to the divine power that dwelled within these sacred walls. Sunlight streamed in through towering windows, casting a warm glow upon the polished marble surface of the table. 'We need to act swiftly,' Hermes declared, his voice resonating with authority as he leaned forward, his piercing gaze sweeping over each of us gathered around the table. 'Kronos is a formidable adversary, and every moment we delay brings Evan closer to peril.' I nodded in solemn agreement, my heart thrumming with a mixture of fear and determination. 'But how do we even begin to track them down?' I asked, my voice tinged with frustration. 'Kronos could be hiding anywhere, and Evan... I don't even know what he's capable of now.' Hermes raised a hand, silencing my protests with a calm authority. 'We'll start by sending out my messengers,' he said, his voice steady and resolute. 'They'll scour the mortal realm for any sign of Kronos's presence, leaving no stone unturned in their search.' As if on cue, Hermes raised his hand, palm facing upwards, and with a flick of his wrist, he summoned his small messengers. In an instant, a flock of tiny golden colibris materialized before us, their iridescent wings beating with the frenetic energy of their divine purpose. Each one bore a message tied to its leg, ready to be dispatched to the far corners of the mortal realm in search of our elusive quarry. My father, Proteus, nodded in approval at the sight, a sense of pride evident in his weathered features. 'And what of us?' he asked, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve. Hermes turned to him, a fierce glint in his eyes. 'We will take the fight to Kronos,' he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. 'With your mastery of the sea, Nico, and your mother's prowess in battle, we have the advantage.' I glanced at my mother, a surge of admiration welling within me at the sight of her steely resolve. 'Are you ready for this, Mom?' I asked, my voice tinged with concern. She met my gaze with a reassuring smile, her eyes ablaze with determination. 'I was born ready,' she replied, her voice firm and unwavering. With our plan in place and Hermes's messengers dispatched, we rose from our seats, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. As we prepared to embark on our quest, I felt a glimmer of hope ignite within me, a flame that refused to be extinguished in the face of adversity. With my family by my side, I knew that we stood a fighting chance against the darkness that threatened to consume us. And so, with hearts set aflame with determination, we set forth into the unknown, ready to confront whatever trials awaited us in our quest to rescue Evan from the clutches of Kronos. 'Okey, we have a bit time to prepare you two [name of mother] prepare, I’ll help Nico where I can' Hermes says, a sense of urgency infused the air, driving us into action as we prepared for the impending confrontation with Kronos. My mother nodded in agreement, her expression determined as she rose from her seat, ready to embark on the task at hand. 'We'll need to be ready for anything,' my mother declared, her voice steady as she surveyed the room with a critical eye. 'We can't afford to underestimate Kronos or his allies.' With a sense of purpose, we set to work, each of us contributing our skills and expertise to the preparations. My mother busied herself with gathering weapons and Armor, selecting only the finest pieces forged by Hephaistos himself. She moved with a grace and precision born of years of training, her movements fluid and efficient as she inspected each piece with a critical eye. Meanwhile, Hermes turned his attention to me, his brow furrowed in concentration as he assessed my abilities. 'You'll need to be at the peak of your strength and skill,' he said, his voice firm but reassuring. 'We can't afford any weaknesses when we face Kronos.' With that in mind, Hermes guided me through a series of rigorous training exercises, pushing me to my limits and beyond as he honed my combat skills and sharpened my reflexes. His guidance was invaluable, his wisdom as a seasoned warrior evident in every move he made. As we trained, I felt a sense of determination welling within me, a fierce resolve to face whatever challenges lay ahead with courage and conviction. With each passing moment, I grew stronger and more confident, ready to confront Kronos and his minions head-on. Finally, after what felt like hours of intense preparation, we stood ready, our weapons polished and our spirits high. With a final nod of approval from Hermes, we gathered our gear and made our way to the portal, ready to embark on our quest to rescue Evan and put an end to Kronos's reign of terror once and for all. As I stood before the portal, my heart raced with anticipation, the gravity of our mission weighing heavily on my mind. I turned to Hermes, my eyes searching his for guidance as I sought to understand our destination. 'Hermes, where are we going?' I asked, my voice tinged with uncertainty. Hermes met my gaze with a steady expression, his eyes alight with determination. 'We're heading to No Man's Land,' he replied, his voice firm and resolute. No Man's Land. The name sent a shiver down my spine, conjuring images of desolation and danger. I had heard tales of the abandoned fortress once a bastion of military might now be relegated to obscurity and decay. As Hermes spoke, he began to paint a vivid picture of our destination, recounting its storied history with a mixture of awe and reverence. No Man's Land, he explained, was one of four forts constructed in the Solent straits to defend the coast against invasion during Victorian times. Built at great expense over nearly two decades, the fortress was a formidable stronghold, armed to the teeth and capable of housing a small army. Despite its impressive pedigree, No Man's Land had fallen into disuse and disrepair over the years, its once-proud walls now crumbling and overgrown with weeds. In the 1990s, it had been transformed into a luxury hotel, complete with helipads, bedrooms, and restaurants. But even this attempt at revitalization had ended in failure, as the hotel's contaminated water led to an outbreak of Legionnaires' disease and the demise of the developer's business. Now, No Man's Land stood empty and abandoned, a haunting reminder of a bygone era. But it held secrets yet to be discovered, secrets that could hold the key to our mission's success. As Hermes finished his explanation, I felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. No Man's Land may have been a forsaken place, but it was also the next step in our journey to rescue Evan and defeat Kronos once and for all. With a determined nod, I stepped forward, ready to face whatever dangers awaited us on that desolate island fortress. With resolve coursing through my veins, I took a step forward and passed through the swirling vortex of the portal. As I emerged on the other side, I found myself standing on a rocky shoreline, the salty tang of the sea filling my nostrils. The fortress loomed ominously in the distance, its imposing silhouette silhouetted against the setting sun. Beside me, Hermes materialized, his golden wings gleaming in the fading light. With a nod of acknowledgment, he gestured towards the fortress, a silent reminder of our purpose here. 'We've got a job to do,' Hermes said, his voice firm and unwavering. 'Let's find Evan and put an end to Kronos' plans once and for all.' With a determined nod, I followed Hermes as we made our way towards the fortress, each step bringing us closer to our goal. As we approached the towering walls, I felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, my heart pounding with anticipation. The fortress loomed before us, its ancient stones weathered by time and the elements. As we crossed the threshold and entered the fortress, I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation, a nagging fear of the unknown. But I pushed aside my doubts and focused on the task at hand. Evan was counting on me, and I would not let him down. With Hermes at my side, I was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, confident in our ability to overcome them together. As we ventured deeper into the fortress, the shadows seemed to grow darker, the air thick with the weight of centuries. But still, we pressed on, our determination unwavering. And then, in the depths of the fortress, we found him. Evan stood before us, his eyes burning with an otherworldly light, his form twisted and distorted by dark magic. For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of what to do. But then, with a steely resolve, I stepped forward, ready to confront Kronos and reclaim what was rightfully ours. With Hermes at my side, I knew that together, we could overcome any obstacle and emerge victorious. Evan starts running, no Jumping, What the heck is he even doing? As Evan darted around us with unnatural speed, it felt as though he was defying the laws of physics, his movements fluid and otherworldly. He seemed to be running along the walls, deftly leaping from one surface to another with impossible agility. But before we could comprehend the full extent of his abilities, a deep, resonant voice filled the chamber, sending shivers down our spines. The voice seemed to echo from all around us, carrying the weight of the ocean itself. 'Huh, Nico, do you like what we did to him?' the voice taunted, its tone dripping with malice. 'Nothing's left of your little Evan.' My voice echoed through the chamber, reverberating off the cold stone walls as I shouted, 'SHUT UP AND FACE US!' The words carried a primal intensity, a defiance born of desperation and determination. The fortress itself loomed around us, its ancient walls steeped in history and mystery. Built to defend against invasion, it had stood as a bastion of strength against the tides of time. Now, however, it lay in ruins, a shadow of its former glory. Crumbling stone and faded grandeur spoke of a bygone era, a testament to the passage of centuries. In the midst of this decaying grandeur, the titan emerged, a monstrous embodiment of darkness and decay. Its form was twisted and grotesque, its features contorted into a grotesque caricature of humanity. Jagged spines protruded from its hulking frame, casting eerie shadows across the chamber. Its skin was the colour of ash, mottled with patches of sickly green and Gray. Its eyes burned with a malevolent light, twin orbs of crimson that seemed to pierce through the darkness like twin beacons of doom. But even amidst the chaos, there was a sense of awe-inspiring majesty to the titan's presence. Its sheer size and power commanded respect, instilling a sense of dread in all who beheld it. And perched upon its shoulder, like a sinister harbinger of doom, sat Sarah. Her figure was shrouded in darkness, her eyes glinting with a malevolent gleam. It was a sight that sent a chill down my spine, a reminder of the treachery that lurked within the shadows. As I gazed upon the titan and its ominous companion, a surge of determination welled within me. No matter the odds, I would stand against this dark tide, confronting it with all the strength and courage I could muster. For I knew that in the face of true evil, the light of hope would always shine brightest. 'Allow me to present to you my daughter, Sarah,' the titan boomed, its voice reverberating through the chamber. I turned to my mother in shock, disbelief etched upon my face. 'I had no idea,' my mother whispered, her expression mirroring my own. Apologies for the oversight. Let's delve into the battle with more detail: As Evan darted around the chamber with uncanny speed, his movements defying all logic, I braced myself for the onslaught to come. With a determined glint in my eye, I gripped my sword tightly, ready to face whatever darkness lay ahead. But before I could even take a step forward, Evan lunged at me with blinding speed, his attacks a blur of motion. I barely managed to raise my sword in time to parry his blows, the clash of metal ringing out in the chamber. 'Snap out of it, Evan!' I shouted, desperation creeping into my voice. But my words seemed to fall on deaf ears as he continued his relentless assault, his eyes burning with an otherworldly light. Beside me, my mother unleashed torrents of fire, her control over the flames a sight to behold. With a wave of her hand, she sent waves of searing heat crashing towards the titan, each blast leaving scorch marks in its wake. Meanwhile, Hermes darted around the chamber with lightning speed, his golden wings shimmering in the dim light. With each graceful movement, he unleashed bursts of energy that crackled through the air, striking the titan with pinpoint accuracy. But despite our combined efforts, the titan seemed to shrug off our attacks with ease, its monstrous form barely even flinching. With a roar of frustration, I summoned all my strength, channelling the power of the gods within me. A golden gleam enveloped my sword as I swung it towards the titan, the blade slicing through the air with deadly precision. To my amazement, the golden light cut through the stone walls of the fortress as if they were butter, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. But as the blade neared the titan, it seemed to encounter an invisible barrier, the golden light fizzling out upon contact. No matter how hard I swung, I couldn't penetrate the titan's defences, its skin as resilient as steel. As the battle raged on, Sarah leaped from Kronos's shoulder, her form wreathed in darkness. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned tendrils of shadow that ensnared us, threatening to crush us in their grasp. With a defiant roar, I struggled against the darkness, refusing to be overcome. But even as I fought with all my might, a sense of despair began to gnaw at the edges of my mind. 'It's no use,' I gasped, exhaustion creeping into my voice. 'We can't defeat them.' But even as the words left my lips, I refused to give up hope. For as long as there was breath in my body, I would continue to fight, to stand against the darkness with unwavering resolve. As Sarah's mocking laughter echoed through the chamber, a surge of determination welled within me. With a defiant glint in my eye, I stepped forward, ready to confront the darkness head-on. 'Dad, let me try. They are too weak,' Sarah taunted, her voice dripping with malice as she leaped from the titan's shoulder. Her form was wreathed in darkness, a sinister aura that seemed to swallow the light around her. But I refused to be intimidated by her taunts. With a steely resolve, I focused my energy, channelling the power of the gods within me. As Sarah's mocking laughter reached its peak, I seized the opportunity to strike. With a swift motion, I hurled my golden sceptre towards her, the weapon glinting in the dim light of the chamber. Despite her supernatural agility, Sarah was caught off guard by the sudden attack, her eyes widening in surprise. But even as she tried to dodge, it was too late. The golden sceptre sailed through the air with deadly accuracy, its gleaming tip finding its mark with unerring precision. A gasp escaped Sarah's lips as the sceptre impaled her, pinning her to the wall with a sickening thud. She let out a strangled cry, her hands clawing at the air as she struggled against the invisible force that held her in place. 'Dad! Kronos! What is happening? I can't move!' Sarah wailed, her voice filled with panic and desperation. But her cries fell on deaf ears as Kronos looked on with cold indifference, his eyes betraying no hint of emotion. 'The power of real gods, bitch,' my mother declared, her voice filled with triumph as she unleashed torrents of fire upon Sarah. Flames engulfed her form, consuming her in a blaze of searing heat. For a brief moment, Sarah's screams pierced the air, a haunting melody of agony and despair. But as quickly as it had begun, the flames subsided, leaving only a small heap of ashes in their wake. With a quick motion, Hermes swept up the ashes in a small jar, tucking it away at his belt with a satisfied nod. The chamber fell silent once more, the echoes of Sarah's cries fading into the darkness. But even as the dust settled, a sense of unease lingered in the air. The battle may have been won, but the war was far from over. And as I gazed upon the smouldering remains of our fallen foe, I knew that darker days lay ahead. 'One down, two to go,' I declared confidently, casting a glance at my mother, and allowing myself a small, victorious smirk. As Evan stood before Kronos, a sense of apprehension hung heavy in the air. The tension was palpable, the weight of our impending battle pressing down upon us like a suffocating blanket. 'Oh, you thought it's that easy, boy?' Kronos sneered, his voice echoing through the chamber with a chilling resonance. With a casual flick of his hand, he vanished into thin air, leaving us with Evan—or so we thought. But as I turned to face Evan, my heart sank as I realized that he was not alone. Dozens of identical figures stood before us, their faces twisted into sinister grins. 'What the fuck? Who's the real one? How do we know?' I exclaimed, my voice tinged with frustration and desperation. I turned to Hermes, seeking guidance in the midst of the chaos that surrounded us. Hermes met my gaze with a calm determination, his expression betraying none of the uncertainty that gnawed at my insides. With a decisive nod, he stepped forward, his movements fluid and confident. Without hesitation, Hermes delivered a swift punch to one of the Evans, his fist connecting with a satisfying thud. In an instant, the figure dissolved into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a small cloud of smoke. A wave of relief washed over me as I watched the imposter vanish, replaced by the clear sky above. But even as I breathed a sigh of relief, I knew that our ordeal was far from over. With Kronos still at large and his minions lurking in the shadows, we had to remain vigilant if we were to emerge victorious. As I continued to punch every Evan that crossed my path, it became increasingly apparent that our efforts were futile. For every clone that dissolved into nothingness, three new ones seemed to take its place, multiplying with each passing moment. The overwhelming odds threatened to crush our spirits, leaving us trapped in a never-ending cycle of defeat. 'We can't do it like this,' I muttered, frustration gnawing at my insides as I glanced at my mother. Her expression mirrored my own, a mixture of determination and desperation etched upon her face. 'Maybe with fire?' she suggested, shooting a small flame from her palm into one of the clones. I shook my head vehemently, the thought of harming the real Evan filling me with dread. 'No, we don't want to hurt the real Evan,' I replied, my voice tinged with urgency as I racked my brain for a solution. And then it hit me like a bolt of lightning—water. I was on an island, surrounded by the vast expanse of the sea, and I was the son of Proteus, the elderly god of the sea. 'I have an idea,' I exclaimed to Hermes, my voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. 'Hold onto something.' Without waiting for a response, I closed my eyes and focused all of my energy on the sea, calling upon the power that coursed through my veins. With every fibre of my being, I commanded the waters to rise, to swell and surge until they engulfed the island in a torrential flood. As I exerted my will over the elements, I could hear my father's voice echoing in my mind, a reassuring presence amidst the chaos that surrounded me. 'You've got this, son,' he whispered, his words lending me the strength and resolve to push forward. And then, with a deafening roar, a colossal wave rose from the depths of the ocean, towering over the fortress walls like a titan of old. It crashed upon the island with a force that shook the very foundations of the earth, flooding every inch of the fortress with its relentless power. Amidst the chaos, there was a brief moment of silence—a fleeting respite from the storm that raged around us. And then, as the waters receded, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, there was one figure left lying in the centre of the fortress, drenched, and battered but unmistakably real. It was Evan, the real Evan, his form illuminated by the pale light of the moon as he lay sprawled upon the ground. But there was no joy in his presence, no sense of relief or triumph. Only an overwhelming sense of sorrow and despair, a grim reminder of the price we had paid for our victory. As we approached Evan's motionless form, a flicker of hope ignited within me, a desperate plea for reconciliation and redemption. With trembling hands, I reached out and shook his shoulder, my heart pounding with anticipation. 'Evan, wake up,' I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. 'Please, come back to us.' But as he turned to face us, his eyes blazed with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. The air crackled with an ominous energy, and I knew in that moment that something was terribly wrong. With a sudden surge of power, Evan unleashed a torrent of energy that sent us hurtling across the fortress. The impact was like a thunderous explosion, a deafening roar that reverberated through my bones as I collided with the unforgiving stone walls. Pain lanced through every fibre of my being, leaving me gasping for breath as I struggled to comprehend what had just transpired. Through the haze of agony, I saw Evan's black wings unfurling from his back, their skeletal forms twisting and contorting in a grotesque display of power. 'You thought it would be that easy?' Evan's voice echoed through the chamber, dripping with malice. 'You fool.' I tried to push myself to my feet, every movement sending waves of agony crashing through my battered body. But before I could even register what was happening, my mother cried out in pain and fell to the ground, a wooden pole protruding from her side. 'Mom!' I screamed, the words tearing from my throat in a guttural cry of anguish. 'No, no, no!' Blood pooled around her, staining the cold stone floor crimson as she struggled to rise. With a surge of panic, I rushed to her side, my hands trembling as I reached out to help her. But the wound was deep, too deep, and I knew that I was powerless to save her. Hermes sprang into action, his movements swift and decisive as he rushed to my mother's aid. With gentle hands, he helped her to her feet, his brow furrowed with concern as he assessed the severity of her injuries. 'We have to get her to Olympus, now,' Hermes declared, his voice tinged with urgency as he opened a portal before us. I nodded, my vision blurred with tears as I took my mother's arm around my neck, supporting her weight as we stumbled towards the swirling vortex of light. Through the tears and the pain, I felt a surge of determination welling within me. No matter what it took, I would protect my mother, I would save her, even if it cost me everything. With Hermes at our side, we stepped through the portal, leaving behind the ruins of the fortress and the spectre of Evan's darkness. But even as we traversed the realms of existence, I knew that our trials were far from over. For in the depths of my heart, I could feel the weight of our failure pressing down upon me, a burden that threatened to consume us all. But I refused to surrender to despair. I would fight on, for my mother, for my friends, for all those who had stood by my side in the darkest of times. As we stepped into the marble city of the gods, a sense of urgency hung heavy in the air, each step a testament to the gravity of our situation. Hermes's voice pierced through the tension, cutting through the silence like a blade as he called out for Asclepius. 'ASCLEPIUS!' The name echoed through the streets, resonating with a power that shook me to my core. Moments later, a tall figure clads in a flowing blue tunic emerged from one of the nearby buildings, his face etched with concern. 'What happened?' Asclepius demanded, his gaze sweeping over us with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. Hermes wasted no time in explaining the situation, his words tumbling out in a rush of urgency. 'During the fight, she fell on a wooden pole. It's stuck in her side. She's the daughter of Hephaestus, we need your help, now!' Without a moment's hesitation, Asclepius gathered my mother into his arms, his movements swift and sure as he carried her into the nearby building. I watched them disappear from view, my heart pounding with fear and uncertainty. Turning to Hermes, I couldn't suppress the question that burned in my mind. 'Who is Asclepius? Can he help her?' Hermes nodded solemnly, his expression grave. 'Asclepius is the god of crafts and healing. If anyone can help her, it's him. But for now, we need to speak with Proteus. There's much to discuss, and time is of the essence.' With a sense of determination, we set off through the marble city, our footsteps echoing against the polished stone streets. The weight of our mission hung heavy upon us, driving us forward with a relentless urgency as we sought out the wisdom of the ancient god who had once been my father. As we approached Proteus's dwelling, I couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding that gnawed at my insides. What lay ahead was uncertain, but I knew that I would face it with courage and resolve, for the sake of my mother and all those I held dear. Hermes approached Proteus, a small jar clutched tightly in his hand. 'Here, Kronos's daughter,' he said, his voice heavy with the weight of our recent battle. Proteus accepted the jar with a solemn nod, his eyes fixed on the container as though it held the answers to questions he dared not ask. 'Thank you, Hermes,' he murmured, his voice barely audibles over the rush of the nearby sea. As I began to recount the events that had transpired on the island, my words faltered, choked by the weight of the memories that threatened to overwhelm me. 'Dad, we were on the island, and Evan, he...' I trailed off, unable to articulate the horror of watching someone I cared about fall under the influence of an ancient spell. But before I could continue, Proteus held up a hand, his expression grave and solemn. 'Son,' he interjected, his voice steady but tinged with sadness, 'I've seen everything. I watch over you with the sea and all its water on earth. “ As I stood before my father, the weight of the world pressing down upon my shoulders, I couldn't help but feel a sense of frustration bubbling up within me. 'But why Evan?' I demanded, my voice laced with desperation. 'He isn't bad!' Proteus regarded me with a knowing look, his eyes filled with a wisdom born of countless centuries. 'Kronos has a bone to pick with you, Nico,' he explained, his tone measured and calm. 'And that's why he took someone you care about.' The revelation hit me like a thunderbolt, sending a chill racing down my spine. Kronos, the ancient enemy of the gods, had singled me out for his wrath, and now, he had taken Evan as a pawn in his twisted game of vengeance. 'Not only that,' Hermes added, his voice tinged with sorrow, 'Evan has a divine bloodline of gods, demigods, and other magical beings. He is the most powerful mortal we know of.' I felt a surge of disbelief coursing through me, my mind struggling to make sense of the revelations unfolding before me. Evan, my friend, my ally, was not just an ordinary mortal—he was a being of immense power, a force to be reckoned with in the cosmic tapestry of the universe. 'But I've met his parents once,' I protested, confusion marring my features. 'They are no gods, or magical at all.' Proteus sighed, a weary expression crossing his weathered features. 'His parents died in a fight, Nico,' he explained gently. 'But he doesn't know. Hermes placed him in this family. I think they don't know themselves.' The revelation left me reeling, my mind spinning with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. How could Evan, a mere mortal, be tied to the ancient bloodlines of gods and demigods? And what did it mean for his role in the unfolding conflict between Olympus and its enemies? As I grappled with the weight of the truth, a sense of urgency swept over me, driving me to seek answers and solutions to the challenges that lay ahead. For in the face of adversity, it was not just strength or power that would see us through, but the bonds of friendship and the resilience of the human spirit. And with my father and Hermes at my side, I knew that together, we would face whatever trials awaited us with courage and determination. Asclepius entered the chamber with an aura of solemnity, his presence commanding attention as he strode forward with purpose. The chamber itself was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, reminiscent of the gentle glow of the ocean's depths. Waves of magic rippled through the air, casting a shimmering veil over everything they touched. 'I have tended the wounds of mortals,' Asclepius announced, his voice resonating with power and purpose as he surveyed the scene before him. My heart clenched at the sight of him, his demeanour exuding an air of superiority that grated against my nerves like sandpaper on skin. 'THAT'S MY MOM, BITCH!' I blurted out, unable to contain the surge of frustration that welled up within me. Asclepius turned to face me, his expression one of disdain and contempt. 'HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT, MORTAL!' he thundered, his voice reverberating through the chamber like the crashing of waves against the shore. Before I could respond, my father stepped forward, his presence radiating an aura of calm authority. 'Asclepius, shut up,' he commanded, his voice firm and unwavering. 'That is my son. You will do as he commands.' Asclepius bristled at the reprimand, his features contorted in a mixture of anger and indignation. However, he quickly composed himself, bowing his head in deference to my father's authority. 'Of course, Proteus,' he conceded, his tone begrudging. 'I apologize for my outburst.' I nodded in satisfaction, grateful for my father's intervention. Despite the tension that lingered in the air, I knew that we needed Asclepius's help if we were to save my mother. And with my father's support, I was determined to ensure that she received the care she needed, no matter the cost. Proteus nodded solemnly, acknowledging Asclepius's willingness to assist. ^ , a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. With Asclepius gone and the tension diffused, a sense of camaraderie settled among us. I turned to Hermes and Proteus, a faint smile playing on my lips. 'Thanks for standing up for me back there,' I said, gratitude evident in my voice. 'I appreciate it.' Hermes grinned, clapping a hand on my shoulder. 'Of course, kid. We're in this together, remember? We'll always have your back.' Proteus nodded in agreement, his expression softening. 'You're my son, Nico. I'll always protect you, no matter what.' I felt a surge of warmth in my chest, a sense of belonging washing over me in their reassuring words. 'Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Hermes,' I said, my voice filled with genuine appreciation. Before we could dwell on the moment any longer, the chamber's grand golden doors burst open, drawing our attention. We turned to see who had entered. Asclepius enters the chamber with a large, ancient tome cradled in his arms. The book emits a faint, ethereal glow, its pages filled with intricate symbols and arcane knowledge. 'I bring forth the ancient texts,' Asclepius declares, his voice echoing with reverence. 'Within these pages lie the secrets of breaking the Kokabiel spell.' He carefully places the tome on a nearby pedestal, the weight of centuries of wisdom palpable in the air. Asclepius flips through the pages with practiced precision, his eyes scanning the ancient script as if seeking guidance from the gods themselves. Proteus, Hermes, and Nico gather around, their eyes fixed on the illuminated pages. Asclepius explains the ritual they must perform, outlining each step with meticulous detail. 'This spell has not been broken for millennia,' Asclepius admits, his voice tinged with solemnity. 'But with the combined power of gods and mortals, we may yet succeed.' Asclepius furrowed his brows in concentration as he flipped through the ancient tome, each page filled with intricate symbols and arcane scripts. His eyes darted across the pages with precision, his fingers tracing the delicate edges as he searched for the solution we so desperately needed. Suddenly, his movements halted, his expression shifting from focused determination to one of disbelief. 'It's gone,' he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with frustration. 'What do you mean, it's gone?' I demanded, my heart sinking at the thought of yet another obstacle in our path. 'The page we need, the one detailing the breaker for the Kokabiel spell, it's missing,' Asclepius explained, his voice heavy with disappointment. 'I could attempt to recreate the potion from memory, but I can't guarantee its effectiveness or potential side effects.' 'FUCK,' I exclaimed, unable to contain my frustration any longer. The weight of our situation bore down on me like a leaden weight, the uncertainty and fear threatening to consume me whole. Hermes placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his expression grave yet determined. 'We'll find another way, Nico,' he said, his voice firm and resolute. 'We always do.' Proteus nodded in agreement, his gaze unwavering as he met my eyes. 'We'll figure this out together, son,' he said, his voice steady and reassuring. 'No matter what it takes.' Despite their words of encouragement, a sense of unease gnawed at my insides, a nagging doubt that whispered of impending doom. But I pushed the feeling aside, steeling myself against the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm me. As I departed from the solemn gathering of gods, their voices fading into the distance, I found myself wandering through the intricate maze of Olympus. The marble streets, once vibrant with divine energy, now seemed to stretch endlessly before me, each step heavier than the last. The grandeur of Olympus surrounded me, its opulent architecture a testament to the power and majesty of the divine realm. Yet, amidst the towering pillars and glistening fountains, I felt small and insignificant, a mortal adrift in a sea of immortality. The air crackled with tension, and I struggled to draw breath as I navigated the labyrinthine paths. Shadows danced along the walls, casting eerie shapes that seemed to taunt me with their elusiveness. Each corner turned, each whisper of the wind, sent shivers down my spine, a constant reminder of the daunting task that lay ahead. As I passed by temples dedicated to the gods and goddesses of Olympus, their imposing facades loomed over me like silent sentinels, watching my every move with an unblinking gaze. I couldn't help but feel like an intruder in their sacred domain, an unwelcome guest in a world beyond my comprehension. But amidst the overwhelming sense of unease, one thought anchored me to the present: my mother lay waiting for me in Asclepius's chambers. With each step, I drew closer to her, driven by a desperate need to ensure her safety in the face of impending danger. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, I pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the dimly lit chamber beyond. The air was thick with the scent of ancient parchment and herbs, and the soft glow of flickering candles cast long shadows across the room. The chamber unfolded before me like a maze of forgotten knowledge, shelves upon shelves towering towards the vaulted ceiling, each one laden with dusty tomes and scrolls. The books were haphazardly arranged, their spines cracked and worn with age, and the occasional glint of gold hinted at the priceless treasures hidden within. Interspersed among the books were strange contraptions and curious inventions, their intricate designs a testament to the god's boundless creativity. Gears and cogs whirred softly in the stillness, and delicate crystals glimmered with an otherworldly light. I couldn't help but marvel at the ingenuity of it all, my fingers itching to explore the wonders that lay within reach. But as I reached out to touch one of the inventions, my hand recoiled in shock as it crumbled beneath my touch, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken dreams. With a sharp intake of breath, I withdrew my hand, the pain a stark reminder of my mortality in this realm of gods and magic. I glanced around nervously, half expecting the room to come alive and scold me for my clumsiness. But the chamber remained silent, its secrets hidden behind a veil of ancient wisdom. And as I took in the sight before me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and reverence for the knowledge that lay within these walls. My eyes were drawn to a door draped with a heavy cloth. With a sense of trepidation, I pushed aside the fabric and peered inside, my heart skipping a beat at the sight of my mother lying unconscious upon a marble table. She seemed so small and vulnerable against the vastness of the room, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as she slept. With a heavy sigh, I settled into the chair beside her, my mind awash with conflicting emotions as I struggled to make sense of the events unfolding around me. The weight of the world pressed down upon me, but in this moment, all that mattered was the presence of my mother by my side. Laying my head by the side of my mom, I couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of disbelief that washed over me like a crashing wave. Here I was, on the day that should have been filled with joy and celebration, grappling with the harsh reality of betrayal and conflict. My mind raced with a whirlwind of emotions, each one more tumultuous than the last. It was my birthday, damn it, and instead of laughter and song around a crackling bonfire in our garden, I found myself thrust into a battle against an unseen foe. Against my own boyfriend, no less. The thought alone sent a shiver down my spine, a cold reminder of the depths of despair I now found myself in. But it wasn't just the betrayal that weighed heavily on my mind. It was the revelation that Evan, the boy I loved, the most powerful being on Earth, was not who he seemed. His family, even if they stood against me, weren't even his real family. The weight of this truth pressed down upon me like a leaden weight, threatening to crush me beneath its unyielding force. And worst of all, my beloved Evan had nearly killed my mom. The mere thought of it sent a surge of rage coursing through my veins, my fists clenched in impotent fury. How could he? How could he turn against us in such a cruel and heartless manner? Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to come to terms with the enormity of it all. But before I could succumb to despair, I felt a gentle hand on my head, its touch like a soothing balm to my wounded soul. 'Nico, I'm gonna be alright,' my mom whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. 'Everything is going to be alright.' Her words cut through the darkness like a beacon of hope, and I found myself clinging to them with all the strength I could muster. But even as I tried to take comfort in her reassurance, I couldn't shake the feeling of despair that threatened to overwhelm me. 'Don't cry,' she continued, her voice barely audible now, her strength waning with each passing moment. 'Go out there and make hell too hot for Kronos.' I looked up at her through tear-blurred eyes, her face pale and drawn with pain, yet still radiating with a fierce determination that took my breath away. In that moment, I knew without a doubt that she would fight tooth and nail for me, against everything and everyone that dared to stand in our way. With a trembling hand, I reached out to brush away her tears, my heart heavy with the weight of the world. But even as I gazed into her weary eyes, I knew that no matter what lay ahead, we would face it together, mother and son, bound by a love that transcended the darkest of times. With a heavy heart, I pulled my mom into a light hug, the weight of her frail body pressing against mine. 'Mom, I will avenge you,' I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. 'And I will come back.' Her hand found its way to my back, offering what little comfort she could in her weakened state. It was a silent reassurance, a promise that despite the pain and uncertainty that lay ahead, we would face it together, bound by the unbreakable bond of love between mother and son. Before I could say another word, the heavy silence was shattered by the sudden arrival of Hermes, his presence filling the room with a sense of urgency and purpose. 'Nico, here you are,' he exclaimed, his voice tense with urgency. 'We need to move fast. Every minute that passes, the spell cast on Evan grows stronger. Every minute, Kronos grows stronger. Every minute we wait, they become a greater threat to humanity and the deities alike.' I nodded, a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of my stomach. 'But we can't just leave Evan,' I protested, my voice tinged with desperation. Hermes shook his head, his expression grim. 'Asclepius has made the potion,' he explained tersely. 'You need to throw it onto him. Let's go, Nico. Your mom needs to rest.' With a heavy sigh, I stood up and made my way towards the door, my heart heavy with the weight of the task that lay ahead. Turning back one last time, I met my mom's gaze, her eyes filled with a mixture of pride and concern. 'I will come back,' I promised, my voice barely above a whisper. With that, I left the room, leaving Asclepius's chambers and my mom behind me, following Hermes as we embarked on our journey to confront the darkness that threatened to consume us all. As you stepped outside with Hermes, the weight of the world seemed to press down upon you. His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable carrying the weight of an impending storm. 'So we were able to track down Kronos again,' Hermes began, his voice grave, 'but he's already made new minions. Evan isn't the only one this time.' Your heart sank at the news, a sinking feeling of dread settling in the pit of your stomach. 'Fuck,' you muttered under your breath, frustration bubbling to the surface. 'We weren't able to get Evan. How are we supposed to do this?' Hermes met your gaze with a solemn expression. 'Well, we didn't want to hurt Evan, did we?' he reasoned. 'Like Asclepius said, it's easier to kill them than to break the spell. We will save Evan, but I can't guarantee the rest.' The weight of his words hung in the air, each syllable carrying the burden of an impossible choice. 'But they're just human, like me and Evan,' you protested, desperation creeping into your voice. 'How can we?' 'It's either them, or everyone,' Hermes replied, his tone firm but tinged with regret. You nodded, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon your shoulders. 'Reasonable,' you conceded, though the thought of facing off against fellow humans filled you with a sense of unease. 'But we can't just fight them, not just the two of us.' Hermes paused, his brow furrowing in thought. 'You're right,' he admitted, casting a glance around the grandeur of Olympus. 'We'll need backup.' As you continued to talk, you found yourselves walking through the hallowed halls of Olympus, the grandeur of the surroundings serving as a stark reminder of the task that lay ahead. Hermes gestured grandly, his expression a mix of reverence and excitement. 'May I present to you,' he announced with a flourish, 'Zeus, the mighty god of thunder and justice, also known as Evan's father. Proteus, your esteemed father, and Hephaestus, your beloved grandfather.' You nodded respectfully to each god as they entered, but it was Hephaestus who caught your attention with his gruff demeanour and mischievous grin. As he entered, he seemed to be muttering to himself, a scowl etched on his face. 'I don't really care about all this,' he grumbled, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. 'I'm just here because some motherfucker hurt my daughter!' The unexpected outburst drew a few chuckles from the assembled gods, and even Zeus cracked a smile at the blacksmith god's irreverence. Proteus shot Hephaestus a reproachful glance, but there was a twinkle in his eye that betrayed his amusement. 'Hephaestus, do try to behave yourself,' he chided, though there was a hint of fondness in his tone. Hephaestus merely shrugged, his grin widening into a toothy smile. 'What can I say?' he quipped, his tone light despite the gravity of the situation. 'I'm just a simple blacksmith with a penchant for mischief.' Despite the weight of the impending battle, you couldn't help but be drawn in by Hephaestus's infectious humour. In that moment, surrounded by gods and allies, you felt a sense of camaraderie unlike anything you had ever experienced before. Together, you would face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with the strength of gods and the bonds of family. As you stand in the majestic main hall of Olympus, surrounded by the presence of gods and demigods alike, your emotions are a tumultuous whirlwind. The weight of your mission bears down upon you, but you find solace in the knowledge that you are not alone in this endeavour. 'So this is family?' you inquire, your voice tinged with a mixture of scepticism and longing. 'Seems like it is, mortal,' Asclepius replies casually, his tone lacking the reverence you might expect in the presence of such esteemed beings. 'Again?' you retort, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice. 'No, I'm here to give you the potion,' Asclepius clarifies, holding out a vial of shimmering liquid. 'Make sure it touches his skin. Throw it or pour it over him.' 'Got it,' you reply, taking the vial with a determined nod. 'Good luck, mortal,' Asclepius says with a smirk before turning to leave the main hall. Before he can take another step, Zeus, Proteus, and Hermes all speak up in unison, their voices booming with authority. 'STOP CALLING HIM MORTAL!' 'Okey, okey, I'll leave,' Asclepius concedes, his demeanour unapologetic as he exits the hall. With Asclepius gone, you turn to the gods once more, your gaze steely and determined. 'So, one last question: where is that motherfucker who hurt my mom and took my boyfriend?!' Hermes steps forward, his expression grave as he begins to explain. His words are laden with the weight of ancient knowledge, and you struggle to grasp the full extent of what he is saying. But as he reaches the end of his explanation, a single word stands out amidst the chaos: 'Paris.' 'So, what are we waiting for?!' you exclaim, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Without hesitation, Hermes opens a portal before you, a swirling vortex of purple light beckoning you onward. Though you can't help but feel a twinge of fear at the prospect of stepping into the unknown, you steel yourself for the task ahead and step through the portal, ready to confront whatever challenges lie ahead in the ancient catacombs of Paris. “In the heart of adversity, unity becomes our greatest strength.” — Nico Adams Paris , Again [Chapter Five] We step through the portal, we find ourselves in a bustling hub of activity. It's a surreal sight to behold, considering that in the catacombs, one would hardly expect to encounter anyone. I take a moment to survey our surroundings, taking in the familiar sights and sounds. The elegant architecture catches my eye, blending seamlessly with the aroma of freshly baked pastries drifting from nearby cafes. Laughter and chatter fill the air, punctuating the lively atmosphere. This is unmistakably the Champs Élysées, not the catacombs. 'HERMES, THIS ISN'T THE CATACOMBS!' you exclaim, your voice barely audible above the din of the city. Hermes offers an apologetic shrug. 'Sorry, I can't open a portal underground in a crowded place like this.' Determined to find a solution, you take charge. 'Follow me, I've got an idea.' Hephaestus interjects with a seemingly absurd suggestion. 'Why don't we just dig a hole?' You exchange a bemused glance with the others, but no one dignifies the question with a response. As you make your way through the city, you're captivated by the sights around you. The grandeur of the Arc de Triomphe, the majestic beauty of the Seine River, and the intricate details of the historic buildings transport you to another world. But as you descend into the depths of the metro, the atmosphere shifts. The vibrant energy of the city gives way to a sense of foreboding as you approach your destination. As you emerge from the underground station, Hephaestus queries, 'Are these the catacombs you talked about?' You shake your head. 'No, the catacombs are much farther down.' After a short journey through the metro, attracting curious glances from onlookers, you finally arrive at your destination: the entrance to the Notre Dame. As we step into Notre Dame, a man approaches us with an air of authority. He speaks rapidly in French, gesturing towards the exit, “Vous ne pouvez pas entrer, ce ne sont pas les heures de visite.' My grasp of the language is rudimentary at best, and I struggle to formulate a response. Before I can utter a word, Hephaestus steps forward, his patience worn thin. With a swift and forceful blow, he sends the man sprawling across the floor, unconscious. 'Guess that's another approach,' I mutter, somewhat taken aback by the sudden turn of events. Notre Dame rises before us like a majestic sentinel of centuries past, its grand façade a testament to the ingenuity and artistry of those who built it. The intricacy of the architecture is nothing short of breathtaking. Every detail, from the delicate tracery of the rose windows to the towering spires that pierce the sky, speaks of a bygone era of craftsmanship and devotion. Each stone seems to hum with the weight of history, carrying within it the echoes of countless prayers and hymns. As we venture further into the cathedral, the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows casts a soft, ethereal glow upon the ancient stone. Shadows dance across the marble floors, their movements reminiscent of whispered secrets shared between the walls. The air is heavy with the scent of incense and candle wax, mingling with the faint aroma of aged wood and stone. It fills my lungs with a sense of reverence and awe, as if I am breathing in the very essence of centuries past. Despite the bustling activity of tourists and worshippers alike, there is a palpable sense of serenity within the walls of Notre Dame. It is a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world, a place where the divine and the mortal converge in a timeless embrace. We wander through the cavernous halls, marvelling at the ornate details that adorn every surface. Each nook and cranny hold its own story, whispered through the centuries by the silent walls. As we pass by the flickering torches, their warm glow illuminates the faces of ancient statues and solemn saints, their expressions frozen in time. Descending a narrow stairway, we find ourselves in a dimly lit hallway. Torches line the walls, casting long shadows that dance eerily across the ancient stone. Alongside us, rows of skeletal remains are stacked neatly, a silent testament to the passage of time and the inevitability of mortality. The air grows cooler as we venture deeper into the catacombs, the oppressive weight of history pressing down upon us. Yet, there is a sense of reverence in the air, a recognition of the lives that once walked these hallowed halls. With each step, I can't help but feel a shiver run down my spine, as if the spirits of the past are watching our every move. As we traverse the winding tunnels of the catacombs, the dim glow of torchlight dances upon the walls, casting eerie shadows that seem to dance with the flickering flames. I follow behind the others, my senses alert to every sound and movement in the darkness. Conversation ripples through our group like a gentle stream, a blend of anticipation and tension hanging in the air. Zeus, ever the storyteller, regales us with tales of battles won and lost in ages past, his booming voice echoing off the stone walls. 'You remember that time on Mount Olympus, Hermes?' Zeus chuckles, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 'We had quite the celebration after that victory over the Titans!' Proteus offers words of wisdom, his ancient eyes glinting with a depth of knowledge born from centuries of observation. 'Remember, my children,' he advises, his voice carrying a weight of solemnity. 'We must remain vigilant in the face of darkness. Kronos is a formidable foe, but together, we can overcome him.' Hephaestus interjects with his dry humour, punctuating the solemn atmosphere with a well-timed quip that draws a chuckle from the group. 'Ah, yes,' he remarks with a wry grin. 'Nothing like a good battle to get the blood pumping!' Despite the weight of our mission, there is a sense of camaraderie among us, a shared determination to face whatever challenges lie ahead. Suddenly, Hephaestus raises a hand, signalling for silence. We gather around him, our footsteps coming to a halt as we peer into the darkness ahead. There, illuminated by the flickering torchlight, lies the entrance to a cavernous hall. Kronos stands at the forefront, his imposing figure cloaked in shadows that seem to writhe and twist around him like living tendrils of darkness. His eyes burn with an otherworldly light, casting an ominous glow that fills the chamber with an aura of malevolence. 'My children,' Kronos's voice booms through the hall, each word laden with power and authority. 'The time has come for us to rise from the shadows and claim our rightful place as rulers of this world. With my guidance, we shall bring order to chaos and usher in a new era of dominance.' Beside him stands Evan, his once-familiar features warped by darkness and despair. His black wings unfurl behind him, their jagged edges casting long shadows upon the stone floor. His eyes gleam with a fierce intensity, reflecting the same crimson light that emanates from Kronos. Before them, a congregation of followers kneels in reverent submission, their faces obscured by the dim light of the torches. Among them, I catch glimpses of faces both young and old, their expressions twisted by a fanatical devotion to their dark master. As Kronos concludes his speech, the hall reverberates with a chorus of voices, each one raised in a chilling declaration of allegiance. 'HAIL KRONOS,' they chant in unison, their voices echoing off the walls of the chamber like a haunting refrain. As I stand on the balcony overlooking the hall, my heart races with a mixture of fear and determination. 'How the hell are we supposed to kill all of them?' I mutter under my breath, my voice carrying louder than intended in the tense silence of the chamber. Suddenly, the sea of glowing red eyes turns toward me, their intensity piercing through the darkness like fiery daggers. 'Shit,' I curse softly, realizing my mistake as the attention of Kronos's minions fixates upon me. Before I can react, Hephaestus steps forward, his voice ringing out with a confidence that belies the gravity of our situation. 'Like this,' he declares, his hands erupting in flames as he unleashes a torrent of fire upon Kronos's army. For a moment, the hall is bathed in the searing glow of flames, the heat washing over us in waves of blistering intensity. I watch in awe as the flames consume the ranks of Kronos's minions, their bodies reduced to nothing more than ash in the inferno's wake. But to my dismay, the flames seem to have little effect, the minions emerging from the blaze unscathed, their forms untouched by the searing heat. Kronos's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, his tone laced with a cruel amusement. 'You think it's that easy?' he taunts, his eyes glittering with malice. 'I won't make the same mistake twice, especially not with weaklings like you.' As the flames die down, revealing the unharmed army before us, a sense of despair washes over me. But Zeus's voice breaks through the silence, his words filled with a determination that reignites the flickering flames of hope within me. 'Guess we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way,' Zeus declares, his hands crackling with golden energy as he summons his lightning bolt and sword. With a grim nod, we ready ourselves for battle, knowing that our only chance lies in facing Kronos and his minions head-on. As Zeus charges into the chaos, his lightning crackling through the air, I watch in awe as he dispatches Kronos's minions with swift and decisive strikes. With each swing of his sword and blast of lightning, enemies fall before him, their bodies smouldering in his wake. Beside him, Hephaestus wades into the fray with a grin, his red-glowing hammer appearing in his hand as if by magic. With each swing, he pulverizes his foes, sending them flying with bone-shattering force. Proteus and Hermes turn to me, their expressions serious and determined. Proteus draws a simple silver sword from his back, while Hermes's golden pin gleams in the dim light of the catacombs. With a nod of acknowledgment, they join the fray, their movements fluid and precise as they engage the enemy. As I watch my fellow gods battle against Kronos's minions, a sense of urgency grips me. I know that I must find Evan and deliver the potion Asclepius made to break the spell. But amidst the chaos of battle, I have no idea where he might be. Then, I spot him. Evan stands amidst the melee, his figure illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Unlike the other minions, there is a hint of humanity in his eyes, a glimmer of recognition that sets him apart from the mindless throng. As I plunge into battle, my grip tightens around the golden sceptre in one hand and the shield in the other. The weight of the medallion around my neck serves as a constant reminder of the task at hand, while the vial containing Asclepius's potion rests securely in my pocket. With each clash of metal and thunderous impact, I feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins. But as the first enemy falls before me, a wave of unease washes over me. I've just taken a life, and the gravity of that action weighs heavily on my conscience. But then, something happens. As I stand amidst the chaos of battle in front of the enemy I just killed, the medallion around my neck begins to glow with an otherworldly light. In that moment, I feel a profound shift within myself, as if I'm tapping into a power that lies dormant within my very being. With each swing of my sceptre and block of my shield, I feel the power coursing through me, lending strength to my limbs and clarity to my mind. Gone is the uncertainty and fear that plagued me moments before, replaced instead by a sense of purpose and resolve. In this new state, I become a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. My movements are fluid and precise, my strikes landing with deadly accuracy. With each enemy that falls before me, I grow more confident in my abilities, fuelled by the knowledge that I fight not just for myself, but for the safety of those I hold dear. As I press onward, driven by the power of the medallion and fuelled by the determination to save Evan and defeat Kronos, I know that I am no longer just Nico Adams, mortal son of Proteus. I am a warrior, a champion of Olympus, and I will stop at nothing to ensure that justice prevails. As the battle rages on around me, every clash of metal, every burst of magic, and every cry of pain becomes a blur. My focus narrows to a singular point, a beacon of determination guiding me through the chaos. Each opponent that crosses my path is met with unwavering resolve as I fight tooth and nail to reach Evan. Amidst the fray, time seems to stand still. The cacophony of battle fades into the background as my eyes lock onto Evan's figure in the distance. With each step, my heart pounds in my chest, driving me forward with a relentless urgency. Finally, I reach him, the vial of potion clutched tightly in my hand. With a swift motion, I uncork the vial and make a desperate attempt to pour its contents over Evan's head. But before I can even react, he deftly evades my efforts, sending me crashing into the unforgiving stone floor. Pain shoots through my body as I struggle to rise, but I refuse to be deterred. 'No little potion of yours can retrieve your Evan,' Evan's voice cuts through the chaos, dripping with malice as he deflects my desperate attempt to administer the potion. His words strike a chord of despair within me, but I push aside the rising sense of defeat, steeling myself for the battle ahead. I lunge towards Evan once more, driven by a fierce desire to break through the darkness that has consumed him. As I wrestle him to the ground, his resistance is palpable, his voice dripping with disdain and defiance. But beneath the facade of hostility, I sense a flicker of something familiar, something human. 'EVAN, YOU AREN'T LIKE THIS!' I plead, my voice cracking with emotion. 'I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!' His response is cold and calculated, a stark reminder of the formidable adversary I face. 'Let me leave, mortal,' he retorts, his voice echoing with an otherworldly chill. 'No love of yours is left in this body.' But even as he speaks, I refuse to give up hope. With trembling hands, I lean in and press a kiss to Evan's forehead, channelling every ounce of hope and faith I possess. And in that fleeting moment, as our lips meet, something miraculous happens. As the red glow faded from Evan's eyes, a profound change seemed to wash over him. His body tensed and convulsed as if caught in the throes of some unseen struggle. With a sudden jolt, his wings recoiled, retracting into his body with a violent shudder. His muscles tensed and strained against the invisible forces that bound him, his limbs contorting in an agonizing display of resistance. He arched his back in an almost unnatural curve, his body trembling with the effort to break free from the darkness that held him captive. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Evan wrestled with the remnants of the spell that had ensnared his mind and soul. His movements were erratic, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he fought to regain control over his own body. And then, with a final, desperate shrug, Evan's struggles ceased, his body going limp beneath me as unconsciousness claimed him once more. But this time, it was different. This time, he was free from the darkness that had clouded his mind, his humanity restored by the power of love and redemption. As I looked down at his peaceful form, a sense of awe washed over me. Though the battle may have been won, the war was far from over. But in that moment, as Evan lay unconscious before me, I knew that we had taken the first step towards a brighter future. And as I cradled him in my arms, surrounded by the chaos of battle, I clung to the hope that redemption was possible, even in the darkest of times. Amidst the chaos of battle, with enemies closing in from all sides, I clutched Evan tightly in my arms, desperately searching for an escape route. As the clash of weapons and the roar of magic filled the air, I turned to Hermes, my voice a frantic plea above the din of battle. 'HERMES, PORTAL, OLYMP, NOW!' With a swift nod, Hermes gestured towards the ground, and without hesitation, a swirling vortex of energy erupted beneath my feet. In an instant, I felt myself hurtling through space and time, the sensation akin to falling, before I emerged in the hallowed halls of Olympus, Evan still cradled in my arms. I held Evan in my arms, his unconscious form a weight that seemed to press down upon me with each step, I ran through the corridors of Olympus. The chaos of battle still echoed in my ears, the memory of the struggle fresh in my mind. But amidst the turmoil, one thought consumed me - I needed Asclepius's help. Arriving at his chambers, I braced myself for what was to come. As I reached out to open the doors, they swung open of their own accord, revealing Asclepius standing before me. His demeanour was calm, almost nonchalant, as if he hadn't just been embroiled in a battle for the fate of the world. But as soon as he laid eyes on Evan in my arms, his expression shifted, a hint of curiosity mingling with the indifference. Asclepius encountered me “Oh, you're back. Did the potion work?' 'I... I think so, but he's unconscious.' I answered unsurely. 'No, Mortal. He is dead. The Potion was poisoned”. Asclepius laughed like he enjoyed it to see me this sad. My heart sank at his words, the weight of his betrayal crushing me with its sheer audacity. 'But he is my boyfriend! How dare you...' Tears welled up in my eyes at his callous confession, the pain of his betrayal cutting deep into my soul. But before I could finish, Asclepius's words turned to disdain, his bigotry laid bare for all to see. Asclepius chuckles 'There can't be love between two males.' His words struck me like a physical blow, the anger and frustration boiling inside me threatening to spill over. But as I glanced down at Evan, his peaceful face betraying no sign of the turmoil within, a realization dawned on me - it wasn't the potion that saved him, it was my love. My voice trembled with a mix of fear and anger. 'Evan... he's... he's not even affected by the potion! My love is what saved him!' Asclepius's facade of superiority faltered for a moment, confusion flickering across his features before being replaced by a renewed sense of resolve. Asclepius madness in a tone that remind me of a small child losing an argument 'It matters not. Love between your kind is an abomination, and I will not stand for it. I’m going to kill both of you parasites “. His words hung in the air like a death sentence, his tone carrying the weight of centuries of prejudice and intolerance. But before he could act on his threats, before he could snatch Evan from my arms, a sudden crash echoed through the chamber, cutting through the tension like a knife. Asclepius fell to the ground, revealing my mother standing beside him, a marble chair in her hands. The shock of her sudden appearance reverberated through the room, a silent testament to the power of a mother's love. Asclepius, recovering from the fall, lunged towards us, his hands outstretched in a desperate attempt to snatch Evan from my grasp. But my mother was quicker, her protective instinct propelling her into action. With a swift and decisive motion, she swung the marble chair, knocking Asclepius to the ground once more. The chaos of the moment enveloped us, a whirlwind of emotion and uncertainty swirling through the air. But amidst the turmoil, one thing remained clear - my mother would stop at nothing to protect us, her unwavering love a shield against the darkness that threatened to consume us all. As my mother stood before me, her presence was like a beacon of light in the midst of darkness. With Evan cradled in my arms and Asclepius lying at our feet, she looked at me with eyes filled with warmth and concern. 'Oh, sweetie, I've been waiting for you,' she said, her voice a soothing melody that washed over me like a gentle wave. There was a calmness in her demeanour, a sense of reassurance that everything would be alright. I felt a surge of relief flood through me at the sight of her, a feeling of safety and comfort that I hadn't realized I'd been craving. In that moment, all the worries and fears that had been weighing me down seemed to fade away, replaced by a sense of peace that only a mother's love could provide. I moved towards her, Evan still cradled in my arms, and she enveloped me in a warm embrace. It was as if all the pain and uncertainty of the world melted away in her embrace, leaving only love and acceptance in its wake. 'Mom,' I whispered, my voice choked with emotion, 'I thought I'd lost him...' Her arms tightened around me, offering silent support, and understanding. 'You're stronger than you realize, my dear,' she murmured, her voice soft but filled with conviction. 'And love... love conquers all.' With her words echoing in my ears, I felt a renewed sense of determination coursing through my veins. No matter what challenges lay ahead, I knew that as long as I had my mother by my side, I could overcome anything. Together, we would face whatever the future held, united in our love and unwavering in our resolve. And as we stood there in that moment, surrounded by chaos and uncertainty, I knew that no matter what trials awaited us, we would face them together, as a family. we stood there, the urgency of the situation weighed heavily upon us. My mother's gaze flickered towards the room of inventions, a determined glint in her eyes. 'We need to bind him, or he's going to kill both of you,' she stated firmly, her voice leaving no room for argument. I followed her lead, my heart racing with adrenaline as we entered the room. The air was thick with the scent of metal and machinery, a stark contrast to the chaos that raged outside. My eyes scanned the room, searching for something, anything, that could help us in our predicament. And then I saw it - a coil of rope lying abandoned in the corner of the room. Without hesitation, I pointed towards it. 'That should work,' I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within me. My mother wasted no time, swiftly crossing the room and retrieving the rope. With practiced hands, she began to bind Asclepius, her movements sure and precise. As she worked, I watched in awe, struck once again by the strength and determination that radiated from her. In a matter of moments, Asclepius lay bound before us, his unconscious form a stark reminder of the danger that still lurked within the chambers. With a sense of grim satisfaction, my mother nodded towards the door, indicating that it was time to move on. Together, we entered the next chamber, the room of inventions giving way to a more serene atmosphere. I followed closely behind my mother, Evan's unconscious form cradled gently in my arms. We walked in silence, the weight of our shared experiences hanging heavy in the air. And then, finally, we reached our destination - the marble table where my mother had rested after her injury. With great care, I laid Evan down upon its smooth surface, his still form a stark contrast to the chaos that raged outside. I stood there, watching over him, a sense of calm washed over me. In that moment, surrounded by uncertainty and danger, I knew that no matter what lay ahead, I would face it with my mother by my side. And together, we would do whatever it took to protect the ones we loved. Mother began her examination of Evan, I watched anxiously, every fibre of my being willing him to wake up. She checked his pulse and his breath, her expression focused and determined. After a moment, she looked up at me, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. 'Well, he's alive,' she said, her voice filled with relief. 'I think we just need to wait.' 'Okay,' I replied, my own voice trembling with emotion. I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as I watched her work. 'Mom, shouldn't you rest?' I asked hesitantly. 'I mean, you got injured just a few hours ago.' My mother looked at me with understanding in her eyes. 'Nico, we're in Olympus,' she explained gently. 'Here, time moves a lot slower. For you, it's been only a few hours, but here, it's nearly two days.' I nodded, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me. 'Sorry, I forgot,' I mumbled sheepishly. 'It's only my second time in Olympus.' 'There's no need to apologize,' my mother reassured me, her voice soft but firm. 'I just feel bad,' I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. 'I left Hermes, Zeus, Hephaestus, and Dad in the fight, and fled myself to where it's safe.' My mother chuckled softly, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. 'Do you really think they can't fight without you?' she said, her tone gentle but firm. 'They've fought for eternities, Nico. For you, it's just the first war, and hopefully the last. You were there to save Evan. Don't blame yourself. Everything is going to be fine.' Her words washed over me like a soothing balm, easing the burden of guilt that had been weighing me down. With her reassurance ringing in my ears, I felt a renewed sense of hope flood through me. And then, as if on cue, the chamber door swung open, and the gods themselves stepped inside. Their presence filled the room with a tangible sense of power and authority, a silent reminder of the forces at play in the world. As they gathered around us, a sense of calm descended upon the chamber, the weight of their combined presence offering a sense of protection and security. And in that moment, surrounded by the gods themselves. Proteus, my father, stood before us, his imposing figure radiating an aura of strength and wisdom. His eyes, the same shade of deep blue as mine, bore into mine with a mix of concern and curiosity. 'Son,' he began, his voice resonating with the power of the sea, 'one question: why is Asclepius sitting unconscious and bound in front of his own chambers?' I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, unsure of how to explain the events that had transpired. But before I could formulate a response, my mother interjected, her voice laced with a mixture of anger and disbelief. 'He poisoned the potion that was supposed to help Evan,' she declared, her tone fierce and unwavering. 'And after he saw that Evan is still alive, he wanted to kill your son!' The gravity of her words hung in the air like a heavy cloak, weighing down on us with its sheer enormity. I watched as Proteus's expression hardened, his features contorted with a mixture of shock and outrage. 'Is this true?' he demanded, turning to me with a piercing gaze. I nodded, unable to meet his eyes. 'Yes, Dad,' I admitted reluctantly. 'It's true.' Proteus's expression softened slightly, his gaze turning inward as he processed the information. After a moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. 'I never thought Asclepius capable of such treachery,' he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 'But it seems even the gods are not immune to the darkness that lurks within us all.' I felt a pang of guilt at his words, a sense of responsibility for the actions of my fellow god. But before I could dwell on it further, Proteus turned to my mother, his expression grave. 'What do you suggest we do with him?' he asked, gesturing towards Asclepius's unconscious form. My mother's gaze hardened, her jaw set with determination. 'We can't let him roam free,' she replied firmly. 'Not after what he's done. We need to keep him restrained until we figure out what to do next.' Proteus nodded in agreement, his expression unreadable. 'Very well,' he said, his voice tinged with resignation. 'But let's make sure he's secure. We can't afford to take any chances.' he turned to Hermes, Zeus, and Hephaestus, seeking counsel from the other gods who stood nearby. Zeus, his voice rumbling like distant thunder, spoke first. 'We cast him out of Olympus forever, but keep an eye on him,' Zeus decreed, his words carrying the weight of his authority as king of the gods. Hermes, ever the messenger of the gods, nodded in agreement. 'I'll take care of that,' he affirmed, before swiftly departing to carry out Zeus's command. Meanwhile, Hephaestus turned his attention to my mother, his expression softening with affection. 'Alice, let's go,' he said gently, extending a hand towards her. 'We haven't met in ages, and there's much we need to talk about.' My mother glanced at me, seeking my approval. I nodded in response, understanding the importance of their reunion. With a reassuring smile, she accepted Hephaestus's offer and followed him as they departed, leaving me alone with Proteus and Zeus. “United we stand, against all odds” — A.G Sparks Revived [Chapter six] As I sit beside Evan's motionless form, the weight of uncertainty bears down on me like a crushing burden. The silence of the room is deafening, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Evan's shallow breaths. Every passing moment feels like an eternity, each second dragging on endlessly as I grapple with the fear gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. What if the potion touched him? The thought strikes me like a bolt of lightning, jolting me from my reverie with its chilling intensity. The possibility claws at the recesses of my mind, threatening to unravel me with its insidious whispers. What if my actions have condemned Evan to an eternal slumber, his fate sealed by my own misguided decisions? The weight of guilt settles heavily upon my shoulders, pressing down upon me with an almost physical force. I can't bear to look at Evan, to confront the consequences of my actions laid bare in the stillness of his form. Instead, I keep my gaze fixed firmly on the ground, unable to face the truth that lies before me. WHAT IF I KILLED HIM?! Suddenly, a soft voice pierces through the suffocating silence, cutting through the darkness like a beacon of hope. 'You did not,' the voice says, its tone gentle yet resolute. Startled, I lift my head to see Athena standing before me, her presence a balm to my troubled soul. 'What... who are you?' I manage to choke out, my voice trembling with uncertainty. 'I am Athena, the goddess of wisdom,' she replies, her gaze unwavering as she meets my eyes. 'And yes, I can hear your thoughts. It's one of the perks of the job.' Despite the gravity of the situation, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. There's something oddly reassuring about Athena's presence, as if she holds the key to unlocking the answers I so desperately seek. Athena places a comforting hand on my shoulder, her touch grounding me in reality. 'He will wake up, Nico. I promise you,' she says, her voice filled with unwavering conviction. 'But until then, I'll stay by your side. You don't have to face this alone.' Gratitude washes over me like a tidal wave, mingling with the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. 'Thank you,' I whisper, my voice barely above a hoarse whisper. 'Everyone... everyone just left me here.' Athena's smile is understanding, her eyes full of compassion. 'I know,' she says softly. 'But you're not alone anymore.' In the moments that follow, I find myself overcome by an overwhelming urge to unburden myself, to lay bare the tumultuous emotions that have been churning within me. With each passing moment in Athena's presence, the walls I've built around my heart begin to crumble, revealing the raw vulnerability hidden beneath the surface. I lift my head, my gaze meeting Athena's with a mixture of apprehension and hope. 'What if I killed him?' I whisper, the words barely audible above the dull roar of my own thoughts. Athena's expression softens, a gentle understanding shining in her eyes. 'You did not,' she replies, her voice a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. 'But what if I did?' I press, the weight of my doubts threatening to overwhelm me. 'What if my actions led to his demise?' Athena places a comforting hand on my shoulder, her touch grounding me in the present moment. 'In times of crisis, it's natural to question our own choices,' she says, her tone reassuring. 'But you must trust in the strength of your convictions. You acted out of love, not malice.' I nod, a sense of relief washing over me like a tidal wave. 'I just... I couldn't bear to lose him,' I admit, my voice cracking with emotion. Athena listens with a patience born of wisdom, her gaze steady and unwavering as I lay bare my innermost thoughts and fears. There's no judgment in her eyes, no condemnation for the darkness that lurks within me. Instead, there's only compassion and understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the struggles that define us all. As I speak, it's as if a dam has burst within me, the floodgates of emotion opening wide to release the pent-up anguish that has long festered in the depths of my soul. And with each passing moment, I feel a sense of liberation wash over me, as if by confronting my fears head-on, I've taken the first step towards reclaiming my own sense of agency. Athena nods in understanding, her presence a beacon of strength in the midst of my turmoil. 'You are stronger than you realize,' she says, her voice filled with conviction. 'And love... love conquers all.' “sometimes it d..” Athena rises from her seat, without letting me finish, with a knowing smile, I'm left feeling both comforted and perplexed. 'I'm going to get some water,' “Why?”, “You´ll see” she says cryptically before disappearing from the room, leaving me to ponder her words in the quiet solitude that follows. As I sit alone in the dimly lit chamber, a sense of peace washes over me like a warm embrace. With Athena by my side, even the darkest of nights seems a little less daunting, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I allow myself to believe that everything will be okay. Athena re-enters the room, her presence accompanied by the soft clink of the carafe as she places it on the table. Without a word, she pours a glass of water, her movements precise and unhurried. In that moment, Evan's eyes flutter open, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he takes in his surroundings. He sits up, confusion etched into every line of his face as he looks around the room. And as his gaze falls upon Athena, standing silently by your side with a glass of water in hand, a flicker of recognition lights up his eyes. I can’t help it but feel a surge of relief at the sight of him awake, alive. And before I could even think about it, I fly into a tight hug. But my sudden movement catches him off guard, and he topples back onto the bed with a startled yelp. Athena's voice cuts through the air like a knife, a gentle reminder to give him space to regain his bearings. 'Let him come to his senses first, Nico,' she says, her tone firm but not unkind. I pull back, embarrassment flushing my cheeks as you mumble an apology. Evan looks up at me, a bemused expression on his face as he rubs at his sore throat. 'Could I get some water?' he asks, his voice hoarse and strained. I shoot a pleading look in Athena's direction, silently begging her to intervene. But she only offers me a mischievous grin, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 'I told you I know everything,' she says, her voice laced with amusement. He drinks it down in one gulp, handing the empty glass back to Athena with a sheepish grin. 'Could...' he begins, but before he can finish his sentence, Athena is already refilling his glass, her actions smooth and practiced. 'Yes, here you go,' she says, passing it back to him with a playful wink. I can’t help but roll my eyes at her antics, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Evan looks between the two of us, confusion writ large on his face. 'Sorry, Athena is here, so I guess we are in Olympus?' he ventures, his brow furrowed in confusion. I nod in confirmation, “Had to drag you here from Paris” my heart skips a beat at the realization that he remembers. But before you can dwell on it further, “PARIS?!” he lets out a string of curses, his eyes wide with shock. 'FUCK, I'M SO SORRY,' he cries, tears welling up in his eyes as he pulls you into a tight hug. 'I WASN'T MYSELF!' I return his embrace, feeling the weight of his guilt pressing against my chest. “I WASN’T MYSELF, I I I… I DIDN’T WANT TO HURT ANY…”, but before he can continue, I silence him with a kiss, a silent plea for him to stop blaming himself. 'The only way to make up for it is to shut up with that bullshit,' I murmur, my lips brushing against his. He blinks in surprise, his eyes searching mine for answers. But before I can explain, Athena speaks up, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. 'She's dead,' she says, her tone matter-of-fact. 'Her ashes lay hidden in Olympus.' Evan's eyes widen in shock, disbelief etched into every line of his face. But before he can respond, you interject, your voice firm and unwavering. 'No, she wasn't a friend,' you say, your words laced with bitterness. 'She was Kronos's daughter. She watched me because she knew who I am.' Evan's jaw drops in disbelief, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. But you only offer him a solemn nod, your gaze unwavering. 'But did you guys get Kronos this time?' he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. I shake my head, a pang of regret coursing through me at the memory of the battle. But before I can dwell on it further, Athena speaks up once more, her voice filled with certainty. 'They killed Kronos,' she says, her tone final. 'The ashes are hidden well. They are celebrating right now. You heroes should join them.' With that, she turns on her heel and strides out of the room, leaving you and Evan alone once more. And as you watch her go, a sense of gratitude washes over me, a silent acknowledgment of the role she played in bringing Evan back to you. As Evan's eyes dart around the room, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and confusion, you can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. It's clear that he's struggling to make sense of the situation, and you want to do everything in your power to help him understand. 'You want to know how she just answered you without even asking?' I ask, your voice gentle as you try to ease his confusion. Evan nods slowly, his brow furrowed in concentration. 'Yeah, I do,' he replies, his voice tinged with curiosity. 'Well, she just read your mind,' I explain, watching as comprehension dawns on his face. 'Wait, she can do that!?' Evan exclaims, his eyes widening in disbelief. 'Yes, she can,' I confirm, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 'She's the goddess of wisdom, after all.' Evan lets out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement. 'Fuck, I didn't know. I mean, I've known her for a while, but I never realized...' His voice trails off, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind as he processes this new information. But before he can dwell on it further, a mischievous glint appears in his eyes, and he leans in close to you. 'I thought about some filthy things around here,' he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. I can't help but chuckle at his boldness, a playful grin spreading across my face. 'Yeah? Like what?' you tease, unable to resist egging him on. Evan's hand snakes around your waist, pulling you even closer to him. 'Well, I can show you,' he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from mine. Before I can respond, your mom bursts into the room, her face flushed with embarrassment. 'Oh, sorry!' she exclaims, her eyes widening in shock as she takes in the scene before her. 'You're... uh... being gay. Sorry. Welcome back Evan.” A weird silence followed, “I'll just... um... wait outside.' With a sheepish grin, she turns on her heel and hurries out of the room, leaving you and Evan alone once more. You share a knowing look, both of you struggling to contain your laughter at the awkwardness of the situation. 'I think we should go outside,' I suggest, my voice laced with amusement. Evan nods in agreement, a wide grin spreading across his face. 'Yeah, probably a good idea,' he agrees, his eyes sparkling with mischief. And with that, the two of us make our way out of the room, laughter ringing in our ears as we head out to join the celebration outside. We our way outside, the weight of recent events still lingering in the air. As we step into the bustling courtyard of Olympus, we´re greeted by the sight of gods and heroes alike celebrating their victory over Kronos. The air is alive with the sound of laughter and music, and the scent of ambrosia and nectar fills our nostrils. It's a stark contrast to the tension and uncertainty that had pervaded the halls just moments ago, and I can't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me as I take in the festive atmosphere. Evan squeezes my hand reassuringly, a silent reminder that I´m not alone in this. I return the gesture, grateful for his presence by my side. As I navigate through the crowd, I catch glimpses of familiar faces among the throng of revellers. Hermes, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he regales a group of nymphs with tales of his latest exploits. Athena, her expression serene as she converses with a group of mortals, dispensing wisdom, and guidance with ease. And then there's Zeus, his booming laughter echoing through the courtyard as he raises a toast to the heroes who fought bravely in the battle against Kronos. He catches sight of you and Evan and beckons you over, a warm smile spreading across his face. 'Ah, there you are!' he exclaims, his voice filled with genuine warmth. 'I was just about to make a toast to our newest heroes. Come, join us!' Evan and I exchange a glance before making our way over to Zeus's side, where a group of gods and heroes has gathered around a large table laden with food and drink. As we take our place among them, Zeus raises his goblet high, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. 'To Nico and Evan,' he declares, his voice carrying over the din of the crowd. 'Heroes of Olympus, saviours of the realm. May your courage and bravery be an inspiration to us all!' Evan turns to your mom and Proteus with a grin. 'I think we owe someone a proper birthday celebration,' he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Evan's suggestion of a proper birthday celebration brings a smile to everyone's faces. 'I couldn't agree more,' Mom says, her eyes bright with anticipation. 'But let's celebrate at home. I've had my fill of Olympus for one day.' I nod in agreement, feeling a wave of relief washes over me. 'Thank you,' I say, grateful for the chance to return home. Hermes nods, understanding evident in his expression. 'Of course. I'll open a portal for you.' “You go ahead,' he says with a mischievous glint in his eye. 'We'll be there in a bit.' With a shrug, you and Evan step through the portal, leaving Olympus behind. As we emerge on the other side, you find yourselves in the mortal realm, the sun beginning to set on the horizon. The air is crisp and cool, the scent of pine and earth mingling with the faint crackle of the bonfire in your backyard. I take a seat around the fire, the warmth of the flames chasing away the chill of the evening. As we settle in, I can't help but glance at the hole in the wall, a lingering reminder of the chaos that had ensued during the battle. 'Uhm, sorry about that, Mom,' you say sheepishly. Mom waves off my apology with a smile. 'Oh, don't worry, sweetie. We'll take care of that tomorrow.' I let out a sigh of relief, grateful for her understanding. Evan furrows his brow in confusion. 'What happened there?' he asks, curiosity piqued. I chuckle at the memory. 'Sarah bound and gagged Mom on the sofa, and I threw my sceptre at her. Well, I didn't miss, but I didn't hit her either.' Before Evan can respond, the gods arrive, their presence heralded by a burst of divine energy. They come bearing gifts—a token of their appreciation for your bravery and sacrifice. Among the gifts is a specially crafted artifact, imbued with the power of the gods and meant to aid you in your future endeavours. With a nod of understanding, me and Evan make your way towards the backyard, where a bonfire awaits. The crackling flames cast a warm glow over the scene, illuminating the faces of those gathered around. As we settle in around the fire, the gods take their places beside you, their presence a comforting presence in the gathering darkness. Zeus looks around at the assembled group, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 'Well, it seems we've made it just in time for the festivities,' he says, a hint of mischief in his voice. The other gods nod in agreement, their expressions a mixture of excitement and anticipation. Athena leans in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. 'So, what's on the agenda for tonight?' she asks, her voice eager. I glance around at the group, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 'Well, first and foremost, we're going to celebrate,' my voice filled with enthusiasm. 'But I also wanted to take a moment to thank each and every one of you for your support and guidance.' The gods nod in appreciation, their expressions reflecting the warmth and affection they feel towards you. Poseidon clears his throat, a twinkle in his eye. 'Well, then, let's get this party started!' he says, his voice booming with enthusiasm. With that, the festivities begin in earnest, the sound of laughter and music filling the air. As I look around at the faces of my friends and loved ones, I can't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over me, knowing that I am surrounded by people who care about me deeply. The night wears on and the bonfire begins to die down, the group finds themselves growing weary from the day's festivities. Most of the guests have already departed, leaving only you, Evan, Mom, Hermes, and Athena gathered around the dwindling flames. I settle onto one of the wooden logs surrounding the bonfire, feeling the warmth of the dying embers against your skin. Evan sits beside me, and I somehow find myself leaning back against him, resting my head on his lap. In the quiet stillness of the night, Evan's voice breaks through the silence, his words soft and earnest. 'You know, Nico, when I saw you, I fell in love. And you... you smiled because you knew.' I lift your head slightly to meet his gaze, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips. 'Hmm, isn't that Shakespeare?' I tease gently. 'Anyway, I love you too.' Evan's eyes sparkle with affection as he leans down to press a tender kiss onto my forehead. 'You know what, Nico? I wasn't able to get you anything, but I still have something for you,' he says, his voice filled with excitement. With that, he rises from his seat and disappears into the house, leaving you momentarily puzzled but intrigued by his mysterious declaration. I watch him go, feeling a flutter of anticipation in my chest as I wonder what surprise he has in store for me. I turn to Mom, curiosity gleaming in your eyes. 'Mom, what's going on? Why the whispers? What did Athena tell you?' She smiles softly, her gaze warm and knowing. 'You'll see, sweetheart. Just wait.' With a nod, I settle back, eager anticipation bubbling in my chest. As Evan returns with the guitar, I remember that guitar, it was Dads, I can't help but feel a rush of excitement. He settles next to me, his fingers deftly plucking the strings, and then he begins to sing. In a world of chaos and strife, You appeared like a guiding light. With your laughter and your smile, You chased away the darkest night. Oh, Nico, my love, my heart's delight, In your arms, I've found my home tonight. Through the storms, we'll stand side by side, Together, we'll conquer the tides. Through the battles we have faced, In the shadows, in the haze, We've emerged, stronger than before, Bound together forevermore. Oh, Nico, my love, my heart's delight, In your arms, I've found my home tonight. Through the storms, we'll stand side by side, Together, we'll conquer the tides. With every breath, with every beat, You're the rhythm of my soul's heartbeat. In your eyes, I see the stars align, Forever, you'll be mine. Oh, Nico, my love, my heart's delight, In your arms, I've found my home tonight. Through the storms, we'll stand side by side, Together, we'll conquer the tides. But today for your birthday, your special day, I wish you all the best. Happy birthday, Nico. As Evan's voice fills the air, I feel a warmth spreading through your chest. These lyrics, they resonate with every fibre of your being, capturing the essence of my journey with Evan. And as the final notes fade away, I completely overwhelmed with emotion, grateful for the love that surrounds me lately. Through tears of happiness, I turn to Evan, my heart overflowing with emotion. 'I so fucking love you, Evan,' I declare, my voice choked with emotion. And then, turning to the others gathered around the bonfire, I continue, 'Guys, I love all of you!' The Enigmatic Dream [Chapter one] I sat at my desk in the back of the classroom, struggling to keep my eyes open. The history teacher's monotone voice washed over me, and I felt the heaviness of my eyelids closing. Just as I was about to drift off into dreamland, a faint, ethereal voice called out, 'Sohn.' Startled, I jolted upright in my chair, rubbing my eyes to shake off the drowsiness. Did I just imagine that? I glanced around the classroom, but everyone seemed engrossed in their notes, unaware of the strange occurrence. 'Sohn,' the voice called again, this time more urgent. It was as if the voice came from inside my head. My heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone or something was trying to communicate with me. 'Sohn,' the voice repeated, and this time I could sense a hint of familiarity as if I should recognize it. Before I could ponder further, my best friend, Sarah, sitting beside me, gave me a sharp nudge. 'Hey, wake up! The quiz just started!' she whispered urgently. Blinking rapidly, I shook off the strange encounter and grabbed my pencil, glancing at the quiz paper in front of me. I had to focus. As much as I wanted to unravel the mystery of that haunting voice, I couldn't let it distract me from my studies. Throughout the quiz, my mind wandered back to the inexplicable incident. Who or what was calling me 'son'? Was it a prank, a hallucination, or something more profound? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something extraordinary happening just beneath the surface of my ordinary life. As soon as the quiz ended, Sarah turned to me, her blue eyes filled with concern. 'Are you okay? You seemed really out of it during the quiz.' I hesitated for a moment before responding, 'I... I heard a voice. It was calling me 'son.'' Sarah raised an eyebrow. 'A voice? Are you sure you're not just tired or stressed? It's probably nothing.' I considered her words, knowing that she might have been right. Maybe I was just fatigued, and my mind was playing tricks on me. I nodded, trying to convince myself that it was indeed nothing. 'Yeah, you're right. It's probably just stress getting to me,' I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Sarah patted my shoulder reassuringly. 'Don't worry about it too much. You'll get some rest tonight, and everything will be fine. Let's focus on enjoying the rest of the day.' I mustered a smile, grateful for Sarah's support and her ability to keep me grounded. She always had a way of easing my worries. Together, we packed up our belongings and headed to our next class. The day went on as usual, with lectures, discussions, and the usual chatter among classmates. I did my best to put the mysterious voice out of my mind and concentrate on my studies. But despite my efforts, that lingering sense of curiosity persisted. During lunch break, Sarah and I sat at our favourite spot under the big oak tree. The warm sunlight filtered through the leaves, creating a soothing atmosphere. As we chatted about upcoming plans and weekend activities, I found my thoughts drifting back to the voice. I decided to confide in Sarah once more, sharing my doubts about whether it was all in my head. She listened attentively, her gaze steady and supportive. 'Look, Nico, you've always had an imaginative mind. It's what makes you unique and creative. But sometimes, our imagination can lead us to perceive things that aren't there. It's part of being human.' Her words made sense, and yet, there was something inside me that refused to let go of the possibility that the voice was real. 'I know, but it felt so... real, Sarah. Like it was trying to tell me something important.' Sarah placed a hand on my shoulder, her expression filled with empathy. 'If it really is something important, it'll reveal itself in due time. Maybe it's just your subconscious processing things you're not aware of yet. Let's not jump to conclusions, okay?' Her genuine concern helped ease my worries once more. She was right. Maybe I was overthinking it all. With Sarah's encouragement, I managed to push the mysterious voice to the back of my mind and focus on the present. As the final school bell rang, signalling the end of the day, Sarah and I headed out of the school building. The late afternoon sunbathed the campus in a golden glow, and the fresh breeze carried a sense of renewal. We walked side by side, chatting and laughing as we made our way home. Later that evening, as I lay in bed, the events of the day played through my mind. The voice still lingered in the depths of my thoughts, refusing to be forgotten. Although Sarah's words provided comfort, a part of me couldn't ignore. the feeling that something extraordinary was unfolding in my life. As I closed my eyes, I whispered to myself, 'It's probably nothing. Tomorrow is a new day, and I'll face it with an open heart and an open mind.' With that resolve in my heart, I drifted off to sleep, ready for the next day, hopefully as usual as it should be without any extraordinary voices. But as sleep took hold of me, the dream that unfolded was unlike any other I had experienced before. I found myself standing in the living room of an old farmhouse, the same one we used to visit during summer vacations when I was a child. The room was filled with an inviting warmth, the aroma of freshly baked goods filling the air. In the centre of the room was a long wooden table, covered with a checkered cloth, just like the ones my mom used to use. And there, before my eyes, was a scene from a long-forgotten memory - a table set up for my 7th birthday celebration. I watched in awe as my young self-came bounding into the room, his face lighting up with joy as he saw the spread before him. The memory brought back a rush of emotions - the laughter of friends (which I can’t see anywhere), the love of my family, and the happiness that enveloped that special day. And then, as if part of the memory itself, I saw him - my dad, I haven’t seen him since then I barley even remember his face, sitting at the head of the table. He was smiling, his eyes filled with pride and affection for his young son. The image was so vivid, and for a moment, I felt like I was reliving that cherished memory once more. My dad was tall and strong, with a warm and comforting presence that made me feel safe and loved. His dark hair was peppered with grey, and his beard had a few streaks of white, adding to his wisdom and maturity. His eyes, a warm shade of hazel, sparkled with happiness as he watched me, his only child, revelling in the joy of my birthday celebration. The room around us was adorned with colourful decorations, streamers hanging from the ceiling, and balloons floating in the air. The walls were adorned with family pictures and artwork, creating a cosy and inviting atmosphere. The sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room, and I could hear the distant chirping of birds outside, adding to the idyllic ambience. The table itself was adorned with my favourite foods and treats - a colourful array of cupcakes, a homemade cake with seven candles, and bowls filled with candies and snacks. My mom, a kind and nurturing woman with a heart of gold, had prepared the feast, and her love was evident in every dish. The room was filled with laughter and chatter as my friends and family gathered around the table, singing happy birthday to me. I blew out the candles with a big grin, making a wish that my heart was too full of joy to put into words. My dad's eyes never left me, and I could feel his immense pride in his gaze. He leaned forward, ruffling my hair playfully, and whispered, 'Make a wish, my little one, and may all your dreams come true.' The memory of that moment was so vivid that I could almost taste the sweetness of the cake, feel the warmth of my dad's embrace, and hear the familiar voices of my loved ones wishing me well. It was a moment frozen in time, a snapshot of a time when life seemed simpler and full of wonder. As the dream continued, I marvelled at the bond I shared with my dad in that long-ago moment. He was my hero, my protector, and my biggest supporter. We had shared so many special moments together in that farmhouse, from playful afternoons in the meadows to cozy evenings by the fireplace, and each memory was etched into my heart. But then, something peculiar happened. The dream shifted, and suddenly, I was no longer just an observer of the memory; I was experiencing it as my present self. I was aware that I was standing in my adult form, watching my younger self with a mix of emotions - nostalgia, longing, and a deep sense of loss. My dad, in this altered version of the memory, turned to face me, his eyes now looking directly into mine. It was as if he could see me, the grown-up Nico, standing there in the living room with tears welling up in my eyes. At that moment, it felt like a bridge had formed between the past and the present. I could feel the love and support my dad had showered upon me in that farmhouse all those years ago, and I could sense his presence in my life even now, guiding me through the challenges and triumphs that had occurred in present live. His smile was both reassuring and bittersweet as if he knew that this dream was a pivotal moment for me - a moment of realization and acceptance. It was as if he was telling me that it was time to embrace my heritage, to embrace the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. And just like that, the dream began to fade, and the memory of the farmhouse slipped away like grains of sand through my fingers. Only my dad in his chair remains, as if nothing could bother him. Everything disappears only he remains. As the dream continued to dissolve around me, I stood there, alone with my dad in the living room. The familiar warmth and comfort of the farmhouse faded, replaced by a surreal and ethereal ambience. The room transformed, becoming grander and more awe-inspiring as if it were no longer just an ordinary living room but a divine space. My dad's chair seemed to elevate, and he sat tall and dignified, a regal aura surrounding him. The checkered cloth on the table turned to pure gold, shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The aroma of freshly baked goods is now blended with the scent of incense and divine essence. As I gazed around in astonishment, the room seemed to expand infinitely, stretching into the cosmos. Stars twinkled in the distance, forming celestial patterns that I couldn't comprehend, and yet, they resonated with an inherent familiarity. And then, a brilliant light enveloped the room, radiating from the centre of the table. It was as if the very essence of the universe had condensed into this luminous glow. My heart raced with a mix of wonder, fear, and reverence. Amid this celestial illumination, I saw a figure emerge from the radiance - a god-like being of colossal proportions. He stood tall and majestic, with a physique that seemed carved from the very essence of strength and power. His skin glowed with a divine radiance, and his eyes gleamed with wisdom and compassion. The god wore a magnificent golden crown, adorned with intricate patterns and dazzling gemstones. It rested on his brow with an air of regality, as if he were the ruler of all realms. His attire was a blend of ethereal fabrics, draped in a way that suggested both grace and authority. As I stood in awe of this magnificent sight, I felt an overwhelming sense of recognition. It was as if I had known this divine figure all my life, and yet, he was beyond anything I had ever encountered in the mortal realm. His presence exuded a cosmic energy that transcended time and space. The god's gaze locked onto mine, and in that moment, I felt like he could see every fibre of my being, every memory, every aspiration, and every fear. It was as if he could read the very essence of my soul. A deep, resonating voice echoed within me, without words yet somehow comprehensible. It spoke not in a language of mortals but in the language of the universe itself. It was a message that transcended the limitations of human comprehension. In that divine encounter, I felt an unspoken guidance, a profound understanding that I was part of something greater than myself. It was as if the god was revealing to me a purpose that had been woven into the fabric of my existence since the beginning of time. As I stood before the god, memories flooded my mind - not just the cherished memory of my 7th birthday in the farmhouse but the memories of my ancestors, the stories of ancient gods, and the forgotten myths that lay dormant within me. I realized that I was more than just Nico, the ordinary student trying to navigate the complexities of everyday life. I was a thread in the tapestry of cosmic history, connected to a lineage of gods and heroes, a lineage that had transcended generations and realms. The god's presence filled me with a sense of awe and humility, knowing that the universe had chosen me to carry the legacy of the divine. It was a responsibility that felt both overwhelming and empowering. In that ethereal encounter, time seemed to lose all meaning. It was as if I existed outside the constraints of the mortal world, in a realm where past, present, and future converged into one eternal moment. As the vision of the god began to fade, a sense of tranquillity washed over me. I knew that this encounter was not a mere dream or illusion; it was a revelation, a glimpse into my true self and the destiny that awaited me. The god's presence had awakened something deep within me - a sense of purpose and calling that I could no longer ignore. It was a calling to embrace my heritage, to accept the extraordinary path that lay ahead, and to honour the ancient lineage that flowed through my veins. With a newfound sense of clarity and determination, I knew that I could no longer be content with an ordinary life. I had been chosen for a greater purpose, and it was time to embark on a journey of self-discovery and destiny. As the dream came to its end, and the god's brilliance faded into the distant cosmos, I felt a profound sense of gratitude. I was grateful for the mysteries that had unfolded before me, for the guidance that had been bestowed upon me, and for the realization that I was not alone in this extraordinary journey. With the memory of the god and the love of my dad etched into my heart, I knew that I was ready to face the challenges and wonders that awaited me. The next day, when I woke up, I knew that my life had been forever transformed, and I was filled with a sense of purpose and an eagerness to embrace the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. As the divine figure began to fade into the cosmos, his radiant form transformed into a golden statue that stood tall and majestic. The celestial glow enveloped the statue, giving it an ethereal aura that seemed to transcend the boundaries of the mortal world. It was a breathtaking sight, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from its mesmerizing beauty. In the last moments of the dream, the godly figure uttered those powerful words, 'This is my true me, SON.' The voice that emanated from the statue was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It was deep and resonant, yet it carried a gentle and reassuring tone. It felt as though the very fabric of the universe vibrated with his words, and the sound seemed to echo in the depths of my soul. As the godly voice addressed me as 'SON,' it was as if a cosmic connection formed between us. The word 'SON' echoed not just in my ears but in the core of my being. It wasn't just a title; it was a recognition of my divine heritage and a confirmation of my place in the grand tapestry of existence. The words carried a profound weight, and in that moment, I felt a surge of emotions. It was a mixture of awe, humility, and a sense of belonging. The godly figure referred to me as his own, a part of his divine family, and it stirred something deep within me, resonating with a truth that surpassed rational understanding. Just as I was about to respond or ask questions, my mother's gentle voice shattered the dream's illusion. Her tender shaking pulled me back to reality, and the godly figure's words lingered in my mind like an echo of a long-forgotten melody. In that brief moment of transition, all the memories of my ancestors, the stories of ancient gods, and the divine revelations that had filled the dream began to slip away like grains of sand through my fingers. The vivid emotions that had accompanied those memories started to fade, leaving behind a sense of loss and yearning. The connection to my divine lineage felt distant now, as if it were obscured by a fog of forgotten dreams. I could still sense the presence of the godly statue that had addressed me as 'SON,' but its brilliance was dimming, and its voice became fainter with each passing second. The dream's clarity started to dissolve, and I struggled to hold on to the profound experiences I had just encountered. It was as if I was slipping away from a realm of divine knowledge and returning to the limitations of the mortal world. All the feelings of awe, purpose, and belonging that had overwhelmed me in the dream began to slip away, leaving a void in their wake. It was a bittersweet moment, as I desperately tried to grasp the fading memories and hold on to the deep insights that had been revealed to me. But as my mother's gentle voice persisted, I slowly opened my eyes to the familiar surroundings of my room. The dream had slipped away, leaving behind a lingering sense of wonder and uncertainty. I felt a mix of emotions - gratitude for the extraordinary experience, but also a tinge of sorrow for the vanishing memories. In that moment, all that remained was the presence of the godly statue in my mind. It was a reminder of the encounter with the divine, a connection to a higher purpose that I couldn't fully comprehend but knew to be true. As I sat up in bed, I tried to recollect the details of the dream, the grandeur of the farmhouse memory, and the awe-inspiring encounter with the godly figure. However, the more I grasped for those memories, the more they seemed to slip through my fingers, like a fading dream at the break of dawn. Yet, deep inside, I felt a resonance, an indescribable sense of knowing that the dream had left an indelible mark on my soul. It wasn't just a mere figment of my imagination; it was a divine revelation, a glimpse into a reality beyond the confines of the material world. As I glanced around my room, the mundane surroundings reminded me of the limitations of the mortal realm. But that divine connection, that godly statue in my mind, remained as a testament to the extraordinary encounter I had experienced. In the days that followed, the memory of the dream stayed with me like a faint whisper in the wind. It would surface in quiet moments, in the stillness of the night, and moments of introspection. The words of the godly figure echoed in my mind, reminding me of my divine heritage and the destiny that awaited me. Though I could no longer access the vivid details of the dream, I carried within me a sense of purpose and a deeper understanding of my place in the grand cosmic scheme. It was a journey of self-discovery that had just begun, one that would lead me to explore the depths of my soul and embrace the extraordinary path laid out before me. The godly statue in my mind remained a guiding light, a symbol of divine connection that inspired me to seek wisdom, truth, and meaning in every aspect of my life. It was a reminder that there was more to my existence than met the eye, and that the journey of a son of the divine was just beginning. As I slowly emerged from the remnants of the dream, the soft glow of the morning light greeted my eyes. My mother stood beside my bed, her loving gaze filled with a mixture of affection and concern. She gently placed her hand on my shoulder, rousing me from my slumber. 'Nico, sweetheart, it's time to wake up. You don't want to be late for your class trip to Paris,' she said in her soothing voice, her words carrying the warmth of a mother's love. I blinked a few times, still trying to shake off the lingering effects of the dream. The memory of the godly figure and the farmhouse celebration felt like distant echoes in my mind, but the sense of awe and wonder lingered, like a faint fragrance in the air. „Paris... right,' I replied, my voice still tinged with sleepiness. Graduating from German High-school was a momentous occasion, and the prospect of a weekend trip to Paris with my classmates filled me with excitement and anticipation. As I stretched and sat up, my mother smiled, a mixture of pride and nostalgia in her eyes. 'I can't believe you're almost graduating, my dear. It feels like just yesterday you were starting school.' She brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, her touch gentle and familiar. Memories of my childhood rushed back; each moment etched in her loving care. The farmhouse memory from the dream had stirred something deep within me, and now, with my mother by my side, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the love and support that had shaped me into the person I was today. As I got out of bed, my mother handed me a neatly folded set of clothes. 'I laid out your outfit for the trip. It's going to be an exciting weekend, and you'll want to look your best,' she said, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. I smiled, feeling grateful for her thoughtfulness. My mother had always been meticulous in ensuring I had everything I needed for important events, and this was no exception. After getting dressed, I made my way downstairs to the living room, where the excitement of the trip was palpable. My younger sister, Emily, was already there, eagerly discussing the upcoming adventures with Sarah, my best friend. They were chatting animatedly about the places they wanted to visit and the memories they hoped to create. Sarah turned towards me as I entered the room, her eyes lighting up with joy. 'Nico! Finally, you're awake. We were starting to think we'd have to leave without you,' she teased playfully. I chuckled, feeling a sense of warmth and familiarity wash over me. Sarah had been my closest friend since childhood, and our bond was unbreakable. Together, we had shared countless adventures and supported each other through the highs and lows of life. My mother, standing by the doorway, looked at us with a twinkle in her eye. 'You two better hurry. The bus will be here soon, and you don't want to miss it,' she advised, her maternal instincts kicking in. With a nod of agreement, Sarah and I grabbed our bags, brimming with excitement and anticipation for the weekend ahead. Paris was a city of dreams, and the thought of exploring its streets, tasting its cuisine, and immersing ourselves in its rich history filled us with an indescribable thrill. As we stepped outside, the morning air was cool and refreshing. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a golden hue over the landscape. Our classmates were gathering at the meeting point, their faces filled with enthusiasm and joy. 'Hey, Nico, are you ready for an unforgettable weekend?' one of our classmates called out, his voice exuding excitement. 'Absolutely!' I replied, feeling a surge of energy and anticipation course through me. The dream and its divine encounter felt like a distant memory now, replaced by the palpable excitement of embarking on this journey with my friends. As we boarded the bus, my mother waved us off, her eyes brimming with maternal pride and love. She had always been my biggest cheerleader, and I could see the mixture of excitement and bittersweet emotions in her smile. The journey to Paris was filled with laughter, chatter, and a sense of camaraderie. We sang songs, played games, and shared stories along the way, creating memories that would be cherished for a lifetime. The excitement in the bus was infectious, and the anticipation for the adventure ahead kept us all wide awake. Sarah and I found ourselves sitting together near the back, just as we always did on school trips. We learned in closer, our heads almost touching, as I began to recount the dream that had left me with a sense of wonder and uncertainty. 'Sarah, you won't believe what I dreamed last night,' I started, my voice hushed so only she could hear. Sarah turned to me, her eyes curious. 'What was it? Tell me everything.' I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to describe the dream that felt both profound and enigmatic. 'It was... surreal. I found myself in this old farmhouse, the same one we used to visit when we were kids. It was like a memory, but so much more vivid.' As I continued to narrate the dream, Sarah listened attentively, her gaze unwavering. I described the warm ambiance, the familiar faces of family and friends, and the joyous celebration of my 7th birthday. But it was the encounter with the godly figure that had left the deepest impact on me. '... and then, I saw him, Sarah. He was this towering, majestic being, like a god or something. He called me 'SON' and spoke to me in this powerful, ethereal voice. I can't shake the feeling that it was real, like a message from beyond.' Sarah looked thoughtful; her brow furrowed as she processed the tale. 'Nico, it sounds incredible, but dreams can be just dreams, you know? Our minds are complex, and they can create all sorts of illusions, especially when we're under a lot of stress.' I nodded, knowing that Sarah was right. Dreams were products of our subconscious, and they often reflected our fears, hopes, and desires. Yet, there was a part of me that couldn't dismiss the dream as a mere figment of my imagination. The encounter with the godly figure had felt so vivid, so real. 'I know, Sarah, but there was something about that voice and the way he looked at me. It felt like he was trying to tell me something important, something I need to understand,' I replied, trying to convey the weight of the experience. Sarah placed a comforting hand on my arm, her eyes softening with understanding. 'It's natural to feel that way, Nico. Dreams can be powerful, and sometimes, they tap into the deeper parts of ourselves. Maybe it's a reflection of the stress we're all under right now with graduation and everything. Your mind might be trying to process it all in its own way.' Her words brought a sense of reassurance, and yet, the dream continued to linger in my thoughts. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it, that it held a message that I needed to decipher. 'But, Sarah, there's one more thing,' I continued, my voice growing softer. 'Remember that voice I heard yesterday, just before the dream? The one that called me 'Sohn'? What if that's connected somehow?' Sarah looked thoughtful, and I could see her mind working to piece the puzzle together. 'It could be, Nico. Maybe your subconscious mind was trying to process that voice, and it found its way into the dream. Dreams can be like that, picking up on things we might not even be aware of.' She had a point, and I appreciated her logical approach to the situation. But deep down, I still had this nagging feeling that there was more to the story, that the dream and the voice were somehow interconnected in a way that transcended the ordinary. As the bus journey continued, Sarah and I fell silent, lost in our thoughts. The rolling countryside outside the window passed in a blur as I delved deeper into the memories of the dream. I tried to recall every detail, every emotion, and every word spoken by the godly figure. It was as if I was piecing together a puzzle that held the key to an extraordinary truth. Amid my contemplation, Sarah's voice cut through the silence. 'You know, Nico, sometimes dreams can be like messages from our subconscious, trying to guide us or offer insight into things we might be struggling with.' Her words resonated with me, and I knew she was trying to offer a comforting perspective. Yet, there was a part of me that yearned for the dream to be more than just a reflection of my thoughts and worries. 'I guess you're right, Sarah,' I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty. 'But it felt so real, like a glimpse into something beyond the ordinary. It's hard to shake the feeling that it means something more.' Sarah smiled gently, understanding my conflicted emotions. 'It's okay, Nico. Dreams can be mysterious, and sometimes, we might never fully understand their meaning. But what's important is how you feel about it. If it feels significant to you, then maybe it is.' Her words brought me a sense of solace, knowing that Sarah supported me regardless of whether the dream was a mere product of my imagination or something more profound. She was always there for me, offering her unwavering support and understanding. As the bus journey continued, I found myself drifting in and out of contemplation, my thoughts torn between the dream and the exciting adventure that awaited us in Paris. The city of lights held its allure, and I knew that the trip would be a cherished memory in its own right. When we finally arrived in Paris, the city welcomed us with open arms. The beauty of the architecture, the rich history, and the vibrant culture enveloped us, leaving us in awe. Sarah and I walked hand in hand along the cobbled streets, taking in the sights and sounds of this magical city. As the day unfolded, we explored famous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame Cathedral, and the Louvre Museum. Each site was more breathtaking than the last, and the history behind them left us both fascinated and humbled. The evening descended upon the city, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. We found a cozy café tucked away in a quaint alley, where we savoured delicious French cuisine and sipped on warm coffee. As we chatted and laughed, the cares of the world seemed to fade away, replaced by the joy of the present moment. Throughout the day, I tried my best to immerse myself in the experience, savouring every sight, sound, and taste. Paris was a city of wonders, and I didn't want to miss a single moment of its magic. As the night settled in, Sarah and I strolled along the Seine River, the city lights reflecting on the water's surface. The ambiance was enchanting, and the dream I had the previous night felt like a distant memory in the midst of the vibrant city. But deep down, I knew that the dream had left a profound impact on me, even amidst the allure of Paris. The encounter with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration remained etched in my mind, like pieces of a puzzle that begged to be connected. As we made our way back to the hotel, exhaustion from the day's adventures began to settle in. The excitement of the city had given way to a sense of tranquillity, and I welcomed the opportunity to rest and reflect on the experiences of the day. The hotel we stayed in was a charming boutique establishment, with a classic Parisian charm. The lobby was adorned with elegant furnishings, and the atmosphere exuded a sense of sophistication and warmth. Our hotel room was cozy and inviting, with a large window that offered a view of the city below. The soft glow of the streetlights bathed the room in a warm embrace. The bed was adorned with plush pillows and a luxurious duvet, promising a comfortable night's sleep. As I settled into bed, memories of the dream began to resurface, blending with the experiences of the day. The encounter with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration seemed to intertwine, forming a tapestry of emotions and questions. The room was quiet, and the distant sounds of the city outside lulled me into a state of relaxation. As I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but wonder about the significance of the dream. Was it just a product of my imagination, or was it a message from something beyond the ordinary? I tried to recall the godly figure's words, the feeling of connection and belonging, and the sense of purpose that had accompanied the dream. It was as if the dream had tapped into a part of myself that had long been dormant, a part of me that yearned for something greater than the ordinary. But amidst the wonder and uncertainty, one thing was clear - the dream had awakened a desire within me to seek meaning and purpose in my life. It had sparked a curiosity about my heritage and the lineage that I carried within me. As I lay there, enveloped in the stillness of the night, I knew that the journey of self-discovery had only just begun. The encounters with the godly figure and the memory of my 7th birthday celebration were like signposts along the path, guiding me toward an extraordinary destiny. With a contented sigh, I drifted off to sleep, knowing that the adventures of the day were just the beginning. The dreams of the night would continue to unfold, leading me on a journey of wonder, self-discovery, and a deeper understanding of the extraordinary destiny that awaited me. And as the night passed in serene slumber, a comforting thought lingered in my mind - that even amidst the vastness of the cosmos and the mysteries of the universe, I was not alone. The godly figure's words echoed in my heart, reassuring me that I was a part of something grand, connected to a lineage of gods and heroes that transcended time and space. In that quiet moment, I embraced the profound truth that I was a son of the divine, destined for an extraordinary path, and that the adventures of the dream and the waking world were intertwined in a dance of wonder and destiny. The second day in Paris was just as enchanting as the first. Sarah and I explored iconic landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre Museum, and Notre-Dame Cathedral. We strolled along the Seine River, taking in the romantic atmosphere and enjoying the sight of artists painting by the riverbanks. In the afternoon, we visited Montmartre, a lively neighbourhood known for its bohemian charm and artistic history. We climbed up the hill to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, where we were treated to breathtaking views of the city below. The quaint cafes and artistic ambiance of Montmartre inspired us, and we even had a local artist sketch our caricatures as a fun souvenir. After a day filled with excitement and exploration, we returned to the hotel to rest and freshen up for the evening. Sarah and I decided to treat ourselves to a relaxing dinner at a cozy bistro. We indulged in delicious French cuisine, savouring every bite as we reminisced about the day's adventures and shared stories of our favourite moments. As the night descended, we found ourselves at a charming bar, enjoying the vibrant nightlife of Paris. The atmosphere was lively, with live music and laughter filling the air. Sarah and I joined the festivities, dancing and laughing with newfound friends we had made on the trip. With the night still young, we decided to continue the celebration with a bit of wine. As the drinks flowed, our inhibitions loosened, and we found ourselves sharing deep and meaningful conversations. Sarah and I talked about our hopes and dreams, our fears and uncertainties, and the insecurities that often plagued us as young adults on the cusp of a new chapter in our lives. In the midst of the laughter and confessions, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia creeping in. Thoughts of the dream from the previous night resurfaced, and I couldn't shake the image of my father's warm smile in the farmhouse living room. As the night wore on, the wine had taken its toll, and a warm and fuzzy feeling enveloped me. Sarah and I were laughing heartily at some inside joke when I noticed the time on my phone. 'Wow, it's getting late. We should head back to the hotel,' I said with a slight slur, attempting to sound responsible. Sarah agreed, and we said our goodbyes to our new friends, promising to meet up again the next day for more adventures. As we stumbled back to the hotel, the streets of Paris were hazy and dreamlike, the city lights painting a picturesque scene. Once back at the hotel, we collapsed into bed, still giggling like teenagers. The wine had brought a sense of euphoria and closeness between us, and I felt grateful for Sarah's friendship and support. As I lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, the image of my father in the dream came back to me. It was as if the wine had unlocked a portal to that surreal experience, and I found myself back in the farmhouse living room, standing next to him without a word exchanged. In the midst of the dream, as I stood in the living room of the farmhouse, I suddenly felt a powerful presence behind me. Turning around, I was met with an awe-inspiring sight – my father stood there, his presence commanding and reassuring. His eyes held a wisdom that seemed to transcend time and space. 'Hermes will tell you everything, Listen Son,' he said in a voice that resonated with both strength and tenderness. His words carried an otherworldly weight, and I could feel their significance in the depths of my soul. 'Hermes? Who is Hermes?' I asked, my curiosity piqued, but before I could get more answers, a strange sensation engulfed me. It was as if the ground beneath my feet gave way, and I started descending into an infinite void. The fall was disorienting and surreal, and a rush of emotions coursed through me – fear, excitement, uncertainty. It felt like I was being pulled into an abyss, yet there was an underlying sense of trust, as if this descent was part of a divine plan. The void enveloped me, and I felt weightless, as if I were floating in the cosmos. Stars and galaxies surrounded me, a breathtaking display of the universe's vastness. I could almost hear the celestial hum of creation. Time lost its meaning in this mysterious space, and I felt as though I was drifting through eternity. In the midst of the void, fragmented images flashed before my eyes – symbols, ancient scriptures, and cosmic patterns that I couldn't comprehend. I wanted to call out, to ask questions about Hermes and the significance of this journey, but my voice seemed muted, lost in the expanse of the void. There was a sense that I was being guided, that this was a transformative experience meant to awaken something within me. The fall continued, and the intensity of the void's embrace grew. It was as if I was shedding layers of my old self, leaving behind the doubts and insecurities that had held me back. This was a journey of revelation and initiation, a rite of passage into a deeper understanding of my identity and destiny. And then, just as abruptly as it began, the fall came to an end. I found myself jolted awake, gasping for breath, my heart pounding with the remnants of the dream's intensity. It took a moment for me to regain my bearings, to realize that I was back in the hotel room, safe and sound. But I couldn't shake the feeling that I had truly fallen from the sky, that the void had been more than just a dream. It felt like a profound encounter with the realms beyond, a meeting with forces far greater than my understanding. As I sat up in bed, my mind was a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. The memory of my father's words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder about Hermes and the significance of his message. Who was this figure, and why was he meant to tell me everything? The experience left me with a profound sense of purpose, as if I were being called to embark on a quest of self-discovery and enlightenment. The void had stripped away the mundane layers of existence, leaving me with a yearning to uncover the truth hidden beneath the surface. As the morning light filtered through the curtains, I knew that the journey was just beginning. The enigmatic dream, my father's message, and the encounter with the void had set the stage for an extraordinary adventure, one that would lead me to revelations beyond imagination. With a newfound determination and a heart filled with both trepidation and excitement, I embraced the day ahead, knowing that destiny's path would guide me, and that Hermes would reveal the answers I sought. Little did I know that this dream was just the beginning of a profound odyssey that would take me to the furthest reaches of my soul and beyond, unravelling the mysteries of the cosmos and my place within it. The journey of a lifetime awaited, and I was ready to embark on the path of the unknown, guided by the enigmatic words of my father and the promise of Hermes. On the third and final day of our trip, the morning started with a visit to an old museum, which, to be honest, seemed a bit dull compared to the exciting adventures we had experienced so far. The museum housed ancient artifacts and historical exhibits, but it lacked the spark that had ignited our curiosity in the previous days. Nevertheless, we wandered through the exhibits, trying to find something that would capture our interest. As the day progressed, there was a sense of anticipation building among us. The teachers seemed unusually secretive, and we couldn't help but wonder what surprise they had in store for us. Little did we know that the evening would hold an unforgettable celebration at Bellevilloise, a world-renowned Club/Bar. As the night fell, we made our way to Bellevilloise, and the atmosphere was electric. The place buzzed with excitement, and we knew we were in for a night to remember. The teachers had truly outdone themselves, and everyone was in high spirits, dancing and enjoying the festivities. Amidst the celebration, as I was chatting with friends and swaying to the music, a strange encounter disrupted the revelry. An old-looking guy, who appeared to be in his nineties, approached me with surprising force and took me by the hand. He had a somewhat stern expression, and his demeanor was rather serious, almost boring, like a typical grandpa one might encounter at a family gathering. Curious and slightly bewildered, I allowed him to lead me away from the crowd and into one of the private rooms, an area that was strictly off-limits to most partygoers. The room was dimly lit, and an air of mystery surrounded it. As we stood there, I couldn't help but wonder why this old man had singled me out of the entire crowd. And then, in a moment that defied all reason and comprehension, the old man's appearance began to change before my very eyes. The wrinkles on his face seemed to smooth out, and a radiant aura enveloped him. His boring, mundane appearance transformed into something extraordinary. In an instant, the old man stood before me no more. Instead, I found myself in the presence of a figure that seemed to transcend the boundaries of time and space. Before me stood the world-known Hermes, the messenger of the gods, with his unmistakable caduceus staff in hand. His eyes sparkled with ancient wisdom, and his presence exuded an air of divine authority. Hermes' appearance was a magnificent sight to behold. He wore an ethereal robe that shimmered like stardust, and his hair cascaded in waves of celestial radiance. The room seemed to glow with a celestial light as if it were welcoming a being from another realm. The transformation itself was a mesmerizing dance of cosmic energy. It was as if the old man's earthly shell had dissolved, revealing the true essence of Hermes, a being of unparalleled grace and power. The mundane had given way to the extraordinary, and I stood there in awe, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what was unfolding before me. At that moment, I knew that this encounter was no mere coincidence. It was a revelation, a testament to the mysteries that lie beyond our ordinary perception. I felt a profound sense of purpose, as if I were chosen for something far greater than I could ever imagine. And there, in the hallowed space of Bellevilloise's private room, my journey took an unexpected turn, guided by the presence of Hermes, the messenger of the gods. What lay ahead, I couldn't fathom, but I knew that destiny had intertwined its threads with mine, and my life would never be the same again. As Hermes stood before me in all his divine splendour, I couldn't help but feel a mix of astonishment and disbelief. His presence seemed to radiate a sense of otherworldly power and wisdom. I stammered, trying to find the right words to address this extraordinary being. Hermes, with a serene smile on his radiant face, spoke in a voice that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the cosmos. 'Fear not, mortal,' he said, his words carrying a melodic cadence that captivated my attention. 'I am Hermes, messenger of the gods, known by many names across the world. And you, my dear child, are no ordinary mortal.' Confused and still in awe, I managed to ask, 'Who am I, then? And what do you mean, 'not an ordinary mortal'?' 'Hermes, my father,' he said, pointing to himself, 'has chosen you to be the bearer of a remarkable heritage. You are the son of Proteus, a sea god of boundless wisdom and knowledge. Your lineage is divine, and your destiny is intertwined with the threads of Olympus.' I blinked, struggling to comprehend what I was hearing. Son of a sea god? Divine lineage? It all sounded too fantastical to be true. 'You must be mistaken,' I said hesitantly. 'I'm just an ordinary high school student. This can't be real.' Hermes chuckled warmly, his laughter echoing through the room. 'Oh, but it is real, young one. The blood of the gods flows in your veins, and the potential within you is vast. Your father, Proteus, has been watching over you from the depths of the sea, and now it is time for you to embrace your true self.' 'But why me?' I asked, feeling a sense of apprehension building within me. 'Why would the gods take an interest in a mere mortal like me?' Hermes placed a comforting hand on my shoulder, and a gentle warmth washed over me. 'The gods work in mysterious ways, and their reasons are not always clear to us mortals. But rest assured, you are special. Your curiosity, your thirst for knowledge, and your compassion have caught the attention of the divine. You possess qualities that make you worthy of this heritage.' As he spoke, memories of my father surfaced in my mind. I recalled how he had always encouraged me to explore the world, to seek answers to life's mysteries, and to be kind to others. Perhaps, deep down, I had sensed a connection to something greater, but I had never imagined it to be linked to the realm of the gods. 'I can't just leave everything behind and go to Olympus,' I said, the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. 'I have a life here, friends, family, responsibilities...' Hermes nodded understandingly. 'I comprehend your hesitation but know that your journey to Olympus would not be without purpose. Your presence there is needed, and the wisdom of Proteus could offer much to both the mortal and immortal realms. However, I cannot force you to come with me. The choice must be yours to make.' For a moment, I wavered, torn between the comfort of the known world and the allure of a divine destiny. But in the end, I shook my head, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. 'I'm sorry, Hermes,' I said, my voice trembling with uncertainty. 'I just can't believe all of this. It feels like a dream, a beautiful yet impossible dream.' Hermes smiled sympathetically. 'Such is the nature of encounters between mortals and gods. The veil that separates our realms is thin, and sometimes, our presence can be overwhelming to mortal minds. I understand your disbelief, and I bear you no ill will for your decision.' As he finished speaking, Hermes' radiant form began to fade, the celestial light dimming around him. 'Remember this, though,' he said, his voice now distant but filled with a profound sense of wisdom. 'The gods never truly abandon those they have chosen. The door to Olympus will always be open to you, should you ever change your mind.' And with those words, he vanished, leaving me alone in the private room of Bellevilloise. I stood there, trying to comprehend the surreal encounter I had just experienced. A part of me wanted to believe it was all real, that I was truly the son of a sea god destined for greatness. But another part of me dismissed it as a fantastical delusion. As I stepped out of the private room, I found myself back in the vibrant atmosphere of Bellevilloise. The pulsating music and the joyous chatter of the crowd surrounded me once more. It was as if the encounter with Hermes had never happened, yet the memory of it lingered in the back of my mind like a distant dream. I scanned the crowded club, looking for Sarah. As I made my way through the sea of dancing bodies and colourful lights, I caught sight of her near the bar, talking to some friends. Relief washed over me, knowing that she was safe and hadn't been too worried during my sudden disappearance. Approaching Sarah, I tapped her shoulder gently to get her attention. 'Hey, there you are,' she exclaimed with a smile. 'I was looking all over for you! Where did you disappear to?' The words caught in my throat as I contemplated how to explain what had just happened. I couldn't possibly tell her about the encounter with Hermes; it would sound too bizarre, even to my own ears. 'Oh, you know,' I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. 'I just needed some fresh air, so I stepped outside for a moment.' Sarah raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced, but she let it go for the time being. 'Well, alright then. Let's enjoy the rest of the night!' she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me back to the dance floor. The music and the dancing helped to distract me from the strange events of the evening. I lost myself in the rhythm of the music, moving and swaying with the crowd. The energy of the place was infectious, and soon I found myself immersed in the celebration, laughing and dancing with Sarah and our friends. As the night wore on, we shared stories and laughter, making memories that would last a lifetime. I caught glimpses of Sarah, her eyes sparkling with joy, her smile radiant as she moved to the beat. She was the anchor that kept me grounded in the moment, and I was grateful for her presence. Eventually, the celebration began to wind down, and the crowd started to disperse. We decided to call it a night and head back to our hotel. The cool night air greeted us as we stepped outside, and a sense of calm washed over me. Walking side by side, Sarah and I navigated the quiet streets of Paris. The city that had seemed so unfamiliar just a few days ago now felt like a place of memories and shared experiences. I felt a connection to this city, as if it had become a part of me in some inexplicable way. As we approached our hotel, fatigue began to set in, and a yawn escaped my lips. 'I'm pretty tired,' Sarah admitted, echoing my sentiments. Once inside our hotel room, we both flopped down onto our respective beds. 'Today was definitely eventful,' Sarah said, her voice filled with a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. I nodded in agreement, my mind still swirling with thoughts of the encounter with Hermes and the revelations he had shared. 'You have no idea,' I replied with a wry smile, deciding that it was best to keep the details of the private room to myself, at least for now. Sarah looked at me curiously, but she didn't press further. 'Well, let's get some rest. We have one more day in Paris, and I want to make the most of it,' she said, pulling the covers over herself. I followed suit, slipping under the covers and closing my eyes. As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I couldn't help but wonder about the mysteries that lay beyond the ordinary world. The encounter with Hermes had opened a door to possibilities I had never imagined, and I knew that the journey of self-discovery was far from over. But for now, I pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the present. I was in Paris, the City of Light, with my best friend by my side. And as sleep claimed me, I knew that no matter what the future held, these moments would forever be cherished in my heart. After the eventful night at Bellevilloise, I returned to the hotel room with a mild alcohol intoxication. The room swayed slightly as I moved, and a light buzz filled my head. Despite the alcohol, I was so physically and emotionally drained that sleep came easily, and I drifted off into a deep slumber. The alcohol in my system seemed to dull my dreams that night, and I found myself in a blissful state of dreamless sleep. The world of imagination and subconscious thoughts was quiet for once, allowing me to rest peacefully. Morning arrived quicker than I expected, and the bright sunlight filtering through the curtains woke me up from my deep sleep. I squinted against the light and turned to my side, noticing that Sarah was already up and getting ready. She seemed to have shaken off any traces of tiredness from the night before, her energy infectious. Just as I was about to close my eyes again for a few more minutes of sleep, the door to our hotel room swung open, and there stood Mr. Bertelmann, our history teacher. He was a tall, middle-aged man with a thick beard and glasses. His well-kept appearance and slightly formal demeanor always made him seem like a professor from a historical movie. 'Good morning, students!' Mr. Bertelmann announced in his deep, authoritative voice. 'It's time to wake up and get ready for our journey back to the school.' I groggily sat up, rubbing my eyes and trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. 'Good morning, Mr. Bertelmann,' Sarah replied with enthusiasm. She was already fully dressed and organized, as always. I stumbled out of bed, finally realizing that we had overslept a bit. Panic set in as I rushed to get myself ready for the long 13-hour bus ride back home. We quickly packed our bags, making sure not to leave anything behind, and did some last-minute checks of the room to ensure we hadn't forgotten anything. After freshening up and grabbing a quick breakfast at the hotel, we joined the rest of the group in the lobby. Everyone seemed equally tired but excited to head back home. Mr. Bertelmann did a final headcount to make sure no one was left behind, and then we boarded the bus. The bus was comfortable and spacious, with enough legroom to stretch out during the long journey. As we departed from Paris and hit the freeway, I felt a mix of nostalgia and relief. It had been an incredible trip, but I was looking forward to returning home. As the hours passed, we made occasional rest stops to stretch our legs and use the facilities. The scenery outside the window changed as we travelled through different regions and landscapes. Some students listened to music, some played games, while others napped to pass the time. At one of the rest stops, Sarah shook me awake gently. 'Hey, we're stopping for a walk, and I thought you might want to join us,' she said, smiling. I nodded groggily, feeling a bit disoriented from the sudden awakening. We stepped out of the bus into the fresh air, stretching and yawning as we walked around the rest area. It was good to move after being seated for so long. With everyone back on the bus, we continued our journey, and soon enough, hunger struck. It was time for lunch, and we decided to stop at a nearby McDonald's for a quick and familiar meal. The golden arches seemed like a beacon of comfort amidst the long bus ride. Sitting there with our McDonald's meals, Sarah and I reminisced about the trip, laughing at the fun moments and sharing our thoughts about the unexpected events. As the bus engine rumbled back to life, we settled in for the final stretch of the journey, grateful for the memories we had created and the friendships we had strengthened during this unforgettable adventure. As the bus continued its journey, Sarah and I found ourselves talking about the celebration party from the previous night. The memories of Hermes and the strange encounter seemed to resurface in my mind, and I hesitated before sharing the details with Sarah. 'Hey, Sarah,' I began, unsure of how to broach the topic. 'I... I had the strangest encounter last night at the party.' Her eyes lit up with curiosity. 'Really? What happened? Tell me everything!' I took a deep breath and recounted the events of the party. I described how an old-looking guy, like a 90-year-old grandpa, had grabbed my hand and drawn me into one of the private rooms. I went on to explain how he had transformed into the world-known Hermes, the messenger of the gods, and claimed that I was the son of Proteus, a shape-shifting sea god. Sarah listened intently, her brow furrowing as she processed the information. 'Wow, that's... that's quite a story,' she said hesitantly. 'But you know, it's probably just a mix of alcohol, stress, tiredness, and maybe some crazy guy trying to mess with your head.' Her words made sense, and I knew deep down that she was likely right. The combination of alcohol and the whirlwind of emotions from the trip might have led to an elaborate dream or hallucination. 'I guess you're right,' I replied with a hint of relief. 'It does sound crazy when I say it out loud. I mean, gods and Olympus. It's like something out of a fantasy novel.' Sarah nodded, offering a reassuring smile. 'Exactly. Sometimes our minds can play tricks on us, especially when we're tired and overwhelmed. But hey, the important thing is that we had a great trip and made amazing memories together.' I couldn't help but smile back at her. Sarah had a way of bringing things into perspective, and her friendship was truly invaluable. As we continued chatting and laughing, the bus approached the Eurotunnel entrance. The excitement of traveling through the underwater tunnel added a sense of novelty to the journey back home. We crossed under the English Channel, and soon enough, we were back in Wales, nearing our beloved Queen Elizabeth High School. The bus finally pulled up in front of the school, and we all disembarked, feeling a mix of exhaustion and contentment. It was bittersweet to say goodbye to our classmates and teachers after such an eventful trip. As I stepped off the bus, I felt a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, I was glad to be back home and reunited with familiar surroundings. On the other hand, I couldn't shake off the lingering thoughts of Hermes and the encounter at the celebration. Sarah gave me a warm hug before we parted ways. 'Remember, it's just a wild story,' she said softly. 'Don't let it bother you too much.' 'I'll try,' I replied, grateful for her support. With a final wave, I made my way home, ready to unwind and rest after the whirlwind of adventures and emotions. The trip had been unforgettable, and even though I wasn't sure what to make of the encounter with Hermes, I knew that the memories of this journey would stay with me for a lifetime. The morning sun streamed through my bedroom window, gently coaxing me awake. As I stretched and yawned, I realized that today was the last day before the graduation ceremony. It was a day off from school, a rare chance to relax before the festivities began. I decided to make the most of it by having a quiet day at home. After a leisurely breakfast with my family, I retreated to my room. I grabbed my laptop and settled comfortably on my bed, intending to watch a movie to pass the time. As I scrolled through various streaming platforms, one title caught my eye: 'The Odyssey of a Dreamer.' Intrigued by the name, I read the synopsis. The movie was about a young boy named Leo who had an insatiable thirst for adventure and a deep fascination with dreams. He believed that his dreams held the key to unlocking mysteries of the universe. One night, Leo has a vivid dream that transports him to ancient Greece, where he embarks on a mythical journey through various realms of dreams, encountering gods, heroes, and legendary creatures. The movie sounded like a perfect blend of fantasy and adventure, and I hit play. As the opening scenes unfolded, I found myself engrossed in Leo's journey. The stunning cinematography and captivating storytelling kept me hooked, and I could empathize with Leo's yearning for something more. As the movie progressed, there were moments that struck a chord with me. When Leo encountered the god of dreams, Morpheus, he was told that dreams were not just random images but reflections of one's deepest desires and fears. I couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to that. Had my own encounter with Hermes been a manifestation of my longing to connect with a father I barely knew? The movie took a poignant turn when Leo found himself face to face with his long-lost father, who had left when he was just a child. Their conversation was heartfelt, filled with emotions that resonated with my own feelings about my absent father. The realization that Leo's father had a reason for leaving, albeit a painful one, reminded me that life was often more complex than it seemed. After the movie ended, I closed my laptop and lay back on my bed, lost in thought. Memories of my childhood flashed before me, and I couldn't help but recall the few memories I had of my father. He had left when I was around seven years old, and since then, contact had been sporadic at best. As I lay there, contemplating the past, I didn't feel anger or bitterness. Instead, a sense of acceptance washed over me. I had grown up without a strong father figure, but my mother and other family members had always been there for me. They had provided love and support, and they were the reason I had become the person I was today. In the afternoon, I decided to take a break from my thoughts and indulge in a hobby I enjoyed – painting. The gentle strokes of the brush and the vibrant colours on the canvas served as a therapeutic outlet, helping me process my emotions and find solace in creativity. As the day drew to a close, I found myself with an inexplicable urge to learn more about Greek mythology. I opened my laptop again and delved into a digital journey through the realms of ancient stories and legends. I read about the Titans, the Olympian gods, and the various mythical creatures that inhabited the ancient Greek world. One name, in particular, caught my attention – Proteus. Described as a shape-shifting sea god and a wise prophet, Proteus was known for his ability to change his form to elude those seeking his insights. I found myself fascinated by the idea of a being so fluid and adaptable, capable of embodying countless manifestations. As I dug deeper into the myth, I couldn't help but wonder if there was any connection between the Proteus of Greek mythology and the figure I had encountered in my dream. Perhaps it was all just coincidence, but the curious part of me wanted to explore the possibility further. Hours passed, and the night sky adorned itself with stars as I continued my research. I found ancient texts, poetry, and interpretations of Proteus's significance in the context of dreams and transformation. I was captivated by the idea that this mythical being might hold some hidden wisdom that could shed light on my own journey of self-discovery. With a sense of satisfaction and curiosity still burning in my mind, I finally closed my laptop. The day had been uneventful to the outside observer, but internally, it had been a day of introspection and learning. I had revisited memories of my father, explored the realms of dreams through a movie, and embarked on a quest of understanding through mythology. As I lay in bed, surrounded by the comforting embrace of darkness, I felt a sense of peace wash over me. The next day would be the graduation ceremony, a milestone marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. I knew that the road ahead would be filled with uncertainties and challenges, but I also knew that I had the strength to face them. With that comforting thought, I drifted off to sleep, feeling a sense of contentment and resolution. My dreams that night was unremarkable, but the knowledge that I had taken a step closer to understanding myself and my past filled me with a newfound sense of hope and determination. The journey of self-discovery, much like Leo's mythical odyssey, had only just begun. It´s Urgent [Chapter two] The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room as the day of the graduation ceremony began. My eyes fluttered open as I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. It was my mother, smiling down at me with pride and love. 'Good morning, my dear. Today's the big day!' she said, her voice tinged with excitement. I nodded and smiled back, a mix of nerves and anticipation building inside me. Graduation day was finally here, the day I had been working so hard for. I got out of bed and stretched, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. My mother had already prepared a hearty breakfast to fuel us for the day ahead. We sat at the kitchen table, savouring the meal, and sharing anecdotes about my journey through school. After breakfast, we headed to my room to get ready. My graduation gown and cap were neatly laid out, waiting for me. My mother helped me put them on, making sure everything was perfect. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. Despite the challenges and the hardships, I faced, I had made it to this moment. As we made our way to the graduation venue, my heart pounded in my chest. The excitement and nervousness intensified with each step. When we arrived, the hall was abuzz with students and their families, all dressed in their finest attire. The ceremony commenced, and one by one, names were called, and students crossed the stage to receive their diplomas. Finally,” NICO ADAMS” the Head teacher called; it was my turn. Stepping onto the stage, I took a deep breath to steady myself. The applause from the audience felt like a wave of support, urging me forward. As the best student in my year, I was also given the opportunity to give a speech. Taking the microphone in hand, I looked out at the sea of faces before me. My heart swelled with emotions, and I began to speak. 'Dear teachers, fellow students, and families, today is a momentous day in our lives, a day of triumph and celebration. Looking back on the journey that led us here, we've encountered countless challenges, both inside and outside the classroom. Some of us faced academic hurdles, others navigated personal struggles, but we all persevered and grew stronger together. I stand before you today not only as a student but also as a survivor of bullying. I know firsthand the pain and isolation that comes with being a target of ridicule and cruelty. But I also know the strength that lies within each one of us. We are not defined by the hardships we face, but by the courage and resilience we show in overcoming them. I want to take a moment to acknowledge the incredible support system that surrounds us. Our teachers, who believed in our potential and nurtured our curiosity, our families, who stood by us through thick and thin, and our friends, who became our pillars of strength. Thank you for being the driving force behind our success. As we step into the next chapter of our lives, let us carry with us the lessons we've learned. Let us be compassionate, understanding, and inclusive, so that no one feels left behind. Let us be the change we wish to see in the world. Lastly, I want to share a personal realization. Sometimes, life takes unexpected turns, and we may find ourselves questioning our identity and purpose. But remember, within each of us lies the strength of heroes and the resilience of warriors. We are more than the labels society puts on us. We are unique, powerful, and capable of shaping our destinies. As we graduate today, let us not forget the journey that brought us here and the people who helped us along the way. Thank you for this incredible honour, and congratulations to the Class of 2023. We did it!' As I finished my speech, the audience erupted in applause. I stepped back from the podium, feeling a mixture of relief and pride. Throughout my speech, I couldn't help but notice a figure in the crowd, standing among the parents. It was my father, or at least what I believed is his human form, looking at me with a mix of emotions I couldn't quite decipher. Despite the surprising sight, I chose not to react during the ceremony. It wasn't the time or place to address such matters. Instead, I allowed myself to be fully present in the moment, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work and dedication. The rest of the graduation ceremony proceeded with speeches from teachers and school officials, as well as musical performances by talented students. The atmosphere was filled with joy and accomplishment. Finally, the ceremony concluded with the traditional tossing of caps into the air, a symbolic gesture of embarking on new adventures. After the ceremony, I reunited with my mother, who enveloped me in a tight hug, her eyes glistening with tears of pride. We greeted friends and family, celebrating this momentous day together. The sense of accomplishment and joy was palpable in the air. As the day wound down, my mother and I returned home. We sat in the living room, reflecting on the day's events and the journey that led us here. She spoke fondly of my father, reminiscing about the time we spent together before he left, back when I was seven years old. While I didn't mention the recent events involving Hermes and Proteus, my mother's words stirred a curiosity in me. Later that evening, as the sun began to set, I found myself alone in my room. I sat at my desk; my laptop open before me. Instead of searching for information about Proteus as I had intended, I found myself typing in my father's name. Pages of search results filled the screen, each leading to potential pieces of the puzzle I so desperately sought to solve. But I hesitated. Part of me feared that delving into this search would lead me down a path I wasn't ready to explore. I closed the laptop and decided that for now, I would let fate unfold at its own pace. Perhaps one day, the truth would reveal itself when I was truly ready to face it. With a newfound sense of contentment, I turned my attention to a movie that caught my eye earlier. It was a fantastical tale of heroes and mythical creatures, a story of self-discovery and destiny. I immersed myself in the narrative, drawing parallels to my own life and the journey I had undertaken. As the movie played on, I felt a sense of peace settling over me. Graduation day had been a whirlwind of emotions, but now, I was ready to embrace the uncertainty of the future and the mysteries of my past. With the knowledge that my mother stood by my side, supporting me every step of the way, I felt a newfound strength within myself. The day ended with a serene calmness. Tomorrow would bring a new chapter, filled with possibilities and adventures. But for now, I would allow myself to rest, knowing that I had overcome obstacles and accomplished more than I had ever imagined. As I lay in bed, the glow of the moon filtering through the curtains, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude. Graduation day had been a day of closure, but also a day of new beginnings. With a smile on my face and a heart full of hope, I drifted off to sleep, ready to face whatever the future held. As the night enveloped me, I lay in bed, my mind still filled with the memories of the graduation ceremony and the enigmatic figure of my father. The events of the day had left me emotionally charged, and as I closed my eyes, I hoped for a peaceful slumber. In my dream, I found myself back on the stage during the graduation ceremony. The crowd's applause and cheers echoed around me, but all I could focus on was the solitary figure standing in the middle of the red carpet. It was my father, his presence magnetic and enigmatic at once. Our eyes locked, and despite the distance between us, it felt as if we were the only two people in the room. No words were exchanged, but our gazes conveyed a myriad of emotions. There was pride in my father's eyes, but also a hint of sadness and regret. It was as if he longed to say something, to bridge the gap between us, but was unable to find the words. And just as the silence threatened to overwhelm me, I woke up. The midday sun shone through the curtains, and I realized I had overslept. My mother was at the hospital, where she worked as a resolute nurse. As I stretched and got out of bed, I felt a lingering sense of longing from the dream. The image of my father stood vividly in my mind, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story than I knew. In the midst of my thoughts, an unexpected desire arose within me—to go swimming. Now, this was strange because I had never particularly enjoyed swimming. However, today was different. It was as if an inexplicable force pulled me towards the water, urging me to immerse myself in its embrace. Without hesitation, I grabbed my swimming trunks and headed to the local pool. The sun was high in the sky, and the weather was warm. The pool area was bustling with people, laughter, and splashing sounds. I found an unoccupied spot and eagerly made my way into the water. The moment my body touched the cool, refreshing surface, a sense of belonging washed over me. It was as if the water recognized me, and I, in turn, embraced its familiar touch. With each stroke, I felt an uncanny agility, as if I were gliding effortlessly through the water. It was an inexplicable sensation; unlike anything I had experienced before. The pool's blue expanse became my sanctuary, and I lost myself in the rhythmic motion of swimming. I felt liberated, as if the water held the answers to my unspoken questions. With every movement, I could sense my connection to something greater, as if I belonged to this element more than the land I had always known. Time seemed to bend around me as I swam lap after lap. The hours passed like minutes, and I scarcely noticed the world outside the pool. People around me marvelled at my speed, but I was too absorbed in the water's embrace to pay much attention. In this aquatic haven, I had a sense of purpose. The water held me close, guiding my movements like a dance partner leading a ballroom waltz. It was both soothing and invigorating, a paradoxical blend of serenity and excitement. As the day wore on, the pool area began to thin out, and I found myself alone in the water. I took a moment to float on my back, gazing up at the sky. The sun's warm rays kissed my skin, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me. In the tranquil solitude, my thoughts returned to the dream, the graduation ceremony, and the image of my father. Was there more to the story than I knew? Did my connection to the water hold a deeper meaning? I didn't have the answers, but I felt a newfound sense of purpose in seeking them. As the evening approached, I reluctantly pulled myself from the water, a mix of contentment and curiosity in my heart. I dressed quickly and headed home, my mind still swimming with questions and wonderings. Upon arriving home, I found a note from my mother, explaining that she wouldn't be back until later in the evening due to an emergency at the hospital. In search of distraction, I opted to watch a movie on my laptop. I chose a classic adventure film that took me on a journey to far-off lands and mythical realms, reminding me of the tales of gods and heroes I had been delving into. The movie captured my imagination, and for a few hours, I was transported to another world, allowing my mind to escape the complexities of my own life. As the movie came to an end, the realization that my mother still hadn't returned home struck me. Concern tugged at my heart, but I reminded myself that she was a capable nurse and often had unpredictable work hours. Despite that, her absence left a void in the house, emphasizing the solitude that surrounded me. The clock struck midnight, and an inexplicable urge to head to the sea washed over me. It felt as if the water was calling to me, its siren song beckoning me to its embrace. The pool earlier had ignited a newfound love for swimming, and now the vast expanse of the sea seemed to promise an even deeper connection. I didn't question the impulse; instead, I found myself slipping out of the house and making my way to the beach. The night was calm, and the moon's silvery light painted a path on the water's surface, leading me forward. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the shore felt like a familiar lullaby, soothing my restless soul. When I reached the water's edge, I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to expect. But as soon as my feet touched the cool, soft sand, any apprehension melted away. The sea called to me like an old friend, inviting me to step into its depths. Without hesitation, I waded into the water. The waves lapped gently against my body, and with each step, I felt a sense of belonging. The vastness of the sea was humbling yet comforting, like being wrapped in a warm embrace. I started swimming, the moonlight guiding my way as I ventured further into the sea. The water was cool and invigorating, energizing my body and mind. I swam with a newfound sense of freedom, feeling as though I had found my element, a place where I truly belonged. The worries and uncertainties that had weighed on me seemed to dissolve in the water. It was as if the sea held the answers I sought, whispering ancient secrets as I glided through its depths. For a moment, I felt connected not only to the water but to something greater—the universe itself. As I swam, the memories of the graduation ceremony and the dream of my father resurfaced in my mind. But this time, they didn't bring confusion or sadness. Instead, I felt a sense of clarity, as if the water had cleansed my spirit and brought me closer to understanding my place in this enigmatic tapestry of life. The minutes turned into an hour, and still, I swam, not wanting to leave the sea's embrace. But eventually, the pull of exhaustion and the realization of the late hour compelled me to return to the shore. As I emerged from the water, a sense of peace settled over me, like a warm blanket wrapping around my soul. I made my way back home, my heart lighter and my mind clearer than it had been in a long time. The house was still empty, but I no longer felt lonely. Instead, I felt a deep connection to the world around me, as if the mysteries that surrounded me were no longer something to be feared but rather embraced as part of my journey. As I lay in bed, the memory of the midnight swim lingered in my thoughts. I knew that my path had been altered, that the discovery of my connection to the water was a turning point in my life. The urge to learn more about Proteus and my father remained, but now it felt like an exploration of my own identity, rather than a quest for answers. With a sense of contentment, I closed my eyes, ready to embrace whatever the future held. The dreams that awaited me were uncertain, but I felt a newfound courage to face them. For now, I was at peace, knowing that the sea would always be there to welcome me, its vast expanse a reminder that the journey of self-discovery was just beginning. And as sleep embraced me once again, I drifted into dreams of the sea, the moon, and the stars, feeling the pull of the water in every Fiber of my being. In my dream, the water was a vast, shimmering expanse, and I felt its gentle embrace surrounding me. The voice of my father, lingering in its godly resonance, echoed through the depths, offering cryptic guidance, 'The water will find you, my son.' The words held a mix of mystery and reassurance, leaving me with a sense of wonder and curiosity. But before I could comprehend the meaning behind those words, my alarm abruptly pulled me back to reality. I woke up, feeling a strange mix of emotions—grateful for the dream's message, yet eager to decipher its significance. The day ahead held a date with Sarah, my best and only friend since we were both seven years old. Our bond had formed in the aftermath of my father's departure. It was just a few days after he had left, leaving me bewildered and lost. The kids at school didn't understand why my dad had vanished, and they teased me relentlessly. It was during one of those tough days that Sarah came to my rescue. I remember vividly how she approached me on the playground, her fiery red hair reflecting the afternoon sun. She had a determined look in her eyes, and without saying a word, she pulled me away from the bullies, making it clear that I wasn't alone. From that day on, we became inseparable. As I got ready for my day out with Sarah, I couldn't help but reflect on our journey together. We had faced numerous challenges and joys, and through it all, Sarah had been my rock, unwavering in her support and friendship. When I met Sarah at our favourite spot in town, a cozy café with a rustic ambiance, she greeted me with a warm smile. We ordered our usual drinks—hot chocolate for her and a caramel latte for me—and settled into a corner booth. The café was quiet, and the soothing aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. We spent the day reminiscing about our adventures as children, laughing at the mischief we used to get into and the innocent dreams we had. But the conversation eventually turned to my recent experiences in Greece. I shared the tales of the trip, carefully leaving out the mysterious encounters with Hermes and the dream about my father. As we delved into stories of ancient ruins, cultural experiences, and the wild celebrations in Paris, Sarah listened with genuine enthusiasm, hanging on every word. She was always the one who saw the best in me, even when I doubted myself. I felt a pang of guilt for not telling her about the encounters with the godly figures and the mysteries surrounding my father. But it all seemed too fantastical to share, and I wasn't even sure if I fully believed it myself. After a delicious lunch at a nearby restaurant, we decided to take a stroll through the park, enjoying the pleasant weather and each other's company. Sarah's presence was comforting, and as we walked side by side, I felt an unspoken understanding between us. It was as if she sensed that something was occupying my thoughts, but she didn't push me to share. As the sun began to set, we made our way back to our neighbourhood. Sarah suggested we visit the community pool for a swim, a spontaneous idea that surprised me. I had never been fond of swimming, but in the spirit of embracing new experiences, I agreed. Arriving at the pool, we found it nearly empty, and the water sparkled invitingly under the fading light. With a hint of playfulness, Sarah dared me to a race, and before I knew it, we were both jumping into the water, splashing and laughing like carefree children. As we swam, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu, almost as if I were reliving the dream, I had the night before. The water enveloped me like a familiar embrace, and for a moment, I felt connected to something greater than myself. Sarah draws me out of my DeJa’Vu “I didn’t know you could swim that fast” As Sarah's playful words drew me out of my momentary trance, I chuckled, trying to shake off the strange feeling. ' . 'Yeah, me neither,' I replied, still feeling a little disoriented. 'I guess I surprised myself.' We sat on the edge of the pool, our legs dipped into the water, gently swaying back and forth. Sarah's eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked at me, waiting for an explanation. I took a deep breath, deciding it was time to share the extraordinary experiences I had been keeping to myself. 'Sarah, there's something I need to tell you,' I began, my voice tinged with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. 'During the trip, some bizarre things happened. At the club, an old man transformed into the god Hermes right before my eyes. He claimed to be the messenger of the gods, and he said something about me being the son of Proteus.' Sarah's eyes widened with surprise, and she let out a soft laugh. 'Nico, which sounds like something out of a fantasy novel! Are you sure you weren't just caught up in the excitement of the trip and the mythology stuff?' I nodded earnestly, trying to convince her that I wasn't making this up. 'I thought the same thing at first, but it felt so real, Sarah. And then, at the graduation ceremony, I saw him again—my father, in his human form. He was just there in the crowd, watching, but I didn't know how to react.' Sarah furrowed her brow, concern etched on her face. 'Nico, I think all of this is just your mind playing tricks on you. It's been a whirlwind of emotions lately, with the trip and everything else. Your subconscious might be trying to process everything by creating these vivid dreams.' I understood her scepticism, but deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to these encounters than mere dreams. 'I know it sounds crazy, but there's something about it that feels different, Sarah. Like it's a part of me, of who I am,' I explained, trying to convey the intensity of the experiences. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. 'Nico, I'm your best friend, and I'll always be here for you. But you have to consider the possibility that this is just your mind trying to make sense of things. Maybe you're searching for a connection to your father because he left when you were young.' I took a moment to absorb her words, understanding her point of view. 'You're right, Sarah. Maybe I am grasping at something that isn't there. It's just been so hard not knowing anything about him, and now all of this happens. I don't know what to believe.' Sarah gave me a reassuring smile. 'It's okay not to have all the answers right now. Maybe, with time, things will become clearer. But for now, focus on what you do know—your friendship with me, your accomplishments, and your future. You're not alone in this, Nico.' Her words were like a balm to my soul, easing the turmoil within me. I nodded, grateful for her unwavering support. 'Thank you, Sarah. You're right, I have so much to be grateful for, and I'm lucky to have you by my side.' We sat there by the pool, enjoying the peaceful moment together, as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The weight of uncertainty still lingered, but Sarah's presence brought a sense of comfort and stability. As the day drew to a close, we decided to head back home. Walking side by side, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude for Sarah and the friendship we shared. She was right—I needed to focus on the present and not let myself get lost in the complexities of the past. As I settled into bed that night, I thought about the dreams and the encounters with Hermes and my father. Even though Sarah dismissed them as products of my imagination, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper truth hidden within them. But for now, I would cherish the moments with my best friend and let life unfold one step at a time. The journey of self-discovery was still ongoing, and I had a feeling that the water's guidance was yet to be fully understood. The days passed in a blur after my conversation with Sarah, and life settled into a familiar routine. The dreams and visions seemed like distant memories, fading away like ripples in a pond. I found solace in spending time with Sarah, and whenever we were together, I felt an inexplicable sense of calm and contentment. It was as if her presence had the power to ward off any lingering doubts or fears. Throughout the week, we spent time together as friends often do. We watched movies, explored the local markets, and shared laughter over inside jokes. Sarah was a constant source of support, and her unwavering friendship helped me navigate the mysteries that had stirred within me during the trip. Saturday morning arrived with a sense of peace in the air. As I walked down the quiet neighbourhood streets, I noticed a boy rushing towards me. He had short, skinny, black hair, and his eyes sparkled with an otherworldly glint. His appearance reminded me of Aidan Gallagher, the actor who played Number Five in the TV show 'The Umbrella Academy.' But this was no time to think about celebrity resemblances. 'Hey, you!' the boy called out, panting as he stopped in front of me. 'You're Nico, right?' I nodded, slightly taken aback by the abrupt encounter. 'Yeah, that's me. Do I know you?' 'My name's Evan. Your father sent me,' he said, catching his breath. 'You have to come with me. The Olymp needs you.' My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my father. This was the second time someone claimed that my father had sent them, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. 'The Olymp? Are you talking about the Greek gods and all that?' I asked, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Evan nodded eagerly. 'Yes, exactly! Your father, Proteus, he's one of them. He needs you to come with me to the Olymp. There's something important waiting for you there.' Despite the bizarre nature of the situation, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the idea. The memories of the encounters with Hermes and the dreams of my father flashed before my eyes, and I couldn't deny the curiosity that surged within me. 'But how do I know I can trust you?' I questioned cautiously, my mind trying to process everything. 'How do I know this isn't some elaborate prank or a misunderstanding?' Evan sighed, understanding my scepticisms. 'I get it; it sounds insane. But you've got to trust me. I can show you something that only someone connected to the Olymp would recognize.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient-looking pendant. It had a unique design, with intricate patterns etched onto the surface. As he held it out for me to see, I felt an inexplicable pull in my gut, as if the pendant held some unspoken significance. 'That's the symbol of the Olymp,' Evan said, his voice low and serious. 'Your father gave it to me to give to you when the time was right. You're the son of a god, Nico, and it's time for you to embrace your destiny.' I stared at the pendant, unsure of what to make of all this. A part of me wanted to dismiss it all as an elaborate hoax, but deep down, I knew there was truth in Evan's words. There was a world beyond what I knew, a realm of gods and mythologies, and somehow, I was entwined with it. 'I need some time to think,' I finally said, trying to buy myself a moment to process everything. Evan nodded understandingly. 'Of course. Take all the time you need. But remember, the Olymp waits for no one, and your father needs you.' With that, he turned and disappeared down the street, leaving me standing there, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I had questions, doubts, and uncertainties, but deep down, I knew that this journey was far from over. As I walked back home, the pendant still clutched in my hand, I couldn't help but wonder if this was the answer to the questions that had plagued me for so long. My father, the Olymp, and the mysteries of my existence—all converging into a path that I could no longer ignore. The walk back home felt surreal, as if I had stepped into an alternate reality. The pendant nestled in my hand, its weight a constant reminder of the encounter with Evan. Part of me wanted to dismiss it all as a wild fantasy, but the undeniable connection to my father and the cryptic dreams made it difficult to simply brush off as mere coincidence. Upon arriving home, I found the house empty once again, with my mother at work. She had left a note on the kitchen counter, reassuring me that she would be home late and to help myself to dinner. It had become a common occurrence lately, as she worked tirelessly as a nurse, dedicating herself to helping others. I took the opportunity to retreat to my room and lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts of Evan and the pendant consumed my mind. Was it really possible that I was connected to the Olymp, as he claimed? Could my father truly be a god? As the evening wore on, my mind delved deeper into the mysteries that had surfaced in my life. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure of whether to step into the unknown or retreat into the safety of the familiar. The rational part of me screamed that this was all too fantastical, that gods and mythical realms belonged in books and movies, not in real life. Yet, the dreams and visions couldn't be ignored. They felt too vivid, too real to be mere figments of my imagination. The encounters with Hermes and the conversations with Evan echoed in my mind like a persistent whisper, urging me to embrace the truth that lay hidden within. As I lay in bed, my thoughts drifted to my father, who had left when I was just seven years old. My memories of him were faint, like faded photographs tucked away in the corners of my mind. I remembered his laughter, his warmth, and the feeling of safety when he was around. But the memories were tinged with a sense of loss and abandonment, and I couldn't help but wonder if his departure had been related to his godly nature. In the quiet solitude of my room, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like if all of Evan's claims were true. If my father truly was Proteus, a powerful god of the sea, then that would mean I was part divine too. It was a notion that both thrilled and terrified me. The idea of being connected to something greater than myself was exhilarating, but it also carried a weight of responsibility. What did the gods want with me? Why was I being summoned to the Olymp? And what did it mean for my future? As the night deepened, my thoughts slowly drifted away from Evan and the pendant, and instead, my mind wandered to the graduation ceremony earlier that week. The memory of seeing my father's human form among the parents haunted me. I had deliberately chosen not to react, fearing that acknowledging his presence would shatter the illusion. But now, lying in my bed, I couldn't help but wonder if I had missed an opportunity. Could it have been a chance to connect with my father, to understand why he had left and what role the Olymp played in all of this? I felt a mixture of regret and curiosity, but ultimately, I knew that there was no going back. The ceremony had passed, and the moment had slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. All that remained were unanswered questions and a sense of longing. As the clock struck midnight, I found myself still wide awake, my mind swirling with thoughts and emotions. The urge to go to the sea and swim, which had been so strong earlier, had now waned in the presence of doubt and uncertainty. I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever have the chance to confront my father again, to ask him the questions that had been haunting me for years. As my thoughts gradually quieted, I realized that I needed time to process everything. The weight of the pendant still rested against my palm, a tangible reminder of the mysteries that had unfolded in my life. I knew that I couldn't make any hasty decisions. Whatever lay ahead, I needed to approach it with a clear mind and an open heart. With that realization, I finally allowed myself to succumb to exhaustion. As sleep enveloped me, my mind drifted back to the graduation day, to the figure of my father standing amidst the parents. And in that moment, as I slipped into dreams once again, I whispered to the universe, hoping that somehow, the answers I sought would find their way to me. My heart raced as I watched Hermes and Evan enter my room through the broken window. Their urgent expressions and hushed voices sent shivers down my spine. The pendant around my neck seemed to grow warmer, as if it sensed the tension in the room. 'What's going on? Why are you here? And how did you find me?' I asked, my voice shaking with both fear and curiosity. Hermes glanced at Evan, and then back at me. 'There's no time to explain everything now. Your father needs you in the Olymp. It's urgent, Nico,' he said, his eyes searching mine for any sign of understanding. 'But I can't just leave without knowing what's happening. I have responsibilities here, a life,' I protested, my mind reeling with the sudden turn of events. Evan stepped forward; his face serious. 'I know it's a lot to take in, but this is bigger than you can imagine. Your father, Proteus, is in danger, and only you can help.' I looked from Hermes to Evan, trying to make sense of their words. The doubts and uncertainties from before resurfaced, but there was an intensity in their eyes that I couldn't ignore. They were scared, and that scared me. Hermes spoke again, his voice gentle yet urgent. 'I understand this is overwhelming, but trust me, Nico. Your destiny is intertwined with the Olymp, and your father needs you. We wouldn't have come all this way if it wasn't crucial.' I sat there, torn between the life I knew and the mysterious call of the Olymp. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet, deep down, I knew that I couldn't turn my back on my father, especially if he was in danger. 'Okay,' I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper. 'I'll go with you, but please, tell me more about what's happening. I need to know.' Hermes and Evan exchanged a glance, as if silently communicating. Then, Hermes nodded and began to explain. The spoke of ancient prophecies, of a rising threat that could endanger not only the Olymp but the mortal world as well. He told me about my father, Proteus, and his unique abilities to shape-shift and see into the future. 'And you, Nico,' Hermes continued, 'you possess a special gift too. Your connection to the water is not just a coincidence. It's a sign of your divine heritage. You have the potential to wield great power, to help protect the balance between the realms.' I listened intently, my mind grappling with the weight of the revelations. It felt like I was being pulled into a mythical tale, one that I had only read about in books or seen in movies. 'Come with us, Nico,' Evan urged. 'We don't have much time. The Olymp is in turmoil, and your father needs you to restore order.' Taking a deep breath, I stood up and nodded resolutely. 'Okay, I'm ready. But I need to say goodbye to my mom. She's a nurse, and I can't just disappear without letting her know.' Hermes nodded in understanding. 'Of course, family comes first. We'll wait but make it quick.' I rushed to find a piece of paper and a pen and quickly scribbled a note to my mother, explaining that I had to leave urgently for something important but that I would return as soon as I could. I left the note on the kitchen counter, hoping it would be enough to ease her worries. Back in my room, I took one last look around, uncertain of when I would return. The pendant glowed softly, as if encouraging me forward. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. 'Alright, I'm ready,' I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Hermes and Evan both smiled, relief evident in their expressions. Hermes stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'You're doing the right thing, Nico. Your father will be proud,' he said, his voice filled with a mixture of warmth and determination. With that, I stepped closer to them, and together, we crossed the threshold of my room, embarking on a journey that would change the course of my life forever. As Hermes spoke his final words, the air seemed to shimmer around him, and his form began to fade like an ethereal mist. It was as if he was slowly becoming one with the surrounding atmosphere, and his voice echoed in my mind, 'Son of gods, I'm waiting for you in Olympus.' I stood there, mesmerized by the sight, unsure if I was witnessing some divine magic or if it was all just a dream. Evan gently nudged me, bringing me back to reality. 'We should go,' Evan said softly, his eyes still fixed on where Hermes had been. Nodding, I followed Evan as we made our way through the broken window and into the cool night air. The pendant around my neck glowed faintly, guiding us toward our destination. We walked in silence for a while, the weight of the unknown pressing on both of us. 'You know, you're not the only one with a unique heritage,' Evan finally spoke up, breaking the silence. 'What do you mean?' I asked, curious about his own story. 'I'm a demigod, just like you. Well, sort of,' he replied with a half-smile. 'My mother is a mortal, but my father is a god.' 'A demigod?' I repeated, trying to wrap my head around the revelation. 'So, you have powers too?' Evan chuckled. 'Yeah, something like that. I can manipulate shadows and darkness, which comes in handy sometimes. But being a demigod also means that I have a connection to the Olymp and the divine world. That's how I found out about you and your father.' As we walked, Evan shared some of his experiences as a demigod, the challenges he faced, and the strange and dangerous creatures he encountered. It was like listening to a fantastical adventure, and part of me couldn't believe that I was now a part of this hidden world. 'So, how do we get to the portal that leads to Olympus?' I asked, realizing that we were approaching an unfamiliar part of town. Evan pointed ahead to where a faint glimmer of light seemed to be pulsating in the distance. 'That's it. The portal is hidden from mortal sight, but we can see it because of our divine heritage.' As we got closer, the glimmer grew brighter, and I could feel a strange energy in the air. The pendant around my neck pulsed in sync with the light, as if acknowledging the presence of the portal. 'The portal is a gateway between the mortal world and Olympus,' Evan explained. 'It's a powerful and ancient magic, and only demigods and gods can use it to travel between realms.' Evan and I navigated through the dimly lit streets, the night air filled with a sense of urgency and anticipation. Every step we took seemed to bring us closer to our destiny, and my heart pounded in my chest with a mix of fear and excitement. The pendant around my neck grew warmer, as if guiding us to our destination. As we turned a corner, the glimmer of light ahead grew more pronounced, casting an otherworldly glow on the surrounding buildings. The streets seemed to shift, and I could swear that the city had transformed into something different, something more magical. The source of the light became apparent as we arrived at a small, secluded square nestled between old, forgotten buildings. In the centre of the square stood a statue of a majestic, winged creature, its stone wings outstretched as if guarding the portal that lay beyond. 'It's the Sphinx,' Evan whispered, pointing at the statue. 'A guardian of ancient knowledge and secrets. The portal is behind it.' As we approached the Sphinx, its stone eyes seemed to follow our every move, as if judging whether we were worthy of passing through. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being tested, that the fate of my journey hung in the balance. The portal itself was unlike anything I had ever seen. It appeared as a shimmering, translucent archway, its edges adorned with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and dance like living things. The colours shifted between shades of blue, gold, and silver, creating an otherworldly spectacle that mesmerized and terrified me all at once. 'It's beautiful,' I whispered, awestruck by the sight before me. Evan nodded, a solemn expression on his face. 'Indeed. But remember, once you step through, there's no turning back. Are you sure you're ready for this?' Taking a deep breath, I thought about everything that had led me to this moment. My dreams, the encounter with Hermes, the revelations about my heritage – it was all too surreal, yet I couldn't deny the pull that tugged at my heartstrings. 'I have to do this,' I replied, determination in my voice. 'My father needs me, and I can't ignore that call.' Evan smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes. 'That's the spirit, Nico. Just remember, once you're in Olympus, you'll be surrounded by gods and powerful beings. It won't be easy, but you're not alone. I'll be there for you every step of the way.' With Evan's encouragement, I felt a surge of courage welling up inside me. I took one last look at the mortal world, at the city that had been my home for so long, and then turned to face the portal. Stepping forward, I could feel the energy of the portal enveloping me, tingling against my skin like an electric current. As I passed through the shimmering archway, the world around me seemed to shift and bend. It was as if I was being transported through a cosmic tunnel, hurtling through space and time. The colours blurred together, and I closed my eyes, trusting in the journey that lay ahead. When I finally opened my eyes again, I found myself in a place unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a realm of grandeur and majesty, with towering marble pillars that reached toward the heavens and lush gardens that seemed to stretch on for eternity. The air was thick with power and magic, and I could sense the presence of divine beings all around me. I had arrived in Olympus, the realm of the gods. And there, waiting for me, was my father. We stood in front of the portal, and I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. Stepping through would mean leaving the life I knew behind and venturing into the unknown. But I also knew that my father needed me, and I couldn't turn my back on him. „Evan, what will happen once we step through? Will I be able to come back?' I asked, feeling a surge of nervousness. He placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'Don't worry, Nico. You'll be able to return to the mortal world if you choose to. The portal works both ways. But once you enter Olympus, things will never be the same.' I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. With Evan by my side, I knew I wasn't alone in this journey. Together, we stepped through the portal, and a rush of energy enveloped us, transporting us to the other side. Olymp [Chapter Three] Stepping through the portal was an experience unlike any other. It felt like being engulfed in a whirlwind of energy, where time and space ceased to exist. The air crackled with power, and I could feel the very essence of Olympus coursing through my veins. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming, as if I were being embraced by the very heart of the gods themselves. But as I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings, my heart sank. The majestic Olympus I had imagined was now in ruins. The once-glorious marble pillars lay broken and toppled, their grandeur replaced by decay and destruction. The gardens that were once lush and vibrant were now withered and lifeless. The skies above were shrouded in dark clouds, giving the ruins an even more haunting appearance. It was as if the very heavens mourned the loss of this once-great realm. The air, once filled with the power of the divine, now felt heavy with sorrow and despair. Evan stood beside me; his face etched with devastation. He looked around in disbelief, his eyes searching for any sign of life or hope. But there was nothing. The Olymp that had been his home, the place where he had found belonging and purpose, was now a desolate wasteland. 'I don't understand,' Evan muttered, his voice choked with emotion. 'What could have done this? Where are the gods?' I had no answers to give him. All I could do was grasp his shoulder in silent support, sharing in his grief and confusion. The weight of the situation settled heavily on my shoulders. I had come here with the hope of finding my father, of discovering the truth about my heritage, but instead, I was faced with a world in ruins. As we cautiously moved through the ruins, the silence was deafening. There was no sign of life, no sound of laughter or divine voices. It was as if Olympus had been abandoned, left to crumble into the pages of forgotten history. The palace, once resplendent with its divine architecture, now stood as a haunting reminder of the past. Broken statues of gods lay scattered on the ground, their once-proud features now worn away by time and neglect. The halls echoed with emptiness, each step a painful reminder of the life that once thrived within these walls. The devastation extended beyond the palace grounds, stretching to the farthest corners of Olympus. The once-majestic temples were reduced to rubble, and the sacred groves were now overgrown with weeds. It was a landscape of sorrow, a testament to the fall of a once-great civilization. Evan and I searched tirelessly, hoping against hope that there might be some survivors, some glimmer of hope amidst the ruins. But there was no one. It seemed that the gods themselves had vanished, leaving behind only the remnants of their once-glorious realm. In the midst of the ruins, I couldn't help but feel a sense of helplessness and despair. The weight of the responsibility I had taken on weighed heavily on my shoulders. How could I, a mere mortal, hope to save Olympus and find my father in this desolate wasteland? But as I looked at Evan, his determination unwavering despite the devastation, I knew that we couldn't give up. There had to be answers, there had to be a way to uncover the truth behind the fall of Olympus. Together, we vowed to find out what had happened and to restore this fallen realm to its former glory. Even in the face of despair, we would stand strong, for the sake of Olympus and for the sake of all those who had called it home. As I gazed at the figures in the distance, my heart skipped a beat. One of them undeniably resembled Hermes—the same elegant and ethereal presence that had visited me in my dreams. His figure exuded an otherworldly aura, and his golden wings shimmered in the faint light that managed to penetrate through the darkened skies of Olympus. The second figure was tall and imposing, with a powerful and commanding presence. His muscular frame was accentuated by the intricate armour he wore, adorned with symbols of strength and power. His face was stern, chiselled with determination, and his eyes held an intensity that seemed to pierce through to my very soul. Both figures stood in stark contrast to the ruins around them. While the world of Olympus lay in decay, they remained untouched, as if they were the last bastions of a forgotten era. Their very presence sent shivers down my spine, a mix of awe and trepidation. Hermes, with his soft yet penetrating gaze, seemed to look directly into my heart, as if he could see all my fears and doubts. His lips moved, and even from this distance, I felt a faint echo of his words in my mind—the same words he had spoken to me before, 'Son of gods, I'm waiting for you in Olympus.' The other figure remained silent; his expression unreadable. He watched me with a mix of curiosity and caution, as if assessing whether I was friend or foe. His eyes held a glint of something familiar, something that tugged at the corners of my memory, but I couldn't quite place it. Evan stood beside me, and I could sense his unease as well. We exchanged a quick glance, silently acknowledging the gravity of the situation. We had come this far, and now, we were face to face with figures that seemed to hold the answers we sought. Yet, I hesitated to approach them. I was torn between the desire to know more and the fear of what I might discover. The ruins around us served as a stark reminder of the consequences that had befallen Olympus. Was I ready to face the truth, whatever it might be? For a moment, I considered turning away, retreating back to the safety of the portal and returning to the mortal world where I belonged. But a stronger feeling gripped me—the need to know, the need to understand, and the need to face whatever lay ahead. Summoning my courage, I took a step forward. Evan followed suit, matching my resolve. As we moved closer, the figures seemed to shimmer and flicker, as if they were still only half-formed in this broken world. Their presence felt surreal, as if they were not entirely grounded in the realm of reality. As I stood before them, I felt a mixture of reverence and trepidation. Hermes' eyes held a mixture of compassion and wisdom, while the other figure's gaze remained inscrutable. I knew that there was more to these encounters than mere chance. They were part of a larger tapestry, a web of destinies that had brought us all together. But before I could speak, before I could ask the questions that weighed heavily on my heart, the figure beside Hermes raised his hand in a gesture of caution. His voice was deep and resonant, tinged with an ancient power that echoed through the very fabric of Olympus. 'Not now, Nico,' he said, his voice carrying a weight of authority. 'There are things you must learn, but the time is not right. You have taken the first step, but there is much more to be revealed.' With those words, my heart sank. I had come so far, and yet it seemed that the answers I sought were still out of reach. The figure turned to Hermes, and they exchanged a knowing look—a silent conversation that spoke volumes. Then, without a word, Hermes extended his hand toward me, offering a small, enigmatic smile. I knew that this encounter was only the beginning, and there was much more to come. As I took his hand, a surge of energy passed between us, as if a connection had been forged—a bond that would shape the path of my destiny. Hermes' eyes held a depth of sorrow and concern as he began to speak. 'Nico, we knew that the time of reckoning would come—when Kronos, the ancient titan, would rise to seek vengeance and destruction upon Olympus. It is a battle that has been foretold for eons, and we have been preparing for this moment.' 'Evan,' he turned to my companion, 'you were chosen because of your lineage, your bloodline, and your unique abilities. Your heritage makes you a powerful ally, and we have been training you to harness that strength for the coming conflict.' Evan nodded, absorbing the weight of his role in this unfolding saga. 'But why us? Why do you need me and Nico? There must be others, stronger and more experienced.' Hermes' smile held a hint of fondness for Evan's humility. 'You both possess a rare combination of mortal and divine heritage. Your father, Nico, is Proteus, the ancient sea god, and your mother, Evan, is a mortal. This unique blend of bloodlines grants you abilities and potential that even seasoned gods may lack.' I listened intently, trying to comprehend the enormity of what was unfolding. It was as if the world of myth and legend was converging with my reality, and I found myself at the epicentre of it all. Hermes continued, 'You are also the children of the prophecy—the ones who hold the key to Kronos' defeat. The bonds of fate and destiny have intertwined your lives, and it is through your combined strength and courage that the tide of this battle can be turned.' 'But we're just teenagers,' I interjected, my voice tinged with doubt. 'How can we possibly be the ones to face such a formidable foe?' Hermes' expression softened with understanding. 'It is not your age that matters, Nico. It is your spirit, your heart, and your willingness to stand against the darkness. The strength of heroes lies not only in their physical prowess but in their compassion, resilience, and the bonds they form with others.' 'Evan has been training for this his entire life,' Hermes continued, 'and with the awakening of your divine heritage, Nico, you have shown remarkable potential. But you must learn to control and channel these newfound powers. The path ahead will not be easy, and the challenges you face will test your resolve. Evan and I exchanged glances, the weight of our responsibilities settling upon our shoulders. The enormity of the task ahead was both terrifying and exhilarating. I could feel the power of Olympus pulsing through my veins, awakening something primal and ancient within me. Hermes placed a hand on each of our shoulders, his touch imbuing us with a sense of reassurance and purpose. 'You are not alone in this journey,' he said. 'The gods and allies of Olympus will stand beside you. You will face trials and adversaries but remember that the strength of Olympus lies in its unity. Together, you can overcome the darkness.' He turned his gaze to the ruins of Olympus behind us, a profound sadness in his eyes. 'For now, you must return to the mortal world. Train, hone your skills, and strengthen your bonds with those you hold dear. The time will come when you must face Kronos, but until then, prepare yourselves.' Evan nodded resolutely; his determination evident. 'We won't let you down.' Hermes smiled warmly. 'I know you won't.' With that, a soft glow enveloped us, and I felt myself being drawn back through the portal, leaving Olympus and its mysteries behind—for now. As we emerged on the other side, I was filled with a newfound sense of purpose and determination. The path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but I knew that I was not alone. As my father stepped into the conversation, a sombre aura surrounded him. His presence commanded respect and authority, and I couldn't help but feel a mixture of awe and trepidation. His words carried the weight of centuries, and his eyes held a profound sadness that reflected the gravity of the situation. 'Nico, Evan,' he began, his voice steady yet tinged with sorrow, 'what Hermes has told you is true. Kronos has risen to unimaginable power, and his malevolence knows no bounds. He has captured the souls of the gods and demigods, imprisoning them within himself, using their essence to fuel his insatiable hunger for dominion.' My heart sank at the realization of the dire situation. The fate of Olympus, the world, and everything I held dear hung in the balance. I knew we couldn't afford to fail, but the weight of such a monumental task threatened to overwhelm me. 'You both possess gifts that can make a difference,' my father continued. 'The blood of gods and mortals flows within your veins, giving you strength and abilities beyond the ordinary. But know this—defeating Kronos will require more than raw power.' Evan and I listened intently, our minds racing to grasp the enormity of the responsibility laid upon our shoulders. 'Kronos' strength is matched only by his cunning and ruthlessness,' my father continued. 'He will seek to divide and conquer, using every weakness and fear against you. He will test your resolve, your beliefs, and your bond as friends.' Evan's expression hardened with determination, mirroring my own resolve. We were both aware that our friendship would be put to the test, but we trusted each other implicitly. 'You may feel overwhelmed and doubt your abilities,' my father said gently. 'But remember, the essence of Olympus lies not just in its gods and demigods but in the unwavering spirit of its heroes. Courage, loyalty, and the willingness to sacrifice for the greater good—it is these qualities that will tip the scales in your favour.' I nodded, absorbing my father's words and committing them to memory. The weight of the world's fate rested on our shoulders, and we had to stand united against the forces of darkness. 'You have no allies in Olympus, for Kronos has isolated and captured us all,' my father continued. 'But perhaps that is an advantage. The element of surprise will be your ally, and you must act swiftly and decisively.' As the weight of the task settled upon me, I knew that time was of the essence. Kronos' reign of terror threatened not only Olympus but the world I had known before embarking on this extraordinary journey. My father looked at Evan and me with a mixture of pride and sadness. 'I have faith in both of you,' he said. 'You have the potential to rise above the challenges ahead, to forge your own destinies as heroes.' Evan and I exchanged a determined glance, our hearts aligned in purpose. We were just teenagers, but we had faced trials and tribulations that had prepared us for this moment. 'You must find the strength within yourselves to withstand whatever trials Kronos throws your way,' my father emphasized. 'And remember, even in the darkest of times, the light of hope can pierce through the shadows.' With those words, my father stepped back, fading into the ethereal background, leaving Evan, Hermes and me alone in the Ruins of Olympus. As Hermes spoke, his words reverberated through the ruins of Olympus. The gravity of the prophecy he shared sent shivers down my spine. The mention of a fallen angel who would bring destruction to Olympus and a Son of God who would rise to oppose him seemed like an ancient tale, a clash of titanic forces that had been written in the star’s aeons ago. 'The fallen angel, known as Kronos, was once a powerful ruler of the Titans,' Hermes continued. 'In a desperate bid for supremacy, he sought to overthrow the gods and plunge Olympus into chaos. The gods of Olympus stood united against him, and in a fierce and arduous battle, they defeated and banished him to the darkest depths of Tartarus.' 'But such ancient evils never stay truly vanquished,' Evan interjected, his voice tinged with concern. Hermes nodded gravely. 'Indeed. Through dark magic and the cunning manipulation of time, Kronos managed to return. He sought revenge on the gods and vowed to reshape the world in his image. His malevolence knows no bounds, and he has spent millennia amassing power and followers, preparing for the day of reckoning.' As I listened, my mind tried to grasp the enormity of the prophecy. I, a mere mortal, stood on the precipice of a battle that had been foretold since time immemorial. The weight of destiny bore down on my shoulders, and I could feel the weight of generations of heroes before me, those who had faced the wrath of gods and titans alike. 'But within this darkness, there is hope,' Hermes continued, his eyes gleaming with a glimmer of optimism. 'The prophecy also speaks of a Son of God, a being of unparalleled power, who will rise to face Kronos and restore balance to the world.' Evan and I exchanged astonished glances. Could it be that the Son of God referred to in the prophecy was one of us? I, the son of Proteus, and Evan, a half-blood with divine heritage, were both overwhelmed by the possibility of our destinies intertwining with the fate of Olympus. 'You both possess powers beyond mortal comprehension,' Hermes said, addressing us directly. 'But it is not merely your abilities that define you. It is your spirit, your character, and your unwavering belief in the power of good that will determine the outcome of this battle.' 'I never asked for any of this,' Evan muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. 'And I never sought to be a part of some ancient prophecy,' I added, feeling the weight of my newfound identity as the son of Proteus. Hermes smiled gently, understanding the turmoil within us. 'No one ever chooses their destiny, but destiny chooses them. It is the way of the gods and mortals alike. But fear not, for you are not alone in this journey.' 'Where are the other gods?' Evan asked, glancing around at the ruins of Olympus. 'They have been captured and imprisoned by Kronos,' Hermes replied solemnly. 'He seeks to drain their power and claim their domains as his own. This is why you must act swiftly and decisively. With every passing moment, his grip on Olympus tightens, and the world suffers under his tyranny.' As Hermes spoke, the weight of the prophecy settled upon us. We were the last hope of Olympus, the only ones who could stand against Kronos and prevent the world from descending into darkness. I knew that there was no turning back now. We had been called upon by destiny itself, and we had to rise to the challenge. 'Believe in yourselves, for the power lies within you,' Hermes said, his voice firm with conviction. 'Embrace your heritage, harness your abilities, and let the light of hope guide your way. Only then can you face Kronos and emerge victorious.' With those words, Hermes stepped back, and a profound silence settled over us. I felt a sense of determination surging within me, and I knew that I was ready to embrace my destiny, no matter how perilous the path ahead may be. As Hermes finished imparting the weight of our destinies upon us, he looked at Evan and me with a compassionate gaze. 'I understand that this is all overwhelming for both of you,' he said, his voice gentle. 'You need time to process everything, and I will respect that. Tomorrow, we will begin your training, but for now, you should find a place to rest and gather your strength.' Evan and I exchanged glances, our minds swirling with a maelstrom of emotions and thoughts. The weight of the prophecy, the responsibility of saving Olympus, and the revelation of our godly heritage left us both feeling unsteady and uncertain. 'I don't know if I'm ready for all of this,' Evan admitted, his voice tinged with doubt. 'I feel the same way,' I confessed. 'I never asked for any of this, and I don't know if I have what it takes to face Kronos.' Hermes nodded, understanding our hesitations. 'It's natural to feel afraid and unsure in the face of such a daunting task,' he said. 'But remember, you were chosen for a reason. You possess unique qualities and strengths that make you the right ones for this journey.' As we stood amidst the ruins of Olympus, I felt a sense of awe and reverence for the ancient place. The pillars and statues that once stood tall were now broken and scattered, a reflection of the devastation that Kronos had wrought upon this sacred realm. I knew that I couldn't allow this destruction to go unchallenged, but the fear of failure gnawed at the edges of my resolve. 'We are just mortals,' I said, my voice wavering slightly. 'How can we hope to stand against a being as powerful as Kronos?' Hermes placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. 'You are not just mortals. You have divine blood flowing through your veins, a legacy that connects you to the very fabric of the universe. And with proper training and guidance, you can unlock the full potential of your godly heritage.' As the words sank in, I felt a spark of determination ignite within me. I knew that I couldn't let fear hold me back. If there was even a chance that I could help save Olympus and prevent the destruction of the world, I had to try. 'You're right,' I said, my voice steadier now. 'I won't let fear stop me from doing what needs to be done.' Evan nodded in agreement. 'I may not fully understand everything yet, but I won't back down either.' Hermes smiled, pleased with our resolve. 'That's the spirit. Rest now, for tomorrow, we begin your training. You'll need to learn to harness your godly abilities and unlock your true potential.' With that, Hermes faded away, leaving Evan and me alone in the ruins of Olympus. We found a secluded spot amidst the debris, where we could rest and contemplate the path that lay ahead. Lying there, I couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. The thought of training to unlock my godly powers was exhilarating, but the weight of the responsibility weighed heavily on my shoulders. I knew that there was no turning back now. The fate of Olympus and the world rested on our shoulders, and we had to rise to the occasion. As I closed my eyes, I thought about my mother back in Wales, completely unaware of the incredible journey her son was embarking upon. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving her in the dark, but I knew that she would be safer not knowing the dangers that awaited me in Olympus. My mind drifted back to Sarah, my best and only friend. I wondered how she would react if she knew the truth about my identity and the destiny that awaited me. Would she be proud? Scared? Confused? I didn't know, but I couldn't bring myself to burden her with the weight of this secret. I also thought about my father, who had disappeared from my life when I was just a child. The dreams I had been having of him in the farmhouse and at the graduation ceremony weighed heavily on my heart. I longed to know the truth about him, to understand why he had left and what role he played in all of this. But there was no time for answers now. The urgency of the situation demanded that I focus on the task at hand. I needed to train, to prepare myself for the battle that awaited me. The fate of Olympus, the gods, and the world depended on it. As the night wore on, I found myself drifting into a restless sleep. Images of Kronos and the ruins of Olympus haunted my dreams, but amidst the darkness, I saw glimmers of light, of hope, and of the power that lay dormant within me. The Training [Chapter Four] FIRST DAY The first day of training dawned with a sense of anticipation and nerves. Evan and I had barely slept the night before, our minds still reeling from the revelations and responsibilities that lay ahead. But there was no time for hesitation. We knew that we had to throw ourselves into the training if we had any hope of standing against Kronos. Hermes appeared before us as the sun rose, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of wisdom and mischief. 'Are you ready for your first day of training?' he asked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 'As ready as we'll ever be,' I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Hermes led us to a clearing amidst the ruins of Olympus. The air was charged with energy, and I could feel a tingling sensation in my veins. It was a reminder of the divine blood that flowed through me, a connection to the world of gods and immortals. 'Today, we'll focus on the basics,' Hermes said. 'We'll start by tapping into your godly powers and learning to control them.' He gestured for us to stand in the centre of the clearing and close our eyes. 'Clear your minds of all distractions,' he instructed. 'Focus on the power that lies within you.' I took a deep breath, trying to silence the doubts and fears that threatened to overwhelm me. I reached out with my senses, searching for that spark of divinity that Hermes spoke of. At first, there was nothing but darkness, but then, I felt a flicker of warmth deep within me. 'You've found it,' Hermes said, his voice encouraging. 'Now, try to bring it to the surface. Let it flow through you.' I concentrated on that inner flame, allowing it to grow brighter and stronger with each passing moment. It was like tapping into an infinite reservoir of power, and it filled me with a sense of awe and wonder. Evan seemed to be struggling, his brow furrowed in concentration. But then, with a burst of determination, I saw his eyes light up as he too connected with his godly heritage. 'Now, try to channel that power,' Hermes said. 'Let it manifest in a tangible way.' I held out my hand, and to my amazement, a small ball of light appeared in my palm. It shimmered and danced like a tiny star, and I couldn't help but marvel at the sight. Evan managed to create a ball of light as well, though it wavered and flickered in his hand. But he looked at it with a mixture of wonder and pride, knowing that he had tapped into something extraordinary. Hermes nodded in approval. 'Good, very good. Now, I'll show you how to use this power to defend yourselves.' He conjured a wooden training dummy and demonstrated how to direct the energy we had harnessed into a blast. The blast hit the dummy with a burst of force, sending it flying backwards. 'Now you try,' Hermes said, stepping aside to give us room. Evan and I exchanged nervous glances, but we took a deep breath and focused our power on the dummy. I summoned all my concentration and willpower, and with a surge of energy, I released the blast. To my surprise, it hit the dummy with precision, sending it skidding across the ground. Evan's attempt was a bit less controlled, but it still had enough force to knock the dummy off its feet. Hermes clapped his hands in delight. 'Well done! You're both natural learners.' As the day went on, we practiced honing our powers, learning to control and direct them. Hermes taught us different techniques for defense and offence, and we tried our best to absorb everything he said. By the time the sun began to set, we were exhausted but exhilarated. It was incredible to discover the extent of our abilities and to know that we had the power to protect ourselves and others. As we returned to our makeshift camp, Hermes spoke to us about the importance of discipline and perseverance in our training. He emphasized that we had only scratched the surface of our potential and that there was much more to learn in the days ahead. We spent the evening discussing our experiences and practising what we had learned. Evan was particularly eager to improve, pushing himself to the limits to master his newfound abilities. I couldn't help but admire his determination. Despite the daunting task that lay ahead, Evan faced it with unwavering resolve, and it inspired me to do the same. That night, as I lay under the stars, I felt a sense of gratitude for this unexpected journey. I had been thrust into a world of gods and prophecies, and while the weight of it all was overwhelming at times, there was also a sense of purpose and destiny that I couldn't ignore. The next three days of training were equally intense and challenging. We learned to summon and control elemental powers, mastering fire, water, earth, and air. Hermes taught us ancient fighting techniques and honed our combat skills, preparing us for the battles that lay ahead. Throughout it all, Evan and I grew closer, supporting each other through moments of doubt and exhaustion. We became a team, each relying on the other's strengths to compensate for our weaknesses. As the training came to an end, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of excitement and trepidation. We had come so far in such a brief time, but the hardest part of our journey still lay ahead. Now, standing amidst the ruins of Olympus, I could feel the weight of our task pressing down upon us. The world was counting on us to stop Kronos, save the gods and demigods, and prevent the destruction of everything we knew and loved. Evan looked at me with determination in his eyes, and I knew that we were both ready to face whatever came our way. With Hermes by our side and the power of Olympus flowing through us, we were prepared to take on the fallen angel and his dark forces. SECOND DAY The second day of training began with the sun rising over the horizon, casting a warm glow on the ruins of Olympus. Evan and I were already awake, eager to continue our training and unlock more of our godly potential. Hermes greeted us with a smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief. 'Are you ready for another day of discovery?' he asked, his voice filled with excitement. We nodded eagerly, ready to dive deeper into the world of gods and powers. 'Today, we will focus on the element of water,' Hermes announced. 'Water is a powerful and versatile element, and it holds great significance in the realm of the gods.' He led us to a nearby spring, its crystal-clear waters shimmering in the sunlight. 'To harness the power of water, you must first connect with its essence,' Hermes explained. 'Feel the flow of the water, its fluidity and adaptability.' We closed our eyes and dipped our hands into the cool water, allowing ourselves to be enveloped by its soothing embrace. I felt a sense of tranquillity wash over me, and I could almost hear the gentle whispers of the water as if it were inviting me to become one with it. 'Now, try to manipulate the water,' Hermes instructed. 'Control its movement and shape it to your will.' I concentrated on the water in my hands, visualizing it rising and falling like waves. To my astonishment, the water responded to my thoughts, forming small ripples and waves in my palms. Evan seemed to be having a bit more difficulty, his brows furrowed in concentration. But with a little encouragement from Hermes, he managed to coax the water into responding to his commands as well. 'Excellent progress,' Hermes praised. 'Now, let's take it a step further. Try to summon larger amounts of water and shape it into different forms.' We extended our hands towards the spring, and with a surge of focus and power, we summoned a small whirlpool in the centre of the pool. The water swirled and danced in intricate patterns, responding to our will. 'Amazing,' Evan said in awe, his eyes wide with wonder. But Hermes reminded us that mastering the element of water required more than just manipulation. 'Water is also a source of healing and rejuvenation,' he said. 'You must learn to use its powers to heal and restore.' He led us to a wounded tree on the outskirts of the clearing. Its leaves were wilting, and its branches sagged under the weight of decay. 'Focus on the water's healing properties,' Hermes instructed. 'Imagine it flowing through the tree, nourishing and revitalizing it.' We closed our eyes and extended our hands towards the tree, channelling the water's healing energy into it. Slowly, the tree began to respond, its leaves perking up and its branches regaining strength. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I witnessed the transformation. It was incredible to see the direct impact of our abilities on the world around us. After mastering the element of water, Hermes guided us to a secluded part of the ruins. 'Today, we'll work on your combat skills,' he said. 'Fighting is not just about brute strength; it's about strategy and finesse.' He conjured a pair of wooden staffs and handed one to each of us. 'In battle, your weapon can be an extension of yourself,' he explained. 'Feel the energy flowing through it, and let it guide your movements.' We sparred with each other, practising different strikes and defensive manoeuvres. Hermes offered guidance and advice, encouraging us to find our own fighting style and capitalize on our strengths. As the day wore on, I could feel myself growing more confident in my abilities. The water flowed through me like a river, and the staff became an extension of my limbs. Evan's progress was equally impressive, his movements fluid and precise. It was evident that he had a natural talent for combat, and with the guidance of Hermes, he was honing that talent into a formidable skill. As the sun began to set, we returned to our campsite, exhausted but exhilarated. Hermes commended us on our progress and reminded us that there was still much to learn in the days ahead. That night, as we sat around the campfire, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for this opportunity to train with a god. It was a chance that few mortals ever received, and I was determined to make the most of it. As I lay down to sleep, I felt the power of water coursing through my veins. It was a reminder of the incredible journey we were on and the responsibility that came with it. But I also felt a sense of peace, knowing that I was not alone in this fight. With Evan by my side and the guidance of Hermes, I knew that we stood a chance against Kronos and his dark forces. The second day of training had been filled with revelations and growth, and I couldn't wait to see what the next two days held in store for us. With the power of water flowing through us and the wisdom of a god to guide us, we were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. THIRD DAY On the third day of training, the sun rose with a radiant glow, casting a golden hue over the ruins of Olympus. We knew that today's focus would be on honing our combat skills even further, and we were eager to continue our journey towards becoming powerful demigods. Hermes greeted us with a warm smile and a twinkle in his eyes. 'Today, we delve into the art of combat,' he announced. 'Fighting is not just about physical strength; it's about strategy, agility, and the ability to think on your feet.' He led us to a spacious training ground within the ruins. The area was surrounded by ancient columns, giving it an almost amphitheatre-like feel. 'Let's start with some warm-up exercises,' Hermes said, conjuring a set of wooden dummies. 'Focus on your footwork and strikes.' We spent the morning practising different combat stances, learning how to dodge and weave around the dummies while delivering powerful strikes. Hermes observed our movements, offering valuable tips and corrections to improve our techniques. 'Your movements are fluid, but you need to work on your reaction time,' he advised. 'The key to winning a battle is anticipating your opponent's moves and countering them swiftly.' With that guidance, we continued to spar with each other, putting Hermes' advice into practice. As the day progressed, I felt my reflexes sharpening, and I could sense Evan growing more agile and precise with each exchange. After a short break, Hermes introduced us to some weapons training. He conjured a selection of ancient weapons, from swords and spears to bows and arrows. 'Each weapon has its own strengths and weaknesses,' he explained. 'It's essential to familiarize yourself with various weapons and learn how to use them effectively.' Evan and I experimented with different weapons, discovering which ones felt most comfortable in our hands. I found myself drawn to the bow and arrow, feeling a natural affinity for the precision and long-range capability it offered. Hermes demonstrated advanced techniques with each weapon, showing us how to maximize their potential in combat. He emphasized the importance of maintaining balance and control, even in the midst of a fierce battle. As the sun reached its zenith, Hermes introduced us to a new challenge – a series of combat simulations. He used his godly powers to create holographic opponents that mimicked the fighting styles of various mythical creatures and enemies we might encounter. The holographic opponents were formidable adversaries, each with unique abilities and attack patterns. It was a test of not only our combat skills but also our ability to adapt and strategize on the spot. Evan and I faced the simulations together, relying on each other's strengths to overcome the challenges. With each battle, we learned more about ourselves and our abilities, discovering new ways to work as a team. As the day drew to a close, Hermes commended us on our progress. 'You're both becoming exceptional fighters,' he praised. 'But remember, true strength comes from unity – from working together as a team.' With that in mind, we decided to spend the rest of the evening practising combat exercises together. We worked on coordinating our attacks and defences, finding a rhythm that complemented each other's skills. As the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, we settled by the campfire. Hermes joined us, and we discussed the day's training and what we had learned about ourselves. 'I'm proud of your dedication and progress,' Hermes said warmly. 'But the journey is far from over. Tomorrow, we will focus on harnessing your godly powers even further.' With a sense of anticipation and excitement, we looked forward to the final day of training. The third day had been intense and challenging, but it also strengthened our bond as friends and allies. As we lay down to sleep, the stars above us seemed to shine a little brighter, as if reflecting the divine potential within us. FOURTH DAY The fourth day of training dawned with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The weight of our impending battle with Hermes hung heavily in the air, and the ruins of Olympus seemed to crackle with anticipation. Evan and I knew that today was the day we would face Hermes in combat, and we were ready to give it our all. Hermes looked at us with a mix of pride and seriousness. 'Today, we will push your limits like never before,' he said. 'Defeating a god requires not only immense power but also clever strategy and teamwork.' We nodded, our determination burning bright. The fate of Olympus rested on our shoulders, and we were prepared to do whatever it took to protect it. With a flick of his wrist, Hermes conjured an arena within the ruins, a vast open space that crackled with divine energy. 'In this battle, you'll need to work together,' he explained. 'Attack and defend as a team, and most importantly, trust each other.' Evan and I stood side by side, knowing that we had to synchronize our movements and attacks if we were to stand a chance against the god of speed. As the battle commenced, Hermes moved with lightning speed, striking at us from every direction. We focused on dodging and blocking his attacks, trying to find an opening to strike back. But Hermes was swift and elusive, and it became clear that brute force alone wouldn't be enough to defeat him. We needed to be smarter and more strategic. Hermes' laughter echoed through the arena. 'Come on, boys! Show me what you've got!' he taunted. Evan and I exchanged a determined glance, silently communicating our plan. We decided to divide our roles – Evan would focus on defence, using his shield to protect both of us, while I would take on the offensive. With a burst of speed, I darted towards Hermes, swinging my sword in a series of precise strikes. He dodged most of them effortlessly, but I could see that my attacks were starting to wear him down. Meanwhile, Evan skillfully parried Hermes' strikes, using his shield with expert precision. Despite his injuries, he remained steadfast, determined to stand by my side until the end. But Hermes wasn't finished yet. He gathered the air around him, creating a powerful gust that sent us flying backwards. We struggled to regain our footing, but the god of speed was already upon us, his movements a blur. Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, a surge of energy rushed through me. My entire body began to glow in a radiant golden shimmer. I could feel the power of all the gods coursing through my veins. In my hand, a magnificent golden sceptre materialized. It was adorned with intricate carvings of the elements – air, water, fire, and earth – symbolizing the mastery I now possessed over them. With newfound strength, I unleashed a torrent of fire towards Hermes, catching him off guard. He tried to evade the flames, but they danced around him, relentless in their pursuit. Evan watched in awe as I wielded the power of the elements like a master. With each strike, the earth trembled, and waves of water surged forth, amplifying the force of my attacks. As I focused on my newfound abilities, I felt a deep connection to the world around me. It was as if the elements themselves responded to my every command. Hermes' expression shifted from arrogance to surprise as he struggled to keep up with my onslaught. He tried to counterattack, but I deflected his strikes effortlessly. With a swift and calculated movement, I sent a powerful blast of air towards Hermes, knocking him off balance. Evan seized the opportunity and landed a decisive blow with his shield, sending the god stumbling backwards. Hermes chuckled; his eyes now filled with respect. 'You boys have grown stronger than I anticipated,' he admitted. 'But let's see if you can keep up with this.' In an instant, Hermes blurred into motion, moving faster than the eye could follow. But I was ready – my senses heightened by my connection to the elements. Using the water around us, I created a barrier of ice to slow down Hermes' movements. It was enough to give Evan and me a chance to strike back. We fought with newfound determination and coordination, combining our powers in a dance of elements. With each attack, Hermes grew more frustrated, realizing that he could no longer predict our moves. In a final, powerful assault, we channelled the combined forces of air, water, fire, and earth into a single devastating blow. Hermes tried to defend himself, but he couldn't withstand the onslaught. With a resounding crash, Hermes fell to his knees, defeated. The god of speed had met his match in the unity of two half-bloods, bound by friendship and the power of the elements. As the dust settled, Evan and I stood victorious. The arena fell silent, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped. Hermes looked up at us with a smile, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. 'You've done well, my sons,' he said. 'You have proven yourselves worthy of your divine heritage.' As the golden shimmer around me began to fade, I felt a sense of profound gratitude and accomplishment. The journey had been long and challenging, but we had emerged stronger and united. With our training complete, Evan and I returned to the ruins of Olympus. The once-devastated city now glowed with newfound hope and resilience, a testament to the power of unity and determination. As the sun set over the ruins, casting a warm glow over the landscape, I knew that our journey was far from over. Kronos still loomed on the horizon, and we had a duty to protect both Olympus and our world from his wrath. But for now, we would rest, knowing that we had faced the god of speed and emerged victorious. Together, Evan and I would stand against the darkness, united in our friendship and the power of the elements that flowed through us. Our journey was just beginning, and we were ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. As I lay down to rest, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the path that had led me to this point. From a seemingly ordinary high school student, I had become the son of Proteus, a god, wielder of the elements, and protector of Olympus. But with all this power came great responsibility, and I knew that the fate of not just Olympus, but the entire world rested on my shoulders. Kronos posed a threat unlike any other, and I had to be prepared for whatever he might throw at me. As I closed my eyes, images of our training flashed before me – the exhilaration of wielding the elements, the strength I felt surging through my veins, and the unwavering support of Evan by my side. Together, we were a force to be reckoned with. But amidst the excitement, there was also a tinge of fear. The weight of expectation sat heavily on my chest. What if I couldn't live up to the prophecy? What if I failed to defeat Kronos and protect everything, I held dear? I pushed those doubts aside, reminding myself that I was not alone. With Hermes as our guide and Evan as my loyal friend, we had faced challenges before and come out stronger. I had to believe in myself and my abilities. Sleep finally claimed me, and in my dreams, I found myself back on the stage of my graduation day. The cheers and applause of the crowd echoed in my ears, but this time, there was no figure standing in the distance. The stage was empty, and I was alone. As I walked towards the centre of the stage, the scene shifted, and I found myself in a vast and desolate landscape. The ruins of Olympus stretched out before me, and in the distance, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Kronos, his eyes burning with malice and power. He looked at me with a chilling smile, and I felt a surge of fear course through me. But then, a golden light enveloped me, and I felt a sense of strength and determination like never before. The golden sceptre appeared in my hand once more, and with it, I knew I had the power to face Kronos. I raised the sceptre, and the elements responded to my call. The earth trembled beneath me, water surged in mighty waves, flames danced around me, and the air crackled with electricity. Kronos' smile faltered as he realized the extent of my power. 'You are nothing but a mere mortal,' he sneered, 'and yet you dare to challenge a god?' 'I am not just a mortal,' I replied, my voice steady and resolute. 'I am the son of a god, and I have the power of all the elements at my command. You will not destroy Olympus or harm anyone I care about.' Kronos roared with fury, and the battle began. The ground shook with each clash, and the air was thick with energy. But I held my ground, drawing strength from the elements and the knowledge that I was not alone in this fight. As the battle raged on, I could feel the weight of the prophecy on my shoulders. It was not just about defeating Kronos; it was about fulfilling my destiny and proving that I was worthy of the power I had been given. With a final surge of power, I unleashed the full force of the elements on Kronos. The ground split open, flames roared around him, and the wind howled with fury. The god of the time struggled to withstand the onslaught, but he was no match for the combined might of the elements. In the end, Kronos fell to his knees, defeated and powerless. The prophecy had been fulfilled, and I had proven myself as the son of a god, worthy of the power I wielded. As I stood there, panting and victorious, I felt a sense of peace and fulfilment wash over me. I had faced the greatest challenge of my life and emerged triumphant, not just because of my power, but because of the strength of my heart and the support of those I cared about. As I opened my eyes, I found myself back in the ruins of Olympus, surrounded by the golden glow of the setting sun. Evan stood by my side, a mixture of awe and pride in his eyes. 'You did it,' he said, his voice filled with admiration. 'You defeated Kronos.' I nodded, a sense of humility settling over me. 'It wasn't just me,' I replied. 'We did it together. We are a team, and together, there is nothing we can't overcome.' Hermes approached us, a smile playing on his lips. 'You have both shown great courage and strength,' he said. 'You are true heroes, and Olympus is grateful for your bravery.' I smiled back at him, feeling a sense of gratitude for all that he had taught us. 'Thank you, Hermes,' I said. 'You have been an incredible mentor, and we couldn't have done this without you.' Hermes nodded, his eyes gleaming with pride. 'You have come into your own, my sons,' he said. 'You have embraced your divine heritage and proved yourselves worthy of the power you possess.' As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the ruins of Olympus, I knew that our journey was far from over. There would always be new challenges and threats to face, but as long as we stood together, we would be unstoppable. With Evan by my side and the power of the elements flowing through me, I felt an overwhelming sense of hope and purpose. I was no longer just a high school student from Wales; I was the son of a god, protector of Olympus, and a true hero. And as we looked out over the ruins of the once-great city, I knew that this was just the beginning of our adventures. The world was vast and filled with countless wonders and dangers, and together, Evan and I were ready to face whatever came our way. With a sense of unity and determination, we turned our gaze towards the horizon, ready to embrace whatever the future held. The journey had been long and challenging, but we had emerged stronger, wiser, and united in our purpose. As we prepared to leave Olympus and return to our world, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the experiences we had shared and the friendships we had forged. Our journey as demigods had only just begun, and I knew that whatever the future held, we would face it together – as friends, as warriors, and as the protectors of Olympus. And so, with hearts full of hope and anticipation, we stepped away from the ruins of Olympus, ready to face whatever adventures awaited us. Our path was uncertain, but one thing was clear – we were not alone, and together, we would change the course of history. Journey [Chapter Five] Leaving behind the ruins of Olympus, Evan and I found ourselves in an unfamiliar land. The sun was setting, casting a warm golden glow over the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, but our hearts were heavy with the weight of our mission. We had defeated Hermes, the trickster messenger of the gods, but Kronos, the ancient titan lord, still loomed on the horizon, threatening to unleash chaos and destruction upon the mortal world. Our journey to the realm of the dead was fraught with uncertainty, but we knew that it was the only path to find my father, Hades, and to prevent the apocalypse that Kronos sought to unleash upon the world. 'Where the fuck are we even going?' I couldn't help but blurt out, the frustration and uncertainty building inside me like a tempest. Evan looked equally puzzled. 'I'm not entirely sure,' he admitted, 'but Hermes gave me this.' He pulled out a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age, from the depths of his backpack. Unfolding it, he revealed ancient instructions written in faded ink, symbols and runes of a forgotten age etched across its surface. 'These are instructions on how a mortal can journey to Hades,' Evan said, his voice filled with awe and uncertainty. 'And from there, we can find the Island der Seligen, the fabled Island of the Blessed.' 'The Island of the Blessed,' I translated, my heart racing with both excitement and fear. 'That's where we need to go to find my father and the key to defeating Kronos.' Evan nodded. 'According to this parchment, there are seven steps we need to follow to reach Hades and the Island of the Blessed.' I leaned in, studying the ancient instructions carefully. The parchment was filled with cryptic symbols and archaic language, but as I focused, the words seemed to come alive before my eyes, as if touched by the divine. Step One: The Offering To enter the realm of Hades, we would need to make an offering to Charon, the grim and enigmatic ferryman of the dead. The parchment detailed the specific items required for the offering, including coins to pay for passage across the Styx and sacred herbs to appease the guardian of the river. Step Two: Crossing the Styx Once we had made the offering, Charon would transport us across the river Styx, the boundary between the mortal world and the underworld. The Styx was said to possess powerful magic and crossing it would mark the beginning of our journey into the realm of the dead. I couldn't help but wonder what mysteries and dangers awaited us on the other side. Step Three: The Gates of Hades Upon reaching the shores of Hades, we would be confronted by the fearsome three-headed dog, Cerberus, guardian of the Underworld. The parchment advised us to carry a gift for the monstrous sentinel, something that would appease his savage nature and allow us to pass unharmed. Step Four: The Judgment Passing through the Gates of Hades, we would face the judgment of the dead. The parchment warned that we would be questioned by the spirits of the departed, our hearts and souls laid bare before their penetrating gazes. We would need to answer truthfully and wisely to gain their favor and continue our quest. Step Five: The River Lethe Beyond the judgment, we would encounter the river Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. The mere touch of its waters was said to erase all memories and experiences, leaving one adrift in an eternal haze of oblivion. The parchment cautioned us not to drink from its waters, lest we forget our purpose and become trapped in the underworld forever. Step Six: Seeking Persephone's Blessing To find the path to the Island of the Blessed, we would need the blessing of Persephone, the queen of the underworld. The parchment provided a ritual to seek her favor, which included offerings of pomegranates and prayers to the goddess. Persephone's moods were as unpredictable as the seasons she controlled, and we would have to approach her with utmost respect and humility. Step Seven: The Final Gate Finally, after receiving Persephone's blessing, we would come to the final gate that led to the Island of the Blessed. The parchment spoke of a trial that we would need to pass, a test of our strength, courage, and determination. The nature of the trial remained unknown, and the uncertainty only added to the weight of our journey. As I finished reading the instructions, a mix of excitement and anxiety washed over me. The journey ahead would be perilous and filled with unknown dangers, but I knew that we had to press on. My father's fate, and the fate of Olympus, depended on our success. The gods and the mortal world alike hung in the balance, and we were the last hope to prevent its catastrophic downfall. 'Evan,' I said, looking into his eyes, 'we have to do this. We have to find my father and stop Kronos.' Evan nodded solemnly. 'I know,' he said. 'We can't let Olympus fall. We have to be strong, Nico, and we have to stick together.' I felt a surge of gratitude for Evan's unwavering support. He had been with me every step of the way, and I knew that I could rely on him no matter what challenges lay ahead. 'Let's get some rest for now,' I suggested. 'We'll start our journey to Hade’s tomorrow. We'll face whatever comes our way together.' As we found a sheltered spot to rest for the night, I couldn't help but wonder what awaited us in the realm of the dead. The ancient instructions on the parchment seemed both daunting and mysterious, but I knew that we had to be brave and determined. We were but mortals, facing gods and ancient forces beyond our comprehension, yet we carried the weight of the world upon our shoulders. Closing my eyes, I felt a mix of anticipation and fear swirl within me. I knew that our journey had only just begun, and that the trials and obstacles ahead would test us like never before. The dreams that visited me that night was filled with visions of the ancient world and the trials that awaited us. They were vivid and unsettling, but I knew that I had to endure them to gain the wisdom and strength necessary for the trials ahead. The night was filled with both trepidation and hope, and as the first light of dawn painted the horizon, I knew that our adventure had only just begun. We had left the ruins of Olympus behind, but now we were on a journey that would take us through the very heart of the mythological cosmos. It was a journey of epic proportions, one that would test not only our physical strength but also the depths of our character and the strength of our bonds. We were but two mortals against the might of the gods and the fury of ancient titans. Yet, our determination burned bright, fueled by love, friendship, and a sense of responsibility to protect the world from the impending doom that threatened to engulf it. And so, with hearts steeled and minds focused, we set forth on our epic quest, determined to navigate the treacherous path to Hades, seek the Island of the Blessed, and ultimately confront the looming threat of Kronos. It was a journey that would take us to the very edge of existence, and we knew that there would be no turning back. But we were ready to face whatever challenges the realm of the dead had in store for us, for it was not just our lives that hung in the balance, but the fate of all creation. As I lay there in the darkness, the events of the day replayed in my mind like a vivid movie. The training with Hermes had been intense and rigorous, pushing my physical and mental limits to new heights. The newfound powers that surged through me were overwhelming, leaving me both exhilarated and anxious about the responsibility they entailed. The ancient instructions, passed down through generations, now held the key to our journey to Hades—the perilous mission to retrieve a crucial artifact that could tip the scales in the impending war against the Titans. It all felt like a surreal and daunting whirlwind, and as I lay on my makeshift bed, the musty smell of the cavernous hideout permeated the air, reminding me of the seriousness of the task ahead. My body was exhausted from the day's grueling training, yet my mind refused to rest, constantly racing with thoughts of the trials that awaited us and the fate of Olympus that rested upon our shoulders. Finally, as sleep began to overtake me, I drifted into a dream, or perhaps it was a vision—an otherworldly experience that blurred the line between reality and the supernatural. In this dream, I found myself standing on the edge of a vast battlefield, its desolate landscape mirroring the turmoil that now engulfed my thoughts. The air crackled with tension and power as the forces of light and darkness clashed before me. The energy emanating from the warring factions sent shivers down my spine, and a deep sense of foreboding settled in the pit of my stomach. Among the ruins of an ancient civilization, two imposing figures emerged as the focal points of the battle—my father, the powerful Proteus, and the dark and malevolent figure of Kronos, the Titan lord. Their battle was a spectacle of raw power, each move they made reshaping the very landscape. The earth trembled beneath my feet, and I could feel the force of each blow reverberating through my body. Beside me stood my loyal friend and companion, Evan, his unwavering presence bolstering my courage. With a shared understanding, we charged forward, our combined powers surging around us like an aura of determination. The battlefield blurred around us as we sprinted towards the epicenter of the fight, as if time itself had slowed to witness this pivotal moment. The sounds of battle crescendoed around us—the clash of swords, the crackling of lightning, and the roar of mythical creatures joining the fray. The weight of the imminent fate of Olympus loomed heavy, pressing down on my shoulders. Finally, we reached my father and Kronos, their godlike power emanating like a tempest. Kronos turned his malevolent gaze upon us, his sneer conveying contempt for mere mortals challenging him. Yet, we stood tall, resolute and undeterred. In that moment, my father's voice, steady despite the fatigue etched into his features, urged us to retreat, to leave the battle to the gods. But we couldn't back down. Our determination and belief in the cause compelled us to fight alongside him. With our combined strength and power, we unleashed attacks against Kronos, each strike a testament to the hope we carried in our hearts. The air crackled with the intensity of our efforts, and our resolve only intensified as the battle raged on. However, Kronos was a relentless adversary, and despite our tenacity, his dark powers seemed boundless. The struggle was relentless, and exhaustion gnawed at our very core. Yet, we couldn't allow doubt to creep into our minds—the fate of Olympus depended on our unwavering courage. In a final desperate attempt, my father mustered his remaining strength, launching a powerful attack aimed at bringing down Kronos once and for all. But the cunning Titan deflected the blow, seizing the opportunity to strike my father with a fatal blow. Time seemed to slow as my father fell, and I rushed to his side, my heart heavy with grief and loss. His parting words echoed in my mind, urging me to remember the strength within me—the divine legacy I carried as the son of gods. Awakening with a start, my body drenched in sweat, the memory of the dream felt like a weight on my soul. I glanced at Evan, peacefully sleeping beside me, unaware of the turmoil that had gripped my mind. As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, I made a silent vow. The journey to Hades and the Island of the Blessed would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but I was determined to embrace the power within me and face the challenges head-on. With the memory of my father's sacrifice and the weight of his legacy guiding me, I knew I had to honor his memory by protecting the ones I loved and safeguarding Olympus. The fate of the world depended on the strength within me, and I was resolute in my determination to rise to the occasion. As I stared at the rising sun, its warm rays symbolizing hope and renewal, I knew that my journey had just begun. The path to Hades would test my courage, resilience, and determination like never before, but I was ready to face the trials and uncertainties that lay ahead. With my father's words etched in my heart, I prepared to embark on the perilous quest that could determine the fate of Olympus—the epic journey that would change the course of history and define my destiny. As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, I sat next to Evan, his slumbering form nestled close to mine. The events of the past days, the dreams of my father's sacrifice, and the weight of our impending journey to Hades weighed heavily on my mind. But in this moment, as the sun rose before us, my attention was drawn solely to Evan. His features were softened in sleep, and he looked peaceful, almost childlike. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyelids fluttered slightly as he dreamed. It was a sight I had seen countless times before—Evan, sleeping soundly, his guard down, his vulnerability on display. But this time, it was different. I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming surge of protectiveness towards him. It was more than friendship—it was a bond that I couldn't comprehend, something deeper and more profound. Evan had been there for me when I needed him most, a steady presence in my life since the day we met, back when we were both just seven years old. I remembered that day vividly—the day my father left. I was devastated, lost in a sea of confusion and hurt. And then there was Evan, a new kid in school, who seemed to sense my pain without me even saying a word. He reached out to me, offering a hand of friendship when I needed it most. From that moment on, we became inseparable. Evan was my confidante, my partner in mischief, and my rock when the world seemed to crumble around me. We shared laughter, tears, and countless adventures together. He knew me better than anyone else, sometimes even better than I knew myself. As I watched him sleep now, I realized how much he meant to me. The thought of anything happening to him filled me with a primal fear, one that I couldn't ignore. I had to protect him, just as he had protected me so many times before. But at the same time, I felt a profound sense of gratitude towards Evan. He had given me the gift of unwavering friendship, something that I had craved ever since my father's departure. He had been my constant, my anchor, and I couldn't imagine my life without him. As the sun continued to rise, bathing us in its warm glow, I couldn't help but reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Evan's forehead. He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, but he didn't wake up. I found myself captivated by the play of light on his features—the way the golden rays accentuated the curve of his cheek, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only Evan and me in this tranquil and intimate bubble. A mixture of emotions swirled within me—gratitude, love, fear, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I had to be strong, not just for myself but for Evan too. We were in this together, facing a danger that threatened not only Olympus but the entire world. My father's words echoed in my mind—about the overwhelming power that lay within me, the power of the Son of God. It was a power I didn't fully understand, but I knew I had to harness it for the sake of those I loved and for the greater good. As I continued to watch Evan sleep, a sense of determination washed over me. I couldn't let fear hold me back, couldn't let doubt cloud my judgment. We had a mission, and I would do whatever it took to see it through. I gently leaned back against the tree behind me, never taking my eyes off Evan. He was my partner, my brother-in-arms, and I knew that together, we would face whatever challenges lay ahead. The bond between us was something extraordinary, something that defied explanation or logic. It was a bond that would carry us through even the darkest of times. The sun had fully risen now, casting a warm glow over the landscape. But my attention remained fixed on Evan. There was so much I wanted to say, so much I wanted to express, but the words seemed inadequate. Instead, I simply sat in silence, cherishing this moment of tranquility before the storm that awaited us. As time passed, Evan stirred and finally opened his eyes. He blinked sleepily, his gaze meeting mine. 'Morning,' he said, his voice still thick with sleep. 'Morning,' I replied, offering him a small smile. 'Sleep well?' He nodded, stretching slightly. 'Yeah, I guess so. You?' I shrugged, trying to push away the weight of my dreams and the thoughts that plagued my mind. 'As well as can be expected, I suppose.' Evan's brow furrowed with concern. 'You okay, Nico? You seem... distant.' I hesitated for a moment, then decided to share some of my thoughts with him. 'I had a dream last night,' I began, carefully choosing my words. 'About my father and Kronos. It was... intense.' Evan's eyes softened, and he reached out to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. 'I'm here for you, Nico. Whatever you need, whatever you're going through, I've got your back.' I couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards Evan. He was always there for me, a constant source of support and strength. 'Thank you,' I said, my voice catching slightly. 'I don't know what I'd do without you.' Evan smiled, a warm and genuine expression. 'You don't have to worry about that. We're in this together, right?' I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. 'Right. No matter what happens, we stick together.' And with those words, we both knew that our bond would carry us through whatever trials awaited us on our journey to Hades. The world was a dangerous and unpredictable place, but with Evan by my side, I knew we could face anything that came our way. Together, we were stronger than we could ever be alone. After sharing a simple breakfast of packed meals, Evan and I stood up, shouldering our bags and preparing to embark on the next leg of our journey. The sun was now high in the sky, casting its warm rays upon us as we set out on this perilous quest to Hades. As we walked, I couldn't help but steal glances at Evan from time to time. He had a unique charm about him that I had always admired. His dark hair had a habit of falling slightly over his eyes, and he would absentmindedly tuck it back behind his ear, only for it to fall again moments later. It was a little quirk of his that I found endearing. Evan's eyes were a deep shade of brown, warm and expressive, always reflecting the emotions he felt. They sparkled with mischief when he was up to something mischievous, but they also held an immense amount of kindness and empathy. It was something I had always admired about him—his ability to understand and connect with others on a deep level. He had a smile that could light up a room, and I often found myself drawn to it, even in the darkest of times. His laughter was infectious, and he had a way of making even the most mundane tasks enjoyable with his playful sense of humor. As we continued on our journey, I noticed how he had a slight bounce in his step, a youthful energy that seemed to radiate from him. It was contagious, and I found myself feeling lighter and more hopeful just by being in his presence. The path we followed led us through dense forests and winding trails. We crossed babbling brooks and trekked up steep hillsides. It was physically demanding, but we pressed on, knowing that each step brought us closer to our goal. Finally, we arrived at the river Styx, where the ferryman Charon awaited to take souls to the realm of the dead. It was time for the ceremony of offering—an ancient ritual that would allow us passage across the river. Evan and I stood on the bank of the river, looking out at the dark waters. Charon's boat, a skeletal structure made of blackened wood, floated silently in the middle. I could feel the weight of the moment, knowing that our success depended on this crucial step. Evan reached into his bag and pulled out a small bundle of herbs—a mix of lavender, rosemary, and sage. These were offerings to appease Charon, to show respect for the ferryman who guided souls to their final destination. With a deep breath, Evan stepped forward and sprinkled the herbs into the water. 'O mighty Charon,' he called out, his voice strong and unwavering, 'we humbly offer these herbs as a token of our respect and gratitude. We seek passage to the realm of Hades, where we must retrieve something of great importance. We ask for your guidance and protection on our journey.' The air seemed to grow still as Evan finished the ceremony. I could feel a sense of reverence in the air, as if the very river itself was listening to his words. For a moment, time seemed to slow, and I found myself holding my breath. Then, as if in response, the boat began to move towards us. Charon, a tall and imposing figure, stood at the helm, his skeletal hands gripping the oar with an otherworldly strength. He wore a tattered cloak that seemed to billow in a nonexistent breeze, and his eyes glowed with an eerie green light. Without a word, Charon gestured for us to board the boat. Evan and I exchanged a nervous glance, but we knew we had no choice. We stepped onto the creaking deck, and the boat set off across the dark waters. As we sailed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. The river Styx was said to be a boundary between the mortal world and the realm of the dead, and I could feel the weight of the souls that had passed through here. The air was heavy with the weight of their stories, their hopes and dreams, their regrets, and sorrows. Charon remained silent; his eyes fixed on the waters ahead. The journey was a somber one, and I couldn't help but think of my father and all the other souls who had passed through here. I wondered if he had once crossed this very river on his way to the afterlife. Eventually, the boat reached the other side, and Charon brought it to a stop. He turned to us, his green eyes seeming to pierce right through us. 'You have crossed the river Styx,' he said, his voice echoing with a haunting resonance. 'You may proceed to the realm of Hades. With a nod of thanks, Evan and I stepped off the boat and onto solid ground once more. The weight of the ceremony still lingered in the air, and I could feel the gravity of our mission bearing down on us. As we continued on our journey, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were stepping into the unknown. The realm of Hades was said to be a place of darkness and shadows, a world of the dead where few mortals dared to tread. But we had a purpose, a mission to fulfill, and with Evan by my side, I knew we could face whatever awaited us in that dark and forbidding realm. Having successfully crossed the river Styx, Evan and I found ourselves standing at the shores of Hades. The atmosphere here was heavy and foreboding, the air filled with an eerie silence that sent shivers down my spine. We knew that we were on the right path, but the thought of facing Cerberus, the fearsome three-headed dog, made my heart race with fear. The parchment from Hermes had warned us about this formidable guardian of the Underworld. To proceed, we needed to find a gift that would appease Cerberus and allow us safe passage. Evan reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of freshly cooked meat—a gift for the monstrous sentinel. As we cautiously made our way further into the realm of Hades, the darkness seemed to intensify, and I could hear faint growls echoing in the distance. The anticipation weighed heavily on me as we approached the massive gates that guarded the entrance to the Underworld. There, standing guard with three sets of menacing eyes, was Cerberus. The sight of the gigantic, three-headed dog was enough to send chills down my spine. Each head was larger than a grown man, and they bared their sharp teeth, dripping with saliva, as they fixated on us. Evan stepped forward, holding out the bundle of meat as an offering. 'O mighty Cerberus,' he said, his voice surprisingly steady, 'we come seeking passage to the realm of Hades. We bring this gift as a token of our respect and a humble request for safe passage. Please accept our offering and allow us to proceed on our journey.' Cerberus sniffed the air, and I could see his eyes darting between us. For a moment, it seemed as if he might attack, but then he let out a low growl and cautiously approached the meat. With all three heads, he grabbed the offering and devoured it in one gulp. The tension in the air eased slightly, and Cerberus seemed to relax. He regarded us with a less hostile gaze, and I could almost sense a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. It was as if our offering had touched something in him—a small spark of humanity buried beneath his fearsome exterior. Taking this as a sign, we carefully stepped past Cerberus and through the massive gates of Hades. The gateway was unlike anything I had ever seen—immense, dark, and forbidding. As we passed through, a chill washed over us, and the air seemed to grow heavier. Inside, we found ourselves in a vast and desolate landscape, a world of shadows and echoes. The souls of the deceased wandered aimlessly, their faces etched with sorrow and regret. We could hear their whispers and moans, a haunting chorus that filled the air with a mournful melody. Evan and I stuck close together, navigating the dark and winding paths of the Underworld. The further we went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, and I could feel a sense of despair weighing heavily on my chest. At one point, we encountered a lost soul—a woman who seemed to be searching for something she had lost in life. She looked at us with hollow eyes, and her voice trembled as she spoke. 'Please, have you seen my daughter?' she asked, her words filled with desperation. 'I can't find her. I've been searching for so long...' Her pain was palpable, and I felt a pang of sorrow in my heart. I wanted to help her, to ease her suffering, but I knew that we had a mission to fulfill. Evan gently took her hand and offered some words of comfort, assuring her that she would find peace someday. As we continued on, the path seemed to grow darker, and the air grew colder. The weight of the Underworld pressed down on us, and I could feel the burden of the souls' sorrow settling on my shoulders. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we came upon a massive gate guarded by a solemn figure—a man with a stern expression and a set of keys dangling from his belt. This was Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld. He regarded us with a knowing gaze and said in a deep, rumbling voice, 'You have passed through the Gates of Hades. Beyond this point lies the heart of the Underworld. Proceed with caution, for the road ahead is treacherous and full of peril.' We nodded in understanding, knowing that our journey was far from over. With each step, we were descending deeper into the realm of the dead, and I could feel the weight of our quest growing heavier with each passing moment. But we pressed on, knowing that the fate of Olympus and the mortal world depended on our success. As Evan and I proceeded deeper into the Underworld, the weight of our surroundings grew even heavier. The air was thick with sorrow and despair, and the souls of the departed surrounded us, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope and anguish. We knew that the next step of our journey—The Judgment—would be a daunting challenge, one that would test not only our wits but also the very essence of our beings. We walked through a dimly lit corridor, the walls adorned with ancient inscriptions and murals depicting the deeds and misdeeds of mortal souls. The whispers of the departed echoed in our ears, urging us to be cautious and true in our responses. The atmosphere was tense, as if every step we took was being scrutinized by unseen eyes. Eventually, we reached a vast hall with a throne at its center. Seated upon the throne was a majestic figure—an ethereal being whose presence exuded authority and wisdom. This was Minos, the wise king of ancient times, known for his role as a judge of the dead. Minos regarded us with a penetrating gaze, as if he could see into the depths of our souls. 'Welcome, mortals,' he said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to echo throughout the hall. 'You have ventured far into the realm of the dead. Now, you shall face the judgment of your deeds in life.' I felt my heart pounding in my chest as I stood before Minos. It was as if every action, every choice I had ever made, was being laid bare for scrutiny. I could not hide from the truth, and I knew that my answers would determine our fate. Minos began to ask us questions, delving into the core of our characters and the essence of our beings. He asked about our virtues and our flaws, our greatest triumphs, and our deepest regrets. Each question seemed to strip away another layer of our souls, revealing the raw and vulnerable parts of ourselves. With each question, I felt a mixture of fear and determination. I knew that I had to answer truthfully, for any deception would be instantly detected by Minos. And so, I spoke from the heart, baring my soul and laying my past actions before the ancient judge. As I answered, I saw emotions flicker across Minos's face—moments of approval, moments of contemplation, and moments of solemn understanding. He seemed to weigh our words carefully, as if determining the course of our destinies. Evan, too, answered with a sincerity that moved me. His courage in facing his own past and his determination to make amends for his mistakes were evident in his words. I felt a sense of admiration for my friend, realizing that we were both on a journey of redemption and self-discovery. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Minos nodded solemnly. 'You have faced your judgment with honesty and courage,' he said. 'Your hearts are heavy with the weight of your deeds, but you have shown remorse and a willingness to change. Your souls are not beyond redemption.' Relief washed over me, and I saw a glimmer of hope in Evan's eyes as well. We had passed the first part of The Judgment, and Minos seemed to acknowledge our sincerity. 'But the path ahead is not an easy one,' Minos continued. 'To continue your quest, you must prove your worthiness and strength of character. You will face trials that will challenge your resolve and test your abilities. Only then will you be deemed worthy of the island der Seligen—the Blessed Isles.' He motioned toward a door at the far end of the hall. 'Beyond that door lies the next trial. Proceed with caution and remember the weight of your deeds. The spirits of the departed will be watching, and your actions will be judged.' We nodded, steeling ourselves for what lay ahead. The door creaked open, revealing a dark and mysterious chamber beyond. As we stepped through, I could feel the weight of the Underworld pressing down upon us once more. The next trial awaited, and we were determined to face it with the strength of our hearts and the wisdom of our souls. As we ventured further into the depths of the Underworld, the air grew heavy with an eerie stillness, and the dim light cast strange shadows on the ground. The river Lethe appeared before us, a dark and tranquil expanse that seemed to stretch infinitely into the distance. Its waters glistened with an otherworldly glow, and the whispers of forgotten memories echoed from its depths. Evan and I approached the river with caution, mindful of the warnings inscribed on the parchment. The temptation to drink from the Lethe was powerful, as if the very air was saturated with a longing for oblivion. The voices whispered in our ears, enticing us to surrender our memories and be free from the burdens of our past. I hesitated, drawn toward the river by an inexplicable force. The voices became more insistent, and I could feel myself slipping into a trance-like state. The weight of my memories, both painful and joyful, seemed almost too much to bear. In that moment, the allure of forgetting was almost irresistible. But just as I was about to succumb to the enchantment of the Lethe, Evan acted with remarkable swiftness. He lunged forward, grabbing me by the shoulders, and pulled me away from the river's edge. His touch snapped me out of the trance, and I blinked in confusion, momentarily disoriented. 'Evan,' I gasped, clutching him tightly. 'Thank you. I don't know what came over me.' He gave me a reassuring smile. 'We're in this together, Nico. We have to look out for each other.' His words grounded me, reminding me of our shared purpose and the bond that had grown between us throughout this journey. With renewed determination, I knew that we had to stay strong and vigilant. The Lethe may have offered the allure of forgetting, but to lose our memories would be to lose a part of ourselves. However, as we continued our journey, the whispers of the Lethe persisted, a haunting siren's call that tempted us at every turn. It was as if the very river itself sought to ensnare our minds and drown us in a sea of oblivion. Evan and I faced multiple instances where we were drawn toward the river, the voices growing louder and more insistent. Each time, Evan acted as my steadfast anchor, pulling me away from the Lethe's edge and refusing to let me fall under its spell. As we struggled against the relentless allure of the River Lethe, I couldn't help but be struck by Evan's unwavering determination and selflessness. He put himself in harm's way to protect me, risking his own safety to ensure that I remained strong and focused. The bond between us grew stronger with each passing moment, and I found myself relying on Evan not just as a friend, but as a guiding light in the darkness of the Underworld. Despite the challenges and the relentless pull of the Lethe, we pressed on, refusing to let the river claim us. As we journeyed through the Underworld, we encountered other obstacles and trials, each one testing our resolve and determination. We faced the tormented souls of the damned, their anguished cries reverberating through the darkness. We encountered monstrous creatures and vengeful spirits, all intent on deterring us from our path. But through it all, Evan and I stood side by side, facing each challenge together, drawing strength from each other's presence. Our journey was arduous and fraught with danger, but with Evan at my side, I felt a newfound sense of courage and purpose. His unwavering support and bravery became my beacon of hope, guiding me through the darkness and reminding me of our ultimate goal—to confront Kronos and free the imprisoned gods and demigods. As we pressed onward, the whispers of the Lethe gradually faded, as if the river had finally accepted its defeat in ensnaring us. And with each step, our resolve only strengthened, and our bond deepened. We were no longer just two mortals on a perilous quest; we were a formidable team, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And so, with Evan as my unwavering companion, we continued on our journey through the Underworld, our hearts set on saving the Olymp and restoring peace to the world. The trials had tested us, but we emerged stronger, our spirits unbroken, and our determination unwavering. As we neared the final steps of the parchment's instructions, I knew that we were ready to face whatever lay ahead, for together, there was nothing we couldn't overcome. The realization that we needed the blessing of Persephone, the queen of the Underworld, to find the path to the Island of the Blessed weighed heavily on our minds. The parchment provided us with a ritual that we would have to perform to seek her favor, but the task was not to be taken lightly. Persephone's moods were as unpredictable as the seasons she controlled and approaching her required utmost respect and humility. As we journeyed deeper into the Underworld, our anticipation mixed with trepidation. We knew that seeking an audience with Persephone was no simple feat, but we were determined to follow the parchment's instructions to the letter. Evan carefully unfolded the parchment and read aloud the ritual. 'We need to gather offerings of pomegranates,' he said, looking around the desolate landscape. 'I don't see any pomegranate trees here.' I scanned the surroundings, and indeed, there were no signs of vegetation, let alone pomegranates. The Underworld was a barren and desolate place, devoid of life. But the parchment's instructions were clear, and we had to find a way. 'We have to believe that the Underworld will provide,' I said, trying to bolster our spirits. 'Let's keep searching, Evan.' We continued walking, and after what felt like an eternity, we spotted a small glimmer of hope—a lone pomegranate tree in the distance. Its vibrant red fruits stood out like jewels against the gloomy backdrop of the Underworld. With newfound determination, we made our way to the tree and carefully collected the ripest pomegranates. As we plucked them from the branches, I couldn't help but marvel at the symbolism of the fruit. Pomegranates were often associated with the cycle of life, death, and rebirth—a fitting offering for the queen of the Underworld. With the pomegranates in hand, we retraced our steps, following the parchment's guidance to a secluded spot where we could perform the ritual. The location seemed significant, as if it had been designed for this very purpose. A small clearing, framed by towering black trees, allowed just enough sunlight to filter through, casting a mystical glow upon the ground. Taking a deep breath, we laid the pomegranates on a makeshift altar of stones, arranging them in a sacred pattern. The parchment instructed us to offer prayers and invoke Persephone's name with utmost reverence. I closed my eyes and spoke from the depths of my heart, 'Persephone, queen of the Underworld, we humbly seek your blessing and guidance. We come not as trespassers but as seekers of hope and redemption. We ask for your favor to find the path to the Island of the Blessed and free the imprisoned gods and demigods.' Evan added his own prayers, his voice a gentle murmur that seemed to echo the sincerity of his words. We felt a presence, a subtle shift in the air, as if Persephone was listening to our pleas. 'We offer these pomegranates as a symbol of the cycle of life and rebirth,' I continued. 'May their seeds represent the seeds of hope that we carry within us.' As we concluded the ritual, a soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and for a moment, it felt as if the Underworld itself was acknowledging our prayers. The offering was made, but whether it would be enough to win Persephone's favour remained uncertain. Days passed, and the weight of uncertainty hung heavy over us. We pressed on, continuing our journey through the Underworld, never losing sight of our goal. The memory of the pomegranate offering was a constant reminder of the task before us, and we held onto the hope that Persephone had heard our prayers. Then, one evening as the sun began to set, we sensed a change in the atmosphere. The air seemed to shimmer with a subtle energy, and a soft, ethereal light suffused the surroundings. We knew that something extraordinary was about to happen. Suddenly, before us, a figure appeared, draped in flowing robes that seemed to blend seamlessly with the shadows. It was Persephone, her beauty both striking and otherworldly. Her eyes were a mesmerizing shade of deep green, and her presence exuded a sense of power and authority. We knelt before her, bowing our heads in deference. Persephone regarded us with a penetrating gaze, her expression unreadable. 'You seek my blessing,' she said, her voice a soft melody that held a touch of both warmth and detachment. 'Yes, mighty queen,' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. 'We seek your favour to find the path to the Island of the Blessed and free the imprisoned gods and demigods.' Persephone's eyes seemed to pierce through us, as if she could see into our very souls. 'You are not like the others who have ventured into the Underworld seeking favours,' she mused. 'Your hearts are pure, and your intentions noble. You do not seek power or wealth, but the restoration of balance and harmony.' We nodded, humbled by her assessment, and Evan added, 'We only wish to do what is right, to bring an end to the suffering caused by Kronos.' Persephone seemed to contemplate our words for a moment before nodding approvingly. 'Very well. I grant you my blessing on your quest. May you find the path to the Island of the Blessed and fulfil your noble purpose.' A sense of gratitude and relief washed over us as we thanked Persephone profusely for her favour. The weight of the world seemed to lift from our shoulders, and we knew that with her blessing, we had the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead. With a soft smile, Persephone gestured toward the horizon. 'Go forth, seekers of hope, and may the Fates guide your steps.' And so, with the blessing of Persephone, we continued our journey through the Underworld, our spirits renewed and our determination unwavering. The next steps of the parchment's instructions awaited us, but we were now armed with the knowledge that the queen of the Underworld herself had bestowed her favour upon us. As we ventured forth, the light of the Underworld seemed to brighten, and a glimmer of hope shone in the darkness. We knew that the path to the Island of the Blessed would not be easy, but with Persephone's blessing, we were ready to face whatever challenges awaited us. Our hearts brimming with courage and determination, Evan and I took each step with purpose, bound together by a shared mission and a newfound hope for the future. As we approached the final gate that led to the Island of the Blessed, a sense of anticipation and nervousness enveloped us. The towering gate loomed before us, adorned with intricate carvings that depicted ancient mythological scenes. It seemed to radiate an aura of power and mystery, and we knew that whatever trial awaited us beyond this gate would be the ultimate test of our worthiness. Taking a deep breath, we exchanged a determined glance, silently acknowledging the significance of this moment. The air around us crackled with a palpable energy, as if the very fabric of the Underworld was aware of our presence. The gate seemed immovable, a formidable barrier that separated us from our destination. But the parchment had instructed us to approach the gate with courage and determination, so we steeled ourselves for what lay ahead. As we stepped closer, the carvings on the gate seemed to come to life, morphing and shifting like a living tapestry. Scenes of ancient battles, heroic deeds, and tragic destinies played out before our eyes. It was as if the gate was reading our very souls, revealing our deepest fears and desires. Then, a booming voice filled the air, resonating through the Underworld. 'Who dares to seek passage to the Island of the Blessed?' it thundered. 'We are the seekers of hope and redemption,' Evan replied, his voice steady and resolute. 'We have come to free the imprisoned gods and demigods and restore balance to the world.' The gate seemed to vibrate with energy, and a series of symbols appeared, glowing brightly in an ethereal light. It was the trial—a series of challenges that we would have to overcome. The first challenge materialized before us—a labyrinth of twisting paths and shifting walls that seemed to change with each step we took. It was a test of our intelligence and resourcefulness, requiring us to navigate through the labyrinth to reach the other side. With Evan's quick thinking and my ability to control the elements, we forged a path through the labyrinth, relying on each other's strengths and trust. As we emerged from the maze, a sense of triumph washed over us, and the gate responded with a low rumble, as if acknowledging our success. The second challenge was a trial of strength, as an enormous stone golem materialized before us. Its towering form seemed invincible, and its eyes glowed with an otherworldly fire. Evan and I stood side by side, ready to face the golem together. Drawing on the newfound powers we had acquired through our journey, I summoned the elements to aid us in battle. The wind howled around us, the earth trembled beneath our feet, and the flames of determination burned brighter than ever. With a display of teamwork and determination, we managed to weaken the golem, delivering the final blow in a coordinated effort. The stone creature crumbled to pieces, and the gate reacted with a resounding vibration, signalling that we had passed the second trial. The third challenge took us by surprise, as we found ourselves in a room filled with mirrors. Each reflection showed a different version of ourselves, revealing our deepest doubts and insecurities. It was a test of self-acceptance and inner strength. Evan looked at his reflections with a mix of apprehension and determination, while I struggled to confront the shadows of my past—the memories of being a victim of bullying, the loss of my father, and the doubts that had haunted me for years. But together, we faced our reflections with courage and compassion. We reminded each other of our worth and strength, supporting one another through the emotional journey of self-discovery. As we emerged from the room of mirrors, the gate responded with a soft glow, acknowledging our triumph over the third challenge. The fourth challenge was a trial of sacrifice, as we were confronted with a choice that could alter the course of our quest. We were presented with a crystal vial containing a mysterious potion, said to grant great power but at a steep cost. Drinking the potion would mean giving up something dear to us. Evan and I exchanged a knowing look, realizing that the potion was a test of our resolve and commitment to our mission. The temptation of power was alluring, but we knew that it could come at a great price. In the end, we chose to forgo the potion, opting to rely on our own strengths and the blessings we had received from Persephone. The gate trembled as we made our decision, and we felt a surge of energy pass through us. The fifth challenge awaited, and it tested our ability to trust and support one another unconditionally. We found ourselves in a dark chamber with no visible exit, and the air was filled with an unsettling aura of uncertainty. The only way forward was to take a leap of faith, to step into the darkness and trust that the path would reveal itself. Evan and I held hands, drawing strength from our bond. With a deep breath, we stepped forward together, embracing the unknown. And just as we took the leap, the darkness gave way to a shimmering light, guiding us to the other side. The gate responded with a brilliant flash of light, a testament to our unwavering trust in each other. The sixth challenge was a test of endurance, as we were confronted with an endless desert of scorching sands. The sun beat down mercilessly, sapping our strength and testing our resolve to continue. But we pressed on, drawing on the inner reservoirs of courage that had brought us this far. With each step, we encouraged one another, reminding ourselves of the importance of our mission and the lives we sought to save. The seventh challenge was a trial of wisdom, as we encountered a wise oracle who posed riddles and questions that probed the depths of our understanding. It was a test of our ability to think critically and make sound judgments. Through a series of thoughtful responses and discussions, we navigated the complex web of questions, unravelling the mysteries presented to us. The oracle nodded approvingly, acknowledging our wisdom and insight. Finally, with the seventh and final challenge completed, the gate before us began to glow with a dazzling radiance. It slowly swung open, revealing the path to the Island of the Blessed. We exchanged a glance, feeling a mix of awe and gratitude for having come this far. The journey had tested us in ways we never could have imagined, but we had faced each challenge with determination, courage, and trust in one another. Hand in hand, we stepped through the gate, leaving the trials of the Underworld behind us. The Island of the Blessed awaited, and with our newfound strengths and Persephone's blessing, we were ready to confront Kronos and free the imprisoned gods and demigods. The path ahead was uncertain, and the weight of our mission still bore heavily upon us. But we knew that we were not alone in this quest. Bound by a friendship that had withstood the trials of the Underworld, Evan and I faced the future with unwavering resolve and hope for a brighter world. With our hearts filled with determination and our hands tightly clasped together, Evan and I stood before the imposing fortress of Kronos, ready to face the ultimate challenge. In that moment, as the weight of the world rested upon our shoulders, Evan's words echoed in the air, filling us with a heroic sense of unity and purpose. 'Together we are going to rock this.' The Castle [Chapter six] As we gazed at the towering fortress, I could sense a mixture of fear and doubt in Evan's eyes. He took a deep breath and hesitated before speaking, 'Nico, I don't know if I'm ready for this. I mean, taking on Kronos, the fallen angel, it's just so... overwhelming. What if I mess up? What if I can't control my powers when we face him?' I placed a reassuring hand on Evan's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, 'Evan, I understand your fears, and it's okay to feel unsure. But we've come this far, and we've faced every challenge together. I believe in you, and I know that you're strong enough to do this. You've shown incredible bravery throughout this entire journey, and I know you have the power within you to defeat Kronos.' Evan shook his head, a flicker of uncertainty still presents in his expression, 'But what if I let you down? What if I can't live up to your expectations?' I smiled warmly, 'Evan, you've never let me down, and you don't need to live up to any expectations. We're a team, and we'll face this together. We'll have each other's backs, just like we always have. Trust in yourself, in your abilities, and in our bond. We're stronger together.' Evan's gaze softened, and he took a moment to absorb my words. 'You're right, Nico. We've faced so much together, and we can't stop now. I don't want to let you down, and I don't want to let the Olympia or anyone else suffer because of Kronos.' I nodded, 'Exactly, Evan. This isn't just about us anymore. It's about protecting everything we hold dear and everyone we love. We can do this; I know we can.' Evan took a deep breath, his resolve strengthening, 'Okay, let's do it. Let's face Kronos and show him that he can't destroy everything we hold dear. We'll give it our all, together.' I grinned, feeling a surge of pride for my friend, 'That's the spirit, Evan! Together, we can overcome anything. Let's give it everything we've got.' The fortress stood before us like a colossal monolith, an imposing structure that seemed to touch the very heavens. Its walls were made of obsidian stone, gleaming with an eerie darkness that seemed to absorb all light around it. Towering spires reached towards the sky, adorned with intricate carvings of ancient symbols and demonic figures. At the entrance, a massive gate loomed, adorned with twisted ironwork that resembled the gnarled fingers of a monstrous creature. The gate was flanked by two menacing statues of gargoyles, their eyes seemingly alive with malevolence. The fortress seemed to emit an aura of malevolence, as if it were aware of the battles, it had witnessed and the suffering it had caused. As we drew closer, we could see ancient engravings etched into the stone walls, depicting scenes of chaos and destruction. The air around the fortress crackled with an otherworldly energy, sending shivers down our spines. It was as if the fortress itself was alive, breathing with dark intent. A massive moat surrounded the fortress, filled not with water, but with a swirling black mist that seemed to writhe with unseen horrors. A narrow stone bridge spanned the moat, leading to the forbidding entrance. It felt like a gateway to the unknown, beckoning us to step into the heart of darkness. The windows of the fortress were small and narrow, like watchful eyes peering out from the shadows. Dark clouds gathered above the fortress, obscuring the sun, and casting an eerie gloom over the entire area. The wind carried haunting whispers, as if the very walls of the fortress held secrets of ancient battles and forgotten sorrows. Despite its intimidating appearance, we knew we had to press forward. This was the final test, the last hurdle we needed to overcome to confront Kronos and put an end to his reign of terror. The fortress was a symbol of all that was evil and twisted, but we were driven by the belief that good could triumph over darkness. With our hearts pounding and our determination burning like an unquenchable flame, we stepped onto the stone bridge. Each footfall echoed through the silence, as if the fortress itself was awaiting our arrival. We exchanged a glance, reassuring each other that we were not alone in this daunting task. As we approached the entrance, the air seemed to thicken with malevolence. We took a deep breath, steeling ourselves for whatever lay beyond those imposing gates. The fortress exuded an aura of challenge, daring us to test our limits and face the darkness within. With a deep breath, we crossed the threshold, and the gates closed behind us with a resounding boom. We were now inside the fortress, where darkness and danger lurked around every corner. But we were not alone, for we had each other, and with our bond as strong as ever, we braced ourselves for the trials that awaited us within. As we stepped inside the main entrance hall of the fortress, an eerie silence greeted us. The air felt heavy and stale, as if the place had been abandoned for centuries. The grand hall was vast and imposing, with towering ceilings supported by massive stone pillars that seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness above. Cobwebs draped across the corners, testifying to the lack of recent visitors. The hall was dimly lit, with faint rays of sunlight filtering through narrow slits in the high walls. Dust particles danced in the air, illuminated by the soft glow of the sunlight. The floor beneath us was made of cold, gray stone, worn down by the footsteps of those who had once inhabited this place. As we ventured further into the hall, our footsteps echoed loudly, breaking the eerie silence that enveloped the fortress. The echoes seemed to reverberate through the very walls, as if the fortress itself was alive and listening to our every move. We felt like intruders in this ancient, abandoned domain. S The walls of the hall were adorned with faded tapestries and paintings, depicting scenes of battles and conquests. These once-magnificent artworks now hung in tatters, their vibrant colours faded by the passage of time. They spoke of a glorious past, now lost and forgotten. The main entrance hall seemed to stretch on endlessly, with multiple doorways leading to other parts of the fortress. Each doorway was shrouded in darkness, and we couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay hidden behind them. We moved cautiously, our senses alert to any sign of danger. The absence of any living presence made the silence even more ominous. It felt as if the fortress was holding its breath, waiting for us to make the first move. Despite the desolation, the hall held an air of grandeur and mystery. The intricate carvings on the pillars and the ornate details on the walls hinted at a time when this fortress was a place of power and authority. We approached a large, ancient-looking staircase that led to an upper level. The steps creaked under our weight, and the sound seemed to echo through the deserted halls. At the top of the staircase, we found ourselves in a long corridor adorned with more faded paintings and old suits of armour, standing as silent sentinels of a bygone eara. As we continued exploring, we came across remnants of what seemed to be a grand dining hall, now reduced to nothing but broken tables and shattered dishes. The once-gleaming chandeliers now hung crookedly from the ceiling, their crystal pendants dull and lifeless. It was both eerie and fascinating to explore this abandoned fortress, to walk in the footsteps of those who had lived and fought here. We could almost feel the weight of history in every step we took, as if the very walls were whispering their stories to us. Yet, despite the emptiness and decay, there was an air of anticipation and foreboding. We knew that our journey had only just begun, and that deeper within the fortress, the true challenges awaited us. With our hearts steeled and our minds focused, we ventured further into the depths of the fortress, ready to face whatever lay ahead. We decided to explore two adjacent rooms branching off from the main entrance hall. The first room we entered was a grand library, its shelves lined with dusty tomes and ancient scrolls. The room was large, and the ceiling soared high above us. Tall windows allowed feeble rays of sunlight to filter through, illuminating the dust motes that hung in the air. The shelves were made of dark, polished wood, though now they were marred by the passage of time. The books themselves were weathered; their pages yellowed with age. As we ran our fingers over the spines, a cloud of dust rose into the air, making us cough and sneeze. The room was a treasure trove of knowledge, a testament to the wisdom and intellect of those who had once frequented this fortress. A sense of reverence washed over us as we surveyed the rows upon rows of books, wondering at the secrets and stories they held. In the center of the room stood a large, ornate desk, covered in papers and parchments. The inkwells were dried, and the quills were brittle with age. It was as if the person who had last used this desk had simply walked away, leaving their work behind forever. As we reluctantly left the library and entered the next room, a sudden shiver ran down my spine. This room was smaller and dimly lit, with a cold, damp atmosphere that seemed to seep into our bones. The walls were lined with stone alcoves, each holding a dusty, cobweb-covered statue. The statues depicted a variety of figures, some human and some more otherworldly. Their expressions were frozen in time, their faces a mix of sorrow, rage, and longing. The air in this room felt heavy with emotion, as if the very stones held the memories of those they portrayed. As we cautiously approached the center of the room, a strange sensation overcame me. It was as if the air had grown thicker, and a weighty presence seemed to fill the space. My heart began to race as a deep, echoing voice reverberated through the chamber, saying, 'I smell mortal.' Evan and I exchanged nervous glances, our senses on high alert. The voice seemed to come from all around us, yet there was no visible source. The room itself felt alive, as if it were watching and assessing us. 'Who's there?' Evan called out, his voice wavering slightly. There was no response, only an eerie silence that hung in the air like a heavy fog. 'Perhaps it's just our imagination,' I whispered, trying to reassure both Evan and me. But deep down, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being observed by something ancient and powerful. We quickly left the room, the unsettling encounter still sending shivers down our spines. As we retreated back into the main hall, the memory of the voice lingered, a haunting reminder that we were not alone within the walls of this forsaken fortress. As we ventured deeper into the fortress, the mystery of its emptiness persisted. It was perplexing; we had expected to encounter hordes of Kronos' minions, a malevolent army guarding their dark master. Yet, the halls remained eerily silent, devoid of any signs of life. The only sound that accompanied us was the echoing of our own footsteps, a constant reminder of our presence within the abandoned stronghold. 'Why would Hermes say that Kronos had an army of evil if there's no one here?' Evan pondered aloud, voicing the very question that had been gnawing at my own thoughts. 'I don't know,' I replied, scanning our surroundings warily. 'Perhaps they were once here, but now they're gone? Or maybe they're lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush us when we least expect it.' Evan nodded, understanding the gravity of our situation. We had to remain vigilant and prepared for any potential threats, even if the fortress appeared deserted. After what seemed like an eternity of exploration, we came upon a massive chamber, larger and grander than any we had seen before. It was a sight to behold, with towering pillars adorned with intricate carvings, and at the far end of the room, a colossal throne made of obsidian stone. Upon that throne sat Kronos, the fallen angel, his imposing figure shrouded in darkness. His eyes burned with an ancient malevolence that sent a shiver down my spine. He exuded power and dominance, his very presence suffocating. But despite his fearsome appearance, there was a touch of sadness in his gaze. Evan and I exchanged a tense glance, both knowing that this was the moment we had been preparing for. This was the ultimate test of our strength and determination. We had to face Kronos, confront the embodiment of evil, and put an end to his sinister plans. Drawing upon our newfound powers and courage, we approached the throne, determination etched upon our faces. Kronos regarded us with an air of superiority, his lips curling into a cruel smile. 'You've come to challenge me, have you?' he taunted, his voice deep and resonant, sending ripples of dread through our very beings. 'We have,' I declared, trying to keep my voice steady, even as my heart pounded in my chest. 'We won't let you destroy everything,' Evan added, his voice unwavering despite the fear I could sense in his eyes. Kronos chuckled darkly, his laughter echoing through the chamber. 'You are but mortals, feeble and insignificant. What makes you think you can stand against me?' 'We may be mortals, but we possess a strength that goes beyond our humanity,' I said, recalling the words of my father. 'We have the power of all gods within us.' Evan nodded, drawing strength from my words. 'Together, we can defeat you.' Kronos' laughter grew louder, reverberating through the chamber. 'Such arrogance, to believe you can challenge a fallen angel, a being of unimaginable power.' As Kronos rose from his throne, a dark aura enveloped him, radiating malevolence and destruction. But I could feel the power within me surging in response. The golden scepter in my hand glowed with an intense brilliance, a symbol of the godly strength that coursed through my veins. As Kronos rose from his throne, his dark aura swirling around him, I could feel the weight of his malevolence pressing down upon me. My heart pounded in my chest, and my grip on the golden scepter tightened. I knew this battle would be the ultimate test of my newfound powers and determination. Evan and I launched ourselves at Kronos, attacking with all the strength and skill we could muster. But Kronos was a formidable opponent, his movements swift and precise. He effortlessly parried our blows, his dark laughter echoing through the chamber. 'You are but mortals, weak and insignificant,' Kronos sneered, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. 'You cannot hope to defeat me.' Anger and frustration swirled within me, mingling with a deep sense of love and concern for Evan. I couldn't bear to see him hurt or defeated. As Kronos launched Evan into a wall, my heart clenched in fear. Evan lay still, unmoving, and panic surged through me. 'No!' I cried, my voice trembling with emotion. 'Evan, get up!' But Evan remained motionless, and a surge of power unlike anything I had ever felt before coursed through me. It was as if all of my emotions, my anger, love, fear, and determination, were merging into one. The golden scepter in my hand glowed brighter, and I could feel the elements responding to my emotions. In a moment of clarity, I realized that I didn't have to rely solely on my individual powers. Instead, I could combine them, drawing strength from the very essence of the world around me. With newfound determination, I raised the golden scepter high above my head, and a golden light enveloped me. The torches lining the chamber burst into brilliant flames, the stones from the ground and walls began to levitate, and the air crackled with energy. I felt connected to everything around me, as if I were a conduit for the elemental forces of the world. My senses heightened, and I could feel the ebb and flow of energy coursing through me. I was no longer just a mortal; I was a vessel of power beyond comprehension. As Kronos launched himself at me, I held my ground, channeling the combined forces of fire, earth, air, and the deep well of emotions within me. The golden light intensified, enveloping both Kronos and me in its radiance. With a mighty cry, I unleashed the full force of my powers upon Kronos. The flames of the torches shot out like scorching arrows, the stones became deadly projectiles, and the air itself seemed to bend and swirl around us. The chamber shook with the sheer power of our clash. For a moment, it seemed as if time stood still. Kronos was no longer the all-powerful fallen angel; he was just a being made of gray dust, struggling to hold his form. The weight of his malevolence and cruelty crumbled under the onslaught of my combined powers. With one final surge of energy, I unleashed a torrent of golden light, engulfing Kronos entirely. And then, he was gone, reduced to nothing more than a fine powder scattered in the air. I stood there, breathing heavily, surrounded by the aftermath of our battle. The chamber was in ruins, but we were victorious. I had defeated Kronos, not just with physical strength, but with the power of my emotions and the elemental forces of the world. Looking over at Evan, my heart swelled with relief and love. He was still lying there, but as I approached him, I saw the rise and fall of his chest. He was alive. 'Evan,' I whispered, gently shaking him. 'Come on, wake up.' His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at me with a mixture of awe and gratitude. 'Nico, you did it. You defeated him.' As Evan's lips touched mine, a surge of emotions washed over me like a tidal wave. It was a mix of relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of love and connection. In that moment, I felt as if everything around us faded away, and there was only the two of us, bound together by the trials we had faced and the victory we had achieved. My heart pounded in my chest, and my hands trembled slightly as I gently pulled back from the kiss. Evan's eyes bore into mine, and I could see the depth of his emotions mirrored in them. It was a tender and vulnerable moment, one that felt like it held the weight of the world. 'Thank you, Nico,' Evan whispered, his voice filled with gratitude and awe. 'Thank you for saving me, for saving everyone.' Tears welled up in my eye as I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close in a tight embrace. 'I couldn't have done it without you, Evan,' I replied, my voice choked with emotion. 'You were there every step of the way, supporting me, believing in me. We did this together.' As we stood there, our foreheads touching, the realization of what we had accomplished sank in. We had faced insurmountable odds and emerged victorious. Together, we had defied fate and fulfilled the ancient prophecy, a destiny that had been foretold eons ago. But our moment of celebration was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out my name. 'NICO!!' Proteus's voice echoed through the chamber, filled with urgency and concern. I knew he must have been searching for me, worried about my safety. For a moment, I considered ignoring him, wanting to savor this moment with Evan a little longer. But I knew that whatever Proteus had to say was important. Reluctantly, I pulled away from Evan and turned towards the entrance of the chamber. Proteus stood there, his eyes filled with pride and love. 'Son, you did it,' he said, his voice full of admiration. 'Kronos is defeated, and Olympus is safe. You've fulfilled the prophecy, just as I knew you would.' I felt a swell of pride and gratitude at my father's words, but I quickly interjected, 'It wasn't just me, Dad. Evan was there with me every step of the way. We did this together.' Proteus nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. 'I know, Nico. And I couldn't be prouder of both of you. The bond you share, the strength you draw from each other, it's truly remarkable.' He stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder and then on Evan's. 'You are both extraordinary individuals, and together, you are a force to be reckoned with. The love and connection between you two are a power beyond anything I've seen before.' I glanced at Evan, a warm smile spreading across my face. There was no denying the deep bond we shared, a bond that had grown stronger through every trial we had faced together. Proteus continued, 'Now, there is much to discuss and plan. Kronos may be defeated, but there will always be new challenges to face. The world needs protectors like you, ones who possess not only great power but also compassion and wisdom.' As he spoke, I realized that our journey was far from over. There were still many uncertainties and dangers that lay ahead. But I also knew that as long as Evan and I were together, we could face anything that came our way. With a nod, I turned to Evan, squeezing his hand reassuringly. 'We're in this together, Evan,' I said, my voice filled with determination. 'No matter what comes next, we'll face it as a team.' Evan smiled back at me, his eyes shining with the same determination. 'Absolutely, Nico,' he replied. 'We've got each other's backs, no matter what.' And with that, we stood side by side, ready to face whatever the future held, knowing that together, we were unstoppable. The journey ahead would be filled with challenges and adventures, but we were prepared to face them together, bound by a love and connection that transcended mortal boundaries. As we followed Proteus out of the chamber, I felt a sense of excitement and trepidation for what was to come. But more than anything, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for Evan, for his unwavering support and love, and for the incredible journey we had shared. We walked out of the castle, leaving behind the grandeur and the echoes of our battle with Kronos. The air outside was different, cleaner somehow, as if the very atmosphere had sensed the defeat of the fallen angel. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun casting its warm golden rays upon us. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if in anticipation of what was to come next. Evan and I walked side by side, our steps in sync as we took in the view around us. There was a sense of peace in that moment, a profound stillness that felt almost surreal after the chaos and intensity of our battle. I glanced over at Evan, unable to resist the urge to look into his eyes. They were a shade of deep brown, like polished mahogany, and they held a world of emotions within them. In that moment, they were filled with a sense of wonder and awe, as if he couldn't quite believe that we had emerged victorious. But there was something else in his eyes, something that went beyond words. It was a connection, an unspoken understanding that bound us together. It was the knowledge that we had faced the impossible and come through it stronger and more united than ever. As our eyes met, a small smile tugged at the corners of Evan's lips. It was a smile that spoke of gratitude, of love, of the profound bond that had grown between us. It was a smile that made my heart swell with warmth and affection. Without saying a word, we continued to walk, our steps steady and sure. We knew that there was much to be done, many questions to be answered, and challenges to face. But in that moment, none of it seemed insurmountable. As we made our way towards an uncertain future, the world around us seemed to come alive with colour and vibrancy. It was as if the very earth celebrated our victory, as if the universe itself acknowledged the power of our love and our bond. And in the silence of that moment, as we walked together into the unknown, I couldn't help but feel that we were exactly where we were meant to be, that our journey was far from over, and that whatever lay ahead, we would face it together, stronger than ever before. As we continued to walk, the landscape around us seemed to shift and change, as if responding to the powerful emotions that filled the air. The world appeared to be in a state of constant flux, with vibrant colors and surreal shapes dancing at the edges of my vision. It was as if the very fabric of reality itself was in motion. I glanced over at Evan, and he looked equally awestruck by the surreal beauty of our surroundings. It was clear that we had entered a realm unlike anything we had ever experienced before, a place where the ordinary laws of nature no longer applied. The silence between us was broken by the voice of my father, Proteus. His words carried a weight and a sadness that I could feel deep in my soul. He began, 'Nico, I know you want to ask me why I left, but I can't answer that in a way that will make it all make sense. It's not that I wanted to leave you and your mother. I had to. There were forces at play, ancient powers that I couldn't defy.' I felt a mixture of emotions welling up within me, a complex blend of anger, hurt, and longing. I had carried the pain of his absence for so long, and now, here he was, standing before me. It was both a relief and a torment to see him again. My voice trembled as I responded, 'But you left without a word, without any explanation. I was just a child, and I didn't understand why you were gone. We both suffered, my mother and I, and I felt abandoned.' Proteus nodded; his eyes filled with regret. 'I know, Nico, and I can't begin to express how sorry I am for the pain I caused you and your mother. But I want you to know that I never stopped loving you both. I watched over you from afar, even when I couldn't be with you. There were forces beyond my control that demanded my absence.' Evan walked beside me, offering his support silently, his presence a reassuring anchor in this surreal world. He could sense the raw emotions that filled the air, and he knew that this conversation was long overdue. I took a deep breath, trying to process all of this. 'What are these forces you speak of? Why couldn't you defy them? And why are we here now? Why did you send Evan to find me?' Proteus sighed, and for a moment, the shifting landscape around us seemed to still, as if the very world held its breath to listen to his words. 'Nico, there are things that I haven't told you, things that I couldn't tell you until the time was right. The world you know is just a fraction of reality, a thin veil that hides the true nature of the universe. There are powers, ancient and powerful, that shape the destinies of gods and mortals alike.' He continued, 'Kronos, the fallen angel we faced, is one of those beings. He sought to bring about the destruction of Olympus and everything it stands for. But there is more to his plan, a darkness that threatens not only the gods but the very fabric of existence. It was foretold that in this dark hour, a Son of God, of overwhelming power, would appear to challenge him.' My mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what he was saying. 'You mean... I'm that Son of God? That's why you sent Evan to find me?' Proteus nodded solemnly. 'Yes, Nico. You have a power within you, a power that goes beyond anything you can imagine. It's the power to bring about change, to challenge the darkest of forces, and to protect the world from unimaginable destruction. But you can't do it alone. You need allies, like Evan, who possesses his own unique strengths.' Evan squeezed my hand in support, and I could feel his unwavering determination. We were in this together, facing a destiny we couldn't escape. My father's gaze turned to Evan, and there was a profound respect in his eyes. 'Evan, you've been by Nico's side, supporting him, guiding him. I'm grateful for what you've done, and I know that together, you can achieve great things.' I looked between them, a sense of purpose and responsibility settling over me like a heavy mantle. I couldn't deny the weight of the destiny that had been thrust upon me, but I also couldn't deny the love and connection that bound us together. I turned to Proteus and said, 'I appreciate your explanation, but there's still so much I don't understand. What do we do now? How do we stop Kronos and the darkness he represents?' Proteus looked out into the shifting landscape, his gaze filled with a mixture of determination and concern. 'Our journey is far from over, Nico. We must gather our strength, seek allies, and prepare for the battles that lie ahead. There are secrets, ancient and hidden, that hold the key to defeating Kronos. But first, we must return to the mortal world, to your mother and the life you left behind.' I nodded, knowing that there was much work to be done and many challenges to face. The road ahead was uncertain and filled with danger, but I couldn't deny the sense of purpose that now burned within me. As we continued our journey through this surreal realm, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets and revelations awaited us. But one thing was certain—I was no longer alone, and together with Evan and my father, we would face whatever darkness lay ahead. The shifting landscape around us continued to morph and change, as if responding to the powerful emotions that hung in the air. I couldn't help but be struck by the surreal beauty of this place, a realm that defied the laws of nature and reality. As we walked, I occasionally glanced at Evan, who was walking beside me. His presence was a constant source of strength and reassurance. I couldn't help but think about how we had come to this point, how our lives had become intertwined in ways I could never have imagined. Evan and I had known each other since we were just seven years old, back when life was simpler, and the mysteries of the universe felt distant and unimportant. We had met on the first day of school, both nervous and uncertain about what lay ahead. But over the years, we had become inseparable, our friendship growing stronger with each passing day. I remembered the day when Evan had shown me a hidden spot in the woods behind our houses, a small clearing by a babbling brook. It was our secret place, a sanctuary where we could escape from the pressures and expectations of the world. We had spent countless hours there, sharing our hopes and dreams, our fears and insecurities. It was where I had first confided in Evan about my father's sudden disappearance when I was seven years old. Evan had listened, his young eyes filled with empathy and understanding. He had been a source of comfort during those difficult times, a friend who had stood by my side even when I couldn't make sense of the world around me. Now, as we walked together in this surreal realm, I couldn't help but feel that our bond was deeper and more profound than I had ever realized. It was as if fate had brought us together for a reason, that our friendship was destined to play a crucial role in the events that were unfolding. The silence between us was broken once again as my father, Proteus, began to speak. His voice carried a heaviness, a weight of centuries of existence and untold experiences. He was no longer the distant figure I had once known but a complex being with his own struggles and regrets. 'Nico,' he said, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the ever-shifting landscape, 'I understand that my absence has caused you and your mother unimaginable pain. There is no excuse for the suffering you both endured, and for that, I am truly sorry.' I looked at him, a mixture of emotions swirling within me. It was difficult to reconcile the absent father I had grown up with and the figure before me now, a god burdened by the weight of his choices. Proteus continued, 'But there are truths that I couldn't reveal until now, truths about the nature of the universe and the forces that shape our destinies. The world you know is just a fraction of reality, a thin veneer that conceals the true complexities of existence. There are powers, ancient and incomprehensible, that move the threads of fate.' I nodded, trying to absorb the enormity of what he was saying. It was as if the boundaries of my understanding of the world were expanding with each passing moment. Proteus turned to me, his gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and determination. 'Kronos, the fallen angel we faced, is one of those powers. He sought to bring about the destruction of Olympus and all it represents. But there is more to his plan, a darkness that threatens not only the gods but the very fabric of existence. It was foretold that in this dark hour, a Son of God, of overwhelming power, would appear to challenge him.' I couldn't deny the weight of his words, the realization that I was somehow a part of a larger cosmic plan. 'So, I'm that Son of God? That's why you sent Evan to find me?' Proteus nodded solemnly. 'Yes, Nico. You possess a power within you, a power that goes beyond anything you can imagine. It's the power to bring about change, to challenge the darkest of forces, and to protect the world from unimaginable destruction. But you can't do it alone. You need allies, like Evan, who possess their own unique strengths.' Evan squeezed my hand, a silent affirmation of his commitment to this newfound purpose. I knew that we were in this together, bound by a destiny that we couldn't escape. My father's gaze shifted to Evan, and I could see a profound respect in his eyes. 'Evan, you've been by Nico's side, supporting him, guiding him. I'm grateful for what you've done, and I know that together, you can achieve great things.' Evan nodded; his eyes filled with determination. 'I'll do whatever it takes to help Nico and protect the world. We're in this together.' As we continued to walk through the ever-changing landscape of this surreal realm, I couldn't help but wonder what other secrets and revelations awaited us. But one thing was clear—we were united by a common purpose, and together with my father, we would face whatever darkness lay ahead. The shifting, surreal landscape gradually began to change. The swirling mists that surrounded us started to disperse, revealing a majestic and awe-inspiring sight before our eyes. It was as if the very fabric of reality had transformed to accommodate our journey. Before us stood a place of unimaginable beauty and grandeur—Olympus. Its towering peaks scraped the heavens, crowned with gleaming structures that seemed to defy gravity itself. The architecture was beyond anything I had ever seen, an intricate blend of classical elegance and divine craftsmanship. As we approached, I could see that the city of the gods was bustling with activity. Immortal beings moved about with grace and purpose, while radiant beings of light soared through the skies, their wings leaving shimmering trails of energy. The air was filled with celestial music, a symphony of harmony that resonated in every fiber of my being. Evan and I exchanged astonished glances. It was incomprehensible how we had arrived here so swiftly when our journey had felt like an odyssey of its own. But there was no time to dwell on the mystery, for there were questions that demanded answers. My father, Proteus, gazed upon the splendor of Olympus with a mixture of nostalgia and longing. 'Nico, Evan, we have reached our destination—Olympus, the realm of the gods.'mEvan couldn't contain his amazement. 'But... how is this possible? It should have taken us much longer to get here.' Proteus offered a small, enigmatic smile. 'Time flows differently in this realm, my son. What may seem like a journey of days or weeks in your world can pass in mere moments here. The fabric of Olympus is woven with the essence of eternity.' As we continued to approach the heart of Olympus, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of awe and reverence. This was a place of legends, a realm where gods and heroes resided, and I was about to step foot into it. Proteus turned to me, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sadness. 'Nico, this is your heritage, your birthright. You are a Son of God, and Olympus is your home.' I couldn't deny the overwhelming emotions that welled up within me—the sense of belonging, the weight of destiny, and the realization that I was standing on the threshold of a world I had only ever dreamed of. Evan placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and I knew that we were in this together, ready to face whatever awaited us in this extraordinary realm. The grandeur of Olympus never ceased to amaze me. Every corner of this divine realm seemed to be crafted with meticulous care and unparalleled beauty. Everywhere I looked, there were awe-inspiring sights and wonders beyond imagination. The buildings that made up the cityscape of Olympus were like nothing I had ever seen before. They stretched skyward, reaching dizzying heights, and were adorned with intricate carvings and delicate patterns that shimmered with ethereal light. Columns of alabaster and marble lined the streets, while gardens filled with otherworldly flora and fauna created a vibrant tapestry of colours and scents. Evan and I walked through the bustling streets, catching glimpses of gods and mythical creatures going about their business. I saw Athena, radiant in her wisdom, engaged in a spirited debate with Hermes, whose quicksilver wit was as sharp as ever. Apollo strummed his lyre beneath a grove of golden trees, the music sending ripples of harmony through the air. As we ventured further into Olympus, we came across a marketplace unlike any other. Stalls and kiosks offered divine wares and artifacts, from enchanted jewellery to ambrosial fruits. The bustling crowd of gods and immortals bartered and chatted with fervour, creating a lively atmosphere that resonated with vibrant energy. Evan couldn't help but marvel at the sights. 'This place is incredible, Nico. It's like stepping into the myths themselves.' I nodded in agreement, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it all. 'Yeah, it's beyond anything I ever imagined.' However, amid the splendour and grandeur of Olympus, a growing sense of responsibility weighed on me. I couldn't forget that I had a life waiting for me in the mortal realm, a mother who had been left in the dark about my journey. Guilt gnawed at the edges of my excitement. 'We should get back,' I told Evan, my voice tinged with worry. 'My mom must be wondering where I am. She's been through enough.' Evan understood, and his expression turned serious. 'You're right, Nico. We can't stay here forever. But remember, you're not alone in this. We'll find a way to balance your life here and your responsibilities back home.' As we made our way back to the point where we had entered Olympus, I couldn't help but look back one last time at the astonishing realm of the gods. This was my heritage, my destiny, but I knew that there were still challenges and choices ahead that would shape the course of my life. (Or is it not the last time???) Back to Normal? [Chapter seven] Returning to the mortal realm from the magnificent Olympus was no less surreal than arriving there. Evan and I stood at the threshold of the divine realm, looking back one last time at the ethereal cityscape before us. Hermes, who had been our guide through this extraordinary journey, appeared before us with his trademark mischievous smile. 'Well, it's been quite a trip, hasn't it?' he quipped. I nodded, feeling a mix of emotions. 'Yes, it has. But I need to go back. My mother...' Hermes held up a hand to stop me. 'I understand, Nico. You've got responsibilities waiting for you back in the mortal world. But don't forget where you come from, and don't forget what you're capable of.' He reached into his robes and produced a small, golden vial. 'A little divine nectar, a gift from Olympus. You might find it useful.' I took the vial, my fingers trembling. 'Thank you, Hermes.' With a wink, he said, 'Anytime, kid. Remember, you've got a home here in Olympus whenever you want to visit.' Then, he led us to a massive, ornate gateway that stood as a portal between the two realms. The portal pulsed with a radiant light, and it was clear that this was our way back home. Evan squeezed my shoulder, offering silent reassurance. 'Ready?' he asked. I nodded, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. With a deep breath, we stepped through the portal, and I felt an indescribable sensation wash over me. It was as though I was being stretched and compressed simultaneously, existing in multiple places at once. When the world stopped spinning, we found ourselves back in the quiet woods where our extraordinary journey had begun. The gateway to Olympus had vanished, leaving us in the dappled shade of the trees. Evan and I exchanged a glance, and I couldn't help but smile. 'We made it.' Evan chuckled. 'Yeah, we did.' We started the journey back to my house, walking side by side in comfortable silence. I knew there were so many things to explain to my mother, so many questions that needed answers. But for now, I relished the simplicity of the moment. As we approached my house, the familiar sight of the small, cozy cottage nestled among the trees brought a surge of warmth to my heart. It was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Olympus, but it was my home, and I was eager to return to it. Evan and I paused in front of the gate leading to my front yard. I looked at him, gratitude and affection swelling within me. 'Evan, I don't know how to thank you for everything.' He grinned, his eyes reflecting the same depth of emotion. 'Nico, you don't have to thank me. We're in this together, remember? I've got your back.' I nodded, feeling the bond between us grow even stronger. 'Yeah, we're a team.' With that, we opened the gate and walked up the path to my front door. As I reached for the doorknob, ready to step inside my cozy cottage and face my mother after this unbelievable journey, I heard Evan's voice, strong and heartfelt. 'Nico, wait!' I turned around, and before I knew it, Evan was running towards me with purpose in his eyes. He closed the distance between us in a matter of seconds and enveloped me in a warm, fierce hug. It was as if he needed to convey everything, he felt in that one embrace, a mixture of relief, gratitude, and the unspoken bond that had grown between us during our extraordinary adventure. We stood there in that tight embrace for a moment, the world around us fading away. I could hear his heart beating against mine. It was a silent affirmation of the trials we'd faced, the dangers we'd conquered, and the friendship that had emerged stronger than ever. When Evan finally released me, he looked deeply into my eyes, his expression filled with sincerity. 'Nico, take care of yourself. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find me.' I nodded; my own voice choked with emotion. 'I will, Evan. Thank you, for everything.' With one last shared glance, Evan stepped back, and I turned back towards my front door. I pushed it open, stepping into the familiar warmth and coziness of my home. As the door closed behind me, I couldn't help but feel that this was just the beginning of an extraordinary journey that would shape the rest of my life. But for now, I was home, and I had a lot of explaining to do to my mother, who I knew would be waiting with a mixture of worry and curiosity. Evan, on the other hand, remained outside, a silent sentinel watching over me from the yard. I knew that our paths would cross again, that we were bound by something greater than ourselves. With that thought in my heart. I stood in the doorway of my home, the place that had been untouched by time during my extraordinary journey to the realm of the gods. Everything looked exactly as it had when I'd left with Evan, as if the world inside had been frozen in time. The familiar scent of my mother's cooking lingered in the air, a comforting reminder of the life I had temporarily left behind. The cozy living room was bathed in a warm, golden light, courtesy of the evening sun streaming in through the windows. My mother's collection of antique teacups still adorned the shelves, each with its own unique story and character. I moved further into the house, my footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor. The note I had left for my mother was still on the kitchen counter, exactly where I'd placed it before departing on my journey. It seemed that not a single thing had been disturbed in my absence. My phone, which had been silent for the duration of my adventure, now rested on the dining table. I picked it up and checked the time. To my astonishment, only a few hours had passed since I'd left. I marvelled at how time flowed differently in the godly realm. For me, it had felt like days, but for the world of mortals, it had been mere hours. I wandered through the house, taking in the details that had once been so ordinary but now felt like treasures. The family photographs on the walls, the well-worn sofa where my mother and I had shared countless evenings, and the sunflower-shaped clock that had hung in the hallway for as long as I could remember—all of them held a newfound significance. My mother was still at work, doing her night shift at the hospital. It struck me that I needed to explain everything to her, to let her in on the incredible journey I had undertaken. I could only imagine the worry and anxiety she had experienced during my unexplained absence. I moved to the window, gazing out at the setting sun. It’s warm, golden rays painted the world in hues of orange and pink. The garden outside was a riot of colours, with flowers in full bloom and the gentle sway of tall grasses. It was a stark contrast to the otherworldly landscapes I had recently witnessed. As I continued to explore the silent house, I couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the life I had left behind. The gods and their realms were now a part of my existence, intertwined with the reality I had always known. I wondered how I could ever explain this to my mother, how I could bridge the gap between the ordinary and the extraordinary. But for now, I would wait for her to return, to hear her familiar footsteps at the door, and to share the incredible tale of my journey. The house, frozen in time, held its secrets close, and I was eager to unravel them in the hours that lay ahead. The familiar sound of water running filled the bathroom as I prepared to take a much-needed shower. The events of the past few days had left me feeling both physically and emotionally drained, and the soothing embrace of warm water was exactly what I needed to wash away the fatigue and confusion that clung to me. I undressed slowly, my muscles protesting each movement as I removed my clothes. I couldn't help but glance at myself in the mirror as I stood there, bare and vulnerable. I looked the same as I always had, yet I knew that something profound had changed within me. I had glimpsed the realms of gods and monsters, and it was a knowledge that I couldn't easily forget. Stepping into the shower, I adjusted the water temperature to the perfect balance of warmth. The sensation of the water cascading over my body was a welcome relief, washing away the layers of sweat, dust, and uncertainty that clung to my skin. I lathered up with my favorite soap, reveling in the simple act of cleansing. With each swipe of my hands, I felt like I was shedding not just dirt but the weight of the otherworldly experiences I had endured. I closed my eyes and let the water wash over me, a small but necessary act of self-care in a world that had become anything but ordinary. After what felt like an eternity, I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, my skin tingling with newfound vitality. I wrapped a towel around myself and padded back to my bedroom. The house was still as quiet as ever, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of solitude that I hadn't experienced in days. I intended to wait for my mother, to share with her the incredible journey I had undertaken, but the exhaustion that had been building up within me overcame my determination. I sat on my bed, the towel still draped around me, and thought of how to explain the unexplainable to her. As minutes turned into hours, the weight of my eyelids grew heavier. The bed, with its familiar comfort and scent of home, beckoned me to rest. I lay down, intending to close my eyes for just a moment, to gather my thoughts and summon the energy to recount my tale. But as I lay there, the softness of the mattress beneath me and the soothing rhythm of my own breathing lulled me into a deep and dreamless slumber. My body had finally succumbed to the exhaustion of the past few days, and I drifted into a peaceful sleep, the events of my extraordinary journey temporarily forgotten. In the depths of slumber, I found myself in a dream, and it was unlike any I had experienced before. This dream wasn't woven from the threads of my recent otherworldly encounters, nor was it populated by gods or monsters. Instead, it was a dream that laid bare the deepest recesses of my heart, exposing emotions I had been reluctant to acknowledge. In this dream, I was back in the human realm, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of my everyday life. The setting was our high school, where Evan and I had first become friends, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. It felt like a serene afternoon, just before sunset, a time when everything seemed to be bathed in a soft, ethereal light. I was standing at the edge of the school courtyard, looking out at a small grove of trees that bordered the campus. The leaves rustled gently in the breeze, and the air was filled with the sweet scent of spring blossoms. Birds sang in the distance, their melodies carrying on the wind. As I gazed out at the peaceful scene, I became acutely aware of Evan's presence beside me. He stood there; his profile bathed in that warm, golden light. The way his dark hair caught the sun's rays, creating a halo of shimmering strands around his head, was nothing short of breathtaking. His eyes, a shade of deep brown that I had always found mesmerizing, seemed to hold a universe of secrets and emotions. Evan turned to me, and our eyes locked. In that moment, I felt a connection between us that transcended mere friendship. It was a profound understanding, a recognition of something deeper, something I had been avoiding. He smiled, a gentle and genuine smile that reached his eyes and filled them with warmth. The sensation of warmth spread through my chest, filling me with a sense of joy and contentment that I had never known before. But as our eyes remained locked, the truth of what I was feeling slowly crept in, casting a shadow over the dream. It wasn't just friendship that I felt for Evan; it was something more. Something I had been suppressing, perhaps out of fear, uncertainty, or denial. I realized that I was falling in love with Evan, and that realization sent shockwaves through my dream-self. It wasn't that I hadn't felt this way before; it was that I had never allowed myself to acknowledge it. Society's expectations, my own insecurities, and the weight of tradition had always stood in the way of this truth. In the dream, as I grappled with these emotions, I could sense the wrongness of it all. It was as if an invisible barrier had descended between Evan and me, a barrier that I had constructed within myself. I felt conflicted, torn between my burgeoning feelings and the constraints of my own preconceived notions. Evan reached out and gently took my hand, his touch sending shivers down my spine. He spoke, his voice a soothing melody that filled the dream. 'Nico, it's okay,' he said, his eyes filled with understanding. 'Love is love, and it knows no boundaries. Don't be afraid to embrace what you feel.' His words resonated with a profound truth, one that transcended the dream world and touched the depths of my soul. Love, I realized, was not something that could be controlled or defined by societal norms. It was a force of nature, a primal and undeniable emotion that could not be denied. As I looked into Evan's eyes, I felt a sense of acceptance, not just from him but from within myself. It was as if the dream was urging me to confront my own fears and insecurities, to break down the walls I had built around my heart. But even in this dream, I couldn't escape the reality of my situation. I couldn't ignore the fact that I was a young man who had been thrust into a world of gods and prophecies, a world where the boundaries between human and divine were blurred. As I stood there with Evan, the dream began to shift, the tranquil school courtyard fading into an otherworldly landscape that echoed with echoes of Olympus. The dream seemed to be reminding me that my destiny was entwined with a much larger narrative, one that I couldn't easily escape. Evan's voice echoed in my ears, a poignant reminder of the complexities of my reality. 'Nico, remember who you are,' he said, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding. With those words, the dream began to unravel, the vivid colours and sensations fading into the ether. I felt myself being pulled away from Evan, from the dream that had forced me to confront my own heart. And as I awakened in the dim light of my room, I couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy. The dream had shown me a truth I had been avoiding, but it had also reminded me of the harsh realities of my existence. I was a son of gods, with a destiny that stretched beyond the boundaries of human understanding. As I lay there, tangled in my bedsheets, I couldn't escape the overwhelming sense of confusion and uncertainty that clung to me. The dream had left me with more questions than answers, and I knew that I was far from reaching the resolution I so desperately sought. I awoke to the gentle rapping of knuckles on my bedroom door. My mother's voice followed, accompanied by a soft sigh. 'Nico, it's time to get up.' But I was already awake, lying there with a heavy sense of discontentment that seemed to have taken root within me. I knew I should respond, acknowledge her, but instead, I remained silent. The unspoken weight of my recent experiences clung to me like a stubborn shadow. 'Sahra's been calling and texting you,' she continued, her voice carrying a tone of concern. 'You should at least talk to her.' I glanced over at my phone, which lay on the bedside table, its screen a tableau of missed calls and unread messages. Sahra, my best friend, had reached out several times, but I couldn't find the energy to respond. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate her concern; it was just that the world outside my room felt distant and uninviting. With a sigh, I sat up in bed, rubbing a hand across my face. My mother's attempts to engage me in conversation about my plans for the summer break grated on my already frayed nerves. The way she asked, with a mix of curiosity and hope, made me feel even more isolated. In response, I muttered something noncommittal, my voice laced with annoyance. The day stretched before me, a canvas of endless possibilities that I had no interest in exploring. I could hear the hum of activity beyond my bedroom walls, the distant rumble of the city outside. But I felt no inclination to join the world that waited beyond. Instead, I reached for my laptop, which had become a constant companion in recent days. It was as if the digital realm offered a solace that the physical world could not. With a few keystrokes, I was transported into the labyrinthine corridors of the internet, a place where I could lose myself in the distractions of virtual reality. I decided to pass the time by watching a few comedy films, seeking refuge in the laughter of fictional characters and the absurdity of their antics. As the hours rolled by, I allowed myself to be swept away by the hilarity of their misadventures, if only for a brief respite from the weight of my own thoughts. I chuckled at the antics of bumbling protagonists, finding a strange comfort in their ability to navigate a world filled with chaos and absurdity. In some strange way, their trials and tribulations felt like a mirror to my own journey, a reminder that life was often a series of unpredictable and comical events. One film led to another, and I lost track of time as I delved deeper into the world of comedy. It was as if the laughter of these fictional characters had become a lifeline, a tether to a reality that seemed increasingly distant and surreal. But even as I laughed, a part of me remained detached, unable to fully embrace the mirth that played out on the screen. The events of recent days had left a mark on me, a profound sense of disconnection from the world around me. As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across my room, I knew that the day was drawing to a close. The laptop, which had been my constant companion throughout the day, remained perched on my lap, its screen a silent testament to the hours I had spent in virtual solitude. My mother's voice called out from the other side of the door, asking if I wanted dinner. I hesitated for a moment, my gaze fixed on the screen, before finally responding with a reluctant nod. I knew I couldn't stay locked in my room forever, no matter how tempting the prospect might seem. With a sigh, I closed the laptop, the glow of the screen fading into darkness. The room felt suddenly quiet, the absence of laughter and the familiar click of keys a stark reminder of the solitude that surrounded me. I pushed myself off the bed and made my way to the door, ready to face the world beyond, even if it felt like an uphill battle. Sahra's calls and messages still lingered in my mind, a reminder that there were people who cared about me, people who were willing to stand by me even in my darkest moments. As I stepped out of my room and into the dimly lit hallway, I knew that I couldn't continue to shut myself off from the world. The summer break stretched ahead, a canvas of possibilities waiting to be explored, and I couldn't let the weight of recent events hold me back. With that thought in mind, I made my way downstairs, ready to embrace whatever challenges and adventures the world had in store for me. The evening sun cast a warm, golden glow across the dining room as my mother and I sat down for dinner. The table was set with care, the faint aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the air. It was a scene of domesticity, a moment of normalcy amidst the tumultuous events that had unfolded in my life. As we began to eat, our conversation flowed naturally, like a gentle river winding its way through familiar landscapes. My mother asked about my day, about the plans I might have for the summer break. She spoke with a mother's concern, her eyes reflecting both curiosity and a touch of hope. I responded in kind, offering snippets of my thoughts and vague intentions. The weight of my recent experiences still hung heavy within me, and I found it challenging to fully engage in the conversation. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate my mother's concern; it was just that the world beyond our home felt distant and alien. Midway through our meal, my phone buzzed on the table, a familiar tune that signaled an incoming call. I glanced down at the screen and saw Evan's name illuminated there. It felt like a shock to the system, a jolt of electricity that stirred a complex mix of emotions within me. My mother noticed the call and suggested that I might want to answer it. Her words carried a subtle encouragement, an acknowledgment of the fact that there was something unresolved between Evan and me. She understood the significance of that name on the screen, even if I wasn't quite ready to admit it to myself. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the screen as I debated whether to accept the call. Memories flooded back—the dreams, the visions, the unspoken feelings that had emerged during my journey with Evan. It was as if a Pandora's box of emotions had been unleashed, and I wasn't sure how to navigate the chaotic contents within. Evan's image flashed in my mind, a vivid portrait that I had carried with me since the moment we had met. His dark, tousled hair framed a face that was both handsome and enigmatic. His eyes, an intense shade of green, held a depth that seemed to penetrate the very core of my being. And his smile, warm and infectious, could light up the darkest of moments. But there was more to Evan than just his physical appearance. It was the connection we had shared during our journey, the unspoken bond that had formed between us. It was the moments of vulnerability, the shared laughter, and the understanding that transcended words. It was the realization that I cared for him in a way that defied easy categorization. As I continued to stare at my phone, I couldn't deny the truth any longer. I was in love with Evan. It was a realization that both terrified and exhilarated me, a revelation that had been lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness. But that love came with its own set of complexities and uncertainties. It was a love that defied the conventions of my world and challenged the boundaries of my identity. It was a love that felt right and yet wrong, a contradiction that left me torn between my heart's desires and the expectations of society. With trembling fingers, I accepted the call, bringing the phone to my ear. Evan's voice, warm and familiar, flowed through the line, and for a moment, I was transported back to the days we had spent together. The memories flooded back, and with them, a mixture of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. 'Hey, Nico,' he greeted me, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I responded, 'Hey, Evan.' There was a pause, a silence that seemed to stretch into infinity. It was as if we were both standing on the precipice of something profound, unsure of whether to take the next step. Finally, Evan spoke, his words breaking the tension that had hung between us. 'I've been thinking about you a lot,' he admitted. I closed my eyes, my heart racing as I acknowledged the truth of his words. 'I've been thinking about you too,' I confessed, the weight of my emotions hanging heavy in the air. And in that moment, as our voices crossed the miles that separated us, I knew that there was no turning back. Whatever lay ahead, whatever challenges and uncertainties awaited us, I was willing to face them, if only to be near him once more. The evening stretched on; an inky expanse punctuated by the soft glow of streetlights. Evan's voice on the other end of the line held a sense of anticipation, as if he were weaving a tapestry of plans and possibilities with every word. 'Tomorrow, Nico,' he said, his voice tinged with excitement, 'I was thinking we could meet up.' I leaned back against the plush cushions of my sofa, my phone pressed to my ear. The suggestion hung in the air, an invitation that held both promise and uncertainty. 'Where?' I asked, my curiosity piqued. Evan chuckled, a warm and familiar sound that sent a shiver down my spine. 'How about we meet at Aberglasney Gardens in Carmarthen?' he proposed. 'It's a beautiful place, and I thought it might be a good spot to catch up.' I pictured Aberglasney Gardens in my mind—lush greenery, meticulously manicured gardens, and the gentle trickle of water in ornate fountains. It was a place of serenity and natural beauty, a stark contrast to the fantastical landscapes I had recently traversed. 'That sounds lovely,' I replied, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. The prospect of spending time with Evan in such an idyllic setting was undeniably appealing. Evan's enthusiasm was palpable as he continued, 'And after that, we can head over to the Youth Project Clubhouse. They're having an event there, and I thought it might be fun to check it out together.' The Youth Project Clubhouse—a place where young people gathered to socialize, engage in creative activities, and find support. It was a hub of camaraderie and shared experiences, a space where friendships were forged, and dreams were nurtured. The thought of exploring the Clubhouse with Evan filled me with a sense of excitement and trepidation. It was a chance to step back into the realm of ordinary life, to reacquaint ourselves with the routines and rituals that had once defined our existence. But it was also an opportunity to forge a new path, one that had been shaped by our extraordinary journey. 'That sounds great,' I agreed, my heart quickening at the prospect of our upcoming reunion. We spent a few more minutes on the phone, ironing out the details of our meeting. The time, the place, the organization—it was all carefully arranged, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. As we said our goodbyes, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Tomorrow, I would see Evan again, and together, we would navigate the uncertain terrain of our changed lives. The dreams and visions that had woven a tapestry of wonder and strangeness around us had left an indelible mark, and I knew that our connection ran deeper than I had ever imagined. With that thought in mind, I ended the call, my heart aflutter with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Tomorrow was a new day, a new chapter in our story, and I was eager to see where it would lead. Tangled Hearts [Chapter eight] The night pressed on, and the house settled into its familiar creaks and sighs. My room, usually a sanctuary of solitude, had become a labyrinth of conflicting emotions. I couldn't escape the memory of Evan's voice, its resonance still echoing in the corners of my mind. After the call, I returned to my mother, who was still sitting at the dining table, her eyes weary from a long day of work. She looked up at me, concern etched in the lines of her face. 'Who was that on the phone, Nico?' Her voice was gentle, a lighthouse of curiosity shining through the dark sea of her fatigue. I hesitated for a moment, torn between the instinct to keep Evan's existence a secret and the desire to share this strange, overwhelming feeling that had begun to seep into my life. My mother had always been my confidante, my source of wisdom, but how could I explain something I couldn't yet comprehend myself? 'It's just a friend,' I replied, keeping my tone casual, as if this friend was nothing more than an acquaintance. I didn't want to worry her or invite further questions. She nodded, accepting my vague response without probing further. It was one of the things I loved most about her—her ability to respect my privacy when I needed it. 'Alright, dear,' she said, offering a small, tired smile. 'Just let me know if you ever want to talk about anything.' I returned her smile, guilt weighing heavy in my chest. Little did she know that I yearned to talk about everything, to unravel the tangled threads of my thoughts and emotions. But some knots were too complex to untangle alone. As the evening wore on, I found myself sitting on my bed, the glow of my laptop casting a soft, eerie light across the room. The screen displayed the list of films I had intended to watch that day. Comedies, they were supposed to be—a brief escape from the turmoil within. But now, their titles blurred together, and laughter felt like a distant memory. The laptop seemed like a lifeline to another world, a world where I could distract myself from the swirling maelstrom of emotions that had become my reality. With trembling fingers, I selected one of the films, hoping that its humour might pull me out of the abyss that threatened to consume me. For a while, I watched the movie, or at least I tried to. The characters on the screen went through their comedic antics, but my mind wandered, always returning to the same focal point—Evan. The laughter in the film sounded hollow, like a distant echo of happiness. Each punchline felt like an attempt to pierce the thick fog of my thoughts. I longed for something to distract me, to pull me away from the inexorable gravity of my feelings. Finally, I closed the laptop, surrendering to the weariness that had settled in my bones. The room was plunged into darkness, and I lay there, my heart a tumultuous sea of longing and uncertainty. As I drifted into sleep, my dreams were haunted by Evan. He appeared before me, his eyes, those captivating emerald pools, searching mine. There was something in those eyes—something that pulled at the very core of my being. In the dream, we stood on the precipice of something unknown. The world around us shifted and blurred, leaving only the two of us suspended in a void of emotions. His voice was a whisper, a melody that danced on the edges of my consciousness. 'Nico,' he said, and the sound of my name on his lips sent shivers down my spine. 'Nico, don't be afraid.' But I was afraid. Afraid of the intensity of the emotions I felt when I looked into those eyes. Afraid of what it meant to be drawn to someone so fiercely. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the turmoil of my soul. The dream felt both eternal and fleeting, as if time itself had lost its grip on us. Evan reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, and in that touch, I felt the weight of everything I couldn't say. It was a silent confession, an admission of a truth I had been denying. As we stood there, on the precipice of our dreams, I realized that I had fallen in love with Evan. The realization struck me with a force that was both beautiful and terrifying. I wanted to pull away, to run from this truth, but I couldn't escape the magnetic pull of my heart. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the dream dissipated, leaving me in the darkness of my room. I was left with a sense of longing so profound that it ached in every fibre of my being. I lay there for hours, my thoughts a tumultuous sea, until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. The world outside my window was a canvas of muted colours, the promise of a new day. But in my heart, the night's revelations weighed heavy. My room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the morning sun as I groggily woke up. I reached for my phone on the bedside table and squinted at the screen. It was already 10 in the morning. My mother, an early riser, had left for work hours ago. I had obviously overslept, lost in the tangle of dreams that had filled my night. The reality of the day hit me like a wave. Today was the day I would meet Evan, the boy who had invaded my dreams and occupied my thoughts. The anticipation, a buzzing undercurrent in my veins, surged to the forefront of my mind. Throwing back the covers, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. The room was quiet, and I could hear the distant hum of life outside my window. I stretched, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to me. As I padded to the kitchen, my stomach rumbled in agreement. Breakfast seemed like a good idea. I settled on a simple meal of scrambled eggs and toast, something quick and easy to prepare. My mind, however, was elsewhere. I couldn't help but wonder what Evan was doing at this very moment. With breakfast done and the kitchen cleaned up, I faced the monumental task of getting ready. I stood before my closet, staring at the jumble of clothes. What does one wear to meet someone who had invaded their dreams and their thoughts? I began to pull out different outfits, laying them out on my bed as I considered my options. Each piece of clothing seemed to mock me, a silent reminder of my indecision. I needed something that could capture the turmoil within, something that could reflect the chaos of my emotions. Minutes turned into hours as I deliberated over my choices. I couldn't shake the feeling that my outfit needed to convey the storm of emotions raging inside me. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of deliberation, I settled on an ensemble that captured the essence of my inner turmoil. A dark, oversized shirt, left unbuttoned, revealed a crisp white T-shirt underneath. Silver chains adorned my neck, their cool gleam a stark contrast against the dark fabric. I chose a pair of black, baggy pants, their loose silhouette a reflection of my tangled thoughts. As I laced up my Converse shoes, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My appearance was a contradiction, a clash of dark and light, chaos, and order. I couldn't help but feel that it was a fitting reflection of the emotional whirlwind I had found myself in. With one last look in the mirror, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out the door. Evan awaited me, and I couldn't deny the flutter of excitement that danced in my chest. Today, we would face the unknown together, and I couldn't wait to see where this journey would lead us. The journey to our meeting point was a winding path of emotions, every step echoing the conflict within me. I navigated the familiar streets of Carmarthen, the town I had called home for as long as I could remember. The sun painted the world in hues of gold and blue, a stark contrast to the tempestuous tempest within my chest. Each step felt heavy, as though I were walking into uncharted territory. Evan occupied my thoughts, his presence a looming enigma that I couldn't decipher. My heart, treacherous and wild, seemed to beat in rhythm with the uncertainty that had taken root in my mind. As I approached our destination, I spotted Evan in the distance. He stood there; a figure bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun. His presence was magnetic, drawing me in with an irresistible pull. My heart quickened, a surge of emotion flooding my senses. Evan's attire reflected his unique individuality. He wore a worn, black leather jacket that seemed to hug his form, emphasizing the lithe strength of his frame. A simple white T-shirt peeked out from underneath, a stark contrast to the darkness of his jacket. His jeans were a deep, inky black, and his sneakers, scuffed and well-loved, completed the ensemble. I couldn't deny the way my heart somersaulted at the sight of him. There was an undeniable allure to Evan, an enigmatic quality that drew me in like a moth to a flame. The inner conflict raged on within me, a battle between what I knew and what I felt. I told myself that this attraction was nothing more than a fleeting infatuation. After all, I barely knew Evan. He was a stranger, and yet, in the depths of my heart, I couldn't help but feel that he was more than that. There was a connection, an inexplicable bond that defied logic and reason. As I approached Evan, I couldn't help but steal glances in his direction, my eyes drinking in the details of his appearance. His hair, tousled and dark, seemed to frame his face in a way that was almost poetic. His eyes, a shade of hazel that shifted with the changing light, held a depth that was both captivating and mysterious. The inner conflict raged on, a tempest of emotions that I struggled to contain. How could I feel this way about someone I barely knew? How could my heart betray me so easily? I tried to push these thoughts aside, to bury the tumultuous feelings that threatened to consume me. But as I stood before Evan, my heart pounding like a drum, I couldn't deny the undeniable truth. I was drawn to him, inexplicably and undeniably. And in that moment, as we stood face to face, I realized that the journey I was embarking on was not just a physical one. It was a journey of the heart, a path filled with uncertainty and possibility. As I stood before Evan, a wave of uncertainty washed over me. We were no longer just voices on the phone or distant figures in my dreams. This was real, tangible, and I was acutely aware of every beat of my heart. Evan flashed a warm smile, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. His gaze locked onto mine, and in that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us standing there on the sun-dappled street. 'Hey, Nico,' he greeted me, his voice a soothing melody that resonated deep within me. My heart raced, and I couldn't help but return his smile. 'Hey, Evan,' I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The air between us was charged with an unspoken tension, a magnetic pull that drew us closer. I wanted to reach out and hug him, to close the distance that separated us, but my limbs felt heavy, as if they were weighted down by the intensity of my emotions. Evan must have sensed my hesitation because he took a step forward, closing the gap between us. With a gentle, almost imperceptible nod, he wrapped his arms around me, and I melted into his embrace. It was as if the universe had aligned, and for that moment, everything felt right. We stood there, holding each other, the world around us fading into insignificance. I breathed in the scent of his cologne, a warm and comforting aroma that made my head spin. It was a feeling I couldn't quite put into words, a sense of belonging that transcended the boundaries of time and space. Eventually, we pulled away, our gazes locked once more. The unspoken connection between us lingered, an invisible thread that bound our souls together. 'Shall we?' Evan asked, gesturing down the sunlit street. I nodded, and together we began our journey. The day stretched out before us, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with moments and memories. We started with a visit to a quaint café that served the most exquisite ice cream. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of waffle cones. Evan insisted on paying for both of us, and though I protested, his insistence was gentle yet unwavering. As we sat at a small, sunlit table, our conversation flowed effortlessly. We talked about our favourite books, shared childhood stories, and laughed at each other's quirks. It was as if we had known each other for a lifetime, and yet, there was still so much left to discover. With our ice cream finished, we strolled through a nearby garden, a hidden gem in the heart of Carmarthen. Blooms of vibrant colours painted the landscape, and the air was alive with the soft hum of bees. Evan pointed out different flowers and their meanings, and I listened, captivated by his knowledge and enthusiasm. We wandered down winding pathways, our fingers brushing against the petals of delicate roses. The world seemed to slow down around us, and I found myself savouring every moment. It was as if time had become a malleable entity, allowing us to linger in this perfect day. As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over everything, Evan led me toward our final destination—the Youth Project Clubhouse. The building, nestled amidst a grove of trees, exuded an air of welcoming familiarity. We arrived just outside the clubhouse, and for a moment, we stood there, our gazes locked. The unspoken words hung in the air, a question of what lay ahead, of the uncharted territory we were about to explore. As Evan and I entered the Youth Project Clubhouse, I couldn't help but feel a surge of nerves. This place, once an enigma, was now a part of my world, and it was Evan who had introduced me to this hidden corner of Carmarthen. The door creaked open, revealing the lively interior of the clubhouse. The walls were adorned with colourful posters, and the room was abuzz with laughter and chatter. It was clear that this was a space where young minds came to create, connect, and collaborate. The atmosphere was inviting, a melting pot of creativity and camaraderie. Evan guided me further inside, and I couldn't help but notice the subtle differences in the way he moved, the way he interacted with the people here. This was his domain, his world, and I was merely a visitor. But there was something comforting about being by his side, like I had found my place in this unfamiliar setting. We had barely taken a few steps when I heard a familiar voice calling my name. Turning toward the source of the sound, I spotted Sarah, my best friend since childhood. Her face lit up with a mixture of joy and concern as she approached. 'Nico! Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for days!' she exclaimed, her voice tinged with reproach. I offered her an apologetic smile, though I couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. 'I'm sorry, Sarah. I've just been caught up with stuff. You know how it is.' Sarah frowned, her hazel eyes narrowing. 'Caught up with what, exactly?' Before I could respond, Evan stepped in, a subtle tension in his stance. 'Hey, I'm Evan,' he introduced himself, extending a hand toward Sarah. She regarded him sceptically before shaking his hand reluctantly. 'Sarah. Nico's best friend.' Evan's lips curled into a polite smile, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes. 'Nice to meet you, Sarah.' She turned her attention back to me, her tone laced with scepticism. 'Nico, why are you hanging out with this... guy?' I bristled at her choice of words, my protective instincts kicking in. 'Hey, don't call him 'this guy.' His name is Evan, and he's not weird. He's...' I trailed off, searching for the right words. Evan sat next to me, his smile fading slightly, as if he had sensed my internal struggle. 'He's a really good friend,' I finally said, my voice firm and resolute. Sarah's expression softened, and she let out an exasperated sigh. 'Nico, you can be so impulsive sometimes. I just worry about you.' I could see the concern in her eyes, and I wanted to reassure her. 'I know, Sarah, but you've got to trust me on this. Evan's a good guy.' With that, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate, and Sarah moved away to rejoin her group of friends. I watched her go, a mixture of emotions swirling within me. She had been my anchor for as long as I could remember, and now, I was forging a new connection, one that felt inexplicably important. I turned to Evan, who had remained quiet throughout the exchange. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and I could see a solitary teardrop trickling down his cheek. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. I couldn't explain why I felt compelled to comfort him, but in that moment, it just felt right. Evan's body tensed for a brief second before he relaxed into the hug, his arms encircling me in return. We sat there, two souls connected by an unspoken bond, in the heart of a place where friendships were forged, and creativity thrived. The clubhouse buzzed with life around us, but in that corner, it was as if time had slowed, allowing us to savour this unexpected connection. The hug from Evan was like a lifeline in that moment. As our bodies pressed together, I felt an overwhelming rush of emotions. My heart raced, and I was acutely aware of the rise and fall of Evan's chest against mine. It was a moment of pure connection, one that transcended words. In that embrace, I felt safe, cherished, and alive. I wanted to cry, not from sadness, but from an overwhelming sense of joy. It was as if all the uncertainty, the doubts, and the confusion that had plagued me lately were washed away in that single hug. Evan's presence was a balm to my wounded soul, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that everything would be okay. But then, like a thunderclap on a clear day, I heard Sarah's voice, cutting through the moment like a knife. Her words were like poison, and they hit me with a force I hadn't expected. 'Just look at them, ugh disgusting.' I turned my head, and there she was, standing right beside the couch, her face contorted in disgust. It felt as if the world had shifted on its axis. Sarah, my best friend since childhood, was now the source of this hurtful venom. 'NICO, YOU AREN'T ONE OF THOSE GAY MAGGOTS, ARE YOU??? THAT'S DISGUSTING UGH!' she screamed, her words echoing in the room. The impact of her words was like a punch to the gut. I felt as if the ground had been ripped from beneath my feet. I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. The shock and pain were overwhelming, and all I could think of was running away from it all. Without a second thought, I broke away from Evan's embrace and fled. It was as if my body moved on its own, driven by an instinct to escape the hurt and confusion that swirled around me. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, the tears streaming down my face blurring the world around me. I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't care. All I knew was that I couldn't bear to be in that place, surrounded by judgment and hatred. The clubhouse, once a sanctuary of creativity and connection, had turned into a chamber of anguish. I ran until my legs ached and my lungs burned, until I found myself in a quiet park, far removed from the chaos of the clubhouse. I sank to the ground, my sobs wracking my body. It was as if my heart had been torn in two, the pain too much to bear. Sarah, my best friend, had rejected me. She had looked at me with such disdain, as if the very essence of who I was had become repulsive to her. And for what? For hugging Evan, for seeking solace and comfort in the arms of someone who had shown me kindness and acceptance. As I cried there in the park, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of anger and sadness. Anger at a world that could be so cruel and judgmental, and sadness at the loss of a friendship that had meant so much to me. I had never imagined that a simple hug could unravel the bonds of years of friendship. In that moment of despair, I felt utterly alone. I had no one to turn to, no one who could understand the tumultuous emotions churning within me. All I had was the memory of Evan's embrace, a brief moment of respite in a world that seemed determined to tear me apart. I fled the chaos of the clubhouse like a wounded animal escaping a predator. My legs carried me as far away as they could, driven by an instinct to put as much distance as possible between me and the hurtful words Sarah had hurled at me. I ran faster than I ever had in my life, the tears blurring my vision as I darted through the streets of Carmarthen. My mind was a whirlwind of emotions, and I couldn't make sense of what had just happened. It felt as if a chasm had opened up beneath me, swallowing everything I had known and believed in. Sarah, my best friend since childhood, had spewed hatred at me, all because I had hugged Evan. I found myself in a quiet park, my sobs echoing in the stillness of the evening. The park, bathed in the soft hues of the setting sun, seemed like a world apart from the chaos I had just left behind. I stumbled over to a bench and sank onto it, my emotions overwhelming me. The sky was painted in shades of orange and pink as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight, but I couldn't find solace in its beauty. My heart ached, and I felt a profound sense of loss. How had everything unravelled so quickly? Pulling out my phone, I saw that I had missed five calls from Evan. Guilt gnawed at me as I realized that he must have been worried about me. I composed a simple text message, my fingers trembling as I typed, 'I'm Sorry.' Then, without waiting for a response, I turned off my phone completely. The rain began to fall, a gentle drizzle that seemed to match the tears on my cheeks. I didn't have an umbrella, and I didn't care. The raindrops mingled with my tears, and for a moment, it felt cleansing, as if washing away some of the pain. I made my way home, each step heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The world around me had lost its vibrancy, and the streets I had walked so many times now felt alien and unforgiving. I didn't dare to look at anyone I passed, fearing judgment or ridicule. When I finally reached our doorstep, I hesitated for a moment. I knew my mother would be home from her night shift, and I couldn't bear to face her with the turmoil that raged inside me. Instead, I slipped into the house as quietly as possible and headed straight for my room. I threw myself onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow to muffle my sobs. It was a strange mix of anger, sadness, and confusion that coursed through me. How had things gone so wrong? Why had a simple hug triggered such a reaction from Sarah? I replayed the events of the evening in my mind, searching for answers that eluded me. Had Sarah always harboured these prejudices, or had something changed in her? And what did it mean for our friendship, a bond that had been a constant in my life? The minutes turned into hours as I lay there, lost in my thoughts and the tumultuous sea of emotions. My phone remained switched off, a barrier between me and the outside world. I didn't want to confront the reality of missed calls and unread messages, not yet. I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty, grappling with a truth I had long denied to myself. It wasn't just the rejection from Sarah that weighed on me; it was the realization that my feelings for Evan ran deeper than friendship. But how could I come to terms with that when the world seemed so unaccepting? The world had dimmed to a muted haze of emotions as I lay on my bed, still reeling from the painful encounter at the clubhouse. The confusion, sadness, and anger wrestled within me like warring titans. I wanted to scream, to lash out at the universe for the unfairness of it all. But most of all, I wanted answers. I mustered all the strength I could, trying to regain some semblance of composure. My mother's gentle knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. She entered, her face a picture of concern as she scanned the room, taking in my dishevelled appearance and the tear stains on my cheeks. 'Sweetheart, what happened?' she asked, her voice a soothing melody. It was the kind of voice that had comforted me countless times throughout my life, but now, I couldn't bring myself to confide in her. Not yet. I sat up on the bed, rubbing my temples as if trying to dispel the emotional storm raging inside me. 'It's nothing, Mom,' I replied, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. 'Just a rough day. I'll be fine, I promise.' She studied me for a moment, her eyes filled with a mix of worry and maternal love. I could tell that she wanted to press further, to pry the truth from me, but she respected my need for space. 'Alright,' she said finally, her tone softening. 'But if you ever want to talk, remember that I'm here for you, Nico. No matter what.' I managed a weak smile, a small, inadequate offering in return for her unwavering support. 'Thanks, Mom,' I whispered. As she closed the door behind her, I collapsed back onto my bed, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. I needed answers. I needed to understand what I was feeling, what had been awakened within me. And so, I turned to the one source of knowledge that had been my refuge throughout my life—my laptop. With trembling fingers, I retrieved my laptop from the nightstand, the cold metal feeling strangely comforting against my skin. As I opened the lid, the soft glow of the screen bathed me in a dim, bluish light. I launched Chrome, my default web browser, and without hesitation, I began typing in my questions. 'How to know if I'm gay.' The search results filled my screen, a mosaic of articles, forums, and quizzes promising answers to the very questions that haunted me. But the sheer volume of information was overwhelming, each source offering slightly different advice or perspectives. It felt like staring into an abyss, and I was uncertain if I could ever find my way out. My cursor hovered over a link that read, '10 Signs You Might Be Gay,' and I clicked on it with a mixture of hope and trepidation. As I scrolled through the list, my heart sank. The 'signs' were vague and subjective things like 'you feel different,' or 'you're drawn to people of the same sex.' It was hardly the concrete guidance I longed for. Frustration gnawed at me as I closed that tab and returned to the search bar, typing in 'gay test.' Perhaps there was a quiz, a definitive questionnaire that would categorically tell me who I was. But again, I was met with uncertainty. The tests I found were mostly for entertainment purposes, not the serious self-discovery I craved. With each fruitless search, I became increasingly disheartened. It seemed that my quest for answers had led me into a labyrinth of ambiguity and uncertainty. The internet, vast and boundless, couldn't provide the clarity I sought. I couldn't simply tick a few boxes or answer multiple-choice questions to unlock the truth about my own identity. 'Am I Gay?' This simple query returned the same refrain I'd encountered before: 'Be yourself,' 'It's okay not to know,' 'You'll figure it out in time.' It was as if the world was telling me to embrace the ambiguity, to accept that this journey of self-discovery was uniquely mine, and that there was no one-size-fits-all answer. I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of isolation. I wanted certainty, a clear path to understanding myself, but I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. How did one go about discovering their own identity when the compass points were so elusive? Hours passed as I delved deeper into the digital labyrinth, reading articles, scrolling through forums, and clicking on links that promised insight but delivered only more questions. The outside world faded away, leaving me alone in the glow of the screen. I realized that my search wasn't just about seeking answers; it was about acknowledging a truth I had long denied. I was afraid of what it meant, of what others might think, and most of all, of what I might think of myself. The very essence of who I was seemed to hang in the balance, and I wasn't sure if I was ready to confront it. Sleep that night was a reluctant visitor, a realm I entered with trepidation. My bed felt too large, too empty, as if it echoed the hollowness I felt inside. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the moon casting faint shadows across the room. The events of the past days played in an unending loop in my mind, like a movie I couldn't escape. As exhaustion finally began to overtake my racing thoughts, I drifted into a fitful slumber. My dream was a distorted reflection of reality, a funhouse mirror that warped my emotions into grotesque shapes. There he was, Evan, standing before me with a sadness in his eyes that cut to my core. In the dream, we were back at the clubhouse, the same scene that had unfolded earlier that day. I could see myself standing beside Evan, the two of us locked in an embrace. But my words, the ones I had spoken so carelessly in real life, hung in the air like a storm cloud. 'Just a friend,' I heard myself say, the words dripping with a callousness I hadn't intended. Evan's face crumpled, a teardrop rolling down his cheek like a tiny crystal. The pain etched in his expression was palpable, and I knew, even in the dream, that I had wounded him deeply. As if on cue, Sarah entered the scene, her laughter ringing like a taunting melody. 'Just a friend,' she mocked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The room seemed to close in around me as her laughter grew louder, more derisive. I tried to speak, to defend Evan, but my voice was drowned out by the cruel chorus. The dream spiralled into chaos. I felt as though I was being pulled in multiple directions, torn between my loyalty to Evan and my fear of judgment from others. The walls of the clubhouse closed in around me, the ceiling descending with every oppressive second. I awoke with a start, my heart pounding in my chest, my sheets clinging to my sweat-soaked body. It took me a moment to realize that it had all been a dream, a distorted reflection of my inner turmoil. But the emotions it had dredged up were painfully real. A profound sense of guilt washed over me. I had treated Evan so poorly, so callously, all because I couldn't face my own feelings and fears. In the dream, I had seen the consequences of my actions, and it was a bitter pill to swallow. The room was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. I didn't want to move; didn't want to face the day and the mistakes I had made. I felt like a coward, hiding from the world and from myself. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, fumbling to check the time. It was still early, the world outside wrapped in the comforting embrace of pre-dawn stillness. But I couldn't find solace in the tranquillity of the hour. The weight of my actions bore down on me, a heavy burden that threatened to suffocate me. Tears welled in my eyes as I replayed the dream in my mind. The image of Evan, his tear-streaked face etched into my memory, haunted me. I had to make amends, had to find a way to make things right. But the path forward remained shrouded in uncertainty. The hours passed in a languid haze. I lay in my bed, cocooned in my own misery, as the sun painted warm, golden streaks across the room. Time seemed to blur and distort, and I couldn't muster the strength to confront it. Was it morning? Afternoon? I didn't care. The outside world felt like a distant memory, a place where I no longer belonged. The weight of guilt, like an anchor, kept me tethered to my tangled sheets. Every breath felt like a laborious effort, every thought a torment. I couldn't face the day, couldn't face the reality of my actions and their consequences. Instead, I let myself drift in the sea of self-loathing. And then, a soft knock on my door disrupted my torpor. My heart fluttered, and I tried to ignore it, to will the unwelcome visitor away. I couldn't bear to see anyone, to face their judgment or pity. My body felt leaden, anchored to the bed as if by invisible chains. 'Someone is here to see you,' my mother's voice called through the door, gentle but insistent. The words hung in the air, laden with mystery. I couldn't discern the identity of this unexpected visitor, and I didn't want to. My head spun, a dizzying sensation that mirrored the turmoil within. Should I pretend I wasn't home? Should I feign illness and beg for solitude? The mere prospect of human interaction was overwhelming, a mountain I didn't have the strength to climb. Minutes ticked by the silence stretching between us like an unspoken plea. I could almost envision my mother on the other side of the door, her patience waning, her concern deepening. But I couldn't bring myself to answer her summons, to acknowledge the world beyond my room. The uncertainty gnawed at me, an itch I couldn't scratch. Who could it be? Sarah? Evan? The suspense was like a cruel joke, a reminder of the mess I had created. I wanted to scream, to tear at my own skin, but I remained frozen, a prisoner of my own making. The room seemed to hold its breath as Evan stepped in, his presence a paradox of emotions. It was him, standing there in the same clothes from yesterday, like a sentinel of uncertainty. He looked different today, a mix of sadness and determination etched into his features. Dark circles clung to his eyes, testament to nights spent in restless contemplation. I watched him, my heart heavy with a maelstrom of feelings. 'It's me,' he said, his voice soft yet resolute as he moved towards the small wooden chair by my table, not meeting my eyes. He took a seat, the creaking of the chair the only sound in the room. My mother stood at the doorway, a witness to this encounter, her eyes holding a knowing glint. Evan didn't waste any time. He turned to her, his voice steady, 'Miss Adams, could you leave us alone for a moment, please?' It was a simple request, but it carried the weight of the world. She smiled, a mother's understanding, and gently closed the door behind her, leaving us in a space defined by our own complexities. Evan's eyes finally met mine, and I felt an inexplicable shift in the room, as though we were two celestial bodies circling each other, caught in an invisible gravitational pull. Silence hung between us, heavy with unspoken words, the residue of a turbulent day. My heart raced, a cacophony of emotions drowning out any rational thought. Evan sat there, those soulful eyes never wavering, and I felt like an open book, my vulnerabilities exposed. What did he want? What could he possibly say after everything that had transpired? But he didn't speak. He just looked at me, an intensity in his gaze that made me feel seen in a way I hadn't before. It was unsettling, like standing on the precipice of an unknown abyss. I had been so sure of myself, so sure of who I was, and now I felt adrift in a sea of uncertainty. I wanted to say something, to break the silence that stretched between us like an unspoken vow. But I didn't know where to begin. What could I possibly say to him now? The weight of my actions hung heavy in the room, a reminder of my own shortcomings. Evan's face bore the traces of sleepless nights and unanswered questions, yet there was something resolute in his expression. He hadn't come here to rehash the events of yesterday; that much was clear. His presence was a silent testament to something deeper, something unspoken. I watched as he finally spoke, his voice a soft caress on the edges of the room. 'Nico,' he began, his voice filled with a vulnerability that mirrored my own, 'I wanted to come here, not to explain or justify anything, but to talk to you, person to person.' His words hung in the air, like a bridge between us, beckoning me to cross. I swallowed hard, trying to find my own voice amidst the turmoil of my thoughts. 'Talk about what?' I managed to whisper, my voice betraying the inner turmoil that threatened to consume me. Evan leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. 'About us, Nico,' he replied, his words carrying a weight I couldn't comprehend. 'About what happened yesterday, about who we are, and what we mean to each other.' There it was the unspoken question that had haunted my thoughts. Who were we? What did our actions mean? And why did it matter so much? I felt a knot in my chest, a storm of emotions that I couldn't quell. The room, once wrapped in silence, was now filled with the cacophony of my own emotions. Tears streamed down my cheeks, my sobs escaping in anguished cries that reverberated off the walls. It felt like a release, a catharsis that had been building for far too long. And in that moment, I couldn't hold it in any longer. 'I'm so, so, so sorry, Evan,' I managed to choke out between sobs, my voice ragged and raw. 'I think I love you, but I'm in a full-on gay crisis.' As the words left my lips, I felt like I had bared my soul, stripped away the layers of denial and confusion that had shrouded me for so long. It was terrifying and liberating all at once. The weight of my confession hung in the air, a bridge between us that I wasn't sure he would want to cross. I sat on the edge of my bed, my body trembling with the intensity of my emotions. Evan didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He drove closer to me on the chair, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of my turmoil. His fingers gently found their way to my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. There was understanding in his eyes, a depth of emotion that mirrored my own. In that moment, as our eyes locked, I felt a connection so profound that it left me breathless. 'Nico,' he whispered, his voice a soothing balm to my fractured soul. 'We will go through this together. I'm always by your side.' His words were a lifeline, a promise of unwavering support that I had never dared to hope for. And then, with a tenderness that was almost surreal, he leaned in and kissed me. It was a soft, gentle kiss, a meeting of lips that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. In that moment, I felt a warmth spread through me, a sensation of being truly seen and accepted. It was a feeling I had longed for, a feeling that had eluded me for so long. But before the kiss could deepen, before the world could fade away into the background, my mother stormed into the room like a whirlwind of chaos. She was armed with a broom, her face twisted in a mix of concern and confusion. 'I heard screaming, what hap—' Her words halted abruptly as she took in the scene before her. Her eyes widened in shock, her grip on the broom slackening. I pulled away from Evan, my heart pounding in my chest as I faced my mother's bewildered gaze. What could I possibly say to explain this? How could I put into words the tangle of emotions and revelations that had unfolded in this room? Evan, ever composed and resolute, spoke first. 'Mrs. Adams,' he began, his voice steady, 'I hope this doesn't come as a shock, but Nico and I have been going through some... personal things. We're trying to figure out who we are, and it's been a bit of a rollercoaster.' My mother seemed to digest his words, her expression slowly shifting from shock to a more contemplative look. She lowered the broom, leaning it against the wall as she sighed. 'Nico, why didn't you talk to me about this?' I lowered my gaze, feeling a mixture of guilt and relief. Guilt for not confiding in her sooner, and relief that she hadn't reacted with anger or disgust. 'I didn't know how,' I mumbled. She moved closer to me, sitting down on the bed beside me. Her hand found its way to mine, squeezing it gently. 'Nico, you can always talk to me about anything. You know that, right?' I nodded, tears still threatening to spill from my eyes. It was a heavy moment, a reckoning of sorts, but it was also a beginning. My mother's acceptance meant the world to me, and I knew that with Evan by my side, we would navigate this journey together. Evan reached out and took my other hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. We were in this together, no matter where this path led us. Evan's arms enveloped me in a comforting embrace as I continued to sob, the weight of everything that had transpired finally catching up to me. His presence, his acceptance, was like a soothing balm to my battered soul. I clung to him as if he were my lifeline, and in that moment, he was. My mother's words, though light-hearted, carried a warmth that eased the tension in the room. Her acceptance of Evan was more than I had ever hoped for, and it brought a sense of relief that washed over me like a gentle wave. Evan released me from the hug, but he didn't move far. He sat beside me on the bed, his arm draped over my shoulder, offering silent support. It was a simple gesture, but it meant the world to me. 'Thank you, Mrs. Adams,' Evan said, his voice sincere. 'I appreciate your understanding.' My mother smiled, a smile that held both warmth and wisdom. 'Evan, you're always welcome here. Nico's happiness means everything to me.' As the three of us sat in my room, the tension that had gripped me slowly dissipated, replaced by a sense of peace and acceptance. The journey ahead was still uncertain, but with Evan by my side and my mother's support, I felt more prepared to face whatever challenges lay ahead. My mother's mention of dinner reminded us of the present moment. It had been a long, emotional day, and the prospect of sharing a meal together felt like a small but significant step forward. 'I'll let you two freshen up,' my mother said as she rose from the bed. 'Dinner will be ready in about half an hour.' With a final smile, she left the room, giving us some much-needed privacy. Evan and I sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our emotions still heavy in the air. 'Thank you, Evan,' I finally managed to say, my voice shaky but earnest. 'For being here, for understanding. I... I don't know what I would've done without you.' Evan's gaze met mine, and there was a depth of emotion in his eyes that mirrored my own. 'Nico, you don't have to go through this alone. I meant what I said earlier—we'll face this journey together.' His words, once again, were a lifeline, a promise of unwavering support that I clung to. We had taken the first steps on a path of self-discovery, and though it wouldn't be easy, I knew that having Evan by my side made all the difference. As the minutes passed in my room, Evan and I found ourselves engaging in small, everyday gestures that somehow felt incredibly intimate. It was as if we were discovering a deeper connection, a bond that had been there all along but had been waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. I couldn't help but notice the way Evan's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, how he absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair when lost in thought, and the way his laughter was like music, filling the room with warmth. We shared stories from our childhood, talked about our dreams and fears, and even discussed our favourite books and movies. The more we opened up to each other, the more I realized just how amazing Evan was—not just as a friend, but as someone I deeply cared about. At one point, I reached for a small plush toy on my bookshelf. It was a relic from my childhood, a reminder of simpler times. I handed it to Evan with a shy smile. 'This is Lenny,' I said, feeling a bit embarrassed by the sentimentality of it. 'He's been with me since I was a kid.' Evan accepted Lenny with a grin, cradling the stuffed toy in his hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 'Lenny, huh? He's adorable, just like his owner.' A warm blush crept up my cheeks at the compliment, and I couldn't help but smile. Before we knew it, my mother's voice rang out from downstairs, calling us to dinner. It was a reminder that, despite the emotional whirlwind of the day, life continued on its usual course. 'Dinner is ready!' she shouted, her tone carrying a mix of excitement and warmth. Evan and I exchanged a look, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had transpired. We both knew that our journey was just beginning, and there would be challenges ahead. But in that moment, sitting together in my room, we also knew that we had each other. As we made our way downstairs to join my mother for dinner, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. The future was uncertain, and there were still questions I needed to answer about myself, but with Evan by my side, I felt stronger and more capable of facing whatever lay ahead. As the rich aroma of lasagna filled the room, I settled into my seat, and Evan, with a subtle grace, pushed the chair closer to the table. My mother watched this gentlemanly gesture with an approving smile. 'Such a gentleman,' she commented playfully, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 'Nico, you've made quite a choice.' Evan's cheeks turned a subtle shade of pink as he chuckled. 'Thank you, Mrs. Adams. My parents always taught me to treat others with respect, especially those I care about.' A knowing glance passed between my mother and me. She had already glimpsed Evan's qualities and appreciated his courtesy. The scent of the lasagna grew stronger as we started to serve ourselves. It was a complex and Savory masterpiece, a testament to my mother's love and care. Evan, ever the thoughtful conversationalist, decided to break the ice with a compliment directed at my mother. 'Mrs. Adams, you're a truly remarkable mother. Your calm and accepting reaction—it's quite incredible. Most parents might react differently.' My mother acknowledged Evan's words with a warm smile. 'Well, Evan, I've always believed that love and acceptance are the keys to understanding one another. Nico means the world to me, and I trust his judgment.' With that, our conversation naturally shifted to Evan. My mother, curious and caring, asked him about his family, upbringing, and aspirations. Evan spoke candidly, allowing us to learn more about his journey. His father had been absent from his life since he was a young child, leaving his mother to raise him alone. It was a weighty burden for a young boy, and it was evident that Evan had matured quickly in the face of adversity. 'I recently graduated from high school,' Evan shared, a mix of pride and uncertainty in his voice. 'I'm not entirely sure what the future holds, but I'm determined to make something of myself.' My mother listened empathetically, recognizing the pain behind Evan's words. It was clear that he had faced challenges and hardships that no one should have to endure. As the conversation continued, my mother's curiosity led her to inquire about Evan's interests, hobbies, and dreams. Evan responded with enthusiasm, sharing his love for music, his passion for art, and his dream of making a positive impact on the world. Evan's eyes lit up as he described his artistic endeavours and the joy he found in creating something beautiful. My mother listened attentively, a newfound appreciation for Evan blossoming within her. 'I've always loved music,' Evan confessed, his voice filled with warmth. 'It's a way for me to express emotions and connect with others.' My mother nodded, genuinely intrigued by Evan's artistic pursuits. 'And what about your plans for the future? Do you have any specific goals or dreams?' Evan paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. 'I want to create art that speaks to people's hearts, that makes them feel something. And I hope to use my talents to help others in any way I can.' My mother's eyes held a mixture of respect and admiration. 'That's a noble aspiration, Evan. It's clear that you have a genuine passion for what you do.' As the conversation flowed, my mother and Evan formed a connection built on mutual understanding and respect. Evan's openness about his life allowed my mother to glimpse the depth of his character and the resilience he had developed over the years. Amidst the discussions about dreams and aspirations, the aroma of lasagna and the warmth of our family gathering, a stray thought escaped my lips. It was a thought I hadn't quite processed myself, but it left me momentarily flustered. 'You know,' I mused aloud, 'it's quite strange to have a boyfriend, but Evan is different.' Both Evan and my mother turned their gaze toward me, their eyes locking onto mine. It was one of those moments when a fleeting thought inadvertently slipped into the audible world. 'Oops,' I stammered, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 'Did I say that out loud?' Evan's response was a gentle, affectionate smile. 'You did, but don't worry. I think you're pretty cute too, Nico.' My mother simply smiled, her eyes conveying understanding and support. In that instant, I felt a unique blend of vulnerability and acceptance. As we continued our meal, I couldn't shake the feeling that our little family had grown, and that despite the challenges we might encounter, we were united in facing them together. The conversation flowed easily between Evan and my mother. The lasagna was delicious, but the warmth around the table was even more satisfying. My mother, being the insightful woman she was, leaned in and asked, 'Evan, you complimented me for my reaction when you two arrived. Seeing Nico and all. But what was your mother's reaction to... well, everything?' Evan's expression shifted, and he hesitated for a moment before responding. 'Honestly, I haven't told her yet. All of this is still pretty new to me. But if I had to guess, I think she either wouldn't care much about it or would kick me out.' My mother, Sarah, nodded thoughtfully, her eyes filled with empathy. 'Evan, I want you to know something. Regardless of what happens, you're always welcome here. You're part of our extended family now.' Evan's gaze met hers, and he smiled warmly. 'Thank you, Miss Adams.' My mother corrected him gently, 'Please, call me Alice.' With dinner winding down, my mother began to clear the dishes and prepare for her night shift at the hospital. Evan and I exchanged glances but hadn't made any concrete plans for the evening. As my mother gathered her things and headed for the door, she turned to Evan. 'It was lovely meeting you, Evan. Nico's very fortunate to have you in his life. Now, you two enjoy your evening, and don't stay up too late.' Evan nodded graciously. 'Thank you, Alice. It was a pleasure meeting you too.' With that, my mother left for work, leaving Evan and me in the cozy embrace of our family home. We still had a world of uncertainty ahead of us, but in that moment, it felt like we could navigate anything together. As the evening sun began its descent toward the horizon, Evan and I decided to go for a leisurely walk. The air was cool and refreshing, and the golden light of the setting sun bathed everything in a warm, ethereal glow. It was one of those perfect summer evenings that felt like it could last forever. We strolled down the familiar streets of our neighborhood, the sound of our footsteps filling the air along with the occasional laughter of children playing in nearby yards. It was a peaceful scene, and the comfortable silence between us spoke volumes. We talked about everything and nothing, our conversation ebbing and flowing like a gentle stream. Evan shared stories about his childhood, growing up without his father and his mother's struggles. I listened intently, my heart aching for the challenges he had faced. As Evan and I strolled through the tranquil neighborhood, the ambient sounds of the evening filled the air. Crickets chirped a symphony, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves of the trees lining the streets. The world seemed to take on a dreamlike quality as the colors of twilight painted everything in soft, ethereal hues. Our footsteps echoed on the pavement, punctuating the hushed conversations that flowed effortlessly between us. Evan talked animatedly about his love for music, how he'd picked up the guitar as a child and had been entranced by its melodies ever since. His eyes lit up with each note he described, and I couldn't help but be drawn into his world of rhythm and harmony. Listening to him speak so passionately about music was captivating. He shared stories of late nights strumming chords, of songs that had carried him through tough times, and those that had etched indelible memories into his heart. The vulnerability he showed in those moments was endearing, and it made me admire him even more. In turn, I shared stories of my childhood, of growing up with a single mother who had worked tirelessly to provide for us. I talked about my dreams of traveling the world, of experiencing new cultures, and of the adventures I hoped to have. It felt liberating to open up like this, to let Evan see parts of my life that I'd rarely shared with anyone else. We found common ground in our mutual desire for adventure. We both longed to escape the ordinary, to explore the world beyond our hometown, and to seize the opportunities that life had to offer. It was as if our dreams were aligning, and in that moment, I felt a deeper connection forming between us. As we continued our walk, the stars began to appear, one by one, in the darkening sky above us. A vast celestial canvas unfolded overhead, dotted with shimmering points of light. It was a serene evening, the kind that made you forget about the rush and noise of the world, allowing you to focus on the present moment. The gentle sway of our intertwined fingers was a comforting presence as we wandered through the quiet streets. Time seemed to stand still, and any worries that had weighed on my mind earlier were now a distant memory. It was just Evan and me, sharing this peaceful moment under the night sky. Eventually, we reached a point where the sun had fully set, casting the world in a dusky twilight. I turned to Evan, our eyes locking in the dim light. 'I think it's time to head back,' I said, a hint of reluctance in my voice. Evan nodded, but I could see a glimmer of hesitation in his gaze. 'Yeah, you're right. It's getting late.' I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret at the thought of our evening coming to an end. It had been such a wonderful time together, and I didn't want it to be over just yet. So, with a soft smile, I suggested, 'Or you could stay at my house for the night.' Evan's reaction was a mix of surprise and delight. He raised an eyebrow, a playful spark in his eyes. 'Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose.' I squeezed his hand affectionately, reassurance in my touch. 'You're not imposing at all. In fact, I'd love the company.' Evan's grin widened, and he chuckled. 'Well, in that case, I accept your offer.' The playful banter and the shared laughter made the decision feel natural, as if it were the next step in our journey together. With our fingers still entwined, we headed back to my house, a sense of anticipation hanging in the air. It was a night filled with promise, and I couldn't help but wonder what the hours ahead would bring. As Evan and I entered the familiar warmth of my home, I couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. There was something comforting about having him here, as if he belonged in this space just as much as I did. I motioned for Evan to step inside, holding the door open for him with a smile. 'Welcome to my humble abode,' I said, my tone light as I gestured to the cozy living room and the inviting couch. Evan returned my smile, his eyes filled with warmth and appreciation. 'Thanks for having me,' he replied, his voice soft and sincere. I led Evan to the living room, where he took a seat on the couch, looking around at the room's decor with interest. I followed him, taking a seat beside him, our shoulders brushing against each other. The proximity was electrifying, and I couldn't help but steal a quick glance at him. His presence felt magnetic, drawing me closer with each passing moment. As the hunger pangs began to make their presence known, I couldn't ignore my grumbling stomach any longer. 'Are you hungry?' I asked Evan, my tone playful as I raised an eyebrow. Evan's response was immediate. 'Starving,' he admitted with a sheepish grin. 'Great,' I said, getting up from the couch. 'I'll whip up something quick and delicious.' I headed into the kitchen, mentally scanning the contents of my refrigerator and pantry. I decided on making a simple yet satisfying dish – pasta with a homemade tomato sauce. It was a recipe I'd learned from my mom, and it never failed to hit the spot. As I set about chopping onions and garlic, I could feel Evan's presence in the doorway. His arms wrapped around me from behind, and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my neck. The sensation sent shivers down my spine, and I couldn't help but close my eyes, savoring the moment. 'I really love you,' Evan whispered, his breath warm against my skin. My heart swelled at his words, and I turned in his embrace to face him. Our eyes met, and I couldn't help but smile. 'I love you too,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. It felt incredible to finally say those words out loud, to let Evan know just how deeply I cared for him. Once the sauce was simmering on the stove, I cooked the pasta to perfection – al dente, just the way I liked it. I plated the dish with care, making sure it looked as delicious as it smelled. Carrying two steaming plates of pasta back to the living room, I set them on the coffee table before taking a seat beside Evan once more. We ate in contented silence, the flavors of the homemade meal filling the room. It was a simple pleasure, sharing a meal with someone you cared about. Evan and I exchanged occasional smiles, savoring both the food and each other's company. With our hunger satisfied, we settled back on the couch and decided to watch a show on the television. It was a lighthearted comedy that had always been a favorite of mine. Evan seemed to enjoy it too, and the laughter that filled the room was contagious. As the show continued, I couldn't help but steal sidelong glances at Evan. His profile was bathed in the soft glow of the television screen, and the play of light and shadow danced across his features. He looked so handsome, so completely captivating, that I couldn't help but feel my heart swell with affection. In the midst of one particularly funny scene, Evan's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with mine. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was as if he were saying, 'I'm here with you, and I'm not going anywhere.' I squeezed his hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection between us. The evening had taken an unexpectedly beautiful turn, and I couldn't have asked for a more perfect moment. We continued to watch the show, content in each other's presence, the world outside fading away as we shared this intimate space. As the credits rolled on the television screen, signaling the end of our chosen show, Evan and I found ourselves basking in a serene silence. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of the evening, casting gentle shadows that seemed to dance across Evan's features. I couldn't help but admire the way his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief and tenderness. Evan turned toward me, his gaze locking onto mine, and a soft smile played on his lips. 'You know,' he began, his voice a gentle whisper, 'this has been one of the most wonderful evenings I've had in a long time.' I couldn't agree more. 'I feel the same way,' I replied, my voice filled with sincerity. 'Having you here, sharing this time together, it means everything to me.' The warmth in Evan's eyes deepened, and he inched closer, closing the gap between us. His fingers found mine once again, and he entwined them with a loving squeeze. The connection between us felt stronger than ever, as if we were silently communicating a thousand unspoken emotions. 'You make everything better, Nico,' Evan murmured, his words laced with affection. 'Just being with you feels like coming home.' A shiver of delight tingled down my spine at his words. Home. It was such a simple word, yet in that moment, it held a profound and beautiful meaning. Evan was right – being with him felt like coming home, like finding a place where I truly belonged. Leaning in, Evan pressed a soft, tender kiss to my lips. It was a kiss filled with all the love and tenderness we'd been holding back, a kiss that spoke of promises and unspoken futures. I could feel the weight of our newfound connection in that kiss, and it was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. When we finally parted, our foreheads rested against each other, and our breaths mingled in the small space between us. 'I'm so glad I met you,' I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. 'You've changed everything for me, Evan.' Evan's eyes shimmered with emotion as he gazed into mine. 'Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me, Nico. You've brought light into my life, and I'll cherish every moment we share.' With those heartfelt words, we stayed there for a moment, simply basking in the love that enveloped us. It was a love that felt right, a love that had the power to overcome doubts and fears. It was a love that had blossomed unexpectedly but was now thriving, stronger than ever. As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the room in twilight, we knew that this was just the beginning of our journey together. Our hearts were entwined, and our futures were uncertain but filled with promise. We were two souls, drawn together by fate, and as we held each other close, we embraced the beautiful uncertainty of the path ahead. As Evan and I ascended the stairs to my room, a sense of anticipation and intimacy hung in the air. We were taking another step forward in our budding relationship, and it felt like an adventure into the unknown, filled with both excitement and nervousness. Inside my room, I let out a genuine yawn, my earlier fatigue catching up with me. 'I'm really tired,' I admitted, my voice tinged with exhaustion. Evan, always considerate, nodded in understanding. 'You should get some rest then,' he suggested, his eyes filled with warmth. 'I'll join you.' I couldn't help but smile at his words. The prospect of having Evan by my side as I slept felt comforting, like a protective cocoon of love and trust. I gestured to the bed, inviting him to join me, and we both settled in, arranging ourselves for the night. However, before sleep could claim us, there was a matter of changing into more comfortable sleepwear. I hesitated for a moment, aware of Evan's presence, and then decided it was best to be upfront about it. 'Would you mind turning around for a minute while I change?' I asked, feeling a slight blush creep onto my cheeks. Evan's response was nothing short of mischievous. His lips curled into a playful grin, and he replied, 'No, I think I'd rather watch.' My heart skipped a beat at his unexpected response. The playful glint in his eyes hinted at a deeper desire, one that I was more than willing to explore. With a teasing wink, he continued to gaze at me, his eyes filled with anticipation. I turned to my wardrobe and quickly changed into my pajamas, trying not to feel self-conscious under Evan's watchful eyes. It was a simple act, but with Evan, even the simplest moments felt charged with intimacy and meaning. When I turned back, Evan had already made himself comfortable in bed, wearing a pair of boxers and one of my oversized T-shirts. He looked incredibly endearing, and I couldn't help but smile as I approached him. As we settled into bed, the soft glow of my bedside lamp casting a warm, intimate atmosphere, I couldn't help but reflect on how far we'd come. Just a few days ago, I had been grappling with my own feelings and insecurities, uncertain about where this connection with Evan would lead. Now, we were here, together in my bed, sharing an unspoken understanding and affection that filled the room. We lay side by side, our bodies close but not touching just yet. The weight of Evan's presence beside me was reassuring, like a steady anchor in the sea of uncertainty. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the gentle rhythm of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. It was a soothing lullaby, a reminder that I was not alone in this journey. Although fatigue still weighed heavily on me, I didn't want this moment to end just yet. I turned my head to gaze at Evan, his profile bathed in the soft light, and he turned to meet my gaze. Our eyes locked, and there was an unspoken understanding that passed between us. I reached out and gently intertwined my fingers with his, our hands resting on the bed between us. It was a simple touch, yet it spoke volumes, a silent promise of the connection we shared. I felt a sense of contentment wash over me, a feeling that this was where I was meant to be, with Evan by my side. As the minutes passed, the room filled with a peaceful silence, broken only by the soft sounds of our breathing. It was a moment of quiet intimacy, where words were unnecessary, and the unspoken language of our hearts said it all. Eventually, the embrace of sleep began to claim us, our eyelids growing heavy with fatigue. But as I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but smile, knowing that I was falling asleep with Evan by my side. It was a feeling of warmth and security, a promise of a future filled with shared dreams and whispered secrets. As I settled into my position, my back pressed against Evan's chest, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of closeness. It was a simple act, seeking solace in his embrace, but it carried a weight of intimacy that transcended words. The steady rhythm of his breathing against my neck was a soothing lullaby, lulling me closer to the edge of slumber. But before I surrendered to the embrace of sleep, I turned slightly, my gaze locking with Evan's. His eyes, those beautiful windows to his soul, held a depth of emotion that left me breathless. They were filled with tenderness, understanding, and an unwavering love that had grown between us. 'Evan?' I whispered, my voice barely more than a murmur in the quiet of the room. He hummed softly in response, the vibrations against my back sending a shiver down my spine. It was a sensation that spoke of our connection, a silent affirmation that we were together in this moment, in this journey. 'Can you promise me something?' I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as if sharing a secret. Evan's fingers gently traced patterns on my arm, a comforting touch that reassured me of his presence. 'Of course, Love,' he replied, his voice soft and warm. I took a deep breath, my words filled with vulnerability. 'Can we please never go there again?' Evan's brows furrowed in confusion for a moment, but then realization dawned in his eyes. He knew exactly what I meant, the place that had been the epicenter of both our trials and triumphs – the Olymp. It was a realm of gods and destiny, a place that had forever altered the course of our lives. 'Where?' Evan asked softly, his fingers stilling on my arm. 'The Olymp,' I replied, my gaze locked with his. 'Promise me we'll leave it behind, that we'll build our own destiny together, far from the chaos and battles of that world.' Evan's eyes held mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a silent agreement that transcended words. In that moment, I saw his love, his commitment to our future, and the promise of a life together filled with love and happiness. 'Never,' Evan whispered, his voice filled with determination. 'I promise' TO BE CONTINUED…

House of Leaves

Noah 1 Chapter One: An Introduction to Reading House of Leaves “’Take a look for yourself,’ he said, handing me a big brick of tattered paper. ‘But be careful,’ he added in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’ll change your life.’” (Danielewski 513). The novel House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski exhibits many characteristics that could place the novel neatly within the realm of the literary theory postmodernism. The publication history of the novel, its format, and the two narratives within it all contain elements which seem postmodern. This theory and its relation to House of Leaves might actually act like a new article of clothing that is bought and not tried on—perhaps it does not quite fit. At first glance, the book is contained within the parameters laid out by theorists such as Fredric Jameson—but, as most of the characters within the novel discover, first glances can be deceiving. The act of reading House of Leaves is a dizzying experience because of the format of the text itself: the novel is made up of two narratives, and features such as font, color, page orientation, and footnotes all seem to work against the reader and add to the strange format. One narrative centers on Johnny Truant—a young tattoo shop employee who discovers an acquaintance of his dead and alone in his apartment with nail marks in the floorboards, and an essay he was writing locked away in a trunk. The second narrative is the essay itself concerning the film The Navidson Record, wherein the footnotes of the essay contain Truant’s own story. The dual narratives of Johnny Truant and Zampanò are filled with allusions to other works (some of the cited works are real, or from real authors, but most turn out to be made-up), and these allusions create a convoluted intertextuality. These formatting features of the novel create a dizzying effect on readers, who are forced to refer to names or titles of essays within the large amount of footnotes, which distracts from the narrative. This format is foreign to many readers Noah 2 because it is so different from the preconceptions of what a novel should look like. The novel also forces readers to change its orientation during certain sections, because the text is printed upside-down or sideways. All of these formatting features contribute to the novel’s dizzying effect, and when considering the dual narratives and strange publication of the novel, the effect is strengthened. These elements within House of Leaves fit into the world of the postmodern sublime described by Fredric Jameson. Jameson discusses the effects that both Sartre’s derealization of reality and elements of Derrida’s deconstruction have on postmodern culture. He writes, “The world thereby momentarily loses its depth and threatens to become a glossy skin, a stereoscopic illusion, a rush of filmic images without density,” and then asks, “But is this now a terrifying or an exhilarating experience?” (Jameson 34). House of Leaves is made up of multiple layers of narrative; although each individual narrative threatens this “glossy skin,” actually, the novel exhibits much depth when considering all the layers together (Navidson’s documentary, for example, is simply a film of his family as they move into a new house). Danielewski’s novel may be both a terrifying and an exhilarating experience at the same time, but for a possibly different aesthetic reason than Jameson sets out to describe. Of course, the text does in fact fit into this sublime world Jameson is referring to in Postmodernism or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, but I will contend that the text actively seeks to fit into this world in order to satirize and criticize it. Jameson writes: Yet something else does tend to emerge in the most energetic post-modernist texts, and this is the sense that beyond all thematics or content the work seems somehow to tap the networks of the reproductive process and thereby to afford us some glimpse into a postmodern or technological sublime, whose power or authenticity is documented by the success of such works in evoking a whole new postmodern space in emergence around us (Jameson 37) Noah 3 Content and context inform and comment on one another throughout House of Leaves, and this “postmodern sublime” seems to emerge from the text. My contention is that Danielewski may be creating this space to encourage the reader to examine that space with a skeptical eye, and focus instead on the act of reading itself—the relationship between reader and text, excluding the spaces surrounding the text. Therefore, Danielewski’s true goal in creating a complex postmodern web around and within his novel is to focus on this relationship between reader and text. In order to properly frame this space, it may be helpful to consider my own relationship to the text. I discovered the novel House of Leaves through hearing a song by the band Poe called “Hey Pretty (2001 DriveBy Remix).” The original song is on the album Haunted (Danielewski’s sister is the lead singer of the band Poe, and the album is infused with references to House of Leaves), and I heard the remix as a single on the radio right around the time it was released. I enjoyed the song at the time, but never listened to it very closely. When I re-discovered the song recently, I researched the lyrics and history of the album, and that research led me to the novel House of Leaves. In the remixed version of the song, Danielewski himself reads a section from the novel over the instrumental track of “Hey Pretty.” The chorus remains the same, and his sister’s voice seems to become the voice of Kyrie from the novel, driving him through the streets as if he himself were Johnny Truant. I noted the poetics of this passage and how darkly sexy the car ride to Mulholland seemed, and I soon became transfixed upon the origin of such a passage: “Kyrie… suggested we go for a drive in her new 2 door BMW Coupe. In the parking lot, we slipped into her bucket seats…Kyrie took over from there” (Danielewski 88). Johnny Truant rides with Kyrie up to Mulholland and describes a love making scene where the focus becomes language—the car’s physical turning and acceleration, the words passed between the two lovers, and Noah 4 descriptions of clothing. Truant offers only glimpses into his love-making scene, and offers a sort of behind-closed-doors comment, which concludes the scene without expanding on any particular details: “Too bad dark languages rarely survive” (Danielewski 89). I realized that this was an incredibly well-crafted passage of writing, and if it came from a novel I knew that I had to read it. Soon after I purchased a library edition of House of Leaves and began reading, not knowing anything about the book other than that this passage lay somewhere inside. I ignored the warning which comes after the foreword and title page: “This is not for you.” As I began reading, I realized that the novel was really the essay Johnny Truant describes finding in the introduction. The essay acts as a satire of academic discourse; there are footnotes quoting authors who do not exist from fictitious academic journals, and quotations from things real authors never wrote. The essay also features an unreliable author who constantly places meaning into the film he analyzes (without being able to see the film in the first place, because he is blind). This experience of reading someone who is reading became a humorous commentary on my own reading of the novel, which began simply to find the passage from the song. My focus eventually shifted from simply trying to find this one particular passage, and I began following the allusions that the other readers in the book reference. Zampanò quotes many different critics throughout his essay, and most of these critics seem to be as fictional as the film The Navidson Record. When I started to realize that some of Zampanò’s allusions behind the footnotes to so many different authors were real, I traced the allusions he made, and it brought me into the realm of the postmodern. These allusions became greater and greater in number and eventually as I traced all of their origins I came across a complex web of texts all related to what is labeled “postmodernism.” I discovered psychoanalytic film theories, scientific and mathematic Noah 5 discoveries which influenced artistic movements, and classic linguistic theory all behind Zampanò’s words. Following the allusions to more and more texts led me to believe that this novel was really made up entirely of other texts. Instead of claiming that this was a postmodern text, now I was inclined to say that this text didn’t exist at all. Through tracing my experience in reading this novel, I hope to better illustrate its foundations. This postmodern web of texts weaves itself throughout Zampanò’s essay, but as Jameson might ask: what does this create—a frightening or exciting experience? I will argue that the experience, when deconstructed, proves frightening. Tracing some of the allusions found in Zampanò’s writing may lead a reader to an essay by Sigmund Freud called “The Uncanny,” where Freud discusses a short story by E.T.A. Hoffman. Also, the strange dimensions of the Navidson house are reminiscent of a short story by Robert Heinlein called “And He Built a Crooked House,” a story which experiments with the possibilities of the fourth spatial dimension and the hypercube. These elements of House of Leaves point the reader in many directions, on top of the excessive number of texts cited to begin with. So if the whole text of House of Leaves is grounded in other texts, real or otherwise, then what is really left to read? At first glance there is nothing left to read aside from Jameson’s complex web of postmodern technology that exists “without density”; looking closer reveals that there is much left to be read. The reader becomes briefly transfixed on Johnny Truant’s own narrative as he struggles through reading Zampanò’s essay, but this experience is always interrupted—Johnny Truant’s narrative only exists as footnotes to the essay. Martin Brick, in his essay “Reading the Book of Someone’s Reading,” summarizes this experience: “Though his plot is about a house that grows infinitely on the inside, his book is clearly about the reading process and a metaphor for interpretation of books themselves” (Brick 1). Besides describing the Noah 6 commentary expressed on the act of reading, Brick is also interested in the implications of such a commentary; he later expands: “The compelling textual layout facilitates an unresolved competition of authority between the various narrative voices. But more obviously, on a visual level, this instability of page structure operates as a mirror of the novel’s plot, which involves a filmmaker’s journey inside his mysterious house” (Brick 5). Expanding on page structure, consider the title of the novel; if “leaves” refers to one of the Oxford English Dictionary definitions, “One of the folds of a folded sheet of paper…which compose a book or manuscript, a folio; hence, the matter printed or written thereon,” then House of Leaves may refer to the novel itself, which is a house made up of leaves or pages. Perhaps the word “leaves” functions then as the history of the word listed in the OED, quoted from Spenser’s Amoretti: “Happy ye leaves when as those lilly hands…Shall handle you” (Spenser i) rather than in the poem included in the first appendix to House of Leaves: “Little solace comes/to those who grieve/when thoughts keep drifting/as walls keep shifting/and this great blue world of ours/seems a house of leaves/moments before the wind” (Danielewski 563). The house and this text are not built on symbols which can be solved and which will blow away with the wind, as the leaves in this poem included in Zampanò’s essay—they are rather built on leaves which eventually “handle” the reader: First, he reads a few lines by match light and then as the heat bites his fingertips he applies the flame to the page. Here then is one end: a final act of reading, a final act of consumption. And as the fire rapidly devours the paper, Navidson’s eyes frantically sweep down over the text, keeping just ahead of the necessary immolation, until as he reaches the last few words, flames lick around his hands, ash peels off into the surrounding emptiness, and then as the fire retreats, dimming, its light suddenly spent, the book is gone leaving nothing behind but invisible traces already dismantled in the dark. (Danielewski 467) Noah 7 Chapter Two: Freud, Zampanò, and Psychoanalysis in House of Leaves Discovering the Uncanny: Freud and Zampanò A reader will stumble across many names throughout House of Leaves, including some famed critics and authors; even in just the short segment of interviews Karen Green filmed, “What Some Have Thought,” a reader will come across the names of Anne Rice, Harold Bloom, Stephen King, Hunter S. Thompson, and Stanley Kubrick. Of course, these are fictional interviews created based on what these people might say about The Navidson Record. The interviews prove to be humorous asides, which end mostly with sexual advances towards Karen. More important than all these names listed in this short segment, though, is the name that is not mentioned overtly, Sigmund Freud. Freud is rather mentioned through Zampanò while he discusses Karen building a bookshelf in his essay on The Navidson Record. Instead of listing an imaginary source by a fake author, Zampanò alludes to an essay written by Freud. Zampanò writes: “Karen’s project is one mechanism against the uncanny or that which is ‘un-home-like.’ She remains watchful and willing to let the bizarre dimensions of her house gestate within her” (Danielewski 37). Any reader who is familiar with the Freud essay will immediately recall “The Uncanny,” Freud’s attempt to provide psychoanalytic insight into linguistic and literary theory using E.T.A. Hoffman’s short story “The Sandman.” The words ‘un-home-like’ broken apart with dashes are reminiscent of the German etymological discussion which begins Freud’s essay: “The German word unheimlich is obviously the opposite of heimlich, heimisch, meaning ‘familiar,’ ‘native,’ ‘belonging to the home’; and we are tempted to conclude that what is ‘uncanny’ is frightening precisely because it is not known and familiar” (Freud 419). Noah 8 Zampanò allows Freud’s words to cue the reader instead of his own as Karen completes a craft project with a friend, distracting herself from the completely bizarre, shifting dimensions of her home. As everyone else becomes transfixed with determination to resolve the strangeness they are experiencing within their house, Karen “challenges its irregularity by introducing normalcy” (Danielewski 37), and Zampanò points the reader in the direction of this Freud essay. But why simply allude to a real essay instead of quoting it and listing it in the footnotes? This relationship between Zampanò and Freud is an attempt by Danielewski to satirize postmodernism, and make an inter-textual joke within the format of his novel by alluding to “The Uncanny.” This not only comments on the action of The Navidson Record, but also relates to film theory and Zampanò’s nearly endless footnotes; Danielewski once again creates an interesting layer of “readers” while satirizing some elements of postmodernism. Focusing first on Freud’s essay reveals the basic similarities between Zampanò writing about The Navidson Record and Freud’s writing a piece of literary theory about E.T.A. Hoffman’s story “The Sandman.” The essay is supposed to examine the effects of the unconscious which are surprising, which create strange effects of “uncanniness.” Freud focuses on the childhood terror within “The Sandman” and the feeling it arouses in the older Nathaniel later in the story. Freud begins his essay with the quotation previously listed, pointing out that the German word “unheimlich is ‘obviously’ the opposite of Heimlich,” but strangely enough lists nearly three pages of dictionary excerpts explaining the etymology of the word—perhaps an excessive discussion for a word with an “obvious” meaning. Thus, here within his word-investigation is the first commonality between Freud and Zampanò. Freud seems to be interested in the second definition he lists from the first dictionary entry for the word “heimlich” which is related as: “Concealed, kept from sight, so that others do Noah 9 not get to know about it, withheld from others” (Freud 419). Freud then comments: “What interests us most in this long extract is to find that among its different shades of meaning the word Heimlich exhibits one which is identical with its opposite, unheimlich” (Freud 420). After illustrating the strangeness of this word, Freud then begins his attempt to illustrate its effects as applied to literature; he writes: “When we proceed to review the things, persons, impressions, events and situations which are able to arouse in us a feeling of the uncanny in a particularly forcible and definite form, the first requirement is obviously to select a suitable example to start on” (Freud 421). Freud then mentions Jentsch’s reading of “The Sandman” and begins a tangential summary of the story for the next two pages. Freud’s listing of dictionary definitions and his summary of the story within his essay are formatting issues or scholarly writing taboos to which Zampanò also succumbs. Instead of simply referring a reader to the story being analyzed, these authors deem it necessary to review and summarize the narrative occurring within the story. From a scholarly writing standpoint, these tactics are unnecessary for a work strictly concerned with analysis and interpretation; for example, when teaching students writing we might be inclined to say “don’t summarize.” When an author focuses on summarizing instead of analyzing a narrative, they undermine a reader’s previous knowledge of the narrative. This method forces a reader to experience the narrative again as they re-read an author’s own summary of a narrative. Of course, because The Navidson Record is not a real film, Zampanò’s summary is necessary for readers, but Danielewski uses these stylistic taboos to further the effect of satire. Zampanò in fact mostly summarizes the events of The Navidson Record within his essay, and offers quotations from other sources as commentary. At the first mention of the word “uncanny,” Zampanò offers a long quotation from Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit and fails to Noah 10 translate the German. Johnny does offer the following translation within his footnotes: “In anxiety one feels uncanny. Here the peculiar indefiniteness of that which Dasein finds itself alongside in anxiety, comes proximally to expression: the ‘nothing and nowhere’. But here ‘uncanniness’ also means ‘not-being-at-home.’ [das-Nicht-zuhause-sein].” (Danielewski 25). Here, Zampanò quotes Martin Heidegger in order to illustrate the effect of “uncanniness” exactly as Freud did—by using the definition of the word. Strangely enough, in both cases, the word’s ambiguous definition is used to illustrate the greater meaning of the word in the context of psychoanalysis. Johnny Truant adds some commentary on Heidegger’s discussion of the uncanny: “[…]Which only goes to prove the existence of crack back in the early twentieth century” (Danielewski 25). Truant is crudely commenting on the incomprehensiveness of Heidegger’s passage, but his comment does hint at the problems which arise from the deconstruction of this word, which creates a convoluted postmodern mess. As Heidegger and Freud use signification to point readers to the direction of the meaning or “sign” of “uncanny,” they both offer the slightly opposite meaning of the root word “heimlich.” The fact that “heimlich” may signify “unheimlich” is strange. The problem which both Freud and Heidegger encounter is that in over-analyzing the word’s meaning, they lose some of the other meaning that they are trying to achieve in using the word in the first place—hence Truant writing off Heidegger’s meaning, blaming his use of crack. His comment is relevant to The Navidson Record, though, because each word contains the other—“unhomely” and “homely,” one cannot exist without the other—a condition which will evolve with negative consequences for the Navidson family. In an older essay, Robin Lydenberg addresses the effect that ignoring certain literary elements (Freud’s “scholarly writing taboos” previously discussed) has within his essay “The Noah 11 Uncanny”; Lydenberg writes: “In fact several readers of ‘The Uncanny’ have pointed out that in reducing ‘The Sandman’ to its themes (or to his own themes), Freud ignores the complexity of the narrative framework and obscures the elements that constitute the story’s literariness” (Lydenberg 1073). Lydenberg points out that Freud is using his “own themes” to discuss Hoffman’s story, and not the universal literary themes which are understood by his audience. Freud does apply his psychoanalytic theory to the story within his essay, but really fails to address any of the narrative elements that make “The Sandman” a story. The effect of this stylistic taboo is that Freud loses some credibility as an author, because he is undermining his own analysis. Lydenberg expands on this position of narration within Freud: By focusing on the themes of “The Sandman” to the exclusion of its narrative form, Freud overlooks the aspects of his role as a story-teller that connect him to the tale’s principals: the struggle with the limitations of language to express intellectual and emotional conflict, the desire to sweep readers up in his own way of seeing (Lydenberg 1074) Once again, Lydenberg explains that because Freud focuses on his “own terms,” or sweeping readers up “in his own way of seeing,” he detracts from his goal in interpreting the story in the first place. Freud was concerned with how the story “The Sandman” made him feel and how readers in general are affected by the words they read. Freud was trying to describe that reading certain stories creates in a reader the feeling of “The Uncanny,” and used “The Sandman” as well as personal anecdotes from his life’s travels to illustrate this feeling—but he is not successful in accomplishing this goal. On the other side of things, because The Navidson Record is a documentary style film, the discussion by Zampanò tends to blur this narrative framework as well. The important difference between Zampanò and Freud though is that Danielewski has created Zampanò to Noah 12 intentionally comment on Freud’s approach in “The Uncanny,” which creates a satire of academia. The space Danielewski explores through Zampanò’s essay is in part made up of all the authors he quotes and interprets—an academic realm made up of “authority” and published facts. This space also is made up of authors and works which do not lie inside of the text; through his allusion to Freud, for example, Danielewski navigates the postmodern space which emerges around House of Leaves. A further discussion of Zampanò’s style of writing and the similarities between his “taboos” and Freud’s will help to define the “space” which I am referring to. The complex theories that Zampanò often focuses on eventually detract from the summary of the film he provides. In fact, examining one of Johnny Truant’s footnotes reveals a similarity to Lydenberg’s discussion of “The Uncanny.” Truant writes: Yesterday I managed to get Maus Fife-Harris on the phone. She’s a UC Irvine PhD candidate in Comp Lit who apparently always objected to the large chunks of narrative Zampanò kept asking her to write down. “I told him all those passages were inappropriate for a critical work, and if he were in my class I’d mark him down for it. But he’d just chuckle and continue. It bothered me a little but the guy wasn’t my student and he was blind and old, so why should I care?” (Danielewski 55) Zampanò almost becomes the narrator of The Navidson Record, instead of simply acting as a commentator on the narrative of the film; as Fife-Harris points out to Johnny Truant, these passages of narrative are “inappropriate for a critical work.” Fife-Harris tells Johnny Truant she didn’t press the issue because Zampanò is blind and old, but this is problematic because being blind, he would never have been able to view the film in the first place. This is also a problem because the film may or may not exist (Johnny Truant mentions searching many video stores for a copy—although his quest to find the film won’t haunt him as much as Zampanò’s essay gradually does). Noah 13 The expert that Truant finds here may be yet another reference to the realm of academia. Maus Fife-Harris is a PhD candidate in comparative literature, which is a realm where her name might reference another critic (just like Freud, “the critic,” in his essay). The French academic Marcel Mauss might be the critic behind the allusion of providing Fife-Harris with the first name Maus. Mauss focused his works such as The Gift on elements of anthropology, human interactions and their social significance in terms of “gift giving.” Traces of Mauss’s work may be found in the works of Claude Lévi-Strauss, and some have even used Derrida to discuss the implications of Mauss’s work. This group of critics represents a web of academia related to the allusion to “The Uncanny” in the first place. This allusion to Mauss also echoes Jameson’s discussion I previously mentioned in the introduction, the “authenticity” of works which tap into a postmodern space. Other authors use Mauss as an authority in their own works, much like authors would use Freud and his essay “The Uncanny.” For example, in a sociological work by James Carrier, Carrier uses Mauss’s theories on exchange to introduce his own ideas: “How does the transaction of objects reflect and recreate those people and their relationships? How does this transaction reflect and recreate the social understanding of the nature of objects? Because of its broad scope, Mauss’s model can be used to address a number of sociological topics” (Carrier 121). Carrier evokes Mauss’s model of gift exchange in order to relate to his own discussion of social relations, and in doing so becomes a critic of Mauss himself. This trend will continue throughout House of Leaves within Zampanò’s footnotes and allusions to texts both real and made-up, and for a further examination of this space the focus will be shifted again to Freud’s “The Uncanny.” The allusion to “The Uncanny” begins to point readers to the postmodern space Jameson refers to that “emerges around us.” Danielewski (via Zampanò) is also pointing readers in the Noah 14 direction of Freud’s essay to help comment on how readers may exhibit emotional responses to texts. Because the text of House of Leaves is constructed in such a bizarre way which creates a dizzying effect on a reader, the reader will no doubt feel the effects of “uncanniness” as they thumb through the pages. Readers become lost in footnotes as Navidson himself becomes lost inside of his own home, while meanwhile Johnny Truant loses his job and changes his whole life because of his obsession with Zampanò’s essay. Even some of the critics that Zampanò mentions throughout his essay exhibit traumatic physical, psychological, and emotional effects from studying the house. So by alluding to “The Uncanny,” Danielewski is commenting on the “uncanniness” of House of Leaves itself. Entering the Spaces of the House—“Expanding” on Psychoanalysis After summarizing Hoffman’s story, Freud writes: “This short summary leaves no doubt, I think, that the feeling of something uncanny is directly attached to the figure of the Sand-Man, that is, to the idea of being robbed of one’s eyes, and that Jentsch’s point of an intellectual uncertainty has nothing to do with the effect” (Freud 423). Freud does offer his idea of what about the story is uncanny, disagreeing with Ernst Jentsch’s own thoughts in On the Psychology of the Uncanny. Freud claims the fear of losing one’s eyes (through the symbol of the sandman) that permeates Hoffman’s story creates the feeling of uncanniness in readers. Freud continues and discredits the inanimate doll Olympia that Nathaniel in the story becomes obsessed with, as well as Jentsch’s thoughts on intellectual uncertainty. Rather than agree with the previous commentaries on the subject of the feeling of uncanniness, Freud claims that the feeling is directly related to losing the eyes, and he does not stop here. Noah 15 Freud continues to expand on why losing one’s eyes may create a feeling of the uncanny, and places this feeling into his own terms of psychoanalysis. Freud reflects: “A study of dreams, phantasies and myths has taught us that anxiety about one’s eyes, the fear of going blind, is often enough a substitute for the dread of being castrated[…]all further doubts are removed when we learn the details of their ‘castration complex’ from the analysis of neurotic patients, and realize its immense importance in their mental life” (Freud 424). Because so many critics and psychologists responded to Freud’s sentiments in his “The Uncanny,” a powerful lineage was created concerning psychoanalysis and literary theory which stem in part from this essay. Using this psychiatric method may make sense from the stance of a literary theorist who is able to psychoanalyze characters and their actions. Studying dreams and the “mental life” of Will Navidson in Danielewski’s novel is important for this Freudian connection. An important element of Freud’s psychoanalysis is his interpretation of dreams. Dreams are important within House of Leaves as well. It is within dreams that the subconscious is allowed to freely express its desires, and for Freud it is the location where the fear of castration may be discovered. He writes: But this view does not account adequately for the substitutive relation between the eye and the male organ which is seen to exist in dreams and myths and phantasies; nor can it dispel the impression that the threat of being castrated in especial excites a peculiarly violent and obscure emotion, and that this emotion is what first gives the idea of losing other organs its intense colouring [sic] (Freud 424) Simple familial relationships, such as the male relationship illustrated here by Freud, are distorted through our dreams and our subconscious desires, so that the castration complex of the son creates a troubled relation to the father. Throughout these anxieties rest the feelings of “violent and obscure emotion” which may be referred to as uncanny. Noah 16 Consider the relationship that Freud has to the text “The Sandman” within his essay “The Uncanny”; Freud acts as a reader. Just like Zampanò is a reader, Freud is using the theories and discussions he has found most interesting concerning Hoffman’s story, and he is applying them within his essay. Danielewski understands this relationship well, and is pointing readers towards it with his allusions through Zampanò to “The Uncanny.” Tracing the allusion to the end of the essay and Freud’s applications of psychoanalytics reveals Danielewski’s next point of satire. Zampanò applies psychoanalysis to Navidson in the same way Freud applies it to Nathaniel, and in one section of The Navidson Record, Navidson’s dreams reveal Danielewski’s satire of theory. The way Freud places his discussion of dreams and the castration complex into the story of “The Sandman” is exactly the type of academic writing that Danielewski is setting out to satirize. Chapter XVII of The Navidson Record is devoted to answering a simple question concerning the film... “Why Did Navidson Go Back To The House?” (Danielewski 385). The entire chapter is centered on three specific theories concerning the answer to this question, and Zampanò discusses the photograph which originally won Navidson critical acclaim (The Delial photo1 ). He also discusses a post-exposure effects rating of who is most affected by the trauma experienced within the house, and a set of dreams that Navidson has. One “theorist,” Lance Slocum, discusses the second dream Navidson refers to in the film, where he is in the center of a town attending a feast where the town has eaten a giant snail. After the feast, the town travels to a remote location outside of the town on a hill where the snail’s shell is left. The snail’s shell is of course the snail’s home, and as Zampanò continues to summarize through this person Slocum, 1 Various explanations for Navidson’s poor health and crumbling psyche point to the prize-winning photograph that originally made him famous. Navidson was a war photojournalist who won the Pulitzer Prize for a picture of a starving girl on the brink of death. Navidson takes a picture of the girl—now known as “Delial”—while a vulture is stalking her and waiting for her to die, instead of acting to save her. This picture of Delial represents the pinnacle of Navidson’s past—it is the photo that made him famous, and then allowed him to meet Karen in the first place. Noah 17 he addresses the emptiness of the home with the last sentences: “He gives serious thought to staying. He wonders if the approaching dawn will fill the shell with light” (Danielewski 399). Danielewski makes up this dream to create a landscape of Navidson’s subconscious related again to Freud. As Zampanò and other theorists ponder the meaning of this dream, the dream becomes a narrative itself like “The Sandman” which will be interpreted in the same manner as Freud by various critics. Danielewski invents the symbol of the snail and creates the dream of a feast around that symbol, and these critics will read the dream the same way Freud read “The Sandman.” Through these various critics’ discussions of the dream, readers discover more satire of Freud and the postmodern space which emerges from the novel. Consider the following passage Zampanò quotes from these “dream critics”: “Unlike the dread lying in wait at the bottom of the wishing well,” Slocum comments, “The snail provides nourishment. Its shell offers the redemption of beauty, and despite Navidson’s dying candle, its curves still hold out the promise of even greater illumination. All of which is in stark contrast to the house. There the walls are black, in the dream of the snail they are white; there you starve, in the dream the town is fed for a lifetime; there the maze is threatening, in the dream the spiral is pleasing; there you descend, in the dream you ascend and so on.” (Danielewski 402) This commentator Slocum is a perfect representation of how Danielewski is satirizing this academic writing, and specifically the discussion of dreams and Freudian psychoanalysis. Slocum neatly places the symbols which occur in the dream into his answer to the question which surrounds this chapter—why did Navidson return to the house? He provides evidence based on the light within the dream as a symbol for hope. Through this hope found within the dream, Navidson will presumably find the courage to return to his house and explore the staircase and labyrinth further. The odd thing is that the commentator is quoted as saying “and so on” at the end of his discussion of the dream. The phrase “and so on” signals a reader that this Noah 18 list of symbols and analysis could be endless, or possibly that the list of symbols is not that important and can be brushed off with a quick summary. Danielewski’s satire of academia is found through creating allusions to psychoanalysis and the interpretation of Navidson’s dreams. He then proceeds through Zampanò and writes, “For the more troubling and by far most terrifying Dream #3, Mia Haven and Lance Slocum team up together to ply the curvatures of that strange stretch of imaginings. Unlike #1 and #2, this dream is particularly difficult to recount and requires that careful attention be paid to the various temporal and even tonal shifts” (Danielewski 402). Then, a simple note occurs which is a footnote from Johnny Truant, “[2 pages missing].” After explaining that the most terrifying dream is yet to come, readers are denied the chance to experience it because simply those pages are missing from the essay. Just like the “and so on” comment at the end of Slocum’s discussion of the snail dream, this missing portion breaks the academic discourse for the reader, removing them from the essay. Truant takes his cue in the missing content to begin discussing one of his own dreams. This interruption by Truant leads to more allusions to psychoanalysis within House of Leaves, illustrated in Truant’s obsessive relationship to the essay The Navidson Record, and his relationship with his mother. In her essay “’What Has Made Me?’ Locating Mother in the Textual Labyrinth of Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves,” Katharine Cox challenges the critic Doug Nufer’s claim that allowing Johnny Truant to present Zampanò’s essay is “risky.” She argues that “Truant is an essential narrative proponent and that both he and his mother are integral to the house/labyrinth detailed in the Navidson Record” (Cox 6). By focusing on how the relationship between Truant and his mother is presented throughout the footnotes, Cox does illustrate the importance of Truant’s narrative. Then she continues, arguing that “The fragmentation and later reconciliation Noah 19 within the family unit offered by the Navidsons act as an analogy for the tortured and mysterious story of Truant and Pelafina; they too mask a secret that is confronted and finally resolved in the space of the labyrinth” (Cox 6). Cox achieves her goal in setting up Truant as an important foil to Navidson and Karen, and does this by using psychoanalysis to locate the portions of the essay where Truant is “locating” his mother. However, Cox is also illustrating another point concerning Truant. By using this psychoanalytic theory, she is playing into the same realm of the postmodern that Danielewski is trying to satirize. Through using the language of psychoanalysis itself, grounded in Freud’s “The Uncanny,” Cox’s words become another in the line of readers already examined amongst Freud, Zampanò, and Truant. Cox concludes her essay by saying: “From a site of mythic contestation and architectural difficulty, Danielewski reveals a current labyrinth whose structural bonds denote the fatiguing impositions of familial ties. Yet these denigrating and traumatic alliances are softened by the walking of the labyrinth, directly through the transformative qualities of the structure” (Cox 14). Cox’s tone seems familiar to the dream interpretation discussed previously in Zampanò’s essay. Her “walking of the labyrinth” becomes the process of interpreting these realms of theory, Freud’s psychoanalysis and postmodernism, and it is this process of “walking” which helps to “soften” the familial ties presented in the novel. These familial ties are the foundation of the book’s main narrative…the narrative, as told by Zampanò, of The Navidson Record. The entire film is based on the premise that Navidson is an obsessive photographer, setting out on a project to film his family’s adjustment to a new home. Zampanò introduces the scope of Navidson’s project when he writes: “ [He] began his project by mounting a number of Hi 8s around the house and equipping them with motion detectors to turn them on and off whenever someone enters or leaves the room. With the Noah 20 exception of the three bathrooms, there are cameras in every corner of the house. Navidson also keeps on hand two 16mm Arriflexs and his usual battery of 35mm cameras” (Danielewski 10). These cameras work on one level simply to film the documentary The Navidson Record, but on another level these cameras are another example of “reading,” as Zampanò is supposedly writing his essay on his viewing of the film (which is problematic because he is blind, and both Johnny Truant and the unnamed “editors” throughout the footnotes dispute the film’s existence). The cameras, and the film and narrative of the story in general, come to represent this relationship of a reader to a text. The interpretation of the film then through Zampanò’s essay becomes a reader’s own analysis through his personal relation to the narrative—just like Freud relating his reading of “The Sandman.” The familial relationships between the Navidsons and Johnny Truant and Pelafina must be considered within this context of the original allusion to Freud’s “Uncanny”; they exist within Jameson’s web of postmodern texts. Tracing Freud to Film Karen’s allusion to “The Uncanny” extends past this discussion of psychoanalysis and comments directly on the format and the presentation of the text of The Navidson Record. When tracing the allusion to Freud’s essay, readers experience a deeper understanding of exactly what Zampanò’s words mean. “Karen’s guard against that which is uncanny” may signify to a reader that she is trying to craft a project with a friend to introduce normalcy into a situation she does not comprehend; her project at the same times signifies to a reader to recall another essay, which further signifies all the previously discussed elements of Freudian psychoanalysis. Through this allusion, readers are plunged into the world described by Jameson when he writes of the works which exist “in the postmodern space around us.” The space signified by these allusions is made Noah 21 up of many other works which all relate to House of Leaves—so much so that without this space, the “house” of leaves is seemingly an empty one. Considering that the format of Zampanò’s narrative is an academic essay about a film, this allusion to another academic essay by Freud is a clever commentary on the academic space that exists around the essays. Christopher Butler summarizes this space well in his Postmodernism: A Very Short Introduction: The danger, but also the point, for many postmodernists, of embedding theoretical and philosophical arguments within a literary rhetoric is that the text is thereby left open to all sorts of interpretations. Books of a postmodernist persuasion are often advertised by their publishers, not for their challenging hypotheses or arguments, but for their ‘use of theory’, their ‘insights’, their ‘interventions’, their ‘addressing’ (rather than answering) questions (Butler ii) Butler describes postmodern rhetoric as “skeptical,” and overly concerned with embedding theoretical arguments. Danielewski is also acting as a skeptic through Zampanò’s and his commentaries, but he is most likely being skeptical of this academic space labeled here as “postmodern,” rather than skeptical of the actual theorists and philosophers he mentions through Zampanò. Examining this space even further through Zampanò’s allusion to Freud may more clearly illustrate another way that Danielewski is satirizing this realm of academia and postmodern rhetoric. Exploring the uncanny is a good metaphor for Navidson exploring his own house (literally the most familiar thing “home,” for him has become unfamiliar). Zampanò explores this metaphor in his essay: Some have suggested that the horrors Navidson encountered in that house were merely manifestations of his own troubled psyche. Dr. Iben Van Pollit in his book The Incident claims the entire house is a physical incarnation of Navidson’s psychological pain: “I often wonder how things might have turned out if Will Navidson had, how shall we say, done a little bit of house cleaning” (Danielewski 21) Noah 22 On one level while the reader explores the depths of the allusion to the uncanny, Navidson will also be exploring that which is uncanny to him—his house. On another level, the essay “The Uncanny” fits neatly into a line of essays which influenced postmodernist film theory, specifically the feminist theories of Laura Mulvey. Tracing this lineage of essays and influence not only outlines but creates an example of the “postmodern space” to which critics like Jameson and Butler refer. When readers eventually trace the line of essays which influence Laura Mulvey’s “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” a new realization of Will Navidson and his film project occurs. Zampanò frames the project of filming the house again as he centers on Navidson: “For this reason, we should again revisit Navidson on his porch, his gaze fixed, his delicate fingers wrapped around a glass of lemonade. ‘I just thought it would be nice to see how people move into a place and start to inhabit it,’ he calmly announces” (Danielewski 23). Zampanò is exploring why Navidson decided to start this project, and one word in his commentary may stand out to readers familiar with film theory—the gaze. Navidson is a photographer, so his desire to film his own family in his home stems from certain concepts found within Mulvey’s essay. To fully comprehend the scope of the space surrounding the essay, though, once again a reader needs to start with Freud. One effect of Freud’s “The Uncanny” was influencing other writings concerning psychoanalysis and the aesthetic; theorists began to either embrace or dispute Freud’s writings, and new texts became tied into this emerging theory of psychoanalysis. One such theorist was a French psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, whose writings directly influenced post-structuralist authors often referred to by the postmodern critics. Jacques Lacan may be considered one of the Noah 23 critics to be most directly influenced by Freud—his name is not often mentioned without also mentioning Freud’s. In one of Lacan’s seminars, “The Psychoses,” an important concept is introduced that will once again influence another essay. Lacan interjects a personal narrative just like Freud’s narration of his traveling to another country within “The Uncanny,” or the other features previously discussed where his own narrative voice penetrates the text of his essay. A discussion of the case of President Schreber illustrates in the first section of his third seminar how psychoanalysis explains a particular subject’s unconscious. It is near the end of this discussion that a reader might recall certain elements of “The Uncanny.” Lacan states: You think you are dealing with someone who is communicating with you because he speaks the same language as you. And then, what he is saying is so understandable that you get the feeling, particularly if you are a psychoanalyst, that here is someone who has penetrated, in a more profound way than is given to the common lot of mortals, into the very mechanism of the system of the unconscious. Somewhere in the second chapter Schreber expresses it in passing— Enlightenment rarely given to the mortals has been given to me (Lacan 31) Lacan refers here to the feeling of “uncanniness” that may occur through reading certain authors’ words, just as Freud set out to describe in “The Uncanny.” Perhaps Lacan is situating this particular reading of Schreber’s words here to substitute the “uncanny” for “enlightenment”; but more important than this possible misinterpretation is something that occurs later in his essay. Lacan discusses how language and linguistics work within psychoanalysis in terms of analyzing a patient, and continues until he arrives at another “popular” term within psychoanalysis. From this terminology he will develop his own important contribution to the field of psychoanalysis—the concept of “other.” He begins this discussion though with a term which will also be familiar to readers of House of Leaves: “Take a subject who is the object of a thought-echo…one of the two intracerebral messages, one of the two telegrams, as it were, is Noah 24 impeded and arrives after the other, thus as its echo” (Lacan 36). Lacan is introducing the concept of “other” (which will become important for deconstruction later) by reviewing a particular psychology concept, the thought-echo. The word “echo” here may act just like the word “uncanny” as previously discussed, and an intricate web of theorists will use this word for their own purposes. Danielewski is certainly interested in this word, and includes a whole chapter from Zampanò’s essay dedicated to “echo.” The chapter begins: “It is impossible to appreciate the importance of space in The Navidson Record without first taking into account the significance of echoes” (Danielewski 41). Zampanò refers to “space” meaning the vastness of the caverns and hallways which appear in the Navidson house, but space also refers to this space of texts which surround House of Leaves. Zampanò also uses the phrase “significance of echoes,” meaning the importance of various echoes, but the chapter is in fact an exploration of signification of the word echo itself. Because Danielewski dedicates an entire chapter to a concept with such a complex history, he is engaging once again in satirizing the emerging postmodern texts around House of Leaves. Danielewski can tie into the lineage of linguistic and theoretical history that makes The Navidson Record important for Zampanò in the first place. By referring to Freud and Lacan, Danielewski places his novel into this web of complex texts, as Zampanò navigates through his own web of complex texts in his essay. These layers of textual space that appear mimic the space which appears in the Navidson household, and through this layering of various texts Danielewski achieves a successful commentary on the realm of postmodernism. Through that successful commentary, Danielewski resembles the caption written about him on the back cover of the library’s second edition of the novel by Time Out New York: “Danielewski has a songwriter’s heart as attuned to heartache as he is to Derrida’s theory on the Noah 25 sign.” Danielewski ties his understanding of complex linguistic theories into Zampanò’s discussion of echo. Zampanò begins his chapter on “echoes” with a description of the word: “Generally speaking, echo has two coextensive histories: the mythological one and the scientific one. Each provides a slightly different perspective on the inherent meaning of recurrence, especially when that repetition is imperfect” (Danielewski 41). A footnote in the middle of this passage refers readers to a critic who argues for a third history of “echo,” the epistemological history. This passage is entirely concerned with the limitations of knowledge surrounding the word, and the echo chapter fits nicely into the postmodern space created around this novel while at the same time enacting the concept of echo itself through repeating these various histories. Zampanò discusses various elements of Greek mythology and the story of Echo throughout the chapter, summarizing the story and then re-interpreting the various meanings of it through critics and authors. He continues to discuss the importance of “echo” as related to religion, and also the recording of psalms by religious choirs—“Divinity seems defined by echo” (Danielewski 46). Zampanò then discusses the scientific definition of echo, and lists various physics equations for determining the lengths of sound waves. Johnny Truant is also concerned with sound in this chapter, and recalls hearing the ten words that his love interest Thumper finally offers him when she says “hello thank you what’s your name nice to meet you” (Danielewski 53). Finally placing echo back into the context of The Navidson Record, Zampanò concludes his chapter by writing: “Myth makes echo the subject of longing and desire. Physics makes Echo the subject of distance and design. Where emotion and reason are concerned both claims are accurate. And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence” (Danielewski 50). Noah 26 Zampanò takes a lot of space in his essay to describe all the various meanings of the word “echo,” just like Freud listing the definitions of the word “Heimlich” in “The Uncanny.” Zampanò adds to the satire of academia and contributes more content to the emerging postmodern space around House of Leaves by labeling the separate schools of thought contributing to the meaning of “echo.” Zampanò is attempting to describe echoes to cue the reader in on just how vast the Navidson house is, but he actually creates more space in and around his essay with his various allusions to religion, Greek mythology, and science within this one chapter. As the discussions of the word “echo” increase in number, Zampanò’s essay itself becomes larger, mimicking the physical alterations to the Navidson house while at the same time demonstrating the action of an echo. By using the format of his novel to relate to and comment on the narrative occurring inside of it, Danielewski is masterfully constructing his own postmodern space both inside his text, and through allusions to other works outside of his text. The very next chapter of the essay is the beginning of the journey into the house, and Navidson records his “Exploration A” into the cavernous hallway that appears in his living room, even against the warning of Karen that she will leave him if he enters. The narrative structure of The Navidson Record begins to take shape in this chapter, as family tensions between Will and Karen increase and the explorations into the house become more serious. The ending of this chapter, though, is important for this discussion of Lacan and “Echo” when Daisy requests that she and her father can play “always.” Zampanò writes: “Despite the tremendous amount of material generated by Exploration A, no one has ever commented on the game Daisy wants to play with her father, perhaps because everyone assumes it is either a request ‘to play always’ or just a childish neologism. Then again, ‘always’ slightly mispronounces ‘hallways.’ It also echoes it” (Danielewski 73). Zampanò focuses on an event he claims no one else has ever commented Noah 27 on, and places his own meaning of Daisy’s words here in this passage when he suggests everyone assumes Daisy wants to “always play.” By placing his own meaning into this event, Zampanò is again demonstrating a similarity to Freud in “The Uncanny,” but the allusion is strengthened when he ends the chapter by saying “it also echoes it.” The echo shows up once again and the space between Zampanò, Lacan, and Freud emerges. Danielewski creates some horror filled effects through Zampanò’s essay in these chapters, when the reader begins to realize that the discussion of “echo” actually “echoes” into different chapters. The next character to be introduced in Zampanò’s essay is Holloway Roberts, whose name also “slightly mispronounces” or “echoes” the word hallway. This connection between Lacan’s seminar and Zampanò’s chapters ties into the discussion of “The Uncanny” very well, but as I have previously mentioned, this space constructed around House of Leaves does not end here. Influenced by Lacan’s seminars and concepts of “echo” and “otherness,” Laura Mulvey also shares some connections to Navidson and House of Leaves. Building on psychoanalytic foundations, Mulvey discusses the concept of “scopophilia” in her essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Mulvey applies this concept of “visual pleasure,” which is based upon Freud, Lacan, and others, to film when she writes: “The cinema satisfies a primordial wish for pleasurable looking, but it also goes further, developing scopophilia in its narcissistic aspect” (Mulvey 31). This “pleasurable looking” becomes important when considering Will Navidson’s position as a photojournalist, and the documentary style of the film The Navidson Record. She continues to discuss this concept of “gaze” in film, where one person looks at another on screen through filmic images and holds a position of power over the other person because they are objectified. Just like signification or Lacan’s discussion of “otherness,” the gaze works as a binary structure—one thing, and the other. Mulvey will use this Noah 28 concept of “the gaze” to influence her discussions in this essay, which became the foundation for most modern feminist film theory. Mulvey analyzes various ways men look at women in film and the ways women are objectified or fetishized. Instead of further analyzing Mulvey’s essay, applying this basic understanding of the essay to House of Leaves will suffice to complete the frame around the space Danielewski is creating. Obviously, Mulvey’s essay is important to House of Leaves because The Navidson Record is a film, so it would be appropriate to discuss film theory in context (in fact, Zampanò does this quite often). Also important is the fact that Navidson himself was a photographer, and as the discussion of the film’s narrative progresses, Zampanò often focuses on discussing the lens combinations or filming equipment that Navidson used. Instead of advancing the narrative along while Navidson explores his house, Zampanò may interject the gaze of Navidson himself, who is simply filming the whole proceeding. Mulvey’s “gaze” becomes very important in the context of one photo Navidson took in particular, the Delial photo previously discussed (see footnote 1). The guilt he carries surrounding the photo haunts him nearly as much as his own house does throughout The Navidson Record, and the photo is referred to many times throughout the essay. One critic that Zampanò quotes claims that if The Navidson Record were to follow Hollywood conventions, the film would have ended with Delial discovered at the center of the house (interesting when considering the previous critic Van Politt’s claim that the house is a manifestation of Navidson’s psychological pain). It is through the discussion of another “critic” that a connection to the gaze is fully understood; Zampanò quotes Rouhollah W. Leffler and then writes: “Leffler’s point is simply that while Navidson does not physically appear in the frame he still occupies the right side of the photograph. The emptiness there is merely a gnomonic representation of both his Noah 29 presence and influence, challenging the predator for a helpless prize epitomized by the flightless wings of a dying child’s shoulder blades” (Danielewski 421). Through analyzing the space in the photograph, this critic Leffler has come to the conclusion that Navidson’s presence is indicated by the emptiness in the right side of the frame. As Navidson photographs the girl, he is simultaneously contributing to her death by not helping her. Through interpreting the gaze, we realize that Navidson holds a gaze over the little girl he is photographing. His position of power as the holder of the gaze is literally a position of power over her life, as she is about to die. This position relates to a stance where one can take action but may chose not to, a stance that is encapsulated in both Lacan’s “other” and Freud’s “Uncanny.” Delial is only one symbol inside of the film, though, and many more exist which also relate to Mulvey’s theories and this space created between Freud and Mulvey in general. The essays, critics, and authors which influence each other and occur between “The Uncanny” and “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” don’t appear directly in the footnotes of House of Leaves—but this lineage of critical theory is alluded to often as I have previously demonstrated. By alluding to this history of literature and theory, Danielewski creates an emerging postmodern “space” of texts which comment on the action of The Navidson Record. Placing this other space on top of a web of already convoluted intertextuality creates an interesting commentary on this sort of academic discourse by critiquing it through allusions, while at the same time being made up of that same discourse. Roll the Credits I think if properly read in the context of House of Leaves, the postmodern space that Danielewski creates encourages the reader into a re-evaluation of the role of “reader.” By writing Noah 30 a novel built on a dual narrative structure which contains so many footnotes to other texts, the novel is actually very difficult to describe or summarize. In this sense, it evades criticism itself, and offers a very difficult-to-relate story to a reader. This novel is largely made up of other texts, some real and some simply made up. Exploring Zampanò’s essay and the area “outside the text” (which is described through his allusions), reveals this world of intertextuality, or this postmodern space that Danielewski has created. A reader exploring Zampanò’s essay and the novel House of Leaves at large, then, becomes just like Navidson who is exploring the dark depths of his house—or like Johnny Truant who explores his life through writing in the footnotes of this essay he has become obsessed with. To better understand what Danielewski may be saying about “reading,” consider the following: after the introduction of the novel by Johnny Truant, a question appears as the only text on an otherwise blank page: “Muss es sein?” This phrase is German, and translates to “Must it be?” or “Does it have to?” The phrase also sounds like a French phrase, “mise-en-scene,” which means “placing on stage” and is used to describe anything in the frame of a performance. Starting the novel with such a question frames this relationship of a reader and a text; the reader is cued to pay attention to everything in the frame, and to simultaneously question everything that appears within that scene while receiving it: “must it be?” Even the title of the novel relates to this relationship of reader and text. If the word “leaves” refers to pages, then House of Leaves is a house which is made up of pages. Doesn’t any book ever written fit this description? Zampanò’s essay is an example of academic discourse, an interpretation of a text (or in this case a film—The Navidson Record). Unlike Zampanò’s essay, Danielewski is trying to re-evaluate the relationship of reader and text. This relationship may be thought of as a binary relationship made up strictly of one reader and one text—and not made up, Noah 31 like Zampanò’s essay, of so many other allusions, authors, references, and texts—but this relationship may also be something entirely new, maybe even a web of relationships between readers and texts. Noah 32 Chapter Three: Surfaces, Johnny Truant, and Signification Postmodern Linguistics The movement of postmodernism is sometimes concerned with structures of language, and in particular it is concerned with the linguistic branch of semiotics. Jameson dedicates an entire chapter of his book to sentences and language, and even Jean-Francois Lyotard in The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge refers to “language games.” Danielewski is attuned to this relationship concerning the postmodern and semiotics, and beyond his allusions to Freud and “The Uncanny” previously discussed, he uses his character Johnny Truant to further demonstrate his balance between a “love story” and sign theory. Ideas brought to a novel by a reader concerning what a love story really is may warp an understanding of Johnny Truant’s own sordid “love” life. For Truant, love becomes synonymous with strippers, parties, and sex. But for Navidson, love is challenged by the events surrounding his shifting house, and he and Karen struggle to save their relationship while trying to survive the horror-filled events their family encounters. So labeling House of Leaves “A love story by a semiotician” is appropriate given Danielewski’s twisting of reader’s expectations of what to encounter in a love story. The concerns with language within postmodern theory may stem from the word itself. Like Freud’s definition of “uncanny,” the word seems to have no clear definition and is built on the definitions of other words. To comprehend the word postmodernism requires one to also comprehend the movement it stands against, modernism. Ihab Hassan explores these words in his essay “Toward a Concept of Postmodernism” when he writes: “But what better name have we to give this curious age? The Atomic, or Space, or Television Age? These technological tags lack theoretical definition… Like other categorical terms—say poststructuralism, or modernism, Noah 33 or romanticism for that matter—postmodernism suffers from a certain semantic instability” (Hassan 38-9). Hassan hints at some of the technological relationships which exist with the theory, and then denies them, saying they lack “theoretical definition.” As I am attempting to demonstrate through Danielewski’s novel, perhaps the movement itself is crafted around this lack of “theoretical definition.” The semantic instability Hassan refers to has less to do with the word “postmodernism” and more to do with the labyrinth of theories it is made up of. Postmodernism has approached a theoretical definition, thanks in part to Hassan’s essay and other works such as Lyotard’s Postmodern Condition, or Jameson’s collection of his work on the subject. Certain authors published works while the postmodern period was still being defined and reinterpreted which experiment with the forms of language and the format of the novel in general; using these tactics authors associated themselves with the postmodern movement, so much so that their works were inseparable from the theory itself. Ray Federman, for example, explored the format of narrative and language in his novel Take It Or Leave It. Throughout the novel, he uses language to challenge the traditional format of narrative. Federman writes: Writing is not [I INSIST] the living repetition of life. The author is [PERHAPS?] that which gives the disquieting language of fiction its unities, its knots of coherence, its insertion into the real. All fiction is [I THINK] a digression. It always deviates from its true purpose. All reading is [IN MY OPINION] done haphazardly. (Federman, “Recommendations”) Federman abandons the format of a traditional narrative to embark on his own digressions throughout his entire novel, and in this passage he even interjects further digressions in the form of parenthetical statements. Noah 34 Besides his novel, Federman published some important theoretical work for the postmodern movement. In his Critifiction: Postmodern Essays, he explores the implications of using language for this purpose, and he even attempts to reinterpret the term “postmodernism” itself: And so, for me, the only fiction that still means something today is the kind of fiction that tries to explore the possibilities of fiction beyond its own limitations; the kind of fiction that challenges the tradition that governs it; the kind of fiction that constantly renews our faith in man’s intelligence and imagination rather than man’s distorted view of reality; the kind of fiction that reveals man’s playful irrationality rather than his righteous rationality. This I call SURFICTION. However, not because it imitates reality, but because it exposes the fictionality of reality (Federman 67). “Exposing the fictionality of reality” is a phrase reminiscent of Jameson’s discussion of the postmodern society when he writes: “beyond all thematics or content the work seems somehow to tap the networks of the reproductive process and thereby to afford us some glimpse into a postmodern or technological sublime” (Jameson 35). Federman’s passage as a whole relates well to House of Leaves—specifically, the term “playful irrationality” describes Danielewski’s writing style well. Like Federman inserting digressions within his digressions, Danielewski crafts the narrative of Johnny Truant inside of another narrative—The Navidson Record. Writing style aside, Danielewski’s novel clearly “explores the possibilities of fiction beyond its own limitations,” but through his character Johnny Truant, the postmodern tradition is challenged and satirized rather than embraced. Johnny Truant and Surfaces Johnny Truant could possibly be considered the protagonist of House of Leaves—as if “Truant” were the matching answer for “protagonist” on the final examination for the novel. Or perhaps the answer is Navidson. “Truant” could even refer to the fact that Johnny Truant stands Noah 35 in as the protagonist of the narrative instead of Navidson—who is simply filming the events and editing himself into the documentary Zampanò is discussing in The Navidson Record. But then again, maybe there are two questions to match, because there are two narratives in the novel. 2 But then, there’s the question of who exactly Johnny Truant is, or whether or not The Navidson Record is a real film. Determining the authenticity of sources within House of Leaves may be just one of the many, many concerns a reader may exhibit whilst engaging with the text; for example, a reader may inspect which authors and essay titles are in fact real within the footnotes. The character of Johnny Truant does not escape this investigation either—information is readily available on Johnny Truant; readers learn about his job (a tattoo shop employee who prepares needles), his best friend and his love interest (“Lude,” and a stripper named “Thumper”), and his drug and alcohol preferences (anything under the sun). But the source of this information is the unreliable narrator Johnny Truant himself. Considering this source, a reader comes again to the question of who exactly Johnny Truant is. Whoever he is, Johnny Truant is a hero—a champion who must struggle with overcoming a dangerous beast—in his case, the essay The Navidson Record. His role as “hero” is sort of a function of Danielewski’s novel, because his purpose in writing is often to focus readers on the role of language and the linguistic elements which I have been discussing. Johnny Truant is represented by various surfaces within House of Leaves; possibly for a linguistic reason, Danielewski is once again creating an allusion for readers to investigate. Truant may be considered an editor of Zampanò’s essay, and this position as a reader of the essay is one of the “surfaces” he is associated with. Truant is the discoverer of Zampanò’s essay; he finds it in 2 Consider again how a reader will first approach the text of House of Leaves; preconceptions of what a novel should be are present before ever reading this text. Readers must therefore take every preconception of “a novel” away from an approach to understanding House of Leaves—developing an idea for what this novel is may be as hard as passing a final examination on it Noah 36 a chest while investigating the apartment after Zampanò’s mysterious death. As he begins to read the essay, he becomes obsessed with it until he transforms his whole life because of what he is reading and the way the essay makes him feel. The introduction of the novel is Truant speaking to readers about how transformed he has become because of Zampanò’s essay The Navidson Record. In one passage Truant refers to his experience by using a metaphor pertaining to light: …For some reason, you will no longer be the person you believe you once were. You’ll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you. Worse, you’ll realize it’s always been shifting, like a shimmer of sorts, a vast shimmer, only dark like a room…You might try then, as I did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you again. Only no sky can blind you now. Even with all that iridescent magic up there, your eye will no longer linger on the light, it will no longer trace constellations. You’ll care only about the darkness and you’ll watch it for hours, for days, maybe even for years, trying in vain to believe you’re some kind of indispensable, universe-appointed sentinel…it will get so bad you’ll be afraid to look away, you’ll be afraid to sleep (Danielewski xxiii) Truant interprets the fear he has developed after discovering and reading Zampanò’s essay about the film. Truant refers to the time before he began reading the essay, calling himself “blind” (an important word choice considering that Zampanò is himself blind). But he then discovers a lightfilled “shimmer” of information within Zampanò’s essay, and this knowledge transforms him. His fear has corrupted him so much by the time he is writing the introduction that he literally craves the darkness again, and relates his state of fear as being so severe that he is afraid to even sleep. His insomnia is personified by the presence of his footnotes in The Navidson Record even; the essay is interrupted by Truant as much as his own sleep and life is interrupted by the essay. His fear throughout this introduction is manifested because of the nature of Zampanò’s essay…the film The Navidson Record doesn’t appear to be real, Zampanò was found dead and alone (an event Johnny Truant suspects to have something to do with the essay), and the events of the film are terrifying for Will Navidson and his family. But his fear represents something more for readers encountering the text House of Leaves; it represents the act of reading in Noah 37 general. The symptoms that Truant suffers while engaging with The Navidson Record are not unlike the symptoms that readers of House of Leaves encounter because of the maze-like construction of the text itself. The experience of encountering the maze-like format of the novel, and the web of postmodern texts that Danielewski weaves around the novel, are challenging for a reader because they are forced to navigate through these distractions to experience the narrative which lies beneath. Through presenting his own narrative within the footnotes of Zampanò’s essay, Truant exposes these challenges of reading—whether the reading is analytical like Zampanò’s, or social and historical like Jameson’s—while providing further allusions to linguistic theory. Truant , Lude, and Animals Johnny Truant discovers the death of Zampanò and the essay The Navidson Record through his friend, Lude. Lude previously lived in the same building as Zampanò, and Lude relates to Johnny Truant during the introduction to the novel that Zampanò told him he felt like he would be dying soon. Lude plays an important role in Johnny Truant’s narrative, because Johnny rarely leaves his apartment unless he is with Lude or going to work (eventually he even stops leaving for both, sheltering himself and almost as closed-off as Zampanò was). Lude introduces Johnny to many different people in the episodes they encounter throughout Truant’s narrative footnotes, including Kyrie. Johnny Truant writes about meeting Lude’s friend Kyrie: “Lude took heed when I told him I needed a German translation and introduced us. As it turned out, I’d met her before, about five or so months ago” (Danielewski 87). Then Truant describes this scene where he previously met her; he was out with Lude and was accused by a man of coming on to the girl he was with, Noah 38 who turns out to be Kyrie. After making a scene and nearly getting assaulted, Truant writes: “Lude was yelling at me. ‘You got a death wish Truant?’ Which was the thing that scared me. ‘Cause maybe I did” (Danielewski 87). Lude here is cautioning Johnny Truant, although most times Lude represents the furthest thing from caution. Although this caution Lude is offering seems genuine, Lude gets Truant into the situations which require caution in the first place, so Lude represents the opposite of Truant’s “surface” experience—Lude is made up of things beneath the surface. Lude represents the channel for Johnny Truant to experience the world outside his apartment and tattoo shop. Although Lude is the social link for Johnny Truant, the experiences they encounter are not very safe, and oftentimes not even legal. Lude is a link not only to other people and experiences outside Truant’s apartment, but also to drugs and alcohol and the trouble that comes along with being in close proximity to both. The name Lude even functions to comment on this channel, which leads to danger and experience for Johnny Truant—“Lude” could be a homonym for “lewd,” meaning crude or offensive in a sexual manner. “Lude” is also a word that refers to a drug: Quaaludes, most often appearing as Methaqualone, are a depressant sedative type drug. Also, one more important definition appears in the Oxford English Dictionary—“Lude” is from the Latin root “lūd-us” which means “play,” and the second definition of Lude is listed as “a game.” So Lude’s name is signifying to readers the nature of Johnny Truant and Lude’s relationship—a relationship based on playing and games, most often playing with drugs and “lewd” behavior. As illustrated by Lude, names are important in Truant’s footnotes, which is one element of how Johnny Truant is always presented in the context of different “surfaces.” A name represents one of the simplest relationships of language, but as illustrated through Jameson and Noah 39 various philosophers throughout history (like Kant and Hegel—who will be discussed later on), naming any object represents a linguistic binary that may never properly connect subject to object. No person ever occupies the content which comes with a name, because that person is also made up of an identity which is constantly in a state of flux. This binary becomes important for Johnny Truant as he exists only in the footnotes contained within Zampanò’s essay. His narrative is positioned as a sub-textual object to the primary narrative of The Navidson Record, and this position is further separated by its font. Truant’s narrative is recorded in the “Courier new” font, which was the standard font for older academic works before it was replaced with the font that Zampanò is recorded in, “Times New Roman.” This difference in font, along with other features of Truant’s narrative, separates the two narratives and satirizes the relationship between subject and object through challenging forms of language. Truant and Lude’s names, Truant’s relation to surfaces, and the position of Truant’s footnotes in The Navidson Record all mirror the discussions by authors like Jameson concerning subject and object. Katharine Hayles examines Truant’s position to Zampanò’s essay, and argues that House of Leaves allows Danielewski to recover “the lost subject.” Early in her essay, Hayles refers to a postmodern element related to House of Leaves, the collection of various media which makes up the novel: To make matters worse (or better), this proliferation of words happens in the represented world on astonishingly diverse media that match in variety and strangeness the words’ sources. The inscription technologies include film, video, photography, tattoos, typewriters, telegraphy, handwriting, and digital computers…Despite his uncertainty (or perhaps because of it), Johnny Truant adds to these “snarls” by more obsessive writing on diverse surfaces, annotation, correcting, recovering, blotting out and amending Zampanò’s words, filling out a journal, penning letters and poems, even scribbling on the walls of his studio apartment until all available inscription surfaces are written and overwritten with words and images. (Hayles 780-1) Noah 40 Hayles is connecting Truant to surfaces in a different way; she refers literally to the surfaces Truant writes on and the palimpsests he creates, offering to readers yet another image of the novel itself. Because writing and reading take over much of Truant’s life, and the novel House of Leaves as a whole mimics the relationship Truant has with The Navidson Record, the surfaces referred to may all be covered ones. Hayles continues in her essay to discuss relationships within The Navidson Record, and the format of the novel House of Leaves, ultimately claiming that this novel represents a way to illustrate to readers how subjectivity is constructed both inside and outside of a text. I have been focusing on the space constructed outside of House of Leaves through Danielewski’s allusions to Freud and others, and how these allusions force readers to reinterpret the text itself, but now I will focus on the space inside Johnny Truant’s text and illustrate the satire Danielewski constructs in relationship to language. Hayles refers to the various media that appears in House of Leaves, and also to Johnny Truant’s obsessive need for writing that he develops while reviewing Zampanò’s essay. But although Truant begins his footnotes influenced by sections of Zampanò’s essay, Truant’s footnotes end up almost always discussing his own life and constructing his own narrative for readers to interpret. Consider again Truant’s friend Lude—the person who originally mentioned Zampanò and his death to Johnny; Lude’s name reveals all of the elements upon which his adventures with Johnny will be based (playful lewd games). Tracing one of Truant’s stories in particular will illustrate how Danielewski moves beyond Hayles’ “reconstruction of the subject” and uses Truant and Lude to satirize the linguistic realm based on Kant, Hegel, and Jameson that Hayles engages with to construct her argument concerning “saving the subject.” To illustrate the tactics used by Danielewski to comment on linguistic theory, I will focus on one story in particular mentioned by Johnny Truant called “the Pekinese.” Truant mentions Noah 41 this story about a dog in the chapter concerning animals in Zampanò’s essay. The “animals” chapter is just over a page long, and is a tangential story which occurs between Navidson’s first exploration into the hallway and Holloway Robert’s arrival into the house. The rising tension of the narrative is halted by the “animals” chapter, because it is so short and stands in direct contrast to these two crucial events in the early plot of The Navidson Record. Zampanò only even offers one critic’s thoughts concerning animals in the Navidson house, as quoted from Mary Widmunt: “So what’s the deal with the pets?” Then Zampanò adds in conclusion “Even Navidson himself, the consummate investigator, never revisits the subject. Who knows what might have been discovered if he had” (Danielewski 75). In the eighty-second footnote of the essay, Johnny Truant adds his thoughts concerning Zampanò’s chapter on animals; the footnote goes on for three pages and starts with the following: Strange how Zampanò also fails to comment on the inability of animals to wander those corridors. I believe there’s a great deal of significance in this discovery. Unfortunately, Zampanò never returns to the matter and while I would like to offer you my own interpretation I am a little high and alot drunk, trying to determine what set me off in the first place on this private little home-bound binge (Danielewski 76) Truant is unable to offer his commentary in his state of mind, so instead tries to investigate what led him to reach that state in the first place. Truant starts his foot note off criticizing something Zampanò did—failed to comment on how the animals can’t occupy the corridors of the house (one chapter of The Navidson Record is labeled “Animals” and is only a page long; in it the Navidson’s dog and cat chase one another into the labyrinth and end up in the back yard)—then he states that there is much significance to this, and ignores the issue himself. His discussion of syntax mirrors the impaired state of mind he is in, and his writing begins to become more and Noah 42 more jumbled. He starts talking about Thumper entering the shop and how it made him feel, and as he begins to fear that Thumper will not call him he starts to focus on the pets from the “animals” chapter again—but here his language starts to become incomprehensible. Truant begins confusing the cats near Zampanò’s apartment, the Navidsons’ pets, and the sounds each makes, and his writing becomes more difficult to understand as he infuses sounds and actions and loses track of his own purpose of writing, which was to resolve how he feels about Thumper. Truant writes: sprinting out from under the shadows, paws!-patter-paws-paws!, pausing then to rub against our legs, zap! Senile sparks perhaps but ah yes still there, and I’m thinking, has another missing year resolved in song?—though let me not get too far from myself, they were after all only cats, quadruped mice-devouring motechasing shades, Felis catus (Danielewski 77) His language mimics the thinking he mentions he is doing by asking a question about another missing year, and interrupting his discussion by writing animal sounds, both cases of grammar which don’t appear to fit in with the rest of the passage. Truant’s grammar then is a product of his impaired state of mind, and this passage turns into a drunken rant. Truant rambles on like this until he mentions dogs: “Well, there are no dogs except for the Pekinese but that’s another story, one I won’t, I cannot tell” (Danielewski 77). No mention of the Pekinese appears again throughout the novel until much later on, when during Tom’s manuscript Johnny Truant offers a footnote concerning the shadow puppets Tom is making inside his tent. Truant relates this event to the “animals” chapter, and then writes: “Which in an odd and round about way brings me to the Pekinese, the dog story I mentioned a ways back but didn’t want to discuss. Well, I’ve changed my mind. The Pekinese belongs here. With Tom’s Hand shadows” (Danielewski 262). Finally, almost 200 pages later, readers are cued that the Pekinese story is appropriate for the current timing, during the section of Zampanò’s Noah 43 essay where Tom is casting shadows with his hands. Tom is distracting himself from the fear he is experiencing listening to the growling occurring beyond the staircase—this situation mirrors Truant’s own fear he mentions in his introduction, and reminds him of the animals Zampanò failed to discuss, and the importance of his Pekinese story. But, once again Johnny Truant distracts both readers and himself with his footnote, and begins to tell a story about the month of November when Lude offered him a “pass to paradise” (which turns out to be a large amount of Ecstasy). Truant and Lude are offered all-access passes to parties everywhere for their monthlong binge, and Truant saves a list of girls that Lude sleeps with during the month. Lude’s list contains short descriptions of the over twenty sexual encounters he had, including the locations of the sexual encounters and certain specific details. When Johnny Truant attempts to list his sexual conquests, the story ends up to be very depressing, as his three encounters for the month all end on sad notes. At this, Truant is prompted to re-interpret Lude’s list of girls and give the actual details surrounding the sexual encounters. Playful encounters such as “Caroline. 21. Swedish, on her Nordic Track” become reinterpreted by Johnny Truant as a “truer” version: “Caroline—Grew up in a commune. Had her first abortion when she was twelve” (Danielewski 262, 65). Truant re-writes Lude’s list by providing the emotional and physical traumas that the girls have been through, which suggests either that Lude is preying on the weak by using the girls, or that he is ignoring their emotional needs—given Truant’s attempts to investigate his own feelings, the latter is more likely. Also the fact that Truant and Lude are both writing lists here point readers to the type of communication Truant is cultivating in his footnotes throughout Zampanò’s essay—layering levels of readers, and engaging with syntax throughout those levels, mimics the action of making a list itself. For example: Lude chooses to identify Caroline on his list with the fact that she was Swedish and had sex on her Nordic Track, Noah 44 a playful rhetoric of humor connecting a Swedish girl to a piece of Swedish exercising equipment; Truant chooses to identify Caroline by her communal upbringing and her history of abortions and sexual abuse. In re-creating the list, Truant is mimicking the act of writing itself, but as he continuously gets distracted within his own footnotes, perhaps Truant himself could benefit from the use of a list. So, instead of revealing the elusive Pekinese story that Truant promises readers, he offers only this dark tale of self-destruction he and Lude embark on for the month of November. But then soon enough, after re-interpreting Lude’s list, Truant finally begins to reveal the story: “Which I guess finally brings me to the story I’ve been meaning to tell all along, one that still haunts me today, about the wounded and where I still fear they finally end up. The story of my Pekinese” (Danielewski 265). This introductory phrase by Truant frames the story well, and may explain what it means to him. Johnny Truant’s fear and the emotional duress that he struggles with throughout the novel may be related to the outcome of the Pekinese—where he fears the wounded end up. Truant has delayed this story because of his fear of the grotesque death of the dog he relates to, and the entire experience is probably a traumatic reminder of finding Zampanò in the first place. Truant then tells the tale of meeting a woman who is possibly a porn star named Johnnie, although her real name was actually Rachel. Johnnie offers Truant a ride home, and they stop to pick up a stray dog—a Pekinese. Johnny Truant doesn’t invite the girl inside his apartment and as she drives away, he hears a loud thump and describes the ensuing scene: I looked down the street. Her truck was gone but behind it, in its wake, something dark rolled into the light of a street lamp. Something Johnnie had thrown out her window as she passed the parked cars. I jogged down the block, feeling more than a little uneasy, until as I approached that clump of something on the side of the road, I discovered much to my dismay all my uneasiness confirmed…lying next Noah 45 to a car with half its head caved in, an eye broken and oozing vitreous jelly, tongue caught (and partially served) in its snapped jaws (Danielewski 267) Finally the hesitation to reveal this grotesque story is understood—Johnny Truant didn’t want to share his story about his Pekinese because of the horrifying experience of seeing the dog die. Also, Truant seems to be relating to the dog while he tells the story, as if Truant sees himself as the dog because of the traumatic effects of Zampanò’s essay. But I think there is more happening here than fear; that the Pekinese represents something else entirely. Johnny Truant cues the reader that he will be relating a story of a Pekinese dog; but the story turns out to be about the death of that dog, and how Truant relates to it. As soon as Truant mentions the word Pekinese and that he has a story about “his” dog, readers may have preconceptions that the dog may be from his childhood and that the story could explain some facet of his relationship with his mother Pelafina. Or perhaps a reader assumes that the dog may relate to the “animals” chapter of Zampanò’s essay. Danielewski is playing with a reader’s notions of the word “Pekinese,” offering a vague symbol which has many interpretations, and then revealing the dark story. Through this story of the Pekinese, another satire of postmodernism is discovered which pertains to signification and semiotics. Jameson, Kant, and Hegel So Johnny Truant brings up the story of the Pekinese in an appropriate place—the end of Zampanò’s chapter on Animals—but then doesn’t offer up the story for readers until much later. But why wait? The “Pekinese” story is one example of how Johnny Truant’s footnotes work in relation to postmodern theory; Danielewski uses stories like the Pekinese to allow for Truant to Noah 46 call attention to the postmodern interpretation of semiotics and linguistic theory. As in Zampanò’s allusions to Freud, a level of satire is achieved in House of Leaves through Johnny Truant’s footnotes. But this time, the satire is aimed at the meaning of words themselves. Fredrich Jameson dedicates an entire chapter of Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism to reading and the interpretation of words. In his chapter on “sentences,” Jameson discusses Les Corps conducteurs, a novel by Claude Simon, and examines the relationship of two important aesthetic philosophers—Immanuel Kant and Georg Hegel. Jameson’s analysis of both Kant and Hegel is the postmodern realm that Danielewski seeks to satirize with Truant’s narrative. Through Jameson and Johnny Truant, I will demonstrate how Kant and Hegel’s dialectic, and the positions of subject and object, are re-imagined in Danielewski’s novel. Hegel and Kant struggled with creating a dialectic model of reason to reinterpret universal truths. For these philosophers, experience and reality contributed to an understanding of the unknown. For Kant, demonstrating the relationships between nature and the mind and the universe could be broken down by sensory experience. How a subject could be affected by objects or objective truths then became a very important foundation for Kant’s dialectic. Likewise, for Jameson, language plays an important role in this relationship between subjects and objects; Jameson writes on the subject: Objects are, however, here still very much a function of language, whose local failure to describe or even to designate them takes us in a different direction and foregrounds the unexpected breakdown of a function of language we normally take for granted—some privileged relationship between words and things which here gives way to a yawning chasm between the generality of the words and the sensory particularity of the objects. In such passages language is being forced to do something we assumed to be virtually its primary function, but which it now— pressed to some absolute limit—proves to be incapable of doing (Jameson 137-8) Noah 47 When Jameson mentions “sensory particularity,” he is referring to the difficulty of accurately capturing the sensory experience of objects. Jameson refers to the basic structure of language, the relationship between subject and object, and claims when “pressed to some absolute limit” this relationship malfunctions. Jameson asks: “…why are such impossible demands now made on language, whose other functions seemed to have performed well enough and given satisfaction in other modes of production?” (Jameson 152) Jameson’s chapter focuses on repositioning this discussion of language outside of the realm of the aesthetic. Language becomes a critique of society within works from authors such as Adorno and Marx, and Jameson uses his discussion of Simon’s novel to further these critiques. Simon’s novel is important in the context of language investigation because his work is critiqued by Jameson as sharing modernist sentiments. When referring to House of Leaves and Johnny Truant, these societal concerns are not as important as what Jameson calls the “primary function” of language. Aesthetic philosophers struggle with the fact that objects exist and can be experienced through the senses without the aid of language to describe such an experience; the “primary function” of language then lies in this realm of the aesthetic, in creating a subjective relation to an object. Kant writes in his Critique of the Aesthetic Power of Judgement: “In order to find something good, I must always know what sort of thing the object is supposed to be, i.e., I must have a concept of it. I do not need that in order to find beauty in something” (Kant 93). Kant continues to define the process of judgment and explores the realm of criticism in this essay. Criticizing an object in relation to its aesthetic value becomes a function of language in this realm, but as for the “primary function” Jameson refers to, Hegel may share some more insight. Noah 48 From his “Aesthetics: Lectures on Fine Art,” G.W.F. Hegel arrives at a definition of the “ideal.” This ideal for Hegel relates to the idea of the “beauty of art,” as Kant discusses in his Critique, but draws closer to Jameson’s “primary function” of language. Hegel writes: “For the Idea as such is indeed the absolute truth itself, but the truth only in its not yet objectified universality, while the idea as the beauty of art is the Idea with the nearer qualification of being both essentially individual reality and also an individual configuration of reality destined essentially to embody and reveal the idea” (Hegel 41). Hegel’s ideal is this configuration of reality, which is destined to “reveal” the idea. Revealing an idea considering the “objectified universality” is the concept that Jameson’s function is founded upon. Jameson refers to this relationship Hegel examines when he writes: “In this situation of linguistic failure, the breakdown of the relationship between words and things is for Hegel a happy fall insofar as it redirects philosophical thought toward new forms of the universals themselves” (Jameson 139). Jameson relates Hegel’s celebration of this “breakdown,” because when this type of linguistic failure occurs, the ideal form of an object can be revealed. Jameson then demonstrates this revelation in terms of semiotics with a diagram pointed from the “signified” to two objects, the “not-signified” and the “non-signified.” Jameson claims that the “signified” object points readers of a text in two directions— towards the realm of “linguistic problematics,” and towards “image society and media” (141). So in terms of the postmodern, these signified aesthetic objects don’t reveal a Hegelian “Ideal,” but rather point to the history of aesthetic philosophy and “image society.” Jameson is employing tactics of signification taken from Derrida’s definition of signification, which is made up of the signified and signifier. Derrida’s sign theory evolves within postmodernism to become an even more complex relationship of language, where signs create misdirection. I think that Danielewski Noah 49 is aware of this role of language, and is using his character Johnny Truant to encourage readers to re-focus on the “primary function” of language. Using the example of Truant’s story of the dog, if “Pekinese” is signifying this aesthetic concern of language and the “image society” for readers, then what exactly is the “Ideal” universal object behind the sign? Because Truant mentions this story during his “whimsical” footnote in Zampanò’s chapter on animals, and then when revealed in a footnote which occurs much later it is in a new context, Danielewski is toying with the notion that there is no “Ideal” object. If “the Pekinese” is considered a signified object, then the signifying universals become the subjective experiences of Johnny Truant and Lude. So the sexual conquests expressed in Lude’s list, Johnny Truant’s emotional distress concerning Thumper, and Truant’s own encounters with women such as Johnnie all make up an understanding of the Pekinese. In a larger context, this story of the Pekinese relates to Johnny Truant’s fear as he writes in his introduction to Zampanò’s essay. On one level, Truant relates the death of the dog to the death of Zampanò, and the “story” of his life surrounding the death of the dog is like Zampanò’s “story” of The Navidson Record; on another level Truant relates to the dog’s death himself illustrated by his rhetoric of fear throughout the footnotes which tell the narrative of Lude and Truant’s games. Danielewski’s satire becomes apparent when considering that these “linguistic problematics” occur within Truant’s footnotes. Truant is relating the story of “the Pekinese” and creating a realm of postmodern linguistic breakdown within the footnotes to Zampanò’s essay. So, Truant’s footnotes themselves have to be considered in relation to the essay. Because Danielewski chooses to place the two pieces of “the Pekinese” story first in a footnote contained in Zampanò’s chapter on Animals, and then again in the part of Tom’s manuscript where Tom is Noah 50 making shadow animals because he is afraid of an unknown monster, then the “image society” or the media that lies behind the “Pekinese” sign is The Navidson Record. So there are two levels to Johnny Truant’s linguistic satire, just like the two levels of Jameson’s signified objects. On one level, Danielewski is exposing to readers the aesthetic relationship of the object and the linguistic breakdown of describing it subjectively as related by Kant, Hegel, Derrida, and others. On another level, “the Pekinese” story needs to be considered by readers in the context of The Navidson Record. Katharine Hayles’ discussion of “media” within House of Leaves then becomes important for an understanding of Danielewski’s satire. Perhaps the “primary function” of language as Jameson discusses isn’t defined by Danielewski; rather, its effects are exemplified within Johnny Truant. Truant often engages in this type of layered storytelling as illustrated by his re-interpretation of Lude’s list, and I could have easily presented a different example from his footnotes to describe this linguistic relationship instead of the story of the Pekinese. What is important in Danielewski’s satire is how Johnny Truant relates his feelings to readers, especially in the quotation from the introduction above. This “linguistic breakdown” can never be clearly understood, and because the “universal truths” behind objects will never be properly related with language, readers such as Johnny Truant are forced into the position which scares him the most —the position of “darkness.” Noah 51 Chapter Four: Postmodern Science, the Hypercube and Parallel Dimensions, and the Hypertext Scientific vs. Narrative Knowledge in the Postmodern Condition Danielewski experiments with language through the competing narrative voices of Zampanò and Johnny Truant, as I have explored, and these experiments prove to be for satirical reasons. Through alluding to authors such as Freud, Kant, and Hegel, Danielewski critiques certain elements which make up postmodern theory including aesthetic philosophy, linguistics, and critical theories such as Freud’s psychoanalysis. Besides the satire discovered within the narrative voices of Zampanò and Johnny Truant, Danielewski also uses the format of his novel and the plot of The Navidson Record to comment on a different feature of postmodern theory. Instead of adding an analysis of the labyrinth to the discussion in the previous chapters, I would instead like to simply examine the “labyrinth” as a plot event and formal structuring device for The Navidson Record. The Greek mythology that Zampanò uses in his essay and the attempts by Johnny Truant to delete the references to the labyrinth and the myth of the minotaur3 could stand for further evidence of Danielewski satirizing linguistic theory or the realm of academia because Greek mythology is an example of the “classic” canon of works studied throughout various schools of academia. The labyrinth not only represents a plot event and structuring device for the novel, but it is also an explanation of why the house contains rooms of shifting dimensions and expanding areas. 3 Any time “labyrinth” is mentioned in House of Leaves it appears in red font with a line striking through the text; as Johnny Truant disagreed with Zampanò’s including this discussion, he attempted to delete the portions where Zampanò discusses the labyrinth. For more on the labyrinth see “The A-Mazing House: The Labyrinth as Theme and Form in Mark Z. Danielewski’s House of Leaves” by Natalie Hamilton in Critique 50.1, Fall 2008. Noah 52 Besides explaining the house through the discussion of labyrinth, Zampanò includes a chapter in The Navidson Record where Navidson attempts to discover a scientific explanation for why the house is acting “un-home-like.” The term “scientific” is important for postmodernism, specifically the aesthetic philosophy that postmodern theory is grounded in. Authors such as Hegel and Kant struggle to resolve the difference between a stated “fact” and a statement that is not factual. By examining this difference, these authors are attempting to reconstruct the dialectic form of reasoning founded by classical Greek philosophers like Plato and Aristotle. Lyotard in The Postmodern Condition also taps into this classical reasoning in his discussion of “the Pragmatics of Scientific Knowledge” when he writes: It is therefore impossible to judge the existence or validity of narrative knowledge on the basis of scientific knowledge and vice versa: the relevant criteria are different. All we can do is gaze in wonderment at the diversity of discursive species, just as we do at the diversity of plant or animal species. Lamenting the “loss of meaning” in postmodernity boils down to mourning the fact that knowledge is no longer principally narrative. (Lyotard 26) The important difference here in Lyotard’s discussion of scientific and narrative knowledge from previous authors such as Hegel or Kant is that he attempts to separate the two forms from one and other, claiming that “knowledge is no longer principally narrative.” For a further examination of the “loss of meaning” which occurs in postmodernity, it may be beneficial to again examine Jameson and one of his critics. Jameson uses the same term as Lyotard—mourning—to describe this shifting function of knowledge in the postmodern world. In his chapter on “space,” Jameson writes: What is mourned for is the memory of deep memory; what is enacted is a nostalgia for nostalgia, for the grand older extinct questions of origin and telos, of deep time and the Freudian Unconscious (dispatched by Foucault at one blow in the History of Sexuality), for the dialectic also, as well as all the monumental forms left high and dry by the ebb tide of the modern movement, forms whose Absolutes are no longer audible to us, illegible hieroglyphs of the demiurgic within the technocratic world (Jameson 156) Noah 53 Jameson’s summary of knowledge within the postmodern period is related to Lyotard’s “loss of meaning,” where postmodern reasoning seeks to return to the questions raised in the modern period when knowledge was first challenged against classical forms. Jameson then expands his discussion to refer to spatial relations of knowledge and temporality. “Time” in this passage from Jameson refers to the entire history of the universe, as represented by Kant’s dialectic view of history or Foucault’s re-definitions of time in The History of Sexuality. He even refers to “the demiurgic,” a force behind creation who in Platonic theory creates the world in response to eternal ideas. Jameson ties into Lyotard’s discussion of “loss of meaning” then by reinterpreting all classical representations of time and knowledge through a postmodern lens. By placing space and time into a discussion of the now separate “scientific” knowledge, Jameson is connecting to the narrative forms of knowledge where temporality and spatial relationships are important to placing the “narrative” into its surrounding reality. Although “space” and “time” will become important again later to the discussion of the Navidson house, in terms of Jameson’s mourning of knowledge, they may stand for something else entirely. Jameson expands on time: “if experience and expression still seem largely apt in the cultural sphere of the modern, they are altogether out of place and anachronistic in a postmodern age, where, if temporality still has its place, it would seem better to speak of the writing of it than of any lived experience” (Jameson 154). Jameson claims that experience and expression are elements of knowledge which are out of time in the postmodern age, and the focus of knowledge should be on writing about that temporality. “Time” has a very specific purpose in explaining the abyss which appears in Navidson’s house, but explaining Danielewski’s purpose in writing it is related to this Jameson quote. To better understand how Danielewski is satirizing the theories of authors like Jameson and Lyotard, it may be beneficial to first examine one of Jameson’s critics. Noah 54 Although Jameson’s discussion of representations of knowledge is relevant in the context of Lyotard, Hegel, and Kant, to some opponents of postmodern theory, it is not relevant at all. Walter Laqueur attacks Jameson and his contemporaries, referring to the academic end of the century (“fin de siècle”) in his article “Postmodernism Lacks Lasting Relevance,” when he writes: These students of English literature tend to refer to ‘late capitalism,’ but they are not experts in economic history, let alone physics, advanced mathematics, and molecular biology. Yet some of them have been writing on these topics confidently, distributing praise and blame and demanding revolutionary changes in these sciences. The earlier fin de siècle period also suggested a break with past traditions, but it had no scientific ambitions, and it was cosmopolitan rather than provincial in outlook. (Laqueur 160) Laqueur is critiquing Jameson and his contemporaries with a ruthless assault on the ability of a student of “English literature” to be able to discuss other schools of “knowledge.” Jameson’s discussion of temporality justifies his position of authority, though, because narrative and scientific knowledge may not represent reality in the postmodern period. By separating the types of knowledge that make up the history of temporality Jameson discussed in the previous quotation, Jameson is referring to types of knowledge like “capitalism” and “physics” in a different way than Laqueur assumes. What Laqueur is commenting on though is the separation of knowledge itself as a representation of reality; what used to be considered scientific knowledge is through postmodern theory distorted and no longer in accordance with the scientific knowledge that Laqueur is familiar with. The Navidson house may represent this same type of negative sentimentality that Laqueur is offering towards the postmodern period. Like the distortion of the rooms of the house, distorting knowledge which used to be considered “scientific” may lead to an abyss of new forms of “knowledge,” hence Laqueur’s hesitation at accepting the authority of authors such as Noah 55 Jameson when discussing other schools of knowledge. Previous forms of discussing knowledge are now, in the postmodern period, blended together so much so that Laqueur’s hesitation may be justified—like the house, the world of postmodern theory expands and morphs previous understandings of temporality and philosophical representations of knowledge such as understood by Plato or Kant. So to question the origins of such a different new expansion of knowledge is justified through Laqueur or even by Navidson who searches for answers about his house. Explaining the House By centering the plot of The Navidson Record on a house with shifting dimensions and a cavernous hallway which appears at the center of the house, Danielewski is once again setting up elements of satire for readers to discover concerning the postmodern theory. The satire is found through reasoning what exactly the cause of the house’s expansions could be…a method of reasoning which is being examined by Lyotard and Jameson in their respective works on postmodernism. The sixteenth chapter of Zampanò’s essay is simply labeled “science” in the list of possible chapter titles published in an appendix to House of Leaves. In this chapter on “science,” Navidson takes some samples from material collected inside the house to a research laboratory at the Princeton geology department. Chapter XVI starts with a list of “incontrovertible facts” concerning the house, various facts collected in a list by Zampanò concerning different features of the house, such as number 10: “The place will purge itself of all things, including any object left behind” (Danielewski 371). Zampanò begins to summarize petrologist Mel O’Geery’s findings from all of the pieces of matter he has examined, from sample A to XXXX. As the explanation of what types of rock Noah 56 make up the samples begins on the third page of the chapter, a note is included which informs readers that two pages are missing, followed by three pages that only contain X’s and pieces of geological words such as “volcan” or “metamor” (374). Truant then explains in a footnote that the X’s are his own fault, because he placed a bottle of German ink on a stack of the papers which leaked through to the text. After seventeen more pages are listed as missing, Johnny Truant starts a long footnote discussing his mother and an explanation of a letter she sent to him, interrupting any further discussion of the “scientific” findings from the Princeton lab. At the end of Zampanò’s chapter he quotes two critics that comment on the “science” sequence inside of the Princeton laboratory. Zampanò writes: Noda Vennard believes the key to this sequence does not exist in any of the test results or geological hypotheses but in the margin of a magazine which, as we can see for ourselves, Navidson idly fills with doodles while waiting for Dr. O’Geery to retrieve some additional documentation: ‘Mr. Navidson has drawn a bomb going off. An Atom bomb. An inverted thermonuclear explosion which reveals in the black contours of its clouds, the far-reaching shock-wave, and of course the great pluming head, the internal dimensions of his own sorrow.’ (Danielewski 381). Vennard here places some meaning into Navidson drawing an atomic bomb going off, which Vennard reasons stands for his own internal sorrow. The other critic Zampanò quotes is named Virgil Q. Tomlinson, who writes: “That place is so alien to the kingdom of the imagination let alone the eye—so perfectly unholy, hungry, and inviolable—it easily makes a fourth of July sparkler out of an A-bomb, and reduces the aliens of The X-Files and The Outer Limits to Sunday morning funnies” (Danielewski 381-2). These critics that Zampanò quotes discuss the implications of the findings on Navidson’s psyche, but they ignore the evidence presented from O’Geery that some of the rock samples are from meteoric rock which is not found on Earth. By ignoring the findings in the house and focusing on Navidson’s psyche, the quotations from these Noah 57 critics encourage readers to interpret the evidence presented for themselves, without the help of “the experts.” If this chapter’s facts are closely examined instead of passed over for their strangeness and their implications for Navidson’s emotions, then some troubling results are discovered concerning the “scientific” knowledge previously discussed. A few pages before the critical summary Zampanò offers about Navidson, O’Geery is quoted saying the following: “now I want to stress possibly here, but this deuterium could indicate matter older than even our solar system. Interstellar perhaps. So there you have it—a very nice little vein of history” (Danielewski 378). Because the samples from inside of the Navidson household contain matter found outside of this solar system, the evidence suggests that either the matter had to be transported into the house from a meteor, or that the house expanded (somehow) into the far reaches of space. Possibly it could also mean that the house itself originated in this outer-worldly realm, on a different planet, in another galaxy, or possibly in another dimension. On this line of reasoning, Zampanò adds the following to the discussion of science: Primarily thanks to O’Geery’s conclusions, some fanatics of The Navidson Record assert that the presence of extremely old chondrites definitely proves extra-terrestrial forces constructed the house. Others, however, claim the samples only support the idea that the house on Ash Tree Lane is a self-created portal into some other dimension…Keener intellects, however, now regard scientific conjecture concerning the house as just another dead end. It would seem the language of objectivity can never adequately address the reality of that place on Ash Tree Lane (Danielewski 378-9) By including the last phrase in this passage, Danielewski is engaging in the same discourse as Lyotard and Jameson concerning their discussions of representations of knowledge. Language works in an interesting way here, in the sense that it lacks the tools necessary to represent the reality of the house in an accurate way. Noah 58 By embracing the same discourse as these authors, Danielewski is once again evoking an allusion to the lineage of aesthetic history I have discussed in chapters one and two, but beyond this allusion to postmodern authority lies an important connection to the House on Ash Tree Lane. The “others” Zampanò refers to who claim that the house is a self-created portal into another dimension are referring to a complex history of mathematics and physics that could explain the expansion of Navidson’s house, thus disproving the geological findings that O’Geery offers, and possibly discrediting the discussions of marginal doodles that Navidson draws in the waiting room. By examining theories of hyperspace and parallel dimensions, and tracing the development of Einstein’s theory of relativity, readers may discover a convincing connection to the “hypercube.” The Hypercube and the Crooked House To approach the importance of a hypercube to House of Leaves, some founding theories need to be examined first. Like Kant and Hegel influencing some of Jameson’s ideas concerning linguistics, Einstein and his contemporaries formulated complex mathematical theories which influenced modern theories concerning the fourth dimension and hyperspace. Einstein’s theory of special relativity reasoned that spacetime curves around matter, surpassing Newton’s laws of physics explaining motion in space, and from this theory Einstein derived his famous equation E=mc2 which illustrates the equivalence of energy and mass. Einstein also developed a theory of general relativity which explained gravitation, specifically accelerated motion in a gravitational field. From this theory of general relativity, Einstein reasoned that the universe is expanding, and he began work on a unified field theory. Unified field theories are mathematical principles which attempt to describe all of the fundamental forces of nature, “unifying” the universe with Noah 59 mathematics. From his work, developments in the field of differential geometry were possible, and further physics theories were eventually reasoned. Through these theories, the existence of alternate dimensions may be proved. Michio Kaku in his book Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps, and the 10th Dimension expands on this “development” of alternate dimensions: The world’s leading physicists now believe that dimensions beyond the usual four of space and time might exist. This idea, in fact, has become the focal point of intense scientific investigation. Indeed, many theoretical physicists now believe that higher dimensions may be the decisive step in creating a comprehensive theory that unites the laws of nature—a theory of hyperspace.” (Kaku 33). Through this “intense scientific investigation,” scientists have come up with theories concerning the fourth dimension. Einstein, in his theories on relativity, concluded that the 4th dimension (beyond our normal x, y, z spatial dimensions) was time. Through investigating what the 4th spatial dimension might be, mathematicians came up with the illustration of a hypercube. The basis of understanding the hypercube is founded in simple geometry, from the relation of a cube to a square. A square is a two-dimensional object, that when a third dimension is added becomes a cube. A cube in four spatial dimensions is what mathematicians refer to as a “hypercube,” and just like a cube built from a cut-out piece of paper, a hypercube can be “unfolded” in three dimensions. If someone traces the outline of a cross on a piece of paper, and draws an outline of eight squares within the cross, folding those eight squares together in the proper sequence will yield a cube. In the case of a hypercube, eight cubes need be arranged in a pattern to form a cross, but folding them into an actual hypercube would require four dimensions of space—the “unfolded” hypercube then is referred to as a tesseract. Kaku expands on the mathematician Charles Hinton’s development of a visualization of the hypercube, and how its influence led to developments in the world of art: “So pervasive was Hinton’s influence that Noah 60 Savadore Dali used Hinton’s tesseract in his famous painting Christus Hypercubus, on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, which depicts Christ being crucified on a fourdimensional cross” (Kaku 70). The development of this method of visualizing a hypercube by Hinton influenced artists because the concept of seeing into the fourth dimension to them was parallel to the creative process in general, or the fourth dimension held some religious implications for the artists. Dali’s painting is often associated with the “surrealist” movement of art, which could be considered a subgenre of the grand postmodern movement, and by including the tesseract in the painting, Dali is bridging the realms of knowledge of math, science, and art— an action that the critic Walter Laqueur may not be fond of. In the case of Dali’s painting then, perhaps Laqueur’s work is flawed—if a person in the field of English Literature is not supposed to extend his or her knowledge base into the fields of physics or economics, then artists like Dali would also be forbidden from these separate schools of knowledge. By painting Christ crucified on a tesseract, Dali engages with themes of religion, science, mathematics, and philosophy all through one “surrealist” work of art. So the history of mathematics and the development of the hypercube are related to this Dali painting, and to the movement of postmodernism, but how exactly does it relate to the Navidson house in House of Leaves? Exploring this question leads a reader to other stories and works of art which were influenced by the development of the fourth dimension. Kaku in his book Hyperspace discusses that the development of a fourth dimension of space spawned an interest in science and its mysteries in the general public. Kaku lists novels such as H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine, which used the concept of the fourth dimension and Einstein’s theories to explore the possibilities of time travel. One other author who was greatly influenced by the developments of mathematicians related to the fourth dimension was Robert Heinlein. Noah 61 In one of Heinlein’s stories “And He Built a Crooked House,” an architect while drinking with a friend gets into a spirited argument over whether or not a house can be built in four dimensions. Heinlein writes: “Homer, I think you’ve really got something. After all, why not? Think of the infinite richness of articulation and relationship in four dimensions. What a house, what a house…” (Heinlein, “House”). The architect talks with his friend Bailey about the tesseract and how it relates to the fourth dimensional hypercube, and he eventually goes through with building the house for the Baileys. After the tesseract house is completed, the structure stands exactly as the cross Christ is crucified on in Dali’s painting, with eight cubes laid out in a four-dimensional pattern. When the house is completed though and the Bailey couple arrive to view the tall standing tesseract structure, only one cube remains where there was once eight: “Bailey stared unbelievably, Mrs. Bailey in open dislike. They saw a simple cubical mass, possessing doors and windows, but no other architectural features, save that it was decorated in intricate mathematical designs…gone was the tower with its jutting second-story rooms. No trace remained of the seven rooms above ground level” (Heinlein “House”). As the three enter the home, they realize that all of the rooms still exist and they become disoriented in trying to navigate around the fourth dimensional home. The process of exploring the home makes the Baileys sick during some points of the story, and the reader realizes eventually why the structure of the house from the outside appears so different—the house collapsed in on itself, and into the fourth dimension. Readers of Heinlein’s short story who are familiar with House of Leaves would struggle not to draw similarities between the Baileys exploring their home and Navidson exploring the cavernous abyss which appears in his living room. Zampanò’s comment about a portal into another dimension then is not as fantastical as it appears to be. Instead of the presence of extra- Noah 62 terrestrials and matter from a different world inside of the Navidson house, through reading a text like “And He Built a Crooked House” or viewing a painting such as Dail’s Christus Hypercubus, I argue that the only thing present in Navidson’s home is Danielewski’s allusion to the history of mathematics and the hypercube. By placing this allusion to the fourth dimension inside of The Navidson Record, Danielewski is engaging with the realm of criticism surrounding Jameson and Lyotard’s works, specifically concerning the representations of knowledge I have previously discussed. When investigating these realms of mathematics and science hinted at by Danielewski’s allusion to an alternate dimension, a complex history of knowledge is discovered based on Einstein’s theory and applications of geometry. The “fact” of the matter is that Laqueur’s hesitation concerning authors such as Jameson’s scientific ambitions is crumbled through Danielewski’s “house.” The physical traits of the Navidson household as related by Zampanò support my theory that the Navidson household may simply be a hypercube. Firstly, the physical dimensions outside and inside the house are not congruent. As Navidson and Tom measure and re-measure walls inside of the house, the measurements of the walls outside remain exactly the same. Even as the staircase and giant cavern appear inside of the living room, the outside of the house does not grow larger. If the house is indeed a hypercube, like the house in Heinlein’s short story, it may explain why the house does not appear to change size on the outside as it grows larger on the inside. Also, the appearance of the abyss-like staircase inside the hallway in the living room is an event that may be labeled “science fiction.” Like Zampanò’s comment about alternate dimensions indicates to readers, this event of the labyrinth “appearing” inside of the house may be similar to a portal opening into another dimension in some sci-fi story; “science-fiction” to Danielewski may have a different meaning than readers are used to. Just like the act of reading Noah 63 the story of the Pekinese, readers have certain expectations about an event they encounter. Discovering that there may be a scientific explanation for the house’s shifting physical properties is probably an unexpected outcome for readers. The text of House of Leaves itself supports the fourth-dimensional hypercube theory as well. Footnotes in the novel at one point appear mirrored inside a blue-outlined box in the middle of the text. On one side of the page, a list of building materials begins in the window, and on the opposite side of the page the list ends and is printed in a reversed orientation as the left side of the page—so the text in the windows mirrors itself and appears as if it is seen through a window. Some passages Zampanò writes while Navidson is inside of the house exploring for the last time are written upside-down or sideways as Navidson himself is shifting his orientation. Encountering passages such as these causes a reader to rotate the book itself and change its orientation in order to properly read the words printed on the page. Even the previous discussions I have made of the “complex web” of postmodern texts which are alluded to in House of Leaves may be considered an extra-dimension of space for the novel. Readers investigate works such as Freud’s “The Uncanny,” and are guided away from the novel itself, and as they discover and read the essay they are themselves transported into another dimension of House of Leaves. Even though a reader is reading “The Uncanny,” if it is only to trace the allusion contained within Danielewski’s text, then they are entering another dimension of reading in a way. Because the text of House of Leaves is similar to a hypercube in more ways than one, maybe it can even be labeled a “hypertext.” The most common usage of the term hypertext refers to branches of related texts, typically in reference to groups of texts connect via the internet. In Danielewski’s case though, the term hypermedia may be more appropriate because of his expansive collection Noah 64 of references to many types of media, not just textual documents. When referring to House of Leaves as a hypertext then, readers may be encountering a text that is more of a hypercube itself. The Navidson household is as expansive as the writings concerning postmodernism that I have discussed above, but as the house is explored and never quite understood, perhaps these issues surrounding postmodernism are equally undiscoverable. House of Leaves is made up of dual layers of narrative and Zampanò’s essay The Navidson Record contains many citations and references to various works both real and fictional. The text of House of Leaves in this sense mimics the expansion of the Navidson house, because it contains so many allusions and “hallways” which may be explored. Through the constant allusions to postmodern theory and works such as Heinlein’s short story, or Freud’s essay, Danielewski has crafted a work that contains an alternate “dimension” of texts. Considering the plot similarities between The Navidson Record and “And He Build a Crooked House” (and the allusions to Freud and linguistic theory), the novel House of Leaves stands as the house in Heinlein’s story when the Bailey couple and architect look at the collapsed hypercube from the outside—a structure which appears to be small but is in fact expansive in the fourth dimension. House of Leaves appears to be built upon so many other texts that perhaps there is nothing to the novel itself, as if House of Leaves did not exist. When investigating the proper dimensions of the novel, readers discover that this is actually not the case—the House of Leaves not only exists, but it may be as large in scope as Navidson’s own house. Noah 65 Chapter Five: Reading and a House Made of Leaves The second edition of House of Leaves has three different appendices, which in turn have multiple lettered sections containing extra material. Truant labels this section saying: “Zampanò produced a great deal of material outside of The Navidson Record. Here’s a selection of journal entries, poems and even a letter to the editor, all of which I think sheds a little more light on his work as well as his personality” (Danielewski 537). One of the largest sections of the appendices is section E; “The Three Attic Whalestoe Institute Letters,” the collection of letters that Truant’s mother Pelafina sent to him from an asylum. So when Truant claims the selections in the appendices shed more light on Zampanò, although this may be true, the selections shed more light on everything pertaining to House of Leaves—including Truant and the relationship to his mother that he struggles to mention throughout the text. Section F of the first appendix is labeled “poems” and contains a collection of assorted poems with no credited author, so readers may assume that Zampanò is the author and this section could be what Truant is referring in his introduction. One poem in particular contained in this collection has further implications beyond shedding more light on Zampanò’s work and his personality. One short poem, listed under the heading “(Untitled Fragment),” when analyzed sheds light on the title of the novel House of Leaves, and more facets of the experience of reading the novel (as discussed previously in the first chapter: “an introduction to reading House of Leaves”). The poem listed is as follows: “Little solace comes/to those who grieve/when thoughts keep drifting/as walls keep shifting/and this great blue world of ours/seems a house of leaves/moments before the wind” (Danielewski 563). The first three lines of this poem are a response to the experience of grief; in the context of the novel they may be applied to a few characters. The grief could be felt by Johnny Truant, Noah 66 who is coping with the experience of reading The Navidson Record and trying to discover the world behind Zampanò’s essay; in contrast, the grief might be felt by Navidson while he tries to protect his family while discovering the mysteries of his house on Ash Tree Lane. On another level, the grief could be equally felt by Zampanò who is trapped in his blind solitude with nothing but The Navidson Record for his consolation. By starting the poem claiming that “little solace” comes to those who deal with the effects of grief, the drifting thoughts and the feeling that the walls around you are shifting (or literally shifting in Navidson’s case), implies that no resolution or relief can be found while grieving. Besides the characters in the novel, readers of the novel may also experience this grief referred to in this poem. I’ve previously called reading House of Leaves a dizzying, frightening, and exciting experience, and I think this poem serves to further my sentiments about the novel. The final lines of the poem, “and this great blue world of ours/seems a house of leaves/moments before the wind” (Danielewski 563) compare the world to a fragile house made up of leaves. The “world” could be considered our reality, or the events that happen throughout life, or in Navidson’s case the world centered around his family and his home. By giving the house a delicate foundation, a house which is made up of leaves, the house then takes on properties not usually associated with a house. A house of leaves is not sturdy, and is easily blown away. To borrow a phrase again from Frued’s essay “The Uncanny,” the house in this poem then becomes “un-home-like,” and is threatened by the wind in the final line. If the house is standing moments before the wind, then it is likely it will not be standing when the wind blows and the house will be destroyed. Reflecting on this poem in regards to the title of the novel House of Leaves may “shed some light” on the novel and the experience of reading it. If the novel is like the house in the Noah 67 poem, a house made up of leaves, then it is a brittle substance which is about to be broken by the act of reading the novel. Because the novel is made up of so many fragile allusions to the essays and critics I’ve mentioned, and the endless citations and references that Zampanò includes in his essay, the act of reading House of Leaves is almost like the blowing wind which threatens the house in the poem. By discovering an allusion to Freud, for example, a reader is compelled to investigate that allusion and try to relate the events of the novel to that essay. So as a reader of House of Leaves begins to navigate the labyrinth that lies within it, that reader is also forced to investigate various facets of the novel; a hyperlink, for example, listed as a footnote may compel a reader to find an internet browser and follow the link to see what webpage Zampanò chooses to cite as a source for his essay. In this act of reading, the reader becomes like the wind which is about to topple the House of Leaves. The act of reading mirrors Navidson’s own experience inside the house; recall his last moments trapped alone in the depths of his home—Navidson is crawling through a small space in the dark and as he scours through what little remains of his supplies he discovers a copy of House of Leaves and a match book, and as he begins to read by match light, he also begins to rip out pages of the book he has read and burn them for more light. To Navidson, these moments may have felt like his last. He escapes his fear of death while lost in his home by retreating into this book for a few moments of reading. Zampanò comments on Navidson’s reading when he writes: “Here then is one end: a final act of reading, a final act of consumption” (Danielewski 467). Calling reading an act of consumption is not far off from the metaphor in the poem of the blowing wind threatening a house of leaves, and both descriptions of reading are very suitable for a novel which is as important as House of Leaves. Noah 68 Because reading this novel is so tied into the postmodern sublime, and filled with allusions to works real and fictional, the novel becomes that object which its name represents—a house made of fragile leaves. One other element is important to thinking of the novel as a house of leaves, the amount of leaves which would go into building a whole house. If the bricks of a house are made from pressing leaves together, than each individual brick would contain many leaves, and the house would contain many bricks. Mark Z. Danielewski’s novel not only is made up of many leaves or pages, but within those pages lie other worlds of text beyond what can be confined to a page. The allusions and dual narratives are crafted together in a similar way to a house of leaves. To me then, the novel represents an end to postmodernism. If the novel is a house which is made up of leaves, through interpreting the novel and analyzing the allusions to Freud or the Heinlein short story, a reader can blow the leaves which make up the house away. When discovering that the story of Navidson’s home may have been influenced by the Heinlein short story and the history of mathematics, or discovering the connections to Jameson’s world as he described in his Postmodernism, there is almost nothing left to the novel. After uncovering all of the allusions, reading through all of the footnotes, and successfully navigating the labyrinth Danielewski has crafted, one is left with almost nothing but Johnny Truant’s footnotes and a strange sensation of fear and confusion. How can a book create this sensation in a reader? Danielewski tunes into the world of postmodernism as I have described in my previous chapters, and creates a novel that has the power to affect readers on a physical as well as a cerebral scale. By tapping into this sensation that comes with tearing down the “house of leaves,” readers are encouraged to reinterpret their own experiences in reading the novel and the varying pathways through the labyrinth that is House of Leaves. I do not think that Danielewski points Noah 69

Loveless

There were literally three separate couples sitting around the fire making out, like some sort of organised kissing orgy, and half of me was like, ew, and the other half was like, Wow, I sure do wish that was me. To be fair, it’s probably what I should have expected from our prom afterparty. I don’t go to parties very often. I hadn’t been aware this actually was the culture. I retreated from the firepit and headed back towards Hattie Jorgensen’s giant country house, holding up my prom dress in one hand so I didn’t trip, and dropped Pip a message. Georgia Warr i could not approach the fire and retrieve the marshmallows because there were people kissing around it Felipa Quintana How could you betray and disappoint me like this Georgia Georgia Warr do you still love me or is this the end When I entered the kitchen and located Pip, she was leaning against a corner cupboard with a plastic cup full of wine in one hand and her phone in the other. Her tie was half tucked into her shirt pocket, her burgundy velvet blazer was now unbuttoned and her short curls were fluffy and loose, no doubt due to all the dancing at prom. ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘Might be a tad drunk,’ she said, her tortoiseshell glasses slipping down her nose. ‘And also I do fucking love you.’ ‘More than marshmallows?’ ‘How could you ask me to make such a choice?’ I slung my arm round her shoulders and we leant back together against the kitchen cupboards. It was almost midnight, music was thumping from Hattie’s living room, and the sound of our classmates chatting and laughing and shouting and screaming resonated from every corner of the building. ‘There were three separate couples making out around the fire,’ I said. ‘Like, in unison.’ ‘Kinky,’ said Pip. ‘I sort of wished I was one of them.’ She gave me a look. ‘Ew.’ ‘I just want to kiss someone,’ I said, which was odd, because I wasn’t even drunk. I was driving Pip and Jason home later. ‘We can make out if you want.’ ‘That wasn’t what I had in mind.’ ‘Well, Jason’s been single for a few months now. I’m sure he’d be up for it.’ ‘Shut up. I’m serious.’ I was serious. I really, really wanted to kiss someone. I wanted to feel a little bit of prom-night magic. ‘Tommy, then,’ said Pip, raising an eyebrow and smiling evilly. ‘Maybe it’s time to confess.’ I’d only ever had a crush on one person. His name was Tommy. He was the ‘hot boy’ of our school year – the one who could actually have been a model if he’d wanted. He was tall and skinny and conventionally attractive in a Timothée Chalamet sort of way, though I didn’t really understand why everyone was in love with Timothée Chalamet. I had a theory that a lot of people’s ‘celebrity crushes’ were faked just to fit in. Tommy had been my crush ever since I was in Year 7 and a girl had asked me, ‘Who d’you think is the hottest boy at Truham?’ She’d shown me a photo on her phone of a group of the most popular Year 7 boys at the boys’ grammar over the road, and there was Tommy right in the middle. I could tell he was the most attractive one – I mean, he had hair like a boyband star and was dressed pretty fashionably – so I’d pointed and said him. And I guess that was that. Almost seven years later, I’d never actually talked to Tommy. I’d never even really wanted to, probably because I was shy. He was more of an abstract concept – he was hot, and he was my crush, and nothing was going to happen between us, and I was perfectly fine with that. I snorted at Pip. ‘Obviously not Tommy.’ ‘Why not? You like him.’ The thought of actually following through on the crush made me feel extremely nervous. I just shrugged at Pip, and she dropped the discussion. Pip and I started to walk out of the kitchen, arms still slung round each other, and into the hallway of Hattie Jorgensen’s fancy country home. People were slumped on the floor in the corridor in their prom dresses and tuxes, cups and food scattered around. Two people were kissing on the stairs, and I looked at them for a moment, unsure whether it was disgusting or whether it was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen in my life. Probably the former. ‘You know what I want?’ Pip said, as we stumbled into Hattie’s conservatory and collapsed on to a sofa. ‘What?’ I said. ‘I want someone to spontaneously perform a song to declare their love for me.’ ‘What song?’ She gave this some thought. ‘“Your Song” from Moulin Rouge.’ She sighed. ‘God, I am sad, gay and alone.’ ‘Solid song choice, but not as attainable as a kiss.’ Pip rolled her eyes. ‘If you want to kiss someone that much, just go talk to Tommy. You’ve liked him for seven years. This is your last chance before we go to uni.’ She might have had a point. If it was going to be anyone, it was going to be Tommy. But the idea filled me with dread. I folded my arms. ‘Maybe I could kiss a stranger instead.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘I’m serious.’ ‘No you’re not. You’re not like that.’ ‘You don’t know what I’m like.’ ‘Yes I do,’ said Pip. ‘I know you more than anyone.’ She was right. About knowing me and about me not being like that and about tonight being my last chance to confess the crush I’d had for seven years, and the last chance to kiss someone while I was still a schoolkid, while I had a chance to feel the teenage-dream excitement and youthful magic that everyone else seemed to have had a little taste of. It was my last chance to feel that. So maybe I would have to bite the bullet and kiss Tommy after all. I loved romance. Always had. I loved Disney (especially the underappreciated masterpiece that is The Princess and the Frog). I loved fanfiction (even fanfics for characters I knew nothing about, but Draco/Harry or Korra/Asami were my comfort reads). I loved thinking about what my own wedding would be like (a barn wedding, with autumn leaves and berries, fairy lights and candles, my dress – lacy and vintagelooking, my soon-to-be-spouse crying, my family crying, me crying because I’m so, so happy, just, so happy that I have found the one). I just. Loved. Love. I knew it was soppy. But I wasn’t a cynic. I was a dreamer, maybe, who liked to yearn and believed in the magic of love. Like the main guy from Moulin Rouge, who runs away to Paris to write stories about truth, freedom, beauty and love, even though he should probably be thinking about getting a job so he can actually afford to buy food. Yeah. Definitely me. I probably got this from my family. The Warrs believed in forever love – my parents were just as in love now as they were back in 1991 when my mum was a ballet teacher and my dad was in a band. I’m not even joking. They were literally the plot of Avril Lavigne’s ‘Sk8er Boi’ but with a happy ending. Both sets of my grandparents were still together. My brother married his girlfriend when he was twenty-two. None of my close relatives had been divorced. Even most of my older cousins had at least partners, if not whole families of their own. I hadn’t ever been in a relationship. I hadn’t even kissed anyone. Jason kissed Karishma from my history class on his Duke of Edinburgh expedition and dated a horrible girl called Aimee for a few months until he realised she was a knob. Pip kissed Millie from the Academy at a house party and also Nicola from our youth theatre group at the dress rehearsal for Dracula. Most people had a story like that – a silly kiss with someone they sort of had a crush on, or didn’t really, and it didn’t necessarily go anywhere, but that was a part of being a teenager. Most people aged eighteen have kissed someone. Most people aged eighteen have had at least one crush, even if it’s on a celebrity. At least half of everyone I knew had actually had sex, although some of those people were probably lying, or they were just referring to a really terrible hand job or touching a boob. But it didn’t bother me, because I knew my time would come. It did for everyone. You’ll find someone eventually – that was what everyone said, and they were right. Teen romances only worked out in movies anyway. All I had to do was wait, and my big love story would come. I would find the one. We would fall in love. And I’d get my happily ever after. ‘Georgia has to kiss Tommy,’ Pip said to Jason as we slumped down next to him on a sofa in Hattie’s living room. Jason, who was in the middle of a game of Scrabble on his phone, frowned at me. ‘Can I ask why?’ ‘Because it’s been seven years and I think it’s time,’ said Pip. ‘Thoughts?’ Jason Farley-Shaw was our best friend. We were kind of a trio. Pip and I went to the same all-girls grammar school and met Jason through the annual school plays, where they’d always get a few of the boys from the boys’ grammar school to join in, then after a couple of years he joined our school, which was mixed in the sixth form, and joined our youth theatre group too. No matter what production we put on, whether it was a musical or a play, Jason usually played essentially the same role: a stern older man. This was mostly because he was tall and broad, but also because, at first glance, he did give off a bit of a strict dad vibe. He’d been Javert in Les Mis, Prospero in The Tempest and the angry father, George Banks, in Mary Poppins. Despite this, Pip and I had quickly learnt that underneath his stern exterior, Jason was a very gentle, chilled-out dude who seemed to enjoy our company more than anyone else’s. With Pip being a harbinger of chaos and my tendency to feel worried and awkward about pretty much everything, Jason’s calmness balanced us out perfectly. ‘Uh,’ Jason said, glancing at me. ‘Well … it doesn’t really matter what I think about it.’ ‘I don’t know if I want to kiss Tommy,’ I said. Jason looked satisfied and turned back to Pip. ‘There you go. Case closed. You have to be sure about these things.’ ‘No! Come on!’ Pip squawked and turned to face me. ‘Georgia. I know you’re shy. But it’s totally normal to be nervous about crushes. This is literally the final chance you have to confess your feelings, and even if he rejects you, it doesn’t matter, because he’s going to uni on the other side of the country.’ I could have pointed out that this meant a relationship would be pretty difficult should he respond positively, but I didn’t. ‘Remember how nervous I was telling Alicia I liked her?’ Pip continued. ‘And then she was like sorry, I’m straight, and I cried for like two months, but look at me now! I’m thriving!’ She kicked one leg into the air to make her point. ‘This is a no-consequence scenario.’ Jason was looking at me through all of this, like he was trying to suss out how I felt. ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘I just … don’t know. I guess I do like him.’ A flash of sadness crossed Jason’s features, but then it was gone. ‘Well,’ he said, looking down at his lap, ‘I guess you should just do what you want.’ ‘I guess I do want to kiss him,’ I said. I looked around the room and, sure enough, Tommy was there, standing in a small group of people near the doorway. He was just far enough away that I couldn’t quite focus on the details of his face – he was just the concept of a person, a blob, a generic attractive guy. My seven-year crush. Seeing him so far away and blurry took me right back to being in Year 7, pointing at a photo of a boy I thought was probably attractive. And that made up my mind. I could do this. I could kiss Tommy. I’d had times when I’d wondered whether I’d end up with Jason. I’d had times when I’d wondered whether I’d end up with Pip too. If our lives were in a movie, at least two of us would have got together. But I’d never felt any romantic feelings for either of them, as far as I could tell. Pip and I had been friends for almost seven years. From day one of Year 7, when we’d been sat together in our form-room seating plan and forced to tell each other three interesting facts about ourselves. We learnt we both wanted to be actors and that was it. Friends. Pip was always more sociable, funnier, and generally more interesting than me. I was the listener, the supportive one when she’d had her am-I-gay crisis at the age of fourteen, and then her I-don’t-know-whether-to-do- acting-or-science crisis last year, and then her I-really-want-to-cut-my-hairshort-but-I’m-scared crisis several months ago. Jason and I had met each other later, but we bonded faster than I’d ever thought possible, given my poor track record for forming friendships. He was the first person I met who I could sit quietly with and it wouldn’t feel awkward. I didn’t feel like I had to try to be funny and entertaining with him; I could just be me, and he wouldn’t dislike me because of it. We’d all had what felt like a thousand sleepovers with each other. I knew exactly where the broken springs were in Pip’s bed. I knew that Jason’s favourite glass in my cupboard was a faded Donald Duck one I got at Disneyland when I was twelve. Moulin Rouge was the movie we always watched when we hung out – we all knew it word for word. There were never any romantic feelings between Pip, Jason and me. But what we did have – a friendship of many years – was just as strong as that, I think. Stronger, maybe, than a lot of couples I knew. In order to get me physically closer to Tommy, Pip forced us to join a group game of truth or dare, which both Jason and I protested against, but Pip obviously won. ‘Truth,’ I said when it was my turn to suffer. Hattie, who was leading the game, grinned evilly and selected a card from the ‘truth’ pack. There must have been about twelve of us, all sitting on the living-room carpet. Pip and Jason were sitting on either side of me. Tommy was opposite. I didn’t really want to look at him. Pip handed me a crisp from the bowl for support. I gratefully accepted it and stuffed it in my mouth. ‘What’s the worst romantic or sexual experience you’ve had with a guy?’ A couple of people chorused ‘Oooh’, one guy whistled, and one girl just laughed, one short burst of ‘ha’ that I found more embarrassing than anything else. Thankfully, I wouldn’t see most of the people at this party ever again in my life. Maybe on Instagram, but I muted most people’s Instagram stories and I already had a mental list of all the people I was going to unfollow after A-level results day. There were a few people at school that me, Pip and Jason got along with. People we’d sit with at lunch. A little gang of theatre kids we’d hang out with in school play season. But I knew already that we would all go to uni and forget about each other. Pip, Jason and I would not forget about each other, though, because we were all going to Durham University in October, as long as we got the grades for it. This actually hadn’t been planned – we were a trio of highachieving nerds, but Jason had failed to get into Oxford, Pip had failed to get into King’s College London, and I was the only one for whom Durham was actually my first choice. I thanked the universe every day that it’d worked out like that. I needed Pip and Jason. They were my lifeline. ‘That’s too far,’ Jason immediately interjected. ‘Come on. That’s way too personal.’ There were cries of outrage from the rest of our peers. People didn’t give a shit about it being personal. ‘You must have something,’ drawled Hattie in her super-posh accent. ‘Like everyone’s had a terrible kiss or something by now.’ I was very uncomfortable about being the centre of attention, so I thought it’d be better to just get this over with. ‘I’ve never kissed anyone,’ I announced. When I said it, I didn’t think I was saying anything particularly odd. Like, this wasn’t a teen movie. Virgin-shaming wasn’t really a thing. Everyone knew that people did these things when they were ready, right? But then the reactions began. There were audible gasps. A pitying ‘aww’. Some of the guys started laughing and one of them coughed the word ‘virgin’. Hattie brought her hand to her mouth and said, horrified, ‘Oh my God, seriously?’ My face started to burn. I wasn’t weird. There were lots of eighteen-yearolds who hadn’t kissed anyone yet. I glanced at Tommy, and even he was looking at me with sympathy, like I was a little kid – like I was a child who didn’t understand anything. ‘It’s not that unusual,’ I said. Hattie pressed her hand to her heart and stuck out her bottom lip. ‘You’re so pure.’ A guy leant over and said, ‘You’re, like, eighteen, right?’ I nodded at him, and he said, ‘Oh my God,’ like I was disgusting or something. Was I disgusting? Was I ugly and shy and disgusting and that was why I hadn’t kissed anyone yet? My eyes were starting to water. ‘All right,’ Pip snapped. ‘You can all stop being dickheads right the fuck now.’ ‘It is weird, though,’ said a guy I knew from my English class. He was addressing Pip. ‘You’ve got to admit it’s weird to have got to eighteen without having kissed anyone.’ ‘That’s rich coming from a guy who admitted to having a wank over the princesses in Shrek 3.’ There were cackles of glee from the group, momentarily distracted from laughing at me. While Pip continued to berate our classmates, Jason very subtly took hold of my hand and pulled me up and out of the room. Once we were in the corridor, I was about to cry so I said I needed to pee and went upstairs to find the loo. When I reached the bathroom, I examined my reflection, rubbing under my eyes so my mascara didn’t smudge. I swallowed the tears down. I wasn’t going to cry. I did not cry in front of anybody. I hadn’t realised. I hadn’t realised how behind I was. I’d spent so much time thinking that my one true love would just show up one day. I had been wrong. I had been so, so wrong. Everyone else was growing up, kissing, having sex, falling in love, and I was just … I was just a child. And if I carried on like this … would I be alone forever? ‘Georgia!’ Pip’s voice. I made sure my tears were gone by the time I exited the bathroom. And she didn’t suspect a thing. ‘They’re so fucking dumb,’ she said. ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. She tried to smile warmly at me. ‘You know you’ll find someone eventually, right?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘You know you’ll find someone eventually. Everyone does. You’ll see.’ Jason was looking at me with a sad expression on his face. Pitying, maybe. Was he pitying me too? ‘Am I wasting being a teenager?’ I asked them. And they told me no, like best friends would, but it was too late. This was the wake-up call I’d needed. I needed to kiss someone before it was too late. And that someone had to be Tommy. I let Pip and Jason go back downstairs to get drinks, using the excuse that I wanted to get my jacket from one of the guest bedrooms because I was cold, and then I just stood in the dark corridor, trying to breathe and collect my thoughts. Everything was OK. It wasn’t too late. I wasn’t weird or disgusting. I had time to make my move. I located my jacket, and also found a bowl of cocktail sausages balanced on a radiator, so picked those up too. As I walked back down the corridor, I saw that another bedroom door was ajar, so I peered inside, only to get an absolute eyeful of someone very clearly getting fingered. It sent a sort of shockwave through my spine. Like, wow, OK. I forgot people actually did that in real life. It was fun to read about in fanfics and see in movies, but the reality was kind of just like, Oh. Yikes. I’m uncomfortable, get me out of here. That aside – surely you’d think to shut the door properly if someone was going to put a body part inside of you. It was hard to picture myself in a situation like that. Honestly, I loved the idea in theory – having a sexy little adventure in a dark room in someone else’s house with someone you’ve been on-and-off flirting with for a couple of months – but the reality? Having to actually touch genitals with someone? Ew. I guess it took time for people to be ready for stuff like that. And you’d have to find someone you felt comfortable with. I’d never even interacted with anyone I wanted to kiss, let alone someone I wanted to … I looked down at my bowl of cocktail sausages. Suddenly I was not very hungry any more. And then a voice broke the silence around me. ‘Hey,’ said the voice, and I looked up, and there was Tommy. This was the first time I had talked to Tommy in my life. I’d seen him a lot, obviously. At the few house parties I’d been to. Sometimes at the school gate. When he joined our school for sixth form, we didn’t take any of the same subjects, but we occasionally passed in the corridor. I’d always felt sort of nervous when he was nearby. I figured this was because of the crush. I didn’t really know how I was supposed to act around him. Tommy pointed at the bedroom. ‘Is anyone in there? I think my coat’s on the bed.’ ‘I think someone’s getting fingered in there,’ I said, hopefully not loud enough for the people in question to hear. Tommy dropped his hand. ‘Oh. Right. OK, then. Um. I guess I’ll get it later.’ There was a pause. We stood awkwardly outside the door. We couldn’t hear the two people inside the bedroom, but just knowing it was happening, and we were both aware of it, made me want to die. ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Oh, you know,’ I said, holding up the bowl of sausages. ‘I have sausages.’ Tommy nodded. ‘Good. Good for you.’ ‘Thanks.’ ‘You look really nice, by the way.’ My prom dress was sparkly and lilac, and I felt fairly uncomfortable in it compared to my usual patterned knits and high-waisted jeans, but I thought I looked nice, so it was good to have confirmation. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Sorry about the truth or dare game.’ He chuckled. ‘People can be such twats. For the record, I didn’t have my first kiss until I was seventeen.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yeah. I know it’s kind of late, but … you know, it’s better to wait until it feels right, isn’t it?’ ‘Yeah,’ I agreed, but I was just thinking that if seventeen was ‘late’, then I must be basically geriatric. This all felt weird. Tommy had been my crush for seven years. He was talking to me. Why wasn’t I jumping for joy right now? Thankfully at that moment my phone buzzed. I retrieved it from my bra. Felipa Quintana Sexcuse me buts where are you Haha sex I said sex accidentally And BUTS Haha butts Jason Farley-Shaw Please return before pip has another glass of wine Felipa Quintana Stop subtweeting me in our own group chat when I’m standing right next to you Jason Farley-Shaw For real though Georgia where are you I quickly switched my phone screen off before Tommy thought I was ignoring him. ‘Uh …’ I began, not quite knowing what I was going to say before I said it. I held up my oversized denim jacket. ‘If you’re cold, you can borrow my jacket.’ Tommy looked at it. He seemed unfazed that it was technically a ‘girl’s’ jacket, which was good, because if he’d protested, that probably would have been it for my crush. ‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘Yeah!’ He took the jacket and put it on. It made me feel a bit uncomfortable, just knowing that some guy I really didn’t know very well was wearing my favourite jacket. Shouldn’t I have been pleased about this development? ‘I was just gonna go sit by the fire for a bit,’ said Tommy, and he slouched against the wall, leaning ever so slightly towards me with a smile. ‘D’you … wanna come with?’ That was when I realised he was trying to flirt with me. Like, this was working. I was actually going to get to kiss Tommy. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let me just message my friends.’ Georgia Warr hanging out with tommy lol School romance was on my list of favourite fanfiction tropes. I also loved soulmate AU, coffee shop AU, hurt/comfort and temporary amnesia. I figured school romance was the most likely one that would happen to me, but now that the possibility of it happening was more than zero, I was freaking out. Like, heart racing, sweating, hands shaking freaking out. This was what crushes felt like, so this was normal, right? Everything was totally normal. When we got to the fire, we were the only people there. No kissing orgy in sight. I picked a seat near the blanket pile and Tommy sat next to me, balancing a beer bottle on his chair arm. What would happen now? Would we just start making out? God, I hoped not. Wait, wasn’t that what I wanted? A kiss had to happen, anyway. That much was clear to me. This was my last chance. ‘So,’ Tommy said. ‘So,’ I said. I thought about how I was going to initiate the kiss. In fanfics, they just say Can I kiss you, which is very romantic to read but sounded so embarrassing in my head when I imagined saying it out loud. In movies, it just seems to sort of happen without any discussion beforehand, but both parties go into it knowing exactly what’s happening. He nodded at me, and I glanced at him, waiting for him to speak. ‘You look really nice,’ he said. ‘You said that already,’ I said, smiling awkwardly, ‘but thanks.’ ‘S’weird we didn’t really speak much at school,’ he continued. As he spoke, he put his hand on the top of my chair, so his hand was weirdly close to my face. I don’t know why that made me feel so uncomfortable. His skin was just there, I guess. ‘Well, we weren’t really friends with the same people,’ I said. ‘Yeah, and you’re pretty quiet, aren’t you?’ I couldn’t even deny that. ‘Yeah.’ Now that he was so close, I was struggling to even see what exactly I’d been attracted to for seven years. I could tell that he was conventionally attractive, like you can tell pop stars or actors are attractive, but nothing about him really made me feel butterflies. Did I know what butterflies felt like? What exactly was I supposed to be feeling right now? He nodded as if he already knew everything about me. ‘That’s all right. Quiet girls are nice.’ What was that even supposed to mean? Was he being creepy? I couldn’t tell. I was probably just nervous. Everyone gets nervous around their crushes. I glanced towards the house, feeling like I didn’t really want to look at him any more. And I spotted two figures hovering in the conservatory, watching us – Pip and Jason. Pip immediately waved at me, but Jason looked kind of embarrassed and pulled Pip away. They both wanted to see what would happen with Georgia and her sevenyear crush. Tommy leant a little closer to me. ‘We should talk more, or something.’ I could tell he didn’t mean that. He was just stalling. I knew what was supposed to happen next. I was supposed to lean in, nervous, but excited, and he’d brush my hair out of my face and I’d look up at him beneath my eyelashes, and then we’d kiss, gently, and we’d be one, Georgia and Tommy, and then we’d go home, giddy and happy, and maybe it’d never happen again. Or maybe he’d message me, and we’d decide to go on a date, just to see what would happen, and at the date we would decide to try going out, and on our third date we would decide to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and a couple of weeks after that we would have sex, and while I was at university he would text me good morning and come to visit every other weekend, and after university we would move in together in a little flat by the river and get a dog, and he’d grow a beard, and then we would get married, and that would be the end. That was what was supposed to happen. I could see every single moment of it in my head. The simple route. The easy way out. I could do that, couldn’t I? If I didn’t, what would Pip and Jason say? ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I know you haven’t kissed anyone before.’ The way he said it was like he was talking to a newborn puppy. ‘OK,’ I said. It irritated me. He was irritating me. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? A cute little moment in the dark? ‘Hey, look,’ he said, a pitying smile on his face. ‘Everyone has a first kiss eventually. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s OK to be new at, like, romance and all that.’ New at romance? I wanted to laugh. I’d been studying romance like an academic. Like an obsessive researcher. Romance would be my Mastermind topic. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Georgia …’ Tommy leant in close, and then it hit me. The disgust. A wave of absolute, unbridled disgust. He was so close I felt like I wanted to scream, I wanted to smash a glass and throw up at the same time. My fists tightened on the arms of my chair and I tried to keep looking at him, keep moving towards him, kiss him, but he was so close to me and it felt horrific, I felt disgusted. I wanted this to end. ‘It’s OK to be nervous,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of cute, actually.’ ‘I’m not nervous,’ I said. I was disgusted by the thought of him near me. Wanting things from me. That wasn’t normal, was it? He put his hand on my thigh. And that’s when I flinched, shoving his hand away and sending his drink toppling off the side of the chair, and he swung forwards to grab it and fell out of his seat. Right into the firepit. There’d been signs. I’d missed all of them because I was desperate to fall in love. Luke from Year 5 was the first. He did it via a note in my coat pocket during playtime. To Georgia. You’re so beautiful, will you be my girlfriend? Yes [ ] No [ ] From Luke. I ticked No and he cried all through numeracy. In Year 6, when all of the girls in my class decided they wanted boyfriends, I felt left out, so asked Luke if he was still up for it, but he was already going out with Ayesha, so he said no. All the new couples played together on the climbing frame during the leavers’ barbecue, and I felt sad and lonely. Noah from the school bus was the second, in Year 9, although I’m not sure he counts. He asked me out on Valentine’s Day because that was what people did on Valentine’s Day – everybody wanted to be in a couple on Valentine’s Day. Noah scared me because he was loud and enjoyed throwing sandwiches at people, so I just shook my head at him and went back to staring out of the window. The third was Jian from the boys’ school. Year 11. A lot of people thought he was extremely attractive. We had a long conversation at a house party about whether Love Island was a good show or not, and then he tried to kiss me when everyone was drunk, including both of us. It would have been so easy to go for it. It would have been so easy to lean in and do it. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t fancy him. But the fourth turned out to be Tommy, who I knew from school and who looked like Timothée Chalamet, and I didn’t really know him that well, but this was the time that broke me a little, because I’d thought I really liked him. But I couldn’t do it, because I didn’t fancy him. My seven-year crush on him was entirely fabricated. A random choice from when I was eleven, and a girl held up a photo and told me to choose a boy. I didn’t fancy Tommy. Apparently, I hadn’t ever fancied anyone. I screamed. Tommy screamed. His entire arm was on fire. He rolled over and suddenly Pip flew out of nowhere, grabbing a blanket, and falling straight on top of Tommy, stifling the flames while Tommy was saying, ‘Holy shit, holy shit,’ over and over and I was just standing over him, watching him burn. The first thing I felt was shock. I felt frozen. Like this wasn’t really happening. The second thing I felt was anger about my jacket. That was my favourite fucking jacket. I should never have given it to some boy I barely knew. Some boy I didn’t even like. Jason was there too, asking Tommy if he was hurt, but he was sitting up and shaking his head, pulling off the ruins of my favourite jacket, looking at his unscathed arm and saying, ‘What the fuck?’ And then he stared up at me and said it again. ‘What the fuck?’ I looked down at this person I had picked at random from a photo and said, ‘I don’t like you like that. I’m really sorry. You’re nice, but I just – I don’t like you like that.’ Jason and Pip both turned to me in unison. A little crowd was starting to form, our classmates wandering outside to see what the commotion was about. ‘What the fuck?’ said Tommy a third time, before he was swarmed by his friends, coming to see if he was OK. I was just staring at him thinking, that was my fucking jacket and seven years and I never liked you at all. ‘Georgia,’ said Pip. She was next to me, pulling on my arm. ‘I think it’s time to go home.’ ‘I never liked him,’ I said in the car as we pulled up outside Pip’s house and I cut the engine. Pip was next to me. Jason was in the back. ‘Seven years and I just lied to myself the whole time.’ They were both being weirdly silent. Like they didn’t know what to say. In a horrible way, I almost blamed them. Pip, anyway. She’d been the one pushing me to do this. She’d been teasing me about Tommy for seven years. No, that was unfair. This wasn’t her fault. ‘This is my fault,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand,’ said Pip, gesturing wildly. She was still fairly tipsy. ‘You … you’ve had a crush on him for years.’ Her voice got quieter. ‘This was your … your big chance.’ I started laughing. It’s wild how long you can trick yourself. And everyone around you. The door to Pip’s house opened, revealing her parents in matching dressing gowns. Manuel and Carolina Quintana were just another of the perfectly-in-love, incredibly-romantic-backstory couples I knew. Carolina, who’d grown up in Popayán, Colombia, and Manuel, who’d grown up in London, met when Manuel went to visit his dying grandma in Popayán when he was seventeen. Carolina was literally the girl next door, and the rest was history. These things just happened. ‘I’ve never had a crush on anyone in my entire life,’ I said. It was all sinking in. I’d never had a crush on anyone. No boys, no girls, not a single person I had ever met. What did that mean? Did it mean anything? Or was I just doing life wrong? Was there something wrong with me? ‘Can you believe that?’ There was a pause again, before Pip said, ‘Well, s’fine. S’fine, man. You know you’ll find someone –’ ‘Don’t say it,’ I said. ‘Please do not say it.’ So she didn’t. ‘You know, the idea – the idea of it is nice. The idea of liking Tommy and kissing Tommy and having some cute little moment by the fire after prom. That’s so nice. That’s what I wanted.’ I felt myself clench the steering wheel. ‘But the reality disgusts me.’ They didn’t say anything. Even Pip, who’d always been a chatty drunk. Even my best friends couldn’t think of a single comforting word. ‘Well … This has been a good night, right?’ Pip slurred as she stumbled out of my car. She held the front passenger door open and pointed dramatically at me, the streetlamps reflecting in her glasses. ‘You. Very good. Outstanding. And you –’ she prodded Jason in the chest as he moved into the front seat – ‘excellent. Really excellent work.’ ‘Drink water,’ said Jason, patting her on the head. We watched her walk up to her front door and get gently chastised by her mum for being drunk. Her dad waved at us, and we waved back, and then I started the engine and we drove away. It could have been a good night. It could have been the best night of my life, if I’d actually had a crush on Tommy. The next stop was Jason’s. He lived in a house built by his dads, who were both architects. Rob and Mitch had met at university – they were doing the same course – and ended up competing for the same architecture apprenticeship. Rob won, which he claims he earned, but Mitch always claims he let Rob win because he liked him. When we arrived, I said, ‘Most people our age have kissed someone.’ And he said, ‘That doesn’t matter.’ But I knew it did. It mattered. It was not random that I was the one who was falling behind. Everything that had happened that night was a sign that I needed to try harder, or I would be alone for the rest of my life. ‘I don’t feel like a real teenager,’ I said. ‘I think I failed at it.’ And Jason clearly didn’t know what to say to that, because he said nothing. Sitting in my car on the drive of my family home, the ghost of a boy’s hand on my thigh, I made a plan. I was going to university soon. A chance to reinvent myself and become someone who could fall in love, someone who would fit in with my family, with people my age, with the world. I’d make a load of new friends. I’d join societies. I’d get a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, even. A partner. I’d have my first kiss, and I’d have sex. I was just a late bloomer. I wasn’t going to die alone. I was going to try harder. I wanted forever love. I didn’t want to be loveless. The drive to Durham University was six hours long, and I spent most of it replying to Pip’s barrage of Facebook messages. Jason had already travelled up there a couple of days earlier, and Pip and I had hoped to go together, but it turned out that my bags and boxes had taken up the whole of my dad’s car boot and most of the back seats. We settled for messaging and trying to spot each other on the motorway. Felipa Quintana New game!!!!! If we spot each other on the motorway we get 10 points Georgia Warr what do we get if we have the most points Felipa Quintana Eternal glory Georgia Warr love me a sweet cup of eternal glory Felipa Quintana DUDE I JUST SAW YOU!!!!!!!!!!!! I waved but you didn’t see me Rejection A modern tragedy by Felipa Quintana Georgia Warr you’ll get over it Felipa Quintana I’ll need intense therapy You’re paying Georgia Warr i’m not paying for your therapy Felipa Quintana Rude I thought you were my friend Georgia Warr use your 10 points to pay for therapy Felipa Quintana MAYBE I WILL The drive was hideously long, actually, even with Pip’s messages for company. Dad was asleep for most of it. Mum insisted she got to choose the radio station since she was driving, and it was all motorway, flashes of grey and green, with only one stop at a service station. Mum bought me a packet of crisps, but I was too nervous about the day ahead to eat them, so they just sat in my lap, unopened. ‘You never know,’ Mum had said, in an attempt to cheer me up, ‘you might find a lovely young man on your course!’ ‘Maybe,’ I said. Or a lovely young woman. God, anybody. Please. I’m desperate. ‘Lots of people meet their life partner at university. Like me and Dad.’ Mum regularly pointed out boys she thought I would find attractive, as if I could just go up to someone and ask them out. I never thought any of her choices were attractive anyway. But she was hopeful. Mostly out of curiosity, I think. She wanted to know what sort of person I would choose, like when you’re watching a movie and waiting for the love interest to appear. ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said, not wanting to tell her that her attempt at cheering me up was just making me feel worse. ‘That’d be nice.’ I was starting to feel a bit like I was going to be sick. But everyone probably felt this way about starting university. Durham is a little old city with lots of hills and cobbled streets, and I loved it because I felt like I was in The Secret History or some other deep and mysterious university drama where there’s lots of sex and murder. Not that I was particularly on track to experience either of those. We had to drive into a huge field, queue up in the car, and wait to be summoned, because Durham University’s colleges are all tiny and they don’t have car parks of their own. Lots of students and their parents were getting out of their cars to talk to each other while we all waited. I knew I should get out and start socialising too. My running theory was that my shyness and introversion were linked to my whole ‘never fancying anyone’ situation – maybe I just didn’t talk to enough people, or maybe people just stressed me out in general, and that was why I’d never wanted to kiss anyone. If I just improved my confidence, tried to be a bit more open and sociable, I’d be able to do and feel those things, like most people. Starting university was a good time to try something like that. Felipa Quintana Hey are you in the queue I’ve befriended my car next door neighbour She brought a whole-ass fern with her It’s like five feet tall Update: the fern’s name is Roderick I was about to reply, or maybe even get out of the car and meet Pip’s acquaintance and Roderick, but it was then that Mum turned the engine on. ‘They’re calling us,’ she said, pointing up ahead at where someone in a high-vis vest was waving. Dad turned round to smile at me. ‘You ready?’ It’d be hard, sure, and it’d be scary and probably embarrassing, but I would become someone who could experience the magic of romance. I knew I had my whole life ahead of me, and it’d happen one day, but I felt like if I couldn’t change and make it happen at university, it’d never happen at all. ‘Yeah,’ I replied. Also, I didn’t want to wait. I wanted it now. ‘Oh no,’ I said, standing outside the door of what would be my bedroom for the next nine months, and slightly dying inside. ‘What?’ asked Dad, dropping one of my bags on to the floor and pulling his glasses down from the top of his head. ‘Oh, well,’ said Mum, ‘you knew there was a chance of this happening, darling.’ On the front of my bedroom door was my photo and underneath it was written ‘Georgia Warr’ in Times New Roman. Next to that was another photo – of a girl with long brown hair, a smile that looked positively candid in its naturalness, and perfectly threaded eyebrows. Underneath that was the name ‘Rooney Bach’. Durham was an old English university that had a ‘college system’. Instead of halls of residence, the university was made up of ‘colleges’ spread around the city. Your college was where you slept, showered and ate, but it was also a place you showed your allegiance to through college events, your college sports teams, and running for the college’s executive student roles. St John’s College – the one that I had been accepted into – was an old building. And because of that, a few of the students living there had to share rooms. I just hadn’t thought it would be me. A wave of panic flooded through me. I couldn’t have a roommate – hardly anyone in the UK had roommates at uni. I needed my own space. How was I supposed to sleep or read fanfic or get dressed or do anything with someone else in the room? How was I supposed to relax when I had to socialise with another person every moment I was awake? Mum didn’t even seem to notice I was panicking. She just said, ‘Well, let’s get cracking, then,’ and opened the door for me. And Rooney Bach was already there, wearing leggings and a polo shirt, watering a five-foot fern. The first thing Rooney Bach said to me was, ‘Oh my God, are you Georgia Warr?’ like I was a celebrity, but she didn’t even wait for affirmation before casting her watering can aside, grabbing a large strip of aqua-blue fabric – which I determined to be a rug – from her bed, and holding it up to me. ‘Rug,’ she said. ‘Thoughts?’ ‘Um,’ I said. ‘It’s great.’ ‘OK, amazing.’ She whooshed the rug into the air and then laid it down in the centre of our room. ‘There. It just needed that splash of colour.’ I think I was in shock a little bit, because only then did I take a proper look around our room. It was large, but pretty gross, as I’d expected it would be – bedrooms are never nice at old English universities. The carpet was a mouldy grey-blue, the furniture was beige and plastic-looking, and our beds were singles. Rooney’s already had bright, flowery bedsheets on it. Mine looked like it belonged in a hospital. The only nice part of the room was a large sash window. The paint on the wooden frame was peeling and I knew it’d be draughty, but it was sort of lovely, and you could see all the way down to the river. ‘You’ve done up the place nicely already!’ Dad was saying to Rooney. ‘Oh, d’you think so?’ said Rooney. She immediately started narrating a tour of her side of the room to Mum and Dad, showing off all the key features – her illustrated print of some meadows (she liked going on country walks) and one of Much Ado About Nothing (her favourite Shakespeare play), her fleece duvet topper (also aqua, to match the rug), her house plant (whose name was – I hadn’t misheard – Roderick), an aqua desk lamp (from John Lewis) and, most importantly, a giant poster that simply read ‘Don’t Quit Your Daydream’ in a swirly font. The whole time, she was smiling. Her hair, up in a ponytail, swished around, as my parents tried to keep up with how fast she was talking. I sat down on my bed in the grey half of the room. I hadn’t brought any posters with me. All I’d brought were a few printed-out photos of me, Pip and Jason. Mum looked at me from the other side of the room and gave me a sad smile, like she knew that I wanted to go home. ‘You can message us any time, darling,’ said Mum, as we were saying goodbye outside the college. I felt empty and lost, standing there in the cobbled street in the October cold, my parents about to leave me. I don’t want you to go, was what I wanted to say to them. ‘And Pip and Jason are just down the road, aren’t they?’ continued Dad. ‘You can go and hang out with them any time.’ Pip and Jason had been placed in a different college – University College, or ‘Castle’ as it was commonly referred to by the students here, since it literally was part of Durham Castle. They’d stopped replying to my messages a couple of hours ago. Probably busy unpacking. Please don’t leave me here alone, I wanted to say. ‘Yeah,’ is what I said. I glanced around. This was my home, now. Durham. It was like a town out of a Dickens adaptation. All of the buildings were tall and old. Everything seemed to be made of lumps of stone. I could see myself walking down the cobbles and into the cathedral in my graduation gown already. This was where I was supposed to be. They both hugged me. I didn’t cry, even though I really, really wanted to. ‘This is the start of a big adventure,’ said Dad. ‘Maybe,’ I mumbled into his jacket. I couldn’t bear to stay and watch them walk away down the road towards the car – when they turned to go, so did I. Back in my room, Rooney was Blu Tack-ing a photo to the wall, right in the centre of her posters. In the photo was Rooney, maybe aged thirteen or fourteen, with a girl who had dyed red hair. Like, Ariel from The Little Mermaid hair. ‘Is that your friend from home?’ I asked. This was a good conversation starter, at least. Rooney whipped her head round to look at me, and for a moment I thought I saw an odd expression cross her face. But then it was gone, replaced by her wide smile. ‘Yeah!’ she said. ‘Beth. She’s – she’s not here, obviously, but … yeah. She’s my friend. Do you know anyone else in Durham? Or are you here all alone?’ ‘Oh, erm, well, my two best friends are here, but they’re in Castle.’ ‘Oh, that’s so nice! Sad you didn’t get into the same college, though.’ I shrugged. Durham took your choice of college into consideration, but not everyone could get their first choice. I’d tried to get into Castle too, but I’d ended up here. ‘We tried, but, yeah.’ ‘You’ll be OK.’ Rooney beamed. ‘We’ll be friends.’ Rooney offered to help me unpack, but I declined, determined to at least do this one thing by myself. While I was unpacking, she sat on her bed and chatted to me, and we learnt that we were both studying English. She then declared that she’d done none of the summer reading. I’d done all of it but didn’t mention that. Rooney, I was quickly learning, was extremely chatty, but I could tell that she was putting on some sort of happy, bubbly persona. Which was fair enough – I mean, it was our first day of university. Everyone was going to be trying really hard to make friends. But I couldn’t get a sense of what sort of person she really was, which was mildly concerning because we were going to be living with each other for almost a full year. Were we going to be best friends? Or were we going to awkwardly put up with each other before leaving for the summer and never speaking again? ‘So …’ I scanned the room in search of something to talk about, before landing on her Much Ado poster. ‘You like Shakespeare?’ Rooney’s head snapped up from her phone. ‘Yeah! Do you?’ I nodded. ‘Um, yeah, well, I was in a youth theatre group back home. And I did a lot of the school plays. Shakespeare was always my favourite.’ This actually caused Rooney to sit up, eyes wide and sparkling. ‘Wait. You act?’ ‘Um …’ I did act, but, well, it was a bit more complicated than that now. When I was in my early teens, I’d wanted to be an actor – which was why I’d joined the youth theatre group that Pip already went to and started auditioning for the school plays with her. And I was good at it. I got top marks in drama class at school. I usually got a pretty solid speaking part in the plays and musicals that I did. But as I got older, acting just started to make me nervous. I got more stage fright the more plays I did, and eventually, when I auditioned for Les Misérables in Year 13, I was shaking so much that I got relegated to a role with only one line, and even then, come showtime, I threw up before every single performance. So maybe a career in acting wasn’t for me. Despite this, I was planning to continue with acting at uni. I still enjoyed figuring out roles and interpreting scripts – it was the audiences I had problems with. I just needed to work on my confidence. I’d join the student theatre society and maybe audition for a play. I needed to join one society, at least, if I was going to branch out and open up and meet new people. And find someone to fall in love with. ‘Yeah, a bit,’ I said. ‘Oh. My. God.’ Rooney clapped one hand to her heart. ‘This is amazing. We can go join the DST together.’ ‘The DST …?’ ‘Durham Student Theatre. They basically run all of the drama societies in Durham.’ Rooney flipped her ponytail back. ‘The Shakespeare Soc is literally the main society I wanna join. I know most freshers do the Freshers Play but I had a look at what plays they’ve done the past few years and they’re all kind of boring? So I’m at least gonna try and join Shakespeare. God I’m praying they’ll do a tragedy. Macbeth is literally my dream …’ Rooney rambled on without seeming to care whether I was actually listening or not. We had something in common. Acting. This was good. Maybe Rooney would be my first new friend. ‘Oh, wow!’ said Jason later that day as he and Pip stepped into my – well, my and Rooney’s room. ‘It’s the size of my garden.’ Pip stretched out her arms and did a twirl on the spot, emphasising the unnecessary amount of empty space in the room. ‘I didn’t realise you’d joined the college of the bourgeoisie.’ ‘I don’t understand why they couldn’t just … build a wall in the middle,’ I said, pointing at the gap between mine and Rooney’s sides of the room, which was currently only occupied by Rooney’s aqua rug. ‘How very Trump of you,’ said Jason. ‘Oh my God, shut up.’ Rooney had left a while ago with a group of people she’d befriended on our corridor. They’d invited me, but honestly, I needed some down time – I’d been trying my best to say hi to new people for most of the day, and I really, really wanted to see some familiar faces. So I’d invited Jason and Pip to come hang in my room for a bit before this evening’s freshers’ events at our separate colleges, and thankfully, they’d both finished unpacking and didn’t have anything else to do. I’d already told them a little bit about Rooney – that she liked theatre and was generally quite nice – but her side of the room was a much better summary of her personality. Jason surveyed it, then looked over my side. ‘Why does her side look like an Instagram influencer’s bedroom and yours looks like a prison cell? You brought so many bags with you!’ ‘It’s not that bad. And a lot of the bags had books in them.’ ‘Georgia, my dude,’ said Pip, who had slumped on to my bed. ‘Her side looks like Disneyland. Yours looks like a stock photo.’ ‘I didn’t bring any posters,’ I said. ‘Or fairy lights.’ ‘You – Georgia, how the hell did you forget fairy lights? They’re an essential element of university room décor.’ ‘I don’t know!’ ‘You’ll be sad without fairy lights. Everyone’s sad without fairy lights.’ ‘I think Rooney’s got more than enough for both of us. She’s already letting me share a rug.’ Pip looked down at the aqua and nodded approvingly. ‘Yes. It’s a good rug.’ ‘It’s just a rug.’ ‘It’s a shaggy one. That’s sexy.’ ‘Pip.’ Pip suddenly leapt out of the bed, staring at Rooney’s fern in the corner of the room. ‘Hang on – wait one fucking second. That plant …’ Jason and I turned to look at Roderick. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yeah. That’s Roderick.’ And it was at that moment that Rooney Bach returned to our room. She swung the door wide open, kicked her Norton Anthology in front of it to act as a doorstop, and turned to face us with a Starbucks in her hand. ‘Guests!’ she said, beaming at the three of us. ‘Um, yeah,’ I said. ‘These are my friends from home, Pip and Jason.’ I pointed at each of them. ‘And this is my roommate, Rooney.’ I pointed at Rooney. Rooney’s eyes widened. ‘Oh my God. This is them.’ ‘It’s us,’ said Pip, one eyebrow raised. ‘And we’ve met already!’ Rooney gave Pip a once-over, her eyes flicking briefly up and down from her tortoiseshell glasses down to the stripy socks visible beneath her rolled-up jeans, before striding towards her and holding out her hand with such force that Pip looked, for the briefest second, afraid. She shook the hand. She gave Rooney a once-over in return – from her Adidas Originals all the way up to the hairband just visible at the top of her ponytail. ‘Yes. I see Roderick has settled in.’ Rooney’s eyebrow quivered, like she was surprised and pleased that Pip’s immediate reaction was banter. ‘He has. He’s been enjoying the northern air.’ She turned to Jason and held out her hand again, which he took. ‘We haven’t met, but I like your jacket.’ Jason glanced down at himself. He was wearing the fluffy brown teddy jacket he’d owned for years. I truly believed it was the most comfortable item of clothing to exist on this planet. ‘Oh, right. Yeah, thanks.’ Rooney smiled and clapped her hands together. ‘It’s so nice to meet you both. We’re going to have to become friends, now that me and Georgia are friends.’ Pip gave me a look as if to say, friends? Already? ‘As long as you don’t steal her away from us,’ Jason joked, though Pip whipped her head round to him, seemingly taking the statement very seriously indeed. Rooney noticed this happen, and a small curl of a smile appeared at the side of her mouth. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard you’re interested in theatre,’ Pip said. There was a nervous tone to her voice. ‘Yes! Are you?’ ‘Yeah! We all went to the same youth theatre group. And we did school plays together.’ Rooney seemed genuinely excited by this prospect. Her love for theatre was definitely not fake, even if some of her smiles were. ‘So you’ll be auditioning for a DST play?’ ‘Obviously.’ ‘A lead role?’ ‘Obviously.’ Rooney grinned, and after taking a sip from her Starbucks cup she said, ‘Good. We’ll be competing, then.’ ‘I … I guess we will,’ said Pip, flustered, surprised and confused all at the same time. Rooney suddenly made a concerned face and checked her phone. ‘Oh, sorry, I have to head out again. Got to meet this girl I’ve been chatting to on the English Soc Facebook group down at Vennels. I’ll meet you back here at six for the Freshers’ Barbecue?’ And then she was gone, while I was wondering what Vennels was, and why I didn’t know what Vennels was, and how Rooney already knew what Vennels was when she’d only been here for less than one day, just like me. When I turned back to my friends, Pip was standing very still with a startled expression on her face that made her look a bit like a cartoon scientist, post-explosion. ‘What?’ I asked. Pip swallowed and shook her head a little. ‘Nothing.’ ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. She seems nice.’ I knew that look. It was a Pip look I knew well. I’d seen it when she had to be gymnastics partners with Alicia Reece – one of her most intense crushes – in Year 11 PE. I’d seen it when we went to a Little Mix meet and greet and Pip got to hug Leigh-Anne Pinnock. Pip didn’t fancy a lot of girls – she was quite picky, actually. But when Pip did fancy someone, it was very, very obvious. To me, anyway. I could always tell when people had crushes on each other. Before I could make a comment, Jason interrupted. He was peering at the photo of Rooney and Mermaid-hair Beth. ‘It’s so odd that you ended up with a roommate. What did you write on your personality quiz?’ We’d had to fill in personality quizzes after we got accepted into Durham, so that if we ended up having to share rooms, they’d try to match us with someone we’d get along with. I strained to remember what I’d written on mine – and then it clicked. ‘Shakespeare,’ I said. ‘The quiz – one of the questions was about your interests. I wrote Shakespeare.’ ‘So?’ said Jason. I pointed at Rooney’s Much Ado About Nothing poster. ‘Oh my God,’ said Pip, her eyes widening. ‘Is she also a Shakespeare stan? Like us?’ ‘So she says.’ Jason nodded, seemingly pleased. ‘That’s good! You can bond over that.’ ‘Yes,’ said Pip, much too quickly. ‘Befriend her.’ ‘I mean, we’re roommates. So hopefully we will be friends.’ ‘That’s good,’ Jason repeated. ‘Especially since we won’t get to hang out all the time any more.’ This made me pause. ‘Won’t we?’ ‘Well – no? I mean, at least this week. We’re at different colleges.’ I genuinely hadn’t thought about that. I’d had this idea that we’d meet up every day, hang out, explore Durham, begin our university journeys together. But all our freshers’ events were at our own colleges. We were all on different courses – I was doing English, Jason was doing history, and Pip was studying natural sciences. So he was right. I probably wouldn’t see much of Pip and Jason at all this week. ‘I guess,’ I said. Maybe this could be OK. Maybe this would be the kick I needed to branch out and find new people and have experiences. Maybe this could all be part of the plan. The romance plan. ‘Right,’ said Pip, slapping her thighs and bouncing to her feet. ‘We should head. I still haven’t finished unpacking all my shirts.’ I let Pip bundle me into a hug before she trotted out of the room, leaving just me and Jason. I didn’t want Jason and Pip to go. I hadn’t wanted my parents to go. I didn’t want to be left here alone. ‘I wish I was at Castle too,’ I said. I sounded like a five-year-old. ‘You’ll be OK,’ said Jason, in his usual calming tone. Nothing fazed Jason. He had whatever the opposite of anxiety was. Absolute, unerring peace of mind. I swallowed. I really, really did want to cry. Maybe I could have a quick cry before Rooney got back. ‘Can I have a hug?’ I asked. Jason paused. Something unreadable crossed his face. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah. C’mere.’ I crossed the room and let him envelop me in a warm hug. ‘You’ll be OK,’ he said again, rubbing his hands gently over my back, and I don’t know if I believed him, but it felt nice to hear anyway. And Jason always gave the warmest, cosiest hugs. ‘OK,’ I mumbled into his jacket. When he stepped back, his eyes darted away. He might even have blushed a little bit. ‘I’ll see you soon?’ he said, not looking at me. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Message me.’ My friendships with Pip and Jason wouldn’t change. We’d made it through seven years of secondary school, for God’s sake. Whether we hung out all the time or not – we would always be friends. Nothing could ruin what we had. And getting to focus on a new friendship with Rooney Bach – a fellow Shakespeare enthusiast who was significantly more sociable than me – could only be a good thing. At the St John’s College Freshers’ Barbecue, Rooney moved around the courtyard like an ambitious businesswoman at an important networking event. She befriended people in a quick, easy way that left me in awe and, to be honest, very jealous. I had no option but to trail her like a shadow. I didn’t know how to mingle solo. University was where most people made friendships that actually lasted. My parents still met up with their uni friends every year. My brother’s best man had been one of his uni friends. I knew I had Pip and Jason, so it wasn’t like I was going in friendless in the first place, but I still figured that I might meet some more people I got along with. And at the barbecue, people were on the hunt for friendships. Everyone was being extra loud, extra friendly and asking way more questions than is normally socially acceptable. I tried my best, but I wasn’t great at it. I’d forget people’s names as soon as they said them. I didn’t ask enough questions. All the posh private-school boys in zip-neck jumpers blended in with each other. I thought about trying to make progress with my finding love situation, but no particular romantic feelings arose for anyone I met, and I was too anxious to try and force myself to feel them. Rooney, on the other hand, flirted. At first, I thought I was just seeing things. But the more I watched, the more I could see her doing it. The way she’d touch guys on the arm and smile up at them – or smile down, because she was tall. The way she’d listen when they spoke and laugh at their jokes. The way she’d give the guy direct, piercing eye contact, the sort of eye contact that made you feel like she knew you. It was absolutely masterful. What I found interesting was that she did this to several guys. I wondered what her goal was. What was she looking for? A potential boyfriend? Hook-up options? Or was she just doing it for fun? Either way, I thought about it a lot while I was trying to fall asleep later that night in a new room and a new bed, with a person already asleep a few metres away from me. Rooney seemed to know exactly what to do. I’d watched her master the set-up. The romance pre-game. She did it the same way she befriended people – with the precise expertise of someone who’d had a lot of practice and a lot of success. Could I do that? Could I copy her? Would she teach me how to do it? It seemed to take Rooney a monumental amount of effort to wake up on Monday morning. I thought I was bad at waking up in the mornings, but Rooney had to hit snooze at least five times before she managed to drag herself out of bed. All of the alarms were ‘Spice Up Your Life’ by the Spice Girls. I woke up at the first one. ‘I didn’t know you wore glasses,’ was the first thing she said to me after she’d finally arisen. ‘I wear contacts most of the time,’ I explained, and it reminded me of how surprised Pip had been, aged eleven, to find out that I was shortsighted after six whole months of being friends. I’d started wearing contact lenses the summer before secondary school. When I awkwardly asked her if she wanted to head down to the cafeteria for breakfast, she looked almost like I’d suggested throwing ourselves out of the window, before replacing the expression with a broad smile and saying, ‘Yeah, that sounds good!’ And then she changed into sportswear and became the bubbly, extroverted Rooney I’d met the day before. I stuck close to Rooney throughout our first official day of Freshers’ Week, through our introductory English lecture to our afternoon off. In the lecture, she effortlessly befriended the person sitting next to her, and in the afternoon, we went out for coffee with a few people who also did English. She made friends with all of them, too, and broke away to talk to this one guy who was obviously attractive in a conventional sort of way. She flirted. Touching his sleeve. Laughing. Looking into his eyes. It looked so easy. But even imagining myself doing it made me feel a bit nauseated. I hope this doesn’t sound like I thought badly of Rooney for flirting and making connections and setting herself up for, without a doubt, some sort of grand university romance that she’d be able to tell her grandchildren about when she was an elderly over-sharer. I was just very, very jealous that I wasn’t her. The main event of the Tuesday of Freshers’ Week was ‘College Matriculation’, a bizarre pseudo-religious ceremony that took place in Durham Cathedral, at which we were welcomed into the university. We all had to wear posh outfits and our college gowns, which made me feel very sophisticated. I stuck with Rooney until, on the way out of the cathedral, I spotted Pip and Jason, walking together across the grass, no doubt heading to their own matriculation ceremony. They saw me, and we ran to each other through the graveyard in what felt like slow-mo with the Chariots of Fire music playing in the background. Pip leapt on me, almost drowning me in her college gown. She was dressed as fancy as she’d been dressed at prom – full suit and tie, a halo of carefully styled curls, and she was wearing a cologne that smelt like a forest after the rain. She felt like home. ‘I’m going to write St John’s a letter of complaint,’ she said into my shoulder, ‘to tell them to let you transfer to Castle.’ ‘I don’t think that will work.’ ‘It will. D’you remember when I complained to Tesco and they sent me five packets of Maltesers? I know how to pen a strongly worded letter.’ ‘Just ignore her,’ said Jason. Jason was also suited up – he looked fancy too. ‘She’s still hungover from last night.’ Pip stepped back, adjusting her collar and tie. She did look a little less chipper than usual. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘Is your roommate being normal? Are you dying of stress?’ I thought about these questions and replied, ‘No to all.’ Speaking of Rooney, I glanced over Pip’s shoulder to see how far ahead Rooney had walked, only to find that Rooney had actually stopped at the edge of the graveyard and was looking back. Right at us. Pip and Jason turned to look. ‘O-oh, she’s there,’ Pip mumbled, and immediately started adjusting her hair. But Rooney was still looking at us, and she smiled and waved, seemingly directly at Pip. Pip awkwardly raised a hand and waved back with a nervous smile. I wondered suddenly whether Pip had a chance with Rooney. Rooney seemed pretty straight, judging by how many guys I had seen her flirt with and that she hadn’t tried flirting with any girls, but people could surprise you. ‘You getting along with her OK?’ asked Jason. ‘She’s really nice, yeah. She’s better than me at, like, everything, which is annoying, but she’s fine.’ Pip frowned. ‘Better than you at what?’ ‘Oh, you know. Like, making friends, and, I dunno. Talking to people.’ Flirting. Romance. Falling in love, probably. Neither Jason nor Pip seemed impressed by this answer. ‘OK,’ said Pip. ‘We’re coming round tonight.’ ‘You really don’t have to.’ ‘No, I know a cry for help when I hear it.’ ‘I’m not crying for help.’ ‘We need a pizza night, urgently.’ I saw through her immediately. ‘You just want to have an opportunity to talk to Rooney again, don’t you?’ Pip gave me a long look. ‘Maybe so,’ she said. ‘But I also care about you. And I care about pizza.’ ‘So she’s just, like, insanely good at getting people to like her?’ said Pip through a mouthful of pizza later that evening. ‘That’s pretty much it, yeah,’ I said. Jason shook his head. ‘And you want to be like her? Why?’ The three of us were sprawled on Rooney’s aqua rug, pizza in the middle. We’d had a minor debate about whether to watch our group favourite, Moulin Rouge, or Jason’s favourite, the live action Scooby-Doo movie, but we eventually settled on Scooby-Doo and were playing it on my laptop. Rooney was out for the night at some sort of themed bar night, and had I not already made plans with my friends, I probably would have gone with her. But this was better. Everything was better when Jason and Pip were here. I couldn’t admit to them how desperately I wanted to be in a romantic relationship. Because I knew it was pathetic. Trust me. I completely understood that women should want to be strong and independent and you don’t need to find love to have a successful life. And the fact that I so desperately wanted a boyfriend – or a girlfriend, a partner, whoever, someone – was a sign that I was not strong, or independent, or selfsufficient, or happy alone. I was really quite lonely, and I wanted to be loved. Was that such a bad thing? To want an intimate connection with another human? I didn’t know. ‘She just finds it so easy to talk to people,’ I said. ‘That’s just what life is like when you’re abnormally attractive, though,’ said Pip. Jason and I looked at her. ‘Abnormally attractive?’ I said. Pip stopped chewing. ‘What? She is! I’m just stating facts! She’s got that sort of “I could step on you and you would enjoy it” energy.’ ‘Interesting,’ Jason said, raising an eyebrow. Pip started to go a bit red. ‘I’m literally just making an observation!’ ‘… OK.’ ‘Don’t look at me like that.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘You are.’ Since the events of prom, I’d given some solid thought as to whether I might actually be a lesbian, like Pip. It would make sense. Maybe my lack of interest in boys was because I was, in fact, interested in girls. That’d be a fairly sensible solution to my situation. According to Pip, the hallmarks of realising you’re a lesbian were: firstly, getting a little intensely obsessed with a girl, mistaking it for admiration, and sometimes thinking about holding their hand, and secondly, having a subconscious fixation on certain female cartoon villains. Jokes aside, I’d never had a crush on a girl, so I didn’t really have any evidence to support that particular theory. Maybe I was bi or pan, since I didn’t even seem to have a preference at this point. The next couple of hours were spent talking, snacking, and occasionally glancing at my laptop screen to watch the movie. Pip rambled at length about how interesting her introductory chemistry lab class had been, while Jason and I both mourned how dull our first lectures had been. We all shared our thoughts about the people we’d met in college – how many posh private-school kids there were, how bad the drinking culture already seemed to be, and how there really should be more cereal options at breakfast. At one point, Pip decided to water Roderick the house plant, because, in her words, ‘He’s looking a bit thirsty.’ But soon it was eleven o’clock, and Pip decided it was time to make some hot chocolate, which she insisted on doing on the stove rather than using the kettle in my bedroom. We all headed out of the room towards the tiny kitchen on my corridor, which was shared between eight people but had been empty the few times I’d been in there thus far. Tonight, it was not empty. I knew this from the moment Pip glanced through the door window and made a face like she’d been given a mild electric shock. ‘Oh shit,’ she hissed, and as Jason and I joined her, we finally saw what was going on. Rooney was in the kitchen. She was with a guy. She was sitting on the kitchen counter. He was standing between her legs, his tongue in her mouth, and his hand up her shirt. To put it lightly: they were both very much enjoying themselves. ‘Oh,’ I said. Jason immediately stepped away from the situation, like any normal person would, but Pip and I just stood there for a moment, watching this go down. It became clear to me in that moment that the only way I was going to make any progress in my finding love mission was if I asked Rooney for help. I was not going to be able to do it on my own, ever. I’d tried. I promise I’d tried. I’d tried to kiss Tommy when he went in for one, but the Kill Bill sirens started going off in my mind and I just couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I’d tried to talk to people at the Freshers’ Barbecue, and when we were huddling outside the lecture halls, and at lunch and dinner when I sat with Rooney and all the people she had befriended. I’d tried, and I wasn’t terrible at it, I was polite, and nice, and people didn’t seem to hate me. But I would never be like Rooney. Not naturally, anyway. I would never be able to kiss some guy just because it was fun, because it made me feel good, because I could do what I wanted. I would never be able to manufacture that spark that she seemed to have with almost everyone she met. Unless she told me how. Pip finally tore her eyes away from the window. ‘That’s got to be unhygienic,’ she said, making a disgusted face. ‘That’s where people make their tea, for God’s sake.’ I murmured my agreement before moving away from the door, our hot chocolate plans abandoned. Pip had this look on her face like she’d seen this coming. ‘I’m so dumb,’ she muttered. I knew almost everything about romance. I knew the theory. I knew when people were flirting, I knew when they wanted to kiss. I knew when people’s boyfriends were being shitty to them, even when they couldn’t tell it themselves. I’d read infinite stories of people meeting and flirting and awkwardly pining, hating before liking, lusting before loving, kissing and sex and love and marriage and partners for life, till death us do part. I was a master of the theory. But Rooney was a master of the practice. Maybe fate had brought her to me. Or maybe that was just romantic thinking. In the middle of the night, between Tuesday and Wednesday, I woke up to hear someone having sex in the room above ours. It was a sort of rhythmic thumping. Like a headboard hitting a wall. And a creaking, like the bend of an old bedframe. I sat up, wondering if I was just imagining it. But I wasn’t. It was real. People were having sex in the room above us. What else would that sound be? There were only bedrooms up there, so unless someone had decided to do some 3 a.m. DIY, there was only one thing that sound could be. Rooney was fast asleep, curled up on her side, her dark hair splayed around her on the pillow. Utterly oblivious. I knew this sort of thing would happen at university. In fact, I knew this sort of thing happened at school – well, not physically at school, hopefully, but among my schoolfriends and classmates. But hearing it happen, in the flesh, not just knowing and imagining, chilled me to the core. Even more than when I saw that person getting fingered at Hattie’s party. It was a jarring sort of oh, God, this thing is actually real, it’s not just in fanfics and movies. And I’m supposed to be doing that too. ‘College families’ were a new concept to me. At Durham, students in their second and third years paired up to act as a mentor team, or ‘college parents’ for a small group of incoming freshers, who were their ‘college children’. I kind of loved it. It made a romance out of something absolutely mundane, which was something that I was incredibly experienced at. Rooney and I, plus four other students who I only knew from their Facebook profiles, had arranged to gather with our college parents at Starbucks. This had all been organised in a group chat on Facebook last week in which I’d been too scared to say anything other than ‘Sounds great! I’ll be there . But when we got there, only one of our parents was there – Sunil Jha. ‘So,’ said Sunil, crossing one leg over the other in his chair. ‘I’m your college parent.’ Sunil Jha had a warm smile and kind eyes, and although he was only two years older than us he seemed infinitely more mature. He was also dressed incredibly well – slim trousers with Converse, a T-shirt tucked in and a bomber jacket with a subtle grey tartan pattern. ‘Please don’t refer to me as your college mother or father,’ he continued, ‘not just because I’m non-binary, but also because that feels like a scary amount of commitment.’ This earned some chuckles. On his jacket were several enamel pins – a rainbow flag, a tiny old radio, a pin featuring a boyband logo, one that read ‘He/They’, and another pride pin, this one with black, grey, white and purple stripes. I was sure I’d seen that one before, online somewhere, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. ‘In a strange turn of events, your college mother decided that university wasn’t for her and dropped out at the end of last term. So we’re going to be a single-parent family this year.’ There were some more chuckles, but then silence. I wondered when Rooney was going to bust out the questions, but it seemed even she was a little intimidated by Sunil’s third-year confidence. ‘Basically,’ said Sunil, ‘I’m here if you have literally any questions or worries about anything while you’re here. Alternatively, you can just do what you want and forget I ever existed.’ More laughs. ‘So. Does anyone have anything you want to chat about while we’re here?’ After a short moment, Rooney was the first to jump in. ‘I was wondering, like … how the college marriage thing worked? I heard something about college proposals but I don’t really know what that is.’ Oh, yeah. I was glad she’d asked that. Sunil laughed. ‘Oh my God, yes. OK. So. College marriage.’ He linked his fingers together. ‘If you want to form a mentor team with another student, you get college married. One of you proposes to the other and usually it’s a big, dramatic proposal. There’ll be lots happening this term.’ Rooney was nodding, fascinated. ‘What d’you mean by “big and dramatic”?’ ‘Well … let me put it this way. My proposal involved me filling her bedroom with glitter-filled balloons, getting forty-odd people to wait in there and surprise her, and then get down on one knee in front of everyone with a plastic ring in the shape of a cat.’ Oh. God. ‘Does everyone … um … does everyone get college married?’ I asked. Sunil looked at me. He really did have kind eyes. ‘Most people. Usually friends do it, since it’s just for fun. Sometimes couples do it, though.’ Friends. Couples. Oh no. Now I really needed to actually meet people. The discussion broadened out into other aspects of university – our studies, the best clubs, good times to use the library, the Bailey Ball at the end of term. But I didn’t say anything else. I just sat there, stressing out about college marriage. It didn’t matter if I didn’t do that. Right? That wasn’t what I was here for. ‘Now, I’m going to be escorting you to a club this evening, apparently,’ said Sunil, as we were all packing up to leave. ‘So meet in reception at nine p.m., OK? And don’t worry about dressing up too much.’ As he continued he met my eyes and smiled, warm and gentle, ‘And you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, all right? It’s not mandatory.’ As Rooney and I walked back to college, I messaged Pip and Jason about ‘college marriage’. Their responses were pretty much what I expected from them: Felipa Quintana OMG WE HAVE THAT TOO Literally cannot wait till someone proposes to me Or I propose to someone It’s gonna be dramatic af I hope someone showers me with confetti then recites a poem to me on a boat in front of a hundred onlookers before releasing a pair of doves into the sky Jason Farley-Shaw I think the concept seems kind of archaic, idk Rooney, however, didn’t have anything to say about college marriage, because she was much too focused on going out to a club. ‘I’m so excited for tonight,’ she said. ‘Really?’ She smiled. ‘I’m ready for my uni experience, you know?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said, and I meant it. I was ready for my uni experience too. Sure, the idea of going to clubs was horrifying, and I still couldn’t quite imagine the scenario in which I would fall for someone, but I was going to make it happen, and I was going to enjoy it. ‘Me too.’ ‘So,’ she said, and looked at me with her big dark eyes. She was objectively very pretty. Maybe she’d be my endgame. Roommate romance like in a fanfiction. This was university, for God’s sake. Anything could happen. ‘D’you like going out?’ By ‘going out’, she meant clubbing, and honestly, I didn’t know. I’d never been to a club. There weren’t many nice ones in rural Kent, and neither Pip nor Jason were into that sort of thing. Clubbing. College marriage. Sex. Romance. I knew all this stuff was optional. But I wanted to have a completely normal university experience, just like everyone else. ‘Oh my God!’ said Rooney, once I’d finished straightening my hair. ‘You look so nice!’ ‘Ah, thanks!’ I said awkwardly. I’m terrible at taking compliments. Mum and I had gone clothes shopping a couple of weeks ago so I would have things to wear for club nights, and I’d picked out a couple of dresses and a pair of chunky shoes. I put one of the dresses on with black tights and honestly didn’t think I looked too bad, but next to Rooney, I just felt like a child. She was wearing a velvet red jumpsuit – a deep V at the front and flared legs – with heeled boots and huge hooped earrings. She’d piled half her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head, the rest flowing down her back. She looked really fucking cool. I … didn’t. Then I felt bad because Mum and I had chosen this dress together. I felt a million miles away from Mum and our local shopping centre. ‘Did you go out much back in Kent?’ Rooney asked from where she was sitting on her bed, applying some final touches to her make-up in front of her pedestal mirror. I wanted to lie and say I was super experienced at clubbing, but there was really no use. Rooney was already becoming acutely aware that I was a shy person and much, much worse at socialising than she was. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘I … I dunno. I didn’t really think it was my sort of thing.’ ‘You don’t have to go out if you don’t want to!’ She patted highlighter over her cheekbones before shooting me a smile. ‘It’s not everyone’s scene.’ ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I mean … I want to at least try it.’ She smiled some more. ‘Good! Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.’ ‘Have you been out clubbing lots, then?’ ‘Oh, God, yeah.’ She laughed, going back to her make-up. OK. She sounded confident. Was she a party girl, like so many people I knew back at home? Was she the sort of person who would go out to clubs all the time and hook up with random people? ‘Have you got Find My Friends on your phone?’ she asked. ‘Oh, um, I think so.’ I got my phone out and, sure enough, I did have the app downloaded. The only people I had on there were Pip and Jason. Rooney held out her hand. ‘Let me add myself. Then if we lose each other, you can find me again.’ She did so, and soon there was a little dot with Rooney’s face on the map of Durham. She suggested we took a selfie together in our bedroom mirror. She knew exactly how to pose, chin hidden behind a raised shoulder, eyes looking up enticingly beneath her lashes. I put one hand on my hip and hoped for the best. If I was fully honest with myself, I just wanted to be Rooney Bach. Sunil met us in the reception area, and it looked like most, if not all of the John’s freshers had shown up to get their first taste of university nightlife. Despite the fact that he’d told us we didn’t have to get dressed up, Sunil was wearing a tight-fit shirt in a bright paisley pattern with skinny trousers. I did notice, however, that he was wearing shoes that looked like they’d been trampled on and dragged through a muddy field, which probably should have prepared me for what I was about to face at the club. We were shepherded to the club through the cold streets of Durham by Sunil and some other third years. Rooney had already attracted a small crowd of ‘friends’, if you could call them that yet, and I hovered towards the back of her group, apprehensive. Everyone seemed so excited. Nobody else seemed nervous. Most people my age had been to clubs by now. Most people I’d known in Year 13 had frequented the club in our nearest town, which from what I’d heard was a sticky, terrifying hellhole of regrets. But I was the one regretting not having gone with them, now. This was just another example of something I had utterly failed to experience during my teenage life. The entrance was down an alleyway, and it was free to get in before 11 p.m. They didn’t need IDs as we were all wearing freshers’ wristbands. Inside, it was as if someone had designed me my own personal hell – a tight-packed crowd, sticky floors and music so loud it took Rooney repeating herself three times before I realised she was asking me if I wanted to go to the bar. I listened to what she ordered so I’d know what to ask for – vodka and lemonade. Then there was chatting, and more chatting, and more chatting. Well, shouting, actually. Mostly people wanted to talk about what are you studying, and where are you from, and how are you finding it all. I started repeating sentences word for word to multiple people. Like a robot. God. I just wanted to make a friend. And then there was dancing. I started to notice just how many of the songs were about romance or sex. How had I never noticed that before? Like, almost all songs ever written are about romance or sex. And it felt like they were taunting me. Rooney tried to get me to dance with her, just in a casual, fun way, and I tried, I swear I tried, but she gave up quickly and found someone else. I bobbed along the side of various people I’d had conversations with. I was having fun. I was having fun. I was not having fun. It was nearing eleven o’clock when I messaged Pip, mostly because I wanted someone to talk to without having to shout. Georgia Warr HEY how are you this evening Felipa Quintana Everything is absolutely fine why do you ask I may have smashed a wine glass Georgia Warr pip . . . . . . . . . Felipa Quintana Let me live Georgia Warr how come you’re drinking Felipa Quintana Because I am the master of my own fate and I live for chaos Jk our corridor is having a pizza and alcohol night Btw I think I left my jacket in your room last night? Georgia Warr oh no!!! i’ll bring it when i visit you, don’t worry ‘Who you texting?’ Rooney shouted in my ear. ‘Pip!’ I shouted back. ‘What’s she saying?’ I showed Rooney the message about Pip’s smashed glass. Rooney grinned at it, and then laughed. ‘I like her!’ she shouted. ‘She’s so funny!’ And then she went back to dancing. Georgia Warr anyway guess where I am Felipa Quintana Omg where Georgia Warr A CLUB Felipa Quintana ARE YOU JOKING I never thought I would see this day Baby’s first club!!! Wait was this Rooney’s idea? Is she peer pressuring you??? Georgia Warr no i wanted to go haha!! Felipa Quintana Okay well be safe!!!!! Don’t do drugs!!!!! Watch out for nasty men!!!!!!! I hung in there, bobbing, until Rooney wanted to get some fresh air. Well, as much fresh air as you could get in the smoking area out the back of the club. We leant against the brick wall of the building. I shivered, but Rooney seemed fine. ‘So?’ she asked. ‘What’s your official clubbing verdict?’ I made a face. I couldn’t help it. She threw her head back against the wall and laughed. ‘At least you’re honest about it,’ she said. ‘A lot of people hate it and still go anyway.’ ‘I guess.’ I sipped my drink. ‘I just wanted to try it. I wanted to be a part of the uni experience. You know.’ She nodded. ‘Gross clubs are an important staple of university life, yes.’ I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic. I was a little drunk, to be fair. ‘I just want … I want to meet people, and … do normal things,’ I said, throwing back the last of my drink. I didn’t even like it that much, but everyone was drinking, and I’d look weird if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I? ‘I don’t have a great track record of doing that very well.’ ‘Don’t you?’ ‘Nope. I have hardly any friends. I’ve always had hardly any friends.’ Rooney’s smile dropped. ‘Oh.’ ‘I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Or even kissed anyone.’ The words just came on out before I could stop them. I immediately cringed at myself. Shit. That was the thing I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone any more. That was the thing people had made fun of me for. Rooney’s eyebrows raised. ‘Wow, really?’ She wasn’t being sarcastic. That was pure, genuine shock. I don’t know why I was surprised – people’s reactions during truth or dare on prom night must have been how everyone felt. But it really got to me in that moment. The weird looks. The people who’d suddenly see me as a child, as immature. The movies where the main characters freaked out about being virgins at the age of sixteen. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘Do you feel bad about it?’ I shrugged. ‘Yeah.’ ‘And you want to change it? Now that you’re at uni?’ ‘Ideally, yes.’ ‘OK. Good.’ She turned so she was facing me, leaning against the wall with one shoulder. ‘I think I can help.’ ‘O … K …’ ‘I want you to go in there and find one person you think is hot. Or a few. More chance of this working.’ I already absolutely hated this idea. ‘Oh.’ ‘Try and get their name, or at least memorise what they look like. And then I’ll help you get with them.’ I did not like this scheme. I did not like this at all. Survival Mode was kicking in throughout my body. I wanted to run. ‘Oh,’ I repeated. ‘Trust me,’ she grinned. ‘I know a lot about relationships.’ What did that mean? ‘OK,’ I said. ‘So I just pick a person and … you’ll set us up?’ ‘Yes. Sound good?’ ‘… Yeah.’ If the university experience was all about bad decisions, at least I was doing something right. I felt a bit like David Attenborough. I circled the club on my own, leaving Rooney at the bar, focusing on the guys first. There were a lot of hoodies. Sweat-patches on T-shirts. A lot of them had the same hairstyle – short sides, longer on top. I kept looking. Surely I’d find someone I fancied eventually. The club was packed – there had to be a good couple of hundred people crammed into this room alone. And yet, I found no one. There were guys who were objectively ‘attractive’, of course, by modernday media standards. There were guys who clearly worked out a lot. There were guys who had fun hair or good fashion or a nice smile. But I wasn’t attracted to any of them. I didn’t feel any sort of desire. When I tried to picture standing close to them, kissing them, touching them … I grimaced. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting. I decided to change tactics and look at the girls instead. Girls are all pretty, to be honest. And they have much more variety in appearance. But on a basic, physical level, did I feel attraction? No. Lots of people had started hooking up already – kissing each other underneath the flashing lights and the love songs playing louder than the voices in our heads. It was a little gross, but it had an element of danger that made it beautiful. Kissing a stranger you’d never see again, kissing someone whose name you didn’t even know, just to feel a little high in that moment. Just to feel the warmth of someone’s skin on yours. Just, for a while, to feel purely alive. God. I wished I could do that. But the idea of trying to get with any of these people – no matter their gender – was, honestly, unnerving. It made me feel itchy. Shivery, maybe. It filled my stomach with a weird, horrible dread, and a warning siren went off in my brain. It felt like my antibodies were fighting it off. What was I going to say to Rooney? Out of hundreds of students, I couldn’t find anybody I thought was hot. Sorry. Maybe she could just choose someone for me. God, that would be so much easier. It would be so much easier if I had someone to just tell me what to do and who to be with and how to act and what love actually was. I abandoned my search. Tonight I would remain kiss-less. Romance-less. And that was fine. Right? That was fine. I didn’t know whether I’d wanted it or whether I hadn’t. Honestly, it might have been a little bit of both. Just like with Tommy. Wanting and not wanting at the same time. It wasn’t until an hour later that I spotted Rooney again through the blurry, flashing mass of bodies. She was in the middle of the dance floor, making out with a tall guy wearing ripped skinny jeans. His arms were round her waist. One of her hands was on his face. It was a picture of passion. Movie romance. Desire. How. How could a person reach that point in the space of an hour? How could she do in one single hour what I was unable to force myself to do in my whole teenage life? I hated her. I wanted to be her. I hated myself. It all hit me then, suddenly. The music was so loud I felt like my vision was blurring. I shoved through people to get to the edge of the room, only to find myself pressed up against the wall, which was wet with condensation. I looked wildly around for the door, then started barging my way towards it, and out, into the chilly, empty October air. I breathed. I wasn’t going to cry. Three of the John’s third years were having a conversation in the smoking area, leaning against the wall, including, to my surprise, Sunil. He was my college parent – I knew he’d help me. I could ask him to walk me back. But as I stepped forward, I felt embarrassed. I was an absolute failure. A child. Sunil turned, glanced at me curiously and I willed him to ask me if I wanted to go back to college and whether I wanted him to walk back with me. But he didn’t say anything. So I just left. After a couple of hours in the noisy club, the high street’s silence felt like it was echoing around me. I could barely remember the way back to college because I’d been so stressed on the way here that I hadn’t been paying attention to where we’d been walking, but thankfully, I found myself on the cobbled path and walking back up the hill, past the castle, then the cathedral, and then I could see the stone steps of St John’s College. ‘There’s something wrong with you,’ I said under my breath. Then I shook my head, trying to get the thought out. That was a bad thought. There was nothing wrong with me. This was just who I was. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about any of it. I could message Pip and – what would I even tell her? That I was terrible at clubbing? That I could have tried to kiss someone but decided not to? That I was utterly failing at my new start? Pathetic. There was nothing to even tell her. I could talk about it with Jason, but he’d probably just tell me I was being silly. Because I was. I knew this whole thing was ridiculous. So I just walked. I kept my head down. I didn’t even know what was wrong. Everything. Myself. I didn’t know. How come everyone else could function and I couldn’t? How could everyone live properly yet I had some sort of error in my programming? I thought about all the people I’d met in the past few days. Hundreds of people my age, all genders, appearances, personalities. I couldn’t think of a single one I was attracted to. I opened the door to college so loudly that the man in the little office gave me a stern look. I suppose he thought I was a drunk fresher. God, I wished I was. I looked down at my dress, the one Mum had seen in River Island and said, Oh, isn’t that perfect? And I’d agreed, and she’d bought it for me, so I could look nice and feel nice during Freshers’ Week. I started to well up. God, not yet, please not yet. My room was empty – of course it was. Rooney was out there living her life and having experiences. I grabbed my washbag and pyjamas, went straight to the bathroom, got in the shower and had a cry. ‘So you have very high standards,’ Rooney said to me the next morning while I was eating a bagel in bed and she was doing her make-up in front of her mirror. We would have talked about it last night, but I fell asleep in the middle of reading a Steve/Bucky Regency Era AU fic, only to wake up a few hours later to find Rooney returned, fast asleep, her make-up still on and her boots discarded in the middle of the aqua rug. ‘That’s … accurate,’ I confirmed. I did have high standards. I wasn’t sure what exactly my standards were, but they were undoubtedly very high. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, seemingly unfazed. ‘We’ve got loads more chances to find you someone. It won’t be that hard.’ ‘Won’t it?’ ‘Nope.’ Her mouth dropped open as she did her mascara. ‘Loads of people are looking to hook up this week. There are so many opportunities for you to meet people. It won’t take us that long to find you someone you like.’ ‘OK.’ ‘You’ll see.’ ‘OK.’ ‘What’s your type?’ Rooney asked at lunch. Lunch at college was just like lunch at school – cafeteria food and sitting round tables and benches – but ten times worse due to the added pressure of socialising with a bunch of people I didn’t know very well. As irritating as I found Rooney’s effortless ability to thrive at university, I was actually very glad to have her in situations like this. Thankfully, however, this was the first meal that Rooney and I had showed up to in which we didn’t spot anyone Rooney knew, so we were able to sit just us. ‘Type?’ I asked, my mind immediately going to Pokémon types, and then wondering whether it was a food question of some sort and looked down at my pasta. ‘Type of guy,’ said Rooney, mouth full. ‘Oh.’ I shrugged and speared a piece of pasta. ‘I don’t really know.’ ‘Come on. You must have some idea. Like, what sort of guys do you find yourself liking?’ None of them, is what I probably should have said. I never like anyone. ‘No type in particular,’ is what I actually said. ‘Tall? Nerdy? Sporty? Musicians? Tattoos? Long hair? Boys who look like pirates?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Hm.’ Rooney chewed slowly, looking at me. ‘Girls?’ ‘What?’ ‘D’you prefer girls?’ ‘Um.’ I blinked. ‘Well … I don’t think so? Not really.’ ‘Hm.’ ‘What?’ ‘It’s just interesting.’ ‘What is?’ Rooney swallowed, smirking. ‘You, I guess.’ I was about eighty per cent sure she was using ‘interesting’ as a synonym for ‘weird’, but, oh well. ‘I had an idea,’ Rooney said to me in a very earnest tone that evening. I would have taken her seriously were she not dressed as a sexy fried egg in preparation for the John’s college bar fancy-dress party. This comprised a body piece in the shape of a fried egg, but with thigh-high socks and giant heels. I was actually quite impressed – it was an incredible way to say ‘I want to look good, but also let you know that I have a sense of humour’. I was not going to the fancy-dress party. I’d told Rooney I needed a night to just be on my own and watch About Time swiftly followed by La La Land, and, to my surprise, she’d said that was fair enough. ‘An idea?’ I said from my bed. ‘About …?’ Rooney walked over and flopped down next to me on my bed. I shuffled up so the fried-egg body piece wasn’t literally crushing my torso. ‘Your no-romo situation.’ ‘I’m really not that bothered,’ I said, which was obviously a lie. I was extremely and consistently bothered, but after yesterday’s fiasco I was ready to give up rather than put myself through that again. Rooney held up her phone. ‘Have you tried any dating apps?’ I looked at the phone. I’d never met anyone our age who used a dating app. I hesitated. ‘Do people our age use dating apps?’ ‘I’ve used Tinder since I turned eighteen.’ I knew what Tinder was, at least. ‘I don’t really think Tinder is for me.’ ‘But how will you know if you don’t try?’ ‘I don’t think I need to try everything to know I don’t like it.’ Rooney sighed. ‘Look, OK. This is just an idea, but Tinder is a really good way to just have a look at what guys are actually out there, like, in the vicinity. You don’t actually have to talk to them, but, like, it might at least help you get an idea of what sort of guy you want to go for.’ She opened Tinder on her phone and immediately showed me a picture of the first guy who popped up. ‘Kieran, 21, Student’. I looked at Kieran. He looked a bit like a tall rat. Which, you know. That sort of look does it for some people. ‘I don’t think this is my thing,’ I said. Rooney rolled off my bed with a sigh, her egg costume nearly knocking over the glass of water on my bedside table. ‘It’s just an idea. Do it if you get bored tonight.’ She walked over to her own bed and grabbed her bag. ‘Swipe left is no, swipe right is yes.’ ‘I don’t think I’ll –’ ‘It’s just an idea! You don’t have to, like, love them, but just look out for anyone you see who you wouldn’t mind finding more about.’ And then she was out the door. I was half an hour into About Time when I picked up my phone and downloaded Tinder. I definitely wasn’t going to talk to anyone. I was just curious. I just wanted to know if I would ever see a guy and think, Yeah, he’s hot. So I made a Tinder profile. I picked five of my best selfies from Instagram and spent another half an hour trying to think what to write in my ‘About’ section, before settling on ‘Cheesy-romcom connoisseur’. The first guy who popped up was ‘Myles, 20, Student’. He had brown hair and a leer. In one picture he was playing snooker. I got a bad vibe and swiped left. The second guy was ‘Adrian, 19, Student’. His bio said he was an adrenaline junkie who was looking for his ‘manic pixie dream girl’, which got an instant swipe left. I swiped left on four more guys, then realised that I wasn’t even looking at them properly – I was just reading the bios and making an assessment as to whether I thought we’d get on. That wasn’t the point. I was supposed to be finding someone I was physically attracted to. So after that I tried to properly focus on their appearances. Their faces, their eyes, their mouths, their hair, their style. These were the things you were supposed to like. What did I like? What was my standard? What were my preferences? After ten minutes of this, I stumbled upon a guy who looked like a model, so I was unsurprised when I looked at his info and read ‘Jack, 18, Model’. He had a sharp-cut jawline and a symmetrical face. His main photo was clearly from a magazine advert he’d done. I tried to picture myself dating Jack, 18, Model. Kissing him. Having sex. Like, if it was gonna be anyone, based on appearance alone, surely it would be Jack, 18, Model, with his cool denim jacket and dimples. Imagine kissing that face. Imagine him leaning in. Imagine his skin near you. My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment. Trying to ignore the nauseated feeling in my stomach at the pictures I was conjuring in my head. Then I swiped left. Georgia Warr hello fried egg i have an update i swiped left on all of them lol Rooney Bach Haha what do you mean all of them Georgia Warr just all the ones i looked at Rooney Bach And how many was that? Georgia Warr idk like … forty? tinder isn’t for me i think lol sorry to disappoint Rooney Bach I’m not disappointed haha I just hoped it would help FORTY Wow!! Okay! Georgia Warr so that’s a lot to swipe left on?? Rooney Bach You really do have high standards That’s not necessarily a bad thing but at least we’ve got that sussed Georgia Warr so what do i do now Rooney Bach Might have to go back to good old-fashioned Meeting People In Real Life Georgia Warr ew hate that for me I deleted Tinder from my phone, then hit play on About Time again, wondering why picturing myself in any sort of romantic or sexual situation made me feel like I was going to vom and/or run a mile, while romance in movies felt like the sole purpose of being alive. Rooney was right about one thing: meeting people in real life was probably the only way this was going to work for me. Fortunately, it was Freshers’ Week, and I still had many opportunities to meet people, which continued on the Friday when Rooney and I went to the Freshers’ Fair. ‘I’m going to join so many societies,’ Rooney said, and I didn’t take her that seriously, but when we went round all the stalls in the Student Union building, she collected so many flyers that she made me start carrying some of them for her. I’d arranged to meet Pip and Jason there too but wasn’t sure where to find them because the Student Union building was huge. They’d have to wait. The most important task at hand was joining university societies. Alongside clubbing, which I had epically failed at, societies were a staple of university life and supposedly one of the easiest ways to make friends with like-minded people. But as we walked round the stalls, I started to feel nervous. Maybe a little overwhelmed. I tentatively signed up to English Soc with Rooney, but apart from that, I could barely even remember what I was interested in. Creative Writing Soc? I didn’t really enjoy writing that much – the few occasions I’d tried writing my own fanfic were disastrous. Film Soc? I could just watch movies in bed. There were even super-niche things like Anime Soc, Quidditch Soc and Snowboarding Soc, but they all seemed like they catered for a specific group of friends who just wanted an excuse to hang out and do their favourite hobby together. I didn’t know what my hobbies were any more, except yearning for romance and reading fanfiction. In fact, the only other society I wanted to join was the Durham Student Theatre. I could see its giant stall at the end of the hall. I’d definitely meet new people if I was in a play this year. Rooney ended up walking on ahead, excited to chat to all the people on the stalls. I ambled along, feeling increasingly like I just didn’t really fit anywhere, until I realised I had reached the stall of Durham’s Pride Society. It stood out boldly with a giant rainbow flag behind it and had quite a sizeable gathering of freshers standing near it, chatting excitedly to the older students behind the table. I picked up one of their leaflets to have a look. Most of the front page was decorated with some of the identities it supported in arty fonts. The ones I knew well were at the top – lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender – and then, to my surprise, it moved into ones I’d only really heard on the internet – pansexual, asexual, aromantic, non-binary. And more. I didn’t even know what some of them meant. ‘College child?’ said a voice, and I looked up and was faced with Sunil Jha, my college parent. On his woolly jumper he was wearing all his pins again, and he was smiling warmly at me. He was definitely the nicest person I’d met at Durham so far, not counting Rooney. Could he be my friend? Did college parents count as friends? ‘Interested in signing up?’ he asked. ‘Um,’ I said. To be honest, I didn’t really want to join. What right did I have to join a society like this? I mean, to be fair, I didn’t really know what I was. And yes, sure, I had considered the possibility that I was not into guys. Strongly considered. Then again, I didn’t really seem to like girls either. I didn’t seem to like anyone. I hadn’t met anyone I liked yet, felt the nice stomach butterflies, and been able to proudly declare ‘Aha! Of course! This is the gender that I like!’ I didn’t even have a particular gender preference when it came to smutty fanfiction. Sunil held out a clipboard and pen. ‘Write down your email! It just puts you on our mailing list.’ There wasn’t really any way to say no, so I mumbled an OK and wrote down my email address. I immediately felt like a fraud. ‘It’s Georgia, isn’t it?’ asked Sunil while I was writing. ‘Y-yeah,’ I stammered, honestly taken aback that he’d remembered my name. Sunil nodded approvingly. ‘Sweet. I’m the Pride Rep at John’s.’ Another girl behind the stall leaned over to us and added, ‘And Sunil’s the president of Pride Soc. Always forgets to mention that because of modesty or something.’ Sunil laughed gently. He definitely gave off an air of modesty, but selfconfidence too. Like he was very good at his job but didn’t want to boast about it. ‘This is Jess, one of the vice-presidents,’ he said. ‘And this is Georgia, one of my college children.’ I looked at the third-year girl. She had hip-length braids, a big smile, and was wearing a colourful dress that had lollipops on it. She had a little badge that said ‘she/her’ on it. ‘Aw!’ she said. ‘This is your college child?’ Sunil nodded. ‘They sure are.’ Jess clapped her hands together. ‘And you’re joining Pride Soc. This was actually meant to be.’ I forced a smile. ‘Anyway,’ said Sunil, shaking his head at her with a sort of fondness, ‘we’re here for any freshers who wanna get involved in queer stuff at Durham, basically. Club nights, meet-ups, formals, film nights. Stuff like that.’ ‘Cool!’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Maybe I should try and get involved. Maybe I’d go to the Pride Society, see a girl, have a big lesbian awakening, and finally feel some romantic feelings for another human being. I was sure I’d read a fanfic with that exact plot. I handed the clipboard back. ‘Our welcome gathering is happening in a couple of weeks,’ said Sunil with a smile. ‘Maybe we’ll see you there?’ I nodded, feeling a little bit embarrassed, like I’d been exposed somehow, which was dumb, because there was really nothing interesting about me to expose, and I already knew that I wasn’t going to go to any of Sunil’s Pride Soc events. Our final stop of the Freshers’ Fair was Durham Student Theatre, which had the largest stall in the entire Student Union, and Pip and Jason were standing right in front of it. Rooney had already stormed ahead to the stall, which was decorated with a big red curtain and papier-mâchéd comedy–tragedy masks. The DST seemed to be a sort of umbrella organisation that supported and funded lots of smaller theatre groups – the Musical Theatre Soc, the Opera Soc, the Freshers’ Drama Soc, Student Comedy, and more. The students behind the stall, even from afar, all seemed loud and confident – it had none of the calming vibe of the Pride Soc stall. But that didn’t put me off. Theatre was something familiar. It had been a part of my life for over seven years and, despite my stage fright, I didn’t want to give it up. Plus, Pip and Jason would be doing it with me. So I’d be OK. ‘Pip? Jason?’ Their heads turned to reveal a confused-looking Pip Quintana, holding a flyer and pushing her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose, and a definitely hungover Jason Farley-Shaw, who had bags under his eyes and looked like he was trying to burrow and make a nest inside his teddy-bear jacket. ‘GEORGIA!’ Pip shrieked, running up to me and bundling me into a hug. I hugged her back until she stepped away. She was smiling wide. So little had changed; she was still Pip, dark hair fluffed up in all different directions and drowning in an oversized sweatshirt. But, of course, we’d only been in Durham for five days. It already felt like a lifetime. Like I was already a different person. ‘Hey,’ said Jason. His voice sounded gravelly. ‘You OK?’ I asked him. He made a grunting noise and pulled his jacket round him. ‘Hungover. And we couldn’t find you. Check your phone.’ I quickly glanced at the screen. There were several unread messages in the group chat asking where I was. Pip folded her arms and gave me a discerning look. ‘I assume you haven’t been checking your phone because you’ve been really busy putting yourself out there and joining loads of societies? ‘Um …’ I tried not to look too guilty. ‘I joined English Soc?’ I didn’t confess to Pip that I’d signed up to Pride Soc’s mailing list. Probably because I didn’t feel like I actually belonged there. Pip made a face. ‘Georgia. That’s one society.’ I shrugged. ‘I could join some later.’ ‘Georgia.’ ‘What have you joined?’ She counted them on her fingers. ‘I’ve joined Durham Student Theatre, obviously, and also Science Soc, Latin American Soc, Pride Soc, Chess, Ultimate Frisbee and I think I signed up for, like, Quidditch?’ Of course Pip had joined Pride Soc too. I wondered what she’d say if I randomly showed up to a Pride Soc event. ‘Quidditch?’ I asked. ‘Yeah, and if the brooms don’t actually fly, we’re going to be really fucking disappointed.’ ‘We?’ I looked at Jason. ‘You also joined Quidditch? You don’t even like Harry Potter.’ Jason nodded. ‘The Quidditch president was incredibly persuasive.’ ‘What else did you join?’ ‘DST, History Soc, Film Soc and Rowing.’ I frowned. ‘Rowing?’ Jason shrugged. ‘Loads of people are doing it, so. Thought I’d give it a go –’ He stopped speaking abruptly, peering past my shoulder. ‘What is Rooney doing?’ I turned. Rooney seemed to be having a heated conversation with the girl behind the stall. ‘I don’t understand,’ Rooney was saying. ‘What d’you mean it closed?’ The girl behind the stall looked a little desperate. ‘I-I think they didn’t have any members in second or first year, so when the third years left, it just – it just disappeared.’ ‘And I can’t start it up again?’ ‘Um … I don’t know … I don’t really know how it works …’ ‘Are you the president? Can I talk to the president?’ ‘Um, no, she’s not here …’ ‘Oh, never mind. I’ll sort this out another time.’ Rooney stormed towards us, eyes filled with fire. Out of sheer instinct, I cowered backwards. ‘Can you believe,’ she said, ‘the Shakespeare Society is just … fucking … gone? Like, that was the one society I really wanted to join, and now it’s just …’ She stopped, realising that Pip and Jason were standing next to me, staring at Rooney with what could only be described as fascination. ‘Oh. Hello.’ ‘All right,’ said Pip. ‘Hi,’ said Jason. ‘How’s Roderick?’ said Pip. Rooney’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘I like that your mind immediately went to my house plant rather than asking how I am.’ ‘I care about plant welfare,’ Pip replied. I noticed the cooler tone to her voice immediately. Gone was the flustered way she’d babbled around Rooney back in our bedroom. She wasn’t blushing and adjusting her hair any more. After what she’d seen in our kitchen, Pip was on the defensive now. It made me feel sad. But this was what Pip did when she got a crush on someone who couldn’t like her back: she shut down the feelings with sheer willpower. It protected her. ‘Are you going to call plant social services on me?’ asked Rooney, smiling cheekily. She seemed to be immensely enjoying having someone to banter with, like it was a welcome break from having to be peppy and polite. Pip tilted her head. ‘Maybe I am plant social services and I’m just in disguise.’ ‘It’s not a very good disguise. You look exactly like the sort of person who’s got at least six cactuses on your bookcase.’ This seemed to be the last straw for Pip, because she snapped back, ‘I only have three, actually, and it’s cacti not cactuses –’ ‘Uh …’ The two girls were interrupted by Jason, who, if he’d not had a headache before, definitely had one now. ‘So, are you actually gonna sign up to DST, or …?’ ‘Yes,’ I said immediately, if only to end whatever weirdly aggressive verbal sparring was occurring between Pip and Rooney. ‘I don’t even know what the point is any more,’ said Rooney with a dramatic sigh. ‘Shakespeare Soc doesn’t even exist. Something about it running out of members.’ ‘Can’t you just join something else?’ said Pip, but Rooney looked at her like she’d suggested something infinitely idiotic. Jason hadn’t even bothered to stay involved in this conversation and had walked over to the DST mailing list. I followed him and he handed me the pen. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to join DST,’ he said, ‘after all the throwing-up during Les Mis.’ ‘I still love theatre,’ I said. ‘And I need to join more than just the English Soc.’ ‘But you could pick something that didn’t make you throw up.’ ‘I’d rather throw up surrounded by friends than join a society alone and be sad.’ Jason paused, then said, ‘I think that sounded more profound in your head than it did in real life.’ I finished writing my email address and put the pen down, glancing up at Jason. He did genuinely seem a bit concerned about me. ‘I want to do this,’ I said. ‘I … I really want to try and … you know. Meet new people and … have a good university experience.’ Jason paused again. Then he nodded, face full of understanding. ‘Yeah. That makes sense.’ We stepped aside to let Pip and Rooney write down their emails on the list, all the while they were having some sort of inane argument about which DST society they should join, and each of them seemed determined to establish that their choice was the correct choice and the other person’s choice was utterly wrong. After several minutes of this, Jason eventually decided to end it by suggesting we all go to get pizza from the Domino’s stand, which was giving out free slices. ‘I’m gonna carry on looking around for a bit,’ said Rooney. She moved her gaze from Pip to me. ‘Meet you at the entrance in like twenty minutes?’ I nodded. ‘Fab.’ Rooney looked back at Pip again and said as if Jason didn’t even exist, ‘How about we all meet up at John’s bar tonight? It’s so fun down there, it’s this tiny little basement bar …’ Most people would not have been able to tell what was up with Pip, but I’d known her for over seven years, and she had this look. A slight narrowing of the eyes. Her shoulders hunched. The fact of the matter was: Pip had decided to hate Rooney. ‘Yeah, we’ll be there,’ said Pip, folding her arms. ‘Yay,’ said Rooney, smiling wide. ‘Can’t wait.’ Rooney wandered off into the mass of stalls again. Pip, Jason and I headed towards the Domino’s stand, Pip’s eyes never leaving the back of Rooney’s head, and Jason asking Pip, ‘What the fuck was that?’ A bonding opportunity for my only three friends was definitely a good idea, but this was somewhat counteracted by the fact that Rooney seemed to delight in irritating Pip, while Pip seemed to be infuriated by her mere existence in all of our lives, and I had already discovered that I was not a fan of clubs and bars. Felipa Quintana THE VIBES, GEORGIA. THE VIBES. Georgia Warr what of them Felipa Quintana THEY ARE BAD I should have seen it when we met She’s full of bad vibes Georgia Warr rooney’s actually quite nice are you just saying this because you saw her hooking up with someone?? no slut-shaming is allowed in this group chat Felipa Quintana OBVIOUSLY NOT. She can hook up with whoever she likes however much she wants, I have no problems with people who enjoy casual hooking up I’m just getting a bad vibe . . . . . . She made fun of my cacti Jason Farley-Shaw In other news Where are we meeting and what time?? I don’t know where John’s Bar is!! Georgia Warr i’ll come pick you both up from pip’s room i’m concerned about pip arriving by herself and making a scene as soon as she sees rooney Jason Farley-Shaw Oh that’s good thinking. Smart. Felipa Quintana FUCK you both ‘I’m perfectly capable of going to a bar and not making a scene just because I don’t like one person,’ said Pip as she opened her door to me later that evening. I’d been given specific directions but still ended up having to call her and be verbally directed around the winding corridors of Castle. And if that wasn’t enough chaos to deal with on a Friday evening, Pip’s bedroom was in definite competition for messiest bedroom in Durham. There were more clothes on the floor than there appeared to be in her open wardrobe, her desk was piled high with incredibly boring-looking science books and pieces of paper, and her bedsheets were smushed into a corner, several feet away from her bed. ‘Sure you are,’ I said, patting Pip on the head. ‘Don’t patronise me, Georgia Warr. Did you bring my denim jacket?’ ‘Your denim jacket?’ I smacked my head. I could picture exactly where Pip’s jacket was in my room – on the back of my desk chair. ‘Oh, no, sorry, I totally forgot.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ said Pip, but she glanced down at her outfit nervously. ‘I was gonna wear it tonight, but … do you think I look OK without it? Or maybe I could wear a bomber jacket.’ She looked really good, actually – she was wearing a stripy short-sleeved shirt, tucked in at the hips into a pair of ripped black skinny jeans, and her hair was carefully styled. And she looked very much like herself, which I thought was more important. Pip had always been kind of insecure about how she looked. But now that she was actually dressing how she’d always wanted to dress, and had cut her hair and all that, she exuded a sort of confidence that I could never hope to achieve – a confidence that said I know exactly who I am. ‘You look really nice,’ I said. She smiled. ‘Thanks.’ I’d decided to wear something slightly more casual than my last attempt at ‘going out’ – some high-waisted jeans and a tight-fit crop top – but I still felt a little like I was wearing a costume. My usual comfy knitwear style wasn’t really suitable for bars and clubs. Jason arrived minutes later, wearing his teddy-bear jacket on top of his standard T-shirt–jeans combo. He took one look at the floor and immediately started picking up items of clothing and folding them. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Pip. Learn to tidy.’ ‘It’s absolutely fine how it is. I know where everything is.’ ‘Maybe so, but it won’t be absolutely fine when you start getting spiders birthing underneath your sweatshirts.’ ‘Ew, Jason. Don’t say “birthing”.’ We did a quick tidy of Pip’s room before leaving. It was only a few minutes’ walk from Castle to St John’s – we had to cross Palace Green, past the cathedral, and down a little side street – and in that time, I decided to confront Pip about the exact reason for her declaration of ‘bad vibes’. ‘I don’t have a crush on her,’ said Pip instantly, which confirmed the fact that she definitely had a crush on Rooney. ‘I don’t get crushes on straight girls. Any more.’ ‘So you’ve decided that she’s your mortal enemy because …?’ ‘You know what it is?’ Pip folded her arms, pulling her bomber jacket round her. ‘She’s the sort of person who just thinks she’s better than everyone, purely because she goes to clubs and bars and she has a giant house plant and she likes Shakespeare.’ ‘You like Shakespeare and you have house plants,’ said Jason. ‘Why’s she not allowed to like Shakespeare and house plants?’ Pip just gave him an irritated look. Jason glanced at me, eyebrows raised. We could both tell that Pip was making up silly reasons to dislike Rooney in an attempt to deflect her feelings. But we also knew we should probably just let it happen because, in all honesty, it was probably the best course of action. We’d seen Pip through several straight-girl crushes. They were not fun for her. The sooner she could get over those feelings, the better. ‘You could have just said no to hanging out tonight,’ I pointed out. ‘No I couldn’t,’ said Pip, ‘because then she’d win.’ Jason and I stayed silent for a moment. Then I said, ‘She’s been giving me some advice about stuff.’ Pip frowned. ‘Advice? About what?’ ‘Well … you know I was feeling kind of bad about, like …’ God. This stuff was always so awkward to talk about. ‘You remember at the prom afterparty I was feeling really down about not having kissed anyone, and … you know. Rooney’s been helping me try and put myself out there a bit.’ Pip and Jason stared at me. ‘What?’ Pip shook her head in disbelief. ‘You don’t – Why is she making you do that? You don’t have to do that shit … just – God. You need to just go at your own pace, man. Why is she making you? … What? Is she trying to persuade you to start getting with people at bars? That’s fine if she wants to do that, but that’s not who you are.’ ‘She’s not making me do anything! She’s just helping me open up to people a bit, and, like … take chances.’ ‘But you shouldn’t have to force this stuff! That’s not who you are,’ she repeated, frowning. ‘Well, what if that’s who I want to be?’ I snapped back. I felt immediately bad about it. Pip and I never argued. Pip shut her mouth. She didn’t seem to have an answer for that. Eventually she said, ‘I don’t like Rooney because she’s disrupting the dynamics of our friendship group. And she’s very annoying to me specifically.’ I didn’t even bother to answer her. Jason was flattening his hair awkwardly. ‘Uh … It’s good that you’ve made a friend, though, Georgia.’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. I felt my phone buzz in my bag and withdrew it to take a look. Rooney Bach I’m at the bar! Hey maybe we could hook you up with someone tonight … I sent her a thumbs-up emoji. Rooney had managed to bagsy an entire table for us in John’s bar, which deserved a medal, because it was heaving. The bar was a tiny basement area in college, super old and very hot. I could practically feel people’s sweat in the air as we squeezed through the crowd to get to the table. Rooney had dressed up for the night: jumpsuit, heels, hair curled into loose waves. She probably had other plans after hanging out with us at the very childish hour of 9 p.m. And while she had been waiting for us, she seemed to have befriended a large group of people sitting at the next table. ‘Darlings,’ said Rooney in a fake posh drawl as we all sat down, turning away from her new friends. ‘You all look so nice.’ She looked directly at Pip. ‘So stripes are your thing, Felipa?’ Pip narrowed her eyes at the use of her unshortened name. ‘Have you been Facebook-stalking me?’ ‘Instagram, actually. I enjoyed the photo of you dressed up as a crayon for Halloween.’ This earned a smug smile from Pip. ‘You scrolled very far back then.’ We had to suffer several minutes of irritating banter between Pip and Rooney before Jason and I could even contribute to the conversation. In that time, I did some people-watching, looking around the room at our fellow students. There were people on a regular night out, some dressed up and others just in their college sweatshirts and jeans. There were people in fancy dress – a lot, actually, but it was still Freshers’ Week, so that made sense. ‘So how did you all become friends?’ asked Rooney. ‘School,’ I said. ‘And we all went to the same youth theatre group.’ ‘Oh my God, that’s right! You’re all theatre kids! I forgot!’ Rooney’s face lit up. ‘This is amazing. We can all go to the welcome meeting together next week!’ ‘It’s sad about your society getting shut down,’ Jason said. ‘Yeah! Shakespeare Soc. I was so set on joining it, but … it just doesn’t exist any more. Surely that’s some sort of crime against Britain.’ ‘So you like Shakespeare?’ asked Pip. She sounded sceptical, almost. Rooney nodded. ‘Yeah! Love it. Do you?’ Pip nodded back. ‘Yeah. I’ve been in a few at school.’ ‘Same. I was in Romeo and Juliet, Much Ado, Comedy of Errors, and Hamlet at school.’ ‘We did Romeo and Juliet, Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest.’ ‘So I have more experience?’ Rooney said, and the curl of her lips was unmissable. It was like she was starting a fight. Pip’s jaw twitched. ‘I guess,’ she said. I caught eyes with Jason over the table, and the way his eyes widened told me that I wasn’t imagining this. Jason could tell what was going on too. Here they were, Rooney and Pip, two very different sorts of chaotic energy colliding before my very eyes. I felt overwhelmed. ‘So, are you and Georgia, like, best friends now?’ asked Pip with a weak chuckle. I was about to protest being dragged into whatever this was, when Rooney replied instead. ‘I’d say we’re pretty good friends already,’ said Rooney, smiling and looking at me. ‘Right?’ ‘Right,’ I said, because there was really nothing else I could have said. ‘We do live together,’ Rooney continued, ‘so, yes. Why? Jealous?’ Pip went a little red. ‘I was just wondering whether we’d have to fight for the title of Georgia’s ultimate best friend.’ ‘Am I not even a contender?’ Jason pointed out, but both the girls ignored him. Rooney took a long sip of her beer, then leant closer to Pip. ‘You don’t strike me as much of a fighter.’ ‘Is that a dig at my height?’ ‘Just saying. I think you might be naturally at a disadvantage compared to most people.’ ‘Ah, but I have the Short Person Anger advantage.’ Rooney smirked. ‘Can’t relate.’ ‘Hey,’ I said loudly, and Pip and Rooney both looked at me. ‘We’re supposed to be having fun and getting to know each other.’ They blinked at me. ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’ said Rooney. ‘I need a drink,’ Jason said loudly, standing up. I stood up with him, giving him a supportive squeeze on the arm, and we left Rooney and Pip to their bizarre banter competition. I knew that relying on alcohol to relieve anxiety was not great. On a physical level, I didn’t even enjoy the taste that much. Unfortunately, I had grown up in a place where almost everyone my age drank, and I’d accepted drinking as ‘normal’, like a lot of other things, even though often it wasn’t really what I wanted to do at all. Jason ordered a cider and I ordered a double vodka and lemonade, and also two beers for Pip and Rooney. ‘I know she’s done the whole deflecting-feelings-by-being-angry thing before,’ said Jason grimly as we waited at the bar for our drinks. ‘But I haven’t seen her like this since Kelly Thornton in Year Ten.’ ‘This is definitely worse,’ I said, thinking back to the time with Kelly – a lengthy feud over a stolen pencil – which had ended in Pip throwing a halfeaten apple at her head and getting two weeks of detention. ‘I just want everyone to be friends.’ Jason chuckled and nudged me with his shoulder. ‘Well, you’ve got me. We’re relatively drama-free.’ I looked up at Jason. His big brown eyes and soft smile were so familiar to me. We’d never had any drama. So far, anyway. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Relatively.’ I proceeded to get drunk in record time. Maybe because I’d skipped dinner in favour of reading fanfic and eating a bagel in bed, or maybe because I drank the equivalent of six shots in forty-five minutes, but whatever it was, by ten o’clock, I felt genuinely relaxed and happy, which was definitely a sign that I was not in my right mind. To reiterate: I’m not advocating this sort of thing. But, at the time, I didn’t know how else to deal with what a long, stressful week it had been, and the prospect of many more long, stressful weeks I had to come over the next three years. I suppose it’s fair to say I was not enjoying my university experience thus far. We headed into town at around ten o’clock. Rooney was insistent. I would have protested, but I did want to see if clubbing was any better if you went with your friends. Maybe I would enjoy it if Pip and Jason were there. Pip and Rooney were both at least a bit tipsy and had been dominating around eighty per cent of the conversation. Jason had been kind of quiet, which wasn’t unusual, and he didn’t seem to mind when I slotted my arm through his as we walked into the centre of Durham, to try and minimise the amount of swaying I was doing as I walked. Rooney kept swapping between bantering with Pip, then turning round to me, her long hair flying about in the gusty October air, and shouting, ‘We need to get you a MAN, Georgia! We need to find you a MAN!’ The word ‘man’ grossed me out because it made me picture a guy far older than me – no one our age was a man yet, were they? ‘I’ll find one eventually!’ I shouted back, even though I knew that was bullshit and nothing in life is certain and I didn’t ‘have time to figure things out’ because I might just have a brain aneurism at any moment and then I’d be dead, without having fallen in love, without having even figured out who I was and what I wanted. ‘You don’t have to find a man, Georgia,’ Pip slurred at me once we were inside the club, queueing for the bar. It wasn’t the dank, sticky club from the other day, but a new one. It was fancy, modern, and out of place in historic Durham. It was playing cool indie-pop – Pale Waves, Janelle Monáe, Chvrches – and we were surrounded by people dancing under neon lights. I had a bit of a headache, but I wanted to try and enjoy it. I wanted to push myself. ‘I know,’ I said, thankfully out of earshot of Rooney, who was talking intensely to Jason about something. Jason looked moderately overwhelmed. ‘I’ve already accepted that I’ll never find anyone,’ said Pip, and it took a moment for the full implications of that to sink into my brain. ‘What? What happened to you’ll find someone eventually because everyone does?’ ‘That’s a straight-people rule,’ Pip said, and that shut me up for a moment. Every time she’d told me ‘you’ll find someone eventually’ … had she even believed it about herself? ‘It doesn’t apply to me.’ ‘Wh– don’t say that. There just weren’t many out girls when we were at school. You didn’t have many options.’ Pip had kissed two girls during the time we’d known each other – one of whom repeatedly denied it ever happened, and the other told Pip she didn’t actually like her that way, she’d just thought it was a joke between friends. Pip looked down on to the sticky bar surface. ‘Yeah, but, like … I don’t even know how to, like … date. Like how does that even happen?’ I didn’t know what to say to her. It wasn’t like I had the answers, and even if I did, we were both too tipsy to make much sense of them. ‘Is there something bad about me?’ she said suddenly, looking me right in the eyes. ‘Am I … really annoying … am I just really annoying to everyone?’ ‘Pip …’ I wrapped one arm round her shoulders. ‘No, God – no, of course you’re not. God. Why d’you think that?’ ‘I dunno,’ she grumbled. ‘Just thought there might be a specific reason as to why I’m forever alone.’ ‘You’re not forever alone when I’m here. I’m your best friend.’ She sighed. ‘Fine.’ I squeezed her, and then our drinks arrived. ‘D’you think, since I’m your best friend, you could try not despising Rooney with every fibre of your being? At least for tonight?’ Pip sipped her cider. ‘I will attempt it. I can make no promises.’ That would have to be good enough. As soon as we’d finished our drinks, Rooney started dancing. She also seemed to be on speaking terms with various people in the club, so kept vanishing to socialise elsewhere. I felt bad for thinking it, but I actually didn’t mind, because I got to have some time to myself with my best friends. And it turned out that clubbing was slightly better when you were with people you know and love. Pip managed to get us to do our usual stupid dance moves, and after that I was smiling, and laughing and almost felt happy. Rooney even joined us, and Pip managed to keep her dagger-eyes to a minimum. If it weren’t for the scary older students crowded around us and the ever-present threat of Rooney trying to set me up with a guy, I would have been having a genuinely good time. Unfortunately, this only lasted half an hour before Rooney intervened. Me, Jason and Pip had gone to sit down on some leather sofas when Rooney appeared with a guy I didn’t know. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren shirt, peach chinos and boat shoes. ‘Hey!’ Rooney shouted at me over the music. ‘Georgia!’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘This is Miles!’ She pointed at the guy. I looked at him. He smiled in a way that immediately annoyed me. ‘Hi?’ I said. ‘Come dance with us!’ Rooney held out a hand to me. ‘I’m tired,’ I said, because I was. ‘I think you and Miles would really get along!’ said Rooney. It was painfully obvious what she was trying to do. And I did not want to go along with it. ‘Maybe later!’ I said. Miles didn’t seem too bothered, but Rooney’s smile dropped a little. She stepped close to me so that Miles couldn’t hear us. ‘Just give him a try!’ she said. ‘You could just kiss him and see.’ ‘She’s fine,’ said Jason’s voice from one side. I hadn’t realised he was listening in. ‘I’m just trying to help –’ ‘I know,’ said Jason. ‘But Georgia doesn’t want to. You can see it on her face.’ Rooney struck him with a long stare. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’ Miles had already wandered off towards some friends, so Rooney turned to Pip, who was also listening to the conversation with a stern expression, and said, ‘Quintana? Shall we dance?’ She said it like she was challenging Pip to a duel, so Pip of course accepted and went to dance with Rooney like she had a point to prove. Rooney wasn’t sober enough to understand the point that Pip was trying to make: Rooney hadn’t got to her. Except she obviously had. I sank back into the sofa with Jason and we watched Rooney and Pip dance. It almost looked like Pip was having fun, were it not for the Mr Darcylike grimace on her face every time Rooney got too close to her. Lights flashed around them, and every few seconds they would be hidden from view by other dancing bodies and smiling faces – but then they’d return, and they’d be a little closer to each other, moving to the music. Rooney towered over Pip, mostly because of her giant heeled boots, but she was a few inches taller normally anyway, and when Rooney put her arms round her, I felt suddenly worried that they’d both just fall over, and then Pip started to protest, but must have found herself ignored, realising she’d got herself into this situation and now had to deal with it. For a moment I thought Rooney was going to lean in and kiss her, but she didn’t. Pip shot a glance at me, and I just smiled at her, then stopped watching them. They weren’t going to murder each other. Hopefully. Jason and I ate a packet of crisps Jason had procured from the bar and we talked, and it reminded me of what we’d do on the school play dressrehearsal days when we weren’t needed in a scene. Pip was always a lead role so she was busy the whole day, but Jason and I would get to sneak off and sit behind a curtain somewhere, eating snacks and watching TikTok compilations on my phone, trying not to laugh too loud. ‘D’you miss home?’ Jason asked. I thought about it. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back. ‘I mean, I’m a bit homesick, I guess.’ He chuckled. ‘I miss my dads, even though they’ve called me every day. And I’ve already watched the Scooby- Doo movie four times. For comfort. But school was hell. I don’t miss school.’ ‘Mm.’ Uni wasn’t any better so far. For me, anyway. ‘What?’ ‘I like being here,’ I said. ‘At uni?’ ‘No, here. With you.’ Jason opened his eyes again and turned to me. He smiled. ‘Me too.’ ‘GEORGIA!’ screeched Rooney, stumbling over to us from the dance floor. ‘You’ve found a MAN.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is my friend Jason. Remember?’ ‘I know who he is,’ she said, crouching down in front of us. ‘I know exactly what’s going on here.’ She pointed a finger at me. ‘You.’ She pointed at Jason. ‘And him.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Big. Messy. Feelings.’ I just shook my head, and I felt Jason shift a tiny bit away from me while he laughed awkwardly. What was Rooney talking about? Rooney patted Jason on the shoulder. ‘S’nice. You should just tell Georgia, though.’ Jason didn’t say anything. I checked to see if he knew what Rooney was talking about, but his face didn’t give anything away. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘You’re very interesting,’ said Rooney to Jason, ‘and very boring at the same time because you never do anything.’ ‘I’m going to the loo,’ said Jason, standing up with an expression on his face I only saw on him when he was drunk – deep irritation. But he wasn’t drunk. He was genuinely pissed off. He walked away from us. ‘That was really rude,’ I said to Rooney. I think I was genuinely pissed off too. ‘Are you aware that Jason is into you?’ The words hit me like lightning. Are you aware that Jason is into you? Jason. One of my best friends in the entire world. We’d known each other for over four years, we’d hung out more times than I could count, I knew his face as well as my own. We could tell each other anything. But he hadn’t told me that. ‘What?’ I croaked, my breath gone. Rooney laughed. ‘Are you joking? His crush on you is so obvious it’s actually painful to watch.’ How was this possible? I was excellent at recognising romantic feelings. I could always tell when people were flirting with me, or each other. I always knew when Pip and Jason had crushes on people. How had I missed this? ‘He’s a really lovely guy,’ said Rooney, her voice softer, as she sat on the sofa beside me. ‘Have you really not considered him?’ ‘I …’ I started to tell Rooney that I didn’t like him like that, but … did I even know what romantic feelings felt like? I thought I’d had a crush on Tommy for seven years and that turned out to be nothing. Jason was a really lovely guy. I mean, I loved him. And suddenly the idea was swirling around my brain and I couldn’t stop myself wondering. Maybe this was like all those American romcoms I’d spent my whole teenage life watching; maybe Jason and I were meant to be like the two leads from 13 Going On 30 or Easy A, maybe ‘he’d been there all along’, maybe I just hadn’t tapped into my romantic feelings because I felt so comfortable and safe around Jason and I’d just written him off as ‘best friend’ when in fact he could have been ‘boyfriend’ instead. Maybe, if I reached out, if I pushed myself – maybe Jason was the love of my life. ‘Wh … what do I do?’ I whispered. Rooney put her hands back in her pockets. ‘I’m not sure yet. But –’ she stood up, her hair falling around her shoulders like a superhero cape – ‘I think we’re going to be able to solve your little never kissed anyone situation.’ I was woken from a dream that night when Rooney returned to our room. She’d told us to go back to college without her. I couldn’t see her very well without my glasses on, but she seemed to be tiptoeing around like a cartoon character. She flicked the kettle on to make her post-night-out cup of tea, and when she opened her wardrobe, various hangers fell down, making a very loud clatter. She froze and said, ‘Oh no.’ I put my glasses on just in time to see her turn to me with a guilty expression. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered loudly. ‘S’fine,’ I mumbled, croaky from sleep. I checked my phone. 5:21a.m. How. How did any human stay awake, let alone stay out clubbing for that long? I had my late-night 200k fanfic mistakes but that was just sitting in bed reading. ‘Didn’t know anywhere stayed open this late.’ Rooney chuckled. ‘Oh, no, it doesn’t. I was at this guy’s place.’ I frowned, a little confused. But then I understood. She was at a guy’s place, having sex. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Cool.’ I did actually think this was quite cool. I was always a bit envious of people who were super sex-positive and felt comfortable enough to just bang whoever they fancied. I couldn’t even imagine feeling comfortable enough to let someone kiss me, let alone going to an absolute stranger’s home and getting naked. She shrugged. ‘Wasn’t that great, to be honest. Bit of a letdown. But, you know. Why not! Everyone’s up for it this week.’ I was curious as to what way the guy had been a letdown but felt it might be a bit intrusive to ask. Rooney then let out a dramatic gasp, swung her body round and whispered, ‘I forgot to water Roderick,’ before quickly filling a mug with water, running over to her house plant, and pouring it into his pot. ‘D’you think …’ I began, but then stopped. Sleepiness was making me want to be honest. I didn’t like being honest. ‘What?’ she said, having finished tending to Roderick. She walked over to her bed and wrenched her heels off. ‘D’you think I’m immature?’ I asked, bleary-eyed, my brain not fully awake. ‘Why would I think that?’ She started unzipping her jumpsuit. ‘Because I haven’t had sex or kissed anyone or … any of that. And I’m not … getting with guys and … you know.’ Being you. Doing what you do. She looked at me. ‘Do you think you’re immature?’ ‘No. I just think a lot of other people think I am.’ ‘Have they told you that?’ I thought back to the prom afterparty. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Rooney tugged off her jumpsuit and sat down on her bed in just her underwear. ‘That’s horrible.’ ‘So … am I?’ Rooney paused. ‘I think it’s pretty amazing that you haven’t felt peerpressured into doing anything by now. You haven’t made yourself do anything you didn’t want to do. You haven’t kissed anyone just because you’re scared of missing out. I think that’s one of the most mature things I’ve ever heard, actually.’ I closed my eyes and thought about telling her what had happened with Tommy. I’d almost gone through with that. But when I opened my eyes again, I found her just sitting there on the bed, looking at the photo of her and Mermaid-hair Beth. Beth must have been a really good friend. It was the only photo Rooney had put on the wall. Then her head whipped round to face me and she said, ‘So are you going to try dating Jason?’ It all came flooding back, and that was all it took. A suggestion. Rooney saying, ‘You’ll never know until you try.’ Rooney saying, ‘He’s really cute. Are you sure you don’t like him maybe, like, a little bit? You get along really well.’ Rooney saying, ‘You honestly act like you’re made for each other.’ That was all it took for me to think … Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I could fall in love with Jason. Durham Student Theatre’s introductory meeting took place four days later – the Tuesday of my second week at university – inside the Assembly Rooms Theatre. Rooney almost had to physically drag me there after I spent the whole weekend in our room, worn out from five days of intense socialising, but I kept reminding myself that I had to do this, I wanted to do this, to put myself out there and have experiences. And Jason and Pip would be there, so it couldn’t be all bad. The seats were almost completely full already, since a lot of people were interested in being a part of the DST, but me and Rooney spotted Pip sitting alone near the back of the stalls, so we went to join her. I probably should have sat politically in between Rooney and Pip, but Rooney ended up walking into the row of seats ahead of me, leading to a very awkward greeting between them. Moments later, Jason arrived. He was panting and looked a little bit sweaty. I wondered whether I should find that attractive in a sort of post-workout way. ‘Is … this seat … taken?’ I shook my head. ‘Nope.’ I paused while he shook his T-shirt away from his chest, and then shrugged off his teddy-bear jacket. ‘Are you OK?’ He nodded. ‘I just ran … all the way from the library … and now I’m dying.’ ‘Well, you made it in time.’ ‘I know.’ He turned and looked at me properly then, flashing a warm smile. ‘Hello.’ I smiled back. ‘Hi.’ ‘So you’re sure about doing this then?’ ‘Yep. And even if I wasn’t, I think I’d have been press-ganged into it by these two.’ I pointed towards Rooney and Pip, who were steadfastly ignoring each other. ‘True.’ He crossed one leg over another, then didn’t give me the chance to say anything more before he started rummaging in his rucksack. After a moment, he drew out a family-size open packet of salted popcorn and held it out to me. ‘Popcorn?’ I dug in and scooped up a handful. ‘Salted. You’re a hero.’ ‘We must all play our part in this bitch of a world.’ I was about to agree, but then the lights dimmed, as if we were about to watch a real play, and Durham Student Theatre’s first meeting of the year began. The president’s name was Sadie and she had the brightest, most engaging voice I’d ever heard. She explained the system of DST, which was incredibly complicated, but the fundamental idea was that each society within DST got a certain amount of funding to put on a production of their own, created entirely by the students within that society. Rooney took a lot of notes while Sadie was explaining. The meeting went on for an hour, and Jason and I sat and shared popcorn the whole time. Was this supposed to mean something? Was this what flirting was? No. No, this was just what friends, did, right? This was just me and Jason being normal. I thought I got this sort of thing. I understood flirting. But now, when it came to Jason, I had no idea what to think. When the meeting finally ended, Rooney and Pip went down to join the queue of freshers who had something to ask President Sadie. They walked together but didn’t look at each other. Jason and I stayed in our seats and we reminisced about some of our funniest youth theatre anecdotes. Hairspray when the music director downloaded a knock-off version of the score and all the songs sounded wrong. Dracula when Pip slipped on some fake blood and tore down the stage curtains. Romeo and Juliet when me and Jason had been painting the set and got stuck on the balcony for two hours because everyone went for dinner and forgot we were there. Maybe it was the fact that I’d been surrounded by loud theatre people for the past hour. Maybe it was because I genuinely liked Jason in that way. Whatever it was, it gave me the confidence to say, ‘Hey, I was thinking … we should … do something.’ He raised his eyebrows, intrigued. ‘Something?’ Oh God. Why was I doing this? How was I doing this? Had I been possessed by the spirit of someone with an actual shred of self-confidence? ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I dunno. Go see a movie, or …’ Wait. What fun things did people do on dates? I racked my brain, but all the fanfic I’d read had suddenly deleted itself from my mind. ‘Eat … food.’ Jason stared at me. ‘Georgia, what are you doing?’ ‘I just – we could – hang out.’ ‘We hang out all the time.’ ‘I mean just us.’ ‘Why just us?’ There was a pause. And then he seemed to get it. His eyes widened. He shifted back from me a little, then forward again. ‘Are you …’ He let out a tiny, disbelieving chuckle. ‘You sound like you’re asking me out, Georgia.’ I made a face. ‘Um. Well, yeah.’ Jason said nothing for a moment. And then he said, ‘Why?’ It was not exactly how I’d expected him to react. ‘I just …’ I paused. ‘I think … I don’t know. I want to. Go out with you. If you also want to.’ He just kept on staring. ‘If you don’t want to, that’s fine. We can just forget about it.’ I could feel my cheeks heating up. Not because Jason was making me particularly flustered, just because I was a disaster and everything I did was a tragic mistake. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Let’s – let’s do it.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ We looked at each other. Jason was an attractive guy, and he was a good person too. He was clearly the sort of person who I should like romantically. Who I could like romantically. He looked like a boyfriend. I loved his personality. I’d loved his personality for years. So I could fall in love with him. With a little bit of effort. Definitely. Jason had to go, to run to a lecture, leaving me a little shell-shocked that I had been able to do what I had just done, but I was soon distracted by the raised voices at the front of the auditorium. Voices that belonged to Rooney and the DST president, Sadie. There was hardly anyone in the theatre now, so I wandered down to where Rooney and Pip were just in front of the stage with Sadie. Pip was sitting in the front row, watching the conversation – or argument, I wasn’t yet sure – go down. ‘We only have enough funding for one new society this year,’ said Sadie firmly. ‘That’s already been taken by the Mime Society.’ ‘Mime Society?’ Rooney spluttered. ‘Are you joking? Since when is mime more important than Shakespeare?’ Sadie gave her a look like she was very, very tired of dealing with people like Rooney. ‘We also don’t appreciate snobbery in the DST.’ ‘I’m not being snobby, I just …’ Rooney took a breath, clearly trying not to shout. ‘I just don’t understand why you got rid of the Shakespeare Soc in the first place!’ ‘Because it didn’t have enough members to continue,’ said Sadie coolly. I sat down next to Pip in the front row. She leant over to me and whispered, ‘I just wanted to ask what the Freshers’ Play would be this year.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘No idea yet. This is still happening.’ ‘What if I funded the society myself?’ Rooney asked. Sadie raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m listening.’ ‘I-I don’t need any of DST’s money. I just want to put on a Shakespeare.’ She looked genuinely desperate. I hadn’t realised she cared that much about this, honestly. ‘Do you know how much it costs to put on a play?’ ‘Um … no, but –’ ‘Hiring the theatre? Costumes? Set? Rehearsal space? All using the DST’s time and resources?’ ‘Well, no, but I –’ Sadie sighed again. ‘You need five members to count as a society,’ she said. ‘And we’ll hire the theatre for you for one performance.’ Rooney closed her mouth. Blinked once. Then said, ‘Wait, really?’ ‘Not gonna lie, I am just doing this so you’ll stop bothering me.’ Sadie whipped a notepad out from the stack of flyers she had with her on the stage. ‘Who are your members?’ ‘Rooney Bach,’ said Rooney, then looked around at me and Pip. We didn’t even have time to protest. ‘Felipa Quintana,’ said Rooney. ‘Hang on, no,’ said Pip. ‘Georgia Warr.’ ‘Wait, what?’ I said. ‘And Jason Farley-Shaw.’ ‘Is this legal?’ said Pip. ‘Who’s the fifth?’ Sadie asked. ‘Um …’ Rooney faltered. I figured she would just conjure up the name of one of her many friends, but she didn’t seem to be able to think of anyone. ‘Er, I guess we haven’t got the fifth member yet.’ ‘Well, you’d better get one quick, OK? We’re giving you funding for this. I need to know you’re serious.’ ‘I will.’ ‘Put on a good enough production by the end of the year and I’ll consider giving you full funding next year. Does that sound reasonable?’ ‘Um. Yes. Yeah.’ Rooney unfolded her arms. ‘Th-thank you.’ ‘You’re welcome.’ Sadie reached around her for a plastic bottle and took a deep swig from it – one that made me think that whatever was inside wasn’t water. ‘I don’t think you realise how much work it is putting on a production. It needs to be good, OK? Some of our plays go to the Edinburgh Fringe.’ ‘It will be good,’ said Rooney, nodding. ‘I promise.’ ‘OK.’ Sadie looked directly at me when she said, deadpan, ‘Welcome to Durham Student Theatre. We sure do love drama.’ ‘I don’t understand why you can’t just let me have this one and be in my play,’ Rooney snapped at Pip as we walked back to college. ‘What were you gonna do? Join the Mime Society?’ ‘I was going to do the Freshers’ Play like a normal fresher,’ Pip snapped back. ‘They’re doing The Importance of Being Earnest, for God’s sake. A classic.’ ‘Shakespeare means a lot to me, OK? It was basically one of the only things that I enjoyed at school –’ ‘What, and I’m supposed to drop my interests and hobbies just because you’ve got a sob story? This isn’t the fucking X Factor.’ I walked a few paces behind them as Pip and Rooney bickered, their voices getting gradually louder and louder. People around us on the street started turning to observe the scene as they passed. Pip wrapped her bomber jacket tightly round her body and ran a hand through her hair. ‘I get that you were, like, a star performer at your school, but, like, so was I, and you don’t get to come here and pretend like you’re better than me just because you like Shakespeare.’ Rooney folded her arms. ‘Well, I think putting on a Shakespeare is a bit more noteworthy than some little comedy play.’ ‘Some little comedy play? Apologise to Oscar Wilde right the fuck now!’ Rooney halted, bringing us all to a stop. I was contemplating diving into the nearest café. She stepped slightly towards Pip, then seemed to change her mind, and stepped back again, keeping a safe distance between them. ‘You’re just here to have fun. Well, I’m here to actually do something that means something.’ Pip shook her head. ‘What the fuck are you talking about, dude? This is a theatre society. Not a political party.’ ‘Ugh, you’re so annoying.’ ‘So are you!’ There was silence for a moment. ‘Please be in my society,’ said Rooney. ‘I need five members.’ Pip looked at her, expression unchanging. ‘Which play are you doing?’ ‘I don’t know yet.’ ‘Can it be a comedy? I’m not doing this if we’re doing any of the boringass history plays.’ ‘It’ll be a comedy or a tragedy. No history plays.’ Pip narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah. But I still don’t like you.’ Rooney smiled broadly. ‘I know.’ Pip headed off towards Castle, leaving Rooney and me alone on the cobbled street by the cathedral. ‘What just happened?’ I asked her. Rooney let out a long breath. Then she smiled. ‘We’re putting on a play.’ I had somehow asked out one of my best friends, and there was absolutely no way for me to take that back, which meant that I probably needed to follow through and actually go on a date with Jason Farley-Shaw. He ended up messaging me about it the day after the DST meeting. Jason Farley-Shaw Hey so how’s about that movie/food? I got the message while Rooney and I were in an intro to poetry lecture, and instead of listening to the lecturer drone on about Keats, I spent the hour analysing this message. I didn’t open it, but I could read all of it from my home screen. I didn’t want to open it, because I didn’t want him to know that I’d read it, because if he knew I’d read it, I’d have to reply so he didn’t think I was ignoring him, and for some reason, the idea of continuing this incredibly new and incredibly weird flirtation with Jason was making me want to abandon my degree and become my brother’s plumbing apprentice. The very ordinary smiley-face emoji and the single, sensible question mark were extremely not like Jason, which suggested that he, too, had been overthinking this conversation. How should I reply? Should I be grammatically rule-abiding and polite? Or should I just start sending him memes straight away, like normal? How was this supposed to work? To be absolutely and completely honest, I didn’t want to go on a date with him at all. But I did want to want to go on a date with him. And that was the crux of my problem. ‘Why are you staring at your phone like you’re trying to make it explode with your mind?’ asked Rooney once we’d walked back to our room after the lecture. I decided to be honest. Rooney would probably know how to approach this. ‘Jason messaged me,’ I said. ‘Oh!’ She dumped her bag on the floor and rolled on to her bed, kicking off her Converse and pulling her hair out of its ponytail. ‘Nice. What’s he saying?’ Sitting on my own bed, I held up my phone to her. ‘I kind of asked him out yesterday.’ Rooney leapt off her bed. ‘You did WHAT?’ I paused. ‘Um. I asked him out. Was that … wrong?’ She stared at me for a long time. ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ she said finally. ‘… OK.’ She sat back down, pressing her fingers to her lips. ‘OK, well … good. This is good.’ She took a breath. ‘How did this happen?’ ‘I dunno, I was just thinking about it after what you said, and – I mean, I guess I just thought – like, I realised …’ I folded my arms. ‘I do.’ ‘You do what?’ ‘Like him.’ ‘Romantically?’ ‘Mm.’ ‘Sexually?’ I made a spluttering noise because I was suddenly picturing having sex with Jason. ‘Who thinks about sex that quickly?’ Rooney snorted. ‘Me.’ ‘Anyway, I do like him.’ I do. I did. I probably did. ‘Oh, I know you do. I saw this coming from the moment I met him.’ She sighed happily. ‘It’s like a movie.’ ‘I don’t know what to text him back,’ I said. ‘Help me.’ I felt a little bit embarrassed. This was simple stuff, for Christ’s sake. This was twelve-year-old-level Dating Skills. Rooney blinked. Then she got up from her bed, walked over to me, and gestured for me to budge up. I obeyed, and she flopped down on to the duvet beside me, taking my phone from my hands. She opened the message before I could stop her. I watched her read it. ‘OK,’ she said, and then she typed out a message for me and sent it. Georgia Warr Yes for sure! You free at all this week? ‘Oh,’ I said. She slapped my phone back into my hands. I expected her to ask why I couldn’t accomplish such a simple task. I expected her to maybe laugh, in a nice way, about how much I had been panicking about this. She gave me a long look and I waited for her to ask: Was that so hard? Why couldn’t you do that yourself? Do you even want to talk to Jason? Was your panic because you have a crush on him or are you panicking because you’re not even sure what you’re doing, or why you’re doing it, or whether you even want to be doing it? Are you panicking because if you can’t even want to do this, you might never be able to want to do this? But instead she just smiled and said, ‘No prob.’ Jason and I arranged our date for that Saturday, which meant I had five whole days to panic about it. Thankfully, my second week at university was a welcome distraction. Both Rooney and I were now faced with actual university work – real lectures and tutorials and reading ten whole books in four weeks. And we were settling into our new life living together too. We’d always go to lectures together and go to lunch together, but she liked to go down to the bar in the evenings or go out to a club with other friends, while I preferred to sit in bed with biscuits and a fanfic. Sometimes Rooney would talk to me about ideas for her Shakespeare play, chatting excitedly about how she would do the set and the costumes and the staging, and other times we would just talk about whatever – TV shows. College gossip. Our home lives. I didn’t really understand why Rooney had chosen me. Clearly, she could have anyone she wanted as whatever she wanted – friend, partner, hook-up, even someone to playfully banter with. But despite being able to befriend anyone, and having fifty acquaintances already, it was me she ate with, and walked through Durham with, and hung out with when she wasn’t partying. I was probably just convenient. That was the nature of roommates. But all in all, it was OK. I was OK. Maybe I wasn’t the socialite I’d come to university hoping I could be, but living with Rooney was OK, and I’d even managed to secure a date with someone. An actual romantic date. Things were looking up. As it turned out, there was nothing interesting to do in Durham apart from eat out, drink, and go to the cinema. Unless you particularly like looking at old buildings. But even that got tiring after you’d walked past them every day on your way to Tesco. I wanted to think of something actually fun to do with Jason, like ice skating or bowling or one of those cool bars that doubles up as a mini-golf place. But Jason immediately suggested going to the little ice-cream café on Saddler Street, and I didn’t have anything better to suggest, so I agreed. Plus, ice cream is nice. ‘You’re going on your date?’ Rooney asked, just as I was about to leave our room on Saturday afternoon, about ten minutes before we’d agreed to meet. She looked my outfit up and down. ‘Yes?’ I said, looking at myself. I was just wearing my normal clothes – mom jeans, a cropped woolly jumper, and my coat. I thought I looked quite good, actually, in my usual sort of cosy bookseller way. We were only going for ice cream, for God’s sake. ‘You look cute,’ said Rooney, and I felt like she really did mean it. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Are you looking forward to it?’ I actually hadn’t really been looking forward to it. I guessed this was due to nerves. Everyone gets nervous about a first date. And I was very nervous. I knew that I needed to chill out and be myself, and if I didn’t feel that spark after a while then we just weren’t meant to be. But I also knew that this was a chance for me to actually experience romance and be someone who has fun, quirky experiences and doesn’t die alone. No pressure, I guess. ‘Pistachio,’ said Jason, looking at my choice of ice cream as we sat down at a table. He was wearing his teddy-bear jacket again, which I loved for its sense of familiarity and cosiness. ‘I forgot that you’re literally a disgusting gremlin when it comes to ice cream.’ The café was cute, tiny and decorated with pastel colours and flowers. I admired Jason for suggesting it. It was straight out of a romance novel. I glanced at his selection of ice cream. ‘Vanilla, though? When they had cookies-and-cream?’ ‘Don’t bash vanilla. Vanilla is a classic.’ He popped a spoonful into his mouth and grinned. I raised my eyebrows. ‘I forgot how basic you are.’ ‘I’m not basic!’ ‘It’s a basic choice. That’s all I’m saying.’ We sat at our little round table in the ice-cream café and talked for an hour. We talked about university for most of that. Jason explained that his history lectures were already a bit dull, and I lamented about the length of my reading lists. Jason admitted that he didn’t think the drinking-clubbing lifestyle was really for him, and I said I felt the same. We spent a long time talking about how we both felt Freshers’ Week was a monumental let-down – marketed to be the best week of your whole university life, only to turn out to be a week of endless drinking, visiting gross clubs and failing to make real friends. Eventually conversation dwindled a little, because we’d known each other for years, and we’d already had dozens, if not hundreds, of deep chats. We were already at the point where silence didn’t feel awkward. We knew each other. But we didn’t know how to do this. Be romantic. Date. ‘So this is weird, isn’t it?’ said Jason. We’d long since finished our ice cream. I was leaning on my hand, elbow on the table. ‘What’s weird?’ Jason looked down. A little embarrassed. ‘Well … the fact that we’re … you know … doing this.’ Oh. Yeah. ‘It’s …’ I didn’t really know what to say. ‘I guess it is. A bit.’ Jason kept his eyes firmly down, not looking at me. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all week and I just … I mean, I didn’t even know you might like me like that.’ Neither had I. But then I had no idea what ‘liking someone like that’ was even supposed to feel like. If it was going to be with anyone, it was probably going to be with him. His voice grew a little quieter and he smiled awkwardly, like he didn’t want me to see how nervous he was. ‘Are you just doing this because of what Rooney said when we all went out that night?’ I sat up a little. ‘No, no – well, I mean, maybe a little bit? I think her saying it made me properly, um … realise that I wanted to. So … I guess I started thinking about it after that, and … yeah. It just felt like … I guess it just felt right.’ Jason nodded, and I hoped I’d made sense. I just needed to be honest. Jason was my best friend. I needed to make this work and do it at my own pace. I loved Jason. I knew I could be honest with him. ‘You know I’ve never done this before,’ I said. He nodded again. Understanding. ‘I know.’ ‘I … want to go slow.’ He went a little red. ‘Yeah. Of course.’ ‘I like you,’ I said. At least I thought I did. I might have if I tried, if I encouraged it, if I pretended it was real until it was. ‘I mean, I-I think I could – I want to give this a chance, and I don’t want to regret anything when I’m on my deathbed.’ ‘OK.’ ‘I just don’t really know what I’m doing. Like. Theoretically, yes, but in practice … no.’ ‘OK. That’s OK.’ ‘OK.’ I think I was going a bit red too. My cheeks felt hot. Was it because I felt flustered around Jason or because this whole thing was a bit awkward to talk about? ‘I don’t mind going slow,’ said Jason. ‘Like, all my romantic experiences until now have been a bit shit.’ I knew all about Jason’s past romantic experiences. I knew about his first kiss with a girl he thought he really liked, but the kiss was so terrible it actually put him off doing it again. And I knew about the girlfriend he’d had for five months when we were in Year 13 – Aimee, who went to our youth theatre group. Aimee was kind of annoying in a Jason is my property and I don’t like anyone else hanging out with him sort of way, and Pip and I never liked her, but Jason was happy for a little while, so we supported the relationship. Or, at least, we did until we figured out that Aimee had been making all sorts of comments to Jason about how he wasn’t allowed to hang out with certain people, and he needed to stop talking to other girls – including me and Pip. Jason put up with that for months until he realised that she was, in fact, a shithead. Jason had sex for the first time with her, and it pissed me off that he’d had that experience with someone like that. ‘This won’t be shit,’ I said, then rephrased. ‘This … won’t be shit, will it?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Definitely not.’ ‘We’ll go slow.’ ‘Yeah. This is new territory.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘And if it doesn’t work out …’ Jason began, then seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say. I’ll be honest: I still wasn’t even sure that I was into Jason. He was super nice, funny, interesting and attractive, but I didn’t know whether I was feeling anything other than platonic friendship. But I would never know unless I persisted. Unless I tried. And if it didn’t work out, Jason would understand. ‘… we’ll still be friends,’ I concluded. ‘No matter what.’ ‘Yes.’ Jason leant back in his chair and folded his arms, and God, I was glad that I was doing this with Jason and not some random person who didn’t know me, who didn’t understand, who would expect things from me and would think I was weird when I didn’t want to … ‘There’s one other thing we should probably talk about,’ said Jason. ‘What?’ ‘What are we going to tell Pip?’ There was a silence. I honestly hadn’t even thought about how Pip would feel about this. Something told me she wouldn’t be happy about her two best friends getting together and majorly distorting the dynamics of our friendship group. ‘We should tell her,’ I said. ‘When we find a good time.’ ‘Yeah. Agreed.’ Jason looked relieved that I’d said it. That he didn’t have to be the one to suggest it. ‘Best to just be honest about it.’ ‘Yeah.’ When we left the ice-cream café, we hugged goodbye, and it felt like a normal hug for us. A normal Jason and Georgia hug, the sort of hug we’d been having for years. There wasn’t any sort of weird moment when we felt like we should kiss. We hadn’t reached that point yet, I guessed. That would come later. And I was fine with that. That was what I wanted. I thought. Yeah. When Rooney returned to our room that night, she wanted to hear every detail of my date with Jason. I would have been fine with this, were it not 4.38 a.m. ‘So it went well, then?’ she asked after I’d finished giving her the rundown from where I was wrapped up like a burrito in my duvet. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. She was sitting on her bed, cup of tea in one hand and make-up wipe in the other. I frowned. ‘Why?’ ‘You just …’ She shrugged. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I mean … I guess I just …’ ‘What?’ ‘I’m not sure if I really like him like that yet. I dunno.’ Rooney paused. ‘Well, if the spark’s not there, the spark’s not there.’ ‘No, I mean, we get along really well. Like, I love him as a person.’ ‘Yeah, but is the spark there?’ How was I supposed to know that? What the fuck was the spark? What did the spark even feel like? I thought I’d understood what all these romantic things would feel like – butterflies and the spark and just knowing when you liked someone. I’d read about these feelings hundreds of times in books and fanfic. I’d watched way more romcoms than was probably normal for an eighteen-year-old. But now I was starting to wonder whether these things were just made up. ‘… Maybe?’ I said. ‘Well, you might as well just wait and see how it goes, then. When you know, you know.’ That sort of made me want to scream. I didn’t know how to know. Honestly, if I’d had any sort of feelings for girls, I would have wondered whether I wasn’t straight. Maybe boys in general were the problem. ‘What does it feel like when you get the spark?’ I asked. ‘Like … tonight. You – I assume you were with a guy?’ Her expression dropped instantly. ‘That’s different.’ ‘Wait – how? Why?’ She stood up from her bed and turned round, grabbing her pyjamas. ‘That’s just different. That’s nothing like this situation.’ ‘I’m just asking –’ ‘Me having sex with some random guy is not similar to you dating your best friend. Completely different scenarios.’ I blinked. She was probably right about that. ‘So why do you have sex with random guys?’ I asked. As soon as I said it, I realised what a blunt and invasive question it was. But I did want to know. It wasn’t like I was judging her – honestly, I wished I had her confidence. But I didn’t understand how she did it, really. Why she wanted to do it. Why would someone go to a stranger’s house and take their clothes off when you could just stay home and have a safe, comfortable wank? Surely the end result was exactly the same. Rooney turned back round. She gave me a long, unreadable look. ‘Honestly?’ she asked. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I just enjoy having sex,’ she said. ‘I’m single and I like sex, so I have sex. It’s fun because it feels good. I don’t feel a “spark” because it’s not about romance. It’s a casual physical thing.’ I got the sense that she was telling the truth. That really was all there was to it. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we’ve got much more important things to think about right now.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Like the Shakespeare Society.’ Rooney finished changing into her pyjamas, grabbed her washbag, and headed towards our bedroom door. ‘Go to sleep.’ ‘OK.’ And I did. But not before I spent a while thinking about the spark. It sounded magical. Like something out of a fairy tale. But I couldn’t imagine what it felt like. Was it a physical feeling? Was it just intuition? Why had I never felt it? Ever? On the Sunday of that second week, Rooney and I were chilling in our bedroom when someone knocked on the door. When Rooney opened it, at least thirty of her acquaintances entered, carrying balloons and party poppers and streamers, and then a guy got down on one knee in front of everyone and asked Rooney to be his college wife. Rooney screamed and jumped on him, smothering him in a tight hug, agreeing to be his college wife. And that was that. I watched the whole thing go down from my bed, actually entertained. It was kind of lovely. Once everyone had cleared out, I helped Rooney clean up the remains of the party poppers and streamers. It took a whole hour. She’d gone out a few evenings that week, and she always came back with a story – a hook-up, or a drunken escapade, or some college drama. And I’d always listen, fascinated and, confusingly, jealous. Some part of me wanted that excitement in my life, but at the same time the idea of a night like that filled me with horror. I knew I didn’t really want to drunkenly hook up with a stranger, as fun as that seemed from the outside. I didn’t need to, anyway, now that I had my thing with Jason. I’d wanted to be Rooney when I first met her. I thought I needed to copy her. Now, I wasn’t so sure I could hack it. Rooney gave me a long look as we sat down opposite each other in the Student Union café on the Wednesday of our third week of university. She then withdrew her MacBook from her bag. ‘What’s this about?’ I asked. ‘Oh, you’ll see. You will see.’ She’d dragged me here after this morning’s Heroic Age lecture but had refused to tell me why, explaining that she wanted to build up the tension. This only succeeded in irritating me. ‘I assume this is a Shakespeare Soc thing,’ I said. ‘You are correct.’ While joining the Shakespeare Society had not exactly been my idea, I had genuinely been quite excited to be involved. It felt like I was actually putting myself out there, trying something new, and it would hopefully result in a year of fun rehearsals, meeting new people, and enjoying my university experience. But now it seemed that it would be a society of only four people, all of whom I already knew, and without enough members we probably wouldn’t even get to function as a real society anyway. ‘Have you decided what play we’re doing?’ ‘Even better.’ She grinned. Before I had the chance to ask what that meant, Pip arrived, Kanken slung over one shoulder, giant chemistry book in one arm and her button-up shirt baggy round her torso. She pushed up her glasses and sat down next to me. ‘I assumed you would have found an excuse to get out of this. Like dropping out of university or running away to become a goat herder.’ ‘Hey!’ I made a disappointed face. ‘I want to be here! I want to have fun university experiences and make memories!’ ‘Memories like throwing up four times in one evening?’ ‘I’m sure that was just a one-time thing.’ Rooney, ignoring both of us, checked her watch. ‘Now we’re just waiting for Jason.’ Pip and I looked at her. ‘You actually got Jason to agree to do this?’ Pip said. ‘He didn’t tell me he’d agreed to this.’ ‘I have my ways,’ said Rooney. ‘I’m very persuasive.’ ‘More like very irritating.’ ‘Same difference.’ It was then that Jason, the fourth member of our Shakespeare troupe, wandered into the union café and sat down next to Rooney, shrugging off his teddy-bear jacket. Beneath, he was wearing full sports attire, including a sweatshirt that had a ‘University College Rowing Club’ logo on it. ‘Hello,’ he said. Pip frowned at him. ‘Mate, since when did you join the rowing club?’ ‘Since the Freshers’ Fair. You were literally there when I wrote my name down.’ ‘I didn’t think you’d actually go. Don’t they have practices at like six a.m. every day?’ ‘Not every day. Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’ ‘Why would you put yourself through that?’ Jason huffed out a laugh, though I could tell he was a little annoyed. ‘Because I wanted to try something new? Is that so bad?’ ‘No, no. Sorry.’ Pip nudged him with an elbow. ‘It’s cool.’ Rooney clapped her hands together loudly, halting their conversation. ‘Attention, please.’ She flipped up her MacBook. ‘The presentation will now commence.’ ‘The what?’ said Pip. ‘Jesus,’ I said. On the screen was the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation. A Shakespeare Medley: A short but compelling presentation by Rooney Bach ‘Short … but compelling …’ I repeated. ‘I relate,’ said Pip. ‘What’s happening?’ asked Jason. Rooney clicked to the next slide. Part 1: The Premise a) A medley of several Shakespeare scenes (only good ones) (NO history plays) b) We each play different roles in various scenes from various plays c) All the scenes explore the theme of LOVE and it feels very deep and meaningful This did actually pique my interest. And it seemed to interest Jason and Pip too, as they both leant forward to watch as several images appeared on screen: Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes looking traumatised in their Romeo and Juliet movie, followed by David Tennant and Catherine Tate lounging around in their West End production of Much Ado About Nothing, then a picture of someone with a donkey mask on, which was presumably from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. ‘I have decided,’ said Rooney, ‘that instead of just doing one play, we’re doing the best bits of a load of them. Only the good ones, obviously.’ She glanced at Pip. ‘None of the history plays. Comedies and tragedies only.’ ‘I hate to say it,’ said Pip, ‘but that’s actually a fun idea.’ Rooney flicked her ponytail back with a triumphant expression. ‘Thank you for admitting that I’m right.’ ‘Hang on, that’s not what I –’ Jason interrupted her. ‘So we’ll get to play lots of different parts?’ Rooney nodded. ‘Yes.’ ‘Oh. Cool. Yeah, that actually does sound fun.’ I raised my eyebrows at him. I’d thought he’d rather join the Musical Theatre Soc, honestly. He’d always preferred musicals to plays. Jason shrugged at me. ‘I want to be in a show this year, and you know if we try and audition for the Freshers’ Play or Musical Theatre Soc, we either won’t get in because so many people want to be in it, or we might get relegated to a tiny role. You remember in Year Ten when I had to be a tree in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ I nodded. ‘A thrilling experience for you.’ ‘I don’t particularly feel like wasting a year of my life turning up to rehearsals just to stand still and wave my arms around occasionally.’ Jason glanced at Rooney. ‘At least with this we know we’d get lead roles and a decent amount of lines. And we’d be doing it with friends. It’d be fun.’ He slapped his thigh and leant back in his seat. ‘I’m in.’ Rooney was beaming wide. ‘I should have hired you to do the presentation.’ ‘Oh my God,’ said Pip, folding her arms. ‘I can’t believe you’ve converted Jason to your side already.’ ‘It’s my charm and intelligence.’ ‘Fuck off.’ Rooney moved on to the next slide. Part 2: The Plan a) I will decide on the plays and scenes we’re doing b) I will direct c) Weekly rehearsals until our performance in March (YOU MUST ATTEND ALL OF THEM) ‘Hang on,’ Pip spluttered, running a hand through her curls. ‘Who made you supreme overlord of the Shakespeare Soc?’ Rooney smirked at her. ‘I think that’d be me, actually, considering it was all my idea.’ ‘Yes, well …’ Pip went a little red. ‘I … I think we should have some say in who directs.’ ‘Oh really?’ ‘Yes.’ Rooney leant forward over the table so she was staring directly at Pip’s face. ‘And what’s your say?’ ‘I –’ Pip cleared her throat, not quite able to maintain eye contact. ‘I want to co-direct with you.’ Rooney’s smirk dropped. She said nothing for a moment. And then – ‘Why?’ Pip stood her ground. ‘Because I want to.’ That wasn’t the reason. I knew exactly why Pip was doing this. She wanted to one-up Rooney. Or at least be her equal. ‘That’s my condition,’ she said. ‘If you want me to be a part of this, I want to co-direct.’ Rooney pursed her lips. ‘Fine.’ Pip smiled wide. She’d won this round. ‘Moving on,’ said Rooney, and clicked to the next slide. Part 3: The Fifth Member a) Find them b) Lure them in c) Shakespeare Soc gets approved as a full society d) SUCCESS ‘Lure them in?’ I said. ‘Yikes,’ said Pip. Jason chuckled. ‘Sounds like we’re trying to persuade people to join a cult.’ ‘Yes, well …’ Rooney huffed. ‘I didn’t know how else to phrase it. We just need to find a fifth person,’ she went on. ‘Can you all ask around and see if anyone’s interested? None of this matters if we can’t recruit a fifth person. I’ll ask around too.’ The three of us agreed we’d ask people we knew, though I wasn’t sure exactly who I’d be able to ask, since all of my friends were sitting with me at the table. ‘You’ve really thought about all this,’ said Pip. Rooney smiled. ‘Impressed?’ Pip folded her arms. ‘No, just – not really, no. You’ve done the bare minimum of what’s required as a director –’ ‘Admit it. You’re impressed by me.’ Jason cleared his throat. ‘So … rehearsal this week?’ Rooney’s smile turned into a wide grin. She smacked her hands down on the table, drawing the attention of most of the people in the room. ‘Yes!’ We all agreed the date and time, then Pip and Jason had to leave – Pip to a lab, and Jason to a tutorial. As soon as they’d left the café, Rooney stood up and flung herself over the table to hug me. I just sat there, letting it happen. That was our first ever hug. I was just about to move my arms to hug her back when she pulled away, sitting down and smoothing her ponytail. Her face returned to her usual Rooney face: an effortless smile. ‘It’s going to be amazing,’ she said. Our troupe consisted of two star performers who both wanted to be in charge, one girl who threw up every time she acted, and one boy who might possibly be the love of my life. It was going to be an absolute disaster, but that wasn’t stopping any of us. ‘This is perfect,’ said Rooney, at the exact moment Jason tried to walk into the room and smacked his head on the top of the doorframe so hard that he let out a noise like a startled cat. To her credit, Rooney had tried to book a decent room for our first ever Shakespeare Soc rehearsal. She’d attempted to book one of the giant rooms in the university buildings near the cathedral where lots of the music and drama societies practised. She’d also tried to book a classroom in the Elvet Riverside building where we had our lectures and tutorials and would take our exams at the end of the year. But Sadie was failing to reply to Rooney’s emails, and without the DST’s clearance, Rooney was not allowed to book rooms for the Shakespeare Society. I’d pointed out that we could probably just rehearse in our bedroom, but Rooney insisted we find a proper rehearsal space. ‘To get us in the zone,’ she’d said. And that’s how we ended up in a rickety room in the centuries-old college chapel with such a low ceiling that Jason, who is six foot three, had to actually crouch a little to walk around in. The carpet was faded and worn and there were decaying Sunday School posters on the walls, but it was quiet and free to use, which was all we really needed. Pip was on FaceTime to her parents as she entered the room, talking in Spanish too fast for my GCSE-level skills to keep up with, looking somewhat exasperated as her mum kept interrupting her. ‘She’s been talking to them for an hour,’ Jason explained as he sat down, rubbing his head. I sat down on the chair next to him. Pip’s parents had always been somewhat overprotective in a very endearing way. I hadn’t spoken to my parents since last week. ‘Who are you talking to?’ said Rooney, skipping over to Pip and sneaking a glance over her shoulder. ‘Who’s this, nena?’ I heard Pip’s dad say. ‘Have you finally got yourself a girlfriend?’ ‘NO!’ Pip immediately squawked. ‘She’s – she’s definitely not!’ Rooney waved at Pip’s parents with a wide grin. ‘Hi! I’m Rooney!’ ‘Look, I have to go,’ Pip snapped at her phone. ‘What do you study, Rooney?’ She leant in closer to the phone, and closer to Pip as a result. ‘I do English literature! And me and Pip are in the Shakespeare Society together.’ Pip started adjusting her hair, seemingly as a way to put her whole arm in between her body and Rooney’s. ‘I’m going now! I love you! ¡Chau!’ ‘Aw,’ said Rooney as Pip hung up the call. ‘Your parents are so cute. And they liked me!’ Pip sighed. ‘They’re going to ask about you every single time they call me, now.’ Rooney shrugged and walked away. ‘Clearly they can see I would make a good girlfriend. Just saying.’ ‘And why’s that?’ ‘My charm and intelligence, obviously. We’ve been through this.’ I expected Pip to snap back, but she didn’t. She went a little red and then laughed, like she’d found Rooney properly amusing. Rooney turned round, her ponytail flying through the air as she did so, to watch, with an unreadable expression on her face. It took us twenty minutes to actually get the rehearsal underway, largely because Pip and Rooney would not stop bickering. First about who would play Romeo and Juliet, then about which part of Romeo and Juliet we would perform, and then about how we would perform it. Even after they agreed to cast Jason and me as Romeo and Juliet, Pip and Rooney spent another fifteen minutes stomping around the room, plotting out the scene and vehemently disagreeing with each other about literally everything, until Jason decided that we should probably intervene. ‘This isn’t working,’ he said. ‘You are not co-directing.’ ‘Er, yes, we are,’ said Pip. ‘We have some minor artistic differences,’ said Rooney. ‘But aside from that, this is working absolutely fine.’ I snorted. Pip glared at me. Rooney put one hand on her hip. ‘If Felipa could just compromise a little, then things would be a bit more straightforward.’ Pip squared up to Rooney. Or, at least, she tried to, but couldn’t quite because Rooney was several inches taller, even with Pip’s hair height. ‘You do not have permission to call me Felipa,’ she said. ‘This is bad,’ I muttered to Jason. He nodded in agreement. ‘How about we just wing it?’ said Jason. ‘Just let me and Georgia have a go at the scene, and we can go from there.’ The two co-directors reluctantly agreed, and all was right for a small moment. Until I realised that I was about to act a Romeo and Juliet scene with Jason Farley-Shaw. I loved acting. I loved getting to step into a character and pretend to be someone else. I loved getting to say stuff and behave in ways that I never would in real life. And I knew I was good at it too. It was the audience that made me nervous, which in this case was Pip and Rooney. And with the added pressure of performing a romantic scene with Jason, my best friend who I was almost dating, it’s hopefully understandable that I was very nervous going into this scene. Jason and I had copies of Romeo and Juliet in our hands – well, mine was sort of in my arm because I was using my giant Oxford Anthology of Shakespeare – and he had the first line. Pip and Rooney were sitting on chairs with one seat between them, watching. ‘If I profane with my unworthiest hand,’ began Jason, ‘this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a gentle kiss.’ OK. In the zone. I am a romantic lead. ‘Good pilgrim,’ I said, focusing on reading the words in the book and trying not to overthink it, ‘you do wrong your hand too much –’ ‘OK, Georgia?’ Pip cut in. ‘Can we have you a bit further away from Jason? Just to emphasise the yearning.’ ‘And then you could step a little closer to him as you speak,’ said Rooney. ‘Like, this is your first proper meeting and you’re already obsessed with each other.’ Pip looked at her. ‘Yeah. Good idea.’ Rooney returned her gaze with a slight twitch of her eyebrow. ‘Thank you.’ I did as they instructed and carried on. ‘Which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’ ‘Definitely a hand touch there,’ said Rooney. Jason held out his hand to me, and I touched it with mine. I felt a wave of nerves flow through me. ‘Have not saints lips,’ said Jason, staring right at me, ‘and holy palmers too?’ I could feel myself going red. Not because I was flustered or because of the romance of the scene. But because I felt uncomfortable. ‘Ay, pilgrim,’ I replied, ‘lips that they must use in prayer.’ ‘Georgia,’ said Pip, ‘can I be honest?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘That was supposed to be a super flirty line, but you just look like you need a shit.’ I spluttered out a laugh. ‘Wow.’ ‘I know it’s just a read-through but, like … be romantic?’ ‘I’m trying.’ ‘Are you?’ ‘Oh my God.’ I snapped the book shut, kind of annoyed, honestly. I wasn’t a bad actor. Acting had been one of the few things I’d actually excelled at. ‘You’re being so harsh.’ ‘Can we start again from the beginning?’ ‘Fine.’ Jason and I reset and I opened up my book again. OK. I was Juliet. I was in love. I had just met this super-hot forbidden boy and was obsessed with him. I could do this. We read through until we got up to the ‘lips’ bit again, Jason’s hand holding mine. ‘O, then, dear saint,’ said Jason, ‘let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.’ Jason was giving his everything. God, I felt uncomfortable. ‘Saints do not move, though grant for prayer’s sake.’ ‘Then move not, while my prayer’s effects I take.’ Jason suddenly glanced at me kind of awkwardly, then turned to Rooney and Pip and said, ‘Presumably we kiss there.’ Rooney clapped her hands in delight. ‘Yes.’ ‘Definitely,’ said Pip. ‘Just a little one.’ ‘I dunno. I think it could be a proper kiss there.’ Rooney waggled her eyebrows. ‘Ooh. Felipa’s into this.’ ‘I would prefer it,’ said Pip, ‘if you did not call me that.’ Pip really, really didn’t like being called Felipa. She’d gone by Pip ever since I’d known her. She always said she preferred a more masculinesounding name, and – with the exception of it being used by her family members – Felipa just didn’t feel like her. Sensing the change of tone in Pip’s choice, Rooney’s smirk dropped. ‘OK,’ said Rooney, more genuinely than I’d heard her talk to Pip so far. ‘Sure. Sorry.’ Pip ruffled her hair and cleared her throat. ‘Thank you.’ They stared at each other. And then Rooney said, ‘How about I call you Pipsqueak instead?’ Pip instantly looked like she was about to erupt, but Jason spoke before they could start having a full-blown argument. ‘So, the kiss.’ ‘You don’t have to do it now,’ said Pip quickly. ‘No,’ Rooney agreed. ‘In future rehearsals, but not now.’ ‘OK,’ I said, and stepped back a little, relieved. Obviously I didn’t want to kiss Jason in front of people. And I didn’t want my first kiss to be in a play. That was probably why I felt awkward. That was probably why I wasn’t doing my best acting right now. That was probably why being Juliet, one of the most romantic roles in literary history, made me feel sort of nauseated. ‘That wasn’t … like … awkward or anything, was it?’ Jason whispered to me as we were packing up twenty minutes later. ‘What? No. No, it was – it was fine. Great. It was great. You were great. We’ll be great.’ Too much, Georgia. He sighed in relief. ‘OK. Good.’ I took a moment to think about it, then before I could talk myself out of it, I said, ‘I don’t want our first kiss to be in a play.’ Jason froze in the middle of stacking chairs. Just for a second. His cheeks flushed. ‘Um, no. No, definitely not.’ ‘Yeah.’ Myponies ‘Yeah.’ When we turned round, I saw Pip looking at us from across the room, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. But before she could say anything, Rooney spoke. ‘Did anyone ask around to try and find our fifth member?’ ‘I don’t have any other friends,’ I said immediately, as if everyone wasn’t already fully aware of this. Jason stepped out of the room so he could finally stand up to his full height. ‘I can try and ask some of my Castle friends, but … I’m not sure they’re really the acting sort.’ ‘I’ve already asked my Castle friends,’ said Pip. ‘They said no.’ She turned to Rooney. ‘Don’t you have, like, fifty best friends? Can’t you find someone?’ Rooney’s expression suddenly dropped and for a brief moment she seemed genuinely angry. But then it was gone. She rolled her eyes and said, ‘I don’t have fifty friends.’ But didn’t say more than that. I had to agree with Pip. It was a little weird that Rooney, who was out partying at least twice a week and was down in the college bar most other days, didn’t have a single other person she could get to join. ‘What about your college husband?’ I suggested. They must have been friends, at least. Rooney shook her head. ‘I don’t think he’s really into theatre.’ Maybe she wasn’t really as close to those people as I’d thought. As we all stood in the autumn cold on the cobbled street outside and said our goodbyes, I wondered why Rooney cared so much about this in the first place. So much that she would go to all this effort – starting a new society, being the director, putting on her own play. We’d known each other for a few weeks now. I knew that she was a sexpositive party girl and a Shakespeare enthusiast who could put on a smile to make you like her. But as for why she did any of the things she did? I had no idea. GEORGIA WARR, FELIPA QUINTANA Felipa Quintana ROONEY Georgia Warr my name is georgia, actually Felipa Quintana I just want to know how a person so hot can be so fucking annoying Georgia Warr oh good are we finally going to talk about the elephant in the room Felipa Quintana What elephant??? Georgia Warr your ginormous crush on rooney bach Felipa Quintana Uh wait wait wait I mean she’s OBJECTIVELY hot I’m not into her Georgia Warr aldkjhgsldkfjghlkf Felipa Quintana I DON’T CRUSH ON STRAIGHT GIRLS Georgia Warr lol Felipa Quintana We would murder each other if we dated Which we wouldn’t because she’s straight And I don’t like her like that And she’s super annoying and she has to have her way all the time And I’m doomed to be a lonely gay 4 life Georgia Warr you’re digging yourself so far into this hole Felipa Quintana I’M CHANGING THE SUBJECT I have a question Georgia Warr fire away my dude Felipa Quintana I may be like … totally making this up, but … is there something going on between you and Jason??? He told me you met up just you two the other day and like Idk it sounded almost like a date or something hahaha Georgia Warr would you find that weird? if we dated? Felipa Quintana Idk It’d be a change Georgia Warr well i guess i don’t really know what’s going on with that yet Felipa Quintana So you do like him?? Georgia Warr i don’t really know? maybe? we’ve decided to see what happens Felipa Quintana Hm Okay GEORGIA WARR, JASON FARLEY-SHAW Georgia Warr i just told pip that we’re potentially seeing each other Jason Farley-Shaw Oh SHIT okay! Wow What did she say? Georgia Warr she just said ‘Hm okay’ Jason Farley-Shaw Oh god she’s mad then Georgia Warr i don’t think she’s angry she’s probably just confused Jason Farley-Shaw Fair enough I guess!! It is kind of a sudden development Georgia Warr she’ll get over it though right? i mean she’ll be all right with it? Jason Farley-Shaw Yeah Definitely GEORIGA WARR, ROONEY BACH Georgia Warr hey fried egg where are you?? Rooney Bach Out!!!! Georgia Warr you coming back tonight? i have things to discuss Rooney Bach Oooooo THINGS What things I love things Georgia Warr well idk what to do next with jason so i am summoning you to assist unless you wanna stay out, no pressure haha Rooney Bach Nah people are just being boring and drunk and I’m not in the mood to get with anyone Fried egg is on her way Georgia Warr be hasty, egg ‘There,’ said Rooney as I tapped send on my message. Georgia Warr Sooooo d’you wanna meet up again this weekend? We were sitting next to each other against the headboard of my bed, Rooney still in full going-out clothes and me in some Christmas pyjamas, despite the fact that it was early November. ‘What do I do on the date?’ I asked, looking at the message, waiting for Jason to see it. She sipped her post-night-out cup of tea. ‘Whatever you want.’ ‘But do we have to kiss on the second date?’ ‘You don’t have to do anything.’ I turned to Rooney, but we were sitting too close, so I just got an eyeful of dark hair curled into loose waves. ‘Would you kiss on the second date?’ Rooney snorted. ‘I don’t go on dates.’ ‘But you’ve been on a date before.’ She stayed silent for a moment. ‘I guess so,’ she said finally. ‘But generally, I prefer just sex.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Don’t get me wrong, being in a relationship would be nice, probably. And sometimes I meet people and I think, maybe …’ She halted midsentence, then rolled off my bed and walked over to her own. ‘It’s … well, I always fall for the wrong people. So what’s the point?’ ‘Oh.’ She didn’t say anything more than that, and it felt rude to push it and ask for details. Instead, she started changing into her pyjamas, and I definitely saw her shoot a glance at her photo of her and Mermaid-hair Beth. Maybe Beth was an ex-girlfriend. Or an old crush. I didn’t have any evidence that Rooney liked girls, but it wasn’t impossible. ‘There’s nothing wrong with just having sex,’ she said, once she’d got into bed. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Relationships just aren’t for me, I think. They never end well.’ ‘OK.’ She suddenly leapt up from the bed, muttering ‘Roderick,’ and running over to water him. Roderick was looking a little the worse for wear, to be honest – Rooney seemed to be forgetting to water him quite frequently. After she’d finished, she was asleep five minutes later, while I stayed up, alternating between staring at the blue-tinged ceiling and scrolling through my phone, stressing about whether I was supposed to kiss Jason on our second date. What if I really didn’t like guys and that was why this whole thing felt so difficult to navigate? As soon as the thought popped into my head, I had to investigate further. I opened Safari on my phone and typed in, ‘am I gay’. A bunch of links popped up, mostly useless internet quizzes that I already knew would be unhelpful and inaccurate. But one thing caught my eye – the Kinsey Scale test. I started reading about the Kinsey Scale. Wikipedia explained that it was a scale of sexuality which went from zero, ‘exclusively heterosexual’, to six, ‘exclusively homosexual’. Curious, and frustrated with myself, I took the test, trying to just answer the questions instinctively and not overthink anything. When I finished, I clicked ‘submit answers’, and waited. And instead of a number, the letter ‘X’ popped up. You did not indicate any sexual preference. Try adjusting your answers. I read and reread those lines. I’d … done the test wrong. I must have done the test wrong. I went back to my questions and started to look for where I could change my answers, but couldn’t find any I’d answered inaccurately, so just decided to exit the browser. It was probably just a faulty test. ‘You look nice!’ was one of the first things he said to me when we met outside the Gala cinema on Saturday afternoon. ‘Oh, er, thank you?’ I said, looking down at myself. I had selected some khaki overalls with a Fair Isle jumper underneath, though most of the outfit was hidden by my giant coat because Durham was already dipping below ten degrees and I did not deal well with the cold. Jason, on the other hand, was wearing his teddy-bear jacket and black jeans, which was his look pretty much all year round. ‘I was thinking,’ he said as we walked inside the building, ‘the cinema was probably a terrible idea for a – for, like, a meet-up.’ He’d been about to say ‘for a date’. He knew it was a date too, then. It was on. I chuckled. ‘Yeah. Let’s meet up and ignore each other for two hours.’ ‘Basically. I mean, it sounds pretty relaxing, to be honest.’ ‘That’s true.’ ‘I think the perfect marriage would be made up of two people who can sit in comfortable silence with each other for extended periods of time.’ ‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘We’re not married yet.’ This made him let out a spluttery, somewhat scandalised laugh. Nice. I could flirt. I was acing this. We were half an hour into the movie when the fire alarm went off. Until that point, things were going rather well. Jason had not attempted to hold my hand, put his arm round me, or, thank God, kiss me. We were simply two friends watching a movie at the cinema. Obviously I didn’t want him to do any of those things because they would have been terribly cliché and almost kind of sleazy. ‘So, now what?’ he asked as we stood in the cold outside the cinema. Nobody else seemed to know whether the fire was real, but it didn’t seem like we’d be getting back inside any time soon. A staff member had just come outside and was giving out cinema vouchers. I pulled my coat a little tighter round me. This was not how I’d hoped this afternoon would go. I had hoped we would sit next to each other in silence for two hours, watch a nice movie and then go home. But we couldn’t end the date now. That would be awkward. That would not be date-like behaviour. ‘Erm … I guess we could just go back to college and have tea, or something?’ I said. That seemed to be the thing people did to socialise at uni. Tea in our bedrooms. Oh wait. Bedroom. Was going to a bedroom a good idea? Or would that mean – ‘Yeah!’ Jason smiled, slotting his hands into his pockets. ‘Yeah, that sounds good. D’you wanna come to mine? We could watch a movie in my room, or something?’ I nodded too. ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’ OK. It was OK. I could do this. I could be normal. I could go back to a boy’s room on a date and do whatever was usually involved in that. Talking. Flirting. Kissing. Sex, maybe. I was brave. I didn’t have to listen to my own thoughts. I could do all of it. I actually don’t like tea, which obviously Jason knew, and he automatically made me a hot chocolate instead. He had his own room, like Pip and most students at Durham, which meant it was small. It was probably a third of the size of mine and Rooney’s, with one single bed. The décor was much the same though – a crusty old carpet, yellow breeze-block walls, and IKEA furniture. His sheets were plain blue. He had a laptop and some books on his bedside table, and a few pairs of shoes were tidily lined up underneath the radiator. But it wasn’t any of this that I noticed first. It was the wall that I noticed first. The wall was entirely blank apart from a framed photograph of Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze Jr in Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters omgstoferthinking it Unleashed. I looked at it. Jason looked at me looking at it. ‘I have questions,’ I said. ‘Understandable,’ he said, nodding and sitting down on his bed. ‘Er, d’you remember Edward? From my old school? He gave it to me.’ He finished his sentence, as if this was the end of the story. ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘So … OK, you’re gonna have to come sit down if I’m gonna explain this.’ He patted the space next to him on the bed. This made me a little nervous. But it wasn’t like there was anywhere else to sit in the room, and he didn’t do it in a particularly flirty way, so I guessed it was fine. I sat down next to him on the edge of the bed, holding my hot chocolate. ‘So, we all know I’m a Scooby-Doo stan.’ ‘Obviously.’ ‘And also a Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze Junior stan.’ ‘I mean … OK, sure.’ ‘OK. So, at my old school, like, before I moved to ours for sixth form, I was kind of known as the guy who’d never kissed anyone.’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘You never told me that.’ ‘Well, you know I left that school, because, like …’ He made a face. ‘A lot of the guys there … I mean, it was an all-boys school and people would just rip the shit out of each other for every tiny thing.’ ‘Yeah.’ Jason had told us a little bit about that before. How people at his old school were kind of nasty, generally, and he didn’t want to be in that sort of environment any more. ‘So they all picked on me for having never been kissed. And I guess I got teased about it a lot. Nothing serious, but, yeah, it was a thing. Everyone thought it was pretty weird.’ ‘But you’ve kissed people now,’ I said. ‘Like … you’ve had a girlfriend before.’ ‘That was all after. Before then, that was the thing people would pick on me about. And you know … people would say it was because I was ugly and I had acne and I liked musical theatre and just stupid shit like that. That sort of thing doesn’t bother me now, but I guess it did when I was younger.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, but my voice felt hoarse all of a sudden. ‘That’s horrible.’ ‘When we left in Year Eleven, Ed gave me this framed photo.’ He pointed at the photo. ‘Sarah and Freddie. And Ed was like, this is a good luck charm to help you get a girlfriend. We both really loved the ScoobyDoo movies, and it became an ongoing joke that Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze Junior were, like, the pinnacle of romance, because they’re real-life married and on-screen love interests. Every time someone we knew got into a relationship, we’d be like, but are you at Sarah and Freddie’s level, mate. I … yeah. OK. It sounds weird when I try to explain it.’ ‘No, it’s funny,’ I said. ‘I just hope they don’t get divorced any time soon.’ He nodded. ‘Yeah. That would kind of mess the whole thing up.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Anyway, after he gave it to me, I had my first kiss like a week later.’ Jason chuckled. ‘I mean, it was a shit kiss, but … I guess I got it out of the way. So now it is a good luck charm.’ Jason told this story like it was a funny anecdote that I was supposed to be laughing at. But it wasn’t funny. It was really fucking sad. I remembered the story of his first kiss with a girl he didn’t really like that much. He’d told me and Pip that it wasn’t great, but he was glad he’d got it out of the way but hearing all this from Jason now made me realise what had actually happened. He’d felt pressured into having his first kiss. Because people were bullying him for not having kissed anyone, he forced himself to do it, and it was bad. A lot of teenagers did that. But hearing it from Jason made me really, really angry. I knew what it was like to feel bad about not having kissed anyone. And to feel pressured into doing it because everyone else was. Because you were weird if you hadn’t. Because this was what being a human was all about. That was what everyone said. He looked up at the picture. ‘Or maybe it isn’t a good luck charm. I guess my romantic experiences until now haven’t been … great.’ He looked away. ‘A shit first kiss and then … Aimee.’ ‘Yeah, Aimee was a disgusting human being.’ ‘I think I only stayed with Aimee for so long because I was scared of being single and, like … being that person again. People had been shitting on me for years because I was … I dunno, unlovable or something. If I broke up with Aimee, I thought I was gonna be, like, unlovable forever.’ His voice quietened. ‘I really believed she was the best I deserved.’ ‘You deserve more,’ I said immediately. I knew this to be true because I loved him. Maybe I wasn’t in love with him, not yet, but I did love him. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I mean, I know. I know that now.’ ‘OK, Mr Self-Confidence.’ He laughed. ‘Just wish I could tell that to sixteen-year-old me.’ I was a hypocrite. I was doing exactly what Jason had forced himself to do all those years ago. Have experiences, kisses, relationships – all because he was scared to be different. He was scared to be the guy who hadn’t kissed anyone. That was exactly what I was doing. And I was going to end up hurting him. Maybe I should just tell him now. Tell him we should stop this, end it, just stay as friends. But maybe, if I just held on for a little bit longer, we would fall in love, and I would not hate myself any more. Before I had the chance to speak again, Jason had already moved to the headboard and opened up his laptop. ‘Anyway. A movie?’He patted the bed next to him and pulled a blanket from underneath him. ‘You can choose, since I chose the cinema movie.’ I moved next to him to survey the movie options. He pulled the blanket over our legs. What if this was all a precursor to us having sex? Or even just kissing? This was the normal time when we would start kissing, right? People who were on a date didn’t just sit through a movie. They got ten minutes in and then started making out. Was I going to have to do that? Just thinking about it made me want to cry. I chose something and we watched in silence. I kept fidgeting. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. ‘Georgia?’ Jason asked after about twenty minutes. ‘You … OK?’ ‘Erm …’ I was freaking out. I was majorly freaking out. I liked Jason and I wanted to chill out and watch a movie with him. But I didn’t want to do any of the other stuff. What if my sexuality was just the letter ‘X’, like the Kinsey Scale had told me? ‘Actually, I’m feeling a bit unwell.’ Jason sat up from the headboard. ‘Oh no! What’s wrong?’ I shook my head. ‘Nothing bad, I just … I’m just a bit headachy, to be honest.’ ‘Do you wanna call it a day? You should go take a nap, or something.’ God. Jason was so nice. ‘Would that be OK?’ I asked. He nodded earnestly. ‘Of course.’ When I left, there was a short moment of overwhelming relief. But after that, I just hated myself. I didn’t even end up going back to St John’s. I went straight downstairs and out of Castle college, thinking I was going to go to Tesco to get some comfort food for the evening. But then I just sat down on the steps and couldn’t move. I was utterly, utterly messing this up. I was going to end up hurting Jason. And I was going to end up alone. Forever. If I couldn’t like a guy who was lovely, kind, funny, attractive, my best friend … how could I ever like anybody? It didn’t play out like this in movies. In movies, two childhood best friends would eventually realise that, despite everything, they had been made for each other this whole time, that their connection went beyond just attraction, and then they’d get together and live happily ever after. Why wasn’t this playing out like that? ‘Georgia?’ said a voice from behind me. I twisted my body, startled that someone whose voice I didn’t immediately recognise knew who I was. I was startled again to see that it was Sunil, my college parent, who had the self-confidence of a member of Queer Eye. ‘Sunil,’ I said. He chuckled. He was wearing a thick colour-block coat over a classic black tux. ‘Correct,’ he said. ‘How come you’re at Castle?’ ‘Music practice,’ he said, smiling warmly. ‘I’m in the student orchestra and needed to run through a couple of things with the other cellists.’ He sat down next to me on the steps. ‘You play the cello?’ ‘I do. It’s quite enjoyable, but orchestra is stressful. The conductor doesn’t like me because me and Jess always get caught chatting.’ ‘Jess … from the Pride Soc stall? She’s in it too?’ ‘Yup. Viola, so she wasn’t there today. But we pretty much do everything together.’ I thought that was a cute thing to say, but I was struggling to feel any positive emotions about literally anything, so I just tried to force a smile, which obviously failed. ‘You OK?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows. I opened my mouth to say yes, I was absolutely fine, but I started hysterically laughing instead. I think that was the closest thing I had to crying in front of someone else. ‘Oh no,’ said Sunil, eyes widening in alarm. ‘You’re definitely not OK.’ He waited for me to say something. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. If I was a doll, that would be one of my pre-recorded phrases. ‘Oh no.’ Sunil shook his head. ‘That was the worst lie I’ve ever heard in my life.’ That actually did make me laugh for real. Sunil waited again to see if I was going to elaborate, but I didn’t. ‘You didn’t come to the Pride Soc Freshers’ Week club night,’ he continued, turning to me a little. ‘Oh, er, yeah.’ I shrugged weakly. ‘Er … club nights aren’t really my thing.’ I’d got the email about it, of course. It’d been two weeks ago. Pride Soc Welcomes You! Come Party with Your New Family of QUILTBAGs! I had to Google what QUILTBAG meant, but even while doing that, I knew I wouldn’t go. Even if I liked drinking and clubbing, I wouldn’t go. I didn’t belong. I didn’t know whether I was a QUILTBAG or not. He nodded. ‘You know what? Same.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yep. Can’t stand alcohol. It gives me the shakes and I’m such a lightweight. I’d much rather have a queer film night or a queer tea party, you know?’ As he spoke, I glanced down at his jacket and found that he was wearing those badges again. I homed in on the one with the purple, black, grey and white stripes. God, I’d meant to look up what that meant. I really did want to know. ‘Speaking of Pride Soc,’ he said, gesturing at his tux, ‘I’m heading off to its autumn formal. The rest of the exec team are setting it up right now and I’m hoping there haven’t been any disasters.’ I didn’t know what possessed me to ask, but the next thing I said was, ‘Can I come?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You want to come along? You didn’t RSVP to the email.’ I’d received that email too. I hadn’t deleted it. I’d imagined quite vividly what it would be like to attend something like that, confidently a part of something. ‘I could … help set up?’ I suggested. I liked Sunil. I really did. I wanted to hang out with him a little more. I wanted to see what the Pride Soc was like. And I wanted to forget about what had just happened with Jason. He looked at me for a long moment, and then he smiled. ‘You know what? Why not. We could do with an extra person to help blow up balloons.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yeah!’ Suddenly I felt myself getting cold feet. I looked down at my overalls and woolly jumper. ‘I’m not dressed for a formal.’ ‘No one gives a shit what you’re wearing, Georgia. This is the Pride Society.’ ‘But you look sexy and I look like I just rolled up to a nine a.m. lecture.’ ‘Sexy?’ He laughed like he had a private joke with the word, and then he stood up and held out a hand. I didn’t know what else to do or say, so I took it. Sunil held my hand all the way through Durham. In a slightly odd, but nonetheless comforting way, I felt like I was hanging out with one of my parents. I supposed, in a way, I was. He didn’t seem to feel the need to talk. We just walked. Sometimes he would swing my hand. About halfway there, I wondered what I was doing. I wanted to be curled up in bed, reading the Jimmy/Rowan Spider-Man AU fanfic I’d started last night. I shouldn’t be at this formal. I didn’t deserve to be at this formal. I needed to message Jason and explain. I needed to explain what was wrong with me. I needed to say sorry. ‘Here we are,’ said Sunil, smiling. We had reached a red door leading into one of Durham’s many old Dickensian buildings. I looked at the shop it was connected to. ‘Gregg’s?’ Sunil snorted. ‘Yes, Georgia. We’re having our society formal dinner at Gregg’s.’ ‘I’m not complaining. I love sausage rolls.’ He opened the door, revealing a narrow corridor leading to a stairway and a sign: Big’s Digs: Restaurant and Bar. ‘We’ve rented out Big’s for the evening,’ said Sunil cheerfully, leading me up the stairs and into the restaurant. ‘The club nights are fine, obviously, but I insisted we have formals as well this year. Not everyone is into clubbing.’ It wasn’t a huge space, but it was a beautiful one. It was one of Durham’s old buildings, so the ceiling was low, adorned with wooden beams and soft, warm lighting. All the tables had been arranged in neat squares, laden with white tablecloths, candles, shiny cutlery and colourful centrepieces that featured all sorts of different pride flags – some I recognised, some I didn’t. A few multicoloured balloons hung from the corners of the room and streamers bordered the windows. Right at the back, overlooking the whole room, was a big rainbow flag. ‘Could have gone harder with the pride flags,’ Sunil said, narrowing his eyes. I couldn’t tell whether he was joking. We weren’t alone in the room – there was a small gathering of people putting a few final touches on the decorations. I quickly spotted the other third year I met on the stall, Jess, although her braids were styled into an updo. She was wearing a dress with tiny dogs on it. She waved, skipped over to Sunil, and swung her arm round him. ‘Oh my God, finally,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’ ‘Good, actually. We’re just arguing about whether to do place cards or not.’ ‘Hm. People will want to sit with their friends, though.’ ‘That’s what I think. But Alex thinks that’ll cause chaos.’ They discussed place cards while I stood slightly behind Sunil, like a toddler behind their parent’s leg at a family gathering. The students setting up all appeared to be third years. Some were dressed in bright, quirky outfits – sequins, patterned suits and big heels – while others wore more ordinary dresses and tuxes. I felt entirely out of place in my overalls, no matter what Sunil had said. ‘Oh, and I’ve brought Georgia along to help set up,’ said Sunil, interrupting my thoughts. He gave me a squeeze round my shoulders. Jess smiled at me. I felt a little panicked – was she going to ask why I was here? What was my sexuality? Why hadn’t I come to any of their other events? ‘Can you blow up balloons?’ she asked. ‘Um, yeah.’ ‘Thank God, because I literally can’t, and Laura is moaning about doing it because she’s apparently got a cough.’ And then she handed me a packet of balloons. Sunil had to go off to assist with the evening’s preparations, and I quickly started to feel like I’d made a terrible mistake by coming and that I was going to be forced into talking to a load of people I really didn’t know. But Jess seemed happy for me to tag along, working my way through the balloons, as she caught up with her friends and acquaintances, and I even got to know her a little, asking her about the orchestra and playing the viola and her friendship with Sunil. ‘I honestly did not have a real friend here until I met him,’ she said, after we’d finished tying up the last cluster of balloons. ‘We got sat next to each other at orchestra and we just immediately started gushing about what each other was wearing. And we’ve been glued at the hip ever since.’ She smiled, watching Sunil chatting to some timid-looking freshers. ‘Everyone loves Sunil.’ ‘Well, he’s really nice, so that makes sense,’ I said. ‘Not just that, but he’s actually a really good president. He won the Pride Soc election by a landslide. Everyone was really fed up with the president last year – he didn’t want to use anyone else’s ideas except his own. Oh, speaking of.’ Jess hopped over to Sunil and quietly said, ‘Lloyd’s here. Just a heads-up.’ She pointed towards the entrance. Sunil glanced towards the door where a skinny blond guy wearing a velvet tux was standing. An expression I hadn’t seen on Sunil before flashed across his features – annoyance. Lloyd looked over to him, unsmiling, then walked away towards a table on the other side of the room. ‘Lloyd hates Sunil,’ said Jess, as Sunil rejoined his conversation with the group of freshers. ‘So, that’s a bit of a thing there.’ ‘Drama?’ I asked. Jess nodded. ‘Drama.’ For some reason – pity, or genuine kindness, I wasn’t sure – I ended up sitting next to Sunil at his table throughout the dinner. By eight o’clock, the room was packed and lively, and waiters were serving drinks and starters. Between courses Sunil made an effort to move around the room and talk to people on every table, especially the freshers. The newbies seemed genuinely excited to meet him. It was sort of wonderful to watch. I managed to chat a little to the other people on my table, but I was relieved when Sunil returned for dessert, and I could get to talk to him properly. He told me that he was studying music, which he thought was probably a mistake, but he was enjoying it. He was from Birmingham, which explained the very slight tinge in his accent, which I hadn’t been able to place. He had no idea what he was doing after Durham yet, despite this being the final year of his degree. I told him about our Shakespeare Society and how it was probably going to be a disaster. ‘I did a little bit of acting when I was at school,’ said Sunil when I told him about us needing a fifth member. He launched into a story of the time he played a minor role in a school production of Wicked, and concluded it by saying, ‘Maybe I could be in your play. I do miss the theatre.’ I told him that would be amazing. ‘I’m so busy, though,’ he said. ‘I just … have a lot on all of the time.’ And judging by the tired expression on his face, he wasn’t exaggerating, so I told him it’d be OK if he couldn’t. But he said he’d think about it. I hadn’t met a lot of openly queer people before. There’d been a crowd of people at school who Pip hung out with from time to time, but there could only have been about seven or eight of them, max. I don’t know what I expected. There was no particular type of person, no particular style or look. But they were all so friendly. There were a few obvious friendship groups, but mostly, people were happy to chat to whoever. They were all just themselves. I don’t know how to explain it. There was no pretending. No hiding. No faking. In this little restaurant hidden away in the old streets of Durham, a bunch of queer people could all show up and just be. I don’t think I’d understood what that was like until that moment. After dessert, tables were moved to the side and the real mingling began. The lights were dimmed and the music was turned up, and almost everyone was standing, chatting, laughing and drinking. I quickly realised my socialising reserves had been utterly depleted by what had honestly felt like the longest day of my life, and I’d also drunk enough alcohol to be in that weird space where everything feels like a dream, so I found an empty seat in a corner and huddled there with my phone and a glass of wine for half an hour, scrolling through Twitter and Instagram. ‘Hiding in the corner, college child?’ I raised my head, startled, but it was only Sunil, a glass of lemonade in hand. He looked like a celebrity in his tux, his hair pushed neatly back. I supposed he was a celebrity here. He sat down in the chair next to me. ‘How are you doing?’ I nodded at him. ‘Fine! Yeah. This has been really nice.’ He smiled and gazed out at the room. Happy people having fun. ‘Yes. It’s been a success.’ ‘Have you organised anything like this before?’ ‘Never. I was part of the society’s leadership team last year, but events like this weren’t my call. Last year it was literally all bar crawls and club nights.’ I grimaced. Sunil saw, and laughed. ‘Yeah. Exactly.’ ‘Is it stressful? Being the president?’ ‘Sometimes. But it’s worth it. Makes me feel that I’m doing something important. And that I’m part of something important.’ He let out a breath. ‘I … I did things on my own for a long time. I know how it feels to be totally alone. So now I’m trying to make sure … no queer person has to feel like that in this city.’ I nodded again. I could understand that. ‘I’m not a superhero, or anything. I don’t want to be. A lot of the freshers see me as this, like, queer angel sent down to fix all their problems, and I’m not, I’m really, really not. I’m just a person. But I like to think I’m making a positive impact, even if it’s a small one.’ I suddenly got the sense that Sunil had been through a lot before he’d become this person – confident, eloquent, wise. He hadn’t always been the self-assured president of a society. But whatever he’d been through, he’d done it. He’d survived. And he was making the world a better place. ‘But I’m very tired all the time,’ he said with a small chuckle. ‘I think sometimes I forget about … looking after myself. Just … bingeing a show or, I don’t know. Baking a cake. I hardly ever do stuff like that. Sometimes I wish I could spend a little more time just doing something utterly pointless.’ He met my eyes. ‘And now I’m oversharing!’ ‘I don’t mind!’ I blurted. I really didn’t. I liked deep chats and I felt like I was getting to know Sunil properly. I knew that he, as my college parent, was supposed to be my mentor here at Durham, but I already wanted to know him better than that. I wanted us to be friends. But that was when I heard the voice. ‘Georgia?’ I looked up, though I didn’t need to, because I knew the voice almost as well as my own. Pip, wearing a black tux not dissimilar from Sunil’s, was staring down at me with a baffled expression. ‘What are you doing here?’ I looked at Pip. Pip looked at me. Sunil looked at Pip. Then he looked at me. I looked down at my hands, struggling to know what to do or how to explain why I had attended a Pride Soc formal when I was supposed to be dating Jason and Pip had no reason to believe I wasn’t straight. ‘I-I ran into Sunil,’ I said, but didn’t know where to go from there. ‘I’m her college parent,’ said Sunil. ‘Yeah.’ ‘So …’ Pip smiled awkwardly. ‘You just … decided to come along?’ There was a silence. ‘Actually,’ said Sunil, sitting up in his chair, ‘I asked Georgia to come along to help out. We were a bit short on numbers for setting all this up.’ He turned to me with a smile that looked a tiny bit sinister. Probably because he was lying out of his ass. ‘And, in return, I’m going to be in Georgia’s play.’ ‘Oh!’ Pip immediately brightened, her eyes widening. ‘Shit! Yes! We really needed a fifth member!’ ‘You’re in it too?’ ‘Yeah! Well, I was sort of forced into it, but yes.’ As soon as I had processed the fact that Sunil had just volunteered himself to be in our play, he had been called over by another group of people, had given me a pat on the shoulder, and bidden farewell to both of us. Pip met my eyes again. She still seemed a bit confused. ‘Shall we … go to the bar?’ I nodded. I’d had too much wine and I needed some water, badly. ‘Yeah.’ It actually took us around twenty minutes to get to the bar, because people kept stopping to talk to Pip. Pip had made a huge number of new friends here at Pride Soc, which shouldn’t have surprised me. She’d always been good at making friends, but she was selective, and back in our home town, there hadn’t actually been many people she’d wanted to hang out with. There’d been the other girls in our form when we were in the lower school, and she’d had a handful of queer mates in the sixth form, but there was no Pride Soc at our school. Rural Kent didn’t have any sort of queer areas or shops or clubs like in the big cities. She came out to me when we were fifteen. It wasn’t the most dramatic, or funny, or emotional of coming-outs, if films or TV were anything to go by. ‘I think I might like girls instead,’ was what she’d said while we were scouring the high street shops for new schoolbags. There’d been some build-up. We’d been talking about boys who went to the all-boys school. I’d been saying how I didn’t really understand the hype. Pip agreed. It goes without saying that Pip had a shit time, generally. And while Pip had many, many other acquaintances who she could definitely have deepened friendships with, she always came to me to talk about difficult things. I don’t know if that’s because she trusted me or just because I was a good listener. Maybe both. Either way, I became a safe place. I’d been happy to be one then, and I still was now. I was happy to give that to her. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, once we’d finally sat down on the bar stools and had ordered two glasses of apple juice, neither of us particularly in the mood to continue drinking alcohol. She was smiling. ‘No you’re not.’ I grinned back. ‘You’re extremely popular.’ ‘OK, you got me.’ She crossed her legs, revealing stripy socks peeping out from underneath her trousers. ‘I’m extremely popular now and I am loving it. Don’t worry; you and Jason are still my joint number ones.’ I looked back at the little crowds of Pride Soc members, some just standing and chatting, others dancing, others sitting in corners with drinks, whispering intimately. ‘I’ve been going to LatAm Soc as well,’ Pip said. ‘They had a welcome social a few days ago.’ ‘Oh! How was it?’ Pip nodded excitedly. ‘Actually awesome. My mum basically forced me to go, because, like, I wasn’t super enthused about it. I didn’t really know what you’d actually do in it. But it was really nice to make some friends there. And they genuinely do so much stuff. Like, I met this other Colombian girl, and she was telling me about this little gathering they did last December for Día de las Velitas.’ She smiled. ‘It made me feel like … I dunno. It reminded me of when I lived in London.’ Back in our home town, sometimes Pip had felt alone in a way that Jason and I just couldn’t make better. She often said she wished her family hadn’t moved out of London, because at least there she’d had her grandparents and a big community around her. When she moved to our tiny Kentish town aged ten, that community was gone. Pip was the only Latina in our school year. With that, and figuring out that she was gay, Pip had definitely drawn the short straw in terms of people in her vicinity who she could relate to and bond with on a deep level due to shared life experiences. ‘I’d forgotten how good it felt to be surrounded by so many Latinx people, you know?’ she continued. ‘Our school was so white. And even being here in Durham – Durham as a whole is so white. Even Pride Soc is pretty white overall!’ She gestured around her, and when I looked, I realised how correct she was – with the exception of Sunil, Jess, and a handful of others, most faces in the room were white. ‘I’m starting to feel how much it affected me to just … be around white people all the time. Like, being gay and Latina meant that I just … didn’t know anyone like me. As good as it felt to finally have a few queer friends in sixth form, they were all white, so I just couldn’t fully relate to them.’ She chuckled suddenly. ‘But I met this gay dude at LatAm Soc and we had a massive chat about being gay and Latinx, and I swear to God I’d never felt so understood in my life.’ I found myself smiling. Because my best friend was thriving here. ‘What?’ she said, seeing the smile on my face. ‘I’m just happy for you,’ I said. ‘God, you actual sap.’ ‘I can’t help it. You’re one of the very few people I actually care about in the world.’ Pip beamed like she was very pleased about this fact. ‘Well, I am a very popular and successful lesbian. It’s an honour to know me.’ ‘Successful?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a new development.’ ‘Number one, how dare you?’ Pip leant back on her stool with a smug expression. ‘Number two, yes, I may have got with a girl at the Pride Soc club night.’ ‘Pip!’ I sat up straight, grinning. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that?’ She shrugged, but she was clearly very pleased with herself. ‘It wasn’t anything serious, like, it wasn’t like I wanted to date her or anything. But I wanted to kiss her – we both wanted to kiss, so, like … we just did.’ ‘What was she like?’ We sat at the bar and Pip relayed the whole encounter to me about the girl in second year at Hatfield College who studied French and was wearing a cute skirt, and how it didn’t mean anything in particular but it had been fun and good and silly and everything she’d wanted from being at university. ‘This is so dumb, but it just … it just gave me hope. Just a little bit.’ Pip let out a breath. ‘Like … I might not be alone forever. Like I might have the chance to … be properly myself here. To feel like being myself is a good thing.’ She laughed, then brushed her curls out of her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I ever felt like being me was … good.’ ‘That’s a mood,’ I replied in a jokey way, but I guessed I sort of meant it. ‘Well, if you ever consider becoming gay, let me know. I could very quickly hook you up with someone. I have contacts now.’ I snorted. ‘If only sexuality worked like that.’ ‘What, choosing it?’ ‘Yeah. I think I’d choose to be gay if I could.’ Pip didn’t say anything for a moment, and I wondered if I’d said something weird or offensive. It was the truth, though. I would have chosen to be gay if I could. I knew liking girls could be hard when you’re also a girl. It usually was, at least for a while. But it was beautiful too. So fucking beautiful. Liking girls when you’re a girl was power. It was light. Hope. Joy. Passion. Sometimes it took girls who liked girls a little while to find that. But when they found it, they flew. ‘You know,’ said Pip. ‘Straight people don’t think shit like that.’ ‘Oh. Really?’ ‘Yeah. Thinking shit like that is, like, step one to realising you’re a lesbian.’ ‘Oh. Right.’ I laughed awkwardly. I was still pretty sure I wasn’t a lesbian. Or maybe I was and I was just really repressed. Or maybe I was just ‘X’ on the Kinsey Scale. Nothing. God. I was regretting not ordering more alcohol. We sat in silence for a moment, neither of us wanting to really push the issue. Normally Pip was nosy as hell whenever we started talking about deep stuff, but she probably knew there were some things that it wasn’t cool to be nosy about. I wished she had been nosy. I wished I could find the words to talk about all of this with my best friend. ‘So, you and Jason,’ said Pip, and I thought, oh no. ‘Uh, yeah?’ I said. Pip snorted. ‘Have you kissed yet?’ I felt myself go a bit red. ‘Uh, no.’ ‘Good. I can’t imagine you kissing.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked off into the distance. ‘It’d be like … I dunno. Like seeing my siblings kiss.’ ‘Well, we’re probably going to end up doing it at some point,’ I said. Definitely. We definitely were. Pip looked at me again. I couldn’t read her. Was she annoyed? Did she just find it weird? ‘You’ve never really been interested in anyone before,’ she said. ‘I mean, the Tommy thing … that was all … you just made up that crush. By accident.’ ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘But you … you just like Jason now?’ I blinked at her. ‘What? Don’t you believe me?’ She leant forward a little, then back again. ‘I’m not sure I do.’ ‘Why not?’ She didn’t want to say it. She knew it’d be disrespectful to say it, to assume anything about my sexuality, but we were both thinking it. We were both thinking that I probably just didn’t like men. I didn’t know what to say, because I didn’t disagree. I wanted to tell Pip that I didn’t feel sure about anything, and I felt so weird all the time, to the point that I hated myself, being a kid who knew all about sexuality from the internet but couldn’t even vaguely work out what I was, couldn’t even come up with a ballpark estimate, when everyone else seemed to find it so, so easy. Or if they didn’t find it easy, they got through the hard bit at school, and by the time they were my age, they were already kissing and having sex and falling in love as much as they wanted. All I could manage to say was: ‘I don’t really know how I feel.’ Pip could tell I wasn’t saying everything that was in my head. She could always tell. She grabbed my hand and held it. ‘That’s OK, my guy,’ she said. ‘That’s fine.’ ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m … shit at explaining it. It sounds fake.’ ‘I’m here to talk whenever you want, man.’ ‘OK.’ She pulled me into a side hug, my face pressing against her collar. ‘Date Jason for a bit if you want. Just … don’t hurt him, OK? He acts all calm and collected, but he’s really sensitive after all that shit with Aimee.’ ‘I know. I won’t.’ I lifted my head. ‘You’re really OK with it?’ Her smile was forced and pained, and it nearly broke my heart. ‘Of course. I love you.’ ‘Love you too.’ I decided to leave after that. Pip kept getting dragged into conversations with people I didn’t know, and I didn’t have any energy left to talk to new people. Jess was busy mingling, and Sunil was nowhere to be seen. I checked my phone. It was only twenty past ten. I wondered whether Jason was OK. He was probably still sitting in his room, all alone, wondering whether I’d really had a headache or I just didn’t like him. I didn’t want to think about love any more. As I walked out of the restaurant and down the narrow stairway, I heard a pair of hushed voices at the bottom. I stopped, realising that one of the voices belonged to Sunil. ‘I’m the president now,’ he was saying, ‘and if that pisses you off so much, you don’t have to come to the society events any more.’ ‘What, now you’re trying to kick me out?’ said the second voice. ‘Classic. I shouldn’t be surprised by this point.’ ‘And now you’re trying to pick a fight again.’ Sunil let out a long sigh. ‘Don’t you ever get tired, Lloyd? Because I do.’ ‘It’s my right to voice my concerns about the society. You’ve changed all the events we do and now you’re letting in way too many people!’ ‘Letting in too many – what planet are you on?’ ‘I saw the fucking flyers you were handing out at the Freshers’ Fair! Asexual and bigender and whatever. You’re just gonna let in anyone who thinks they’re some made-up internet identity?’ There was a short silence, and then Sunil spoke again, his voice hardened. ‘You know what, Lloyd? Yes. Yes, I am. Because Pride Soc is inclusive, and open, and loving, and not run by you any more. And because there are still sad little cis gays like you who seem to take other queers’ mere existence as a threat to your civil rights, even freshers who are showing up here for the first time – some of them likely never having been to a queer event in their whole lives – just trying to find somewhere they can relax and be themselves. And I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Lloyd, because I know you don’t recognise any pride flag that isn’t the fucking rainbow, but I actually happen to be one of those made-up internet identities. And guess what? I’m the president. So get the fuck out of my formal.’ I heard the sound of footsteps moving away and the swing of the door opening and closing. I waited a moment, but there was no way to pretend I hadn’t heard that conversation, so I descended the steps. Sunil looked up as I approached. He was leaning against the wall, fingers tightly clenching his upper arms. ‘Oh, Georgia,’ he said, forcing a smile, but I must have looked guilty because he immediately said, ‘Ah. You heard some of that.’ ‘Sorry,’ I said as I reached the bottom step. ‘Are you OK? Do you …’ I struggled to think of a way I could help. ‘Do you want a drink or something?’ Sunil chuckled. ‘You’re sweet. I’m OK.’ ‘He … sounded like a … disgusting person.’ ‘Yes. He very much is. Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you can’t be a bigot.’ ‘I think you pretty much annihilated him, though.’ He laughed again. ‘Thanks.’ He unfolded his arms. ‘You heading home?’ ‘Yeah. It’s been really nice.’ ‘Good. Great. You’re welcome to come along any time.’ ‘Thank you. And … thanks for what you said to Pip about … you know, why I was here.’ He shrugged. ‘No biggie.’ ‘You don’t have to be in our play.’ ‘Oh, no, I am definitely being in your play.’ My mouth dropped open. ‘You … are?’ ‘Definitely. I’ve really needed to do something like this – something fun. So, I’m in.’ He put his hands in his pockets. ‘If you’ll have me.’ ‘Yeah! Yeah, we sort of need five members or the society gets scrapped.’ ‘Well, there we have it, then. Message me the details?’ ‘Yeah, definitely.’ There was a pause. I could have left. It would have made sense for me to head home. But instead I found myself talking. ‘I was sort of on a date today,’ I said. ‘When you found me.’ Sunil raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh really?’ ‘But it … didn’t go very well.’ ‘Oh. Why? Were they awful?’ ‘No, it was … the guy is really lovely. It’s me that’s the problem. I’m weird.’ Sunil paused. ‘And why are you weird?’ ‘I just …’ I laughed nervously. ‘I don’t think I can ever feel anything.’ ‘Maybe he’s the wrong person for you.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s wonderful. But I never feel anything for anyone.’ There was another long pause. I didn’t even know how to begin to explain it properly. It felt like something I’d made up in my head. A dream I couldn’t quite remember properly. And a word. A word that Lloyd had spoken with such malice, but Sunil had defended. A word that had sparked something in my brain. I’d finally made the connection. ‘Uh …’ I was grateful I was a little tipsy. I pointed at his pin – the one with black, grey, white, and purple stripes. ‘Is that … the flag for, um … being asexual?’ Sunil’s eyes widened. For the briefest moment, he seemed genuinely shocked that I was not certain what his pin meant. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Asexuality. Do you know what that is?’ Now, I had definitely heard of asexuality. I’d seen a few people talking about it online, and many people with it in their Twitter or Tumblr bios. Sometimes I even came across a fanfic with an asexual character. But I’d hardly ever heard people use the word in real life, or even on TV or in movies. I figured it was something to do with not liking sex. But I didn’t know for sure. ‘Erm … not really,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ I immediately felt embarrassed by this admission. ‘You really don’t have to spend time explaining it to me, I can just – I could just go and look it up …’ He smiled again. ‘It’s OK. I’d like to explain it. The internet can be a bit confusing.’ I shut my mouth. ‘Asexuality means I’m not sexually attracted to any gender.’ ‘So …’ I thought about this. ‘That means … you don’t want to have sex with anyone?’ He chuckled. ‘Not necessarily. Some asexual people feel that way. But some don’t.’ Now I was just confused. Sunil could tell. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, and it genuinely did make me feel like it was OK that I didn’t understand. ‘Asexuality means I’m not sexually attracted to any gender. So I don’t look at men, or women, or anyone, and think, wow, I want to do sexy stuff with them.’ This made me snort. ‘Does anyone actually think stuff like that?’ Sunil smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘Maybe not in those exact words, but yes, most people think stuff like that.’ This shook me. ‘Oh.’ ‘So, I just don’t feel those feelings. Even if they’re someone I’m dating. Even if they’re a model or a celebrity. Even if, on a basic, objective level, I can tell that they’re conventionally attractive. I just don’t feel those feelings of attraction.’ ‘Oh,’ I said again. There was a pause. Sunil looked at me, contemplating what to say next. ‘Some asexuals still enjoy having sex, for a whole variety of reasons,’ he continued. ‘I think that’s why a lot of people find it confusing. But some asexuals don’t like sex at all, and some are just neutral about it. Some asexuals still feel romantic attraction to people – wanting to be in relationships, or even kiss people, for example. But others don’t want romantic relationships at all. It’s a big, big spectrum with a whole range of different feelings and experiences. And there’s really no way to tell how one specific person feels, even if they openly describe themselves as asexual.’ ‘So …’ I knew it was a little invasive to ask, but I just had to. ‘Do you still want relationships?’ He nodded. ‘Yes. I identify as gay as well. Gay asexual.’ ‘As … as well?’ ‘The technical term is homoromantic. I still want to be in relationships with guys and masculine folks. But I feel very indifferent about sex, because I have never looked at men or any gender and felt sexual attraction to them. Men don’t turn me on. Nobody does.’ ‘So romantic attraction is different from sexual attraction?’ ‘For some people they feel like different things, yes,’ said Sunil. ‘So some people find it useful to define those two aspects of their attraction differently.’ ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know how I felt about that. What I felt was so whole – it didn’t feel like two different things. ‘Jess – she’s aromantic, meaning she doesn’t feel romantic attraction for anyone. She’s also bisexual. She won’t mind me telling you that. She finds a lot of people physically attractive, but she just doesn’t fall in love with them.’ Isn’t that sad? was what I wanted to ask. How is she OK with that? How would I be OK with that? ‘She’s happy,’ said Sunil, like he’d read my mind. ‘It took her some time to feel happy with herself, but … I mean, you met her. She’s happy with who she is. Maybe it’s not the heteronormative dream that she grew up wishing for, but … knowing who you are and loving yourself is so much better than that, I think.’ ‘This is … a lot,’ I said, my voice quiet and a little croaky. Sunil nodded again. ‘I know.’ ‘A lot a lot.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Why do things have to be so complicated?’ ‘Ah, the eternally wise words of Avril Lavigne.’ I didn’t know what to say after that. I just stood there, processing. ‘It’s funny,’ said Sunil after a few moments. He looked down, as if remembering an old joke. ‘So few people know what asexuality or aromanticism are. Sometimes I think I’m so wrapped up with Pride Soc that I forget there are people who’ve just … never even heard these words. Or have any idea that this is a real thing.’ ‘I-I’m sorry,’ I said instantly. Had I offended him? ‘Oh my God, you have nothing to be sorry about. It’s not in films. It’s hardly ever in TV shows, and when it is, it’s some tiny subplot that most people ignore. When it’s talked about in the media, it gets trolled to hell and back. Even some queer people out there hate the very concept of being aro or ace because they think it’s unnatural or just fake – I mean, you heard Lloyd.’ Sunil smiled sadly at me. ‘I’m glad you were curious. It’s always good to be curious.’ I was curious now, that’s for sure. And I was also terrified. I mean, that wasn’t me. Asexual. Aromantic. I still wanted to have sex with someone, eventually. Once I found someone I actually liked. Just because I’d never liked anyone didn’t mean I never would … did it? And I wanted to fall in love. I really, really did. I definitely would someday. So that couldn’t be me. I didn’t want that to be me. Fuck. I didn’t know. I shook my head a little, trying to dispel the hurricane of confusion that was threatening to form inside my brain. ‘I should … go home,’ I stammered, feeling suddenly like I was being a huge bother to Sunil. He probably just wanted to have a nice evening, but here I was, asking for a sexuality lesson. ‘I mean – back to college. Sorry – um, thank you for explaining about … all of that.’ Sunil gazed at me for a long moment. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I really am glad you came along, Georgia.’ ‘Yeah,’ I mumbled. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Pride Soc is here for you,’ he said. ‘OK? Nobody was ever there for me, until … until I met Jess. And if I hadn’t met her …’ He trailed off, something crossing his expression that I couldn’t read. He replaced it with a familiar calm smile. ‘I just need you to know that people are here for you.’ ‘OK,’ I said hoarsely. And then I was gone. I guess it’s fair to say a lot was spiralling in my brain on that walk home. I was going to hurt Jason, or Jason and I were going to die together wearing wedding rings. Pip was thriving – maybe she didn’t need me any more. Why couldn’t I feel anything for anyone? Was I what Sunil and Jess were? Those super long words that most people hadn’t even heard of? Why couldn’t I fall in love with anyone? I passed the shops and cafés, the history department and Hatfield College, drunk students and locals stumbling around, and the cathedral, lit up gently in the dark, and that made me stop and think about how I had walked this path with Jason only a few hours earlier, and we had been laughing, and I had almost been able to imagine that I was someone entirely different. When I got back to my room, the people upstairs were having sex again. Rhythmic thumping against the wall. I hated it, but then I felt bad, because maybe it was two people in love. In the end, that was the problem with romance. It was so easy to romanticise romance because it was everywhere. It was in music and on TV and in filtered Instagram photos. It was in the air, crisp and alive with fresh possibility. It was in falling leaves, crumbling wooden doorways, scuffed cobblestones and fields of dandelions. It was in the touch of hands, scrawled letters, crumpled sheets and the golden hour. A soft yawn, early morning laughter, shoes lined up together by the door. Eyes across a dance floor. I could see it all, all the time, all around, but when I got closer, I found that nothing was there. A mirage. ‘GEORGIA,’ a voice said – or screeched, rather – as I entered the Shakespeare Soc rehearsal several days later. It was our first rehearsal in a real rehearsal room. We were inside one of the many large, old buildings by Durham Cathedral that contained nothing but classrooms, which were available to rent out as society activity spaces. I imagined this building was what most private schools felt like – wooden and unnecessarily large. The screech in question was one I was coming to know well. Rooney appeared out of a classroom doorway wearing a burgundy boiler suit, which looked immensely fashionable on her, but if I’d worn it, would have made me look like a car-wash employee. She grabbed both my arms and started leading me into the room. Inside was mostly empty apart from one table set up at the far end, upon which Pip and Jason were sitting. Jason appeared to be doing some of his course reading, while Pip looked up and stared at Rooney with nothing less than disdain. ‘I’m dying, Georgia,’ said Rooney. ‘Literally. I’m going to explode.’ ‘Please calm down.’ ‘No, I am. I was up until six a.m. this morning planning the rest of the show.’ ‘I know. We live together.’ Since I had informed Rooney that Sunil was on board, she’d gone a little bit overboard on the play preparation – staying up late to plan, scheduling weekly rehearsals for the rest of the year, and bombarding all of us in our new group chat that Pip had named ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dab’. Rooney argued with Pip about the group chat name in the group chat for several hours. ‘We have to get the first couple of scenes ready before the Bailey Ball,’ Rooney continued. ‘That’ll keep us on target.’ ‘That’s only a few weeks away.’ ‘Exactly.’ The Bailey Ball – the upcoming ball at St John’s in early December – was completely irrelevant to our society, but Rooney had decided to use it as a target anyway. Probably just to scare us into attending the rehearsals. ‘What if Sunil doesn’t want to come after all?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘What if he thinks it’s a shit idea? He’s a third year. He knows things.’ ‘He’s really not the sort of person who’s going to criticise a student play, to be honest.’ It was then that Sunil entered the room, wearing dark chinos with a red stripe up each side, a tight polo and a denim jacket. Somehow he appeared not to be freezing to death in November’s brutal northern temperature. He smiled as he approached, and I felt an uncomfortable wash of guilt that he might just be here because I asked. Pip and Jason joined us to say hi. ‘You’re the only one I haven’t met already,’ said Sunil to Jason, holding out his hand. Jason shook it. He looked intimidated. He was probably in awe of the sheer coolness that radiated from Sunil at all times. ‘Hi. I’m Jason.’ ‘Hi! I’m Sunil. You’re very tall, Jason.’ ‘Uh … I suppose I am?’ ‘Congrats.’ ‘Thanks?’ Rooney clapped her hands together loudly. ‘OK! Let’s start!’ Jason and Sunil got sent to the other side of the room to go through a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream while Pip, Rooney and I sat down in a circle on the floor with copies of Much Ado About Nothing laid out in front of us. Much Ado is probably one of the best Shakespeares because the plot is exactly like an enemies-to-lovers fanfic, with a lot of confusion and miscommunication along the way. The premise is: Beatrice and Benedick hate each other, and their friends find this hilarious, so they decide to trick them into falling in love, and it works much better than anyone expected. Amazing. I had again been chosen by Pip and Rooney to play one of the romantic leads – Benedick. Pip was playing Beatrice. We sat down in a circle to read the scene, and I hoped I’d do better this time. Maybe it had just been awkward with Jason. Now I was acting with Pip in a much funnier scene. ‘I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick,’ Pip drawled with an eye-roll. ‘Nobody marks you.’ I put on my best sarcasm and responded, ‘What, my dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?’ ‘Less angry, I think,’ said Rooney. ‘Like, Benedick’s teasing her. He thinks it’s hilarious.’ I loved enemies-to-lovers romances. But I was struggling to get into this. I’d much rather just watch someone else perform it. I let Pip read her next line before I chipped in again, this time trying to sound less annoyed. ‘Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted,’ I said. ‘And I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.’ ‘Hm,’ said Rooney. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘This is the first time we’re reading it through.’ ‘It’s OK. Maybe this role just isn’t for you.’ This and Juliet? Was it just the romantic roles I couldn’t do? Surely not – I’d played plenty of romantic roles in the past in school plays and youth theatre shows and I was fine. Why was I psyching myself out about romantic roles now? ‘Hey!’ Pip barked at Rooney. ‘Stop insulting Georgia!’ ‘I’m the director! I’ve got to be honest!’ ‘Uh, I’m also the director and I think you’re being a bitch!’ ‘Drama,’ said Jason from the other side of the room. I turned to see Sunil raise his eyebrows at him, and then they both started snickering. ‘If you think Georgia is sooo shit –’ said Pip. ‘That’s not what she said, but OK,’ I said. ‘Then let me see you do it better, Rooney Bach. If you’ve got no problems with getting gay for a scene.’ ‘Oh, I have no problems with getting gay, pipsqueak,’ said Rooney, seeming to imply something else entirely, which Pip noticed, and recoiled a little in surprise. ‘OK then,’ said Pip. ‘OK,’ said Rooney. ‘OK.’ Rooney slammed her copy of Much Ado on to the floor. ‘OK.’ I went to sit with Sunil and Jason so we could all watch Pip and Rooney act out Beatrice and Benedick’s first argument from Much Ado About Nothing. I predicted that it was going to either be absolutely hilarious or an utter mess. Possibly both. Rooney stood tall and sneered down at Pip. ‘I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none.’ She wasn’t even looking at her copy of Much Ado. She knew it off by heart. Pip laughed and turned away, as if addressing an onlooker. ‘A dear happiness to women! They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor.’ She turned back to Rooney, narrowing her eyes. ‘I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.’ Rooney’s mouth twitched. It was shockingly similar to the way it did when she wasn’t acting. She stepped slightly closer to Pip as if to emphasise her height advantage. ‘God keep your Ladyship still in that mind!’ She pressed a hand on to Pip’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘So some gentleman or other shall ’scape a predestinate scratched face.’ ‘Scratching could not make it worse,’ Pip bit back immediately with a cock of her head and a cheeky grin, ‘an ’twere such a face as yours were.’ How did they both know this scene off by heart already? Rooney leant right in, her face mere centimetres from Pip’s. ‘Well,’ she breathed in a low tone, ‘you are a rare parrot-teacher.’ Pip took in a sharp gulp of air. ‘A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.’ And Rooney, the absolute maniac, let her eyes drop down to Pip’s mouth. ‘I would my horse had the speed of your tongue,’ she murmured, ‘and so good a continuer.’ The silence that followed was earth-shattering. Jason, Sunil and I just stared, entranced. The air in the room was beyond electric – it was on fire. We waited for the moment to end, and it was Pip who finally broke. She wrenched herself out of the moment, red-faced. ‘And that’s how it’s done, kids,’ she said, with a bow. We clapped. Rooney turned away and started fixing her ponytail, oddly quiet. ‘So you two are gonna play Benedick and Beatrice, right?’ said Jason. Pip shot a glance at me. ‘Well, if Georgia doesn’t mind …’ ‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘It was great.’ Perhaps a little too great, if the flush on Pip’s cheeks was anything to go by. ‘What?’ said Pip, looking back to Rooney, who was still busying herself with pulling out and retying her ponytail. ‘Was the scene too sexy for you?’ ‘Nothing’s too sexy for me,’ she shot back. But she didn’t turn round. She was hiding. Pip smirked. I could tell she felt like she’d won. We spent our remaining rehearsal time helping Rooney and Pip plot out the scene, adding in a few props, before running through a couple more times. They seemed to get more flustered each time, along with increasing the amount of intense eye contact and touching in the scene. At the end of the two hours, me, Sunil and Jason stacked the chairs, then went to wait near the door while Pip and Rooney stood in the centre of the room and bickered over a couple of lines towards the end of the scene. Jason shrugged his teddy coat on. ‘So,’ he said to Sunil. ‘Regrets?’ Sunil laughed. ‘No! It was fun. I’m very glad I got to witness …’ he gestured vaguely towards Pip and Rooney, ‘… whatever this is.’ ‘We’re very sorry about them,’ I said. He laughed again. ‘No, honestly. This has been fun. It’s actually a welcome change to the general chaos and drama of Pride Soc. And the stress of third year.’ He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I think – I think I’ve needed to do something like this. University has been stressful. Like, when I was a fresher, I was just … in a really bad place, and then I spent all of second year doing things for Pride Soc, and … well, obviously that continued into this year. Orchestra is a good time but stressful as hell. I don’t think I ever really take the time to just … pursue something just because it’s fun. You know?’ He looked up, as if surprised we were still standing there, listening to him. ‘Sorry, now I’m oversharing.’ ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, but that didn’t feel like enough. ‘We’re … really glad you’re here.’ Jason patted him on the shoulder. ‘Yeah, you need to come for pizza with us sometime. Cast bonding.’ Sunil smiled at him. ‘I will. Thank you.’ We said goodbye to Sunil, who had a tutorial to get to, and Jason and I leant against opposite sides of the doorframe, waiting for Pip and Rooney. Jason started flicking through the pages of his copy of the play. ‘Much Ado is such a good play. Although I don’t get the appeal of relationships where they’re mean to each other at the start.’ ‘It’s all just build-up to the point where they inevitably have really wild sex,’ I said, thinking fondly of some of my favourite enemies-to-lovers fics. ‘It makes the eventual sex more exciting.’ ‘I suppose it makes a good story.’ Jason flipped over a page. ‘It’s funny how much stuff revolves around sex. I don’t even think I’d need it in a relationship.’ ‘Wait, really?’ ‘Like, it’s fun, but … I don’t think it’s a deal-breaker. If the other person didn’t want to do it that much. Or at all, I guess.’ He looked up from behind the book. ‘What? Is that weird?’ I shrugged. ‘No, that’s just a cool way to think about it.’ ‘If you really loved someone, I just think you wouldn’t really … care so much about things like that. I dunno. I think everyone’s been kind of conditioned to be obsessed with it, when in actual fact … you know, it’s just a thing people do for fun. You don’t even need it to make babies any more. It’s not like you’d die without it.’ ‘Die without what?’ asked Pip, who was suddenly only a couple of metres away from us, pulling her bomber jacket on. Jason snapped the book shut. ‘Pizza.’ ‘Oh my God, can we get pizza right now? I will die without pizza right now.’ They left the room together, chatting, while I waited for Rooney, who was tying her shoelaces. Was there some kind of third choice when it came to mine and Jason’s relationship? Could we be together and just … not have sex? I stood there in the doorway trying to picture it. No sex, but still a romance. A relationship. Kissing Jason, holding hands with Jason. Being in love. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about how I felt about love, but not much about having sex – I’d just assumed that sex would automatically be a part of it. But it didn’t have to be. Sunil had told me that some people didn’t want sex but were perfectly happy in relationships without it. Maybe I did like Jason romantically – I just didn’t want to have sex with him. Obviously, I spent the rest of the day thinking about sex. Not even in a fun way. Just in a confused way. I hadn’t given much thought to how I felt about sex until the prom afterparty. That had been when I’d started to wonder whether I was weird for not having done all the things other people claimed they’d done – including having sex. We all know that the concept of ‘virginity’ is dumb as hell and invented by misogynists, but that didn’t stop me feeling like I was, essentially, missing out on something really great. But was I missing out? Sunil said he felt indifferent about sex. I’d never heard anyone talk about sex like that before. Like it was a takeaway cuisine you thought was OK, but you wouldn’t personally choose it. All I’d felt about sex so far was shame for not having had it. That night, in bed, I decided I needed to talk to someone who actually knew a bit about it. Rooney. I rolled over to face her across the room. She was typing on her MacBook, most of her body concealed by her duvet. ‘Rooney?’ I said. ‘Mm?’ ‘I’ve been thinking about … you know … my thing with Jason.’ This immediately got her attention. She sat up a little, shutting her MacBook, and said, ‘Yeah? Have you kissed yet?’ ‘Um – well, no, but –’ ‘Really?’ She raised her eyebrows, clearly thinking this was weird. ‘How come?’ I didn’t know what to tell her. ‘Don’t stress about it,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘It’ll happen. When it’s the right time, it’ll just happen.’ This annoyed me. Was kissing really so vague? ‘I guess,’ I said, feeling like I should just be honest, ‘I … don’t even know whether … you know, I’m attracted to men in general, or … something like that.’ Rooney blinked. ‘Really?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘OK,’ said Rooney. She nodded, but I could see on her face that this was a surprise to her. ‘OK.’ ‘I’m not sure, though. I’ve been thinking a lot about, um … well, how I’d feel about … physical stuff.’ There was a pause, and then she said, ‘Sex?’ I should have guessed she’d just be blunt about it. ‘Well, yeah.’ ‘OK.’ She nodded again. ‘Yeah. That’s good. Sexual attraction is just figuring out who you want to have sex with.’ She paused to think, and then she turned fully to face me. ‘Right. We’re going to figure this out.’ ‘What d’you mean?’ ‘I mean, let’s get to the bottom of your feelings and figure out whether you’re attracted to Jason or not.’ I had absolutely no idea where this conversation was going, and I was scared. ‘Question One. Do you wank?’ I’d been right to be scared. ‘Oh God.’ She held up her hands. ‘You don’t have to answer, but I think this might be a pretty good way of figuring out if you really like Jason.’ ‘I’m so uncomfortable.’ ‘It’s just me. I’ve heard you fart in bed.’ ‘No you haven’t.’ ‘I have. It was loud.’ ‘Oh God.’ I knew I could just shut this conversation down if I really wanted to. It was a bit rude of Rooney to ask such personal things when, really, we’d only known each other for a month and a half. But I did want to talk about stuff like this with someone. And I did think that talking about it might help me figure some stuff out. ‘So,’ Rooney continued. ‘Masturbation.’ I wasn’t the sort of person who thought it was a ‘guy thing’. I’d been on the internet long enough to know that masturbation was all-gender. ‘Doesn’t … doesn’t everyone masturbate?’ I mumbled. ‘Hm, no, I don’t think so.’ Rooney tapped her chin. ‘I had a friend back at home who said she just didn’t like doing it.’ ‘Oh. That’s fair enough.’ ‘So I assume you do it then.’ Yes, I did. I wasn’t gonna just lie about it. I knew it wasn’t something to be ashamed of, obviously, but it still felt excruciating to talk about. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘OK. So, what d’you think about when you masturbate?’ ‘Rooney. Oh my fucking God.’ ‘Come on! We’re doing a scientific study to determine where your attraction lies. Oh my God, we should get Pip to help! She does science!’ I didn’t particularly want Pip to get involved in this already awkward conversation. ‘No, we shouldn’t.’ ‘Do you think about men? Women? Both? Any/or?’ The honest answer was: Any. Literally anything. But I knew that would just confuse things. And here’s why. My usual masturbation situation was just whenever I was in the mood to read a smutty fanfic. It felt like a safe, fun way to get turned on and have a good time. So I would just think about the characters in the fic I was reading. Whatever combination of genders that involved – I wasn’t fussy, as long as the writing was good. It wasn’t about bodies and genitals for me. It was about chemistry. But that wasn’t anything unusual, I thought. People didn’t really just look at boobs or abs and get turned on. Did they? ‘Georgia,’ said Rooney. ‘Come on. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I … the gender doesn’t really matter.’ ‘Oh my God! Same!’ Rooney gestured between us. ‘Wank fantasy sisters!’ ‘Never say that again.’ ‘No, but it’s cool to know I’m not alone in that.’ She wrapped her covers a little tighter round her. ‘Like, I know I only go out with guys, but … you know. It’s fun to think about other stuff.’ TEEEood Maybe I was bi or pan, then. Maybe we both were. If gender didn’t matter to us, that would make sense, right? ‘There are still some specific scenarios I have to picture,’ she continued. ‘Like, I can’t just imagine myself doing anything with anyone. I still think I have … preferences. But not limited to gender.’ Something she’d said struck me. ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I-I mean, I don’t imagine myself with any gender.’ She paused. ‘Oh. What?’ It clicked in my brain what I was trying to say. ‘I don’t think about myself having sex,’ I said. Rooney frowned, then she snorted, and then, upon realising I wasn’t joking, she frowned again. ‘What do you think about then? Other people?’ ‘… Yeah.’ ‘Like … people you know?’ ‘Ew, no. Oh my God. More like … made-up people in my brain.’ ‘Hm.’ Rooney let out a deep breath. ‘So … you don’t think about having sex with Jason?’ ‘No!’ I exclaimed. The thought of having sex with Jason freaked me out. ‘People don’t – people don’t actually do that, do they?’ ‘What, fantasise about someone they have a crush on?’ As soon as she said it, I realised how obvious it was. Of course people did that. I’d seen it dozens of times in movies and on TV and in fanfics. ‘This is going to be harder than I thought,’ said Rooney. ‘Oh.’ ‘OK, so. Question Two. Who was the celebrity you last got off to?’ I blinked. ‘People definitely don’t do that.’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Get off to pictures of celebrities.’ ‘Uh, yes they do. I have a folder of shirtless pics of Henry Cavill on my laptop.’ I laughed. Rooney did not. ‘What?’ she asked. I genuinely thought she was joking. ‘I thought that was just a movie thing. You really just … look at abs and that does it for you?’ ‘I mean … yeah.’ Rooney looked a little put out. ‘What, is that not normal?’ I had no idea what was normal. Maybe nothing was normal. ‘I just don’t get the appeal. Like … abs are just lumpy stomachs.’ This made Rooney laugh loudly. ‘OK. Fine. Question Three –’ ‘How are there more questions –’ ‘Sex dreams. What happened in your last sex dream?’ I stared at her. ‘Seriously?’ ‘Yes!’ I started to say that I’d never had a sex dream, but that wasn’t strictly true. I’d had a dream a couple of years back where in order to pass my exams I had to have sex with a guy in my class. He was waiting on my bed, naked, and I kept walking in and out of my bedroom, fully clothed, not quite able to work up the courage to go through with it. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it gave me that same feeling of a nightmare where you’re trying to run away from a demon but your legs are moving like they’re stuck in sludge, and the demon is catching up with you, but you can’t move properly, and you’re about to die. On second thoughts, I wasn’t sure that counted as a sex dream. ‘I don’t have sex dreams,’ I said. Rooney stared back at me. ‘What … ever?’ ‘Does everyone have sex dreams?’ ‘Well … I don’t know, now.’ Rooney looked almost as confused as me. ‘I assumed it was kind of an everyone thing, but … I mean, I guess it’s not.’ I almost regretted bringing this up with her. For someone who’d had a lot of sex, Rooney didn’t seem to understand it any better than I did. Making a snap decision, I grabbed my phone again. ‘I am going to message Pip.’ ‘Yes. Please get her involved. I want to know what she thinks.’ I gave Rooney a look. ‘You’re very interested in what Pip thinks about sex, huh?’ Rooney spluttered. ‘Uh – no, actually, no. I just – I just wanted a third opinion and she’s the most likely person to overshare.’ Georgia Warr apologies for the late-night message but i have a question, dear friend Felipa Quintana It better not be about the group chat name because I will defend ‘a midsummer night’s dab’ until I die Georgia Warr i respect the dab, it’s not about that soooooo me and rooney are having a conversation about sex right now Felipa Quintana OOOOH Okay I’m in Georgia Warr my question is . . . . . . do you have sex dreams? Felipa Quintana Lol WOW Georgia Warr you don’t have to answer if it’s too personal haha but also i have seen you pee multiple times we know each other probably too well by this point for the record, rooney is here and wants to know your answers Felipa Quintana Wow hi rooney Yeah I’ve had sex dreams Not like looooads But occasionally I mean that’s pretty normal right?? ‘She says she’s had sex dreams,’ I said to Rooney. ‘Ask her about masturbating,’ Rooney hissed from across the room. ‘Rooney.’ ‘It’s for science!’ Georgia Warr that’s basically what we’re trying to determine a second question – when you have a wank do you think about YOURSELF having sex?? And if so … with what gender?? rooney says the gender doesn’t matter for her Felipa Quintana JESUS georgia what is this conversation omg Wait Rooney thinks about being with girls?????? Georgia Warr yeah Felipa Quintana Okay . . . . . . Okay interesting Well firstly, yeah I do think about myself? Idk what else I would think about?? I guess unless you’re literally just having a wank to porn … but even then it’s like at least a little bit about you and your fantasies too And obviously I just think about girls haha … the thought of being with a guy just disgusts me I mean I am very much a lesbian. We’ve established this This is interesting though ‘She said she does think about herself having sex,’ I said. Rooney nodded, though she’d started adjusting her hair so I couldn’t read her expression. ‘Yeah. I mean, that’s what most people do, I think.’ Georgia Warr i won’t tell rooney this one, this is just a question from me do you fantasise about other people?? like real people? like if you get a crush or meet someone really hot, do you fantasise about having sex with them???? Felipa Quintana Georgia how come you wanna know all this? Are you okay?? Are you and Jason having SEX Oh god I don’t know if I want to know Georgia Warr calm down i’m not having sex just trying to understand some stuff Felipa Quintana Okay Yeah I guess I do sometimes Not eeeevery single hot person I meet but if I really liked someone … I mean sometimes I just can’t help it I guess haha? ‘What are you saying to her?’ Rooney asked. I was staring at my phone screen. And then I chucked it across my bed. ‘This has to be a fucking joke,’ I blurted. Rooney paused. ‘What?’ I sat up, pushing the covers off my body. ‘Everyone has to be fucking JOKING.’ ‘What d’you –’ ‘People are really out there just … thinking about having sex all the time and they can’t even help it?’ I spluttered. ‘People have dreams about it because they want it that much? How the – I’m losing it. I thought all the movies were exaggerating, but you’re all really out there just craving genitals and embarrassment. This has to be some kind of huge joke.’ There was a long silence. Rooney cleared her throat. ‘I guess we’re not wank fantasy sisters.’ ‘For fuck’s sake, Rooney.’ I don’t think this conversation had gone to a place that either of us were expecting it to. I’d never fantasised about myself having sex. And that was different from most people. I was different. How had I never realised this before? Picturing fanfic characters having sex? Great. Fine. Sexy. But picturing myself having sex with anyone, guy, girl, whoever, didn’t interest me. No – it was more than that. It was an immediate fucking turn-off. Was that what Sunil had told me about? Was that how he felt? ‘I don’t really know what to say or how to help,’ Rooney said. Then, with more sincerity than I was used to from Rooney, she followed up with, ‘Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, OK?’ ‘… OK.’ ‘I mean with Jason.’ She looked so serious all of a sudden, and I realised how rare it was for me to see an expression like that on Rooney’s face. ‘Just don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Please.’ ‘Yeah. OK.’ Felipa Quintana Hey, you sure you’re okay? This was a weird conversation Georgia Warr i’m okay sorry this was weird Felipa Quintana I don’t mind!!! I love weird I hope I helped?? Georgia Warr you did ‘So … I guess this is properly a date, then,’ I said to Jason over our pancakes. Our third date was at a pancake café. It was situated up a hill about a tenminute walk out of Durham’s town centre and was so tiny that I felt claustrophobic. That was probably why I was so uncomfortable, I reasoned. My statement seemed to fluster him for a moment, but eventually he cracked a smile. ‘I guess it is.’ He’d made an effort today, just like I had. His hair was extra fluffy, and he was wearing a fashionable Adidas sweatshirt with his usual black jeans. ‘Did the other two times count?’ I asked. ‘Hm … I don’t know. Maybe the second one?’ ‘Yes. Us getting kicked out of the cinema then me getting a migraine does sound like a pretty good first date.’ ‘One to tell the grandkids, I suppose.’ As soon as he said it, he looked very embarrassed, unsure whether this was an appropriate joke to make yet. I laughed to put him at ease. We ate our pancakes and talked. We talked about the play, about our courses, about the upcoming Bailey Ball, which I’d managed to score Pip and Jason guest tickets to. We talked about politics and decorating our bedrooms and the new Pokémon game that was coming out soon. God, it was easy to talk to Jason. That was all it took to ease my doubts. To stop thinking about that conversation with Rooney and Pip. To forget about what Sunil had told me. Jason and I laughed about some little joke. And I thought – maybe. Maybe it could work if I just tried one more time. ‘You know what Rooney said?’ I said to Jason once we’d made it back to college. We were sitting in his corridor’s kitchen, and Jason had already made me a hot chocolate. Jason stirred sugar into his tea. ‘What?’ I had made the decision on the walk back here to take my shot. Despite what Rooney had concluded at the end of our chat, I needed to treat this situation realistically – I was going to have to make an effort to force myself to like Jason. But I could do that, right? I could do it. ‘She thought it was weird we hadn’t kissed yet.’ OK, that wasn’t exactly what she’d said just before our big sex conversation. But it was what she’d implied. Jason stopped stirring his tea. For a moment, his face was unreadable. Then he continued stirring. ‘Did she?’ he said, with a small twitch of his mouth. ‘I think she’s had a lot more relationships than us, though,’ I said with an awkward chuckle. ‘Has she?’ Jason responded, again unreadable. ‘Yeah.’ Shit. Was I making this weird? I was making this weird. ‘Well …’ Jason tapped the spoon on the side of his mug. ‘That’s … I mean, everyone does these things at different paces. We don’t need to rush it.’ I nodded. ‘Yeah. True.’ OK. That’s fine. We didn’t need to kiss today. I could try again another day. Relief washed over me. Wait, no. I couldn’t give up that easily, could I? Fuck. Why was this so fucking hard? Rooney had said it just happened. But if I didn’t do anything, nothing would happen. If I didn’t try, I’d be like this forever. Jason finished making his tea. We’d decided to go chill in his room for a bit with a movie – it was a late Sunday afternoon and that felt like the thing to do. But just as I went to pull open the door, someone on the other side pushed it towards me so fast that I tripped backwards over my own feet and fell on to Jason and his boiling mug of tea. We didn’t go down, but the tea went everywhere. The person who’d opened the door backed away immediately with an apologetic ‘Sorry, I’ll come back in a bit.’ I was only lightly splashed, and I was still wearing my coat anyway. I turned to Jason, who had sat down on a nearby chair, to survey the damage. His jumper was soaked. But that didn’t seem to bother him – he was staring, alarmed, at his left hand, which had also been covered in tea. Fresh, boiling tea. ‘Oh fuck,’ I said. ‘Yeah,’ he said, just staring at his hand. ‘Does that hurt?’ ‘Er … slightly.’ ‘Cold water,’ I said immediately. I grabbed his wrist, pulled him over towards the sink, turned on the cold tap, and held his hand under the water. Jason just stared, dumbfounded. We waited, letting the icy water do its work. After a moment, he said, ‘I was looking forward to that tea.’ I let out a sigh of relief. If he was making jokes, it probably wasn’t too bad. ‘Does tea wash out?’ He looked down at the stained fabric, and then just chuckled. ‘I’ll look it up.’ ‘I’m really sorry,’ I blurted out, realising that this was probably my fault. Jason nudged me with his elbow. We were standing very close in front of the sink. ‘It wasn’t your fault. That guy who came in, he’s in my corridor. I swear he never looks where he’s going. I’ve bumped into him like five times.’ ‘Are you – is it OK? We don’t need to go to A&E or anything?’ ‘I think it’s fine. I should probably just stand here for a few minutes, though.’ We fell into silence again, listening to the sound of running water. Then Jason said, ‘Er, you don’t have to hold my hand if you don’t want to.’ I was still holding his wrist, keeping his hand under the tap. I quickly let go, but then realised that maybe that had been a sort-of-flirty line, and he wanted me to keep holding his hand … or maybe he didn’t and it didn’t mean anything? I wasn’t sure. It was too late. I turned my head to find him staring down at me. He quickly looked away, but almost immediately turned back again so that we were holding each other’s gaze. It was like a siren suddenly going off everywhere around me. Like a burglar alarm that wakes you up so hard you can’t stop shaking for half an hour. Looking back, it was almost hilarious. Whenever someone tried to kiss me, I went headfirst into a fight or flight response. His eyes focused on my lips, then darted back up. He wasn’t like Tommy. He was trying very hard to work out whether this was something I wanted. He was looking for the signals. Had I been giving off the signals? Maybe it would have been easier for him to just ask, but how do people phrase that in a non-cheesy way? And to be honest, I was glad he didn’t ask, because what would I have said? No. I would have said no, because it turned out I just couldn’t lie to anyone except myself. As he moved towards me, only a fraction of an inch, I imagined the Countdown timer music starting to play. I wanted to try. I wanted to want to kiss him. But I didn’t actually want to kiss him. But maybe I should do it anyway. But I didn’t want to. But maybe I wouldn’t know until I tried. But I knew that I already knew. I already knew what I felt. And Jason could tell. He moved back again, clearly embarrassed. ‘Uh … sorry. Wrong moment.’ ‘No,’ I found myself saying. ‘Go on.’ I wanted him to just do it. I wanted him to rip the plaster off. Yank the bone back into shape. Fix me. But I already knew there was nothing to fix. I was always going to be like this. He met my eyes, questioning. Then he leant in and pressed his lips to mine. My first kiss was with Jason Farley-Shaw in the November of my first year of university, standing in front of a college kitchen sink. As much of a romantic as I was, I hadn’t given much thought to what my first kiss would be like. Looking back, that probably should have been an indicator of me not really wanting to kiss anyone, but years of films, music, TV, peer pressure, and my own craving for a big love story had brainwashed me into believing this was going to be something amazing, as long as I gave it a shot. It was not amazing. In fact, I hated it. I think I would have felt less uncomfortable if someone had dared me to start singing on public transport. It was not Jason’s fault that it was not amazing. I didn’t have anyone to compare him to, obviously, but objectively, he was perfectly fine at kissing. He didn’t do it too deep or forcefully. There were no teeth incidents, or, God forbid, tongue. I knew what sorts of feelings kissing was supposed to bring up. I’d read hundreds, possibly thousands of fanfics by this point. Kissing someone you like was supposed to make your head spin, your stomach twist, your heart speed up, and you were supposed to enjoy it. I didn’t feel any of that. I just felt a deep, empty dread in the pit of my stomach. I hated how close he was. I hated the way his lips felt against mine. I hated the fact that he wanted to do this. It only lasted for a few seconds. But those were some very uncomfortable seconds for me. And, from the look on his face, they were for him too. ‘You look like that was terrible,’ I found myself saying. I didn’t know what else to say but the truth by this point. ‘So do you,’ said Jason. ‘Oh.’ Jason looked away with a pained expression. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘Well, I fucked that up,’ I said. He shook his head immediately. ‘No, it’s my fault. Sorry. Shit. It was the wrong moment.’ I wanted to laugh. I wished I could explain just how much it was my fault. Maybe I should try to explain. But Jason ended up speaking first. ‘I don’t think you’re into me,’ he said. When he looked at me, it was like he was pleading. Begging me to tell him otherwise. ‘I … I didn’t know whether I was,’ I said. ‘I thought if … if I tried then I could make it happen – I just wanted to see if I could fall in love, and you were the person I thought I could fall for, like, if I tried?’ As I said it, I realised exactly the weight of what I’d done. ‘You … just used me as an experiment, then,’ said Jason, looking away. ‘Knowing full well that I really liked you.’ ‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’ ‘Well, you did.’ He laughed. ‘How did you think you were going to do that and not?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ was all I could say. ‘Fuck.’ Then he laughed a horrible, sad laugh. ‘Why did you do this to me?’ ‘Don’t say that,’ I said hoarsely. Jason turned the tap off and studied his hand, comparing it with his other hand. It looked several shades redder than it should be. ‘OK. I think it’s OK.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yeah. I might go and wrap it in something, just to be safe.’ ‘Oh. God, yeah, of course.’ I stood there awkwardly. ‘Do you want me to come?’ ‘No.’ Fuck. This was all going to shit. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, not sure whether I was apologising for the burn or for the kiss. Both, probably. FUCKYOUGEORGIA I Jason was shaking his head. It almost seemed like he was annoyed with himself, but nothing that had happened this afternoon had been his fault. ‘I … I just need to go.’ Jason headed for the door. ‘Jason,’ I said, but he didn’t stop. ‘I’m just gonna need you to leave me alone for a while, OK, Georgia?’ And then he was gone. Jason didn’t deserve any of this. Jason was … Jason had real feelings for me. He deserved someone who was actually able to reciprocate. It wasn’t just that I’d hurt Jason. It wasn’t even having to accept that I was some kind of sexual orientation that barely anyone had heard of, that I would have to find some way to explain to my family and everyone else. It was knowing, with absolute certainty, that I was never, ever going to fall in love with anybody. I had spent my whole life believing that romantic love was waiting for me. That one day I’d find it and I would be totally, finally happy. But now I had to accept that it would never happen. None of it. No romance. No marriage. No sex. There were so many things that I would never do. Would never even want to do or feel comfortable doing. So many little things I’d taken for granted, like moving into my first place with my partner, or my first dance at my wedding, or having a baby with someone. Having someone to look after me when I’m sick, or watch TV with in the evenings, or going on a couples’ holiday to Disneyland. And the worst part of it was – even though I’d longed for these things, I knew that they’d never make me happy anyway. The idea was beautiful. But the reality made me sick. How could I feel so sad about giving up these things that I did not actually want? I felt pathetic for getting sad about it. I felt guilty, knowing that there were people out there like me who were happy being like this. I felt like I was grieving. I was grieving this fake life, a fantasy future that I was never going to live. I had no idea what my life would be like now. And that scared me. God, that scared me so, so much. I didn’t tell Pip. I didn’t want to disappoint her too. The day after my date with Jason, I started to wonder whether he would tell Pip, and Pip would hate me. But then she messaged me that afternoon with a link to a really funny TikTok, which definitely meant that Jason hadn’t told her. The day after that, Pip messaged me asking if I wanted to meet up with her for a study session in the big university library because she hated doing uni work by herself in her room, and I agreed. Jason, she explained, had rowing practice so couldn’t come. We didn’t chat much while we were there – I had an Age of Chivalry assignment, and she was doing chemistry work that looked ten times more difficult than my essay on ‘Destiny in Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval’. I was glad we didn’t talk much. Because if she’d asked me about Jason, I wouldn’t have been able to lie. It was nearly nine o’clock at night by the time we’d both finished, so we decided to get some fish and chips, then head back to my room to catch up on Killing Eve. It probably would have been a normal evening. It probably would have cheered me up a bit, after everything that had happened. If we hadn’t entered my bedroom to find Rooney crying. She was curled up under her sheets, clearly trying to hide the fact that she was upset but failing utterly because of how loudly she was sniffing. My first thought was that Rooney was never in our room at this time of the evening. My second thought was, Why is she crying? Pip had frozen next to me. There was no escaping the situation. We could see Rooney was crying. She knew that we knew. There was no pretending this wasn’t happening. ‘Hey,’ I said, properly entering the room. Pip hovered in the doorway, clearly trying to decide whether to stay or go, but just as I turned to her to tell her to leave, she came inside and closed the door behind her. ‘I’m fine,’ came the teary response. Pip laughed, then seemed to instantly regret it. At the sound of Pip’s voice, Rooney peered over her covers. Upon seeing Pip, her eyes narrowed. ‘Can you leave,’ she said, immediately less tearful and more Rooney. ‘Um …’ Pip cleared her throat. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just laughing because you said you were fine when you’re clearly not. I mean, like, you’re literally crying. Not that that’s funny. It was just a bit stupid –’ Rooney’s face, very clearly tear-stained, hardened. ‘Leave.’ ‘Um …’ Pip rummaged into her bag of fish and chips and withdrew a large clump of paper napkins. She jogged over to Rooney’s bed, placed them right at the bottom of the duvet, then jogged back to the door. ‘There.’ Rooney looked at the napkins. Then up at Pip. And, for once, she didn’t say a thing. ‘I, er …’ Pip ran a hand through her hair and looked off to one side. ‘I hope you feel better soon. And if you need any more tissues, erm … I can go get some?’ There was a pause. ‘I think I have enough now, thank you,’ said Rooney. ‘Cool. I’ll just go then.’ ‘Cool.’ ‘Are you … are you OK?’ Rooney stared at her for a long moment. Pip didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Yeah. No. Sorry. I’m going.’ She swung round and practically ran from the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, Rooney slowly sat up, picked up one of the napkins, and dabbed her eyes. I sat down on my own bed, dropping my bags on to the sheets. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. This made her raise her head. Her eye make-up was smeared down her cheeks, her ponytail falling out of place, and she was wearing normal going-out clothes – a bardot top and tight skirt. There was a moment of silence. And then she started crying again. OK. I was going to have to deal with this situation. Somehow. I stood up and walked over towards her kettle, which she kept plugged in on her desk. I filled it up from our bedroom sink, then put it on to boil. Rooney liked tea. The first thing she did after getting back to our room was always to make a cup of tea. While waiting for it to boil, I cautiously sat on the edge of her bed. I suddenly noticed there was something on the floor under my feet – the photo of Rooney and Mermaid-hair Beth. It must have fallen off the wall. I picked it up and put it on her bedside table. What was this about? The play, maybe? That was about eighty per cent of what she talked about. Maybe it was a relationship thing. Maybe she’d had an argument with a guy. Or maybe it was a family thing. I didn’t know anything about Rooney’s family, or her life back home at all, really. I’ve always hated being asked if I’m ‘OK’. The available answers are either to lie and say I’m fine, or to massively and embarrassingly overshare. So instead of asking Rooney that again, I said, ‘Do you want me to get your pyjamas?’ For a moment, I wondered if she hadn’t heard me. But then she nodded. I leant back and grabbed her pyjamas from the end of the bed. She always wore matching button-up ones with cute patterns. ‘Here,’ I said, holding them out for her. She sniffed. Then she took them. While she was changing, I went over to the kettle and made her some tea. When I returned, she had transformed into Bedtime Rooney, and accepted the mug. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbled and sipped it immediately. People who drink tea must not have any sensation left on their tongues, I swear to God. I linked my fingers together awkwardly in my lap. ‘Do you … want to talk about it?’ I asked. She snorted, which was at least slightly better than the sobbing. ‘Is that … a no?’ I said. She sipped again. There was a long pause. I was about to give up and go back to my own bed, when she said, ‘Had sex with some guy.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What … recently?’ ‘Yeah. Like a couple of hours ago.’ She sighed. ‘I was bored.’ ‘Oh. Well … good for you.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘No. Not really.’ ‘It … was bad?’ ‘I just did it to try and fill a hole.’ I considered this. ‘I may be a virgin,’ I said, ‘but I sort of thought that filling a hole was usually the point.’ Rooney let out a cackle. ‘Oh my God. You did not just make that joke.’ I glanced at her. She was grinning. ‘Are you referring to a different hole?’ I asked. ‘A non-vaginal one?’ ‘Yes, Georgia. I’m not talking about my fucking vagina.’ ‘OK. Just checking.’ I paused. ‘I thought you were all sex-positive and stuff. There’s nothing wrong with casual sex.’ ‘I know that,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘I still believe in all that. I’m not saying that having casual sex makes me a bad person, because it doesn’t. And I really do enjoy it. But tonight … it was just …’ She sipped her tea, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘You know when you eat too much cake and it makes you feel sick? It was sort of like that. I thought it’d be fun, but it just made me feel … lonely.’ ‘Oh.’ I didn’t want to pry, so I just remained silent. Rooney drank the rest of her tea in a few big gulps. ‘D’you wanna watch some YouTube?’ she asked. This threw me. ‘Er … sure.’ She put down her mug, stood up, threw open the duvet and slipped inside. She shuffled over to one side and patted the space next to her, indicating for me to get in. ‘I mean … you don’t have to,’ Rooney said, sensing my hesitation. ‘D’you have a lecture in the morning, or something?’ I didn’t. I had a fully free day of no contact time tomorrow. ‘Nah. I have to eat my fish and chips anyway.’ I retrieved my dinner, then lay down next to her. It felt right and wrong at the same time – a mirror world. The same as my own bed but everything was opposite. She smiled and pulled her floral duvet over us and huddled towards me to get comfy, then grabbed her laptop from her bedside table. She opened up YouTube. I didn’t really watch any YouTubers – I only used YouTube for trailers, fan videos, and TikTok compilations. But Rooney seemed to be subscribed to dozens upon dozens of channels. It surprised me. She hadn’t seemed like the sort of person to be into YouTube. ‘There’s this really funny YouTuber I watch a lot,’ she said. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘D’you want some chips?’ ‘God, yes.’ She found the channel and searched through the videos until she found one she wanted. And then we lay together in her bed and watched it, Rooney sharing my chips. It was a pretty funny video, to be fair. It was just this YouTuber and his friends playing a weird singing game. I kept giggling aloud, which made Rooney laugh, and before I knew it, we’d been watching for twenty whole minutes. She immediately found another video she wanted to show me, and I was happy to let her. Halfway through, she rested her head on my shoulder, and … I don’t know. That was probably the calmest I’d ever seen her. We watched silly videos for another hour or so until Rooney shut her laptop and put it aside, then snuggled back down into the bed. I wondered whether she’d fallen asleep, and if so, should I just go back to my own bed, because I definitely wasn’t going to be able to sleep here in such close proximity to another person, but then Rooney spoke. ‘I used to have a boyfriend,’ she said. ‘A long-term boyfriend. From when I was fourteen until I was seventeen.’ ‘Wow. Really?’ ‘Yeah. We broke up when I was in Year Twelve.’ I’d assumed that Rooney had always been like Rooney. That she’d always been this carefree, fun-loving, passionate person who wasn’t bothered about commitment. A three-year-long relationship? That wasn’t what I’d expected. ‘Things with him … were very bad,’ she said. ‘I … it was a very bad relationship in … a lot of ways, and … it really … put me off wanting them.’ I didn’t ask her to elaborate. I could imagine what she meant. ‘I haven’t liked anyone since then,’ she mumbled again. ‘I’ve been scared to. But I might … be starting to like someone new.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘I really … don’t want to be doing that.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It just won’t end well.’ She shook her head. ‘And she hates me, anyway.’ I knew instantly that she meant Pip. ‘I don’t think she hates you,’ I said gently. Rooney said nothing. ‘Anyway, you’re only eighteen, you’ve got so much time –’ I started to say, but didn’t know how to continue. What did I mean when I said that? That she’d definitely find the perfect relationship someday? Because I knew that wasn’t true. Not for me. Not for anyone. It was something adults said all the time. You’ll change your mind when you’re older. You never know what might happen. You’ll feel differently one day. As if we teenagers knew so little about ourselves that we could wake up one day a completely different person. As if the person we are right now doesn’t matter at all. The whole idea that people always grew up, fell in love and got married was a complete lie. How long would it take me to accept that? ‘I’m nineteen,’ she said. I frowned. ‘Wait, are you? Did you have a gap year?’ ‘No. It was my birthday last week.’ This confused me more. ‘What? When?’ ‘Last Thursday.’ Last Thursday. I could barely remember anything about it – uni days were all blurring into one endless stream of lectures and meals and sleep. ‘You … didn’t say anything,’ I said. ‘No.’ She laughed, partly muffled by her pillow. ‘I started thinking what would happen if people knew it was my birthday. I’d just end up going on another night out with a bunch of people I really don’t know that well, and they’d all pretend to be my friend and sing happy birthday and take fakehappy selfies for Instagram before we’d all separate and hook up with different people, and I’d just end up in some stranger’s bed after having below-average sex, hating myself again.’ ‘If you’d told me, we could have done … none of that.’ She smiled. ‘What would we have done?’ ‘I dunno. Sat in here and eaten pizza. I could have forced you to watch Bridesmaids.’ She snorted. ‘That’s a shit movie.’ ‘It’s not the best, but the romance is literal perfection. They sit on a car and eat carrot sticks together.’ ‘The dream.’ We lay there in silence for a little while. ‘You … don’t like having casual sex any more,’ I said, realising what she’d been trying to say earlier. It wasn’t that casual sex had hurt her, or that it made her a bad person – it didn’t. ‘You want …’ It wasn’t even that she wanted a relationship. Not really. She wanted what a relationship would give her. ‘You want someone to know you,’ I said. She stayed silent for a moment. I waited for her to tell me how wrong I was. Instead, she said, ‘I’m just lonely. I’m just so lonely all the time.’ I didn’t know what to say to that, but I didn’t need to, because she fell asleep a few minutes later. I looked over her head and saw that Roderick had significantly wilted – Rooney was definitely forgetting to water him. I stared up at the ceiling and listened to her breathing next to me, but I didn’t want to leave the bed, because even though I couldn’t sleep, and I was paranoid about drooling on her or rolling on top of her by accident, Rooney needed me for some reason. Maybe because, despite all of her friends and acquaintances, nobody really knew her like I did. Jason still showed up to our next Shakespeare Soc rehearsal the following week. I didn’t think he would. I had messaged him to apologise again, to try and explain, even though I was shit at articulating any of my thoughts and feelings. He’d read it but didn’t reply. I spent most of my lectures that week zoned out, not taking enough notes, wondering how I was going to salvage our friendship out of the chaos I’d created. Jason liked me romantically. I’d taken advantage of that to figure out my sexual identity, despite knowing I didn’t like him like that in return. Selfish. I was so selfish. He looked exhausted when he rolled up to our rehearsal in full rowing club kit, a heavy rucksack hanging off his shoulder. His teddy jacket was absent. I was so used to him wearing it that he seemed sort of vulnerable without it. He walked straight past me, without looking at me, mouth clamped shut, and sat down next to Pip, who was going over today’s scene. Sunil arrived moments later. He was wearing checked trousers with a black shearling jacket and a beanie. He took one look at Jason and said, ‘You look exhausted.’ Jason grunted. ‘Rowing.’ ‘Oh, yes. How are the six a.m. practices?’ ‘Freezing and wet.’ ‘You could quit,’ said Pip. She seemed a little hopeful at the prospect. Jason shook his head. ‘Nah, I do enjoy it. I’ve made a lot of friends there.’ He shot a quick glance at me. ‘It’s just been a lot.’ I turned away. There was no way to make this better. In true Jason tradition, he was assigned the role of a stern older man. This time it was Duke Orsino from Twelfth Night, another of Shakespeare’s romcoms. The premise of Twelfth Night is a big, messy love triangle. Viola is shipwrecked in the land of Illyria and, since she has no money, disguises herself as a boy called Cesario so that she can get a job as a servant to Duke Orsino. The duke is in love with a noble lady of Illyria, Olivia, so he sends Viola to express his love for her. Unfortunately, instead of accepting the duke’s feelings, Olivia falls in love with Viola, who is disguised as Cesario, a guy. And, doubly unfortunate, Viola falls in love with the duke. It’s not technically gay, but let’s be real: this play is very, very gay. Sunil had already volunteered to be Viola, saying, ‘Just give me all of the roles that mess around with gender, please.’ Pip and I huddled next to each other against the wall with my coat over our legs. It was freezing cold in our giant rehearsal room today. ‘You two run through the scene,’ said Rooney. ‘I need to go and get some tea or I will actually die.’ She’d had another of her nights out last night. ‘Get me a coffee!’ shouted Pip as Rooney went to leave. ‘I would literally rather stomp on a nail!’ Rooney shouted back, and I was interested to see that this made Pip laugh instead of her usual grittedteeth annoyance. Jason and Sunil were amazing. Jason was well-practised, having done a lot of Shakespeare before, and Sunil was equally good, despite the fact that the only acting he’d done was a minor role in a school production of Wicked. Jason was all, ‘Once more, Cesario,’ and Sunil was all, ‘But if she cannot love you, sir,’ and, overall, it was a very successful run-through. I sat and watched, and it almost took me out of my head, making me forget about everything that had happened in the past couple of months. I could just live in the world of Viola and Orsino for a while. ‘I am all the daughters of my father’s house,’ said Sunil. One of the final lines of the scene. ‘And all the brothers too.’ He glanced up at me and Pip with a smile, momentarily breaking character. ‘That’s such a good line. New Twitter bio.’ Sunil really seemed to be enjoying being in the production. Maybe more than any of us, to be honest. He and Jason went off to work on the scene on their own, and with nothing to do, I stayed sitting against the wall, knees tucked up to my chin waiting for Rooney to come back from her tea run. ‘Georgia?’ I looked up at the voice to find Pip scooting over to me, her open copy of Twelfth Night in one hand. ‘I had an idea,’ she said. ‘About what you could do in the play.’ I was really, really not in the mood to actually do any acting today. I wasn’t sure I could act as well as I’d thought, anyway. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘There’s another character in Twelfth Night who has quite a big thematic role – the clown.’ I snorted. ‘You want me to be the clown?’ ‘Well, that’s just what he’s called in the text. He’s more of a court jester.’ Pip pointed at the scene in question. The clown had some lines leading up to the scene that Jason and Sunil were currently working on. ‘I thought it might be really cool to have you do some of these bits before this ViolaOrsino scene.’ I read the lines, sceptical. ‘I don’t know.’ I glanced at her. ‘I … my acting’s been pretty shit lately.’ Pip frowned. ‘Dude. That’s not true. Those roles just … weren’t right for you. You’re not shit at anything.’ I didn’t reply. ‘How about you just give it a go? I promise I will be nothing but supportive. And I’ll throw something at Rooney if she says anything negative about you.’ As if to demonstrate, Pip pulled her boot off and held it aloft. This made me laugh. ‘OK. Fine. I’ll try.’ ‘I’m back!’ Rooney galloped into the room, somehow not spilling hot drinks everywhere. She slumped down next to me and Pip, putting her tea on the floor, and handing a coffee to Pip. Pip stared at it. ‘Wait, you actually got me one?’ Rooney shrugged. ‘Yeah?’ Pip looked up at Rooney, genuine surprise, and something almost akin to fondness on her face. ‘Thanks.’ Rooney stared back, then seemed to have to wrench her head away. ‘So how’s the scene going? It’s only two weeks until the Bailey Ball, we need to get this one locked down before then.’ ‘I had an idea,’ said Pip. ‘We could add in the clown.’ I half-expected Rooney to immediately protest this, but instead, she sat down next to Pip and leant towards her so she could read her copy of Twelfth Night. Pip made a face of moderate alarm, before relaxing, though not without very quickly adjusting her hair. ‘I think that’s a good idea,’ said Rooney. ‘Yeah?’ asked Pip. ‘Yeah. You do sometimes have good ideas.’ Pip grinned. ‘Sometimes?’ ‘Sometimes.’ ‘That means a lot.’ Pip nudged her. ‘Coming from you.’ And I swear to God Rooney went redder than I had ever seen her. It’d been a long time since I’d stood on a stage alone. Well, it wasn’t technically a stage, but the way the other four were sitting in front of me, watching, while I was standing in front of them, had the same effect. In Twelfth Night, the clown, whose name is actually Feste, shows up periodically to either provide some light comic relief, or to sing a song relevant to the themes of the story. Right before Jason and Sunil’s scene, Feste sings a song, ‘Come away, death’, about a man who dies, possibly of heartbreak because a woman doesn’t love him back, and he wants to be buried alone because he’s so sad. It’s basically just a fancy way of saying that unrequited love is pretty rough. We all decided that I should recite it as a monologue rather than sing, which I was grateful about. But I was still nervous. I could do this. I wanted to prove that I could do this. ‘Come away, come away, death,’ I began, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. I can do this. ‘And in sad cypress let me be laid.’ I kept my voice soft. ‘Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.’ And I read the rest of the song. And I felt all of it. I just felt … all of it. The mourning. The wistfulness. The fantasy of something that could never happen. I’d never experienced unrequited love. I never would. And Feste, the clown, wasn’t even talking about himself – he was telling someone else’s story. But I felt it anyway. ‘Lay me, O, where sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there.’ There was a pause before I closed my book and looked up at my friends. They were all staring at me, transfixed. And then Pip just started clapping. ‘Fucking YES. Absolutely fucking yes. I’m a genius. You’re a genius. This play is going to be genius.’ Rooney joined in with the applause. So did Sunil. And I saw Jason very subtly wipe his eye. ‘That was OK?’ I asked, although that’s not really what I wanted to ask. Was I good? Will I be OK? Everything in my life was upside down, but did I still have this? Did I still have one thing that brought me happiness? ‘More than OK,’ said Pip, smiling wide, and I thought, Yeah, OK. I hated myself right now for a lot of reasons, but at least I had this. In the two weeks between that rehearsal and the Bailey Ball, we had three more rehearsals, during which we completely surpassed Rooney’s aim of getting one scene done. We got all three done – Much Ado About Nothing with Pip and Rooney, Twelfth Night with Jason, Sunil and me, and Romeo and Juliet with Jason and Rooney, having decided that I wasn’t the best choice for Juliet. We even had time for the pizza night we’d promised Sunil. He and Jason seemed to be fast friends, getting immersed in a discussion about musicals they’d seen, and Rooney and Pip managed to make it through a whole movie without making a single snide comment to each other. At one point, they were even sitting with their shoulders pressed together, amiably sharing a packet of tortilla chips. Despite everything that was happening behind the scenes, it was coming together. We were actually making a production. Thank God I had that to hang on to. Without it, I would have probably just stayed in bed for two weeks, because figuring out my sexuality had unearthed a new kind of self-hatred I hadn’t been ready for. I’d thought figuring that out was supposed to make you feel proud, or something. Clearly not. Something was up with Rooney too. Something had changed in her after that night we’d walked in to find her crying. She’d stopped going out in the evenings, instead spending them watching YouTube videos or TV shows, or just sleeping. I’d got used to the clacking of her frantic typing next to me in our English lectures, but it had stopped, and I often caught her just sitting very still, staring into the distance, not listening to the lecturers at all. Sometimes she seemed fine. Sometimes she was ‘normal’ Rooney, directing the play with an iron fist, being the shiniest person in the room, chatting to twelve different people at dinnertime in the college cafeteria. She was at her best when Pip was around – exchanging banter and jokes with her, lighting up in a way she didn’t with anyone else – but even with her, I sometimes noticed Rooney turn away, put physical distance between them, like she didn’t want Pip to even see her. Like she was scared what would happen if they got too close. I could have checked if she was OK, but I was too wrapped up in my own feelings, and she didn’t check if I was OK either, because she was too wrapped up in hers. I didn’t blame her, and I hoped she didn’t blame me. We were just two roommates dealing with things that were difficult to talk about. ‘If you send me the photos of you in your dress,’ said Mum on Skype the afternoon of the Bailey Ball, ‘I’ll get them printed out and sent to all the grandparents!’ I sighed. ‘It’s not the same as prom. I don’t think there will be official photography.’ ‘Well, just make sure you get at least one full-length pic of you in your dress. I bought it so I need to see it in action.’ Mum had bought me my Bailey Ball dress, though it had been my choice. I hadn’t actually planned on getting it because it was too expensive, but when I was sending links of potential dresses to her while we chatted on Messenger, she offered to pay for it. It was really nice of her, and honestly, it made me feel a pang of homesickness more intense than I’d experienced so far at uni. ‘Did any boys ask you to be their date to the ball?’ ‘Mum. British universities don’t do that. That’s American schools who do that.’ ‘Well, it would have been nice, wouldn’t it?’ ‘Everyone just goes with their friends, Mum.’ Mum sighed. ‘You’re going to look so beautiful,’ she cooed. ‘Make sure you do your hair nicely.’ ‘I will,’ I said. Rooney had already offered to do it for me. ‘You never know – you might meet your future husband tonight!’ I laughed before I could stop myself. Two months ago, I would have been dreaming of a perfect, magical meet-cute at my first university ball. But now? Now I dressed for myself. ‘Yeah,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘You never know.’ Rooney was silent while she did my hair with some thick curling tongs, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She knew how to do those big loose waves that you always see on American TV shows, but I found absolutely impossible to replicate by myself. Rooney had already done her own hair. It was swept back from her forehead and perfectly straightened. Her dress was blood red and tight with a long slit up one leg. She looked like a Bond girl who later turned out to be the villain. She insisted on doing my make-up too – she had always been a fan of makeovers, she explained – and I let her, seeing as she was way better at make-up than me. She blended golds and browns on my eyes, chose a muted pink lipstick, filled my eyebrows with a tiny brush, and drew neater winged eyeliner than I had ever been able to achieve alone. ‘There,’ she said, after what felt like hours but was probably more like twenty minutes. ‘All done.’ I checked myself out in Rooney’s pedestal mirror. I actually looked excellent. ‘Wow. That’s – wow.’ ‘Go look in the big mirror! You need to see the full effect with your dress. You look like a princess.’ I did as she said. The dress was straight out of a fairy tale – floor-length, rose-coloured chiffon with a sequinned bodice. It wasn’t super comfortable – I was wearing a lot of tit tape – but with my wavy hair and shimmery make-up, I did look and feel like a princess. Maybe I could even enjoy tonight. Wilder things had happened. Rooney stood next to me in the mirror. ‘Hm. We kind of clash, though. Red and pink.’ ‘I think it’s a good clash. I look like an angel and you look like a devil.’ ‘Yes. I’m the anti-you.’ ‘Or maybe I’m the anti-you.’ ‘Is this a summary of our whole friendship?’ We looked at each other and laughed. The theme of the Bailey Ball had been a huge topic of speculation at St John’s College for weeks, and somehow I was one of the only people who hadn’t found out what it was before the night of the ball itself. This was probably because the only friend I had in college was Rooney, and she’d refused to tell me when I asked, and I wasn’t bothered enough to force it out of her. Apparently, there’d already been a ‘Circus’ year, ‘Alice in Wonderland’, ‘Fairy tale’, ‘Roaring ’20s’, ‘Hollywood’, ‘Vegas’, ‘Masquerade’, and ‘Under the Stars’. I did wonder whether they were starting to run out of ideas. It wasn’t immediately clear what the theme was when we walked through the college corridors and out towards reception. The foyer had been adorned with flowers and the stairway had been turned into what looked like a castle wall, complete with turrets and balcony. Inside the dining hall, circular tables featured centrepieces of more flowers, but also crafted bottles of poison and wooden knives. I only got it when I heard ‘I’m Kissing You’ by Des’ree playing overhead – a song I knew featured prominently in a certain 1996 Baz Luhrmann movie. The theme was Romeo and Juliet. We met Pip and Jason outside the doors to St John’s. Jason gave me an awkward nod, but otherwise said nothing to me. They both looked incredible. Jason was wearing a classic tuxedo, and it hugged his broad shoulders so perfectly that it was like it’d been customtailored. Pip had styled her hair extra curly and was wearing black cigarette trousers, but with a velvet tuxedo jacket in a forest green colour. She’d paired that with a pair of chunky faux-snakeskin Chelsea boots, which somehow exactly matched the colour of her tortoiseshell glasses. Rooney’s eyes flickered up and down Pip’s body. ‘You look nice,’ she said. Pip struggled not to do the same to Rooney in her Bond girl dress, instead keeping her eyes firmly up at Rooney’s face. ‘So do you.’ Dinner felt like it went on for a year, even though it was only the beginning of what was to be the longest night of my whole life. Rooney, Jason, Pip and I had to share a table with four other people, but thankfully they were all Rooney’s friends and acquaintances. While everyone else all got to know each other, I did what I always did and stayed silent but attentive, smiling and nodding when people spoke but not really knowing how to get involved in any of the conversations. I felt lower than I had ever felt. I wanted to snap out of it, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be at a party where Jason hated me and Rooney and Pip were living what I would never have. Sunil, dressed in a baby-blue tux, and Jess, who was wearing a dress covered in mint-green sequins, stopped by to say hello to us, though they mainly spoke to Rooney because she was three glasses of wine down and very talkative. When they went to leave, Sunil winked at me, which made me feel better for about two minutes, but then the brain goblins returned. This was who I was. I was never going to experience romantic love, all because of my sexuality – a fundamental part of my being that I couldn’t change. I drank wine. A lot of wine. It was free. ‘Only eight hours to go!’ Pip cried as we filed out of the dining hall after dessert. I was absolutely stuffed with food and, to be honest, drunk already. I shook my head. ‘I’m not gonna make it till six a.m.’ ‘Oh, you will. You will. I’m going to make sure you will.’ ‘That sounds incredibly menacing.’ ‘I’ll be here to flick you on the forehead if you start falling asleep.’ ‘Please don’t flick me on the forehead.’ ‘I can and I will.’ She attempted to demonstrate, but I ducked out of the way, laughing. Pip always knew how to cheer me up, even if she didn’t know I was feeling down in the first place. The Bailey Ball wasn’t confined to one hall – it spread throughout the ground floor of the main college building and into a marquee on the green outside. The dining hall was quickly transformed into the main dance hall, of course, with a live band and a bar area. There were several themed rooms serving food and drink, from toasties to ice cream to tea and coffee, and a cinema room that was playing all the different movie adaptations of Romeo and Juliet in chronological order. The corridors that we hadn’t seen yet were decorated so intensively that you couldn’t see the walls any more – they were covered in flowers, ivy, fabrics, fairy lights, and giant crests for ‘Capulet’ and ‘Montague’. For one night only, we were in another world, outside the rules of space and time. ‘Where shall we go first?’ said Pip. ‘Cinema room? Marquee?’ She turned round, then frowned, confused. ‘Rooney?’ I turned too and found Rooney a few paces away from us, leaning against the wall. She was drunk for sure, but she was also looking at Pip almost like she was scared, or at the very least nervous. Then she covered it with a wide grin. ‘I’m gonna go and see my other friends for a bit!’ she shouted over the crowd and the music. And then she was gone. ‘Other friends?’ said Jason, confused. ‘She knows everyone,’ I said, but I wasn’t sure how true that rang any more. She knew a lot of other people, but I was starting to realise that we were her only real friends. ‘Well, she can fuck off, then, if she’s gonna be like that,’ said Pip, but her heart wasn’t in it. Jason rolled his eyes at her. ‘Pip.’ ‘What?’ ‘Just … you don’t have to keep doing that. We both know you like her.’ ‘What?’ Pip’s head snapped up. ‘What – no, no I don’t, like – I mean yes I like her as a person – I mean, I admire her as a director and a creative person but her personality is very intense so I wouldn’t say I liked her, I just appreciate who she is and what she does …’ ‘But you fancy her,’ I stated. ‘It’s not a crime.’ ‘No.’ Pip folded her arms over her jacket. ‘No, absolutely not, Georgia, she’s – she’s objectively extremely hot and yes in any ordinary situation she would be exactly my type and I know you know that but – I mean, she’s straight and she literally hates me, so even if I did, what would be the point –’ ‘Pip!’ I said, exasperated. She shut her mouth. She knew there was nothing she could say to hide it any more. ‘I think I should go find her,’ I continued. ‘Why?’ ‘Just to check she’s OK.’ Pip and Jason didn’t protest, so I left to go and find Rooney. I had a feeling that, if she continued to get even drunker, she was going to do something she regretted. Rooney was nowhere to be found. There were hundreds of students swarming the college, and it was difficult to even get through the corridors, let alone spot anyone in the crowds standing around chatting, laughing, singing, dancing. She was in there somewhere, no doubt. Rooney seemed to operate like she was a video-game protagonist in a world of non-player characters. I hung around the marquee for a while, hoping she might show up, but even if she was here, I probably wouldn’t have found her. It was packed because this was where all the fun activities were – a photo booth, popcorn and candyfloss stalls, a rodeo bull, and the main attraction: ‘Capulet vs Montague’, which looked like a bouncy castle with two raised platforms inside, upon which two students would battle it out with inflatable swords until one person fell down. I watched a few people play, and I really did want to have a go, but I didn’t know where Rooney was and I’d have felt kind of embarrassed to ask her. I guess I had this feeling that she’d just say no. I got another drink from the bar, which I didn’t need because I was already drunk, and stumbled aimlessly around the ball and all its various rooms. The more I drank, the more I could space out and not care about being alone, in every sense of the word. It was hard to forget, though, when every single song that was playing overhead was about romantic love. Obviously this was deliberate – the theme was Romeo and Juliet, for God’s sake – but it still pissed me off. Everything started to remind me of the prom afterparty. The flashing lights on the dance floor, the love songs, the laughter, the suits and dresses. When I had been at that party, I had felt that this was my world, and one day, I would be one of these people. I didn’t feel like that any more. I would never be one of these people. Flirting. Falling in love. Happily ever after. I went to curl up in the tea room, only to find myself stuck opposite a couple who were making out in the corner. I hated them. I tried to ignore them and drank my wine while scrolling through Instagram. ‘Georgia.’ An incredibly loud voice shattered the relaxing atmosphere of the room, startling everyone in the room. I turned towards the door and found Pip there in her green jacket, one hand on her hip and a plastic cup undoubtedly full of alcohol in the other. She grinned sheepishly at the sudden attention. ‘Er, sorry. Didn’t know this was the quiet room.’ She tiptoed over and crouched down next to me, spilling a drop of her drink on the floor. ‘Where’s Rooney?’ she asked. I just shrugged. ‘Oh. Well, I have come to challenge you to a Capulet vs Montague duel.’ ‘The bouncy castle thing?’ ‘This is so much more than a bouncy castle, my dude. This is an ultimate test of endurance, agility and mental fortitude.’ ‘It looks exactly like a bouncy castle to me.’ She grabbed my wrist and hoisted me up. ‘Just come and try it! Jason said he needed a nap already so he’s gone back to Castle.’ ‘Wait … He’s gone?’ ‘Yeah. He’ll be fine, you know he’s terrible at staying up late.’ I immediately felt guilty – it was my fault Jason was in a mood – and I clambered to my feet, only for the world to move around me, nearly sending me crashing back down. Pip frowned. ‘Jesus. How much have you drunk?’ ‘Oh,’ said Pip as we entered the marquee. At first, I assumed she was referring to the state of the marquee. When I had come in here at the start of the night, it had been shiny and exciting, colourful and new. Now it looked like a run-down fairground. The floor was sticky and scattered with trampled popcorn. The stalls were less busy and the staff operating them looked tired. But Pip wasn’t referring to any of that, which I realised when we were approached by Rooney in her Bond villain dress. She was still, impossibly, wearing her heels, and she must have just touched up her make-up, because she looked radiant. Highlighter shimmering, contour as sharp as a knife, she smiled down at Pip with wide, dark eyes. She was also obviously quite drunk. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, smirking. ‘Who invited you? You’re not a John’s student.’ Pip smirked right back, immediately going along with the joke. ‘I snuck in. I’m a master of stealth.’ ‘Where did you go?’ I asked Rooney. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said. She put on a voice that made her sound like a rich heiress. ‘I’ve just been around, darling.’ ‘We were just about to have a bouncy castle battle,’ said Pip. ‘You can join us. Someone’s about to get absolutely wrecked.’ Rooney smiled at her with a hint of menace. ‘Well, I do love wrecking people.’ ‘OK,’ I found myself saying. If I had been sober, I probably would have just let this play out, but I was drunk and tired and fed up with both of them, and every time they gazed at each other with that fiery passion that bordered love and irritation, I wanted to die because that would never happen to me. I looked at Pip, whose bow tie was askew and her glasses too far down her nose, and at Rooney, whose foundation was not hiding the flustered blush on her skin. And then I looked between them at the ‘Capulet vs Montague’ challenge. ‘I think you two should go first,’ I said, pointing at it. ‘Against each other. Just to get it out of your system. Please.’ ‘I’m in,’ said Rooney, meeting Pip’s glare with knife eyes. ‘I … OK,’ Pip spluttered. ‘Fine. But I’m not gonna go easy on you.’ ‘Do I look like the sort of person who likes it when people go easy on me?’ Pip’s eyes drifted down Rooney’s dress, then quickly back up. ‘No.’ ‘Well then.’ This was becoming absolutely unbearable, so I walked up to the guy operating the contraption and said, ‘These two want a go.’ He nodded wearily, then gestured at the two raised platforms. ‘Climb on.’ The two girls didn’t speak as they clambered on to the bouncy castle, Rooney kicking her heels off as she went, and then on to the two raised platforms. This was clearly more difficult than either of them had anticipated – Pip’s skinny trousers were only slightly more practical than Rooney’s tight dress – but they made it, and the guy handed them each what looked like a swimming pool noodle. ‘You have three minutes,’ he droned, gesturing to the countdown timer on display at the back of the bouncy castle. ‘The aim is to knock the other person off their platform before the time runs out. Are you ready?’ Rooney nodded with the intense focus of a tennis player at Wimbledon. ‘Fuck yeah,’ said Pip, gripping her noodle. The guy sighed. Then he pressed a button on the floor, and a beep sounded three times. A countdown. Three. Two. One. Start. Rooney went straight for the jugular immediately. She swung the noodle wildly towards Pip, but Pip saw it coming and blocked it with her own noodle, though not without wobbling on her platform. The platforms were circular and could only have been half a metre in diameter. This probably wasn’t going to last very long. Pip laughed. ‘Not fucking around, then?’ Rooney grinned. ‘No, I’m trying to win.’ Pip thrust her noodle forward in an attempt to push Rooney backwards, but Rooney swerved her torso, doing an almost ninety-degree bend to one side. ‘All right, gymnast,’ said Pip. ‘Dance, actually,’ Rooney shot back. ‘Until I was fourteen.’ She swung the noodle at Pip once again, but Pip blocked it. And the fight began. Rooney swung this way and that, but Pip’s reflexes only seemed to have been sharpened by the alcohol she’d drunk, which made no sense whatsoever. Rooney swiped left, Pip parried, Rooney swiped right, Pip dodged. Pip jabbed forward, trying to push Rooney back by the shoulder, and for a moment, I thought it was all over, but Rooney regained her balance with a sly grin, and the battle continued. ‘Your concentration face is so funny,’ said Rooney, laughing. She did an impression of Pip’s scrunched-up expression. ‘Er, not as funny as your face is gonna be when I win,’ Pip shot back. But there was a hint of a smile on her face too. There were more swings and jabs and at one point they were having a full-on lightsaber battle. Pip prodded Rooney in the side and she nearly went down, saving herself at the last second by using her noodle as a crutch, which made Pip laugh so hard she nearly fell off on her own. That was when I realised that they were enjoying themselves. That was also when all the alcohol rushed to the top of my head and I felt like I was going to fall over. I stumbled as carefully as I could over to the side of the marquee and sat down against the fabric to watch the finale. I couldn’t help but notice that Rooney, as ruthless as she appeared from her wild, large swings, was strategically avoiding Pip’s face so as not to hit her glasses. Pip, however, was out for blood. ‘Why are you so bendy?’ Pip cried as Rooney dodged another jab. ‘Just one of my many charms!’ ‘Many charms? Plural?’ ‘I think you know all about them, pipsqueak.’ Pip swung her noodle at Rooney, but Rooney blocked it. ‘You are a fucking nightmare.’ Rooney smirked back. ‘I am and you love it.’ Pip released what could only be described as a war cry. She jabbed the noodle at Rooney, then again, and then a third time, knocking the girl back slightly each time, and on the fourth, Rooney went down, falling perfectly backwards from the podium and down on to the bouncy castle, letting out a short scream as she went. ‘YES!’ Pip cried, holding her noodle aloft in victory. The guy operating the bouncy castle stopped the timer and gestured vaguely at Pip. ‘Glasses wins.’ Pip leapt off the podium and started bouncing next to Rooney, making it hard for her to get up. ‘Having some trouble down there, mate?’ Rooney tried to get to her feet but just ended up tumbling back down again as Pip bounced next to her. ‘Oh my God, stop –’ ‘I thought you were a dancer! Where’s your coordination?’ ‘We didn’t dance on bouncy castles!’ Pip finally slowed down her bouncing, coming to a halt and holding out a hand to help Rooney up. Rooney looked at it, and I could see her considering, but she didn’t take it, instead standing up on her own. ‘Good game,’ she said, one eyebrow raised. Then she walked away – or, rather, clambered away across the bouncy castle and rolled over the edge on to solid ground. ‘You’re not gonna be a sore loser, are you?’ Pip called after her, also dropping down and rolling off the contraption. Rooney tutted so loud even I heard her from across the marquee. ‘Oh.’ Pip grinned. ‘You are. I should have guessed.’ Rooney started cramming her feet back into her heels. She probably wanted to regain her significant height advantage against Pip. ‘Hey!’ Pip raised her voice, calling after her. ‘Why d’you hate me so much?’ Rooney stopped. ‘Yeah, that’s right!’ Pip continued, raising her arms. ‘I said it! Why d’you hate me? We’re both drunk so we might as well just get it out there! Is it because I was Georgia’s best friend first so I’m in the way?’ Rooney said nothing, but she finished putting on her heels and stood up to her full height. ‘Or do you just hate who I am as a person?’ Rooney swung round and said, ‘You are very stupid. And you should have let me win.’ There was a pause. ‘Sometimes I get to have what I want,’ said Pip with unnerving calmness. ‘Sometimes, I get to be the person who wins.’ I barely had time to think about the statement, because Rooney was about to erupt. She scrunched her hands into fists, and I could sense a real argument was coming, drink-fuelled and embarrassing to look back on. I needed to stop it. I needed to end this before it got any worse. These were the only two friends I had left. So I hauled myself to my feet, which was a task in my dress. I opened my mouth to speak. To try and bring this to a halt. Maybe even to try and help. But what actually happened was all the blood rushed to my head. Stars tingled at the corner of my vision and my hearing went fuzzy. And then I passed out. I regained consciousness to find Pip patting my face slightly too hard. ‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God,’ she was stammering. ‘Please stop slapping me,’ I mumbled. Rooney was there too, the annoyance completely gone from her expression and replaced by serious concern. ‘Holy shit, Georgia. How much did you drink?’ ‘I … fourteen.’ ‘Fourteen what?’ ‘Fourteen drinks.’ ‘No, you didn’t.’ ‘OK, I can’t remember how much I drank.’ ‘So why did you say fourteen?’ ‘Sounded like a good number.’ We were interrupted by a few other students peering over Pip and Rooney’s shoulders, asking politely if I was OK. I realised I was still lying on the floor, which was awkward, so I sat up and reassured everyone that I was fine and had just had a bit too much to drink, which they chuckled at and went on with their evening. If I hadn’t been absolutely pissed out of my head, I would have been deeply embarrassed, but thankfully I was, and the only thing going through my mind was how much I wanted to throw up. Rooney pulled me to my feet, one arm round my waist, which seemed to annoy Pip for some reason. ‘We should go chill in the cinema room for a bit,’ said Rooney. ‘We’ve still got six hours to kill. We can get you sobered up.’ Six hours? Sober was the last thing I wanted to be right now. ‘Noooo,’ I mumbled, but Rooney either ignored me or didn’t hear me. ‘Let me go. I’m fine.’ ‘Clearly you are not, and we’re going to sit on a beanbag with some water for the next half an hour whether you like it or not.’ ‘You’re not my mum.’ ‘Well, your real mum would thank me.’ Rooney supported most of my weight as we walked through the floral, twinkling corridors of college, Pip trailing behind us. Nobody spoke until we reached the door of the cinema room and a loud voice behind us cried, ‘PIP! Oh my God, hi!’ In my hazy state I peered behind me at the voice. It belonged to a guy leading a large group of people who I didn’t recognise, most likely because they were from Pip’s college. ‘Come hang with us,’ the guy continued. ‘We’re all going to dance for a bit.’ Pip shuffled awkwardly. ‘Oh – er …’ She turned back to look at me. I didn’t really know what to say, but thankfully Rooney spoke for me. ‘Just go. She’ll be fine with me.’ I nodded in agreement, giving her a wobbly thumbs-up. ‘OK, well … erm … I’ll meet you back here in, like, an hour?’ said Pip. ‘Yeah,’ said Rooney, and then we turned away, and Pip was gone. ‘Here,’ said Rooney, handing me a large glass of water and a toastie in a folded-up napkin as she slumped down next to me on a beanbag. I took them obediently. ‘What’s in this?’ I said, waving the toastie. ‘Cheese and Marmite.’ ‘Risky choice,’ I said, biting down into it. ‘What if I hated Marmite?’ ‘It was the only filling they had left so you’re gonna eat it and make do.’ Thankfully, I love Marmite, and even if I didn’t, I probably would have eaten it anyway because I was suddenly ravenous. The nausea had passed, and my stomach felt painfully empty, so I munched on the toastie while we watched the movie that was currently playing on the screen. We were the only people in the room. Distantly we could hear the thumping of the DJ’s music in the dance hall, which was no doubt where most people were. There was also some chattering coming from the room opposite, which was serving free tea and toasties, and occasionally loud laughter and voices would drift past the door as students went about their night together, doing whatever to pass the time until the end of the ball at dawn. It didn’t feel like a ball any more – it felt like a giant sleepover where nobody wanted to be the first to go to sleep. The movie was the best adaptation of Romeo and Juliet – Baz Luhrmann’s nineties one with Leonardo DiCaprio. We hadn’t missed much – Romeo was walking moodily along the beach – so we settled down into the beanbag to watch, not speaking. We stayed that way, engrossed, for the next forty-five minutes. That was roughly how long it took me to sober up a little and for my brain to start working again. ‘Where’d you go?’ was the first thing I said. Rooney didn’t look away from the screen. ‘I’m right here?’ ‘No … earlier. You left and then you were gone.’ There was a pause. ‘Just hanging out with some people. Sorry. I … yeah. Sorry about that.’ She glanced at me. ‘You were OK, though, right?’ I could barely remember how I’d spent the time between dinner and the bouncy castle battle. Wandering through the dance hall, sitting in the tea room, exploring the marquee but not having a go on any of the stalls. ‘Yeah, I was fine,’ I said. ‘Good. Did you dance with Jason?’ Oh. And there was that. ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Oh. How come?’ I wanted to tell her everything. I was going to tell her everything. Was it the alcohol? The buzz of the ball? The fact that Rooney was starting to know me better than anyone, all because she slept two metres from me every night? ‘Me and Jason isn’t going to happen,’ I said. She nodded. ‘Yeah, I … I guess I got that impression, but … I just assumed you were still dating.’ ‘No. I ended it.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because …’ The words were on the tip of my tongue. Because I am aromantic and asexual. But it sounded clunky. They still felt like fake words in my brain, secret words, whispered words that didn’t belong in the real world. It wasn’t that I thought Rooney would react badly – she wouldn’t react with disgust or anger. She wasn’t like that. But I thought she would react with awkwardness. With confusion. An er, OK, what the fuck is that? She would nod politely once I explained it, but in her head she would be thinking Oh my God, Georgia’s really weird. Somehow, that felt almost as bad. ‘Because I don’t like guys,’ I said. As soon as I said it, I realised my mistake. ‘Oh,’ said Rooney. ‘Oh my God.’ She sat up, nodding, taking this information in. ‘That’s OK. Fuck. I mean, I’m glad you realised. Congrats, I guess?’ She laughed. ‘It seems way better to not be attracted to guys. Girls are much nicer all round.’ Then she made a pained expression. ‘Oh my God. I spent so much time and energy trying to set you up with Jason. Why didn’t you say anything?’ Before I had time to respond, she interrupted herself. ‘No, sorry, that’s an idiotic thing to say. Obviously you were working shit out. That’s fine. I mean, that’s what university is for, isn’t it? Experimenting and figuring out who you actually like.’ She patted me firmly on the leg. ‘And you know what this means? Now we can focus on finding you a nice girl to date! Oh my God. I know so many cute girls who would like you. You have to come with me on a night out next week. I can introduce you to so many girls.’ All the time she was monologuing, I felt myself getting hotter and hotter. If I didn’t speak up, I was going to lose my nerve and start going along with this new lie and then I’d have to go through the whole trying-to-date thing again. ‘I don’t really want to do that,’ I said, fiddling with the now-empty toastie napkin. ‘Oh. OK, yeah. Sure. That’s fine.’ Rooney sipped on her own glass of water and spent a few moments watching the screen. Then she continued. ‘You don’t have to get into dating right now. You’ve got so much time.’ So much time. I wanted to laugh. ‘I don’t think I will,’ I said. ‘Will what?’ ‘Date. Ever. I don’t like girls either. I don’t like anyone.’ The words echoed around the room. There was a long pause. And then Rooney laughed. ‘You are drunk,’ she said. I was, a little, but that wasn’t the point. And she’d laughed. That annoyed me. That was how I’d expected her to react. That was how I expected everyone to react. Pitying, awkward laughter. ‘I don’t like guys,’ I said. ‘And I don’t like girls. I don’t like anyone. So I’m never going to date anyone.’ Rooney said nothing for a few moments. And then she said, ‘Listen, Georgia. You might feel that way right now, but … don’t give up hope. Maybe you’re going through a rough patch at the moment, like, I don’t know, the stress of starting uni or whatever, but … you will meet someone you like one day. Everyone does.’ No, they don’t, was what I wanted to say. Not everyone. Not me. ‘It’s a real thing,’ I said. ‘It’s a … it’s a real sexuality. When you don’t like anyone.’ I couldn’t say the actual words, though. It probably wouldn’t have helped if I had. ‘OK,’ said Rooney. ‘Well, how do you know that you are … that? How do you know that you won’t meet someone one day who you really like?’ I stared at her. Of course she didn’t understand. Rooney wasn’t the romance expert I’d thought she was. I was pretty sure I knew more than her at this point. ‘I’ve never had a crush on anyone in my life,’ I said, but my voice was quiet and I didn’t even sound confident, let alone feel confident about who I was. ‘I … I like the idea of it, but … the reality …’ I trailed off, feeling a lump in my throat. If I tried to explain it, I knew I would just start crying. It was still so new. I’d never tried to explain it to anyone before. ‘Have you kissed a girl, then?’ I looked at her. She was looking at me level-headedly. Almost like a challenge. ‘No,’ I said. ‘So how do you know you don’t like that?’ Deep down, I knew this was an unfair question. You didn’t have to try something to know for sure you don’t like it. I knew I didn’t like skydiving. I definitely didn’t need to try that out to prove it. But I was drunk. And so was she. ‘I dunno,’ I said. ‘Maybe you should give it a go before you … you know. Completely reject the idea that you could possibly find someone.’ Rooney laughed again. She wasn’t trying to do it in a mean way. But that was how it felt. I knew she just wanted to help. And that sort of made it worse. She was trying to be a good friend, but she was saying all the wrong things because she didn’t have the faintest idea what it was like to be me. ‘Maybe,’ I mumbled, leaning back into the beanbag. ‘Why don’t you try with me?’ Wait. What? ‘What?’ I said, turning my head to face her. She rolled to one side so her whole body was facing mine, then held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I literally just want to help. I absolutely don’t like you that way – no offence – but you might be able to get a sense of whether it’s something you might like. I want to help.’ ‘But … I don’t like you like that,’ I said. ‘Even if I was gay, I wouldn’t necessarily feel something just because you’re a girl.’ ‘OK, maybe not,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I just don’t want to see you give up without trying.’ She was annoying me, and I realised that it was because what I was doing wasn’t ‘giving up’. It was acceptance. And maybe, just maybe, that could be a good thing. ‘I don’t want you to feel like you’re going to be sad and lonely forever!’ she said, and that was the moment I broke a little. Was that all I would be? Sad and lonely? Forever? Had I doomed myself by daring to think about this part of me? Was I just accepting a life of solitude? As soon as those questions hit me, they opened the floodgate to all the doubts I thought I’d been fighting off. Maybe it was all just a phase. Maybe this was giving up. Maybe I should keep trying. Maybe, maybe, maybe. ‘Fine, then,’ I said. ‘You wanna try?’ I sighed, defeated, tired. I was so tired of all this. ‘Yeah. Go on, then.’ It couldn’t really be any worse than the one with Jason, could it? And so she leant in. It was different. Rooney was used to deeper, longer kisses of an entirely different type. She led. I tried to imitate her. I hated it. I hated it just as I had hated the kiss with Jason. I hated how close her face was to me. I hated the feeling of her lips moving around against mine. I hated her breath on my skin. My eyes kept flickering open, trying to get a sense of when this was going to be over, while she put her hand on the back of my head, pulling me closer to her. I tried to imagine doing this with a person I liked, but it was a mirage. The harder I tried to think about that scenario, the quicker it disintegrated. I was never, ever going to enjoy this. With anybody. It wasn’t just a dislike of kissing. It wasn’t a fear or nervousness or ‘not meeting the right person yet’. This was a part of me. I did not feel the feelings of attraction, of romance, of desire, that other people felt. And I wasn’t ever going to. I really hadn’t needed to kiss anyone to work that out. Rooney, on the other hand, was going for it, which I assumed was what she did with everybody. The way she kissed made it feel like she really did like me, but I realised suddenly that I knew her better than that. It was never about the other person. She was using this to make her feel good about herself. I didn’t have the energy to start to understand what that meant. ‘Oh,’ said a voice from behind us. Rooney moved away from me instantly, and I, hazy and a little weirded out by this whole situation, turned to see who it was. I should have guessed, really. Because the universe seemed to have it in for me already. Pip had her jacket folded over one arm and a toastie in her other hand. ‘I …’ she said, then trailed off. She was looking at me, eyes wide, then at Rooney, then back at me again. ‘I brought you a toastie, but …’ She looked at the toastie. ‘It – er, fucking hell.’ She looked back at both of us. ‘Wow. Fuck you both.’ Rooney leapt to her feet. ‘Hang on, you literally don’t understand what was just happening.’ Pip’s stare hardened. ‘I think it’s pretty plainly obvious what was just happening,’ she said. ‘So don’t try and insult me by lying about it.’ ‘I’m not, but –’ ‘If this was a thing, you could have at least told me about it.’ She turned her stare to me, her face scarily blank of emotion. ‘You could have at least told me about it.’ And then she walked out of the room. Rooney wasted no time in running after her, and I quickly followed. I needed to explain. Rooney needed to explain. Everyone just needed to stop lying and acting and pretending all the time. Rooney grabbed Pip’s shoulders just as she got to the end of the corridor and pulled her round to face her. ‘Pip, just listen –’ ‘To WHAT?’ Pip shouted, then lowered her voice as a few passing students turned round curiously. ‘If you’re seeing each other fine, just go and fuck each other and enjoy yourselves, but you could have at least done me the courtesy of informing me so I could try and put a stop to my feelings and not be absolutely fucking crushed right now –’ Her voice broke and there were tears in her eyes. I wanted to explain, but I couldn’t speak. I had ruined my friendship with Jason and now I was destroying my friendship with Pip too. ‘I don’t – we don’t – we’re not together!’ Rooney gestured to me wildly. ‘I swear! It was my fucking idea because I’m an idiot! Georgia’s just been figuring shit out and I’ve just been making stuff worse, making her date Jason as an experiment when she never really wanted to do that, and now this –’ It felt like the walls shattered around us. Pip clenched her fists. ‘Wait …’ She turned to me. ‘You – Jason was just an experiment?’ ‘I …’ I wanted to say no, he wasn’t, I thought I liked him, I genuinely wanted to fall for him, but … was that a lie? Pip’s face crumpled. She took a step towards me, and now she was shouting. ‘How could you do that? How could you do that to him?’ I stepped back, feeling tears forming. Don’t cry. Do not cry. ‘Stop blaming her!’ Rooney shouted back. ‘She was figuring out her sexuality!’ ‘Well, she shouldn’t have done that with our best friend who’d only just got out of a relationship that made him feel like an actual piece of SHIT!’ She was right. I’d fucked up. I’d fucked up so bad. Rooney physically put an arm in between me and Pip. ‘Stop trying to make this about something else when we know what this is about!’ ‘Oh yeah?’ Pip’s voice lowered. There were tear stains down her cheeks. ‘What’s this about, then?’ ‘About the fact that you hate me. You think I’m taking Georgia away from you and because she’s one of your only two friends, you despise me because you think I’m replacing you in her life.’ There was a silence. Pip’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t know anything,’ she said hoarsely, and turned round. ‘I’m leaving.’ ‘Wait!’ I said. The first fucking thing I’d said. Pip turned back, struggling to say anything through her tears. ‘What? Got anything to say?’ I didn’t. I couldn’t form the words. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said. ‘You never have anything to say.’ And then she was gone. Rooney went right after her, but I stayed where I was in the corridor. The walls around me were made of paper flowers. Above me were twinkling fairy lights. Students passed, laughing, holding hands, wearing stylish suits and sparkly dresses. The song playing overhead was ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ by Candi Staton. I hated all of it. I wandered through dimly lit corridors and raucous crowds. I stood at the edge of the dance hall as the band were finishing their set, playing a slow song so all the couples could hold each other and sway. It made me feel sick. Rooney and Pip were nowhere, so I went back to my room. It was the only thing I could think to do. I looked at myself in the mirror for a long time, wondering if this was the moment when I would just collapse, I could just let it out and start sobbing because I had fucked it all up. I had fucked everything up in my quest to understand who I was. Despite the fact that Pip and Jason had so much to deal with on their own, I had only truly been thinking about myself. But I didn’t cry. I was silent. I didn’t want to be awake any more. I went to sleep for a few hours, and when I woke up I could hear the thumping of people having sex in the room above me. This was, perhaps, the final straw. Was everyone just having sex and falling in love all the time? Why? How was it fair that everyone got to feel that except me? I wished everyone would stop. I wished sex and love didn’t exist. I stormed out of the room, not even taking my phone with me, ran up the stairs to the corridor above two at a time, not quite knowing what I was going to do when I got there, but I could at least see whose room it was and maybe at a later date I could track them down and tell them to stop being so loud … When I reached the point in the corridor that was above my room, I stopped, and stood very still. It was a utility room. Inside: six washing machines and six dryers. One of the washing machines was on. It was making a rhythmic thumping sound against the wall. Back in my room, I realised that it was only ten minutes until 6 a.m. – the time of the fabled ‘Survivors Photo’. I’d just go and have a look. See how many people had made it. The answer was not very many. Of the hundreds of students that had been bustling around college earlier, there could only have been about eighty left, and they’d all congregated in the dance hall. A tired-looking photographer was waiting for the drunk, sleep-deprived students to organise themselves into rows. I didn’t know whether to join them or not. I felt like a bit of a fraud, since I’d basically napped through the last five hours. ‘Georgia!’ I turned, scared that I’d face Jason or Rooney or Pip, but it was none of them. Sunil approached me from the dance hall’s doorway. His tie was undone, his baby blue jacket was slung over one arm, and he looked unnaturally awake for 6 a.m. He clapped his hands on to my upper arms and shook me a little. ‘You made it! You made it to six a.m.! I’m very impressed. I gave up at midnight when I was a fresher.’ ‘I … had a nap,’ I said. Sunil grinned. ‘Good shout. Got to be strategic about these things. Jess went for a nap a couple of hours ago but hasn’t resurfaced, so I think she’s failed again this year.’ I blinked. I didn’t know what to say to him. ‘So, no one else make it? Rooney? Pip? Jason?’ ‘Uh …’ I looked around. Neither Rooney, Pip nor Jason were anywhere to be seen. I had no idea where anyone was. ‘No. Just me.’ Sunil nodded. ‘Ah, well. You’ll get to brag tomorrow.’ He wrapped an arm round my shoulder and started walking us towards the throng of students. ‘You’re a survivor!’ I tried to smile, but it just turned into a lip wobble. Sunil didn’t see, too busy leading us onward. I blinked again. And then I said it. ‘I think I might be … asexual. And also aromantic. Both of them.’ Sunil stopped walking. ‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘Uh … yeah,’ I said, looking at the floor. ‘Um. Don’t really know what to do about that.’ Sunil stayed very still for a moment. Then he moved, his arm dropping away from me and turned so that he was standing directly in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders and bent a little so that our faces were level. ‘There’s nothing to do, Georgia,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing to do at all.’ And then the photographer started getting impatient and shouted at everyone to get organised, so Sunil marched us over to the scrum and we squeezed into the third row next to a couple of his friends, and as he turned away to chat to them, only then did I realise that what I’d said was undeniably true. I knew that now. Sunil turned back, squeezed my shoulder and said, ‘You’re gonna be OK. There’s nothing you have to do except be.’ ‘But … what if what I am is just … nothing?’ I breathed out and blinked as the photographer took the first shot. ‘What if I’m nothing?’ ‘You’re not nothing,’ Sunil said. ‘You have to believe that.’ Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could believe. The morning after the Bailey Ball, Rooney came back to our room at nearly midday. I’d still been asleep, but she kicked the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall, then said something about having slept at some guy’s place, before kicking off her shoes, pulling her dress over her head, and standing in the centre of the room, staring at Roderick the house plant, who was basically close to death. And then she got into bed. She didn’t say anything about what had happened with me or with Pip. I didn’t want to talk to her either, so as soon as I was up and dressed, I went to the library. I walked right up to the top floor where there were tables tucked behind long cases of books on finance and business. I stayed there until dinnertime, finishing one of this term’s assignments, not thinking about anything that had happened. I was definitely not thinking about anything that had happened. When I got back, Rooney awoke, just in time for dinner in the college cafeteria. We walked down there together, saying nothing, and we ate together sitting next to a group of students I recognised as Rooney’s acquaintances, but she still said nothing. When we got back to our room, she changed into her pyjamas, got right back into bed, and fell asleep again. I stayed awake, staring at Pip’s jacket in the corner of the room – the one she’d left here in Freshers’ Week. The one I’d kept forgetting to give back to her. When I woke up in our room on Sunday, I felt disgusting, realising I hadn’t showered since before the Bailey Ball. So I showered. I got dressed in a fresh T-shirt and a warm cardigan, and I exited the room, leaving Rooney alone in bed, only her ponytail poking out of the top of her duvet. I went to the library again with the intention of getting another essay done. My first assignments of my university life were all due next week before the winter holidays, and I still had a lot to do. But once I’d swiped into the library with my campus card and found a vacant table, I just sat there with my laptop, staring at my old message threads with Pip and Jason. I drafted a separate message to each of them. It took two hours. To Jason, I sent: Georgia Warr I’m so, so sorry for everything. I didn’t properly think about how this would affect you – I was only thinking about myself. You are one of the most important people in my life and I took advantage of that without thinking. You deserve someone who worships you. I honestly wish that I did feel that way but I can’t – I literally am not attracted to anyone, no matter their gender. I’ve tried really hard to be, but I’m just not. I’m so sorry for everything. To Pip, I sent: Georgia Warr Hey, I know you’re not talking to me, and I understand why, but I just want you to know the facts: Rooney kissed me because I’ve been very confused about my sexuality and she wanted to help me see if I liked girls. This was a very dumb thing for both of us to do – it didn’t help me in any way whatsoever, wasn’t really what I wanted to do at all, and we were both drunk. We’re really not into each other and both seriously regret it. So I’m really really sorry. Both of them read the messages within the hour. Neither of them responded. Despite us living literally in the same bedroom, the first proper conversation I had with Rooney after the events of the Bailey Ball came on the Monday before the end of term in an introduction to drama lecture. I was sitting alone near the back, which was my usual spot, when she appeared in my peripheral vision and sat down next to me. She was in her day look – leggings, a St John’s polo shirt, hair in a ponytail – but her eyes were wild as she stared at me and waited for me to say something. I didn’t want to talk to her. I was annoyed at her. I knew that what had happened was my fault as well as hers, but I was angry at how she’d reacted when I’d tried to explain my feelings. She hadn’t even tried to understand. ‘Hello,’ I said flatly. ‘Hi,’ she said back. ‘I need to talk to you.’ ‘I … don’t really want to talk to you,’ I said. ‘I know. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.’ But then neither of us could, because we were both interrupted by the professor starting her lecture on Pinter’s The Birthday Party. Instead of leaving the issue, Rooney withdrew her iPad from her bag, opened up a notes app, and laid it on the table in front of us, close enough to me so that I could see the screen. She started tapping, and I assumed she was just taking notes on the lecture, but then she stopped and pushed the screen towards me. I’m so, so sorry about what happened at the bailey ball. It was entirely my fault and I was a fucking dick to you when you were trying to tell me something important. Oh. OK. That was unexpected. I looked at Rooney. She raised her eyebrows and nodded at the iPad, gesturing for me to respond. What was I supposed to say? I cautiously raised my hands and began to type. okay Rooney paused, then tapped furiously at the keyboard. I know we were drunk but that’s literally not an excuse for the way I acted. You know when straight guys find out that a girl is gay and they’re all like ‘haha but you haven’t kissed me so how do you know you’re gay’. That is basically what I did to you!!! This whole time I’ve been pestering you about finding a relationship and kissing people and getting out there … I kept telling you to try with Jason and when you tried to tell me you didn’t actually want any of that, I didn’t even listen. And then I thought kissing would be a good idea because I always think kissing just solves everything!!!! You’ve been figuring out your sexuality for months and I did everything wrong. EVERYTHING. I had so many ideas about how people should feel about romance and sex and all that, but … it’s all just bullshit and I’m so sorry I’m literally so dumb and I’m an asshole I WANT YOU TO TELL ME I’M AN ASSHOLE I raised an eyebrow and then typed, okay you’re an asshole Rooney actually grinned at this. R – Thank you G – no problem I hadn’t even expected her to apologise, let alone understand why what she’d done had been bad. But she had. I decided to be bold and type out: so as it turns out, I am aromantic asexual Rooney gave me a look. It wasn’t the ‘what the fuck is that?’ look that I expected. It was a curious look. Curious. A little concerned, maybe, but not in a bad way. Just honestly wanting to know what’s going on with me. yeah I was confused about it too haha it means i’m not attracted to anyone romantically or sexually no matter their gender sorta been figuring that out lately Rooney watched me type. Then she took a moment to think before she responded. R – Wow … I didn’t even know that was a thing!!! I always assumed it was like … you like guys or girls or some sort of combo G – haha yeah same hence all the confusion R – It sounds really difficult to figure out … I’m proud of you!!!!!! It was far from a perfect response to someone coming out. But it was so distinctly Rooney that it brought a smile to my face. R – Are you feeling okay about it? G – to be honest not really. but i think i will be in time? like … realising and accepting that this is who i am is the first couple of steps and i have done that now i guess?? Before typing a response back, Rooney simply put her head on my shoulder and rested it there for a few seconds, in lieu of a real hug, which would have been a bit difficult in the middle of a lecture. R – I guess I can’t really relate but I’m here for you. Like, if you ever wanna rant about it or just talk things through!! G – really?? R – Georgia. We are friends. G – oh R – I mean, we have KISSED. Sort of. Platonically made out. G – i’m aware R – Sorry about that. Again. Was it really horrible for you???? G – i mean. it did feel a little bit disgusting yes R – Oh!! G – no offence R – No I like it. you’re definitely the anti-me G – we are very opposite people, yes R – Very refreshing G – love that for us R – Tasty G – delicious content R – 10/10 We both started giggling, and then we couldn’t stop, until the professor shushed us and we looked at each other, grinning. Everything might have been shit still, I’d hurt my two best friends and I knew I had so far to go before I could even begin to like who I was, but at least I had Rooney sitting next to me, laughing instead of crying. The internet is a blessing and a curse. Googling ‘aromantic asexual’ unleashed a quantity of information I was not mentally or emotionally prepared for. The first time I searched it, I quickly exited the window and didn’t search again for a whole day. My animalistic instinct was this is stupid. This is fake. This is a made-up internet thing that is stupid and fake and absolutely not me. And yet, it was me. Sunil and Jess were not the only ones. There were thousands of people on the internet who identified this way and were very happy to do so. In fact, people had been using the word ‘asexual’ as a sexual identity since as far back as 1907. So it wasn’t even an ‘internet thing’ at all. Sunil had explained it pretty concisely, to be fair. The internet informed me that asexual simply meant little-to-no sexual attraction, and aromantic meant little-to-no romantic attraction. On a more intense internet dive, I discovered there was actually a lot of debate over these definitions because people’s experiences and feelings could be so vastly different, but at that point, I decided to log the hell off again. It was too much. Too confusing. Too new. I wondered whether Sunil had ever felt like this about his own asexuality, and after I scrolled down his Instagram for a while, I found he had a blog. It was called ‘Diary of a Cellist at Durham’, and it had posts about all sorts of things – studying music, Durham activities, his daily routine, his role in Pride Soc and in the student orchestra. He’d also posted a few times about asexuality. One post stuck out to me, where he’d written about how he’d initially found it difficult to accept his asexuality. Sexuality in general was very taboo in Indian culture, he’d explained, and when he’d looked for support, he’d found that the asexual community – even online – was incredibly white. But after finding a group of Indian asexuals online, he’d started to feel proud of his identity. Sunil had no doubt been on a very different journey to me, and a lot of things that he’d dealt with, I would be shielded from due to being white and cis. But it was reassuring to know that he too had felt some anxiety about being asexual. People didn’t always love who they were right away. I soon found the courage to continue googling. It turned out that lots of asexual people still wanted to have sex for all sorts of different reasons, but some felt totally neutral about it, and others – what I’d originally thought – literally despised it. Some asexual people still masturbated; others didn’t have libidos at all. It also turned out that lots of aromantic people still wanted to be in romantic relationships, despite not feeling those feels. Others didn’t ever want a romantic partner. And people identified as all sorts of combinations of romantic and sexual – there were gay asexuals, like Sunil, or bisexual aromantics, like Jess, or straight asexuals, pansexual aromantics, and loads more. Some asexual and aromantic people didn’t even like splitting up their attraction into two labels, and some just used the word ‘queer’ to summarise everything. There were words I had to google like ‘demisexual’ and ‘greyromantic’, but even after googling I wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. The aromantic and asexual spectrums weren’t just straight lines. They were radar charts with at least a dozen different axes. It was a lot. Like a lot a lot. The crux of it all was that I did not feel sexual or romantic feelings for anyone. Not a single goddamn person I had ever met or would ever meet. So that really was me. Aromantic. Asexual. I came back to the words until they felt real in my mind, at least. Maybe they wouldn’t be real in most people’s minds. But I could make them real in mine. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted. I whispered them sometimes under my breath, until they felt like a magic spell. Pictured them as I fell asleep. I’m not sure when I realised that I was no longer feeling melancholic distress about my sexuality. The woe is me, I am loveless mood had just gone. It was anger, now. I was so angry. At everything. I was angry at fate for dealing me these cards. Even though I knew there was nothing wrong with me – lots of people were like this, I wasn’t alone, love yourself, whatever – I didn’t know how to get to the point where this would stop feeling like a burden and instead feel like something good, something I could celebrate, something I could share with the world. I was angry at every single couple I passed in the street. Every single pair I saw holding hands, every single time I saw that couple down the corridor flirting in the kitchen. Every time I saw two people cosying up in the library or in the cafeteria. Every time one of the authors I’d liked posted a new fanfiction. I was angry at the world for making me hate who I was. I was angry at myself for letting these feelings ruin my friendships with the best people in the world. I was angry at every single romance movie, every single fanfic, every single stupid OTP that had made me crave finding the perfect romance. It was because of all of that, no doubt, that this new identity felt like a loss, when in reality, it should have been a beautiful discovery. Ultimately, the fact that I was angry about all of that just made me angrier because I knew I shouldn’t feel angry about any of these things. But I did, and I’m trying to be honest about it, OK? OK. The reality of the situation with Pip and Jason only sank in when they both dropped out of the Shakespeare Society on the same day. The last day of term. They didn’t even do it in person. I didn’t have high hopes that they would attend our rehearsal on that Friday before Christmas, but Rooney and I went along anyway, unlocked the room, switched on the electric heater, and moved the tables to one side. Sunil turned up none the wiser, wearing a coat that was basically a blanket and a smile on his face. We didn’t know what to tell him. Ten minutes after they should have arrived, Pip messaged the group chat. Felipa Quintana Hey so me and Jason have decided we’re not gonna be in the play any more, too much other work and stuff. Find some other people to replace us. Sorry I saw it first, then passed my phone to Rooney. She read it. I watched as she bit down on the insides of her cheeks. For a moment, she looked furious. Then she passed my phone back to me and turned round so neither me nor Sunil could see how upset she was. Sunil saw the message last. He looked up at us with a confused expression and asked, ‘What – what happened?’ ‘We … we all had an argument,’ I said, because I didn’t know how to explain what an actual clusterfuck this small group of people had become while Sunil was an innocent bystander just wanting to take part in a fun theatre society. And it was all because of me. I have always felt lonely, I think. I think a lot of people feel lonely. Rooney. Pip. Maybe even Jason, though he hasn’t said so. I’d spent my teenage life feeling lonely every time I saw a couple at a party, or two people kissing outside the school gate. I’d felt lonely every time I read some cute proposal story on Twitter, or saw someone’s fiveyear-anniversary Facebook post, or even just saw someone hanging out with their partner in their Instagram story, sitting with them on a sofa with their dog, watching TV. I felt lonely first because I hadn’t experienced that. And I felt even lonelier when I started to believe I never would. This loneliness – being without Jason and Pip – was worse. Friends are automatically classed as ‘less important’ than romantic partners. I’d never questioned that. It was just the way the world was. I guess I’d always felt that friendship just couldn’t compete with what a partner offered, and that I’d never really experience real love until I found romance. But if that had been true, I probably wouldn’t have felt like this. I loved Jason and Pip. I loved them because I didn’t have to think around them. I loved that we could sit in silence together. I loved that they knew all my favourite foods and they could instantly tell when I was in a bad mood. I loved Pip’s stupid sense of humour and how she immediately made every room she entered a happier place. I loved how Jason knew exactly what to say when you were upset and could always calm you down. I loved Jason and Pip. And now they were gone. I had been so desperate for my idea of true love that I couldn’t even see it when it was right in front of my face. I pressed a cold hand against my car, which was as far up the drive of our house as it could get. I’d missed my car. There were three other cars on our driveway and four more parked on the pavement outside, which told me one thing: all of the Warr family had congregated at our house. This was not an unusual occurrence around Christmas at the Warrs’, but a family party on December twenty-first was a little premature, and it was not exactly the environment I wanted to return to after my university term from hell. ‘Georgia? What are you doing?’ Dad was holding open the front door for me. He’d picked me up from the station. ‘Nothing,’ I said, dropping my hand from my car. There was a sort of cheer from the twenty-or-so members of my family socialising in the living room as I entered. I guess that was nice. I’d forgotten what it was like to be around that many people who knew who I was. Mum gave me a big hug. My older brother, Jonathan, and his wife, Rachel, came over for a hug too. Then Mum wasted no time in making me take everyone’s tea and coffee orders and informing me of the hour-by-hour schedule for the next week, including the fact that my aunt, uncle and cousin Ellis would be staying here until Boxing Day. Like a big family sleepover. ‘You don’t mind Ellis sharing your room, do you?’ Mum asked. I wasn’t thrilled by this turn of events, but I liked Ellis, so it wouldn’t be too bad. My bedroom was exactly the same as I’d left it – books, TV, stripy bedsheets – apart from the addition of a blow-up mattress for Ellis. I flopped straight on to my bed. It smelt right. Even by the end of term, university hadn’t felt like home. ‘Come on, then!’ Gran squawked at me as I squeezed on to the sofa next to her. ‘Tell us everything!’ By ‘everything’ she definitely didn’t mean how I’d utterly destroyed the very small number of friendships I’d had, begrudgingly realised that I wasn’t straight and was in fact a sexuality that very few people in real life have heard of, and realised that the world was so obsessed with romantic love that I couldn’t go an hour without hating myself because I didn’t feel it. So instead I told her, and the other twelve family members listening in, about my lectures (‘interesting’), my room in college (‘spacious’), and my roommate (‘very nice’). Unfortunately, Gran liked to pry. ‘And what about friends? Have you made any nice friends?’ She leant towards me, patting me slyly on the leg. ‘Or met any nice young men? I bet there are lots of lovely boys in Durham.’ I didn’t hate Gran for being like this. It wasn’t her fault. She had been raised to believe that it was a girl’s primary aim in life to get married and have a family. She had done just that when she was my age, and I think she felt very fulfilled because of it. Fair enough. You do you. But that didn’t stop me from being deeply, deeply annoyed. ‘Actually,’ I said, trying as hard as I could to keep the irritation out of my voice, ‘I’m not really interested in getting a boyfriend.’ ‘Oh, well,’ she said, patting my leg again, ‘plenty of time, my love. Plenty of time.’ But my time is now, I wanted to scream. My life is happening right now. My family then launched into a conversation about how easy it was to get into a relationship at uni. In the corner, I spotted my cousin Ellis, sitting quietly with a glass of wine and one leg crossed over the other. She caught my stare, smiled a small smile, and rolled her eyes at the group around us. I smiled back. Maybe, at least, I would have an ally. Ellis was thirty-four and used to be a model. A legit fashion model who did runway shows and magazine adverts. She gave that up in her midtwenties and used the money she’d saved to spend a couple of years painting, which, as it turned out, she was very good at. She’s been a professional artist ever since. I only saw her a couple of times a year, but she always caught up with me when we did see each other, asking me how school was, how my friends were, if there’d been any recent developments in my life. I’d always liked her. I don’t know when I started to notice how Ellis was sort of the butt of the joke in our family. Every time she and Gran were in the same room, Gran would manage to drag the conversation back to the fact that she wasn’t married yet and hadn’t provided the family with any cute babies for them to coo over. Mum always spoke about her like she had some sort of tragic life, just because she lived by herself and had never had a long-term relationship. I’d thought she had a super-cool life. But I guess I had always wondered whether she was happy. Or whether she was sad and alone, desperately wishing for romance, just like I had been. ‘No boyfriend, then?’ Ellis asked me as I slumped down next to her in the conservatory that evening. ‘Tragically, no,’ I said. ‘Sounding a little sarcastic there.’ ‘Maybe so.’ Ellis smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about Gran. She’s been saying the same things to me for the past fifteen years. She’s just scared she’s going to die without a great-grandchild.’ I chuckled, even though this was something I thought about and felt a little bad about. I didn’t want Gran to die unhappy. ‘So …’ Ellis continued. ‘There haven’t been any … girlfriends? Instead?’ It took a moment for me to realise that she didn’t mean ‘girlfriend’ in the platonic sense of the word. She was asking me if I was gay. Which, you know, massive props to Ellis. If I had been gay, this would have been a bloody amazing moment for me. ‘Um, no,’ I said. ‘Not really interested in girlfriends either.’ Ellis nodded. For a moment she looked like she was going to ask something else, but then she just said, ‘Fancy a bit of Cuphead?’ So we turned on the Xbox and played Cuphead until everyone went home or went to bed. The Warrs are one of those terrible families where Christmas Day presentopening is banned until the late afternoon, but that year I didn’t mind too much, having other things on my mind. I hadn’t asked for anything in particular, so ended up with a big stack of books, an assortment of bath products I’d probably never use, and a sweatshirt from Mum featuring the phrase ‘Fries before guys’. The family had a good laugh about that one. After presents, the grandparents all fell asleep in the conservatory, Mum got into an intense chess match against Jonathan while Dad and Rachel prepared the tea. Ellis and I played a bit of Mario Kart before I snuck off to my bedroom to chill out and check my phone. I opened my Facebook message chat with Pip. Georgia Warr merry christmas!! i love you, hope you had a good day yesterday xxxxx It was still unread. I’d been drunk when I sent it midway through Christmas dinner. Maybe she just hadn’t seen it yet. I checked her Instagram. Pip’s family celebrated Christmas primarily on Christmas Eve, and she’d been posting a lot of Instagram stories. She’d posted a photo in the early hours of the morning – her family walking along the street on their way back from Midnight Mass. i fell asleep in church lol And she’d posted another photo half an hour ago of her in her family kitchen, putting a doughball into her mouth. leftover buñuelos get the FUCK inside my belly I thought about responding but couldn’t think of a funny thing to say. Since she posted that half an hour ago, she had probably seen my message on her phone. She was just ignoring me. She still hated me, then. I was tucked up in bed by 10 p.m. Overall, not a bad Christmas Day, despite having lost my best friends and the way my singleness was becoming an ongoing family joke. One day I would probably have to just tell them. I don’t like guys. Oh, so you like girls? No, I don’t like girls either. What? That doesn’t make any sense. Yes, it does. It’s a real thing. You just haven’t met the right person yet. It’ll happen with time. No, it won’t. This is who I am. Are you feeling OK? Maybe we should get you an appointment with the GP. It’s called being ‘aromantic asexual’. Well, that sounds fake, doesn’t it? Did you hear about that on the internet? Ugh. OK. Didn’t really want to venture into that conversation any time soon. I was heading downstairs to get some water when I heard the raised voices. At first, I thought it might just be Mum and Dad bickering at each other, but then I realised the voices were, in fact, Auntie Sal and Uncle Gavin. Ellis’s parents. I hung back on the stairs, not wanting to interrupt. ‘Look at Jonathan,’ Auntie Sal was saying. ‘He’s got it sussed. Married, his own house, his own business. He’s set for life.’ ‘And he’s a decade younger than you!’ Uncle Gavin added. Oh. Ellis was there too. I wasn’t super close to Auntie Sal and Uncle Gavin. Same as Ellis, really – they didn’t live close by, so we only saw them a few times a year at family gatherings. But they always seemed a little more uptight than my parents. A little more traditional. ‘I’m aware,’ said Ellis. Her voice took me by surprise. She sounded so tired. ‘Doesn’t that bother you at all?’ asked Auntie Sal. ‘What is there to bother me?’ ‘That Jonathan is growing up, starting a family, making plans while you’re still …’ ‘Still what?’ snapped Ellis. ‘What am I doing that’s so bad?’ ‘There’s no need to shout,’ said Uncle Gavin. ‘I’m not shouting.’ ‘You’re getting older,’ continued Auntie Sal. ‘You’re in your midthirties. You’re passing your dating prime. Soon it’s going to get harder and harder for you to have children.’ ‘I don’t want to date, and I don’t want children,’ said Ellis. ‘Oh, come on, now. Not this again.’ ‘You are our only child,’ said Uncle Gavin. ‘Do you know what that’s like for us? You are the sole carrier of my surname.’ ‘It’s not my fault you didn’t have any more children,’ said Ellis. ‘And what, that’s it for us? No more children in the family? We don’t get to be grandparents? That’s the thanks we get for raising you?’ Ellis sighed loudly. ‘We’re not trying to criticise your … life choices,’ said Auntie Sal. ‘We know it’s not about us, but … we just want you to be happy. I know you think you’re happy now, but what about ten years from now? Twenty? Forty? What will your life be like when you’re Gran’s age, without a partner, without children? Who is going to be there to support you? You’ll have no one.’ ‘Maybe I would be happy,’ Ellis shot back, ‘if you hadn’t spent my entire life brainwashing me into thinking that finding a husband and having babies is the only way for me to feel my life is worth anything. Maybe then I would be happy.’ Auntie Sal went to interrupt, but Ellis cut her off. ‘It’s not as if I’m actively rejecting people, OK?’ Ellis sounded on the verge of tears now. ‘I don’t like anyone like that. I never do. This is just who I am and one way or another, we’re all going to have to put up with it. I can still do amazing things with my life. I have friends. And I’ll make new friends. I was a successful model. Now I’m an artist and my paintings are selling really well. I’m thinking about going to uni to study art, since I never got to go the first time. I have a really nice house, if you could ever be bothered to visit. If you tried, and I mean really tried, you could actually be proud of all the things I’ve done in my life and all the things I’m going to do.’ There was a long, horrible silence. ‘What would you say,’ said Auntie Sal, speaking slowly as if choosing her words, ‘to thinking about trying therapy again? I’m still not sure we found the right therapist last time. If we kept looking, we could find someone who could really help.’ Silence. And then Ellis said, ‘I don’t need fixing. You don’t get to do that to me again.’ There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor as someone stood up. ‘Ell, don’t do this,’ said Uncle Gavin. ‘Don’t have a strop like last time.’ ‘I am an adult,’ said Ellis. There was a contained fury in her voice that reinforced the statement. ‘And if you’re not going to respect me, then I am not going to be around you.’ I watched, hidden in the darkness at the top of the stairs, as Ellis sat down on the bottom step to put her shoes on. Then she pulled on her coat, calmly opened our front door, and stepped outside. Before I could think twice, I raced to my room, grabbed my dressing gown and slippers, and ran after her. I found her sitting in her car, vape pen hanging from her mouth but with seemingly no intention of smoking anything. I knocked on the window, which made her jump so hard that the vape pen flew out of her mouth. ‘Holy fucking shit,’ she said after turning on the ignition and rolling down the window. ‘You scared the absolute poo out of me.’ ‘Sorry.’ ‘What are you doing out here?’ ‘I …’ Maybe this was a bit awkward. ‘I heard your parents being shitty to you.’ Ellis just looked at me. ‘I thought you could use some company,’ I said. ‘I dunno. I can go back inside, if you want.’ Ellis shook her head. ‘Nah. Get in here.’ I opened the door and hopped inside. She actually had a really nice car. Modern. Way more expensive than my elderly Fiat Punto. There was a silence as I waited for her to say something. She located her vape pen, slotted it neatly into the compartment in front of the gear lever, and then said, ‘I’m in the mood for a McDonald’s.’ ‘On Christmas Day?’ ‘Yeah. I just really want a McFlurry right now.’ Thinking about it, I was actually really up for some chips. I guess it was a ‘fries before guys’ day. I also wanted to talk to Ellis about everything I’d just heard. Especially about ‘not liking anyone’. ‘We could go to McDonald’s,’ I said. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ So Ellis started the car, and off we went. ‘Oh my God, yes,’ said Ellis, dunking the plastic spoon into her McFlurry. ‘This is what Christmas Day has always been missing.’ ‘Agreed,’ I said, already halfway through my chips. ‘McDonald’s. She never lets me down.’ ‘I’m not sure that’s the slogan.’ ‘It should be.’ We were parked in the restaurant’s car park, which was almost entirely empty apart from us. I’d messaged Mum and Dad about where I was, and Dad sent back a thumbs-up emoji, so they probably weren’t bothered. Being in the car in my pyjamas and dressing gown did feel a bit wrong, though. Ellis had chatted to me the whole way there about the most mundane topics. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, but for that whole fifteen minutes I hadn’t been able to get in much more than a ‘yeah’ or an ‘mmhm’ of agreement. I hadn’t been able to ask anything I really wanted to ask. Are you like me? Are we the same? ‘So,’ I was finally able to say while she was mid-spoonful of ice cream, ‘your parents.’ She made a grunting noise. ‘Oh, yeah. Jesus, sorry you had to hear any of that. It’s very embarrassing that they still treat me like I’m fifteen. No offence to all the fifteen-year-olds out there. Even fifteen-year-olds don’t deserve to be spoken to like that.’ ‘They sounded …’ I searched for the word. ‘… unreasonable.’ Ellis laughed. ‘Yeah. Yes, they did.’ ‘Do they get at you about that stuff a lot?’ ‘Whenever I see them, yeah,’ said Ellis. ‘Which is less and less these days, to be honest.’ I couldn’t imagine seeing Mum and Dad less and less. But maybe that’s what would happen to me, if I never got married or had children. I would just be phased out of my family. A ghost. Only popping up at occasional family gatherings. If I came out to them, would they make me get therapy, like Ellis’s parents had? ‘Do you ever believe them?’ I asked. Ellis was clearly not expecting this question. She took a long breath in, staring at her ice cream. ‘You mean, do I ever feel like my life is worthless because I won’t ever have a partner or children?’ she asked. It sounded worse when she put it like that. But I wanted to know. I needed to know whether I would always feel uncomfortable with this part of myself. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Well, firstly, I can have children whenever I want. Adoption exists.’ ‘But what about having a partner?’ She paused. And then she said, ‘Yes, I do feel like that occasionally.’ Oh. So maybe I was always going to feel like this. Maybe I would never feel comfortable with this. Maybe – ‘But that’s just a feeling,’ she continued. ‘And I know it’s untrue.’ I blinked up at her. ‘Having a partner is what some people want. For others, it’s not. It took me a long, long time to figure out that that’s not what I want. In fact …’ She hesitated. But only for a moment. ‘It took me a long time to realise that it’s not even something I can want. It’s not a choice for me. It’s a part of me that I can’t change.’ I was holding my breath. ‘How did you realise?’ I asked eventually, my heart in my mouth. She laughed. ‘It’s … well, are you in the mood for me to condense my entire life into one conversation over a Christmas Day McDonald’s?’ ‘… Yes.’ ‘Ha. OK.’ She took a spoonful of ice cream. ‘So … I never had any crushes when I was a child. Not any real ones, anyway. Sometimes I confused friendship for them, or just thinking a guy was really cool. But I never really fancied anyone. Even celebrities or musicians or whatever.’ She raised her eyebrows and huffed out a sigh as if this was all a minor inconvenience. ‘But the thing was,’ she said, ‘everybody else I knew got crushes. They dated. All my friends talked about hot boys. They all got boyfriends. Our family has always been big and loving – you know, your parents and my parents and our grandparents and everyone else – so that was always what I saw as the norm. That was all I knew. In my eyes, dating and relationships were just … what people did. It was human. So that’s what I tried to do too.’ Tried. She had tried too. ‘And this continued into my late teens, and then into my twenties. Especially when I got into modelling, because everyone was getting with each other in modelling. So I would force myself to do it too, just to be involved and not be left out.’ She blinked. ‘But … I hated it. I hated every fucking second of it.’ There was a pause. I didn’t know what to say. ‘I don’t know when I started to realise that I hated it. For a long time, I was just dating and having sex because that’s what people did. And I wanted to feel like those people. I wanted the fun, exciting beauty of romance and sex. But there was always this underlying feeling of wrongness. Almost disgust. It just felt wrong on a fundamental level.’ I felt a wave of relief that I had never let myself go that far. Maybe I was a little stronger than I thought. ‘And yet, I kept trying to like it. I kept thinking, maybe I’m just picky. Maybe I haven’t met the right guy. Maybe I like girls instead. Maybe, maybe, maybe.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe never came. It never got here.’ She leant back into the driver’s seat, staring ahead at the soft glow of McDonald’s. ‘There was the fear too. I didn’t know how I was going to function in this world alone. Not just alone now, but endlessly alone. Partnerless until I die. You know why people pair up into couples? Because being a human is fucking terrifying. But it’s a hell of a lot easier if you’re not doing it by yourself.’ I guessed that was the crux of it. I could, on a base level, accept that I was like this. But I didn’t know how I was going to deal with that for the rest of my life. Twenty years from now. Forty. Sixty. Then Ellis said, ‘But I’m older now. I’ve learnt some things.’ ‘Like what?’ I asked. ‘Like the way friendship can be just as intense, beautiful and endless as romance. Like the way there’s love everywhere around me – there’s love for my friends, there’s love in my paintings, there’s love for myself. There’s even love for my parents in there somewhere. Deep down.’ She laughed, and I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I have a lot more love than some people in the world. Even if I’ll never have a wedding.’ She took a big spoonful of ice cream. ‘There’s definitely love for ice cream, let me tell you that.’ I laughed and she grinned at me. ‘I was hopeless about being like this for a long time,’ she said, and then shook her head. ‘But I’m not any more. Finally. Finally I’m not hopeless any more.’ ‘I wish I could be like that,’ I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them. Ellis raised a curious eyebrow at me. ‘Yeah?’ I took a breath. OK. Now or never. ‘I think I’m … like you,’ I said. ‘I don’t like anyone either. Romancewise, I mean. Dating and stuff. It’s … I just can’t feel any of it. I used to want it – I mean, I still think I do want it sometimes. But I can never really want it, because I don’t feel that way for anyone. If that makes sense.’ I could feel myself going redder and redder the more I spoke. Ellis said nothing for a moment. Then she ate another spoonful of ice cream. ‘That’s why you got in the car, isn’t it?’ she said. I nodded. ‘Well,’ she said. She seemed to realise the magnitude of what I’d admitted. ‘Well.’ ‘It’s a real sexuality,’ I said. I didn’t even know if Ellis knew it was a sexuality. ‘Just like being gay or straight or bi.’ Ellis chuckled. ‘The nothing sexuality.’ ‘It’s not nothing. It’s … well it’s two different things. Aromantic is when you don’t feel romantic attraction and asexual is when you don’t feel sexual attraction. Some people are just one or the other, but I’m both, so I’m … aromantic asexual.’ That wasn’t the first time I’d said those words. But every time I said them, they felt a little more at home in the air around me. Ellis considered this. ‘Two things. Hm. Two in one. Buy one get one free. Love that.’ I snorted, which made her genuinely laugh, and all the nerves that had been constricting my chest eased. ‘Who told you about those, then?’ she asked. ‘Someone at uni,’ I said. But Sunil wasn’t just someone, was he? ‘One of my friends.’ ‘Are they also …?’ ‘They’re asexual too.’ ‘Wow.’ Ellis grinned. ‘Well, that makes three of us.’ ‘There are more,’ I said. ‘A lot more. Out there. In the world.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yeah.’ Ellis stared out of the window, smiling. ‘That would be nice. If there were lots out there.’ We sat in silence for a moment. I finished eating my chips. There were more of us out there. Neither of us were alone in this. ‘You’re … very lucky to know all of this,’ said Ellis suddenly. ‘I’m …’ She shook her head. ‘Ha. I guess I’m a bit jealous.’ ‘Why?’ I asked, confused. She looked at me. ‘I just wasted a lot of time. That’s all.’ She chucked her empty McFlurry pot into the back seat and turned on the ignition. ‘I don’t feel lucky,’ I said. ‘What do you feel?’ ‘I don’t know. Lost.’ I thought of Sunil. ‘My friend said I don’t have to do anything. He said all I need to do is be.’ ‘Your friend sounds like a wise old sage.’ ‘That just about sums him up.’ Ellis started driving us out of the car park. ‘I don’t like doing nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s boring.’ ‘So what do you think I should do?’ snits fries notdoritos I She gave this some thought for a moment. Then she said. ‘Give your friendships the magic you would give a romance. Because they’re just as important. Actually, for us, they’re way more important.’ She glanced to one side at me. ‘There. Was that sage-like enough for you?’ I grinned. ‘Very sage-like.’ ‘I can be profound. I am an artist.’ ‘You should put this in a painting.’ ‘You know what? Maybe I will.’ She raised a hand and twinkled her fingers. ‘I’ll call it Platonic Magic. And no one who isn’t like us – wait, what was it? Aro …?’ ‘Aromantic asexual?’ ‘Yes. No one who isn’t aromantic asexual will understand it.’ ‘Can I have it?’ ‘Do you have two thousand pounds?’ ‘Your paintings are selling for two thousand pounds?’ ‘They sure are. I’m pretty good at my job.’ ‘Can I get student discount?’ ‘Maybe. Just because you’re my cousin. Student cousin discount.’ And then we were laughing as we reached the motorway and I thought about the magic that I could find, maybe, if I looked a little harder. Magic was not what I found when I returned to my college room on the afternoon of January eleventh. What I found instead was most of Rooney’s possessions scattered around the floor, her wardrobe wide open, her bedsheets several metres away from her bed, Roderick a worrying shade of brown, and the aqua rug inexplicably crammed into the sink. I had just unzipped my suitcase when Rooney entered wearing pyjamas, looked at me, looked at the rug in the sink, and said, ‘I spilled tea on it.’ She sat on her bed while I tidied her possessions, squeezed the water out of the rug, and even snipped most of the dead bits off Roderick. The photo of Mermaid-hair Beth had fallen on the floor again, so I just stuck it back on the wall, without saying anything about it, while Rooney watched, expressionless. I asked about her Christmas, but the only thing she said was that she hated spending time in her home town. Then she went to bed at seven o’clock. So, yeah. Rooney was clearly not in a great place. To be fair, I understood why. The play wasn’t going to happen. Her unspoken thing with Pip was not going to happen. The only thing she really had was – well, me, I guess. Not a great consolation prize, in my opinion. ‘We should go out,’ I said to her at the end of our first week back at uni. It was the early evening. She glanced at me over the top of her laptop screen, then continued what she was doing – watching YouTube videos. ‘Why?’ I was seated at my desk. ‘Because you like going out.’ ‘I’m not in the mood.’ Rooney had made it to two of our six lectures that week. And when she had come, she had simply stared ahead, not even bothering to get her iPad out of her bag to take notes. It was like she just didn’t care about anything any more. ‘We could … we could just go to a pub, or something?’ I suggested, sounding a little desperate. ‘Just for one drink. We could get cocktails. Or chips. We could get chips.’ This prompted an eyebrow raise. ‘Chips?’ ‘Chips.’ ‘I … would like some chips.’ ‘Exactly. We could go to the pub, get some chips, get some fresh air, then come back.’ She looked at me for a long moment. And then she said, ‘OK.’ The nearest pub was packed, obviously, because it was a Friday night in a university town. Thankfully we found a tiny beer-stained table in a back room and I left Rooney to guard it while I procured us a bowl of chips to share and a jug of strawberry daquiri with two paper straws. We sat and ate our chips in silence. I actually felt very calm, considering the fact that I was technically on a ‘night out’. All around us were students dressed up for the evening, ready to spend a couple of hours in a bar before heading out to clubs later. Rooney was wearing leggings and a hoodie, while I was wearing joggers and a woolly jumper. We probably stuck out quite a lot, but compared to the hell of Freshers’ Week, I was extremely relaxed. ‘So,’ I said, after we’d sat in silence for over ten minutes. ‘I’ve been sensing that you are not having a great time right now.’ Rooney stared at me blankly. ‘I enjoyed the chips.’ ‘I meant generally.’ She took a long sip from the jug. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Everything’s shit.’ I waited for her to open up about it, but she didn’t, and I realised I was going to have to pry. ‘The play?’ I said. ‘Not just that.’ Rooney groaned and leant over the table on one hand. ‘Christmas was hell. I … I spent most of it meeting up with my school friends and, like … he was always there.’ It took me a moment to realise who she meant by ‘he’. ‘Your ex-boyfriend,’ I said. ‘He ruined so many things for me.’ Rooney started stabbing the fruit in our cocktail jug with her straw. ‘Every time I see his face I want to scream. And he doesn’t even think he did anything wrong. Because of him, I – God. I could have been a much better person if I’d never met him. He’s the reason I’m like this.’ I didn’t know what to say to that. I wanted to ask her what happened, what he did, but I didn’t want to force her to revisit bad stuff if she didn’t want to. There was a long silence after she spoke. By the time she spoke again, she had successfully skewered all of the fruit in the jug. ‘I really like Pip,’ she said in a very quiet voice. I nodded slowly. ‘You knew?’ she asked. I nodded again. Rooney chuckled. She took another sip. ‘How come you know me better than anyone?’ she asked. ‘We live together?’ I said. She just smiled. We both knew it was more than that. ‘So … what are you gonna do?’ ‘Uh, nothing?’ Rooney scoffed. ‘She hates me.’ ‘I mean … yes, but she misinterpreted the situation.’ ‘We made out. There’s not much to misinterpret.’ ‘She thinks that we’re a thing. That’s the reason she’s angry.’ Rooney nodded. ‘Because she thinks I’m taking you away from her.’ I almost groaned at the stupidity. ‘No, because she likes you back.’ The look on her face was like I’d taken a glass and smashed it over her head. ‘That’s – that’s just – you’re just wrong about that,’ she stammered, going a little red in the face. ‘I’m just saying what I see.’ ‘I don’t want to talk about Pip any more.’ We fell into silence again for a few moments. I knew Rooney was smart about this sort of thing – I’d watched her effortlessly navigate relationships of all kinds since the first day I met her. But, when it came to Pip, she had the emotional intelligence of a single grape. ‘So you like girls?’ I asked. The scowl on her face dropped. ‘Yeah. Probably. I dunno.’ I i I ‘Three wildly different answers to that question.’ ‘I dunno, then. I guess … I mean, I questioned whether I liked girls a bit when I was younger. When I was thirteen, I had a crush on one of my friends. A girl. But like –’ she made a shrugging gesture ‘– all girls do that, right? Like, that’s common, having little crushes on your female friends.’ ‘No,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Nope. Not all girls do that. Example A.’ I gestured to myself. ‘Well. OK, then.’ She looked to one side. ‘I guess I like girls, then.’ She said it with such nonchalance, it was as if she’d realised her sexuality and come out in the space of about ten seconds. But I knew her better than that. She’d probably been figuring it out for a while. Just like I had. ‘Does that make me bi?’ she asked. ‘Or … pan? Or what?’ ‘Whatever you want. You can think about it.’ ‘Yeah. I guess I will.’ She was staring at the table. ‘You know, when we kissed … I think I did that because there’s always been this part of me who’s wanted to … um, you know. Be with girls. And you were just a safe option to try it out because I knew you wouldn’t hate me forever. Which was a really shit thing to do, obviously. God, I’m so sorry.’ ‘It was a shit thing to do,’ I agreed. ‘But I can relate about accidentally using people because you’re confused about your sexuality.’ We’d both fucked up in a lot of ways. And while our sexuality confusion wasn’t an excuse, it was good that we both realised our mistakes. Maybe that meant we’d make less of them going forward. ‘I never had any gay or bi friends at school,’ Rooney said. ‘I didn’t really know anyone openly gay, actually. Maybe I would have figured it out sooner if I had.’ ‘My best friend has been out since she was fifteen, and it still took me years to figure myself out,’ I said. ‘True. Wow. Shit’s tricky.’ ‘Yup.’ She snorted. ‘I’m at uni for three months and suddenly I’m not straight any more.’ ‘Mood,’ I said. ‘Love that for us, I guess?’ she asked. ‘Love that for us,’ I agreed. I got us a second cocktail jug – cosmopolitan – and nachos. We were halfway through the jug when I told Rooney my plan. ‘I’m going to get Jason and Pip to come back to the Shakespeare Soc,’ I said. Rooney crushed a particularly cheesy nacho into her mouth. ‘Good luck with that.’ ‘You’re welcome to help me.’ ‘What’s your plan?’ ‘I mean … I haven’t got quite that far yet. There will probably be a lot of apologising involved.’ ‘Terrible plan,’ said Rooney, chomping down on another nacho. ‘It’s all I have.’ ‘And if it doesn’t work?’ If it didn’t work? I didn’t know what would happen then. Maybe that would be it for me, Jason and Pip. Forever. We finished the nachos – it didn’t take long – and the cocktail jug, before heading towards the pub door, both of us feeling a little bit fuzzy. I was ready to sleep, honestly, but Rooney had fallen into a chatty mood. I was glad. Alcohol and chips definitely weren’t the healthiest solution to her problems, but she seemed a little happier, at least. Job done. That mood lasted the thirty seconds it took us to get to the door, and then it was gone. Because standing just outside, surrounded by friends, was Pip Quintana herself. For a brief moment, she didn’t see us. She’d had a hair trim, her curly fringe just meeting her eyebrows, and she was dressed up for a night out – stripy shirt, tight jeans, and a brown aviator jacket that made her look like one of the guys from Top Gun. With the bottle of cider in one hand, it was a look. I could practically feel the wave of horror spill from Rooney as Pip turned round and saw us. ‘Oh,’ said Pip. ‘Hi,’ I said, having no idea what else to say. Pip stared at me. Then her eyes flitted to Rooney – from her messy ponytail down to her mismatched bed socks. ‘What, on a date, or something?’ said Pip. This immediately annoyed me. ‘Clearly we’re not on a date,’ I snapped. ‘I’m wearing joggers.’ ‘Whatever. I don’t want to talk to you.’ She started to turn back round but froze as Rooney spoke. ‘You can be mad at me, but don’t be mad at Georgia. She’s done nothing wrong.’ This was absolutely untrue – Pip had heavily implied that she liked Rooney, and then I’d kissed Rooney anyway. Not to mention everything I’d done to Jason. But I appreciated the support. ‘Oh, fuck off with that taking-the-blame shit,’ Pip spat. ‘Since when are you suddenly trying to be a good person?’ She swung round so she could speak right to Rooney’s face. ‘You’re selfish, you’re nasty, and you don’t give a shit about other people’s feelings. So don’t come up to me and try to pretend to be a good person.’ Pip’s friends had all started murmuring, wondering what was going on. Rooney stepped forward, teeth gritted and nostrils flaring like she was about to start shouting, but she didn’t. She just turned round and walked away down the street. I stayed still, wondering whether Pip was going to say anything to me. She looked at me for a long moment, and I felt like my brain rushed through the entirety of our past seven years of friendship, every single time we’d sat next to each other in lessons, every sleepover and PE lesson and cinema trip, every time she’d cracked a joke or sent me a stupid meme, every single time I’d almost cried in front of her – didn’t, couldn’t, but almost. ‘I just can’t believe,’ she said, through an exhale. ‘I thought – I thought you cared about my feelings.’ Then she turned away too, rejoining a conversation with her new friends, and all of those memories smashed around me into tiny pieces. Rooney spent the whole walk back to college tapping away on her phone. I didn’t know who she was messaging, but when we got to our room, she quickly changed into a nicer outfit and I knew she was going out. ‘Don’t,’ I said, just as she reached the door, and she stopped, and turned round to face me. ‘You know what I’ve learnt?’ she said. ‘Love ruins everything.’ I didn’t agree, but I didn’t know how to argue with a statement like that. So she left and I just said nothing. And when I walked towards my bed, I found the photo of Mermaid-hair Beth on the floor again, partially crumpled like Rooney had ripped it off the wall. I went to Pride Soc’s January social at the Student Union alone. It was our third week of term, and I tried to lure Rooney into coming with me, but she’d been spending most nights out in town clubbing, returning around 3 a.m. with dirty shoes and messed-up hair. It was up to me to find Pip and there was a chance she’d be at a Pride Soc event. If I could just talk to her, I figured, she would understand. If I could just get her to listen to me for long enough to explain, then everything would be OK again. The instant regret I felt upon showing up to the social was almost enough to send me running right back to college. We were in the biggest room in the Student Union. At the head of the room was a projector screen displaying all of Pride Soc’s upcoming events for the term. Music was playing, people were dressed casually, gathered in circles or sitting at tables to chat and catch up over some snacks. It was a social. In which the point was to socialise. I was at a gathering with the specific purpose of socialising. On my own. Why the absolute Jesus had I done this? No. OK. I was brave. And there were cupcakes. I went to get a cupcake. For emotional support. Sunil, Jess and hopefully Pip were there, so there were people I knew. I searched around and quickly found Sunil and Jess in the centre of a group of people having a loud conversation, but didn’t want to disturb them when they probably had lots of things to do and lots of people to talk to, so left them to it and continued on my search for Pip. I walked around the room three whole times before concluding that she was not there. Great. I got my phone out and checked her Instagram, only to discover that she was posting in her story about a movie night with her friends at Castle. She wasn’t even planning to attend this event. Great. ‘Georgia!’ A voice made me jump – Sunil’s voice. I turned to find him striding towards me, wearing loose culottes made out of a jersey material that looked simultaneously very cool and very comfy. ‘Sorry, did I make you jump?’ ‘N-no, no!’ I stammered. ‘It’s fine!’ ‘I just wanted to see whether anything had happened with the Shakespeare Soc?’ he asked, with an expression so hopeful that it actually hurt my heart. ‘I know you lot had an argument, but … well, I was just hoping that, maybe … you’d sorted it out, or something.’ He smiled meekly. ‘I know it was just a bit of fun, but … I was really enjoying it.’ The look on my face was probably answer enough, but I told him anyway. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s … it’s still all …’ I made a gesture with my hands. ‘It’s not happening.’ ‘Oh.’ Sunil nodded as if he’d expected it, but his obvious disappointment made me want to cry a bit. ‘That’s really sad.’ ‘I’m trying to make things right,’ I said instantly. ‘I’m actually here because I wanted to find Pip and see if she’d reconsider.’ Sunil glanced around the room. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen her.’ ‘No, I don’t think she’s here.’ There was a pause. I didn’t know what to tell him. I didn’t know how to make any of this better. ‘Well … if there’s anything I can do,’ said Sunil, ‘I’d – I’d like to help. It really was nice to just have something fun to do that wasn’t stressful. Everything’s a bit stressful for me at the moment, what with third year and Pride Soc and Lloyd is determined to be a perpetual annoyance in my life.’ He glanced quickly towards where the ex-president, Lloyd, was sitting at a table with a group of people. ‘What’s he been doing?’ ‘He’s just been trying to weasel himself back on to the society exec.’ Sunil rolled his eyes. ‘He thinks his opinions are vital to the society because my perspective is too inclusive. Can you believe that? Too inclusive? This is a society for queer and questioning students, for God’s sake. You don’t have to take a test to get in.’ ‘He’s a dickhead,’ I said. ‘He is. Very much so.’ ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Sunil laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Spill a drink on him? No, I’m joking. You’re sweet, though.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway – Shakespeare Soc. Is there any way I can help resolve the situation?’ He looked almost desperate. ‘I … It really was the most fun I’ve had in quite a while.’ ‘Well … unless there’s a way you can get Jason and Pip to talk to me and Rooney again, I don’t think there’s really any way it’s happening.’ ‘I could talk to Jason,’ he said instantly. ‘We chat on Whatsapp occasionally. I could get him to come to a rehearsal.’ I felt my heart race with hope. ‘Really? Are you sure?’ ‘I really don’t want this play to fall apart.’ Sunil shook his head. ‘I really didn’t have any fun hobbies before. Orchestra is stressful and Pride Soc doesn’t count as a hobby, and they’re fun, but they’re work. This play … it was just joy, you know?’ He smiled, gazing down. ‘When we started rehearsing, I … honestly, I was a little concerned it was a waste of time. Time I should be using studying and doing things for my other societies. But making friends with you all, acting out fun scenes, having pizza nights and everyone’s silly messages in the group chat – it was just joy. Pure joy. And it took me so long to feel like I deserved that. But I do! And this is it!’ He let out a bright, carefree laugh. ‘And now I’m oversharing!’ I wondered whether he was a little tipsy, before remembering that Sunil didn’t drink alcohol. He was just being earnest. It made me want to be earnest too. ‘You do deserve that,’ I said. ‘You … you helped me so much. I don’t know where I would be or how I would feel if I hadn’t met you. And … I feel like you’ve done that for a lot of people. And it’s been hard sometimes. And people haven’t always checked up on you.’ I felt embarrassed by what I was saying, but I wanted him to know. ‘And even if you’d done none of that … you’re my friend. And you’re one of the best people I know. So you do deserve that. You deserve joy.’ I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. ‘And I like it when you overshare!’ He laughed again. ‘Why are we being all emotional?’ ‘I don’t know. You started it.’ We were interrupted by Jess and another of Sunil’s vice-presidents, who had come to summon him to the front of the room. Sunil had to make a speech. ‘I’ll message him,’ he said, as he walked away. That was when I knew that I could not rest until I got the Shakespeare Soc back together. Not just because I wanted Pip and Jason to be my friends again – but for Sunil too. Because, despite his hectic life and all the important things he had going on, he’d found joy in our stupid little play. And months ago, at that Autumn Pride Soc formal, Sunil had been there for me in a moment of crisis, even while he was stressed out and dealing with assholes. Now it was my turn to be there for him. I hung around for Sunil’s speech. On the sidelines, with a cupcake and a full glass of wine. Sunil got up on stage, tapped the microphone, and that was enough for the attendees to start applauding and whooping. He introduced himself, thanked everyone for coming, and then spent a few minutes going through all the upcoming events for the term. The film night this month would be Moonlight, the Pride Club Nights would be on Jan 27, Feb 16 and March 7, the Trans Book Club would take place at the Bill Bryson Library on Jan 19, the Big Queer Dungeons and Dragons group was looking for new members, and it was someone named Mickey’s turn to host the Queer, Trans and Intersex People of Colour Society dinner on Feb 20 at their flat in Gilesgate. And there were lots more. Hearing about all these things, and seeing all the people getting excited about them, made me feel excited in a weird way. Even though I wouldn’t go to most of them. I almost felt like I belonged to something just by being here. ‘I think that’s covered all of this term’s events,’ Sunil concluded, ‘so, just before I let you carry on eating and chatting, I just wanted to thank you all for what a great few months we had last term.’ There was another round of applause and cheers. Sunil grinned and clapped too. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it too! I was pretty nervous about being your president. I know I implemented some big changes, like turning the bar crawls into formals and introducing more daytime activities for the society, so I’m really thankful for your support.’ He gazed out into the distance suddenly, like he was thinking about something. ‘When I was a fresher, I didn’t feel like I belonged at Durham. I’d arrived hoping to finally meet some people like me, but instead I found myself still surrounded by a lot of cis, straight white people. I’d spent a lot of my teenage life very alone. And by that point, I’d got used to it. I spent a long time thinking this was the way things had to be – I had to survive on my own, I had to do everything on my own, because nobody would ever help me. I spent much of that first year in a really dark place … until I met my best friend, Jess.’ Sunil pointed towards Jess, who quickly put a hand in front of her face in a half-hearted attempt to hide. There were a few more cheers. ‘Jess won me over instantly with her numerous items of clothing that have dogs on them.’ The crowd chuckled, and Jess shook her head, her smile just peeking out from behind her hand. ‘She was the funniest and bubbliest person I’d ever met. She encouraged me to join Pride Soc. She brought me to one of the original QTIPOC dinners. And we had so many discussions about how the society could be better. And then she encouraged me to try for president, with her at my side.’ He grinned. ‘I thought she should be president, but she’s told me a billion times how much she hates public speaking.’ Sunil smiled down at Jess, and Jess smiled back at him, and there was such genuine love in that gaze. I felt dazzled by it. ‘Pride Soc isn’t just about doing queer stuff,’ Sunil continued, and that got him some laughs. ‘It’s not even about finding potential hook-ups.’ Someone in the crowd shouted their friend’s name, which earned more laughs. Sunil laughed with them. ‘No. It’s about the relationships we form here. Friendship, love and support while we’re all trying to survive and thrive in a world that often doesn’t feel like it was made for us. Whether you’re gay, lesbian, bi, pan, trans, intersex, non-binary, asexual, aromantic, queer, or however you identify – most of us here felt a sense of unbelonging while we were growing up.’ Sunil looked one more time at Jess, then back out at the crowd. ‘But we’re all here for each other. And it’s those relationships that make Pride Soc so important and so special. It’s those relationships that, despite all of the hardships in our lives, will continue to bring us joy every single day.’ He raised his glass. ‘And we all deserve joy.’ It was kind of cheesy, maybe. But it was also one of the loveliest speeches I’d heard in my whole life. Everyone raised their drinks then cheered for Sunil as he stepped down and Jess buried him in a hug. That was it. That was what everything was about. The love in that hug. The knowing look between them. They had their own love story. That was what I wanted. That was what I’d had, once, maybe. I used to dream of a spellbinding, endless, forever romance. A beautiful story of meeting a person who could change your whole world. But now, I realised, friendship could be that too. On my way out of the room, I found myself nearing Lloyd’s table. He was sitting with a couple of other guys, drinking their way through a bottle of wine with sour expressions on their faces. ‘It’s so pathetic the way he feels like he needs to bring up asexuality literally every time he does one of these,’ Lloyd was saying. ‘Next thing you know, we’ll be getting any old cis-hets joining who think they’re mildly oppressed.’ The way he said it sent a shot of cold hatred into the pit of my stomach. But I was feeling brave, I guess. As I walked past, I let my now half-full cup of wine gracefully tip in my hand and over the back of Lloyd’s neck. ‘WH-what the FUCK!?’ By the time he’d swung himself round to see who had just poured wine over him, I was already halfway to the door with a massive smile on my face. Sunil Jha JASON IS IN. Georgia Warr SERIOUSLY Sunil Jha YEP. He agreed to come along as a personal favour to me. But he said he’s still not sure about rejoining Georgia Warr okay so i have an idea about how to win him back ‘No,’ said Rooney, once I explained my idea to her. She was on her bed. I was watering Roderick, who was not half as voluminous as he once had been due to the dead bits I’d chopped, but wasn’t quite dead, as I’d previously thought. ‘It’ll work.’ ‘It’s stupid.’ ‘It’s not. He has a good sense of humour.’ Rooney was sprawled in her going-out clothes eating breadsticks straight from the packet, something that had recently become her pre-night-out routine. ‘The Shakespeare Soc is finished,’ she said, and I knew she believed it. She wouldn’t be going out all the time if she hadn’t given up on it completely. ‘Just trust me. I can win him back.’ Rooney gave me a long look. She crunched a breadstick loudly. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘But I get to be Daphne.’ I skipped my lectures the next day to go on a costume hunt. It took most of the morning and a solid chunk of the afternoon. Durham had one costume shop down a tiny alleyway, and they didn’t have exactly what I was looking for, so I ended up trawling the clothes and charity shops for whatever I could find to create makeshift costumes. Rooney even joined me after lunch, sunglasses on to hide the bags under her eyes. She’d been sleeping in till midday most days lately. I sacrificed a lot of my allowance for this month to get everything, meaning I’d have to live off cafeteria food for the next couple of weeks, but it was a worthy sacrifice, because once Rooney and I arrived early at our rehearsal room and changed into our costumes, I knew that this was the best idea I had ever had in my life. ‘Oh, this is the cosplay of my dreams,’ said Sunil as I handed him a bright orange jumper, a red skirt and some orange socks. We finished changing, and then we waited. And I started to think this may have been a terrible idea. Maybe he wouldn’t find it funny. Maybe he’d take one look at me and then leave. There was only one way to find out. ‘What is going on?’ Jason asked, stepping into the room and frowning at our odd get-ups. I’d missed him. God, I’d missed him and his fluffy jacket and soft smile. ‘Why are you – what are you do –’ His eyes widened suddenly. He clocked Sunil’s skirt. My oversized green T-shirt and brown trousers. Rooney’s little green scarf and purple tights. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. He dropped his bag on the floor. ‘Oh. My. God,’ he said. ‘Surprise!’ I cried, holding out my hands and the dog plushie I’d found at one of the high street charity shops. Rooney flipped her hair back and posed as Daphne, while Sunil shouted ‘JINKIES!’ and pushed up his Velma glasses. Jason put his hand on his heart. For a second, I was terrified that he was annoyed or upset. But then he smiled. A big, toothy smile. ‘Why the actual HELL – literally what the FUCK. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DRESSED AS THE SCOOBY GANG?’ ‘There’s a fancy-dress club night tonight,’ I said, grinning. ‘I … I thought this would be fun.’ Jason approached us. And then he just started laughing. Slowly, at first, but then louder. He took the dog plushie from my hand and looked at it, and then it was almost hysterics. ‘Scooby’s –’ he gasped through his laughs – ‘Scooby’s supposed – to be – a Great Dane – and this – is a pug!’ I started laughing with him. ‘It was the best I could do! Don’t laugh!’ ‘You’ve cast Scooby –’ he literally started wheezing – ‘you’ve cast Scooby as a pug – what is this – absolute defamation?’ He doubled over, and then we were just cry-laughing while he was holding the tiny pug plushie. It took a few minutes for us to calm down, Jason wiping the tears from his face. In that time, Rooney had taken the final items of clothing we’d bought today out of the carrier bag and held them up to Jason – a white jumper, orange scarf and blonde wig. He looked at them. ‘My time,’ he said, ‘has come.’ ‘So you really like Scooby-Doo?’ Sunil asked Jason later that night, once we’d made it to the club. It was packed full of students dressed as everything from superheroes to giant whisks. ‘More than most things in this world,’ said Jason. We danced. We danced a lot. And for the first time since getting to this university, I actually enjoyed it. All of it. The loud music, the sticky floor, the drinks served in tiny plastic cups. The old classics this club was playing, the drunk girls we befriended in the bathroom because of the pug plushie I’d been carrying around, Rooney slinging her arm over my shoulder, tipsy, swaying along to ‘Happy Together’ by The Turtles and ‘Walking on Sunshine’ by Katrina and the Waves, Sunil grabbing Jason by the hands and forcing him to do the macarena even though he thought it was cringey. Everything was better because of my friends. If they hadn’t been there, I would have hated it. I would have wanted to go home. I kept an eye on Rooney. There was one point in the night where she started drunkenly chatting and laughing with another group of people, students I’d never even seen before, and I wondered whether she was going to do her thing and abandon us. But when I grabbed her hand, she turned away from them and looked at me, her face flashing different colours under the lights, and she seemed to remember why she was here. She remembered that she had us. And I pulled her back to where Jason and Sunil were jumping up and down to ‘Jump Around’ by House of Pain, and we started jumping, and she smiled right in my face. I knew she was still hurting. I was too. But for a moment she seemed happy. So, so happy. All in all, I had one of the best nights of my university life. ‘I’m screaming,’ said Rooney, with a mouthful of pizza as we walked through Durham back to our colleges. ‘This is the best thing I have ever had in my mouth.’ ‘That’s what she said,’ said Jason, which set Rooney off on a laughing fit that quickly turned into a coughing fit. I bit into my own pizza slice, agreeing with Rooney. Something about a hot takeaway pizza in the middle of the night in the freezing northern winter was, to be frank, heavenly. Jason and I walked side by side, Rooney and Sunil walking a little way ahead, engaged in discussion about the best pizza place in Durham. I hadn’t yet had a chance to talk to Jason one-on-one. Until now. I didn’t really know how to start. How to apologise for everything. How to ask if there was a chance we could be friends again. Fortunately, he spoke first. ‘I wish Pip was here,’ he said. ‘She would have loved tonight.’ It wasn’t what I expected him to say, but as soon as he did, I realised how right he was. Jason snorted. ‘I have such a clear vision of her dressed up as ScoobyDoo, doing the Scooby-Doo voice.’ ‘Oh my God. Yes.’ ‘I can literally hear it. And it’s terrible.’ ‘She would be terrible.’ We both laughed. Like everything was back to normal. But it wasn’t. Not until we talked about it. ‘I’m …’ I started to say, but stopped myself, because it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing I could say felt like enough. Jason turned to face me. We’d just reached one of the many bridges that stretched over the River Wear. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked. ‘You can borrow my jacket.’ He started to take it off. God. I didn’t deserve him. ‘No, no. I was gonna say … I was gonna say I’m sorry,’ I said. Jason pulled his jacket back on. ‘Oh.’ ‘I’m so sorry for … everything. I’m just so sorry for everything.’ I stopped walking because I could feel myself welling up and I didn’t want to cry in front of him. I really, really didn’t want to cry. ‘I love you so much and … trying to date you was the worst thing I’ve ever done.’ Jason stopped walking. ‘It was pretty bad, wasn’t it?’ he said, after a pause. ‘We were very shit at it.’ This made me laugh, despite everything. ‘You didn’t deserve to be treated like that,’ I continued, trying to get it all out now while I had the chance. Jason nodded. ‘That is true.’ ‘And I need you to know that it was nothing to do with you – you’re – you’re perfect.’ Jason smiled, and attempted to flip the hair of his wig. ‘Also true.’ ‘I’m just – I’m just different. I just can’t feel that stuff.’ ‘Yeah.’ Jason nodded again. ‘You’re … asexual? Or aromantic?’ I froze. ‘What – wait, you know what those are?’ ‘Well … I’d heard of them. And when you messaged me I made the connection and then I went and looked them up and, yeah. That sounded like what you were describing.’ He looked alarmed suddenly. ‘Am I wrong? I’m so sorry if I got it wrong …’ ‘No, no – you’re right.’ I let out a breath. ‘I-I am. Uh, both of them. Aroace.’ ‘Aro-ace,’ Jason repeated. ‘Well.’ ‘Yeah.’ He slotted his hand into mine and we resumed walking. ‘You didn’t reply to my message, though,’ I pointed out. ‘Well … I was really upset.’ He stared at the ground. ‘And … I couldn’t really talk to you while I was … still in love with you.’ There was a long pause. I had no idea what to say to that. Eventually, he said, ‘D’you know when I first realised I liked you?’ I looked up at him, not sure where this was going. ‘When?’ ‘When you clapped back at Mr Cole that time during Les Mis rehearsals.’ Clapped back? I couldn’t remember a time when I’d clapped back at a teacher, let alone Mr Cole, the authoritarian director of our school plays in the sixth form. ‘I don’t remember that,’ I said. ‘Really?’ Jason chuckled. ‘He was shouting at me because I’d told him I had to miss a rehearsal that afternoon to go to a dentist appointment. And you were there, and he turned to you and said, Georgia, you agree with me, right? Jason is Javert, he’s a key role and he should have organised his appointment for another time. And you know what Mr Cole was like – anyone who disagreed with him was officially his enemy. But you just looked him in the eyes and were like, Well, it’s too late to change it now, so there’s no point shouting at Jason about it. And that just shut him right up and he stormed away to his office.’ I did remember this incident. But I didn’t think I’d been particularly forceful or bold. I’d just tried to stand up for my best friend who was clearly in the right. ‘It just made me think … Georgia might be kind of quiet and shy, but she’d stand up to a scary teacher if one of her friends was being shouted at. That’s the sort of person you are. It made me feel certain that you truly cared about me. And I guess that’s when I started … you know, falling for you.’ ‘I still care about you that much,’ I said immediately, even though I didn’t think what I’d said to Mr Cole was particularly special or brave. I still wanted Jason to know that I cared about him exactly as much as he’d thought in that moment. ‘I know,’ he said with a smile. ‘That’s partly why I needed some space away from you. To get over you.’ ‘Did you get over me?’ ‘I … I’m trying. It’s going to take time. But I’m trying.’ I subconsciously withdrew my hand from his. Was I making this worse for him just by being around him? He noticed this happen and there was a pause before he spoke again. ‘When you told me why you dated me, I … I mean, obviously I was crushed,’ he continued. ‘I felt like … you just didn’t care about me at all. But after I got your message, I think I started to realise that you’ve just … you’ve been so confused about stuff. You really thought we could be together, because you do love me. Not in a romantic way, but just as strongly. You’re still that person who stuck up for me to Mr Cole. You’re still my best friend.’ He glanced at me. ‘You and me not being a couple doesn’t change that at all. I haven’t lost anything, just because we’re not dating.’ I listened, stumped, taking a moment to figure out what he meant. ‘You’re OK with – with just being friends?’ I asked. He smiled and took my hand again. ‘“Just friends” makes it sound like being friends is worse. I think this is better, personally, considering how terrible that kiss was.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘I agree.’ We reached the end of the bridge, crossing back into a cobbled alleyway. Jason’s face ducked in and out of darkness as we passed the streetlamps. When his face came into the light again, he was smiling, and I thought, possibly, I was forgiven. Sunil peered at Jason’s framed photo of Sarah Michelle Gellar and Freddie Prinze Jr for a solid few seconds before tapping it and asking, ‘Would somebody like to explain this, please?’ ‘It’s a really long story,’ said Jason, who was sitting on his bed. ‘It’s a good story, though,’ I added. Me and Rooney were on the floor with Jason’s pillows as back rests, though Rooney was having a small power nap. ‘Well, now I’m even more intrigued.’ Jason sighed. ‘How about I explain once we’ve actually decided what we’re doing about Pip?’ It was a week after our Scooby-Doo outing. With Jason back in the Shakespeare Soc, things were looking up, and we’d actually been able to have a proper rehearsal. But we couldn’t do the show without Pip. And it wasn’t just about that, anyway. The society was important to all of us, but our friendship with Pip was more important. That was what needed saving. I just didn’t know exactly how I was going to do that. ‘We’re talking about Pip?’ said Rooney, who had apparently just woken up. Rooney was still going out most nights and returning in the early hours. I didn’t know whether I could stop her, or if I even should. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, technically. I just got the sense that she only did it to numb everything else. ‘I thought we were rehearsing,’ I said. ‘There’s no point carrying on with rehearsals if Pip isn’t coming back,’ Jason stated, and there was silence as we all realised that he was right. Sunil perched on Jason’s desk and folded his arms. ‘So … do you have any suggestions?’ ‘Well, I’ve been talking to her, and –’ ‘Wait, you’ve been talking to her?’ Rooney said, sitting upright. ‘It’s not me she has a feud with. We’re still friends. We’re at the same college.’ ‘You can get her to come back, then. She’ll listen to you.’ ‘I’ve tried.’ Jason shook his head. ‘She is angry. And Pip doesn’t forgive easily.’ He looked at me and Rooney. ‘I mean … I sort of understand why. What you both did was incredibly idiotic.’ Jason knew about the kiss. Of course he did – Pip probably told him everything. I felt myself go red out of sheer embarrassment. ‘What did you do?’ Sunil asked curiously. ‘They kissed and Pip saw,’ said Jason. ‘Oh.’ ‘Um … can we explain our side of the story about that?’ Rooney asked. ‘I mean my guess is that you were drunk and it was Rooney’s idea,’ said Jason. ‘And you both instantly regretted it.’ ‘OK, that’s … that’s fairly accurate.’ ‘So what should we do?’ asked Sunil. ‘I think Georgia and Rooney are just going to have to keep trying to talk to her until she’s willing to listen. Maybe one at a time, so she doesn’t feel like you’re ganging up on her.’ ‘When?’ I said. ‘How?’ ‘Now,’ said Jason. ‘I think one of you should go to her room and just apologise to her face. You haven’t actually tried apologising in person yet, have you?’ Neither Rooney nor I said anything. ‘That’s what I thought.’ An idea flashed into my mind. ‘Pip’s jacket. One of us should go and give her back her jacket.’ Rooney snapped her head round to me. ‘Yes. That’s been in our room for, like, months.’ ‘Want me to run back and get it?’ But Rooney was already getting to her feet. Once she returned from St John’s with Pip’s denim jacket in hand, Rooney demanded that she be the one to go to talk to Pip. She didn’t even let me argue with her – she just swung the door open, stepped outside, and said, ‘Which way is her room?’ Rooney still blamed herself for the whole thing, it seemed. Even though Pip had many more reasons to be angry with me. I went with her part of the way, but stopped round a corner a few metres away so I could listen to the conversation. It was evening, and dinner had finished, so hopefully Pip would be there. Rooney knocked on Pip’s door. I wondered what she was going to say. Was this a terrible idea? Too late. The door opened. ‘Hi,’ said Rooney. And then there was a noticeable silence. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Pip. Her voice was low. It was strange hearing Pip so genuinely sad. I hadn’t heard her like that very much before … all of this. ‘I …’ I expected Rooney to launch into a big speech of some sort. To deliver a heartfelt and forceful apology. Instead, she said, ‘Um – your … jacket.’ There was another silence. ‘OK,’ said Pip. ‘Thanks.’ The door creaked, and I peeked round the corner just as Rooney swung out her arm to keep the door open. ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘What? What do you want?’ I couldn’t see Pip – she was too far inside her room – but I could tell she was getting annoyed. Rooney was panicking. ‘I … Why is your room so messy?’ This was definitely the wrong thing to say. ‘You literally cannot stop yourself from making snidey comments about me, can you?’ Pip snapped. ‘Wait, sorry, that’s not what I –’ ‘Can’t you just leave me alone? I feel like you’re haunting me, or something.’ Rooney swallowed. ‘I just wanted to say sorry. Like … properly. To your face.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘Georgia’s here too.’ I felt my stomach drop as Rooney pointed towards where I was hiding round the corner. This hadn’t been the plan. For someone who supposedly knew a lot about romance, Rooney sure as hell didn’t know how to pull off a grand gesture Pip stepped a little way out of her room to look, her expression dark. ‘I don’t want to talk to either of you,’ she said, her voice cracking, and she turned to go back inside. ‘Hang on!’ I was surprised by my own voice leaving my mouth, and by the way I scrambled towards Pip’s room. And there she was. Her hair was fluffy and unstyled, and she was wearing a hoodie and jersey shorts. Her bedroom was extremely messy, even for her. She was clearly upset. But she wasn’t as angry as the other week outside the pub. Was that progress? ‘We thought it might be better if just one of us spoke to you,’ I blurted. ‘But – um, yeah. We’re both here. And we’re both really sorry for … you know. Everything that happened.’ Pip said nothing. She waited for us to continue, but I didn’t know what else to say. ‘That’s it, then?’ she said, eventually. ‘I’m supposed to just … forgive you?’ ‘We just want you to come back to the Shakespeare Soc,’ said Rooney, but this was, again, definitely the wrong thing to say. Pip laughed. ‘Oh my God! I should have guessed. This isn’t even about me – you just need your fifth member for the fucking Shakespeare Society. Oh my God.’ ‘No, that’s not what –’ ‘I have no idea why you care so much about your stupid play but why the fuck would I put myself through that with someone who made me think there was the tiniest chance she liked me back, and then decided to get off with my best friend?’ Pip shook her head. ‘I was right all along. You just hate me.’ I waited for Rooney’s inevitable comeback, but it didn’t arrive. She blinked several times. I turned to look at her properly, and realised she was about to cry. ‘I did like –’ she began to say, but stopped, and her face just crumpled. Tears started falling from her eyes, and before she could say anything else, she turned abruptly and walked away. Pip and I watched her disappear round the corner. ‘Shit, I … I didn’t mean to make her cry,’ Pip mumbled. I had no idea what to say now. I almost felt like crying too. ‘We really are sorry,’ I said. ‘We – I’m sorry. I meant everything I said in my message. It was just a weird, drunk mistake. Neither of us like each other like that. And I’ve apologised to Jason too.’ ‘You talked to Jason?’ ‘Yeah, we … we talked about everything. I think we’re OK now.’ Pip said nothing to that. She just looked down at the floor. ‘I really don’t care if you don’t want to come back to the Shakespeare Soc,’ I said. ‘I just … I just want us to be friends again.’ ‘I need some time to think.’ Pip went to shut the door, but before she did, she said, ‘Thanks for bringing my jacket back.’ Rooney had stopped crying by the time I returned to our room. Instead, she was changing into going-out clothes. ‘You’re going out?’ I asked, shutting the door behind me and flicking the light switch. She hadn’t even bothered to turn the light on. ‘Yeah,’ she said, pulling a bardot top over her head. ‘Why?’ ‘Because if I stay here,’ she snapped, ‘then I’ll have to sit and think about everything all night, and I can’t do that. I can’t just sit and be with my thoughts.’ ‘Who do you even go out with?’ ‘Just people in college. I have other friends.’ Friends who don’t ever stop by for tea, or come over for movie nights and pizza, or check in with you when you’re feeling rough? That’s what I wanted to say. ‘OK,’ I said. Her normal bullshit, was what I’d been telling myself. That was how I justified it all, really. The skipped lectures. The sleeping in until the afternoon. The clubbing every night. I didn’t take any of it seriously, really seriously, until that night, when I woke up at 5 a.m. to a message reading: Rooney Bach can your let me in im outside coellge Forgotmy key It had been sent at 3.24 a.m. The college doors were locked between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m. – you needed your key to get back into the main building. I often woke up in the early hours and checked my phone, before very quickly going back to sleep. But this panicked me so much that I leapt out of bed and immediately called Rooney. She didn’t pick up. I put on my glasses, dressing gown and slippers, grabbed my keys, and ran out of the door, my mind suddenly filled with visions of her dead in a ditch, choked on her own vomit, or drowned in the river. She had to be fine. She did stupid stuff all the time, but she was always fine. The main reception hall was dark and empty as I thundered through it, unlocked the door, and ran out into the dark. The street was empty, apart from a figure sitting on a low brick wall a little way ahead, huddled into herself. Rooney. Alive. Thank God. Thank God. I ran up to her. She was just wearing the bardot top and a skirt, despite the fact that it had to be like five degrees outside. ‘What – what are you doing?’ I said, feeling inexplicably angry at her. She looked up at me. ‘Oh. Good. Finally.’ ‘You … Have you just been sitting here all night?’ She stood up, attempting to be nonchalant, but I could see the way she was clutching her arms, trying to control her violent shivering. ‘Only a couple of hours.’ I wrenched off my dressing gown and gave it to her. She wrapped it round herself without question. ‘Couldn’t you have called someone else – one of your other friends?’ I asked. ‘Surely someone was awake.’ She shook her head. ‘No one was awake. Well, a couple of people read my messages, but … they must have ignored them. And then my phone died.’ I was so alarmed by this that I couldn’t even think of anything else to say. I just let us back into college and we walked to our room in silence. ‘You can’t just … You need to be more careful,’ I said as we entered the room. ‘It’s not safe to be out there on your own at that time.’ She started changing into her pyjamas. She looked exhausted. ‘Why do you care?’ she whispered. Not in a mean way. A genuine question. Like she honestly couldn’t fathom what the answer was. ‘Why do you care about me?’ ‘You’re my friend,’ I said, standing by the door. She didn’t say anything else. She just got into bed and closed her eyes. I picked up her discarded clothes from the floor and put them in her wash basket, but then realised her phone was in her skirt pocket, so I fished it out and put it on charge for her. I even poured a little bit of water into Roderick’s planter. He really was looking a little perkier. And then I got into bed and wondered why I cared about Rooney Bach, queen of self-sabotage, the love expert who wasn’t. Because I did. I really, really did care about her, despite how different we were and how we probably wouldn’t have ever spoken if we hadn’t been roomed together and all the times she’d said the wrong thing or made a mess of a situation. I cared about her because I liked her. I liked her passion for the Shakespeare Society. I liked the way she’d get excited about things that didn’t matter very much, like rugs or plays or college marriage. I liked the way she’d always genuinely wanted to help me, even though she’d never actually known the right thing to say or do and had given much worse advice than I’d initially realised. I thought that she was a good person, and I liked having her in my life. And I was starting to realise that it was unfathomable to Rooney that someone could feel that way about her. I was woken up again two hours later by the sound of Rooney’s phone ringing. We both ignored it. When it rang the second time, I sat up and put my glasses on. ‘Your phone’s ringing,’ I said, my voice croaky from sleep. Rooney had not moved. She just made a grunting noise. I rolled out of bed and stumbled over to where Rooney’s phone was on charge on her bedside table, and looked at the caller ID. It read: Beth I stared at it. I felt like I should know who this was, somehow, like I’d seen the name before somewhere. And then I realised that it was the name of a person half a metre in front of me, in the only photo Rooney had put up on the wall next to her bed. A photo that was a little crumpled from all the times it had fallen off the wall and been trodden on. The photo of thirteen-year-old Rooney and her best friend from school. Mermaid-hair Beth. I swiped to answer the call. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hi?’ said the voice. Beth. Was this Beth? The girl in the photo with dyed red hair and freckles? Did she and Rooney still talk to each other? Maybe Rooney did have other friends who checked in with her, I just didn’t know about them. And then Beth said, ‘I got some missed calls from this number last night and I just wanted to check who this was, in case it’s an emergency or something.’ I felt my mouth drop open. She didn’t even have Rooney’s number saved. ‘Um –’ I found myself talking. ‘Sorry – this actually isn’t my phone. This is Rooney Bach’s phone.’ There was a pause. ‘Rooney Bach?’ ‘Uh, yeah. I’m her uni roommate. She … she was pretty drunk last night, so … maybe she drunk-called you?’ ‘Yeah, I guess … sorry, this is really weird. I haven’t seen her for … God, it must be like five years. I don’t know why she even still has my number saved.’ I stared at the photo on the wall. ‘You don’t still talk to her?’ I asked. ‘Uh, no. She moved schools when we were in Year Nine and we didn’t really keep in contact after that.’ Rooney had lied. Or … had she? She’d told me Beth was her friend. Maybe that had been true when she was younger. But it wasn’t now. Why did Rooney have a photo of a friend she hadn’t spoken to for five years on her wall? ‘How is she?’ asked Beth. ‘She’s …’ I blinked. ‘She’s OK. She’s good.’ ‘That’s good. Is she still into theatre?’ I didn’t know why, but I felt like I was going to cry. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, she is. She loves theatre.’ ‘Aw. That’s nice. She always said she wanted to be a director, or something.’ ‘You should – you should message her sometime,’ I said, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I think she’d like a catch-up.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Beth. ‘Yeah, maybe I will. That’d be nice.’ I hoped she would. I desperately hoped she would. ‘Well … I’ll hang up then, as this isn’t an emergency or anything. I’m glad Rooney’s doing well.’ ‘OK,’ I said, and Beth ended the call. I put down Rooney’s phone. Rooney herself hadn’t moved. All I could see of her was the back of her head, her ponytail falling out, and the rest of her covered up by her floral duvet. What I’d thought was a mask was actually a wall. Rooney had a solid brick wall round some part of her that nobody was allowed to know. She’d spent the year knocking my own wall into pieces. I deserved a chance at doing the same to her. So I called an emergency meeting of the Shakespeare Society. We were going to get Pip back. And Rooney was going to help, whether she liked it or not. It was a Saturday, and we agreed to go out for mid-morning coffee. Jason had an early rowing practice, Sunil had an orchestra rehearsal, and Rooney would not get out of bed until I slapped her on the back of the head with her aqua rug, but somehow we all made it to Vennels Café by eleven o’clock. I finally knew what Vennels was. ‘That … is a lot,’ said Sunil, once I explained my plan. ‘I could get Jess involved. She plays the viola.’ ‘And I’ll ask my rowing captain if we can borrow some stuff,’ said Jason, tapping his fingers over his mouth. ‘I’m sure he’d say yes.’ ‘I … I don’t want to bother anyone,’ I said. The thought of other people having to help felt kind of embarrassing. ‘No, Jess will actually be upset if I don’t ask her to take part,’ said Sunil. ‘She’s obsessed with stuff like this.’ ‘What about Rooney?’ said Jason to Rooney. ‘What do you think?’ Rooney was slumped back in her chair and clearly did not want to be awake. ‘It’s good,’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic but failing dismally. Once Jason and Sunil headed off to their own things – Jason had a study group and Sunil was meeting some friends for lunch – Rooney and I were left alone. I thought we might as well stay here and have some food, since she hadn’t had any breakfast and we didn’t have anything else to do. We ordered pancakes – I went for savoury; she went for sweet – and chatted for a while about mundane topics like our coursework and the upcoming reading week. Eventually, though, she cut to the chase. ‘I know why you’re doing this,’ she said, her gaze level with mine. ‘Doing what?’ ‘Making me go out for breakfast and help you with the Pip thing.’ ‘Why’s that, then?’ ‘You feel sorry for me.’ I put my knife and fork neatly on to my empty plate. ‘No, actually. Wrong. Utterly wrong.’ I could tell she didn’t believe me. And then she said, ‘You spoke to Beth on the phone.’ I froze. ‘You were awake?’ ‘Why’d you answer the phone?’ Why had I answered the phone? I knew most people would have just let it go to voicemail. ‘I guess … I hoped she was calling to check up on you,’ I said, and I didn’t know how much sense that made. I had just wanted Rooney to know that someone had called. That someone cared. But Beth wasn’t that person. She didn’t care any more. ‘Was she?’ asked Rooney in a small voice. ‘Calling to check up on me?’ I could have lied. But I didn’t lie to Rooney. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She didn’t have your number saved.’ Rooney’s face dropped. She looked down, to one side. She took a long gulp of apple juice. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘Why do you have to do that?’ Rooney leant on to one hand, covering her eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ ‘That’s fine. I just want you to know that you can.’ I ordered another drink. She sat in silence with her arms folded, seemingly trying to cram herself further into the corner of the room. It took two weeks of intense planning. In the first week, we coordinated the time and place, and Jason went on a mission to sweet-talk the captain of his rowing team into letting us use what we needed. After we sent him to barter with a four-pack of beers, he returned with a smile on his face and a spare key to the boathouse, and we celebrated with pizza in Jason’s bedroom. In the second week, Sunil brought Jess along to a rehearsal. Although I didn’t feel I knew her very well, having only spoken to her a couple of times, she immediately demanded to know where I’d got my jumper – it was beige with multicoloured Fair Isle patterns – and we proceeded to bond at length over our shared love for patterned woolly jumpers. Jess was completely in favour of taking part in our scheme, despite the number of times I told her it was OK if she was too busy. And when she took out her viola and Sunil took out his cello, I realised why she was so keen – they clearly loved playing music together. They started running through the piece, chatting about it as they reached difficult parts and making little notes on the sheet music. Both of them seemed different here, as opposed to at Pride Soc, where they were constantly running around, organising everything, being the president and the vice-president. Here, they could just be Sunil and Jess, two best friends who liked making music. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it perfect before Sunday,’ Sunil promised, with a big smile on his face. ‘Thank you,’ I said, but it really didn’t feel like enough thanks for what they were doing. Rooney begrudgingly agreed to take control of a tambourine. The first couple of times we ran through it together, she just stood there, tapping it against her hand, looking down at the ground. But as we got closer to Sunday, she started to get a little more into it. She began bobbing on the spot as we ran through the piece. Sometimes she even sang along, just a little bit, like she was sure nobody could hear her. By the end, I almost thought she was having fun. We all were, really. We were all having so much fun. And this was going to work. The night before that Sunday, Rooney did not go out. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she just didn’t feel like it. But for whatever reason, she looked up from her laptop screen as I returned from the shower and asked, ‘Wanna watch YouTube videos and eat biscuits?’ I squeezed into her bed, which was, like last time, pretty uncomfortable, so I said without thinking, ‘What if we moved our beds together?’ and Rooney said, ‘Why not?’ So, we did. We both pulled our beds into the centre of the room, squishing them together to make one giant double bed, and started watching TikTok compilations while making our way through my packet of chocolate digestives. ‘I’m really nervous about tomorrow,’ I confessed halfway through the third video. ‘Same,’ said Rooney, crunching a biscuit in her mouth. ‘Do you think she’ll like it?’ ‘I honestly have no idea.’ We didn’t say anything else for a little while, and we soon finished the biscuits too. When the fourth video ended, Rooney didn’t go to find a new one, so we just lay there silently in the light of the screen. After some time – maybe a few minutes, maybe longer – she asked, ‘D’you think it’s weird I’ve still got that picture of Beth?’ I rolled my head to face her. ‘No,’ I said. That was the truth. ‘I do,’ she said. She sounded so tired. ‘If she couldn’t be bothered to keep in contact when you moved schools then she doesn’t deserve you,’ I said. I was angry at Beth, honestly. I was angry at her for making Rooney care so much about someone who didn’t care about her. Rooney huffed a tiny laugh into her pillow. ‘It wasn’t her. It was me.’ ‘What d’you mean?’ ‘When I was in Year Nine … that’s when I met my ex-boyfriend.’ ‘The … horrible one?’ ‘Ha, yeah. There was only one boyfriend. And he was horrible. Not that I realised that at the time.’ I didn’t say anything. I waited and let her tell the story. ‘He went to a different school. We would text each other all day every day. I was instantly obsessed with him. And I … I soon decided that the best thing would be for me to move to his school.’ She snorted. ‘I just screamed at my parents until they let me move schools. I made up lies that I was being bullied, that I had no friends. As you can imagine, I was the actual worst child alive.’ ‘And Beth was from your old school?’ There was a pause, before Rooney said, ‘Beth was the only real friend I ever had.’ ‘But … you stopped speaking to her …’ ‘I know,’ said Rooney, rubbing one eye with her fist. ‘I just … I thought having a boyfriend was the best thing ever. I thought I was in love. So I immediately gave everything up. Beth. Everyone else I knew at school. My whole life was at that school. I had … hobbies. Me and Beth did all the school shows. I went to the drama club. I’d always pester the head of drama to let us do a Shakespeare and she’d always give in. I was … happy. I was actually happy.’ Her voice quietened. ‘And I gave all of it up to be with my boyfriend.’ And Beth had forgotten her. Rooney had remembered, Rooney had never stopped thinking about what her life would have been like if she hadn’t chosen ‘love’ over everything else. She’d never stopped imagining what it would have been like to grow up with someone who really, genuinely cared about her. ‘My life was just horrible throughout the three years we dated. Well, I say dated, if you’re not counting the ten billion times he broke up with me, then decided we should get back together. And all the times he cheated on me.’ Rooney’s eyes were damp. ‘He decided everything. He decided when we would go to parties. He decided we should start drinking and smoking and going to clubs using fake IDs. He decided when we would have sex. And I just kept thinking … as long as he was happy, then I must be living my dream. This was love. He was my soulmate. This was what everyone wanted.’ And this had gone on for three years? ‘It took everything for me to break up with him.’ A single tear rolled down her cheek and on to the pillow. ‘Because … breaking up with him meant accepting that I’d made a really, really bad mistake. It meant accepting that this was completely my fault and I’d … I’d fucked up my own life. I’d lost my best friend for nothing. And I could have been so happy, but love ruined me.’ She broke down. She just started crying and she couldn’t stop, so I held her. I wrapped my arms round her and I held her tight and wanted to kill the guy who had done this to her, who was probably out there living his life and not giving a single fucking thought to any of this. I wanted to rewind time and give her the life she deserved because I loved her, and she was a good person. I knew she was a good person. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I whispered. ‘You have to believe that.’ She wiped frantically at her eyes, which didn’t help much. ‘Sorry,’ she said hoarsely. ‘This always happens when I talk about … stuff.’ ‘I don’t mind you crying,’ I said. ‘I just … I hate the idea of people knowing me because … surely then they’ll hate me the same way I hate myself.’ ‘But I don’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t hate you.’ She didn’t reply. She kept her eyes closed. And I don’t know when we both fell asleep but we did, tangled up like that in our makeshift double bed, and I knew there was no easy way to fix this, but I hoped she felt safe, at least. Maybe I would never be able to replace Beth, and maybe Rooney would take a long time to dig her way out of these feelings, and maybe there was nothing I could do to help at all. But I hoped she felt safe with me. Sunday arrived, and I was wearing a full suit and tie – borrowed from one of Sunil and Jess’s friends, as I didn’t own anything nearly this cool myself – staring down at a rowing boat. It wasn’t one of the racing boats – it was wider, made for casual trips down the river, so we’d all actually fit in with the instruments and it’d be unlikely that anyone would fall out. But I was still starting to feel like this was a terrible idea. ‘This was a terrible idea,’ I said to Jason, who was standing next to me at the riverbank wearing a large, bright-yellow life jacket over his own suit and tie. It was a look. ‘It’s not a terrible idea,’ he said. ‘It’s a very good idea.’ ‘I’ve changed my mind. I want to die.’ ‘Is it the boat you’re afraid of or what happens after we all get in the boat?’ ‘All of the above. I regret that a boat was ever involved.’ Jason swung an arm round me and gave me a squeeze. I rested my head against him. ‘You can do this, OK? I mean, you’re absolutely fucking insane for doing this, but this is literally going to go down in history. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if it went viral.’ I shot him a panicked look. ‘I do not want this to go viral. I want to do this and then never think about it again. No one is allowed to post this on YouTube.’ ‘OK. It won’t go viral. We can forget this day ever happened.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Life jacket?’ ‘Yes, please.’ He helped me into a life jacket. Bright purple. Rooney approached us, also in a suit, with a navy life jacket on, holding her tambourine. ‘You ready?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I said. Sunil and Jess were behind us, instruments in hands. Sunil shot me a strong thumbs up. ‘Everything will be fine,’ said Sunil. ‘And if it’s not,’ said Jess, ‘at least we’ll have had fun!’ ‘Now get in the fucking boat,’ said Jason. I sighed and got in the fucking boat. We had spoken to one of the few people I knew was friends with Pip. Or, rather, Jason had. Jason was friends with him on Facebook and had messaged him asking if he could get Pip to arrive at Elvet Bridge at five o’clock exactly – roughly the time the sun would start to set. The guy agreed. I’d done seven school shows and four youth theatre productions. I’d gone to university three hundred miles away from home, I’d agreed to share a room with a stranger, I’d gone clubbing for the first time despite knowing I’d hate it, and I’d come out to four whole people. Somehow, none of that was as scary as this. But I was going to do this. For Pip. To show her that I loved her. Jason – who I realised suddenly had built up a lot of muscle strength since joining the rowing club – rowed the five of us down the river. It wasn’t far from John’s to Elvet Bridge, but we started to draw a lot of attention as we approached the town centre, rowing along in our suits and ties with musical instruments stored cautiously at our feet. There was absolutely no need to do this from a boat other than for dramatic effect. And I was regretting it a little. But, overall, I knew that Pip would love this. Pip loved anything that was a little ridiculous and theatrical. The others were all laughing and gabbling excitedly, which I was glad for, because I was so nervous I couldn’t even talk. It was freezing too, but at least the adrenaline was keeping me warm. The bridge slowly approached from the distance. Sunil kept checking his watch to make sure we were on time. ‘Nearly there,’ Jason murmured from behind me. I turned to him, feeling comforted by his presence. ‘It’s gonna be amazing,’ he said. ‘Yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’ I tried out a little smile. ‘Thanks for helping.’ Jason shrugged. ‘We’re friends.’ I grinned. ‘Let me know if you need any help with any elaborate platonic gestures of your own.’ ‘I will.’ And when I turned back and looked up at the bridge, Pip was there. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses. The winter wind was whipping her hair into a mess of dark curls. She was bundled in a thick Puffa jacket, standing next to her friend who, thankfully, had brought her here on time. She was looking down at me, mouth open, absolutely baffled. I just grinned. I couldn’t help it. ‘Hi!’ I called up to her. And then she grinned back and shouted, ‘What the fuck?’ I turned to everyone on the boat. Sunil, Jess and Rooney had picked up their instruments, ready to begin. They were waiting for me. ‘Ready?’ I said. They nodded. I counted them in. And then, with three accompanists, I stood on a boat on the River Wear and sang ‘Your Song’ – the version specifically from Moulin Rouge – to Pip Quintana, who didn’t yet know me as well as I wished she did, but despite that, was one of my favourite people I had ever met. We didn’t actually perform the full three minutes thirty-nine seconds of ‘Your Song’, instead keeping it to a safe ninety seconds so the whole thing didn’t become too embarrassing and awkward for anyone involved. But I was probably still going to look back on this and cringe for the rest of my life. When the song ended, we’d drawn quite a large crowd of onlookers from Durham’s town centre, and Pip’s smile was so wide and bright that all I could think about was that she looked like the sun. Our performance had done its job. Jason nudged me in the side. I looked at him, feeling how much my face was burning. ‘What?’ ‘You need to ask the question.’ Oh yeah. I grabbed the megaphone we’d brought with us from the bottom of the rowing boat – carefully, so I didn’t just fall into the water, which was becoming an ever-increasing danger by this point – and held it up. ‘Pip Quintana,’ I said, and it came out so loud through the megaphone that I made myself jump. Pip looked incredibly flustered and still did not seem to know what was going on. ‘Yes?’ ‘Will you be my college wife?’ The look on her face told me that she was not expecting that question. Then she smacked her palm on to her forehead. She realised. ‘YES!’ she shrieked at me. ‘AND I HATE YOU!’ And then people just started applauding. All the random people who’d paused on the bridge and by the river to watch – a lot of students, but also local residents of Durham too – clapped, and a few of them cheered. It was a whole thing. Like in a movie. I prayed none of them had filmed it. And then Pip started to cry. ‘Oh fuck,’ I said. ‘Jason?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘She’s crying.’ ‘Yes, she is.’ I started patting Jason on the arm. ‘We need to get to shore.’ Jason grabbed the oars. ‘On it.’ When we got to shore, Pip had already run down the steps from the bridge, made her way down the path and on to the grassy riverbank, and when I got out of the boat, she ran into me and hugged me so aggressively that I stumbled backwards, fell, and suddenly both of us were sitting waist-deep in the River Wear. Somehow, it didn’t seem to matter at all. ‘Why are you like this?’ was the first thing Pip said to me, furiously rubbing tears from her eyes, new ones replacing them just as fast. ‘Like … what?’ I asked, genuinely confused. Pip shook her head, sitting back from me a little. ‘This.’ She laughed. ‘I never would have done something like this. I’m too much of a dumbass.’ ‘You’re not a dumbass.’ ‘Oh, I am. Big, big dumbass.’ ‘You’re talking to someone who is waist-deep in a river in February right now.’ She grinned. ‘Shall we continue this conversation elsewhere?’ ‘That would be nice.’ We ended up getting back into the boat – with Pip, this time – and rowing all the way back to St John’s. Pip was so excited by this that she nearly capsized the boat and it took Jason and me quite a lot of effort to convince her to sit down and stay still, but we made it to college without any accidents. Rooney sat right at the back, trying not to look at Pip. I noticed Pip glancing back a few times, almost like she might say something to her, but she didn’t. Before we all disbanded on the college green, I thanked everyone for helping me. ‘All in the spirit of love,’ replied Sunil, slinging an arm round Jess. He was right, I supposed. All of this was for love, in one way or another. Pip and Rooney finally acknowledged each other’s existence when Pip said, ‘You were good … on the tambourine.’ She’d meant it as a genuine compliment, but somehow it sounded like an insult. Rooney just said, ‘Thank you,’ and then mumbled something about having someone to meet in town, tore off her lifejacket, and left before Pip could say anything else. The last person to say goodbye was Jason. He gave me a tight hug, then walked away, the bottom of his trousers damp and water droplets on his sleeves. And then it was just Pip and me. It didn’t even need to be said that Pip would stay and talk with me that afternoon. She just did. It reminded me of the way we were the first year we met. Age eleven. That was the year we went everywhere with each other, trying to figure out if there was anyone else we could invite into our inner circle, and eventually realising that, for now, it was just us. I took her up to my bedroom. Rooney wasn’t there – she really had gone into town, and I had a feeling she wouldn’t be back for a while – but our beds were still pushed together, the sheets unmade, and everything from last night came back in a sudden rush. Rooney’s confession. The tears. I realised suddenly that this was probably not the best impression to give Pip, who had been angry at me and Rooney because she thought we were an item. ‘Um,’ I said. ‘This is not – we weren’t –’ ‘I know,’ said Pip. She smiled at me, and I knew then that she believed me. ‘Hey, has Roderick shrunk?’ She walked over to Roderick and crouched down. Despite the amount of leaves I’d had to cut off, he actually seemed to have grown since I last watered him. Maybe he wasn’t totally dead after all. Pip shivered suddenly, which was when I remembered that both she and I were pretty much drenched from the waist down. I dug out a pair of joggers for her and some pyjamas for me, and when I turned round, Pip was practically ripping her jeans from her legs in her haste to get out of them. My joggers were comically long on Pip, but she rolled them up and soon we were huddled on the carpet, our backs against the side of the bed, with mugs of hot chocolate and a blanket over our legs. I knew I needed to be the first to say something about everything that had happened, but I was still so bad at having deep conversations or talking about my emotions in any way that it took a few minutes of Pip chatting aimlessly about her course and her nights out with friends before I said what I really wanted to say. Which was, ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve already said that, but, yeah. I really am.’ Pip looked at me. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yeah.’ ‘I completely understand you not talking to me after the whole thing at the Bailey Ball,’ I continued, not quite able to look her in the eye. ‘I’m sorry for … you know, what happened. It was a shitty thing to do. For … several reasons.’ Pip said nothing for a moment. Then she turned away and nodded. ‘Thanks for saying that,’ she said, awkwardly flattening her curls. ‘I … I think I knew right away that it was a mistake for both of you, but … yeah. It still hurt.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘I just …’ She looked up at me, right in the eyes. ‘OK. We’re being honest, right?’ ‘Yeah. Of course.’ ‘Well … I did like Rooney. I really did.’ She tilted her head back. ‘I know I never outright said it, but … I didn’t want to admit it to myself. But you knew, right? I mean, you said you knew.’ I had known. That’s what made this situation so awful. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I … I didn’t want to admit it, because, like …’ She laughed. ‘I am so fucking done with liking straight girls. Literally my whole teenage life I spend pining after straight girls, maybe getting like one kiss from a slightly curious girl who immediately goes back to her boyfriend, and then I come to uni hoping to finally meet a solid range of other queer girls … and I just immediately fall for a straight girl again.’ She smacked her forehead with one hand. ‘Why am I the actual dumbest gay alive?’ I grinned. I couldn’t help it. ‘Shut up,’ said Pip, also grinning. ‘I know. I know. I was doing so well. I joined Pride Soc and LatAm Soc and I even went to a couple of those stupid Ultimate Frisbee games, but like … I was still making the same mistakes. Then when you and her kissed, I just – it just felt like the biggest betrayal from both of you.’ I hugged her. Tight. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She hugged me back. ‘I know.’ We stayed like that for a long time. Then she said, ‘I just don’t understand why the kiss happened. Like … I don’t think I’ve ever been so genuinely shocked by anything in my life.’ I felt myself go a bit red. ‘Didn’t Rooney explain?’ ‘To be honest, I was so pissed off that I barely listened to what she was saying.’ She huffed out a laugh. ‘And by the time I calmed down, it was kind of too late.’ ‘Oh.’ Pip looked at me. ‘Georgia … I don’t want to … force you to talk about anything that you don’t want to talk about. Like, that’s not what people should do to anyone, especially their friends, and especially about things like … like sexuality.’ Her voice grew softer. ‘But … I at least want you to know that you can talk to me about it, if you want to, and I promise I would understand.’ I felt frozen. She knew something was up. She’d known for ages, probably. ‘I don’t know whether you’d understand,’ I said in a very small voice. Pip paused, then let out a short, exasperated chuckle. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware of this fact, Georgia Warr, but I am an exceptionally humungous lesbian with a lifetime of experience in gay thoughts.’ I laughed. ‘I know. I was there all through your Keira Knightley phase.’ ‘Erm, my Keira Knightley phase is still ongoing, thank you very much. I’ve still got that poster in my room at home.’ ‘Still?’ ‘I can’t throw it away. It represents my gay awakening.’ ‘You can’t throw it away because she’s hot, you mean.’ ‘Maybe so.’ We both grinned, but I didn’t know where to go from there. Should I just say it? Should I find an article for her to read? Should I just drop this whole topic because she’d never understand? ‘So,’ said Pip, twisting her body round so she was facing me. ‘Keira Knightley. Thoughts?’ I snorted. ‘Are you asking me whether I fancy Keira Knightley?’ ‘Yup.’ ‘Oh.’ So this was how we were doing it. ‘Well, um, no.’ ‘What about … girls in general?’ Pip held her mug in front of her mouth, staring at me with quiet cautiousness. ‘No,’ I murmured. I guess I was sure about that now. But it still felt almost impossible to admit. For Pip, at least, it probably would have been easier to understand if I did like girls. ‘So … the thing with Rooney …’ Pip looked down. ‘Was it … were you just curious, or …?’ Curious. I wanted to laugh. I was, and always had been, the opposite of curious. ‘Desperate is the word I would use,’ I said before I could stop myself. Pip frowned, confused. ‘Desperate for what?’ ‘Desperate to like someone.’ I looked at Pip. ‘Anyone.’ ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Because … I don’t. I can’t. I can’t like anyone. Not boys, not girls, not anyone.’ I ran a hand over my hair. ‘I just … can’t. I never will.’ I waited for the words that would inevitably follow. You don’t know that. You’ll meet someone one day. You just haven’t met the right person. But all she said was, ‘Oh.’ She nodded slowly in that way she did when she was thinking hard about something. I was just going to have to say the words. ‘It’s called aromantic asexual,’ I said on an exhale. ‘Oh,’ she said again. I waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t. She just sat there, thinking really hard. ‘Thoughts?’ I said, letting out a small, nervous laugh. ‘Do I need to look it up on Wikipedia for you?’ Pip snapped out of her little thought bubble and looked at me. ‘No. No Wikipedia needed.’ ‘I get that it sounds weird.’ I could feel myself going red. Would I ever stop feeling embarrassed about explaining this to people? ‘It’s not weird.’ ‘It sounds weird, though.’ ‘No, it doesn’t.’ ‘It does.’ ‘Georgia.’ Pip smiled, a little exasperated. ‘You’re not weird.’ She was the first person who’d said that to me. I hated that I still felt, sometimes, underneath it all, that I wasn’t normal. But maybe getting over that would take time. Maybe, little by little, I could start to believe that I was OK. ‘A bit wordy, though, isn’t it?’ Pip continued, leaning back on to the side of the bed. ‘Eight whole syllables. Bit of a mouthful.’ ‘Some people call it aro-ace for short.’ ‘Oh, that’s way better. That sounds like a character from Star Wars.’ She made a dramatic gesture with one hand. ‘Aro Ace. Defender of the universe.’ ‘OK, I hate that.’ ‘Come on. You like space.’ ‘No.’ We were just joking, but I sort of wanted to scream. Take me seriously. She could tell. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to talk about serious things without making it into a joke.’ I nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s fine.’ ‘Did you … feel like that all through school?’ ‘Yeah. I wasn’t really aware of it, though.’ I shrugged. ‘Just thought I was super picky. And my fake feelings for Tommy were a bit of a red herring.’ Pip rested her head against my sheets, waiting to hear more. ‘I guess … I always felt, like … uncomfortable when I tried to have feelings for anyone. Like, it just felt wrong and awkward. Like what happened with Jason. I knew I didn’t like him like that because when we tried to do anything romantic, it just felt … wrong. But I guess I thought that everyone felt like that and I just needed to keep trying.’ ‘Can I ask a dumb question?’ Pip interrupted. ‘Er, yeah?’ ‘This is going to sound bad, but, like, how do you know you won’t find someone one day?’ This was the question that had been plaguing me for months. But when Pip asked me it then, I realised I knew the answer. Finally. ‘Because I know myself. I know what I feel and … what I have the capability to feel, I think.’ I smiled weakly at her. ‘I mean, how do you know you won’t fall for a guy one day?’ Pip made a face. I laughed. ‘Yeah, exactly. You just know that about yourself. And now I know too.’ There was a pause and I could hear my own heart thumping in my chest. God, I couldn’t wait until talking about this didn’t give me high adrenaline and nervous sweats. Suddenly, Pip slammed her empty mug down on the carpet and cried, ‘I can’t believe neither of us realised this earlier! For fuck’s sake! Why the fuck are we like this!’ I picked up her mug, slightly alarmed, and put it safely out of the way on my bedside table. ‘What d’you mean?’ She shook her head. ‘We were literally going through the same thing at the same time, and neither of us realised.’ ‘Were we?’ ‘Well, I mean, with some minor details changed.’ ‘Like the fact that you like girls?’ ‘Yes, like that. But apart from that, we were both trying to force ourselves to like guys, we were both struggling with the fact that we didn’t have crushes on the people we were supposed to, we were both feeling … I dunno … weird and different! And neither of us liked guys! And – oh my God, I was the one coming to you like, oh no, sad, I think I’m gay and I don’t know what to do all the while you were in such an intense state of repression that you literally thought you were straight despite the fact that doing anything with guys made you want to vom.’ ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yeah.’ ‘Yeah!’ ‘Are we both dumbasses?’ ‘I think we are, Georgia.’ ‘Oh no.’ ‘Yes. That’s the takeaway from this conversation.’ ‘Great.’ And then Pip started to laugh. And that made me laugh too. And then we were laughing hysterically, the sound echoing around the room, and I couldn’t remember the last time Pip and I had laughed together like this. We’d missed dinner, so we decided to have a little picnic with all the snacks I kept in my room – of which there were plenty. We sat on the floor and ate supermarket-brand cookies, a half-empty family-size packet of caramelised onion crisps, and bagels that were definitely almost stale, while watching Moulin Rouge, of course. It was similar to last night, watching YouTube videos with Rooney. If I could spend every night of my life eating snacks and watching something silly in a giant bed with one of my best friends, I’d be happy. My future still terrified me. But everything seemed a little brighter when my best friends were around. We didn’t talk any more about identities and romance and feelings until the film had nearly finished, when we’d moved on to the bed and had been curled up in my bedsheets in silence for the better part of an hour. I was dangerously close to falling asleep. But then Pip spoke – her voice soft and quiet in the low light of the room. ‘Why did you college propose to me?’ Pip asked. There’d been a lot of reasons. I’d wanted to make a big gesture, I’d wanted to cheer her up, I’d wanted her to be my friend again, I’d wanted to make things right. I was sure Pip knew all those things too. But maybe she needed to hear it out loud. ‘Because I love you,’ I said, ‘and you deserve magical moments like that.’ Pip stared at me. Then her eyes filled with tears. She leant on to one hand, covering her eyes. ‘You fucking dick. I’m not drunk enough to cry while having emotional conversations with friends.’ ‘I’m not sorry.’ ‘You should be! Where the fuck are your tears!’ ‘I don’t cry in front of anyone, my dude. You know this.’ ‘I’m making it my new mission in life to make you cry with emotion.’ ‘Good luck with that.’ ‘It’s going to happen.’ ‘Sure.’ ‘I hate you.’ I grinned at her. ‘I hate you too.’ I woke up groggily the next morning to the sound of the bedroom door opening, and when I raised my head, I was unsurprised to find Rooney creeping in wearing last night’s clothes – the full suit she’d worn as part of the proposal. This was a relatively normal occurrence by this point, but what was not normal was the way Rooney froze in the middle of her aqua rug and stared at the space next to me on the double bed – Rooney’s side – which was occupied by Pip Quintana. Pip and I had been chatting so much last night that by the time Pip realised she should probably go back to her own college, it was bordering on midnight, so I’d lent her some pyjamas and she’d stayed over. Both of us had utterly forgotten about the fact that things could be quite awkward between Pip and Rooney if they were in the same room. There were a very obvious few seconds of silence. And then I said, ‘Morning.’ Rooney said nothing for a moment, and then started very slowly taking off her shoes and said, ‘Morning.’ I felt movement next to me and turned to look, grabbing my glasses from my bedside table. Pip was awake, her own glasses already on. ‘Oh,’ she said, and I could see the colour filling her cheeks. ‘Um, sorry, I – we probably should have asked you if –’ ‘It’s fine!’ Rooney squawked, turning away from us and rummaging frantically in her toiletries bag for a packet of make-up wipes. ‘You can stay over if you want!’ ‘Yeah, but – this is your room too –’ ‘I don’t really care!’ Pip sat up. ‘O-OK.’ She started clambering out of the bed. ‘Um, I should probably go anyway, I’ve got a lecture this morning.’ I frowned. ‘Hang on, it’s like seven a.m.’ ‘Yeah, well, I-I need to wash my hair and stuff, so –’ ‘You don’t have to leave because of me!’ said Rooney from the other side of the room. She was facing away from us, scrubbing her face with a makeup wipe. ‘It’s not because of you!’ said Pip much too quickly. Both of them were panicking. Rooney started changing into her pyjamas just to give herself something to do. Pip began to gather up her own clothes from yesterday while determinedly keeping her eyes averted from Rooney, who was now just wearing pyjamas shorts. I really, really wanted to laugh, but for both their sakes, kept my mouth shut. Pip spent much longer than she needed to gathering her belongings and, thankfully, by the time she dared to turn round, Rooney had a pyjama top on and was sitting at her desk, attempting to look casual by scrolling through her phone. ‘Well …’ Pip looked at me, almost disoriented. ‘I’ll … see you later?’ ‘Yeah,’ I said. I clenched my lips together so that I didn’t laugh. Pip went to leave the room, but suddenly looked down at the pile of clothes she had in her hands and said, ‘Oh, shit, erm, I think – these aren’t mine?’ She pulled out a pair of leggings with the words ‘St John’s College’ on them. Rooney’s. Rooney glanced over, feigning nonchalance. ‘Oh, yeah, those are mine.’ She held out a hand. Pip had no choice but to approach Rooney and hand them over. Rooney’s eyes stayed focused on Pip’s as she slowly approached. Pip held out the leggings and dropped them into Rooney’s open hand from a height that suggested she was nervous to put her hand anywhere near Rooney’s skin. ‘Thanks,’ said Rooney. An awkward smile. ‘No problem.’ Pip hovered next to Rooney’s desk. ‘So … were you out last night, or …?’ Clearly Rooney was not expecting this. She clenched the leggings in her hand and said, ‘Oh, yeah! Yeah, I was just … me and some friends went out to Wiff Waff and then stayed in their room.’ Rooney pointed out of the window. ‘In a different building. I couldn’t be assed to walk back here.’ Pip nodded. ‘Cool. Wiff Waff … that’s the table-tennis bar, right?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘That sounds fun.’ ‘Yeah, it was good. I get so competitive, though.’ Pip smiled. ‘Yeah, I know.’ From the look on her face, this statement seemed to shake Rooney to her core. ‘Yes,’ said Rooney, strained, after a long pause. ‘So … you and Georgia had a sleepover?’ ‘Oh, yeah, erm –’ Pip suddenly blanched. ‘I mean – just a platonic sleepover. Obviously. We didn’t – Georgia’s not –’ ‘I know,’ said Rooney quickly. ‘Georgia’s not into sex.’ Pip’s mouth twitched. Rooney using the word ‘sex’ seemed to have sent Pip on to another level of panic. ‘Georgia’s right here,’ I said, literally unable to keep the giant smile off my face by this point. Pip stepped back, her cheeks tinged red. ‘Um … anyway, yeah, I’d better go.’ Rooney looked dazed. ‘OK.’ ‘I … well, it was nice to … um … yeah.’ ‘Yeah.’ Pip opened her mouth to say something more, then shot a panicked glance towards me, and then she was out of the room without another word. We waited a few seconds until we heard the door at the end of the corridor shut. And then Rooney exploded. ‘Are you FUCKING JOKING ME, GEORGIA? Could you not have done me the tiniest courtesy of WARNING ME that the girl I like was going to BE HERE when I got back?’ She started pacing back and forth. ‘Do you think I would have waltzed in here wearing fucking LAST NIGHT’S CLOTHES with last night’s make-up smeared all over my FUCKING face had I known that Pip Quintana was going to be here with the most FUCKING adorable bedhead I have ever seen in my FUCKING life?’ ‘You’re going to wake up the whole corridor,’ I said, but she didn’t even seem to hear me. Rooney collapsed on to her side of the bed face first. ‘What sort of impression am I supposed to make wandering back into my own college room at seven a.m. like I’ve just been out fucking some person I never want to speak to again?’ ‘Were you?’ I asked. She lifted her head and gave me a sharp look. ‘NO! For fuck’s sake! I haven’t done that since before the Bailey Ball.’ I shrugged. ‘Thought I’d check.’ She rolled on to her back, spreading out her limbs as if willing herself to melt into the sheets. ‘I’m a mess.’ ‘So’s Pip,’ I said. ‘You’re kind of made for each other.’ Rooney made a low grunting sound. ‘Don’t give me false hope. She’s never going to like me after what I did.’ ‘Do you want my opinion?’ ‘No.’ ‘OK.’ ‘Wait, yes. Yes I do.’ ‘Pip likes you back and I think you should actually try talking to her normally again.’ She rolled on to her front. ‘Absolutely impossible. If you’re going to offer ideas, please offer realistic ones.’ ‘Why is that impossible?’ ‘Because I’m shit and she deserves better. I can’t fall in love, anyway. I’ll get over this. Pip should be with a nice person.’ The way she said it – light and casual – I could have easily mistaken it for a joke. But because I understood Rooney on a slightly deeper level by this point, I knew she wasn’t joking at all. ‘Dude,’ I said. ‘I’m the one who can’t fall in love. I think you just don’t want to.’ She made a ‘harrumph’ noise. ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Are you aromantic?’ ‘No,’ she grumbled. ‘There. So stop erasing my identity and tell Pip you like her.’ ‘Don’t use your identity to make me admit my feelings.’ ‘I can and I will.’ ‘Did you see her bedhead?’ Rooney mumbled into her pillow. ‘Er, yes?’ ‘She looked so fluffy.’ ‘She’d probably murder you if you called her fluffy.’ ‘I bet she smells really nice.’ ‘She does.’ ‘Fuck you.’ We were interrupted by notification sounds from both of our phones. A message in our Shakespeare Soc group chat. The one that hadn’t been used since before the new year – ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dab’. Felipa Quintana Forgot to sayI would like to rejoin the Shakespeare Soc If you’ll have me I can learn my lines in two weeks!!! We lay there on the bed, reading the messages at the same time. ‘We’re doing the play,’ said Rooney breathlessly. I didn’t know whether she was thrilled or terrified. ‘Are you OK with that?’ I asked. I thought this was what she’d wanted. She’d been devastated when Pip and Jason had left and the society crumbled. It had sent her spiralling for weeks. Rooney was so good at pretending she was fine. Even now I sometimes failed to spot when she was spiralling. And after her breakdown the other night, and the situation with Pip, and all of the feelings I knew she was fighting, and the ones I was still dealing with too … Were we going to be OK? ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Against my will,’ Pip said, rolling her eyes while leaning against a pillar that I had spent a whole morning crafting out of cardboard and papier mâché, ‘I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.’ Rooney was lounging on a chair, centre-stage. ‘Fair Beatrice,’ she said, standing up with a flirty expression. ‘I thank you for your pains.’ We had ten days until the play. This was definitely not enough time to finish staging all of the scenes, learn all of our lines, and prepare costumes and set. But we were trying anyway. Pip’s expression remained unbothered. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come.’ Rooney stepped closer, slotting her hands into her pockets and smirking down at Pip. ‘You take pleasure then in the message?’ Before today’s rehearsal, Rooney had spent a solid twenty minutes changing outfits and doing her hair before I straight-up asked, ‘Is this about Pip?’ She denied it loudly and at length, before saying, ‘Yes. Fine. What do I do?’ It had taken me a moment to realise that she was asking for my help. With romance. Just as I had done all those months ago in Freshers’ Week. ‘Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point and choke a daw withal,’ Pip scoffed back, folding her arms. ‘You have no stomach, signor: fare you well.’ And then she turned and whisked off stage. Me, Jason and Sunil clapped. ‘That was good!’ Pip said, a smile on her face. ‘That was good, right? And I didn’t forget the choke a daw bit.’ ‘You were OK,’ said Rooney, eyebrows raised. I had given Rooney all the advice I could think to give. Be yourself. Talk to her. Maybe try saying nice things sometimes. Well, she was trying, at least. ‘That means a lot coming from you,’ said Pip, and Rooney turned away so we couldn’t see her expression. Five days before the play, we ran through the entire thing. We messed up several cues, Jason smacked his head on the top of the paper-mâché pillar, and I completely blanked my final speech from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but eventually we made it to the end, and it wasn’t a complete disaster. ‘We actually did it,’ said Pip, her eyes wide as we all finished clapping each other. ‘Like, we might possibly pull this off.’ ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ Rooney scoffed. ‘I am actually a good director.’ ‘Excuse me, we are co-directors. I get some of the credit.’ ‘No. Incorrect. I removed your directorship when you decided to abandon us for two months.’ Pip’s mouth dropped open, and she whipped her head round to me to see my reaction. ‘Is she allowed to joke about that yet? Surely we’re not at the point where we can joke about our feud yet.’ ‘I can joke about what I want,’ said Rooney. I was busy stacking chairs. ‘I’m not getting involved,’ I said. ‘No,’ said Pip, turning back to Rooney. ‘I refute this. I want my codirectorship back.’ ‘You’re not having it!’ said Rooney, who had started pushing the pillar to one side of the room. Pip walked right up to Rooney and poked her on the arm. ‘Too bad! I’m taking it back!’ She went to poke her again, but Rooney ducked round the pillar and said, ‘You’ll have to fight for it, then!’ Pip followed her, increasing the speed of her pokes so that she was basically tickling Rooney. ‘Maybe I will!’ Rooney tried to bat her away, but Pip was too fast, and soon Pip was basically chasing her around the room, both of them shrieking and swatting at each other. They were smiling and laughing so much that it made me smile. Even though I still wasn’t sure whether Rooney was really OK. We hadn’t spoken again about what she’d told me that night we moved the beds. About Beth and her ex-boyfriend and her teenage life. But we kept the beds together. We rehearsed our play and we ate in the cafeteria, and Rooney stopped going out at night. We sat together in lectures and walked to and from the library in the cold and we watched Brooklyn Nine-Nine one Saturday morning until noon, buried in the covers. I waited for her to break again. For her to run away from me. But she didn’t, and, still, we kept the beds together. She took down the photo of Beth. She didn’t throw it away – she just put it inside one of her notebooks where it could stay safe. We should take more photos, I thought. Then she’d have something else to stick on the wall. I felt that there was something we weren’t saying. Something we hadn’t addressed. I had figured out who I was, and she had told me who she’d been, but I could feel that there was something more, and I didn’t know whether it was her keeping things inside or whether it was me. Perhaps both. I didn’t even know whether it was something we needed to talk about. Sometimes I woke up in the night and couldn’t go back to sleep because I started thinking about the future, terrified, having no idea what it would look like for me now. Sometimes Rooney would wake up too, but she wouldn’t say anything. She would just lie there, shuffling a little under the duvet. It was comforting when she did wake up, though. When she was just there, awake with me. It all came to a head the night before the play. Me, Pip and Rooney gathered together for one final rehearsal in Pip’s bedroom. Sunil, who was an expert at speeches, had memorised everything weeks ago, and Jason had always been quick to learn his lines, but the three of us felt like we wanted one last chance to go through everything. Pip’s bedroom was not any tidier than the last time I’d been here. In fact, it was actually a lot worse. But she had managed to clear a small patch of carpet for her and Rooney to act in and had created a comfy area on the floor near her bed, piled with cushions and snacks for us to chill out on. I sprawled on the cushions while they went over their scenes. log ‘You’re saying that line wrong,’ said Rooney to Pip, and it was like we were back in the first week we all met. ‘I say do you not love me and you say why, no, no more than reason, like – like you’re trying to conceal your feelings.’ Pip raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s exactly how I’m saying it.’ ‘No, you’re being like ‘no more than reason?’ like it’s a question.’ ‘I’m definitely not.’ Rooney gestured at her with her copy of Much Ado About Nothing. ‘You are. Look, just trust me, I know this play –’ ‘Excuse me, I also know this play and I’m allowed my own interpretation –’ ‘I know, and that’s fine, but like –’ Pip raised her eyebrows. ‘I think you’re just scared of me outshining you on stage.’ There was a pause while Rooney realised that Pip was joking. ‘Why would I be scared of that when I’m clearly the superior actor?’ Rooney shot back, snapping the book shut. ‘Wow. Presumptuous, much.’ ‘Just stating the facts, pipsqueak.’ ‘Roo,’ said Pip, ‘come on. You know I’m a better actor.’ Rooney opened her mouth to shoot back a retort, but the sudden use of a nickname seemed to take her so off-guard that she couldn’t even think of a comeback. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so genuinely flustered until that moment. ‘How about we take a break?’ I said. ‘We could watch a movie.’ ‘Um, yeah,’ said Rooney, not looking at Pip as she joined me on the stack of cushions. ‘OK.’ We put on Easy A because Rooney had never seen it, and – though not quite up there with Moulin Rouge – it was one of my and Pip’s favourite sleepover movies. I hadn’t seen it for a while. Not since before coming to Durham. ‘I’d forgotten this movie is about a girl who lies about not being a virgin for social clout,’ I said, once we were about half an hour in. I was sitting between Pip and Rooney. ‘AKA, the plot of at least eighty per cent of teen movies,’ said Rooney. ‘So unrealistic.’ Pip snorted. ‘You mean you didn’t lie about sleeping with a guy and then walk around with the letter A embroidered on your corset when you were seventeen?’ ‘Didn’t have to lie,’ said Rooney, ‘and I can’t sew.’ ‘I don’t get why so many teen movies are about teenagers who are obsessed with losing their virginity,’ I said. ‘Like … who actually cares?’ Pip and Rooney said nothing for a moment. ‘Well, I think quite a lot of teenagers do care about it,’ said Rooney. ‘Take Pip, for example.’ ‘Excuse me!’ Pip exclaimed. ‘I don’t – I’m not obsessed with losing my virginity!’ ‘Sure you’re not.’ ‘I just think having sex would be fun, that’s all.’ Pip faced the screen again, going a little red. ‘I don’t care about being a virgin, I just – sex seems fun, so I’d like to start having it sooner rather than later.’ Rooney looked over at her. ‘I mean, I was joking, but that’s good to know too.’ Pip went even redder and stammered, ‘Shut up.’ ‘But why are, like, most teen movies focused around the fact that teenagers feel like they’re going to die if they don’t lose their virginity?’ I asked, then almost immediately figured out what the answer was. ‘Oh. This is an asexual thing.’ I laughed at myself. ‘I forgot other people are obsessed with having sex. Wow. That’s really funny.’ I suddenly realised both Rooney and Pip were gazing at me with small smiles on their faces. Not pitying or patronising. Just kind of like they were happy for me. I guess it was a development that I could laugh about my sexuality. That had to be progress, right? ‘It’s a good movie, but I think it’d be better if the main romance was gay,’ said Pip. ‘Agreed,’ said Rooney, and we looked at her. ‘I thought you’d be into this sort of adorable post-John-Hughes hetero romance,’ said Pip. ‘The straights eat this shit up.’ ‘They do,’ Rooney agreed, ‘but fortunately I’m not straight, so, yeah.’ There was a long, long silence. ‘O-oh,’ Pip choked. ‘Well – well, that’s good then.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Yeah.’ We finished the rest of the movie in extremely awkward silence. And when it was done, I knew it was time for me to go. To step away and let this happen. They tried to get me to stay, but I insisted. I needed to sleep, I told them. They could go through their last scene on their own. I guess I felt a little lonely as I walked out of Castle. I walked down the corridors, out of Pip’s block, across the green and back towards St John’s. It was dark and cold at nearly 1 a.m. I was alone. I was alone now. When I got back to my room, I put Universe City on YouTube while I changed into my PJs, took my contacts out, brushed my teeth, and checked on Roderick, who really did seem to be doing better these days. And then I snuggled into my half of the bed, wrapping the covers round me. I fell asleep for half an hour but woke up in a sweat, my mind filled with flashes of nightmares about apocalyptic futures and all my friends dying, and rolled my head automatically to check for Rooney, but she wasn’t there. It was harder to fall back to sleep when she wasn’t there. I woke up with my head feeling like TV static and a stomach full of bees, which was a given for show day. But none of that compared to the feeling of dread that washed over me as I checked my phone to find I had a huge stream of messages from Pip. The first ones read: Felipa Quintana GEORGIA EMERGENCY I’VE FUCKED UP ROONEY HAS GONE Felipa Quintana Okay I know it’s 7am and you’re definitely asleep but oh my god you are going to murder me when I explain what just happened Oh my GOD sflkgjsdfhlgkj okay WOW Sorry I literally cannot process Okay. right. so Everything was fine last night, like, once you left we just went through our last scene. (I mean fine by our standards, like obviously talking to her is just full of tension every time) But by the time we finished it was suuuper late, it was like 3am so I offered to let her sleep in my room – as in, in my bed with me – and she said YES This was definitely not a good idea because I did not sleep for one SINGLE minute my dude She woke up again at like 5am and went to get some water, and when she got back I knew she could tell I was awake so we just started talking while lying in bed And idk if it was because we were just tired or what but like … it was different, we weren’t bantering, we were just talking about stuff. Like first about the play and then about our lives at school and all sorts of deep shit. She told me … man we talked about a lot of really personal stuff for like … at least an hour, maybe more She told me she thinks she’s pansexual!!!!! She said she just doesn’t think she really has a gender preference and that felt like the right word for her!!!! She said you already kinda knew about it We’d been talking for ages and then we were just quiet for a while and then she was like – and I QUOTE – she literally said ‘I know it seems like I hate you but it’s actually the opposite’ Georgia, I died I was like ‘yeah . . . . . . . . me too’ while trying not to actually scream And then she just leaned in and KISSED ME ADKLGJSHDFKLGJSLDFGSLFJGSLDF She immediately moved away with this expression like she was scared she’d made a mistake But obviously she had NOT made a mistake and she could see it on my fucking face And then she leaned in again and we literally started MAKING OUT Like I’m talking proper making out So I’m just like holy fuck how is this happening, I’m literally deceased, and we just make out in my bed for like twenty minutes UM this story gets a bit nsfw from here on I am very sorry about this but if I don’t tell someone what happened then I will die So after a while she kneels up and just like … takes her t-shirt off. And I’m like. Oh my god And then I’m thinking OKAY she wants to go further than just making out?? And I’d be okay with that??? I also want to do that????? She like … lies back down and is like ‘is this okay?’ and I’m like hell yeah please proceed (I didn’t actually use the phrase ‘please proceed’ during my first sexual encounter. I think I just nodded very enthusiastically.) So obviously I’ve never done anything sexual with anyone and she’s like … just about to put her hand in my pyjama shorts and I’m nervous as hell but extremely up for it lol But then she pulls back and she’s like ‘oh my god’ and she jumps off me and just starts freaking out, like, pulling her clothes on and packing up all her stuff and being like ‘I’m so sorry I’m so sorry’ and I’m just lying there horny and confused like ‘um’ And then she’s like ‘shit, I mess everything up’ and then she just like RUNS out of my room SHE IS GONE I’ve called her and messaged her but I have no idea where she is, is she back at yours??? I’m so worried and confused and the play’s today and I’m just freaking out a little bit, I think I might have upset her and ruined everything But also I think I need to get a couple of hours of sleep now because otherwise I may pass out on stage this afternoon So um Yeah Message me when you wake up Georgia Warr i’m awake oh my god Georgia Warr she’s not here don’t panic i will find her I called her first and sat there in our bed, listening to the phone ringing, waiting. It went through to voicemail. ‘Where are you?’ I said instantly, but didn’t know what else to say, so I just hung up, hurled myself out of bed, put on the nearest clothes I could grab, and ran. This could not be happening. She was not abandoning us on the day of the show. She was not abandoning me. I ran all the way to the bottom of the stairway before realising that I had literally no idea where to look. She could be anywhere. A library. A café. Somewhere in college. Someone’s flat. Durham is small, but it wasn’t possible to search a whole city in one day. But I had to try. I ran all the way to the theatre first. She’d probably just decided to meet us there, maybe gone to get a Starbucks first. We’d all agreed to meet there at 10 a.m. – our performance was at 2 p.m. – and it was 9.30 now, so she was probably just a bit early. I crashed into the door in my attempt to open it. It was locked. That was when I started to get scared. She’d left Pip in the middle of the night. Where had she gone after that? I would have woken up if she’d come back to our room. Had she gone to see one of her many friends who didn’t seem to care about her? Had she gone to a club? The clubs didn’t stay open that late, did they? I crouched down on the pavement, trying to breathe. Shit. What if something bad had happened? What if some man had pulled up in a car and grabbed her? What if she’d been walking along the bridge and fallen in? I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Rooney again. She didn’t pick up. Maybe she didn’t even have her phone with her. I called Pip instead. ‘Did you find her?’ was the first thing she said when she picked up. ‘No. She’s …’ I didn’t even know what to tell her. ‘She’s … gone.’ ‘Gone? What – what do you mean gone?’ I stood up, looking around as if I might suddenly see her up the street, running towards me in her sports leggings, her ponytail flying behind her. But I didn’t. Of course I didn’t. My voice broke. ‘She’s just gone.’ ‘This is my fault,’ said Pip instantly, and I could hear how devastated she was, and how much she truly believed what she was saying. ‘This is – I shouldn’t have – she probably didn’t even – it was way too soon for us to even –’ ‘No, it’s my fault,’ I said. I should have been looking out for her. I should have seen this coming. I knew her better than anyone. Anyone in her whole life. ‘I’ll find her,’ I said. ‘I promise I’ll find her.’ I owed her that. I ran to the club that we went to in Freshers’ Week, when she’d told me to search for someone I fancied while she went off to get with a guy. Years ago, that felt like. It was closed. Of course it was; it was a Saturday morning. I went to Tesco, like I might just see her browsing cereal options, and I walked around the square like she might just be sitting on a stone bench, scrolling on her phone. I crossed Elvet Bridge and stormed into the Elvet Riverside lecture hall building, not even sure if they opened it at the weekend but not caring, having no idea why she would be here on a Saturday morning but hoping, hoping. Praying. I went up to the Student Union to find it locked, and then I couldn’t run any more because my chest hurt, so I walked to the Bill Bryson Library, went inside, stood on the stairs and just shouted ‘ROONEY!’ once. Everybody turned round to look at me, but I didn’t care. Rooney wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. Were we not enough for her in the end? Was I not enough? Or had we just got through to her, only for something terrible to happen to her? I called her again. And it went to voicemail. ‘Did something happen?’ I asked. I hung up again. I had no idea what else to say. Back outside the library, my phone started to ring, but it was only Jason. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I’m at the theatre and no one else is here except Sunil.’ ‘Rooney’s gone.’ ‘What do you mean gone?’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find her.’ ‘Georgia –’ I hung up and tried Rooney a third time. ‘Maybe the you from Freshers’ Week would have left us. But not now. Not after everything.’ I felt a tightness in my throat. ‘You wouldn’t have left me.’ When I hung up that time, I realised my phone only had five per cent battery left, because I’d failed to put it on charge last night. The wind whipped around me on the street. Should I call the police? I started walking back towards the town centre, all the ‘what if’s circling around my head. What if she’d gone home? What if she’d fallen in the river and died? I stopped in the middle of the pavement, a memory suddenly flashing in my mind so hard I felt like I got whiplash. On that first night out in town, Rooney had put herself on Find My Friends on my phone. I hadn’t used it at all in the end, but … would it work now? I nearly dropped my phone in my haste to get it out and check, and sure enough, there on the map was a little circle with Rooney’s face in it. She was, apparently, in a field, by the river, maybe a kilometre away in the countryside. I didn’t even let myself think why. I just started running again. I hadn’t thought about what Durham might be like outside the city centre. All I’d known for the past six months was university buildings, cobbled streets and tiny cafés. But it only took ten minutes for me to find myself in big, endless greenery. Long fields stretched out ahead as I followed the small, worn footpaths and tracked the little Rooney dot on my phone, until my phone screen went black and I couldn’t any more. By that point, I didn’t need it. The dot had been by the river, next to a bridge. I just needed to get to the bridge. It took another fifteen minutes. At one point I was scared I was truly lost, with no Google Maps to help me, but I just kept going, following the river, until I saw it. The bridge. The bridge was empty. The surrounding footpaths and fields were too. I just stood there and looked for a moment. Then I walked across the bridge and back, like Rooney might be sleeping down on the riverbank or I might see the back of her head bobbing in the water, but I didn’t. Instead, when I reached the footpath again, I saw light glint off something on the grass. It was Rooney’s phone. I picked it up and turned the screen on. All of my missed calls were on there. Lots from Pip too, and even a couple from Jason. I sat down on the grass. And I just cried. From exhaustion, from confusion, from fear. I just sat in a field with Rooney’s phone and cried. Even after everything, I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t be a good friend to her. I couldn’t make her feel like she mattered in my life. ‘GEORGIA.’ A voice. I looked up. For a moment I thought I might be dreaming. Whether she was a projection from my mind of what I wished was happening right now. But she was real. Rooney was running across the bridge to me, a Starbucks in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other. ‘Oh my God, Georgia, why are you – what’s wrong?’ Rooney collapsed on to her knees in front of me and stared at the tears flowing out of my eyes. Pip had cried in front of me dozens of times. It didn’t take much to set her off. Often it had been warranted, but sometimes she cried just because she was tired. Or that one time she cried because she made a lasagne and then dropped it on the floor. Jason had cried in front of me a few times. Only when really bad things happened, like when he realised how horrible Aimee was to him, or we watched really sad movies about old people, like The Notebook and Pixar’s Up. Rooney had cried in front of me a few times too. When she first told me about her ex. Outside Pip’s door. And when we moved the beds together. I’d never cried in front of her. I’d never cried in front of anyone. ‘Why … are you … here …?’ I managed to stammer out in between heaving breaths. I didn’t want her to see me like this. God, I didn’t want anyone to see me. ‘I could ask you the same thing!’ She dropped the flowers on the ground and placed her Starbucks cup carefully on the footpath, then sat down next to me on the grass. I realised she was wearing different clothes from last night – she was now in different leggings and a sweatshirt. When had she gone back to our room to change? Had I slept through her coming back? She wrapped an arm round me. ‘I thought … you were … in the river,’ I said. ‘You thought I’d fallen in the river and died?’ ‘I d-don’t know … I was scared …’ ‘I’m not dumb, I don’t just go around jumping in rivers.’ I looked at her. ‘You frequently stay at strangers’ houses.’ Rooney pursed her lips. ‘OK.’ ‘You locked yourself out of college at five a.m.’ ‘OK. Maybe I’m a bit dumb.’ I wiped my face, feeling a little calmer. ‘Why was your phone here?’ She paused. ‘I … walk out here sometimes. After nights out. Well … usually the mornings after. I just like coming out here and … feeling like everything’s calm.’ ‘You never told me.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t think anyone would really care about it. It was just my thing that I did to clear my head. So I came out here this morning and at some point I dropped my phone, and I didn’t realise until I was all the way back at college – you must have already left by that point – so I just got changed and ran back here and … now we’re both here.’ She still had her arm round me. We stared out at the river. ‘Did Pip tell you what happened?’ she asked. ‘Yeah.’ I tapped my foot against hers. ‘Why’d you run?’ She let out a deep breath. ‘I’m … very scared of … getting close to people. And … last night, with Pip, I …what we did – well, what we were about to do, I-I just started to think that I was doing what I normally did. Having sex to just … detach myself from feeling anything real.’ She shook her head. ‘But I wasn’t. I realised almost as soon as I left. I realised I … it would have been the first time with someone I actually … cared about. With someone who cared about me too.’ ‘She’s really worried about you,’ I said. ‘Maybe we should get back.’ Rooney turned to me. ‘You were really worried about me too, weren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen you cry before.’ I clenched my teeth, feeling the tears welling up again. This was why I didn’t cry in front of people – when I started, it took me ages to stop. ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Talk to me.’ ‘I …’ I looked down. I didn’t want her to see me. But Rooney was looking at me, eyebrows furrowed, so many thoughts churning behind her eyes, and it was that look that made me start spilling everything out. ‘I just care about you so much … but I’ve always got this fear that … one day you’ll leave. Or Pip and Jason will leave, or … I don’t know.’ Fresh tears fell from my cheeks. ‘I’m never going to fall in love, so … my friendships are all I have, so … I just … can’t bear the idea of losing any of my friends. Because I’m never going to have that one special person.’ ‘Can you let me be that person?’ Rooney said quietly. I sniffed loudly. ‘What d’you mean?’ ‘I mean I want to be your special person.’ ‘B-but … that’s not how the world works, people always put romance over friendships –’ ‘Says who?’ Rooney spluttered, smacking her hand on the ground in front of us. ‘The heteronormative rulebook? Fuck that, Georgia. Fuck that.’ She stood up, flailing her arms and pacing as she spoke. ‘I know you’ve been trying to help me with Pip,’ she began, ‘and I appreciate that, Georgia, I really do. I like her and I think she likes me and we like being around each other and, yep, I’m just gonna say it – I think we really, really want to have sex with each other.’ I just stared at her, my cheeks tear-stained, having no idea where this was going. ‘But you know what I realised on my walk?’ she said. ‘I realise that I love you, Georgia.’ My mouth dropped open. ‘Obviously I’m not romantically in love with you. But I realised that whatever these feelings are for you, I …’ She grinned wildly. ‘I feel like I am in love. Me and you – this is a fucking love story! I feel like I’ve found something most people just don’t get. I feel at home around you in a way I have never felt in my fucking life. And maybe most people would look at us and think that we’re just friends, or whatever, but I know that it’s just … so much MORE than that.’ She gestured dramatically at me with both hands. ‘You changed me. You … you fucking saved me, I swear to God. I know I still do a lot of dumb stuff and I say the wrong things and I still have days where I just feel like shit but … I’ve felt happier over the past few weeks than I have in years.’ I couldn’t speak. I was frozen. Rooney dropped to her knees. ‘Georgia, I am never going to stop being your friend. And I don’t mean that in the boring average meaning of ‘friend’ where we stop talking regularly when we’re twenty-five because we’ve both met nice young men and gone off to have babies, and only get to meet up twice a year. I mean I’m going to pester you to buy a house next door to me when we’re forty-five and have finally saved up enough for our deposits. I mean I’m going to be crashing round yours every night for dinner because you know I can’t fucking cook to save my life, and if I’ve got kids and a spouse, they’ll probably come round with me, because otherwise they’ll be living on chicken nuggets and chips. I mean I’m going to be the one bringing you soup when you text me that you’re sick and can’t get out of bed and ferrying you to the doctor’s even when you don’t want to go because you feel guilty about using the NHS when you just have a stomach bug. I mean we’re gonna knock down the fence between our gardens so we have one big garden, and we can both get a dog and take turns looking after it. I mean I’m going to be here, annoying you, until we’re old ladies, sitting in the same care home, talking about putting on a Shakespeare because we’re all old and bored as shit.’ She grabbed the bunch of flowers and practically threw them at me. ‘And I bought these for you because I honestly didn’t know how else to express any of that to you.’ I was crying. I just started crying again. Rooney wiped the tears off my cheeks. ‘What? Don’t you believe me? Because I’m not fucking joking. Don’t sit there and tell me I’m lying because I’m not lying. Did any of that make sense?’ She grinned. ‘I am extremely sleep-deprived right now.’ I couldn’t speak. I was a mess. She gestured at the bunch of flowers, which had pretty much exploded in my lap. ‘I really wanted to do some grand gesture like you did for Pip and Jason but I couldn’t think of anything because you’re the brains in this friendship.’ That made me laugh. She wrapped her arms round me, and then I was just half laughing, half crying, happy and sad at the same time. ‘Don’t you believe me?’ she asked again, holding me tight. ‘I believe you,’ I said, my nose all bunged up and my voice croaky. ‘I promise.’ Neither of us were at the level of fitness where running all the way back to the city centre was a good idea, but that’s what we did anyway. Our play was due to start in under two hours. We didn’t have a choice. We ran all the way along the river, me with the flowers in my hands and stopping to pick them up every time I dropped one, and her with nothing but a phone, a Starbucks cup, and a grin on her face. We had to stop and sit down several times to catch our breath, and by the time we got to the town square, I truly thought my chest was going to implode. But we had to run. For the play. For our friends. When we got to the theatre, we were both soaked in sweat, and we burst in through the doors to find Pip sitting at a table in the foyer, her head in her hands. She looked up at us as I literally fell on to the ground, sounding like an astronaut running out of air, while Rooney did her best to adjust the mess that was her ponytail. ‘Where,’ said Pip, very calmly. ‘The fuck. Have you been?’ ‘We …’ I started to say, but then I just let out a wheeze. So Rooney spoke for us. ‘I panicked after last night and Georgia tracked my phone but I’d lost my phone in a field and she ran all the way there and then I went back there because I knew I’d dropped it somewhere near the field and then I ran into her and I had these flowers because I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated her and everything she’s done for me this year and then we talked about everything and I told her how important she is to me and also –’ Rooney stepped forward towards Pip, who was staring, wide-eyed – ‘I also realised that I really, truly like you and I haven’t felt like that for anyone in a long time and it really scared me and that’s why I ran away.’ ‘Um … O-OK,’ Pip stammered. Rooney took another step forward and put one hand on the table in front of Pip. ‘How do you feel about me?’ she asked, completely straight-faced. ‘Um … I …’ Pip’s cheeks went red. ‘I … I also … really like you …’ Rooney nodded vigorously, but I could tell she was getting a bit flustered. ‘Good. Just thought we should be clear about it.’ Pip stood up, her eyes never leaving Rooney. ‘Right. Um. Yeah. Good.’ I had, by this point, managed to get to my feet, and my lungs no longer felt like they were about to explode. ‘We should go and find Jason and Sunil.’ ‘Yes,’ said Rooney and Pip simultaneously, and the three of us started walking into the backstage area of the theatre, Rooney and Pip just slightly behind me. As I turned a corner, I said, ‘Are they in a dressing room, or …?’ and when I got no answer, I glanced back, only to find Rooney and Pip vigorously making out, Rooney having pushed Pip up against a dressingroom door, both of them seemingly unbothered that I was literally right there. ‘Hey,’ I said, but they either didn’t hear me or chose to ignore me. I coughed loudly. ‘HEY,’ I repeated, louder this time, and they reluctantly broke apart, Rooney looking a little irritated and Pip adjusting her glasses, looking like she’d just been punched. ‘We have a play to perform?’ Jason and Sunil were sitting on the edge of the stage, sharing a packet of salted popcorn. As soon as they saw us enter, Jason raised both his arms in triumph, while Sunil said, ‘Thank God.’ Jason then ran over, picked me up, and carried me all the way on to the stage while I laughed hysterically and tried to escape. ‘We’re doing it!’ he said, spinning us around. ‘We’re doing the play!’ ‘I feel like I’m going to cry,’ Sunil said, and then stuffed three more pieces of popcorn into his mouth. Rooney clapped her hands loudly. ‘No more time for being happy! We need to get changed before people start arriving!’ And so we did. Jason and Sunil had already arranged all our costumes, props and set backstage, so we all got changed into our first set of costumes, then spent ten minutes arranging the set we’d managed to craft with our limited resources – my papier-mâché pillar, which we placed on the centre-left, and a garland covered in stars that we somehow, after much deliberation between Jason and Rooney, managed to attach to one of the backdrop rails. When we hoisted it up, it looked like little stars were raining down from the ceiling. We also had a chair in many of our scenes, but the best thing we could find was a red plastic thing in the wings. ‘I have an idea,’ said Rooney, and she leapt off the front of the stage to grab the flowers that I’d left on a frontrow seat. She brought them up on to the stage and started sellotaping flowers to the chair. By the time she’d finished, the chair had been transformed into a throne of flowers. It was ten minutes until our performance when I started to wonder who was actually going to attend this show. Obviously Sadie had been invited, since she was judging it. And I could guess that Sunil would have invited Jess. But would that be it? Two audience members? I peeked out from behind the curtains and waited, and soon I was proven very, very wrong. First, a few people I recognised from Pride Soc showed up. Sunil immediately went out to greet them, and eventually gestured for the rest of us to come say hi. Moments later, another small group of people arrived, and Sunil introduced them as his friends from his orchestra. They all started rambling about how much they’d been looking forward to this. I didn’t know whether that scared me or excited me. Next, Sadie arrived with a couple of friends. She came to say a quick hello before sitting down in the front row, the most intimidating choice of seat possible. Soon after, Jess arrived, and after saying hi to the Pride Soc gang, went to see Sadie. They hugged and sat down together, seeming to be good friends. University was a small world. A gaggle of large boys showed up and I had no idea who they were until Jason went over to greet them – they were a few of his rowing teammates. And then two other people showed up, again complete strangers to me, but Pip ran over to them, hugged them and then introduced them as Lizzie and Leo, two friends she’d made at LatAm Soc. I didn’t have anyone who came along specifically to see me. Neither did Rooney. I didn’t mind, though. Who I had here – these four people – was enough. And despite my lack of contribution, we had an audience. Enough to fill up three whole rows of seats. Maybe that wasn’t a lot. But it felt like a lot to me. It felt like what we were doing mattered. At three minutes to two, the five of us gathered in the right wing and huddled up. ‘Does anyone else feel like they need to shit?’ asked Pip. ‘Yes,’ said Rooney immediately, while Sunil said, ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it like that.’ ‘We’re going to be fine,’ said Jason. ‘Everyone relax.’ ‘You telling me to relax makes me even less relaxed,’ said Pip. ‘Whatever happens,’ I said, ‘it’s been fun, right? It’s all been fun.’ Everyone nodded. We all knew it had. Whatever happened with the play, with the society, with our strange little friendship group … It had all been so much fun. ‘Let’s do this,’ said Jason, and we all put our hands in. Jason was on stage first. With a microphone and dressed as Romeo – in brightly coloured contrasting prints. ‘This is just a little pre-show announcement,’ he said. ‘Firstly – thank you everyone for coming. Very nice to see such a large and impressive turnout, no doubt thanks to our incredibly extensive publicity campaign.’ There were some chortles in the audience. ‘Secondly, I just wanted to inform you that we’ve had some … mild issues, trying to prepare this play. We had some … cast disputes. And we’ve had to rush through some of the final scenes. Everything is fine now, we hope, but … it’s been quite the journey getting here. There’ve been a lot of tears and heated WhatsApp messages.’ There were more chuckles in the crowd. ‘For those of you who don’t know,’ Jason continued, ‘we at the Shakespeare Society decided that for our first ever show, we would perform a selection of scenes rather than just one play. All of these scenes are, in one way or another, about love – but we leave it up to you to interpret what sort of love these scenes are depicting. Pure, toxic, romantic, platonic – we wanted to explore all sorts. In any case, it’s going to be quite a bit shorter than a regular play, so we’ll all get out in time for a late pub lunch.’ Some whoops from the crowd. ‘Lastly,’ said Jason, ‘four of us wanted to say that we’re dedicating this performance to the person who managed to bring us all together after everything sort of fell apart.’ He turned and looked at me in the wings, his eyes finding mine. ‘Georgia Warr is the reason this play is even happening,’ he said. ‘And it might just be a small play, but it matters to all of us. Quite a lot. And Georgia deserves to have something made just for her. So, this one’s for you, Georgia. This is a play about love.’ It was a bit of a mess, but it was wonderful. We started with a comedy, Rooney and Pip going on as Benedick and Beatrice, and soon the audience were in stitches. I somehow found myself hearing the story of Much Ado About Nothing as if I had never heard it before. It was alive in front of me. It was beautiful. Twelfth Night was up next. Which meant it was nearly time for me to go on. And that’s when I realised I was fine. No nausea. No running to the bathroom like Romeo and Juliet in Year 13. I was nervous, sure. But a normal level of nervous, mixed with excitement to perform, to act, to do the thing I really, really enjoyed. And when I went on and did my ‘Come away, death’ speech, I really did have fun. Jason and Sunil went on after me as Orsino and Viola, and I watched from one side, smiling, relieved, happy. I’d done it. We’d done it. Jason and Rooney did some Romeo and Juliet, making it look as passionate as if they really were dating. Then all of us did some King Lear, where Lear tries to figure out which of his daughters loves him the most. And then I was Prospero with Sunil as Ariel from The Tempest, both of us needing the other but wanting to be free from our magical bond. Rooney and Pip came back and did more Much Ado, where Benedick and Beatrice finally admit they love each other, and when they kissed, the audience roared with applause. And finally, we ended with A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Or, rather, I did. I sat in the throne of flowers and read the final lines to conclude the play. ‘So, good night unto you all.’ I smiled gently at the faces of the audience, hoping, praying this had all been enough. That this wouldn’t be the last time I performed with my best friends. ‘Give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.’ Sunil dimmed the stage lights, and then the audience were on their feet. We took our bows as the audience cheered. This wouldn’t go down in university history. This wouldn’t be anything special to anyone else. People would forget about this, or just remember it as that kind of weird but interesting student play they saw one time. Nobody else in the universe would see this play. But I guess that made it ours. ‘It was a mess,’ said Sadie, eyebrows raised, and arms folded. ‘Your scene transitions were questionable at best, and your staging was … very unusual.’ The five of us, who were sitting in a row on the edge of the stage, collectively drooped. ‘But –’ she continued, holding up a finger – ‘I did not dislike it. In fact, I thought it was very creative, and definitely more interesting than if you’d come on and done a very average, abridged version of Romeo and Juliet.’ ‘So …’ Rooney spoke up. ‘Was it … are we …’ ‘Yes,’ said Sadie, ‘you can keep your Shakespeare Society.’ Pip and Rooney started screaming and hugging each other. Sunil put a hand to his chest and whispered, ‘Thank God,’ while Jason swung his arm round me and grinned, and I realised that I was grinning too. I was happy. I was so, so happy. After Sadie left, Rooney was the first to hug me. She clambered over the others and just fell on top of me, pushing me down on to the stage and wrapping her arms round me, and I laughed, and she laughed, and we were both just laughing and laughing. Pip joined us next, shouting, ‘I want to be included,’ and leaping on top of us. Sunil rested his head on Rooney’s back, and then Jason wrapped his body round the four of us, and we all just stayed like that for a moment, laughing and babbling and holding each other. At the bottom of the scrum, I was basically being crushed, but it was comforting, in a weird way. The weight of all of them on top of me. Around me. With me. We didn’t have to say it, but we all knew. We all knew what we’d found here. Or, I did, at least. I knew. I’d found it. And this time there was no big declaration. No grand gesture. It was just us, holding each other. The house was on a street corner. A Victorian terraced building, but not an aesthetically pleasing one, and it had worryingly small windows. The five of us stood outside, staring up at it, nobody speaking. No one wanted to say what we were all thinking: it looked kind of shit. A month after our play performance, me, Rooney, Pip and Jason realised that we did not have anywhere to live next year. Durham University’s college accommodation was primarily for first-year students and a few third- and fourth-year students – second-years were generally expected to find their own place to live. So most freshers had formed little groups around December and January, gone house hunting, and signed rental agreements. Due to the drama of this year, we had totally missed the memo. And by the end of April, most of the university-arranged rental accommodation in Durham was already completely taken for the next academic year, which left us having to trawl through dodgy adverts on private landlord websites. ‘I’m sure it’s nicer on the inside,’ said Rooney, stepping forward and knocking on the door. ‘You said that about the last three,’ said Pip, arms folded. ‘And I’ll be right, eventually.’ ‘Just to say,’ said Sunil, ‘maybe we should reconsider how bothered we are about having a living room.’ Although Sunil was in his third year, he’d decided at the last minute to return next year to do a master’s degree in music. He still had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, which I thought was very relatable and understandable, and he said he loved being at Durham and wanted to stay for a little while longer. But Jess was leaving at the end of the year. In fact, most of Sunil’s thirdyear friends were. As soon as we discovered this, we asked him to live with us, and he said yes. The door opened and a tired student let us in, explaining that everyone was out at lectures except her so we could walk around and look in any of the rooms we wanted. We all headed into the kitchen first, which doubled up as the living room with a sofa on one side and the kitchen counters on the other. It was all very old and well used, but seemed functional and clean, which was all we needed. We were students. We couldn’t be picky. ‘It’s actually not bad,’ said Sunil. ‘See?’ said Rooney, gesturing around. ‘I told you this would be the one.’ Jason folded his arms. ‘It’s quite … small.’ The top of his head was very close to the ceiling. ‘But no black mould,’ Pip pointed out. ‘And there’s enough room to have everyone here,’ I said. By ‘everyone’, I meant the five of us, plus the others who’d been coming along to our rehearsals – well, they weren’t really rehearsals any more. It wasn’t like we had another play to prepare for this year, and we were all getting busy with exams and coursework, so we usually just met up to chat, watch movies, and get takeaway food. Every Friday night in my and Rooney’s room. Sometimes Sunil would bring Jess along, or Pip would bring her friends Lizzie and Leo. Sometimes half the Castle men’s rowing team showed up – loud boys who scared me at first, but were actually quite nice when you got to know them. Sometimes it’d just be the original five, or fewer if we were busy. It had become a ritual. My favourite university ritual. ‘And this is the perfect place for Roderick!’ said Rooney brightly, pointing at an empty corner next to the sofa arm. We headed towards the two downstairs bedrooms, which were both pretty ordinary. Jason and I peered into the second one. It was almost as messy as Pip’s current bedroom. ‘I always wanted a downstairs bedroom,’ said Jason. ‘I don’t know why. It just seemed cool.’ ‘You’d be right next to the road.’ ‘I think I’d like it. Ambient noise. And look!’ He pointed at a patch of empty wall above the bed – enough room for a framed photograph. ‘The perfect place for Mystery Inc.’ It’d been Jason’s birthday the week before. One of his presents from me: a framed photograph of the whole Scooby-Doo gang. All five of them. ‘I’d like a downstairs room,’ said Sunil, who’d appeared behind us. ‘I like being close to the kitchen. Easy snack access.’ Jason glanced at him warily. ‘As long as you’re not practising cello late at night.’ ‘You mean you don’t want to listen to my beautiful music in the early hours of the morning?’ Jason laughed and headed upstairs, leaving Sunil and me to wander into the first bedroom, careful not to touch any of the current occupant’s stuff. And then Sunil said, ‘I wanted to run an idea by you, Georgia.’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Well, I’m only going to be Pride Soc president for a couple more months, and before I have to step down … I wanted to set up a new group within Pride Soc. A society for aromantic and asexual students. And I suppose I wondered … whether you’d want to be involved. Not necessarily as president of it, but … well, I don’t know. I just wanted to ask. No pressure, though.’ ‘Oh. Um …’ I immediately felt nervous about the idea. I still had days where I wasn’t brimming with confidence about my sexuality, despite all the days where I felt proud and grateful that I knew who I was and what I wanted. Maybe the bad days would become less and less common, but … I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. Maybe a lot of people felt like that about their identity. Maybe it would just take time. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m not even out to my parents.’ Sunil nodded understandingly. ‘That’s OK. Just let me know after you’ve thought about it.’ I nodded back. ‘I will.’ He gazed into the bedroom at the way the evening light was hitting the floor. ‘It’s been a good year, but I’m looking forward to stepping down. I think I deserve a more restful year, next year.’ He smiled to himself. ‘It’d be nice. To have a rest.’ There were three more bedrooms upstairs, and Pip and Rooney immediately beelined for the most obviously large one. ‘I’m having this one,’ said Pip and Rooney simultaneously, then glared at each other. ‘I need more room,’ said Rooney. ‘I’m like a whole foot taller than you.’ ‘Um, firstly, that’s a lie, you are only a few inches taller –’ ‘At least six inches.’ ‘And secondly, I need more room because I have way more clothes than you.’ ‘You’re both going to be sleeping in the same room loads anyway,’ Jason muttered, rolling his eyes, and Pip shot him a look that mixed embarrassment with alarm while Rooney immediately went bright red, opened her mouth, and began to protest. Rooney had still been spending nights out of our room. The first time it happened after the play, I was scared that she’d gone back to heavy drinking and clubbing with strangers, but when I eventually confronted her about it, she timidly revealed that she was spending all of those nights in Pip’s room. And the clothes she kept leaving there were a bit of a giveaway. She’d spend nights in our room too, though. Lots of nights. It wasn’t like she’d replaced me, or I was less important. She was one of my best friends. I was one of hers. And we both understood what that meant now. Once Rooney had finished berating Jason for bringing up her sex life and Jason had tactically retreated towards the bathroom, I watched as Rooney and Pip stood together in the doorway. Rooney gently touched Pip’s hand with hers, and Rooney leant towards her and whispered something I couldn’t hear that made Pip grin wide. I stepped away to peer inside another of the bedrooms. This one had a big sash window, a sink in the corner, and whoever lived here had stuck polaroid photos all over one of the walls. The carpet was kind of odd – it had a bold red pattern that reminded me of Gran’s curtains – but I didn’t dislike it. I didn’t dislike any of it. It wasn’t fancy, or anything. But I could really imagine myself living here. I could imagine all of us here, starting a new academic year, coming home and slumping on the sofa next to each other, chatting in the kitchen in the mornings over bowls of cereal, crowding into the biggest bedroom for movie nights, falling asleep in each other’s beds when we were too tired to move. I could imagine all of it. A future. A small future, and not a forever future, but a future, nonetheless. ‘What d’you think?’ asked Rooney, who’d come to stand next to me in the doorway. ‘It’s … OK,’ I said. ‘It’s not perfect.’ ‘But?’ I smiled. ‘But I think we could have fun here.’ She smiled back. ‘I agree.’ Rooney returned to continue arguing with Pip over the largest bedroom, but I just stayed there for a moment, looking at what might be my future living space. After months of sleeping next to one of my best friends, I was a little nervous about going back to a solo bedroom. Sleeping in a silent room with just my thoughts. I had time to get used to the idea, though. Until then, we would keep the beds together. AVEN (The Asexuality Visibility and Education Network): https://www.asexuality.org/ What Is Asexuality?: http://www.whatisasexuality.com/ Aces & Aros: https://acesandaros.org/ AZE, a journal publishing asexual, aromantic, and agender writers and artists: https://azejournal.com/ AUREA (Aromantic-spectrum Union for Recognition, Education, and Advocacy): https://www.aromanticism.org/ Indian Aces: https://www.facebook.com/IndianAces Asexual resources at the Trevor Project: https://www.thetrevor project.org/trvr_support_center/asexual/ This book was the most difficult, frustrating, terrifying and liberating thing I’ve ever made. So many wonderful people helped me through this journey: Claire Wilson, my incredible agent, who has received more than her fair share of emotional emails. My editor, Harriet Wilson; my books’ designer, Ryan Hammond; and everyone else at HarperCollins who has worked on this book – thank you for your tireless efforts and support for my stories, despite me needing to extend almost every single deadline I was given. Emily Sharratt, Sam Stewart, Ant Belle and Keziah Reina for their editing, insight, and beta-reading, often under very speedy time constraints. My writer soulmate, Lauren James, who has put up with the brunt of my woes regarding this book and helped me so much with structure and pacing. My friends and family, in real life and online. And my readers who have cheered me along. Thank you so, so much, everyone. And thank you to all who have picked up this book. I really hope you’ve enjoyed this story. Keep Reading … My name is Tori Spring. I like to sleep and I like to blog. Last year I had friends. Things were very different, I guess, but that’s all over now. Now there’s Solitaire. And Michael Holden. I don’t know what Solitaire are trying to do. And I don’t care about Michael Holden. I really don’t. “The Catcher in the Rye for the digital age” – The Times Click on the cover to read more. Frances is a study machine with one goal. Then she meets Aled, and for the first time she’s unafraid to be herself. So when the fragile trust between them is broken Frances is caught between who she was and who she longs to be. Frances is going to need every bit of courage she has. Click on the cover to read more. For Angel, life is about one thing: The Ark – a pop-rock trio of teenage boys taking the world by storm. Being part of The Ark’s fandom has given her everything she loves – her friend Juliet, her dreams, her place in the world. Jimmy owes everything to The Ark. He’s their frontman – and playing in a band with his mates is all he ever dreamed of doing. But dreams don’t always turn out the way you think and when Jimmy and Angel are unexpectedly thrust together they find out how strange and surprising facing up to reality can be.

Missrable mill

The Miserable Mill A Series of Unfortunate Events Book the Fourth The Miserable Mill Lemony Snicket To BeatriceMy love flew like a butterfly Until death swooped down like a bat As the poet Emma Montana McElroy said: “That’s the end of that.” C H A P T E R One Sometime during your life-in fact, very soon-you may find yourself reading a book, and you may notice that a book’s first sentence can often tell you what sort of story your book contains. For instance, a book that began with the sentence “Once upon a time there was a family of cunning little chipmunks who lived in a hollow tree” would probably contain a story full of talking animals who get into all sorts of mischief. A book that began with the sentence “Emily sat down and looked at thestack of blueberry pancakes her mother had prepared for her, but she was too nervous about Camp Timbertops to eat a bite” would probably contain a story full of giggly girls who have a grand old time. And a book that began with the sentence “Gary smelled the leather of his brand-new catcher’s mitt and waited impatiently for his best friend Larry to come around the corner” would probably contain a story full of sweaty boys who win some sort of trophy. And if you liked mischief, a grand old time, or trophies, you would know which book to read, and you could throw the rest of them away. But this book begins with the sentence “The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest, wondering if their lives would ever get any better,” and you should be able to tell that the story that follows will be very different from the story of Gary or Emily or the family of cunning little chipmunks. And this is for the simple reason that the lives of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire are very different from most people’s lives, with the main difference being the amount of unhappiness, horror, and despair. The three children have no time to get into all sorts of mischief, because misery follows them wherever they go. They have not had a grand old time since their parents died in a terrible fire. And the only trophy they would win would be some sort of First Prize for Wretchedness. It is atrociously unfair, of course, that the Baudelaires have so many troubles, but that is the way the story goes. So now that I’ve told you that the first sentence will be “The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest, wondering if their lives would ever get any better,” if you wish to avoid an unpleasant story you had best put this book down. The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest , wondering if their lives would ever get any better. An announcement over a crackly loudspeaker had just told them that in a few minutes they would arrive in the town of Paltryville , where their new caretaker lived, and they couldn’t help wondering who in the world would want to live in such dark and eerie countryside. Violet, who was fourteen and the eldest Baudelaire, looked out at the trees of the forest, which were very tall and had practically no branches, so they looked almost like metal pipes instead of trees. Violet was an inventor, and was always designing machines and devices in her head, with her hair tied up in a ribbon to help her think, and as she gazed out at the trees she began work on a mechanism that would allow you to climb to the top of any tree, even if it were completely bare. Klaus, who was twelve, looked down at the forest floor, which was covered in brown, patchy moss. Klaus liked to read more than anything else, and he tried to remember what he had read about Paltryville mosses and whether any of them were edible. And Sunny, who was just an infant, looked out at the smoky gray sky that hung over the forest like a damp sweater. Sunny had four sharp teeth, and biting things with them was what interested her most, and she was eager to see what there was available to bite in the area. But even as Violet began planning her invention, and Klaus thought of his moss research, and Sunny opened and closed her mouth as a prebiting exercise, the Finite Forest looked so uninspiring that they couldn’t help wondering if their new home would really be a pleasant one. “What a lovely forest!” Mr. Poe remarked, and coughed into a white handkerchief. Mr. Poe was a banker who had been in charge of managing the Baudelaire affairs since the fire, and I must tell you that he was not doing a very good job’ His two main duties were finding the orphans a good home and protecting the enormous fortune that the children’s parents had left behind, and so far each home had been a catastrophe, a word which here means “an utter disaster involving tragedy, deception, and Count Olaf.” Count Olaf was a terrible man who wanted the Baudelaire fortune for himself, and tried every disgusting scheme he could think of to steal it. Time after time he had come very close to succeeding, and time after time the Baudelaire orphans had revealed his plan, and time after time he had escaped-and all Mr. Poe had ever done was cough. Now he was accompanying the children to Paltryville, and it pains me to tell you that once again Count Olaf would appear with yet another disgusting scheme, and that Mr. Poe would once again fail to do anything even remotely helpful. “What a lovely forest!” Mr. Poe said again, when he was done coughing. “I think you children will have a good home here. I hope you do, anyway, because I’ve just received a promotion at Mulctuary Money Management. I’m now the Vice President in Charge of Coins, and from now on I will be busier than ever. If anything goes wrong with you here, I will have to send you to boarding school until I have time to find you another home, so please be on your best behavior.” “Of course, Mr. Poe,” Violet said, not adding that she and her siblings had always been on their best behavior but that it hadn’t done them any good. “What is our new caretaker’s name?” Klaus asked. “You haven’t told us.” Mr. Poe took a piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. “His name is Mr. Wuz- Mr. Qui- I can’t pronounce it. It’s very long and complicated.” “Can I see?” Klaus asked. “Maybe I can figure out how to pronounce it.” “No, no,” Mr. Poe said, putting the paper away. “If it’s too complicated for an adult, it’s much too complicated for a child.” “Ghand!” Sunny shrieked. Like many infants, Sunny spoke mostly in sounds that were often difficult to translate. This time she probably meant something like “But Klaus reads many complicated books!” “He’ll tell you what to call him,” Mr. Poe continued, as if Sunny had not spoken. “You’ll find him at the main office of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, which I’m told is a short walk from the train station.” “Aren’t you coming with us?” Violet asked. “No,” Mr. Poe said, and coughed again into his handkerchief. “The train only stops at Paltry-ville once a day, so if I got off the train I would have to stay overnight and I’d miss another day at the bank. I’m just dropping you off here and heading right back into the city.” The Baudelaire orphans looked worriedly out the window. They weren’t very happy about just being dropped off in a strange place, as if they were a pizza being delivered instead of three children all alone in the world. “What if Count Olaf shows up?” Klaus asked quietly. “He swore he’d find us again.” “I have given Mr. Bek- Mr. Duy- I have given your new caretaker a complete description of Count Olaf,” said Mr. Poe. “So if by some stretch of the imagination he shows up in Paltryville, Mr. Sho- Mr. Gek- will notify the authorities.” “But Count Olaf is always in disguise,” Violet pointed out. “It’s often difficult to recognize him. Just about the only way you can tell it’s him is if you see that tattoo of an eye that he has on his ankle.” “I included the tattoo in my description,” Mr. Poe said impatiently. “But what about Count Olaf’s assistants?” Klaus asked. “He usually brings at least one of them with him, to help out with his treachery.” “I described all of them to Mr.- I have described all of them to the owner of the mill,” Mr. Poe said, holding a finger up as he counted off Olaf’s horrible associates. “The hook-handed man. The bald man with the long nose. Two women with white powder all over their faces. And that rather chubby one who looks like neither a man nor a woman. Your new guardian is aware of them all, and if there’s any problem, remember you can always contact me or any of my associates at Mulctuary Money Management.” “Casca,” Sunny said glumly. She probably meant something like “That’s not very reassuring,” but nobody heard her over the sound of the train whistle as they arrived at Paltryville Station. “Here we are,” Mr. Poe said, and before the children knew it they were standing in the station, watching the train pull away into the dark trees of the Finite Forest . The clattering noise of the train engine got softer and softer as the train raced out of sight, and soon the three siblings were all alone indeed. “Well,” Violet said, picking up the small bag that contained the children’s few clothes, “let’s find the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. Then we can meet our new caretaker.” “Or at least learn his name,” Klaus said glumly, and took Sunny’s hand. If you are ever planning a vacation, you may find it useful to acquire a guidebook, which is a book listing interesting and pleasant places to visit and giving helpful hints about what to do when you arrive. Paltryville is not listed in any guidebook, and as the Baudelaire orphans trudged down Paltryville’s one street, they instantly saw why. There were a few small shops on either side of the street, but none of them had any windows. There was a post office, but instead of a flag flying from the flagpole, there was only an old shoe dangling from the top of it, and across from the post office was a high wooden wall that ran all the way to the end of the street. In the middle of the wall was a tall gate, also made of wood, with the words “Lucky Smells Lumbermill” written on it in letters that looked rough and slimy. Alongside the sidewalk, where a row of trees might have been, were towering stacks of old newspapers instead. In short, everything that might make a town interesting or pleasant had been made boring or unpleasant, and if Paltryville had been listed in a guidebook the only helpful hint about what to do when you got there would be: “Leave.” But the three youngsters couldn’t leave, of course, and with a sigh Violet led her younger siblings to the wooden gate. She was about to knock when Klaus touched her on the shoulder and said, “Look.” “I know,” she said. Violet thought he was talking about the letters spelling out “Lucky Smells Lumbermill.” Now that they were standing at the gate, the children could see why the letters looked rough and slimy: they were made out of wads and wads of chewed-up gum, just stuck on the gate in the shapes of letters. Other than a sign I saw once that said “Beware” in letters made of dead monkeys, the “Lucky Smells Lumbermill” sign was the most disgusting sign on earth, and Violet thought her brother was pointing that out. But when she turned to agree with him, she saw he wasn’t looking at the sign, but down to the far end of the street. “Look,” Klaus said again, but Violet had already seen what he was looking at. The two of them stood there without speaking a word, staring hard at the building at the end of Paltryville’s one street. Sunny had been examining some of the teeth marks in the gum, but when her siblings fell silent she looked up and saw it, too. For a few seconds the Baudelaire orphans just looked. “It must be a coincidence,” Violet said, after a long pause. “Of course,” Klaus said nervously, “a coincidence.” “Varni,” Sunny agreed, but she didn’t believe it. None of the orphans did. Now that the children had reached the mill, they could see another building, at the far end of the street. Like the other buildings in town, it had no windows, just a round door in the center. But it was the way the building was shaped, and how it was painted, that made the Baudelaires stare. The building was a sort of oval shape, with curved, skinny sticks sticking out of the top of it. Most of the oval was painted a brownish color, with a big circle of white inside the oval, and a smaller circle of green inside the white circle, and some little black steps led to a little round door that was painted black, so it looked like an even smaller circle inside the green one. The building had been made to look like an eye. The three children looked at one another, and then at the building, and then at each other again, shaking their heads. Try as they might, they just couldn’t believe it was a coincidence that the town in which they were to live had a building that looked just like the tattoo of Count Olaf. C H A P T E R Two It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I’m sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that’s the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the news again and again. For instance, I once loved a woman, who for various reasons could not marry me. If she had simply told me in person, I would have been very sad, of course, but eventually it might have passed. However, she chose instead to write a two-hundredpage book, explaining every single detail of the bad news at great length, and instead my sadness has been of impossible depth. When the book was first brought to me, by a flock of carrier pigeons, I stayed up all night reading it, and I read it still, over and over, and it is as if my darling Beatrice is bringing me bad news every day and every night of my life. The Baudelaire orphans knocked again and again on the wooden gate, taking care not to hit the chewed-up gum letters with their knuckles, but nobody answered, and at last they tried the gate themselves and found that it was unlocked. Behind the gate was a large courtyard with a dirt floor, and on the dirt floor was an envelope with the word “Baudelaires” typed on the front. Klaus picked up the envelope and opened it, and inside was a note that read as follows: Memorandum To: The Baudelaire Orphans From: Lucky Smells Lumbermill Subject: Your Arrival Enclosed you will find a map of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, including the dormitory where the three of you will he staying, free of charge. Please report to work the following morning along with the other employees. The owner of Lucky Smells Lumbermill expects you to be both assiduous and diligent. “What do those words mean, ‘assiduous’ and ‘diligent’?” Violet asked, peering over Klaus’s shoulder. “‘Assiduous’ and ‘diligent’ both mean the same thing,” said Klaus, who knew lots of impressive words from all the books he had read. “‘Hardworking.’” “But Mr. Poe didn’t say anything about working in the the lumbermill,” Violet said. “I thought we were just going to live here.” Klaus frowned at the hand-drawn map that was attached to the note with another wad of gum, “This map looks pretty easy to read,” he said. “The dormitory is straight ahead, between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself.” Violet looked straight ahead and saw a gray windowless building on the other side of the courtyard. “I don’t want to live,” she said, “between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself.” “It doesn’t sound like much fun,” Klaus admitted, “but you never know. The mill might have complicated machines, and you would find it interesting to study them.” “That’s true,” Violet said. “You never know. It might have some hard wood, and Sunny would find it interesting to bite it.” “Snevi!” Sunny shrieked. “And there might be some interesting lumbermill manuals for me to read,” Klaus said. “You never know.” “That’s right,” Violet said. “You never know. This might be a wonderful place to live.” The three siblings looked at one another, and felt a little better. It is true, of course, that you never know. A new experience can be extremely pleasurable, or extremely irritating, or somewhere in between, and you never know until you try it out. And as the children began walking toward the gray, windowless building, they felt ready to try out their new home at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, because you never know. But—and my heart aches as I tell you this—I always know. I know because I have been to the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, and learned of all the atrocious things that befell these poor orphans during the brief time they lived there. I know because I have talked to some of the people who were there at the time, and heard with my own ears the troublesome story of the children’s stay in Paltryville. And I know because I have written down all the details in order to convey to you, the reader, just how miserable their experience was. I know, and this knowledge sits in my heart, heavy as a paperweight. I wish I could have been at the lumbermill when the Baudelaires were there, because they didn’t know. I wish I could tell them what I know, as they walked across the courtyard, raising small clouds of dust with every step. They didn’t know, but I know and I wish they knew, if you know what I mean. When the Baudelaires reached the door of the gray building, Klaus took another look at the map, nodded his head, and knocked. After a long pause, the door creaked open and revealed a confused-looking man whose clothes were covered in sawdust. He stared at them for quite some time before speaking. “No one has knocked on this door,” he said finally, “for fourteen years.” Sometimes, when somebody says something so strange that you don’t know what to say in return, it is best to just politely say “How do you do?” “How do you do?” Violet said politely. “I am Violet Baudelaire, and these are my siblings, Klaus and Sunny.” The confused-looking man looked even more confused, and put his hands on his hips, brushing some of the sawdust off his shirt. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?” he asked. “I think so,” Klaus said. “This is the dormitory at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, isn’t it?” “Yes,” the man said, “but we’re not allowed to have visitors.” “We’re not visitors,” Violet replied. “We’re going to live here.” The man scratched his head, and the Baude-laires watched as sawdust fell out of his messy gray hair. “You’re going to live here, at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill?” “Cigarn!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Look at this note!” Klaus gave the note to the man, who was careful not to touch the gum as he read it over. Then he looked down at the orphans with his tired, sawdust-sprinkled eyes. “You’re going to work here, too? Children, working in a lumber-mill is a very difficult job. Trees have to be stripped of their bark and sawed into narrow strips to make boards. The boards have to be tied together into stacks and loaded onto trucks. I must tell you that the majority of people who work in the lumber business are grownups. But if the owner says you’re working here, I guess you’re working here. You’d better come inside.” The man opened the door further, and the Baudelaires stepped inside the dormitory. “My name’s Phil, by the way,” Phil said. “You can join us for dinner in a few minutes, but in the meantime I’ll give you a tour of the dormitory.” Phil led the youngsters into a large, dimly lit room filled with bunk beds, standing in rows and rows on a cement floor. Sitting or lying down on the bunks were an assortment of people, men and women, all of whom looked tired and all of whom were covered in sawdust. They were sitting together in groups of four or five, playing cards, chatting quietly, or simply staring into space, and a few of them looked up with mild interest as the three siblings walked into the room. The whole place had a damp smell, a smell rooms get when the windows have not been opened for quite some time. Of course, in this case the windows had never been opened, because there weren’t any windows, although the children could see that somebody had taken a ballpoint pen and drawn a few windows on the gray cement walls. The window drawings somehow made the room even more pathetic, a word which here means “depressing and containing no windows,” and the Baudelaire orphans felt a lump in their throats just looking at it. “This here is the room where we sleep,” Phil said. “There’s a bunk over there in the far corner that you three can have. You can store your bag underneath the bed. Through that door is the bathroom and down that hallway over there is the kitchen. That’s pretty much the grand tour. Everyone, this is Violet, Klaus, and Sunny. They’re going to work here.” “But they’re children,” one of the women said. “I know,” Phil said. “But the owner says they’re going to work here, so they’re going to work here.” “By the way,” Klaus said, “what is the owner’s name? Nobody has told us.” “I don’t know,” Phil said, stroking his dusty chin. “He hasn’t visited the dormitory for six years or so. Does anybody remember the owner’s name?” “I think it’s Mister something,” one of the men said. “You mean you never talk to him?” Violet asked. “We never even see him,” Phil said. “The owner lives in a house across from the storage shed, and only comes to the lumbermill for special occasions. We see the foreman all the time, but never the owner.” “Teruca?” Sunny asked, which probably meant “What’s a foreman?” “A foreman,” Klaus explained, “is somebody who supervises workers. Is he nice, Phil?” “He’s awful!” one of the other men said, and some of the others took up the cry. “He’s terrible!” “He’s disgusting!” “He’s revoltingl ” “He’s the worst foreman the world has ever seen!” “He is pretty bad,” Phil said to the Baude-laires. “The guy we used to have, Foreman Firstein, was O.K. But last week he stopped showing up. It was very odd. The man who replaced him, Foreman Flacutono, is very mean. You’ll stay on his good side if you know what’s good for you.” “He doesn’t have a good side,” a woman said. “Now, now,” Phil said. “Everything and everybody has a good side. Come on, let’s have our supper.” The Baudelaire orphans smiled at Phil, and followed the other employees of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill into the kitchen, but they still had lumps in their throats as big as the lumps in the beef casserole that they ate for supper. The children could tell, from Phil’s statement about everything and everybody having a good side, that he was an optimist. “Optimist” is a word which here refers to a person, such as Phil, who thinks hopeful and pleasant thoughts about nearly everything. For instance, if an optimist had his left arm chewed off by an alligator, he might say, in a pleasant and hopeful voice, “Well, this isn’t too bad. I don’t have my left arm anymore, but at least nobody will ever ask me whether I am right-handed or left-handed,” but most of us would say something more along the lines of “Aaaaah! My arm! My arm!” The Baudelaire orphans ate their damp casserole, and they tried to be optimists like Phil, but try as they might, none of their thoughts turned out pleasant or hopeful. They thought of the bunk bed they would share, in the smelly room with windows drawn on the walls. They thought of doing hard work in the lumbermill, getting sawdust all over them and being bossed around by Foreman Flacutono. They thought of the eye-shaped building outside the wooden gate. And most of all, they thought of their parents, their poor parents whom they missed so much and whom they would never see again. They thought all through supper, and they thought while changing into their pajamas, and they thought as Violet tossed and turned in the top bunk and Klaus and Sunny tossed and turned below her. They thought, as they did in the courtyard, that you never know, and that their new home could still be a wonderful one. But they could guess. And as the Lucky Smells employees snored around them, the children thought about all their unhappy circumstances, and began guessing. They tossed and turned, and guessed and guessed, and by the time they fell asleep there wasn’t a single optimist in the Baudelaire bunk. holding a breakfast of hot tea and toast on a plate, you will know that your day will be O.K. And if you wake up to the sound of somebody banging two metal pots together, and find yourself in a small bunk bed, with a nasty foreman standing in the doorway holding no breakfast at all, you will know that your day will be horrid. You and I, of course, cannot be too surprised that the Baudelaire orphans’ first day at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill was a horrid one. And the Baudelaires certainly did not expect twittering birds or a butler, not after their dismaying arrival. But never in their most uneasy dreams did they expect the cacophony—a word which here means “the sound of two metal pots being banged together by a nasty foreman standing in the doorway holding no breakfast at all”— that awoke them. “Get up, you lazy, smelly things!” cried the foreman in an odd-sounding voice. He spoke as if he were covering his mouth with his hands. “Time for work, everybody! There’s a new shipment of logs just waiting to be made into lumber!” The children sat up and rubbed their eyes. All around them, the employees of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill were stretching and covering their ears at the sound of the pots. Phil, who was already up and making his bunk neatly, gave the Baudelaires a tired smile. “Good morning, Baudelaires,” Phil said. “And good morning, Foreman Flacutono. May I introduce you to your three newest employees? Foreman Flacutono, this is Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire.” “I heard we’d have some new workers,” the foreman said, dropping the pots to the floor with a clatter, “but nobody told me they’d be midgets.” “We’re not midgets,” Violet explained. “We’re children.” “Children, midgets, what do I care?” Foreman Flacutono said in his muffled voice, walking over to the orphans’ bunk. “All I care is that you get out of bed this instant and go straight to the mill.” The Baudelaires hopped out of the bunk bed, not wanting to anger a man who banged pots together instead of saying “Good morning.” But once they got a good look at Foreman Flacutono they wanted to hop back into their bunks and pull the covers over their heads. I’m sure you have heard it said that appearance does not matter so much, and that it is what’s on the inside that counts. This is, of course, utter nonsense, because if it were true then people who were good on the inside would never have to comb their hair or take a bath, and the whole world would smell even worse than it already does. Appearance matters a great deal, because you can often tell a lot about people by looking at how they present themselves. And it was the way Foreman Flacutono presented himself that made the orphans want to jump back into their bunks. He was wearing stained overalls, which never make a good impression, and his shoes were taped shut instead of being tied up with laces. But it was the foreman’s head that was the most unpleasant. Foreman Flacutono was bald, as bald as an egg, but rather than admit to being bald like sensible people do, he had purchased a curly white wig that made it look like he had a bunch of large dead worms all over his head. Some of the worm hairs stuck straight up, and some of them curled off to one side, and some of them ran down his ears and his forehead, and a few of them stretched straight out ahead as if they wanted to escape from Foreman Flacutono’s scalp. Below his wig was a pair of dark and beady eyes, which blinked at the orphans in a most unpleasant way. As for the rest of his face, it was impossible to tell what it looked like, because it was covered with a cloth mask, such as doctors wear when they are in hospitals. Foreman Flacutono’s nose was all curled up under the mask, like an alligator hiding in the mud, and when he spoke the Baudelaires could see his mouth opening and closing behind the cloth. It is perfectly proper to wear these masks in hospitals, of course, to stop the spreading of germs, but it makes no sense if you are the foreman of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. The only reason Foreman Flacutono could have for wearing a surgical mask would be to frighten people, and as he peered down at the Baudelaire orphans they were quite frightened indeed. “The first thing you can do, Baudeliars,” Foreman Flacutono said, “is pick up my pots. And never make me drop them again.” “But we didn’t make you drop them,” Klaus said. “Bram!” Sunny added, which probably meant something like “and our last name is Baudelaire.” “If you don’t pick up the pots this instant” Foreman Flacutono said, “you will get no chewing gum for lunch.” The Baudelaire orphans did not care much for chewing gum, particularly peppermint chewing gum, which they were allergic to, but they ran to the pots. Violet picked one up and Sunny picked up the other, while Klaus hurriedly made the beds. “Give them to me,” Foreman Flacutono snapped, and grabbed the pots out of the girls’ hands. “Now, workers, we’ve wasted enough time already. To the mills! Logs are waiting for us!” “I hate log days,” one of the employees grumbled, but everyone followed Foreman Flacutono out of the dormitory and across the dirt-floored courtyard to the lumbermill, which was a dull gray building with many smokestacks sticking out of the top like a porcupine’s quills. The three children looked at one another worriedly. Except for one summer day, back when their parents were still alive, when the Baude-laires had opened a lemonade stand in front of their house, the orphans had never had jobs, and they were nervous. The Baudelaires followed Foreman Flacutono into the lumbermill and saw that it was all one huge room, filled with enormous machines. Violet looked at a shiny steel machine with a pair of steel pinchers like the arms of a crab, and tried to figure out how this invention worked. Klaus examined a machine that looked like a big cage, with an enormous ball of string trapped inside, and tried to remember what he had read about lumbermills. Sunny stared at a rusty, creaky-looking machine that had a circular sawblade that looked quite jagged and fearsome and wondered if it was sharper than her own teeth. And all three Baudelaires gazed at a machine, covered in tiny smokestacks, that held a huge, flat stone up in the air, and wondered what in the world it was doing there. The Baudelaires had only a few seconds to be curious about these machines, however, before Foreman Flacutono began clanging his two pots together and barking out orders. “The logs!” he shouted. “Turn on the pincher machine and get started with the logs!” Phil ran to the pincher machine and pressed an orange button on it. With a rough whistling noise, the pinchers opened, and stretched toward the far wall of the lumbermill. The orphans had been so curious about the machines that they hadn’t noticed the huge pile of trees that were stacked, leaves and roots and all, along one wall of the lumbermill as if a giant had simply torn a small forest out of the ground and dropped it into the room. The pinchers picked up the tree on top of the stack and began lowering it to the ground, while Foreman Flacutono banged his pots together and shouted, “The debarkers! The debarkers!” Another employee walked to the back corner of the room, where there were a stack of tiny green boxes and a pile of flat metal rectangles, as long and as thin as an adult eel. Without a word she picked up the pile of rectangles and began distributing them to the workers. “Take a debarker,” she whispered to the children. “One each.” The children each took a rectangle and stood there, confused and hungry, just as the tree touched the ground. Foreman Flacutono clanged his pots together again, and the employees crowded around the tree and began scraping against it with their debarkers, filing the bark off each tree as you or I might file our nails. “You, too, midgets!” the foreman shouted, and the children found room among the adults to scrape away at the tree. Phil had described the rigors of working in a lumbermill, and it had certainly sounded difficult. But as you remember, Phil was an optimist, so the actual work turned out to be much, much worse. For one thing, the debarkers were adult-sized, and it was difficult for the children to use them. Sunny could scarcely lift her debarker at all, and so used her teeth instead, but Violet and Klaus had teeth of only an average sharpness and so had to struggle with the debarkers. The three children scraped and scraped, but only tiny pieces of bark fell from the tree. For another thing, the children had not eaten any breakfast, and as the morning wore on they were so hungry that it was difficult to even lift the debarker, let alone scrape it against the tree. And for one more thing, once a tree was finally cleared of bark, the pinchers would drop another one onto the ground, and they would have to start all over again, which was extremely boring. But for the worst thing of all, the noise at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill was simply deafening. The debarkers made their displeasing scraping sound as they dragged across the trees. The pinchers made their rough whistling noise as they picked up logs. And Foreman Flacutono made his horrendous clanging noise as he banged his pots together. The orphans grew exhausted and frustrated. Their stomachs hurt and their ears rang. And they were unbelievably bored. Finally, as the employees finished their fourteenth log, Foreman Flacutono banged his pots together and shouted, “Lunch break!” The workers stopped scraping, and the pinchers stopped whistling, and everyone sat down, exhausted, on the ground. Foreman Flacutono threw his pots on the floor, walked over to the tiny green boxes, and grabbed one. Opening it with a rip, he began to toss small pink squares at the workers, one to each. “You have five minutes for lunch!” he shouted, throwing three pink squares at the children. The Baudelaires could see that a damp patch had appeared on his surgical mask, from spit flying out of his mouth as he gave orders. “Just five minutes!” Violet looked from the damp patch on the mask to the pink square in her hand, and for a second she didn’t believe what she was looking at. “It’s gum!” she said. “This is gum!” Klaus looked from his sister’s square to his own. “Gum isn’t lunch” he cried. “Gum isn’t even a snack” “Tanco!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “And babies shouldn’t even have gum, because they could choke on it!” “You’d better eat your gum,” Phil said, moving over to sit next to the children. “It’s not very filling, but it’s the only thing they’ll let you eat until dinnertime.” “Well, maybe we can get up a little earlier tomorrow,” Violet said, “and make some sandwiches.” “We don’t have any sandwich-making ingredients,” Phil said. “We just get one meal, usually a casserole, every evening.” “Well, maybe we can go into town and buy some ingredients,” Klaus said. “I wish we could,” Phil said, “but we don’t have any money.” “What about your wages?” Violet asked. “Surely you can spend some of the money you earn on sandwich ingredients.” Phil gave the children a sad smile, and reached into his pocket. “At the Lucky Smells Lumbermill,” he said, bringing out a bunch of tiny scraps of paper, “they don’t pay us in money. They pay us in coupons. See, here’s what we all earned yesterday: twenty percent off a shampoo at Sam’s Haircutting Palace . The day before that we earned this coupon for a free refill of iced tea, and last week we earned this one: ‘Buy Two Banjos and Get One Free.’ The trouble is, we can’t buy two banjos, because we don’t have anything but these coupons.” “Nelnu!” Sunny shrieked, but Foreman Flacutono began banging his pots together before anyone could realize what she meant. “Lunch is over!” he shouted. “Back to work, everyone! Everyone except you, Baudelamps! The boss wants to see you three in his office right away!” The three siblings put down their debark-ers and looked at one another. They had been working so hard that they had almost forgotten about meeting their guardian, whatever his name was. What sort of man would force small children to work in a lumbermill? What sort of man would hire a monster like Foreman Flacutono? What sort of man would pay his employees in coupons, or feed them only gum? Foreman Flacutono banged his pots together again and pointed at the door, and the children stepped out of the noisy room into the quiet of the courtyard. Klaus took the map out of his pocket and pointed the way to the office. With each step, the orphans raised small clouds of dirt that matched the clouds of dread hovering over them. Their bodies ached from the morning’s work, and they had an uneasy feeling in their empty stomachs. As they had guessed from the way their day began, the three children were having a bad day. But as they got closer and closer to the office, they wondered if their day was about to get even worse. C H A P T E R Four As I’m sure you know, whenever there is a mirror around, it is almost impossible not to take a look at yourself. Even though we all know what we look like, we all like just to look at our reflections, if only to see how we’re doing. As the Baudelaire orphans waited outside the office to meet their new guardian, they looked in a mirror hanging in the hallway and they saw at once that they were not doing so well. The children looked tired and they looked hungry. Violet’s hair was covered in small pieces of bark. Klaus’s glasses were hanging askew, a phrase which here means “tilted to one side from leaning over logs the entire morning.” And there were small pieces of wood stuck in Sunny’s four teeth from using them as debarkers. Behind them, reflected in the mirror, was a painting of the seashore, which was hanging on the opposite wall, which made them feel even worse, because the seashore always made them remember that terrible, terrible day when the three siblings went to the beach and soon received the news from Mr. Poe that their parents had died. The children stared at their own reflections, and stared at the painting of the seashore behind them, and it was almost unbearable to think about everything that had happened to them since that day. “If someone had told me,” Violet said, “that day at the beach, that before long I’d find myself living at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, I would have said they were crazy.” “If someone had told me” Klaus said, “that day at the beach, that before long I’d find myself pursued by a greedy, evil man named Count Olaf, I would have said they were insane.” “Wora,” Sunny said, which meant something like “If someone had told me, that day at the beach, that before long I’d find myself using my four teeth to scrape the bark off trees, I would have said they were psychoneurotically disturbed.” The dismayed orphans looked at their reflections, and their dismayed reflections looked back at them. For several moments, the Baudelaires stood and pondered the mysterious way their lives were going, and they were thinking so hard about it that they jumped a little when somebody spoke. “You must be Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire,” the somebody said, and the children turned to see a very tall man with very short hair. He was wearing a bright blue vest and holding a peach. He smiled and walked toward them, but then frowned as he drew closer. “Why, you’re covered in pieces of bark,” he said. “I hope you haven’t been hanging around the lumbermill. That can be very dangerous for small children.” Violet looked at the peach, and wondered if she dared ask for a bite. “We’ve been working there all morning,” she said. The man frowned. “Working there?” Klaus looked at the peach, and had to stop himself from grabbing it right out of the man’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “We received your instructions and went right to work. Today was a new log day.” The man scratched his head. “Instructions?” he asked. “What in the world are you talking about?” Sunny looked at the peach, and it was all she could do not to leap up and sink her teeth right into it. “Molub!” she shrieked, which must have meant something like “We’re talking about the typed note that told us to go to work at the lumbermill!” “Well, I don’t understand how three people as young as yourselves were put to work in the lumbermill, but please accept my humblest apologies, and let me tell you that it will not happen again. Why, you’re children, for goodness’ sake! You will be treated as members of the family!” The orphans looked at one another. Could it be that their horrible experiences in Paltryville were just a mistake? “You mean we don’t have to debark any more logs?” Violet asked. “Of course not,” the man said. “I can’t believe you were even allowed inside. Why, there are some nasty machines in there. I’m going to speak to your new guardian about it immediately.” “You’re not our new guardian?” Klaus asked. “Oh no,” the man said. “Forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Charles, and it’s very nice to have the three of you here at Lucky Smells Lumbermill.” “It’s very nice to be here,” Violet lied politely. “I find that difficult to believe,” Charles said, “seeing as you’ve been forced to work in the mill, but let’s put that behind us and have a fresh start. Would you care for a peach?” “They’ve had their lunch!” came a booming voice, and the orphans whirled around and stared at the man they saw. He was quite short, shorter than Klaus, and dressed in a suit made of a very shiny dark-green material that made him look more like a reptile than a person. But what made them stare most was his face—or, rather, the cloud of smoke that was covering his face. The man was smoking a cigar, and the smoke from the cigar covered his entire head. The cloud of smoke made the Baudelaire children very curious as to what his face really looked like, and you may be curious as well, but you will have to take that curiosity to your grave, for I will tell you now, before we go any further, that the Baudelaires never saw this man’s face, and neither did I, and neither will you. “Oh, hello, sir,” Charles said. “I was just meeting the Baudelaire children. Did you know they had arrived?” “Of course I knew they arrived,” the smoke-faced man said. “I’m not an idiot.” “No, of course not,” Charles said. “But were you aware that they were put to work in the lumbermill? On a new log day, no less! I was just explaining to them what a terrible mistake that was.” “It wasn’t a mistake,” the man said. “I don’t make mistakes, Charles. I’m not an idiot.” He turned so the cloud of smoke faced the children. “Hello, Baudelaire orphans. I thought we should lay eyes on one another.” “Batex!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “But we’re not laying eyes on one another!” “I have no time to talk about that,” the man said. “I see you’ve met Charles. He’s my partner. We split everything fifty-fifty, which is a good deal. Don’t you think so?” “I guess so,” Klaus said. “I don’t know very much about the lumber business.” “Oh, yes,” Charles said. “Of course I think it’s a good deal.” “Well,” the man said, “I want to give you three a good deal as well. Now, I heard about what happened to your parents, which is really too bad. And I heard all about this Count Olaf fellow, who sounds like quite a jerk, and those odd-looking people who work for him. So when Mr. Poe gave me a call, I worked out a deal. The deal is this: I will try to make sure that Count Olaf and his associates never go anywhere near you, and you will work in my lumbermill until you come of age and get all that money. Is that a fair deal?” The Baudelaire orphans did not answer this question, because it seemed to them the answer was obvious. A fair deal, as everyone knows, is when both people give something of more or less equal value. If you were bored with playing with your chemistry set, and you gave it to your brother in exchange for his dollhouse, that would be a fair deal. If someone offered to smuggle me out of the country in her sailboat, in exchange for free tickets to an ice show, that would be a fair deal. But working for years in a lumbermill in exchange for the owner’s trying to keep Count Olaf away is an enormously unfair deal, and the three youngsters knew it. “Oh, sir,” Charles said, smiling nervously at the Baudelaires. “You can’t be serious. A lumbermill is no place for small children to work.” “Of course it is,” the man said. He reached a hand up into his cloud to scratch an itch somewhere on his face. “It will teach them responsibility. It will teach them the value of work. And it will teach them how to make flat wooden boards out of trees.” “Well, you probably know best,” Charles said, shrugging. “But we could read about all of those things,” Klaus said, “and learn about them that way.” “That’s true, sir,” Charles said. “They could study in the library. They seem very well behaved, and I’m sure they would cause no trouble.” “Your library!” the man said sharply. “What nonsense! Don’t listen to Charles, you children. My partner has insisted that we create a library for the employees at the mill, and so I let him. But it is no substitute for hard work.” “Please, sir,” Violet pleaded. “At least let our little sister stay in the dormitory. She’s only a baby.” “I have offered you a very good deal,” the man said. “As long as you stay within the gates of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, this Count Olaf will not come near you. In addition, I’m giving you a place to sleep, a nice hot dinner, and a stick of gum for lunch. And all you have to do in return is a few years’ work. That sounds like a pretty good deal to me. Well, it was nice to meet you. Unless you have any questions, I’ll be going now. My pizza is getting cold, and if there’s one thing I hate it’s a cold lunch.” “I have a question,” Violet said, although the truth of the matter is she had many questions. Most of them began with the phrase “How can you.” “How can you force small children to work in a lumbermill?” was one of them. “How can you treat us so horridly, after all we’ve been through?” was another. And then there was “How can you pay your employees in coupons instead of money?” and “How can you feed us only gum for lunch?” and “How can you stand to have a cloud of smoke covering your face?” But none of these seemed like questions that were proper to ask, at least not out loud. So Violet looked her new guardian right in his cloud and asked, “What is your name?” “Never mind what my name is,” the man said. “No one can pronounce it anyway. Just call me Sir.” “I’ll show the children to the door, Sir,” Charles said quickly, and with a wave of his hand, the owner of the Lucky Smells Lumber-mill was gone. Charles waited nervously for a moment, to make sure Sir was far enough away. Then he leaned in to the children and handed them the peach. “Never mind what he said about your already having your lunch,” he said. “Have this peach.” “Oh, thank you,” Klaus cried, and hurriedly divided the peach among himself and his siblings, giving the biggest piece to Sunny because she hadn’t even had her gum. A Series of Unfortunate Events 4 - The Miserable Mill The Baudelaire children wolfed down the peach, and under normal circumstances it would not have been polite to eat something so quickly and so noisily, particularly in front of someone they did not know very well. But these circumstances were not at all normal, so even a manners expert would excuse them for their gobbling. “You know,” Charles said, “because you seem like such nice children, and because you’ve worked so very hard today, I’m going to do something for you. Can you guess what it is?” “Talk to Sir,” Violet said, wiping peach juice off her chin, “and convince him that we shouldn’t work in the lumbermill?” “Well, no,” Charles admitted. “That wouldn’t do any good. He won’t listen to me.” “But you’re his partner,” Klaus pointed out. “That doesn’t matter,” Charles replied. “When Sir has made up his mind, he has made up his mind. I know he sometimes is a little bit mean, but you’ll have to excuse him. He had a very terrible childhood. Do you understand?” Violet looked at the painting of the seashore, and thought once again of that dreadful day at the beach. “Yes,” she sighed. “I understand. I think I’m having a very terrible childhood myself.” “Well, I know what will make you feel better,” Charles said, “at least a little bit. Let me show you the library before you go back to work. Then you can visit it whenever you want. Come on, it’s right down the hall.” Charles led the Baudelaires down the hallway, and even though they would soon be back at work, even though they had been offered one of the least fair deals ever offered to children, the three siblings felt a little bit better. Whether it was Uncle Monty’s library of reptile books, or Aunt Josephine’s library of grammar books, or Justice Strauss’s library of law books, or, best of all, their parents’ library of all kinds of books—all burned up now, alas— libraries always made them feel a little bit better. Just knowing that they could read made the Baudelaire orphans feel as if their wretched lives could be a little brighter. At the end of a hallway was a little door, and Charles stopped at the door, smiled at the children, and opened the door. The library was a large room, and it was filled with elegant wooden bookshelves and comfortable-looking sofas on which to sit and read. On one wall was a row of windows, which let in more than enough light for reading, and on the other wall was a row of landscape paintings, perfect for resting one’s eyes. The Baudelaire children stepped inside the room and took a good look around. But they did not feel any better, not at all. “Where are the books?” Klaus asked. “All these elegant bookshelves are empty.” “That’s the only thing wrong with this library,” Charles admitted. “Sir wouldn’t give me any money to buy books.” “You mean there are no books at all?” Violet asked. “Just three,” Charles said, and walked to the farthest bookshelf. There, on the bottom shelf, were three books sitting all by themselves. “Without money, of course, it was difficult to acquire any books, but I did have three books donated. Sir donated his book, The History of Lucky Smells Lumbermill. The mayor of Paltryville donated this book, The Paltryville Constitution. And here’s Advanced Ocular Science, donated by Dr. Orwell, a doctor who lives in town.” Charles held up the three books to show the Baudelaires what each one looked like, and the children stared in dismay and fear. The History of Lucky Smells Lumbermill’ had a painting of Sir on the cover, with a cloud of smoke covering his face. The Paltryville Constitution had a photograph of the Paltryville post office, with the old shoe dangling from the flagpole in front. But it was the cover of Advanced Ocular Science that made the Baudelaire children stare. You have heard, many times I’m sure, that you should not judge a book by its cover. But just as it is difficult to believe that a man who is not a doctor wearing a surgical mask and a white wig will turn out to be a charming person, it was difficult for the children to believe that Advanced Ocular Science was going to cause them anything but trouble. The word “ocular,” you might not know, means “related to the eye,” but even if you didn’t know this you could figure it out from the cover. For printed on the cover was an image that the children recognized. They recognized it from their own nightmares, and from personal experience. It was an image of an eye, and the Baudelaire orphans recognized it as the mark of Count Olaf. the pit part of the peach, but Sunny was very hungry, and liked to eat hard things, so the pit ended up in her stomach along with the parts of the fruit that you or I might find more suitable. But the pit in the Baudelaire stomachs was not so much from the snack that Charles had given them but from an overall feeling of doom. They were certain that Count Olaf was lurking nearby, like some predator waiting to pounce on the children while they weren’t looking. So each morning, when Foreman Flacutono clanged his pots together to wake everyone up, the Baudelaires took a good look at him to see if Count Olaf had taken his place. It would have been just like Count Olaf to put a white wig on his head and a surgical mask over his face, and snatch the Baudelaires right out of their bunk. But Foreman Flacutono always had the same dark and beady eyes, which didn’t look a thing like Count Olaf’s shiny ones, and he always spoke in his rough, muffled voice, which was the opposite of the smooth, snarly voice of Count Olaf. When the children walked across the dirt-floored courtyard to the lumbermill, they took a good look at their fellow employees. It would have been just like Count Olaf to get himself hired as an employee, and snatch the orphans away while Foreman Flacutono wasn’t looking. But although all the workers looked tired, and sad, and hungry, none of them looked evil, or greedy, or had such awful manners. And as the orphans performed the backbreaking labor of the lumbermill—the word “back-breaking” here means “so difficult and tiring that it felt like the orphans’ backs were breaking, even though they actually weren’t”—they wondered if Count Olaf would use one of the enormous machines to somehow get his hands on their fortune. But that didn’t seem to be the case, either. After a few days of tearing the bark off the trees, the debarkers were put back in their corner, and the giant pincher machine was turned off. Next, the workers had to pick up the barkless trees themselves, one by one, and hold them against the buzzing circular saw until it had sliced each tree into flat boards. The youngsters’ arms were soon achy and covered in splinters from lifting all of the logs, but Count Olaf did not take advantage of their weakened arms to kidnap them. After a few days of sawing, Foreman Flacutono ordered Phil to start up the machine with the enormous ball of string inside. The machine wrapped the string around small bundles of boards, and the employees had to gather around and tie the string into very complicated knots, to hold the bundles together. The siblings’ fingers were soon so sore that they could scarcely hold the coupons they were given each day, but Count Olaf did not try to force them to surrender their fortune. Day after dreary day went by, and although the children were convinced that he must be somewhere nearby, Count Olaf simply did not show up. It was very puzzling. “It is very puzzling,” Violet said one day, during their gum break. “Count Olaf is simply nowhere to be found.” “I know,” Klaus said, rubbing his right thumb, which was the sorest. “That building looks like his tattoo, and so does that book cover. But Count Olaf himself hasn’t shown his face.” “Elund!” Sunny said thoughtfully. She probably meant something like “It is certainly perplexing.” Violet snapped her fingers, frowning because it hurt. “I’ve thought of something,” she said. “Klaus, you just said he hasn’t shown his face. Maybe he’s Sir, in disguise. We can’t tell what Sir really looks like because of that cloud of smoke. Count Olaf could have dressed in a green suit and taken up smoking just to fool us.” “I thought of that, too,” Klaus said. “But he’s much shorter than Count Olaf, and I don’t know how you can disguise yourself as a much shorter person.” “Chorn!” Sunny pointed out, which meant something like “And his voice sounds nothing like Count Olaf’s.” “That’s true,” Violet said, and gave Sunny a small piece of wood that was sitting on the floor. Because babies should not have gum, Sunny’s older siblings gave her these small tree scraps during the lunch break. Sunny did not eat the wood, of course, but she chewed on it and pretended it was a carrot, or an apple, or a beef and cheese enchilada, all of which she loved. “It might just be that Count Olaf hasn’t found us,” Klaus said. “After all, Paltryville is in the middle of nowhere. It could take him years to track us down.” “Pelli!” Sunny exclaimed, which meant something like “But that doesn’t explain the eye-shaped building, or the cover of the book!” “Those things could just be coincidence,” Violet admitted. “We’re so scared of Count Olaf that maybe we’re just thinking we’re seeing him everywhere. Maybe he won’t show up. Maybe we really are safe here.” “That’s the spirit,” said Phil, who had been sitting near them all this time. “Look on the bright side. Lucky Smells Lumbermill might not be your favorite place, but at least there’s no sign of this Olaf guy you keep talking about. This might turn out to be the most fortunate part of your lives.” “I admire your optimism,” Klaus said, smiling at Phil. “Me too,” Violet said. “Tenpa,” Sunny agreed. “That’s the spirit,” Phil said again, and stood up to stretch his legs. The Baudelaire orphans nodded, but looked at one another out of the corners of their eyes. It was true that Count Olaf hadn’t shown up, or at least he hadn’t shown up yet. But their situation was far from fortunate. They had to wake up to the clanging of pots, and be ordered around by Foreman Flacutono. They only had gum—or, in Sunny’s case, imaginary enchiladas—for lunch. And worst of all, working in the lumbermill was so exhausting that they didn’t have the energy to do anything else. Even though she was near complicated machines every day, Violet hadn’t even thought about inventing something for a very long time. Even though Klaus was free to visit Charles’s library whenever he wanted to, he hadn’t even glanced at any of the three books. And even though there were plenty of hard things around to bite, Sunny hadn’t closed her mouth around more than a few of them. The children missed studying reptiles with Uncle Monty. They missed living over Lake Lachrymose with Aunt Josephine. And most of all, of course, they missed living with their parents, which was where, after all, they truly belonged. “Well,” Violet said, after a pause, “we’ll only have to work here for a few years. Then I will be of age, and we can use some of the Baudelaire fortune. I’d like to build an inventing studio for myself, perhaps over Lake Lachrymose , where Aunt Josephine’s house used to be, so we can always remember her.” “And I’d like to build a library,” Klaus said, “that would be open to the public. And I’ve always hoped that we could buy back Uncle Monty’s reptile collection, and take care of all the reptiles.” “Dole!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “And I could be a dentist!” “What in the world does ‘Dole’ mean?” The orphans looked up and saw that Charles had come into the lumbermill. He was smiling at them and taking something out of his pocket. “Hello, Charles,” Violet said. “It’s nice to see you. What have you been up to?” “Ironing Sir’s shirts,” Charles answered. “He has a lot of shirts, and he’s too busy to iron them himself. I’ve been meaning to come by, but the ironing took a long time. I brought you some beef jerky. I was afraid to take more than a little bit, because Sir would know that it was missing, but here you go.” “Thank you very much,” Klaus said politely. “We’ll share this with the other employees.” “Well, O.K.,” Charles said, “but last week they got a coupon for thirty percent off beef jerky, so they probably bought plenty of it.” “Maybe they did,” Violet said, knowing full well that there was no way any of the workers could afford beef jerky. “Charles, we’ve been meaning to ask you about one of the books in your library. You know the one with the eye on the cover? Where did you—” Violet’s question was interrupted by the sound of Foreman Flacutono’s pots being banged together. “Back to work!” he shouted. “Back to work! We have to finish tying the bundles today, so there’s no time for chitchat!” “I would just like to talk to these children for a few more minutes, Foreman Flacutono,” Charles said. “Surely we can extend the lunch break just a little bit.” “Absolutely not!” Foreman Flacutono said, striding over to the orphans. “I have my orders from Sir, and I intend to carry them out. Unless you’d like to tell Sir that —” “Oh, no,” Charles said quickly, backing away from Foreman Flacutono. “I don’t think that’s necessary.” “Good,” the foreman said shortly. “Now get up, midgets! Lunch is over!” The children sighed and stood up. They had long ago given up trying to convince Foreman Flacutono that they weren’t midgets. They waved good-bye to Charles, and walked slowly to the waiting bundle of boards, with Foreman Flacutono walking behind them, and at that moment one of the children had a trick played on him which I hope has never been played on you. This trick involves sticking your foot out in front of a person who is walking, so the person trips and falls on the ground. A policeman did it to me once, when I was carrying a crystal ball belonging to a Gypsy fortune-teller who never forgave me for tumbling to the ground and shattering her ball into hundreds of pieces. It is a mean trick, and it is easy to do, and I’m sorry to say that Foreman Flacutono did it to Klaus right at this moment. Klaus fell right to the ground of the lumbermill, his glasses falling off his face and skittering over to the bundle of boards. “Hey!” Klaus said. “You tripped me!” One of the most annoying aspects of this sort of trick is that the person who does it usually pretends not to know what you’re talking about. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Foreman Flacutono said. Klaus was too annoyed to argue. He stood up, and Violet walked over to fetch his glasses. But when she leaned over to pick them up, she saw at once that something was very, very wrong. “Rotup!” Sunny shrieked, and she spoke the truth. When Klaus’s glasses had skittered across the room, they had scraped against the floor and hit the boards rather hard. Violet picked the glasses up, and they looked like a piece of modern sculpture a friend of mine made long ago. The sculpture was called Twisted, Cracked, and Hopelessly Broken. “My brother’s glasses!” Violet cried. “They’re twisted, and cracked! They’re hopelessly broken, and he can scarcely see anything without them!” “Too bad for you,” Foreman Flacutono said, shrugging at Klaus. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Charles said. “He needs a replacement pair, Foreman Flacutono. A child could see that.” “Not me,” Klaus said. “I can scarcely see anything.” “Well, take my arm,” Charles said. “There’s no way you can work in a lumbermill without being able to see what you’re doing. I’ll take you to the eye doctor right away.” “Oh, thank you,” Violet said, relieved. “Is there an eye doctor nearby?” Klaus asked. “Oh yes,” Charles replied. “The closest one is Dr. Orwell, who wrote that book you were talking about. Dr. Orwell’s office is just outside the doors of the mill. I’m sure you noticed it on your way here—it’s made to look like a giant eye. Come on, Klaus.” “Oh, no, Charles!” Violet said. “Don’t take him there!” Charles cupped a hand to his ear. “What did you say?” he shouted. Phil had flipped a switch on the string machine, and the ball of string had begun to spin inside its cage, making a loud whirring sound as the employees got back to work. “That building has the mark of Count Olaf!” Klaus shouted, but Foreman Flacutono had begun to clang his pots together, and Charles shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear. “Yoryar!” Sunny shrieked, but Charles just shrugged and led Klaus out of the mill. The two Baudelaire sisters looked at one another. The whirring sound continued, and Foreman Flacutono kept on clanging his pots, but that wasn’t the loudest sound that the two girls heard. Louder than the machine, louder than the pots, was the sound of their own furiously beating hearts as Charles took their brother away. C H A P T E R Six “I tell you, you have nothing to worry about,” Phil said, as Violet and Sunny picked at their casserole. It was dinnertime, but Klaus had still not returned from Dr. Orwell’s, and the young Baudelaire women were worried sick. After work, while walking across the dirty courtyard with their fellow employees, Violet and Sunny had peered worriedly at the wooden gate that led out to Paltryville, and were dismayed to see no sign of Klaus. When they arrived at the dormitory, Violet and Sunny looked out the window to watch for him, and they were so anxious that it took them several minutes to realize that the window was not a real one, but one drawn on the blank wall with a ballpoint pen. Then they went out and sat on the doorstep, looking out at the empty courtyard, until Phil called them in to supper. And now it was getting on toward bedtime, and not only had their brother still not returned, but Phil was insisting that they had nothing to worry about. “I think we do, Phil,” Violet said. “I think we do have something to worry about. Klaus has been gone all afternoon, and Sunny and I are worried that something might have happened to him. Something awful.” “Becer!” Sunny agreed. “I know that doctors can seem scary to young children,” Phil said, “but doctors are your friends, and they can’t hurt you.” Violet looked at Phil and saw that their conversation would go nowhere. “You’re right,” she said tiredly, even though he was quite wrong. As anyone who’s ever been to a doctor knows, doctors are not necessarily your friends, any more than mail deliverers are your friends, or butchers are your friends, or refrigerator repair-people are your friends. A doctor is a man or woman whose job it is to make you feel better, that’s all, and if you’ve ever had a shot you know that the statement “Doctors can’t hurt you” is simply absurd. Violet and Sunny, of course, were worried that Dr. Orwell had some connection with Count Olaf, not that their brother would get a shot, but it was useless to try to explain such things to an optimist. So they merely picked at their casserole and waited for their brother until it was time for bed. “Dr. Orwell must have fallen behind in his appointments,” Phil said, as Violet and Sunny tucked themselves into the bottom bunk. “His waiting room must be absolutely full.” “Suski,” Sunny said sadly, which meant something along the lines of “I hope so, Phil.” Phil smiled at the two Baudelaires and turned out the lights in the dormitory. The employees whispered to each other for a few minutes, and then were quiet, and before too long Violet and Sunny were surrounded by the sound of snores. The children did not sleep, of course, but stared out into the dark room with a growing feeling of dismay. Sunny made a squeaky, sad noise, like the closing of a door, and Violet took her sister’s fingers, which were sore from tying knots all day long, and blew on them gently. But even as the Baudelaire fingers felt better, the Baudelaire sisters did not. They lay together on the bunk and tried to imagine where Klaus could be and what was happening to him. But one of the worst things about Count Olaf is that his evil ways are so despicable that it is impossible to imagine what would be up his sleeve next. Count Olaf had done so many horrible deeds, all to get his hands on the Baudelaire fortune, that Violet and Sunny could scarcely bear to think what might be happening to their brother. The evening grew later and later, and the two siblings began to imagine more and more terrible things that could be happening to Klaus while they lay helpless in the dormitory. “Stintamcunu,” Sunny whispered finally, and Violet nodded. They had to go and look for him. The expression “quiet as mice” is a puzzling one, because mice can often be very noisy, so people who are being quiet as mice may in fact be squeaking and scrambling around. The expression “quiet as mimes” is more appropriate, because mimes are people who perform theatrical routines without making a sound. Mimes are annoying and embarrassing, but they are much quieter than mice, so “quiet as mimes” is a more proper way to describe how Violet and Sunny got up from their bunk, tiptoed across the dormitory, and walked out into the night. There was a full moon that night, and the children gazed for a moment at the quiet courtyard. The moonlight made the dirt floor look as strange and eerie as the surface of the moon. Violet picked Sunny up, and the two of them crossed the courtyard toward the heavy wooden gate leading out of the lumbermill. The only sound was the soft shuffling of Violet’s feet. The orphans could not remember when they had been in a place that felt so quiet and still, which is why the sudden creaking sound made them jump in surprise. The creaking sound was as noisy as mice, and seemed to be coming from straight ahead. Violet and Sunny stared out into the gloom, and with another creak the wooden gate swung open and revealed the short figure of a person, walking slowly toward them. “Klaus!” Sunny said, for one of the few regular words she used was the name of her brother. And to her relief, Violet saw that it was indeed Klaus who was walking toward them. He had on a new pair of glasses that looked just like his old ones, except they were so new that they shone in the moonlight. He gave his sisters a dazed and distant smile, as if they were people he did not know so well. “Klaus, we were so worried about you,” Violet said, hugging her brother as he reached them. “You were gone for so long. Whatever happened to you?” “I don’t know,” Klaus said, so quietly that his sisters had to lean forward to hear him. “I can’t remember.” “Did you see Count Olaf?” Violet asked. “Was Dr. Orwell working with him? Did they do anything to you?” “I don’t know,” Klaus said, shaking his head. “I remember breaking my glasses, and I remember Charles taking me to the eye-shaped building. But I don’t remember anything else. I scarcely remember where I am right now.” “Klaus,” Violet said firmly, “you are at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill in Paltryville. Surely you remember that.” Klaus did not answer. He merely looked at his sisters with wide, wide eyes, as if they were an interesting aquarium or a parade. “Klaus?” Violet asked. “I said, you are at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill.” Klaus still did not answer. “He must be very tired,” Violet said to Sunny. “Libu,” Sunny said doubtfully. “You’d better get to bed, Klaus,” Violet said. “Follow me.” At last, Klaus spoke. “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly. “Sir?” Violet repeated. “I’m not a sir—I’m your sister!” But Klaus was silent once more, and Violet gave up. Still carrying Sunny, she walked back toward the dormitory, and Klaus shuffled behind her. The moon shone on his new glasses, and his steps made little clouds of dirt, but he didn’t say a word. Quiet as mimes, the Baudelaires walked back into the dormitory and tiptoed to their bunk bed. But when they reached it, Klaus merely stood nearby and stared at his two siblings, as if he had forgotten how to go to bed. “Lie down, Klaus,” Violet said gently. “Yes, sir,” Klaus replied, and lay down on the bottom bunk, still staring at his sisters. Violet sat on the edge of the bunk and removed Klaus’s shoes, which he had forgotten to take off, but it seemed that he did not even notice. “We’ll discuss things in the morning,” Violet whispered. “In the meantime, Klaus, try to get some sleep.” “Yes, sir,” Klaus said, and immediately shut his eyes. In a second he was fast asleep. Violet and Sunny watched the way his mouth quivered, just as it had always done when he was asleep, ever since he was a tiny baby. It was a relief to have Klaus back with them, of course, but the Baudelaire sisters did not feel relieved, not one bit. They had never seen their brother act so strangely. For the rest of the night, Violet and Sunny huddled together on the top bunk, peering down and watching Klaus sleep. No matter how much they looked at him, it still felt like their brother had not returned. but in the morning the tube of wart-removal cream would still be sitting there next to your uneaten birthday cake, and you would feel as miserable as ever. My chauffeur once told me that I would feel better in the morning, but when I woke up the two of us were still on a tiny island surrounded by man-eating crocodiles, and, as I’m sure you can understand, I didn’t feel any better about it. And so it was with the Baudelaire orphans. As soon as Foreman Flacutono began clanging his pots together, Klaus opened his eyes and asked where in the world he was, and Violet and Sunny did not feel better at all. “What is wrong with you, Klaus?” Violet asked. Klaus looked at Violet carefully, as if they had met once, years ago, and he had forgotten her name. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m having trouble remembering things. What happened yesterday?” “That’s what we want to ask you, Klaus,” Violet said, but she was interrupted by their rude employer. “Get up, you lazy midgets!” Foreman Flacutono shouted, walking over to the Baudelaire bunk and clanging his pots together again. “The Lucky Smells Lumbermill has no time for dawdling! Get out of bed this instant and go straight to work!” Klaus’s eyes grew very wide, and he sat up in bed. In an instant he was walking toward the door of the dormitory, without a word to his sisters. “That’s the spirit!” Foreman Flacutono said, and clanged his pots together again. “Now everybody! On to the lumbermill!” Violet and Sunny looked at one another and hurried to follow their brother and the other employees, but Violet took one step, and something made her stop. On the floor next to the Baudelaire bunk were Klaus’s shoes, which she had removed the night before. Klaus had not even put them on before walking outside. “His shoes!” Violet said, picking them up. “Klaus, you forgot your shoes!” She ran after him, but Klaus did not even look back. By the time Violet reached the door, her brother was walking barefoot across the courtyard. “Grummle?” Sunny called after him, but he did not answer. “Come on, children,” Phil said. “Let’s hurry to the lumbermill.” “Phil, there’s something wrong with my brother,” Violet said, watching Klaus open the door of the lumbermill and lead the other employees inside. “He scarcely says a word to us, he doesn’t seem to remember anything, and look! He didn’t put on his shoes this morning!” “Well, look on the bright side,” Phil said. “We’re supposed to finish tying today, and next we do the stamping. Stamping is the easiest part of the lumber business.” “I don’t care about the lumber business!” Violet cried. “Something is wrong with Klaus!” “Let’s not make trouble, Violet,” Phil said, and walked off toward the lumbermill. Violet and Sunny looked at one another helplessly. They had no choice but to follow Phil across the courtyard and into the mill. Inside, the string machine was already whirring, and the employees were beginning to tie up the last few batches of boards. Violet and Sunny hurried to get a place next to Klaus, and for the next few hours they tied knots and tried to talk to their brother. But it was difficult to speak to him over the whirring of the string machine and the clanging of Foreman Flacutono’s pots, and Klaus never answered them. Finally, the last pile of boards was tied together, and Phil turned off the string machine, and everybody received their gum. Violet and Sunny each grabbed one of Klaus’s arms and dragged their barefooted brother to a corner of the mill to talk to him. “Klaus, Klaus, please talk to me,” Violet cried. “You’re frightening us. You’ve got to tell us what Dr. Orwell did, so we can help you.” Klaus simply stared at his sister with widened eyes. “Eshan!” Sunny shrieked. Klaus did not say a word. He did not even put his gum into his mouth. Violet and Sunny sat down beside him, confused and frightened, and put their arms around their brother as though they were afraid he was floating away. They sat there like that, a heap of Baudelaires, until Foreman Flacutono clanged his pots together to signal the end of the break. “Stamping time!” Foreman Flacutono said, pushing his stringy white wig out of his eyes. “Everybody line up for stamping. And you” he said, pointing to Klaus. “You, you lucky midget, will be operating the machine. Come over here so I can give you instructions.” “Yes, sir,” Klaus said, in a quiet voice, and his sisters gasped in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken since they were in the dormitory. Without another word he stood up, disentangled himself from his siblings, and walked toward Foreman Flacutono while his sisters looked on amazedly. Violet turned to her baby sister and brushed a small scrap of string out of her hair, something her mother used to do all the time. The eldest Baudelaire remembered, as she had remembered so many times, the promise she had made to her parents when Sunny was born. “You are the eldest Baudelaire child,” her parents had said. “And as the eldest, it will always be your responsibility to look after your younger siblings. Promise us that you will always watch out for them and make sure they don’t get into trouble.” Violet knew, of course, that her parents had never guessed, when they told her this, that the sort of trouble her siblings would get into would be so ostentatiously —a word which here means “really, really”— horrendous, but still she felt as if she had let her parents down. Klaus was clearly in trouble, and Violet could not shake the feeling that it was her responsibility to get him out of it. Foreman Flacutono whispered something to Klaus, who walked slowly over to the machine covered in smokestacks and began to operate its controls. Foreman Flacutono nodded to Klaus and clanged his pots together again. “Let the stamping begin!” he said, in his terrible muffled voice. The Baudelaires had no idea what Foreman Flacutono meant by stamping, and thought maybe it involved jumping up and down on the boards for some reason, like stamping on ants. But it turned out to be more like stamping a library book. The workers would lift a bundle of boards and place it on a special mat, and the machine would bring its huge, flat stone down on top of the boards with a thunderous stamp!, leaving a label in red ink that said “Lucky Smells Lumbermill.” Then everyone had to blow on the stamp so it dried quickly. Violet and Sunny couldn’t help wondering if people who would make their houses out of these boards would mind having the name of the lumbermill written on the walls of their homes. But, more important, they couldn’t help wondering how Klaus knew how to work the stamping machine, and why Foreman Flacutono was having their brother at the controls, instead of Phil or one of the other employees. “You see?” Phil told the Baudelaire sisters, from across a bundle of boards. “There’s nothing wrong with Klaus. He’s working the machine perfectly. You spent all that time worrying for nothing.” Stamp! “Maybe,” Violet said doubtfully, blowing on the M in “Lumbermill.” “And I told you that stamping was the easiest part of the lumbermill industry,” Phil said. Stamp! “Your lips get a little sore from all the blowing, but that’s all.” “Wiro,” Sunny said, which meant something like “That’s true, but I’m still worried about Klaus.” “That’s the spirit,” said Phil, misunderstanding her. “I told you that if you just looked on the bright side—” Stam —crash—aah ! Phil fell to the floor in midsentence, his face pale and sweaty. Of all the terrible noises to be heard at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, this one was the most terrible by far. The thunderous stamping sound had been cut off by a wrenching crash and a piercing shriek. The stamping machine had gone horribly wrong, and the huge flat stone had not been brought down where it was supposed to be brought down, on the bundle of boards. Most of the stone had been brought down on the string machine, which was now hopelessly smashed. But part of it had been brought down on Phil’s leg. Foreman Flacutono dropped his pots and ran over to the controls of the stamping machine, pushing the dazed Klaus aside. With a flip of the switch he brought the stone up again, and everyone gathered around to see the damage. The cage part of the string machine was split open like an egg, and the string had become completely entwined and entangled. And I simply cannot describe the grotesque and unnerving sight—the words “grotesque” and “unnerving” here mean “twisted, tangled, stained, and gory”—of poor Phil’s leg. It made Violet’s and Sunny’s stomachs turn to gaze upon it, but Phil looked up and gave them a weak smile. “Well,” he said, “this isn’t too bad. My left leg is broken, but at least I’m right legged. That’s pretty fortunate.” “Gee,” one of the other employees murmured. “I thought he’d say something more along the lines of ‘Aaaaah! My leg! My leg!’” “If someone could just help me get to my foot,” Phil said, “I’m sure that I can get back to work.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Violet said. “You need to go to a hospital.” “Yes, Phil,” another worker said. “We have those coupons from last month, fifty percent off a cast at the Ahab Memorial Hospital . Two of us will chip in and get your leg all fixed up. I’ll call for an ambulance right away.” Phil smiled. “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “This is a disaster!” Foreman Flacutono shouted. “This is the worst accident in the history of the lumbermill!” “No, no,” Phil said. “It’s fine. I’ve never liked my left leg so much, anyway.” “Not your leg, you overgrown midget,” Foreman Flacutono said impatiently. “The string machine! Those cost an inordinate amount of money!” “What does ‘inordinate’ mean?” somebody asked. “It means many things,” Klaus said suddenly, blinking. “It can mean ‘irregular.’ It can mean ‘immoderate.’ It can mean ‘disorderly.’ But in the case of money, it is more likely to mean ‘excessive.’ Foreman Flacutono means that the string machine costs a lot of money.” The two Baudelaire sisters looked at one another and almost laughed in relief. “Klaus!” Violet cried. “You’re defining things!” Klaus looked at his sisters and gave them a sleepy smile. “I guess I am,” he said. “Nojeemoo!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “You appear to be back to normal,” and she was right. Klaus blinked again, and then looked at the mess he had caused. “What happened here?” he asked, frowning. “Phil, what happened to your leg?” “It’s perfectly all right,” Phil said, wincing in pain as he tried to move. “It’s just a little sore.” “You mean you don’t remember what happened?” Violet asked. “What happened when?” Klaus asked, frowning. “Why, look! I’m not wearing any shoes!” “Well, I certainly remember what happened!” Foreman Flacutono shouted, pointing at Klaus. “You smashed our machine! I will tell Sir about this right away! You’ve put a complete halt to the stamping process! Nobody will earn a single coupon today!” “That’s not fair!” Violet said. “It was an accident. And Klaus never should have been put in charge of that machine! He didn’t know how to use it!” “Well, he’d better learn,” Foreman Flacutono said. “Now pick up my pots, Klaus!” Klaus went over to pick up the pots, but halfway there Foreman Flacutono stuck his foot out, playing the same trick he had played the previous day, and I’m sorry to tell you that it worked just as well. Again, Klaus fell right to the ground of the lumbermill, and again, his glasses fell off his face and skittered over to the bundle of boards, and worst of all, once again they became all twisted and cracked and hopelessly broken, like my friend Tatiana’s sculptures. “My glasses!” Klaus cried. “My glasses are broken again!” Violet got a funny feeling in her stomach, all quivery and slithery as if she had eaten snakes, rather than gum, during the lunch break. “Are you sure?” she asked Klaus. “Are you sure you can’t wear them?” “I’m sure,” Klaus said miserably, holding them up for Violet to see. “Well, well, well,” Foreman Flacutono said. “How careless of you. I guess you’re due for another appointment with Dr. Orwell.” “We don’t want to bother him,” Violet said quickly. “If you give me some basic supplies, I’m sure I can build some glasses myself.” “No, no,” the foreman said, his surgical mask curling into a frown. “You’d better leave optometry to the experts. Say good-bye to your brother.” “Oh, no,” Violet said, desperately. She thought again of the promise she made to her parents. “We’ll take him! Sunny and I will bring him to Dr. Orwell.” “Derix!” Sunny shrieked, which clearly meant something along the lines of “If we can’t prevent him from going to Dr. Orwell, at least we can go with him!” “Well, all right,” said Foreman Flacutono, and his beady little eyes grew even darker than usual. “That’s a good idea, come to think of it. Why don’t all three of you go see Dr. Orwell?” C H A P T E R Eight The Baudelaire orphans stood outside the gates of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill and looked at an ambulance rushing past them as it took Phil to the hospital. They looked at the chewed-up gum letters of the lumbermill sign. And they looked down at the cracked pavement of Paltry-ville’s street. In short, they looked everywhere but at the eye-shaped building. “We don’t have to go,” Violet said. “We could run away. We could hide until the next train arrived, and take it as far as possible. We know how to work in a lumbermill now, so we could get jobs in some other town.” “But what if he found us?” Klaus said, squinting at his sister. “Who would protect us from Count Olaf, if we were all by ourselves?” “We could protect ourselves,” Violet replied. “How can we protect ourselves,” Klaus asked, “when one of us is a baby and another one can barely see?” “We’ve protected ourselves before,” Violet said. “Just barely,” Klaus replied. “We’ve just barely escaped from Count Olaf each time. We can’t run away and try to get along by ourselves, without glasses. We have to go see Dr. Orwell and hope for the best.” Sunny gave a little shriek of fear. Violet, of course, was too old to shriek except in emergency situations, but she was not too old to be frightened. “We don’t know what will happen to us inside there,” she said, looking at the black door in the eye’s pupil. “Think, Klaus. Try to think. What happened to you when you went inside?” “I don’t know,” Klaus said miserably. “I remember trying to tell Charles not to take me to the eye doctor, but he kept telling me that doctors were my friends, and not to be frightened.” “Ha!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Ha!” “And then what do you remember?” Violet asked. Klaus closed his eyes in thought. “I wish I could tell you. But it’s like that part of my brain has been wiped clean. It’s like I was asleep from the moment I walked into that building until right there at the lumbermill.” “But you weren’t asleep,” Violet said. “You were walking around like a zombie. And then you caused that accident and hurt poor Phil.” “But I don’t remember those things,” Klaus said. “It’s as if I …” His voice trailed off and he stared into space for a moment. “Klaus?” Violet asked worriedly. “… It’s as if I were hypnotized,” Klaus finished. He looked at Violet and then at Sunny, and his sisters could see that he was figuring something out. “Of course. Hypnosis would explain everything.” “I thought hypnosis was only in scary movies,” Violet said. “Oh, no,” Klaus answered. “I read the Encyclopedia Hypnotica just last year. It described all these famous cases of hypnosis throughout history. There was an ancient Egyptian king who was hypnotized. All the hypnotist had to do was shout ‘Ramses!’ and the king would perform chicken imitations, even though he was in front of the royal court.” “That’s very interesting,” Violet said, “but—” “A Chinese merchant who lived during the Ling Dynasty was hypnotized. All the hypnotist had to do was shout ‘Mao!’ and the merchant would play the violin, even though he had never seen one before.” “These are amazing stories,” Violet said, “but—” “A man who lived in England in the nineteen twenties was hypnotized. All the hypnotist had to do was shout ‘Bloomsbury!’ and he suddenly became a brilliant writer, even though he couldn’t read.” “Mazee!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “We don’t have time to hear all these stories, Klaus!” Klaus grinned. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but it was a very interesting book, and I’m so pleased that it’s coming in handy.” “Well, what did the book say about how to stop yourself from being hypnotized?” Violet asked. Klaus’s grin faded. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing?” Violet repeated. “An entire encyclopedia about hypnosis said nothing about it at all?” “If it did, I didn’t read any of it. I thought the parts about the famous hypnosis cases were the most interesting, so I read those, but I skipped some of the boring parts.” For the first time since they had walked out of the gates of the lumbermill, the Baudelaire orphans looked at the eye-shaped building, and the building looked back at them. To Klaus, of course, Dr. Orwell’s office just looked like a big blur, but to his sisters it looked like trouble. The round door, painted black to resemble the pupil of the eye, looked like a deep and endless hole, and the children felt as if they were going to fall into it. “I’m never skipping the boring parts of a book again,” Klaus said, and walked cautiously toward the building. “You’re not going inside?” Violet said incredulously, a word which here means “in a tone of voice to indicate Klaus was being foolish.” “What else can we do?” Klaus said quietly. He began to feel along the side of the building to find the door, and at this point in the story of the Baudelaire orphans, I would like to interrupt for a moment and answer a question I’m sure you are asking yourself. It is an important question, one which many, many people have asked many, many times, in many, many places all over the world. The Baudelaire orphans have asked it, of course. Mr. Poe has asked it. I have asked it. My beloved Beatrice, before her untimely death, asked it, although she asked it too late. The question is: Where is Count Olaf? If you have been following the story of these three orphans since the very beginning, then you know that Count Olaf is always lurking around these poor children, plotting and scheming to get his hands on the Baudelaire fortune. Within days of the orphans’ arrival at a new place, Count Olaf and his nefarious assistants— the word “nefarious” here means “Baudelaire-hating”—are usually on the scene, sneaking around and committing dastardly deeds. And yet so far he has been nowhere to be found. So, as the three youngsters reluctantly head toward Dr. Orwell’s office, I know you must be asking yourself where in the world this despicable villain can be. The answer is: Very nearby. Violet and Sunny walked to the eye-shaped building and helped their brother up the steps to the door, but before they could open it, the pupil swung open to reveal a person in a long white coat with a name tag reading “Dr. Orwell.” Dr. Orwell was a tall woman with blond hair pulled back from her head and fashioned into a tight, tight bun. She had big black boots on her feet, and was holding a long black cane with a shiny red jewel on the top. “Why hello, Klaus,” Dr. Orwell said, nodding formally at the Baudelaires. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Don’t tell me you broke your glasses again.” “Unfortunately, yes,” Klaus said. “That’s too bad,” Dr. Orwell said. “But you’re in luck. We have very few appointments today, so come on in and I’ll do all the necessary tests.” The Baudelaire orphans looked at one another nervously. This wasn’t what they had expected at all. They expected Dr. Orwell to be a much more sinister figure— Count Olaf in disguise, for instance, or one of his terrifying associates. They expected that they would be snatched inside the eye-shaped building, and perhaps never return. Instead Dr. Orwell was a professional-looking woman who was politely inviting them inside. “Come on,” she said, showing the way with her black cane. “Shirley, my receptionist, made some cookies that you girls can eat in the waiting room while I make Klaus’s glasses. It won’t take nearly as long as it did yesterday.” “Will Klaus be hypnotized?” Violet demanded. “Hypnotized?” Dr. Orwell repeated, smiling. “Goodness, no. Hypnosis is only in scary movies.” The children, of course, knew this was not true, but they figured if Dr. Orwell thought it was true then she probably wasn’t a hypnotist. Cautiously, they stepped inside the eye-shaped building and followed Dr. Orwell down a hallway decorated with medical certificates. “This way to the office,” she said. “Klaus tells me he’s quite a reader. Do you two read as well?” “Oh yes,” Violet said. She was beginning to relax. “We read whenever we can.” “Have you ever encountered,” Dr. Orwell said, “in your reading, the expression ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar’?” “Tuzmo,” Sunny replied, which meant something along the lines of “I don’t believe so.” “I haven’t read too many books about flies,” Violet admitted. “Well, the expression doesn’t really have to do with flies,” Dr. Orwell explained. “It’s just a fancy way of saying that you’re more likely to get what you want by acting in a sweet way, like honey, rather than in a distasteful way, like vinegar.” “That’s interesting,” Klaus said, wondering why Dr. Orwell was bringing it up. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m bringing it up,” Dr. Orwell said, pausing in front of a door marked “Waiting Room.” “But I think all will be clear to you in just a moment. Now, Klaus, follow me to the office, and you girls can wait in the waiting room through this door.” The children hesitated. “It will just be a few moments,” Dr. Orwell said, and patted Sunny on the head. “Well, all right,” Violet said, and gave her brother a wave as he followed the optometrist farther down the hallway. Violet and Sunny gave the door a push and went inside the waiting room, and saw in an instant that Dr. Orwell was right. All was clear to them in a moment. The waiting room was a small one, and it looked like most waiting rooms. It had a sofa and a few chairs and a small table with old magazines stacked on it, and a receptionist sitting at a desk, just like waiting rooms that you or I have been in. But when Violet and Sunny looked at the receptionist, they saw something that I hope you have never seen in a waiting room. A nameplate on the desk read “Shirley,” but this was no Shirley, even though the receptionist was wearing a palebrown dress and sensible beige shoes. For above the pale lipstick on Shirley’s face, and below the blond wig on Shirley’s head, was a pair of shiny, shiny eyes that the two children recognized at once. Dr. Orwell, in behaving politely, had been the honey, instead of the vinegar. The children, unfortunately, were the flies. And Count Olaf, sitting at the receptionist’s desk with an evil smile, had caught them at last. A Series of Unfortunate Events 4 - The Miserable Mill you can see why those sorts of feelings might lead one into trouble. In the vast majority of cases, however, getting into trouble has nothing to do with one’s self-esteem. It usually has much more to do with whatever is causing the trouble—a monster, a bus driver, a banana peel, killer bees, the school principal—than what you think of yourself. And so it was as Violet and Sunny Baudelaire stared at Count Olaf—or, as the nameplate on his desk said, Shirley. Violet and Sunny had a very healthy amount of self-esteem. Violet knew she could do things correctly, because she had invented many devices that worked perfectly. Sunny knew she wasn’t boring, because her siblings always took an interest in what she had to say. And both Baudelaire sisters knew that they weren’t ugly, because they could see their pleasant facial features reflected back at them, in the middle of Count Olaf’s shiny, shiny eyes. But it did not matter that they thought these things, because they were trapped. “Why, hello there, little girls,” Count Olaf said in a ridiculously high voice, as if he were really a receptionist named Shirley instead of an evil man after the Baudelaire fortune. “What are your names?” “You know our names,” Violet said curtly, a word which here means “tired of Count Olaf’s nonsense.” “That wig and that lipstick don’t fool us any more than your palebrown dress and sensible beige shoes. You’re Count Olaf.” “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Count Olaf said. “I’m Shirley. See this nameplate?” “Fiti!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “That nameplate doesn’t prove anything, of course!” “Sunny’s right,” Violet said. “You’re not Shirley just because you have a small piece of wood with your name on it.” “I’ll tell you why I’m Shirley,” Count Olaf said. “I’m Shirley because I would like to be called Shirley, and it is impolite not to do so.” “I don’t care if we’re impolite,” Violet said, “to such a disgusting person as yourself.” Count Olaf shook his head. “But if you do something impolite to me” he said, “then I might do something impolite to you, like for instance tearing your hair out with my bare hands.” Violet and Sunny looked at Count Olaf’s hands. They noticed for the first time that he had grown his fingernails very long, and painted them bright pink as part of his disguise. The Baudelaire sisters looked at one another. Count Olaf’s nails looked very sharp indeed. “O.K., Shirley,” Violet said. “You’ve been lurking around Paltryville since we arrived, haven’t you?” Shirley lifted a hand to pat her wig into place. “Maybe,” she said, still in her foolish high voice. “And you’ve been hiding out in the eye-shaped building this whole time, haven’t you?” Violet said. Shirley batted her eyes, and Violet and Sunny noticed that beneath her one long eyebrow— another identifying mark of Count Olaf—she was wearing long false eyelashes. “Perhaps,” she said. “And you’re in cahoots with Dr. Orwell!” Violet said, using a phrase which here means “working with, in order to capture the Baudelaire fortune.” “Aren’t you?” “Possibly,” Shirley said, crossing her legs and revealing long white stockings imprinted with the pattern of an eye. “Popinsh!” Sunny shrieked. “Sunny means,” Violet said, “that Dr. Orwell hypnotized Klaus and caused that terrible accident, didn’t she?” “Conceivably,” Shirley said. “And he’s being hypnotized again, right now, isn’t he?” Violet asked. “It’s within the bounds of the imagination,” Shirley said. Violet and Sunny looked at one another, their hearts pounding. Violet took her sister’s hand and took a step backward, toward the door. “And now,” she said, “you’re going to try to whisk us away, aren’t you?” “Of course not,” Shirley said. “I’m going to offer you a cookie, like a good little receptionist.” “You’re not a receptionist!” Violet cried. “I certainly am,” Shirley said. “I’m a poor receptionist who lives all by herself, and who wants very much to raise children of her own. Three children, in fact: a smartypants little girl, a hypnotized little boy, and a buck-toothed baby.” “Well, you can’t raise us,” Violet said. “We’re already being raised by Sir.” “Oh, he’ll hand you over to me soon enough,” Shirley said, her eyes shining brightly. “Don’t be ab—” Violet said, but she stopped herself before she could say “surd.” She wanted to say “surd.” She wanted to say “Sir wouldn’t do a thing like that,” but inside she wasn’t so sure. Sir had already made the three Baudelaires sleep in one small bunk bed. He had already made them work in a lumbermill. And he had already only fed them gum for lunch. And as much as she wanted to believe that it was absurd to think that he would simply hand the Baudelaire orphans over to Shirley, Violet was not certain. She was only half sure, and so she stopped herself after half a word. “Ab?” said a voice behind her. “What in the world does the word ‘ab’ mean?” Violet and Sunny turned around and saw Dr. Orwell leading Klaus into the waiting room. He was wearing another new pair of glasses and was looking confused. “Klaus!” Violet cried. “We were so worried ab—” She stopped herself before she could say “out” when she saw her brother’s expression. It was the same expression he’d had the previous night, when he finally came back from his first appointment with Dr. Orwell. Behind his newest pair of glasses, Klaus had wide, wide eyes, and a dazed and distant smile, as if his sisters were people he did not know so well. “There you go again, with ‘ab,’” Dr. Orwell said. “Whatever in the world does it mean?” “‘Ab’ isn’t a word, of course,” Shirley said. “Only a stupid person would say a word like ‘ab.’” “They are stupid, aren’t they?” Dr. Orwell agreed, as though they were talking about the weather instead of insulting young children. “They must have very low self-esteem.” “I couldn’t agree more, Dr. Orwell,” Shirley said. “Call me Georgina,” the horrible optometrist replied, winking. “Now, girls, here is your brother. He’s a little tired after his appointment, but he’ll be fine by tomorrow morning. More than fine, in fact. Much more.” She turned and pointed at the door with her jeweled cane. “I believe you three know the way out.” “I don’t,” Klaus said faintly. “I can’t remember coming in here.” “That often happens after optometry appointments,” Dr. Orwell said smoothly. “Now run along, orphans.” Violet took her brother by the hand and began to lead him out of the waiting room. “We’re really free to go?” she asked, not believing it for a moment. “Of course,” Dr. Orwell said. “But I’m sure my receptionist and I will see you soon. After all, Klaus seems to have gotten very clumsy lately. He’s always causing accidents.” “Roopish!” Sunny shrieked. She probably meant “They’re not accidents! They’re the results of hypnotism!” but the adults paid no attention. Dr. Orwell merely stepped out of the doorway and Shirley wiggled her pink fingers at them in a scrawny wave. “Toodle-oo, orphans!” Shirley said. Klaus looked at Shirley and waved back as Violet and Sunny led him by the hand out of the waiting room. “How could you wave to her?” Violet hissed to her brother, as they walked back down the hallway. “She seems like a nice lady,” Klaus said, frowning. “I know I’ve met her somewhere before.” “Ballywot!” Sunny shrieked, which undoubtedly meant “She’s Count Olaf in disguise!” “If you say so,” Klaus said vaguely. “Oh, Klaus,” Violet said miserably. “Sunny and I wasted time arguing with Shirley when we should have been rescuing you. You’ve been hypnotized again; I know it. Try to concentrate, Klaus. Try to remember what happened.” “I broke my glasses,” Klaus said slowly, “and then we left the lumbermill … . I’m very tired, Veronica. Can I go to bed?” “Violet, ” Violet said. “My name is Violet, not Veronica.” “I’m sorry,” Klaus said. “I’m just so tired.” Violet opened the door of the building, and the three orphans stepped out onto the depressing street of Paltryville. Violet and Sunny stopped and remembered when they had first reached the lumbermill after getting off the train, and had seen the eye-shaped building. Their instincts had told them that the building was trouble, but the children had not listened to their instincts. They had listened to Mr. Poe. “We’d better take him to the dormitory,” Violet said to Sunny. “I don’t know what else we can do with Klaus in this state. Then we should tell Sir what has happened. I hope he can help us.” “Guree,” Sunny agreed glumly. The sisters led their brother through the wooden gates of the mill, and across the dirt-floored courtyard to the dormitory. It was almost suppertime, and when the children walked inside they could see the other employees sitting on their bunks and talking quietly among themselves. “I see you’re back,” one of the workers said. “I’m surprised you can show your faces around here, after what you did to Phil.” “Oh, come now,” Phil said, and the orphans turned to see him lying down on his bunk with his leg in a cast. “Klaus didn’t mean to do it, did you, Klaus?” “Mean to do what?” Klaus asked quizzically, a word which here means “because he didn’t know that he caused the accident that hurt Phil’s leg.” “Our brother is very tired,” Violet said quickly. “How are you feeling, Phil?” “Oh, perfectly fine,” Phil said. “My leg hurts, but nothing else does. I’m really quite fortunate. But enough about me. There’s a memo that was left for you. Foreman Flacutono said it was very important.” Phil handed Violet an envelope with the word “Baudelaires” typed on the front, just like the typed note of welcome the children had found on their first day at the mill. Inside the envelope was a note, which read as follows: Memorandum To: The Baudelaire Orphans From: S ir Subject: Today’s Accident I have been informed that you caused an accident this morning at the mill that injured an employee and disrupted the day’s work. Accidents are caused by bad workers, and bad workers are not tolerated at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. If you continue to cause accidents I will be forced to fire you and send you to live elsewhere. I have located a nice young lady who lives in town who would be happy to adopt three young children. Her name is Shirley and she works as a receptionist. If the three of you continue to be bad workers, I will place you under her care. Violet read the memo out loud to her siblings, and she didn’t know whose reaction was more upsetting. As Sunny heard the bad news, she bit her lip in worry. Her tooth was so sharp that tiny drops of blood dribbled down her chin, and this was certainly upsetting. But Klaus didn’t seem to hear the memo at all. He just stared into space, and this was worrisome as well. Violet put the memo back into the envelope, sat on the bottom bunk, and wondered what in the world she could do. “Bad news?” Phil said sympathetically. “Remember, sometimes something might seem like bad news, but it could turn out to be a blessing in disguise.” Violet tried to smile at Phil, but her smiling muscles just stayed put. She knew—or she thought she knew, anyway, because she was actually wrong—that the only thing in disguise was Count Olaf. “We have to go see Sir,” Violet said finally. “We have to explain to him what has happened.” “You’re not supposed to see Sir without an appointment,” Phil said. “This is an emergency,” Violet said. “Come on, Sunny. Come on …” She looked at her brother, who looked back at his older sister with wide, wide eyes. Violet remembered the accident he had caused, and all the previous Baudelaire guardians who had been destroyed. She could not imagine that Klaus would be capable of the sort of heinous murders that Count Olaf had committed, but she could not be sure. Not when he was hypnotized. “Dinel,” Sunny said. “Klaus simply cannot go,” Violet decided. “Phil, will you please keep an eye on our brother while we go and visit Sir?” “Of course,” Phil said. “A very close eye,” she emphasized, leading Klaus to the Baudelaire bunk. “He’s . .. he’s not been himself lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Please make sure he stays out of trouble.” “I will,” Phil promised. “Now, Klaus,” Violet said, “please get some sleep, and I hope you’ll feel better in the morning.” “Wub,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of “I hope so, too.” Klaus lay down on the bunk, and his sisters looked at his bare feet, which were filthy from walking around all day without any shoes on. “Good night, Violet,” Klaus said. “Good night, Susan.” “Her name is Sunny,” Violet said. “I’m sorry,” Klaus said. “I’m just so exhausted. Do you really think I will feel better in the morning?” “If we’re lucky,” Violet said. “Now, go to sleep.” Klaus glanced at his older sister. “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly. He shut his eyes and immediately fell asleep. The eldest Baudelaire tucked the blanket around her brother and took a long, worried glance at him. Then she took Sunny’s hand and, with a smile to Phil, walked back out of the dormitory and across the courtyard to the offices. Inside, the two Baudelaires walked past the mirror without even a glance at their reflections, and knocked on the door. “Come in!” The children recognized the booming voice of Sir, and nervously opened the door to the office. Sir was sitting at an enormous desk made of dark, dark wood, still smoking a cigar so his face could not be seen behind the cloud of smoke. The desk was covered with papers and folders, and there was a name-plate that read “The Boss” in letters made of chewed-up gum, just like the lumbermill sign outside. It was difficult to see the rest of the room, because there was only one tiny light in the room, which sat on Sir’s desk. Next to Sir stood Charles, who gave the children a shy smile as they walked up to their guardian. “Do you have an appointment?” Sir asked. “No,” Violet said, “but it’s very important that I talk to you.” “I’ll decide what’s very important!” Sir barked. “You see this nameplate? It says ‘The Boss,’ and that’s who I am! It’s very important when I say it’s very important, understand?” “Yes, Sir,” Violet said, “but I think you’ll agree with me when I explain what’s been going on.” “I know what’s been going on,” Sir said. “I’m the boss! Of course I know! Didn’t you get my memo about the accident?” Violet took a deep breath and looked Sir in the eye, or at least the part of the cloud of smoke where she thought his eye probably was. “The accident,” she said finally, “happened because Klaus was hypnotized.” “What your brother does for a hobby is none of my concern,” Sir said, “and it doesn’t excuse accidents.” “You don’t understand, Sir,” Violet said. “Klaus was hypnotized by Dr. Orwell, who is in cahoots with Count Olaf.” “Oh no!” Charles said. “You poor children! Sir, we have to put a stop to this!” “We are putting a stop to this!” Sir said. “You children will cause no more accidents, and you’ll be safely employed by this lumbermill. Otherwise, out you go!” “Sir!” Charles cried. “You wouldn’t throw the children out into the street!” “Of course not,” Sir said. “As I explained in my memo, I met a very nice young lady who works as a receptionist. When I mentioned there were three children in my care, she said that if you were ever any trouble, she’d take you, because she’d always wanted children of her own.” “Palsh!” Sunny cried. “That’s Count Olaf!” Violet cried. “Do I look like an idiot to you?” Sir asked, pointing to his cloud. “I have a complete description of Count Olaf from Mr. Poe, and this receptionist looked nothing like him. She was a very nice lady.” “Did you look for the tattoo?” Charles asked. “Count Olaf has a tattoo on his ankle, remember?” “Of course I didn’t look for the tattoo,” Sir said impatiently. “It’s not polite to look at a woman’s legs.” “But she’s not a woman!” Violet burst out. “I mean, he’s not a woman! He’s Count Olaf!” “I saw her nameplate,” Sir said. “It didn’t say ‘Count Olaf.’ It said ‘Shirley.’” “Fiti!” Sunny shrieked, which you already know meant “That nameplate doesn’t prove anything, of course!” But Violet did not have time to translate, because Sir was pounding his hands on the desk. “Hypnosis! Count Olaf! Fiti! I’ve had enough of your excuses!” he yelled. “Your job is to work hard at the lumbermill, not cause accidents! I am busy enough without having to deal with clumsy children!” Quickly, Violet thought of something else. “Well, can we call Mr. Poe?” she asked. “He knows all about Count Olaf, so perhaps he can be helpful.” Violet did not add that Mr. Poe was not usually a very helpful person. “You want to add the cost of a long-distance phone call to the burden of caring for you?” Sir asked. “I think not. Let me put it to you in the simplest way I can: If you screw up again, I will give you away to Shirley.” “Now, Sir,” Charles said. “These are children. You shouldn’t talk to them this way. As you remember, I never thought it was a good idea for the Baudelaires to work in the mill. They should be treated like members of the family.” “They are being treated like members of the family,” Sir said. “Many of my cousins live there in the dormitory. I refuse to argue with you, Charles! You’re my partner! Your job is to iron my shirts and cook my omelettes, not boss me around!” “You’re right, of course,” Charles said softly. “I’m sorry.” “Now get out of here, all of you!” Sir barked. “I have lots of work to do!” Sunny opened her mouth to say something, but she knew it would be useless. Violet thought of something else she could point out, but she knew it would be worthless. And Charles started to raise his hand to make a point, but he knew it would be bootless, a word which here means “useless and worthless.” So Charles and the two Baudelaires left the dark office without another word, and stood for a moment together in the hallway. “Don’t worry,” Charles whispered. “I’ll help you.” “How?” Violet whispered back. “Will you call Mr. Poe and tell him Count Olaf is here?” “Ulo?” Sunny asked, which meant “Will you have Dr. Orwell arrested?” “Will you hide us from Shirley?” Violet asked. “Henipul?” Sunny asked, which meant “Will you undo Klaus’s hypnotism?” “No,” Charles admitted. “I can’t do any of those things. Sir would get mad at me, and we can’t have that. But tomorrow, I will try and sneak you some raisins at lunchtime. O.K.?” It was not O.K., of course, not at all. Raisins are healthy, and they are inexpensive, and some people may even find them delicious. But they are rarely considered helpful. In fact, raisins were one of the least helpful things Charles could offer, if he really wanted to help. But Violet didn’t answer him. She was looking down the hallway and thinking. Sunny didn’t answer him either, because she was already crawling toward the door to the library. The Baudelaire sisters had no time to talk with Charles. They had to figure out a plan, and they had to figure it out quickly. The Baudelaire orphans were in a very difficult situation, and they needed every available moment to come up with something much, much more helpful than raisins. C H A P T E R Eleven As we have discussed previously, a book’s first sentence can often tell you what sort of story the book contains. This book, you will remember, began with the sentence “The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest , wondering if their lives would ever get any better,” and the story has certainly been as wretched and hopeless as the first sentence promised it would be. I only bring this up now so you can understand the feeling of dread that Violet and Sunny Baudelaire experienced as they opened a book in the library of the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. The two Baudelaire sisters already had a feeling of dread, of course. Part of the dread came from how cruelly unfairly Sir had behaved. Another part of the dread came from how Charles, kind as he was, seemed unable to help them. Yet another part of the dread came from the fact that Klaus had been hypnotized once more. And of course, the lion’s share of the dread—the phrase “lion’s share” here means “the biggest part” and has nothing to do with lions or sharing—came from the fact that Count Olaf—or, as he insisted on calling himself, Shirley—was back in the Baudelaires’ lives and causing so much misery. But there was an extra helping of dread that Violet and Sunny felt when they began Advanced Ocular Science, by Dr. Georgina Orwell. The first sentence was “This tome will endeavor to scrutinize, in quasi-inclusive breadth, the epistemology of ophthalmologically contrived appraisals of ocular systems and the subsequent and requisite exertions imperative for expugna-tion of injurious states,” and as Violet read it out loud to her sister, both children felt the dread that comes when you begin a very boring and difficult book. “Oh dear,” Violet said, wondering what in the world “tome” meant. “This is a very difficult book.” “Garj!” Sunny said, wondering what in the world “endeavor” meant. “If only we had a dictionary,” Violet said glumly. “Then we might be able to figure out what this sentence means.” “Yash!” Sunny pointed out, which meant something like “And if only Klaus weren’t hypnotized, then he could tell us what this sentence means.” Violet and Sunny sighed, and thought of their poor hypnotized brother. Klaus seemed so different from the brother they knew that it was almost as if Count Olaf had already succeeded with his dastardly scheme, and destroyed one of the Baudelaire orphans. Klaus usually looked interested in the world around him, and now he had a blank expression on his face. His eyes were usually all squinty from reading, and now they were wide as if he had been watching TV instead. He was usually alert, and full of interesting things to say, and now he was forgetful, and almost completely silent. “Who knows if Klaus could define these words for us?” Violet asked. “He said it felt like part of his brain had been wiped clean. Maybe he doesn’t know all those words when he’s hypnotized. I don’t think I’ve heard him define anything since the accident with Phil, when he explained the word ‘inordinate.’ You might as well get some rest, Sunny. I’ll wake you up if I read anything useful.” Sunny crawled up on the table and lay down next to Advanced Ocular Science, which was almost as big as she was. Violet gazed at her sister for a moment, and then turned her attention to the book. Violet liked to read, of course, but at heart she was an inventor, not a researcher. She simply did not have Klaus’s amazing reading skills. Violet stared at Dr. Orwell’s first sentence again, and just saw a mess of difficult words. She knew that if Klaus were in the library, and not hypnotized, he would see a way to help them out of their situation. Violet began to imagine how her brother would go about reading Advanced Ocular Science, and tried to copy his methods. First she turned back the pages of the book, back before even the first page, to the table of contents, which as I’m sure you know is a list of the titles and page numbers of each chapter in a book. Violet had paid scarcely any attention to it when she first opened the book, but she realized that Klaus would probably examine the table of contents first, so he could see which chapters of the book might be most helpful. Quickly she scanned the table of contents: 1. Introduction 1 2. Basic Ophthalmology 105 3. Nearsightedness and Farsightedness 279 4. Blindness 311 5. Itchy Eyelashes 398 6. Damaged Pupils 501 7. Blinking Problems 612 8. Winking Problems 650 9. Surgical Practices 783 10. Glasses, Monocles, and Contact Lenses 857 11. Sunglasses 926 12. Hypnosis and Mind Control 927 13. Which Eye Color Is the Best One? 1,000 Immediately, of course, Violet saw that chapter twelve would be the most helpful, and was glad she’d thought of looking at the table of contents instead of reading 927 pages until she found something helpful. Grateful that she could skip that daunting first paragraph—the word “daunting” here means “full of incredibly difficult words”—she flipped through Advanced Ocular Science until she reached “Hypnosis and Mind Control.” The phrase “stylistic consistency” is used to describe books that are similar from start to finish. For instance, the book you are reading right now has stylistic consistency, because it began in a miserable way and will continue that way until the last page. I’m sorry to say that Violet realized, as she began chapter twelve, that Dr. Orwell’s book had stylistic consistency as well. The first sentence of “Hypnosis and Mind Control” was “Hypnosis is an efficacious yet precarious methodology and should not be assayed by neophytes,” and it was every bit as difficult and boring as the first sentence of the whole book. Violet reread the sentence, and then reread it again, and her heart began to sink. How in the world did Klaus do it? When the three children lived in the Baudelaire home, there was a huge dictionary in their parents’ library, and Klaus would often use it to help him with difficult books. But how did Klaus read difficult books when there was no dictionary to be found? It was a puzzle, and Violet knew it was a puzzle she had to solve quickly. She turned her attention back to the book, and reread the sentence one more time, but this time she simply skipped the words she did not know. As often happens when one reads in this way, Violet’s brain made a little humming noise as she encountered each word—or each part of a word—she did not know. So inside her head, the opening sentence of chapter twelve read as follows: ‘“Hypnosis is an hmmm yet hmmm method hmmm and should not be hmmmed by hmmms,’” and although she could not tell exactly what it meant, she could guess. “It could mean,” she guessed to herself, “that hypnosis is a difficult method and should not be learned by amateurs,” and the interesting thing is that she was not too far off. The night grew later and later, and Violet continued to read the chapter in this way, and she was surprised to learn that she could guess her way through pages and pages of Dr. Orwell’s book. This is not the best way to read, of course, because you can make horribly wrong guesses, but it will do in an emergency. For several hours, the Lucky Smells library was completely quiet except for the turning of pages, as Violet read the book searching for anything helpful. Every so often she glanced at her sister, and for the first time in her life Violet wished that Sunny were older than she was. When you are trying to figure out a difficult problem —such as the problem of trying to get your brother unhypnotized so as not to be placed into the hands of a greedy man disguised as a receptionist—it is often helpful to discuss the problem with other people in order to come up with a quick and useful solution. Violet remembered that, when the Baudelaires were living with Aunt Josephine, it had been extremely helpful to talk to Klaus about a note that turned out to have a secret hidden within it. But with Sunny it was different. The youngest Baudelaire was charming, and well toothed, and quite intelligent for a baby. But she was still a baby, and as Violet hmmed through chapter twelve, she worried that she would fail to find a solution with only a baby as a discussion partner. Nevertheless, when she found a sentence that appeared to be useful, she gave Sunny a waking nudge and read the sentence out loud. “Listen to this, Sunny,” she said, when her sister opened her eyes. ‘“Once a subject has been hypnotized, a simple hmmm word will make him or her perform whatever hmmm acts any hmmm wants hmmmed.’” “Hmmm?” Sunny asked. “Those are the words I don’t know,” Violet explained. “It’s difficult to read this way, but I can guess what Dr. Orwell means. I think she means that once you’ve hypnotized someone, all you need to do is say a certain word and they will obey you. Remember what Klaus told us he learned from the Encyclopedia Hypnotical There was that Egyptian king who did chicken imitations, and the merchant who played the violin, and that writer, and all the hypnotists did was say a certain word. But they were all different words. I wonder which word applies to Klaus.” “Heece,” Sunny said, which probably meant something like “Beats me. I’m only a baby.” Violet gave her a gentle smile and tried to imagine what Klaus would have said if he had been there, unhypnotized, in the library with his sisters. “I’ll search for more information,” she decided. “Brewol,” Sunny said, which meant “And I’ll go back to sleep.” Both Baudelaires were true to their word, and for a time the library was silent again. Violet hmmmed through the book and grew more and more exhausted and worried. There were only a few hours left until the working day began, and she was scared that her efforts would be as ineffectual—the word “ineffectual” here means “unable to get Klaus unhypnotized”—as if she had low self-esteem. But just as she was about to fall asleep beside her sister, she found a passage in the book that seemed so useful she read it out loud immediately, waking Sunny up in the process. “‘In order to hmmm the hypnotic hold on the hmmm,’” Violet said, ‘“the same method hmmm is used: a hmmm word, uttered out loud, will hmmm the hmmm immediately.’ I think Dr. Orwell is talking about getting people un-hypnotized, and it has to do with another word being uttered out loud. If we figure that one, out, we can unhypnotize Klaus, and we won’t fall into Shirley’s clutches.” “Skel,” Sunny said, rubbing her eyes. She probably meant something like “But I wonder what that word could be.” “I don’t know,” Violet said, “but we’d better figure it out before it’s too late.” “Hmmm,” Sunny said, making a humming noise because she was thinking, rather than because she was reading a word she did not know. “Hmmm,” Violet said, which meant she was thinking, too. But then there was another hmmm that made the two Baudelaire sisters look at one another in worry. This was not the hmmm of a brain that did not know what a word meant, or the hmmm of a person thinking. This hmmm was much longer and louder, and it was a hmmm that made the Baudelaire sisters stop their thinking and hurry out of the library, clutching Dr. Orwell’s book in their trembling hands. It was the hmmm of the lumbermill’s saw. Somebody had turned on the mill’s deadliest machine in the early, early hours of morning. Violet and Sunny hurried across the courtyard, which was quite dark in the first few rays of the sun. Hurriedly they opened the doors of the mill and looked inside. Foreman Flacutono was standing near the entrance, with his back to the two girls, pointing a finger and giving an order. The rusty sawing machine was whirring away, making that dreadful humming sound, and there was a log on the ground, all ready to be pushed into the saw. The log seemed to be covered in layers and layers of string— the string that had been inside the string machine, before Klaus had smashed it. The two sisters took a better look, stepping farther into the mill, and saw that the string was wrapped around something else, tying a large bundle to the log. And when they took an even better look, peeking from behind Foreman Flacutono, they saw that the bundle was Charles. He was tied to the log with so much string that he looked a bit like a cocoon, except that a cocoon had never looked this frightened. Layers of string were covering his mouth, so he could not make a sound, but his eyes were uncovered and he was staring in terror at the saw as it drew closer and closer. “Yes, you little twerp,” Foreman Flacutono was saying. “You’ve been fortunate so far, avoiding my boss’s clutches, but no more. One more accident and you’ll be ours, and this will be the worst accident the lumbermill has ever seen. Just imagine Sir’s displeasure when he learns that his partner has been sliced into human boards. Now, you lucky man, go and push the log into the saw!” Violet and Sunny took a few more steps forward, near enough that they could reach out and touch Foreman Flacutono—not that they wanted to do such a disgusting thing, of course— and saw their brother. Klaus was standing at the controls of the sawing machine in his bare feet, staring at the foreman with his wide, blank eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said, and Charles’s eyes grew wide with panic. “You’ve been in on this all the time!” Violet shouted. “You’re in cahoots with Dr. Orwell, and Shirley!” “So what?” Foreman Flacutono said. “Deluny!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “You’re not just a bad foreman—you’re an evil person!” “I don’t know what you mean, little midget,” Foreman Flacutono said, “and I don’t care. Klaus, you lucky boy, please continue.” “No, Klaus!” Violet shouted. “No!” “Kewtu!” Sunny shrieked. “Your words will do no good,” Foreman Flacutono said. “See?” Sunny saw, all right, as she watched her barefoot brother walking over to the log as if his sisters had not spoken. But Violet was not looking at her brother. She was looking at Foreman Flacutono, and thinking of everything he had said. The terrible foreman was right, of course. The words of the two unhypnotized Baudelaires would do no good. But Violet knew that some words would help. The book she was holding had told her, in between hmmms, that there was a word that was used to command Klaus, and a word that would unhypnotize him. The eldest Baudelaire realized that Foreman Flacutono must have used the command word just now, and she was trying to remember everything that he had said. He’d called Klaus a twerp, but it seemed unlikely that “twerp” would be the word. He’d said “log” and he’d said “push,” but those didn’t seem likely either. She realized with despair that the command word could almost be anything. “That’s right,” Foreman Flacutono said, as Klaus reached the log. “Now, in the name of Lucky Smells Lumbermill, push the log in the path of the saw.” Violet closed her eyes and racked her brain, a phrase which here means “tried to think of other times the command word must have been used.” Foreman Flacutono must have used it when Klaus caused the first accident, the one that broke Phil’s leg. “You, you lucky midget,” Violet remembered the foreman had said, “will be operating the machine,” and Klaus had said “Yes, sir” in that faint, hypnotized voice, the same voice he had used before he had gone to sleep just the previous night. “Egu!” Sunny shrieked in fear, as the hmmm of the saw grew louder and rougher. Klaus had pushed the log up to the saw, and Charles’s eyes grew even wider as the blade began to slice the wood, getting closer and closer to where Charles was tied up. As she remembered Klaus’s “Yes, sir,” before he went to sleep, Violet realized she must have used the command word herself, by accident. She racked her brain again, straining to remember the conversation. Klaus had called his baby sister Susan, instead of Sunny, and then asked if he would really feel better in the morning. But what had Violet replied? “Keep pushing, you lucky midget,” Foreman Flacutono said, and Violet knew in an instant. Lucky. “Lucky!” the eldest Baudelaire shouted, not bothering to hide the word in a sentence, as the foreman did. “Push the log away from the saw, Klaus!” “Yes, sir,” Klaus said quietly, and the Baudelaire sisters saw with relief that he pushed the log away from the whirling blade just as Charles’s toes were about to be sliced. Foreman Flacutono whirled around and stared at Violet in beady rage. She knew that he knew that she knew. “Lucky!” he snarled. “Push the log back toward the saw, Klaus!” “Yes, sir,” Klaus muttered. “Lucky!” Violet cried. “Push the log away!” “Yes, sir,” Klaus murmured. “Lucky!” Foreman Flacutono barked. “Toward the saw!” “Lucky away!” “Lucky toward the saw!” “Lucky away!” “Lucky toward the saw!” “LUCKY!” bellowed a new voice from the doorway, and everyone—including Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and Foreman Flacutono—turned around. Even Charles tried the best he could to see Dr. Orwell, who had appeared in the doorway along with Shirley, who was lurking behind the hypnotist. “We just stopped by to make sure everything went well,” Dr. Orwell said, gesturing to the saw with her black cane. “And I’m certainly glad we did. Lucky!” she shouted to Klaus. “Do not listen to your sisters!” “What a good idea,” Foreman Flacutono said the doctor. “I never thought of that.” “That’s why you’re only a foreman,” Dr. Orwell replied snobbily. “Lucky, Klaus! Push the log in the path of the saw!” “Yes, sir,” Klaus said, and began to push the log again. “Please, Klaus!” Violet cried. “Don’t do this!” “Gice!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Don’t hurt Charles!” “Please, Dr. Orwell!” Violet cried. “Don’t force my brother to do this terrible thing!” “It is a terrible thing, I know,” Dr. Orwell said. “But it’s a terrible thing that the Baudelaire fortune goes to you three brats, instead of to me and Shirley. We’re going to split the money fifty-fifty.” “After expenses, Georgina,” Shirley reminded her. “After expenses, of course,” Dr. Orwell said. The hmmm of the saw began making its louder, rougher sound as the blade started to slice the log once more. Tears appeared in Charles’s eyes and began to run down the string tying him to the log. Violet looked at her brother, and then at Dr. Orwell, and dropped the heavy book on the ground in frustration. What she needed now, and most desperately, was the word that would unhypnotize her brother, but she had no idea what it could be. The command word had been used many times, and Violet had been able to figure out which word had been used over and over. But Klaus had only been unhypnotized once, after the accident that had broken Phil’s leg. She and her sister had known, in the moment he started defining a word for the employees, that Klaus was back to normal, but who knew what word caused him, that afternoon, to suddenly stop following Foreman Flacutono’s orders? Violet looked from Charles’s tears to the ones appearing in Sunny’s eyes as the fatal accident grew nearer and nearer. In a moment, it seemed, they would watch Charles die a horrible death, and then they would most certainly be placed in Shirley’s care. After so many narrow escapes from Count Olaf’s treachery, this seemed to be the moment of his—or in this case, her—terrible triumph. Out of all the situations, Violet thought to herself, that she and her siblings had been in, this was the most miserably irregular. It was the most miserably immoderate. It was the most miserably disorderly. It was the most miserably excessive. And as she thought all these words she thought of the one that had unhypnotized Klaus, the one that just might save all their lives. “Inordinate!” she shouted, as loudly as she could to be heard over the terrible noise of the saw. “Inordinate! Inordinate! Inordinate!” Klaus blinked, and then looked all around him as if somebody had just dropped him in the middle of the mill. “Where am I?” he asked. “Oh, Klaus,” Violet said in relief. “You’re here with us!” “Drat!” Dr. Orwell said. “He’s unhypnotized! How in the world would a child know a complicated word like ‘inordinate’?” “These brats know lots of words,” Shirley said, in her ridiculously fake high voice. “They’re book addicts. But we can still create an accident and win the fortune!” “Oh no you can’t!” Klaus cried, and stepped forward to push Charles out of the way. “Oh yes we can!” Foreman Flacutono said, and stuck his foot out again. You would think that such a trick would only work a maximum of two times, but in this case you would be wrong, and in this case Klaus fell to the floor again, his head clanging against the pile of debarkers and tiny green boxes. “Oh no you can’t!” Violet cried, and stepped forward to push Charles out of the way herself. “Oh yes we can!” Shirley said, in her silly high voice, and grabbed Violet’s arm. Foreman Flacutono quickly grabbed her other arm, and the eldest Baudelaire found herself trapped. “Oh toonoy!” Sunny cried, and crawled toward Charles. She was not strong enough to push the log away from the saw, but she thought she could bite through his string and set him free. “Oh yes we can!” Dr. Orwell said, and reached down to grab the youngest Baudelaire. But Sunny was ready. Quckly she opened her mouth and bit down on the hypnotist’s hand as hard as she could. “Gack!” Dr. Orwell shouted, using an expression that is in no particular language. But then she smiled and used an expression that was in French: “En garde!” “En garde!,” as you may know, is an expression people use when they wish to announce the beginning of a sword-fight, and with a wicked smile, Dr. Orwell pressed the red jewel on top of her black cane, and a shiny blade emerged from the opposite end. In just one second, her cane had become a sword, which she then pointed at the youngest Baudelaire orphan. But Sunny, being only an infant, had no sword. She only had her four sharp teeth, and, looking Dr. Orwell right in the eye, she opened her mouth and pointed all four at this despicable person. There is a loud clink! noise that a sword makes when it hits another sword—or, in this case, a tooth—and whenever I hear it I am reminded of a swordfight I was forced to have with a television repairman not long ago. Sunny, however, was only reminded of how much she did not want to be sliced to bits. Dr. Orwell swung her cane-sword at Sunny, and Sunny swung her teeth at Dr. Orwell, and soon the clink! noises were almost as loud as the sawing machine which continued to saw up the log toward Charles. Clink! Up, up, the blade inched until it was only a hair’s breadth—the expression “hair’s breadth” here means “a teeny-tiny measurement”—away from Charles’s foot. “Klaus!” Violet cried, struggling in the grips of Shirley and Foreman Flacutono. “Do something!” “Your brother can’t do anything!” Shirley said, giggling in a most annoying way. “He’s just been unhypnotized—he’s too dazed to do anything. Foreman Flacutono, let’s both pull! We can make Violet’s armpits sore that way!” Shirley was right about Violet’s sore armpits, but she was wrong about Klaus. He had just been unhypnotized, and he was quite dazed, but he wasn’t too dazed to do anything. The trouble was, he simply couldn’t think of what to do. Klaus had been thrown into the corner with the debarkers and the gum, and if he moved in the direction of Charles, or Violet, he would walk right into Sunny and Dr. Orwell’s sword-fight, and as he heard another clink! from the sword hitting Sunny’s tooth he knew he would be seriously wounded if he tried to walk through the dueling pair. But over the clink!s he heard an even louder and even rougher noise from the sawing machine, and Klaus saw with horror that the blade was beginning to slice through the soles of Charles’s shoes. Sir’s partner tried to wiggle his feet away from the blade, but they were tied too tightly, and tiny shoe-sole shavings began to fall to the floor of the mill. In a moment the blade would be finished with the sole of Charles’s shoe and begin on the sole of Charles’s foot. Klaus needed to invent something to stop the machine, and he needed to invent it right away. Klaus stared at the circular blade of the saw, and his heart began to sink. How in the world did Violet do it? Klaus had a mild interest in mechanical things, but at heart he was a reader, not an inventor. He simply did not have Violet’s amazing inventing skills. He looked at the machine and just saw a deadly device, but he knew that if Violet were in this corner of the mill, and not getting sore armpits from Shirley and Foreman Flacutono, she would see a way to help them out of their situation. Klaus tried to imagine how his sister would go about inventing something right there on the spot, and tried to copy her methods. Clink! Klaus looked around him for inventing materials, but saw only debarkers and tiny green boxes of gum. Immediately he ripped open a box of gum and shoved several pieces into his mouth, chewing ferociously. The expression “gum up the works” does not actually have to do with gum, but merely refers to something that stops the progress of something else. Klaus chewed and chewed the gum, hoping that the stickiness of the gum could gum up the works of the sawing machine, and stop the deadly progress of its blade. Clink! Sunny’s third tooth hit the blade of Dr. Orwell’s sword, and Klaus quickly spat the gum out of his mouth into his hand and threw it at the machine as hard as he could. But it merely fell to the ground with a wet plop! Klaus realized that gum didn’t weigh enough to reach the machine. Like a feather, or a piece of paper, the wad of gum simply couldn’t be thrown very far. Hukkita —hukkita—hukkita! The machine began making the loudest and roughest sound Klaus had ever heard. Charles closed his eyes, and Klaus knew that the blade must have hit the bottom of his foot. He grabbed a bigger handful of gum and shoved it into his mouth, but he didn’t know if he could chew enough gum to make a heavy enough invention. Unable to watch the saw any longer, he looked down, and when his eye fell upon one of the debark-ers he knew he could invent something after all. When Klaus looked at the lumbermill equipment, he remembered a time when he was even more bored than he had been when working at Lucky Smells. This especially boring time had happened a very long time ago, when the Baudelaire parents were still alive. Klaus had read a book on different kinds offish, and asked his parents if they would take him fishing. His mother warned him that fishing was one of the most boring activities in the world, but found two fishing poles in the basement and agreed to take him to a nearby lake. Klaus had been hoping that he would get to see the different types offish he had read about, but instead he and his mother sat in a rowboat in the middle of a lake and did nothing for an entire afternoon. He and his mother had to keep quiet, so as not to scare the fish away, but there were no fish, no conversation, and absolutely no fun. You might think that Klaus would not want to remember such a boring time, particularly in the middle of a crisis, but one detail of this very boring afternoon turned out to be extremely helpful. As Sunny struggled with Dr. Orwell, Violet struggled with Shirley and Foreman Flacutono, and poor Charles struggled with the saw, Klaus remembered the part of the fishing process known as casting. Casting is the process of using one’s fishing pole to throw one’s fishing line out into the middle of the lake in order to try to catch a fish. In the case of Klaus and his mother, the casting hadn’t worked, but Klaus did not want to catch fish. He wanted to save Charles’s life. A Series of Unfortunate Events 4 - The Miserable Mill Quickly, the middle Baudelaire grabbed the debarker and spat his gum onto one end of it. He was planning to use the sticky gum as a sort of fishing line and the debarker as a sort of fishing pole, in order to throw gum all the way to the saw. Klaus’s invention looked more like a wad of gum at the end of a strip of metal than a real fishing pole, but Klaus didn’t care how it looked. He only cared whether it could stop the saw. He took a deep breath, and cast the debarker the way his mother taught him to cast his fishing pole. Plop! To Klaus’s delight, the gum stretched over Dr. Orwell and Sunny, who were still fighting, just as fishing line will stretch out across the surface of a lake. But to Klaus’s horror, the gum did not land on the saw. It landed on the string that was tying the wriggling Charles to the log. Klaus watched Charles wriggle and was once again reminded of a fish, and it occurred to him that perhaps his invention had worked after all. Gathering up all of his strength—and, after working at a lumbermill for a while, he actually had quite a bit of strength for a young boy—he grabbed his invention, and pulled. Klaus pulled on his debarker, and the debarker pulled on the gum, and the gum pulled on the log, and to the relief of all three Baudelaire orphans the log moved to one side. It did not move very far, and it did not move very quickly, and it certainly did not move very gracefully, but it moved enough. The horrible noise stopped, and the blade of the saw kept slicing, but the log was far enough out of the way that the machine was simply slicing thin air. Charles looked at Klaus, and his eyes filled with tears, and when Sunny turned to look she saw that Klaus was crying, too. But when Sunny turned to look, Dr. Orwell saw her chance. With a swing of one of her big ugly boots, she kicked Sunny to the ground and held her in place with one foot. Then, standing over the infant, she raised her sword high in the air and began to laugh a loud, horrible snarl of a laugh. “I do believe,” she said, cackling, “that there will be an accident at Lucky Smells Lumbermill after all!” And Dr. Orwell was right. There was an accident at the lumbermill, after all, a fatal accident, which is a phrase used to describe one that kills somebody. For just as Dr. Orwell was about to bring her sword down on little Sunny’s throat, the door of the lumbermill opened and Sir walked into the room. “What in the world is going on?” he barked, and Dr. Orwell turned to him, absolutely surprised. When people are absolutely surprised, they sometimes take a step backward, and taking a step backward can sometimes lead to an accident. Such was the case at this moment, for when Dr. Orwell stepped backward, she stepped into the path of the whirring saw, and there was a very ghastly accident indeed. to Paltryville, in order to handle this matter personally.” “We appreciate it very much,” Charles said. “Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful,” Sir said again. The Baudelaire orphans sat together on the floor of Sir’s office and looked up at the adults discussing the situation, wondering how in the world they could talk about it so calmly. The word “dreadful,” even when used three times in a row, did not seem like a dreadful enough word to describe everything that had happened. Violet was still trembling from how Klaus had looked while hypnotized. Klaus was still shivering from how Charles had almost been sliced up. Sunny was still shaking from how she had almost been killed in the swordfight with Dr. Orwell. And, of course, all three orphans were still shuddering from how Dr. Orwell had met her demise, a phrase which here means “stepped into the path of the sawing machine.” The children felt as if they could barely speak at all, let alone participate in a conversation. “It’s unbelievable,” Sir said, “that Dr. Orwell was really a hypnotist, and that she hypnotized Klaus in order to get ahold of the Baudelaire fortune. Luckily, Violet figured out how to unhypnotize her brother, and he didn’t cause any more accidents.” “It’s unbelievable,” Charles said, “that Foreman Flacutono grabbed me in the middle of the night, and tied me to that log, in order to get ahold of the Baudelaire fortune. Luckily, Klaus invented something that shoved the log out of the path of the saw just in time, and I only have a small cut on my foot.” “It’s unbelievable,” Mr. Poe said, after a short cough, “that Shirley was going to adopt the children, in order to get ahold of the Baudelaire fortune. Luckily, we realized her plan, and now she has to go back to being a receptionist.” At this Violet could keep quiet no longer. “Shirley is not a receptionist!” she cried. “She’s not even Shirley! She’s Count Olaf!” “Now that” Sir said, “is the part of the story that is so unbelievable that I don’t believe it. I met this young woman, and she isn’t at all like Count Olaf! She has one eyebrow instead of two, that’s true, but plenty of wonderful people have that characteristic!” “You must forgive the children,” Mr. Poe said. “They tend to see Count Olaf everywhere.” “That’s because he is everywhere,” Klaus said bitterly. “Well,” Sir said, “he hasn’t been here in Paltryville. We’ve been looking out for him, remember?” “Weleef!” Sunny cried. She meant something along the lines of “But he was in disguise, as usual!” “Can we go see this Shirley person?” Charles asked timidly. “The children do seem fairly sure of themselves. Perhaps if Mr. Poe could see this receptionist, we could clear this matter up.” “I put Shirley and Foreman Flacutono in the library, and asked Phil to keep an eye on them,” Sir said. “Charles’s library turns out to be useful at last—as a substitute jail, until we clear up this matter!” “The library was plenty useful, Sir,” Violet said. “If I hadn’t read up on hypnosis, your partner, Charles, would be dead.” “You certainly are a clever child,” Charles said. “Yes,” Sir agreed. “You’ll do wonderfully at boarding school.” “Boarding school?” Mr. Poe asked. “Of course,” Sir replied, nodding his cloud of smoke. “You don’t think I would keep them now, do you, after all the trouble they’ve caused my lumbermill?” “But that wasn’t our fault!” Klaus cried. “That doesn’t matter,” Sir said. “We made a deal. The deal was that I would try to keep Count Olaf away, and you wouldn’t cause any more accidents. You didn’t keep your end of the deal.” “Hech!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “But you didn’t keep your end of the deal, either!” Sir paid no attention. “Well, let’s go see this woman,” Mr. Poe said, “and we can settle once and for all whether or not Count Olaf was here.” The three grown-ups nodded, and the three children followed them down the hallway to the library door, where Phil was sitting on a chair with a book in his hands. “Hello, Phil,” Violet said. “How is your leg?” “Oh, it’s getting better,” he said, pointing to his cast. “I’ve been guarding the door, Sir, and neither Shirley nor Foreman Flacutono have escaped. Oh, and by the way, I’ve been reading this book, The Paltryville Constitution. I don’t understand all of the words, but it sounds like it’s illegal to pay people only in coupons.” “We’ll talk about that later,” Sir said quickly. “We need to see Shirley about something.” Sir reached forward and opened the door to reveal Shirley and Foreman Flacutono sitting quietly at two tables near the window. Shirley had Dr. Orwell’s book in one hand and waved at the children with the other. “Hello there, children!” she called, in her phony high voice. “I was so worried about you!” “So was I!” Foreman Flacutono said. “Thank goodness I’m unhypnotized now, so I’m not treating you badly any longer!” “So you were hypnotized, too?” Sir asked. “Of course we were!” Shirley cried. She leaned down and patted all three children on the head. “We never would have acted so dreadfully otherwise, not to three such wonderful and delicate children!” Behind her false eyelashes, Shirley’s shiny eyes gazed at the Baudelaires as if she were going to eat them as soon as she got the opportunity. “You see?” Sir said to Mr. Poe. “No wonder it was unbelievable that Foreman Flacutono and Shirley acted so horribly. Of course she’s not Count Olaf!” “Count who?” Foreman Flacutono asked. “I’ve never heard of the man.” “Me neither,” Shirley said, “but I’m only a receptionist.” “Perhaps you’re not only a receptionist,” Sir said. “Perhaps you’re also a mother. What do you say, Mr. Poe? Shirley really wants to raise these children, and they’re much too much trouble for me.” “No!” Klaus cried. “She’s Count Olaf, not Shirley!” Mr. Poe coughed into his white handkerchief at great length, and the three Baudelaires waited tensely for him to finish coughing and say something. Finally, he removed his handkerchief from his face and said to Shirley, “I’m sorry to say this, ma’am, but the children are convinced that you are a man named Count Olaf, disguised as a receptionist.” “If you’d like,” Shirley said, “I can take you to Dr. Orwell’s office—the late Dr. Orwell’s office—and show you my nameplate. It clearly reads ‘Shirley.’” “I’m afraid that would not be sufficient,” Mr. Poe said. “Would you do us all the courtesy of showing us your left ankle?” “Why, it’s not polite to look at a lady’s legs,” Shirley said. “Surely you know that.” “If your left ankle does not have a tattoo of an eye on it,” Mr. Poe said, “then you are most certainly not Count Olaf.” Shirley’s eyes shone very, very bright, and she gave everyone in the room a big, toothy smile. “And what if it does?” she asked, and hitched up her skirt slightly. “What if it does have a tattoo of an eye on it?” Everyone’s eyes turned to Shirley’s ankle, and one eye looked back at them. It resembled the eye-shaped building of Dr. Orwell, which the Baudelaire orphans felt had been watching them since they arrived in Paltryville. It resembled the eye on the cover of Dr. Orwell’s book, which the Baudelaire orphans felt had been staring at them since they began working at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill. And, of course, it looked exactly like Count Olaf’s tattoo, which is what it was, and which the Baudelaire orphans felt had been gazing at them since their parents had died. “In that case,” Mr. Poe said, after a pause, “you are not Shirley. You are Count Olaf, and you are under arrest. I order you to take off that ridiculous disguise!” “Should I take off my ridiculous disguise, as well?” Foreman Flacutono asked, and tore his white wig off with one smooth motion. It did not surprise the children that he was bald—they had known his absurd hair was a wig from the moment they laid eyes on him—but there was something about the shape of his bald head that suddenly seemed familiar. Glaring at the orphans with his beady eyes, he grabbed his surgical mask from his face and removed that, too. A long nose uncurled itself from where it had been pressed down to his face, and the siblings saw in an instant that it was one of Count Olaf’s assistants. “It’s the bald man!” Violet cried. “With the long nose!” Klaus cried. “Plemo!” Sunny cried, which meant “Who works for Count Olaf!” “I guess we’re lucky enough to capture two criminals today,” Mr. Poe said sternly. “Well, three, if you include Dr. Orwell,” Count Olaf—and what a relief it is to call him that, instead of Shirley—said. “Enough nonsense,” Mr. Poe said. “You, Count Olaf, are under arrest for various murders and attempted murders, various frauds and attempted frauds, and various despicable acts and attempted despicable acts, and you, my bald, long-nosed friend, are under arrest for helping him.” Count Olaf shrugged, sending his wig toppling to the floor, and smiled at the Baudelaires in a way they were sorry to recognize. It was a certain smile that Count Olaf had just when it looked like he was trapped. It was a smile that looked as if Count Olaf were telling a joke, and it was a smile accompanied by his eyes shining brightly and his evil brain working furiously. “This book was certainly helpful to you, orphans,” Count Olaf said, holding Dr. Orwell’s Advanced Ocular Science high in the air, “and now it will help me.” With all his rotten might, Count Olaf turned and threw the heavy book right through one of the library windows. With a crash of tinkling glass, the window shattered and left a good-sized hole. The hole was just big enough for a person to jump through, which is exactly what the bald man did, wrinkling his long nose at the children as if they smelled bad. Count Olaf laughed a horrible, rough laugh, and followed his comrade out the window and away from Paltryville. “I’ll be back for you, orphans!” he called. “I’ll be back for your lives!” “Egad!” Mr. Poe said, using an expression which here means “Oh no! He’s escaping!” Sir stepped quickly to the window, and peered out after Count Olaf and the bald man, who were running as fast as their skinny legs could carry them. “Don’t come back here!” Sir yelled out after them. “The orphans won’t be here, so don’t return!” “What do you mean, the orphans won’t be here?” Mr. Poe asked sternly. “You made a deal, and you didn’t keep your end of it! Count Olaf was here after all!” “That doesn’t matter,” Sir said, waving one of his hands dismissively. “Wherever these Baudelaires go, misfortune follows, and I will have no more of it!” “But Sir,” Charles said, “they’re such good children!” “I won’t discuss it anymore,” Sir said. “My nameplate says ‘The Boss,’ and that’s who I am. The boss has the last word, and the last word is this: The children are no longer welcome at Lucky Smells!” Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked at one another. “The children are no longer welcome at Lucky Smells,” of course, is not the last word, because it is many words, and they knew, of course, that when Sir said “the last word” he didn’t mean one word, but the final opinion on the situation. But their experience at the lumbermill had been so very dreadful that they didn’t care much that they were leaving Paltryville. Even a boarding school sounded like it would be better than their days with Foreman Flacutono, Dr. Orwell, and the evil Shirley. I’m sorry to tell you that the orphans were wrong about boarding school being better, but at the moment they knew nothing of the troubles ahead of them, only of the troubles behind them, and the troubles that had escaped out the window. “Can we please discuss this matter later,” Violet asked, “and call the police now? Maybe Count Olaf can be caught.” “Excellent idea, Violet,” Mr. Poe said, although of course he should have thought of this idea earlier himself. “Sir, please take me to your telephone so we can call the authorities.” “Oh, all right,” Sir said grumpily. “But remember, this is my last word on the matter. Charles, make me a milkshake. I’m very thirsty.” “Yes, Sir,” Charles said, and limped after his partner and Mr. Poe, who were already out of the library. Halfway out the door, however, he stopped and smiled apologetically at the Baudelaires. “I’m sorry,” he said to them. “I’m sorry that I won’t be seeing you anymore. But I guess Sir knows best.” “We’re sorry too, Charles,” Klaus said. “And I’m sorry that I caused you so much trouble.” “It wasn’t your fault,” Charles said kindly, as Phil limped up behind him. “What happened?” Phil asked. “I heard breaking glass.” “Count Olaf got away,” Violet said, and her heart sank as she realized it was really true. “Shirley was really Count Olaf in disguise, and he got away, just like he always does.” “Well, if you look on the bright side, you’re really quite lucky,” Phil said, and the orphans gave their optimistic friend a curious look and then looked curiously at one another. Once they had been happy children, so content and pleased with their life that they hadn’t even known how happy they were. Then came the terrible fire, and it seemed since then that their lives had scarcely had one bright moment, let alone an entire bright side. From home to home they traveled, encountering misery and wretchedness wherever they went, and now the man who had caused such wretchedness had escaped once more. They certainly didn’t feel very lucky. “What do you mean?” Klaus asked quietly. “Well, let me think,” Phil said, and thought for a moment. In the background, the orphans could hear the dim sounds of Mr. Poe describing Count Olaf to somebody on the telephone. “You’re alive,” Phil said finally. “That’s lucky. And I’m sure we can think of something else.” The three Baudelaire children looked at one another and then at Charles and Phil, the only people in Paltryville who had been kind to them. Although they would not miss the dormitory, or the terrible casseroles, or the back-breaking labor of the mill, the orphans would miss these two kind people. And as the siblings thought about whom they would miss, they thought how much they would have missed one another, if something even worse had happened to them. What if Sunny had lost the swordfight? What if Klaus had remained hypnotized forever? What if Violet had stepped into the path of the saw, instead of Dr. Orwell? The Baudelaires looked at the sunlight, pouring through the shattered window where Count Olaf had escaped, and shuddered to think of what could have happened. Being alive had never seemed lucky before, but as the children considered their terrible time in Sir’s care, they were amazed at how many lucky things had actually happened to them. “It was lucky,” Violet admitted quietly, “that Klaus invented something so quickly, even though he’s not an inventor.” “It was lucky,” Klaus admitted quietly, “that Violet figured out how to end my hypnosis, even though she’s not a researcher.” “Croif,” Sunny admitted quietly, which meant something like “It was lucky that I could defend us from Dr. Orwell’s sword, if I do say so myself.” The children sighed, and gave each other small, hopeful smiles. Count Olaf was on the loose, and would try again to snatch their fortune, but he had not succeeded this time. They were alive, and as they stood together at the broken window, it seemed that the last word on their situation might be “lucky,” the word that had caused so much trouble to begin with. The Baudelaire orphans were alive, and it seemed that maybe they had an inordinate amount of luck after all. LEMONY SNICKET grew up near the sea and currently lives beneath it. To his horror and dismay he has no wife or children, only enemies, associates, and the occasional loyal manservant. His trial has been delayed, so he is free to continue researching and writing the tragic tales of the Baudelaire orphans for HarperCollins. To My Kind Editor, Please excuse the torn edges of this note. I am writing to you from inside the shack the Baudelaire orphans were forced to live in while at Prufrock Preparatory School , and I am afraid that some of the crabs tried to snatch my stationery away from me. On Sunday night, please purchase a ticket for seat 10-J at the Erratic Opera Company’s performance of the opera Faute de Mieux. During Act Five, use a sharp knife to rip open the cushion of your seat. There you should find my description of the children’s miserable half-semester at boarding school, entitled THE AUSTERE ACADEMY, as well as a cafeteria tray, some of the Baudelaires’ handmade staples, and the (worthless) jewel from Coach Genghis’s turban. There is also the negative for a photograph of the two Quagmire Triplets, which Mr. Helquist can have developed to help with his illustrations. Remember, you are my last hope that the tales of the Baudelaire orphans can finally be told to the general public. With all due respect, Lemony Snicket

Norwegian Woods

I was 37 then, strapped in my seat as the huge 747 plunged through dense cloud cover on approach to Hamburg airport. Cold November rains drenched the earth, lending everything the gloomy air of a Flemish landscape: the ground crew in waterproofs, a flag atop a squat airport building, a BMW billboard. So - Germany again. Once the plane was on the ground, soft music began to flow from the ceiling speakers: a sweet orchestral cover version of the Beatles' 'Norwegian Wood'. The melody never failed to send a shudder through me, but this time it hit me harder than ever. I bent forward, my face in my hands to keep my skull from splitting open. Before long one of the German stewardesses approached and asked in English if I were sick. 'No,' I said, 'just dizzy.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes, I'm sure. Thanks.' She smiled and left, and the music changed to a Billy Joel tune. I straightened up and looked out of the window at the dark clouds hanging over the North Sea, thinking of all I had lost in the course of my life: times gone for ever, friends who had died or disappeared, feelings I would never know again. The plane reached the gate. People began unfastening their seatbelts and pulling luggage from the overhead lockers, and all the while I was in the meadow. I could smell the grass, feel the wind on my face, hear the cries of the birds. Autumn 1969, and soon I would be 20. 6 The stewardess came to check on me again. This time she sat next to me and asked if I was all right. 'I'm fine, thanks,' I said with a smile. 'Just feeling kind of blue.' 'I know what you mean,' she said. 'It happens to me, too, every once in a while.' She stood and gave me a lovely smile. 'Well, then, have a nice trip. Auf Wiedersehen.' 'Auf Wiedersehen.' Eighteen years have gone by, and still I can bring back every detail of that day in the meadow. Washed clean of summer's dust by days of gentle rain, the mountains wore a deep, brilliant green. The October breeze set white fronds of head-high grasses swaying. One long streak of cloud hung pasted across a dome of frozen blue. It almost hurt to look at that far-off sky. A puff of wind swept across the meadow and through her hair before it slipped into the woods to rustle branches and send back snatches of distant barking - a hazy sound that seemed to reach us from the doorway to another world. We heard no other sounds. We met no other people. We saw only two bright red birds leap startled from the center of the meadow and dart into the woods. As we ambled along, Naoko spoke to me of wells. Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn't give a damn about the scenery that day. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. I was at that age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind. 7 Now, though, that meadow scene is the first thing that comes back to me. The smell of the grass, the faint chill of the wind, the line of the hills, the barking of a dog: these are the first things, and they come with absolute clarity. I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a fingertip. And yet, as clear as the scene may be, no one is in it. No one. Naoko is not there, and neither am I. Where could we have disappeared to? How could such a thing have happened? Everything that seemed so important back then - Naoko, and the self I was then, and the world I had then: where could they have all gone? It's true, I can't even bring back her face - not straight away, at least. All I'm left holding is a background, pure scenery, with no people at the front. True, given time enough, I can remember her face. I start joining images - her tiny, cold hand; her straight, black hair so smooth and cool to the touch; a soft, rounded earlobe and the microscopic mole just beneath it; the camel-hair coat she wore in the winter; her habit of looking straight into my eyes when asking a question; the slight trembling that would come to her voice now and then (as though she were speaking on a windy hilltop) - and suddenly her face is there, always in profile at first, because Naoko and I were always out walking together, side by side. Then she turns to me and smiles, and tilts her head just a little, and begins to speak, and she looks into my eyes as if trying to catch the image of a minnow that has darted across the pool of a limpid spring. It takes time, though, for Naoko's face to appear. And as the years have passed, the time has grown longer. The sad truth is that what I could recall in 5 seconds all too soon needed 10, then 30, then a full minute - like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. There is no way around it: my memory is growing ever more distant from the spot where Naoko used to stand - where my old self used to stand. And nothing but scenery, that view of the meadow in October, returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a film. Each time it appears, it delivers 8 a kick to some part of my mind. Wake up, it says. I'm still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I'm still here. The kicking never hurts me. There's no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick. And even that is bound to fade one day. At Hamburg airport, though, the kicks were longer and harder than usual. Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them. Let's see, now, what was Naoko talking about that day? Of course: the 'field well'. I have no idea whether there was such a well. It might have been an image or a sign that existed only inside Naoko, like all the other things she used to spin into existence inside her mind in those dark days. Once she had described it to me, though, I was never able to think of that meadow scene without the well. From that day forward, the image of a thing I had never laid eyes on became inseparably fused to the actual scene of the field that lay before me. I can describe the well in minute detail. It lay precisely on the border where the meadow ended and the woods began - a dark opening in the earth a yard across, hidden by grass. Nothing marked its perimeter - no fence, no stone curb (at least not one that rose above ground level). It was nothing but a hole, a wide-open mouth. The stones of its collar had been weathered and turned a strange muddy-white. They were cracked and chunks were missing, and a little green lizard slithered into an open seam. You could lean over the edge and peer down to see nothing. All I knew about the well was its frightening depth. It was deep beyond measuring, and crammed full of darkness, as if all the world's darknesses had been boiled down to their ultimate density. 'It's really, really deep,' said Naoko, choosing her words with care. She would speak that way sometimes, slowing down to find the exact word she was looking for. 'But no one knows where it is,' she continued. 'The one thing I know for sure is that it's around here 9 somewhere.' Hands thrust into the pockets of her tweed jacket, she smiled at me as if to say 'It's true!' 'Then it must be incredibly dangerous,' I said. 'A deep well, but nobody knows where it is. You could fall in and that'd be the end of you.' 'The end. Aaaaaaaah! Splat! Finished.' 'Things like that must happen.' 'They do, every once in a while. Maybe once in two or three years. Somebody disappears all of a sudden, and they just can't find him. So then the people around here say, 'Oh, he fell in the field well'.' 'Not a nice way to die,' I said. 'No, it's a terrible way to die,' said Naoko, brushing a cluster of grass seed from her jacket. 'The best thing would be to break your neck, but you'd probably just break your leg and then you couldn't do a thing. You'd yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody would hear you, and you couldn't expect anyone to find you, and you'd have centipedes and spiders crawling all over you, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around you, and it's dark and soggy, and high overhead there's this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. You die there in this place, little by little, all by yourself.' 'Yuck, just thinking about it makes my flesh creep,' I said. 'Somebody should find the thing and build a wall around it.' 'But nobody can find it. So make sure you don't go off the path.' 'Don't worry, I won't.' Naoko took her left hand from her pocket and squeezed my hand. 'Don't you worry,' she said. 'You'll be OK. You could go running all around here in the middle of the night and you'd never fall into the well. And as long as I stick with you, I won't fall in, either.' 'Never?' 'Never!' 'How can you be so sure?' 10 'I just know,' she said, increasing her grip on my hand and walking along in silence. 'I know these things. I'm always right. It's got nothing to do with logic: I just feel it. For example, when I'm really close to you like this, I'm not the least bit scared. Nothing dark or evil could ever tempt me.' 'Well, that's the answer,' I said. 'All you have to do is stay with me like this all the time.' 'Do you mean that?' 'Of course.' Naoko stopped short. So did I. She put her hands on my shoulders and peered into my eyes. Deep within her own pattern. Those beautiful eyes of hers were looking inside me for a long, long time. Then she stretched to her full height and touched her cheek to mine. It was a marvelous, warm gesture that stopped my heart for a moment. 'Thank you.' 'My pleasure,' I answered. 'I'm so happy you said that. Really happy,' she said with a sad smile. 'But it's impossible.' 'Impossible? Why?' 'It would be wrong. It would be terrible. It - ' Naoko clamped her mouth shut and started walking again. I could tell that all kinds of thoughts were whirling around in her head, so rather than intrude on them I kept silent and walked by her side. 'It would be wrong - wrong for you, wrong for me,' she said after a long pause. 'Wrong how?' I murmured. 'Don't you see? It's just not possible for one person to watch over another person forever and ever. I mean, suppose we got married. You'd have to work during the day. Who's going to watch over me while you're away? Or if you go on a business trip, who's going to watch over me then? Can I be glued to you every minute of our lives? What kind of equality would there be in that? What kind of 11 relationship would that be? Sooner or later you'd get sick of me. You'd wonder what you were doing with your life, why you were spending all your time babysitting this woman. I couldn't stand that. It wouldn't solve any of my problems.' 'But your problems are not going to continue for the rest of your life,' I said, touching her back. 'They'll end eventually. And when they do, we'll stop and think about how to go on from there. Maybe you will have to help me. We're not running our lives according to some account book. If you need me, use me. Don't you see? Why do you have to be so rigid? Relax, let down your guard. You're all tensed up so you always expect the worst. Relax your body, and the rest of you will lighten up.' 'How can you say that?' she asked in a voice drained of feeling. Naoko's voice alerted me to the possibility that I had said something I shouldn't have. 'Tell me how you could say such a thing,' she said, staring at the ground beneath her feet. 'You're not telling me anything I don't know already. 'Relax your body, and the rest of you will lighten up.' What's the point of saying that to me? If I relaxed my body now, I'd fall apart. I've always lived like this, and it's the only way I know how to go on living. If I relaxed for a second, I'd never find my way back. I'd go to pieces, and the pieces would be blown away. Why can't you see that? How can you talk about watching over me if you can't see that?' I said nothing. 'I'm confused. Really confused. And it's a lot deeper than you think. Deeper ... darker ... colder. But tell me something. How could you have slept with me that time? How could you have done such a thing? Why didn't you just leave me alone?' Now we were walking through the frightful silence of a pine forest. The desiccated corpses of cicadas that had died at the end of summer littered the surface of the path, crunching beneath our shoes. As if searching for something we'd lost, Naoko and I continued slowly 12 along the path. 'I'm sorry,' she said, taking my arm and shaking her head. 'I didn't mean to hurt you. Try not to let what I said bother you. Really, I'm sorry. I was just angry at myself.' 'I suppose I don't really understand you yet,' I said. 'I'm not all that smart. It takes me a while to understand things. But if I do have the time, I will come to understand you - better than anyone else in the world.' We came to a stop and stood in the silent forest, listening. I tumbled pinecones and cicada shells with my toecap, then looked up at the patches of sky showing through the pine branches. Hands in pockets, Naoko stood there thinking, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. 'Tell me something, Toru,' she said. 'Do you love me?' 'You know I do.' 'Will you do me two favors?' 'You can have up to three wishes, Madame.' Naoko smiled and shook her head. 'No, two will do. One is for you to realize how grateful I am that you came to see me here. I hope you'll understand how happy you've made me. I know it's going to save me if anything will. I may not show it, but it's true.' 'I'll come to see you again,' I said. 'And what is the other wish?' 'I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?' 'Always,' I said. 'I'll always remember.' She walked on without speaking. The autumn light filtering through the branches danced over the shoulders of her jacket. A dog barked again, closer than before. Naoko climbed a small mound, walked out of the forest and hurried down a gentle slope. I followed two or three steps behind. 'Come over here,' I called towards her back. 'The well might be around here somewhere.' Naoko stopped and smiled and took my arm. We walked the rest of the way side by side. 'Do you really 13 promise never to forget me?' she asked in a near whisper. 'I'll never forget you,' I said. 'I could never forget you.' Even so, my memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I've forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud? Be that as it may, it's all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing this book with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones. This is the only way I know to keep my promise to Naoko. Once, long ago, when I was still young, when the memories were far more vivid than they are now, I often tried to write about her. But I couldn't produce a line. I knew that if that first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but I could never make it happen. Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start - the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless. Now, though, I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts. The more the memories of Naoko inside me fade, the more deeply I am able to understand her. I know, too, why she asked me not to forget her. Naoko herself knew, of course. She knew that my memories of her would fade. Which is precisely why she begged me never to forget her, to remember that she had existed. The thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. Because Naoko never loved me. 14 Once upon a time, many years ago - just 20 years ago, in fact - I was living in a dormitory. I was 18 and a first-year student. I was new to Tokyo and new to living alone, and so my anxious parents found a private dorm for me to live in rather than the kind of single room that most students took. The dormitory provided meals and other facilities and would probably help their unworldly 18-year-old survive. Expenses were also a consideration. A dorm cost far less than a private room. As long as I had bedding and a lamp, there was no need to buy a lot of furnishings. For my part, I would have preferred to rent a flat and live in comfortable solitude, but knowing what my parents had to spend on enrolment fees and tuition at the private university I was attending, I was in no position to insist. And besides, I really didn't care where I lived. Located on a hill in the middle of the city with open views, the dormitory compound sat on a large quadrangle surrounded by a concrete wall. A huge, towering zelkova tree stood just inside the front gate. People said it was at least 150 years old. Standing at its base, you could look up and see nothing of the sky through its dense cover of green leaves. The paved path leading from the gate circumvented the tree and continued on long and straight across a broad quadrangle, two threestory concrete dorm buildings facing each other on either side of the path. They were large with lots of windows and gave the impression of being either flats that had been converted into jails or jails that had been converted into flats. However there was nothing dirty about them, nor did they feel dark. You could hear radios playing through open windows, all of which had the same cream-coloured curtains that the sun could not fade. Beyond the two dormitories, the path led up to the entrance of a two-story common building, the first floor of which contained a dining hall and bathrooms, the second consisting of an auditorium, meeting rooms, and even guest rooms, whose use I could never 15 fathom. Next to the common building stood a third dormitory, also three storeys high. Broad green lawns filled the quadrangle, and circulating sprinklers caught the sunlight as they turned. Behind the common building there was a field used for baseball and football, and six tennis courts. The complex had everything you could want. There was just one problem with the place: its political smell. It was run by some kind of fishy foundation that centered on this extreme right-wing guy, and there was something strangely twisted - as far as I was concerned - about the way they ran the place. You could see it in the pamphlet they gave to new students and in the dorm rules. The proclaimed 'founding spirit' of the dormitory was 'to strive to nurture human resources of service to the nation through the ultimate in educational fundamentals', and many financial leaders who endorsed this 'spirit' had contributed their private funds to the construction of the place. This was the public face of the project, though what lay behind it was extremely vague. Some said it was a tax dodge, others saw it as a publicity stunt for the contributors, and still others claimed that the construction of the dormitory was a cover for swindling the public out of a prime piece of real estate. One thing was certain, though: in the dorm complex there existed a privileged club composed of elite students from various universities. They formed 'study groups' that met several times a month and included some of the founders. Any member of the club could be assured of a good job after graduation. I had no idea which - if any - of these theories was correct, but they all shared the assumption that there was 'something fishy' about the place. In any case, I spent two years - from the spring of 1968 to the spring of 1970 - living in this 'fishy' dormitory. Why I put up with it so long, I can't really say. In terms of everyday life, it made no practical difference to me whether the place was right wing or left wing or anything else. Each day began with the solemn raising of the flag. They played the 16 national anthem, too, of course. You can't have one without the other. The flagpole stood in the very center of the compound, where it was visible from every window of all three dormitories. The Head of the east dormitory (my building) was in charge of the flag. He was a tall, eagle-eyed man in his late fifties or early sixties. His bristly hair was flecked with grey, and his sunburned neck bore a long scar. People whispered that he was a graduate of the wartime Nakano spy school, but no one knew for sure. Next to him stood a student who acted as his assistant. No one really knew this guy, either. He had the world's shortest crewcut and always wore a navy-blue student uniform. I didn't know his name or which room he lived in, never saw him in the dining hall or the bath. I'm not even sure he was a student, though you would think he must have been, given the uniform - which quickly became his nickname. In contrast to Sir Nakano, 'Uniform' was short, pudgy and pasty-faced. This creepy couple would raise the banner of the Rising Sun every morning at six. When I first entered the dormitory, the sheer novelty of the event would often prompt me to get up early to observe this patriotic ritual. The two would appear in the quadrangle at almost the exact moment the radio beeped the six o'clock signal. Uniform was wearing his uniform, of course, with black leather shoes, and Nakano wore a short jacket and white trainers. Uniform held a ceremonial box of untreated paulownia wood, while Nakano carried a Sony tape recorder at his side. He placed this at the base of the flagpole, while Uniform opened the box to reveal a neatly folded banner. This he reverentially proffered to Nakano, who would clip it to the rope on the flagpole, revealing the bright red circle of the Rising Sun on a field of pure white. Then Uniform pressed the switch for the playing of the anthem. 'May Our Lord's Reign...' And up the flag would climb. 'Until pebbles turn to boulders ...' It would reach halfway up the pole. 'And be covered with moss.' 17 Now it was at the top. The two stood to attention, rigid, looking up at the flag, which was quite a sight on clear days when the wind was blowing. The lowering of the flag at dusk was carried out with the same ceremonial reverence, but in reverse. Down the banner would come and find its place in the box. The national flag did not fly at night. I didn't know why the flag had to be taken down at night. The nation continued to exist while it was dark, and plenty of people worked all night - railway construction crews and taxi drivers and bar hostesses and firemen and night watchmen: it seemed unfair to me that such people were denied the protection of the flag. Or maybe it didn't matter all that much and nobody really cared - aside from me. Not that I really cared, either. It was just something that happened to cross my mind. The rules for room assignments put first- and second-year students in doubles while third- and final-year students had single rooms. Double rooms were a little longer and narrower than nine-by-twelve, with an aluminium-framed window in the wall opposite the door and two desks by the window arranged so the inhabitants of the room could study back-to-back. To the left of the door stood a steel bunk bed. The furniture supplied was sturdy and simple and included a pair of lockers, a small coffee table, and some built-in shelves. Even the most well-disposed observer would have had trouble calling this setting poetic. The shelves of most rooms carried such items as transistor radios, hairdryers, electric carafes and cookers, instant coffee, tea bags, sugar cubes, and simple pots and bowls for preparing instant ramen. The walls bore pin-ups from girlie magazines or stolen porno movie posters. One guy had a photo of pigs mating, but this was a farout exception to the usual naked women, girl pop singers or actresses. Bookshelves on the desks held textbooks, dictionaries and novels. The filth of these all-male rooms was horrifying. Mouldy mandarin skins clung to the bottoms of waste-paper baskets. Empty cans used 18 for ashtrays held mounds of cigarette butts, and when these started to smoulder they'd be doused with coffee or beer and left to give off a sour stink. Blackish grime and bits of indefinable matter clung to all the bowls and dishes on the shelves, and the floors were littered with instant ramen wrappers and empty beer cans and discarded lids from one thing or another. It never occurred to anyone to sweep up and throw these things in the bin. Any wind that blew through would raise clouds of dust. Each room had its own horrendous smell, but the components of that smell were always the same: sweat, body odour and rubbish. Dirty clothes would pile up under the beds, and without anyone bothering to air the mattresses on a regular basis, these sweatimpregnated pads would give off odours beyond redemption. In retrospect, it seems amazing that these shitpiles gave rise to no killer epidemics. My room, on the other hand, was as sanitary as a morgue. The floor and window were spotless, the mattresses were aired each week, all pencils stood in the pencil holders, and even the curtains were washed once a month. My room-mate was a cleanliness freak. None of the others in the dorm believed me when I told them about the curtains. They didn't know that curtains could be washed. They believed, rather, that curtains were semi-permanent parts of the window. 'There's something wrong with that guy,' they'd say, labelling him a Nazi or a storm trooper. We didn't even have pin-ups. No, we had a photo of a canal in Amsterdam. I had put up a nude shot, but my room-mate had pulled it down. 'Hey, Watanabe,' he said, 'I-I'm not too crazy about this kind of thing,' and up went the canal photo instead. I wasn't especially attached to the nude, so I didn't protest. 'What the hell's that?' was the universal reaction to the Amsterdam photo whenever any of the other guys came to my room. 'Oh, Storm Trooper likes to wank looking at this,' I said. 19 I meant it as a joke, but they all took me seriously - so seriously that I began to believe it myself. Everybody sympathized with me for having Storm Trooper as a roommate, but I really wasn't that upset about it. He left me alone as long as I kept my area clean, and in fact having him as my room-mate made things easier for me in many ways. He did all the cleaning, he took care of sunning the mattresses, he threw out the rubbish. He'd give a sniff and suggest a bath for me if I'd been too busy to wash for a few days. He'd even point out when it was time for me to go to the barber's or trim my nasal hair. The one thing that bothered me was the way he would spray clouds of insecticide if he noticed a single fly in the room, because then I had to take refuge in a neighbouring shitpile. Storm Trooper was studying geography at a national university. As he told me the first time we met, 'I'm studying m-m-maps.' 'You like maps?' I asked. 'Yup. When I graduate, I'm going to work for the Geographical Survey Institute and make m-m-maps.' I was impressed by the variety of dreams and goals that life could offer. This was one of the very first new impressions I received when I came to Tokyo for the first time. The thought struck me that society needed a few people - just a few - who were interested in and even passionate about mapmaking. Odd, though, that someone who wanted to work for the government's Geographical Survey Institute should stutter every time he said the word 'map'. Storm Trooper often didn't stutter at all, except when he pronounced the word 'map', for which it was a 100 per cent certainty. 'W what are you studying?' he asked me. 'Drama,' I said. 'Gonna put on plays?' 'Nah, just read scripts and do research. Racine, lonesco, Shakespeare, stuff like that.' He said he had heard of Shakespeare but not the others. I hardly knew 20 anything about the others myself, I'd just seen their names in lecture handouts. 'You like plays?' he asked. 'Not especially.' This confused him, and when he was confused, his stuttering got worse. I felt sorry I had done that to him. 'I could have picked anything,' I said. 'Ethnology, Asian history. I just happened to pick drama, that's all,' which was not the most convincing explanation I could have come up with. 'I don't get it,' he said, looking as if he really didn't get it. 'I like mm-maps, so I decided to come to Tokyo and get my parents to s-send me money so I could study m-m-maps. But not you, huh?' His approach made more sense than mine. I gave up trying to explain myself. Then we drew lots (matchsticks) to choose bunks. He got the upper bunk. Tall, with a crewcut and high cheekbones, he always wore the same outfit: white shirt, black trousers, black shoes, navy-blue jumper. To these he would add a uniform jacket and black briefcase when he went to his university: a typical right-wing student. Which is why everybody called him Storm Trooper. But in fact he was totally indifferent to politics. He wore a uniform because he didn't want to be bothered choosing clothes. What interested him were things like changes in the coastline or the completion of a new railway tunnel. Nothing else. He'd go on for hours once he got started on a subject like that, until you either ran away or fell asleep. He was up at six each morning with the strains of 'May Our Lord's Reign'. Which is to say that that ostentatious flag-raising ritual was not entirely useless. He'd get dressed, go to the bathroom and wash his face - for ever. I sometimes got the feeling he must be taking out each tooth and washing it, one at a time. Back in the room, he would snap the wrinkles out of his towel and lay it on the radiator to dry, then return his toothbrush and soap to the shelf. Finally he'd do radio 21 callisthenics with the rest of the nation. I was used to reading late at night and sleeping until eight o'clock, so even when he started shuffling around the room and exercising, I remained unconscious - until the part where he started jumping. He took his jumping seriously and made the bed bounce every time he hit the floor. I stood it for three days because they had told us that communal life called for a certain degree of resignation, but by the morning of the fourth day, I couldn't take it any more. 'Hey, can you do that on the roof or somewhere?' I said. 'I can't sleep.' 'But it's already 6.30!' he said, open-mouthed. 'Yeah, I know it's 6.30. I'm still supposed to be asleep. I don't know how to explain it exactly, but that's how it works for me.' 'Anyway, I can't do it on the roof. Somebody on the third floor would complain. Here, we're over a storeroom.' 'So go out on the quad. On the lawn.' 'That's no good, either. I don't have a transistor radio. I need to plug it in. And you can't do radio callisthenics without music.' True, his radio was an old piece of junk without batteries. Mine was a transistor portable, but it was strictly FM, for music. 'OK, let's compromise,' I said. 'Do your exercises but cut out the jumping part. It's so damned noisy. What do you say?' 'J-jumping? What's that?' 'Jumping is jumping. Bouncing up and down.' 'But there isn't any jumping.' My head was starting to hurt. I was ready to give up, but I wanted to make my point. I got out of bed and started bouncing up and down and singing the opening melody of NHK's radio callisthenics. 'I'm talking about this,' I said. 'Oh, that. I guess you're right. I never noticed.' 'See what I mean?' I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. 'Just cut out that part. I can put up with the rest. Stop jumping and let me sleep.' 22 'But that's impossible,' he said matter-of-factly. 'I can't leave anything out. I've been doing the same thing every day for ten years, and once I start I do the whole routine unconsciously. If I left something out, I wouldn't be able to do any of it.' There was nothing more for me to say. What could I have said? The quickest way to put a stop to this was to wait for him to leave the room and throw his goddamn radio out the goddamn window, but I knew if I did that all hell would break loose. Storm Trooper treasured everything he owned. He smiled when he saw me sitting on the bed at a loss for words, and tried to comfort me. 'Hey, Watanabe, why don't you just get up and exercise with me?' And he went off to breakfast. Naoko chuckled when I told her the story of Storm Trooper and his radio callisthenics. I hadn't been trying to amuse her, but I ended up laughing myself. Though her smile vanished in an instant, I enjoyed seeing it for the first time in a long while. We had left the train at Yotsuya and were walking along the embankment by the station. It was a Sunday afternoon in the middle of May. The brief on-and-off showers of the morning had cleared up before noon, and a south wind had swept away the low-hanging clouds. The brilliant green leaves of the cherry trees stirred in the air, splashing sunlight in all directions. This was an early summer day. The people we passed carried their jumpers or jackets over their shoulders or in their arms. Everyone looked happy in the warm Sunday afternoon sun. The young men playing tennis in the courts beyond the embankment had stripped down to their shorts. Only where two nuns in winter habits sat talking on a bench did the summer light seem not to reach, though both wore looks of satisfaction as they enjoyed chatting in the sun. Fifteen minutes of walking and I was sweaty enough to take off my thick cotton shirt and go with a T-shirt. Naoko had rolled the sleeves 23 of her light grey sweatshirt up to her elbows. It was nicely faded, obviously having been washed many times. I felt as if I had seen her in that shirt long before. This was just a feeling I had, not a clear memory. I didn't have that much to remember about Naoko at the time. 'How do you like communal living?' she asked. 'Is it fun to live with a lot of other people?' 'I don't know, I've only been doing it a month or so. It's not that bad, I can stand it.' She stopped at a fountain and took a sip, wiping her mouth with a white handkerchief she took from her trouser pocket. Then she bent over and carefully retied her laces. 'Do you think I could do it?' 'What? Living in a dorm?' 'Uh-huh.' 'I suppose it's all a matter of attitude. You could let a lot of things bother you if you wanted to - the rules, the idiots who think they're hot shit, the room-mates doing radio callisthenics at 6.30 in the morning. But it's pretty much the same anywhere you go, you can manage.' 'I guess so,' she said with a nod. She seemed to be turning something over in her mind. Then she looked straight into my eyes as if peering at some unusual object. Now I saw that her eyes were so deep and clear they made my heart thump. I realized that I had never had occasion to look into her eyes like this. It was the first time the two of us had ever gone walking together or talked at such length. 'Are you thinking about living in a dorm or something?' I asked. 'Uh-uh,' she said. 'I was just wondering what communal life would be like. And. ..' She seemed to be trying - and failing - to find exactly the right word or expression. Then she sighed and looked down. 'Oh, I don't know. Never mind.' That was the end of the conversation. She continued walking east, and I followed just behind. 24 Almost a year had gone by since I had last seen Naoko, and in that time she had lost so much weight as to look like a different person. The plump cheeks that had been a special feature of hers were all but gone, and her neck had become delicate and slender. Not that she was bony now or unhealthy looking: there was something natural and serene about the way she had slimmed down, as if she had been hiding in some long, narrow space until she herself had become long and narrow. And a lot prettier than I remembered. I wanted to tell her that, but couldn't find a good way to put it. We had not planned to meet but had run into each other on the Chuo commuter line. She had decided to see a film by herself, and I was headed for the bookshops in Kanda - nothing urgent in either case. She had suggested that we leave the train, which we happened to do in Yotsuya, where the green embankment makes for a nice place to walk by the old castle moat. Alone together, we had nothing in particular to talk about, and I wasn't quite sure why Naoko had suggested we get off the train. We had never really had much to say to each other. Naoko started walking the minute we hit the street, and I hurried after her, keeping a few paces behind. I could have closed the distance between us, but something held me back. I walked with my eyes on her shoulders and her straight black hair. She wore a big, brown hairslide, and when she turned her head I caught a glimpse of a small, white ear. Now and then she would look back and say something. Sometimes it would be a remark I might have responded to, and sometimes it would be something to which I had no idea how to reply. Other times, I simply couldn't hear what she was saying. She didn't seem to care one way or another. Once she had finished saying whatever she wanted to say, she'd face front again and keep on walking. Oh, well, I told myself, it was a nice day for a stroll. This was no mere stroll for Naoko, though, judging from that walk. She turned right at Lidabashi, came out at the moat, crossed the intersection at Jinbocho, climbed the hill at Ochanomizu and came out 25 at Hongo. From there she followed the tram tracks to Komagome. It was a challenging route. By the time we reached Komagome, the sun was sinking and the day had become a soft spring evening. 'Where are we?' asked Naoko, as if noticing our surroundings for the first time. 'Komagome,' I said. 'Didn't you know? We made this big arc.' 'Why did we come here?' 'You brought us here. I was just following you.' We went to a shop by the station for a bowl of noodles. Thirsty, I had a whole beer to myself. Neither of us said a word from the time we gave our order to the time we finished eating. I was exhausted from all that walking, and she just sat there with her hands on the table, mulling something over again. All the leisure spots were crowded on this warm Sunday, they were saying on the TV news. And we just walked from Yotsuya to Komagome, I said to myself. 'Well, you're in good shape,' I said when I had finished my noodles. 'Surprised?' 'Yeah.' 'I was a long distance runner at school, I'll have you know. I used to do the 10,000 metres. And my father took me mountain climbing on Sundays ever since I can remember. You know our house - right there, next to the mountain. I've always had strong legs.' 'It doesn't show,' I said. 'I know,' she answered. 'Everybody thinks I'm this delicate little girl. But you can't judge a book by its cover.' To which she added a momentary smile. 'And that goes for me, too,' I said. 'I'm worn out.' 'Oh, I'm sorry, I've been dragging you around all day.' 'Still, I'm glad we had a chance to talk. We've never done that before, just the two of us,' I said, trying without success to recall what we had talked about. She was playing with the ashtray on the table. 'I wonder. ..' she began, '. . . if you wouldn't mind ... I mean, if it 26 really wouldn't be any bother to you ... Do you think we could see each other again? I know I don't have any right to be asking you this.' 'Any right? What do you mean by that?' She blushed. My reaction to her request might have been a little too strong. 'I don't know ... I can't really explain it,' she said, tugging the sleeves of her sweatshirt up over the elbows and down again. The soft hair on her arms shone a lovely golden colour in the lights of the shop. 'I didn't mean to say 'right' exactly. I was looking for another way to put it.' Elbows on the table, she stared at the calendar on the wall, almost as though she were hoping to find the proper expression there. Failing, she sighed and closed her eyes and played with her hairslide. 'Never mind,' I said. 'I think I know what you're getting at. I'm not sure how to put it, either.' 'I can never say what I want to say,' continued Naoko. 'It's been like this for a while now. I try to say something, but all I get are the wrong words - the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what I mean. I try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. I lose track of what I was trying to say to begin with. It's like I'm split in two and playing tag with myself. One half is chasing the other half around this big, fat post. The other me has the right words, but this me can't catch her.' She raised her face and looked into my eyes. 'Does this make any sense to you?' 'Everybody feels like that to some extent,' I said. 'They're trying to express themselves and it bothers t can't get it right.' Naoko looked disappointed with my answer. 'No, that’s not it either,' she said without further explanation 'Anyway, I'd be glad to see you again,' I said. 'I'm always free on Sundays, and walking would be good for me.' We boarded the Yamanote Line, and Naoko transferred to the Chuo Line at Shinjuku. She was living in a tiny flat way out in the western 27 suburb of Kokubunji. 'Tell me,' she said as we parted. 'Has anything changed about the way I talk?' 'I think so,' I said, 'but I'm not sure what. Tell you the truth, I know I saw you a lot back then, but I don't remember talking to you much.' 'That's true,' she said. 'Anyway, can I call you on Saturday?' 'Sure. I'll be expecting to hear from you.' I first met Naoko when I was in the sixth-form at school. She was also in the sixth-form at a posh girls' school run by one of the Christian missions. The school was so refined you were considered unrefined if you studied too much. Naoko was the girlfriend of my best (and only) friend, Kizuki. The two of them had been close almost from birth, their houses not 200 yards apart. As with most couples who have been together since childhood, there was a casual openness about the relationship of Kizuki and Naoko and little sense that they wanted to be alone together. They were always visiting each other's homes and eating or playing mah-jong with each other's families. I double-dated with them any number of times. Naoko would bring a school friend for me and the four of us would go to the zoo or the pool or the cinema. The girls she brought were always pretty, but a little too refined for my taste. I got along better with the somewhat cruder girls from my own State school who were easier to talk to. I could never tell what was going on inside the pretty heads of the girls that Naoko brought along, and they probably couldn't understand me, either. After a while, Kizuki gave up trying to arrange dates for me, and instead the three of us would do things together. Kizuki and Naoko and I: odd, but that was the most comfortable combination. Introducing a fourth person into the mix would always make things a little awkward. We were like a TV talk show, with me the guest, Kizuki the talented host, and Naoko his assistant. He was good at 28 occupying that central position. True, he had a sarcastic side that often struck people as arrogant, but in fact he was a considerate and fairminded person. He would distribute his remarks and jokes fairly to Naoko and to me, taking care to see that neither of us felt left out. If one or the other stayed quiet too long, he would steer his conversation in that direction and get the person to talk. It probably looked harder than it was: he knew how to monitor and adjust the air around him on a second-by-second basis. In addition, he had a rare talent for finding the interesting parts of someone's generally uninteresting comments so that, while speaking to him, you felt you were an exceptionally interesting person with an exceptionally interesting life. And yet he was not the least bit sociable. I was his only real friend at school. I could never understand why such a smart and capable talker did not turn his talents to the broader world around him but remained satisfied to concentrate on our little trio. Nor could I understand why he picked me to be his friend. I was just an ordinary kid who liked to read books and listen to music and didn't stand out in any way that would prompt someone like Kizuki to pay attention to me. We hit it off straight away, though. His father was a dentist, known for his professional skill and his high fees. 'Want to double-date Sunday?' he asked me just after we met. 'My girlfriend goes to a girls' school, and she'll bring along a cute one for you.' 'Sure,' I said, and that was how I met Naoko. The three of us spent a lot of time together, but whenever Kizuki left the room, Naoko and I had trouble talking to each other. We never knew what to talk about. And in fact there was no topic of conversation that we had in common. Instead of talking, we'd drink water or toy with something on the table and wait for Kizuki to come back and start up the conversation again. Naoko was not particularly talkative, and I was more of a listener than a talker, so I felt 29 uncomfortable when I was left alone with her. Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about. Naoko and I saw each other only once after Kizuki's funeral. Two weeks after the event, we met at a café to take care of some minor matter, and when that was finished we had nothing more to say. I tried raising several different topics, but none of them led anywhere. And when Naoko did talk, there was an edge to her voice. She seemed angry with me, but I had no idea why. We never saw each other again until that day a year later we happened to meet on the Chuo Line in Tokyo. Naoko might have been angry with me because I, not she, had been the last one to see Kizuki. That may not be the best way to put it, but I more or less understood how she felt. I would have swapped places with her if I could have, but finally, what had happened had happened, and there was nothing I could do about it. It had been a nice afternoon in May. After lunch, Kizuki suggested we skip classes and go play pool or something. I had no special interest in my afternoon classes, so together we left school, ambled down the hill to a pool hall on the harbour, and played four games. When I won the first, easy-going game, he became serious and won the next three. This meant I paid, according to our custom. Kizuki didn't make a single joke as we played, which was most unusual. We smoked afterwards. 'Why so serious?' I asked. 'I didn't want to lose today,' said Kizuki with a satisfied smile. He died that night in his garage. He led a rubber hose from the exhaust pipe of his N-360 to a window, taped over the gap in the window, and revved the engine. I have no idea how long it took him to die. His parents had been out visiting a sick relative, and when they opened the garage to put their car away, he was already dead. His radio was going, and a petrol station receipt was tucked under the windscreen 30 wiper. Kizuki had left no suicide note, and had no motive that anyone could think of. Because I had been the last one to see him, I was called in for questioning by the police. I told the investigating officer that Kizuki had given no indication of what he was about to do, that he had been exactly the same as always. The policeman had obviously formed a poor impression of both Kizuki and me, as if it was perfectly natural for the kind of person who would skip classes and play pool to commit suicide. A small article in the paper brought the affair to a close. Kizuki's parents got rid of his red N-360. For a time, a white flower marked his school desk. In the ten months between Kizuki's death and my exams, I was unable to find a place for myself in the world around me. I started sleeping with one of the girls at school, but that didn't last six months. Nothing about her really got to me. I applied to a private university in Tokyo, the kind of place with an entrance exam for which I wouldn't have to study much, and I passed without exhilaration. The girl asked me not to go to Tokyo - 'It's 500 miles from here!' she pleaded - but I had to get away from Kobe at any cost. I wanted to begin a new life where I didn't know a soul. 'You don't give a damn about me any more, now that you've slept with me,' she said, crying. 'That's not true,' I insisted. 'I just need to get away from this town.' But she was not prepared to understand me. And so we parted. Thinking about all the things that made her so much nicer than the other girls at home, I sat on the bullet train to Tokyo feeling terrible about what I'd done, but there was no way to undo it. I would try to forget her. There was only one thing for me to do when I started my new life in the dorm: stop taking everything so seriously; establish a proper distance between myself and everything else. Forget about green baize pool tables and red N-360s and white flowers on school desks; about 31 smoke rising from tall crematorium chimneys, and chunky paperweights in police interrogation rooms. It seemed to work at first. I tried hard to forget, but there remained inside me a vague knot of air. And as time went by, the knot began to take on a clear and simple form, a form that I am able to put into words, like this: Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life. It's a cliché translated into words, but at the time I felt it not as words but as that knot of air inside me. Death exists - in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a pool table - and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust. Until that time, I had understood death as something entirely separate from and independent of life. The hand of death is bound to take us, I had felt, but until the day it reaches out for us, it leaves us alone. This had seemed to me the simple, logical truth. Life is here, death is over there. I am here, not over there. The night Kizuki died, however, I lost the ability to see death (and life) in such simple terms. Death was not the opposite of life. It was already here, within my being, it had always been here, and no struggle would permit me to forget that. When it took the 17-year-old Kizuki that night in May, death took me as well. I lived through the following spring, at 18, with that knot of air in my chest, but I struggled all the while against becoming serious. Becoming serious was not the same thing as approaching the truth, I sensed, however vaguely. But death was a fact, a serious fact, no matter how you looked at it. Stuck inside this suffocating contradiction, I went on endlessly spinning in circles. Those were strange days, now that I look back at them. In the midst of life, everything revolved around death. 32 Naoko called me the following Saturday, and that Sunday we had a date. I suppose I can call it a date. I can't think of a better word for it. As before, we walked the streets. We stopped somewhere for coffee, walked some more, had dinner in the evening, and said goodbye. Again, she talked only in snatches, but this didn't seem to bother her, and I made no special effort to keep the conversation going. We talked about whatever came to mind - our daily routines, our colleges; each a little fragment that led nowhere. We said nothing at all about the past. And mainly, we walked - and walked, and walked. Fortunately, Tokyo is such a big city we could never have covered it all. We kept on walking like this almost every weekend. She would lead, and I would follow close behind. Naoko had a variety of hairslides and always wore them with her right ear exposed. I remember her most clearly this way, from the back. She would toy with her hairslide whenever she felt embarrassed by something. And she was always dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief. She did this whenever she had something to say. The more I observed these habits of hers, the more I came to like her. Naoko went to a girls' college on the rural western edge of Tokyo, a nice little place famous for its teaching of English. Nearby was a narrow irrigation canal with clean, clear water, and Naoko and I would often walk along its banks. Sometimes she would invite me up to her flat and cook for me. It never seemed to concern her that the two of us were in such close quarters together. The room was small and neat and so lacking in frills that only the stockings drying in the corner by the window gave any hint that a girl lived 33 there. She led a spare, simple life with hardly any friends. No one who had known her at school could have imagined her like this. Back then, she had dressed with real flair and surrounded herself with a million friends. When I saw her room, I realized that, like me, she had wanted to go away to college and begin a new life far from anyone she knew. 'Know why I chose this place?' she said with a smile. 'Because nobody from home was coming here. We were all supposed to go somewhere more chic. You know what I mean?' My relationship with Naoko was not without its progress, though. Little by little, she grew more accustomed to me, and I to her. When the summer holidays ended and a new term started, Naoko began walking next to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. She saw me as a friend now, I concluded, and walking side by side with such a beautiful girl was by no means painful for me. We kept walking all over Tokyo in the same meandering way, climbing hills, crossing rivers and railway lines, just walking and walking with no destination in mind. We forged straight ahead, as if our walking were a religious ritual meant to heal our wounded spirits. If it rained, we used umbrellas, but in any case we walked. Then came autumn, and the dormitory grounds were buried in zelkova leaves. The fragrance of a new season arrived when I put on my first pullover. Having worn out one pair of shoes, I bought some new suede ones. I can't seem to recall what we talked about then. Nothing special, I expect. We continued to avoid any mention of the past and rarely spoke about Kizuki. We could face each other over coffee cups in total silence. Naoko liked to hear me tell stories about Storm Trooper. Once he had a date with a fellow student (a girl in geography, of course) but came back in the early evening looking glum. 'Tell me, W W-Watanabe, what do you talk about with g-g-girls?' I don't remember how I answered him, but he had picked the wrong person to ask. In July, 34 somebody in the dorm had taken down Storm Trooper's Amsterdam canal scene and put up a photo of the Golden Gate Bridge instead. He told me he wanted to know if Storm Trooper could masturbate to the Golden Gate Bridge. 'He loved it,' I reported later, which prompted someone else to put up a picture of an iceberg. Each time the photo changed in his absence, Storm Trooper became upset. 'Who-who-who the hell is doing this?' he asked. 'I wonder,' I said. 'But what's the difference? They're all nice pictures. You should be grateful.' 'Yeah, I s'pose so, but it's weird.' My stories of Storm Trooper always made Naoko laugh. Not many things succeeded in doing that, so I talked about him often, though I was not exactly proud of myself for using him this way. He just happened to be the youngest son in a not-too-wealthy family who had grown up a little too serious for his own good. Making maps was the one small dream of his one small life. Who had the right to make fun of him for that? By then, however, Storm-Trooper jokes had become an indispensable source of dormitory talk, and there was no way for me to undo what I had done. Besides, the sight of Naoko's smiling face had become my own special source of pleasure. I went on supplying everyone with new stories. Naoko asked me one time - just once - if I had a girl I liked. I told her about the one I had left behind in Kobe. 'She was nice,' I said, 'I enjoyed sleeping with her, and I miss her every now and then, but finally, she didn't move me. I don't know, sometimes I think I've got this hard kernel in my heart, and nothing much can get inside it. I doubt if I can really love anybody.' 'Have you ever been in love?' Naoko asked. 'Never,' I said. She didn't ask me more than that. When autumn ended and cold winds began tearing through the city, 35 Naoko would often walk pressed against my arm. I could sense her breathing through the thick cloth of her duffel coat. She would entwine her arm with mine, or cram her hand in my pocket, or, when it was really cold, cling tightly to my arm, shivering. None of this had any special meaning. I just kept walking with my hands shoved in my pockets. Our rubber-soled shoes made hardly any sound on the pavement, except for the dry crackling when we trod on the broad, withered sycamore leaves. I felt sorry for Naoko whenever I heard that sound. My arm was not the one she needed, but the arm of someone else. My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else. I felt almost guilty being me. As the winter deepened, the transparent clarity of Naoko's eyes seemed to increase. It was a clarity that had nowhere to go. Sometimes Naoko would lock her eyes on to mine for no apparent reason. She seemed to be searching for something, and this would give me a strange, lonely, helpless sort of feeling. I wondered if she was trying to convey something to me, something she could not put into words - something prior to words that she could not grasp within herself and which therefore had no hope of ever turning into words. Instead, she would fiddle with her hairslide, dab at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief, or look into my eyes in that meaningless way. I wanted to hold her tight when she did these things, but I would hesitate and hold back. I was afraid I might hurt her. And so the two of us kept walking the streets of Tokyo, Naoko searching for words in space. The guys in the dorm would always tease me when I got a call from Naoko or went out on a Sunday morning. They assumed, naturally enough, that I had found a girlfriend. There was no way to explain the truth to them, and no need to explain it, so I let them think what they wanted to. I had to face a barrage of stupid questions in the evening - what position had we used? What was she like down there? What colour underwear had she been wearing that day? I gave them the 36 answers they wanted. And so I went from 18 to 19. Each day the sun would rise and set, the flag would be raised and lowered. Every Sunday I would have a date with my dead friend's girl. I had no idea what I was doing or what I was going to do. For my courses I would read Claudel and Racine and Eisenstein, but they meant almost nothing to me. I made no friends at the lectures, and hardly knew anyone in the dorm. The others in the dorm thought I wanted to be a writer because I was always alone with a book, but I had no such ambition. There was nothing I wanted to be. I tried to talk about this feeling with Naoko. She, at least, would be able to understand what I was feeling with some degree of precision, I thought. But I could never find the words to express myself. Strange, I seemed to have caught her word-searching sickness. On Saturday nights I would sit by the phone in the lobby, waiting for Naoko to call. Most of the others were out, so the lobby was usually deserted. I would stare at the grains of light suspended in that silent space, struggling to see into my own heart. What did I want? And what did others want from me? But I could never find the answers. Sometimes I would reach out and try to grasp the grains of light, but my fingers touched nothing. I read a lot, but not a lot of different books: I like to read my favourites again and again. Back then it was Truman Capote, John Updike, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Raymond Chandler, but I didn't see anyone else in my lectures or the dorm reading writers like that. They liked Kazumi Takahashi, Kenzaburo Oe, Yukio Mishima, or contemporary French novelists, which was another reason I didn't have much to say to anybody but kept to myself and my books. With my eyes closed, I would touch a familiar book and draw its fragrance deep inside me. This was enough to make me happy. At 18 my favourite book was John Updike's The Centaur, but after I had read it a number of times, it began to lose some of its initial lustre 37 and yielded first place to The Great Gatsby. Gatsby stayed in first place for a long time after that. I would pull it off the shelf when the mood hit me and read a section at random. It never once disappointed me. There wasn't a boring page in the whole book. I wanted to tell people what a wonderful novel it was, but no one around me had read The Great Gatsby or was likely to. Urging others to read F Scott Fitzgerald, although not a reactionary act, was not something one could do in 1968. When I did finally meet the one person in my world who had read Gatsby, he and I became friends because of it. His name was Nagasawa. He was two years older than me, and because he was doing legal studies at the prestigious Tokyo University, he was on the fast track to national leadership. We lived in the same dorm and knew each other only by sight, until one day when I was reading Gatsby in a sunny spot in the dining hall. He sat down next to me and asked what I was reading. When I told him, he asked if I was enjoying it. 'This is my third time,' I said, 'and every time I find something new that I like even more than the last.' 'This man says he has read The Great Gatsby three times,' he said as if to himself. 'Well, any friend of Gatsby is a friend of mine.' And so we became friends. This happened in October. The better I got to know Nagasawa, the stranger he seemed. I had met a lot of weird people in my day, but none as strange as Nagasawa. He was a far more voracious reader than me, but he made it a rule never to touch a book by any author who had not been dead at least 30 years. 'That's the only kind of book I can trust,' he said. 'It's not that I don't believe in contemporary literature,' he added, 'but I don't want to waste valuable time reading any book that has not had the baptism of time. Life is too short.' 'What kind of authors do you like?' I asked, speaking in respectful tones to this man two years my senior. 'Balzac, Dante, Joseph Conrad, Dickens,' he answered without 38 hesitation. 'Not exactly fashionable.' 'That's why I read them. If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking. That's the world of hicks and slobs. Real people would be ashamed of themselves doing that. Haven't you noticed, Watanabe? You and I are the only real ones in this dorm. The other guys are crap.' This took me off guard. 'How can you say that?' ''Cause it's true. I know. I can see it. It's like we have marks on our foreheads. And besides, we've both read The Great Gatsby.' I did some quick calculating. 'But Fitzgerald's only been dead 28 years,' I said. 'So what? Two years? Fitzgerald's advanced.' No one else in the dorm knew that Nagasawa was a secret reader of classic novels, nor would it have mattered if they had. Nagasawa was known for being smart. He breezed into Tokyo University, he got good marks, he would take the Civil Service Exam, join the Foreign Ministry, and become a diplomat. He came from a wealthy family. His father owned a big hospital in Nagoya, and his brother had also graduated from Tokyo, gone on to medical school, and would one day inherit the hospital. Nagasawa always had plenty of money in his pocket, and he carried himself with real dignity. People treated him with respect, even the dorm Head. When he asked someone to do something, the person would do it without protest. There was no choice in the matter. Nagasawa had a certain inborn quality that drew people to him and made them follow him. He knew how to stand at the head of the pack, to assess the situation, to give precise and tactful instructions that others would obey. Above his head hung an aura that revealed his powers like an angel's halo, the mere sight of which would inspire awe in people for this superior being. Which is why it shocked everyone 39 that Nagasawa chose me, a person with no distinctive qualities, to be his special friend. People I hardly knew treated me with a certain respect because of it, but what they did not seem to realize was that the reason for my having been chosen was a simple one, namely that I treated Nagasawa with none of the adulation he received from other people. I had a definite interest in the strange, complex aspects of his nature, but none of those other things - his good marks, his aura, his looks - impressed me. This must have been something new for him. There were sides to Nagasawa's personality that conflicted in the extreme. Even I would be moved by his kindness at times, but he could just as well be malicious and cruel. He was both a spirit of amazing loftiness and an irredeemable man of the gutter. He could charge forward, the optimistic leader, even as his heart writhed in a swamp of loneliness. I saw these paradoxical qualities of his from the start, and I could never understand why they weren't just as obvious to everyone else. He lived in his own special hell. Still, I think I always managed to view him in the most favourable light. His greatest virtue was his honesty. Not only would he never lie, he would always acknowledge his shortcomings. He never tried to hide things that might embarrass him. And where I was concerned, he was unfailingly kind and supportive. Had he not been, my life in the dorm would have been far more unpleasant than it was. Still, I never once opened my heart to him, and in that sense my relationship with Nagasawa stood in stark contrast to me and Kizuki. The first time I saw Nagasawa drunk and tormenting a girl, I promised myself never, under any circumstances, to open myself up to him. There were several 'Nagasawa Legends' that circulated throughout the dorm. According to one, he supposedly once ate three slugs. Another gave him a huge penis and had him sleeping with more than 100 girls. The slug story was true. He told me so himself. 'Three big mothers,' 40 he said. 'Swallowed 'em whole.' 'What the hell for?' 'Well, it happened the first year I came to live here,' he said. 'There was some shit between the first-years and the third-years. Started in April and finally came to a head in September. As first-year representative I went to work things out with the third-years. Real right-wing arseholes. They had these wooden kendo swords, and 'working things out' was probably the last thing they wanted to do. So I said, 'All right, let's put an end to this. Do what you want to me, but leave the other guys alone.' So they said, 'OK, let's see you swallow a couple of slugs.' 'Fine,' I said, 'Let's have 'em.' The bastards went out and got three huge slugs. And I swallowed 'em.' 'What was it like?' 'What was it like?' You have to swallow one yourself. The way it slides down your throat and into your stomach ... it's cold, and it leaves this disgusting aftertaste ... yuck, I get chills just thinking about it. I wanted to puke but I fought it. I mean, if I had puked 'em up, I would have had to swallow 'em all over again. So I kept 'em down. All three of 'em.' 'Then what happened?' 'I went back to my room and drank a bucket of salt water. What else could I do?' 'Yeah, I guess so.' 'But after that, nobody could say a thing to me. Not even the third-years. I'm the only guy in this place who can swallow three slugs.' 'I bet you are.' Finding out about his penis size was easy enough. I just went to the dorm's communal shower with him. He had a big one, all right. But 100 girls was probably an exaggeration. 'Maybe 75,' he said. 'I can't remember them all, but I'm sure it's at least 70.' When I told him I had 41 slept with only one, he said, 'Oh, we can fix that, easy. Come with me next time. I'll get you one easy as that.' I didn't believe him, but he turned out to be right. It was easy. Almost too easy, with all the excitement of flat beer. We went to some kind of bar in Shibuya or Shinjuku (he had his favourites), found a pair of girls (the world was full of pairs of girls), talked to them, drank, went to a hotel, and had sex with them. He was a great talker. Not that he had anything great to say, but girls would get carried away listening to him, they'd drink too much and end up sleeping with him. I guess they enjoyed being with somebody so nice and handsome and clever. And the most amazing thing was that, just because I was with him, I seemed to become equally fascinating to them. Nagasawa would urge me to talk, and girls would respond to me with the same smiles of admiration they offered him. He worked his magic, a real talent he had that impressed me every time. Compared with Nagasawa, Kizuki's conversational gifts were child's play. This was a completely different level of accomplishment. As much as I found myself caught up in Nagasawa's power, though, I still missed Kizuki. I felt a new admiration for his sincerity. Whatever talents he had he would share with Naoko and me alone, while Nagasawa was bent on disseminating his considerable gifts to all around him. Not that he was dying to sleep with the girls he found: it was just a game to him. I was not too crazy about sleeping with girls I didn't know. It was an easy way to take care of my sex drive of course, and I did enjoy all the holding and touching, but I hated the morning after. I'd wake up and find this strange girl sleeping next to me, and the room would reek of alcohol, and the bed and the lighting and the curtains had that special 'love hotel' garishness, and my head would be in a hungover fog. Then the girl would wake up and start groping around for her knickers 42 and while she was putting on her stockings she'd say something like, 'I hope you used one last night. It's the worst day of the month for me.' Then she'd sit in front of a mirror and start grumbling about her aching head or her uncooperative make-up while she redid her lipstick or attached her false eyelashes. I would have preferred not to spend the whole night with them, but you can't worry about a midnight curfew while you're seducing women (which runs counter to the laws of physics anyway), so I'd go out with an overnight pass. This meant I had to stay put until morning and go back to the dorm filled with selfloathing and disillusionment, sunlight stabbing my eyes, mouth coated with sand, head belonging to someone else. When I had slept with three or four girls this way, I asked Nagasawa, 'After you've done this 70 times, doesn't it begin to seem kind of pointless?' 'That proves you're a decent human being,' he said. 'Congratulations. There is absolutely nothing to be gained from sleeping with one strange woman after another. It just tires you out and makes you disgusted with yourself. It's the same for me.' 'So why the hell do you keep it up?' 'Hard to say. Hey, you know that thing Dostoevsky wrote on gambling? It's like that. When you're surrounded by endless possibilities, one of the hardest things you can do is pass them up. See what I mean?' 'Sort of.' 'Look. The sun goes down. The girls come out and drink. They wander around, looking for something. I can give them that something. It's the easiest thing in the world, like drinking water from a tap. Before you know it, I've got 'em down. It's what they expect. That's what I mean by possibility. It's all around you. How can you ignore it? You have a certain ability and the opportunity to use it: can you keep your mouth shut and let it pass?' 'I don't know, I've never been in a situation like that,' I said with a 43 smile. 'I can't imagine what it's like.' 'Count your blessings,' Nagasawa said. His womanizing was the reason Nagasawa lived in a dorm despite his affluent background. Worried that Nagasawa would do nothing else if allowed to live alone in Tokyo, his father had compelled him to live all four years at university in the dormitory. Not that it mattered much to Nagasawa. He was not going to let a few rules bother him. Whenever he felt like it, he would get an overnight permission and go girl-hunting or spend the night at his girlfriend's flat. These permissions were not easy to get, but for him they were like free passes - and for me, too, as long as he did the asking. Nagasawa did have a steady girlfriend, one he'd been going out with since his first year. Her name was Hatsumi, and she was the same age as Nagasawa. I had met her a few times and found her to be very nice. She didn't have the kind of looks that immediately attracted attention, and in fact she was so ordinary that when I first met her I had to wonder why Nagasawa couldn't do better, but anyone who talked to her took an immediate liking to her. Quiet, intelligent, funny, caring, she always dressed with immaculate good taste. I liked her a lot and knew that if I could have a girlfriend like Hatsumi, I wouldn't be sleeping around with a bunch of easy marks. She liked me, too, and tried hard to fix me up with a first-year in her club so we could double-date, but I would make up excuses to keep from repeating past mistakes. Hatsumi went to the absolute top girls' college in the country, and there was no way I was going to be able to talk to one of those super-rich princesses. Hatsumi had a pretty good idea that Nagasawa was sleeping around, but she never complained to him. She was seriously in love, but she never made demands. 'I don't deserve a girl like Hatsumi,' Nagasawa once said to me. I had to agree with him. 44 That winter I found a part-time job in a little record shop in Shinjuku. It didn't pay much, but the work was easy - just watching the place three nights a week - and they let me buy records cheap. For Christmas I bought Naoko a Henry Mancini album with a track of her favourite 'Dear Heart'. I wrapped it myself and added a bright red ribbon. She gave me a pair of woollen gloves she had knitted. The thumbs were a little short, but they did keep my hands warm. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, blushing, 'What a bad job!' 'Don't worry, they fit fine,' I said, holding my gloved hands out to her. 'Well, at least you won't have to shove your hands in your pockets, I guess.' Naoko didn't go home to Kobe for the winter break. I stayed in Tokyo, too, working in the record shop right up to the end of the year. I didn't have anything especially fun to do in Kobe or anyone I wanted to see. The dorm's dining hall was closed for the holiday, so I went to Naoko's flat for meals. On New Year's Eve we had rice cakes and soup like everybody else. A lot happened in late January and February that year, 1969. At the end of January, Storm Trooper went to bed with a raging fever. Which meant I had to stand up Naoko that day. I had gone to a lot of trouble to get my hands on some free tickets for a concert. She had been especially eager to go because the orchestra was performing one of her favourites: Brahms' Fourth Symphony. But with Storm Trooper tossing around in bed on the verge of what looked like an agonizing death, I couldn't just leave him, and I couldn't find anyone stupid enough to nurse him in my place. I bought some ice and used several layers of plastic bags to hold it on his forehead, wiped his sweating brow with cold towels, took his temperature every hour, and even changed his vest for him. The fever stayed high for a day, but the following morning he jumped out of bed and started exercising as though nothing had happened. His temperature was completely 45 normal. It was hard to believe he was a human being. 'Weird,' said Storm Trooper. 'I've never run a fever in my life.' It was almost as if he were blaming me. This made me mad. 'But you did have a fever,' I insisted, showing him the two wasted tickets. 'Good thing they were free,' he said. I wanted to grab his radio and throw it out of the window, but instead I went back to bed with a headache. It snowed several times in February. Near the end of the month I got into a stupid fight with one of the third-years on my floor and punched him. He hit his head against the concrete wall, but he wasn't badly injured, and Nagasawa straightened things out for me. Still, I was called into the dorm Head's office and given a warning, after which I grew increasingly uncomfortable living in the dormitory. The academic year ended in March, but I came up a few credits short. My exam results were mediocre - mostly 'C's and 'D's with a few 'B's. Naoko had all the grades she needed to begin the spring term of her second year. We had completed one full cycle of the seasons. Halfway through April Naoko turned 20. She was seven months older than I was, my own birthday being in November. There was something strange about her becoming 20. I. felt as if the only thing that made sense, whether for Naoko or for me, was to keep going back and forth between 18 and 19. After 18 would come 19, and after 19, 18, of course. But she turned 20. And in the autumn, I would do the same. Only the dead stay 17 for ever. It rained on her birthday. After lectures I bought a cake nearby and took the tram to her flat. 'We ought to have a celebration,' I said. I probably would have wanted the same thing if our positions had been reversed. It must be hard to pass your twentieth birthday alone. The tram had been packed and had pitched so wildly that by the time I 46 arrived at Naoko's room the cake was looking more like the Roman Colosseum than anything else. Still, once I had managed to stand up the 20 candles I had brought along, light them, close the curtains and turn out the lights, we had the makings of a birthday party. Naoko opened a bottle of wine. We drank, had some cake, and enjoyed a simple dinner. 'I don't know, it's stupid being 20,' she said. 'I'm just not ready. It feels weird. Like somebody's pushing me from behind.' 'I've got seven months to get ready,' I said with a laugh. 'You're so lucky! Still 19!' said Naoko with a hint of envy. While we ate I told her about Storm Trooper's new jumper. Until then he had had only one, a navy-blue pullover, so two was a big move for him. The jumper itself was a nice one, red and black with a knitted deer motif, but on him it made everybody laugh. He couldn't work out what was going on. 'W what's so funny, Watanabe?' he asked, sitting next to me in the dining hall. 'Is something stuck to my forehead?' 'Nothing,' I said, trying to keep a straight face. 'There's nothing funny. Nice jumper.' 'Thanks,' he said, beaming. Naoko loved the story. 'I have to meet him,' she said. 'Just once.' 'No way,' I said. 'You'd laugh in his face.' 'You think so?' 'I'd bet on it. I see him every day, and still I can't help laughing sometimes.' We cleared the table and sat on the floor, listening to music and drinking the rest of the wine. She drank two glasses in the time it took me to finish one. Naoko was unusually talkative that night. She told me about her childhood, her school, her family. Each episode was a long one, executed with the painstaking detail of a miniature. I was amazed at the power of her memory, but as I sat listening it began to dawn on me that there was something wrong with the way she was telling these 47 stories: something strange, warped even. Each tale had its own internal logic, but the link from one to the next was odd. Before you knew it, story A had turned into story B, which had been contained in A, and then came C from something in B, with no end in sight. I found things to say in response at first, but after a while I stopped trying. I put on a record, and when it ended I lifted the needle and put on another. After the last record I went back to the first. She only had six. The cycle started with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and ended with Bill Evans' Waltz for Debbie. Rain fell past the window. Time moved slowly. Naoko went on talking by herself. It eventually dawned on me what was wrong: Naoko was taking great care as she spoke not to touch on certain things. One of those things was Kizuki, of course, but there was more than Kizuki. And though she had certain subjects she was determined to avoid, she went on endlessly and in incredible detail about the most trivial, inane things. I had never heard her speak with such intensity before, and so I did not interrupt her. Once the clock struck eleven, though, I began to feel nervous. She had been talking non-stop for more than four hours. I had to worry about the last train, and my midnight curfew. I saw my chance and cut in. 'Time for the troops to go home,' I said, looking at my watch. 'Last train's coming.' My words did not seem to reach her. Or, if they did, she was unable to grasp their meaning. She clamped her mouth shut for a split second, then went on with her story. I gave up and, shifting to a more comfortable position, drank what was left of the second bottle of wine. I thought I had better let her talk herself out. The curfew and the last train would have to take care of themselves. She did not go on for long, though. Before I knew it, she had stopped talking. The ragged end of the last word she spoke seemed to float in the air, where it had been torn off. She had not actually finished what she was saying. Her words had simply evaporated. She had been 48 trying to go on, but had come up against nothing. Something was gone now, and I was probably the one who had destroyed it. My words might have finally reached her, taken their time to be understood, and obliterated whatever energy it was that had kept her talking so long. Lips slightly parted, she turned her half focused eyes on mine. She looked like some kind of machine that had been humming along until someone pulled the plug. Her eyes appeared clouded, as if covered by some thin, translucent membrane. 'Sorry to interrupt,' I said, 'but it's getting late, and ...' One big tear spilled from her eye, ran down her cheek and splattered onto a record jacket. Once that first tear broke free, the rest followed in an unbroken stream. Naoko bent forwards on all fours on the floor and, pressing her palms to the mat, began to cry with the force of a person vomiting. Never in my life had I seen anyone cry with such intensity. I reached out and placed a hand on her trembling shoulder. Then, all but instinctively, I took her in my arms. Pressed against me, her whole body trembling, she continued to cry without a sound. My shirt became damp - then soaked - with her tears and hot breath. Soon her fingers began to move across my back as if in search of something, some important thing that had always been there. Supporting her weight with my left arm, I used my right hand to caress her soft, straight hair. And I waited. In that position, I waited for Naoko to stop crying. And I went on waiting. But Naoko's crying never stopped. I slept with Naoko that night. Was it the right thing to do? I can't tell. Even now, almost 20 years later, I can't be sure. I suppose I'll never know. But at the time, it was all I could do. She was in a heightened state of tension and confusion, and she made it clear she wanted me to give her release. I turned the lights down and began, one piece at a time, with the gentlest touch I could manage, to remove her clothes. Then I undressed. It was warm enough, that rainy April night, for us to cling to each other's nakedness without a sense of chill. We explored 49 each other's bodies in the darkness without words. I kissed her and held her soft breasts in my hands. She clutched at my erection. Her opening was warm and wet and asking for me. And yet, when I went inside her, Naoko tensed with pain. Was this her first time? I asked, and she nodded. Now it was my turn to be confused. I had assumed that Naoko had been sleeping with Kizuki all that time. I went in as far as I could and stayed that way for a long time, holding Naoko, without moving. And then, as she began to seem calmer, I allowed myself to move inside her, taking a long time to come to climax, with slow, gentle movements. Her arms tightened around me at the end, when at last she broke her silence. Her cry was the saddest sound of orgasm I had ever heard. When everything had ended, I asked Naoko why she had never slept with Kizuki. This was a mistake. No sooner had I asked the question than she took her arms from me and started crying soundlessly again. I pulled her bedding from the closet, spread it on the mat floor, and put her in beneath the covers. Smoking, I watched the endless April rain beyond the window. The rain had stopped when morning came. Naoko was sleeping with her back to me. Or maybe she hadn't slept at all. Whether she was awake or asleep, all words had left her lips, and her body now seemed stiff, almost frozen. I tried several times to talk to her, but she would not answer or move. I stared for a long time at her naked shoulder, but in the end I lost all hope of eliciting a response and decided to get up. The floor was still littered with record jackets, glasses, wine bottles and the ashtray I had been using. Half the caved-in birthday cake remained on the table. It was as if time had come to a halt. I picked up the things off the floor and drank two glasses of water at the sink. On Naoko's desk lay a dictionary and a French verb chart. On the wall above the desk hung a calendar, one without an illustration or photo of any kind, just the numbers of the days of the month. There were no memos or marks written next to any of the dates. 50 I picked up my clothes and dressed. The chest of my shirt was still damp and chilly. It had Naoko's smell. On the notepad lying on the desk I wrote: I'd like to have a good long talk with you once you've calmed down. Please call me soon. Happy Birthday. I took one last look at Naoko's shoulder, stepped outside and quietly shut the door. No call came even after a week had passed. Naoko's house had no system for calling people to the phone, and so on Sunday morning I took the train out to Kokubunji. She wasn't there, and her name had been removed from the door. The windows and storm shutters were closed tight. The manager told me that Naoko had moved out three days earlier. He had no idea where she had moved to. I went back to the dorm and wrote Naoko a long letter addressed to her home in Kobe. Wherever she was, they would forward it to her at least. I gave her an honest account of my feelings. There was a lot I still didn't understand, I said, and though I was trying hard to understand, it would take time. Where I would be once that time had gone by, it was impossible for me to say now, which is why it was impossible for me to make promises or demands, or to set down pretty words. For one thing, we knew too little of each other. If, however, she would grant me the time, I would give it my best effort, and the two of us would come to know each other better. In any case, I wanted to see her again and have a good long talk. When I lost Kizuki, I lost the one person to whom I could speak honestly of my feelings, and I imagined it had been the same for Naoko. She and I had needed each other more than either of us knew. Which was no doubt why our relationship had taken such a major detour and become, in a sense, warped. I probably should not have done what I did, and yet I believe that it was all I could do. The warmth and closeness I felt for you at that moment was something I have never experienced before. I need you to answer this 51 letter. Whatever that answer may be, I need to have it. No answer came. Something inside me had dropped away, and nothing came in to fill the empty cavern. There was an abnormal lightness to my body, and sounds had a hollow echo to them. I went to lectures more faithfully than ever. They were boring, and I never talked to my fellow students, but I had nothing else to do. I would sit by myself in the very front row of the lecture hall, speak to no one and eat alone. I stopped smoking. The student strike started at the end of May. 'Dismantle the University!' they all screamed. Go ahead, do it, I thought. Dismantle it. Tear it apart. Crush it to bits. I don't give a damn. It would be a breath of fresh air. I'm ready for anything. I'll help if necessary. Just go ahead and do it. With the campus blockaded and lectures suspended, I started to work at a delivery company. Sitting with the driver, loading and unloading lorries, that kind of stuff. It was tougher than I thought. At first I could hardly get out of bed in the morning with the pain. The pay was good, though, and as long as I kept my body moving I could forget about the emptiness inside. I worked on the lorries five days a week, and three nights a week I continued my job at the record shop. Nights without work I spent with whisky and books. Storm Trooper wouldn't touch whisky and couldn't stand the smell, so when I was sprawled on my bed drinking it straight, he'd complain that the fumes made it impossible for him to study and ask me to take my bottle outside. 'You get the hell out,' I growled. 'But you know drinking in the dorm is a-a-against the rules.' 'I don't give a shit. You get out.' He stopped complaining, but now I was annoyed. I went to the roof and drank alone. In June I wrote Naoko another long letter, addressing it again to her house in Kobe. It said pretty much the same thing as the first one, but 52 at the end I added: Waiting for your answer is one of the most painful things I have ever been through. At least let me know whether or not I hurt you. When I posted it, I felt as if the cavern inside me had grown again. That June I went out with Nagasawa twice again to sleep with girls. It was easy both times. The first girl put up a terrific struggle when I tried to get her undressed and into the hotel bed, but when I began reading alone because it just wasn't worth it, she came over and started nuzzling me. And after I had done it with the second one, she started asking me all kinds of personal questions - how many girls had I slept with? Where was I from? Which university did I go to? What kind of music did I like? Had I ever read any novels by Osamu Dazai? Where would I like to go if I could travel abroad? Did I think her nipples were too big? I made up some answers and went to sleep, but next morning she said she wanted to have breakfast with me, and she kept up the stream of questions over the tasteless eggs and toast and coffee. What kind of work did my father do? Did I get good marks at school? What month was I born? Had I ever eaten frogs? She was giving me a headache, so as soon as we had finished eating I said I had to go to work. 'Will I ever see you again?' she asked with a sad look. 'Oh, I'm sure we'll meet again somewhere before long,' I said, and left. What the hell am I doing? I started wondering as soon as I was alone, feeling disgusted with myself. And yet it was all I could do. My body was hungering for women. All the time I was sleeping with those girls I thought about Naoko: the white shape of her naked body in the darkness, her sighs, the sound of the rain. The more I thought about these things, the hungrier my body grew. I went up to the roof with my whisky and asked myself where I thought I was heading. Finally, at the beginning of July, a letter came from Naoko. A short letter. 53 Please forgive me for not answering sooner. But try to understand. It took me a very long time before I was in any condition to write, and I have started this letter at least ten times. Writing is a painful process for me. Let me begin with my conclusion. I have decided to take a year off from college. Officially, it's a leave of absence, but I suspect that I will never be going back. This will no doubt come as a surprise to you, but in fact I had been thinking about doing this for a very long time. I tried a few times to mention it to you, but I was never able to make myself begin. I was afraid even to pronounce the words. Try not to get so worked up about things. Whatever happened - or didn't happen - the end result would have been the same. This may not be the best way to put it, and I'm sorry if it hurts you. What I am trying to tell you is, I don't want you to blame yourself for what happened with me. It is something I have to take on all by myself. I had been putting it off for more than a year, and so I ended up making things very difficult for you. There is probably no way to put it off any longer. After I moved out of my flat, I came back to my family's house in Kobe and was seeing a doctor for a while. He tells me there is a place in the hills outside Kyoto that would be perfect for me, and I'm thinking of spending a little time there. It's not exactly a hospital, more a sanatorium kind of thing with a far freer style of treatment. I'll leave the details for another letter. What I need now is to rest my nerves in a quiet place cut off from the world. I feel grateful in my own way for the year of companionship you gave me. Please believe that much even if you believe nothing else. You are not the one who hurt me. I myself am the one who did that. This is truly how I feel. For now, however, I am not prepared to see you. It's not that I don't want to see you: I'm simply not prepared for it. The moment I feel ready, I will write to you. Perhaps then we can get to know each other 54 better. As you say, this is probably what we should do: get to know each other better. Goodbye. I read Naoko's letter again and again, and each time I would be filled with that same unbearable sadness I used to feel whenever Naoko herself stared into my eyes. I had no way to deal with it, no place I could take it to or hide it away. Like the wind passing over my body, it had neither shape nor weight nor could I wrap myself in it. Objects in the scene would drift past me, but the words they spoke never reached my ears. I continued to spend my Saturday nights sitting in the hall. There was no hope of a phone call, but I didn't know what else to do with the time. I would switch on a baseball game and pretend to watch it as I cut the empty space between me and the television set in two, then cut each half in two again, over and over, until I had fashioned a space small enough to hold in my hand. I would switch the set off at ten, go back to my room, and go to sleep. At the end of the month, Storm Trooper gave me a firefly. It was in an instant coffee jar with air holes in the lid and containing some blades of grass and a little water. In the bright room the firefly looked like some kind of ordinary black insect you'd find by a pond somewhere, but Storm Trooper insisted it was the real thing. 'I know a firefly when I see one,' he said, and I had no reason or basis to disbelieve him. 'Fine,' I said. 'It's a firefly.' It had a sleepy look on its face, but it kept trying to climb up the slippery glass walls of the jar and falling back. 'I found it in the quad,' he said. 'Here? By the dorm?' 'Yeah. You know the hotel down the street? They release fireflies in 55 their garden for summer guests. This one made it over here.' Storm Trooper was busy stuffing clothes and notebooks into his black Boston bag as he spoke. We were several weeks into the summer holidays, and he and I were almost the only ones left in the dorm. I had carried on with my jobs rather than go back to Kobe, and he had stayed on for a practical training session. Now that the training had ended, he was going back to the mountains of Yamanashi. 'You could give this to your girlfriend,' he said. 'I'm sure she'd love it.' 'Thanks,' I said. After dark the dorm was hushed, like a ruin. The flag had been lowered and the lights glowed in the windows of the dining hall. With so few students left, they turned on only half the lights in the place, keeping the right half dark and the left lighted. Still, the smell of dinner drifted up to me - some kind of cream stew. I took my bottled firefly to the roof. No one else was up there. A white vest hung on a clothesline that someone had forgotten to take in, waving in the evening breeze like the discarded shell of some huge insect. I climbed a steel ladder in the corner of the roof to the top of the dormitory's water tank. The tank was still warm with the heat of the sunlight it had absorbed during the day. I sat in the narrow space above the tank, leaning against the handrail and coming face-to-face with an almost full white moon. The lights of Shinjuku glowed to the right, Ikebukuro to the left. Car headlights flowed in brilliant streams from one pool of light to the other. A dull roar of jumbled sounds hung over the city like a cloud. The firefly made a faint glow in the bottom of the jar, its light all too weak, its colour all too pale. I hadn't seen a firefly in years, but the ones in my memory sent a far more intense light into the summer darkness, and that brilliant, burning image was the one that had stayed with me all that time. 56 Maybe this firefly was on the verge of death. I gave the jar a few shakes. The firefly bumped against the glass walls and tried to fly, but its light remained dim. I tried to remember when I had last seen fireflies, and where it might have been. I could see the scene in my mind, but was unable to recall the time or place. I could hear the sound of water in the darkness and see an old-fashioned brick sluice gate. It had a handle you could turn to open and close the gate. The stream it controlled was small enough to be hidden by the grass on its banks. The night was dark, so dark I couldn't see my feet when I turned out my torch. Hundreds of fireflies drifted over the pool of water held back by the sluice gate, their hot glow reflected in the water like a shower of sparks. I closed my eyes and steeped myself in that long-ago darkness. I heard the wind with unusual clarity. A light breeze swept past me, leaving strangely brilliant trails in the dark. I opened my eyes to find the darkness of the summer night a few degrees deeper than it had been. I twisted open the lid of the jar and took out the firefly, setting it on the two-inch lip of the water tank. It seemed not to grasp its new surroundings. It hobbled around the head of a steel bolt, catching its legs on curling scabs of paint. It moved to the right until it found its way blocked, then circled back to the left. Finally, with some effort, it mounted the head of the bolt and crouched there for a while, unmoving, as if it had taken its last breath. Still leaning against the handrail, I studied the firefly. Neither I nor it made a move for a very long time. The wind continued sweeping past the two of us while the numberless leaves of the zelkova tree rustled in the darkness. I waited for ever. Only much later did the firefly take to the air. As if some thought had suddenly occurred to it, the firefly spread its wings, and in a moment 57 it had flown past the handrail to float in the pale darkness. It traced a swift arc by the side of the water tank as though trying to bring back a lost interval in time. And then, after hovering there for a few seconds as if to watch its curved line of light blend into the wind, it finally flew off to the east. Long after the firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained inside me, its pale, faint glow hovering on and on in the thick darkness behind my eyelids like a lost soul. More than once I tried stretching my hand out in the dark. My fingers touched nothing. The faint glow remained, just beyond my grasp. 58 During the summer holidays the university called in the riot police. They broke down the barricades and arrested the students inside. This was nothing new. It's what all the students were doing at the time. The universities were not so easily 'dismantled'. Massive amounts of capital had been invested in them, and they were not about to dissolve just because a few students had gone wild. And in fact those students who had sealed off the campus had not wanted to dismantle the university either. All they had really wanted to do was shift the balance of power within the university structure, about which I couldn't have cared less. And so, when the strike was finally crushed, I felt nothing. I went to the campus in September expecting to find rubble. The place was untouched. The library's books had not been carted off, the tutors' offices had not been destroyed, the student affairs office had not been burned to the ground. I was thunderstruck. What the hell had they been doing behind the barricades? When the strike was defused and lectures started up again under police occupation, the first ones to take their seats in the classrooms were those arseholes who had led the strike. As if nothing had ever happened, they sat there taking notes and answering 'present' when the register was taken. I found this incredible. After all, the strike was still in effect. There had been no declaration bringing it to an end. All that had happened was that the university had called in the riot police and torn down the barricades, but the strike itself was supposed to be 59 continuing. The arseholes had screamed their heads off at the time of the strike, denouncing students who opposed it (or just expressed doubts about it), at times even trying them in their own kangaroo courts. I made a point of visiting those former leaders and asking why they were attending lectures instead of continuing to strike, but they couldn't give me a straight answer. What could they have said? That they were afraid of losing marks through lack of attendance? To think that these idiots had been the ones screaming for the dismantling of the university! What a joke. The wind changes direction a little, and their cries become whispers. Hey, Kizuki, I thought, you're not missing a damn thing. This world is a piece of shit. The arseholes are getting good marks and helping to create a society in their own disgusting image. For a while I attended lectures but refused to answer when they took the register. I knew it was a pointless gesture, but I felt so bad I had no choice. All I managed to do was isolate myself more than ever from the other students. By remaining silent when my name was called, I made everyone uncomfortable for a few seconds. None of the other students spoke to me, and I spoke to none of them. By the second week in September I reached the conclusion that a university education was meaningless. I decided to think of it as a period of training in techniques for dealing with boredom. I had nothing I especially wanted to accomplish in society that would require me to abandon my studies straight away, and so I went to my lectures each day, took notes, and spent my free time in the library reading or looking things up. And though that second week in September had rolled around, there was no sign of Storm Trooper. More than unusual, this was an earthshattering development. University had started up again, and it was inconceivable that Storm Trooper would miss lectures. A thin layer of 60 dust covered his desk and radio. His plastic cup and toothbrush, tea tin, insecticide spray and so on stood in a neat row on his shelf. I kept the room clean in his absence. I had picked up the habit of neatness over the past year and a half, and without him there to take care of the room, I had no choice but to do it. I swept the floor each day, wiped the window every third day, and aired my mattress once a week, waiting for him to come back and tell me what a great job I had done. But he never came back. I returned from lectures one day to find all his stuff gone and his name tag removed from the door. I went to the dorm Head's room and asked what had happened. 'He's withdrawn from the dormitory,' he said. 'You'll be alone in the room for the time being.' I couldn't get him to tell me why Storm Trooper had disappeared. This was a man whose greatest joy in life was to control everything and keep others in the dark. Storm Trooper's iceberg poster stayed on the wall for a time, but I eventually took it down and replaced it with Jim Morrison and Miles Davis. This made the room seem a little more like my own. I used some of the money I had saved from work to buy a small stereo. At night I would drink alone and listen to music. I thought about Storm Trooper every now and then, but I enjoyed living alone. At 11.30 a.m. one Monday, after a lecture on Euripides in History of Drama, I took a ten-minute walk to a little restaurant and had an omelette and salad for lunch. The place was on a quiet backstreet and was slightly more expensive than the student dining hall, but you could relax there, and they knew how to make a good omelette. 'They' were a married couple who rarely spoke to each other, plus one part-time waitress. As I sat there eating by the window, a group of four students came in, two men and two women, all rather neatly dressed. They took the table near the door, spent some time looking 61 over the menu and discussing their options, until one of them reported their choices to the waitress. Before long I noticed that one of the girls kept glancing in my direction. She had extremely short hair and wore dark sunglasses and a white cotton mini-dress. I had no idea who she was, so I went on with my lunch, but she soon slipped out of her seat and came over to where I was sitting. With one hand on the edge of my table, she said, 'You're Watanabe, aren't you?' I raised my head and looked at her more closely. Still I could not recall ever having seen her. She was the kind of girl you notice, so if I had met her before I should have been able to recognize her immediately, and there weren't that many people in my university who knew me by name. 'Mind if I sit down?' she asked. 'Or are you expecting somebody?' Still uncertain, I shook my head. 'No, nobody's coming. Please.' With a wooden clunk, she dragged a chair out and sat down opposite, staring straight at me through her sunglasses, then glancing at my plate. 'Looks good,' she said. 'It is good. Mushroom omelette and green pea salad.' 'Damn,' she said. 'Oh, well, I'll get it next time. I've already ordered something else.' 'What are you having?' 'Macaroni and cheese.' 'Their macaroni and cheese isn't bad, either,' I said. 'By the way, do I know you? I don't recall. ..' 'Euripides,' she said. 'Electra. 'No god hearkens to the voice of lost Electra.' You know - the class just ended.' I stared hard at her. She took off her sunglasses. At last I remembered her - a first-year I had seen in History of Drama. A striking change in hairstyle had prevented me recognizing her. 'Oh,' I said, touching a point a few inches below my shoulder, 'your hair was down to here before the summer holidays.' 'You're right,' 62 she said. 'I had a perm this summer, and it was just awful. I was ready to kill myself. I looked like a corpse on the beach with seaweed stuck to my head. So I decided as long as I was ready to die, I might as well cut it all off. At least it's cool in the summer.' She ran her hand through her pixie cut and gave me a smile. 'It looks good, though,' I said, still munching my omelette. 'Let me see your profile.' She turned away and held the pose a few seconds. 'Yeah, I thought so. It really looks good on you. Nicely shaped head. Pretty ears, too, uncovered like that.' 'So I'm not mad after all! I thought I looked good myself once I cut it all off. Not one guy likes it, though. They all tell me I look like a concentration camp survivor. What's this thing that guys have for girls with long hair? Fascists, the whole bunch of them! Why do guys all think girls with long hair are the classiest, the sweetest, the most feminine? I mean, I myself know at least 250 unclassy girls with long hair. Really.' 'I think you look better now than you did before,' I said. And I meant it. As far as I could recall, with long hair she had been just another cute student. A fresh and physical life force surged from the girl who sat before me now. She was like a small animal that has popped into the world with the coming of spring. Her eyes moved like an independent organism with joy, laughter, anger, amazement and despair. I hadn't seen a face so vivid and expressive in ages, and I enjoyed watching it live and move. 'Do you mean it?' she asked. I nodded, still munching on my salad. She put on her sunglasses and looked at me from behind them. 'You're not lying, are you?' 'I like to think of myself as an honest man,' I said. 'Far out.' 'So tell me: why do you wear such dark glasses?' 'I felt defenceless when my hair got short all of a sudden. 63 As if somebody had thrown me into a crowd all naked.' 'Makes sense,' I said, eating the last of my omelette. She watched me with intense interest. 'You don't have to go back to them?' I asked, indicating her three companions. 'Nah. I'll go back when they serve the food. Am I interrupting your meal?' 'There's nothing left to interrupt,' I said, ordering coffee when she showed no sign of leaving. The wife took my dishes and brought milk and sugar. 'Now you tell me,' she said. 'Why didn't you answer today when they called the register? You are Watanabe, aren't you? Toru Watanabe?' 'That's me.' 'So why didn't you answer?' 'I just didn't feel like it today.' She took off her sunglasses again, set them on the table, and looked at me as if she were staring into the cage of some rare animal at a zoo. 'I just didn't feel like it today.' You talk like Humphrey Bogart. Cool. Tough.' 'Don't be silly. I'm just an ordinary guy like everybody else.' The wife brought my coffee and set it on the table. I took a sip without adding sugar or milk. 'Look at that. You drink it black.' 'It's got nothing to do with Humphrey Bogart,' I explained patiently. 'I just don't happen to have a sweet tooth. I think you've got me all wrong.' 'Why are you so tanned?' 'I've been hiking around the last couple of weeks. Rucksack. Sleeping bag.' 'Where'd you go?' 'Kanazawa. Noto Peninsula. Up to Niigata.' 'Alone?' 'Alone,' I said. 'Found some company here and there.' 'Some 64 romantic company? New women in far-off places.' 'Romantic? Now I know you've got me wrong. How's a guy with a sleeping bag on his back and his face all stubbly supposed to have romance?' 'Do you always travel alone like that?' 'Uh-huh.' 'You enjoy solitude?' she asked, resting her cheek on her hand. 'Travelling alone, eating alone, sitting by yourself in lecture halls ...' 'Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.' The tip of one earpiece in her mouth, sunglasses dangling down, she mumbled, ''Nobody likes being alone. I just hate to be disappointed.' You can use that line if you ever write your autobiography.' 'Thanks,' I said. 'Do you like green?' 'Why do you ask?' 'You're wearing a green polo shirt.' 'Not especially. I'll wear anything.' ''Not especially. I'll wear anything.' I love the way you talk. Like spreading plaster, nice and smooth. Has anybody ever told you that?' 'Nobody,' I said. 'My name's Midori,' she said. ''Green'. But green looks terrible on me. Weird, huh? It's like I'm cursed, don't you think? My sister's name is Momoko: 'Peach girl'.' 'Does she look good in pink?' 'She looks great in pink! She was born to wear pink. It's totally unfair.' The food arrived at Midori's table, and a guy in a madras jacket called out to her, 'Hey, Midori, come 'n' get it!' She waved at him as if to say 'I know'. 'Tell me,' she said. 'Do you take lecture notes? In drama?' 'I do.' 'I hate to ask, but could I borrow your notes? I've missed twice, and I don't know anybody in the class.' 'No problem,' I said, pulling the notebook from my bag. 65 After checking to make sure I hadn't written anything personal in it, I handed it to Midori. 'Thanks,' she said. 'Are you coming to lectures the day after tomorrow?' 'Yeah.' 'Meet me here at noon. I'll give you back your notebook and buy you lunch. I mean ... it's not as if you get an upset stomach or anything if you don't eat alone, right?' 'No,' I said. 'But you don't have to buy me lunch just because I'm lending you my notebook.' 'Don't worry,' she said. 'I like buying people lunch. Anyway, shouldn't you write it down somewhere? You won't forget?' 'I won't forget. Day after tomorrow. Twelve o'clock. Midori. Green.' From the other table, somebody called out, 'Hurry up, Midori, your food's getting cold!' She ignored the call and asked me, 'Have you always talked like that?' 'I think so,' I said. 'Never noticed before.' And in fact no one had ever told me there was anything unusual about the way I spoke. She seemed to be mulling something over for a few seconds. Then she stood up with a smile and went back to her table. She waved to me as I walked past their table, but the three others barely glanced in my direction. At noon on Wednesday there was no sign of Midori in the restaurant. I thought I might wait for her over a beer, but the place started to fill up as soon as the drink arrived, so I ordered lunch and ate alone. I finished at 12.35, but still no Midori. Paying my bill, I went outside and crossed the street to a little shrine, where I waited on the stone steps for my head to clear and Midori to come. I gave up at one o'clock and went to read in the library. At two I went to my German 66 lecture. When it was over I went to the student affairs office and looked for Midori's name in the class list for History of Drama. The only Midori in the class was Midori Kobayashi. Next I flipped through the cards of the student files and found the address and phone number of a Midori Kobayashi who had entered the university in 1969. She lived in a north-west suburb, Toshima, with her family. I slipped into a phone box and dialled the number. A man answered: 'Kobayashi Bookshop.' Kobayashi Bookshop? 'Sorry to bother you,' I said, 'but I wonder if Midori might be in?' 'No, she's not,' he said. 'Do you think she might be on campus?' 'Hmm, no, she's probably at the hospital. Who's calling, please?' Instead of answering, I thanked him and hung up. The hospital? Could she have been injured or fallen ill? But the man had spoken without the least sense of emergency. 'She's probably at the hospital,' he had said, as easily as he might have said 'She's at the fish shop'. I thought about a few other possibilities until thinking itself became too problematic, then I went back to the dorm and stretched out on my bed reading Lord Jim, which I'd borrowed from Nagasawa. When I had finished it, I went to his room to give it back. Nagasawa was on his way to the dining hall, so I went with him for dinner. 'How'd the exams go?' I asked. The second round of upper level exams for the Foreign Ministry had been held in August. 'Same as always,' said Nagasawa as if it had been nothing. 'You take 'em, you pass. Group discussions, interviews ... like screwin' a chick.' 'In other words, easy,' I said. 'When do they let you know?' 'First week of October. If I pass, I'll buy you a big dinner.' 'So tell me, what kind of guys make it to round two? All superstars 67 like you?' 'Don't be stupid. They're a bunch of idiots. Idiots or weirdos. I'd say 95 per cent of the guys who want to be bureaucrats aren't worth shit. I'm not kidding. They can barely read.' 'So why are you trying to join the Foreign Ministry?' 'All kinds of reasons,' said Nagasawa. 'I like the idea of working overseas, for one. But mainly I want to test my abilities. If I'm going to test myself, I want to do it in the biggest field there is - the nation. I want to see how high I can climb, how much power I can exercise in this insanely huge bureaucratic system. Know what I mean?' 'Sounds like a game.' 'It is a game. I don't give a damn about power and money per se. Really, I don't. I may be a selfish bastard, but I'm incredibly cool about shit like that. I could be a Zen saint. The one thing I do have, though, is curiosity. I want to see what I can do out there in the big, tough world.' 'And you have no use for 'ideals', I suppose?' 'None. Life doesn't require ideals. It requires standards of action.' 'But there are lots of other ways to live, aren't there?' I asked. 'You like the way I live, don't you?' 'That's beside the point,' I said. 'I could never get into Tokyo University; I can't sleep with any girl I want whenever I want to; I'm no great talker; people don't look up to me; I haven't got a girlfriend; and the future's not going to open up to me when I get a literature BA from a second-rate private university. What does it matter if I like the way you live?' 'Are you saying you envy the way I live?' 'No, I don't,' I said. 'I'm too used to being who I am. And I don't really give a damn about Tokyo University or the Foreign Ministry. The one thing I envy you for is having a terrific girlfriend like Hatsumi.' Nagasawa shut up and ate. When dinner was over he said, 'You know, 68 Watanabe, I have this feeling like, maybe 10 years or 20 years after we get out of this place, we're going to meet again somewhere. And one way or another, I think we're going to have some connection.' 'Sounds like Dickens,' I said with a smile. 'I guess it does,' he said, smiling back. 'But my hunches are usually right.' The two of us left the dining hall and went out to a bar. We stayed there drinking until after nine. 'Tell me, Nagasawa,' I asked, 'what is the 'standard of action' in your life?' 'You'll laugh if I tell you,' he said. 'No I won't.' 'All right,' he said. 'To be a gentleman.' I didn't laugh, but I nearly fell off my chair. 'To be a gentleman? A gentleman?' 'You heard me.' 'What does it mean to be a gentleman? How do you define it?' 'A gentleman is someone who does not what he wants to do but what he should do.' 'You're the weirdest guy I've ever met,' I said. 'You're the straightest guy I've ever met,' he said. And he paid for us both. I went to the following week's drama lecture, but still saw no sign of Midori Kobayashi. After a quick survey of the room convinced me she wasn't there, I took my usual seat in the front row and wrote a letter to Naoko while I waited for the lecturer to arrive. I wrote about my summer travels - the roads I had walked, the towns I had passed through, the people I had met. And every night I thought of you. Now that I can no longer see you, I realize how much I need you. University is incredibly boring, but as a matter of self-discipline I am going to all my lectures 69 and doing all the assignments. Everything seems pointless since you left. I'd like to have a nice, long talk with you. If possible, I'd like to visit your sanatorium and see you for several hours. And, if possible, I'd like to go out walking with you side by side the way we used to. Please try to answer this letter - even a short note. I won't mind. I filled four sheets, folded them, slipped them into an envelope, and addressed it to Naoko care of her family. By then the lecturer had arrived, wiping the sweat from his brow as he took the register. He was a small, mournfullooking man who walked with a metal cane. While not exactly fun, the lectures in his course were always well prepared and worthwhile. After remarking that the weather was as hot as ever, he began to talk about the use of the deus ex machina in Euripides and explained how the concept of 'god' was different in Euripides than in Aeschylus or Sophocles. He had been talking for some 15 minutes when the lecture-hall door opened and in walked Midori. She was wearing a dark blue sports shirt, creamcoloured cotton trousers and her usual sunglasses. After flashing a 'sorry I'm late' kind of smile at the professor, she sat down next to me. Then she took a notebook - my notebook - from her shoulder bag, and handed it to me. Inside, I found a note: Sorry about Wednesday. Are you angry? The lecture was about half over and the professor was drawing a sketch of a Greek stage on the blackboard when the door opened again and two students in helmets walked in. They looked like some kind of comedy team, one tall, thin and pale, the other short, round and dark with a long beard that didn't suit him. The tall one carried an armful of political agitation handbills. The short one walked up to the professor and said, with a degree of politeness, that they would like to use the second half of his lecture for political debate and hoped that he would cooperate, adding, 'The world is full of problems far more urgent and relevant than Greek tragedy.' This was more an announcement than a request. The professor replied, 'I rather doubt that the world has 70 problems far more urgent and relevant than Greek tragedy, but you're not going to listen to anything I have to say, so do what you like.' Grasping the edge of the table, he set his feet on the floor, picked up his cane and limped out of the classroom. While the tall student passed out his handbills, the round one went to the podium and started lecturing. The handbills were full of the usual simplistic sloganeering: 'SMASH FRAUDULENT ELECTIONS FOR UNIVERSITY PRESIDENT!', 'MARSHAL ALL FORCES FOR NEW ALL-CAMPUS STRIKE!', 'CRUSH THE IMPERIAL-EDUCATIONAL-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX!' I had no problem with what they were saying, but the writing was lame. It had nothing to inspire confidence or arouse the passions. And the round man's speech was just as bad - the same old tune with different words. The true enemy of this bunch was not State Power but Lack of Imagination. 'Let's get out of here,' said Midori. I nodded and stood, and the two of us made for the door. The round man said something to me at that point, but I couldn't catch it. Midori waved to him and said, 'See ya later.' ,Hey, are we counter-revolutionaries?' Midori asked me when we were outside. 'Are we going to be strung upon telephone poles if the revolution succeeds?' 'Let's have lunch first, just in case.' 'Good. There's a place I want to take you to. It's a bit far, though. Can you spare the time?' 'Yeah, I'm free until my two o'clock class.' Midori took me by bus to Yotsuya and showed me to a fancy boxedlunch speciality shop in a sheltered spot just behind the station. The minute we sat down they served us soup and the lunch of the day in square, red-lacquered boxes. This was a place worth a bus ride to eat at. 71 'Great food,' I said. 'And cheap, too. I've been coming here since school. My old school's just down the street. They were so strict, we had to sneak out to eat here. They'd suspend you if they caught you eating out.' Without the sunglasses, Midori's eyes looked somewhat sleepier than they had the last time. When she was not playing with the narrow silver bracelet on her left wrist, she would be rubbing at the corners of her eyes with the tip of her little finger. 'Tired?' I asked. 'Kind of. I'm not getting enough sleep. But I'm OK, don't worry,' she said. 'Sorry about the other day. Something important came up and I just couldn't get out of it. All of a sudden, in the morning. I thought about calling you at the restaurant, but I couldn't remember the name, and I didn't know your home number. Did you wait long?' 'No big deal. I've got a lot of time on my hands.' A lot?' 'Way more than I need. I wish I could give you some to help you sleep.' Midori rested her cheek on her hand and smiled at me. 'What a nice guy you are.' 'Not nice. I just have time to kill,' I said. 'By the way, I called your house that day and somebody told me you were at the hospital. Something wrong?' 'You called my house?' she asked with a slight wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. 'How did you get my number?' 'Looked it up in the student affairs office. Anyone can do that.' She nodded once or twice and started playing with the bracelet again. 'I never would have thought of that. I suppose I could have looked up your number. Anyway, about the hospital, I'll tell you next time. I don't feel like it now. Sorry.' 'That's OK. I didn't mean to pry.' 'No, you're not prying. I'm just kind of tired. Like a monkey in the 72 rain.' 'Shouldn't you go home and get some sleep?' 'Not now. Let's get out of here.' She took me to her old school, a short walk from Yotsuya. Passing the station, I thought about Naoko and our endless walking. It had all started from there. I realized that if I hadn't run into Naoko on the train that Sunday in May, My life would have been very different from what it was now. But then I changed my mind: no, even if we hadn't met that day, my life might not have been any different. We were supposed to meet. If not then, some other time. I didn't have any basis for thinking this: it was just a feeling. Midori Kobayashi and I sat on a park bench together, looking at her old school. Ivy clung to the walls, and pigeons huddled under the gables, resting their wings. It was a nice, old building with character. A great oak tree stood in the playground, and a column of white smoke rose straight up beside it. The fading summer light gave the smoke a soft and cloudy look. 'Do you know what that smoke is?' Midori asked me all of a sudden. 'No idea,' I said. 'They're burning sanitary towels.' 'Really?' I couldn't think of anything else to say. 'Sanitary towels, tampons, stuff like that,' she said with a smile. 'It is a girls' school. The old caretaker collects them from all the receptacles and burns them in the incinerator. That's the smoke.' 'Whoa.' 'Yeah, that's what I used to say to myself whenever I was in class and saw the smoke outside the window. 'Whoa'. Think about it: the school had almost a thousand girls. So, say 900 of them have started their periods, and maybe a fifth of them are menstruating at any one time: 180 girls. That's 180 girls' worth of towels in the receptacles every day.' 73 'I bet you're right - though I'm not sure about the maths.' 'Anyway, it's a lot. 180 girls. What do you think it feels like to collect and burn that much stuff?' 'Can't imagine,' I said. How could I have imagined what the old man was going through? Midori and I went on watching the smoke. 'I really didn't want to go to this school,' Midori said. She gave her head a little shake. 'I wanted to go to an absolutely ordinary State school with ordinary people where I could relax and have fun like an ordinary teenager. But my parents thought it would look good for me to go to this fancy place. They're the ones who stuck me in here. You know: that's what happens when you do well in primary school. The teacher tells your parents 'With marks like hers, she ought to go there.' So that's where I ended up. I went for six years and I never liked it. All I could think about was getting out. And you know, I've got certificates of merit for never having been late or missed a day of school. That's how much I hated the place. Get it?' 'No, I don't get it.' 'It's because I hated the place so much. I wasn't going to let it beat me. If I'd let it get to me once I'd be finished. I was scared I'd just keep slipping down and down. I'd crawl to school with a temperature of 103. The teacher would ask me if I was sick, but I'd say no. When I left they gave me certificates for perfect attendance and punctuality, plus a French dictionary. That's why I'm taking German now. I didn't want to owe this school anything. I'm not kidding.' 'Why did you hate it so much? 'Did you like your school?' 'Well, no, but I didn't especially hate it, either. I went to an ordinary State school but I never thought about it one way or another.' 'Well, this school,' Midori said, scratching the corner of her eye with her little finger, 'had nothing but upper-class girls - almost a thousand girls with good backgrounds and good exam results. Rich girls. They had to be rich to survive. High tuition, endless contributions, 74 expensive school trips. For instance, if we went to Kyoto, they'd put us up in a first-class inn and serve us tea ceremony food on lacquer tables, and they'd take us once a year to the most expensive hotel in Tokyo to study table manners. I mean, this was no ordinary school. Out of 160 girls in my class, I was the only one from a middle-class neighbourhood like Toshima. I looked at the school register once to see where the others lived, and every single one of them was from a rich area. Well, no, there was one girl from way out in Chiba with the farmers, so I got kind of friendly with her. And she was really nice. She invited me to her house, though she apologized for how far I'd have to travel to get there. I went and it was incredible, this giant piece of land you'd have to walk 15 minutes to get around. It had this amazing garden and two dogs like compact cars they fed steaks to. But still, this girl felt embarrassed about living out in Chiba. This is a girl who would be driven to school in a Mercedes Benz if she was late! By a chauffeur! Like right out of the Green Hornet: the hat, the white gloves, the whole deal. And still she had this inferiority complex. Can you believe it?' I shook my head. 'I was the only one in the whole school who lived in a place like KitaOtsuka Toshima. And under 'parent's profession' it said 'bookshop owner'. Everybody in my class thought that was so neat: 'Oh, you're so lucky, you can read any book you like' and stuff. Of course, they were thinking of some monster bookshop like Kinokuniya. They could never have imagined the poor, little Kobayashi Bookshop. The door creaks open and you see nothing but magazines. The steady sellers are the women's glossies with illustrated pull-out sections on the latest sexual techniques. The local housewives buy them and sit at the kitchen table reading them from cover to cover, and give 'em a try when their husbands get home. And they've got the most incredible positions! Is this what housewives have on their minds all day? The comics are the other big-seller: Magazine, Sunday, Jump. And of 75 course the weeklies. So this 'bookshop' is almost all magazines. Oh, there are a few books, paperbacks, mysteries and swashbucklers and romances. That's all that sells. And How-To books: how to win at Go, how to raise bonsai, how to give wedding speeches, how to have sex, how to stop smoking, you name it. We even sell writing supplies - stacks of ballpoint pens and pencils and notebooks next to the till. But that's it. No War and Peace, no Kenzaburo Oe, no Catcher in the Rye. That's the Kobayashi Bookshop. That's how 'lucky' I am. Do you think I'm lucky?' 'I can just see the place.' 'You know what I mean. Everybody in the neighbourhood comes there, some of them for years, and we deliver. It's a good business, more than enough to support a family of four; no debts, two daughters in college, but that's it. Nothing to spare for extras. They should never have sent me to a school like that. It was a recipe for heartache. I had to listen to them grumble to me every time the school asked for a contribution, and I was always scared to death I'd run out of money if I went out with my school friends and they wanted to eat somewhere expensive. It's a miserable way to live. Is your family rich?' 'My family? No, my parents are absolutely ordinary working people, not rich, not poor. I know it's not easy for them to send me to a private university in Tokyo, but there's just me, so it's not that big a deal. They don't give me much to live on, so I work part-time. We live in a typical house with a little garden and our car is a Toyota Corolla.' 'What's your job like?' 'I work in a Shinjuku record shop three nights a week. It's easy. I just sit there and mind the shop.' 'You're joking?' said Midori. 'I don't know, just looking at you I sort of assumed you'd never been hard up.' 'It's true. I have never been hard up. Not that I have tons of money, either. I'm like most people.' 'Well, 'most people' in my school were rich,' said Midori, palms 76 resting on her lap. 'That was the problem.' 'So now you'll have plenty of chances to see a world without that problem. More than you want to, maybe.' 'Hey, tell me, what do you think the best thing is about being rich?' 'I don't know.' 'Being able to say you don't have any money. Like, if I suggested to a school friend we do something, she could say, 'Sorry, I don't have any money'. Which is something I could never say if the situation was reversed. If I said 'I don't have any money', it would really mean 'I don't have any money'. It's sad. Like, if a pretty girl says 'I look terrible today, I don't want to go out,' that's OK, but if an ugly girl says the same thing people laugh at her. That's what the world was like for me. For six years, until last year.' 'You'll get over it.' 'I hope so. University is such a relief! It's full of ordinary people.' She smiled with the slightest curl of her lip and smoothed her short hair with the palm of her hand. 'Do you have a job?' I asked. 'Yeah, I write map notes. You know those little pamphlets that come with maps? With descriptions of the different neighbourhoods and population figures and points of interest. Here there's so-and-so hiking trail or such-and-such a legend, or some special flower or bird. I write the texts for those things. It's so easy! Takes no time at all. I can write a whole booklet with a day of looking things up in the library. All you have to do is master a couple of secrets and all kinds of work comes your way.' 'What kind of secrets?' 'Like you put in some little something that nobody else has written and the people at the map company think you're a literary genius and send you more work. It doesn't have to be anything at all, just some tiny thing. Like, say, when they built a dam in this particular valley, the water covered over a village, but still every spring the birds come 77 up from the south and you can see them flying over the lake. Put in one little episode like that and people love it, it's so graphic and sentimental. The usual part-timer doesn't bother with stuff like that, but I can make decent money with what I write.' 'Yeah, but you have to find those 'episodes'.' 'True,' said Midori with a tilt of her head. 'But if you're looking for them, you usually find them. And if you don't, you can always make up something harmless.' 'Aha!' 'Peace,' said Midori. She said she wanted to hear about my dormitory, so I told her the usual stories about the raising of the flag and Storm Trooper's radio callisthenics. Storm Trooper especially made Midori laugh, as he seemed to do with everyone. She said she thought it would be fun to have a look at the dorm. There was nothing fun about the place, I told her: 'Just a few hundred guys in grubby rooms, drinking and wanking.' 'Does that include you?' 'It includes every man on the face of the earth,' I explained. 'Girls have periods and boys wank. Everybody.' 'Even ones with girlfriends? I mean, sex partners.' 'It's got nothing to do with that. The Keio student living next door to me has a wank before every date. He says it relaxes him.' 'I don't know much about that stuff. I was in a girls' school so long.' 'I guess the glossy women's magazines don't go into that.' 'Not at all!' she said, laughing. 'Anyway, Watanabe, would you have some time this Sunday? Are you free?' 'I'm free every Sunday. Until six, at least. That's when I go to work.' 'Why don't you visit me? At the Kobayashi Bookshop. The shop itself will be closed, but I have to hang around there alone all day. I might be getting an important phone call. How about lunch? I'll cook for 78 you.' 'I'd like that,' I said. Midori tore a page from a notebook and drew a detailed map of the way to her place. She used a red pen to make a large X where the house stood. 'You can't miss it. There's a big sign: 'Kobayashi Bookshop'. Come at noon. I'll have lunch ready.' I thanked her and put the map in my pocket. 'I'd better get back to campus now,' I said. 'My German lecture starts at two.' Midori said she had somewhere to go and took the train from Yotsuya. Sunday morning I got up at nine, shaved, did my laundry and hung out the clothes on the roof. It was a beautiful day. The first smell of autumn was in the air. Red dragonflies flitted around the quadrangle, chased by neighbourhood kids swinging nets. With no wind, the Rising Sun flag hung limp on its pole. I put on a freshly ironed shirt and walked from the dorm to the tram stop. A student neighbourhood on a Sunday morning: the streets were dead, virtually empty, most shops closed. What few sounds there were echoed with special clarity. A girl wearing sabots clip-clopped across the asphalt roadway, and next to the tram shelter four or five kids were throwing rocks at a row of empty cans. A florist's was open, so I went in and bought some daffodils. Daffodils in autumn: that was strange. But I had always liked that particular flower. Three old women were the only passengers on the Sunday morning tram. They all looked at me and my flowers. One of them gave me a smile. I smiled back. I sat in the last seat and watched the ancient houses passing close to the window. The tram almost touched the overhanging eaves. The laundry deck of one house had ten potted tomato plants, next to which a big black cat lay stretched out in the sun. In the garden of another house, a little girl was blowing soap bubbles. I heard an Ayumi Ishida song coming from somewhere, and 79 could even catch the smell of curry cooking. The tram snaked its way through this private back-alley world. A few more passengers got on at stops along the way, but the three old women went on talking intently about something, huddled together face-to-face. I got off near Otsuka Station and followed Midori's map down a broad street without much to look at. None of the shops along the way seemed to be doing very well, housed as they were in old buildings with gloomy-looking interiors and faded writing on some of the signs. Judging from the age and style of the buildings, this area had been spared the wartime air raids, leaving whole blocks intact. A few of the places had been entirely rebuilt, but just about all had been enlarged or repaired in places, and it was these additions that tended to look shabbier than the old buildings themselves. The whole atmosphere of the place suggested that most of the original residents had become fed up with the cars, the filthy air, the noise and high rents and moved to the suburbs, leaving only cheap flats and company apartments and hard-to-sell shops and a few stubborn people who clung to old family properties. Everything looked blurred and grimy as though wrapped in a haze of exhaust fumes. Ten minutes' walk down this street brought me to a corner petrol station, where I turned right into a small block of shops, in the middle of which hung the sign for the Kobayashi Bookshop. True, it was not a big shop, but neither was it as small as Midori's description had led me to believe. It was just a typical neighbourhood bookshop, the same kind I used to run to on the very day the boys' comics came out. A nostalgic mood overtook me as I stood in front of the place. The whole front of the shop was sealed off by a big, rolldown metal shutter inscribed with a magazine advertisement: 'WEEKLY BUNSHUN SOLD HERE THURSDAYS'. I still had 15 minutes before noon, but I didn't want to kill time wandering through the block with a handful of daffodils, so I pressed the doorbell beside 80 the shutter and stepped a few paces back to wait. Fifteen seconds went by without an answer, and I was debating with myself whether to ring again when I heard a window clatter open above me. I looked up to see Midori leaning out and waving. 'Come in,' she yelled. 'Lift the shutter.' 'Is it OK? I'm kind of early,' I shouted back. 'No problem. Come upstairs. I'm busy in the kitchen.' She pulled the window closed. The shutter made a terrific grinding noise as I raised it three feet from the ground, ducked under, and lowered it again. The shop was pitch black inside. I managed to feel my way to the back stairway, tripping over bound piles of magazines. I unlaced my shoes and climbed the stairs to the living area. The interior of the house was dark and gloomy. The stairs led to a simple parlour with a sofa and easy chairs. It was a small room with dim light coming in the window, reminiscent of old Polish films. There was a kind of storage area on the left and what looked like the door to a bathroom. I had to climb the steep stairway with care to reach the second floor, but once I got there, it was so much brighter than the first that I felt greatly relieved. 'Over here,' called Midori's voice. To the right at the top of the stairs was what looked like a dining room, and beyond that a kitchen. The house itself was old, but the kitchen seemed to have been refitted recently with new cabinets and a bright, shiny sink and taps. Midori was preparing food. A pot was bubbling, and the air was filled with the smell of grilled fish. 'There's beer in the fridge,' she said with a glance in my direction. 'Have a seat while I finish this.' I took a can and sat at the kitchen table. The beer was so cold it might have been in the fridge for the best part of a year. On the table lay a small, white ashtray, a newspaper, and a soy sauce dispenser. There was also a notepad and pen, with a phone number and some figures on the pad that seemed to be calculations connected with shopping. 81 'I should have this done in ten minutes,' she said. 'Can you stand the wait?' 'Of course I can,' I said. 'Get good and hungry, then. I'm making a lot.' I sipped my beer and focused on Midori as she went on cooking, her back to me. She worked with quick, nimble movements, handling no fewer than four cooking procedures at once. Over here she tasted a boiled dish, and the next second she was at the cutting board, rat-tattatting, then she took something out of the fridge and piled it in a bowl, and before I knew it she had washed a pot she had finished using. From the back she looked like an Indian percussionist - ringing a bell, tapping a block, striking a water-buffalo bone, each movement precise and economical, with perfect balance. I watched in awe. 'Let me know if there's something I can do,' I said, just in case. 'That's OK,' said Midori with a smile in my direction. 'I'm used to doing everything alone.' She wore slim blue jeans and a navy T-shirt. An Apple Records logo nearly covered the back of the shirt. She had extremely narrow hips, as if she had somehow skipped puberty when the hips grow fuller, and this gave her a far more androgynous look than most girls have in slim jeans. The light pouring in from the kitchen window gave her figure a kind of vague outline. 'You really didn't have to put together such a feast,' I said. 'It's no feast,' answered Midori without turning my way. 'I was too busy to do any real shopping yesterday. I'm just throwing together a few things I had in the fridge. Really, don't worry. Besides, it's Kobayashi family tradition to treat guests well. I don't know what it is, but we like to entertain. It's inborn; a kind of sickness. Not that we're especially nice or people love us or anything, but if somebody shows up we have to treat them well no matter what. We've all got the same personality flaw, for better or worse. Take my father, for example. He hardly drinks, but the house is full of alcohol. What for? To serve guests! So don't hold back: drink all the beer you want.' 82 'Thanks,' I said. It suddenly dawned on me that I had left the daffodils downstairs. I had set them aside while unlacing my shoes. I slipped back downstairs and found the ten bright blossoms lying in the gloom. Midori took a tall, slim glass from the cupboard and arranged the flowers in it. 'I love daffodils,' said Midori. 'I once sang 'Seven Daffodils' in the school talent contest. Do you know it?' 'Of course.' 'We had a folk group. I played guitar.' She sang 'Seven Daffodils' as she arranged the food on plates. Midori's cooking was far better than I had expected: an amazing assortment of fried, pickled, boiled and roasted dishes using eggs, mackerel, fresh greens, aubergine, mushrooms, radishes, and sesame seeds, all cooked in the delicate Kyoto style. 'This is great,' I said with my mouth full. 'OK, tell me the truth now,' Midori said. 'You weren't expecting my cooking to be very good, were you - judging from the way I look?' 'Not really,' I said honestly. 'You're from the Kansai region, so you like this kind of delicate flavouring, right?' 'Don't tell me you changed style especially for me?' 'Don't be ridiculous! I wouldn't go to that much trouble. No, we always eat like this.' 'So your mother - or your father - is from Kansai?' 'Nope. My father was born in Tokyo and my mother's from Fukushima. There's not a single Kansai person among my relatives. We're all from Tokyo or northern Kanto.' 'I don't get it,' I said. 'How can you make this 100 per cent authentic Kansai-style food? Did somebody teach you?' 'Well, it's kind of a long story,' she said, eating a slice of fried egg. 'My mother hated housework of any kind, and she almost never 83 cooked anything. And we had the business to think about, so it was always 'Today we're so busy, let's get a take-away' or 'Let's just buy some croquettes at the butcher's' and so on. I hated that even when I was little, I mean like cooking a big pot of curry and eating the same thing three days in a row. So then one day - I was in the fifth year of school - I decided I was going to cook for the family and do it right. I went to the big Kinokuniya in Shinjuku and bought the biggest, handsomest cookbook I could find, and I mastered it from cover to cover: how to choose a cutting board, how to sharpen knives, how to bone a fish, how to shave fresh bonito flakes, everything. It turned out the author of the book was from the Kansai, so all my cooking is Kansai style.' 'You mean you learned how to make all this stuff from a book?!' 'I saved my money and went to eat the real thing. That's how I learned flavourings. I've got pretty good intuition. I'm hopeless as a logical thinker, though.' 'It's amazing you could teach yourself to cook so well without having anyone to show you.' 'It wasn't easy,' said Midori with a sigh, 'growing up in a house where nobody gave a damn about food. I'd tell them I wanted to buy decent knives and pots and they wouldn't give me the money. 'What we have now is good enough,' they'd say, but I'd tell them that was crazy, you couldn't bone a fish with the kind of flimsy knives we had at home, so they'd say, 'What the hell do you have to bone a fish for?' It was hopeless trying to communicate with them. I saved up my allowance and bought real professional knives and pots and strainers and stuff. Can you believe it? Here's a 15-year-old girl pinching pennies to buy strainers and whetstones and tempura pots when all the other girls at school are getting huge allowances and buying beautiful dresses and shoes. Don't you feel sorry for me?' 84 I nodded, swallowing a mouthful of clear soup with fresh junsai greens. 'When I was in the sixth-form, I had to have an egg fryer - a long, narrow pan for making this dashimaki-style fried egg we're eating. I bought it with money I was supposed to use for a new bra. For three months I had to live with one bra. Can you believe it? I'd wash my bra at night, go crazy trying to dry it, and wear it the next day. And if it didn't dry right, I had a tragedy to deal with. The saddest thing in the world is wearing a damp bra. I'd walk around with tears pouring from my eyes. To think I was suffering this for an egg fryer!' 'I see what you mean,' I said with a laugh. 'I know I shouldn't say this, but actually it was kind of a relief to me when my mother died. I could run the family budget my way. I could buy what I liked. So now I've got a relatively complete set of cooking utensils. My father doesn't know a thing about the budget.' 'When did your mother die?' 'Two years ago. Cancer. Brain tumour. She was in the hospital a year and a half. It was terrible. She suffered from beginning to end. Finally lost her mind; had to be doped up all the time, and still she couldn't die, though when she did it was practically a mercy killing. It's the worst kind of death - the person's in agony, the family goes through hell. It took every yen we had. I mean, they'd give her these shots - bang, bang, x'20,000 a pop, and she had to have round-the-clock care. I was so busy with her, I couldn't study, had to delay university for a year. And as if that weren't bad enough - ' She stopped in midsentence, put her chopsticks down and sighed. 'How did this conversation turn so dark all of a sudden?' 'It started with the business about the bras,' I said. 'So anyway, eat your eggs and think about what I just told you,” Midori said with a solemn expression. Eating my portion filled me up, but Midori ate far less. 'Cooking ruins my appetite,' she said. She cleared the table, wiped up the crumbs, 85 brought out a box of Marlboro, put one in her mouth and lit up with a match. Taking hold of the glass with the daffodils, she studied the blooms for a while. 'I don't think I'll put them in a vase,' she said. 'If I leave them like this, it's like I just happened to pick them by a pond somewhere and threw them into the first thing that came to hand.' 'I did pick them by the pond at Otsuka Station,' I said. She chuckled. 'You are a weird one. Making jokes with a perfectly straight face.' Chin in hand, she smoked half her cigarette, then crushed it out in the ashtray. She rubbed her eyes as if smoke had got into them. 'Girls are supposed to be a little more elegant when they put out their cigarettes. You did that like a lumberjack. You shouldn't just cram it down in the ashtray but press it lightly around the edges of the ash. Then it doesn't get all bent up. And girls are never supposed to blow smoke through their noses. And most girls wouldn't talk about how they wore the same bra for three months when they're eating alone with a man.' 'I am a lumberjack,' Midori said, scratching next to her nose. 'I can never manage to be chic. I try it as a joke sometimes, but it never sticks. Any more critiques for me?' 'Girls don't smoke Marlboro,' I said. 'What's the difference? One tastes as bad as another.' She turned the red Marlboro packet over and over in her hand. 'I started smoking last month. It's not as if I was dying for tobacco or anything. I just sort of felt like it.' 'Why's that?' I asked. She pressed her hands together on the table and thought about it for a while. 'What's the difference? You don't smoke?' 'Stopped in June,' I said. 'How come?' 'It was a pain. I hated running out of smokes in the middle of the night. I don't like having something control me that way.' 86 'You're very clear about what you like and what you don't like,' she said. 'Maybe so,' I said. 'Maybe that's why people don't like me. Never have.' 'It's because you show it,' she said. 'You make it obvious you don't care whether people like you or not. That makes some people angry.' She spoke in a near mumble, chin in hand. 'But I like talking to you. The way you talk is so unusual. 'I don't like having something control me that way'.' I helped her wash the dishes. Standing next to her, I wiped as she washed, and stacked everything on the worktop. 'So,' I said, 'your family's out today?' 'My mother's in her grave. She died two years ago.' 'Yeah, I heard that part.' 'My sister's on a date with her fiancé. Probably on a drive. Her boyfriend works for some car company. He loves cars. I don't love cars.' Midori stopped talking and washed. I stopped talking and wiped. 'And then there's my father,' she said after some time had gone by. 'Right,' I said. 'He went off to Uruguay in June last year and he's been there ever since.' 'Uruguay?! Why Uruguay?' 'He was thinking of settling there, believe it or not. An old army buddy of his has a farm there. All of a sudden, my father announces he's going, too, that there's no limit to what he can do in Uruguay, and he gets on a plane and that's that. We tried hard to stop him, like, 'Why do you want to go to a place like that? You can't speak the language, you've hardly ever left Tokyo.' But he wouldn't listen. Losing my mother was a real shock to him. I mean, it made him a 87 little cuckoo. That's how much he loved her. Really.' There was not much I could say in reply. I stared at Midori with my mouth open. 'What do you think he said to my sister and me when our mother died? 'I would much rather have lost the two of you than her.' It knocked the wind out of me. I couldn't say a word. You know what I mean? You just can't say something like that. OK, he lost the woman he loved, his partner for life. I understand the pain, the sadness, the heartbreak. I pity him. But you don't tell the daughters you fathered 'You should have died in her place'. I mean, that's just too terrible. Don't you agree?' 'Yeah, I see your point.' 'That's one wound that will never go away,' she said, shaking her head. 'But anyway, everyone in my family's a little different. We've all got something just a little bit strange.' 'So it seems,' I said. 'Still, it is wonderful for two people to love each other, don't you think? I mean, for a man to love his wife so much he can tell his daughters they should have died in her place 'Maybe so, now that you put it that way.' 'And then he dumps the two of us and runs off to Uruguay.' I wiped another dish without replying. After the last one, Midori put everything back in the cabinets. 'So, have you heard from your father?' I asked. 'One postcard. In March. But what does he write? 'It's hot here' or 'The fruit's not as good as I expected'. Stuff like that. I mean, give me a break! One stupid picture of a donkey! He's lost his marbles! He didn't even say whether he'd met that guy - that friend of his or whatever. He did add near the end that once he's settled he'll send for me and my sister, but not a word since then. And he never answers our letters.' 'What would you do if your father said 'Come to Uruguay'?' 88 'I'd go and have a look around at least. It might be fun. My sister says she'd absolutely refuse. She can't stand dirty things and dirty places.' 'Is Uruguay dirty?' 'Who knows? She thinks it is. Like the roads are full of donkey shit and it's swarming with flies, and the toilets don't work, and lizards and scorpions crawl all over the place. She maybe saw a film like that. She can't stand flies, either. All she wants to do is drive through scenic places in fancy cars.' 'No way.' 'I mean, what's wrong with Uruguay? I'd go.' 'So who's running the shop?' 'My sister, but she hates it. We have an uncle in the neighbourhood who helps out and makes deliveries. And I help when I have time. A bookshop's not exactly hard labour, so we can manage. If it gets to be too much, we'll sell the place.' 'Do you like your father?' Midori shook her head. 'Not especially.' 'So how can you follow him to Uruguay?' 'I believe in him.' 'Believe in him?' 'yeah, I'm not that fond of him, but I believe in my father. How can I not believe in a man who gives up his house, his kids, his work, and runs off to Uruguay from the shock of losing his wife? Do you see what I mean?' I sighed. 'Sort of, but not really.' Midori laughed and patted me on the back. 'Never mind,' she said. 'It really doesn't matter.' One weird thing after another came up that Sunday afternoon. A fire broke out near Midori's house and, when we went up to the third-floor laundry deck to watch, we sort of kissed. It sounds stupid when I put it like that, but that was how things worked out. We were drinking coffee after the meal and talking about the 89 university when we heard sirens. They got louder and louder and seemed to be increasing in number. Lots of people ran past the shop, some of them shouting. Midori went to a room facing the street, opened the window and looked down. 'Wait here a minute,' she said and disappeared; after which I heard feet pounding up stairs. I sat there drinking coffee alone and trying to remember where Uruguay was. Let's see, Brazil was over here, and Venezuela there, and Colombia somewhere over here, but I couldn't recall the location of Uruguay. A few minutes later Midori came down and urged me to hurry somewhere with her. I followed her to the end of the hall and climbed a steep, narrow stairway to a wooden deck with bamboo laundry poles. The deck was higher than most of the surrounding rooftops and gave a good view of the neighbourhood. Huge clouds of black smoke shot up from a place three or four houses away and flowed with the breeze out towards the high street. A burning smell filled the air. 'It's Sakamoto's place,' said Midori, leaning over the railing. 'They used to make traditional door fittings and stuff. They went out of business some time ago, though.' I leaned over the railing with her and strained to see what was going on. A three-storey building blocked our view of the fire, but there seemed to be three or four fire engines over there working on the blaze. No more than two of them could squeeze into the narrow lane where the house was burning, the rest standing by on the high street. The usual crowd of gawkers filled the area. 'Hey, maybe you should gather your valuables together and get ready to evacuate this place,' I said to Midori. 'The wind's blowing the other way now, but it could change any time, and you've got a petrol station right there. I'll help you pack.' 'What valuables?' said Midori. 'Well, you must have something you'd want to save - bankbooks, seals, legal papers, stuff like that. Emergency cash.' 'Forget it. I'm not 90 running away.' 'Even if this place burns?' 'You heard me. I don't mind dying.' I looked her in the eye, and she looked straight at me. I couldn't tell if she was serious or joking. We stayed like that for a while, and soon I stopped worrying. 'OK,' I said. 'I get it. I'll stay with you.' 'You'll die with me?' Midori asked with shining eyes. 'No way,' I said. 'I'll run if it gets dangerous. If you want to die, you can do it alone.' 'Cold-hearted bastard!' 'I'm not going to die with you just because you made lunch for me. Of course, if it had been dinner. ..' 'Oh, well ... Anyway, let's stay here and watch for a while. We can sing songs. And if something bad happens, we can think about it then.' 'Sing songs?' Midori brought two floor pillows, four cans of beer and a guitar from downstairs. We drank and watched the black smoke rising. She strummed and sang. I asked her if she didn't think this might anger the neighbours. Drinking beer and singing while you watched a local fire from the laundry deck didn't seem like the most admirable behaviour I could think of. 'Forget it,' she said. 'We never worry about what the neighbours might think.' She sang some of the folk songs she had played with her group. I would have been hard pressed to say she was good, but she did seem to enjoy her own music. She went through all the old standards - 'Lemon Tree', 'Puff (The Magic Dragon)', 'Five Hundred Miles', 'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?', 'Michael, Row the Boat Ashore'. At first she tried to get me to sing bass harmony, but I was so bad she gave up and sang alone to her heart's content. I worked on my 91 beer and listened to her sing and kept an eye on the fire. It flared up and died down several times. People were yelling and giving orders. A newspaper helicopter clattered overhead, took photographs and flew away. I worried that we might be in the picture. A policeman screamed through a loudspeaker for bystanders to get back. A little kid was crying for his mother. Glass shattered somewhere. Before long the wind began shifting unpredictably, and white ash flakes fell out of the air around us, but Midori went on sipping and singing. After she had gone through most of the songs she knew, she sang an odd one that she said she had written herself: I'd love to cook a stew for you, But I have no pot. I'd love to knit a scarf for you, But I have no wool. I'd love to write a poem for you, But I have no pen. 'It's called 'I Have Nothing',' Midori announced. It was a truly terrible song, both words and music. I listened to this musical mess thinking that the house would blow apart in the explosion if the petrol station caught fire. Tired of singing, Midori put down her guitar and slumped against my shoulder like a cat in the sun. 'How did you like my song?' she asked. I answered cautiously, 'It was unique and original and very expressive of your personality.' 'Thanks,' she said. 'The theme is that I have nothing.' 'Yeah, I kind of thought so.' 'You know,' she said, 'when my mother died. ..' 'Yeah?' 'I didn't feel the least bit sad.' 'Oh.' 'And I didn't feel sad when my father left, either.' 'Really?' 92 'It's true. Don't you think I'm terrible? Cold-hearted?' 'I'm sure you have your reasons.' 'My reasons. Hmm. Things were pretty complicated in this house. But I always thought, I mean, they're my mother and father, of course I'd be sad if they died or I never saw them again. But it didn't happen that way. I didn't feel anything. Not sad, not lonely. I hardly even think of them. Sometimes I'll have dreams, though. Sometimes my mother will be glaring at me out of the darkness and she'll accuse me of being happy she died. But I'm not happy she died. I'm just not very sad. And to tell the truth, I never shed a single tear. I cried all night when my cat died, though, when I was little.' Why so much smoke? I wondered. I couldn't see flames, and the burning area didn't seem to be spreading. There was just this column of smoke winding up into the sky. What could have kept burning so long? 'But I'm not the only one to blame,' Midori continued. 'It's true I have a cold streak. I recognize that. But if they - my father and mother - had loved me a little more, I would have been able to feel more - to feel real sadness, for example.' 'Do you think you weren't loved enough?' She tilted her head and looked at me. Then she gave a sharp, little nod. 'Somewhere between 'not enough' and 'not at all'. I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it - to be fed so much love I couldn't take any more. Just once. But they never gave that to me. Never, not once. If I tried to cuddle up and beg for something, they'd just shove me away and yell at me. 'No! That costs too much!' It's all I ever heard. So I made up my mind I was going to find someone who would love me unconditionally 365 days a year. I was still in primary school at the time, but I made up my mind once and for all.' 'Wow,' I said. 'And did your search pay off?' 'That's the hard part,' said Midori. She watched the rising smoke for a 93 while, thinking. 'I guess I've been waiting so long I'm looking for perfection. That makes it tough.' 'Waiting for the perfect love?' 'No, even I know better than that. I'm looking for selfishness. Perfect selfishness. Like, say I tell you I want to eat strawberry shortbread. And you stop everything you're doing and run out and buy it for me. And you come back out of breath and get down on your knees and hold this strawberry shortbread out to me. And I say I don't want it any more and throw it out of the window. That's what I'm looking for.' 'I'm not sure that has anything to do with love,' I said with some amazement. 'It does,' she said. 'You just don't know it. There are times in a girl's life when things like that are incredibly important.' 'Things like throwing strawberry shortbread out of the window?' 'Exactly. And when I do it, I want the man to apologize to me. 'Now I see, Midori. What a fool I've been! I should have known that you would lose your desire for strawberry shortbread. I have all the intelligence and sensitivity of a piece of donkey shit. To make it up to you, I'll go out and buy you something else. What would you like? Chocolate mousse? Cheesecake?'' 'So then what?' 'So then I'd give him all the love he deserves for what he's done.' 'Sounds crazy to me.' 'Well, to me, that's what love is. Not that anyone can understand me, though.' Midori gave her head a little shake against my shoulder. 'For a certain kind of person, love begins from something tiny or silly. From something like that or it doesn't begin at all.' 'I've never met a girl who thinks like you.' 'A lot of people tell me that,' she said, digging at a cuticle. 'But it's the only way I know how to think. Seriously. I'm just telling you what I believe. It's never crossed my mind that my way of thinking is 94 different from other people's. I'm not trying to be different. But when I speak out honestly, everybody thinks I'm kidding or play-acting. When that happens, I feel like everything's such a pain!' 'And you want to let yourself die in a fire?' 'Hey, no, that's different. It's just a matter of curiosity.' 'What? Dying in a fire?' 'No, I just wanted to see how you'd react,' Midori said. 'But, I'm not afraid of dying. Really. Like here, I'd just be overcome with smoke and lose consciousness and die before I knew it. That doesn't frighten me at all, compared to the way I saw my mother and a few relatives die. All my relatives die after suffering from some terrible illness. It's in the blood, I guess. It's always a long, long process, and at the end you almost can't tell whether the person is alive or dead. All that's left is pain and suffering.' Midori put a Marlboro between her lips and lit it. 'That's the kind of death that frightens me. The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything's dark and you can't see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive. I hate that. I couldn't stand it.' Another half hour and the fire was out. They had apparently kept it from spreading and prevented any injuries. All but one of the fire engines returned to base, and the crowd dispersed, buzzing with conversation. One police car remained to direct the traffic, its blue light spinning. Two crows had settled on nearby lamp-posts to observe the activity below. Midori seemed drained of energy. Limp, she stared at the sky and barely spoke. 'Tired?' I asked. 'Not really,' she said. 'I just sort of let myself go limp and spaced out. First time in a long time.' 95 She looked into my eyes, and I into hers. I put my arm around her and kissed her. The slightest twinge went through her shoulders, and then she relaxed and closed her eyes for several seconds. The early autumn sun cast the shadow of her lashes on her cheek, and I could see it trembling in outline. It was a soft and gentle kiss, one not meant to lead beyond itself. I would probably not have kissed Midori that day if we hadn't spent the afternoon on the laundry deck in the sun, drinking beer and watching a fire, and she no doubt felt the same. After a long time of watching the glittering rooftops and the smoke and the red dragonflies and other things, we had felt something warm and close, and we both probably wanted, half-consciously, to preserve that mood in some form. It was that kind of kiss. But as with all kisses, it was not without a certain element of danger. The first to speak was Midori. She held my hand and told me, with what seemed like some difficulty, that she was seeing someone. I said that I had sensed as much. 'Do you have a girl you like?' she asked. 'I do,' I said. 'But you're always free on Sundays, right?' 'It's very complicated,' I said. And then I realized that the brief spell of the early autumn afternoon had vanished. At five I said I had to go to work and suggested that Midori come with me for a snack. She said she had to stay home in case the phone rang. 'I hate waiting at home all day for a call. When I spend the day alone, I feel as if my flesh is rotting little by little - rotting and melting until there's nothing left but a green puddle that gets sucked down into the earth. And all that stays behind are my clothes. That's how it feels to me, waiting indoors all day.' 'I'll keep you company next time you have to wait for a 96 call,' I said. 'As long as lunch is included.' 'Great,' she said. 'I'll arrange another fire for dessert.' Midori didn't come to the next day's History of Drama lecture. I went to the cafeteria afterwards and ate a cold, tasteless lunch alone. Then I sat in the sun and observed the campus scene. Two women students next to me were carrying on a long conversation, standing the whole time. One cradled a tennis racquet to her breast with all the loving care she might give a baby, while the other held some books and a Leonard Bernstein LP Both were pretty and obviously enjoying their discussion. From the direction of the student club building came the sound of a bass voice practising scales. Here and there stood groups of four or five students expressing whatever opinions they happened to hold, laughing and shouting to one another. There were skateboarders in the car park. A professor with a leather briefcase in his arms crossed the car park, avoiding them. In the quadrangle a helmeted girl student knelt on the ground, painting huge characters on a sign with something about American imperialism invading Asia. It was the usual midday university scene, but as I sat watching it with renewed attention, I became aware of something. In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn't tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one here who was not truly part of the scene. Come to think of it, what scene had I been a part of in recent years? The last one I could remember was a pool hall near the harbour, where Kizuki and I played pool together in a spirit of total friendship. Kizuki died that night, and ever since a cold, stiffening wind had come between me and the world. This boy Kizuki: what had his existence meant to me? To this question I could find no answer. All I knew - with absolute certainty - was that Kizuki's death had robbed me for 97 ever of some part of my adolescence. But what that meant, and what would come of it, were far beyond my understanding. I sat there for a long time, watching the campus and the people passing through it, and hoping, too, that I might see Midori. But she never appeared, and when the noon break ended, I went to the library to prepare for my German class. Nagasawa came to my room that Saturday afternoon and suggested we have one of our nights on the town. He would arrange an overnight pass for me. I said I would go. I had been feeling especially muddleheaded for the past week and was ready to sleep with anybody, it didn't matter who. Late in the afternoon I showered and shaved and put on fresh clothes - a polo shirt and cotton jacket - then had dinner with Nagasawa in the dining hall and the two of us caught a bus to Shinjuku. We walked around a lively area for a while, then went to one of our usual bars and sat there waiting for a likely pair of girls. The girls tended to come in pairs to this bar - except on this particular evening. We stayed there almost two hours, sipping whisky and sodas at a rate that kept us sober. Finally, two friendly-looking girls took seats at the bar, ordering a gimlet and a margarita. Nagasawa approached them straight away, but they said they were waiting for their boyfriends. Still, the four of us enjoyed a pleasant chat until their dates showed up. Nagasawa took me to another bar to try our luck, a small place in a kind of cul-de-sac, where most of the customers were already drunk and noisy. A group of three girls occupied a table at the back. We joined them and enjoyed a little conversation, the five of us getting into a nice mood, but when Nagasawa suggested we go somewhere else for a drink, the girls said it was almost curfew time and they had to go back to their dorms. So much for our 'luck'. We tried one more place with the same result. For some reason, the girls were just not coming our way. 98 At 11.30 Nagasawa was ready to give up. 'Sorry I dragged you around for nothing,' he said. 'No problem,' I said. 'It was worth it to me just to see you have your off days sometimes, too.' 'Maybe once a year,' he admitted. In fact, I didn't care about getting laid any more. Wandering around Shinjuku on a noisy Saturday night, observing the mysterious energy created by a mixture of sex and alcohol, I began to feel that my own desire was a puny thing. 'What are you going to do now, Watanabe?' 'Maybe go to an all-nighter,' I said. 'I haven't seen a film in ages.' 'I'll be going to Hatsumi's then,' said Nagasawa. 'Do you mind?' 'No way,' I said. 'Why should I mind?' 'If you'd like, I could introduce you to a girl who'd let you spend the night.' 'Nah, I really am in the mood for a film.' 'Sorry,' said Nagasawa. 'I'll make it up to you some time.' And he disappeared into the crowd. I went into a fast food place for a cheeseburger and some coffee to kill the buzz, then went to see The Graduate in an old rep house. I didn't think it was all that good, but I didn't have anything better to do, so I stayed and watched it again. Emerging from the cinema at four in the morning, I wandered along the chilly streets of Shinjuku, thinking. When I tired of walking, I went to an all-night café and waited with a book and a cup of coffee for the morning trains to start. Before long, the place became crowded with people who, like me, were waiting for those first trains. A waiter came to ask me apologetically if I would mind sharing my table. I said it would be all right. It didn't matter to me who sat across from me: I was just reading a book. My companions at the table turned out to be two girls. They looked about my age. Neither of them was a knockout, but they weren't bad. Both were reserved in the way they dressed and made up: they were 99 definitely not the type to be wandering around Shinjuku at five in the morning. I guessed they had just happened to miss the last train. They seemed relieved to sit with me: I was neatly dressed, had shaved in the evening, and to cap it all I was absorbed in Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain. One of the girls was on the large side. She wore a grey parka and white jeans, carried a large vinyl pocketbook, and had large, shellshaped earrings. Her friend was a small girl with glasses. She wore a blue cardigan over a checked shirt and had a turquoise ring. The smaller one had a habit of taking off her glasses and pressing her eyes with her fingertips. Both girls ordered cafe au lait and cake, which it took them some time to consume as they carried on what seemed like a serious discussion in hushed tones. The large girl tilted her head several times, while the small one shook hers just as often. I couldn't make out what they were saying because of the loud stereo playing Marvin Gaye or the Bee Gees or something, but it seemed the small girl was angry or upset and the large girl was trying to comfort her. I alternated passages of my book with glances in their direction. Clutching her shoulder bag to her breast, the smaller girl went to the ladies', at which point her companion spoke to me. 'I'm sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you might know of ally bars in the neighbourhood that would still be serving drinks?' Taken off guard, I set my book aside and asked, 'After five o'clock in the morning?' 'Yes ... 'If you ask me, at 5.20 in the morning, most people are on their way home to get sober and go to bed.' 'Yes, I realize that,' she said, a bit embarrassed, 'but my friend says she has to have a drink. It's kind of important.' 'There's probably nothing much you can do but go home and have a drink.' 'But I have to catch a 7.30 train to Nagano.' 100 'So find a vending machine and a nice place to sit. It's about all you can do.' 'I know this is asking a lot, but could you come with us? Two girls alone really can't do something like that.' I had had a number of unusual experiences in Shinjuku, but I had never before been invited to have a drink with two strange girls at 5.20 in the morning. Refusing would have been more trouble than it was worth, and time was no problem, so I bought an armload of sake and snacks from a nearby machine, and the three of us went to an empty car park by the west exit of the station to hold an impromptu drinking party. The girls told me they had become friends working at a travel agency. Both of them had graduated from college this year and started their first jobs. The small one had a boyfriend she had been seeing for a year, but had recently discovered he was sleeping with another girl and she had taken it hard. The larger one was supposed to have left for the mountains of Nagano last night for her brother's wedding, but she had decided to spend the night with her depressed friend and take the first express on Sunday morning. 'It's too bad what you're going through,' I said to the small one, 'but how did you find out your boyfriend was sleeping with someone else?' Taking little sips of sake, the girl tore at some weeds underfoot. 'I didn't have to work anything out,' she said. 'I opened his door, and there he was, doing it.' 'When was that?' 'The night before last.' 'No way. The door was unlocked?' 'Right.' 'I wonder why he didn't lock it?' 'How the hell should I know?' 'Yeah, how's she supposed to feel?' said the larger one, who seemed 101 truly concerned for her friend. 'What a shock it must have been for her. Don't you think it's terrible?' 'I really can't say,' I answered. 'You ought to have a good talk with your boyfriend. Then it's a question of whether you forgive him or not.' 'Nobody knows how I feel,' spat out the little one, still tearing grass. A flock of crows appeared from the west and sailed over a big department store. It was daylight now. The time for the train to Nagano was approaching, so we gave what was left of the sake to a homeless guy downstairs at the west exit, bought platform tickets and went in to see the big girl off. After the train pulled out of sight, the small girl and I somehow ended up going to a nearby hotel. Neither of us was particularly dying to sleep with the other, but it seemed necessary to bring things to a close. I undressed first and sat in the bath drinking beer with a vengeance. She got in with me and did the same, the two of us stretched out and guzzling beer in silence. We couldn't seem to get drunk, though, and neither of us was sleepy. Her skin was very fair and smooth, and she had beautiful legs. I complimented her on her legs, but her 'Thanks' was little more than a grunt. Once we were in bed, though, she was like a different person. She responded to the slightest touch of my hands, writhing and moaning. When I went inside her, she dug her nails into my back, and as her orgasm approached she called out another man's name exactly 16 times. I concentrated on counting them as a way to delay my own orgasm. Then the two of us fell asleep. She was gone when I woke at 12.30. I found no note of any kind. One side of my head felt strangely heavy from having drunk at an odd hour. I took a shower to wake myself, shaved and sat in a chair, naked, drinking a bottle of juice from the fridge and reviewing in order the events of the night before. Each scene felt unreal and strangely distant, as though I were viewing it through two or three layers of glass, but 102 the events had undoubtedly happened to me. The beer glasses were still sitting on the table, and a used toothbrush lay by the sink. I ate a light lunch in Shinjuku and went to a telephone box to call Midori Kobayashi on the off chance that she might be home alone waiting for a call again today. I let it ring 15 times but no one answered. I tried again 20 minutes later with the same results. Then I took a bus back to the dorm. A special delivery letter was waiting for me in the letterbox by the entry. It was from Naoko. Thanks for your letter, wrote Naoko. Her family had forwarded it here, she said. Far from upsetting her, its arrival had made her very happy, and in fact she had been on the point of writing to me herself. Having read that much, I opened the window, took off my jacket and sat on the bed. I could hear pigeons cooing in a nearby roost. The breeze stirred the curtains. Holding the seven pages of writing paper from Naoko, I gave myself up to an endless stream of feelings. It seemed as if the colours of the real world around me had begun to drain away from my having done nothing more than read a few lines she had written. I closed my eyes and spent a long time collecting my thoughts. Finally, after one deep breath, I continued reading. It's almost four months since I came here, she went on. I've thought a lot about you in that time. The more I've thought, the more I've come to feel that I was unfair to you. I probably should have been a better, fairer person when it came to the way I treated you. This may not be the most normal way to look at things, though. Girls my age never use the word 'fair'. Ordinary girls as young as I am are basically indifferent to whether things are fair or not. The central 103 question for them is not whether something is fair but whether or not it's beautiful or will make them happy. 'Fair' is a man's word, finally, but I can't help feeling that it is also exactly the right word for me now. And because questions of beauty and happiness have become such difficult and convoluted propositions for me now, I suspect, I find myself clinging instead to other standards - like, whether or not something is fair or honest or universally true. In any case, though, I believe that I have not been fair to you and that, as a result, I must have led you around in circles and hurt you deeply. In doing so, however, I have led myself around in circles and hurt myself just as deeply. I say this not as an excuse or a means of selfjustification but because it is true. If I have left a wound inside you, it is not just your wound but mine as well. So please try not to hate me. I am a flawed human being - a far more flawed human being than you realize. Which is precisely why I do not want you to hate me. Because if you were to do that, I would really go to pieces. I can't do what you can do: I can't slip inside my shell and wait for things to pass. I don't know for a fact that you are really like that, but sometimes you give me that impression. I often envy that in you, which may be why I led you around in circles so much. This may be an over-analytical way of looking at things. Don't you agree? The therapy they perform here is certainly not over-analytical, but when you are under treatment for several months the way I am here, like it or not, you become more or less analytical. 'This was caused by that, and that means this, because of which such-and-such.' Like that. I can't tell whether this kind of analysis is trying to simplify the world or complicate it. In any case, I myself feel that I am far closer to recovery than I once was, and people here tell me this is true. This is the first time in a long while I have been able to sit down and calmly write a letter. The one I wrote you in July was something I had to squeeze out of me (though, to tell the truth, I don't remember what I wrote - was it terrible?), but 104 this time I am very, very calm. Clean air, a quiet world cut off from the outside, a daily schedule for living, regular exercise: those are what I needed, it seems. How wonderful it is to be able to write someone a letter! To feel like conveying your thoughts to a person, to sit at your desk and pick up a pen, to put your thoughts into words like this is truly marvellous. Of course, once I do put them into words, I find I can only express a fraction of what I want to say, but that's all right. I'm happy just to be able to feel I want to write to someone. And so I am writing to you. It's 7.30 in the evening, I've had my dinner and I've just finished my bath. The place is silent, and it's pitch black outside. I can't see a single light through the window. I usually have a clear view of the stars from here, but not today, with the clouds. Everyone here knows a lot about the stars, and they tell me 'That's Virgo' or 'That's Sagittarius'. They probably learn whether they want to or not because there's nothing to do here once the sun goes down. Which is also why they know so much about birds and flowers and insects. Speaking to them, I realize how ignorant I was about such things, which is kind of nice. There are about 70 people living here. In addition, the staff (doctors, nurses, office staff, etc.) come to just over 20. It's such a wide-open place, these are not big numbers at all. Far from it: it might be more accurate to say the place is on the empty side. It's big and filled with nature and everybody lives quietly - so quietly you sometimes feel that this is the normal, real world, which of course it's not. We can have it this way because we live here under certain preconditions. I play tennis and basketball. Basketball teams are made up of both staff and (I hate the word, but there's no way around it) patients. When I'm absorbed in a game, though, I lose track of who are the patients and who are staff. This is kind of strange. I know this will sound strange, but when I look at the people around me during a game, they all look equally deformed. I said this one day to the doctor in charge of my case, and he told me 105 that, in a sense, what I was feeling was right, that we are in here not to correct the deformation but to accustom ourselves to it: that one of our problems was our inability to recognize and accept our own deformities. Just as each person has certain idiosyncrasies in the way he or she walks, people have idiosyncrasies in the way they think and feel and see things, and though you might want to correct them, it doesn't happen overnight, and if you try to force the issue in one case, something else might go funny. He gave me a very simplified explanation, of course, and it's just one small part of the problems we have, but I think I understand what he was trying to say. It may well be that we can never fully adapt to our own deformities. Unable to find a place inside ourselves for the very real pain and suffering that these deformities cause, we come here to get away from such things. As long as we are here, we can get by without hurting others or being hurt by them because we know that we are 'deformed'. That's what distinguishes us from the outside world: most people go about their lives unconscious of their deformities, while in this little world of ours the deformities themselves are a precondition. Just as Indians wear feathers on their heads to show what tribe they belong to, we wear our deformities in the open. And we live quietly so as not to hurt one another. In addition to playing sports, we all participate in growing vegetables: tomatoes, aubergines, cucumbers, watermelons, strawberries, spring onions, cabbage, daikon radishes, and so on and on. We grow just about everything. We use greenhouses, too. The people here know a lot about vegetable farming, and they put a lot of energy into it. They read books on the subject and call in experts and talk from morning to night about which fertilizer to use and the condition of the soil and stuff like that. I have come to love growing vegetables. It's great to watch different fruits and vegetables getting bigger and bigger each day. Have you ever grown watermelons? They swell up, just like some kind of little animals. 106 We eat freshly picked fruits and vegetables every day. They also serve meat and fish of course, but when you're living here you feel less and less like eating those because the vegetables are so fresh and delicious. Sometimes we go out and gather wild plants and mushrooms. We have experts on that kind of thing (come to think of it, this place is crawling with experts) who tell us which plants to pick and which to avoid. As a result of all this, I've gained over six pounds since I got here. My weight is just about perfect, thanks to the exercise and the good eating on a regular schedule. When we're not farming, we read or listen to music or knit. We don't have TV or radio, but we do have a very decent library with books and records. The record collection has everything from Mahler symphonies to the Beatles, and I'm always borrowing records to listen to in my room. The one real problem with this place is that once you're here you don't want to leave - or you're afraid to leave. As long as we're here, we feel calm and peaceful. Our deformities seem natural. We think we've recovered. But we can never be sure that the outside world will accept us in the same way. My doctor says it's time I began having contact with 'outside people' - meaning normal people in the normal world. When he says that, the only face I see is yours. To tell the truth, I don't want to see my parents. They're too upset over me, and seeing them puts me in a bad mood. Plus, there are things I have to explain to you. I'm not sure I can explain them very well, but they're important things I can't go on avoiding any longer. Still, you shouldn't feel that I'm a burden to you. The one thing I don't want to be is a burden to anyone. I can sense the good feelings you have for me. They make me very happy. All I am doing in this letter is trying to convey that happiness to you. Those good feelings of yours are probably just what I need at this point in my life. Please forgive me if anything I've written here upsets you. As I said before, I am a far 107 more flawed human being than you realize. I sometimes wonder: IF you and I had met under absolutely ordinary circumstances, and IF we had liked each other, what would have happened? IF I had been normal and you had been normal (which, of course, you are) and there had been no Kizuki, what would have happened? Of course, this 'IF' is way too big. I'm trying hard at least to be fair and honest. It's all I can do at this point. I hope to convey some small part of my feelings to you this way. Unlike an ordinary hospital, this place has free visiting hours. As long as you call the day before, you can come any time. You can even eat with me, and there's a place for you to stay. Please come and see me sometime when it's convenient for you. I look forward to seeing you. I'm enclosing a map. Sorry this turned into such a long letter. I read Naoko's letter all the way through, and then I read it again. After that I went downstairs, bought a Coke from the vending machine, and drank it while reading the letter one more time. I put the seven pages of writing paper back into the envelope and laid it on my desk. My name and address had been written on the pink envelope in perfect, tiny characters that were just a bit too precisely formed for those of a girl. I sat at my desk, studying the envelope. The return address on the back said Ami Hostel. An odd name. I thought about it for a few minutes, concluding that the 'ami' must be from the French word for 'friend'. After putting the letter away in my desk drawer, I changed clothes and went out. I was afraid that if I stayed near the letter I would end up reading it 10, 20, who knew how many times? I walked the streets of Tokyo on Sunday without a destination in mind, as I had always done with Naoko. I wandered from one street to the next, recalling her letter line by line and mulling each sentence over as best I could. When the sun went down, I returned to the dorm and made a long-distance call 108 to the Ami Hostel. A woman receptionist answered and asked my business. I asked if it might be possible for me to visit Naoko the following afternoon. I left my name and she said I should call back in half an hour. The same woman answered when I called back after dinner. It would indeed be possible for me to see Naoko, she said. I thanked her, hung up, and put a change of clothes and a few toiletries in my rucksack. Then I picked up The Magic Mountain again, reading and sipping brandy and waiting to get sleepy. Even so, I didn't fall asleep until after one o'clock in the morning. 109 As soon as I woke at seven o'clock on Monday morning, I washed my face, shaved, and went straight to the dorm Head's room without eating breakfast to say that I was going to be gone for two days hiking in the hills. He was used to my taking short trips when I had free time, and reacted without surprise. I took a crowded commuter train to Tokyo Station and bought a bullet-train ticket to Kyoto, literally jumping onto the first Hikari express to pull out. I made do with coffee and a sandwich for breakfast and dozed for an hour. I arrived in Kyoto a few minutes before eleven. Following Naoko's instructions, I took a city bus to a small terminal serving the northern suburbs. The next bus to my destination would not be leaving until 11.35, I was told, and the trip would take a little over an hour. I bought a ticket and went to a bookshop across the street for a map. Back in the waiting room, I studied the map to see if I could find exactly where the Ami Hostel was located. It turned out to be much farther into the mountains than I had imagined. The bus would have to cross several hills in its trek north, then turn around where the canyon road dead-ended and return to the city. My stop would be just before the end of the line. There was a footpath near the bus stop, according to Naoko, and if I followed it for 20 minutes I would reach Ami Hostel. No wonder it was such a quiet place, if it was that deep in the mountains! The bus pulled out with about 20 passengers aboard, following the Kamo River through the north end of Kyoto. The tightly packed city streets gave way to more sparse housing, then fields and vacant land. Black tile roofs and vinyl-sided greenhouses caught the early autumn sun and sent it back with a glare. When the bus entered the canyon, the driver began hauling the steering wheel this way and that to follow the twists and curves of the road, and I began to feel queasy. I could 110 still taste my morning coffee. By the time the number of curves began to decrease to the point where I felt some relief, the bus plunged into a chilling cedar forest. The trees might have been old growth the way they towered over the road, blocking out the sun and covering everything in gloomy shadows. The breeze flowing into the bus's open windows turned suddenly cold, its dampness sharp against the skin. The valley road hugged the river bank, continuing so long through the trees it began to seem as if the whole world had been buried for ever in cedar forest - at which point the forest ended, and we came to an open basin surrounded by mountain peaks. Broad, green farmland spread out in all directions, and the river by the road looked bright and clear. A single thread of white smoke rose in the distance. Some houses had laundry drying in the sun, and dogs were howling. Each farmhouse had firewood out front piled up to the eaves, usually with a cat resting somewhere on the pile. The road was lined with such houses for a time, but I saw not a single person. The scenery repeated this pattern any number of times. The bus would enter cedar forest, come out to a village, then go back into forest. It would stop at a village to let people off, but no one ever got on. Forty minutes after leaving the city, the bus reached a mountain pass with a wide-open view. The driver stopped the bus and announced that we would be waiting there for five or six minutes: people could step down from the bus if they wished. There were only four passengers left now, including me. We all got out and stretched or smoked and looked down at the panorama of Kyoto far below. The driver went off to one side for a pee. A suntanned man in his early fifties who had boarded the bus with a big, rope-tied cardboard carton asked me if I was going out to hike in the mountains. I said yes to keep things simple. Eventually another bus came climbing up from the other side of the pass and stopped next to ours. The driver got out, had a short talk with our driver, and the two men climbed back into their buses. The four of us returned to our seats, and the buses pulled out in opposite 111 directions. It was not immediately clear to me why our bus had had to wait for the other one, but a short way down the other side of the mountain the road narrowed suddenly. Two big buses could never have passed each other on the road, and in fact passing ordinary cars coming in the other direction required a good deal of manoeuvring, with one or the other vehicle having to back up and squeeze into the overhang of a curve. The villages along the road were far smaller now, and the level areas under cultivation even narrower. The mountain was steeper, its walls pressed closer to the bus windows. They seemed to have just as many dogs as the other places, though, and the arrival of the bus would set off a howling competition. At the stop where I got off, there was nothing - no houses, no fields, just the bus stop sign, a little stream, and the trail opening. I slung my rucksack over my shoulder and started up the track. The stream ran along the left side of the trail, and a forest of deciduous trees lined the right. I had been climbing the gentle slope for some 15 minutes when I came to a road leading into the woods on the right, the opening barely wide enough to accommodate a car. AMI HOSTEL PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING read the sign by the road. Sharply etched tyre tracks ran up the road through the trees. The occasional flapping of wings echoed in the woods. The sound came through with strange clarity, as if amplified above the other voices of the forest. Once, from far away, I heard what might have been a rifle shot, but it was a small and muffled sound, as though it had passed through several filters. Beyond the woods I came to a white stone wall. It was no higher than my own height and, lacking additional barriers on top, would have been easy for me to scale. The black iron gate looked sturdy enough, but it was wide open, and there was no one manning the guardhouse. Another sign like the last one stood by the gate: AMI HOSTEL 112 PRIVATE NO TRESPASSING. A few clues suggested the guard had been there until some moments before: the ashtray held three buttends, a tea cup stood there half empty, a transistor radio sat on a shelf, and the clock on the wall ticked off the time with a dry sound. I waited a while for the person to come back, but when that showed no sign of happening, I gave a few pushes to something that looked as if it might be a bell. The area just inside the gate was a car park. In it stood a mini-bus, a four-wheel drive Land Cruiser, and a dark blue Volvo. The car park could have held 30 cars, but only those three were parked there now. Two or three minutes went by, and then a gatekeeper in a navy-blue uniform came down the forest road on a yellow bicycle. He was a tall man in his early sixties with receding hair. He leaned the yellow bike against the guardhouse and said, 'I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting,' though he didn't sound sorry at all. The number 32 was painted in white on the bike's mudguard. When I gave him my name, he picked up the phone and repeated it twice to someone on the other end, replied 'Yes, uh-huh, I see' to the other person, then hung up. 'Go to the main building, please, and ask for Doctor Ishida,' he said to me. 'You take this road through the trees to a roundabout. Then take your second left - got that? Your second left - from the roundabout. You'll see an old house. Turn right and go through another bunch of trees to a concrete building. That's the main building. It's easy, just watch for the signs.' I took the second left from the roundabout as instructed, and where that path ended I came to an interesting old building that obviously had been someone's country house once. It had a manicured garden with well-shaped rocks and a stone lantern. It must have been a country estate. Turning right through the trees, I saw a three-storey concrete building. It stood in a hollowed-out area, and so there was nothing overwhelming about its three storeys. It was simple in design and gave a strong impression of cleanliness. 113 The entrance was on the second floor. I climbed the stairs and went in through a big glass door to find a young woman in a red dress at the reception desk. I gave her my name and said I had been instructed to ask for Doctor Ishida. She smiled and gestured towards a brown sofa, suggesting in low tones that I wait there for the doctor to come. Then she dialled a number. I lowered my rucksack from my back, sank down into the deep cushions of the sofa, and surveyed the place. It was a clean, pleasant lobby, with ornamental potted plants, tasteful abstract paintings, and a polished floor. As I waited, I kept my eyes on the floor's reflection of my shoes. At one point the receptionist assured me, 'The doctor will be here soon.' I nodded. What an incredibly quiet place! There were no sounds of any kind. It was as though everyone were taking a siesta. People, animals, insects, plants must all be sound asleep, I thought, it was such a quiet afternoon. Before long, though, I heard the soft padding of rubber soles, and a mature, bristly-haired woman appeared. She swept across the lobby, sat down next to me, crossed her legs and took my hand. Instead of just shaking it, she turned my hand over, examining it front and back. 'You haven't played a musical instrument, at least not for some years now, have you?' were the first words out of her mouth. 'No,' I said, taken aback. 'You're right.' 'I can tell from your hands,' she said with a smile. There was something almost mysterious about this woman. Her face had lots of wrinkles. These were the first thing to catch your eye, but they didn't make her look old. Instead, they emphasized a certain youthfulness in her that transcended age. The wrinkles belonged where they were, as if they had been part of her face since birth. When she smiled, the wrinkles smiled with her; when she frowned, the wrinkles frowned, too. And when she was neither smiling nor frowning, the wrinkles lay scattered over her face in a strangely warm, ironic way. Here was a woman in her late thirties who seemed not 114 merely a nice person but whose niceness drew you to her. I liked her from the moment I saw her. Wildly chopped, her hair stuck out in patches and the fringe lay crooked against her forehead, but the style suited her perfectly. She wore a blue work shirt over a white T-shirt, baggy, cream-coloured cotton trousers, and tennis shoes. Long and slim, she had almost no breasts. Her lips moved constantly to one side in a kind of ironic curl, and the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes moved in tiny twitches. She looked like a kindly, skilled, but somewhat world-weary female carpenter. Chin drawn in and lips curled, she took some time to look me over from head to toe. I imagined that any minute now she was going to whip out her tape measure and start measuring me everywhere. 'Can you play an instrument?' she asked. 'Sorry, no,' I said. 'Too bad,' she said. 'It would have been fun.' 'I suppose so,' I said. Why all this talk about musical instruments? She took a pack of Seven Stars from her breast pocket, put one between her lips, lit it with a lighter and began puffing away with obvious pleasure. 'It crossed my mind that I should tell you about this place, Mr. - Watanabe, wasn't it? - before you see Naoko. So I arranged for the two of us to have this little talk. Ami Hostel is kind of unusual - you might find it a little confusing without any background knowledge. I'm right, aren't I, in supposing that you don't know anything about this place?' 'Almost nothing.' 'Well, then, first of all - ' she began, then snapped her fingers. 'Come to think of it, have you had lunch? I'll bet you're hungry.' 'You're right, I am.' 'Come with me, then. We can talk over food in the dining hall. Lunchtime is over, but if we go now they can still make us something.' 115 She took the lead, hurrying down a corridor and a flight of stairs to the first-floor dining hall. It was a large room, with enough space for perhaps 200 people, but only half was in use, the other half partitioned off, like a resort hotel out of season. The day's menu listed a potato stew with noodles, salad, orange juice and bread. The vegetables turned out to be as delicious as Naoko had said in her letter, and I finished everything on my plate. 'You obviously enjoy your food!' said my female companion. 'It's wonderful,' I said. 'Plus, I've hardly eaten anything all day.' 'You're welcome to mine if you like. I'm full. Here, go ahead.' 'I will, if you really don't want it.' 'I've got a small stomach. It doesn't hold much. I make up for what I'm missing with cigarettes.' She lit another Seven Star. 'Oh, by the way, you can call me Reiko. Everybody does.' Reiko seemed to derive great pleasure from watching me while I ate the potato stew she had hardly touched and munched on her bread. 'Are you Naoko's doctor?' I asked. 'Me?! Naoko's doctor?!' She screwed up her face. 'What makes you think I'm a doctor?' 'They told me to ask for Doctor Ishida.' 'Oh, I get it. No no no, I teach music here. It's a kind of therapy for some patients, so for fun they call me 'The Music Doctor' and sometimes 'Doctor Ishida'. But I'm just another patient. I've been here seven years. I work as a music teacher and help out in the office, so it's hard to tell any more whether I'm a patient or staff. Didn't Naoko tell you about me?' I shook my head. 'That's strange,' said Reiko. 'I'm Naoko's room-mate. I like living with her. We talk about all kinds of things. Including you.' 'What about me?' 'Well, first I have to tell you about this place,' said Reiko, ignoring 116 my question. 'The first thing you ought to know is that this is no ordinary 'hospital'. It's not so much for treatment as for convalescence. We do have a few doctors, of course, and they give hourly sessions, but they're just checking people's conditions, taking their temperature and things like that, not administering 'treatments' as in an ordinary hospital. There are no bars on the windows here, and the gate is always wide open. People enter and leave voluntarily. You have to be suited to that kind of convalescence to be admitted here in the first place. In some cases, people who need specialized therapy end up going to a specialized hospital. OK so far?' 'I think so,' I said. 'But what does this 'convalescence' consist of? Can you give me a concrete example?' Reiko exhaled a cloud of smoke and drank what was left of her orange juice. 'Just living here is the convalescence,' she said. A regular routine, exercise, isolation from the outside world, clean air, quiet. Our farmland makes us practically self-sufficient; there's no TV or radio. We're like one of those commune places you hear so much about. Of course, one thing different from a commune is that it costs a bundle to get in here.' A bundle?' 'Well, it's not ridiculously expensive, but it's not cheap. Just look at these facilities. We've got a lot of land here, a few patients, a big staff, and in my case I've been here a long time. True, I'm almost staff myself so I get concessions, but still ... Now, how about a cup of coffee?' I said I'd like some. She stubbed out her cigarette and went over to the counter, where she poured two cups of coffee from a warm pot and brought them back to where we were sitting. She put sugar in hers, stirred it, frowned, and took a sip. -You know,' she said, 'this sanatorium is not a profitmaking enterprise, so it can keep going without charging as much as it might 117 have to otherwise. The land was a donation. They created a corporation for the purpose. The whole place used to be the donor's summer home about 20 years ago. You saw the old house, I'm sure?' I said I had. 'That used to be the only building on the property. It's where they did group therapy. That's how it all got started. The donor's son had a tendency towards mental illness and a specialist recommended group therapy for him. The doctor's theory was that if you could have a group of patients living out in the country, helping each other with physical labour and have a doctor for advice and check-ups, you could cure certain kinds of sickness. They tried it, and the operation grew and was incorporated, and they put more land under cultivation, and put up the main building five years ago.' 'Meaning, the therapy worked.' 'Well, not for everything. Lots of people don't get better. But also a lot of people who couldn't be helped anywhere else managed a complete recovery here. The best thing about this place is the way everybody helps everybody else. Everybody knows they're flawed in some way, and so they try to help each other. Other places don't work that way, unfortunately. Doctors are doctors and patients are patients: the patient looks for help to the doctor and the doctor gives his help to the patient. Here, though, we all help each other. We're all each other's mirrors, and the doctors are part of us. They watch us from the sidelines and they slip in to help us if they see we need something, but it sometimes happens that we help them. Sometimes we're better at something than they are. For example, I'm teaching one doctor to play the piano and another patient is teaching a nurse French. That kind of thing. Patients with problems like ours are often blessed with special abilities. So everyone here is equal - patients, staff - and you. You're one of us while you're in here, so I help you and you help me.' Reiko smiled, gently flexing every wrinkle on her face. 'You help Naoko and Naoko helps you.' 118 'What should I do, then? Give me an example.' 'First you decide that you want to help and that you need to be helped by the other person. Then you are totally honest. You will not lie, you will not gloss over anything, you will not cover up anything that might prove embarrassing to you. That's all there is to it.' 'I'll try,' I said. 'But tell me, Reiko, why have you been in here for seven years? Talking with you like this, I can't believe there's anything wrong with you.' 'Not while the sun's up,' she said with a sombre look. 'But when night comes, I start drooling and rolling on the floor.' 'Really?' 'Don't be ridiculous, I'm kidding,' she said, shaking her head with a look of disgust. 'I'm completely well - for now, at least. I stay here because I enjoy helping other people get well, teaching music, growing vegetables. I like it here. We're all more or less friends. Compared to that, what have I got in the outside world? I'm 38, going on 40. I'm not like Naoko. There's nobody waiting for me to get out, no family to take me back. I don't have any work to speak of, and almost no friends. And after seven years, I don't know what's going on out there. Oh, I'll read a paper in the library every once in a while, but I haven't set foot outside this property all that time. I wouldn't know what to do if I left.' 'But maybe a new world would open up for you,' I said. 'It's worth a try, don't you think?' 'Hmm, you may be right,' she said, turning her cigarette lighter over and over in her hand. 'But I've got my own set of problems. I can tell you all about them sometime if you like.' I nodded in response. 'And Naoko,' I said, 'is she any better?' 'Hmm, we think so. She was pretty confused at first and we had our doubts for a while, but she's calmed down now and improved to the point where she's able to express herself verbally. She's definitely heading in the right direction. But she should have received treatment a lot earlier. Her symptoms were already apparent from the time that 119 boyfriend of hers, Kizuki, killed himself. Her family should have seen it, and she herself should have realized that something was wrong. Of course, things weren't right at home, either ...' 'They weren't?' I shot back. 'You didn't know?' Reiko seemed more surprised than I was. I shook my head. 'I'd better let Naoko tell you about that herself. She's ready for some honest talk with you.' Reiko gave her coffee another stir and took a sip. 'There's one more thing you need to know,' she said. 'According to the rules here, you and Naoko will not be allowed to be alone together. Visitors can't be alone with patients. An observer always has to be present - which in this case means me. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to put up with me. OK?' 'OK,' I said with a smile. 'But still,' she said, 'the two of you can talk about anything you'd like. Forget I'm there. I know pretty much everything there is to know about you and Naoko.' 'Everything?' 'Pretty much. We have these group sessions, you know. So we learn a lot about each other. Plus Naoko and I talk about everything. We don't have many secrets here.' I looked at Reiko as I drank my coffee. 'To tell you the truth,' I said, 'I'm confused. I still don't know whether what I did to Naoko in Tokyo was the right thing to do or not. I've been thinking about it this whole time, but I still don't know.' 'And neither do I,' said Reiko. 'And neither does Naoko. That's something the two of you will have to decide for yourselves. See what I mean? Whatever happened, the two of you can turn it in the right direction - if you can reach some kind of mutual understanding. Maybe, once you've got that taken care of, you can go back and think about whether what happened was the right thing or not. What do you say?' 120 I nodded. 'I think the three of us can help each other - you and Naoko and I - if we really want to, and if we're really honest. It can be incredibly effective when three people work at it like that. How long can you stay?' 'Well, I'd like to get back to Tokyo by early evening the day after tomorrow. I have to work, and I've got a German exam on Thursday.' 'Good,' she said. 'So you can stay with us. That way it won't cost you anything and you can talk without having to worry about the time.' 'With 'us'?' I asked. 'Naoko and me, of course,' said Reiko. 'We have a separate bedroom, and there's a sofa bed in the living room, so you'll be able to sleep fine. Don't worry.' ,,Do they allow that?' I asked. 'Can a male visitor stay in a Woman's room?' 'I don't suppose you're going to come in and rape us in the middle of the night?' 'Don't be silly.' 'So there's no problem, then. Stay in our place and we can have some nice, long talks. That would be the best thing. Then we can really understand each other. And I can play my guitar for you. I'm pretty good, you know.' 'Are you sure I'm not going to be in the way?' Reiko put her third Seven Star between her lips and lit it after screwing up the corner of her mouth. 'Naoko and I have already discussed this. The two of us together are giving you a personal invitation to stay with us. Don't you think you should just politely accept?' 'Of course, I'll be glad to.' Reiko deepened the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and looked at me for a time. 'You've got this funny way of talking,' she said. 'Don't tell me you're trying to imitate that boy in Catcher in the Rye?' 121 'No way!' I said with a smile. Reiko smiled too, cigarette in mouth. 'You are a good person, though. I can tell that much from looking at you. I can tell these things after seven years of watching people come and go here: there are people who can open their hearts and people who can't. You're one of the ones who can. Or, more precisely, you can if you want to.' 'What happens when people open their hearts?' Reiko clasped her hands together on the table, cigarette dangling from her lips. She was enjoying this. 'They get better,' she said. Ash dropped onto the table, but she seemed not to notice. Reiko and I left the main building, crossed a hill, and passed by a pool, some tennis courts, and a basketball court. Two men - one thin and middle-aged, the other young and fat were on a tennis court. Both used their racquets well, but to me the game they were playing could not have been tennis. It seemed as if the two of them had a special interest in the bounce of tennis balls and were doing research in that area. They slammed the ball back and forth with a kind of strange concentration. Both were drenched in sweat. The young man, in the end of the court closer to us, noticed Reiko and carne over. They exchanged a few words, smiling. Near the court, a man with no expression on his face was using a large mower to cut the grass. Moving on, we came to a patch of woods where some 15 or 20 neat little cottages stood at some distance from each other. The same kind of yellow bike the gatekeeper had been riding was parked at the entrance to almost every house. 'Staff members and their families live here,' said Reiko. 'We have just about everything we need without going to the city,' she said as we walked along. 'Where food is concerned, as I said before, we're practically self-sufficient. We get eggs from our own chicken coop. We have books and records and exercise facilities, our own convenience store, and every week barbers and beauticians come to visit. We even have films at weekends. Anything special we need 122 we can ask a staff member to buy for us in town. Clothing we order from catalogues. Living here is no problem.' 'But you can't go into town?' 'No, that we can't do. Of course if there's something special, like we have to go to the dentist or something, that's another matter, but as a rule we can't go into town. Each person is completely free to leave this place, but once you've left you can't come back. You burn your bridges. You can't go off for a couple of days in town and expect to come back. It only stands to reason, though. Everybody would be coming and going.' Beyond the trees we came to a gentle slope along which, at irregular intervals, was a row of two-storey wooden houses that had something odd about them. What made them look strange it's hard to say, but that was the first thing I felt when I saw them. My reaction was a lot like what we feel when we see unreality painted in a pleasant way. It occurred to me that this was what you might get if Walt Disney did an animated version of a Munch painting. All the houses were exactly the same shape and colour, nearly cubical, in perfect left-to-right symmetry, with big front doors and lots of windows. The road twisted its way among them like the artificial practice course of a driving school. There was a well-manicured flowering shrubbery in front of every house. The place was deserted, and curtains covered all the windows. 'This is called Area C. The women live here. Us! There are ten houses, each containing four units, two people per unit. That's 80 people all together, but at the moment there are only 32 of us.' 'Quiet, isn't it?' 'Well, there's nobody here now,' Reiko said. 'I've been given special permission to move around freely like this, but everyone else is off pursuing their individual schedules. Some are exercising, some are gardening, some are in group therapy, some are out gathering wild plants. Each person makes up his or her own schedule. Let's see, 123 what's Naoko doing now? I think she was supposed to be working on new paint and wallpaper. I forget. There are a few jobs like that that don't finish till five.' Reiko walked into the building marked 'C-7', climbed the stairs at the far end of the hallway, and opened the door on the right, which was unlocked. She showed me around the flat, a pleasant, if plain, fourroom unit: living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath. It had no extra furniture or unnecessary decoration, but neither was the place severe. There was nothing special about it, but being there was kind of like being with Reiko: you could relax and let the tension leave your body. The living room had a sofa, a table, and a rocking chair. Another table stood in the kitchen. Both tables had large ashtrays on them. The bedroom had two beds, two desks and a closet. A small night table stood between the beds with a reading lamp on top and a paperback turned face down. The kitchen had a small electric cooker that matched the fridge and was equipped for simple cooking. 'No bath, just a shower, but it's pretty impressive, wouldn't you say? Bath and laundry facilities are communal.' 'It's almost too impressive. My dorm room has a ceiling and a window.' 'Ah, but you haven't seen the winters here,' said Reiko, touching my back to guide me to the sofa and sitting down next to me. 'They're long and harsh. Nothing but snow and snow and more snow everywhere you look. It gets damp and chills you to the bone. We spend the winter shovelling snow. Mostly you stay inside where it's warm and listen to music or talk or knit. If you didn't have this much space, you'd suffocate. You'll see if you come here in the winter.' Reiko gave a deep sigh as if picturing wintertime, then folded her hands on her knees. 'This will be your bed,' she said, patting the sofa. 'We'll sleep in the bedroom, and you'll sleep here. You should be all right, don't you think?' 124 'I'm sure I'll be fine.' 'So, that settles it,' said Reiko. 'We'll be back around five. Naoko and I both have things to do until then. Do you mind staying here alone?' 'Not at all. I'll study my German.' When Reiko left, I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes. I lay there steeping myself in the silence when, out of nowhere, I thought of the time Kizuki and I went on a motorbike ride. That had been autumn, too, I realized. Autumn how many years ago? Yes, four. I recalled the smell of Kizuki's leather jacket and the racket made by that red Yamaha 125cc bike. We went to a spot far down the coast, and came back the same evening, exhausted. Nothing special happened on the way, but I remembered it well. The sharp autumn wind moaned in my ears, and looking up at the sky, my hands clutching Kizuki's jacket, I felt as if I might be swept into outer space. I lay there for a long time, letting my mind wander from one memory to another. For some strange reason, lying in this room seemed to bring back old memories that I had rarely if ever recalled before. Some of them were pleasant, but others carried a trace of sadness. How long did this go on? I was so immersed in that torrent of memory (and it was a torrent, like a spring gushing out of the rocks) that I failed to notice Naoko quietly open the door and come in. I opened my eyes, and there she was. I raised my head and looked into her eyes for a time. She was sitting on the arm of the sofa, looking at me. At first I thought she might be an image spun into existence by my own memories. But it was the real Naoko. 'Sleeping?' she whispered. 'No,' I said, 'just thinking.' I sat up and asked, 'How are you?' 'I'm good,' she said with a little smile like a pale, distant scene. 'I don't have much time, though. I'm not supposed to be here now. I just got away for a minute, and I have to go back right away. Don't you hate my hair?' 'Not at all,' I said. 'It's cute.' Her hair was in a simple schoolgirl 125 style, with one side held in place with a hairslide the way she used to have it in the old days. It suited her very well, as if she had always worn it that way. She looked like one of the beautiful little girls you see in woodblock prints from the Middle Ages. 'It's such a pain, I have Reiko cut it for me. Do you really think it's cute?' 'Really.' 'My mother hates it.' She opened the hairslide, let the hair hang down, smoothed it with her fingers, and closed the hairslide again. It was shaped like a butterfly. 'I wanted to see you alone before the three of us get together. Not that I had anything special to say. I just wanted to see your face and get used to having you here. Otherwise, I'd have trouble getting to know you again. I'm so bad with people.' 'Well?' I asked. 'Is it working?' 'A little,' she said, touching her hairslide again. 'But time's up. I've got to go.' I nodded. 'Toru,' she began, 'I really want to thank you for coming to see me. It makes me very happy. But if being here is any kind of burden to you, you shouldn't hesitate to tell me so. This is a special place, and it has a special system, and some people can't get into it. So if you feel like that, please be honest and let me know. I won't be crushed. We're honest with each other here. We tell each other all kinds of things with complete honesty.' 'I'll tell you,' I said. 'I'll be honest.' Naoko sat down and leaned against me on the sofa. When I put my arm around her, she rested her head on my shoulder and pressed her face to my neck. She stayed like that for a time, almost as if she were taking my temperature. Holding her, I felt warm in the chest. After a short while, she stood up without saying a word and went out through the door as quietly as she had come in. 126 With Naoko gone, I went to sleep on the sofa. I hadn't intended to do so, but I fell into the kind of deep sleep I had not had for a long time, filled with a sense of Naoko's presence. In the kitchen were the dishes Naoko used, in the bathroom was the toothbrush Naoko used, and in the bedroom was the bed in which Naoko slept. Sleeping soundly in this flat of hers, I wrung the fatigue from every cell of my body, drop by drop. I dreamed of a butterfly dancing in the half-light. When I awoke again, the hands of my watch were pointing to 4.35. The light had changed, the wind had died, the shapes of the clouds were different. I had sweated in my sleep, so I dried my face with a small towel from my rucksack and put on a fresh vest. Going to the kitchen, I drank some water and stood there looking through the window over the sink. I was facing a window in the building opposite, on the inside of which hung several paper cut-outs - a bird, a cloud, a cow, a cat, all in skilful silhouette and joined together. As before, there was no sign of anyone about, and there were no sounds of any kind. I felt as if I were living alone in an extremely well-cared-for ruin. People started coming back to Area C a little after five Looking out of the kitchen window, I saw three women passing below. All wore hats that prevented me from telling their ages, but judging from their voices, they were not very young. Shortly after they had disappeared around a corner, four more women appeared from the same direction and, like the first group, disappeared around the same corner. An evening mood hung over everything. From the living room window I could see trees and a line of hills. Above the ridge floated a border of pale sunlight. Naoko and Reiko came back together at 5.30. Naoko and I exchanged proper greetings as if meeting for the first time. She seemed truly embarrassed. Reiko noticed the book I had been reading and asked what it was. Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, I told her. 'How could you bring a book like that to a place like this?' she 127 demanded. She was right, of course. Reiko then made coffee for the three of us. I told Naoko about Storm Trooper's sudden disappearance and about the last day I saw him, when he gave me the firefly. 'I'm so sorry he's gone,' she said. 'I wanted to hear more stories about him.' Reiko asked who Storm Trooper was, so I told her about his antics and got a big laugh from her. The world was at peace and filled with laughter as long as Storm Trooper stories were being told. At six we went to the dining hall in the main building for supper. Naoko and I had fried fish with green salad, boiled vegetables, rice and miso soup. Reiko limited herself to pasta salad and coffee, followed by another cigarette. 'You don't need to eat so much as you get older,' she said by way of explanation. Some 20 other people were there in the dining hall. A few newcomers arrived as we ate, meanwhile some others left. Aside from the variety in people's ages, the scene looked pretty much like that of the dining hall in my dormitory. Where it differed was the uniform volume at which people conversed. There were no loud voices and no whispers, no one laughing out loud or crying out in shock, no one yelling with exaggerated gestures, nothing but quiet conversations, all carrying on at the same level. People were eating in groups of three to five, each with a single speaker, to whom the others would listen with nods and grunts of interest, and when that person had finished speaking, the next would take up the conversation. I could not tell what they were saying, but the way they said it reminded me of the strange tennis game I had seen at noon. I wondered if Naoko spoke like this when she was with them and, strangely enough, I felt a twinge of loneliness mixed with jealousy. At the table behind me, a balding man in white with the authentic air of a doctor was holding forth to a nervouslooking young man in glasses and a squirrel-faced woman of middle age on the effects of 128 weightlessness on the secretion of gastric juices. The two listened with an occasional 'My goodness' or 'Really?' but the longer I listened to the balding man's style of speaking, the less certain I became that, even in his white coat, he was really a doctor. No one in the dining hall paid me any special attention. No one stared or even seemed to notice I was there. My presence must have been an entirely natural event. Just once, though, the man in white spun around and asked me, 'How long will you be staying?' 'Two nights,' I said. 'I'll be leaving on Wednesday.' 'It's nice here this time of year, isn't it? But come again in winter. It's really nice when everything's white.' 'Naoko may be out of here by the time it snows,' said Reiko to the man. 'True, but still, the winter's really nice,' he repeated with a sombre expression. I felt increasingly unsure as to whether or not he was a doctor. 'What do you people talk about?' I asked Reiko, who seemed to not quite follow me. 'What do we talk about? Just ordinary things. What happened that day, or books we've read, or tomorrow's weather, you know. Don't tell me you're wondering if people jump to their feet and shout stuff like: 'It'll rain tomorrow if a polar bear eats the stars tonight!'' 'No, no, of course not,' I said. 'I was just wondering what all these quiet conversations were about.' 'It's a quiet place, so people talk quietly,' said Naoko. She made a neat pile of fish bones at the edge of her plate and dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief. 'There's no need to raise your voice here. You don't have to convince anybody of anything, and you don't have to attract anyone's attention.' 'I guess not,' I said, but as I ate my meal in those quiet surroundings, I was surprised to find myself missing the hum of people. I wanted to 129 hear laughter and people shouting for no reason and saying overblown things. That was just the kind of noise I had become weary of in recent months, but sitting here eating fish in this unnaturally quiet room, I couldn't relax. The dining hall had all the atmosphere of a specialized -machine-tool trade fair. People with a strong interest in a specialist field came together in a specific place and exchanged information understood only by themselves. Back in the room after supper, Naoko and Reiko announced that they would be going to the Area C communal bath and that if I didn't mind having just a shower, I could use the one in their bathroom. I would do that, I said, and after they were gone I undressed, showered, and washed my hair. I found a Bill Evans album in the bookcase and was listening to it while drying my hair when I realized that it was the record I had played in Naoko's room on the night of her birthday, the night she cried and I took her in my arms. That had been only six months ago, but it felt like something from a much remoter past. Maybe it felt that way because I had thought about it so often - too often, to the point where it had distorted my sense of time. The moon was so bright, I turned the lights off and stretched out on the sofa to listen to Bill Evans' piano. Streaming in through the window, the moonlight cast long shadows and splashed the walls with a touch of diluted Indian ink. I took a thin metal flask from my rucksack, let my mouth fill with the brandy it contained, allowed the warmth to move slowly down my throat to my stomach, and from there felt it spreading to every extremity. After a final sip, I closed the flask and returned it to my rucksack. Now the moonlight seemed to be swaying with the music. Twenty minutes later, Naoko and Reiko came back from the bath. 'Oh! It was so dark here, we thought you had packed your bags and gone back to Tokyo!' exclaimed Reiko. 'No way,' I said. 'I hadn't seen such a bright moon for years. I wanted to look at it with the lights off.' 130 'It's lovely, though,' said Naoko. 'Reiko, do we still have those candles from the last power cut?' 'Probably, in a kitchen drawer.' Naoko brought a large, white candle from the kitchen. I lit it, dripped a little wax into a plate, and stood it up. Reiko used the flame to light a cigarette. As the three of us sat facing the candle amid these hushed surroundings, it began to seem as if we were the only ones left on some far edge of the world. The still shadows of the moonlight and the swaying shadows of the candlelight met and melded on the white walls of the flat. Naoko and I sat next to each other on the sofa, and Reiko settled into the rocking chair facing us. 'How about some wine?' Reiko asked me. 'You're allowed to drink?' I asked with some surprise. 'Well, not really,' said Reiko, scratching an earlobe with a hint of embarrassment. 'But they pretty much let it go. If it's just wine or beer and you don't drink too much. I've got a friend on the staff who buys me a little now and then.' 'We have our drinking parties,' said Naoko with a mischievous air. 'Just the two of us.' 'That's nice,' I said. Reiko took a bottle of white wine from the fridge, opened it with a corkscrew and brought three glasses. The wine had a clear, delicious flavour that seemed almost homemade. When the record ended, Reiko brought out a guitar from under her bed, and after tuning it with a look of fondness for the instrument, she began to play a slow Bach fugue. She missed her fingering every now and then, but it was real Bach, with real feeling - warm, intimate, and filled with the joy of performance. 'I started playing the guitar here,' said Reiko. 'There are no pianos in the rooms, of course. I'm self-taught, and I don't have guitar hands, so 131 I'll never get very good, but I really love the instrument. It's small and simple and easy, kind of like a warm, little room.' She played one more short Bach piece, something from a suite. Eyes on the candle flame, sipping wine, listening to Reiko's Bach, I felt the tension inside me slipping away. When Reiko ended the Bach, Naoko asked her to play a Beatles song. 'Request time,' said Reiko, winking at me. 'She makes me play Beatles every day, like I'm her music slave.' Despite her protest, Reiko played a fine 'Michelle'. 'That's a good one,' she said. 'I really like that song.' She took a sip of wine and puffed her cigarette. 'It makes me feel like I'm in a big meadow in a soft rain.' Then she played 'Nowhere Man' and 'Julia'. Now and then as she played, she would close her eyes and shake her head. Afterwards she would return to the wine and the cigarette. 'Play 'Norwegian Wood',' said Naoko. Reiko brought a porcelain beckoning cat from the kitchen. It was a coin bank, and Naoko dropped a ? 100 piece from her purse into its slot. 'What's this all about?' I asked. 'It's a rule,' said Naoko. 'When I request 'Norwegian Wood,' I have to put ? 100 into the bank. It's my favourite, so I make a point of paying for it. I make a request when I really want to hear it.' 'And that way I get my cigarette money!' said Reiko. Reiko gave her fingers a good flexing and then played 'Norwegian Wood'. Again she played with real feeling, but never allowed it to become sentimental. I took ? 100 coin from my pocket and dropped it into the bank. 'Thank you,' said Reiko with a sweet smile. 'That song can make me feel so sad,' said Naoko. 'I don't know, I guess I imagine myself wandering in a deep wood. I'm all alone and it's cold and dark, and nobody comes to save me. That's why Reiko 132 never plays it unless I request it.' 133 Sounds like Casablanca!' Reiko said with a laugh. She followed 'Norwegian Wood' with a few bossa novas while I kept my eyes on Naoko. As she had said in her letter, she looked healthier than before, suntanned, her body firm from exercise and outdoor work. Her eyes were the same deep clear pools they had always been, and her small lips still trembled shyly, but overall her beauty had begun to change to that of a mature woman. Almost gone now was the sharp edge - the chilling sharpness of a thin blade - that could be glimpsed in the shadows of her beauty, in place of which there now hovered a uniquely soothing, quiet calm. I felt moved by this new, gentle beauty of hers, and amazed to think that a woman could change so much in the course of half a year. I felt as drawn to her as ever, perhaps more than before, but the thought of what she had lost in the meantime also gave me cause for regret. Never again would she have that self-centred beauty that seems to take its own, independent course in adolescent girls and no one else. Naoko said she wanted to hear about how I was spending my days. I talked about the student strike and Nagasawa. This was the first time I had ever said anything about him to her. I found it challenging to give her an accurate account of his odd humanity, his unique philosophy, and his uncentred morality, but Naoko seemed finally to grasp what I was trying to tell her. I hid the fact that I went out hunting girls with him, revealing only that the one person in the dorm I spent any real time with was this unusual guy. All the while, Reiko went through another practice of the Bach fugue she had played before, taking occasional breaks for wine and cigarettes. 'He sounds like a strange person,' said Naoko. 'He is strange,' I said. 'But you like him?' 'I'm not sure,' I said. 'I guess I can't say I like him. Nagasawa is beyond liking or not liking. He doesn't try to be liked. In that sense, he's a very honest guy, stoic even. He doesn't try to fool anybody.' ''Stoic' sleeping with all those girls? Now that is weird,' said Naoko, 134 laughing. 'How many girls has he slept with?' 'It's probably up to 80 now,' I said. 'But in his case, the higher the numbers go, the less each individual act seems to mean. Which is what I think he's trying to accomplish.' 'And you call that 'stoic'?' 'For him it is.' Naoko thought about my words for a minute. 'I think he's a lot sicker in the head than I am,' she said. 'So do I,' I said. 'But he can put all of his warped qualities into a logical system. He's brilliant. If you brought him here, he'd be out in two days. 'Oh, sure, I know all that,' he'd say. 'I understand everything you're doing here.' He's that kind of guy. The kind people respect.' 'I guess I'm the opposite of brilliant,' said Naoko. 'I don't understand anything they're doing here - any better than I understand myself.' 'It's not because you're not smart,' I said. 'You're normal. I've got tons of things I don't understand about myself. We're both normal: ordinary.' Naoko raised her feet to the edge of the sofa and rested her chin on her knees. 'I want to know more about you,' she said. 'I'm just an ordinary guy - ordinary family, ordinary education, ordinary face, ordinary exam results, ordinary thoughts in my head.' 'You're such a big Scott Fitzgerald fan ... wasn't he the one who said you shouldn't trust anybody who calls himself an ordinary man? You lent me the book!' said Naoko with a mischievous smile. 'True,' I said. 'But this is no affectation. I really, truly believe deep down that I'm an ordinary person. Can you find something in me that's not ordinary?' 'Of course I can!' said Naoko with a hint of impatience. 'Don't you get it? Why do you think I slept with you? Because I was so drunk I would have slept with anyone?' 'No, of course I don't think that,' I said. 135 Naoko remained silent for a long time, staring at her toes. At a loss for words, I took another sip of wine. 'How many girls have you slept with, Toru?' Naoko asked in a tiny voice as if the thought had just crossed her mind. 'Eight or nine,' I answered truthfully. Reiko plopped the guitar into her lap. 'You're not even 20 years old!' she said. 'What kind of life are you leading?' Naoko kept silent and watched me with those clear eyes of hers. I told Reiko about the first girl I'd slept with and how we had broken up. I had found it impossible to love her, I explained. I went on to tell her about my sleeping with one girl after another under Nagasawa's tutelage. 'I'm not trying to make excuses, but I was in pain,' I said to Naoko. 'Here I was, seeing you almost every week, and talking with you, and knowing that the only one in your heart was Kizuki. It hurt. It really hurt. And I think that's why I slept with girls I didn't know.' Naoko shook her head for a few moments, and then she raised her face to look at me. 'You asked me that time why I had never slept with Kizuki, didn't you? Do you still want to know?' 'I suppose it's something I really ought to know,' I said. 'I think so, too,' said Naoko. 'The dead will always be dead, but we have to go on living.' I nodded. Reiko played the same difficult passage over and over, trying to get it right. 'I was ready to sleep with him,' said Naoko, unclasping her hairslide and letting her hair down. She toyed with the butterfly shape in her hands. 'And of course he wanted to sleep with me. So we tried. We tried a lot. But it never worked. We couldn't do it. I didn't know why then, and I still don't know why. I loved him, and I wasn't worried about losing my virginity. I would have been glad to do anything he wanted. But it never worked.' Naoko lifted the hair she had let down and fastened it with the slide. 136 'I couldn't get wet,' she said in a tiny voice. 'I never opened to him. So it always hurt. I was just too dry, it hurt too much. We tried everything we could think of - creams and things - but still it hurt me. So I used my fingers, or my lips. I would always do it for him that way. You know what I mean.' I nodded in silence. Naoko cast her gaze through the window at the moon, which looked bigger and brighter now than it had before. 'I never wanted to talk about any of this,' she said. 'I wanted to shut it up in my heart. I wish I still could. But I have to talk about it. I don't know the answer. I mean, I was plenty wet the time I slept with you, wasn't I?' 'Uh-huh,' I said. 'I was wet from the minute you walked into my flat the night of my twentieth birthday. I wanted you to hold me. I wanted you to take off my clothes, to touch me all over and enter me. I had never felt like that before. Why is that? Why do things happen like that? I mean, I really loved him.' 'And not me,' I said. 'You want to know why you felt that way about me, even though you didn't love me?' 'I'm sorry,' said Naoko. 'I don't mean to hurt you, but this much you have to understand: Kizuki and I had a truly special relationship. We had been together from the time we were three. It's how we grew up: always together, always talking, understanding each other perfectly. The first time we kissed it was in the first year of junior school - was just wonderful. The first time I had my period, I ran to him and cried like a baby. We were that close. So after he died, I didn't know how to relate to other people. I didn't know what it meant to love another person.' She reached for her wineglass on the table but only managed to knock it over, spilling wine on the carpet. I crouched down and retrieved the glass, setting it on the table. Did she want to drink some more? I asked. Naoko remained silent for a while, then suddenly burst into 137 tears, trembling all over. Slumping forward, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed with the same suffocating violence as she had that night with me. Reiko laid down her guitar and sat by Naoko, caressing her back. When she put an arm across Naoko's shoulders, she pressed her face against Reiko's chest like a baby. 'You know,' Reiko said to me, 'it might be a good idea for you to go out for a little walk. Maybe 20 minutes. Sorry, but I think that would help.' I nodded and stood, pulling a jumper on over my shirt. 'Thanks for stepping in,' I said to Reiko. 'Don't mention it,' she said with a wink. 'This is not your fault. Don't worry, by the time you come back she'll be OK.' My feet carried me down the road, which was illuminated by the oddly unreal light of the moon, and into the woods. Beneath that moonlight, all sounds bore a strange reverberation. The hollow sound of my own footsteps seemed to come from another direction as though I were hearing someone walking on the bottom of the sea. Behind me, every now and then, I would hear a crack or a rustle. A heavy pall hung over the forest, as if the animals of the night were holding their breath, waiting for me to pass. Where the road sloped upwards beyond the trees, I sat and looked towards the building where Naoko lived. It was easy to tell her room. All I had to do was find the one window towards the back where a faint light trembled. I focused on that point of light for a long, long time. It made me think of something like the final pulse of a soul's dying embers. I wanted to cup my hands over what was left and keep it alive. I went on watching it the way Jay Gatsby watched that tiny light on the opposite shore night after night. When I walked back to the front entrance of the building half an hour later, I could hear Reiko practising the guitar. I padded up the stairs and tapped on the door to the flat. Inside there was no sign of Naoko. 138 Reiko sat alone on the carpet, playing her guitar. She pointed towards the bedroom door to let me know Naoko was in there. Then she set down the guitar on the floor and took a seat on the sofa, inviting me to sit next to her and dividing what wine was left between our two glasses. 'Naoko is fine,' she said, touching my knee. 'Don't worry, all she has to do is rest for a while. She'll calm down. She was just a little worked up. How about taking a walk with me in the meantime?' 'Good,' I said. Reiko and I ambled down a road illuminated by street lamps. When we reached the area by the tennis and basketball courts, we sat on a bench. She picked up a basketball from under the bench and turned it in her hands. Then she asked me if I played tennis. I knew how to play, I said, but I was bad at it. 'How about basketball?' 'Not my strongest sport,' I said. 'What is your strongest sport?' Reiko asked, wrinkling the corners of her eyes with a smile. 'Aside from sleeping with girls.' 'I'm not so good at that, either,' I said, stung by her words. 'Just kidding,' she said. 'Don't get angry. But really, though, what are you good at?' 'Nothing special. I have things I like to do.' 'For instance?' 'Hiking. Swimming. Reading.' 'You like to do things alone, then?' 'I guess so. I could never get excited about games you play with other people. I can't get into them. I lose interest.' 'Then you have to come here in the winter. We do crosscountry skiing. I'm sure you'd like that, tramping around in the snow all day, working up a good sweat.' Under the street lamp, Reiko stared at her right hand as though she were inspecting an antique musical instrument. 'Does Naoko often get like that?' I asked. 139 'Every now and then,' said Reiko, now looking at her left hand. 'Every once in a while she'll get worked up and cry like that. But that's OK. She's letting out her feelings. The scary thing is not being able to do that. When your feelings build up and harden and die inside, then you're in big trouble.' 'Did I say something I shouldn't have?' 'Not a thing. Don't worry. Just speak your mind honestly That's the best thing. It may hurt a little sometimes, and someone may get upset the way Naoko did, but in the long run it's for the best. That's what you should do if you're serious about making Naoko well again. Like I told you in the beginning, you should think not so much about wanting to help her as wanting to recover yourself by helping her to recover. That's the way it's done here. So you have to be honest and say everything that comes to mind, while you're here at least. Nobody does that in the outside world, right?' 'I guess not,' I said. 'I've seen all kinds of people come and go in my time here,' she said, 'maybe too many people. So I can usually tell by looking at a person whether they're going to get better or not, almost by instinct. But in Naoko's case, I'm not sure. I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen to her. For all I know, she could be 100 per cent recovered next month, or she could go on like this for years. So I really can't tell you what to do aside from the most generalized kind of advice: to be honest and help each other.' 'What makes Naoko such a hard case for you?' 'Probably because I like her so much. I think my emotions get in the way and I can't see her clearly. I mean, I really like her. But aside from that, she has a bundle of different problems that are all tangled up with each other so that it's hard to unravel a single one. It may take a very long time to undo them all, or something could trigger them to come unravelled all at once. It's kind of like that. Which is why I can't be sure about her.' 140 She picked up the basketball again, twirled it in her hands and bounced it on the ground. 'The most important thing is not to let yourself get impatient,' Reiko said. 'This is one more piece of advice I have for you: don't get impatient. Even if things are so tangled up you can't do anything, don't get desperate or blow a fuse and start yanking on one particular thread before it's ready to come undone. You have to realize it's going to be a long process and that you'll work on things slowly, one at a time. Do you think you can do that?' 'I can try,' I said. 'It may take a very long time, you know, and even then she may not recover completely. Have you thought about that?' I nodded. 'Waiting is hard,' she said, bouncing the ball. 'Especially for someone your age. You just sit and wait for her to get better. Without deadlines or guarantees. Do you think you can do that? Do you love Naoko that much?' 'I'm not sure,' I said honestly. 'Like Naoko, I'm not really sure what it means to love another person. Though she meant it a little differently. I do want to try my best, though. I have to, or else I won't know where to go. Like you said before, Naoko and I have to save each other. It's the only way for either of us to be saved.' 'And are you going to go on sleeping with girls you pick up?' 'I don't know what to do about that either,' I said. 'What do you think? Should I just keep waiting and masturbating? I'm not in complete control there, either.' Reiko set the ball on the ground and patted my knee. 'Look,' she said, 'I'm not telling you to stop sleeping with girls. If you're OK with that, then it's OK. It's your life after all, it's something you have to decide. All I'm saying is you shouldn't use yourself up in some unnatural form. Do you see what I'm getting at? It would be such a waste. The years 19 and 20 are a crucial stage in the maturation of character, and if you allow yourself to become warped when you're that 141 age, it will cause you pain when you're older. It's true. So think about it carefully. If you want to take care of Naoko, take care of yourself, too.' I said I would think about it. 'I was 20 myself. Once upon a time. Would you believe it?' 'I believe it. Of course.' 'Deep down?' 'Deep down,' I said with a smile. 'And I was cute, too. Not as cute as Naoko, but pretty damn cute. I didn't have all these wrinkles.' I said I liked her wrinkles a lot. She thanked me. 'But don't ever tell another woman that you find her wrinkles attractive,' she added. 'I like to hear it, but I'm the exception.' 'I'll be careful,' I said. She slipped a wallet from her trouser pocket and handed me a photo from the card-holder. It was a colour snapshot of a cute girl around ten years old wearing skis and a brightly coloured ski-suit, standing on the snow smiling sweetly for the camera. 'Isn't she pretty? My daughter,' said Reiko. 'She sent me this in January. She's - what? - nine years old now.' 'She has your smile,' I said, returning the photo. Reiko pocketed the wallet and, with a sniff, put a cigarette between her lips and lit up. 'I was going to be a concert pianist,' she said. 'I had talent, and people recognized it and made a fuss over me while I was growing up. I won competitions and had top marks in the conservatoire, and I was all set to study in Germany after graduation. Not a cloud on the horizon. Everything worked out perfectly, and when it didn't there was always somebody to fix it. But then one day something happened, and it all blew apart. I was in my final year at the conservatoire and there was a fairly important competition coming up. I practised for it constantly, but all of a sudden the little finger of my left hand stopped moving. I don't know why, but it just did. I tried massaging it, soaking 142 it in hot water, taking a few days off from practice: nothing worked. So then I got scared and went to the doctor's. They tried all kinds of tests but they couldn't come up with anything. There was nothing wrong with the finger itself, and the nerves were OK, they said: there was no reason it should stop moving. The problem must be psychological. So I went to a psychiatrist, but he didn't really know what was going on, either. Probably pre-competition stress, he said, and advised me to get away from the piano for a while.' Reiko inhaled deeply and let the smoke out. Then she bent her neck to the side a few times. 'So I went to recuperate at my grandmother's place on the coast in Izu. I thought I'd forget about that particular competition and really relax, spend a couple of weeks away from the piano doing anything I wanted. But it was hopeless. Piano was all I could think about. Maybe my finger would never move again. How would I live if that happened? The same thoughts kept going round and round in my brain. And no wonder: piano had been my whole life up to that point. I had started playing when I was four and grew up thinking about the piano and nothing else. I never did housework so as not to injure my fingers. People paid attention to me for that one thing: my talent at the piano. Take the piano away from a girl who's grown up like that, and what's left? So then, snap! MY mind became a complete jumble. Total darkness.' She dropped her cigarette to the ground and stamped it out, then bent her neck a few times again. 'That was the end of my dream of becoming a concert pianist. I spent two months in the hospital. My finger started to move shortly after I arrived, so I was able to return to the conservatoire and graduate, but something inside me had vanished. Some jewel of energy or something had disappeared - evaporated - from inside my body. The doctor said I lacked the mental strength to become a professional pianist and advised me to abandon the idea. So after graduating I took 143 pupils and taught them at home. But the pain I felt was excruciating. It was as if my life had ended. Here I was in my early twenties and the best part of my life was over. Do you see how terrible that would be? I had such potential, then woke up one day and it had gone. No more applause, no one would make a big fuss over me, no one would tell me how wonderful I was. I spent day after day in the house teaching neighbourhood children Beyer exercises and sonatinas. I felt so miserable, I cried all the time. To think what I had missed! I would hear about people who were far less talented than me winning second place in a competition or holding a recital in such-and-such a hall, and the tears would pour out of me. 'My parents walked around on tiptoe, afraid of hurting me. But I knew how disappointed they were. All of a sudden the daughter they had been so proud of was an ex-mental-patient. They couldn't even marry me off. When you're living with people, you sense what they're feeling, and I hated it. I was afraid to go out, afraid the neighbours were talking about me. So then, snap! It happened again - the jumble, the darkness. It happened when I was 24, and this time I spent seven months in a sanatorium. Not this place: a regular insane asylum with high walls and locked gates. A filthy place without pianos. I didn't know what to do with myself. All I knew was I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could, so I struggled desperately to get better. Seven months: a long seven months. That's when my wrinkles started.' Reiko smiled, her lips stretching from side to side. 'I hadn't been out of the hospital for long when I met a man and got married. He was a year younger than me, an engineer who worked in an aeroplane manufacturing company, and one of my pupils. A nice man. He didn't say a lot, but he was warm and sincere. He had been taking lessons from me for six months when all of a sudden he asked me to marry him. Just like that - one day when we were having tea after his lesson. Can you believe it? We had never dated or held hands. He took me totally off guard. I told him I couldn't get married. 144 I said I liked him and thought he was a nice person but that, for certain reasons, I couldn't marry him. He wanted to know what those reasons were, so I explained everything to him with complete honesty - that I had been hospitalized twice for mental breakdowns. I told him everything - what the cause had been, my condition, and the possibility that it could happen again. He said he needed time to think, and I encouraged him to take all the time he needed. But when he came for his lesson a week later, he said he still wanted to marry me. I asked him to wait three months. We would see each other for three months, I said, and if he still wanted to marry me at that point, we would talk about it again. 'We dated once a week for three months. We went everywhere, and talked about everything, and I got to like him a lot. When I was with him, I felt as if my life had finally come back to me. It gave me a wonderful sense of relief to be alone with him: I could forget all those terrible things that had happened. So what if I hadn't been able to become a concert pianist? So what if I had spent time in mental hospitals? My life hadn't ended. Life was still full of wonderful things I hadn't experienced. If only for having made me feel that way, I felt tremendously grateful to him. After three months went by, he asked me again to marry him. And this is what I said to him: 'If you want to sleep with me, I don't mind. I've never slept with anybody, and I'm very fond of you, so if you want to make love to me, I don't mind at all. But marrying me is a whole different matter. If you marry me, you take on all my troubles, and they're a lot worse than you can imagine. 'He said he didn't care, that he didn't just want to sleep with me, he wanted to marry me, to share everything I had inside me. And he meant it. He was the kind of person who would only say what he really meant, and do anything he said. So I agreed to marry him. It was all I could do. We got married, let's see, four months later I think it was. He fought with his parents over me, and they disowned him. He was from an old family that lived in a rural part of Shikoku. They 145 had my background investigated and found out that I had been hospitalized twice. No wonder they opposed the marriage. So, anyway, we didn't have a wedding ceremony. We just went to the registry office and registered our marriage and took a trip to Hakone for two nights. That was plenty for us: we were happy. And finally, I remained a virgin until the day I married. I was 25 years old! Can you believe it?' Reiko sighed and picked up the basketball again. 'I thought that as long as I was with him, I would be all right,' she went on. 'As long as I was with him, my troubles would stay away. That's the most important thing for a sickness like ours: a sense of trust. If I put myself in this person's hands, I'll be OK. If my condition starts to worsen even the slightest bit - if a screw comes loose - he'll notice straight away, and with tremendous care and patience he'll fix it, he'll tighten the screw again, put all the jumbled threads back in place. If we have that sense of trust, our sickness stays away. No more snap! I was so happy! Life was great! I felt as if someone had pulled me out of a cold, raging sea and wrapped me in a blanket and laid me in a warm bed. I had a baby two years after we were married, and then my hands were really full! I practically forgot about my sickness. I'd get up in the morning and do the housework and take care of the baby and feed my husband when he came home from work. It was the same thing day after day, but I was happy. It was probably the happiest time of my life. How many years did it last, I wonder? At least until I was 31. And then, all of a sudden, snap! It happened again. I fell apart.' Reiko lit a cigarette. The wind had died down. The smoke rose straight up and disappeared into the darkness of night. Just then I realized that the sky was filled with stars. 'Something happened?' I asked. 'Yes,' she said, 'something very strange, as if a trap had been laid for me. Even now, it gives me a chill just to think about it.' Reiko rubbed a temple with her free hand. 'I'm sorry, though, making you listen to 146 all this talk about me. You came here to see Naoko, not listen to my story.' 'I'd really like to hear it, though,' I said. 'If you don't mind, I'd like to hear the rest.' 'Well,' Reiko began, 'when our daughter entered kindergarten, I started playing again, little by little. Not for anyone else, but for myself. I started with short pieces by Bach, Mozart, Scarlatti. After such a long blank period, of course, my feel for the music didn't come back straight away. And my fingers wouldn't move the way they used to. But I was thrilled to be playing the piano again. With my hands on the keys, I realized how much I had loved music - and how much I hungered for it. To be able to perform music for yourself is a wonderful thing. 'As I said before, I had been playing from the time I was four years old, but it occurred to me that I had never once played for myself. I had always been trying to pass a test or practise an assignment or impress somebody. Those are all important things, of course, if you are going to master an instrument. But after a certain age you have to start performing for yourself. That's what music is. I had to drop out of the elite course and pass my thirty-first birthday before I was finally able to see that. I would send my child off to kindergarten and hurry through the housework, then spend an hour or two playing music I liked. So far so good, right?' I nodded. 'Then one day I had a visit from one of the ladies of the neighbourhood, someone I at least knew well enough to say hello to on the street, asking me to give her daughter piano lessons. I didn't know the daughter - although we lived in the same general neighbourhood our houses were still pretty far apart - but according to the woman, her daughter used to pass my house and loved to hear me play. She had seen me at some point, too, and now she was pestering her mother to let me teach her. She was in her fourth year of school 147 and had taken lessons from a number of people but things had not gone well for one reason or another and now she had no teacher. 'I turned her down. I had had that blank of several years, and while it might have made sense for me to take on an absolute beginner, it would have been impossible for me to pick up with someone who had had lessons for a number of years. Besides, I was too busy taking care of my own child and, though I didn't say this to the woman, nobody can deal with the kind of child who changes teachers constantly. So then the woman asked me to at least do her daughter the favour of meeting her once. She was a fairly pushy lady and I could see she was not going to let me off the hook that easily, so I agreed to meet the girl - but just meet her. Three days later the girl came to the house by herself. She was an absolute angel, with a kind of pure, sweet, transparent beauty. I had never - and have never - seen such a beautiful little girl. She had long, shiny hair as black as freshly ground Indian ink, slim, graceful arms and legs, bright eyes, and a soft little mouth that looked as if someone had just made it. I couldn't speak when I first saw her, she was so beautiful. Sitting on my sofa, she turned my living room into a gorgeous parlour. It hurt to look directly at her: I had to squint. So, anyway, that's what she was like. I can still picture her clearly.' Reiko narrowed her eyes as if she were actually picturing the girl. 'Over coffee we talked for a whole hour - talked about all kinds of things: music, her school, just everything. I could see straight away she was a smart one. She knew how to hold a conversation: she had clear, shrewd opinions and a natural gift for drawing out the other person. It was almost frightening. Exactly what it was that made her frightening, I couldn't tell at the time. It just struck me how frighteningly intelligent she was. But in her presence I lost any normal powers of judgement I might have had. She was so young and beautiful, I felt overwhelmed to the point where I saw myself as an inferior specimen, a clumsy excuse for a human being who could only 148 have negative thoughts about her because of my own warped and filthy mind.' Reiko shook her head several times. 'If I were as pretty and smart as she was, I'd have been a normal human being. What more could you want if you were that smart and that beautiful? Why would you have to torment and walk all over your weaker inferiors if everybody loved you so much? What reason could there possibly be for acting that way?' 'Did she do something terrible to you?' 'Well, let me just say the girl was a pathological liar. She was sick, pure and simple. She made up everything. And while she was making up her stories, she would come to believe them. And then she would change things around her to fit her story. She had such a quick mind, she could always keep a step ahead of you and take care of things that would ordinarily strike you as odd, so it would never cross your mind she was lying. First of all, no one would ever suspect that such a pretty little girl would lie about the most ordinary things. I certainly didn't. She told me tons of lies for six months before I had the slightest inkling anything was wrong. She lied about everything, and I never suspected. I know it sounds crazy.' 'What did she lie about?' 'When I say everything, I mean everything.' Reiko gave a sarcastic laugh. 'When people tell a lie about something, they have to make up a bunch of lies to go with the first one. 'Mythomania' is the word for it. When the usual mythomaniac tells lies, they're usually the innocent kind, and most people notice. But not with that girl. To protect herself, she'd tell hurtful lies without batting an eyelid. She'd use everything she could get her hands on. And she would lie either more or less depending on who she was talking to. To her mother or close friends who would know straight away, she hardly ever lied, or if she had to tell one, she'd be really, really careful to tell lies that wouldn't come out. Or if they did come out, she'd find an excuse or apologize in that 149 clingy voice of hers with tears pouring out of her beautiful eyes. No one could stay mad at her then. 'I still don't know why she chose me. Was I another victim to her, or a source of salvation? I just don't know. Of course, it hardly matters now. Now that everything is over. Now that I'm like this.' A short silence followed. 'She repeated what her mother had told me, that she had been moved when she heard me playing as she passed the house. She had seen me on the street a few times, too, and had begun to worship me. She actually used that word: 'worship'. It made me turn bright red. I mean, to be 'worshipped' by such a beautiful little doll of a girl! I don't think it was an absolute lie, though. I was in my thirties already, of course, and I could never be as beautiful and bright as she was, and I had no special talent, but I must have had something that drew her to me, something that was missing in her, I suppose. That must have been what got her interested in me to begin with. I believe that now, looking back. And I'm not boasting.' 'No, I think I know what you mean.' 'She had brought some music with her and asked if she could play for me. So I let her. It was a Bach invention. Her performance was .. interesting. Or should I say strange? It just wasn't ordinary. Of course it wasn't polished. She hadn't been going to a professional school, and what lessons she had taken had been an on-and-off kind of thing; she was very much self-taught. Her sound was untrained. She'd have been rejected immediately at a music-school audition. But she made it work. Although 90 per cent was just terrible, the other 10 per cent was there: she made it sing: it was music. And this was a Bach invention! So I got interested in her. I wanted to know what she was all about. 'Needless to say, the world is full of kids who can play Bach far better than she could. Twenty times better. But most of their performances would have nothing to them. They'd be hollow, empty. This girl's technique was bad, but she had that little bit of something that could 150 draw people - or draw me, at least - into her performance. So I decided it might be worthwhile to teach her. Of course, retraining her at that point to where she could become a pro was out of the question. But I felt it might be possible to make her into the kind of happy pianist I was then - and still am - someone who could enjoy making music for herself. This turned out to be an empty hope, though. She was not the kind of person who quietly goes about doing things for herself. This was a child who would make detailed calculations to use every means at her disposal to impress other people. She knew exactly what she had to do to make people admire and praise her. And she knew exactly what kind of performance it would take to draw me in. She had calculated everything, I'm sure, and put everything she had into practising the most important passages over and over again for my benefit. I can see her doing it. 'Still, even now, after all of this came clear to me, I believe it was a wonderful performance and I would feel the same chills down my spine if I could hear it again. Knowing all I know about her flaws, her cunning and lies, I would still feel it. I'm telling you, there are such things in this world.' Reiko cleared her throat with a dry rasp and broke off. 'So, did you take her as a pupil?' I asked. 'Yeah. One lesson a week. Saturday mornings. Saturday was a day off at her school. She never missed a lesson, she was never late, she was an ideal pupil. She always practised for her lessons. After every lesson, we'd have some cake and chat.' At that point, Reiko looked at her watch as if suddenly remembering something. 'Don't you think we should be getting back to the room? I'm a little worried about Naoko. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about her now, have you?' 'Of course not,' I laughed. 'It's just that I was drawn into your story.' 'If you'd like to hear the rest, I'll tell it to you tomorrow. It's a long 151 story - too long for one sitting.' 'You're a regular Scheherazade.' 'I know,' she said, joining her laughter with mine. 'You'll never get back to Tokyo.' We retraced our steps through the path in the woods and returned to the flat. The candles had been extinguished and the living room lights were out. The bedroom door was open and the lamp on the night table was on, its pale light spilling into the living room. Naoko sat alone on the sofa in the gloom. She had changed into a loose-fitting blue gown, its collar pulled tight about her neck, her legs folded under her on the sofa. Reiko approached her and rested a hand on her crown. 'Are you all right now?' 'I'm fine. Sorry,' answered Naoko in a tiny voice. Then she turned towards me and repeated her apology. 'I must have scared you.' 'A little,' I said with a smile. 'Come here,' she said. When I sat down next to her, Naoko, her legs still folded, leaned towards me until her face was nearly touching my ear, as though she were about to share a secret with me. Then she planted a soft kiss by my ear. 'Sorry,' she said once more, this time directly into my ear, her voice subdued. Then she moved away from me. 'Sometimes,' she said, 'I get so confused, I don't know what's happening.' 'That happens to me all the time,' I said. Naoko smiled and looked at me. 'If you don't mind,' I said, 'I'd like to hear more about you. About your life here. What you do every day. The people you meet.' Naoko talked about her daily routine in this place, speaking in short but crystal clear phrases. Wake up at six in the morning. Breakfast in the flat. Clean out the aviary. Then usually farm work. She took care of the vegetables. Before or after lunch, she would have either an hour-long session with her doctor or a group discussion. In the afternoon she could choose from among courses that might interest 152 her, outside work, or sports. She had taken several courses: French, knitting, piano, ancient history. 'Reiko is teaching me piano,' she said. 'She also teaches guitar. We all take turns as pupils or teachers. Somebody with fluent French teaches French, one person who used to be in social studies teaches history, another good at knitting teaches knitting: that's a pretty impressive school right there. Unfortunately, I don't have anything I can teach anyone.' 'Neither do I,' I said. 'I put a lot more energy into my studies here than I ever did in university. I work hard and enjoy it - a lot.' 'What do you do after supper?' 'Talk with Reiko, read, listen to records, go to other people's flats and play games, stuff like that.' 'I do guitar practice and write my autobiography,' said Reiko. 'Autobiography?' 'Just kidding,' Reiko laughed. 'We go to bed around ten. Pretty healthy lifestyle, wouldn't you say? We sleep like babies.' I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes before nine. 'I guess you'll be getting sleepy soon.' 'That's OK. We can stay up late today,' said Naoko. 'I haven't seen you in such a long time, I want to talk more. So talk.' 'When I was alone before, all of a sudden I started thinking about the old days,' I said. 'Do you remember when Kizuki and I came to visit you at the hospital? The one on the seashore. I think it was the first year of the sixth-form.' 'When I had the chest operation,' Naoko said with a smile. 'Sure, I remember. You and Kizuki came on a motorbike. You brought me a box of chocolates and they were all melted together. They were so hard to eat! I don't know, it seems like such a long time ago.' 'Yeah, really. I think you were writing a poem then, a long one.' 'All girls write poems at that age,' Naoko tittered. 'What reminded 153 you of that all of a sudden?' 'I wonder. The smell of the sea wind, the oleanders: before I knew it, they just popped into my head. Did Kizuki come to see you at the hospital a lot?' 'No way! We had a big fight about that afterwards. He came once, and then he came with you, and that was it for him. He was terrible. And that first time he couldn't sit still and he only stayed about ten minutes. He brought me some oranges and mumbled all this stuff I couldn't understand, and he peeled an orange for me and mumbled more stuff and he was out of there. He said he had a thing about hospitals.' Naoko laughed. 'He was always a kid about that kind of stuff. I mean, nobody likes hospitals, right? That's why people visit people in hospitals to make them feel better, and perk up their spirits and stuff. But Kizuki just didn't get it.' 'He wasn't so bad when the two of us came to see you, though. He was just his usual self.' 'Because you were there,' said Naoko. 'He was always like that around you. He struggled to keep his weaknesses hidden. I'm sure he was very fond of you. He made a point of letting you see only his best side. He wasn't like that with me. He'd let his guard down. He could be really moody. One minute he'd be chattering away, and the next he'd be depressed. It happened all the time. He was like that from the time he was little. He did keep trying to change himself, to improve himself, though.' Naoko re-crossed her legs on the sofa. 'He tried hard, but it didn't do any good, and that would make him really angry and sad. There was so much about him that was fine and beautiful, but he could never find the confidence he needed. 'I've got to do that, I've got to change this,' he was always thinking, right up to the end. Poor Kizuki!' 'Still,' I said, 'if it's true that he was always struggling to show me his 154 best side, I'd say he succeeded. His best side was all that I could see.' Naoko smiled. 'He'd be thrilled if he could hear you say that. You were his only friend.' 'And Kizuki was my only friend,' I said. 'There was never anybody I could really call a friend, before him or after him.' 'That's why I loved being with the two of you. His best side was all that I could see then, too. I could relax and stop worrying when the three of us were together. Those were my favourite times. I don't know how you felt about it.' 'I used to worry about what you were thinking,' I said, giving my head a shake. 'The problem was that that kind of thing couldn't go on for ever,' said Naoko. 'Such perfect little circles are impossible to maintain. Kizuki knew it, and I knew it, and so did you. Am I right?' I nodded. 'To tell you the truth, though,' Naoko went on, 'I loved his weak side, too. I loved it as much as I loved his good side. There was absolutely nothing mean or underhand about him. He was weak: that's all. I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn't believe me. He'd always tell me it was because we had been together since we were three. I knew him too well, he'd say: I couldn't tell the difference between his strong points and his flaws, they were all the same to me. He couldn't change my mind about him, though. I went on loving him just the same, and I could never be interested in anyone else.' Naoko looked at me with a sad smile. 'Our boy-girl relationship was really unusual, too. It was as if we were physically joined somewhere. If we happened to be apart, some special gravitational force would pull us back together again. It was the most natural thing in the world when we became boyfriend and girlfriend. It was nothing we had to think about or make any choices about. We started kissing at 12 and petting at 13. I'd go to his room or 155 he'd come to my room and I'd finish him off with my hands. It never occurred to me that we were being precocious. It just happened as a matter of course. If he wanted to play with my breasts or pussy, I didn't mind at all, or if he had cum he wanted to get rid of, I didn't mind helping him with that, either. I'm sure it would have shocked us both if someone had accused us of doing anything wrong. Because we weren't. We were just doing what we were supposed to do. We had always shown each other every part of our bodies. It was almost as if we owned each other's bodies jointly. For a while, at least, we made sure we didn't go any further than that, though. We were afraid of my getting pregnant, and had almost no idea at that point of how to go about preventing it ... Anyway, that's how Kizuki and I grew up together, hand in hand, an inseparable pair. We had almost no sense of the oppressiveness of sex or the anguish that comes with the sudden swelling of the ego that ordinary kids experience when they reach puberty. We were totally open about sex, and where our egos were concerned, the way we absorbed and shared each other's, we had no strong awareness of them. Do you see what I mean?' 'I think so,' I said. 'We couldn't bear to be apart. So if Kizuki had lived, I'm sure we would have been together, loving each other, and gradually growing unhappy.' 'Unhappy? Why's that?' With her fingers, Naoko combed her hair back several times. She had taken her hairslide off, which made the hair fall over her face when she dropped her head forward. 'Because we would have had to pay the world back what we owed it,' she said, raising her eyes to mine. 'The pain of growing up. We didn't pay when we should have, so now the bills are due. Which is why Kizuki did what he did, and why I'm here. We were like kids who grew up naked on a desert island. If we got hungry, we'd just pick a 156 banana; if we got lonely, we'd go to sleep in each other's arms. But that kind of thing doesn't last for ever. We grew up fast and had to enter society. Which is why you were so important to us. You were the link connecting us with the outside. We were struggling through you to fit in with the outside world as best we could. In the end, it didn't work, of course.' I nodded. 'I wouldn't want you to think that we were using you, though. Kizuki really loved you. It just so happened that our connection with you was our first connection with anyone else. And it still is. Kizuki may be dead, but you are still My only link with the outside world. And just as Kizuki loved you, I love you. We never meant to hurt you, but we probably did; we probably ended up making a deep wound in your heart. It never occurred to us that anything like that might happen.' Naoko lowered her head again and fell silent. 'Hey, how about a cup of cocoa?' suggested Reiko. 'Good. I'd really like some,' said Naoko. 'I'd like to have some of that brandy I brought, if you don't mind,' I said. 'Oh, absolutely,' said Reiko. 'Could I have a sip?' 'Sure,' I said, laughing. Reiko brought out two glasses and we toasted each other. Then she went into the kitchen to make cocoa. 'Can we talk about something a little more cheerful?' asked Naoko. I didn't have anything cheerful to talk about. I thought, If only Storm Trooper were still around! That guy could inspire a string of stories. A few of those would have made everybody feel good. The best I could do was talk at length about the filthy habits of the guys in the dormitory. I felt sick just talking about something so gross, but Naoko and Reiko practically fell over laughing, it was all so new to them. Next Reiko did imitations of mental patients. This was a lot of fun, too. Naoko started looking sleepy after eleven o'clock, so Reiko let 157 down the sofa back and handed me a pillow, sheets and blankets. 'If you feel like raping anybody in the middle of the night, don't get the wrong one,' she said. 'The unwrinkled body in the left bed is Naoko's.' 'Liar! Mine's the right bed,' said Naoko. Reiko added, 'By the way, I arranged for us to skip some of our afternoon schedule. Why don't the three of us have a little picnic? I know a really nice place close by.' 'Good idea,' I said. The women took turns brushing their teeth and withdrew to the bedroom. I poured myself some brandy and stretched out on the sofa bed, going over the day's events from morning to night. It felt like an awfully long day. The room continued to glow white in the moonlight. Aside from the occasional slight creak of a bed, hardly a sound came from the bedroom where Naoko and Reiko lay sleeping. Tiny diagrammatic shapes seemed to float in the darkness when I closed my eyes, and my ears sensed the lingering reverberation of Reiko's guitar, but neither of these lasted for long. Sleep came and carried me into a mass of warm mud. I dreamed of willows. Both sides of a mountain road were lined with willows. An incredible number of willows. A fairly stiff breeze was blowing, but the branches of the willow trees never swayed. Why should that be? I wondered, and then I saw that every branch of every tree had tiny birds clinging to it. Their weight kept the branches from stirring. I grabbed a stick and hit a nearby branch with it, hoping to chase away the birds and allow the branch to sway. But they would not leave. Instead of flying away, they turned into bird-shaped metal chunks that crashed to the ground. When I opened my eyes, I felt as if I were seeing the continuation of my dream. The moonlight filled the room with the same soft white glow. As if by reflex, I sat up in bed and started searching for the metal birds, which of course were not there. What I saw instead was Naoko at the foot of the bed, sitting still and alone, staring out through 158 the window. She had drawn her knees up and was resting her chin on them, looking like a hungry orphan. I searched for the watch I had left by my pillow, but it was not in the place where I knew it should be. I guessed from the angle of the moonlight that the time must be two or three o'clock in the morning. I felt a violent thirst but I decided to keep still and continue watching Naoko. She was wearing the same blue nightdress I had seen her in earlier, and on one side her hair was held in place by the butterfly hairslide, revealing the beauty of her face in the moonlight. Strange, I thought, she had taken the slide off before going to bed. Naoko stayed frozen in place, like a small nocturnal animal that has been lured out by the moonlight. The direction of the glow exaggerated the silhouette of her lips. Seeming utterly fragile and vulnerable, the silhouette pulsed almost imperceptibly with the beating of her heart or the motions of her inner heart, as if she were whispering soundless words to the darkness. I swallowed in hopes of easing my thirst, but in the stillness of the night the sound I made was huge. As if this were a signal to her, Naoko stood and glided towards the head of the bed, gown rustling faintly. She knelt on the floor by my pillow, eyes fixed on mine. I stared back at her, but her eyes told me nothing. Strangely transparent, they seemed like windows to a world beyond, but however long I peered into their depths, there was nothing I could see. Our faces were no more than ten inches apart, but she was light years away from me. I reached out and tried to touch her, but Naoko drew back, lips trembling faintly. A moment later, she brought her hands up and began slowly to undo the buttons of her gown. There were seven in all. I felt as if it were the continuation of my dream as I watched her slim, lovely fingers opening the buttons one by one from top to bottom. Seven small, white buttons: when she had unfastened them all, Naoko slipped the gown from her shoulders and threw it off completely like an insect shedding its skin. She had been wearing 159 nothing under the gown. All she had on was the butterfly hairslide. Naked now, and still kneeling by the bed, she looked at me. Bathed in the soft light of the moon, Naoko's body had the heartbreaking lustre of newborn flesh. When she moved - and she did so almost imperceptibly - the play of light and shadow on her body shifted subtly. The swelling roundness of her breasts, her tiny nipples, the indentation of her navel, her hipbones and pubic hair, all cast grainy shadows, the shapes of which kept changing like ripples spreading over the calm surface of a lake. What perfect flesh! I thought. When had Naoko come to possess such a perfect body? What had happened to the body I held in my arms that night last spring? A sense of imperfection had been what Naoko's body had given me that night as I tenderly undressed her while she cried. Her breasts had seemed hard, the nipples oddly jutting, the hips strangely rigid. She was a beautiful girl, of course, her body marvellous and alluring. It aroused me that night and swept me along with a gigantic force. But still, as I held her and caressed her and kissed her naked flesh, I felt a strange and powerful awareness of the imbalance and awkwardness of the human body. Holding Naoko in my arms, I wanted to explain to her, 'I am having sex with you now. I am inside you. But really this is nothing. It doesn't matter. It is nothing but the joining of two bodies. All we are doing is telling each other things that can only be told by the rubbing together of two imperfect lumps of flesh. By doing this, we are sharing our imperfection.' But of course I could never have said such a thing with any hope of being understood. I just went on holding her tightly. And as I did so, I was able to feel inside her body some kind of stony foreign matter, something extra that I could never draw close to. And that sensation both filled my heart for Naoko and gave my erection a terrifying intensity. The body that Naoko revealed before me now, though, was nothing like the one I had held that night. This flesh had been through many 160 changes to be reborn in utter perfection beneath the light of the moon. All signs of girlish plumpness had been stripped away since Kizuki's death to be replaced by the flesh of a mature woman. So perfect was Naoko's physical beauty now that it aroused nothing sexual in me. I could only stare, astounded, at the lovely curve from waist to hips, the rounded richness of the breasts, the gentle movement with each breath of the slim belly and the soft, black pubic shadow beneath. She exposed her nakedness to me this way for perhaps five minutes until, at last, she wrapped herself in her gown once more and buttoned it from top to bottom. As soon as the final button was in place, she rose and glided towards the bedroom, silently opened the door, and disappeared. I stayed rooted to the spot for a very long time until it occurred to me to leave the bed. I retrieved my watch from where it had fallen on the floor and turned it towards the light of the moon. It was 3.40. I went to the kitchen and drank a few glasses of water before stretching out in bed again, but sleep never came until the morning sunlight crept into every corner of the room, dissolving all traces of the moon's pale glow. I was somewhere on the edge of sleep when Reiko came and slapped me on the cheek, shouting, 'Morning! Morning!' While Reiko straightened out my sofa bed, Naoko went to the kitchen and started making breakfast. She smiled at me and said 'Good morning'. 'Good morning,' I replied. I stood by and watched her as she put on water to boil and sliced some bread, humming all the while, but I could sense nothing in her manner to suggest that she had revealed her naked body to me the night before. 'Your eyes are red,' she said to me as she poured the coffee. 'Are you OK?' 'I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep.' 'I bet we were snoring,' said Reiko. 161 'Not at all,' I said. 'That's good,' said Naoko. 'He's just being polite,' said Reiko, yawning. At first I thought that Naoko was embarrassed or acting innocent for Reiko, but her behaviour remained unchanged when Reiko momentarily left the room, and her eyes had their usual transparent look. 'How'd you sleep?' I asked Naoko. 'Like a log,' she answered with ease. She wore a simple hairpin without any kind of decoration. I didn't know what to make of this, and I continued to feel that way all through breakfast. Buttering my bread or peeling my egg, I kept glancing across the table at Naoko, in search of a sign. 'Why do you keep looking at me like that?' she asked with a smile. 'I think he's in love with somebody,' said Reiko. 'Are you in love with somebody?' Naoko asked me. 'Could be,' I said, returning her smile. When the two women started joking around at my expense, I gave up trying to think about what had happened in the night and concentrated on my bread and coffee. After breakfast, Reiko and Naoko said they would be going to feed the birds in the aviary. I volunteered to go along. They changed into jeans and work shirts and white rubber boots. Set in a little park behind the tennis courts, the aviary had everything in it from chickens and pigeons to peacocks and parrots and was surrounded by flowerbeds, shrubberies and benches. Two men in their forties, also apparently sanatorium patients, were raking up leaves that had fallen in the pathways. The women walked over to say good morning to the pair, and Reiko made them laugh with another of her jokes. Cosmos were blooming in the flowerbeds, and the shrubberies were extremely well manicured. Spotting Reiko, the birds started chattering and flying about inside the cage. The women entered the shed by the cage and came out with a bag of 162 feed and a garden hose. Naoko screwed the hose to a tap and turned on the water. Taking care to prevent any birds from flying out, the two of them slipped into the cage, Naoko hosing down the dirt and Reiko scrubbing the floor of the cage with a deck brush. The spray sparkled in the glare of the morning sun. The peacocks flapped around the cage to avoid getting splashed. A turkey raised its head and glowered at me like a crotchety old man, while a parrot on the perch above screeched its displeasure and beat its wings. Reiko meowed at the parrot, which slunk over to the far corner but soon was calling: 'Thank you!' 'Crazy!' 'Shithead!' 'I wonder who taught him that kind of language?' said Naoko with a sigh. 'Not me,' said Reiko. 'I would never do such a thing.' She started meowing again, and the parrot shut up. Laughing, Reiko explained, 'This guy once had a run-in with a cat. Now he's scared to death of them.' When they had finished cleaning, the two set down their tools and went around filling each of the feeders. Splashing its way through puddles on the floor, the turkey darted to its feed box and plunged its head in, too obsessed with eating to be bothered by Naoko's smacks on its tail. 'Do you do this every morning?' I asked Naoko. 'Every morning!' she said. 'They usually give this job to new women. It's so easy. Like to see the rabbits?' 'Sure,' I said. The rabbit hutch was behind the aviary. Some ten rabbits lay inside, asleep in the straw. Naoko swept up their droppings, put feed in their box, and picked up one of the babies, rubbing it against her cheek. 'Isn't it precious?' she gushed. She let me hold it. The warm, little ball of fur cringed in my arms, twitching its nose. 'Don't worry, he won't hurt you,' she said to the rabbit, stroking its head with her finger and smiling at me. It was such a radiant smile, 163 without a trace of shadow, that I couldn't help smiling myself. And what about Naoko last night? I wondered. I knew for certain that it had been the real Naoko and not a dream: she had definitely taken her clothes off and shown her naked body to me. Reiko whistled a lovely rendition of 'Proud Mary' as she stuffed a plastic bag with the debris they had gathered and tied the opening. I helped them carry the tools and feed bag to the shed. 'Morning is my favourite time of day,' said Naoko. 'It's like everything's starting out fresh and new. I begin to get sad around noon time, and I hate it when the sun goes down. I live with those same feelings clay aster day. 'And while you're living with those feelings, you youngsters get old just like me,' said Reiko with a smile. 'You're thinking about how it's morning now or night and the next thing you know, you're old.' 'But you like getting old,' said Naoko. 'Not really,' said Reiko. 'But I sure don't wish I was young again.' 'Why not?' I asked. 'Because it's such a pain in the neck!' she said. Then she tossed her broom in and closed the door of the shed, whistling 'Proud Mary' all the while. Back at the flat, the women changed their boots for tennis shoes and said they were going to the farm. Reiko suggested I stayed behind with a book or something because the work would be no fun to watch and they would be doing it as part of a group. 'And while you're waiting you can wash the pile of dirty underwear we left by the sink,' she added. 'You're kidding,' I said, taken aback. 'Of course I am,' she laughed. 'You're so sweet. Isn't he, Naoko?' 'He really is,' said Naoko, laughing with her. 'I'll work on my German,' I said with a sigh. 'Yeah, do your homework like a good boy,' said Reiko. 164 'We'll be back before lunch.' The two of them went out tittering. I heard the footsteps and voices of a number of people walking by downstairs. I went into the bathroom and washed my face again, then borrowed a nail clipper and trimmed my nails. For a bathroom that was being shared by two women, its contents were incredibly simple. Aside from some neatly arranged bottles of cleansing cream and lip moisturizer and sun block, there was almost nothing that could be called cosmetics. When I finished trimming my nails, I made myself some coffee and drank it at the kitchen table, German book open. Stripping down to a T-shirt in the sun-filled kitchen, I had set about memorizing all the forms in a grammar chart when I was struck by an odd feeling. It seemed to me that the longest imaginable distance separated irregular German verb forms from this kitchen table. The two women came back from the farm at 11.30, took turns in the shower, and changed into fresh clothes. The three of us went to the dining hall for lunch, then walked to the front gate. This time the guardhouse had a man on duty. He was sitting at his desk, enjoying a lunch that must have been brought to him from the dining hall. The transistor radio on the shelf was playing a sentimental old pop tune. He waved to us with a friendly 'Hi' as we approached, and we hello'ed him back. Reiko explained to him that we were going to walk outside the grounds and return in three hours. 'Great,' he said. 'You're lucky with the weather. Just stay away from the valley road, though. It got washed out in that big rain. No problem anywhere else.' Reiko wrote her name and Naoko's in a register along with the date and time. 'Enjoy yourselves,' said the guard. 'And take care.' 'Nice guy,' I said. 165 'He's a little strange up here,' said Reiko, touching her head. He had been right about the weather, though. The sky was a freshswept blue, with only a trace of white cloud clinging to the dome of heaven like a thin streak of test paint. We walked beside the low stone wall of Ami Hostel for a time, then moved away to climb a steep, narrow trail in single file. Reiko led the way, with Naoko in the middle and me bringing up the rear. Reiko climbed with the confident stride of one who knew every stretch of every mountain in the area. We concentrated on walking, with hardly a word among us. Naoko wore blue jeans and a white blouse and carried her jacket in one hand. I watched her long, straight hair swaying right and left where it met her shoulders. She would glance back at me now and then, smiling when our eyes met. The trail continued upwards so far that it was almost dizzying, but Reiko's pace never slackened. Naoko hurried to keep up with her, wiping the sweat from her face. Not having indulged in such outdoor activities for some time, I found myself running short of breath. 'Do you do this a lot?' I asked Naoko. 'Maybe once a week,' she answered. 'Having a tough time?' 'Kind of,' I said. 'We're almost there,' said Reiko. 'This is about two-thirds of the way. Come on, you're a boy, aren't you?' 'Yeah, but I'm out of shape.' 'Playing with girls all the time,' muttered Naoko, as if to herself. I wanted to answer her, but I was too winded to speak. Every now and then, red birds with tufts on their heads would flit across our path, brilliant against the blue sky. The fields around us were filled with white and blue and yellow flowers, and bees buzzed everywhere. Moving ahead one step at a time, I thought of nothing but the scene passing before my eyes. The slope gave out after another ten minutes, and we gained a level plateau. We rested there, wiping the sweat off, catching our breath and drinking from our water bottles. Reiko found a leaf and 166 used it to make a whistle. The trail entered a gentle downward slope amid tall, waving thickets of plume grass. We walked on for some 15 minutes before passing through a village. There were no signs of humanity here, and the dozen or so houses were all in varying states of decay. Waist-high grass grew among the houses, and dry, white gobs of pigeon droppings clung to holes in the walls. Only the pillars survived in the case of one collapsed building, while others looked ready to be lived in as soon as you opened the storm shutters. These dead, silent houses pressed against either side of the road as we slipped through. 'People lived in this village until seven or eight years ago,' Reiko informed me. 'This was farmland around here. But they all cleared out. Life was just too hard. They'd be trapped when the snow piled up in the winter. And the soil isn't particularly fertile. They could make a better living in the city.' 'What a waste,' I said. 'Some of the houses look perfectly usable.' 'Some hippies tried living here at one point, but they gave up. Couldn't take the winters.' A little beyond the village we came to a big fenced area that seemed to be a pasture. Far away on the other side, I caught sight of a few horses grazing. We followed the fence line, and a big dog came running over to us, tail wagging. It stood up leaning on Reiko, sniffing her face, then jumped playfully on Naoko. I whistled and it came over to me, licking my hand with its long tongue. Naoko patted the dog's head and explained that the animal belonged to the pasture. 'I'll bet he's close to 20,' she said. 'His teeth are so bad, he can't eat anything hard. He sleeps in front of the shop all day, and he comes running when he hears footsteps.' Reiko took a scrap of cheese from her rucksack. Catching its scent, the dog bounded over to her and chomped down on it. 'We won't be able to see this fellow much longer,' said Reiko, patting the dog's head. 'In the middle of October they put the horses and cows 167 in trucks and take 'em down to the barn. The only time they let 'em graze is the summer, when they open a little café kind of thing for the tourists. The 'tourists'! Maybe 20 hikers in a day. Hey, how about something to drink?' 'Good idea,' I said. The dog led the way to the café, a small, white house with a front porch and a faded sign in the shape of a coffee cup hanging from the eaves. He led us up the steps and stretched out on the porch, narrowing his eyes. When we took our places around a table on the porch, a girl with a ponytail and wearing a sweatshirt and white jeans came out and greeted Reiko and Naoko like old friends. 'This is a friend of Naoko's,' said Reiko, introducing me. 'Hi,' she said. 'Hi,' I answered. While the three women traded small talk, I stroked the neck of the dog under the table. It had the hard, stringy neck of an old dog. When I scratched the lumpy spots, the dog closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure. 'What's his name?' I asked the girl. 'Pepé,' she said. 'Hey, Pepé,' I said to the dog, but he didn't budge. 'He's hard of hearing,' said the girl. 'You have to speak up or he can't hear.' 'Pepé!' I shouted. The dog opened his eyes and snapped to attention with a bark. 'Never mind, Pepé,' said the girl. 'Sleep more and live longer.' Pepé flopped down again at my feet. Naoko and Reiko ordered cold glasses of milk and I asked for a beer. 'Let's hear the radio,' said Reiko. The girl switched on an amplifier and tuned into an FM station. Blood, Sweat and Tears came on with 'Spinning Wheel'. Reiko looked pleased. 'Now this is what we're here for! We don't have 168 radios in our rooms, so if I don't come here once in a while, I don't have any idea what's playing out there.' 'Do you sleep in this place?' I asked the girl. 'No way!' she laughed. 'I'd die of loneliness if I spent the night here. The pasture guy drives me into town and I come out again in the morning.' She pointed at a four-wheel drive truck parked in front of the nearby pasture office. 'You've got a holiday coming up soon, too, right?' asked Reiko. 'Yeah, we'll be shutting up this place soon,' said the girl. Reiko offered her a cigarette, and they smoked. 'I'll miss you,' said Reiko. 'I'll be back in May, though,' said the girl with a laugh. Cream came on the radio with 'White Room'. After a commercial, it was Simon and Garfunkel's 'Scarborough Fair'. 'I like that,' said Reiko when it was over. 'I saw the film,' I said. 'Who's in it?' 'Dustin Hoffman.' 'I don't know him,' she said with a sad little shake of the head. 'The world changes like mad, and I don't know what's happening.' She asked the girl for a guitar. 'Sure,' said the girl, switching off the radio and bringing out an old guitar. The dog raised its head and sniffed the instrument. 'You can't eat this,' Reiko said with mock sternness. A grass-scented breeze swept over the porch. The mountains lay spread out before us, the ridge line sharp against the sky. 'It's like a scene from The Sound of Music,' I said to Reiko as she tuned up. 'What's that?' she asked. She strummed the guitar in search of the opening chord of 'Scarborough Fair'. This was apparently her first attempt at the song, but after a few false starts she could play it through without hesitating. 169 She had it down pat the third time and even started adding a few flourishes. 'Good ear,' she said to me with a wink. 'I can usually play just about anything if I hear it three times.' Softly humming the melody, she did a full rendition of 'Scarborough Fair'. The three of us applauded, and Reiko responded with a decorous bow of the head. 'I used to get more applause for a Mozart concerto,' she said. Her milk was on the house if she would play the Beatles' 'Here Comes the Sun', said the girl. Reiko gave her a thumbs up and launched into the song. Hers was not a full voice, and too much smoking had given it a husky edge, but it was lovely, with real presence. I almost felt as if the sun really was coming up again as I sat there listening and drinking beer and looking at the mountains. It was a soft, warm feeling. Reiko gave back the guitar and asked to hear the radio again. Then she suggested to Naoko and me that we take an hour and walk around the area. 'I want to listen to the radio some more and hang out with her. If you come back by three, that should be OK.' 'Is it all right for us to be alone together so long?' 'Well, actually, it's against the rules, but what the hell. I'm not a chaperone, after all. I could use a break. And you came all the way from Tokyo, I'm sure there's tons of stuff you want to talk about.' Reiko lit another cigarette as she spoke. 'Let's go,' said Naoko, standing up. I started after her. The dog woke up and followed us for a while, but it soon lost interest and went back to its place on the porch. We strolled down a level road that followed the pasture fence. Naoko would take my hand every now and then or slip her arm under mine. 'This is kind of like the old days, isn't it?' she said. 'That wasn't 'the old days',' I laughed. 'It was spring of this year! If that was 'the old days', ten years ago was ancient history.' 170 'It feels like ancient history,' said Naoko. 'But anyway, sorry about last night. I don't know, I was a bundle of nerves. I really shouldn't have done that after you came here all the way from Tokyo.' 'Never mind,' I said. 'Both of us have a lot of feelings we need to get out in the open. So if you want to take those feelings and smash somebody with them, smash me. Then we can understand each other better.' 'So if you understand me better, what then?' 'You don't get it, do you?' I said. 'It's not a question of what then'. Some people get a kick out of reading railway timetables and that's all they do all day. Some people make huge model boats out of matchsticks. So what's wrong if there happens to be one guy in the world who enjoys trying to understand you?' 'Kind of like a hobby?' she said, amused. 'Yeah, I guess you could call it a hobby. Most normal people would call it friendship or love or something, but if you want to call it a hobby, that's OK, too.' 'Tell me,' said Naoko, 'you liked Kizuki, too, didn't you?' 'Of course,' I said. 'How about Reiko?' 'I like her a lot,' I said. 'She's really nice.' 'How come you always like people like that - people like us, I mean? We're all kind of weird and twisted and drowning - me and Kizuki and Reiko. Why can't you like more normal people?' 'Because I don't see you like that,' I said after giving it some thought. 'I don't see you or Kizuki or Reiko as 'twisted' in any way. The guys I think of as twisted are out there running around.' 'But we are twisted,' said Naoko. 'I can see that.' We walked on in silence. The road left the fence and came out to a circular grassy field ringed with trees like a pond. 'Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night so scared,' said Naoko, pressing up against my arm. 'I'm scared I'll never get better 171 again. I'll always stay twisted like this and grow old and waste away here. I get so chilled it's like I'm all frozen inside. It's horrible ... so cold. .. ' I put my arm around her and drew her close. 'I feel like Kizuki is reaching out for me from the darkness, calling to me, 'Hey, Naoko, we can't stay apart.' When I hear him saying that, I don't know what to do.' 'What do you do?' 'Well ... don't take this the wrong way, now.' 'OK, I won't.' 'I ask Reiko to hold me. I wake her up and crawl into her bed and let her hold me tight. And I cry. And she strokes me until the ice melts and I'm warm again. Do you think it's sick?' 'No. I wish I could be the one to hold you, though,' I said. 'So hold me. Now. Right here.' We sat down on the dry grass of the meadow and put our arms around each other. The tall grass surrounded us, and we could see nothing but the sky and clouds above. I gently lay Naoko down and took her in my arms. She was soft and warm and her hands reached out for me. We kissed with real feeling. 'Tell me something, Toru,' Naoko whispered in my ear. 'What's that?' I asked. 'Do you want to sleep with me?' 'Of course I do,' I said. 'Can you wait?' 'Of course I can.' 'Before we do it again, I want to get myself a little better. I want to make myself into a person more worthy of that hobby of yours. Will you wait for me to do that?' 'Of course I'll wait.' 'Are you hard now?' 'You mean the soles of my feet?' 'Silly,' Naoko tittered. 'If you're asking whether I have an erection, of course I do.' 'Will you do me a favour and stop saying 'Of course'?' 'OK, I'll stop.' 'Is it difficult?' 'What?' 'To be all hard like that.' 'Difficult?' 'I mean, are you suffering?' 172 'Well, it depends how you look at it.' 'Want me to help you get rid of it?' 'With your hand?' 'Uh-huh. To tell you the truth,' said Naoko, 'it's been sticking into me ever since we lay down. It hurts.' I pulled my hips away. 'Better?' 'Thanks.' 'You know?' I said. 'What?' 'I wish you would do it.' 'OK,' she said with a kind smile. Then she unzipped my trousers and took my stiff penis in her hand. 'It's warm,' she said. She started to move her hand, but I stopped her and unbuttoned her blouse, reaching around to undo her bra strap. I kissed her soft, pink nipples. She closed her eyes and slowly started moving her fingers. 'Hey, you're pretty good at that,' I said. 'Be a good boy and shut up,' said Naoko. After I came, I held her in my arms and kissed her again. Naoko did up her bra and blouse, and I zipped up my flies. 'Will that make it easier for you to walk?' she asked. 'I owe it all to you.' 'Well, then, Sir, if it suits you, shall we walk a little farther?' 'By all means.' We cut across the meadow, through a stand of trees, and across another meadow. Naoko talked about her dead sister, explaining that although she had hardly said anything about this to anyone, she felt she ought to tell me. 'She was six years older than me, and our personalities were totally different, but still we were very close. We never fought, not once. It's true. Of course, with such a big difference in our ages, there was nothing much for us to fight about.' Her sister was one of those girls who are successful at every 173 thing - a super-student, a super-athlete, popular, a leader, kind, straightforward, the boys liked her, her teachers loved her, her walls were covered with certificates of merit. There's always one girl like that in any school. 'I'm not saying this because she's my sister, but she never let any of this spoil her or make her the least bit stuck-up or a show-off. It's just that, no matter what you gave her to do, she would naturally do it better than anyone else. 'So when I was little, I decided that I was going to be the sweet little girl.' Naoko twirled a frond of plume grass as she spoke. 'I mean, you know, I grew up hearing everybody talking about how smart she was and how good she was at games and how popular she was. Of course I'm going to assume there's no way I could ever compete with her. My face, at least, was a little prettier than hers, so I guess my parents decided they'd bring me up cute. Right from the start they put me in that kind of school. They dressed me in velvet dresses and frilly blouses and patent leather shoes and gave me piano lessons and ballet lessons. This just made my sister even crazier about me - you know: I was her cute little sister. She'd give me these cute little presents and take me everywhere with her and help me with my homework. She even took me along on dates. She was the best big sister anyone could ask for. 'Nobody knew why she killed herself. The same as Kizuki. Exactly the same. She was 17, too, and she never gave the slightest hint she was going to commit suicide. She didn't leave a note, either. Really, it was exactly the same, don't you think?' 'Sounds like it.' 'Everybody said she was too smart or she read too many books. And she did read a lot. She had tons of books. I read a bunch of them after she died, and it was so sad. They had her comments in the margins and flowers pressed between the pages and letters from boyfriends, and every time I came across something like that I'd cry. I cried a lot.' Naoko fell silent for a few seconds, twirling the plume grass again. 174 'She was the kind of person who took care of things by herself. She'd never ask anybody for advice or help. It wasn't a matter of pride, I think. She just did what seemed natural to her. My parents were used to this and thought she'd be OK if they left her alone. I would go to my sister for advice and she was always ready to give it, but she never went to anyone else. She did what needed to be done, on her own. She never got angry or moody. This is all true, I mean it, I'm not exaggerating. Most girls, when they have their period or something, will get grumpy and take it out on others, but she never even did that. Instead of getting into a bad mood, she would become very subdued. Maybe once in two or three months this would happen to her: she'd shut herself up in her room and stay in bed, avoid school, hardly eat a thing, turn the lights off, and space out. She wouldn't be in a bad mood, though. When I came home from school, she'd call me into her room and sit me down next to her and ask me about my day. I'd tell her all the little things - like what kinds of games I played with my friends or what the teacher said or my exam results, stuff like that. She'd take in every detail and make comments and suggestions, but as soon as I left - to play with a friend, say, or go to a ballet lesson - she'd space out again. After two days, she'd snap out of it just like that and go to school. This kind of thing went on for, I don't know, maybe four years. My parents were worried at first and I think they went to a doctor for advice, but, I mean, she'd be perfectly fine after two days, so they thought it would work itself out if they left her alone, she was such a bright, steady girl. 'After she died, though, I heard my parents talking about a younger brother of my father's who had died long before. He had also been very bright, but he had stayed shut up in the house for four years - from the time he was 17 until he was 21. And then suddenly one day he left the house and jumped in front of a train. My father said, 'Maybe it's in the blood - from my side'.' 175 While Naoko was speaking, her fingers unconsciously teased the tassel of the plume grass, scattering its fibres to the wind. When the shaft was bare, she wound it around her fingers. 'I was the one who found my sister dead,' she went on. 'In autumn when I was in the first year. November. On a dark, rainy day. My sister was in the sixth-form at the time. I came home from my piano lesson at 6.30 and my mother was making dinner. She told me to tell my sister it was ready. I went upstairs and knocked on her door and yelled 'Dinner's ready', but there was no answer. Her room was completely silent. I thought this was strange, so I knocked again, opened the door and peeped inside. I thought she was probably sleeping. She wasn't in bed, though. She was standing by the window, staring outside, with her neck bent at a kind of angle like this, like she was thinking. The room was dark, the lights were out, and it was hard to see anything. 'What are you doing?' I said to her. 'Dinner is ready.' That's when I noticed that she looked taller than usual. What was going on? I wondered: it was so strange! Did she have high heels on? Was she standing on something? I moved closer and was just about to speak to her again when I saw it: there was a rope above her head. It came straight down from a beam in the ceiling - I mean it was amazingly straight, like somebody had drawn a line in space with a ruler. My sister had a white blouse on - yeah, a simple white blouse like this one - and a grey skirt, and her toes were pointing down like a ballerina's, except there was a space between the tip of her toes and the floor of maybe seven or eight inches. I took in every detail. Her face, too. I looked at her face. I couldn't help it. I thought: I've got to go right downstairs and tell my mother. I've got to scream. But my body ignored me. It moved on its own, separately from my conscious mind. It was trying to lower her from the rope while my mind was telling me to hurry downstairs. Of course, there was no way a little girl could have the strength to do such a thing, and so I just stood there, spacing out, for maybe five or six minutes, a total blank, like 176 something inside me had died. I just stayed that way, with my sister, in that cold, dark place until my mother came up to see what was going on.' Naoko shook her head. 'For three days after that I couldn't talk. I just lay in bed like a dead person, eyes wide open and staring into space. I didn't know what was happening.' Naoko pressed against my arm. 'I told you in my letter, didn't I? I'm a far more flawed human being than you realize. My sickness is a lot worse than you think: it has far deeper roots. And that's why I want you to go on ahead of me if you can. Don't wait for me. Sleep with other girls if you want to. Don't let thoughts of me hold you back. Just do what you want to do. Otherwise, I might end up taking you with me, and that is the one thing I don't want to do. I don't want to interfere with your life. I don't want to interfere with anybody's life. Like I said before, I want you to come to see me every once in a while, and always remember me. That's all I want.' 'It's not all I want, though,' I said. 'You're wasting your life being involved with me.' 'I'm not wasting anything.' 'But I might never recover. Will you wait for me forever? Can you wait 10 years, 20 years?' 'You're letting yourself be scared by too many things,' I said. 'The dark, bad dreams, the power of the dead. You have to forget them. I'm sure you'll get well if you do.' 'If I can,' said Naoko, shaking her head. 'If you can get out of this place, will you live with me?' I asked. 'Then I can protect you from the dark and from bad dreams. Then you'd have me instead of Reiko to hold you when things got difficult.' Naoko pressed still more firmly against me. 'That would be wonderful,' she said. We got back to the cafe a little before three. Reiko was reading a book 177 and listening to Brahms' Second Piano Concerto on the radio. There was something wonderful about Brahms playing at the edge of a grassy meadow without a sign of anyone as far as the eye could see. Reiko was whistling along with the cello passage that begins the third movement. 'Backhaus and Bohm,' she said. 'I wore this record out once, a long time ago. Literally. I wore the grooves out listening to every note. I sucked the music right out of it.' Naoko and I ordered coffee. 'Do a lot of talking?' asked Reiko. 'Tons,' said Naoko. 'Tell me all about his, uh, you know, later.' 'We didn't do any of that,' said Naoko, reddening. 'Really?' Reiko asked me. 'Nothing?' 'Nothing,' I said. 'Bo-o-o-ring!' she said with a bored look on her face. 'True,' I said, sipping my coffee. The scene in the dining hall was the same as the day before - the mood, the voices, the faces. Only the menu had changed. The balding man in white, who yesterday had been talking about the secretion of gastric juices under weightless conditions, joined the three of us at our table and talked for a long time about the correlation of brain size to intelligence. As we ate our soybean burgers, we heard all about the volume of Bismarck's brain and Napoleon's. He pushed his plate aside and used a ballpoint pen and notepaper to draw sketches of brains. He would start to draw, declare 'No, that's not quite it', and begin a new one. This happened several times. When he had finished, he carefully put the remaining notepaper away in a pocket of his white jacket and slipped the pen into his breast pocket, in which he kept a total of three pens, along with pencils and a ruler. Having finished his meal, he repeated what he had told me the day before, 'The winters here are really nice. Make sure you come back when it's winter,' and left the 178 dining hall. 'Is he a doctor or a patient?' I asked Reiko. 'Which do you think?' 'I really can't tell. In either case, he doesn't seem all that normal.' 'He's a doctor,' said Naoko. 'Doctor Miyata.' 'Yeah,' said Reiko, 'but I bet he's the craziest one here.' 'Mr Omura, the gatekeeper, is pretty crazy, too,' answered Naoko. 'True,' said Reiko, nodding as she stabbed her broccoli. 'He does these wild callisthenics every morning, screaming nonsense at the top of his lungs. And before you came, Naoko, there was a girl in the business office, Miss Kinoshita, who tried to kill herself. And last year they sacked a male nurse, Tokushima, who had a terrible drinking problem.' 'Sounds like patients and staff should swap places,' I said. 'Right on,' said Reiko, waving her fork in the air. 'You're finally starting to see how things work here.' 'I suppose so.' 'What makes us most normal,' said Reiko, 'is knowing that we're not normal.' Back in the room, Naoko and I played cards while Reiko practised Bach on her guitar. 'What time are you leaving tomorrow?' Reiko asked me, taking a break and lighting a cigarette. 'Straight after breakfast,' I said. 'The bus comes at nine. That way I can get back in time for tomorrow night's work.' 'Too bad. It'd be nice if you could stay longer.' 'If I stayed around too long, I might end up living here,' I said, laughing. 'Maybe so,' Reiko said. Then, to Naoko, she said, 'Oh, yeah, I've got to go get some grapes at Oka's. I totally forgot.' 'Want me to go with you?' asked Naoko. 179 'How about letting me borrow your young Mr Watanabe here?' 'Fine,' said Naoko. 'Good. Let's just the two of us go for another nighttime stroll,' said Reiko, taking my hand. 'We Yesterday. Let's go all the way tonight.' 'Fine,' said Naoko, tittering. 'Do what you like.' were almost there. The night air was cool. Reiko wore a pale blue cardigan over her shirt and walked with her hands shoved in her jeans pockets. Looking up at the sky, she sniffed the breeze like a dog. 'Smells like rain,' she said. I tried sniffing too, but couldn't smell anything. True, there were lots of clouds in the sky obscuring the moon. 'If you stay here long enough, you can pretty much tell the weather by the smell of the air,' said Reiko. We entered the wooded area where the staff houses stood. Reiko told me to wait a minute, walked over to the front door of one house and rang the bell. A woman came to the door - no doubt the lady of the house - and stood there chatting and chuckling with Reiko. Then she ducked inside and came back with a large plastic bag. Reiko thanked her and said goodnight before returning to the spot where I was waiting. 'Look,' she said, opening the bag. It held a huge cluster of grapes. 'Do you like grapes?' 'Love them.' She handed me the top bunch. 'It's OK to eat them. They're washed.' We walked along eating grapes and spitting the skins and seeds on the ground. They were fresh and delicious. 'I give their son piano lessons once in a while, and they offer me different stuff. The wine we had was from them. I sometimes ask them to do a little shopping for me in town.' 'I'd like to hear the rest of the story you were telling me yesterday,' I said. 180 'Fine,' said Reiko. 'But if we keep coming home late, Naoko might start getting suspicious.' 'I'm willing to risk it.' 'OK, then. I want a roof, though. It's a little chilly tonight.' She turned left as we approached the tennis courts. We went down a narrow stairway and came out at a spot where several storehouses stood like a block of houses. Reiko opened the door of the nearest one, stepped in and turned on the lights. 'Come in,' she said. 'There's not much to see, though.' The storehouse contained neat rows of cross-country skis, boots and poles, and on the floor were piled snow removal equipment and bags of rock salt. 'I used to come here all the time for guitar practice - when I wanted to be alone. Nice and cosy, isn't it?' Reiko sat on the bags of rock salt and invited me to sit next to her. I did as I was told. 'Not much ventilation here, but mind if I smoke?' 'Go ahead,' I said. 'This is one habit I can't seem to break,' she said with a frown, but she lit up with obvious enjoyment. Not many people enjoy tobacco as much as Reiko did. I ate my grapes, carefully peeling them one at a time and tossing the skins and seeds into a tin that served as a rubbish bin. 'Now, let's see, how far did we get last night?' Reiko asked. 'It was a dark and stormy night, and you were climbing the steep cliff to grab the bird's nest.' 'You're amazing, the way you can joke around with such a straight face,' said Reiko. 'Let's see, I think I had got to the point where I was giving piano lessons to the girl every Saturday morning.' 'That's it.' 'Assuming you can divide everybody in the world into two groups - 181 those who are good at teaching things to people, and those who are not - I pretty much belong to the first group,' said Reiko. 'I never thought so when I was young, and I suppose I didn't want to think of myself that way, but once I reached a certain age and had attained a degree of selfknowledge I realized it was true after all: I'm good at teaching people things. Really good.' 'I bet you are.' 'I have a lot more patience for others than I have for myself, and I'm much better at bringing out the best in others than in myself. That's just the kind of person I am. I'm the scratchy stuff on the side of the matchbox. But that's fine with me. I don't mind at all. Better to be a first-class matchbox than a second-class match. I got this clear in my own mind, I'd say, after I started teaching this girl. I had taught a few others when I was younger, strictly as a sideline, without realizing this about myself. It was only after I started teaching her that I began to think of myself that way. Hey - I'm good at teaching people. That's how well the lessons went. As I said yesterday, the girl was nothing special when it came to technique, and there was no question of her becoming a professional musician, so I could take it easy. Plus she was going to the kind of girls' school where anybody with halfdecent marks automatically got into university, which meant she didn't have to kill herself studying, and her mother was all for going easy with the lessons, too. So I didn't push her to do anything. I knew the first time I met her that she was the kind of girl you couldn't push to do anything, that she was the kind of child who would be all sweetness and say 'Yes, yes,' and absolutely refuse to do anything she didn't want to do. So the first thing I did was let her play a piece the way she wanted to - 100 per cent her own way. Then I would play the same piece several different ways for her, and the two of us would discuss which was best or which way she liked 182 most. Then I'd have her play the piece again, and her performance would be ten times better than the first. She would see for herself what worked best and bring those features into her own playing.' Reiko paused for a moment, observing the glowing end of her cigarette. I went on eating my grapes without a word. 'I know I have a pretty good sense for music, but she was better than me. I used to think it was such a waste! I thought, ,if only she had started out with a good teacher and received the proper training, she'd be so much farther along!' But I was wrong. She wasn't the kind of child who could stand proper training. There just happen to be people like that. They're blessed with this marvellous talent, but they can't make the effort to systematize it. They end up squandering it in little bits and pieces. I've seen my share of people like that. At first you think they're amazing. They can sight-read some terrifically difficult piece and do a damn good job playing it all the way through. You see them do it, and you're overwhelmed. You think, 'I could never do that in a million years.' But that's as far as it goes. They can't take it any further. And why not? Because they won't put in the effort. They haven't had the discipline pounded into them. They've been spoiled. They have just enough talent so they've been able to play things well without any effort and they've had people telling them how great they are from an early age, so hard work looks stupid to them. They'll take some piece another kid has to work on for three weeks and polish it off in half the time, so the teacher assumes they've put enough into it and lets them go on to the next thing. And they do that in half the time and go on to the next piece. They never find out what it means to be hammered by the teacher; they lose out on a crucial element required for character building. It's a tragedy. I myself had tendencies like that, but fortunately I had a very tough teacher, so I kept them in check. 'Anyway, it was a joy to teach her. Like driving down the highway in 183 a high-powered sports car that responds to the slightest touch - responds too quickly, sometimes. The trick to teaching children like that is not to praise them too much. They're so used to praise it doesn't mean anything to them. You've got to dole it out wisely. And you can't force anything on them. You have to let them choose for themselves. And you don't let them rush ahead from one thing to the next: you make them stop and think. But that's about it. If you do those things, you'll get good results.' Reiko dropped her cigarette butt on the floor and stamped it out. Then she took a deep breath as if to calm herself. 'When her lessons ended, we'd have tea and chat. Sometimes I'd show her certain jazz piano styles - like, this is Bud Powell, or this is Thelonious Monk. But mostly she talked. And what a talker she was! She could draw you right in. As I told you yesterday, I think most of what she said was made up, but it was interesting. She was a keen observer, a precise user of language, sharp-tongued and funny. She could stir your emotions. Yes, really, that's what she was so good at - stirring people's emotions, moving you. And she knew she had this power. She tried to use it as skilfully and effectively as possible. She could make you feel whatever she wanted - angry or sad or sympathetic or disappointed or happy. She would manipulate people's emotions for no other reason than to test her own powers. Of course, I only realized this later. At the time, I had no idea what she was doing to me.' Reiko shook her head and ate a few grapes. 'It was a sickness,' she said. 'The girl was sick. She was like the rotten apple that ruins all the other apples. And no one could cure her. She'll have that sickness until the day she dies. In that sense, she was a sad little creature. I would have pitied her, too, if I hadn't been one of her victims. I would have seen her as a victim.' Reiko ate a few more grapes. She seemed to be thinking of how best 184 to go on with her story. 'Well, anyway, I enjoyed teaching her for a good six months. Sometimes I'd find something she said a little surprising or odd. Or she'd be talking and I'd have this rush of horror when I realised the intensity of her hatred for some person was completely irrational, or it would occur to me that she was just far too clever, and I'd wonder what she was really thinking. But, after all, everyone has their flaws, right? And finally, what business was it of mine to question her personality or character? I was just her piano teacher. All I had to care about was whether she practised or not. And besides, the truth of the matter is that I liked her. I liked her a lot. 'Still, I was careful not to tell her anything too personal about myself. I just had this sixth sense that I'd better not talk about such things. She asked me hundreds of questions - she was dying to know more about me - but I only told her the most harmless stuff, like things about my childhood or where I'd gone to school, stuff like that. She said she wanted to know more about me, but I told her there was nothing to tell: I'd had a boring life, I had an ordinary husband, an ordinary child, and a ton of housework. 'But I like you so much,' she'd say and look me right in the eye in this clingy sort of way. It sent a thrill through me when she did that - a nice thrill. But even so, I never told her more than I had to. 'And then one day - a day in May, I think it was - in the middle of her lesson, she said she felt sick. I saw she was pale and sweating and asked if she wanted to go home, but she said she thought she'd feel better if she could just lie down for a while. So I took her - almost carried her - to the bedroom. We had such a small sofa, the bed was the only place she could lie down. She apologized for being a nuisance, but I assured her it was no bother and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She said no, she just wanted me to stay near her, which I said I'd be glad to do. 'A few minutes later she asked me to rub her back. She sounded as 185 though she was really suffering, and she was sweating like mad, so I started to give her a good massage. Then she apologized and asked me if I'd mind taking off her bra, as it was hurting her. So, I don't know, I did it. She was wearing a skin-tight blouse, and I had to unbutton that and reach behind and undo the bra hooks. She had big breasts for a 13-year-old. Twice as big as mine. And she wasn't wearing any starter bra but a real adult model, an expensive one. Of course I'm not paying all that much attention at the time, and like an idiot I just carry on rubbing her back. She keeps apologizing in this pitiful voice as if she's really sorry, and I keep telling her it's OK it's OK.' Reiko tapped the ash from her cigarette to the floor. By then I had stopped eating grapes and was giving all my attention to her story. 'After a while she starts sobbing. 'What's wrong?' I ask her. 'Nothing,' she says. 'It's obviously not nothing,' I say. 'Tell me the truth. What's bothering you?' So she says, 'I just get like this sometimes. I don't know what to do. I'm so lonely and sad, and I can't talk to anybody, and nobody cares about me. And it hurts so much, I just get like this. I can't sleep at night, and I don't feel like eating, and coming here for my lesson is the only thing I have to look forward to.' So I say, 'You can talk to me. Tell me why this happens to you.' Things are not going well at home, she says. She can't love her parents, and they don't love her. Her father is seeing another woman and is hardly ever around, and that makes her mother half crazy and she takes it out on the girl; she beats her almost every day and she hates to go home. So now the girl is really wailing, and her eyes are full of tears, those beautiful eyes of hers. The sight is enough to make a god weep. So I tell her, if it's so terrible to go home, she can come to my place any time she likes. When she hears that, the girl throws her arms around me and says, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, but if I didn't have you I wouldn't know what to do. Please don't turn your back on me. If you did that, I'd have nowhere to go.' 'So, I don't know, I hold her head against me and I'm caressing her 186 and saying 'There there,' and she's got her arms around me and she's stroking my back, and soon I'm starting to feel very strange, my whole body is kind of hot. I mean, here's this picture-perfect beautiful girl and I'm on the bed with her, and we're hugging, and her hands are caressing my back in this incredibly sensual way that my own husband couldn't even begin to match, and I feel all the screws coming loose in my body every time she touches me, and before I know it she has my blouse and bra off and she's stroking my breasts. So that's when it finally hits me that she's an absolute dyed-in-the-wool lesbian. This had happened to me once before, at school, one of the sixth-form girls. So then I tell her to stop. ''Oh, please,' she says, 'just a little more. I'm so lonely, I'm so lonely, please believe me, you're the only one I have, oh please, don't turn your back on me,' and she takes my hand and puts it on her breast - her very nicely shaped breast, and, sure, I'm a woman, but this electric something goes through me when my hand makes contact. I have no idea what to do. I just keep repeating no no no no no, like an idiot. It's as if I'm Paralyzed, I can't move. I had managed to push the girl away at school, but now I can't do a thing. My body won't take orders. She's holding my right hand against her with her left hand, and she's kissing and licking my nipples, and her right hand is caressing my back, my side, my bottom. So here I am in the bedroom with the curtains closed and a 13-year-old girl has me practically naked - she's been taking my clothes off somehow all along - and touching me all over and I'm writhing with the pleasure of it. Looking back on it now, it seems incredible. I mean, it's insane, don't you think? But at the time it was as if she had cast a spell on me.' Reiko paused to puff at her cigarette. 'You know, this is the first time I've ever told a man about it,' she said, looking at me. 'I'm telling it to you because I think I ought to, but I'm finding it really embarrassing.' 'I'm sorry,' I said, because I didn't know what else to say. 187 'This went on for a while, and then her right hand started to move down, and she touched me through my panties. By then, I was absolutely soaking wet. I'm ashamed to say it, but I've never been so wet before or since. I had always thought of myself as sort of indifferent to sex, so I was astounded to be getting so worked up. So then she puts these slim, soft fingers of hers inside my panties, and ... well, you know, I can't bring myself to put it into words. I mean, it was totally different from when a man puts his clumsy hands on you there. It was amazing. Really. Like feathers or down. I thought all the fuses in my head were going to pop. Still, somewhere in my foggedover brain, the thought occurred to me that I had to put a stop to this. If I let it happen once, I'd never stop, and if I had to carry around a secret like that inside me, my head was going to get completely messed up again. I thought about my daughter, too. What if she saw me like this? She was supposed to be at my parents' house until three on Saturdays, but what if something happened and she came home unexpectedly? This helped me to gather my strength and raise myself on the bed. 'Stop it now, please stop!' I shouted. 'But she wouldn't stop. Instead, she yanked my panties down and started using her tongue. I had rarely let even my husband do that, I found it so embarrassing, but now I had a 13-year-old girl licking me all over down there. I just gave up. All I could do was cry. And it was absolute paradise. ''Stop it!' I yelled one more time and slapped her on the side of the face as hard as I could. She finally stopped, raised herself up and looked into my eyes. The two of us were stark naked, on our knees, in bed, staring at each other. She was 13, I was 31, but, I don't know, looking at that body of hers, I felt totally overwhelmed. The image is still so vivid in my mind. I could hardly believe I was looking at the body of a 13-year-old girl, and I still can't believe it. By comparison, what I had for a body was enough to make you cry. Believe me.' 188 There was nothing I could say, and so I said nothing. ''What's wrong?' she says to me. 'You like it this way, don't you? I knew you would the first time I met you. I know you like it. It's much better than doing it with a man - isn't it? Look how wet you are. I can make you feel even better if you'll let me. It's true. I can make you feel like your body's melting away. You want me to, don't you?' And she was right. She was much better than my husband. And I did want her to do it even more! But I couldn't let it happen. 'Let's do this once a week,' she said. 'Just once a week. Nobody will find out. It'll be our little secret'.' 'But I got out of bed and put on my dressing-gown and told her to leave and never come back. She just looked at me. Her eyes were absolutely flat. I had never seen them like that before. It was as if they were painted on cardboard. They had no depth. After she stared at me for a while, she gathered up her clothes without a word and, as slowly as she could, as though she were making a show of it, she put on each item, one at a time. Then she went back into the piano room and took a brush from her bag. She brushed her hair and wiped the blood from her lips with a handkerchief, put on her shoes, and left. As she went out, she said, 'You're a lesbian, you know. It's true. You may try to hide it, but you'll be a lesbian until the day you die'.' 'Is it true?' I asked. Reiko curved her lips and thought for a while. 'Well, it is and it isn't. I definitely felt better with her than with my husband. That's a fact. I had a time there when I really agonized over the question. Maybe I really was a lesbian and just hadn't noticed until then. But I don't think so any more. Which is not to say I don't have the tendencies. I probably do have them. But I'm not a lesbian in the proper sense of the term. I never feel desire when I look at a woman. Know what I mean?' I nodded. 189 'Certain kinds of girls, though, do respond to me, and I can feel it when that happens. Those are the only times it comes out in me. I can hold Naoko in my arms, though, and feel nothing special. We go around in the flat practically naked when the weather's hot, and we take baths together, sometimes even sleep in the same bed, but nothing happens. I don't feel a thing. I can see that she has a beautiful body, but that's all. Actually, Naoko and I played a game once. We made believe we were lesbians. Want to hear about it?' 'Sure. Tell me.' 'When I told her the story I just told you - we tell each other everything, you know - Naoko tried an experiment. The two of us got undressed and she tried caressing me, but it didn't work at all. It just tickled. I thought I was going to die laughing. Just thinking about it makes me itchy. She was so clumsy! I'll bet you're glad to hear that.' 'Yes I am, to tell the truth.' 'Well, anyway, that's about it,' said Reiko, scratching near an eyebrow with the tip of her little finger. 'After the girl left my house, I found a chair and sat there spacing out for a while, wondering what to do. I could hear the dull beating of my heart from deep inside my body. My arms and legs seemed to weigh a ton, and my mouth felt as though I'd eaten a moth or something, it was so dry. But I dragged myself to the bathroom, knowing my daughter would be back soon. I wanted to clean those places where the girl had touched and licked me. I scrubbed myself with soap, over and over, but I couldn't seem to get rid of the slimy feeling she had left behind. I knew I was probably imagining it, but that didn't help. That night, I asked my husband to make love to me, almost as a way to get rid of the defilement. Of course, I didn't tell him anything - I couldn't. All I said to him was that I wanted him to take it slow, to give it more time than usual. And he did. He concentrated on every little detail, he really took a long, long time, and the way I came that night, oh yes, it was like nothing I had 190 ever experienced before, never once in all our married life. And why do you think that was? Because the touch of that girl's fingers was still there in my body. That's all it was. 'Oh, man, is this embarrassing! Look, I'm sweating! I can't believe I'm saying these things - he 'made love' to me, I 'came'!' Reiko smiled, her lips curved again. 'But even this didn't help. Two days went by, three, and her touch was still there. And her last words were echoing and echoing in my head. 'She didn't come to my house the following Saturday. My heart was pounding all day long while I waited, wondering what I would do if she showed up. I couldn't concentrate on anything. She never did come, though. Of course. She was a proud little thing, and she had failed with me in the end. She didn't come the next week, either, nor the week after that, and soon a month went by. I decided that I would be able to forget about what had happened when enough time had passed, but I couldn't forget. When I was alone in the house, I would feel her presence and my nerves would be on edge. I couldn't play the piano, I couldn't think, I couldn't do anything during that first month. And then one day I realized that something was wrong whenever I left the house. The neighbours were looking at me in a strange way. There was a new distance in their eyes. They were as polite as ever with their greetings, but there was something different in their tone of voice and in their behaviour towards me. The woman next door, who used to pay me an occasional visit, seemed to be avoiding me. I tried not to let these things bother me, though. Start noticing things like that, and you've got the first signs of illness. 'Then one day I had a visit from another housewife I was on friendly terms with. We were the same age, and she was the daughter of a friend of my mother's, and her child went to the same kindergarten as mine, so we were fairly close. She just showed up one day and asked me if I knew about a terrible rumour that was going around about me. 'What kind of rumour?' I asked. 'I almost can't say it, it's so awful,' 191 she said. 'Well, you've got this far, you have to tell me the rest.' 'Still she resisted telling me, but I finally got it all out of her. I mean, her whole purpose in coming to see me was to tell me what she had heard, so of course she was going to spit it out eventually. According to her, people were saying that I was a card-carrying lesbian and had been in and out of mental hospitals for it. They said that I had stripped the clothes off my piano pupil and tried to do things to her and when she had resisted I had slapped her so hard her face swelled up. They had turned the story on its head, of course, which was bad enough, but what really shocked me was that people knew I had been hospitalized. 'My friend said she was telling everyone that she had known me for ever and that I was not like that, but the girl's parents believed her version and were spreading it around the neighbourhood. In addition, they had investigated my background and found that I had a history of mental problems. 'The way my friend heard it, the girl had come home from her lesson one day - that day, of course - with her face all bloated, her lip split and bloody, buttons missing from her blouse, and even her underwear torn. Can you believe it? She had done all this to back up her story, of course, which her mother had to drag out of her. I can just see her doing it - putting blood on her blouse, tearing buttons off, ripping the lace on her bra, making herself cry until her eyes were red, messing up her hair, telling her mother a pack of lies. 'Not that I'm blaming people for believing her. I would have believed her, too, this beautiful doll with a devil's tongue. She comes home crying, she refuses to talk because it's too embarrassing, but then she spills it out. Of course people are going to believe her. And to make matters worse, it's true, I do have a history of hospitalization for mental problems, I did hit her in the face as hard as I could. Who's going to believe me? Probably just my husband. A few more days went by while I wrestled with the question of whether to tell him or not, but when I did, he believed me. 192 Of course. I told him everything that had happened that day - the kind of lesbian things she did to me, the way I slapped her in the face. Of course, I didn't tell him what I had felt. I couldn't have told him that. So anyway, he was furious and insisted that he was going to go straight to the girl's family. He said, 'You're a married woman, after all. You're married to me. And you're a mother. There's no way you're a lesbian. What a joke!' 'But I wouldn't let him go. All he could do was make things worse. I knew. I knew she was sick. I had seen hundreds of sick people, so I knew. The girl was rotten inside. Peel off a layer of that beautiful skin, and you'd find nothing but rotten flesh. I know it's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. And I knew that ordinary people could never know the truth about her, that there was no way we could win. She was an expert at manipulating the emotions of the adults around her, and we had nothing to prove our case. First of all, who's going to believe that a 13-year-old girl set a homosexual trap for a woman in her thirties? No matter what we said, people would believe what they wanted to believe. The more we struggled, the more vulnerable we'd be. 'There was only one thing for us to do, I said: we had to move. If I stayed in that neighbourhood any longer, the stress would get to me; my mind would snap again. It was happening already. We had to get out of there, go somewhere far away where nobody knew me. My husband wasn't ready to go, though. It hadn't dawned on him yet how critical I was. And the timing was terrible: he loved his work, and he had finally succeeded in getting us settled in our own house (we lived in a little prefab), and our daughter was comfortable in her kindergarten. 'Wait a minute,' he said, 'we can't just up sticks and go. I can't find a job just like that. We'd have to sell the house, and we'd have to find another kindergarten. It'll take two months at least.' 'I can't wait two months,” I told him. 'This is going to finish me off once and for all. I'm not kidding. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.' The symptoms were starting already: my ears were ringing, 193 and I was hearing things, and I couldn't sleep. So he suggested that I leave first, go somewhere by myself, and he would follow after he had taken care of what had to be done. ''No,' I said, 'I don't want to go alone. I'll fall apart if I don't have you. I need you. Please, don't leave me alone.' He held me and pleaded with me to hang on a little longer. Just a month, he said. He would take care of everything - leave his job, sell the house, make arrangements for kindergarten, find a new job. There might be a position he could take in Australia, he said. He just wanted me to wait one month, and everything would be OK. What could I say to that? If I tried to object, it would only isolate me even more.' Reiko sighed and looked at the ceiling light. 'I couldn't hold on for a month, though. One day, it happened again: snap! And this time it was really bad. I took sleeping pills and turned on the gas. I woke up in a hospital bed, and it was all over. It took a few months before I had calmed down enough to think, and then I asked my husband for a divorce. I told him it would be the best thing for him and for our daughter. He said he had no intention of divorcing me. 'We can make a new start,' he said. 'We can go somewhere new, just the three of us, and begin all over again.' 'It's too late,' I told him. 'Everything ended when you asked me to wait a month. If you really wanted to start again, you shouldn't have said that to me. Now, no matter where we go, no matter how far away we move, the same thing will happen all over again. And I'll ask you for the same thing, and make you suffer. I don't want to do that any more.' 'And so we divorced. Or I should say I divorced him. He married again two years ago, though. I'm still glad I made him leave me. Really. I knew I'd be like this for the rest of my life, and I didn't want to drag anyone down with me. I didn't want to force anyone to live in constant fear that I might lose my mind at any moment. 'He had been wonderful to me: an ideal husband, faithful, strong and patient, someone I could put my complete trust in. He had done 194 everything he could to heal me, and I had done everything I could to be healed, both for his sake and for our daughter's. And I had believed in my recovery. I was happy for six years from the time we were married. He got me 99 per cent of the way there, but the other one per cent went crazy. Snap! Everything we had built up came crashing down. In one split second, everything turned into nothing. And that girl was the one who did it.' Reiko collected the cigarette butts she had crushed underfoot and tossed them into the tin can. 'It's a terrible story. We worked so hard, so hard, building our world one brick at a time. And when it fell apart, it happened just like that. Everything was gone before you knew it.' She stood up and thrust her hands in her pockets. 'Let's go back. It's late.' The sky was darker, the cloud cover thicker than before, the moon invisible. Now, I realized, like Reiko I could smell the rain. And with it mixed the fresh smell of the grapes in the bag I was holding. 'That's why I can't leave this place,' she said. 'I'm afraid to get involved with the outside world. I'm afraid to meet new people and feel new feelings.' 'I understand,' I said. 'But I think you can do it. I think you can go outside and make it.' Reiko smiled, but said nothing. Naoko was on the sofa with a book. She had her legs crossed and pressed her hand against her temple as she read. Her fingers almost seemed to be touching and testing each word that entered her head. Scattered drops of rain were beginning to tap on the roof. The lamplight enveloped her, hovering around her like fine dust. After my long talk with Reiko, Naoko's youthfulness struck me in a new way. 'Sorry we're so late,' said Reiko, patting Naoko's head. 'Enjoy yourselves?' asked Naoko, looking up. 'Of course,' said Reiko. 195 'Doing what?' Naoko asked me, - just the two of you.' 'Not at liberty to say, Miss,' I answered. Naoko chuckled and set down her book. Then the three of us ate grapes to the sound of the rain. 'When it's raining like this,' said Naoko, 'it feels as if we're the only ones in the world. I wish it would just keep raining so the three of us could stay together.' 'Oh, sure,' said Reiko, 'and while the two of you are going at it, I'm supposed to be fanning you or playing background music on my guitar like some dumb geisha? No, thanks!' 'Oh, I'd let you have him once in a while,' said Naoko, laughing. 'OK, then, count me in,' said Reiko. 'Come on, rain, pour down!' The rain did pour down, and kept pouring. Thunder shook the place from time to time. When we had finished the grapes, Reiko went back to her cigarettes and pulled out the guitar from under her bed and started to play - first, 'Desafinado' and 'The Girl from Ipanema', then some Bacharach and a few Lennon and McCartney songs. Reiko and I sipped wine again, and when that was gone we shared the brandy that was left in my flask. A warm, intimate mood took hold as the three of us talked into the night, and I began to wish, with Naoko, that the rain would keep on falling. 'Will you come to see me again?' she asked, looking at me. 'Of course I will,' I said. 'And will you write?' 'Every week.' 'And will you add a few lines for me?' asked Reiko. 'That I will,' I said. 'I'd be glad to.' At eleven o'clock, Reiko unfolded the sofa and made a bed for me as she had the night before. We said goodnight and turned out the lights. Unable to sleep, I took The Magic Mountain and a torch from my rucksack and read for a while. Just before midnight, the bedroom door edged open and Naoko came and crawled in next to me. Unlike the 196 night before, Naoko was the usual Naoko. Her eyes were in focus, her movements brisk. Bringing her mouth to my ear, she whispered, 'I don't know, I can't sleep.' 'I can't either,' I said. Setting my book down and turning out the torch, I took her in my arms and kissed her. The darkness and the sound of the rain enfolded us. 'How about Reiko?' 'Don't worry, she's sound asleep. And when she sleeps, she sleeps.' Then Naoko asked, 'Will you really come to see me again?' 'Of course I will.' 'Even if I can't do anything for you?' I nodded in the darkness. I could feel the full shape of her breasts against me. I traced the outline of her body through her gown with the flat of my hand. From shoulder to back to hips, I ran my hand over her again and again, driving the line and the softness of her body into my brain. After we had been in this gentle embrace for a while, Naoko touched her lips to my forehead and slipped out of bed. I could see her pale blue gown flash in the darkness like a fish. 'Goodbye,' she called in a tiny voice. Listening to the rain, I dropped into a gentle sleep. It was still raining the following morning - a fine, almost invisible autumn rain unlike the previous night's downpour. You knew it was raining only because of the ripples on puddles and the sound of dripping from the eaves. I woke to see a milky white mist enclosing the window, but as the sun rose a breeze carried the mist away, and the surrounding woods and hills began to emerge. As we had done the day before, the three of us ate breakfast then went out to attend to the aviary. Naoko and Reiko wore yellow plastic raincapes with hoods. I put on a jumper and a waterproof windcheater. Outside the air was damp and chilly. The birds, too, were avoiding the rain, huddled together at the back of the cage. 197 'Gets cold here when it rains, doesn't it?' I said to Reiko. 'Every time it rains it'll be a little colder now, until it turns to snow,' she said. 'The clouds from the Sea of Japan dump tons of snow when they pass through here.' 'What do you do with the birds in the winter?' 'Bring them inside, of course. What are we supposed to do - dig them out of the snow in spring all frozen? We defrost 'em and bring 'em back to life and yell, OK, everybody, come and get it!' I poked the wire mesh and the parrot flapped its wings and squawked 'Shithead!' 'Thank you!' 'Crazy!' 'Now, that one I'd like to freeze,' Naoko said with a melancholy look. 'I really think I will go crazy if I have to hear that every morning.' After cleaning the aviary, we went back to the flat. While I packed my things, the women put on their farm clothes. We left the building together and parted just beyond the tennis court. They turned right and I continued straight ahead. We called goodbye to each other, and I promised I would come again. Naoko gave a little smile and disappeared around a corner. On my way to the gate I passed several people, all wearing the same yellow raincapes that Naoko and Reiko wore, all with their hoods up. Colours shone with an exceptional clarity in the rain: the ground was a deep black, the pine branches a brilliant green, and the people wrapped in yellow looking like otherworldly spirits that were only allowed to wander the earth on rainy mornings. They floated over the ground in silence, carrying farm tools, baskets and sacks. The gatekeeper remembered my name and marked it on the list of visitors as I left. 'I see you're here from Tokyo,' the old fellow said. 'I went there once. Just once. They serve great pork.' 'They do?' I asked, uncertain how to answer him. 'I didn't like much of what I ate in Tokyo, but the pork was delicious. I expect they have some special way of rearing 'em, eh?' I said I didn't know, it was the first I'd heard of it. 'When was that, by 198 the way, when you went to Tokyo?' 'Hmm, let's see,' he said, cocking his head, 'was it the time His Majesty the Crown prince got married? My son was in Tokyo and said I ought to see the place at least once. That must have been 1959.' 'Oh, well then, sure, pork must have been good in Tokyo back then,' I said. 'How about these days?' he asked. I wasn't sure, I said, but I hadn't heard anything special about it. This seemed to disappoint him. He gave every sign of wanting to continue our conversation, but I told him I had to catch a bus and started walking in the direction of the road. Patches of fog remained floating on the path where it skirted the stream, but the breeze carried them over to the steep flanks of a nearby mountain. Every now and then as I walked along I would stop, turn, and heave a deep sigh for no particular reason. I felt as though I had arrived on a planet where the gravity was a little different. Yes, of course, I told myself, feeling sad: I was in the outside world now. Back at the dorm by 4.30, I changed straight away and left for the record shop in Shinjuku to put in my hours. I looked after the shop from six o'clock to 10.30 and sold a few records, but mainly I sat there in a daze, watching an incredible variety of people streaming by outside. There were families and couples and drunks and gangsters and lively-looking girls in short skirts and bearded hippies and bar hostesses and some indefinable types. Whenever I put on hard rock, hippies and runaway kids would gather outside to dance and sniff paint thinner or just sit on the ground doing nothing in particular, and when I put on Tony Bennett, they would disappear. Next door was a shop where a middle-aged, sleepy-eyed man sold 'adult toys'. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want the kind of sex paraphernalia he had there, but he seemed to do a roaring trade. In the alley diagonally across from the record shop I saw a drunken student vomiting. In the game arcade across from us at another angle, 199 the cook from a local restaurant was killing time on his break with a game of bingo that took cash bets. Beneath the eaves of a shop that had closed for the night, a swarthy homeless guy was crouching, motionless. A girl with pale pink lipstick who couldn't have been more than 12 or 13 came in and asked me to play the Rolling Stones' 'Jumpin' Jack Flash'. When I found the record and put it on for her, she started snapping her fingers to the rhythm and shaking her hips as she danced around the shop. Then she asked me for a cigarette. I gave her one of the manager's, which she smoked gratefully, and when the record ended she left the shop without so much as a 'thank you'. Every 15 minutes or so I would hear the siren of an ambulance or police car. Three drunk company executives in suits and ties came by, laughing at the top of their voices every time they yelled 'Nice arse!' at a pretty, long-haired girl in a phone box. The more I watched, the more confused I became. What the hell was this all about? I wondered. What could it possibly mean? The manager came back from dinner and said to me, 'Hey, know what, Watanabe? Night before last I made it with the boutique chick.' For some time now he had had his eye on the girl who worked at a boutique nearby, and every once in a while he would take a record from the shop as a gift for her. 'Good for you,' I said to him, whereupon he told me every last detail of his conquest. 'If you really wanna make a chick, here's what ya gotta do,' he began, very pleased with himself. 'First, ya gotta give 'er presents. Then ya gotta get 'er drunk. I mean really drunk. Then ya just gotta do it. It's easy. See what I mean?' Head mixed up as ever, I boarded the commuter train and went back to my dorm. Closing the curtains, I turned off the lights, stretched out in bed, and felt as if Naoko might come crawling in beside me at any moment. With my eyes closed, I could feel the soft swell of her breasts on my chest, hear her whispering to me, and feel the outline of 200 her body in my hands. In the darkness, I returned to that small world of hers. I smelled the meadow grass, heard the rain at night. I thought of her naked, as I had seen her in the moonlight, and pictured her cleaning the aviary and tending to the vegetables with that soft, beautiful body of hers wrapped in the yellow raincape. Clutching my erection, I thought of Naoko until I came. This seemed to clear my brain a little, but it didn't help me sleep. I felt exhausted, desperate for sleep, but it simply refused to cooperate. I got out of bed and stood at the window, my unfocused eyes wandering out towards the flagpole. Without the national flag attached to it, the pole looked like a gigantic white bone thrusting up into the darkness of night. What was Naoko doing now? I wondered. Of course, she must be sleeping, sleeping deeply, shrouded in the darkness of that curious little world of hers. Let her be spared from anguished dreams, I found myself hoping. 201 In P.E. class the next morning, Thursday, I swam several lengths of the 50-metre pool. The vigorous exercise cleared my head some more and gave me an appetite. After eating a good-sized lunch at a student restaurant known for its good-sized lunches, I was on my way to the literature department library to do some research when I bumped into Midori Kobayashi. She had someone with her, a petite girl with glasses, but when she spotted me, she approached me alone. 'Where you going?' she asked. 'Lit. library,' I said. 'Why don't you forget it and come have lunch with me?' 'I've already eaten.' 'So what? Eat again.' We ended up going to a nearby café where she had a plate of curry and I had a cup of coffee. She wore a white, longsleeved shirt under a yellow woollen vest with a fish knitted into the design, a narrow gold necklace, and a Disney watch. She seemed to enjoy the curry and drank three glasses of water with it. 'Where've you been?' Midori asked. 'I don't know how many times I called.' 'Was there something you wanted to talk about?' 'Nothing special. I just called.' 'I see.' 202 'You see what?' 'Nothing. Just 'I see',' I said. 'Any fires lately?' 'That was fun, wasn't it? It didn't do much damage, but that smoke made it feel real. Great stuff.' Midori gulped another glass of water, took a breath and studied my face for a while. 'Hey, what's wrong with you?' she asked. 'You've got this spaced-out face. Your eyes aren't focused.' 'I'm OK,' I said. 'I just came back from a trip and I'm tired.' 'You look like you've just seen a ghost.' 'I see.' 'Hey, do you have 'German and R.E. 'Can you skip 'en: 'Not German. I've 'When's it over?' 'Two.' 'OK. How about going into the city with me after that some drinks?' 'At two in the afternoon?!' 'For a change, why not? You look so spaced. Come on, come drinking with me and get a little life into you. That's what I want to do - drink with you and get some life into myself. What do you say?' 'OK, let's go,' I said with a sigh. 'I'll look for you in the Lit. quad at two.' After German we caught a bus to Shinjuku and went to an underground bar called DUG behind the Kinokuniya bookshop. We each started with two vodka and tonics. 'I come here once in a while,' she said. 'They don't make you feel embarrassed to be drinking in the afternoon.' 'Do you drink in the afternoon a lot?' 'Sometimes,' she said, rattling the ice in her glass. 'Sometimes, when the world gets too hard to live in, I come here for a vodka and tonic.' 'Does the world get hard to live in?' 'Sometimes,' said Midori. 'I've got my own special little problems.' 'Like what?' 'Like family, like boyfriends, like irregular periods. Stuff.' 'So have another drink.' 203 'I will.' I beckoned to the waiter and ordered two more vodka and tonics. 'Remember how, when you came over that Sunday, you kissed me?' Midori asked. 'I've been thinking about it. It was nice. Really nice.' 'That's nice.' ''That's nice',' she mimicked. 'The way you talk is so weird!' 'It is?' 'Anyway, I was thinking, that time. I was thinking how great it would be if that had been the first time in my life a boy had kissed me. If I could switch around the order of my life, I would absolutely, absolutely make that my first kiss. And then I would live the rest of my life thinking stuff like: Hey, I wonder whatever happened to that boy named Watanabe I gave my first kiss to on the laundry deck, now that he's 58? Wouldn't that be great?' 'Yeah, really,' I said, cracking a pistachio nut. 'Hey, what is it with you? Why are you so spaced out? You still haven't answered me.' I probably still haven't completely adapted to the world.' I said after giving it some thought. 'I don't know, I feel like this isn't the real world. The people, the scene: they just don't seem real to me.' Midori rested an elbow on the bar and looked at me. 'There was something like that in a Jim Morrison song, I'm pretty sure.' 'People are strange when you're a stranger.' 'Peace,' said Midori. Peace,' I said. 'You really ought to go to Uruguay with me,' Midori said, still leaning on the bar. 'Girlfriend, family, university - just dump 'em all.' 'Not a bad idea,' I said, laughing. 'Don't you think it would be wonderful to get rid of everything and everybody and just go somewhere where you don't know a soul? Sometimes I feel like doing that. I really, really want to do it sometimes. Like, suppose you whisked me somewhere far, far away, 204 I'd make lots of babies for you as tough as little bulls. And we'd all live happily ever after, rolling on the floor.' I laughed and drank my third vodka and tonic. 'I guess you don't really want lots of babies as tough as little bulls yet,' said Midori. 'I'm intrigued,' I said. 'I'd like to see what they look like.' 'That's OK, you don't have to want them,' said Midori, eating a pistachio. 'Here I am, drinking in the afternoon, saying whatever pops into my head: 'I wanna dump everything and run off somewhere.' What's the point of going to Uruguay? All they've got there is donkey shit.' 'You may be right.' 'Donkey shit everywhere. Here a shit, there a shit, the whole world is donkey shit. Hey, I can't open this. You take it.' Midori handed me a pistachio nut. I struggled with it until I cracked it open. 'But oh, what a relief it was last Sunday! Going up to the laundry deck with you, watching the fire, drinking beer, singing songs. I don't know how long it's been since I had such a total sense of relief. People are always trying to force stuff on me. The minute they see me they start telling me what to do. At least you don't try to force stuff on me.' 'I don't know you well enough to force stuff on you.' 'You mean, if you knew me better, you'd force stuff on me like everyone else?' 'It's possible,' I said. 'That's how people live in the real world: forcing stuff on each other.' 'You wouldn't do that. I can tell. I'm an expert when it comes to forcing stuff and having stuff forced on you. You're not the type. That's why I can relax with you. Do you have any idea how many people there are in the world who like to force stuff on people and have stuff forced on them? Tons! And then they make a big fuss, like 'I forced her', 'You forced me!' That's what they like. But I don't like it. I just do it because I have to.' 205 'What kind of stuff do you force on people or they force on you?' Midori put an ice-cube in her mouth and sucked on it for a while. 'Do you want to get to know me better?' she asked. 'Yeah, kind of.' 'Hey, look, I just asked you, 'Do you want to get to know me better?' What sort of answer is that?' 'Yes, Midori, I would like to get to know you better,' I said. 'Really?' 'Yes, really.' 'Even if you had to turn your eyes away from what you saw? 'Are you that bad?' 'Well, in a way,' Midori said with a frown. 'I want another drink.' I called the waiter and ordered a fourth round of drinks. Until they came, Midori cupped her chin in her hand with her elbow on the bar. I kept quiet and listened to Thelonious Monk playing 'Honeysuckle Rose'. There were five or six other customers in the place, but we were the only ones drinking alcohol. The rich smell of coffee gave the gloomy interior an intimate atmosphere. 'Are you free this Sunday?' Midori asked. 'I think I told you before, I'm always free on Sunday. Until I go to work at six.' 'OK, then, this Sunday, will you hang out with me?' 'Sure,' I said. 'I'll pick you up at your dorm Sunday morning. I'm not sure exactly what time, though. Is that OK?' 'Fine,' I said. 'No problem.' 'Now, let me ask you: do you have any idea what I would like to do right now?' 'I can't imagine.' 'Well, first of all, I want to lie down in a big, wide, fluffy bed. I want to get all comfy and drunk and not have any donkey shit anywhere nearby, and I want to have you lying down next to me. And then, little by little, you take off my clothes. Sooo tenderly. The way a mother undresses a little child. Sooo softly.' 206 'Hmm ...' 'And I'm just spacing out and feeling really nice until, all of a sudden I realize what's happening and I yell at you 'Stop it, Watanabe!' And then I say 'I really like you, Watanabe, but I'm seeing someone else. I can't do this. I'm very proper about these things, believe it or not, so please stop.' But you don't stop.' 'But I would stop,' I said. 'I know that. Never mind, this is just my fantasy,' said Midori. 'So then you show it to me. Your thing. Sticking right up. I immediately cover my eyes, of course, but I can't help seeing it for a split second. And I say, 'Stop it! Don't do that! I don't want anything so big and hard!'' 'It's not so big. Just ordinary.' 'Never mind, this is a fantasy. So then you put on this really sad face, and I feel sorry for you and try to comfort you. There there, poor thing.' 'And you're telling me that's what you want to do now?' 'That's it.' 'Oh boy.' We left the bar after five rounds of vodka and tonic. When I tried to pay, Midori slapped my hand and paid with a brand-new #10,000 note she took from her purse. 'It's OK,' she said. 'I just got paid, and I invited you. Of course, if you're a card-carrying fascist and you refuse to let a woman buy you a drink. ..' 'No no, I'm OK.' 'And I didn't let you put it in, either.' 'Because it's so big and hard,' I said. 'Right,' said Midori. 'Because it's so big and hard.' A little drunk, Midori missed one step, and we almost fell back down the stairs. The layer of clouds that had darkened the sky was gone 207 now, and the late afternoon sun poured its gentle light on the city streets. Midori and I wandered around for a while. She said she wanted to climb a tree, but unfortunately there were no climbable trees in Shinjuku, and the Shinjuku Imperial Gardens were closing. 'Too bad,' said Midori. 'I love climbing trees.' We continued walking and window-shopping, and soon the street scene seemed more real to me than it had before. 'I'm glad I ran into you,' I said. 'I think I'm a little more adapted to the world now.' Midori stopped short and peered at me. 'It's true,' she said. 'Your eyes are much more in focus than they were. See? Hanging out with me does you good.' 'No doubt about it,' I said. At 5.30 Midori said she had to go home and make dinner. I said I would take a bus back to my dorm, and saw her as far as the station. 'Know what I want to do now?' Midori asked me as she was leaving. 'I have absolutely no idea what you could be thinking,' I said. 'I want you and me to be captured by pirates. Then they strip us and press us together face to face all naked and wind these ropes around us.' 'Why would they do a thing like that?' 'Perverted pirates,' she said. 'You're the perverted one,' I said. 'So then they lock us in the hold and say, 'In one hour, we're gonna throw you into the sea, so have a good time until then'.' 'And ... ?' 'So we enjoy ourselves for an hour, rolling all over the place and twisting our bodies.' 'And that's the main thing you want to do now?' 'That's it.' 'Oh boy,' I said, shaking my head. 208 Midori came for me at 9.30 on Sunday morning. I had just woken up and hadn't washed my face. Somebody pounded on my door, yelling 'Hey, Watanabe, it's a woman!' I went down to the lobby to find Midori sitting there with her legs crossed wearing an incredibly short denim skirt, yawning. Every student passing by on his way to breakfast slowed down to stare at her long, slim legs. She did have really nice legs. 'Am I too early?' she asked. 'I bet you just woke up.' 'Can you give me 15 minutes? I'll wash my face and shave.' 'I don't mind waiting, but all these guys are staring at my legs.' 'What d'you expect, coming into a men's dorm in such a short skirt? Of course they're going to stare.' 'Oh, well, it's OK. I'm wearing really cute panties today - all pink and frilly and lacy.' 'That just makes it worse,' I said with a sigh. I went back to my room and washed and shaved as fast as I could, put on a blue button-down shirt and a grey tweed sports coat, then went back down and ushered Midori out through the dorm gate. I was in a cold sweat. 'Tell me, Watanabe,' Midori said, looking up at the dorm buildings, 'do all the guys in here wank - rub-a-dub-dub?' 'Probably,' I said. 'Do guys think about girls when they do that?' 'I suppose so. I kind of doubt that anyone thinks about the stock market or verb conjugations or the Suez Canal when they wank. Nope, I'm pretty sure just about everybody thinks about girls.' 'The Suez Canal?' 'For example.' 'So I suppose they think about particular girls, right?' 'Shouldn't you be asking your boyfriend about that?' I said. 'Why should I have to explain stuff like this to you on a Sunday morning?' 209 'I was just curious,' she said. 'Besides, he'd get angry if I asked him about stuff like that. He'd say girls aren't supposed to ask all those questions.' 'A perfectly normal point of view, I'd say.' 'But I want to know. This is pure curiosity. Do guys think about particular girls when they wank?' I gave up trying to avoid the question. 'Well, I do at least. I don't know about anybody else.' 'Have you ever thought about me while you were doing it? Tell me the truth. I won't be angry.' 'No, I haven't, to tell the truth,' I answered honestly. 'Why not? Aren't I attractive enough?' 'Oh, you're attractive, all right. You're cute, and sexy outfits look great on you.' 'So why don't you think about me?' 'Well, first of all, I think of you as a friend, so I don't want to involve you in my sexual fantasies, and second - ' 'You've got somebody else you're supposed to be thinking about.' 'That's about the size of it,' I said. 'You have good manners even when it comes to something like this,' Midori said. 'That's what I like about you. Still, couldn't you allow me just one brief appearance? I want to be in one of your sexual fantasies or daydreams or whatever you call them. I'm asking you because we're friends. Who else can I ask for something like that? I can't just walk up to anyone and say, 'When you wank tonight, will you please think of me for a second?' It's because I think of you as a friend that I'm asking. And I want you to tell me later what it was like. You know, what you did and stuff.' I let out a sigh. 'You can't put it in, though. Because we're just friends. Right? As long as you don't put it in, you can do anything you like, think anything you want.' 210 'I don't know, I've never done it with so many restrictions before,' I said. 'Will you just think about me?' 'All right, I'll think about you.' 'You know, Watanabe, I don't want you to get the wrong impression - that I'm a nymphomaniac or frustrated or a tease or anything. I'm just interested in that stuff. I want to know about it. I grew up surrounded by nothing but girls in a girls' school, you know that. I want to find out what guys are thinking and how their bodies are put together. And not just from pull-out sections in the women's magazines but actual case studies.' 'Case studies?' I groaned. 'But my boyfriend doesn't like it when I want to know things or try things. He gets angry, calls me a nympho or crazy. He won't even let me give him a blow job. Now, that's one thing I'm dying to study.' 'Uh-huh.' 'Do you hate getting blow jobs?' 'No, not really, I don't hate it.' 'Would you say you like it?' 'Yeah, I'd say that. But can we talk about this next time? Here it is, a really nice Sunday morning, and I don't want to ruin it talking about wanking and blow jobs. Let's talk about something else. Is your boyfriend at the same university as us?' 'Nope, he goes to another one, of course. We met at school during a club activity. I was in the girls' school, he was in the boys', and you know how they do those things, joint concerts and stuff. We got serious after our exams, though. Hey, Watanabe.' 'What?' 'You only have to do it once. Just think about me, OK?' 'OK, I'll give it a try, next time,' I said, throwing in the towel. We took a commuter train to Ochanomizu. When we transferred at 211 Shinjuku I bought a thin sandwich at a stand in the station to make up for the breakfast I hadn't eaten. The coffee I had with it tasted like boiled printer's ink. The Sunday morning trains were filled with couples and families on outings. A group of boys with baseball bats and matching uniforms scampered around inside the carriage. Several of the girls on the train had short skirts on, but none as short as Midori's. Midori would pull on hers every now and then as it rode up. Some of the men stared at her thighs, which made me feel uneasy, but she didn't seem to mind. 'Know what I'd like to do right now?' she whispered when we had been travelling a while. 'No idea,' I said. 'But please, don't talk about that stuff here. Somebody'll hear you.' 'Too bad. This one's kind of wild,' Midori said with obvious disappointment. 'Anyway, why are we going to Ochanomizu?' 'Just come along, you'll see.' With all the cram schools around Ochanomizu Station, on Sunday the area was full of school kids on their way to classes or exam practice. Midori barged through the crowds clutching the strap of her shoulder bag with one hand and my hand with the other. Without warning, she asked me, 'Hey, Watanabe, can you explain the difference between the English present subjunctive and past subjunctive?' 'I think I can,' I said. 'Let me ask you, then, what possible use is stuff like that for everyday life?' 'None at all,' I said. 'It may not serve any concrete purpose, but it does give you some kind of training to help you grasp things in general more systematically.' Midori gave that a moment's serious thought. 'You're amazing,' she said. 'That never occurred to me before. I always thought of things 212 like the subjunctive case and differential calculus and chemical symbols as totally useless. A pain in the neck. So I've always ignored them. Now I have to wonder if my whole life has been a mistake.' 'You've ignored them?' 'Yeah. Like, for me, they didn't exist. I don't have the slightest idea what 'sine' and 'cosine' mean.' 'That's incredible! How did you pass your exams? How did you get into university?' 'Don't be silly,' said Midori. 'You don't have to know anything to pass entrance exams! All you need is a little intuition - and I have great intuition. 'Choose the correct answer from the following three.' I know immediately which one is right.' 'My intuition's not as good as yours, so I have to be systematic to some extent. Like the way a magpie collects bits of glass in a hollow tree.' 'Does it serve some purpose?' 'I wonder. It probably makes it easier to do some things.' 'What kind of things? Give me an example.' 'Metaphysical thought, say. Mastering several languages.' 'What good does that do?' 'It depends on the person who does it. It serves a purpose for some, and not for others. But mainly it's training. Whether it serves a purpose or not is another question. Like I said.' 'Hmm,' said Midori, seemingly impressed. She led me by the hand down the hill. 'You know, Watanabe, you're really good at explaining things to people.' 'I wonder,' I said. 'It's true. I've asked hundreds of people what use the English subjunctive is, and not one of them gave me a good, clear answer like yours. Not even English teachers. They either got confused or angry or laughed it off. Nobody ever gave me a decent answer. If somebody like you had been around when I asked my question, and had given me a proper explanation, 213 even I might have been interested in the subjunctive. Damn!' 'Hmm,' I said. 'Have you ever read Das Kapital?' 'Yeah. Not the whole thing, of course, but parts, like most people.' 'Did you understand it?' 'I understood some bits, not others. You have to acquire the necessary intellectual apparatus to read a book like Das Kapital. I think I understand the general idea of Marxism, though.' 'Do you think a first-year student who hasn't read books like that can understand Das Kapital just by reading it?' 'That's pretty nigh impossible, I'd say.' 'You know, when I went to university I joined a folk-music club. I just wanted to sing songs. But the members were a load of frauds. I get goose-bumps just thinking about them. The first thing they tell you when you enter the club is you have to read Marx. 'Read page so-and-so to such-and-such for next time.' Somebody gave a lecture on how folk songs have to be deeply involved with society and the radical movement. So, what the hell, I went home and tried as hard as I could to read it, but I didn't understand a thing. It was worse than the subjunctive. I gave up after three pages. So I went to the next week's meeting like a good little scout and said I had read it, but I couldn't understand it. From that point on they treated me like an idiot. I had no critical awareness of the class struggle, they said, I was a social cripple. I mean, this was serious. And all because I said I couldn't understand a piece of writing. Don't you think they were terrible?' 'Uh-huh,' I said. 'And their so-called discussions were terrible, too. Everybody would use big words and pretend they knew what was going on. But I would ask questions whenever I didn't understand something. 'What is this imperialist exploitation stuff you're talking about? Is it connected 214 somehow to the East India Company?' 'Does smashing the educational-industrial complex mean we're not supposed to work for a company after we graduate?' And stuff like that. But nobody was willing to explain anything to me. Far from it - they got really angry. Can you believe it?' 'Yeah, I can,' I said. 'One guy yelled at me, 'You stupid bitch, how do you live like that with nothing in your brain?' Well, that did it. I wasn't going to put up with that. OK, so I'm not so smart. I'm working class. But it's the working class that keeps the world running, and it's the working classes that get exploited. What kind of revolution is it that just throws out big words that working-class people can't understand? What kind of crap social revolution is that? I mean, I'd like to make the world a better place, too. If somebody's really being exploited, we've got to put a stop to it. That's what I believe, and that's why I ask questions. Am I right, or what?' 'You're right.' 'So that's when it hit me. These guys are fakes. All they've got on their minds is impressing the new girls with the big words they're so proud of, while sticking their hands up their skirts. And when they graduate, they cut their hair short and march off to work for Mitsubishi or IBM or Fuji Bank. They marry pretty wives who've never read Marx and have kids they give fancy new names to that are enough to make you puke. Smash what educational-industrial complex? Don't make me laugh! And the new members were just as bad. They didn't understand a thing either, but they pretended to and they were laughing at me. After the meeting, they told me, 'Don't be silly! So what if you don't understand? Just agree with everything they say.' Hey, Watanabe, I've got stuff that made me even madder than that. Wanna hear it?' 'Sure, why not?' 'Well, one time they called a late-night political meeting, and they 215 told each girl to make 20 rice balls for midnight snacks. I mean, talk about sex discrimination! I decided to keep quiet for a change, though, and showed up like a good girl with my 20 rice balls, complete with umeboshi inside and nori outside. And what do you think I got for my efforts? Afterwards people complained because my rice balls had only umeboshi inside, and I hadn't brought anything along to go with them! The other girls stuffed theirs with cod roe and salmon, and they included nice, thick slices of fried egg. I got so furious I couldn't talk! Who the hell do these ,revolution'-mongers think they are making a fuss over rice balls? They should be grateful for umeboshi and nori. Think of the children starving in India!' I laughed. 'So then what happened with your club?' 'I left in June, I was so furious,' Midori said. 'Most of these student types are total frauds. They're scared to death somebody's gonna find out they don't know something. They all read the same books and they all spout the same slogans, and they love listening to John Coltrane and seeing Pasolini movies. You call that 'revolution?'' 'Hey, don't ask me, I've never actually seen a revolution.' 'Well, if that's revolution, you can stick it. They'd probably shoot me for putting umeboshi in my rice balls. They'd shoot you, too, for understanding the subjunctive.' 'It could happen.' 'Believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I'm working class. Revolution or not, the working class will just keep on scraping a living in the same old shitholes. And what is a revolution? It sure as hell isn't just changing the name on city hall. But those guys don't know that - those guys with their big words. Tell me, Watanabe, have you ever seen a taxman?' 'Never.' 'Well I have. Lots of times. They come barging in and acting big. 'What's this ledger for?' 'Hey, you keep pretty sloppy records.' 'You call this a business expense?' 'I want to see all your receipts right now.' Meanwhile, we're crouching in the corner, and when suppertime 216 comes we have to treat them to sushi deluxe - home delivered. Let me tell you, though, my father never once cheated on his taxes. That's just how he is, a real old-fashioned straight arrow. But tell that to the taxman. All he can do is dig and dig and dig and dig. 'Income's a little low here, don't you think?' Well, of course the income's low when you're not making any money! I wanted to scream: 'Go do this where they've got some money!' Do you think the taxman's attitude would change if there was a revolution?' 'Highly doubtful, highly doubtful.' 'That does it, then. I'm not going to believe in any damned revolution. Love is all I'm going to believe in.' 'Peace,' I said. 'Peace,' said Midori. 'Hey, where are we going?' I asked. 'The hospital,' she said. 'My father's there. It's my turn to stay with him all day.' 'Your father?! I thought he was in Uruguay!' 'That was a lie,' said Midori in a matter-of-fact tone. 'He's been screaming about going to Uruguay forever, but he could never do that. He can hardly get himself out of Tokyo.' 'How bad is he?' I asked. 'It's just a matter of time,' she said. We walked on in silence. 'I know what I'm talking about. It's the same thing my mother had. A brain tumour. Can you believe it? It's hardly been two years since she died of a brain tumour, and now he's got one.' The University Hospital corridors were noisy and crowded with weekend visitors and patients who had less serious symptoms, and everywhere hung that special hospital smell, a cloud of disinfectant and visitors' bouquets, and urine and mattresses, while nurses surged back and forth with a dry clattering of heels. Midori's father was in a semi-private room in the bed nearest the door. 217 Stretched out, he looked like some tiny creature with a fatal wound. He lay on his side, limp, the drooping left arm inert, jabbed with an intravenous needle. He was a small, skinny man who gave the impression that he would only get smaller and thinner. A white bandage encircled his head, and his pasty white arms were dotted with the holes left by injections or intravenous drips. His half-open eyes stared at a fixed point in space, bloodshot spheres that twitched in our direction when we entered the room. For some ten seconds they stayed focused on us, then drifted back to that fixed point in space. You knew when you saw those eyes he was going to die soon. There was no sign of life in his flesh, just the barest trace of what had once been a life. His body was like a dilapidated old house from which all the fixtures and fittings have been removed, awaiting its final demolition. Around the dry lips clumps of whiskers sprouted like weeds. So, I thought, even after so much of a man's life force has been lost, his beard continues to grow. Midori said hello to a fat man in the bed by the window. He nodded and smiled, apparently unable to talk. He coughed a few times and, after sipping some water from a glass by his pillow, he shifted his weight and rolled on his side, turning to gaze out of the window. Beyond the window could be seen only a pole and some power lines, nothing more, not even a cloud in the sky. 'How are you feeling, Daddy?' said Midori, speaking into her father's ear as if testing a microphone. 'How are you today?' Her father moved his lips. <Not good> he said, not so much speaking the words as forming them from dried air at the back of his throat. <Head> he said. 'You have a headache?' Midori asked. <Yuh > he said, apparently unable to pronounce more than a syllable or two at a time. 'Well, no wonder,' she said, 'you've just had your head cut open. Of course it hurts. Too bad, but try to be brave. This is my friend, 218 Watanabe.' 'Glad to meet you,' I said. Midori's father opened his lips halfway, then closed them again. Midori gestured towards a plastic stool near the foot of the bed and suggested I sit down. I did as I was told. Midori gave her father a drink of water and asked if he'd like a piece of fruit or some jellied fruit dessert. <No> he said, and when Midori insisted that he had to eat something, he said <I ate). A water bottle, a glass, a dish and a small clock stood on a night table near the head of the bed. From a large paper bag under the table, Midori took some fresh pyjamas, underwear, and other things, straightened them out and put them into the locker by the door. There was food for the patient at the bottom of the bag: two grapefruits, fruit jelly and three cucumbers. 'Cucumbers?! What are these doing in here?' Midori asked. 'I can't imagine what my sister was thinking. I told her on the phone exactly what I wanted her to buy, and I'm sure I never mentioned cucumbers! She was supposed to bring kiwi fruit.' 'Maybe she misunderstood you,' I suggested. 'Yeah, maybe, but if she had thought about it she would have realized that cucumbers couldn't be right. I mean, what's a patient supposed to do? Sit in bed chewing on raw cucumbers? Hey, Daddy, want a cucumber?' <No> said Midori's father. Midori sat by the head of the bed, telling her father snippets of news from home. The TV picture had gone fuzzy and she had called the repairman; their aunt from Takaido would visit in a few days; the chemist, Mr Miyawaki, had fallen off his bike: stuff like that. Her father responded with grunts. 'Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?' <No> her father answered. 'How about you, Watanabe? Some grapefruit?' 'No,' I answered. 219 A few minutes later, Midori took me to the TV room and smoked a cigarette on the sofa. Three patients in pyjamas were also smoking there and watching some kind of political discussion programme. 'Hey,' whispered Midori with a twinkle in her eye. 'That old guy with the crutches has been looking at my legs ever since we came in. The one with glasses in the blue pyjamas.' 'What do you expect, wearing a skirt like that?' 'It's nice, though. I bet they're all bored. It probably does them good. Maybe the excitement helps them get better faster.' 'As long as it doesn't have the opposite effect.' Midori stared at the smoke rising from her cigarette. 'You know,' she said, 'my father's not such a bad guy. I get angry with him sometimes because he says terrible things, but deep down he's honest and he really loved my mother. In his own way, he's lived life with all the intensity he could muster. He's a little weak, maybe, and he has absolutely no head for business, and people don't like him very much, but he's a hell of a lot better than the cheats and liars who go round smoothing things over because they're so slick. I'm as bad as he is about not backing down once I've said something, so we fight a lot, but really, he's not a bad guy.' Midori took my hand as if she were picking up something someone had dropped in the street, and placed it on her lap. Half my hand lay on the skirt, the rest touching her thigh. She looked into my eyes for some time. 'Sorry to bring you to a place like this,' she said, 'but would you mind staying with me a little longer?' 'I'll stay with you all day if you want,' I said. 'Until five.' I like spending time with you, and I've got nothing else to do.' 'How do you usually spend your Sundays?' 'Doing my laundry,' I said. 'And ironing.' 'I don't suppose you want to tell me too much about her ... your girlfriend?' 220 'No, I guess not. It's complicated, and I, kind of, don't think I could explain it very well.' 'That's OK. You don't have to explain anything,' said Midori. 'But do you mind if I tell you what I imagine is going on?' 'No, go ahead. I suspect anything you'd imagine would have to be interesting.' 'I think she's a married woman.' 'You do?' 'Yeah, she's thirty-two or -three and she's rich and beautiful and she wears fur coats and Charles Jourdan shoes and silk underwear and she's hungry for sex and she likes to do really yucky things. The two of you meet on weekday afternoons and devour each other's bodies. But her husband's home on Sundays, so she can't see you. Am I right?' 'Very, very interesting.' 'She has you tie her up and blindfold her and lick every square inch of her body. Then she makes you put weird things inside her and she gets into these incredible positions like a contortionist and you take pictures of her with a Polaroid camera.' 'Sounds like fun.' 'She's dying for it all the time, so she does everything she can think of. And she thinks about it every day. She's got nothing but free time, so she's always planning: Hmm, next time Watanabe comes, we'll do this, or we'll do that. You get in bed and she goes crazy, trying all these positions and coming three times in each one. And she says to you, 'Don't I have a sensational body? You can't be satisfied with young girls any more. Young girls won't do this for you, will they? Or this. Feel good? But don't come yet!'' 'You've watched too many porno movies,' I said with a laugh. 'You think so? I was kind of worried about that. But I love porn films. Take me to one next time, OK?' 'Fine,' I said. 'Next time you're free.' 221 'Really? I can hardly wait. Let's go to a real S&M one, with whips and, like, they make the girl pee in front of everyone. That's my favourite.' 'We'll do it.' 'You know what I like best about porn cinemas?' 'I couldn't begin to guess.' 'Whenever a sex scene starts, you can hear this 'Gulp!' sound when everybody swallows all at once,' said Midori. 'I love that 'Gulp!' It's so sweet!' Back in the hospital room, Midori aimed a stream of talk at her father again, and he would either grunt in response or say nothing. Around eleven the wife of the man in the other bed came to change her husband's pyjamas and peel fruit for him and so on. She had a round face and seemed like a nice person, and she and Midori shared a lot of small talk. A nurse showed up with a new intravenous drip and talked a little while with Midori and the wife before she left. I let my eyes wander around the room and out the window to the power lines. Sparrows would turn up every now and then and perch on them. Midori talked to her father and wiped the sweat from his brow and helped him spit phlegm into a tissue and chatted with the neighbouring patient's wife and the nurse and sent an occasional remark my way and checked the intravenous contraption. The doctor did his rounds at 11.30, so Midori and I stepped outside to wait in the corridor. When he came out, Midori asked him how her father was doing. 'Well, he's just come out of surgery, and we've got him on painkillers so, well, he's pretty drained,' said the doctor. 'I'll need another two or three days to evaluate the results of the operation. If it went well, he'll be OK, and if it didn't, we'll have to make some decisions at that point.' 'You're not going to open his head up again, are you?' 222 'I really can't say until the time comes,' said the doctor. 'Wow, that's some short skirt you're wearing!' 'Nice, huh?' 'What do you do on stairways?' the doctor asked. 'Nothing special. I let it all hang out,' said Midori. The nurse chuckled behind the doctor. 'Incredible. You ought to come and let us open your head one of these days to see what's going on in there. Do me a favour and use the lifts while you're in the hospital. I can't afford to have any more patients. I'm way too busy as it is.' Soon after the doctor's rounds it was lunchtime. A nurse was circulating from room to room pushing a trolley loaded with meals. Midori's father was given pottage, fruit, boiled, deboned fish, and vegetables that had been ground into some kind of jelly. Midori turned him on his back and raised him up using the handle at the foot of the bed. She fed him the soup with a spoon. After five or six swallows, he turned his face aside and said (No more>. You've got to eat at least this much.' Midori san <Later> he said. 'You're hopeless - if you don't eat properly, you'll never get your strength back,' she said. 'Don't you have to pee yet?' <No> he said. 'Hey, Watanabe, let's go down to the cafeteria.' I agreed to go, but in fact I didn't much feel like eating. The cafeteria was packed with doctors, nurses and visitors. Long lines of chairs and tables filled the huge, windowless underground cavern where every mouth seemed to be eating or talking - about sickness, no doubt, the voices echoing and re-echoing as in a tunnel. Now and then the PA system would break through the reverberation with calls for a doctor or nurse. While I laid claim to a table, Midori bought two set meals and carried them over on an aluminium tray. Croquettes with cream sauce, potato salad, shredded cabbage, boiled vegetables, rice and miso soup: these were lined up in the tray in the same white plastic dishes they used for patients. I ate about half of mine and left the rest. 223 Midori seemed to enjoy her meal to the last mouthful. 'Not hungry?' she asked, sipping hot tea. 'Not really,' I said. 'It's the hospital,' she said, scanning the cafeteria. 'This always happens when people aren't used to the place. The smells, the sounds, the stale air, patients' faces, stress, irritation, disappointment, pain, fatigue - that's what does it. It grabs you in the stomach and kills your appetite. Once you get used to it, though, it's no problem at all. Plus, you can't really take care of a sick person unless you eat properly. It's true. I know what I'm talking about because I've done it with my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and now my father. You never know when you're going to have to , so its important to eat when you can 'I see what you mean,' I said. 'Relatives come to visit and they eat with me here, and they always leave half their food, just like you. And they always say, 'Oh, Midori, it's wonderful you've got such a healthy appetite. I'm too upset to eat.' But get serious, I'm the one who's actually here taking care of the patient! They just have to drop by and show a little sympathy. I'm the one who wipes up the shit and collects the phlegm and mops the brows. If sympathy was all it took to clean up shit, I'd have 50 times as much sympathy as anybody else! Instead, they see me eating all my food and they give me this look and say, 'Oh Midori, you've got such a healthy appetite.' What do they think I am, a donkey pulling a cart? They're old enough to know how the world really works, so why are they so stupid? It's easy to talk big, but the important thing is whether or not you clean up the shit. I can be hurt, you know. I can get as exhausted as anyone else. I can feel so bad I want to cry, too. I mean, you try watching a gang of doctors get together and cut open somebody's head when there's no hope of saving them, and stirring things up in there, and doing it again and again, and every time they do it it makes the person worse and a little bit crazier, and see how you like it! And on top of it, you see your savings disappear. I don't 224 know if I can keep going to university for another three-and-a-half years, and there's no way my sister can afford a wedding ceremony at this rate.' 'How many days a week do you come here?' I asked. 'Usually four,' said Midori. 'This place claims to offer total nursing care, and the nurses are great, but there's just too much for them to do. Some member of the family has to be around to take up the slack. My sister's watching the shop, and I've got my studies. Still, she manages to get here three days a week, and I come four. And we sneak in every now and then. Believe me, it's a full schedule!' 'How can you spend time with me if you're so busy?' 'I like spending time with you,' said Midori, playing with a plastic cup. 'Get out of here for a couple of hours and go for a walk,' I said. 'I'll take care of your father for a while.' 'Why?' 'You need to get away from the hospital and relax by yourself - not talk to anybody, just clear your mind.' Midori thought about it for a minute and nodded. 'Hmm, you may be right. But do you know what to do? How to take care of him?' 'I've been watching. I've pretty much got it. You check the intravenous thing, give him water, wipe the sweat off, and help him spit phlegm. The bedpan's under the bed, and if he gets hungry I feed him the rest of his lunch. Anything I can't work out I'll ask the nurse.' 'I think that should do it,' said Midori with a smile. 'There's just one thing, though. He's starting to get a little funny in the head, so he says weird things once in a while - things that nobody can understand. Don't let it bother you if he does that.' 'I'll be fine,' I said. Back in the room, Midori told her father she had some business to take care of and that I would be watching him while she was out. He 225 seemed to have nothing to say to this. It might have meant nothing to him. He just lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling. If he hadn't been blinking every once in a while, he could have passed for dead. His eyes were bloodshot as if he had been drinking, and each time he took a deep breath his nostrils flared a little. Other than that, he didn't move a muscle, and made no effort to reply to Midori. I couldn't begin to grasp what he might be thinking or feeling in the murky depths of his consciousness. After Midori left, I thought I might try speaking to her father, but I had no idea what to say to him or how to say it, so I just kept quiet. Before long, he closed his eyes and went to sleep. I sat on the stool by the head of the bed and studied the occasional twitching of his nose, hoping all the while that he wouldn't die now. How strange it would be, I thought, if this man were to breathe his last with me by his side. After all, I had just met him for the first time in my life, and the only thing binding us together was Midori, a girl I happened to know from my History of Drama class. He was not dying, though, just sleeping peacefully. Bringing my ear close to his face, I could hear his faint breathing. I relaxed and chatted to the wife of the man in the next bed. She talked of nothing but Midori, assuming I was her boyfriend. 'She's a really wonderful girl,' she said. 'She takes great care of her father; she's kind and gentle and sensitive and solid, and on top of all that, she's pretty. You'd better treat her right. Don't ever let her go. You won't find another one like her.' 'I'll treat her right,' I said without elaborating. 'I have a son and daughter at home. He's 17, she's 21, and neither of them would ever think of coming to the hospital. The minute school finishes, they're off surfing or dating or whatever. They're terrible. They squeeze me for all the pocket money they can get and then they disappear.' 226 At 1.30 she left the hospital to do some shopping. Both men were sound asleep. Gentle afternoon sunlight flooded the room, and I felt as though I might drift off at any moment perching on my stool. Yellow and white chrysanthemums in a vase on the table by the window reminded people it was autumn. In the air floated the sweet smell of boiled fish left over from lunch. The nurses continued to clip-clop up and down the hall, talking to each other in clear, penetrating voices. They would peep into the room now and then and flash me a smile when they saw that both patients were sleeping. I wished I had something to read, but there were no books or magazines or newspapers in the room, just a calendar on the wall. I thought about Naoko. I thought about her naked, wearing only her hairslide. I thought about the curve of her waist and the dark shadow of her pubic hair. Why had she shown herself to me like that? Had she been sleep-walking? Or was it just a fantasy of mine? As time went by and that little world receded into the distance, I grew increasingly uncertain whether the events of that night had actually happened. If I told myself they were real, I believed they were, and if I told myself they were a fantasy, they seemed like a fantasy. They were too clear and detailed to have been a fantasy, and too whole and beautiful to have been real: Naoko's body and the moonlight. Midori's father woke suddenly and started coughing, which put a stop to my daydreaming. I helped him spit his phlegm into a tissue, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel. 'Would you like some water?' I asked, to which he gave a fourmillimetre nod. I held the small glass water bottle so that he could sip a little bit at a time, dry lips trembling, throat twitching. He drank every bit of the lukewarm water in the bottle. 'Would you like some more?' I asked. He seemed to be trying to speak, so I brought my ear closer. <That's enough> he said in a small, dry voice - a voice even smaller and dryer than before. 227 'Why don't you eat something? You must be hungry.' He answered with a slight nod. As Midori had done, I cranked his bed up and started feeding him alternating spoonfuls of vegetable jelly and boiled fish. It took an incredibly long time to get through half his food, at which point he shook his head a little to signal he had had enough. The movement was almost imperceptible; it apparently hurt him to make larger gestures. 'What about the fruit?' I asked him. <No> he said. I wiped the corners of his mouth with a towel and made the bed level again before taking the dishes to the corridor. 'Was that good?' I asked him. <Awful> he answered. 'Yeah,' I said with a smile. 'It looked pretty bad.' Midori's father could not seem to decide whether to open his eyes further or close them as he lay there silently, staring at me. I wondered if he knew who I was. He seemed more relaxed when alone with me than when Midori was around. He had probably mistaken me for someone else. Or at least that was how I preferred to think of it. 'Beautiful day out there,' I said, perching on the stool and crossing my legs. 'It's autumn, Sunday, great weather, and crowded everywhere you go. Relaxing indoors like this is the best thing you can do on such a nice day. It's exhausting in those crowds. And the air is bad. I mostly do laundry on Sundays - wash the stuff in the morning, hang it out on the roof of my dorm, take it in before the sun goes down, do a good job of ironing it. I don't mind ironing at all. There's a special satisfaction in making wrinkled things smooth. And I'm pretty good at it, too. Of course I was terrible at it at first. I put creases in everything. After a month of practice, though, I knew what I was doing. So Sunday is my day for laundry and ironing. I couldn't do it today, of course. Too bad: wasted a perfect laundry day. 'That's OK, though. I'll wake up early and take care of it tomorrow. Don't worry. I've got nothing else to do on a Sunday. 228 'After I do my laundry tomorrow morning and hang it out to dry, I'll go to my ten o'clock class. It's the one I'm in with Midori: History of Drama. I'm working on Euripides. Are you familiar with Euripides? He was an ancient Greek - one of the 'Big Three' of Greek tragedy along with Aeschylus and Sophocles. He supposedly died when a dog bit him in Macedonia, but not everybody believes this. Anyway, that's Euripides. I like Sophocles better, but I suppose it's a matter of taste. I really can't say which is better. 'What marks his plays is the way things get so mixed up the characters are trapped. Do you see what I mean? Lots of different people appear, and they all have their own situations and reasons and excuses, and each one is pursuing his or her own idea of justice or happiness. As a result, nobody can do anything. Obviously. I mean, it's basically impossible for everybody's justice to prevail or everybody's happiness to triumph, so chaos takes over. And then what do you think happens? Simple - a god appears at the end and starts directing the traffic. 'You go over there, and you come here, and you get together with her, and you just sit still for while.' Like that. He's a kind of fixer, and in the end everything works out perfectly. They call this 'deus ex machina'. There's almost always a deus ex machina in Euripides, and that's where critical opinion divides over him. 'But think about it - what if there were a deus ex machina in real life? Everything would be so easy! If you felt stuck or trapped, some god would swing down from up there and solve all your problems. What could be easier than that? Anyway, that's History of Drama. This is more or less the kind of stuff we study at university.' Midori's father said nothing, but he kept his vacant eyes on me the whole time I was talking. Of course, I couldn't tell from those eyes whether he understood anything I was saying. 'Peace,' I said. After all that talk, I felt starved. I had had next to nothing for breakfast and had eaten only half my lunch. Now I was sorry I hadn't eaten 229 more at lunch, but feeling sorry wasn't going to help. I looked in a cabinet for something to eat, but found only a can of nori, some Vicks cough drops and soy sauce. The paper bag was still there with the cucumbers and grapefruit. 'I'm going to eat some cucumbers if you don't mind,' I said to Midori's father. He didn't answer. I washed three cucumbers in the sink and dribbled a little soy sauce into a dish. Then I wrapped a cucumber in nori, dipped it in soy sauce and gobbled it down. 'Mmm, great!' I said to Midori's father. 'Fresh, simple, smells like life. Really good cucumbers. A far more sensible food than kiwi fruit.' I polished off one cucumber and attacked the next. The sickroom echoed with the sound of me munching cucumbers. Only after I had finished the second whole cucumber was I ready to take a break. I boiled some water on the gas burner in the hall and made tea. 'Would you like something to drink? Water? Juice?' I asked Midori's father. <Cucumber> he said. 'Great,' I said with a smile. 'With nori?' He gave a little nod. I cranked the bed up again. Then I cut a bitesized piece of cucumber, wrapped it with a strip of nori, stabbed the combination with a toothpick, dipped it in soy sauce, and delivered it to the patient's waiting mouth. With almost no change of expression, Midori's father crunched down on the piece again and again and finally swallowed it. 'How was that? Good, huh?' <Good> he said. 'It's good when food tastes good,' I said. 'It's kind of like proof you're alive.' He ended up eating the entire cucumber. When he had finished it, he wanted water, so I gave him a drink from the bottle. A few minutes later, he said he needed to pee, so I took the urine jar from under the 230 bed and held it by the tip of his penis. Afterwards I emptied the jar into the toilet and washed it out. Then I went back to the sickroom and finished my tea. 'How are you feeling?' I asked. <My. ... head> he said. 'Hurts?' <A little> he said with a slight frown. 'Well, no wonder, you've just had an operation. Of course, I've never had one, so I don't know what it's like.' <Ticket> he said. 'Ticket? What ticket?' <Midori> he said. <Ticket>. I had no idea what he was talking about, and just kept quiet. He stayed silent for a time, too. Then he seemed to say <Please>. He opened his eyes wide and looked at me hard. I guessed that he was trying to tell me something, but I couldn't begin to imagine what it was. <Ueno> he said. <Midori>. 'Ueno Station?' He gave a little nod. I tried to summarize what he was getting at: 'Ticket, Midori, please, Ueno Station,' but I had no idea what it meant. I assumed his mind was muddled, but compared with before his eyes now had a terrible clarity. He raised the arm that was free of the intravenous contraption and stretched it towards me. This must have been a major effort for him, the way the hand trembled in mid-air. I stood and grasped his frail, wrinkled hand. He returned my grasp with what little strength he could muster and said again <Please>. 'Don't worry,' I said. 'I'll take care of the ticket and Midori, too.' He let his hand drop back to the bed and closed his eyes. Then, with a loud rush of breath, he fell asleep. I checked to make sure he was still alive, then went out to boil more water for tea. As I was sipping the hot liquid, I realized that I had developed a kind of liking for this little man on the verge of death. 231 The wife of the other patient came back a few minutes later and asked if everything was OK. I assured her it was. Her husband, too, was sound asleep, breathing deeply. Midori came back after three. 'I was in the park, spacing out,' she said. 'I did what you told me, didn't talk to anybody, just let my head go empty.' 'How was it?' 'Thanks, I feel much better. I still have that draggy, tired feeling, but my body feels much lighter than before. I guess I was more tired than I realized.' With her father sound asleep, there was nothing for us to do, so we bought coffee from a vending machine and drank it in the TV room. I reported to Midori on what had happened in her absence - that her father had had a good sleep, then woke up and ate some of what was left of his lunch, then saw me eating a cucumber and asked for one himself, ate the whole thing and peed. 'Watanabe, you're amazing,' said Midori. 'We're all going crazy trying to get him to eat anything, and you got him to eat a whole cucumber! Incredible!' 'I don't know, I think he just saw me enjoying my own cucumber.' 'Or maybe you just have this knack for relaxing people.' 'No way,' I said with a laugh. 'A lot of people will tell you just the opposite about me.' 'What do you think about my father?' 'I like him. Not that we had all that much to say to each other. But, I don't know, he seems nice.' 'Was he quiet?' 'Very.' 'You should have seen him a week ago. He was awful,' Midori said, shaking her head. 'Kind of lost his marbles and went wild. Threw a glass at me and yelled terrible stuff - 'I hope you die, you stupid bitch!' This sickness can do that to people. They don't know why, but it can 232 make people get really vicious all of a sudden. It was the same with my mother. What do you think she said to me? 'You're not my daughter! I hate your guts!' The whole world turned black for me for a second when she said that. But that kind of thing is one of the features of this particular sickness. Something presses on a part of the brain and makes people say all kinds of nasty things. You know it's just part of the sickness, but still, it hurts. What do you expect? Here I am, working my fingers to the bone for them, and they're saying all this terrible stuff to me-' 'I know what you mean,' I said. Then I remembered the strange fragments that Midori's father had mumbled to me. 'Ticket? Ueno Station?' Midori said. 'I wonder what that's all about?' 'And then he said, Please, and Midori.', 'Please take care of Midori?'' 'Or maybe he wants you to go to Ueno and buy a ticket. The order of the four words is such a mess, who knows what he means? Does Ueno Station mean anything special to you?' 'Hmm, Ueno Station.' Midori thought about it for a while. 'The only thing I can think of is the two times I ran away, when I was eight and when I was ten. Both times I took a train from Ueno to Fukushima. Bought the tickets with money I took from the till. Somebody at home made me really angry, and I did it to get even. I had an aunt in Fukushima, I kind of liked her, so I went to her house. My father was the one who brought me home. Came all the way to Fukushima to get me - a hundred miles! We ate boxed lunches on the train to Ueno. My father told me all kinds of stuff while we were travelling, just little bits and pieces with long spaces in between. Like about the big earthquake of 1923 or about the war or about the time I was born, stuff he didn't usually talk about. Come to think of it, those were the only times my father and I had something like a good, long talk, just the two of us. Hey, can you believe this? - my father was smack bang in the middle of Tokyo during one of the biggest earthquakes in history and he 233 didn't even notice it!' 'No way!' 'It's true! He was riding through Koishikawa with a cart on the back of his bike, and he didn't feel a thing. When he got home, all the tiles had fallen off the roofs in the neighbourhood, and everyone in the family was hugging pillars and quaking in their boots. He still didn't get it and, the way he tells it, he asked, 'What the hell's going on here?' That's my father's 'fond recollection' of the Great Kanto Earthquake!' Midori laughed. 'All his stories of the old days are like that. No drama whatsoever. They're all just a little bit off-centre. I don't know, when he tells those stories, you kind of get the feeling like nothing important has happened in Japan for the past 50 or 60 years. The young officers' uprising of 1936, the Pacific War, they're all kind of 'Oh yeah, now that you mention it, I guess something like that once happened' kind of things. It's so funny! 'So, anyway, on the train, he'd tell me these stories in bits and pieces while we were riding from Fukushima to Ueno. And at the end, he'd always say, 'So that goes to show you, Midori, it's the same wherever you go.' I was young enough to be impressed by stuff like that.' 'So is that your 'fond recollection' of Ueno Station?' I asked. 'Yeah,' said Midori. 'Did you ever run away from home, Watanabe?' 'Never.' 'Why not?' 'Lack of imagination. It never occurred to me to run away.' 'You are so weird!' Midori said, cocking her head as though truly impressed. 'I wonder,' I said. 'Well, anyway, I think my father was trying to say he wanted you to look after me.' 'Really?' 'Really! I understand things like that. Intuitively. So tell me, what was your answer to him?' 'Well, I didn't understand what he was saying, so I just said OK, don't 234 worry, I'd take care of both you and the ticket.' 'You promised my father that? You said you'd take care of me?' She looked me straight in the eye with a dead-serious expression on her face. 'Not like that,' I hastened to correct her. 'I really didn't know what he was saying, and - ' 'Don't worry, I'm just kidding,' she said with a smile. 'I love that about you.' Midori and I finished our coffee and went back to the room. Her father was still sound asleep. If you leaned close you could hear his steady breathing. As the afternoon deepened, the light outside the hospital window changed to the soft, gentle colour of autumn. A flock of birds rested on the electric wire outside, then flew on. Midori and I sat in a corner of the room, talking quietly the whole time. She read my palm and predicted that I would live to 105, marry three times, and die in a traffic accident. 'Not a bad life,' I said. When her father woke just after four o'clock, Midori went to sit by his pillow, wiped the sweat from his brow, gave him water, and asked him about the pain in his head. A nurse came and took his temperature, recorded the number of his urinations, and checked the intravenous equipment. I went to the TV room and watched a little football. At five I told Midori I would be leaving. To her father I explained, 'I have to go to work now. I sell records in Shinjuku from six to 10.30.' He turned his eyes to me and gave a little nod. 'Hey, Watanabe, I don't know how to put this, but I really want to thank you for today,' Midori said to me when she saw me to reception. 'I didn't do that much,' I said. 'But if I can be of any help, I'll come next week, too. I'd like to see your father again.' 'Really?' 'Well, there's not that much for me to do in the dorm, and if I come 235 here I get to eat cucumbers.' Midori folded her arms and tapped the linoleum with the heel of her shoe. 'I'd like to go drinking with you again,' she said, cocking her head slightly. 'How about the porno movies?' 'We'll do that first and then go drinking. And we'll talk about all the usual disgusting things.' 'I'm not the one who talks about disgusting things,' I protested. 'It's you.' 'Anyway, we'll talk about things like that and get plastered and go to bed.' 'And you know what happens next,' I said with a sigh. 'I try to do it, and you don't let me. Right?' She laughed through her nose. 'Anyway,' I said, 'pick me up again next Sunday morning. We'll come here together.' 'With me in a little longer skirt?' 'Definitely,' I said. I didn't go to the hospital that next Sunday, though. Midori's father died on Friday morning. She called at 6.30 in the morning to tell me that. The buzzer letting me know I had a phone call went off and I ran down to the lobby with a cardigan thrown over my pyjamas. A cold rain was falling silently. 'My father died a few minutes ago,' Midori said in a small, quiet voice. I asked her if there was anything I could do. 'Thanks,' she said. 'There's really nothing. We're used to funerals. I just wanted to let you know.' A kind of sigh escaped her lips. 'Don't come to the funeral, OK? I hate stuff like that. I don't want to see you there.' 'I get it,' I said. 236 'Will you really take me to a porno movie?' 'Of course I will.' 'A really disgusting one.' 'I'll research the matter thoroughly.' 'Good. I'll call you,' she said and hung up. A week went by without a word from Midori. No calls, no sign of her in the lecture hall. I kept hoping for a message from her whenever I went back to the dorm, but there were never any. One night, I tried to keep my promise by thinking of her when I masturbated, but it didn't work. I tried switching over to Naoko, but not even Naoko's image was any help that time. It seemed so ridiculous I gave up. I took a swig of whisky, brushed my teeth and went to bed. I wrote a letter to Naoko on Sunday morning. One thing I told her about was Midori's father. I went to the hospital to visit the father of a girl in one of my lectures and ate some cucumbers in his room. When he heard me crunching on them, he wanted some too, and he ate his with the same crunching sound. Five days later, though, he died. I still have a vivid memory of the tiny crunching he made when he chewed his pieces of cucumber. People leave strange, little memories of themselves behind when they die. My letter went on: I think of you and Reiko and the aviary while I lie in bed after waking up in the morning. I think about the peacock and pigeons and parrots and turkeys - and about the rabbits. I remember the yellow raincapes you and Reiko wore with the hoods up that rainy morning. It feels good to think about you when I’m warm in bed. I feel as if you're curled up there beside me, fast asleep. And I think how great it would be if it were true. I miss you terribly sometimes, but in general I go on living with all the energy I can muster. Just as you take care of the birds and the fields every morning, every morning I wind my own spring. I give it some 237 36 good twists by the time I've got up, brushed my teeth, shaved, eaten breakfast, changed my clothes, left the dorm, and arrived at the university. I tell myself, 'OK, let's make this day another good one.' I hadn't noticed before, but they tell me I talk to myself a lot these days. Probably mumbling to myself while I wind my spring. It's hard not being able to see you, but my life in Tokyo would be a lot worse if it weren't for you. It's because I think of you when I'm in bed in the morning that I can wind my spring and tell myself I have to live another good day. I know I have to give it my best here just as you are doing there. Today's Sunday, though, a day I don't wind my spring. I've done my laundry, and now I'm in my room, writing to you. Once I've finished this letter and put a stamp on it and dropped it into the postbox, there's nothing for me to do until the sun goes down. I don't study on Sundays, either. I do a good enough job on weekdays studying in the library between lectures, so I don't have anything left to do on Sundays. Sunday afternoons are quiet, peaceful and, for me, lonely. I read books or listen to music. Sometimes I think back on the different routes we used to take in our Sunday walks around Tokyo. I can come up with a pretty clear picture of the clothes you were wearing on any particular walk. I remember all kinds of things on Sunday afternoons. Say 'Hi' from me to Reiko. I really miss her guitar at night. When I had finished the letter, I walked a couple of blocks to a postbox, then bought an egg sandwich and a Coke at a nearby bakery. I had these for lunch while I sat on a bench and watched some boys playing baseball in a local playground. The deepening of autumn had brought an increased blueness and depth to the sky. I glanced up to find two vapour trails heading off to the west in perfect parallel like tram tracks. A foul ball came rolling my way, and when I threw it back to them the young players doffed their caps with a polite 'Thank you, sir'. As in most junior baseball, there were lots of walks and 238 stolen bases. After noon I went back to my room to read but couldn't concentrate. Instead I found myself staring at the ceiling and thinking about Midori. I wondered if her father had really been trying to ask me to look after her when he was gone, but I had no way of telling what had been on his mind. He had probably confused me with somebody else. In any case, he had died on a Friday morning when a cold rain was falling, and now it was impossible to know the truth. I imagined that, in death, he had shrivelled up smaller than ever. And then they had burned him in an oven until he was nothing but ashes. And what had he left behind? A nothing-much bookshop in a nothing-much neighbourhood and two daughters, at least one of whom was more than a little strange. What kind of life was that? I wondered. Lying in that hospital bed with his cut-open head and his muddled brain, what had been on his mind as he looked at me? Thinking thoughts like this about Midori's father put me into such a miserable mood that I had to bring the laundry down from the roof before it was really dry and set off for Shinjuku to kill time walking the streets. The Sunday crowds gave me some relief. The Kinokuniya bookshop was as jampacked as a rush-hour train. I bought a copy of Faulkner's Light in August and went to the noisiest jazz café I could think of, reading my new book while listening to Ornette Coleman and Bud Powell and drinking hot, thick, foul-tasting coffee. At 5.30 I closed my book, went outside and ate a light supper. How many Sundays - how many hundreds of Sundays like this - lay ahead of me? 'Quiet, peaceful, and lonely,' I said aloud to myself. On Sundays, I didn't wind my spring. 239 Halfway through that week I managed to cut my palm open on a piece of broken glass. I hadn't noticed that one of the glass partitions in a record shelf was cracked. I could hardly believe how much blood gushed out of me, turning the floor bright red at my feet. The shop manager found some towels and tied them tightly around the wound. Then he made a phone call to casualty. He was a pretty useless guy most of the time, but he acted with surprising efficiency. The hospital was nearby, fortunately, but by the time I got there the towels were soaked in red, and the blood they couldn't soak up had been dripping on the tarmac. People scurried out of the way for me. They seemed to think I had been injured in a fight. I felt no pain to speak of, but the blood wouldn't stop. The doctor was cool as he removed the blood-soaked towels, stopped the bleeding with a tourniquet on my wrist, disinfected the wound and sewed it up, telling me to come again the next day. Back at the record shop, the manager told me to go home: he would put me down as having worked my shift. I took a bus to the dorm and went straight to Nagasawa's room. With my nerves on edge over the cut, I wanted to talk to somebody, and I hadn't seen Nagasawa for a long time. I found him in his room, drinking a can of beer and watching a Spanish lesson on TV. 'What the hell happened to you?' he asked when he saw my bandage. I said I had cut myself but that it was nothing much. He offered me a beer and I said no thanks. 'Just wait. This'll be over in a minute,' said Nagasawa, and he went on practising his Spanish pronunciation. I boiled some water and 240 made myself a cup of tea with a tea bag. A Spanish woman recited example sentences: 'I have never seen such terrible rain!', 'Many bridges were washed away in Barcelona.' Nagasawa read the text aloud in Spanish. 'What awful sentences!' he said. 'This kind of shit is all they ever give you.' When the programme ended, he turned off the TV and took another beer from his small refrigerator. 'Are you sure I'm not in the way?' I asked. 'No way. I was bored out of my mind. Sure you don't want a beer?' 'No, I really don't,' I said. 'Oh, yeah, they posted the exam results the other day. I passed!' 'The Foreign Ministry exam?' 'That's it. Officially, it's called the 'Foreign Affairs Public Service Personnel First Class Service Examination'. What a joke!' 'Congratulations!' I said and gave him my left hand to shake. 'Thanks.' 'Of course, I'm not surprised you passed.' 'No, neither am I,' laughed Nagasawa. 'But it's nice to have it official.' 'Think you'll go abroad once you get in?' 'Nah, first they give you a year of training. Then they send you overseas for a while.' I sipped my tea, and he drank his beer with obvious satisfaction. 'I'll give you this fridge if you'd like it when I get out of here,' said Nagasawa. 'You'd like to have it, wouldn't you? It's great for beer.' 'Yeah, I'd like to have it, but won't you need it? You'll be living in a flat or something.' 'Don't be stupid! When I get out of this place, I'm buying myself a big fridge. I'm gonna live the high life! Four years in a shithole like this is long enough. I don't want to have to look at anything I used in this place. You name it, I'll give it to you - the TV, the thermos flask, the radio. ..' 241 'I'll take anything you want to give me,' I said. I picked up the Spanish textbook on his desk and stared at it. 'You're starting Spanish?' 'Yeah. The more languages you know the better. And I've got a knack for them. I taught myself French and it's practically perfect. Languages are like games. You learn the rules for one, and they all work the same way. Like women.' 'Ah, the reflective life!' I said with a sarcastic edge. 'Anyway, let's eat out soon.' 'You mean cruising for women?' 'No, a real dinner. You, me and Hatsumi at a good restaurant. To celebrate my new job. My old man's paying, so we'll go somewhere really expensive.' 'Shouldn't it just be you and Hatsumi?' 'No, it'd be better with you there. I'd be more comfortable, and so would Hatsumi.' Oh no, it was Kizuki, Naoko and me all over again. 'I'll spend the night at Hatsumi's afterwards, so join us just for the meal.' 'OK, if you both really want me to,' I said. 'But, anyway, what are you planning to do about Hatsumi? You'll be assigned overseas when you finish your training, and you probably won't come back for years. What's going to happen to her?' 'That's her problem.' 'I don't get it,' I said. Feet on his desk, Nagasawa took a swig of beer and yawned. 'Look, I'm not planning to get married. I've made that perfectly clear to Hatsumi. If she wants to marry someone, she should go ahead and do it. I won't stop her. If she wants to wait for me, let her wait. That's what I mean.' 'I have to hand it to you,' I said. 'You think I'm a shit, don't you?' 242 'I do.' 'Look, the world is an inherently unfair place. I didn't write the rules. It's always been that way. I have never once deceived Hatsumi. She knows I'm a shit and that she can leave me whenever she decides she can't take it. I told her that straight from the start.' Nagasawa finished his beer and lit a cigarette. 'Isn't there anything about life that frightens you?' I asked. 'Hey, I'm not a total idiot,' said Nagasawa. 'Of course life frightens me sometimes. I don't happen to take that as the premise for everything else, though. I'm going to give it 100 per cent and go as far as I can. I'll take what I want and leave what I don't want. That's how I intend to live my life, and if things go bad, I'll stop and reconsider at that point. If you think about it, an unfair society is a society that makes it possible for you to exploit your abilities to the limit.' 'Sounds like a pretty self-centred way to live,' I said. 'Perhaps, but I'm not just looking up at the sky and waiting for the fruit to drop. In my own way, I'm working hard. I'm working ten times harder than you are.' 'That's probably true,' I said. 'I look around me sometimes and I get sick to my stomach. Why the hell don't these bastards do something? I wonder. They don't do a fucking thing, and then they moan about it.' Amazed at the harshness of his tone, I looked at Nagasawa. 'The way I see it, people are working hard. They're working their fingers to the bone. Or am I looking at things wrong?' 'That's not hard work. It's just manual labour,' Nagasawa said with finality. 'The 'hard work' I'm talking about is more self-directed and purposeful.' 'You mean, like studying Spanish while everyone else is taking it easy?' 'That's it. I'm going to have Spanish mastered by next spring. I've got English and German and French down pat, and I'm almost there with 243 Italian. You think things like that happen without hard work?' Nagasawa puffed on his cigarette while I thought about Midori's father. There was one man who had probably never even thought about starting Spanish lessons on TV He had probably never thought about the difference between hard work and manual labour, either. He was probably too busy to think about such things - busy with work, and busy bringing home a daughter who had run away to Fukushima. 'So, about that dinner of ours,' said Nagasawa. 'Would this Saturday be OK for you?' 'Fine,' I said. Nagasawa picked a fancy French restaurant in a quiet backstreet of Azabu. He gave his name at the door and the two of us were shown to a secluded private room. Some 15 prints hung on the walls of the small chamber. While we waited for Hatsumi to arrive, Nagasawa and I sipped a delicious wine and chatted about the novels of Joseph Conrad. He wore an expensive-looking grey suit. I had on an ordinary blue blazer. Hatsumi arrived 15 minutes later. She was carefully made up and wore gold earrings, a beautiful deep blue dress, and tasteful red court shoes. When I complimented her on the colour of her dress, she told me it was called midnight blue. 'What an elegant restaurant!' she said. 'My old man always eats here when he comes to Tokyo,' said Nagasawa. 'I came here with him once. I'm not crazy about these snooty places.' 'It doesn't hurt to eat in a place like this once in a while,' said Hatsumi. Turning to me, she asked, 'Don't you agree?' 'I guess so. As long as I'm not paying.' 'My old man usually brings his mistress here,' said Nagasawa. 'He's got one in Tokyo, you know.' 'Really?' asked Hatsumi. I took a sip of wine, as if I had heard nothing. 244 Eventually a waiter came and took our orders. After choosing hors d'oeuvres and soup, Nagasawa ordered duck, and Hatsumi and I ordered sea bass. The food arrived at a leisurely pace, which allowed us to enjoy the wine and conversation. Nagasawa spoke first of the Foreign Ministry exam. Most of the examinees were scum who might just as well be thrown into a bottomless pit, he said, though he supposed there were a few decent ones in the bunch. I asked if he thought the ratio of good ones to scum was higher or lower than in society at large. 'It's the same,' he said. 'Of course.' It was the same everywhere, he added: an immutable law. Nagasawa ordered a second bottle of wine and a double Scotch for himself. Hatsumi then began talking about a girl she wanted to fix me up with. This was a perpetual topic between us. She was always telling me about some 'cute girl in my club', and I was always running away. 'She's really nice, though, and really cute. I'll bring her along next time. You ought to talk to her. I'm sure you'll like her.' 'It's a waste of time, Hatsumi,' I said. 'I'm too poor to go out with girls from your university. I can't talk to them.' 'Don't be silly,' she said. 'This girl is simple and natural and unaffected.' 'Come on, Watanabe,' said Nagasawa. 'Just meet her. You don't have to screw her.' 'I should say not!' said Hatsumi. 'She's a virgin.' 'Like you used to be,' said Nagasawa. 'Exactly,' said Hatsumi with a bright smile. 'Like I used to be. But really,' she said to me, 'don't give me that stuff about being 'too poor'. It's got nothing to do with it. Sure, there are a few super-stuckup girls in every year, but the rest of us are just ordinary. We all eat lunch in the school cafeteria for ? 250 - ' 'Now wait just a minute, Hatsumi,' I said, interrupting her. 'In my 245 school the cafeteria has three lunches: A, B, and C. The A Lunch is ? 120, the B Lunch is ? 100, and the C Lunch is ? 80. Everybody gives me dirty looks when I eat the A Lunch, and anyone who can't afford the C Lunch eats ramen noodles for ? 60. That's the kind of place I go to. You still think I can talk to girls from yours?' Hatsumi could barely stop laughing. 'That's so cheap!' she said. 'Maybe I should go there for lunch! But really, Toru, you're such a nice guy, I'm sure you'd get along with this girl. She might even like the ? 120 lunch.' 'No way,' I said with a laugh. 'Nobody eats that stuff because they like it; they eat it because they can't afford anything else.' 'Anyway, don't judge a book by its cover. It's true we go to this hoitytoity establishment, but lots of us there are serious people who think serious thoughts about life. Not everybody is looking for a boyfriend with a sports car.' 'I know that much,' I said. 'Watanabe's got a girl. He's in love,' said Nagasawa. 'But he won't say a word about her. He's as tight-lipped as they come. A riddle wrapped in an enigma.' 'Really?' Hatsumi asked me. 'Really,' I said. 'But there's no riddle involved here. It's just that it's complicated, and hard to talk about.' 'An illicit love? Ooh! You can talk to me!' I took a sip of wine to avoid answering. 'See what I mean?' said Nagasawa, at work on his third whisky. 'Tight-lipped. When this guy decides he's not going to talk about something, nobody can drag it out of him.' 'What a shame,' said Hatsumi as she cut a small slice of terrine and brought it to her lips. 'If you'd got on with her, we could have double-dated.' 'Yeah, we could've got drunk and done a little swapping,' said Nagasawa. 'Enough of that kind of talk,' said Hatsumi. 246 'What do you mean 'that kind of talk'? Watanabe's got his eye on you,' said Nagasawa. 'That has nothing to do with what I'm talking about,' Hatsumi murmured. 'He's not that kind of person. He's sincere and caring. I can tell. That's why I've been trying to fix him up.' 'Oh, sure, he's sincere. Like the time we swapped women once, way back when. Remember, Watanabe?' Nagasawa said this with a blasé look on his face, then slugged back the rest of his whisky and ordered another. Hatsumi set her knife and fork down and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. Then, looking at me, she asked, 'Toru, did you really do that?' I didn't know how to answer her, and so I said nothing. 'Tell her,' said Nagasawa. 'What the hell.' The mood was turning sour. Nagasawa could get nasty when he was drunk, but tonight his nastiness was aimed at Hatsumi, not at me. Knowing that made it all the more difficult for me to go on sitting there. 'I'd like to hear about that,' said Hatsumi. 'It sounds very interesting!' 'We were drunk,' I said. 'That's all right, Toru. I'm not blaming you. I just want you to tell me what happened.' 'The two of us were drinking in a bar in Shibuya, and we got friendly with this pair of girls. They went to some college, and they were pretty plastered, too. So, anyway, we, uh, went to a hotel and slept with them. Our rooms were right next door to each other. In the middle of the night, Nagasawa knocked on my door and said we should change girls, so I went to his room and he came to mine.' 'Didn't the girls mind?' 'No, they were drunk too.' 'Anyway, I had a good reason for doing it,' said Nagasawa. 'A good reason?' 'Well, the girls were too different. One was really goodlooking, but 247 the other one was a dog. It seemed unfair to me. I got the pretty girl, but Watanabe got stuck with the other one. That's why we swapped. Right, Watanabe?' 'Yeah, I s'pose so,' I said. But in fact, I had liked the not-pretty one. She was fun to talk to and a nice person. After we had sex, we were enjoying talking to each other in bed when Nagasawa showed up and suggested we change partners. I asked the girl if she minded, and she said it was OK with her if that's what we wanted. She probably thought I wanted to do it with the pretty one. 'Was it fun?' Hatsumi asked me. 'Swapping, you mean?' 'The whole thing.' 'Not especially. It's just something you do. Sleeping with girls that way is not all that much fun.' 'So why do you do it?' 'Because of me,' said Nagasawa. 'I'm asking Toru,' Hatsumi shot back at Nagasawa. 'Why do you do something like that?' 'Because sometimes I have this tremendous desire to sleep with a girl.' 'If you're in love with someone, can't you manage one way or another with her?' Hatsumi asked after a few moments' thought. 'It's complicated.' Hatsumi sighed. At that point the door opened and the food was carried in. Nagasawa was presented with his roast duck, and Hatsumi and I received our sea bass. The waiters heaped freshcooked vegetables on our plates and dribbled sauce on them before withdrawing and leaving the three of us alone again. Nagasawa cut a slice of duck and ate it with gusto, followed by more whisky. I took a forkful of spinach. Hatsumi didn't touch her food. 248 'You know, Toru,' she said, 'I have no idea what makes your situation so 'complicated', but I do think that the kind of thing you just told me about is not right for you. You're not that kind of person. What do you think?' She placed her hands on the table and looked me in the eye. 'Well,' I said, 'I've felt that way myself sometimes.' 'So why don't you stop?' 'Because sometimes I have a need for human warmth,' I answered honestly. 'Sometimes, if I can't feel something like the warmth of a woman's skin, I get so lonely I can't stand it.' 'Here, let me summarize what I think it's all about,' interjected Nagasawa. 'Watanabe's got this girl he likes, but for certain complicated reasons, they can't do it. So he tells himself 'Sex is just sex', and he takes care of his need with somebody else. What's wrong with that? It makes perfect sense. He can't just stay locked in his room tossing off all the time, can he?' 'But if you really love her, Toru, shouldn't it be possible for you to control yourself?' 'Maybe so,' I said, bringing a piece of sea bass in cream sauce to my mouth. 'You just don't understand a man's sexual needs,' said Nagasawa to Hatsumi. 'Look at me, for example. I've been with you for three years, and I've slept with plenty of women in that time. But I don't remember a thing about them. I don't know their names, I don't remember their faces. I slept with each of them exactly once. Meet 'em, do it, so long. That's it. What's wrong with that?' 'What I can't stand is that arrogance of yours,' said Hatsumi in a soft voice. 'Whether you sleep with other women or not is beside the point. I've never really been angry with you for sleeping around, have I?' 'You can't even call what I do sleeping around. It's just a game. 249 Nobody gets hurt,' said Nagasawa. 'I get hurt,' said Hatsumi. 'Why am I not enough for you?' Nagasawa kept silent for a moment and swirled the whisky in his glass. 'It's not that you're not enough for me. That's another phase, another question. It's just a hunger I have inside me. If I've hurt you, I'm sorry. But it's not a question of whether or not you're enough for me. I can only live with that hunger. That's the kind of man I am. That's what makes me me. There's nothing I can do about it, don't you see?' At last Hatsumi picked up her silverware and started eating her fish. 'At least you shouldn't drag Toru into your 'games'.' 'We're a lot alike, though, Watanabe and me,' said Nagasawa. 'Neither of us is interested, essentially, in anything but ourselves. OK, so I'm arrogant and he's not, but neither of us is able to feel any interest in anything other than what we ourselves think or feel or do. That's why we can think about things in a way that's totally divorced from anybody else. That's what I like about him. The only difference is that he hasn't realized this about himself, and so he hesitates and feels hurt.' 'What human being doesn't hesitate and feel hurt?' Hatsumi demanded. 'Are you trying to say that you have never felt those things?' 'Of course I have, but I've disciplined myself to where I can minimize them. Even a rat will choose the least painful route if you shock him enough.' 'But rats don't fall in love.' ''Rats don't fall in love'.' Nagasawa looked at me. 'That's great. We should have background music for this - a full orchestra with two harps and - ' 'Don't make fun of me. I'm serious.' -We're eating,' said Nagasawa. 'And Watanabe's here. It ,night be more civil for us to confine 'serious' talk to another occasion.' 250 'I can leave,' I said. 'No,' said Hatsumi. 'Please stay. It's better with you here.' 'At least have dessert,' said Nagasawa. 'I don't mind, really.' The three of us went on eating in silence for a time. I finished my fish. Hatsumi left half of hers. Nagasawa had polished off his duck long before and was now concentrating on his whisky. 'That was excellent sea bass,' I offered, but no one took me up on it. I might as well have thrown a rock down a deep well. The waiters took away our plates and brought lemon sherbet and espresso. Nagasawa barely touched his dessert and coffee, moving directly to a cigarette. Hatsumi ignored her sherbet. 'Oh boy,' I thought to myself as I finished my sherbet and coffee. Hatsumi stared at her hands on the table. Like everything she wore, her hands looked chic and elegant and expensive. I thought about Naoko and Reiko. What would they be doing now? I wondered. Naoko could be lying on the sofa reading a book, and Reiko might be playing 'Norwegian Wood' on her guitar. I felt an intense desire to go back to that little room of theirs. What the hell was I doing in this place? 'Where Watanabe and I are alike is, we don't give a shit if nobody understands us,' Nagasawa said. 'That's what makes us different from everybody else. They're all worried about whether the people around them understand them. But not me, and not Watanabe. We just don't give a shit. Self and others are separate.' 'Is this true?' Hatsumi asked me. 'No,' I said. 'I'm not that strong. I don't feel it's OK if nobody understands me. I've got people I want to understand and be understood by. But aside from those few, well, I feel it's kind of hopeless. I don't agree with Nagasawa. I do care if people understand me.' 'That's practically the same thing as what I'm saying,' said Nagasawa, picking up his coffee spoon. 'It is the same! It's the difference 251 between a late breakfast or an early lunch. Same time, same food, different name.' Now Hatsumi spoke to Nagasawa. 'Don't you care whether I understand you or not?' 'You don't get it, do you? Person A understands Person B because the time is right for that to happen, not because Person B wants to be understood by Person A.' 'So is it a mistake for me to feel that I want to be understood by someone - by you, for example?' 'No, it's not a mistake,' answered Nagasawa. 'Most people would call that love, if you think you want to understand me. My system for living is way different from other people's systems for living.' 'So what you're saying is you're not in love with me, is that it?' 'Well, my system and your - ' 'To hell with your fucking system!' Hatsumi shouted. That was the first and last time I ever heard her shout. Nagasawa pushed the button by the table, and the waiter came in with the bill. Nagasawa handed him a credit card. 'Sorry about this, Watanabe,' said Nagasawa. 'I'm going to see Hatsumi home. You go back to the dorm alone, OK?' 'You don't have to apologize to me. Great meal,' I said, but no one said anything in response. The waiter brought the card, and Nagasawa signed with a ballpoint pen after checking the amount. Then the three of us stood and went outside. Nagasawa started to step into the street to hail a taxi, but Hatsumi stopped him. 'Thanks, but I don't want to spend any more time with you today. You don't have to see me home. Thank you for dinner.' ,,Whatever,' said Nagasawa. 'I want Toru to see me home.' 'Whatever,' said Nagasawa. 'But Watanabe's practically the same as me. He may be a nice guy, but deep down in his heart he's incapable 252 of loving anybody. There's always some part of him somewhere that's wide awake and detached. He just has that hunger that won't go away. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.' I flagged down a taxi and let Hatsumi in first. 'Anyway,' I said to Nagasawa, 'I'll make sure she gets home.' 'Sorry to put you through this,' said Nagasawa, but I could see that he was already thinking about something else. Once inside the cab, I asked Hatsumi, 'Where do you want to go? Back to Ebisu?' Her flat was in Ebisu. She shook her head. 'OK. How about a drink somewhere?' 'Yes,' she said with a nod. 'Shibuya,' I told the driver. Folding her arms and closing her eyes, Hatsumi sank back into the corner of the seat. Her small gold earrings caught the light as the taxi swayed. Her midnight-blue dress seemed to have been made to match the darkness of the interior. Every now and then her lightly made-up, beautifully formed lips would quiver slightly as though she had caught herself on the verge of talking to herself. Watching her, I could see why Nagasawa had chosen her as his special companion. There were any number of women more beautiful than Hatsumi, and Nagasawa could have made any of them his. But Hatsumi had some quality that could send a tremor through your heart. It was nothing forceful. The power she exerted was a subtle thing, but it called forth deep resonances. I watched her all the way to Shibuya, and wondered, without ever finding an answer, what this emotional reverberation could be that I was feeling. It finally hit me some dozen or so years later. I had gone to Santa Fe to interview a painter and was sitting in a local pizza parlour, drinking beer and eating pizza and watching a miraculously beautiful sunset. Everything was soaked in brilliant red - my hand, the plate, the table, 253 the world - as if some special kind of fruit juice had splashed down on everything. In the midst of this overwhelming sunset, the image of Hatsumi flashed into my mind, and in that moment I understood what that tremor of the heart had been. It was a kind of childhood longing that had always remained - and would for ever remain - unfulfilled. I had forgotten the existence of such innocent, almost burnt-in longing: forgotten for years that such feelings had ever existed inside me. What Hatsumi had stirred in me was a part of my very self that had long lain dormant. And when the realization struck me, it aroused such sorrow I almost burst into tears. She had been an absolutely special woman. Someone should have done something - anything - to save her. But neither Nagasawa nor I could have managed that. As so many of those I knew had done, Hatsumi reached a certain stage in life and decided - almost on the spur of the moment - to end it. Two years after Nagasawa left for Germany, she married, and two years after that she slashed her wrists with a razor blade. It was Nagasawa, of course, who told me what had happened. His letter from Bonn said this: 'Hatsumi's death has extinguished something. This is unbearably sad and painful, even to me.' I ripped his letter to shreds and threw it away. I never wrote to him again. Hatsumi and I went to a small bar and downed several drinks. Neither of us said much. Like a bored, old married couple, we sat opposite each other, drinking in silence and munching peanuts. When the place began to fill up, we went for a walk. Hatsumi said she would pay the bill, but I insisted on paying because the drinks had been my idea. There was a deep chill in the night air. Hatsumi wrapped herself in her pale grey cardigan and walked by my side in silence. I had no destination in mind as we ambled through the nighttime streets, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. This was just like walking with Naoko, it occurred to me. 254 'Do you know somewhere we could play pool around here?' Hatsumi asked me without warning. 'Pool? You play?' 'Yeah, I'm pretty good. How about you?' 'I play a little. Not that I'm very good at it.' 'OK, then. Let's go.' We found a pool hall nearby and went in. It was a small place at the far end of an alley. The two of us - Hatsumi in her chic dress and I in my blue blazer and regimental tie - clashed with the scruffy pool hall, but this didn't seem to concern Hatsumi at all as she chose and chalked her cue. She pulled a hairslide from her bag and clipped her hair aside at one temple to keep it from interfering with her game. We played two games. Hatsumi was as good as she had claimed to be, while my own game was hampered by the thick bandage I still wore on my cut hand. She crushed me. 'You're great,' I said in admiration. 'You mean appearances can be deceiving?' she asked as she sized up a shot, smiling. 'Where did you learn to play like that?' 'My grandfather - my father's father - was an old playboy. He had a table in his house. I used to play pool with my brother just for fun, and when I got a little bigger my grandfather taught me the right moves. He was a wonderful guy - stylish, handsome. He's dead now, though. He always used to boast how he once met Deanna Durbin in New York.' She got three in a row, then missed on the fourth try. I managed to squeeze out a point, then missed an easy shot. 'It's the bandage,' said Hatsumi to comfort me. 'No, it's because I haven't played for so long,' I said. 'Two years and five months.' 'How can you be so sure of the time?' 255 'My friend died the night after our last game together,' I said. 'So you stopped playing?' 'No, not really,' I said after giving it some thought. 'I just never had the opportunity to play after that. That's all.' 'How did your friend die?' 'Traffic accident.' She made several more shots, aiming with deadly seriousness and adjusting the strength of each shot with precision. Watching her in action - her carefully set hair swept back out of her eyes, golden earrings sparkling, court shoes set firmly on the floor, lovely, slender fingers pressing the green baize as she took her shot - I felt as if her side of the scruffy pool hall had been transformed into part of some elegant social event. I had never spent time with her alone before, and this was a marvellous experience for me, as though I had been drawn up to a higher plane of life. At the end of the third game - in which, of course, she crushed me again -my cut began to throb, and so we stopped playing. 'I'm sorry,' she said with what seemed like genuine concern, 'I should never have suggested this.' 'That's OK,' I said. 'It's not a bad cut, I enjoyed playing. Really.' As we were leaving the pool hall, the skinny woman owner said to Hatsumi, 'You've a good eye, sister.' Hatsumi gave her a sweet smile and thanked her as she paid the bill. 'Does it hurt?' she asked when we were outside. 'Not much,' I said. 'Do you think it opened?' 'No, it's probably OK.' 'I know! You should come to my place. I'll change your bandage for you. I've got disinfectant and everything. Come on, I'm right over there.' I told her it wasn't worth worrying about, that I'd be OK, but she insisted we had to check to see if the cut had opened or not. 256 'Or is it that you don't like being with me? You want to go back to your room as soon as possible, is that it?' she said with a playful smile. 'No way,' I said. 'All right, then. Don't stand on ceremony. It's a short walk.' Hatsumi's flat was a 15-minute walk from Shibuya towards Ebisu. By no means a glamorous building, it was more than decent, with a nice little lobby and a lift. Hatsumi sat me at the kitchen table and went to the bedroom to change. She came out wearing a Princeton hooded sweatshirt and cotton trousers - and no more gold earrings. Setting a first-aid box on the table, she undid my bandage, checked to see that the wound was still sealed, put a little disinfectant on the area and tied a new bandage over the cut. She did all this like an expert. 'How come you're so good at so many things?' I asked. 'I used to do volunteer work at a hospital. Kind of like playing nurse. That's how I learned.' When Hatsumi had finished with the bandage, she went and fetched two cans of beer from the fridge. She drank half of hers, and I drank mine plus the half she left. Then she showed me pictures of the other girls in her club. She was right: some of them were cute. 'Any time you decide you want a girlfriend, come to me,' she said. 'I'll fix you up straight away.' 'Yes, Miss.' 'All right, Toru, tell me the truth. You think I'm an old matchmaker, don't you?' 'To some extent,' I said, telling her the truth, but with a smile. Hatsumi smiled, too. She looked good when she smiled. 'Tell me something else, Toru,' she said. 'What do you think about Nagasawa and me?' 'What do you mean what do I think? About what?' 'About what I ought to do. From now on.' 'It doesn't matter what I think,' I said, taking a slug of cold beer. 257 'That's all right. Tell me exactly what you think.' 'Well, if I were you, I'd leave him. I'd find someone with a more normal way of looking at things and live happily ever after. There's no way in hell you can be happy with him. The way he lives, it never crosses his mind to try to make himself happy or to make others happy. Staying with him will only wreck your nervous system. To me, it's already a miracle that you've been with him three years. Of course, I'm very fond of him in my own way. He's fun, and he has lots of great qualities. He has strengths and abilities that I could never hope to match. But in the end, his ideas about things and the way he lives his life are not normal. Sometimes, when I'm talking to him, I feel as if I'm going around and around in circles. The same process that takes him higher and higher leaves me going around in circles. It makes me feel so empty! Finally, our very systems are totally different. Do you see what I'm saying?' 'I do,' Hatsumi said as she brought me another beer from the fridge. 'Plus, after he gets into the Foreign Ministry and does a year of training, he'll be going abroad. What are you going to do all that time? Wait for him? He has no intention of marrying anyone.' 'I know that, too.' 'So I've got nothing else to say.' 'I see,' said Hatsumi. I slowly filled my glass with beer. 'You know, when we were playing pool before, something popped into my mind,' I said. 'I was an only child, but all the time I was growing up I never once felt deprived or wished I had brothers or sisters. I was happy being alone. But all of a sudden, playing pool with you, I had this feeling that I wished I had had an elder sister like you - really chic and a knockout in a midnight-blue dress and gold earrings and great with a pool cue.' Hatsumi flashed me a happy smile. 'That's got to be the nicest thing 258 anybody's said to me in the past year,' she said. 'Really.' 'All I want for you,' I said, blushing, 'is for you to be happy. It's crazy, though. You seem like someone who could be happy with just about anybody, so how did you end up with Nagasawa of all people?' 'Things like that just happen. There's probably not much you can do about them. It's certainly true in my case. Of course, Nagasawa would say it's my responsibility, not his.' 'I'm sure he would.' 'But anyway, Toru, I'm not the smartest girl in the world. If anything, I'm sort of on the stupid side, and old-fashioned. I couldn't care less about 'systems' and 'responsibility'. All I want is to get married and have a man I love hold me in his arms every night and make babies. That's plenty for me. It's all I want out of life.' 'And what Nagasawa wants out of life has nothing to do with that.' 'People change, though, don't you think?' Hatsumi asked. 'You mean, like, they go out into society and get a kick up the arse and grow up?' 'Yeah. And if he's away from me for a long time, his feelings for me could change, don't you think?' 'Maybe, if he were an ordinary guy,' I said. 'But he's different. He's incredibly strong-willed - stronger than you or I can imagine. And he only makes himself stronger with every day that goes by. If something smashes into him, he just works to make himself stronger. He'd eat slugs before he'd back down to anyone. What do you expect to get from a man like that?' 'But there's nothing I can do but wait for him,' said Hatsumi with her chin in her hand. 'You love him that much?' 'I do,' she answered without a moment's hesitation. 'Oh boy,' I said with a sigh, drinking down the last of my beer. 'It must be a wonderful thing to be so sure that you love somebody.' 'I'm a stupid, old-fashioned girl,' she said. 'Have another beer?' 259 'No, thanks, I must get going. Thanks for the bandage and beer.' As I was standing in the hallway putting on my shoes, the telephone rang. Hatsumi looked at me, looked at the phone, and looked at me again. 'Good night,' I said, stepping outside. As I shut the door, I caught a glimpse of Hatsumi picking up the receiver. It was the last time I ever saw her. It was 11.30 by the time I got back to the dorm. I went straight to Nagasawa's room and knocked on his door. After the tenth knock it occurred to me that this was Saturday night. Nagasawa always got overnight permission on Saturday nights, supposedly to stay at his relatives' house. I went back to my room, took off my tie, put my jacket and trousers on a hanger, changed into my pyjamas, and brushed my teeth. Oh no, I thought, tomorrow is Sunday again! Sundays seemed to be rolling around every four days. Another two Sundays and I would be 20 years old. I stretched out in bed and stared at my calendar as dark feelings washed over me. I sat at my desk to write my Sunday morning letter to Naoko, drinking coffee from a big cup and listening to old Miles Davis albums. A fine rain was falling outside, while my room had the chill of an aquarium. The smell of mothballs lingered in the thick jumper I had just taken out of a storage box. High up on the window-pane clung a huge, fat fly, unmoving. With no wind to stir it, the Rising Sun standard hung limp against the flagpole like the toga of a Roman senator. A skinny, timid-looking brown dog that had wandered into the quadrangle was sniffing every blossom in the flowerbed. I couldn't begin to imagine why any dog would have to go around sniffing flowers on a rainy day. My letter was a long one, and whenever my cut right palm began to hurt from holding the pen, I would let my eyes wander out to the rainy 260 quadrangle. I began by telling Naoko how I had given my right hand a nasty cut while working in the record shop, then went on to say that Nagasawa, Hatsumi and I had had a sort of celebration the night before for Nagasawa's having passed his Foreign Ministry exam. I described the restaurant and the food. The meal was great, I said, but the atmosphere got uncomfortable halfway through. I wondered if I should write about Kizuki in connection with having played pool with Hatsumi and decided to go ahead. I felt it was something I ought to write about. I still remember the last shot Kizuki took that day - the day he died. It was a difficult cushion shot that I never expected him to get. Luck seemed to be with him, though: the shot was absolutely perfect, and the white and red balls hardly made a sound as they brushed each other on the green baize for the last score of the game. It was such a beautiful shot, I still have a vivid image of it to this day. For nearly two-and-a-half years after that, I never touched a cue. The night I played pool with Hatsumi, though, the thought of Kizuki never crossed my mind until the first game ended, and this came as a real shock to me. I had always assumed that I'd be reminded of Kizuki whenever I played pool. But not until the first game was over and I bought a Pepsi from a vending machine and started drinking it did I even think of him. It was the pool hall we used to play in, and we had often bet drinks on the outcome of our games. I felt guilty that I hadn't thought of Kizuki straight away, as if I had somehow abandoned him. Back in my room, though, I came to think of it like this: two and-a-half years have gone by since it happened, and Kizuki is still 17 years old. Not that this means my memory of him has faded. The things that his death gave rise to are still there, bright and clear, inside me, some of them even clearer than when they were new. What I want to say is this: I'm going to turn 20 soon. Part of 261 what Kizuki and I shared when we were 16 and 17 has already vanished, and no amount of crying is going to bring that back. I can't explain it any better than this, but I think that you can probably understand what I felt and what I am trying to say. In fact, you are probably the only one in the world who can understand. I think of you now more than ever. It's raining today. Rainy Sundays are hard for me. When it rains I can't do laundry, which means I can't do ironing. I can't go walking, and I can't lie on the roof. About all I can do is put the record player on auto repeat and listen to Kind of Blue over and over while I watch the rain falling in the quadrangle. As I wrote to you earlier, I don't wind my spring on Sundays. That's why this letter is so damn long. I'm stopping now. I'm going to the dining hall for lunch. Goodbye. 262 There was no sign of Midori at the next day's lecture, either. What had happened to her? Ten days had gone by since we last talked on the phone. I thought about calling her, but decided against it. She had said that she would call me. That Thursday I saw Nagasawa in the dining hall. He sat down next to me with a tray full of food and apologized for having made our 'party' so unpleasant. 'Never mind,' I said. 'I should be thanking you for a great dinner. I have to admit, though, it was a funny way to celebrate your first job.' 'You can say that again.' A few minutes went by as we ate in silence. 'I made up with Hatsumi,' he said. 'I'm not surprised.' 'I was kind of tough on you, too, as I recall it.' 'What's with all the apologizing?' I asked. 'Are you ill?' 'I may be,' he said with a few little nods. 'Hatsumi tells me you told her to leave me.' 'It only makes sense,' I said. 'Yeah, I s'pose so,' said Nagasawa. 'She's a great girl,' I said, slurping my miso soup. 'I know,' he said with a sigh. 'A little too great for me.' I was sleeping the sleep of death when the buzzer rang to let me know I had a call. It brought me back from the absolute core of sleep in total 263 confusion. I felt as if I had been sleeping with my head soaked in water until my brain swelled up. The clock said 6.15 but I had no idea if that meant a.m. or p.m., and I couldn't remember what day it was. I looked out of the window and realized there was no flag on the pole. It was probably p.m. So, raising that flag served some purpose after all. 'Hey, Watanabe, are you free now?' Midori asked. 'I don't know, what day is it?' 'Friday.' 'Morning or evening?' 'Evening, of course! You're so weird! Let's see, it's, uh, 6.18 p.m.' So it was p.m. after all! That's right, I had been stretched out on my bed reading a book when I dozed off. Friday. My head started working. I didn't have to go to the record shop on Friday nights. 'Yeah, I'm free. Where are you?' 'Ueno Station. Why don't you meet me in Shinjuku? I'll leave now.' We set a time and place and hung up. When I got to DUG, Midori was sitting at the far end of the counter with a drink. She wore a man's wrinkled, white balmacaan coat, a thin yellow jumper, blue jeans, and two bracelets on one wrist. 'What're you drinking?' I asked. 'Tom Collins.' I ordered a whisky and soda, then realized there was a big suitcase by Midori's feet. I went away,' she said. 'Just got back.' 'Where'd you go?' 'South to Nara and north to Aomori.' 'On the same trip?!' 'Don't be stupid. I may be strange, but I can't go north and south at the same time. I went to Nara with my boyfriend, and then took off to Aomori alone.' 264 I sipped my whisky and soda, then struck a match to light the Marlboro that Midori held between her lips. 'You must have had a terrible time, what with the funeral and everything.' 'Nah, a funeral's a piece of cake. We've had plenty of practice. You put on a black kimono and sit there like a lady and everybody else takes care of business - an uncle, a neighbour, like that. They bring the sake, order the sushi, say comforting things, cry, carry on, divide up the keepsakes. It's a breeze. A picnic. Compared to nursing someone day after day, it's an absolute picnic. We were drained, my sister and me. We couldn't even cry. We didn't have any tears left. Really. Except, when you do that, they start whispering about you: 'Those girls are as cold as ice.' So then, we're never going to cry, that's just how the two of us are. I know we could have faked it, but we would never do anything like that. The bastards! The more they wanted to see us cry, the more determined we were not to give them the satisfaction. My sister and I are totally different types, but when it comes to something like that, we're in absolute sync.' Midori's bracelets jangled on her arm as she waved to the waiter and ordered another Tom Collins and a small bowl of pistachios. 'So then, after the funeral ended and everybody went home, the two of us drank sake till the sun went down. Polished off one of those huge half-gallon bottles, and half of another one, and the whole time we were dumping on everybody - this one's an idiot, that one's a shithead, one guy looks like a mangy dog, another one's a pig, so-and-so's a hypocrite, that one's a crook. You have no idea how great it felt!' 'I can imagine.' 'We got pissed and went to bed - both of us out cold. We slept for hours, and if the phone rang or something, we just let it go. Dead to the world. Finally, after we woke up, we ordered sushi and talked about what to do. We decided to close the shop for a while and enjoy ourselves. We'd been killing ourselves for months and we deserved a 265 break. My sister just wanted to hang around with her boyfriend for a while, and I decided I'd take mine on a trip for a couple of days and fuck like crazy.' Midori clamped her mouth shut and rubbed her ears. 'Oops, sorry.' 'That's OK,' I said. 'So you went to Nara.' 'Yeah, I've always liked that place. The temples, the deer park.' 'And did you fuck like crazy?' 'No, not at all, not even once,' she said with a sigh. 'The second we walked into the hotel room and dumped our bags, my period started. A real gusher.' I couldn't help laughing. 'Hey, it's not funny. I was a week early! I couldn't stop crying when that happened. I think all the stress threw me off. My boyfriend got sooo angry! He's like that: he gets angry straight away. It wasn't my fault, though. It's not like I wanted to get my period. And, well, mine are kind of on the heavy side anyway. The first day or two, I don't want to do anything. Make sure you keep away from me then.' 'I'd like to, but how can I tell?' I asked. 'OK, I'll wear a hat for a couple of days after my period starts. A red one. That should work,' she said with a laugh 'If you see me on the street and I'm wearing a red hat, don't talk to me, just run away.' 'Great. I wish all girls would do that,' I said. 'So anyway what did you do in Nara?' 'What else could we do? We fed the deer and walked all over the place. It was just awful! We had a big fight and I haven't seen him since we got back. I hung around for a couple of days and decided to take a nice trip all by myself. So I went to Aomori. I stayed with a friend in Hirosaki for the first two nights, and then I started travelling around - Shimokita, Tappi, places like that. They're nice. I once wrote a map brochure for the area. Ever been there?' 'Never.' 'So anyway,' said Midori, sipping her Tom Collins, then wrenching 266 open a pistachio, 'the whole time I was travelling by myself, I was thinking of you. I was thinking how nice it would be if I could have you with me.' 'How come?' 'How come?!' Midori looked at me with eyes focused on nothingness. 'What do you mean 'How come?'?!' 'Just that. How come you were thinking of me?' 'Maybe because I like you, that's how come! Why else would I be thinking of you? Who would ever think they wanted to be with somebody they didn't like?' 'But you've got a boyfriend,' I said. 'You don't have to think about me.' I took a slow sip of my whisky and soda. 'Meaning I'm not allowed to think about you if I've got a boyfriend?' 'No, that's not it, I just - ' 'Now get this straight, Watanabe,' said Midori, pointing at me. 'I'm warning you, I've got a whole month's worth of misery crammed inside me and getting ready to blow. So watch what you say to me. Any more of that kind of stuff and I'll flood this place with tears. Once I get started, I'm good for the whole night. Are you ready for that? I'm an absolute animal when I start crying, it doesn't matter where I am! I'm not joking.' I nodded and kept quiet. I ordered a second whisky and soda and ate a few pistachios. Somewhere behind the sound of a sloshing shaker and clinking glasses and the scrape of an ice maker, Sarah Vaughan sang an old-fashioned love song. 'Things haven't been right between me and my boyfriend ever since the tampon incident.' 'Tampon incident?' 'Yeah, I was out drinking with him and a few of his friends about a month ago and I told them the story of a woman in my neighbourhood who blew out a tampon when she sneezed. Funny, right?' 'That is funny,' I said with a laugh. 267 'Yeah, all the other guys thought so, too. But he got mad and said I shouldn't be talking about such dirty things. Such a wet blanket!' 'Wow.' 'He's a wonderful guy, but he can be really narrow-minded when it comes to stuff like that,' said Midori. 'Like, he gets mad if I wear anything but white underwear. Don't you think that's narrow-minded?' 'Maybe so,' I said, 'but it's just a matter of taste.' It seemed incredible to me that a guy like that would want a girlfriend like Midori, but I kept this thought to myself. 'So, what have you been doing?' she asked. 'Nothing. Same as ever,' I said, but then I recalled my attempt to masturbate while thinking of Midori as I had promised to do. I told her about it in a low voice that wouldn't carry to the others around us. Midori's eyes lit up and she snapped her fingers. 'How'd it go? Was it good?' 'Nah, I got embarrassed halfway through and stopped.' 'You mean you lost your erection?' 'Pretty much.' 'Damn,' she said, shooting a look of annoyance at me. 'You can't let yourself get embarrassed. Think about something really sexy. It's OK, I'm giving you permission. Hey, I know what! Next time I'll get on the phone with you: 'Oh, oh, that's great ... Oh, I feel it ... Stop, I'm gonna come ... Oh, don't do that!' I'll say stuff like that to you while you're doing it.' 'The dormitory phone is in the lobby by the front door, with people coming in and out all the time,' I explained. 'The dorm Head would kill me with his bare hands if he saw me wanking in a place like that.' 'Oh, too bad.' 'Never mind,' I said. 'I'll try again by myself one of these days.' 'Give it your best shot,' said Midori. 'I will,' I said. 'I wonder if it's me,' she said. 'Maybe I'm just not Innately.' 'That's not it,' I assured her. 'It's more a question of attitude.' 268 'You know,' she said, 'I have this tremendously sensitive back. The soft touch of fingers all over ... mmmmm.' 'I'll keep that in mind.' 'Hey, why don't we go now and see a dirty film?' Midori suggested. 'A really filthy S&M one.' We went from the bar to an eel shop, and from there to one of Shinjuku's most run-down adult cinemas to see a triple bill. It was the only place we could find in the paper that was showing S&M stuff. Inside, the cinema had some kind of indefinable smell. Our timing was good: the S&M film was just starting as we took our seats. It was the story of a secretary and her schoolgirl sister being kidnapped by a bunch of men and subjected to sadistic tortures. The men made the older one to do all kinds of awful things by threatening to rape the sister, but soon the older sister is transformed into a raging masochist, and the younger one gets really turned on from having to watch all the contortions they put her through. It was such a gloomy, repetitive film, I got bored after a while. 'If I were the younger sister, I wouldn't get worked up so easily,' said Midori. 'I'd keep watching.' 'I'm sure you would,' I said. 'And anyway, don't you think her nipples are too dark for a schoolgirl - a virgin?' 'Absolutely.' Midori's eyes were glued to the screen. I was impressed: anyone watching a film with such fierce intensity was getting more than her money's worth. She kept reporting her thoughts to me: 'Oh my God, will you look at that!' or 'Three guys at once! They're going to tear her apart!' or 'I'd like to try that on somebody, Watanabe.' I was enjoying Midori a lot more than the film. When the lights went up during the intermission, I realized there were no other women in the place. One young man sitting near us - probably a student - took one look at Midori and changed his seat to 269 the far side. 'Tell me, Watanabe, do you get hard watching this kind of stuff?' 'Well, yeah, sometimes,' I said. 'That's why they make these films.' 'So what you're saying is, every time one of those scenes starts, every man in the cinema has his thing standing to attention? Thirty or forty of them sticking up all at once? It's so weird if you stop and think about it, don't you think?' 'Yeah, I guess so, now you mention it.' The second feature was a fairly normal porn flick, which meant it was even more boring than the first. It had lots of oral sex scenes, and every time they started doing fellatio or cunnilingus or sixty-nine the soundtrack would fill the cinema with loud sucking or slurping sound effects. Listening to them, I felt strangely moved to think that I was living out my life on this bizarre planet of ours. 'Who comes up with these sounds, I wonder,' I said to Midori. 'I think they're great!' she said. There was also a sound for a penis moving in and out of a vagina. I had never realized that such sounds even existed. The man was into a lot of heavy breathing, and the woman came up with the usual sort of expressions - 'Yes!' or 'More!' - as she writhed under him. You could also hear the bed creaking. These scenes just went on and on. Midori seemed to be enjoying them at first, but even she got bored after a while and suggested we leave. We went outside and took a few deep breaths. This was the first time in my life the outside air of Shinjuku felt healthy to me. 'That was fun,' said Midori. 'Let's try it again sometime.' 'They just keep doing the same things,' I said. 'Well, what else can they do? We all just keep doing the same things.' She had a point there. We found another bar and ordered drinks. I had more whisky, and Midori drank three or four cocktails of some indefinable kind. Outside again, Midori said she wanted to climb a tree. 270 'There aren't any trees around here,' I said. 'And even if there were, you're too wobbly to do any climbing.' 'You're always so damn sensible, you ruin everything. I'm drunk 'cause I wanna be drunk. What's wrong with that? And even if I am drunk, I can still climb a tree. Shit, I'm gonna climb all the way to the top of a great, big, tall tree and I'm gonna pee all over everybody!' 'You wouldn't happen to need the toilet by any chance?' 'Yup. I took Midori to a pay toilet in Shinjuku Station, put a coin in the slot and bundled her inside, then bought an evening paper at a nearby stand and read it while I waited for her to come out. But she didn't come out. I started getting worried after 15 minutes and was ready to go and check on her when she finally emerged looking pale. 'Sorry,' she said. 'I fell asleep.' 'Are you OK?' I asked, putting my coat around her shoulders. 'Not really,' she said. 'I'll take you home. You just have to get home, take a nice, long bath and go to bed. You're exhausted.' 'I am not going home. What's the point? Nobody's there. I don't want to sleep all by myself in a place like that.' 'Terrific,' I said. 'So what are you going to do?' 'Go to some love hotel around here and sleep with your arms around me all night. Like a log. Tomorrow morning we'll have breakfast somewhere and go to lectures together.' 'You were planning this all along, weren't you? That's why you called me.' 'Of course. 'You should have called your boyfriend, not me. That's the only thing that makes sense. That's what boyfriends are for.' 'But I want to be with you.' 'You can't be with me,' I said. 'First of all, I have to be back in the dorm by midnight. Otherwise, I'll break curfew. The one time I did 271 that there was all hell to pay. And secondly, if I go to bed with a girl, I'm going to want to do it with her, and the last thing I want is to lie there struggling to restrain myself. I'm not kidding, I might end up forcing you.' 'You mean you'd hit me and tie me up and rape me from behind?' 'Hey, look, I'm serious.' 'But I'm so lonely! I want to be with someone! I know I'm doing terrible things to you, making demands and not giving you anything in return, saying whatever pops into my head, dragging you out of your room and forcing you to take me everywhere, but you're the only one I can do stuff like that to! I've never been able to have my own way with anybody, not once in the 20 years I've been alive. My father, my mother, they never paid the slightest attention to me, and my boyfriend, well, he's just not that kind of guy. He gets angry if I try to have my own way. So we end up fighting. You're the only one I can say these things to. And now I'm really, really, really tired and I want to fall asleep listening to someone tell me how much they like me and how pretty I am and stuff. That's all I want. And when I wake up, I'll be full of energy and I'll never make these kinds of selfish demands again. I swear. I'll be a good girl.' 'I hear you, believe me, but there's nothing I can do.' 'Oh, please! Otherwise, I'm going to sit down right here on the ground and cry my head off all night long. And I'll sleep with the first guy that talks to me.' That did it. I called the dorm and asked for Nagasawa. When he got to the phone I asked him if he would make it look as if I had come back for the evening. I was with a girl, I explained. 'Fine,' he said. 'It's a worthy cause, I'll be glad to help you out. I'll just turn over your name tag to the 'in' side. Don't worry. Take all the time you need. You can come in through my window in the morning.' 'Thanks. I owe you one,' I said and hung up. 'All set?' Midori asked. 'Pretty much,' I said with a sigh. 'Great, let's go to a disco, it's so 272 early.' 'Wait a minute, I thought you were tired.' 'For something like this, I'm just fine.' 'Oh boy.' And she was right. We went to a disco, and her energy came back little by little as we danced. She drank two whisky and cokes, and stayed on the dance floor until her forehead was drenched in sweat. 'This is so much fun!' she exclaimed when we took a break at a table. 'I haven't danced like this in ages. I don't know, when you move your body, it's kind of like your spirit gets liberated.' 'Your spirit is always liberated, I'd say.' 'No way,' she said, shaking her head and smiling. 'Anyway, now that I'm feeling better, I'm starved! Let's go for a pizza.' I took her to a pizzeria I knew and ordered draught beer and an anchovy pizza. I wasn't very hungry and ate only four of the twelve slices. Midori finished the rest. 'You sure made a fast recovery,' I said. 'Not too long ago you were pale and wobbly.' 'It's because my selfish demands got through to somebody,,, she answered. 'It unclogged me. Wow, this pizza is great!', 'Tell me, though. Is there really nobody at home?' 'It's true. My sister's staying at her friend's place. Now, that girl's got a real case of the creeps. She can't sleep alone in the house if I'm not there.' 'Let's forget this love hotel crap, then. Going to a place like that just makes you feel cheap. Let's go to your house. You must have enough bedding for me?' Midori thought about it for a minute, then nodded. 'OK, we'll spend the night at mine.' We took the Yamanote Line to Otsuka, and soon we were raising the metal shutter that sealed off the front of the Kobayashi Bookshop. A paper sign on the shutter read TEMPORARILY CLOSED. The smell of old paper filled the dark shop, as if the shutter had not been opened for a long time. Half the shelves were empty, and most of the 273 magazines had been tied in bundles for returns. That hollow, chilly feeling I had experienced on my first visit had only deepened. The place looked like a hulk abandoned on the shore. 'You're not planning to open shop again?' I asked. 'Nah, we're going to sell it,' said Midori. 'We'll divide the money and live on our own for a while without anybody's 'protection'. My sister's getting married next year, and I've got three more years at university. We ought to make enough to see us through that much at least. I'll keep my part-time job, too. Once the place is sold, I'll live with my sister in a flat for a while.' 'You think somebody'll want to buy it? 'Probably. I know somebody who wants to open a wool shop, She's been asking me recently if I want to sell. Poor Dad, though. He worked so hard to get this place, and he was paying off the loan he took out little by little, and in the end he hardly had anything left. It all melted away, like foam on a river.' 'He had you, though,' I said. 'Me?!' Midori said with a laugh. She took a deep breath and let it out. 'Let's go upstairs. It's cold down here.' Upstairs, she sat me at the kitchen table and went to warm the bath water. While she busied herself with that, I put a kettle on to boil and made tea. Waiting for the tank to heat up, we sat across from each other at the kitchen table and drank tea. Chin in hand, she took a long, hard look at me. There were no sounds other than the ticking of the clock and the hum of the fridge motor turning on and off as the thermostat kicked in and out. The clock showed that midnight was fast approaching. 'You know, Watanabe, study it hard enough, and you've got a pretty interesting face.' 'Think so?' I asked, a bit hurt. 'A nice face goes a long way with me,' she said. 'And yours ... well, the more I look at it, the more I get to thinking, 'He'll do'.' 274 'Me, too,' I said. 'Every once in a while, I think about myself, 'What the hell, I'll do'.' 'Hey, I don't mean that in a bad way. I'm not very good at putting my feelings into words. That's why people misunderstand me. All I'm trying to say is I like you. Have I told you that before?' 'You have,' I said. 'I mean, I'm not the only one who has trouble working out what men are all about. But I'm getting there, a little at a time.' Midori brought over a box of Marlboro and lit one up. 'When you start at zero, you've got a lot to learn.' 'I wouldn't be surprised.' 'Oh, I almost forgot! You want to burn a stick of incense for my father?' I followed Midori to the room with the Buddhist altar, lit a stick of incense in front of her father's photo, and brought my hands together. 'Know what I did the other day?' Midori asked. 'I got all naked in front of my father's picture. Took off every stitch of clothing and let him have a good, long look. Kind of in a yoga position. Like, 'Here, Daddy, these are my tits, and this is my cunt'.' 'Why in the hell would you do something like that?' I asked. 'I don't know, I just wanted to show him. I mean, half of me comes from his sperm, right? Why shouldn't I show him? 'Here's the daughter you made.' I was a little drunk at the time. I suppose that had something to do with it.' 'I suppose.' 'My sister walked in and almost fell over. There I was in front of my father's memorial portrait all naked with my legs spread. I guess you would be kind of surprised.' 'I s'pose so.' 'I explained why I was doing it and said, 'So take off your clothes too Momo (her name's Momo), and sit down next to me and show him,' but she wouldn't do it. She went away shocked. She has this really conservative streak.' 'In other words, she's relatively normal, you mean.' 275 'Tell me, Watanabe, what did you think of my father?' 'I'm not good with people I've just met, but it didn't bother me being alone with him. I felt pretty comfortable. We talked about all kinds of stuff.' -What kind of stuff?' -Euripides,' I said. Midori laughed out loud. 'You're so weird! Nobody talks about Euripides with a dying person they've just met!' ,,Well, nobody sits in front of her father's memorial portrait with her legs spread, either!' Midori chuckled and gave the altar bell a ring. 'Night-night, Daddy. We're going to have some fun now, so don't worry and get some sleep. You're not suffering any more, right? You're dead, OK? I'm sure you're not suffering. If you are, you'd better complain to the gods. Tell 'em it's just too cruel. I hope you meet Mum and the two of you really do it. I saw your willy when I helped you pee. It was pretty impressive! So give it everything you've got. Goodnight.' We took turns in the bath and changed into pyjamas. I borrowed a nearly new pair of her father's. They were a little small but better than nothing. Midori spread out a mattress for me on the floor of the altar room. 'You're not scared sleeping in front of the altar?' she asked. 'Not at all. I haven't done anything bad,' I said with a smile. 'But you're going to stay with me and hold me until I fall asleep, right?' 'Right,' I said. Practically falling over the edge of Midori's little bed, I held her in my arms. Nose against my chest, she placed her hands on my hips. My right arm curled around her back while I tried to keep from falling out by hanging on to the bed frame with my left hand. It was not exactly a 276 situation conducive to sexual excitement. My nose was resting on her head and her short-cut hair would tickle every now and then. 'Come on, say something to me,' Midori said, her face buried in my chest. 'What do you want me to say?' 'Anything. Something to make me feel good.' 'You're really cute,' I said. ' - Midori,' she said. 'Say my name.' 'You're really cute, Midori,' I corrected myself. 'What do you mean really cute?' 'So cute the mountains crumble and the oceans dry up.' Midori lifted her face and looked at me. 'You have this special way with words.' 'I can feel my heart softening when you say that,' I said, smiling. 'Say something even nicer.' 'I really like you, Midori. A lot.' 'How much is a lot?' 'Like a spring bear,' I said. 'A spring bear?' Midori looked up again. 'What's that all about? A spring bear.' 'You're walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring, and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, 'Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?' So you and the bear cub spend the whole day in each other's arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh?' 'Yeah. Really nice.' 'That's how much I like you.' 'That is the best thing I've ever heard,' said Midori, cuddling up against my chest. 'If you like me that much, you'll do anything I tell you to do, right? You won't get angry, right?' 'No, of course not.' 'And you'll take care of me always and always.' ,,Of course I will,' I said, stroking her short, soft, boyish hair. 'Don't 277 worry, everything is going to be fine.' 'But I'm scared,' she said. I held her softly, and soon her shoulders were rising and falling, and I could hear the regular breathing of sleep. I slipped out of her bed and went to the kitchen, where I drank a beer. I wasn't the least bit sleepy, so I thought about reading a book, but I couldn't find anything worth reading nearby. I considered returning to Midori's room to look for one, but I didn't want to wake her by rummaging around while she was sleeping. I sat there staring into space for a while, sipping my beer, when it occurred to me that I was in a bookshop. I went downstairs, switched on the light and started looking through the paperback shelves. There wasn't much that appealed to me, and most of what did I had read already, but I had to have something to read no matter what. I picked a discoloured copy of Hermann Hesse's Beneath the Wheel that must have been hanging around the shop unsold for a long time, and left the money for it by the till. This was my small contribution to reducing the debts of the Kobayashi Bookshop. I sat at the kitchen table, drinking my beer and reading Beneath the Wheel. I had first read the novel the year I entered school. And now, about eight years later, here I was, reading the same book in a girl's kitchen, wearing the undersized pyjamas of her dead father. Funny. If it hadn't been for these strange circumstances, I would probably never have reread Beneath the Wheel. The book did have its dated moments, but as a novel it wasn't bad. I moved through it slowly, enjoying it line by line, in the hushed bookshop in the middle of the night. A dusty bottle of brandy stood on a shelf in the kitchen. I poured a little into a coffee cup and sipped it. It warmed me but did nothing to help me feel sleepy. I went to check on Midori a little before three, but she was fast asleep. She must have been exhausted. The lights from the block of shops 278 beyond the window cast a soft white glow, like moonlight, over the room. Midori slept with her back to the light. She lay so perfectly still, she might have been frozen stiff. Bending over, I caught the sound of her breathing. She slept just like her father. The suitcase from her recent travels stood by the bed. Her white coat hung on the back of a chair. Her desktop was neatly arranged, and on the wall over it hung a Snoopy calendar. I nudged the curtain aside and looked down at the deserted shops. Every shop was closed, their metal shutters down, the vending machines hunched in front of the off-licence the only sign of something waiting for the dawn. The moan of longdistance lorry tyres sent a deep shudder through the air every now and then. I went back to the kitchen, poured myself another shot of brandy, and went on reading Beneath the Wheel. By the time I had finished it the sky was growing light. I made myself some instant coffee and used some notepaper and a ballpoint pen I found on the table to write a message to Midori: I drank some of your brandy. I bought a copy of Beneath the Wheel. It's light outside, so I'm going home. Goodbye. Then, after some hesitation, I wrote: You look really cute when you're sleeping. I washed my coffee cup, switched off the kitchen light, went downstairs, quietly lifted the shutter, and stepped outside. I worried that a neighbour might find me suspicious, but there was no one on the street at 5.50-something in the morning. Only the crows were on their usual rooftop perch, glaring down at the street. I glanced up at the pale pink curtains in Midori's window, walked to the tram stop, rode to the end of the line, and walked to my dorm. On the way I found an open cafe and ate a breakfast of rice and miso soup, pickled vegetables and fried eggs. Circling around to the back of the dorm, I tapped on Nagasawa's ground-floor window. He let me in immediately. 'Coffee?' he asked. 'Nah.' I thanked him, went up to my room, brushed my teeth, took my 279 trousers off, got under the covers, and clamped my eyes shut. Finally, a dreamless sleep closed over me like a heavy lead door. I wrote to Naoko every week, and she often wrote back. Her letters were never very long. Soon there were references to the cold November mornings and evenings. You went back to Tokyo just about the time the autumn weather was deepening, so for a time I couldn't tell whether the hole that opened up inside me was from missing you or from the change of the season. Reiko and I talk about you all the time. She says be sure to say 'Hi' to you. She is as nice to me as ever. I don't think I would have been able to stand this place if I didn't have her with me. I cry when I'm lonely. Reiko says it's good I can cry. But feeling lonely really hurts. When I'm lonely at night, people talk to me from the darkness. They talk to me the way trees moan in the wind at night. Kizuki; my sister: they talk to me like that all the time. They're lonely, too, and looking for someone to talk to. I often reread your letters at night when I'm lonely and in pain. I get confused by a lot of things that come from outside, but your descriptions of the world around you give me wonderful relief. It's so strange! I wonder why that should be? So I read them over and over, and Reiko reads them, too. Then we talk about the things you tell me. I really liked the part about that girl Midori's father. We look forward to getting your letter every week as one of our few entertainments - yes, in a place like this, letters are our entertainments. I try my best to set aside a time in the week for writing to you, but once I actually sit down in front of the blank sheet of paper, I begin to feel depressed. I'm really having to push myself to write this letter, too. Reiko's been yelling at me to answer you. Don't get me wrong, though. I have tons of things I want to talk to you about, to tell you about. It's just hard for me to put them into words. Which is why it's 280 so painful for me to write letters. Speaking of Midori, she sounds like an interesting person. Reading your letter, I got the feeling she might be in love with you. When I told that to Reiko, she said, 'Well, of course she is! Even I am in love with Watanabe!' We're picking mushrooms and gathering chestnuts and eating them every day. And I do mean every day: rice with chestnuts, rice with matsutake mushrooms, but they taste so great, we never get tired of them. Reiko doesn't eat that much, though. For her, it's still one cigarette after another. The birds and the rabbits are doing fine. Goodbye. Three days after my twentieth birthday, a package arrived for me from Naoko. Inside I found a wine-coloured crew neck pullover and a letter. Happy Birthday! I hope you have a happy year being 20. My own year of being 20 looks like it's going to end with me as miserable as ever, but I'd really like it if you could have your share of happiness and mine combined. Really. Reiko and I each knitted half of this jumper. If I had done it all by myself, it would have taken until next Valentine's Day. The good half is Reiko's, and the bad half is mine. Reiko is so good at everything she does, I sometimes hate myself when I'm watching her. I mean, there's not a single thing I'm really good at! Goodbye. Be well. The package had a short note from Reiko, too. How are you? For you, Naoko may be the pinnacle of happiness, but for me she's just a clumsy girl. Still, we managed to finish this jumper in time for your birthday. Handsome, isn't it? We chose the colour and 281 the style. Happy Birthday. 282 Thinking back on the year 1969, all that comes to mind for me is a swamp - a deep, sticky bog that feels as if it's going to suck off my shoe each time I take a step. I walk through the mud, exhausted. In front of me, behind me, I can see nothing but the endless darkness of a swamp. Time itself slogged along in rhythm with my faltering steps. The people around me had gone on ahead long before, while my time and I hung back, struggling through the mud. The world around me was on the verge of great transformations. Death had already taken John Coltrane who was joined now by so many others. People screamed there'd be revolutionary changes - which always seemed to be just ahead, at the curve in the road. But the 'changes' that came were just two-dimensional stage sets, backdrops without substance or meaning. I trudged along through each day in its turn, rarely looking up, eyes locked on the never-ending swamp that lay before me, planting my right foot, raising my left, planting my left foot, raising my right, never sure where I was, never sure I was headed in the right direction, knowing only that I had to keep moving, one step at a time. I turned 20, autumn gave way to winter, but in my life nothing changed in any significant way. Unexcited, I went to my lectures, worked three nights a week in the record shop reread The Great Gatsby now and then, and when Sunday came I would do my washing and write a long letter to Naoko. Sometimes I would go out with Midori for a meal or to the zoo or to the cinema. The sale of the Kobayashi Bookshop went as planned, and Midori and her sister moved into a two-bedroom flat near Myogadani, a more upmarket neighbourhood. Midori would move out when her sister got married, and rent a flat by herself, she said. Meanwhile, she invited me to their 283 new place for lunch once. It was a sunny, handsome flat, and Midori seemed to enjoy living there far more than she had above the Kobayashi Bookshop. Every once in a while, Nagasawa would suggest that we go out on one of our excursions, but I always found something else to do instead. I just didn't want the hassle. Not that I didn't like the idea of sleeping with girls: it was just that, when I thought about the whole process I had to go through - drinking in town, looking for the right kind of girls, talking to them, going to a hotel - it was all too much effort. I had to admire Nagasawa all the more for the way he could continue the ritual without ever getting sick and tired of it. Maybe what Hatsumi had said to me had had some effect: I could make myself feel far happier just thinking about Naoko than sleeping with some stupid, anonymous girl. The sensation of Naoko's fingers bringing me to climax in a grassy field remained vivid inside me. I wrote to her at the beginning of December to ask if it would be all right for me to come and visit her during the winter holidays. An answer came from Reiko saying they would love to have me. She explained that Naoko was having trouble writing and that she was answering for her. I was not to take this to mean that Naoko was feeling especially bad: there was no need for me to worry. These things came in waves. When the holidays came, I stuffed my things into my rucksack, put on snow boots and set out for Kyoto. The odd doctor had been right: the winter mountains blanketed in snow were incredibly beautiful. As before, I slept two nights in the flat with Naoko and Reiko, and spent three days with them doing much the same kind of things as before. When the sun went down, Reiko would play her guitar and the three of us would sit around talking. Instead of our picnic, we went crosscountry skiing. An hour of tramping through the woods on skis left us breathless and sweaty. We also joined the residents and staff 284 shovelling snow when there was time. Doctor Miyata popped over to our table at dinner to explain why people's middle fingers are longer than their index fingers, while with toes it worked the other way. The gatekeeper, Omura, talked to me again about Tokyo pork. Reiko enjoyed the records I brought as gifts from the city. She transcribed a few tunes and worked them out on her guitar. Naoko was even less talkative than she had been in the autumn. When the three of us were together, she would sit on the sofa, smiling, and hardly say a word. Reiko seemed to be chattering away to make up for her. 'But don't worry,' Naoko told me. 'This is just one of those times. It's a lot more fun for me to listen to you two than to talk myself.' Reiko gave herself some chores that took her out of the flat so that Naoko and I could get in bed. I kissed her neck and shoulders and breasts, and she used her hands to bring me to climax as before. Afterwards, holding her close, I told her how her touch had stayed with me these two months, that I had thought of her and masturbated. 'You haven't slept with anybody else?' Naoko asked. 'Not once,' I said. 'All right, then, here's something else for you to remember.' She slid down and kissed my penis, then enveloped it in her warm mouth and ran her tongue all over it, her long, straight hair swaying over my belly and groin with each movement of her lips until I came a second time. 'Do you think you can remember that?' she asked. 'Of course I can,' I said. 'I'll always remember it.' I held her tight and slid my hand inside her panties, touching her stilldry vagina. Naoko shook her head and pulled my hand away. We held each other for a time, saying nothing. 'I'm thinking of getting out of the dorm when term ends and looking for a flat,' I said. 'I've had it with dorm life. If I keep working parttime I can pretty much cover my expenses. How about coming to 285 Tokyo to live with me, the way I suggested before?' 'Oh, Toru, thank you. I'm so happy that you would ask me to do something like that!' 'It's not that I think there's anything wrong with this place,' I said. 'It's quiet, the surroundings are perfect, and Reiko is a wonderful person. But it's not a place to stay for a long time. It's too specialized for a long stay. The longer you're here, I'm sure, the harder it is to leave.' Instead of answering, Naoko turned her gaze to the outside. Beyond the window, there was nothing to see but snow. Snow clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, with only the smallest gap between them and the snow-covered earth. 'Take your time, think it over,' I said. 'Whatever happens, I'm going to move by the end of March. Any time you decide you want to join me, you can come.' Naoko nodded. I wrapped my arms around her as carefully as if I had been holding a work of art delicately fashioned from glass. She put her arms around my neck. I was naked, and she wore only the skimpiest white underwear. Her body was so beautiful, I could have enjoyed looking at it all day. 'Why don't I get wet?' Naoko murmured. 'That one time was the only time it ever happened. The day of my twentieth birthday, that April. The night you held me in your arms. What is wrong with me?' 'It's strictly psychological, I'm sure,' I said. 'Give it time. There's no hurry.' 'All of my problems are strictly psychological,' said Naoko. 'What if I never get better? What if I can never have sex for the rest of my life? Can you keep loving me just the same? Will hands and lips always be enough for you? Or will you solve the sex problem by sleeping with other girls?' 'I'm a born optimist,' I said. Naoko sat up in bed and slipped on a T-shirt. She put a flannel shirt 286 over this, and then climbed into her jeans. I put my clothes on, too. 'Let me think about it,' said Naoko. 'And you think about it, too.' 'I will,' I said. 'And speaking of lips, what you did with them just now was great.' She reddened slightly and gave a little smile. 'Kizuki used to say that, too.' 'He and I had pretty much the same tastes and opinions,' I said, smiling. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and talking about the old days. She was beginning to talk more about Kizuki. She would hesitate, and choose her words carefully. Every now and then, the snow would fall for a while and stop. The sky never cleared the whole three days I was there. 'I think I can get back here in March,' I said as I was leaving. I gave her one last, heavily padded hug with my winter coat on, and kissed her on the lips. 'Goodbye,' she said. 1970 - a year with a whole new sound to it - came along, and that put an end to my teenage years. Now I could step out into a whole new swamp. Then it was time for exams, and these I passed with relative ease. If you have nothing else to do and spend all your time going to lectures, it takes no special skill to get through end-of-year exams. Some problems arose in the dorm, though. A few guys active in one of the political factions kept their helmets and iron pipes hidden in their rooms. They had a run-in with some of the baseball-players under the wing of the dorm Head, as a result of which two of them were injured and six expelled. The aftershock of the incident was felt for a long time, spawning minor fights on an almost daily basis. The atmosphere that hung over the dorm was oppressive, and people's nerves were on edge. I myself was on the verge of getting knocked out by one of the baseball-players when Nagasawa intervened and managed to smooth things over. In any case, it was time for me to get out of there. 287 Once most of my exams were out of the way, I started looking for a flat in earnest. After a week of searching, I came up with the right place way out in the suburbs of Kichijoji. The location was not exactly convenient, but it was a house: an independent house - a real find. Originally a gardener's shack or some other kind of cottage, it stood by itself in the corner of a good-sized plot of land, separated from the main house by a large stretch of neglected garden. The landlord would use the front gate, and I the back, which would make it possible for me to preserve my privacy. It had one good-sized room, a little kitchen and bathroom, and an unimaginably huge closet. It even had a veranda facing the garden. A nice old couple were renting the house at way below market value on condition that the tenant was prepared to move out the following year if their grandson decided to come to Tokyo. They assured me that I could live as I pleased there; they wouldn't make any demands. Nagasawa helped me with the move. He managed to borrow a van to transfer my stuff, and, as promised, he gave me his fridge, TV, and oversize thermos flask. He might not need them any more, but for me they were perfect. He himself was scheduled to move out in two days, to a flat in the Mita neighbourhood. 'I guess we won't be seeing each other for a long time,' he said as he left me, 'so keep well. I'm still sure we'll run across each other in some strange place years from now.' 'I'm already looking forward to it,' I said. 'And that time we switched girls, the funny-looking one was way better.' 'Right on,' I said with a laugh. 'But anyway, Nagasawa, take care of Hatsumi. Good ones like her are hard to find. And she's a lot more fragile than she looks.' 'Yeah, I know,' he said, nodding. 'That's why I was hoping you would take her when I was through. The two of you would make a 288 great couple.' 'Yeah, right!' I said. 'Just kidding,' said Nagasawa. 'Anyway, be happy. I get the feeling a lot of shit is going to come your way, but you're a stubborn bastard, I'm sure you'll handle it. Mind if I give you one piece of advice?' 'Go ahead.' 'Don't feel sorry for yourself,' he said. 'Only arseholes do that.' 'I'll keep it in mind,' I said. We shook hands and went our separate ways, he to his new world, and I back to my swamp. Three days after my move, I wrote to Naoko. I described my new house and said how relieved I was to be away from the idiots in the dorm and all their stupid brainstorms. Now I could start my new life with a new frame of mind. My window looks out on a big garden, which is used as a meeting place by all the neighbourhood cats. I like to stretch out on the veranda and watch them. I'm not sure how many of them get together, but this is one big gang of cats. They sunbathe in groups. I don't think they're too pleased to see me living here, but once when I put out an old chunk of cheese a few of them crept over and nibbled it. They'll probably be friends of mine before too long. There's one striped tom cat in the bunch with half-eaten ears. It's amazing how much he looks like my old dorm Head. I expect him to start raising the flag any day now. I'm kind of far from university here, but once I start my third year I won't have too many morning lectures, so it shouldn't be too bad. It may even be better with the time to read on the train. Now all I have to do is find some easy work out here that I can do three or four days a week. Then I can get back to my springwinding life. I don't want to rush, but April is a good time of year to start new things, and I can't help feeling that the best thing for us would be to 289 begin living together then. You could go back to university, too, if it worked out well. If there's a problem with us actually living together, I could find a flat for you in the neighbourhood. The most important thing is for us to be always near each other. It doesn't have to be spring, of course. If you think summer is better, that's fine by me, too. Just let me know what you're thinking, OK? I'm planning to put some extra time in at work for a while. To cover my moving expenses. I'm going to need a fair amount of money for one thing or another once I start living alone: pots and pans, dishes, stuff like that. I'll be free in March, though, and I definitely want to come to see you. What dates work best for you? I'll plan a trip to Kyoto then. I look forward to seeing you and hearing your answer. I spent the next few days buying the things I needed in the nearby Kichijoji shopping district and started cooking simple meals for myself at home. I bought some planks at a local timber yard and had them cut to size so I could make a desk for myself. I thought I could study on it and, for the time being, eat my meals there, too. I made some shelves and got in a good selection of spices. A white cat maybe six months old decided she liked me and started eating at my place. I called her Seagull. Once I had my place sorted out to some extent, I went into town and found a temporary job as a painter's assistant. I filled two solid weeks that way. The pay was good, but the work was murder, and the fumes made my head spin. Every day after work I'd eat at a cheap restaurant, wash it down with beer, go home and play with the cat, then sleep like a dead man. No answer came from Naoko during that time. I was in the thick of painting when Midori popped into my mind. I hadn't been in touch with her for nearly three weeks, I realized, and hadn't even told her I had moved. I had mentioned to her that I was thinking of moving, and she had said, 'Oh, really?' and that was the last time we had talked. 290 I went to a phone box and dialled her number. The woman who answered was probably her sister. When I gave her my name, she said 'Just a minute', but Midori never came to the phone. Then the sister, or whoever she was, got back on the line. 'Midori says she's too furious to talk to you. You just moved and never said a thing to her, right? Just disappeared and never told her where you were going, right? Well, now you've got her boiling mad. And once she gets mad, she stays that way. Like some kind of animal.' 'Look, could you just put her on the phone? I can explain.' 'She says she doesn't want to hear any explanations.' 'Can I explain to you, then? I hate to do this to you, but could you just listen and tell her what I said?' 'Not me! Do it yourself. What kind of man are you? It's your responsibility, so you do it, and do it right.' It was hopeless. I thanked her and hung up. I really couldn't blame Midori for being angry. What with all the moving and fixing up and working for extra cash, I hadn't given her a second thought. Not even Naoko had crossed my mind the whole time. This was nothing new for me. Whenever I get involved in something, I shut out everything else. But then I began to think how I would have felt if the tables had been turned and Midori had moved somewhere without telling me where or getting in touch with me for three weeks. I would have been hurt - hurt badly, no doubt. No, we weren't lovers, but in a way we had opened ourselves to each other even more deeply than lovers do. The thought caused me a good deal of grief. What a terrible thing it is to wound someone you really care for - and to do it so unconsciously. As soon as I got home from work, I sat at my new desk and wrote to Midori. I told her how I felt as honestly as I could. I apologized, without explanations or excuses, for having been so careless and insensitive. I miss you, I wrote. I want to see you as soon as possible. I want you to see my new house. Please write to 291 me, I said, and sent the letter special delivery. The answer never came. This was the beginning of one weird spring. I spent the whole holiday waiting for letters. I couldn't take a trip, I couldn't go home to see my parents, I couldn't even take a part-time job because there was no telling when a letter might arrive from Naoko saying she wanted me to come and see her on such-and-such a date. Afternoons I would spend in the nearby shopping district in Kichijoji, watching double bills or reading in a jazz café. I saw no one and talked to almost no one. And once a week I would write to Naoko. I never suggested to her that I was hoping for an answer. I didn't want to pressure her in any way. I would tell her about my painting job, about Seagull, about the peach blossom in the garden, about the nice old lady who sold tofu, about the nasty old lady in the local restaurant, about the meals I was making for myself. But still, she never wrote. Whenever I was fed up reading or listening to records, I would work a little in the garden. From my landlord I borrowed a rake and broom and pruning shears and spent my time pulling weeds and trimming bushes. It didn't take much to make the garden look good. Once the owner invited me to join him for a cup of tea, so we sat on the veranda of the main house drinking green tea and munching on rice crackers, sharing small talk. After retirement, he had got a job with an insurance company, he said, but he had left that, too, after a couple of years, and now he was taking it easy. The house and land had been in the family for a long time, his children were grown-up and independent, and he could manage a comfortable old age without working. Which is why he and his wife were always travelling together. 'That's nice,' I said. 'No it's not,' he answered. 'Travelling is no fun. I'd much rather be working.' He let the garden grow wild, he said, because there were no decent 292 gardeners in the area and because he had developed allergies that made it impossible for him to do the work himself. Cutting grass made him sneeze. When we had finished our tea, he showed me a storage shed and told me I could use anything I found inside, more or less by way of thanks for my gardening. 'We don't have any use for any of this stuff,' he said, 'so feel free.' And in fact the place was crammed with all kinds of things - an old wooden bath, a kids' swimming pool, baseball bats. I found an old bike, a handy-sized dining table with two chairs, a mirror, and a guitar. 'I'd like to borrow these if you don't mind,' I said. 'Feel free,' he said again. I spent a day working on the bike: cleaning the rust off, oiling the bearings, pumping up the tyres, adjusting the gears, and taking it to a bike repair shop to have a new gear cable installed. It looked like a different bike by the time I had finished. I cleaned a thick layer of dust off the table and gave it a new coat of varnish. I replaced the strings of the guitar and glued a section of the body that was coming apart. I took a wire brush to the rust on the tuning pegs and adjusted those. It wasn't much of a guitar, but at least I got it to stay in tune. I hadn't had a guitar in my hands since school, I realized. I sat on the porch and picked my way through The Drifters' 'Up on the Roof' as well as I could. I was amazed to find I still remembered most of the chords. Next I took a few planks of wood and made myself a square letterbox. I painted it red, wrote my name on it, and set it outside my door. Up until 3 April, the only post that found its way to my box was something that had been forwarded from the dorm: a notice from the reunion committee of my school. A class reunion was the last thing I wanted to have anything to do with. That was the class I had been in with Kizuki. I threw it in the bin. I found a letter in the box on the afternoon of 4 April. It said Reiko Ishida on the back. I made a nice, clean cut across the seal with my 293 scissors and went out to the porch to read it. I had a feeling this was not going to be good news, and I was right. First Reiko apologized for making me wait so long for an answer. Naoko had been struggling to write me a letter, she said, but she could never seem to write one through to the end. I offered to send you an answer in her place, but every time I pointed out how wrong it was of her to keep you waiting, she insisted that it was far too personal a matter, that she would write to you herself, which is why I haven't written sooner. I'm sorry, really. I hope you can forgive me. I know you must have had a difficult month waiting for an answer, but believe me, the month has been just as difficult for Naoko. Please try to understand what she's been going through. Her condition is not good, I have to say in all honesty. She was trying her best to stand on her own two feet, but so far the results have not been good. Looking back, I see now that the first symptom of her problem was her loss of the ability to write letters. That happened around the end of November or beginning of December. Then she started hearing things. Whenever she would try to write a letter, she would hear people talking to her, which made it impossible for her to write. The voices would interfere with her attempts to choose her words. It wasn't all that bad until about the time of your second visit, so I didn't take it too seriously. For all of us here, these kinds of symptoms come in cycles, more or less. In her case, they got quite serious after you left. She is having trouble now just holding an ordinary conversation. She can't find the right words to speak, and that puts her into a terribly confused state - confused and frightened. Meanwhile, the 'things' she's hearing are getting worse. We have a session every day with one of the specialists. Naoko and the doctor and I sit around talking and trying to find the exact part of her that's broken. I came up with the idea that it would be good to add 294 you to one of our sessions if possible, and the doctor was in favour of it, but Naoko was against it. I can tell you exactly what her reason was: 'I want my body to be clean of all this when I meet him.' That was not the problem, I said to her; the problem was to get her well as quickly as possible, and I pushed as hard as I could, but she wouldn't change her mind. I think I once explained to you that this is not a specialized hospital. We do have medical specialists here, of course, and they provide effective treatments, but concentrated therapy is another matter. The point of this place is to create an effective environment in which the patient can treat herself or himself, and that does not, properly speaking, include medical treatment. Which means that if Naoko's condition grows any worse, they will probably have to transfer her to some other hospital or medical facility or what have you. Personally, I would find this very painful, but we would have to do it. That isn't to say that she couldn't come back here for treatment on a kind of temporary 'leave of absence'. Or, better yet, she could even be cured and finish with hospitals completely. In any case, we're doing everything we can, and Naoko is doing everything she can. The best thing you can do meanwhile is hope for her recovery and keep sending her those letters. It was dated 31 March. After I had read it, I stayed on the porch and let my eyes wander out to the garden, full now with the freshness of spring. An old cherry tree stood there, its blossoms nearing the height of their glory. A soft breeze blew, and the light of day lent its strangely blurred, smoky colours to everything. Seagull wandered over from somewhere, and after scratching at the boards of the veranda for a while, she stretched out next to me and fell asleep. I knew I should be doing some serious thinking, but I had no idea how to go about it. And, to tell the truth, thinking was the last thing I wanted to do. The time would come soon enough when I had no 295 choice in the matter, and when that time came I would take a good, long while to think things over. Not now, though. Not now. I spent the day staring at the garden, propped against a pillar and stroking Seagull. I felt completely drained. The afternoon deepened, twilight approached, and bluish shadows enveloped the garden. Seagull disappeared, but I went on staring at the cherry blossoms. In the spring gloom, they looked like flesh that had burst through the skin over festering wounds. The garden filled up with the sweet, heavy stench of rotting flesh. And that's when I thought of Naoko's flesh. Naoko's beautiful flesh lay before me in the darkness, countless buds bursting through her skin, green and trembling in an almost imperceptible breeze. Why did such a beautiful body have to be so ill? I wondered. Why didn't they just leave Naoko alone? I went inside and drew my curtains, but even indoors there was no escape from the smell of spring. It filled everything from the ground up. But the only thing the smell of spring brought to mind for me now was that putrefying stench. Shut in behind my curtains, I felt a violent loathing for spring. I hated what the spring had in store for me; I hated the dull, throbbing ache it aroused inside me. I had never hated anything in my life with such intensity. I spent three full days after that all but walking on the bottom of the sea. I could hardly hear what people said to me, and they had just as much trouble catching anything I had to say. My whole body felt enveloped in some kind of membrane, cutting off any direct contact between me and the outside world. I couldn't touch 'them', and 'they' couldn't touch me. I was utterly helpless, and as long as I remained in that state, 'they' were unable to reach out to me. I sat leaning against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. When I felt hungry I would nibble anything within reach, drink some water, and when the sadness of it got to me, I'd knock myself out with whisky. I didn't bathe, I didn't shave. This is how the three days went by. 296 A letter came from Midori on 6 April. She invited me to meet her on campus and have lunch on the tenth when we had to enroll for lectures. I put off writing to you as long as I could, which makes us even, so let's make up. I have to admit it, I miss you. I read the letter again and again, four times all together, and still I couldn't tell what she was trying to say to me. What could it possibly mean? My brain was so fogged over, I couldn't find the connection from one sentence to the next. How would meeting her on enrolment day make us 'even'? Why did she want to have 'lunch' with me? I was really losing it. My mind had gone slack, like the soggy roots of a subterranean plant. But somehow I knew I had to snap out of it. And then those words of Nagasawa's came to mind: 'Don't feel sorry for yourself. Only arseholes do that.' 'OK, Nagasawa. Right on,' I heard myself thinking. I let out a sigh and got to my feet. I did my laundry for the first time in weeks, went to the public bath and shaved, cleaned my place up, shopped for food and cooked myself a decent meal for a change, fed the starving Seagull, drank only beer, and did 30 minutes of exercise. Shaving, I discovered in the mirror that I was becoming emaciated. My eyes were popping. I could hardly recognize myself. I went out the next morning on a longish bike ride, and after finishing lunch at home, I read Reiko's letter one more time. Then thought seriously about what I ought to do next. The main reason I had taken Reiko's letter so hard was that it had upset my optimistic belief that Naoko was getting better. Naoko herself had told me, 'My sickness is a lot worse than you think: it has far deeper roots.' And Reiko had warned me there was no telling what might happen. Still, I had seen Naoko twice, and had gained the impression she was on the mend. I had assumed that the only problem was whether she could 297 regain the courage to return to the real world, and that if she managed to, the two of us could join forces and make a go of it. Reiko's letter smashed the illusory castle that I had built on that fragile hypothesis, leaving only a flattened surface devoid of feeling. I would have to do something to regain my footing. It would probably take a long time for Naoko to recover. And even then, she would no doubt be more debilitated and would have lost even more of her self confidence than ever. I would have to adapt myself to this new situation. As strong as I might become, though, it would not solve all the problems. I knew that much. But there was nothing else I could do: just keep my own spirits up and wait for her to recover. Hey, there, Kizuki, I thought. Unlike you, I've chosen to live - and to live the best I know how. Sure, it was hard for you. What the hell, it's hard for me. Really hard. And all because you killed yourself and left Naoko behind. But that's something I will never do. I will never, ever, turn my back on her. First of all, because I love her, and because I'm stronger than she is. And I'm just going to keep on getting stronger. I'm going to mature. I'm going to be an adult. Because that's what I have to do. I always used to think I'd like to stay 17 or 18 if I could. But not any more. I'm not a teenager any more. I've got a sense of responsibility now. I'm not the same person I was when we used to hang out together. I'm 20 now. And I have to pay the price to go on living. 'Shit, Watanabe, what happened to you?' Midori asked. 'You're all skin and bones!' 'That bad, huh?' 'Too much you-know-what with that married girlfriend of yours, I bet.' I smiled and shook my head. 'I haven't slept with a girl since the 298 beginning of October.' 'Whew! That can't be true. We're talking six months here!' 'You heard me.' 'So how did you lose so much weight?' 'By growing up,' I said. Midori put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye with a twisted scowl that soon turned into a sweet smile. 'It's true,' she said. 'Something's kind of different. You've changed.' 'I told you, I grew up. I'm an adult now.' 'You're fantastic, the way your brain works,' she said as though genuinely impressed. 'Let's eat. I'm starving.' We went to a little restaurant behind the literature department. I ordered the lunch special and she did the same. 'Hey, Watanabe, are you mad at me?' 'What for?' 'For not answering you, just to get even. Do you think I shouldn't have done that? I mean, you apologized and everything.' 'Yeah, but it was my fault to begin with. That's just how it goes.' 'My sister says I shouldn't have done it. That it was too unforgiving, too childish.' 'Yeah, but it made you feel better, didn't it, getting even like that?' 'Uh-huh.' 'OK, then, that's that.' 'You are forgiving, aren't you?' Midori said. 'But tell me the truth, Watanabe, you haven't had sex for six months?' 'Not once.' 'So, that time you put me to bed, you must have really wanted it bad.' 'Yeah, I guess I did.' 'But you didn't do it, did you?' 'Look, you're the best friend I've got now,' I said. 'I don't want to lose you.' 'You know, if you had tried to force yourself on me that time, I wouldn't have been able to resist, I was so exhausted.' 'But I was too big and hard,' I said. 299 Midori smiled and touched my wrist. 'A little before that, I decided I was going to believe in you. A hundred per cent. That's how I managed to sleep like that with total peace of mind. I knew I'd be all right, I'd be safe with you there. And I did sleep like a log, didn't I?' 'You sure did.' 'On the other hand, if you were to say to me, 'Hey, Midori, let's do it. Then everything'll be great,' I'd probably do it with you. Now, don't think I'm trying to seduce you or tease you. I'm just telling you what's on my mind, with total honesty.' 'I know, I know.' While we ate lunch, we showed each other our enrolment cards and found that we had enrolled for two of the same courses. So I'd be seeing her twice a week at least. With that out of the way, Midori told me about her living arrangements. For a while, neither she nor her sister could get used to living in a flat - because it was too easy, she said. They had always been used to running around like mad every day, taking care of sick people, helping out at the bookshop, and one thing or another. 'We're finally getting used to it, though,' she said. 'This is the way we should have been living all along - not having to worry about anyone else's needs, just stretching out any way we felt like it. It made us both nervous at first, as if our bodies were floating a few inches off the ground. It didn't seem real, like real life couldn't actually be like that. We were both tense, as though everything was about to be tipped upside down any minute.' 'A couple of worriers,' I said with a smile. 'Well, it's just that life has been so cruel to us until now,' Midori said. 'But that's OK. We're going to get back every thing it owes us.' 'I bet you are,' I said, 'knowing you. But tell me, what's your sister doing these days?' 'A friend of hers opened this swanky accessory shop a little while 300 ago. My sister helps out there three times a week. Otherwise, she's studying cookery, going on dates with her fiancé, going to the cinema, vegging out, and just enjoying life. Midori then asked about my new life. I gave her a description of the layout of the house, and the big garden and Seagull the cat, and my landlord. 'Are you enjoying yourself?' she asked. 'Pretty much,' I said. 'Could have fooled me,' said Midori. 'Yeah, and it's springtime, too,' I said. 'And you're wearing that cool pullover your girlfriend knitted for you.' With a sudden shock I glanced down at my wine-coloured jumper. 'How did you know?' 'You're as honest as they come,' said Midori. 'I'm guessing, of course! Anyway, what's wrong with you?' 'I don't know. I'm trying to whip up a little enthusiasm.' 'Just remember, life is a box of chocolates.' I shook my head a few times and looked at her. 'Maybe I'm not so smart, but sometimes I don't know what on earth you're talking about.' 'You know, they've got these chocolate assortments, and you like some but you don't like others? And you eat all the ones you like, and the only ones left are the ones you don't like as much? I always think about that when something painful comes up. 'Now I just have to polish these off, and everything'll be OK.' Life is a box of chocolates.' 'I suppose you could call it a philosophy.' 'It's true, though. I've learned it from experience.' We were drinking our coffee when two girls came in. Midori seemed to know them from university. The three of them compared enrolment cards and talked about a million different things: 'What kind of mark 301 did you get in German?' 'So-and-so got hurt in the campus riots.' 'Great shoes, where did you buy them?' I half-listened, but it felt as though their comments were coming from the other side of the world. I sipped my coffee and watched the scene passing by the shop window. It was a typical university springtime scene as the new year was getting under way: a haze hanging in the sky, the cherry trees blooming, the new students (you could tell at a glance) carrying armloads of new books. I felt myself drifting off a little and thought about Naoko, unable to return to her studies again this year. A small glass full of anemones stood by the window. When the other two went back to their table, Midori and I left to walk around the neighbourhood. We visited a few second-hand bookshops, bought some books, went to another café for another cup, played some pinball at an arcade, and sat on a park bench, talking - or, rather, Midori talked while I merely grunted in response. When she said she was thirsty, I ran over to a newsagent's and bought us two Cokes. I came back to find her scribbling away with her ballpoint pen on some ruled paper. 'What's that?' I asked. 'Nothing,' she said. 'I have to go,' she announced at 3.30. 'I'm supposed to meet my sister at the Ginza.' We walked to the subway station and went off in different directions. As she left, Midori stuffed the piece of paper, now folded in four, into my pocket. 'Read this when you get home,' she said. I read it on the train. I'm writing this letter to you while you're off buying drinks. This is the first time in my life I've ever written a letter to somebody sitting next to me on a bench, but I feel it's the only way I can get through to you. I mean, you're hardly listening to anything I say. Am I right? Do you realize you did something terrible to me today? You never 302 even noticed that my hairstyle had changed, did you? I've been working on it forever, trying to grow it out, and finally, at the end of last week, I managed to get it into a style you could actually call girlish, but you never even noticed. It was looking pretty good, so I thought I'd give you a little shock when you saw me for the first time after so long, but it didn't even register with you. Don't you think that's awful? I bet you can't even remember what I was wearing today. Hey, I'm a girl! So what if you've got something on your mind? You can spare me one decent look! All you had to say was 'Cute hair', and I would have been able to forgive you for being sunk in a million thoughts, but no! Which is why I'm going to tell you a lie. It's not true that I have to meet my sister at the Ginza. I was planning to spend the night at your place. I even brought my pyjamas with me. It's true. I've got my pyjamas and a toothbrush in my bag. I'm such an idiot! I mean, you never even invited me over to see your new place. Oh well, what the hell, you obviously want to be alone, so I'll leave you alone. Go ahead and think away to your heart's content! But don't get me wrong. I'm not totally mad at you. I'm just sad. You were so nice to me when I was having my problems, but now that you're having yours, it seems there's not a thing I can do for you. You're all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside. So now I see you coming back with our drinks - walking and thinking. I was hoping you'd trip, but you didn't. Now you're sitting next to me drinking your Coke. I was holding out one last hope that you'd notice and say 'Hey, your hair's changed!' but no. If you had, I would have torn up this letter and said: 'Let's go to your place. I'll make you a nice dinner. And afterwards we can go to bed and cuddle.' But you're about as sensitive as a steel plate. Goodbye. PS. Please don't talk to me next time we meet. 303 I rang Midori's flat from the station when I got off the train in Kichijoji, but there was no answer. With nothing better to do, I ambled around the neighbourhood looking for some part-time work I could take after lectures began. I would be free all day Saturday and Sunday and could work after five o'clock on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays; but finding a job that fitted my particular schedule was no easy matter. I gave up and went home. When I went out to buy groceries for dinner, I tried Midori's place again. Her sister told me that Midori hadn't come home yet and that she had no idea when she'd be back. I thanked her and hung up. After eating, I tried to write to Midori, but I gave up after several false starts and wrote to Naoko instead. Spring was here, I said, and the new university year was starting. I told her I missed her, that I had been hoping, one way or another, to be able to meet her and talk. In any case, I wrote, I've decided to make myself strong. As far as I can tell, that's all I can do. There's one other thing. Maybe it's just to do with me, and you may not care about this one way or another, but I'm not sleeping with anybody any more. It's because I don't want to forget the last time you touched me. It meant a lot more to me than you might think. I think about it all of the time. I put the letter in an envelope, stuck on a stamp, and sat at my desk a long while staring at it. It was a much shorter letter than usual, but I had the feeling that Naoko might understand me better that way. I poured myself an inch-and-a-half of whisky, drank it in two swallows, and went to sleep. The next day I found a job near Kichijoji Station that I could do on 304 Saturdays and Sundays: waiting on tables at a smallish Italian restaurant. The conditions were pretty poor, but travel and lunch expenses were included. And whenever somebody on the late shift took the day off on a Monday, Wednesday or Thursday (which happened often) I could take their place. This was perfect for me. The manager said they would raise my pay when I had stayed for three months, and they wanted me to start that Saturday. He was a much more decent guy than the idiot who ran the record shop in Shinjuku. I tried phoning Midori's flat again, and again her sister answered. Midori hadn't come back since yesterday, she said, sounding tired, and now she herself was beginning to worry: did I have any idea where she might have gone? All I knew was that Midori had her pyjamas and a toothbrush in her bag. I saw Midori at the lecture on Wednesday. She was wearing a deep green pullover and the dark sunglasses she had often worn that summer. She was seated in the last row, talking with a thin girl with glasses I had seen once before. I approached her and said I'd like to talk afterwards. The girl with glasses looked at me first, and then Midori looked at me. Her hairstyle was, in fact, somewhat more feminine than it had been before: more mature. 'I have to meet someone,' she said, cocking her head slightly. 'I won't take up much of your time,' I said. 'Five minutes.' Midori removed her sunglasses and narrowed her eyes. She might just as well have been looking at a crumbling, abandoned house some hundred yards in the distance. 'I don't want to talk to you. Sorry,' she said. The girl with glasses looked at me with eyes that said: She says she doesn't want to talk to you. Sorry. I sat at the right end of the front row for the lecture (an overview of 305 the works of Tennessee Williams and their place in American literature), and when it was over, I did a long count to three and turned around. Midori was gone. April was too lonely a month to spend all alone. In April, everyone around me looked happy. People would throw off their coats and enjoy each other's company in the sunshine - talking, playing catch, holding hands. But I was always by myself. Naoko, Midori, Nagasawa: all of them had gone away from where I stood. Now I had no one to say 'Good morning' to or 'Have a nice day'. I even missed Storm Trooper. I spent the whole month with this hopeless sense of isolation. I tried to speak to Midori a few times, but the answer I got from her was always the same: 'I don't want to talk to you now' - and I knew from the tone of her voice that she meant it. She was always with the girl with glasses, or else I saw her with a tall, short-haired guy. He had these incredibly long legs and always wore white basketball shoes. April ended and May came along, but May was even worse than April. In the deepening spring of May, I had no choice but to recognize the trembling of my heart. It usually happened as the sun was going down. In the pale evening gloom, when the soft fragrance of magnolias hung in the air, my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and wait for it to pass. And it would pass - but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache in its path. At those times I would write to Naoko. In my letters to her, I would describe only things that were touching or pleasant or beautiful: the fragrance of grasses, the caress of a spring breeze, the light of the moon, a film I'd seen, a song I liked, a book that had moved me. I myself would be comforted by letters like this when I would reread what I had written. And I would feel that the world I lived in was a wonderful one. I wrote any number 306 of letters like this, but from Naoko or Reiko I heard nothing. At the restaurant where I worked I got to know another student my age named Itoh. It took quite a while before this gentle, quiet student from the oil-painting department of an art college would engage me in conversation, but eventually we started going to a nearby bar after work and talking about all kinds of things. He also liked to read and to listen to music, so we'd usually talk about books and records we liked. He was a slim, good-looking guy with much shorter hair and far cleaner clothes than the typical art student. He never had a lot to say, but he had his definite tastes and opinions. He liked French novels, especially those of Georges Bataille and Boris Vian. For music, he preferred Mozart and Ravel. And, like me, he was looking for a friend with whom he could talk about such things. Itoh once invited me to his flat. It was not quite as hard to get to as mine: a strange, one-floored house behind Inokashira Park. His room was stuffed with painting supplies and canvases. I asked to see his work, but he said he was too embarrassed to show me anything. We drank some Chivas Regal that he had quietly removed from his father's place, grilled some smelts on his charcoal stove, and listened to Robert Casadesus playing a Mozart piano concerto. Itoh was from Nagasaki. He had a girlfriend he would sleep with whenever he went home, he said, but things weren't going too well with her lately. 'You know what girls are like,' he said. 'They turn 20 or 21 and all of a sudden they start having these concrete ideas. They get superrealistic. And when that happens, everything that seemed so sweet and loveable about them begins to look ordinary and depressing. Now when I see her, usually after we do it, she starts asking me, 'What are you going to do after you graduate?'' 'Well, what are you going to do after you graduate?' I asked him. Munching on a mouthful of smelt, he shook his head. 'What can I do? I'm in oil painting! Start worrying about stuff like that, and nobody's 307 going to study oil painting! You don't do it to feed yourself. So she's like, 'Why don't you come back to Nagasaki and become an art teacher?' She's planning to be an English teacher.' 'You're not so crazy about her any more, are you?' 'That just about sums it up,' Itoh admitted. 'And who on earth wants to be an art teacher? I'm not gonna spend my whole fuckin' life teaching teenaged monkeys how to draw!' 'That's beside the point,' I said. 'Don't you think you ought to break up with her? For both your sakes.' 'Sure I do. But I don't know how to say it to her. She's planning to spend her life with me. How the hell can I say, 'Hey, we ought to split up. I don't like you any more'?' We drank our Chivas straight, without ice, and when we ran out of smelts we cut up some cucumbers and celery and dipped them in miso. When my teeth crunched down on my cucumber slices, I thought of Midori's father, which reminded me how flat and tasteless my life had become without Midori and this put me in a foul mood. Without my being aware of it, she had become a huge presence inside me. 'Got a girlfriend?' asked Itoh. 'Yeah,' I said, then, after a pause added, 'but I can't be with her at the moment.' 'But you understand each other's feelings, right?' 'I like to think so. Otherwise, what's the point?' I said with a chuckle. Itoh talked in hushed tones about the greatness of Mozart. He knew Mozart inside out, the way a country boy knows his mountain trails. His father loved the music and had exposed him to it ever since he was tiny. I didn't know so much about classical music, but listening to this Mozart concerto with Itoh's smart and heartfelt commentary ('There - that part,' 'How about that?'), I felt myself calming down for the first time in ages. We stared at the crescent moon hanging over Inokashira Park and drank our Chivas Regal to the last drop. Fantastic 308 whisky. Itoh said I could spend the night there, but I told him I had to do something, thanked him for the whisky and left his flat before nine. On the way back to my place I called Midori from a phone box. Much to my surprise she actually answered. 'Sorry,' she said, 'but I don't want to talk to you right now.' 'I know, I know. But I don't want our relationship to end like this. You're one of the very few friends I have, and it hurts not being able to see you. When am I going to be able to talk to you? I want you to tell me that much, at least.' 'When I feel like talking to you,' she said. 'How are you?' I asked. 'Fine,' she said, and hung up. A letter came from Reiko in the middle of May. Thanks for writing so often. Naoko enjoys your letters. And so do I. You don't mind if I read them, do you? Sorry I haven't been able to answer for such a long time. To tell you the truth, I've been feeling a bit exhausted, and there hasn't been much good news to report. Naoko's not doing well. Her mother came from Kobe the other day. The four of us - she and Naoko and the doctor and I - had a good, long talk and we reached the conclusion that Naoko should move to a real hospital for a while for some intensive treatment and then maybe come back here depending on the results. Naoko says she'd like to stay here if possible and make herself well, and I know I am going to miss her and worry about her, but the fact is that it's getting harder and harder to keep her under control here. She's fine most of the time, but sometimes her emotions become extremely unstable, and when that happens we can't take our eyes off her. There's no telling what she would do. When she has those intense episodes of hearing voices, she shuts down completely and burrows 309 inside herself. Which is why I myself agree that the best thing for Naoko would be for her to receive therapy at a proper institution for a while. I hate to say it, but it's all we can do. As I told you once before, patience is the most important thing. We have to go on unravelling the jumbled threads one at a time, without losing hope. No matter how hopeless her condition may appear to be, we are bound to find that one loose thread sooner or later. If you're in pitch blackness, all you can do is sit tight until your eyes get used to the dark. Naoko should have moved to that other hospital by the time you receive this. I'm sorry I waited to tell you until the decisions had been made, but it happened very quickly. The new hospital is a really good one, with good doctors. I'll write the address below: please write to Naoko there. They will be keeping me informed of her progress, too, so I will let you know what I hear. I hope it will be good news. I know this is going to be hard for you, but keep your hopes up. And even though Naoko is not here any more, please write to me once in a while. Goodbye. I wrote a huge number of letters that spring: one a week to Naoko, several to Reiko, and several more to Midori. I wrote letters in the lecture hall, I wrote letters at my desk at home with Seagull on my lap, I wrote letters at empty tables during my breaks at the Italian restaurant. It was as if I were writing letters to hold together the pieces of my crumbling life. To Midori I wrote: April and May were painful, lonely months for me because I couldn't talk to you. I never knew that spring could be so painful and lonely. Better to have three Februaries than a spring like this. I know it's too late to be saying this, but your new hairstyle looks great on you. Really cute. I'm working at an Italian restaurant now, and the cook taught me a great way to make spaghetti. I'd like to make 310 it for you soon. I went to the university every day, worked in the restaurant two or three times a week, talked with Itoh about books and music, read a few Boris Vian novels he lent me, wrote letters, played with Seagull, made spaghetti, worked in the garden, masturbated thinking of Naoko, and saw lots of films. It was almost the middle of June by the time Midori started talking to me. We hadn't said a word to each other for two months. After the end of one lecture, she sat down next to me, propped her chin in her hand, and sat there, saying nothing. Beyond the window, it was raining - a really rainy-season rain, pouring straight down without any wind, soaking every single thing beneath. Long after the other students had filed out of the classroom, Midori went on sitting next to me without a word. Then she took a Marlboro from the pocket of her jeans jacket, put it between her lips, and handed me her matches. I struck a match and lit her cigarette. Midori pursed her lips and blew a gentle cloud of tobacco in my face. 'Like my hairstyle?' she asked. 'It's great.' 'How great?' 'Great enough to knock down all the trees in all the forests of the world.' 'You really think so?' 'I really think so.' She kept her eyes on mine for a while, then held her right hand out to me. I took it. She looked even more relieved than I felt. She tapped her ashes onto the floor and rose to her feet. 'Let's eat. I'm starving,' she said. 'Where do you want to go?' I asked. 'To the restaurant of the Takashimaya department store in 311 Nihonbashi.' 'Why there of all places?' 'I like to go there sometimes, that's all.' And so we took the subway to Nihonbashi. The place was practically empty, maybe because it had been raining all morning. The smell of rain filled the big, cavernous department store, and all the employees had that what-do-we-do-now? kind of look. Midori and I went to the basement restaurant and, after a close inspection of the plastic food in the window, both decided to have an old-fashioned cold lunch assortment with rice and pickles and grilled fish and tempura and teriyaki chicken. Inside, it was far from crowded despite it being midday. 'God, how long has it been since I last had lunch in a departmentstore restaurant?' I wondered aloud, drinking green tea from one of those slick, white cups you only get in a department-store restaurant. 'I like to do stuff like this,' said Midori. 'I don't know, it makes me feel like I'm doing something special. Probably reminds me of when I was a kid. My parents almost never took me to department stores.' 'And I get the sneaking suspicion that's all mine ever did. My mother was crazy about them.' 'Lucky you!' 'What are you talking about? I don't particularly like going to department stores.' 'No, I mean, you were lucky they cared enough about you to take you places.'-' 'Well, I was an only child,' I said. 'When I was little I used to dream about going to a department-store restaurant all by myself when I grew up and eating anything I liked. But what an empty dream! What's the fun of cramming your mouth full of rice all alone in a place like this? The food's not all that great, and it's just big and crowded and stuffy and noisy. Still, every once in a while I think about coming here.' 312 'I've been really lonely these past two months,' I said. 'Yeah, I know. You told me in your letters,' Midori said, her voice flat. 'Anyway, let's eat. That's all I can think about now.' We finished all the little fried and grilled and pickled items in the separate compartments of our fancy lacquered half-moon lunch boxes, drank our clear soup from lacquered bowls, and our green tea from those white cups. Midori followed lunch with a cigarette. When she had finished smoking, she stood up without a word and took her umbrella. I also stood up and took mine. 'Where do you want to go now?' I asked. 'The roof, of course. That's the next stop when you've had lunch in a department-store restaurant.' There was no one on the roof in the rain, no clerk in the pet department, and the shutters were closed in the kiosks and the children's rides ticket booth. We opened our umbrellas and wandered among the soaking wet wooden horses and garden chairs and stalls. It seemed incredible to me that there could be anywhere so devoid of people in the middle of Tokyo. Midori said she wanted to look through a telescope, so I put in a coin and held her umbrella over her while she squinted through the eyepiece. In one corner of the roof there was a covered game area with a row of children's rides. Midori and I sat next to each other on some kind of platform and looked at the rain. 'So talk,' Midori said. 'You've got something you want to say to me, I know.' 'I'm not trying to make excuses,' I said, 'but I was really depressed that time. My brain was all fogged over. Nothing was registering with me. But one thing became crystal clear to me when I couldn't see you any more. I realized that the only way I had been able to survive until then was having you in my life. When I lost you, the pain and loneliness really got to me.' 'Don't you have any idea how painful and lonely it's been for me 313 without you these past two months?' This took me completely off guard. 'No,' I said. 'It never occurred to me. I thought you were angry with me and didn't want to see me.' 'How can you be such an idiot? Of course I wanted to see you! I told you how much I like you! When I like somebody I really like them. It doesn't turn on and off for me just like that. Don't you realize at least that much about me?' 'Well, sure, but - ' 'That's why I was so mad at you! I wanted to give you a good kick up the arse. I mean, we hadn't seen each other that whole time, and you were so spaced out thinking about this other girl you didn't even look at me! How could I not get angry at you? But apart from all that, I had been feeling for a long time that it would be better for me if I kept away from you for a while. To get things clear in my head.' 'What kind of things?' 'Our relationship, of course. It was getting to the point where I enjoyed being with you far more than being with him. I mean, don't you think there's something weird about that? And difficult? Of course I still like him. He's a little self-centred and narrow-minded and kind of a fascist, but he's got a lot of good points, and he's the first man I ever felt serious about. But you, well, you're special to me. When I'm with you I feel something is just right. I believe in you. I like you. I don't want to let you go. I was getting more and more confused, so I went to him and asked him what I should do. He told me to stop seeing you. He said if I was going to see you, I should break up with him.' 'So what did you do?' 'I broke up with him. Just like that.' Midori put a Marlboro in her mouth, shielded it with her hand as she lit up, and inhaled. 'Why?' ''Why?'!' she screamed. 'Are you crazy? You know the English subjunctive, you understand trigonometry, you can read Marx, and 314 you don't know the answer to something as simple as that? Why do you even have to ask? Why do you have to make a girl say something like this? I like you more than I like him, that's all. I wish I had fallen in love with somebody a little more handsome, of course. But I didn't. I fell in love with you!' I tried to speak, but I felt the words catching in my throat. Midori threw her cigarette into a puddle. 'Will you please get that look off your face? You're gonna make me cry. Don't worry, I know you're in love with somebody else. I'm not expecting anything from you. But the least you can do is give me a hug. These have been two tough months for me.' I put up my umbrella, and we went behind the game area and held each other close. Our bodies strained against each other, and our lips met. The smell of the rain clung to her hair and her jeans jacket. Girls' bodies were so soft and warm! I could feel her breasts pressing against my chest through our clothing. How long had it been since my last physical contact with another human being? 'The day I last saw you, that night I talked to him, and we broke up,' Midori said. 'I love you,' I said to her. 'From the bottom of my heart. I don't ever want to let you go again. But there's nothing I can do. I can't make a move.' 'Because of her?' I nodded. 'Tell me, have you slept with her?' 'Once. A year ago.' 'And you haven't seen her since then?' 'I have seen her: twice. But we didn't do anything.' 'Why not? Doesn't she love you?' 'That's hard to say,' I said. 'It's really complicated. And mixed up. And it's been going on for such a long time, I don't know what's what any more. And neither does she. All I know is, I have a 315 sort of responsibility in all this as a human being, and I can't just turn my back on it. At least, that's how I feel about it now. Even if she isn't in love with me.' 'Let me just tell you this, Watanabe,' said Midori, pressing her cheek against my neck. 'I'm a real, live girl, with real, live blood gushing through my veins. You're holding me in your arms and I'm telling you that I love you. I'm ready to do anything you tell me to do. I may be a little bit mad, but I'm a good girl, and honest, and I work hard, I'm kind of cute, I have nice boobs, I'm a good cook, and my father left me a trust fund. I mean, I'm a real bargain, don't you think? If you don't take me, I'll end up going somewhere else.' 'I need time,' I said. 'I need time to think and sort things out, and make some decisions. I'm sorry, but that's all I can say at this point.' 'Yeah, but you do love me from the bottom of your heart, right? And you never want to let me go again, right?' 'I said it and I meant it.' Midori pulled away from me with a smile on her face. 'OK, I'll wait! I believe in you,' she said. 'But when you take me, you take only me. And when you hold me in your arms, you think only about me. Is that clear?' 'I understand exactly.' 'I don't care what you do to me, but I don't want you to hurt me. I've had enough hurt already in my life. More than enough. Now I want to be happy.' I drew her close and kissed her on the mouth. 'Drop the damn umbrella and wrap both your arms around me - hard!' she said. 'But we'll get soaking wet!' 'So what? I want you to stop thinking and hold me tight! I've been waiting two whole months for this!' I set down the umbrella and held her close in the rain. The dull rush of tyres on the highway enveloped us like a fog. The rain fell without a 316 break, without a sound, soaking her hair and mine, running like tears down our cheeks, down to her denim jacket and my yellow nylon windcheater, spreading in dark stains. 'How about going back under the roof?' I said. 'Come to my place. There's nobody home now. We'll both catch colds like this.' 'It's true.' 'It's as if we've just swum across a river,' Midori said, smiling. 'What a great feeling!' We bought a good-sized towel in the linen department and took turns going into the bathroom to dry our hair. Then we took the subway, with the necessary top-up tickets, to her flat in Myogadani. She let me shower first and then she showered. Lending me a bathrobe to wear while my clothes dried, Midori changed into a polo shirt and skirt. We sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. 'Tell me about yourself,' Midori said. 'What about me?' 'Hmm, I don't know, what do you hate?' 'Chicken and VD and barbers who talk too much.' 'What else?' 'Lonely April nights and lacy telephone covers.' 'What else?' I shook my head. 'I can't think of anything else.' 'My boyfriend - which is to say, my ex-boyfriend - had all kinds of things he hated. Like when I wore too-short skirts, or when I smoked, or how I got drunk too quickly, or said disgusting things, or criticized his friends. So if there's anything about me you don't like, just tell me, and I'll fix it if I can.' 'I can't think of anything,' I said after giving it some thought. 'There's nothing.' 'Really?' 'I like everything you wear, and I like what you do and say and how you walk and how you get drunk. Everything.' 'You mean I'm really OK just the way I am?' 317 'I don't know how you could change, so you must be fine the way you are.' 'How much do you love me?' Midori asked. 'Enough to melt all the tigers in the world to butter,' I said. 'Far out,' she said with a hint of satisfaction. 'Will you hold me again?' We got into her bed and held each other, kissing as the sound of the rain filled our ears. Then we talked about everything from the formation of the universe to our preferences in the hardness of boiled eggs. 'I wonder what ants do on rainy days?' Midori asked. 'No idea,' I said. 'They're hard workers, so they probably spend the day cleaning house or stock-taking.' 'If they work so hard, why don't they evolve? They've been the same for ever.' 'I don't know,' I said. 'Maybe their body structure isn't suited to evolving - compared with monkeys, say.' 'Hey, Watanabe, there's a lot of stuff you don't know. I thought you knew everything.' 'It's a big world out there,' I said. 'High mountains, deep oceans,' Midori said. She put her hand inside my bathrobe and took hold of my erection. Then, with a gulp, she said, 'Hey, Watanabe, joking aside, this isn't gonna work. I could never get this big, hard thing inside me. No way.' 'You're kidding,' I said with a sigh. 'Yup,' she said, giggling. 'Don't worry. It'll be just fine. I'm sure it'll fit. Er, mind if I have a look?' 'Feel free.' Midori burrowed under the covers and groped me all over down there, stretching the skin of my penis, weighing my testicles in the palm of her hand. Then she poked her head out and sighed. 'I love it!' she said. 'No flattery intended! I really love it!' 'Thank you,' I said with simple gratitude. 318 'But really, Watanabe, you don't want to do it with me, do you - until you get all that business straightened out?' 'There's no way I don't want to do it with you,' I said. 'I'm going crazy I want to do it so bad. But it just wouldn't be right.' 'You're so damned stubborn! If I were you, I'd just do it - then think about it afterwards.' 'You would?' 'Only kidding,' Midori said in a tiny voice. 'I probably wouldn't do it, either, if I were you. And that's what I love about you. That's what I really really love about you.' 'How much do you love me?' I asked, but she didn't answer. Instead, she pressed against me, put her lips on my nipple and began to move the hand that was wrapped around my penis. The first thing that occurred to me was how different it was to the way Naoko moved her hand. Both were gentle and wonderful, but something was different about the way they did it, and so it felt like a totally different experience. 'Hey, Watanabe, I bet you're thinking about that other girl.' 'Not true,' I lied. 'Really?' 'Really.' 'Because I would really hate that.' 'I can't think about anybody else,' I said. 'Want to touch my breasts, or down there?' Midori asked. 'Oh wow, I'd love to, but I'd better not. If we do all those things at once, it'll be too much for me.' Midori nodded and rustled around under the covers, pulling her panties off and holding them against the tip of my penis. 'You can come on these,' she said. 'But it'll make a mess of them.' 'Stop it, will you? You're gonna make me cry,' said Midori, a if on the verge of tears. 'All I have to do is wash them. So don't hold back, just let yourself come all you want. If you're worried about my 319 panties, buy me a new pair. Or are they going to keep you from coming because they're mine?' 'No way,' I said. 'Go on then, let go.' When I was through, Midori inspected my semen. 'Wow, that's a huge amount!' 'Too much?' 'Nah, it's OK, silly. Come all you want,' she said with a smile. Then she kissed me. In the evening, Midori did some shopping in the neighbourhood and made dinner. We ate tempura and rice with green peas at the kitchen table, and washed it all down with beer. 'Eat a lot and make lots of semen,' Midori said. 'Then I'll be nice and help you get rid of it.' 'Thanks very much,' I said. 'I know all sorts of ways to do it. I learned from the women's magazines when we had the bookshop. Once they had this special edition all about how to take care of your husband so he won't cheat on you while you're pregnant and can't have sex. There's tons of ways. Wanna try 'em?' 'I can hardly wait,' I said. After saying goodbye to Midori, I bought a newspaper at the station, but when I opened it on the train, I realized I had absolutely no desire to read a paper and in fact couldn't understand what it said. All I could do was glare at the incomprehensible page of print and wonder what was going to happen to me from now on, and how the things around me would be changing. I felt as if the world was pulsating every now and then. I sighed deeply and closed my eyes. As regards what I had done that day, I felt not the slightest regret; I knew for certain that if I had to do it all over again, I would live this day in exactly the same way. I would hold Midori tight on the roof in the rain; I would get soaking wet with her; and I would let her fingers bring me to climax in 320 her bed. I had no doubts about those things. I loved Midori, and I was happy that she had come back to me. The two of us could make it, that was certain. As Midori herself had said, she was a real, live girl with blood in her veins, and she was putting her warm body in my arms. It had been all I could do to suppress the intense desire I had to strip her naked, throw open her body, and sink myself in her warmth. There was no way I could have made myself stop her once she was holding my penis and moving her hand. I wanted her to do it, she wanted to do it, and we were in love. Who could have stopped such a thing? It was true: I loved Midori. And I had probably known as much for a while. I had just been avoiding the conclusion for a very long time. The problem was that I could never explain these developments to Naoko. It would have been hard enough at any point, but with Naoko in her present condition, there was no way I could tell her I had fallen in love with another girl. And besides, I still loved Naoko. As twisted as that love might be, I did love her. Somewhere inside me there was still preserved a broad, open space, untouched, for Naoko and no one else. One thing I could do was write a letter to Reiko that confessed everything with total honesty. At home, I sat on the veranda, watching the rain pour down on the garden at night, and assembling phrases in my head. Then I went to my desk and wrote the letter. It is almost unbearable to me that I now have to write a letter like this to you, I began. I summarized my relationship with Midori and explained what had happened that day. I have always loved Naoko, and I still love her. But there is a decisive finality to what exists between Midori and me. It has an irresistible power that is bound to sweep me into the future. What I feel for Naoko is a tremendously quiet and gentle and transparent love, but what I feel for Midori is a wholly different emotion. It stands and walks on its own, living and breathing and throbbing and shaking me 321 to the roots of my being. I don't know what to do. I'm confused. I'm not trying to make excuses for myself, but I do believe that I have lived as sincerely as I know how. I have never lied to anyone, and I have taken care over the years not to hurt other people. And yet I find myself tossed into this labyrinth. How can this be? I can't explain it. I don't know what I should do. Can you tell me, Reiko? You're the only one I can turn to for advice. I posted the letter that night by special delivery. Reiko's answer came five days later, dated 17 June. Let me start with the good news. Naoko has been improving far more rapidly than anyone could have expected. I talked to her once on the phone, and she spoke with real lucidity. She may even be able to come back here before long. Now, about you. I think you take everything too seriously. Loving another person is a wonderful thing, and if that love is sincere, no one ends up tossed into a labyrinth. You have to have more faith in yourself. My advice to you is very simple. First of all, if you are drawn so strongly to this Midori person, it is only natural for you to have fallen in love with her. It might go well, or it might not. But love is like that. When you fall in love, the natural thing to do is give yourself to it. That's what I think. It's just a form of sincerity. Second, as to whether or not you should have sex with Midori, that is for you to work out. I can't say a thing. Talk it over with Midori and reach your own conclusion, one that makes sense to you. Third, don't tell any of this to Naoko. If things should develop to the point where you absolutely have to tell her, then you and I will come up with a good plan together. So now, just keep it quiet. Leave it to me. 322 The fourth thing I have to say is that you have been such a great source of strength for Naoko that even if you no longer have the feelings of a lover towards her, there is still a lot you can do for her. So don't brood over everything in that super-serious way of yours. All of us (by which I mean all of us, both normal and not-so-normal) are imperfect human beings living in an imperfect world. We don't live with the mechanical precision of a bank account or by measuring all our lines and angles with rulers and protractors. Am I right? My own personal feeling is that Midori sounds like a great girl. I understand just reading your letter why you would be drawn to her. And I understand, too, why you would also be drawn to Naoko. There's nothing the least bit sinful about it. Things like that happen all the time in this great big world of ours. It's like taking a boat out on a beautiful lake on a beautiful day and thinking both the sky and the lake are beautiful. So stop eating yourself up. Things will go where they're supposed to go if you just let them take their natural course. Despite your best efforts, people are going to be hurt when it's time for them to be hurt. Life is like that. I know I sound like I'm preaching from a pulpit, but it's about time you learned to live like this. You try too hard to make life fit your way of doing things. If you don't want to spend time in an insane asylum, you have to open up a little more and let yourself go with life's natural flow. I'm just a powerless and imperfect woman, but still there are times when I think to myself how wonderful life can be! Believe me, it's true! So stop what you're doing this minute and get happy. Work at making yourself happy! Needless to say, I do feel sorry that you and Naoko could not see things through to a happy ending. But who can say what's best? That's why you need to grab whatever chance you have of happiness where you find it, and not worry about other people too much. My experience tells me that we get no more than two or three such chances in a lifetime, and if we let them go, we regret it for the rest of our lives. 323 I'm playing the guitar every day for no one in particular. It seems a bit pointless. I don't like dark, rainy nights, either. I hope I'll have another chance to play my guitar and eat grapes with you and Naoko in the room with me. Ah, well, until then - Reiko Ishida 324 Reiko wrote to me several times after Naoko's death. It wasn't my fault, she said. It was nobody's fault, any more than you could blame someone for the rain. But I never answered her. What could I have said? What good would it have done? Naoko no longer existed in this world; she had become a handful of ashes. They held a quiet funeral for Naoko in Kobe at the end of August, and when it was over, I went back to Tokyo. I told my landlord I would be away for a while and my boss at the Italian restaurant that I wouldn't be coming in to work. To Midori I wrote a short note: I couldn't say anything just yet, but I hoped she would wait for me a little longer. I spent the next three days in cinemas, and after I had seen every new film in Tokyo, I packed my rucksack, took out all my savings from the bank, went to Shinjuku Station, and got the first express train I could find going out of town. Where I went on my travels, it's impossible for me to recall. I remember the sights and sounds and smells clearly enough, but the names of the towns are gone, as well as any sense of the order in which I travelled from place to place. I would move from town to town by train or bus or hitching a lift in a lorry, spreading out my sleeping bag in empty car parks or stations or parks or on river banks or the seashore. I once persuaded them to let me sleep in the corner of a local police station, and another time slept alongside a graveyard. I didn't care where I slept, provided I was out of people's way and could stay in my sleeping bag as long as I felt like it. Exhausted from walking, I would crawl into it, gulp down some cheap whisky, and fall 325 fast asleep. In nice towns, people would bring me food and mosquito coils, and in not-so-nice towns, people would call the police and have me chased out of the parks. It made no difference to me one way or another. All I wanted was to put myself to sleep in towns I didn't know. When I ran low on money, I would work as a labourer for a few days until I had what I needed. There was always work for me to do. I just kept moving from one town to the next, no destination in mind. The world was big and full of weird things and strange people. One time I called Midori because I had to hear her voice. 'Term started a long time ago, you know,' she said. 'Some courses are even asking for papers already. What are you going to do? Do you realize you've been out of touch for three whole weeks now? Where are you? What are you doing?' 'Sorry, but I can't go back to Tokyo yet. Not yet.' 'And that's all you're going to tell me?' 'There's really nothing more I can say at this point. Maybe in October. ..' Midori hung up without a word. I went on with my travels. Every now and then I'd stay at a dosshouse and have a bath and shave. What I saw in the mirror looked terrible. The sun had dried out my skin, my eyes were sunken, and odd stains and cuts marked my cheekbones. I looked as if I had just crawled out of a cave somewhere, but it was me after all. It was me. By that time, I was moving down the coast, as far from Tokyo as I could get - maybe in Tottori or the hidden side of Hyogo. Walking along the seashore was easy. I could always find a comfortable place to sleep in the sand. I'd make a fire from driftwood and roast some dried fish I bought from a local fisherman. Then I'd swallow some whisky and listen to the waves while I thought about Naoko. It was too strange to think that she was dead and no longer part of this world. I couldn't absorb the truth of it. I couldn't believe it. I had heard the 326 nails being driven into the lid of her coffin, but I still couldn't adjust to the fact that she had returned to nothingness. No, the image of her was still too vivid in my memory. I could still see her enclosing my penis in her mouth, her hair falling across my belly. I could still feel her warmth, her breath against me, and that helpless moment when I could do nothing but come. I could bring all this back as clearly as if it had happened only five minutes ago, and I felt sure that Naoko was still beside me, that I could just reach out and touch her. But no, she wasn't there; her flesh no longer existed in this world. Nights when it was impossible for me to sleep, images of Naoko would come back to me. There was no way I could stop them. Too many memories of her were crammed inside me, and as soon as one of them found the slightest opening, the rest would force their way out in an endless stream, an unstoppable flood: Naoko in her yellow raincape cleaning the aviary and carrying the feed bag that rainy morning; the caved-in birthday cake and the feel of Naoko's tears soaking through my shirt (yes, it had been raining then, too); Naoko walking beside me in winter wearing her camel-hair coat; Naoko touching the hairslide she always wore; Naoko peering at me with those incredibly clear eyes of hers; Naoko sitting on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her blue nightdress, chin resting on her knees. The memories would slam against me like the waves of an incoming tide, sweeping my body along to some strange new place - a place where I lived with the dead. There Naoko lived, and I could speak with her and hold her in my arms. Death in that place was not a decisive element that brought life to an end. There, death was but one of many elements comprising life. There Naoko lived with death inside her. And to me she said, 'Don't worry, it's only death. Don't let it bother you.' I felt no sadness in that strange place. Death was death, and Naoko was Naoko. 'What's the problem?' she asked me with a bashful smile, 327 'I'm here, aren't I?' Her familiar little gestures soothed my heart like a healing balm. 'If this is death,' I thought to myself, 'then death is not so bad.' 'It's true,' said Naoko, 'death is nothing much. It's just death. Things are so easy for me here.' Naoko spoke to me in the spaces between the crashing of the dark waves. Eventually, though, the tide would pull back, and I would be left on the beach alone. Powerless, I could go nowhere; sadness itself would envelop me in deep darkness until the tears came. I felt less that I was crying than that the tears were simply oozing out of me like perspiration. I had learned one thing from Kizuki's death, and I believed that I had made it a part of myself in the form of a philosophy: 'Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life.' By living our lives, we nurture death. True as this might be, it was only one of the truths we had to learn. What I learned from Naoko's death was this: no truth can cure the sadness we feel from losing a loved one. No truth, no sincerity, no strength, no kindness, can cure that sorrow. All we can do is see that sadness through to the end and learn something from it, but what we learn will be no help in facing the next sadness that comes to us without warning. Hearing the waves at night, listening to the sound of the wind, day after day I focused on these thoughts of mine. Knapsack on my back, sand in my hair, I moved farther and farther west, surviving on a diet of whisky, bread and water. One windy evening, as I lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, weeping, by the side of an abandoned hulk, a young fisherman passed by and offered me a cigarette. I accepted it and had my first smoke in over a year. He asked why I was crying, and almost by reflex I told him that my mother had died. I couldn't take the sadness, I said, and so I was on the road. He expressed his deep sympathy and brought a big bottle of sake and two glasses from his house. 328 The wind tore along the sand beach as we sat there drinking. He told me that he had lost his mother when he was 16. Never healthy, she had worn herself out working from morning to night. I half-listened to him, sipping my sake and grunting in response every now and then. I felt as if I were hearing a story from some far-off world. What the hell was he talking about? I wondered, and all of a sudden I was filled with intense rage: I wanted to strangle him. Who gives a shit about your mother? I've lost Naoko! Her beautiful flesh has vanished from this world! Why the hell are you telling me about your fucking mother?! But my rage disappeared as quickly as it had flared up. I closed my eyes and went on half-listening to the fisherman's endless talk. Eventually he asked me if I had eaten. No, I said, but in my rucksack I had bread and cheese, a tomato and a piece of chocolate. What had I eaten for lunch? he asked. Bread and cheese, tomato and chocolate, I answered. 'Wait here,' he said and ran off. I tried to stop him, but he disappeared into the darkness without looking back. All I could do was go on drinking my sake. The shore was littered with paper flecks from fireworks that had been exploded on the sand, and waves crashed against the beach with a mad roar. A scrawny dog came up wagging its tail and sniffing around my little campfire for something to eat but eventually gave up and wandered away. The young fisherman came back half an hour later with two boxes of sushi and a new bottle of sake. I should eat the top box straight away because that had fish in it, he said, but the bottom box had only nori rolls and deep-fried tofu skins so they would last all tomorrow. He filled both our glasses with sake from the new bottle. I thanked him and polished off the whole top box myself, though it had more than enough for two. After we had drunk as much sake as we could manage, he offered to put me up for the night, but when I said I would rather sleep alone on the beach, he left it at that. As he stood to go, he took a folded ? 5,000 note from his pocket and shoved it into the 329 pocket of my shirt. 'Here,' he said, 'get yourself some healthy food. You look awful.' I said he had done more than enough for me and that I couldn't accept money on top of everything else, but he refused to take it back. 'It's not money,' he said, 'it's my feelings. Don't think about it too much, just take it.' All I could do was thank him and accept it. When he had gone, I suddenly thought about my old girlfriend, the one I had first slept with in my last year of school. Chills ran through me as I realized how badly I had treated her. I had hardly ever thought about her thoughts or feelings or the pain I had caused her. She was such a sweet and gentle thing, but at the time I had taken her sweetness for granted and later hardly gave her a second thought. What was she doing now? I wondered. And had she forgiven me? A wave of nausea came over me, and I vomited by the old ship. My head hurt from too much sake, and I felt bad about having lied to the fisherman and taken his money. It was time for me to go back to Tokyo, I decided; I couldn't keep this up for ever. I stuffed my sleeping bag into my rucksack, slipped my arms through the straps and walked to the local railway station. I told the man at the ticketoffice window that I wanted to get to Tokyo as soon as possible. He checked his timetable and said I could make it as far as Osaka by morning if I transferred from one night train to another, then I could take the bullet train from there. I thanked him and used the x'5,000 note the fisherman gave me to buy a ticket to Tokyo. Waiting for the train, I bought a newspaper and checked the date: 2 October, 1970. So I had been travelling for a full month. I knew I had to go back to the real world. The month of travelling neither lifted my spirits nor softened the blow of Naoko's death. I arrived back in Tokyo in pretty much the same state in which I had left. I couldn't even bring myself to phone Midori. What could I say to her? How could I begin? 'It's all over now; you and I can be happy together'? No, that was out of the question. 330 However I might phrase it, though, the facts were the same: Naoko was dead, and Midori was still here. Naoko was a mound of white ash, and Midori was a living, breathing human being. I was overcome with a sense of my own defilement. Though I returned to Tokyo I did nothing for days but shut myself up in my room. My memory remained fixed on the dead rather than the living. The rooms I had set aside in there for Naoko were shuttered, the furniture draped in white, the windowsills dusty. I spent the better part of each day in those rooms. And I thought about Kizuki. 'So you finally made Naoko yours,' I heard myself telling him. 'Oh, well, she was yours to begin with. Now, maybe, she's where she belongs. But in this world, in this imperfect world of the living, I did the best I could for Naoko. I tried to establish a new life for the two of us. But forget it, Kizuki. I'm giving her to you. You're the one she chose, after all. In woods as dark as the depths of her own heart, she hanged herself. Once upon a time, you dragged a part of me into the world of the dead, and now Naoko has dragged another part of me into that world. Sometimes I feel like the caretaker of a museum - a huge, empty museum where no one ever comes, and I'm watching over it for no one but myself.' The fourth day after my return to Tokyo, a letter came from Reiko. Special delivery. It was a simple note: I haven't been able to get in touch with you for weeks, and I'm worried. Please call me. At 9 a.m. and 9 p.m. I will be waiting by the telephone. I called her at nine o'clock that night. Reiko picked up after one ring. 'Are you OK?' she asked. 'More or less,' I said. 'Do you mind if I come and visit you the day after tomorrow?' 'Visit me? You mean here in Tokyo?' 'That's exactly what I mean. I want to have a good, long talk with you.' 331 'You're leaving the sanatorium?' 'It's the only way I can come and see you, isn't it? Anyway, it's about time for me to get out of this place. I've been here eight years, after all. If they keep me any longer, I'll start to rot.' I found it difficult to speak. After a short silence, Reiko went on: 'I'll be on the 3.20 bullet train the day after tomorrow. Will you meet me at the station? Do you still remember what I look like? Or have you lost interest in me now that Naoko's dead?' 'No way,' I said. 'See you at Tokyo Station the day after tomorrow at 3.20.' 'You won't have any trouble recognizing me. I'm the old lady with the guitar case. There aren't many of those.' And in fact, I had no trouble finding Reiko in the crowd. She wore a man's tweed jacket, white trousers, and red trainers. Her hair was as short as ever, with the usual clumps sticking up. In her right hand she held a brown leather suitcase, and in her left a black guitar case. She gave me a big, wrinkly smile the moment she spotted me, and I found myself grinning back. I took her suitcase and walked beside her to the train for the western suburbs. 'Hey, Watanabe, how long have you been wearing that awful face? Or is that the 'in' look in Tokyo these days?' 'I was travelling for a while, ate junk all the time,' I said. 'How did you find the bullet train?' 'Awful!' she said. 'You can't open the windows. I wanted to buy a box lunch from one of the station buffets.' 'They sell them on board, you know.' 'Yeah, overpriced plastic sandwiches. A starving horse wouldn't touch that stuff. I always used to enjoy the boxed lunches at Gotenba Station.' 'Once upon a time, before the bullet train.' 'Well, I'm from once upon a time before the bullet train!' 332 On the train out to Kichijoji, Reiko watched the Musashino landscape passing the window with all the curiosity of a tourist. 'Has it changed much in eight years?' I asked. 'You don't know what I'm feeling now, do you, Watanabe?' 'No, I don't.' 'I'm scared,' she said. 'So scared, I could go crazy just like that. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, flung out here all by myself.' She paused. 'But 'Go crazy just like that.' Kind of a cool expression, don't you think?' I smiled and took her hand. 'Don't worry,' I said. 'You'll be OK. Your own strength got you this far.' 'It wasn't my own strength that got me out of that place,' Reiko said. 'It was Naoko and you. I couldn't stand it there without Naoko, and I had to come to Tokyo to talk to you. That's all. If nothing had happened I probably would have spent the rest of my life there.' I nodded. 'What are you planning to do from now on?' I asked Reiko. 'I'm going to Asahikawa,' she said. 'Way up in the wilds of Hokkaido! An old college friend of mine runs a music school there, and she's been asking me for two or three years now to help her out. I told her it was too cold for me. I mean, I finally get my freedom back and I'm supposed to go to Asahikawa? It's hard to get excited about a place like that - some hole in the ground.' 'It's not so awful,' I said, laughing. 'I've been there. It's not a bad little town. Got its own special atmosphere.' 'Are you sure?' 'Absolutely. It's much better than staying in Tokyo.' 'Oh, well,' she said. 'I don't have anywhere else to go, and I've already sent my stuff there. Hey, Watanabe, promise me you'll come and visit me in Asahikawa.' 'Of course I will. But do you have to leave straight away? Can't you stay in Tokyo for a while?' 'I'd like to hang around here a few days if I can. Can you put me up? I 333 won't get in your way.' 'No problem,' I said. 'I have a big closet I can sleep in, in my sleeping bag.' 'I can't do that to you.' 'No, really. It's a huge closet.' Reiko tapped out a rhythm on the guitar case between her legs. 'I'm probably going to have to condition myself a little before I go to Asahikawa. I'm just not used to being in the outside world. There's a lot of stuff I don't get, and I'm nervous. Think you can help me out a little? You're the only one I can ask.' 'I'll do anything I can to help you,' I said. 'I hope I'm not getting in your way,' she said. 'I don't have any way for you to get in,' I said. She looked at me and turned up the corners of her mouth in a smile but said nothing. We hardly talked the rest of the way to Kichijoji Station or on the bus back to my place. We traded a few random comments on the changes in Tokyo and Reiko's time at the College of Music and my one trip to Asahikawa, but said nothing about Naoko. Ten months had gone by since I last saw Reiko, but walking by her side I felt strangely calmed and comforted. This was a familiar feeling, I thought, and then it occurred to me it was the way I used to feel when walking the streets of Tokyo with Naoko. And just as Naoko and I had shared the dead Kizuki, Reiko and I shared the dead Naoko. This thought made it impossible for me to go on talking. Reiko continued speaking for a while, but when she realized that I wasn't saying anything, she also fell silent. Neither of us said a word on the bus. It was one of those early autumn afternoons when the light is sharp and clear, exactly as it had been a year earlier when I visited Naoko in Kyoto. The clouds were white and as narrow as bones, the sky wide open and high. The fragrance of the breeze, the tone of the light, the 334 tiny flowers in the grass, the subtle reverberations that accompanied sounds: all these told me that autumn had come again, increasing the distance between me and the dead with each cycle of the seasons. Kizuki was still 17 and Naoko 21: for ever. 'Oh, what a relief to come to a place like this!' Reiko said, looking all around as we stepped off the bus. 'Because there's nothing here,' I said. As I led her through the back gate through the garden to my cottage, Reiko was impressed by everything she saw. 'This is terrific!' she said. 'You made these shelves and the desk?' 'Yep,' I said, pouring tea. 'You're obviously good with your hands. And you keep the place so clean!' 'Storm Trooper's influence,' I said. 'He turned me into a cleanliness freak. Not that my landlord's complaining.' 'Oh, your landlord! I ought to introduce myself to him. That's his place on the other side of the garden, I suppose.' 'Introduce yourself to him? What for?' 'What do you mean 'what for'? Some weird old lady shows up in your place and starts playing the guitar, he's going to wonder what's going on. Better to start out on the right foot. I even brought a box of tea sweets for him.' 'Very clever,' I said. 'The wisdom that comes with age. I'm going to tell him I'm your aunt on your mother's side, visiting from Kyoto, so don't contradict me. The age difference comes in handy at times like this. Nobody's going to get suspicious.' Reiko took the box of sweets from her bag and went off to pay her respects. I sat on the veranda, drinking another cup of tea and playing with the cat. Twenty minutes went by, and when Reiko finally came back, she pulled a tin of rice crackers from her bag and said it was a present for me. 335 'What were you talking about for so long?' I asked, munching on a cracker. 'You, of course,' said Reiko, cradling the cat and rubbing her cheek against it. 'He says you're a very proper young man, a serious student.' 'Are you sure he was talking about me?' 'There is not the slightest doubt in my mind that he was talking about you,' she said with a laugh. Then, noticing my guitar, she picked it up, adjusted the tuning, and played Antonio Carlos Jobim's 'Desafinado'. It had been months since I last heard Reiko's guitar, and it gave me that old, warm feeling. 'You practising the guitar?' she asked. 'It was kicking around the landlord's storehouse, so I borrowed it and I plunk on it once in a while. That's all.' 'I'll give you a lesson later. Absolutely free.' Reiko put down the guitar and took off her tweed jacket. Sitting against the veranda post, she smoked a cigarette. She was wearing a madras check short-sleeve shirt. 'Nice shirt, don't you think?' she asked. 'It is,' I said. In fact it was a good-looking shirt with a handsome pattern. 'It's Naoko's,' said Reiko. 'I bet you didn't know we were the same size. Especially when she first came to the sanatorium. She put on a little weight after that, but still we were pretty much the same size: blouses, trousers, shoes, hats. Bras were about the only thing we couldn't share. I've got practically nothing here. So we were always swapping clothes. Actually, it was more like joint ownership.' Now that she mentioned it, I saw that Reiko's build was almost identical to Naoko's. Because of the shape of her face and her thin arms and legs, she had always given me the impression of being smaller and slimmer than Naoko, but in fact she was surprisingly solid. 336 'The jacket and trousers are hers, too,' said Reiko. 'It's all hers. Does it bother you to see me wearing her stuff?' 'Not at all,' I said. 'I'm sure Naoko would be glad to have somebody wearing her clothes - especially you.' 'It's strange,' Reiko said with a little snap of the fingers. 'Naoko didn't leave a will or anything - except where her clothes were concerned. She scribbled one line on a memo pad on her desk. 'Please give all my clothes to Reiko.' She was a funny one, don't you think? Why would she be concerned about her clothes of all things when she's getting ready to die? Who gives a damn about clothes? She must have had tons of other things she wanted to say.' 'Maybe not,' I said. Puffing on her cigarette, Reiko seemed lost in thought. Then she said, 'You want to hear the whole story, in order, I suppose.' 'I do,' I said. 'Please tell me everything.' 'Tests at the hospital in Osaka showed that Naoko's condition was improving for the moment but that she should stay there on a somewhat longer-term basis so that they could continue the intensive therapy for its future benefits. I told you that much in my letter - the one I sent you somewhere around the tenth of August.' 'Right. I read that letter.' 'Well, on the 24th of August I got a call from Naoko's mother asking if it was OK for Naoko to visit me at the sanatorium. Naoko wanted to pack the things she had left with me and, because she wouldn't be able to see me for a while, she wanted to have a nice long talk with me, and perhaps spend a night in our flat. I said that would be fine. I wanted to see her really badly and to have a talk with her. So Naoko and her mother arrived the next day, the 25th, in a taxi. The three of us worked together, packing Naoko's things and chatting away. Late in the afternoon, Naoko said it would be OK for her mother to go home, that 337 she'd be fine, so they called a taxi and the mother left. We weren't worried at all because Naoko seemed to be in such good spirits. In fact, until then I had been very worried. I had been expecting her to be depressed and worn out and emaciated. I mean, I knew how much the testing and therapy and stuff they do at those hospitals can take it out of you, so I had some real doubts about this visit. But one look at her was all it took to convince me she'd be OK. She looked a lot healthier than I had expected and she was smiling and joking and talking much more normally than when I had seen her last. She had been to the hairdresser's and was showing off her new hairdo. So I thought there would be nothing to worry about even if her mother left us alone. Naoko told me that this time she was going to let those hospital doctors cure her once and for all, and I said that that would probably be the best thing to do. So then the two of us went out for a walk, talking all the time, mainly about the future. Naoko told me that what she'd really like was for the two of us to get out of the sanatorium and live together somewhere.' 'Live together? You and Naoko?' 'That's right,' said Reiko with a little shrug. 'So I told her it sounded good to me, but what about Watanabe? And she said, 'Don't worry, I'll get everything straight with him.' That's all. Then she talked about where she and I would live and what we'd do, that kind of thing. After that we went to the aviary and played with the birds.' I took a beer from the fridge and opened it. Reiko lit another cigarette, the cat sound asleep in her lap. 'That girl had everything worked out for herself. I'm sure that's why she was so full of energy and smiling and healthylooking. It must have been such a load off her mind to feel she knew exactly what she was going to do. So then we finished going through her stuff and throwing what she didn't need into the metal drum in the garden and burning it: the notebook she had used as a diary, and all the letters she had received. Your letters, too. This seemed a bit strange to me, so I asked 338 her why she was burning stuff like that. I mean, she had always been so careful about putting your letters away in a safe place and reading them over and over. She said, 'I'm getting rid of everything from the past so I can be reborn in the future.' I suppose I pretty much took her at her word. It had its own kind of logic to it, sort of. I remember thinking how much I wanted her to get healthy and happy. She was so sweet and lovely that day: I wish you could have seen her! 'When that was over, we went to the dining hall for supper the way we used to. Then we bathed and I opened a bottle of good wine that I had been keeping for a special occasion like this and we drank and I played the guitar. The Beatles, as always, 'Norwegian Wood', 'Michelle', her favourites. Both of us were feeling pretty good. We turned out the lights, got undressed and lay in our beds. It was one of those steaming hot nights. We had the windows wide open, but there was hardly a breath of wind. It was black as ink outside, the grasshoppers were screaming, and the smell of the summer grass was so thick in the room it was hard to breathe. All of a sudden, Naoko started talking about you - about the night she had sex with you. In incredible detail. How you took her clothes off, how you touched her, how she found herself getting wet, how you went inside her, how wonderful it felt: she told me all of this in vivid detail. So I asked her: why are you telling me this now, all of a sudden? I mean, up to then, she had never spoken openly to me about sex. Of course, we had had some frank sexual talk as a kind of therapy, but she had been too embarrassed to go into details. Now I couldn't stop her. I was shocked. 'So she says, 'I don't know, I just feel like talking about it. I'll stop if you'd rather not hear it.' 'No,' I said, that's OK. 'If there's something you need to talk about, you'd better get it all out. I'll listen to anything you have to say.' 'So she went on with her story: 'When he went inside me, I couldn't believe how much it hurt. It was my first time, after all. I was so wet, he slipped right in, but still, my brain fogged over - it hurt so much. 339 He put it in as far as he could, I thought, but then he lifted my legs and went in even farther. That sent chills all through my body, as if I was soaking in ice water. My arms and legs went numb, and a wave of cold went through me. I didn't know what was happening. I thought I might die right there and then, and I didn't care one way or another. But he realized I was in pain, so he stopped moving, and still deep inside me, he started kissing me all over - my hair, my neck, my breasts - for a long, long time. Little by little, the warmth returned to my body, and then, very slowly, he started to move. Oh, Reiko, it was so wonderful! Now it felt as if my brain was just going to melt away. I wanted to stay like that forever, to stay in his arms for the rest of my life. That's how great it was.' 'So I said to her, 'If it was so great, why didn't you just stay with Watanabe and keep doing it every day?' But she said, 'No, Reiko, I knew it would never happen again. I knew this was something that would come to me once, and leave, and never come back. This would be a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I had never felt anything like it before, and I've never felt anything like it since. I've never felt that I wanted to do it again, and I've never grown wet like that again.' 'Of course, I explained to her that this was something that often happened to young women and that, in most cases, it cures itself with age. And, after all, it had worked that one time: there was no need to worry it wouldn't happen again. I myself had had all kinds of trouble when I was first married. 'But she said, 'No, that's not it, Reiko. I'm not worried about that at all. I just don't want anybody going inside me again. I just don't want to be violated like that again - by anybody'.' I drank my beer, and Reiko finished her second cigarette. The cat stretched itself in Reiko's lap, found a new position and went back to sleep. Reiko seemed at a loss how to go on until she had lit her third cigarette. 'After that, Naoko began to sob. I sat on the edge of her bed and 340 stroked her hair. 'Don't worry,' I said, 'everything is going to be all right. A beautiful, young girl like you has got to have a man to hold her and make her happy.' Naoko was drenched in sweat and tears. I got a bath towel and dried her face and body. Even her panties were soaked, so I helped her out of them - now wait a minute, don't get any strange ideas, there was nothing funny going on. We always used to bathe together. She was like my little sister.' 'I know, I know,' I said. 'Well, anyway, Naoko said she wanted me to hold her. I said it was far too hot for holding, but she said it was the last time we'd be seeing each other, so I held her. Just for a while. With a bath towel between us so our sweaty bodies wouldn't stick to each other. And when she calmed down, I dried her off again, got her nightdress on her and put her to bed. She fell sound asleep straight away. Or maybe she was just pretending to sleep. Whatever, she looked so sweet and lovely that night, she had the face of a girl of 13 or 14 who's never had a bit of harm done to her since the day she was born. I saw that look on her face, and I knew I could let myself fall asleep with an easy heart. When I woke at six in the morning, she was gone. Her nightdress was there, where she had dropped it, but her clothes and trainers and the torch I always keep by my pillow were missing. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I mean, the very fact that she had taken the torch meant she had left in the dark. I checked her desk just in case, and there was the note: Please give all my clothes to Reiko. I woke up everybody straight away, and we took different paths to look for her. We searched every inch of the place, from the insides of the dorms to the surrounding woods. It took us five hours to find her. She'd even brought her own rope.' Reiko sighed and patted the cat. 'Want some tea?' I asked. 341 'Yes, thanks,' said Reiko. I boiled water and brought a pot of tea back to the veranda. Sundown was approaching. The daylight had grown weak, and long shadows of trees stretched to our feet. I sipped my tea and looked at the strangely random garden with its funny mix of yellow globeflowers and pink azaleas and tall, green nandins. 'So then the ambulance came and took Naoko away and the police started questioning me. Not that there was much doubt. There was a kind of suicide note, and it had obviously been a suicide, and they took it for granted that suicide was just one of those things that mental patients did. So it was pretty pro forma. As soon as they left, I telegraphed you.' 'What a sad little funeral it was,' I said. 'Her family was obviously upset that I knew Naoko had died. I'm sure they didn't want people to know it was suicide. I probably shouldn't even have been there. Which made me feel even worse. As soon as I got back, I hit the road.' 'Hey, Watanabe, let's go for a walk. We can shop for something to make for dinner, maybe. I'm starving.' 'Sure. Is there something you want to eat?' 'Sukiyaki,' she said. 'I haven't had anything like that for years. I used to dream about sukiyaki - just stuffing myself with beef and green onions and noodles and roasted tofu and greens.' 'Sure, we can have that, but I don't have a sukiyaki pan.' 'Just leave it to me. I'll borrow one from your landlord.' She ran off to the main house and came back with a good sized pan and gas cooker and rubber hose. 'Not bad, eh?' 'Not bad!' We bought all the ingredients at the little shops in the neighbourhood - beef, eggs, vegetables, tofu. I picked out a fairly decent white wine. I tried to pay, but Reiko insisted on paying for everything. 'Think how the family would laugh at me if they heard I let my nephew pay for the food!' said Reiko. 'Besides, I'm carrying a fair 342 amount of cash. So don't worry. I wasn't about to leave the sanatorium broke.' Reiko washed the rice and put it on to boil while I arranged everything for cooking on the veranda. When everything was ready, Reiko took out her guitar and appeared to be testing it with a slow Bach fugue. On the hard parts she would purposely slow down or speed up or make it detached or sentimental, listening with obvious pleasure to the variety of sounds she could draw from the instrument. When she played the guitar, Reiko looked like a 17-year-old girl enjoying the sight of a new dress. Her eyes sparkled, and she pouted with just the hint of a smile. When she had finished the piece, she leaned back against a pillar and looked up at the sky as though deep in thought. 'Do you mind if I talk to you?' I asked. 'Not at all,' she said. 'I was just thinking how hungry I am.' 'Aren't you planning to see your husband or your daughter while you're here? They must be in Tokyo somewhere.' 'Close enough. Yokohama. But no, I don't plan to see them. I'm sure I told you before: it's better for them if they don't have anything more to do with me. They've started a new life. And I'd just feel terrible if I saw them. No, the best thing is to keep away.' She crumpled up her empty box of Seven Stars cigarettes and took a new one from her suitcase. She cut the seal and put a cigarette in her mouth, but she didn't light up. 'I'm finished as a human being,' she said. 'All you're looking at is the lingering memory of what I used to be. The most important part of me, what used to be inside, died years ago, and I'm just functioning by auto-memory.' 'But I like you now, Reiko, the way you are, lingering memory or whatever. And what I have to say about it may not make any difference, but I'm really glad that you're wearing Naoko's clothes.' Reiko smiled and lit her cigarette with a lighter. 'For such a young man, you know how to make a woman happy.' 343 I felt myself reddening. 'I'm just saying what I really think.' 'Sure, I know,' said Reiko, smiling. When the rice was done soon after that, I oiled the pan and arranged the ingredients for sukiyaki. 'Tell me this isn't a dream,' said Reiko, sniffing the air. 'No, this is 100 per cent realistic sukiyaki,' I said. 'Empirically speaking, of course.' Instead of talking, we attacked the sukiyaki with our chopsticks, drank lots of beer, and finished up with rice. Seagull turned up, attracted by the smell, so we shared our meat with her. When we had eaten our fill, we sat leaning against the porch pillars looking at the moon. 'Satisfied?' I asked. 'Totally,' she groaned. 'I've never eaten so much in my life.' 'What do you want to do now?' 'Have a smoke and go to a public bath. My hair's a mess. I need to wash it.' 'No problem. There's one down the street.' 'Tell me, Watanabe, if you don't mind. Have you slept with that girl Midori?' 'You mean have we had sex? Not yet. We decided not to until things get sorted out.' 'Well, now they're sorted out, wouldn't you say?' I shook my head. 'Now that Naoko's dead, you mean?' 'No, not that. You made your decision long before Naoko died - that you could never leave Midori. Whether Naoko is alive or dead, it has nothing to do with your decision. You chose Midori. Naoko chose to die. You're all grown up now, so you have to take responsibility for your choices. Otherwise, you ruin everything.' 'But I can't forget her,' I said. 'I told Naoko I would go on waiting for her, but I couldn't do it. I turned my back on her in the end. I'm not saying anyone's to blame: it's a problem for me myself. I do think that things would have worked out the same way even if I hadn't turned my back on her. Naoko was choosing death all along. But that's beside 344 the point. I can't forgive myself. You tell me there's nothing I can do about a natural change in feelings, but my relationship with Naoko was not that simple. If you stop and think about it, she and I were bound together at the border between life and death. It was like that for us from the start.' 'If you feel some kind of pain with regard to Naoko's death, I would advise you to keep on feeling that pain for the rest of your life. And if there's something you can learn from it, you should do that, too. But quite aside from that, you should be happy with Midori. Your pain has nothing to do with your relationship with her. If you hurt her any more than you already have, the wound could be too deep to fix. So, hard as it may be, you have to be strong. You have to grow up more, be more of an adult. I left the sanatorium and came all the way up here to Tokyo to tell you that - all the way on that coffin of a train.' 'I understand what you're telling me,' I said to Reiko, 'but I'm still not prepared to follow through on it. I mean, that was such a sad little funeral! No one should have to die like that.' Reiko stretched out her hand and stroked my head. 'We all have to die like that sometime. I will, and so will you.' We took the five-minute walk along the river bank to the local public baths and came home feeling more refreshed. I opened the bottle of wine and we sat on the veranda drinking it. 'Hey, Watanabe, could you bring out another glass?' 'Sure,' I said. 'But what for?' 'We're going to have our own funeral for Naoko, just the two of us. One that's not so sad.' When I handed her the glass, Reiko filled it to the brim and set it on the stone lantern in the garden. Then she sat on the veranda, leaning against a pillar, guitar in her arms, and smoked a cigarette. 'And now could you bring out a box of matches? Make it the biggest 345 one you can find.' I brought out an economy-size box of kitchen matches and sat down next to her. 'Now what I want you to do is lay down a match every time I play a song, just set them in a row. I'm going to play every song I can think of.' First she played a soft, lovely rendition of Henry Mancini's 'Dear Heart'. 'You gave a recording of this to Naoko, didn't you?' she asked. 'I did. For Christmas the year before last. She really liked that song.' 'I like it, too,' said Reiko. 'So sweet and beautiful ...' and she ran through a few bars of the melody one more time before taking another sip of wine. 'I wonder how many songs I can play before I get completely drunk. This'll be a nice funeral, don't you think - not so sad?' Reiko moved on to the Beatles, playing 'Norwegian Wood', 'Yesterday', 'Michelle', and 'Something'. She sang and played 'Here Comes the Sun', then played 'The Fool on the Hill'. I laid seven matches in a row. 'Seven songs,' said Reiko, sipping more wine and smoking another cigarette. 'Those guys sure knew something about the sadness of life, and gentleness.' By 'those guys' Reiko of course meant John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison. After a short breather, Reiko crushed her cigarette out and picked up her guitar again. She played 'Penny Lane', 'Blackbird', 'Julia', 'When I'm 64', 'Nowhere Man', 'And I Love Her', and 'Hey Jude'. 'How many songs is that?' 'Fourteen,' I said. She sighed and asked me, 'How about you? Can you play something - maybe one song?' 'No way. I'm terrible.' 346 'So play it terribly.' I brought out my guitar and stumbled my way through 'Up on the Roof'. Reiko took a rest, smoking and drinking. When I was through, she applauded. Next she played a guitar transcription of Ravel's 'Pavanne for a Dying Queen' and a beautifully clean rendition of Debussy's 'Claire de Lune'. 'I mastered both of these after Naoko died,' said Reiko. 'To the end, her taste in music never rose above the sentimental.' She performed a few Bacharach songs next: 'Close to You', 'Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head', 'Walk on By', 'Wedding Bell Blues'. 'Twenty,' I said. 'I'm like a human jukebox!' exclaimed Reiko. 'My professors would faint if they could see me now.' She went on sipping and puffing and playing: several bossa novas, Rogers and Hart, Gershwin, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Carole King, The Beach Boys, Stevie Wonder, Kyu Sakamoto's 'Sukiyaki Song', 'Blue Velvet', 'Green Fields'. Sometimes she would close her eyes and nod or hum to the melody. When the wine was gone, we turned to whisky. The wine in the glass in the garden I poured over the stone lantern and replaced it with whisky. 'How's our count going?' Reiko asked. 'Forty-eight,' I said. For our forty-ninth song Reiko played 'Eleanor Rigby', and the fiftieth was another performance of 'Norwegian Wood'. After that she rested her hands and drank some whisky. 'Maybe that's enough,' she said. 'It is,' I answered. 'Amazing.' Reiko looked me in the eye and said, 'Now listen to me, Watanabe. I want you to forget all about that sad little funeral you saw. Just 347 remember this marvellous one of ours.' I nodded. 'Here's one more for good measure,' she said, and for her fifty-first piece she played her favourite Bach fugue. When she was through, she said in a voice just above a whisper, 'How about doing it with me, Watanabe?' 'Strange,' I said. 'I was thinking the same thing.' We went inside and drew the curtains. Then, in the darkened room, Reiko and I sought out each other's bodies as if it were the most natural thing in the world for us to do. I removed her blouse and trousers, and then her underwear. 'I've lived a strange life,' said Reiko, 'but I never thought I'd have my panties removed for me by a man 19 years my junior.' 'Would you rather take them off yourself?' 'No, go ahead. But don't be too shocked at all my wrinkles.' 'I like your wrinkles.' 'You're gonna make me cry,' she whispered. I kissed her all over, taking special care to follow the wrinkled places with my tongue. She had the breasts of a little girl. I caressed them and took her nipples in my teeth, then slid a finger inside her warm, moist vagina and began to move it. 'Wrong spot, Watanabe,' Reiko whispered in my ear. 'That's just a wrinkle.' 'I can't believe you're telling jokes at a time like this!' 'Sorry,' she said. 'I'm scared. I haven't done this for years. I feel like a 17-year-old girl: I just went to visit a guy in his room, and all of a sudden I'm naked.' 'To tell you the truth, I feel as if I'm violating a 17-year-old girl.' With my finger in her 'wrinkle', I moved my lips up her neck to her ear and took a nipple in my fingers. As her breathing intensified and her throat began to tremble, I parted her long, slim legs and eased 348 myself inside her. 'You're not going to get me pregnant now, are you? You're taking care of that, right?' Reiko murmured in my ear. 'I'd be so embarrassed if I got pregnant at this age.' 'Don't worry,' I said. 'Just relax.' When I was all the way in, she trembled and released a sigh. Caressing her back, I moved inside her and then, without warning, I came. It was an intense, unstoppable ejaculation. I clutched at her as my semen pulsed into her warmth again and again. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I couldn't stop myself.' 'Don't be silly,' Reiko said, giving me a little slap on the rump. 'You don't have to worry about that. Do you always have that on your mind when you're doing it with girls?' 'Yeah, pretty much.' 'Well, you don't have to think about it with me. Forget it. Just let yourself go as much as you like. Did it feel good?' 'Fantastic. That's why I couldn't control myself.' 'This is no time for controlling yourself. This is fine. It was great for me, too.' 'You know, Reiko,' I said. 'What's that?' 'You ought to take a lover again. You're terrific. It's such a waste.' 'Well, I'll think about it,' she said. 'But I wonder if people take lovers and things in Asahikawa.' Growing hard a few minutes later, I went inside her again. Reiko held her breath and twisted beneath me. I moved slowly and quietly with my arms around her, and we talked. It felt wonderful to talk that way. If I said something funny and made her laugh, the tremors came into me through my penis. We held each other like this for a very long time. 'Oh, this feels marvellous!' Reiko said. 'Moving's not bad either,' I said. 349 'Go ahead. Give it a try.' I lifted her hips and went in as far as I could go, then savoured the sensation of moving in a circular pattern until, having enjoyed it to the full, I let myself come. Altogether, we joined our bodies four times that night. At the end each time, Reiko would lie in my arms trembling slightly, eyes closed, and release a long sigh. 'I never have to do this again,' said Reiko, 'for the rest of my life. Oh, please, Watanabe, tell me it's true. Tell me I can relax now because I've done enough to last a lifetime.' 'Nobody can tell you that,' I said. 'There's no way of knowing.' I tried to convince Reiko that taking a plane would be faster and easier, but she insisted on going to Asahikawa by train. 'I like the ferry to Hokkaido. And I have no desire to fly through the air,' she said. I accompanied her to Ueno Station. She carried her guitar and I carried her suitcase. We sat on a platform bench waiting for the train to pull in. Reiko wore the same tweed jacket and white trousers she had on when she arrived in Tokyo. 'Do you really think Asahikawa's not such a bad place?' she asked. 'It's a nice town. I'll visit you there soon.' 'Really?' I nodded. 'And I'll write to you.' 'I love your letters. Naoko burned all the ones you sent her. And they were such great letters too!' 'Letters are just pieces of paper,' I said. 'Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.' 'You know, Watanabe, Asahikawa by myself. So be sure to write to me. Whenever I read your letters, I feel you're right there next to me.' 'If that's what you want, I'll write all the time. But don't worry. I know 350 you: you'll do fine wherever you go.' 'And another thing. I kind of feel like there's something stuck inside me. Could it be my imagination?' 'Just a lingering memory,' I said and smiled. Reiko smiled, too. 'Don't forget about me,' she said. 'I won't forget you,' I said. 'Ever.' 'We may never meet again, but no matter where I go, I'll always remember you and Naoko.' I saw that she was crying. Before I knew it, I was kissing her. Others on the platform were staring at us, but I didn't care about such things any more. We were alive, she and I. And all we had to think about was continuing to live. 'Be happy,' Reiko said to me as she boarded the train. 'I've given you all the advice I have to give. There's nothing left for me to say. Just be happy. Take my share and Naoko's and combine them for yourself.' We held hands for a moment, and then we parted. I phoned Midori. 'I have to talk to you,' I said. 'I have a million things to talk to you about. A million things we have to talk about. All I want in this world is you. I want to see you and talk. I want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.' Midori responded with a long, long silence - the silence of all the misty rain in the world falling on all the new-mown lawns of the world. Forehead pressed against the glass, I shut my eyes and waited. At last, Midori's quiet voice broke the silence: 'Where are you now?' Where was I now? Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the phone box. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again I called out for Midori from the dead centre of this place that was no place.

ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE

Chapter 1 MANY YEARS LATER as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions. First they brought the magnet. A heavy gypsy with an untamed beard and sparrow hands, who introduced himself as Melquíades, put on a bold public demonstration of what he himself called the eighth wonder of the learned alchemists of Macedonia. He went from house to house dragging two metal ingots and everybody was amazed to see pots, pans, tongs, and braziers tumble down from their places and beams creak from the desperation of nails and screws trying to emerge, and even objects that had been lost for a long time appeared from where they had been searched for most and went dragging along in turbulent confusion behind Melquíades’ magical irons. “Things have a life of their own,” the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. “It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.” José Arcadio Buendía, whose unbridled imagination always went beyond the genius of nature and even beyond miracles and magic, thought that it would be possible to make use of that useless invention to extract gold from the bowels of the earth. Melquíades, who was an honest man, warned him: “It won’t work for that.” But José Arcadio Buendía at that time did not believe in the honesty of gypsies, so he traded his mule and a pair of goats for the two magnetized ingots. Úrsula Iguarán, his wife, who relied on those animals to increase their poor domestic holdings, was unable to dissuade him. “Very soon well have gold enough and more to pave the floors of the house,” her husband replied. For several months he worked hard to demonstrate the truth of his idea. He explored every inch of the region, even the riverbed, dragging the two iron ingots along and reciting Melquíades’ incantation aloud. The only thing he succeeded in doing was to unearth a suit of fifteenth-century armor which had all of its pieces soldered together with rust and inside of which there was the hollow resonance of an enormous stone-filled gourd. When José Arcadio Buendía and the four men of his expedition managed to take the armor apart, they found inside a calcified skeleton with a copper locket containing a woman’s hair around its neck. In March the gypsies returned. This time they brought a telescope and a magnifying glass the size of a drum, which they exhibited as the latest discovery of the Jews of Amsterdam. They placed a gypsy woman at one end of the village and set up the telescope at the entrance to the tent. For the price of five reales, people could look into the telescope and see the gypsy woman an arm’s length away. “Science has eliminated distance,” Melquíades proclaimed. “In a short time, man will be able to see what is happening in any place in the world without leaving his own house.” A burning noonday sun brought out a startling demonstration with the gigantic magnifying glass: they put a pile of dry hay in the middle of the street and set it on fire by concentrating the sun’s rays. José Arcadio Buendía, who had still not been consoled for the failure of big magnets, conceived the idea of using that invention as a weapon of war. Again Melquíades tried to dissuade him, but he finally accepted the two magnetized ingots and three colonial coins in exchange for the magnifying glass. Úrsula wept in consternation. That money was from a chest of gold coins that her father had put together ova an entire life of privation and that she had buried underneath her bed in hopes of a proper occasion to make use of it. José Arcadio Buendía made no at. tempt to console her, completely 8 absorbed in his tactical experiments with the abnegation of a scientist and even at the risk of his own life. In an attempt to show the effects of the glass on enemy troops, he exposed himself to the concentration of the sun’s rays and suffered burns which turned into sores that took a long time to heal. Over the protests of his wife, who was alarmed at such a dangerous invention, at one point he was ready to set the house on fire. He would spend hours on end in his room, calculating the strategic possibilities of his novel weapon until he succeeded in putting together a manual of startling instructional clarity and an irresistible power of conviction. He sent it to the government, accompanied by numerous descriptions of his experiments and several pages of explanatory sketches; by a messenger who crossed the mountains, got lost in measureless swamps, forded stormy rivers, and was on the point of perishing under the lash of despair, plague, and wild beasts until he found a route that joined the one used by the mules that carried the mail. In spite of the fact that a trip to the capital was little less than impossible at that time, José Arcadio Buendía promised to undertake it as soon as the government ordered him to so that he could put on some practical demonstrations of his invention for the military authorities and could train them himself in the complicated art of solar war. For several years he waited for an answer. Finally, tired of waiting, he bemoaned to Melquíades the failure of his project and the gypsy then gave him a convincing proof of his honesty: he gave him back the doubloons in exchange for the magnifying glass, and he left him in addition some Portuguese maps and several instruments of navigation. In his own handwriting he set down a concise synthesis of the studies by Monk Hermann. which he left José Arcadio so that he would be able to make use of the astrolabe, the compass, and the sextant. José Arcadio Buendía spent the long months of the rainy season shut up in a small room that he had built in the rear of the house so that no one would disturb his experiments. Having completely abandoned his domestic obligations, he spent entire nights in the courtyard watching the course of the stars and he almost contracted sunstroke from trying to establish an exact method to ascertain noon. When he became an expert in the use and manipulation of his instruments, he conceived a notion of space that allowed him to navigate across unknown seas, to visit uninhabited territories, and to establish relations with splendid beings without having to leave his study. That was the period in which he acquired the habit of talking to himself, of walking through the house without paying attention to anyone, as Úrsula and the children broke their backs in the garden, growing banana and caladium, cassava and yams, ahuyama roots and eggplants. Suddenly, without warning, his feverish activity was interrupted and was replaced by a kind of fascination. He spent several days as if he were bewitched, softly repeating to himself a string of fearful conjectures without giving credit to his own understanding. Finally, one Tuesday in December, at lunchtime, all at once he released the whole weight of his torment. The children would remember for the rest of their lives the august solemnity with which their father, devastated by his prolonged vigil and by the wrath of his imagination, revealed his discovery to them: “The earth is round, like an orange.” Úrsula lost her patience. “If you have to go crazy, please go crazy all by yourself!” she shouted. “But don’t try to put your gypsy ideas into the heads of the children.” José Arcadio Buendía, impassive, did not let himself be frightened by the desperation of his wife, who, in a seizure of rage, mashed the astrolabe against the floor. He built another one, he gathered the men of the village in his little room, and he demonstrated to them, with theories that none of them could understand, the possibility of returning to where one had set out by consistently sailing east. The whole village was convinced that José Arcadio Buendía had lost his reason, when Melquíades returned to set things straight. He gave public praise to the intelligence of a man who from pure astronomical speculation had evolved a theory that had already been proved in practice, although unknown in Macondo until then, and as a proof of his admiration he made him a gift that was to have a profound influence on the future of the village: the laboratory of an alchemist. 9 By then Melquíades had aged with surprising rapidity. On his first trips he seemed to be the same age as José Arcadio Buendía. But while the latter had preserved his extraordinary strength, which permitted him to pull down a horse by grabbing its ears, the gypsy seemed to have been worn dowse by some tenacious illness. It was, in reality, the result of multiple and rare diseases contracted on his innumerable trips around the world. According to what he himself said as he spoke to José Arcadio Buendía while helping him set up the laboratory, death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws. He was a fugitive from all the plagues and catastrophes that had ever lashed mankind. He had survived pellagra in Persia, scurvy in the Malayan archipelago, leprosy in Alexandria, beriberi in Japan, bubonic plague in Madagascar, an earthquake in Sicily, and a disastrous shipwreck in the Strait of Magellan. That prodigious creature, said to possess the keys of Nostradamus, was a gloomy man, enveloped in a sad aura, with an Asiatic look that seemed to know what there was on the other side of things. He wore a large black hat that looked like a raven with widespread wings, and a velvet vest across which the patina of the centuries had skated. But in spite of his immense wisdom and his mysterious breadth, he had a human burden, an earthly condition that kept him involved in the small problems of daily life. He would complain of the ailments of old age, he suffered from the most insignificant economic difficulties, and he had stopped laughing a long time back because scurvy had made his teeth drop out. On that suffocating noontime when the gypsy revealed his secrets, José Arcadio Buendía had the certainty that it was the beginning of a great friendship. The children were startled by his fantastic stories. Aureliano, who could not have been more than five at the time, would remember him for the rest of his life as he saw him that afternoon, sitting against the metallic and quivering light from the window, lighting up with his deep organ voice the darkest reaches of the imagination, while down over his temples there flowed the grease that was being melted by the heat. José Arcadio, his older brother, would pass on that wonderful image as a hereditary memory to all of his descendants. Úrsula on the other hand, held a bad memory of that visit, for she had entered the room just as Melquíades had carelessly broken a flask of bichloride of mercury. “It’s the smell of the devil,” she said. “Not at all,” Melquíades corrected her. “It has been proven that the devil has sulphuric properties and this is just a little corrosive sublimate.” Always didactic, he went into a learned exposition of the diabolical properties of cinnabar, but Úrsula paid no attention to him, although she took the children off to pray. That biting odor would stay forever in her mind linked to the memory of Melquíades. The rudimentary laboratory—in addition to a profusion of pots, funnels, retorts, filters, and sieves—was made up of a primitive water pipe, a glass beaker with a long, thin neck, a reproduction of the philosopher’s egg, and a still the gypsies themselves had built in accordance with modern descriptions of the three-armed alembic of Mary the Jew. Along with those items, Melquíades left samples of the seven metals that corresponded to the seven planets, the formulas of Moses and Zosimus for doubling the quantity of gold, and a set of notes and sketches concerning the processes of the Great Teaching that would permit those who could interpret them to undertake the manufacture of the philosopher’s stone. Seduced by the simplicity of the formulas to double the quantity of gold, José Arcadio Buendía paid court to Úrsula for several weeks so that she would let him dig up her colonial coins and increase them by as many times as it was possible to subdivide mercury. Úrsula gave in, as always, to her husband’s unyielding obstinacy. Then José Arcadio Buendía threw three doubloons into a pan and fused them with copper filings, orpiment, brimstone, and lead. He put it all to boil in a pot of castor oil until he got a thick and pestilential syrup which was more like common caramel than valuable gold. In risky and desperate processes of distillation, melted with the seven planetary metals, mixed with hermetic mercury and vitriol of Cyprus, and put 10 back to cook in hog fat for lack of any radish oil, Úrsula’s precious inheritance was reduced to a large piece of burnt hog cracklings that was firmly stuck to the bottom of the pot. When the gypsies came back, Úrsula had turned the whole population of the village against them. But curiosity was greater than fear, for that time the gypsies went about the town making a deafening noise with all manner of musical instruments while a hawker announced the exhibition of the most fabulous discovery of the Naciancenes. So that everyone went to the tent and by paying one cent they saw a youthful Melquíades, recovered, unwrinkled, with a new and flashing set of teeth. Those who remembered his gums that had been destroyed by scurvy, his flaccid cheeks, and his withered lips trembled with fear at the final proof of the gypsy’s supernatural power. The fear turned into panic when Melquíades took out his teeth, intact, encased in their gums, and showed them to the audience for an instant—a fleeting instant in which he went back to being the same decrepit man of years past—and put them back again and smiled once more with the full control of his restored youth. Even José Arcadio Buendía himself considered that Melquíades’ knowledge had reached unbearable extremes, but he felt a healthy excitement when the gypsy explained to him atone the workings of his false teeth. It seemed so simple and so prodigious at the same time that overnight he lost all interest in his experiments in alchemy. He underwent a new crisis of bad humor. He did not go back to eating regularly, and he would spend the day walking through the house. “Incredible things are happening in the world,” he said to Úrsula. “Right there across the river there are all kinds of magical instruments while we keep on living like donkeys.” Those who had known him since the foundation of Macondo were startled at how much he had changed under Melquíades’ influence. At first José Arcadio Buendía had been a kind of youthful patriarch who would give instructions for planting and advice for the raising of children and animals, and who collaborated with everyone, even in the physical work, for the welfare of the community. Since his house from the very first had been the best in the village, the others had been built in its image and likeness. It had a small, welllighted living roost, a dining room in the shape of a terrace with gaily colored flowers, two bedrooms, a courtyard with a gigantic chestnut tree, a well kept garden, and a corral where goats, pigs, and hens lived in peaceful communion. The only animals that were prohibited, not just in his house but in the entire settlement, were fighting cocks. Úrsula’s capacity for work was the same as that of her husband. Active, small, severe, that woman of unbreakable nerves who at no moment in her life had been heard to sing seemed to be everywhere, from dawn until quite late at night, always pursued by the soft whispering of her stiff, starched petticoats. Thanks to her the floors of tamped earth, the unwhitewashed mud walls, the rustic, wooden furniture they had built themselves were always dean, and the old chests where they kept their clothes exhaled the warm smell of basil. José Arcadio Buendía, who was the most enterprising man ever to be seen in the village, had set up the placement of the houses in such a way that from all of them one could reach the river and draw water with the same effort, and he had lined up the streets with such good sense that no house got more sun than another during the hot time of day. Within a few years Macondo was a village that was more orderly and hard working than any known until then by its three hundred inhabitants. It was a truly happy village where no one was over thirty years of age and where no one had died. Since the time of its founding, José Arcadio Buendía had built traps and cages. In a short time he filled not only his own house but all of those in the village with troupials, canaries, bee eaters, and redbreasts. The concert of so many different birds became so disturbing that Úrsula would plug her ears with beeswax so as not to lose her sense of reality. The first time that Melquíades’ tribe arrived, selling glass balls for headaches, everyone was surprised that they had been able to find that village lost in the drowsiness of the swamp, and the gypsies confessed that they had found their way by the song of the birds. 11 That spirit of social initiative disappeared in a short time, pulled away by the fever of the magnets, the astronomical calculations, the dreams of transmutation, and the urge to discover the wonders of the world. From a clean and active man, José Arcadio Buendía changed into a man lazy in appearance, careless in his dress, with a wild beard that Úrsula managed to trim with great effort and a kitchen knife. There were many who considered him the victim of some strange spell. But even those most convinced of his madness left work and family to follow him when he brought out his tools to clear the land and asked the assembled group to open a way that would put Macondo in contact with the great inventions. José Arcadio Buendía was completely ignorant of the geography of the region. He knew that to the east there lay an impenetrable mountain chain and that on the other side of the mountains there was the ardent city of Riohacha, where in times past—according to what he had been told by the first Aureliano Buendía, his grandfather—Sir Francis Drake had gone crocodile hunting with cannons and that he repaired hem and stuffed them with straw to bring to Queen Elizabeth. In his youth, José Arcadio Buendía and his men, with wives and children, animals and all kinds of domestic implements, had crossed the mountains in search of an outlet to the sea, and after twenty-six months they gave up the expedition and founded Macondo, so they would not have to go back. It was, therefore, a route that did not interest him, for it could lead only to the past. To the south lay the swamps, covered with an eternal vegetable scum and the whole vast universe of the great swamp, which, according to what the gypsies said, had no limits. The great swamp in the west mingled with a boundless extension of water where there were soft-skinned cetaceans that had the head and torso of a woman, causing the ruination of sailors with the charm of their extraordinary breasts. The gypsies sailed along that route for six months before they reached the strip of land over which the mules that carried the mail passed. According to José Arcadio Buendía’s calculations, the only possibility of contact with civilization lay along the northern route. So he handed out clearing tools and hunting weapons to the same men who had been with him during the founding of Macondo. He threw his directional instruments and his maps into a knapsack, and he undertook the reckless adventure. During the first days they did not come across any appreciable obstacle. They went down along the stony bank of the river to the place where years before they had found the soldier’s armor, and from there they went into the woods along a path between wild orange trees. At the end of the first week they killed and roasted a deer, but they agreed to eat only half of it and salt the rest for the days that lay ahead. With that precaution they tried to postpone the necessity of having to eat macaws, whose blue flesh had a harsh and musky taste. Then, for more than ten days, they did not see the sun again. The ground became soft and damp, like volcanic ash, and the vegetation was thicker and thicker, and the cries of the birds and the uproar of the monkeys became more and more remote, and the world became eternally sad. The men on the expedition felt overwhelmed by their most ancient memories in that paradise of dampness and silence, going back to before original sin, as their boots sank into pools of steaming oil and their machetes destroyed bloody lilies and golden salamanders. For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood. They could not return because the strip that they were opening as they went along would soon close up with a new vegetation that. almost seemed to grow before their eyes. “It’s all right,” José Arcadio Buendía would say. “The main thing is not to lose our bearings.” Always following his compass, he kept on guiding his men toward the invisible north so that they would be able to get out of that enchanted region. It was a thick night, starless, but the darkness was becoming impregnated with a fresh and clear air. Exhausted by the long crossing, they hung up their hammocks and slept deeply for the first time in two weeks. When they woke up, with the sun already high in the sky, they were speechless with fascination. Before them, surrounded by 12 ferns and palm trees, white and powdery in the silent morning light, was an enormous Spanish galleon. Tilted slightly to the starboard, it had hanging from its intact masts the dirty rags of its sails in the midst of its rigging, which was adorned with orchids. The hull, covered with an armor of petrified barnacles and soft moss, was firmly fastened into a surface of stones. The whole structure seemed to occupy its own space, one of solitude and oblivion, protected from the vices of time and the habits of the birds. Inside, where the expeditionaries explored with careful intent, there was nothing but a thick forest of flowers. The discovery of the galleon, an indication of the proximity of the sea, broke José Arcadio Buendía’s drive. He considered it a trick of his whimsical fate to have searched for the sea without finding it, at the cost of countless sacrifices and suffering, and to have found it all of a sudden without looking for it, as if it lay across his path like an insurmountable object. Many years later Colonel Aureliano Buendía crossed the region again, when it was already a regular mail route, and the only part of the ship he found was its burned-out frame in the midst of a field of poppies. Only then, convinced that the story had not been some product of his father’s imagination, did he wonder how the galleon had been able to get inland to that spot. But José Arcadio Buendía did not concern himself with that when he found the sea after another four days’ journey from the galleon. His dreams ended as he faced that ashen, foamy, dirty sea, which had not merited the risks and sacrifices of the adventure. “God damn it!” he shouted. “Macondo is surrounded by water on all sides.” The idea of a peninsular Macondo prevailed for a long time, inspired by the arbitrary map that José Arcadio Buendía sketched on his return from the expedition. He drew it in rage, evilly, exaggerating the difficulties of communication, as if to punish himself for the absolute lack of sense with which he had chosen the place. “We’ll never get anywhere,” he lamented to Úrsula. “We’re going to rot our lives away here without receiving the benefits of science.” That certainty, mulled over for several months in the small room he used as his laboratory, brought him to the conception of the plan to move Maeondo to a better place. But that time Úrsula had anticipated his feverish designs. With the secret and implacable labor of a small ant she predisposed the women of the village against the flightiness of their husbands, who were already preparing for the move. José Arcadio Buendía did not know at what moment or because of what adverse forces his plan had become enveloped in a web of pretexts, disappointments, and evasions until it turned into nothing but an illusion. Úrsula watched him with innocent attention and even felt some pity for him on the morning when she found him in the back room muttering about his plans for moving as he placed his laboratory pieces in their original boxes. She let him finish. She let him nail up the boxes and put his initials on them with an inked brush, without reproaching him, but knowing now that he knew (because she had heard him say so in his soft monologues) that the men of the village would not back him up in his undertaking. Only when he began to take down the door of the room did Úrsula dare ask him what he was doing, and he answered with a certain bitterness. “Since no one wants to leave, we’ll leave all by ourselves.” Úrsula did not become upset. “We will not leave,” she said. “We will stay here, because we have had a son here.” “We have still not had a death,” he said. “A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.” Úrsula replied with a soft firmness: “If I have to die for the rest of you to stay here, I will die.” José Arcadio Buendía had not thought that his wife’s will was so firm. He tried to seduce her with the charm of his fantasy, with the promise of a prodigious world where all one had to do was sprinkle some magic liquid on the ground and the plants would bear fruit whenever a man wished, and where all manner of instruments against pain were sold at bargain prices. But Úrsula was insensible to his clairvoyance. 13 “Instead of going around thinking about your crazy inventions, you should be worrying about your sons,” she replied. “Look at the state they’re in, running wild just like donkeys.” José Arcadio Buendía took his wife’s words literally. He looked out the window and saw the barefoot children in the sunny garden and he had the impression that only at that instant had they begun to exist, conceived by Úrsula’s spell, Something occurred inside of him then, something mysterious and definitive that uprooted him from his own time and carried him adrift through an unexplored region of his memory. While Úrsula continued sweeping the house, which was safe now from being abandoned for the rest of her life, he stood there with an absorbed look, contemplating the children until his eyes became moist and he dried them with the back of his hand, exhaling a deep sigh of resignation. “All right,” he said. “Tell them to come help me take the things out of the boxes.” José Arcadio, the older of the children, was fourteen. He had a square head, thick hair, and his father’s character. Although he had the same impulse for growth and physical strength, it was early evident that he lacked imagination. He had been conceived and born during the difficult crossing of the mountains, before the founding of Macondo, and his parents gave thanks to heaven when they saw he had no animal features. Aureliano, the first human being to be born in Macondo, would be six years old in March. He was silent and withdrawn. He had wept in his mother’s womb and had been born with his eyes open. As they were cutting the umbilical cord, he moved his head from side to side, taking in the things in the room and examining the faces of the people with a fearless curiosity. Then, indifferent to those who came close to look at him, he kept his attention concentrated on the palm roof, which looked as if it were about to collapse under the tremendous pressure of the rain. Úrsula did not remember the intensity of that look again until one day when little Aureliano, at the age of three, went into the kitchen at the moment she was taking a pot of boiling soup from the stove and putting it on the table. The child, Perplexed, said from the doorway, “It’s going to spill.” The pot was firmly placed in the center of the table, but just as soon as the child made his announcement, it began an unmistakable movement toward the edge, as if impelled by some inner dynamism, and it fell and broke on the floor. Úrsula, alarmed, told her husband about the episode, but he interpreted it as a natural phenomenon. That was the way he always was alien to the existence of his sons, partly because he considered childhood as a period of mental insufficiency, and partly because he was always too absorbed in his fantastic speculations. But since the afternoon when he called the children in to help him unpack the things in the laboratory, he gave them his best hours. In the small separate room, where the walls were gradually being covered by strange maps and fabulous drawings, he taught them to read and write and do sums, and he spoke to them about the wonders of the world, not only where his learning had extended, but forcing the limits of his imagination to extremes. It was in that way that the boys ended up learning that in the southern extremes of Africa there were men so intelligent and peaceful that their only pastime was to sit and think, and that it was possible to cross the Aegean Sea on foot by jumping from island to island all the way to the port of Salonika. Those hallucinating sessions remained printed on the memories of the boys in such a way that many years later, a second before the regular army officer gave the firing squad the command to fire, Colonel Aureliano Buendía saw once more that warm March afternoon on which his father had interrupted the lesson in physics and stood fascinated, with his hand in the air and his eyes motionless, listening to the distant pipes, drums, and jingles of the gypsies, who were coming to the village once more, announcing the latest and most startling discovery of the sages of Memphis. They were new gypsies, young men and women who knew only their own language, handsome specimens with oily skins and intelligent hands, whose dances and music sowed a panic of uproarious joy through the streets, with parrots painted all colors reciting Italian arias, and a hen who laid a hundred golden eggs to the sound of a tambourine, and a trained monkey who read 14 minds, and the multi-use machine that could be used at the same time to sew on buttons and reduce fevers, and the apparatus to make a person forget his bad memories, and a poultice to lose time, and a thousand more inventions so ingenious and unusual that José Arcadio Buendía must have wanted to invent a memory machine so that he could remember them all. In an instant they transformed the village. The inhabitants of Macondo found themselves lost is their own streets, confused by the crowded fair. Holding a child by each hand so as not to lose them in the tumult, bumping into acrobats with gold-capped teeth and jugglers with six arms, suffocated by the mingled breath of manure and sandals that the crowd exhaled, José Arcadio Buendía went about everywhere like a madman, looking for Melquíades so that he could reveal to him the infinite secrets of that fabulous nightmare. He asked several gypsies, who did not understand his language. Finally he reached the place where Melquíades used to set up his tent and he found a taciturn Armenian who in Spanish was hawking a syrup to make oneself invisible. He had drunk down a glass of the amber substance in one gulp as José Arcadio Buendía elbowed his way through the absorbed group that was witnessing the spectacle, and was able to ask his question. The gypsy wrapped him in the frightful climate of his look before he turned into a puddle of pestilential and smoking pitch over which the echo of his reply still floated: “Melquíades is dead.” Upset by the news, José Arcadio Buendía stood motionless, trying to rise above his affliction, until the group dispersed, called away by other artifices, and the puddle of the taciturn Armenian evaporated completely. Other gypsies confirmed later on that Melquíades had in fact succumbed to the fever on the beach at Singapore and that his body had been thrown into the deepest part of the Java Sea. The children had no interest in the news. They insisted that their father take them to see the overwhelming novelty of the sages of Memphis that was being advertised at the entrance of a tent that, according to what was said, had belonged to King Solomon. They insisted so much that José Arcadio Buendía paid the thirty reales and led them into the center of the tent, where there was a giant with a hairy torso and a shaved head, with a copper ring in his nose and a heavy iron chain on his ankle, watching over a pirate chest. When it was opened by the giant, the chest gave off a glacial exhalation. Inside there was only an enormous, transparent block with infinite internal needles in which the light of the sunset was broken up into colored stars. Disconcerted, knowing that the children were waiting for an immediate explanation, José Arcadio Buendía ventured a murmur: “It’s the largest diamond in the world.” “No,” the gypsy countered. “It’s ice.” José Arcadio Buendía, without understanding, stretched out his hand toward the cake, but the giant moved it away. “Five reales more to touch it,” he said. José Arcadio Buendía paid them and put his hand on the ice and held it there for several minutes as his heart filled with fear and jubilation at the contact with mystery. Without knowing what to say, he paid ten reales more so that his sons could have that prodigious experience. Little José Arcadio refused to touch it. Aureliano, on the other hand, took a step forward and put his hand on it, withdrawing it immediately. “It’s boiling,” he exclaimed, startled. But his father paid no attention to him. Intoxicated by the evidence of the miracle, he forgot at that moment about the frustration of his delirious undertakings and Melquíades’ body, abandoned to the appetite of the squids. He paid another five reales and with his hand on the cake, as if giving testimony on the holy scriptures, he exclaimed: “This is the great invention of our time.” 15 Chapter 2 WHEN THE PIRATE Sir Francis Drake attacked Riohacha in the sixteenth century, Úrsula Iguarán’s great-great-grandmother became so frightened with the ringing of alarm bells and the firing of cannons that she lost control of her nerves and sat down on a lighted stove. The burns changed her into a useless wife for the rest of her days. She could only sit on one side, cushioned by pillows, and something strange must have happened to her way of walking, for she never walked again in public. She gave up all kinds of social activity, obsessed with the notion that her body gave off a singed odor. Dawn would find her in the courtyard, for she did not dare fall asleep lest she dream of the English and their ferocious attack dogs as they came through the windows of her bedroom to submit her to shameful tortures with their red-hot irons. Her husband, an Aragonese merchant by whom she had two children, spent half the value of his store on medicines and pastimes in an attempt to alleviate her terror. Finally he sold the business and took the family to live far from the sea in a settlement of peaceful Indians located in the foothills, where he built his wife a bedroom without windows so that the pirates of her dream would have no way to get in. In that hidden village there was a native-born tobacco planter who had lived there for some time, Don José Arcadio Buendía, with whom Úrsula’s great-great-grandfather established a partnership that was so lucrative that within a few years they made a fortune. Several centuries later the greatgreat-grandson of the native-born planter married the great-great-granddaughter of the Aragonese. Therefore, every time that Úrsula became exercised over her husband’s mad ideas, she would leap back over three hundred years of fate and curse the day that Sir Francis Drake had attacked Riohacha. It was simply a way. of giving herself some relief, because actually they were joined till death by a bond that was more solid that love: a common prick of conscience. They were cousins. They had grown up together in the old village that both of their ancestors, with their work and their good habits, had transformed into one of the finest towns in the province. Although their marriage was predicted from the time they had come into the world, when they expressed their desire to be married their own relatives tried to stop it. They were afraid that those two healthy products of two races that had interbred over the centuries would suffer the shame of breeding iguanas. There had already been a horrible precedent. An aunt of Úrsula’s, married to an uncle of José Arcadio Buendía, had a son who went through life wearing loose, baggy trousers and who bled to death after having lived forty-two years in the purest state of virginity, for he had been born and had grown up with a cartilaginous tail in the shape of a corkscrew and with a small tuft of hair on the tip. A pig’s tail that was never allowed to be seen by any woman and that cost him his life when a butcher friend did him the favor of chopping it off with his cleaver. José Arcadio Buendía, with the whimsy of his nineteen years, resolved the problem with a single phrase: “I don’t care if I have piglets as long as they can talk.” So they were married amidst a festival of fireworks and a brass band that went on for three days. They would have been happy from then on if Úrsula’s mother had not terrified her with all manner of sinister predictions about their offspring, even to the extreme of advising her to refuse to consummate the marriage. Fearing that her stout and willful husband would rape her while she slept, Úrsula, before going to bed, would put on a rudimentary kind of drawers that her mother had made out of sailcloth and had reinforced with a system of crisscrossed leather straps and that was closed in the front by a thick iron buckle. That was how they lived for several months. During the day he would take care of his fighting cocks and she would do frame embroidery with her mother. At night they would wrestle for several hours in an anguished violence that seemed to be a substitute for the act of love, until popular intuition got a whiff of something irregular and the rumor spread that 16 Úrsula was still a virgin a year after her marriage because her husband was impotent. José Arcadio Buendía was the last one to hear the rumor. “Look at what people are going around saying, Úrsula,” he told his wife very calmly. “Let them talk,” she said. “We know that it’s not true.” So the situation went on the same way for another six months until that tragic Sunday when José Arcadio Buendía won a cockfight from Prudencio Aguilar. Furious, aroused by the blood of his bird, the loser backed away from José Arcadio Buendía so that everyone in the cockpit could hear what he was going to tell him. “Congratulations!” he shouted. “Maybe that rooster of yours can do your wife a favor.” José Arcadio Buendía serenely picked up his rooster. “I’ll be right back,” he told everyone. And then to Prudencio Aguilar: “You go home and get a weapon, because I’m going to kill you.” Ten minutes later he returned with the notched spear that had belonged to his grandfather. At the door to the cockpit, where half the town had gathered, Prudencio Aguilar was waiting for him. There was no time to defend himself. José Arcadio Buendía’s spear, thrown with the strength of a bull and with the same good aim with which the first Aureliano Buendía had exterminated the jaguars in the region, pierced his throat. That night, as they held a wake over the corpse in the cockpit, José Arcadio Buendía went into the bedroom as his wife was putting on her chastity pants. Pointing the spear at her he ordered: “Take them off.” Úrsula had no doubt about her husband’s decision. “You’ll be responsible for what happens,” she murmured. José Arcadio Buendía stuck the spear into the dirt floor. “If you bear iguanas, we’ll raise iguanas,” he said. “But there’ll be no more killings in this town because of you.” It was a fine June night, cool and with a moon, and they were awake and frolicking in bed until dawn, indifferent to the breeze that passed through the bedroom, loaded with the weeping of Prudencio Aguilar’s kin. The matter was put down as a duel of honor, but both of them were left with a twinge in their conscience. One night, when she could not sleep, Úrsula went out into the courtyard to get some water and she saw Prudencio Aguilar by the water jar. He was livid, a sad expression on his face, trying to cover the hole in his throat with a plug made of esparto grass. It did not bring on fear in her, but pity. She went back to the room and told her husband what she had seen, but he did not think much of it. “This just means that we can’t stand the weight of our conscience.” Two nights later Úrsula saw Prudencio Aguilar again, in the bathroom, using the esparto plug to wash the clotted blood from his throat. On another night she saw him strolling in the rain. José Arcadio Buendía, annoyed by his wife’s hallucinations, went out into the courtyard armed with the spear. There was the dead man with his sad expression. “You go to hell,” José Arcadio Buendía shouted at him. “Just as many times as you come back, I’ll kill you again.” Prudencio Aguilar did not go away, nor did José Arcadio Buendía dare throw the spear. He never slept well after that. He was tormented by the immense desolation with which the dead man had looked at him through the rain, his deep nostalgia as he yearned for living people, the anxiety with which he searched through the house looking for some water with which to soak his esparto plug. “He must be suffering a great deal,” he said to Úrsula. “You can see that he’s so very lonely.” She was so moved that the next time she saw the dead man uncovering the pots on the stove she understood what he was looking for, and from then on she placed water jugs all about the house. One night when he found him washing his wound in his own room, José Anedio Buendía could no longer resist. 17 “It’s all right, Prudencio,” he told him. “We’re going to leave this town, just as far away as we can go, and we’ll never come back. Go in peace now.” That was how they undertook the crossing of the mountains. Several friends of José Arcadio Buendía, young men like him, excited, by the adventure, dismantled their houses and packed up, along with their wives and children, to head toward the land that no one had promised them. Before he left, José Arcadio Buendía buried the spear in the courtyard and, one after the other, he cut the throats of his magnificent fighting cocks, trusting that in that way he could give some measure of peace to Prudencio Aguilar. All that Úrsula took along were a trunk with her bridal clothes, a few household utensils, and the small chest with the gold pieces that she had inherited from her father. They did not lay out any definite itinerary. They simply tried to go in a direction opposite to the road to Riohacha so that they would not leave any trace or meet any people they knew. It was an absurd journey. After fourteen months, her stomach corrupted by monkey meat and snake stew, Úrsula gave birth to a son who had all of his features human. She had traveled half of the trip in a hammock that two men carried on their shoulders, because swelling had disfigured her legs and her varicose veins had puffed up like bubbles. Although it was pitiful to see them with their sunken stomachs and languid eyes, the children survived the journey better than their parents, and most of the time it was fun for them. One morning, after almost two years of crossing, they became the first mortals to see the western slopes of the mountain range. From the cloudy summit they saw the immense aquatic expanse of the great swamp as it spread out toward the other side of the world. But they never found the sea. One night, after several months of lost wandering through the swamps, far away now from the last Indians they had met on their way, they camped on the banks of a stony river whose waters were like a torrent of frozen glass. Years later, during the second civil war, Colonel Aureliano Buendía tried to follow that same route in order to take Riohacha by surprise and after six days of traveling he understood that it was madness. Nevertheless, the night on which they camped beside the river, his father’s host had the look of shipwrecked people with no escape, but their number had grown during the crossing and they were all prepared (and they succeeded) to die of old age. José Arcadio Buendía dreamed that night that right there a noisy city with houses having mirror wails rose up. He asked what city it was and they answered him with a name that he had never heard, that had no meaning at all, but that had a supernatural echo in his dream: Macondo. On the following day he convinced his men that they would never find the sea. He ordered them to cut down the trees to make a clearing beside the river, at the coolest spot on the bank, and there they founded the village. José Arcadio Buendía did not succeed in deciphering the dream of houses with mirror walls until the day he discovered ice. Then he thought he understood its deep meaning. He thought that in the near future they would be able to manufacture blocks of ice on a large scale from such a common material as water and with them build the new houses of the village. Macondo would no longer be a burning place, where the hinges and door knockers twisted with the heat, but would be changed into a wintry city. If he did not persevere in his attempts to build an ice factory, it was because at that time he was absolutely enthusiastic over the education of his sons, especially that of Aureliano, who from the first had revealed a strange intuition for alchemy. The laboratory had been dusted off. Reviewing Melquíades’ notes, serene now, without the exaltation of novelty, in prolonged and patient sessions they tried to separate Úrsula’s gold from the debris that was stuck to the bottom of the pot. Young José Arcadio scarcely took part in the process. While his father was involved body and soul with his water pipe, the willful first-born, who had always been too big for his age, had become a monumental adolescent. His voice had changed. An incipient fuzz appeared on his upper lip. One night, as Úrsula went into the room where he was undressing to go to bed, she felt a mingled sense of shame and pity: he was the first man that she had seen naked after her husband, 18 and he was so well-equipped for life that he seemed abnormal. Úrsula, pregnant for the third time, relived her newlywed terror. Around that time a merry, foul-mouthed, provocative woman came to the house to help with the chorea, and she knew how to read the future in cards. Úrsula spoke to her about her son. She thought that his disproportionate size was something as unnatural as her cousin’s tail of a pig. The woman let out an expansive laugh that resounded through the house like a spray of broken glass. “Just the opposite,” she said. “He’ll be very lucky.” In order to confirm her prediction she brought her cards to the house a few days later and locked herself up with José Arcadio in a granary off the kitchen. She calmly placed her cards on an old carpenter’s bench. saying anything that came into her head, while the boy waited beside her, more bored than intrigued. Suddenly she reached out her hand and touched him. “Lordy!” she said, sincerely startled, and that was all she could say. José Arcadio felt his bones filling up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire to weep. The woman made no insinuations. But José Arcadio kept looking for her all night long, for the smell of smoke that she had under her armpits and that had got caught under his skin. He wanted to be with her all the time, he wanted her to be his mother, for them never to leave the granary, and for her to say “Lordy!” to him. One day he could not stand it any more and. he went looking for her at her house: He made a formal visit, sitting uncomprehendingly in the living room without saying a word. At that moment he had no desire for her. He found her different, entirely foreign to the image that her smell brought on, as if she were someone else. He drank his coffee and left the house in depression. That night, during the frightful time of lying awake, he desired her again with a brutal anxiety, but he did not want her that time as she had been in the granary but as she had been that afternoon. Days later the woman suddenly called him to her house, where she was alone with her mother, and she had him come into the bedroom with the pretext of showing him a deck of cards. Then she touched him with such freedom that he suffered a delusion after the initial shudder, and he felt more fear than pleasure. She asked him to come and see her that night. He agreed. in order to get away, knowing that he was incapable of going. But that night, in his burning bed, he understood that he had to go we her, even if he were not capable. He got dressed by feel, listening in the dark to his brother’s calm breathing, the dry cough of his father in the next room, the asthma of the hens in the courtyard, the buzz of the mosquitoes, the beating of his heart, and the inordinate bustle of a world that he had not noticed until then, and he went out into the sleeping street. With all his heart he wanted the door to be barred and not just closed as she had promised him. But it was open. He pushed it with the tips of his fingers and the hinges yielded with a mournful and articulate moan that left a frozen echo inside of him. From the moment he entered, sideways and trying not to make a noise, he caught the smell. He was still in the hallway, where the woman’s three brothers had their hammocks in positions that he could not see and that he could not determine in the darkness as he felt his way along the hall to push open the bedroom door and get his bearings there so as not to mistake the bed. He found it. He bumped against the ropes of the hammocks, which were lower than he had suspected, and a man who had been snoring until then turned in his sleep and said in a kind of delusion, “It was Wednesday.” When he pushed open the bedroom door, he could not prevent it from scraping against the uneven floor. Suddenly, in the absolute darkness, he understood with a hopeless nostalgia that he was completely disoriented. Sleeping in the narrow room were the mother, another daughter with her husband and two children, and the woman, who may not have been there. He could have guided himself by the smell if the smell had not been all over the house, so devious and at the same time so definite, as it had always been on his skin. He did not move for a long time, wondering in fright how he had ever got to that abyss of abandonment, when a hand with all its fingers extended and feeling about in the darkness touched his face. He was not surprised, for without knowing, he had been expecting it. Then he gave himself over to that hand, and in a terrible state of exhaustion he let himself be led to a shapeless place where his clothes were taken off and he 19 was heaved about like a sack of potatoes and thrown from one side to the other in a bottomless darkness in which his arms were useless, where it no longer smelled of woman but of ammonia, and where he tried to remember her face and found before him the face of Úrsula, confusedly aware that he was doing something that for a very long time he had wanted to do but that he had imagined could really never be done, not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude. Her name was Pilar Ternera. She had been part of the exodus that ended with the founding of Macondo, dragged along by her family in order to separate her from the man who had raped her at fourteen and had continued to love her until she was twenty-two, but who never made up his mind to make the situation public because he was a man apart. He promised to follow her to the ends of the earth, but only later on, when he put his affairs in order, and she had become tired of waiting for him, always identifying him with the tall and short, blond and brunet men that her cards promised from land and sea within three days, three months, or three years. With her waiting she had lost the strength of her thighs, the firmness of her breasts, her habit of tenderness, but she kept the madness of her heart intact. Maddened by that prodigious plaything, José Arcadio followed her path every night through the labyrinth of the room. On a certain occasion he found the door barred, and he knocked several times, knowing that if he had the boldness to knock the first time he would have had to knock until the last, and after an interminable wait she opened the door for him. During the day, lying down to dream, he would secretly enjoy the memories of the night before. But when she came into the house, merry, indifferent, chatty, he did not have to make any effort to hide his tension, because that woman, whose explosive laugh frightened off the doves, had nothing to do with the invisible power that taught him how to breathe from within and control his heartbeats, and that had permitted him to understand why man are afraid of death. He was so wrapped up in himself that he did not even understand the joy of everyone when his father and his brother aroused the household with the news that they had succeeded in penetrating the metallic debris and had separated Úrsula’s gold. They had succeeded, as a matter of fact, after putting in complicated and persevering days at it. Úrsula was happy, and she even gave thanks to God for the invention of alchemy, while the people of the village crushed into the laboratory, and they served them guava jelly on crackers to celebrate the wonder, and José Arcadio Buendía let them see the crucible with the recovered gold, as if he had just invented it. Showing it all around, he ended up in front of his older son, who during the past few days had barely put in an appearance in the laboratory. He put the dry and yellowish mass in front of his eyes and asked him: “What does it look like to you?” José Arcadio answered sincerely: “Dog shit.” His father gave him a blow with the back of his hand that brought out blood and tears. That night Pilar Ternera put arnica compresses on the swelling, feeling about for the bottle and cotton in the dark, and she did everything she wanted with him as long as it did not bother him, making an effort to love him without hurting him. They reached such a state of intimacy that later, without realizing it, they were whispering to each other. “I want to be alone with you,” he said. “One of these days I’m going to tell everybody and we can stop all of this sneaking around.” She did not try to calm him down. “That would be fine,” she said “If we’re alone, we’ll leave the lamp lighted so that we can see each other, and I can holler as much as I want without anybody’s having to butt in, and you can whisper in my ear any crap you can think of.” 20 That conversation, the biting rancor that he felt against his father, and the imminent possibility of wild love inspired a serene courage in him. In a spontaneous way, without any preparation, he told everything to his brother. At first young Aureliano understood only the risk, the immense possibility of danger that his brother’s adventures implied, and he could not understand the fascination of the subject. Little by little he became contaminated with the anxiety. He wondered about the details of the dangers, he identified himself with the suffering and enjoyment of his brother, he felt frightened and happy. He would stay awake waiting for him until dawn in the solitary bed that seemed to have a bottom of live coals, and they would keep on talking until it was time to get up, so that both of them soon suffered from the same drowsiness, felt the same lack of interest in alchemy and the wisdom of their father, and they took refuge in solitude. “Those kids are out of their heads,” Úrsula said. “They must have worms.” She prepared a repugnant potion for them made out of mashed wormseed, which they both drank with unforeseen stoicism, and they sat down at the same time on their pots eleven times in a single day, expelling some rose-colored parasites that they showed to everybody with great jubilation, for it allowed them to deceive Úrsula as to the origin of their distractions and drowsiness. Aureliano not only understood by then, he also lived his brother’s experiences as something of his own, for on one occasion when the latter was explaining in great detail the mechanism of love, he interrupted him to ask: “What does it feel like?” José Arcadio gave an immediate reply: “It’s like an earthquake.” One January Thursday at two o’clock in the morning, Amaranta was born. Before anyone came into the room, Úrsula examined her carefully. She was light and watery, like a newt, but all of her parts were human: Aureliano did not notice the new thing except when the house became full of people. Protected by the confusion, he went off in search of his brother, who had not been in bed since eleven o’clock, and it was such an impulsive decision that he did not even have time to ask himself how he could get him out of Pilar Ternera’s bedroom. He circled the house for several hours, whistling private calls, until the proximity of dawn forced him to go home. In his mother’s room, playing with the newborn little sister and with a face that drooped with innocence, he found José Arcadio. Úrsula was barely over her forty days’ rest when the gypsies returned. They were the same acrobats and jugglers that had brought the ice. Unlike Melquíades’ tribe, they had shown very quickly that they were not heralds of progress but purveyors of amusement. Even when they brought the ice they did not advertise it for its usefulness in the life of man but as a simple circus curiosity. This time, along with many other artifices, they brought a flying carpet. But they did not offer it as a fundamental contribution to the development of transport, rather as an object of recreation. The people at once dug up their last gold pieces to take advantage of a quick flight over the houses of the village. Protected by the delightful cover of collective disorder, José Arcadio and Pilar passed many relaxing hours. They were two happy lovers among the crowd, and they even came to suspect that love could be a feeling that was more relaxing and deep than the happiness, wild but momentary, of their secret nights. Pilar, however, broke the spell. Stimulated by the enthusiasm that José Arcadio showed in her companionship, she confused the form and the occasion, and all of a sudden she threw the whole world on top of him. “Now you really are a man,” she told him. And since he did not understand what she meant, she spelled it out to him. “You’re going to be a father.” José Arcadio did not dare leave the house for several days. It was enough for him to hear the rocking laughter of Pilar in the kitchen to run and take refuge in the laboratory, where the artifacts of alchemy had come alive again with Úrsula’s blessing. José Arcadio Buendía received his errant son with joy and initiated him in the search for the philosopher’s stone, which he had finally undertaken. One afternoon the boys grew enthusiastic over the flying carpet that went swiftly by the laboratory 21 at window level carrying the gypsy who was driving it and several children from the village who were merrily waving their hands, but José Arcadio Buendía did not even look at it. “Let them dream,” he said. “We’ll do better flying than they are doing, and with more scientific resources than a miserable bedspread.” In spite of his feigned interest, José Arcadio must understood the powers of the philosopher’s egg, which to him looked like a poorly blown bottle. He did not succeed in escaping from his worries. He lost his appetite and he could not sleep. He fell into an ill humor, the same as his father’s over the failure of his undertakings, and such was his upset that José Arcadio Buendía himself relieved him of his duties in the laboratory, thinking that he had taken alchemy too much to heart. Aureliano, of course, understood that his brother’s affliction did not have its source in the search for the philosopher’s stone but he could not get into his confidence. He had lost his former spontaneity. From an accomplice and a communicative person he had become withdrawn and hostile. Anxious for solitude, bitten by a virulent rancor against the world, one night he left his bed as usual, but he did not go to Pilar Ternera’s house, but to mingle is the tumult of the fair. After wandering about among all kinds of contraptions with out becoming interested in any of them, he spotted something that was not a part of it all: a very young gypsy girl, almost a child, who was weighted down by beads and was the most beautiful woman that José Arcadio had ever seen in his life. She was in the crowd that was witnessing the sad spectacle of the man who had been turned into a snake for having disobeyed his parents. José Arcadio paid no attention. While the sad interrogation of the snake-man was taking place, he made his way through the crowd up to the front row, where the gypsy girl was, and he stooped behind her. He pressed against her back. The girl tried to separate herself, but José Arcadio pressed more strongly against her back. Then she felt him. She remained motionless against him, trembling with surprise and fear, unable to believe the evidence, and finally she turned her head and looked at him with a tremulous smile. At that instant two gypsies put the snake-man into his cage and carried him into the tent. The gypsy who was conducting the show announced: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to show the terrible test of the woman who must have her head chopped off every night at this time for one hundred and fifty years as punishment for having seen what she should not have.” José Arcadio and the gypsy girl did not witness the decapitation. They went to her tent, where they kissed each other with a desperate anxiety while they took off their clothes. The gypsy girl removed the starched lace corsets she had on and there she was, changed into practically nothing. She was a languid little frog, with incipient breasts and legs so thin that they did not even match the size of José Arcadio’s arms, but she had a decision and a warmth that compensated for her fragility. Nevertheless, José Arcadio could not respond to her because they were in a kind of public tent where the gypsies passed through with their circus things and did their business, and would even tarry by the bed for a game of dice. The lamp hanging from the center pole lighted the whole place up. During a pause in the caresses, José Arcadio stretched out naked on the bed without knowing what to do, while the girl tried to inspire him. A gypsy woman with splendid flesh came in a short time after accompanied by a man who was not of the caravan but who was not from the village either, and they both began to undress in front of the bed. Without meaning to, the woman looked at José Arcadio and examined his magnificent animal in repose with a kind of pathetic fervor. “My boy,” she exclaimed, “may God preserve you just as you are.” José Arcadio’s companion asked them to leave them alone, and the couple lay down on the ground, close to the bed. The passion of the others woke up José Arcadio’s fervor. On the first contact the bones of the girl seemed to become disjointed with a disorderly crunch like the sound of a box of dominoes, and her skin broke out into a pale sweat and her eyes filled with tears as her whole body exhaled a lugubrious lament and a vague smell of mud. But she bore the impact with a firmness of character and a bravery that were admirable. José Arcadio felt himself lifted up into the 22 air toward a state of seraphic inspiration, where his heart burst forth with an outpouring of tender obscenities that entered the girl through her ears and came out of her mouth translated into her language. It was Thursday. On Saturday night, José Arcadio wrapped a red cloth around his head and left with the gypsies. When Úrsula discovered his absence she searched for him all through the village. In the remains of the gypsy camp there was nothing but a garbage pit among the still smoking ashes of the extinguished campfires. Someone who was there looking for beads among the trash told Úrsula that the night before he had seen her son in the tumult of the caravan pushing the snake-man’s cage on a cart. “He’s become a gypsy” she shouted to her husband, who had not shown the slightest sign of alarm over the disappearance. “I hope it’s true,” José Arcadio Buendía said, grinding in his mortar the material that had been ground a thousand times and reheated and ground again. “That way he’ll learn to be a man.” Úrsula asked where the gypsies had gone. She went along asking and following the road she had been shown, thinking that she still had time to catch up to them. She kept getting farther away from the village until she felt so far away that she did not think about returning. José Arcadio Buendía did not discover that his wife was missing until eight o’clock at night, when he left the material warming in a bed of manure and went to see what was wrong with little Amaranta, who was getting hoarse from crying. In a few hours he gathered a group of well-equipped men, put Amaranta in the hands of a woman who offered to nurse her, and was lost on invisible paths in pursuit of Úrsula. Aureliano went with them. Some Indian fishermen, whose language they could not understand, told them with signs that they had not seen anyone pass. After three days of useless searching they returned to the village. For several weeks José Arcadio Buendía let himself be overcome by consternation. He took care of little Amaranta like a mother. He bathed and dressed her, took her to be nursed four times a day, and even sang to her at night the songs that Úrsula never knew how to sing. On a certain occasion Pilar Ternera volunteered to do the household chores until Úrsula came back. Aureliano, whose mysterious intuition had become sharpened with the misfortune, felt a glow of clairvoyance when he saw her come in. Then he knew that in some inexplicable way she was to blame for his brother’s flight and the consequent disappearance of his mother, and he harassed her with a silent and implacable hostility in such a way that the woman did not return to the house. Time put things in their place. José Arcadio Buendía and his son did not know exactly when they returned to the laboratory, dusting things, lighting the water pipe, involved once more in the patient manipulation of the material that had been sleeping for several months in its bed of manure. Even Amaranta, lying in a wicker basket, observed with curiosity the absorbing work of her father and her brother in the small room where the air was rarefied by mercury vapors. On a certain occasion, months after Úrsula’s departure, strange things began to happen. An empty flask that had been forgotten in a cupboard for a long time became so heavy that it could not be moved. A pan of water on the worktable boiled without any fire under it for a half hour until it completely evaporated. José Arcadio Buendía and his son observed those phenomena with startled excitement, unable to explain them but interpreting them as predictions of the material. One day Amaranta’s basket began to move by itself and made a complete turn about the room, to the consternation of Auerliano, who hurried to stop it. But his father did not get upset. He put the basket in its place and tied it to the leg of a table, convinced that the long-awaited event was imminent. It was on that occasion that Auerliano heard him say: “If you don’t fear God, fear him through the metals. Suddenly, almost five months after her disappearance, Úrsula came back. She arrived exalted, rejuvenated, with new clothes in a style that was unknown in the village. José Arcadio Buendía could barely stand up under the impact. “That was it!” he shouted. “I knew it was going to happen.” And 23 he really believed it, for during his prolonged imprisonment as he manipulated the material, he begged in the depth of his heart that the longed-for miracle should not be the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, or the freeing of the breath that makes metals live, or the faculty to convert the hinges and the locks of the house into gold, but what had just happened: Úrsula’s return. But she did not share his excitement. She gave him a conventional kiss, as if she had been away only an hour, and she told him: “Look out the door.” José Arcadio Buendía took a long time to get out of his perplexity when he went out into the street and saw the crowd. They were not gypsies. They were men and women like them, with straight hair and dark skin, who spoke the same language and complained of the same pains. They had mules loaded down with things to eat, oxcarts with furniture and domestic utensils, pure and simple earthly accessories put on sale without any fuss by peddlers of everyday reality. They came from the other side of the swamp, only two days away, where there were towns that received mail every month in the year and where they were familiar with the implements of good living. Úrsula had not caught up with the gypsies, but she had found the route that her husband had been unable to discover in his frustrated search for the great inventions. 24 Chapter 3 PILAR TERNERA’S son was brought to his grand parents’ house two weeks after he was born. Úrsula admitted him grudgingly, conquered once more by the obstinacy of her husband, who could not tolerate the idea that an offshoot of his blood should be adrift, but he imposed the condition that the child should never know his true identity. Although he was given the name José Arcadio, they ended up calling him simply Arcadio so as to avoid confusion. At that time there was so much activity in the town and so much bustle in the house that the care of the children was relegated to a secondary level. They were put in the care of Visitación, a Guajiro Indian woman who had arrived in town with a brother in flight from a plague of insomnia that had been scourging their tribe for several years. They were both so docile and willing to help that Úrsula took them on to help her with her household chores. That was how Arcadio and Amaranta came to speak the Guajiro language before Spanish, and they learned to drink lizard broth and eat spider eggs without Úrsula’s knowing it, for she was too busy with a promising business in candy animals. Macondo had changed. The people who had come with Úrsula spread the news of the good quality of its soil and its privileged position with respect to the swamp, so that from the narrow village of past times it changed into an active town with stores and workshops and a permanent commercial route over which the first Arabs arrived with their baggy pants and rings in their ears, swapping glass beads for macaws. José Arcadio Buendía did not have a moment’s rest. Fascinated by an immediate reality that came to be more fantastic than the vast universe of his imagination, he lost all interest in the alchemist’s laboratory, put to rest the material that had become attenuated with months of manipulation, and went back to being the enterprising man of earlier days when he had decided upon the layout of the streets and the location of the new houses so that no one would enjoy privileges that everyone did not have. He acquired such authority among the new arrivals that foundations were not laid or walls built without his being consulted, and it was decided that he should be the one in charge of the distribution of the land. When the acrobat gypsies returned, with their vagabond carnival transformed now into a gigantic organization of games of luck and chance, they were received with great joy, for it was thought that José Arcadio would be coming back with them. But José Arcadio did not return, nor did they come with the snake-man, who, according to what Úrsula thought, was the only one who could tell them about their son, so the gypsies were not allowed to camp in town or set foot in it in the future, for they were considered the bearers of concupiscence and perversion. José Arcadio Buendía, however, was explicit in maintaining that the old tribe of Melquíades, who had contributed so much to the growth of the village with his age-old wisdom and his fabulous inventions, would always find the gates open. But Melquíades’ tribe, according to what the wanderers said, had been wiped off the face of the earth because they had gone beyond the limits of human knowledge. Emancipated for the moment at least from the torment of fantasy, José Arcadio Buendía in a short time set up a system of order and work which allowed for only one bit of license: the freeing of the birds, which, since the time of the founding, had made time merry with their flutes, and installing in their place musical clocks in every house. They were wondrous clocks made of carved wood, which the Arabs had traded for macaws and which José Arcadio Buendía had synchronized with such precision that every half hour the town grew merry with the progressive chords of the same song until it reached the climax of a noontime that was as exact and unanimous as a complete waltz. It was also José Arcadio Buendía who decided during those years that they should plant almond trees instead of acacias on the streets, and who discovered, without ever revealing it, a way to make them live forever. Many years later, when Macondo was a field of wooden houses with zinc 25 roofs, the broken and dusty almond trees still stood on the oldest streets, although no one knew who had planted them. While his father was putting the town in order and his mother was increasing their wealth with her marvelous business of candied little roosters and fish, which left the house twice a day strung along sticks of balsa wood, Aureliano spent interminable hours in the abandoned laboratory, learning the art of silverwork by his own experimentation. He had shot up so fast that in a short time the clothing left behind by his brother no longer fit him and he began to wear his father’s, but Visitación had to sew pleats in the shirt and darts in the pants, because Aureliano had not sequined the corpulence of the others. Adolescence had taken away the softness of his voice and had made him silent and definitely solitary, but, on the other hand, it had restored the intense expression that he had had in his eyes when he was born. He concentrated so much on his experiments in silverwork that he scarcely left the laboratory to eat. Worried ever his inner withdrawal, José Arcadio Buendía gave him the keys to the house and a little money, thinking that perhaps he needed a woman. But Aureliano spent the money on muriatic acid to prepare some aqua regia and he beautified the keys by plating them with gold. His excesses were hardly comparable to those of Arcadio and Amaranta, who had already begun to get their second teeth and still went about all day clutching at the Indians’ cloaks, stubborn in their decision not to speak Spanish but the Guajiro language. “You shouldn’t complain.” Úrsula told her husband. “Children inherit their parents’ madness.” And as she was lamenting her misfortune, convinced that the wild behavior of her children was something as fearful as a pig’s tail, Aureliano gave her a look that wrapped her in an atmosphere of uncertainty. “Somebody is coming,” he told her. Úrsula, as she did whenever he made a prediction, tried to break it down with her housewifely logic. It was normal for someone to be coming. Dozens of strangers came through Macondo every day without arousing suspicion or secret ideas. Nevertheless, beyond all logic, Aureliano was sure of his prediction. “I don’t know who it will be,” he insisted, “but whoever it is is already on the way.” That Sunday, in fact, Rebeca arrived. She was only eleven years old. She had made the difficult trip from Manaure with some hide dealers who had taken on the task of delivering her along with a letter to José Arcadio Buendía, but they could not explain precisely who the person was who had asked the favor. Her entire baggage consisted of a small trunk, a little rocking chair with small handpainted flowers, and a canvas sack which kept making a cloc-cloc-cloc sound, where she carried her parents’ bones. The letter addressed to José Arcadio Buendía was written is very warm terms by someone who still loved him very much in spite of time and distance, and who felt obliged by a basic humanitarian feeling to do the charitable thing and send him that poor unsheltered orphan, who was a second cousin of Úrsula’s and consequently also a relative of José Arcadio Buendía, although farther removed, because she was the daughter of that unforgettable friend Nicanor Ulloa and his very worthy wife Rebeca Montiel, may God keep them in His holy kingdom, whose remains the girl was carrying so that they might be given Christian burial. The names mentioned, as well as the signature on the letter, were perfectly legible, but neither José Arcadio, Buendía nor Úrsula remembered having any relatives with those names, nor did they know anyone by the name of the sender of the letter, much less the remote village of Manaure. It was impossible to obtain any further information from the girl. From the moment she arrived she had been sitting in the rocker, sucking her finger and observing everyone with her large, startled eyes without giving any sign of understanding what they were asking her. She wore a diagonally striped dress that had been dyed black, worn by use, and a pair of scaly patent leather boots. Her hair was held behind her ears with bows of black ribbon. She wore a scapular with the images worn away by sweat, and on her right wrist the fang of a carnivorous animal mounted on a backing of copper as an amulet against the evil eye. Her greenish skin, her stomach, round and tense as a drum. revealed poor health and hunger 26 that were older than she was, but when they gave her something to eat she kept the plate on her knees without tasting anything. They even began to think that she was a deaf-mute until the Indians asked her in their language if she wanted some water and she moved her eyes as if she recognized them and said yes with her head. They kept her, because there was nothing else they could do. They decided to call her Rebeca, which according to the letter was her mother’s name, because Aureliano had the patience to read to her the names of all the saints and he did not get a reaction from any one of them. Since there was no cemetery in Macondo at that time, for no one had died up till then, they kept the bag of bones to wait for a worthy place of burial, and for a long time it got in the way everywhere and would be found where least expected, always with its clucking of a broody hen. A long time passed before Rebeca became incorporated into the life of the family. She would sit in her small rocker sucking her finger in the most remote corner of the house. Nothing attracted her attention except the music of the clocks, which she would look for every half hour with her frightened eyes as if she hoped to find it someplace in the air. They could not get her to eat for several days. No one understood why she had not died of hunger until the Indians, who were aware of everything, for they went ceaselessly about the house on their stealthy feet, discovered that Rebeca only liked to eat the damp earth of the courtyard and the cake of whitewash that she picked of the walls with her nails. It was obvious that her parents, or whoever had raised her, had scolded her for that habit because she did it secretively and with a feeling of guilt, trying to put away supplies so that she could eat when no one was looking. From then on they put her under an implacable watch. They threw cow gall onto the courtyard and, rubbed hot chili on the walls, thinking they could defeat her pernicious vice with those methods, but she showed such signs of astuteness and ingenuity to find some earth that Úrsula found herself forced to use more drastic methods. She put some orange juice and rhubarb into a pan that she left in the dew all night and she gave her the dose the following day on an empty stomach. Although no one had told her that it was the specific remedy for the vice of eating earth, she thought that any bitter substance in an empty stomach would have to make the liver react. Rebeca was so rebellious and strong in spite of her frailness that they had to tie her up like a calf to make her swallow the medicine, and they could barely keep back her kicks or bear up under the strange hieroglyphics that she alternated with her bites and spitting, and that, according to what the scandalized Indians said, were the vilest obscenities that one could ever imagine in their language. When Úrsula discovered that, she added whipping to the treatment. It was never established whether it was the rhubarb or the beatings that had effect, or both of them together, but the truth was that in a few weeks Rebeca began to show signs of recovery. She took part in the games of Arcadio and Amaranta, who treated her like an older sister, and she ate heartily, using the utensils properly. It was soon revealed that she spoke Spanish with as much fluency as the Indian language, that she had a remarkable ability for manual work, and that she could sing the waltz of the clocks with some very funny words that she herself had invented. It did not take long for them to consider her another member of the family. She was more affectionate to Úrsula than any of her own children had been, and she called Arcadio, and Amaranta brother and sister, Aureliano uncle, and José Arcadio Buendía grandpa. So that she finally deserved, as much as the others, the name of Rebeca Buendía, the only one that she ever had and that she bore with dignity until her death. One night about the time that Rebeca was cured of the vice of eating earth and was brought to sleep in the other children’s room, the Indian woman, who slept with them awoke by chance and heard a strange, intermittent sound in the corner. She got up in alarm, thinking that an animal had come into the room, and then she saw Rebeca in the rocker, sucking her finger and with her eyes lighted up in the darkness like those of a cat. Terrified, exhausted by her fate, Visitación recognized in those eyes the symptoms of the sickness whose threat had obliged her and her brother to exile 27 themselves forever from an age-old kingdom where they had been prince and princess. It was the insomnia plague. Cataure, the Indian, was gone from the house by morning. His sister stayed because her fatalistic heart told her that the lethal sickness would follow her, no matter what, to the farthest corner of the earth. No one understood Visitación’s alarm. “If we don’t ever sleep again, so much the better,” José Arcadio Buendía said in good humor. “That way we can get more out of life.” But the Indian woman explained that the most fearsome part of the sickness of insomnia was not the impossibility of sleeping, for the body did not feel any fatigue at all, but its inexorable evolution toward a more critical manifestation: a loss of memory. She meant that when the sick person became used to his state of vigil, the recollection of his childhood began to be erased from his memory, then the name and notion of things, and finally the identity of people and even the awareness of his own being, until he sank into a kind of idiocy that had no past. José Arcadio Buendía, dying with laughter, thought that it was just a question of one of the many illnesses invented by the Indians’ superstitions. But Úrsula, just to be safe, took the precaution of isolating Rebeca from the other children. After several weeks, when Visitación’s terror seemed to have died down, José Arcadio Buendía found himself rolling over in bed, unable to fall asleep. Úrsula, who had also awakened, asked him what was wrong, and he answered: “I’m thinking about Prudencio Aguilar again.” They did not sleep a minute, but the following day they felt so rested that they forgot about the bad night. Aureliano commented with surprise at lunchtime that he felt very well in spite of the fact that he had spent the whole night in the laboratory gilding a brooch that he planned to give to Úrsula for her birthday. They did not become alarmed until the third day, when no one felt sleepy at bedtime and they realized that they had gone more than fifty hours without sleeping. “The children are awake too,” the Indian said with her fatalistic conviction. “Once it gets into a house no one can escape the plague.” They had indeed contracted the illness of insomnia. Úrsula, who had learned from her mother the medicinal value of plants, prepared and made them all drink a brew of monkshood, but they could not get to sleep and spent the whole day dreaming on their feet. In that state of hallucinated lucidity, not only did they see the images of their own dreams, but some saw the images dreamed by others. It was as if the house were full of visitors. Sitting in her rocker in a corner of the kitchen, Rebeca dreamed that a man who looked very much like her, dressed in white linen and with his shirt collar closed by a gold button, was bringing her a bouquet of roses. He was accompanied by a woman with delicate hands who took out one rose and put it in the child’s hair. Úrsula understood that the man and woman were Rebeca’s parents, but even though she made a great effort to recognize them, she confirmed her certainty that she had never seen them. In the meantime, through an oversight that José Arcadio Buendía never forgave himself for, the candy animals made in the house were still being sold in the town. Children and adults sucked with delight on the delicious little green roosters of insomnia, the exquisite pink fish of insomnia, and the tender yellow ponies of insomnia, so that dawn on Monday found the whole town awake. No one was alarmed at first. On the contrary, they were happy at not sleeping because there was so much to do in Macondo in those days that there was barely enough time. They worked so hard that soon they had nothing else to do and they could be found at three o’clock in the morning with their arms crossed, counting the notes in the waltz of the clock. Those who wanted to sleep, not from fatigue but because of the nostalgia for dreams, tried all kinds of methods of exhausting themselves. They would gather together to converse endlessly, to tell over and over for hours on end the same jokes, to complicate to the limits of exasperation the story about the capon, which was an endless game in which the narrator asked if they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they answered yes, the narrator would say that he had not asked them to say yes, but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they answered no, the narrator told them that he had 28 not asked them to say no, but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they remained silent the narrator told them that he had not asked them to remain silent but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and no one could leave because the narrator would say that he had not asked them to leave but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and so on and on in a vicious circle that lasted entire nights. When José Arcadio Buendía realized that the plague had invaded the town, he gathered together the heads of families to explain to them what he knew about the sickness of insomnia, and they agreed on methods to prevent the scourge from spreading to other towns in the swamp. That was why they took the bells off the goats, bells that the Arabs had swapped them for macaws, and put them at the entrance to town at the disposal of those who would not listen to the advice and entreaties of the sentinels and insisted on visiting the town. All strangers who passed through the streets of Macondo at that time had to ring their bells so that the sick people would know that they were healthy. They were not allowed to eat or drink anything during their stay, for there was no doubt but that the illness was transmitted by mouth, and all food and drink had been contaminated by insomnia. In that way they kept the plague restricted to the perimeter of the town. So effective was the quarantine that the day came when the emergency situation was accepted as a natural thing and life was organized in such a way that work picked up its rhythm again and no one worried any more about the useless habit of sleeping. It was Aureliano who conceived the formula that was to protect them against loss of memory for several months. He discovered it by chance. An expert insomniac, having been one of the first, he had learned the art of silverwork to perfection. One day he was looking for the small anvil that he used for laminating metals and he could not remember its name. His father told him: “Stake.” Aureliano wrote the name on a piece of paper that he pasted to the base of the small anvil: stake. In that way he was sure of not forgetting it in the future. It did not occur to him that this was the first manifestation of a loss of memory, because the object had a difficult name to remember. But a few days later be, discovered that he had trouble remembering almost every object in the laboratory. Then he marked them with their respective names so that all he had to do was read the inscription in order to identify them. When his father told him about his alarm at having forgotten even the most impressive happenings of his childhood, Aureliano explained his method to him, and José Arcadio Buendía put it into practice all through the house and later on imposed it on the whole village. With an inked brush he marked everything with its name: table, chair, clock, door, wall, bed, pan. He went to the corral and marked the animals and plants: cow, goat, pig, hen, cassava, caladium, banana. Little by little, studying the infinite possibilities of a loss of memory, he realized that the day might come when things would be recognized by their inscriptions but that no one would remember their use. Then he was more explicit. The sign that he hung on the neck of the cow was an exemplary proof of the way in which the inhabitants of Macondo were prepared to fight against loss of memory: This is the cow. She must be milked every morning so that she will produce milk, and the milk must be boiled in order to be mixed with coffee to make coffee and milk. Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters. At the beginning of the road into the swamp they put up a sign that said MACONDO and another larger one on the main street that said GOD EXISTS. In all the houses keys to memorizing objects and feelings had been written. But the system demanded so much vigilance and moral strength that many succumbed to the spell of an imaginary reality, one invented by themselves, which was less practical for them but more comforting. Pilar Ternera was the one who contributed most to popularize that mystification when she conceived the trick of reading the past in cards as she had read the future before. By means of that recourse the insomniacs began to live in a world built on the uncertain alternatives of the cards, where a father was remembered faintly as the dark man who 29 had arrived at the beginning of April and a mother was remembered only as the dark woman who wore a gold ring on her left hand, and where a birth date was reduced to the last Tuesday on which a lark sang in the laurel tree. Defeated by those practices of consolation, José Arcadio Buendía then decided to build the memory machine that he had desired once in order to remember the marvelous inventions of the gypsies. The artifact was based on the possibility of reviewing every morning, from beginning to end, the totality of knowledge acquired during one’s life. He conceived of it as a spinning dictionary that a person placed on the axis could operate by means of a lever, so that in a very few hours there would pass before his eyes the notions most necessary for life. He had succeeded in writing almost fourteen thousand entries when along the road from the swamp a strange-looking old man with the sad sleepers’ bell appeared, carrying a bulging suitcase tied with a rope and pulling a cart covered with black cloth. He went straight to the house of José Arcadio Buendía. Visitación did not recognize him when she opened the door and she thought he had come with the idea of selling something, unaware that nothing could be sold in a town that was sinking irrevocably into the quicksand of forgetfulness. He was a decrepit man. Although his voice was also broken by uncertainty and his hands seemed to doubt the existence of things, it was evident that he came from the world where men could still sleep and remember. José Arcadio Buendía found him sitting in the living room fanning himself with a patched black hat as he read with compassionate attention the signs pasted to the walls. He greeted him with a broad show of affection, afraid that he had known him at another time and that he did not remember him now. But the visitor was aware of his falseness, He felt himself forgotten, not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart, but with a different kind of forgetfulness, which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death. Then he understood. He opened the suitcase crammed with indecipherable objects and from among then he took out a little case with many flasks. He gave José Arcadio Buendía a drink of a gentle color and the light went on in his memory. His eyes became moist from weeping even before he noticed himself in an absurd living room where objects were labeled and before he was ashamed of the solemn nonsense written on the walls, and even before he recognized the newcomer with a dazzling glow of joy. It was Melquíades. While Macondo was celebrating the recovery of its memory, José Arcadio Buendía and Melquíades dusted off their old friendship. The gypsy was inclined to stay in the town. He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude. Repudiated by his tribe, having lost all of his supernatural faculties because of his faithfulness to life, he decided to take refuge in that corner of the world which had still not been discovered by death, dedicated to the operation of a daguerreotype laboratory. José Arcadio Buendía had never heard of that invention. But when he saw himself and his whole family fastened onto a sheet of iridescent metal for an eternity, he was mute with stupefaction. That was the date of the oxidized daguerreotype in which José Arcadio Buendía appeared with his bristly and graying hair, his card board collar attached to his shirt by a copper button, and an expression of startled solemnity, whom Úrsula described, dying with laughter, as a “frightened general.” José Arcadio Buendía was, in fact, frightened on that dear December morning when the daguerreotype was made, for he was thinking that people were slowly wearing away while his image would endure an a metallic plaque. Through a curious reversal of custom, it was Úrsula who got that idea out of his head, as it was also she who forgot her ancient bitterness and decided that Melquíades would stay on in the house, although she never permitted them to make a daguerreotype of her because (according to her very words) she did not want to survive as a laughingstock for her grandchildren. That morning she dressed the children in their best clothes, powdered their faces, and gave a spoonful of marrow syrup to each one so that they would all remain absolutely motionless during the nearly two minutes in front of Melquíades fantastic camera. In the family daguerreotype, the only one that ever existed, Aureliano appeared dressed in 30 black velvet between Amaranta and Rebeca. He had the same languor and the same clairvoyant look that he would have years later as he faced the firing squad. But he still had not sensed the premonition of his fate. He was an expert silversmith, praised all over the swampland for the delicacy of his work. In the workshop, which he shared with Melquíades’ mad laboratory, he could barely be heard breathing. He seemed to be taking refuge in some other time, while his father and the gypsy with shouts interpreted the predictions of Nostradamus amidst a noise of flasks and trays and the disaster of spilled acids and silver bromide that was lost in the twists and turns it gave at every instant. That dedication to his work, the good judgment with which he directed his attention, had allowed Aureliano to earn in a short time more money than Úrsula had with her delicious candy fauna, but everybody thought it strange that he was now a full-grown man and had not known a woman. It was true that he had never had one. Several months later saw the return of Francisco the Man, as ancient vagabond who was almost two hundred years old and who frequently passed through Macondo distributing songs that he composed himself. In them Francisco the Man told in great detail the things that had happened in the towns along his route, from Manaure to the edge of the swamp, so that if anyone had a message to send or an event to make public, he would pay him two cents to include it in his repertory. That was how Úrsula learned of the death of her mother, as a simple consequence of listening to the songs in the hope that they would say something about her son José Arcadio. Francisco the Man, called that because he had once defeated the devil in a duel of improvisation, and whose real name no one knew, disappeared from Macondo during the insomnia plague and one night he appeared suddenly in Catarino’s store. The whole town went to listen to him to find out what had happened in the world. On that occasion there arrived with him a woman who was so fat that four Indians had to carry her in a rocking chair, and an adolescent mulatto girl with a forlorn look who protected her from the sun with an umbrella. Aureliano went to Catarino’s store that night. He found Francisco the Man, like a monolithic chameleon, sitting in the midst of a circle of bystanders. He was singing the news with his old, out-of-tune voice, accompanying himself with the same archaic accordion that Sir Walter Raleigh had given him in the Guianas and keeping time with his great walking feet that were cracked from saltpeter. In front of a door at the rear through which men were going and coming, the matron of the rocking chair was sitting and fanning herself in silence. Catarino, with a felt rose behind his ear, was selling the gathering mugs of fermented cane juice, and he took advantage of the occasion to go over to the men and put his hand on them where he should not have. Toward midnight the heat was unbearable. Aureliano listened to the news to the end without hearing anything that was of interest to his family. He was getting ready to go home when the matron signaled him with her hand. “You go in too.” she told him. “It only costs twenty cents.” Aureliano threw a coin into the hopper that the matron had in her lap and went into the room without knowing why. The adolescent mulatto girl, with her small bitch’s teats, was naked on the bed. Before Aureliano sixty-three men had passed through the room that night. From being used so much, kneaded with sweat and sighs, the air in the room had begun to turn to mud. The girl took off the soaked sheet and asked Aureliano to hold it by one side. It was as heavy as a piece of canvas. They squeezed it, twisting it at the ends until it regained its natural weight. They turned over the mat and the sweat came out of the other side. Aureliano was anxious for that operation never to end. He knew the theoretical mechanics of love, but he could not stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, and although he had goose pimples on his burning skin he could not resist the urgent need to expel the weight of his bowels. When the girl finished fixing up the bed and told him to get undressed, he gave her a confused explanation: “They made me come in. They told me to throw twenty cents into the hopper and hurry up.” The girl understood his confusion. “If you throw in twenty cents more when you go out, you can stay a little longer,” she said softly. Aureliano got 31 undressed, tormented by shame, unable to get rid of the idea that-his nakedness could not stand comparison with that of his brother. In spite of the girl’s efforts he felt more and more indifferent and terribly alone. “I’ll throw in other twenty cents,” he said with a desolate voice. The girl thanked him in silence. Her back was raw. Her skin was stuck to her ribs and her breathing was forced because of an immeasurable exhaustion. Two years before, far away from there, she had fallen asleep without putting out the candle and had awakened surrounded by flames. The house where she lived with the grandmother who had raised her was reduced to ashes. Since then her grandmother carried her from town to town, putting her to bed for twenty cents in order to make up the value of the burned house. According to the girl’s calculations, she still had ten years of seventy men per night, because she also had to pay the expenses of the trip and food for both of them as well as the pay of the Indians who carried the rocking chair. When the matron knocked on the door the second time, Aureliano left the room without having done anything, troubled by a desire to weep. That night he could not sleep, thinking about the girl, with a mixture of desire and pity. He felt an irresistible need to love her and protect her. At dawn, worn out by insomnia and fever, he made the calm decision to marry her in order to free her from the despotism of her grandmother and to enjoy all the nights of satisfaction that she would give the seventy men. But at ten o’clock in the morning, when he reached Catarino’s store, the girl had left town. Time mitigated his mad proposal, but it aggravated his feelings of frustration. He took refuge in work. He resigned himself to being a womanless man for all his life in order to hide the shame of his uselessness. In the meantime, Melquíades had printed on his plates everything that was printable in Macondo, and he left the daguerreotype laboratory to the fantasies of José Arcadio Buendía who had resolved to use it to obtain scientific proof of the existence of God. Through a complicated process of superimposed exposures taken in different parts of the house, he was sure that sooner or later he would get a daguerreotype of God, if He existed, or put an end once and for all to the supposition of His existence. Melquíades got deeper into his interpretations of Nostradamus. He would stay up until very late, suffocating in his faded velvet vest, scribbling with his tiny sparrow hands, whose rings had lost the glow of former times. One night he thought he had found a prediction of the future of Macondo. It was to be a luminous city with great glass houses where there was no trace remaining of the race of the Buendía. “It’s a mistake,” José Arcadio Buendía thundered. “They won’t be houses of glass but of ice, as I dreamed, and there will always be a Buendía, per omnia secula seculorum.” Úrsula fought to preserve common sense in that extravagant house, having broadened her business of little candy animals with an oven that went all night turning out baskets and more baskets of bread and a prodigious variety of puddings, meringues, and cookies, which disappeared in a few hours on the roads winding through the swamp. She had reached an age where she had a right to rest, but she was nonetheless more and more active. So busy was she in her prosperous enterprises that one afternoon she looked distractedly toward the courtyard while the Indian woman helped her sweeten the dough and she saw two unknown and beautiful adolescent girls doing frame embroidery in the light of the sunset. They were Rebeca and Amaranta. As soon as they had taken off the mourning clothes for their grandmother, which they wore with inflexible rigor for three years, their bright clothes seemed to have given them a new place in the world. Rebeca, contrary to what might have been expected, was the more beautiful. She had a light complexion, large and peaceful eyes, and magical hands that seemed to work out the design of the embroidery with invisible threads. Amaranta, the younger, was somewhat graceless, but she had the natural distinction, the inner tightness of her dead grandmother. Next to them, although he was already revealing the physical drive of his father, Arcadio looked like a child. He set about learning the art of silverwork with Aureliano, who had also taught him how to read and write. Úrsula suddenly realized that the house had become full of people, that her children were on the point of marrying and having children, and that they would be obliged to scatter for lack of space. Then she 32 took out the money she had accumulated over long years of hard labor, made some arrangements with her customers, and undertook the enlargement of the house. She had a formal parlor for visits built, another one that was more comfortable and cool for daily use, a dining room with a table with twelve places where the family could sit with all of their guests, nine bedrooms with windows on the courtyard and a long porch protected from the heat of noon by a rose garden with a railing on which to place pots of ferns and begonias. She had the kitchen enlarged to hold two ovens. The granary where Pilar Ternera had read José Arcadio’s future was torn down and another twice as large built so that there would never be a lack of food in the house. She had baths built is the courtyard in the shade of the chestnut tree, one for the women and another for the men, and in the rear a large stable, a fenced-in chicken yard, a shed for the milk cows, and an aviary open to the four winds so that wandering birds could roost there at their pleasure. Followed by dozens of masons and carpenters, as if she had contracted her husband’s hallucinating fever, Úrsula fixed the position of light and heat and distributed space without the least sense of its limitations. The primitive building of the founders became filled with tools and materials, of workmen exhausted by sweat, who asked everybody please not to molest them, exasperated by the sack of bones that followed them everywhere with its dull rattle. In that discomfort, breathing quicklime and tar, no one could see very well how from the bowels of the earth there was rising not only the largest house is the town, but the most hospitable and cool house that had ever existed in the region of the swamp. José Buendía, trying to surprise Divine Providence in the midst of the cataclysm, was the one who least understood it. The new house was almost finished when Úrsula drew him out of his chimerical world in order to inform him that she had an order to paint the front blue and not white as they had wanted. She showed him the official document. José Arcadio Buendía, without understanding what his wife was talking about, deciphered the signature. “Who is this fellow?” he asked: “The magistrate,” Úrsula answered disconsolately. They say he’s an authority sent by the government.” Don Apolinar Moscote, the magistrate, had arrived in Macondo very quietly. He put up at the Hotel Jacob—built by one of the first Arabs who came to swap knickknacks for macaws—and on the following day he rented a small room with a door on the street two blocks away from the Buendía house. He set up a table and a chair that he had bought from Jacob, nailed up on the wall the shield of the republic that he had brought with him, and on the door he painted the sign: Magistrate. His first order was for all the houses to be painted blue in celebration of the anniversary of national independence. José Arcadio Buendía, with the copy of the order in his hand, found him taking his nap in a hammock he had set up in the narrow office. “Did you write this paper?” he asked him. Don Apolinar Moscote, a mature man, timid, with a ruddy complexion, said yes. “By what right?” José Arcadio Buendía asked again. Don Apolinar Moscote picked up a paper from the drawer of the table and showed it to him. “I have been named magistrate of this town.” José Arcadio Buendía did not even look at the appointment. “In this town we do not give orders with pieces of paper,” he said without losing his calm. “And so that you know it once and for all, we don’t need any judge here because there’s nothing that needs judging.” Facing Don Apolinar Moscote, still without raising his voice, he gave a detailed account of how they had founded the village, of how they had distributed the land, opened the roads, and introduced the improvements that necessity required without having bothered the government and without anyone having bothered them. “We are so peaceful that none of us has died even of a natural death,” he said. “You can see that we still don’t have any cemetery.” No once was upset that the government had not helped them. On the contrary, they were happy that up until then it had let them grow in peace, and he hoped that it would continue leaving them that way, because they had 33 not founded a town so that the first upstart who came along would tell them what to do. Don Apolinar had put on his denim jacket, white like his trousers, without losing at any moment the elegance of his gestures. “So that if you want to stay here like any other ordinary citizen, you’re quite welcome,” José Arcadio Buendía concluded. “But if you’ve come to cause disorder by making the people paint their houses blue, you can pick up your junk and go back where you came from. Because my house is going to be white, white, like a dove.” Don Apolinar Moscote turned pale. He took a step backward and tightened his jaws as he said with a certain affliction: “I must warn you that I’m armed.” José Arcadio Buendía did not know exactly when his hands regained the useful strength with which he used to pull down horses. He grabbed Don Apolinar Moscote by the lapels and lifted him up to the level of his eyes. “I’m doing this,” he said, “because I would rather carry you around alive and not have to keep carrying you around dead for the rest of my life.” In that way he carried him through the middle of the street, suspended by the lapels, until he put him down on his two feet on the swamp road. A week later he was back with six barefoot and ragged soldiers, armed with shotguns, and an oxcart in which his wife and seven daughters were traveling. Two other carts arrived later with the furniture, the baggage, and the household utensils. He settled his family in the Hotel Jacob, while he looked for a house, and he went back to open his office under the protection of the soldiers. The founders of Macondo, resolving to expel the invaders, went with their older sons to put themselves at the disposal of José Arcadio Buendía. But he was against it, as he explained, because it was not manly to make trouble for someone in front of his family, and Don Apolinar had returned with his wife and daughters. So he decided to resolve the situation in a pleasant way. Aureliano went with him. About that time he had begun to cultivate the black mustache with waxed tips and the somewhat stentorian voice that would characterize him in the war. Unarmed, without paying any attention to the guards, they went into the magistrate’s office. Don Apolinar Moscote did not lose his calm. He introduced them to two of his daughters who happened to be there: Amparo, sixteen, dark like her mother, and Remedios, only nine, a pretty little girl with lilycolored skin and green eyes. They were gracious and well-mannered. As soon as the men came in, before being introduced, they gave them chairs to sit on. But they both remained standing. “Very well, my friend,” José Arcadio Buendía said, “you may stay here, not because you have those bandits with shotguns at the door, but out of consideration for your wife and daughters.” Don Apolinar Moscote was upset, but José Arcadio Buendía did not give him time to reply. “We only make two conditions,” he went on. “The first: that everyone can paint his house the color he feels like. The second: that the soldiers leave at once. We will guarantee order for you.” The magistrate raised his right hand with all the fingers extended. “Your word of honor?” “The word of your enemy,” José Arcadio Buendía said. And he added in a bitter tone: “Because I must tell you one thing: you and I are still enemies.” The soldiers left that same afternoon. A few days later José Arcadio Buendía found a house for the magistrate’s family. Everybody was at peace except Aureliano. The image of Remedios, the magistrate’s younger daughter, who, because of her age, could have been his daughter, kept paining him in some part of his body. It was a physical sensation that almost bothered him when he walked, like a pebble in his shoe. 34 Chapter 4 THE NEW HOUSE, white, like a dove, was inaugurated with a dance. Úrsula had got that idea from the afternoon when she saw Rebeca and Amaranta changed into adolescents, and it could almost have been said that the main reason behind the construction was a desire to have a proper place for the girls to receive visitors. In order that nothing would be lacking in splendor she worked like a galley slave as the repairs were under way, so that before they were finished she had ordered costly necessities for the decorations, the table service, and the marvelous invention that was to arouse the astonishment of the town and the jubilation of the young people: the pianola. They delivered it broken down, packed in several boxes that were unloaded along with the Viennese furniture, the Bohemian crystal, the table service from the Indies Company, the tablecloths from Holland, and a rich variety of lamps and candlesticks, hangings and drapes. The import house sent along at its own expense an Italian expert, Pietro Crespi, to assemble and tune the pianola, to instruct the purchasers in its functioning, and to teach them how to dance the latest music printed on its six paper rolls. Pietro Crespi was young and blond, the most handsome and well mannered man who had ever been seen in Macondo, so scrupulous in his dress that in spite of the suffocating heat he would work in his brocade vest and heavy coat of dark cloth. Soaked in sweat, keeping a reverent distance from the owners of the house, he spent several weeks shut up is the parlor with a dedication much like that of Aureliano in his silverwork. One morning, without opening the door, without calling anyone to witness the miracle, he placed the first roll in the pianola and the tormenting hammering and the constant noise of wooden lathings ceased in a silence that was startled at the order and neatness of the music. They all ran to the parlor. José Arcadio Buendía was as if struck by lightning, not because of the beauty of the melody, but because of the automatic working of the keys of the pianola, and he set up Melquíades’ camera with the hope of getting a daguerreotype of the invisible player. That day the Italian had lunch with them. Rebeca and Amaranta, serving the table, were intimidated by the way in which the angelic man with pale and ringless hands manipulated the utensils. In the living room, next to the parlor, Pietro Crespi taught them how to dance. He showed them the steps without touching them, keeping time with a metronome, under the friendly eye of Úrsula, who did not leave the room for a moment while her daughters had their lesson. Pietro Crespi wore special pants on those days, very elastic and tight, and dancing slippers, “You don’t have to worry so much,” José Arcadio Buendía told her. “The man’s a fairy.” But she did not leave off her vigilance until the apprenticeship was over and the Italian left Macondo. Then they began to organize the party. Úrsula drew up a strict guest list, in which the only ones invited were the descendants of the founders, except for the family of Pilar Ternera, who by then had had two more children by unknown fathers. It was truly a high-class list, except that it was determined by feelings of friendship, for those favored were not only the oldest friends of José Arcadio Buendía’s house since before they undertook the exodus and the founding of Macondo, but also their sons and grandsons, who were the constant companions of Aureliano and Arcadio since infancy, and their daughters, who were the only ones who visited the house to embroider with Rebeca and Amaranta. Don Apolinar Moscote, the benevolent ruler whose activity had been reduced to the maintenance from his scanty resources of two policemen armed with wooden clubs, was a figurehead. In older to support the household expenses his daughters had opened a sewing shop, where they made felt flowers as well as guava delicacies, and wrote love notes to order. But in spite of being modest and hard-working, the most beautiful girls in Iowa, and the most skilled at the new dances, they did not manage to be considered for the party. 35 While Úrsula and the girls unpacked furniture, polished silverware, and hung pictures of maidens in boats full of roses, which gave a breath of new life to the naked areas that the masons had built, José Arcadio Buendía stopped his pursuit of the image of God, convinced of His nonexistence, and he took the pianola apart in order to decipher its magical secret. Two days before the party, swamped in a shower of leftover keys and hammers, bungling in the midst of a mix-up of strings that would unroll in one direction and roll up again in the other, he succeeded in a fashion in putting the instrument back together. There had never been as many surprises and as much dashing about as in those days, but the new pitch lamps were lighted on the designated day and hour. The house was opened, still smelling of resin and damp whitewash, and the children and grandchildren of the founders saw the porch with ferns and begonias, the quiet rooms, the garden saturated with the fragrance of the roses, and they gathered together in the parlor, facing the unknown invention that had been covered with a white sheet. Those who were familiar with the piano, popular in other towns in the swamp, felt a little disheartened, but more bitter was Úrsula’s disappointment when she put in the first roll so that Amaranta and Rebeca could begin the dancing and the mechanism did not work. Melquíades, almost blind by then, crumbling with decrepitude, used the arts of his timeless wisdom in an attempt to fix it. Finally José Arcadio Buendía managed, by mistake, to move a device that was stuck and the music came out, first in a burst and then in a flow of mixed-up notes. Beating against the strings that had been put in without order or concert and had been tuned with temerity, the hammers let go. But the stubborn descendants of the twenty-one intrepid people who plowed through the mountains in search of the sea to the west avoided the reefs of the melodic mix-up and the dancing went on until dawn. Pietro Crespi came back to repair the pianola. Rebeca and Amaranta helped him put the strings in order and helped him with their laughter at the mix-up of the melodies. It was extremely pleasant and so chaste in its way that Úrsula ceased her vigilance. On the eve of his departure a farewell dance for him was improvised with the pianola and with Rebeca he put on a skillful demonstration of modern dance, Arcadio and Amaranta matched them in grace and skill. But the exhibition was interrupted because Pilar Ternera, who was at the door with the onlookers, had a fight, biting and hair pulling, with a woman who had dared to comment that Arcadio had a woman’s behind. Toward midnight Pietro Crespi took his leave with a sentimental little speech, and he promised to return very soon. Rebeca accompanied him to the door, and having closed up the house and put out the lamps, she went to her room to weep. It was an inconsolable weeping that lasted for several days, the cause of which was not known even by Amaranta. Her hermetism was not odd. Although she seemed expansive and cordial, she had a solitary character and an impenetrable heart. She was a splendid adolescent with long and firm bones, but she still insisted on using the small wooden rocking chair with which she had arrived at the house, reinforced many times and with the arms gone. No one had discovered that even at that age she still had the habit of sucking her finger. That was why she would not lose an opportunity to lock herself in the bathroom and had acquired the habit of sleeping with her face to the wall. On rainy afternoons, embroidering with a group of friends on the begonia porch, she would lose the thread of the conversation and a tear of nostalgia would salt her palate when she saw the strips of damp earth and the piles of mud that the earthworms had pushed up in the garden. Those secret tastes, defeated in the past by oranges and rhubarb, broke out into an irrepressible urge when she began to weep. She went back to eating earth. The first time she did it almost out of curiosity, sure that the bad taste would be the best cure for the temptation. And, in fact, she could not bear the earth in her mouth. But she persevered, overcome by the growing anxiety, and little by little she was getting back her ancestral appetite, the taste of primary minerals, the unbridled satisfaction of what was the original food. She would put handfuls of earth in her pockets, and ate them in small bits without being seen, with a confused feeling of pleasure and rage, as she instructed her girl friends in the most difficult needlepoint and 36 spoke about other men, who did not deserve the sacrifice of having one eat the whitewash on the walls because of them. The handfuls of earth made the only man who deserved that show of degradation less remote and more certain, as if the ground that he walked on with his fine patent leather boots in another part of the world were transmitting to her the weight and the temperature of his blood in a mineral savor that left a harsh aftertaste in her mouth and a sediment of peace in her heart. One afternoon, for no reason, Amparo Moscote asked permission to see the house. Amaranta and Rebeca, disconcerted by the unexpected visit, attended her with a stiff formality. They showed her the remodeled mansion, they had her listen to the rolls on the pianola, and they offered her orange marmalade and crackers. Amparo gave a lesson in dignity, personal charm, and good manners that impressed Úrsula in the few moments that she was present during the visit. After two hours, when the conversation was beginning to wane, Amparo took advantage of Amaranta’s distraction and gave Rebeca a letter. She was able to see the name of the Estimable Señorita Rebeca Buendía, written in the same methodical hand, with the same green ink, and the same delicacy of words with which the instructions for the operation of the pianola were written, and she folded the letter with the tips of her fingers and hid it in her bosom, looking at Amparo Moscote with an expression of endless and unconditional gratitude and a silent promise of complicity unto death. The sudden friendship between Amparo Moscote and Rebeca Buendía awakened the hopes of Aureliano. The memory of little Remedios had not stopped tormenting him, but he had not found a chance to see her. When he would stroll through town with his closest friends, Magnífico Visbal and Gerineldo Márquez—the sons of the founders of the same names—he would look for her in the sewing shop with an anxious glance, but he saw only the older sisters. The presence of Amparo Moscote in the house was like a premonition. “She has to come with her,” Aureliano would say to himself in a low voice. “She has to come.” He repeated it so many times and with such conviction that one afternoon when he was putting together a little gold fish in the work shop, he had the certainty that she had answered his call. Indeed, a short time later he heard the childish voice, and when he looked up his heart froze with terror as he saw the girl at the door, dressed in pink organdy and wearing white boots. “You can’t go in there, Remedios, Amparo Moscote said from the hall. They’re working.” But Aureliano did not give her time to respond. He picked up the little fish by the chain that came through its mouth and said to her. “Come in.” Remedios went over and asked some questions about the fish that Aureliano could not answer because he was seized with a sudden attack of asthma. He wanted to stay beside that lily skin forever, beside those emerald eyes, close to that voice that called him “sir” with every question. showing the same respect that she gave her father. Melquíades was in the corner seated at the desk scribbling indecipherable signs. Aureliano hated him. All he could do was tell Remedios that he was going to give her the little fish and the girl was so startled by the offer that she left the workshop as fast as she could. That afternoon Aureliano lost the hidden patience with which he had waited for a chance to see her. He neglected his work. In several desperate efforts of concentration he willed her to appear but Remedios did not respond. He looked for her in her sisters’ shop, behind the window shades in her house, in her father’s office, but he found her only in the image that saturated his private and terrible solitude. He would spend whole hours with Rebeca in the parlor listening to the music on the pianola. She was listening to it because it was the music with which Pietro Crespi had taught them how to dance. Aureliano listened to it simply because everything, even music, reminded him of Remedios. The house became full of loves Aureliano expressed it in poetry that had no beginning or end. He would write it on the harsh pieces of parchment that Melquíades gave him, on the bathroom walls, on the skin of his arms, and in all of it Remedios would appear transfigured: Remedios in the 37 soporific air of two in the afternoon, Remedios in the soft breath of the roses, Remedios in the water-clock secrets of the moths, Remedios in the steaming morning bread, Remedios everywhere and Remedios forever. Rebeca waited for her love at four in the afternoon, embroidering by the window. She knew that the mailman’s mule arrived only every two weeks, but she always waited for him, convinced that he was going to arrive on some other day by mistake. It happened quite the opposite: once the mule did not come on the usual day. Mad with desperation, Rebeca got up in the middle of the night and ate handfuls of earth in the garden with a suicidal drive, weeping with pain and fury, chewing tender earthworms and chipping her teeth on snail shells. She vomited until dawn. She fell into a state of feverish prostration, lost consciousness, and her heart went into a shameless delirium. Úrsula, scandalized, forced the lock on her trunk and found at the bottom, tied together with pink ribbons, the sixteen perfumed letters and the skeletons of leaves and petals preserved in old books and the dried butterflies that turned to powder at the touch. Aureliano was the only one capable of understanding such desolation. That afternoon, while Úrsula was trying to rescue Rebeca from the slough of delirium, he went with Magnífico Visbal and Gerineldo Márquez to Catarino’s store. The establishment had been expanded with a gallery of wooden rooms where single women who smelled of dead flowers lived. A group made up of an accordion and drums played the songs of Francisco the Man, who had not been seen in Macondo for several years. The three friends drank fermented cane juice. Magnífico and Gerineldo, contemporaries of Aureliano but more skilled in the ways of the world, drank methodically with the women seated on their laps. One of the women, withered and with goldwork on her teeth, gave Aureliano a caress that made him shudder. He rejected her. He had discovered that the more he drank the more he thought about Remedios, but he could bear the torture of his recollections better. He did not know exactly when he began to float. He saw his friends and the women sailing in a radiant glow, without weight or mass, saying words that did not come out of their mouths and making mysterious signals that did not correspond to their expressions. Catarino put a hand on his shoulder and said to him: “It’s going on eleven.” Aureliano turned his head, saw the enormous disfigured face with a felt flower behind the ear, and then he lost his memory, as during the times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign, where Pilar Ternera stood in her slip, barefoot, her hair down, holding a lamp over him, startled with disbelief. “Aureliano!” Aureliano checked his feet and raised his head. He did not know how he had come there, but he knew what his aim was, because he had carried it hidden since infancy in an inviolable backwater of his heart. “I’ve come to sleep with you,” he said. His clothes were smeared with mud and vomit. Pilar Ternera, who lived alone at that time with her two younger children, did not ask him any questions. She took him to the bed. She cleaned his face with a damp cloth, took of his clothes, and then got completely undressed and lowered the mosquito netting so that her children would not see them if they woke up. She had become tired of waiting for the man who would stay, of the men who left, of the countless men who missed the road to her house, confused by the uncertainty of the cards. During the wait her skin had become wrinkled, her breasts had withered, the coals of her heart had gone out. She felt for Aureliano in the darkness, put her hand on his stomach and kissed him on the neck with a maternal tenderness. “My poor child,” she murmured. Aureliano shuddered. With a calm skill, without the slightest misstep, he left his accumulated grief behind and found Remedios changed into a swamp without horizons, smelling of a raw animal and recently ironed clothes. When he came to the surface he was weeping. First they were involuntary and broken sobs. Then he emptied himself out in an unleashed flow, feeling that something swollen and painful had burst inside of him. She waited, snatching his head 38 with the tips of her fingers, until his body got rid of the dark material that would not let him live. They Pilar Ternera asked him: “Who is it?” And Aureliano told her. She let out a laugh that in other times frightened the doves and that now did not even wake up the children. “You’ll have to raise her first,” she mocked, but underneath the mockery Aureliano found a reservoir of understanding. When he went out of the room, leaving behind not only his doubts about his virility but also the bitter weight that his heart had borne for so many months, Pilar Ternera made him a spontaneous promise. “I’m going to talk to the girl,” she told him, “and you’ll see what I’ll serve her on the tray.” She kept her promise. But it was a bad moment, because the house had lost its peace of former days. When she discovered Rebeca’s passion, which was impossible to keep secret because of her shouts, Amaranta suffered an attack of fever. She also suffered from the barb of a lonely love. Shut up in the bathroom, she would release herself from the torment of a hopeless passion by writing feverish letters, which she finally hid in the bottom of her trunk. Úrsula barely had the strength to take care of the two sick girls. She was unable, after prolonged and insidious interrogations, to ascertain the causes of Amaranta’s prostration. Finally, in another moment of inspiration, she forced the lock on the trunk and found the letters tied with a pink ribbon, swollen with fresh lilies and still wet with tears, addressed and never sent to Pietro Crespi. Weeping with rage, she cursed the day that it had occurred to her to buy the pianola, and she forbade the embroidery lessons and decreed a kind of mourning with no one dead which was to be prolonged until the daughters got over their hopes. Useless was the intervention of José Arcadio Buendía, who had modified his first impression of Pietro Crespi and admired his ability in the manipulation of musical machines. So that when Pilar Ternera told Aureliano that Remedios had decided on marriage, he could see that the news would only give his parents more trouble. Invited to the parlor for a formal interview, José Arcadio Buendía and Úrsula listened stonily to their son’s declaration. When he learned the name of the fiancée, however, José Arcadio Buendía grew red with indignation. “Love is a disease,” he thundered. “With so many pretty and decent girls around, the only thing that occurs to you is to get married to the daughter of our enemy.” But Úrsula agreed with the choice. She confessed her affection for the seven Moscote sisters. for their beauty, their ability for work, their modesty, and their good manners, and she celebrated her son’s prudence. Conquered by his wife’s enthusiasm, José Arcadio Buendía then laid down one condition: Rebeca, who was the one he wanted, would marry Pietro Crespi. Úrsula would take Amaranta on a trip to the capital of the province when she had time, so that contact with different people would alleviate her disappointment. Rebeca got her health back just as soon as she heard of the agreement, and she wrote her fiancé a jubilant letter that she submitted to her parents’ approval and put into the mail without the use of any intermediaries. Amaranta pretended to accept the decision and little by little she recovered from her fevers, but she promised herself that Rebeca would marry only over her dead body. The following Saturday José Arcadio Buendía put on his dark suit, his celluloid collar, and the deerskin boots that he had worn for the first time the night of the party, and went to ask for the hand of Remedios Moscote. The magistrate and his wife received him, pleased and worried at the same time, for they did not know the reason for the unexpected visit, and then they thought that he was confused about the name of the intended bride. In order to remove the mistake, the mother woke Remedios up and carried her into the living room, still drowsy from sleep. They asked her if it was true that she had decided to get married, and she answered, whimpering, that she only wanted them to let her sleep. José Arcadio Buendía, understanding the distress of the Moscotes, went to clear things up with Aureliano. When he returned, the Moscotes had put on formal clothing, had rearranged the furniture and put fresh flowers in the vases, and were waiting in the company of their older daughters. Overwhelmed by the unpleasantness of the occasion and the bothersome hard collar, José Arcadio Buendía confirmed the fact that Remedios, indeed, was the chosen one. “It 39 doesn’t make sense,” Don Apolinar Moscote said with consternation. “We have six other daughters, all unmarried, and at an age where they deserve it, who would be delighted to be the honorable wife of a gentleman as serious and hard-working as your son, and Aurelito lays his eyes precisely on the one who still wets her bed.” His wife, a well-preserved woman with afflicted eyelids and expression, scolded his mistake. When they finished the fruit punch, they willingly accepted Aureliano’s decision. Except that Señora Moscote begged the favor of speaking to Úrsula alone. Intrigued, protesting that they were involving her in men’s affairs, but really feeling deep emotion, Úrsula went to visit her the next day. A half hour later she returned with the news that Remedios had not reached puberty. Aureliano did not consider that a serious barrier. He had waited so long that he could wait as long as was necessary until his bride reached the age of conception. The newfound harmony was interrupted by the death of Melquíades. Although it was a foreseeable event, the circumstances were not. A few months after his return, a process of aging had taken place in him that was so rapid and critical that soon he was treated as one of those useless great-grandfathers who wander about the bedrooms like shades, dragging their feet, remembering better times aloud, and whom no one bothers about or remembers really until the morning they find them dead in their bed. At first José Arcadio Buendía helped him in his work, enthusiastic over the novelty of the daguerreotypes and the predictions of Nostradamus. But little by little he began abandoning him to his solitude, for communication was becoming Increasingly difficult. He was losing his sight and his hearing, he seemed to confuse the people he was speaking to with others he had known in remote epochs of mankind, and he would answer questions with a complex hodgepodge of languages. He would walk along groping in the air, although he passed between objects with an inexplicable fluidity, as if be were endowed with some instinct of direction based on an immediate prescience. One day he forgot to put in his false teeth, which at night he left in a glass of water beside his bed, and he never put them in again. When Úrsula undertook the enlargement of the house, she had them build him a special room next to Aureliano’s workshop, far from the noise and bustle of the house, with a window flooded with light and a bookcase where she herself put in order the books that were almost destroyed by dust and moths, the flaky stacks of paper covered with indecipherable signs, and the glass with his false teeth, where some aquatic plants with tiny yellow flowers had taken root. The new place seemed to please Melquíades, because he was never seen any more, not even in the dining room, He only went to Aureliano’s workshop, where he would spend hours on end scribbling his enigmatic literature on the parchments that he had brought with him and that seemed to have been made out of some dry material that crumpled like puff paste. There he ate the meals that Visitación brought him twice a day, although in the last days he lost his appetite and fed only on vegetables. He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians. His skin became covered with a thin moss, similar to that which flourished on the antique vest that he never took off, and his breath exhaled the odor of a sleeping animal. Aureliano ended up forgetting about him, absorbed in the composition of his poems, but on one occasion he thought he understood something of what Melquíades was saying in his groping monologues, and he paid attention. In reality, the only thing that could be isolated in the rocky paragraphs was the insistent hammering on the word equinox, equinox, equinox, and the name of Alexander von Humboldt. Arcadio got a little closer to him when he began to help Aureliano in his silverwork. Melquíades answered that effort at communication at times by giving forth with phrases in Spanish that had very little to do with reality. One afternoon, however, he seemed to be illuminated by a sudden emotion. Years later, facing the firing squad, Arcadio would remember the trembling with which Melquíades made him listen to several pages of his impenetrable writing, which of course he did not understand, but which when read aloud were like encyclicals being chanted. Then he smiled for the first time in a long while and said in Spanish: “When I die, burn mercury in my room for three days.” Arcadio told that to José Arcadio Buendía and the latter tried to get more explicit information, but he received 40 only one answer: “I have found immortality.” When Melquíades’ breathing began to smell, Arcadio took him to bathe in the river on Thursday mornings. He seemed to get better. He would undress and get into the water with the boys, and his mysterious sense of orientation would allow him to avoid the deep and dangerous spots. “We come from the water,” he said on a certain occasion. Much time passed in that way without anyone’s seeing him in the house except on the night when he made a pathetic effort to fix the pianola, and when he would go to the river with Arcadio, carrying under his arm a gourd and a bar of palm oil soap wrapped in a towel. One Thursday before they called him to go to the river, Aureliano heard him say: “I have died of fever on the dunes of Singapore.” That day he went into the water at a bad spot and they did not find him until the following day, a few miles downstream, washed up on a bright bend in the river and with a solitary vulture sitting on his stomach. Over the scandalized protests of Úrsula, who wept with more grief than she had had for her own father, José Arcadio Buendía was opposed to their burying him. “He is immortal,” he said, “and he himself revealed the formula of his resurrection.” He brought out the forgotten water pipe and put a kettle of mercury to boil next to the body, which little by little was filling with blue bubbles. Don Apolinar Moscote ventured to remind him that an unburied drowned man was a danger to public health. “None of that, because he’s alive,” was the answer of José Arcadio Buendía, who finished the seventy-two hours with the mercurial incense as the body was already beginning to burst with a livid fluorescence, the soft whistles of which impregnated the house with a pestilential vapor. Only then did he permit them to bury him, not in any ordinary way, but with the honors reserved for Macondo’s greatest benefactor. It was the first burial and the bestattended one that was ever seen in the town, only surpassed, a century later, by Big Mama’s funeral carnival. They buried him in a grave dug in the center of the plot destined for the cemetery, with a stone on which they wrote the only thing they knew about him: MELQUÍADES. They gave him his nine nights of wake. In the tumult that gathered in the courtyard to drink coffee, tell jokes, and play cards. Amaranta found a chance to confess her love to Pietro Crespi, who a few weeks before had formalized his promise to Rebeca and had set up a store for musical instruments and mechanical toys in the same section where the Arabs had lingered in other times swapping knickknacks for macaws, and which the people called the Street of the Turks. The Italian, whose head covered with patent leather curls aroused in women an irrepressible need to sigh, dealt with Amaranta as with a capricious little girl who was not worth taking seriously. “I have a younger brother,” he told her. “He’s coming to help me in the store.” Amaranta felt humiliated and told Pietro Crespi with a virulent anger that she was prepared to stop her sister’s wedding even if her own dead body had to lie across the door. The Italian was so impressed by the dramatics of the threat that he could not resist the temptation to mention it to Rebeca. That was how Amaranta’s trip, always put off by Úrsula’s work, was arranged in less than a week. Amaranta put up no resistance, but when she kissed Rebeca good-bye she whispered in her ear: “Don’t get your hopes up. Even if they send me to the ends of the earth I’ll find some way of stopping you from getting married, even if I have to kill you.” With the absence of Úrsula, with the invisible presence of Melquíades, who continued his stealthy shuffling through the rooms, the house seemed enormous and empty. Rebeca took charge of domestic order, while the Indian woman took care of the bakery. At dusk, when Pietro Crespi would arrive, preceded by a cool breath of lavender and always bringing a toy as a gift, his fiancée would receive the visitor in the main parlor with doors and windows open to be safe from any suspicion. It was an unnecessary precaution, for the Italian had shown himself to be so respectful that he did not even touch the hand of the woman who was going to be his wife within the year. Those visits were filling the house with remarkable toys. Mechanical ballerinas, music boxes, acrobatic monkeys, trotting horses, clowns who played the tambourine: the rich and startling mechanical fauna that 41 Pietro Crespi brought dissipated José Arcadio Buendía’s affliction over the death of Melquíades and carried him back to his old days as an alchemist. He lived at that time in a paradise of disemboweled animals, of mechanisms that had been taken apart in an attempt to perfect them with a system of perpetual motion based upon the principles of the pendulum. Aureliano, for his part, had neglected the workshop in order to teach little Remedios to read and write. At first the child preferred her dolls to the man who would come every afternoon and who was responsible for her being separated from her toys in order to be bathed and dressed and seated in the parlor to receive the visitor. But Aureliano’s patience and devotion finally won her over, up to the point where she would spend many hours with him studying the meaning of the letters and sketching in a notebook with colored pencils little houses with cows in the corral and round suns with yellow rays that hid behind the hills. Only Rebeca was unhappy, because of Amaranta’s threat. She knew her sister’s character, the haughtiness of her spirit, and she was frightened by the virulence of her anger. She would spend whole hours sucking her finger in the bathroom, holding herself back with an exhausting iron will so as not to eat earth. In search of some relief for her uncertainty, she called Pilar Ternera to read her future. After a string of conventional vagaries, Pilar Ternera predicted: “You will not be happy as long as your parents remain unburied.” Rebeca shuddered. As in the memory of a dream she saw herself entering the house as a very small girl, with the trunk and the little rocker, and a bag whose contents she had never known. She remembered a bald gentleman dressed in linen and with his collar closed by a gold button, who had nothing to do with the king of hearts. She remembered a very young and beautiful woman with warm and perfumed hands, who had nothing in common with the jack of diamonds and his rheumatic hands, and who used to put flowers in her hair and take her out walking in the afternoon through a town with green streets. “I don’t understand,” she said. Pilar Ternera seemed disconcerted: “I don’t either, but that’s what the cards say.” Rebeca was so preoccupied with the enigma that she told it to José Arcadio Buendía, and he scolded her for believing in the predictions of the cards, but he undertook the silent task of searching closets and trunks, moving furniture and turning over beds and floorboards looking for the bag of bones. He remembered that he had not seen it since the time of the rebuilding. He secretly summoned the masons and one of them revealed that he had walled up the bag in some bedroom because it bothered him in his work. After several days of listening, with their ears against the walls, they perceived the deep cloc-cloc. They penetrated the wall and there were the bones in the intact bag. They buried it the same day in a grave without a stone next to that of Melquíades, and José Arcadio Buendía returned home free of a burden that for a moment had weighed on his conscience as much as the memory of Prudencio Aguilar. When he went through the kitchen he kissed Rebeca on the forehead. “Get those bad thoughts out of your head,” he told her. “You’re going to be happy.” The friendship with Rebeca opened up to Pilar Ternera the doors of the house, closed by Úrsula since the birth of Arcadio. She would arrive at any hour of the day, like a flock of goats, and would unleash her feverish energy in the hardest tasks. Sometimes she would go into the workshop and help Arcadio sensitize the daguerreotype plates with an efficiency and a tenderness that ended up by confusing him. That woman bothered him. The tan of her skin, her smell of smoke, the disorder of her laughter in the darkroom distracted his attention and made him bump into things. On a certain occasion Aureliano was there working on his silver, and Pilar Ternera leaned over the table to admire his laborious patience. Suddenly it happened. Aureliano made sure that Arcadio was in the darkroom before raising his eyes and meeting those of Pilar Ternera, whose thought was perfectly visible, as if exposed to the light of noon. 42 “Well,” Aureliano said. “Tell me what it is.” Pilar Ternera bit her lips with a sad smile. “That you’d be good in a war,” she said. “Where you put your eye, you put your bullet.” Aureliano relaxed with the proof of the omen. He went back to concentrate on his work as if nothing had happened, and his voice took on a restful strength. “I will recognize him,” he said. “He’ll bear my name.” José Arcadio Buendía finally got what he was looking for: he connected the mechanism of the clock to a mechanical ballerina, and the toy danced uninterruptedly to the rhythm of her own music for three days. That discovery excited him much more than any of his other harebrained undertakings. He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. Only the vigilance and care of Rebeca kept him from being dragged off by his imagination into a state of perpetual delirium from which he would not recover. He would spend the nights walking around the room thinking aloud, searching for a way to apply the principles of the pendulum to oxcarts, to harrows, to everything that was useful when put into motion. The fever of insomnia fatigued him so much that one dawn he could not recognize the old man with white hair and uncertain gestures who came into his bedroom. It was Prudencio Aguilar. When he finally identified him, startled that the dead also aged, José Arcadio Buendía felt himself shaken by nostalgia. “Prudencio,” he exclaimed. “You’ve come from a long way off!” After many years of death the yearning for the living was so intense, the need for company so pressing, so terrifying the neatness of that other death which exists within death, that Prudencio Aguilar had ended up loving his worst enemy. He had spent a great deal of time looking for him. He asked the dead from Riohacha about him, the dead who came from the Upar Valley, those who came from the swamp, and no one could tell him because Macondo was a town that was unknown to the dead until Melquíades arrived and marked it with a small black dot on the motley maps of death. José Arcadio Buendía conversed with Prudencio Aguilar until dawn. A few hours later, worn out by the vigil, he went into Aureliano’s workshop and asked him: “What day is today?” Aureliano told him that it was Tuesday. “I was thinking the same thing,” José Arcadio Buendía said, “but suddenly I realized that it’s still Monday, like yesterday. Look at the sky, look at the walls, look at the begonias. Today is Monday too.” Used to his manias, Aureliano paid no attention to him. On the next day, Wednesday, José Arcadio Buendía went back to the workshop. “This is a disaster,” he said. “Look at the air, listen to the buzzing of the sun, the same as yesterday and the day before. Today is Monday too.” That night Pietro Crespi found him on the porch, weeping for Prudencio Aguilar, for Melquíades, for Rebeca’s parents, for his mother and father, for all of those he could remember and who were now alone in death. He gave him a mechanical bear that walked on its hind legs on a tightrope, but he could not distract him from his obsession. He asked him what had happened to the project he had explained to him a few days before about the possibility of building a pendulum machine that would help men to fly and he answered that it was impossible because a pendulum could lift anything into the air but it could not lift itself. On Thursday he appeared in the workshop again with the painful look of plowed ground. “The time machine has broken,” he almost sobbed, “and Úrsula and Amaranta so far away!” Aureliano scolded him like a child and he adopted a contrite air. He spent six hours examining things, trying to find a difference from their appearance on the previous day in the hope of discovering in them some change that would reveal the passage of time. He spent the whole night in bed with his eyes open, calling to Prudencio Aguilar, to Melquíades, to all the dead, so that they would share his distress. But no one came. On Friday. before anyone arose, he watched the appearance of nature again until he did not have the slightest doubt but that it was Monday. Then he grabbed the bar from a door and with the savage violence of his uncommon strength he smashed to dust the equipment in the alchemy laboratory, the daguerreotype room, the silver workshop, shouting like a man possessed in some high-sounding and fluent but completely incomprehensible language. He was about to finish off the rest of the house 43 when Aureliano asked the neighbors for help. Ten men were needed to get him down, fourteen to tie him up, twenty to drag him to the chestnut tree in the courtyard, where they left him tied up, barking in the strange language and giving off a green froth at the mouth. When Úrsula and Amaranta returned he was still tied to the trunk of the chestnut tree by his hands and feet, soaked with rain and in a state of total innocence. They spoke to him and he looked at them without recognizing them, saying things they did not understand. Úrsula untied his wrists and ankles, lacerated by the pressure of the rope, and left him tied only by the waist. Later on they built him a shelter of palm brandies to protect him from the sun and the rain. 44 Chapter 5 AURELIANO BUENDÍA and Remedios Moscote were married one Sunday in March before the altar Father Nicanor Reyna had set up in the parlor. It was the culmination of four weeks of shocks in the Moscote household because little Remedios had reached puberty before getting over the habits of childhood. In spite of the fact that her mother had taught her about the changes of adolescence, one February afternoon she burst shouting into the living room, where her sisters were chatting with Aureliano, and showed them her panties, smeared with a chocolate-colored paste. A month for the wedding was agreed upon. There was barely enough time to teach her how to wash herself, get dressed by herself, and understand the fundamental business of a home. They made her urinate over hot bricks in order to cure her of the habit of wetting her bed. It took a good deal of work to convince her of the inviolability of the marital secret, for Remedios was so confused and at the same time so amazed at the revelation that she wanted to talk to everybody about the details of the wedding night. It was a fatiguing effort, but on the date set for the ceremony the child was as adept in the ways of the world as any of her sisters. Don Apolinar Moscote escorted her by the arm down the street that was decorated with flowers and wreaths amidst the explosion of rockets and the music of several bands, and she waved with her hand and gave her thanks with a smile to those who wished her good luck from the windows. Aureliano, dressed in black, wearing the same patent leather boots with metal fasteners that he would have on a few years later as he faced the firing squad, had an intense paleness and a hard lump in his throat when he met the bride at the door of the house and led her to the altar. She behaved as naturally, with such discretion, that she did not lose her composure, not even when Aureliano dropped the ring as he tried to put it on her finger. In the midst of the. murmurs and confusion of the guests, she kept her arm with the fingerless lace glove held up and remained like that with her ring finger ready until the bridegroom managed to stop the ring with his foot before it rolled to the door, and came back blushing to the altar. Her mother and sisters suffered so much from the fear that the child would do something wrong during the ceremony that in the end they were the ones who committed the impertinence of picking her up to kiss her. From that day on the sense of responsibility, the natural grace, the calm control that Remedios would have in the face of adverse circumstances was revealed. It was she who, on her own initiative, put aside the largest piece that she had cut from the wedding cake and took it on a plate with a fork to José Arcadio Buendía. Tied to the trunk of the chestnut tree, huddled on a wooden stool underneath the palm shelter, the enormous old man, discolored by the sun and rain, made a vague smile of gratitude and at the piece of cake with his fingers, mumbling an unintelligible psalm. The only unhappy person in that noisy celebration, which lasted until dawn on Monday, was Rebeca Buendía. It was her own frustrated party. By an arrangement of Úrsula’s, her marriage was to be celebrated on the same day, but that Friday Pietro Crespi received a letter with the news of his mother’s imminent death. The wedding was postponed. Pietro Crespi left for the capital of the province an hour after receiving the letter, and on the road he missed his mother, who arrived punctually Saturday night and at Aureliano’s wedding sang the sad aria that she had prepared for the wedding of her son. Pietro Crespi returned on Sunday midnight to sweep up the ashes of the party, after having worn out five horses on the road in an attempt to be in time for his wedding. It was never discovered who wrote the letter. Tormented by Úrsula, Amaranta wept with indignation and swore her innocence in front of the altar, which the carpenters had not finished dismantling. Father Nicanor Reyna—whom Don Apolinar Moscote had brought from the swamp to officiate at the wedding—was an old man hardened by the ingratitude of his ministry. His skin was sad, with the bones almost exposed, and he had a pronounced round stomach and the expression of an old 45 angel, which came more from, simplicity than from goodness. He had planned to return to his pariah after the wedding, but he was appalled at the hardness of the inhabitants of Macondo, who were prospering in the midst of scandal, subject to the natural law, without baptizing their children or sanctifying their festivals. Thinking that no land needed the seed of God so much, he decided to stay on for another week to Christianize both circumcised and gentile, legalize concubinage, and give the sacraments to the dying. But no one paid any attention to him. They would answer him that they had been many years without a priest, arranging the business of their souls directly with God, and that they had lost the evil of original sin. Tired of preaching in the open, Father Nicanor decided to undertake the building of a church, the largest in the world, with life-size saints and stained-glass windows on the sides, so that people would come from Rome to honor God in the center of impiety. He went everywhere begging alms with a copper dish. They gave him a large amount, but he wanted more, because the church had to have a bell that would raise the drowned up to the surface of the water. He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with sounds. One Saturday, not even having collected the price of the doors, he fell into a desperate confusion. He improvised an altar in the square and on Sunday he went through the town with a small bell, as in the days of insomnia, calling people to an open-air mass. Many went out of curiosity. Others from nostalgia. Others so that God would not take the disdain for His intermediary as a personal insult. So that at eight in the morning half the town was in the square, where Father Nicanor chanted the gospels in a voice that had been lacerated by his pleading. At the end, when the congregation began to break up, he raised his arms signaling for attention. “Just a moment,” he said. “Now we shall witness an undeniable proof of the infinite power of God.” The boy who had helped him with the mass brought him a cup of thick and steaming chocolate, which he drank without pausing to breathe. Then he wiped his lips with a handkerchief that he drew from his sleeve, extended his arms, and closed his eyes. Thereupon Father Nicanor rose six inches above the level of the ground. It was a convincing measure. He went among the houses for several days repeating the demonstration of levitation by means of chocolate while the acolyte collected so much money in a bag that in less than a month he began the construction of the church. No one doubted the divine origin of the demonstration except José Arcadio Buendía, who without changing expression watched the troop of people who gathered around the chestnut tree one morning to witness the revelation once more. He merely stretched on his stool a little and shrugged his shoulders when Father Nicanor began to rise up from the ground along with the chair he was sitting on. “Hoc est simplicissimus,” José Arcadio Buendía said. “Homo iste statum quartum materiae invenit.” Father Nicanor raised his hands and the four legs of the chair all landed on the ground at the same time. “Nego,” he said. “Factum hoc existentiam Dei probat sine dubio.” Thus it was discovered that José Arcadio Buendía’s devilish jargon was Latin. Father Nicanor took advantage of the circumstance of his being the only person who had been able to communicate with him to try to inject the faith into his twisted mind. Every afternoon he would sit by the chestnut tree preaching in Latin, but José Arcadio Buendía insisted on rejecting rhetorical tricks and the transmutation of chocolate, and he demanded the daguerreotype of God as the only proof. Father Nicanor then brought him medals and pictures and even a reproduction of the Veronica, but José Arcadio Buendía rejected them as artistic objects without any scientific basis. He was so stubborn that Father Nicanor gave up his attempts at evangelization and continued visiting him out of humanitarian feelings. But then it was José Arcadio Buendía who took the lead and tried to break down the priest’s faith with rationalist tricks. On a certain occasion when Father Nicanor brought a checker set to the chestnut tree and invited him to a game, José Arcadio Buendía would not accept, because according to him he could never understand the sense of a contest in which the two 46 adversaries have agreed upon the rules. Father Nicanor, who had never seen checkers played that way, could not play it again. Ever more startled at José Arcadio Buendía’s lucidity, he asked him how it was possible that they had him tied to a tree. “Hoc est simplicissimus,” he replied. “Because I’m Crazy.” From then on, concerned about his own faith, the priest did not come back to visit him and dedicated himself to hurrying along the building of the church. Rebeca felt her hopes being reborn. Her future was predicated on the completion of the work, for one Sunday when Father Nicanor was lunching at the house and the whole family sitting at the table spoke of the solemnity and splendor that religious ceremonies would acquire when the church was built, Amaranta said: “The luckiest one will be Rebeca.” And since Rebeca did not understand what she meant, she explained it to her with an innocent smile: “You’re going to be the one who will inaugurate the church with your wedding.” Rebeca tried to forestall any comments. The way the construction was going the church would not be built before another ten years. Father Nicanor did not agree: the growing generosity of the faithful permitted him to make more optimistic calculations. To the mute Indignation of Rebeca, who could not finish her lunch, Úrsula celebrated Amaranta’s idea and contributed a considerable sum for the work to move faster. Father Nicanor felt that with another contribution like that the church would be ready within three years. From then on Rebeca did not say another word to Amaranta, convinced that her initiative had not the innocence that she attempted to give it. “That was the least serious thing I could have done,” Amaranta answered her during the violent argument they had that night. “In that way I won’t have to kill you for three years.” Rebeca accepted the challenge. When Pietro Crespi found out about the new postponement, he went through a crisis of disappointment, but Rebeca gave him a final proof of her loyalty. “We’ll elope whenever you say,” she told him. Pietro Crespi, however, was not a man of adventure. He lacked the impulsive character of his fiancée and he considered respect for one’s given word as a wealth that should not be squandered. Then Rebeca turned to more audacious methods. A mysterious wind blew out the lamps in the parlor and Úrsula surprised the lovers kissing in the dark. Pietro Crespi gave her some confused explanations about the poor quality of modern pitch lamps and he even helped her install a more secure system of illumination for the room. But the fuel failed again or the wicks became clogged and Úrsula found Rebeca sitting on her fiancé’s lap. This time she would accept no explanation. She turned the responsibility of the bakery over to the Indian woman and sat in a rocking chair to watch over the young people during the visits, ready to win out over maneuvers that had already been old when she was a girl. “Poor Mama,” Rebeca would say with mock indignation, seeing Úrsula yawn during the boredom of the visits. “When she dies she’ll go off to her reward in that rocking chair.” After three months of supervised love, fatigued by the slow progress of the construction, which he went to inspect every day, Pietro Crespi decided to give Father Nicanor the money he needed to finish the church. Amaranta did not grow impatient. As she conversed with her girl friends every afternoon when they came to embroider on the porch, she tried to think of new subterfuges. A mistake in calculation spoiled the one she considered the most effective: removing the mothballs that Rebeca had put in her wedding dress before she put it away in the bedroom dresser. She did it when two months were left for the completion of the church. But Rebeca was so impatient with the approach of the wedding that she wanted to get the dress ready earlier than Amaranta had foreseen. When she opened the dresser and unfolded first the papers and then the protective cloth, she found the fabric of the dress and the stitches of the veil and even the crown of orange blossoms perforated by moths. Although she was sure that she had put a handful of mothballs in the wrappings, the disaster seemed so natural that she did not dare blame Amaranta. There was less than a month until the wedding, but Amparo Moscote promised to sew a new dress 47 within a week. Amaranta felt faint that rainy noontime when Amparo came to the house wrapped in the froth of needlework for Rebeca to have the final fitting of the dress. She lost her voice and a thread of cold sweat ran down the path of her spine. For long months she had trembled with fright waiting for that hour, because if she had not been able to conceive the ultimate obstacle to Rebeca’s wedding, she was sure that at the last moment, when all the resources of her imagination had failed, she would have the courage to poison her. That afternoon, while Rebeca was suffocating with heat inside the armor of thread that Amparo Moscote was putting about her body with thousands of pins and infinite patience, Amaranta made several mistakes in her crocheting and pricked her finger with the needle, but she decided with frightful coldness that the date would be the last Friday before the wedding and the method would be a dose of laudanum in her coffee. A greater obstacle, as impassable as it was unforeseen, obliged a new and indefinite postponement. One week before the date set for the wedding, little Remedios woke up in the middle of the night soaked in a hot broth which had exploded in her insides with a kind of tearing belch, and she died three days later, poisoned by her own blood, with a pair of twins crossed in her stomach. Amarante suffered a crisis of conscience. She had begged God with such fervor for something fearful to happen so that she would not have to poison Rebeca that she felt guilty of Remedios’ death. That was not the obstacle that she had begged for so much. Remedios had brought a breath of merriment to the house. She had settled down with her husband in a room near the workshop, which she decorated with the dolls and toys of her recent childhood, and her merry vitality overflowed the four walls of the bedroom and went like a whirlwind of good health along the porch with the begonias: She would start singing at dawn. She was the only person who dared intervene in the arguments between Rebeca and Amaranta. She plunged into the fatiguing chore of taking care of José Arcadio Buendía. She would bring him his food, she would help him with his daily necessities, wash him with soap and a scrubbing brush, keep his hair and beard free of lice and nits, keep the palm shelter in good condition and reinforce it with waterproof canvas in stormy weather. In her last months she had succeeded in communicating with him in phrases of rudimentary Latin. When the son of Aureliano and Pilar Ternera was born and brought to the house and baptized in an intimate ceremony with the name Aureliano José, Remedios decided that he would be considered their oldest child. Her maternal instinct surprised Úrsula. Aureliano, for his part, found in her the justification that he needed to live. He worked all day in his workshop and Remedios would bring him a cup of black coffee in the middle of the morning. They would both visit the Moscotes every night. Aureliano would play endless games of dominoes with his father-inlaw while Remedios chatted with her sisters or talked to her mother about more important things. The link with the Buendías consolidated Don Apolinar Moscote’s authority in the town. On frequent trips to the capital of the province he succeeded in getting the government to build a school so that Arcadio, who had inherited the educational enthusiasm of his grandfather, could take charge of it. Through persuasion he managed to get the majority of houses painted blue in time for the date of national independence. At the urging of Father Nicanor, he arranged for the transfer of Catarino’s store to a back street and he closed down several scandalous establishments that prospered in the center of town. Once he returned with six policemen armed with rifles to whom he entrusted the maintenance of order, and no one remembered the original agreement not to have armed men in the town. Aureliano enjoyed his father-in-law’s efficiency. “You’re going to get as fat as he is,” his friends would say to him. But his sedentary life, which accentuated his cheekbones and concentrated the sparkle of his eyes, did not increase his weight or alter the parsimony of his character, but, on the contrary, it hardened on his lips the straight line of solitary meditation and implacable decision. So deep was the affection that he and his wife had succeeded in arousing in both their families that when Remedios announced that she was going to have a child. even Rebeca and Amaranta declared a truce in order to knit items in blue wool if it was to be a boy and in pink 48 wool in case it was a girl. She was the last person Arcadio thought about a few years later when he faced the firing squad. Úrsula ordered a mourning period of closed doors and windows, with no one entering or leaving except on matters of utmost necessity. She prohibited any talking aloud for a year and she put Remedios’ daguerreotype in the place where her body had been laid out, with a black ribbon around it and an oil lamp that was always kept lighted. Future generations, who never let the lamp go out, would be puzzled at that girl in a pleated skirt, white boots, and with an organdy band around her head, and they were never able to connect her with the standard image of a great-grandmother. Amaranta took charge of Aureliano José. She adopted him as a son who would share her solitude and relieve her from the involutary laudanum that her mad beseeching had thrown into Remedios’ coffee. Pietro Crespi would tiptoe in at dusk, with a black ribbon on his hat, and he would pay a silent visit to Rebeca, who seemed to be bleeding to death inside the black dress with sleeves down to her wrists. Just the idea of thinking about a new date for the wedding would have been so irreverent that the engagement turned into an eternal relationship, a fatigued love that no one worried about again, as if the lovers, who in other days had sabotaged the lamps in order to kiss, had been abandoned to the free will of death. Having lost her bearings, completely demoralized, Rebeca began eating earth again. Suddenly—when the mourning had gone on so long that the needlepoint sessions began again— someone pushed open the street door at two in the afternoon in the mortal silence of the heat and the braces in the foundation shook with such force that Amaranta and her friends sewing on the porch, Rebeca sucking her finger in her bedroom, Úrsula in the kitchen, Aureliano in the workshop, and even José Arcadio Buendía under the solitary chestnut tree had the impression that an earthquake was breaking up the house. A huge man had arrived. His square shoulders barely fitted through the doorways. He was wearing a medal of Our Lady of Help around his bison neck, his arms and chest were completely covered with cryptic tattooing, and on his right wrist was the tight copper bracelet of the niños-en-cruz amulet. His skin was tanned by the salt of the open air, his hair was short and straight like the mane of a mule, his jaws were of iron, and he wore a sad smile. He had a belt on that was twice as thick as the cinch of a horse, boots with leggings and spurs and iron on the heels, and his presence gave the quaking impression of a seismic tremor. He went through the parlor and the living room, carrying some half-worn saddlebags in his hand, and he appeared like a thunderclap on the porch with the begonias where Amaranta and her friends were paralyzed, their needles in the air. “Hello,” he said to them in a tired voice, threw the saddlebags on a worktable, and went by on his way to the back of the house. “Hello,” he said to the startled Rebecca, who saw him pass by the door of her bedroom. “Hello,” he said to Aureliano, who was at his silversmith’s bench with all five senses alert. He did not linger with anyone. He went directly to the kitchen and there he stopped for the first time at the end of a trip that had begun of the other side of the world. “Hello,” he said. Úrsula stood for a fraction of a second with her mouth open, looked into his eyes, gave a cry, and flung her arms around his neck, shouting and weeping with joy. It was José Arcadio. He was returning as poor as when he had left, to such an extreme that Úrsula had to give him two pesos to pay for the rental of his horse. He spoke a Spanish that was larded with sailor slang. They asked where he had been and he answered: “Out there.” He hung his hammock in the room they assigned him and slept for three days. When he woke up, after eating sixteen raw eggs, he went directly to Catarino’s store, where his monumental size provoked a panic of curiosity among the women. He called for music and cane liquor for everyone, to be put on his bill. He would Indian-wrestle with five men at the same time. “It can’t be done,” they said, convinced that they would not be able to move his arm. “He has niños-en-cruz.” Catarino, who did not believe in magical tricks of strength, bet him twelve pesos that he could not move the counter. José Arcadio pulled it out of its place, lifted it over his head, and put it in the street. It took eleven men to put it back. In the heat of the party he 49 exhibited his unusual masculinity on the bar, completely covered with tattoos of words in several languages intertwined in blue and red. To the women who were besieging him and coveting him he put the question as to who would pay the most. The one who had the most money offered him twenty pesos. Then he proposed raffling himself off among them at ten pesos a chance. It was a fantastic price because the most sought-after woman earned eight pesos a night, but they all accepted. They wrote their names on fourteen pieces of paper which they put into a hat and each woman took one out. When there were only two pieces left to draw, it was established to whom they belonged. “Five pesos more from each one,” José Arcadio proposed, “and I’ll share myself with both. He made his living that way. He had been around the world sixty-five times, enlisted in a crew of sailors without a country. The women who went to bed with him that night in Catarino’s store brought him naked into the dance salon so that people could see that there was not a square inch of his body that was not tattooed, front and back, and from his neck to his toes. He did not succeed in becoming incorporated into the family. He slept all day and spent the night in the red-light district, making bets on his strength. On the rare occasions when Úrsula got him to sit down at the table, he gave signs of radiant good humor, especially when he told about his adventures in remote countries. He had been shipwrecked and spent two weeks adrift in the Sea of Japan, feeding on the body of a comrade who had succumbed to sunstroke and whose extremely salty flesh as it cooked in the sun had a sweet and granular taste. Under a bright noonday sun in the Gulf of Bengal his ship had killed a sea dragon, in the stomach of which they found the helmet, the buckles, and the weapons of a Crusader. In the Caribbean he had seen the ghost of the pirate ship of Victor Hugues, with its sails torn by the winds of death, the masts chewed by sea worms, and still looking for the course to Guadeloupe. Úrsula would weep at the table as if she were reading the letters that had never arrived and in which José Arcadio told about his deeds and misadventures. “And there was so much of a home here for you, my son,” she would sob, “and so much food thrown to the hogs!” But underneath it an she could not conceive that the boy the gypsies took away was the same lout who would eat half a suckling pig for lunch and whose flatulence withered the flowers. Something similar took place with the rest of the family. Amaranta could not conceal the repugnance that she felt at the table because of his bestial belching. Arcadio, who never knew the secret of their relationship, scarcely answered the questions that he asked with the obvious idea of gaining his affection. Aureliano tried to relive the times when they slept in the same room, tried to revive the complicity of childhood, but José Arcadio had forgotten about it, because life at sea had saturated his memory with too many things to remember. Only Rebeca succumbed to the first impact. The day that she saw him pass by her bedroom she thought that Pietro Crespi was a sugary dandy next to that protomale whose volcanic breathing could be heard all over the house. She tried to get near him under any pretext. On a certain occasion José Arcadio looked at her body with shameless attention and said to her “You’re a woman, little sister.” Rebeca lost control of herself. She went back to eating earth and the whitewash on the walls with the avidity of previous days, and she sucked her finger with so much anxiety that she developed a callus on her thumb. She vomited up a green liquid with dead leeches in it. She spent nights awake shaking with fever, fighting against delirium, waiting until the house shook with the return of José Arcadio at dawn. One afternoon, when everyone was having a siesta, she could no longer resist and went to his bedroom. She found him in his shorts, lying in the hammock that he had hung from the beams with a ship’s hawser. She was so impressed by his enormous motley nakedness that she felt an impulse to retreat. “Excuse me,” she said, “I didn’t know you were here.” But she lowered her voice so as not to wake anyone up. “Come here,” he said. Rebeca obeyed. She stopped beside the hammock in an icy sweat, feeling knots forming in her intestines, while José Arcadio stroked her ankles with the tips of his fingers, then her calves, then her thighs, murmuring: “Oh, little sister, little sister.” She had to make a supernatural effort not to 50 die when a startlingly regulated cyclonic power lifted her up by the waist and despoiled her of her intimacy with three clashes of its claws and quartered her like a little bird. She managed to thank God for having been born before she lost herself in the inconceivable pleasure of that unbearable pain, splashing in the steaming marsh of the hammock which absorbed the explosion of blood like a blotter. Three days later they were married during the five-o’clock mass. José Arcadio had gone to Pietro Crespi’s store the day before. He found him giving a zither lesson and did not draw him aside to speak to him. “I’m going to marry Rebeca,” he told him. Pietro Crespi turned pale, gave the zither to one of his pupils, and dismissed the class. When they were alone in the room that was crowded with musical instruments and mechanical toys, Pietro Crespi said: “She’s your sister.” “I don’t care,” José Arcadio replied. Pietro Crespi mopped his brow with the handkerchief that was soaked in lavender. “It’s against nature,” he explained, “and besides, it’s against the law.” José Arcadio grew impatient, not so much at the argument as over Pietro Crespi’s paleness. “Fuck nature two times over,” he said. “And I’ve come to tell you not to bother going to ask Rebeca anything.” But his brutal deportment broke down when he saw Pietro Crespi’s eyes grow moist. “Now,” he said to him in a different tone, “if you really like the family, there’s Amaranta for you.” Father Nicanor revealed in his Sunday sermon that José Arcadio and Rebeca were not brother and sister. Úrsula never forgave what she considered an inconceivable lack of respect and when they came back from church she forbade the newlyweds to set foot in the house again. For her it was as if they were dead. So they rented a house across from the cemetery and established themselves there with no other furniture but José Arcadio’s hammock. On their wedding night a scorpion that had got into her slipper bit Rebeca on the foot. Her tongue went to sleep, but that did not stop them from spending a scandalous honeymoon. The neighbors were startled by the cries that woke up the whole district as many as eight times in a single night and three times during siesta, and they prayed that such wild passion would not disturb the peace of the dead. Aureliano was the only one who was concerned about them. He bought them some furniture and gave them some money until José Arcadio recovered his sense of reality and began to work the noman’s-land that bordered the courtyard of the house. Amaranta, on the other hand, never did overcome her rancor against Rebeca, even though life offered her a satisfaction of which she had not dreamed: at the initiative of Úrsula, who did not know how to repair the shame, Pietro Crespi continued having lunch at the house on Tuesdays, rising above his defeat with a serene dignity. He still wore the black ribbon on his hat as a sign of respect for the family, and he took pleasure in showing his affection for Úrsula by bringing her exotic gifts: Portuguese sardines, Turkish rose marmalade, and on one occasion a lovely Manila shawl. Amaranta looked after him with a loving diligence. She anticipated his wants, pulled out the threads on the cuffs of his shirt, and embroidered a dozen handkerchiefs with his initials for his birthday. On Tuesdays, after lunch, while she would embroider on the porch, he would keep her happy company. For Pietro Crespi, that woman whom he always had considered and treated as a child was a revelation. Although her temperament lacked grace, she had a rare sensibility for appreciating the things of the world and had a secret tenderness. One Tuesday, when no one doubted that sooner or later it had to happen, Pietro Crespi asked her to marry him. She did not stop her work. She waited for the hot blush to leave her ears and gave her voice a serene stress of maturity. “Of course, Crespi,” she said. “But when we know each other better. It’s never good to be hasty in things.” 51 Úrsula was confused. In spite of the esteem she had for Pietro Crespi, she could not tell whether his decision was good or bad from the moral point of view after his prolonged and famous engagement to Rebeca. But she finally accepted it as an unqualified fact because no one shared her doubts. Aureliano, who was the man of the house, confused her further with his enigmatic and final opinion: “These are not times to go around thinking about weddings.” That opinion, which Úrsula understood only some months later, was the only sincere one that Aureliano could express at that moment, not only with respect to marriage, but to anything that was not war. He himself, facing a firing squad, would not understand too well the concatenation of the series of subtle but irrevocable accidents that brought him to that point. The death of Remedios had not produced the despair that he had feared. It was, rather, a dull feeling of rage that grades ally dissolved in a solitary and passive frustration similar to the one he had felt during the time he was resigned to living without a woman. He plunged into his work again, but he kept up the custom of playing dominoes with his father-in-law. In a house bound up in mourning, the nightly conversations consolidated the friendship between the two men. “Get married again. Aurelito,” his father-in-law would tell him. “I have six daughters for you to choose from.” On one occasion on the eve of the elections, Don Apolinar Moscote returned from one of his frequent trips worried about the political situation in the country. The Liberals were determined to go to war. Since Aureliano at that time had very confused notions about the difference between Conservatives and Liberals, his father-in-law gave him some schematic lessons. The Liberals, he said, were Freemasons, bad people, wanting to hang priests, to institute civil marriage and divorce, to recognize the rights of illegitimate children as equal to those of legitimate ones, and to cut the country up into a federal system that would take power away from the supreme authority. The Conservatives, on the other hand, who had received their power directly from God, proposed the establishment of public order and family morality. They were the defenders of the faith of Christ, of the principle of authority, and were not prepared to permit the country to be broken down into autonomous entities. Because of his humanitarian feelings Aureliano sympathized with the Liberal attitude with respect to the rights of natural children, but in any case, he could not understand how people arrived at the extreme of waging war over things that could not be touched with the hand. It seemed an exaggeration to him that for the elections his father-in-law had them send six soldiers armed with rifles under the command of a sergeant to a town with no political passions. They not only arrived, but they went from house to house confiscating hunting weapons, machetes, and even kitchen knives before they distributed among males over twenty-one the blue ballots with the names of the Conservative candidates and the red ballots with the names of the Liberal candidates. On the eve of the elections Don Apolinar Moscote himself read a decree that prohibited the sale of alcoholic beverages and the gathering together of more than three people who were not of the same family. The elections took place without incident. At eight o’clock on Sunday morning a wooden ballot box was set up in the square, which was watched over by the six soldiers. The voting was absolutely free, as Aureliano himself was able to attest since he spent almost the entire day with his father-in-law seeing that no one voted more than once. At four in the afternoon a roll of drums in the square announced the closing of the polls and Don Apolinar Moscote sealed the ballot box with a label crossed by his signature. That night, while he played dominoes with Aureliano, he ordered the sergeant to break the seal in order to count the votes. There were almost as many red ballots as blue, but the sergeant left only ten red ones and made up the difference with blue ones. Then they sealed the box again with a new label and the first thing on the following day it was taken to the capital of the province. “The Liberals will go to war,” Aureliano said. Don Apolinar concentrated on his domino pieces. “If you’re saying that because of the switch in ballots, they won’t,” he said. “We left a few red ones in so there won’t be any complaints.” Aureliano understood the disadvantages of being in the opposition. “If I 52 were a Liberal,” he said, “I’d go to war because of those ballots.” His father-in-law looked at him over his glasses. “Come now, Aurelito,” he said, “if you were a Liberal, even though you’re my son-in-law, you wouldn’t have seen the switching of the ballots.” What really caused indignation in the town was. not the results of the elections but the fact that the soldiers had not returned the weapons. A group of women spoke with Aureliano so that he could obtain the return of their kitchen knives from his father-in-law. Don Apolinar Moscote explained to him, in strictest confidence, that the soldiers had taken the weapons off as proof that the Liberals were preparing for war. The cynicism of the remark alarmed him. He said nothing, but on a certain night when Gerineldo Márquez and Magnífico Visbal were speaking with some other friends about the incident of the knives, they asked him if he was a Liberal or a Conservative. Aureliano did not hesitate. “If I have to be something I’ll be a Liberal,” he said, “because the Conservatives are tricky.” On the following day, at the urging of his friends, he went to see Dr. Alirio Noguera to be treated for a supposed pain in his liver. He did not even understand the meaning of the subterfuge. Dr. Alirio Noguera had arrived in Macondo a few years before with a medicine chest of tasteless pills and a medical motto that convinced no one: One nail draws another. In reality he was a charlatan. Behind his innocent façade of a doctor without prestige there was hidden a terrorist who with his short legged boots covered the scars that five years in the stocks had left on his legs. Taken prisoner during the first federalist adventure, he managed to escape to Curaçao disguised in the garment he detested most in this world: a cassock. At the end of a prolonged exile, stirred up by the exciting news that exiles from all over the Caribbean brought to Curaçao, he set out in a smuggler’s schooner and appeared in Riohacha with the bottles of pills that were nothing but refined sugar and a diploma from the University of Leipzig that he had forged himself. He wept with disappointment. The federalist fervor, which the exiles had pictured as a powder keg about to explode, had dissolved into a vague electoral illusion. Embittered by failure, yearning for a safe place where he could await old age, the false homeopath took refuge in Macondo. In the narrow bottle-crowded room that he rented on one side of the square, he lived several years off the hopelessly ill who, after having tried everything, consoled themselves with sugar pills. His instincts of an agitator remained dormant as long as Don Apolinar Moscote was a figurehead. He passed the time remembering and fighting against asthma. The approach of the elections was the thread that led him once more to the skein of subversion. He made contact with the young people in the town, who lacked political knowledge, and he embarked on a stealthy campaign of instigation. The numerous red ballots that appeared is the box and that were attributed by Don Apolinar Moscote to the curiosity that came from youth were part of his plan: he made his disciples vote in order to show them that elections were a farce. “The only effective thing,” he would say, “is violence.” The majority of Aureliano’s friends were enthusiastic over the idea of liquidating the Conservative establishment, but no one had dared include him in the plans, not only because of his ties with the magistrate, but because of his solitary and elusive character. It was known, furthermore, that he had voted blue at his father-in-law’s direction. So it was a simple matter of chance that he revealed his political sentiments, and it was purely a matter of curiosity, a caprice, that brought him to visit the doctor for the treatment of a pain that he did not have. In the den that smelled of camphorated cobwebs he found himself facing a kind of dusty iguana whose lungs whistled when he breathed. Before asking him any questions the doctor took him to the window and examined the inside of his lower eyelid. “It’s not there,” Aureliano said, following what they told him. He pushed the tips of his fingers into his liver and added: “Here’s where I have the pain that won’t let me sleep.” Then Dr. Noguera closed the window with the pretext that there was too much sun, and explained to him in simple terms that it was a patriotic duty to assassinate Conservatives. For several days Aureliano carried a small bottle of pills in his 53 shirt pocket. He would take it out every two hours, put three pills in the palm of his hand, and pop them into his mouth for them to be slowly dissolved on his tongue. Don Apolinar Moscote made fun of his faith in homeopathy, but those who were in on the plot recognized another one of their people in him. Almost all of the sons of the founders were implicated, although none of them knew concretely what action they were plotting. Nevertheless, the day the doctor revealed the secret to Aureliano, the latter elicited the whole plan of the conspiracy. Although he was convinced at that time of the urgency of liquidating the Conservative regime, the plot horrified him. Dr. Noguera had a mystique of personal assassination. His system was reduced to coordinating a series of individual actions which in one master stroke covering the whole nation would liquidate the functionaries of the regime along with their respective families, especially the children, in order to exterminate Conservatism at its roots. Don Apolinar Moscote, his wife, and his six daughters, needless to say, were on the list. “You’re no Liberal or anything else,” Aureliano told him without getting excited. “You’re nothing but a butcher.” “In that case,” the doctor replied with equal calm, “give me back the bottle. You don’t need it any more.” Only six months later did Aureliano learn that the doctor had given up on him as a man of action because he was a sentimental person with no future, with a passive character, and a definite solitary vocation. They tried to keep him surrounded, fearing that he would betray the conspiracy. Aureliano calmed them down: he would not say a word, but on the night they went to murder the Moscote family they would find him guarding the door. He showed such a convincing decision that the plan was postponed for an indefinite date. It was during those days that Úrsula asked his opinion about the marriage between Pietro Crespi and Amaranta, and he answered that these were not times to be thinking about such a thing. For a week he had been carrying an old-fashioned pistol under his shirt. He kept his eyes on his friends. In the afternoon he would go have coffee with José Arcadio and Rebeca, who had begun to put their house in order, and from seven o’clock on he would play dominoes with his father-in-law. At lunchtime he was chatting with Arcadio, who was already a huge adolescent, and he found him more and more excited over the imminence of war. In school, where Arcadio had pupils older than himself mixed in with children who were barely beginning to talk, the Liberal fever had caught on. There was talk of shooting Father Nicanor, of turning the church into a school, of instituting free love. Aureliano tried to calm down his drive. He recommended discretion and prudence to him. Deaf to his calm reasoning, to his sense of reality, Arcadio reproached him in public for his weakness of character. Aureliano waited. Finally, in the beginning of December, Úrsula burst into the workshop all upset. “War’s broken out!” War, in fact, had broken out three months before. Martial law was in effect in the whole country. The only one who knew it immediately was Don Apolinar Moscote, but he did not give the news even to his wife while the army platoon that was to occupy the town by surprise was on its way. They entered noiselessly before dawn, with two pieces of light artillery drawn by mules, and they set up their headquarters in the school. A 6 P.M. curfew was established. A more drastic search than the previous one was undertaken, house by house, and this time they even took farm implements. They dragged out Dr. Noguera, tied him to a tree in the square, and shot him without any due process of law. Father Nicanor tried to impress the military authorities with the miracle of levitation and had his head split open by the butt of a soldier’s rifle. The Liberal exaltation had been extinguished into a silent terror. Aureliano, pale, mysterious, continued playing dominoes with his father-in-law. He understood that in spite of his present title of civil and military leader of the town, Don Apolinar Moscote was once more a figurehead. The decisions were made by the army captain, who each morning collected an extraordinary levy for the defense of public order. Four soldiers under his 54 command snatched a woman who had been bitten by a mad dog from her family and killed her with their rifle butts. One Sunday, two weeks after the occupation, Aureliano entered Gerineldo Márquez’s house and with his usual terseness asked for a mug of coffee without sugar. When the two of them were alone in the kitchen, Aureliano gave his voice an authority that had never been heard before. “Get the boys ready,” he said. “We’re going to war.” Gerineldo Márquez did not believe him. “With what weapons?” he asked. “With theirs,” Aureliano replied. Tuesday at midnight in a mad operation, twenty-one men under the age of thirty commanded by Aureliano Buendía, armed with table knives and sharpened tools, took the garrison by surprise, seized the weapons, and in the courtyard executed the captain and the four soldiers who had killed the woman. That same night, while the sound of the firing squad could be heard, Arcadio was named civil and military leader of the town. The married rebels barely had time to take leave of their wives, whom they left to their our devices. They left at dawn, cheered by the people who had been liberated from the terror, to join the forces of the revolutionary general Victorio Medina, who, according to the latest reports, was on his way to Manaure. Before leaving, Aureliano brought Don Apolinar Moscote out of a closet. “Rest easy, father-in-law,” he told him. “The new government guarantees on its word of honor your personal safety and that of your family.” Don Apolinar Moscote had trouble identifying that conspirator in high boots and with a rifle slung over his shoulder with the person he had played dominoes with until nine in the evening. “This is madness, Aurelito,” he exclaimed. “Not madness,” Aureliano said. “War. And don’t call me Aurelito any more. Now I’m Colonel Aureliano Buendía.” 55 Chapter 6 COLONEL AURELIANO BUENDÍA organized thirty-two armed uprisings and he lost them all. He had seventeen male children by seventeen different women and they were exterminated one after the other on a single night before the oldest one had reached the age of thirty-five. He survived fourteen attempts on his life, seventy-three ambushes, and a firing squad. He lived through a dose of strychnine in his coffee that was enough to kill a horse. He refused the Order of Merit, which the President of the Republic awarded him. He rose to be Commander in Chief of the revolutionary forces, with jurisdiction and command from one border to the other, and the man most feared by the government, but he never let himself be photographed. He declined the lifetime pension offered him after the war and until old age he made his living from the little gold fishes that he manufactured in his workshop in Macondo. Although he always fought at the head of his men, the only wound that he received was the one he gave himself after signing the Treaty of Neerlandia, which put an end to almost twenty years of civil war. He shot himself in the chest with a pistol and the bullet came out through his back without damaging any vital organ. The only thing left of all that was a street that bore his name in Macondo. And yet, as he declared a few years before he died of old age, he had not expected any of that on the dawn he left with his twenty-one men to join the forces of General Victorio Medina. “We leave Macondo in your care.” was all that he said to Arcadio before leaving. “We leave it to you in good shape, try to have it in better shape when we return.” Arcadio gave a very personal interpretation to the instructions. He invented a uniform with the braid and epaulets of a marshal, inspired by the prints in one of Melquíades’ books, and around his waist he buckled the saber with gold tassels that had belonged to the executed captain. He set up the two artillery pieces at the entrance to town, put uniforms on his former pupils, who had been amused by his fiery proclamations, and let them wander through the streets armed in order to give outsiders an impression of invulnerability. It was a double-edged deception, for the government did not dare attack the place for ten months, but when it did it unleashed such a large force against it that resistance was liquidated in a half hour. From the first day of his rule Arcadio revealed his predilection for decrees. He would read as many as four a day in order to decree and institute everything that came into his head. He imposed obligatory military service for men over eighteen, declared to be public property any animals walking the streets after six in the evening, and made men who were overage wear red armbands. He sequestered Father Nicanor in the parish house under pain of execution and prohibited him from saying mass or ringing the bells unless it was for a Liberal victory. In order that no one would doubt the severity of his aims, he ordered a firing squad organized in the square and had it shoot at a scarecrow. At first no one took him seriously. They were, after all, schoolchildren playing at being grown-ups. But one night, when Arcadio went into Catarino’s store, the trumpeter in the group greeted him with a fanfare that made the customers laugh and Arcadio had him shot for disrespect for the authorities. People who protested were put on bread and water with their ankles in a set of stocks that he had set up in a schoolroom. “You murderer!” Úrsula would shout at him every time she learned of some new arbitrary act. “When Aureliano finds out he’s going to shoot you and I’ll be the first one to be glad.” But it was of no use. Arcadio continued tightening the tourniquet with unnecessary rigor until he became the cruelest ruler that Macondo had ever known. “Now let them suffer the difference,” Don Apolinar Moscote said on one occasion. “This is the Liberal paradise.” Arcadio found out about it. At the head of a patrol he assaulted the house, destroyed the furniture, flogged the daughters, and dragged out Don Apolinar Moscote. When Úrsula burst into the courtyard of headquarters, after having gone through 56 the town shouting shame and brandishing with rage a pitch-covered whip, Arcadio himself was preparing to give the squad the command to fire. “I dare you to, bastard!” Úrsula shouted. Before Arcadio had time to read she let go with the first blow of the lash. “I dare you to, murderer!” she shouted. “And kill me too, son of an evil mother. That way I won’t have the eyes to weep for the shame of having raised a monster.” Whipping him without mercy, she chased him to the back of the courtyard, where Arcadio curled up like a snail in its shell. Don Apolinar Moscote was unconscious, tied to the post where previously they had had the scarecrow that had been cut to pieces by shots fired in fun. The boys in the squad scattered, fearful that Úrsula would go after them too. But she did not even look at them. She left Arcadio with his uniform torn, roaring with pain and rage, and she untied Don Apolinar Moscote and took him home. Before leaving the headquarters she released the prisoners from the stocks. From that time on she was the one who ruled in the town. She reestablished Sunday masses, suspended the use of red armbands, and abrogated the harebrained decrees. But in spite of her strength, she still wept over her unfortunate fate. She felt so much alone that she sought the useless company of her husband, who had been forgotten under the chestnut tree. “Look what we’ve come to,” she would tell him as the June rains threatened to knock the shelter down. “Look at the empty house, our children scattered all over the world, and the two of us alone again, the same as in the beginning.” José Arcadio Buendía, sunk in an abyss of unawareness, was deaf to her lamentations. At the beginning of his madness he would announce his daily needs with urgent Latin phrases. In fleeting clear spells of lucidity, when Amaranta would bring him his meals he would tell her what bothered him most and would accept her sucking glasses and mustard plasters in a docile way. But at the time when Úrsula went to lament by his side he had lost all contact with reality. She would bathe him bit by bit as he sat on his stool while she gave him news of the family. “Aureliano went to war more than four months ago and we haven’t heard anything about him,” she would say, scrubbing his back with a soaped brush. “José Arcadio came back a big man, taller than you, and all covered with needle-work, but he only brought shame to our house.” She thought she noticed, however, that her husband would grow sad with the bad news. Then she decided to lie to him. ‘Rou won’t believe what I’m going to tell you,” she said as she threw ashes over his excrement in order to pick it up with the shovel. “God willed that José Arcadio and Rebeca should get married, and now they’re very happy.” She got to be so sincere in the deception that she ended up by consoling herself with her own lies. “Arcadio is a serious man now,” she said, “and very brave, and a fine-looking young man with his uniform and saber.” It was like speaking to a dead man, for José Arcadio Buendía was already beyond the reach of any worry. But she insisted. He seemed so peaceful, so indifferent to everything that she decided to release him. He did not even move from his stool. He stayed there, exposed to the sun and the rain, as if the thongs were unnecessary, for a dominion superior to any visible bond kept him tied to the trunk of the chestnut tree. Toward August, when winter began to last forever, Úrsula was finally able to give him a piece of news that sounded like the truth. “Would you believe it that good luck is still pouring down on us?” she told him. “Amaranta and the pianola Italian are going to get married.” Amaranta and Pietro Crespi had, in fact, deepened their friendship, protected by Úrsula, who this time did not think it necessary to watch over the visits. It was a twilight engagement. The Italian would arrive at dusk, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and he would translate Petrarch’s sonnets for Amaranta. They would sit on the porch, suffocated by the oregano and the roses, he reading and she sewing lace cuffs, indifferent to the shocks and bad news of the war, until the mosquitoes made them take refuge in the parlor. Amaranta’s sensibility, her discreet but enveloping tenderness had been wearing an invisible web about her fiancé, which he had to push aside materially with his pale and ringless fingers in order to leave the house at eight o’clock. They had put together a delightful 57 album with the postcards that Pietro Crespi received from Italy. They were pictures of lovers in lonely parks, with vignettes of hearts pierced with arrows and golden ribbons held by doves. “I’ve been to this park in Florence,” Pietro Crespi would say, going through the cards. “A person can put out his hand and the birds will come to feed.” Sometimes, over a watercolor of Venice, nostalgia would transform the smell of mud and putrefying shellfish of the canals into the warm aroma of flowers. Amaranta would sigh, laugh, and dream of a second homeland of handsome men and beautiful women who spoke a childlike language with ancient cities of whose past grandeur only the cats among the rubble remained. After crossing the ocean in search of it, after having confused passion with the vehement stroking of Rebeca, Pietro Crespi had found love. Happiness was accompanied by prosperity. His warehouse at that time occupied almost a whole block and it was a hothouse of fantasy, with reproductions of the bell tower of Florence that told time with a concert of carillons, and music boxes from Sorrento and compacts from China that sang five-note melodies when they were opened, and all the musical instruments imaginable and all the mechanical toys that could be conceived. Bruno Crespi, his younger brother, was in charge of the store because Pietro Crespi barely had enough time to take care of the music school. Thanks to him the Street of the Turks, with its dazzling display of knickknacks, became a melodic oasis where one could forget Arcadio’s arbitrary acts and the distant nightmare of the war. When Úrsula ordered the revival of Sunday mass, Pietro Crespi donated a German harmonium to the church, organized a children’s chorus, and prepared a Gregorian repertory that added a note of splendor to Father Nicanor’s quiet rite. No one doubted that he would make Amaranta a fortunate mate. Not pushing their feelings, letting themselves be borne along by the natural flow of their hearth they reached a point where all that was left to do was set a wedding date. They did not encounter any obstacles. Úrsula accused herself inwardly of having twisted Rebecca’s destiny with repeated postponements and she was not about to add more remorse. The rigor of the mourning for Remedios had been relegated to the background by the mortifications of the war, Aureliano’s absence, Arcadio’s brutality, and the expulsion of José Arcadio and Rebeca. With the imminence of the wedding, Pietro Crespi had hinted that Aureliano José, in whom he had stirred up a love that was almost filial, would be considered their oldest child. Everything made Amaranta think that she was heading toward a smooth happiness. But unlike Rebeca, she did not reveal the slightest anxiety. With the same patience with which she dyed tablecloths, sewed lace masterpieces, and embroidered needlepoint peacocks, she waited for Pietro Crespi to be unable to bear the urges of his heart and more. Her day came with the ill-fated October rains. Pietro Crespi took the sewing basket from her lap and he told her, “We’ll get married next month.” Amaranta did not tremble at the contact with his icy hands. She withdrew hers like a timid little animal and went back to her work. “Don’t be simple, Crespi.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t marry you even if I were dead.” Pietro Crespi lost control of himself. He wept shamelessly, almost breaking his fingers with desperation, but he could not break her down. “Don’t waste your time,” was all that Amaranta said. “If you really love me so much, don’t set foot in this house again.” Úrsula thought she would go mad with shame. Pietro Crespi exhausted all manner of pleas. He went through incredible extremes of humiliation. He wept one whole afternoon in Úrsula’s lap and she would have sold her soul in order to comfort him. On rainy nights he could be seen prowling about the house with an umbrella, waiting for a light in Amaranta’s bedroom. He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta’s friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led 58 one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Souls’ Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the docks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that mad concert he found Pietro Crespi at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by a razor and his hands thrust into a basin of benzoin. Úrsula decreed that the wake would be in her house. Father Nicanor was against a religious ceremony and burial in consecrated ground. Úrsula stood up to him. “In a way that neither you nor I can understand, that man was a saint,” she said. “So I am going to bury him, against your wishes, beside Melquíades’ grave.” She did it with the support of the whole town and with a magnificent funeral. Amaranta did not leave her bedroom. From her bed she heard Úrsula’s weeping, the steps and whispers of the multitude that invaded the house, the wailing of the mourners, and then a deep silence that smelled of trampled flowers. For a long time she kept on smelling Pietro Crespi’s lavender breath at dusk, but she had the strength not to succumb to delirium. Úrsula abandoned her. She did not even raise her eyes to pity her on the afternoon when Amaranta went into the kitchen and put her hand into the coals of the stove until it hurt her so much that she felt no more pain but instead smelled the pestilence of her own singed flesh. It was a stupid cure for her remorse. For several days she went about the house with her hand in a pot of egg whites, and when the burns healed it appeared as if the whites had also scarred over the sores on her heart. The only external trace that the tragedy left was the bandage of black gauze that she put on her burned hand and that she wore until her death. Arcadio gave a rare display of generosity by decreeing official mourning for Pietro Crespi. Úrsula interpreted it as the return of the strayed lamb. But she was mistaken. She had lost Arcadio, not when he had put on his military uniform, but from the beginning. She thought she had raised him as a son, as she had raised Rebeca, with no privileges or discrimination. Nevertheless, Arcadio was a solitary and frightened child during the insomnia plague, in the midst of Úrsula’s utilitarian fervor, during the delirium of José Arcadio Buendía, the hermetism of Aureliano, and the mortal rivalry between Amaranta and Rebeca. Aureliano had taught him to read and write, thinking about other things, as he would have done with a stranger. He gave him his clothing so that Visitación could take it in when it was ready to be thrown away. Arcadio suffered from shoes that were too large, from his patched pants, from his female buttocks. He never succeeded in communicating with anyone better than he did with Visitación and Cataure in their language. Melquíades was the only one who really was concerned with him as he made him listen to his incomprehensible texts and gave him lessons in the art of daguerreotype. No one imagined how much he wept in secret and the desperation with which he tried to revive Melquíades with the useless study of his papers. The school, where they paid attention to him and respected him, and then power, with his endless decrees and his glorious uniform, freed him from the weight of an old bitterness. One night in Catarino’s store someone dared tell him, “you don’t deserve the last name you carry.” Contrary to what everyone expected, Arcadio did not have him shot. “To my great honor,” he said, “I am not a Buendía.” Those who knew the secret of his parentage thought that the answer meant that he too was aware of it, but he had really never been. Pilar Ternera, his mother, who had made his blood boil in the darkroom, was as much an irresistible obsession for him as she had been first for José Arcadio and then for Aureliano. In spite of her having lost her charms and the splendor of her laugh, he sought her out and found her by the trail of her smell of smoke. A short time before the war, one noon when she was later than usual in coming for her younger son at school, Arcadio was waiting for her in the room where he was accustomed to take his siesta and where he later set up the stocks. While the child played in the courtyard, he waited in his hammock, trembling with anxiety, knowing that Pillar Ternera would have to pass through there. She arrived. Arcadio grabbed her by the wrist 59 and tried to pull her into the hammock. “I can’t, I can’t,” Pilar Ternera said in horror. “You can’t imagine how much I would like to make you happy, but as God is my witness I can’t.” Arcadio took her by the waist with his tremendous hereditary strength and he felt the world disappear with the contact of her skin. “Don’t play the saint,” he said. “After all, everybody knows that you’re a whore.” Pilar overcame the disgust that her miserable fate inspired in her. “The children will find out,” she murmured. “It will be better if you leave the bar off the door tonight.” Arcadio waited for her that night trembling with fever in his hammock. He waited without sleeping, listening to the aroused crickets in the endless hours of early morning and the implacable telling of time by the curlews, more and more convinced that he had been deceived. Suddenly, when anxiety had broken down into rage, the door opened. A few months later, facing the firing squad, Arcadio would relive the wandering steps in the classroom, the stumbling against benches, and finally the bulk of a body in the shadows of the room and the breathing of air that was pumped by a heart that was not his. He stretched out his hand and found another hand with two rings on the same finger about to go astray in the darkness. He felt the structure of the veins, the pulse of its misfortune, and felt the damp palm with a lifeline cut off at the base of the thumb by the claws of death. Then he realized that this was not the woman he was waiting for, because she did not smell of smoke but of flower lotion, and she had inflated, blind breasts with nipples like. a man’s, a sex as stony and round as a nut, and the chaotic tenderness of excited inexperience. She was a virgin and she had the unlikely name of Santa Sofía de la Piedad. Pilar Ternera had paid her fifty pesos, half of her life savings, to do what she was doing. Arcadio, had seen her many times working in her parents’ small food store but he had never taken a good look at her because she had that rare virtue of never existing completely except at the opportune moment. But from that day on he huddled like a cat in the warmth of her armpit She would go to the school at siesta time with the consent of her parents, to whom Pilar Ternera hid paid the other half of her savings. Later on, when the government troops dislodged them from the place where they had made love, they did it among the cans of lard and sacks of corn in the back of the store. About the time that Arcadio was named civil and military leader they had a daughter. The only relatives who knew about it were José Arcadio and Rebeca, with whom Arcadio maintained close relations at that time, based not so much on kinship as on complicity. José Arcadio had put his neck into the marital yoke. Rebeca’s firm character, the voracity of her stomach, her tenacious ambition absorbed the tremendous energy of her husband, who had been changed from a lazy, woman-chasing man into an enormous work animal. They kept a clean and neat house. Rebeca would open it wide at dawn and the wind from the graveyard would come in through the windows and go out through the doors to the yard and leave the whitewashed walls and furniture tanned by the saltpeter of the dead. Her hunger for earth, the cloc-cloc of her parents’ bones, the impatience of her blood as it faced Pietro Crespi’s passivity were relegated to the attic of her memory. All day long she would embroider beside the window, withdrawn from the uneasiness of the war, until the ceramic pots would begin to vibrate in the cupboard and she would get up to warm the meal, much before the appearance, first, of the mangy hounds, and then of the colossus in leggings and spurs with a double-barreled shotgun, who sometimes carried a deer on his shoulder and almost always a string of rabbits or wild ducks. One afternoon, at the beginning of his rule, Arcadio paid them a surprise visit. They had not seen him since they had left the house, but he seemed so friendly and familiar that they invited him to share the stew. Only when they were having coffee did Arcadio reveal the motive behind his visit: he had received a complaint against José Arcadio. It was said that he had begun by plowing his own yard and had gone straight ahead into neighboring lands, knocking down fences and buildings with his oxen until he took forcible possession of the best plots of land around. On the peasants whom he 60 had not despoiled because he was not interested in their lands, he levied a contribution which he collected every Saturday with his hunting dogs and his double-barreled shotgun. He did not deny it. He based his right on the fact that the usurped lands had been distributed by José Arcadio Buendía at the time of the founding, and he thought it possible to prove that his father had been crazy ever since that time, for he had disposed of a patrimony that really belonged to the family. It was an unnecessary allegation, because Arcadio had not come to do justice. He simply offered to set up a registry office so that José Arcadio could legalize his title to the usurped land, under the condition that he delegate to the local government the right to collect the contributions. They made an agreement. Years later, when Colonel Aureliano Buendía examined the titles to property, he found registered in his brother’s name all of the land between the hill where his yard was on up to the horizon, including the cemetery, and discovered that during the eleven months of his rule, Arcadio had collected not only the money of the contributions, but had also collected fees from people for the right to bury their dead in José Arcadio’s land. It took Úrsula several months to find out what was already public knowledge because people hid it from her so as not to increase her suffering. At first she suspected it. “Arcadio is building a house,” she confided with feigned pride to her husband as she tried to put a spoonful of calabash syrup into his mouth. Nevertheless, she involuntarily sighed and said, “I don’t know why, but all this has a bad smell to me.” Later on, when she found out that Arcadio had not only built a house but had ordered some Viennese furniture, she confirmed her suspicion that he was using public funds. “You’re the shame of our family name,” she shouted at him one Sunday after mass when she saw him in his new house playing cards with his officers. Arcadio paid no attention to her. Only then did Úrsula know that he had a six-month-old daughter and that Santa Sofía de la Piedad, with whom he was living outside of marriage, was pregnant again. She decided to write to Colonel Aureliano Buendía, wherever he was, to bring him up to date on the situation. But the fast-moving events of those days not only prevented her plans from being carried out, they made her regret having conceived them. The war, which until then had been only a word to designate a vague and remote circumstance, became a concrete and dramatic reality. Around the end of February an old woman with an ashen look arrived in Macondo riding a donkey loaded down with brooms. She seemed so inoffensive that the sentries let her pass without any questions as another vendor, one of the many who often arrived from the towns in the swamp. She went directly to the barracks. Arcadio received her in the place where the classroom used to be and which at that time had been transformed into a kind of rearguard encampment, with roiled hammocks hanging on hooks and mats piled up in the corners, and rifles and carbines and even hunting shotguns scattered on the floor. The old woman stiffened into a military salute before identifying herself: “I am Colonel Gregorio Stevenson.” He brought bad news. The last centers of Liberal resistance, according to what he said, were being wiped out. Colonel Aureliano Buendía, whom he had left fighting in retreat near Riohacha, had given him a message for Arcadio. He should surrender the town without resistance on the condition that the lives and property of Liberals would be respected. Arcadio examined that strange messenger who could have been a fugitive grandmother with a look of pity. “You have brought something in writing, naturally,” he said. “Naturally,” the emissary answered, “I have brought nothing of the sort. It’s easy to understand that under the present circumstances a person can’t carry anything that would compromise him.” As he was speaking he reached into his bodice and took out a small gold fish. “I think that this will be sufficient,” he said. Arcadio could see that indeed it was one of the little fishes made by Colonel Aureliano Buendía. But anyone could have bought it before the war or stolen it, and it had no merit as a safe-conduct pass. The messenger even went to the extreme of violating a military secret so that they would believe his identity. He revealed that he was on a mission to Curaçao, 61 where he hoped to recruit exiles from all over the Caribbean and acquire arms and supplies sufficient to attempt a landing at the end of the year. With faith in that plan, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was not in favor of any useless sacrifices at that time. But Arcadio was inflexible. He had the prisoner put into the stocks until he could prove his identity and he resolved to defend the town to the death. He did not have long to wait. The news of the Liberal defeat was more and more concrete. Toward the end of March, before a dawn of premature rain, the tense calm of the previous weeks was abruptly broken by the desperate sounds of a cornet and a cannon shot that knocked down the steeple of the church. Actually, Arcadio’s decision to resist was madness. He had only fifty poorly armed men with a ration of twenty cartridges apiece. But among them, his former pupils, excited by the high-sounding proclamations, the determination reigned to sacrifice their skins for a lost cause. In the midst of the tramping of boots, contradictory commands, cannon shots that made the earth tremble, wild shooting, and the senseless sound of cornets, the supposed Colonel Stevenson managed to speak to Arcadio. “Don’t let me undergo the indignity of dying in the stocks in these women’s clothes,” he said to him. “If I have to die, let me die fighting.” He succeeded in convincing him. Arcadio ordered them to give him a weapon and twenty cartridges, and he left him with five men to defend headquarters while he went off with his staff to head up the resistance. He did not get to the road to the swamp. The barricades had been broken and the defenders were openly fighting in the streets, first until they used up their ration of rifle bullets, then with pistols against rifles, and finally hand to hand. With the imminence of defeat, some women went into the street armed with sticks and kitchen knives. In that confusion Arcadio found Amaranta, who was looking for him like a madwoman, in her nightgown and with two old pistols that had belonged to José Arcadio Buendía. He gave his rifle to an officer who had been disarmed in the fight and escaped with Amaranta through a nearby street to take her home. Úrsula was, in the doorway waiting, indifferent to the cannon shots that had opened up a hole in the front of the house next door. The rain was letting up, but the streets were as slippery and as smooth as melted soap, and one had to guess distances in the darkness. Arcadio left Amaranta with Úrsula and made an attempt to face two soldiers who had opened up with heavy firing from the corner. The old pistols that had been kept for many years in the bureau did not work. Protecting Arcadio with her body, Úrsula tried to drag him toward the house. “Come along in the name of God,” she shouted at him. “There’s been enough madness!” The soldiers aimed at them. “Let go of that man, ma’am,” one of them shouted, “or we won’t be responsible!” Arcadio pushed Úrsula toward the house and surrendered. A short time later the shooting stopped and the bells began to toll. The resistance had been wiped out in less than half an hour. Not a single one of Arcadio’s men had survived the attack, but before dying they had killed three hundred soldiers. The last stronghold was the barracks. Before being attacked, the supposed Colonel Gregorio Stevenson had freed the prisoners and ordered his men to go out and fight in the street. The extraordinary mobility and accurate aim with which he placed his twenty cartridges gave the impression that the barracks was well-defended, and the attackers blew it to pieces with cannon fire. The captain who directed the operation was startled to find the rubble deserted and a single dead man in his undershorts with an empty rifle still clutched in an arm that had been blown completely off. He had a woman’s full head of hair held at the neck with a comb and on his neck a chain with a small gold fish. When he turned him over with the tip of his boot and put the light on his face, the captain was perplexed. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. Other officers came over. “Look where this fellow turned up,” the captain said. “It’s Gregorio Stevenson.” At dawn, after a summary court martial, Arcadio was shot against the wall of the cemetery. In the last two hours of his life he did not manage to understand why the fear that had tormented him 62 since childhood had disappeared. Impassive. without even worrying about making a show of his recent bravery, he listened to the interminable charges of the accusation. He thought about Úrsula, who at that hour must have been under the chestnut tree having coffee with José Arcadio Buendía. He thought about his eight-month-old daughter, who still had no name, and about the child who was going to be born in August. He thought about Santa Sofía de la Piedad, whom he had left the night before salting down a deer for next day’s lunch, and he missed her hair pouring over her shoulders and her eyelashes, which looked as if they were artificial. He thought about his people without sentimentality, with a strict dosing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated most. The president of the court-martial began his final speech when Arcadio realized that two hours had passed. “Even if the proven charges did not have merit enough,” the president was saying, “the irresponsible and criminal boldness with which the accused drove his subordinates on to a useless death would be enough to deserve capital punishment.” In the shattered schoolhouse where for the first time he had felt the security of power, a few feet from the room where he had come to know the uncertainty of love, Arcadio found the formality of death ridiculous. Death really did not matter to him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia. He did not speak until they asked him for his last request. “Tell my wife,” he answered in a well-modulated voice, “to give the girl the name of Úrsula.” He paused and said it again: “Úrsula, like her grandmother. And tell her also that if the child that is to be born is a boy, they should name him José Arcadio, not for his uncle, but for his grandfather.” Before they took him to the execution wall Father Nicanor tried to attend him. “I have nothing to repent,” Arcadio said, and he put himself under the orders of the squad after drinking a cup of black coffee. The leader of the squad, a specialist in summary executions, had a name that had much more about it than chance: Captain Roque Carnicero, which meant butcher. On the way to the cemetery, under the persistent drizzle, Arcadio saw that a radiant Wednesday was breaking out on the horizon. His nostalgia disappeared with the mist and left an immense curiosity in its place. Only when they ordered him to put his back to the wall did Arcadio see Rebeca, with wet hair and a pink flowered dress, opening wide the door. He made an effort to get her to recognize him. And Rebeca did take a casual look toward the wall and was paralyzed with stupor, barely able to react and wave good-bye to Arcadio. Arcadio answered her the same way. At that instant the smoking mouths of the rifles were aimed at him and letter by letter he heard the encyclicals that Melquíades had chanted and he heard the lost steps of Santa Sofía de la Piedad, a virgin, in the classroom, and in his nose he felt the same icy hardness that had drawn his attention in the nostrils of the corpse of Remedios. “Oh, God damn it!” he managed to think. “I forgot to say that if it was a girl they should name her Remedios.” Then, all accumulated in the rip of a claw, he felt again all the terror that had tormented him in his life. The captain gave the order to fire. Arcadio barely had time to put out his chest and raise his head, not understanding where the hot liquid that burned his thighs was pouring from. “Bastards!” he shouted. “Long live the Liberal Party!” 63 Chapter 7 THE WAR was over in May. Two weeks before the government made the official announcement in a high-sounding proclamation, which promised merciless punishment for those who had started the rebellion, Colonel Aureliano Buendía fell prisoner just as he was about to reach the western frontier disguised as an Indian witch doctor. Of the twenty-one men who had followed him to war, fourteen fell in combat, six were wounded, and only one accompanied him at the moment of final defeat: Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. The news of his capture was announced in Macondo with a special proclamation. “He’s alive,” Úrsula told her husband. “Let’s pray to God for his enemies to show him clemency.” After three days of weeping, one afternoon as she was stirring some sweet milk candy in the kitchen she heard her son’s voice clearly in her ear. “It was Aureliano, “ she shouted, running toward the chestnut tree to tell her husband the news. “I don’t know how the miracle took place, but he’s alive and we’re going to see him very soon.” She took it for granted. She had the floors of the house scrubbed and changed the position of the furniture. One week later a rumor from somewhere that was not supported by any proclamation gave dramatic confirmation to the prediction. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had been condemned to death and the sentence would be carried out in Macondo as a lesson to the population. On Monday, at ten-thirty in the morning, Amaranta was dressing Aureliano José when she heard the sound of a distant troop and the blast of a cornet one second before Úrsula burst into the room with the shout: “They’re bringing him now!” The troop struggled to subdue the overflowing crowd with their rifle butts. Úrsula and Amaranta ran to the corner, pushing their way through, and then they saw him. He looked like a beggar. His clothing was torn, his hair and beard were tangled, and he was barefoot. He was walking without feeling the burning dust, his hands tied behind his back with a rope that a mounted officer had attached to the head of his horse. Along with him, also ragged and defeated, they were bringing Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. They were not sad. They seemed more disturbed by the crowd that was shouting all kinds of insults at the troops. “My son!” Úrsula shouted in the midst of the uproar, and she slapped the soldier who tried to hold her back. The officer’s horse reared. Then Colonel Aureliano Buendía stopped, tremulous, avoided the arms of his mother, and fixed a stern look on her eyes. “Go home, Mama,” he said. “Get permission from the authorities to come see me in jail.” He looked at Amaranta, who stood indecisively two steps behind Úrsula, and he smiled as he asked her, “What happened to your hand?” Amaranta raised the hand with the black bandage. “A burn,” she said, and took Úrsula away so that the horses would not run her down. The troop took off. A special guard surrounded the prisoners and took them to the jail at a trot. At dusk Úrsula visited Colonel Aureliano Buendía in jail. She had tried to get permission through Don Apolinar Moscote, but he had lost all authority in the face of the military omnipotence. Father Nicanor was in bed with hepatic fever. The parents of Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, who had not been condemned to death, had tried to see him and were driven off with rifle butts. Facing the impossibility of finding anyone to intervene, convinced that her son would be shot at dawn, Úrsula wrapped up the things she wanted to bring him and went to the jail alone. “I am the mother of Colonel Aureliano Buendía,” she announced. The sentries blocked her way. “I’m going in in any case,” Úrsula warned them. “So if you have orders to shoot, start right in.” She pushed one of them aside and went into the former classroom, where a group of half-dressed soldiers were oiling their weapons. An officer in a field uniform, ruddy-faced, with very thick glasses and ceremonious manners, signaled to the sentries to withdraw. “I am the mother of Colonel Aureliano Buendía,” Úrsula repeated. 64 “You must mean,” the officer corrected with a friendly smile, “that you are the mother of Mister Aureliano Buendía.” Úrsula recognized in his affected way of speaking the languid cadence of the stuck-up people from the highlands. “As you say, mister,” she accepted, “just as long as I can see him.” There were superior orders that prohibited visits to prisoners condemned to death, but the officer assumed the responsibility of letting her have a fifteen-minute stay. Úrsula showed him what she had in the bundle: a change of clean clothing, the short boots that her son had worn at his wedding, and the sweet milk candy that she had kept for him since the day she had sensed his return. She found Colonel Aureliano Buendía in the room that was used as a cell, lying on a cot with his arms spread out because his armpits were paved with sores. They had allowed him to shave. The thick mustache with twisted ends accentuated the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He looked paler to Úrsula than when he had left, a little taller, and more solitary than ever. He knew all about the details of the house: Pietro Crespi’s suicide, Arcadio’s arbitrary acts and execution. the dauntlessness of José Arcadio Buendía underneath the chestnut tree. He knew that Amaranta had consecrated her virginal widowhood to the rearing of Aureliano José and that the latter was beginning to show signs of quite good judgment and that he had learned to read and write at the same time he had learned to speak. From the moment In which she entered the room Úrsula felt inhibited by the maturity of her son, by his aura of command, by the glow of authority that radiated from his skin. She was surprised that he was so well-informed. “You knew all along that I was a wizard,” he joked. And he added in a serious tone, “This morning, when they brought me here, I had the impression that I had already been through all that before.” In fact, while the crowd was roaring alongside him, he had been concentrating his thoughts, startled at how the town had aged. The leaves of the almond trees were broken. The houses, painted blue, then painted red, had ended up with an indefinable coloration. “What did you expect?” Úrsula sighed. “Time passes.” “That’s how it goes,” Aureliano admitted, “but not so much.” In that way the long-awaited visit, for which both had prepared questions and had even anticipated answers, was once more the usual everyday conversation. When the guard announced the end of the visit, Aureliano took out a roll of sweaty papers from under the cot. They were his poetry, the poems inspired by Remedios, which he had taken with him when he left, and those he had written later on during chance pauses in the war. “Promise me that no one will read them,” he said. “Light the oven with them this very night.” Úrsula promised and stood up to kiss him goodbye. “I brought you a revolver,” she murmured. Colonel Aureliano Buendía saw that the sentry could not see. “It won’t do me any good,” he said in a low voice, “but give it to me in case they search you on the way out.” Úrsula took the revolver out of her bodice and put it under the mattress of the cot. “And don’t say good-bye,” he concluded with emphatic calmness. “Don’t beg or bow down to anyone. Pretend that they shot me a long time ago.” Úrsula bit her lip so as not to cry. “Put some hot stones on those sores,” she said. She turned halfway around and left the room. Colonel Aureliano Buendía remained standing, thoughtful, until the door closed. Then he lay down again with his arms open. Since the beginning of adolescence, when he had begun to be aware of his premonitions, he thought that death would be announced with a definite, unequivocal, irrevocable signal, but there were only a few hours left before he would die and the signal had not come. On a certain occasion a very beautiful woman had come into his camp in Tucurinca and asked the sentries’ permission to see him. They let her through because they were aware of the fanaticism of mothers, who sent their daughters to the bedrooms of the most famous warriors, according to what they said, to improve the breed. That night Colonel Aureliano Buendía was finishing the poem about the man who is lost in the rain when the girl came 65 into his room. He turned his back to her to put the sheet of paper into the locked drawer where he kept his poetry. And then he sensed it. He grasped the pistol in the drawer without turning his head. “Please don’t shoot,” he said. When he turned around holding his Pistol, the girl had lowered hers and did not know what to do. In that way he had avoided four out of eleven traps. On the other hand, someone who was never caught entered the revolutionary headquarters one night in Manaure and stabbed to death his close friend Colonel Magnífico Visbal, to whom he had given his cot so that he could sweat out a fever. A few yards away, sleeping in a hammock in the same room. he was not aware of anything. His efforts to systematize his premonitions were useless. They would come suddenly in a wave of supernatural lucidity, like an absolute and momentaneous conviction, but they could not be grasped. On occasion they were so natural that he identified them as premonitions only after they had been fulfilled. Frequently they were nothing but ordinary bits of superstition. But when they condemned him to death and asked him to state his last wish, he did not have the least difficulty in identifying the premonition that inspired his answer. “I ask that the sentence be carried out in Macondo,” he said. The president of the court-martial was annoyed. “Don’t be clever, Buendía,” he told him. “That’s just a trick to gain more time.” “If you don’t fulfill it, that will be your worry.” the colonel said, “but that’s my last wish.” Since then the premonitions had abandoned him. The day when Úrsula visited him in jail, after a great deal of thinking he came to the conclusion that perhaps death would not be announced that time because it did not depend on chance but on the will of his executioners. He spent the night awake, tormented by the pain of his sores. A little before dawn he heard steps in the hallway. “They’re coming,” he said to himself, and for no reason he thought of José Arcadio Buendía, who at that moment was thinking about him under the dreary dawn of the chestnut tree. He did not feel fear or nostalgia, but an intestinal rage at the idea that this artificial death would not let him see the end of so many things that he had left unfinished. The door opened and a sentry came in with a mug of coffee. On the following day at the same hour he would still be doing what he was then, raging with the pain in his armpits, and the same thing happened. On Thursday he shared the sweet milk candy with the guards and put on his clean clothes, which were tight for him, and the patent leather boots. By Friday they had still not shot him. Actually, they did not dare carry out the sentence. The rebelliousness of the town made the military men think that the execution of Colonel Aureliano Buendía might have serious political consequences not only in Macondo but throughout the area of the swamp, so they consulted the authorities in the capital of the province. On Saturday night, while they were waiting for an answer Captain Roque Carnicero went with some other officers to Catarino’s place. Only one woman, practically threatened, dared take him to her room. “They don’t want to go to bed with a man they know is going to die,” she confessed to him. “No one knows how it will come, but everybody is going around saying that the officer who shoots Colonel Aureliano Buendía and all the soldiers in the squad, one by one, will be murdered, with no escape, sooner or later, even if they hide at the ends of the earth.” Captain Roque Carnicero mentioned it to the other officers and they told their superiors. On Sunday, although no one had revealed it openly, although no action on the part of the military had disturbed the tense calm of those days, the whole town knew that the officers were ready to use any manner of pretext to avoid responsibility for the execution. The official order arrived in the Monday mail: the execution was to be carried out within twenty-four hours. That night the officers put seven slips of paper into a cap, and Captain Roque Carnicero’s unpeaceful fate was foreseen by his name on the prize slip. “Bad luck doesn’t have any chinks in it,” he said with deep bitterness. “I was born a son of a bitch and I’m going to die a son of a bitch.” At five in the morning 66 he chose the squad by lot, formed it in the courtyard, and woke up the condemned man with a premonitory phrase. “Let’s go, Buendía,” he told him. “Our time has come.” “So that’s what it was,” the colonel replied. “I was dreaming that my sores had burst.” Rebeca Buendía got up at three in the morning when she learned that Aureliano would be shot. She stayed in the bedroom in the dark, watching the cemetery wall through the half-opened window as the bed on which she sat shook with José Arcadio’s snoring. She had waited all week with the same hidden persistence with which during different times she had waited for Pietro Crespi’s letters. “They won’t shoot him here,” José Arcadio, told her. “They’ll shoot him at midnight in the barracks so that no one will know who made up the squad, and they’ll bury him right there.” Rebeca kept on waiting. “They’re stupid enough to shoot him here,” she said. She was so certain that she had foreseen the way she would open the door to wave good-bye. “They won’t bring him through the streets,” José Arcadio insisted, with six scared soldiers and knowing that the people are ready for anything.” Indifferent to her husband’s logic, Rebeca stayed by the window. “You’ll see that they’re just stupid enough,” she said. On Tuesday, at five-in the. morning, José Arcadio had drunk his coffee and let the dogs out when Rebeca closed the window and held onto the head of the bed so as not to fall down. “There, they’re bringing him,” she sighed. “He’s so handsome.” José Arcadio looked out the window and saw him. tremulous in the light of dawn. He already had his back to the wall and his hands were on his hips because the burning knots in his armpits would not let him lower them. “A person fucks himself up so much,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía said. “Fucks himself up so much just so that six weak fairies can kill him and he can’t do anything about it.” He repeated it with so much rage that it almost seemed to be fervor, and Captain Roque Carnicero was touched, because he thought he was praying. When the squad took aim, the rage had materialized into a viscous and bitter substance that put his tongue to sleep and made him close his eyes. Then the aluminum glow of dawn disappeared and he saw himself again in short pants, wearing a tie around his neck, and he saw his father leading him into the tent on a splendid afternoon, and he saw the ice. When he heard the shout he thought that it was the final command to the squad. He opened his eyes with a shudder of curiosity, expecting to meet the incandescent trajectory of the bullets, but he only saw Captain Roque Carnicero with his arms in the air and José Arcadio crossing the street with his fearsome shotgun ready to go off. “Don’t shoot,” the captain said to José Arcadio. “You were sent by Divine Providence.” Another war began right there. Captain Roque Carnicero and his six men left with Colonel Aureliano Buendía to free the revolutionary general Victorio Medina, who had been condemned to death in Riohacha. They thought they could save time by crossing the mountains along the trail that José Arcadio Buendía had followed to found Macondo, but before a week was out they were convinced that it was an impossible undertaking. So they had to follow the dangerous route over the outcroppings; with no other munitions but what the firing squad had. They would camp near the towns and one of them, with a small gold fish in his hand, would go in disguise in broad daylight to contact the dormant Liberals, who would go out hunting on the following morning and never return. When they saw Riohacha from a ridge in the mountains, General Victorio Medina had been shot. Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s men proclaimed him chief of the revolutionary forces of the Caribbean coast with the rank of general. He assumed the position but refused the promotion and took the stand that he would never accept it as long as the Conservative regime was in power. At the end of three months they had succeeded in arming more than a thousand men, but they were wiped out. The survivors reached the eastern frontier. The next thing that was heard of them was that they had landed on Cabo de la Vela, coming from the smaller islands of the Antilles, and a message from the government was sent all over by telegraph and included in jubilant proclamations throughout the 67 country announcing the death of Colonel Aureliano Buendía. But two days later a multiple telegram which almost overtook the previous one announced another uprising on the southern plains. That was how the legend of the ubiquitous Colonel Aureliano Buendía, began. Simultaneous and contradictory information declared him victorious in Villanueva. defeated in Guacamayal, devoured by Motilón Indians, dead in a village in the swamp, and up in arms again in Urumita. The Liberal leaders, who at that moment were negotiating for participation in the congress, branded him in adventurer who did not represent the party. The national government placed him in the category of a bandit and put a price of five thousand pesos on his head. After sixteen defeats, Colonel Aureliano Buendía left Guajira with two thousand well-armed Indians and the garrison, which was taken by surprise as it slept, abandoned Riohacha. He established his headquarters there and proclaimed total war against the regime. The first message he received from the government was a threat to shoot Colonel Gerineldo Márquez within forty-eight hours if he did not withdraw with his forces to the eastern frontier. Colonel Roque Carnicero, who was his chief of staff then, gave him the telegram with a look of consternation, but he read it with unforeseen joy. “How wonderful!” he exclaimed. “We have a telegraph office in Macondo now.” His reply was definitive. In three months he expected to establish his headquarters in Macondo. If he did not find Colonel Gerineldo Márquez alive at that time he would shoot out of hand all of the officers he held prisoner at that moment starting with the generals, and he would give orders to his subordinates to do the same for the rest of the war. Three months later, when he entered Macondo in triumph, the first embrace he received on the swamp road was that of Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. The house was full of children. Úrsula had taken in Santa Sofía de la Piedad with her older daughter and a pair of twins, who had been born five months after Arcadio had been shot. Contrary to the victim’s last wishes, she baptized the girl with the name of Remedios. I’m sure that was what Arcadio meant,” she alleged. “We won’t call her Úrsula, because a person suffers too much with that name.” The twins were named José Arcadio Segundo and Aureliano Segundo. Amaranta took care of them all. She put small wooden chairs in the living room and established a nursery with other children from neighboring families. When Colonel Aureliano Buendía returned in the midst of exploding rockets and ringing bells, a children’s chorus welcomed him to the house. Aureliano José, tall like his grandfather, dressed as a revolutionary officer, gave him military honors. Not all the news was good. A year after the flight of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, José Arcadio and Rebeca went to live in the house Arcadio had built. No one knew about his intervention to halt the execution. In the new house, located on the best corner of the square, in the shade of an almond tree that was honored by three nests of redbreasts, with a large door for visitors and four windows for light, they set up a hospitable home. Rebeca’s old friends, among them four of the Moscote sisters who were still single, once more took up the sessions of embroidery that had been interrupted years before on the porch with the begonias. José Arcadio continued to profit from the usurped lands, the title to which was recognized by the Conservative government. Every afternoon he could be seen returning on horseback, with his hunting dogs and his double-barreled shotgun and a string of rabbits hanging from his saddle. One September afternoon, with the threat of a storm, he returned home earlier than usual. He greeted Rebeca in the dining room, tied the dogs up in the courtyard, hung the rabbits up in the kitchen to be salted later, and went to the bedroom to change his clothes. Rebeca later declared that when her husband went into the bedroom she was locked in the bathroom and did not hear anything. It was a difficult version to believe, but there was no other more plausible, and no one could think of any motive for Rebeca to murder the man who had made her happy. That was perhaps the only mystery that was never cleared up in Macondo. As soon as José Arcadio closed the bedroom door the sound of a pistol shot echoed through the house. A trickle of blood came out under the door, crossed the living room, went out into the street, 68 continued on in a straight line across the uneven terraces, went down steps and climbed over curbs, passed along the Street of the Turks, turned a corner to the right and another to the left, made a right angle at the Buendía house, went in under the closed door, crossed through the parlor, hugging the walls so as not to stain the rugs, went on to the other living room, made a wide curve to avoid the dining-room table, went along the porch with the begonias, and passed without being seen under Amaranta’s chair as she gave an arithmetic lesson to Aureliano José , and went through the pantry and came out in the kitchen, where Úrsula was getting ready to crack thirty-six eggs to make bread. “Holy Mother of God!” Úrsula shouted. She followed the thread of blood back along its course, and in search of its origin she went through the pantry, along the begonia porch where Aureliano José was chanting that three plus three is six and six plus three is nine, and she crossed the dining room and the living rooms and followed straight down the street, and she turned first to the right and then to the left to the Street of the Turks, forgetting that she was still wearing her baking apron and her house slippers, and she came out onto the square and went into the door of a house where she had never been, and she pushed open the bedroom door and was almost suffocated by the smell of burned gunpowder, and she found José Arcadio lying face down on the ground on top of the leggings he had just taken off, and she saw the starting point of the thread of blood that had already stopped flowing out of his right ear. They found no wound on his body nor could they locate the weapon. Nor was it possible to remove the smell of powder from the corpse. First they washed him three times with soap and a scrubbing brush, and they rubbed him with salt and vinegar, then with ashes and lemon, and finally they put him in a barrel of lye and let him stay for six hours. They scrubbed him so much that the arabesques of his tattooing began to fade. When they thought of the desperate measure of seasoning him with pepper, cumin seeds, and laurel leaves and boiling him for a whole day over a slow fire, he had already begun to decompose and they had to bury him hastily. They sealed him hermetically in a special coffin seven and a half feet long and four feet wide, reinforced inside with iron plates and fastened together with steel bolts, and even then the smell could be perceived on the streets through which the funeral procession passed. Father Nicanor, with his liver enlarged and tight as a drum, gave him his blessing from bed. Although in the months that followed they reinforced the grave with walls about it, between which they threw compressed ash, sawdust, and quicklime, the cemetery still smelled of powder for many years after, until the engineers from the banana company covered the grave over with a shell of concrete. As soon as they took the body out, Rebeca closed the doors of her house and buried herself alive, covered with a thick crust of disdain that no earthly temptation was ever able to break. She went out into the street on one occasion, when she was very old, with shoes the color of old silver and a hat made of tiny flowers, during the time that the Wandering Jew passed through town and brought on a heat wave that was so intense that birds broke through window screens to come to die in the bedrooms. The last time anyone saw her alive was when with one shot she killed a thief who was trying to force the door of her house. Except for Argénida, her servant and confidante, no one ever had any more contact with her after that. At one time it was discovered that she was writing letters to the Bishop, whom she claimed as a first cousin. but it was never said whether she received any reply. The town forgot about her. In spite of his triumphal return, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was not enthusiastic over the looks of things. The government troops abandoned their positions without resistance and that aroused an illusion of victory among the Liberal population that it was not right to destroy, but the revolutionaries knew the truth, Colonel Aureliano Buendía better than any of them. Although at that moment he had more than five thousand men under his command and held two coastal states, he had the feeling of being hemmed in against the sea and caught in a situation that was so confused that when he ordered the restoration of the church steeple, which had been knocked down by army cannon fire, Father Nicanor commented from his sickbed: “This is silly; the defenders of the faith of 69 Christ destroy the church and the Masons order it rebuilt.” Looking for a loophole through which he could escape, he spent hours on end in the telegraph office conferring with the commanders of other towns, and every time he would emerge with the firmest impression that the war was at a stalemate. When news of fresh liberal victories was received it was celebrated with jubilant proclamations, but he would measure the real extent of them on the map and could see that his forces were penetrating into the jungle, defending themselves against malaria and mosquitoes, advancing in the opposite direction from reality. “We’re wasting time,” he would complain to his officers. “We’re wasting time while the bastards in the party are begging for seats in congress.” Lying awake at night, stretched out on his back in a hammock in the same room where he had awaited death, he would evoke the image of lawyers dressed in black leaving the presidential palace in the icy cold of early morning with their coat collars turned up about their ears, rubbing their hands, whispering, taking refuge in dreary early-morning cafés to speculate over what the president had meant when he said yes, or what he had meant when he said no, and even to imagine what the president was thinking when he said something quite different, as he chased away mosquitoes at a temperature of ninety-five degrees, feeling the approach of the fearsome dawn when he would have to give his men the command to jump into the sea. One night of uncertainty, when Pilar Ternera was singing in the courtyard with the soldiers, he asked her to read the future in her cards. “Watch out for your mouth,” was all that Pilar Ternera brought out after spreading and picking up the cards three times. “I don’t know what it means, but the sign is very clear. Watch out for your mouth.” Two days later someone gave an orderly a mug of black coffee and the orderly passed it on to someone else and that one to someone else until, hand to hand, it reached Colonel Aureliano Buendía office. He had not asked for any coffee, but since it was there the colonel drank it. It had a dose of nux vomica strong enough to kill a horse. When they took him home he was stiff and arched and his tongue was sticking out between his teeth. Úrsula fought against death over him. After cleaning out his stomach with emetics, she wrapped him in hot blankets and fed him egg whites for two days until his harrowed body recovered its normal temperature. On the fourth day he was out of danger. Against his will, pressured by Úrsula and his officers, he stayed in bed for another week. Only then did he learn that his verses had not been burned. “I didn’t want to be hasty,” Úrsula explained to him. “That night when I went to light the oven I said to myself that it would be better to wait until they brought the body.” In the haze of convalescence, surrounded by Remedios’ dusty dolls, Colonel Aureliano Buendía, brought back the decisive periods of his existence by reading his poetry. He started writing again. For many hours, balancing on the edge of the surprises of a war with no future, in rhymed verse he resolved his experience on the shores of death. Then his thoughts became so clear that he was able to examine them forward and backward. One night he asked Colonel Gerineldo Márquez: “Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?” “What other reason could there be?” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez answered. “For the great liberal party.” “You’re lucky because you know why,” he answered. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve come to realize only just now that I’m fighting because of pride.” “That’s bad,” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez said. Colonel Aureliano Buendía was amused at his alarm. “Naturally,” he said. “But in any case, it’s better than not knowing why you’re fighting.” He looked him in the eyes and added with a smile: “Or fighting, like you, for something that doesn’t have any meaning for anyone.” His pride had prevented him from making contact with the armed groups in the interior of the country until the leaders of the party publicly rectified their declaration that he was a bandit. He knew, however, that as soon as he put those scruples aside he would break the vicious circle of the war. Convalescence gave him time to reflect. Then he succeeded in getting Úrsula to give him the 70 rest of her buried inheritance and her substantial savings. He named Colonel Gerineldo Márquez civil and military leader of Macondo and he went off to make contact with the rebel groups in the interior. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was not only the man closest to Colonel Aureliano Buendía, but Úrsula received him as a member of the family. Fragile, timid, with natural good manners, he was, however, better suited for war than for government. His political advisers easily entangled him in theoretical labyrinths, But he succeeded in giving Macondo the atmosphere of rural peace that Colonel Aureliano, Buendía dreamed of so that he could die of old age making little gold fishes. Although he lived in his parents’ house he would have lunch at Úrsula’s two or three times a week. He initiated Aureliano José in the use of firearms, gave him early military instruction, and for several months took him to live in the barracks, with Úrsula’s consent, so that he could become a man. Many years before, when he was still almost a child, Gerineldo Márquez had declared his love for Amaranta. At that time she was so illusioned with her lonely passion for Pietro Crespi that she laughed at him. Gerineldo Márquez waited. On a certain occasion he sent Amaranta a note from jail asking her to embroider a dozen batiste handkerchiefs with his father’s initials on them. He sent her the money. A week later Amaranta, brought the dozen handkerchiefs to him in jail along with the money and they spent several hours talking about the past. “When I get out of here I’m going to marry you,” Gerineldo Márquez told her when she left. Amaranta laughed but she kept on thinking about him while she taught the children to read and she tried to revive her juvenile passion for Pietro Crespi. On Saturday, visiting days for the prisoners, she would stop by the house of Gerineldo Márquez’s parents and accompany them to the jail. On one of those Saturdays Úrsula was surprised to see her in the kitchen, waiting for the biscuits to come out of the oven so that she could pick the best ones and cap them in a napkin that she had embroidered for the occasion. “Marry him,” she told her. “You’ll have a hard time finding another man like him.” Amaranta feigned a reaction of displeasure. “I don’t have to go around hunting for men,” she answered. “I’m taking these biscuits to Gerineldo because I’m sorry that sooner or later they’re going to shoot him.” She said it without thinking, but that was the time that the government had announced its threat to shoot Colonel Gerineldo Márquez if the rebel forces did not surrender Riohacha. The visits stopped. Amaranta shut herself up to weep, overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt similar to the one that had tormented her when Remedios died, as if once more her careless words had been responsible for a death. Her mother consoled her. She inured her that Colonel Aureliano Buendía would do something to prevent the execution and promised that she would take charge of attracting Gerineldo Márquez herself when the war was over. She fulfilled her promise before the imagined time. When Gerineldo Márquez returned to the house, invested with his new dignity of civil and military leader, she received him as a son, thought of delightful bits of flattery to hold him there, and prayed with all her soul that he would remember his plan to marry Amaranta. Her pleas seemed to be answered. On the days that he would have lunch at the house, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez would linger on the begonia porch playing Chinese checkers with Amaranta. Úrsula would bring them coffee and milk and biscuits and would take over the children so that they would not bother them. Amaranta was really making an effort to kindle in her heart the forgotten ashes of her youthful passion. With an anxiety that came to be intolerable, she waited for the lunch days, the afternoons of Chinese checkers, and time flew by in the company of the warrior with a nostalgic name whose fingers trembled imperceptibly as he moved the pieces. But the day on which Colonel Gerineldo Márquez repeated his wish to marry her, she rejected him. “I’m not going to marry anyone,” she told him, “much less you. You love Aureliano so much that you want to marry me because you can’t marry him.” 71 Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was a patient man. “I’ll keep on insisting,” he said. “Sooner or later I’ll convince you.” He kept on visiting the house. Shut up in her bedroom biting back her secret tears, Amaranta put her fingers in her ears so as not to bear the voice of the suitor as he gave Úrsula the latest war news, and in spite of the fact that she was dying to see him she had the strength not to go out and meet him. At that time Colonel Aureliano Buendía took the time to send a detailed account to Macondo every two weeks. But only once, almost eight months after he had left, did he write to Úrsula. A special messenger brought a sealed envelope to the house with a sheet of paper inside bearing the colonel’s delicate hand: Take good care of Papa because he is going to die. Úrsula became alarmed. “If Aureliano says so it’s because Aureliano knows,” she said. And she had them help her take José Arcadio Buendía to his bedroom. Not only was he as heavy as ever, but during his prolonged stay under the chestnut tree he had developed the faculty of being able to increase his weight at will, to such a degree that seven men were unable to lift him and they had to drag him to the bed. A smell of tender mushrooms, of wood-flower fungus, of old and concentrated outdoors impregnated the air of the bedroom as it was breathed by the colossal old man weather-beaten by the sun and the rain. The next morning he was not in his bed. In spite of his undiminished strength, José Arcadio Buendía was in no condition to resist. It was all the same to him. If he went back to the chestnut tree it was not because he wanted to but because of a habit of his body. Úrsula took care of him, fed him, brought him news of Aureliano. But actually, the only person with whom he was able to have contact for a long time was Prudencio Aguilar. Almost pulverized at that time by the decrepitude of death, Prudencio Aguilar would come twice a day to chat with him. They talked about fighting cocks. They promised each other to set up a breeding farm for magnificent birds, not so much to enjoy their victories, which they would not need then, as to have something to do on the tedious Sundays of death. It was Prudencio Aguilar who cleaned him fed him and brought him splendid news of an unknown person called Aureliano who was a colonel in the war. When he was alone, José Arcadio Buendía consoled himself with the dream of the infinite rooms. He dreamed that he was getting out of bed, opening the door and going into an identical room with the same bed with a wrought-iron head, the same wicker chair, and the same small picture of the Virgin of Help on the back wall. From that room he would go into another that was just the same, the door of which would open into another that was just the same, the door of which would open into another one just the same, and then into another exactly alike, and so on to infinity. He liked to go from room to room. As in a gallery of parallel mirrors, until Prudencio Aguilar would touch him on the shoulder. Then he would go back from room to room, walking in reverse, going back over his trail, and he would find Prudencio Aguilar in the room of reality. But one night, two weeks after they took him to his bed, Prudencio Aguilar touched his shoulder in an intermediate room and he stayed there forever, thinking that it was the real room. On the following morning Úrsula was bringing him his breakfast when she saw a man coming along the hall. He was short and stocky, with a black suit on and a hat that was also black, enormous, pulled down to his taciturn eyes. “Good Lord,” Úrsula thought, “I could have sworn it was Melquíades.” It was Cataure, Visitación’s brother, who had left the house fleeing from the insomnia plague and of whom there had never been any news. Visitación asked him why he had come back, and he answered her in their solemn language: “I have come for the exequies of the king.” Then they went into José Arcadio Buendía’s room, shook him as hard as they could, shouted in his ear, put a mirror in front of his nostrils, but they could not awaken him. A short time later, when the carpenter was taking measurements for the coffin, through the window they saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling. They fell on the town all through the night in a silent storm, and they covered the roofs and blocked the doors and smothered the animals who dept outdoors. So many 72 flowers fell from the sky that in the morning the streets were carpeted with a compact cushion and they had to clear them away with shovels and rakes so that the funeral procession could pass by. 73 Chapter 8 SITTNG IN THE WICKER ROCKING chair with her interrupted work in her lap, Amaranta watched Aureliano, José , his chin covered with foam, stropping his razor to give himself his first shave. His blackheads bled and he cut his upper lip as he tried to shape a mustache of blond fuzz and when it was all over he looked the same as before, but the laborious process gave Amaranta the feeling that she had begun to grow old at that moment. “You look just like Aureliano when he was your age,” she said. “You’re a man now.” He had been for a long time, ever since that distant day when Amaranta thought he was still a child and continued getting undressed in front of him in the bathroom as she had always done, as she had been used to doing ever since Pilar Ternera had turned him over to her to finish his upbringing. The first time that he saw her the only thing that drew his attention was the deep depression between her breasts. He was so innocent that he asked her what had happened to her and Amaranta pretended to dig into her breasts with the tips of her fingers and answered: “They gave me some terrible cuts.” Some time later, when she had recovered from Pietro Crespi’s suicide and would bathe with Aureliano José again, he no longer paid attention to the depression but felt a strange trembling at the sight of the splendid breasts with their brown nipples. He kept on examining her, discovering the miracle of her intimacy inch by inch, and he felt his skin tingle as he contemplated the way her skin tingled when it touched the water. Ever since he was a small child he had the custom of leaving his hammock and waking up in Amaranta’s bed, because contact with her was a way of overcoming his fear of the dark. But since that day when he became aware of his own nakedness, it was not fear of the dark that drove him to crawl in under her mosquito netting but an urge to feel Amaranta’s warm breathing at dawn. Early one morning during the time when she refused Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, Aureliano José awoke with the feeling that he could not breathe. He felt Amaranta’s fingers searching across his stomach like warm and anxious little caterpillars. Pretending to sleep, he changed his position to make it easier, and then he felt the hand without the black bandage diving like a blind shellfish into the algae of his anxiety. Although they seemed to ignore what both of them knew and what each one knew that the other knew, from that night on they were yoked together in an inviolable complicity. Aureliano José could not get to sleep until he heard the twelve-o’clock waltz on the parlor dock, and the mature maiden whose skin was beginning to grow sad did not have a moments’ rest until she felt slip in under her mosquito netting that sleepwalker whom she had raised, not thinking that he would be a palliative for her solitude. Later they not only slept together, naked, exchanging exhausting caresses, but they would also chase each other into the corners of the house and shut themselves up in the bedrooms at any hour of the day in a permanent state of unrelieved excitement. They were almost discovered by Úrsula one afternoon when she went into the granary as they were starting to kiss. “Do you love your aunt a lot?” she asked Aureliano José in an innocent way. He answered that he did. “That’s good of you,” Úrsula concluded and finished measuring the flour for the bread and returned to the kitchen. That episode drew Amaranta out of her delirium. She realized that she had gone too far, that she was no longer playing kissing games with a child, but was floundering about in an autumnal passion, one that was dangerous and had no future, and she cut it off with one stroke. Aureliano José, who was then finishing his military training, finally woke up to reality and went to sleep in the barracks. On Saturdays he would go with the soldiers to Catarino’s store. He was seeking consolation for his abrupt solitude, for his premature adolescence with women who smelled of dead flowers, whom he idealized in the darkness and changed into Amaranta by means of the anxious efforts of his imagination. 74 A short time later contradictory news of the war began to come in. While the government itself admitted the progress of the rebellion, the officers in Macondo had confidential reports of the imminence of a negotiated peace. Toward the first of April a special emissary identified himself to Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. He confirmed the fact to him that the leaders of the party had indeed established contact with the rebel leaders in the interior and were on the verge of arranging an armistice in exchange for three cabinet posts for the Liberals, a minority representation in the congress, and a general amnesty for rebels who laid down their arms. The emissary brought a highly confidential order from Colonel Aureliano Buendía, who was not in agreement with the terms of the armistice. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was to choose five of his best men and prepare to leave the country with them. The order would be carried out with the strictest secrecy. One week before the agreement was announced, and in the midst of a storm of contradictory rumors, Colonel Aureliano Buendía and ten trusted officers, among them Colonel Roque Carnicero, stealthily arrived in Macondo after midnight, dismissed the garrison, buried their weapons, and destroyed their records. By dawn they had left town, along with Colonel Gerineldo Márquez and his five officers. It was such a quick and secret operation that Úrsula did not find out about it until the last moment, when someone tapped on her bedroom window and whispered, “If you want to see Colonel Aureliano Buendía, come to the door right now.” Úrsula Jumped out of bed and went to the door in her nightgown and she was just able to see the horsemen who were leaving town gallop off in a mute cloud of dust. Only on the following day did she discover that Aureliano José had gone with his father. Ten days after a joint communiqué by the government and the opposition announced the end of the war, there was news of the first armed uprising of Colonel Aureliano Buendía on the western border. His small and poorly armed force was scattered in less than a week. But during that year, while Liberals and Conservatives tried to make the country believe in reconciliation, he attempted seven other revolts. One night he bombarded Riohacha from a schooner and the garrison dragged out of bed and shot the fourteen best-known Liberals in the town as a reprisal. For more than two weeks he held a customs post on the border and from there sent the nation a call to general war. Another of his expectations was lost for three months in the jungle in a mad attempt to cross more than a thousand miles of virgin territory in order to proclaim war on the outskirts of the capital. On one occasion he was lea than fifteen miles away from Macondo and was obliged by government patrols to hide in the mountains, very close to the enchanted region where his father had found the fossil of a Spanish galleon many years before. Visitación died around that time. She had the pleasure of dying a natural death after having renounced a throne out of fear of insomnia, and her last wish was that they should dig up the wages she had saved for more than twenty years under her bed and send the money to Colonel Aureliano Buendía so that he could go on with the war. But Úrsula did not bother to dig it up because it was rumored in those days that Colonel Aureliano Buendía had been killed in a landing near the provincial capital. The official announcement—the fourth in less than two years—was considered true for almost six months because nothing further was heard of him. Suddenly, when Úrsula and Amaranta had added new mourning to the past period, unexpected news arrived. Colonel Aureliano Buendía was alive, but apparently he had stopped harassing the government of his country and had joined with the victorious federalism of other republics of the Caribbean. He would show up under different names farther and farther away from his own country. Later it would be learned that the idea that was working on him at the time was the unification of the federalist forms of Central America in order to wipe out conservative regimes from Alaska to Patagonia. The first direct news that Úrsula received from him, several years after his departure, was a wrinkled and faded letter that had arrived, passing through various hands, from Santiago, Cuba. “We’ve lost him forever,” Úrsula exclaimed on reading it. “If he follows this path he’ll spend Christmas at the ends of the earth.” 75 The person to whom she said it, who was the first to whom she showed the letter, was the Conservative general José Raquel Moncada, mayor of Macondo since the end of the war. “This Aureliano,” General Moncada commented, “what a pity that he’s not a Conservative.” He really admired him. Like many Conservative civilians, José Raquel Moncada had waged war in defense of his party and had earned the title of general on the field of battle, even though he was not a military man by profession. On the contrary, like so many of his fellow party members, he was an antimilitarist. He considered military men unprincipled loafers, ambitious plotters, experts in facing down civilians in order to prosper during times of disorder. Intelligent, pleasant, ruddy-faced, a man who liked to eat and watch cockfights, he had been at one time the most feared adversary of Colonel Aureliano Buendía. He succeeded in imposing his authority over the career officers in a wide sector along the coast. One time when he was forced by strategic circumstances to abandon a stronghold to the forces of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, he left two letters for him. In one of them quite long, he invited him to join in a campaign to make war more humane. The other letter was for his wife, who lived in Liberal territory, and he left it with a plea to see that it reached its destination. From then on, even in the bloodiest periods of the war, the two commanders would arrange truces to exchange prisoners. They were pauses with a certain festive atmosphere, which General Moncada took advantage of to teach Colonel Aureliano Buendía how to play chess. They became great friends. They even came to think about the possibility of coordinating the popular elements of both parties, doing away with the influence of the military men and professional politicians, and setting up a humanitarian regime that would take the best from each doctrine. When the war was over, while Colonel Aureliano, Buendía was sneaking about through the narrow trails of permanent sub. version, General Moncada was named magistrate of Macondo. He wore civilian clothes, replaced the soldiers with unarmed policemen, enforced the amnesty laws, and helped a few families of Liberals who had been killed in the war. He succeeded in having Macondo raised to the status of a municipality and he was therefore its first mayor, and he created an atmosphere of confidence that made people think of the war as an absurd nightmare of the past. Father Nicanor, consumed by hepatic fever, was replaced by Father Coronel, whom they called “The Pup,” a veteran of the first federalist war. Bruno Crespi, who was married to Amparo Mos. cote, and whose shop of toys and musical instruments continued to prosper, built a theater which Spanish companies included in their Itineraries. It was a vast open-air hall with wooden benches, a velvet curtain with Greek masks, and three box offices in the shape of lions’ heads, through whose mouths the tickets were sold. It was also about that time that the school was rebuilt. It was put under the charge of Don Melchor Escalona, an old teacher brought from the swamp, who made his lazy students walk on their knees in the lime-coated courtyard and made the students who talked in class eat hot chili with the approval of their parents. Aureliano Segundo and José Arcadio Segundo, the willful twins of Santa Sofía de la Piedad, were the first to sit in the classroom, with their slates, their chalk, and their aluminum jugs with their names on them. Remedios, who inherited her mother’s pure beauty, began to be known as Remedios the Beauty. In spite of time, of the superimposed Periods of mourning, and her accumulated afflictions, Úrsula resisted growing old. Aided by Santa Sofía de la Piedad, she gave a new drive to her pastry business and in a few years not only recovered the fortune that her son had spent in the war, but she once more stuffed with pure gold the gourds buried in the bedroom. “As long as God gives me life,” she would say, “there will always be money in this madhouse.” That was how things were when Aureliano José deserted the federal troops in Nicaragua, signed on as a crewman on a German ship, and appeared in the kitchen of the house, sturdy as a horse, as dark and long-haired as an Indian, and with a secret determination to marry Amaranta. When Amaranta, saw him come in, even though he said nothing she knew immediately why he had come back. At the table they did not dare look each other in the face. But two weeks after his 76 return, in the presence of Úrsula, he set his eyes on hers and said to her, “I always thought a lot about you.” Amaranta avoided him. She guarded against chance meetings. She tried not to become separated from Remedios the Beauty. She was ashamed of the blush that covered her cheeks on the day her nephew asked her how long she intended wearing the black bandage on her hand, for she interpreted it as an allusion to her virginity. When he arrived, she barred the door of her bedroom, but she heard his peaceful snoring in the next room for so many nights that she forgot about the precaution. Early one morning, almost two months after his return, she heard him come into the bedroom. Then, instead of fleeing, instead of shouting as she had thought she would, she let herself be saturated with a soft feeling of relaxation. She felt him slip in under the mosquito netting as he had done when he was a child, as he had always done, and she could not repress her cold sweat and the chattering of her teeth when she realized that he was completely naked. “Go away,” she whispered, suffocating with curiosity. “Go away or I’ll scream.” But Aureliano José knew then what he had to do, because he was no longer a child but a barracks animal. Starting with that night the dull, inconsequential battles began again and would go on until dawn. “I’m your aunt,” Amaranta murmured, spent. “It’s almost as if I were your mother, not just because of my age but because the only thing I didn’t do for you was nurse you.” Aureliano would escape at dawn and come back early in the morning on the next day, each time more excited by the proof that she had not barred the door. He had nit stopped desiring her for a single instant. He found her in the dark bedrooms of captured towns, especially in the most abject ones, and he would make her materialize in the smell of dry blood on the bandages of the wounded, in the instantaneous terror of the danger of death, at all times and in all places. He had fled from her in an attempt to wipe out her memory, not only through distance but by means of a muddled fury that his companions at arms took to be boldness, but the more her image wallowed in the dunghill of the war, the more the war resembled Amaranta. That was how he suffered in exile, looking for a way of killing her with, his own death, until he heard some old man tell the tale of the man who had married his aunt, who was also his cousin, and whose son ended up being his own grandfather. “Can a person marry his own aunt?” he asked, startled. “He not only can do that, a soldier answered him. “but we’re fighting this war against the priests so that a person can marry his own mother.” Two weeks later he deserted. He found Amaranta more withered than in his memory, more melancholy and shy, and now really turning the last corner of maturity, but more feverish than ever in the darkness of her bedroom and more challenging than ever in the aggressiveness of her resistance. “You’re a brute,” Amaranta would tell him as she was harried by his hounds. “You can’t do that to a poor aunt unless you have a special dispensation from the Pope.” Aureliano, José promised to go to Rome, he promised to go across Europe on his knees to kiss the sandals of the Pontiff just so that she would lower her drawbridge. “It’s not just that,” Amaranta retorted. “Any children will be born with the tail of a pig.” Aureliano José was deaf to all arguments. “I don’t care if they’re born as armadillos,” he begged. Early one morning, vanquished by the unbearable pain of repressed virility, he went to Catarino’s. He found a woman with flaccid breasts, affectionate and cheap, who calmed his stomach for some time. He tried to apply the treatment of disdain to Amaranta. He would see her on the porch working at the sewing machine, which she had learned to operate with admirable skill, and he would not even speak to her. Amaranta felt freed of a reef, and she herself did not understand why she started thinking again at that time about Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, why she remembered with such nostalgia the afternoons of Chinese checkers, and why she even desired him as the man in her bedroom. Aureliano, José did not realize how much ground he had lost on, the night he could no 77 longer bear the farce of indifference and went back to Amaranta’s room. She rejected him with an inflexible and unmistakable determination, and she barred the door of her bedroom forever. A few months after the return of Aureliano José an exuberant woman perfumed with jasmine appeared at the house with a boy of five. She stated that he was the son of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and that she had brought him to Úrsula to be baptized. No one doubted the origins of that nameless child: he looked exactly like the colonel at the time he was taken to see ice for the first time. The woman said that he had been born with his eyes open, looking at people with the judgment of an adult, and that she was frightened by his way of staring at things without blinking. “He’s identical,” Úrsula said. “The only thing missing is for him to make chairs rock by simply looking at them.” They christened him Aureliano and with his mother’s last name, since the law did not permit a person to bear his father’s name until he had recognized him. General Moncada was the godfather. Although Amaranta insisted that he be left so that she could take over his upbringing, his mother was against it. Úrsula at that time did not know about the custom of sending virgins to the bedrooms of soldiers in the same way that hens are turned loose with fine roosters, but in the course of that year she found out: nine more sons of Colonel Aureliano Buendía were brought to the house to be baptized. The oldest, a strange dark boy with green eyes, who was not at all like his father’s family, was over ten years old. They brought children of all ages, all colors, but all males and all with a look of solitude that left no doubt as to the relationship. Only two stood out in the group. One, large for his age, made smithereens out of the flowerpots and china because his hands seemed to have the property of breaking everything they touched. The other was a blond boy with the same light eyes as his mother, whose hair had been left to grow long and curly like that of a woman. He entered the house with a great deal of familiarity, as if he had been raised there, and he went directly to a chest in Úrsula’s bedroom and demanded, “I want the mechanical ballerina.” Úrsula was startled. She opened the chest, searched among the ancient and dusty articles left from the days of Melquíades, and wrapped in a pair of stockings she found the mechanical ballerina that Pietro Crespi had brought to the house once and that everyone had forgotten about. In less than twelve years they baptized with the name Aureliano and the last name of the mother all the sons that the colonel had implanted up and down his theater of war: seventeen. At first Úrsula would fill their pockets with money and Amaranta tried to have them stay. But they finally limited themselves to giving them presents and serving as godmothers. “We’ve done our duty by baptizing them,” Úrsula would say, jotting down in a ledger the name and address of the mother and the place and date of birth of the child. “Aureliano needs well-kept accounts so that he can decide things when he comes back.” During lunch, commenting with General Moncada about that disconcerting proliferation, she expressed the desire for Colonel Aureliano Buendía to come back someday and gather all of his sons together in the house. “Don’t worry, dear friend,” General Moncada said enigmatically. “He’ll come sooner than you suspect.” What General Moncada knew and what he did not wish to reveal at lunch was that Colonel Aureliano Buendía was already on his way to head up the most prolonged, radical, and bloody rebellion of all those he had started up till then. The situation again became as tense as it had been during the months that preceded the first war. The cockfights, instituted by the mayor himself, were suspended. Captain Aquiles Ricardo, the commander of the garrison, took over the exercise of municipal power. The Liberals looked upon him as a provocateur. “Something terrible is going to happen,” Úrsula would say to Aureliano José. “Don’t go out into the street after six o’clock.” The entreaties were useless. Aureliano José, just like Arcadio in other times, had ceased to belong to her. It was as if his return home, the possibility of existing without concerning himself with everyday necessities, had awakened in him the lewd and lazy leanings of his uncle José Arcadio. His passion for Amaranta had been extinguished without 78 leaving any scars. He would drift around, playing pool, easing his solitude with occasional women, sacking the hiding places where Úrsula had forgotten her money. He ended up coming home only to change his clothes. “They’re all alike,” Úrsula lamented. “At first they behave very well, they’re obedient and prompt and they don’t seem capable of killing a fly, but as soon as their beards appear they go to ruin.” Unlike Arcadio, who had never known his real origins, he found out that he was the son of Pilar Ternera, who had hung up a hammock so that he could take his siesta in her house. More than mother and son, they were accomplices in solitude. Pilar Ternera had lost the trail of all hope. Her laugh had taken on the tones of an organ, her breasts had succumbed to the tedium of endless caressing, her stomach and her thighs had been the victims of her irrevocable fate as a shared woman, but her heart grew old without bitterness. Fat, talkative, with the airs of a matron in disgrace, she renounced the sterile illusions of her cards and found peace and consolation in other people’s loves. In the house where Aureliano José took his siesta, the girls from the neighborhood would receive their casual lovers. “Lend me your room, Pilar,” they would simply say when they were already inside. “Of course,” Pilar would answer. And if anyone was present she would explain: “I’m happy knowing that people are happy in bed.” She never charged for the service. She never refused the favor, just as she never refused the countless men who sought her out, even in the twilight of her maturity, without giving her money or love and only occasionally pleasure. Her five daughters, who inherited a burning seed, had been lost on the byways of life since adolescence. Of the two sons she managed to raise, one died fighting in the forces of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and the other was wounded and captured at the age of fourteen when he tried to steal a crate of chickens in a town in the swamp. In a certain way, Aureliano José was the tall, dark man who had been promised her for half a century by the king of hearts, and like all men sent by the cards he reached her heart when he was already stamped with the mark of death. She saw it in the cards. “Don’t go out tonight,” she told him. “Stay and sleep here because Carmelita Montiel is getting tired of asking me to put her in your room.” Aureliano José did not catch the deep feeling of begging that was in the offer. “Tell her to wait for me at midnight” he said. He went to the theater, where a Spanish company was putting on The Dagger of the Fox, which was really Zorzilla’s play with the title changed by order of Captain Aquiles Ricardo, because the Liberals called the Conservatives Goths. Only when he handed in his ticket at the door did Aureliano José realize that Captain Aquiles Ricardo and two soldiers armed with rifles were searching the audience. “Be careful, captain,” Aureliano José warned him. “The man hasn’t been born yet who can lay hands on me.” The captain tried to search him forcibly and Aureliano José, who was unarmed, began to run. The soldiers disobeyed the order to shoot. “He’s a Buendía,” one of them explained. Blind with rage, the captain then snatched away the rifle, stepped into the center of the street, and took aim.” “Cowards!” he shouted. “I only wish it was Colonel Aureliano Buendía.” Carmelita Montiel, a twenty-year-old virgin, had just bathed in orange-blossom water and was strewing rosemary leaves on Pilar Ternera’s bed when the shot rang out. Aureliano José had been destined to find with her the happiness that Amaranta had denied him, to have seven children, and to die in her arms of old age, but the bullet that entered his back and shattered his chest had been directed by a wrong interpretation of the cards. Captain Aquiles Ricardo, who was really the one destined to die that night, did indeed die, four hours before Aureliano José. As won as the shot was heard he was brought down by two simultaneous bullets whose origin was never established and a shout of many voices shook the night. “Long live the Liberal party! Long live Colonel Aureliano Buendía!” 79 At twelve o’clock, when Aureliano, José had bled to death and Carmelita Montiel found that the cards showing her future were blank, more than four hundred men had filed past the theater and discharged their revolvers into the abandoned body of Captain Aquiles Ricardo. A patrol had to use a wheelbarrow to carry the body, which was heavy with lead and fell apart like a water-soaked loaf of bread. Annoyed by the outrages of the regular army, General José Raquel Moncada used his political influence, put on his uniform again, and assumed the civil and military leadership of Macondo. He did not expect, however, that his conciliatory attitude would be able to prevent the inevitable. The news in September was contradictory. While the government announced that it was maintaining control throughout the country, the Liberals were receiving secret news of armed uprisings in the interior. The regime would not admit a state of war until it was proclaimed in a decree that had followed a court-martial which had condemned Colonel Aureliano Buendía to death in absentia. The first unit that captured him was ordered to carry the sentence out. “This means he’s come back,” Úrsula said joyfully to General Moncada. But he himself knew nothing about it. Actually, Colonel Aureliano Buendía had been in the country for more than a month. He was preceded by conflicting rumors, supposed to be in the most distant places at the same time, and even General Moncada did not believe in his return until it was officially announced that he had seized two states on the coast. “Congratulations, dear friend,” he told Úrsula, showing her the telegram. “You’ll soon have him here.” Úrsula was worried then for the first time. “And what will you do?” she asked. General Moncada had asked himself that same question many times. “The same as he, my friend,” he answered. “I’ll do my duty.” At dawn on the first of October Colonel Aureliano Buendía attacked Macondo with a thousand well-armed men and the garrison received orders to resist to the end. At noon, while General Moncada was lunching with Úrsula, a rebel cannon shot that echoed in the whole town blew the front of the municipal treasury to dust. “They’re as well armed as we are,” General Moncada sighed, “but besides that they’re fighting because they want to.” At two o’clock in the afternoon, while the earth trembled with the artillery fire from both sides, he took leave of Úrsula with the certainty that he was fighting a losing battle. “I pray to God that you won’t have Aureliano in the house tonight,” he said. “If it does happen that way, give him an embrace for me, because I don’t expect ever to see him again.” That night he was captured when he tried to escape from Macondo, after writing a long letter to Colonel Aureliano Buendía in which he reminded him of their common aim to humanize the war and he wished him a final victory over the corruption of the militarists and the ambitions of the politicians in both parties. On the following day Colonel Aureliano Buendía had lunch with him in Úrsula’s house, where he was being held until a revolutionary court-martial decided his fate. It was a friendly gathering. But while the adversaries forgot the war to remember things of the past, Úrsula had the gloomy feeling that her son was an intruder. She had felt it ever since she saw him come in protected by a noisy military retinue, which turned the bedrooms inside out until they were convinced there was no danger. Colonel Aureliano Buendía not only accepted it but he gave strict orders that no one should come closer than ten feet, not even Úrsula, while the members of his escort finished placing guards about the house. He was wearing an ordinary denim uniform with no insignia of any kind and high boots with spurs that were caked with mud and dried blood. On his waist he wore a holster with the flap open and his hand, which was always on the butt of the pistol, revealed the same watchful and resolute tension as his look. His head, with deep recessions in the hairline now, seemed to have been baked in a slow oven. His face, tanned by the salt of the Caribbean, had acquired a metallic hardness. He was preserved against imminent old age by a vitality that had something to do with the coldness of his insides. He was taller than when he had left, paler and bonier, and he showed the first symptoms of resistance to nostalgia. “Good Lord,” Úrsula said 80 to herself. “Now he looks like a man capable of anything.” He was. The Aztec shawl that he brought Amaranta, the remembrances he spoke of at lunch, the funny stories her told were simple leftovers from his humor of a different time. As soon as the order to bury the dead in a common grave was carried out, he assigned Colonel Roque Carnicero the minion of setting up courts-martial and he went ahead with the exhausting task of imposing radical reforms which would not leave a stone of the reestablished Conservative regime in place. “We have to get ahead of the politicians in the party,” he said to his aides. “When they open their eyes to reality they’ll find accomplished facts.” It was then that he decided to review the titles to land that went back a hundred years and he discovered the legalized outrages of his brother, José Arcadio. He annulled the registrations with a stroke of the pen. As a last gesture of courtesy, he left his affairs for an hour and visited Rebeca to bring her up to date on what he was determined to do. In the shadows of her house, the solitary widow who at one time had been the confidante of his repressed loves and whose persistence had saved his life was a specter out of the past. Encased in black down to her knuckles, with her heart turned to ash, she scarcely knew anything about the war. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had the impression that the phosphorescence of her bones was showing through her skin and that she moved in an atmosphere of Saint Elmo’s fire, in a stagnant air where one could still note a hidden smell of gunpowder. He began by advising her to moderate the rigor of her mourning, to ventilate the house, to forgive the world for the death of José Arcadio. But Rebeca was already beyond any vanity. After searching for it uselessly in the taste of earth, in, the perfumed letters from Pietro Crespi, in the tempestuous bed of her husband, she had found peace in that house where memories materialized through the strength of implacable evocation and walked like human beings through the cloistered rooms, Leaning back in her wicker rocking chair, looking at Colonel Aureliano Buendía as if he were the one who looked like a ghost out of the past, Rebeca was not even upset by the news that the lands usurped by José Arcadio would be returned to their rightful owners. “Whatever you decide will be done, Aureliano,” she sighed. “I always thought and now I have the proof that you’re a renegade.” The revision of the deeds took place at the same time as the summary courts-martial presided over by Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, which ended with the execution of all officers of the regular army who had been taken prisoner by the revolutionaries. The last court-martial was that of José Raquel Moncada. Úrsula intervened. ‘”His government was the best we’ve ever had in Macondo,” she told Colonel Aureliano Buendía. “I don’t have to tell you anything about his good heart, about his affection for us, because you know better than anyone.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía gave her a disapproving look. “I can’t take over the job of administering justice,” he replied. “If you have something to say, tell it to the court-martial.” Úrsula not only did that she also brought all of the mothers of the revolutionary officers who lived in Macondo to testify. One by one the old women who had been founders of the town, several of whom had taken part in the daring crossing of the mountains, praised the virtues of General Moncada. Úrsula was the last in line. Her gloomy dignity, the weight of her name, the convincing vehemence of her declaration made the scale of justice hesitate for a moment. “You have taken this horrible game very seriously and you have done well because you are doing your duty,” she told the members of the court. “But don’t forget that as long as God gives us life we will still be mothers and no matter how revolutionary you may be, we have the right to pull down your pants and give you a whipping at the first sign of disrespect.” The court retired to deliberate as those words still echoed in the school that had been turned into a barracks. At midnight General José Raquel Moncada was sentenced to death. Colonel Aureliano Buendía, in spite of the violent recriminations of Úrsula, 81 refused to commute the sentence. A short while before dawn he visited the condemned man in the room used as a cell. “Remember, old friend,” he told him. “I’m not shooting you. It’s the revolution that’s shooting you.” General Moncada did not even get up from the cot when he saw him come in. “Go to hell, friend,” he answered. Until that moment, ever since his return. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had not given himself the opportunity to see him with his heart. He was startled to see how much he had aged, how his hands shook, and the rather punctilious conformity with which he awaited death, and then he felt a great disgust with himself, which he mingled with the beginnings of pity. “You know better than I,” he said, “that all courts-martial are farces and that you’re really paying for the crimes of other people, because this time we’re going to win the war at any price. Wouldn’t you have done the same in my place?” General Moncada, got up to clean his thick horn-rimmed glasses on his shirttail. “Probably,” he said. “But what worries me is not your shooting me, because after all, for people like us it’s a natural death.” He laid his glasses on the bed and took off his watch and chain. “What worries me,” he went on, “is that out of so much hatred for the military, out of fighting them so much and thinking about them so much, you’ve ended up as bad as they are. And no ideal in life is worth that much baseness.” He took off his wedding ring and the medal of the Virgin of Help and put them alongside his glasses and watch. “At this rate,” he concluded, “you’ll not only be the most despotic and bloody dictator in our history, but you’ll shoot my dear friend Úrsula in an attempt to pacify your conscience.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía stood there impassively. General Moncada then gave him the glasses, medal, watch, and ring and he changed his tone. “But I didn’t send for you to scold you,” he said. “I wanted to ask you the favor of sending these things to my wife.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía put them in his pockets. “Is she still in Manaure?” “She’s still in Manaure,” General Moncada confirmed, “in the same house behind the church where you sent the letter.” “I’ll be glad to, José Raquel,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía said. When he went out into the blue air of the mist his face grew damp as on some other dawn in the past and only then did he realize that -he had ordered the sentence to be carried out in the courtyard and not at the cemetery wall. The firing squad, drawn up opposite the door, paid him the honors of a head of state. “They can bring him out now,” he ordered. 82 Chapter 9 COLONEL GERINELDO MÁRQUEZ was the first to perceive the emptiness of the war. In his position as civil and military leader of Macondo he would have telegraphic conversations twice a week with Colonel Aureliano Buendía. At first those exchanges would determine the course of a flesh-andblood war, the perfectly defined outlines of which told them at any moment the exact spot -where it was and the prediction of its future direction. Although he never let himself be pulled into the area of confidences, not even by his closest friends, Colonel Aureliano Buendía still had at that time the familiar tone that made it possible to identify him at the other end of the wire. Many times he would prolong the talk beyond the expected limit and let them drift into comments of a domestic nature. Little by little, however, and as the war became more intense and widespread, his image was fading away into a universe of unreality. The characteristics of his speech were more and more uncertain, and they cam together and combined to form words that were gradually losing all meaning. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez limited himself then to just listening, burdened by the impression that he was in telegraphic contact with a stranger from another world. “I understand, Aureliano,” he would conclude on the key. “Long live the Liberal party!” He finally lost all contact with the war. What in other times had been a real activity, an irresistible passion of his youth, became a remote point of reference for him: an emptiness. His only refuge was Amaranta’s sewing room. He would visit her every afternoon. He liked to watch her hands as she curled frothy petticoat cloth in the machine that was kept in motion by Remedios the Beauty. They spent many hours without speaking, content with their reciprocal company, but while Amaranta was inwardly pleased in keeping the fire of his devotion alive, he was unaware of the secret designs of that indecipherable heart. When the news of his return reached her, Amaranta had been smothered by anxiety. But when she saw him enter the house in the middle of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s noisy escort and she saw how he had been mistreated by the rigors of exile, made old by age and oblivion, dirty with sweat and dust, smelling like a herd, ugly, with his left arm in a sling, she felt faint with disillusionment. “My God,” she thought. “This wasn’t the person I was waiting for.” On the following day, however, he came back to the house shaved and clean, with his mustache perfumed with lavender water and without the bloody sling. He brought her a prayerbook bound in mother-of-pearl. “How strange men are,” she said, because she could not think of anything else to say. “They spend their lives fighting against priests and then give prayerbooks as gifts.” From that time on, even during the most critical days of the war, he visited her every afternoon. Many times, when Remedios the Beauty was not present, it was he who turned the wheel on the sewing machine. Amaranta felt upset by the perseverance, the loyalty, the submissiveness of that man who was invested with so much authority and who nevertheless took off his sidearm in the living room so that he could go into the sewing room without weapons, But for four years he kept repeating his love and she would always find a way to reject him without hurting him, for even though she had not succeeded in loving him she could no longer live without him. Remedios the Beauty, who seemed indifferent to everything and who was thought to be mentally retarded, was not insensitive to so much devotion and she intervened in Colonel Gerineldo Márquez’s favor. Amaranta suddenly discovered that the girl she had raised, who was just entering adolescence, was already the most beautiful creature that had even been seen in Macondo. She felt reborn in her heart the rancor that she had felt in other days for Rebeca, and begging God not to impel her into the extreme state of wishing her dead, she banished her from the sewing room. It was around that time that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez began to feel the boredom of the war. He summoned his reserves 83 of persuasion, his broad and repressed tenderness, ready to give up for Amaranta a glory that had cost him the sacrifice of his best years. But he could not succeed in convincing her. One August afternoon, overcome by the unbearable weight of her own obstinacy, Amaranta locked herself in her bedroom to weep over her solitude unto death after giving her final answer to her tenacious suitor: “Let’s forget about each other forever,” she told him. “We’re too old for this sort of thing now.” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez had a telegraphic call from Colonel Aureliano Buendía that afternoon. It was a routine conversation which was not going to bring about any break in the stagnant war. At the end, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez looked at the desolate streets, the crystal water on the almond trees, and he found himself lost in solitude. “Aureliano,” he said sadly on the key, “it’s raining in Macondo.” There was a long silence on the line. Suddenly the apparatus jumped with the pitiless letters from Colonel Aureliano Buendía. “Don’t be a jackass, Gerineldo,” the signals said. “It’s natural for it to be raining in August.” They had not seen each other for such a long time that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was upset by the aggressiveness of the reaction. Two months later, however, when Colonel Aureliano Buendía returned to Macondo, his upset was changed to stupefaction. Even Úrsula was surprised at how much he had changed. He came with no noise, no escort, wrapped in a cloak in spite of the heat, and with three mistresses, whom he installed in the same house, where he spent most of his time lying in a hammock. He scarcely read the telegraphic dispatches that reported routine operations. On one occasion Colonel Gerineldo Márquez asked him for instructions for the evacuation of a spot on the border where there was a danger that the conflict would become an international affair. “Don’t bother me with trifles,” he ordered him. “Consult Divine Providence.” It was perhaps the most critical moment of the war. The Liberal landowners, who had supported the revolution in the beginning, had made secret alliances with the Conservative landowners in order to stop the revision of property titles. The politicians who supplied funds for the war from exile had Publicly repudiated the drastic aims of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, but even that withdrawal of authorization did not seem to bother him. He had not returned to reading his poetry, which filled more than five volumes and lay forgotten at the bottom of his trunk. At night or at siesta time he would call one of his women to his hammock and obtain a rudimentary satisfaction from her, and then he would sleep like a stone that was not concerned by the slightest indication of worry. Only he knew at that time that his confused heart was condemned to uncertainty forever. At first, intoxicated by the glory of his return, by his remarkable victories, he had peeped into the abyss of greatness. He took pleasure in keeping by his right hand the Duke of Marlborough, his great teacher in the art of war, whose attire of skins and tiger claws aroused the respect of adults and the awe of children. It was then that he decided that no human being, not even Úrsula, could come closer to him than ten feet. In the center of the chalk circle that his aides would draw wherever he stopped, and which only he could enter, he would decide with brief orders that had no appeal the fate of the world. The first time that he was in Manaure after the shooting of General Moncada, he hastened to fulfill his victim’s last wish and the widow took the glasses, the medal, the watch, and the ring, but she would not let him in the door. “You can’t come in, colonel,” she told him. “You may be in command of your war, but I’m in command of my house.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía did not show any sign of anger, but his spirit only calmed down when his bodyguard had sacked the widow’s house and reduced it to ashes. “Watch out for your heart, Aureliano,” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez would say to him then. “You’re rotting alive.” About that time he called together a second assembly of the principal rebel commanders. He found all types: idealists, ambitious people, adventurers, those with social resentments, even common criminals. There was even a former Conservative functionary who had taken refuge in the revolt to escape a 84 judgment for misappropriation of funds. Many of them did not even know why they were fighting in the midst of that motley crowd, whose differences of values were on the verge of causing an internal explosion, one gloomy authority stood out: General Te6filo Vargas. He was a full-blooded Indian, untamed, illiterate, and endowed with quiet wiles and a messianic vocation that aroused a demented fanaticism in his men. Colonel Aureliano Buendía called the meeting with the aim of unifying the rebel command against the maneuvers of the politicians. General Teófilo Vargas came forward with his intentions: in a few hours he shattered the coalition of better-qualified commanders and took charge of the main command. “He’s a wild beast worth watching,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía told his officers. “That man is more dangerous to us than the Minister of War.” Then a very young captain who had always been outstanding for his timidity raised a cautious index finger. “It’s quite simple, colonel,” he proposed. “He has to be killed.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía was not alarmed by the coldness of the proposition but by the way in which, by a fraction of a second, it had anticipated his own thoughts. “Don’t expect me to give an order like that,” he said. He did not give it, as a matter of fact. But two weeks later General Teófilo Vargas was cut to bits by machetes in an ambush and Colonel Aureliano Buendía assumed the main command. The same night that his authority was recognized by all the rebel commands, he woke up in a fright, calling for a blanket. An inner coldness which shattered his bones and tortured him even in the heat of the sun would not let him sleep for several months, until it became a habit. The intoxication of power began to break apart under waves of discomfort. Searching for a cure against the chill, he had the young officer who had proposed the murder of General Teófilo Vargas shot. His orders were being carried out even before they were given, even before he thought of them, and they always went much beyond what he would have dared have them do. Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction. He was bothered by the people who cheered him in neighboring villages, and he imagined that they were the same cheers they gave the enemy. Everywhere he met adolescents who looked at him with his own eyes, who spoke to him with his own voice, who greeted him with the same mistrust with which he greeted them, and who said they were his sons. He felt scattered about, multiplied, and more solitary than ever. He was convinced that his own officers were lying to him. He fought with the Duke of Marlborough. “The best friend a person has,” he would say at that time, “is one who has just died.” He was weary of the uncertainty, of the vicious circle of that eternal war that always found him in the same place, but always older, wearier, even more in the position of not knowing why, or how, or even when. There was always someone outside of the chalk circle. Someone who needed money, someone who had a son with whooping cough, or someone who wanted to go off and sleep forever because he could not stand the shit taste of the war in his mouth and who, nevertheless, stood at attention to inform him: “Everything normal, colonel.” And normality was precisely the most fearful part of that infinite war: nothing ever happened. Alone, abandoned by his premonitions, fleeing the chill that was to accompany him until death, he sought a last refuge in Macondo in the warmth of his oldest memories. His indolence was so serious that when they announced the arrival of a commission from his party that was authorized to discuss the stalemate of the war, he rolled over in his hammock without completely waking up. “Take them to the whores,” he said. They were six lawyers in frock coats and top hats who endured the violent November sun with stiff stoicism. Úrsula put them up in her house. They spent the greater part of the day closeted in the bedroom in hermetic conferences and at dusk they asked for an escort and some accordion players and took over Catarino’s store. “Leave them alone,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía ordered. “After all, I know what they want.” At the beginning of December the long-awaited interview, which many had foreseen as an interminable argument, was resolved in less than an hour. 85 In the hot parlor, beside the specter of the pianola shrouded in a white sheet, Colonel Aureliano Buendía did not sit down that time inside the chalk circle that his aides had drawn. He sat in a chair between his political advisers and, wrapped in his woolen blanket, he listened in silence to the brief proposals of the emissaries. They asked first that he renounce the revision of property titles in order to get back the support of the Liberal landowners. They asked, secondly, that he renounce the fight against clerical influence in order to obtain the support of the Catholic masses. They asked, finally, that he renounce the aim of equal rights for natural and illegitimate children in order to preserve the integrity of the home. “That means,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía said, smiling when the reading was over, “that all we’re fighting for is power.” “They’re tactical changes,” one of the delegates replied. “Right now the main thing is to broaden the popular base of the war. Then we’ll have another look.” One of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s political advisers hastened to intervene. “It’s a contradiction” he said. “If these changes are good, it means that the Conservative regime is good. If we succeed in broadening the popular base of the war with them, as you people say, it means that the regime his a broad popular base. It means, in short, that for almost twenty years we’ve been fighting against the sentiments of the nation.” He was going to go on, but Colonel Aureliano Buendía stopped him with a signal. “Don’t waste your time, doctor.” he said. “The important thing is that from now on we’ll be fighting only for power.” Still smiling, he took the documents the delegates gave him and made ready to sign them. “Since that’s the way it is,” he concluded, “we have no objection to accepting.” His men looked at one another in consternation. “Excuse me, colonel,” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez said softly, “but this is a betrayal.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía held the inked pen in the air and discharged the whole weight of his authority on him. “Surrender your weapons,” he ordered. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez stood up and put his sidearms on the table. “Report to the barracks,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía ordered him. “Put yourself at the disposition of the revolutionary court.” Then he signed the declaration and gave the sheets of paper to the emissaries, saying to them: “Here an your papers, gentlemen. I hope you can get some advantage out of them.” Two days later, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, accused of high treason, was condemned to death. Lying in his hammock, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was insensible to the pleas for clemency. On the eve of the execution, disobeying the order not to bother him, Úrsula visited him in his bedroom. Encased in black, invested with a rare solemnity, she stood during the three minutes of the interview. “I know that you’re going to shoot Gerineldo,” she said calmly, “and that I can’t do anything to stop it. But I give you one warning: as soon as I see his body I swear to you by the bones of my father and mother, by the memory of José Arcadio Buendía, I swear to you before God that I will drag you out from wherever you’re hiding and kill you with my own two hands.” Before leaving the room, without waiting for any reply, she concluded: “It’s the same as if you’d been born with the tail of a pig.” During that interminable night while Colonel Gerineldo Márquez thought about his dead afternoons in Amaranta’s sewing room, Colonel Aureliano Buendía scratched for many hours trying to break the hard shell of his solitude. His only happy moments, since that remote afternoon when his father had taken him to see ice, had taken place in his silver workshop where he passed the time putting little gold fishes together. He had had to start thirty-two wars and had had to violate all of his pacts with death and wallow like a hog in the dungheap of glory in order to discover the privileges of simplicity almost forty years late. 86 At dawn, worn out by the tormented vigil, he appeared in the cell an hour before the execution. “The farce is over, old friend,” he said to Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. “Let’s get out of here before the mosquitoes in here execute you.” Colonel Gerineldo Márquez could not repress the disdain that was inspired in him by that attitude. “No, Aureliano,” he replied. “I’d rather be dead than see you changed into a bloody tyrant.” “You won’t see me,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía said. “Put on your shoes and help me get this shitty war over with.” When he said it he did not know that it was easier to start a war than to end one. It took him almost a year of fierce and bloody effort to force the government to propose conditions of peace favorable to the rebels and another year to convince his own partisans of the convenience of accepting them. He went to inconceivable extremes of cruelty to put down the rebellion of his own officers, who resisted and called for victory, and he finally relied on enemy forces to make them submit. He was never a greater soldier than at that time. The certainty that he was finally fighting for his own liberation and not for abstract ideals, for slogans that politicians could twist left and right according to the circumstances, filled him with an ardent enthusiasm. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, who fought for defeat with as much conviction and loyalty as he had previously fought for victory, reproached him for his useless temerity. “Don’t worry,” he would say, smiling. “Dying is much more difficult than one imagines.” In his case it was true. The certainty that his day was assigned gave him a mysterious immunity, an immortality or a fixed period that made him invulnerable to the risks of war and in the end permitted him to win a defeat that was much more difficult, much more bloody and costly than victory. In almost twenty years of war, Colonel Aureliano Buendía had been at his house many times, but the state of urgency with which he always arrived, the military retinue that accompanied him everywhere, the aura of legend that glowed about his presence and of which even Úrsula was aware, changed him into a stranger in the end. The last time that he was in Macondo and took a house for his three concubines, he was seen in his own house only on two or three occasions when he had the time to accept an invitation to dine. Remedios the Beauty and the twins, born during the middle of the war, scarcely knew him. Amaranta could not reconcile her image of the brother who had spent his adolescence making little gold fishes with that of the mythical warrior who had placed a distance of ten feet between himself and the rest of humanity. But when the approach of the armistice became known and they thought that he would return changed back into a human being, delivered at last for the hearts of his own people, the family feelings, dormant for such a long time, were reborn stronger than ever. “We’ll finally have a man in the house again,” Úrsula said. Amaranta was the first to suspect that they had lost him forever. One week before the armistice, when he entered the house without an escort, preceded by two barefoot orderlies who deposited on the porch the saddle from the mule and the trunk of poetry, all that was left of his former imperial baggage, she saw him pass by the sewing room and she called to him. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had trouble recognizing her. “It’s Amaranta,” she said good-humoredly, happy at his return, and she showed him the hand with the black bandage. “Look.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía smiled at her the same way as when he had first seen her with the bandage on that remote morning when he had come back to Macondo condemned to death. “How awful,” he said, “the way time passes!” The regular army had to protect the house. He arrived amid insults, spat upon, accused of having accelerated the war in order to sell it for a better price. He was trembling with fever and cold and his armpits were studded with sores again. Six months before, when she had heard talk about the 87 armistice, Úrsula had opened up and swept out the bridal chamber and had burned myrrh in the corners, thinking that he would come back ready to grow old slowly among Remedios’ musty dolls. But actually, during the last two years he had paid his final dues to life, including growing old. When he passed by the silver shop, which Úrsula had prepared with special diligence, he did not even notice that the keys were in the lock. He did not notice the minute, tearing destruction that time had wreaked on the house and that, after such a prolonged absence, would have looked like a disaster to any man who had kept his memories alive. He was not pained by the peeling of the whitewash on the walls or the dirty, cottony cobwebs in the corners or the dust on the begonias or the veins left on the beams by the termites or the moss on the hinges or any of the insidious traps that nostalgia offered him. He sat down on the porch, wrapped in his blanket and with his boots still on, as if only waiting for it to clear, and he spent the whole afternoon watching it rain on the begonias. Úrsula understood then that they would not have him home for long. “If it’s not the war,” she thought, “it can only be death.” It was a supposition that was so neat, so convincing that she identified it as a premonition. That night, at dinner, the supposed Aureliano Segundo broke his bread with his right hand and drank his soup with his left. His twin brother, the supposed José Arcadio Segundo, broke his bread with his left hand and drank his soup with his right. So precise was their coordination that they did not look like two brothers sitting opposite each other but like a trick with mirrors. The spectacle that the twins had invented when they became aware that they were equal was repeated in honor of the new arrival. But Colonel Aureliano Buendía did not notice it. He seemed so alien to everything that he did not even notice Remedios the Beauty as she passed by naked on her way to her bedroom. Úrsula was the only one who dared disturb his, abstraction. “If you have to go away again,” she said halfway through dinner, “at least try to remember how we were tonight.” Then Colonel Aureliano Buendía realized, without surprise, that Úrsula was the only human being who had succeeded in penetrating his misery, and for the first time in many years he looked her in the face. Her skin was leathery, her teeth decayed, her hair faded and colorless, and her look frightened. He compared her with the oldest memory that he had of her, the afternoon when he had the premonition that a pot of boiling soup was going to fall off the table, and he found her broken to pieces. In an instant he discovered the scratches, the welts, the sores, the ulcers, and the scan that had been left on her by more than half a century of daily life, and he saw that those damages did not even arouse a feeling of pity in him. Then he made one last effort to search in his heart for the place where his affection had rotted away and he could not find it. On another occasion, he felt at least a confused sense of shame when he found the smell of Úrsula on his own skin, and more than once he felt her thoughts interfering with his. But all of that had been wiped out by the war. Even Remedios, his wife, at that moment was a hazy image of someone who might have been his daughter. The countless women he had known on the desert of love and who had spread his seed all along the coast had left no trace in his feelings. Most of them had come into his room in the dark and had left before dawn, and on the following day they were nothing but a touch of fatigue in his bodily memory. The only affection that prevailed against time and the war was that which he had felt for his brother José Arcadio when they both were children, and it was not based on love but on complicity. “I’m sorry,” he excused himself from Úrsula’s request. “It’s just that the war has done away with everything.” During the following days he busied himself destroying all trace of his passage through the world. He stripped the silver shop until all that were left were impersonal objects, he gave his clothes away to the orderlies, and he buried his weapons in the courtyard with the same feeling of penance with which his father had buried the spear that had killed Prudencio Aguilar. He kept only one pistol with 88 one bullet in it. Úrsula did not intervene. The only time she dissuaded him was when he was about to destroy the daguerreotype of Remedios that was kept in the parlor lighted by an eternal lamp. “That picture stopped belonging to you a long time ago,” she told him. “It’s a family relic.” On the eve of the armistice, when no single object that would let him be remembered was left in the house, he took the trunk of poetry to the bakery when Santa Sofía de la Piedad was making ready to light the oven. “Light it with this,” he told her, handing her the first roll of yellowish papers. “It will, burn better because they’re very old things.” Santa Sofía de la Piedad, the silent one, the condescending one, the one who never contradicted anyone, not even her own children, had the impression that it was a forbidden act. “They’re important papers,” she said. “Nothing of the sort,” the colonel said. “They’re things that a person writes to himself.” “In that case,” she said, “you burn them, colonel.” He not only did that, but he broke up the trunk with a hatchet and threw the pieces into the fire. Hours before, Pilar Ternera had come to visit him. After so many years of not seeing her, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was startled at how old and fat she had become and how much she had lost of the splendor of her laugh, but he was also startled at the depths she had reached in her reading of the cards. “Watch out for your mouth,” she told him, and he wondered whether the other time she had told him that during the height of his glory it had not been a surprisingly anticipated vision of his fate. A short time later, when his personal physician finished removing his sores, he asked him, without showing any particular interest, where the exact location of his heart was. The doctor listened with his stethoscope and then painted a circle on his cheat with a piece of cotton dipped in iodine. The Tuesday of the armistice dawned warm and rainy. Colonel Aureliano Buendía appeared in the kitchen before five o’clock and had his usual black coffee without sugar. “You came into the world on a day like this,” Úrsula told him. “Everybody was amazed at your open eyes.” He did not pay any attention because he was listening to the forming of the troops, the sound of the comets, and the voices of command that were shattering the dawn. Even though after so many years of war they should have sounded familiar to him this time he felt the same weakness in his knees and the same tingling in his skin that he had felt in his youth in the presence of a naked woman. He thought confusedly, finally captive in a trap of nostalgia, that perhaps if he had married her he would have been a man without war and without glory, a nameless artisan, a happy animal. That tardy shudder which had not figured in his forethought made his breakfast bitter. At seven in the morning, when Colonel Gerineldo Márquez came to fetch him, in the company of a group of rebel officers, he found him more taciturn than ever, more pensive and solitary. Úrsula tried to throw a new wrap over his shoulders. “What will the government think,” she told him. “They’ll figure that you’ve surrendered because you didn’t have anything left to buy a cloak with.” But he would not accept it. When he was at the door, he let her put an old felt hat of José Arcadio Buendía’s on his head. “Aureliano,” Úrsula said to him then, “Promise me that if you find that it’s a bad hour for you there that you’ll think of your mother.” He gave her a distant smile, raising his hand with all his fingers extended, and without saying a word he left the house and faced the shouts, insults, and blasphemies that would follow him until he left the town. Úrsula put the bar on the door, having decided not to take it down for the rest of her life. “We’ll rot in here,” she thought. “We’ll turn to ashes in this house without men, but we won’t give this miserable town the pleasure of seeing us weep.” She spent the whole morning looking for a memory of her son in the most hidden corners, but she could find none. The ceremony took place fifteen miles from Macondo in the shade of a gigantic ceiba tree around which the town of Neerlandia would be founded later. The delegates from the government and the 89 party and the commission of the rebels who were laying down their arms were served by a noisy group of novices in white habits who looked like a flock of doves that had been frightened by the rain. Colonel Aureliano Buendía arrived on a muddy mule. He had not shaved, more tormented by the pain of the sores than by the great failure of his dreams, for he had reached the end of all hope, beyond glory and the nostalgia of glory. In accordance with his arrangements there was no music, no fireworks, no pealing bells, no shouts of victory, or any other manifestation that might alter the mournful character of the armistice. An itinerant photographer who took the only picture of him that could have been preserved was forced to smash his plates without developing them. The ceremony lasted only the time necessary to sign the documents. Around the rustic table placed in the center of a patched circus tent where the delegates sat were the last officers who were faithful to Colonel Aureliano Buendía. Before taking the signatures, the personal delegate of the president of the republic tried to read the act of surrender aloud, but Colonel Aureliano Buendía was against it. “Let’s not waste time on formalities,” he said and prepared to sign the papers without reading them. One of his officers then broke the soporific silence of the tent. “Colonel,” he said, “please do us the favor of not being the first to sign.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía acceded. When the documents went all around the table, in the midst of a silence that was so pure that one could have deciphered the signatures from the scratching of the pen on the paper, the first line was still blank. Colonel Aureliano Buendía prepared to fill it. “Colonel,” another of his officers said, “there’s still time for everything to come out right.” Without changing his expression, Colonel Aureliano Buendía signed the first copy. He had not finished signing the last one when a rebel colonel appeared in the doorway leading a mule carrying two chests. In spite of his entire youth he had a dry look and a patient expression. He was the treasurer of the revolution in the Macondo region. He had made a difficult journey of six days, pulling along the mule, who was dying of hunger, in order to arrive at the armistice on time. With an exasperating parsimony he took down the chests, opened them, and placed on the table, one by one, seventy-two gold bricks, Everyone had forgotten about the existence of that fortune. In the disorder of the past year, when the central command fell apart and the revolution degenerated into a bloody rivalry of leaders, it was impossible to determine any responsibility. The gold of the revolution, melted into blocks that were then covered with baked clay, was beyond all control. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had the seventy-two gold bricks included in the inventory of surrender and closed the ceremony without allowing any speeches. The filthy adolescent stood opposite him, looking into his eyes with his own calm, syrup-colored eyes. “Something else?” Colonel Aureliano Buendía asked him. The young colonel tightened his mouth. “The receipt,” he said. Colonel Aureliano Buendía wrote it out in his own hand. Then he had a glass of lemonade and a piece of biscuit that the novices were passing around and retired to a field tent which had been prepared for him in case he wished to rest. There he took off his shirt, sat on the edge of the cot, and at three-fifteen in the afternoon took his pistol and shot himself in the iodine circle that his personal physician had painted on his chest. At that moment in Macondo Úrsula took the cover off the pot of milk on the stove, wondering why it was taking so long to boil, and found it full of worms. “They’ve killed Aureliano,” she exclaimed. She looked toward the courtyard, obeying a habit of her solitude, and then she saw José Arcadio Buendía, soaking wet and sad in the rain and much older than when he had died. “They shot him in the back,” Úrsula said more precisely, “and no one was charitable enough to close his eyes.” At dusk through her tears she saw the swift and luminous disks that crossed the sky like an exhalation and she thought that it was a signal of death. She was still under the chestnut tree, sobbing at her 90 husband’s knees, when they brought in Colonel Aureliano Buendía, wrapped in a blanket that was stiff with dry blood and with his eyes open in rage. He was out of danger. The bullet had followed such a neat path that the doctor was able to put a cord soaked in iodine in through the chest and withdraw it from the back. “That was my masterpiece,” he said with satisfaction. “It was the only point where a bullet could pass through without harming any vital organ.” Colonel Aureliano Buendía saw himself surrounded by charitable novices who intoned desperate psalms for the repose of his soul and then he was sorry that he had not shot himself in the roof of the mouth as he had considered doing if only to mock the prediction of Pilar Ternera. “If I still had the authority,” he told the doctor, “I’d have you shot out of hand. Not for having saved my life but for having made a fool of me.” The failure of his death brought back his lost prestige in a few hours. The same people who invented the story that he had sold the war for a room with walls made of gold bricks defined the attempt at suicide as an act of honor and proclaimed him a martyr. Then, when he rejected the Order of Merit awarded him by the president of the republic, even his most bitter enemies filed through the room asking him to withdraw recognition of the armistice and to start a new war. The house was filled with gifts meant as amends. Impressed finally by the massive support of his former comrades in arms, Colonel Aureliano Buendía did not put aside the possibility of pleasing them. On the contrary, at a certain moment he seemed so enthusiastic with the idea of a new war that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez thought that he was only waiting for a pretext to proclaim it. The pretext was offered, in fact, when the president of the republic refused to award any military pensions to former combatants, Liberal or Conservative, until each case was examined by a special commission and the award approved by the congress. “That’s an outrage,” thundered Colonel Aureliano Buendía. “They’ll die of old age waiting for the mail to come.” For the first time he left the rocker that Úrsula had bought for his convalescence, and, walking about the bedroom, he dictated a strong message to the president of the republic. In that telegram which was never made public, he denounced the first violation of the Treaty of Neerlandia and threatened to proclaim war to the death if the assignment of pensions was not resolved within two weeks. His attitude was so just that it allowed him to hope even for the support of former Conservative combatants. But the only reply from the government was the reinforcement of the military guard that had been placed at the door of his house with the pretext of protecting him, and the prohibition of all types of visits, Similar methods were adopted all through the country with other leaders who bore watching. It was an operation that was so timely, drastic, and effective that two months after the armistice, when Colonel Aureliano Buendía had recovered, his most dedicated conspirators were dead or exiled or had been assimilated forever into public administration. Colonel Aureliano Buendía left his room in December and it was sufficient for him to look at the porch in order not to think about war again. With a vitality that seemed impossible at her age, Úrsula had rejuvenated the house again. “Now they’re going to see who I am,” she said when she saw that her son was going to live. “There won’t be a better, more open house in all the world than this madhouse.” She had it washed and painted, changed the furniture, restored the garden and planted new flowers, and opened doors and windows so that the dazzling light of summer would penetrate even into the bedrooms. She decreed an end to the numerous superimposed periods of mourning and she herself exchanged her rigorous old gowns for youthful clothing. The music of the pianola again made the house merry. When she heard it, Amaranta thought of Pietro Crespi, his evening gardenia, and his smell of lavender, and in the depths of her withered heart a clean rancor flourished, purified by time. One afternoon when she was trying to put the parlor in order, Úrsula asked for the help of the soldiers who were guarding the house. The young commander of the guard gave them permission. Little by little, Úrsula began assigning them new chores. She invited them to eat, gave 91 them clothing and shoes, and taught them how to read and write. When the government withdrew the guard, one of them continued living in the house and was in her service for many years. On New Year’s Day, driven mad by rebuffs from Remedios the Beauty, the young commander of the guard was found dead under her window. 92 Chapter 10 YEARS LATER on his deathbed Aureliano Segundo would remember the rainy afternoon in June when he went into the bedroom to meet his first son. Even though the child was languid and weepy, with no mark of a Buendía, he did not have to think twice about naming him. “We’ll call him José Arcadio,” he said. Fernanda del Carpio, the beautiful woman he had married the year before, agreed. Úrsula, on the other hand, could not conceal a vague feeling of doubt. Throughout the long history of the family the insistent repetition of names had made her draw some conclusions that seemed to be certain. While the Aurelianos were withdrawn, but with lucid minds, the José Arcadios were impulsive and enterprising, but they were marked with a tragic sign. The only cases that were impossible to classify were those of José Arcadio Segundo and Aureliano Segundo. They were so much alike and so mischievous during childhood that not even Santa Sofía de la Piedad could tell them apart. On the day of their christening Amaranta put bracelets on them with their respective names and dressed them in different colored clothing marked with each one’s initials, but when they began to go to school they decided to exchange clothing and bracelets and call each other by opposite names. The teacher, Melchor Escalona, used to knowing José Arcadio Segundo by his green shirt, went out of his mind when he discovered that the latter was wearing Aureliano Segundo’s bracelet and that the other one said, nevertheless, that his name was Aureliano Segundo in spite of the fact that he was wearing the white shirt and the bracelet with José Arcadio Segundo’s name. From then on he was never sure who was who. Even when they grew up and life made them different. Úrsula still wondered if they themselves might not have made a mistake in some moment of their intricate game of confusion and had become changed forever. Until the beginning of adolescence they were two synchronized machines. They would wake up at the same time, have the urge to go to the bathroom at the same time, suffer the same upsets in health, and they even dreamed about the same things. In the house, where it was thought that they coordinated their actions with a simple desire to confuse, no one realized what really was happening until one day when Santa Sofía de la Piedad gave one of them a glass of lemonade and as soon as he tasted it the other one said that it needed sugar. Santa Sofía de la Piedad, who had indeed forgotten to put sugar in the lemonade, told Úrsula about it. “That’s what they’re all like,” she said without surprise. “crazy from birth.” In time things became less disordered. The one who came out of the game of confusion with the name of Aureliano Segundo grew to monumental size like his grandfathers, and the one who kept the name of José Arcadio Segundo grew to be bony like the colonel, and the only thing they had in common was the family’s solitary air. Perhaps it was that crossing of stature, names, and character that made Úrsula suspect that they had been shuffled like a deck of cards since childhood. The decisive difference was revealed in the midst of the war, when José Arcadio Segundo asked Colonel Gerineldo Márquez to let him see an execution. Against Úrsula’s better judgment his wishes were satisfied. Aureliano Segundo, on the other hand, shuddered at the mere idea of witnessing an execution. He preferred to stay home. At the age of twelve he asked Úrsula what was in the locked room. “Papers,” she answered. “Melquíades’ books and the strange things that he wrote in his last years.” Instead of calming him, the answer increased his curiosity. He demanded so much, promised with such insistence that he would not mistreat the things, that Úrsula, gave him the keys. No one had gone into the room again since they had taken Melquíades’ body out and had put on the door a padlock whose parts had become fused together with rust. But when Aureliano Segundo opened the windows a familiar light entered that seemed accustomed to lighting the room every day and there was not the slightest trace of dust or cobwebs, with everything swept and clean, better swept and 93 cleaner than on the day of the burial, and the ink had not dried up in the inkwell nor had oxidation diminished the shine of the metals nor had the embers gone out under the water pipe where José Arcadio Buendía had vaporized mercury. On the shelves were the books bound in a cardboard-like material, pale, like tanned human skin, and the manuscripts were intact. In spite of the room’s having been shut up for many years, the air seemed fresher than in the rest of the house. Everything was so recent that several weeks later, when Úrsula went into the room with a pail of water and a brush to wash the floor, there was nothing for her to do. Aureliano Segundo was deep in the reading of a book. Although it had no cover and the title did not appear anywhere, the boy enjoyed the story of a woman who sat at a table and ate nothing but kernels of rice, which she picked up with a pin, and the story of the fisherman who borrowed a weight for his net from a neighbor and when he gave him a fish in payment later it had a diamond in its stomach, and the one about the lamp that fulfilled wishes and about flying carpets. Surprised, he asked Úrsula if all that was true and she answered him that it was, that many years ago the gypsies had brought magic lamps and flying mats to Macondo. “What’s happening,” she sighed, “is that the world is slowly coming to an end and those things don’t come here any more.” When he finished the book, in which many of the stories had no endings because there were pages missing, Aureliano Segundo set about deciphering the manuscripts. It was impossible. The letters looked like clothes hung out to dry on a line and they looked more like musical notation than writing. One hot noontime, while he was poring over the, manuscripts, he sensed that he was not alone in the room. Against the light from the window, sitting with his hands on his knees, was Melquíades. He was under forty years of age. He was wearing the same old-fashioned vest and the hat that looked like a raven’s wings, and across his pale temples there flowed the grease from his hair that had been melted by the heat, just as Aureliano and José Arcadio had seen him when they were children. Aureliano Segundo recognized him at once, because that hereditary memory had been transmitted from generation to generation and had come to him through the memory of his grandfather. “Hello,” Aureliano Segundo said. “Hello, young man,” said Melquíades. From then on, for several years, they saw each other almost every afternoon. Melquíades talked to him about the world, tried to infuse him with his old wisdom, but he refused to translate the manuscripts. “No one must know their meaning until he has reached one hundred years of age,” he explained. Aureliano kept those meetings secret forever. On one occasion he felt that his private world had fallen apart because Úrsula came in when Melquíades was in the room. But she did not see him. “Who were you talking to?” she asked him. “Nobody,” Aureliano Segundo said. “That’s what your great-grandfather did,” Úrsula, said. “He used to talk to himself too.” José Arcadio Segundo, in the meantime, had satisfied his wish to see a shooting. For the rest of his life he would remember the livid flash of the six simultaneous shots-and the echo of the discharge as it broke against the hills and the sad smile and perplexed eyes of the man being shot, who stood erect while his shirt became soaked with blood, and who was still smiling even when they untied him from the post and put him in a box filled with quicklime. “He’s alive,” he thought. “They’re going to bury him alive.” It made such an impression on him that from then on he detested military practices and war, not because of the executions but because of the horrifying custom of burying the victims alive. No one knew then exactly when he began to ring the bells in the church tower and assist Father Antonio Isabel, the successor to “The Pup,” at mass, and take can of the fighting cocks in the courtyard of the parish house. When Colonel Gerineldo Márquez 94 found out he scolded him strongly for learning occupations repudiated by the Liberals. “The fact is,” he answered, “I think I’ve turned out to be a Conservative.” He believed it as if it had been determined by fate. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, scandalized, told Úrsula about it. “It’s better that way,” she approved. “Let’s hope that he becomes a priest so that God will finally come into this house.” It was soon discovered that Father Antonio Isabel was preparing him for his first communion. He was teaching him the catechism as he shaved the necks of his roosters. He explained to him with simple examples, as he put the brooding hens into their nests, how it had occurred to God on the second day of creation that chickens would be formed inside of an egg. From that time on the parish priest began to show the signs of senility that would lead him to say years later that the devil had probably won his rebellion against God, and that he was the one who sat on the heavenly throne, without revealing his true identity in order to trap the unwary. Warmed up by the persistence of his mentor, in a few months José Arcadio Segundo came to be as adept in theological tricks used to confuse the devil as he was skilled in the tricks of the cockpit. Amaranta made him a linen suit with a collar and tie, bought him a pair of white shoes, and engraved his name in gilt letters on the ribbon of the candle. Two nights before the first communion, Father Antonio Isabel closeted himself with him in the sacristy to hear his confession with the help of a dictionary of sins. It was such a long list that the aged priest, used to going to bed at six o’clock, fell asleep in his chair before it was over. The interrogation was a revelation for José Arcadio Segundo. It did not surprise him that the priest asked him if he had done bad things with women, and he honestly answered no, but he was upset with the question as to whether he had done them with animals. The first Friday in May he received communion, tortured by curiosity. Later on he asked Petronio, the sickly sexton who lived in the belfry and who, according to what they said, fed himself on bats, about it, and Petronio, answered him: “There are some corrupt Christians who do their business with female donkeys.” José Arcadio Segundo still showed so much curiosity and asked so many questions that Petronio lost his patience. “I go Tuesday nights,” he confessed. “if you promise not to tell anyone I’ll take you next Tuesday.” Indeed, on the following Tuesday Petronio came down out of the tower with a wooden stool which until then no one had known the use of, and he took José Arcadio Segundo to a nearby pasture. The boy became so taken with those nocturnal raids that it was a long time before he was seen at Catarino’s. He became a cockfight man. “Take those creatures somewhere else,” Úrsula ordered him the first time she saw him come in with his fine fighting birds. “Roosters have already brought too much bitterness to this house for you to bring us any more.” José Arcadio Segundo took them away without any argument, but he continued breeding them at the house of Pilar Ternera, his grandmother, who gave him everything he needed in exchange for having him in her house. He soon displayed in the cockpit the wisdom that Father Antonio Isabel had given him, and he made enough money not only to enrich his brood but also to look for a man’s satisfactions. Úrsula compared him with his brother at that time and could not understand how the twins, who looked like the same person in childhood, had ended up so differently. Her perplexity did not last very long, for quite soon Aureliano Segundo began to show signs of laziness and dissipation. While he was shut up in Melquíades’ room he was drawn into himself the way Colonel Aureliano Buendía had been in his youth. But a short time after the Treaty of Neerlandia, a piece of chance took him out of his withdrawn self and made him face the reality of the world. A young woman who was selling numbers for the raffle of an accordion greeted him with a great deal of familiarity. Aureliano Segundo was not surprised, for he was frequently confused with his brother. But he did not clear up the mistake, not even when the girl tried to soften his heart with sobs, and she ended taking him to her room. She liked him so much from that first meeting that she fixed things so that he would win 95 the accordion in the raffle. At the end of two weeks Aureliano Segundo realized that the woman had been going to bed alternately with him and his brother, thinking that they were the same man, and instead of making things clear, he arranged to prolong the situation. He did not return to Melquíades’ room. He would spend his afternoons in the courtyard, learning to play the accordion by ear over the protests of Úrsula, who at that time had forbidden music in the house because of the mourning and who, in addition, despised the accordion as an instrument worthy only of the vagabond heirs of Francisco the Man. Nevertheless, Aureliano Segundo became a virtuoso on the accordion and he still was after he had married and had children and was one of the most respected men in Macondo. For almost two months he shared the woman with his brother. He would watch him, mix up his plans, and when he was sure that José Arcadio Segundo was not going to visit their common mistress that night, he would go and sleep with her. One morning he found that he was sick. Two days later he found his brother clinging to a beam in the bathroom, soaked in sweat and with tears pouring down, and then he understood. His brother confessed to him that the woman had sent him away because he had given her what she called a low-life sickness. He also told him how Pilar Ternera had tried to cure him. Aureliano Segundo submitted secretly to the burning baths of permanganate and to diuretic waters, and both were cured separately after three months of secret suffering. José Arcadio Segundo did not see the woman again. Aureliano Segundo obtained her pardon and stayed with her until his death. Her name was Petra Cotes. She had arrived in Macondo in the middle of the war with a chalice husband who lived off raffles, and when the man died she kept up the business. She was a clean young mulatto woman with yellow almond-shaped eyes that gave her face the ferocity of a panther, but she had a generous heart and a magnificent vocation for love. When Úrsula realized that José Arcadio Segundo was a cockfight man and that Aureliano Segundo played the accordion at his concubine’s noisy parties, she thought she would go mad with the combination. It was as if the defects of the family and none of the virtues had been concentrated in both. Then she decided that no one again would be called Aureliano or José Arcadio. Yet when Aureliano Segundo had his first son she did not dare go against his will. “All right,” Úrsula said, “but on one condition: I will bring him up.” Although she was already a hundred years old and on the point of going blind from cataracts, she still had her physical dynamism, her integrity of character, and her mental balance intact. No one would be better able than she to shape the virtuous man who would restore the prestige of the family, a man who would never have heard talk of war, fighting cocks, bad women, or wild undertakings, four calamities that, according to what Úrsula thought, had determined the downfall. of their line. “This one will be a priest,” she promised solemnly. “And if God gives me life he’ll be Pope someday.” They all laughed when they heard her, not only in the bedroom but all through the house, where Aureliano Segundo’s rowdy friends were gathered. The war, relegated to the attic of bad memories, was momentarily recalled with the popping of champagne bottles. “To the health of the Pope,” Aureliano Segundo toasted. The guests toasted in a chorus. Then the man of the house played the accordion, fireworks were set off, and drums celebrated the event throughout the town. At dawn the guests, soaked in champagne, sacrificed six cows and put them in the street at the disposal of the crowd. No one was scandalized. Since Aureliano Segundo had taken charge of the house those festivities were a common thing, even when there was no motive as proper as the birth of a Pope. In a few years, without effort, simply by luck, he had accumulated one of the largest fortunes in the swamp thanks to the supernatural proliferation of his animals. His mares would bear triplets, his hens laid twice a day, and his hogs fattened with such speed that no one could explain such disorderly fecundity except through the use of black magic. “Save something now,” Úrsula would tell her wild great96 grandson. “This luck is not going to last all your life.” But Aureliano Segundo paid no attention to her. The more he opened champagne to soak his friends, the more wildly his animals gave birth and the more he was convinced that his lucky star was not a matter of his conduct but an influence of Petra Cotes, his concubine, whose love had the virtue of exasperating nature. So convinced was he that this was the origin of his fortune that he never kept Petra Cotes far away from his breeding grounds and even when he married and had children he continued living with her with the consent of Fernanda. Solid, monumental like his grandfathers, but with a joie de vivre and an irresistible good humor that they did not have, Aureliano Segundo scarcely had time to look after his animals. All he had to do was to take Petra Cores to his breeding grounds and have her ride across his land in order to have every animal marked with his brand succumb to the irremediable plague of proliferation. Like all the good things that occurred in his long life, that tremendous fortune had its origins in chance. Until the end of the wars Petra Cotes continued to support herself with the returns from her raffles and Aureliano Segundo was able to sack Úrsula’s savings from time to time. They were a frivolous couple, with no other worries except going to bed every night, even on forbidden days, and frolicking there until dawn. “That woman has been your ruination,” Úrsula would shout at her great-grandson when she saw him coming into the house like a sleepwalker. “She’s got you so bewitched that one of these days I’m going to see you twisting around with colic and with a toad in your belly.” José Arcadio Segundo, who took a long time to discover that he had been supplanted, was unable to understand his brother’s passion. He remembered Petra Cotes as an ordinary woman, rather lazy in bed, and completely lacking in any resources for lovemaking. Deaf to Úrsula’s clamor and the teasing of his brother, Aureliano Segundo only thought at that time of finding a trade that would allow him to maintain a house for Petra Cotes, and to die with her, on top of her and underneath her, during a night of feverish license. When Colonel Aureliano Buendía opened up his workshop again, seduced at last by the peaceful charms of old age, Aureliano Segundo thought that it would be good business to devote himself to the manufacture of little gold fishes. He spent many hours in the hot room watching how the hard sheets of metal, worked by the colonel with the inconceivable patience of disillusionment, were slowly being converted into golden scales. The work seemed so laborious to him and the thought of Petra Cotes was so persistent and pressing that after three weeks he disappeared from the workshop. It was during that time that it occurred to Petra Cotes to raffle off rabbits. They reproduced and grew up so fast that there was barely time to sell the tickets for the raffle. At first Aureliano Segundo did not notice the alarming proportions of the proliferation. But one night, when nobody in town wanted to hear about the rabbit raffle any more, he heard a noise by the courtyard door. “Don’t get worried,” Petra, Cotes said. “It’s only the rabbits.” They could not sleep, tormented by the uproar of the animals. At dawn Aureliano Segundo opened the door and saw the courtyard paved with rabbits, blue in the glow of dawn. Petra Cotes, dying with laughter, could not resist the temptation of teasing him. “Those are the ones who were born last night,” she aid. “Oh my God!” he said. “Why don’t you raffle off cows?” A few days later, in an attempt to clean out her courtyard, Petra Cotes exchanged the rabbits for a cow, who two months later gave birth to triplets. That was how things began. Overnight Aureliano Segundo be. came the owner of land and livestock and he barely had time to enlarge his overflowing barns and pigpens. It was a delirious prosperity that even made him laugh, and he could not help doing crazy things to release his good humor. “Cease, cows, life is short,” he would shout. Úrsula wondered what entanglements he had got into, whether he might be stealing, whether he had become a rustler, and every time she saw him uncorking champagne just for the pleasure of pouring the foam over his head, she would shout at him and scold him for the waste. It annoyed him so much that one day when he awoke in a merry mood, Aureliano Segundo appeared with a chest full 97 of money, a can of paste, and a brush, and singing at the top of his lungs the old songs of Francisco the Man, he papered the house inside and out and from top to bottom, with one-peso banknotes. The old mansion, painted white since the time they had brought the pianola, took on the strange look of a mosque. In the midst of the excitement of the family the scandalization of Úrsula, the joy of the people cramming the street to watch that apotheosis of squandering. Aureliano Segundo finished by papering the house from the front to the kitchen, including bathrooms and bedrooms, and threw the leftover bills into the courtyard. “Now,” he said in a final way, “I hope that nobody in this house ever talks to me about money again.” That was what happened. Úrsula had the bills taken down, stuck to great cakes of whitewash, and the house was painted white again. “Dear Lord,” she begged, “make us poor again the way we were when we founded this town so that you will not collect for this squandering in the other life.” Her prayers were answered in reverse. One of the workmen removing the bills bumped into an enormous plaster statue of Saint Joseph that someone had left in the house during the last years of the war and the hollow figure broke to pieces on the floor. It had been stuffed with gold coins. No one could remember who had brought that life-sized saint. “Three men brought it,” Amaranta explained. “They asked us to keep it until the rains were over and I told them to put it there in the corner where nobody would bump into it, and there they put it, very carefully, and there it’s been ever since because they never came back for it.” Later on, Úrsula had put candles on it and had prostrated herself before it, not suspecting that instead of a saint she was adoring almost four bundled pounds of gold. The tardy evidence of her involuntary paganism made her even more upset. She spat on the spectacular pile of coins, put them in three canvas sacks, and buried them in a secret place, hoping that sooner or later the three unknown men would come to reclaim them. Much later, during the difficult years of her decrepitude, Úrsula would intervene in the conversations of the many travelers who came by the house at that time and ask them if they had left a plaster Saint Joseph there during the war to be taken care of until the rains passed. Things like that which gave Úrsula such consternation, were commonplace in those days. Macondo was swamped in a miraculous prosperity. The adobe houses of the founders had been replaced by brick buildings with wooden blinds and cement floors which made the suffocating heat of two o’clock in the afternoon more bearable. All that remained at that time of José Arcadio Buendía’s ancient village were the dusty almond trees, destined to resist the most arduous of circumstances, and the river of clear water whose prehistoric stones had been pulverized by the frantic hammers of José Arcadio Segundo when he set about opening the channel in order to establish a boat line. It was a mad dream, comparable to those of his great-grandfather, for the rocky riverbed and the numerous rapids prevented navigation from Macondo to the sea. But José Arcadio Segundo, in an unforeseen burst of temerity, stubbornly kept on with the project. Until then he had shown no sign of imagination. Except for his precarious adventure with Petra Cotes, he had never known a woman. Úrsula had considered him the quietest example the family had ever produced in all its history, incapable of standing out even as a handler of fighting cocks, when Colonel Aureliano Buendía told him the story of the Spanish galleon aground eight miles from the sea, the carbonized frame of which he had seen himself during the war. The story, which for so many years had seemed fantastic to so many people, was a revelation for José Arcadio Segundo. He auctioned off his roosters to the highest bidder, recruited men, bought tools, and set about the awesome task of breaking stones, digging canals, clearing away rapids, and even harnessing waterfalls. “I know all of this by heart,” Úrsula would shout. “It’s as if time had turned around and we were back at the beginning.” When he thought that the river was navigable, José Arcadio Segundo gave his brother a detailed account of his plans and the latter gave him the money he needed for the enterprise. He disappeared for a long time. It had been said that his plan to buy a boat was nothing but a trick to 98 make off with his brother’s money when the news spread that a strange craft was approaching the town. The inhabitants of Macondo, who no longer remembered the colossal undertakings of José Arcadio Buendía, ran to the riverbank and saw with eyes popping in disbelief the arrival of the first and last boat ever to dock in the town. It was nothing but a log raft drawn by thick ropes pulled by twenty men who walked along the bank. In the prow, with a glow of satisfaction in his eyes, José Arcadio Segundo was directing the arduous maneuver. There arrived with him a rich group of splendid matrons who were protecting themselves from the burning sun with gaudy parasols, and wore on their shoulders fine silk kerchiefs, with colored creams on their faces and natural flowers in their hair and golden serpents on their arms and diamonds in their teeth. The log raft was the only vessel that José Arcadio Segundo was able to bring to Macondo, and only once, but he never recognized the failure of his enterprise, but proclaimed his deed as a victory of will power. He gave a scrupulous accounting to his brother and very soon plunged back into the routine of cockfights. The only thing that remained of that unfortunate venture was the breath of renovation that the matrons from France brought, as their magnificent arts transformed traditional methods of love and their sense of social well-being abolished Catarino’s antiquated place and turned the street into a bazaar of Japanese lanterns and nostalgic hand organs. They were the promoters of the bloody carnival that plunged Macondo into delirium for three days and whose only lasting consequence was having given Aureliano Segundo the opportunity to meet Fernanda del Carpio. Remedios the Beauty was proclaimed queen. Úrsula, who shuddered at the disquieted beauty of her great-granddaughter, could not prevent the choice. Until then she had succeeded in keeping her off the streets unless it was to go to mass with Amaranta, but she made her cover her face with a black shawl. The most impious men, those who would disguise themselves as priests to say sacrilegious masses in Catarino’s store, would go to church with an aim to see, if only for an instant, the face of Remedios the Beauty, whose legendary good looks were spoken of with alarming excitement throughout the swamp. It was a long time before they were able to do so, and it would have been better for them if they never had, because most of them never recovered their peaceful habits of sleep. The man who made it possible, a foreigner, lost his serenity forever, became involved in the sloughs of abjection and misery, and years later was cut to pieces by a train after he had fallen asleep on the tracks. From the moment he was seen in the church, wearing a green velvet suit and an embroidered vest, no one doubted that he came from far away, perhaps from some distant city outside of the country, attracted by the magical fascination of Remedios the Beauty. He was so handsome, so elegant and dignified, with such presence, that Pietro Crespi would have been a mere fop beside him and many women whispered with spiteful smiles that he was the one who really should have worn the shawl. He did not speak to anyone in Macondo. He appeared at dawn on Sunday like a prince in a fairy tale, riding a horse with silver stirrups and a velvet blanket, and he left town after mass. The power of his presence was such that from the first time he was seen in the church everybody took it for granted that a silent and tense duel had been established between him and Remedios the Beauty, a secret pact, an irrevocable challenge that would end not only in love but also in death. On the sixth Sunday the gentleman appeared with a yellow rose in his hand. He heard mass standing, as he always did, and at the end he stepped in front of Remedios the Beauty and offered her the solitary rose. She took it with a natural gesture, as if she had been prepared for that homage, and then she uncovered her face and gave her thanks with a smile. That was all she did. Not only for the gentleman, but for all the men who had the unfortunate privilege of seeing her, that was an eternal instant. From then on the gentleman had a band of musicians play beside the window of Remedios the Beauty, sometimes until dawn. Aureliano Segundo was the only one who felt a cordial compassion for him and he tried to break his perseverance. “Don’t waste your time any more,” he told him one 99 night. “The women in this house are worse than mules.” He offered him his friendship, invited him to bathe in champagne, tried to make him understand that the females of his family had insides made of flint, but he could not weaken his obstinacy. Exasperated by the interminable nights of music, Colonel Aureliano Buendía threatened to cure his affliction with a few pistol shots. Nothing made him desist except his own lamentable state of demoralization. From a well-dressed and neat individual he became filthy and ragged. It was rumored that he had abandoned power and fortune in his distant nation, although his origins were actually never known. He became argumentative, a barroom brawler, and he would wake up rolling in his own filth in Catarino’s store. The saddest part of his drama was that Remedios the Beauty did not notice him not even when he appeared in church dressed like a prince. She accepted the yellow rose without the least bit of malice, amused, rather, by the extravagance of the act, and she lifted her shawl to see his face better, not to show hers. Actually, Remedios the Beauty was not a creature of this world. Until she was well along in puberty Santa Sofía de la. Piedad had to bathe and dress her, and even when she could take care of herself it was necessary to keep an eye on her so that she would not paint little animals on the walls with a stick daubed in her own excrement. She reached twenty without knowing how to read or write, unable to use the silver at the table, wandering naked through the house because her nature rejected all manner of convention. When the young commander of the guard declared his love for her, she rejected him simply because his frivolity startled her. “See how simple he is,” she told Amaranta. “He says that he’s dying because of me, as if I were a bad case of colic.” When, indeed, they found him dead beside her window, Remedios the Beauty confirmed her first impression. “You see,” she commented. “He was a complete Simpleton.” It seemed as if some penetrating lucidity permitted her to see the reality of things beyond any formalism. That at least was the point of view of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, for whom Remedios the Beauty was in no way mentally retarded, as was generally believed, but quite the opposite. “It’s as if she’s come back from twenty years of war,” he would say. Úrsula, for her part, thanked God for having awarded the family with a creature of exceptional purity, but at the same time she was disturbed by her beauty, for it seemed a contradictory virtue to her, a diabolical trap at the center of her innocence. It was for that reason that she decided to keep her away from the world, to protect her from all earthly temptation, not knowing that Remedios the Beauty, even from the time when she was in her mother’s womb, was safe from any contagion. It never entered her head that they would elect her beauty queen of the carnival pandemonium. But Aureliano, Segundo, excited at the caprice of disguising himself as a tiger, brought Father Antonio Isabel to the house in order to convince Úrsula that the carnival was not a pagan feast, as she said, but a Catholic tradition. Finally convinced, even though reluctantly, she consented to the coronation. The news that Remedios Buendía was going to be the sovereign ruler of the festival went beyond the limits of the swamp in a few hours, reached distant places where the prestige of her beauty was not known, and it aroused the anxiety of those who still thought of her last name as a symbol of subversion. The anxiety was baseless. If anyone had become harmless at that time it was the aging and disillusioned Colonel Aureliano Buendía, who was slowly losing all contact with the reality of the nation. Enclosed in his workshop, his only relationship with the rest of the world was his business in little gold fishes. One of the soldiers who had guarded his house during the first days of peace would go sell them in the villages of the swamp and return loaded down with coins and news. That the Conservative government, he would say, with the backing of the Liberals, was reforming the calendar so that every president could remain in power for a hundred years. That the concordat with the Holy See had finally been signed and a cardinal had come from Rome with a crown of diamonds and a throne of solid gold, and that the Liberal ministers had had their pictures taken on their knees in the act of kissing his ring. That the leading lady of a Spanish company passing through the capital had been kidnapped by a band of masked highwaymen and on the following Sunday she 100 had danced in the nude at the summer house of the president of the republic. “Don’t talk to me about politics,” the colonel would tell him. “Our business is selling little fishes.” The rumor that he did not want to hear anything about the situation in the country because he was growing rich in his workshop made Úrsula laugh when it reached her ears. With her terrible practical sense she could not understand the colonel’s business as he exchanged little fishes for gold coins and then converted the coins into little fishes, and so on, with the result that he had to work all the harder with the more he sold in order to satisfy an exasperating vicious circle. Actually, what interested him was not the business but the work. He needed so much concentration to link scales, fit minute rubies into the eyes, laminate gills, and put on fins that there was not the smallest empty moment left for him to fill with his disillusionment of the war. So absorbing was the attention required by the delicacy of his artistry that in a short time he had aged more than during all the years of the war, and his position had twisted his spine and the close work had used up his eyesight, but the implacable concentration awarded him with a peace of the spirit. The last time he was seen to take an interest in some matter related to the war was when a group of veterans from both parties sought his support for the approval of lifetime pensions, which had always been promised and were always about to be put into effect. “Forget about it,” he told them. “You can see how I refuse my pension in order to get rid of the torture of waiting for it until the day I died.” At first Colonel Gerineldo Márquez would visit him at dusk and they would both sit in the street door and talk about the past. But Amaranta could not bear the memories that that man, whose baldness had plunged him into the abyss of premature old age, aroused in her, and she would torment him with snide remarks until he did not come back except on special occasions and he finally disappeared, extinguished by paralysis. Taciturn, silent, insensible to the new breath of vitality that was shaking the house, Colonel Aureliano Buendía could understand only that the secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude. He would get up at five in the morning after a light sleep, have his eternal mug of bitter coffee in the kitchen, shut himself up all day in the workshop, and at four in the afternoon he would go along the porch dragging a stool, not even noticing the fire of the rose bushes or the brightness of the hour or the persistence of Amaranta, whose melancholy made the noise of a boiling pot, which was perfectly perceptible at dusk, and he would sit in the street door as long as the mosquitoes would allow him to. Someone dared to disturb his solitude once. “How are you, Colonel?” he asked in passing. “Right here,” he answered. “Waiting for my funeral procession to pass.” So that the anxiety caused by the public reappearance of his family name, having to do with the coronation of Remedios the Beauty, was baseless. Many people did not think that way, however. Innocent of the tragedy that threatened it, the town poured into the main square in a noisy explosion of merriment. The carnival had reached its highest level of madness and Aureliano Segundo had satisfied at last his dream of dressing up like a tiger and was walking along the wild throng, hoarse from so much roaring, when on the swamp road a parade of several people appeared carrying in a gilded litter the most fascinating woman that imagination could conceive. For a moment the inhabitants of Macondo took off their masks in order to get a better look at the dazzling creature with a crown of emeralds and an ermine cape, who seemed invested with legitimate authority, and was not merely a sovereign of bangles and crepe paper. There were many people who had sufficient insight to suspect that it was a question of provocation. But Aureliano Segundo immediately conquered his perplexity and declared the new arrivals to be guests of honor, and with the wisdom of Solomon he seated Remedios the Beauty and the intruding queen on the same dais. Until midnight the strangers, disguised as bedouins, took part in the delirium and even enriched it with sumptuous fireworks and acrobatic skills that made one think of the art of the gypsies. Suddenly, during the paroxysm of the celebration, someone broke the delicate balance. “Long live the Liberal party!” he shouted. “Long live Colonel Aureliano Buendía!” 101 The rifle shots drowned out the splendor of the fireworks and the cries of terror drowned out the music and joy turned into panic. Many years later there were those who still insisted that the royal guard of the intruding queen was a squad of regular army soldiers who were concealing governmentissue rifles under their rich Moorish robes. The government denied the charge in a special proclamation and promised a complete investigation of the bloody episode. But the truth never came to light, and the version always prevailed that the royal guard, without provocation of any kind, took up combat positions upon a signal from their commander and opened fire without pity on the crowd. When calm was restored, not one of the false bedouins remained in town and there were many dead and wounded lying on the square: nine clowns, four Columbines, seventeen playing-card kings, one devil, three minstrels, two peers of France, and three Japanese empresses. In the confusion of the panic José Arcadio Segundo managed to rescue Remedios the Beauty and Aureliano Segundo carried the intruding queen to the house in his arms, her dress torn and the ermine cape stained with blood. Her name was Fernanda del Carpio. She had been chosen as the most beautiful of the five thousand most beautiful women in the land and they had brought her to Macondo with the promise of naming her Queen of Madagascar. Úrsula took care of her as if she were her own daughter. The town, instead of doubting her innocence, pitied her candor. Six months after the massacre, when the wounded had recovered and the last flowers on the mass grave had withered, Aureliano Segundo went to fetch her from the distant city where she lived with her father and he married her in Macondo with a noisy celebration that lasted twenty days. 102 Chapter 11 THE MARRIAGE was on the point of breaking up after two months because Aureliano Segundo, in an attempt to placate Petra Cotes, had a picture taken of her dressed as the Queen of Madagascar. When Fernanda found out about it she repacked her bridal trunks and left Macondo without saying good-bye. Aureliano Segundo caught up with her on the swamp road. After much pleading and promises of reform he succeeded in getting her to come home and he abandoned his concubine. Petra Cotes, aware of her strength, showed no signs of worry. She had made a man of him. While he was still a child she had drawn him out of Melquíades’ room, his head full of fantastic ideas and lacking any contact with reality, and she had given him a place in the world. Nature had made him reserved and withdrawn. with tendencies toward solitary meditation, and she had molded an opposite character in him, one that was vital, expansive, open, and she had injected him with a joy for living and a pleasure in spending and celebrating until she had converted him inside and out, into the man she had dreamed of for herself ever since adolescence. Then he married, as all sons marry sooner or later. He did not dare tell her the news. He assumed an attitude that was quite childish under the circumstances, feigning anger and imaginary resentment so that Petra Cotes would be the one who would bring about the break. One day, when Aureliano Segundo reproached her unjustly, she eluded the trap and put things in their proper place. “What it all means,” she said, “is that you want to marry the queen.” Aureliano Segundo, ashamed, pretended an attack of rage, said that he was misunderstood and abused, and did not visit her again. Petra Cotes, without losing her poise of a wild beast in repose for a single instant, heard the music and the fireworks from the wedding, the wild bustle of the celebration as if all of it were nothing but some new piece of mischief on the part of Aureliano Segundo. Those who pitied her fate were calmed with a smile. “Don’t worry,” she told them. “Queens run errands for me.” To a neighbor woman who brought her a set of candles so that she could light up the picture of her lost lover with them, she said with an enigmatic security: “The only candle that will make him come is always lighted.” Just as she had foreseen, Aureliano Segundo went back to her house as soon as the honeymoon was over. He brought his usual old friends, a traveling photographer, and the gown and ermine cape soiled with blood that Fernanda had worn during the carnival. In the heat of the merriment that broke out that evening, he had Petra Cotes dress up as queen, crowned her absolute and lifetime ruler of Madagascar, and handed out copies of the picture to his friends, she not only went along with the game, but she felt sorry for him inside, thinking that he must have been very frightened to have conceived of that extravagant means of reconciliation. At seven in the evening, still dressed as the queen, she received him in bed. He had been married scarcely two months, but she realized at once that things were not going well in the nuptial bed, and she had the delicious pleasure of vengeance fulfilled. Two days later, however, when he did not dare return but sent an intermediary to arrange the terms of the separation, she understood that she was going to need more patience than she had foreseen because he seemed ready to sacrifice himself for the sake of appearances. Nor did she get upset that time. Once again she made things easy with a submission that confirmed the generalized belief that she was a poor devil, and the only souvenir she kept of Aureliano Segundo was a pair of patent leather boots, which, according to what he himself had said, were the ones he wanted to wear in his coffin. She kept them wrapped in cloth in the bottom of a trunk and made ready to feed on memories, waiting without despair. “He has to come sooner or later,” she told herself, “even if it’s just to put on those boots.” 103 She did not have to wait as long as she had imagined. Actually, Aureliano Segundo understood from the night of his wedding that he would return to the house of Petra Cotes much sooner than when he would have to put on the patent leather boots: Fernanda was a woman who was lost in the world. She had been born and raised in a city six hundred miles away, a gloomy city where on ghostly nights the coaches of the viceroys still rattled through the cobbled streets, Thirty-two belfries tolled a dirge at six in the afternoon. In the manor house, which was paved with tomblike slabs, the sun was never seen. The air had died in the cypresses in the courtyard, in the pale trappings of the bedrooms, in the dripping archways of the garden of perennials. Until puberty Fernanda had no news of the world except for the melancholy piano lessons taken in some neighboring house by someone who for years and years had the drive not to take a siesta. In the room of her sick mother, green and yellow under the powdery light from the windowpanes, she would listen to the methodical, stubborn, heartless scales and think that that music was in the world while she was being consumed as she wove funeral wreaths. Her mother, perspiring with fiveo’clock fever, spoke to her of the splendor of the past. When she was a little girl, on one moonlit night Fernanda saw a beautiful woman dressed in white crossing the garden toward the chapel. What bothered her most about that fleeting vision was that she felt it was exactly like her, as if she had seen herself twenty years in advance. “It was your great-grandmother the queen,” her mother told her during a truce in her coughing. “She died of some bad vapors while she was cutting a string of bulbs.” Many years later, when she began to feel she was the equal of her great-grandmother, Fernanda doubted her childhood vision, but her mother scolded her disbelief. “We are immensely rich and powerful,” she told her. “One day you will be a queen.” She believed it, even though they were sitting at the long table with a linen tablecloth and silver service to have a cup of watered chocolate and a sweet bun. Until the day of her wedding she dreamed about a legendary kingdom, in spite of the fact that her father, Don Fernando, had to mortgage the house in order to buy her trousseau. It was not innocence or delusions of grandeur. That was how they had brought her up. Since she had had the use of reason she remembered having done her duty in a gold pot with the family crest on it. She left the house for the first time at the age of twelve in a coach and horses that had to travel only two blocks to take her to the convent. Her classmates were surprised that she sat apart from them in a chair with a very high back and that she would not even mingle with them during recess. “She’s different,” the nuns would explain. “She’s going to be a queen.” Her schoolmates believed this because she was already the most beautiful, distinguished, and discreet girl they had ever seen. At the end of eight years, after having learned to write Latin poetry, play the clavichord, talk about falconry with gentlemen and apologetics, with archbishops, discuss affairs of state with foreign rulers and affairs of God with the Pope, she returned to her parents’ home to weave funeral wreaths. She found it despoiled. All that was left was the furniture that was absolutely necessary, the silver candelabra and table service, for the everyday utensils had been sold one by one to underwrite the costs of her education. Her mother had succumbed to five-o’clock fever. Her father, Don Fernando, dressed in black with a stiff collar and a gold watch chain, would give her a silver coin on Mondays for the household expenses, and the funeral wreaths finished the week before would be taken away. He spent most of his time shut up in his study and the few times that he went out he would return to recite the rosary with her. She had intimate friendships with no one. She had never heard mention of the wars that were bleeding the country. She continued her piano lessons at three in the afternoon. She had even began to lose the illusion of being a queen when two peremptory raps of the knocker sounded at the door and she opened it to a well-groomed military officer with ceremonious manners who had a scar on his cheek and a gold medal on his chest. He closeted himself with her father in the study. Two hours later her father came to get her in the sewing room. “Get your things together,” he told her. “You have to take a long trip.” That was how they took her to Macondo. In one single day, with a brutal slap, life 104 threw on top of her the whole weight of a reality that her parents had kept hidden from her for many years. When she returned home she shut herself up in her room to weep, indifferent to Don Fernando’s pleas and explanations as he tried to erase the scars of that strange joke. She had sworn to herself never to leave her bedroom until she died when Aureliano Segundo came to get her. It was an act of impossible fate, because in the confusion of her indignation, in the fury of her shame, she had lied to him so that he would never know her real identity. The only real clues that Aureliano Segundo had when he left to look for her were her unmistakable highland accent and her trade as a weaver of funeral wreaths. He searched for her without cease. With the fierce temerity with which José Arcadio Buendía had crossed the mountains to found Macondo, with the blind pride with which Colonel Aureliano Buendía had undertaken his fruitless wars, with the mad tenacity with which Úrsula watched over the survival of the line, Aureliano Segundo looked for Fernanda, without a single moment of respite. When he asked where they sold funeral wreaths they took him from house to house so that he could choose the best ones. When he asked for the most beautiful woman who had ever been seen on this earth, all the women brought him their daughters. He became lost in misty byways, in times reserved for oblivion, in labyrinths of disappointment. He crossed a yellow plain where the echo repeated one’s thoughts and where anxiety brought on premonitory mirages. After sterile weeks he came to an unknown city where all the bells were tolling a dirge. Although he had never seen them and no one had ever described them to him he immediately recognized the walls eaten away by bone salt, the broken-down wooden balconies gutted by fungus, and nailed to the outside door, almost erased by rain, the saddest cardboard sign in the world: Funeral Wreaths for Sale. From that moment until the icy morning when Fernanda left her house under the care of the Mother Superior there was barely enough time for the nuns to sew her trousseau and in six trunks put the candelabra, the silver service, and the gold chamberpot along with the countless and useless remains of a family catastrophe that had been two centuries late in its fulfillment. Don Fernando declined the invitation to go along. He promised to go later when he had cleared up his affairs, and from the moment when he gave his daughter his blessing he shut himself up in his study again to write out the announcements with mournful sketches and the family coat of arms, which would be the first human contact that Fernanda and her father would have had in all their lives. That was the real date of her birth for her. For Aureliano Segundo it was almost simultaneously the beginning and the end of happiness. Fernanda carried a delicate calendar with small golden keys on which her spiritual adviser had marked in purple ink the dates of venereal abstinence. Not counting Holy week, Sundays, holy days of obligation, first Fridays, retreats, sacrifices, and cyclical impediments, her effective year was reduced to forty-two days that were spread out through a web of purple crosses. Aureliano Segundo, convinced that time would break up that hostile network, prolonged the wedding celebration beyond the expected time. Tired of throwing out so many empty brandy and champagne bottles so that they would not clutter up the house and at the same time intrigued by the fact that the newlyweds slept at different times and in separate rooms while the fireworks and music and the slaughtering of cattle went on, Úrsula remembered her own experience and wondered whether Fernanda might have a chastity belt too which would sooner or later provoke jokes in the town and give rise to a tragedy. But Fernanda confessed to her that she was just letting two weeks go by before allowing the first contact with her husband. Indeed, when the period was over, she opened her bedroom with a resignation worthy of an expiatory victim and Aureliano Segundo saw the most beautiful woman on earth, with her glorious eyes of a frightened animal and her long, coppercolored hair spread out across the pillow. He was so fascinated with that vision that it took him a moment to realize that Fernanda was wearing a white nightgown that reached down to her ankles, with long sleeves and with a large, round buttonhole, delicately trimmed, at the level of her lower stomach. Aureliano Segundo could not suppress an explosion of laughter. 105 “That’s the most obscene thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he shouted with a laugh that rang through the house. “I married a Sister of Charity.” A month later, unsuccessful in getting his wife to take off her nightgown, he had the picture taken of Petra Cotes dressed as a queen. Later on, when he succeeded in getting Fernanda to come back home, she gave in to his urges in the fever of reconciliation, but she could not give him the repose he had dreamed about when he went to fetch her in the city with the thirty-two belfries. Aureliano Segundo found only a deep feeling of desolation in her. One night, a short time before their first child was born, Fernanda realized that her husband had returned in secret to the bed of Petra Cotes. “That’s what happened,” he admitted. And he explained in a tone of prostrated resignation: “I had to do it so that the animals would keep on breeding.” He needed a little time to convince her about such a strange expedient, but when he finally did so by means of proofs that seemed irrefutable, the only promise that Fernanda demanded from him was that he should not be surprised by death in his concubine’s bed. In that way the three of them continued living without bothering each other. Aureliano Segundo, punctual and loving with both of them. Petra Cotes, strutting because of the reconciliation, and Fernanda, pretending that she did not know the truth. The pact did not succeed, however, in incorporating Fernanda into the family. Úrsula insisted in vain that she take off the woolen ruff which she would have on when she got up from making love and which made the neighbors whisper. She could not convince her to use the bathroom or the night lavatory and sell the gold chamberpot to Colonel Aureliano Buendía so that he could convert it into little fishes. Amaranta felt so uncomfortable with her defective diction and her habit of using euphemisms to designate everything that she would always speak gibberish in front of her. “Thifisif.” she would say, “ifisif onefos ofosif thofosif whosufu cantantant statantand thefesef smufumellu ofosif therisir owfisown shifisifit.” One day, irritated by the mockery, Fernanda wanted to know what Amaranta was saying, and she did not use euphemisms in answering her. “I was saying,” she told her, “that you’re one of those people who mix up their ass and their ashes.” From that time on they did not speak to each other again. When circumstances demanded it they would send notes. In spite of the visible hostility of the family, Fernanda did not give up her drive to impose the customs of her ancestors. She put an end to the custom of eating in the kitchen and whenever anyone was hungry, and she imposed the obligation of doing it at regular hours at the large table in the dining room, covered with a linen cloth and with silver candlesticks and table service. The solemnity of an act which Úrsula had considered the most simple one of daily life created a tense atmosphere against which the silent José Arcadio Segundo rebelled before anyone else. But the custom was imposed, the same as that of reciting the rosary before dinner, and it drew the attention of the neighbors, who soon spread the rumor that the Buendías did not sit down to the table like other mortals but had changed the act of eating into a kind of high mass. Even Úrsula’s superstitions, with origins that came more from an inspiration of the moment than from tradition, came into conflict with those of Fernanda, who had inherited them from her parents and kept them defined and catalogued for every occasion. As long as Úrsula had full use of her faculties some of the old customs survived and the life of the family kept some quality of her impulsiveness, but when she lost her sight and the weight of her years relegated her to a corner, the circle of rigidity begun by Fernanda from the moment she arrived finally closed completely and no one but she determined the destiny of the family. The business in pastries and small candy animals that Santa Sofía de la Piedad had kept up because of Úrsula’s wishes was considered an unworthy activity by Fernanda and she lost no time in putting a stop to it. The doors of the house, wide open from dawn until bedtime, 106 were closed during siesta time under the pretext that the sun heated up the bedrooms and in the end they were closed for good. The aloe branch and loaf of bread that had been hanging over the door since the days of the founding were replaced by a niche with the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Colonel Aureliano, Buendía became aware somehow of those changes and foresaw their consequences. “We’re becoming people of quality,” he protested. “At this rate we’ll end up fighting against the Conservative regime again, but this time to install a king in its place.” Fernanda very tactfully tried not to cross his path. Within herself she was bothered by his independent spirit his resistance to all kinds of social rigidity. She was exasperated by his mugs of coffee at five in the morning, the disorder of his workshop, his frayed blanket, and his custom of sitting in the street door at dusk. But she had to tolerate that one loose piece in the family machinery because she was sure that the old colonel was an animal who had been tamed by the years and by disappointment and who, in a burst of senile rebellion, was quite capable of uprooting the foundations of the house. When her husband decided to give their first son the name of his great-grandfather, she did not dare oppose him because she had been there only a year. But when the first daughter was bom she expressed her unreserved determination to name her Renata after her mother. Úrsula had decided to call her Remedios. After a tense argument, in which Aureliano Segundo acted as the laughing go-between, they baptized her with the name Renata Remedios, but Fernanda went on calling her just Renata while her husband’s family and everyone in town called her Meme, a diminutive of Remedios. At first Fernanda did not talk about her family, but in time she began to idealize her father. She spoke of him at the table as an exceptional being who had renounced all forms of vanity and was on his way to becoming a saint. Aureliano Segundo, startled at that unbridled glorification of his fatherin-law, could not resist the temptation to make small jokes behind his wife’s back. The rest of the family followed his example. Even Úrsula, who was extremely careful to preserve family harmony and who suffered in secret from the domestic friction, once allowed herself the liberty of saying that her little great-great-grandson had his pontifical future assured because he was “the grandson of a saint and the son of a queen and a rustler.” In spite of that conspiracy of smiles, the children became accustomed to think of their grandfather as a legendary being who wrote them pious verses in his letters and every Christmas sent them a box of gifts that barely fitted through the outside door. Actually they were the last remains of his lordly inheritance. They used them to build an altar of lifesize saints in the children’s bedroom, saints with glass eyes that gave them a disquietingly lifelike look, whose artistically embroidered clothing was better than that worn by any inhabitant of Macondo. Little by little the funereal splendor of the ancient and icy mansion was being transformed into the splendor of the House of Buendía. “They’ve already sent us the whole family cemetery,” Aureliano Segundo commented one day. “All we need now are the weeping willows and the tombstones.” Although nothing ever arrived in the boxes that the children could play with, they would spend all year waiting for December because, after all, the antique and always unpredictable gifts were something, new in the house. On the tenth Christmas, when little José Arcadio was getting ready to go to the seminary, the enormous box from their grandfather arrived earlier than usual, nailed tight and protected with pitch, and addressed in the usual Gothic letters to the Very Distinguished Lady Doña Fernanda del Carpio de Buendía. While she read the letter in her room the children hastened to open the box. Aided as was customary by Aureliano Segundo, they broke the seals, opened the cover, took out the protective sawdust, and found inside a long lead chest closed by copper bolts. Aureliano Segundo took out the eight bolts as the children watched impatiently, and he barely had time to give a cry and push the children aside when be raised the lead cover and saw Don Fernando, dressed in black and with a crucifix on his chest, his skin broken out in pestilential sores and cooking slowly in a frothy stew with bubbles like live pearls. A short time after the birth of their daughter, the unexpected jubilee for Colonel Aureliano, Buendía, ordered by the government to celebrate another anniversary of the Treaty of Neerlandia, 107 was announced. It was a decision so out of line with official policy that the colonel spoke out violently against it and rejected the homage. “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of the word ‘jubilee,’ ” he said. “But whatever it means, it has to be a trick.” The small goldsmith shop was filled with emissaries. Much older and more solemn, the lawyers in dark suits who in other days had flapped about the colonel like crows had returned. When he saw them appear the same as the other time, when they came to put a stop to the war, he could not bear the cynicism of their praise. He ordered them to leave him in peace, insisting that he was not a hero of the nation as they said but an artisan without memories whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes. What made him most indignant was the word that the president of the republic himself planned to be present at the ceremonies in Macondo in order to decorate him with the Order of Merit. Colonel Aureliano, Buendía had him told, word for word, that he was eagerly awaiting that tardy but deserved occasion in order to take a shot at him, not as payment for the arbitrary acts and anachronisms of his regime, but for his lack of respect for an old man who had not done anyone any harm. Such was the vehemence with which he made the threat that the president of the republic canceled his trip at the last moment and sent the decoration with a personal representative. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, besieged by pressures of all kinds, left his bed of a paralytic in order to persuade his former companion in arms. When the latter saw the rocking chair carried by four men appear and saw the friend who had shared his victories and defeats since youth sitting in it among some large pillows, he did not have a single doubt but that he was making that effort in order to express his solidarity. But when he discovered the real motive for his visit he had them take him out of the workshop. “Now I’m convinced too late,” he told him, “that I would have done you a great favor if I’d let them shoot you.” So the jubilee was celebrated without the attendance of any members of the family. Chance had it that it also coincided with carnival week, but no one could get the stubborn idea out of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s head that the coincidence had been foreseen by the government in order to heighten the cruelty of the mockery. From his lonely workshop he could hear the martial music, the artillery salutes, the tolling of the Te Deum, and a few phrases of the speeches delivered in front of the house as they named the street after him. His eyes grew moist with indignation, with angry impotence, and for the first time since his defeat it pained him not to have the strength of youth so that he could begin a bloody war that would wipe out the last vestiges of the Conservative regime. The echoes of the homage had not died down when Úrsula knocked at the workshop door. “Don’t bother me,” he said. “I’m busy.” “Open up,” Úrsula insisted in a normal voice. “This has nothing to do with the celebration.” Then Colonel Aureliano Buendía took down the bar and saw at the door seventeen men of the most varied appearance, of all types and colors, but all with a solitary air that would have been enough to identify them anywhere on earth. They were his sons. Without any previous agreement, without knowing each other, they had arrived from the most distant corners of the coast, captivated by the talk of the jubilee. They all bore with pride the name Aureliano and the last name of their mothers. The three days that they stayed in the house, to the satisfaction of Úrsula and the scandal of Fernanda, were like a state war. Amaranta searched among old papers for the ledger where Úrsula had written down the names and birth and baptism dates of all of them, and beside the space for each one she added his present address. That list could well have served as a recapitulation of twenty years of war. From it the nocturnal itinerary of the colonel from the dawn he left Macondo at the head of twenty-one men on his way to a fanciful rebellion until he returned for the last time wrapped in a blanket stiff with blood could have been reconstructed. Aureliano Segundo did not let the chance go by to regale his cousins with a thunderous champagne and accordion party that was interpreted as a tardy adjustment of accounts with the carnival, which went awry because of the 108 jubilee. They smashed half of the dishes, they destroyed the rose bushes as they chased a bull they were trying to hog-tie, they killed the hens by shooting them, they made Amaranta dance the sad waltzes of Pietro Crespi, they got Remedios the Beauty to put on a pair of men’s pants and climb a greased pole, and in the dining room they turned loose a pig daubed with lard, which prostrated Fernanda, but no one regretted the destruction because the house shook with a healthy earthquake. Colonel Aureliano Buendía who at first received them with mistrust and even doubted the parentage of some, was amused by their wildness, and before they left he gave each one a little gold fish. Even the withdrawn José Arcadio Segundo offered them an afternoon of cockfights, which was at the point of ending in tragedy because several of the Aurelianos were so expert in matters of the cockpit that they spotted Father Antonio Isabel’s tricks at once. Aureliano Segundo, who saw the limitless prospect of wild times offered by those mad relatives, decided that they should all stay and work for him. The only one who accepted was Aureliano Triste, a big mulatto with the drive and explorer’s spirit of his grandfather. He had already tested his fortune in half the world and it did not matter to him where he stayed. The others, even though they were unmarried, considered their destinies established. They were all skillful craftsmen, the men of their houses, peace-loving people. The Ash Wednesday before they went back to scatter out along the coast, Amaranta got them to put on Sunday clothes and accompany her to church. More amused than devout, they let themselves be led to the altar rail where Father Antonio Isabel made the sign of the cross in ashes on them. Back at the house, when the youngest tried to clean his forehead, he discovered that the mark was indelible and so were those of his brothers. They tried soap and water, earth and a scrubbing brush, and lastly a pumice stone and lye, but they could not remove the crosses. On the other hand, Amaranta and the others who had gone to mass took it off without any trouble. “It’s better that way,” Úrsula stated as she said goodbye to them. “From now on everyone will know who you are.” They went off in a troop, preceded by a band of musicians and shooting off fireworks, and they left behind in the town an impression that the Buendía line had enough seed for many centuries. Aureliano Triste, with the cross of ashes on his forehead, set up on the edge of town the ice factory that José Arcadio Buendía had dreamed of in his inventive delirium. Some months after his arrival, when he was already well-known and well-liked, Aureliano Triste went about looking for a house so that he could send for his mother and an unmarried sister (who was not the colonel’s daughter), and he became interested in the run-down big house that looked abandoned on a corner of the square. He asked who owned it. Someone told him that it did not belong to anyone, that in former times a solitary widow who fed on earth and whitewash from the walls had lived there, and that in her last years she was seen only twice on the street with a hat of tiny artificial flowers and shoes the color of old silver when she crossed the square to the post office to mail a letter to the Bishop. They told him that her only companion was a pitiless servant woman who killed dogs and cats and any animal that got into the house and threw their corpses into the middle of the street in order to annoy people with the rotten stench. So much time had passed since the sun had mummified the empty skin of the last animal that everybody took it for granted that the lady of the house and the maid had died long before the wars were over, and that if the house was still standing it was because in recent years there had not been a rough winter or destructive wind. The hinges had crumbled with rust, the doors were held up only by clouds of cobwebs, the windows were soldered shut by dampness, and the floor was broken by grass and wildflowers and in the cracks lizards and all manner of vermin had their nests, all of which seemed to confirm the notion that there had not been a human being there for at least half a century. The impulsive Aureliano Triste did not need such proof to proceed. He pushed on the main door with his shoulder and the worm-eaten wooden frame fell down noiselessly amid a dull cataclysm of dust and termite nests. Aureliano Triste stood on the threshold waiting for the dust to clear and then he saw in the center of the room the squalid woman, still dressed in clothing of the past century, with a few yellow threads 109 on her bald head, and with two large eyes, still beautiful, in which the last stars of hope had gone out, and the skin of her face was wrinkled by the aridity of solitude. Shaken by that vision from another world, Aureliano Triste barely noticed that the woman was aiming an antiquated pistol at him. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured. She remained motionless in the center of the room filled with knickknacks, examining inch by inch the giant with square shoulders and with a tattoo of ashes on his forehead, and through the haze of dust she saw him in the haze of other times with a double-barreled shotgun on his shoulder and a string of rabbits in his hand. “For the love of God,” she said in a low voice, it’s not right for them to come to me with that memory now.” “I want to rent the house,” Aureliano Triste said. The woman then raised the pistol, aiming with a firm wrist at the cross of ashes, and she held the trigger with a determination against which there was no appeal. “Get out,” she ordered. That night at dinner Aureliano Triste told the family about the episode and Úrsula wept with consternation. “Holy God!” she exclaimed, clutching her head with her hands. “She’s still alive!” Time, wars, the countless everyday disasters had made her forget about Rebeca. The only one who had not lost for a single minute the awareness that she was alive and rotting in her wormhole was the implacable and aging Amaranta. She thought of her at dawn, when the ice of her heart awakened her in her solitary bed, and she thought of her when she soaped her withered breasts and her lean stomach, and when she put on the white stiff-starched petticoats and corsets of old age, and when she changed the black bandage of terrible expiation on her hand. Always, at every moment, asleep and awake, during the most sublime and most abject moments, Amaranta thought about Rebeca, because solitude had made a selection in her memory and had burned the dimming piles of nostalgic waste that life had accumulated in her heart, and had purified, magnified and eternalized the others, the most bitter ones. Remedios the Beauty knew about Rebeca’s existence from her. Every time they passed the run-down house she would tell her about an unpleasant incident, a tale of hate, trying in that way to make her extended rancor be shared by her niece and consequently prolonged beyond death, but her plan did not work because Remedios was immune to any kind of passionate feelings and much less to those of others. Úrsula, on the other hand, who had suffered through a process opposite to Amaranta’s, recalled Rebeca with a memory free of impurities, for the image of the pitiful child brought to the house with the bag containing her parents’ bones prevailed over the offense that had made her unworthy to be connected to the family tree any longer. Aureliano Segundo decided that they would have to bring her to the house and take care of her, but his good intentions were frustrated by the firm intransigence of Rebeca, who had needed many years of suffering and misery in order to attain the privileges of solitude and who was not disposed to renounce them in exchange for an old age disturbed by the false attractions of charity. In February, when the sixteen sons of Colonel Aureliano Buendía returned, still marked with the cross of ashes, Aureliano Triste spoke to them about Rebeca in the tumult of the celebration and in half a day they restored the appearance of the house, changing doors and windows, painting the front with gay colors, bracing walls and pouring fresh cement on the floor, but they could not get any authorization to continue the work inside. Rebeca did not even come to the door. She let them finish the mad restoration, then calculated what it had cost and sent Argénida, her old servant who was still with her, to them with a handful of coins that had been withdrawn from circulation after the last war and that Rebeca thought were still worth something it was then that they saw to what a fantastic point her separation from the world had arrived and they understood that it would be impossible to rescue her from her stubborn enclosure while she still had a breath of life in her. 110 On the second visit by the sons of Colonel Aureliano Buendía to Macondo, another of them, Aureliano Centeno, stayed on to work with Aureliano Triste. He was one of the first who had been brought to the house for baptism and Úrsula and Amaranta remembered him very well because in a few hours he had destroyed every breakable object that passed through his hands. Time had moderated his early impulse for growth and he was a man of average height marked by smallpox scars, but his amazing power for manual destruction remained intact. He broke so many plates, even without touching them, that Fernanda decided to buy him a set of pewterware before he did away with the last pieces of her expensive china, and even the resistant metal plates were soon dented and twisted. But to make up for that irremediable power, which was exasperating even for him, he had a cordiality that won the immediate confidence of others and a stupendous capacity for work. In a short time he had increased the production of ice to such a degree that it was too much for the local market and Aureliano Triste had to think about the possibility of expanding the business to other towns in the swamp. It was then that he thought of the decisive step, not only for the modernization of his business but to link the town with the rest of the world. “We have to bring in the railroad,” he said. That was the first time that the word had ever been heard in Macondo. Looking at the sketch that Aureliano Triste drew on the table and that was a direct descendent of the plans with which José Arcadio Buendía had illustrated his project for solar warfare, Úrsula confirmed her impression that time was going in a circle. But unlike his forebear, Aureliano Triste did not lose any sleep or appetite nor did he torment anyone with crises of ill humor, but he considered the most harebrained of projects as immediate possibilities, made rational calculations about costs and dates, and brought them off without any intermediate exasperation. If Aureliano Segundo had something of his greatgrandfather in him and lacked something of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, it was an absolute indifference to mockery, and he gave the money to bring the railroad with the same lighthearted air with which he had given it for his brother’s absurd navigation project. Aureliano Triste consulted the calendar and left the following Wednesday, planning to return after the rains had passed. There was no more news of him. Aureliano Centeno, overwhelmed by the abundance of the factory, had already begun to experiment with the production of ice with a base of fruit juices instead of water, and without knowing it or thinking about it, he conceived the essential fundamentals for the invention of sherbet. In that way he planned to diversify the production of an enterprise he considered his own, because his brother showed no signs of returning after the rains had passed and a whole summer had gone by with no news of him. At the start of another winter, however, a woman who was washing clothes in the river during the hottest time of the day ran screaming down the main street in an alarming state of commotion. “It’s coming,” she finally explained. “Something frightful, like a kitchen dragging a village behind it.” At that moment the town was shaken by a whistle with a fearful echo and a loud, panting respiration. During the previous weeks they had seen the gangs who were laying ties and tracks and no one paid attention to them because they thought it was some new trick of the gypsies, coming back with whistles and tambourines and their age-old and discredited song and dance about the qualities of some concoction put together by journeyman geniuses of Jerusalem. But when they recovered from the noise of the whistles and the snorting, all the inhabitants ran out into the street and saw Aureliano Triste waving from the locomotive, and in a trance they saw the flower-bedecked train which was arriving for the first time eight months late. The innocent yellow train that was to bring so many ambiguities and certainties, so many pleasant and unpleasant moments, so many changes, calamities, and feelings of nostalgia to Macondo. 111 Chapter 12 DAZZLED BY SO MANY and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo did not know where their amazement began. They stayed up all night looking at the pale electric bulbs fed by the plant that Aureliano Triste had brought back when the train made its second trip, and it took time and effort for them to grow accustomed to its obsessive toom-toom. They be. came indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for the character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears of affliction had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many felt that they had been the victims of some new and showy gypsy business and they decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings. Something similar happened with the cylinder phonographs that the merry matrons from France brought with them as a substitute for the antiquated hand organs and that for a time had serious effects on the livelihood of the band of musicians. At first curiosity increased the clientele on the forbidden street and there was even word of respectable ladies who disguised themselves as workers in order to observe the novelty of the phonograph from first hand, but from so much and such close observation they soon reached the conclusion that it was not an enchanted mill as everyone had thought and as the matrons had said, but a mechanical trick that could not be compared with something so moving, so human, and so full of everyday truth as a band of musicians. It was such a serious disappointment that when phonographs became so popular that there was one in every house they were not considered objects for amusement for adults but as something good for children to take apart. On the other hand, when someone from the town had the opportunity to test the crude reality of the telephone installed in the railroad station, which was thought to be a rudimentary version of the phonograph because of its crank, even the most incredulous were upset. It was as if God had decided to put to the test every capacity for surprise and was keeping the inhabitants of Macondo in a permanent alternation between excitement and disappointment, doubt and revelation, to such an extreme that no one knew for certain where the limits of reality lay. It was an intricate stew of truths and mirages that convulsed the ghost of José Arcadio Buendía under the chestnut tree with impatience and made him wander all through the house even in broad daylight. Ever since the railroad had been officially inaugurated and had begun to arrive with regularity on Wednesdays at eleven o’clock and the primitive wooden station with a desk, a telephone, and a ticket window had been built, on the streets of Macondo men and women were seen who had adopted everyday and normal customs and manners but who really looked like people out of a circus. In a town that had chafed under the tricks of the gypsies there was no future for those ambulatory acrobats of commerce who with equal effrontery offered a whistling kettle and a daily regime that would assure the salvation of the soul on the seventh day; but from those who let themselves be convinced out of fatigue and the ones who were always unwary, they reaped stupendous benefits. Among those theatrical creatures, wearing riding breeches and leggings, a pith helmet and steel-rimmed glasses, with topaz eyes and the skin of a thin rooster, there arrived in Macondo on one of so many Wednesdays the chubby and smiling Mr. Herbert, who ate at the house. 112 No one had noticed him at the table until the first bunch of bananas had been eaten. Aureliano Segundo had come across him by chance as he protested In broken Spanish because there were no rooms at the Hotel Jacob, and as he frequently did with strangers, he took him home. He was in the captive-balloon business, which had taken him halfway around the world with excellent profits, but he had not succeeded in taking anyone up in Macondo because they considered that invention backward after having seen and tried the gypsies’ flying carpets. He was leaving, therefore, on the next train. When they brought to the table the tiger-striped bunch of bananas that they were accustomed to hang in the dining room during lunch, he picked the first piece of fruit without great enthusiasm. But he kept on eating as he spoke, tasting, chewing, more with the distraction of a wise man than with the delight of a good eater, and when he finished the first bunch he asked them to bring him another. Then he took a small case with optical instruments out of the toolbox that he always carried with him. With the auspicious attention of a diamond merchant he examined the banana meticulously, dissecting it with a special scalpel, weighing the pieces on a pharmacist’s scale, and calculating its breadth with a gunsmith’s calipers. Then he took a series of instruments out of the chest with which he measured the temperature, the level of humidity in the atmosphere, and the intensity of the light. It was such an intriguing ceremony that no one could eat in peace as everybody waited for Mr. Herbert to pass a final and revealing judgment, but he did not say anything that allowed anyone to guess his intentions. On the days that followed he was seen with a net and a small basket hunting butterflies on the outskirts of town. On Wednesday a group of engineers, agronomists, hydrologists, topographers, and surveyors arrived who for several weeks explored the places where Mr. Herbert had hunted his butterflies. Later on Mr. Jack Brown arrived in an extra coach that had been coupled onto the yellow train and that was silver-plated all over, with seats of episcopal velvet, and a roof of blue glass. Also arriving on the special car, fluttering around Mr. Brown, were the solemn lawyers dressed in black who in different times had followed Colonel Aureliano Buendía everywhere, and that led the people to think that the agronomists, hydrologists, topographers, and surveyors, like Mr. Herbert with his captive balloons and his colored butterflies and Mr. Brown with his mausoleum on wheels and his ferocious German shepherd dogs, had something to do with the war. There was not much time to think about it, however, because the suspicious inhabitants of Macondo barely began to wonder what the devil was going on when the town had already become transformed into an encampment of wooden houses with zinc roofs inhabited by foreigners who arrived on the train from halfway around the world, riding not only on the seats and platforms but even on the roof of the coaches. The gringos, who later on brought their languid wives in muslin dresses and large veiled hats, built a separate town across the railroad tracks with streets lined with palm trees, houses with screened windows, small white tables on the terraces, and fans mounted on the ceilings, and extensive blue lawns with peacocks and quails. The section was surrounded by a metal fence topped with a band of electrified chicken wire which during the cool summer mornings would be black with roasted swallows. No one knew yet what they were after, or whether they were actually nothing but philanthropists, and they had already caused a colossal disturbance, much more than that of the old gypsies, but less transitory and understandable. Endowed with means that had been reserved for Divine Providence in former times, they changed the pattern of the rams, accelerated the cycle of harvest, and moved the river from where it had always been and put it with its white stones and icy currents on the other side of the town, behind the cemetery. It was at that time that they built a fortress of reinforced concrete over the faded tomb of José Arcadio, so that the corpses smell of powder would not contaminate the waters. For the foreigners who arrived without love they converted the street of the loving matrons from France into a more extensive village than it had been, and on one glorious Wednesday they brought in a trainload of strange whores, Babylonish women skilled in age-old methods and in possession of all manner of unguents and devices to 113 stimulate the unaroused, to give courage to the timid, to satiate the voracious, to exalt the modest man, to teach a lesson to repeaters, and to correct solitary people. The Street of the Turks, enriched by well-lit stores with products from abroad, displacing the old bazaars with their bright colors, overflowed on Saturday nights with the crowds of adventurers who bumped into each other among gambling tables, shooting galleries, the alley where the future was guessed and dreams interpreted, and tables of fried food and drinks, and on Sunday mornings there were scattered on the ground bodies that were sometimes those of happy drunkards and more often those of onlookers felled by shots, fists, knives, and bottles during the brawls. It was such a tumultuous and intemperate invasion that during the first days it was impossible to walk through the streets because of the furniture and trunks, and the noise of the carpentry of those who were building their houses in any vacant lot without asking anyone’s permission, and the scandalous behavior of couples who hung their hammocks between the almond trees and made love under the netting in broad daylight and in view of everyone. The only serene corner had been established by peaceful West Indian Negroes, who built a marginal street with wooden houses on piles where they would sit in the doors at dusk singing melancholy hymns in their disordered gabble. So many changes took place in such a short time that eight months after Mr. Herbert’s visit the old inhabitants had a hard time recognizing their own town. “Look at the mess we’ve got ourselves into,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía said at that time, “just because we invited a gringo to eat some bananas.” Aureliano Segundo, on the other hand, could not contain his happiness over the avalanche of foreigners. The house was suddenly filled with unknown guests, with invincible and worldly carousers, and it became necessary to add bedrooms off the courtyard, widen the dining room, and exchange the old table for one that held sixteen people, with new china and silver, and even then they had to eat lunch in shifts. Fernanda had to swallow her scruples and their guests of the worst sort like kings as they muddied the porch with their boots, urinated in the garden. laid their mats down anywhere to take their siesta, and spoke without regard for the sensitivities of ladies or the proper behavior of gentlemen. Amaranta, was so scandalized with the plebeian invasion that she went back to eating in the kitchen as in olden days. Colonel Aureliano Buendía, convinced that the majority of those who came into his workshop to greet him were not doing it because of sympathy or regard but out of the curiosity to meet a historical relic, a museum fossil, decided to shut himself in by barring the door and he was not seen any more except on very rare occasions when he would sit at the street door. Úrsula, on the other hand, even during the days when she was already dragging her feet and walking about groping along the walls, felt a juvenile excitement as the time for the arrival of the train approached. “We have to prepare some meat and fish,” she would order the four cooks, who hastened to have everything ready under the imperturbable direction of Santa Sofía de la Piedad. “We have to prepare everything,” she insisted, “because we never know what these strangers like to eat.” The train arrived during the hottest time of day. At lunchtime the house shook with the bustle of a marketplace, and the perspiring guests—who did not even know who their hosts were— trooped in to occupy the best places at the table, while the cooks bumped into each other with enormous kettles of soup, pots of meat, large gourds filled with vegetables, and troughs of rice, and passed around the contents of barrels of lemonade with inexhaustible ladles. The disorder was such that Fernanda was troubled by the idea that many were eating twice and on more than one occasion she was about to burst out with a vegetable hawker’s insults because someone at the table in confusion asked her for the check. More than a year had gone by since Mr. Herbert’s visit and the only thing that was known was that the gringos were planning to plant banana trees in the enchanted region that José Arcadio Buendía and his men had crossed in search of the route to the great inventions. Two other sons of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, with the cross of ashes on their 114 foreheads, arrived, drawn by that great volcanic belch, and they justified their determination with a phrase that may have explained everybody’s reasons. “We came,” they said, “because everyone is coming.” Remedios the Beauty was the only one who was immune to the banana plague. She was becalmed in a magnificent adolescence, more and more impenetrable to formality, more and more indifferent to malice and suspicion, happy in her own world of simple realities. She did not understand why women complicated their lives with corsets and petticoats, so she sewed herself a coarse cassock that she simply put over her and without further difficulties resolved the problem of dress, without taking away the feeling of being naked, which according to her lights was the only decent way to be when at home. They bothered her so much to cut the rain of hair that already reached to her thighs and to make rolls with combs and braids with red ribbons that she simply shaved her head and used the hair to make wigs for the saints. The startling thing about her simplifying instinct was that the more she did away with fashion in a search for comfort and the more she passed over conventions as she obeyed spontaneity, the more disturbing her incredible beauty became and the more provocative she became to men. When the sons of Colonel Aureliano Buendía were in Macondo for the first time, Úrsula remembered that in their veins they bore the same blood as her greatgranddaughter and she shuddered with a forgotten fright. “Keep your eyes wide open,” she warned her. “With any of them your children will come out with the tail of a pig.” The girl paid such little attention to the warning that she dressed up as a man and rolled around in the sand in order to climb the greased pole, and she was at the point of bringing on a tragedy among the seventeen cousins, who were driven mad by the unbearable spectacle. That was why none of them slept at the house when they visited the town and the four who had stayed lived in rented rooms at Úrsula’s insistence. Remedios the Beauty, however, would have died laughing if she had known about that precaution. Until her last moment on earth she was unaware that her irreparable fate as a disturbing woman was a daily disaster. Every time she appeared in the dining room, against Úrsula’s orders, she caused a panic of exasperation among the outsiders. It was all too evident that she was completely naked underneath her crude nightshirt and no one could understand that her shaved and perfect skull was not some kind of challenge, and that the boldness with which she uncovered her thighs to cool off was not a criminal provocation, nor was her pleasure when she sucked her fingers after. eating. What no member of the family ever knew was that the strangers did not take long to realize that Remedios the Beauty gave off a breath of perturbation, a tormenting breeze that was still perceptible several hours after she had passed by. Men expert in the disturbances of love, experienced all over the world, stated that they had never suffered an anxiety similar to the one produced by the natural smell of Remedios the Beauty. On the porch with the begonias, in the parlor, in any place in the house, it was possible to point out the exact place where she had been and the time that had passed since she had left it. It was a definite, unmistakable trace that no one in the family could distinguish because it had been incorporated into the daily odors for a long time, but it was one that the outsiders identified immediately. They were the only ones, therefore, who understood how the young commander of the guard had died of love and how a gentleman from a faraway land had been plunged into desperation. Unaware of the restless circle in which she moved, of the unbearable state of intimate calamity that she provoked as she passed by, Remedios the Beauty treated the men without the least bit of malice and in the end upset them with her innocent complaisance. When Úrsula succeeded in imposing the command that she eat with Amaranta in the kitchen so that the outsiders would not see her, she felt more comfortable, because, after all, she was beyond all discipline. In reality, it made no difference to her where she ate, and not at regular hours but according to the whims of her appetite. Sometimes she would get up to have lunch at three in the morning, sleep all day long, and she spent several months with her timetable all in disarray until some casual incident would bring her back into the order of things. When things were going better 115 she would get up at eleven o’clock in the morning and shut herself up until two o’clock, completely nude, in the bathroom, killing scorpions as she came out of her dense and prolonged sleep. Then she would throw water from the cistern over herself with a gourd. It was an act so prolonged, so meticulous, so rich in ceremonial aspects that one who did not know her well would have thought that she was given over to the deserved adoration of her own body. For her, however, that solitary rite lacked all sensuality and was simply a way of passing the time until she was hungry. One day, as she began to bathe herself, a stranger lifted a tile from the roof and was breathless at the tremendous spectacle of her nudity. She saw his desolate eyes through the broken tiles and had no reaction of shame but rather one of alarm. “Be careful,” she exclaimed. “You’ll fall.” “I just wanted to see you,” the foreigner murmured. “Oh, all right,” she said. “But be careful, those tiles are rotten.” The stranger’s face had a pained expression of stupor and he seemed to be battling silently against his primary instincts so as not to break up the mirage. Remedios the Beauty thought that he was suffering from the fear that the tiles would break and she bathed herself more quickly than usual so that the man would not be in danger. While she was pouring water from the, cistern she told him that the roof was in that state because she thought that the bed of leaves had been rotted by the rain and that was what was filling the bathroom with scorpions. The stranger thought that her small talk was a way of covering her complaisance, so that when she began to soap herself he gave into temptation and went a step further. “Let me soap you,” he murmured. “Thank you for your good intentions,” she said, “but my two hands are quite enough.” “Even if it’s just your back,” the foreigner begged. “That would be silly,” she said. “People never soap their backs.” Then, while she was drying herself, the stranger begged her, with his eyes full of tears, to marry him. She answered him sincerely that she would never marry a man who was so simple that he had wasted almost an hour and even went without lunch just to see a woman taking a bath. Finally, when she put on her cassock, the man could not bear the proof that, indeed, she was not wearing anything underneath, as everyone had suspected, and he felt himself marked forever with the white-hot iron of that secret. Then he took two more tiles off in order to drop down into the bathroom. “It’s very high,” she warned him in fright. “You’ll kill yourself!” The rotten tiles broke with a noise of disaster and the man barely had time to let out a cry of terror as he cracked his skull and was killed outright on the cement floor. The foreigners who heard the noise in the dining room and hastened to remove the body noticed the suffocating odor of Remedios the Beauty on his skin. It was so deep in his body that the cracks in his skull did not give off blood but an amber-colored oil that was impregnated with that secret perfume, and then they understood that the smell of Remedios the Beauty kept on torturing men beyond death, right down to the dust of their bones. Nevertheless, they did not relate that horrible accident to the other two men who had died because of Remedios the Beauty. A victim was still needed before the outsiders and many of the old inhabitants of Macondo would credit the legend that Remedios Buendía did not give off a breath of love but a fatal emanation. The occasion for the proof of it came some months later on one afternoon when Remedios the Beauty went with a group of girl friends to look at the new plantings. For the girls of Macondo that novel game was reason for laughter and surprises, frights and jokes, and at night they would talk about their walk as if it had been an experience in a dream. Such was the prestige of that silence that Úrsula did not have the heart to take the fun away from Remedios the Beauty, and she let her go one afternoon, providing that she wore a hat and a decent dress. As soon as the group of friends went into the plantings the air became impregnated with a fatal fragrance. The men who were working along the rows felt possessed by a strange 116 fascination, menaced by some invisible danger, and many succumbed to a terrible desire to weep. Remedios the Beauty and her startled friends managed to take refuge in a nearby house just as they were about to be assaulted by a pack of ferocious males. A short time later they were rescued by the flour Aurelianos, whose crosses of ash inspired a sacred respect, as if they were caste marks, stamps of invulnerability. Remedios the Beauty did not tell anyone that one of the men, taking advantage of the tumult, had managed to attack her stomach with a hand that was more like the claw of an eagle clinging to the edge of a precipice. She faced the attacker in a kind of instantaneous flash and saw the disconsolate eyes, which remained stamped on her heart like the hot coals of pity. That night the man boasted of his audacity and swaggered over his good luck on the Street of the Turks a few minutes before the kick of a horse crushed his chest and a crowd of outsiders saw him die in the middle of the street, drowned in his own bloody vomiting. The supposition that Remedios the Beauty Possessed powers of death was then borne out by four irrefutable events. Although some men who were easy with their words said that it was worth sacrificing one’s life for a night of love with such an arousing woman, the truth was that no one made any effort to do so. Perhaps, not only to attain her but also to conjure away her dangers, all that was needed was a feeling as primitive and as simple as that of love, but that was the only thing that did not occur to anyone. Úrsula did not worry about her any more. On another occasion, when she had not yet given up the idea of saving her for the world, she had tried to get her interested in basic domestic affairs. “Men demand much more than you think,” she would tell her enigmatically. “There’s a lot of cooking, a lot of sweeping, a lot of suffering over little things beyond what you think.” She was deceiving herself within, trying to train her for domestic happiness because she was convinced that once his passion was satisfied them would not be a man on the face of the earth capable of tolerating even for a day a negligence that was beyond all understanding. The birth of the latest José Arcadio and her unshakable will to bring him up to be Pope finally caused her to cease worrying about her great-granddaughter. She abandoned her to her fate, trusting that sooner or later a miracle would take place and that in this world of everything there would also be a man with enough sloth to put up with her. For a long time already Amaranta had given up trying to make her into a useful woman. Since those forgotten afternoons when her niece barely had enough interest to turn the crank on the sewing machine, she had reached the conclusion that she was simpleminded. “Were going to have to raffle you off,” she would tell her, perplexed at the fact that men’s words would not penetrate her. Later on, when Úrsula insisted that Remedios the Beauty go to mass with her face covered with a shawl, Amaranta thought that a mysterious recourse like that would turn out to be so provoking that soon a man would come who would be intrigued enough to search out patiently for the weak point of her heart. But when she saw the stupid way in which she rejected a pretender who for many reasons was more desirable than a prince, she gave up all hope. Fernanda did not even make any attempt to understand her. When she saw Remedios the Beauty dressed as a queen at the bloody carnival she thought that she was an extraordinary creature. But when she saw her eating with her hands, incapable of giving an answer that was not a miracle of simplemindedness, the only thing that she lamented was the fact that the idiots in the family lived so long. In spite of the fact that Colonel Aureliano Buendía kept on believing and repeating that Remedios the Beauty was in reality the most lucid being that he had ever known and that she showed it at every moment with her startling ability to put things over on everyone, they let her go her own way. Remedios the Beauty stayed there wandering through the desert of solitude, bearing no cross on her back, maturing in her dreams without nightmares, her interminable baths, her unscheduled meals, her deep and prolonged silences that had no memory until one afternoon in March, when Fernanda wanted to fold her brabant sheets in the garden and asked the women in the house for help. She had just begun when Amaranta noticed that Remedios the Beauty was covered all over by an intense paleness. 117 “Don’t you feel well?” she asked her. Remedios the Beauty, who was clutching the sheet by the other end, gave a pitying smile. “Quite the opposite,” she said, “I never felt better.” She had just finished saying it when Fernanda felt a delicate wind of light pull the sheets out of her hands and open them up wide. Amaranta felt a mysterious trembling in the lace on her petticoats and she tried to grasp the sheet so that she would not fall down at the instant in which Remedios the Beauty began to rise. Úrsula, almost blind at the time, was the only person who was sufficiently calm to identify the nature of that determined wind and she left the sheets to the mercy of the light as she watched Remedios the Beauty waving good-bye in the midst of the flapping sheets that rose up with her, abandoning with her the environment of beetles and dahlias and passing through the air with her as four o’clock in the afternoon came to an end, and they were lost forever with her in the upper atmosphere where not even the highest-flying birds of memory could reach her. The outsiders, of course, thought that Remedios the Beauty had finally succumbed to her irrevocable fate of a queen bee and that her family was trying to save her honor with that tale of levitation. Fernanda, burning with envy, finally accepted the miracle, and for a long time she kept on praying to God to send her back her sheets. Most people believed in the miracle and they even lighted candles and celebrated novenas. Perhaps there might have been talk of nothing else for a long time if the barbarous extermination of the Aurelianos had not replaced amazement with honor. Although he had never thought of it as an omen, Colonel Aureliano Buendía had foreseen the tragic end of his sons in a certain way. When Aureliano Serrador and Aureliano Arcaya, the two who arrived during the tumult, expressed a wish to stay in Macondo, their father tried to dissuade them. He could not understand what they were going to do in a town that had been transformed into a dangerous place overnight. But Aureliano Centeno and Aureliano Triste, backed by Aureliano Segundo. gave them work in their businesses. Colonel Aureliano Buendía had reasons that were still very confused and were against that determination. When he saw Mr. Brown in the first automobile to reach Macondo—an orange convertible with a horn that frightened dogs with its bark—the old soldier grew indignant with the servile excitement of the people and he realized that something had changed in the makeup of the men since the days when they would leave their wives and children and toss a shotgun on their shoulders to go off to war. The local authorities, after the armistice of Neerlandia, were mayors without initiative, decorative judges picked from among the peaceful and tired Conservatives of Macondo. “This is a regime of wretches,” Colonel Aureliano Buendía would comment when he saw the barefoot policemen armed with wooden clubs pass. “We fought all those wars and all of it just so that we didn’t have to paint our houses blue.” When the banana company arrived, however, the local functionaries were replaced by dictatorial foreigners whom Mr. Brown brought to live in the electrified chicken yard so that they could enjoy, as he explained it, the dignity that their status warranted and so that they would not suffer from the heat and the mosquitoes and the countless discomforts and privations of the town. The old policemen were replaced by hired assassins with machetes. Shut up in his workshop, Colonel Aureliano Buendía thought about those changes and for the first time in his quiet years of solitude he was tormented by the definite certainty that it had been a mistake not to have continued the war to its final conclusion. During that time a brother of the forgotten Colonel Magnífico Visbal was taking his seven-year-old grandson to get a soft drink at one of the pushcarts on the square and because the child accidentally bumped into a corporal of police and spilled the drink on his uniform, the barbarian cut him to pieces with his machete, and with one stroke he cut off the head of the grandfather as he tried to stop him. The whole town saw the decapitated man pass by as a group of men carried him to his house, with a woman dragging the head along by its hair, and the bloody sack with the pieces of the child. 118 For Colonel Aureliano Buendía it meant the limits of atonement. He suddenly found himself suffering from the same indignation that he had felt in his youth over the body of the woman who had been beaten to death because she had been bitten by a rabid dog. He looked at the groups of bystanders in front of the house and with his old stentorian voice, restored by a deep disgust with himself, he unloaded upon them the burden of hate that he could no longer bear in his heart. “One of these days,” he shouted, I’m going to arm my boys so we can get rid of these shitty gringos!” During the course of that week, at different places along the coast, his seventeen sons were hunted down like rabbits by invisible criminals who aimed at the center of their crosses of ash. Aureliano Triste was leaving the house with his mother at seven in the evening when a rifle shot came out of the darkness and perforated his forehead. Aureliano Centeno was found in the hammock that he was accustomed to hang up in the factory with an icepick between his eyebrows driven in up to the handle. Aureliano Serrador had left his girl friend at her parents’ house after having taken her to the movies and was returning through the well-lighted Street of the Turks when someone in the crowd who was never identified fired a revolver shot which knocked him over into a caldron of boiling lard. A few minutes later someone knocked at the door of the room where Aureliano Arcaya was shut up with a woman and shouted to him: “Hurry up, they’re killing your brothers.” The woman who was with him said later that Aureliano Arcaya jumped out of bed and opened the door and was greeted with the discharge of a Mauser that split his head open. On that night of death, while the house was preparing to hold a wake for the four corpses, Fernanda ran through the town like a madwoman looking for Aureliano Segundo, whom Petra Cotes had locked up in a closet, thinking that the order of extermination included all who bore the colonel’s name. She would not let him out until the fourth day, when the telegrams received from different places along the coast made it clear that the fury of the invisible enemy was directed only at the brothers marked with the crosses of ash. Amaranta fetched the ledger where she had written down the facts about her nephews and as the telegrams arrived she drew lines through the names until only that of the eldest remained. They remembered him very well because of the contrast between his dark skin and his green eyes. His name was Aureliano Amador and he was a carpenter, living in a village hidden in the foothills. After waiting two weeks for the telegram telling of his death, Aureliano Segundo sent a messenger to him in order to warn him, thinking that he might not know about the threat that hung over him. The emissary returned with the news that Aureliano Amador was safe. The night of the extermination two men had gone to get him at his house and had shot at him with their revolvers but they had missed the cross of ashes. Aureliano Amador had been able to leap over the wall of the courtyard and was lost in the labyrinth of the mountains, which he knew like the back of his hand thanks to the friendship he maintained with the Indians, from whom he bought wood. Nothing more was heard of him. Those were dark days for Colonel Aureliano Buendía. The president of the republic sent him a telegram of condolence in which he promised an exhaustive investigation and paid homage to the dead men. At his command, the mayor appeared at the services with four funeral wreaths, which he tried to place on the coffins, but the colonel ordered him into the street. After the burial he drew up and personally submitted to the president of the republic a violent telegram, which the telegrapher refused to send. Then he enriched it with terms of singular aggressiveness, put it in an envelope, and mailed it. As had happened with the death of his wife, as had happened to him so many times during the war with the deaths of his best friends, he did not have a feeling of sorrow but a blind and directionless rage, a broad feeling of impotence. He even accused Father Antonio Isabel of complicity for having marked his sons with indelible ashes so that they-could be identified by their enemies. The decrepit priest, who could no longer string ideas together and who was beginning to startle his parishioners with the wild interpretations he gave from the pulpit, appeared one afternoon 119 at the house with the goblet in which he had prepared the ashes that Wednesday and he tried to anoint the whole family with them to show that they could be washed off with water. But the horror of the misfortune had penetrated so deeply that not even Fernanda would let him experiment on her and never again was a Buendía seen to kneel at the altar rail on Ash Wednesday. Colonel Aureliano Buendía did not recover his calm for a long time. He abandoned the manufacture of little fishes, ate with great difficulty, and wandered all through the house as if walking in his sleep, dragging his blanket and chewing on his quiet rage. At the end of three months his hair was ashen, his old waxed mustache poured down beside his colorless lips, but, on the other hand, his eyes were once more the burning coals that had startled those who had seen him born and that in other days had made chairs rock with a simple glance. In the fury of his torment he tried futilely to rouse the omens that had guided his youth along dangerous paths into the desolate wasteland of glory. He was lost, astray in a strange house where nothing and no one now stirred in him the slightest vestige of affection. Once he opened Melquíades’ room, looking for the traces of a past from before the war, and he found only rubble, trash, piles of waste accumulated over all the years of abandonment. Between the covers of the books that no one had ever read again, in the old parchments damaged by dampness, a livid flower had prospered, and in the air that had been the purest and brightest in the house an unbearable smell of rotten memories floated. One morning he found Úrsula weeping under the chestnut tree at the knees of her dead husband. Colonel Aureliano Buendía was the only inhabitant of the house who still did not see the powerful old man who had been beaten down by half a century in the open air. “Say hello to your father,” Úrsula told him. He stopped for an instant in front of the chestnut tree and once again he saw that the empty space before him did not arouse an affection either. “What does he say?” he asked. “He’s very sad,” Úrsula answered, “because he thinks that you’re going to die.” “Tell him,” the colonel said, smiling, “that a person doesn’t die when he should but when he can.” The omen of the, dead father stirred up the last remnant of pride that was left in his heart, but he confused it with a sudden gust of strength. It was for that reason that he hounded Úrsula to tell him where in the courtyard the gold coins that they had found inside the plaster Saint Joseph were buried. “You’ll never know,” she told him with a firmness inspired by an old lesson. “One day,” she added, “the owner of that fortune will appear and only he can dig it up.” No one knew why a man who had always been so generous had begun to covet money with such anxiety, and not the modest amounts that would have been enough to resolve an emergency, but a fortune of such mad size that the mere mention of it left Aureliano Segundo awash in amazement. His old fellow party members, to whom he went asking for help, hid so as not to receive him. It was around that time that he was heard to say. “The only difference today between Liberals and Conservatives is that the Liberals go to mass at five o’clock and the Conservatives at eight.” Nevertheless he insisted with such perseverance, begged in such a way, broke his code of dignity to such a degree, that with a little help from here and a little more from there, sneaking about everywhere, with a slippery diligence and a pitiless perseverance, he managed to put together in eight months more money than Úrsula had buried. Then he visited the ailing Colonel Gerineldo Márquez so that he would help him start the total war. At a certain time Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was really the only one who could have pulled, even from his paralytics chair, the musty strings of rebellion. After the armistice of Neerlandia, while Colonel Aureliano Buendía took refuge with his little gold fishes, he kept in touch with the rebel officers who had been faithful to him until the defeat. With them he waged the sad war of daily humiliation, of entreaties and petitions, of come-back-tomorrow, of any-time-now, of we’restudying-your-case-with-the-proper-attention; the war hopelessly lost against the many yours-most120 trulys who should have signed and would never sign the lifetime pensions. The other war, the bloody one of twenty years, did not cause them as much damage as the corrosive war of eternal postponements. Even Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, who escaped three attempts on his life, survived five wounds, and emerged unscathed from innumerable battles, succumbed to that atrocious siege of waiting and sank into the miserable defeat of old age, thinking of Amaranta among the diamondshaped patches of light in a borrowed house. The last veterans of whom he had word had appeared photographed in a newspaper with their faces shamelessly raised beside an anonymous president of the republic who gave them buttons with his likeness on them to wear in their lapels and returned to them a flag soiled with blood and gunpowder so that they could place it on their coffins. The others, more honorable. were still waiting for a letter in the shadow of public charity, dying of hunger, living through rage, ratting of old age amid the exquisite shit of glory. So that when Colonel Aureliano Buendía invited him to start a mortal conflagration that would wipe out all vestiges of a regime of corruption and scandal backed by the foreign invader, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez could not hold back a shudder of compassion. “Oh, Aureliano,” he sighed. “I already knew that you were old, but now I realize that you’re a lot older than you look.” 121 Chapter 13 IN THE BEWILDERMENT of her last years, Úrsula had had very little free time to attend to the papal education of José Arcadio, and the time came for him to get ready to leave for the seminary right away. Meme, his sister, dividing her time between Fernanda’s rigidity and Amaranta’s bitterness, at almost the same moment reached the age set for her to be sent to the nuns’ school, where they would make a virtuoso on the clavichord of her. Úrsula felt tormented by grave doubts concerning the effectiveness of the methods with which she had molded the spirit of the languid apprentice Supreme Pontiff, but she did not put the blame on her staggering old age or the dark clouds that barely permitted her to make out the shape of things, but on something that she herself could not really define and that she conceived confusedly as a progressive breakdown of time. “The years nowadays don’t pass the way the old ones used to,” she would say, feeling that everyday reality was slipping through her hands. In the past, she thought, children took a long time to grow up. All one had to do was remember all the time needed for José Arcadio, the elder, to go away with the gypsies and all that happened before he came back painted like a snake and talking like an astronomer, and the things that happened in the house before Amaranta and Arcadio forgot the language of the Indians and learned Spanish. One had to see only the days of sun and dew that poor José Arcadio Buendía went through under the chestnut tree and all the time weeded to mourn his death before they brought in a dying Colonel Aureliano Buendía, who after so much war and so much suffering from it was still not fifty years of age. In other times, after spending the whole day making candy animals, she had more than enough time for the children, to see from the whites of their eyes that they needed a dose of castor oil. Now, however, when she had nothing to do and would go about with José Arcadio riding on her hip from dawn to dusk, this bad kind of time compelled her to leave things half done. The truth was that Úrsula resisted growing old even when she had already lost count of her age and she was a bother on all sides as she tried to meddle in everything and as she annoyed strangers with her questions as to whether they had left a plaster Saint Joseph to be kept until the rains were over during the days of the war. No one knew exactly when she had begun to lose her sight. Even in her later years, when she could no longer get out of bed, it seemed that she was simply defeated by decrepitude, but no one discovered that she was blind. She had noticed it before the birth of José Arcadio. At first she thought it was a matter of a passing debility and she secretly took marrow syrup and put honey on her eyes, but quite soon she began to realize that she was irrevocably sinking into the darkness, to a point where she never had a clear notion of the invention of the electric light, for when they put in the first bulbs she was only able to perceive the glow. She did not tell anyone about it because it would have been a public recognition of her uselessness. She concentrated on a silent schooling in the distances of things and peoples voices, so that she would still be able to see with her memory what the shadows of her cataracts no longer allowed her to. Later on she was to discover the unforeseen help of odors, which were defined in the shadows with a strength that was much more convincing than that of bulk and color, and which saved her finally from the shame of admitting defeat. In the darkness of the room she was able to thread a needle and sew a buttonhole and she knew when the milk was about to boil. She knew with so much certainty the location of everything that she herself forgot that she was blind at times. On one occasion Fernanda had the whole house upset because she had lost her wedding ring, and Úrsula found it on a shelf in the children’s bedroom. Quite simply, while the others were going carelessly all about, she watched them with her four senses so that they never took her by surprise, and after some time she discovered that every member of the family, without realizing it, repeated the same path every day, the same actions, and almost repeated the same words at the same hour. 122 Only when they deviated from meticulous routine did they run the risk of losing something. So when she heard Fernanda all upset be cause she had lost her ring, Úrsula remembered that the only thing different that she had done that day was to put the mattresses out in the sun because Meme had found a bedbug the might before. Since the children had been present at the fumigation, Úrsula figured that Fernanda had put the ring in the only place where they could not reach it: the shelf. Fernanda, on the other hand, looked for it in vain along the paths of her everyday itinerary without knowing that the search for lost things is hindered by routine habits and that is why it is so difficult to find them. The rearing of José Arcadio helped Úrsula in the exhausting task of keeping herself up to date on the smallest changes in the house. When she realized that Amaranta was dressing the saints in the bedroom she pretended to show the boy the differences in the colors. “Let’s see,” she would tell him. “Tell me what color the Archangel Raphael is wearing.” In that way the child gave her the information that was denied her by her eyes, and long before he went away to the seminary Úrsula could already distinguish the different colors of the saints’ clothing by the texture. Sometimes unforeseen accidents would happen. One afternoon when Amaranta was ‘embroidering on the porch with the begonias Úrsula bumped into her. “For heaven’s sake,” Amaranta protested. “watch where you’re going.” “It’s your fault,” Úrsula said. “You’re not sitting where you’re supposed to.” She was sure of it. But that day she began to realize something that no one had noticed and it was that with the passage of the year the sun imperceptibly changed position and those who sat on the porch had to change their position little by little without being aware of it. From then on Úrsula had only to remember the date in order to know exactly where Amaranta was sitting. Even though the trembling of her hands was more and more noticeable and the weight of her feet was too much for her, her small figure was never seen in so many places at the same time. She was almost as diligent as when she had the whole weight of the house on her shoulders. Nevertheless, in the impenetrable solitude of decrepitude she had such clairvoyance as she examined the most insignificant happenings in the family that for the first time she saw clearly the truths that her busy life in former times had prevented her from seeing. Around the time they were preparing José Arcadio for the seminary she had already made a detailed recapitulation of life in the house since the founding of Macondo and had completely changed the opinion that she had always held of her descendants. She realized that Colonel Aureliano Buendía had not lost his love for the family because he had been hardened by the war, as she had thought before, but that he had never loved anyone, not even his wife Remedios or the countless one-night women who had passed through his life, and much less his sons. She sensed that he had fought so many wars not out of idealism, as everyone had thought, nor had he renounced a certain victory because of fatigue, as everyone had thought, but that he had won and lost for the same reason, pure and sinful pride. She reached the conclusion that the son for whom she would have given her life was simply a man incapable of love. One night when she was carrying him in her belly she heard him weeping. It was such a definite lament that José Arcadio Buendía woke up beside her and was happy with the idea that his son was going to be a ventriloquist. Other people predicted that he would be a prophet. She, on the other hand, shuddered from the certainty that the deep moan was a first indication of the fearful pig tail and she begged God to let the child die in her womb. But the lucidity of her old age allowed her to see, and she said so many times, that the cries of children in their mothers’ wombs are not announcements of ventriloquism or a faculty for prophecy but an unmistakable sign of an incapacity for love. The lowering of the image of her son brought out in her all at once all the compassion that she owed him. Amaranta, however, whose hardness of heart frightened her, whose concentrated bitterness made her bitter, suddenly became clear to her in the final analysis as the most tender woman who had ever existed, and she understood with pitying clarity that the unjust tortures to which she had submitted Pietro Crespi had not been 123 dictated by a desire for vengeance, as everyone had thought, nor had the slow martyrdom with which she had frustrated the life of Colonel Gerineldo Márquez been determined by the gall of her bitterness, as everyone had thought, but that both actions had been a mortal struggle between a measureless love and an invincible cowardice, and that the irrational fear that Amaranta had always had of her own tormented heart had triumphed in the end. It was during that time that Úrsula, began to speak Rebeca’s name, bringing back the memory of her with an old love that was exalted by tardy repentance and a sudden admiration, coming to understand that only she, Rebeca, the one who had never fed of her milk but only of the earth of the land and the whiteness of the walls, the one who did not carry the blood of her veins in hers but the unknown blood of the strangers whose bones were still clocing in their grave. Rebeca, the one with an impatient heart, the one with a fierce womb, was the only one who bad the unbridled courage that Úrsula had wanted for her line. “Rebeca,” she would say, feeling along the walls, “how unfair we’ve been to you!” In the house they simply thought that her mind was wandering, especially since the time she had begun walking about with her right arm raised like the Archangel Gabriel. Fernanda, however, realized that there was a sun of clairvoyance in the shadows of that wandering, for Úrsula could say without hesitation how much money had been spent in the house during the previous year. Amaranta had a similar idea one day as her mother was stirring a pot of soup in the kitchen and said all at once without knowing that they were listening to her that the corn grinder they had bought from the first gypsies and that had disappeared during the time before José Arcadio, had taken his sixty-five trips around the world was still in Pilar Ternera’s house. Also almost a hundred years old, but fit and agile in spite of her inconceivable fatness, which frightened children as her laughter had frightened the doves in other times, Pilar Ternera was not surprised that Úrsula was correct because her own experience was beginning to tell her that an alert old age can be more keen than the cards. Nevertheless, when Úrsula realized that she had not had enough time to consolidate the vocation of José Arcadio, she let herself be disturbed by consternation. She began to make mistakes, trying to see with her eyes the things that intuition allowed her to see with greater clarity. One morning she poured the contents of an inkwell over the boy’s head thinking that it was rose water. She stumbled so much in her insistence in taking part in everything that she felt herself upset by gusts of bad humor and she tried to get rid of the shadows that were beginning to wrap her in a straitjacket of cobwebs. It was then that it occurred to her that her clumsiness was not the first victory of decrepitude and darkness but a sentence passed by time. She thought that previously, when God did not make the same traps out of the months and years that the Turks used when they measured a yard of percale, things were different. Now children not only grew faster, but even feelings developed in a different way. No sooner had Remedios the Beauty ascended to heaven in body and soul than the inconsiderate Fernanda was going about mumbling to herself because her sheets had been carried off. The bodies of the Aurelianos were no sooner cold in their graves than Aureliano Segundo had the house lighted up again, filled with drunkards playing the accordion and dousing themselves in champagne, as if dogs and not Christians had died, and as if that madhouse which had cost her so many headaches and so many candy animals was destined to become a trash heap of perdition. Remembering those things as she prepared José Arcadio’s trunk, Úrsula wondered if it was not preferable to lie down once and for all in her grave and let them throw the earth over her, and she asked God, without fear, if he really believed that people were made of iron in order to bear so many troubles and mortifications, and asking over and over she was stirring up her own confusion and she felt irrepressible desires to let herself go and scamper about like a foreigner and allow herself at last an instant of rebellion, that instant yearned for so many times and so many times postponed, putting her resignation aside and shitting on everything once and for all and drawing out of her heart the infinite stacks of bad words that she had been forced to swallow over a century of conformity. 124 “Shit!” she shouted. Amaranta, who was starting to put the clothes into the trunk, thought that she had been bitten by a scorpion. “Where is it?” she asked in alarm. “What?” “The bug!” Amaranta said. Úrsula put a finger on her heart. “Here,” she said. On Thursday, at two in the afternoon, José Arcadio left for the seminary. ‘Úrsula would remember him always as she said good-bye to him, languid and serious, without shedding a tear, as she had taught him, sweltering in the heat in the green corduroy suit with copper buttons and a starched bow around his neck. He left the dining room impregnated with the penetrating fragrance of rose water that she had sprinkled on his head so that she could follow his tracks through the house. While the farewell lunch was going on, the family concealed its nervousness with festive expressions and they celebrated with exaggerated enthusiasm the remarks that Father Antonio Isabel made. But when they took out the trunk bound in velvet and with silver corners, it was as if they had taken a coffin out of the house. The only one who refused to take part in the farewell was Colonel Aureliano Buendía. “That’s all we need,” he muttered. “A Pope!” Three months later Aureliano Segundo and Fernanda took Meme to school and came back with a clavichord, which took the place of the pianola. It was around that time that Amaranta started sewing her own shroud. The banana fever had calmed down. The old inhabitants of Macondo found themselves surrounded by newcomers and working hard to cling to their precarious resources of times gone by, but comforted in any case by the sense that they had survived a shipwreck. In the house they still had guests for lunch and the old routine was never really set up again until the banana company left years later. Nevertheless, there were radical changes in the traditional sense of hospitality because at that time it was Fernanda who imposed her rules. With Úrsula relegated to the shadows and with Amaranta absorbed In the work of her winding cloth, the former apprentice queen had the freedom to choose the guests and impose on them the rigid norms that her parents had taught her. Her severity made the house a redoubt of old customs in a town convulsed by the vulgarity with which the outsiders squandered their easy fortunes. For her, with no further questions asked, proper people were those who had nothing to do with the banana company. Even José Arcadio Segundo, her brother-in-law, was the victim of her discriminatory jealousy because during the excitement of the first days he gave up his stupendous fighting cocks again and took a job as foreman with the banana company. “He won’t ever come into this house again,” Fernanda said, “as long as he carries the rash of the foreigners.” Such was the narrowness imposed in the house that Aureliano Segundo felt more comfortable at Petra Cotes’s. First, with the pretext of taking the burden off his wife, he transferred his parties. Then, with the pretext that the animals were losing their fertility, he transferred his barns and stables. Finally, with the pretext that it was cooler in his concubine’s house, he transferred the small office in which he handled his business. When Fernanda realized that she was a widow whose husband had still not died, it was already too late for things to return to their former state. Aureliano Segundo barely ate at home and the only appearances he put in, such as to sleep with his wife, were not enough to convince anyone. One night, out of carelessness, morning found him in Petra Cotes’s bed. Fernanda, contrary to expectations, did not reproach him in the least or give the slightest sigh of resentment, but on the same day she sent two trunks with his clothing to the house of his concubine. She sent them in broad daylight and with instructions that they be carried through the 125 middle of the street so that everyone could see them, thinking that her straying husband would be unable to bear the shame and would return to the fold with his head hung low. But that heroic gesture was just one more proof of how poorly Fernanda knew not only the character of her husband but the character of a community that had nothing to do with that of her parents, for everyone who saw the trunks pass by said that it was the natural culmination of a story whose intimacies were known to everyone, and Aureliano Segundo celebrated the freedom he had received with a party that lasted for three days. To the greater disadvantage of his wife, as she was entering into a sad maturity with her somber long dresses, her old-fashioned medals, and her out-of-place pride, the concubine seemed to be bursting with a second youth, clothed in gaudy dresses of natural silk and with her eyes tiger-striped with a glow of vindication. Aureliano Segundo gave himself over to her again with the fury of adolescence, as before, when Petra Cotes had not loved him for himself but because she had him mixed up with his twin brother and as she slept with both of them at the same time she thought that God had given her the good fortune of having a man who could make love like two. The restored passion was so pressing that on more than one occasion they would look each other in the eyes as they were getting ready to eat and without saying anything they would cover their plates and go into the bedroom dying of hunger and of love. Inspired by the things he had seen on his furtive visits to the French matrons, Aureliano Segundo bought Petra Cotes a bed with an archiepiscopal canopy, put velvet curtains on the windows, and covered the ceiling and the walls of the bedroom with large rock-crystal mirrors. At the same time he was more of a carouser and spendthrift than ever. On the train, which arrived every day at eleven o’clock, he would receive cases and more cases of champagne and brandy. On the way back from the station he would drag the improvised cumbiamba along in full view of all the people on the way, natives or outsiders, acquaintances or people yet to be known, without distinctions of any kind. Even the slippery Mr. Brown, who talked only in a strange tongue, let himself be seduced by the tempting signs that Aureliano Segundo made him and several times he got dead drunk in Petra Cotes’s house and he even made the fierce German shepherd dogs that went everywhere with him dance to some Texas songs that he himself mumbled in one way or another to the accompaniment of the accordion. “Cease, cows,” Aureliano Segundo shouted at the height of the party. “Cease, because life is short.” He never looked better, nor had he been loved more, nor had the breeding of his animals been wilder. There was a slaughtering of so many cows, pigs, and chickens for the endless parties that the ground in the courtyard turned black and muddy with so much blood. It was an eternal execution ground of bones and innards, a mud pit of leftovers, and they had to keep exploding dynamite bombs all the time so that the buzzards would not pluck out the guests’ eyes. Aureliano Segundo grew fat, purple-colored, turtle-shaped, because of an appetite comparable only to that of José Arcadio when he came back from traveling around the world. The prestige of his outlandish voracity, of his immense capacity as a spendthrift, of his unprecedented hospitality went beyond the borders of the swamp and attracted the best-qualified gluttons from all along the coast. Fabulous eaters arrived from everywhere to take part in the irrational tourneys of capacity and resistance that were organized in the house of Petra Cotes. Aureliano Segundo was the unconquered eater until the luckless Saturday when Camila Sagastume appeared, a totemic female known all through the land by the good name of “The Elephant.” The duel lasted until dawn on Tuesday. During the first twentyfour hours, having dispatched a dinner of veal, with cassava, yams, and fried bananas, and a case and a half of champagne in addition, Aureliano Segundo was sure of victory. He seemed more enthusiastic, more vital than his imperturbable adversary, who possessed a style that was obviously more professional, but at the same time less emotional for the large crowd that filled the house. While Aureliano Segundo ate with great bites, overcome by the anxiety of victory, The Elephant was slicing her meat with the art of a surgeon and eating it unhurriedly and even with a certain pleasure. 126 She was gigantic and sturdy, but over her colossal form a tenderness of femininity prevailed and she had a face that was so beautiful, hands so fine and well cared for, and such an irresistible personal charm that when Aureliano Segundo saw her enter the house he commented in a low voice that he would have preferred to have the tourney in bed and not at the table. Later on, when he saw her consume a side of veal without breaking a single rule of good table manners, he commented seriously that that delicate, fascinating, and insatiable proboscidian was in a certain way the ideal woman. He was not mistaken. The reputation of a bone crusher that had preceded The Elephant had no basis. She was not a beef cruncher or a bearded lady from a Greek circus, as had been said, but the director of a school of voice. She had learned to eat when she was already the respectable mother of a family, looking for a way for her children to eat better and not by means of any artificial stimulation of their appetites but through the absolute tranquility of their spirits. Her theory, demonstrated in practice, was based on the principle that a person who had all matters of conscience in perfect shape should be able to eat until overcome by fatigue. And it was for moral reasons and sporting interest that she left her school and her home to compete with a man whose fame as a great, unprincipled eater had spread throughout the country. From the first moment she saw him she saw that Aureliano Segundo would lose not his stomach but his character. At the end of the first night, while The Elephant was boldly going on, Aureliano Segundo was wearing himself out with a great deal of talking and laughing. They slept four hours. On awakening each one had the juice of forty oranges, eight quarts of coffee, and thirty raw eggs. On the second morning, after many hours without sleep and having put away two pigs, a bunch of bananas, and four cases of champagne, The Elephant suspected that Aureliano Segundo had unknowingly discovered the same method as hers, but by the absurd route of total irresponsibility. He was, therefore, more dangerous than she had thought. Nevertheless, when Petra Cotes brought two roast turkeys to the table, Aureliano Segundo was a step away from being stuffed. “If you can’t, don’t eat any more,” The Elephant said to him. “Let’s call it a tie.” She said it from her heart, understanding that she could not eat another mouthful either, out of remorse for bringing on the death of her adversary. But Aureliano Segundo interpreted it as another challenge and he filled himself with turkey beyond his incredible capacity. He lost consciousness. He fell face down into the plate filled with bones, frothing at the mouth like a dog, and drowning in moans of agony. He felt, in the midst of the darkness, that they were throwing him from the top of a tower into a bottomless pit and in a last flash of consciousness he realized that at the end of that endless fall death was waiting for him. “Take me to Fernanda,” he managed to say. His friends left him at the house thinking that they had helped him fulfill his promise to his wife not to die in his concubine’s bed. Petra Cotes had shined his patent leather boots that he wanted to wear in his coffin, and she was already looking for someone to take them when they came to tell her that Aureliano Segundo was out of danger. He did recover, indeed, in less than a week, and two weeks later he was celebrating the fact of his survival with unprecedented festivities. He continued living at Petra Cotes’s but he would visit Fernanda every day and sometimes he would stay to eat with the family, as if fate had reversed the situation and had made him the husband of his concubine and the lover of his wife. It was a rest for Fernanda. During the boredom of her abandonment her only distractions were the clavichord lessons at siesta time and the letters from her children. In the detailed messages that she sent them every two weeks there was not a single line of truth. She hid her troubles from them. She hid from them the sadness of a house which, in spite of the light on the begonias, in spite of the heaviness at two in the afternoon, in spite of the frequent waves of festivals that came in from the street was more and more like the colonial mansion of her parents. Fernanda would wander alone among the three living ghosts and the dead ghost of José Arcadio Buendía, who at times would 127 come to sit down with an inquisitive attention in the half-light of the parlor while she was playing the clavichord. Colonel Aureliano Buendía was a shadow. Since the last time that he had gone out into the street to propose a war without any future to Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, he left the workshop only to urinate under the chestnut tree. He did not receive any visits except that of the barber every three weeks, He fed on anything that Úrsula brought him once a day, and even though he kept on making little gold fishes with the same passion as before, he stopped selling them when he found out that people were buying them not as pieces of jewelry but as historic relics. He made a bonfire in the courtyard of the dolls of Remedios which had decorated, their bedroom since their wedding. The watchful Úrsula realized what her son was doing but she could not stop him. “You have a heart of stone,” she told him. “It’s not a question of a heart,” he said. “The room’s getting full of moths.” Amaranta was weaving her shroud. Fernanda did not understand why she would write occasional letters to Meme and even send her gifts and on the other hand did not even want to hear about José Arcadio. “They’ll die without knowing why,” Amaranta answered when she was asked through Úrsula, and that answer planted an enigma in Fernanda’s heart that she was never able to clarify. Tall, broad-shouldered, proud, always dressed in abundant petticoats with the lace and in air of distinction that resisted the years and bad memories, Amaranta seemed to carry the cross of ashes of virginity on her forehead. In reality she carried it on her hand in the black bandage, which she did not take off even to sleep and which she washed and ironed herself. Her life was spent in weaving her shroud. It might have been said that she wove during the day and unwove during the night, and not with any hope of defeating solitude in that way, but, quite the contrary, in order to nurture it. The greatest worry that Fernanda had during her years of abandonment was that Meme would come to spend her first vacation and not find Aureliano Segundo at home. His congestion had put an end to that fear. When Meme returned, her parents had made an agreement that not only would the girl think that Aureliano Segundo was still a domesticated husband but also that she would not notice the sadness of the house. Every year for two months Aureliano Segundo played his role of an exemplary husband and he organized parties with ice cream and cookies which the gay and lively schoolgirl enhanced with the clavichord. It was obvious from then on that she had inherited very little of her mother’s character. She seemed more of a second version of Amaranta when the latter had not known bitterness and was arousing the house with her dance steps at the age of twelve or fourteen before her secret passion for Pietro Crespi was to twist the direction of her heart in the end. But unlike Amaranta, unlike all of them, Meme still did not reveal the solitary fate of the family and she seemed entirely in conformity with the world, even when she would shut herself up in the parlor at two in the afternoon to practice the clavichord with an inflexible discipline. It was obvious that she liked the house, that she spent the whole year dreaming about the excitement of the young people her arrival brought around, and that she was not far removed from the festive vocation and hospitable excesses of her father. The first sign of that calamitous inheritance was revealed on her third vacation, when Meme appeared at the house with four nuns and sixty-eight classmates whom she had invited to spend a week with her family on her own Initiative and without any previous warning. “How awful!” Fernanda lamented. “This child is as much of a barbarian as her father!” It was necessary to borrow beds and hammocks from the neighbors, to set up nine shifts at the table, to fix hours for bathing, and to borrow forty stools so that the girls in blue uniforms with masculine buttons would not spend the whole day running from one place to another. The visit was a failure because the noisy schoolgirls would scarcely finish breakfast before they had to start taking turns for lunch and then for dinner, and for the whole week they were able to take only one walk through the plantations. At nightfall the nuns were exhausted, unable to move, give another order, and still the troop of tireless adolescents was in the courtyard singing school songs out of tune. One 128 day they were on the point of trampling Úrsula, who made an effort to be useful precisely where she was most in the way. On another day the nuns got all excited because Colonel Aureliano Buendía had urinated under the chestnut tree without being concerned that the schoolgirls were in the courtyard. Amaranta was on the point of causing panic because one of the nuns went into the kitchen as she was salting the soup and the only thing that occurred to her to say was to ask what those handfuls of white powder were. “Arsenic,” Amaranta answered. The night of their arrival the students carried on in such a way, trying to go to the bathroom before they went to bed, that at one o’clock in the morning the last ones were still going in. Fernanda then bought seventy-two chamberpots but she only managed to change the nocturnal problem into a morning one, because from dawn on there was a long line of girls, each with her pot in her hand, waiting for her turn to wash it. Although some of them suffered fevers and several of them were infected by mosquito bites, most of them showed an unbreakable resistance as they faced the most troublesome difficulties, and even at the time of the greatest heat they would scamper through the garden. When they finally left, the flowers were destroyed, the furniture broken, and the walls covered with drawings and writing, but Fernanda pardoned them for all of the damage because of her relief at their leaving. She returned the borrowed beds and stools and kept the seventy-two chamberpots in Melquíades’ room. The locked room, about which the spiritual life of the house revolved in former times, was known from that time on as the “chamberpot room.” For Colonel Aureliano Buendía it was the most appropriate name, because while the rest of the family was still amazed by the fact that Melquíades’ room was immune to dust and destruction, he saw it turned into a dunghill. In any case, it did not seem to bother him who was correct, and if he found out about the fate of the room it was because Fernanda kept passing by and disturbing his work for a whole afternoon as she put away the chamberpots. During those days José Arcadio Segundo reappeared in the house. He went along the porch without greeting anyone and he shut himself up in the workshop to talk to the colonel. In spite of the fact that she could not see him, Úrsula analyzed the clicking of his foreman’s boots and was surprised at the unbridgeable distance that separated him from the family, even from the twin brother with whom he had played ingenious games of confusion in childhood and with whom he no longer had any traits in common. He was linear, solemn, and had a pensive air and the sadness of a Saracen and a mournful glow on his face that was the color of autumn. He was the one who most resembled his mother, Santa Sofía de la Piedad. Úrsula reproached herself for the habit of forgetting about him when she spoke about the family, but when she sensed him in the house again and noticed that the colonel let him into the workshop during working hours, she reexamined her old memories and confirmed the belief that at some moment in childhood he had changed places with his twin brother, because it was he and not the other one who should have been called Aureliano. No one knew the details of his life. At one time it was discovered that he had no fixed abode, that he raised fighting cocks at Pilar Ternera’s house and that sometimes he would stay there to sleep but that he almost always spent the night in the rooms of the French matrons. He drifted about, with no ties of affection, with no ambitions, like a wandering star in Úrsula’s planetary system. In reality, José Arcadio Segundo was not a member of the family, nor would he ever be of any other since that distant dawn when Colonel Gerineldo Márquez took him to the barracks, not so that he could see an execution, but so that for the rest of his life he would never forget the sad and somewhat mocking smile of the man being shot. That was not only his oldest memory, but the only one he had of his childhood. The other one, that of an old man with an old-fashioned vest and a hat with a brim like a crow’s wings who told him marvelous things framed in a dazzling window, he was unable to place in any period. It was an uncertain memory, entirely devoid of lessons or nostalgia, the opposite of the memory of the executed man, which had really set the direction of his life and 129 would return to his memory clearer and dearer as he grew older, as if the passage of time were bringing him closer to it. Úrsula tried to use José Arcadio Segundo to get Colonel Aureliano Buendía. to give up his imprisonment. “Get him to go to the movies,” she said to him. “Even if he doesn’t like the picture, as least he’ll breathe a little fresh air.” But it did not take her long to realize that he was as insensible to her begging as the colonel would have been, and that they were armored by the same impermeability of affection. Although she never knew, nor did anyone know, what they spoke about in their prolonged sessions shut up in the workshop, she understood that they were probably the only members of the family who seemed drawn together by some affinity. The truth is that not even José Arcadio Segundo would have been able to draw the colonel out of his confinement. The invasion of schoolgirls had lowered the limits of his patience. With the pretext that his wedding bedroom was at the mercy of the moths in spite of the destruction of Remedios’ appetizing dolls, he hung a hammock in the workshop and then he would leave it only to go into the courtyard to take care of his necessities. Úrsula was unable to string together even a trivial conversation with him. She knew that he did not look at the dishes of food but would put them at one end of his workbench while he finished a little fish and it did not matter to him if the soup curdled or if the meat got cold. He grew harder and harder ever since Colonel Gerineldo Márquez refused to back him up in a senile war. He locked himself up inside himself and the family finally thought of him is if he were dead. No other human reaction was seen in him until one October eleventh, when he went to the. street door to watch a circus parade. For Colonel Aureliano Buendía it had been a day just like all those of his last years. At five o’clock in the morning the noise of the toads and crickets outside the wall woke him up. The drizzle had persisted since Saturday and there was no necessity for him to hear their tiny whispering among the leaves of the garden because he would have felt the cold in his bones in any case. He was, as always, wrapped in his woolen blanket and wearing his crude cotton long drawers, which he still wore for comfort, even though because of their musty, old-fashioned style he called them his “Goth drawers.” He put on his tight pants but did not button them up, nor did he put the gold button into his shirt collar as he always did, because he planned to take a bath. Then he put the blanket over his head like a cowl. brushed his dripping mustache with his fingers, and went to urinate in the courtyard. There was still so much time left for the sun to come out that José Arcadio Buendía was still dozing under the shelter of palm fronds that had been rotted by the rain. He did not see him, as he had never seen him, nor did he hear the incomprehensible phrase that the ghost of his father addressed to him as he awakened, startled by the stream of hot urine that splattered his shoes. He put the bath off for later, not because of the cold and the dampness, but because of the oppressive October mist. On his way back to the workshop he noticed the odor of the wick that Santa Sofía de la Piedad was using to light the stoves, and he waited in the kitchen for the coffee to boil so that he could take along his mug without sugar. Santa Sofía de la Piedad asked him, as on every morning, what day of the week it was, and he answered that it was Tuesday, October eleventh. Watching the glow of the fire as it gilded the persistent woman who neither then nor in any instant of her life seemed to exist completely, he suddenly remembered that on one October eleventh in the middle of the war he had awakened with the brutal certainty that the woman with whom he had slept was dead. She really was and he could not forget the date because she had asked him an hour before what day it was. In spite of the memory he did not have an awareness this time either of to what degree his omens had abandoned him and while the coffee was boiling he kept on thinking out of pure curiosity but without the slightest risk of nostalgia about the woman whose name he had never known and whose face he had not seen because she had stumbled to his hammock in the dark. Nevertheless, in the emptiness of so many women who came into his life in the same way, he did not remember that she was the one who in the delirium of that first meeting was on the point of foundering in her own tears and scarcely an hour before her death had sworn to love him until she died. He did not think about her 130 again or about any of the others after he went into the workshop with the steaming cup, and he lighted the lamp in order to count the little gold fishes, which he kept in a tin pail. There were seventeen of them. Since he had decided not to sell any, he kept on making two fishes a day and when he finished twenty-five he would melt them down and start all over again. He worked all morning, absorbed, without thinking about anything, without realizing that at ten o’clock the rain had grown stronger and someone ran past the workshop shouting to close the doors before the house was flooded, and without thinking even about himself until Úrsula came in with his lunch and turned out the light. “What a rain!” Úrsula said. “October,” he said. When he said it he did not raise his eyes from the first little fish of the day because he was putting in the rubies for the eyes. Only when he finished it and put it with the others in the pail did he begin to drink the soup. Then, very slowly, he ate the piece of meat roasted with onions, the white rice, and the slices of fried bananas all on the same plate together. His appetite did not change under either the best or the harshest of circumstances. After lunch he felt the drowsiness of inactivity. Because of a kind of scientific superstition he never worked, or read, or bathed, or made love until two hours of digestion had gone by, and it was such a deep-rooted belief that several times he held up military operations so as not to submit the troops to the risks of indigestion. So he lay down in the hammock, removing the wax from his ears with a penknife, and in a few minutes he was asleep. He dreamed that he was going into an empty house with white walls and that he was upset by the burden of being the first human being to enter it. In the dream he remembered that he had dreamed the same thing the night before and on many nights over the past years and he knew that the image would be erased from his memory when he awakened because that recurrent dream had the quality of not being remembered except within the dream itself. A moment later, indeed, when the barber knocked at the workshop door, Colonel Aureliano Buendía awoke with the impression that he had fallen asleep involuntarily for a few seconds and that he had not had time to dream anything. “Not today.” he told the barber. “We’ll make it on Friday.” He had a three-day beard speckled with white hairs, but he did not think it necessary to shave because on Friday he was going to have his hair cut and it could all be done at the same time. The sticky sweat of the unwanted siesta aroused the scars of the sores in his armpits. The sky had cleared but the sun had not come out. Colonel Aureliano Buendía released a sonorous belch which brought back the acidity of the soup to his palate and which was like a command from his organism to throw his blanket over his shoulders and go to the toilet. He stayed there longer than was necessary, crouched over the dense fermentation that was coming out of the wooden box until habit told him that it was time to start work again. During the time he lingered he remembered again that it was Tuesday, and that José Arcadio Segundo had not come to the workshop because it was payday on the banana company farms. That recollection, as all of those of the past few years, led him to think about the war without his realizing it. He remembered that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez had once promised to get him a horse with a white star on its face and that he had never spoken about it again. Then he went on toward scattered episodes but he brought them back without any judgment because since he could not think about anything else, he had learned to think coldly so that inescapable memories would not touch any feeling. On his way back to the workshop, seeing that the air was beginning to dry out, he decided that it was a good time to take a bath, but Amaranta had got there ahead of him. So he started on the second little fish of the day. He was putting a hook on the tail when the sun came out with such strength that the light creaked like a fishing boat. The air, which had been washed by the three-day drizzle, was filled with flying ants. Then he came to the realization that he felt like urinating and he had been putting it off until he had finished fixing the little fish. He went out into the courtyard at ten minutes after four, when he heard the distant brass 131 instruments, the beating of the bass drum and the shouting of the children, and for the first time since his youth he knowingly fell into a trap of nostalgia and relived that prodigious afternoon Of the gypsies when his father took him to see ice. Santa Sofía de la Piedad dropped what she was doing in the kitchen and ran to the door. “It’s the circus,” she shouted. Instead of going to the chestnut tree, Colonel Aureliano Buendía also went to the street door and mingled with the bystanders who, were watching the parade. He saw a woman dressed in gold sitting on the head of an elephant. He saw a sad dromedary. He saw a bear dressed like a Dutch girl keeping time to the music with a soup spoon and a pan. He saw the clowns doing cartwheels at the end of the parade and once more he saw the face of his miserable solitude when everything had passed by and there was nothing but the bright expanse of the street and the air full of flying ants with a few onlookers peering into the precipice of uncertainty. Then he went to the chestnut tree, thinking about the circus, and while he urinated he tried to keep on thinking about the circus, but he could no longer find the memory. He pulled his head in between his shoulders like a baby chick and remained motionless with his forehead against the trunk of the chestnut tree. The family did not find him until the following day at eleven o’clock in the morning when Santa Sofía de la Piedad went to throw out the garbage in back and her attention was attracted by the descending vultures. 132 Chapter 14 MEME’S LAST VACATIONS coincided with the period of mourning for Colonel Aureliano Buendía. The shuttered house was no place for parties. They spoke in whispers, ate in silence, recited the rosary three times a day, and even clavichord practice during the heat of siesta time had a funereal echo. In spite of her secret hostility toward the colonel, it was Fernanda who imposed the rigor of that mourning, impressed by the solemnity with which the government exalted the memory of its dead enemy. Aureliano Segundo, as was his custom came back to sleep in the house during his daughter’s vacation and Fernanda must have done some. thing to regain her privileges as his legitimate wife because the following year Meme found a newborn little sister who against the wishes of her mother had been baptized with the name Amaranta Úrsula. Meme had finished her course of study. The diploma that certified her as a concert clavichordist was ratified by the virtuosity with which she executed popular melodies of the seventeenth century at the gathering organized to celebrate the completion of her studies and with which the period of mourning came to in end. More than her art, the guests admired her duality. Her frivolous and even slightly infantile character did not seem up to any serious activity, but when she sat down at the clavichord she became a different girl, one whose unforeseen maturity gave her the air of an adult. That was how she had always been. She really did am have any definite vocation, but she had earned the highest grades by means of inflexible discipline simply in order not to annoy her mother. They could have imposed on her an apprenticeship in any other field and the results would have been the same. Since she had been very small she had been troubled by Fernanda’s strictness, her custom of deciding in favor of extremes; and she would have been capable of a much more difficult sacrifice than the clavichord lessons merely not to run up against her intransigence. During the graduation ceremonies she had the impression that the parchment with Gothic letters and illuminated capitals was freeing her from a compromise that she had accepted not so much out of obedience as out of convenience, and she thought that from then on not even the insistent Fernanda would worry any more about an instrument that even the nuns looked upon as a museum fossil. During the first years she thought that her calculations were mistaken because after she had put half the town to sleep, not only in the parlor but also at all charitable functions, school ceremonies, and patriotic celebrations that took place in Macondo, her mother still invited to the house every newcomer whom she thought capable of appreciating her daughter’s virtues. Only after the death of Amaranta, when the family shut itself up again in a period of mourning, was Meme able to lock the clavichord and forget the key in some dresser drawer without Fernanda’s being annoyed on finding out when and through whose fault it had been lost. Meme bore up under the exhibitions with the same stoicism that she had dedicated to her apprenticeship. It was the price of her freedom. Fernanda was so pleased with her docility and so proud of the admiration that her art inspired that she was never against the house being fall of girl friends, her spending the afternoon in the groves, and going to the movies with Aureliano Segundo or some muted lady as long as the film was approved by Father Antonio Isabel from the pulpit. During those moments of relaxation Meme’s real tastes were revealed. Her happiness lay at the other extreme from discipline, in noisy parties, in gossip about lovers, in prolonged sessions with her girl friends, where they learned to smoke and talked about male business, and where they once got their hands on some cane liquor and ended up naked, measuring and comparing the parts of their bodies. Meme would never forget that night when she arrived home chewing licorice lozenges, and without noticing their consternation, sat down at the table where Fernanda and Amaranta were eating dinner without saying a word to each other. She had spent two tremendous hours in the bedroom of a girl friend, weeping with laughter and fear, and 133 beyond an crises she had found the rare feeling of. bravery that she needed in order to run away from school and tell her mother in one way or another that she could use the clavichord as an enema. Sitting at the head of the table, drinking a chicken broth that landed in her stomach like an elixir of resurrection, Meme then saw Fernanda and Amaranta wrapped in an accusatory halo of reality. She had to make a great effort not to throw at them their prissiness, their poverty of spirit their delusions of grandeur. From the time of her second vacation she had known that her father was living at home only in order to keep up appearances, and knowing Fernanda as she did and having arranged later to meet Petra Cotes, she thought that her father was right. She also would have preferred being the daughter of the concubine. In the haziness of the alcohol Meme thought with pleasure about the scandal that would have taken place if she were to express her thoughts at that moment, and the intimate satisfaction of her roguishness was so intense that Fernanda noticed it. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Nothing,” Meme answered. “I was only now discovering how much I loved you both.” Amaranta was startled by the obvious burden of hate that the declaration carried. But Fernanda felt so moved that she thought she would go mad when Meme awoke at midnight with her head splitting with pain and drowning in vomited gall. She gave her a vial of castor oil, put compresses on her stomach and ice cubes on her head, and she made her stay in bed for five days and follow the diet ordered by the new and outlandish French doctor, who after examining her for more than two hours reached the foggy conclusion that she had an ailment peculiar to women. Having lost her courage, in a miserable state of demoralization, Meme had no other recourse but to bear up under it. Úrsula, completely blind by then but still active and lucid, was the only one who guessed the exact diagnosis. “As far as I can see,” she thought, “that’s the same thing that happens to drunken people.” But she not only rejected the idea, she reproached herself for the frivolity of her thought. Aureliano Segundo felt a twinge of conscience when he saw Meme’s state of prostration and he promised himself to take better care of her in the future. That was how the relationship of jolly comradeship was born between father and daughter, which freed him for a time from the bitter solitude of his revels and freed her from Fernanda’s watchful eye without necessity of provoking the domestic crisis that seemed inevitable by then. At that time Aureliano Segundo postponed any appointments in order to be with Meme, to take her to the movies or the circus, and he spent the greater part of his idle time with her. In recent times his annoyance with the absurd obesity that prevented him from tying his shoes and his abusive satisfaction with all manner of appetites had began to sour his character. The discovery of his daughter restored his former joviality and the pleasure of being with her was slowly leading him away from dissipation. Meme was entering a fruitful age. She was not beautiful, as Amaranta had never been, but on the other hand she was pleasant, uncomplicated, and she had the virtue of making a good impression on people from the first moment. She had a modem spirit that wounded the antiquated sobriety and poorly disguised miserly heart of Fernanda, and that, on the other hand, Aureliano Segundo took pleasure in developing. It was he who resolved to take her out of the bedroom she had occupied since childhood, where the fearful eyes of the saints still fed her adolescent terrors, and he furnished for her a room with a royal bed, a large dressing table, and velvet curtains, not realizing that he was producing a second version of Petra Cotes’s room. He was so lavish with Meme that he did not even know how much money he gave her because she herself would take it out of his pockets, and he kept abreast of every kind of new beauty aid that arrived in the commissary of the banana company. Meme’s room became filled with pumice-stone cushions to polish her nails with, hair curlers, toothbrushes, drops to make her eyes languid, and so many and such new cosmetics and artifacts of beauty that every time Fernanda went into the room she was scandalized by the idea that her daughter’s dressing table must have been the same as those of the French matrons. Nevertheless Fernanda divided her time in those days between little Amaranta Úrsula, who was mischievous and 134 sickly, and a touching correspondence with the invisible physicians. So that when she noticed the complicity between father and daughter the only promise she extracted from Aureliano Segundo was that he would never take Meme to Petra Cotes’s house. It was a meaningless demand because the concubine was so annoyed with the comradeship between her lover and his daughter that she did not want anything to do with her. Petra was tormented by an unknown fear, as if instinct were telling her that Meme, by just wanting it, could succeed in what Fernanda had been unable to do: deprive her of a love that by then she considered assured until death. For the first time Aureliano Segundo had to tolerate the harsh expressions and the violent tirades of his concubine, and he was even afraid that his wandering trunks would make the return journey to his wife’s house. That did not happen. No one knew a man better than Petra Cotes knew her lover and she knew that the trunks would remain where they had been sent because if Aureliano Segundo detested anything it was complicating his life with modifications and changes. So the trunks stayed where they were and Petra Cotes set about reconquering the husband by sharpening the only weapons that his daughter could not use on him. It too was an unnecessary effort because Meme had no desire to intervene in her father’s affairs and if she had, it would certainly have been in favor of the concubine. She had no time to bother anybody. She herself swept her room and made her bed, as the nuns had taught her. In the morning she took care of her clothes, sewing on the porch or using Amaranta’s old pedal machine. While the others were taking their siestas she would practice the clavichord for two hours, knowing that the daily sacrifice would keep Fernanda calm. For the same reason she continued giving concerts at church fairs and school parties, even though the requests were less and less frequent. At nightfall she would fix herself up, put on one of her simple dresses and her stiff high shoes, and if she had nothing to do with her father she would go to the homes of her girl friends, where she would stay until dinnertime. It was rare that Aureliano Segundo would not call for her then to take her to the movies. Among Meme’s friends there were three young American girls who broke through the electrified chicken fence barrier and made friends with girls from Macondo. One of them was Patricia Brown. Grateful for the hospitality of Aureliano Segundo, Mr. Brown opened the doors of his house to Meme and invited her to the Saturday dances, which were the only ones where gringos and natives mingled. When Fernanda found out about it she forgot about Amaranta Úrsula and the invisible doctors for a moment and became very melodramatic. “Just think,” she said to Meme, “what the colonel must be thinking in his grave.” She sought, of course, the backing of Úrsula. But the blind old woman, contrary to what everyone expected, saw nothing reproachable in Meme’s going to the dances and making friends with American girls her own age as long as she kept her strict habits and was not converted to the Protestant religion. Meme sensed the thought of her great-greatgrandmother very well and the day after the dances she would get up earlier than usual to go to mass. Fernanda’s opposition lasted until the day when Meme broke down her resistance with the news that the Americans wanted to hear her play the clavichord. The instrument was taken out of the house again and carried to Mr. Brown’s, where the young concert artist really did receive very sincere applause and the most enthusiastic congratulations. From then on she was invited not only to the dances but also to the Sunday swim parties in the pool and to lunch once a week. Meme learned to swim like a professional, to play tennis, and to eat Virginia ham with slices of pineapple. Among dances, swimming, and tennis she soon found herself getting involved in the English language. Aureliano Segundo was so enthusiastic over the progress of his daughter that from a traveling salesman he bought a six-volume English encyclopedia with many color prints which Meme read in her spare time. The reading occupied the attention that she had formerly given to gossip about sweethearts and the experimental retreats that she would go through with her girl friends, not because it was imposed as discipline but because she had lost all interest by then in talking about mysteries that were in the public domain. She looked back on the drunken episode as 135 an infantile adventure and it seemed so funny to her that she told Aureliano Segundo about it and he thought it was more amusing than she did. “If your mother only knew,” he told her, doubling up with laughter, as he always said when he told her something in confidence. He had made her promise that she would let him know about her first love affair with the same confidence, and Meme told him that she liked a redheaded American boy who had come to spend his vacation with his parents. “What do you know,” Aureliano Segundo said, laughing. “If your mother only knew.” But Meme also told him that the boy had gone back to his country and had disappeared from sight. The maturity of her judgment ensured peace in the family. Aureliano Segundo then devoted more time to Petra Cotes, and although his body and soul no longer permitted him the debauches of days gone by, he lost no chance to arrange them and to dig out the accordion, which by then had some keys held in place by shoelaces. At home, Amaranta was weaving her interminable shroud and Úrsula dragged about in her decrepitude through the depths of the shadows where the only thing that was still visible was the ghost of José Arcadio Buendía under the chestnut tree. Fernanda consolidated her authority. Her monthly letters to her son José Arcadio at that time did not carry a string of lies and she hid from him only her correspondence with the invisible doctors, who had diagnosed a benign tumor in her large intestine and were preparing her for a telepathic operation. It might have been aid that peace and happiness reigned for a long time in the tired mansion of the Buendías if it had not been for the sudden death of Amaranta, which caused a new uproar. It was an unexpected event. Although she was old and isolated from everyone, she still looked firm and upright and with the health of a rock that she had always had. No one knew her thoughts since the afternoon on which she had given Colonel Gerineldo Márquez his final rejection and shut herself up to weep. She was not seen to cry during the ascension to heaven of Remedios the Beauty or over the extermination of the Aurelianos or the death of Colonel Aureliano Buendía, who was the person she loved most in this world, although she showed it only when they found his body under the chestnut tree. She helped pick up the body. She dressed him in his soldier’s uniform, shaved him, combed his hair, and waxed his mustache better than he had ever done in his days of glory. No one thought that there was any love in that act because they were accustomed to the familiarity of Amaranta with the rites of death. Fernanda was scandalized that she did not understand the relationship of Catholicism with life but only its relationship with death, as if it were not a religion but a compendium of funeral conventions. Amaranta was too wrapped up in the eggplant patch of her memories to understand those subtle apologetics. She had reached old age with all of her nostalgias intact. When she listened to the waltzes of Pietro Crespi she felt the same desire to weep that she had had in adolescence, as if time and harsh lessons had meant nothing. The rolls of music that she herself had thrown into the trash with the pretext that they had rotted from dampness kept spinning and playing in her memory. She had tried to sink them into the swampy passion that she allowed herself with her nephew Aureliano José and she tried to take refuge in the calm and virile protection of Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, but she had not been able to overcome them, not even with the most desperate act of her old age when she would bathe the small José Arcadio three years before he was sent to the seminary and caress him not as a grandmother would have done with a grandchild, but as a woman would have done with a man, as it was said that the French matrons did and as she had wanted to do with Pietro Crespi at the age of twelve, fourteen, when she saw him in his dancing tights and with the magic wand with which he kept time to the metronome. At times It pained her to have let that outpouring of misery follow its course, and at times it made her so angry that she would prick her fingers with the needles, but what pained her most and enraged her most and made her most bitter was the fragrant and wormy guava grove of love that was dragging her toward death. Just as Colonel Aureliano Buendía thought about his war, unable to avoid it, so Amaranta thought about Rebeca. But while her brother had managed to sterilize his memories, she had only managed to make hers more scalding. The only thing that she asked of God for many years 136 was that he would not visit on her the punishment of dying before Rebeca. Every time she passed by her house and noted the progress of destruction she took comfort in the idea that God was listening to her. One afternoon, when she was sewing on the porch, she was assailed by the certainty that she would be sitting in that place, in the same position, and under the same light when they brought her the news of Rebeca’s death. She sat down to wait for it, as one waits for a letter, and the fact was that at one time she would pull off buttons to sew them on again so that inactivity would not make the wait longer and more anxious. No one in the house realized that at that time Amaranta was sewing a fine shroud for Rebeca. Later on, when Aureliano Triste told how he had seen her changed into an apparition with leathery skin and a few golden threads on her skull, Amaranta was not surprised because the specter described was exactly what she had been imagining for some time. She had decided to restore Rebeca’s corpse, to disguise with paraffin the damage to her face and make a wig for her from the hair of the saints. She would manufacture a beautiful corpse, with the linen shroud and a plush-lined coffin with purple trim. and she would put it at the disposition of the worms with splendid funeral ceremonies. She worked out the plan with such hatred that it made her tremble to think about the scheme, which she would have carried out in exactly the same way if it had been done out of love, but she would not allow herself to become upset by the confusion and went on perfecting the details so minutely that she came to be more than a specialist and was a virtuoso in the rites of death. The only thing that she did not keep In mind in her fearsome plan was that in spite of her pleas to God she might die before Rebeca. That was, in fact, what happened. At the final moment, however, Amaranta did not feel frustrated, but on the contrary, free of all bitterness because death had awarded her the privilege of announcing itself several years ahead of time. She saw it on one burning afternoon sewing with her on the porch a short time after Meme had left for school. She saw it because it was a woman dressed in blue with long hair, with a sort of antiquated look, and with a certain resemblance to Pilar Ternera during the time when she had helped with the chores in the kitchen. Fernanda was present several times and did not see her, in spite of the fact that she was so real, so human, and on one occasion asked of Amaranta the favor of threading a needle. Death did not tell her when she was going to die or whether her hour was assigned before that of Rebeca, but ordered her to begin sewing her own shroud on the next sixth of April. She was authorized to make it as complicated and as fine as she wanted, but just as honestly executed as Rebeca’s, and she was told that she would die without pain, fear, or bitterness at dusk on the day that she finished it. Trying to waste the most time possible, Amaranta ordered some rough flax and spun the thread herself. She did it so carefully that the work alone took four years. Then she started the sewing. As she got closer to the unavoidable end she began to understand that only a miracle would allow her to prolong the work past Rebeca’s death, but the very concentration gave her the calmness that she needed to accept the idea of frustration. It was then that she understood the vicious circle of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s little gold fishes. The world was reduced to the surface of her skin and her inner self was safe from all bitterness. It pained her not to have had that revelation many years before when it had still been possible to purify memories and reconstruct the universe under a new light and evoke without trembling Pietro Crespi’s smell of lavender at dusk and rescue Rebeca from her slough of misery, not out of hatred or out of love but because of the measureless understanding of solitude. The hatred that she noticed one night in Memes words did not upset her because it was directed at her, but she felt the repetition of another adolescence that seemed as clean as hers must have seemed and that, however, was already tainted with rancor. But by then her acceptance of her fate was so deep that she was not even upset by the certainty that all possibilities of rectification were closed to her. Her only objective was to finish the shroud. Instead of slowing it down with useless detail as she had done in the beginning, she speeded up the work. One week before she calculated that she would take the last stitch on the night of February 4, and without revealing the motives, she suggested to Meme that she move up a clavichord concert that 137 she had arranged for the day after, but the girl paid no attention to her. Amaranta then looked for a way to delay for forty-eight hours, and she even thought that death was giving her her way because on the night of February fourth a storm caused a breakdown at the power plant. But on the following day, at eight in the morning, she took the last stitch in the most beautiful piece of work that any woman had ever finished, and she announced without the least bit of dramatics that she was going to die at dusk. She not only told the family but the whole town, because Amaranta had conceived of the idea that she could make up for a life of meanness with one last favor to the world, and she thought that no one was in a better position to take letters to the dead. The news that Amaranta Buendía was sailing at dusk carrying the mail of death spread throughout Macondo before noon, and at three in the afternoon there was a whole carton full of letters in the parlor. Those who did not want to write gave Amaranta verbal messages, which she wrote down in a notebook with the name and date of death of the recipient. “Don’t worry,” she told the senders. “The first thing I’ll do when I get there is to ask for him and give him your message.” It was farcical. Amaranta did not show any upset or the slightest sign of grief, and she even looked a bit rejuvenated by a duty accomplished. She was as straight and as thin as ever. If it had not been for her hardened cheekbones and a few missing teeth, she would have looked much younger than she really was. She herself arranged for them to put the letters in a box sealed with pitch and told them to place it in her grave in a way best to protect it from the dampness. In the morning she had a carpenter called who took her measurements for the coffin as she stood in the parlor, as if it were for a new dress. She showed such vigor in her last hours that Fernanda thought she was making fun of everyone. Úrsula, with the experience that Buendías died without any illness, did not doubt at all that Amaranta had received an omen of death, but in any case she was tormented by the fear that with the business of the letters and the anxiety of the senders for them to arrive quickly they would bury her alive in their confusion. So she set about clearing out the house, arguing with the intruders as she shouted at them, and by four in the afternoon she was successful. At that time Amaranta had finished dividing her things among the poor and had left on the severe coffin of unfinished boards only the change of clothing and the simple cloth slippers that she would wear in death. She did not neglect that precaution because she remembered that when Colonel Aureliano Buendía died they had to buy a pair of new shoes for him because all he had left were the bedroom slippers that he wore in the workshop. A little before five Aureliano Segundo came to fetch Meme for the concert and was surprised that the house was prepared for the funeral. if anyone seemed alive at the moment it was the serene Amaranta, who had even had enough time to cut her corns. Aureliano Segundo and Meme took leave of her with mocking farewells and promised her that on the following Saturday they would have a big resurrection party. Drawn by the public talk that Amaranta Buendía was receiving letters for the dead, Father Antonio Isabel arrived at five o’clock for the last rites and he had to wait for more than fifteen minutes for the recipient to come out of her bath. When he saw her appear in a madapollam nightshirt and with her hair loose over her shoulders, the decrepit parish priest thought that it was a trick and sent the altar boy away. He thought however, that he would take advantage of the occasion to have Amaranta confess after twenty years of reticence. Amaranta answered simply that she did not need spiritual help of any kind because her conscience was clean. Fernanda was scandalized. Without caring that people could hear her she asked herself aloud what horrible sin Amaranta had committed to make her prefer an impious death to the shame of confession. Thereupon Amaranta lay down and made Úrsula give public testimony as to her virginity. “Let no one have any illusions,” she shouted so that Fernanda would hear her. “Amaranta Buendía is leaving this world just as she came into it. She did not get up again. Lying on cushions, as if she really were ill, she braided her long hair and rolled it about her ears as death had told her it should be on her bier. Then she asked Úrsula for a 138 mirror and for the first time in more than forty years she saw her face, devastated by age and martyrdom, and she was surprised at how much she resembled the mental image that she had of herself. Úrsula understood by the silence in the bedroom that it had begun to grow dark. “Say good-bye to Fernanda,” she begged her. One minute of reconciliation is worth more than a whole life of friendship.” “It’s of no use now,” Amaranta replied. Meme could not help thinking about her when they turned on the lights on the improvised stage and she began the second part of the program. In the middle of the piece someone whispered the news in her ear and the session stopped. When he arrived home, Aureliano Segundo had to push his way through the crowd to see the corpse of the aged virgin, ugly and discolored, with the black bandage on her hand and wrapped in the magnificent shroud. She was laid out in the parlor beside the box of letters. Úrsula did not get up again after the nine nights of mourning for Amaranta, Santa Sofía de la Piedad took care of her. She took her meals to her bedroom and annatto water for her to wash in and she kept her up to date on everything that happened in Macondo. Aureliano Segundo visited her frequently and he brought her clothing which she would place beside the bed along with the things most indispensable for daily life, so that in a short time she had built up a world within reach of her hand. She managed to arouse a great love in little Amaranta Úrsula, who was just like her, and whom she taught how to read. Her lucidity, the ability to be sufficient un herself made one think that she was naturally conquered by the weight of her hundred years, but even though it was obvious that she was having trouble seeing, no one suspected that she was totally blind. She had so much time at her disposal then and so much interior silence to watch over the life of the house that she was the first to notice Meme’s silent tribulation. “Come here,” she told her. “Now that were alone, confess to this poor old woman what’s bothering you.” Meme avoided the conversation with a short laugh. Úrsula did not insist, but she ended up confirming her suspicions when Meme did not come back to visit her. She knew that she was getting up earlier than usual, that she did not have a moment’s rest as she waited for the time for her to go out, that she spent whole nights walking back and forth in the adjoining bedroom, and that the fluttering of a butterfly would bother her. On one occasion she said that she was going to see Aureliano Segundo and Úrsula was surprised that Fernanda’s imagination was so limited when her husband came to the house looking for his daughter. It was too obvious that Meme was involved in secret matters, in pressing matters, in repressed anxieties long before the night that Fernanda upset the house because she caught her kissing a man in the movies. Meme was so wrapped up in herself at that time that she accused Úrsula of having told on her. Actually, she told on herself. For a long time she had been leaving a trail that would have awakened the most drowsy person and it took Fernanda so long to discover it because she too was befogged, by her relationship with the invisible doctors. Even so she finally noticed the deep silences, the sudden outbursts, the changes in mood, and the contradictions of her daughter. She set about on a disguised but implacable vigilance. She let her go out with her girl friends as always, she helped her get dressed for the Saturday parties, and she never asked an embarrassing question that might arouse her. She already had a great deal of proof that Meme was doing different things from what she said, and yet she would give no indication of her suspicions, hoping for the right moment. One night Meme said that she was going to the movies with her father. A short time later Fernanda heard the fireworks of the debauch and the unmistakable accordion of Aureliano Segundo from the direction of Petra Cotes’s place. Then she got dressed, went to the movie theater, and in the darkness of the seats she recognized her daughter. The upsetting feeling of certainty stopped her from seeing the man she was kissing, but she managed to hear his tremulous voice in the midst of the deafening 139 shouts and laughter of the audience. “I’m sorry, love,” she heard him say, and she took Meme out of the place without saying a word to her, put her through the shame of parading her along the noisy Street of the Turks, and locked her up in her bedroom. On the following day at six in the afternoon, Fernanda recognized the voice of the man who came to call on her. He was young, sallow, with dark and melancholy eyes which would not have startled her so much if she had known the gypsies, and a dreamy air that to any woman with a heart less rigid would have been enough to make her understand her daughter’s motives. He was wearing a shabby linen suit with shoes that showed the desperate defense of superimposed patches of white zinc, and in his hand he was carrying a straw hat he had bought the Saturday before. In all of his life he could never have been as frightened as at that moment, but he had a dignity and presence that spared him from humiliation and a genuine elegance that was defeated only by tarnished hands and nails that had been shattered by rough work. Fernanda, however, needed only one look to guess his status of mechanic. She saw that he was wearing his one Sunday suit and that underneath his shirt he bore the rash of the banana company. She would not let him speak. She would not even let him come through the door, which a moment later she had to close because the house was filled with yellow butterflies. “Go away,” she told him. “You’ve got no reason to come calling on any decent person.” His name was Mauricio Babilonia. He had been born and raised in Macondo, and he was an apprentice mechanic in the banana company garage. Meme had met him by chance one afternoon when she went with Patricia Brown to get a car to take a drive through the groves. Since the chauffeur was sick they assigned him to take them and Meme was finally able to satisfy her desire to sit next to the driver and see what he did. Unlike the regular chauffeur, Mauricio Babilonia gave her a practical lesson. That was during the time that Meme was beginning to frequent Mr. Brown’s house and it was still considered improper for a lady to drive a car. So she was satisfied with the technical information and she did not see Mauricio Babilonia again for several months. Later on she would remember that during the drive her attention had been called to his masculine beauty, except for the coarseness of his hands, but that afterward she had mentioned to Patricia Brown that she had been bothered by his rather proud sense of security. The first Saturday that she went to the movies with her father she saw Mauricio Babilonia again, with his linen suit, sitting a few seats away from them, and she noticed that he was not paying much attention to the film in order to turn around and look at her. Meme was bothered by the vulgarity of that. Afterward Mauricio Babilonia came over to say hello to Aureliano Segundo and only then did Meme find out that they knew each other because he had worked in Aureliano Triste’s early power plant and he treated her father with the air of an employee. That fact relieved the dislike that his pride had caused in her. They had never been alone together nor had they spoken except in way of greeting, the night when she dreamed that he was saving her from a shipwreck and she did not feel gratitude but rage. It was as if she had given him the opportunity he was waiting for, since Meme yearned for just the opposite, not only with Mauricio Babilonia but with any other man who was interested in her. Therefore she was so indignant after the dream that instead of hating him, she felt an irresistible urge to see him. The anxiety became more intense during the course of the week and on Saturday it was so pressing that she had to make a great effort for Mauricio Babilonia not to notice that when he greeted her in the movies her heart was in her mouth. Dazed by a confused feeling of pleasure and rage, she gave him her hand for the first time and only then did Mauricio Babilonia let himself shake hers. Meme managed to repent her impulse in a fraction of a second but the repentance changed immediately into a cruel satisfaction on seeing that his hand too was sweaty and cold. That night she realized that she would not have a moment of rest until she showed Mauricio Babilonia the uselessness of his aspiration and she spent the week turning that anxiety about in her mind. She resorted to all kinds of useless tricks so that Patricia Brown would go get the car with her. Finally she made use of the 140 American redhead who was spending his vacation in Macondo at that time and with the pretext of learning about new models of cars she had him take her to the garage. From the moment she saw him Meme let herself be deceived by herself and believed that what was really going on was that she could not bear the desire to be alone with Mauricio Babilonia, and she was made indignant by the certainty that he understood that when he saw her arrive. “I came to see the new models,” Meme said. “That’s a fine excuse,” he said. Meme realized that he was burning in the heat of his pride, and she desperately looked for a way to humiliate him. But he would not give her any time. “Don’t get upset,” he said to her in a low voice. “It’s not the first time that a woman has gone crazy over a man.” She felt so defeated that she left the garage without seeing the new models and she spent the night turning over in bed and weeping with indignation. The American redhead, who was really beginning to interest her, looked like a baby in diapers. It was then that she realized that the yellow butterflies preceded the appearances of Mauricio Babilonia. She had seen them before, especially over the garage, and she had thought that they were drawn by the smell of paint. Once she had seen them fluttering about her head before she went into the movies. But when Mauricio Babilonia began to pursue her like a ghost that only she could identify in the crowd, she understood that the butterflies had something to do with him. Mauricio Babilonia was always in the audience at the concerts, at the movies, at high mass, and she did not have to see him to know that he was there, because the butterflies were always there. Once Aureliano Segundo became so impatient with the suffocating fluttering that she felt the impulse to confide her secret to him as she had promised, but instinct told her that he would laugh as usual and say: “What would your mother say if she found out?” One morning, while she was pruning the roses, Fernanda let out a cry of fright and had Meme taken away from the spot where she was, which was the same place in the garden where Remedios the Beauty had gone up to heaven. She had thought for an instant that the miracle was going to be repeated with her daughter, because she had been bothered by a sudden flapping of wings. It was the butterflies. Meme saw them as if they had suddenly been born out of the light and her heart gave a turn. At that moment Mauricio Babilonia came in with a package that according to what he said, was a present from Patricia Brown. Meme swallowed her blush, absorbed her tribulation, and even managed a natural smile as she asked him the favor of leaving it on the railing because her hands were dirty from the garden. The only thing that Fernanda noted in the man whom a few months later she was to expel from the house without remembering where she had seen him was the bilious texture of his skin. “He’s a very strange man,” Fernanda said. “You can see in his face that he’s going to die.” Meme thought that her mother had been impressed by the butterflies When they finished pruning the row bushes she washed her hands and took the package to her bedroom to open it. It was a kind of Chinese toy, made up of five concentric boxes, and in the last one there was a card laboriously inscribed by someone who could barely write: We’ll get together Saturday at the movies. Meme felt with an aftershock that the box had been on the railing for a long time within reach of Fernanda’s curiosity, and although she was flattered by the audacity and ingenuity of Mauricio Babilonia, she was moved by his Innocence in expecting that she would keep the date. Meme knew at that time that Aureliano Segundo had an appointment on Saturday night. Nevertheless, the fire of anxiety burned her so much during the course of the week that on Saturday she convinced her father to leave her alone in the theater and come back for her after the show. A nocturnal butterfly fluttered about her head while the lights were on. And then it happened. When the lights went out, Mauricio Babilonia sat down beside her. Meme felt herself splashing in a bog of hesitation from which she could only be rescued, as had occurred in her dreams, by that man smelling of grease whom she could barely see in the shadows. “If you hadn’t come,” he said, “You never would have seen me again.” 141 Meme felt the weight of his hand on her knee and she knew that they were both arriving at the other side of abandonment at that instant. “What shocks me about you,” she said, smiling, “is that you always say exactly what you shouldn’t be saying.” She lost her mind over him. She could not sleep and she lost her appetite and sank so deeply into solitude that even her father became an annoyance. She worked out an intricate web of false dates to throw Fernanda off the track, lost sight of her girl friends, leaped over conventions to be with Mauricio Babilonia at any time and at any place. At first his crudeness bothered her. The first time that they were alone on the deserted fields behind the garage he pulled her mercilessly into an animal state that left her exhausted. It took her time to realize that it was also a form of tenderness and it was then that she lost her calm and lived only for him, upset by the desire to sink into his stupefying odor of grease washed off by lye. A short time before the death of Amaranta she suddenly stumbled into in open space of lucidity within the madness and she trembled before the uncertainty of the future. Then she heard about a woman who made predictions from cards and went to see her in secret. It was Pilar Ternera. As soon as Pilar saw her come in she was aware of Meme’s hidden motives. “Sit down,” she told her. “I don’t need cards to tell the future of a Buendía,” Meme did not know and never would that the centenarian witch was her great-grandmother. Nor would she have believed it after the aggressive realism with which she revealed to her that the anxiety of falling in love could not find repose except in bed. It was the same point of view as Mauricio Babilonia’s, but Meme resisted believing it because underneath it all she imagined that it had been inspired by the poor judgment of a mechanic. She thought then that love on one side was defeating love on the other, because it was characteristic of men to deny hunger once their appetites were satisfied. Pilar Ternera not only cleared up that mistake, she also offered the old canopied bed where she had conceived Arcadio, Meme’s grandfather, and where afterward she conceived Aureliano José. She also taught her how to avoid an unwanted conception by means of the evaporation of mustard plasters and gave her recipes for potions that in cases of trouble could expel “even the remorse of conscience.” That interview instilled In Meme the same feeling of bravery that she had felt on the drunken evening. Amaranta’s death, however, obliged her to postpone the decision. While the nine nights lasted she did not once leave the side of Mauricio Babilonia, who mingled with the crowd that invaded the house. Then came the long period of mourning and the obligatory withdrawal and they separated for a time. Those were days of such inner agitation, such irrepressible anxiety, and so many repressed urges that on the first evening that Meme was able to get out she went straight to Pilar Ternera’s. She surrendered to Mauricio Babilonia, without resistance, without shyness, without formalities, and with a vocation that was so fluid and an intuition that was so wise that a more suspicious man than hers would have confused them with obvious experience. They made love twice a week for more than three months, protected by the innocent complicity of Aureliano Segundo, who believed without suspicion in his daughter’s alibis simply in order to set her free from her mother’s rigidity. On the night that Fernanda surprised them in the movies Aureliano Segundo felt weighted down by the burden of his conscience and he visited Meme in the bedroom where Fernanda kept her locked up, trusting that she would reveal to him the confidences that she owed him. But Meme denied everything. She was so sure of herself, so anchored in her solitude that Aureliano Segundo had the impression that no link existed between them anymore, that the comradeship and the complicity were nothing but an illusion of the past. He thought of speaking to Mauricio Babilonia, thinking that his authority as his former boss would make him desist from his plans, but Petra Cotes convinced him that it was a woman’s business, so he was left floating in a limbo of indecision, barely sustained by the hope that the confinement would put an end to his daughter’s troubles. 142 Meme showed no signs of affliction. On the contrary, from the next room Úrsula perceived the peaceful rhythm of her sleep, the serenity of her tasks, the order of her meals, and the good health of her digestion. The only thing that intrigued Úrsula after almost two months of punishment was that Meme did not take a bath in the morning like everyone else, but at seven in the evening. Once she thought of warning her about the scorpions, but Meme was so distant, convinced that she had given her away, that she preferred not to disturb her with the impertinences, of a great-greatgrandmother. The yellow butterflies would invade the house at dusk. Every night on her way back from her bath Meme would find a desperate Fernanda killing butterflies with an insecticide bomb. “This is terrible,” she would say, “All my life they told me that butterflies at night bring bad luck.” One night while Meme was in the bathroom, Fernanda went into her bedroom by chance and there were so many butterflies that she could scarcely breathe. She grabbed for the nearest piece of cloth to shoo them away and her heart froze with terror as she connected her daughter’s evening baths with the mustard plasters that rolled onto the floor. She did not wait for an opportune moment as she had the first time. On the following day she invited the new mayor to lunch. Like her, he had come down from the highlands, and she asked him to station a guard in the backyard because she had the impression that hens were being stolen. That night the guard brought down Mauricio Babilonia as he was lifting up the tiles to get into the bathroom where Meme was waiting for him, naked and trembling with love among the scorpions and butterflies as she had done almost every night for the past few months. A bullet lodged in his spinal column reduced him to his bed for the rest of his life. He died of old age in solitude, without a moan, without a protest, without a single moment of betrayal, tormented by memories and by the yellow butterflies, who did not give him a moment’s peace, and ostracized as a chicken thief. 143 Chapter 15 THE EVENTS that would deal Macondo its fatal blow were just showing themselves when they brought Meme Buendía’s son home. The public situation was so uncertain then that no one had sufficient spirit to become involved with private scandals, so that Fernanda was able to count on an atmosphere that enabled her to keep the child hidden as if he had never existed. She had to take him in because the circumstances under which they brought him made rejection impossible. She had to tolerate him against her will for the rest of her life because at the moment of truth she lacked the courage to go through with her inner determination to drown him in the bathroom cistern. She locked him up in Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s old workshop. She succeeded in convincing Santa Sofía de la Piedad that she had found him floating in a basket. Úrsula would die without ever knowing his origin. Little Amaranta Úrsula, who went into the workshop once when Fernanda was feeding the child, also believed the version of the floating basket. Aureliano Segundo, having broken finally with his wife because of the irrational way in which she handled Meme’s tragedy, did not know of the existence of his grandson until three years after they brought him home, when the child escaped from captivity through an oversight on Fernanda’s part and appeared on the porch for a fraction of a second, naked, with matted hair, and with an impressive sex organ that was like a turkey’s wattles, as if he were not a human child but the encyclopedia definition of a cannibal. Fernanda had not counted on that nasty trick of her incorrigible fate. The child was like the return of a shame that she had thought exiled by her from the house forever. As soon as they carried off Mauricio Babilonia with his shattered spinal column, Fernanda had worked out the most minute details of a plan destined to wipe out all traces of the burden. Without consulting her husband, she packed her bags, put the three changes of clothing that her daughter would need into a small suitcase, and went to get her in her bedroom a half hour before the train arrived. “Let’s go, Renata,” she told her. She gave no explanation. Meme, for her part, did not expect or want any. She not only did not know where they were going, but it would have been the same to her if they had been taking her to the slaughterhouse. She had not spoken again nor would she do so for the rest of her life from the time that she heard the shot in the backyard and the simultaneous cry of pain from Mauricio Babilonia. When her mother ordered her out of the bedroom she did not comb her hair or wash her face and she got into the train as if she were walking in her sleep, not even noticing the yellow butterflies that were still accompanying her. Fernanda never found out nor did she take the trouble to, whether that stony silence was a determination of her will or whether she had become mute because of the impact of the tragedy. Meme barely took notice of the journey through the formerly enchanted region. She did not see the shady, endless banana groves on both sides of the tracks. She did not see the white houses of the gringos or their gardens, dried out by dust and heat, or the women in shorts and blue-striped shirts playing cards on the terraces. She did not see the oxcarts on the dusty roads loaded down with bunches of bananas. She did not see the girls diving into the transparent rivers like tarpons, leaving the passengers on the train with the bitterness of their splendid breasts, or the miserable huts of the workers all huddled together where Mauricio Babilonia’s yellow butterflies fluttered about and in the doorways of which there were green and squalid children sitting on their pots, and pregnant women who shouted insults at the train. That fleeting vision, which had been a celebration for her when she came home from school, passed through Meme’s heart without a quiver. She did not look out of the window, not even when the burning dampness of the groves ended and the train went through a poppy-laden plain where the carbonized 144 skeleton of the Spanish galleon still sat and then came out into the dear air alongside the frothy, dirty sea where almost a century before José Arcadio Buendía’s illusions had met defeat. At five o’clock in the afternoon, when they had come to the last station in the swamp, she got out of the train because Fernanda made her. They got into a small carriage that looked like an enormous bat, drawn by an asthmatic horse, and they went through the desolate city in the endless streets of which, split by saltiness, there was the sound of a piano lesson just like the one that Fernanda heard during the siestas of her adolescence. They went on board a riverboat, the wooden wheel of which had a sound of conflagration, and whose rusted metal plates reverberated like the mouth of an oven. Meme shut herself up in her cabin. Twice a day Fernanda left a plate of food by her bed and twice a day she took it away intact, not because Meme had resolved to die of hunger, but because even the smell of food was repugnant to her and her stomach rejected even water. Not even she herself knew that her fertility had outwitted the mustard vapors, just as Fernanda did not know until almost a year later, when they brought the child. In the suffocating cabin, maddened by the vibration of the metal plates and the unbearable stench of the mud stirred up by the paddle wheel, Meme lost track of the days. Much time had passed when she saw the last yellow butterfly destroyed in the blades of the fan and she admitted as an irremediable truth that Mauricio Babilonia had died. She did not let herself be defeated by resignation, however. She kept on thinking about him during the arduous muleback crossing of the hallucinating plateau where Aureliano Segundo had become lost when he was looking for the most beautiful woman who had ever appeared on the face of the earth, and when they went over the mountains along Indian trails and entered the gloomy city in whose stone alleys the funereal bronze bells of thirty-two churches tolled. That night they slept in the abandoned colonial mansion on boards that Fernanda laid on the floor of a room invaded by weeds, wrapped in the shreds of curtains that they pulled off the windows and that fell to pieces with every turn of the body. Meme knew where they were because in the flight of her insomnia she saw pass by the gentleman dressed in black whom they delivered to the house inside a lead box on one distant Christmas Eve. On the following day, after mass, Fernanda took her to a somber building that Meme recognized immediately from her mother’s stories of the convent where they had raised her to be a queen, and then she understood that they had come to the end of the journey. While Fernanda was speaking to someone in the office next door, Meme remained in a parlor checkered with large oil paintings of colonial archbishops, still wearing an etamine dress with small black flowers and stiff high shoes which were swollen by the cold of the uplands. She was standing in the center of the parlor thinking about Mauricio Babilonia under the yellow stream of light from the stained glass windows when a very beautiful novice came out of the office carrying her suitcase with the three changes of clothing. As she passed Meme she took her hand without stopping. “Come, Renata,” she said to her. Meme took her hand and let herself be led. The last time that Fernanda saw her, trying to keep up with the novice, the iron grating of the cloister had just closed behind her. She was still thinking about Mauricio Babilonia, his smell of grease, and his halo of butterflies, and she would keep on thinking about him for all the days of her life until the remote autumn morning when she died of old age, with her name changed and her head shaved and without ever having spoken a word, in a gloomy hospital in Cracow. Fernanda returned to Macondo on a train protected by armed police. During the trip she noticed the tension of the passengers, the military preparations in the towns along the line, and an atmosphere rarified by the certainty that something serious was going to happen, but she had no information until she reached Macondo and they told her that José Arcadio Segundo was inciting the workers of the banana company to strike. “That’s all we need,” Fernanda said to herself. “An anarchist in the family.” The strike broke out two weeks later and it did not have the dramatic 145 consequences that had been feared. The workers demanded that they not be obliged to cut and load bananas on Sundays, and the position seemed so just that even Father Antonio Isabel interceded in its favor because he found it in accordance with the laws of God. That victory, along with other actions that were initiated during the following months, drew the colorless José Arcadio Segundo out of his anonymity, for people had been accustomed to say that he was only good for filling up the town with French whores. With the same impulsive decision with which he had auctioned off his fighting cocks in order to organize a harebrained boat business, he gave up his position as foreman in the banana company and took the side of the workers. Quite soon he was pointed out as the agent of an international conspiracy against public order. One night, during the course of a week darkened by somber rumors, he miraculously escaped four revolver shots taken at him by an unknown party as he was leaving a secret meeting. The atmosphere of the following months was so tense that even Úrsula perceived it in her dark corner, and she had the impression that once more she was living through the dangerous times when her son Aureliano carried the homeopathic pills of subversion in his pocket. She tried to speak to José Arcadio Segundo, to let him know about that precedent, but Aureliano Segundo told her that since the night of the attempt on his life no one knew his whereabouts. “Just like Aureliano,” Úrsula exclaimed. “It’s as if the world were repeating itself.” Fernanda, was immune to the uncertainty of those days. She had no contact with the outside world since the violent altercation she had had with her husband over her having decided Memes fate without his consent. Aureliano Segundo was prepared to rescue his daughter with the help of the police if necessary, but Fernanda showed him some papers that were proof that she had entered the convent of her own free will. Meme had indeed signed once she was already behind the iron grating and she did it with the same indifference with which she had allowed herself to be led away. Underneath it all, Aureliano Segundo did not believe in the legitimacy of the proof. Just as he never believed that Mauricio Babilonia had gone into the yard to steal chickens, but both expedients served to ease his conscience, and thus he could go back without remorse under the shadow of Petra Cotes, where he revived his noisy revelry and unlimited gourmandizing. Foreign to the restlessness of the town, deaf to Úrsula’s quiet predictions. Fernanda gave the last tam to the screw of her preconceived plan. She wrote a long letter to her son José Arcadio, who was then about to take his first orders, and in it she told him that his sister Renata had expired in the peace of the Lord and as a consequence of the black vomit. Then she put Amaranta Úrsula under the care of Santa Sofía de la Piedad and dedicated herself to organizing her correspondence with the invisible doctors, which had been upset by Meme’s trouble. The first thing that she did was to set a definite date for the postponed telepathic operation. But the invisible doctors answered her that it was not wise so long as the state of social agitation continued in Macondo. She was so urgent and so poorly Informed that she explained to them In another letter that there was no such state of agitation and that everything was the result of the lunacy of a brother-in-law of hers who was fiddling around at that time in that labor union nonsense just as he had been involved with cockfighting and riverboats before. They were still not in agreement on the hot Wednesday when an aged nun knocked at the door bearing a small basket on her arm. When she opened the door Santa Sofía de la Piedad thought that it was a gift and tried to take the small basket that was covered with a lovely lace wrap. But the nun stopped her because she had instructions to give it personally and with the strictest secrecy to Doña Fernanda del Carpio de Buendía. It was Meme’s son. Fernanda’s former spiritual director explained to her in a letter that he had been born two months before and that they had taken the privilege of baptizing him Aureliano, for his grandfather, because his mother would not open her lips to tell them her wishes. Fernanda rose up inside against that trick of fate, but she had sufficient strength to hide it in front of the nun. “We’ll tell them that we found him floating in the basket,” she said smiling. 146 “No one will believe it,” the nun said. “If they believe it in the Bible,” Fernanda replied, “I don’t see why they shouldn’t believe it from me.” The nun lunched at the house while she waited for the train back, and in accordance with the discretion they asked of her, she did not mention the child again, but Fernanda viewed her as an undesirable witness of her shame and lamented the fact that they had abandoned the medieval custom of hanging a messenger who bore bad news. It was then that she decided to drown the child in the cistern as soon as the nun left, but her heart was not strong enough and she preferred to wait patiently until the infinite goodness of God would free her from the annoyance. The new Aureliano was a year old when the tension of the people broke with no forewarning. José Arcadio Segundo and other union leaders who had remained underground until then suddenly appeared one weekend and organized demonstrations in towns throughout the banana region. The police merely maintained public order. But on Monday night the leaders were taken from their homes and sent to jail in the capital of the province with two-pound irons on their legs. Taken among them were José Arcadio Segundo and Lorenzo Gavilán, a colonel in the Mexican revolution, exiled in Macondo, who said that he had been witness to the heroism of his comrade Artemio Cruz. They were set free, however, within three months because of the fact that the government and the banana company could not reach an agreement as to who should feed them in jail. The protests of the workers this time were based on the lack of sanitary facilities in their living quarters, the nonexistence of medical services, and terrible working conditions. They stated, furthermore, that they were not being paid in real money but in scrip, which was good only to buy Virginia ham in the company commissaries. José Arcadio Segundo was put in jail because he revealed that the scrip system was a way for the company to finance its fruit ships; which without the commissary merchandise would have to return empty from New Orleans to the banana ports. The other complaints were common knowledge. The company physicians did not examine the sick but had them line up behind one another in the dispensaries and a nurse would put a pill the color of copper sulfate on their tongues, whether they had malaria, gonorrhea, or constipation. It was a cure that was so common that children would stand in line several times and instead of swallowing the pills would take them home to use as bingo markers. The company workers were crowded together in miserable barracks. The engineers, instead of putting in toilets, had a portable latrine for every fifty people brought to the camps at Christmas time and they held public demonstrations of how to use them so that they would last longer. The decrepit lawyers dressed in black who during other times had besieged Colonel Aureliano Buendía and who now were controlled by the banana company dismissed those demands with decisions that seemed like acts of magic. When the workers drew up a list of unanimous petitions, a long time passed before they were able to notify the banana company officially. As soon as he found out about the agreement Mr. Brown hitched his luxurious glassed-in coach to the train and disappeared from Macondo along with the more prominent representatives of his company. Nonetheless some workers found one of them the following Saturday in a brothel and they made him sign a copy of the sheet with the demands while he was naked with the women who had helped to entrap him. The mournful lawyers showed in court that that man had nothing to do with the company and in order that no one doubt their arguments they had him jailed as an impostor. Later on, Mr. Brown was surprised traveling incognito, in a third-class coach and they made him sign another copy of the demands. On the following day he appeared before the judges with his hair dyed black and speaking flawless Spanish. The lawyers showed that the man was not Mr. Jack Brown, the superintendent of the banana company, born in Prattville Alabama, but a harmless vendor of medicinal plants, born in Macondo and baptized there with the name of Dagoberto Fonseca. A while later, faced with a new attempt by the workers the lawyers publicly exhibited Mr. Brown’s death certificate, attested to by consuls and foreign ministers which bore 147 witness that on June ninth last he had been run over by a fire engine in Chicago. Tired of that hermeneutical delirium, the workers turned away from the authorities in Macondo and brought their complaints up to the higher courts. It was there that the sleight-of-hand lawyers proved that the demands lacked all validity for the simple reason that the banana company did not have, never had had, and never would have any workers in its service because they were all hired on a temporary and occasional basis. So that the fable of the Virginia ham was nonsense, the same as that of the miraculous pills and the Yuletide toilets, and by a decision of the court it was established and set down in solemn decrees that the workers did not exist. The great strike broke out. Cultivation stopped halfway, the fruit rotted on the trees and the hundred-twenty-car trains remained on the sidings. The idle workers overflowed the towns. The Street of the Turks echoed with a Saturday that lasted for several days and in the poolroom at the Hotel Jacob they had to arrange twenty-four-hour shifts. That was where José Arcadio Segundo was on the day it was announced that the army had been assigned to reestablish public order. Although he was not a man given to omens, the news was like an announcement of death that he had been waiting for ever since that distant morning when Colonel Gerineldo Márquez had let him see an execution. The bad omen did not change his solemnity, however. He took the shot he had planned and it was good. A short time later the drumbeats, the shrill of the bugle, the shouting and running of the people told him that not only had the game of pool come to an end, but also the silent and solitary game that he had been playing with himself ever since that dawn execution. Then he went out into the street and saw them. There were three regiments, whose march in time to a galley drum made the earth tremble. Their snorting of a many-headed dragon filled the glow of noon with a pestilential vapor. They were short, stocky, and brutelike. They perspired with the sweat of a horse and had a smell of suntanned hide and the taciturn and impenetrable perseverance of men from the uplands. Although it took them over an hour to pass by, one might have thought that they were only a few squads marching in a circle, because they were all identical, sons of the same bitch, and with the same stolidity they all bore the weight of their packs and canteens, the shame of their rifles with fixed bayonets, and the chancre of blind obedience and a sense of honor. Úrsula heard them pass from her bed in the shadows and she made a crow with her fingers. Santa Sofía de la Piedad existed for an instant, leaning over the embroidered tablecloth that she had just ironed, and she thought of her son, José Arcadio Segundo, who without changing expression watched the last soldiers pass by the door of the Hotel Jacob. Martial law enabled the army to assume the functions of arbitrator in the controversy, but no effort at conciliation was made. As soon as they appeared in Macondo, the soldiers put aside their rifles and cut and loaded the bananas and started the trains running. The workers, who had been content to wait until then, went into the woods with no other weapons but their working machetes and they began to sabotage the sabotage. They burned plantations and commissaries, tore up tracks to impede the passage of the trains that began to open their path with machine-gun fire, and they cut telegraph and telephone wires. The irrigation ditches were stained with blood. Mr. Brown, who was alive in the electrified chicken coop, was taken out of Macondo with his family and those of his fellow countrymen and brought to a safe place under the protection of the army. The situation was threatening to lead to a bloody and unequal civil war when the authorities called upon the workers to gather in Macondo. The summons announced that the civil and military leader of the province would arrive on the following Friday ready to intercede in the conflict. José Arcadio Segundo was in the crowd that had gathered at the station on Friday since early in the morning. He had taken part in a meeting of union leaders and had been commissioned, along with Colonel Gavilán, to mingle in the crowd and orient it according to how things went. He did not feel well and a salty paste was beginning to collect on his palate when he noticed that the army had set up machine-gun emplacements around the small square and that the wired city of the banana 148 company was protected by artillery pieces. Around twelve o’clock, waiting for a train that was not arriving, more than three thousand people, workers, women, and children, had spilled out of the open space in front of the station and were pressing into the neighboring streets, which the army had closed off with rows of machine guns. At that time it all seemed more like a jubilant fair than a waiting crowd. They had brought over the fritter and drink stands from the Street of the Turks and the people were in good spirits as they bore the tedium of waiting and the scorching sun. A short time before three o’clock the rumor spread that the official train would not arrive until the following day. The crowd let out a sigh of disappointment. An army lieutenant then climbed up onto the roof of the station where there were four machine-gun emplacements aiming at the crowd and called for silence. Next to José Arcadio Segundo there was a barefooted woman, very fat, with two children between the ages of four and seven. She was carrying the smaller one and she asked José Arcadio Segundo, without knowing him, if he would lift up the other one so that he could hear better. José Arcadio Segundo put the child on his shoulders. Many years later that child would still tell, to the disbelief of all, that he had seen the lieutenant reading Decree No. 4 of the civil and military leader of the province through an old phonograph horn. It had been signed by General Carlos Cortes Vargas and his secretary, Major Enrique García Isaza, and in three articles of eighty words he declared the strikers to be a “bunch of hoodlums” and he authorized the army to shoot to kill. After the decree was read, in the midst of a deafening hoot of protest, a captain took the place of the lieutenant on the roof of the station and with the horn he signaled that he wanted to speak. The crowd was quiet again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said in a low voice that was slow and a little tired. “you have five minutes to withdraw.” The redoubled hooting and shouting drowned out the bugle call that announced the start of the count. No one moved. Five minutes have passed,” the captain said in the same tone. “One more minute and we’ll open fire.” José Arcadio Segundo, sweating ice, lowered the child and gave him to the woman. “Those bastards might just shoot,” she murmured. José Arcadio Segundo did not have time to speak because at that instant he recognized the hoarse voice of Colonel Gavilán echoing the words of the woman with a shout. Intoxicated by the tension, by the miraculous depth of the silence, and furthermore convinced that nothing could move that crowd held tight in a fascination with death, José Arcadio Segundo raised himself up over the heads in front of him and for the first time in his life he raised his voice. “You bastards!” he shouted. “Take the extra minute and stick it up your ass!” After his shout something happened that did not bring on fright but a kind of hallucination. The captain gave the order to fire and fourteen machine guns answered at once. But it all seemed like a farce. It was as if the machine guns had been loaded with caps, because their panting rattle could be heard and their incandescent spitting could be seen, but not the slightest reaction was perceived, not a cry, not even a sigh among the compact crowd that seemed petrified by an instantaneous invulnerability. Suddenly, on one side-of the station, a cry of death tore open the enchantment: “Aaaagh, Mother.” A seismic voice, a volcanic breath. the roar of a cataclysm broke out in the center of the crowd with a great potential of expansion. José Arcadio Segundo barely had time to pick up the child while the mother with the other one was swallowed up by the crowd that swirled about in panic. Many years later that child would still tell, in spite of people thinking that he was a crazy old man, how José Arcadio Segundo had lifted him over his head and hauled him, almost in the air, as if floating on the terror of the crowd, toward a nearby street. The child’s privileged position allowed 149 him to see at that moment that the wild mass was starting to get to the corner and the row of machine guns opened fire. Several voices shouted at the same time: “Get down! Get down!” The people in front had already done so, swept down by the wave of bullets. The survivors, instead of getting down, tried to go back to the small square, and the panic became a dragon’s tail as one compact wave ran against another which was moving in the opposite direction, toward the other dragon’s tail In the street across the way, where the machine guns were also firing without cease. They were Penned in. swirling about in a gigantic whirlwind that little by little was being reduced to its epicenter as the edges were systematically being cut off all around like an onion being peeled by the insatiable and methodical shears of the machine guns. The child saw a woman kneeling with her arms in the shape of a cross in an open space, mysteriously free of the stampede. José Arcadio Segundo put him up there at the moment he fell with his face bathed in blood, before the colossal troop wiped out the empty space, the kneeling woman, the light of the high, droughtstricken sky, and the whorish world where Úrsula Iguarán had sold so many little candy animals. When José Arcadio Segundo came to he was lying face up in the darkness. He realized that he was riding on an endless and silent train and that his head was caked with dry blood and that all his bones ached. He felt an intolerable desire to sleep. Prepared to sleep for many hours, safe from the terror and the horror, he made himself comfortable on the side that pained him less, and only then did he discover that he was lying against dead people. There was no free space in the car except for an aisle in the middle. Several hours must have passed since the massacre because the corpses had the same temperature as a plaster in autumn and the same consistency of petrified foam that it had, and those who had put them in the car had had time to pile them up in the same way in which they transported bunches of bananas. Trying to flee from the nightmare, José Arcadio Segundo dragged himself from one car to an other in the direction in which the train was heading, and in the flashes of light that broke through the wooden slats as they went through sleeping towns he saw the man corpses, woman corpses, child corpses who would be thrown into the sea like rejected bananas. He recognized only a woman who sold drinks in the square and Colonel Gavilán, who still held wrapped in his hand the belt with a buckle of Morelia silver with which he had tried to open his way through the panic. When he got to the first car he jumped into the darkness and lay beside the tracks until the train had passed. It was the longest one he had ever seen, with almost two hundred freight cars and a locomotive at either end and a third one in the middle. It had no lights, not even the red and green running lights, and it slipped off with a nocturnal and stealthy velocity. On top of the cars there could be seen the dark shapes of the soldiers with their emplaced machine guns. After midnight a torrential cloudburst came up. José Arcadio Segundo did not know where it was that he had jumped off, but he knew that by going in the opposite direction to that of the train he would reach Macondo. After walking for more than three hours, soaked to the skin, with a terrible headache, he was able to make out the first houses in the light of dawn. Attracted by the smell of coffee, he went into a kitchen where a woman with a child in her arms was leaning over the stove. “Hello,” he said, exhausted. “I’m José Arcadio Segundo Buendía.” He pronounced his whole name, letter by letter, in order to convince her that he was alive. He was wise in doing so, because the woman had thought that he was an apparition as she saw the dirty, shadowy figure with his head and clothing dirty with blood and touched with the solemnity of death come through the door. She recognized him. She brought him a blanket so that he could wrap himself up while his clothes dried by the fire, she warmed some water to wash his wound, which was only a flesh wound, and she gave him a clean diaper to bandage his head. Then she gave him a mug of coffee without sugar as she had been told the Buendías drank it, and she spread his clothing out near the fire. José Arcadio Segundo did not speak until he had finished drinking his coffee. 150 “There must have been three thousand of them” he murmured. “What?” “The dead,” he clarified. “It must have been an of the people who were at the station.” The woman measured him with a pitying look. “There haven’t been any dead here,” she said. “Since the time of your uncle, the colonel, nothing has happened in Macondo.” In the three kitchens where José Arcadio Segundo stopped before reaching home they told him the same thing. “There weren’t any dead. He went through the small square by the station and he saw the fritter stands piled one on top of the other and he could find no trace of the massacre. The streets were deserted under the persistent rain and the houses locked up with no trace of life inside. The only human note was the first tolling of the bells for mass. He knocked at the door at Colonel Gavilán’s house. A pregnant woman whom he had seen several times closed the door in his face. “He left,” she said, frightened. “He went back to his own country.” The main entrance to the wire chicken coop was guarded as always by two local policemen who looked as if they were made of stone under the rain, with raincoats and rubber boots. On their marginal street the West Indian Negroes were singing Saturday psalms. José Arcadio Segundo jumped over the courtyard wall and entered the house through the kitchen. Santa Sofía de la Piedad barely raised her voice. “Don’t let Fernanda see you,” she said. “She’s just getting up.” As if she were fulfilling an implicit pact, she took her son to the “chamberpot room.” arranged Melquíades’ broken-down cot for him and at two in the afternoon, while Fernanda was taking her siesta, she passed a plate of food in to him through the window. Aureliano Segundo had slept at home because the rain had caught him time and at three in the afternoon he was still waiting for it to clear. Informed in secret by Santa Sofía de la Piedad, he visited his brother in Melquíades’ room at that time. He did not believe the version of the massacre or the nightmare trip of the train loaded with corpses traveling toward the sea either. The night before he had read an extraordinary proclamation to the nation which said that the workers had left the station and had returned home in peaceful groups. The proclamation also stated that the union leaders, with great patriotic spirit, had reduced their demands to two points: a reform of medical services and the building of latrines in the living quarters. It was stated later that when the military authorities obtained the agreement with the workers, they hastened to tell Mr. Brown and he not only accepted the new conditions but offered to pay for three days of public festivities to celebrate the end of the conflict. Except that when the military asked him on what date they could announce the signing of the agreement, he looked out the window at the sky crossed with lightning flashes and made a profound gesture of doubt. “When the rain stops,” he said. “As long as the rain lasts we’re suspending all activities.” It had not rained for three months and there had been a drought. But when Mr. Brown announced his decision a torrential downpour spread over the whole banana region. It was the one that caught José Arcadio Segundo on his way to Macondo. A week later it was still raining. The official version, repeated a thousand times and mangled out all over the country by every means of communication the government found at hand, was finally accepted: there were no dead, the satisfied workers had gone back to their families, and the banana company was suspending all activity until the rains stopped. Martial law continued with an eye to the necessity of taking emergency measures for the public disaster of the endless downpour, but the troops were confined to quarters. During the day the soldiers walked through the torrents in the streets with their pant legs rolled up, playing with boats with the children. At night after taps, they knocked doors down with their rifle butts, hauled suspects out of their beds, and took them off on trips from which there was no return. The search for and extermination of the hoodlums, murderers, arsonists, and rebels of Decree No. 4 was still going on, but the military denied it even to the relatives of the victims who crowded the commandant’s offices in search of news. “You must have been dreaming,” the officers 151 insisted. “Nothing has happened in Macondo, nothing has ever happened, and nothing ever will happen. “This is a happy town.” In that way they were finally able to wipe out the union leaders. The only survivor was José Arcadio Segundo. One February night the unmistakable blows of rifle butts were heard at the door. Aureliano Segundo, who was still waiting for it to clear, opened the door to six soldiers under the command of an officer. Soaking from the rain, without saying a word, they searched the house room by room, closet by closet, from parlor to pantry. Úrsula woke up when they turned on the light in her room and she did not breathe while the march went on but held her fingers in the shape of a cross, pointing them to where the soldiers were moving about. Santa Sofía de la Piedad managed to warn José Arcadio Segundo, who was sleeping in Melquíades’ room, but he could see that it was too late to try to escape. So Santa Sofía de la Piedad locked the door again and he put on his shirt and his shoes and sat down on the cot to wait for them. At that moment they were searching the gold workshop. The officer made them open the padlock and with a quick sweep of his lantern he saw the workbench and the glass cupboard with bottles of acid and instruments that were still where their owner had left them and he seemed to understand that no one lived in that room. He wisely asked Aureliano Segundo if he was a silversmith, however, and the latter explained to him that it had been Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s workshop. “Oho,” the officer said, turned on the lights, and ordered such a minute search that they did not miss the eighteen little gold fishes that had not been melted down and that were hidden behind the bottles Is their tin can. The officer examined them one by one on the workbench and then he turned human. “I’d like to take one, if I may,” he said. “At one time they were a mark of subversion, but now they’re relics.” - He was young, almost an adolescent, with no sign of timidity and with a natural pleasant manner that had not shown itself until then. Aureliano Segundo gave him the little fish. The officer put it in his shirt pocket with a childlike glow in his eyes and he put the others back in the can and set it back where it had been. “It’s a wonderful memento,” he said. “Colonel Aureliano Buendía was one of our greatest men.” Nevertheless, that surge of humanity did not alter his professional conduct. At Melquíades’ room, which was locked up again with the padlock, Santa Sofía de la Piedad tried one last hope. “No one has lived in that room for a century,” she said. The officer had it opened and flashed the beam of the lantern over it, and Aureliano Segundo and Santa Sofía de la Piedad saw the Arab eyes of José Arcadio Segundo at the moment when the ray of light passed over his face and they understood that it was the end of one anxiety and the beginning of another which would find relief only in resignation. But the officer continued examining the room with the lantern and showed no sign of interest until he discovered the seventy-two chamberpots piled up in the cupboards. Then he turned on the light. José Arcadio Segundo was sitting on the edge of the cot, ready to go, more solemn and pensive than ever. In the background were the shelves with the shredded books, the rolls of parchment, and the clean and orderly worktable with the ink still fresh in the inkwells. There was the same pureness in the air, the same clarity, the same respite from dust and destruction that Aureliano Segundo had known in childhood and that only Colonel Aureliano Buendía could not perceive. But the officer was only interested in the chamberpots. “How many people live in this house?’ he asked. “Five.” The officer obviously did not understand. He paused with his glance on the space where Aureliano Segundo and Santa Soft de la Piedad were still seeing José Arcadio Segundo and the latter also realized that the soldier was looking at him without seeing him. Then he turned out the light and closed the door. When he spoke to the soldiers, Aureliano, Segundo understood that the young officer had seen the room with the same eyes as Colonel Aureliano Buendía. “It’s obvious that no one has been in that room for at least a hundred years.” the officer said to the soldiers. “There must even be snakes in there.” 152 When the door closed, José Arcadio Segundo was sure that the war was over. Years before Colonel Aureliano Buendía had spoken to him about the fascination of war and had tried to show it to him with countless examples drawn from his own experience. He had believed him. But the night when the soldiers looked at him without seeing him while he thought about the tension of the past few months, the misery of jail, the panic at the station, and the train loaded with dead people, José Arcadio Segundo reached the conclusion that Colonel Aureliano Buendía was nothing but a faker or an imbecile. He could not understand why he had needed so many words to explain what he felt in war because one was enough: fear. In Melquíades’ room, on the other hand, protected by the supernatural light, by the sound of the rain, by the feeling of being invisible, he found the repose that he had not had for one single instant during his previous life, and the only fear that remained was that they would bury him alive. He told Santa Sofía de la Piedad about it when she brought him his daily meals and she promised to struggle to stay alive even beyond her natural forces in order to make sure that they would bury him dead. Free from all fear, José Arcadio Segundo dedicated himself then to peruse the manuscripts of Melquíades many times, and with so much more pleasure when he could not understand them. He became accustomed to the sound of the rain, which after two months had become another form of silence, and the only thing that disturbed his solitude was the coming and going of Santa Sofía de la Piedad. He asked her, therefore, to leave the meals on the windowsill and padlock the door. The rest of the family forgot about him including Fernanda, who did not mind leaving him there when she found that the soldiers had seen him without recognizing him. After six months of enclosure, since the soldiers had left Macondo Aureliano Segundo removed the padlock, looking for someone he could talk to until the rain stopped. As soon as he opened the door he felt the pestilential attack of the chamberpots, which were placed on the floor and all of which had been used several times. José Arcadio Segundo, devoured by baldness, indifferent to the air that had been sharpened by the nauseating vapors, was still reading and rereading the unintelligible parchments. He was illuminated by a seraphic glow. He scarcely raised his eyes when he heard the door open, but that look was enough for his brother to see repeated in it the irreparable fate of his great-grandfather. “There were more than three thousand of them,” was all that José Arcadio Segundo said. “I’m sure now that they were everybody who had been at the station.” 153 Chapter 16 IT RAINED FOR four years, eleven months, and two days. There were periods of drizzle during which everyone put on his full dress and a convalescent look to celebrate the clearing, but the people soon grew accustomed to interpret the pauses as a sign of redoubled rain. The sky crumbled into a set of destructive storms and out of the north came hurricanes that scattered roofs about and knocked down walls and uprooted every last plant of the banana groves. Just as during the insomnia plague, as Úrsula came to remember during those days, the calamity itself inspired defenses against boredom. Aureliano Segundo was one of those who worked hardest not to be conquered by idleness. He had gone home for some minor matter on the night that Mr. Brown unleashed the storm, and Fernanda tried to help him with a half-blown-out umbrella that she found in a closet. “I don’t need it,” he said. “I’ll stay until it clears.” That was not, of course, an ironclad promise, but he would accomplish it literally. Since his clothes were at Petra Cotes’s, every three days he would take off what he had on and wait in his shorts until they washed. In order not to become bored, he dedicated himself to the task of repairing the many things that needed fixing in the house. He adjusted hinges, oiled locks, screwed knockers tight, and planed doorjambs. For several months he was seen wandering about with a toolbox that the gypsies must have left behind in José Arcadio Buendía’s days, and no one knew whether because of the involuntary exercise, the winter tedium or the imposed abstinence, but his belly was deflating little by little like a wineskin and his face of a beatific tortoise was becoming less bloodshot and his double chin less prominent until he became less pachydermic all over and was able to tie his own shoes again. Watching him putting in latches and repairing clocks, Fernanda wondered whether or not he too might be falling into the vice of building so that he could take apart like Colonel Aureliano Buendía and his little gold fishes, Amaranta and her shroud and her buttons, José Arcadio and the parchments, and Úrsula and her memories. But that was not the case. The worst part was that the rain was affecting everything and the driest of machines would have flowers popping out among their gears if they were not oiled every three days, and the threads in brocades rusted, and wet clothing would break out in a rash of saffron-colored moss. The air was so damp that fish could have come in through the doors and swum out the windows, floating through the atmosphere in the rooms. One morning Úrsula woke up feeling that she was reaching her end in a placid swoon and she had already asked them to take her to Father Antonio Isabel, even if it had to be on a stretcher, when Santa Sofía de la Piedad discovered that her back was paved with leeches. She took them off one by one, crushing them with a firebrand before they bled her to death. It was necessary to dig canals to get the water out of the house and rid it of the frogs and snails so that they could dry the floors and take the bricks from under the bedposts and walk in shoes once more. Occupied with the many small details that called for his attention, Aureliano Segundo did not realize that he was getting old until one afternoon when he found himself contemplating the premature dusk from a rocking chair and thinking about Petra Cotes without quivering. There would have been no problem in going back to Fernanda’s insipid love, because her beauty had become solemn with age, but the rain had spared him from all emergencies of passion and had filled him with the spongy serenity of a lack of appetite. He amused himself thinking about the things that he could have done in other times with that rain which had already lasted a year. He had been one of the first to bring zinc sheets to Macondo, much earlier than their popularization by the banana company, simply to roof Petra Cotes’s bedroom with them and to take pleasure in the feeling of deep intimacy that the sprinkling of the rain produced at that time. But even those wild memories of his mad youth left him unmoved, just as during his last debauch he had exhausted his quota of salaciousness and all he had left was the marvelous gift of 154 being able to remember it without bitterness or repentance. It might have been thought that the deluge had given him the opportunity to sit and reflect and that the business of the pliers and the oilcan had awakened in him the tardy yearning of so many useful trades that he might have followed in his life and did not; but neither case was true, because the temptation of a sedentary domesticity that was besieging him was not the result of any rediscovery or moral lesion. it came from much farther off, unearthed by the rain’s pitchfork from the days when in Melquíades’ room he would read the prodigious fables about flying carpets and whales that fed on entire ships and their crews. It was during those days that in a moment of carelessness little Aureliano appeared on the porch and his grandfather recognized the secret of his identity. He cut his hair, dressed him taught him not to be afraid of people, and very soon it was evident that he was a legitimate Aureliano Buendía, with his high cheekbones, his startled look, and his solitary air. It was a relief for Fernanda. For some time she had measured the extent of her pridefulness, but she could not find any way to remedy it because the more she thought of solutions the less rational they seemed to her. If she had known that Aureliano Segundo was going to take things the way he did, with the fine pleasure of a grandfather, she would not have taken so many turns or got so mixed up, but would have freed herself from mortification the year before Amaranta Úrsula, who already had her second teeth, thought of her nephew as a scurrying toy who was a consolation for the tedium of the rain. Aureliano Segundo remembered then the English encyclopedia that no one had since touched in Meme’s old room. He began to show the children the pictures, especially those of animals, and later on the maps and photographs of remote countries and famous people. Since he did not know any English and could identify only the most famous cities and people, he would invent names and legends to satisfy the children’s insatiable curiosity. Fernanda really believed that her husband was waiting for it to clear to return to his concubine. During the first months of the rain she was afraid that he would try to slip into her bedroom and that she would have to undergo the shame of revealing to him that she was incapable of reconciliation since the birth of Amaranta Úrsula. That was the reason for her anxious correspondence with the invisible doctors, interrupted by frequent disasters of the mail. During the first months when it was learned that the trains were jumping their tracks in the rain, a letter from the invisible doctors told her that hers were not arriving. Later on, when contact with the unknown correspondents was broken, she had seriously thought of putting on the tiger mask that her husband had worn in the bloody carnival and having herself examined under a fictitious name by the banana company doctors. But one of the many people who regularly brought unpleasant news of the deluge had told her that the company was dismantling its dispensaries to move them to where it was not raining. Then she gave up hope. She resigned herself to waiting until the rain stopped and the mail service was back to normal, and in the meantime she sought relief from her secret ailments with recourse to her imagination, because she would rather have died than put herself in the hands of the only doctor left in Macondo, the extravagant Frenchman who ate grass like a donkey. She drew close to Úrsula, trusting that she would know of some palliative for her attacks. But her twisted habit of not calling things by their names made her put first things last and use “expelled” for “gave birth” and “burning” for “flow” so that it would all be less shameful, with the result that Úrsula reached the reasonable conclusion that her trouble was intestinal rather than uterine, and she advised her to take a dose of calomel on an empty stomach. If it had not been for that suffering, which would have had nothing shameful about it for someone who did not suffer as well from shamefulness, and if it had not been for the loss of the letters, the rain would not have bothered Fernanda, because, after all, her whole life had been spent as if it had been raining. She did not change her schedule or modify her ritual. When the table was still raised up on bricks and the chairs put on planks so that those at the table would not get their feet wet, she still served with linen tablecloths and fine chinaware and with lighted candles, because she felt that the calamities should not be used as a 155 pretext for any relaxation in customs. No one went out into the street any more. If it had depended on Fernanda, they would never have done so, not only since it started raining but since long before that, because she felt that doors had been invented to stay closed and that curiosity for what was going on in the street was a matter for harlots. Yet she was the first one to look out when they were told that the funeral procession for Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was passing by and even though she only watched it through the half-opened window it left her in such a state of affliction that for a long time she repented in her weakness. She could not have conceived of a more desolate cortege. They had put the coffin in an oxcart over which they built a canopy of banana leaves, but the pressure of the rain was so intense and the streets so muddy that with every step the wheels got stuck and the covering was on the verge of falling apart. The streams of sad water that fell on the coffin were soaking the flag that had been placed on top which was actually the flag stained with blood and gunpowder that had been rejected by more honorable veterans. On the coffin they had also placed the saber with tassels of silver and copper, the same one that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez used to hang on the coat rack in order to go into Amaranta’s sewing room unarmed. Behind the cart, some barefoot and all of them with their pants rolled up, splashing in the mud were the last survivors of the surrender at Neerlandia carrying a drover’s staff in one hand and in the other a wreath of paper flowers that had become discolored in the rain. They appeared like an unreal vision along the street which still bore the name of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and they all looked at the house as they passed and turned the corner at the square, where they had to ask for help to move the cart, which was stuck. Úrsula had herself carried to the door by Santa Sofía de la Piedad. She followed the difficulties of the procession with such attention that no one doubted that she was seeing it, especially because her raised hand of an archangelic messenger was moving with the swaying of the cart. “Good-bye, Gerineldo, my son,” she shouted. “Say hello to my people and tell them I’ll see them when it stops raining.” Aureliano Segundo helped her back to bed and with the same informality with which he always treated her, he asked her the meaning of her farewell. “It’s true,” she said. “I’m only waiting for the rain to stop in order to die.” The condition of the streets alarmed Aureliano Segundo. He finally became worried about the state of his animals and he threw an oilcloth over his head and sent to Petra Cotes’s house. He found her in the courtyard, in the water up to her waist, trying to float the corpse of a horse. Aureliano Segundo helped her with a lever, and the enormous swollen body gave a turn like a bell and was dragged away by the torrent of liquid mud. Since the rain began, all that Petra Cotes had done was to clear her courtyard of dead animals. During the first weeks she sent messages to Aureliano Segundo for him to take urgent measures and he had answered that there was no rush, that the situation was not alarming, that there would be plenty of time to think about something when it cleared. She sent him word that the horse pastures were being flooded, that the cattle were fleeing to high ground, where there was nothing to eat and where they were at the mercy of jaguars and sickness. “There’s nothing to be done,” Aureliano Segundo answered her. “Others will be born when it clears.” Petra Cates had seen them die in dusters and the was able to butcher only those stuck in the mud. She saw with quiet impotence how the deluge was pitilessly exterminating a fortune that at one time was considered the largest and most solid in Macondo, and of which nothing remained but pestilence. When Aureliano Segundo decided to go see what was going on, he found only the corpse of the horse and a squalid mule in the ruins of the stable. Petra Cotes watched him arrive without surprise, joy, or resentment, and she only allowed herself an ironic smile. “It’s about time!” she said. She had aged, all skin and bones, and her tapered eyes of a carnivorous animal had become sad and tame from looking at the rain so much. Aureliano Segundo stayed at her house more than three 156 months, not because he felt better there than in that of his family, but because he needed all that time to make the decision to throw the piece of oilcloth back over his head. “There’s no rush,” he said, as he had said in the other home. “Let’s hope that it clears in the next few hours.” During the course of the first week he became accustomed to the inroads that time and the rain had made in the health of his concubine, and little by little he was seeing her as she had been before, remembering her jubilant excesses and the delirious fertility that her love provoked in the animals, and partly through love, partly through interest, one night during the second week he awoke her with urgent caresses. Petra Cotes did not react. “Go back to sleep,” she murmured. “These aren’t times for things like that.” Aureliano Segundo saw himself in the mirrors on the ceiling, saw Petra Cotes’s spinal column like a row of spools strung together along a cluster of withered nerves, and he saw that she was right, not because of the times but because of themselves, who were no longer up to those things. Aureliano Segundo returned home with his trunks, convinced that not only Úrsula but all the inhabitants of Macondo were waiting for it to dear in order to die. He had seen them as he passed by, sitting in their parlors with an absorbed look and folded arms, feeling unbroken time pass, relentless times, because it was useless to divide it into months and years, and the days into hours, when one could do nothing but contemplate the rain. The children greeted Aureliano Segundo with excitement because he was playing the asthmatic accordion for them again. But the concerts did not attract their attention as much as the sessions with the encyclopedia, and once more they got together in Meme’s room, where Aureliano Segundo’s imagination changed a dirigible into a flying elephant who was looking for a place to sleep among the clouds. On one occasion he came across a man on horseback who in spite of his strange outfit had a familiar look, and after examining him closely he came to the conclusion that it was a picture of Colonel Aureliano Buendía. He showed it to Fernanda and she also admitted the resemblance of the horseman not only to the colonel but to everybody in the family, although he was actually a Tartar warrior. Time passed in that way with the Colossus of Rhodes and snake charmers until his wife told him that there were only three pounds of dried meat and a sack of rice left in the pantry. And what do you want me to do about it?” he asked. “I don’t know,” Fernanda answered. “That’s men’s business.” “Well,” Aureliano Segundo said, “something will be done when it clears.” He was more interested in the encyclopedia than In the domestic problem, even when he had to content himself with a scrap of meat and a little rice for lunch. “It’s impossible to do anything now,” he would say. “It can’t rain for the rest of our lives.” And while the urgencies of the pantry grew greater, Fernanda’s indignation also grew, until her eventual protests, her infrequent outbursts came forth in an uncontained, unchained torrent that begin one morning like the monotonous drone of a guitar and as the day advanced rose in pitch, richer and more splendid. Aureliano Segundo was not aware of the singsong until the following day after breakfast when he felt himself being bothered by a buzzing that was by then more fluid and louder than the sound of the rain, and it was Fernanda, who was walking throughout the house complaining that they had raised her to be a queen only to have her end up as a servant in a madhouse, with a lazy, idolatrous, libertine husband who lay on his back waiting for bread to rain down from heaven while she was straining her kidneys trying to keep afloat a home held together with pins where there was so much to do, so much to bear up under and repair from the time God gave his morning sunlight until it was time to go to bed that when she got there her eyes were full of ground glass, and yet no one ever said to her, “Good morning, Fernanda, did you sleep well?” Nor had they asked her, even out of courtesy, why she was so pale or why she awoke with purple rings under her eyes in spite of the fact that she expected it, of course, from a family that had always considered her a nuisance, an old rag, a booby painted on the wall, and who were always going around saying things against her behind her back, calling her church mouse, 157 calling her Pharisee, calling her crafty, and even Amaranta, may she rest in peace, had said aloud that she was one of those people who could not tell their rectums from their ashes, God have mercy, such words, and she had tolerated everything with resignation because of the Holy Father, but she had not been able to tolerate it any more when that evil José Arcadio Segundo said that the damnation of the family had come when it opened its doors to a stuck-up highlander, just imagine, a bossy highlander, Lord save us, a highlander daughter of evil spit of the same stripe as the highlanders the government sent to kill workers, you tell me, and he was referring to no one but her, the godchild of the Duke of Alba, a lady of such lineage that she made the liver of presidents’ wives quiver, a noble dame of fine blood like her, who had the right to sign eleven peninsular names and who was the only mortal creature in that town full of bastards who did not feel all confused at the sight of sixteen pieces of silverware, so that her adulterous husband could die of laughter afterward and say that so many knives and forks and spoons were not meant for a human being but for a centipede, and the only one who could tell with her eyes closed when the white wine was served and on what side and in which glass and when the red wine and on what side and in which glass, and not like that peasant of an Amaranta, may she rest in peace, who thought that white wine was served in the daytime and red wine at night, and the only one on the whole coast who could take pride in the fact that she took care of her bodily needs only in golden chamberpots, so that Colonel Aureliano Buendía, may he rest in peace, could have the effrontery to ask her with his Masonic Ill humor where she had received that privilege and whether she did not shit shit but shat sweet basil, just imagine, with those very words, and so that Renata, her own daughter, who through an oversight had seen her stool in the bedroom, had answered that even if the pot was all gold and with a coat of arms, what was inside was pure shit, physical shit, and worse even than any other kind because it was stuck-up highland shit, just imagine, her own daughter, so that she never had any illusions about the rest of the family, but in any case she had the right to expect a little more consideration from her husband because, for better or for worse, he was her consecrated spouse her helpmate, her legal despoiler, who took upon himself of his own free and sovereign will the grave responsibility of taking her away from her paternal home, where she never wanted for or suffered from anything, where she wove funeral wreaths as a pastime, since her godfather had sent a letter with his signature and the stamp of his ring on the sealing wax simply to say that the hands of his goddaughter were not meant for tasks of this world except to play the clavichord, and, nevertheless, her insane husband had taken her from her home with all manner of admonitions and warnings and had brought her to that frying pan of hell where a person could not breathe because of the heat, and before she had completed her Pentecostal fast he had gone off with his wandering trunks and his wastrel’s accordion to loaf in adultery with a wretch of whom it was only enough to see her behind, well, that’s been said, to see her wiggle her mare’s behind in order to guess that she was a, that she was a, just the opposite of her, who was a lady in a palace or a pigsty, at the table or in bed, a lady of breeding, God-fearing, obeying His laws and submissive to His wishes, and with whom he could not perform, naturally, the acrobatics and trampish antics that he did with the other one, who, of course, was ready for anything like the French matrons, and even worse, if one considers well, because they at least had the honesty to put a red light at their door, swinishness like that, just imagine, and that was all that was needed by the only and beloved daughter of Doña Renata Argote and Don Fernando del Carpio, and especially the latter, an upright man, a fine Christian, a Knight of the Order of the Holy Sepulcher, those who receive direct from God the privilege of remaining intact in their graves with their skin smooth like the cheeks of a bride and their eyes alive and clear like emeralds. “That’s not true,” Aureliano Segundo interrupted her. “He was already beginning to smell when they brought him here.” 158 He had the patience to listen to her for a whole day until he caught her in a slip. Fernanda did not pay him any mind, but she lowered her voice. That night at dinner the exasperating buzzing of the singsong had conquered the sound of the rain. Aureliano, Segundo ate very little, with his head down, and he went to his room early. At breakfast on the following day Fernanda was trembling, with a look of not having slept well, and she seemed completely exhausted by her rancor. Nevertheless, when her husband asked if it was not possible to have a soft-boiled egg, she did not answer simply that they had run out of eggs the week before, but she worked up a violent diatribe against men who spent their time contemplating their navels and then had the gall to ask for larks’ livers at the table. Aureliano Segundo took the children to look at the encyclopedia, as always, and Fernanda pretended to straighten out Meme’s room just so that he could listen to her muttering, of course, that it certainly took cheek for him to tell the poor innocents that there was a picture of Colonel Aureliano Buendía in the encyclopedia. During the afternoon, while the children were having their nap, Aureliano Segundo sat on the porch and Fernanda pursued him even there, provoking him, tormenting him, hovering about him with her implacable horsefly buzzing, saying that, of course, while there was nothing to eat except stones, her husband was sitting there like a sultan of Persia, watching it rain, because that was all he was, a slob, a sponge, a good-for-nothing, softer than cotton batting, used to living off women and convinced that he had married Jonah’s wife, who was so content with the story of the whale. Aureliano Segundo listened to her for more than two hours, impassive, as if he were deaf. He did not interrupt her until late in the afternoon, when he could no longer bear the echo of the bass drum that was tormenting his head. “Please shut up,” he begged. Fernanda, quite the contrary, raised her pitch. “I don’t have any reason to shut up,” she said. “Anyone who doesn’t want to listen to me can go someplace else.” Then Aureliano Segundo lost control. He stood up unhurriedly, as if he only intended to stretch, and with a perfectly regulated and methodical fury he grabbed the pots with the begonias one after the other, those with the ferns, the oregano, and one after the other he smashed them onto the floor. Fernanda was frightened because until then she had really not had a clear indication of the tremendous inner force of her singsong, but it was too late for any attempt at rectification. Intoxicated by the uncontained torrent of relief, Aureliano Segundo broke the glass on the china closet and piece by piece, without hurrying, he took out the chinaware and shattered it on the floor. Systematically, serenely, in the same parsimonious way in which he had papered the house with banknotes, he then set about smashing the Bohemian crystal ware against the walls, the hand-painted vases, the pictures of maidens in flower-laden boats, the mirrors in their gilded frames, everything that was breakable, from parlor to pantry, and he finished with the large earthen jar in the kitchen, which exploded in the middle of the courtyard with a hollow boom. Then he washed his hands, threw the oilcloth over himself, and before midnight he returned with a few strings of dried meat, several bags of rice, corn with weevils, and some emaciated bunches of bananas. From then on there was no more lack of food. Amaranta Úrsula and little Aureliano would remember the rains as a happy time. In spite of Fernanda’s strictness, they would splash in the puddles in the courtyard, catch lizards and dissect them, and pretend that they were poisoning the soup with dust from butterfly wings when Santa Sofía de la Piedad was not looking Úrsula was their most amusing plaything. They looked upon her as a big,. broken-down doll that they carried back and forth from one corner to another wrapped in colored cloth and with her face painted with soot and annatto, and once they were on the point of plucking out her eyes with the pruning shears as they had done with the frogs. Nothing gave them as much excitement as the wanderings of her mind. Something, indeed, must have happened to her mind during the third year of the rain, for she was gradually losing her sense of reality and confusing present time with remote periods of her life to the point where, on one occasion, she spent three days weeping deeply over the death of Petronila Iguarán, her great-grandmother, buried for over a 159 century. She sank into such an insane state of confusion that she thought little Aureliano was her son the colonel during the time he was taken to see ice, and that the José Arcadio who was at that time in the seminary was her firstborn who had gone off with the gypsies. She spoke so much about the family that the children learned to make up imaginary visits with beings who had not only been dead for a long time, but who had existed at different times. Sitting on the bed, her hair covered with ashes and her face wrapped in a red kerchief, Úrsula was happy in the midst of the unreal relatives whom the children described in all detail, as if they had really known them. Úrsula would converse with her forebears about events that took place before her own existence, enjoying the news they gave her, and she would weep with them over deaths that were much more recent than the guests themselves. The children did not take long to notice that in the course of those ghostly visits Úrsula would always ask a question destined to establish the one who had brought a life-size plaster Saint Joseph to the house to be kept until the rains stopped. It was in that way that Aureliano Segundo remembered the fortune buried in some place that only Úrsula knew, but the questions and astute maneuvering that occurred to him were of no use because in the labyrinth of her madness she seemed to preserve enough of a margin of lucidity to keep the secret which she would reveal only to the one who could prove that he was the real owner of the buried gold. She was so skillful and strict that when Aureliano Segundo instructed one of his carousing companions to pass himself off as the owner of the fortune, she got him all caught up in a minute interrogation sown with subtle traps. Convinced that Úrsula would carry the secret to her grave, Aureliano Segundo hired a crew of diggers under the pretext that they were making some drainage canals in the courtyard and the backyard, and he himself took soundings in the earth with iron bars and all manner of metaldetectors without finding anything that resembled gold in three months of exhaustive exploration. Later on he went to Pilar Ternera with the hope that the cards would we more than the diggers, but she began by explaining that any attempt would be useless unless Úrsula cut the cards. On the other hand, she confirmed the existence of the treasure with the precision of its consisting of seven thousand two hundred fourteen coins buried in three canvas sacks reinforced with copper wire within a circle with a radius of three hundred eighty-eight feet with Úrsula’s bed as the center, but she warned that it would not be found until it stopped raining and the suns of three consecutive Junes had changed the piles of mud into dust. The profusion and meticulous vagueness of the information seemed to Aureliano Segundo so similar to the tales of spiritualists that he kept on with his enterprise in spite of the fact that they were in August and they would have to wait at least three years in order to satisfy the conditions of the prediction. The first thing that startled him, even though it increased his confusion at the same time, was the fact that it was precisely three hundred eighty-eight feet from Úrsula’s bed to the backyard wall. Fernanda feared that he was as crazy as his twin brother when she saw him taking the measurements, and even more when he told the digging crew to make the ditches three feet deeper. Overcome by an exploratory delirium comparable only to that of his great-grandfather when he was searching for the route of inventions, Aureliano Segundo lost the last layers of fat that he had left and the old resemblance to his twin brother was becoming accentuated again, not only because of his slim figure, but also because of the distant air and the withdrawn attitude. He no longer bothered with the children. He ate at odd hours, muddled from head to toe, and he did so in a corner in the kitchen, barely answering the occasional questions asked by Santa Sofía de la Piedad. Seeing him work that way, as she had never dreamed him capable of doing, Fernanda thought that his stubbornness was diligence, his greed abnegation, and his thickheadedness perseverance, and her insides tightened with remorse over the virulence with which she had attacked his idleness. But Aureliano Segundo was in no mood for merciful reconciliations at that time. Sunk up to his neck in a morass of dead brandies and rotting flowers, he flung the dirt of the garden all about after having finished with the courtyard and the backyard, and he excavated so deeply under the foundations of the east wing of the house that one night they woke up in terror at 160 what seemed to be an earthquake, as much because of the trembling as the fearful underground creaking. Three of the rooms were collapsing and a frightening crack had opened up from the porch to Fernanda’s room. Aureliano Segundo did not give up the search because of that. Even when his last hopes had been extinguished and the only thing that seemed to make any sense was what the cards had predicted, he reinforced the jagged foundation, repaired the crack with mortar, and continued on the side to the west. He was still there on the second week of the following June when the rain began to abate and the clouds began to lift and it was obvious from one moment to the next that it was going to clear. That was what happened. On Friday at two in the afternoon the world lighted up with a crazy crimson sun as harsh as brick dust and almost as cool as water, and it did not rain again for ten years. Macondo was in ruins. In the swampy streets there were the remains of furniture, animal skeletons covered with red lilies, the last memories of the hordes of newcomers who had fled Macondo as wildly as they had arrived. The houses that had been built with such haste during the banana fever had been abandoned. The banana company tore down its installations. All that remained of the former wired-in city were the ruins. The wooden houses, the cool terraces for breezy card-playing afternoons, seemed to have been blown away in an anticipation of the prophetic wind that years later would wipe Macondo off the face of the earth. The only human trace left by that voracious blast was a glove belonging to Patricia Brown in an automobile smothered in wild pansies. The enchanted region explored by José Arcadio Buendía in the days of the founding, where later on the banana plantations flourished, was a bog of rotting roots, on the horizon of which one could manage to see the silent foam of the sea. Aureliano Segundo went through a crisis of affliction on the first Sunday that he put on dry clothes and went out to renew his acquaintance with the town. The survivors of the catastrophe, the same ones who had been living in Macondo before it had been struck by the banana company hurricane, were sitting in the middle of the street enjoying their first sunshine. They still had the green of the algae on their skin and the musty smell of a corner that had been stamped on them by the rain, but in their hearts they seemed happy to have recovered the town in which they had been born. The Street of the Turks was again what it had been earlier, in the days when the Arabs with slippers and rings in their ears were going about the world swapping knickknacks for macaws and had found in Macondo a good bend in the road where they could find respite from their age-old lot as wanderers. Having crossed through to the other side of the rain. the merchandise in the booths was falling apart, the cloths spread over the doors were splotched with mold, the counters undermined by termites, the walls eaten away by dampness, but the Arabs of the third generation were sitting in the same place and in the same position as their fathers and grandfathers, taciturn, dauntless, invulnerable to time and disaster, as alive or as dead as they had been after the insomnia plague and Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s thirty-two wars. Their strength of spirit in the face of ruins of the gaming tables, the fritter stands, the shooting galleries, and the alley where they interpreted dreams and predicted the future made Aureliano Segundo ask them with his usual informality what mysterious resources they had relied upon so as not to have gone awash in the storm, what the devil they had done so as not to drown, and one after the other, from door to door, they returned a crafty smile and a dreamy look, and without any previous consultation they all gave the answer: “Swimming.” Petra Cotes was perhaps the only native who had an Arab heart. She had seen the final destruction of her stables, her barns dragged off by the storm. but she had managed to keep her house standing. During the second year she had sent pressing messages to Aureliano Segundo and he had answered that he did not know when he would go back to her house, but that in any case he would bring along a box of gold coins to pave the bedroom floor with. At that time she had dug deep into her heart, searching for the strength that would allow her to survive the misfortune, and 161 she had discovered a reflective and just rage with which she had sworn to restore the fortune squandered by her lover and then wiped out by the deluge. It was such an unbreakable decision that Aureliano Segundo went back to her house eight months after the last message and found her green disheveled, with sunken eyelids and skin spangled with mange, but she was writing out numbers on small pieces of paper to make a raffle. Aureliano Segundo was astonished, and he was so dirty and so solemn that Petra Cotes almost believed that the one who had come to see her was not the lover of all her life but his twin brother. “You’re crazy,” he told her. “Unless you plan to raffle off bones.” Then she told him to look in the bedroom and Aureliano Segundo saw the mule. Its skin was clinging to its bones like that of its mistress, but it was just as alive and resolute as she. Petra Cotes had fed it with her wrath, and when there was no more hay or corn or roots, she had given it shelter in her own bedroom and fed it on the percale sheets, the Persian rugs, the plush bedspreads, the velvet drapes, and the canopy embroidered with gold thread and silk tassels on the episcopal bed. 162 Chapter 17 ÚRSULA HAD to make a great effort to fulfill her promise to die when it cleared. The waves of lucidity that were so scarce during the rains became more frequent after August, when an and wind began to blow and suffocated the rose bushes and petrified the piles of mud, and ended up scattering over Macondo the burning dust that covered the rusted zinc roofs and the age-old almond trees forever. Úrsula cried in lamentation when she discovered that for more than three years she had been a plaything for the children. She washed her painted face, took off the strips of brightly colored cloth, the dried lizards and frogs, and the rosaries and old Arab necklaces that they had hung all over her body, and for the first time since the death of Amaranta she got up out of bed without anybody’s help to join in the family life once more. The spirit of her invincible heart guided her through the shadows. Those who noticed her stumbling and who bumped into the archangelic arm she kept raised at head level thought that she was having trouble with her body, but they still did not think she was blind. She did not need to see to realize that the flower beds, cultivated with such care since the first rebuilding, had been destroyed by the rain and ruined by Aureliano Segundo’s excavations, and that the walls and the cement of the floors were cracked, the furniture mushy and discolored, the doors off their hinges, and the family menaced by a spirit of resignation and despair that was inconceivable in her time. Feeling her way along through the empty bedrooms she perceived the continuous rumble of the termites as they carved the wood, the snipping of the moths in the clothes closets, and the devastating noise of the enormous red ants that had prospered during the deluge and were undermining the foundations of the house. One day she opened the trunk with the saints and had to ask Santa Sofía de la Piedad to get off her body the cockroaches that jumped out and that had already turned the clothing to dust. “A person can’t live in neglect like this,” she said. “If we go on like this we’ll be devoured by animals.” From then on she did not have a moment of repose. Up before dawn, she would use anybody available, even the children. She put the few articles of clothing that were still usable out into the sun, she drove the cockroaches off with powerful insecticide attacks, she scratched out the veins that the termites had made on doors and windows and asphyxiated the ants in their anthills with quicklime. The fever of restoration finally brought her to the forgotten rooms. She cleared out the rubble and cobwebs in the room where José Arcadio Buendía had lost his wits looking for the Philosopher’s stone, she put the silver shop which had been upset by the soldiers in order, and lastly she asked for the keys to Melquíades’ room to see what state it was in. Faithful to the wishes of José Arcadio Segundo, who had forbidden anyone to come in unless there was a clear indication that he had died, Santa Sofía de la Piedad tried all kinds of subterfuges to throw Úrsula off the track. But so inflexible was her determination not to surrender even the most remote corner of the house to the insects that she knocked down every obstacle in her path, and after three days of insistence she succeeded in getting them to open the door for her. She had to hold on to the doorjamb so that the stench would not knock her over, but she needed only two seconds to remember that the schoolgirls’ seventy-two chamberpots were in there and that on one of the rainy nights a patrol of soldiers had searched the house looking for José Arcadio Segundo and had been unable to find him. “Lord save us!” she exclaimed, as if she could see everything. “So much trouble teaching you good manners and you end up living like a pig.” José Arcadio Segundo was still reading over the parchments. The only thing visible in the intricate tangle of hair was the teeth striped with green dime and his motionless eyes. When he recognized his great-grandmother’s voice he turned his head toward the door, tried to smile, and without knowing it repeated an old phrase of Úrsula’s. 163 “What did you expect?” he murmured. “Time passes.” “That’s how it goes,” Úrsula said, “but not so much.” When she said it she realized that she was giving the same reply that Colonel Aureliano Buendía had given in his death cell, and once again she shuddered with the evidence that time was not passing, as she had just admitted, but that it was turning in a circle. But even then she did not give resignation a chance. She scolded José Arcadio Segundo as if he were a child and insisted that he take a bath and shave and lend a hand in fixing up the house. The simple idea of abandoning the room that had given him peace terrified José Arcadio Segundo. He shouted that there was no human power capable of making him go out because he did not want to see the train with two hundred cars loaded with dead people which left Macondo every day at dusk on its way to the sea. “They were all of those who were at the station,” he shouted. “Three thousand four hundred eight.” Only then did Úrsula realize that he was in a world of shadows more impenetrable than hers, as unreachable and solitary as that of his great-grandfather. She left him in the room, but she succeeded in getting them to leave the padlock off, clean it every day, throw the chamberpots away except for one, and to keep José Arcadio Segundo as clean and presentable as his great-grandfather had been during his long captivity under the chestnut tree. At first Fernanda interpreted that bustle as an attack of senile madness and it was difficult for her to suppress her exasperation. But about that time José Arcadio told her that he planned to come to Macondo from Rome before taking his final vows, and the good news filled her with such enthusiasm that from morning to night she would be seen watering the flowers four times a day so that her son would not have a bad impression of the house. It was that same incentive which induced her to speed up her correspondence with the invisible doctors and to replace the pots of ferns and oregano and the begonias on the porch even before Úrsula found out that they had been destroyed by Aureliano Segundo’s exterminating fury. Later on she sold the silver service and bought ceramic dishes, pewter bowls and soup spoons, and alpaca tablecloths, and with them brought poverty to the cupboards that had been accustomed to India Company chinaware and Bohemian crystal. Úrsula always tried to go a step beyond. “Open the windows and the doors,” she shouted. “Cook some meat and fish, buy the largest turtles around, let strangers come and spread their mats in the corners and urinate in the rose bushes and sit down to eat as many times as they want and belch and rant and muddy everything with their boots, and let them do whatever they want to us, because that’s the only way to drive off rain.” But it was a vain illusion. She was too old then and living on borrowed time to repeat the miracle of the little candy animals, and none of her descendants had inherited her strength. The house stayed closed on Fernanda’s orders. Aureliano Segundo, who had taken his trunks back to the house of Petra Cotes, barely had enough means to see that the family did not starve to death. With the raffling of the mule, Petra Cotes and he bought some more animals with which they managed to set up a primitive lottery business. Aureliano Segundo would go from house to house selling the tickets that he himself painted with colored ink to make them more attractive and convincing, and perhaps he did not realize that many people bought them out of gratitude and most of them out of pity. Nevertheless, even the most pitying purchaser was getting a chance to win a pig for twenty cents or a calf for thirty-two, and they became so hopeful that on Tuesday nights Petra Cotes’s courtyard overflowed with people waiting for the moment when a child picked at random drew the winning number from a bag. It did not take long to become a weekly fair, for at dusk food and drink stands would be set up in the courtyard and many of those who were favored would slaughter the animals they had won right there on the condition that someone else supply the liquor and music, so that without having wanted to, Aureliano Segundo suddenly found himself playing the accordion again and participating in modest tourneys of voracity. Those humble replicas of the revelry of former times served to show Aureliano Segundo himself how much his spirits had declined and to what a degree his skill as a 164 masterful carouser had dried up. He was a changed man. The two hundred forty pounds that he had attained during the days when he had been challenged by The Elephant had been reduced to one hundred fifty-six; the glowing and bloated tortoise face had turned into that of an iguana, and he was always on the verge of boredom and fatigue. For Petra Cotes, however, he had never been a better man than at that time, perhaps because the pity that he inspired was mixed with love, and because of the feeling of solidarity that misery aroused in both of them. The broken-down bed ceased to be the scene of wild activities and was changed into an intimate refuge. Freed of the repetitious mirrors, which had been auctioned off to buy animals for the lottery, and from the lewd damasks and velvets, which the mule had eaten, they would stay up very late with the innocence of two sleepless grandparents, taking advantage of the time to draw up accounts and put away pennies which they formerly wasted just for the sake of it. Sometimes the cock’s crow would find them piling and unpiling coins, taking a bit away from here to put there, to that this bunch would be enough to keep Fernanda happy and that would be for Amaranta Úrsula’s shoes, and that other one for Santa Sofía de la Piedad, who had not had a new dress since the time of all the noise, and this to order the coffin if Úrsula died, and this for the coffee which was going up a cent a pound in price every three months, and this for the sugar which sweetened less every day, and this for the lumber which was still wet from the rains, and this other one for the paper and the colored ink to make tickets with, and what was left over to pay off the winner of the April calf whose hide they had miraculously saved when it came down with a symptomatic carbuncle just when all of the numbers in the raffle had already been sold. Those rites of poverty were so pure that they nearly always set aside the largest share for Fernanda, and they did not do so out of remorse or charity, but because her wellbeing was more important to them than their own. What was really happening to them, although neither of them realized it, was that they both thought of Fernanda as the daughter that they would have liked to have and never did, to the point where on a certain occasion they resigned themselves to eating crumbs for three days, so that she could buy a Dutch tablecloth. Nevertheless, no matter how much they killed themselves with work, no matter how much money they eked out, and no matter how many schemes they thought of, their guardian angels were asleep with fatigue while they put in coins and took them out trying to get just enough to live with. During the waking hours when the accounts were bad. they wondered what had happened in the world for the animals not to breed with the same drive as before, why money slipped through their fingers, and why people who a short time before had burned rolls of bills in the carousing considered it highway robbery to charge twelve cents for a raffle of six hens. Aureliano Segundo thought without saying so that the evil was not in the world but in some hidden place in the mysterious heart of Petra Cotes, where something had happened during the deluge that had turned the animals sterile and made money scarce. Intrigued by that enigma, he dug so deeply into her sentiments that in search of interest he found love, because by trying to make her love him he ended up falling in love with her. Petra Cotes, for her part, loved him more and more as she felt his love increasing, and that was how in the ripeness of autumn she began to believe once more in the youthful superstition that poverty was the servitude of love. Both looked back then on the wild revelry, the gaudy wealth, and the unbridled fornication as an annoyance and they lamented that it had cost them so much of their lives to fund the paradise of shared solitude. Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs. The raffles never got very far. At first Aureliano Segundo would spend three days of the week shut up in what had been his rancher’s office drawing ticket after ticket, Painting with a fair skill a red cow, a green pig, or a group of blue hens, according to the animal being raffled, and he would sketch out a good imitation of printed numbers and the name that Petra Cotes thought good to call 165 the business: Divine Providence Raffles. But with time he felt so tired after drawing up to two thousand tickets a week that he had the animals, the name, and the numbers put on rubber stamps, and then the work was reduced to moistening them on pads of different colors. In his last years it occurred to him to substitute riddles for the numbers so that the prize could be shared by all of those who guessed it, but the system turned out to be so complicated and was open to so much suspicion that he gave it up after the second attempt. Aureliano Segundo was so busy trying to maintain the prestige of his raffles that he barely had time to see the children. Fernanda put Amaranta Úrsula in a small private school where they admitted only six girls, but she refused to allow Aureliano to go to public school. She considered that she had already relented too much in letting him leave the room. Besides, the schools in those days accepted only the legitimate offspring of Catholic marriages and on the birth certificate that had been pinned to Aureliano’s clothing when they brought him to the house he was registered as a foundling. So he remained shut In at the mercy of Santa Sofía de la Piedad’s loving eyes and Úrsula’s mental quirks, learning in the narrow world of the house whatever his grandmothers explained to him. He was delicate, thin, with a curiosity that unnerved the adults, but unlike the inquisitive and sometimes clairvoyant look that the colonel had at his age, his look was blinking and somewhat distracted. While Amaranta Úrsula was in kindergarten, he would hunt earthworms and torture insects in the garden. But once when Fernanda caught him putting scorpions in a box to put in Úrsula’s bed, she locked him up in Meme’s old room, where he spent his solitary hours looking through the pictures in the encyclopedia. Úrsula found him there one afternoon when she was going about sprinkling the house with distilled water and a bunch of nettles, and in spite of the fact that she had been with him many times she asked him who he was. “I’m Aureliano Buendía,” he said. “That’s right” she replied. “And now it’s time for you to start learning how to be a silversmith.” She had confused him with her son again, because the hot wind that came after the deluge and had brought occasional waves of lucidity to Úrsula’s brain had passed. She never got her reason back. When she went into the bedroom she found Petronila Iguarán there with the bothersome crinolines and the beaded jacket that she put on for formal visits, and she found Tranquilina Maria Miniata Alacoque Buendía, her grandmother, fanning herself with a peacock feather in her invalid’s rocking chair, and her great-grandfather Aureliano Arcadio Buendía, with his imitation dolman of the viceregal guard, and Aureliano Iguarán, her father, who had invented a prayer to make the worms shrivel up and drop off cows, and her timid mother, and her cousin with the pig’s tail, and José Arcadio Buendía, and her dead sons, all sitting in chairs lined up against the wall as if it were a wake and not a visit. She was tying a colorful string of chatter together, commenting on things from many separate places and many different times, so that when Amaranta Úrsula returned from school and Aureliano grew tired of the encyclopedia, they would find her sitting on her bed, talking to herself and lost in a labyrinth of dead people. “Fire!” she shouted once in terror and for an instant panic spread through the house, but what she was telling about was the burning of a barn that she had witnessed when she was four years old. She finally mixed up the past with the present in such a way that in the two or three waves of lucidity that she had before she died, no one knew for certain whether she was speaking about what she felt or what she remembered. Little by little she was shrinking, turning into a fetus, becoming mummified in life to the point that in her last months she was a cherry raisin lost inside of her nightgown, and the arm that she always kept raised looked like the paw of a marimonda monkey. She was motionless for several days, and Santa Sofía de la Piedad had to shake her to convince herself that she was alive and sat her on her lap to feed her a few spoonfuls of sugar water. She looked like a newborn old woman. Amaranta Úrsula and Aureliano would take her in and out of the bedroom, they would lay her on the altar to see if she was any larger than the Christ child, and one afternoon they hid her in a closet in the Pantry where the rats 166 could have eaten her. One Palm Sunday they went into the bedroom while Fernanda was in church and carried Úrsula out by the neck and ankles. “Poor great-great-grandmother,” Amaranta Úrsula said. “She died of old age.” Úrsula was startled. “I’m alive!” she said. “You can see.” Amaranta Úrsula said, suppressing her laughter, “that she’s not even breathing.” “I’m talking!” Úrsula shouted. “She can’t even talk,” Aureliano said. “She died like a little cricket.” Then Úrsula gave in to the evidence. “My God,” she exclaimed in a low voice. “So this is what it’s like to be dead.” She started an endless, stumbling, deep prayer that lasted more than two days, and that by Tuesday had degenerated into a hodgepodge of requests to God and bits of practical advice to stop the red ants from bringing the house down, to keep the lamp burning by Remedios’ daguerreotype, and never to let any Buendía marry a person of the same blood because their children would be born with the tail of a pig. Aureliano Segundo tried to take advantage of her delirium to get her to ten him where the gold was buried, but his entreaties were useless once more “When the owner appears,” Úrsula said, “God will illuminate him so that he will find it.” Santa Sofía de la Piedad had the certainty that they would find her dead from one moment to the next, because she noticed during those days a certain confusion in nature: the roses smelled like goosefoot, a pod of chick peas fell down and the beans lay on the ground in a perfect geometrical pattern in the shape of a starfish and one night she saw a row of luminous orange disks pass across the sky. They found her dead on the morning of Good Friday. The last time that they had helped her calculate her age, during the time of the banana company, she had estimated it as between one hundred fifteen and one hundred twenty-two. They buried her in a coffin that was not much larger than the basket in which Aureliano had arrived, and very few people were at the funeral, partly because there wet not many left who remembered her, and partly because it was so hot that noon that the birds in their confusion were running into walls like day pigeons and breaking through screens to die in the bedrooms. At first they thought it was a plague. Housewives were exhausted from sweeping away so many dead birds, especially at siesta time, and the men dumped them into the river by the cartload. On Easter Sunday the hundred-year-old Father Antonio Isabel stated from the pulpit that the death of the birds was due to the evil influence of the Wandering Jew, whom he himself had seen the night before. He described him as a cross between a billy goat and a female heretic, an infernal beast whose breath scorched the air and whose look brought on the birth of monsters in newlywed women. There were not many who paid attention to his apocalyptic talk, for the town was convinced that the priest was rambling because of his age. But one woman woke everybody up at dawn on Wednesday because she found the tracks of a biped with a cloven hoof. They were so clear and unmistakable that those who went to look at them had no doubt about the existence of a fearsome creature similar to the one described by the parish priest and they got together to set traps in their courtyards. That was how they managed to capture it. Two weeks after Úrsula’s death, Petra Cotes and Aureliano Segundo woke up frightened by the especially loud bellowing of a calf that was coming from nearby. When they got there a group of men were already pulling the monster off the sharpened stakes they had set in the bottom of a pit covered with dry leaves, and it stopped lowing. It was as heavy as an ox in spite of the fact that it was no taller than a young steer, and a green and greasy liquid flowed from its wounds. Its body was covered with rough hair, plagued with small ticks, and the skin was hardened with the scales of a remora fish, but unlike the priest’s description, its human parts were more like those of a sickly angel than of a man, for its hands were tense and agile, its eyes large and gloomy, and on its shoulder blades it had the scarred-over and calloused stumps of powerful wings which must have been chopped off by a woodsman’s ax. They hung it to 167 an almond tree in the square by its ankles so that everyone could see it, and when it began to rot they burned it in a bonfire, for they could not determine whether its bastard nature was that of an animal to be thrown into the river or a human being to be buried. It was never established whether it had really caused the death of the birds, but the newly married women did not bear the predicted monsters, nor did the intensity of the heat decrease. Rebeca died at the end of that year. Argénida, her lifelong servant, asked the authorities for help to knock down the door to the bedroom where her mistress had been locked in for three days, and they found her, on her solitary bed, curled up like a shrimp, with her head bald from ringworm and her finger in her mouth. Aureliano Segundo took charge of the funeral and tried to restore the house in order to sell it, but the destruction was so far advanced in it that the walls became scaly as soon as they were painted and there was not enough mortar to stop the weeds from cracking the floors and the ivy from rotting the beams. That was how everything went after the deluge. The indolence of the people was in contrast to the voracity of oblivion, which little by little was undermining memories in a pitiless way, to such an extreme that at that time, on another anniversary of the Treaty of Neerlandia, some emissaries from the president of the republic arrived in Macondo to award at last the decoration rejected several times by Colonel Aureliano Buendía, and they spent a whole afternoon looking for someone who could tell them where they could find one of his descendants. Aureliano Segundo was tempted to accept it, thinking that it was a medal of solid gold, but Petra Cotes convinced him that it was not proper when the emissaries already had some proclamations and speeches ready for the ceremony. It was also around that time that the gypsies returned, the last heirs to Melquíades’ science, and they found the town so defeated and its inhabitants so removed from the rest of the world that once more they went through the houses dragging magnetized ingots as if that really were the Babylonian wise men’s latest discovery, and once again they concentrated the sun’s rays with the giant magnifying glass, and there was no lack of people standing open-mouthed watching kettles fall and pots roll and who paid fifty cents to be startled as a gypsy woman put in her false teeth and took them out again. A broken-down yellow train that neither brought anyone in nor took anyone out and that scarcely paused at the deserted station was the only thing that was left of the long train to which Mr. Brown would couple his glass-topped coach with the episcopal lounging chairs and of the fruit trains with one hundred twenty cars which took a whole afternoon to pass by. The ecclesiastical delegates who had come to investigate the report of the strange death of the birds and the sacrifice of the Wandering Jew found Father Antonio Isabel playing blind man’s buff with the children, and thinking that his report was the product of a hallucination, they took him off to an asylum. A short time later they sent Father Augusto Angel, a crusader of the new breed, intransigent, audacious, daring, who personally rang the bells several times a day so that the peoples spirits would not get drowsy, and who went from house to house waking up the sleepers to go to mass but before a year was out he too was conquered by the negligence that one breathed in with the air, by the hot dust that made everything old and clogged up, and by the drowsiness caused by lunchtime meatballs in the unbearable heat of siesta time. With Úrsula’s death the house again fell into a neglect from which it could not be rescued even by a will as resolute and vigorous as that of Amaranta Úrsula, who many years later, being a happy, modern woman without prejudices, with her feet on the ground, opened doors and windows in order to drive away the rain, restored the garden, exterminated the red ants who were already walking across the porch in broad daylight, and tried in vain to reawaken the forgotten spirit of hospitality. Fernanda’s cloistered passion built in impenetrable dike against Úrsula’s torrential hundred years. Not only did she refuse to open doors when the arid wind passed through, but she had the windows nailed shut with boards in the shape of a cross, obeying the paternal order of being buried alive. The expensive correspondence with the invisible doctors ended in failure. After 168 numerous postponements, she shut herself up in her room on the date and hour agreed upon, covered only by a white sheet and with her head pointed north, and at one o’clock in the morning she felt that they were covering her head with a handkerchief soaked in a glacial liquid. When she woke up the sun was shining in the window and she had a barbarous stitch in the shape of an arc that began at her crotch and ended at her sternum. But before she could complete the prescribed rest she received a disturbed letter from the invisible doctors, who mid they had inspected her for six hours without finding anything that corresponded to the symptoms so many times and so scrupulously described by her. Actually, her pernicious habit of not calling things by their names had brought about a new confusion, for the only thing that the telepathic surgeons had found was a drop in the uterus which could be corrected by the use of a pessary. The disillusioned Fernanda tried to obtain more precise information, but the unknown correspondents did not answer her letters any more. She felt so defeated by the weight of an unknown word that she decided to put shame behind her and ask what a pessary was, and only then did she discover that the French doctor had hanged himself to a beam three months earlier and had been buried against the wishes of the townspeople by a former companion in arms of Colonel Aureliano Buendía. Then she confided in her son José Arcadio and the latter sent her the pessaries from Rome along with a pamphlet explaining their use, which she flushed down the toilet after committing it to memory so that no one would learn the nature of her troubles. It was a useless precaution because the only people who lived in the house scarcely paid any attention to her. Santa Sofía de la Piedad was wandering about in her solitary old age, cooking the little that they ate and almost completely dedicated to the care of José Arcadio Segundo. Amaranta Úrsula, who had inherited certain attractions of Remedios the Beauty, spent the time that she had formerly wasted tormenting Úrsula at her schoolwork, and she began to show good judgment and a dedication to study that brought back to Aureliano Segundo the high hopes that Meme had inspired in him. He had promised her to send her to finish her studies in Brussels, in accord with a custom established during the time of the banana company, and that illusion had brought him to attempt to revive the lands devastated by the deluge. The few times that he appeared at the house were for Amaranta Úrsula, because with time he had become a stranger to Fernanda and little Aureliano was becoming withdrawn as he approached puberty. Aureliano Segundo had faith that Fernanda’s heart would soften with old age so that the child could join in the life of the town where no one certainly would make any effort to speculate suspiciously about his origins. But Aureliano himself seemed to prefer the cloister of solitude and he did not show the least desire to know the world that began at the street door of the house. When Úrsula had the door of Melquíades’ room opened he began to linger about it, peeping through the half-opened door, and no one knew at what moment he became close to José Arcadio Segundo in a link of mutual affection. Aureliano Segundo discovered that friendship a long time after it had begun, when he heard the child talking about the killing at the station. It happened once when someone at the table complained about the ruin into which the town had sunk when the banana company had abandoned it, and Aureliano contradicted him with maturity and with the vision of a grown person. His point of view, contrary to the general interpretation, was that Macondo had been a prosperous place and well on its way until it was disordered and corrupted and suppressed by the banana company, whose engineers brought on the deluge as a pretext to avoid promises made to the workers. Speaking with such good sense that to Fernanda he was like a sacrilegious parody of Jews among the wise men, the child described with precise and convincing details how the army had machine-gunned more than three thousand workers penned up by the station and how they loaded the bodies onto a twohundred-car train and threw them into the sea. Convinced as most people were by the official version that nothing had happened, Fernanda was scandalized with the idea that the child had inherited the anarchist ideas of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and told him to be quiet. Aureliano Segundo, on the other hand, recognized his twin brother’s version. Actually, in spite of the fact that 169 everyone considered him mad, José Arcadio Segundo was at that time the most lucid inhabitant of the house. He taught little Aureliano how to read and write, initiated him in the study of the parchments, and he inculcated him with such a personal interpretation of what the banana company had meant to Macondo that many years later, when Aureliano became part of the world, one would have thought that he was telling a hallucinated version, because it was radically opposed to the false one that historians had created and consecrated in the schoolbooks. In the small isolated room where the arid air never penetrated, nor the dust, nor the heat, both had the atavistic vision of an old man, his back to the window, wearing a hat with a brim like the wings of a crow who spoke about the world many years before they had been born. Both described at the same time how it was always March there and always Monday, and then they understood that José Arcadio Buendía was not as crazy as the family said, but that he was the only one who had enough lucidity to sense the truth of the fact that time also stumbled and had accidents and could therefore splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room. José Arcadio Segundo had managed, furthermore, to classify the cryptic letters of the parchments. He was certain that they corresponded to an alphabet of fortyseven to fifty-three characters, which when separated looked like scratching and scribbling, and which in the fine hand of Melquíades looked like pieces of clothing put out to dry on a line. Aureliano remembered having seen a similar table in the English encyclopedia, so he brought it to the room to compare it with that of José Arcadio Segundo. They were indeed the same. Around the time of the riddle lottery, Aureliano Segundo began waking up with a knot in his throat, as if he were repressing a desire to weep. Petra Cotes interpreted it as one more of so many upsets brought on by the bad situation, and every morning for over a year she would touch his palate with a dash of honey and give him some radish syrup. When the knot in his throat became so oppressive that it was difficult for him to breathe, Aureliano Segundo visited Pilar Ternera to see if she knew of some herb that would give him relief. The dauntless grandmother, who had reached a hundred years of age managing a small, clandestine brothel, did not trust therapeutic superstitions, so she turned the matter over to her cards. She saw the queen of diamonds with her throat wounded by the steel of the jack of spades, and she deduced that Fernanda was trying to get her husband back home by means of the discredited method of sticking pins into his picture but that she had brought on an internal tumor because of her clumsy knowledge of the black arts. Since Aureliano Segundo had no other pictures except those of his wedding and the copies were all in the family album, he kept searching all through the house when his wife was not looking, and finally, in the bottom of the dresser, he came across a half-dozen pessaries in their original boxes. Thinking that the small red rubber rings were objects of witchcraft he put them in his pocket so that Pilar Ternera could have a look at them. She could not determine their nature, but they looked so suspicious to her that in any case she burned them in a bonfire she built in the courtyard. In order to conjure away Fernanda’s alleged curse, she told Aureliano Segundo that he should soak a broody hen and bury her alive under the chestnut tree, and he did it with such good faith that when he finished hiding the turned-up earth with dried leaves he already felt that he was breathing better. For her part, Fernanda interpreted the disappearance as a reprisal by the invisible doctors and she sewed a pocket of casing to the inside of her camisole where she kept the new pessaries that her son sent her. Six months after he had buried the hen, Aureliano Segundo woke up at midnight with an attack of coughing and the feeling that he was being strangled within by the claws of a crab. It was then that he understood that for all of the magical pessaries that he destroyed and all the conjuring hens that he soaked, the single and sad piece of truth was that he was dying. He did not tell anyone. Tormented by the fear of dying without having sent Amaranta Úrsula to Brussels, he worked as he had never done, and instead of one he made three weekly raffles. From very early in the morning he could be seen going through the town, even in the most outlying and miserable sections, trying to sell tickets with an anxiety that could only be conceivable in a dying man. “Here’s Divine 170 Providence,” he hawked. “Don’t let it get away, because it only comes every hundred years.” He made pitiful efforts to appear gay, pleasant, talkative, but it was enough to see his sweat and paleness to know that his heart was not in it. Sometimes he would go to vacant lots, where no one could see him, and sit down to rest from the claws that were tearing him apart inside. Even at midnight he would be in the red-light district trying to console with predictions of good luck the lonely women who were weeping beside their phonographs. “This number hasn’t come up in four months,” he told them, showing them the tickets. “Don’t let it get away, life is shorter than you think.” They finally lost respect for him, made fun of him, and in his last months they no longer called him Don Aureliano, as they had always done, but they called him Mr. Divine Providence right to his face. His voice was becoming filled with wrong notes. It was getting out of tune, and it finally diminished into the growl of a dog, but he still had the drive to see that there should be no diminishing of the hope people brought to Petra Cates’s courtyard. As he lost his voice, however, and realized that in a short time he would be unable to bear the pain, he began to understand that it was not through raffled pigs and goats that his daughter would get to Brussels, so he conceived the idea of organizing the fabulous raffle of the lands destroyed by the deluge, which could easily be restored by a person with the money to do so. It was such a spectacular undertaking that the mayor himself lent his aid by announcing it in a proclamation, and associations were formed to buy tickets at one hundred pesos apiece and they were sold out in less than a week. The night of the raffle the winners held a huge celebration, comparable only to those of the good days of the banana company, and Aureliano Segundo, for the last time, played the forgotten songs of Francisco the Man on the accordion, but he could no longer sing them. Two months later Amaranta Úrsula went to Brussels. Aureliano Segundo gave her not only the money from the special raffle, but also what he had managed to put aside over the previous months and what little he had received from the sale of the pianola, the clavichord, and other junk that had fallen into disrepair. According to his calculations, that sum would be enough for her studies, so that all that was lacking was the price of her fare back home. Fernanda was against the trip until the last moment, scandalized by the idea that Brussels was so close to Paris and its perdition, but she calmed down with the letter that Father Angel gave her addressed to a boardinghouse run by nuns for Catholic young ladies where Amaranta Úrsula promised to stay until her studies were completed. Furthermore, the parish priest arranged for her to travel under the care of a group of Franciscan nuns who were going to Toledo, where they hoped to find dependable people to accompany her to Belgium. While the urgent correspondence that made the coordination possible went forward, Aureliano Segundo, aided by Petra Cates, prepared Amaranta Úrsula’s baggage. The night on which they were packing one of Fernanda’s bridal trunks, the things were so well organized that the schoolgirl knew by heart which were the suits and cloth slippers she could wear crossing the Atlantic and the blue cloth coat with copper buttons and the cordovan shoes she would wear when she landed. She also knew how to walk so as not to fall into the water as she went up the gangplank, that at no time was she to leave the company of the nuns or leave her cabin except to eat, and that for no reason was she to answer the questions asked by people of any sex while they were at sea. She carried a small bottle with drops for seasickness and a notebook written by Father Angel in his own hand containing six prayers to be used against storms. Fernanda made her a canvas belt to keep her money in, and she would not have to take it off even to sleep. She tried to give her the chamberpot, washed out with lye and disinfected with alcohol, but Amaranta Úrsula refused it for fear that her schoolmates would make fun of her. A few months later, at the hour of his death, Aureliano Segundo would remember her as he had seen her for the last time as she tried unsuccessfully to lower the window of the second-class coach to hear Fernanda’s last piece of advice. She was wearing a pink silk dress with a corsage of artificial pansies pinned to her left shoulder, her cordovan shoes with buckles and low heels, and sateen stockings held up at the thighs with elastic garters. Her body 171 was slim, her hair loose and long, and she had the lively eyes that Úrsula had had at her age and the way in which she said good-bye, without crying but without smiling either, revealed the same strength of character. Walking beside the coach as it picked up speed and holding Fernanda by the arm so that she would not stumble, Aureliano scarcely had time to wave at his daughter as she threw him a kiss with the tips of her fingers. The couple stood motionless under the scorching sun, looking at the train as it merged with the black strip of the horizon, linking arms for the first time since the day of their wedding. On the ninth of August, before they received the first letter from Brussels, José Arcadio Segundo was speaking to Aureliano in Melquíades’ room and, without realizing it, he said: “Always remember that they were more than three thousand and that they were thrown into the sea.” Then he fell back on the parchments and died with his eyes open. At that same instant, in Fernanda’s bed, his twin brother came to the end of the prolonged and terrible martyrdom of the steel crabs that were eating his throat away. One week previously he had returned home, without any voice, unable to breathe, and almost skin and bones, with his wandering trunks and his wastrel’s accordion, to fulfill the promise of dying beside his wife. Petra Cotes helped him pack his clothes and bade him farewell without shedding a tear, but she forgot to give him the patent leather shoes that he wanted to wear in his coffin. So when she heard that he had died, she dressed in black, wrapped the shoes up in a newspaper, and asked Fernanda for permission to see the body. Fernanda would not let her through the door. “Put yourself in my place,” Petra Cotes begged. “Imagine how much I must have loved him to put up with this humiliation.” “There is no humiliation that a concubine does not deserve,” Fernanda replied. “So wait until another one of your men dies and put the shoes on him.” In fulfillment of her promise, Santa Sofía de la Piedad cut the throat of José Arcadio Segundo’s corpse with a kitchen knife to be sure that they would not bury him alive. The bodies were placed in identical coffins, and then it could be seen that once more in death they had become as Identical as they had been until adolescence. Aureliano Segundo’s old carousing comrades laid on his casket a wreath that had a purple ribbon with the words: Cease, cows, life is short. Fernanda was so indignant with such irreverence that she had the wreath thrown onto the trash heap. In the tumult of the last moment, the sad drunkards who carried them out of the house got the coffins mixed up and buried them in the wrong graves. 172 Chapter 18 AURELIANO DID NOT leave Melquíades’ room for a long time. He learned by heart the fantastic legends of the crumbling books, the synthesis of the studies of Hermann the Cripple, the notes on the science of demonology, the keys to the philosopher’s stone, the Centuries of Nostradamus and his research concerning the plague, so that he reached adolescence without knowing a thing about his own time but with the basic knowledge of a medieval man. Any time that Santa Sofía de la Piedad would go into his room she would find him absorbed in his reading. At dawn she would bring him a mug of coffee without sugar and at noon a plate of rice and slices of fried plantain, which were the only things eaten in the house since the death of Aureliano Segundo. She saw that his hair was cut, picked off the nits, took in to his size the old clothing that she found in forgotten trunks, and when his mustache began to appear the brought him Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s razor and the small gourd he had used as a shaving mug. None of the latter’s children had looked so much like him, not even Aureliano José, particularly in respect to the prominent cheekbones and the firm and rather pitiless line of the lips. As had happened to Úrsula with Aureliano Segundo when the latter was studying in the room, Santa Sofía de la Piedad thought that Aureliano was talking to himself. Actually, he was talking to Melquíades. One burning noon, a short time after the death of the twins, against the light of the window he saw the gloomy old man with his crow’s-wing hat like the materialization of a memory that had been in his head since long before he was born. Aureliano had finished classifying the alphabet of the parchments, so that when Melquíades asked him if he had discovered the language in which they had been written he did not hesitate to answer. “Sanskrit,” he said. Melquíades revealed to him that his opportunities to return to the room were limited. But he would go in peace to the meadows of the ultimate death because Aureliano would have time to learn Sanskrit during the years remaining until the parchments became one hundred years old, when they could be deciphered. It was he who indicated to Aureliano that on the narrow street going down to the river, where dreams had been interpreted during the time of the banana company, a wise Catalonian had a bookstore where there was a Sanskrit primer, which would be eaten by the moths within six years if he did not hurry to buy it. For the first time in her long life Santa Sofía de la Piedad let a feeling show through, and it was a feeling of wonderment when Aureliano asked her to bring him the book that could be found between Jerusalem Delivered and Milton’s poems on the extreme right-hand side of the second shelf of the bookcases. Since she could not read, she memorized what he had said and got some money by selling one of the seventeen little gold fishes left in the workshop, the whereabouts of which, after being hidden the night the soldiers searched the house, was known only by her and Aureliano. Aureliano made progress in his studies of Sanskrit as Melquíades’ visits became less and less frequent and he was more distant, fading away in the radiant light of noon. The last time that Aureliano sensed him he was only an invisible presence who murmured: “I died of fever on the sands of Singapore.” The room then became vulnerable to dust, heat, termites, red ants, and moths, who would turn the wisdom of the parchments into sawdust. There was no shortage of food in the house. The day after the death of Aureliano Segundo, one of the friends who had brought the wreath with the irreverent inscription offered to pay Fernanda some money that he had owed her husband. After that every Wednesday a delivery boy brought a basket of food that was quite sufficient for a week. No one ever knew that those provisions were being sent by Petra Cotes with the idea that the continuing charity was a way of humiliating the person who had humiliated her. Nevertheless, the rancor disappeared much sooner than she herself 173 had expected, and then she continued sending the food out of pride and finally out of compassion. Several times, when she had no animals to raffle off and people lost interest in the lottery, she went without food so that Fernanda could have something to eat, and she continued fulfilling the pledge to herself until she saw Fernanda’s funeral procession pass by. For Santa Sofía de la Piedad the reduction in the number of inhabitants of the house should have meant the rest she deserved after more than half a century of work. Never a lament had been heard from that stealthy, impenetrable woman who had sown in the family the angelic seed of Remedios the Beauty and the mysterious solemnity of José Arcadio Segundo; who dedicated a whole life of solitude and diligence to the rearing of children although she could barely remember whether they were her children or grandchildren, and who took care of Aureliano as if he had come out of her womb, not knowing herself that she was his great-grandmother. Only in a house like that was it conceivable for her always to sleep on a mat she laid out on the pantry floor in the midst of the nocturnal noise of the rats, and without telling anyone that one night she had awakened with the frightened feeling that someone was looking at her in the darkness and that it was a poisonous snake crawling over her stomach. She knew that if she had told Úrsula, the latter would have made her sleep in her own bed, but those were times when no one was aware of anything unless it was shouted on the porch, because with the bustle of the bakery, the surprises of the war, the care of the children, there was not much room for thinking about other peoples happiness. Petra Cotes whom she had never seen, was the only one who remembered her. She saw to it that she had a good pair of shoes for street wear, that she always had clothing, even during the times when the raffles were working only through some miracle. When Fernanda arrived at the house she had good reason to think that she was an ageless servant, and even though she heard it said several times that she was her husband’s mother it was so incredible that it took her longer to discover it than to forget it. Santa Sofía de la Piedad never seemed bothered by that lowly position. On the contrary, one had the impression that she liked to stay in the corners, without a pause, without a complaint, keeping clean and in order the immense house that she had lived in ever since adolescence and that, especially during the time of the banana company, was more like a barracks than a home. But when Úrsula died the superhuman diligence of Santa Sofía de la Piedad, her tremendous capacity for work, began to fall apart. It was not only that she was old and exhausted, but overnight the house had plunged into a crisis of senility. A soft moss grew up the walls. When there was no longer a bare spot in the courtyard, the weeds broke through the cement of the porch, breaking it like glass, and out of the cracks grew the same yellow flowers that Úrsula had found in the glass with Melquíades’ false teeth a century before. With neither the time nor the resources to halt the challenge of nature, Santa Sofía de la Piedad spent the day in the bedrooms driving out the lizards who would return at night. One morning she saw that the red ants had left the undermined foundations, crossed the garden, climbed up the railing, where the begonias had taken on an earthen color, and had penetrated into the heart of the house. She first tried to kill them with a broom, then with insecticides, and finally with lye, but the next day they were back in the same place, still passing by, tenacious and invincible. Fernanda, writing letters to her children, was not aware of the unchecked destructive attack. Santa Sofía de la Piedad continued struggling alone, fighting the weeds to stop them from getting into the kitchen, pulling from the walls the tassels of spider webs which were rebuilt in a few hours, scraping off the termites. But when she saw that Melquíades’ room was also dusty and filled with cobwebs even though she swept and dusted three times a day, and that in spite of her furious cleaning it was threatened by the debris and the air of misery that had been foreseen only by Colonel Aureliano Buendía and the young officer, she realized that she was defeated. Then she put on her worn Sunday dress, some old shoes of Úrsula’s, and a pair of cotton stockings that Amaranta Úrsula had given her, and she made a bundle out of the two or three changes of clothing that she had left. “I give up,” she said to Aureliano. “This is too much house for my poor bones.” 174 Aureliano asked her where she was going and she made a vague sign, as if she did not have the slightest idea of her destination. She tried to be more precise, however, saying that she was going to spend her last years with a first cousin who lived in Riohacha. It was not a likely explanation. Since the death of her parents she had not had contact with anyone in town or received letters or messages, nor had she been heard to speak of any relatives. Aureliano gave her fourteen little gold fishes because she was determined to leave with only what she had: one peso and twenty-five cents. From the window of the room he saw her cross the courtyard with her bundle of clothing, dragging her feet and bent over by her years, and he saw her reach her hand through an opening in the main door and replace the bar after she had gone out. Nothing was ever heard of her again. When she heard about the flight, Fernanda ranted for a whole day as she checked trunks, dressers, and closets, item by item, to make sure that Santa Sofía de la Piedad had not made off with anything. She burned her fingers trying to light a fire for the first time in her life and she had to ask Aureliano to do her the favor of showing her how to make coffee. Fernanda would find her breakfast ready when she arose and she would leave her room again only to get the meal that Aureliano had left covered on the embers for her, which she would carry to the table to eat on linen tablecloths and between candelabra, sitting at the solitary head of the table facing fifteen empty chairs. Even under those circumstances Aureliano and Fernanda did not share their solitude, but both continued living on their own, cleaning their respective rooms while the cobwebs fell like snow on the rose bushes, carpeted the beams, cushioned the walls. It was around that time that Fernanda got the impression that the house was filling up with elves. It was as if things, especially those for everyday use, had developed a faculty for changing location on their own. Fernanda would waste time looking for the shears that she was sure she had put on the bed and after turning everything upside down she would find them on a shelf in the kitchen, where she thought she had not been for four days. Suddenly there was no fork in the silver chest and she would find six on the altar and three in the washroom. That wandering about of things was even more exasperating when she sat down to write. The inkwell that she had placed at her right would be on the left, the blotter would be lost and she would find it two days later under her pillow, and the pages written to José Arcadio would get mixed up with those written to Amaranta Úrsula, and she always had the feeling of mortification that she had put the letters in opposite envelopes, as in fact happened several times. On one occasion she lost her fountain pen. Two weeks later the mailman, who had found it in his bag, returned it. He had been going from house to house looking for its owner. At first she thought it was some business of the invisible doctors, like the disappearance of the pessaries, and she even started a letter to them begging them to leave her alone, but she had to interrupt it to do something and when she went back to her room she not only did not find the letter she had started but she had forgotten the reason for writing it. For a time she thought it was Aureliano. She began to spy on him, to put things in his path trying to catch him when he changed their location, but she was soon convinced that Aureliano never left Melquíades’ room except to go to the kitchen or the toilet, and that he was not a man to play tricks. So in the end she believed that it was the mischief of elves and she decided to secure everything in the place where she would use it. She tied the shears to the head of her bed with a long string. She tied the pen and the blotter to the leg of the table, and the glued the inkwell to the top of it to the right of the place where she normally wrote. The problems were not solved overnight, because a few hours after she had tied the string to the shears it was not long enough for her to cut with, as if the elves had shortened it. The same thing happened to her with the string to the pen and even with her own arm which after a short time of writing could not reach the inkwell. Neither Amaranta Úrsula in Brussels nor José Arcadio in Rome ever heard about those insignificant misfortunes. Fernanda told them that she was happy and in reality she was, precisely because she felt free from any compromise, as if life were pulling her once more toward the world of her parents, where one did not suffer with day-to-day problems because they were solved 175 beforehand in one’s imagination. That endless correspondence made her lose her sense of time, especially after Santa Sofía de la Piedad had left. She had been accustomed to keep track of the days, months, and years, using as points of reference the dates set for the return of her children. But when they changed their plans time and time again, the dates became confused, the periods were mislaid, and one day seemed so much like another that one could not feel them pass. Instead of becoming impatient, she felt a deep pleasure in the delay. It did not worry her that many years after announcing the eve of his final vows, José Arcadio was still saying that he was waiting to finish his studies in advanced theology in order to undertake those in diplomacy, because she understood how steep and paved with obstacles was the spiral stairway that led to the throne of Saint Peter. On the other hand, her spirits rose with news that would have been insignificant for other people, such as the fact that her son had seen the Pope. She felt a similar pleasure when Amaranta Úrsula wrote to tell her that her studies would last longer than the time foreseen because her excellent grades had earned her privileges that her father had not taken into account in his calculations. More than three years had passed since Santa Sofía de la Piedad had brought him the grammar when Aureliano succeeded in translating the first sheet. It was not a useless chore. but it was only a first step along a road whose length it was impossible to predict, because the text in Spanish did not mean anything: the lines were in code. Aureliano lacked the means to establish the keys that would permit him to dig them out, but since Melquíades had told him that the books he needed to get to the bottom of the parchments were in the wise Catalonian’s store, he decided to speak to Fernanda so that she would let him get them. In the room devoured by rubble, whose unchecked proliferation had finally defeated it, he thought about the best way to frame the request, but when he found Fernanda taking her meal from the embers, which was his only chance to speak to her, the laboriously formulated request stuck in his throat and he lost his voice. That was the only time that he watched her. He listened to her steps in the bedroom. He heard her on her way to the door to await the letters from her children and to give hers to the mailman, and he listened until late at night to the harsh, impassioned scratching of her pen on the paper before hearing the sound of the light switch and the murmur of her prayers in the darkness. Only then did he go to sleep, trusting that on the following day the awaited opportunity would come. He became so inspired with the idea that permission would be granted that one morning he cut his hair, which at that time reached down to his shoulders, shaved off his tangled beard, put on some tight-fitting pants and a shirt with an artificial collar that he had inherited from he did not know whom, and waited in the kitchen for Fernanda to get her breakfast. The woman of every day, the one with her head held high and with a stony gait, did not arrive, but an old woman of supernatural beauty with a yellowed ermine cape, a crown of gilded cardboard, and the languid look of a person who wept in secret. Actually, ever since she had found it in Aureliano Segundo’s trunks, Fernanda had put on the moth-eaten queen’s dress many times. Anyone who could have seen her in front of the mirror, in ecstasy over her own regal gestures, would have had reason to think that she was mad. But she was not. She had simply turned the royal regalia into a device for her memory. The first time that she put it on she could not help a knot from forming in her heart and her eyes filling with tears because at that moment she smelled once more the odor of shoe polish on the boots of the officer who came to get her at her house to make her a queen, and her soul brightened with the nostalgia of her lost dreams. She felt so old, so worn out, so far away from the best moments of her life that she even yearned for those that she remembered as the worst, and only then did she discover how much she missed the whiff of oregano on the porch and the smell of the roses at dusk, and even the bestial nature of the parvenus. Her heart of compressed ash, which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain, fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia. The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her. She became human in her solitude. Nevertheless, the morning on which she entered the kitchen and found a cup of coffee offered her by a pale and bony adolescent with a 176 hallucinated glow in his eyes, the claws of ridicule tore at her. Not only did she refuse him permission, but from then on she carried the keys to the house in the pocket where she kept the unused pessaries. It was a useless precaution because if he had wanted to, Aureliano could have escaped and even returned to the house without being seen. But the prolonged captivity, the uncertainty of the world, the habit of obedience had dried up the seeds of rebellion in his heart. So that he went back to his enclosure, reading and rereading the parchments and listening until very late at night to Fernanda sobbing in her bedroom. One morning he went to light the fire as usual and on the extinguished ashes he found the food that he had left for her the day before. Then he looked into her bedroom and saw her lying on the bed covered with the ermine cape, more beautiful than ever and with her skin turned into an ivory casing. Four months later, when José Arcadio arrived, he found her intact. It was impossible to conceive of a man more like his mother. He was wearing a somber taffeta suit, a shirt with a round and hard collar, and a thin silk ribbon tied in a bow in place of a necktie. He was ruddy and languid with a startled look and weak lips. His black hair, shiny and smooth, parted in the middle of his head by a straight and tired line, had the same artificial appearance as the hair on the saints. The shadow of a well-uprooted beard on his paraffin face looked like a question of conscience. His hands were pale, with green veins and fingers that were like parasites, and he wore a solid gold ring with a round sunflower opal on his left index finger. When he opened the street door Aureliano did not have to be told who he was to realize that he came from far away. With his steps the house filled up with the fragrance of the toilet water that Úrsula used to splash on him when he was a child in order to find him in the shadows, in some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absence. José Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary. He went directly to his mother’s bedroom, where Aureliano had boiled mercury for four months in his grandfather’s grandfather’s water pipe to conserve the body according to Melquíades’ formula. José Arcadio did not ask him any questions. He kissed the corpse on the forehead and withdrew from under her skirt the pocket of casing which contained three as yet unused pessaries and the key to her cabinet. He did everything with direct and decisive movements, in contrast to his languid look. From the cabinet he took a small damascene chest with the family crest and found on the inside, which was perfumed with sandalwood, the long letter in which Fernanda unburdened her heart of the numerous truths that she had hidden from him. He read it standing up, avidly but without anxiety, and at the third page he stopped and examined Aureliano with a look of second recognition. “So,” he said with a voice with a touch of razor in it, “You’re the bastard.” “I’m Aureliano Buendía.” “Go to your room,” José Arcadio said. Aureliano went and did not come out again even from curiosity when he heard the sound of the solitary funeral ceremonies. Sometimes, from the kitchen, he would see José Arcadio strolling through the house, smothered by his anxious breathing, and he continued hearing his steps in the ruined bedrooms after midnight. He did not hear his voice for many months, not only because José Arcadio never addressed him, but also because he had no desire for it to happen or time to think about anything else but the parchments. On Fernanda’s death he had taken out the next-to-the-last little fish and gone to the wise Catalonian’s bookstore in search of the books he needed. Nothing he saw along the way interested him, perhaps because he lacked any memories for comparison and the deserted streets and desolate houses were the same as he had imagined them at a time when he would have given his soul to know them. He had given himself the permission denied by Fernanda and only once and for the minimum time necessary, so without pausing he went along the eleven blocks that separated the house from the narrow street where dreams had been interpreted in other days and he went panting into the confused and gloomy place where there was barely room to move. More than a bookstore, it looked like a dump for used books, which were placed in disorder 177 on the shelves chewed by termites, in the corners sticky with cobwebs, and even in the spaces that were supposed to serve as passageways. On a long table, also heaped with old books and papers, the proprietor was writing tireless prose in purple letters, somewhat outlandish, and on the loose pages of a school notebook. He had a handsome head of silver hair which fell down over his forehead like the plume of a cockatoo, and his blue eyes, lively and close-set, revealed the gentleness of a man who had read all of the books. He was wearing short pants and soaking in perspiration, and he did not stop his writing to see who had come in. Aureliano had no difficulty in rescuing the five books that he was looking for from that fabulous disorder, because they were exactly where Melquíades had told him they would be. Without saying a word he handed them, along with the little gold fish, to the wise Catalonian and the latter examined them, his eyelids contracting like two clams. “You must be mad,” he said in his own language, shrugging his shoulders, and he handed back to Aureliano the five books and the little fish. “You can have them” he said in Spanish. “The last man who read these books must have been Isaac the Blindman, so consider well what you’re doing.” José Arcadio restored Meme’s bedroom and had the velvet curtains cleaned and mended along with the damask on the canopy of the viceregal bed, and he put to use once more the abandoned bathroom where the cement pool was blackened by a fibrous and rough coating. He restricted his vest-pocket empire of worn, exotic clothing, false perfumes, and cheap jewelry to those places. The only thing that seemed to worry him in the rest of the house were the saints on the family altar, which he burned down to ashes one afternoon in a bonfire he lighted in the courtyard. He would sleep until past eleven o’clock. He would go to the bathroom in a shabby robe with golden dragons on it and a pair of slippers with yellow tassels, and there he would officiate at a rite which for its care and length recalled Remedios the Beauty. Before bathing he would perfume the pool with the salts that he carried in three alabaster flacons. He did not bathe himself with the gourd but would plunge into the fragrant waters and remain there for two hours floating on his back, lulled by the coolness and by the memory of Amaranta. A few days after arriving he put aside his taffeta suit, which in addition to being too hot for the town was the only one that he had, and he exchanged it for some tight-fitting pants very similar to those worn by Pietro Crespi during his dance lessons and a silk shirt woven with thread from living caterpillars and with his initials embroidered over the heart. Twice a week he would wash the complete change in the tub and would wear his robe until it dried because he had nothing else to put on. He never ate at home. He would go out when the heat of siesta time had eased and would not return until well into the night. Then he would continue his anxious pacing, breathing like a cat and thinking about Amaranta. She and the frightful look of the saints in the glow of the nocturnal lamp were the two memories he retained of the house. Many times during the hallucinating Roman August he had opened his eyes in the middle of his sleep and had seen Amaranta rising out of a marble-edged pool with her lace petticoats and the bandage on her hand, idealized by the anxiety of exile. Unlike Aureliano José who tried to drown that image in the bloody bog of war, he tried to keep it alive in the sink of concupiscence while he entertained his mother with the endless fable of his pontifical vocation. It never occurred either to him or to Fernanda to think that their correspondence was an exchange of fantasies. José Arcadio, who left the seminary as soon as he reached Rome, continued nourishing the legend of theology and canon law so as not to jeopardize the fabulous inheritance of which his mother’s delirious letters spoke and which would rescue him from the misery and sordidness he shared with two friends in a Trastevere garret. When he received Fernanda’s last letter, dictated by the foreboding of imminent death, he put the leftovers of his false splendor into a suitcase and crossed the ocean in the hold of a ship where immigrants were crammed together like cattle in a slaughterhouse, eating cold macaroni and wormy cheese. Before he read Fernanda’s will, which was nothing but a detailed and tardy recapitulation of her misfortunes, the broken-down furniture and the weeds on the porch had indicated that he had 178 fallen into a trap from which he would never escape, exiled forever from the diamond light and timeless air of the Roman spring. During the crushing insomnia brought on by his asthma he would measure and remeasure the depth of his misfortune as he went through the shadowy house where the senile fussing of Úrsula had instilled a fear of the world in him. In order to be sure that she would not lose him in the shadows, she had assigned him a corner of the bedroom, the only one where he would be safe from the dead people who wandered through the house after sundown. “If you do anything bad,” Úrsula would tell him, “the saints will let me know.” The terror-filled nights of his childhood were reduced to that corner where he would remain motionless until it was time to go to bed, perspiring with fear on a stool under the watchful and glacial eyes of the tattletale saints. It was useless torture because even at that time he already had a terror of everything around him and he was prepared to be frightened at anything he met in life: women on the street, who would ruin his blood; the women in the house, who bore children with the tail of a pig; fighting cocks, who brought on the death of men and remorse for the rest of one’s life; firearms, which with the mere touch would bring down twenty years of war; uncertain ventures, which led only to disillusionment and madness—everything, in short, everything that God had created in His infinite goodness and that the devil had perverted. When he awakened, pressed in the vise of his nightmares, the light in the window and the caresses of Amaranta in the bath and the pleasure of being powdered between the legs with a silk puff would release him from the terror. Even Úrsula was different under the radiant light in the garden because there she did not talk about fearful things but would brush his teeth with charcoal powder so that he would have the radiant smile of a Pope, and she would cut and polish his nails so that the pilgrims who came to Rome from all over the world would be startled at the beauty of the Pope’s hands as he blessed them, and she would comb his hair like that of a Pope, and she would sprinkle his body and his clothing with toilet water so that his body and his clothes would have the fragrance of a Pope. In the courtyard of Castel Gandolfo he had seen the Pope on a balcony making the same speech in seven languages for a crowd of pilgrims and the only thing, indeed, that had drawn his attention was the whiteness of his hands, which seemed to have been soaked in lye, the dazzling shine of his summer clothing, and the hidden breath of cologne. Almost a year after his return home, having sold the silver candlesticks and the heraldic chamberpot—which at the moment of truth turned out to have only a little gold plating on the crest—in order to eat, the only distraction of José Arcadio was to pick up children in town so that they could play in the house. He would appear with them at siesta time and have them skip rope in the garden, sing on the porch, and do acrobatics on the furniture in the living room while he would go among the groups giving lessons in good manners. At that time he had finished with the tight pants and the silk shirts and was wearing an ordinary suit of clothing that he had bought in the Arab stores, but he still maintained his languid dignity and his papal air. The children took over the house just as Meme’s schoolmates had done in the past. Until well into the night they could be heard chattering and singing and tap-dancing, so that the house resembled a boarding school where there was no discipline. Aureliano did not worry about the invasion as long as they did not bother him in Melquíades’ room. One morning two children pushed open the door and were startled at the sight of a filthy and hairy man who was still deciphering the parchments on the worktable. They did not dare go in, but they kept on watching the room. They would peep in through the cracks, whispering, they threw live animals in through the transom, and on one occasion they nailed up the door and the window and it took Aureliano half a day to force them open. Amused at their unpunished mischief, four of the children went into the room one morning while Aureliano was in the kitchen, preparing to destroy the parchments. But as soon as they laid hands on the yellowed sheets an angelic force lifted them off the ground and held them suspended in the air until Aureliano returned and took the parchments away from them. From then on they did not bother him. 179 The four oldest children, who wore short pants in spite of the fact that they were on the threshold of adolescence, busied themselves with José Arcadio’s personal appearance. They would arrive earlier than the others and spend the morning shaving him, giving him massages with hot towels, cutting and polishing the nails on his hands and feet, and perfuming him with toilet water. On several occasions they would get into the pool to soap him from head to toe as he floated on his back thinking about Amaranta. Then they would dry him, powder his body, and dress him. One of the children, who had curly blond hair and eyes of pink glass like a rabbit, was accustomed to sleeping in the house. The bonds that linked him to José Arcadio were so strong that he would accompany him in his asthmatic insomnia, without speaking, strolling through the house with him in the darkness. One night in the room where Úrsula had slept they saw a yellow glow coming through the crumbling cement as if an underground sun had changed the floor of the room into a pane of glass. They did not have to turn on the light. It was sufficient to lift the broken slabs in the corner where Úrsula’s bed had always stood and where the glow was most intense to find the secret crypt that Aureliano Segundo had worn himself out searching for during the delirium of his excavations. There were the three canvas sacks closed with copper wire, and inside of them the seven thousand two hundred fourteen pieces of eight, which continued glowing like embers in the darkness. The discovery of the treasure was like a deflagration. Instead of returning to Rome with the sudden fortune, which had been his dream maturing in misery, José Arcadio converted the house into a decadent paradise. He replaced the curtains and the canopy of the bed with new velvet, and he had the bathroom floor covered with paving stones and the walls with tiles. The cupboard in the dining room was filled with fruit preserves, hams, and pickles, and the unused pantry was opened again for the storage of wines and liqueurs which José Arcadio himself brought from the railroad station in crates marked with his name. One night he and the four oldest children had a party that lasted until dawn. At six in the morning they came out naked from the bedroom, drained the pool, and filled it with champagne. They jumped in en masse, swimming like birds flying through a sky gilded with fragrant bubbles, while José Arcadio, floated on his back on the edge of the festivities, remembering Amaranta with his eyes open. He remained that way, wrapped up in himself, thinking about the bitterness of his equivocal pleasures until after the children had become tired and gone in a troop to the bedroom. where they tore down the curtains to dry themselves, and in the disorder they broke the rock crystal mirror into four pieces and destroyed the canopy of the bed in the tumult of lying down. When José Arcadio came back from the bathroom, he found them sleeping in a naked heap in the shipwrecked bedroom. Inflamed, not so much because of the damage as because of the disgust and pity that he felt for himself in the emptiness of the saturnalia, he armed himself with an ecclesiastical cat-o-nine-tails that he kept in the bottom of his trunk along with a hair-shirt and other instruments of mortification and penance, and drove the children out of the house, howling like a madman and whipping them without mercy as a person would not even have done to a pack of coyotes. He was done in, with an attack of asthma that lasted for several days and that gave him the look of a man on his deathbed. On the third night of torture, overcome by asphyxiation, he went to Aureliano’s room to ask him the favor of buying some powders to inhale at a nearby drugstore. So it was that Aureliano, went out for a second time. He had to go only two blocks to reach the small pharmacy with dusty windows and ceramic bottles with labels in Latin where a girl with the stealthy beauty of a serpent of the Nile gave him the medicine the name of which José Arcadio had written down on a piece of paper. The second view of the deserted town, barely illuminated by the yellowish bulbs of the street lights, did not awaken in Aureliano any more curiosity than the first. José Arcadio, had come to think that he had run away, when he reappeared, panting a little because of his haste, dragging legs that enclosure and lack of mobility had made weak and heavy. His indifference toward the world was so certain that a few days later José Arcadio violated the promise he had made to his mother and left him free to go out whenever he wanted to. 180 “I have nothing to do outside,” Aureliano answered him. He remained shut up, absorbed in the parchments, which he was slowly unraveling and whose meaning, nevertheless, he was unable to interpret. José Arcadio would bring slices of ham to him in his room, sugared flowers which left a spring-like aftertaste in his mouth, and on two occasions a glass of fine wine. He was not interested in the parchments, which he thought of more as an esoteric pastime, but his attention was attracted by the rare wisdom and the inexplicable knowledge of the world that his desolate kinsman had. He discovered then that he could understand written English and that between parchments he had gone from the first page to the last of the six volumes of the encyclopedia as if it were a novel. At first he attributed to that the fact that Aureliano could speak about Rome as if he had lived there many years, but he soon became aware that he knew things that were not in the encyclopedia, such as the price of items. “Everything is known,” was the only reply he received from Aureliano when he asked him where he had got that information from. Aureliano, for his part, was surprised that José Arcadio when seen from close by was so different from the image that he had formed of him when he saw him wandering through the house. He was capable of laughing, of allowing himself from time to time a feeling of nostalgia for the past of the house, and of showing concern for the state of misery present in Melquíades’ room. That drawing closer together of two solitary people of the same blood was far from friendship, but it did allow them both to bear up better under the unfathomable solitude that separated and united them at the same time. José Arcadio could then turn to Aureliano to untangle certain domestic problems that exasperated him. Aureliano, in turn, could sit and read on the porch, waiting for the letters from Amaranta Úrsula, which still arrived with the usual punctuality, and could use the bathroom, from which José Arcadio had banished him when he arrived. One hot dawn they both woke up in alarm at an urgent knocking on the street door. It was a dark old man with large green eyes that gave his face a ghostly phosphorescence and with a cross of ashes on his forehead. His clothing in tatters, his shoes cracked, the old knapsack on his shoulder his only luggage, he looked like a beggar, but his bearing had a dignity that was in frank contradiction to his appearance. It was only necessary to look at him once, even in the shadows of the parlor, to realize that the secret strength that allowed him to live was not the instinct of self-preservation but the habit of fear. It was Aureliano Amador, the only survivor of Colonel Aureliano Buendía’s seventeen sons, searching for a respite in his long and hazardous existence as a fugitive. He identified himself, begged them to give him refuge in that house which during his nights as a pariah he had remembered as the last redoubt of safety left for him in life. But José Arcadio and Aureliano did not remember him. Thinking that he was a tramp, they pushed him into the street. They both saw from the doorway the end of a drama that had began before José Arcadio had reached the age of reason. Two policemen who had been chasing Aureliano Amador for years, who had tracked him like bloodhounds across half the world, came out from among the almond trees on the opposite sidewalk and took two shots with their Mausers which neatly penetrated the cross of ashes. Ever since he had expelled the children from the house, José Arcadio was really waiting for news of an ocean liner that would leave for Naples before Christmas. He had told Aureliano and had even made plans to set him up in a business that would bring him a living, because the baskets of food had stopped coming since Fernanda’s burial. But that last dream would not be fulfilled either. One September morning, after having coffee in the kitchen with Aureliano, José Arcadio was finishing his daily bath when through the openings in the tiles the four children he had expelled from the house burst in. Without giving him time to defend himself, they jumped into the pool fully clothed, grabbed him by the hair, and held his head under the water until the bubbling of his death throes ceased on the surface and his silent and pale dolphin body dipped down to the bottom of the fragrant water. Then they took out the three sacks of gold from the hiding place which was known only to them and their victim. It was such a rapid, methodical, and brutal action that it was like a 181 military operation. Aureliano, shut up in his room, was not aware of anything. That afternoon, having missed him in the kitchen, he looked for José Arcadio all over the house and found him floating on the perfumed mirror of the pool, enormous and bloated and still thinking about Amaranta. Only then did he understand how much he had began to love him. 182 Chapter 19 AMARANTA ÚRSULA returned with the angels of December, driven on a sailor’s breeze, leading her husband by a silk rope tied around his neck. She appeared without warning, wearing an ivorycolored dress, a string of pearls that reached almost to her knees, emerald and topaz rings, and with her straight hair in a smooth bun held behind her ears by swallow-tail brooches. The man whom she had married six months before was a thin, older Fleming with the look of a sailor about him. She had only to push open the door to the parlor to realize that her absence had been longer and more destructive than she had imagined. “Good Lord,” she shouted, more gay than alarmed, “it’s obvious that there’s no woman in this house!” The baggage would not fit on the porch. Besides Fernanda’s old trunk, which they had sent her off to school with, she had two upright trunks, four large suitcases, a bag for her parasols, eight hatboxes, a gigantic cage with half a hundred canaries, and her husband’s velocipede, broken down in a special case which allowed him to carry it like a cello. She did not even take a day of rest after the long trip. She put on some worn denim overalls that her husband had brought along with other automotive items and set about on a new restoration of the house. She scattered the red ants, who had already taken possession of the porch, brought the rose bushes back to life, uprooted the weeds, and planted ferns, oregano, and begonias again in the pots along the railing. She took charge of a crew of carpenters, locksmiths, and masons, who filled in the cracks in the floor, put doors and windows back on their hinges, repaired the furniture, and white-washed the walls inside and out, so that three months after her arrival one breathed once more the atmosphere of youth and festivity that had existed during the days of the pianola. No one in the house had ever been in a better mood at all hours and under any circumstances, nor had anyone ever been readier to sing and dance and toss all items and customs from the past into the trash. With a sweep of her broom she did away with the funeral mementos and piles of useless trash and articles of superstition that had been piling up in the corners, and the only thing she spared, out of gratitude to Úrsula, was the daguerreotype of Remedios in the parlor. “My, such luxury,” she would shout, dying with laughter. “A fourteen-yearold grandmother!” When one of the masons told her that the house was full of apparitions and that the only way to drive them out was to look for the treasures they had left buried, she replied amid loud laughter that she did not think it was right for men to be superstitious. She was so spontaneous, so emancipated, with such a free and modern spirit, that Aureliano did not know what to do with his body when he saw her arrive. “My, my!” she shouted happily with open arms. “Look at how my darling cannibal has grown!” Before he had a chance to react she had already put a record on the portable phonograph she had brought with her and was trying to teach him the latest dance steps. She made him change the dirty pants that he had inherited from Colonel Aureliano Buendía and gave him some youthful shirts and two-toned shoes, and she would push him into the street when he was spending too much time in Melquíades’ room. Active, small, and indomitable like Úrsula, and almost as pretty and provocative as Remedios the Beauty, she was endowed with a rare instinct for anticipating fashion. When she received pictures of the most recent fashions in the mail, they only proved that she had not been wrong about the models that she designed herself and sewed on Amaranta’s primitive pedal machine. She subscribed to every fashion magazine, art publication. and popular music review published in Europe, and she had only to glance at them to realize that things in the world were going just as she imagined they were. It was incomprehensible why a woman with that spirit would have returned to a dead town burdened by dust and heat, and much less with a husband who had more than enough money to live 183 anywhere in the world and who loved her so much that he let himself be led around by her on a silk leash. As time passed, however, her intention to stay was more obvious, because she did not make any plans that were not a long way off, nor did she do anything that did not have as an aim the search for a comfortable life and a peaceful old age in Macondo. The canary cage showed that those aims were made up on the spur of the moment. Remembering that her mother had told her in a letter about the extermination of the birds, she had delayed her trip several months until she found a ship that stopped at the Fortunate Isles and there she chose the finest twenty-five pairs of canaries so that she could repopulate the skies of Macondo. That was the most lamentable of her numerous frustrated undertakings. As the birds reproduced Amaranta Úrsula would release them in pairs, and no sooner did they feel themselves free than they fled the town. She tried in vain to awaken love in them by means of the bird cage that Úrsula had built during the first reconstruction of the house. Also in vain were the artificial nests built of esparto grass in the almond trees and the birdseed strewn about the roofs, and arousing the captives so that their songs would dissuade the deserters, because they would take flights on their first attempts and make a turn in the sky, just the time needed to find the direction to the Fortunate Isles. A year after her return, although she had not succeeded in making any friends or giving any parties, Amaranta Úrsula still believed that it was possible to rescue the community which had been singled out by misfortune. Gaston, her husband, took care not to antagonize her, although since that fatal noon when he got off the train he realized that his wife’s determination had been provoked by a nostalgic mirage. Certain that she would be defeated by the realities, he did not even take the trouble to put his velocipede together, but he set about hunting for the largest eggs among the spider webs that the masons had knocked down, and he would open them with his fingernails and spend hours looking through a magnifying glass at the tiny spiders that emerged. Later on, thinking that Amaranta Úrsula was continuing with her repairs so that her hands would not be idle, he decided to assemble the handsome bicycle, on which the front wheel was much larger than the rear one, and he dedicated himself to the capture and curing of every native insect he could find in the region, which he sent in jam jars to his former professor of natural history at the University of Liège where he had done advanced work in entomology, although his main vocation was that of aviator. When he rode the bicycle he would wear acrobat’s tights, gaudy socks, and a Sherlock Holmes cap, but when he was on foot he would dress in a spotless natural linen suit, white shoes, a silk bow tie, a straw boater, and he would carry a willow stick in his hand. His pale eyes accentuated his look of a sailor and his small mustache looked like the fur of a squirrel. Although he was at least fifteen years older than his wife, his alert determination to make her happy and his qualities as a good lover compensated for the difference. Actually, those who saw that man in his forties with careful habits, with the leash around his neck and his circus bicycle, would not have thought that he had made a pact of unbridled love with his wife and that they both gave in to the reciprocal drive in the least adequate of places and wherever the spirit moved them, as they had done since they had began to keep company, and with a passion that the passage of time and the more and more unusual circumstances deepened and enriched. Gaston was not only a fierce lover, with endless wisdom and imagination, but he was also, perhaps, the first man in the history of the species who had made an emergency landing and had come close to killing himself and his sweetheart simply to make love in a field of violets. They had met two years before they were married, when the sports biplane in which he was making rolls over the school where Amaranta Úrsula was studying made an intrepid maneuver to avoid the flagpole and the primitive framework of canvas and aluminum foil was caught by the tail on some electric wires. From then on, paying no attention to his leg in splints, on weekends he would pick up Amaranta Úrsula at the nun’s boardinghouse where she lived, where the rules were not as severe as Fernanda had wanted, and he would take her to his country club. They began to 184 love each other at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet in the Sunday air of the moors, and they felt all the closer together as the beings on earth grew more and more minute. She spoke to him of Macondo as the brightest and most peaceful town on earth, and of an enormous house, scented with oregano, where she wanted to live until old age with a loyal husband and two strong sons who would be named Rodrigo and Gonzalo, never Aureliano and José Arcadio, and a daughter who would be named Virginia and never Remedios. She had evoked the town idealized by nostalgia with such strong tenacity that Gaston understood that she would not get married unless he took her to live in Macondo. He agreed to it, as he agreed later on to the leash, because he thought it was a passing fancy that could be overcome in time. But when two years in Macondo had passed and Amaranta Úrsula was as happy as on the first day, he began to show signs of alarm. By that time he had dissected every dissectible insect in the region, he spoke Spanish like a native, and he had solved all of the crossword puzzles in the magazines that he received in the mail. He did not have the pretext of climate to hasten their return because nature had endowed him with a colonial liver which resisted the drowsiness of siesta time and water that had vinegar worms in it. He liked the native cooking so much that once he ate eighty-two iguana eggs at one sitting. Amaranta Úrsula, on the other hand, had brought in by train fish and shellfish in boxes of ice, canned meats and preserved fruits, which were the only things she could eat, and she still dressed in European style and received designs by mail in spite of the fact that she had no place to go and no one to visit and by that time her husband was not in a mood to appreciate her short skirts, her tilted felt hat, and her seven-strand necklaces. Her secret seemed to lie in the fact that she always found a way to keep busy, resolving domestic problems that she herself had created, and doing a poor job on a thousand things which she would fix on the following day with a pernicious diligence that made one think of Fernanda and the hereditary vice of making something just to unmake it. Her festive genius was still so alive then that when she received new records she would invite Gaston to stay in the parlor until very late to practice the dance steps that her schoolmates described to her in sketches and they would generally end up making love on the Viennese rocking chairs or on the bare floor. The only thing that she needed to be completely happy was the birth of her children, but she respected the pact she had made with her husband not to have any until they had been married for five years. Looking for something to fill his idle hours with, Gaston became accustomed to spending the morning in Melquíades’ room with the shy Aureliano. He took pleasure in recalling with him the most hidden corners of his country, which Aureliano knew as if he had spent much time there. When Gaston asked him what he had done to obtain knowledge that was not in the encyclopedia, he received the same answer as José Arcadio: “Everything Is known.” In addition to Sanskrit he had learned English and French and a little Latin and Greek. Since he went out every afternoon at that time and Amaranta Úrsula had set aside a weekly sum for him for his personal expenses, his room looked like a branch of the wise Catalonian’s bookstore. He read avidly until late at night, although from the manner in which he referred to his reading, Gaston thought that he did not buy the books in order to learn but to verify the truth of his knowledge, and that none of them interested him more than the parchments, to which he dedicated most of his time in the morning. Both Gaston and his wife would have liked to incorporate him into the family life, but Aureliano was a hermetic man with a cloud of mystery that time was making denser. It was such an unfathomable condition that Gaston failed in his efforts to become intimate with him and had to seek other pastimes for his idle hours. It was around that time that he conceived the idea of establishing an airmail service. It was not a new project. Actually, he had it fairly well advanced when he met Amaranta Úrsula, except that it was not for Macondo, but for the Belgian Congo, where his family had investments in palm oil. The marriage and the decision to spend a few months in Macondo to please his wife had obliged him to postpone it. But when he saw that Amaranta Úrsula was determined to organize a commission for public improvement and even laughed at him when he hinted at the possibility of 185 returning, he understood that things were going to take a long time and he reestablished contact with his forgotten partners in Brussels, thinking that it was just as well to be a pioneer in the Caribbean as in Africa. While his steps were progressing he prepared a landing field in the old enchanted region which at that time looked like a plain of crushed flintstone, and he studied the wind direction, the geography of the coastal region, and the best routes for aerial navigation, without knowing that his diligence, so similar to that of Mr. Herbert, was filling the town with the dangerous suspicion that his plan was not to set up routes but to plant banana trees. Enthusiastic over the idea that, after all, might justify his permanent establishment in Macondo, he took several trips to the capital of the province, met with authorities, obtained licenses, and drew up contracts for exclusive rights. In the meantime he maintained a correspondence with his partners in Brussels which resembled that of Fernanda with the invisible doctors, and he finally convinced them to ship the first airplane under the care of an expert mechanic, who would assemble it in the nearest port and fly it to Macondo. One year after his first meditations and meteorological calculations, trusting in the repeated promises of his correspondents, he had acquired the habit of strolling through the streets, looking at the sky, hanging onto the sound of the breeze in hopes that the airplane would appear. Although she had not noticed it, the return of Amaranta Úrsula had brought on a radical change in Aureliano’s life. After the death of José Arcadio he had become a regular customer at the wise Catalonian’s bookstore. Also, the freedom that he enjoyed then and the time at his disposal awoke in him a certain curiosity about the town, which he came to know without any surprise. He went through the dusty and solitary streets, examining with scientific interest the inside of houses in ruin, the metal screens on the windows broken by rust and the dying birds, and the inhabitants bowed down by memories. He tried to reconstruct in his imagination the annihilated splendor of the old banana-company town, whose dry swimming pool was filled to the brim with rotting men’s and women’s shoes, and in the houses of which, destroyed by rye grass, he found the skeleton of a German shepherd dog still tied to a ring by a steel chain and a telephone that was ringing, ringing, ringing until he picked it up and an anguished and distant woman spoke in English, and he said yes, that the strike was over, that three thousand dead people had been thrown into the sea, that the banana company had left, and that Macondo finally had peace after many years. Those wanderings led him to the prostrate red-light district, where in other times bundles of banknotes had been burned to liven up the revels, and which at that time was a maze of streets more afflicted and miserable than the others, with a few red lights still burning and with deserted dance halls adorned with the remnants of wreaths, where the pale, fat widows of no one, the French great-grandmothers and the Babylonian matriarchs, were still waiting beside their photographs. Aureliano could not find anyone who remembered his family, not even Colonel Aureliano Buendía, except for the oldest of the West Indian Negroes, an old man whose cottony hair gave him the look of a photographic negative and who was still singing the mournful sunset psalms in the door of his house. Aureliano would talk to him in the tortured Papiamento that he had learned in a few weeks and sometimes he would share his chicken-head soup, prepared by the great-granddaughter, with him. She was a large black woman with solid bones, the hips of a mare, teats like live melons, and a round and perfect head armored with a hard surface of wiry hair which looked like a medieval warrior’s mail headdress. Her name was Nigromanta. In those days Aureliano lived off the sale of silverware, candlesticks, and other bric-a-brac from the house. When he was penniless, which was most of the time, he got people in the back of the market to give him the chicken heads that they were going to throw away and he would take them to Nigromanta to make her soups, fortified with purslane and seasoned with mint. When the great-grandfather died Aureliano stopped going by the house, but he would run into Nigromanta under the dark almond trees on the square, using her wild-animal whistles to lure the few night owls. Many times he stayed with her, speaking in Papiamento about chicken-head soup and other dainties of misery, and he would have kept right on if she had not let him know that his 186 presence frightened off customers. Although he sometimes felt the temptation and although Nigromanta herself might have seemed to him as the natural culmination of a shared nostalgia, he did not go to bed with her. So Aureliano was still a virgin when Amaranta Úrsula returned to Macondo and gave him a sisterly embrace that left him breathless. Every time he saw her, and worse yet when she showed him the latest dances, he felt the same spongy release in his bones that had disturbed his great-great-grandfather when Pilar Ternera made her pretexts about the cards in the granary. Trying to squelch the torment, he sank deeper into the parchments and eluded the innocent flattery of that aunt who was poisoning his nights with a flow of tribulation, but the more he avoided her the more the anxiety with which he waited for her stony laughter, her howls of a happy cat, and her songs of gratitude, agonizing in love at all hours and in the most unlikely parts of the house. One night thirty feet from his bed, on the silver workbench, the couple with unhinged bellies broke the bottles and ended up making love in a pool of muriatic acid. Aureliano not only could not sleep for a single second, but he spent the next day with a fever, sobbing with rage. The first night that he waited for Nigromanta to come to the shadows of the almond trees it seemed like an eternity, pricked as he was by the needles of uncertainty and clutching in his fist the peso and fifty cents that he had asked Amaranta Úrsula for, not so much because he needed it as to involve her, debase her, prostitute her in his adventure in some way. Nigromanta took him to her room, which was lighted with false candlesticks, to her folding cot with the bedding stained from bad loves, and to her body of a wild dog, hardened and without soul, which prepared itself to dismiss him as if he were a frightened child, and suddenly it found a man whose tremendous power demanded a movement of seismic readjustment from her insides. They became lovers. Aureliano would spend his mornings deciphering parchments and at siesta time he would go to the bedroom where Nigromanta was waiting for him, to teach him first how to do it like earthworms, then like snails, and finally like crabs, until she had to leave him and lie in wait for vagabond loves. Several weeks passed before Aureliano discovered that around her waist she wore a small belt that seemed to be made out of a cello string, but which was hard as steel and had no end, as if it had been born and grown with her. Almost always, between loves, they would eat naked in the bed, in the hallucinating heat and under the daytime stars that the rust had caused to shine on the zinc ceiling. It was the first time that Nigromanta had had a steady man, a bone crusher from head to toe, as she herself said, dying with laughter, and she had even begun to get romantic illusions when Aureliano confided in her about his repressed passion for Amaranta Úrsula, which he had not been able to cure with the substitution but which was twisting him inside all the more as experience broadened the horizons of love. After that Nigromanta continued to receive him with the same warmth as ever but she made him pay for her services so strictly that when Aureliano had no money she would make an addition to his bill, which was not figured in numbers but by marks that she made with her thumbnail behind the door. At sundown, while she was drifting through the shadows in the square, Aureliano, was going along the porch like a stranger, scarcely greeting Amaranta Úrsula and Gaston, who usually dined at that time, and shutting herself up in his room again, unable to read or write or even think because of the anxiety brought on by the laughter, the whispering, the preliminary frolics, and then the explosions of agonizing happiness that capped the nights in the house. That was his life two years before Gaston began to wait for the airplane, and it went on the same way on the afternoon that he went to the bookstore of the wise Catalonian and found four ranting boys in a heated argument about the methods used to kill cockroaches in the Middle Ages. The old bookseller, knowing about Aureliano’s love for books that had been read only by the Venerable Bede, urged him with a certain fatherly malice to get into the discussion, and without even taking a breath, he explained that the cockroach, the oldest winged insect on the face of the earth, had already been the victim of slippers in the Old Testament, but that since the species was definitely resistant to any and all methods of extermination, from tomato dices with borax to 187 flour and sugar, and with its one thousand six hundred three varieties had resisted the most ancient, tenacious, and pitiless persecution that mankind had unleashed against any living thing since the beginnings, including man himself, to such an extent that just as an instinct for reproduction was attributed to humankind, so there must have been another one more definite and pressing, which was the instinct to kill cockroaches, and if the latter had succeeded in escaping human ferocity it was because they had taken refuge in the shadows, where they became invulnerable because of man’s congenital fear of the dark, but on the other hand they became susceptible to the glow of noon, so that by the Middle Ages already, and in present times, and per omnia secula seculorum, the only effective method for killing cockroaches was the glare of the sun. That encyclopedic coincidence was the beginning of a great friendship. Aureliano continued getting together in the afternoon with the four arguers, whose names were Álvaro, Germán, Alfonso, and Gabriel, the first and last friends that he ever had in his life. For a man like him, holed up in written reality, those stormy sessions that began in the bookstore and ended at dawn in the brothels were a revelation. It had never occurred to him until then to think that literature was the best plaything that had ever been invented to make fun of people, as Álvaro demonstrated during one night of revels. Some time would have to pass before Aureliano realized that such arbitrary attitudes had their origins in the example of the wise Catalonian, for whom wisdom was worth nothing if it could not be used to invent a way of preparing chick peas. The afternoon on which Aureliano gave his lecture on cockroaches, the argument ended up in the house of the girls who went to bed because of hunger, a brothel of lies on the outskirts of Macondo. The proprietress was a smiling mamasanta, tormented by a mania for opening and closing doors. Her eternal smile seemed to have been brought on by the credulity of her customers, who accepted as something certain an establishment that did not exist except in the imagination, because even the tangible things there were unreal: the furniture that fell apart when one sat on it, the disemboweled phonograph with a nesting hen inside, the garden of paper flowers, the calendars going back to the years before the arrival of the banana company, the frames with prints cut out of magazines that had never been published. Even the timid little whores who came from the neighborhood: when the proprietress informed them that customers had arrived they were nothing but an invention. They would appear without any greeting in their little flowered dresses left over from days when they were five years younger, and they took them off with the same innocence with which they had put them on, and in the paroxysms of love they would exclaim good heavens, look how that roof is falling in, and as soon as they got their peso and fifty cents they would spend it on a roll with cheese that the proprietress sold them, smiling more than ever, because only she knew that that meal was not true either. Aureliano, whose world at that time began with Melquíades’ parchments and ended in Nigromanta’s bed, found a stupid cure for timidity in the small imaginary brothel. At first he could get nowhere, in rooms where the proprietress would enter during the best moments of love and make all sorts of comments about the intimate charms of the protagonists. But with time he began to get so familiar with those misfortunes of the world that on one night that was more unbalanced than the others he got undressed in the small reception room and ran through the house balancing a bottle of beer on his inconceivable maleness. He was the one who made fashionable the extravagances that the proprietress celebrated with her eternal smile, without protesting, without believing in them just as when Germán tried to burn the house down to show that it did not exist, and as when Alfonso wrung the neck of the parrot and threw it into the pot where the chicken stew was beginning to boil. Although Aureliano felt himself linked to the four friends by a common affection and a common solidarity, even to the point where he thought of them as if they were one person, he was closer to Gabriel than to the others. The link was born on the night when he casually mentioned Colonel Aureliano Buendía and Gabriel was the only one who did not think that he was making fun of 188 somebody. Even the proprietress, who normally did not take part in the conversation argued with a madam’s wrathful passion that Colonel Aureliano Buendía, of whom she had indeed heard speak at some time, was a figure invented by the government as a pretext for killing Liberals. Gabriel, on the other hand, did not doubt the reality of Colonel Aureliano Buendía because he had been a companion in arms and inseparable friend of his great-great-grandfather Colonel Gerineldo Márquez. Those fickle tricks of memory were even more critical when the killing of the workers was brought up. Every time that Aureliano mentioned the matter, not only the proprietress but some people older than she would repudiate the myth of the workers hemmed in at the station and the train with two hundred cars loaded with dead people, and they would even insist that, after all, everything had been set forth in judicial documents and in primary-school textbooks: that the banana company had never existed. So that Aureliano and Gabriel were linked by a kind of complicity based on real facts that no one believed in, and which had affected their lives to the point that both of them found themselves off course in the tide of a world that had ended and of which only the nostalgia remained. Gabriel would sleep wherever time overtook him. Aureliano put him up several times in the silver workshop, but he would spend his nights awake, disturbed by the noise of the dead people who walked through the bedrooms until dawn. Later he turned him over to Nigromanta, who took him to her well-used room when she was free and put down his account with vertical marks behind the door in the few spaces left free by Aureliano’s debts. In spite of their disordered life, the whole group tried to do something permanent at the urging of the wise Catalonian. It was he, with his experience as a former professor of classical literature and his storehouse of rare books, who got them to spend a whole night in search of the thirty-seventh dramatic situation in a town where no one had any interest any more in going beyond primary school. Fascinated by the discovery of friendship, bewildered by the enchantments of a world which had been forbidden to him by Fernanda’s meanness, Aureliano abandoned the scrutiny of the parchments precisely when they were beginning to reveal themselves as predictions in coded lines of poetry. But the subsequent proof that there was time enough for everything without having to give up the brothels gave him the drive to return to Melquíades’ room, having decided not to flag in his efforts until he had discovered the last keys. That was during the time that Gaston began to wait for the airplane and Amaranta Úrsula was so lonely that one morning she appeared in the room. “Hello, cannibal,” she said to him. “Back in your cave again?” She was irresistible, with a dress she had designed and one of the long shad-vertebra necklaces that she herself had made. She had stopped using the leash, convinced of her husband’s faithfulness, and for the first time since her return she seemed to have a moment of ease. Aureliano did not need to see her to know that she had arrived. She put her elbows on the table, so close and so helpless that Aureliano heard the deep sound of her bones, and she became interested in the parchments. Trying to overcome his disturbance, he grasped at the voice that he was losing, the life that was leaving him, the memory that was turning into a petrified polyp, and he spoke to her about the priestly destiny of Sanskrit, the scientific possibility of seeing the future showing through in time as one sees what is written on the back of a sheet of paper through the light, the necessity of deciphering the predictions so that they would not defeat themselves, and the Centuries of Nostradamus and the destruction of Cantabria predicted by Saint Milanus. Suddenly, without interrupting the chat, moved by an impulse that had been sleeping in him since his origins, Aureliano put his hand on hers, thinking that that final decision would put an end to his doubts. She grabbed his index finger with the affectionate innocence with which she had done so in childhood, however, and she held it while he kept on answering questions. They remained like that, linked by icy index fingers that did not transmit anything in any way until she awoke from her momentary dream and slapped her forehead with her hand. “The ants!” she exclaimed. And then she forgot about the manuscripts, went to the door with a dance step, and from there she threw Aureliano a 189 kiss with the tips of her fingers as she had said good-bye to her father on the afternoon when they sent her to Brussels. “You can tell me later,” she said. “I forgot that today’s the day to put quicklime on the anthills.” She continued going to the room occasionally when she had something to do in that part of the house and she would stay there for a few minutes while her husband continued to scrutinize the sky. Encouraged by that change, Aureliano stayed to eat with the family at that time as he had not done since the first months of Amaranta Úrsula’s return. Gaston was pleased. During the conversations after meals, which usually went on for more than an hour, he complained that his partners were deceiving him. They had informed him of the loading of the airplane on board a ship that did not arrive, and although his shipping agents insisted, that it would never arrive because it was not on the list of Caribbean ships, his partners insisted that the shipment was correct and they even insinuated that Gaston was lying to them in his letters. The correspondence reached such a degree of mutual suspicion that Gaston decided not to write again and he began to suggest the possibility of a quick trip to Brussels to clear things up and return with the airplane. The plan evaporated, however, as soon as Amaranta Úrsula reiterated her decision not to move from Macondo even if she lost a husband. During the first days Aureliano shared the general opinion that Gaston was a fool on a velocipede, and that brought on a vague feeling of pity. Later, when he obtained deeper information on the nature of men in the brothels, he thought that Gaston’s meekness had its origins in unbridled passion. But when he came to know him better and realized his true character was the opposite of his submissive conduct, he conceived the malicious suspicion that even the wait for the airplane was an act. Then he thought that Gaston was not as foolish as he appeared, but, quite the contrary, was a man of infinite steadiness, ability, and patience who had set about to conquer his wife with the weariness of eternal agreement, of never saying no, of simulating a limitless conformity, letting her become enmeshed in her own web until the day she could no longer bear the tedium of the illusions close at hand and would pack the bags herself to go back to Europe. Aureliano’s former pity turned into a violent dislike. Gaston’s system seemed so perverse to him, but at the same time so effective, that he ventured to warn Amaranta Úrsula. She made fun of his suspicions, however, without even noticing the heavy weight of love, uncertainty, and jealousy that he had inside. It had not occurred to her that she was arousing something more than fraternal affection in Aureliano until she pricked her finger trying to open a can of peaches and he dashed over to suck the blood out with an avidity and a devotion that sent a chill up her spine. “Aureliano!” She laughed, disturbed. “You’re too suspicious to be a good bat.” Then Aureliano went all out. Giving her some small, orphaned kisses in the hollow of her wounded hand, he opened up the most hidden passageways of his heart and drew out an interminable and lacerated intestine, the terrible parasitic animal that had incubated in his martyrdom. He told her how he would get up at midnight to weep in loneliness and rage over the underwear that she had left to dry in the bathroom. He told her about the anxiety with which he had asked Nigromanta to howl like a cat and sob gaston gaston gaston in his ear, and with how much astuteness he had ransacked her vials of perfume so that he could smell it on the necks of the little girls who went to bed because of hunger. Frightened by the passion of that outburst, Amaranta Úrsula was closing her fingers, contracting them like a shellfish until her wounded hand, free of all pain and any vestige of pity, was converted into a knot of emeralds and topazes and stony and unfeeling bones. “Fool!” she said as if she were spitting. “I’m sailing on the first ship leaving for Belgium.” Álvaro had come to the wise Catalonian’s bookstore one of those afternoons proclaiming at the top of his lungs his latest discovery: a zoological brothel. It was called The Golden Child and it was a huge open air salon through which no less than two hundred bitterns who told the time with a deafening cackling strolled at will. In wire pens that surrounded the dance floor and among large 190 Amazonian camellias there were herons of different colors, crocodiles as fat as pigs, snakes with twelve rattles, and a turtle with a gilded shell who dove in a small artificial ocean. There was a big white dog, meek and a pederast, who would give stud services nevertheless in order to be fed. The atmosphere had an innocent denseness, as if it had just been created, and the beautiful mulatto girls who waited hopelessly among the blood-red petals and the outmoded phonograph records knew ways of love that man had left behind forgotten in the earthly paradise. The first night that the group visited that greenhouse of illusions the splendid and taciturn old woman who guarded the entrance in a wicker rocking chair felt that time was turning back to its earliest origins when among the five who were arriving she saw a bony, jaundiced man with Tartar cheekbones, marked forever and from the beginning of the world with the pox of solitude. “Lord, Lord,” she sighed, “Aureliano!” She was seeing Colonel Aureliano Buendía once more as she had seen him in the light of a lamp long before the wars, long before the desolation of glory and the exile of disillusionment, that remote dawn when he went to her bedroom to give the first command of his life: the command to give him love. It was Pilar Ternera. Years before, when she had reached one hundred forty-five years of age, she had given up the pernicious custom of keeping track of her age and she went on living in the static and marginal time of memories, in a future perfectly revealed and established, beyond the futures disturbed by the insidious snares and suppositions of her cards. From that night on Aureliano, took refuge in the compassionate tenderness and understanding of his unknown great-great-grandmother. Sitting in her wicker rocking chair, she would recall the past, reconstruct the grandeur and misfortunes of the family and the splendor of Macondo, which was now erased, while Álvaro frightened the crocodiles with his noisy laughter and Alfonso invented outlandish stories about the bitterns who had pecked out the eyes of four customers who misbehaved the week before, and Gabriel was in the room of the pensive mulatto girl who did not collect in money but in letters to a smuggler boyfriend who was in prison on the other side of the Orinoco because the border guards had caught him and had made him sit on a chamberpot that filled up with a mixture of shit and diamonds. That true brothel, with that maternal proprietress, was the world of which Aureliano had dreamed during his prolonged captivity. He felt so well, so close to perfect companionship, that he thought of no other refuge on the afternoon on which Amaranta Úrsula had made his illusions crumble. He was ready to unburden himself with words so that someone could break the knots that bound his chest, but he only managed to let out a fluid, warm, and restorative weeping in Pilar Ternera’s lap. She let him finish, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man. “It’s all right, child,” she consoled him. “Now tell me who it is.” When Aureliano told her, Pilar Ternera let out a deep laugh, the old expansive laugh that ended up as a cooing of doves. There was no mystery in the heart of a Buendía that was impenetrable for her because a century of cards and experience had taught her that the history of the family was a machine with unavoidable repetitions, a turning wheel that would have gone on spilling into eternity were it not for the progressive and irremediable wearing of the axle. “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “Wherever she is right now, she’s waiting for you.” It was half past four in the afternoon when Amaranta Úrsula came out of her bath. Aureliano saw her go by his room with a robe of soft folds and a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. He followed her almost on tiptoes, stumbling from drunkenness, and he went into the nuptial bedroom just as she opened the robe and closed it again in fright. He made a silent signal toward the next room where the door was half open and where Aureliano knew that Gaston was beginning to write a letter. “Go away,” she said voicelessly. 191 Aureliano, smiled, picked her up by the waist with both hands like a pot of begonias, and dropped her on her back on the bed. With a brutal tug he pulled off her bathrobe before she had time to resist and he loomed over an abyss of newly washed nudity whose skin color, lines of fuzz, and hidden moles had all been imagined in the shadows of the other rooms. Amaranta Úrsula defended herself sincerely with the astuteness of a wise woman, weaseling her slippery, flexible, and fragrant weasel’s body as she tried to knee him in the kidneys and scorpion his face with her nails, but without either of them giving a gasp that might not have been taken for that breathing of a person watching the meager April sunset through the open window. It was a fierce fight, a battle to the death, but it seemed to be without violence because it consisted of distorted attacks and ghostly evasions, slow, cautious, solemn, so that during it all there was time for the petunias to bloom and for Gaston to forget about his aviator’s dream in the next room, as if they were two enemy lovers seeking reconciliation at the bottom of an aquarium. In the heat of that savage and ceremonious struggle, Amaranta Úrsula understood that her meticulous silence was so irrational that it could awaken the suspicions of her nearby husband much more than the sound of warfare that they were trying to avoid. Then she began to laugh with her lips tight together, without giving up the fight, but defending herself with false bites and deweaseling her body little by little until they both were conscious of being adversaries and accomplices at the same time and the affray degenerated into a conventional gambol and the attacks became caresses. Suddenly, almost playfully, like one more bit of mischief, Amaranta Úrsula dropped her defense, and when she tried to recover, frightened by what she herself had made possible, it was too late. A great commotion immobilized her in her center of gravity, planted her in her place, and her defensive will was demolished by the irresistible anxiety to discover what the orange whistles and the invisible globes on the other side of death were like. She barely had time to reach out her hand and grope for the towel to put a gag between her teeth so that she would not let out the cat howls that were already tearing at her insides. 192 Chapter 20 PILAR TERNERA died in her wicker rocking chair during one night of festivities as she watched over the entrance to her paradise. In accordance with her last wishes she was not buried in a coffin but sitting in her rocker, which eight men lowered by ropes into a huge hole dug in the center of the dance floor. The mulatto girls, dressed in black, pale from weeping, invented shadowy rites as they took off their earrings, brooches, and rings and threw them into the pit before it was closed over with a slab that bore neither name nor dates, and that was covered with a pile of Amazonian camellias. After poisoning the animals they closed up the doors and windows with brick and mortar and they scattered out into the world with their wooden trunks that were lined with pictures of saints, prints from magazines, and the portraits of sometime sweethearts, remote and fantastic, who shat diamonds, or ate cannibals, or were crowned playing-card kings on the high seas. It was the end. In Pilar Ternera’s tomb, among the psalm and cheap whore jewelry, the ruins of the past would rot, the little that remained after the wise Catalonian had auctioned off his bookstore and returned to the Mediterranean village where he had been born, overcome by a yearning for a lasting springtime. No one could have foreseen his decision. He had arrived in Macondo during the splendor of the banana company, fleeing from one of many wars, and nothing more practical had occurred to him than to set up that bookshop of incunabula and first editions in several languages, which casual customers would thumb through cautiously, as if they were junk books, as they waited their turn to have their dreams interpreted in the house across the way. He spent half his life in the back of the store, scribbling in his extra-careful hand in purple ink and on pages that he tore out of school notebooks, and no one was sure exactly what he was writing. When Aureliano first met him he had two boxes of those motley pages that in some way made one think of Melquíades’ parchments, and from that time until he left he had filled a third one, so it was reasonable to believe that he had done nothing else during his stay in Macondo. The only people with whom he maintained relations were the four friends, whom he had exchanged their tops and kites for books, and he set them to reading Seneca and Ovid while they were still in grammar school. He treated the classical writers with a household familiarity, as if they had all been his roommates at some period, and he knew many things that should not have been known, such as the fact that Saint Augustine wore a wool jacket under his habit that he did not take off for fourteen years and that Arnaldo of Villanova, the necromancer, was impotent since childhood because of a scorpion bite. His fervor for the written word was an interweaving of solemn respect and gossipy irreverence. Not even his own manuscripts were safe from that dualism. Having learned Catalan in order to translate them, Alfonso put a roll of pages in his pockets, which were always full of newspaper clippings and manuals for strange trades, and one night he lost them in the house of the little girls who went to bed because of hunger. When the wise old grandfather found out, instead of raising a row as had been feared, he commented, dying with laughter, that it was the natural destiny of literature. On the other hand, there was no human power capable of persuading him not to take along the three boxes when he returned to his native village, and he unleashed a string of Carthaginian curses at the railroad inspectors who tried to ship them as freight until he finally succeeded in keeping them with him in the passenger coach. “The world must be all fucked up,” he said then, “when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.” That was the last thing he was heard to say. He had spent a dark week on the final preparations for the trip, because as the hour approached his humor was breaking down and things began to be misplaced, and what he put in one place would appear in another, attacked by the same elves that had tormented Fernanda. “Collons,” he would curse. “I shit on Canon Twenty-seven of the Synod of London.” 193 Germán and Aureliano took care of him. They helped him like a child, fastening his tickets and immigration documents to his pockets with safety pins, making him a detailed list of what he must do from the time he left Macondo until he landed in Barcelona, but nonetheless he threw away a pair of pants with half of his money in it without realizing it. The night before the trip, after nailing up the boxes and putting his clothing into the same suitcase that he had brought when he first came, he narrowed his clam eyes, pointed with a kind of impudent benediction at the stacks of books with which he had endured during his exile, and said to his friends: “All that shit there I leave to you people!” Three months later they received in a large envelope twenty-nine letters and more than fifty pictures that he had accumulated during the leisure of the high seas. Although he did not date them, the order in which he had written the letters was obvious. In the first ones, with his customary good humor, he spoke about the difficulties of the crossing, the urge he had to throw the cargo officer overboard when he would not let him keep the three boxes in his cabin, the clear imbecility of a lady who was terrified at the number thirteen, not out of superstition but because she thought it was a number that had no end, and the bet that he had won during the first dinner because he had recognized in the drinking water on board the taste of the nighttime beets by the springs of Lérida. With the passage of the days, however, the reality of life on board mattered less and less to him and even the most recent and trivial happenings seemed worthy of nostalgia, because as the ship got farther away, his memory began to grow sad. That process of nostalgia was also evident in the pictures. In the first ones he looked happy, with his sport shirt which looked like a hospital jacket and his snowy mane, in an October Caribbean filled with whitecaps. In the last ones he could be seen to be wearing a dark coat and a milk scarf, pale in the face, taciturn from absence on the deck of a mournful ship that had come to be like a sleepwalker on the autumnal seas. Germán and Aureliano answered his letters. He wrote so many during the first months that at that time they felt closer to him than when he had been in Macondo, and they were almost freed from the rancor that he had left behind. At first he told them that everything was just the same, that the pink snails were still in the house where he had been born, that the dry herring still had the same taste on a piece of toast, that the waterfalls in the village still took on a perfumed smell at dusk. They were the notebook pages again, woven with the purple scribbling, in which he dedicated a special paragraph to each one. Nevertheless, and although he himself did not seem to notice it, those letters of recuperation and stimulation were slowly changing into pastoral letters of disenchantment. One winter night while the soup was boiling in the fireplace, he missed the heat of the back of his store, the buzzing of the sun on the dusty almond trees, the whistle of the train during the lethargy of siesta time, just as in Macondo he had missed the winter soup in the fireplace, the cries of the coffee vendor, and the fleeting larks of springtime. Upset by two nostalgias facing each other like two mirrors, he lost his marvelous sense of unreality and he ended up recommending to all of them that they leave Macondo, that they forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart, that they shit on Horace, and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end. Álvaro was the first to take the advice to abandon Macondo. He sold everything, even the tame jaguar that teased passersby from the courtyard of his house, and he bought an eternal ticket on a train that never stopped traveling. In the postcards that he sent from the way stations he would describe with shouts the instantaneous images that he had seen from the window of his coach, and it was as if he were tearing up and throwing into oblivion some long, evanescent poem: the chimerical Negroes in the cotton fields of Louisiana, the winged horses in the bluegrass of Kentucky, the Greek lovers in the infernal sunsets of Arizona, the girl in the red sweater painting watercolors by a lake in Michigan who waved at him with her brushes, not to say farewell but out of hope, because 194 she did not know that she was watching a train with no return passing by. Then Alfonso and Germán left one Saturday with the idea of coming back on Monday, but nothing more was ever heard of them. A year after the departure of the wise Catalonian the only one left in Macondo was Gabriel, still adrift at the mercy of Nigromanta’s chancy charity and answering the questions of a contest in a French magazine in which the first prize was a trip to Paris. Aureliano, who was the one who subscribed to it, helped him fill in the answers, sometimes in his house but most of the time among the ceramic bottles and atmosphere of valerian in the only pharmacy left in Macondo, where Mercedes, Gabriel’s stealthy girl friend, lived. It was the last that remained of a past whose annihilation had not taken place because it was still in a process of annihilation, consuming itself from within, ending at every moment but never ending its ending. The town had reached such extremes of inactivity that when Gabriel won the contest and left for Paris with two changes of clothing, a pair of shoes, and the complete works of Rabelais, he had to signal the engineer to stop the train and pick him up. The old Street of the Turks was at that time an abandoned corner where the last Arabs were letting themselves be dragged off to death with the age-old custom of sitting in their doorways, although it had been many years since they had sold the last yard of diagonal cloth, and in the shadowy showcases only the decapitated manikins remained. The banana company’s city, which Patricia Brown may have tried to evoke for her grandchildren during the nights of intolerance and dill pickles in Prattville, Alabama, was a plain of wild grass. The ancient priest who had taken Father Angel’s place and whose name no one had bothered to find out awaited God’s mercy stretched out casually in a hammock, tortured by arthritis and the insomnia of doubt while the lizards and rats fought over the inheritance of the nearby church. In that Macondo forgotten even by the birds, where the dust and the heat had become so strong that it was difficult to breathe, secluded by solitude and love and by the solitude of love in a house where it was almost impossible to sleep because of the noise of the red ants, Aureliano, and Amaranta Úrsula were the only happy beings, and the most happy on the face of the earth. Gaston had returned to Brussels. Tired of waiting for the airplane, one day he put his indispensable things into a small suitcase, took his file of correspondence, and left with the idea of returning by air before his concession was turned over to a group of German pilots who had presented the provincial authorities with a more ambitious project than his. Since the afternoon of their first love, Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula had continued taking advantage of her husband’s rare unguarded moments, making love with gagged ardor in chance meetings and almost always interrupted by unexpected returns. But when they saw themselves alone in the house they succumbed to the delirium of lovers who were making up for lost time. It was a mad passion, unhinging, which made Fernanda’s bones tremble with horror in her grave and which kept them in a state of perpetual excitement. Amaranta Úrsula’s shrieks, her songs of agony would break out the same at two in the afternoon on the dining-room table as at two in the morning in the pantry. “What hurts me most,” she would say, laughing, “is all the time that we wasted.” In the bewilderment of passion she watched the ants devastating the garden, sating their prehistoric hunger with the beam of the house, and she watched the torrents of living lava take over the porch again, but she bothered to fight them only when she found them in her bedroom. Aureliano abandoned the parchments, did not leave the house again, and carelessly answered the letters from the wise Catalonian. They lost their sense of reality, the notion of time, the rhythm of daily habits. They closed the doors and windows again so as not to waste time getting undressed and they walked about the house as Remedios the Beauty had wanted to do and they would roll around naked in the mud of the courtyard, and one afternoon they almost drowned as they made love in the cistern. In a short time they did more damage than the red ants: they destroyed the furniture in the parlor, in their madness they tore to shreds the hammock that had resisted the sad bivouac loves of Colonel Aureliano Buendía and they disemboweled the mattresses and emptied them on the floor as they suffocated in 195 storms of cotton. Although Aureliano was just as ferocious a lover as his rival, it was Amaranta Úrsula who ruled in that paradise of disaster with her mad genius and her lyrical voracity, as if she had concentrated in her love the unconquerable energy that her great-great-grandmother had given to the making of little candy animals. And yet, while she was singing with pleasure and dying with laughter over her own inventions, Aureliano was becoming more and more absorbed and silent, for his passion was self-centered and burning. Nevertheless, they both reached such extremes of virtuosity that when they became exhausted from excitement, they would take advantage of their fatigue. They would give themselves over to the worship of their bodies, discovering that the rest periods of love had unexplored possibilities, much richer than those of desire. While he would rub Amaranta Úrsula’s erect breasts with egg whites or smooth her elastic thighs and peach-like stomach with cocoa butter, she would play with Aureliano’s portentous creature as if it were a doll and would paint clown’s eyes on it with her lipstick and give it a Turk’s mustache with her eyebrow pencil, and would put on organza bow ties and little tinfoil hats. One night they daubed themselves from head to toe with peach jam and licked each other like dogs and made mad love on the floor of the porch, and they were awakened by a torrent of carnivorous ants who were ready to eat them alive. During the pauses in their delirium, Amaranta Úrsula would answer Gaston’s letters. She felt him to be so far away and busy that his return seemed impossible to her. In one of his first letters he told her that his Partners had actually sent the airplane, but that a shipping agent in Brussels had sent it by mistake to Tanganyika, where it was delivered to the scattered tribe of the Makondos. That mixup brought on so many difficulties that just to get the plane back might take two years. So Amaranta Úrsula dismissed the possibility of an inopportune return. Aureliano, for his part, had no other contact with the world except for the letters from the wise Catalonian and the news he had of Gabriel through Mercedes, the silent pharmacist. At first they were real contacts. Gabriel had turned in his return ticket in order to stay in Paris, selling the old newspapers and empty bottles that the chambermaids threw out of a gloomy hotel on the Rue Dauphine. Aureliano could visualize him then in a turtleneck sweater which he took off only when the sidewalk Cafés on Montparnasse filled with springtime lovers, and sleeping by day and writing by night in order to confuse hunger in the room that smelled of boiled cauliflower where Rocamadour was to die. Nevertheless, news about him was slowly becoming so uncertain, and the letters from the wise man so sporadic and melancholy, that Aureliano grew to think about them as Amaranta Úrsula thought about her husband, and both of them remained floating in an empty universe where the only everyday and eternal reality was love. Suddenly, like the stampede in that world of happy unawareness, came the news of Gaston’s return. Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula opened their eyes, dug deep into their souls, looked at the letter with their hands on their hearts, and understood that they were so close to each other that they preferred death to separation. Then she wrote her husband a letter of contradictory truths in which she repeated her love and said how anxious she was to see him again, but at the same time she admitted as a design of fate the impossibility of living without Aureliano. Contrary to what they had expected, Gaston sent them a calm, almost paternal reply, with two whole pages devoted to a warning against the fickleness of passion and a final paragraph with unmistakable wishes for them to be as happy as he had been during his brief conjugal experience. It was such an unforeseen attitude that Amaranta Úrsula felt humiliated by the idea that she had given her husband the pretext that he had wanted in order to abandon her to her fate. The rancor was aggravated six months later when Gaston wrote again from Léopoldville, where he had finally recovered the airplane, simply to ask them to ship him the velocipede, which of all that he had left behind in Macondo was the only thing that had any sentimental value for him. Aureliano bore Amaranta Úrsula’s spite patiently and made an effort to show her that he could be as good a husband in adversity as in prosperity, and the daily needs that besieged them when Gaston’s last money ran out created a bond of solidarity between 196 them that was not as dazzling and heady as passion, but that let them make love as much and be as happy as during their uproarious and salacious days. At the time Pilar Ternera died they were expecting a child. In the lethargy of her pregnancy, Amaranta Úrsula tried to set up a business in necklaces made out of the backbones of fish. But except for Mercedes, who bought a dozen, she could not find any customers. Aureliano was aware for the first time that his gift for languages, his encyclopedic knowledge, his rare faculty for remembering the details of remote deeds and places without having been there, were as useless as the box of genuine jewelry that his wife owned, which must have been worth as much as all the money that the last inhabitants of Macondo could have put together. They survived miraculously. Although Amaranta Úrsula did not lose her good humor or her genius for erotic mischief, she acquired the habit of sitting on the porch after lunch in a kind of wakeful and thoughtful siesta. Aureliano would accompany her. Sometimes they would remain there in silence until nightfall, opposite each other, looking into each other’s eyes, loving each other as much as in their scandalous days. The uncertainty of the future made them turn their hearts toward the past. They saw themselves in the lost paradise of the deluge, splashing in the puddles in the courtyard, killing lizards to hang on Úrsula, pretending that they were going to bury her alive, and those memories revealed to them the truth that they had been happy together ever since they had had memory. Going deeper into the past, Amaranta Úrsula remembered the afternoon on which she had gone into the silver shop and her mother told her that little Aureliano was nobody’s child because he had been found floating in a basket. Although the version seemed unlikely to them, they did not have any information enabling them to replace it with the true one. All that they were sure of after examining an the possibilities was that Fernanda was not Aureliano’s mother. Amaranta Úrsula was inclined to believe that he was the son of Petra Cotes, of whom she remembered only tales of infamy, and that supposition produced a twinge of horror in her heart. Tormented by the certainty that he was his wife’s brother, Aureliano ran out to the parish house to search through the moldy and moth-eaten archives for some clue to his parentage. The oldest baptismal certificate that he found was that of Amaranta Buendía, baptized in adolescence by Father Nicanor Reyna during the time when he was trying to prove the existence of God by means of tricks with chocolate. He began to have that feeling that he was one of the seventeen Aurelianos, whose birth certificates he tracked down as he went through four volumes, but the baptism dates were too far back for his age. Seeing him lost in the labyrinths of kinship, trembling with uncertainty, the arthritic priest, who was watching him from his hammock, asked him compassionately what his name was. “Aureliano Buendía,” he said. “Then don’t wear yourself out searching,” the priest exclaimed with final conviction. “Many years ago there used to be a street here with that name and in those days people had the custom of naming their children after streets.” Aureliano trembled with rage. “So!” he said. “You don’t believe it either.” “Believe what?” “That Colonel Aureliano, Buendía fought thirty-two civil wars and lost them all,” Aureliano answered. “That the army hemmed in and machine-gunned three thousand workers and that their bodies were carried off to be thrown into the sea on a train with two hundred cars.” The priest measured him with a pitying look. “Oh, my son,” he signed. “It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.” So Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula accepted the version of the basket, not because they believed it, but because it spared them their terror. As the pregnancy advanced they were becoming a single being, they were becoming more and more integrated in the solitude of a house that needed only 197 one last breath to be knocked down. They restricted themselves to an essential area, from Fernanda’s bedroom, where the charms of sedentary love were visible, to the beginning of the porch, where Amaranta Úrsula would sit to sew bootees and bonnets for the newborn baby and Aureliano, would answer the occasional letters from the wise Catalonian. The rest of the house was given over to the tenacious assault of destruction. The silver shop, Melquíades’ room, the primitive and silent realm of Santa Sofía de la Piedad remained in the depths of a domestic jungle that no one would have had the courage to penetrate. Surrounded by the voracity of nature, Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula continued cultivating the oregano and the begonias and defended their world with demarcations of quicklime, building the last trenches in the age-old war between man and ant. Her long and neglected hair, the splotches that were beginning to appear on her face, the swelling of her legs, the deformation of her former lovemaking weasel’s body had changed Amaranta Úrsula from the youthful creature she had been when she arrived at the house with the cage of luckless canaries and her captive husband, but it did not change the vivacity of her spirit. “Shit,” she would say, laughingly. “Who would have thought that we really would end up living like cannibals!” The last thread that joined them to the world was broken on the sixth month of pregnancy when they received a letter that obviously was not from the wise Catalonian. It had been mailed in Barcelona, but the envelope was addressed in conventional blue ink by an official hand and it had the innocent and impersonal look of hostile messages. Aureliano snatched it out of Amaranta Úrsula’s hands as she was about to open it. “Not this one,” he told her. “I don’t want to know what it says.” Just as he had sensed, the wise Catalonian did not write again. The stranger’s letter, which no one read, was left to the mercy of the moths on the shelf where Fernanda had forgotten her wedding ring on occasion and there it remained, consuming itself in the inner fire of its bad news as the solitary lovers sailed against the tide of those days of the last stages, those impenitent and ill-fated times which were squandered on the useless effort of making them drift toward the desert of disenchantment and oblivion. Aware of that menace, Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula spent the hot months holding hands, ending with the love of loyalty for the child who had his beginning in the madness of fornication. At night, holding each other in bed, they were not frightened by the sublunary explosions of the ants or the noise of the moths or the constant and clean whistle of the growth of the weeds in the neighboring rooms. Many times they were awakened by the traffic of the dead. They could hear Úrsula fighting against the laws of creation to maintain the line, and José Arcadio Buendía searching for the mythical truth of the great inventions, and Fernanda praying, and Colonel Aureliano Buendía stupefying himself with the deception of war and the little gold fishes, and Aureliano Segundo dying of solitude in the turmoil of his debauches, and then they learned that dominant obsessions can prevail against death and they were happy again with the certainty that they would go on loving each other in their shape as apparitions long after other species of future animals would steal from the insects the paradise of misery that the insects were finally stealing from man. One Sunday, at six in the afternoon, Amaranta Úrsula felt the pangs of childbirth. The smiling mistress of the little girls who went to bed because of hunger had her get onto the dining-room table, straddled her stomach, and mistreated her with wild gallops until her cries were drowned out by the bellows of a formidable male child. Through her tears Amaranta Úrsula could see that he was one of those great Buendías, strong and willful like the José Arcadios, with the open and clairvoyant eyes of the Aurelianos, and predisposed to begin the race again from the beginning and cleanse it of its pernicious vices and solitary calling, for he was the only one in a century who had been engendered with love. “He’s a real cannibal.” she said. “We’ll name him Rodrigo.” “No,” her husband countered. “We’ll name him Aureliano and he’ll win thirty-two wars.” 198 After cutting the umbilical cord, the midwife began to use a cloth to take off the blue grease that covered his body as Aureliano held up a lamp. Only when they turned him on his stomach did they see that he had something more than other men, and they leaned over to examine him. It was the tail of a pig. They were not alarmed. Aureliano and Amaranta Úrsula were not aware of the family precedent, nor did they remember Úrsula’s frightening admonitions, and the midwife pacified them with the idea that the tail could be cut off when the child got his second teeth. Then they had no time to think about it again, because Amaranta Úrsula was bleeding in an uncontainable torrent. They tried to help her with applications of spider webs and balls of ash, but it was like trying to hold back a spring with one’s hands. During the first hours she tried to maintain her good humor. She took the frightened Aureliano by the hand and begged him not to worry, because people like her were not made to die against their will, and she exploded with laughter at the ferocious remedies of the midwife. But as Aureliano’s hope abandoned him she was becoming less visible, as if the light on her were fading away, until she sank into drowsiness. At dawn on Monday they brought a woman who recited cauterizing prayers that were infallible for man and beast beside her bed, but Amaranta Úrsula’s passionate blood was insensible to any artifice that did not come from love. In the afternoon, after twenty-four hours of desperation, they knew that she was dead because the flow had stopped without remedies and her profile became sharp and the blotches on her face evaporated in a halo of alabaster and she smiled again. Aureliano did not understand until then how much he loved his friends, how much he missed them, and how much he would have given to be with them at that moment. He put the child in the basket that his mother had prepared for him, covered the face of the corpse with a blanket, and wandered aimlessly through the town, searching for an entrance that went back to the past. He knocked at the door of the pharmacy, where he had not visited lately, and he found a carpenter shop. The old woman who opened the door with a lamp in her hand took pity on his delirium and insisted that, no, there had never been a pharmacy there, nor had she ever known a woman with a thin neck and sleepy eyes named Mercedes. He wept, leaning his brow against the door of the wise Catalonian’s former bookstore, conscious that he was paying with his tardy sobs for a death that he had refused to weep for on time so as not to break the spell of love. He smashed his fists against the cement wall of The Golden Child, calling for Pilar Ternera, indifferent to the luminous orange disks that were crossing the sky and that so many times on holiday nights he had contemplated with childish fascination from the courtyard of the curlews. In the last open salon of the tumbledown red-light district an accordion group was playing the songs of Rafael Escalona, the bishop’s nephew, heir to the secrets of Francisco the Man. The bartender, who had a withered and somewhat crumpled arm because he had raised it against his mother, invited Aureliano to have a bottle of cane liquor, and Aureliano then bought him one. The bartender spoke to him about the misfortune of his arm. Aureliano spoke to him about the misfortune of his heart, withered and somewhat crumpled for having been raised against his sister. They ended up weeping together and Aureliano felt for a moment that the pain was over. But when he was alone again in the last dawn of Macondo, he opened up his arms in the middle of the square, ready to wake up the whole world, and he shouted with all his might: “Friends are a bunch of bastards!” Nigromanta rescued him from a pool of vomit and tears. She took him to her room, cleaned him up, made him drink a cup of broth. Thinking that it would console him, she took a piece of charcoal and erased the innumerable loves that he still owed her for, and she voluntarily brought up her own most solitary sadnesses so as not to leave him alone in his weeping. When he awoke, after a dull and brief sleep, Aureliano recovered the awareness of his headache. He opened his eyes and remembered the child. 199 He could not find the basket. At first he felt an outburst of joy, thinking that Amaranta Úrsula had awakened from death to take care of the child. But her corpse was a pile of stones under the blanket. Aware that when he arrived he had found the -door to the bedroom open, Aureliano went across the porch which was saturated with the morning sighs of oregano and looked into the dining room, where the remnants of the birth still lay: the large pot, the bloody sheets, the jars of ashes, and the twisted umbilical cord of the child on an opened diaper on the table next to the shears and the fishline. The idea that the midwife had returned for the child during the night gave him a pause of rest in which to think. He sank into the rocking chair, the same one in which Rebeca had sat during the early days of the house to give embroidery lessons, and in which Amaranta had played Chinese checkers with Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, and in which Amaranta Úrsula had sewn the tiny clothing for the child, and in that flash of lucidity he became aware that he was unable to bear in his soul the crushing weight of so much past. Wounded by the fatal lances of his own nostalgia and that of others, he admired the persistence of the spider webs on the dead rose bushes, the perseverance of the rye grass, the patience of the air in the radiant February dawn. And then he saw the child. It was a dry and bloated bag of skin that all the ants in the world were dragging toward their holes along the stone path in the garden. Aureliano could not move. Not because he was paralyzed by horror but because at that prodigious instant Melquíades’ final keys were revealed to him and he saw the epigraph of the parchments perfectly placed in the order of man’s time and space: The first of the line is tied to a tree and the last is being eaten by the ants. Aureliano, had never been more lucid in any act of his life as when he forgot about his dead ones and the pain of his dead ones and nailed up the doors and windows again with Fernanda’s crossed boards so as not to be disturbed by any temptations of the world, for he knew then that his fate was written in Melquíades’ parchments. He found them intact among the prehistoric plants and steaming puddles and luminous insects that had removed all trace of man’s passage on earth from the room, and he did not have the calmness to bring them out into the light, but right there, standing, without the slightest difficulty, as if they had been written in Spanish and were being read under the dazzling splendor of high noon, he began to decipher them aloud. It was the history of the family, written by Melquíades, down to the most trivial details, one hundred years ahead of time. He had written it in Sanskrit, which was his mother tongue, and he had encoded the even lines in the private cipher of the Emperor Augustus and the odd ones in a Lacedemonian military code. The final protection, which Aureliano had begun to glimpse when he let himself be confused by the love of Amaranta Úrsula, was based on the fact that Melquíades had not put events in the order of man’s conventional time, but had concentrated a century of daily episodes in such a way that they coexisted in one instant. Fascinated by the discovery, Aureliano, read aloud without skipping the chanted encyclicals that Melquíades himself had made Arcadio listen to and that were in reality the prediction of his execution, and he found the announcement of the birth of the most beautiful woman in the world who was rising up to heaven in body and soul, and he found the origin of the posthumous twins who gave up deciphering the parchments, not simply through incapacity and lack of drive, but also because their attempts were premature. At that point, impatient to know his own origin, Aureliano skipped ahead. Then the wind began, warm, incipient, full of voices from the past, the murmurs of ancient geraniums, sighs of disenchantment that preceded the most tenacious nostalgia. He did not notice it because at that moment he was discovering the first indications of his own being in a lascivious grandfather who let himself be frivolously dragged along across a hallucinated plateau in search of a beautiful woman who would not make him happy. Aureliano recognized him, he pursued the hidden paths of his descent, and he found the instant of his own conception among the scorpions and the yellow butterflies in a sunset bathroom where a mechanic satisfied his lust on a woman who was giving herself out of rebellion. He was so absorbed that he did not feel the second surge of wind either as its cyclonic strength tore the doors and windows off their hinges, pulled off 200 the roof of the east wing, and uprooted the foundations. Only then did he discover that Amaranta Úrsula was not his sister but his aunt, and that Sir Francis Drake had attacked Riohacha only so that they could seek each other through the most intricate labyrinths of blood until they would engender the mythological animal that was to bring the line to an end. Macondo was already a fearful whirlwind of dust and rubble being spun about by the wrath of the biblical hurricane when Aureliano skipped eleven pages so as not to lose time with facts he knew only too well, and he began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering it as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror. Then he skipped again to anticipate the predictions and ascertain the date and circumstances of his death. Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth. THE END.

Reptile Room

A Series of Unfortunate Events 2- The Reptile Room ASeriesofUnfortunateEvents A Series of Unfortunate Events Book the Second The Reptile Room Lemony Snicket For Beatrice— My love for you shall live forever. You, however, did not. C H A P T E R One The stretch of road that leads out of the city, past Hazy Harbor and into the town of Tedia , is perhaps the most unpleasant in the world. It is called Lousy Lane . Lousy Lane runs through fields that are a sickly gray color, in which a handful of scraggly trees produce apples so sour that one only has to look at them to feel ill. Lousy Lane traverses the Grim River, a body of water that is nine-tenths mud and that contains extremely unnerving fish, and it encircles a horseradish factory, so the entire area smells bitter and strong. I am sorry to tell you that this story begins with the Baudelaire orphans traveling along this most displeasing road, and that from this moment on, the story only gets worse. Of all the people in the world who have miserable lives— and, as I’m sure you know, there are quite a few—the Baudelaire youngsters take the cake, a phrase which here means that more horrible things have happened to them than just about anybody. Their misfortune began with an enormous fire that destroyed their home and killed both their loving parents, which is enough sadness to last anyone a lifetime, but in the case of these three children it was only the bad beginning. After the fire, the siblings were sent to live with a distant relative named Count Olaf, a terrible and greedy man. The Baudelaire parents had left behind an enormous fortune, which would go to the children when Violet came of age, and Count Olaf was so obsessed with getting his filthy hands on the money that he hatched a devious plan that gives me nightmares to this day. He was caught just in time, but he escaped and vowed to get ahold of the Baudelaire fortune sometime in the future. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny still had nightmares about Count Loafs shiny, shiny eyes, and about his one scraggly eyebrow, and most of all about the tattoo of an eye he had on his ankle. It seemed like that eye was watching the Baudelaire orphans wherever they went. So I must tell you that if you have opened this book in the hope of finding out that the children lived happily ever after, you might as well shut it and read something else. Because Violet, Klaus, and Sunny, sitting in a small, cramped car and staring out the windows at Lousy Lane, were heading toward even more misery and woe. The Grim River and the horseradish factory were only the first of a sequence of tragic and unpleasant episodes that bring a frown to my face and a tear to my eye whenever I think about them. The driver of the car was Mr. Poe, a family friend who worked at a bank and always had a cough. He was in charge of overseeing the orphans’ affairs, so it was he who decided that the children would be placed in the care of a distant relative in the country after all the unpleasantness with Count Olaf. “I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable,” Mr. Poe said, coughing into a white handkerchief, “but this new car of mine doesn’t fit too many people. We couldn’t even fit any of your suitcases. In a week or so I’ll drive back here and bring them to you.” “Thank you,” said Violet, who at fourteen was the oldest of the Baudelaire children. Anyone who knew Violet well could see that her mind was not really on what Mr. Poe was saying, because her long hair was tied up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes. Violet was an inventor, and when she was thinking up inventions she liked to tie her hair up this way. It helped her think clearly about the various gears, wires, and ropes involved in most of her creations. “After living so long in the city,” Mr. Poe continued, “I think you will find the countryside to be a pleasant change. Oh, here is the turn. We’re almost there.” “Good,” Klaus said quietly. Klaus, like many people on car rides, was very bored, and he was sad not to have a book with him. Klaus loved to read, and at approximately twelve years of age had read more books than many people read in their whole lives. Sometimes he read well into the night, and in the morning could be found fast asleep, with a book in his hand and his glasses still on. “I think you’ll like Dr. Montgomery, too,” Mr. Poe said. “He has traveled a great deal, so he has plenty of stories to tell. I’ve heard his house is filled with things he’s brought from all the places he’s been.” “Bax!” Sunny shrieked. Sunny, the youngest of the Baudelaire orphans, often talked like this, as infants tend to do. In fact, besides biting things with her four very sharp teeth, speaking in fragments was how Sunny spent most of her time. It was often difficult to tell what she meant to say. At this moment she probably meant something along the lines of “I’m nervous about meeting a new relative.” All three children were. “How exactly is Dr. Montgomery related to us?” Klaus asked. “Dr. Montgomery is—let me see—your late father’s cousin’s wife’s brother. I think that’s right. He’s a scientist of some sort, and receives a great deal of money from the government.” As a banker, Mr. Poe was always interested in money. “What should we call him?” Klaus asked. “You should call him Dr. Montgomery,” Mr. Poe replied, “unless he tells you to call him Montgomery. Both his first and last names are Montgomery , so it doesn’t really make much difference.” “His name is Montgomery Montgomery?” Klaus said, smiling. “Yes, and I’m sure he’s very sensitive about that, so don’t ridicule him,” Mr. Poe said, coughing again into his handkerchief. “‘Ridicule’ means ‘tease.’” Klaus sighed. “I know what ‘ridicule’ means,” he said. He did not add that of course he also knew not to make fun of someone’s name. Occasionally, people thought that because the orphans were unfortunate, they were also dim-witted. Violet sighed too, and took the ribbon out of her hair. She had been trying to think up an invention that would block the smell of horseradish from reaching one’s nose, but she was too nervous about meeting Dr. Montgomery to focus on it. “Do you know what sort of scientist he is?” she asked. She was thinking Dr. Montgomery might have a laboratory that would be of use to her. “I’m afraid not,” Mr. Poe admitted. “I’ve been very busy making the arrangements for you three, and I didn’t have much time for chitchat. Oh, here’s the driveway. We’ve arrived.” Mr. Poe pulled the car up a steep gravel driveway and toward an enormous stone house. The house had a square front door made of dark wood, with several columns marking the front porch. To each side of the door were lights in the shapes of torches, which were brightly lit even though it was morning. Above the front door, the house had rows and rows of square windows, most of which were open to let in the breeze. But in front of the house was what was truly unusual: a vast, well-kept lawn, dotted with long, thin shrubs in remarkable shapes. As Mr. Poe’s car came to a halt, the Baudelaires could see that the shrubs had been trimmed so as to look like snakes. Each hedge was a different kind of serpent, some long, some short, some with their tongues out and some with their mouths open, showing green, fearsome teeth. They were quite eerie, and Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were a bit hesitant about walking beside them on their way up to the house. Mr. Poe, who led the way, didn’t seem to notice the hedges at all, possibly because he was busy coaching the children on how to behave. “Now, Klaus, don’t ask too many questions right away. Violet, what happened to the ribbon in your hair? I thought you looked very distinguished in it. And somebody please make sure Sunny doesn’t bite Dr. Montgomery. That wouldn’t be a good first impression.” Mr. Poe stepped up to the door and rang a doorbell that was one of the loudest the children had ever heard. After a moment’s pause, they could hear approaching footsteps, and Violet, Klaus, and Sunny all looked at one another. They had no way of knowing, of course, that very soon there would be more misfortune within their unlucky family, but they nevertheless felt uneasy. Would Dr. Montgomery be a kind person? they wondered. Would he at least be better than Count Olaf? Could he possibly be worse? The door creaked open slowly, and the Baudelaire orphans held their breath as they peered into the dark entryway. They saw a dark burgundy carpet that lay on the floor. They saw a stained-glass light fixture that dangled from the ceiling. They saw a large oil painting of two snakes entwined together that hung on the wall. But where was Dr. Montgomery? “Hello?” Mr. Poe called out. “Hello?” “Hello hello hello!” a loud voice boomed out, and from behind the door stepped a short, chubby man with a round red face. “I am your Uncle Monty, and this is really perfect timing! I just finished making a coconut cream cake!” C H A P T E R Two “ Doesn’t Sunny like coconut?” Uncle Monty asked. He, Mr. Poe, and the Baudelaire orphans were all sitting around a bright green table, each with a slice of Uncle Monty’s cake. Both the kitchen and the cake were still warm from baking. The cake was a magnificent thing, rich and creamy with the perfect amount of coconut. Violet, Klaus, and Uncle Monty were almost finished with their pieces, but Mr. Poe and Sunny had taken only one small bite each. “To tell you the truth,” Violet said, “Sunny doesn’t really like anything soft to eat. She prefers very hard food.” “How unusual for a baby,” Uncle Monty said, “but not at all unusual for many snakes. The Barbary Chewer, for example, is a snake that must have something in its mouth at all times, otherwise it begins to eat its own mouth. Very difficult to keep in captivity. Would Sunny perhaps like a raw carrot? That’s plenty hard.” “A raw carrot would be perfect, Dr. Montgomery,” Klaus replied. The children’s new legal guardian got up and walked toward the refrigerator, but then turned around and wagged a finger at Klaus. “None of that ‘Dr. Montgomery’ stuff,” he said. “That’s way too stuffy for me. Call me Uncle Monty! Why, my fellow herpetologists don’t even call me Dr. Montgomery.” “What are herpetologists?” Violet asked. “What do they call you?” Klaus asked. “Children, children,” Mr. Poe said sternly. “Not so many questions.” Uncle Monty smiled at the orphans. “That’s quite all right,” he said. “Questions show an inquisitive mind. The word ‘inquisitive’ means—” “We know what it means,” Klaus said. “‘Full of questions.’” “Well, if you know what that means,” Uncle Monty said, handing a large carrot to Sunny, “then you should know what herpetology is.” “It’s the study of something,” Klaus said. “Whenever a word has ology , it’s the study of something.” “Snakes!” Uncle Monty cried. “Snakes, snakes, snakes! That’s what I study! I love snakes, all kinds, and I circle the globe looking for different kinds to study here in my laboratory! Isn’t that interesting?” “That is interesting,” Violet said, “very interesting. But isn’t it dangerous?” “Not if you know the facts,” Uncle Monty said. “Mr. Poe, would you like a raw carrot as well? You’ve scarcely touched your cake.” Mr. Poe turned red, and coughed into his handkerchief for quite some time before replying, “No, thank you, Dr. Montgomery.” Uncle Monty winked at the children. “If you like, you may call me Uncle Monty as well , Mr. Poe.” “Thank you, Uncle Monty,” Mr. Poe said stiffly. “Now, I have a question, if you don’t mind. You mentioned that you circle the globe. Is there someone who will come and take care of the children while you are out collecting specimens?” “We’re old enough to stay by ourselves,” Violet said quickly, but inside she was not so sure. Uncle Monty’s line of work did sound interesting, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to stay alone with her siblings, in a house full of snakes. “I wouldn’t hear of it,” Uncle Monty said. “You three must come with me. In ten days we leave for Peru , and I want you children right there in the jungle with me.” “Really?” Klaus said. Behind his glasses, his eyes were shining with excitement. “You’d really take us to Peru with you?” “I will be glad to have your help,” Uncle Monty said, reaching over to take a bite of Sunny’s piece of cake. “Gustav, my top assistant, left an unexpected letter of resignation for me just yesterday. There’s a man named Stephano whom I have hired to take his place, but he won’t arrive for a week or so, so I am way behind on preparations for the expedition. Somebody has to make sure all the snake traps are working, so I don’t hurt any of our specimens. Somebody has to read up on the terrain of Peru so we can navigate through the jungle without any trouble. And somebody has to slice an enormous length of rope into small, workable pieces.” “I’m interested in mechanics,” Violet said, licking her fork, “so I would be happy to learn about snake traps.” “I find guidebooks fascinating,” Klaus said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “so I would love to read up on Peruvian terrain.” “Eojip!“ Sunny shrieked, taking a bite of carrot. She probably meant something along the lines of ”I would be thrilled to bite an enormous length of rope into small, workable pieces!” “Wonderful!” Uncle Monty cried. “I’m glad you have such enthusiasm. It will make it easier to do without Gustav. It was very strange, his leaving like that. I was unlucky to lose him.” Uncle Monty’s face clouded over, a phrase which here means “took on a slightly gloomy look as Uncle Monty thought about his bad luck,” although if Uncle Monty had known what bad luck was soon to come, he wouldn’t have wasted a moment thinking about Gustav. I wish—and I’m sure you wish as well—that we could go back in time and warn him, but we can’t, and that is that. Uncle Monty seemed to think that was that as well, as he shook his head and smiled, clearing his brain of troubling thoughts. “Well, we’d better get started. No time like the present, I always say. Why don’t you show Mr. Poe to his car, and then I’ll show you to the Reptile Room.” The three Baudelaire children, who had been so anxious when they had walked through the snake-shaped hedges the first time, raced confidently through them now as they escorted Mr. Poe to his automobile. “Now, children,” Mr. Poe said, coughing into his handkerchief, “I will be back here in about a week with your luggage and to make sure everything is all right. I know that Dr. Montgomery might seem a bit intimidating to you, but I’m sure in time you will get used to—” “He doesn’t seem intimidating at all,” Klaus interrupted. “He seems very easy to get along with.” “I can’t wait to see the Reptile Room,” Violet said excitedly. “Meeka!” Sunny said, which probably meant “Good-bye, Mr. Poe. Thank you for driving us.” “Well, good-bye,” Mr. Poe said. “Remember, it is just a short drive here from the city, so please contact me or anyone else at Mulctuary Money Management if you have any trouble. See you soon.” He gave the orphans an awkward little wave with his handkerchief, got into his small car, and drove back down the steep gravel driveway onto Lousy Lane . Violet, Klaus, and Sunny waved back, hoping that Mr. Poe would remember to roll up the car windows so the stench of horseradish would not be too unbearable. “Bambini!” Uncle Monty cried out from the front door. “Come along, bambini!” The Baudelaire orphans raced back through the hedges to where their new guardian was waiting for them. “Violet, Uncle Monty,” Violet said. “My name is Violet, my brother’s is Klaus, and Sunny is our baby sister. None of us is named Bambini.” “‘Bambini’ is the Italian word for ‘children,’” Uncle Monty explained.“ I had a sudden urge to speak a little Italian. I’m so excited to have you three here with me, you’re lucky I’m not speaking gibberish.” “Have you never had any children of your own?” Violet asked. “I’m afraid not,” Uncle Monty said. “I always meant to find a wife and start a family, but it just kept slipping my mind. Shall I show you the Reptile Room?” “Yes, please,” Klaus said. Uncle Monty led them past the painting of snakes in the entryway into a large room with a grand staircase and very, very high ceilings. “Your rooms will be up there,” Uncle Monty said, gesturing up the stairs. “You can each choose whatever room you like and move the furniture around to suit your taste. I understand that Mr. Poe has to bring your luggage later in that puny car of his, so please make a list of anything you might need and we’ll go into town tomorrow and buy it so you don’t have to spend the next few days in the same underwear.” “Do we really each get our own room?” Violet asked. “Of course,” Uncle Monty said. “You don’t think I’d coop you all up in one room when I have this enormous house, do you? What sort of person would do that?” “Count Olaf did,” Klaus said. “Oh, that’s right, Mr. Poe told me,” Uncle Monty said, grimacing as if he had just tasted something terrible. “Count Olaf sounds like an awful person. I hope he is torn apart by wild animals someday. Wouldn’t that be satisfying? Oh, well, here we are: the Reptile Room.” Uncle Monty had reached a very tall wooden door with a large doorknob right in the middle of it. It was so high up that he had to stand on his tiptoes to open it. When it swung open on its creaky hinges, the Baudelaire orphans all gasped in astonishment and delight at the room they saw. The Reptile Room was made entirely out of glass, with bright, clear glass walls and a high glass ceiling that rose up to a point like the inside of a cathedral. Outside the walls was a bright green field of grasses and shrubs which was of course perfectly visible through the transparent walls, so standing in the Reptile Room was like being inside and outside at the same time. But as remarkable as the room itself was, what was inside the Reptile Room was much more exciting. Reptiles, of course, were lined up in locked metal cages that sat on wooden tables in four neat rows all the way down the room. There were all sorts of snakes, naturally, but there were also lizards, toads, and assorted other animals that the children had never seen before, not even in pictures, or at the zoo. There was a very fat toad with two wings coming out of its back, and a two headed lizard that had bright yellow stripes on its belly. There was a snake that had three mouths, one on top of the other, and another that seemed to have no mouth at all. There was a lizard that looked like an owl, with wide eyes that gazed at them from the log on which it was perched in its cage, and a toad that looked just like a church, complete with stained-glass eyes. And there was a cage with a white cloth on top of it, so you couldn’t see what was inside at all. The children walked down the aisles of cages, peering into each one in amazed silence. Some of the creatures looked friendly, and some of them looked scary, but all of them looked fascinating, and the Baudelaires took a long, careful look at each one, with Klaus holding Sunny up so she could see. The orphans were so interested in the cages that they didn’t even notice what was at the far end of the Reptile Room until they had walked the length of each aisle, but once they reached the far end they gasped in astonishment and delight once more. For here, at the end of the rows and rows of cages, were rows and rows of bookshelves, each one stuffed with books of different sizes and shapes, with a cluster of tables, chairs, and reading lamps in one corner. I’m sure you remember that the Baudelaire children’s parents had an enormous collection of books, which the orphans remembered fondly and missed dreadfully, and since the terrible fire, the children were always delighted to meet someone who loved books as much as they did. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny examined the books as carefully as they had the reptile cages, and realized immediately that most of the books were about snakes and other reptiles. It seemed as if every book written on reptiles, from An Introduction to Large Lizards to The Care and Feeding of the Androgynous Cobra, were lined up on the shelves, and all three children, Klaus especially, looked forward to reading up on the creatures in the Reptile Room. “This is an amazing place,” Violet said finally, breaking the long silence. “Thank you,” Uncle Monty said. “It’s taken me a lifetime to put together.” “And are we really allowed to come inside here?” Klaus asked. “Allowed?” Uncle Monty repeated. “Of course not! You are implored to come inside here, my boy. Starting first thing tomorrow morning, all of us must be here every day in preparation for the expedition to Peru. I will clear off one of those tables for you, Violet, to work on the traps. Klaus, I expect you to read all of the books about Peru that I have, and make careful notes. And Sunny can sit on the floor and bite rope. We will work all day until suppertime, and after supper we will go to the movies. Are there any objections?” Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked at one another and grinned. Any objections? The Baudelaire orphans had just been living with Count Olaf, who had made them chop wood and clean up after his drunken guests, while plotting to steal their fortune. Uncle Monty had just described a delightful way to spend one’s time, and the children smiled at him eagerly. Of course there would be no objections. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny gazed at the Reptile Room and envisioned an end to their troubles as they lived their lives under Uncle Monty’s care. They were wrong, of course, about their misery being over, but for the moment the three siblings were hopeful, excited, and happy. “No, no, no,” Sunny cried out, in apparent answer to Uncle Monty’s question. “Good, good, good,” Uncle Monty said, smiling. “Now, let’s go figure out whose room is whose.” “Uncle Monty?” Klaus asked shyly. “I just have one question.” “What is that?” Uncle Monty said. “What’s in that cage with the cloth on top of it?” Uncle Monty looked at the cage, and then at the children. His face lit up with a smile of pure joy. “That, my dears, is a new snake which I brought over from my last journey. Gustav and myself are the only people to have seen it. Next month I will present it to the Herpetological Society as a new discovery, but in the meantime I will allow you to look at it. Gather ‘round.” The Baudelaire orphans followed Uncle Monty to the cloth-covered cage, and with a flourish—the word “flourish” here means “a sweeping gesture, often used to show off—he swooped the cloth off the cage. Inside was a large black snake, as dark as a coal mine and as thick as a sewer pipe, looking right at the orphans with shiny green eyes. With the cloth off its cage, the snake began to uncoil itself and slither around its home. “Because I discovered it,” Uncle Monty said, “I got to name it.” “What is it called?” Violet asked. “The Incredibly Deadly Viper,” Uncle Monty replied, and at that moment something happened which I’m sure will interest you. With one flick of its tail, the snake unlatched the door of its cage and slithered out onto the table, and before Uncle Monty or any of the Baudelaire orphans could say anything, it opened its mouth and bit Sunny right on the chin. I am very, very sorry to leave you hanging like that, but as I was writing the tale of the Baudelaire orphans, I happened to look at the clock and realized I was running late for a formal dinner party given by a friend of mine, Madame diLustro. Madame diLustro is a good friend, an excellent detective, and a fine cook, but she flies into a rage if you arrive even five minutes later than her invitation states, so you understand that I had to dash off. You must have thought, at the end of the previous chapter, that Sunny was dead and that this was the terrible thing that happened to the Baudelaires at Uncle Monty’s house, but I promise you Sunny survives this particular episode. It is Uncle Monty, unfortunately, who will be dead, but not yet. As the fangs of the Incredibly Deadly Viper closed on Sunny’s chin, Violet and Klaus watched in horror as Sunny’s little eyes closed and her face grew quiet. Then, moving as suddenly as the snake, Sunny smiled brightly, opened her mouth, and bit the Incredibly Deadly Viper right on its tiny, scaled nose. The snake let go of her chin, and Violet and Klaus could see that it had left barely a mark. The two older Baudelaire siblings looked at Uncle Monty, and Uncle Monty looked back at them and laughed. His loud laughter bounced off the glass walls of the Reptile Room. “Uncle Monty, what can we do?” Klaus said in despair. “Oh, I’m sorry, my dears,” Uncle Monty said, wiping his eyes with his hands. “You must be very frightened. But the Incredibly Deadly Viper is one of the least dangerous and most friendly creatures in the animal kingdom. Sunny has nothing to worry about, and neither do you.” Klaus looked at his baby sister, who was still in his arms, as she playfully gave the Incredibly Deadly Viper a big hug around its thick body, and he realized Uncle Monty must be telling the truth. “But then why is it called the Incredibly Deadly Viper?” Uncle Monty laughed again. “It’s a misnomer,” he said, using a word which here means “a very wrong name.” “Because I discovered it, I got to name it, remember? Don’t tell anyone about the Incredibly Deadly Viper, because I’m going to present it to the Herpetological Society and give them a good scare before explaining that the snake is completely harmless! Lord knows they’ve teased me many times, because of my name. ‘Hello hello, Montgomery Montgomery,’ they say. ‘How are you how are you, Montgomery Montgomery?’ But at this year’s conference I’m going to get back at them with this prank.” Uncle Monty drew himself up to his full height and began talking in a silly, scientific voice. “‘Colleagues,’ I’ll say, ‘I would like to introduce to you a new species, the Incredibly Deadly Viper, which I found in the southwest forest of—my God! It’s escaped!’ And then, when all my fellow herpetologists have jumped up on chairs and tables and are shrieking in fear, I’ll tell them that the snake wouldn’t hurt a fly! Won’t that be hysterical?” Violet and Klaus looked at each other, and then began laughing, half in relief that their sister was unharmed, and half with amusement, because they thought Uncle Monty’s prank was a good one. Klaus put Sunny down on the floor, and the Incredibly Deadly Viper followed, wriggling its tail affectionately around Sunny, the way you might put your arm around someone of whom you were fond. “Are there any snakes in this room that are dangerous?” Violet asked. “Of course,” Uncle Monty said. “You can’t study snakes for forty years without encountering some dangerous ones. I have a whole cabinet of venom samples from every poisonous snake known to people, so I can study the ways in which these dangerous snakes work. There is a snake in this room whose venom is so deadly that your heart would stop before you even knew he’d bitten you. There is a snake who can open her mouth so wide she could swallow all of us, together, in one gulp. There is a pair of snakes who have learned to drive a car so recklessly that they would run you over in the street and never stop to apologize. But all of these snakes are in cages with much sturdier locks, and all of them can be handled safely when one has studied them enough. I promise that if you take time to learn the facts, no harm will come to you here in the Reptile Room.” There is a type of situation, which occurs all too often and which is occurring at this point in the story of the Baudelaire orphans, called “dramatic irony.” Simply put, dramatic irony is when a person makes a harmless remark, and someone else who hears it knows something that makes the remark have a different, and usually unpleasant, meaning. For instance, if you were in a restaurant and said out loud, “I can’t wait to eat the veal marsala I ordered,” and there were people around who knew that the veal marsala was poisoned and that you would die as soon as you took a bite, your situation would be one of dramatic irony. Dramatic irony is a cruel occurrence, one that is almost always upsetting, and I’m sorry to have it appear in this story, but Violet, Klaus, and Sunny have such unfortunate lives that it was only a matter of time before dramatic irony would rear its ugly head. As you and I listen to Uncle Monty tell the three Baudelaire orphans that no harm will ever come to them in the Reptile Room, we should be experiencing the strange feeling that accompanies the arrival of dramatic irony. This feeling is not unlike the sinking in one’s stomach when one is in an elevator that suddenly goes down, or when you are snug in bed and your closet door suddenly creaks open to reveal the person who has been hiding there. For no matter how safe and happy the three children felt, no matter how comforting Uncle Monty’s words were, you and I know that soon Uncle Monty will be dead and the Baudelaires will be miserable once again. During the week that followed, however, the Baudelaires had a wonderful time in their new home. Each morning, they woke up and dressed in the privacy of their very own rooms, which they had chosen and decorated to their liking. Violet had chosen a room that had an enormous window looking out onto the snake-shaped hedges on the front lawn. She thought such a view might inspire her when she was inventing things. Uncle Monty had allowed her to tack up large pieces of white paper on each wall, so she could sketch out her ideas, even if they came to her in the middle of the night. Klaus had chosen a room with a cozy alcove in it—the word “alcove” here means “a very, very small nook just perfect for sitting and reading.” With Uncle Monty’s permission, he had carried up a large cushioned chair from the living room and placed it right in the alcove, under a heavy brass reading lamp. Each night, rather than reading in bed, he would curl himself in the chair with a book from Uncle Monty’s library, sometimes until morning. Sunny had chosen a room right between Violet’s and Klaus’s, and filled it with small, hard objects from all over the house, so she could bite them when she felt like it. There were also assorted toys for the Incredibly Deadly Viper so the two of them could play together whenever they wanted, within reason. But where the Baudelaire orphans most liked to be was the Reptile Room. Each morning, after breakfast, they would join Uncle Monty, who would have already started work on the upcoming expedition. Violet sat at a table with the ropes, gears, and cages that made up the different snake traps, learning how they worked, repairing them if they were broken, and occasionally making improvements to make the traps more comfortable for the snakes on their long journey from Peru to Uncle Monty’s house. Klaus sat nearby, reading the books on Peru Uncle Monty had and taking notes on a pad of paper so they could refer to them later. And Sunny sat on the floor, biting a long rope into shorter pieces with great enthusiasm. But what the Baudelaire youngsters liked best was learning all about the reptiles from Uncle Monty. As they worked, he would show them the Alaskan Cow Lizard, a long green creature that produced delicious milk. They met the Dissonant Toad, which could imitate human speech in a gravelly voice. Uncle Monty taught them how to handle the Inky Newt without getting its black dye all over their fingers, and how to tell when the Irascible Python was grumpy and best left alone. He taught them not to give the Green Gimlet Toad too much water, and to never, under any circumstances, let the Virginian Wolf snake near a typewriter. While he was telling them about the different reptiles, Uncle Monty would often segue — a word which here means “let the conversation veer off—to stories from his travels, describing the men, snakes, women, toads, children, and lizards he’d met on his journeys. And before too long, the Baudelaire orphans were telling Uncle Monty all about their own lives, eventually talking about their parents and how much they missed them. Uncle Monty was as interested in the Baudelaires’ stories as they were in his, and sometimes they got to talking so long they scarcely had time to gobble down dinner before cramming themselves into Uncle Monty’s tiny jeep and heading to the movies. One morning, however, when the three children finished their breakfast and went into the Reptile Room, they found not Uncle Monty, but a note from him. The note read as follows: Dear Bambini, I have gone into town to buy a few last things we need for the expedition: Peruvian wasp repellent, toothbrushes, canoed peaches, and a fireproof canoe. It will take a while to find the peaches, so don’t expect me back until dinnertime. Stephano, Gustav’s replacement, will arrive today by taxi. Please make him feel welcome. As you know, it is only two days until the expedition, so please work very hard today. Your giddy uncle, Monty “What does ‘giddy’ mean?” Violet asked, when they had finished reading the note. “‘Dizzy and excited,’” Klaus said, having learned the word from a collection of poetry. “Kindal!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “Or maybe he’s excited about all these things” “I’m a little giddy myself,” Klaus said. “It’s really fun to live with Uncle Monty.” “It certainly is,” Violet agreed. “After the fire, I thought I would never be happy again. But our time here has been wonderful.” “I still miss our parents, though,” Klaus said. “No matter how nice Uncle Monty is, I wish we still lived in our real home.” “Of course,” Violet said quickly. She paused, and slowly said out loud something she had been thinking about for the past few days. “I think we’ll always miss our parents. But I think we can miss them without being miserable all the time. After all, they wouldn’t want us to be miserable.” “Remember that time,” Klaus said wistfully, “when we were bored one rainy afternoon, and all of us painted our toenails bright red?” “Yes,” Violet said, grinning, “and I spilled some on the yellow chair.” “Archo!” Sunny said quietly, which probably meant something like “And the stain never really came out.” The Baudelaire orphans smiled at each other and, without a word, began to do the day’s work. For the rest of the morning they worked quietly and steadily, realizing that their contentment here at Uncle Monty’s house did not erase their parents’ death, not at all, but at least it made them feel better after feeling so sad, for so long. It is unfortunate, of course, that this quiet happy moment was the last one the children would have for quite some time, but there is nothing anyone can do about it now. Just when the Baudelaires were beginning to think about lunch, they heard a car pull up in front of the house and toot its horn. To the children it signaled the arrival of Stephano. To us it should signal the beginning of more misery. “I expect that’s the new assistant,” Klaus said, looking up from The Big Peruvian Book of Small Peruvian Snakes. “I hope he’s as nice as Monty.” “Me too,” Violet said, opening and shutting a toad trap to make sure it worked smoothly. “It would be unpleasant to travel to Peru with somebody who was boring or mean.” “Gerja!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “Well, let’s go find out what Stephano is like!” The Baudelaires left the Reptile Room and walked out the front door to find a taxi parked next to the snake-shaped hedges. A very tall, thin man with a long beard and no eyebrows over his eyes was getting out of the backseat, carrying a black suitcase with a shiny silver padlock. “I’m not going to give you a tip,” the bearded man was saying to the driver of the taxi, “because you talk too much. Not everybody wants to hear about your new baby, you know. Oh, hello there. I am Stephano, Dr. Montgomery’s new assistant. How do you do?” “How do you do?” Violet said, and as she approached him, there was something about his wheezy voice that seemed vaguely familiar. “How do you do?” Klaus said, and as he looked up at Stephano, there was something about his shiny eyes that seemed quite familiar. “Hooda!” Sunny shrieked. Stephano wasn’t wearing any socks, and Sunny, crawling on the ground, could see his bare ankle between his pant cuff and his shoe. There on his ankle was something that was most familiar of all. The Baudelaire orphans all realized the same thing at the same time, and took a step back as you might from a growling dog. This man wasn’t Stephano, no matter what he called himself. The three children looked at Uncle Monty’s new assistant from head to toe and saw that he was none other than Count Olaf. He may have shaved off his one long eyebrow, and grown a beard over his scraggly chin, but there was no way he could hide the tattoo of an eye on his ankle. C H A P T E R Four One of the most difficult things to think about in life is one’s regrets. Something will happen to you, and you will do the wrong thing, and for years afterward you will wish you had done something different. For instance, sometimes when I am walking along the seashore, or visiting the grave of a friend, I will remember a day, a long time ago, when I didn’t bring a flashlight with me to a place where I should have brought a flashlight, and the results were disastrous. Why didn’t I bring a flashlight? I think to myself, even though it is too late to do anything about it. I should have brought a flashlight. For years after this moment in the lives of the Baudelaire orphans, Klaus thought of the time when he and his siblings realized that Stephano was actually Count Olaf, and was filled with regret that he didn’t call out to the driver of the taxicab who was beginning to drive back down the driveway. Stop! Klaus would think to himself, even though it was too late to do anything about it. Stop! Take this man away! Of course, it is perfectly understandable that Klaus and his sisters were too surprised to act so quickly, but Klaus would lie awake in bed, years later, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if he had acted in time, he could have saved Uncle Monty’s life. But he didn’t. As the Baudelaire orphans stared at Count Olaf, the taxi drove back down the driveway and the children were alone with their nemesis, a word which here means “the worst enemy you could imagine.” Olaf smiled at them the way Uncle Monty’s Mongolian Meansnake would smile when a white mouse was placed in its cage each day for dinner. “Perhaps one of you might carry my suitcase into my room,” he suggested in his wheezy voice. “The ride along that smelly road was dull and unpleasant and I am very tired.” “If anyone ever deserved to travel along Lousy Lane ,” Violet said, glaring at him, “it is you, Count Olaf. We will certainly not help you with your luggage, because we will not let you in this house.” Olaf frowned at the orphans, and then looked this way and that as if he expected to see someone hiding behind the snake-shaped hedges. “Who is Count Olaf?” he asked quizzically. “My name is Stephano. I am here to assist Montgomery Montgomery with his upcoming expedition to Peru . I assume you three are midgets who work as servants in the Montgomery home.” “We are not midgets,” Klaus said sternly.“ We are children. And you are not Stephano. You are Count Olaf. You may have grown a beard and shaved your eyebrow, but you are still the same despicable person and we will not let you in this house.” “Futa!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “I agree!” Count Olaf looked at each of the Baudelaire orphans, his eyes shining brightly as if he were telling a joke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but if I did, and I were this Count Olaf you speak of, I would think that you were being very rude. And if I thought you were rude, I might get angry. And if I got angry, who knows what I would do?” The children watched as Count Olaf raised his scrawny arms in a sort of shrug. It probably isn’t necessary to remind you just how violent he could be, but it certainly wasn’t necessary at all to remind the Baudelaires. Klaus could still feel the bruise on his face from the time Count Olaf had struck him, when they were living in his house. Sunny still ached from being stuffed into a birdcage and dangled from the tower where he made his evil plans. And while Violet had not been the victim of any physical violence from this terrible man, she had almost been forced to marry him, and that was enough to make her pick up his suitcase and drag it slowly toward the door to the house. “Higher,” Olaf said. “Lift it higher. I don’t want it dragged along the ground like that.” Klaus and Sunny hurried to help Violet with the suitcase, but even with the three of them carrying it the weight made them stagger. It was misery enough that Count Olaf had reappeared in their lives, just when they were feeling so comfortable and safe with Uncle Monty. But to actually be helping this awful person enter their home was almost more than they could bear. Olaf followed closely behind them and the three children could smell his stale breath as they brought the suitcase indoors and set it on the carpet beneath the painting of the entwined snakes. “Thank you, orphans,” Olaf said, shutting the front door behind him. “Now, Dr. Montgomery said my room would be waiting upstairs. I suppose I can carry my luggage from here. Now run along. We’ll have lots of time to get to know one another later.” “We already know you, Count Olaf,” Violet said. “You obviously haven’t changed a bit.” “You haven’t changed, either,” Olaf said. “It is clear to me, Violet, that you are as stubborn as ever. And Klaus, you are still wearing those idiotic glasses from reading too many books. And I see that little Sunny here still has nine toes instead of ten.” “Fut!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “I do not!” “What are you talking about?” Klaus said impatiently. “She has ten toes, just like everybody else.” “Really?” Olaf said. “That’s odd. I remember that she lost one of her toes in an accident.” His eyes shone even brighter, as if he were telling a joke, and he reached into the pocket of his shabby coat and brought out a long knife, such as one might use for slicing bread. “I seem to recall there was a man who was so confused by being called repeatedly by the wrong name that he accidentally dropped a knife on her little foot and severed one of her toes.” Violet and Klaus looked at Count Olaf, and then at the bare foot of their little sister. “You wouldn’t dare,” Klaus said. “Let’s not discuss what I would or would not dare to do,” Olaf said. “Let us discuss, rather, what I am to be called for as long as we are together in this house.” “We’ll call you Stephano, if you insist on threatening us,” Violet said, “but we won’t be together in this house for long.” Stephano opened his mouth to say something, but Violet was not interested in continuing the conversation. She turned on her heel and marched primly through the enormous door of the Reptile Room, followed by her siblings. If you or I had been there, we would have thought that the Baudelaire orphans weren’t scared at all, speaking so bravely like that to Stephano and then simply walking away, but once the children reached the far end of the room, their true emotions showed clearly on their faces. The Baudelaires were terrified. Violet put her hands over her face and leaned against one of the reptile cages. Klaus sank into a chair, trembling so hard that his feet rattled against the marble floor. And Sunny curled up into a little ball on the floor, so tiny you might have missed her if you walked into the room. For several moments, none of the children spoke, just listened to the muffled sounds of Stephano walking up the stairs and their own heartbeats pounding in their ears. “How did he find us?” Klaus asked. His voice was a hoarse whisper, as if he had a sore throat. “How did he get to be Uncle Monty’s assistant? What is he doing here?” “He vowed that he’d get his hands on the Baudelaire fortune,” Violet said, taking her hands away from her face and picking up Sunny, who was shivering. “That was the last thing he said to me before he escaped. He said he’d get our fortune if it was the last thing he ever did.” Violet shuddered, and did not add that he’d also said that once he got their fortune, he’d do away with all three of the Baudelaire siblings. She did not need to add it. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny all knew that if he figured out a way to seize their fortune, he would slit the throats of the Baudelaire orphans as easily as you or I might eat a small butter cookie. “What can we do?” Klaus asked. “Uncle Monty won’t be back for hours.” “Maybe we can call Mr. Poe,” Violet said. “It’s the middle of business hours, but maybe he could leave the bank for an emergency.” “He wouldn’t believe us,” Klaus said. “Remember when we tried to tell him about Count Olaf when we lived there? He took such a long time to realize the truth, it was almost too late, I think we should run away. It” we leave right now, we could probably get to town in time to catch a train far away from here.” Violet pictured the three of them, all alone, walking along Lousy Lane beneath the sour apple trees, with the bitter smell of horseradish encircling them. “Where would we go?” she asked. “Anywhere,” Klaus said. “Anywhere but here. We could go far away where Count Olaf wouldn’t find us, and change our names so no one would know who we were.” “We haven’t any money,” Violet pointed out. “How could we live by ourselves?” “We could get jobs,” Klaus replied. “I could work in a library, maybe, and you could work in some sort of mechanical factory. Sunny probably couldn’t get a job at her age, but in a few years she could.” The three orphans were quiet. They tried to picture leaving Uncle Monty and living by themselves, trying to find jobs and take care of each other. It was a very lonely prospect. The Baudelaire children sat in sad silence awhile, and they were each thinking the same thing: They wished that their parents had never been killed in the fire, and that their lives had never been turned topsy-turvy the way they had. If only the Baudelaire parents were still alive, the youngsters wouldn’t even have heard of Count Olaf, let alone have him settling into their home and undoubtedly making evil plans. “We can’t leave,” Violet said finally. “Count Olaf found us once, and I’m sure he’d find us again, no matter how far we went. Plus, who knows where Count Olaf’s assistants are? Perhaps they’ve surrounded the house right now, keeping watch in case we’re on to him.” Klaus shivered. He hadn’t been thinking of Olaf’s assistants. Besides scheming to get his hands on the Baudelaire fortune, Olaf was the leader of a terrible theater troupe, and his fellow actors were always ready to help him with his plans. They were a gruesome crew, each more terrifying than the next. There was a bald man with a long nose, who always wore a black robe. There were two women who always had ghostly white powder on their faces. There was a person so large and blank-looking that you couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. And there was a skinny man with two hooks where his hands should have been. Violet was right. Any of these people could be lurking outside Uncle Monty’s house, waiting to catch them if they tried to escape. A Series of Unfortunate Events 2- The Reptile Room “I think we should just wait for Uncle Monty to come back, and tell him what has happened,” Violet said. “He’ll believe us. If we tell him about the tattoo, he’ll at least ask Stephano for an explanation.” Violet’s tone of voice when she said “Stephano” indicated her utter scorn for Olaf’s disguise. “Are you sure?” Klaus said. “After all, Uncle Monty is the one who hired Stephano” Klaus’s tone of voice when he said “Stephano” indicated that he shared his sister’s feelings. “For all we know, Uncle Monty and Stephano have planned something together.” “Minda!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “Don’t be ridiculous, Klaus!” Violet shook her head. “Sunny’s right. I can’t believe that Uncle Monty would be in cahoots with Olaf. He’s been so kind and generous to us, and besides, if they were working together, Olaf wouldn’t insist on using a different name.” “That’s true,” Klaus said thoughtfully. “So we wait for Uncle Monty.” “We wait,” Violet agreed. “Tojoo,” Sunny said solemnly, and the siblings looked at one another glumly. Waiting is one of life’s hardships. It is hard enough to wait for chocolate cream pie while burnt roast beef is still on your plate. It is plenty difficult to wait for Halloween when the tedious month of September is still ahead of you. But to wait for one’s adopted uncle to come home while a greedy and violent man is upstairs was one of the worst waits the Baudelaires had ever experienced. To get their mind off it, they tried to continue with their work, but the children were too anxious to get anything done. Violet tried to fix a hinged door on one of the traps, but all she could concentrate on was the knot of worry in her stomach. Klaus tried to read about protecting oneself from thorny Peruvian plants, but thoughts of Stephano kept clouding his brain. And Sunny tried to bite rope, but she had a cold chill of fear running through her teeth and she soon gave up. She didn’t even feel like playing with the Incredibly Deadly Viper. So the Baudelaires spent the rest of the afternoon sitting silently in the Reptile Room, looking out the window for Uncle Monty’s jeep and listening to the occasional noise from upstairs. They didn’t even want to think about what Stephano might be unpacking. Finally, as the snake-shaped hedges began to cast long, skinny shadows in the setting sun, the three children heard an approaching engine, and the jeep pulled up. A large canoe was strapped to the roof of the jeep, and the backseat was piled with Monty’s purchases. Uncle Monty got out, struggling under the weight of several shopping bags, and saw the children through the glass walls of the Reptile Room. He smiled at them. They smiled back, and in that instant when they smiled was created another moment of regret for them. Had they not paused to smile at Monty but instead gone dashing out to the car, they might have had a brief moment alone with him. But by the time they reached the entry hall, he was already talking to Stephano. “I didn’t know what kind of toothbrush you preferred,” Uncle Monty was saying apologetically, “so I got you one with extra-firm bristles because that’s the kind I like. Peruvian food tends to be sticky, so you need to have at least one extra toothbrush whenever you go there.” “Extra-firm bristles are fine with me,” Stephano said, speaking to Uncle Monty but looking at the orphans with his shiny, shiny eyes. “Shall I carry in the canoe?” “Yes, but my goodness, you can’t carry it all by yourself,” Uncle Monty said. “Klaus, please help Stephano, will you?” “Uncle Monty,” Violet said, “we have something very important to tell you.” “I’m all ears,” Uncle Monty said, “but first let me show you the wasp repellent I picked up. I’m so glad Klaus read up on the insect situation in Peru , because the other repellents I have would have been no use at all.” Uncle Monty rooted through one of the bags on his arm as the children waited impatiently for him to finish. “This one contains a chemical called—” “Uncle Monty,” Klaus said, “what we have to tell you really can’t wait.” “Klaus,” Uncle Monty said, his eyebrows rising in surprise, “it’s not polite to interrupt when your uncle is talking. Now, please help Stephano with the canoe, and we’ll talk about anything you want in a few moments.” Klaus sighed, but followed Stephano out the open door. Violet watched them walking toward the jeep as Uncle Monty put down the shopping hags and faced her. “I can’t remember what I was saying about the repellent,” he said, a little crossly. “I hate losing my train of thought.” “What we have to tell you,” Violet began, but she stopped when something caught her eye. Monty was facing away from the door, so he couldn’t see what Stephano was doing, but Violet saw Stephano stop at the snake-shaped hedges, reach into his coat pocket, and take out the long knife. Its blade caught the light of the setting sun and it glowed brightly, like a lighthouse. As you probably know, lighthouses serve as warning signals, telling ships where the shore is so they don’t run into it. The shining knife was a warning, too. Klaus looked at the knife, and then at Stephano, and then at Violet. Violet looked at Klaus, and then at Stephano, and then at Monty. Sunny looked at everyone. Only Monty didn’t notice what was going on, so intent was he on remembering whatever he was babbling about wasp repellent. “What we have to tell you,” Violet began again, but she couldn’t continue. Stephano didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Violet knew that if she breathed one word about his true identity, Stephano would hurt her brother, right there at the snake-shaped hedges. Without saying a word, the nemesis of the Baudelaire orphans had sent a very clear warning. C H A P T E R Five That night felt like the longest and most terrible the Baudelaire orphans had ever had, and they’d had plenty. There was one night, shortly after Sunny was born, that all three children had a horrible flu, and tossed and turned in the grasp of a terrible fever, while their father tried to soothe them all at once, placing cold washcloths on their sweaty brows. The night after their parents had been killed, the three children had stayed at Mr. Poe’s house, and had stayed up all night, too miserable and confused to even try to sleep. And of course, they had spent many a long and terrible night while living with Count Olaf. But this particular night seemed worse. From the moment of Monty’s arrival until bedtime, Stephano kept the children under his constant surveillance, a phrase which here means “kept watching them so they couldn’t possibly talk to Uncle Monty alone and reveal that he was really Count Olaf,” and Uncle Monty was too preoccupied to think that anything unusual was going on. When they brought in the rest of Uncle Monty’s purchases, Stephano carried bags with only one hand, keeping the other one in his coat pocket where the long knife was hidden, but Uncle Monty was too excited about all the new supplies to ask about it. When they went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, Stephano smiled menacingly at the children as he sliced mushrooms, but Uncle Monty was too busy making sure the stroganoff sauce didn’t boil to even notice that Stephano was using his own threatening knife for the chopping. Over dinner, Stephano told funny stories and praised Monty’s scientific work, and Uncle Monty was so flattered he didn’t even think to guess that Stephano was holding a knife under the table, rubbing the blade gently against Violet’s knee for the entire meal. And when Uncle Monty announced that he would spend the evening showing his new assistant around the Reptile Room, he was too eager to realize that the Baudelaires simply went up to bed without a word. For the first time, having individual bedrooms seemed like a hardship rather than a luxury, for without one another’s company the orphans felt even more lonely and helpless. Violet stared at the paper tacked to her wall and tried to imagine what Stephano was planning. Klaus sat in his large cushioned chair and turned on his brass reading lamp but was too worried to even open a book. Sunny stared at her hard objects but didn’t bite a single one of them. All three children thought of walking down the hall to Uncle Monty’s room and waking him up to tell him what was wrong. But to get to his bedroom, they would have to walk past the room in which Stephano was staying, and all night long Stephano kept watch in a chair placed in front of his open door. When the orphans opened their doors to peer down the dark hallway, they saw Stephano’s pale, shaved head, which seemed to be floating above his body in the darkness. And they could see his knife, which Stephano was moving slowly like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. Back and forth it went, back and forth, glinting in the dim light, and the sight was so fearsome they didn’t dare try walking down the hallway. Finally, the light in the house turned the pale blue-gray of early dawn, and the Baudelaire children walked blearily down the stairs to breakfast, tired and achy from their sleepless night. They sat around the table where they had eaten cake on their first morning at the house, and picked listlessly at their food. For the first time since their arrival at Uncle Monty’s, they were not eager to enter the Reptile Room and begin the day’s work. “I suppose we have to go in now,” Violet said finally, putting aside her scarcely nibbled toast. “I’m sure Uncle Monty has already started working, and is expecting us.” “And I’m sure that Stephano is there, too,” Klaus said, staring glumly into his cereal bowl. “We’ll never get a chance to tell Uncle Monty what we know about him.” “Yinga,” Sunny said sadly, dropping her untouched raw carrot to the floor. “If only Uncle Monty knew what we know,” Violet said, “and Stephano knew that he knew what we know. But Uncle Monty doesn’t know what we know, and Stephano knows that he doesn’t know what we know.” “I know,” Klaus said. “I know you know,” Violet said, “but what we don’t know is what Count Olaf—I mean Stephano—is really up to. He’s after our fortune, certainly, but how can he get it if we’re under Uncle Monty’s care?” “Maybe he’s just going to wait until you’re of age, and then steal the fortune,” Klaus said. “Four years is a long time to wait,” Violet said. The three orphans were quiet, as each remembered where they had been four years ago. Violet had been ten, and had worn her hair very short. She remembered that sometime around her tenth birthday she had invented a new kind of pencil sharpener. Klaus had been about eight, and he remembered how interested he had been in comets, reading all the astronomy books his parents had in their library. Sunny, of course, had not been born four years ago, and she sat and tried to remember what that was like. Very dark, she thought, with nothing to bite. For all three youngsters, four years did seem like a very long time. “Come on, come on, you are moving very slowly this morning,” Uncle Monty said, bursting into the room. His face seemed even brighter than usual, and he was holding a small bunch of folded papers in one hand. “Stephano has only worked here one day, and he’s already in the Reptile Room. In fact, he was up before I was—I ran into him on my way down the stairs. He’s an eager beaver. But you three— you’re moving like the Hungarian Sloth Snake, whose top speed is half an inch per hour! We have lots to do today, and I’d like to catch the six o’clock showing of Zombies in the Snow tonight, so let’s try to hurry, hurry, hurry.” Violet looked at Uncle Monty, and realized that this might be their only opportunity to talk to him alone, without Stephano around, but he seemed so wound up they weren’t sure if he would listen to them. “Speaking of Stephano,” she said timidly, “we’d like to talk to you about him.” Uncle Monty’s eyes widened, and he looked around him as if there were spies in the room before leaning in to whisper to the children. “I’d like to talk to you, too,” he said. “I have my suspicions about Stephano, and I’d like to discuss them with you.” The Baudelaire orphans looked at one another in relief. “You do?” Klaus said. “Of course,” Uncle Monty said. “Last night I began to get very suspicious about this new assistant of mine. There’s something a little spooky about him, and I—” Uncle Monty looked around again, and began speaking even softer, so the children had to hold their breaths to hear him. “And I think we should discuss it outside. Shall we?” The children nodded in agreement, and rose from the table. Leaving their dirty breakfast dishes behind, which is not a good thing to do in general but perfectly acceptable in the face of an emergency, they walked with Uncle Monty to the front entryway, past the painting of two snakes entwined together, out the front door, and onto the lawn, as if they wanted to talk to the snake-shaped hedges instead of to one another. “I don’t mean to be vainglorious,” Uncle Monty began, using a word which here means “braggy,” “but I really am one of the most widely respected herpetologists in the world.” Klaus blinked. It was an unexpected beginning for the conversation. “Of course you are,” he said, “but—” “And because of this, I’m sad to say,” Uncle Monty continued, as if he had not heard, “many people are jealous of me.” “I’m sure that’s true,” Violet said, puzzled. “And when people are jealous,” Uncle Monty said, shaking his head, “they will do anything. They will do crazy things. When I was getting my herpetology degree, my roommate was so envious of a new toad I had discovered that he stole and ate my only specimen. I had to X-ray his stomach, and use the X-rays rather than the toad in my presentation. And something tells me we may have a similar situation here.” What was Uncle Monty talking about? “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” Klaus said, which is the polite way of saying “What are you talking about, Uncle Monty?” “Last night, after you went to bed, Stephano asked me a few too many questions about all the snakes and about my upcoming expedition. And do you know why?” “I think so,” Violet began, but Uncle Monty interrupted her. “It is because this man who is calling himself Stephano,” he said, “is really a member of the Herpetological Society, and he is here to try and find the Incredibly Deadly Viper so he can preempt my presentation. Do you three know what the word ‘preempt’ means?” “No,” Violet said, “but—” “It means that I think this Stephano is going to steal my snake,” Uncle Monty said, “and present it to the Herpetological Society. Because it is a new species, there’s no way I can prove I discovered it. Before we know it, the Incredibly Deadly Viper will be called the Stephano Snake, or something dreadful like that. And if he’s planning that, just think what he will do to our Peruvian expedition. Each toad we catch, each venom sample we put into a test tube, each snake interview we record— every scrap of work we do—will fall into the hands of this Herpetological Society spy.” “He’s not a Herpetological Society spy,” Klaus said impatiently, “he’s Count Olaf!” “I know just what you mean!” Uncle Monty said excitedly. “This sort of behavior is indeed as dastardly as that terrible man’s. That is why I’m doing this.” He raised one hand and waved the folded papers in the air. “As you know,” he said, “tomorrow we are leaving for Peru . These are our tickets for the five o’clock voyage on the Prospero, a fine ship that will take us across the sea to South America. There’s a ticket for me, one for Violet, one for Klaus, one for Stephano, but not one for Sunny because we’re going to hide her in a suitcase to save money.” “Deepo!” “I’m kidding about that. But I’m not kidding about this.” Uncle Monty, his face flushed with excitement, took one of the folded papers and began ripping it into tiny pieces. “This is Stephano’s ticket. He’s not going to Peru with us after all. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to tell him that he needs to stay here and look after my specimens instead. That way we can run a successful expedition in peace.” “But Uncle Monty—” Klaus said. “How many times must I remind you it’s not polite to interrupt?” Uncle Monty interrupted, shaking his head. “In any case, I know what you’re worried about. You’re worried what will happen if he stays here alone with the Incredibly Deadly Viper. But don’t worry. The Viper will join us on the expedition, traveling in one of our snake carrying cases. I don’t know why you’re looking so glum, Sunny. I thought you’d be happy to have the Viper’s company. So don’t look so worried, bambini. As you can see, your Uncle Monty has the situation in hand.” When somebody is a little bit wrong—say, when a waiter puts nonfat milk in your espresso macchiato, instead of lowfat milk—it is often quite easy to explain to them how and why they are wrong. But if somebody is surpassingly wrong—say, when a waiter bites your nose instead of taking your order—you can often be so surprised that you are unable to say anything at all. Paralyzed by how wrong the waiter is, your mouth would hang slightly open and your eyes would blink over and over, but you would be unable to say a word. This is what the Baudelaire children did. Uncle Monty was so wrong about Stephano, in thinking he was a herpetological spy rather than Count Olaf, that the three siblings could scarcely think of a way to tell him so. “Come now, my dears,” Uncle Monty said. “We’ve wasted enough of the morning on talk. We have to—ow !” He interrupted himself with a cry of surprise and pain, and fell to the ground. “Uncle Monty!” Klaus cried. The Baudelaire children saw that a large, shiny object was on top of him, and realized a moment later what the object was: it was the heavy brass reading lamp, the one standing next to the large cushioned chair in Klaus’s room. “Ow!” Uncle Monty said again, pulling the lamp off him. “That really hurt. My shoulder may be sprained. It’s a good thing it didn’t land on my head, or it really could have done some damage.” “But where did it come from?” Violet asked. “It must have fallen from the window,” Uncle Monty said, pointing up to where Klaus’s room was. “Whose room is that? Klaus, I believe it is yours. You must be more careful. You can’t dangle heavy objects out the window like that. Look what almost happened.” “But that lamp wasn’t anywhere near my window,” Klaus said. “I keep it in the alcove, so I can read in that large chair.” “Really, Klaus,” Uncle Monty said, standing up and handing him the lamp. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that the lamp danced over to the window and leaped onto my shoulder? Please put this back in your room, in a safe place, and we’ll say no more about it.” “But—” Klaus said, but his older sister interrupted him. “I’ll help you, Klaus,” Violet said. “We’ll find a place for it where it’s safe.” “Well, don’t be too long,” Uncle Monty said, rubbing his shoulder. “We’ll see you in the Reptile Room. Come, Sunny.” Walking through the entry hall, the four parted ways at the stairs, with Uncle Monty and Sunny going to the enormous door of the Reptile Room, and Violet and Klaus carrying the heavy brass lamp up to Klaus’s room. “You know very well” Klaus hissed to his sister, ”that I was not careless with this lamp.” “Of course I know that,” Violet whispered. “But there’s no use trying to explain that to Uncle Monty. He thinks Stephano is a herpetological spy. You know as well as I do that Stephano was responsible for this.” “How clever of you to figure that out,” said a voice at the top of the stairs, and Violet and Klaus were so surprised they almost dropped the lamp. It was Stephano, or, if you prefer, it was Count Olaf. It was the bad guy. “But then, you’ve always been clever children,” he continued. “A little too clever for my taste, but you won’t be around for long, so I’m not troubled by it.” “You’re not very clever yourself,” Klaus said fiercely. “This heavy brass lamp almost hit us, but if anything happens to my sisters or me, you’ll never get your hands on the Baudelaire fortune.” “Dear me, dear me,” Stephano said, his grimy teeth showing as he smiled. “If I wanted to harm you, orphan, your blood would already be pouring down these stairs like a waterfall. No, I’m not going to harm a hair on any Baudelaire head—not here in this house. You needn’t be afraid of me, little ones, until we find ourselves in a location where crimes are more difficult to trace.” “And where would that be?” Violet asked. “We plan to stay right here until we grow up.” “Really?” Stephano said, in that sneaky, sneaky voice. “Why, I had the impression we were leaving the country tomorrow.” “Uncle Monty tore up your ticket,” Klaus replied triumphantly. “He was suspicious of you, so he changed his plans and now you’re not going with us.” Stephano’s smile turned into a scowl, and his stained teeth seemed to grow bigger. His eyes grew so shiny that it hurt Violet and Klaus to look at them. “I wouldn’t rely on that,” he said, in a terrible, terrible voice. “Even the best plans can change if there’s an accident.” He pointed one spiky finger at the brass reading lamp. “And accidents happen all the time.” C H A P T E R Six Bad circumstances have a way of ruining things that would otherwise be pleasant. So it was with the Baudelaire orphans and the movie Zombies in the Snow. All afternoon, the three children had sat and worried in the Reptile Room, under the mocking stare of Stephano and the oblivious— the word “oblivious” here means “not aware that Stephano was really Count Olaf and thus being in a great deal of danger”—chatter of Uncle Monty. So by the time it was evening, the siblings were in no mood for cinematic entertainment. Uncle Monty’s jeep was really too small to hold him, Stephano and the three orphans, so Klaus and Violet shared a seat, and poor Sunny had to sit on Stephano’s filthy lap, but the Baudelaires were too preoccupied to even notice their discomfort. The children sat all in a row at the multiplex, with Uncle Monty to one side, while Stephano sat in the middle and hogged the popcorn. But the children were too anxious to eat any snacks, and too busy trying to figure out what Stephano planned to do to enjoy Zombies in the Snow, which was a fine film. When the zombies first rose out of the snowbanks surrounding the tiny Alpine fishing village, Violet tried to imagine a way in which Stephano could get aboard the Prospero without a ticket and accompany them to Peru . When the town fathers constructed a barrier of sturdy oak, only to have the zombies chomp their way through it, Klaus was concerned with exactly what Stephano had meant when he spoke about accidents. And when Gerta, the little milkmaid, made friends with the zombies and asked them to please stop eating the villagers, Sunny, who was of course scarcely old enough to comprehend the orphans’situation, tried to think up a way to defeat Stephano’s plans, whatever they were. In the final scene of the movie, the zombies and villagers celebrated May Day together, but the three Baudelaire orphans were too nervous and afraid to enjoy themselves one bit. On the way home, Uncle Monty tried to talk to the silent, worried children sitting in the back, but they hardly said a word in reply and eventually he fell silent. When the jeep pulled up to the snake-shaped hedges, the Baudelaire children dashed out and ran to the front door without even saying good night to their puzzled guardian. With heavy hearts they climbed the stairs to their bedrooms, but when they reached their doors they could not bear to part. “Could we all spend the night in the same room?” Klaus asked Violet timidly. “Last night I felt as if I were in a jail cell, worrying all by myself.” “Me too,” Violet admitted. “Since we’re not going to sleep, we might as well not sleep in the same place.” “Tikko,” Sunny agreed, and followed her siblings into Violet’s room. Violet looked around the bedroom and remembered how excited she had been to move into it just a short while ago. Now, the enormous window with the view of the snake-shaped hedges seemed depressing rather than inspiring, and the blank pages tacked to her wall, rather than being convenient, seemed only to remind her of how anxious she was. “I see you haven’t worked much on your inventions,” Klaus said gently. “I haven’t been reading at all. When Count Olaf is around, it sure puts a damper on the imagination.” “Not always,” Violet pointed out. “When we lived with him, you read all about nuptial law to find out about his plan, and I invented a grappling hook to put a stop to it.” “In this situation, though,” Klaus said glumly, “we don’t even know what Count Olaf is up to. How can we formulate a plan if we don’t know his plan?” “Well, let’s try to hash this out,” Violet said, using an expression which here means “talk about something at length until we completely understand it.” “Count Olaf, calling himself Stephano, has come to this house in disguise and is obviously after the Baudelaire fortune.” “And,” Klaus continued, “once he gets his hands on it, he plans to kill us.” “Tadu,” Sunny murmured solemnly, which probably meant something along the lines of “It’s a loathsome situation in which we find ourselves.” “However,” Violet said, “if he harms us, there’s no way he can get to our fortune. That’s why he tried to marry me last time.” “Thank God that didn’t work,” Klaus said, shivering. “Then Count Olaf would be my brother-in-law. But this time he’s not planning to marry you. He said something about an accident.” “And about heading to a location where crimes are more difficult to trace,” Violet said, remembering his words. “That must mean Peru . But Stephano isn’t going to Peru . Uncle Monty tore up his ticket.” “Doog!” Sunny shrieked, in a generic cry of frustration, and pounded her little fist on the floor. The word “generic” here means “when one is unable to think of anything else to say,” and Sunny was not alone in this. Violet and Klaus were of course too old to say things like “Doog!” but they wished they weren’t. They wished they could figure out Count Olaf’s plan. They wished their situation didn’t seem as mysterious and hopeless as it did, and they wished they were young enough to simply shriek “Doog!” and pound their fists on the floor. And most of all, of course, they wished that their parents were alive and that the Baudelaires were all safe in the home where they had been born. And as fervently as the Baudelaire orphans wished their circumstances were different, I wish that I could somehow change the circumstances of this story for you. Even as I sit here, safe as can be and so very far from Count Olaf, I can scarcely bear to write another word. Perhaps it would be best if you shut this book right now and never read the rest of this horrifying story. You can imagine, if you wish, that an hour later, the Baudelaire orphans suddenly figured out what Stephano was up to and were able to save Uncle Monty’s life. You can picture the police arriving with all their flashing lights and sirens, and dragging Stephano away to jail for the rest of his life. You can pretend, even though it is not so, that the Baudelaires are living happily with Uncle Monty to this day. Or best of all, you can conjure up the illusion that the Baudelaire parents have not been killed, and that the terrible fire and Count Olaf and Uncle Monty and all the other unfortunate events are nothing more than a dream, a figment of the imagination. But this story is not a happy one, and I am not happy to tell you that the Baudelaire orphans sat dumbly in Violet’s room—the word “dumbly” here means “without speaking,” rather than “in a stupid way”—for the rest of the night. Had someone peeped through the bedroom window as the morning sun rose, they would have seen the three children huddled together on the bed, their eyes wide open and dark with worry. But nobody peeped through the window. Somebody knocked on the door, four loud knocks as if something were being nailed shut. The children blinked and looked at one another. “Who is it?” Klaus called out, his voice crackly from being silent so long. Instead of an answer, whoever it was simply turned the knob and the door swung slowly open. There stood Stephano, with his clothes all rumpled and his eyes shining brighter than they ever had before. “Good morning,” he said. “It’s time to leave for Peru . There is just room for three orphans and myself in the jeep, so get a move on.” “We told you yesterday that you weren’t going,” Violet said. She hoped her voice sounded braver than she felt. “It is your Uncle Monty who isn’t going,” Stephano said, and raised the part of his forehead where his eyebrow should have been. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Klaus said. “Uncle Monty wouldn’t miss this expedition for the world.” “Ask him,” Stephano said, and the Baudelaires saw a familiar expression on his face. His mouth scarcely moved, but his eyes were shining as if he’d just told a joke. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s down in the Reptile Room.” “We will ask him,” Violet said. “Uncle Monty has no intention of letting you take us to Peru alone.” She rose from the bed, took the hands of her siblings, and walked quickly past Stephano who was smirking in the doorway. “We will ask him,” Violet said again, and Stephano gave a little bow as the children walked out of the room. The hallway was strangely quiet, and blank as the eyes of a skull. “Uncle Monty?” Violet called, at the end of the hallway. Nobody answered. Aside from a few creaks on the steps, the whole house was eerily quiet, as if it had been deserted for many years. “Uncle Monty?” Klaus called, at the bottom of the stairs. They heard nothing. Standing on tiptoe, Violet opened the enormous door of the Reptile Room and for a moment, the orphans stared into the room as if hypnotized, entranced by the odd blue light which the sunrise made as it shone through the glass ceiling and walls. In the dim glow, they could see only silhouettes of the various reptiles as they moved around in their cages, or slept, curled into shapeless dark masses. Their footsteps echoing off the glimmering walls, the three siblings walked through the Reptile Room, toward the far end, where Uncle Monty’s library lay waiting for them. Even though the dark room felt mysterious and strange, it was a comforting mystery, and a safe strangeness. They remembered Uncle Monty’s promise: that if they took time to learn the facts, no harm would come to them here in the Reptile Room. However, you and I remember that Uncle Monty’s promise was laden with dramatic irony, and now, here in the early-morning gloom of the Reptile Room, that irony was going to come to fruition, a phrase which here means “the Baudelaires were finally to learn of it.” For just as they reached the books, the three siblings could see a large, shadowy mass huddled in the far corner. Nervously, Klaus switched on one of the reading lamps to get a better look. The shadowy mass was Uncle Monty. His mouth was slightly agape, as if he were surprised, and his eyes were wide open, but he didn’t appear to see them. His face, usually so rosy, was very, very pale, and under his left eye were two small holes, right in a line, the sort of mark made by the two fangs of a snake. “Divo soom?” Sunny asked, and tugged at his pants leg. Uncle Monty did not move. As he had promised, no harm had come to the Baudelaire orphans in the Reptile Room, but great harm had come to Uncle Monty. C H A P T E R Seven “ My , my, my, my, my,” said a voice from behind them, and the Baudelaire orphans turned to find Stephano standing there, the black suitcase with the shiny silver padlock in his hands and a look of brummagem surprise on his face. “Brummagem” is such a rare word for “fake” that even Klaus didn’t know what it meant, but the children did not have to be told that Stephano was pretending to be surprised. “What a terrible accident has happened here. Snakebite. Whoever discovers this will be most upset.” “You—” Violet began to say, but her throat fluttered, as if the fact of Uncle Monty’s death were food that tasted terrible. “You—” she said again. Stephano took no notice. “Of course, after they discover that Dr. Montgomery is dead, they’ll wonder what became of those repulsive orphans he had lying around the house. But they’ll be long gone. Speaking of which, it’s time to leave. The Prospero sails at five o’clock from Hazy Harbor and I’d like to be the first passenger aboard. That way I’ll have time for a bottle of wine before lunch.” “How could you?” Klaus whispered hoarsely. He couldn’t take his eyes off Uncle Monty’s pale, pale face. “How could you do this? How could you murder him?” “Why, Klaus, I’m surprised,” Stephano said, and walked over to Uncle Monty’s body. “A smarty-pants boy like you should be able to figure out that your chubby old uncle died from snakebite, not from murder. Look at those teeth marks. Look at his pale, pale face. Look at these staring eyes.” “Stop it!” Violet said. “Don’t talk like that!” “You’re right!” Stephano said. “There’s no time for chitchat! We have a ship to catch! Let’s move!” “We’re not going anywhere with you,” Klaus said. His face was pinched with the effort of focusing on their predicament rather than going to pieces. “We will stay here until the police come.” “And how do you suppose the police will know to come?” Stephano said. “We will call them,” Klaus said, in what he hoped was a firm tone of voice, and began to walk toward the door. Stephano dropped his suitcase, the shiny silver padlock making a clattering sound as it hit the marble floor. He took a few steps and blocked Klaus’s way, his eyes wide and red with fury. “I am so tired,” Stephano snarled, “of having to explain everything to you. You’re supposed to be so very smart, and yet you always seem to forget about this!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the jagged knife. “This is my knife. It is very sharp and very eager to hurt you— almost as eager as I am. If you don’t do what I say, you will suffer bodily harm. Is that clear enough for you? Now, get in the damn jeep.” It is, as you know, very, very rude and usually unnecessary to use profanity, but the Baudelaire orphans were too terrified to point this out to Stephano. Taking a last look at their poor Uncle Monty, the three children followed Stephano to the door of the Reptile Room to get in the damn jeep. To add insult to injury—a phrase which here means “forcing somebody to do an unpleasant task when they’re already very upset”— Stephano forced Violet to carry his suitcase out of the house, but she was too lost in her own thoughts to care. She was remembering the last conversation she and her siblings had had with Uncle Monty, and thinking with a cold rush of shame that it hadn’t really been a conversation at all. You will recall, of course, that on the ride home from seeing Zombies in the Snow, the children had been so worried about Stephano that they hadn’t said a word to Uncle Monty, and that when the jeep had arrived at the house, the Baudelaire orphans had dashed upstairs to hash out the situation, without even saying good night to the man who now lay dead under a sheet in the Reptile Room. As the youngsters reached the jeep, Violet tried to remember if they had even thanked him for taking them to the movies, but the night was all a blur. She thought that she, Klaus, and Sunny had probably said “Thank you, Uncle Monty,” when they were standing together at the ticket booth, but she couldn’t be sure. Stephano opened the door of the jeep and gestured with the knife, ushering Klaus and Sunny into the tiny backseat and Violet, the black suitcase heavy on her lap, into the front seat beside him. The orphans had a brief hope that the engine would not start when Stephano turned the key in the ignition, but this was a futile hope. Uncle Monty took good care of his jeep, and it started right up. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked behind them as Stephano began to drive alongside the snake-shaped hedges. At the sight of the Reptile Room, which Uncle Monty had filled so carefully with his specimens and in which he was now a sort of specimen himself, the weight of the Baudelaires’ despair was too much for them and they quietly began to cry. It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things. The Baudelaire orphans were crying not only for their Uncle Monty, but for their own parents, and this dark and curious feeling of falling that accompanies any great loss. What was to happen to them? Stephano had heartlessly slaughtered the man who was supposed to be watching over the Baudelaires, and now they were all alone. What would Stephano do to them? He was supposed to be left behind when they went to Peru , and now he would be leaving with them on the Prospero. And what terrible things would happen in Peru ? Would anybody rescue them there? Would Stephano get his hands on the fortune? And what would happen to the three children afterward? These are frightening questions, and if you are thinking about such matters, they require your full attention, and the orphans were so immersed in thinking about them that they didn’t realize that Stephano was about to collide with another automobile until the moment of impact. There was a horrible tearing sound of metal and glass as a black car crashed into Uncle Monty’s jeep, throwing the children to the floor with a jarring thump that felt as though it left the Baudelaire stomachs up on the seat. The black suitcase lurched into Violet’s shoulder and then forward into the windshield, which immediately cracked in a dozen places so it looked like a spiderweb. Stephano gave a cry of surprise and turned the steering wheel this way and that, but the two vehicles were locked together and, with another thump, veered off the road into a small pile of mud. It is a rare occurrence when a car accident can be called a stroke of good fortune, but that was most certainly the case here. With the snake-shaped hedges still clearly visible behind them, the Baudelaires’ journey toward Hazy Harbor had stopped. Stephano gave another sharp cry, this one of rage. “Blasted furnaces of hell!” he shouted, as Violet rubbed her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t seriously hurt. Klaus and Sunny got up cautiously from the jeep floor and looked out the cracked windshield. There appeared to be only one person in the other car, but it was hard to tell, as that vehicle had clearly suffered much more damage than Monty’s jeep. Its entire front had pleated itself together, like an accordion, and one hubcap was spinning noisily on the pavement of Lousy Lane , making blurry circles as if it were a giant coin somebody had dropped. The driver was dressed in gray and making a rough hacking sound as he opened the crumpled door of the car and struggled his way out. He made the hacking sound again, and then reached into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a white handkerchief. “It’s Mr. Poe!” Klaus cried. It was Mr. Poe, coughing away as usual, and the children were so delighted to see him that they found themselves smiling despite their horrible circumstances. “Mr. Poe! Mr. Poe!” Violet cried, reaching around Stephano’s suitcase to open the passenger door. Stephano reached out an arm and grabbed her sore shoulder, turning his head slowly so that each child saw his shiny eyes. “This changes nothing!” he hissed at them. “This is a bit of luck for you, but it is your last. The three of you will be back in this car with me and heading toward Hazy Harbor in time to catch the Prospero, I promise you.” “We’ll see about that,” Violet replied, opening the door and sliding out from beneath the suitcase. Klaus opened his door and followed her, carrying Sunny. “Mr. Poe! Mr. Poe!” “Violet?” Mr. Poe asked. “Violet Baudelaire? Is that you?” “Yes, Mr. Poe,” Violet said. “It’s all of us, and we’re so grateful you ran into us like this.” “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Mr. Poe said. “This was clearly the other driver’s fault. You ran into me.” “How dare you!” Stephano shouted, and got out of the car himself, wrinkling his nose at the smell of horseradish that filled the air. He stomped over to where Mr. Poe was standing, but halfway there the children saw his face change from one of pure rage to one of brummagem confusion and sadness. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a high, fluttery voice. “This whole thing is my fault. I’m so distressed by what has happened that I wasn’t paying any attention to the rules of the road. I hope you’re not hurt, Mr. Foe.” “It’s Poe” Mr. Poe said. “My name is Poe. I’m not hurt. Luckily, it looks like nobody was hurt. I wish the same could be said for my car. But who are you and what are you doing with the Baudelaire children?” “I’ll tell you who he is,” Klaus said. “He’s—” “Please, Klaus,” Mr. Poe admonished a word which here means “reprimanded Klaus even though he was interrupting for a very good reason.” “It is not polite to interrupt.” “My name is Stephano,” Stephano said, shaking Mr. Poe’s hand. “I am—I mean I was — Dr. Montgomery’s assistant.” “What do you mean was?” Mr. Poe asked sternly. “Were you fired?” “No. Dr. Montgomery—oh, excuse me—” Stephano turned away and pretended to dab at his eyes as if he were too sad to continue. Facing away from Mr. Poe, he gave the orphans a big wink before continuing. “I’m sorry to tell you there’s been a horrible accident, Mr. Doe. Dr. Montgomery is dead.” “Poe,” Mr. Poe said. “He’s dead? That’s terrible. What has happened?” “I don’t know,” Stephano said. “It looks like snakebite to me, but I don’t know anything about snakes. That’s why I was going into town, to get a doctor. The children seemed too upset to be left alone.” “He’s not taking us to get a doctor!” Klaus shouted. “He’s taking us to Peru !” “You see what I mean?” Stephano said to Mr. Poe, patting Klaus’s head. “The children are obviously very distressed. Dr. Montgomery was going to take them to Peru today.” “Yes, I know,” Mr. Poe said. “That’s why I hurried over here this morning, to finally bring them their luggage. Klaus, I know you’re confused and upset over this accident, but please try to understand that if Dr. Montgomery is really dead, the expedition is canceled.” “But Mr. Poe—” Klaus said indignantly. “Please,” Mr. Poe said. “This is a matter for adults to discuss, Klaus. Clearly, a doctor needs to be called.” “Well, why don’t you drive on up to the house,” Stephano said, “and I’ll take the children and find a doctor.” “José!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “No way!” “Why don’t we all go to the house,” Mr. Poe said, “and call for a doctor?” Stephano blinked, and for a second his face grew angry again before he was able to calm himself and answer smoothly. “Of course,” he said. “I should have called earlier. Obviously I’m not thinking as clearly as you. Here, children, get back in the jeep, and Mr. Poe will follow us.” “We’re not getting back in that car with you,” Klaus said firmly. “Please, Klaus,” Mr. Poe said. “Try to understand. There’s been a serious accident. All other discussions will have to be put aside. The only trouble is, I’m not sure my car will start. It’s very smashed up.” “Try the ignition,” Stephano said. Mr. Poe nodded, and walked back to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine made a rough, wet noise—it sounded quite a bit like Mr. Poe’s coughs—but it did not start. “I’m afraid the engine is quite dead,” Mr. Poe called out. “And before long,” Stephano muttered to the children, “you will be too.” “I’m sorry,” Mr. Poe said. “I couldn’t hear you.” Stephano smiled. “I said, that’s too bad. Well, why don’t I take the orphans back to the house, and you walk behind us? There isn’t room for everyone.” Mr. Poe frowned. “But the children’s suitcases are here. I don’t want to leave them unattended. Why don’t we put the luggage into your car, and the children and I will walk back to the house?” Stephano frowned. “Well, one of the children should ride with me, so I won’t get lost.” Mr. Poe smiled. “But you can see the house from here. You won’t get lost.” “Stephano doesn’t want us to be alone with you,” Violet said, finally speaking up. She had been waiting for the proper moment to make her case. “He’s afraid that we’ll tell you who he really is, and what he’s really up to.” “What’s she talking about?” Mr. Poe asked Stephano. “I have no idea, Mr. Toe,” Stephano replied, shaking his head and looking at Violet fiercely . Violet took a deep breath. “This man is not Stephano,” she said, pointing at him. “He’s Count Olaf, and he’s here to take us away.” “Who am I?” Stephano asked. “What am I doing?” Mr. Poe looked Stephano up and down, and then shook his head. “Forgive the children,” he said. “They are very upset. Count Olaf is a terrible man who tried to steal their money, and the youngsters are very frightened of him.” “Do I look like this Count Olaf?” Stephano asked, his eyes shining. “No, you don’t,” Mr. Poe said. “Count Olaf had one long eyebrow, and a cleanshaven face. You have a beard, and if you don’t mind my saying so, no eyebrows at all.” “He shaved his eyebrow,” Violet said, “and grew a beard. Anyone can see that.” “And he has the tattoo!” Klaus cried. “The eye tattoo, on his ankle! Look at the tattoo!” Mr. Poe looked at Stephano, and shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry to ask you this,” he said, “but the children seem so upset, and before we discuss anything further I’d like to set their minds at ease. Would you mind showing me your ankle?” “I’d be happy to,” Stephano said, giving the children a toothy smile. “Right or left?” Klaus closed his eyes and thought for a second. “Left,” he said. Stephano placed his left foot on the bumper of Uncle Monty’s jeep. Looking at the Baudelaire orphans with his shiny, shiny eyes, he began to raise the leg of his stained striped pants. Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and Mr. Poe all kept their eyes on Stephano’s ankle. The pant leg went up, like a curtain rising to begin a play. But there was no tattoo of an eye to be seen. The Baudelaire orphans stared at a patch of smooth skin, as blank and pale as poor Uncle Monty’s face. C H A P T E R Eight While the jeep sputtered ahead of them, the Baudelaire orphans trudged back toward Uncle Monty’s house, the scent of horseradish in their nostrils and a feeling of frustration in their hearts. It is very unnerving to be proven wrong, particularly when you are really right and the person who is really wrong is the one who is proving you wrong and proving himself, wrongly, right. Right? “I don’t know how he got rid of his tattoo,” Klaus said stubbornly to Mr. Poe, who was coughing into his handkerchief, “but that’s definitely Count Olaf.” “Klaus,” Mr. Poe said, when he had stopped coughing, “this is getting very tiresome, going over this again and again. We have just seen Stephano’s unblemished ankle. ‘Unblemished’ means—” A Series of Unfortunate Events 2- The Reptile Room “We know what ‘unblemished’ means,” Klaus said, watching Stephano get out of Uncle Monty’s jeep and walk quickly into the house. “‘Without tattoos.’ But it is Count Olaf. Why can’t you see it?” “All I can see,” Mr. Poe said, “is what’s in front of me. I see a man with no eyebrows, a beard, and no tattoo, and that’s not Count Olaf. Anyway, even if by some chance this Stephano wishes you harm, you have nothing to fear. It is quite shocking that Dr. Montgomery has died, but we’re not simply going to hand over you and your fortune to his assistant. Why, this man can’t even remember my name!” Klaus looked at his siblings and sighed. It would be easier, they realized, to argue with the snake-shaped hedge than with Mr. Poe when he had made up his mind. Violet was about to try reasoning with him one more time when a horn honked behind them. The Baudelaires and Mr. Poe got out of the way of the approaching automobile, a small gray car with a very skinny driver. The car stopped in front of the house and the skinny person got out, a tall man in a white coat. “May we help you?” Mr. Poe called, as he and the children approached. “I am Dr. Lucafont,” the tall man said, pointing to himself with a big, solid hand. “I received a call that there’s been a terrible accident involving a snake.” “You’re here already?” Mr. Poe asked. “But Stephano has scarcely had time to call, let alone for you to drive here.” “I believe that speed is of the essence in an emergency, don’t you?” Dr. Lucafont said. “If an autopsy is to be performed, it should be done immediately.” “Of course, of course,” Mr. Poe said quickly. “I was just surprised.” “Where is the body?” Dr. Lucafont asked, walking toward the door. “Stephano can tell you,” Mr. Poe said, opening the door of the house. Stephano was waiting in the entryway, holding a coffeepot. “I’m going to make some coffee,” he said. “Who wants some?” “I’ll have a cup,” Dr. Lucafont said. “Nothing like a hearty cup of coffee before starting the day’s work.” Mr. Poe frowned. “Shouldn’t you take a look at Dr. Montgomery first?” “Yes, Dr. Lucafont,” Stephano said. “Time is of the essence in an emergency, don’t you think?” “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Dr. Lucafont said. “Poor Dr. Montgomery is in the Reptile Room,” Stephano said, gesturing to where the Baudelaires’ guardian still lay. “Please do a thorough examination, and then you may have some coffee.” “You’re the boss,” Dr. Lucafont said, opening the door of the Reptile Room with an oddly stiff hand. Stephano led Mr. Poe into the kitchen, and the Baudelaires glumly followed. When one feels useless and unable to help, one can use the expression “feeling like a fifth wheel,” because if something has four wheels, such as a wagon or a car, there is no real need for a fifth. As Stephano brewed coffee for the adults, the three children sat down at the kitchen table where they had first had coconut cake with Uncle Monty just a short time ago, and Violet, Klaus, and Sunny felt like fifth, sixth, and seventh wheels on a car that was going the wrong direction—toward Hazy Harbor, and the departing Prospero. “When I spoke to Dr. Lucafont on the phone,” Stephano said, “I told him about the accident with your car. When he is done with his medical examination, he will drive you into town to get a mechanic and I will stay here with the orphans.” “No,” Klaus said firmly. “We are not staying alone with him for an instant.” Mr. Poe smiled as Stephano poured him a cup of coffee, and looked sternly at Klaus. “Klaus, I realize you are very upset, but it is inexcusable for you to keep treating Stephano so rudely. Please apologize to him at once.” “No!” Klaus cried. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Yoe,” Stephano said soothingly. “The children are upset over Dr. Montgomery’s murder, so I don’t expect them to be on their best behavior.” “Murder?” Violet said. She turned to Stephano and tried to look as if she were merely politely curious, instead of enraged. “Why did you say murder, Stephano?” Stephano’s face darkened, and his hands clenched at his sides. It looked like there was nothing he wanted to do more than scratch out Violet’s eyes. “I misspoke,” he said finally. “Of course he did,” Mr. Poe said, sipping from his cup. “But the children can come with Dr. Lucafont and me if they feel more comfortable that way.” “I’m not sure they will fit,” Stephano said, his eyes shining. “It’s a very small car. But if the orphans would rather, they could come with me in the jeep and we could follow you and Dr. Lucafont to the mechanic.” The three orphans looked at one another and thought hard. Their situation seemed like a game, although this game had desperately high stakes. The object of the game was not to end up alone with Stephano, for when they did, he would whisk them away on the Prospero. What would happen then, when they were alone in Peru with such a greedy and despicable person, they did not want to think about. What they had to think about was stopping it from happening. It seemed incredible that their very lives hinged on a carpooling conversation, but in life it is often the tiny details that end up being the most important. “Why don’t we ride with Dr. Lucafont,” Violet said carefully, “and Mr. Poe can ride with Stephano?” “Whatever for?” Mr. Poe asked. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a doctor’s automobile,” Violet said, knowing that this was a fairly lame invention. “Oh yes, me too,” Klaus said. “Please, can’t we ride with Dr. Lucafont?” “I’m afraid not,” Dr. Lucafont said from the doorway, surprising everyone. “Not all three of you children, anyway. I have placed Dr. Montgomery’s body in my car, which only leaves room for two more passengers.” “Have you completed your examination already?” Mr. Poe asked. “The preliminary one, yes,” Dr. Lucafont said. “I will have to take the body for some further tests, but my autopsy shows that the doctor died of snakebite. Is there any coffee left for me?” “Of course,” Stephano answered, and poured him a cup. “How can you be sure?” Violet asked the doctor. “What do you mean?” Dr. Lucafont said quizzically. “I can be sure there’s coffee left because I see it right here.” “What I think Violet means,” Mr. Poe said, “is how can you be sure that Dr. Montgomery died of snakebite?” “In his veins, I found the venom of the Mamba du Mal, one of the world’s most poisonous snakes.” “Does this mean that there’s a poisonous snake loose in this house?” Mr. Poe asked. “No, no,” Dr. Lucafont said. “The Mamba du Mal is safe in its cage. It must have gotten out, bitten Dr. Montgomery, and locked itself up again.” “What?” Violet asked. “That’s a ridiculous theory. A snake cannot operate a lock by itself.” “Perhaps other snakes helped it,” Dr. Lucafont said calmly, sipping his coffee. “Is there anything here to eat? I had to rush over here without my breakfast.” “Your story does seem a little odd,” Mr. Poe said. He looked questioningly at Dr. Lucafont, who was opening a cupboard and peering inside. “Terrible accidents, I have found, are often odd,” he replied. “It can’t have been an accident,” Violet said. “Uncle Monty is—” She stopped. “Uncle Monty was one of the world’s most respected herpetologists. He never would have kept a poisonous snake in a cage it could open itself.” “If it wasn’t an accident,” Dr. Lucafont said, “then someone would have had to do this on purpose. Obviously, you three children didn’t kill him, and the only other person in the house was Stephano.” “And I,” Stephano added quickly, “hardly know anything about snakes. I’ve only been working here for two days and scarcely had time to learn anything.” “It certainly appears to be an accident,” Mr. Poe said. “I’m sorry, children. Dr. Montgomery seemed like an appropriate guardian for you.” “He was more than that,” Violet said quietly. “He was much, much more than an appropriate guardian.” “That’s Uncle Monty’s food!” Klaus cried out suddenly, his face contorted in anger. He pointed at Dr. Lucafont, who had taken a can out of the cupboard. “Stop eating his food!” “I was only going to have a few peaches,” Dr. Lucafont said. With one of his oddly solid hands, he held up a can of peaches Uncle Monty had bought only yesterday. “Please,” Mr. Poe said gently to Dr. Lucafont. “The children are very upset. I’m sure you can understand that. Violet, Klaus, Sunny, why don’t you excuse yourselves for a little while? We have much to discuss, and you are obviously too overwrought to participate. Now, Dr. Lucafont, let’s try and figure this out. You have room for three passengers, including Dr. Montgomery’s body. And you, Stephano, have room for three passengers as well.” “So it’s very simple,” Stephano said. “You and the corpse will go in Dr. Lucafont’s car, and I will drive behind you with the children.” “No,” Klaus said firmly. “Baudelaires,” Mr. Poe said, just as firmly, “will you three please excuse yourselves?” “Afoop!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “No.” “Of course we will,” Violet said, giving Klaus and Sunny a significant look, and taking her siblings’ hands, she half-led them, half-dragged them out of the kitchen. Klaus and Sunny looked up at their older sister, and saw that something about her had changed. Her face looked more determined than grief-stricken, and she walked quickly, as if she were late for something. You will remember, of course, that even years later, Klaus would lie awake in bed, filled with regret that he didn’t call out to the driver of the taxicab who had brought Stephano into their lives once more. But in this respect Violet was luckier than her brother. For unlike Klaus, who was so surprised when he first recognized Stephano that the moment to act passed him by, Violet realized, as she heard the adults drone on and on, that the time to act was now. I cannot say that Violet, years later, slept easily when she looked back on her life—there were too many miserable times for any of the Baudelaires to be peaceful sleepers—but she was always a bit proud of herself that she realized she and her siblings should in fact excuse themselves from the kitchen and move to a more helpful location. “What are we doing?” Klaus asked. “Where are we going?” Sunny, too, looked questioningly at her sister, but Violet merely shook her head in answer, and walked faster, toward the door of the Reptile Room. C H A P T E R Nine When Violet opened the enormous door of the Reptile Room, the reptiles were still there in their cages, the books were still on their shelves, and the morning sun was still streaming through the glass walls, but the place simply wasn’t the same. Even though Dr. Lucafont had removed Uncle Monty’s body, the Reptile Room was not as inviting as it used to be, and probably never would be. What happens in a certain place can stain your feelings for that location, just as ink can stain a white sheet. You can wash it, and wash it, and still never forget what has transpired, a word which here means “happened and made everybody sad.” “I don’t want to go in,” Klaus said. “Uncle Monty died in here.” “I know we don’t want to be here,” Violet said, “but we have work to do.” “Work?” Klaus asked. “What work?” Violet gritted her teeth. “We have work to do,” she said, “that Mr. Poe should be doing, but as usual, he is well intentioned but of no real help.” Klaus and Sunny sighed as she spoke out loud a sentiment all three siblings had never said, but always felt, since Mr. Poe had taken over their affairs. “Mr. Poe doesn’t believe that Stephano and Count Olaf are the same person. And he believes that Uncle Monty’s death was an accident. We have to prove him wrong on both counts.” “But Stephano doesn’t have the tattoo,” Klaus pointed out. “And Dr. Lucafont found the venom of the Mamba du Mal in Monty’s veins.” “I know, I know,” Violet said impatiently. “The three of us know the truth, but in order to convince the adults, we have to find evidence and proof of Stephano’s plan.” “If only we’d found evidence and proof earlier,” Klaus said glumly. “Then maybe we could have saved Uncle Monty’s life.” “We’ll never know about that,” Violet said quietly. She looked around at the Reptile Room, which Monty had worked on his whole life. “But if we put Stephano behind bars for his murder, we’ll at least be able to prevent him from harming anyone else.” “Including us,” Klaus pointed out. “Including us,” Violet agreed. “Now, Klaus, find all of Uncle Monty’s books that might contain information about the Mamba du Mal. Let me know when you find anything.” “But all that research could take days,” Klaus said, looking at Monty’s considerable library. “Well, we don’t have days,” Violet said firmly. “We don’t even have hours. At five o’clock, the Prospero leaves Hazy Harbor , and Stephano is going to do everything he can to make sure we’re on that ship. And if we end up alone in Peru with him—” “All right, all right,” Klaus said. “Let’s get started. Here, you take this book.” “I’m not taking any book,” Violet said. “While you’re in the library, I’m going up to Stephano’s room to see if I can find any clues.” “Alone?” Klaus asked. “In his room?” It’ll be perfectly safe,“ Violet said, although she knew nothing of the kind. ”Get cracking with the books, Klaus. Sunny, watch the door and bite anybody who tries to get in.” “Ackroid!” Sunny said, which probably meant something like “Roger!” Violet left, and true to her word, Sunny sat near the door with her teeth bared. Klaus walked to the far end of the room where the library was, carefully avoiding the aisle where the poisonous snakes were kept. He didn’t even want to look at the Mamba du Mal or any other deadly reptile. Even though Klaus knew that Uncle Monty’s death was the fault of Stephano and not really of the snake, he could not bear to look at the reptile who had put an end to the happy times he and his sisters had enjoyed. Klaus sighed, and opened a book, and as at so many other times when the middle Baudelaire child did not want to think about his circumstances, he began to read. It is now necessary for me to use the rather hackneyed phrase “meanwhile, back at the ranch.” The word “hackneyed” here means “used by so, so many writers that by the time Lemony Snicket uses it, it is a tiresome cliché.” “Meanwhile, back at the ranch” is a phrase used to link what is going on in one part of the story to what is going on in another part of the story, and it has nothing to do with cows or with horses or with any people who work in rural areas where ranches are, or even with ranch dressing, which is creamy and put on salads. Here, the phrase “meanwhile, back at the ranch” refers to what Violet was doing while Klaus and Sunny were in the Reptile Room. For as Klaus began his research in Uncle Monty’s library, and Sunny guarded the door with her sharp teeth, Violet was up to something I am sure will be of interest to you. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Violet went to listen at the kitchen door, trying to catch what the adults were saying. As I’m sure you know, the key to good eavesdropping is not getting caught, and Violet moved as quietly as she could, trying not to step on any creaky parts of the floor. When she reached the door of the kitchen, she took her hair ribbon out of her pocket and dropped it on the floor, so if anyone opened the door she could claim that she was kneeling down to pick it up, rather than to eavesdrop. This was a trick she had learned when she was very small, when she would listen at her parents’ bedroom door to hear what they might be planning for her birthday, and like all good tricks, it still worked. “But Mr. Poe, if Stephano rides with me in my car, and you drive Dr. Montgomery’s jeep,” Dr. Lucafont was saying, “then how will you know the way?” “I see your point,” Mr. Poe said. “But I don’t think Sunny will be willing to sit on Dr. Montgomery’s lap, if he’s dead. We’ll have to work out another way.” “I’ve got it,” Stephano said. “I will drive the children in Dr. Lucafont’s car, and Dr. Lucafont can go with you and Dr. Montgomery in Dr. Montgomery’s jeep.” “I’m afraid that won’t work,” Dr. Lucafont said gravely. “The city laws won’t allow anybody else to drive my car.” “And we haven’t even discussed the issue of the children’s luggage,” Mr. Poe said. Violet stood up, having heard enough to know she had enough time to go up to Stephano’s room. Quietly, quietly, Violet walked up the staircase and down the hallway toward Stephano’s door, where he had sat holding the knife that fearsome night. When she reached his door, Violet stopped. It was amazing, she thought, how everything having to do with Count Olaf was frightening. He was such a terrible person that merely the sight of his bedroom door could get her heart pounding. Violet found herself half hoping that Stephano would bound up the stairs and stop her, just so she wouldn’t have to open this door and go into the room where he slept. But then Violet thought of her own safety, and the safety of her two siblings. If one’s safety is threatened, one often finds courage one didn’t know one had, and the eldest Baudelaire found she could be brave enough to open the door. Her shoulder still aching from the car collision, Violet turned the brass handle of the door and walked inside. The room, as Violet suspected, was a dirty mess. The bed was unmade and had cracker crumbs and bits of hair all over it. Discarded newspapers and mail-order catalogs lay on the floor in untidy piles. On top of the dresser was a small assortment of half-empty wine bottles. The closet door was open, revealing a bunch of rusty wire coathangers that shivered in the drafty room. The curtains over the windows were all bunched up and encrusted with something flaky, and as Violet drew closer she realized with faint horror that Stephano had blown his nose on them. But although it was disgusting, hardened phlegm was not the sort of evidence Violet was hoping for. The eldest Baudelaire orphan stood in the center of the room and surveyed the sticky disorder of the bedroom. Everything was horrendous, nothing was helpful. Violet rubbed her sore shoulder and remembered when she and her siblings were living with Count Olaf and found themselves locked in his tower room. Although it was frightening to be trapped in his inner sanctum—a phrase which here means “filthy room in which evil plans are devised”—it turned out to be quite useful, because they were able to read up on nuptial law and work their way out of their predicament. But here, in Stephano’s inner sanctum at Uncle Monty’s house, all Violet could find were signs of uncleanliness. Somewhere Stephano must have left a trail of evidence that Violet could find and use to convince Mr. Poe, but where was it? Disheartened—and afraid she had spent too much time in Stephano’s bedroom— Violet went quietly back downstairs. “No, no, no,” Mr. Poe was saying, when she stopped to listen at the kitchen door again. “Dr. Montgomery can’t drive. He’s dead. There must be a way to do this.” “I’ve told you over and over,” Stephano said, and Violet could tell that he was growing angry. “The easiest way is for me to take the three children into town, while you follow with Dr. Lucafont and the corpse. What could be simpler?” “Perhaps you’re right,” Mr. Poe said with a sigh, and Violet hurried into the Reptile Room. “Klaus, Klaus,” she cried. “Tell me you’ve found something! I went to Stephano’s room but there’s nothing there to help us, and I think Stephano’s going to get us alone in his car.” Klaus smiled for an answer and began to read out loud from the book he was holding. “‘The Mamba du Mal, ‘” he read, “‘is one of the deadliest snakes in the hemisphere, noted for its strangulatory grip, used in conjunction with its deadly venom, giving all of its victims a tenebrous hue, which is ghastly to behold.’” “Strangulatory? Conjunction? Tenebrous? Hue ?” Violet repeated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “I didn’t either,” Klaus admitted, “until I looked up some of the words.’Strangulatory’ means ‘having to do with strangling.’ ‘In conjunction’ means ‘together.’ ‘Tenebrous’ means ‘dark.’ And ‘hue’ means ‘color.’ So the Mamba du Mai is noted for strangling people while it bites them, leaving their corpses dark with bruises.” “Stop! Stop!” Violet cried, covering her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more about what happened to Uncle Monty!” “You don’t understand,” Klaus said gently. “That isn’t what happened to Uncle Monty.” “But Dr. Lucafont said there was the venom of the Mamba du Mal in Monty’s veins,” she said. “I’m sure there was,” Klaus said, “but the snake didn’t put it there. If it had, Uncle Monty’s body would have been dark with bruises. But you and I remember that it was as pale as can be.” Violet started to speak, and then stopped, remembering the pale, pale face of Uncle Monty when they discovered him. “That’s true,” she said. “But then how was he poisoned?” “Remember how Uncle Monty said he kept the venoms of all his poisonous snakes in test tubes, to study them?” Klaus said. “I think Stephano took the venom and injected it into Uncle Monty.” “Really?” Violet shuddered. “That’s awful.” “Okipi!” Sunny shrieked, apparently in agreement. “When we tell Mr. Poe about this,” Klaus said confidently, “Stephano will be arrested for Uncle Monty’s murder and sent to jail. No longer will he try to whisk us away to Peru , or threaten us with knives, or make us carry his suitcase, or anything like that.” Violet looked at her brother, her eyes wide with excitement. “Suitcase!” she said. “His suitcase!” “What are you talking about?” Klaus said quizzically, and Violet was about to explain when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Violet called, signaling to Sunny not to bite Mr. Poe as he walked in. “I hope you are feeling a bit calmer,” Mr. Poe said, looking at each of the children in turn, “and no longer entertaining the thought that Stephano is Count Olaf.” When Mr. Poe used the word “entertaining” here he meant “thinking,” rather than “singing or dancing or putting on skits.” “Even if he’s not Count Olaf,” Klaus said carefully, “we think he may be responsible for Uncle Monty’s death.” “Nonsense!” Mr. Poe exclaimed, as Violet shook her head at her brother. “Uncle Monty’s death was a terrible accident, and nothing more.” Klaus held up the book he was reading. “But while you were in the kitchen, we were reading about snakes, and—” “Reading about snakes?” Mr. Poe said. “I should think you’d want to read about anything but snakes, after what happened to Dr. Montgomery.” “But I found out something,” Klaus said, “that—” “It doesn’t matter what you found out about snakes,” Mr. Poe said, taking out a handkerchief. The Baudelaires waited while he coughed into it before returning it to his pocket. “It doesn’t matter,” he said again, “what you found out about snakes. Stephano doesn’t know anything about snakes. He told us that himself.” “But—” Klaus said, but he stopped when he saw Violet. She shook her head at him again, just slightly. It was a signal, telling him not to say anything more to Mr. Poe. He looked at his sister, and then at Mr. Poe, and shut his mouth. Mr. Poe coughed slightly into his handkerchief and looked at his wristwatch. “Now that we have settled that matter, there is the issue of riding in the car. I know that the three of you were eager to see the inside of a doctor’s automobile, but we’ve discussed it over and over and there’s simply no way it can work. You three are going to ride with Stephano into town, while I will ride with Dr. Lucafont and your Uncle Monty. Stephano and Dr. Lucafont are unloading all the bags now and we will leave in a few minutes. If you will excuse me, I have to call the Herpetological Society and tell them the bad news.” Mr. Poe coughed once more into his handkerchief and left the room. “Why didn’t you want me to tell Mr. Poe what I read?” Klaus asked Violet, when he was sure Mr. Poe was out of earshot, a word which here means “close enough to hear him.” Violet didn’t answer. She was looking through the glass wall of the Reptile Room, watching Dr. Lucafont and Stephano walk past the snake-shaped hedges to Uncle Monty’s jeep. Stephano opened the jeep door, and Dr. Lucafont began to carry suitcases out of the backseat in his strangely stiff hands. “Violet, why didn’t you want me to tell Mr. Poe what I read?” “When the adults come to fetch us,” Violet said, ignoring Klaus’s question, “keep them in the Reptile Room until I get back.” “But how will I do that?” Klaus asked. “Create a distraction,” Violet answered impatiently, still looking out the window at the little pile of suitcases Dr. Lucafont was making. “What distraction?” Klaus asked anxiously. “How?” “For goodness’ sake, Klaus,” his older sister replied. “You have read hundreds of books. Surely you must have read something about creating a distraction.” Klaus thought for a second. “In order to win the Trojan War,” he said, “the ancient Greeks hid soldiers inside an enormous wooden horse. That was sort of a distraction. But I don’t have time to build a wooden horse.” “Then you’ll have to think of something else,” Violet said, and began to walk toward the door, still gazing out the window. Klaus and Sunny looked first at their sister, and then out the window of the Reptile Room in the direction she was looking. It is remarkable that different people will have different thoughts when they look at the same thing. For when the two younger Baudelaires looked at the pile of suitcases, all they thought was that unless they did something quickly, they would end up alone in Uncle Monty’s jeep with Stephano. But from the way Violet was staring as she walked out of the Reptile Room, she was obviously thinking something else. Klaus and Sunny could not imagine what it was, but somehow their sister had reached a different conclusion as she looked at her own brown suitcase, or perhaps the beige one that held Klaus’s things, or the tiny gray one that was Sunny’s, or maybe the large black one, with the shiny silver padlock, that belonged to Stephano. The story’s moral, of course, ought to be “Never live somewhere where wolves are running around loose,” but whoever read you the story probably told you that the moral was not to lie. This is an absurd moral, for you and I both know that sometimes not only is it good to lie, it is necessary to lie. For example, it was perfectly appropriate, after Violet left the Reptile Room, for Sunny to crawl over to the cage that held the Incredibly Deadly Viper, unlatch the cage, and begin screaming as loudly as she could even though nothing was really wrong. There is another story concerning wolves that somebody has probably read to you, which is just as absurd. I am talking about Little Red Riding Hood, an extremely unpleasant little girl who, like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, insisted on intruding on the territory of dangerous animals. You will recall that the wolf, after being treated very rudely by Little Red Riding Hood, ate the little girl’s grandmother and put on her clothing as a disguise. It is this aspect of the story that is the most ridiculous, because one would think that even a girl as dim-witted as Little Red Riding Hood could tell in an instant the difference between her grandmother and a wolf dressed in a nightgown and fuzzy slippers. If you know somebody very well, like your grandmother or your baby sister, you will know when they are real and when they are fake. This is why, as Sunny began to scream, Violet and Klaus could tell immediately that her scream was absolutely fake. “That scream is absolutely fake,” Klaus said to himself, from the other end of the Reptile Room. “That scream is absolutely fake,” Violet said to herself, from the stairs as she went up to her room. “My Lord! Something is terribly wrong!” Mr. Poe said to himself, from the kitchen where he was talking on the phone. “Good-bye,” he said into the receiver, hung up, and ran out of the kitchen to see what the matter was. “What’s the matter?” Mr. Poe asked Stephano and Dr. Lucafont, who had finished unloading the suitcases and were entering the house. “I heard some screams coming from the Reptile Room.” “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Stephano said. “You know how children are,” Dr. Lucafont said. “We can’t have another tragedy on our hands,” Mr. Poe said, and rushed to the enormous door of the Reptile Room. “Children! Children!” “In here!” Klaus cried. “Come quickly!” His voice was rough and low, and anyone who didn’t know Klaus would think he was very frightened. If you did know Klaus, however, you would know that when he was very frightened his voice became tense and squeaky, as it did when he discovered Uncle Monty’s body. His voice became rough and low when he was trying not to laugh. It is a very good thing that Klaus managed not to laugh as Mr. Poe, Stephano, and Dr. Lucafont came into the Reptile Room. It would have spoiled everything. Sunny was lying down on the marble floor, her tiny arms and legs waving wildly as if she were trying to swim. Her facial expression was what made Klaus want to chuckle. Sunny’s mouth was wide open, showing her four sharp teeth, and her eyes were blinking rapidly. She was trying to appear to be very frightened, and if you didn’t know Sunny it would have seemed genuine. But Klaus did know Sunny, and knew that when she was very frightened, her face grew all puckered and silent, as it did when Stephano had threatened to cut off one of her toes. To anyone but Klaus, Sunny looked as if she were very frightened, particularly because of who she was with. For wrapped around Sunny’s small body was a snake, as dark as a coal mine and as thick as a sewer pipe. It was looking at Sunny with shiny green eyes, and its mouth was open as if it were about to bite her. “The Incredibly Deadly Viper!” Klaus cried. “It’s going to bite her!” Klaus screamed, and Sunny opened her mouth and eyes even wider to seem even more scared. Dr. Lucafont’s mouth opened too, and Klaus saw him start to say something, but he was unable to find words. Stephano, who of course could not have cared less about Sunny’s well-being, at least looked surprised, but it was Mr. Poe who absolutely panicked. There are two basic types of panicking: standing still and not saying a word, and leaping all over the place babbling anything that comes into your head. Mr. Poe was the leaping-and-babbling kind. Klaus and Sunny had never seen the banker move so quickly or talk in such a high-pitched voice. “Goodness!” he cried. “Golly! Good God! Blessed Allah! Zeus and Hera! Mary and Joseph! Nathaniel Hawthorne! Don’t touch her! Grab her! Move closer! Run away! Don’t move! Kill the snake! Leave it alone! Give it some food! Don’t let it bite her! Lure the snake away! Here, snakey! Here, snakey snakey!” The Incredibly Deadly Viper listened patiently to Mr. Poe’s speech, never taking its eyes off of Sunny, and when Mr. Poe paused to cough into his handkerchief, it leaned over and bit Sunny on the chin, right where it had bitten her when the two friends had first met. Klaus tried not to grin, but Dr. Lucafont gasped, Stephano stared, and Mr. Poe began leaping and babbling again. “It’s bitten her!” he cried. “It bit her! It bited her! Calm down! Get moving! Call an ambulance! Call the police! Call a scientist! Call my wife! This is terrible! This is awful! This is ghastly! This is phantasmagorical! This is—” “This is nothing to worry about,” Stephano interrupted smoothly. “What do you mean, nothing to worry about?” Mr. Poe asked incredulously. “Sunny was just bitten by—what’s the name of the snake, Klaus?” “The Incredibly Deadly Viper,” Klaus answered promptly. “The Incredibly Deadly Viper!” Mr. Poe repeated, pointing to the snake as it held on to Sunny’s chin with its teeth. Sunny gave another fake shriek of fear. “How can you say it’s nothing to worry about?” “Because the Incredibly Deadly Viper is completely harmless,” Stephano said. “Calm yourself, Poe. The snake’s name is a misnomer that Dr. Montgomery created for his own amusement.” “Are you sure?” Mr. Poe asked. His voice got a little lower, and he moved a bit more slowly as he began to calm down. “Of course I’m sure,” Stephano said, and Klaus recognized a look on his face he remembered from living at Count Olaf’s. It was a look of sheer vanity, a word which here means “Count Olaf thinking he’s the most incredible person who ever lived.” When the Baudelaire orphans had been under Olaf’s care, he had often acted this way, always happy to show off his skills, whether he was onstage with his atrocious theater company or up in his tower room making nasty plans. Stephano smiled, and continued to speak to Mr. Poe, eager to show off. “The snake is perfectly harmless—friendly, even. I read up on the Incredibly Deadly Viper, and many other snakes, in the library section of the Reptile Room as well as Dr. Montgomery ‘s private papers.” Dr. Lucafont cleared his throat. “Uh, boss—” he said. “Don’t interrupt me, Dr. Lucafont,” Stephano said. “I studied books on all the major species. I looked carefully at sketches and charts. I took careful notes and looked them over each night before I went to sleep. If I may say so, I consider myself to be quite the expert on snakes.” “Aha!” Sunny cried, disentangling herself from the Incredibly Deadly Viper. “Sunny! You’re unharmed!” Mr. Poe cried. “Aha!” Sunny cried again, pointing at Stephano. The Incredibly Deadly Viper blinked its green eyes triumphantly. Mr. Poe looked at Klaus, puzzled. “What does your sister mean by ‘Aha’?” he asked. Klaus sighed. He felt, sometimes, as if he had spent half his life explaining things to Mr. Poe. “By ‘Aha, ‘” he said, “she means ‘One minute’ Stephano claims he knows nothing about snakes, the next he claims he is an expert! By ‘Aha’ she means ‘Stephano has been lying to us.’ By ‘Aha’ she means ‘we’ve finally exposed his dishonesty to you!’ By ‘Aha’ she means ‘Aha!’” house , that the evidence she had been looking for was undoubtedly in that very suitcase. And now, while her siblings were distracting the adults in the Reptile Room, would be her only opportunity to open the suitcase and retrieve proof of Stephano’s evil plot. But her aching shoulder was a reminder that she couldn’t simply open the suitcase— it was locked, with a lock as shiny as Stephano’s scheming eyes. I confess that if I were in Violet’s place, with only a few minutes to open a locked suitcase, instead of on the deck of my friend Bela’s yacht, writing this down, I probably would have given up hope. I would have sunk to the floor of the bedroom and pounded my fists against the carpet wondering why in the world life was so unfair and filled with inconveniences. Luckily for the Baudelaires, however, Violet was made of sterner stuff, and she took a good look around her bedroom for anything that might help her. There wasn’t much in the way of inventing materials. Violet longed for a good room in which to invent things, filled with wires and gears and all of the necessary equipment to invent really top-notch devices. Uncle Monty was in fact in possession of many of these supplies, but, to Violet’s frustration as she thought of this, they were located in the Reptile Room. She looked at the pieces of butcher paper tacked to the wall, where she had hoped to sketch out inventions as she lived in Uncle Monty’s house. The trouble had begun so quickly that Violet had only a few scribblings on one of the sheets, which she had written by the light of a floorlamp on her first night here. Violet’s eyes traveled to the floorlamp as she remembered that evening, and when she reached the electric socket she had an idea. We all know, of course, that we should never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever fiddle around in any way with electric devices. Never. There are two reasons for this. One is that you can get electrocuted, which is not only deadly but very unpleasant, and the other is that you are not Violet Baudelaire, one of the few people in the world who know how to handle such things. And even Violet was very careful and nervous as she unplugged the lamp and took a long look at the plug itself. It might work. Hoping that Klaus and Sunny were continuing to stall the adults successfully, Violet wiggled the two prongs of the plug this way and that until at last they came loose from their plastic casing. She now had two small metal strips. Violet then took one of the thumbtacks out of the butcher paper, letting the paper curl down the wall as if it were lazy. With the sharp end of the tack she poked and prodded the two pieces of metal until one was hooked around the other, and then forced the thumbtack between the two pieces so the sharp end stuck straight out. The result looked like a piece of metal you might not notice if it lay in the street, but in fact what Violet had made was a crude—the word “crude” here means “roughly made at the last minute” rather than “rude or ill-mannered”— lockpick. Lockpicks, as you probably know, are devices that work as if they were proper keys, usually used by bad guys to rob houses or escape from jail, but this was one of the rare times when a lockpick was being used by a good guy: Violet Baudelaire. Violet walked quietly back down the stairs, holding her lockpick in one hand and crossing her fingers with the other. She tiptoed past the enormous door of the Reptile Room and hoped that her absence would not be noticed as she slipped outside. Deliberately averting her eyes from Dr. Lucafont’s car to avoid catching even a glimpse of Uncle Monty’s body, the eldest Baudelaire walked toward the pile of suitcases. She looked first at the old ones belonging to the Baudelaires. Those suitcases contained, she remembered, lots of ugly, itchy clothing that Mrs. Poe had bought for them soon after their parents died. For a few seconds, Violet found herself staring at the suitcases, remembering how effortless her life had been before all this trouble had set upon them, and how surprising it was to find herself in such miserable circumstances now. This may not be surprising to us, because we know how disastrous the lives of the Baudelaire orphans are, but Violet’s misfortune was constantly surprising to her and it took her a minute to push thoughts of their situation out of her head and to concentrate on what she had to do. She knelt down to get closer to Stephano’s suitcase, held the shiny silver padlock in one hand, took a deep breath, and stuck the lock-pick into the keyhole. It went inside, but when she tried to turn it around, it scarcely budged, only scraped a little at the inside of the keyhole. It needed to move more smoothly or it would never work. Violet took her lockpick out and wet it with her mouth, grimacing at the stale taste of the metal. Then she stuck the lockpick into the keyhole again and tried to move it. It wiggled slightly and then lay still. Violet took the lockpick out and thought very, very hard, retying her hair in the ribbon. As she cleared the hair from her eyes, though, she felt a sudden prickle on her skin. It was unpleasant and familiar. It was the feeling of being watched. She looked quickly behind her, but saw only the snake-shaped hedges on the lawn. She looked to the side and saw only the driveway leading down to Lousy Lane . But then she looked straight ahead, through the glass walls of the Reptile Room. It had never occurred to her that people could see in through the Reptile Room’s walls as clearly as they could see out, but when she looked up Violet could see, through the cages of reptiles, the figure of Mr. Poe leaping up and down excitedly. You and I know, of course, that Mr. Poe was panicking over Sunny and the Incredibly Deadly Viper, but all Violet knew was that whatever ruse her siblings had devised was still working. The prickle on her skin was not explained, however, until she looked a little closer, just to the right of Mr. Poe, and saw that Stephano was looking right back at her. Her mouth fell open in surprise and panic. She knew that any second now, Stephano would invent an excuse to leave the Reptile Room and come find her, and she hadn’t even opened the suitcase. Quickly, quickly, quickly, she had to find some way to make her lockpick work. She looked down at the damp gravel of the driveway, and up at the dim, yellowish afternoon sun. She looked at her own hands, smudged with dust from picking apart the electric plug, and that’s when she thought of something. Jumping to her feet, Violet sprinted back into the house as if Stephano were already after her and pushed her way through the door into the kitchen. Shoving a chair to the floor in her haste, she grabbed a bar of soap from the dripping sink. She rubbed the slippery substance carefully over her lockpick until the entire invention had a thin, slick coating. Her heart pounding in her chest, she ran back outside, taking a hurried look through the walls of the Reptile Room. Stephano was saying something to Mr. Poe—he was bragging about his expertise of snakes, but Violet had no way of knowing that—and Violet took this moment to kneel down and stick the lockpick back into the keyhole of the padlock. It spun quickly all the way around and then snapped in two, right in her hands. There was a faint sputter of sound as one half fell to the grass, the other one sticking in the keyhole like a jagged tooth. Her lockpick was destroyed. Violet closed her eyes for a moment in despair, and then pulled herself to her feet, using the suitcase to gain her balance. When she put her hand on the suitcase, however, the padlock swung open, and the case tipped open and spilled everything all over the ground. Violet fell back down in surprise. Somehow, as the lock-pick turned, it must have unstuck the lock. Sometimes even in the most unfortunate of lives there will occur a moment or two of good fortune. It is very difficult, experts have told us, to find a needle in a haystack, which is why “needle in a haystack” has become a rather hackneyed phrase meaning “something that is difficult to find.” The reason it is difficult to find a needle in a haystack, of course, is that out of all the things in a haystack, the needle is only one of them. If, however, you were looking for anything in a haystack, that wouldn’t be difficult at all, because once you started sifting through the haystack you would most certainly find something: hay, of course, but also dirt, bugs, a few farming tools, and maybe even a man who had escaped from prison and was hiding there. When Violet searched through the contents of Stephano’s suitcase, it was more like looking for anything in a haystack, because she didn’t know exactly what she wanted to find. Therefore it was actually fairly easy to find useful items of evidence: a glass vial with a sealed rubber cap, as one might find in a scientific laboratory; a syringe with a sharp needle, like the one your doctor uses to give you shots; a small bunch of folded papers; a card laminated in plastic; a powder puff and small hand mirror. Even though she knew she had only a few more moments, Violet separated these items from the smelly clothes and the bottle of wine that were also in the suitcase, and looked at all her evidence very carefully, concentrating on each item as if they were small parts out of which she was going to make a machine. And in a way, they were. Violet Baudelaire needed to arrange these pieces of evidence to defeat Stephano’s evil plan and bring justice and peace into the lives of the Baudelaire orphans for the first time since their parents perished in the terrible fire. Violet gazed at each piece of evidence, thinking very hard, and before too long, her face lit up the way it always did when all the pieces of something were fit together properly and the machine worked just the way it should. C H A P T E R Twelve I promise you that this is the last time that I will use the phrase “meanwhile, back at the ranch,” but I can think of no other way to return to the moment when Klaus has just explained to Mr. Poe what Sunny had meant by shouting “Aha!” and now everyone in the Reptile Room was staring at Stephano. Sunny looked triumphant. Klaus looked defiant. Mr. Poe looked furious. Dr. Lucafont looked worried. You couldn’t tell how the Incredibly Deadly Viper looked, because the facial expressions of snakes are difficult to read. Stephano looked back at all these people silently, his face fluttering as he tried to decide whether to come clean, a phrase which here means “admit that he’s really Count Olaf and up to no good,” or perpetuate his deception, a phrase which here means “lie, lie, lie.” “Stephano,” Mr. Poe said, and coughed into his handkerchief. Klaus and Sunny waited impatiently for him to continue. “Stephano, explain yourself. You have just told us that you are an expert on snakes. Previously, however, you told us you knew nothing of snakes, and therefore couldn’t have been involved in Dr. Montgomery’s death. What is going on?” “When I told you I knew nothing of snakes,” Stephano said, “I was being modest. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go outside for a moment, and—” “You weren’t being modest!” Klaus cried. “You were lying! And you are lying now! You’re nothing but a liar and murderer!” Stephano’s eyes grew wide and his face clouded in anger. “You have no evidence of that,” he said. “Yes we do,” said a voice in the doorway, and everyone turned around to find Violet standing there, with a smile on her face and evidence in her arms. Triumphantly, she walked across the Reptile Room to the far end, where the books Klaus had been reading about the Mamba du Mal were still stacked in a pile. The others followed her, walking down the aisles of reptiles. Silently, she arranged the objects in a line on top of a table: the glass vial with the sealed rubber cap, the syringe with the sharp needle, the small bunch of folded papers, a card laminated in plastic, the powder puff and the small hand mirror. “What is all this?” Mr. Poe said, gesturing to the arrangement. “This,” Violet said, “is evidence, which I found in Stephano’s suitcase.” “My suitcase,” Stephano said, “is private property, which you are not allowed to touch. It’s very rude of you, and besides, it was locked.” A Series of Unfortunate Events 2- The Reptile Room “It was an emergency,” Violet said calmly, “so I picked the lock.” “How did you do that?” Mr. Poe asked. “Nice girls shouldn’t know how to do such things.” “My sister is a nice girl,” Klaus said, “and she knows how to do all sorts of things.” “Roofik!” Sunny agreed. “Well, we’ll discuss that later,” Mr. Poe said. “In the meantime, please continue.” “When Uncle Monty died,” Violet began, “my siblings and I were very sad, but we were also very suspicious.” “We weren’t suspicious!” Klaus exclaimed. “If someone is suspicious, it means they’re not sure! We were positive that Stephano killed him!” “Nonsense!” Dr. Lucafont said. “As I explained to all of you, Montgomery Montgomery’s death was an accident. The Mamba du Mal escaped from its cage and bit him, and that’s all there is to it.” “I beg your pardon,” Violet said, “but that is not all there is to it. Klaus read up on the Mamba du Mal, and found out how it kills its victims.” Klaus walked over to the stack of books and opened the one on top. He had marked his place with a small piece of paper, so he found what he was looking for right away. ‘“The Mamba du Mal, ‘” he read out loud, “‘is one of the deadliest snakes in the hemisphere, noted for its strangulatory grip, used in conjunction with its deadly venom, giving all of its victims a tenebrous hue, which is ghastly to behold.’” He put the book down, and turned to Mr. Poe. “‘Strangulatory’ means—” “We know what the words mean!” Stephano shouted. “Then you must know,” Klaus said, “that the Mamba du Mal did not kill Uncle Monty. His body didn’t have a tenebrous hue. It was as pale as could be.” “That’s true,” Mr. Poe said, “but it doesn’t necessarily indicate that Dr. Montgomery was murdered.” “Yes,” Dr. Lucafont said. “Perhaps, just this once, the snake didn’t feel like bruising its victim.” “It is more likely,” Violet said, “that Uncle Monty was killed with these items.” She held up the glass vial with the sealed rubber cap. “This vial is labeled ‘Venom du Mal, ‘ and it’s obviously from Uncle Monty’s cabinet of venom samples.” She then held up the syringe with the sharp needle. “Stephano—Olaf—took this syringe and injected the venom into Uncle Monty. Then he poked an extra hole, so it would look like the snake had bitten him.” “But I loved Dr. Montgomery,” Stephano said. “I would have had nothing to gain from his death.” Sometimes, when someone tells a ridiculous lie, it is best to ignore it entirely. “When I turn eighteen, as we all know,” Violet continued, ignoring Stephano entirely, “I inherit the Baudelaire fortune, and Stephano intended to get that fortune for himself. It would be easier to do so if we were in a location that was more difficult to trace, such as Peru .” Violet held up the small bunch of folded papers. “These are tickets for the Prospero, leaving Hazy Harbor for Peru at five o’clock today. That’s where Stephano was taking us when we happened to run into you, Mr. Poe.” “But Uncle Monty tore up Stephano’s ticket to Peru ,” Klaus said, looking confused. “I saw him.” “That’s true,” Violet said. “That’s why he had to get Uncle Monty out of the way. He killed Uncle Monty—” Violet stopped for a minute and shuddered. “He killed Uncle Monty, and took this laminated card. It’s Monty’s membership card for the Herpetological Society. Stephano planned to pose as Uncle Monty to get on board the Prospero, and whisk us away to Peru .” “But I don’t understand,” Mr. Poe said. “How did Stephano even know about your fortune?” “Because he’s really Count Olaf,” Violet said, exasperated that she had to explain what she and her siblings and you and I knew the moment Stephano arrived at the house. “He may have shaved his head, and trimmed off his eyebrows, but the only way he could get rid of the tattoo on his left ankle was with this powder puff and hand mirror. There’s makeup all over his left ankle, to hide the eye, and I’ll bet if we rub it with a cloth we can see the tattoo.” “That’s absurd!” Stephano cried. “We’ll see about that,” Mr. Poe replied. “Now, who has a cloth?” “Not me,” Klaus said. “Not me,” Violet said. “Guweel!” Sunny said. “Well, if nobody has a cloth, we might as well forget the whole thing,” Dr. Lucafont said, but Mr. Poe held up a finger to tell him to wait. To the relief of the Baudelaire orphans, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his handkerchief. “Your left ankle, please,” he said sternly to Stephano. “But you’ve been coughing into that all day!” Stephano said. “It has germs!” “If you are really who the children say you are,” Mr. Poe said, “then germs are the least of your problems. Your left ankle, please.” Stephano—and this is the last time, thank goodness, we’ll have to call him by his phony name—gave a little growl, and pulled his left pants leg up to reveal his ankle. Mr. Poe knelt down and rubbed at it for a few moments. At first, nothing appeared to happen, but then, like a sun shining through clouds at the end of a terrible rainstorm, the faint outline of an eye began to appear. Clearer and clearer it grew until it was as dark as it had been when the orphans first saw it, back when they had lived with Count Olaf. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny all stared at the eye, and the eye stared back. For the first time in their lives, the Baudelaire orphans were happy to see it. C H A P T E R Thirteen If this were a book written to entertain small children, you would know what would happen next. With the villain’s identity and evil plans exposed, the police would arrive on the scene and place him in a jail for the rest of his life, and the plucky youngsters would go out for pizza and live happily ever after. But this book is about the Baudelaire orphans, and you and I know that these three unfortunate children living happily ever after is about as likely as Uncle Monty returning to life. But it seemed to the Baudelaire orphans, as the tattoo became evident, that at least a little bit of Uncle Monty had come back to them as they proved Count Olaf’s treachery once and for all. “That’s the eye, all right,” Mr. Poe said, and stopped rubbing Count Olaf’s ankle. “You are most definitely Count Olaf, and you are most definitely under arrest.” “And I am most definitely shocked,” Dr. Lucafont said, clapping his oddly solid hands to his head. “As am I,” Mr. Poe agreed, grabbing Count Olaf’s arm in case he tried to run anywhere. “Violet, Klaus, Sunny—please forgive me for not believing you earlier. It just seemed too far-fetched that he would have searched you out, disguised himself as a laboratory assistant, and concocted an elaborate plan to steal your fortune.” “I wonder what happened to Gustav, Uncle Monty’s real lab assistant?” Klaus wondered out loud. “If Gustav hadn’t quit, then Uncle Monty never would have hired Count Olaf.” Count Olaf had been quiet this whole time, ever since the tattoo had appeared. His shiny eyes had darted this way and that, watching everyone carefully the way a lion will watch a herd of antelope, looking for the one that would be best to kill and eat. But at the mention of Gustav’s name, he spoke up. “Gustav didn’t quit,” he said in his wheezy voice. “Gustav is dead! One day when he was out collecting wildflowers I drowned him in the Swarthy Swamp . Then I forged a note saying he quit.” Count Olaf looked at the three children as if he were going to run over and strangle them, but instead he stood absolutely still, which somehow was even scarier. “But that’s nothing compared to what I will do to you, orphans. You have won this round of the game, but I will return for your fortune, and for your precious skin.” “This is not a game, you horrible man,” Mr. Poe said. “Dominos is a game. Water polo is a game. Murder is a crime, and you will go to jail for it. I will drive you to the police station in town right this very minute. Oh, drat, I can’t. My car is wrecked. Well, I’ll take you down in Dr. Montgomery’s jeep, and you children can follow along in Dr. Lucafont’s car. I guess you’ll be able to see the inside of a doctor’s automobile, after all.” “It might be easier,” Dr. Lucafont said, “to put Stephano in my car, and have the children follow behind. After all, Dr. Montgomery’s body is in my car, so there’s no room for all three children, anyway.” “Well,” Mr. Poe said, “I’d hate to disappoint the children after they’ve had such a trying time. We can move Dr. Montgomery’s body to the jeep, and—” “We couldn’t care less about the inside of a doctor’s automobile,” Violet said impatiently. “We only made that up so we wouldn’t be trapped alone with Count Olaf.” “You shouldn’t tell lies, orphans,” Count Olaf said. “I don’t think you are in a position to give moral lectures to children, Olaf,” Mr. Poe said sternly. “All right, Dr. Lucafont, you take him.” Dr. Lucafont grabbed Count Olaf’s shoulder with one of his oddly stiff hands, and led the way out of the Reptile Room and to the front door, stopping at the doorway to give Mr. Poe and the three children a thin smile. “Say good-bye to the orphans, Count Olaf,” Dr. Lucafont said. “Good-bye,” Count Olaf said. “Good-bye,” Violet said. “Good-bye,” Klaus said. Mr. Poe coughed into his handkerchief and gave a sort of disgusted half-wave at Count Olaf, indicating good-bye. But Sunny didn’t say anything. Violet and Klaus looked down at her, surprised that she hadn’t said “Yeet!” or “Libo!” or any of her various terms for “good-bye.” But Sunny was staring at Dr. Lucafont with a determined look in her eye, and in a moment she had leaped into the air and bitten him on the hand. “Sunny!” Violet said, and was about to apologize for her behavior when she saw Dr. Lucafont’s whole hand come loose from his arm and fall to the floor. As Sunny clamped down on it with her four sharp teeth, the hand made a crackling sound, like breaking wood or plastic rather than skin or bone. And when Violet looked at the place where Dr. Lucafont’s hand had been, she saw no blood or indication of a wound, but a shiny, metal hook. Dr. Lucafont looked at the hook, too, and then at Violet, and grinned horribly. Count Olaf grinned too, and in a second the two of them had darted out the door. “The hook-handed man!” Violet shouted. “He’s not a doctor! He’s one of Count Olaf’s henchmen!” Instinctively, Violet grabbed the air where the two men had been standing, but of course they weren’t there. She opened the front door wide and saw the two of them sprinting through the snake-shaped hedges. “After them!” Klaus shouted, and the three Baudelaires started to run through the door. But Mr. Poe stepped in front of them and blocked their way. “No!” he cried. “But it’s the hook-handed man!” Violet shouted. “He and Olaf will get away!” “I can’t let you run out after two dangerous criminals,” Mr. Poe replied. “I am responsible for the safety of you children, and I will not have any harm come to you.” “Then you go after them!” Klaus cried. “But hurry!” Mr. Poe began to step out the door, but he stopped when he heard the roar of a car engine starting up. The two ruffians—a word which here means “horrible people”—had reached Dr. Lucafont’s car, and were already driving away. “Get in the jeep!” Violet exclaimed. “Follow them!” “A grown man,” Mr. Poe said sternly, “does not get involved in a car chase. This is a job for the police. I’ll go call them now, and maybe they can set up roadblocks.” The Baudelaire youngsters watched Mr. Poe shut the door and race to the telephone, and their hearts sank. They knew it was no use. By the time Mr. Poe was through explaining the situation to the police, Count Olaf and the hook-handed man were sure to be long gone. Suddenly exhausted, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny walked to Uncle Monty’s enormous staircase and sat down on the bottom step, listening to the faint sound of Mr. Poe talking on the phone. They knew that trying to find Count Olaf and the hook-handed man, particularly when it grew dark, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Despite their anxiety over Count Olaf’s escape, the three orphans must have fallen asleep for a few hours, for the next thing they knew, it was nighttime and they were still on the bottom step. Somebody had placed a blanket over them, and as they stretched themselves, they saw three men in overalls walking out of the Reptile Room, carrying some of the reptiles in their cages. Behind them walked a chubby man in a brightly colored plaid suit, who stopped when he saw they were awake. “Hey, kids,” the chubby man said in a loud, booming voice. “I’m sorry if I woke you up, but my team has to move quickly.” “Who are you?” Violet asked. It is confusing to fall asleep in the daytime and wake up at night. “What are you doing with Uncle Monty’s reptiles?” Klaus asked. It is also confusing to realize you have been sleeping on stairs, rather than in a bed or sleeping bag. “Dixnik?” Sunny asked. It is always confusing why anyone would choose to wear a plaid suit. “The name’s Bruce,” Bruce said. “I’m the director of marketing for the Herpetological Society. Your friend Mr. Poe called me to come and retrieve the snakes now that Dr. Montgomery has passed on. ‘Retrieve’ means ‘take away.’” “We know what the word ‘retrieve’ means,” Klaus said, “but why are you taking them? Where are they going?” “Well, you three are the orphans, right? You’ll be moving on to some other relative who won’t die on you like Montgomery did. And these snakes need to be taken care of, so we’re giving them away to other scientists, zoos, and retirement homes. Those we can’t find homes for we’ll have put to sleep.” “But they’re Uncle Monty’s collection!” Klaus cried. “It took him years to find all these reptiles! You can’t just scatter them to the winds!” “It’s the way it has to be,” Bruce said smoothly. He was still talking in a very loud voice, for no apparent reason. “Viper!” Sunny shouted, and began to crawl toward the Reptile Room. “What my sister means,” Violet explained, “is that she’s very close friends with one of the snakes. Could we take just one with us—the Incredibly Deadly Viper?” “First off, no” Bruce said. “That guy Poe said all the snakes now belong to us. And second off, if you think I’m going to let small children near the Incredibly Deadly Viper, think again.” “But the Incredibly Deadly Viper is harmless,” Violet said. “Its name is a misnomer.” Bruce scratched his head. “A what?” “That means ‘a wrong name, ‘” Klaus explained. “Uncle Monty discovered it, so he got to name it.” “But this guy was supposed to be brilliant,” Bruce said. He reached into a pocket in his plaid jacket and pulled out a cigar. “Giving a snake a wrong name doesn’t sound brilliant to me. It sounds idiotic. But then, what can you expect from a man whose own name was Montgomery Montgomery?” “It is not nice,” Klaus said, “to lampoon someone’s name like that.” “I don’t have time to ask you what ‘lampoon’ means,” Bruce said. “But if the baby here wants to wave bye-bye to the Incredibly Deadly Viper, she’d better do it soon. It’s already outside.” Sunny began to crawl toward the front door, but Klaus was not through talking to Bruce. “Our Uncle Monty was brilliant,” he said firmly. “He was a brilliant man,” Violet agreed, “and we will always remember him as such.” “Brilliant!” Sunny shrieked, in mid-crawl, and her siblings smiled down at her, surprised she had uttered a word that everyone could understand. Bruce lit his cigar and blew smoke into the air, then shrugged. “It’s nice you feel that way, kid,” he said. “Good luck wherever they put you.” He looked at a shiny diamond watch on his wrist, and turned to talk to the men in overalls. “Let’s get a move on. In five minutes we have to be back on that road that smells like ginger.” “It’s horseradish” Violet corrected, but Bruce had already walked away. She and Klaus looked at each other, and then began following Sunny outside to wave goodbye to their reptile friends. But as they reached the door, Mr. Poe walked into the room and blocked them again. “I see you’re awake,” he said. “Please go upstairs and go to sleep, then. We have to get up very early in the morning.” “We just want to say good-bye to the snakes,” Klaus said, but Mr. Poe shook his head. “You’ll get in Bruce’s way,” he replied. “Plus, I would think you three would never want to see a snake again.” The Baudelaire orphans looked at one another and sighed. Everything in the world seemed wrong. It was wrong that Uncle Monty was dead. It was wrong that Count Olaf and the hook-handed man had escaped. It was wrong for Bruce to think of Monty as a person with a silly name, instead of a brilliant scientist. And it was wrong to assume that the children never wanted to see a snake again. The snakes, and indeed everything in the Reptile Room, were the last reminders the Baudelaires had of the few happy days they’d spent there at the house—the few happy days they’d had since their parents had perished. Even though they understood that Mr. Poe wouldn’t let them live alone with the reptiles, it was all wrong never to see them again, without even saying good-bye. Ignoring Mr. Poe’s instructions, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny rushed out the front door where the men in overalls were loading the cages into a van with “Herpetological Society” written on the back. It was a full moon, and the moonlight reflected off the glass walls of the Reptile Room as though it were a large jewel with a bright, bright shine— brilliant, one might say. When Bruce had used the word “brilliant” about Uncle Monty, he meant “having a reputation for cleverness or intelligence.” But when the children used the word —and when they thought of it now, staring at the Reptile Room glowing in the moonlight —it meant more than that. It meant that even in the bleak circumstances of their current situation, even throughout the series of unfortunate events that would happen to them for the rest of their lives, Uncle Monty and his kindness would shine in their memories. Uncle Monty was brilliant, and their time with him was brilliant. Bruce and his men from the Herpetological Society could dismantle Uncle Monty’s collection, but nobody could ever dismantle the way the Baudelaires would think of him. “Good-bye, good-bye!” the Baudelaire orphans called, as the Incredibly Deadly Viper was loaded into the truck. “Good-bye, good-bye!” they called, and even though the Viper was Sunny’s special friend, Violet and Klaus found themselves crying along with their sister, and when the Incredibly Deadly Viper looked up to see them, they saw that it was crying too, tiny shiny tears falling from its green eyes. The Viper was brilliant, too, and as the children looked at one another, they saw their own tears and the way they shone. “You’re brilliant,” Violet murmured to Klaus, “reading up on the Mamba du Mal.” “You’re brilliant,” Klaus murmured back, “getting the evidence out of Stephano’s suitcase.” “Brilliant!” Sunny said again, and Violet and Klaus gave their baby sister a hug. Even the youngest Baudelaire was brilliant, for distracting the adults with the Incredibly Deadly Viper. “Good-bye, good-bye!” the brilliant Baudelaires called, and waved to Uncle Monty’s reptiles. They stood together in the moonlight, and kept waving, even when Bruce shut the doors of the van, even as the van drove past the snake-shaped hedges and down the driveway to Lousy Lane , and even when it turned a corner and disappeared into the dark.

Slippery Slope

BOOK the Tenth THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Dear Reader, Like handshakes, house pets, or raw carrots, many things are preferable when not slippery. Unfortunately, in this miserable volume, I am afraid that Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire run into more than their fair share of slipperiness during their harrowing journey up—and down—a range of strange and distressing mountains. In order to spare you any further repulsion, it would be best not to mention any of the unpleasant details of this story, particularly a secret message, a toboggan, a deceitful trap, a swarm of snow gnats, a scheming villain, a troupe of organized youngsters, a covered casserole dish, and a surprising survivor of a terrible fire. Unfortunately, I have dedicated my life to researching and recording the sad tale of the Baudelaire orphans. There is no reason for you to dedicate yourself to such things, and you might instead dedicate yourself to letting this slippery book slip from your hands into a nearby trash receptacle, or deep pit. With all due respect, Lemony Snicket For Beatrice— Wh e n we met, you we re prett y, and I was lonel y. No w, I am prett y lonel y. Contents CHAPTER ONE A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called… CHAPTER TWO Violet took one last look over the misty peak, and… CHAPTER THREE You may well wonder why there has been no account… CHAPTER FOUR That night was a dark day. Of course, all nights… CHAPTER FIVE When you have many questions on your mind, and you… CHAPTER SIX In the very early hours of the morning, while the… 0 CHAPTER SEVEN An associate of mine once wrote a novel called Corridors… CHAPTER EIGHT It is one of the peculiar truths of life that… CHAPTER NINE The two elder Baudelaires stood for a moment with Quigley… CHAPTER TEN Violet and Quigley walked carefully across the frozen pool until… 0 FOR BEATRICE— DEAR READER iii iv CHAPTER ELEVEN If you ever look at a picture of someone who… CHAPTER TWELVE Not too long ago, in the Swedish city of Stockholm… CHAPTER THIRTEEN Count Olaf gasped, and raised his one eyebrow very high… TO MY KIND EDITOR A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS CREDITS COVER COPYRIGHT ABOUT THE PUBLISHER ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR CHAPTER One A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called “The Road Less Traveled,” describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road less traveled was peaceful but quite lonely, and he was probably a bit nervous as he went along, because if anything happened on the road less traveled, the other travelers would be on the road more frequently traveled and so couldn’t hear him as he cried for help. Sure enough, that poet is now dead. Like a dead poet, this book can be said to be on the road less traveled, because it begins with the three Baudelaire children on a path A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS leading through the Mortmain Mountains, which is not a popular destination for travelers, and it ends in the churning waters of the Stricken Stream, which few travelers even go near. But this book is also on the road less traveled, because unlike books most people prefer, which provide comforting and entertaining tales about charming people and talking animals, the tale you are reading now is nothing but distressing and unnerving, and the people unfortunate enough to be in the story are far more desperate and frantic than charming, and I would prefer to not speak about the animals at all. For that reason, I can no more suggest the reading of this woeful book than I can recommend wandering around the woods by yourself, because like the road less traveled, this book is likely to make you feel lonely, miserable, and in need of help. The Baudelaire orphans, however, had no choice but to be on the road less traveled. Violet and Klaus, the two elder Baudelaires, were in a caravan, traveling very quickly along the THE SLIPPERY SLOPE high mountain path. Neither Violet, who was fourteen, nor Klaus, who had recently turned thirteen, had ever thought they would find themselves on this road, except perhaps with their parents on a family vacation. But the Baudelaire parents were nowhere to be found after a terrible fire destroyed their home— although the children had reason to believe that one parent may not have died in the blaze after all—and the caravan was not heading up the Mortmain Mountains, toward a secret headquarters the siblings had heard about and were hoping to find. The caravan was heading down the Mortmain Mountains, very quickly, with no way to control or stop its journey, so Violet and Klaus felt more like fish in a stormy sea than travelers on a vacation. But Sunny Baudelaire was in a situation that could be said to be even more desperate. Sunny was the youngest Baudelaire, still learning to speak in a way that everyone could understand, so she scarcely had words for how frightened she A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS was. Sunny was traveling uphill, toward the headquarters in the Mortmain Mountains, in an automobile that was working perfectly, but the driver of the automobile was a man who was reason enough for being terrified. Some people called this man wicked. Some called him facinorous, which is a fancy word for “wicked.” But everyone called him Count Olaf, unless he was wearing one of his ridiculous disguises and making people call him a false name. Count Olaf was an actor, but he had largely abandoned his theatrical career to try to steal the enormous fortune the Baudelaire parents had left behind. Olaf’s schemes to get the fortune had been mean-spirited and particularly complicated, but nevertheless he had managed to attract a girlfriend, a villainous and stylish woman named Esmé Squalor, who was sitting next to Count Olaf in the car, cackling nastily and clutching Sunny on her lap. Also in the car were several employees of Olaf’s, including a man with hooks instead of hands, two women who liked THE SLIPPERY SLOPE to wear white powder all over their faces, and three new comrades Olaf had recently recruited at Caligari Carnival. The Baudelaire children had been at the carnival, too, wearing disguises of their own, and had pretended to join Count Olaf in his treachery, but the villain had seen through their ruse, a phrase which here means “realized who they really were, and cut the knot attaching the caravan to the car, leaving Sunny in Olaf’s clutches and her siblings tumbling toward their doom.” Sunny sat in the car and felt Esmé’s long fingernails scratch her shoulders, and worried about what would happen to her and what was happening to her older siblings, as she heard their screams getting fainter and fainter as the car drove farther and farther away. “We have to stop this caravan!” Klaus screamed. Hurriedly, he put on his glasses, as if by improving his vision he might improve the situation. But even in perfect focus, he could see their predicament was dire. The caravan had A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS served as a home for several performers at the carnival’s House of Freaks before they defected—a word which here means “joined Count Olaf’s band of revolting comrades”—and now the contents of this tiny home were rattling and crashing with each bump in the road. Klaus ducked to avoid a roasting pan, which Hugo the hunchback had used to prepare meals and which had toppled off a shelf in the commotion. He lifted his feet from the floor as a set of dominoes skittered by—a set that Colette the contortionist had liked to play with. And he squinted above him as a hammock swung violently overhead. An ambidextrous person named Kevin used to sleep in that hammock until he had joined Olaf’s troupe, along with Hugo and Colette, and now it seemed like it might fall at any moment and trap the Baudelaires beneath it. The only comforting thing that Klaus could see was his sister, who was looking around the caravan with a fierce and thoughtful expression THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and unbuttoning the shirt the two siblings were sharing as part of their disguise. “Help me get us out of these freakish pants we’re both in,” Violet said. “There’s no use pretending we’re a two-headed person anymore, and we both need to be as able-bodied as possible.” In moments, the two Baudelaires wriggled out of the oversized clothing they had taken from Count Olaf’s disguise kit and were standing in regular clothes, trying to balance in the shaky caravan. Klaus quickly stepped out of the path of a falling potted plant, but he couldn’t help smiling as he looked at his sister. Violet was tying her hair up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes, a sure sign that she was thinking up an invention. Violet’s impressive mechanical skills had saved the Baudelaires’ lives more times than they could count, and Klaus was certain that his sister could concoct something that could stop the caravan’s perilous journey. “Are you going to make a brake?” Klaus asked. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Not yet,” Violet said. “A brake interferes with the wheels of a vehicle, and this caravan’s wheels are spinning too quickly for interference. I’m going to unhook these hammocks and use them as a drag chute.” “Drag chute?” Klaus said. “Drag chutes are a little like parachutes attached to the back of a car,” Violet explained hurriedly, as a coatrack clattered around her. She reached up to the hammock where she and Klaus had slept and quickly detached it from the wall. “Race drivers use them to help stop their cars when a race is over. If I dangle these hammocks out the caravan door, we should slow down considerably.” “What can I do?” Klaus said. “Look in Hugo’s pantry,” Violet said, “and see if you can find anything sticky.” When someone tells you to do something unusual without an explanation, it is very difficult not to ask why, but Klaus had learned long ago to have faith in his sister’s ideas, and THE SLIPPERY SLOPE quickly crossed to a large cupboard Hugo had used to store ingredients for the meals he prepared. The door of the cupboard was swinging back and forth as if a ghost were fighting with it, but most of the items were still rattling around inside. Klaus looked at the cupboard and thought of his baby sister, who was getting farther and farther away from him. Even though Sunny was still quite young, she had recently shown an interest in cooking, and Klaus remembered how she had made up her own hot chocolate recipe, and helped prepare a delicious soup the entire caravan had enjoyed. Klaus held the cupboard door open and peered inside, and hoped that his sister would survive to develop her culinary skills. “Klaus,” Violet said firmly, taking down another hammock and tying it to the first one. “I don’t mean to rush you, but we need to stop this caravan as soon as possible. Have you found anything sticky?” Klaus blinked and returned to the task at A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS hand. A ceramic pitcher rolled around his feet as he pushed through the bottles and jars of cooking materials. “There’s lots of sticky things here,” he said. “I see blackstrap molasses, wild clover honey, corn syrup, aged balsamic vinegar, apple butter, strawberry jam, caramel sauce, maple syrup, butterscotch topping, maraschino liqueur, virgin and extra-virgin olive oil, lemon curd, dried apricots, mango chutney, crema di noci, tamarind paste, hot mustard, marshmallows, creamed corn, peanut butter, grape preserves, salt water taffy, condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling, and glue. I don’t know why Hugo kept glue in the pantry, but never mind. Which items do you want?” “All of them,” Violet said firmly. “Find some way of mixing them, while I tie these hammocks together.” Klaus grabbed the pitcher from the floor and began to pour the ingredients into it, while Violet, sitting on the floor to make it easier to 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE balance, gathered the cords of the hammocks in her lap and began twisting them into a knot. The caravan’s journey grew rougher and rougher, and with each jolt, the Baudelaires felt a bit seasick, as if they were back on Lake Lachrymose, crossing its stormy waters to try and rescue one of their many unfortunate guardians. But despite the tumult around them, in moments Violet stood up with the hammocks gathered in her arms, all tied together in a mass of fabric, and Klaus looked at his sister and held up the pitcher, which was filled to the brim with a thick and colorful slime. “When I say the word,” Violet said, “I’m going to open the door and cast these hammocks out. I want you at the other end of the caravan, Klaus. Open that little window and pour that mixture all over the wheels. If the hammocks work as a drag chute and the sticky substance interferes with the wheels, the caravan should slow down enough to save us. I just need to tie A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the hammocks to the doorknob.” “Are you using the Devil’s Tongue knot?” Klaus asked. “The Devil’s Tongue hasn’t brought us the best luck,” Violet said, referring to several previous rope-related escapades. “I’m using the Sumac, a knot I invented myself. I named it after a singer I admire. There—it feels secure. Are you ready to pour that mixture onto the wheels?” Klaus crossed to the window and opened it. The wild clattering sound of the caravan’s wheels grew louder, and the Baudelaires stared for a moment at the countryside racing by. The land was jagged and twisty, and it seemed that the caravan could tumble at any moment into a hole, or off the edge of one of the mountain’s square peaks. “I guess I’m ready,” Klaus said hesitantly. “Violet, before we try your invention, I want to tell you something.” “If we don’t try it now,” Violet said grimly, “you won’t have the chance to tell me anything.” She gave her knot one more tug and THE SLIPPERY SLOPE then turned back to Klaus. “Now!” she said, and threw open the caravan door. It is often said that if you have a room with a view, you will feel peaceful and relaxed, but if the room is a caravan hurtling down a steep and twisted road, and the view is an eerie mountain range racing backward away from you, while chilly mountain winds sting your face and toss dust into your eyes, then you will not feel one bit of peace or relaxation. Instead you will feel the horror and panic that the Baudelaires felt when Violet opened the door. For a moment they could do nothing but stand still, feeling the wild tilting of the caravan, and looking up at the odd, square peaks of the Mortmain Mountains, and hearing the grinding of the caravan’s wheels as they rolled over rocks and tree stumps. But then Violet shouted “Now!” once more, and both siblings snapped into action. Klaus leaned out the window and began to pour the mixture of blackstrap molasses, wild clover honey, corn syrup, aged balsamic vinegar, apple butter, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS strawberry jam, caramel sauce, maple syrup, butterscotch topping, maraschino liqueur, virgin and extra-virgin olive oil, lemon curd, dried apricots, mango chutney, crema di noci, tamarind paste, hot mustard, marshmallows, creamed corn, peanut butter, grape preserves, salt water taffy, condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling, and glue onto the closest wheels, while his sister tossed the hammocks out of the door, and if you have read anything of the Baudelaire orphans’ lives— which I hope you have not—then you will not be surprised to read that Violet’s invention worked perfectly. The hammocks immediately caught the rushing air and swelled out behind the caravan like enormous cloth balloons, which slowed the caravan down quite a bit, the way you would run much slower if you were dragging something behind you, like a knapsack or a sheriff. The sticky mixture fell on the spinning wheels, which immediately began to move with less ferocity, the way you would run with less ferocity if you suddenly found yourself running THE SLIPPERY SLOPE in quicksand or through lasagne. The caravan slowed down, and the wheels spun less wildly, and within moments the two Baudelaires were traveling at a much more comfortable pace. “It’s working!” Klaus cried. “We’re not done yet,” Violet said, and walked over to a small table that had overturned in the confusion. When the Baudelaires were living at Caligari Carnival, the table had come in handy as a place to sit and make plans, but now in the Mortmain Mountains, it would come in handy for a different reason. Violet dragged the table over to the open door. “Now that the wheels are slowing down,” she said, “we can use this as a brake.” Klaus dumped the last of the mixture out of the pitcher, and turned to his sister. “How?” he said, but Violet was already showing him how. Quickly she lay on the floor, and holding the table by its legs, dangled it out of the caravan so it dragged on the ground. Immediately there was a loud scraping sound, and the table began A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS to shake roughly in Violet’s hands. But she held fast, forcing the table to scrape against the rocky ground and slow the caravan down even more. The swaying of the caravan became gentler and gentler, and the fallen items owned by the carnival employees stopped crashing, and then with one last whine, the wheels stopped altogether, and everything was still. Violet leaned out of the door and stuck the table in front of one of the wheels so it couldn’t start rolling again, and then stood up and looked at her brother. “We did it,” Violet said. “You did it,” Klaus said. “The entire plan was your idea.” He put down the pitcher on the floor and wiped his hands on a fallen towel. “Don’t put down that pitcher,” Violet said, looking around the wreckage of the caravan. “We should gather up as many useful things as possible. We’ll need to get this caravan moving uphill if we want to rescue Sunny.” “And reach the headquarters,” Klaus added. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Count Olaf has the map we found, but I remember that the headquarters are in the Valley of Four Drafts, near the source of the Stricken Stream. It’ll be very cold there.” “Well, there is plenty of clothing,” Violet said, looking around. “Let’s grab everything we can and organize it outside.” Klaus nodded in agreement, and picked up the pitcher again, along with several items of clothing that had fallen in a heap on top of a small hand mirror that belonged to Colette. Staggering from carrying so many things, he walked out of the caravan behind his sister, who was carrying a large bread knife, three heavy coats, and a ukulele that Hugo used to play sometimes on lazy afternoons. The floors of the caravan creaked as the Baudelaires stepped outside, into the misty and empty landscape, and realized how fortunate they had been. The caravan had stopped right at the edge of one of the odd, square peaks of the mountain A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS range. The Mortmain Mountains looked like a staircase, heading up into the clouds or down into a veil of thick, gray mist, and if the caravan had kept going in the same direction, the two Baudelaires would have toppled over the peak and fallen down through the mist to the next stair, far, far below. But to one side of the caravan, the children could see the waters of the Stricken Stream, which were an odd grayish black color, and moved slowly and lazily downhill like a river of spilled oil. Had the caravan swerved to one side, the children would have been dumped into the dark and filthy waters. “It looks like the brake worked just in time,” Violet said quietly. “No matter where the caravan would have gone, we would have been finished.” Klaus nodded in agreement and looked around at the wilderness. “It will be difficult to navigate the caravan out of here,” Klaus said. “You’ll have to invent a steering device.” “And some sort of engine,” Violet said. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “That will take some time.” “We don’t have any time,” Klaus said. “If we don’t hurry, Count Olaf will be too far away and we’ll never find Sunny.” “We’ll find her,” Violet said firmly, and put down the items she was carrying. “Let’s go back into the caravan, and look for—” But before Violet could say what to look for, she was interrupted by an unpleasant crackling noise. The caravan seemed to moan, and then slowly began to roll toward the edge of the peak. The Baudelaires looked down and saw that the wheels had smashed the small table, so there was nothing to stop the caravan from moving again. Slowly and awkwardly it pitched forward, dragging the hammocks behind it as it neared the very edge of the peak. Klaus leaned down to grab hold of a hammock, but Violet stopped him. “It’s too heavy,” she said. “We can’t stop it.” “We can’t let it fall off the peak!” Klaus cried. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “We’d be dragged down, too,” Violet said. Klaus knew his sister was right, but still he wanted to grab the drag chute Violet had constructed. It is difficult, when faced with a situation you cannot control, to admit that you can do nothing, and it was difficult for the Baudelaires to stand and watch the caravan roll over the edge of the peak. There was one last creak as the back wheels bumped against a mound of dirt, and then the caravan disappeared in absolute silence. The Baudelaires stepped forward and peered over the edge of the peak, but it was so misty that the caravan was only a ghostly rectangle, getting smaller and smaller as it faded away. “Why isn’t there a crash?” Klaus asked. “The drag chute is slowing it down,” Violet said. “Just wait.” The siblings waited, and after a moment there was a muffled boom! from below as the caravan met its fate. In the mist, the children could not see a thing, but they knew that the caravan 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and everything inside it were gone forever, and indeed I have never been able to find its remains, even after months of searching the area with only a lantern and a rhyming dictionary for company. It seems that even after countless nights of battling snow gnats and praying the batteries would not run out, it is my fate that some of my questions will never be answered. Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant, filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like. When the Baudelaires were very young, they would have guessed that their fate was to grow up in happiness and contentment with their parents in the Baudelaire mansion, but now both the mansion and their parents were gone. When they were attending Prufrock Preparatory School, they had thought that their fate was to graduate alongside their friends the Quagmires, but they hadn’t seen the academy or the two triplets in a very long time. And just moments ago, it had looked like Violet and Klaus’s fate had been to A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS fall off a peak or into a stream, but now they were alive and well, but far away from their sister and without a vehicle to help them find her again. Violet and Klaus moved closer to one another, and felt the icy winds of the Mortmain Mountains blow down the road less traveled and give them goosebumps. They looked at the dark and swirling waters of the Stricken Stream, and they looked down from the edge of the peak into the mist, and then looked at one another and shivered, not only at the fates they had avoided, but at all the mysterious fates that lay ahead. CHAPTER Two l took one last look over the misty peak, and then reached down to put on one of the heavy coats she had taken from the caravan. be very high up in the mountains. By the time we get there, we’ll probably be wearing every stitch of this clothing.” “But how are we going to get there?” Klaus Drafts, and the caravan is destroyed.” Vio et “Take one of these coats,” she said to her brother. “It’s cold out here, and it’s likely to get even colder. The headquarters are supposed to said. “We’re nowhere near the Valley of Four “Let’s take a moment to see what we have,” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Violet said. “I might be able to construct something from the items we managed to take.” “I hope so,” Klaus said. “Sunny is getting farther and farther away. We’ll never catch up with her without some sort of vehicle.” Klaus spread out the items from the caravan, and put on one of the coats while Violet picked through her pile, but instantly the two Baudelaires saw that a vehicle was not in the realm of possibility, a phrase which here means “could not be made from a few small objects and some articles of clothing previously belonging to carnival employees.” Violet tied her hair up in a ribbon again and frowned down on the few items they had managed to save. In Klaus’s pile there was the pitcher, still sticky from the substance he had used to slow down the caravan wheels, as well as Colette’s hand mirror, a wool poncho, and a sweatshirt that read CALIGARI CARNIVAL. In Violet’s pile was the large bread knife, the ukulele, and one more coat. Even THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Klaus, who was not as mechanically minded as his sister, knew that the materials gathered on the ground were not enough to make something that could take the two children through the Mortmain Mountains. “I suppose I could make a spark by rubbing two rocks together,” Violet said, looking around the misty countryside for additional inventing materials, “or we could play the ukulele and bang on the pitcher. A loud noise might attract some help.” “But who would hear it?” Klaus said, gazing at the gloomy mist. “We didn’t see a sign of anyone else when we were in the caravan. The way through the Mortmain Mountains is like a poem I read once, about the road less traveled.” “Did the poem have a happy ending?” Violet asked. “It was neither happy nor unhappy,” Klaus said. “It was ambiguous. Well, let’s gather up these materials and take them with us.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Take them with us?” Violet said. “We don’t know where to go, and we don’t know how to get there.” “Sure we do,” Klaus said. “The Stricken Stream starts at a source high in the mountains, and winds its way down through the Valley of Four Drafts, where the headquarters are. It’s probably not the quickest or easiest way to get there, but if we follow the stream up the mountains, it’ll take us where we want to go.” “But that could take days,” Violet said. “We don’t have a map, or any food or water for the journey, or tents or sleeping bags or any other camping equipment.” “We can use all this clothing as blankets,” Klaus said, “and we can sleep in any shelter we find. There were quite a few caves on the map that animals use for hibernation.” The two Baudelaires looked at one another and shivered in the chilly breeze. The idea of hiking for hours in the mountains, only to sleep wrapped in someone else’s clothing in a cave THE SLIPPERY SLOPE that might contain hibernating animals, was not a pleasant one, and the siblings wished they did not have to take the road less traveled, but instead could travel in a swift, well-heated vehicle and reach their sister in mere moments. But wishing, like sipping a glass of punch, or pulling aside a bearskin rug in order to access a hidden trapdoor in the floor, is merely a quiet way to spend one’s time before the candles are extinguished on one’s birthday cake, and the Baudelaires knew that it would be best to stop wishing and start their journey. Klaus put the hand mirror and the ukulele in his coat pockets and picked up the poncho and the pitcher, while Violet put the bread knife in her pocket and picked up the sweatshirt and the last coat, and then, with one last look at the tracks the caravan left behind as it toppled over the peak, the two children began to follow the Stricken Stream. If you have ever traveled a long distance with a family member, then you know that there A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS are times when you feel like talking and times when you feel like being quiet. This was one of the quiet times. Violet and Klaus walked up the slopes of the mountain toward the headquarters they hoped to reach, and they heard the sound of the mountain winds, a low, tuneless moan like someone blowing across the top of an empty bottle, and the odd, rough sound of the stream’s fish as they stuck their heads out of the dark, thick waters of the stream, but both travelers were in a quiet mood and did not say a word to one another, each lost in their own thoughts. Violet let her mind wander to the time she had spent with her siblings in the Village of Fowl Devotees, when a mysterious man named Jacques Snicket was murdered, and the children were blamed for the crime. They had managed to escape from prison and rescue their friends Duncan and Isadora Quagmire from Count Olaf’s clutches, but then had been separated at the last moment from the two triplets, who THE SLIPPERY SLOPE sailed away in a self-sustaining hot air mobile home built by a man named Hector. None of the Baudelaires had seen Hector or the two Quagmires since, and Violet wondered if they were safe and if they had managed to contact a secret organization they’d discovered. The organization was called V.F.D., and the Baudelaires had not yet learned exactly what the organization did, or even what all the letters stood for. The children thought that the headquarters at the Valley of Four Drafts might prove to be helpful, but now, as the eldest Baudelaire trudged alongside the Stricken Stream, she wondered if she would ever find the answers she was looking for. Klaus was also thinking about the Quagmires, although he was thinking about when the Baudelaires first met them, at Prufrock Preparatory School. Many of the students at the school had been quite mean to the three siblings—particularly a very nasty girl named Carmelita Spats—but Isadora and Duncan had been very A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS kind, and soon the Baudelaires and the Quagmires had become inseparable, a word which here means “close friends.” One reason for their friendship had been that both sets of children had lost people who were close to them. The Baudelaires had lost their parents, of course, and the Quagmires had lost not only their parents but their brother, the third Quagmire triplet, whose name was Quigley. Klaus thought about the Quagmires’ tragedy, and felt a little guilty that one of his own parents might be alive after all. A document the Baudelaires had found contained a picture of their parents standing with Jacques Snicket and another man, with a caption reading “Because of the evidence discussed on page nine, experts now suspect that there may in fact be one survivor of the fire, but the survivor’s whereabouts are unknown.” Klaus had this document in his pocket right now, along with a few scraps of the Quagmires’ notebooks that they had managed to give him. Klaus 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE walked beside his older sister, thinking of the puzzle of V.F.D. and how kindly the Quagmires had tried to help them solve the mystery that surrounded them all. He was thinking so hard about these things that when Violet finally broke the silence, it was as if he were waking up from a long, confusing dream. “Klaus,” she said, “when we were in the caravan, you said you wanted to tell me something before we tried the invention, but I didn’t let you. What was it?” “I don’t know,” Klaus admitted. “I just wanted to say something, in case—well, in case the invention didn’t work.” He sighed, and looked up at the darkening sky. “I don’t remember the last thing I said to Sunny,” he said quietly. “It must have been when we were in Madame Lulu’s tent, or maybe outside, just before we stepped into the caravan. Had I known that Count Olaf was going to take her away, I would have tried to say something special. I A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS could have complimented her on the hot chocolate she made, or told her how skillful she was at staying in disguise.” “You can tell her those things,” Violet said, “when we see her again.” “I hope so,” Klaus said glumly, “but we’re so far behind Olaf and his troupe.” “But we know where they’re going,” Violet said, “and we know that he won’t harm a hair on her head. Count Olaf thinks we perished in the caravan, so he needs Sunny to get his hands on the fortune.” “She’s probably unharmed,” Klaus agreed, “but I’m sure she’s very frightened. I just hope she knows we’re coming after her.” “Me, too,” Violet said, and walked in a silence for a while, interrupted only by the wind and the odd, gurgling noise of the fish. “I think those fish are having trouble breathing,” Klaus said, pointing into the stream. “Something in the water is making them cough.” “Maybe the Stricken Stream isn’t always THE SLIPPERY SLOPE that ugly color,” Violet said. “What would turn normal water into grayish black slime?” “Iron ore,” Klaus said thoughtfully, trying to remember a book on high-altitude environmentalism he had read when he was ten. “Or perhaps a clay deposit, loosened by an earthquake or another geological event, or some sort of pollution. There might be an ink or licorice factory nearby.” “Maybe V.F.D. will tell us,” Violet said, “when we reach the headquarters.” “Maybe one of our parents will tell us,” Klaus said quietly. “We shouldn’t get our hopes up,” Violet said. “Even if one of our parents really did survive the fire, and the V.F.D. headquarters really are at the Valley of Four Drafts, we still don’t know that we will see them when we arrive.” “I don’t see the harm in getting our hopes up,” Klaus said. “We’re walking along a damaged stream, toward a vicious villain, in an attempt to rescue our sister and find the headquarters of a A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS secret organization. I could use a little bit of hope right now.” Violet stopped in her path. “I could use another layer of clothing,” she said. “It’s getting colder.” Klaus nodded in agreement, and held up the garment he was carrying. “Do you want the poncho,” he asked, “or the sweatshirt?” “The poncho, if you don’t mind,” Violet said. “After my experience in the House of Freaks, I don’t wish to advertise the Caligari Carnival.” “Me neither,” Klaus said, taking the lettered sweatshirt from his sister. “I think I’ll wear it inside out.” Rather than take off their coats and expose themselves to the icy winds of the Mortmain Mountains, Klaus put on the inside-out sweatshirt over his coat, and Violet wore the poncho outside hers, where it hung awkwardly around her. The two elder Baudelaires looked at one THE SLIPPERY SLOPE another and had to smile at their ridiculous appearance. “These are worse than the pinstripe suits Esmé Squalor gave us,” Violet said. “Or those itchy sweaters we wore when we stayed with Mr. Poe,” Klaus said, referring to a banker who was in charge of the Baudelaire fortune, with whom they had lost touch. “But at least we’ll keep warm. If it gets even colder, we can take turns wearing the extra coat.” “If one of our parents is at the headquarters,” Violet said, “he or she might not recognize us underneath all this clothing. We’ll look like two large lumps.” The two Baudelaires looked up at the snowcovered peaks above them and felt a bit dizzy, not only from the height of the Mortmain Mountains but from all the questions buzzing around their heads. Could they really reach the Valley of Four Drafts all by themselves? What would the headquarters look like? Would V.F.D. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS be expecting the Baudelaires? Would Count Olaf have reached the headquarters ahead of them? Would they find Sunny? Would they find one of their parents? Violet and Klaus looked at one another in silence and shivered in their strange clothes, until finally Klaus broke the silence with one more question, which seemed the dizziest one of all. “Which parent,” he said, “do you think is the survivor?” Violet opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment another question immediately occupied the minds of the elder Baudelaires. It is a dreadful question, and nearly everyone who has found themselves asking it has ended up wishing that they’d never brought up the subject. My brother asked the question once, and had nightmares about it for weeks. An associate of mine asked the question, and found himself falling through the air before he could hear the answer. It is a question I asked once, a very long time ago and in a very timid voice, and a woman THE SLIPPERY SLOPE replied by quickly putting a motorcycle helmet on her head and wrapping her body in a red silk cape. The question is, “What in the world is that ominous-looking cloud of tiny, white buzzing objects coming toward us?” and I’m sorry to tell you that the answer is “A swarm of wellorganized, ill-tempered insects known as snow gnats, who live in cold mountain areas and enjoy stinging people for no reason whatsoever.” “What in the world,” Violet said, “is that ominous-looking cloud of tiny, white buzzing objects coming toward us?” Klaus looked in the direction his sister was pointing and frowned. “I remember reading something in a book on mountainous insect life,” he said, “but I can’t quite recall the details.” “Try to remember,” Violet said, looking nervously at the approaching swarm. The ominouslooking cloud of tiny, white buzzing objects had appeared from around a rocky corner, and from a distance it looked a bit like the beginnings of a snowfall. But now the snowfall was organizing A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS itself into the shape of an arrow, and moving toward the two children, buzzing louder and louder as if it were annoyed. “I think they might be snow gnats,” Klaus said. “Snow gnats live in cold mountain areas and have been known to group themselves into well-defined shapes.” Violet looked from the approaching arrow to the waters of the stream and the steep edge of the mountain peak. “I’m glad gnats are harmless,” she said. “It doesn’t look like there’s any way to avoid them.” “There’s something else about snow gnats,” Klaus said, “that I’m not quite remembering.” The swarm drew quite close, with the tip of the fluttering white arrow just a few inches from the Baudelaires’ noses, and then stopped in its path, buzzing angrily. The two siblings stood face-to-face with the snow gnats for a long, tense second, and the gnat at the very, very tip of the arrow flew daintily forward and stung Violet on the nose. “Ow!” Violet said. The snow gnat flew back THE SLIPPERY SLOPE to its place, and the eldest Baudelaire was left rubbing a tiny red mark on her nose. “That hurt,” she said. “It feels like a pin stuck me.” “I remember now,” Klaus said. “Snow gnats are ill-tempered and enjoy stinging people for no reason whatso—” But Klaus did not get to finish his sentence, because the snow gnats interrupted and gave a ghastly demonstration of just what he was talking about. Curling lazily in the mountain winds, the arrow twisted and became a large buzzing circle, and the gnats began to spin around and around the two Baudelaires like a wellorganized and ill-tempered hula hoop. Each gnat was so tiny that the children could not see any of its features, but they felt as if the insects were smiling nastily. “Are the stings poisonous?” Violet asked. “Mildly,” Klaus said. “We’ll be all right if we get stung a few times, but many stings could make us very ill. Ow!” One of the gnats had flown up and stung A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Klaus on the cheek, as if it were seeing if the middle Baudelaire was fun to hurt. “People always say that if you don’t bother stinging insects, they won’t bother you,” Violet said nervously. “Ow!” “That’s scarcely ever true,” Klaus said, “and it’s certainly not true with snow gnats. Ow! Ow! Ow! ” “What should we—Ow! ” Violet half asked. “I don’t—Ow! ” Klaus half answered, but in moments the Baudelaires did not have time for even half a conversation. The circle of snow gnats began spinning faster and faster, and the insects spread themselves out so it looked as if the two siblings were in the middle of a tiny, white tornado. Then, in a series of manuevers that must have taken a great deal of rehearsal, the gnats began stinging the Baudelaires, first on one side and then on the other. Violet shrieked as several gnats stung her chin. Klaus shouted as a handful of gnats stung his left ear. And both Baudelaires cried out as they tried to wave the gnats away 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE only to feel the stingers all over their waving hands. The snow gnats stung to the left, and stung to the right. They approached the Baudelaires from above, making the children duck, and then from below, making the children stand on tiptoe in an effort to avoid them. And all the while, the swarm buzzed louder and louder, as if wishing to remind the Baudelaires how much fun the insects were having. Violet and Klaus closed their eyes and stood together, too scared to walk blindly and find themselves falling off a mountain peak or sinking into the waters of the Stricken Stream. “Coat!” Klaus managed to shout, then spit out a gnat that had flown into his open mouth in the hopes of stinging his tongue. Violet understood at once, and grabbed the extra coat in her hands and draped it over Klaus and herself like a large, limp umbrella of cloth. The snow gnats buzzed furiously, trying to get inside to continue stinging them, but had to settle for stinging the Baudelaires’ hands as they held the coat in place. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Violet and Klaus looked at one another dimly underneath the coat, wincing as their fingers were stung, and tried to keep walking. “We’ll never reach the Valley of Four Drafts like this,” Violet said, speaking louder than usual over the buzzing of the gnats. “How can we stop them, Klaus?” “Fire drives them away,” Klaus said. “In the book I read, the author said that even the smell of smoke can keep a whole swarm at bay. But we can’t start a fire underneath a coat.” “Ow!” A snow gnat stung Violet’s thumb on a spot that had already been stung, just as the Baudelaires rounded the rocky corner where the swarm had first appeared. Through a worn spot in the fabric, the Baudelaires could just make out a dark, circular hole in the side of the mountain. “That must be an entrance to one of the caves,” Klaus said. “Could we start a fire in there?” “Maybe,” Violet said. “And maybe we’d annoy a hibernating animal.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “We’ve already managed to annoy thousands of animals,” Klaus said, almost dropping the pitcher as a gnat stung his wrist. “I don’t think we have much choice. I think we have to head into the cave and take our chances.” Violet nodded in agreement, but looked nervously at the entrance to the cave. Taking one’s chances is like taking a bath, because sometimes you end up feeling comfortable and warm, and sometimes there is something terrible lurking around that you cannot see until it is too late and you can do nothing else but scream and cling to a plastic duck. The two Baudelaires walked carefully toward the dark, circular hole, making sure to stay clear of the nearby edge of the peak and pulling the coat tightly around them so the snow gnats could not find a way inside, but what worried them most was not the height of the peak or the stingers of the gnats but the chances they were taking as they ducked inside the gloomy entrance of the cave. The two Baudelaires had never been in this A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS cave before, of course, and as far as I have been able to ascertain, they were never in it again, even on their way back down the mountain, after they had been reunited with their baby sister and learned the secret of Verbal Fridge Dialogue. And yet, as Violet and Klaus took their chances and walked inside, they found two things with which they were familiar. The first was fire. As they stood inside the entrance to the cave, the siblings realized at once that there was no need to worry about the snow gnats any longer, because they could smell nearby smoke, and even see, at a great distance, small orange flames toward the back of the cave. Fire, of course, was very familiar to the children, from the ashen smell of the remains of the Baudelaire mansion to the scent of the flames that destroyed Caligari Carnival. But as the snow gnats formed an arrow and darted away from the cave and the Baudelaires took another step inside, Violet and Klaus found another familiar thing—a familiar person, to be exact, who they THE SLIPPERY SLOPE had thought they would never see again. “Hey you cakesniffers!” said a voice from the back of the cave, and the sound was almost enough to make the two Baudelaires wish they had taken their chances someplace else. CHAPTER Three You may well wonder why there has been no account of Sunny Baudelaire in the first two chapters of this book, but there are several reasons why this is so. For one thing, Sunny’s journey in Count Olaf’s car was much more difficult to research. The tracks made by the tires of the car have vanished long ago, and so many blizzards and avalanches have occurred in the Mortmain Mountains that even the road itself has largely disappeared. The few witnesses to Olaf’s journey have mostly died under mysterious circumstances, or were too frightened to answer the letters, telegrams, and greeting cards I sent them requesting an interview. And A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS even the litter that was thrown out the window of Olaf’s car—the clearest sign that evil people have driven by—was picked up off the road long before my work began. The missing litter is a good sign, as it indicates that certain animals of the Mortmain Mountains have returned to their posts and are rebuilding their nests, but it has made it very hard for me to write a complete account of Sunny’s travels. But if you are interested in knowing how Sunny Baudelaire spent her time while her siblings stopped the caravan, followed the path of the Stricken Stream, and struggled against the snow gnats, there is another story you might read that describes more or less the same situation. The story concerns a person named Cinderella. Cinderella was a young person who was placed in the care of various wicked people who teased her and forced her to do all the chores. Eventually Cinderella was rescued by her fairy godmother, who magically created a special outfit for Cinderella to wear to a ball where she met THE SLIPPERY SLOPE a handsome prince, married him soon afterward, and lived happily ever after in a castle. If you substitute the name “Cinderella” with the name “Sunny Baudelaire,” and eliminate the fairy godmother, the special outfit, the ball, the handsome prince, the marriage, and living happily ever after in a castle, you will have a clear idea of Sunny’s predicament. “I wish the baby orphan would stop that irritating crying,” Count Olaf said, wrinkling his one eyebrow as the car made another violent turn. “Nothing spoils a nice car trip like a whiny kidnapping victim.” “I’m pinching her as often as I can,” Esmé Squalor said, and gave Sunny another pinch with her stylish fingernails, “but she still won’t shut up.” “Listen, toothy,” Olaf said, taking his eyes off the road to glare at Sunny. “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” Sunny gave a little whimper of annoyance, and wiped her eyes with her tiny hands. It was A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS true that she had been crying for most of the day, throughout a long drive that even the most dedicated of researchers would be unable to trace, and now as the sun set, she still had not been able to stop herself. But at Count Olaf’s words, she was almost more irritated than frightened. It is always tedious when someone says that if you don’t stop crying, they will give you something to cry about, because if you are crying than you already have something to cry about, and so there is no reason for them to give you anything additional to cry about, thank you very much. Sunny Baudelaire certainly felt she had sufficient reason to weep. She was worried about her siblings, and wondered how they were going to stop the runaway caravan from hurtling them to their doom. She was frightened for herself, now that Count Olaf had discovered her disguise, torn off her beard, and trapped her on Esmé’s lap. And she was in pain, from the constant pinching of the villain’s girlfriend. “No pinch,” she said to Esmé, but the wicked and 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE stylish woman just frowned as if Sunny had spoken nonsense. “When she’s not crying,” Esmé said, “the baby talks in some foreign language. I can’t understand a thing she’s saying.” “Kidnapped children are never any fun,” said the hook-handed man, who was perhaps Sunny’s least favorite of Olaf’s troupe. “Remember when we had the Quagmires in our clutches, boss? They did nothing but complain. They complained when we put them in a cage. They complained when we trapped them inside a fountain. Complain, complain, complain—I was so sick of them I was almost glad when they escaped from our clutches.” “Glad?” Count Olaf said with a snarl. “We worked hard to steal the Quagmire fortune, and we didn’t get a single sapphire. That was a real waste of time.” “Don’t blame yourself, Olaf,” said one of the white-faced women from the back seat. “Everybody makes mistakes.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Not this time,” Olaf said. “With the two orphans squashed someplace underneath a crashed caravan and the baby orphan on your lap, the Baudelaire fortune is mine. And once we reach the Valley of Four Drafts and find the headquarters, all our worries will be over.” “Why?” asked Hugo, the hunchbacked man who had previously been employed at the carnival. “Yes, please explain,” said Kevin, another former carnival worker. At Caligari Carnival, Kevin had been embarrassed to be ambidextrous, but Esmé had lured him into joining Olaf’s troupe by tying Kevin’s right hand behind his back, so no one would know it was as strong as his left. “Remember, boss, we’re new to the troupe, so we don’t always know what’s going on.” “I remember when I first joined Olaf’s troupe,” the other white-faced woman said. “I’d never even heard of the Snicket file.” “Working for me is a hands-on learning THE SLIPPERY SLOPE experience,” Olaf said. “You can’t rely on me to explain everything to you. I’m a very busy man.” “I’ll explain it, boss,” said the hook-handed man. “Count Olaf, like any good businessman, has committed a wide variety of crimes.” “But these stupid volunteers have gathered all sorts of evidence and filed it away,” Esmé said. “I tried to explain that crime is very in right now, but apparently they weren’t interested.” Sunny wiped another tear from her eye and sighed. The youngest Baudelaire thought she’d almost rather be pinched again than hear any more of Esmé Squalor’s nonsense about what was in—the word that Esmé used for “fashionable”—and what was out. “We need to destroy those files, or Count Olaf could be arrested,” the hook-handed man said. “We have reason to believe that some of the files are at V.F.D. headquarters.” “What does V.F.D. stand for?” The voice of Colette came from the floor of the automobile. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Count Olaf had ordered her to use her skills as a carnival contortionist to curl up at the feet of the other members of the troupe. “That’s top-secret information!” Olaf growled, to Sunny’s disappointment. “I used to be a member of the organization myself, but I found it was more fun to be an individual practitioner.” “What does that mean?” asked the hookhanded man. “It means a life of crime,” Esmé replied. “It’s very in right now.” “Wrong def.” Sunny could not help speaking through her tears. By “wrong def” she meant something along the lines of, “An individual practitioner means someone who works alone, instead of with a group, and it has nothing to do with a life of crime,” and it made her sad that there was no one around who could understand her. “There you go, babbling away,” Esmé said. “This is why I never want to have children. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Except as servants, of course.” “This journey is easier than I thought,” Olaf said. “The map says we just have to pass a few more caves.” “Is there an in hotel near the headquarters?” Esmé asked. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart,” the villain replied, “but I have two tents in the trunk of the car. We’ll be camping on Mount Fraught, the summit of the Mortmain Mountains.” “The summit?” Esmé said. “It’ll be cold at the highest peak.” “It’s true,” Olaf admitted, “but False Spring is on its way, so before long it’ll be a bit warmer.” “But what about tonight?” Esmé Squalor said. “It is definitely not in for me to set up tents in the freezing cold.” Count Olaf looked at his girlfriend and began to laugh, and Sunny could smell the foul breath of his nasty giggles. “Don’t be silly,” the villain said finally. “You’re not going to set up A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the tents, Esmé. You’re going to stay nice and toasty in the car. The bucktoothed baby will set up the tents for us.” Now Olaf’s entire troupe laughed, and the car filled with the stench of so many villains’ bad breath. Sunny felt a few more tears roll down her face, and turned to the window so no one would see. The car’s windows were very dirty, but the youngest Baudelaire could see the strange, square peaks of the Mortmain Mountains and the dark waters of the Stricken Stream. By now the car had driven so high up in the mountains that the stream was mostly ice, and Sunny looked at the wide stripe of frozen blackness and wondered where her siblings were, and if they were coming to rescue her. She remembered the other time she had been in Count Olaf’s clutches, when the villain had tied her up, locked her in a cage and dangled her outside his tower room as part of one of his schemes. It had been an absolutely terrifying experience for the youngest Baudelaire, and she THE SLIPPERY SLOPE often still had nightmares about the creaking of the cage and the distant sight of her two siblings looking up at her from Count Olaf’s backyard. But Violet had built a grappling hook to rescue her, and Klaus had done some important legal research to defeat Olaf’s scheme. As the car took Sunny farther and farther away from her siblings, and she stared out at the lonesome terrain, she knew that they could save her again. “How long will we stay on Mount Fraught?” Hugo asked. “Until I say so, of course,” Count Olaf replied. “You’ll soon find out that much of this job involves a lot of waiting around,” the hookhanded man said. “I usually keep something around to help pass the time, like a deck of cards or a large rock.” “It can be dull,” admitted one of the whitefaced women, “and it can be dangerous. Several of our comrades have recently suffered terrible fates.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “It was worth it,” Count Olaf said nonchalantly, a word which here means “in a tone of voice that indicated he didn’t care one bit about his deceased employees.” “Sometimes a few people need to die in fires or get eaten by lions, if it’s all for the greater good.” “What’s the greater good?” asked Colette. “Money!” Esmé cried in greedy glee. “Money and personal satisfaction, and we’re going to get both of those things out of this whimpering baby on my lap! Once we have our hands on the Baudelaire fortune, we’ll have enough money to live a life of luxury and plan several more treacherous schemes!” The entire troupe cheered, and Count Olaf gave Sunny a filthy grin, but did not say anything more as the car raced up a steep, bumpy hill, and at last screeched to a halt, just as the last rays of the sun faded into the evening sky. “We’re here at last,” Count Olaf said, and handed the car keys to Sunny. “Get out, baby THE SLIPPERY SLOPE orphan. Unload everything from the trunk and set up the tents.” “And bring us some potato chips,” Esmé said, “so we’ll have something in to eat while we wait.” Esmé opened the door of the car, placed Sunny on the frozen ground, and slammed the door shut again. Instantly, the chilly mountain air surrounded the youngest Baudelaire and made her shiver. It was so bitterly cold at the highest peak of the Mortmain Mountains that her tears froze in their tracks, forming a tiny mask of ice all over her face. Unsteadily, Sunny rose to her feet and walked to the back of the car. She was tempted to keep walking, and escape from Olaf while he waited in the car with his troupe. But where could she go? Sunny looked around at her surroundings and could not see a place where a baby would be safe by herself. The summit of Mount Fraught was a small, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS flat square, and as Sunny walked to the trunk of the car, she gazed off each edge of the square, feeling a bit dizzy from the great height. From three of the edges, she could see the square and misty peaks of some of the other mountains, most of which were covered in snow, and twisting through the peaks were the strange, black waters of the Stricken Stream, and the rocky path that the car had driven along. But from the fourth side of the square peak, Sunny saw something so strange it took her a moment to figure out what it was. Extending from the highest peak in the Mortmain Mountains was a glittering white strip, like an enormous piece of shiny paper folded downward, or the wing of some tremendous bird. Sunny watched the very last rays of the sunset reflect off this enormous surface and slowly realized what it was: the source of the Stricken Stream. Like many streams, the Stricken Stream originated within the rocks of the mountains, and in the warmer season, Sunny could see that it 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE cascaded down from the highest peak in an enormous waterfall. But this was not a warm time of year, and just as Sunny’s tears had frozen on her face, the waterfall had frozen solid, into a long, slippery slope that disappeared into the darkness below. It was such an eerie sight that it took Sunny a moment to wonder why the ice was white, instead of black like the waters of the Stricken Stream. Honk! A loud blast from Count Olaf’s horn made Sunny remember what she was supposed to be doing, and she hurriedly opened the trunk and found a bag of potato chips, which she brought back to the car. “That took a very long time, orphan,” said Olaf, rather than “Thank you.” “Now go set up the tents, one for Esmé and me and one for my troupe, so we can get some sleep.” “Where is the baby going to stay?” asked the hook-handed man. “I don’t want her in my tent. I hear that babies can creep up and steal your breath while you’re sleeping.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Well, she’s certainly not sleeping with me,” Esmé said. “It’s not in to have a baby in your tent.” “She’s not going to sleep in either tent,” Olaf decided. “There’s a large covered casserole dish in the trunk. She can sleep in there.” “Will she be safe in a casserole dish?” Esmé said. “Remember, Olaf honey, if she dies then we can’t get our hands on the fortune.” “There are a few holes in the top so she can breathe,” Olaf said, “and the cover will protect her from the snow gnats.” “Snow gnats?” asked Hugo. “Snow gnats are well-organized, ill-tempered insects,” Count Olaf explained, “who live in cold mountain areas and enjoy stinging people for no reason whatsoever. I’ve always been fond of them.” “Nonat,” Sunny said, which meant “I didn’t notice any such insects outside,” but no one paid any attention. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Won’t she run away if no one’s watching her?” asked Kevin. “She wouldn’t dare,” Count Olaf said, “and even if she tried to survive in the mountains by herself, we could see where she went. That’s why we’re staying here at the summit. We’ll know if the brat escapes, or if anyone’s coming after us, because we can see everything and everyone for miles and miles.” “Eureka,” Sunny said, before she could stop herself. She meant something along the lines of, “I’ve just realized something,” but she had not meant to say it out loud. “Stop your babbling and get busy, you fanged brat!” Esmé Squalor said, and slammed the car door shut. Sunny could hear the laughing of the troupe and the crunching of potato chips as she walked slowly back to the trunk to find the tents. It is often quite frustrating to arrange all of the cloth and the poles so that a tent works A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS correctly, which is why I have always preferred to stay in hotels or rented castles, which also have the added attractions of solid walls and maid service. Sunny, of course, had the extra disadvantages of trying to do it herself, in the dark, when she was still fairly new at walking and was worried about her siblings. But the youngest Baudelaire had a history of performing Herculean tasks, a phrase which here means “managing to do incredibly difficult things.” As I’m sure you know, if you are ever forced to do something very difficult, it often helps to think of something inspiring to keep you going. When Sunny had engaged in a sword-and-tooth fight at Lucky Smells Lumbermill, for instance, she thought of how much she cared for her siblings, and it helped her defeat the evil Dr. Orwell. When Sunny climbed up an elevator shaft at Dark Avenue, she had concentrated on her friends the Quagmires, and how much she wanted to rescue them, and before too long she had reached the penthouse apartment. So, as THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Sunny dug a hole in the frozen ground with her teeth so the tent poles would stay in place, she thought of something that inspired her, and oddly enough it was something that Count Olaf had said, about being able to see everything and everyone for miles and miles. As Sunny assembled the tents, and gazed down every so often at the slippery slope of the frozen waterfall, she decided that she would not try to sneak away from Olaf and his troupe. She would not to try to sneak anywhere. Because if you could see everything and everyone from Mount Fraught, that also meant everything and everyone, including Violet and Klaus Baudelaire, would be able to see her. CHAPTER Four That night was a dark day. Of course, all nights are dark days, because night is simply a badly lit version of day, due to the fact that the Earth travels around and around the sun reminding everyone that it is time to get out of bed and start the day with a cup of coffee or a secret message folded up into a paper airplane that can sail out the barred window of a ranger station. But in this case, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the phrase “a dark day” means “a sad time in the history of the Baudelaire children, V.F.D., and all kind, brave, and well-read people in the world.” But Violet and Klaus Baudelaire, of course, had no idea of the catastrophe occurring high above them in the Valley of Four Drafts. All they knew was that they were hearing a voice they had hoped never to hear again. “Go away, cakesniffers!” the voice said. “This is a private cave!” “Who are you talking to, Carmelita?” asked another voice. This voice was much louder, and sounded like it belonged to a grown man. “I can see two shadows in the entrance of the cave, Uncle Bruce,” said the first voice, “and to me they look like cakesniffers.” The back of the cave echoed with giggling, and Violet and Klaus looked at one another in dismay. The familiar voice belonged to Carmelita Spats, the nasty little girl whom the Baudelaires had encountered at Prufrock Preparatory School. Carmelita had taken an instant THE SLIPPERY SLOPE dislike to the three siblings, calling them unpleasant names and generally making life miserable at the academy. If you have ever been a student, then you know that there is usually one such person at every school and that once you have graduated you hope never to see them again. The two elder Baudelaires had enough troubles in the Mortmain Mountains without running into this unpleasant person, and at the sound of her voice they almost turned around and took their chances once more with the snow gnats swarming outside. “Two shadows?” asked the second voice. “Identify yourselves, please.” “We’re mountain travelers,” Violet called from the entrance. “We lost our way and ran into a swarm of snow gnats. Please let us rest here for a moment, while the smell of smoke scares them away, and then we’ll be on our way.” “Absolutely not!” replied Carmelita, who sounded even nastier than usual. “This is where the Snow Scouts are camping, on their way to A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS celebrate False Spring and crown me queen. We don’t want any cakesniffers spoiling our fun.” “Now, now, Carmelita,” said the voice of the grown man. “Snow Scouts are supposed to be accommodating, remember? It’s part of the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge. And it would be very accommodating of us to offer these strangers the shelter of our cave.” “I don’t want to be accommodating,” Carmelita said. “I’m the False Spring Queen, so I get to do whatever I want.” “You’re not the False Spring Queen yet, Carmelita,” came the patient voice of a young boy. “Not until we dance around the Springpole. Do come in, travelers, and sit by the fire. We’re happy to accommodate you.” “That’s the spirit, kid,” said the voice of the grown man. “Come on, Snow Scouts, let’s all say the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge together.” Instantly the cave echoed with the sound of many voices speaking in perfect unison, a phrase which here means “reciting a list of very 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE odd words at the very same time.” “Snow Scouts,” recited the Snow Scouts, “are accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered—every morning, every afternoon, every night, and all day long!” The two Baudelaires looked at one another in confusion. Like many pledges, the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge had not made much sense, and Violet and Klaus tried to imagine how a scout could be “calm” and “meek” at the same time as being “frisky” and “jumping,” or how all these children could avoid being “young” or “human,” even if they wanted to. They couldn’t figure out why the pledge suggested being all these things “every morning,” “every afternoon,” and “every night,” and then added “all day long,” or why the word “xylophone” appeared in the pledge at all. But they A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS did not have much time to wonder, because when the pledge was over, the Snow Scouts all took a big breath and made a long, airy sound, as if they were imitating the wind outside, and this seemed even more strange. “That’s my favorite part,” said the voice of the grown man, when the sound faded away. “There’s nothing like ending the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge with a snowy sound. Now approach, travelers, so we can get a look at you.” “Let’s keep the coat over our faces,” Klaus whispered to his sister. “Carmelita might recognize us.” “And the other scouts have probably seen our pictures in The Daily Punctilio,” Violet said, and ducked her head underneath the coat. The Daily Punctilio was a newspaper that had published a story blaming the three Baudelaires for Jacques Snicket’s murder. The story was utter nonsense, of course, but it seemed that everyone in the world had believed it and was searching for the Baudelaires to put them in jail. As THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the two siblings walked toward the voices of the Snow Scouts, however, they realized that they weren’t the only ones concealing their faces. The back of the cave was like a large, circular room, with very high ceilings and craggy walls of rock that flickered in the orange light of the flames. Seated in a circle around the fire were fifteen or twenty people, all looking up at the two Baudelaires. Through the fabric of the coat, the children could see that one person was much taller than the others—this was probably Bruce—and was wearing an ugly plaid coat and holding a large cigar. On the opposite side of the circle was someone wearing a thick wool sweater with several large pockets, and the rest of the Snow Scouts were wearing bright white uniforms with enormous zippers down the front and emblems of snowflakes, in all different sizes and shapes, along the long, puffy sleeves. On the back of the uniforms, the Baudelaires could see the words of the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge printed in large pink letters, and on the A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS top of everyone’s heads were white headbands with tiny plastic snowflakes sticking out of the top in all directions and the word “Brr!” written in icy script. But Violet and Klaus weren’t looking at the plastic flurries of snow on the Snow Scouts’ heads, or the accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered uniforms that most everyone was wearing. They were looking at the dark, round masks that were covering the scouts’ faces. The masks were covered in tiny holes, much like masks worn for fencing, a sport in which people swordfight for fun rather than for honor or in order to rescue a writer who has been taped to the wall. But in the flickering light of the cave, the Baudelaires could not see the holes, and it looked like the faces of Bruce and the Snow Scouts had THE SLIPPERY SLOPE vanished, leaving a dark and empty hole above their necks. “You cakesniffers look ridiculous,” said one of the scouts, and the Baudelaires knew at once which masked figure was Carmelita Spats. “Your faces are all covered up.” “We’re meek,” Violet said, thinking quickly. “In fact, we’re so meek that we hardly ever show our faces.” “Then you’ll fit in just fine,” said Bruce from behind his mask. “The name’s Bruce, but you can call me Uncle Bruce, although I’m almost certainly not your real uncle. Welcome to the Snow Scouts, travelers, where all of us are meek. In fact, we’re accommodating, basic, calm . . .” The other Snow Scouts all joined in the pledge, and the two elder Baudelaires stood through another rendition of the absurd list, while the scout in the sweater stood up and stepped toward them. “We have some spare masks over there,” he murmured quietly, and gestured A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS toward a large pile of equipment, stacked beside a very long wooden pole. “They’ll keep the snow gnats away when you go back outside. Help yourself.” “Thank you,” Violet replied, as the scouts promised to be kept, limited, and meek. She and her brother quickly grabbed masks and put them on underneath the coat, so that by the time the scouts vowed to be xylophone, young, and zippered, they looked as faceless as everyone else in the cave. “That was fun, kids,” said Bruce, as the snowy sound faded and the pledge was over. “Now why don’t you two join the Snow Scouts? We’re an organization for young people to have fun and learn new things. Right now we’re on a Snow Scout Hike. We’re going to hike all the way up to Mount Fraught in order to celebrate False Spring.” “What’s False Spring?” Violet asked, sitting down between her brother and the sweatered scout. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Anybody who’s not a cakesniffer knows what False Spring is,” Carmelita said in a scornful voice. “It’s when the weather gets unusually warm before getting very cold again. We celebrate it with a fancy dance where we spin around and around the Springpole.” She pointed to the wooden pole, and the Baudelaires noticed that the Snow Scouts all wore bright white mittens, each emblazoned with an S. “When the dance is over, we choose the best Snow Scout and crown her the False Spring Queen. This time, it’s me. In fact, it’s always me.” “That’s because Uncle Bruce is really your uncle,” said one of the other Snow Scouts. “No, it’s not,” Carmelita insisted. “It’s because I’m the most accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered.” “How can anyone be ‘xylophone’?” Klaus A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS couldn’t help asking. “‘Xylophone’ isn’t even an adjective.” “Uncle Bruce couldn’t think of another word that began with X,” explained the sweatered Snow Scout, in a tone of voice indicating that he thought this wasn’t a very good excuse. “How about ‘xenial’?” Klaus suggested. “It’s a word that means—” “You can’t change the words of the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge,” Bruce interrupted, moving his cigar toward his face as if he were going to try to smoke it through the mask. “The whole point of the Snow Scouts is that you do the same thing over and over. We celebrate False Spring over and over, on Mount Fraught, at the source of the Stricken Stream. My niece Carmelita Spats is False Spring Queen, over and over. And over and over, we stop here in this cave for Snow Scout Story Time.” “I read that the caves of the Mortmain Mountains contained hibernating animals,” Klaus said. “Are you sure it’s safe to stop here?” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE The Snow Scout who was wearing a sweater instead of a uniform turned his head quickly to the Baudelaires, as if he was going to speak, but Bruce answered first. “It’s safe now, kid,” he said. “Years ago, apparently these mountains were crawling with bears. The bears were so intelligent that they were trained as soldiers. But they disappeared and no one knows why.” “Not bears,” the scout in the sweater said, so quietly that the two Baudelaires had to lean in to hear him. “Lions lived in these caves. And they weren’t soldiers. The lions were detectives—volunteer feline detectives.” He turned so his mask was facing the two siblings, and the children knew he must be staring at them through the holes. “Volunteer Feline Detectives,” he said again, and the Baudelaires almost gasped. “Did you say—” Violet said, but the sweatered Snow Scout shook his head as if it was not safe to talk. Violet looked at her brother and then at the scout, wishing she could see A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS both of their faces behind their masks. The initials of “Volunteer Feline Detectives,” of course, spelled “V.F.D.,” the name of the organization they were looking for. But were these initials a coincidence, as they had seemed to be so many times? Or was this mysterious scout giving them some sort of signal? “I don’t know what you kids are muttering about,” Bruce said, “but stop it this instant. It’s not time for conversation. It’s Snow Scout Story Time, when one Snow Scout tells a story to the other Snow Scouts. Then we’ll all eat marshmallows until we feel sick and go to sleep on a heap of blankets, just like we do every year. Why don’t our new scouts tell the first story?” “I should tell the first story,” whined Carmelita. “After all, I’m the False Spring Queen.” “But I’m sure the travelers will have a wonderful story to tell,” the sweatered scout said. “I’d love to hear a Very Fascinating Drama.” Klaus saw his sister raise her hands to her 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE head and smiled. He knew Violet had instinctively begun to tie her hair up in a ribbon to help her think, but it was impossible to do so with a mask on. Both the Baudelaire minds were racing to figure out a way to communicate with this mysterious scout, and the children were so lost in thought that they scarcely heard Carmelita Spats insulting them. “Stop sitting around, cakesniffers,” Carmelita said. “If you’re going to tell us a story, get started.” “I’m sorry for the delay,” Violet said, choosing her words as carefully as she could. “We haven’t had a Very Fun Day, so it’s difficult to think of a good story.” “I didn’t realize this was a sad occasion,” said the sweatered scout. “Oh, yes,” Klaus said. “We’ve had nothing to eat all day except for some Vinegar-Flavored Doughnuts.” “And then there were the snow gnats,” Violet said. “They behaved like Violent Frozen Dragonflies.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “When they form an arrow,” Klaus said, “they’re more like a Voracious Fierce Dragon.” “Or a Vain Fat Dictator, I imagine,” the scout in the sweater said, and gave the Baudelaires a masked nod as if he had received their message. “This is the most boring story I have ever heard,” Carmelita Spats said. “Uncle Bruce, tell these two that they’re both cakesniffers.” “Well, it wouldn’t be very accommodating to say so,” Bruce said, “but I must admit that the story you were telling was a little dull, kids. When Snow Scouts tell stories, they skip everything boring and only tell the interesting parts. That way, the story can be as accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered as possible.” “I’ll show these cakesniffers how to tell an THE SLIPPERY SLOPE interesting story,” Carmelita said. “Once upon a time, I woke up and looked in the mirror, and there I saw the prettiest, smartest, most darling girl in the whole wide world. I put on a lovely pink dress to make myself look even prettier, and I skipped off to school where my teacher told me I looked more adorable than anyone she had ever seen in her entire life, and she gave me a lollipop as a special present . . .” At this point, I will take a page from someone’s book, a phrase which here means “adopt an idea used by somebody else.” If, for instance, a man told you that the best way to write thankyou notes is to reward yourself with a cookie every time you finished one, you might take a page from his book, and have a plate of cookies nearby after your birthday or some other giftgiving occasion. If a girl told you that the best way to sneak out of the house late at night is to make sure everyone else is sound asleep, you might take a page from her book and mix a sleeping potion into everyone else’s after- A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS dinner coffee before climbing down the ivy that grows outside your bedroom window. And if you have been reading this miserable story, then the next time you find yourself in a similar situation, you might take a page from The Slippery Slope and use a combination of sticky substances and a drag chute to slow down a racing caravan, and then retrieve several articles of heavy clothing in order to protect yourself from the cold, and find a cave full of Snow Scouts gathered around a fire when the snow gnats begin to swarm. But I will be taking a page from Bruce’s book, when he suggested that a storyteller only tell the interesting parts of the story and skip everything boring. Certainly the two elder Baudelaires wished they could skip this boring part of their own story, as they were very eager to leave the cave and resume their search for their sister. But Violet and Klaus knew that they shouldn’t leave the cave until they could talk to the mysterious boy in the sweater, and that they THE SLIPPERY SLOPE couldn’t talk to the mysterious boy in the sweater in front of Bruce and the other Snow Scouts, and so they sat by the fire as Carmelita Spats talked on and on about how pretty and smart and darling she was and how everyone she met told her that she was unbelievably adorable. Although the Baudelaires had to sit through these tedious portions of their story, there is no reason for you to do so, and so I will skip ahead, past the tiresome details of Carmelita’s endless story, and the senseless pledge that Bruce made everyone say several more times, and the allmarshmallow meal that the scouts shared with the two siblings. I will skip how irksome it was for Violet and Klaus to turn away from the scouts, quickly lift their masks, and pop marshmallows into their mouths before covering their faces again so they would not be recognized. After their long, tiring journey, the children would have preferred a more substantial supper and a less complicated way of eating it, but the siblings could not skip these parts of their story, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS so they had to wait for the evening to pass and for all the other Snow Scouts to feel sick and arrange blankets into a large heap beside the Springpole. Even when Bruce led the Snow Scouts in one more alphabet pledge as a way of saying good night, Violet and Klaus dared not get up and talk to the sweatered scout for fear of being overheard, and they had to wait for hours, too curious and anxious to sleep, as the fire died down and the cave echoed with the sounds of Snow Scout snoring. But I will take a page from the book of the Snow Scout leader, and skip ahead to the next interesting thing that happened, which was very, very late at night, when so many interesting parts of stories happen and so many people miss them because they are asleep in their beds, or hiding in the broom closet of a mustard factory, disguised as a dustpan to fool the night watchwoman. It was very late at night—in fact one might say that it was the darkest part of this dark day— and it was so late that the Baudelaires had THE SLIPPERY SLOPE almost given up on staying awake, particularly after such an exhausting day, but just as the two siblings were beginning to fall asleep, they each felt a hand touch them on the shoulder, and they quickly sat up and found themselves looking into the masked face of the sweatered scout. “Come with me, Baudelaires,” the boy said in a very quiet voice. “I know a shortcut to the headquarters,” and this was an interesting part of the story indeed. CHAPTER CHAPTER Five When you have many questions on your mind, and you suddenly have an opportunity to ask them, the questions tend to crowd together and trip over one another, much like passengers on a crowded train when it reaches a popular station. With Bruce and the Snow Scouts asleep, the two elder Baudelaires finally had an opportunity to talk with the mysterious scout in the sweater, but everything they A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS wanted to ask seemed hopelessly entangled. “How—” Violet started, but the question “How did you know we were the Baudelaires?” stumbled against the question “Who are you?” and fell back against the questions “Are you a member of V.F.D.?” and “What does V.F.D. stand for?” “Do—” Klaus said, but the question “Do you know where our sister is?” tripped over the question “Do you know if one of our parents is alive?” which was already struggling with “How can we get to the headquarters?” and “Will my sisters and I ever find a safe place to live without constantly being threatened by Count Olaf and his troupe as they hatch plan after plan to steal the Baudelaire fortune?” although the middle Baudelaire knew that his last question was unlikely to be answered at all. “I’m sure you have lots of questions,” the boy whispered, “but we can’t talk here. Bruce is a light sleeper, and he’s caused V.F.D. enough trouble already without learning another of our 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE secrets. I promise all your questions will be answered, but first we’ve got to get to the headquarters. Come with me.” Without another word, the sweatered scout turned around, and the Baudelaires saw he was wearing a backpack inscribed with an insignia they had seen at Caligari Carnival. At first glance, this insignia merely appeared to be an eye, but the children had discovered that if you looked closely you could see the initials V.F.D. cleverly hidden in the drawing. The scout began to walk, and the two siblings got out of their blankets as quietly as they could and followed him. To their surprise, he did not lead them toward the cave entrance, but to the back of the cave, where the Snow Scouts’ fire had been. Now it was nothing more than a pile of gray ashes, although it was still very warm, and the smell of smoke was still in the air. The sweatered scout reached into his pocket and brought out a flashlight. “I had to wait for the fire to die down before I showed you,” he said, and with a nervous glance at the A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS sleeping scouts, turned the flashlight on and shone it above them. “Look.” Violet and Klaus looked, and saw that there was a hole in the ceiling, big enough for a person to crawl through. The last wisps of smoke from the fire were floating up into the hole. “A chimney,” Klaus murmured. “I was wondering why the fire didn’t fill the cave with smoke.” “The official name is Vertical Flame Diversion,” the scout whispered. “It serves as a chimney and as a secret passageway. It runs from this cave to the Valley of Four Drafts. If we climb up there, we can reach headquarters within hours, instead of hiking all the way up the mountain. Years ago, there was a metal pole that ran down the center of the hole, so people could slide down and hide in this cave in case of an emergency. The pole is gone now, but there should be carved toeholds in the sides to climb all the way up.” He shone the flashlight on the cave wall, and sure enough, the Baudelaires could see two rows of small carved holes, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE perfect for sticking one’s feet and hands into. “How do you know all this?” Violet asked. The scout looked at her for a moment, and it seemed to the Baudelaires that he was smiling behind his mask. “I read it,” he said, “in a book called Remarkable Phenomena of the Mortmain Mountains.” “That sounds familiar,” Klaus said. “It should,” the scout replied. “I borrowed it from Dr. Montgomery’s library.” Dr. Montgomery was one of the Baudelaires’ first guardians, and at the mention of his name Violet and Klaus found they had several more questions they wanted to ask. “When—” Violet started. “Why—” Klaus started. “Carm—” Another voice startled the Baudelaires and the scout—the voice of Bruce, waking up halfway at the sound of the conversation. All three children froze for a moment, as Bruce turned over on his blanket, and with a long sigh, went back to sleep. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “We’ll talk when we reach the headquarters,” the scout whispered. “The Vertical Flame Diversion is very echoey, so we’ll have to be absolutely silent as we climb, or the echoing noise will alert Bruce and the Snow Scouts. It’ll be very dark inside, so you’ll have to feel against the wall for the footholds, and the air will be smoky, but if you keep your masks on they’ll filter the air and make it easier to breathe. I’ll go first and lead the way. Are you ready?” Violet and Klaus turned toward one another. Even though they could not see each other’s faces through the masks, both siblings knew that they were not at all ready. Following a complete stranger into a secret passageway through the center of the mountains, toward a headquarters they could not even be sure existed, did not seem like a very safe thing to do. The last time they had agreed to take a risky journey, their baby sister had been snatched away from them. What would happen this time, when they were THE SLIPPERY SLOPE all alone with a mysterious masked figure in a dark and smoky hole? “I know it must be hard to trust me, Baudelaires,” said the sweatered scout, “after so many people have done you wrong.” “Can you give us a reason to trust you?” Violet said. The scout looked down for a moment, and then turned his mask to face both Baudelaires. “One of you mentioned the word ‘xenial,’ ” he said, “when you were talking with Bruce about that silly pledge. ‘Xenial’ is a word which refers to the giving of gifts to a stranger.” “He’s right,” Klaus murmured to his sister. “I know that having a good vocabulary doesn’t guarantee that I’m a good person,” the boy said. “But it does mean I’ve read a great deal. And in my experience, well-read people are less likely to be evil.” Violet and Klaus looked at one another through their masks. Neither of them were A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS entirely convinced by what the masked scout had said. There are, of course, plenty of evil people who have read a great many books, and plenty of very kind people who seem to have found some other method of spending their time. But the Baudelaires knew that there was a kind of truth to the boy’s statement, and they had to admit that they preferred to take their chances with a stranger who knew what the word “xenial” meant, rather than exiting the cave and trying to find the headquarters all by themselves. So the siblings turned back to the scout, nodded their masks, and followed him to the footholds in the wall, making sure they still had all the items from the caravan with them. The footholds were surprisingly easy to use, and in a short time the Baudelaires were following the mysterious scout into the dark and smoky entrance of the passageway. The Vertical Flame Diversion that connected the Mortmain Mountain headquarters to this particular Volunteer Feline Detectives cave was once one of the most heavily guarded THE SLIPPERY SLOPE secrets in the world. Anyone who wanted to use it had to correctly answer a series of questions concerning the force of gravity, the habits of carnivorous beasts, and the central themes of Russian novels, so very few people even knew the passageway’s exact whereabouts. Until the two Baudelaires’ journey, the passageway had not been used for many years, ever since one of my comrades removed the pole in order to use it in the construction of a submarine. So it would be accurate to say that the Vertical Flame Diversion was a road less traveled—even less traveled than the path through the Mortmain Mountains on which this book began. While the elder Baudelaires had a very good reason to be on the road less traveled, as they were in a great hurry to reach the headquarters and rescue their sister from the clutches of Count Olaf, there is no reason whatsoever why you should be on the road less traveled and choose to read the rest of this woeful chapter, which describes their dark and smoky journey. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS The ashen air from the Snow Scouts’ fire was difficult to breathe, even through the masks, and Violet and Klaus had to struggle not to cough, knowing that the coughing sound would echo down the passageway and wake up Bruce, but there is no reason for you to struggle through my dismal description of this problem. A number of spiders had noticed the footholds were not being used lately, and had moved in and converted them into spider condominiums, but you are under no obligation to read what happens when spiders are suddenly woken up by the sudden appearance of a climbing foot in their new homes. And as the Baudelaires followed the scout farther and farther up, the strong freezing winds from the top of the mountain would rush through the passageway, and all three youngsters would cling to the footholds with their very lives, hoping that the wind would not blow them back down to the cave floor, but although the Baudelaires found it necessary to keep climbing through the rest of THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the dark day so they could reach the headquarters as quickly as possible, and I find it necessary to finish describing it, so my account of the Baudelaire case is as accurate and as complete as possible, it is not necessary for you to finish reading the rest of this chapter, so you can be as miserable as possible. My description of the Baudelaires’ journey up through the road less traveled begins on the next page, but I beg you not to travel along with them. Instead, you may take a page from Bruce’s book, and skip ahead to Chapter Six, and find my report on Sunny Baudelaire’s tribulations—a word which here means “opportunities to eavesdrop while cooking for a theater troupe”—with Count Olaf, or you may skip ahead to Chapter Seven, when the elder Baudelaires arrive at the site of the V.F.D. headquarters and unmask the stranger who led them there, or you may take the road very frequently traveled and skip away from this book altogether, and find something better A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS to do with your time besides finishing this unhappy tale and becoming a weary, weeping, and well-read person. The Baudelaires’ journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion was so dark and treacherous that it is not enough to write “The Baudelaires’ journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion was so dark and treacherous that it is not enough to write ‘The Baudelaires’ journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion was so dark and treacherous that it is not enough to write “The Baudelaires’ journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion was so dark and treacherous that it is not enough to write ‘The Baudelaires’ journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion was so dark and treacherous that it is not enough to write “My dear sister, I am taking a great risk in hiding a letter to you inside one of my books, but I am certain that even the most melancholy and well-read people in the world have found my account of the lives of the three Baudelaire children even more wretched than I had promised, and so this book 00 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE will stay on the shelves of libraries, utterly ignored, waiting for you to open it and find this message. As an additional precaution, I placed a warning that the rest of this chapter contains a description of the Baudelaires’ miserable journey up the Vertical Flame Diversion, so anyone who has the courage to read such a description is probably brave enough to read my letter to you. I have at last learned the whereabouts of the evidence that will exonerate me, a phrase which here means “prove to the authorities that it is Count Olaf, and not me, who has started so many fires.” Your suggestion, so many years ago at that picnic, that a tea set would be a handy place to hide anything important and small in the event of a dark day, has turned out to be correct. (Incidentally, your other picnic suggestion, that a simple combination of sliced mango, black beans, and chopped celery mixed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil would make a delicious chilled salad also turned out to be correct.) 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Drafts, in order to continue my research on the Baudelaire case. I hope also to retrieve the aforementioned evidence at last. It is too late to restore my happiness, of course, but at least I headquarters, I will head straight for the Hotel Denouement. I should arrive by—well, it without ugly curtains. Lemony Snicket hearts of palm, it is equally delicious. I am on my way now to the Valley of Four can clear my name. From the site of V.F.D. wouldn’t be wise to type the date, but it should be easy for you to remember Beatrice’s birthday. Meet me at the hotel. Try to get us a room With all due respect, P.S. If you substitute the chopped celery with 0 CHAPTER Six Inthe very early hours of the morning, while the two elder Baudelaires struggled to find their footing as they climbed up the Vertical Flame Diversion—and I sincerely hope that you did not read the description of that journey—the youngest Baudelaire found herself struggling with a different sort of footing altogether. Sunny had not enjoyed the long, cold night on Mount Fraught. If you have ever slept in a covered casserole dish on the highest peak of a mountain range, then you know that it is an uncomfortable place to lay one’s head, even if you find a dishtowel inside it that can serve as a blanket. All night long, the chilly mountain winds blew A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS through the tiny holes inside the top of the cover, making it so cold inside the dish that Sunny’s enormous teeth chattered all night, giving her tiny cuts on her lips and making such a loud noise that it was impossible to sleep. Finally, when the first rays of the morning sun shone through the holes and made it warm enough to doze, Count Olaf left his tent and kicked open the cover of the dish to begin ordering Sunny around. “Wake up, you dentist’s nightmare!” he cried. Sunny opened one exhausted eye and found herself staring at the villain’s footing, particularly the tattoo on Olaf’s left ankle, a sight that was enough to make her wish her eyes were still closed. Tattooed on Olaf’s ankle was the image of an eye, and it seemed to Sunny that this eye had been watching the Baudelaires throughout all of their troubles, from the day on Briny Beach when they learned of the terrible fire that destroyed their home. Time after time, Count Olaf had tried to hide this eye so the authorities 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE would not recognize him, so the children were always uncovering it from behind his ridiculous disguises, and the Baudelaires had begun seeing the eye in other places, such as at the office of an evil hypnotist, on the side of a carnival tent, on Esmé Squalor’s purse, and on a necklace owned by a mysterious fortune-teller. It was almost as if this eye had replaced the eyes of their parents, but instead of keeping watch over the children and making sure that they were safe from harm, this eye merely gave them a blank stare, as if it did not care about the children’s troubles, or could do nothing about them. If you looked very closely, you could find the letters V.F.D. half-hidden in the eye, and this reminded Sunny of all the sinister secrets that surrounded the three siblings, and how far they were from understanding the web of mystery in which they found themselves. But it is hard to think about mysteries and secrets first thing in the morning, particularly if someone is yelling at you, and Sunny turned her attention 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS to what her captor was saying. “You’ll be doing all the cooking and cleaning for us, orphan,” Count Olaf said, “and you can start by making us breakfast. We have a big day ahead of us, and a good breakfast will give me and my troupe the energy we need to perform unspeakable crimes.” “Plakna?” Sunny asked, which meant “How am I supposed to cook breakfast on the top of a freezing mountain?” but Count Olaf just gave her a nasty smile. “Too bad your brain isn’t as big as your teeth, you little monkey,” he said. “You’re talking nonsense, as usual.” Sunny sighed, frustrated that there was no one on top of the Mortmain Mountains who understood what she was trying to say. “Translo,” she said, which meant “Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean that it’s nonsense.” “There you go, babbling again,” Olaf said, 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and tossed Sunny the car keys. “Get the groceries out of the trunk of the car and get to work.” Sunny suddenly thought of something that might cheer her up a little bit. “Sneakitawc,” she said, which was her way of saying “Of course, because you don’t understand me, I can say anything I want to you, and you’ll have no idea what I’m talking about.” “I’m getting quite tired of your ridiculous speech impediment,” Count Olaf said. “Brummel,” Sunny said, which meant “In my opinion, you desperately need a bath, and your clothing is a shambles.” “Be quiet this instant,” Olaf ordered. “Busheney,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of, “You’re an evil man with no concern whatsoever for other people.” “Shut up!” Count Olaf roared. “Shut up and get cooking!” Sunny got out of the casserole dish and stood up, looking down at the snowy ground so 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the villain would not see she was smiling. It is not nice to tease people, of course, but the youngest Baudelaire felt that it was all right to enjoy a joke at the expense of such a murderous and evil man, and she walked to Olaf’s car with a spring in her step, a phrase which here means “in a surprisingly cheerful manner considering she was in the clutches of a ruthless villain on top of a mountain so cold that even the nearby waterfall was frozen solid.” But when Sunny Baudelaire opened the trunk of the car her smile faded. Under normal circumstances, it is not safe to keep groceries in the trunk of a car for an extended period of time, because some foods will spoil without being refrigerated. But Sunny saw that the temperatures of the Mortmain Mountains had caused the groceries to become over-refrigerated. A thin layer of frost covered every item, and Sunny had to crawl inside and wipe the frost off with her bare hands to see what she might make for the troupe. There was a variety of well-chilled food 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE that Olaf had stolen from the carnival, but none of it seemed like the makings of a good breakfast. There was a bag of coffee beans beneath a harpoon gun and a frozen hunk of spinach, but there was no way to grind the beans into tiny pieces to make coffee. Near a picnic basket and a large bag of mushrooms was a jug of orange juice, but it had been close to one of the bullet holes in the trunk, and so had frozen completely solid in the cold. And after Sunny moved aside three chunks of cold cheese, a large can of water chestnuts, and an eggplant as big as herself, she finally found a small jar of boysenberry jam, and a loaf of bread she could use to make toast, although it was so cold it felt more like a log than a breakfast ingredient. “Wake up!” Sunny peeked out of the trunk and saw Count Olaf calling through the door of one of the tents she had assembled. “Wake up and get dressed for breakfast!” “Can’t we sleep ten minutes more?” asked the whiny voice of the hook-handed man. “I 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS was having a lovely dream about sneezing without covering my nose and mouth, and giving everybody germs.” “Absolutely not!” Olaf replied. “I have lots of work for you to do.” “But Olaf,” said Esmé Squalor, emerging from the tent she had shared with Count Olaf. Her hair was in curlers and she was wearing a long robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers. “I need a little while to choose what I’m going to wear. It’s not in to burn down a headquarters without wearing a fashionable outfit.” Sunny gasped in the trunk. She had known that Olaf was eager to reach the V.F.D. headquarters as soon as possible, in order to get his hands on the rest of some crucial evidence, but it had not occurred to her that he would combine this evidence-grabbing with his usual pyromania, a word which here means “a love of fire, usually the product of a deranged mind.” “I can’t imagine why you need all this time,” 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE was Count Olaf’s grumpy reply to his girlfriend. “After all, I wear the same outfit for weeks at a time, except when I’m in disguise, and I look almost unbearably handsome. Well, I suppose you have a few minutes before breakfast is ready. Slow service is one of the disadvantages of having infants for slaves.” Olaf strode over to the car and peered in at Sunny, who was still clutching the loaf of bread. “Hurry up, bigmouth,” he growled at Sunny. “I need a nice hot meal to take the chill out of the morning.” “Unfeasi!” Sunny cried. By “Unfeasi” she meant “To make a hot meal without any electricity, I’d need a fire, and expecting a baby to start a fire all by herself on top of a snowy mountain is cruelly impossible and impossibly cruel,” but Olaf merely frowned. “Your baby talk is really beginning to annoy me,” he said. “Hygiene,” Sunny said, to make herself feel A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS better. She meant something along the lines of, “Additionally, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for wearing the same outfit for weeks at a time without washing,” but Olaf merely scowled at her and walked back into his tent. Sunny looked at the cold ingredients and tried to think. Even if she had been old enough to start a fire by herself, Sunny had been nervous around flames since the fire that had destroyed the Baudelaire mansion. But as she thought of the fire that destroyed her own home, she remembered something her mother had told her once. They had both been busy in the kitchen—Sunny’s mother was busy preparing for a fancy luncheon, and Sunny was busy dropping a fork on the floor over and over again to see what sort of sound it made. The luncheon was due to start any minute, and Sunny’s mother was quickly mixing up a salad of sliced mango, black beans, and chopped celery mixed with black pepper, lime juice, and olive oil. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “This isn’t a very complicated recipe, Sunny,” her mother had said, “but if I arrange the salad very nicely on fancy plates, people will think I’ve been cooking all day. Often, when cooking, the presentation of the food can be as important as the food itself.” Thinking of what her mother had said, she opened the picnic basket in Olaf’s trunk and found that it contained a set of elegant plates, each emblazoned with the familiar eye insignia, and a small tea set. Then she rolled up her sleeves—an expression which here means “focused very hard on the task at hand, but did not actually roll up her sleeves, because it was very cold on the highest peak of the Mortmain Mountains”—and got to work as Count Olaf and his comrades started their day. “I’ll use these blankets for a tablecloth,” Sunny heard Olaf say in the tent, over the sound her own teeth were making. “Good idea,” she heard Esmé reply. “It’s very in to dine al fresco.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “What does that mean?” Olaf asked. “It means ‘outside,’ of course,” Esmé explained. “It’s fashionable to eat your meals in the fresh air.” “I knew what it meant,” Count Olaf replied. “I was just testing you.” “Hey boss,” Hugo called from the next tent. “Colette won’t share the dental floss.” “There’s no reason to use dental floss,” Count Olaf said, “unless you’re trying to strangle someone with a very weak neck.” “Kevin, would you do me a favor?” the hook-handed man asked, as Sunny struggled to open the jug of juice. “Will you help me comb my hair? These hooks can make it difficult sometimes.” “I’m jealous of your hooks,” Kevin replied. “Having no hands is better than having two equally strong hands.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” one of the whitefaced women replied. “Having a white face is worse than both of your situations.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “But you have a white face because you put makeup on,” Colette said, as Sunny climbed back out of the trunk and knelt down in the snow. “You’re putting powder on your face right now.” “Must you bicker every single morning?” Count Olaf asked, and stomped back out of his tent carrying a blanket covered in images of eyes. “Somebody take this blanket and set the table over there on that flat rock.” Hugo walked out of the tent and smiled at his new boss. “I’d be happy to,” he said. Esmé stepped outside, having changed into a bright red snowsuit, and put her arm around Olaf. “Fold the blanket into a large triangle,” she said to Hugo. “That’s the in way to do it.” “Yes ma’am,” Hugo said, “and, if you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a very handsome snowsuit you are wearing.” The villainous girlfriend turned all the way around to show off her outfit from every angle. Sunny looked up from her cooking and noticed that the letter B was sewn onto the back of it, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS along with the eye insignia. “I’m glad you like it, Hugo,” Esmé said. “It’s stolen.” Count Olaf glanced at Sunny and quickly stepped in front of his girlfriend. “What are you staring at, toothy?” he asked. “Are you done making breakfast?” “Almost,” Sunny replied. “That infant never makes any sense,” Hugo said. “No wonder she fooled us into thinking she was a carnival freak.” Sunny sighed, but no one heard her over the scornful laughter of Olaf’s troupe. One by one, the villain’s wretched employees emerged from the tent and strolled over to the flat rock where Hugo was laying out the blanket. One of the white-faced women glanced at Sunny and gave her a small smile, but nobody offered to help her finish with the breakfast preparations, or even to set the table with the eye-patterned dishes. Instead, they gathered around the rock talking and laughing until Sunny carefully carried the breakfast over to them, arranged on a THE SLIPPERY SLOPE large eye-shaped tray that she’d found in the bottom of the picnic basket. Although she was still frightened to be in Olaf’s clutches and worried about her siblings, Sunny could not help but be a little proud as Count Olaf and his comrades looked at the meal she had prepared. Sunny had kept in mind what her mother had said about presentation being as important as the food itself, and managed to put together a lovely breakfast despite the difficult circumstances. First, she had opened the jug of frozen orange juice and used a small spoon to chip away at the ice until she had a large heap of juice shavings, which she arranged into tiny piles on each plate to make orange granita, a cold and delicious concoction that is often served at fancy dinner parties and masked balls. Then, Sunny had rinsed her mouth out with melted snow so it would be as clean as possible, and chopped some of the coffee beans with her teeth. She placed a bit of the ground coffee inside each cup and combined it with more A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS snow she had melted in her own hands to make iced coffee, a delicious beverage I first enjoyed when visiting Thailand to interview a taxi driver. Meanwhile, the youngest Baudelaire had put the chilled bread underneath her shirt to warm it up, and when it was warm enough to eat she put one slice on each plate, and using a small spoon, spread some boysenberry jam on each piece of bread. She did her best to spread the jam in the shape of an eye, to please the villains who would be eating it, and as a finishing touch she found a bouquet of ivy, which Count Olaf had given his girlfriend not so long ago, and placed it in the small pitcher of the tea set used for cream. There was no cream, but the ivy would help the presentation of the food by serving as a centerpiece, a word which here means “a decoration placed in the middle of a table, often used to distract people from the food.” Of course, orange granita and iced coffee are not often served at al fresco breakfasts on cold mountain peaks, and bread with jam is THE SLIPPERY SLOPE more traditionally prepared as toast, but without a source of heat or any other cooking equipment, Sunny had done the best she could, and she hoped that Olaf and his troupe might appreciate her efforts. “Caffefredde, sorbet, toast tartar,” she announced. “What is this?” Count Olaf said suspiciously, peering into his coffee cup. “It looks like coffee, but it’s freezing cold!” “And what is this orange stuff?” Esmé asked suspiciously. “I want fashionable, in food, not a handful of ice!” Colette picked up a piece of the bread and stared at it suspiciously. “This toast feels raw,” she said. “Is it safe to eat raw toast?” “Of course not,” Hugo said. “I bet that baby is trying to poison us.” “Actually, the coffee isn’t bad,” one of the white-faced women said, “even if it is a little bitter. Could someone pass the sugar, please?” “Sugar?” shrieked Count Olaf, erupting in A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS anger. He stood up, grabbed one end of the blanket, and pulled as hard as he could, scattering all of Sunny’s hard work. Food, beverages, and dishes fell everywhere, and Sunny had to duck to avoid getting hit on the head with a flying fork. “All the sugar in the world couldn’t save this terrible breakfast!” he roared, and then leaned down so that his shiny, shiny eyes stared right into Sunny’s. “I told you to make a nice, hot breakfast, and you gave me cold, disgusting nonsense!” he said, his smelly breath making a cloud in the chilly air. “Don’t you see how high up we are, you sabertoothed papoose? If I threw you off Mount Fraught, you’d never survive!” “Olaf!” Esmé said. “I’m surprised at you! Surely you remember that we’ll never get the Baudelaire fortune if we toss Sunny off the mountain. We have to keep Sunny alive for the greater good.” “Yes, yes,” Count Olaf said. “I remember. I’m not going to throw the orphan off the mountain. I just wanted to terrify her.” He gave Sunny 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE a cruel smirk, and then turned to the hookhanded man. “Walk over to that frozen waterfall,” he said, “and crack a hole in the ice with your hook. The stream is full of Stricken Salmon. Catch enough for all of us, and we’ll have the baby prepare us a proper meal.” “Good idea, Olaf,” the hook-handed man said, standing up and walking toward the icy slope. “You’re as smart as you are intelligent.” “Sakesushi,” Sunny said quietly, which meant “I don’t think you’ll enjoy salmon if it’s not cooked.” “Stop your baby talk and wash these dishes,” Olaf ordered. “They’re covered in lousy food.” “You know, Olaf,” said the white-faced woman who had asked for sugar, “it’s none of my business, but we might put someone else in charge of cooking. It was probably difficult for a baby to prepare a hot breakfast without a fire.” “But there is a fire,” said a deep, low voice, and everyone turned around to see who had arrived. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Having an aura of menace is like having a pet weasel, because you rarely meet someone who has one, and when you do it makes you want to hide under the coffee table. An aura of menace is simply a distinct feeling of evil that accompanies the arrival of certain people, and very few individuals are evil enough to produce an aura of menace that is very strong. Count Olaf, for example, had an aura of menace that the three Baudelaires had felt the moment they met him, but a number of other people never seemed to sense that a villain was in their midst, even when Olaf was standing right next to them with an evil gleam in his eye. But when two visitors arrived at the highest peak of the Mortmain Mountains, their aura of menace was unmistakable. Sunny gasped when she saw them. Esmé Squalor shuddered in her snowsuit. The members of Olaf’s troupe—all except the hookhanded man, who was busy fishing for salmon and so was lucky enough to miss the visitors’ arrival—gazed down at the snowy ground rather THE SLIPPERY SLOPE than take a further look at them. Count Olaf himself looked a bit nervous as the man, the woman, and their aura of menace drew closer and closer. And even I, after all this time, can feel their aura of menace so strongly, just by writing about these two people, that I dare not say their names, and will instead refer to them the way everyone who dares refer to them refers to them, as “the man with a beard, but no hair” and “the woman with hair, but no beard.” “It’s good to see you, Olaf,” continued the deep voice, and Sunny realized that the voice belonged to the sinister-looking woman. She was dressed in a suit made of a strange blue fabric that was very shiny, decorated with two large pads, one on each shoulder. She was dragging a wooden toboggan—a word which here means “a sled big enough to hold several people,” which made an eerie scraping sound against the cold ground. “I was worried that the authorities might have captured you.” “You look well,” said the man with a beard A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS but no hair. He was dressed identically to the woman with hair but no beard, but his voice was very hoarse, as if he had been screaming for hours and could hardly talk. “It’s been a long time since we’ve laid eyes on one another.” The man gave Olaf a grin that made it seem even colder on the mountain peak, and then stopped and helped the woman lean the toboggan against the rock where Sunny had served breakfast. The youngest Baudelaire saw that the toboggan was painted with the familiar eye insignia, and had a few long leather straps, presumably used for steering. Count Olaf coughed lightly into his hand, which is something people often do when they cannot think of what to say. “Hello,” he said, a bit nervously. “Did I hear you say something about a fire?” The man with a beard but no hair and the woman with hair but no beard looked at one another and shared a laugh that made Sunny cover her ears with her hands. “Haven’t you THE SLIPPERY SLOPE noticed,” the woman said, “that there are no snow gnats around?” “We had noticed that,” Esmé said. “I thought maybe snow gnats were no longer in.” “Don’t be ridiculous, Esmé,” said the man with a beard but no hair. He reached out and kissed Esmé’s hand, which Sunny could see was trembling. “The gnats aren’t around because they can smell the smoke.” “I don’t smell anything,” said Hugo. “Well, if you were a tiny insect, you’d smell something,” replied the woman with hair but no beard. “If you were a snow gnat, you’d smell the smoke from the V.F.D. headquarters.” “We did you a favor, Olaf,” the man said. “We burned the entire place down.” “No!” Sunny cried, before she could stop herself. By “No!” she meant “I certainly hope that isn’t true, because my siblings and I hoped to reach V.F.D. headquarters, solve the mysteries that surround us, and perhaps find one of our parents,” but she had not planned to say it out A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS loud. The two visitors looked down at the youngest Baudelaire, casting their aura of menace in her direction. “What is that?” asked the man with a beard but no hair. “That’s the youngest Baudelaire,” replied Esmé. “We’ve eliminated the other two, but we’re keeping this one around to do our bidding until we can finally steal the fortune.” The woman with hair but no beard nodded. “Infant servants are so troublesome,” she said. “I had an infant servant once—a long time ago, before the schism.” “Before the schism?” Olaf said, and Sunny wished Klaus were with her, because the baby did not know what the word “schism” meant. “That is a long time ago. That infant must be all grown up by now.” “Not necessarily,” the woman said, and laughed again, while her companion leaned down to gaze at Sunny. Sunny could not bear to look into the eyes of the man with a beard but no hair, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and instead looked down at his shiny shoes. “So this is Sunny Baudelaire,” he said in his strange, hoarse voice. “Well, well, well. I’ve heard so much about this little orphan. She’s caused almost as many problems as her parents did.” He stood up again and looked around at Olaf and his troupe. “But we know how to solve problems, don’t we? Fire can solve any problem in the world.” He began to laugh, and the woman with hair but no beard laughed along with him. Nervously, Count Olaf began to laugh, too, and then glared at his troupe until they laughed along with him, and Sunny found herself surrounded by tall, laughing villains. “Oh, it was wonderful,” said the woman with hair but no beard. “First we burned down the kitchen. Then we burned down the dining room. Then we burned down the parlor, and then the disguise center, the movie room, and the stables. Then we moved on to the gymnasium and the training center, and the garage and all six of the A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS laboratories. We burned down the dormitories and schoolrooms, the lounge, the theater, and the music room, as well as the museum and the ice cream shop. Then we burned down the rehearsal studios and the testing centers and the swimming pool, which was very hard to burn down. Then we burned down all the bathrooms, and then finally, we burned down the V.F.D. library last night. That was my favorite part— books and books and books, all turned to ashes so no one could read them. You should have been there, Olaf! Every morning we lit fires and every evening we celebrated with a bottle of wine and some finger puppets. We’ve been wearing these fireproof suits for almost a month. It’s been a marvelous time.” “Why did you burn it down gradually?” Count Olaf asked. “Whenever I burn something down, I do it all at once.” “We couldn’t have burned down the entire headquarters at once,” said the man with a beard but no hair. “Someone would have spotted us. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Remember, where there’s smoke there’s fire.” “But if you burned the headquarters down room by room,” Esmé said, “didn’t all of the volunteers escape?” “They were gone already,” said the man, and scratched his head where his hair might have been. “The entire headquarters were deserted. It was as if they knew we were coming. Oh well, you can’t win them all.” “Maybe we’ll find some of them when we burn down the carnival,” said the woman, in her deep, deep voice. “Carnival?” Olaf asked nervously. “Yes,” the woman said, and scratched the place where her beard would have been, if she had one. “There’s an important piece of evidence that V.F.D. has hidden in a figurine sold at Caligari Carnival, so we need to go burn it down.” “I burned it down already,” Count Olaf said. “The whole place?” the woman said in surprise. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “The whole place,” Olaf said, giving her a nervous smile. “Congratulations,” she said, in a deep purr. “You’re better than I thought, Olaf.” Count Olaf looked relieved, as if he had not been sure whether the woman was going to compliment him or kick him. “Well, it’s all for the greater good,” he said. “As a reward,” the woman said, “I have a gift for you, Olaf.” Sunny watched as the woman reached into the pocket of her shiny suit and drew out a stack of paper, tied together with thick rope. The paper looked very old and worn, as if it had been passed around to a variety of different people, hidden in a number of secret compartments, and perhaps even divided into different piles, driven around a city in horsedrawn carriages, and then put back together at midnight in the back room of a bookstore disguised as a café disguised as a sporting goods store. Count Olaf’s eyes grew very wide and very shiny, and he reached his filthy hands toward it 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE as if it were the Baudelaire fortune itself. “The Snicket file!” he said, in a hushed whisper. “It’s all here,” the woman said. “Every chart, every map and every photograph from the only file that could put us all in jail.” “It’s complete except for page thirteen, of course,” the man said. “We understand that the Baudelaires managed to steal that page from Heimlich Hospital.” The two visitors glared down at Sunny Baudelaire, who couldn’t help whimpering in fear. “Surchmi,” she said. She meant something along the lines of, “I don’t have it—my siblings do,” but she did not need a translator. “The older orphans have it,” Olaf said, “but I’m fairly certain they’re dead.” “Then all of our problems have gone up in smoke,” said the woman with hair but no beard. Count Olaf grabbed the file and held it to his chest as if it were a newborn baby, although he was not the sort of person to treat a newborn A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS baby very kindly. “This is the most wonderful gift in the world,” he said. “I’m going to go read it right now.” “We’ll all read it together,” said the woman with hair but no beard. “It contains secrets we all ought to know.” “But first,” said the man with a beard but no hair, “I have a gift for your girlfriend, Olaf.” “For me?” Esmé asked. “I found these in one of the rooms of headquarters,” the man said. “I’ve never seen one before, but it has been quite some time since I was a volunteer.” With a sly smile, he reached into his pocket and took out a small green tube. “What’s that?” Esmé asked. “I think it’s a cigarette,” the man said. “A cigarette!” Esmé said, with a smile as big as Olaf’s. “How in!” “I thought you’d enjoy them,” the man said. “Here, try it. I happen to have quite a few matches right here.” The man with a beard but no hair struck a THE SLIPPERY SLOPE match, lit the end of the green tube, and offered it to the wicked girlfriend, who grabbed it and held it to her mouth. A bitter smell, like that of burning vegetables, filled the air, and Esmé Squalor began to cough. “What’s the matter?” asked the woman in her deep voice. “I thought you liked things that are in.” “I do,” Esmé said, and then coughed quite a bit more. Sunny was reminded of Mr. Poe, who was always coughing into a handkerchief, as Esmé coughed and coughed and finally dropped the green tube to the ground where it spewed out a dark green smoke. “I love cigarettes,” she explained to the man with a beard but no hair, “but I prefer to smoke them with a long holder because I don’t like the smell or taste and because they’re very bad for you.” “Never mind that now,” Count Olaf said impatiently. “Let’s go into my tent and read the file.” He started to walk toward the tent but stopped and glared at his comrades, who were A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS beginning to follow him. “The rest of you stay out here,” he said. “There are secrets in this file that I do not want you to know.” The two sinister visitors began to laugh, and followed Count Olaf and Esmé into the tent, closing the flap behind them. Sunny stood with Hugo, Colette, Kevin, and the two white-faced women and stared after them in silence, waiting for the aura of menace to disappear. “Who were those people?” asked the hookhanded man, and everyone turned to see that he had returned from his fishing expedition. Four salmon hung from each of his hooks, dripping with the waters of the Stricken Stream. “I don’t know,” said one of the white-faced women, “but they made me very nervous.” “If they’re friends of Count Olaf’s,” Kevin said, “how bad could they be?” The members of the troupe looked at one another, but no one answered the ambidextrous person’s question. “What did that man mean THE SLIPPERY SLOPE when he said ‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire’?” Hugo asked. “I don’t know,” Colette said. A chilly wind blew, and Sunny watched her contort her body in the breeze until it looked almost as curvy as the smoke from the green tube Esmé had dropped. “Forget those questions,” the hook-handed man said. “My question is, how are you going to prepare this salmon, orphan?” Olaf’s henchman was looking down at Sunny, but the youngest Baudelaire did not answer for a moment. Sunny was thinking, and her siblings would have been proud of her for the way she was thinking. Klaus would have been proud, because she was thinking about the phrase “Where there’s smoke there’s fire,” and what it might mean. And Violet would have been proud, because she was thinking about the salmon that the hook-handed man was holding, and what she might invent that would help her. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Sunny stared at the hook-handed man and thought as hard as she could, and she felt almost as if both siblings were with her, Klaus helping her think about a phrase and Violet helping her think about an invention. “Answer me, baby,” the hook-handed man growled. “What are you going to make for us out of this salmon?” “Lox!” Sunny said, but it was as if all three of the Baudelaires had answered the question. An associate of mine once wrote a novel called Corridors of Power, which told the story of various people discussing how the world has become a corrupt and dangerous place and whether or not there are enough people with the integrity and decency necessary to keep the entire planet from descending into in several years, because I particihow the world has become a corrupt and dangerous place CHAPTER despair. I have not read this novel pate in enough discussions on Seven A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS and whether or not there are enough people with the integrity and decency necessary to keep the entire planet from descending into despair without reading about it in my leisure time, but nevertheless the phrase “corridors of power” has come to mean the hushed and often secret places where important matters are discussed. Whether or not they are actual corridors, the corridors of power tend to feel quiet and mysterious. If you have ever walked inside an important building, such as the main branch of a library or the office of a dentist who has agreed to disguise your teeth, then you may have experienced this feeling that accompanies the corridors of power, and Violet and Klaus Baudelaire experienced it as they reached the end of the Vertical Flame Diversion, and followed the mysterious sweatered scout as he climbed out of the secret passageway. Even through their masks, the two siblings could sense that they were in an important place, even though it was nothing more than a dim, curved hallway with a small THE SLIPPERY SLOPE grate on the ceiling where the morning light was shining through. “That’s where the smoke escapes from the Snow Scouts’ fire,” whispered the mysterious scout, pointing up at the ceiling. “That leads to the very center of the Valley of Four Drafts, so the smoke is scattered to the four winds. V.F.D. doesn’t want anyone to see the smoke.” “Where there’s smoke,” Violet said, “there’s fire.” “Exactly,” the scout said. “Anyone who saw smoke coming from this high up in the mountains might become suspicious and investigate. In fact, I found a device that works exactly according to this principle.” He reached into his backpack and drew out a small rectangular box filled with small green tubes, exactly like the one that Sunny had seen the man with a beard but no hair give to Esmé Squalor. “No thank you,” Violet said. “I don’t smoke.” “I don’t, either,” the scout said, “but these aren’t cigarettes. These are Verdant Flammable A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Devices. Verdant means ‘green,’ so when you light one, it gives out a dark green smoke, so another volunteer will know where you are.” Klaus took the box from the scout and squinted at it in the dim light. “I’ve seen a box like this before,” he said, “in my father’s desk, when I was looking for a letter opener. I remember thinking it was strange to find them, because he didn’t smoke.” “He must have been hiding them,” Violet said. “Why was he keeping them a secret?” “The entire organization is a secret,” the scout said. “It was very difficult for me to learn the secret location of the headquarters.” “It was difficult for us, too,” Klaus said. “We found it in a coded map.” “I had to draw my own map,” the scout said, and reached into a pocket in his sweater. He turned on the flashlight, and the two Baudelaires could see he was holding a notebook with a dark purple cover. “What’s that?” Violet asked. 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “It’s a commonplace book,” the scout said. “Whenever I find something that seems important or interesting, I write it down. That way, all my important information is in one place.” “I should start one,” Klaus said. “My pockets are bulging with scraps of paper.” “From information I read in Dr. Montgomery’s book, and a few others,” the scout said, “I managed to draw a map of where to go from here.” He opened the purple notebook and flipped a few pages until he reached a small but elegant rendering of the cave, the Vertical Flame Diversion, and the hallway in which they were standing now. “As you can see,” he said, running his finger along the hallway, “the passageway branches off in two directions.” “This is a very well-drawn map,” Violet said. “Thank you,” the scout replied. “I’ve been interested in cartography for quite some time. See, if we go to the left, there’s a small area used for sled and snowsuit storage, at least according to a newspaper article I found. But if we go A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS right, we’ll arrive at the Vernacularly Fastened Door, which should open onto the headquarters’ kitchen. We might walk in on the entire organization having breakfast.” The two Baudelaires looked at one another through their masks, and Violet put a hand on her brother’s shoulder. They did not dare to say out loud their hope that one of their parents might be just around the corner. “Let’s go,” Violet whispered. The scout nodded silently in agreement, and led the Baudelaires down the hallway, which seemed to get colder and colder with every step. By now they were so far from Bruce and the Snow Scouts that there was no need to whisper, but all three children kept quiet as they walked down the dim, curved hallway, hushed by the feeling of the corridors of power. At last they reached a large metal door with a strange device where the doorknob should have been. The device looked a bit like a spider, with curly wires spreading out in all directions, but THE SLIPPERY SLOPE where the head of the spider might have been was the keyboard of a typewriter. Even in her excitement to see the headquarters, Violet’s inventing mind was interested in such a device, and she leaned closer to see what it was. “Wait,” the sweatered scout said, reaching his arm out to stop her. “This is a coded lock. If we don’t operate it properly, we won’t be able to get into the headquarters.” “How does it work?” Violet said, shivering slightly in the cold. “I’m not sure,” the scout admitted, and took out his commonplace book again. “It’s called the Vernacularly Fastened Door, so—” “So it operates on language,” Klaus finished. “Vernacular is a word for ‘a local language or dialect.’” “Of course,” Violet said. “See how the wires are curled around the hinges of the door? They’re locked in place, unless you type in the right sequence of letters on that keyboard. There are more letters than numbers, so it would be more A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS difficult for someone to guess the combination of the lock.” “That’s what I read,” the scout confirmed, looking at a page in his notebook. “You’re supposed to type in three specific phrases in a row. The phrases change every season, so volunteers need to have a lot of information at their fingertips to use this door. The first is the name of the scientist most widely credited with the discovery of gravity.” “That’s easy,” Violet said, and typed in S-IR-I-S-A-A-C-N-E-W-T-O-N, the name of a physicist she had always admired. When she was finished, there was a muted clicking sound from the typewriter keyboard, as if the device was warming up. “The second is the Latin name for the Volunteer Feline Detectives,” the scout said. “I found the answer in Remarkable Phenomena of the Mortmain Mountains. It’s Panthera leo.” He leaned forward and typed in P-A-N-T-H-E-RA-L-E-O. There was a very quiet buzzing THE SLIPPERY SLOPE sound, and the children saw that the wires near the hinges were shaking very slightly. “It’s beginning to unlock,” Violet said. “I hope I get a chance to study this invention.” “Let’s get to the headquarters first,” Klaus said. “What’s the third phrase?” The scout sighed, and turned a page in the commonplace book. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Another volunteer told me that it’s the central theme of Leo Tolstoy’s novel Anna Karenina, but I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.” Violet knew that her brother was smiling, even though she could not see his face through the mask. She was remembering one summer, very long ago, when Klaus was very young and Sunny was not even conceived. Every summer, the Baudelaires’ mother would read a very long book, joking that lifting a large novel was the only exercise she liked to get during the hot months. During the time Violet was thinking of, Mrs. Baudelaire chose Anna Karenina for her summer reading, and Klaus would sit on his A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS mother’s lap for hours at a time while she read. The middle Baudelaire had not been reading very long, but their mother helped him with the big words and would occasionally stop reading to explain what had happened in the story, and in this way Klaus and his mother read the story of Ms. Karenina, whose boyfriend treats her so poorly that she throws herself under a train. Violet had spent most of that summer studying the laws of thermodynamics and building a miniature helicopter out of an eggbeater and some old copper wiring, but she knew that Klaus must remember the central theme of the book he read on his mother’s lap. “The central theme of Anna Karenina,” he said, “is that a rural life of moral simplicity, despite its monotony, is the preferable personal narrative to a daring life of impulsive passion, which only leads to tragedy.” “That’s a very long theme,” the scout said. “It’s a very long book,” Klaus replied. “But I can work quickly. My sisters and I once tapped THE SLIPPERY SLOPE out a long telegram in no time at all.” “Too bad that telegram never arrived,” the scout said quietly, but the middle Baudelaire was already pressing the keys on the Vernacularly Fastened Door. As Klaus typed the words “a rural life,” a phrase which here means “living in the country,” the wires began to curl and uncurl very quickly, like worms on a sidewalk after it has rained, and by the time Klaus was typing “the preferable personal narrative,” a phrase which here means “the way to live your life,” the entire door was quivering as if it were as nervous as the Baudelaires. Finally, Klaus typed “T-R-A-G-E-D-Y,” and the three children stepped back, but instead of opening, the door stopped shaking and the wires stopped moving, and the passageway was dead quiet. “It’s not opening,” Violet said. “Maybe that isn’t the central theme of Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.” “It seemed like it was working until the last word,” the scout said. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Maybe the mechanism is a little stuck,” Violet said. “Or maybe a daring life of impulsive passion only leads to something else,” the scout said, and in some cases this mysterious person was right. A daring life of impulsive passion is an expression which refers to people who follow what is in their hearts, and like people who prefer to follow their head, or follow the advice of other people, or follow a mysterious man in a dark blue raincoat, people who lead a daring life of impulsive passion end up doing all sorts of things. For instance, if you ever find yourself reading a book entitled The Bible, you would find the story of Adam and Eve, whose daring life of impulsive passion led to them putting on clothing for the first time in their lives, in order to leave the snake-infested garden where they had been living. Bonnie and Clyde, another famous couple who lived a daring life of impulsive passion, found that it led them to a successful if short career in THE SLIPPERY SLOPE bank robbery. And in my own case, in the few moments where I have led a daring life of impulsive passion, it has led to all sorts of trouble, from false accusations of arson to a broken cuff link I can never have repaired. But in this case, as the Baudelaires stood at the Vernacularly Fastened Door, hoping to reach the V.F.D. headquarters, rescue their sister, and see if one of their parents was indeed alive, it was not the sweatered scout but the two Baudelaires who were right, because in Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, a daring life of impulsive passion leads only to tragedy, as Klaus said, and as Violet said, the mechanism was a little stuck, and after a few seconds, the door swung open with a slow and eerie creak. The children stepped through the door, blinking in the sudden light, and stood frozen in their steps. If you have read this far in the Baudelaires’ woeful story, then you will not be surprised to learn that the V.F.D. headquarters in the Valley of Four Drafts in the Mortmain Mountains was no more, but Violet and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Klaus, of course, were not reading their own story. They were in their own story, and this was the part of their story where they were sick with shock at what they saw. The Vernacularly Fastened Door did not open onto a kitchen, not anymore. When the Baudelaires followed the mysterious scout through the doorway, they found themselves standing in what at first seemed to be a large field, growing a black and ruined harvest in a valley as cold and drafty as its name. But slowly, they saw the charred remains of the grand and impressive building that had stood where the three children were standing. Nearby was a handful of silverware that had survived the blaze, scattered in front of the remnants of a stove, and a refrigerator stood to one side, as if it were guarding the ashen remains of the rest of the kitchen. To one side was a pile of burnt wood that had probably once been a large dining table, with a half-melted candelabra sticking out of the top like a baby tree. Farther away, they could see the mysterious shapes of other objects 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE that had survived the fire—a trombone, the pendulum of a grandfather clock, what looked like a periscope, or perhaps a spyglass, an ice cream scoop, lying forlornly in a pile of ashes encrusted with burnt sugar, and an iron archway emblazoned with the words “V.F.D. Library,” but there was nothing beyond the archway but piles and piles of blackened remains. It was a devastating sight, and it made Violet and Klaus feel as if they were all alone in a world that had been completely ruined. The only thing they could see that seemed untouched by the fire was a sheer, white wall, beyond the refrigerator, that rose up as far as two siblings could see. It took the Baudelaires a few moments to realize that it was a frozen waterfall, rising up in a slippery slope toward the source of the Stricken Stream on Mount Fraught, so shiny and white that it made the ruined headquarters look even darker. “It must have been beautiful,” the sweatered scout said, in a quivering voice. He walked toward the waterfall, his feet churning up black A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS dust with every step. “I read that there was a large window,” he said, moving his gloved hand in the air as if it were still there. “When it was your turn to cook, you could look out at the waterfall while you were chopping vegetables or simmering a sauce. It was supposed to be very peaceful. And there was a mechanism just outside the window that turned some of the water from the pool into steam. The steam rose up and covered the headquarters, so it couldn’t be seen through the blanket of mist.” The Baudelaires walked to where the scout was standing, and looked into the frozen pool at the bottom of the waterfall. The pool branched off into two tributaries, a word which here means “divisions of a river or stream, each twisting off in a different direction past the ruins of the headquarters, and curving around the Mortmain Mountains until they disappeared from view.” Violet and Klaus gazed sadly at the icy swirls of black and gray they had noticed when they were walking alongside the Stricken Stream. “It was THE SLIPPERY SLOPE ashes,” Klaus said quietly. “Ashes from the fire fell into the pool at the bottom of the waterfall, and the stream carried them down the river.” Violet found that it was easier to discuss a small, specific matter than think about her immense disappointment. “But the pool is frozen solid,” she said. “The stream couldn’t have carried the ashes anywhere.” “It wouldn’t have been frozen when it happened,” Klaus replied. “The heat from the fire would have thawed the pool.” “It must have been awful to see,” the sweatered scout said. Violet and Klaus stood with him, imagining the inferno, a word which here means “enormous fire that destroyed a secret headquarters high in the mountains.” They could almost hear the shattering of glass as the windows fell away, and the crackle of the fire as it consumed everything it could. They could almost smell the thick smoke as it floated upward and blackened the sky, and they could almost see the books in the library, falling from A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the burning shelves and tumbling into ashes. The only thing they could not picture was who might have been at the headquarters when the fire began, running out into the freezing cold to avoid the flames. “Do you think,” Violet said, “any of the volunteers . . .” “There’s no sign that anyone was here,” the scout said quickly. “But how can we know for sure?” Klaus asked. “There could be a survivor someplace right now.” “Hello?” Violet called, looking around her at the rubble. “Hello?” She found that her eyes were filling with tears, as she called out for the people she knew in her heart were nowhere nearby. The eldest Baudelaire felt as if she had been calling for these people since that terrible day on the beach, and that if she called them enough they might appear before her. She thought of all the times she had called them, back when she lived with her siblings in the Baudelaire mansion. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Sometimes she called them when she wanted them to see something she had invented. Sometimes she called them when she wanted them to know she had arrived home. And sometimes she called them just because she wanted to know where they were. Sometimes Violet just wanted to see them, and feel that she was safe as long as they were around. “Mother!” Violet Baudelaire called. “Father!” There was no answer. “Mom!” Klaus called. “Dad!” The Baudelaires heard nothing but the rush of all four of the valley’s drafts, and a long creak as the Vernacularly Fastened Door blew shut. They saw that the door had been made to look just like the side of the mountain, so that they could scarcely see where they had come from, or the way to get back. Now they were truly alone. “I know we were all hoping to find people at the headquarters,” the sweatered scout said gently, “but I don’t think anyone is here. I think we’re all by ourselves.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “That’s impossible!” Klaus cried, and Violet could hear that he was crying. He reached through his layers of clothing until he found his pocket, and pulled out page thirteen from the Snicket file, which he had been carrying with him since the Baudelaires had found it at Heimlich Hospital. The page had a photograph of their parents, standing with Jacques Snicket and another man the Baudelaires had been unable to identify, and above the photograph was a sentence Klaus had memorized from reading it so many times. “‘Because of the evidence discussed on page nine,’” he recited tearfully, “‘experts now suspect that there may in fact be one survivor of the fire, but the survivor’s whereabouts are unknown.’” He walked up to the scout and shook the page in his face. “We thought the survivor would be here,” he said. “I think the survivor is here,” the scout said quietly, and removed his mask to reveal his face at last. “I’m Quigley Quagmire,” he said, “I survived the fire that destroyed my home, and I was hoping to find my brother and sister.” CHAPTER Eight It is one of the peculiar truths of life that people often say things that they know full well are ridiculous. If someone asks you how you are, for example, you might automatically say “Fine, thank you,” when in fact you have just failed an examination or been trampled by an ox. A friend might tell you, “I’ve looked everywhere in the world for my keys,” when you know that they have actually only looked in a few places in the immediate area. Once I said to a woman I loved very much, “I’m sure that this trouble will end soon, and you A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS and I will spend the rest of our lives together in happiness and bliss,” when I actually suspected that things were about to get much worse. And so it was with the two elder Baudelaires, when they stood face-to-face with Quigley Quagmire and found themselves to be saying things they knew were absurd. “You’re dead,” Violet said, and took off her mask to make sure she was seeing things clearly. But there was no mistaking Quigley, even though the Baudelaires had never seen him before. He looked so much like Duncan and Isadora that he could only be the third Quagmire triplet. “You perished in a fire along with your parents,” Klaus said, but as he took off his mask he knew this wasn’t so. Quigley was even giving the two Baudelaires a small smile that looked exactly like his siblings’. “No,” Quigley said. “I survived, and I’ve been looking for my siblings ever since.” “But how did you survive?” Violet asked. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Duncan and Isadora said that the house burned to the ground.” “It did,” Quigley said sadly. He looked out at the frozen waterfall and sighed deeply. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. I was in my family’s library, studying a map of the Finite Forest, when I heard a shattering of glass, and people shouting. My mother ran into the room and said there was a fire. We tried to go out the front door but the main hall was filled with smoke, so she took me back into the library and lifted a corner of the rug. There was a secret door underneath. She told me to wait down below while she fetched my siblings, and she left me there in the dark. I remember hearing the house falling to pieces above me, and the sound of frantic footsteps, and my siblings screaming.” Quigley put his mask down on the ground and looked at the two Baudelaires. “But she never came back,” he said. “Nobody came back, and when I tried to open the door, something had fallen on top of it and it wouldn’t budge.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “How did you get out?” Klaus asked. “I walked,” Quigley said. “When it became clear that no one was going to rescue me, I felt around in the dark and realized I was in a sort of passageway. There was nowhere else to go, so I started walking. I’ve never been so frightened in my life, walking alone in some dark passageway my parents had kept secret. I couldn’t imagine where it would lead.” The two Baudelaires looked at one another. They were thinking about the secret passageway they had discovered underneath their home, which they had discovered when they were under the care of Esmé Squalor and her husband. “And where did it lead?” Violet said. “To the house of a herpetologist,” Quigley said. “At the end of the passageway was a secret door that opened into an enormous room, made entirely of glass. The room was filled with empty cages, but it was clear that the room had once housed an enormous collection of reptiles.” 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “We’ve been there!” Klaus cried in amazement. “That’s Uncle Monty’s house! He was our guardian until Count Olaf arrived, disguised as—” “As a lab assistant,” Quigley finished. “I know. His suitcase was still there.” “There was a secret passageway under our house, too,” Violet said, “but we didn’t discover it until we lived with Esmé Squalor.” “There are secrets everywhere,” Quigley said. “I think everyone’s parents have secrets. You just have to know where to look for them.” “But why would our parents, and yours, have tunnels underneath their homes leading to a fancy apartment building and a herpetologist’s home?” Klaus said. “It doesn’t make any sense.” Quigley sighed, and put his backpack on the ashen ground, next to his mask. “There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I was hoping to find the answers here, but now I don’t know if I’ll ever find them.” He took out his purple notebook and opened it to the first page. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “All I can tell you is what I have here in this commonplace book.” Klaus gave Quigley a small smile, and reached into his pockets to retrieve all of the papers he had stored there. “You tell us what you know,” he said, “and we’ll tell you what we know. Perhaps together we can answer our own questions.” Quigley nodded in agreement, and the three children sat in a circle on what was once the kitchen floor. Quigley opened his backpack and took out a bag of salted almonds, which he passed around. “You must be hungry from the climb up the Vertical Flame Diversion,” he said. “I know I am. Let’s see, where was I?” “In the Reptile Room,” Violet said, “at the end of the passageway.” “Well, nothing happened for a while,” Quigley said. “On the doorstep of the house was a copy of The Daily Punctilio, which had an article about the fire. That’s how I learned that my parents were dead. I spent days and days there, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE all by myself. I was so sad, and so scared, and I didn’t know what else to do. I suppose I was waiting for the herpetologist to show up for work, and see if he was a friend of my parents and might be of some assistance. The kitchen was filled with food, so I had enough to eat, and every night I slept at the bottom of the stairs, so I could hear if anyone came in.” The Baudelaires nodded sympathetically, and Violet put a comforting hand on Quigley’s shoulder. “We were the same way,” Violet said, “right when we heard the news about our parents. I scarcely remember what we did and what we said.” “But didn’t anyone come looking for you?” Klaus asked. “The Daily Punctilio said that I died in the fire, too,” Quigley said. “The article said that my sister and brother were sent off to Prufrock Preparatory School, and that my parents’ estate was under the care of the city’s sixth most important financial advisor.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Esmé Squalor,” Violet and Klaus said simultaneously, a word which here means “in a disgusted voice, and at the exact same time.” “Right,” Quigley said, “but I wasn’t interested in that part of the story. I was determined to go to the school and find my siblings again. I found an atlas in Dr. Montgomery’s library, and studied it until I found Prufrock Preparatory School. It wasn’t too far, so I started to gather whatever supplies I could find around his house.” “Didn’t you think of calling the authorities?” Klaus asked. “I guess I wasn’t thinking very clearly,” Quigley admitted. “All I could think of was finding my siblings.” “Of course,” Violet said. “So what happened then?” “I was interrupted,” Quigley said. “Someone walked in just as I was putting the atlas in a totebag I found. It was Jacques Snicket, although I didn’t know who he was, of course. But he knew who I was, and was overjoyed that THE SLIPPERY SLOPE I was alive after all.” “How did you know you could trust him?” Klaus asked. “Well, he knew about the secret passageway,” Quigley said. “In fact, he knew quite a bit about my family, even though he hadn’t seen my parents in years. And . . .” “And?” Violet said. Quigley gave her a small smile. “And he was very well-read,” he said. “In fact, he was at Dr. Montgomery’s house to do a bit more reading. He said there was an important file that was hidden someplace on the premises, and he had to stay for a few days to try and complete his investigation.” “So he didn’t take you to the school?” Violet asked. “He said it wasn’t safe for me to be seen,” Quigley said. “He explained that he was part of a secret organization, and that my parents had been a part of it, too.” “V.F.D.,” Klaus said, and Quigley nodded in agreement. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Duncan and Isadora tried to tell us about V.F.D.,” Violet said, “but they never got the chance. We don’t even know what it stands for.” “It seems to stand for many things,” Quigley said, flipping pages in his notebook. “Nearly everything the organization uses, from the Volunteer Feline Detectives to the Vernacularly Fastened Door, has the same initials.” “But what is the organization?” Violet asked. “What is V.F.D.?” “Jacques wouldn’t tell me,” Quigley said, “but I think the letters stand for Volunteer Fire Department.” “Volunteer Fire Department,” Violet repeated, and looked at her brother. “What does that mean?” “In some communities,” Klaus said, “there’s no official fire department, and so they rely on volunteers to extinguish fires.” “I know that,” Violet said, “but what does that have to do with our parents, or Count Olaf, or anything that has happened to us? I always THE SLIPPERY SLOPE thought that knowing what the letters stood for would solve the mystery, but I’m as mystified as I ever was.” “Do you think our parents were secretly fighting fires?” Klaus asked. “But why would they keep it a secret?” Violet asked. “And why would they have a secret passageway underneath the house?” “Jacques said that the passageways were built by members of the organization,” Quigley said. “In the case of an emergency, they could escape to a safe place.” “But the tunnel we found connects our house to the home of Esmé Squalor,” Klaus said. “That’s not a safe place.” “Something happened,” Quigley said. “Something that changed everything.” He flipped through a few pages of his commonplace book until he found what he was looking for. “Jacques Snicket called it a ‘schism,’” he said, “but I don’t know what that word means.” “A schism,” Klaus said, “is a division of a A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS previously united group of people into two or more oppositional parties. It’s like a big argument, with everybody choosing sides.” “That makes sense,” Quigley said. “The way Jacques talked, it sounded like the entire organization was in chaos. Volunteers who were once working together are now enemies. Places that were once safe are now dangerous. Both sides are using the same codes, and the same disguises. Even the V.F.D. insignia used to represent the noble ideals everyone shared, but now it’s all gone up in smoke.” “But how did the schism start?” Violet asked. “What was everyone fighting over?” “I don’t know,” Quigley said. “Jacques didn’t have much time to explain things to me.” “What was he doing?” Klaus asked. “He was looking for you,” Quigley replied. “He showed me a picture of all three of you, waiting at the dock on some lake, and asked me if I’d seen you anywhere. He knew that you’d been placed in Count Olaf’s care, and all the THE SLIPPERY SLOPE terrible things that had happened there. He knew that you had gone to live with Dr. Montgomery. He even knew about some of the inventions you made, Violet, and the research you did, Klaus, and some of Sunny’s toothrelated exploits. He wanted to find you before it was too late.” “Too late for what?” Violet said. “I don’t know,” Quigley said with a sigh. “Jacques spent a long time at Dr. Montgomery’s house, but he was too busy conducting his investigation to explain everything to me. He would stay up all night reading and copying information into his notebook, and then sleep all day, or disappear for hours at a time. And then one day, he said he had to go interview someone in the town of Paltryville, but he never came back. I waited weeks and weeks for him to return. I read books in Dr. Montgomery’s library, and started a commonplace book of my own. At first it was difficult to find any information on V.F.D., but I took notes on anything I could find. I must have A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS read hundreds of books, but Jacques never returned. Finally, one morning, two things happened that made me decide not to wait any longer. The first was an article in The Daily Punctilio saying that my siblings had been kidnapped from the school. I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t wait for Jacques Snicket or for anyone else.” The Baudelaires nodded in solemn agreement. “What was the second thing?” Violet asked. Quigley was silent for a moment, and he reached down to the ground and scooped up a handful of ashes, letting them fall from his gloved hands. “I smelled smoke,” he said, “and when I opened the door of the Reptile Room, I saw that someone had thrown a torch through the glass of the ceiling, starting a fire in the library. Within minutes, the entire house was in flames.” “Oh,” Violet said quietly. “Oh” is a word which usually means something along the lines 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE of, “I heard you, and I’m not particularly interested,” but in this case, of course, the eldest Baudelaire meant something entirely different, and it is something that is difficult to define. She meant “I am sad to hear that Uncle Monty’s house burned down,” but that is not all. By “Oh,” Violet was also trying to describe her sadness about all of the fires that had brought Quigley and Klaus and herself here to the Mortmain Mountains, to huddle in a circle and try to solve the mystery that surrounded them. When Violet said “Oh,” she was not only thinking of the fire in the Reptile Room, but the fires that had destroyed the Baudelaire home, and the Quagmire home, and Heimlich Hospital, and Caligari Carnival, and the V.F.D. headquarters, where the smell of smoke still lingered around where the children were sitting. Thinking of all those fires made Violet feel as if the entire world were going up in flames, and that she and her siblings and all the other decent people in the world might A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS never find a place that was truly safe. “Another fire,” Klaus murmured, and Violet knew he was thinking the same thing. “Where could you go, Quigley?” “The only place I could think of was Paltryville,” Quigley said. “The last time I saw Jacques, he’d said he was going there. I thought if I went there I might find him again, and see if he could help me rescue Duncan and Isadora. Dr. Montgomery’s atlas showed me how to get there, but I had to go on foot, because I was afraid that anyone who might offer me a ride would be an enemy. It was a long time before I finally arrived, but as soon as I stepped into town I saw a large building that matched the tattoo on Jacques Snicket’s ankle. I thought it might be a safe place to go.” “Dr. Orwell’s office!” Klaus cried. “That’s not a safe place to go!” “Klaus was hypnotized there,” Violet explained, “and Count Olaf was disguised as—” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “As a receptionist,” Quigley finished. “I know. His fake nameplate was still on the desk. The office was deserted, but I could tell that Jacques had been there, because there were some notes in his handwriting that he’d left on the desk. With those notes, and the information I’d read in Dr. Montgomery’s library, I learned about the V.F.D. headquarters. So instead of waiting for Jacques again, I set out to find the organization. I thought they were my best hope of rescuing my siblings.” “So you set off to the Mortmain Mountains by yourself?” Violet asked. “Not quite by myself,” Quigley said. “I had this backpack that Jacques left behind, with the Verdant Flammable Devices and a few other items, and I had my commonplace book. And eventually, I ran into the Snow Scouts, and realized that hiding among them would be the quickest way to reach Mount Fraught.” He turned a page in his commonplace book and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS examined his notes. “Remarkable Phenomena of the Mortmain Mountains, which I read in Dr. Montgomery’s library, had a hidden chapter that told me all about the Vertical Flame Diversion and the Vernacularly Fastened Door.” Klaus looked over Quigley’s shoulder to read his notes. “I should have read that book when I had the chance,” he said, shaking his head. “If we had known about V.F.D. when we were living with Uncle Monty, we might have avoided all the trouble that followed.” “When we were living with Uncle Monty,” Violet reminded him, “we were too busy trying to escape Count Olaf’s clutches to do any additional research.” “I’ve had plenty of time to do research,” Quigley said, “but I still haven’t found all the answers I’m looking for. I still haven’t found Duncan and Isadora, and I still don’t know where Jacques Snicket is.” “He’s dead,” Klaus said, very quietly. “Count Olaf murdered him.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I thought you might say that,” Quigley said. “I knew something was very wrong when he didn’t return. But what about my siblings? Do you know what happened to them?” “They’re safe, Quigley,” Violet said. “We think they’re safe. We rescued them from Olaf’s clutches, and they escaped with a man named Hector.” “Escaped?” Quigley repeated. “Where did they go?” “We don’t know,” Klaus admitted. “Hector built a self-sustaining hot air mobile home. It was like a flying house, kept in the air by a bunch of balloons, and Hector said it could stay up in the sky forever.” “We tried to climb aboard,” Violet said, “but Count Olaf managed to stop us.” “So you don’t know where they are?” Quigley asked. “I’m afraid not,” Violet said, and patted his hand. “But Duncan and Isadora are intrepid people, Quigley. They survived for quite some A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS time in Olaf’s clutches, taking notes on his schemes and trying to pass on the information to us.” “Violet’s right,” Klaus said. “I’m sure that wherever they are, they’re continuing their research. Eventually, they’ll find out you’re alive, and they’ll come looking for you, just like you went looking for them.” The two Baudelaires looked at one another and shivered. They had been talking about Quigley’s family, of course, but they felt as if they were talking about their own. “I’m sure that if your parents are alive, they’re looking for you, too,” Quigley said, as if he’d read their minds. “And Sunny, too. Do you know where she is?” “Someplace nearby,” Violet said. “She’s with Count Olaf, and Olaf wanted to find the headquarters, too.” “Maybe Olaf has already been here,” Quigley said, looking around at the wreckage. “Maybe he’s the one who burned this place down.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I don’t think so,” Klaus said. “He wouldn’t have had time to burn this whole place down. We were right on his trail. Plus, I don’t think this place burned down all at once.” “Why not?” Quigley said. “It’s too big,” Klaus replied. “If the whole headquarters were burning, the sky would be covered in smoke.” “That’s true,” Violet said. “That much smoke would arouse too much suspicion.” “Where there’s smoke,” Quigley said, “there’s fire.” Violet and Klaus turned to their friend to agree, but Quigley was not looking at the two Baudelaires. He was looking past them, toward the frozen pool and the two frozen tributaries, where the enormous windows of the V.F.D. kitchen had once stood, and where I once chopped broccoli while the woman I loved mixed up a spicy peanut sauce to go with it, and he was pointing up toward the sky, where my associates and I used to watch the volunteer A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS eagles who could spot smoke from a very great distance. That afternoon, there were no eagles in the skies over the Mortmain Mountains, but as Violet and Klaus stood up and looked in the direction Quigley was pointing, there was something in the sky that caught their attention. Because when Quigley Quagmire said, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” he was not referring to Klaus’s theory about the destruction of V.F.D. headquarters. He was talking about the sight of green smoke, wafting up into the sky from the peak of Mount Fraught, at the top of the slippery slope. The two elder Baudelaires stood ing up at the small plume, a word which here means “mysterious cloud of green smoke.” After the long, strange story he had told them about surviving the fire and they were confronting another someone at the top of the waterfall, sending a signal.” CHAPTER Nine for a moment with Quigley, gazwhat he had learned about V.F.D., they could scarcely believe that mystery. “It’s a Verdant Flammable Device,” Quigley said. “There’s A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Yes,” Violet said, “but who?” “Maybe it’s a volunteer, who escaped from the fire,” Klaus said. “They’re signaling to see if there are any other volunteers nearby.” “Or it could be a trap,” Quigley said. “They could be luring volunteers up to the peak in order to ambush them. Remember, the codes of V.F.D. are used by both sides of the schism.” “It hardly seems like a code,” Violet said. “We know that someone is communicating, but we don’t have the faintest idea who they are, or what they’re saying.” “This is what it must be like,” Klaus said thoughtfully, “when Sunny talks to people who don’t know her very well.” At the mention of Sunny’s name, the Baudelaires were reminded of how much they missed her. “Whether it’s a volunteer or a trap,” Violet said, “it might be our only chance to find our sister.” “Or my sister and brother,” Quigley said. “Let’s signal back,” Klaus said. “Do you 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE still have those Verdant Flammable Devices, Quigley?” “Of course,” Quigley said, taking the box of green tubes out of his backpack, “but Bruce saw my matches and confiscated them, because children shouldn’t play with matches.” “Confiscated them?” Klaus said. “Do you think he’s an enemy of V.F.D.?” “If everyone who said that children shouldn’t play with matches was an enemy of V.F.D.,” Violet said with a smile, “then we wouldn’t have a chance of survival.” “But how are we going to light these without matches?” Quigley asked. Violet reached into her pocket. It was a bit tricky to tie her hair up in a ribbon, as all four drafts in the Valley of Four Drafts were blowing hard, but at last her hair was out of her eyes, and the gears and levers of her inventing mind began to move as she gazed up at the mysterious signal. But of course this signal was neither a volunteer nor a trap. It was a baby, with unusually A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS large teeth and a way of talking that some people found confusing. When Sunny Baudelaire had said “lox,” for example, the members of Count Olaf’s troupe had assumed she was simply babbling, rather than explaining how she was going to cook the salmon that the hookhanded man had caught. “Lox” is a word which refers to smoked salmon, and it is a delicious way to enjoy freshly caught fish, particularly if one has the appropriate accoutrements, a phrase which here means “bagels, cream cheese, sliced cucumber, black pepper, and capers, which can be eaten along with the lox for an enjoyable meal.” Lox also has an additional benefit of producing quite a bit of smoke as it is prepared, and this is the reason Sunny chose this method of preparing salmon, as opposed to gravlax, which is salmon marinated for several days in a mixture of spices, or sashimi, which is salmon cut into pleasing shapes and simply served raw. Remembering what Count Olaf had said about being able to see everything and everyone from THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the peak where he had brought her, the youngest Baudelaire realized that the phrase “where there’s smoke there’s fire” might be able to help her. As Violet and Klaus heard Quigley’s extraordinary tale at the bottom of the frozen waterfall, Sunny hurried to prepare lox and send a signal to her siblings, who she hoped were nearby. First, she nudged the Verdant Flammable Device—which she, like everyone at the peak, believed was a cigarette—into a small patch of weeds, in order to increase the smoke. Then she dragged over the covered casserole dish that she had been using as a makeshift bed, and placed the salmon inside it. In no time at all, the fish caught by the hookhanded man were absorbing the heat and smoke from the simmering green tube, and a large plume of green smoke was floating up into the sky above Mount Fraught. Sunny gazed up at the signal she made and couldn’t help smiling. The last time she had been separated from her siblings, she had simply waited in the birdcage A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS for them to come and rescue her, but she had grown since then, and was able to take an active part in defeating Count Olaf and his troupe, while still having time to prepare a seafood dish. “Something smells delicious,” said one of the white-faced women, walking by the casserole dish. “I must admit, I had some doubts that an infant should be in charge of the cooking, but your salmon recipe seems like it will be very tasty indeed.” “There’s a word for the way she’s preparing the fish,” the hook-handed man said, “but I can’t remember what it is.” “Lox,” Sunny said, but no one heard her over the sound of Count Olaf storming out of his tent, followed by Esmé and the two sinister visitors. Olaf was clutching the Snicket file and glaring down at Sunny with his shiny, shiny eyes. “Put that smoke out at once!” he ordered. “I thought you were a terrified orphan prisoner, but I’m beginning to think you’re a spy!” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “What do you mean, Olaf?” asked the other white-faced woman. “She’s using Esmé’s cigarette to cook us some fish.” “Someone might see the smoke,” Esmé snarled, as if she had not been smoking herself just moments ago. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” The man with a beard but no hair picked up a handful of snow and threw it onto the weeds, extinguishing the Verdant Flammable Device. “Who are you signaling to, baby?” he asked, in his strange, hoarse voice. “If you’re a spy, we’re going to toss you off this mountain.” “Goo goo,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of “I’m going to pretend I’m a helpless baby, instead of answering your question.” “You see?” the white-faced woman said, looking nervously at the man with a beard but no hair. “She’s just a helpless baby.” “Perhaps you’re right,” said the woman with A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS hair but no beard. “Besides, there’s no reason to toss a baby off a mountain unless you absolutely have to.” “Babies can come in handy,” Count Olaf agreed. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about recruiting more young people into my troupe. They’re less likely to complain about doing my bidding.” “But we never complain,” the hook-handed man said. “I try to be as accommodating as possible.” “Enough chitchat,” said the man with a beard but no hair. “We have a lot of scheming to do, Olaf. I have some information that might help you with your recruiting idea, and according to the Snicket file, there’s one more safe place for the volunteers to gather.” “The last safe place,” said the sinister woman. “We have to find it and burn it down.” “And once we do,” Count Olaf said, “the last evidence of our plans will be completely destroyed. We’ll never have to worry about the authorities again.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Where is this last safe place?” asked Kevin. Olaf opened his mouth to answer, but the woman with hair but no beard stopped him with a quick gesture and a suspicious glance down at Sunny. “Not in front of the toothy orphan,” she said, in her deep, deep voice. “If she learned what we were up to, she’d never sleep again, and you need your infant servant full of energy. Send her away, and we’ll make our plans.” “Of course,” Olaf said, smiling nervously at the sinister visitors. “Orphan, go to my car and remove all of the potato chip crumbs from the interior by blowing as hard as you can.” “Futil,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “That is an absolutely impossible chore,” but she walked unsteadily toward the car while Olaf’s troupe laughed and gathered around the flat rock to hear the new scheme. Passing the extinguished fire and the covered casserole dish where she would sleep that night, Sunny sighed sadly, thinking that her signal plan must have failed. But when she reached Olaf’s car and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS gazed down at the frozen waterfall, she saw something that lightened her spirits, a phrase which here means “an identical plume of green smoke, coming from the very bottom of the slope.” The youngest Baudelaire looked down at the smoke and smiled. “Sibling,” she said to herself. Sunny, of course, could not be certain that it was Violet and Klaus who were signaling to her, but she could hope it was so, and hope was enough to cheer her up as she opened the door of the car and began blowing at the crumbs Olaf and his troupe had scattered all over the upholstery. But at the bottom of the frozen waterfall, the two elder Baudelaires did not feel nearly as hopeful as they stood with Quigley and watched the green smoke disappear from the highest peak. “Someone put out the Verdant Flammable Device,” Quigley said, holding the green tube to one side so he wouldn’t smell the smoke. “What do you think that means?” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I don’t know,” Violet said, and sighed. “This isn’t working.” “Of course it’s working,” Klaus said. “It’s working perfectly. You noticed that the afternoon sun was reflecting off the frozen waterfall, and it gave you the idea to use the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light—just like you did on Lake Lachrymose, when we were battling the leeches. So you used Colette’s hand mirror to catch the sun’s rays and reflect them onto the end of the Verdant Flammable Device, so we could light it and send a signal.” “Klaus is right,” Quigley said. “It couldn’t have worked better.” “Thank you,” Violet said, “but that’s not what I mean. I mean this code isn’t working. We still don’t know who’s up on the peak, or why they were signaling us, and now the signal has stopped, but we still don’t know what it means.” “Maybe we should extinguish our Verdant A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Flammable Device, too,” Klaus said. “Maybe,” Violet agreed, “or maybe we should go up to the top of the waterfall and see for ourselves who is there.” Quigley frowned, and took out his commonplace book. “The only way up to the highest peak,” he said, “is the path that the Snow Scouts are taking. We’d have to go back through the Vernacularly Fastened Door, back down the Vertical Flame Diversion, back into the Volunteer Feline Detective cave, rejoin the scouts and hike for a long time.” “That’s not the only way up to the peak,” Violet said with a smile. “Yes, it is,” Quigley insisted. “Look at the map.” “Look at the waterfall,” Violet replied, and all three children looked up at the shiny slope. “Do you mean,” Klaus said, “that you think you can invent something which can get us up a frozen waterfall?” But Violet was already tying her hair out of 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE her eyes again, and looking around at the ruins of the V.F.D. headquarters. “I’ll need that ukulele that you took from the caravan,” she said to Klaus, “and that half-melted candelabra over there by the dining room table.” Klaus took the ukulele from his coat pocket and handed it to his sister, and then walked over to the table to retrieve the strange, melted object. “Unless you need any further assistance,” he said, “I think I might go examine the wreckage of the library and see if any documents have survived. We might as well learn as much from this headquarters as we can.” “Good idea,” Quigley said, and reached into his backpack. He brought out a notebook much like his own, except it had a dark blue cover. “I have a spare notebook,” he said. “You might be interested in starting a commonplace book of your own.” “That’s very kind of you,” Klaus said. “I’ll write down anything I find. Do you want to join the search?” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “I think I’ll stay here,” Quigley said, looking at Violet. “I’ve heard quite a bit about Violet Baudelaire’s marvelous inventions, and I’d like to see her at work.” Klaus nodded, and walked off to the iron archway marking the entrance of the ruined library, while Violet blushed and leaned down to pick up one of the forks that had survived the fire. It is one of the great sadnesses of the Baudelaire case that Violet never got to meet a man named C. M. Kornbluth, an associate of mine who spent most of his life living and working in the Valley of Four Drafts as a mechanical instructor at the V.F.D. headquarters. Mr. Kornbluth was a quiet and secretive man, so secretive that no one ever knew who he was, where he came from, or even what the C or the M stood for, and he spent much of his time holed up in his dormitory room writing strange stories, or gazing sadly out the windows of the kitchen. The one thing that put Mr. Kornbluth in a good mood THE SLIPPERY SLOPE would be a particularly promising mechanical student. If a young man showed an interest in deep sea radar, Mr. Kornbluth would take off his glasses and smile. If a young woman brought him a staple gun she had built, Mr. Kornbluth would clap his hands in excitement. And if a pair of twins asked him how to properly reroute some copper wiring, he would take a paper bag out of his pocket and offer some pistachio nuts to anyone who happened to be around. So, when I think of Violet Baudelaire standing in the wreckage of the V.F.D. headquarters, carefully taking the strings off the ukulele and bending some of the forks in half, I can imagine Mr. Kornbluth, even though he and his pistachios are long gone, turning from the window, smiling at the Baudelaire inventor, and saying, “Beatrice, come over here! Look at what this girl is making!” “What are you making?” Quigley asked. “Something that will get us up that waterfall,” Violet replied. “I only wish that Sunny A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS were here. Her teeth would be perfect to slice these ukulele strings into halves.” “I might have something that could help,” Quigley said, looking through his backpack. “When I was in Dr. Orwell’s office, I found these fake fingernails. They’re a horrible shade of pink, but they’re quite sharp.” Violet took a fingernail from Quigley and looked at it carefully. “I think Count Olaf was wearing these,” she said, “as part of his receptionist disguise. It’s so strange that you have been following in our footsteps all this time, and yet we never even knew you were alive.” “I knew you were alive,” Quigley said. “Jacques Snicket told me all about you, Klaus, Sunny, and even your parents. He knew them quite well before you were born.” “I thought so,” Violet said, cutting the ukulele strings. “In the photograph we found, my parents are standing with Jacques Snicket and another man.” “He’s probably Jacques’s brother,” Quigley THE SLIPPERY SLOPE said. “Jacques told me that he was working closely with his two siblings on an important file.” “The Snicket file,” Violet said. “We were hoping to find it here.” Quigley looked up at the frozen waterfall. “Maybe whoever signaled us will know where it is,” he said. “We’ll find out soon enough,” Violet said. “Please take off your shoes.” “My shoes?” Quigley asked. “The waterfall will be very slippery,” Violet explained, “so I’m using the ukulele strings to tie these bent forks to the toe area, to make fork-assisted climbing shoes. We’ll hold two more forks in our hands. Tines of the forks are almost as sharp as Sunny’s teeth, so the forkassisted climbing shoes will easily dig into the ice with each step, and enable us to keep our balance.” “But what’s the candelabra for?” Quigley asked, unlacing his shoes. “I’m going to use it as an ice tester,” Violet A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS said. “A moving body of water, such as a waterfall, is rarely completely frozen. There are probably places on that slope where there is only a thin layer of ice, particularly with False Spring on its way. If we stuck our forks through the ice and hit water, we’d lose our grip and fall. So I’ll tap on the ice with the candelabra before each step, to find the solid places we should climb.” “It sounds like a difficult journey,” Quigley said. “No more difficult than climbing up the Vertical Flame Diversion,” Violet said, tying a fork onto Quigley’s shoe. “I’m using the Sumac knot, so it should hold tight. Now, all we need is Klaus’s shoes, and—” “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think this might be important,” Klaus said, and Violet turned to see that her brother had returned. He was holding the dark blue notebook in one hand and a small, burnt piece of paper in the other. “I found this scrap of paper in a pile of ashes,” he said. “It’s from some kind of code book.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “What does it say?” Violet asked. “ ‘In the e flagration resulting in the destruction of a sanc ,’ ” Klaus read, “ ‘ teers should avail themselves of Verbal Fri Dialogue, which is concealed accordingly.’ ” “That doesn’t make any sense,” Quigley said. “Do you think it’s in code?” “Sort of,” Klaus said. “Parts of the sentence are burned away, so you have to figure the sentence out as if it’s encoded. ‘Flagration’ is probably the last part of the word ‘conflagration,’ a fancy word for fire, and ‘sanc’ is probably the beginning of the word ‘sanctuary,’ which means a safe place. So the sentence probably began something like, ‘In the event of a conflagration resulting in the destruction of a sanctuary.’” Violet stood up and looked over his shoulder. “‘Teers,’” she said, “is probably ‘volunteers,’ but I don’t know what ‘avail themselves’ means.” “It means ‘to make use of,’” Klaus said, “like you’re availing yourself of the ukulele and those forks. Don’t you see? This says that in A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS case a safe place burns down, they’ll leave some sort of message—‘Verbal Fri Dialogue.’” “But what could ‘Verbal Fri Dialogue’ be?” Quigley asked. “Friends? Frisky?” “Frilly?” Violet guessed. “Frightening?” “But it says that it’s concealed accordingly,” Klaus pointed out. “That means that the dialogue is hidden in a logical way. If it were Verbal Waterfall Dialogue, it would be hidden in the waterfall. So none of those words can be right. Where would someone leave a message where fire couldn’t destroy it?” “But fire destroys everything,” Violet said. “Look at the headquarters. Nothing is left standing except the library entrance, and . . .” “. . . and the refrigerator,” Klaus finished. “Or, we might say, the fridge.” “Verbal Fridge Dialogue!” Quigley said. “The volunteers left a message,” said Klaus, who was already halfway to the refrigerator, “in the only place they knew wouldn’t be affected by the fire.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “And the one place their enemies wouldn’t think of looking,” Quigley said. “After all, there’s never anything terribly important in the refrigerator.” What Quigley said, of course, is not entirely true. Like an envelope, a hollow figurine, and a coffin, a refrigerator can hold all sorts of things, and they may turn out to be very important depending on what kind of day you are having. A refrigerator may hold an icepack, for example, which would be important if you had been wounded. A refrigerator may hold a bottle of water, which would be important if you were dying of thirst. And a refrigerator may hold a basket of strawberries, which would be important if a maniac said to you, “If you don’t give me a basket of strawberries right now, I’m going to poke you with this large stick.” But when the two elder Baudelaires and Quigley Quagmire opened the refrigerator, they found nothing that would help someone who was wounded, dying of thirst, or being threatened A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS by a strawberry-crazed, stick-carrying maniac, or anything that looked important at all. The fridge was mostly empty, with just a few of the usual things people keep in their refrigerators and rarely use, including a jar of mustard, a container of olives, three jars of different kinds of jam, a bottle of lemon juice, and one lonely pickle in a small glass jug. “There’s nothing here,” Violet said. “Look in the crisper,” Quigley said, pointing to a drawer in the refrigerator traditionally used for storing fruits and vegetables. Klaus opened the drawer and pulled out a few strands of a green plant with tiny, skinny leaves. “It smells like dill,” Klaus said, “and it’s quite crisp, as if it were picked yesterday.” “Very Fresh Dill,” Quigley said. “Another mystery,” Violet said, and tears filled her eyes. “We have nothing but mysteries. We don’t know where Sunny is. We don’t know where Count Olaf is. We don’t know who’s signaling to us at the top of the water- 00 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE fall, or what they’re trying to say, and now there’s a mysterious message in a mysterious code in a mysterious refrigerator, and a bunch of mysterious herbs in the crisper. I’m tired of mysteries. I want someone to help us.” “We can help each other,” Klaus said. “We have your inventions, and Quigley’s maps, and my research.” “And we’re all very well-read,” Quigley said. “That should be enough to solve any mystery.” Violet sighed, and kicked at something that lay on the ashen ground. It was the small shell of a pistachio nut, blackened from the fire that destroyed the headquarters. “It’s like we’re members of V.F.D. already,” she said. “We’re sending signals, and breaking codes, and finding secrets in the ruins of a fire.” “Do you think our parents would be proud of us,” Klaus asked, “for following in their footsteps?” “I don’t know,” Violet said. “After all, they kept V.F.D. a secret.” 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Maybe they were going to tell us later,” Klaus said. “Or maybe they hoped we would never find out,” Violet said. “I keep wondering the same thing,” Quigley said. “If I could travel back in time to the moment my mother showed me the secret passageway under the library, I would ask her why she was keeping these secrets.” “That’s one more mystery,” Violet said sadly, and looked up at the slippery slope. It was getting later and later in the afternoon, and the frozen waterfall looked less and less shiny in the fading sunlight, as if time were running out to climb to the top and see who had been signaling to them. “We should each investigate the mystery we’re most likely to solve,” she said. “I’ll climb up the waterfall, and solve the mystery of the Verdant Flammable Device by learning who’s up there, and what they want. You should stay down here, Klaus, and solve the mystery of the Verbal Fridge Dialogue, by learning 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the code and discovering what the message is.” “And I’ll help you both,” Quigley said, taking out his purple notebook. “I’ll leave my commonplace book with Klaus, in case it’s any help with the codes. And I’ll climb up the waterfall with you, Violet, in case you need my help.” “Are you sure?” Violet asked. “You’ve already taken us this far, Quigley. You don’t have to risk your life any further.” “We’ll understand,” Klaus said, “if you want to leave and search for your siblings.” “Don’t be absurd,” Quigley said. “We’re all part of this mystery, whatever it is. Of course I’m going to help you.” The two Baudelaires looked at one another and smiled. It is so rare in this world to meet a trustworthy person who truly wants to help you, and finding such a person can make you feel warm and safe, even if you are in the middle of a windy valley high up in the mountains. For a moment, as their friend smiled back at them, it seemed as if all the mysteries had been solved 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS already, even with Sunny still separated from them, and Count Olaf still at large, and the abandoned V.F.D. headquarters still in ashes around them. Just knowing that they had found a person like Quigley Quagmire made Violet and Klaus feel as if every code made sense, and every signal was clear. Violet stepped forward, her fork-assisted climbing shoes making small, determined noises on the ground, and took Quigley’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, “for volunteering.” 0 CHAPTER Violet and Quigley walked carefully across the frozen pool until they reached the bottom of the waterfall. “Good luck!” Klaus called, from ishing his glasses, as he often did before embarking on serious research. Ten the archway of the ruined library. He was pol- A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Good luck to you!” Violet replied, shouting over the rush of the mountain winds, and as she looked back at her brother, she remembered when the two siblings were trying to stop the caravan as it hurtled down the mountain. Klaus had wanted to say something to her, in case the drag chute and the mixture of sticky substances hadn’t worked. Violet had the same feeling now, as she prepared to climb the frozen waterfall and leave her brother behind at the ashy remains of the V.F.D. headquarters. “Klaus—” she said. Klaus put his glasses on and gave his sister his bravest smile. “Whatever you’re thinking of saying,” he said, “say it when you return.” Violet nodded, and tapped the candelabra against a spot on the ice. She heard a deep thunk!, as if she were tapping something very solid. “We’ll start here,” she said to Quigley. “Brace yourself.” The expression “brace yourself,” as I’m sure you know, does not mean to take some metal 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE wiring and rivets and other orthodontic materials and apply them to your own teeth in order to straighten them. The expression simply means “get ready for something that will probably be difficult,”and it was indeed very difficult to climb a frozen waterfall in the middle of a windswept valley with nothing but a candelabra and a few well-placed forks to aid the two children in their climb. It took a few moments for Violet and Quigley to work her invention properly, and push the forks into the ice just far enough to hold them there, but not so far that they would be permanently stuck, and once both of them were in position, Violet had to reach up as far as she could and tap the candelabra on the ice above them to find the next solid place to climb. For the first few steps, it seemed like ascending the icy slope in this manner would be impossible, but as time went on, and the two volunteers grew more and more skillful with the fork-tipped climbing shoes and 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the candelabra ice-tester, it became clear that once again Violet’s inventing skills would carry the day, a phrase which here means “enable Violet Baudelaire and Quigley Quagmire to climb up a frozen waterfall after bracing themselves for the difficult journey.” “Your invention is working,” Quigley called up to Violet. “These fork-assisted climbing shoes are marvelous.” “They do seem to be working,” Violet agreed, “but let’s not celebrate just yet. We have a long way to go.” “My sister wrote a couplet about that very thing,” Quigley said, and recited Isadora’s poem: “Celebrate when you’re half-done, And the finish won’t be half as fun.” Violet smiled, and reached up to test the ice above her. “Isadora is a good poet,” Violet said, “and her poems have come in handy more than once. When we were at the Village of Fowl 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Devotees, she led us to her location by hiding a secret message in a series of couplets.” “I wonder if that’s a code she learned from V.F.D.,” Quigley said, “or if she made it up herself.” “I don’t know,” Violet said thoughtfully. “She and Duncan were the first to tell us about V.F.D., but it never occurred to me that they might already be members. When I think about it, however, the code she used was similar to one that our Aunt Josephine used. They both hid a secret location within a note, and waited for us to discover the hidden message. Maybe they were all volunteers.” She removed her left forkassisted climbing shoe from the ice, and kicked it back in a few inches up to further her climb. “Maybe all our guardians have been members of V.F.D., on one side or the other of the schism.” “It’s hard to believe,” Quigley said, “that we’ve always been surrounded by people carrying out secret errands, and never known it.” “It’s hard to believe that we’re climbing a 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS frozen waterfall in the Mortmain Mountains,” Violet replied, “and yet, here we are. There, Quigley, do you see the ledge where my left fork is? It’s solid enough for both of us to sit for a moment and catch our breath.” “Good,” Quigley said. “I have a small bag of carrots in my backpack we can eat to regain our energy.” The triplet climbed up to where Violet was sitting, on a small ledge scarcely the size of a sofa, and slid so he was sitting next to her. The two climbers could see that they had traveled farther than they’d thought. Far below them were the blackened ruins of the headquarters, and Klaus was only a small speck near a tiny iron archway. Quigley handed Violet a carrot, and she bit down on it thoughtfully. “Sunny loves raw carrots,” Violet said. “I hope that she’s eating well, wherever she is.” “I hope my siblings are eating well, too,” Quigley said. “My father always used to say that a good meal can cheer one up considerably.” 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “My father always said the same thing,” Violet said, looking at Quigley curiously. “Do you think that was a code, too?” Quigley shrugged and sighed. Small bits of ice from the waterfall fell from the ends of forks and blew away in the wind. “It’s like we never really knew our parents,” he said. “We knew them,” Violet said. “They just had a few secrets, that’s all. Everyone should keep a few secrets.” “I suppose so,” Quigley said, “but they might have mentioned that they were in a secret organization with a headquarters hidden in the Mortmain Mountains.” “Maybe they didn’t want us to find out about such a dangerous place,” Violet said, peering off the ledge, “although if you have to hide a headquarters, it’s a beautiful place to do it. Aside from the remains of the fire, this is a very lovely view.” “Very lovely indeed,” Quigley said, but he A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS was not looking at the view beneath him. He was looking beside him, where Violet Baudelaire was sitting. Many things have been taken from the three Baudelaires. Their parents were taken, of course, and their home was taken from them, by a terrible fire. Their various guardians were taken from them, because they were murdered by Count Olaf or were simply miserable guardians who soon lost interest in three young children with nowhere to go. The Baudelaires’ dignity was taken from them, on the occasions when the siblings were forced to wear absurd disguises, and recently they had been taken from one another, with the kidnapped Sunny doing chores at the top of the frozen waterfall while Violet and Klaus learned the secrets of V.F.D. at the bottom. But one thing that was taken from the Baudelaires that is not often discussed is their privacy, a word which here means “time by oneself, without anyone watching or interfering.” Unless you are a hermit or half of a pair of THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Siamese twins, you probably enjoy taking the occasional break from members of your family to enjoy some privacy, perhaps with a friend or companion, in your room or in a railway car you have managed to sneak aboard. But since that dreadful day at Briny Beach, when Mr. Poe arrived to tell the Baudelaires that their parents had perished, the three children had scarcely had any privacy at all. From the small, dark bedroom where they slept at Count Olaf’s house, to the crowded caravan at Caligari Carnival, and all of the other woeful places in between, the Baudelaires’ situation was always so desperate and cramped that they were rarely able to spare a moment for a bit of private time. So, as Violet and Quigley rest for a few minutes more on a ledge halfway up the frozen waterfall, I will take this opportunity to give them a bit of privacy, by not writing down anything more of what happened between these two friends on that chilly afternoon. Certainly there are aspects of my own personal life that I THE SLIPPERY SLOPE will never write down, however precious they are to me, and I will offer the eldest Baudelaire the same courtesy. I will tell you that the two young people resumed their climb, and that the afternoon slowly turned to evening and that both Violet and Quigley had small secret smiles on their faces as the candelabra ice-tester and the fork-assisted climbing shoes helped them both get closer and closer to the mountains’ highest peak, but there has been so little privacy in the life of Violet Baudelaire that I will allow her to keep a few important moments to herself, rather than sharing them with my distressed and weeping readers. “We’re almost there,” Violet said. “It’s difficult to see with the sun going down, but I believe we’re just about at the top of the peak.” “I can’t believe we’ve been climbing all afternoon,” Quigley said. “Not all afternoon,” she reminded him with a shy smile. “I guess this waterfall is about as A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS high as Dark Avenue. It took a very long time to go up and down that elevator shaft, trying to rescue your siblings. I hope this is a more successful journey.” “Me, too,” Quigley said. “What do you think we will find at the top?” “Set!” came the reply. “I couldn’t hear you over the wind,” Quigley said. “What did you say?” “I didn’t say anything,” Violet said. She squinted above her, trying to see in the last of the sunset, and scarcely daring to hope that she had heard correctly. Out of all the words in the English language, the word “set” has the most definitions, and if you open a good dictionary and read the word’s long, long entry, you will begin to think that “set” is scarcely a word at all, only a sound that means something different depending on who is saying it. If a group of jazz musicians says “set,” for instance, they are probably referring to the songs they are planning to play at a club that evening, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE assuming it doesn’t burn down. If the owner of a restaurant uses the word “set,” they might mean a group of matching wineglasses, or a bunch of waitresses who look exactly alike. A librarian will say “set” to refer to a collection of books that are all by the same author or about the same subject, and an Egyptologist will use the word “set” to refer to the ancient god of evil, although he does not come up very often in conversation. But when Violet heard the word “set” from the top of Mount Fraught, she did not think there was a group of jazz musicians, a restaurant owner, a librarian, or an Egyptologist talking about jazz tunes, wineglasses, waitresses, thematically linked books, or a black, immoral aardvark who is the sworn enemy of the god Osiris. She reached her fork as high as she could so she could climb closer, and saw the rays of the sunset reflect off a large tooth, and Violet knew that this time, the definition of “set” was “I knew you would find me!” and the speaker was Sunny Baudelaire. “Set!” Sunny said again. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Sunny!” Violet cried. “Sssh!” Sunny said. “What is going on?” Quigley asked, several forksteps behind Violet. “It’s Sunny,” Violet said, and hoisted herself onto the peak to see her baby sister, standing next to Count Olaf’s car and grinning from ear to ear. Without another word, the two Baudelaire sisters hugged fiercely, Violet taking care not to poke Sunny with one of the forks she was holding. By the time Quigley reached the top of the peak and pulled himself up to lean against one of the car’s tires, the two Baudelaires were smiling at each other with tears in their eyes. “I knew we’d see you again, Sunny,” Violet said. “I just knew it.” “Klaus?” Sunny asked. “He’s safe and nearby,” Violet said. “He knew we could find you, too.” “Set,” Sunny agreed, but then she noticed Quigley and her eyes grew wide. “Quagmire?” she asked in amazement. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Yes,” Violet said. “This is Quigley Quagmire, Sunny. He survived the fire after all.” Sunny walked unsteadily over to Quigley and shook his hand. “He led us to the headquarters, Sunny, with a map he drew himself.” “Arigato,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “I appreciate your help, Quigley.” “Was it you who signaled us?” Quigley asked. “Yep,” Sunny said. “Lox.” “Count Olaf’s been making you do the cooking?” Violet asked in amazement. “Vaccurum,” Sunny said. “Olaf even made her clean crumbs out of the car,” Violet translated to Quigley, “by blowing as hard as she could.” “That’s ridiculous!” Quigley said. “Cinderella,” Sunny said. She meant something along the lines of, “I’ve had to do all of the chores, while being humiliated at every turn,” but Violet had no time to translate over the sound of Count Olaf’s scratchy voice. “Where are you, Babylaire?” he asked, adding A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS an absurd nickname to his list of insults. “I’ve thought of more tasks for you to perform.” The three children looked at one another in panic. “Hide,” Sunny whispered, and there was no need for translation. Violet and Quigley looked around the desolate landscape of the peak for a place to hide, but there was only one place to go. “Under the car,” Violet said, and she and Quigley wriggled underneath the long, black automobile, which was as dirty and smelly as its owner. As an inventor, the eldest Baudelaire had stared closely at automotive machinery plenty of times, but she had never seen such an extreme state of disrepair, a phrase which here means “an underside of an automobile in such bad shape that it was dripping oil on her and her companion.” But Violet and Quigley didn’t have a moment to waste thinking of their discomfort. They had no sooner moved their fork-assisted climbing shoes out of view when Count Olaf and his companions arrived. From underneath 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the car, the two volunteers could see only the villain’s tattoo on the filthy ankle above his left shoe, and a pair of very stylish pumps, decorated with glitter and tiny paintings of eyes, that could only belong to Esmé Squalor. “All we’ve had to eat all day is that smoked salmon, and it’s almost dinnertime,” Count Olaf said. “You’d better get cooking, orphan.” “Tomorrow is False Spring,” Esmé said, “and it would be very in to have a False Spring dinner.” “Did you hear that, toothy?” Olaf asked. “My girlfriend wants a stylish dinner. Get to work.” “Olaf, we need you,” said a very deep voice, and Violet and Quigley saw two pairs of sinister black shoes appear behind the villain and his girlfriend, whose shoes twitched nervously at the sight of them. All of a sudden, it seemed much colder underneath the car, and Violet had to push her legs against the tires, so they would not shiver against the mechanics of the underside and be heard. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Yes, Olaf,” agreed the hoarse voice of the man with a beard but no hair, although Violet and Quigley could not see him. “Our recruitment plan will happen first thing in the morning, so we need you to help spread the net out on the ground.” “Can’t you ask one of our employees?” asked Esmé. “There’s the hook-handed man, the two white-faced women, and the three freaks we picked up at the carnival. That’s eight people, if you include yourselves, to spread out the net. Why should we do it?” The four black shoes stepped toward Esme’s stylish pumps and Olaf’s tattoo. “You’ll do it,” said the woman with hair but no beard, “because I say so.” There was a long, ominous pause, and then Count Olaf gave a little high-pitched laugh. “That’s a good point,” he said. “Come on, Esmé. We’ve bossed around the baby, so there’s nothing else to do around here anyway.” “That’s true,” Esmé agreed. “In fact, I was THE SLIPPERY SLOPE thinking about taking up smoking again, because I’m bored. Do you have any more of those green cigarettes?” “I’m afraid not,” replied the man with a beard but no hair, leading the villains away from the car. “That’s the only one I found.” “That’s too bad,” Esmé said. “I don’t like the taste or the smell, and they’re very bad for you, but cigarettes are very in and I’d like to smoke another one.” “Maybe there’s another one in the ruins of headquarters,” said the woman with hair but no beard. “It’s hard to find everything in all those ashes. We searched for days and couldn’t find the sugar bowl.” “Not in front of the baby,” Olaf said quickly, and the four pairs of shoes walked away. Violet and Quigley stayed underneath the car until Sunny said “Coastkleer,” which meant something like, “It’s safe to come out now.” “Those were terrible people,” Quigley said with a shudder, brushing oil and grime off his A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS coat. “They made me feel cold all over.” “They certainly had an aura of menace,” Violet agreed in a whisper. “The feet with the tattoo were Count Olaf, and those glittery shoes were Esmé Squalor, but who were the other two, Sunny?” “Unno Narsonist,” Sunny murmured. She meant something along the lines of “I don’t know, but they burned down V.F.D. headquarters,” and Violet was quick to explain this to Quigley. “Klaus has found an important message that survived the fire,” Violet said. “By the time we take you down the waterfall, I’m sure he’ll have decoded the message. Come on.” “Nogo,” Sunny said, which meant “I don’t think I ought to accompany you.” “Why on earth not?” Violet asked. “Unasanc,” Sunny said. “Sunny says that the villains have mentioned one more safe place for volunteers to gather,” Violet explained to Quigley. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Do you know where it is?” Quigley asked. Sunny shook her head. “Olafile,” she said. “But if Count Olaf has the Snicket file,” Violet said, “how are you going to find out where this safe place is?” “Matahari,” she said, which meant something like, “If I stay, I can spy on them and find out.” “Absolutely not,” Violet said, after she had translated. “It’s not safe for you to stay here, Sunny. It’s bad enough that Olaf has made you do the cooking.” “Lox,” Sunny pointed out. “But what are you going to make for a False Spring dinner?” Violet asked. Sunny gave her sister a smile, and walked over to the trunk of the car. Violet and Quigley heard her rummaging around among the remaining groceries, but stayed put so Olaf or any of his associates wouldn’t spot them. When Sunny returned, she had a triumphant smile on her face, and the frozen hunk of spinach, the large bag of mushrooms, the can of water chestnuts, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS and the enormous eggplant in her arms. “False spring rolls!” she said, which meant something like, “An assortment of vegetables wrapped in spinach leaves, prepared in honor of False Spring.” “I’m surprised you can even carry that eggplant, let alone prepare it,” Violet said. “It must weigh as much as you do.” “Suppertunity,” Sunny said. She meant something like, “Serving the troupe dinner will be a perfect chance to listen to their conversation,” and Violet reluctantly translated. “It sounds dangerous,” Quigley said. “Of course it’s dangerous,” Violet said. “If she’s caught spying, who knows what they’ll do?” “Ga ga goo goo,” Sunny said, which meant “I won’t be caught, because they think I’m only a helpless baby.” “I think your sister is right,” Quigley said. “It wouldn’t be safe to carry her down the waterfall, anyway. We need our hands and feet for the climb. Let Sunny investigate the mystery she’s THE SLIPPERY SLOPE most likely to solve, while we work on an escape plan.” Violet shook her head. “I don’t want to leave my sister behind,” she said. “The Baudelaires should never be separated.” “Separate Klaus,” Sunny pointed out. “If there’s another place where volunteers are gathering,” Quigley said, “we need to know where it is. Sunny can find out for us, but only if she stays here.” “I’m not going to leave my baby sister on top of a mountain,” Violet said. Sunny dropped her vegetables on the ground and walked over to her sister and smiled. “I’m not a baby,” Sunny said, and hugged her. It was the longest sentence the youngest Baudelaire had ever said, and as Violet looked down at her sister, she saw how true it was. Sunny was not really a baby, not anymore. She was a young girl with unusually sharp teeth, some impressive cooking skills, and an opportunity to spy on a group of villains and discover A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS a piece of crucial information. Sometime, during the unfortunate events that had befallen the three orphans, Sunny had grown out of her babyhood, and although it made Violet a bit sad to think about it, it made her proud, too, and she gave her sister a smile. “I guess you’re right,” Violet said. “You’re not a baby. But be careful, Sunny. You’re a young girl, but it’s still quite dangerous for a young girl to spy on villains. And remember, we’re right at the bottom of the slope, Sunny. If you need us, just signal again.” Sunny opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a sound, the three children heard a long, lazy hissing noise from underneath Olaf’s car, as if one of Dr. Montgomery’s snakes were hiding there. The car shifted lightly, and Violet pointed to one of Olaf’s tires, which had gone flat. “I must have punctured it,” Violet said, “with my fork-assisted climbing shoes.” “I suppose that’s not a nice thing to do,” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Quigley said, “but I can’t say I’m sorry.” “How’s dinner coming along, toothface?” called Count Olaf’s cruel voice over the sound of the wind. “I guess we’d better leave before we’re discovered,” Violet said, giving her sister one more hug and a kiss on the top of her head. “We’ll see you soon, Sunny.” “Good-bye, Sunny,” Quigley said. “I’m so glad we finally met in person. And thank you very much for helping us find the last safe place.” Sunny Baudelaire looked up at Quigley, and then at her older sister, and gave them both a big, happy smile that showed all of her impressive teeth. After spending so much time in the company of villains, she was happy to be with some people who respected her skills, appreciated her work, and understood her way of speaking. Even with Klaus still at the bottom of the waterfall, Sunny felt as if she had already been happily reunited with her family, and that A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS her time in the Mortmain Mountains would have a happy ending. She was wrong about that, of course, but for now the youngest Baudelaire smiled up at these two people who cared about her, one she had just met and one she had known her entire life, and felt as if she were growing taller at that very moment. “Happy,” said the young girl, and everyone who heard her knew what she was talking about. 0 CHAPTER Eleven If you ever look at a picture of someone who has just had an idea, you might notice a drawing of a lightbulb over the person’s head. Of course, there is not usually a lightbulb hovering in the air when someone has an idea, but the image of a lightbulb over someone’s head has become a sort of symbol for thinking, just as the image of an eye, sadly, has become a symbol for crime and devious behavior rather than integrity, the prevention of fire, and being well-read. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS As Violet and Quigley climbed back down the slippery slope of the frozen waterfall, their forkassisted climbing shoes poking into the ice with each step, they looked down and saw, by the last light of the setting sun, the figure of Klaus. He was holding a flashlight over his head to help the two climbers find their way down, but it looked as if he’d just had an idea. “He must have found a flashlight in the wreckage,” Quigley said. “It looks like the one Jacques gave me.” “I hope he found enough information to decode Verbal Fridge Dialogue,” Violet said, and tapped the candelabra below her feet. “Be careful here, Quigley. The ice feels thin. We’ll have to climb around it.” “The ice has been less solid on our way down,” Quigley said. “That’s not surprising,” Violet said. “We’ve poked a great deal of it with forks. By the time False Spring arrives, this whole slope will probably only be half frozen.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “By the time False Spring arrives,” Quigley said, “I hope we’ll be on our way to the last safe place.” “Me, too,” Violet said quietly, and the two climbers said no more until they reached the bottom of the waterfall and walked carefully across the frozen pool along the path Klaus shone with his flashlight. “I’m so glad you returned in one piece,” Klaus said, shining his flashlight in the direction of the dining room remains. “It looked like a very slippery journey. It’s getting cold, but if we sit behind the library entrance, we’ll be away from much of the wind.” But Violet was so eager to tell her brother who they had found at the top of the peak that she could not wait another moment. “It’s Sunny,” she said. “Sunny’s at the top. It was her who was signaling us.” “Sunny?” Klaus said, his eyes as wide as his smile. “How did she get up there? Is she safe? Why didn’t you bring her back?” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “She’s safe,” Violet said. “She’s with Count Olaf, but she’s safe.” “Has he harmed her?” Klaus asked. Violet shook her head. “No,” she said. “He’s making her do all the cooking and cleaning.” “But she’s a baby!” Klaus said. “Not anymore,” Violet said. “We haven’t noticed, Klaus, but she’s grown up quite a bit. She’s really too young to be in charge of all the chores, of course, but sometime, during all the hardship we’ve been through, she stopped being a baby.” “She’s old enough to eavesdrop,” Quigley said. “She’s already discovered who burned down the V.F.D. headquarters.” “They’re two terrible people, a man and a woman, who have quite an aura of menace,” Violet said. “Even Count Olaf is a little afraid of them.” “What are they all doing up there?” Klaus asked. “They’re having some sort of villainous THE SLIPPERY SLOPE meeting,” Quigley said. “We heard them mention something about a recruitment plan, and a large net.” “That doesn’t sound pleasant,” Klaus said. “There’s more, Klaus,” Violet said. “Count Olaf has the Snicket file, and he found out about some secret location—the last safe place where the V.F.D. can gather. That’s why Sunny stayed up there. If she overhears where the place is, we’ll know where to go to meet up with the rest of the volunteers.” “I hope she manages to find out,” Klaus said. “Without that piece of information, all that I’ve discovered is useless.” “What have you discovered?” Quigley asked. “I’ll show you,” Klaus said, and led the way to the ruins of the library, where Violet could see he’d been working. His dark blue notebook was open, and she could see that several pages were filled with notes. Nearby were several half-burnt scraps of paper, stacked underneath a burnt teacup Klaus was using for a paperweight, and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS all of the contents of the refrigerator were laid out in a careful half circle: the jar of mustard, the container of olives, three jars of jam, and the very fresh dill. The small glass jug, containing one pickle, and the bottle of lemon juice were off to one side. “This is some of the most difficult research I’ve ever done,” Klaus said, sitting down next to his notebook. “Justice Strauss’s legal library was confusing, and Aunt Josephine’s grammatical library was dull, but the ruined V.F.D. library is a much bigger challenge. Even if I know what book I’m looking for, it may be nothing but ashes.” “Did you find anything about Verbal Fridge Dialogue?” Quigley asked, sitting beside him. “Not at first,” Klaus said. “The scrap of paper that led us to the refrigerator was in a large pile of ashes, and it took awhile to sift through it. But I finally found one page that was probably from the same book.” He reached for his notebook and held up his flashlight so he could see the pages. “The page was so delicate,” he said, “that THE SLIPPERY SLOPE I immediately copied it into my commonplace book. It explains how the whole code works.” “Read it to us,” Violet said, and Klaus complied, a word which here means “followed Violet’s suggestion and read a very complicated paragraph out loud, explaining it as he went along.” “‘Verbal Fridge Dialogue,’” he read, “‘is an emergency communication system that avails itself of the more esoteric products in a refrigerator. Volunteers will know such a code is being used by the presence of very fr—’” He looked up from his notebook. “The sentence ends there,” he said, “but I assume that ‘very fr’ is the beginning of ‘very fresh dill.’ If very fresh dill is in the refrigerator, that means there’s a message there, too.” “I understand that part,” Violet said, “but what does ‘esoteric’ mean?” “In this case,” Klaus said, “I think it refers to things that aren’t used very much—the things that stay in the refrigerator for a long time.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Like mustard and jam and things like that,” Violet said. “I understand.” “‘The receiver of the message should find his or her initials, as noted by one of our poet volunteers, as follows,’” Klaus continued. “And then there’s a short poem: “The darkest of the jams of three contains within the addressee.” “That’s a couplet,” Quigley said, “like my sister writes.” “I don’t think your sister wrote that particular poem,” Violet said. “This code was probably invented before your sister was born.” “That’s what I thought,” Klaus said, “but it made me wonder who taught Isadora about couplets. They might have been a volunteer.” “She had a poetry teacher when we were young,” Quigley said, “but I never met him. I always had cartography class.” “And your mapmaking skills,” Violet said, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “led us to the headquarters.” “And your inventing skills,” Klaus said, “allowed you to climb up to Mount Fraught.” “And your researching skills are helping us now,” Violet said. “It’s as if we were being trained for all this, and we didn’t even know it.” “I never thought of learning about maps as training,” Quigley said. “I just liked it.” “Well, I haven’t had much training in poetry,” Klaus said, “but the couplet seems to say that inside the darkest jar of jam is the name of the person who’s supposed to get the message.” Violet looked down at the three jars of jam. “There’s apricot, strawberry, and boysenberry,” she said. “Boysenberry’s the darkest.” Klaus nodded, and unscrewed the cap from the jar of boysenberry jam. “Look inside,” he said, and shined the flashlight so Violet and Quigley could see. Someone had taken a knife and written two letters in the surface of the jam: J and S. “J.S.,” Quigley said. “Jacques Snicket.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “The message can’t be for Jacques Snicket,” Violet said. “He’s dead.” “Maybe whoever wrote this message doesn’t know that,” Klaus said, and continued to read from the commonplace book. “‘If necessary, the dialogue uses a cured, fruit-based calendar for days of the week in order to announce a gathering. Sunday is represented by a lone—’ Here it’s cut off again, but I think that means that these olives are an encoded way of communicating which day of the week a gathering will take place, with Sunday being one olive, Monday being two, and so on.” “How many olives are in that container?” Quigley asked. “Five,” Klaus said, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t like counting them. Ever since the Squalors fixed us aqueous martinis, the taste of olives hasn’t really appealed to me.” “Five olives means Thursday,” Violet said. “Today’s Friday,” Quigley said. “The gathering of the volunteers is less than a week away.” 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE The two Baudelaires nodded in agreement, and Klaus opened his notebook again. “‘Any spice-based condiment,’” he read, “‘should have a coded label referring volunteers to encoded poems.’” “I don’t think I understand,” Quigley said. Klaus sighed, and reached for the jar of mustard. “This is where it really gets complicated. Mustard is a spice-based condiment, and according to the code, it should refer us to a poem of some sort.” “How can mustard refer us to a poem?” Violet asked. Klaus smiled. “I was puzzled for a long time,” he said, “but I finally thought to look at the list of ingredients. Listen to this: ‘Vinegar, mustard seed, salt, tumeric, the final quatrain of the eleventh stanza of “The Garden of Proserpine,” by Algernon Charles Swinburne, and calcium disodium, an allegedly natural preservative.’ A quatrain is four lines of a poem, and a stanza is another word for a verse. They hid a A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS reference to a poem in the list of ingredients.” “It’s the perfect place to hide something,” Violet said. “No one ever reads those lists very carefully. But did you find the poem?” Klaus frowned, and lifted the teacup. “Under a burnt wooden sign marked ‘Poetry,’ I found a pile of papers that were burned practically beyond recognition,” he said, “but here’s the one surviving scrap, and it’s the last quatrain of the eleventh stanza of ‘The Garden of Proserpine,’ by Algernon Charles Swinburne.” “That’s convenient,” Quigley said. “A little too convenient,” Klaus said. “The entire library was destroyed, and the one poem that survived is the one we need. It can’t be a coincidence.” He held out the scrap of paper so Violet and Quigley could see it. “It’s as if someone knew we’d be looking for this.” “What does the quatrain say?” Violet asked. “It’s not very cheerful,” Klaus said, and tilted the flashlight so he could read it: THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.” The children shivered, and moved so they were sitting even closer together on the ground. It had grown darker, and Klaus’s flashlight was pratically the only thing they could see. If you have ever found yourself sitting in darkness with a flashlight, you may have experienced the feeling that something is lurking just beyond the circle of light that a flashlight makes, and reading a poem about dead men is not a good way to make yourself feel better. “I wish Isadora were here,” Quigley said. “She could tell us what that poem means.” “Even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea,” Violet repeated. “Do you think that refers to the last safe place?” “I don’t know,” Klaus said. “I couldn’t find A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS anything else that would help us.” “What about the lemon juice?” Violet asked. “And the pickle?” Klaus shook his head, although his sister could scarcely see him in the dark. “There might be more to the message,” he said, “but it’s all gone up in smoke. I couldn’t find anything more in the library that seemed helpful.” Violet took the scrap of paper from her brother and looked at the quatrain. “There’s something very faint here,” she said. “Something written in pencil, but it’s too faint to read.” Quigley reached into his backpack. “I forgot we have two flashlights,” he said, and shone a second light onto the paper. Sure enough, there was one word, written very faintly in pencil beside the last four lines of the poem’s eleventh stanza. Violet, Klaus, and Quigley leaned in as far as they could to see what it was. The night winds rustled the fragile paper, and made the children shiver, shaking the flashlights, but at last the light shone on the quatrain THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and they could see what words were there. “Sugar bowl,” they said in unison, and looked at one another. “What could that mean?” Klaus asked. Violet sighed. “When we were hiding underneath the car,” she said to Quigley, “one of those villains said something about searching for a sugar bowl, remember?” Quigley nodded, and took out his purple notebook. “Jacques Snicket mentioned a sugar bowl once,” he said, “when we were in Dr. Montgomery’s library. He said it was very important to find it. I wrote it down on the top of a page in my commonplace book, so I could add any information I learned about its whereabouts.” He held up the page so the two Baudelaires could see that it was blank. “I never learned anything more,” he said. Klaus sighed. “It seems that the more we learn, the more mysteries we find. We reached V.F.D. headquarters and decoded a message, and all we know is that there’s one last safe A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS place, and volunteers are gathering there on Thursday.” “That might be enough,” Violet said, “if Sunny finds out where the safe place is.” “But how are we going to get Sunny away from Count Olaf?” Klaus asked. “With your fork-assisted climbing shoes,” Quigley said. “We can climb up there again, and sneak away with Sunny.” Violet shook her head. “The moment they noticed Sunny was gone,” she said, “they would find us. From Mount Fraught, they can see everything and everyone for miles and miles, and we’re hopelessly outnumbered.” “That’s true,” Quigley admitted. “There are ten villains up there, and only four of us. Then how are we going to rescue her?” “Olaf has someone we love,” Klaus said thoughtfully. “If we had something he loves, we could trade it for Sunny’s return. What does Count Olaf love?” “Money,” Violet said. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Fire,” Quigley said. “We don’t have any money,” Klaus said, “and Olaf won’t trade Sunny for a fire. There must be something he really loves—something that makes him happy, and would make him very unhappy if it were taken away.” Violet and Quigley looked at one another and smiled. “Count Olaf loves Esmé Squalor,” Violet said. “If we were holding Esmé prisoner, we could arrange a trade.” “That’s true,” Klaus said, “but we’re not holding Esmé prisoner.” “We could take her prisoner,” Quigley said, and everyone was quiet. Taking someone prisoner, of course, is a villainous thing to do, and when you think of doing a villainous thing— even if you have a very good reason for thinking of doing it—it can make you feel like a villain, too. Lately, the Baudelaires had been doing things like wearing disguises and helping burn down a carnival, and were beginning to feel more and more like villains themselves. But A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Violet and Klaus had never done anything as villainous as taking somebody prisoner, and as they looked at Quigley they could tell that he felt just as uncomfortable, sitting in the dark and thinking up a villainous plan. “How would we do it?” Klaus asked quietly. “We could lure her to us,” Violet said, “and trap her.” Quigley wrote something down in his commonplace book. “We could use the Verdant Flammable Devices,” he said. “Esmé thinks they’re cigarettes, and she thinks cigarettes are in. If we lit some of them, she might smell the smoke and come down here.” “But then what?” Klaus asked. Violet shivered in the cold, and reached into her pocket. Her fingers bumped up against the large bread knife, which she had almost forgotten was there, and then found what she was looking for. She took the ribbon out of her pocket and tied her hair up, to keep it out of her eyes. The eldest Baudelaire could THE SLIPPERY SLOPE scarcely believe she was using her inventing skills to think up a trap. “The easiest trap to build,” she said, “is a pit. We could dig a deep hole, and cover it up with some of this half-burned wood so Esmé couldn’t see it. The wood has been weakened by the fire, so when she steps on it . . .” Violet did not finish her sentence, but by the glow of the flashlights, she could see that Klaus and Quigley were both nodding. “Hunters have used traps like that for centuries,” Klaus said, “to capture wild animals.” “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Violet said. “How could we dig such a pit?” Quigley said. “Well,” Violet said, “we don’t really have any tools, so we probably have to use our hands. As the pit got deeper, we’d have to use something to carry the dirt away.” “I still have that pitcher,” Klaus said. “And we’d need a way to make sure that we wouldn’t get trapped ourselves,” Violet said. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “I have a rope,” Quigley said, “in my backpack. We could tie one end to the archway, and use it to climb out.” Violet reached her hand down to the ground. The dirt was very cold, but quite loose, and she saw that they could dig a pit without too much trouble. “Is this the right thing to do?” Violet asked. “Do you think this is what our parents would do?” “Our parents aren’t here,” Klaus said. “They might have been here once, but they’re not here now.” The children were quiet again, and tried to think as best they could in the cold and the dark. Deciding on the right thing to do in a situation is a bit like deciding on the right thing to wear to a party. It is easy to decide on what is wrong to wear to a party, such as deep-sea diving equipment or a pair of large pillows, but deciding what is right is much trickier. It might seem right to wear a navy blue suit, for instance, but when you arrive there could be several other people wearing the 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE same thing, and you could end up being handcuffed due to a case of mistaken identity. It might seem right to wear your favorite pair of shoes, but there could be a sudden flood at the party, and your shoes would be ruined. And it might seem right to wear a suit of armor to the party, but there could be several other people wearing the same thing, and you could end up being caught in a flood due to a case of mistaken identity, and find yourself drifting out to sea wishing that you were wearing deep-sea diving equipment after all. The truth is that you can never be sure if you have decided on the right thing until the party is over, and by then it is too late to go back and change your mind, which is why the world is filled with people doing terrible things and wearing ugly clothing, and so few volunteers who are able to stop them. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do,” Violet said, “but Count Olaf captured Sunny, and we might have to capture someone ourselves, in order to stop him.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Klaus nodded solemnly. “We’ll fight fire,” he said, “with fire.” “Then we’d better get started,” Quigley said, and stood up. “When the sun rises, we can light the Verdant Flammable Devices with the mirror again, like we did when we were signaling Sunny.” “If we want the pit to be ready by dawn,” Violet said, “we’ll have to dig all night.” “Where shall we put the pit?” Klaus asked. “In front of the entrance,” Violet decided. “Then we can hide behind the arch when Esmé approaches.” “How will we know when she’s fallen in,” Quigley asked, “if we can’t see her?” “We’ll hear it,” Violet replied. “We’ll hear the breaking of the wood, and Esmé might scream.” Klaus shuddered. “That’s not going to be a pleasant sound.” “We’re not in a pleasant situation,” Violet said, and the eldest Baudelaire was right. It was not pleasant to kneel down in front of the ruined THE SLIPPERY SLOPE library entrance, and dig through the ashes and dirt with their bare hands by the light of two flashlights, as all four drafts of the valley blew around them. It was not pleasant for Violet and her brother to carry the dirt away in the pitcher, while Quigley tied his rope to the iron archway, so they could climb in and out as the pit grew bigger and deeper, like an enormous dark mouth opening wider and wider to swallow them whole. It was not even pleasant to pause and eat a carrot to keep up their energy, or to gaze at the shiny white shape of the frozen waterfall as it glinted in the moonlight, imagining Esmé Squalor, lured by the smoke of the Verdant Flammable Devices, approaching the ruined headquarters to become their prisoner. But the least pleasant part of the situation wasn’t the cold dirt, or the freezing winds, or even their own exhaustion as it grew later and later and the children dug deeper and deeper. The least pleasant part was the idea, shared by the two Baudelaires and their new friend, that they might be doing a villainous thing. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS The siblings were not sure if digging a deep pit to trap someone, in order to trade prisoners with a villain, was something that their parents or any other volunteers would do, but with so many of the V.F.D. secrets lost in the ashes, it was impossible to know for sure, and this uncertainty haunted them with every pitcherful of dirt, and every climb up the rope, and every piece of weakened wood they laid on top of the pit to hide it from view. As the first rays of the morning sun appeared on the misty horizon, the elder Baudelaires gazed up at the waterfall. At the summit of the Mortmain Mountains, they knew, was a group of villains, from whom Sunny was hopefully learning the location of the last safe place. But as Violet and Klaus lowered their gaze to their own handiwork, and looked at the dark, deep pit Quigley had helped them dig, they could not help wondering if there were also a group of villains at the bottom of the slippery slope. As they THE SLIPPERY SLOPE looked at the villainous thing they had made, the three volunteers could not help wondering if they were villains, too, and this was the least pleasant feeling in the world. CHAPTER Twelve Not too long ago, in the Swedish city of Stockholm, a group of bank robbers took a few prisoners during the course of their work. For several days, the A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS bank robbers and the prisoners lived together in close proximity, a word which here means “while the police gathered outside and eventually managed to arrest the robbers and take them to jail.” When the prisoners were finally freed, however, the authorities discovered that they had become friends with the bank robbers, and since that time the expression “Stockholm Syndrome” has been used to describe a situation in which someone becomes friendly with the people who are holding them prisoner. There is another expression, however, which describes a situation that is far more common, when a prisoner does not become friends with such people, but instead regards them as villains, and despises them more and more with each passing moment, waiting desperately for an opportunity to escape. The expression is “Mount Fraught Syndrome,” and Sunny Baudelaire was experiencing it as she stood at the top of Mount Fraught, gazing down at the frozen waterfall and thinking about her circumstances. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE The young girl had spent another sleepless night in the covered casserole dish, after washing the salmon out of it with a few handfuls of melted snow. It was chilly, of course, with the winds of the Mortmain Mountains blowing through the holes in the lid, and it was painful, because once again her teeth were chattering in the cold and giving her tiny cuts on her lips, but there was another reason Sunny did not sleep well, which is that she was frustrated. Despite her best spying attempts, the youngest Baudelaire had been unable to eavesdrop on the villains’ conversation and learn the location of the last safe place where V.F.D. would be gathering, or learn any more about the dreadful recruitment scheme planned by the man with a beard but no hair and the woman with hair but no beard. When the troupe gathered around the flat rock for dinner, they discussed these things, but every time Sunny tried to get close enough to hear what they were saying, they glared at her and quickly changed the subject. It seemed to A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Sunny that the only thing she had accomplished all evening was preparing a meal that the troupe enjoyed. When she had presented her platter of False Spring Rolls, no one had complained, and every single villainous person had taken second helpings. But something crucial had escaped the attention of Count Olaf and his comrades during the meal, and for that Sunny was very grateful. As she had told her siblings, the youngest Baudelaire had prepared an assortment of vegetables wrapped in spinach leaves, in honor of False Spring. Her recipe had required the bag of mushrooms, the can of water chestnuts, and the frozen hunk of spinach, which she had thawed by holding it underneath her shirt, as she had when preparing toast tartar. But Sunny had decided at the last minute that she would not use the enormous eggplant. When Violet mentioned that the eggplant must weigh as much as Sunny did, the youngest Baudelaire had an idea, and rather than chopping the eggplant into small 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE strips with her teeth, she hid it behind the flat tire of Count Olaf’s car, and now, as the sun rose and the group of villains began their usual morning bickering, she was retrieving the eggplant and rolling it to the casserole dish. As she rolled it past the automobile, Sunny looked down at the frozen waterfall, which was looking less and less frozen in the morning sun. She knew her siblings were at the bottom with Quigley, and although she couldn’t see them, it made her feel better knowing they were relatively nearby and that, if her plan worked out, she would soon be joining them. “What are you doing, baby?” Sunny had just slipped the eggplant under the cover of the casserole dish when she heard the voice of one of Olaf’s comrades. The two white-faced women were standing just outside their tent and stretching in the morning sun. “Aubergine,” Sunny replied, which meant “I’ve concocted a plan involving this eggplant, and it doesn’t matter if I tell you about it because A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS you never understand a single word I say.” “More babytalk,” said the other white-faced woman with a sigh. “I’m beginning to think that Sunny is only a helpless baby, and not a spy.” “Goo goo ga—” Sunny began, but the flap of Count Olaf’s tent opened before she could utter the last “ga.” The villain and his girlfriend stood in the morning sun, and it was clear that they expected the new day—Saturday—to be an important one, because they were dressed for the occasion, a phrase which here means “wearing such strange clothing that the youngest Baudelaire was too surprised to say the final ‘ga’ she had been planning.” Amazingly, it appeared that Count Olaf had washed his face, and he was wearing a brand-new suit made out of material that at first seemed to be covered in tiny polka dots. But when Sunny took a closer look, she saw that each dot was a small eye, matching Olaf’s tattoo and the V.F.D. insignia and all of the other eyes that had plagued the Baudelaires since that terrible day on the beach, so that THE SLIPPERY SLOPE looking at Count Olaf in his new suit felt like looking at a crowd of villains, all staring at Sunny Baudelaire. But no matter how unnerving Olaf’s fashion choice was, Esmé Squalor’s outfit was worse to behold. Sunny could not remember when she had ever seen a dress so enormous, and was surprised that such an article of clothing could have fit in the tent and still leave room for villains to sleep. The dress was made of layers upon layers of shiny cloth, in different shades of yellow, orange, and red, all cut in fierce triangular shapes so that each layer seemed to cut into the next, and rising from the shoulders of the dress were enormous piles of black lace, sticking up into the air in strange curves. For a moment, the dress was so huge and odd that Sunny could not imagine why anyone would wear it, but as the wicked girlfriend stepped farther out of the tent, it became horribly clear. Esmé Squalor was dressed to look like an enormous fire. “What a wonderful morning!” Count Olaf A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS crowed. “Just think, by the end of the day I’ll have more new members of my troupe than ever before!” “And we’ll need them,” Esmé agreed. “We’re all going to have to work together for the greater good—burning down the last safe place!” “Just the idea of the Hotel Denouement in flames makes me so excited, I’m going to open a bottle of wine!” Count Olaf announced, and Sunny covered her mouth with her hands so the villains would not hear her gasp. The Hotel Denouement, she realized, must be the last safe place for volunteers to gather, and Olaf was so excited that he had uttered the name inadvertently, a word which here means “where the youngest Baudelaire could hear it.” “The idea of all those eagles filling the sky makes me so excited, I’m going to smoke one of those in green cigarettes!” Esmé announced, and then frowned. “Except I don’t have one. Drat.” “Beg your pardon, your Esméship,” said one of the white-faced women, “but I see some of THE SLIPPERY SLOPE that green smoke down at the bottom of the waterfall.” “Really?” Esmé asked eagerly, and looked in the direction Olaf’s employee was pointing. Sunny looked, too, and saw a familiar plume of green smoke at the very bottom of the slope, getting bigger and bigger as the sun continued to rise. The youngest Baudelaire wondered why her siblings were signaling her, and what they were trying to say. “That’s strange,” Olaf said. “You’d think there’d be nothing left of the headquarters to burn.” “Look how much smoke there is,” Esmé said greedily. “There must be a whole pack of cigarettes down there. This day is getting even better!” Count Olaf smiled, and then looked away from the waterfall and noticed Sunny for the first time. “I’ll have the baby go down and get them for you,” Count Olaf said. “Yessir!” Sunny said eagerly. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “The baby would probably steal all the cigarettes for herself,” Esmé said, glaring at the young girl. “I’ll go.” “But climbing down there will take hours,” Olaf said. “Don’t you want to be here for the recruitment scheme? I just love springing traps on people.” “Me, too,” Esmé agreed, “but don’t worry, Olaf. I’ll be back in moments. I’m not going to climb. I’ll take one of the toboggans and sled down the waterfall before anyone else even notices I’m gone.” “Drat!” Sunny couldn’t help saying. She meant something along the lines of, “That is exactly what I was planning on doing,” but once again no one understood. “Shut up, toothy,” Esmé said, “and get out of my way.” She flounced past the youngest Baudelaire, and Sunny realized that there was something sewn to the bottom of the dress that made it make a crackling noise as she walked, so that the wicked girlfriend sounded as much THE SLIPPERY SLOPE like a fire as she looked like one. Blowing a kiss to Count Olaf, she grabbed the toboggan belonging to sinister villains. “I’ll be right back, darling,” Esmé said. “Tell that baby to take a nap so she won’t see what we’re up to.” “Esmé’s right,” Olaf said, giving Sunny a cruel smile. “Get in the casserole dish. You’re such an ugly, helpless creature, I can scarcely stand to look at you.” “You said it, handsome,” Esmé said, and chuckled meanly as she sat at the top of the waterfall. The two white-faced women scurried to help, and gave the toboggan a big push as Sunny did as she was told, and disappeared from Olaf’s sight. As you may imagine, the sight of a grown woman in an enormous flame-imitating dress tobogganing down from the source of the Stricken Stream to the two tributaries and the half-frozen pool at the bottom of the waterfall is not the sort of thing to pass unnoticed, even A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS from far away. Violet was the first to see the colorful blur heading quickly down the slope, and she lowered Colette’s hand mirror, which she had used once again to catch the rays of the rising sun and reflect them onto the Verdant Flammable Devices, which she had put in a pile in front of the pit. Wrinkling her nose from the bitter smell of the smoke, she turned to Klaus and Quigley, who were putting one last piece of weakened wood across the pit, so their trap would be hidden from view. “Look,” Violet said, and pointed to the descending shape. “Do you think it’s Esmé?” Klaus asked. Violet squinted up at the tobogganing figure. “I think so,” she said. “Nobody but Esmé Squalor would wear an outfit like that.” “We’d better hide behind the archway,” Quigley said, “before she spots us.” The two Baudelaires nodded in agreement, and walked carefully to the library entrance, making sure to step around the hole they had dug. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I’m happy that we can’t see the pit anymore,” Klaus said. “Looking into that blackness reminded me of that terrible passageway at Dark Avenue.” “First Esmé trapped your siblings there,” Violet said to Quigley, “and then she trapped us.” “And now we’re fighting fire with fire, and trapping her,” Quigley said uncomfortably. “It’s best not to think about it,” Violet said, although she had not stopped thinking about the trap since the first handful of ashes and earth. “Soon we’ll have Sunny back, and that’s what’s important.” “Maybe this is important, too,” Klaus said, and pointed up at the archway. “I never noticed it until now.” Violet and Quigley looked up to see what he was referring to, and saw four tiny words etched over their heads, right underneath the large letters spelling “V.F.D. Library.” “‘The world is quiet here,’” Quigley read. “What do you think it means?” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “It looks like a motto,” Klaus said. “At Prufrock Preparatory School, they had a motto carved near the entrance, so everyone would remember it when they entered the academy.” Violet shook her head. “That’s not what I’m thinking of,” she said. “I’m remembering something about that phrase, but just barely.” “The world certainly feels quiet around here,” Klaus said. “We haven’t heard a single snow gnat since we arrived.” “The smell of smoke scares them away, remember?” Quigley asked. “Of course,” Klaus said, and peered around the archway to check on Esmé’s progress. The colorful blur was about halfway down the waterfall, heading straight for the trap they had built. “There’s been so much smoke here at headquarters, the gnats might never come back.” “Without snow gnats,” Quigley said, “the salmon of the Stricken Stream will go hungry. They feed on snow gnats.” He reached into his pocket and opened his commonplace book. 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “And without salmon,” he said, “the Mortmain Mountain eagles will go hungry. The destruction of V.F.D. headquarters has caused even more damage than I thought.” Klaus nodded in agreement. “When we were walking along the Stricken Stream,” he said, “the fish were coughing from all the ashes in the water. Remember, Violet?” He turned to his sister, but Violet was only half listening. She was still gazing at the words on the archway, and trying to remember where she heard them before. “I can just hear those words,” she said. “The world is quiet here.” She closed her eyes. “I think it was a very long time ago, before you were born, Klaus.” “Maybe someone said them to you,” Quigley said. Violet tried to remember as far back as she could, but everything seemed as misty as it did in the mountains. She could see the face of her mother, and her father standing behind her, wearing a suit as black as the ashes of V.F.D. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS headquarters. Their mouths were open, but Violet could not remember what they were saying. No matter how hard she tried, the memory was as silent as the grave. “Nobody said them to me,” she said finally. “Someone sang them. I think my parents sang the words ‘the world is quiet here’ a long time ago, but I don’t know why.” She opened her eyes and faced her brother and her friend. “I think we might be doing the wrong thing,” she said. “But we agreed,” Quigley said, “to fight fire with fire.” Violet nodded, and stuck her hands in her pocket, bumping up against the bread knife again. She thought of the darkness of the pit, and the scream Esmé would make as she fell into it. “I know we agreed,” Violet said, “but if V.F.D. really stands for Volunteer Fire Department, then they’re an organization that stops fire. If everyone fought fire with fire, the entire world would go up in smoke.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I see what you mean,” Quigley said. “If the V.F.D. motto is ‘The world is quiet here,’ we ought to be doing something less noisy and violent than trapping someone, no matter how wicked they are.” “When I was looking into the pit,” Klaus said quietly, “I was remembering something I read in a book by a famous philosopher. He said, ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.’” Klaus looked at his sister, and then at the sight of Esmé approaching, and then at the weakened wood that the three children had placed on the ground. “ ‘Abyss’ is a fancy word for ‘pit,’ ” he said. “We built an abyss for Esmé to fall into. That’s something a monster might do.” Quigley was copying Klaus’s words into his commonplace book. “What happened to that philosopher?” he asked. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “He’s dead,” Klaus replied. “I think you’re right, Violet. We don’t want to be as villainous and monstrous as Count Olaf.” “But what are we going to do?” Quigley asked. “Sunny is still Olaf’s prisoner, and Esmé will be here at any moment. If we don’t think of the right thing right now, it’ll be too late.” As soon as the triplet finished his sentence, however, the three children heard something that made them realize it might already be too late. From behind the archway, Violet, Klaus, and Quigley heard a rough, scraping sound as the toboggan reached the bottom of the waterfall and slid to a halt, and then a triumphant giggle from the mouth of Esmé Squalor. The three volunteers peeked around the archway and saw the treacherous girlfriend step off the toboggan with a greedy smile on her face. But when Esmé adjusted her enormous flame-imitating dress and took a step toward the smoking Verdant Flammable Devices, Violet was not looking at her any more. Violet was looking down at the ground, just THE SLIPPERY SLOPE a few steps from where she was standing. Three dark, round masks were sitting in a pile, where Violet, Klaus, and Quigley had left them upon arriving at the ruins of headquarters. They had assumed that they would not need them again, but the eldest Baudelaire realized they had been wrong. As Esmé took another step closer to the trap, Violet dashed over to the masks, put one on and stepped out of her hiding place as her brother and her friend looked on. “Stop, Esmé!” she cried. “It’s a trap!” Esmé stopped in her tracks and gave Violet a curious look. “Who are you?” she asked. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that. It’s a villainous thing to do.” “I’m a volunteer,” Violet said. Esmé’s mouth, heavy with orange lipstick that matched her dress, curled into a sneer. “There are no volunteers here,” she said. “The entire headquarters are destroyed!” Klaus was the next to grab a mask and confront Olaf’s treacherous romantic companion. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Our headquarters might be destroyed,” he said, “but the V.F.D. is as strong as ever!” Esmé frowned at the two siblings as if she couldn’t decide whether to be frightened or not. “You may be strong,” she said nervously, “but you’re also very short.” Her dress crackled as she started to take another step toward the pit. “When I get my hands on you—” “No!” Quigley cried, and stepped out from the arch wearing his mask, taking care not to fall into his own trap. “Don’t come any closer, Esmé. If you take another step, you’ll fall into our trap.” “You’re making that up,” Esmé said, but she did not move any closer. “You’re trying to keep all the cigarettes for yourself.” “They’re not cigarettes,” Klaus said, “and we’re not liars. Underneath the wood you’re about to step on is a very deep pit.” Esmé looked at them suspiciously. Gingerly—a word which here means “without falling into a very deep hole”—she leaned down and moved a piece of wood aside, and stared down THE SLIPPERY SLOPE into the trap the children had built. “Well, well, well,” she said. “You did build a trap. I never would have fallen for it, of course, but I must admit you dug quite a pit.” “We wanted to trap you,” Violet said, “so we could trade you for the safe return of Sunny Baudelaire. But—” “But you didn’t have the courage to go through with it,” Esmé said with a mocking smile. “You volunteers are never brave enough to do something for the greater good.” “Throwing people into pits isn’t the greater good!” Quigley cried. “It’s villainous treachery!” “If you weren’t such an idiot,” Esmé said, “you’d realize that those things are more or less the same.” “He is not an idiot,” Violet said fiercely. She knew, of course, that it was not worthwhile to get upset over insults from such a ridiculous person, but she liked Quigley too much to hear him called names. “He led us here to the headquarters using a map he drew himself.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “He’s very well-read,” Klaus said. At Klaus’s words, Esmé threw back her head and laughed, shaking the crackling layers of her enormous dress. “Well-read!” she repeated in a particularly nasty tone of voice. “Being well-read won’t help you in this world. Many years ago, I was supposed to waste my entire summer reading Anna Karenina, but I knew that silly book would never help me, so I threw it into the fireplace.” She reached down and picked up a few more pieces of wood, which she tossed aside with a snicker. “Look at your precious headquarters, volunteers! It’s as ruined as my book. And look at me! I’m beautiful, fashionable, and I smoke cigarettes!” She laughed again, and pointed at the children with a scornful finger. “If you didn’t spend all your time with your heads stuck in books, you’d have that precious baby back.” “We’re going to get her back,” Violet said firmly. “Really?” Esmé said mockingly. “And how do you propose to do that?” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I’m going to talk to Count Olaf,” Violet said, “and he’s going to give her back to me.” Esmé threw back her head and started to laugh, but not with as much enthusiasm as before. “What do you mean?” she said. “Just what I said,” Violet said. “Hmmm,” Esmé said suspiciously. “Let me think for a moment.” The evil girlfriend began to pace back and forth on the frozen pond, her enormous dress crackling with every step. Klaus leaned in to whisper to his sister. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Do you honestly think that we can get Sunny back from Count Olaf with a simple conversation?” “I don’t know,” Violet whispered back, “but it’s better than luring someone into a trap.” “It was wrong to dig that pit,” Quigley agreed, “but I’m not sure that walking straight into Olaf’s clutches is the right thing to do, either.” “It’ll take a while to reach Mount Fraught again,” Violet said. “We’ll think of something during the climb.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “I hope so,” Klaus said, “but if we can’t think of something—” Klaus did not get a chance to say what might happen if they couldn’t think of something, because Esmé clapped her hands together to get the children’s attention. “If you really want to talk to my boyfriend,” she said, “I suppose I can take you to where he is. If you weren’t so stupid, you’d know that he’s very nearby.” “We know where he is, Esmé,” Klaus said. “He’s at the top of the waterfall, at the source of the Stricken Stream.” “Then I suppose you know how we can get there,” Esmé said, and looked a little foolish. “The toboggan doesn’t go uphill, so I actually have no idea how we can reach the peak.” “She will invent a way,” Quigley said, pointing at Violet. Violet smiled at her friend, grateful for his support, and closed her eyes underneath her mask. Once more, she was thinking of some- 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE thing she had heard sung to her, when she was a very little girl. She had already thought of the way that the three children could take Esmé with them when they ascended the hill, but thinking of their journey made her think of a song she had not thought of for many years. Perhaps when you were very young, someone sang this song to you, perhaps to lull you to sleep, or to entertain you on a long car trip, or in order to teach you a secret code. The song is called “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” and it is one of the saddest songs ever composed. It tells the story of a small spider who is trying to climb up a water spout, but every time its climb is half over, there is a great burst of water, either due to rain or somebody turning the spout on, and at the end of the song, the spider has decided to try one more time, and will likely be washed away once again. Violet Baudelaire could not help feeling like this poor spider as she ascended the waterfall for the last time, with Quigley and Klaus beside her and Esmé Squalor on her toboggan behind A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS them. After attaching the last two forks to Klaus’s shoes, she had told her companions to tie the leather straps of the toboggan around their waists, so they could drag the villainous girlfriend behind them as they climbed. It was exhausting to approach the peak of Mount Fraught in this manner, particularly after staying up all night digging a pit, and it seemed like they might get washed back down by the dripping water of the Stricken Stream, like the spider Violet had heard about when she was a little girl. The ice on the slope was weakening, after two fork-assisted climbs, a toboggan ride, and the increasing temperatures of False Spring, and with each step of Violet’s invention, the ice would shift slightly. It was clear that the slippery slope was almost as exhausted as they were, and soon the ice would vanish completely. “Mush!” Esmé called from the toboggan. She was using an expression that arctic explorers shouted to their sled dogs, and it certainly did not make the journey any easier. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “I wish she’d stop saying that,” Violet murmured from behind her mask. She tapped the candelabra on the ice ahead of her, and a small piece detached from the waterfall and fell to the ruins of headquarters. She watched it disappear below her and sighed. She would never see the V.F.D. headquarters in all its glory. None of the Baudelaires would. Violet would never know how it felt to cook in the kitchen and gaze at the two tributaries of the Stricken Stream, while chatting with the other volunteers. Klaus would never know how it felt to relax in the library and learn all of the secrets of V.F.D. in the comfort of one of the library’s chairs, with his feet up on one of the matching V.F.D. footstools. Sunny would never operate the projector in the movie room, or practice the art of the fake mustache in the disguise center, or sit in the parlor at tea time and eat the almond cookies made from my grandmother’s recipe. Violet would never study chemical composition in one of the six laboratories, and Klaus would never use the balance beams at the A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS gymnasium, and Sunny would never stand behind the counter at the ice cream shop and prepare butterscotch sundaes for the swimming coaches when it was her turn. And none of the Baudelaires would ever meet some of the organization’s most beloved volunteers, including the mechanical instructor C. M. Kornbluth, and Dr. Isaac Anwhistle, whom everyone called Ike, and the brave volunteer who tossed the sugar bowl out the kitchen window so it would not be destroyed in the blaze, and watched it float away on one of the tributaries of the Stricken Stream. The Baudelaires would never do any of these things, any more than I will ever see my beloved Beatrice again, or retrieve my pickle from the refrigerator in which I left it, and return it to its rightful place in an important coded sandwich. Violet, of course, was not aware of everything she would never do, but as she gazed down at the vast, ashen remains of the headquarters, she felt as if her whole journey in the Mortmain Mountains had been as useless as the journey of a tiny arachnid in a song she had never liked to hear. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Mush!” Esmé cried again, with a cruel chuckle. “Please stop saying that, Esmé,” Violet called down impatiently. “That mush nonsense is slowing our climb.” “A slow climb might be to our advantage,” Klaus murmured to his sister. “The longer it takes us to reach the summit, the longer we have to think up what we’re going to say to Count Olaf.” “We could tell him that he’s surrounded,” Quigley said, “and that there are volunteers everywhere ready to arrest him if he doesn’t let Sunny go free.” Violet shook her mask. “He won’t believe that,” she said, sticking a fork-assisted shoe into the waterfall. “He can see everything and everyone from Mount Fraught. He’ll know we’re the only volunteers in the area.” “There must be something we can do,” Klaus said. “We didn’t make this journey into the mountains for nothing.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Of course not,” Quigley said. “We found each other, and we solved some of the mysteries that were haunting us.” “Will that be enough,” Violet asked, “to defeat all those villains on the peak?” Violet’s question was a difficult one, and neither Klaus nor Quigley had the answer, and so rather than hazard a guess—a phrase which here means “continue to expend their energy by discussing the matter”—they decided to hazard their climb, a phrase which here means “continue their difficult journey in silence, until they arrived at last at the source of the Stricken Stream.” Hoisting themselves up onto the flat peak, they sat on the edge and pulled the leather straps as hard as they could. It was such a difficult task to drag Esmé Squalor and the toboggan over the edge of the slope and onto Mount Fraught that the children did not notice who was nearby until they heard a familiar scratchy voice right behind them. “Who goes there?” Count Olaf demanded. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE Breathless from the climb, the three children turned around to see the villain standing with his two sinister cohorts near his long, black automobile, glaring suspiciously at the masked volunteers. “We thought you’d get here by taking the path,” said the man with a beard but no hair, “not by climbing up the waterfall.” “No, no, no,” Esmé said quickly. “These aren’t the people we’re expecting. These are some volunteers I found at headquarters.” “Volunteers?” said the woman with hair but no beard, but her voice did not sound as deep as it usually did. The villains gave the children the same confused frown they had seen from Esmé, as if they were unsure whether to be scared or scornful, and the hook-handed man, the two white-faced women, and the three former carnival employees gathered around to see what had made their villainous boss fall silent. Although they were exhausted, the two Baudelaires hurriedly untied the straps of the toboggan from A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS their waists and stood with Quigley to face their enemies. The orphans were very scared, of course, but they found that with their faces concealed they could speak their minds, a phrase which here means “confront Count Olaf and his companions as if they weren’t one bit frightened.” “We built a trap to capture your girlfriend, Olaf,” Violet said, “but we didn’t want to become a monster like you.” “They’re idiotic liars!” Esmé cried. “I found them hogging the cigarettes, so I captured them myself and made them drag me up the waterfall like sled dogs.” The middle Baudelaire ignored the wicked girlfriend’s nonsense. “We’re here for Sunny Baudelaire,” Klaus said, “and we’re not leaving without her.” Count Olaf frowned, and peered at them with his shiny, shiny eyes as if he were trying to see through their masks. “And what makes you THE SLIPPERY SLOPE so certain,” he said, “that I’ll give you my prisoner just because you say so?” Violet thought furiously, looking around at her surroundings for anything that might give her an idea of what to do. Count Olaf clearly believed that the three masked people in front of him were members of V.F.D., and she felt that if she could just find the right words to say, she could defeat him without becoming as villainous as her enemies. But she could not find the words, and neither could her brother nor her friend, who stood beside her in silence. The winds of the Mortmain Mountains blew against them, and Violet stuck her hands in her pockets, bumping one finger against the long bread knife. She began to think that perhaps trapping Esmé had been the right thing to do after all. Count Olaf’s frown began to fade, and his mouth started to curl upward in a triumphant smile, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Violet saw two things that gave her hope A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS once more. The first was the sight of two notebooks, one a deep shade of purple and the other dark blue, sticking out of the pockets of her companions—commonplace books, where Klaus and Quigley had written down all of the information they had found in the ruined library of V.F.D. headquarters. And the other was a collection of dishes spread out on the flat rock that Olaf’s troupe had been using for a table. Sunny had been forced to wash these dishes, using handfuls of melted snow, and she had laid them out to dry in the sunshine of False Spring. Violet could see a stack of plates, each emblazoned with the familiar image of an eye, as well as a row of teacups and a small pitcher for cream. But there was something missing from the tea set, and it made Violet smile behind her mask as she turned to face Count Olaf again. “You will give us Sunny,” she said, “because we know where the sugar bowl is.” 0 CHAPTER Thirteen Count Olaf gasped, and raised his one eyebrow very high as he gazed at the two Baudelaires and their companion, his eyes shinier than they had ever seen them. “Where is it?” he said, in a terrible, wheezing whisper. “Give it to me!” Violet shook her head, grateful that her face was still hidden behind a mask. “Not until you give us Sunny Baudelaire,” she said. “Never!” the villain replied. “Without that big-toothed brat, I’ll never capture the Baudelaire fortune. You give me the sugar bowl this instant, or I’ll throw all of you off this mountain!” “If you throw us off the mountain,” Klaus said, “you’ll never know where the sugar bowl A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS is.” He did not add, of course, that the Baudelaires had no idea where the sugar bowl was, or why in the world it was so important. Esmé Squalor took a sinister step toward her boyfriend, her flame-imitating dress crackling against the cold ground. “We must have that sugar bowl,” she snarled. “Let the baby go. We’ll cook up another scheme to steal the fortune.” “But stealing the fortune is the greater good,” Count Olaf said. “We can’t let the baby go.” “Getting the sugar bowl is the greater good,” Esmé said, with a frown. “Stealing the fortune,” Olaf insisted. “Getting the sugar bowl,” Esmé replied. “Fortune!” “Sugar bowl!” “Fortune!” “Sugar bowl!” “That’s enough!” ordered the man with a beard but no hair. “Our recruitment scheme is about to be put into action. We can’t have you arguing all day long.” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “We wouldn’t have argued all day long,” Count Olaf said timidly. “After a few hours—” “We said that’s enough!” ordered the woman with hair but no beard. “Bring the baby over here!” “Bring the baby at once!” Count Olaf ordered the two white-faced women. “She’s napping in her casserole dish.” The two white-faced women sighed, but hurried over to the casserole dish and lifted it together, as if they were cooks removing something from the oven instead of villainous employees bringing over a prisoner, while the two sinister visitors reached down the necks of their shirts and retrieved something that was hanging around their necks. Violet and Klaus were surprised to see two shiny silver whistles, like the one Count Olaf had used as part of his disguise at Prufrock Preparatory School, when he was pretending to be a coach. “Watch this, volunteers,” said the sinister man in his hoarse voice, and the two mysterious A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS villains blew their whistles. Instantly, the children heard an enormous rustling sound over their heads, as if the Mortmain Mountain winds were as frightened as the youngsters, and it suddenly grew very dim, as if the morning sun had also put on a mask. But when they looked up, Violet, Klaus, and Quigley saw that the reason for the noisy sky and the fading light was perhaps more strange than frightened winds and a masked sun. The sky above Mount Fraught was swarming with eagles. There were hundreds and hundreds of them, flying in silent circles high above the two sinister villains. They must have been nesting nearby to have arrived so quickly, and they must have been very thoroughly trained to be so eerily silent. Some of them looked very old, old enough to have been in the skies when the Baudelaire parents were children themselves. Some of them looked quite young, as if they had only recently emerged from the egg and were already obeying the shrill sound of a whistle. But all of them looked exhausted, as if THE SLIPPERY SLOPE they would rather be anywhere else but the summit of the Mortmain Mountains, doing absolutely anything rather than following the orders of such wretched people. “Look at these creatures!” cried the woman with hair but no beard. “When the schism occurred, you may have won the carrier crows, volunteers, and you may have won the trained reptiles.” “Not anymore,” Count Olaf said. “All of the reptiles except one—” “Don’t interrupt,” the sinister woman interrupted. “You may have the carrier crows, but we have the two most powerful mammals in the world to do our bidding—the lions and eagles!” “Eagles aren’t mammals,” Klaus cried out in frustration. “They’re birds!” “They’re slaves,” said the man with a beard but no hair, and the two villains reached into the pockets of their suits and drew out two long, wicked-looking whips. Violet and Klaus could see at once that they were similar to the whip A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Olaf had used when bossing around the lions at Caligari Carnival. With matching, sinister sneers, the two mysterious villains cracked their whips in the air, and four eagles swooped down from the sky, landing on the strange thick pads that the villains had on their shoulders. “These beasts will do anything we tell them to do,” the woman said. “And today they’re going to help us with our greatest triumph.” She uncurled the whip and gestured to the ground around her, and the children noticed for the first time an enormous net on the ground, spread out over almost the entire peak and just stopping at their fork-assisted climbing shoes. “On my signal, these eagles will lift this net from the ground and carry it into the sky, capturing a group of young people who think they’re here to celebrate False Spring.” “The Snow Scouts,” Violet said in astonishment. “We’ll capture every one of those uniformed THE SLIPPERY SLOPE brats,” the villainous man bragged, “and each one of them will be offered the exciting opportunity to join us.” “They’ll never join you,” Klaus said. “Of course they will,” said the sinister woman, in her deep, deep voice. “They’ll either be recruited, or they’ll be our prisoners. But one thing is for certain—we’ll burn down every single one of their parents’ homes.” The two Baudelaires shuddered, and even Count Olaf looked a bit uneasy. “Of course,” he said quickly, “the main reason we’re doing all this is to get our hands on all those fortunes.” “Of course,” Esmé said with a nervous snicker. “We’ll have the Spats fortune, the Kornbluth fortune, the Winnipeg fortune, and many others. I’ll be able to afford the penthouse apartment of every single building that isn’t on fire!” “Once you tell us where the sugar bowl is,” said the man with a beard but no hair, “you can leave, volunteers, and take your baby friend A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS with you. But wouldn’t you rather join us?” “No, thank you,” Quigley said. “We’re not interested.” “It doesn’t matter if you’re interested or not,” said the woman with hair but no beard. “Look around you. You’re hopelessly outnumbered. Wherever we go, we find new comrades who are eager to assist us in our work.” “We have comrades, too,” Violet said bravely. “As soon as we rescue Sunny, we’re going to meet up with the other volunteers at the last safe place, and tell them about your terrible scheme!” “It’s too late for that, volunteers,” said Count Olaf in triumph. “Here come my new recruits!” With a horrible laugh, the villain pointed in the direction of the rocky path, and the elder Baudelaires could see, past the covered casserole dish still held by the white-faced women, the arrival of the uniformed Snow Scouts, walking THE SLIPPERY SLOPE in two neat lines, more like eggs in a carton than young people on a hike. Apparently, the scouts had realized that the snow gnats were absent from this part of the Mortmain Mountains and had removed their masks, so Violet and Klaus could instantly spot Carmelita Spats, standing at the front of one of the lines with a tiara on her head—“tiara” is a word which here means “small crown given to a nasty little girl for no good reason”—and a large smirk on her face. Beside her, at the head of the other line, stood Bruce, holding the Springpole in one hand and a big cigar in the other. There was something about his face that Violet and Klaus found familiar, but they were too concerned about the villainous recruitment plan to give it much thought. “What are all you cakesniffers doing here?” demanded Carmelita, in an obnoxious voice the two siblings found equally familiar. “I’m the False Spring Queen, and I order you to go away!” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Now, now, Carmelita,” Bruce said. “I’m sure these people are here to help celebrate your special day. Let’s try to be accommodating. In fact, we should try to be accommodating, basic, calm, darling—” The scouts had begun to say the ridiculous pledge along with Bruce, but the two Baudelaires knew they could not wait for the entire alphabetical list to be recited. “Bruce,” Violet interrupted quickly, “these people are not here to help you celebrate False Spring. They’re here to kidnap all of the Snow Scouts.” “What?” Bruce asked with a smile, as if the eldest Baudelaire might have been joking. “It’s a trap,” Klaus said. “Please, turn around and lead the scouts away from here.” “Pay no attention to these three masked idiots,” Count Olaf said quickly. “The mountain air has gone to their heads. Just take a few steps closer and we’ll all join in a special celebration.” “We’re happy to accommodate,” Bruce said. 00 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “After all, we’re accommodating, basic—” “No!” Violet cried. “Don’t you see the net on the ground? Don’t you see the eagles in the sky?” “The net is decoration,” Esmé said, with a smile as false as the Spring, “and the eagles are wildlife.” “Please listen to us!” Klaus said. “You’re in terrible danger!” Carmelita glared at the two Baudelaires, and adjusted her tiara. “Why should I listen to cakesniffing strangers like you?” she asked. “You’re so stupid that you’ve still got your masks on, even though there aren’t any snow gnats around here.” Violet and Klaus looked at one another through their masks. Carmelita’s response had been quite rude, but the two siblings had to admit she had a point. The Baudelaires were unlikely to convince anyone that they were telling the truth while their faces were unnecessarily covered. They did not want to sacrifice 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS their disguises and reveal their true identities to Count Olaf and his troupe, but they couldn’t risk the kidnapping of all the Snow Scouts, even to save their sister. The two Baudelaires nodded at one another, and then turned to see that Quigley was nodding, too, and the three children reached up and took off their masks for the greater good. Count Olaf’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “You’re dead!” he said to the eldest Baudelaire, saying something that he knew full well was ridiculous. “You perished in the caravan, along with Klaus!” Esmé stared at Klaus, looking just as astonished as her boyfriend. “You’re dead, too!” she cried. “You fell off a mountain!” “And you’re one of those twins!” Olaf said to Quigley. “You died a long time ago!” “I’m not a twin,” Quigley said, “and I’m not dead.” “And,” Count Olaf said with a sneer, “you’re not a volunteer. None of you are members of 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE V.F.D. You’re just a bunch of orphan brats.” “In that case,” said the woman with hair but no beard, in her deep, deep voice, “there’s no reason to worry about that stupid baby any longer.” “That’s true,” Olaf said, and turned to the white-faced women. “Throw the baby off the mountain!” he ordered. Violet and Klaus cried out in horror, but the two white-faced women merely looked at the covered casserole dish they were holding, and then at one another. Then, slowly, they looked at Count Olaf, but neither of them moved an inch. “Didn’t you hear me?” Olaf asked. “Throw that baby off this mountain!” “No,” said one of the white-faced women, and the two Baudelaires turned to them in relief. “No?” asked Esmé Squalor in an astonished voice. “What do you mean, no?” “We mean no,” said the white-faced woman, 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS and her companion nodded. Together they put the covered casserole dish down on the ground in front of them. Violet and Klaus were surprised to see that the dish did not move, and assumed that their sister must have been too scared to come out. “We don’t want to participate in your schemes anymore,” said the other white-faced woman, and sighed. “For a while, it was fun to fight fire with fire, but we’ve seen enough flames and smoke to last our whole lives.” “We don’t think that it was a coincidence that our home burned to the ground,” said the first woman. “We lost a sibling in that fire, Olaf.” Count Olaf pointed at the two women with a long, bony finger. “Obey my orders this instant!” he screamed, but his two former accomplices merely shook their heads, turned away from the villain, and began to walk away. Everyone on the square peak watched in silence as the two white-faced women walked past Count Olaf, past Esmé Squalor, past the two sinister villains 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE with eagles on their shoulders, past the two Baudelaires and Quigley Quagmire, past the hook-handed man and the former employees of the carnival, and finally past Bruce and Carmelita Spats and the rest of the Snow Scouts, until they reached the rocky path and began to walk away from Mount Fraught altogether. Count Olaf opened his mouth and let out a terrible roar, and jumped up and down on the net. “You can’t walk away from me, you pasty-faced women!” he cried. “I’ll find you and destroy you myself! In fact, I can do anything myself! I’m an individual practitioner, and I don’t need anybody’s help to throw this baby off the mountain!” With a nasty chuckle, he picked up the covered casserole dish, staggering slightly, and walked to the edge of the half-frozen waterfall. “No!” Violet cried. “Sunny!” Klaus screamed. “Say good-bye to your baby sister, Baudelaires!” Count Olaf said, with a triumphant smile that showed all of his filthy teeth. 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “I’m not a baby!” cried a familiar voice from under the villain’s long, black automobile, and the two elder Baudelaires watched with pride and relief as Sunny emerged from behind the tire Violet had punctured, and ran to hug her siblings. Klaus had to take his glasses off to wipe the tears from his eyes as he was finally reunited with the young girl who was his sister. “I’m not a baby!” Sunny said again, turning to Olaf in triumph. “How could this be?” Count Olaf said, but when he removed the cover from the casserole dish, he saw how this could be, because the object inside, which was about the same size and weight as the youngest Baudelaire, wasn’t a baby either. “Babganoush!” Sunny cried, which meant something along the lines of, “I concocted an escape plan with the eggplant that turned out to be even handier than I thought,” but there was no need for anyone to translate, as the large vegetable slid out of the casserole dish and landed with a plop! at Olaf’s feet. 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Nothing is going right for me today!” cried the villain. “I’m beginning to think that washing my face was a complete waste of time!” “Don’t upset yourself, boss,” said Colette, contorting herself in concern. “I’m sure that Sunny will cook us something delicious with the eggplant.” “That’s true,” the hook-handed man said. “She’s becoming quite a cook. The False Spring Rolls were quite tasty, and the lox was delicious.” “It could have used a little dill, in my opinion,” Hugo said, but the three reunited Baudelaires turned away from this ridiculous conversation to face the Snow Scouts. “Now do you believe us?” Violet asked Bruce. “Can’t you see that this man is a terrible villain who is trying to do you harm?” “Don’t you remember us?” Klaus asked Carmelita Spats. “Count Olaf had a terrible scheme at Prufrock Prep, and he has a terrible scheme now!” 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Of course I remember you,” Carmelita said. “You’re those cakesniffing orphans who caused Vice Principal Nero all that trouble. And now you’re trying to ruin my very special day! Give me that Springpole, Uncle Bruce!” “Now, now, Carmelita,” Bruce said, but Carmelita had already grabbed the long pole from Bruce’s hands and was marching across the net toward the source of the Stricken Stream. The man with a beard but no hair and the woman with hair but no beard clasped their wicked whips and raised their shiny whistles to their sinister mouths, but the Baudelaires could see they were waiting to spring their trap until the rest of the scouts stepped forward, so they would be inside the net when the eagles lifted it from the ground. “I crown myself False Spring Queen!” Carmelita announced, when she reached the very edge of Mount Fraught. With a nasty laugh of triumph, she elbowed the Baudelaires aside and drove the Springpole into the half-frozen top of 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE the waterfall. There was a slow, loud shattering sound, and the Baudelaires looked down the slope and saw that an enormous crack was slowly making its way down the center of the waterfall, toward the pool and the two tributaries of the Stricken Stream. The Baudelaires gasped in horror. Although it was only the ice that was cracking, it looked as if the mountain were beginning to split in half, and that soon an enormous schism would divide the entire world. “What are you looking at?” Carmelita asked scornfully. “Everybody’s supposed to be doing a dance in my honor.” “That’s right,” Count Olaf said, “why doesn’t everybody step forward and do a dance in honor of this darling little girl?” “Sounds good to me,” Kevin said, leading his fellow employees onto the net. “After all, I have two equally strong feet.” “And we should try to be accommodating,” the hook-handed man said. “Isn’t that what you said, Uncle Bruce?” 0 A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Absolutely,” Bruce agreed, with a puff on his cigar. He looked a bit relieved that all the arguing had ceased, and that the scouts finally had an opportunity to do the same thing they did every year. “Come on, Snow Scouts, let’s recite the Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge as we dance around the Springpole.” The scouts cheered and followed Bruce onto the net. “Snow Scouts,” the Snow Scouts said, “are accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered, every morning, every afternoon, every night, and all day long!” There is nothing wrong, of course, with having a pledge, and putting into words what you might feel is important in your life as a reminder to yourself as you make your way in the world. If you feel, for instance, that well-read people are less likely to be evil, and a world full of people 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE sitting quietly with good books in their hands is preferable to a world filled with schisms and sirens and other noisy and troublesome things, then every time you enter a library you might say to yourself, “The world is quiet here,” as a sort of pledge proclaiming reading to be the greater good. If you feel that well-read people ought to be lit on fire and their fortunes stolen, you might adopt the saying “Fight fire with fire!” as your pledge, whenever you ordered one of your comrades around. But whatever words you might choose to describe your own life, there are two basic guidelines for composing a good pledge. One guideline is that the pledge make good sense, so that if your pledge contains the word “xylophone,” for example, you mean that a percussion instrument played with mallets is very important to you, and not that you simply couldn’t think of a good word that begins with the letter X. The other guideline is that the pledge be relatively short, so if a group of villains is luring you into a trap with a net and a group of exhausted A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS trained eagles, you’ll have more time to escape. The Snow Scout Alphabet Pledge, sadly, did not follow either of these guidelines. As the Snow Scouts promised to be “xylophone,” the man with a beard but no hair cracked his whip in the air, and the eagles sitting on both villains’ shoulders began to flap their wings and, digging their claws into the thick pads, lifted the two sinister people high in the air, and when the pledge neared its end, and the Snow Scouts were all taking a big breath to make the snowy sound, the woman with hair but no beard blew her whistle, making a loud shriek the Baudelaires remembered from running laps as part of Olaf’s scheme at Prufrock Prep. The three siblings stood with Quigley and watched as the rest of the eagles quickly dove to the ground, picked up the net, and, their wings trembling with the effort, lifted everyone who was standing on it into the air, the way you might remove all the dinner dishes from the table by lifting all the corners of the tablecloth. If you were to try such THE SLIPPERY SLOPE an unusual method of clearing the table, you would likely be sent to your room or chased out of the restaurant, and the results on Mount Fraught were equally disastrous. In moments, all of the Snow Scouts and Olaf’s henchfolk were in an aerial heap, struggling together inside the net that the eagles were holding. The only person who escaped recruitment—besides the Baudelaires and Quigley Quagmire, of course—was Carmelita Spats, standing next to Count Olaf and his girlfriend. “What’s going on?” Bruce asked Count Olaf from inside the net. “What have you done?” “I’ve triumphed,” Count Olaf said, “again. A long time ago, I tricked you out of a reptile collection that I needed for my own use.” The Baudelaires looked at one another in astonishment, suddenly realizing when they had met Bruce before. “And now, I’ve tricked you out of a collection of children!” “What’s going to happen to us?” asked one of the Snow Scouts fearfully. A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “I don’t care,” said another Snow Scout, who seemed to be afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome already. “Every year we hike up to Mount Fraught and do the same thing. At least this year is a little different!” “Why are you recruiting me, too?” asked the hook-handed man, and the Baudelaires could see one of his hooks frantically sticking out of the net. “I already work for you.” “Don’t worry, hooky,” Esmé replied mockingly. “It’s all for the greater good!” “Mush!” cried the man with a beard but no hair, cracking his whip in the air. Squawking in fear, the eagles began to drag the net across the sky, away from Mount Fraught. “You get the sugar bowl from those bratty orphans, Olaf,” ordered the woman with hair but no beard, “and we’ll all meet up at the last safe place!” “With these eagles at our disposal,” the sinister man said in his hoarse voice, “we can finally catch up to that self-sustaining hot air mobile THE SLIPPERY SLOPE home and destroy those volunteers!” The Baudelaires gasped, and shared an astonished look with Quigley. The villain was surely talking about the device that Hector had built at the Village of Fowl Devotees, in which Duncan and Isadora had escaped. “We’ll fight fire with fire!” the woman with hair but no beard cried in triumph, and the eagles carried her away. Count Olaf muttered something to himself and then turned and began creeping toward the Baudelaires. “I only need one of you to learn where the sugar bowl is,” he said, his eyes shining brightly, “and to get my hands on the fortune. But which one should it be?” “That’s a difficult decision,” Esmé said. “On one hand, it’s been enjoyable having an infant servant. But it would be a lot of fun to smash Klaus’s glasses and watch him bump into things.” “But Violet has the longest hair,” Carmelita volunteered, as the Baudelaires backed toward A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the cracked waterfall with Quigley right behind them. “You could yank on it all the time, and tie it to things when you were bored.” “Those are both excellent ideas,” Count Olaf said. “I’d forgotten what an adorable little girl you are. Why don’t you join us?” “Join you?” Carmelita asked. “Look at my stylish dress,” Esmé said to Carmelita. “If you joined us, I’d buy you all sorts of in outfits.” Carmelita looked thoughtful, gazing first at the children, and then at the two villains standing next to her and smiling. The three Baudelaires shared a look of horrified disappointment with Quigley. The siblings remembered how monstrous Carmelita had been at school, but it had never occurred to them that she would be interested in joining up with even more monstrous people. “Don’t believe them, Carmelita,” Quigley said, and took his purple notebook out of his pocket. “They’ll burn your parents’ house down. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE I have the evidence right here, in my commonplace book.” “What are you going to believe, Carmelita?” Count Olaf asked. “A silly book, or something an adult tells you?” “Look at us, you adorable little girl,” Esmé said, her yellow, orange, and red dress crackling on the ground. “Do we look like the sort of people who like to burn down houses?” “Carmelita!” Violet cried. “Don’t listen to them!” “Carmelita!” Klaus cried. “Don’t join them!” “Carmelita!” Sunny cried, which meant something like, “You’re making a monstrous decision!” “Carmelita,” Count Olaf said, in a sickeningly sweet voice. “Why don’t you choose one orphan to live, and push the others off the cliff, and then we’ll all go to a nice hotel together.” “You’ll be like the daughter we never had,” Esmé said, stroking her tiara. “Or something,” added Olaf, who looked A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS like he would prefer having another employee rather than a daughter. Carmelita glanced once more at the Baudelaires, and then smiled up at the two villains. “Do you really think I’m adorable?” she asked. “I think you’re adorable, beautiful, cute, dainty, eye-pleasing, flawless, gorgeous, harmonious, impeccable, jaw-droppingly adorable, keen, luscious, magnificent, nifty, obviously adorable, photogenic, quite adorable, ravishing, splendid, thin, undeformed, very adorable, well-proportioned, xylophone, yummy, and zestfully adorable,” Esmé pledged, “every morning, every afternoon, every night, and all day long!” “Don’t listen to her!” Quigley pleaded. “A person can’t be ‘xylophone’!” “I don’t care!” Carmelita said. “I’m going to push these cakesniffers off the mountain, and start an exciting and fashionable new life!” The Baudelaires took another step back, THE SLIPPERY SLOPE and Quigley followed, giving the children a panicked look. Above them they could hear the squawking of the eagles as they took the villains’ new recruits farther and farther away. Behind them they could feel the four drafts of the valley below, where the headquarters had been destroyed by people the children’s parents had devoted their lives to stopping. Violet reached in her pocket for her ribbon, trying to imagine what she could invent that could get them away from such villainous people, and journeying toward their fellow volunteers at the last safe place. Her fingers brushed against the bread knife, and she wondered if she should remove the weapon from her pocket and use it to threaten the villains with violence, or whether this, too, would make her as villainous as the man who was staring at her now. “Poor Baudelaires,” Count Olaf said mockingly. “You might as well give up. You’re hopelessly outnumbered.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “We’re not outnumbered at all,” Klaus said. “There are four of us, and only three of you.” “I count triple because I’m the False Spring Queen,” Carmelita said, “so you are outnumbered, cakesniffers.” This, of course, was more utter nonsense from the mouth of this cruel girl, but even if it weren’t nonsense, it does not always matter if one is outnumbered or not. When Violet and Klaus were hiking toward the Valley of Four Drafts, for instance, they were outnumbered by the swarm of snow gnats, but they managed to find Quigley Quagmire, climb up the Vertical Flame Diversion to the headquarters, and find the message hidden in the refrigerator. Sunny had been outnumbered by all of the villains on top of Mount Fraught, and had still managed to survive the experience, discover the location of the last safe place, and concoct a few recipes that were as easy as they were delicious. And the members of V.F.D. have always been outnumbered, because the number of greedy and 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE wicked people always seems to be increasing, while more and more libraries go up in smoke, but the volunteers have managed to endure, a word which here means “meet in secret, communicate in code, and gather crucial evidence to foil the schemes of their enemies.” It does not always matter whether there are more people on your side of the schism than there are on the opposite side, and as the Baudelaires stood with Quigley and took one more step back, they knew what was more important. “Rosebud!” Sunny cried, which meant “In some situations, the location of a certain object can be much more important than being outnumbered,” and it was true. As the villains gasped in astonishment, Violet sat down in the toboggan, grabbing the leather straps. Quigley sat down behind her and put his arms around her waist, and Klaus sat down next, and put his arms around Quigley’s, and there was just enough room in back for a young girl, so Sunny sat behind her brother and hung on tight as A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Violet pushed off from the peak of Mount Fraught and sent the four children hurtling down the slope. It did not matter that they were outnumbered. It only mattered that they could escape from a monstrous end by racing down the last of the slippery slope, just as it only matters for you to escape from a monstrous end by putting down the last of The Slippery Slope, and reading a book in which villains do not roar at children who are trying to escape. “We’ll be right behind you, Baudelaires!” Count Olaf roared, as the toboggan raced toward the Valley of Four Drafts, bumping and splashing against the cracked and melting ice. “He won’t be right behind us,” Violet said. “My shoes punctured his tire, remember?” Quigley nodded. “And he’ll have to take that path,” he said. “A car can’t go down a waterfall.” “We’ll have a head start,” Violet said. “Maybe we can reach the last safe place before he does.” “Overhear!” Sunny cried. “Hotel Denouement!” THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Good work, Sunny!” Violet said proudly, pulling on the leather straps to steer the toboggan away from the large crack. “I knew you’d be a good spy.” “Hotel Denouement,” Quigley said. “I think I have that in one of my maps. I’ll check my commonplace book when we get to the bottom.” “Bruce!” Sunny cried. “That’s another thing to write down in our commonplace books,” Klaus agreed. “That man Bruce was at Dr. Montgomery’s house at the end of our stay. He said he was packing up Monty’s reptile collection for the herpetological society.” “Do you think he’s really a member of V.F.D.?” Violet asked. “We can’t be sure,” Quigley said. “We’ve managed to investigate so many mysteries, and yet there’s still so much we don’t know.” He sighed thoughtfully, and gazed down at the ruins of headquarters rushing toward them. “My siblings—” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS But the Baudelaires never got to hear any more about Quigley’s siblings, because at that moment the toboggan, despite Violet’s efforts with the leather straps, slipped against a melted section of the waterfall, and the large sled began to spin. The children screamed, and Violet grabbed the straps as hard as she could, only to have them break in her hands. “The steering mechanism is broken!” she yelled. “Dragging Esmé Squalor up the slope must have weakened the straps!” “Uh-oh!” Sunny cried, which meant something along the lines of, “That doesn’t sound like good news.” “At this velocity,” Violet said, using a scientific word for speed, “the toboggan won’t stop when we reach the frozen pool. If we don’t slow down, we’ll fall right into the pit we dug.” Klaus was getting dizzy from all the spinning, and closed his eyes behind his glasses. “What can we do?” he asked. THE SLIPPERY SLOPE “Drag your shoes against the ice!” Violet cried. “The forks should slow us down!” Quickly, the two elder Baudelaires stretched out their legs and dragged the forks of their shoes against the last of the ice on the slope. Quigley followed suit, but Sunny, who of course was not wearing fork-assisted climbing shoes, could do nothing but listen to the scraping and splashing of the forks against the thawing ice of the stream as the toboggan slowed ever so slightly. “It’s not enough!” Klaus cried. As the toboggan continued to spin, he caught brief glimpses of the pit they had dug, covered with a thin layer of weakened wood, getting closer and closer as the four children hurtled toward the bottom of the waterfall. “Bicuspid?” Sunny asked, which meant something like “Should I drag my teeth against the ice, too?” “It’s worth a try,” Klaus said, but as soon as the youngest Baudelaire leaned down and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS dragged her teeth along the thawing waterfall, the Baudelaires could see at once that it was not really worth a try at all, as the toboggan kept spinning and racing toward the bottom. “That’s not enough, either,” Violet said, and focused her inventing mind as hard as she could, remembering how she had stopped the caravan, when she and her brother were hurtling away from Count Olaf’s automobile. There was nothing large enough to use as a drag chute, and the eldest Baudelaire found herself wishing that Esmé Squalor were on board with them, so she could stop the toboggan with her enormous, flame-imitating dress. She knew there was no blackstrap molasses, wild clover honey, corn syrup, aged balsamic vinegar, apple butter, strawberry jam, caramel sauce, maple syrup, butterscotch topping, maraschino liqueur, virgin and extra-virgin olive oil, lemon curd, dried apricots, mango chutney, crema di noci, tamarind paste, hot mustard, marshmallows, creamed corn, peanut butter, grape preserves, salt water THE SLIPPERY SLOPE taffy, condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling, or glue on board, or any other sticky substance, for that matter. But then she remembered the small table she had used to drag on the ground, behind the caravan, and she reached into her pocket and knew what she could do. “Hang on!” Violet cried, but she did not hang on herself. Dropping the broken straps of the toboggan, she grabbed the long bread knife and took it out of her pocket at last. It had only been several days, but it felt like a very long time since she had taken the knife from the caravan, and it seemed that every few minutes she had felt its jagged blade in her pocket as she tried to defeat the villains high above her, without becoming a villain herself. But now, at last, there was something she could do with the knife that might save them all, without hurting anyone. Gritting her teeth, Violet leaned out of the spinning toboggan and thrust the knife as hard as she could into the ice of the slippery slope. The tip of the blade hit the crack caused by A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Carmelita’s Springpole, and then the entire knife sank into the slope just as the toboggan reached the bottom. There was a sound the likes of which the Baudelaires had never heard, like a combination of an enormous window shattering and the deep, booming sound of someone firing a cannon. The knife had widened the crack, and in one tremendous crash, the last of the ice fell to pieces and all of the forks, sunlight, teeth, and tobogganing finally took their toll on the waterfall. In one enormous whoosh!, the waters of the Stricken Stream came rushing down the slope, and in a moment the Baudelaires were no longer on a frozen pool at the bottom of a strange curve of ice, but simply at the bottom of a rushing waterfall, with gallons and gallons of water pouring down on them. The orphans had just enough time to take a deep breath before the toboggan was forced underwater. The three siblings hung on tight, but the eldest Baudelaire felt a pair of hands slip from her waist, and when the wooden toboggan THE SLIPPERY SLOPE bobbed to the surface again, she called out the name of her lost friend. “Quigley!” she screamed. “Violet!” The Baudelaires heard the triplet’s voice as the toboggan began to float down one of the tributaries. Klaus pointed, and through the rush of the waterfall the children could see a glimpse of their friend. He had managed to grab onto a piece of wood from the ruins of headquarters, something that looked a bit like a banister, such as one might need to walk up a narrow staircase leading to an astronomical observatory. The rush of the water was dragging the wood, and Quigley, down the opposite tributary of the Stricken Stream. “Quigley!” Violet screamed again. “Violet!” Quigley shouted, over the roar of the water. The siblings could see he had removed his commonplace book from his pocket and was desperately waving it at them. “Wait for me! Wait for me at—” But the Baudelaires heard no more. The A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS Stricken Stream, in its sudden thaw from the arrival of False Spring, whisked the banister and the toboggan away from one another, down the two separate tributaries. The siblings had one last glimpse of the notebook’s dark purple cover before Quigley rushed around one twist in the stream, and the Baudelaires rushed around another, and the triplet was gone from their sight. “Quigley!” Violet called, one more time, and tears sprung in her eyes. “He’s alive,” Klaus said, and held Violet’s shoulder to help her balance on the bobbing toboggan. She could not tell if the middle Baudelaire was crying, too, or if his face was just wet from the waterfall. “He’s alive, and that’s the important thing.” “Intrepid,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “Quigley Quagmire was brave and resourceful enough to survive the fire that destroyed his home, and I’m sure he’ll survive this, too.” Violet could not bear that her friend was 0 THE SLIPPERY SLOPE rushing away from her, so soon after first making his acquaintance. “But we’re supposed to wait for him,” she said, “and we don’t know where.” “Maybe he’s going to try to reach his siblings before the eagles do,” Klaus said, “but we don’t know where they are.” “Hotel Denouement?” Sunny guessed. “V.F.D.?” “Klaus,” Violet said, “you saw some of Quigley’s research. Do you know if these two tributaries ever meet up again?” Klaus shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Quigley’s the cartographer.” “Godot,” Sunny said, which meant “We don’t know where to go, and we don’t know how to get there.” “We know some things,” Klaus said. “We know that someone sent a message to J.S.” “Jacques,” Sunny said. Klaus nodded. “And we know that the message said to meet on Thursday at the last safe place.” A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS “Matahari,” Sunny said, and Klaus smiled, and pulled Sunny toward him so she wouldn’t fall off the floating toboggan. She was no longer a baby, but the youngest Baudelaire was still young enough to sit on her brother’s lap. “Yes,” Klaus agreed. “Thanks to you, we know that the last safe place is the Hotel Denouement.” “But we don’t know where that is,” Violet said. “We don’t know where to find these volunteers, or if indeed there are any more surviving members of V.F.D. We can’t even be certain what V.F.D. stands for, or if our parents are truly dead. Quigley was right. We’ve managed to investigate so many mysteries, and yet there’s still so much we don’t know.” Her siblings nodded sadly, and if I had been there at that moment, instead of arriving far too late to see the Baudelaires, I would have nodded, too. Even for an author like myself, who has dedicated his entire life to investigating the mysteries that surround the Baudelaire case, there is still THE SLIPPERY SLOPE much I have been unable to discover. I do not know, for instance, what happened to the two white-faced women who decided to quit Olaf’s troupe and walk away, all by themselves, down the Mortmain Mountains. There are some who say that they still paint their faces white, and can be seen singing sad songs in some of the gloomiest music halls in the city. There are some who say that they live together in the hinterlands, attempting to grow rhubarb in the dry and barren ground. And there are those who say that they did not survive the trip down from Mount Fraught, and that their bones can be found in one of the many caves in the odd, square peaks. But although I have sat through song after dreary song, and tasted some of the worst rhubarb in my life, and brought bone after bone to a skeleton expert until she told me that I was making her so miserable that I should never return, I have not been able to discover what truly happened to the two women. I do not know where the remains of the caravan are, as I have told you, and as I reach A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS the end of the rhyming dictionary, and read the short list of words that rhyhme with “zucchini,” I am beginning to think I should stop my search for the destroyed vehicle and give up that particular part of my research. And I have not tracked down the refrigerator in which the Baudelaires found the Verbal Fridge Dialogue, despite stories that it is also in one of the Mortmain Mountain caves, or performing in some of the gloomiest music halls in the city. But even though there is much I do not know, there are a few mysteries that I have solved for certain, and one thing I am sure about is where the Baudelaire orphans went next, as the ashen waters of the Stricken Stream hurried their toboggan out of the Mortmain Mountains, just as the sugar bowl was hurried along, after the volunteer tossed it into the stream to save it from the fire. But although I know exactly where the Baudelaires went, and can even trace their path on a map drawn by one of the most promising THE SLIPPERY SLOPE young cartographers of our time, I am not the writer who can describe it best. The writer who can most accurately and elegantly describe the path of the three orphans was an associate of mine who, like the man who wrote “The Road Less Traveled,” is now dead. Before he died, however, he was widely regarded as a very good poet, although some people think his writings about religion were a little too mean-spirited. His name was Algernon Charles Swinburne, and the last quatrain of the eleventh stanza of his poem “The Garden of Proserpine” perfectly describes what the children found as this chapter in their story drew to an end, and the next one began. The first half of the quatrain reads, That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; and indeed, the grown men in the Baudelaires’ lives who were dead, such as Jacques Snicket, A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS or the children’s father, were never going to rise up. And the second half of the quatrain reads, That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. This part is a bit trickier, because some poems are a bit like secret codes, in that you must study them carefully in order to discover their meaning. A poet such as Quigley Quagmire’s sister, Isadora, of course, would know at once what those two lines mean, but it took me quite some time before I decoded them. Eventually, however, it became clear that “the weariest river” refers to the Stricken Stream, which indeed seemed weary from carrying away all of the ashes from the destruction of V.F.D. headquarters, and that “winds somewhere safe to sea” refers to the last safe place where all the volunteers, including Quigley Quagmire, could gather. As Sunny said, she and her siblings did THE SLIPPERY SLOPE not know where to go, and they didn’t know how to get there, but the Baudelaire orphans were winding there anyway, and that is one thing I know for certain. LEMONY SNICKET was presumed to be “presumed dead.” Instead, this “presumed” disproved to not be incorrect. As he continues with his investigation, interest in was born in Ganado, Arizona, grew up in Orem, Utah, and now lives in Brooklyn, New degree in fine arts from and has been illustrating ever since. His work deciphering the evidence provided by Lemony Snicket into pictures often leaves him so distraught that he is awake late into the night. Meredith Heuer © 00 Until recently, presumption wasn’t the Baudelaire case has increased. So has his horror.

The Bell Jar

One It was a QUEER, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. I'm stupid about executions. The idea of being electrocuted makes me sick, and that's all there was to read about in the papers -- goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanutsmelling mouth of every subway. It had nothing to do with me, but I couldn't help wondering what it would be like, being burned alive all along your nerves. I thought it must be the worst thing in the world. New York was bad enough. By nine in the morning the fake, country-wet freshness that somehow seeped in overnight evaporated like the tail end of a sweet dream. Mirage-gray at the bottom of their granite canyons, the hot streets wavered in the sun, the car tops sizzled and glittered, and the dry, cindery dust blew into my eyes and down my throat. I kept hearing about the Rosenbergs over the radio and at the office till I couldn't get them out of my mind. It was like the first time I saw a cadaver. For weeks afterward, the cadaver's head -- or what there was left of it -- floated up behind my eggs and bacon at breakfast and behind the face of Buddy Willard, who was responsible for my seeing it in the first place, and pretty soon I felt as though I were carrying that cadaver's head around with me on a string, like some black, noseless balloon stinking of vinegar. I knew something was wrong with me that summer, because all I could think about was the Rosenbergs and how stupid I'd been to buy all those uncomfortable, expensive clothes, hanging limp as fish in my closet, and how all the little successes I'd totted up so happily at college fizzled to nothing outside the slick marble and plate-glass fronts along Madison Avenue. I was supposed to be having the time of my life. I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping about in those same sizeseven patent leather shoes I'd bought in Bloomingdale's one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocketbook to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on -- drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion -- everybody would think I must be having a real whirl. Look what can happen in this country, they'd say. A girl lives in some out-of-theway town for nineteen years, so poor she can't afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York like her own private car. Only I wasn't steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel and back to work like a numb trolleybus. I guess I should have been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn't get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo. There were twelve of us at the hotel. We had all won a fashion magazine contest, by writing essays and stories and poems and fashion blurbs, and as prizes they gave us jobs in New York for a month, expenses paid, and piles and piles of free bonuses, like ballet tickets and passes to fashion shows and hair stylings at a famous expensive salon and chances to meet successful people in the field of our desire and advice about what to do with our particular complexions. I still have the make-up kit they gave me, fitted out for a person with brown eyes and brown hair: an oblong of brown mascara with a tiny brush, and a round basin of blue eyeshadow just big enough to dab the tip of your finger in, and three lipsticks ranging from red to pink, all cased in the same little gilt box with a mirror on one side. I also have a white plastic sunglasses case with colored shells and sequins and a green plastic starfish sewed onto it. I realized we kept piling up these presents because it was as good as free advertising for the firms involved, but I couldn't be cynical. I got such a kick out of all those free gifts showering on to us. For a long time afterward I hid them away, but later, when I was all right again, I brought them out, and I still have them around the house. I use the lipsticks now and then, and last week I cut the plastic starfish off the sunglasses case for the baby to play with. So there were twelve of us at the hotel, in the same wing on the same floor in single rooms, one after the other, and it reminded me of my dormitory at college. It wasn't a proper hotel -- I mean a hotel where there are both men and women mixed about here and there on the same floor. This hotel -- the Amazon -- was for women only, and they were mostly girls my age with wealthy parents who wanted to be sure their daughters would be living where men couldn't get at them and deceive them; and they were all going to posh secretarial schools like Katy Gibbs, where they had to wear hats and stockings and gloves to class, or they had just graduated from places like Katy Gibbs and were secretaries to executives and simply hanging around in New York waiting to get married to some career man or other. These girls looked awfully bored to me. I saw them on the sunroof, yawning and painting their nails and trying to keep up their Bermuda tans, and they seemed bored as hell. I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in airplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil. Girls like that make me sick. I'm so jealous I can't speak. Nineteen years, and I hadn't been out of New England except for this trip to New York. It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water. I guess one of my troubles was Doreen. I'd never known a girl like Doreen before. Doreen came from a society girls' college down South and had bright white hair standing out in a cotton candy fluff round her head and blue eyes like transparent agate marbles, hard and polished and just about indestructible, and a mouth set in a sort of perpetual sneer. I don't mean a nasty sneer, but an amused, mysterious sneer, as if all the people around her were pretty silly and she could tell some good jokes on them if she wanted to. Doreen singled me out right away. She made me feel I was that much sharper than the others, and she really was wonderfully funny. She used to sit next to me at the conference table, and when the visiting celebrities were talking she'd whisper witty sarcastic remarks to me under her breath. Her college was so fashion conscious, she said, that all the girls had pocketbook covers made out of the same material as their dresses, so each time they changed their clothes they had a matching pocketbook. This kind of detail impressed me. It suggested a whole life of marvelous, elaborate decadence that attracted me like a magnet. The only thing Doreen ever bawled me out about was bothering to get my assignments in by a deadline. 'What are you sweating over that for?' Doreen lounged on my bed in a peach silk dressing gown, filing her long, nicotine-yellow nails with an emery board, while I typed up the draft of an interview with a best-selling novelist. That was another thing -- the rest of us had starched cotton summer nighties and quilted housecoats, or maybe terrycloth robes that doubled as beachcoats, but Doreen wore these full-length nylon and lace jobs you could half see through, and dressing gowns the color of skin, that stuck to her by some kind of electricity. She had an interesting, slightly sweaty smell that reminded me of those scallopy leaves of sweet fern you break off and crush between your fingers for the musk of them. 'You know old Jay Cee won't give a damn if that story's in tomorrow or Monday.' Doreen lit a cigarette and let the smoke flare slowly from her nostrils so her eyes were veiled. 'Jay Cee's ugly as sin,' Doreen went on coolly. 'I bet that old husband of hers turns out all the lights before he gets near her or he'd puke otherwise.' Jay Cee was my boss, and I liked her a lot, in spite of what Doreen said. She wasn't one of the fashion magazine gushers with fake eyelashes and giddy jewelry. Jay Cee had brains, so her plug-ugly looks didn't seem to matter. She read a couple of languages and knew all the quality writers in the business. I tried to imagine Jay Cee out of her strict office suit and luncheon-duty hat and in bed with her fat husband, but I just couldn't do it. I always had a terribly hard time trying to imagine people in bed together. Jay Cee wanted to teach me something, all the old ladies I ever knew wanted to teach me something, but I suddenly didn't think they had anything to teach me. I fitted the lid on my typewriter and clicked it shut. Doreen grinned. 'Smart girl.' Somebody tapped at the door. 'Who is it?' I didn't bother to get up. 'It's me, Betsy. Are you coming to the party?' 'I guess so.' I still didn't go to the door. They imported Betsy straight from Kansas with her bouncing blonde ponytail and Sweetheart-of-Sigma-Chi smile. I remember once the two of us were called over to the office of some blue-chinned TV producer in a pin-stripe suit to see if we had any angles he could build up for a program, and Betsy started to tell about the male and female corn in Kansas. She got so excited about that damn corn even the producer had tears in his eyes, only he couldn't use any of it, unfortunately, he said. Later on, the Beauty Editor persuaded Betsy to cut her hair and made a cover girl out of her, and I still see her fare now and then, smiling out of those 'P.Q.'s wife wears B.H. Wragge' ads. Betsy was always asking me to do things with her and the other girls as if she were trying to save me in some way. She never asked Doreen. In private, Doreen called her Pollyanna Cowgirl. 'Do you want to come in our cab?' Betsy said through the door. Doreen shook her head. 'That's all right, Betsy,' I said. 'I'm going with Doreen.' 'Okay.' I could hear Betsy padding off down the hall. 'We'll just go till we get sick of it,' Doreen told me, stubbing out her cigarette in the base of my bedside reading lamp, 'then we'll go out on the town. Those parties they stage here remind me of the old dances in the school gym. Why do they always round up Yalies? They're so stoo-pit!' Buddy Willard went to Yale, but now I thought of it, what was wrong with him was that he was stupid. Oh, he'd managed to get good marks all right, and to have an affair with some awful waitress on the Cape by the name of Gladys, but he didn't have one speck of intuition. Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones. We were stuck in the theater-hour rush. Our cab sat wedged in back of Betsy's cab and in front of a cab with four of the other girls, and nothing moved. Doreen looked terrific. She was wearing a strapless white lace dress zipped up over a snug corset affair that curved her in at the middle and bulged her out again spectacularly above and below, and her skin had a bronzy polish under the pale dusting powder. She smelled strong as a whole perfume store. I wore a black shantung sheath that cost me forty dollars. It was part of a buying spree I had with some of my scholarship money when I heard I was one of the lucky ones going to New York. This dress was cut so queerly I couldn't wear any sort of a bra under it, but that didn't matter much as I was skinny as a boy and barely rippled, and I liked feeling almost naked on the hot summer nights. The city had faded my tan, though. I looked yellow as a Chinaman. Ordinarily, I would have been nervous about my dress and my odd color, but being with Doreen made me forget my worries. I felt wise and cynical as all hell. When the man in the blue lumber shirt and black chinos and tooled leather cowboy boots started to stroll over to us from under the striped awning of the bar where he'd been eyeing our cab, I couldn't have any illusions. I knew perfectly well he'd come for Doreen. He threaded his way out between the stopped cars and leaned engagingly on the sill of our open window. 'And what, may I ask, are two nice girls like you doing all alone in a cab on a nice night like this?' He had a big, wide, white toothpaste-ad smile. 'We're on our way to a party,' I blurted, since Doreen had gone suddenly dumb as a post and was fiddling in a blasé way with her white lace pocketbook cover. 'That sounds boring,' the man said. 'Whyn't you both join me for a couple of drinks in that bar over there? I've some friends waiting as well.' He nodded in the direction of several informally dressed men slouching around under the awning. They had been following him with their eyes, and when he glanced back at them, they burst out laughing. The laughter should have warned me. It was a kind of low, know-it-all snicker, but the traffic showed signs of moving again, and I knew that if I sat tight, in two seconds I'd be wishing I'd taken this gift of a chance to see something of New York besides what the people on the magazine had planned out for us so carefully. 'How about it, Doreen?' I said. 'How about it, Doreen?' the man said, smiling his big smile. To this day I can't remember what he looked like when he wasn't smiling. I think he must have been smiling the whole time. It must have been natural for him, smiling like that. 'Well, all right,' Doreen said to me. I opened the door, and we stepped out of the cab just as it was edging ahead again and started to walk over to the bar. There was a terrible shriek of brakes followed by a dull thump-thump. 'Hey you!' Our cabby was craning out of his window with a furious, purple expression. 'Waddaya think you're doin'?' He had stopped the cab so abruptly that the cab behind bumped smack into him, and we could see the four girls inside waving and struggling and scrambling up off the floor. The man laughed and left us on the curb and went back and handed a bill to the driver in the middle of a great honking and some yelling, and then we saw the girls from the magazine moving off in a row, one cab after another, like a wedding party with nothing but bridesmaids. 'Come on, Frankie,' the man said to one of his friends in the group, and a short, scrunty fellow detached himself and came into the bar with us. He was the type of fellow I can't stand. I'm five feet ten in my stocking feet, and when I am with little men I stoop over a bit and slouch my hips, one up and one down, so I'll look shorter, and I feel gawky and morbid as somebody in a sideshow. For a minute I had a wild hope we might pair off according to size, which would line me up with the man who had spoken to us in the first place, and he cleared a good six feet, but he went ahead with Doreen and didn't give me a second look. I tried to pretend I didn't see Frankie dogging along at my elbow and sat close by Doreen at the table. It was so dark in the bar I could hardly make out anything except Doreen. With her white hair and white dress she was so white she looked silver. I think she must have reflected the neons over the bar. I felt myself melting into the shadows like the negative of a person I'd never seen before in my life. 'Well, what'll we have?' the man asked with a large smile. 'I think I'll have an old-fashioned,' Doreen said to me. Ordering drinks always floored me. I didn't know whisky from gin and never managed to get anything I really liked the taste of. Buddy Willard and the other college boys I knew were usually too poor to buy hard liquor or they scorned drinking altogether. It's amazing how many college boys don't drink or smoke. I seemed to know them all. The farthest Buddy Willard ever went was buying us a bottle of Dubonnet, which he only did because he was trying to prove he could be aesthetic in spite of being a medical student. 'I'll have a vodka,' I said. The man looked at me more closely. 'With anything?' 'Just plain,' I said. 'I always have it plain.' I thought I might make a fool of myself by saying I'd have it with ice or gin or anything. I'd seen a vodka ad once, just a glass full of vodka standing in the middle of a snowdrift in a blue light, and the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka plain must be all right. My dream was someday ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful. The waiter came up then, and the man ordered drinks for the four of us. He looked so at home in that citified bar in his ranch outfit I thought he might well be somebody famous. Doreen wasn't saying a word, she only toyed with her cork placemat and eventually lit a cigarette, but the man didn't seem to mind. He kept staring at her the way people stare at the great white macaw in the zoo, waiting for it to say something human. The drinks arrived, and mine looked clear and pure, just like the vodka ad. 'What do you do?' I asked the man, to break the silence shooting up around me on all sides, thick as jungle grass. 'I mean what do you do here in New York?' Slowly and with what seemed a great effort, the man dragged his eyes away from Doreen's shoulder. 'I'm a disc jockey,' he said. 'You prob'ly must have heard of me. The name's Lenny Shepherd.' 'I know you,' Doreen said suddenly. 'I'm glad about that, honey,' the man said, and burst out laughing. 'That'll come in handy. I'm famous as hell.' Then Lenny Shepherd gave Frankie a long look. 'Say, where do you come from?' Frankie asked, sitting up with a jerk. 'What's your name?' 'This here's Doreen.' Lenny slid his hand around Doreen's bare arm and gave her a squeeze. What surprised me was that Doreen didn't let on she noticed what he was doing. She just sat there, dusky as a bleached-blonde Negress in her white dress, and sipped daintily at her drink. 'My name's Elly Higginbottom,' I said. 'I come from Chicago.' After that I felt safer. I didn't want anything I said or did that night to be associated with me and my real name and coming from Boston. 'Well, Elly, what do you say we dance some?' The thought of dancing with that little runt in his orange suede elevator shoes and mingy T-shirt and droopy blue sports coat made me laugh. If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit. Black or gray, or brown, even. Blue makes me laugh. 'I'm not in the mood,' I said coldly, turning my back on him and hitching my chair over nearer to Doreen and Lenny. Those two looked as if they'd known each other for years by now. Doreen was spooning up the hunks of fruit at the bottom of her glass with a spindly silver spoon, and Lenny was grunting each time she lifted the spoon to her mouth, and snapping and pretending to be a dog or something, and trying to get the fruit off the spoon. Doreen giggled and kept spooning up the fruit. I began to think vodka was my drink at last. It didn't taste like anything, but it went straight down into my stomach like a sword swallower's sword and made me feel powerful and godlike. 'I better go now,' Frankie said, standing up. I couldn't see him very clearly, the place was so dim, but for the first time I heard what a high, silly voice he had. Nobody paid him any notice. 'Hey, Lenny, you owe me something. Remember, Lenny, you owe me something, don't you, Lenny?' I thought it odd Frankie should be reminding Lenny he owed him something in front of us, and we being perfect strangers, but Frankie stood there saying the same thing over and over until Lenny dug into his pocket and pulled out a big roll of green bills and peeled one off and handed it to Frankie. I think it was ten dollars. 'Shut up and scram.' For a minute I thought Lenny was talking to me as well, but then I heard Doreen say, 'I won't come unless Elly comes.' I had to hand it to her the way she picked up my fake name. 'Oh, Elly'll come, won't you, Elly?' Lenny said, giving me a wink. 'Sure I'll come,' I said. Frankie had wilted away into the night, so I thought I'd string along with Doreen. I wanted to see as much as I could. I liked looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there was a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I'd stop and look so hard I never forgot it. I certainly learned a lot of things I never would have learned otherwise this way, and even when they surprised me or made me sick I never let on, but pretended that's the way I knew things were all the time. Two I wouldn't have missed Lenny's place for anything. It was built exactly like the inside of a ranch, only in the middle of a New York apartment house. He'd had a few partitions knocked down to make the place broaden out, he said, and then had them pine-panel the walls and fit up a special pine-paneled bar in the shape of a horseshoe. I think the floor was pine-paneled, too. Great white bearskins lay about underfoot, and the only furniture was a lot of low beds covered with Indian rugs. Instead of pictures hung up on the walls, he had antlers and buffalo horns and a stuffed rabbit head. Lenny jutted a thumb at the meek little gray muzzle and stiff jackrabbit ears. 'Ran over that in Las Vegas.' He walked away across the room, his cowboy boots echoing like pistol shots. 'Acoustics,' he said, and grew smaller and smaller until he vanished through a door in the distance. All at once music started to come out of the air on every side. Then it stopped, and we heard Lenny's voice say 'This is your twelve o'clock disc jock, Lenny Shepherd, with a roundup of the tops in pops. Number Ten in the wagon train this week is none other than that little yaller-haired gal you been hearin' so much about lately. . . the one an' only Sunflower!' I was born in Kansas, I was bred in Kansas, And when I marry I'll be wed in Kansas. . . 'What a card!' Doreen said 'Isn't he a card?' 'You bet,' I said. 'Listen, Elly, do me a favor.' She seemed to think Elly was who I really was by now. 'Sure,' I said. 'Stick around, will you? I wouldn't have a chance if he tried anything funny. Did you see that muscle?' Doreen giggled. Lenny popped out of the back room. 'I got twenty grand's worth of recording equipment in there.' He ambled over to the bar and set out three glasses and a silver ice bucket and a big pitcher and began to mix drinks from several different bottles. . . .to a true-blue gal who promised she would wait -- She's the sunflower of the Sunflower State. 'Terrific, huh?' Lenny came over, balancing three glasses. Big drops stood out on them like sweat, and the ice cubes jingled as he passed them around. Then the music twanged to a stop, and we heard Lenny's voice announcing the next number. 'Nothing like listening to yourself talk. Say,' Lenny's eye lingered on me, 'Frankie vamoosed, you ought to have somebody, I'll call up one of the fellers.' 'That's okay,' I said. 'You don't have to do that.' I didn't want to come straight out and ask for somebody several sizes larger than Frankie. Lenny looked relieved. 'Just so's you don't mind. I wouldn't want to do wrong by a friend of Doreen's.' He gave Doreen a big white smile. 'Would I, honeybun?' He held out a hand to Doreen, and without a word they both started to jitterbug, still hanging onto their glasses. I sat cross-legged on one of the beds and tried to look devout and impassive like some businessmen I once saw watching an Algerian belly dancer, but as soon as I leaned back against the wall under the stuffed rabbit, the bed started to roll out into the room, so I sat down on a bearskin on the floor and leaned back against the bed instead. My drink was wet and depressing. Each time I took another sip it tasted more and mere like dead water. Around the middle of the glass there was painted a pink lasso with yellow polka dots. I drank to about an inch below the lasso and waited a bit, and when I went to take another sip, the drink was up to lasso-level again. Out of the air Lenny's voice boomed, 'Wye oh wye did I ever leave Wyoming?' The two of them didn't even stop jitterbugging during the intervals. I felt myself shrinking to a small black dot against all those red and white rugs and that pine paneling. I felt like a hole in the ground. There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It's like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction -- every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and that excitement at about a million miles an hour. Every so often Lenny and Doreen would bang into each other and kiss and then swing to take a long drink and close in on each other again. I thought I might just lie down on the bearskin and go to sleep until Doreen felt ready to go back to the hotel. Then Lenny gave a terrible roar. I sat up. Doreen was hanging on to Lenny's left ear lobe with her teeth. 'Leggo, you bitch!' Lenny stooped, and Doreen went flying up on to his shoulder, and her glass sailed out of her hand in a long, wide arc and fetched up against the pine paneling with a silly tinkle. Lenny was still roaring and whirling round so fast I couldn't see Doreen's face. I noted, in the routine way you notice the color of somebody's eyes, that Doreen's breasts had popped out of her dress and were swinging out slightly like full brown melons as she circled belly-down on Lenny's shoulder, thrashing her legs in the air and screeching, and then they both started to laugh and slow up, and Lenny was trying to bite Doreen's hip through her skirt when I let myself out the door before anything more could happen and managed to get downstairs by leaning with both hands on the banister and half sliding the whole way. I didn't realize Lenny's place had been air-conditioned until I wavered out onto the pavement. The tropical, stale heat the sidewalks had been sucking up all day hit me in the face like a last insult. I didn't know where in the world I was. For a minute I entertained the idea of taking a cab to the party after all, but decided against it because the dance might be over by now, and I didn't feel like ending up in an empty barn of a ballroom strewn with confetti and cigarette butts and crumpled cocktail napkins. I walked carefully to the nearest street corner, brushing the wall of the buildings on my left with the tip of one finger to steady myself. I looked at the street sign. Then I took my New York street map out of my pocketbook. I was exactly forty-three blocks by five blocks away from my hotel Walking has never fazed me. I just set out in the right direction, counting the blocks under my breath, and when I walked into the lobby of the hotel I was perfectly sober and my feet only slightly swollen, but that was my own fault because I hadn't bothered to wear any stockings. The lobby was empty except for a night clerk dozing in his lit booth among the key rings and the silent telephones. I slid into the self-service elevator and pushed the button for my floor. The doors folded shut like a noiseless accordion. Then my ears went funny, and I noticed a big, smudgy-eyed Chinese woman staring idiotically into my face. It was only me, of course. I was appalled to see how wrinkled and used up I looked. There wasn't a soul in the hall. I let myself into my room. It was full of smoke. At first I thought the smoke had materialized out of thin air as a sort of judgment, but then I remembered it was Doreen's smoke and pushed the button that opened the window vent. They had the windows fixed so you couldn't really open them and lean out, and for some reason this made me furious. By standing at the left side of the window and laying my cheek to the woodwork, I could see downtown to where the UN balanced itself in the dark, like a weird green Martian honeycomb. I could see the moving red and white lights along the drive and the lights of the bridges whose names I didn't know. The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence. I knew perfectly well the cars were making noise, and the people in them and behind the lit windows of the buildings were making a noise, and the river was making a nowise, but I couldn't hear a thing. The city hung in my window, flat as a poster, glittering and blinking, but it might just as well not have been there at all, for all the good it did me. The china-white bedside telephone could have connected me up with things, but there it sat, dumb as a death's head. I tried to think of people I'd given my phone number to, so I could make a list of all the possible calls I might be about to receive, but all I could think of was that I'd given my phone number to Buddy Willard's mother so she could give it to a simultaneous interpreter she knew at the UN. I let out a small, dry laugh. I could imagine the sort of simultaneous interpreter Mrs. Willard would introduce me to when all the time she wanted me to marry Buddy, who was taking the cure for TB somewhere in upper New York State. Buddy's mother had even arranged for me to be given a job as a waitress at the TB sanatorium that summer so Buddy wouldn't be lonely. She and Buddy couldn't understand why I chose to go to New York City instead. The mirror over my bureau seemed slightly warped and much too silver. The face in it looked like the reflection in a ball of dentist's mercury. I thought of crawling in between the bed sheets and trying to sleep, but that appealed to me about as much as stuffing a dirty, scrawled-over letter into a fresh, clean envelope. I decided to take a hot bath. There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: 'I'll go take a hot bath.' I meditate in the bath. The water needs to be very hot, so hot you can barely stand putting your foot in it. Then you lower yourself, inch by inch, till the water's up to your neck. I remember the ceiling over every bathtub I've stretched out in. I remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colors and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs, too: the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the modern coffinshaped tubs, and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and I remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different sorts of soap holders. I never feel so much myself as when I'm in a hot bath. I lay in that tub on the seventeenth floor of this hotel for-women-only, high up over the jazz and push of New York, for near onto an hour, and I felt myself growing pure again. I don't believe in baptism or the waters of Jordan or anything like that, but I guess I feel about a hot bath the way those religious people feel about holy water. I said to myself: 'Doreen is dissolving, Lenny Shepherd is dissolving, Frankie is dissolving, New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter any more. I don't know them, I have never known them and I am very pure. All that liquor and those sticky kisses I saw and the dirt that settled on my skin on the way back is turning into something pure.' The longer I lay there in the clear hot water the purer I felt, and when I stepped out at last and wrapped myself in one of the big, soft white hotel bath towels I felt pure and sweet as a new baby. I don't know how long I had been asleep when I heard the knocking. I didn't pay any attention at first, because the person knocking kept saying, 'Elly, Elly, Elly, let me in,' and I didn't know any Elly. Then another kind of knock sounded over the first dull, bumping knock-a sharp tap-tap, and another, much crisper voice said, 'Miss Greenwood, your friend wants you,' and I knew it was Doreen. I swung to my feet and balanced dizzily for a minute in the middle of the dark room. I felt angry with Doreen for waking me up. All I stood a chance of getting out of that sad night was a good sleep, and she had to wake me up and spoil it. I thought if I pretended to be asleep the knocking might go away and leave me in peace, but I waited, and it didn't. 'Elly, Elly, Elly,' the first voice mumbled, while the other voice went on hissing, 'Miss Greenwood, Miss Greenwood, Miss Greenwood,' as if I had a split personality or something. I opened the door and blinked out into the bright hall. I had the impression it wasn't night and it wasn't day, but some lurid third interval that had suddenly slipped between them and would never end. Doreen was slumped against the doorjamb. When I came out, she toppled into my arms. I couldn't see her face because her head was hanging down on her chest and her stiff blonde hair fell down from its dark roots like a hula fringe. I recognized the short, squat, mustached woman in the black uniform as the night maid who ironed day dresses and party frocks in a crowded cubicle on our floor. I couldn't understand how she came to know Doreen or why she should want to help Doreen wake me up instead of leading her quietly back to her own room. Seeing Doreen supported in my arms and silent except for a few wet hiccups, the woman strode away down the hall to her cubicle with its ancient Singer sewing machine and white ironing board. I wanted to run after her and tell her I had nothing to do with Doreen, because she looked stern and hardworking and moral as an old-style European immigrant and reminded me of my Austrian grandmother. 'Lemme lie down, lemme lie down,' Doreen was muttering. 'Lemme lie down, lemme lie down.' I felt if I carried Doreen across the threshold into my room and helped her onto my bed I would never get rid of her again. Her body was warm and soft as a pile of pillows against my arm where she leaned her weight, and her feet, in their high, spiked heels, dragged foolishly. She was much too heavy for me to budge down the long hall. I decided the only thing to do was to dump her on the carpet and shut and lock my door and go back to bed. When Doreen woke up she wouldn't remember what had happened and would think she must have passed out in front of my door while I slept, and she would get up of her own accord and go sensibly back to her room. I started to lower Doreen gently onto the green hall carpet, but she gave a low moan and pitched forward out of my arms. A jet of brown vomit flew from her mouth and spread in a large puddle at my feet. Suddenly Doreen grew even heavier. Her head drooped forward into the puddle, the wisps of her blonde hair dabbling in it like tree roots in a bog, and I realized she was asleep. I drew back. I felt half-asleep myself. I made a decision about Doreen that night. I decided I would watch her and listen to what she said, but deep down I would have nothing at all to do with her. Deep down, I would be loyal to Betsy and her innocent friends. It was Betsy I resembled at heart. Quietly, I stepped back into my room and shut the door. On second thought, I didn't lock it. I couldn't quite bring myself to do that. When I woke up in the dull, sunless heat the next morning, I dressed and splashed my face with cold water and put on some lipstick and opened the door slowly. I think I still expected to see Doreen's body lying there in the pool of vomit like an ugly, concrete testimony to my own dirty nature. There was nobody in the hall. The carpet stretched from one end of the hall to the other, clean and eternally verdant except for a faint, irregular dark stain before my door as if somebody had by accident spilled a glass of water there, but dabbed it dry again. Three ARRAYED ON THE Ladies Day banquet table were yellow-green avocado pear halves stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise, and platters of rare roast beef and cold chicken, and every so often a cut-glass bowl heaped with black caviar. I hadn't had time to eat any breakfast at the hotel cafeteria that morning, except for a cup of overstewed coffee so bitter it made my nose curl, and I was starving. Before I came to New York I'd never eaten out in a proper restaurant. I don't count Howard Johnson's, where I only had french fries and cheeseburgers and vanilla frappes with people like Buddy Willard. I'm not sure why it is, but I love food more than just about anything else. No matter how much I eat, I never put on weight. With one exception I've been the same weight for ten years. My favorite dishes are full of butter and cheese and sour cream. In New York we had so many free luncheons with people on the magazine and various visiting celebrities I developed the habit of running my eye down those huge handwritten menus, where a tiny side dish of peas cost fifty or sixty cents, until I'd picked the richest, most expensive dishes and ordered a string of them. We were always taken out on expense accounts, so I never felt guilty. I made a point of eating so fast I never kept the other people waiting who generally ordered only chef's salad and grapefruit juice because they were trying to reduce. Almost everybody I met in New York was trying to reduce. 'I want to welcome the prettiest, smartest bunch of young ladies our staff has yet had the good luck to meet,' the plump, bald master-of-ceremonies wheezed into his lapel microphone. 'This banquet is just a small sample of the hospitality our Food Testing Kitchens here on Ladies' Day would like to offer in appreciation for your visit.' A delicate, ladylike spatter of applause, and we all sat at the enormous linendraped table. There were eleven of us girls from the magazine, together with most of our supervising editors, and the whole staff of the Ladies' Day Food Testing Kitchens in hygienic white smocks, neat hairnets and flawless makeup of a uniform peach-pie color. There were only eleven of us, because Doreen was missing. They had set her place next to mine for some reason, and the chair stayed empty. I saved her placecard for her -- a pocket mirror with 'Doreen' painted along the top of it in lacy script and a wreath of frosted daisies around the edge, framing the silver hole where her face would show. Doreen was spending the day with Lenny Shepherd. She spent most of her free time with Lenny Shepherd now. In the hour before our luncheon at Ladies' Day -- the big women's magazine that features lush double-page spreads of Technicolor meals, with a different theme and locale each month -- we had been shown around the endless glossy kitchens and seen how difficult it is to photograph apple pie a la mode under bright lights because the ice cream keeps melting and has to be propped up from behind with toothpicks and changed every time it starts looking too soppy. The sight of all the food stacked in those kitchens made me dizzy. It's not that we hadn't enough to eat at home, it's just that my grandmother always cooked economy joints and economy meat loafs and had the habit of saying, the minute you lifted the first forkful to your mouth, 'I hope you enjoy that, it cost forty-one cents a pound,' which always made me feel I was somehow eating pennies instead of Sunday roast. While we were standing up behind our chairs listening to the welcome speech, I had bowed my head and secretly eyed the position of the bowls of caviar. One bowl was set strategically between me and Doreen's empty chair. I figured the girl across from me couldn't reach it because of the mountainous centerpiece of marzipan fruit, and Betsy, on my right, would be too nice to ask me to share it with her if I just kept it out of the way at my elbow by my bread-and-butter plate. Besides, another bowl of caviar sat a little way to the right of the girl next to Betsy, and she could eat that. My grandfather and I had a standing joke. He was the head waiter at a country club near my home town, and every Sunday my grandmother drove in to bring him home for his Monday off. My brother and I alternated going with her, and my grandfather always served Sunday supper to my grandmother and whichever of us was along as if we were regular club guests. He loved introducing me to special tidbits, and by the age of nine I had developed a passionate taste for cold vichyssoise and caviar and anchovy paste. The joke was that at my wedding my grandfather would see I had all the caviar I could eat. It was a joke because I never intended to get married, and even if I did, my grandfather couldn't have afforded enough caviar unless he robbed the country club kitchen and carried it off in a suitcase. Under cover of the clinking of water goblets and silverware and bone china, I paved my plate with chicken slices. Then I covered the chicken slices with caviar thickly as if I were spreading peanut butter on a piece of bread. Then I picked up the chicken slices in my fingers one by one, rolled them so the caviar wouldn't ooze off and ate them. I'd discovered, after a lot of extreme apprehension about what spoons to use, that if you do something incorrect at table with a certain arrogance, as if you knew perfectly well you were doing it properly, you can get away with it and nobody will think you are bad-mannered or poorly brought up. They will think you are original and very witty. I learned this trick the day Jay Cee took me to lunch with a famous poet. He wore a horrible, lumpy, speckled brown tweed jacket and gray pants and a red-and-blue checked open-throated jersey in a very formal restaurant full of fountains and chandeliers, where all the other men were dressed in dark suits and immaculate white shirts. This poet ate his salad with his fingers, leaf by leaf, while talking to me about the antithesis of nature and art. I couldn't take my eyes off the pale, stubby white fingers traveling back and forth from the poet's salad bowl to the poet's mouth with one dripping lettuce leaf after another. Nobody giggled or whispered rude remarks. The poet made eating salad with your fingers seem to be the only natural and sensible thing to do. None of our magazine editors or the Ladies' Day staff members sat anywhere near me, and Betsy seemed sweet and friendly, she didn't even seem to like caviar, so I grew more and more confident. When I finished my first plate of cold chicken and caviar, I laid out another. Then I tackled the avocado and crabmeat salad. Avocados are my favorite fruit. Every Sunday my grandfather used to bring me an avocado pear hidden at the bottom of his briefcase under six soiled shirts and the Sunday comics. He taught me how to eat avocados by melting grape jelly and french dressing together in a saucepan and filling the cup of the pear with the garnet sauce. I felt homesick for that sauce. The crabmeat tasted bland in comparison. 'How was the fur show?' I asked Betsy, when I was no longer worried about competition over my caviar. I scraped the last few salty black eggs from the dish with my soup spoon and licked it clean. 'It was wonderful,' Betsy smiled. 'They showed us how to make an all-purpose neckerchief out of mink tails and a gold chain, the sort of chain you can get an exact copy of at Woolworth's for a dollar ninety-eight, and Hilda nipped down to the wholesale fur warehouses right afterward and bought a bunch of mink tails at a big discount and dropped in at Woolworth's and then stitched the whole thing together coming up on the bus.' I peered over at Hilda, who sat on the other side of Betsy. Sure enough, she was wearing an expensive-looking scarf of furry tails fastened on one side by a dangling gilt chain. I never really understood Hilda. She was six feet tall, with huge, slanted green eyes and thick red lips and a vacant, Slavic expression. She made hats. She was apprenticed to the Fashion Editor, which set her apart from the more literary ones among us like Doreen and Betsy and I myself, who all wrote columns, even if some of them were only about health and beauty. I don't know if Hilda could read, but she made startling hats. She went to a special school for making hats in New York and every day she wore a new hat to work, constructed by her own hands out of bits of straw or fur or ribbon or veiling in subtle shades. 'That's amazing,' I said. 'Amazing.' I missed Doreen. She would have murmured some fine, scalding remark about Hilda's miraculous furpiece to cheer me up. I felt very low. I had been unmasked only that morning by Jay Cee herself, and I felt now that all the uncomfortable suspicions I had about myself were coming true, and I couldn't hide the truth much longer. After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race. 'Why didn't you come along to the fur show with us?' Betsy asked. I had the impression she was repeating herself, and that she'd asked me the same question a minute ago, only I couldn't have been listening. 'Did you go off with Doreen?' 'No,' I said, 'I wanted to go to the fur show, but Jay Cee called up and made me come into the office.' That wasn't quite true about wanting to go to the show, but I tried to convince myself now that it was true, so I could be really wounded about what Jay Cee had done. I told Betsy how I had been lying in bed that morning planning to go to the fur show. What I didn't tell her was that Doreen had come into my room earlier and said, 'What do you want to go to that assy show for, Lenny and I are going to Coney Island, so why don't you come along? Lenny can get you a nice fellow, the day's shot to hell anyhow with that luncheon and then the film première in the afternoon, so nobody'll miss us.' For a minute I was tempted. The show certainly did seem stupid. I have never cared for furs. What I decided to do in the end was lie in bed as long as I wanted to and then go to Central Park and spend the day lying in the grass, the longest grass I could find in that bald, duck-ponded wilderness. I told Doreen I would not go to the show or the luncheon or the film première, but that I would not go to Coney Island either, I would stay in bed. After Doreen left, I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way Doreen did, and this made me even sadder and more tired. I didn't know what time it was, but I'd heard the girls bustling and calling in the hall and getting ready for the fur show, and then I'd heard the hall go still, and as I lay on my back in bed staring up at the blank, white ceiling the stillness seemed to grow bigger and bigger until I felt my eardrums would burst with it. Then the phone rang. I stared at the phone for a minute. The receiver shook a bit in its bone-colored cradle, so I could tell it was really ringing. I thought I might have given my phone number to somebody at a dance or a party and then forgotten about it. I lifted the receiver and spoke in a husky, receptive voice. 'Hello?' 'Jay Cee here,' Jay Cee rapped out with brutal promptitude. 'I wondered if you happened to be planning to come into the office today?' I sank down into the sheets. I couldn't understand why Jay Cee thought I'd be coming into the office. We had these mimeographed schedule cards so we could keep track of all our activities, and we spent a lot of mornings and afternoons away from the office going to affairs in town. Of course, some of the affairs were optional. There was quite a pause. Then I said meekly, 'I thought I was going to the fur show.' Of course I hadn't thought any such thing, but I couldn't figure out what else to say. 'I told her I thought I was going to the fur show,' I said to Betsy. 'But she told me to come into the office, she wanted to have a little talk with me, and there was some work to do.' 'Oh-oh!' Betsy said sympathetically. She must have seen the tears that plopped down into my dessert dish of meringue and brandy ice cream, because she pushed over her own untouched dessert and I started absently on that when I'd finished my own. I felt a bit awkward about the tears, but they were real enough. Jay Cee had said some terrible things to me. When I made my wan entrance into the office at about ten o'clock, Jay Cee stood up and came round her desk to shut the door, and I sat in the swivel chair in front of my typewriter table facing her, and she sat in the swivel chair behind her desk facing me, with the window full of potted plants, shelf after shelf of them, springing up at her back like a tropical garden. 'Doesn't your work interest you, Esther?' 'Oh, it does, it does,' I said. 'It interests me very much.' I felt like yelling the words, as if that might make them more convincing, but I controlled myself. All my life I'd told myself studying and reading and writing and working like mad was what I wanted to do, and it actually seemed to be true, I did everything well enough and got all A's, and by the time I made it to college nobody could stop me. I was college correspondent for the town Gazette and editor of the literary magazine and secretary of Honor Board, which deals with academic and social offenses and punishments -- a popular office -- and I had a well-known woman poet and professor on the faculty championing me for graduate school at the biggest universities in the east, and promises of full scholarships all the way, and now I was apprenticed to the best editor on an intellectual fashion magazine, and what did I do but balk and balk like a dull cart horse? 'I'm very interested in everything.' The words fell with a hollow flatness on to Jay Cee's desk, like so many wooden nickels. 'I'm glad of that,' Jay Cee said a bit waspishly. 'You can learn a lot in this month on the magazine, you know, if you just roll up your shirtsleeves. The girl who was here before you didn't bother with any of the fashion-show stuff. She went straight from this office on to Time.' 'My!' I said, in the same sepulchral tone. 'That was quick!' 'Of course, you have another year at college yet,' Jay Cee went on a little more mildly. 'What do you have in mind after you graduate?' What I always thought I had in mind was getting some big scholarship to graduate school or a grant to study all over Europe, and then I thought I'd be a professor and write books of poems or write books of poems and be an editor of some sort. Usually I had these plans on the tip of my tongue. 'I don't really know,' I heard myself say. I felt a deep shock, hearing myself say that, because the minute I said it, I knew it was true. It sounded true, and I recognized it, the way you recognize some nondescript person that's been hanging around your door for ages and then suddenly comes up and introduces himself as your real father and looks exactly like you, so you know he really is your father, and the person you thought all your life was your father is a sham. 'I don't really know.' 'You'll never get anywhere like that.' Jay Cee paused. 'What languages do you have?' 'Oh, I can read a bit of French, I guess, and I've always wanted to learn German.' I'd been telling people I'd always wanted to learn German for about five years. My mother spoke German during her childhood in America and was stoned for it during the First World War by the children at school. My German-speaking father, dead since I was nine, came from some manic-depressive hamlet in the black heart of Prussia. My youngest brother was at that moment on the Experiment in International Living in Berlin and speaking German like a native. What I didn't say was that each time I picked up a German dictionary or a German book, the very sight of those dense, black, barbed-wire letters made my mind shut like a clam. 'I've always thought I'd like to go into publishing.' I tried to recover a thread that might lead me back to my old, bright salesmanship. 'I guess what I'll do is apply at some publishing house.' 'You ought to read French and German,' Jay Cee said mercilessly, 'and probably several other languages as well, Spanish and Italian -- better still, Russian, Hundreds of girls flood into New York every June thinking they'll be editors. You need to offer something more than the run-of-the-mill person. You better learn some languages.' I hadn't the heart to tell Jay Cee there wasn't one scrap of space on my senior year schedule to learn languages in. I was taking one of those honors programs that teach you to think independently, and except for a course in Tolstoy and Dostoevsky and a seminar in advanced poetry composition, I would spend my whole time writing on some obscure theme in the works of James Joyce. I hadn't picked out my theme yet, because I hadn't got round to reading Finnegans Wake, but my professor was very excited about my thesis and had promised to give me some leads on images about twins. 'I'll see what I can do,' I told Jay Cee. 'I probably might just fit in one of those double-barreled accelerated courses in elementary German they've rigged up.' I thought at the time I might actually do this. I had a way of persuading my Class Dean to let me do irregular things. She regarded me as a sort of interesting experiment. At college I had to take a required course in physics and chemistry. I had already taken a course in botany and done very well. I never answered one test question wrong the whole year, and for a while I toyed with the idea of being a botanist and studying the wild grasses in Africa or the South American rain forests, because you can win big grants to study offbeat things like that in queer areas much more easily than winning grants to study art in Italy or English in England; there's not so much competition. Botany was fine, because I loved cutting up leaves and putting them under the microscope and drawing diagrams of bread mold and the odd, heart-shaped leaf in the sex cycle of the fern, it seemed so real to me. The day I went into physics class it was death. A short dark man with a high lisping voice, named Mr. Manzi, stood in front of the class in a tight blue suit holding a little wooden ball. He put the ball on a steep grooved slide and let it run down to the bottom. Then he started talking about let a equal acceleration and let t equal time and suddenly he was scribbling letters and numbers and equals signs all over the blackboard and my mind went dead. I took the physics book back to my dormitory. It was a huge book on porous mimeographed paper -- four hundred pages long with no drawings or photographs, only diagrams and formulas -- between brick-red cardboard covers. This book was written by Mr. Manzi to explain physics to college girls, and if it worked on us he would try to have it published. Well, I studied those formulas, I went to class and watched balls roll down slides and listened to bells ring and by the end of the semester most of the other girls had failed and I had a straight A. I heard Mr. Manzi saying to a bunch of the girls who were complaining that the course was too hard, 'No, it can't be too hard, because one girl got a straight A.' 'Who is it? Tell us,' they said, but he shook his head and didn't say anything and gave me a sweet little conspiring smile. That's what gave me the idea of escaping the next semester of chemistry. I may have made a straight A in physics, but I was panic-struck. Physics made me sick the whole time I learned it. What I couldn't stand was this shrinking everything into letters and numbers. Instead of leaf shapes and enlarged diagrams of the holes the leaves breathe through and fascinating words like carotene and xanthophyll on the blackboard, there were these hideous, cramped, scorpion-lettered formulas in Mr. Manzi's special red chalk I knew chemistry would be worse, because I'd seen a big chart of the ninety-odd elements hung up in the chemistry lab, and all the perfectly good words like gold and silver and cobalt and aluminum were shortened to ugly abbreviations with different decimal numbers after them. If I had to strain my brain with any more of that stuff I would go mad. I would fail outright. It was only by a horrible effort of will that I had dragged myself through the first half of the year. So I went to my Class Dean with a clever plan. My plan was that I needed the time to take a course in Shakespeare, since I was, after all, an English major. She knew and I knew perfectly well I would get a straight A again in the chemistry course, so what was the point of my taking the exams; why couldn't I just go to the classes and look on and take it all in and forget about marks or credits? It was a case of honor among honorable people, and the content meant more than the form, and marks were really a bit silly anyway, weren't they, when you knew you'd always get an A? My plan was strengthened by the fact that the college had just dropped the second year of required science for the classes after me anyway, so my class was the last to suffer under the old ruling. Mr. Manzi was in perfect agreement with my plan. I think it flattered him that I enjoyed his classes so much I take them for no materialistic reason like credit and an A, but for the sheer beauty of chemistry itself. I thought it was quite ingenious of me to suggest sitting in on the chemistry course even after I'd changed over to Shakespeare. It was quite an unnecessary gesture and made it seem I simply couldn't bear to give chemistry up. Of course, I would never have succeeded with this scheme if I hadn't made that A in the first place. And if my Class Dean had known how scared and depressed I was, and how I seriously contemplated desperate remedies such as getting a doctor's certificate that I was unfit to study chemistry, the formulas made me dizzy and so on, I'm sure she wouldn't have listened to me for a minute, but would have made me take the course regardless. As it happened, the Faculty Board passed my petition, and my Class Dean told me later that several of the professors were touched by it. They took it as a real step in intellectual maturity. I had to laugh when I thought about the rest of that year. I went to the chemistry class five times a week and didn't miss a single one. Mr. Manzi stood at the bottom of the big, rickety old amphitheater, making blue flames and red flares and clouds of yellow stuff by pouring the contents of one test tube into another, and I shut his voice out of my ears by pretending it was only a mosquito in the distance and sat back enjoying the bright lights and the colored fires and wrote page after page of villanelles and sonnets. Mr. Manzi would glance at me now and then and see me writing, and send up a sweet little appreciative smile. I guess he thought I was writing down all those formulas not for exam time, like the other girls, but because his presentation fascinated me so much I couldn't help it. Four I DON'T KNOW just why my successful evasion of chemistry should have floated into my mind there in Jay Cee's office. All the time she talked to me, I saw Mr. Manzi standing on thin air in back of Jay Cee's head, like something conjured up out of a hat, holding his little wooden ball and the test tube that billowed a great cloud of yellow smoke the day before Easter vacation and smelt of rotten eggs and made all the girls and Mr. Manzi laugh. I felt sorry for Mr. Manzi. I felt like going down to him on my hands and knees and apologizing for being such an awful liar. Jay Cee handed me a pile of story manuscripts and spoke to me much more kindly. I spent the rest of the morning reading the stories and typing out what I thought of them on the pink Interoffice Memo sheets and sending them into the office of Betsy's editor to be read by Betsy the next day. Jay Cee interrupted me now and then to tell me something practical or a bit of gossip. Jay Cee was going to lunch that noon with two famous writers, a man and a lady. The man had just sold six short stories to the New Yorker and six to Jay Cee. This surprised me, as I didn't know magazines bought stories in lots of six, and I was staggered by the thought of the amount of money six stories would probably bring in. Jay Cee said she had to be very careful at this lunch, because the lady writer wrote stories too, but she had never had any in the New Yorker and Jay Cee had only taken one from her in five years. Jay Cee had to flatter the more famous man at the same time as she was careful not to hurt the less famous lady. When the cherubs in Jay Cee's French wall clock waved their wings up and down and put their little gilt trumpets to their lips and pinged out twelve notes one after the other, Jay Cee told me I'd done enough work for the day, and to go off to the Ladies' Day tour and banquet and to the film première, and she would see me bright and early tomorrow. Then she slipped a suit jacket over her lilac blouse, pinned a hat of imitation lilacs on the top of her head, powdered her nose briefly and adjusted her thick spectacles. She looked terrible, but very wise. As she left the office, she patted my shoulder with one lilac-gloved hand. 'Don't let the wicked city get you down.' I sat quietly in my swivel chair for a few minutes and thought about Jay Cee. I tried to imagine what it would be like if I were Ee Gee, the famous editor, in an office full of potted rubber plants and African violets my secretary had to water each morning. I wished I had a mother like Jay Cee. Then I'd know what to do. My own mother wasn't much help. My mother had taught shorthand and typing to support us ever since my father died, and secretly she hated it and hated him for dying and leaving no money because he didn't trust life insurance salesmen. She was always on to me to learn shorthand after college, so I'd have a practical skill as well as a college degree. 'Even the apostles were tentmakers,' she'd say. 'They had to live, just the way we do.' I dabbled my fingers in the bowl of warm water a Ladies' Day waitress set down in place of my two empty ice cream dishes. Then I wiped each finger carefully with my linen napkin which was still quite clean. Then I folded the linen napkin and laid it between my lips and brought my lips down on it precisely. When I put the napkin back on the table a fuzzy pink lip shape bloomed right in the middle of it like a tiny heart. I thought what a long way I had come. The first time I saw a fingerbowl was at the home of my benefactress. It was the custom at my college, the little freckled lady in the Scholarships Office told me, to write to the person whose scholarship you had, if they were still alive, and thank them for it I had the scholarship of Philomena Guinea, a wealthy novelist who went to my college in the early nineteen hundreds and had her first novel made into a silent film with Bette Davis as well as a radio serial that was still running, and it turned out she was alive and lived in a large mansion not far from my grandfather's country club. So I wrote Philomena Guinea a long letter in coal-black ink on gray paper with the name of the college embossed on it in red. I wrote what the leaves looked like in autumn when I bicycled out into the hills, and how wonderful it was to live on a campus instead of commuting by bus to a city college and having to live at home, and how all knowledge was opening up before me and perhaps one day I would be able to write great books the way she did. I had read one of Mrs. Guinea's books in the town library -- the college library didn't stock them for some reason -- and it was crammed from beginning to end with long, suspenseful questions: 'Would Evelyn discern that Gladys knew Roger in her past? wondered Hector feverishly' and 'How could Donald marry her when he learned of the child Elsie, hidden away with Mrs. Rollmop on the secluded country farm? Griselda demanded of her bleak, moonlit pillow.' These books earned Philomena Guinea, who later told me she had been very stupid at college, millions and millions of dollars. Mrs. Guinea answered my letter and invited me to lunch at her home. That was where I saw my first fingerbowl. The water had a few cherry blossoms floating in it, and I thought it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate every bit of it, including the crisp little blossoms. Mrs. Guinea never said anything, and it was only much later, when I told a debutante I knew at college about the dinner, that I learned what I had done. When we came out of the sunnily lit interior of the Ladies' Day offices, the streets were gray and fuming with rain. It wasn't the nice kind of rain that rinses you clean, but the sort of rain I imagine they must have in Brazil. It flew straight down from the sky in drops the size of coffee saucers and hit the hot sidewalks with a hiss that sent clouds of steam writhing up from the gleaming, dark concrete. My secret hope of spending the afternoon alone in Central Park died in the glass eggbeater of Ladies' Day's revolving doors. I found myself spewed out through the warm rain and into the dim, throbbing cave of a cab, together with Betsy and Hilda and Emily Ann Offenbach, a prim little girl with a bun of red hair and a husband and three children in Teaneck, New Jersey. The movie was very poor. It starred a nice blonde girl who looked like June Allyson but was really somebody else, and a sexy black-haired girl who looked like Elizabeth Taylor but was also somebody else, and two big, broad-shouldered bone-heads with names like Rick and Gil. It was a football romance and it was in Technicolor. I hate Technicolor. Everybody in a Technicolor movie seems to feel obliged to wear a lurid costume in each new scene and to stand around like a clotheshorse with a lot of very green trees or very yellow wheat or very blue ocean rolling away for miles and miles in every direction. Most of the action in this picture took place in the football stands, with the two girls waving and cheering in smart suits with orange chrysanthemums the size of cabbages on their lapels, or in a ballroom, where the girls swooped across the floor with their dates, in dresses like something out of Gone With the Wind, and then sneaked off into the powder room to say nasty intense things to each other. Finally I could see the nice girl was going to end up with the nice football hero and the sexy girl was going to end up with nobody, because the man named Gil had only wanted a mistress and not a wife all along and was now packing off to Europe on a single ticket. At about this point I began to feel peculiar. I looked round me at all the rows of rapt little heads with the same silver glow on them at the front and the same black shadow on them at the back, and they looked like nothing more or less than a lot of stupid moonbrains. I felt in terrible danger of puking. I didn't know whether it was the awful movie giving me a stomachache or all that caviar I had eaten. 'I'm going back to the hotel,' I whispered to Betsy through the half-dark. Betsy was staring at the screen with deadly concentration. 'Don't you feel good?' she whispered, barely moving her lips. 'No,' I said. 'I feel like hell.' 'So do I, I'll come back with you.' We slipped out of our seats and said Excuse me Excuse me Excuse me down the length of our row, while the people grumbled and hissed and shifted their rain boots and umbrellas to let us pass, and I stepped on as many feet as I could because it took my mind off this enormous desire to puke that was ballooning up in front of me so fast I couldn't see round it. The remains of a tepid rain were still sifting down when we stepped out into the street. Betsy looked a fright. The bloom was gone from her cheeks and her drained face floated in front of me, green and sweating. We fell into one of those yellow checkered cabs that are always waiting at the curb when you are trying to decide whether or not you want a taxi, and by the time we reached the hotel I had puked once and Betsy had puked twice. The cab driver took the corners with such momentum that were thrown together first on one side of the back seat and then on the other. Each time one of us felt sick, she would lean over quietly as if she had dropped something and was picking it up off the floor, and the other one would hum a little and pretend to be looking out the window. The cab driver seemed to know what we were doing, even so. 'Hey,' he protested, driving through a light that had just turned red, 'you can't do that in my cab, you better get out and do it in the street.' But we didn't say anything, and I guess he figured we were almost at the hotel so he didn't make us get out until we pulled up in front of the main entrance. We didn't dare wait to add up the fare. We stuffed a pile of silver into the cabby's hand and dropped a couple of Kleenexes to cover the mess on the floor, and ran in through the lobby and on to the empty elevator. Luckily for us, it was a quiet time of day. Betsy was sick again in the elevator and I held her head, and then I was sick and she held mine. Usually after a good puke you feel better right away. We hugged each other and then said good-bye and went off to opposite ends of the hall to lie down in our own rooms. There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends. But the minute I'd shut the door behind me and undressed and dragged myself on to the bed, I felt worse than ever. I felt I just had to go to the toilet. I struggled into my white bathrobe with the blue cornflowers on it and staggered down to the bathroom. Betsy was already there. I could hear her groaning behind the door, so I hurried on around the corner to the bathroom in the next wing. I thought I would die, it was so far. I sat on the toilet and leaned my head over the edge of the washbowl and I thought I was losing my guts and my dinner both. The sickness rolled through me in great waves. After each wave it would fade away and leave me limp as a wet leaf and shivering all over and then I would feel it rising up in me again, and the glittering white torture chamber tiles under my feet and over my head and on all four sides closed in and squeezed me to pieces. I don't know how long I kept at it. I let the cold water in the bowl go on running loudly with the stopper out, so anybody who came by would think I was washing my clothes, and then when I felt reasonably safe I stretched out on the floor and lay quite still. It didn't seem to be summer any more. I could feel the winter shaking my bones and banging my teeth together, and the big white hotel towel I had dragged down with me lay under my head numb as a snowdrift. I thought it very bad manners for anyone to pound on a bathroom door the way some person was pounding. They could just go around the corner and find another bathroom the way I had done and leave me in peace. But the person kept banging and pleading with me to let them in and I thought I dimly recognized the voice. It sounded a bit like Emily Ann Offenbach. 'Just a minute,' I said then. My words bungled out thick as molasses. I pulled myself together and slowly rose and flushed the toilet for the tenth time and sopped the bowl clean and rolled up the towel so the vomit stains didn't show very clearly and unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall. I knew it would be fatal if I looked at Emily Ann or anybody else so I fixed my eyes glassily on a window that swam at the end of the hall and put one foot in front of the other. The next thing I had a view of was somebody's shoe. It was a stout shoe of cracked black leather and quite old, with tiny air holes in a scalloped pattern over the toe and a dull polish, and it was pointed at me. It seemed to be placed on a hard green surface that was hurting my right cheekbone. I kept very still, waiting for a clue that would give me some notion of what to do. A little to the left of the shoe I saw a vague heap of blue cornflowers on a white ground and this made me want to cry. It was the sleeve of my own bathrobe I was looking at, and my left hand lay pale as a cod at the end of it. 'She's all right now.' The voice came from a cool, rational region far above my head. For a minute I didn't think there was anything strange about it, and then I thought it was strange. It was a man's voice, and no men were allowed to be in our hotel at any time of the night or day. 'How many others are there?' the voice went on. I listened with interest. The floor seemed wonderfully solid. It was comforting to know I had fallen and could fall no farther. 'Eleven, I think,' a woman's voice answered. I figured she must belong to the black shoe. 'I think there's eleven more of 'um, but one's missin' so there's oney ten.' 'Well, you get this one to bed and I'll take care of the rest.' I heard a hollow boomp boomp in my right ear that grew fainter and fainter. Then a door opened in the distance and there were voices and groans, and the door shut again. Two hands slid under my armpits and the woman's voice said, 'Come, come, lovey, we'll make it yet,' and I felt myself being half lifted, and slowly the doors began to move by, one by one, until we came to an open door and went in. The sheet on my bed was folded back, and the woman helped me lie down and covered me up to the chin and rested for a minute in the bedside armchair, fanning herself with one plump, pink hand. She wore gilt-rimmed spectacles and a white nurse's cap. 'Who are you?' I asked in a fault voice. 'I'm the hotel nurse.' 'What's the matter with me?' 'Poisoned,' she said briefly. 'Poisoned, the whole lot of you. I never seen anythin' like it. Sick here, sick there, whatever have you young ladies been stuffin' yourselves with?' 'Is everybody else sick too?' I asked with some hope. 'The whole of your lot,' she affirmed with relish. 'Sick as dogs and cryin' for ma.' The room hovered around me with great gentleness, as if the chairs and the tables and the walls were withholding their weight out of sympathy for my sudden frailty. 'The doctor's given you an injection,' the nurse said from the doorway. 'You'll sleep now.' And the door took her place like a sheet of blank paper, and then a larger sheet of paper took the place of the door, and I drifted toward it and smiled myself to sleep. Somebody was standing by my pillow with a white cup. 'Drink this,' they said. I shook my head. The pillow crackled like a wad of straw. 'Drink this and you'll feel better.' A thick white china cup was lowered under my nose. In the wan light that might have been evening and might have been dawn I contemplated the clean amber liquid. Pads of butter floated on the surface and a faint chickeny aroma fumed up to my nostrils. My eyes moved tentatively to the skirt behind the cup. 'Betsy,' I said. 'Betsy nothing, it's me.' I raised my eyes then, and saw Doreen's head silhouetted against the paling window, her blonde hair lit at the tips from behind like a halo of gold. Her face was in shadow, so I couldn't make out her expression, but I felt a sort of expert tenderness flowing from the ends of her fingers. She might have been Betsy or my mother or a fernscented nurse. I bent my head and took a sip of the broth. I thought my mouth must be made of sand. I took another sip and then another and another until the cup was empty. I felt purged and holy and ready for a new life. Doreen set the cup on the windowsill and lowered herself into the armchair. I noticed that she made no move to take out a cigarette, and as she was a chain smoker this surprised me. 'Well, you almost died,' she said finally. 'I guess it was all that caviar.' 'Caviar nothing! It was the crabmeat. They did tests on it and it was chock-full of ptomaine.' I had a vision of the celestially white kitchens of Ladies' Day stretching into infinity. I saw avocado pear after avocado pear being stuffed with crabmeat and mayonnaise and photographed under brilliant lights. I saw the delicate, pink-mottled claw meat poking seductively through its blanket of mayonnaise and the bland yellow pear cup with its rim of alligator-green cradling the whole mess. Poison. 'Who did tests?' I thought the doctor might have pumped somebody's stomach and then analyzed what he found in his hotel laboratory. 'Those dodos on Ladies' Day. As soon as you all started keeling over like ninepins somebody called into the office and the office called across to Ladies' Day and they did tests on everything left over from the big lunch. Ha!' 'Ha!' I echoed hollowly. It was good to have Doreen back. 'They sent presents,' she added. 'They're in a big carton out in the hall.' 'How did they get here so fast?' 'Special express delivery, what do you think? They can't afford to have the lot of you running around saying you got poisoned at Ladies' Day. You could sue them for every penny they own if you just knew some smart law man.' 'What are the presents?' I began to feel if it was a good enough present I wouldn't mind about what happened, because I felt so pure as a result. 'Nobody's opened the box yet, they're all out flat. I'm supposed to be carting soup in to everybody, seeing as I'm the only one on my feet, but I brought you yours first.' 'See what the present is,' I begged. Then I remembered and said, 'I've a present for you as well.' Doreen went out into the hall. I could hear her rustling around for a minute and then the sound of paper tearing. Finally she came back carrying a thick book with a glossy cover and people's names printed all over it. 'The Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year.' She dropped the book in my lap. 'There's eleven more of them out there in that box. I suppose they thought it'd give you something to read while you were sick.' She paused. 'Where's mine?' I fished in my pocketbook and handed Doreen the mirror with her name and the daisies on it. Doreen looked at me and I looked at her and we both burst out laughing. 'You can have my soup if you want,' she said. 'They put twelve soups on the tray by mistake and Lenny and I stuffed down so many hotdogs while we were waiting for the rain to stop I couldn't eat another mouthful.' 'Bring it in,' I said. 'I'm starving.' Five AT SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING the telephone rang. Slowly I swam up from the bottom of a black sleep. I already had a telegram from Jay Cee stuck in my mirror, telling me not to bother to come in to work but to rest for a day and get completely well, and how sorry she was about the bad crabmeat, so I couldn't imagine who would be calling. I reached out and hitched the receiver onto my pillow so the mouthpiece rested on my collarbone and the earpiece lay on my shoulder. 'Hello?' A man's voice said, 'Is that Miss Esther Greenwood?' I thought I detected a slight foreign accent. 'It certainly is,' I said. 'This is Constantin Something-or-Other.' I couldn't make out the last name, but it was full of S's and K's. I didn't know any Constantin, but I hadn't the heart to say so. Then I remembered Mrs. Willard and her simultaneous interpreter. 'Of course, of course!' I cried, sitting up and clutching the phone to me with both hands. I'd never have given Mrs. Willard credit for introducing me to a man named Constantin. I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us. In addition to Socrates, I knew a White Russian named Attila at the Boston School of Business Administration. Gradually I realized that Constantin was trying to arrange a meeting for us later in the day. 'Would you like to see the UN this afternoon?' 'I can already see the UN,' I told him, with a little hysterical giggle. He seemed nonplussed. 'I can see it from my window.' I thought perhaps my English was a touch too fast for him. There was a silence. Then he said, 'Maybe you would like a bite to eat afterward.' I detected the vocabulary of Mrs. Willard and my heart sank. Mrs. Willard always invited you for a bite to eat. I remembered that this man had been a guest at Mrs. Willard's house when he first came to America -- Mrs. Willard had one of these arrangements where you open your house to foreigners and then when you go abroad they open their houses to you. I now saw quite clearly that Mrs. Willard had simply traded her open house in Russia for my bite to eat in New York. 'Yes, I would like a bite to eat,' I said stiffly. 'What time will you come?' 'I'll call for you in my car about two. It's the Amazon, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'Ah, I know where that is.' For a moment I thought his tone was laden with special meaning, and then I figured that probably some of the girls at the Amazon were secretaries at the UN and maybe he had taken one of them out at one time. I let him hang up first, and then I hung up and lay back in the pillows, feeling grim. There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings. A duty tour of the UN and a post-UN sandwich! I tried to jack up my morale. Probably Mrs. Willard's simultaneous interpreter would be short and ugly and I would come to look down on him in the end the way I looked down on Buddy Willard. This thought gave me a certain satisfaction. Because I did look down on Buddy Willard, and although everybody still thought I would marry him when he came out of the TB place, I knew I would never marry him if he were the last man on earth. Buddy Willard was a hypocrite. Of course, I didn't know he was a hypocrite at first. I thought he was the most wonderful boy I'd ever seen. I'd adored him from a distance for five years before he even looked at me, and then there was a beautiful time when I still adored him and he started looking at me, and then just as he was looking at me more and more I discovered quite by accident what an awful hypocrite he was, and now he wanted me to marry him and I hated his guts. The worst part of it was I couldn't come straight out and tell him what I thought of him, because he caught TB before I could do that, and now I had to humor him along till he got well again and could take the unvarnished truth. I decided not to go down to the cafeteria for breakfast. It would only mean getting dressed, and what was the point of getting dressed if you were staying in bed for the morning? I could have called down and asked for a breakfast tray in my room, I guess, but then I would have to tip the person who brought it up and I never knew how much to tip. I'd had some very upsetting experiences trying to tip people in New York. When I first arrived at the Amazon a dwarfish, bald man in a bellhop's uniform carried my suitcase up in the elevator and unlocked my room for me. Of course I rushed immediately to the window and looked out to see what the view was. After a while I was aware of this bellhop turning on the hot and cold taps in the washbowl and saying 'This is the hot and this is the cold' and switching on the radio and telling me all the names of all the New York stations and I began to get uneasy, so I kept my back to him and said firmly, 'Thank you for bringing up my suitcase.' 'Thank you thank you thank you. Ha!' he said in a very nasty insinuating tone, and before I could wheel round to see what had come over him he was gone, shutting the door behind him with a rude slam. Later, when I told Doreen about his curious behavior, ske said, 'You ninny, he wanted his tip.' I asked how much I should have given and she said a quarter at least and thirtyfive cents if the suitcase was too heavy. Now I could have carried that suitcase to my room perfectly well by myself, only the bellhop seemed so eager to do it that I let him. I thought that sort of service came along with what you paid for your hotel room. I hate handing over money to people for doing what I could just as easily do myself, it makes me nervous. Doreen said ten per cent was what you should tip a person, but I somehow never had the right change and I'd have felt awfully silly giving somebody half a dollar and saying, 'Fifteen cents of this is a tip for you, please give me thirty-five cents back.' The first time I took a taxi in New York I tipped the driver ten cents. The fare was a dollar, so I thought ten cents was exactly right and gave the driver my dime with a little flourish and a smile. But he only held it in the palm of his hand and stared and stared at it, and when I stepped out of the cab, hoping I had not handed him a Canadian dime by mistake, he started yelling, 'Lady, I gotta live like you and everybody else,' in a loud voice which scared me so much I broke into a run. Luckily he was stopped at a traffic light or I think he would have driven along beside me yelling in that embarrassing way. When I asked Doreen about this she said the tipping percentage might well have risen from ten to fifteen per cent since she was last in New York. Either that, or that particular cabdriver was an out-and-out louse. I reached for the book the people from Ladies' Day had sent. When I opened it a card fell out. The front of the card showed a poodle in a flowered bedjacket sitting in a poodle basket with a sad face, and the inside of the card showed the poodle lying down in the basket with a smile, sound asleep under an embroidered sampler that said, 'You'll get well best with lots and lots of rest.' At the bottom of the card somebody had written, 'Get well quick! from all of your good friends at Ladies' Day,' in lavender ink. I flipped through one story after another until finally I came to a story about a fig tree. This fig grew on a green lawn between the house of a Jewish man and a convent, and the Jewish man and a beautiful dark nun kept meeting at the tree to pick the ripe figs, until one day they saw an egg hatching in a bird's nest on a branch of the tree, and as they watched the little bird peck its way out of the egg, they touched the backs of their hands together, and then the nun didn't come out to pick figs with the Jewish man any more but a mean-faced Catholic kitchen maid came to pick them instead and counted up the figs the man picked after they were both through to be sure he hadn't picked any more than she had, and the man was furious. I thought it was a lovely story, especially the part about the fig tree in winter under the snow and then the fig tree in spring with all the green fruit. I felt sorry when I came to the last page. I wanted to crawl in between those black lines of print the way you crawl through a fence, and go to sleep under that beautiful big green fig tree. It seemed to me Buddy Willard and I were like that Jewish man and that nun, although of course we weren't Jewish or Catholic but Unitarian. We had met together under our own imaginary fig tree, and what we had seen wasn't a bird coming out of an egg but a baby coming out of a woman, and then something awful happened and we went our separate ways. As I lay there in my white hotel bed feeling lonely and weak, I thought I was up in that sanatorium in the Adirondacks, and I felt like a heel of the worst sort. In his letters Buddy kept telling me how he was reading poems by a poet who was also a doctor and how he'd found out about some famous dead Russian short-story writer who had been a doctor too, so maybe doctors and writers could get along fine after all Now this was a very different tune from what Buddy Willard had been singing all the two years we were getting to know each other. I remember the day he smiled at me and said, 'Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' 'No, what?' I said. 'A piece of dust.' And he looked so proud of having thought of this that I just stared at his blond hair and his blue eyes and his white teeth -- he had very long, strong teeth -- and said, 'I guess so.' It was only in the middle of New York a whole year later that I finally thought of an answer to that remark. I spent a lot of time having imaginary conversations with Buddy Willard. He was a couple of years older than I was and very scientific, so he could always prove things. When I was with him I had to work to keep my head above water. These conversations I had in my mind usually repeated the beginnings of conversations I'd really had with Buddy, only they finished with me answering him back quite sharply, instead of just sitting around and saying, 'I guess so.' Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, 'Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' 'No, what?' I would say. 'A piece of dust.' Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.' And of course Buddy wouldn't have any answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep. My trouble was I took everything Buddy Willard told me as the honest-to-God truth. I remember the first night he kissed me. It was after the Yale Junior Prom. It was strange, the way Buddy had invited me to that prom. He popped into my house out of the blue one Christmas vacation, wearing a thick white turtleneck sweater and looking so handsome I could hardly stop staring, and said, 'I might drop over to see you at college some day, all right?' I was flabbergasted. I only saw Buddy at church on Sundays when we were both home from college, and then at a distance, and I couldn't figure what had put it into his head to run over and see me -- he had run the two miles between our houses for crosscountry practice, he said. Of course, our mothers were good friends. They had gone to school together and then both married their professors and settled down in the same town, but Buddy was always off on a scholarship at prep school in the fall or earning money by fighting blister rust in Montana in the summer, so our mothers being old school chums really didn't matter a bit. After this sudden visit I didn't hear a word from Buddy until one fine Saturday morning in early March. I was up in my room at college, studying about Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless for my history exam on the crusades the coming Monday, when the hall phone rang. Usually people are supposed to take turns answering the hall phone, but as I was the only freshman on a floor with all seniors they made me answer it most of the time. I waited a minute to see if anybody would beat me to it. Then I figured everybody was probably out playing squash or away on weekends, so I answered it myself. 'Is that you, Esther?' the girl on watch downstairs said, and when I said yes, she said, 'There's a man to see you.' I was surprised to hear this, because of all the blind dates I'd had that year not one called me up again for a second date. I just didn't have any luck. I hated coming downstairs sweaty-handed and curious every Saturday night and having some senior introduce me to her aunt's best friend's son and finding some pale, mushroomy fellow with protruding ears or buck teeth or a bad leg. I didn't think I deserved it. After all, I wasn't crippled in any way, I just studied too hard, I didn't know when to stop. Well, I combed my hair and put on some more lipstick and took my history book - - so I could say I was on my way to the library if it turned out to be somebody awful -- and went down, and there was Buddy Willard leaning against the mail table in a khaki zipper jacket and blue dungarees and frayed gray sneakers and grinning up at me. 'I just came over to say hello,' he said. I thought it odd he should come all the way up from Yale even hitchhiking, as he did, to save money, just to say hello. 'Hello,' I said. 'Let's go out and sit on the porch.' I wanted to go out on the porch because the girl on watch was a nosy senior and eyeing me curiously. She obviously thought Buddy had made a big mistake. We sat side by side in two wicker rocking chairs. The sunlight was clean and windless and almost hot. 'I can't stay for more than a few minutes,' Buddy said. 'Oh, come on, stay for lunch,' I said. 'Oh, I can't do that. I'm up here for the Sophomore Prom with Joan.' I felt like a prize idiot. 'How is Joan?' I asked coldly. Joan Gilling came from our home town and went to our church and was a year ahead of me at college. She was a big wheel-president of her class and a physics major and the college hockey champion. She always made me feel squirmy with her starey pebble-colored eyes and her gleaming tombstone teeth and her breathy voice. She was big as a horse, too. I began to think Buddy had pretty poor taste. 'Oh, Joan,' he said. 'She asked me up to this dance two months ahead of time and her mother asked my mother if I would take her, so what could I do?' 'Well, why did you say you'd take her if you didn't want to?' I asked meanly. 'Oh, I like Joan. She never cares whether you spend any money on her or not and she enjoys doing things out-of-doors. The last time she came down to Yale for house weekend we went on a bicycle trip to East Rock and she's the only girl I haven't had to push up hills. Joan's all right.' I went cold with envy. I had never been to Yale, and Yale was the place all the seniors in my house liked to go best on weekends. I decided to expect nothing from Buddy Willard. If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed. 'You better go and find Joan then,' I said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'I've a date coming any minute and he won't like seeing me sitting around with you.' 'A date?' Buddy looked surprised. 'Who is it?' 'It's two,' I said, 'Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless.' Buddy didn't say anything, so I said, 'Those are their nicknames.' Then I added, 'They're from Dartmouth.' I guess Buddy never read much history, because his mouth stiffened. He swung up from the wicker rocking chair and gave it a sharp little unnecessary push. Then he dropped a pale blue envelope with a Yale crest into my lap. 'Here's a letter I meant to leave for you if you weren't in. There's a question in it you can answer by mail. I don't feel like asking you about it right now.' After Buddy had gone I opened the letter. It was a letter inviting me to the Yale Junior Prom. I was so surprised I let out a couple of yips and ran into the house shouting, 'I'm going I'm going I'm going.' After the bright white sun on the porch it looked pitch dark in there, and I couldn't make out a thing. I found myself hugging the senior on watch. When she heard I was going to the Yale Junior Prom she treated me with amazement and respect. Oddly enough, things changed in the house after that. The seniors on my floor started speaking to me and every now and then one of them would answer the phone quite spontaneously and nobody made any more nasty loud remarks outside my door about people wasting their golden college days with their noses stuck in a book. Well, all during the Junior Prom Buddy treated me like a friend or a cousin. We danced about a mile apart the whole time, until during 'Auld Lang Syne' he suddenly rested his chin on the tip of my head as if he were very tired. Then in the cold, black, three-o'clock wind we walked very slowly the five miles back to the house where I was sleeping in the living room on a couch that was too short because it only cost fifty cents a night instead of two dollars like most of the other places with proper beds. I felt dull and flat and full of shattered visions. I had imagined Buddy would fall in love with me that weekend and that I wouldn't have to worry about what I was doing on any more Saturday nights the rest of the year. Just as we approached the house where I was staying Buddy said, 'Let's go up to the chemistry lab.' I was aghast. 'The chemistry lab?' 'Yes.' Buddy reached for my hand. 'There's a beautiful view up there behind the chemistry lab.' And sure enough, there was a sort of hilly place behind the chemistry lab from which you could see the lights of a couple of houses in New Haven. I stood pretending to admire them while Buddy got a good footing on the rough soil. While he kissed me I kept my eyes open and tried to memorize the spacing of the house lights so I would never forget them. Finally Buddy stepped back. 'Wow!' he said. 'Wow what?' I said, surprised. It had been a dry, uninspiring little kiss, and I remember thinking it was too bad both our mouths were so chapped from walking five miles in that cold wind. 'Wow, it makes me feel terrific to kiss you.' I modestly didn't say anything. 'I guess you go out with a lot of boys,' Buddy said then. 'Well, I guess I do.' I thought I must have gone out with a different boy for every week in the year. 'Well, I have to study a lot.' 'So do I,' I put in hastily. 'I have to keep my scholarship after all.' 'Still, I think I could manage to see you every third weekend.' 'That's nice.' I was almost fainting and dying to get back to college and tell everybody. Buddy kissed me again in front of the house steps, and the next fall, when his scholarship to medical school came through, I went there to see him instead of to Yale and it was there I found out how he had fooled me all those years and what a hypocrite he was. I found out on the day we saw the baby born. Six I had KEPT BEGGING Buddy to show me some really interesting hospital sights, so one Friday I cut all my classes and came down for a long weekend and he gave me the works. I started out by dressing in a white coat and sitting on a tall stool in a room with four cadavers, while Buddy and his friends cut them up. These cadavers were so unhuman-looking they didn't bother me a bit. They had stiff, leathery, purple-black skin and they smelt like old pickle jars. After that, Buddy took me out into the hall where they had some big glass bottles full of babies that had died before they were born. The baby in the first bottle had a large white head bent over a tiny curled-up body the size of a frog. The baby in the next bottle was bigger and the baby next to that one was bigger still and the baby in the last bottle was the size of a normal baby and he seemed to be looking at me and smiling a little piggy smile. I was quite proud of the calm way I stared at all these gruesome things. The only time I jumped was when I leaned my elbow on Buddy's cadaver's somach to watch him dissect a lung. After a minute or two I felt this burning sensation in my elbow and it occurred to me the cadaver might just be half alive since it was still warm, so I leapt off my stool with a small exclamation. Then Buddy explained the burning was only from the pickling fluid, and I sat back in my old position. In the hour before lunch Buddy took me to a lecture on sickle-cell anemia and some other depressing diseases, where they wheeled sick people out onto the platform and asked them questions and then wheeled them off and showed colored slides. One slide I remember showed a beautiful laughing girl with a black mole on her cheek. 'Twenty days after that mole appeared the girl was dead,' the doctor said, and everybody went very quiet for a minute and then the bell rang, so I never really found out what the mole was or why the girl died. In the afternoon we went to see a baby born. First we found a linen closet in the hospital corridor where Buddy took out a white mask for me to wear and some gauze. A tall fat medical student, big as Sydney Greenstreet, lounged nearby, watching Buddy wind the gauze round and round my head until my hair was completely covered and only my eyes peered out over the white mask. The medical student gave an unpleasant little snicker. 'At least your mother loves you,' he said. I was so busy thinking how very fat he was and how unfortunate it must be for a man and especially a young man to be fat, because what woman could stand leaning over that big stomach to kiss him, that I didn't immediately realize what this student had said to me was an insult. By the time I figured he must consider himself quite a fine fellow and had thought up a cutting remark about how only a mother loves a fat man, he was gone. Buddy was examining a queer wooden plaque on the wall with a row of holes in it, starting from a hole about the size of a silver dollar and ending with one the size of a dinner plate. 'Fine, fine,' he said to me. 'There's somebody about to have a baby this minute.' At the door of the delivery room stood a thin, stoop-shouldered medical student Buddy knew. 'Hello, Will,' Buddy said. 'Who's on the job?' 'I am,' Will said gloomily, and I noticed little drops of sweat beading his high pale forehead. 'I am, and it's my first.' Buddy told me Will was a third-year man and had to deliver eight babies before he could graduate. Then he noticed a bustle at the far end of the hall and some men in lime-green coats and skull caps and a few nurses came moving toward us in a ragged procession wheeling a trolley with a big white lump on it. 'You oughtn't to see this,' Will muttered in my ear. 'You'll never want to have a baby if you do. They oughtn't to let women watch. It'll be the end of the human race.' Buddy and I laughed, and then Buddy shook Will's hand and we all went into the room. I was so struck by the sight of the table where they were lifting the woman I didn't say a word. It looked like some awful torture table, with these metal stirrups sticking up in mid-air at one end and all sorts of instruments and wires and tubes I couldn't make out properly at the other. Buddy and I stood together by the window, a few feet away from the woman, where we had a perfect view. The woman's stomach stuck up so high I couldn't see her face or the upper part of her body at all. She seemed to have nothing but an enormous spider-fat stomach and two little ugly spindly legs propped in the high stirrups, and all the time the baby was being born she never stopped making this unhuman whooing noise. Later Buddy told me the woman was on a drug that would make her forget she'd had any pain and that when she swore and groaned she really didn't know what she was doing because she was in a kind of twilight sleep. I thought it sounded just like the sort of drug a man would invent. Here was a woman in terrible pain, obviously feeling every bit of it or she wouldn't groan like that, and she would go straight home and start another baby, because the drug would make her forget how bad the pain had been, when all the time, in some secret part of her, that long, blind, doorless and windowless corridor of pain was waiting to open up and shut her in again. The head doctor, who was supervising Will, kept saying to the woman, 'Push down, Mrs. Tomolillo, push down, that's a good girl, push down,' and finally through the split, shaven place between her legs, lurid with disinfectant, I saw a dark fuzzy thing appear. 'The baby's head,' Buddy whispered under cover of the woman's groans. But the baby's head stuck for some reason, and the doctor told Will he'd have to make a cut. I heard the scissors close on the woman's skin like cloth and the blood began to run down -- a fierce, bright red. Then all at once the baby seemed to pop out into Will's hands, the color of a blue pluto and floured with white stuff and streaked with blood, and Will kept saying, 'I'm going to drop it, I'm going to drop it, I'm going to drop it,' in a terrified voice. 'No, you're not,' the doctor said, and took the baby out of Will's hands and started massaging it, and the blue color went away and the baby started to cry in a torn, croaky voice and I could see it was a boy. The first thing that baby did was pee in the doctor's face. I told Buddy later I didn't see how that was possible, but he said it was quite possible, though unusual, to see something like that happen. As soon as the baby was born the people in the room divided up into two groups, the nurses tying a metal dog tag on the baby's wrist and swabbing its eyes with cotton on the end of a stick and wrapping it up and putting it in a canvas-sided cot, while the doctor and Will started sewing up the woman's cut with a needle and a long thread. I think somebody said, 'It's a boy, Mrs. Tomolillo,' but the woman didn't answer or raise her head. 'Well, how was it?' Buddy asked with a satisfied expression as we walked across the green quadrangle to his room. 'Wonderful,' I said. 'I could see something like that every day.' I didn't feel up to asking him if there were any other ways to have babies. For some reason the most important thing to me was actually seeing the baby come out of you yourself and making sure it was yours. I thought if you had to have all that pain anyway you might just as well stay awake. I had always imagined myself hitching up on to my elbows on the delivery table after it was all over -- dead white, of course, with no makeup and from the awful ordeal, but smiling and radiant, with my hair down to my waist, and reaching out for my first little squirmy child and saying its name, whatever it was. 'Why was it all covered with flour?' I asked then, to keep the conversation going, and Buddy told me about the waxy staff that guarded the baby's skin. When we were back in Buddy's room, which reminded me of nothing so much as a monk's cell, with its bare walls and bare bed and bare floor and the desk loaded with Gray's Anatomy and other thick gruesome books, Buddy lit a candle and uncorked a bottle of Dubonnet. Then we lay down side by side on the bed and Buddy sipped his wine while I read aloud 'somewhere I have never travelled' and other poems from a book I'd brought. Buddy said he figured there must be something in poetry if a girl like me spent all her days over it, so each time we met I read him some poetry and explained to him what I found in it. It was Buddy's idea. He always arranged our weekends so we'd never regret wasting our time in any way. Buddy's father was a teacher, and I think Buddy could have been a teacher as well, he was always trying to explain things to me and introduce me to new knowledge. Suddenly, after I finished a poem, he said, 'Esther, have you ever seen a man?' The way he said it I knew he didn't mean a regular man or a man in general, I knew he meant a man naked. 'No,' I said. 'Only statues.' 'Well, don't you think you would like to see me?' I didn't know what to say. My mother and my grandmother had started hinting around to me a lot lately about what a fine, clean boy Buddy Willard was, coming from such a fine, clean family, and how everybody at church thought he was a model person, so kind to his parents and to older people, as well as so athletic and so handsome and so intelligent. All I'd heard about, really, was how fine and clean Buddy was and how he was the kind of a person a girl should stay fine and clean for. So I didn't really see the harm in anything Buddy would think up to do. 'Well, all right, I guess so,' I said. I stared at Buddy while he unzipped his chino pants and took them off and laid them on a chair and then took off his underpants that were made of something like nylon fishnet. 'They're cool,' he explained, 'and my mother says they wash easily.' Then he just stood there in front of me and I kept staring at him. The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed. Buddy seemed hurt I didn't say anything. 'I think you ought to get used to me like this,' he said. 'Now let me see you.' But undressing in front of Buddy suddenly appealed to me about as much as having my Posture Picture taken at college, where you have to stand naked in front of a camera, knowing all the time that a picture of you stark naked, both full view and side view, is going into the college gym files to be marked A B C or D depending on how straight you are. 'Oh, some other time,' I said. 'All right.' Buddy got dressed again. Then we kissed and hugged a while and I felt a little better. I drank the rest of the Dubonnet and sat cross-legged at the end of Buddy's bed and asked for a comb. I began to comb my hair down over my face so Buddy couldn't see it. Suddenly I said, 'Have you ever had an affair with anyone, Buddy?' I don't know what made me say it, the words just popped out of my mouth. I never thought for one minute that Buddy Willard would have an affair with anyone. I expected him to say, 'No, I have been saving myself for when I get married to somebody pure and a virgin like you.' But Buddy didn't say anything, he just turned pink. 'Well, have you?' 'What do you mean, an affair?' Buddy asked then in a hollow voice. 'You know, have you ever gone to bed with anyone?' I kept rhythmically combing the hair down over the side of my face nearest to Buddy, and I could feel the little electric filaments clinging to my hot cheeks and I wanted to shout, 'Stop, stop, don't tell me, don't say anything.' But I didn't, I just kept still. 'Well, yes, I have,' Buddy said finally. I almost fell over. From the first night Buddy Willard kissed me and said I must go out with a lot of boys, he made me feel I was much more sexy and experienced than he was and that everything he did like hugging and kissing and petting was simply what I made him feel like doing out of the blue, he couldn't help it and didn't know how it came about. Now I saw he had only been pretending all this time to be so innocent. 'Tell me about it.' I combed my hair slowly over and over, feeling the teeth of the comb dig into my cheek at every stroke. 'Who was it?' Buddy seemed relieved I wasn't angry. He even seemed relieved to have somebody to tell about how he was seduced. Of course, somebody had seduced Buddy, Buddy hadn't started it and it wasn't really his fault. It was this waitress at the hotel he worked at as a busboy the last summer at Cape Cod. Buddy had noticed her staring at him queerly and shoving her breasts up against him in the confusion of the kitchen, so finally one day he asked her what the trouble was and she looked him straight in the eye and said, 'I want you.' 'Served up with parsley?' Buddy had laughed innocently. 'No,' she had said. 'Some night.' And that's how Buddy had lost his pureness and his virginity. At first I thought he must have slept with the waitress only the once, but when I asked how many times, just to make sure, he said he couldn't remember but a couple of times a week for the rest of the summer. I multiplied three by ten and got thirty, which seemed beyond all reason. After that something in me just froze up. Back at college I started asking a senior here and a senior there what they would do if a boy they knew suddenly told them he'd slept thirty times with some slutty waitress one summer, smack in the middle of knowing them. But these seniors said most boys were like that and you couldn't honestly accuse them of anything until you were at least pinned or engaged to be married. Actually, it wasn't the idea of Buddy sleeping with somebody that bothered me. I mean I'd read about all sorts of people sleeping with each other, and if it had been any other boy I would merely have asked him the most interesting details, and maybe gone out and slept with somebody myself just to even things up, and then thought no more about it. What I couldn't stand was Buddy's pretending I was so sexy and he was so pure, when all the time he'd been having an affair with that tarty waitress and must have felt like laughing in my face. 'What does your mother think about this waitress?' I asked Buddy that weekend. Buddy was amazingly close to his mother. He was always quoting what she said about the relationship between a man and a woman, and I knew Mrs. Willard was a real fanatic about virginity for men and women both. When I first went to her house for supper she gave me a queer, shrewd, searching look, and I knew she was trying to tell whether I was a virgin or not. Just as I thought, Buddy was embarrassed. 'Mother asked me about Gladys,' he admitted. 'Well, what did you say?' 'I said Gladys was free, white and twenty-one.' Now I knew Buddy would never talk to his mother as rudely as that for my sake. He was always saying how his mother said, 'What a man wants is a mate and what a woman wants is infinite security,' and, 'What a man is is an arrow into the future and what a woman is is the place the arrow shoots off from,' until it made me tired. Every time I tried to argue, Buddy would say his mother still got pleasure out of his father and wasn't that wonderful for people their age, it must mean she really knew what was what. Well, I had just decided to ditch Buddy Willard for once and for all, not because he'd slept with that waitress but because he didn't have the honest guts to admit it straight off to everybody and face up to it as part of his character, when the phone in the hall rang and somebody said in a little knowing singsong, 'It's for you, Esther, it's from Boston.' I could tell right away something must be wrong, because Buddy was the only person I knew in Boston, and he never called me long distance because it was so much more expensive than letters. Once, when he had a message he wanted me to get almost immediately, he went all round his entry at medical school asking if anybody was driving up to my college that weekend, and sure enough, somebody was, so he gave them a note for me and I got it the same day. He didn't even have to pay for a stamp. It was Buddy all right. He told me that the annual fall chest X-ray showed he had caught TB and he was going off on a scholarship for medical students who caught TB to a TB place in the Adirondacks. Then he said I hadn't written since that last weekend and he hoped nothing was the matter between us, and would I please try to write him at least once a week and come to visit him at this TB place in my Christmas vacation? I had never heard Buddy so upset. He was very proud of his perfect health and was always telling me it was psychosomatic when my sinuses blocked up and I couldn't breathe. I thought this an odd attitude for a doctor to have and perhaps he should study to be a psychiatrist instead, but of course I never came right out and said so. I told Buddy how sorry I was about the TB and promised to write, but when I hung up I didn't feel one bit sorry. I only felt a wonderful relief. I thought the TB might just be a punishment for living the kind of double life Buddy lived and feeling so superior to people. And I thought how convenient it would be now I didn't have to announce to everybody at college I had broken off with Buddy and start the boring business of blind dates all over again. I simply told everyone that Buddy had TB and we were practically engaged, and when I stayed in to study on Saturday nights they were extremely kind to me because they thought I was so brave, working the way I did just to hide a broken heart Seven OF COURSE, Constantin was much too short, but in his own way he was handsome, with light brown hair and dark blue eyes and a lively, challenging expression. He could almost have been an American, he was so tan and had such good teeth, but I could tell straight away that he wasn't. He had what no American man I've ever met has had, and that's intuition. From the start Constantin guessed I wasn't any protégé of Mrs. Willard's. I raised an eyebrow here and dropped a dry little laugh there, and pretty soon we were both openly raking Mrs. Willard over the coals and I thought, 'This Constantin won't mind if I'm too tall and don't know enough languages and haven't been to Europe, he'll see through all that stuff to what I really am.' Constantin drove me to the UN in his old green convertible with cracked, comfortable brown leather seats and the top down. He told me his tan came from playing tennis, and when we were sitting there side by side flying down the streets in the open sun he took my hand and squeezed it, and I felt happier than I had been since I was about nine and running along the hot white beaches with my father the summer before he died. And while Constantin and I sat in one of those hushed plush auditoriums in the UN, next to a stern muscular Russian girl with no makeup who was a simultaneous interpreter like Constantin, I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old. After that -- in spite of the Girl Scouts and the piano lessons and the water-color lessons and the dancing lessons and the sailing camp, all of which my mother scrimped to give me, and college, with crewing in the mist before breakfast and blackbottom pies and the little new firecrackers of ideas going off every day -- I had never been really happy again. I stared through the Russian girl in her double-breasted gray suit, rattling off idiom after idiom in her own unknowable tongue -- which Constantin said was the most difficult part because the Russians didn't have the same idioms as our idioms -- and I wished with all my heart I could crawl into her and spend the rest of my life barking out one idiom after another. It mightn't make me any happier, but it would be one more little pebble of efficiency among all the other pebbles. Then Constantin and the Russian girl interpreter and the whole bunch of black and white and yellow men arguing down there behind their labeled microphones seemed to move off at a distance. I saw their mouths going up and down without a sound, as if they were sitting on the deck of a departing ship, stranding me in the middle of a huge silence. I started adding up all the things I couldn't do. I began with cooking. My grandmother and my mother were such good cooks that I left everything to them. They were always trying to teach me one dish or another, but I would just look on and say, 'Yes, yes, I see,' while the instructions slid through my head like water, and then I'd always spoil what I did so nobody would ask me to do it again. I remember Jody, my best and only girlfriend at college in my freshman year, making me scrambled eggs at her house one morning. They tasted unusual, and when I asked her if she had put in anything extra, she said cheese and garlic salt. I asked who told her to do that, and she said nobody, she just thought it up. But then, she was practical and a sociology major. I didn't know shorthand either. This meant I couldn't get a good job after college. My mother kept telling me nobody wanted a plain English major. But an English major who knew shorthand was something else again. Everybody would want her. She would be in demand among all the up-and-coming young men and she would transcribe letter after thrilling letter. The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters. Besides, those little shorthand symbols in the book my mother showed me seemed just as bad as let t equal time and let s equal the total distance. My list grew longer. I was a terrible dancer. I couldn't carry a tune. I had no sense of balance, and when we had to walk down a narrow board with our hands out and a book on our heads in gym class I always fell over. I couldn't ride a horse or ski, the two things I wanted to do most, because they cost too much money. I couldn't speak German or read Hebrew or write Chinese. I didn't even know where most of the old out-of-the-way countries the UN men in front of me represented fitted in on the map. For the first time in my life, sitting there in the soundproof heart of the UN building between Constantin who could play tennis as well as simultaneouly interpret and the Russian girl who knew so many idioms, I felt dreadfully inadequate. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it. The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships and prizes, and that era was coming to an end. I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone. I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet. Constantin's restaurant smelt of herbs and spices and sour cream. All the time I had been in New York I had never found such a restaurant. I only found those Heavenly Hamburger places, where they serve giant hamburgers and soup-of-the-day and four kinds of fancy cake at a very clean counter facing a long glarey mirror. To reach this restaurant we had to climb down seven dimly lit steps into a sort of cellar. Travel posters plastered the smoke-dark walls, like so many picture windows overlooking Swiss lakes and Japanese mountains and African velds, and thick, dusty bottle-candles, that seemed for centuries to have wept their colored waxes red over blue over green in a fine, three-dimensional lace, cast a circle of light round each table where the faces floated, flushed and flamelike themselves. I don't know what I ate, but I felt immensely better after the first mouthful. It occurred to me that my vision of the fig tree and all the fat figs that withered and fell to earth might well have arisen from the profound void of an empty stomach. Constantin kept refilling our glasses with a sweet Greek wine that tasted of pine bark, and I found myself telling him how I was going to learn German and go to Europe and be a war correspondent like Maggie Higgins. I felt so fine by the time we came to the yogurt and strawberry jam that I decided I would let Constantin seduce me. Ever since Buddy Willard had told me about that waitress I had been thinking I ought to go out and sleep with somebody myself. Sleeping with Buddy wouldn't count, though, because he would still be one person ahead of me, it would have to be with somebody else. The only boy I ever actually discussed going to bed with was a bitter, hawk-nosed Southerner from Yale, who came to college one weekend only to find his date had eloped with a taxi driver the day before. As the girl had lived in my house and I was the only one home that particular night, it was my job to cheer him up. At the local coffee shop, hunched in one of the secretive, high-backed booths with hundreds of people's names gouged into the wood, we drank cup after cup of black coffee and talked frankly about sex. This boy -- his name was Eric -- said he thought it disgusting the way all the girls at my college stood around on the porches under the lights and in the bushes in plain view, necking madly before the one o'clock curfew, so everybody passing by could see them. A million years of evolution, Eric said bitterly, and what are we? Animals. Then Eric told me how he had slept with his first woman. He went to a Southern prep school that specialized in building all-round gentlemen, and by the time you graduated it was an unwritten rule that you had to have known a woman. Known in the Biblical sense, Eric said. So one Saturday Eric and a few of his classmates took a bus into the nearest city and visited a notorious whorehouse. Eric's whore hadn't even taken off her dress. She was a fat, middle-aged woman with dyed red hair and suspiciously thick lips and rat-colored skin and she wouldn't turn off the light, so he had had her under a fly-spotted twenty-fivewatt bulb, and it was nothing like it was cracked up to be. It was boring as going to the toilet, I said maybe if you loved a woman it wouldn't seem so boring, but Eric said it would be spoiled by thinking this woman too was just an animal like the rest, so if he loved anybody he would never go to bed with her. He'd go to a whore if he had to and keep the woman he loved free of all that dirty business. It had crossed my mind at the time that Eric might be a good person to go to bed with, since he had already done it and, unlike the usual run of boys, didn't seem dirtyminded or silly when he talked about it. But then Eric wrote me a letter saying he thought he might really be able to love me, I was so intelligent and cynical and yet had such a kind face, surprisingly like his older sister's; so I knew it was no use, I was the type he would never go to bed with, and wrote him I was unfortunately about to marry a childhood sweetheart. The more I thought about it the better I liked the idea of being seduced by a simultaneous interpreter in New York City. Constantin seemed mature and considerate in every way. There were no people I knew he would want to brag to about it, the way college boys bragged about sleeping with girls in the backs of cars to their roommates or their friends on the basketball team. And there would be a pleasant irony in sleeping with a man Mrs. Willard had introduced me to, as if she were, in a roundabout way, to blame for it. When Constantin asked if I would like to come up to his apartment to hear some balalaika records I smiled to myself. My mother had always told me never under any circumstances to go with a man to a man's rooms after an evening out, it could mean only one thing. 'I am very fond of balalaika music,' I said. Constantin's room had a balcony, and the balcony overlooked the river, and we could hear the hooing of the tugs down in the darkness. I felt moved and tender and perfectly certain about what I was going to do. I knew I might have a baby, but that thought hung far and dim in the distance and didn't trouble me at all. There was no one hundred per cent sure way not to have a baby, it said in an article my mother cut out of the Reader's Digest and mailed to me at college. This article was written by a married woman lawyer with children and called 'In Defense of Chastity.' It gave all the reasons a girl shouldn't sleep with anybody but her husband and then only after they were married. The main point of the article was that a man's world is different from a woman's world and a man's emotions are different from a woman's emotions and only marriage can bring the two worlds and the two different sets of emotions together properly. My mother said this was something a girl didn't know about till it was too late, so she had to take the advice of people who were already experts, like a married woman. This woman lawyer said the best men wanted to be pure for their wives, and even if they weren't pure, they wanted to be the ones to teach their wives about sex. Of course they would try to persuade a girl to have sex and say they would marry her later, but as soon as she gave in, they would lose all respect for her and start saying that if she did that with them she would do that with other men and they would end up by making her life miserable. The woman finished her article by saying better be safe than sorry and besides, there was no sure way of not getting stuck with a baby and then you'd really be in a pickle. Now the one thing this article didn't seem to me to consider was how a girl felt. It might be nice to be pure and then to marry a pure man, but what if he suddenly confessed he wasn't pure after we were married, the way Buddy Willard had? I couldn't stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not. Finally I decided that if it was so difficult to find a red-blooded intelligent man who was still pure by the time he was twenty-one I might as well forget about staying pure myself and marry somebody who wasn't pure either. Then when he started to make my life miserable I could make his miserable as well. When I was nineteen, pureness was the great issue. Instead of the world being divided up into Catholics and Protestants or Republicans and Democrats or white men and black men or even men and women, I saw the world divided into people who had slept with somebody and people who hadn't, and this seemed the only really significant difference between one person and another. I thought a spectacular change would come over me the day I crossed the boundary line. I thought it would be the way I'd feel if I ever visited Europe. I'd come home, and if I looked closely into the mirror I'd be able to make out a little white Alp at the back of my eye. Now I thought that if I looked into the mirror tomorrow I'd see a doll-size Constantin sitting in my eye and smiling out at me. Well, for about an hour we lounged on Constantin's balcony in two separate slingback chairs with the victrola playing and the balalaika records stacked between us. A faint milky light diffused from the street lights or the half moon or the cars or the stars, I couldn't tell what, but apart from holding my hand Constantin showed no desire to seduce me whatsoever. I asked if he was engaged or had any special girlfriend, thinking maybe that's what was the matter, but he said no, he made a point of keeping clear of such attachments. At last I felt a powerful drowsiness drifting through my veins from all the pinebark wine I had drunk. 'I think I'll go in and lie down,' I said. I strolled casually into the bedroom and stooped over to nudge off my shoes. The clean bed bobbed before me like a safe boat. I stretched full length and shut my eyes. Then I heard Constantin sigh and come in from the balcony. One by one his shoes clonked on to the floor, and he lay down by my side. I looked at him secretly from under a fall of hair. He was lying on his back, his hands under his head, staring at the ceiling. The starched white sleeves of his shirt, rolled up to the elbows, glimmered eerily in the half dark and his tan skin seemed almost black. I thought be must be the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. I thought if only I had a keen, shapely bone structure to my face or could discuss politics shrewdly or was a famous writer Constantin might find me interesting enough to sleep with. And then I wondered if as soon as he came to like me he would sink into ordinariness, and if as soon as he came to love me I would find fault after fault, the way I did with Buddy Willard and the boys before him. The same thing happened over and over: I would catch sight of some flawless man off in the distance, but as soon as he moved closer I immediately saw he wouldn't do at all. That's one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket. I woke to the sound of rain. It was pitch dark. After a while I deciphered the faint outlines of an unfamiliar window. Every so often a beam of light appeared out of thin air, traversed the wall like a ghostly, exploratory finger, and slid off into nothing again. Then I heard the sound of somebody breathing. At first I thought it was only myself, and that I was lying in the dark in my hotel room after being poisoned. I held my breath, but the breathing kept on. A green eye glowed on the bed beside me. It was divided into quarters like a compass. I reached out slowly and dosed my hand on it. I lifted it up. With it came an arm, heavy as a dead man's, but warm with sleep. Constantin's watch said three o'clock. He was lying in his shirt and trousers and stocking feet just as I had left him when I dropped asleep, and as my eyes grew used to the darkness I made out his pale eyelids and his straight nose and his tolerant, shapely mouth, but they seemed insubstantial, as if drawn on fog. For a few minutes I leaned over, studying him. I had never fallen asleep beside a man before. I tried to imagine what it would be like if Constantin were my husband. It would mean getting up at seven and cooking him eggs and bacon and toast and coffee and dawdling about in my nightgown and curlers after he'd left for work to wash up the dirty plates and make the bed, and then when he came home after a lively, fascinating day he'd expect a big dinner, and I'd spend the evening washing up even more dirty plates till I fell into bed, utterly exhausted. This seemed a dreary and wasted life for a girl with fifteen years of straight A's, but I knew that's what marriage was like, because cook and clean and wash was just what Buddy Willard's mother did from morning till night, and she was the wife of a university professor and had been a private school teacher herself. Once when I visited Buddy I found Mrs. Willard braiding a rug out of strips of wool from Mr. Willard's old suits. She'd spent weeks on that rug, and I had admired the tweedy browns and greens and blues patterning the braid, but after Mrs. Willard was through, instead of hanging the rug on the wall the way I would have done, she put it down in place of her kitchen mat, and in a few days it was soiled and dull and indistinguishable from any mat you could buy for under a dollar in the five and ten. And I knew that in spite of all the roses and kisses and restaurant dinners a man showered on a woman before he married her, what he secretly wanted when the wedding service ended was for her to flatten out underneath his feet like Mrs. Willard's kitchen mat Hadn't my own mother told me that as soon as she and my father left Reno on their honeymoon -- my father had been married before, so he needed a divorce -- my father said to her, 'Whew, that's a relief, now we can stop pretending and be ourselves'? - - and from that day on my mother never had a minute's peace. I also remembered Buddy Willard saying in a sinister, knowing way that after I had children I would feel differently, I wouldn't want to write poems any more. So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state. As I stared down at Constantin the way you stare down at a bright, unattainable pebble at the bottom of a deep well, his eyelids lifted and he looked through me, and his eyes were full of love. I watched dumbly as a shutter of recognition clicked across the blur of tenderness and the wide pupils went glossy and depthless as patent leather. Constantin sat up, yawning. 'What time is it?' 'Three,' I said in a flat voice. 'I better go home. I have to be at work first thing in the morning.' 'I'll drive you.' As we sat back to back on our separate sides of the bed fumbling with our shoes in the horrid cheerful white light of the bed lamp, I sensed Constantin turn round. 'Is your hair always like that?' 'Like what?' He didn't answer but reached over and put his hand at the root of my hair and ran his fingers out slowly to the tip ends like a comb. A little electric shock flared through me and I sat quite still. Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy and peaceful. 'Ah, I know what it is,' Constantin said. 'You've just washed it.' And he bent to lace up his tennis shoes. An hour later I lay in my hotel bed, listening to the rain. It didn't even sound like rain, it sounded like a tap running. The ache in the middle of my left shin bone came to life, and I abandoned any hope of sleep before seven, when my radio-alarm clock would rouse me with its hearty renderings of Sousa. Every time it rained the old leg-break seemed to remember itself, and what it remembered was a dull hurt. Then I thought, 'Buddy Willard made me break that leg.' Then I thought, 'No, I broke it myself. I broke it on purpose to pay myself back for being such a heel.' Eight MR. WILLARD drove me up to the Adirondacks. It was the day after Christmas and a gray sky bellied over us, fat with snow. I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols and the piano promised never came to pass. At Christmas I almost wished I was a Catholic. First Mr. Willard drove and then I drove. I don't know what we talked about, but as the countryside, already deep under old falls of snow, turned us a bleaker shoulder, and as the fir trees crowded down from the gray hills to the road edge, so darkly green they looked black, I grew gloomier and gloomier. I was tempted to tell Mr. Willard to go ahead alone, I would hitchhike home. But one glance at Mr. Willard's face -- the silver hair in its boyish crewcut, the clear blue eyes, the pink cheeks, all frosted like a sweet wedding cake with the innocent, trusting expression -- and I knew I couldn't do it. I'd have to see the visit through to the end. At midday the grayness paled a bit, and we parked in an icy turnoff and shared out the tunafish sandwiches and the oatmeal cookies and the apples and the thermos of black coffee Mrs. Willard had packed for our lunch. Mr. Willard eyed me kindly. Then he cleared his throat and brushed a few last crumbs from his lap. I could tell he was going to say something serious, because he was very shy, and I'd heard him dear his throat in that same way before giving an important economics lecture. 'Nelly and I have always wanted a daughter.' For one crazy minute I thought, Mr. Willard was going to announce that Mrs. Willard was pregnant and expecting a baby girl. Then he said, 'But I don't see how any daughter could be nicer than you.' Mr. Willard must have thought I was crying because I was so glad he wanted to be a father to me. 'There, there,' he patted my shoulder and cleared his throat once or twice. 'I think we understand each other.' Then he opened the car door on his side and strolled round to my side, his breath shaping tortuous smoke signals in the gray air. I moved over to the seat he had left and he started the car and we drove on. I'm not sure what I expected of Buddy's sanatorium. I think I expected a kind of wooden chalet perched up on top of a small mountain, with rosy-cheeked young men and women, all very attractive but with hectic glittering eyes, lying covered with thick blankets on outdoor balconies. 'TB is like living with a bomb in your lung,' Buddy had written to me at college. 'You just lie around very quietly hoping it won't go off.' I found it hard to imagine Buddy lying quietly. His whole philosophy of life was to be up and doing every second. Even when we went to the beach in the summer he never lay down to drowse in the sun the way I did. He ran back and forth or played ball or did a little series of rapid pushups to use the time. Mr. Willard and I waited in the reception room for the end of the afternoon rest cure. The color scheme of the whole sanatorium seemed to be based on liver. Dark, glowering woodwork, burnt-brown leather chairs, walls that might once have been white but had succumbed under a spreading malady of mold or damp. A mottled brown linoleum sealed off the floor. On a low coffee table, with circular and semicircular stains bitten into the dark veneer, lay a few wilted numbers of Time and Life. I flipped to the middle of the nearest magazine. The face of Eisenhower beamed up at me, bald and blank as the face of a fetus in a bottle. After a while I became aware of a sly, leaking noise. For a minute I thought the walls had begun to discharge the moisture that must saturate them, but then I saw the noise came from a small fountain in one corner of the room. The fountain spurted a few inches into the air from a rough length of pipe, threw up its hands, collapsed and drowned its ragged dribble in a stone basin of yellowing water. The basin was paved with the white hexagonal tiles one finds in public lavatories. A buzzer sounded. Doors opened and shut in the distance. Then Buddy came in. 'Hello, Dad.' Buddy hugged his father, and promptly, with a dreadful brightness, came over to me and held out his hand. I shook it. It felt moist and fat. Mr. Willard and I sat together on a leather couch. Buddy perched opposite us on the edge of a slippery armchair. He kept smiling, as if the corners of his mouth were strung up on invisible wire. The last thing I expected was for Buddy to be fat. All the time I thought of him at the sanatorium I saw shadows carving themselves under his cheekbones and his eyes burning out of almost fleshless sockets. But everything concave about Buddy had suddenly turned convex. A pot belly swelled under the tight white nylon shirt and his cheeks were round and ruddy as marzipan fruit. Even his laugh sounded plump. Buddy's eyes met mine. 'It's the eating,' he said. 'They stuff us day after day and then just make us lie around. But I'm allowed out on walk hours now, so don't worry, I'll thin down in a couple of weeks.' He jumped up, smiling like a glad host. 'Would you like to see my room?' I followed Buddy, and Mr. Willard followed me, through a pair of swinging doors set with panes of frosted glass down a dim, liver-colored corridor smelling of floor wax and Lysol and another vaguer odor, like bruised gardenias. Buddy threw open a brown door, and we filed into the narrow room. A lumpy bed, shrouded by a thin white spread, pencil-striped with blue, took up most of the space. Next to it stood a bed table with a pitcher and a water glass and the silver twig of a thermometer poking up from a jar of pink disinfectant. A second table, covered with books and papers and off-kilter clay pots -- baked and painted, but not glazed -- squeezed itself between the bed foot and the closet door. 'Well,' Mr. Willard breathed, 'it looks comfortable enough.' Buddy laughed. 'What are these?' I picked up a clay ashtray in the shape of a lilypad, with the veinings carefully drawn in yellow on a murky green ground. Buddy didn't smoke. 'That's an ashtray,' Buddy said. 'It's for you.' I put the tray down. 'I don't smoke.' 'I know,' Buddy said. 'I thought you might like it, though.' 'Well,' Mr. Willard rubbed one papery lip against another. 'I guess I'll be getting on. I guess I'll be leaving you two young people. . .' 'Fine, Dad. You be getting on.' I was surprised. I had thought Mr. Willard was going to stay the night before driving me back the next day. 'Shall I come too?' 'No, no.' Mr. Willard peeled a few bills from his wallet and handed them to Buddy. 'See that Esther gets a comfortable seat on the train. She'll stay a day or so, maybe.' Buddy escorted his father to the door. I felt Mr. Willard had deserted me. I thought he must have planned it all along, but Buddy said no, his father simply couldn't stand the sight of sickness and especially his own son's sickness, because he thought all sickness was sickness of the will. Mr. Willard had never been sick a day in his life. I sat down on Buddy's bed. There simply wasn't anywhere else to sit. Buddy rummaged among his papers in a businesslike way. Then he handed me a thin, gray magazine. 'Turn to page eleven.' The magazine was printed somewhere in Maine and full of stenciled poems and descriptive paragraphs separated from each other by asterisks. On page eleven I found a poem titled 'Florida Dawn.' I skipped down through image after image about watermelon lights and turtle-green palms and shells fluted like bits of Greek architecture. 'Not bad.' I thought it was dreadful. 'Who wrote it?' Buddy asked with an odd, pigeony smile. My eye dropped to the name on the lower right-hand corner of the page. B. S. Willard. 'I don't know.' Then I said, 'Of course I know, Buddy. You wrote it.' Buddy edged over to me. I edged back. I have very little knowledge about TB, but it seemed to me an extremely sinister disease, the way it went on so invisibly. I thought Buddy might well be sitting in his own little murderous aura of TB germs. 'Don't worry,' Buddy kughed. 'I'm not positive.' 'Positive?' 'You can't catch anything.' Buddy stopped for a breath, the way you do in the middle of climbing something very steep. 'I want to ask you a question.' He had a disquieting new habit of boring into my eyes with his look as if actually bent on piercing my head, the better to analyze what went on inside it. 'I'd thought of asking it by letter.' I had a fleeting vision of a pale blue envelope with a Yale crest on the back flap. 'But then I decided it would be better if I waited until you came up, so I could ask you in person.' He paused. 'Well, don't you want to know what it is?' 'What?' I said in a small, unpromising voice. Buddy sat down beside me. He put his arm around my waist and brushed the hair from my ear. I didn't move. Then I heard him whisper, 'How would you like to be Mrs. Buddy Willard?' I had an awful impulse to laugh. I thought how that question would have bowled me over at any time in my fiveor six-year period of adoring Buddy Willard from a distance. Buddy saw me hesitate. 'Oh, I'm in no shape now, I know,' he said quickly. 'I'm still on P.A.S. and I may yet lose a rib or two, but I'll be back at med school by next fall. A year from this spring at the latest. . .' 'I think I should tell you something, Buddy.' 'I know,' Buddy said stiffly. 'You've met someone.' 'No, it's not that.' 'What is it, then?' 'I'm never going to get married.' 'You're crazy.' Buddy brightened. 'You'll change your mind.' 'No. My mind's made up.' But Buddy just went on looking cheerful. 'Remember,' I said, 'that time you hitchhiked back to college with me after Skit Night?' 'I remember.' 'Remember how you asked me where would I like to live best, the country or the city?' 'And you said. . .' 'And I said I wanted to live in the country and in the city both?' Buddy nodded. 'And you,' I continued with sudden force, 'laughed and said I had the perfect setup of a true neurotic and that that question came from some questionnaire you'd had in psychology class that week?' Buddy's smile dimmed. 'Well, you were right. I am neurotic. I could never settle down in either the country or the city.' 'You could live between them,' Buddy suggested helpfully. 'Then you could go to the city sometimes and to the country sometimes.' 'Well, what's so neurotic about that?' Buddy didn't answer. 'Well?' I rapped out, thinking, You can't coddle these sick people, it's the worst thing for them, it'll spoil them to bits. 'Nothing,' Buddy said in a pale, still voice. 'Neurotic, ha!' I let out a scornful laugh. 'If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days.' Buddy put his hand on mine. 'Let me fly with you.' I stood at the top of the ski slope on Mount Pisgah, looking down. I had no business to be up there. I had never skied before in my life. Still, I thought I would enjoy the view while I had the chance. At my left, the rope tow deposited skier after skier on the snowy summit which, packed by much crossing and recrossing and slightly melted in the noon sun, had hardened to the consistency and polish of glass. The cold air punished my lungs and sinuses to a visionary clearness. On every side of me the red and blue and white jacketed skiers tore away down the blinding slope like fugitive bits of an American flag. From the foot of the ski run, the imitation log cabin lodge piped its popular songs into the overhang of silence. Gazing down on the Jungfrau From our chalet for two. . . The lilt and boom threaded by me like an invisible rivulet in a desert of snow. One careless, superb gesture, and I would be hurled into motion down the slope toward the small khaki spot in the sidelines, among the spectators, which was Buddy Willard. All morning Buddy had been teaching me how to ski. First, Buddy borrowed skis and ski poles from a friend of his in the village, and ski boots from a doctor's wife whose feet were only one size larger than my own, and a red ski jacket from a student nurse. His persistence in the face of mulishness was astounding. Then I remembered that at medical school Buddy had won a prize for persuading the most relatives of dead people to have their dead ones cut up whether they needed it or not, in the interests of science. I forget what the prize was, but I could just see Buddy in his white coat with his stethoscope sticking out of a side pocket like part of his anatomy, smiling and bowing and talking those numb, dumb relatives into signing the postmortem papers. Next, Buddy borrowed a car from his own doctor, who'd had TB himself and was very understanding, and we drove off as the buzzer for walk hour rasped along the sunless sanatorium corridors. Buddy had never skied before either, but he said that the elementary principles were quite simple, and as he'd often watched the ski instructors and their pupils he could teach me all I'd need to know. For the first half hour I obediently herringboned up a small slope, pushed off with my poles and coasted straight down. Buddy seemed pleased with my progress. 'That's fine, Esther,' he observed, as I negotiated my slope for the twentieth time. 'Now let's try you on the rope tow.' I stopped in my tracks, flushed and panting. 'But Buddy, I don't know how to zigzag yet. All those people coming down from the top know how to zigzag.' 'Oh, you need only go halfway. Then you won't gain very much momentum.' And Buddy accompanied me to the rope tow and showed me how to let the rope run through my hands, and then told me to close my fingers round it and go up. It never occurred to me to say no. I wrapped my fingers around the rough, bruising snake of a rope that slithered through them, and went up. But the rope dragged me, wobbling and balancing, so rapidly I couldn't hope to dissociate myself from it halfway. There was a skier in front of me and a skier behind me, and I'd have been knocked over and stuck full of skis and poles the minute I let go, and I didn't want to make trouble, so I hung quietly on. At the top, though, I had second thoughts. Buddy singled me out, hesitating there in the red jacket. His arms chopped the air like khaki windmills. Then I saw he was signaling me to come down a path that had opened in the middle of the weaving skiers. But as I poised, uneasy, with a dry throat, the smooth white path from my feet to his feet blurred. A skier crossed it from the left, another crossed it from the right, and Buddy's arms went on waving feebly as antennae from the other side of a field swarming with tiny moving animalcules like germs, or bent, bright exclamation marks. I looked up from that churning amphitheater to the view beyond it. The great, gray eye of the sky looked back at me, its mist-shrouded sun focusing all the white and silent distances that poured from every point of the compass, hill after pale hill, to stall at my feet. The interior voice nagging me not to be a fool -- to save my skin and take off my skis and walk down, camouflaged by the scrub pines bordering the slope -- fled like a disconsolate mosquito. The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower. I measured the distance to Buddy with my eye. His arms were folded, now, and he seemed of a piece with the split-rail fence behind him -- numb, brown and inconsequential. Edging to the rim of the hilltop, I dug the spikes of my poles into the snow and pushed myself into a flight I knew I couldn't stop by skill or any belated access of will. I aimed straight down. A keen wind that had been hiding itself struck me full in the mouth and raked the hair back horizontal on my head. I was descending, but the white sun rose no higher. It hung over the suspended waves of the hills, an insentient pivot without which the world would not exist. A small, answering point in my own body flew toward it. I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery -- air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, 'This is what it is to be happy.' I plummeted down past the zigzaggers, the students, the experts, through year after year of doubleness and smiles and compromise, into my own past. People and trees receded on either hand like the dark sides of a tunnel as I hurtled on to the still, bright point at the end of it, the pebble at the bottom of the well, the white sweet baby cradled in its mother's belly. My teeth crunched a gravelly mouthful. Ice water seeped down my throat. Buddy's face hung over me, near and huge, like a distracted planet. Other faces showed themselves up in back of his. Behind him, black dots swarmed on a plane of whiteness. Piece by piece, as at the strokes of a dull godmother's wand, the old world sprang back into position. 'You were doing fine,' a familiar voice informed my ear, 'until that man stepped into your path.' People were unfastening my bindings and collecting my ski poles from where they poked skyward, askew, in their separate snowbanks. The lodge fence propped itself at my back. Buddy bent to pull off my boots and the several pairs of white wool socks that padded them. His plump hand shut on my left foot, then inched up my ankle, closing and probing, as if feeling for a concealed weapon. A dispassionate white sun shone at the summit of the sky. I wanted to hone myself on it till I grew saintly and thin and essential as the blade of a knife. 'I'm going up,' I said. 'I'm going to do it again.' 'No, you're not.' A queer, satisfied expression came over Buddy's face. 'No, you're not,' he repeated with a final smile. 'Your leg's broken in two places. You'll be stuck in a cast for months.' Nine 'I'm so GLAD THEY'RE GOING TO DIE.' Hilda arched her cat-limbs in a yawn, buried her head in her arms on the conference table and went back to sleep. A wisp of bilious green straw perched on her brow like a tropical bird. Bile green. They were promoting it for fall, only Hilda, as usual, was half a year ahead of time. Bile green with black, bile green with white, bile green with nile green, its kissing cousin. Fashion blurbs, silver and full of nothing, sent up their fishy bubbles in my brain. They surfaced with a hollow pop. I'm so glad they're going to die. I cursed the luck that had timed my arrival in the hotel cafeteria to coincide with Hilda's. After a late night I felt too dull to think up the excuse that would take me back to my room for the glove, the handkerchief, the umbrella, the notebook I forgot. My penalty was the long, dead walk from the frosted glass doors of the Amazon to the strawberrymarble slab of our entry on Madison Avenue. Hilda moved like a mannequin the whole way. 'That's a lovely hat, did you make it?' I half expected Hilda to turn on me and say, 'You sound sick,' but she only extended and then retracted her swanny neck. 'Yes.' The night before I'd seen a play where the heroine was possessed by a dybbuk, and when the dybbuk spoke from her mouth its voice sounded so cavernous and deep you couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman. Well, Hilda's voice sounded just like the voice of that dybbuk. She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she contained to exist. The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault. So I said, 'Isn't it awful about the Rosenbergs?' The Rosenbergs were to be electrocuted late that night. 'Yes!' Hilda said, and at last I felt I had touched a human string in the cat's cradle of her heart. It was only as the two of us waited for the others in the tomblike morning gloom of the conference room that Hilda amplified that Yes of hers. 'It's awful such people should be alive.' She yawned then, and her pale orange mouth opened on a large darkness. Fascinated, I stared at the blind cave behind her face until the two lips met and moved and the dybbuk spoke out of its hiding place, 'I'm so glad they're going to die.' 'Come on, give us a smile.' I sat on the pink velvet loveseat in Jay Cee's office, holding a paper rose and facing the magazine photographer. I was the last of the twelve to have my picture taken. I had tried concealing myself in the powder room, but it didn't work. Betsy had spied my feet under the doors. I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full This was the last round of photographs before the magazine went to press and we returned to Tulsa or Biloxi or Teaneck or Coos Bay or wherever we'd come from, and we were supposed to be photographed with props to show what we wanted to be. Betsy held an ear of corn to show she wanted to be a farmer's wife, and Hilda held the bald, faceless head of a hatmaker's dummy to show she wanted to design hats, and Doreen held a gold-embroidered sari to show she wanted to be a social worker in India (she didn't really, she told me, she only wanted to get her hands on a sari). When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know. 'Oh, sure you know,' the photographer said. 'She wants,' said Jay Cee wittily, 'to be everything.' I said I wanted to be a poet. Then they scouted about for something for me to hold. Jay Cee suggested a book of poems, but the photographer said no, that was too obvious. It should be something that showed what inspired the poems. Finally Jay Cee undipped the single, long-stemmed paper rose from her latest hat. The photographer fiddled with his hot white lights. 'Show us how happy it makes you to write a poem.' I stared through the frieze of rubber-plant leaves in Jay Cee's window to the blue sky beyond. A few stagey cloud puffs were traveling from right to left. I fixed my eyes on the largest cloud, as if, when it passed out of sight, I might have the good luck to pass with it. I felt it was very important to keep the line of my mouth level. 'Give us a smile.' At last, obediently, like the mouth of a ventriloquist's dummy, my own mouth started to quirk up. 'Hey,' the photographer protested, with sudden foreboding, 'you look like you're going to cry.' I couldn't stop. I buried my face in the pink velvet facade of Jay Cee's loveseat and with immense relief the salt tears and miserable noises that had been prowling around in me all morning burst out into the room. When I lifted my head, the photographer had vanished. Jay Cee had vanished as well. I felt limp and betrayed, like the skin shed by a terrible animal. It was a relief to be free of the animal, but it seemed to have taken my spirit with it, and everything else it could lay its paws on. I fumbled in my pocketbook for the gilt compact with the mascara and the mascara brush and the eyeshadow and the three lipsticks and the side mirror. The face that peered back at me seemed to be peering from the grating of a prison cell after a prolonged beating. It looked bruised and puffy and all the wrong colors. It was a face that needed soap and water and Christian tolerance. I started to paint it with small heart. Jay Cee breezed back after a decent interval with an armful of manuscripts. 'These'll amuse you,' she said. 'Have a good read.' Every morning a snowy avalanche of manuscripts swelled the dust-gray piles in the office of the Fiction Editor. Secretly, in studies and attics and schoolrooms all over America, people must be writing. Say someone or other finished a manuscript every minute; in five minutes that would be five manuscripts stacked on the Fiction Editor's desk. Within the hour there would be sixty, crowding each other onto the floor. And in a year. . . I smiled, seeing a pristine, imaginary manuscript floating in mid-air, with Esther Greenwood typed in the upper-right-hand corner. After my month on the magazine I'd applied for a summer school course with a famous writer where you sent in the manuscript of a story and he read it and said whether you were good enough to be admitted into his class. Of course, it was a very small class, and I had sent in my story a long time ago and hadn't heard from the writer yet, but I was sure I'd find the letter of acceptance waiting on the mail table at home. I decided I'd surprise Jay Cee and send in a couple of the stories I wrote in this class under a pseudonym. Then one day the Fiction Editor would come in to Jay Cee personally and plop the stories down on her desk and say, 'Here's something a cut above the usual,' and Jay Cee would agree and accept them and ask the author to lunch and it would be me. 'Honestly,' Doreen said, 'this one'll be different' 'Tell me about him,' I said stonily. 'He's from Peru.' 'They're squat,' I said. 'They're ugly as Aztecs.' 'No, no, no, sweetie, I've already met him.' We were sitting on my bed in a mess of dirty cotton dresses and laddered nylons and gray underwear, and for ten minutes Doreen had been trying to persuade me to go to a country club dance with a friend of somebody Lenny knew which, she insisted, was a very different thing from a friend of Lenny's, but as I was catching the eight o'clock train home the next morning I felt I should make some attempt to pack I also had a dim idea that if I walked the streets of New York by myself all night something of the city's mystery and magnificence might rub off on to me at last But I gave it up. It was becoming more and more difficult for me to decide to do anything in those last days. And when I eventually did decide to do something, such as packing a suitcase, I only dragged all my grubby, expensive clothes out of the bureau and the closet and spread them on the chairs and the bed and the floor and then sat and stared at them, utterly perplexed. They seemed to have a separate, mulish identity of their own that refused to be washed and folded and stowed. 'It's these clothes,' I told Doreen. 'I just can't face these clothes when I come back.' 'That's easy.' And in her beautiful, one-track way, Doreen started to snatch up slips and stockings and the elaborate strapless bra, full of steel springs -- a free gift from the Primrose Corset Company, which I'd never had the courage to wear -- and finally, one by one, the sad array of queerly cut forty-dollar dresses. . . 'Hey, leave that one out. I'm wearing it.' Doreen extricated a black scrap from her bundle and dropped it in my lap. Then, snowballing the rest of the clothes into one soft, conglomerate mass, she stuffed them out of sight under the bed. Doreen knocked on the green door with the gold knob. Scuffing and a man's laugh, cut short, sounded from inside. Then a tall boy in shirtsleeves and a blond crewcut inched the door open and peered out. 'Baby!' he roared. Doreen disappeared in his arms. I thought it must be the person Lenny knew. I stood quietly in the doorway in my black sheath and my black stole with the fringe, yellower than ever, but expecting less. 'I am an observer,' I told myself, as I watched Doreen being handed into the room by the blond boy to another man, who was also tall, but dark, with slightly longer hair. This man was wearing an immaculate white suit, a pale blue shirt and a yellow satin tie with a bright stickpin. I couldn't take my eyes off that stickpin. A great white light seemed to shoot out of it, illuminating the room. Then the light withdrew into itself, leaving a dewdrop on a field of gold. I put one foot in front of the other. 'That's a diamond,' somebody said, and a lot of people burst out laughing. My nail tapped a glassy facet 'Her first diamond.' 'Give it to her, Marco.' Marco bowed and deposited the stickpin in my palm. It dazzled and danced with light like a heavenly ice cube. I slipped it quickly into my imitation jet bead evening bag and looked around. The faces were empty as plates, and nobody seemed to be breathing. 'Fortunately,' a dry, hard hand encircled my upper arm, 'I am escorting the lady for the rest of the evening. Perhaps,' the spark in Marco's eyes extinguished, and they went black, 'I shall perform some small service. . .' Somebody laughed. '. . .worthy of a diamond.' The hand round my arm tightened. 'Ouch!' Marco removed his hand. I looked down at my arm. A fhumbprint purpled into view. Marco watched me. Then he pointed to the underside of my arm. 'Look there.' I looked, and saw four, faint matching prints. 'You see, I am quite serious.' Marco's small, flickering smile reminded me of a snake I'd teased in the Bronx Zoo. When I tapped my finger on the stout cage glass the snake had opened its clockwork jaws and seemed to smile. Then it struck and struck and struck at the invisible pane till I moved off. I had never met a woman-hater before. I could tell Marco was a woman-hater, because in spite of all the models and TV starlets in the room that night he paid attention to nobody but me. Not out of kindness or even curiosity, but because I'd happened to be dealt to him, like a playing card in a pack of identical cards. A man in the country club band stepped up to the mike and started shaking those seedpod rattles that mean South American music. Marco reached for my hand, but I hung on to my fourth daiquiri and stayed put. I'd never had a daiquiri before. The reason I had a daiquiri was because Marco ordered it for me, and I felt so grateful he hadn't asked what sort of drink I wanted that I didn't say a word, I just drank one daiquiri after another. Marco looked at me. 'No,' I said. 'What do you mean, no?' 'I can't dance to that kind of music.' 'Don't be stupid.' 'I want to sit here and finish my drink.' Marco bent toward me with a tight smile, and in one swoop my drink took wing and landed in a potted palm. Then Marco gripped my hand in such a way I had to choose between following him on to the floor or having my arm torn off. 'It's a tango.' Marco maneuvered me out among the dancers. 'I love tangos.' 'I can't dance.' 'You don't have to dance. I'll do the dancing.' Marco hooked an arm around my waist and jerked me up against his dazzling white suit. Then he said, 'Pretend you are drowning.' I shut my eyes, and the music broke over me like a rainstorm. Marco's leg slid forward against mine and my leg slid back and I seemed to be riveted to him, limb for limb, moving as he moved, without any will or knowledge of my own, and after a while I thought, 'It doesn't take two to dance, it only takes one,' and I let myself blow and bend like a tree in the wind. 'What did I tell you?' Marco's breath scorched my ear. 'You're a perfectly respectable dancer.' I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Womanhaters were like gods: invulnerable and chock-full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one. After the South American music there was an interval Marco led me through the French doors into the garden. Lights and voices spilled from the ballroom window, but a few yards beyond the darkness drew up its barricade and sealed them off. In the infinitesimal glow of the stars, the trees and flowers were strewing their cool odors. There was no moon. The box hedges shut behind us. A deserted golf course stretched away toward a few hilly clumps of trees, and I felt the whole desolate familiarity of the scene -- the country club and the dance and the lawn with its single cricket. I didn't know where I was, but it was somewhere in the wealthy suburbs of New York. Marco produced a slim cigar and a silver lighter in the shape of a bullet. He set the cigar between his lips and bent over the small flare. His face, with its exaggerated shadows and planes of light, looked alien and pained, like a refugee's. I watched him. 'Who are you in love with?' I said then. For a minute Marco didn't say anything, he simply opened his mouth and breathed out a blue, vaporous ring. 'Perfect!' he laughed. The ring widened and blurred, ghost-pale on the dark air. Then he said, 'I am in love with my cousin.' I felt no surprise. 'Why don't you marry her?' 'Impossible.' 'Why?' Marco shrugged. 'She's my first cousin. She's going to be a nun.' 'Is she beautiful?' 'There's no one to touch her.' 'Does she know you love her?' 'Of course.' I paused. The obstacle seemed unreal to me. 'If you love her,' I said, 'you'll love somebody else someday.' Marco dashed his cigar underfoot. The ground soared and struck me with a soft shock. Mud squirmed through my fingers. Marco waited until I half rose. Then he put both hands on my shoulders and flung me back. 'My dress. . .' 'Your dress!' The mud oozed and adjusted itself to my shoulder blades. 'Your dress!' Marco's face lowered cloudily over mine. A few drops of spit struck my lips. 'Your dress is black and the dirt is black as well.' Then he threw himself face down as if he would grind his body through me and into the mud. 'It's happening,' I thought. 'It's happening. If I just lie here and do nothing it will happen.' Marco set his teeth to the strap at my shoulder and tore my sheath to the waist. I saw the glimmer of bare skin, like a pale veil separating two bloody-minded adversaries. 'Slut!' The words hissed by my ear. 'Slut!' The dust cleared, and I had a full view of the battle. I began to writhe and bite. Marco weighed me to the earth. 'Slut!' I gouged at his leg with the sharp heel of my shoe. He turned, fumbling for the hurt. Then I fisted my fingers together and smashed them at his nose. It was like hitting the steel plate of a battleship. Marco sat up. I began to cry. Marco pulled out a white handkerchief and dabbed his nose. Blackness, like ink, spread over the pale cloth. I sucked at my salty knuckles. 'I want Doreen.' Marco stared off across the golf links. 'I want Doreen. I want to go home.' 'Sluts, all sluts.' Marco seemed to be talking to nimself. 'Yes or no, it is all the same.' I poked Marco's shoulder. 'Where's Doreen?' Marco snorted. 'Go to the parking lot. Look in the backs of all the cars.' Then he spun around. 'My diamond.' I got up and retrieved my stole from the darkness. I started to walk off. Marco sprang to his feet and blocked my path. Then, deliberately, he wiped his finger under his bloody nose and with two strokes stained my cheeks. 'I have earned my diamond with this blood. Give it to me.' 'I don't know where it is.' Now I knew perfectly well that the diamond was in my evening bag and that when Marco knocked me down my evening bag had soared, like a night bird, into the enveloping darkness. I began to think I would lead him away and then return on my own and hunt for it. I had no idea what a diamond that size would buy, but whatever it was, I knew it would be a lot. Marco took my shoulders in both hands. 'Tell me,' he said, giving each word equal emphasis. 'Tell me, or I'll break your neck.' Suddenly I didn't care. 'It's in my imitation jet bead evening bag,' I said. 'Somewhere in the muck.' I left Marco on his hands and knees, scrabbling in the darkness for another, smaller darkness that hid the light of his diamond from his furious eyes. Doreen was not in the ballroom nor in the parking lot. I kept to the fringe of the shadows so nobody would notice the grass plastered to my dress and shoes, and with my black stole I covered my shoulders and bare breasts. Luckily for me, the dance was nearly over, and groups of people were leaving and coming out to the parked cars. I asked at one car after another until finally I found a car that had room and would drop me in the middle of Manhattan. At that vague hour between dark and dawn, the sunroof of the Amazon was deserted. Quiet as a burglar in my cornflower-sprigged bathrobe, I crept to the edge of the parapet. The parapet reached almost to my shoulders, so I dragged a folding chair from the stack against the wall, opened it, and climbed onto the precarious seat. A stiff breeze lifted the hair from my head. At my feet, the city doused its lights in sleep, its buildings blackened, as if for a funeral. It was my last night. I grasped the bundle I carried and pulled at a pale tail. A strapless elasticized slip which, in the course of wear, had lost its elasticity, slumped into my hand. I waved it, like a flag of truce, once, twice. . . The breeze caught it, and I let go. A white flake floated out into the night, and began its slow descent. I wondered on what street or rooftop it would come to rest. I tugged at the bundle again. The wind made an effort, but failed, and a batlike shadow sank toward the roof garden of the penthouse opposite. Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York. Ten THE FACE IN THE MIRROR looked like a sick Indian. I dropped the compact into my pocketbook and stared out of the train window. Like a colossal junkyard, the swamps and back lots of Connecticut flashed past, one broken-down fragment bearing no relation to another. What a hotchpotch the world was! I glanced down at my unfamiliar skirt and blouse. The skirt was a green dirndl with tiny black, white and electric-blue shapes swarming across it, and it stuck out like a lampshade. Instead of sleeves, the white eyelet blouse had frills at the shoulder, floppy as the wings of a new angel. I'd forgotten to save any day clothes from the ones I let fly over New York, so Betsy had traded me a blouse and skirt for my bathrobe with the cornflowers on it. A wan reflection of myself, white wings, brown ponytail and all, ghosted over the landscape. 'Pollyanna Cowgirl,' I said out loud. A woman in the seat opposite looked up from her magazine. I hadn't, at the last moment, felt like washing off the two diagonal lines of dried blood that marked my cheeks. They seemed touching, and rather spectacular, and I thought I would carry them around with me, like the relic of a dead lover, till they wore off of their own accord. Of course, if I smiled or moved my face much, the blood would flake away in no time, so I kept my face immobile, and when I had to speak I spoke through my teeth, without disturbing my lips. I didn't really see why people should look at me. Plenty of people looked queerer than I did. My gray suitcase rode on the rack over my head, empty except for The Thirty Best Short Stories of the Year, a white plastic sunglasses case and two dozen avocado pears, a parting present from Doreen. The pears were unripe, so they would keep well, and whenever I lifted my suitcase up or down or simply carried it along, they cannoned from one end to the other with a special little thunder of their own. 'Root Wan Twenny Ate!' the conductor bawled. The domesticated wilderness of pine, maple and oak rolled to a halt and stuck in the frame of the train window like a bad picture. My suitcase grumbled and bumped as I negotiated the long aisle. I stepped from the air-conditioned compartment onto the station platform, and the motherly breath of the suburbs enfolded me. It smelt of lawn sprinklers and station wagons and tennis rackets and dogs and babies. A summer calm laid its soothing hand over everything, like death. My mother was waiting by the glove-gray Chevrolet. 'Why lovey, what's happened to your face?' 'Cut myself,' I said briefly, and crawled into the back seat after my suitcase. I didn't want her staring at me the whole way home. The upholstery felt slippery and clean. My mother climbed behind the wheel and tossed a few letters into my lap, then turned her back The car purred into life. 'I think I should tell you right away,' she said, and I could see bad news in the set of her neck, 'you didn't make that writing course.' The air punched out of my stomach. All through June the writing course stretched before me like a bright, safe bridge over the dull gulf of the summer. Now I saw it totter and dissolve, and a body in a white blouse and green skirt plummet into the gap. Then my mouth shaped itself sourly. I had expected it. I slunk down on the middle of my spine, my nose level with the rim of the window, and watched the houses of outer Boston glide by. As the houses grew more familiar I slunk still lower. I felt it was very important not to be recognized. The gray, padded car roof closed over my head like the roof of a prison van, and the white, shining, identical clapboard houses with their interstices of well-groomed green proceeded past, one bar after another in a large but escape-proof cage. I had never spent a summer in the suburbs before. The soprano screak of carriage wheels punished my ear. Sun, seeping through the blinds, filled the bedroom with a sulphurous light. I didn't know how long I had slept, but I felt one big twitch of exhaustion. The twin bed next to mine was empty and unmade. At seven I had heard my mother get up, slip into her clothes and tiptoe out of the room. Then the buzz of the orange squeezer sounded from downstairs, and the smell of coffee and bacon filtered under my door. Then the sink water ran from the tap and dishes clinked as my mother dried them and put them back in the cupboard. Then the front door opened and shut. Then the car door opened and shut, and the motor went broom-broom and, edging off with a crunch of gravel, faded into the distance. My mother was teaching shorthand and typing to a lot of city college girls and wouldn't be home till the middle of the afternoon. The carriage wheels screaked past again. Somebody seemed to be wheeling a baby back and forth under my window. I slipped out of bed and onto the rug, and quietly, on my hands and knees, crawled over to see who it was. Ours was a small, white clapboard house set in the middle of a small green lawn on the corner of two peaceful suburban streets, but in spite of the little maple trees planted at intervals around our property, anybody passing along the sidewalk could glance up at the second story windows and see just what was going on. This was brought home to me by our next-door neighbor, a spiteful woman named Mrs. Ockenden. Mrs. Ockenden was a retired nurse who had just married her third husband -- the other two died in curious circumstances -- and she spent an inordinate amount of time peering from behind the starched white curtains of her windows. She had called my mother up twice about me -- once to report that I had been sitting in front of the house for an hour under the streetlight and kissing somebody in a blue Plymouth, and once to say that I had better pull the blinds down in my room, because she had seen me half-naked getting ready for bed one night when she happened to be out walking her Scotch terrier. With great care, I raised my eyes to the level of the windowsill. A woman not five feet tall, with a grotesque, protruding stomach, was wheeling an old black baby carriage down the street. Two or three small children of various sizes, all pale, with smudgy faces and bare smudgy knees, wobbled along in the shadow of her skirts. A serene, almost religious smile lit up the woman's face. Her head tilted happily back, like a sparrow egg perched on a duck egg, she smiled into the sun. I knew the woman well It was Dodo Conway. Dodo Conway was a Catholic who had gone to Barnard and then married an architect who had gone to Columbia and was also a Catholic. They had a big, rambling house up the street from us, set behind a morbid facade of pine trees, and surrounded by scooters, tricycles, doll carriages, toy fire trucks, baseball bats, badminton nets, croquet wickets, hamster cages and cocker spaniel puppies -- the whole sprawling paraphernalia of suburban childhood. Dodo interested me in spite of myself. Her house was unlike all the others in our neighborhood in its size (it was much bigger) and its color (the second story was constructed of dark brown clapboard and the first of gray stucco, studded with gray and purple golfball-shaped stones), and the pine trees completely screened it from view, which was considered unsociable in our community of adjoining lawns and friendly, waist-high hedges. Dodo raised her six children -- and would no doubt raise her seventh -- on Rice Krispies, peanut-butter-and-marshmallow sandwiches, vanilla ice cream and gallon upon gallon of Hoods milk. She got a special discount from the local milkman. Everybody loved Dodo, although the swelling size of her family was the talk of the neighborhood. The older people around, like my mother, had two children, and the younger, more prosperous ones had four, but nobody but Dodo was on the verge of a seventh. Even six was considered excessive, but then, everybody said, of course Dodo was a Catholic. I watched Dodo wheel the youngest Conway up and down. She seemed to be doing it for my benefit. Children made me sick. A floorboard creaked, and I ducked down again, just as Dodo Conway's face, by instinct, or some gift of supernatural hearing, turned on the little pivot of its neck. I felt her gaze pierce through the white clapboard and the pink wallpaper roses and uncover me, crouching there behind the silver pickets of the radiator. I crawled back into bed and pulled the sheet over my head. But even that didn't shut out the light, so I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to. After a while I heard the telephone ringing in the downstairs hall. I stuffed the pillow into my ears and gave myself five minutes. Then I lifted my head from its bolt hole. The ringing had stopped. Almost at once it started up again. Cursing whatever friend, relative or stranger had sniffed out my homecoming, I padded barefoot downstairs. The black instrument on the hall table trilled its hysterical note over and over, like a nervous bird. I picked up the receiver. 'Hullo,' I said, in a low, disguised voice. 'Hullo, Esther, what's the matter, have you got laryngitis?' It was my old friend Jody, calling from Cambridge. Jody was working at the Coop that summer and taking a lunchtime course in sociology. She and two other girls from my college had rented a big apartment from four Harvard law students, and I'd been planning to move in with them when my writing course began. Jody wanted to know when they could expect me. 'I'm not coming,' I said. 'I didn't make the course.' There was a small pause. 'He's an ass,' Jody said then. 'He doesn't know a good thing when he sees it.' 'My sentiments exactly.' My voice sounded strange and hollow in my ears. 'Come anyway. Take some other course.' The notion of studying German or abnormal psychology flitted through my head. After all, I'd saved nearly the whole of my New York salary, so I could just about afford it But the hollow voice said, 'You better count me out.' 'Well,' Jody began, 'there's this other girl who wanted to come in with us if anybody dropped out. . .' 'Fine. Ask her.' The minute I hung up I knew I should have said I would come. One morning listening to Dodo Conway's baby carriage would drive me crazy. And I made a point of never living in the same house with my mother for more than a week. I reached for the receiver. My hand advanced a few inches, then retreated and fell limp. I forced it toward the receiver again, but again it stopped short, as if it had collided with a pane of glass. I wandered into the dining room. Propped on the table I found a long, businesslike letter from the summer school and a thin blue letter on leftover Yale stationery, addressed to me in Buddy Willard's lucid hand. I slit open the summer school letter with a knife. Since I wasn't accepted for the writing course, it said, I could choose some other course instead, but I should call in to the Admissions Office that same morning, or it would be too late to register, the courses were almost full. I dialed the Admissions Office and listened to the zombie voice leave a message that Miss Esther Greenwood was canceling all arrangements to come to summer school Then I opened Buddy Willard's letter. Buddy wrote that he was probably falling in love with a nurse who also had TB, but his mother had rented a cottage in the Adirondacks for the month of July, and if I came along with her, he might well find his feeling for the nurse was mere infatuation. I snatched up a pencil and crossed out Buddy's message. Then I turned the letter paper over and on the opposite side wrote that I was engaged to a simultaneous interpreter and never wanted to see Buddy again as I did not want to give my children a hypocrite for a father. I stuck the letter back in the envelope, Scotch-taped it together, and readdressed it to Buddy, without putting on a new stamp. I thought the message was worth a good three cents. Then I decided I would spend the summer writing a novel That would fix a lot of people. I strolled into the kitchen, dropped a raw egg into a teacup of raw hamburger, mixed it up and ate it. Then I set up the card table on the screened breezeway between the house and the garage. A great wallowing bush of mock orange shut off the view of the street in front, the house wall and the garage wall took care of either side, and a clump of birches and a box hedge protected me from Mrs. Ockenden at the back. I counted out three hundred and fifty sheets of corrasable bond from my mother's stock in the hall closet, secreted away under a pile of old felt hats and clothes brushes and woolen scarves. Back on the breezeway, I fed the first, virgin sheet into my old portable and rolled it up. From another, distanced mind, I saw myself sitting on the breezeway, surrounded by two white clapboard walls, a mock orange bush and a clump of birches and a box hedge, small as a doll in a doll's house. A feeling of tenderness filled my heart. My heroine would be myself, only in disguise. She would be called Elaine. Elaine. I counted the letters on my fingers. There were six letters in Esther, too. It seemed a lucky thing. Elaine sat on the breezeway in an old yellow nightgown of her mother's waiting for something to happen. It was a sweltering morning in July, and drops of sweat crawled down her back one by one, like slow insects. I leaned back and read what I had written. It seemed lively enough, and I was quite proud of the bit about the drops of sweat like insects, only I had the dim impression I'd probably read it somewhere else a long time ago. I sat like that for about an hour, trying to think what would come next, and in my mind, the barefoot doll in her mother's old yellow nightgown sat and stared into space as well. 'Why, honey, don't you want to get dressed?' My mother took care never to tell me to do anything. She would only reason with me sweetly, like one intelligent mature person with another. 'It's almost three in the afternoon.' 'I'm writing a novel,' I said. 'I haven't got time to change out of this and change into that.' I lay on the couch on the breezeway and shut my eyes. I could hear my mother clearing the typewriter and the papers from the card table and laying out the silver for supper, but I didn't move. Inertia oozed like molasses through Elaine's limbs. That's what it must feel like to have malaria, she thought. At any rate, I'd be lucky if I wrote a page a day. Then I knew what the trouble was. I needed experience. How could I write about life when I'd never had a love affair or a baby or even seen anybody die? A girl I knew had just won a prize for a short story about her adventures among the pygmies in Africa. How could I compete with that sort of thing? By the end of supper my mother had convinced me I should study shorthand in the evenings. Then I would be killing two birds with one stone, writing a novel and learning something practical as well. I would also be saving a whole lot of money. That same evening, my mother unearthed an old blackboard from the cellar and set it up on the breezeway. Then she stood at the blackboard and scribbled little curlicues in white chalk while I sat in a chair and watched. At first I felt hopeful. I thought I might learn shorthand in no time, and when the freckled lady in the Scholarships Office asked me why I hadn't worked to earn money in July and August, the way you were supposed to if you were a scholarship girl, I could tell her I had taken a free shorthand course instead, so I could support myself right after college. The only thing was, when I tried to picture myself in some job, briskly jotting down line after line of shorthand, my mind went blank. There wasn't one job I felt like doing where you used shorthand. And, as I sat there and watched, the white chalk curlicues blurred into senselessness. I told my mother I had a terrible headache, and went to bed. An hour later the door inched open, and she crept into the room. I heard the whisper of her clothes as she undressed. She climbed into bed. Then her breathing grew slow and regular. In the dim light of the streetlamp that filtered through the drawn blinds, I could see the pin curls on her head glittering like a row of little bayonets. I decided I would put off the novel until I had gone to Europe and had a lover, and that I would never learn a word of shorthand. If I never learned shorthand I would never have to use it. I thought I would spend the summer reading Ftnnegans Wake and writing my thesis. Then I would be way ahead when college started at the end of September, and able to enjoy my last year instead of swotting away with no makeup and stringy hair, on a diet of coffee and Benzedrine, the way most of the seniors taking honors did, until they finished their thesis. Then I thought I might put off college for a year and apprentice myself to a pottery maker. Or work my way to Germany and be a waitress, until I was bilingual. Then plan after plan started leaping through my head, like a family of scatty rabbits. I saw the years of my life spaced along a road in the form of telephone poles, threaded together by wires. I counted one, two, three. . . nineteen telephone poles, and then the wires dangled into space, and try as I would, I couldn't see a single pole beyond the nineteenth. The room blued into view, and I wondered where the night had gone. My mother turned from a foggy log into a slumbering, middle-aged woman, her mouth slightly open and a snore raveling from her throat. The piggish noise irritated me, and for a while it seemed to me that the only way to stop it would be to take the column of skin and sinew from which it rose and twist it to silence between my hands. I feigned sleep until my mother left for school, but even my eyelids didn't shut out the light. They hung the raw, red screen of their tiny vessels in front of me like a wound. I crawled between the mattress and the padded bedstead and let the mattress fall across me like a tombstone. It felt dark and safe under there, but the mattress was not heavy enough. It needed about a ton more weight to make me sleep. riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. . . The thick book made an unpleasant dent in my stomach. riverrun, past Eve and Adam's. . . I thought the small letter at the start might mean that nothing ever really began all new, with a capital, but that it just flowed on from what came before. Eve and Adam's was Adam and Eve, or course, but it probably signified something else as well. Maybe it was a pub in Dublin. My eyes sank through an alphabet soup of letters to the long word in the middle of the page. bababadalgharaghtakammmarronnkonnbronntonnerronnttionnthunntrovarrhoun awnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! I counted the letters. There were exactly a hundred of them. I thought this must be important. Why should there be a hundred letters? Haltingly, I tried the word aloud. It sounded like a heavy wooden object falling downstairs, boomp boomp boomp, step after step. Lifting the pages of the book, I let them fan slowly by my eyes. Words, dimly familiar but twisted all awry, like faces in a funhouse mirror, fled past, leaving no impression on the glassy surface of my brain. I squinted at the page. The letters grew barbs and rams' horns. I watched them separate, each from the other, and jiggle up and down in a silly way. Then they associated themselves in fantastic, untranslatable shapes, like Arabic or Chinese. I decided to junk my thesis. I decided to junk the whole honors program and become an ordinary English major. I went to look up the requirements of an ordinary English major at my college. There were lots of requirements, and I didn't have half of them. One of the requirements was a course in the eighteenth century. I hated the very idea of the eighteenth century, with all those smug men writing tight little couplets and being so dead keen on reason. So I'd skipped it. They let you do that in honors, you were much freer. I had been so free I'd spent most of my time on Dylan Thomas. A friend of mine, also in honors, had managed never to read a word of Shakespeare; but she was a real expert on the Four Quartets. I saw how impossible and embarrassing it would be for me to try to switch from my free program into the stricter one. So I looked up the requirements for English majors at the city college where my mother taught. They were even worse. You had to know Old English and the History of the English Language and a representative selection of all that had been written from Beowulf to the present day. This surprised me. I had always looked down on my mother's college, as it was coed, and filled with people who couldn't get scholarships to the big eastern colleges. Now I saw that the stupidest person at my mother's college knew more than I did. I saw they wouldn't even let me in through the door, let alone give me a large scholarship like the one I had at my own college. I thought I'd better go to work for a year and think things over. Maybe I could study the eighteenth century in secret. But I didn't know shorthand, so what could I do? I could be a waitress or a typist. But I couldn't stand the idea of being either one. 'You say you want more sleeping pills?' 'Yes.' 'But the ones I gave you last week are very strong.' 'They don't work any more.' Teresa's large, dark eyes regarded me thoughtfully. I could hear the voices of her three children in the garden under the consulting-room window. My Aunt Libby had married an Italian, and Teresa was my aunt's sister-in-law and our family doctor. I liked Teresa. She had a gentle, intuitive touch. I thought it must be because she was Italian. There was a little pause. 'What seems to be the matter?' Teresa said then. 'I can't sleep. I can't read.' I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off. I turned my hands palm up. 'I think,' Teresa tore off a white slip from her prescription pad and wrote down a name and address, 'you'd better see another doctor I know. He'll be able to help you more than I can.' I peered at the writing, but I couldn't read it. 'Doctor Gordon,' Teresa said. 'He's a psychiatrist.' Eleven DOCTOR GORDON'S WAITING ROOM was hushed and beige. The walls were beige, and the carpets were beige, and the upholstered chairs and sofas were beige. There were no mirrors or pictures, only certificates from different medical schools, with Doctor Gordon's name in Latin, hung about the walls. Pale green loopy ferns and spiked leaves of a much darker green filled the ceramic pots on the end table and the coffee table and the magazine table. At first I wondered why the room felt so safe. Then I realized it was because there were no windows. The air-conditioning made me shiver. I was still wearing Betsy's white blouse and dirndl skirt. They drooped a bit now, as I hadn't washed them in my three weeks at home. The sweaty cotton gave off a sour but friendly smell. I hadn't washed my hair for three weeks, either. I hadn't slept for seven nights. My mother told me I must have slept, it was impossible not to sleep in all that time, but if I slept, it was with my eyes wide open, for I had followed the green, luminous course of the second hand and the minute hand and the hour hand of the bedside clock through their circles and semi-circles, every night for seven nights, without missing a second, or a minute, or an hour. The reason I hadn't washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly. I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it. Doctor Gordon twiddled a silver pencil 'Your mother tells me you are upset.' I curled in the cavernous leather chair and faced Doctor Gordon across an acre of highly polished desk. Doctor Gordon waited. He tapped his pencil -- tap, tap, tap -- across the neat green field of his blotter. His eyelashes were so long and thick they looked artificial. Black plastic reeds fringing two green, glacial pools. Doctor Gordon's features were so perfect he was almost pretty. I hated him the minute I walked in through the door. I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and saying 'Ah!' in an encoraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out. Then he would lean back in his chair and match the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple and tell me why I couldn't sleep and why I couldn't read and why I couldn't eat and why everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end. And then, I thought, he would help me, step by step, to be myself again. But Doctor Gordon wasn't like that at all. He was young and good-looking, and I could see right away he was conceited. Doctor Gordon had a photograph on his desk, in a silver frame, that half faced him and half faced my leather chair. It was a family photograph, and it showed a beautiful dark-haired woman, who could have been Doctor Gordon's sister, smiling out over the heads of two blond children. I think one child was a boy and one was a girl, but it may have been that both children were boys or that both were girls, it is hard to tell when children are so small. I think there was also a dog in the picture, toward the bottom -- a kind of airedale or a golden retriever -- but it may have only been the pattern in the woman's skirt. For some reason the photograph made me furious. I didn't see why it should be turned half toward me unless Doctor Gordon was trying to show me right away that he was married to some glamorous woman and I'd better not get any funny ideas. Then I thought, how could this Doctor Gordon help me anyway, with a beautiful wife and beautiful children and a beautiful dog haloing him like the angels on a Christmas card? 'Suppose you try and tell me what you think is wrong.' I turned the words over suspiciously, like round, sea-polished pebbles that might suddenly put out a claw and change into something else. What did I think was wrong? That made it sound as if nothing was really wrong, I only thought it was wrong. In a dull, flat voice -- to show I was not beguiled by his good looks or his family photograph -- I told Doctor Gordon about not sleeping and not eating and not reading. I didn't tell him about the handwriting, which bothered me most of all. That morning I had tried to write a letter to Doreen, down in West Virginia, asking whether I could come and live with her and maybe get a job at her college waiting on table or something. But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right almost diagonally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew. I knew I couldn't send a letter like that, so I tore it up in little pieces and put them in my pocketbook, next to my all-purpose compact, in case the psychiatrist asked to see them. But of course Doctor Gordon didn't ask to see them, as I hadn't mentioned them, and I began to feel pleased at my cleverness. I thought I only need tell him what I wanted to, and that I could control the picture he had of me by hiding this and revealing that, all the while he thought he was so smart. The whole time I was talking, Doctor Gordon bent his head as if he were praying, and the only noise apart from the dull, flat voice was the tap, tap, tap of Doctor Gordon's pencil at the same point on the green blotter, like a stalled walking stick. When I had finished, Doctor Gordon lifted his head. ''Where did you say you went to college?' Baffled, I told him. I didn't see where college fitted in. 'Ah!' Doctor Gordon leaned back in his chair, staring into the air over my shoulder with a reminiscent smile. I thought he was going to tell me his diagnosis, and that perhaps I had judged him too hastily and too unkindly. But he only said, 'I remember your college well. I was up there, during the war. They had a WAC station, didn't they? Or was it WAVES?' I said I didn't know. 'Yes, a WAC station, I remember now. I was doctor for the lot, before I was sent overseas. My, they were a pretty bunch of girls.' Doctor Gordon laughed. Then, in one smooth move, he rose to his feet and strolled toward me round the corner of his desk. I wasn't sure what he meant to do, so I stood up as well. Doctor Gordon reached for the hand that hung at my right side and shook it. 'See you next week, then.' The full, bosomy elms made a tunnel of shade over the yellow and red brick fronts along Commonwealth Avenue, and a trolley car was threading itself toward Boston down its slim, silver track. I waited for the trolley to pass, then crossed to the gray Chevrolet at the opposite curb. I could see my mother's face, anxious and sallow as a slice of lemon, peering up at me through the windshield. 'Well, what did he say?' I pulled the car door shut. It didn't catch. I pushed it out and drew it in again with a dull slam. 'He said he'll see me next week.' My mother sighed. Doctor Gordon cost twenty-five dollars an hour. 'Hi there, what's your name?' 'Elly Higginbottom.' The sailor fell into step beside me, and I smiled. I thought there must be as many sailors on the Common as there were pigeons. They seemed to come out of a dun-colored recruiting house on the far side, with blue and white 'Join the Navy' posters stuck up on billboards round it and all over the inner walls. 'Where do you come from, Elly?' 'Chicago.' I had never been to Chicago, but I knew one or two boys who went to Chicago University, and it seemed the sort of place where unconventional, mixed-up people would come from. 'You sure are a long way from home.' The sailor put his arm around my waist, and for a long time we walked around the Common like that, the sailor stroking my hip through the green dirndl skirt, and me smiling mysteriously and trying not to say anything that would show I was from Boston and might at any moment meet Mrs. Willard, or one of my mother's other friends, crossing the Common after tea on Beacon Hill or shopping in Filene's Basement. I thought if I ever did get to Chicago, I might change my name to Elly Higginbottom for good. Then nobody would know I had thrown up a scholarship at a big eastern women's college and mucked up a month in New York and refused a perfectly solid medical student for a husband who would one day be a member of the AMA and earn pots of money. In Chicago, people would take me for what I was. I would be simple Elly Higgenbottom, the orphan. People would love me for my sweet, quiet nature. They wouldn't be after me to read books and write long papers on the twins in James Joyce. And one day I might just marry a virile, but tender, garage mechanic and have a big cowy family, like Dodo Conway. If I happened to feel like it. 'What do you want to do when you get out of the Navy?' I asked the sailor suddenly. It was the longest sentence I had said, and he seemed taken aback. He pushed his white cupcake cap to one side and scratched his head. 'Well, I dunno, Elly,' he said. 'I might just go to college on the G.I. Bill' I paused. Then I said suggestively, 'You ever thought of opening a garage?' 'Nope,' said the sailor. 'Never have.' I peered at him from the corner of my eye. He didn't look a day over sixteen. 'Do you know how old I am?' I said accusingly. The sailor grinned at me. 'Nope, and I don't care either.' It occurred to me that this sailor was really remarkably handsome. He looked Nordic and virginal. Now I was simple-minded it seemed I attracted clean, handsome people. 'Well, I'm thirty,' I said, and waited. 'Gee, Elly, you don't look it.' The sailor squeezed my hip. Then he glanced quickly from left to right. 'Listen, Elly, if we go round to those steps over there, under the monument, I can kiss you.' At that moment I noticed a brown figure in sensible flat brown shoes striding across the Common in my direction. From the distance, I couldn't make out any features on the dime-sized face, but I knew it was Mrs. Willard. 'Could you please tell me the way to the subway?' I said to the sailor in a loud voice. 'Huh?' 'The subway that goes out to the Deer Island Prison?' When Mrs. Willard came up I would have to pretend I was only asking the sailor directions, and didn't really know him at all. 'Take your hands off me,' I said between my teeth. 'Say, Elly, what's up?' The woman approached and passed by without a look or a nod, and of course it wasn't Mrs. Willard. Mrs. Willard was at her cottage in the Adirondacks. I fixed the woman's receding back with a vengeful stare. 'Say, Elly. . .' 'I thought it was somebody I knew,' I said. 'Some blasted lady from this orphan home in Chicago.' The sailor put his arm around me again. 'You mean you got no mom and dad, Elly?' 'No.' I let out a tear that seemed ready. It made a little hot track down my cheek. 'Say, Elly, don't cry. This lady, was she mean to you?' 'She was. . . she was awful.' The tears came in a rush, then, and while the sailor was holding me and patting them dry with a big, clean, white linen handkerchief in the shelter of an American elm, I thought what an awful woman that lady in the brown suit had been, and how she, whether she knew it or not, was responsible for my taking the wrong turn here and the wrong path there and for everything bad that happened after that. 'Well, Esther, how do you feel this week?' Doctor Gordon cradled his pencil like a slim, silver bullet. 'The same.' 'The same?' He quirked an eyebrow, as if he didn't believe it. So I told him again, in the same dull, flat voice, only it was angrier this time, because he seemed so slow to understand, how I hadn't slept for fourteen nights and how I couldn't read or write or swallow very well. Doctor Gordon seemed unimpressed. I dug into my pocketbook and found the scraps of my letter to Doreen. I took them out and let them flutter on to Doctor Gordon's immaculate green blotter. They lay there, dumb as daisy petals in a summer meadow. 'What,' I said, 'do you think of that?' I thought Doctor Gordon must immediately see how bad the handwriting was, but he only said, 'I think I would like to speak to your mother. Do you mind?' 'No.' But I didn't like the idea of Doctor Gordon talking to my mother one bit. I thought he might tell her I should be locked up. I picked up every scrap of my letter to Doreen, so Doctor Gordon couldn't piece them together and see I was planning to run away, and walked out of his office without another word. I watched my mother grow smaller and smaller until she disappeared into the door of Doctor Gordon's office building. Then I watched her grow larger and larger as she came back to the car. 'Well?' I could tell she had been crying. My mother didn't look at me. She started the car. Then she said, as we glided under the cool, deep-sea shade of the elms, 'Doctor Gordon doesn't think you've improved at all. He thinks you should have some shock treatments at his private hospital in Walton.' I felt a sharp stab of curiosity, as if I had just read a terrible newspaper headline about somebody else. 'Does he mean live there?' 'No,' my mother said, and her chin quivered. I thought she must be lying. 'You tell me the truth,' I said, 'or I'll never speak to you again.' 'Don't I always tell you the truth?' my mother said, and burst into tears. SUICIDE SAVED FROM 7-STORY LEDGE! After two hours on a narrow ledge seven stories above a concrete parking lot and gathered crowds, Mr. George Pollucci let himself be helped to safety through a nearby window by Sgt. Will Kilmartin of the Charles Street police force. I cracked open a peanut from the ten-cent bag I had bought to feed the pigeons, and ate it. It tasted dead, like a bit of old tree bark. I brought the newspaper close up to my eyes to get a better view of George Pollucci's face, spotlighted lie a three-quarter moon against a vague background of brick and black sky. I felt he had something important to tell me, and whatever it was might just be written on his face. But the smudgy crags of George Pollucci's features melted away as I peered at them, and resolved themselves into a regular pattern of dark and light and medium-gray dots. The inky-black newspaper paragraph didn't tell why Mr. Pollucci was on the ledge, or what Sgt. Kilmartin did to him when he finally got him in through the window. The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of stories, you might still be alive when you hit bottom. I thought seven stories must be a safe distance. I folded the paper and wedged it between the slats of the park bench. It was what my mother called a scandal sheet, full of the local murders and suicides and beatings and robbings, and just about every page had a half-naked lady on it with her breasts surging over the edge of her dress and her legs arranged so you could see to her stocking tops. I didn't know why I had never bought any of these papers before. They were the only things I could read. The little paragraphs between the pictures ended before the letters had a chance to get cocky and wiggle about. At home, all I ever saw was the Christian Science Monitor, which appeared on the doorstep at five o'clock every day but Sunday and treated suicides and sex crimes and airplane crashes as if they didn't happen. A big white swan full of little children approached my bench, then turned around a bosky islet covered with ducks and paddled back under the dark arch of the bridge. Everything I looked at seemed bright and extremely tiny. I saw, as if through the keyhole of a door I couldn't open, myself and my younger brother, knee-high and holding rabbit-eared balloons, climb aboard a swanboat and fight for a seat at the edge, over the peanut-shell-paved water. My mouth tasted of cleanness and peppermint. If we were good at the dentist's, my mother always bought us a swanboat ride. I circled the Public Garden -- over the bridge and under the blue-green monuments, past the American flag flowerbed and the entrance where you could have your picture taken in an orange-and-white striped canvas booth for twenty-five cents -- reading the names of the trees. My favorite tree was the Weeping Scholar Tree. I thought it must come from Japan. They understood things of the spirit in Japan. They disemboweled themselves when anything went wrong. I tried to imagine how they would go about it. They must have an extremely sharp knife. No, probably two extremely sharp knives. Then they would sit down, cross-legged, a knife in either hand. Then they would cross their hands and point a knife at each side of their stomach. They would have to be naked, or the knife would get stuck in their clothes. Then in one quick flash, before they had time to think twice, they would jab the knives in and zip them round, one on the upper crescent and one on the lower crescent, making a full circle. Then their stomach skin would come loose, like a plate, and their insides would fall out, and they would die. It must take a lot of courage to die like that. My trouble was I hated the sight of blood. I thought I might stay in the park all night. The next morning Dodo Conway was driving my mother and me to Walton, and if I was to run away before it was too late, now was the time. I looked in my pocketbook and counted out a dollar bill and seventy-nine cents in dunes and nickels and pennies. I had no idea how much it would cost to get to Chicago, and I didn't dare go to the bank and draw out all my money, because I thought Doctor Gordon might well have warned the bank clerk to intercept me if I made an obvious move. Hitchhiking occurred to me, but I had no idea which of all the routes out of Boston led to Chicago. It's easy enough to find directions on a map, but I had very little knowledge of directions when I was smack in the middle of somewhere. Every time I wanted to figure what was east or what was west it seemed to be noon, or cloudy, which was no help at all, or nighttime, and except for the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia's Chair, I was hopeless at stars, a failing which always disheartened Buddy Willard. I decided to walk to the bus terminal and inquire about the fares to Chicago. Then I might go to the bank and withdraw precisely that amount, which would not cause so much suspicion. I had just strolled in through the glass doors of the terminal and was browsing over the rack of colored tour leaflets and schedules, when I realized that the bank in my home town would be closed, as it was already mid-afternoon, and I couldn't get any money out till the next day. My appointment at Walton was for ten o'clock. At that moment, the loudspeaker crackled into life and started announcing the stops of a bus getting ready to leave in the parking lot outside. The voice on the loudspeaker went bockle bockle bockle, the way they do, so you can't understand a word, and then, in the middle of all the static, I heard a familiar name clear as A on the piano in the middle of all the tuning instruments of an orchestra. It was a stop two blocks from my house. I hurried out into the hot, dusty, end-of-July afternoon, sweating and sandymouthed, as if late for a difficult interview, and boarded the red bus, whose motor was already running. I handed my fare to the driver, and silently, on gloved hinges, the door folded shut at my back Twelve DOCTOR GORDON'S private hospital crowned a grassy rise at the end of a long, secluded drive that had been whitened with broken quahog shells. The yellow clapboard walls of the large house, with its encircling veranda, gleamed in the sun, but no people strolled on the green dome of the lawn. As my mother and I approached the summer heat bore down on us, and a cicada started up, like an aerial lawnmower, in the heart of a copper beech tree at the back. The sound of the cicada only served to underline the enormous silence. A nurse met us at the door. 'Will you wait in the living room, please. Doctor Gordon will be with you presently.' What bothered me was that everything about the house seemed normal, although I knew it must be chock-full of crazy people. There were no bars on the windows that I could see, and no wild or disquieting noises. Sunlight measured itself out in regular oblongs on the shabby, but soft red carpets, and a whiff of fresh-cut grass sweetened the air. I paused in the doorway of the living room. For a minute I thought it was the replica of a lounge in a guest house I visited once on an island off the coast of Maine. The French doors let in a dazzle of white light, a grand piano filled the far corner of the room, and people in summer clothes were sitting about at card tables and in the lopsided wicker armchairs one so often finds at down-atheel seaside resorts. Then I realized that none of the people were moving. I focused more closely, trying to pry some clue from their stiff postures. I made out men and women, and boys and girls who must be as young as I, but there was a uniformity to their faces, as if they had lain for a long time on the shelf, out of the sunlight, under siftings of pale, fine dust. Then I saw that some of the people were indeed moving, but with such small, birdlike gestures I had not at first discerned them. A gray-faced man was counting out a deck of cards, one, two, three, four. . . I thought he must be seeing if it was a full pack, but when he had finished counting, he started over again. Next to him, a fat lady played with a string of wooden beads. She drew all the beads up to one end of the string. Then click, click, click, she let them fall back on each other. At the piano, a young girl leafed through a few sheets of music, but when she saw me looking at her, she ducked her head crossly and tore the sheets in half. My mother touched my arm, and I followed her into the room. We sat, without speaking, on a lumpy sofa that creaked each time one stirred. Then my gaze slid over the people to the blaze of green beyond the diaphanous curtains, and I felt as if I were sitting in the window of an enormous department store. The figures around me weren't people, but shop dummies, painted to resemble people and propped up in attitudes counterfeiting life. I climbed after Doctor Gordon's dark-jacketed back. Downstairs, in the hall, I had tried to ask him what the shock treatment would be like, but when I opened my mouth no words came out, my eyes only widened and stared at the smiling, familiar face that floated before me like a plate full of assurances. At the top of the stairs, the garnet-colored carpet stopped. A plain, brown linoleum, tacked to the floor, took its place, and extended down a corridor lined with shut white doors. As I followed Doctor Gordon, a door opened somewhere in the distance, and I heard a woman shouting. All at once a nurse popped around the corner of the corridor ahead of us leading a woman in a blue bathrobe with shaggy, waist-length hair. Doctor Gordon stepped back, and I flattened against the wall As the woman was dragged by, waving her arms and struggling in the grip of the nurse, she was saying, 'I'm going to jump out of the window, I'm going to jump out of the window, I'm going to jump out of the window.' Dumpy and muscular in her smudge-fronted uniform, the wall-eyed nurse wore such thick spectacles that four eyes peered out at me from behind the round, twin panes of glass. I was trying to tell which eyes were the real eyes and which the false eyes, and which of the real eyes was the wall-eye and which the straight eye, when she brought her face up to mine with a large, conspiratorial grin and hissed, as if to reassure me, 'She thinks she's going to jump out the window but she can't jump out the window because they're all barred!' And as Doctor Gordon led me into a bare room at the back of the house, I saw that the windows in that part were indeed barred, and that the room door and the closet door and the drawers of the bureau and everything that opened and shut was fitted with a keyhole so it could be locked up. I lay down on the bed. The wall-eyed nurse came back. She unclasped my watch and dropped it in her pocket. Then she started tweaking the hairpins from my hair. Doctor Gordon was unlocking the closet. He dragged out a table on wheels with a machine on it and rolled it behind the head of the bed. The nurse started swabbing my temples with a smelly grease. As she leaned over to reach the side of my head nearest the wall, her fat breast muffled my face like a cloud or a pillow. A vague, medicinal stench emanated from her flesh. 'Don't worry,' the nurse grinned down at me. 'Their first time everybody's scared to death.' I tried to smile, but my skin had gone stiff, like parchment. Doctor Gordon was fitting two metal plates on either side of my head. He buckled them into place with a strap that dented my forehead, and gave me a wire to bite. I shut my eyes. There was a brief silence, like an indrawn breath. Then something bent down and took hold of me and shook me like the end of the world. Whee-ee-ee-ee-ee, it shrilled, through an air crackling with blue light, and with each flash a great jolt drubbed me till I thought my bones would break and the sap fly out of me like a split plant. I wondered what terrible thing it was that I had done. I was sitting in a wicker chair, holding a small cocktail glass of tomato juice. The watch had been replaced on my wrist, but it looked odd. Then I realised it had been fastened upside down. I sensed the unfamiliar positioning of the hairpins in my hair. 'How do you feel?' An old metal floor lamp surfaced in my mind. One of the few relics of my father's study, it was surmounted by a copper bell which held the light bulb, and from which a frayed, tiger-colored cord ran down the length of the metal stand to a socket in the wall. One day I decided to move this lamp from the side of my mother's bed to my desk at the other end of the room. The cord would be long enough, so I didn't unplug it. I closed both hands around the lamp and the fuzzy cord and gripped them tight Then something leapt out of the lamp in a blue flash and shook me till my teeth rattled, and I tried to pull my hands off, but they were stuck, and I screamed, or a scream was torn from my throat, for I didn't recognize it, but heard it soar and quaver in the air like a violently disembodied spirit. Then my hands jerked free, and I fell back onto my mother's bed. A small hole, blackened as if with pencil lead, pitted the center of my right palm. 'How do you feel?' 'All right.' But I didn't. I felt terrible. 'Which college did you say you went to?' I said what college it was. 'Ah!' Doctor Gordon's face lighted with a slow, almost tropical smile. 'They had a WAC station up there, didn't they, during the war?' My mother's knuckles were bone-white, as if the skin had worn off them in the hour of waiting. She looked past me to Doctor Gordon, and he must have nodded, or smiled, because her face relaxed. 'A few more shock treatments, Mrs. Greenwood,' I heard Doctor Gordon say, 'and I think you'll notice a wonderful improvement.' The girl was still sitting on the piano stool, the torn sheet of music splayed at her feet like a dead bird. She stared at me, and I stared back. Her eyes narrowed. She stuck out her tongue. My mother was following Doctor Gordon to the door. I lingered behind, and when their backs were turned, I rounded on the girl and thumbed both ears at her. She pulled her tongue in, and her face went stony. I walked out into the sun. Pantherlike in a dapple of tree shadow, Dodo Conway's black station wagon lay in wait. The station wagon had been ordered originally by a wealthy society lady, black, without a speck of chrome, and with black leather upholstery, but when it came, it depressed her. It was the dead spit of a hearse, she said, and everybody else thought so too, and nobody would buy it, so the Conways drove it home, cut-price, and saved themselves a couple of hundred dollars. Sitting in the front seat, between Dodo and my mother, I felt dumb and subdued. Every time I tried to concentrate, my mind glided off, like a skater, into a large empty space, and pirouetted there, absently. 'I'm through with that Doctor Gordon,' I said, after we had left Dodo and her black station wagon behind the pines. 'You can call him up and tell him I'm not coming next week.' My mother smiled. 'I knew my baby wasn't like that.' I looked at her. 'Like what?' 'Like those awful people. Those awful dead people at that hospital.' She paused. 'I knew you'd decide to be all right again.' STARLET SUCCUMBS AFTER 68-HOUR COMA. I felt in my pocketbook among the paper scraps and the compact and the peanut shells and the dimes and nickels and the blue jiffy box containing nineteen Gillette blades, till I unearthed the snapshot I'd had taken that afternoon in the orange-and-white striped booth. I brought it up next to the smudgy photograph of the dead girl. It matched, mouth for mouth, nose for nose. The only difference was the eyes. The eyes in the snapshot were open, and those in the newspaper photograph were closed. But I knew if the dead girl's eyes were to be thumbed wide, they would look at me with the same dead, black, vacant expression as the eyes in the snapshot. I stuffed the snapshot back in my pocketbook. 'I will just sit here in the sun on this park bench five minutes more by the clock on that building over there,' I told myself, 'and then I will go somewhere and do it.' I summoned my little chorus of voices. Doesn't your work interest you, Esther? You know, Esther, you've got the perfect setup of a true neurotic. You'll never get anywhere like that, you'll never get anywhere like that, you'll never get anywhere like that. Once on a hot summer night, I had spent an hour kissing a hairy, ape-shaped law student from Yale because I felt sorry for him, he was so ugly. When I had finished, he said, 'I have you typed, baby. You'll be a prude at forty.' 'Factitious!' my creative writing professor at college scrawled on a story of mine called 'The Big Weekend.' I hadn't known what factitious meant, so I looked it up in the dictionary. Factitious, artificial, sham. You'll never get anywhere like that. I hadn't slept for twenty-one nights. I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people's eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth. I looked down at the two flesh-colored Band-Aids forming a cross on the calf of my right leg. That morning I had made a start. I had locked myself in the bathroom, and run a tub full of warm water, and taken out a Gillette blade. When they asked some old Roman philosopher or other how he wanted to die, he said he would open his veins in a warm bath. I thought it would be easy, lying in the tub and seeing the redness flower from my wrists, flush after flush through the clear water, till I sank to sleep under a surf gaudy as poppies. But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defenseless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, a whole lot harder to get at. It would take two motions. One wrist, then the other wrist. Three motions, if you counted changing the razor from hand to hand. Then I would step into the tub and lie down. I moved in front of the medicine cabinet. If I looked in the mirror while I did it, it would be like watching somebody else, in a book or a play. But the person in the mirror was paralyzed and too stupid to do a thing. Then I thought maybe I ought to spill a little blood for practice, so I sat on the edge of the tub and crossed my right ankle over my left knee. Then I lifted my right hand with the razor and let it drop of its own weight, like a guillotine, onto the calf of my leg. I felt nothing. Then I felt a small, deep thrill, and a bright seam of red welled up at the lip of the slash. The blood gathered darkly, like fruit, and rolled down my ankle into the cup of my black patent leather shoe. I thought of getting into the tub then, but I realized my dallying had used up the better part of the morning, and that my mother would probably come home and find me before I was done. So I bandaged the cut, packed up my Gillette blades and caught the eleven-thirty bus to Boston. 'Sorry, baby, there's no subway to the Deer Island Prison, it's on a niland.' 'No, it's not on an island, it used to be on an island, but they filled up the water with dirt and now it joins on to the mainland.' 'There's no subway.' 'I've got to get there.' 'Hey,' the fat man in the ticket booth peered at me through the grating, 'don't cry. Who you got there, honey, some relative?' People shoved and bumped by me in the artificially lit dark, hurrying after the trains that rumbled in and out of the intestinal tunnels under Scollay Square. I could feel the tears start to spurt from the screwed-up nozzles of my eyes. 'It's my father.' The fat man consulted a diagram on the wall of his booth. 'Here's how you do,' he said, 'you take a car from that track over there and get off at Orient Heights and then hop a bus with The Point on it.' He beamed at me. 'It'll run you straight to the prison gate.' 'Hey you!' A young fellow in a blue uniform waved from the hut. I waved back and kept on going. 'Hey you!' I stopped and walked slowly over to the hut that perched like a circular living room on the waste of sands. 'Hey, you can't go any further. That's prison property, no trespassers allowed.' 'I thought you could go anyplace along the beach,' I said. 'So long as you stayed under the tideline.' The fellow thought a minute. Then he said, 'Not this beach.' He had a pleasant, fresh face. 'You've a nice place here,' I said. 'It's like a little house.' He glanced back into the room, with its braided rug and chintz curtains. He smiled. 'We even got a coffee pot,' 'I used to live near here.' 'No kidding. I was born and brought up in this town myself.' I looked across the sands to the parking lot and the barred gate, and past the barred gate to the narrow road, lapped by the ocean on both sides, that led out to the onetime island. The red brick buildings of the prison looked friendly, like the buildings of a seaside college. On a green hump of lawn to the left, I could see small white spots and slightly larger pink spots moving about. I asked the guard what they were, and he said, 'Them's pigs 'n' chickens.' I was thinking that if I'd had the sense to go on living in that old town I might just have met this prison guard in school and married him and had a parcel of little kids by now. It would be nice, living by the sea with piles of little kids and pigs and chickens, wearing what my grandmother called wash dresses, and sitting about in some kitchen with bright linoleum and fat arms, drinking pots of coffee. 'How do you get into that prison?' 'You get a pass.' 'No, how do you get locked in?' 'Oh,' the guard laughed, 'you steal a car, you rob a store.' 'You got any murderers in there?' 'No. Murderers go to a big state place.' 'Who else is in there?' 'Well, the first day of winter we get these old bums out of Boston. They heave a brick through a window, and then they get picked up and spend the winter out of the cold, with TV and plenty to eat, and basketball games on the weekend.' 'That's nice.' 'Nice if you like it,' said the guard. I said good-bye and started to move off, glancing back over my shoulder only once. The guard still stood in the doorway of his observation booth, and when I turned he lifted his arm in a salute. The log I sat on was lead-heavy and smelled of tar. Under the stout, gray cylinder of the water tower on its commanding hill, the sandbar curved out into the sea. At high tide the bar completely submerged itself. I remembered that sandbar well. It harbored, in the crook of its inner curve, a particular shell that could be found nowhere else on the beach. The shell was thick, smooth, big as a thumb joint, and usually white, although sometimes pink or peach-colored. It resembled a sort of modest conch. 'Mummy, that girl's still sitting there.' I looked up, idly, and saw a small, sandy child being dragged up from the sea's edge by a skinny, bird-eyed woman in red shorts and a red-and-white polka-dot halter. I hadn't counted on the beach being overrun with summer people. In the ten years of my absence, fancy blue and pink and pale green shanties had sprung up on the flat sands of the Point like a crop of tasteless mushrooms, and the silver airplanes and cigarshaped blimps had given way to jets that scoured the rooftops in their loud offrush from the airport across the bay. I was the only girl on the beach in a skirt and high heels, and it occurred to me I must stand out. I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead. I fingered the box of razors in my pocketbook. Then I thought how stupid I was. I had the razors, but no warm bath. I considered renting a room. There must be a boarding-house among all those summer places. But I had no luggage. That would create suspicion. Besides, in a boardinghouse other people are always wanting to use the bathroom. I'd hardly have time to do it and step into the tub when somebody would be pounding at the door. The gulls on their wooden stilts at the tip of the bar miaowed like cats. Then they flapped up, one by one, in their ash-colored jackets, circling my head and crying. 'Say, lady, you better not sit out here, the tide's coming in.' The small boy squatted a few feet away. He picked up a round purple stone and lobbed it into the water. The water swallowed it with a resonant plop. Then he scrabbled around, and I heard the dry stones clank together like money. He skimmed a flat stone over the dull green surface, and it skipped seven times before it sliced out of sight. 'Why don't you go home?' I said. The boy skipped another, heavier stone. It sank after the second bounce. 'Don't want to.' 'Your mother's looking for you.' 'She is not.' He sounded worried. 'If you go home, I'll give you some candy.' The boy hitched closer. 'What kind?' But I knew without looking into my pocketbook that all I had was peanut shells. 'I'll give you some money to buy some candy.' 'Ar-thur!' A woman was indeed coming out on the sandbar, slipping and no doubt cursing to herself, for her lips went up and down between her clear, peremptory calls. 'Ar-thur!' She shaded her eyes with one hand, as if this helped her discern us through the thickening sea dusk. I could sense the boy's interest dwindle as the pull of his mother increased. He began to pretend he didn't know me. He kicked over a few stones, as if searching for something, and edged off. I shivered. The stones lay lumpish and cold under my bare feet. I thought longingly of the black shoes on the beach. A wave drew back, like a hand, then advanced and touched my foot. The drench seemed to come off the sea floor itself, where blind white fish ferried themselves by their own light through the great polar cold. I saw sharks' teeth and whales' earbones littered about down there like gravestones. I waited, as if the sea could make my decision for me. A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache. My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death. I picked up my pocketbook and started back over the cold stones to where my shoes kept their vigil in the violet light. Thirteen 'Of course his mother killed him.' I looked at the mouth of the boy Jody had wanted me to meet. His lips were thick and pink and a baby face nestled under the silk of white-blond hair. His name was Cal, which I thought must be short for something, but I couldn't think what it would be short for, unless it was California. 'How can you be sure she killed him?' I said. Cal was supposed to be very intelligent, and Jody had said over the phone that he was cute and I would like him. I wondered, if I'd been my old self, if I would have liked him. It was impossible to tell. 'Well, first she says No no no, and then she says Yes.' 'But then she says No no again.' Cal and I lay side by side on an orange-and-green striped towel on a mucky beach across the swamps from Lynn. Jody and Mark, the boy she was pinned to, were swimming. Cal hadn't wanted to swim, he had wanted to talk, and we were arguing about this play where a young man finds out he has a brain disease, on account of his father fooling around with unclean women, and in the end his brain, which has been softening all along, snaps completely, and his mother is debating whether to kill him or not. I had a suspicion that my mother had called Jody and begged her to ask me out, so I wouldn't sit around in my room all day with the shades drawn. I didn't want to go at first, because I thought Jody would notice the change in me, and that anybody with half an eye would see I didn't have a brain in my head. But all during the drive north, and then east, Jody had joked and laughed and chattered and not seemed to mind that I only said, 'My' or 'Gosh' or 'You don't say.' We browned hot dogs on the public grills at the beach, and by watching Jody and Mark and Cal very carefully I managed to cook my hot dog just the right amount of time and didn't burn it or drop it into the fire, the way I was afraid of doing. Then, when nobody was looking, I buried it in the sand. After we ate, Jody and Mark ran down to the water hand-in-hand, and I lay back, staring into the sky, while Cal went on and on about this play. The only reason I remembered this play was because it had a mad person in it, and everything I had ever read about mad people stuck in my mind, while everything else flew out. 'But it's the Yes that matters,' Cal said. 'It's the Yes she'll come back to in the end.' I lifted my head and squinted out at the bright blue plate of the sea -- a bright blue plate with a dirty rim. A big round gray rock, like the upper half of an egg, poked out of the water about a mile from the stony headland. 'What was she going to kill him with? I forget.' I hadn't forgotten. I remembered perfectly well, but I wanted to hear what Cal would say. 'Morphia powders.' 'Do you suppose they have morphia powders in America?' Cal considered a minute. Then he said, 'I wouldn't think so. They sound awfully old-fashioned.' I rolled over onto my stomach and squinted at the view in the other direction, toward Lynn. A glassy haze rippled up from the fires in the grills and the heat on the road, and through the haze, as through a curtain of clear water, I could make out a smudgy skyline of gas tanks and factory stacks and derricks and bridges. It looked one hell of a mess. I rolled onto my back again and made my voice casual. 'If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?' Cal seemed pleased. 'I've often thought of that. I'd blow my brains out with a gun.' I was disappointed. It was just like a man to do it with a gun. A fat chance I had of laying my hands on a gun. And even if I did, I wouldn't have a clue as to what part of me to shoot at. I'd already read in the papers about people who'd tried to shoot themselves, only they ended up shooting an important nerve and getting paralyzed or blasting their face off, but being saved, by surgeons and a sort of miracle, from dying outright. The risks of a gun seemed great. 'What kind of a gun?' 'My father's shotgun. He keeps it loaded. I'd just have to walk into his study one day and,' Cal pointed a finger to his temple and made a comical, screwed-up face, 'click!' He widened his pale gray eyes and looked at me. 'Does your father happen to live near Boston?' I asked idly. 'Nope, in Clacton-on-Sea. He's English.' Jody and Mark ran up hand-in-hand, dripping and shaking off water drops like two loving puppies. I thought there would be too many people, so I stood up and pretended to yawn. 'I guess I'll go for a swim.' Being with Jody and Mark and Cal was beginning to weigh on my nerves, like a dull wooden block on the strings of a piano. I was afraid that at any moment my control would snap, and I would start babbling about how I couldn't read and couldn't write and how I must be just about the only person who had stayed awake for a solid month without dropping dead of exhaustion, A smoke seemed to be going up from my nerves like the smoke from the grills and the sun-saturated road. The whole kndscape-beach and headland and sea and rockquavered in front of my eyes like a stage backcloth. I wondered at what point in space the silly, sham blue of the sky turned black. 'You swim too, Cal.' Jody gave Cal a playful little push. 'Ohhh.' Cal hid his face in the towel. 'It's too cold.' I started to walk toward the water. Somehow, in the broad, shadowless light of noon, the water looked amiable and welcoming. I thought drowning must be the kindest way to die, and burning the worst. Some of those babies in the jars that Buddy Willard showed me had gills, he said. They went through a stage where they were just like fish. A little, rubbishy wavelet, full of candy wrappers and orange peel and seaweed, folded over my foot. I heard the sand thud behind me, and Cal came up. 'Let's swim to that rock out there.' I pointed at it 'Are you crazy? That's a mile out.' 'What are you?' I said. 'Chicken?' Cal took me by the elbow and jostled me into the water. When we were waist high, he pushed me under. I surfaced, splashing, my eyes seared with salt. Underneath, the water was green and semi-opaque as a hunk of quartz. I started to swim, a modified dogpaddle, keeping my face toward the rock. Cal did a slow crawl. After a while he put his head up and treaded water. 'Can't make it.' He was panting heavily. 'Okay. You go back.' I thought I would swim out until I was too tired to swim back. As I paddled on, my heartbeat boomed like a dull motor in my ears. I am I am I am. That morning I had tried to hang myself. I had taken the silk cord of my mother's yellow bathrobe as soon as she left for work, and, in the amber shade of the bedroom, fashioned it into a knot that slipped up and down on itself. It took me a long time to do this, because I was poor at knots and had no idea how to make a proper one. Then I hunted around for a place to attach the rope. The trouble was, our house had the wrong kind of ceilings. The ceilings were low, white and smoothly plastered, without a light fixture or a wood beam in sight. I thought with longing of the house my grandmother had before she sold it to come and live with us, and then with my Aunt Libby. My grandmother's house was built in the fine, nineteenth-century style, with lofty rooms and sturdy chandelier brackets and high closets with stout rails across them, and an attic where nobody ever went, full of trunks and parrot cages and dressmakers' dummies and overhead beams thick as a ship's timbers. But it was an old house, and she'd sold it, and I didn't know anybody else with a house like that. After a discouraging time of walking about with the silk cord dangling from my neck like a yellow cat's tail and finding no place to fasten it, I sat on the edge of my mother's bed and tried pulling the cord tight. But each time I would get the cord so tight I could feel a rushing in my ears and a flush of blood in my face, my hands would weaken and let go, and I would be all right again. Then I saw that my body had all sorts of little tricks, such as making my hands go limp at the crucial second, which would save it, time and again, whereas if I had the whole say, I would be dead in a flash. I would simply have to ambush it with whatever sense I had left, or it would trap me in its stupid cage for fifty years without any sense at all. And when people found out my mind had gone, as they would have to, sooner or later, in spite of my mother's guarded tongue, they would persuade her to put me into an asylum where I could be cured. Only my case was incurable. I had bought a few paperbacks on abnormal psychology at the drugstore and compared my symptoms with the symptoms in the books, and sure enough, my symptoms tallied with the most hopeless cases. The only thing I could read, besides the scandal sheets, were those abnormalpsychology books. It was as if some slim opening had been left, so I could learn all I needed to know about my case to end it in the proper way. I wondered, after the hanging fiasco, if I shouldn't just give it up and turn myself over to the doctors, and then I remembered Doctor Gordon and his private shock machine. Once I was locked up they could use that on me all the time. And I thought of how my mother and brother and friends would visit me, day after day, hoping I would be better. Then their visits would slacken off, and they would give up hope. They would grow old. They would forget me. They would be poor, too. They would want me to have the best of care at first, so they would sink all their money in a private hospital like Doctor Gordon's. Finally, when the money was used up, I would be moved to a state hospital, with hundreds of people like me, in a big cage in the basement. The more hopeless you were, the further away they hid you. Cal had turned around and was swimming in. As I watched, he dragged himself slowly out of the neck-deep sea. Against the khaki-colored sand and the green shore wavelets, his body was bisected for a moment, like a white worm. Then it crawled completely out of the green and onto the khaki and lost itself among dozens and dozens of other worms that were wriggling or just lolling about between the sea and the sky. I paddled my hands in the water and kicked my feet. The egg-shaped rock didn't seem to be any nearer than it had been when Cal and I had looked at it from the shore. Then I saw it would be pointless to swim as far as the rock, because my body would take that excuse to climb out and lie in the sun, gathering strength to swim back. The only thing to do was to drown myself then and there. So I stopped. I brought my hands to my breast, ducked my head, and dived, using my hands to push the water aside. The water pressed in on my eardrums and on my heart. I fanned myself down, but before I knew where I was, the water had spat me up into the sun, the world was sparkling all about me like blue and green and yellow semi-precious stones. I dashed the water from my eyes. I was panting, as after a strenuous exertion, but floating, without effort. I dived, and dived again, and each time popped up like a cork. The gray rock mocked me, bobbing on the water easy as a lifebuoy. I knew when I was beaten. I turned back. The flowers nodded like bright, knowledgeable children as I trundled them down the hall. I felt silly in my sage-green volunteer's uniform, and superfluous, unlike the white-uniformed doctors and nurses, ot even the brown-uniformed scrubwomen with their mops and their buckets of grimy water, who passed me without a word. If I had been getting paid, no matter how little, I could at least count this a proper job, but all I got for a morning of pushing round magazines and candy and flowers was a free lunch. My mother said the cure for thinking too much about yourself was helping somebody who was worse off than you, so Teresa had arranged for me to sign on as a volunteer at our local hospital. It was difficult to be a volunteer at this hospital, because that's what all the Junior League women wanted to do, but luckily for me, a lot of them were away on vacation. I had hoped they would send me to a ward with some really gruesome cases, who would see through my numb, dumb face to how I meant well, and be grateful. But the head of the volunteers, a society lady at our church, took one look at me and said, 'You're on maternity.' So I rode the elevator up three flights to the maternity ward and reported to the head nurse. She gave me the trolley of flowers. I was supposed to put the right vases at the right beds in the right rooms. But before I came to the door of the first room I noticed that a lot of the flowers were droopy and brown at the edges. I thought it would be discouraging for a woman who'd just had a baby to see somebody plonk down a big bouquet of dead flowers in front of her, so I steered the trolley to a washbasin in an alcove in the hall and began to pick out all the flowers that were dead. Then I picked out all those that were dying. There was no wastebasket in sight, so I crumpled the flowers up and laid them in the deep white basin. The basin felt cold as a tomb. I smiled. This must be how they laid the bodies away in the hospital morgue. My gesture, in its small way, echoed the larger gesture of the doctors and nurses. I swung the door of the first room open and walked in, dragging my trolley. A couple of nurses jumped up, and I had a confused impression of shelves and medicine cabinets. 'What do you want?' one of the nurses demanded sternly. I couldn't tell one from the other, they all looked just alike. 'I'm taking the flowers round.' The nurse who had spoken put a hand on my shoulder and led me out of the room, maneuvering the trolley with her free, expert hand. She flung open the swinging doors of the room next to that one and bowed me in. Then she disappeared. I could hear giggles in the distance till a door shut and cut them off. There were six beds in the room, and each bed had a woman in it. The women were all sitting up and knitting or riffling through magazines or putting their hair in pin curls and chattering like parrots in a parrot house. I had thought they would be sleeping, or lying quiet and pale, so I could tiptoe round without any trouble and match the bed numbers to the numbers inked on adhesive tape on the vases, but before I had a chance to get my bearings, a bright, jazzy blonde with a sharp, triangular face beckoned to me. I approached her, leaving the trolley in the middle of the floor, but then she made an impatient gesture, and I saw she wanted me to bring the trolley too. I wheeled the trolley over to her bedside with a helpful smile. 'Hey, where's my larkspur?' A large, flabby lady from across the ward raked me with an eagle eye. The sharp-faced blonde bent over the trolley. 'Here are my yellow roses,' she said, 'but they're all mixed up with some lousy iris.' Other voices joined the voices of the first two women. They sounded cross and loud and full of complaint. I was opening my mouth to explain that I had thrown a bunch of dead larkspur in the sink, and that some of the vases I had weeded out looked skimpy, there were so few flowers left, so I had joined a few of the bouquets together to fill them out, when the swinging door flew open and a nurse stalked in to see what the commotion was. 'Listen, nurse, I had this big bunch of larkspur Larry brought last night.' 'She's loused up my yellow roses.' Unbuttoning the green uniform as I ran, I stuffed it, in passing, into the washbasin with the rubbish of dead flowers. Then I took the deserted side steps down to the street two at a time, without meeting another soul 'Which way is the graveyard?' The Italian in the black leather jacket stopped and pointed down an alley behind the white Methodist church. I remembered the Methodist church. I had been a Methodist for the first nine years of my life, before my father died and we moved and turned Unitarian. My mother had been a Catholic before she was a Methodist. My grandmother and my grandfather and my Aunt Libby were all still Catholics. My Aunt Libby had broken away from the Catholic Church at the same time my mother did, but then she'd fallen in love with an Italian Catholic, so she'd gone back again. Lately I had considered going into the Catholic Church myself. I knew the Catholics thought killing yourself was an awful sin. But perhaps, if this was so, they might have a good way to persuade me out of it Of course, I didn't believe in life after death or the virgin birth or the Inquisition or the infallibility of that little monkey-faced Pope or anything, but I didn't have to let the priest see this, I could just concentrate on my sin, and he would help me repent. The only trouble was, Church, even the Catholic Church, didn't take up the whole of your life. No matter how much you knelt and prayed, you still had to eat three meals a day and have a job and live in the world. I thought I might see how long you had to be a Catholic before you became a nun, so I asked my mother, thinking she'd know the best way to go about it. My mother had laughed at me. 'Do you think they'll take somebody like you, right off the bat? Why you've got to know all these catechisms and credos and believe in them, lock, stock and barrel. A girl with your sense!' Still, I imagined myself going to some Boston priest -- it would have to be Boston, because I didn't want any priest in my home town to know I'd thought of killing myself. Priests were terrible gossips. I would be in black, with my dead white face, and I would throw myself at this priest's feet and say, 'O Father, help me.' But that was before people had begun to look at me in a funny way, like those nurses in the hospital. I was pretty sure the Catholics wouldn't take in any crazy nuns. My Aunt Libby's husband had made a joke once, about a nun that a nunnery sent to Teresa for a checkup. This nun kept hearing harp notes in her ears and a voice saying over and over, 'Alleluia!' Only she wasn't sure, on being closely questioned, whether the voice was saying Alleluia or Arizona. The nun had been born in Arizona. I think she ended up in some asylum. I tugged my black veil down to my chin and strode in through the wrought-iron gates. I thought it odd that in all the time my father had been buried in this graveyard, none of us had ever visited him. My mother hadn't let us come to his funeral because we were only children then, and he had died in the hospital, so the graveyard and even his death had always seemed unreal to me. I had a great yearning, lately, to pay my father back for all the years of neglect, and start tending his grave. I had always been my father's favorite, and it seemed fitting I should take on a mourning my mother had never bothered with. I thought that if my father hadn't died, he would have taught me all about insects, which was his specialty at the university. He would also have taught me German and Greek and Latin, which he knew, and perhaps I would be a Lutheran. My father had been a Lutheran in Wisconsin, but they were out of style in New England, so he had become a lapsed Lutheran and then, my mother said, a bitter atheist. The graveyard disappointed me. It lay at the outskirts of the town, on low ground, like a rubbish dump, and as I walked up and down the gravel paths, I could smell the stagnant salt marshes in the distance. The old part of the graveyard was all right, with its worn, flat stones and lichenbitten monuments, but I soon saw my father must be buried in the modern part with dates in the nineteen forties. The stones in the modern part were crude and cheap, and here and there a grave was rimmed with marble, like an oblong bathtub full of dirt, and rusty metal containers stuck up about where the person's navel would be, full of plastic flowers. A fine drizzle started drifting down from the gray sky, and I grew very depressed. I couldn't find my father anywhere. Low, shaggy clouds scudded over that part of the horizon where the sea lay, behind the marshes and the beach shanty settlements, and raindrops darkened the black mackintosh I had bought that morning. A clammy dampness sank through to my skin. I had asked the salesgirl, 'Is it water-repellent?' And she had said, 'No raincoat is ever water-repellent. It's showerproofed.' And when I asked her what showerproofed was, she told me I had better buy an umbrella. But I hadn't enough money for an umbrella. What with bus fare in and out of Boston and peanuts and newspapers and abnormal-psychology books and trips to my old home town by the sea, my New York fund was almost exhausted. I had decided that when there was no more money in my bank account I would do it, and that morning I'd spent the last of it on the black raincoat. Then I saw my father's gravestone. It was crowded right up by another gravestone, head to head, the way people are crowded in a charity ward when there isn't enough space. The stone was of a mottled pink marble, like canned salmon, and all there was on it was my father's name and, under it, two dates, separated by a little dash. At the foot of the stone I arranged the rainy armful of azaleas I had picked from a bush at the gateway of the graveyard. Then my legs folded under me, and I sat down in the sopping grass. I couldn't understand why I was crying so hard. Then I remembered that I had never cried for my father's death. My mother hadn't cried either. She had just smiled and said what a merciful thing it was for him he had died, because if he had lived he would have been crippled and an invalid for life, and he couldn't have stood that, he would rather have died than had that happen. I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain. I knew just how to go about it The minute the car tires crunched off down the drive and the sound of the motor faded, I jumped out of bed and hurried into my white blouse and green figured skirt and black raincoat. The raincoat felt damp still, from the day before, but that would soon cease to matter. I went downstairs and picked up a pale blue envelope from the dining room table and scrawled on the back, in large, painstaking letters: I am going for a long walk. I propped the message where my mother would see it the minute she came in. Then I laughed. I had forgotten the most Important thing. I ran upstairs and dragged a chair into my mother's closet. Then I climbed up and reached for the small green strongbox on the top shelf. I could have torn the metal cover off with my bare hands, the lock was so feeble, but I wanted to do things in a calm, orderly way. I pulled out my mother's upper right-hand bureau drawer and slipped the blue jewelry box from its hiding place under the scented Irish linen handkerchiefs. I unpinned the little key from the dark velvet. Then I unlocked the strongbox and took out the bottle of new pills. There were more than I had hoped. There were at least fifty. If I had waited until my mother doled them out to me, night by night, it would have taken me fifty nights to save up enough. And in fifty nights, college would have opened, and my brother would have come back from Germany, and it would be too late. I pinned the key back in the jewelry box among the clutter of inexpensive chains and rings, put the jewelry box back in the drawer under the handkerchiefs, returned the strongbox to the closet shelf and set the chair on the rug in the exact spot I had dragged it from. Then I went downstairs and into the kitchen. I turned on the tap and poured myself a tall glass of water. Then I took the glass of water and the bottle of pills and went down into the cellar. A dim, undersea light filtered through the slits of the cellar windows. Behind the oil burner, a dark gap showed in the wall at about shoulder height and ran back under the breezeway, out of sight. The breezeway had been added to the house after the cellar was dug, and built out over this secret, earth-bottomed crevice. A few old, rotting fireplace logs blocked the hole mouth. I shoved them back a bit. Then I set the glass of water and the bottle of pills side by side on the flat surface of one of the logs and started to heave myself up. It took me a good while to heft my body into the gap, but at last, after many tries, I managed it, and crouched at the mouth of the darkness, like a troll. The earth seemed friendly under my bare feet, but cold. I wondered how long it had been since this particular square of soil had seen the sun. Then, one after the other, I lugged the heavy, dust-covered logs across the hole mouth. The dark felt thick as velvet. I reached for the glass and bottle, and carefully, on my knees, with bent head, crawled to the farthest wall Cobwebs touched my face with the softness of moths. Wrapping my black coat round me like my own sweet shadow, I unscrewed the bottle of pills and started taking them swiftly, between gulps of water, one by one by one. At first nothing happened, but as I approached the bottom of the bottle, red and blue lights began to flash before my eyes. The bottle slid from my fingers and I lay down. The silence drew off, baring the pebbles and shells and all the tatty wreckage of my life. Then, at the rim of vision, it gathered itself, and in one sweeping tide, rushed me to sleep. Fourteen It was completely dark. I felt the darkness, but nothing else, and my head rose, feeling it, like the head of a worm. Someone was moaning. Then a great, hard weight smashed against my cheek like a stone wall and the moaning stopped. The silence surged back, smoothing itself as black water smooths to its old surface calm over a dropped stone. A cool wind rushed by. I was being transported at enormous speed down a tunnel into the earth. Then the wind stopped. There was a rumbling, as of many voices, protesting and disagreeing in the distance. Then the voices stopped. A chisel cracked down on my eye, and a slit of light opened, like a mouth or a wound, till the darkness clamped shut on it again. I tried to roll away from the direction of the light, but hands wrapped round my limbs like mummy bands, and I couldn't move. I began to think I must be in an underground chamber, lit by blinding lights, and that the chamber was full of people who for some reason were holding me down. Then the chisel struck again, and the light leapt into my head, and through the thick, warm, furry dark, a voice cried, 'Mother!' Air breathed and played over my face. I felt the shape of a room around me, a big room with open windows. A pillow molded itself under my head, and my body floated, without pressure, between thin sheets. Then I felt warmth, like a hand on my face. I must be lying in the sun. If I opened my eyes, I would see colors and shapes bending in upon me like nurses. I opened my eyes. It was completely dark. Somebody was breathing beside me. 'I can't see,' I said. A cheery voice spoke out of the dark. 'There are lots of blind people in the world. You'll marry a nice blind man someday.' The man with the chisel had come back. 'Why do you bother?' I said. 'It's no use.' 'You musn't talk like that.' His fingers probed at the great, aching boss over my left eye. Then he loosened something, and a ragged gap of light appeared, like the hole in a wall. A man's hand peered round the edge of it. 'Can you see me?' 'Yes.' 'Can you see anything else?' Then I remembered. 'I can't see anything.' The gap narrowed and went dark. 'I'm blind.' 'Nonsense! Who told you that?' 'The nurse.' The man snorted. He finished taping the bandage back over my eye. 'You are a very lucky girl Your sight is perfectly intact.' 'Somebody to see you.' The nurse beamed and disappeared. My mother came smiling round the foot of the bed. She was wearing a dress with purple cartwheels on it and she looked awful. A big tall boy followed her. At first I couldn't make out who it was, because my eye only opened a short way, but then I saw it was my brother. 'They said you wanted to see me.' My mother perched on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on my leg. She looked loving and reproachful, and I wanted her to go away. 'I didn't think I said anything.' 'They said you called for me.' She seemed ready to cry. Her face puckered up and quivered like a pale jelly. 'How are you?' my brother said. I looked my mother in the eye. 'The same,' I said. 'You have a visitor.' 'I don't want a visitor.' The nurse bustled out and whispered to somebody In the hall. Then she came back. 'He'd very much like to see you.' I looked down at the yellow legs sticking out of the unfamiliar white silk pajamas they had dressed me in. The skin shook flabbily when I moved, as if there wasn't a muscle in it, and it was covered with a short, thick stubble of black hair. 'Who is it?' 'Somebody you know.' 'What's his name?' 'George Bakewell.' 'I don't know any George Bakewell.' 'He says he knows you.' Then the nurse went out, and a very familiar boy came in and said, 'Mind if I sit on the edge of your bed?' He was wearing a white coat, and I could see a stethoscope poking out of his pocket. I thought it must be somebody I knew dressed up as a doctor. I had meant to cover my legs if anybody came in, but now I saw it was too late, so I let them stick out, just as they were, disgusting and ugly. 'That's me,' I thought. 'That's what I am.' 'You remember me, don't you, Esther?' I squinted at the boy's face through the crack of my good eye. The other eye hadn't opened yet, but the eye doctor said it would be all right in a few days. The boy looked at me as if I were some exciting new zoo animal and he was about to burst out laughing. 'You remember me, don't you, Esther?' He spoke slowly, the way one speaks to a dull child. 'I'm George Bakewell. I go to your church. You dated my roommate once at Amherst.' I thought I placed the boy's face then. It hovered dimly at the rim of memory -- the sort of face to which I would never bother to attach a name. 'What are you doing here?' 'I'm houseman at this hospital.' How could this George Bakewell have become a doctor so suddenly? I wondered. He didn't really know me, either. He just wanted to see what a girl who was crazy enough to kill herself looked like. I turned my face to the wall. 'Get out,' I said. 'Get the hell out and don't come back.' 'I want to see a mirror.' The nurse hummed busily as she opened one drawer after another, stuffing the new underclothes and blouses and skirts and pajamas my mother had bought me into the black patent leather overnight case. 'Why can't I see a mirror?' I had been dressed in a sheath, striped gray and white, like mattress ticking, with a wide, shiny red belt, and they had propped me up in an armchair. 'Why can't I?' 'Because you better not.' The nurse shut the lid of the overnight case with a little snap. 'Why?' 'Because you don't look very pretty.' 'Oh, just let me see.' The nurse sighed and opened the top bureau drawer. She took out a large mirror in a wooden frame that matched the wood of the bureau and handed it to me. At first I didn't see what the trouble was. It wasn't a mirror at all, but a picture. You couldn't tell whether the person in the picture was a man or a woman, because their hair was shaved off and sprouted in bristly chicken-feather tufts all over their head. One side of the person's face was purple, and bulged out in a shapeless way, shading to green along the edges, and then to a sallow yellow. The person's mouth was pale brown, with a rose-colored sore at either corner. The most startling thing about the face was its supernatural conglomeration of bright colors. I smiled. The mouth in the mirror cracked into a grin. A minute after the crash another nurse ran in. She took one look at the broken mirror, and at me, standing over the blind, white pieces, and hustled the young nurse out of the room. 'Didn't I tell you,' I could hear her say. 'But I only. . .' 'Didn't I tell you!' I listened with mild interest. Anybody could drop a mirror. I didn't see why they should get so stirred up. The other, older nurse came back into the room. She stood there, arms folded, staring hard at me. 'Seven years' bad luck' 'What?' 'I said,' the nurse raised her voice, as if speaking to a deaf person, 'seven years' bad luck.' The young nurse returned with a dustpan and brush and began to sweep up the glittery splinters. 'That's only a superstition,' I said then. 'Huh!' The second nurse addressed herself to the nurse on her hands and knees as if I wasn't there. 'At you-know-where they'll take care of her!' From the back window of the ambulance I could see street after familiar street funneling off into a summery green distance. My mother sat on one side of me, and my brother on the other. I had pretended I didn't know why they were moving me from the hospital in my home town to a city hospital, to see what they would say. 'They want you to be in a special ward,' my mother said. 'They don't have that sort of ward at our hospital.' 'I liked it where I was.' My mother's mouth tightened. 'You should have behaved better, then.' 'What?' 'You shouldn't have broken that mirror. Then maybe they'd have let you stay.' But of course I knew the mirror had nothing to do with it I sat in bed with the covers up to my neck. 'Why can't I get up? I'm not sick.' 'Ward rounds,' the nurse said. 'You can get up after ward rounds.' She shoved the bed curtains back and revealed a fat young Italian woman in the next bed. The Italian woman had a mass of tight black curls, starting at her forehead, that rose in a mountainous pompadour and cascaded down her back. Whenever she moved, the huge arrangement of hair moved with her, as if made of stiff black paper. The woman looked at me and giggled. 'Why are you here?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'I'm here on account of my French-Canadian mother-in-law.' She giggled again. 'My husband knows I can't stand her, and still he said she could come and visit us, and when she came, my tongue stuck out of my head, I couldn't stop it. They ran me into Emergency and then they put me up here,' she lowered her voice, 'along with the nuts.' Then she said, 'What's the matter with you?' I turned her my full face, with the bulging purple and green eye. 'I tried to kill myself.' The woman stared at me. Then, hastily, she snatched up a movie magazine from her bed table and pretended to be reading. The swinging door opposite my bed flew open, and a whole troop of young boys and girls in white coats came in, with an older, gray-haired man. They were all smiling with bright, artificial smiles. They grouped themselves at the foot of my bed. 'And how are you feeling this morning, Miss Greenwood?' I tried to decide which one of them had spoken. I hate saying anything to a group of people. When I talk to a group of people I always have to single out one and talk to him, and all the while I am talking I feel the others are peering at me and taking unfair advantage. I also hate people to ask cheerfully how you are when they know you're feeling like hell and expect you to say 'Fine.' 'I feel lousy.' 'Lousy. Hmm,' somebody said, and a boy ducked his head with a little smile. Somebody else scribbled something on a clipboard. Then somebody pulled a straight, solemn face and said, 'And why do you feel lousy?' I thought some of the boys and girls in that bright group might well be friends of Buddy Willard. They would know I knew him, and they would be curious to see me, and afterward they would gossip about me among themselves. I wanted to be where nobody I knew could ever come. 'I can't sleep. . .' They interrupted me. 'But the nurse says you slept last night.' I looked around the crescent of fresh, strange faces. 'I can't read.' I raised my voice. 'I can't eat.' It occurred to me I'd been eating ravenously ever since I came to. The people in the group had turned from me and were murmuring in low voices to each other. Finally, the gray-haired man stepped out. 'Thank you, Miss Greenwood. You will be seen by one of the staff doctors presently.' Then the group moved on to the bed of the Italian woman. 'And how are you feeling today, Mrs. . .' somebody said, and the name sounded long and full of I's, like Mrs. Tomolillo. Mrs. Tomolillo giggled. 'Oh, I'm fine, doctor. I'm just fine.' Then she lowered her voice and whispered something I couldn't hear. One or two people in the group glanced in my direction. Then somebody said, 'All right, Mrs. Tomolillo,' and somebody stepped out and pulled the bed curtain between us like a white wall I sat on one end of a wooden bench in the grassy square between the four brick walls of the hospital. My mother, in her purple cartwheel dress, sat at the other end. She had her head propped in her hand, index finger on her cheek and thumb under her chin. Mrs. Tomolillo was sitting with some dark-haired, laughing Italians on the nest bench down. Every time my mother moved, Mrs. Tomolillo imitated her. Now Mrs. Tomolillo was sitting with her index finger on her cheek and her thumb under her chin, and her head tilted wistfully to one side. 'Don't move,' I told my mother in a low voice. 'That woman's imitating you.' My mother turned to glance round, but quick as a wink, Mrs. Tomolillo dropped her fat white hands in her lap and started talking vigorously to her friends. 'Why no, she's not,' my mother said. 'She's not even paying any attention to us.' But the minute my mother turned round to me again, Mrs. Tomolillo matched the tips of her fingers together the way my mother had just done and cast a black, mocking look at me. The lawn was white with doctors. All the time my mother and I had been sitting there, in the narrow cone of sun that shone down between the tall brick walls, doctors had been coming up to me and introducing themselves. 'I'm Doctor Soandso, I'm Doctor Soandso.' Some of them looked so young I knew they couldn't be proper doctors, and one of them had a queer name that sounded just like Doctor Syphilis, so I began to look out for suspicious, fake names, and sure enough, a dark-haired fellow who looked very like Doctor Gordon, except that he had black skin where Doctor Gordon's skin was white, came up and said, 'I'm Doctor Pancreas,' and shook my hand. After introducing themselves, the doctors all stood within listening distance, only I couldn't tell my mother that they were taking down every word we said without their hearing me, so I leaned over and whispered into her ear. My mother drew back sharply. 'Oh, Esther, I wish you would cooperate. They say you don't cooperate. They say you won't talk to any of the doctors or make anything in Occupational Therapy. . .' 'I've got to get out of here,' I told her meaningly. 'Then I'd be all right. You got me in here,' I said. 'You get me out.' I thought if only I could persuade my mother to get me out of the hospital I could work on her sympathies, like that boy with brain disease in the play, and convince her what was the best thing to do. To my surprise, my mother said, 'All right, I'll try to get you out -- even if only to a better place. If I try to get you out,' she laid a hand on my knee, 'promise you'll be good?' I spun round and glared straight at Doctor Syphilis, who stood at my elbow taking notes on a tiny, almost invisible pad. 'I promise,' I said in a loud, conspicuous voice. The Negro wheeled the food cart into the patients' dining room. The Psychiatric Ward at the hospital was very small -- just two corridors in an L-shape, lined with rooms, and an alcove of beds behind the OT shop, where I was, and a little area with a table and a few seats by a window in the corner of the L, which was our lounge and dining room. Usually it was a shrunken old white man that brought our food, but today it was a Negro. The Negro was with a woman in blue stiletto heels, and she was telling him what to do. The Negro kept grinning and chuckling in a silly way. Then he carried a tray over to our table with three lidded tin tureens on it, and started banging the tureens down. The woman left the room, locking the door behind her. All the time the Negro was banging down the tureens and then the dinted silver and the thick, white china plates, he gawped at us with big, rolling eyes. I could tell we were his first crazy people. Nobody at the table made a move to take the lids off the tin tureens, and the nurse stood back to see if any of us would take the lids off before she came to do it. Usually Mrs. Tomolillo had taken the lids off and dished out everybody's food like a little mother, but then they sent her home, and nobody seemed to want to take her place. I was starving, so I lifted the lid off the first bowl. 'That's very nice of you, Esther,' the nurse said pleasantly. 'Would you like to take some beans and pass them round to the others?' I dished myself out a helping of green string beans and turned to pass the tureen to the enormous red-headed woman at my right. This was the first time the red-headed woman had been allowed up to the table. I had seen her once, at, the end of the L-shaped corridor, standing in front of an open door with bars on the square, inset windows. She had been yelling and laughing in a rude way and slapping her thighs at the passing doctors, and the white-jacketed attendant who took care of the people in that end of the ward was leaning against the radiator, laughing himself sick. The red-headed woman snatched the tureen from me and upended it on her plate. Beans mountained up in front of her and scattered over onto her lap and onto the floor like stiff, green straws. 'Oh, Mrs. Mole!' the nurse said in a sad voice. 'I think you better eat in your room today.' And she returned most of the beans to the tureen and gave it to the person next to Mrs. Mole and led Mrs. Mole off. All the way down the hall to her room, Mrs. Mole kept turning round and making leering faces at us, and ugly, oinking noises. The Negro had come back and was starting to collect the empty plates of people who hadn't dished out any beans yet. 'We're not done,' I told him. 'You can just wait.' 'Mah, mah!' The Negro widened his eyes in mock wonder. He glanced round. The nurse had not yet returned from locking up Mrs. Mole. The Negro made me an insolent bow. 'Miss Mucky-Muck,' he said under his breath. I lifted the lid off the second tureen and uncovered a wedge of macaroni, stonecold and stuck together in a gluey paste. The third and last tureen was chock-full of baked beans. Now I knew perfectly well you didn't serve two kinds of beans together at a meal. Beans and carrots, or beans and peas, maybe, but never beans and beans. The Negro was just trying to see how much we would take. The nurse came back, and the Negro edged off at a distance. I ate as much as I could of the baked beans. Then I rose from the table, passing round to the side where the nurse couldn't see me below the waist, and behind the Negro, who was clearing the dirty plates. I drew my foot back and gave him a sharp, hard kick on the calf of the leg. The Negro leapt away with a yelp and rolled his eyes at me. 'Oh Miz, oh Miz,' he moaned, rubbing his leg. 'You shouldn't of done that, you shouldn't, you reely shouldn't.' 'That's what you get,' I said, and stared him in the eye. 'Don't you want to get up today?' 'No.' I huddled down more deeply in the bed and pulled the sheet up over my head. Then I lifted a corner of the sheet and peered out. The nurse was shaking down the thermometer she had just removed from my mouth. 'You see, it's normal.' I had looked at the thermometer before she came to collect it, the way I always did. 'You see, it's normal, what do you keep taking it for?' I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn't say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed. Then, through the sheet, I felt a slight, annoying pressure on my leg. I peeped out. The nurse had set her tray of thermometers on my bed while she turned her back and took the pulse of the person who lay next to me, in Mrs. Tomolillo's place. A heavy naughtiness pricked through my veins, irritating and attractive as the hurt of a loose tooth. I yawned and stirred, as if about to turn over, and edged my foot under the box. 'Oh!' The nurse's cry sounded like a cry for help, and another nurse came running. 'Look what you've done!' I poked my head out of the covers and stared over the edge of the bed. Around the overturned enamel tray, a star of thermometer shards glittered, and balls of mercury trembled like celestial dew. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'It was an accident.' The second nurse fixed me with a baleful eye. 'You did it on purpose. I saw you.' Then she hurried off, and almost immediately two attendants came and wheeled me, bed and all, down to Mrs. Mole's old room, but not before I had scooped up a ball of mercury. Soon after they had locked the door, I could see the Negro's face, a molassescolored moon, risen at the window grating, but I pretended not to notice. I opened my fingers a crack, like a child with a secret, and smiled at the silver globe cupped in my palm. If I dropped it, it would break into a million little replicas of itself, and if I pushed them near each other, they would fuse, without a crack, into one whole again. I smiled and smiled at the small silver ball. I couldn't imagine what they had done with Mrs. Mole. Fifteen PHILOMENA GUINEA'S black Cadillac eased through the tight, five o'clock traffic like a ceremonial car. Soon it would cross one of the brief bridges that arched the Charles, and I would, without thinking, open the door and plunge out through the stream of traffic to the rail of the bridge. One jump and the water would be over my head. Idly I twisted a Kleenex to small, pill-sized pellets between my fingers and watched my chance. I sat in the middle of the back seat of the Cadillac, my mother on one side of me, and my brother on the other, both leaning slightly forward, like diagonal bars, one across each car door. In front of me I could see the Spam-colored expanse of the chauffeur's neck, sandwiched between a blue cap and the shoulders of a blue jacket and, next to him, like a frail, exotic bird, the silver hair and emerald-feathered hat of Philomena Guinea, the famous novelist. I wasn't quite sure why Mrs. Guinea had turned up. All I knew was that she had interested herself in my case and that at one time, at the peak of her career, she had been in an asylum as well My mother said that Mrs. Guinea had sent her a telegram from the Bahamas, where she read about me in a Boston paper. Mrs. Guinea had telegrammed, 'Is there a boy in the case?' If there was a boy in the case, Mrs. Guinea couldn't, of course, have anything to do with it. But my mother had telegrammed back, 'No, it is Esther's writing. She thinks she will never write again.' So Mrs. Guinea had flown back to Boston and taken me out of the cramped city hospital ward, and now she was driving me to a private hospital that had grounds and golf courses and gardens, like a country club, where she would pay for me, as if I had a scholarship, until the doctors she knew of there had made me well. My mother told me I should be grateful. She said I had used up almost all her money, and if it weren't for Mrs. Guinea she didn't know where I'd be. I knew where I'd be though. I'd be in the big state hospital in the country, cheek by jowl to this private place. I knew I should be grateful to Mrs. Guinea, only I couldn't feel a thing. If Mrs. Guinea had given me a ticket to Europe, or a round-the-world cruise, it wouldn't have made one scrap of difference to me, because wherever I sat -- on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok -- I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air. Blue sky opened its dome above the river, and the river was dotted with sails. I readied myself, but immediately my mother and my brother each laid one hand on a door handle. The tires hummed briefly over the grill of the bridge. Water, sails, blue sky and suspended gulls flashed by like an improbable postcard, and we were across. I sank back in the gray, plush seat and closed my eyes. The air of the bell jar wadded round me and I couldn't stir. I had my own room again. It reminded me of the room in Doctor Gordon's hospital -- a bed, a bureau, a closet, a table and chair. A window with a screen, but no bars. My room was on the first floor, and the window, a short distance above the pine-needle-padded ground, overlooked a wooded yard ringed by a red brick wall. If I jumped I wouldn't even bruise my knees. The inner surface of the tall wall seemed smooth as glass. The journey over the bridge had unnerved me. I had missed a perfectly good chance. The river water passed me by like an untouched drink. I suspected that even if my mother and brother had not been there I would have made no move to jump. When I enrolled in the main building of the hospital, a slim young woman had come and introduced herself. 'My name is Doctor Nolan. I am to be Esther's doctor.' I was surprised to have a woman. I didn't think they had woman psychiatrists. This woman was a cross between Myrna Loy and my mother. She wore a white blouse and a full skirt gathered at the waist by a wide leather belt, and stylish, crescent-shaped spectacles. But after a nurse had led me across the lawn to the gloomy brick building called Caplan, where I would live, Doctor Nolan didn't come to see me, a whole lot of strange men came instead. I lay on my bed under the thick white blanket, and they entered my room, one by one, and introduced themselves. I couldn't understand why there should be so many of them, or why they would want to introduce themselves, and I began to think they were testing me, to see if I noticed there were too many of them, and I grew wary. Finally, a handsome, white-haired doctor came in and said he was the director of the hospital. Then he started talking about the Pilgrims and Indians and who had the land after them, and what rivers ran nearby, and who had built the first hospital, and how it had burned down, and who had built the next hospital, until I thought he must be waiting to see when I would interrupt him and tell him I knew all that about rivers and Pilgrims was a lot of nonsense. But then I thought some of it might be true, so I tried to sort out what was likely to be true and what wasn't, only before I could do that, he had said good-bye. I waited till I heard the voices of all the doctors die away. Then I threw back the white blanket and put on my shoes and walked out into the hall. Nobody stopped me, so I walked round the corner of my wing of the hall and down another, longer hall, past an open dining room. A maid in a green uniform was setting the tables for supper. There were white linen tablecloths and glasses and paper napkins. I stored the fact that they were real glasses in the corner of my mind the way a squirrel stores a nut. At the city hospital we had drunk out of paper cups and had no knives to cut our meat. The meat had always been so overcooked we could cut it with a fork. Finally I arrived at a big lounge with shabby furniture and a threadbare rug. A girl with a round pasty face and short black hair was sitting in an armchair, reading a magazine. She reminded me of a Girl Scout leader I'd had once. I glanced at her feet, and sure enough, she wore those flat brown leather shoes with fringed tongues lapping down over the front that are supposed to be so sporty, and the ends of the laces were knobbed with little imitation acorns. The girl raised her eyes and smiled. 'I'm Valerie. Who are you?' I pretended I hadn't heard and walked out of the lounge to the end of the next wing. On the way, I passed a waist-high door behind which I saw some nurses. 'Where is everybody?' 'Out.' The nurse was writing something over and over on little pieces of adhesive tape. I leaned across the gate of the door to see what she was writing, and it was E. Greenwood, E. Greenwood, E. Greenwood, E. Greenwood. 'Out where?' 'Oh, OT, the golf course, playing badminton.' I noticed a pile of clothes on a chair beside the nurse. They were the same clothes the nurse in the first hospital had been packing into the patent leather case when I broke the mirror. The nurses began sticking the labels onto the clothes. I walked back to the lounge. I couldn't understand what these people were doing, playing badminton and golf. They mustn't be really sick at all, to do that. I sat down near Valerie and observed her carefully. Yes, I thought, she might just as well be in a Girl Scout camp. She was reading her tatty copy of Vogue with intense interest. ''What the hell is she doing here?' I wondered. 'There's nothing the matter with her.' 'Do you mind if I smoke?' Doctor Nolan leaned back in the armchair next to my bed. I said no, I liked the smell of smoke. I thought if Doctor Nolan smoked, she might stay longer. This was the first time she had come to talk with me. When she left I would simply lapse into the old blankness. 'Tell me about Doctor Gordon,' Doctor Nolan said suddenly. 'Did you like him?' I gave Doctor Nolan a wary look. I thought the doctors must all be in it together, and that somewhere in this hospital, in a hidden corner, there reposed a machine exactly like Doctor Gordon's, ready to jolt me out of my skin. 'No,' I said. 'I didn't like him at all.' 'That's interesting. Why?' 'I didn't like what he did to me.' 'Did to you?' I told Doctor Nolan about the machine, and the blue flashes, and the jolting and the noise. While I was telling her she went very still. 'That was a mistake,' she said then. 'It's not supposed to be like that.' I stared at her. 'If it's done properly,' Doctor Nolan said, 'it's like going to sleep.' 'If anyone does that to me again I'll kill myself.' Doctor Nolan said firmly, 'You won't have any shock treatments here. Or if you do,' she amended, 'I'll tell you about it beforehand, and I promise you it won't be anything like what you had before. Why,' she finished, 'some people even like them.' After Doctor Nolan had gone I found a box of matches on the windowsill. It wasn't an ordinary-size box, but an extremely tiny box. I opened it and exposed a row of little white sticks with pink tips. I tried to light one, and it crumpled in my hand. I couldn't think why Doctor Nolan would have left me such a stupid thing. Perhaps she wanted to see if I would give it back. Carefully I stored the toy matches in the hem of my new wool bathrobe. If Doctor Nolan asked me for the matches, I would say I'd thought they were made of candy and had eaten them. A new woman had moved into the room next to mine. I thought she must be the only person in the building who was newer than I was, so she wouldn't know how really bad I was, the way the rest did. I thought I might go in and make friends. The woman was lying on her bed in a purple dress that fastened at the neck with a cameo brooch and reached midway between her knees and her shoes. She had rusty hair knotted in a schoolmarmish bun, and thin, silver-rimmed spectacles attached to her breast pocket with a black elastic. 'Hello,' I said conversationally, sitting down on the edge of the bed. 'My name's Esther, what's your name?' The woman didn't stir, just stared up at the ceiling. I felt hurt. I thought maybe Valerie or somebody had told her when she first came in how stupid I was. A nurse popped her head in at the door. 'Oh, there you are,' she said to me. 'Visiting Miss Norris. How nice!' And she disappeared again. I don't know how long I sat there, watching the woman in purple and wondering if her pursed pink lips would open, and if they did open, what they would say. Finally, without speaking or looking at me, Miss Norris swung her feet in their high, black, buttoned boots over the other side of the bed and walked out of the room. I thought she might be trying to get rid of me in a subtle way. Quietly, at a little distance, I followed her down the hall. Miss Norris reached the door of the dining room and paused. All the way to the dining room she had walked precisely, placing her feet in the very center of the cabbage roses that twined through the pattern of the carpet. She waited a moment and then, one by one, lifted her feet over the doorsill and into the dining room as though stepping over an invisible shin-high stile. She sat down at one of the round, linen-covered tables and unfolded a napkin in her lap. 'It's not supper for an hour yet,' the cook called out of the kitchen. But Miss Norris didn't answer. She just stared straight ahead of her in a polite way. I pulled up a chair opposite her at the table and unfolded a napkin. We didn't speak, but sat there, in a dose, sisterly silence, until the gong for supper sounded down the hall 'Lie down,' the nurse said. 'I'm going to give you another injection.' I rolled over on my stomach on the bed and hitched up my skirt. Then I pulled down the trousers of my silk pajamas. 'My word, what all have you got under there?' 'Pajamas. So I won't have to bother getting in and out of them all the time.' The nurse made a little ducking noise. Then she said, 'Which side?' It was an old joke. I raised my head and glanced back at my bare buttocks. They were bruised purple and green and blue from past injections. The left side looked darker than the right 'The right.' 'You name it.' The nurse jabbed the needle in, and I winced, savoring the tiny hurt. Three times each day the nurses injected me, and about an hour after each injection they gave me a cup of sugary fruit juice and stood by, watching me drink it. 'Lucky you,' Valerie said. 'You're on insulin.' 'Nothing happens.' 'Oh, it will. I've had it. Tell me when you get a reaction.' But I never seemed to get any reaction. I just grew fatter and fatter. Already I filled the new, too-big clothes my mother had bought, and when I peered down at my plump stomach and my broad hips I thought it was a good thing Mrs. Guinea hadn't seen me like this, because I looked just as if I were going to have a baby. 'Have you seen my scars?' Valerie pushed aside her black bang and indicated two pale marks, one on either side of her forehead, as if at some time she had started to sprout horns, but cut them off. We were walking, just the two of us, with the Sports Therapist in the asylum gardens. Nowadays I was let out on walk privileges more and more often. They never let Miss Norris out at all. Valerie said Miss Norris shouldn't be in Caplan, but in a building for worse people called Wymark. 'Do you know what these scars are?' Valerie persisted. 'No. What are they?' 'I've had a lobotomy.' I looked at Valerie in awe, appreciating for the first time her perpetual marble calm. 'How do you feel?' 'Fine. I'm not angry any more. Before, I was always angry. I was in Wymark before, and now I'm in Caplan. I can go to town, now, or shopping or to a movie, along with a nurse.' 'What will you do when you get out?' 'Oh, I'm not leaving,' Valerie laughed. 'I like it here.' 'Moving day!' 'Why should I be moving?' The nurse went on blithely opening and shutting my drawers, emptying the closet and folding my belongings into the black overnight case. I thought they must at last be moving me to Wymark. 'Oh, you're only moving to the front of the house,' the nurse said cheerfully. 'You'll like it. There's lots more sun.' When we came out into the hall, I saw that Miss Norris was moving too. A nurse, young and cheerful as my own, stood in the doorway of Miss Norris's room, helping Miss Norris into a purple coat with a scrawny squirrel-fur collar. Hour after hour I had been keeping watch by Miss Norris's bedside, refusing the diversion of OT and walks and badminton matches and even the weekly movies, which I enjoyed, and which Miss Norris never went to, simply to brood over the pale, speechless circlet of her lips. I thought how exciting it would be if she opened her mouth and spoke, and I rushed out into the hall and announced this to the nurses. They would praise me for encouraging Miss Norris, and I would probably be allowed shopping privileges and movie privileges downtown, and my escape would be assured. But in all my hours of vigil Miss Norris hadn't said a word. 'Where are you moving to?' I asked her now. The nurse touched Miss Norris's elbow, and Miss Norris jerked into motion like a doll on wheels. 'She's going to Wymark,' my nurse told me in a low voice. 'I'm afraid Miss Norris isn't moving up like you.' I watched Miss Norris lift one foot, and then the other, over the invisible stile that barred the front doorsill. 'I've a surprise for you,' the nurse said as she installed me in a sunny room in the front wing overlooking the green golf links. 'Somebody you know's just come today.' 'Somebody I know?' The nurse laughed. 'Don't look at me like that. It's not a policeman.' Then, as I didn't say anything, she added, 'She says she's an old friend of yours. She lives next door. Why don't you pay her a visit?' I thought the nurse must be joking, and that if I knocked on the door next to mine I would hear no answer, but go in and find Miss Norris, buttoned into her purple, squirrel-collared coat and lying on the bed, her mouth blooming out of the quiet vase of her body like the bud of a rose. Still, I went out and knocked on the neighboring door. 'Come in!' called a gay voice. I opened the door a crack and peered into the room. The big, horsey girl in jodhpurs sitting by the window glanced up with a broad smile. 'Esther!' She sounded out of breath, as if she had been running a long, long distance and only just come to a halt. 'How nice to see you. They told me you were here.' 'Joan?' I said tentatively, then 'Joan!' in confusion and disbelief. Joan beamed, revealing her large, gleaming, unmistakable teeth. 'It's really me. I thought you'd be surprised.' Sixteen Joan's room, with its closet and bureau and table and chair and white blanket with the big blue C on it, was a mirror image of my own. It occurred to me that Joan, hearing where I was, had engaged a room at the asylum on pretense, simply as a joke. That would explain why she had told the nurse I was her friend. I had never known Joan, except at a cool distance. 'How did you get here?' I curled up on Joan's bed. 'I read about you,' Joan said. 'What?' 'I read about you, and I ran away,' 'How do you mean?' I said evenly. 'Well,' Joan leaned back in the chintz-flowered asylum armchair, 'I had a summer job working for the chapter head of some fraternity, like the Masons, you know, but not the Masons, and I felt terrible. I had these bunions, I could hardly walk -- in the last days I had to wear rubber boots to work, instead of shoes, and you can imagine what that did to my morale. . .' I thought either Joan must be crazy -- wearing rubber boots to work -- or she must be trying to see how crazy I was, believing all that. Besides, only old people ever got bunions. I decided to pretend I thought she was crazy, and that I was only humoring her along. 'I always feel lousy without shoes,' I said with an ambiguous smile. 'Did your feet hurt much?' 'Terribly. And my boss -- he'd just separated from his wife, he couldn't come right out and get a divorce, because that wouldn't go with this fraternal order -- my boss kept buzzing me in every other minute, and each time I moved my feet hurt like the devil, but the second I'd sit down at my desk again, buzz went the buzzer, and he'd have something else he wanted to get off his chest. . .' 'Why didn't you quit?' 'Oh, I did quit, more or less. I stayed off work on sick leave. I didn't go out. I didn't see anyone. I stowed the telephone in a drawer and never answered it... 'Then my doctor sent me to a psychiatrist at this big hospital I had an appointment for twelve o'clock, and I was in an awful state. Finally, at half past twelve, the receptionist came out and told me the doctor had gone to lunch. She asked me if I wanted to wait, and I said yes.' 'Did he come back?' The story sounded rather involved for Joan to have made up out of whole cloth, but I led her on, to see what would come of it. 'Oh yes. I was going to kill myself, mind you. I said 'If this doctor doesn't do the trick, that's the end.' Well, the receptionist led me down a long hall, and just as we got to the door she turned to me and said, 'You won't mind if there are a few students with the doctor, will you?' What could I say? 'Oh no,' I said. I walked in and found nine pairs of eyes fixed on me. Nine! Eighteen separate eyes. 'Now, if that receptionist had told me there were going to be nine people in that room, I'd have walked out on the spot. But there I was, and it was too late to do a thing about it. Well, on this particular day I happened to be wearing a fur coat. . .' 'In August?' 'Oh, it was one of those cold, wet days, and I thought, my first psychiatrist -- you know. Anyway, this psychiatrist kept eyeing that fur coat the whole time I talked to him, and I could just see what he thought of my asking to pay the student's cut rate instead of the full fee. I could see the dollar signs in his eyes. Well, I told him I don't know whatall - - about the bunions and the telephone in the drawer and how I wanted to kill myself -- and then he asked me to wait outside while he discussed my case with the others, and when he called me back in, you know what he said?' 'What?' 'He folded his hands together and looked at me and said, 'Miss Gilling, we have decided that you would benefit by group therapy.' ' 'Group therapy?' I thought I must sound phony as an echo chamber, but Joan didn't pay any notice. 'That's what he said. Can you imagine me wanting to kill myself, and coming round to chat about it with a whole pack of strangers, and most of them no better than myself. . .' 'That's crazy.' I was growing involved in spite of myself. 'That's not even human.' 'That's just what I said. I went straight home and wrote that doctor a letter. I wrote him one beautiful letter about how a man like that had no business setting himself up to help sick people. . .' 'Did you get any answer?' 'I don't know. That was the day I read about you.' 'How do you mean?' 'Oh,' Joan said, 'about how the police thought you were dead and all. I've got a pile of clippings somewhere.' She heaved herself up, and I had a strong horsey whiff that made my nostrils prickle. Joan had been a champion horse-jumper at the annual college gymkhana, and I wondered if she had been sleeping in a stable. Joan rummaged in her open suitcase and came up with a fistful of clippings. 'Here, have a look.' The first clipping showed a big, blown-up picture of a girl with black-shadowed eyes and black lips spread in a grin. I couldn't imagine where such a tarty picture had been taken until I noticed the Bloomingdale earrings and the Bloomingdale necklace glinting out of it with bright, white highlights, like imitation stars. SCHOLARSHIP GIRL MISSING. MOTHER WORRIED The article under the picture told how this girl had disappeared from her home on August 17th, wearing a green skirt and a white blouse, and had left a note saying she was taking a long walk. When Miss Greenwood had not returned by midnight, it said, her mother called the town police. The next clipping showed a picture of my mother and brother and me grouped together in our backyard and smiling. I couldn't think who had taken that picture either, until I saw I was wearing dungarees and white sneakers and remembered that was what I wore in my spinach-picking summer, and how Dodo Conway had dropped by and taken some family snaps of the three of us one hot afternoon. Mrs. Greenwood asked that this picture be printed in hopes that it will encourage her daughter to return home. SLEEPING PILLS FEARED MISSING WITH GIRL A dark, midnight picture of about a dozen moon-faced people in a wood. I thought the people at the end of the row looked queer and unusually short until I realized they were not people, but dogs. Bloodhounds used in search for missing girl. Police Sgt. Bill Mindly says: It doesn't look good. GIRL FOUND ALIVE! The last picture showed policemen lifting a long, limp blanket roll with a featureless cabbage head into the back of an ambulance. Then it told how my mother had been down in the cellar, doing the week's laundry, when she heard faint groans coming from a disused hole. . . I laid the clippings on the white spread of the bed. 'You keep them,' Joan said. 'You ought to stick them in a scrapbook.' I folded the clippings and slipped them in my pocket. 'I read about you,' Joan went on. 'Not how they found you, but everything up to that, and I put all my money together and took the first plane to New York.' 'Why New York?' 'Oh, I thought it would be easier to kill myself in New York.' 'What did you do?' Joan grinned sheepishly and stretched out her hands, palm up. Like a miniature mountain range, large reddish weals upheaved across the white flesh of her wrists. 'How did you do that?' For the first time it occurred to me Joan and I might have something in common. 'I shoved my fists through my roommate's window.' 'What roommate?' 'My old college roommate. She was working in New York, and I couldn't think of anyplace else to stay, and besides, I'd hardly any money left, so I went to stay with her. My parents found me there -- she'd written them I was acting funny -- and my father flew straight down and brought me back.' 'But you're all right now.' I made it a statement. Joan considered me with her bright, pebble-gray eyes. 'I guess so,' she said. 'Aren't you?' I had fallen asleep after the evening meal. I was awakened by a loud voice. Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister, Mrs. Bannister. As I pulled out of sleep, I found I was beating on the bedpost with my hands and calling. The sharp, wry figure of Mrs. Bannister, the night nurse, scurried into view. 'Here, we don't want you to break this.' She unfastened the band of my watch. 'What's the matter? What happened?' Mrs. Bannister's face twisted into a quick smile. 'You've had a reaction.' 'A reaction?' 'Yes, how do you feel?' 'Funny. Sort of light and airy.' Mrs. Bannister helped me sit up. 'You'll be better now. You'll be better in no time. Would you like some hot milk?' 'Yes.' And when Mrs. Bannister held the cup to my lips, I fanned the hot milk out on my tongue as it went down, tasting it luxuriously, the way a baby tastes its mother. 'Mrs. Bannister tells me you had a reaction.' Doctor Nolan seated herself in the armchair by the window and took out a tiny box of matches. The box looked exactly like the one I had hidden in the hem of my bathrobe, and for a moment I wondered if a nurse had discovered it there and given it back to Doctor Nolan on the quiet. Doctor Nolan scraped a match on the side of the box. A hot yellow flame jumped into life, and I watched her suck it up into the cigarette. 'Mrs. B. says you felt better.' 'I did for a while. Now I'm the same again.' 'I've news for you.' I waited. Every day now, for I didn't know how many days, I had spent the mornings and afternoons and evenings wrapped up in my white blanket on the deck chair in the alcove, pretending to read. I had a dim notion that Doctor Nolan was allowing me a certain number of days and then she would say just what Doctor Gordon had said: 'I'm sorry, you don't seem to have improved, I think you'd better have some shock treatment. . .' 'Well, don't you want to hear what it is?' 'What?' I said dully, and braced myself. 'You're not to have any more visitors for a while.' I stared at Doctor Nolan in surprise. 'Why that's wonderful.' 'I thought you'd be pleased.' She smiled. Then I looked, and Doctor Nolan looked, at the wastebasket beside my bureau. Out of the wastebasket poked the blood-red buds of a dozen long-stemmed roses. That afternoon my mother had come to visit me. My mother was only one in a long stream of visitors -- my former employer, the lady Christian Scientist, who walked on the lawn with me and talked about the mist going up from the earth in the Bible, and the mist being error, and my whole trouble being that I believed in the mist, and the minute I stopped believing in it, it would disappear and I would see I had always been well, and the English teacher I had in high school who came and tried to teach me how to play Scrabble, because he thought it might revive my old interest in words, and Philomena Guinea herself, who wasn't at all satisfied with what the doctors were doing and kept telling them so. I hated these visits. I would be sitting in my alcove or in my room, and a smiling nurse would pop in and announce one or another of the visitors. Once they'd even brought the minister of thef Unitarian church, whom I'd never really liked at all. He was terribly nervous the whole time, and I could tell he thought I was crazy as a loon, because I told him I believed in hell, and that certain people, like me, had to live in hell before they died, to make up for missing out on it after death, since they didn't believe in life after death, and what each person believed happened to him when he died. I hated these visits, because I kept feeling the visitors measuring my fat and stringy hair against what I had been and what they wanted me to be, and I knew they went away utterly confounded. I thought if they left me alone I might have some peace. My mother was the worst. She never scolded me, but kept begging me, with a sorrowful face, to tell her what she had done wrong. She said she was sure the doctors thought she had done something wrong because they asked her a lot of questions about my toilet training, and I had been perfectly trained at a very early age and given her no trouble whatsoever. That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. 'Save them for my funeral,' I'd said. My mother's face puckered, and she looked ready to cry. 'But Esther, don't you remember what day it is today?' 'No.' I thought it might be Saint Valentine's day. 'It's your birthday.' And that was when I had dumped the roses in the waste-basket. 'That was a silly thing for her to do,' I said to Doctor Nolan. Doctor Nolan nodded. She seemed to know what I meant. 'I hate her,' I said, and waited for the blow to fall. But Doctor Nolan only smiled at me as if something had pleased her very, very much, and said, 'I suppose you do.' Seventeen 'You're a lucky girl today.' The young nurse cleared my breakfast tray away and left me wrapped in my white blanket like a passenger taking the sea air on the deck of a ship. 'Why am I lucky?' 'Well, I'm not sure if you're supposed to know yet, but today, you're moving to Belsize.' The nurse looked at me expectantly. 'Belsize,' I said. 'I can't go there.' 'Why not?' 'I'm not ready. I'm not well enough.' 'Of course, you're well enough. Don't worry, they wouldn't be moving you if you weren't well enough.' After the nurse left, I tried to puzzle out this new move on Doctor Nolan's part. What was she trying to prove? I hadn't changed. Nothing had changed. And Belsize was the best house of all. From Belsize people went back to work and back to school and back to their homes. Joan would be at Belsize. Joan with her physics books and her golf clubs and her badminton rackets and her breathy voice. Joan, marking the gulf between me and the nearly well ones. Ever since Joan left Caplan I'd followed her progress through the asylum grapevine. Joan had walk privileges, Joan had shopping privileges, Joan had town privileges. I gathered all my news of Joan into a little, bitter heap, though I received it with surface gladness. Joan was the beaming double of my old best self, specially designed to follow and torment me. Perhaps Joan would be gone when I got to Belsize. At least at Belsize I could forget about shock treatments. At Caplan a lot of the women had shock treatments. I could tell which ones they were, because they didn't get their breakfast trays with the rest of us. They had their shock treatments while we breakfasted in our rooms, and then they came into the lounge, quiet and extinguished, led like children by the nurses, and ate their breakfasts there. Each morning, when I heard the nurse knock with my tray, an immense relief flooded through me, because I knew I was out of danger for that day. I didn't see how Doctor Nolan could tell you went to sleep during a shock treatment if she'd never had a shock treatment herself. How did she know the person didn't just look as if he was asleep, while all the time, inside, he was feeling the blue volts and the noise? Piano music sounded from the end of the hall. At supper I sat quietly, listening to the chatter of the Belsize women. They were all fashionably dressed and carefully made up, and several of them were married. Some of them had been shopping downtown, and others had been out visiting friends, and all during supper they kept tossing back and forth these private jokes. 'I'd call Jack,' a woman named DeeDee said, 'only I'm afraid he wouldn't be home. I know just where I could call him, though, and he'd be in, all right.' The short, spry blonde woman at my table laughed. 'I almost had Doctor Loring where I wanted him today.' She widened her starey blue eyes like a little doll. 'I wouldn't mind trading old Percy in for a new model.' At the opposite end of the room, Joan was wolfing her Spam and broiled tomato with great appetite. She seemed perfectly at home among these women and treated me coolly, with a slight sneer, like a dim and inferior acquaintance. I had gone to bed right after supper, but then I heard the piano music and pictured Joan and DeeDee and Loubelle, the blonde woman, and the rest of them, laughing and gossiping about me in the living room behind my back. They would be saying how awful it was to have people like me in Belsize and that I should be in Wymark instead. I decided to put a lid on their nasty talk. Draping my blanket loosely around my shoulders, like a stole, I wandered down the hall toward the light and the gay noise. For the rest of the evening I listened to DeeDee thump out some of her own songs on the grand piano, while the other women sat round playing bridge and chatting, just the way they would in a college dormitory, only most of them were ten years over college age. One of them, a great, tall, gray-haired woman with a booming bass voice, named Mrs. Savage, had gone to Vassar. I could tell right away she was a society woman, because she talked about nothing but debutantes. It seemed she had two or three daughters, and that year they were all going to be debutantes, only she had loused up their debutante party by signing herself into the asylum. DeeDee had one song she called 'The Milkman' and everybody kept saying she ought to get it published, it would be a hit. First her hands would clop out a little melody on the keys, like the hoofbeats of a slow pony, and next another melody came in, like the milkman whistling, and then the two melodies went on together. 'That's very nice,' I said in a conversational voice. Joan was leaning on one corner of the piano and leafing through a new issue of some fashion magazine, and DeeDee smiled up at her as if the two of them shared a secret. 'Oh, Esther,' Joan said then, holding up the magazine, 'isn't this you?' DeeDee stopped playing. 'Let me see.' She took the magazine, peered at the page Joan pointed to, and then glanced back at me. 'Oh no,' DeeDee said. 'Surely not.' She looked at the magazine again, then at me. 'Never!' 'Oh, but it is Esther, isn't it, Esther?' Joan said. Loubelle and Mrs. Savage drifted over, and pretending I knew what it was all about, I moved to the piano with them. The magazine photograph showed a girl in a strapless evening dress of fuzzy white stuff, grinning fit to split, with a whole lot of boys bending around her. The girl was holding a glass full of a transparent drink and seemed to have her eyes fixed over my shoulder on something that stood behind me, a little to my left. A faint breath fanned the back of my neck. I wheeled round. The night nurse had come in, unnoticed, on her soft rubber soles. 'No kidding,' she said, 'is that really you?' 'No, it's not me. Joan's quite mistaken. It's somebody else.' 'Oh, say it's you!' DeeDee cried. But I pretended I didn't hear her and turned away. Then Loubelle begged the nurse to make a fourth at bridge, and I drew up a chair to watch, although I didn't know the first thing about bridge, because I hadn't had time to pick it up at college, the way all the wealthy girls did. I stared at the flat poker faces of the kings and jacks and queens and listened to the nurse talking about her hard life. 'You ladies don't know what it is, holding down two jobs,' she said. 'Nights I'm over here, watching you. . .' Loubelle giggled. 'Oh, we're good. We're the best of the lot, and you know it.' 'Oh, you're all right' The nurse passed round a packet of spearmint gum, then unfolded a pink strap from its tinfoil wrapper herself. 'You're all right, it's those boobies at the state place that worry me off my feet.' 'Do you work in both places then?' I asked with sudden interest. 'You bet.' The nurse gave me a straight look, and I could see she thought I had no business in Belsize at all. 'You wouldn't like it over there one bit, Lady Jane.' I found it strange that the nurse should call me Lady Jane when she knew what my name was perfectly well. 'Why?' I persisted. 'Oh, it's not a nice place, like this. This is a regular country club. Over there they've got nothing. No OT to talk of, no walks. . .' 'Why haven't they got walks?' 'Not enough em-ploy-ees.' The nurse scooped in a trick and Loubelle groaned. 'Believe me, ladies, when I collect enough do-re-mi to buy me a car, I'm clearing out.' 'Will you clear out of here, too?' Joan wanted to know. 'You bet. Only private cases from then on. When I feel like it. . .' But I'd stopped listening. I felt the nurse had been instructed to show me my alternatives. Either I got better, or I fell, down, down, like a burning, then burnt-out star, from Belsize, to Caplan, to Wymark and finally, after Doctor Nolan and Mrs. Guinea had given me up, to the state place next door. I gathered my blanket round me and pushed back my chair. 'You cold?' the nurse demanded rudely. 'Yes,' I said, moving off down the hall. 'I'm frozen stiff.' I woke warm and placid in my white cocoon. A shaft of pale, wintry sunlight dazzled the mirror and the glasses on the bureau and the metal doorknobs. From across the hall came the early-morning clatter of the maids in the kitchen, preparing the breakfast trays. I heard the nurse knock on the door next to mine, at the far end of the hall. Mrs. Savage's sleepy voice boomed out, and the nurse went in to her with the jingling tray. I thought, with a mild stir of pleasure, of the steaming blue china coffee pitcher and the blue china breakfast cup and the fat blue china cream jug with the white daisies on it I was beginning to resign myself. If I was going to fall, I would hang on to my small comforts, at least, as long as I possibly could. The nurse rapped on my door and, without waiting for an answer, breezed in. It was a new nurse -- they were always changing -- with a lean, sand-colored face and sandy hair, and large freckles polka-dotting her bony nose. For some reason the sight of this nurse made me sick at heart, and it was only as she strode across the room to snap up the green blind that I realized part of her strangeness came from being empty-handed. I opened my mouth to ask for my breakfast tray, but silenced myself immediately. The nurse would be mistaking me for somebody else. New nurses often did that. Somebody in Belsize must be having shock treatments, unknown to me, and the nurse had, quite understandably, confused me with her. I waited until the nurse had made her little circuit of my room, patting, straightening, arranging, and taken the next tray in to Loubelle one door farther down the hall. Then I shoved my feet into my slippers, dragging my blanket with me, for the morning was bright, but very cold, and crossed quickly to the kitchen. The pinkuniformed maid was filling a row of blue china coffee pitchers from a great, battered kettle on the stove. I looked with love at the lineup of waiting trays -- the white paper napkins, folded in their crisp, isosceles triangles, each under the anchor of its silver fork, the pale domes of soft-boiled eggs in the blue egg cups, the scalloped glass shells of orange marmalade. All I had to do was reach out and claim my tray, and the world would be perfectly normal. 'There's been a mistake,' I told the maid, leaning over the counter and speaking in a low, confidential tone. 'The new nurse forgot to bring me in my breakfast tray today.' I managed a bright smile, to show there were no hard feelings. 'What's the name?' 'Greenwood. Esther Greenwood.' 'Greenwood, Greenwood, Greenwood.' The maid's warty index finger slid down the list of names of the patients in Belsize tacked upon the kitchen wall 'Greenwood, no breakfast today.' I caught the rim of the counter with both hands. 'There must be a mistake. Are you sure it's Greenwood?' 'Greenwood,' the maid said decisively as the nurse came in. The nurse looked questioningly from me to the maid. 'Miss Greenwood wanted her tray,' the maid said, avoiding my eyes. 'Oh,' the nurse smiled at me, 'you'll be getting your tray later on this morning, Miss Greenwood. You. . .' But I didn't wait to hear what the nurse said. I strode blindly out into the hall, not to my room, because that was where they would come to get me, but to the alcove, greatly inferior to the alcove at Caplan, but an alcove, nevertheless, in a quiet corner of the hall, where Joan and Loubelle and DeeDee and Mrs. Savage would not come. I curled up in the far corner of the alcove with the blanket over my head. It wasn't the shock treatment that struck me, so much as the bare-faced treachery of Doctor Nolan. I liked Doctor Nolan, I loved her, I had given her my trust on a platter and told her everything, and she had promised, faithfully, to warn me ahead of time if ever I had to have another shock treatment. If she had told me the night before I would have lain awake all night, of course, full of dread and foreboding, but by morning I would have been composed and ready. I would have gone down the hall between two nurses, past DeeDee and Loubelle and Mrs. Savage and Joan, with dignity, like a person coolly resigned to execution. The nurse bent over me and called my name. I pulled away and crouched farther into the corner. The nurse disappeared. I knew she would return, in a minute, with two burly men attendants, and they would bear me, howling and hitting, past the smiling audience now gathered in the lounge. Doctor Nolan put her arm around me and hugged me like a mother. 'You said you'd tell me!' I shouted at her through the dishevelled blanket. 'But I am telling you,' Doctor Nolan said. 'I've come specially early to tell you, and I'm taking you over myself.' I peered at her through swollen lids. 'Why didn't you tell me last night?' 'I only thought it would keep you awake. If I'd known. . .' 'You said you'd tell me.' 'Listen, Esther,' Doctor Nolan said. 'I'm going over with you. I'll be there the whole time, so everything will happen right, the way I promised. I'll be there when you wake up, and I'll bring you back again.' I looked at her. She seemed very upset I waited a minute. Then I said, 'Promise you'll be there.' 'I promise.' Doctor Nolan took out a white handkerchief and wiped my face. Then she hooked her arm in my arm, like an old friend, and helped me up, and we started down the hall. My blanket tangled about my feet, so I let it drop, but Doctor Nolan didn't seem to notice. We passed Joan, coming out of her room, and I gave her a meaning, disdainful smile and she ducked back and waited until we had gone by. Then Doctor Nolan unlocked a door at the end of the hall and led me down a flight of stairs into the mysterious basement corridors that linked, in an elaborate network of tunnels and burrows, all the various buildings of the hospital. The walls were bright, white lavatory tile with bald bulbs set at intervals in the black ceiling. Stretchers and wheelchairs were beached here and there against the hissing, knocking pipes that ran and branched in an intricate nervous system along the glittering walls. I hung on to Doctor Nolan's arm like death, and every so often she gave me an encouraging squeeze. Finally, we stopped at a green door with Electrotherapy printed on it in black letters. I held back, and Doctor Nolan waited. Then I said, 'Let's get it over with,' and we went in. The only people in the waiting room besides Doctor Nolan and me were a pallid man in a shabby maroon bathrobe and his accompanying nurse. 'Do you want to sit down?' Doctor Nolan pointed at a wooden bench, but my legs felt full of heaviness, and I thought how hard it would be to hoist myself from a sitting position when the shock treatment people came in. 'I'd rather stand.' At last a tall, cadaverous woman in a white smock entered the room from an inner door. I thought that she would go up and take the man in the maroon bathrobe, as he was first, so I was surprised when she came toward me. 'Good morning, Doctor Nolan,' the woman said, putting her arm around my shoulders. 'Is this Esther?' 'Yes, Miss Huey. Esther, this is Miss Huey, she'll take good care of you. I've told her about you.' I thought the woman must be seven feet tall. She bent over me in a kind way, and I could see that her face, with the buck teeth protruding in the center, had at one time been badly pitted with acne. It looked like maps of the craters on the moon. 'I think we can take you right away, Esther,' Miss Huey said. 'Mr. Anderson won't mind waiting, will you, Mr. Anderson?' Mr. Anderson didn't say a word, so with Miss Huey's arm around my shoulder, and Doctor Nolan following, I moved into the next room. Through the slits of my eyes, which I didn't dare open too far, lest the full view strike me dead, I saw the high bed with its white, drumtight sheet, and the machine behind the bed, and the masked person -- I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman -- behind the machine, and other masked people flanking the bed on both sides. Miss Huey helped me climb up and lie down on my back. 'Talk to me,' I said. Miss Huey began to talk in a low, soothing voice, smoothing the salve on my temples and fitting the small electric buttons on either side of my head. 'You'll be perfectly all right, you won't feel a thing, just bite down. . .' And she set something on my tongue and in panic I bit down, and darkness wiped me out like chalk on a blackboard. Eighteen 'ESTHER.' I woke out of a deep, drenched sleep, and the first thing I saw was Doctor Nolan's face swimming in front of me and saying, 'Esther, Esther.' I rubbed my eyes with an awkward hand. Behind Doctor Nolan I could see the body of a woman wearing a rumpled black-and-white checked robe and flung out on a cot as if dropped from a great height. But before I could take in any more, Doctor Nolan led me through a door into a fresh, blue-skied air. All the heat and fear purged itself. I felt surprisingly at peace. The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air. 'It was like I told you it would be, wasn't it?' said Doctor Nolan, as we walked back to Belsize together through the crunch of brown leaves. 'Yes.' 'Well, it will always be like that,' she said firmly. 'You will be having shock treatments three times a week -- Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.' I gulped in a long draught of air. 'For how long?' 'That depends,' Doctor Nolan said, 'on you and me.' I took up the silver knife and cracked off the cap of my egg. Then I put down the knife and looked at it. I tried to think what I had loved knives for, but my mind slipped from the noose of the thought and swung, like a bird, in the center of empty air. Joan and DeeDee were sitting side by side on the piano bench, and DeeDee was teaching Joan to play the bottom half of 'Chopsticks' while she played the top. I thought how sad it was Joan looked so horsey, with such big teeth and eyes like two gray, goggly pebbles. Why, she couldn't even keep a boy like Buddy Willard. And DeeDee's husband was obviously living with some mistress or other and turning her sour as an old fusty cat. 'I've got a let-ter,' Joan chanted, poking her tousled head inside my door. 'Good for you.' I kept my eyes on my book. Ever since the shock treatments had ended, after a brief series of five, and I had town privileges, Joan hung about me like a large and breathless fruitfly -- as if the sweetness of recovery were something she could suck up by mere nearness. They had taken away her physics books and the piles of dusty spiral pads full of lecture notes that had ringed her room, and she was confined to grounds again. 'Don't you want to know who it's from?' Joan edged into the room and sat down on my bed. I wanted to tell her to get the hell out, she gave me the creeps, only I couldn't do it. 'All right.' I stuck my finger in my place and shut the book. 'Who from?' Joan slipped out a pale blue envelope from her skirt pocket and waved it teasingly. 'Well, isn't that a coincidence!' I said. 'What do you mean, a coincidence?' I went over to my bureau, picked up a pale blue envelope and waved it at Joan like a parting handkerchief. 'I got a letter too. I wonder if they're the same.' 'He's better,' Joan said. 'He's out of the hospital.' There was a little pause. 'Are you going to marry him?' 'No,' I said. 'Are you?' Joan grinned evasively. 'I didn't like him much, anyway.' 'Oh?' 'No, it was his family I liked.' 'You mean Mr. and Mrs. Willard?' 'Yes.' Joan's voice slid down my spine like a draft. 'I loved them. They were so nice, so happy, nothing like my parents. I went over to see them all the time,' she paused, 'until you came.' 'I'm sorry.' Then I added, 'Why didn't you go on seeing them, if you liked them so much?' 'Oh, I couldn't,' Joan said. 'Not with you dating Buddy. It would have looked. . . I don't know, funny.' I considered. 'I suppose so.' 'Are you,' Joan hesitated, 'going to let him come?' 'I don't know.' At first I had thought it would be awful having Buddy come and visit me at the asylum -- he would probably only come to gloat and hobnob with the other doctors. But then it seemed to me it would be a step, placing him, renouncing him, in spite of the fact that I had nobody -- telling him there was no simultaneous interpreter, nobody, but that he was the wrong one, that I had stopped hanging on. 'Are you?' 'Yes,' Joan breathed. 'Maybe he'll bring his mother. I'm going to ask him to bring his mother. . .' 'His mother?' Joan pouted. 'I like Mrs. Willard. Mrs. Willard's a wonderful, wonderful woman. She's been a real mother to me.' I had a picture of Mrs. Willard, with her heather-mixture tweeds and her sensible shoes and her wise, maternal maxims. Mr. Willard was her little boy, and his voice was high and dear, like a little boy's. Joan and Mrs. Willard. Joan. . . and Mrs. Willard. . . I had knocked on DeeDee's door that morning, wanting to borrow some two-part sheet music. I waited a few minutes and then, hearing no answer and thinking DeeDee must be out, and I could pick up the music from her bureau, I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. At Belsize, even at Belsize, the doors had locks, but the patients had no keys. A shut door meant privacy, and was respected, like a locked door. One knocked, and knocked again, then went away. I remembered this as I stood, my eyes half-useless after the brilliance of the hall, in the room's deep, musky dark. As my vision cleared, I saw a shape rise from the bed. Then somebody gave a low giggle. The shape adjusted its hair, and two pale, pebble eyes regarded me through the gloom. DeeDee lay back on the pillows, bare-legged under her green wool dressing gown, and watched me with a little mocking smile. A cigarette glowed between the fingers of her right hand. 'I just wanted. . .' I said. 'I know,' said DeeDee. 'The music.' 'Hello, Esther,' Joan said then, and her cornhusk voice made me want to puke. 'Wait for me, Esther, I'll come play the bottom part with you.' Now Joan said stoutly, 'I never really liked Buddy Willard. He thought he knew everything. He thought he knew everything about women. . .' I looked at Joan. In spite of the creepy feeling, and in spite of my old, ingrained dislike, Joan fascinated me. It was like observing a Martian, or a particularly warty toad. Her thoughts were not my thoughts, nor her feelings my feelings, but we were close enough so that her thoughts and feelings seemed a wry, black image of my own. Sometimes I wondered if I had made Joan up. Other times I wondered if she would continue to pop in at every crisis of my life to remind me of what I had been, and what I had been through, and carry on her own separate but similar crisis under my nose. 'I don't see what women see in other women,' I'd told Doctor Nolan in my interview that noon. 'What does a woman see in a woman that she can't see in a man?' Doctor Nokn paused. Then she said, 'Tenderness.' That shut me up. 'I like you,' Joan was saying. 'I like you better than Buddy.' And as she stretched out on my bed with a silly smile, I remembered a minor scandal at our college dormitory when a fat, matronly-breasted senior, homely as a grandmother and a pious Religion major, and a tall, gawky freshman with a history of being deserted at an early hour in all sorts of ingenious ways by her blind dates, started seeing too much of each other. They were always together, and once somebody had come upon them embracing, the story went, in the fat girl's room. 'But what were they doing?' I had asked. Whenever I thought about men and men, and women and women, I could never really imagine what they would be actually doing. 'Oh,' the spy had said, 'Milly was sitting on the chair and Theodora was lying on the bed, and Milly was stroking Theodora's hair.' I was disappointed. I had thought I would have some revelation of specific evil. I wondered if all women did with other women was lie and hug. Of course, the famous woman poet at my college lived with another woman -- a stumpy old Classical scholar with a cropped Dutch cut. And when I had told the poet I might well get married and have a pack of children someday, she stared at me in horror. 'But what about your career?' she had cried. My head ached. Why did I attract these weird old women? There was the famous poet, and Philomena Guinea, and Jay Cee, and the Christian Scientist lady and lord knows who, and they all wanted to adopt me in some way, and, for the price of their care and influence, have me resemble them. 'I like you.' 'That's tough, Joan,' I said, picking up my book. 'Because I don't like you. You make me puke, if you want to know.' And I walked out of the room, leaving Joan lying, lumpy as an old horse, across my bed. I waited for the doctor, wondering if I should bolt. I knew what I was doing was illegal -- in Massachusetts, anyway, because the state was cram-jam full of Catholics -- but Doctor Nolan said this doctor was an old friend of hers, and a wise man. 'What's your appointment for?' the brisk, white-uniformed receptionist wanted to know, ticking my name off on a notebook list. 'What do you mean, for?' I hadn't thought anybody but the doctor himself would ask me that, and the communal waiting room was full of other patients waiting for other doctors, most of them pregnant or with babies, and I felt their eyes on my flat, virgin stomach. The receptionist glanced up at me, and I blushed. 'A fitting, isn't it?' she said kindly. 'I only wanted to make sure so I'd know what to charge you. Are you a student?' 'Ye-es.' 'That will only be half-price then. Five dollars, instead of ten. Shall I bill you?' I was about to give my home address, where I would probably be by the time the bill arrived, but then I thought of my mother opening the bill and seeing what it was for. The only other address I had was the innocuous box number which people used who didn't want to advertise the fact they lived in an asylum. But I thought the receptionist might recognize the box number, so I said, 'I better pay now,' and peeled five dollar notes off the roll in my pocketbook. The five dollars was part of what Philomena Guinea had sent me as a sort of getwell present. I wondered what she would think if she knew to what use her money was being put. Whether she knew it or not, Philomena Guinea was buying my freedom, 'What I hate is the thought of being under a man's thumb,' I had told Doctor Nolan. 'A man doesn't have a worry in the world, while I've got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.' 'Would you act differently if you didn't have to worry about a baby?' 'Yes,' I said, 'but. . .' and I told Doctor Nolan about the married woman lawyer and her Defense of Chastity. Doctor Nolan waited until I was finished. Then she burst out laughing. 'Propaganda!' she said, and scribbled the name and address of this doctor on a prescription pad. I leafed nervously through an issue of Baby Talk. The fat, bright faces of babies beamed up at me, page after page -- bald babies, chocolate-colored babies, Eisenhowerfaced babies, babies rolling over for the first time, babies reaching for rattles, babies eating their first spoonful of solid food, babies doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world. I smelt a mingling of Pablum and sour milk and salt-cod-stinky diapers and felt sorrowful and tender. HOW easy having babies seemed to the women around me! Why was I so unmaternal and apart? Why couldn't I dream of devoting myself to baby after fat puling baby like Dodo Conway? If I had to wait on a baby all day, I would go mad. I looked at the baby in the lap of the woman opposite. I had no idea how old it was, I never did, with babies -- for all I knew it could talk a blue streak and had twenty teeth behind its pursed, pink lips. It held its little wobby head up on its shoulders -- it didn't seem to have a neck -- and observed me with a wise, Platonic expression. The baby's mother smiled and smiled, holding that baby as if it were the first wonder of the world. I watched the mother and the baby for some clue to their mutual satisfaction, but before I had discovered anything, the doctor called me in. 'You'd like a fitting,' he said cheerfully, and I thought with relief that he wasn't the sort of doctor to ask awkward questions. I had toyed with the idea of telling him I planned to be married to a sailor as soon as his ship docked at the Charlestown Navy Yard, and the reason I didn't have an engagement ring was because we were too poor, but at the last moment I rejected that appealing story and simply said 'Yes.' I climbed up on the examination table, thinking: 'I am climbing to freedom, freedom from fear, freedom from marrying the wrong person, like Buddy Willard, just because of sex, freedom from the Florence Crittenden Homes where all the poor girls go who should have been fitted out like me, because what they did, they would do anyway, regardless. . .' As I rode back to the asylum with my box in the plain brown paper wrapper on my lap I might have been Mrs. Anybody coming back from a day in town with a Schrafft's cake for her maiden aunt or a Filene's Basement hat. Gradually the suspicion that Catholics had X-ray eyes diminished, and I grew easy. I had done well by my shopping privileges, I thought. I was my own woman. The next step was to find the proper sort of man. Nineteen 'I'm going to be a psychiatrist.' Joan spoke with her usual breathy enthusiasm. We were drinking apple cider in the Belsize lounge. 'Oh,' I said dryly, 'that's nice.' 'I've had a long talk with Doctor Quinn, and she thinks it's perfectly possible.' Doctor Quinn was Joan's psychiatrist, a bright, shrewd, single lady, and I often thought if I had been assigned to Doctor Quinn I would be still in Caplan or, more probably, Wymark. Doctor Quinn had an abstract quality that appealed to Joan, but it gave me the polar chills. Joan chattered on about Egos and Ids, and I turned my mind to something else, to the brown, unwrapped package in my bottom drawer. I never talked about Egos and Ids with Doctor Nolan. I didn't know just what I talked about really. '. . . I'm going to live out, now.' I tuned in on Joan then. 'Where?' I demanded, trying to hide my envy. Doctor Nolan said my college would take me back for the second semester, on her recommendation and Philomena Guinea's scholarship, but as the doctors vetoed my living with my mother in the interim, I was staying on at the asylum until the winter term began. Even so, I felt it unfair of Joan to beat me through the gates. 'Where?' I persisted. 'They're not letting you live on your own, are they?' Joan had only that week been given town privileges again. 'Oh no, of course not. I'm living in Cambridge with Nurse Kennedy. Her roommate's just got married, and she needs someone to share the apartment.' 'Cheers.' I raised my apple cider glass, and we clinked. In spite of my profound reservations, I thought I would always treasure Joan. It was as if we had been forced together by some overwhelming circumstance, like war or plague, and shared a world of our own. 'When are you leaving?' 'On the first.of the month.' 'Nice.' Joan grew wistful 'You'll come visit me, won't you, Esther?' 'Of course.' But I thought, 'Not likely.' 'It hurts,' I said. 'Is it supposed to hurt?' Irwin didn't say anything. Then he said, 'Sometimes it hurts.' I had met Irwin on the steps of the Widener Library. I was standing at the top of the long flight, overlooking the red brick buildings that walled the snow-filled quad and preparing to catch the trolley back to the asylum, when a tall young man with a rather ugly and bespectacled, but intelligent face, came up and said, 'Could you please tell me the time?' I glanced at my watch. 'Five past four.' Then the man shifted his arms around the load of books he was carrying before him like a dinner tray and revealed a bony wrist. 'Why, you've a watch yourself!' The man looked ruefully at his watch. He lifted it and shook it by his ear. 'Doesn't work.' He smiled engagingly. 'Where are you going?' I was about to say, 'Back to the asylum,' but the man looked promising, so I changed my mind. 'Home.' 'Would you like some coffee first?' I hesitated. I was due at the asylum for supper and I didn't want to be late so close to being signed out of there for good. 'A very small cup of coffee?' I decided to practice my new, normal personality on this man who, in the course of my hesitations, told me his name was Irwin and that he was a very well-paid professor of mathematics, so I said, 'All right,' and, matching my stride to Irwin's, strolled down the long, ice-encrusted flight at his side. It was only after seeing Irwin's study that I decided to seduce him. Irwin lived in a murky, comfortable basement apartment in one of the rundown streets of outer Cambridge and drove me there -- for a beer, he said -- after three cups of bitter coffee in a student cafe. We sat in his study on stuffed brown leather chairs, surrounded by stacks of dusty, incomprehensible books with huge formulas inset artistically on the page like poems. While I was sipping my first glass of beer -- I have never really cared for cold beer in midwinter, but I accepted the glass to have something solid to hold on to -- the doorbell rang. Irwin seemed embarrassed. 'I think it may be a lady.' Irwin had a queer, old-world habit of calling women ladies. 'Fine, fine,' I gestured largely. 'Bring her in.' Irwin shook his head. 'You would upset her.' I smiled into my amber cylinder of cold beer. The doorbell rang again with a peremptory jab. Irwin sighed and rose to answer it. The minute he disappeared, I whipped into the bathroom and, concealed behind the dirty, aluminum-colored Venetian blind, watched Irwin's monkish face appear in the door crack. A large, bosomy Slavic lady in a bulky sweater of natural sheep's wool, purple slacks, high-heeled black overshoes with Persian lamb cuffs and a matching toque, puffed white, inaudible words into the wintry air. Irwin's voice drifted back to me through the chilly hall. 'I'm sorry, Olga. . . I'm working, Olga. . . no, I don't think so, Olga,' all the while the lady's red mouth moved and the words, translated to white smoke, floated up among the branches of the naked lilac by the door. Then, finally, 'Perhaps, Olga. . . good-bye, Olga.' I admired the immense, steppelike expanse of the lady's wool-clad bosom as she retreated a few inches from my eye, down the creaking wooden stair, a sort of Siberian bitterness on her vivid lips. 'I suppose you have lots and lots of affairs in Cambridge,' I told Irwin cheerily, as I stuck a snail with a pin in one of Cambridge's determinedly French restaurants. 'I seem,' Irwin admitted with a small, modest smile, 'to get on with the ladies.' I picked up my empty snail shell and drank the herb-green juice. I had no idea if this was proper, but after months of wholesome, dull asylum diet, I was greedy for butter. I had called Doctor Nolan from a pay phone at the restaurant and asked for permission to stay overnight in Cambridge with Joan. Of course, I had no idea whether Irwin would invite me back to his apartment after dinner or not, but I thought his dismissal of the Slavic lady -- another professor's wife -- looked promising. I tipped back my head and poured down a glass of Nuits-St.-Georges. 'You do like wine,' Irwin observed. 'Only Nuits-St.-Georges. I imagine him. . . with the dragon. . .' Irwin reached for my hand. I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I would respect him. Irwin was a full professor at twenty-six and had the pale, hairless skin of a boy genius. I also needed somebody quite experienced to make up for my lack of it, and Irwin's ladies reassured me on this head. Then, to be on the safe side, I wanted somebody I didn't know and wouldn't go on knowing -- a kind of impersonal, priestlike official, as in the tales of tribal rites. By the end of the evening I had no doubts about Irwin whatsoever. Ever since I'd learned about the corruption of Buddy Willard my virginity weighed like a millstone around my neck. It had been of such enormous importance to me for so long that my habit was to defend it at all costs. I had been defending it for five years and I was sick of it. It was only as Irwin swung me into his arms, back at the apartment, and carried me, wine-dazed and limp, into the pitch-black bedroom, that I murmured, 'You know, Irwin, I think I ought to tell you, I'm a virgin.' Irwin laughed and flung me down on the bed. A few minutes later an exclamation of surprise revealed that Irwin hadn't really believed me. I thought how lucky it was I had started practicing birth control during the day, because in my winey state that night I would never have bothered to perform the delicate and necessary operation. I lay, rapt and naked, on Irwin's rough blanket, waiting for the miraculous change to make itself felt. But all I felt was a sharp, startlingly bad pain. 'It hurts,' I said. 'Is it supposed to hurt?' Irwin didn't say anything. Then he said, 'Sometimes it hurts.' After a little while Irwin got up and went into the bathroom, and I heard the rushing of shower water. I wasn't sure if Irwin had done what he planned to do, or if my virginity had obstructed him in some way. I wanted to ask him if I was still a virgin, but I felt too unsettled. A warm liquid was seeping out between my legs. Tentatively, I reached down and touched it. When I held my hand up to the light streaming in from the bathroom, my fingertips looked black. 'Irwin,' I said nervously, 'bring me a towel.' Irwin strolled back, a bathtowel knotted around his waist, and tossed me a second, smaller towel. I pushed the towel between my legs and pulled it away almost immediately. It was half black with blood. 'I'm bleeding!' I announced, sitting up with a start. 'Oh, that often happens,' Irwin reassured me. 'You'll be all right.' Then the stories of blood-stained bridal sheets and capsules of red ink bestowed on already deflowered brides floated back to me. I wondered how much I would bleed, and lay down, nursing the towel. It occurred to me that the blood was my answer. I couldn't possibly be a virgin any more. I smiled into the dark. I felt part of a great tradition. Surreptitiously, I applied a fresh section of white towel to my wound, thinking that as soon as the bleeding stopped, I would take the late trolley back to the asylum. I wanted to brood over my new condition in perfect peace. But the towel came away black and dripping. 'I. . . think I better go home,' I said faintly. 'Surely not so soon.' 'Yes, I think I better.' I asked if I could borrow Irwin's towel and packed it between my thighs as a bandage. Then I pulled on my sweaty clothes. Irwin offered to drive me home, but I didn't see how I could let him drive me to the asylum, so I dug in my pocketbook for Joan's address. Irwin knew the street and went out to start the car. I was too worried to tell him I was still bleeding. I kept hoping every minute that it would stop. But as Irwin drove me through the barren, snow-banked streets I felt the warm seepage let itself through the dam of the towel and my skirt and onto the car seat. As we slowed, cruising by house after lit house, I thought how fortunate it was I had not discarded my virginity while living at college or at home, where such concealment would have been impossible. Joan opened the door with an expression of glad surprise. Irwin kissed my hand and told Joan to take good care of me. I shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling the blood drain from my face in one spectacular flush. 'Why, Esther,' Joan said, 'what on earth's the matter?' I wondered when Joan would notice the blood trickling down my legs and oozing, stickily, into each black patent leather shoe. I thought I could be dying from a bullet wound and Joan would still stare through me with her blank eyes, expecting me to ask for a cup of coffee and a sandwich. 'Is that nurse here?' 'No, she's on night duty at Caplan. . .' 'Good.' I made a little bitter grin as another soak of blood let itself through the drenched padding and started the tedious journey into my shoes. 'I mean. . . bad.' 'You look funny,' Joan said. 'You better get a doctor.' 'Why?' 'Quick' 'But. . .' Still she hadn't noticed anything. I bent down, with a brief grunt, and slipped off one of my winter-cracked black Bloomingdale shoes. I held the shoe up, before Joan's enlarged, pebbly eyes, tilted it, and watched her take in the stream of blood that cascaded onto the beige rug. 'My God! What is it?' 'I'm hemorrhaging.' Joan half led, half dragged me to the sofa and made me lie down. Then she propped some pillows under my bloodstained feet. Then she stood back and demanded, 'Who was that man?' For one crazy minute I thought Joan would refuse to call a doctor until I confessed the whole story of my evening with Irwin and that after my confession she would still refuse, as a sort of punishment. But then I realized that she honestly took my explanation at face value, that my going to bed with Irwin was utterly incomprehensible to her, and his appearance a mere prick to her pleasure at my arrival. 'Oh somebody,' I said, with a flabby gesture of dismissal. Another pulse of blood released itself and I contracted my stomach muscles in alarm. 'Get a towel.' Joan went out and came back almost immediately with a pile of towels and sheets. Like a prompt nurse, she peeled back my blood-wet clothes, drew a quick breath as she arrived at the original royal red towel, and applied a fresh bandage. I lay, trying to slow the beating of my heart, as every beat pushed forth another gush of blood. I remembered a worrisome course in the Victorian novel where woman after woman died, palely and nobly, in torrents of blood, after a difficult childbirth. Perhaps Irwin had injured me in some awful, obscure way, and all the while I lay there on Joan's sofa I was really dying. Joan pulled up an Indian hassock and began to dial down the long list of Cambridge doctors. The first number didn't answer. Joan began to explain my case to the second number, which did answer, but then broke off and said 'I see' and hung up. 'What's the trouble?' 'He'll only come for regular customers or emergencies. It's Sunday.' I tried to lift my arm and look at my watch, but my hand was a rock at my side and wouldn't budge. Sunday -- the doctor's paradise! Doctors at country clubs, doctors at the seaside, doctors with mistresses, doctors with wives, doctors in church, doctors in yachts, doctors everywhere resolutely being people, not doctors. 'For God's sake,' I said, 'tell them I'm an emergency.' The third number didn't answer and, at the fourth, the party hung up the minute Joan mentioned it was about a period. Joan began to cry. 'Look, Joan,' I said painstakingly, 'call up the local hospital. Tell them it's an emergency. They'll have to take me.' Joan brightened and dialed a fifth number. The Emergency Service promised her a staff doctor would attend to me if I could come in to the ward. Then Joan called a taxi. Joan insisted on riding with me. I clasped my fresh padding of towels with a sort of desperation as the cabby, impressed by the address Joan gave him, cut corner after corner in the dawn-pale streets and drew up with a great squeal of tires at the Emergency Ward entrance. I left Joan to pay the driver and hurried into the empty, glaringly lit room. A nurse bustled out from behind a white screen. In a few swift words, I managed to tell her the truth about my predicament before Joan came in the door, blinking and wide-eyed as a myopic owl The Emergency Ward doctor strolled out then, and I climbed, with the nurse's help, on to the examining table. The nurse whispered to the doctor, and the doctor nodded and began unpacking the bloody toweling. I felt his fingers start to probe, and Joan stood, rigid as a soldier, at my side, holding my hand, for my sake or hers I couldn't tell. 'Ouch!' I winced at a particularly bad jab. The doctor whistled. 'You're one in a million.' 'What do you mean?' 'I mean it's one in a million it happens to like this.' The doctor spoke in a low, curt voice to the nurse, and she hurried to a side table and brought back some rolls of gauze and silver instruments. 'I can see,' the doctor bent down, 'exactly where the trouble is coming from.' 'But can you fix it?' The doctor laughed. 'Oh, I can fix it, all right.' I was roused by a tap on my door. It was past midnight, and the asylum quiet as death. I couldn't imagine who would still be up. 'Come in!' I switched on the bedside light. The door clicked open, and Doctor Quinn's brisk, dark head appeared in the crack. I looked at her with surprise, because although I knew who she was, and often passed her, with a brief nod, in the asylum hall, I never spoke to her at all. Now she said, 'Miss Greenwood, may I come in a minute?' I nodded. Doctor Quinn stepped into the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. She was wearing one of her navy blue, immaculate suits with a plain, snow-white blouse showing in the V of the neck. 'I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Greenwood, and especially at this time of night, but I thought you might be able to help us out about Joan.' For a minute I wondered if Doctor Quinn was going to blame me for Joan's return to the asylum. I still wasn't sure how much Joan knew, after our trip to the Emergency Ward, but a few days later she had come back to live in Belsize, retaining, however, the freest of town privileges. 'I'll do what I can,' I told Doctor Quinn. Doctor Quinn sat down on the edge of my bed with a grave face. 'We would like to find out where Joan is. We thought you might have an idea.' Suddenly I wanted to dissociate myself from Joan completely. 'I don't know,' I said coldly. 'Isn't she in her room?' It was well after the Belsize curfew hour. 'No, Joan had a permit to go to a movie in town this evening, and she's not back yet.' 'Who was she with?' 'She was alone.' Doctor Quinn paused. 'Have you any idea where she might be likely to spend the night?' 'Surely she'll be back. Something must have held her up.' But I didn't see what could have held Joan up in tame night Boston. Doctor Quinn shook her head. 'The last trolley went by an hour ago.' 'Maybe she'll come back by taxi.' Doctor Quinn sighed. 'Have you tried the Kennedy girl?' I went on. 'Where Joan used to live?' Doctor Quinn nodded. 'Her family?' 'Oh, she'd never go there. . . but we've tried them, too.' Doctor Quinn lingered a minute, as if she could sniff out some clue in the still room. Then she said, 'Well, we'll do what we can,' and left. I turned out the light and tried to drop back to sleep, but Joan's face floated before me, bodiless and smiling, like the face of the Cheshire cat. I even thought I heard her voice, rustling and hushing through the dark, but then I realized it was only the night wind in the asylum trees. . . Another tap woke me in the frost-gray dawn. This time I opened the door myself. Facing me was Doctor Quinn. She stood at attention, like a frail drill sergeant, but her outlines seemed curiously smudged. 'I thought you should know,' Doctor Quinn said. 'Joan has been found.' Doctor Quinn's use of the passive slowed my blood. 'Where?' 'In the woods, by the frozen ponds. . .' I opened my mouth, but no words came out. 'One of the orderlies found her,' Doctor Quinn continued, 'just now, coming to work. . .' 'She's not. . .' 'Dead,' said Doctor Quinn. 'I'm afraid she's hanged herself.' Twenty A FRESH FALL OF SNOW blanketed the asylum grounds -- not a Christmas sprinkle, but a man-high January deluge, the sort that snuffs out schools and offices and churches, and leaves, for a day or more, a pure, blank sheet in place of memo pads, date books and calendars. In a week, if I passed my interview with the board of directors, Philomena Guinea's large black car would drive me west and deposit me at the wrought-iron gates of my college. The heart of winter! Massachusetts would be sunk in a marble calm. I pictured the snowflaky, Grandma Moses villages, the reaches of swampland rattling with dried cattails, the ponds where frog and hornpout dreamed in a sheath of ice, and the shivering woods. But under the deceptively clean and level slate the topography was the same, and instead of San Francisco or Europe or Mars I would be learning the old landscape, brook and hill and tree. In one way it seemed a small thing, starting, after a six months' lapse, where I had so vehemently left off. Everybody would know about me, of course. Doctor Nolan had said, quite bluntly, that a lot of people would treat me gingerly, or even avoid me, like a leper with a warning bell. My mother's face floated to mind, a pale, reproachful moon, at her last and first visit to the asylum since my twentieth birthday. A daughter in an asylum! I had done that to her. Still, she had obviously decided to forgive me. 'We'll take up where we left off, Esther,' she had said, with her sweet, martyr's smile. 'Well act as if all this were a bad dream.' A bad dream. To the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is the bad dream. A bad dream. I remembered everything. I remembered the cadavers and Doreen and the story of the fig tree and Marco's diamond and the sailor on the Common and Doctor Gordon's wall-eyed nurse and the broken thermometers and the Negro with his two kinds of beans and the twenty pounds I gained on insulin and the rock that bulged between sky and sea like a gray skull. Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind of snow, should numb and cover them. But they were part of me. They were my landscape. 'A man to see you!' The smiling, snow-capped nurse poked her head in through the door, and for a confused second I thought I really was back in college and this spruce white furniture, this white view over trees and hills, an improvement on my old room's nicked chairs and desk and outlook over the bald quad. 'A man to see you!' the girl on watch had said, on the dormitory phone. What was there about us, in Belsize, so different from the girls playing bridge and gossiping and studying in the college to which I would return? Those girls, too, sat under bell jars of a sort. 'Come in!' I called, and Buddy Willard, khaki cap in hand, stepped into the room. 'Well, Buddy,' I said. 'Well, Esther.' We stood there, looking at each other. I waited for a touch of emotion, the faintest glow. Nothing. Nothing but a great, amiable boredom. Buddy's khaki-jacketed shape seemed small and unrelated to me as the brown posts he had stood against that day a year ago, at the bottom of the ski run. 'How did you get here?' I asked finally. 'Mother's car.' 'In all this snow?' 'Well,' Buddy grinned, 'I'm stuck outside in a drift. The hill was too much for me. Is there anyplace I can borrow a shovel?' 'We can get a shovel from one of the groundsmen.' 'Good.' Buddy turned to go. 'Wait, I'll come and help you.' Buddy looked at me then, and in his eyes I saw a flicker of strangeness -- the same compound of curiosity and wariness I had seen in the eyes of the Christian Scientist and my old English teacher and the Unitarian minister who used to visit me. 'Oh, Buddy,' I laughed. 'I'm all right.' 'Oh, I know, I know, Esther,' Buddy said hastily. 'It's you who oughtn't to dig out cars, Buddy. Not me.' And Buddy did let me do most of the work. The car had skidded on the glassy hill up to the asylum and backed, with one wheel over the rim of the drive, into a steep drift. The sun, emerged from its gray shrouds of clouds, shone with a summer brillance on the untouched slopes. Pausing in my work to overlook that pristine expanse, I felt the same profound thrill it gives me to see trees and grassland waist-high under flood water -- as if the usual order of the world had shifted slightly, and entered a new phase. I was grateful for the car and the snowdrift. It kept Buddy from asking me what I knew he was going to ask, and what he finally did ask, in a low, nervous voice, at the Belsize afternoon tea. DeeDee was eyeing us like an envious cat over the rim of her teacup. After Joan's death, DeeDee had been moved to Wymark for a while, but now she was among us once more. 'I've been wondering. . .' Buddy set his cup in the saucer with an awkward clatter. 'What have you been wondering?' 'I've been wondering. . . I mean, I thought you might be able to tell me something.' Buddy met my eyes and I saw, for the first time, how he had changed. Instead of the old, sure smile that flashed on easily and frequently as a photographer's bulb, his face was grave, even tentative -- the face of a man who often does not get what he wants. 'I'll tell you if I can, Buddy.' 'Do you think there's something in me that drives women crazy?' I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing -- maybe because of the seriousness of Buddy's face and the common meaning of the word 'crazy' in a sentence like that. 'I mean,' Buddy pushed on, 'I dated Joan, and then you, and first you. . . went, and then Joan. . .' With one finger I nudged a cake crumb into a drop of wet, brown tea. 'Of course you didn't do it!' I heard Doctor Nolan say. I had come to her about Joan, and it was the only time I remember her sounding angry. 'Nobody did it. She did it.' And then Doctor Nolan told me how the best of psychiatrists have suicides among their patients, and how they, if anybody, should be held responsible, but how they, on the contrary, do not hold themselves responsible. . . 'You had nothing to do with us, Buddy.' 'You're sure?' 'Absolutely.' 'Well,' Buddy breathed. 'I'm glad of that.' And he drained his tea like a tonic medicine. 'I hear you're leaving us.' I fell into step beside Valerie in the little, nurse-supervised group. 'Only if the doctors say yes. I have my interview tomorrow.' The packed snow creaked underfoot, and everywhere I could hear a musical trickle and drip as the noon sun thawed icicles and snow crusts that would glaze again before nightfall. The shadows of the massed black pines were lavender in that bright light, and I walked with Valerie awhile, down the familiar labyrinth of shoveled asylum paths. Doctors and nurses and patients passing on adjoining paths seemed to be moving on casters, cut off at the waist by the piled snow. 'Interviews!' Valerie snorted. 'They're nothing! If they're going to let you out, they let you out.' 'I hope so.' In front of Caplan I said good-bye to Valerie's calm, snow-maiden face behind which so little, bad or good, could happen, and walked on alone, my breath coming in white puffs even in that sun-filled air. Valerie's last, cheerful cry had been 'So long! Be seeing you.' 'Not if I know it,' I thought. But I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure at all. How did I know that someday -- at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere -- the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again? And hadn't Buddy said, as if to revenge himself for my digging out the car and his having to stand by, 'I wonder who you'll marry now, Esther.' 'What?' I'd said, shoveling snow up onto a mound and blinking against the stinging backshower of loose flakes. 'I wonder who you'll marry now, Esther. Now you've been,' and Buddy's gesture encompassed the hill, the pines and the severe, snow-gabled buidlings breaking up the rolling landscape, 'here.' And of course I didn't know who would marry me now that I'd been where I had been. I didn't know at all. 'I have a bill here, Irwin.' I spoke quietly into the mouthpiece of the asylum pay phone in the main hall of the administration building. At first I suspected the operator, at her switchboard, might be listening, but she just went on plugging and unplugging her little tubes without batting an eye. 'Yes,' Irwin said. 'It's a bill for twenty dollars for emergency attention on a certain date in December and a checkup a week thereafter.' 'Yes,' Irwin said. 'The hospital says they are sending me the bill because there was no answer to the bill they sent to you.' 'All right, all right, I'm writing a check now. I'm writing them a blank check.' Irwin's voice altered subtly. 'When am I going to see you?' 'Do you really want to know?' 'Very much.' 'Never,' I said, and hung up with a resolute click. I wondered, briefly, if Irwin would send his check to the hospital after that, and then I thought, 'Of course he will, he's a mathematics professor -- he won't want to leave any loose ends.' I felt unaccountably weak-kneed and relieved. Irwin's voice had meant nothing to me. This was the first time, since our first and last meeting, that I had spoken with him and, I was reasonably sure, it would be the last. Irwin had absolutely no way of getting in touch with me, except by going to Nurse Kennedy's flat, and after Joan's death Nurse Kennedy had moved somewhere else and left no trace. I was perfectly free. Joan's parents invited me to the funeral. I had been, Mrs. Gilling said, one of Joan's best friends. 'You don't have to go, you know,' Doctor Nolan told me. 'You can always write and say I said it would be better not to.' 'I'll go,' I said, and I did go, and all during the simple funeral service I wondered what I thought I was burying. At the altar the coffin loomed in its snow pallor of flowers -- the black shadow of something that wasn't there. The faces in the pews around me were waxen with candlelight, and pine boughs, left over from Christmas, sent up a sepulchral incense in the cold air. Beside me, Jody's cheeks bloomed like good apples, and here and there in the little congregation I recognized other faces of other girls from college and my home town who had known Joan. DeeDee and Nurse Kennedy bent their kerchiefed heads in a front pew. Then, behind the coffin and the flowers and the face of the minister and the faces of the mourners, I saw the rolling lawns of our town cemetery, knee-deep in snow now, with the tombstones rising out of it like smokeless chimneys. There would be a black, six-foot-deep gap hacked in the hard ground. That shadow would marry this shadow, and the peculiar, yellowish soil of our locality seal the wound in the whiteness, and yet another snowfall erase the traces of newness in Joan's grave. I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. The doctors were having their weekly board meeting -- old business, new business, admissions, dismissals and interviews. Leafing blindly through a tatty National Geographic in the asylum library, I waited my turn. Patients, with accompanying nurses, made their rounds of the stocked shelves, conversing in low tones, with the asylum librarian, an alumna of the asylum herself. Glancing at her -- myopic, spinsterish, effaced -- I wondered how she knew she had graduated at all, and, unlike her clients, was whole and well. 'Don't be scared,' Doctor Nolan had said. 'I'll be there, and the rest of the doctors you know, and some visitors, and Doctor Vining, the head of all the doctors, will ask you a few questions, and then you can go.' But in spite of Doctor Nolan's reassurances, I was scared to death. I had hoped, at my departure, I would feel sure and knowledgeable about everything that lay ahead -- after all, I had been 'analyzed.' Instead, all I could see were question marks. I kept shooting impatient glances at the closed boardroom door. My stocking seams were straight, my black shoes cracked, but polished, and my red wool suit flamboyant as my plans. Something old, something new. . . But I wasn't getting married. There ought, I thought, to be a ritual for being born twice -- patched, retreaded and approved for the road, I was trying to think of an appropriate one when Doctor Nolan appeared from nowhere and touched me on the shoulder. 'All right, Esther.' I rose and followed her to the open door. Pausing, for a brief breath, on the threshold, I saw the silver-haired doctor who had told me about the rivers and the Pilgrims on my first day, and the pocked, cadaverous face of Miss Huey, and eyes I thought I had recognized over white masks. The eyes and the faces all turned themselves toward me, and guiding myself by them, as by a magical thread, I stepped into the room. Sylvia Plath: A Biographical Note by Lois Ames With eight previously unpublished drawings by Sylvia Plath THE Bell JAR was first published in London in January 1963 by William Heinemann Limited, under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas. Sylvia Plath had adopted the pen name for publication of her first novel because she questioned its literary value and did not believe it was a 'serious work'; she was also worried about the pain publication might cause to the many people close to her whose personalities she had distorted and lightly disguised in the book. The central themes of Sylvia Plath's early life are the basis for The Bell Jar. She was born in 1932 in Massachusetts and spent her early childhood years in Winthrop, a seaside town close to Boston. Her mother's parents were Austrian; her father, a distinguished professor of biology at Boston University (and an internationally known authority on bees), had emigrated to the States from Poland as an adolescent; she had one brother, two and a half years younger. A radical change occurred in Sylvia's life when she was eight: in November 1940, her father died after a long, difficult illness, and the mother and grandparents moved the family inland to the town of Wellesley, a conservative upper-middle-class suburb of Boston. While the grandmother assumed the care of the household, Mrs. Plath taught students in the medical-secretarial training program at Boston University, commuting each day, and the grandfather worked as maître d'hôtel at the Brookline Country Club, where he lived during the week. Sylvia and her brother attended the local public schools. 'I went to public schools,' she wrote later, 'genuinely public. Everyone went.' At an early age she began to write poems and to draw in pen and ink -- and to collect prizes with her first publication of each. By the time she was seventeen, her interest in writing had become disciplined and controlled. Publication, however, did not come easily; she had submitted forty-five pieces to the magazine Seventeen before her first short story, 'And Summer Will Not Come Again,' was published in the August 1950 issue. A poem, 'Bitter Strawberries,' a sardonic comment on war, was accepted and published in the same month by the Christian Science Monitor. In her high school year book, The Wellesleyan, the girl who later described herself as a 'rabid teenage pragmatist' was pictured: Warm smile. . . energetic worker. . . Bumble Boogie piano special. . . Clever with chalk and paints. . . Weekends at Williams. . . Those fully packed sandwiches. . . Future writer. . . Those rejection slips from Seventeen. . . Oh, for a license. In September 1950, Sylvia entered Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, the largest women's college in the world. She went on scholarship -- one from the Wellesley Smith Club and one endowed by Olive Higgins Prouty, the novelist and author of Stella Dallas, later a friend and patron. These were the years in which Sylvia wrote poetry on a precise schedule, circled words in the red-leather thesaurus which had belonged to her father, maintained a detailed journal, kept a diligent scrapbook, and studied with concentration. Highly successful as a student, she was also elected to class and college offices; she became a member of the editorial board of The Smith Review, went for weekends to men's colleges, and published stories and poems in Seventeen. But at the time she wrote in a letter: 'for the few little outward successes I may seem to have, there are acres of misgivings and self-doubt.' Of this period a friend later said: 'It was as if Sylvia couldn't wait for life to come to her. . . She rushed out to greet it, to make things happen.' As she became increasingly conscious of herself as a woman, the conflict between the life-style of a poet/intellectual and that of a wife and mother became a central preoccupation, and she wrote: '. . .it's quite amazing how I've gone around for most of my life as in the rarefied atmosphere under a bell jar.' In August 1951 she won Mademoiselle magazine's fiction contest with a short story, 'Sunday at the Mintons,' and in the following year, her junior year in college, Sylvia was awarded two Smith poetry prizes and was elected to Phi Beta Kappa and to Alpha, the Smith College honorary society for the arts. Then in the summer of 1952 she was chosen to be a guest editor in Mademoiselle's College Board Contest. In her scrapbook, she described the beginning of that month in New York in the breathy style of the magazine: After being one of the two national winners of Mademoiselle's fiction contest ($500!) last August, I felt that I was coming home again when I won a guest editorship representing Smith & took a train to NYC for a salaried month working -- hatted & heeled -- in Mlle's airconditioned Madison Ave. offices. . . Fantastic, fabulous, and all other inadequate adjectives go to describe the four gala and chaotic-weeks I worked as guest managing Ed. . . living in luxury at the Barbizon, I edited, met celebrities, was feted and feasted by a galaxy of UN delegates, simultaneous interpreters & artists. . . an almost unbelievable merrygo-round month -- this Smith Cinderella met idols: Vance Bourjaily, Paul Engle, Elizabeth Bowen -- wrote article via correspondence with 5 handsome young male poet teachers. The poets were Alistair Reid, Anthony Hecht, Richard Wilbur, George Steiner, and William Burford, whose pictures were accompanied by biographical notes and comments on poets and poetry. After 230-odd pages of advertising, the bulk of the August 1953 college issue was introduced by Sylvia as Guest Managing Editor with 'Mlle's last word on college, '53.' Under a vapid picture of the guest editors holding hands in star formations, dressed alike in tartan skirts with matching Eton caps and open-mouthed smiles, she wrote: We're stargazers this season, bewitched by an atmosphere of evening blue. Foremost in the fashion constellation we spot Mlle's own tartan, the astronomic versatility of sweaters, and men, men, men -- we've even taken the shirts off their backs! Focusing our telescope on college news around the globe, we debate and deliberate. Issues illuminated: academic freedom, the sorority controversy, our much labeled (and libeled) generation. From our favorite fields, stars of the first magnitude shed a bright influence on our plans for jobs and futures. Although horoscopes for our ultimate orbits aren't yet in, we Guest Eds. are counting on a favorable forecast with this send-off from Mlle, the star of the campus. No doubt she was far more pleased with page 358 -- 'Mlle. finally published 'Mad Girl's Lovesong' -- my favorite villanelle': MAD GIRL'S LOVE SONG A VILLANELLE By Sylvia Plath Smith College, '54 I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) That summer, too, Harper's Magazine paid $100 for three poems which Sylvia identified as 'first professional earnings.' Later, assessing these bubbling achievements, she wrote, 'All in all, I felt upborne on a wave of creative, social and financial success -- The six month crash, however, was to come --' These were the events which took place in her life in the summer and autumn of 1953 -- at the time of the electrocution of the Rosenbergs, at the time when Senator Joseph McCarthy was forcing his power, at the beginning of the Eisenhower presidency - - these were the events which Sylvia Plath reconstructed in The Bell Jar. Years later she described the book she wanted to write: The pressures of the fashion magazine world which seems increasingly superficial and artificial, the return home to the dead summer world of a suburb of Boston. Here the cracks in her [the heroine, Esther Greenwood's] nature which had been held together as it were by the surrounding pressures of New York widen and gape alarmingly. More and more her warped view of the world around -- her own vacuous domestic life, and that of her neighbors -- seems the one right way of looking at things. For Sylvia then came electroshock therapy and finally her well-publicized disappearance, subsequent discovery and consequent hospitalization for psychotherapy and more shock treatment. She wrote: 'A time of darkness, despair, disillusion -- so black only as the inferno of the human mind can be -- symbolic death, and numb shock -- then the painful agony of slow rebirth and psychic regeneration.' Subsequently Sylvia returned to Smith College and reconquered 'old broncos that threw me for a loop last year.' At the beginning of the next summer she wrote that 'a semester of reconstruction ends with an infinitely more solid if less flashingly spectacular flourish than last year's.' By the end of the next academic year, she had sold more poems, earned additional prizes, and written her long paper for English honors on the double personality in Dostoyevski's novels. In June 1955 she graduated from Smith College summa cum laude with the prospect of an English Fulbright year in Newnham College at Cambridge University. There Sylvia met the British poet Ted Hughes, whom she married in London on June 16, 1956: Bloomsday. Sylvia's Fulbright was renewed and, after a vacation in Spain, Ted and Sylvia lived in Cambridge for another year. Then, in the spring of 1957, they moved to the United States, where Sylvia was assessed by her colleagues as 'one of the two or three finest instructors ever to appear in the English department at Smith College.' It is probable that Sylvia already had a version of The Bell Jar in her trunks when she returned to the States, but she was concentrating on poetry and on teaching. In June 1958, she applied for a Eugene F. Saxton Memorial Fellowship to complete her book of poems. The Saxton Fellowship had been established 'to honor an outstanding editor of Harper & Brothers'; the trust, at the discretion of the trustees, gave outright grants of money to writers for living expenses. Agreement of all three trustees was necessary to make the grant, and one of them, who called the sample poems 'beyond reproach,' noted that 'in looking over Mrs. Hughes' history, I see that she has had valuable awards dropped into her lap during most of her adult life. Perhaps it would not do her any real harm to continue her work for a while as a teacher in a fine college. My impulse is rejection, though I think the quality of her work entitles her to serious consideration.' In October 1958 the application was rejected with a special letter from the secretary to the trustees, who wanted Mrs. Hughes to know that 'your application aroused more than ordinary interest. The talent -- which is marked -- was not a matter for dispute but rather the nature of the project.' Meanwhile the Hugheses had moved to a small apartment on Beacon Hill, 'living on a shoestring for a year in Boston writing to see what we could do.' Sylvia had made the difficult decision to give up teaching, and to discard an academic plan for which she had been groomed since childhood, in exchange for a less certain existence but one which she hoped would give her more time to write. However, as the year progressed, and her book of poems was repeatedly submitted and rejected under ever-changing tides, she wrote: Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing. . . I still want to see it finally ritualized in print. In December 1959, Ted and Sylvia returned to England to live. In April 1960 their first child, Freda, was born. At last Sylvia's book of poetry, The Colossus, was accepted for fall publication by William Heinemann Limited. Subsequently Sylvia suffered a miscarriage, then an appendectomy, and then became pregnant again. On May 1, 1961, she again applied for a Eugene F. Saxton Fellowship; this time in order to finish a novel which she described as one-sixth completed -- about fifty pages. On the application Sylvia had asked for money to cover 'babysitter or nanny at about $5 a day, 6 days a week for a year, $1,560. Rent of study at about $10 a week: $520 for a year. Total: $2,080. . . (At present I am living in a two room flat with my husband and year old baby and having to work part time to meet living expenses.)' To a friend she wrote that she was 'over one third through a novel about a college girl building up for and going through a nervous breakdown.' She wrote: I have been wanting to do this for ten years but had a terrible block about Writing A Novel. Then suddenly in beginning negotiations with a New York publisher for an American edition of my poems, the dykes broke and I stayed awake all night seized by fearsome excitement, saw how it should be done, started the next day & go every morning to my borrowed study as to an office & belt out more of it. In the summer, the Hugheses moved to Devon to live in a thatch-roofed country house, and on November 6, 1961, the secretary to the Saxton trustees wrote that they had voted to give her a grant in the amount of $2,080, 'the sum you suggested.' Sylvia replied, 'I was very happy to receive your good letter today telling about the Saxton Fellowship. I certainly do plan to go ahead with the novel and the award comes at a particularly helpful time to free me to do so.' On January 17, 1962, a son, Nicholas, was born. The days were divided among the babies, housework, and writing, but on February 10, 1962, Sylvia punctually delivered her first quarterly report on the progress of her novel to the Saxton trustees. 'During the past three months the novel has progressed very satisfactorily, according to my drafted schedule. I have worked through several rough drafts to a final version of Chapters 5 through 8, completing a total of 105 pages of the novel in all, and have outlined in detail Chapters 9 through 12.' Then she gave in detail the plans for The Bell Jar. Although the novel was going well, Sylvia complained to a friend that she felt she was doing little work: 'a couple of poems I like a year looks like a lot when they come out, but in fact are points of satisfaction separated by large vacancies.' On May 1, 1962, in the next quarterly report to the Saxton trustees, she wrote, 'The novel is getting on very well, and according to schedule. I have completed Chapters 9 through 12 (pages 106-166) and projected in detailed outline the next lap of the book.' By June 1962 she could tell a friend: 'I'm writing again. Really writing. I'd like you to see some of my new poems.' She had begun the Ariel poems and was confident enough to want to show them, to have them read, to read them aloud. These poems were different: her husband has written that 'Tulips' 'was the first sign of what was on its way. She wrote this poem without her usual studies over the Thesaurus, and at top speed, as one might write an urgent letter. From then on, all her poems were written this way.' On August 1, 1962, Sylvia sent her final progress report to the Saxton trustees: The novel is rounding out now, shaping up pretty much as planned, and I have completed Chapters 13 through 16 (pages 167-221) and am hoping the last lap goes as well. After a vacation in Ireland, Sylvia and Ted decided to separate for a while. The summer had been difficult. She had suffered repeated attacks of flu accompanied by high fever. Another winter in Devon seemed impossible. She began to commute to London, where she was 'getting work with the BBC' and hunting for a flat. The manuscript of The Bell Jar had been sent to the trustees of the Saxton Fellowship in the States, and Heinemann had accepted the novel in England and was setting it into type. A few days before Christmas, Sylvia moved herself and the children to London, where she had signed a five-year lease on a flat: . . .a small miracle happened -- I'd been to Yeats' tower at Ballylea while in Ireland & thought it the most beautiful & peaceful place in the world; then, walking desolately around my beloved Primrose Hill in London and brooding on the hopelessness of ever finding a flat. . . I passed Yeats' house, with its blue plaque 'Yeats lived here' which I'd often passed & longed to live in. A sign board was up -- flats to rent, I flew to the agent. By a miracle you can only know if you've ever tried to flat hunt in London, I was first to apply. . . I am here on a five year lease & it is utter heaven. . . and it's Yeats' house, which right now means a lot to me. Sylvia took the finding of the Yeats house for a sign. She told a friend that when she went out to look for flats that day, she had 'known' she would find it, and so, with that confirmation, she began to make plans with energetic assurance. She was working on a new novel, and the Ariel poems were continuing to flow. She told another friend that she thought of The Bell Jar 'as an autobiographical apprentice work which I had to write in order to free myself from the past.' But the new novel, about more recent events in her life, she regarded as strong, powerful and urgent. When The Bell Jar was published, in January 1963, Sylvia was distressed by the reviews, although another reader, not the author and not under the same sorts of stress, might have interpreted the critics' views of the novel far differently. Lawrence Lerner in the Listener wrote, 'There are criticisms of America that the neurotic can make as well as anyone, perhaps better, and Miss Lucas makes them brilliantly.' The Times Literary Supplement observed that the author 'can certainly write,' and went on to say that 'if she can learn to shape as well as she imagines, she may write an extremely good book.' In the New Statesman, Robert Taubman called The Bell Jar 'the first feminine novel in a Salinger mood.' In 1970, Aurelia Plath, her mother, wrote a letter to Sylvia's editor at Harper & Row in New York about the anticipated publication of the first American edition of The Bell Jar: I realize that no explanation of the why of personal suffering that this publication here [publication of The Bell Jar in the United States] will create in the lives of several people nor any appeal on any other grounds is going to stop this, so I shall waste neither my time nor yours in pointing out the inevitable repercussions. . . I do want to tell you of one of the last conversations I had with my daughter in early July, 1962, just before her personal world fell apart. Sylvia had told me of the pressure she was under in fulfilling her obligation to the Eugene Saxton Fund. As you know, she had been given a grant by this fund to enable her to write a novel. In the space of time allotted, she had a miscarriage, an appendectomy, and had given birth to her second child, Nicholas. 'What I've done,' I remember her saying, 'is to throw together events from my own life, fictionalizing to add color -- it's a pot boiler really, but I think it will show how isolated a person feels when he is suffering a breakdown. . . I've tried to picture my world and the people in it as seen through the distorting lens of a bell jar.' Then she went on to say, 'My second book will show that same world as seen through the eyes of health.' Practically every character in The Bell Jar represents someone -- often in caricature -- whom Sylvia loved; each person had given freely of time, thought, affection, and, in one case, financial help during those agonizing six months of breakdown in 1953. . . as this book stands by itself, it represents the basest ingratitude. That was not the basis of Sylvia's personality; it was the reason she became so frightened when, at the time of publication, the book was widely read and showed signs of becoming a success. Sylvia wrote her brother that 'this must never be published in the United States.' The very title The Bell Jar should imply what Sylvia told me and that is what the astute reader should infer. . . It was the coldest winter in London since 1813-14. Light and heat went off at unannounced intervals. Pipes froze. She had applied, and her name was on the list, but a telephone had not yet been installed. Each morning before the children woke at eight, Sylvia worked on the Ariel poems. Here the sense of human experience as horrid and ungovernable, the sense of all relationships as puppetlike and meaningless, had come to dominate her imagination. Yet she wrote with intensity, convinced that what she was now writing could be said by no one else. Always there was the need to be practical, to find time for the deliberate expression of anguish. Sylvia wrote, 'I feel like a very efficient tool or weapon, used and in demand from moment to moment. . .' She had seen a doctor who had prescribed sedatives and had arranged for her to consult a psychotherapist. She wrote for an appointment and had also written to her former psychiatrist in Boston. A recurrent problem of sinus infection developed. She had fired her au pair girl and was waiting for a replacement 'to help with the babes mornings so I can write. . . nights are no good, I'm so flat by then that all I can cope with is music & brandy & water.' In spite of the help of friends and anticipation of spring (she was to return to the house in Devon around May Day), she was despairing and ill. But the poems continued to come, even in the last week of her life -- several extraordinary poems. To those around her it appeared that she had not given up. Frequently she seemed bright, cheerful, full of hope. However, on the morning of February 11, 1963, she ended her life. Who can explain why? As Sylvia had written earlier in the last optimistic pages of The Bell Jar: How did I know that someday -- at college, in Europe, somewhere, anywhere -- the bell jar, with its stifling distortions, wouldn't descend again? -- that bell jar out of which she had once straggled brilliantly, successfully, apparently completely, but of which she could write with the clarity of one who has endured: 'to the person in The Bell Jar, black and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.'

The Graveyard Book

CHAPTER ONE How Nobody Came to the Graveyard THERE WASAHAND IN the darkness, and it held a knife. The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you, you might not even know you had been cut, not immediately. The knife had donealmosteverything it was brought to that house to do, and both the blade and the handle were wet. The street door was still open, just a little, where the knife and the man who held it had slipped in, and wisps of nighttime mist slithered and twined into the housethrough the open door. The man Jack paused on the landing. With his left hand he pulled a large white handkerchief fromthe pocket of his black coat, and with it he wiped off the knife and his gloved right hand which had been holding it; then he put the handkerchief away. The hunt was almost over. He had left the woman in her bed, the man on the bedroom floor, the older child in her brightly colored bedroom, surrounded by toys and halffinished models. That only left the little one, a baby barely atoddler, to takecare of. One more and his task would be done. He flexed his fingers. The man Jack was, above all things, a professional, or so he told himself, and he would not allow himself to smile untilthejob wascompleted. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he wore black leather gloves of the thinnest lambskin. The toddler’s room was at the very top of the house. The man Jack walked up thestairs, his feet silent on the carpeting. Then he pushed open the attic door, and he walked in. His shoes were black leather, and they were polished to such a shine that they looked like dark mirrors: you could see the moon reflected in them, tiny and halffull. The real moon shone through the casement window. Its light was not bright, and it was diffused by the mist, but the man Jack would not need much light. The moonlight was enough. It would do. He could make out the shape of the child in thecrib, head and limbsand torso. The crib had high, slatted sides to prevent the child from getting out. Jack leaned over, raised his right hand, the one holding the knife, and heaimed for thechest… …and then he lowered his hand. The shape in thecrib wasateddy bear. There was no child. The man Jack’s eyes were accustomed to the dimmoonlight, so he had no desire to turn on an electric light. And light was not that important, afterall. He had other skills. The man Jack sniffed theair. Heignored the scents that had come into the room with him, dismissed the scents that he could safely ignore, honed in on the smell ofthe thing he had come to find. He could smell the child:a milky smell, like chocolate chip cookies, and the sour tang of a wet, disposable, nighttime diaper. He could smell the baby shampoo in its hair, and something small and rubbery—a toy, he thought, and then, no, something to suck—that the child had been carrying. The child had been here. It was here no longer. The man Jack followed his nose down the stairs through the middle of the tall, thin house. He inspected the bathroom, the kitchen, the airing cupboard, and, finally, the downstairs hall, in which there was nothing to be seen but the family’s bicycles, a pile ofempty shopping bags, a fallen diaper, and the stray tendrils of fog that had insinuated themselves into the hall from the open door to thestreet. The man Jack made a small noise then, a grunt that contained in it both frustration and also satisfaction. He slipped the knife into its sheath in theinside pocket of his long coat,and hestepped out into the street. There was moonlight, and there were streetlights, but the fog stifled everything, muted light and muffled sound and made the night shadowy and treacherous. He looked down the hill towards the light of the closed shops, then up the street, where the last high houses wound up the hill on their way to the darkness ofthe old graveyard. The man Jack sniffed the air. Then, without hurrying, he began to walk up the hill. Ever since the child had learned to walk he had been his mother’s and father’s despair and delight, for there never was such a boy for wandering, for climbing up things, for getting into and out of things. That night, he had beenwoken by the sound of something on the floor beneath himfallingwith a crash. Awake, he soon became bored, and had begun looking for a way out of his crib. It had high sides, like the walls of his playpen downstairs, but he was convinced that hecould scaleit. All he needed wasastep… He pulled his large, golden teddy bear into the corner of the crib, then, holding the railing in his tiny hands, he put his foot onto the bear’s lap, the other foot up on the bear’s head, and he pulled himself up into a standing position, and then he half-climbed, half-toppled over the railing and out ofthecrib. He landed with a muffled thump on a small mound of furry, fuzzy toys, some of them presents fromrelations fromhis first birthday, not sixmonths gone, some of theminherited fromhis older sister. He was surprised when he hit the floor, but he did not cry out: if you cried they cameand put you back in yourcrib. Hecrawled out oftheroom. Stairs that went up were tricky things, and he had not yet entirelymastered them. Stairs that went down however, he had discovered, were fairly simple. He did themsitting down, bumping fromstep to step on his well-padded bottom. He sucked on his nummer, the rubber pacifier his mother had just begun to tell himthat he was getting too old for. His diaper had worked itself loose on his journey on his bottomdown the stairs, and when he reached the last step, when he reached the little hall and stood up, the diaper fell off. He stepped out of it. He was only wearing a child’s nightshirt. The stairs that led back up to his roomand his family were steep, but the door to the street was open and inviting…. The child stepped out of the house a little hesitantly. The fog wreathed around him like a long-lost friend. And then, uncertainly at first, then with increasing speed and confidence, the boy tottered up the hill. The fog was thinner as you approached the top of the hill. The half-moon shone, not as bright as day, not by any means, but enough to see the graveyard,enough for that. Look. You could see the abandoned funeral chapel, iron doors padlocked, ivy on the sides of thespire, asmall tree growing out ofthe guttering at rooflevel. You could see stones and tombs and vaults and memorial plaques. You could see the occasional dash or scuttle ofarabbit ora vole or a weaselas it slipped out ofthe undergrowth and across the path. You would have seen these things, in the moonlight, if you had been therethat night. You might not have seen a pale, plump woman, who walked the path near the front gates, and if you had seen her, with a second, more careful glance you would have realized that she was only moonlight, mist, and shadow. The plump, pale woman was there, though. She walked the path that led through a clutch of halffallen tombstones towards thefront gates. The gates were locked. They were always locked at four in the afternoon in winter, at eight at night in summer. Spike-topped iron railings ran around part of the cemetery, a high brick wall around the rest of it. The bars of the gates were closely spaced: they would have stopped a grown man fromgetting through, even stopped a ten-year-old child… “Owens!”called the pale woman, in a voice that might have been the rustle of the wind through the long grass. “Owens! Come and look at this!” She crouched down and peered at something on the ground, as a patch of shadow moved into the moonlight, revealing itself to be a grizzled man in his mid-forties. He looked down at his wife, and then looked at what she was looking at,and hescratched his head. “Mistress Owens?” he said, for he came from a more formal age than our own. “Is that what I think it is?” And at that moment the thing he was inspecting seemed to catch sight of Mrs. Owens, for it opened its mouth, letting therubber nippleit was sucking fall to the ground, and it reached out a small, chubby fist, as if it were trying for all the world to hold on to Mrs. Owens’s palefinger. “Strike me silly,” said Mr. Owens, “if that isn’ta baby.” “Ofcourse it’s a baby,”said his wife. “And the question is, what is to be done with it?” “I daresay that is a question, Mistress Owens,”said her husband.“And yet, it is not our question. For this here baby is unquestionably alive, and as such is nothing to do with us, and is no part of our world.” “Look at himsmile!”said Mrs. Owens. “He has the sweetest of smiles,” and with one insubstantial hand she stroked the child’s sparse blond hair. Thelittle boy giggled with delight. A chilly breeze blew across the graveyard, scattering the fog in the lower slopes of the place (for the graveyard covered the whole of the top of the hill, and its paths wound up the hill and down and back upon themselves). A rattling: someone at the main gate of the graveyard was pulling and shaking it, rattling the old gates and the heavy padlock and chain that held them. “There now,” said Owens, “it’s the babe’s family, come to bring him back to the loving bosom. Leave the little man be,” he added, because Mrs. Owens was putting her insubstantialarms around the toddler, smoothing, stroking. Mrs. Owens said, “He dun’t look like nobody’s family, that one.” The man in the dark coat had given up on rattling the main gates and was now examining the smaller side gate. It, too, was well-locked. There had been some vandalismin the graveyard the previous year, and thecouncil had Taken Steps. “Come on, Mistress Owens. Leave it be. There’sa dear,”said Mr. Owens, when hesawa ghost, and his mouth dropped open, and he found himself unableto think ofanything to say. Youmight think—and if you did, youwould be right—that Mr. Owens should not have taken on so at seeing a ghost, given that Mr. and Mrs. Owens werethemselves dead and had been fora few hundred years now, and given that the entirety of their social life, or very nearly, was spent with those who were also dead. But there was a difference between the folk of the graveyard and this: a raw, flickering, startling shape the grey color of television static, all panic and naked emotion which flooded the Owenses as if it was their own. Three figures, two large, one smaller, but only one of them was in focus, was more than an outline or a shimmer. And the figure said, My baby! He is trying to harm my baby! Aclattering. The man outside was hauling a heavy metal garbage can across the alley to the high brick wall that ran around that part of the graveyard. “Protect my son!”said the ghost, and Mrs. Owens thought it was a woman. Of course, the babe’s mother. “What did he do to you?” asked Mrs. Owens, but she was not certain that the ghost could hear her. Recently dead, poor love, she thought. It’s always easier to die gently, to wake in duetimein the place youwere buried, to come to terms with your death and to get acquainted with the other inhabitants. This creature was nothing but alarmand fear for her child, and her panic, which felt to the Owenses like a lowpitched screaming, was now attracting attention, for other pale figures were coming fromall over the graveyard. “Who are you?” Caius Pompeius asked the figure. His headstone was now only a weathered lump of rock, but two thousand years earlier he had asked to be laid to rest on the mound beside the marble shrine, rather than to have his body sent back to Rome, and he was one of the most senior citizens of the graveyard. He took his responsibilities extremely seriously. “Are you buried here?” “Of course she’s not! Freshly dead by the look of her.”Mrs. Owens put an armaround the woman-shape and spoke to it privately, in a low voice,calmand sensible. There was a thump and a crash from the high wall beside the alley. The garbage can had fallen. A man clambered up onto the top of the wall, a dark outline against the mist-smudged streetlights. He paused for a moment, then climbed down the other side, holding on to the top of the wall, legs dangling, then let himself fall thelast fewfeet, down into the graveyard. “But my dear,” Mrs. Owens said to the shape, now all that was left of the three shapes that had appeared in the graveyard. “He’s living. We’re not. Can you imagine…” The child was looking up at them, puzzled. It reached for one ofthem, then the other, finding nothing but air. The woman-shape was fading fast. “Yes,” said Mrs. Owens, in response to something that no oneelse had heard. “Ifwecan, then we will.” Then she turned to the man beside her. “And you, Owens? Will you be a father to this littlelad?” “Will I what?” said Owens, his brow crinkling. “We never had a child,”said his wife. “And his mother wants us to protect him. Will you say yes?” The man in the black coat had tripped in the tangle of ivy and half-broken headstones. Now he got to his feet and walked forward more carefully, startling an owl which rose on silent wings. He could see the baby and there was triumph in hiseyes. Owens knew what his wife was thinking when she used that tone of voice. They had not, in life and in death, been married for over two hundred and fifty years for nothing. “Are you certain?” heasked.“Are you sure?” “Sure as Iever have been ofanything,”said Mrs. Owens. “Then yes. If you’ll be its mother, I’ll be its father.” “Did you hear that?”Mrs. Owensasked the flickering shape in the graveyard, now little more than an outline, like distantsummer lightning in the shape ofa woman. It said something to her that no oneelsecould hear,and then it was gone. “She’ll not come here again,” said Mr. Owens. “Next time she wakes it’ll be in her own graveyard, or wherever it is she’s going.” Mrs. Owens bent down to the baby and extended her arms. “Come now,” she said, warmly.“Cometo Mama.” To the man Jack, walking through the graveyard towards them on a path, his knife already in his hand, it seemed as ifa swirl ofmist had curled around thechild, in the moonlight, and that the boy was no longer there: just damp mist and moonlightand swaying grass. He blinked and sniffed the air. Something had happened, but he had no idea what it was. He growled in the back of his throat, like a beast of prey,angry and frustrated. “Hullo?” called the man Jack, wondering if perhaps the child had stepped behind something. His voice was dark and rough, and there was an odd edge to it, as if of surprise or puzzlement at hearing himselfspeak. The graveyard kept its secrets. “Hello?” he called, again. He hoped to hear a baby cry or utter a half-word, or to hear it move. He did not expect what he actually heard, a voice, silky smooth, saying, “Can I help you?” The man Jack was tall. This man was taller. The man Jack wore dark clothes. This man’s clothes were darker. People who noticed the man Jack when he was about his business—and he did not like to be noticed—were troubled, or made uncomfortable, or found themselves unaccountably scared. The man Jack looked up at thestranger, and it was the man Jack who was troubled. “I was looking for someone,” said the man Jack, slipping his right hand back into his coat pocket, so the knife was hidden, but there if he needed it. “In a locked graveyard, at night?” said the stranger. “It was just a baby,”said the man Jack. “I was just passing, when I heard a baby cry, and I looked through the gates and I saw him. Well, what would anyone do?” “I applaud your public-spiritedness,” said the stranger. “Yet if you managed to find this child, how were you planning to get out of here with it? You can’t climb back over the wall holding a baby.” “I would have called until someone let me out,”said the man Jack. Aheavy jingling of keys. “Well, that would have been me, then,”said the stranger. “I would have had to let you out.” He selected one large key fromthe key ring, said “Followme.” The man Jack walked behind the stranger. He took his knife fromhis pocket. “Are you the caretaker, then?” “AmI? Certainly, in a manner ofspeaking,” said thestranger. Theywere walking towards the gates and, the man Jack was certain, away fromthe baby. But thecaretaker had the keys.Aknife in the dark, that was all it would take, and then he could search for the child all through the night, if he needed to. Heraised the knife. “If there was a baby,” said the stranger, without looking back, “it wouldn’t have been here in the graveyard. Perhaps you were mistaken. It’s unlikely that a child would have comein here, afterall. Muchmore likely that you heard a nightbird, and saw a cat, perhaps, or a fox. They declared this place an official nature reserve, you know, thirty years ago, around the time of the last funeral. Now think carefully, and tellme you arecertain that it wasachild that you saw.” The man Jack thought. The stranger unlocked the side gate. “A fox,” he said. “They make the most uncommon noises, not unlike a person crying. No, your visit to this graveyard wasa mis-step, sir. Somewhere thechild you seek awaits you, but heis not here.” And helet thethought sit there, in the man Jack’s head for a moment, before he opened the gate with a flourish. “Delighted to have made your acquaintance,” he said. “And I trust that you will find everything you need out there.” The man Jack stood outsidethe gates to the graveyard. The stranger stood inside the gate, and helocked itagain,and put the key away. “Where are you going?” asked the man Jack. “There are other gates than this,” said the stranger. “My car is on the other side of the hill. Don’t mind me. You don’t even have to remember thisconversation.” “No,” said the man Jack, agreeably. “I don’t.” He remembered wandering up the hill, that what he had thought to be a child had turned out to be a fox, that a helpful caretaker had escorted him back out to the street. He slipped his knife into its inner sheath. “Well,” he said. “Good night.” “A good night to you,” said the stranger whomJack had taken foracaretaker. The man Jack set off down the hill, in pursuit oftheinfant. From the shadows, the stranger watched Jack until he was out of sight. Then he moved through the night, up and up, to the flat place below the brow of the hill, a place dominated by an obelisk and a flat stone set into the ground dedicated to the memory of Josiah Worthington, local brewer, politician and later baronet, who had, almost three hundred years before, bought the old cemetery and the land around it, and given it to the city in perpetuity. He had reserved for himself the best location on the hill—a natural amphitheater, with a view of the whole city and beyond—and had insured that the graveyard endured as a graveyard, for which the inhabitants of the graveyard were grateful, although never quiteas gratefulas Josiah Worthington, Bart., felt they should have been. There were, all told, some ten thousand souls in the graveyard, but most of them slept deep, or took no interest in the night-to-night affairs ofthe place,and there wereless than three hundred of themup there, in the amphitheater, in the moonlight. The stranger reached themas silently as the fog itself,and he watched the proceedings unfold, fromtheshadows,and hesaid nothing. Josiah Worthington was speaking. He said, “My dear madam. Your obduracy is quite, is… well,can’t you see howridiculous this is?” “No,”said Mrs. Owens.“Ican’t.” She was sitting, cross-legged, on the ground, and the living child was sleeping in her lap. Shecradled its head with her pale hands. “What Mistress Owens is trying to say, sir, begging your honor’s pardon,”said Mr. Owens, standing beside her, “is that she dun’t see it that way. Shesees itas doing her duty.” Mr. Owens had seen Josiah Worthington in the flesh back when they were both alive, had in fact made several pieces of fine furniture for the Worthington manor house, out near Inglesham, and was stillin awe of him. “Her duty?” Josiah Worthington, Bart., shook his head, as if to dislodge a strand of cobweb. “Your duty, ma’am, is to the graveyard, and to the commonality of those who form this population of discarnate spirits, revenants and suchlike wights, and your duty thus is to return the creature as soon as possible to its natural home—which is not here.” “His mama gave the boy to me,”said Mrs. Owens,as ifthat wasallthat needed to besaid. “My dear woman…” “I am not your dear woman,” said Mrs. Owens, getting to her feet. “Truth to tell, I don’t even see why I am even here, talking to you fiddle-pated old dunderheads, when this lad is going to wake up hungry soon enough—and where am I going to find food for him in this graveyard, I should liketo know?” “Which,” said Caius Pompeius, stiffly, “is precisely the point. What will you feed him? Howcan you carefor him?” Mrs. Owens’s eyes burned. “I can look after him,” she said, “as well as his own mama. She already gave him to me. Look: I’m holding him,aren’t I?I’mtouching him.” “Now, see reason, Betsy,” said Mother Slaughter, atiny old thing, in the huge bonnetand cape that she had worn in life and been buried wearing.“Where would helive?” “Here,” said Mrs. Owens. “We could give himthe Freedomofthe Graveyard.” Mother Slaughter’s mouth became a tinyO. “But,”shesaid. Then shesaid,“But I never.” “Well, why not? It en’t the first time we’d’ve given the Freedomof the Graveyard to an outsider.” “That is true,” said Caius Pompeius. “But he wasn’talive.” And with that, the stranger realized that he was being drawn, like it or not, into the conversation and, reluctantly, he stepped out of the shadows, detaching fromthemlike a patch of darkness. “No,” he agreed. “Iamnot. But I take Mrs. Owens’s point.” JosiahWorthington said,“You do, Silas?” “I do. For good or for evil—and I firmly believe that it is for good—Mrs. Owens and her husband have taken this child under their protection. It is going to take more than just a couple of good-hearted souls to raisethischild. It will,”said Silas,“takea graveyard.” “And what offood,and therest ofit?” “I can leave the graveyard and return. I can bring himfood,”said Silas. “That’s all very well you saying that,” said Mother Slaughter. “But you comes and you goes and nobody keeps track of you. If you went off fora week, the boy could die.” “You are a wise woman,”said Silas. “I see why they speak so highly of you.” He couldn’t push the minds ofthe dead as he could the living, but he could use all the tools of flattery and persuasion he possessed, for the dead are not immune to either. Then he came to a decision. “Very well. If Mr. and Mrs. Owens will be his parents, I shall be his guardian. I shall remain here, and if I need to leave I shall ensure that someone takes my place, bringing the child food and looking after him. We can use the crypt of thechapel,” headded. “But,” expostulated Josiah Worthington. “But. A human child. A living child. I mean. I mean, I mean. This isa graveyard, nota nursery, blast it.” “Exactly,” said Silas, nodding. “A very good point, Sir Josiah. I couldn’t have put it better myself.And for that reason, iffor no other, it is vital that the child be raised with as little disruption as possible to the, if you’ll forgive the expression, thelife of the graveyard.” With that he strolled over to Mrs. Owens, and he looked down at the infant asleep in her arms. He raised an eyebrow. “Does he have a name, Mrs. Owens?” “Not that his mother told me,”shesaid. “Well, then,” said Silas. “His old name won’t be of much use to him now, anyway. There are those out there who mean him harm. Suppose we pick a namefor him,eh?” Caius Pompeius stepped over and eyed the child. “He looks a little like my proconsul, Marcus. Wecould call himMarcus.” Josiah Worthington said, “He looks more like my head gardener, Stebbins. Not that I’m suggesting Stebbins as a name. The man drank likeafish.” “He looks like my nephew Harry,” said Mother Slaughter, and it seemed then as if the whole graveyard was about to join in, each inhabitant offering his or her own comparisons between the infant and someone long forgotten, whenMrs. Owens brokein. “He looks like nobody but himself,” said Mrs. Owens, firmly.“Helooks like nobody.” “Then Nobody it is,” said Silas. “Nobody Owens.” It was then that, as if responding to the name, the child opened its eyes wide in wakefulness. It stared around it, taking in the faces of the dead, and the mist, and the moon. Then it looked at Silas. Its gaze did not flinch. It looked grave. “And what kind of a name is Nobody?” asked Mother Slaughter, scandalized. “His name. And a good name,” Silas told her.“It will help to keep himsafe.” “I don’t want trouble,” said Josiah Worthington. The infant looked up at him and then, hungry or tired or simply missing his home, his family, his world, he screwed up his tiny face and began to cry. “Leave us,” said Caius Pompeius to Mrs. Owens. “We will discuss this further without you.” Mrs. Owens waited outside the funeralchapel. It had been decreed over forty years before that the building, in appearance a smallchurch with a spire, was a listed building of historical interest. The town council had decided that it would cost too much to renovate it, a little chapel in an overgrown graveyard that had already become unfashionable, so they had padlocked it, and waited for it to fall down. Ivy covered it, but it was solidly built, and it would not fall down this century. Thechild had fallen asleep inMrs. Owens’s arms. Sherocked it gently, sang to itan old song, one her mother had sung to her when she was a baby herself, back in the days whenmen had first started to wear powdered wigs. Thesongwent, Sleep mylittle babby-oh Sleep untilyou waken When you’re grown you’llseethe world If I’m not mistaken. Kiss a lover, Dance a measure, Find your name and buried treasure… And Mrs. Owens sang all that before she discovered that she had forgotten how the song ended. She had a feeling that the final line was something in the way of“and some hairy bacon,” but that might have been another song altogether, so she stopped and instead she sang himthe one about the Man in the Moonwho came down too soon, and after that she sang, in her warmcountry voice, a more recent song about a lad who put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, and she had just started a long ballad about a young country gentleman whose girlfriend had, for no particular reason, poisoned him with a dish of spotted eels, when Silas came around the side of thechapel,carrying acardboard box. “Here we go, Mistress Owens,” he said. “Lots of good things for a growing boy. We can keep it in thecrypt,eh?” The padlock fell off in his hand and he pulled open the iron door. Mrs. Owens walked inside, looking dubiously at the shelves, and at the old wooden pews tipped up against a wall. There were mildewed boxes of old parish records in one corner, and an open door that revealed a Victorian flush toilet and a basin, with only acold tap, in the other. Theinfant opened hiseyesand stared. “Wecan put thefood here,”said Silas. “It’s cool, and the food will keep longer.”He reached into the box, pulled outa banana. “And what would that be when it was at home?” asked Mrs. Owens, eyeing the yellow and brown objectsuspiciously. “It’s a banana. A fruit, from the tropics. I believe you peel off the outer covering,” said Silas,“likeso.” The child—Nobody—wriggled in Mrs. Owens’s arms, and she let it down to the flagstones. It toddled rapidly to Silas, grasped his trouser-leg and held on. Silas passed it the banana. Mrs. Owens watched the boy eat. “Ba-nana,” she said, dubiously. “Never heard of them. Never. What’s it tastelike?” “I’ve absolutely no idea,” said Silas, who consumed only onefood,and it was not bananas. “You could make up a bed in here for the boy, you know.” “I’ll do no such thing, with Owens and me having a lovely little tomb over by the daffodil patch. Plenty of room in there for a little one. Anyway,”she added, concerned that Silas might think she was rejecting his hospitality, “I wouldn’t want thelad disturbing you.” “He wouldn’t.” The boy was done with his banana. What he had not eaten was now smeared over himself. He beamed, messy and apple-cheeked. “Narna,” hesaid, happily. “What a clever little thing he is,” said Mrs. Owens. “And such a mess he’s made! Why, attend, you little wriggler…” and she picked the lumps of banana from his clothes and his hair. And then,“What do you think they’ll decide?” “I don’t know.” “I can’t give him up. Not after what I promised his mama.” “Although I have been a great many things in my time,” said Silas, “I have never been a mother. And I do not plan to begin now. But I can leavethis place…” Mrs. Owens said simply, “I cannot. My bones are here. And so are Owens’s. I’mnever leaving.” “It must be good,” said Silas, “to have somewhere that you belong. Somewhere that’s home.” There was nothing wistful in the way he said this. His voice was drier than deserts, and he said it as if he were simply stating something unarguable. Mrs. Owens did notargue. “Do you think we will havelong to wait?” “Not long,” said Silas, but he was wrong about that. Up in the amphitheater on the side of the hill, the debate continued. That it was the Owenses who had got involved in this nonsense, rather than some flibbertigibbet johnny-comelatelies, counted for a lot, for the Owenses were respectable and respected. That Silas had volunteered to be the boy’s guardian had weight —Silas was regarded with acertainwary awe by the graveyard folk, existing as he did on the borderland between their world and the world they had left. Butstill, butstill… A graveyard is not normally a democracy, and yet death is the great democracy, and each of the dead had a voice, and an opinion as to whether theliving child should beallowed to stay, and they were each determined to be heard, that night. It was late autumn when the daybreak was long in coming. Although the sky was still dark, carscould nowbe heard starting up further down the hill, and as the living folk began to drive to work through the misty night-black morning, the graveyard folk talked about the child that had come to them, and what was to be done. Three hundred voices. Three hundred opinions. Nehemiah Trot, the poet, from the tumbled northwestern side ofthe graveyard, had begun to declaimhis thoughts on the matter, althoughwhat they were no person listening could have said, when something happened; something to silence each opinionated mouth, something unprecedented in the history ofthat graveyard. A huge white horse, of the kind that the people who know horses would call a “grey,” came ambling up the side of the hill. The pounding of its hooves could be heard before it was seen, along with the crashing it made as it pushed through the little bushes and thickets, through the brambles and the ivy and the gorse that had grown up on the side ofthe hill. The size of a Shire horse it was, a full nineteen hands or more. It was a horse that could have carried a knight in fullarmor into combat, but all it carried on its naked back was a woman, clothed fromhead to foot in grey. Her long skirtand her shawl might have been spun out of old cobwebs. Her face was serene,and peaceful. They knewher, the graveyard folk, foreach of usencounters the Lady on the Grey at the end of our days,and thereis no forgetting her. The horse paused beside the obelisk. In the east theskywas lightening gently, a pearlish, predawn luminescence that made the people of the graveyard uncomfortable and made them think about returning to their comfortable homes. Even so, not a one of them moved. They were watching the Lady on the Grey, each of them half-excited, half-scared. The dead are not superstitious, not as a rule, but they watched her as a Roman Augur might have watched the sacred crows circle, seeking wisdom, seeking a clue. And shespoketo them. In a voice like the chiming ofa hundred tiny silver bells she said only, “The dead should have charity.”And shesmiled. The horse, which had been contentedly ripping up and masticating aclump ofthick grass, stopped then. Thelady touched the horse’s neck, and it turned. It took several huge, clattering steps, then it was off the side of the hill and cantering across the sky. Its thunderous hooves becamean early rumble of distant thunder, and in moments it was lost to sight. That, at least, was what the folk of the graveyard who had been on the hillside that night claimed had happened. The debate was over and ended, and, without so much as a show of hands, had been decided. The child called Nobody Owens would be given the Freedomofthe Graveyard. Mother Slaughter and Josiah Worthington, Bart., accompanied Mr. Owens to the crypt of the old chapel, and they told Mrs. Owens the news. She seemed unsurprised by the miracle. “That’s right,” she said. “Some of them dun’t have a ha’porth of sense in their heads. Butshe does. Ofcourseshe does.” Beforethesun rose on athundering greymorning the child was fast asleep in the Owenses’ fine little tomb (for Master Owens had died the prosperous head of the local cabinetmaker’s guild, and the cabinetmakers had wanted to ensurethat he was properly honored). Silas went out for one final journey before thesunrise. Hefound thetall house on theside of the hill, and he examined the three bodies he found there, and he studied the pattern of the knife-wounds. When he was satisfied he stepped out into the morning’s dark, his head churning with unpleasant possibilities, and he returned to the graveyard, to the chapelspire where he slept and waited out the days. In the little town at the bottomof the hill the man Jack was getting increasingly angry. The night had been one that he had been looking forward to for so long, the culmination ofmonths —of years—of work. And the business of the evening had started so promisingly—three people down before any of themhad even had a chance to cry out. And then… Then it had all gone so maddeningly wrong. Why on earth had he gone up the hill when the child had so obviously gone down the hill? By the time he had reached the bottom of the hill, the trail had gone cold. Someone must have found the child, taken it in, hidden it. There was no otherexplanation. A crack of thunder rang out, loud and sudden as a gunshot, and the rain began in earnest. The man Jack was methodical, and he began to plan his next move—the calls he would need to pay on certain of the townsfolk, people who would be hiseyesand ears in thetown. He did not need to tell the Convocation he had failed. Anyway, he told himself, edging under a shopfront as the morning rain came down like tears, he had not failed. Not yet. Not for years to come. There was plenty of time. Time to tie up this last piece of unfinished business. Time to cut thefinalthread. It was not until the police sirens sounded and first a police car, then an ambulance, then an unmarked police car with a siren blaring, sped past himon their way up the hill that, reluctantly, the man Jack turned up the collar of his coat, put his head down, and walked off into the morning. His knife was in his pocket, safe and dry inside it s s he ath, p ro te c te d fro m the mis ery o f the e lement s. CHAPTER TWO The New Friend BOD WAS A QUIET child with sober grey eyes and a mop of tousled, mouse-colored hair. He was, for the most part, obedient. Helearned how to talk, and, once he had learned, he would pester the graveyard folk with questions. “Why amn’t I allowed out of the graveyard?” he would ask, or “How do I do what he just did?” or “Who lives in here?” The adults would do their best to answer his questions, but their answers were often vague, or confusing, or contradictory, and thenBod would walk down to the old chapel and talk to Silas. He would be there waiting at sunset, just before Silasawakened. His guardian could always be counted upon to explain matters clearly and lucidly and as simply as Bod needed in order to understand. “You aren’tallowed out ofthe graveyard— it’s aren’t, by the way, not amn’t, not these days—because it’s only in the graveyard that we can keep you safe. This is where you liveand this is where those who love you can be found. Outside would not besafefor you. Not yet.” “You go outside. You go outside every night.” “I am infinitely older than you, lad. And I amsafe wherever Iam.” “I’msafetheretoo.” “I wish that that were true. But as long as you stay here, you aresafe.” Or, “How could you do that? Some skills can be attained by education, and some by practice, and some by time. Those skills will come if you study. Soon enough you will master Fading and Sliding and Dreamwalking. But some skills cannot be mastered by the living, and for those you must wait a little longer. Still, I do not doubt that youwillacquireeven those, in time. “You were given the Freedom of the Graveyard, after all,” Silas would tell him. “So the Graveyard is taking care of you. While you are here, you can see in the darkness. You can walk some of the ways that the living should not travel. The eyes of the living will slip fromyou. I too was given the Freedom of the Graveyard, although inmy case it comes with nothing but the right ofabode.” “I want to be like you,” said Bod, pushing out his lower lip. “No,”said Silas, firmly.“You do not.” Or, “Who lies there? You know, Bod, in many cases it is written on the stone. Can you read yet? Do you knowyouralphabet?” “Mywhat?” Silas shook his head, but said nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Owens had never been much for reading when they were alive, and there were no alphabet books in the graveyard. The next night, Silas appeared at the front of the Owenses’ cozy tomb carrying three large books—two of them brightly colored alphabet books (Ais for Apple, B is for Ball) and a copy ofThe Cat in the Hat. He also had paper and a packet of wax crayons. Then he walked Bod around the graveyard, placing the boy’s small fingers on the newest and clearest of the headstonesand the plaques, and taught Bod how to find the letters of the alphabet when they appeared, beginningwith the sharp steeple of the capitalA. Silas gave Bod a quest—to find each of the twenty-six letters in the graveyard—and Bod finished it, proudly, with the discovery of Ezekiel Ulmsley’s stone, built into the side of the wall in the old chapel. His guardian was pleased with him. Every day Bod would take his paper and crayons into the graveyard and he would copy names and words and numbers as best he could, and each night, before Silas would go offinto the world, Bod would make Silas explain to himwhat he had written, and make himtranslate the snatches of Latin which had, for the most part, baffled the Owenses. A sunny day: bumblebees explored the wildflowers that grew in the corner of the graveyard, dangling from the gorse and the bluebells, droning their deep lazy buzz, while Bod lay in the spring sunlight watching a bronzecolored beetle wandering across the stone of Geo. Reeder, his wife, Dorcas, and their son Sebastian (Fidelis ad Mortem). Bod had copied down their inscription and now he was only thinking about the beetle when somebody said, “Boy? What’re you doing?” Bod looked up. There was someone on the other side ofthe gorse bush, watching him. “Nuffing,” said Bod. He stuck out his tongue. Theface on the other side ofthe gorse bush crumpled into a gargoyle, tongue sticking out, eyes popping, then returned to girl. “That was good,”said Bod, impressed. “Icanmakereally good faces,”said the girl. “Look at this one.” She pushed her nose up with one finger, creased her mouth into a huge, satisfied smile, squinted her eyes, puffed out her cheeks.“Do you knowwhat that was?” “No.” “It wasa pig, silly.” “Oh.” Bod thought. “You mean, like P is for Pig?” “Ofcourselikethat. Hang on.” She came around the gorse bush and stood next to Bod, who got to his feet. She was a little older than he was, a little taller, and was dressed in bright colors, yellow and pink and orange. Bod, in his grey winding sheet, felt dowdy and drab. “Howold are you?”said the girl. “Whatare you doing here? Do you live here? What’s your name?” “I don’t know,”said Bod. “You don’t know your name?”said the girl. “’Course you do. Everybody knows their own name. Fibber.” “I knowmy name,”said Bod. “And I know what I’mdoing here. But I don’t know the other thing you said.” “Howold you are?” Bod nodded. “Well,” said the girl, “what was you when youwas last birthday?” “I didn’t,”said Bod.“I never was.” “Everybody gets birthdays. You mean you never had cake orcandles or stuff?” Bod shook his head. The girl looked sympathetic. “Poor thing. I’m five. I bet you’re fivetoo.” Bod nodded enthusiastically. He was not going to argue with his newfriend. She made himhappy. Her name was Scarlett Amber Perkins, she told him, and she lived in a flat with no garden. Her mother was sitting on a bench by the chapel at the bottomof the hill, reading a magazine, and she had told Scarlett to be back in halfan hour, and to get some exercise, and not to get into trouble or talk to strangers. “I’mastranger,” pointed out Bod. “You’re not,”shesaid, definitely. “You’re a little boy.” And then she said, “And you’re my friend. So you can’t beastranger.” Bod smiled rarely, but he smiled then, hugely and with delight. “I’m your friend,” he said. “What’s your name?” “Bod. It’s short for Nobody.” She laughed then. “Funny sort of a name,” shesaid.“Whatare you doing now?” “ABCs,” said Bod. “From the stones. I haveto writethemdown.” “Can I do it with you?” For a moment Bod felt protective—the gravestones were his, weren’t they?—and then he realized how foolish he was being, and he thought that there were things that might be more fun done in the sunlight with a friend. He said, “Yes.” They copied down names fromtombstones, Scarlett helping Bod pronounce unfamiliar names and words, Bod telling Scarlett what the Latin meant, if he already knew, and it seemed much too soon when they heard a voice further down the hillshouting,“Scarlett!” The girl thrust the crayons and paper back at Bod.“I got to go,”shesaid. “I’ll see you next time,” said Bod. “Won’t I?” “Where do you live?”sheasked. “Here,” hesaid.And hestood and watched heras sheran down the hill. On the way home Scarlett told her mother about the boy called Nobody who lived in the graveyard and had played with her, and that night Scarlett’s mother mentioned it to Scarlett’s father, who said that he believed that imaginary friends were a common phenomenon at that age, and nothing atallto beconcerned about,and that they were fortunate to have a nature reserve so near. After that initialmeeting, Scarlett never saw Bod first. On days when it was not raining one of her parents would bring her to the graveyard. The parent would sit on the bench and read while Scarlett would wander off the path, a splash of fluorescent green or orange or pink, and explore. Then, always sooner rather than later, she would see a small, grave face and grey eyes staring up at her from beneath a mop of mouse-colored hair, and then Bod and she would play—hideand-seek, sometimes, orclimbing things, or being quiet and watching the rabbits behind the old chapel. Bod would introduce Scarlett to some of his other friends. Thatshecould notseethemdid not seemto matter. She had already been told firmly by her parents that Bod was imaginary and that there was nothing at all wrong with that—her mother had, for a few days, even insisted on laying an extra place at the dinner table for Bod —so it came as no surprise to her that Bod also had imaginary friends. He would pass on their comments to her. “Bartleby says that thou dost have a face like unto asquishèd plum,” he would tell her. “So does he. And why does he talk so funny? Doesn’t he mean squashed tomato?” “I don’t think that they had tomatoes when he comes from,”said Bod. “And that’s just how they talk then.” Scarlett was happy. She was a bright, lonely child, whose mother worked for a distant university teaching people she never met face-toface, grading English papers sent to her over the computer, and sending messages of advice or encouragement back. Her father taught particle physics, but there were, Scarlett told Bod, too many people who wanted to teach particle physics and not enough people who wanted to learn it, so Scarlett’s family had to keep moving to different university towns, and in each town her father would hope for a permanent teaching position that nevercame. “What’s particle physics?”asked Bod. Scarlett shrugged. “Well,” she said. “There’s atoms, which is things that is too small to see, that’s what we’re all made of. And there’s things that’s smaller than atoms, and that’s particle physics.” Bod nodded and decided that Scarlett’s father was probably interested in imaginary things. Bod and Scarlett wandered the graveyard togethereveryweekday afternoon, tracing names with their fingers, writing themdown. Bod would tell Scarlett whatever he knew of the inhabitants of the grave or mausoleum or tomb, and she would tell himstories that she had been read or learned, and sometimes she would tell himabout the world outside, about cars and buses and television and aeroplanes (Bod had seen themflying high overhead, had thought themloud silver birds, but had never been curious about themuntil now). He in his turn would tell her about the days when the people in the graves had been alive—how Sebastian Reeder had been to London Town and had seen the Queen, who had been a fat woman in a fur cap who had glared at everyone and spoke no English. Sebastian Reeder could not remember which queen she had been, but he did not think she had been queen for very long. “Whenwas this?” Scarlettasked. “He died in 1583, it says on his tombstone, so beforethen.” “Who is the oldest person here. In the whole graveyard?”asked Scarlett. Bod frowned. “Probably Caius Pompeius. He came here a hundred years after the Romans first got here. He told me about it. He liked the roads.” “So he’s the oldest?” “I think so.” “Canwe make a little house in one of those stone houses?” “You can’t get in. It’s locked. They allare.” “Can you get in?” “Ofcourse.” “Why can’t I?” “The graveyard,” he explained. “I got the Freedomofthe Graveyard. It lets me go places.” “I want to go in the stone house and make little houses.” “You can’t.” “You’rejustmean.” “Not.” “Meany.” “Not.” Scarlett put her hands into the pocket of her anorak and walked down the hill without saying good-bye, convinced that Bod was holding out on her, and at the same time suspecting that she was being unfair, whichmade herangrier. That night, over dinner, she asked her mother and father if there was anyone in the country beforethe Romanscame. “Where did you hear about the Romans?” asked her father. “Everybody knows,” said Scarlett, with withering scorn.“Was there?” “There were Celts,”said her mother. “They were here first. They go back before the Romans. They were the people that the Romans conquered.” On the bench beside the old chapel, Bod was having asimilarconversation. “The oldest?” said Silas. “Honestly, Bod, I don’t know. The oldest in the graveyard that I’ve encountered is Caius Pompeius. But there were people here before the Romans came. Lots of them, going back a long time. How are your letterscoming along?” “Good, I think. When do I learn joined-up letters?” Silas paused. “I have no doubt,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, “that there are, among the many talented individuals interred here, at least a smattering of teachers. I shall makeinquiries.” Bod was thrilled. He imagined a future in which he could read everything, in which all storiescould be opened and discovered. When Silas had left the graveyard to go about his own affairs, Bod walked to the willow tree beside the old chapel, and called Caius Pompeius. The old Roman came out of his grave with a yawn. “Ah. Yes. The living boy,” he said. “How are you, living boy?” Bod said,“I do verywell, sir.” “Good. I am pleased to hear it.” The old Roman’s hair was pale in the moonlight, and he wore the toga inwhich he had been buried, with, beneath it, a thick woolen vest and leggings because this was a cold country at the edge of the world, and the only place colder was Caledonia to the North, where the men were more animal than human and covered in orange fur, and were too savage even to be conquered by the Romans, so would soon be walled off in their perpetualwinter. “Are you the oldest?”asked Bod. “The oldest in the graveyard?Iam.” “So youwerethefirst to be buried here?” A hesitation. “Almost the first,” said Caius Pompeius. “Before the Celts there were other people on this island. One of them was buried here.” “Oh.”Bod thought fora moment. “Where’s his grave?” Caius pointed up the hill. “He’s up at thetop,”said Bod. Caius shook his head. “Thenwhat?” The old Roman reached down and he ruffled Bod’s hair. “In the hill,” hesaid. “Inside it. I was first brought here by my friends, followed in their turn by the local officials and the mimes, who wore the wax faces of my wife, taken by a fever in Camulodonum, and my father, killed in a border skirmish in Gaul. Three hundred years after my death a farmer, seeking a new place to graze his sheep, discovered the boulder that covered the entrance, and rolled it away, and went down, thinking there might be treasure. He came out a little later, his dark hair now as white as mine…” “What did hesee?” Caius said nothing, then, “He would not speak of it. Or ever return. They put the boulder back, and in time, they forgot. And then, two hundred years ago, when they were building the Frobisher vault, they found it once more. The young man who found the place dreamed of riches, so hetold no one,and he hid the doorway behind Ephraim Pettyfer’s casket, and went down one night, unobserved, or so hethought.” “Was his hair white when hecame up?” “He did notcome up.” “Um. Oh. So, who is buried down there?” Caius shook his head. “I do not know, young Owens. But I felt him, back when this place was empty. I could feel something waiting even then, deep in the hill.” “What was he waiting for?” “All I could feel,” said Caius Pompeius, “was the waiting.” Scarlett was carrying a large picture book, and she sat next to her mother on the green bench near the gates, and she read her book while her mother inspected an educationalsupplement. She enjoyed the spring sunshine and she did her best to ignore the small boy who waved at her first from behind an ivy-covered monument, then, when she had resolved to no longer look at the monument, the boy popped up—literally, like a jack-in-a-box—from behind a tombstone (Joji G. Shoji, d. 1921, I was a stranger and you took me in). He gestured towards her, frantically. Sheignored him. Eventually she put her book down on the bench. “Mummy?I’mgoing fora walk, now.” “Stay on the path, dear.” She stayed on the path until she was round the corner, and she could see Bod waving at her fromfurther up the hill. She madeafaceat him. “I’vefound things out,”said Scarlett. “Metoo,”said Bod. “There were people before the Romans,” she said. “Way back. They lived, I mean, when they died they put them underground in these hills, with treasure and stuff. And they were called barrows.” “Oh. Right,”said Bod. “Thatexplains it. Do youwant to comeand see one?” “Now?” Scarlett looked doubtful. “You don’t really know where one is, do you? And you know I can’t always follow you where you go.” She had seen him slip through walls, like a shadow. In reply, he held up a large, rusted, iron key. “This was in the chapel,” he said. “It should open most of the gates up there. They used the same key forall ofthem. It was less work.” Shescrambled up the hillside beside him. “You’retelling thetruth?” He nodded, a pleased smile dancing at the corners of his lips.“Come on,” hesaid. It was a perfect spring day, and the air was alive with birdsong and bee hum. The daffodils bustled in the breeze and here and there on the side of the hilla few early tulips nodded. Ablue powdering of forget-me-nots and fine, fat yellow primroses punctuated the green of the slope as the two children walked up the hill toward the Frobishers’ little mausoleum. It was old and simple in design, a small, forgotten stone house with a metal gate for a door. Bod unlocked the gate with his key, and theywent in. “It’s a hole,”said Bod. “Or a door. Behind one ofthecoffins.” They found it behind a coffin on the bottomshelf—a simple crawlspace. “Down there,”said Bod.“We go down there.” Scarlett found herself suddenly enjoying the adventure rather less. She said, “We can’t see down there. It’s dark.” “I don’t need light,” said Bod. “Not while I’min the graveyard.” “I do,”said Scarlett.“It’s dark.” Bod thoughtabout the reassuring things that he could say, like “there’s nothing bad down there,” but the tales of hair turning white and people never returning meant that he could not have said them with a clear conscience, so he said,“I’ll go down. Youwait for me up here.” Scarlett frowned. “You shouldn’t leave me,”shesaid. “I’ll go down,” said Bod, “and I’ll see who’s there, and I’ll come back and tell you all about it.” He turned to the opening, bent down, and clambered through on his hands and knees. He was in a space big enough to stand up in, and he could see steps cut into the stone. “I’m going down thesteps now,” hesaid. “Do they go down alongway?” “I think so.” “If you held my hand and told me where I was walking,”she said, “then I could come with you. If youmakesureI’mokay.” “Of course,” said Bod, and before he had finished speaking the girlwas coming through the hole on her handsand her knees. “You can stand up,” Bod told her. He took her hand. “The steps are just here. If you put a foot forward you can find it. There. Now I’ll go first.” “Can you really see?”sheasked. “It’s dark,”said Bod.“But Ican see.” He began to lead Scarlett down the steps, deep into the hill, and to describe what hesawto her as they went. “It’s steps down,” he said. “Made of stone. And there’s stone allabove us. Someone’s madea painting on the wall.” “What kind of painting?” “A big hairy C is for Cow, I think. With horns. Then something that’s more like a pattern, like a big knot. It’s sort of carved in the stone too, not just painted, see?” and he took her fingers and placed them onto the carved knotwork. “Ican feelit!”shesaid. “Now the steps are getting bigger. We are coming out into some kind of big room, now, but the steps are still going. Don’t move. Okay, now I ambetween you and the room. Keep your left hand on the wall.” They kept going down.“One morestep and we are on the rock floor,” said Bod. “It’s a bit uneven.” The room was small. There was a slab of stone on the ground, and a low ledge in one corner, with somesmall objects on it. There were bones on the ground, very old bones indeed, although belowwherethestepsentered theroomBod could see a crumpled corpse, dressed in the remains of a long brown coat—the young man who had dreamed of riches, Bod decided. He must haveslipped and fallen in the dark. The noise began all about them, a rustling slither, like a snake twining through dry leaves. Scarlett’s grip onBod’s hand was harder. “What’s that? Do you seeanything?” “No.” Scarlett made a noise that was half gasp and half wail, and Bod saw something, and he knewwithoutasking thatshecould seeit too. There was a light at the end of the room, and in the light a man came walking, walking through the rock, and Bod heard Scarlett choking back ascream. The man looked well-preserved, but still like something that had been dead for a long while. His skin was painted (Bod thought) or tattooed (Scarlett thought) with purple designs and patterns. Around his neck hung a necklace of sharp, long teeth. “I am the master of this place!” said the figure, in words so ancient and gutteral that they were scarcely words at all. “I guard this place fromallwho would harmit!” His eyes were huge in his head. Bod realized it was because he had circles drawn around themin purple, making his face look like an owl’s. “Who are you?” asked Bod. He squeezed Scarlett’s hand as hesaid it. TheIndigo Man did not seemto have heard the question. Helooked at themfiercely. “Leave this place!” he said in words that Bod heard in his head, words that were also a gutteral growl. “Is he going to hurt us?”asked Scarlett. “I don’t think so,” said Bod. Then, to the Indigo Man, he said, as he had been taught, “I have the Freedom of the Graveyard and I may walk whereIchoose.” There was no reaction to this by the Indigo Man, which puzzled Bod even more because even the most irritable inhabitants of the graveyard had been calmed by this statement. Bod said,“Scarlett,can you see him?” “Ofcourse I can see him. He’s a big scary tattooeyman and he wants to kill us. Bod, make himgo away!” Bod looked at the remains of the gentleman in the brown coat. There was a lamp beside him, broken on the rocky floor. “He ran away,” said Bod aloud. “Heran because he was scared.And he slipped or he tripped on the stairs and he fell off.” “Who did?” “The man on thefloor.” Scarlett sounded irritated now, as well as puzzled and scared. “What man on thefloor?It’s too dark. The only man I can see is the tattooey man.” And then, as if to make quite sure that they knew that he was there, the Indigo Man threw back his head and let out a series of yodeling screams, a full-throated ululation that made Scarlett grip Bod’s hand so tightly that her fingernails pressed into his flesh. Bod was no longer scared, though. “I’msorry I said theywere imaginary,”said Scarlett.“I believe now. They’rereal.” The Indigo Man raised something over his head. It looked like a sharp stone blade. “All who invade this place will die!” he shouted, in his gutteral speech. Bod thought about the man whose hair had turned white after he had discovered the chamber, how he would never return to the graveyard or speak of what he had seen. “No,”said Bod.“I think you’reright. I think this oneis.” “Is what?” “Imaginary.” “Don’t be stupid,”said Scarlett. “I can see it.” “Yes,”said Bod. “And you can’t see dead people.” He looked around the chamber. “You can stop now,” hesaid.“We knowit’s not real.” “I will feast on your liver!” screamed the Indigo Man. “No, you won’t,”said Scarlett, with a huge sigh. “Bod’s right.”Then shesaid, “I think maybe it’sascarecrow.” “What’sascarecrow?”asked Bod. “It’s a thing farmers put in fields to scare crows.” “Why would they do that?” Bod quite liked crows. He thought they were funny, and he liked the way they helped to keep the graveyard tidy. “I don’t knowexactly. I’llask Mummy. But I saw one froma train and I asked what it was. Crows think it’s a real person. It’s just a madeup thing, that looks likea person, but it’s not. It’s just to scarethecrowsaway.” Bod looked around the chamber. He said, “Whoever you are, it isn’t working. It doesn’t scare us. We knowit isn’t real. Juststop.” The Indigo Man stopped. It walked over to the rock slab and it lay down on it. Then it was gone. For Scarlett the chamber was once more swallowed by the darkness. But in the darkness, she could hear the twining sound again, getting louder and louder, as if something were circling theround room. Something said, WEARETHESLEER. The hairs on the back of Bod’s neck began to prickle. The voice in his head was something very old and very dry, likethescraping ofa dead twig against the window of the chapel, and it seemed to Bod that there was more than one voicethere, that theyweretalking in unison. “Did you hear that?” heasked Scarlett. “I didn’t hear anything, just a slithery noise. It made mefeelstrange. All prickly inmy tummy. Likesomething horribleis going to happen.” “Nothing horrible is going to happen,” said Bod. Then, to the chamber, he said, “What are you?” WE ARE THE SLEER. WE GUARD AND WE PROTECT. “What do you protect?” THE RESTING PLACE OF THE MASTER. THIS IS THE HOLIEST OF ALL HOLY PLACES, AND IT IS GUARDED BY THE SLEER. “You can’t touch us,” said Bod.“All you can do is scare.” The twining voices sounded petulant. FEAR ISA WEAPONOF THESLEER. Bod looked down at the ledge. “Are those the treasures of your master? An old brooch, a cup, and a little stone knife? They don’t look like much.” THE SLEER GUARDS THE TREASURES. THE BROOCH, THE GOBLET, THE KNIFE. WE GUARD THEM FOR THE MASTER, WHEN HE RETURNS. IT COMES BACK. IT ALWAYS COMES BACK . “How many of you arethere?” But the Sleer said nothing. The inside of Bod’s head felt as if it were filled with cobwebs, and he shook it, trying to clear it. Then he squeezed Scarlett’s hand. “We should go,” he said. He led her past the dead man in the brown coat—and honestly, thought Bod, if he hadn’t got scared and fallen the man would have been disappointed in his hunt for treasure. The treasures of ten thousand years ago were not the treasures of today. Bod led Scarlett carefully up the steps, through the hill, into the jutting black masonry ofthe Frobisher mausoleum. Late spring sunlight shone through the breaks in the masonry and through the barred door, shocking in its brightness, and Scarlett blinked and covered her eyes at the suddenness of the glare. Birds sang in the bushes, a bumblebee droned past, everything was surprising in its normality. Bod pushed open the mausoleumdoor, and then locked itagain behind them. Scarlett’s bright clothes were covered in grimeand cobwebs,and her dark faceand hands were pale with dust. Further down the hill somebody—quite a few some-bodies—was shouting. Shouting loudly. Shouting frantically. Someone called, “Scarlett? Scarlett Perkins?” and Scarlett said “Yes? Hello?” and before she and Bod had a chance to discuss what they had seen, or to talk about the Indigo Man, there was a woman in a fluorescent yellow jacket with POLICE on the back demanding to know ifshe was okay, and where she had been, and ifsomeone had tried to kidnap her, and then the woman was talking on a radio, letting themknowthat thechild had been found. Bod slipped along beside them as they walked down the hill. The door to thechapelwas open, and inside both of Scarlett’s parents were waiting, her mother in tears, her father worriedly talking to people on a mobile phone, along with another policewoman. No one saw Bod as he waited in thecorner. The people kept asking Scarlett what had happened to her, and she answered, as honestly as she could, told them about a boy called Nobody who took her deep inside a hillwhere a purple tattoo man appeared in the dark, but he was really a scarecrow. They gave her a chocolate barand theywiped her faceand asked if the tattooed man had ridden a motorbike, and Scarlett’s mother and father, now that they were relieved and not afraid for her any longer were angrywith themselvesand with her, and they told each other that it was the other one’s fault for letting their little girl play in a cemetery, even if it was a nature reserve, and that the world was a very dangerous place these days, and if you didn’t keep your eyes on your children every second you could not imagine what awful things they would be plunged into. Especially a child like Scarlett. Scarlett’s mother began sobbing, which made Scarlett cry, and one of the policewomen got into an argument with Scarlett’s father, who tried to tell her that he, as a taxpayer, paid her wages, and she told himthat she was a taxpayer too and probably paid his wages, while Bod sat in the shadows in the corner of the chapel, unseen by anyone, not even Scarlett, and watched and listened until hecould take no more. It was twilight in the graveyard by now, and Silas came and found Bod, up near the amphitheater, looking out over the town. He stood beside the boy and he said nothing, which was his way. “It wasn’t her fault,” said Bod. “It was mine. And nowshe’s in trouble.” “Where did you take her?”asked Silas. “Into the middle of the hill, to see the oldest grave. Only there isn’t anybody in there. Just a snaky thing called a Sleer who scares people.” “Fascinating.” They walked back down the hill together, watched as the old chapel was locked up once more and the police and Scarlett and her parents went offinto the night. “Miss Borrows will teach you joined-up letters,” said Silas. “Have you read The Cat in the Hat yet?” “Yes,”said Bod. “Ages ago. Can you bring me more books?” “Iexpectso,”said Silas. “Do you think I’llever see heragain?” “The girl?I verymuch doubt it.” But Silas was wrong. Three weeks later, on a grey afternoon, Scarlettcame to the graveyard, accompanied by both her parents. They insisted that she remain in sight at all times, although they trailed a little behind her. Scarlett’s mother occasionally exclaimed about howmorbid thisallwasand howfineand good it was that they would soon be leaving it behind forever. When Scarlett’s parents began to talk to each other, Bod said,“Hello.” “Hi,”said Scarlett, very quietly. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” “I told themI wouldn’t go with themunless they broughtme back here onelast time.” “Go where?” “Scotland. There’s a university there. For Dad to teach particle physics.” They walked on the path together, a small girl in a bright orangeanorak and asmall boy in a greywinding sheet. “Is Scotland alongway away?” “Yes,”shesaid. “Oh.” “I hoped you’d be here. To say good-bye.” “I’malways here.” “But you aren’t dead, are you, Nobody Owens?” “’Course not.” “Well, you can’t stay here all your life. Can you? One day you’ll grow up and then you will haveto go and livein the world outside.” Heshook his head. “It’s not safefor me out there.” “Who says?” “Silas. My family. Everybody.” She was silent. Her father called, “Scarlett! Come on, love. Time to go. You’ve had your last trip to the graveyard. Nowlet’s go home.” Scarlett said to Bod, “You’re brave. You are the bravest person I know, and you are my friend. I don’t care if you are imaginary.” Then she fled down the path back the way they had come, to her parentsand the world. CHAPTER THREE The Hounds of God ONE GRAVE IN EVERY graveyard belongs to the ghouls. Wander any graveyard long enough and you will find it—waterstained and bulging, with cracked or broken stone, scraggly grass or rank weeds about it, and a feeling, when you reach it, ofabandonment. It may be colder than the other gravestones, too, and the name on the stone isall too often impossible to read. If there is a statue on the grave it will be headless or so scabbed with fungus and lichens as to look like a fungus itself. If one grave in a graveyard looks like a target for petty vandals, that is the ghoul-gate. If the grave makes youwant to besomewhereelse, that is the ghoul-gate. There was oneinBod’s graveyard. Thereis onein every graveyard. Silas was leaving. Bod had been upset by this when he had first learned about it. He was no longer upset. He was furious. “But why?”said Bod. “I told you. I need to obtain some information. In order to do that, I have to travel. To travel, I must leave here. We have already been overallthis.” “What’s so important that you have to go away?” Bod’s six-year-old mind tried to imagine something that could make Silas want to leave him,and failed.“It’s not fair.” His guardian was unperturbed. “It is neither fair nor unfair, NobodyOwens. Itsimply is.” Bod was not impressed. “You’re meant to look after me. You said.” “As your guardian I have responsibility for you, yes. Fortunately, Iamnot the only individual in the world willing to take on this responsibility.” “Whereare you going anyway?” “Out. Away. There are things I need to uncover that Icannot uncover here.” Bod snorted and walked off, kicking at imaginary stones. On the northwestern side ofthe graveyard things had become very overgrown and tangled, far beyond the ability of the groundskeeper or the Friends of the Graveyard to tame, and he ambled over there, and woke a family of Victorian children who had all died before their tenth birthdays, and they played at hide-and-go-seek in the moonlight in the ivytwined jungle. Bod tried to pretend that Silas was not leaving, that nothingwas going to change, but when the game was done and he ran back to the old chapel, he saw two things that changed his mind. The first thing he saw was a bag. It was, Bod knew the moment he laid eyes on it, Silas’s bag. It was at leasta hundred and fifty years old, a thing of beauty, black leather with brass fittings and a black handle, the kind of bag a Victorian doctor or undertaker might have carried, containing every implement that might have been needed. Bod had never seen Silas’s bag before, he had not even known that Silas had a bag, but it was the sort of bag that could only have belonged to Silas. Bod tried to peek inside it, but it was closed with a large brass padlock. It was too heavy for himto lift. That was thefirst thing. The second thing was sitting on the bench by thechapel. “Bod,”said Silas.“This is Miss Lupescu.” Miss Lupescuwas not pretty. Her face was pinched and her expression was disapproving. Her hair was grey, although her face seemed too young for grey hair. Her front teeth were slightly crooked. She wore a bulky mackintosh and a man’s tiearound her neck. “How do you do, Miss Lupescu?” said Bod. Miss Lupescu said nothing. She sniffed. Then she looked at Silas and said, “So. This is the boy.” She got up from her seat and walked all around Bod, nostrils flared, as if she were sniffing him. When she had made a complete circuit, she said, “You will report to me on waking, and before you go to sleep. I have rented a room in a house over there.” She pointed to a roof just visible from where they stood. “However, I shall spend my time in this graveyard. I am here as a historian, researching the history of old graves. You understand, boy? Da?” “Bod,”said Bod.“It’s Bod. Not boy.” “Short for Nobody,” she said. “A foolish name. Also, Bod is a pet name. A nickname. I do not approve. I will call you ‘boy.’ You will callme‘Miss Lupescu.’” Bod looked up at Silas, pleadingly, but there was no sympathy on Silas’s face. He picked up his bag and said, “Youwill be in good hands with Miss Lupescu, Bod. I am sure that thetwo of youwill get on.” “We won’t!”said Bod.“She’s horrible!” “That,”said Silas, “was a very rude thing to say. I think you should apologize, don’t you?” Bod didn’t, but Silas was looking at himand Silas was carrying his black bag, and about to leave for no one knew how long, so he said, “I’msorry, Miss Lupescu.” At first shesaid nothing in reply. She merely sniffed. Then she said, “I have come a long way to look after you, boy. I hope you are worth it.” Bod could not imagine hugging Silas, so he held out his hand and Silas bent over and gently shook it, engulfingBod’s small, grubby hand with his huge, pale one. Then, lifting his black leather bag as if it were weightless, he walked down the path and out ofthe graveyard. Bod told his parentsabout it. “Silas has gone,” hesaid. “He’ll be back,” said Mr. Owens, cheerfully. “Don’t you worry your head about that, Bod. Likea bad penny,as they say.” Mrs. Owens said, “Back when you were born he promised us that if he had to leave, he would find someone else to bring you food and keep an eye on you, and he has. He’s so reliable.” Silas had brought Bod food, true, and left it in the crypt each night for him to eat, but this was, as far as Bod was concerned, the least of the things that Silas did for him. He gave advice, cool, sensible, and unfailingly correct; he knew more than the graveyard folk did, for his nightly excursions into the world outside meant that he was able to describe a world that was current, not hundreds of years out of date; he was unflappable and dependable, had been there every night of Bod’s life, so the idea of the little chapel without its only inhabitant was one that Bod found difficult to conceive of; most ofall, he made Bod feelsafe. Miss Lupescu also saw her job as more than bringingBod food. She did that too, though. “What is that?”asked Bod, horrified. “Good food,” said Miss Lupescu. They were in the crypt. She had put two plastic containers on the tabletop, and opened the lids. She pointed to the first: “Is beetroot-barleystew-soup.” She pointed to the second. “Is salad. Now, you eat both. I makethemfor you.” Bod stared up at her to see if this was a joke. Food from Silas mostly came in packets, purchased fromthe kind of places that sold food late at nightand asked no questions. No one had ever brought himfood in a plastic container with alid before.“Itsmells horrible,” hesaid. “If you do noteat the stew-soup soon,”she said, “it will be more horrible. It will be cold. Noweat.” Bod was hungry. He took a plastic spoon, dipped it into the purple-red stew, and he ate. The food was slimy and unfamiliar, but he kept it down. “Now the salad!” said Miss Lupescu, and she unpopped the top of the second container. It consisted of large lumps of raw onion, beetroot, and tomato, all in a thick vinegary dressing. Bod put a lump of beetroot into his mouth and started to chew. He could feel the saliva gathering, and realized that if he swallowed it, he would throw it back up. Hesaid,“Ican’teat this.” “Is good for you.” “I’ll besick.” They stared at each other, the small boy with tousled, mousy hair, the pinched pale woman with not a silver hair out of place. Miss Lupescu said,“You eat one more piece.” “Ican’t.” “You eat one more piece now, or you stay here until you haveeaten itall.” Bod picked out a piece of vinegary tomato, chewed it, and choked it down. Miss Lupescu put the tops back on the containers and replaced them in the plastic shopping bag. She said, “Now, lessons.” It was high summer. It would not get fully dark untilalmost midnight. There were no lessons in high summer—the time that Bod spent awake he spent in an endless warmtwilight in which he would play orexplore orclimb. “Lessons?” hesaid. “Your guardian felt it would be good for me to teach you things.” “I have teachers. Letitia Borrows teaches me writing and words, and Mr. Pennyworth teaches me his Compleat Educational Systemfor Younger Gentlemen withAdditional Material for Those Post Mortem. I do geography and everything. I don’t need morelessons.” “You knoweverything, then, boy? Six years old,and already you knoweverything.” “I didn’tsay that.” Miss Lupescu folded her arms. “Tell me about ghouls,”shesaid. Bod tried to remember what Silas had told him about ghouls over the years. “Keep away fromthem,” hesaid. “And that is all you know? Da? Why do you keep away fromthem? Where do they come from? Where do they go? Why do you not stand neara ghoul-gate? Eh, boy?” Bod shrugged and shook his head. “Name the different kinds of people,” said Miss Lupescu.“Now.” Bod thought for a moment. “The living,” he said. “Er. The dead.” He stopped. Then, “…Cats?” he offered, uncertainly. “You are ignorant, boy,” said Miss Lupescu. “This is bad.And you arecontent to be ignorant, which is worse. Repeat after me, there are the living and the dead, there are day-folk and night-folk, thereare ghoulsand mist-walkers, there are the high hunters and the Hounds of God. Also, therearesolitary types.” “Whatare you?”asked Bod. “I,”shesaid sternly,“amMiss Lupescu.” “And what’s Silas?” She hesitated. Then she said, “He is a solitary type.” Bod endured the lesson. When Silas taught him things it was interesting. Much of the time Bod didn’t realize he had been taught anything at all. Miss Lupescu taught in lists, and Bod could not see the point to it. He sat in the crypt, aching to be out in the summer’s twilight, under the ghostmoon. When the lesson was done, in the foulest of moods, he fled. He looked for playmates, but found no one and saw nothing but a large grey dog, which prowled the gravestones, always keeping its distance from him, slipping between gravestonesand through shadows. The week got worse. Miss Lupescu continued to bringBod things she had cooked for him: dumplings swimming in lard; thick reddish-purple soup with a lump of sourcreamin it; small, cold boiled potatoes;cold garlic-heavy sausages; hardboiled eggs in a grey unappetizing liquid. Heateas littleas hecould get away with. The lessons continued: for two days shetaught himnothing but ways to callfor help in every language in the world, and she would rap his knuckles with her pen if he slipped up, or forgot. By the third day she was firing them at him, “French?” “Au secours.” “Morse Code?” “S-O-S. Three short dots, three long ones, threeshort onesagain.” “Night-Gaunt?” “This is stupid. I don’t remember what a night-gaunt is.” “They have hairless wings, and they fly low and fast. They do not visit this world, but they fly thered skiesabovetheroad to Ghûlheim.” “I’mnever going to need to knowthis.” Her mouth pinched in tighter. All she said was,“Night-Gaunt?” Bod madethe noisein the back of his throat that she had taught him—a guttural cry, like an eagle’scall. Shesniffed.“Adequate,”shesaid. Bod could not wait until the day that Silas returned. He said, “There’s a big grey dog in the graveyard sometimes. Itcame when you did. Is it your dog?” Miss Lupescu straightened her tie. “No,” shesaid. “Are we done?” “For today. Youwillread the list I give you tonightand remember it for tomorrow.” Miss Lupescu’s lists were printed in pale purple ink onwhite paper, and they smelled odd. Bod took the new list up onto the side of the hill and tried to read the words, but hisattention kept sliding offit. Eventually hefolded it up and placed it beneath astone. No one would play with himthat night. No one wanted to play or to talk, to run and climb beneath the hugesummer moon. He went down to the Owenses’ tomb to complain to his parents, but Mrs. Owens would not hear a word said against Miss Lupescu, on, as far as Bod was concerned, the unfair grounds that Silas had chosen her, while Mr. Owens simply shrugged and started telling Bod about his days as a young apprentice cabinetmaker, and how much he would have loved to have learned about all the useful things that Bod was learning, which was, as far as Bod was concerned, even worse. “Aren’t you meant to be studying, anyway?” asked Mrs. Owens, and Bod squeezed his fists togetherand said nothing. He stomped off into the graveyard, feeling unloved and underappreciated. Bod brooded on the injustice of it all, and wandered through the graveyard kicking at stones. He spotted the dark grey dog, and called to it to see if it would come over and play with him, but it kept its distance, and Bod, frustrated, threwaclump ofmud towards it, which broke on a nearby gravestone, and scattered earth everywhere. The big dog gazed at Bod reproachfully, then stepped away into the shadows,and was gone. The boy walked back down the southwest side ofthe hill, avoiding the old chapel: he did not want to see the place that Silas wasn’t. Bod stopped beside a grave that looked the way he felt: it was beneath an oak that had once been struck by lightning, and now was just a black trunk, likeasharp talon coming out ofthe hill; the grave itself was waterstained and cracked, and above it was a memorial stone on which a headless angel hung, its robes looking like a huge and ugly tree-fungus. Bod sat down on a clump of grass, and felt sorry for himself, and hated everybody. He even hated Silas, for going away and leaving him. Then he closed his eyes, and curled into a ball on the grass,and drifted into a dreamless sleep. Down thestreetand up the hillcamethe Duke of Westminster, the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh, and the Bishop of Bath and Wells, slipping and bounding from shadow to shadow, lean and leathery, all sinews and cartilage, wearing raggedy clothes all a-tatter, and they bounded and loped and skulked, leapfrogging over dustbins, keeping to the dark side of hedges. They were small, like full-size people who had shrunk in thesun; they spoketo each other in undertones, saying things like,“IfYour Grace has any more blooming idea of where we is than us do, I’d be grateful if he’d say so. Otherwise, he should keep his big offal-hole shut,”and “All I’msaying, Your Worship, is that I knows there’s a graveyard near to here, I can smell it,” and “If you could smell it then I should be able to smell it, ’cos I’ve got a better nose than you have, Your Grace.” All this as they dodged and wove their way through suburban gardens. They avoided one garden (“Psst!” hissed the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh. “Dogs!”) and ran along the top of the garden wall, scampering over it like rats the size ofchildren. Down into the high street, and up the road to the top of the hill. And then they were at the graveyard wall, and they went up it like squirrels up atree,and they sniffed theair. “’Ware dog,” said the Duke of Westminster. “Where?I dunno. Somewherearound here. Doesn’t smell like a proper dog anyway,” said the Bishop ofBath and Wells. “Somebody couldn’t smell this graveyard neither,” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh. “Remember?It’s justa dog.” The three of themleapt down fromthe wall to the ground, and they ran, using their arms as much as their legs to propel themselves through the graveyard, to the ghoul-gate by the lightning tree. And beside the gate, in the moonlight, they paused. “What’s this when it’s at home, then?” asked the Bishop ofBath and Wells. “Lumme,”said the Duke ofWestminster. Bod wokethen. The three faces staring into his could have been those of mummified humans, fleshless and dried, but their features were mobile and interested—mouths that grinned to reveal sharp, stained teeth; bright beady eyes; clawed fingers thatmoved and tapped. “Who are you?”Bod asked. “We,” said one of the creatures—they were, Bod realized, only a little bigger than he was—“is most important folk, we is. This here is the Duke ofWestminster.” The biggest of the creatures gave a bow, saying,“Charmed, I’msure.” “…and this is the Bishop of Bath and Wells —” Thecreature, which grinned sharp teeth and let a pointed tongue of improbable length waggle between them, did not look like Bod’s idea ofa bishop: its skin was piebald and it had a large spot across one eye, making it look almost piratical. “…and I ’ave the honor to be ther ’onorable Harchibald Fitzhugh. Hat your service.” The three creatures bowed as one. The Bishop of Bath and Wells said, “Now me lad, what’s your story, eh? And don’t tell any porkies, remember as how you’re talkin’ to a bishop.” “You tell him, Your Worship,” said the other two. So Bod told them. He told them how no oneliked himor wanted to playwith him, howno one appreciated himor cared, and how even his guardian had abandoned him. “Blow me down,” said the Duke of Westminster, scratching his nose(alittle dried-up thing that was mostly nostrils). “What you need is to go somewhere the people would appreciate you.” “Thereisn’tanywhere,”said Bod.“And I’mnotallowed out ofthe graveyard.” “You needs an ’ole world of friends and playfellows,”said the Bishop of Bath and Wells, wiggling his long tongue. “A city of delights, of fun and magic, where youwould be appreciated, not ignored.” Bod said, “The lady who’s looking after me. She makes horrible food. Hard-boiled egg soup and things.” “Food!” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh.“Where we’re going thefood’s the best in the whole world. Makes me tum rumble and me moufwater just thinking about it.” “Can Icome with you?”asked Bod. “Come with us?” said the Duke of Westminster. Hesounded shocked. “Don’t be like that, Yer Grace,” said the Bishop ofBath and Wells. “’Avea blinking ’eart. Look at the little mite. ’Asn’t ’ad a decent meal in ’e don’t know’owlong.” “I vote to take him,” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh. “There’s good grub back at our place.” He patted his stomach to show just howgood thefood was. “So. You game for adventure?” asked the Duke of Westminster, won over by the novel idea. “Or do you want to waste the rest of your life here?”and with bony fingers he indicated the graveyard and the night. Bod thought ofMiss Lupescu and herawful food and her listsand her pinched mouth. “I’mgame,” hesaid. His three new friends might have been his size, but they were far stronger than any child, and Bod found himself picked up by the Bishop of Bath and Wells and held high above the creature’s head, while the Duke of Westminster grabbed a handful of mangy-looking grass, shouted what sounded like “Skagh! Thegh! Khavagah!” and pulled. The stone slab that covered the grave swung open like a trapdoor, revealing a darkness beneath. “Quick now,”said the duke,and the Bishop of Bath and Wells tossed Bod into the dark opening, then leapt in after him, followed by the HonorableArchibald Fitzhugh and then, with one agile bound, by the Duke of Westminster, who, as soon as he was inside, called out, “Wegh Khârados!” to close the ghoul-gate, and the stonecrashed down abovethem. Bod fell, tumbling through the darkness like a lump of marble, too startled to be scared, wondering how deep the hole beneath that grave could possibly be, when two strong handscaught him beneath the armpits and he found himself swinging forward through the pitch-blackness. Bod had not experienced total darkness for many years. In the graveyard, hesawas the dead see, and no tomb or grave or crypt was truly dark to him. Now he was in utter darkness, feeling himself being pitched forward in a sequence of jerks and rushes, the wind rushing past him. It was frightening, but it was also exhilarating. And then there was light, and everything changed. The skywas red, but not the warmred ofa sunset. This was an angry, glowering red, the color of an infected wound. The sun was small and seemed like it was old and distant. The air was cold and they were descending a wall. Tombstones and statues jutted out of the side of the wall, as if a huge graveyard had been upended, and, like three wizened chimpanzees in tattered black suits that did up in the back, the Duke of Westminster, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh wereswinging fromstatueto stone, danglingBod between themas theywent, tossing himfromone to another, never missing him, always catching himwith ease, withouteven looking. Bod tried to look up, to see the grave through which they had entered this strange world, but hecould see nothing but headstones. He wondered if each of the graves they were swinging past was a door for the kind of people who werecarrying him…. “Where are we going?” he asked, but his voice was whipped away by the wind. They went faster and faster. Up ahead of them Bod saw a statue swing up, and another two creatures came catapulting out into this crimson-skied world, just like the ones that carried Bod. One wore a raggedy silken gown that looked like it had once beenwhite, the other wore a stained grey suit too large for it, the sleeves of which were shredded into shadowy tatters. They spotted Bod and his three new friends and made for them, dropping twenty feet with ease. The Duke of Westminster gave a guttural squawk and pretended to be scared, and Bod and the three of them swung down the wall of graves with the two new creatures in pursuit. None of them seemed to get tired or out of breath, under that red sky, with the burnt-out sun gazing down at them like a dead eye, but eventually they fetched up on the side of a huge statue ofa creature whose whole face seemed to have become a fungoid growth. Bod found himself being introduced to the 33rd President of the United Statesand the Emperor ofChina. “This is Master Bod,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells. “He’s going to become one of us.” “He’s in search of a good meal,” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh. “Well, you’re guaranteed fine dining when you becomes one of us, young lad,” said the Emperor ofChina. “Yup,” said the 33rd President of the United States. Bod said, “I become one of you? You mean, I’llturn into you?” “Smart as a whip, sharp as a tack, you’d have to get up pretty late at night to put anything past this lad,”said the Bishop ofBath and Wells. “Indeed. One of us. As strong, as fast, as unconquerable.” “Teeth so strong they can crush any bones, and tongue sharp and long enough to lick the marrowfromthe deepestmarrowbone or flay the flesh froma fat man’s face,”said the Emperor of China. “Able to slip from shadow to shadow, never seen, never suspected. Free as air, fast as thought, cold as frost, hard as nails, dangerous as,as us,”said the Duke ofWestminster. Bod looked at the creatures. “But what if I don’t want to be one of you?” hesaid. “Don’t want to? Of course youwants to! What could be finer? I don’t think there’s a soul in the universe doesn’t want to bejust like us.” “We’ve got the bestcity—” “Ghûlheim,” said the 33rd President of the United States. “The best life, the best food—” “Can you imagine,” interrupted the Bishop of Bath and Wells, “how fine a drink the black ichor that collects in a leaden coffin can be? Or how it feels to be more important than kings and queens, than presidents or prime ministers or heroes, to besure of it, in the same way that people are more important than brussels sprouts?” Bod said,“What are you people?” “Ghouls,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells. “Bless me, somebody wasn’t paying attention, was he? We’re ghouls.” “Look!” Below them, a whole troupe of the little creatures were bouncing and running and leaping, heading for the path below them, and before he could say another word, he was snatched up by a pair of bony hands and was flying through the air in a series of jumps and lurches, as the creatures headed down to meet the others of their kind. The wall of graves was ending, and now there was a road, and nothing but a road, a much-trodden path across a barren plain, a desert ofrocksand bones, that wound towardsa city high on a huge red rock hill, many miles away. Bod looked up at the city, and was horrified: an emotion engulfed him that mingled repulsion and fear, disgust and loathing, all tinged with shock. Ghouls do not build. They are parasites and scavengers, eaters of carrion. The city they call Ghûlheim is something they found, long ago, but did not make. No one knows (if anyone human ever knew) what kind of creatures it was that made those buildings, who honeycombed the rock with tunnelsand towers, but it iscertain that no one but the ghoul-folk could have wanted to stay there, oreven to approach that place. Even from the path below Ghûlheim, even from miles away, Bod could see that all of the angles were wrong—that the walls sloped crazily, that it was every nightmare he had ever endured made into a place, like a huge mouth of jutting teeth. It was a city that had been built just to be abandoned, in which all the fears and madnesses and revulsions of the creatures who built it were made into stone. The ghoul-folk had found it and delighted in itand called it home. Ghouls move fast. They swarmed along the path through the desert more swiftly than a vulture flies and Bod was carried along by them, held high overhead by a pair of strong ghoul arms, tossed from one to another, feeling sick, feeling dread and dismay, feeling stupid. Above them in the sour red skies, things werecircling on huge black wings. “Careful,” said the Duke of Westminster. “Tuck him away. Don’t want the night-gaunts stealing him. Bloody stealers.” “Yar! We hates stealers!” shouted the Emperor ofChina. Night-gaunts, in the red skies above Ghûlheim… Bod took a deep breath, and shouted, just as Miss Lupescu had taught him. He made a call like an eagle’s cry, in the back of his throat. One of the winged beasts dropped towards them,circled lower,and Bod madethecallagain, until it was stifled by hard hands clamping over his mouth. “Good idea, calling ’em down,” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh, “but trust me, they aren’t edible until they’ve been rotting for at least a couple of weeks, and they just causes trouble. No lovelost between our sideand theirs, eh?” The night-gaunt rose again in the dry desert air, to rejoin its fellows, and Bod felt all hope vanish. The ghouls sped on towards the city on the rocks, and Bod, nowflung unceremoniously over the stinking shoulders of the Duke of Westminster, wascarried with them. The dead sun set, and two moons rose, one huge and pitted and white, which seemed, as it rose, to be taking up half the horizon, although it shrank as it ascended, and a smaller moon, the bluish-green color of the veins of mold in a cheese, and the arrival of this moon was an occasion of celebration for the ghoul-folk. They stopped marching and made a camp beside the road. One of the new members of the band—Bod thought it might have been the one he had been introduced to as “the famous writer Victor Hugo”—produced asack which turned out to be filled with firewood, several pieces still with the hinges or brass handles attached, along with a metal cigarette lighter, and soon made a fire, around which all the ghoul-folk sat and rested. They stared up at the greenish-blue moon, and scuffled for the best places by the fire, insulting each other, sometimesclawing or biting. “We’llsleep soon, then set offfor Ghûlheim at moonset,”said the Duke of Westminster. “It’s justanother nine or ten hours’run along the way. We should reach it by next moonrise. Then we’ll have a party, eh? Celebrate you beingmade into one of us!” “It doesn’t hurt,” said the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh, “not so as you’d notice. And after, think howhappy you’ll be.” They all started telling stories, then, of how fineand wonderfulathing it was to bea ghoul, of all the things they had crunched up and swallowed down with their powerful teeth. Impervious they were to disease or illness, said one of them. Why, it didn’t matter what their dinner had died of, they could just chomp it down. They told of the places they had been, which mostly seemed to be catacombs and plague-pits. (“Plague-pits is good eatin’,”said the Emperor of China, and everyone agreed.) They told Bod how they had got their names and how he, in his turn, once he had become a nameless ghoul, would be named as they had been. “But I don’t want to become one of you,” said Bod. “One way or another,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells, cheerily, “you’ll become one of us. The other way is messier, involves being digested, and you’re not really around very long to enjoy it.” “But that’s not a good thing to talk about,” said the Emperor of China. “Best to be a ghoul. We’reafraid of nuffink!” And all the ghouls around the coffin-wood fire howled at this statement, and growled and sang and exclaimed at how wise they were, and how mighty, and how fine it was to be scared of nothing. There was a noise then, from the desert, from far away, a distant howl, and the ghouls gibbered and they huddled closer to theflames. “What was that?”asked Bod. The ghouls shook their heads. “Just something out therein the desert,”whispered one ofthem.“Quiet! It’ll hear us!” And all the ghouls were quiet for a bit, until they forgot about the thing in the desert, and began to sing ghoul-song, filled with foul words and worse sentiments, the most popular ofwhich were simply lists of which rotting body parts wereto beeaten,and inwhat order. “I want to go home,” said Bod, when the last ofthe bits in thesong had been consumed. “I don’t want to be here.” “Don’t take on so,” said the Duke of Westminster. “Why, you little coot, I promise you that as soon as you’re one of us, you’ll not ever rememberas you even had a home.” “I don’t remember anything about the days before I was a ghoul,” said the famous writer Victor Hugo. “Nor I,” said the Emperor of China, proudly. “Nope,” said the 33rd President of the United States. “You’ll be one of a select band, of the cleverest, strongest, bravest creatures ever,” bragged the Bishop ofBath and Wells. Bod was unimpressed by the ghouls’ bravery or their wisdom. They were strong, though, and inhumanly fast, and he was in the center ofa troupe of them. Making a break for it would have been impossible. Theywould beable to catch up with him before he could cover a dozen yards. Far off in the night something howled once more, and the ghouls moved closer to the fire. Bod could hear them sniffling and cursing. He closed his eyes, miserable and homesick: he did not want to become one of the ghouls. He wondered how he would ever be able to sleep when he was this worried and hopelessand then, almost to his surprise, for two or three hours, he slept. A noise woke him—upset, loud, close. It was someone saying, “Well, where is they? Eh?” He opened his eyes to see the Bishop of Bath and Wells shouting at the Emperor of China. It seemed that a couple of the members of their group had disappeared in the night, just vanished, and no one had an explanation. The rest of the ghouls were on edge. They packed up theircamp quickly, and the 33rd President of the United States picked Bod up and bundled himover his shoulder. The ghouls scrabbled back down the rocky cliffs to the road, beneath a sky the color of bad blood, and they headed towards Ghûlheim. They seemed significantly less exuberant this morning. Now they seemed—at least to Bod, as he was bounced along—to be running away fromsomething. Around midday, with the dead-eyed sun high overhead, the ghouls stopped, and huddled. Ahead ofthem, high in thesky, circling on the hot air currents, were the night-gaunts, dozens of them, riding thethermals. The ghouls divided into two factions: there were those who felt that the vanishing of their friends was meaningless, and those who believed that something, probably the night-gaunts, was out to get them. They came to no agreement, except fora generalagreement to armthemselves with rocks to throw at the night-gaunts should they descend, and they filled the pockets of their suits and robes with pebbles from the desert floor. Something howled, off in the desert to their left, and the ghouls eyed each other. It was louder than the night before, and closer, a deep, wolfish howl. “Did you hear that?”asked the Lord Mayor ofLondon. “Nope,” said the 33rd President of the United States. “Me neither,”said the HonorableArchibald Fitzhugh. The howlcameagain. “We got to get home,” said the Duke of Westminster, hefting alargestone. The nightmarecity ofGhûlheimsat on a high rocky outcrop ahead of them, and the creatures loped down theroad towards it. “Night-gaunts coming!”shouted the Bishop of Bath and Wells. “Throw stones at the bleeders!” Bod’s view of things was upside down at this point, bouncing up and down on the back of the 33rd President of the United States, gritty sand fromthe path blown up into his face. But he heard cries, like eagle cries, and once again Bod called for help in Night-Gaunt. No one tried to stop him this time, but he was not sure that anyone could have heard him over the cries of the night-gaunts, or the oaths and curses of the ghoul-folk as they pitched and flung their stones into theair. Bod heard the howling again: now it came fromtheir right. “There’s dozens of the blooming blinkers,” said the Duke ofWestminster, gloomily. The 33rd President of the United States handed Bod over to the famous writer Victor Hugo, who threw the boy into his sack and put it over his shoulder. Bod was just glad the sack smelled of nothingworsethan dustywood. “They’re retreating!” shouted a ghoul.” Look at ’emgo!” “Don’t you worry, boy,” said a voice that sounded to Bod like the Bishop of Bath and Wells, near thesack. “There won’t be any ofthis nonsense when we get you to Ghûlheim. It’s impenetrable, is Ghûlheim.” Bod could not tell if any of the ghouls had been killed or injured fighting the night-gaunts. He suspected, from the imprecations of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, that several more of the ghouls might haverun off. “Quickly!” shouted someone who was probably the Duke of Westminster, and the ghouls set off at a run. Bod, in the sack, was uncomfortable, being painfully slammed against the famous writer Victor Hugo’s back and occasionally banged on the ground. To make his time in the sack even more uncomfortable there were still several lumps of wood, not to mention sharp screwsand nails, in there with him, thefinal remnants of the coffin-based firewood. A screw was just under his hand, digging into him. Despite being jogged and jounced, jolted and jarred with every one of his captor’s steps, Bod managed to grasp the screw in his right hand. He felt the tip of it, sharp to the touch. He hoped, deep inside. Then he pushed the screw into the fabric of the sack behind him, working the sharp end in, then pulling it back, and making another holealittle way belowthefirst. Frombehind, hecould hear something howl once more and it occurred to him that anything that could terrify the ghoul-folk must itself be even more terrifying than he could imagine, and fora moment hestopped stabbingwith thescrew —what if he fell from the sack into the jaws of some evil beast? But at least if he died, thought Bod, he would have died as himself, with all his memories, knowing who his parents were, who Silas was,evenwho Miss Lupescuwas. That was good. He attacked the sacking with his brass screw again, jabbing and pushing until he’d made another holein thefabric. “Come on, lads,” shouted the Bishop of Bath and Wells. “Up the steps and then we’re home,allsafeinGhûlheim!” “Hurrah, Your Worship!” called someone else, probably the Honorable Archibald Fitzhugh. Now the motion of his captors had changed. It was no longeraforward motion: now it was a sequence of movements, up and along, up and along. Bod pushed at the sacking with his hand to try and make an eye-hole. He looked out. Above, the drear red sky, below… …he could see the desert floor, but it was now hundreds of feet below him. There were steps stretching out behind them, but steps made for giants, and the ochre rock wall to his right. Ghûlheim, which Bod could not see from where he was, had to be above them. To his left was a sheer drop. He was going to have to fall straight down, he decided, onto the steps, and he would just hope that the ghouls wouldn’t notice that he was making his break for it in their desperation to be home and safe. He saw night-gaunts high in thered sky, hanging back,circling. He was pleased to see there were no other ghouls behind him:thefamous writer Victor Hugo was bringing up the rear, and no one was behind him to alert the ghouls to the hole that was growing in thesack. Or to see Bod if hefell out. But there was something else…. Bod was bounced onto his side, away fromthe hole. But he had seen something huge and grey, on the steps beneath, pursuing them. He could hearan angry growling noise. Mr. Owens had an expression for two things he found equally unpleasant:“I’mbetween the Deviland the Deep Blue Sea,” he would say. Bod had wondered what this meant, having seen, in his life in the graveyard, neither the Devil nor the Deep Blue Sea. I’m between the ghouls and the monster, hethought. And as he thought it, sharp canine teeth caught at the sacking, pulled at it until the fabric tore along the rips Bod had made, and the boy tumbled down on the rock stairs, where a huge grey animal, like a dog but far larger, growled and drooled, and stood over him, an animal with flaming eyes and white fangs and huge paws. It panted and itstared at Bod. Ahead of him the ghouls had stopped. “Bloody Nora!” said the Duke of Westminster. “That hellhound’s got the blinking boy!” “Let it have him,” said the Emperor of China.“Run!” “Yikes!” said the 33rd President of the United States. The ghouls ran up the steps. Bod was now certain that the steps had been carved by giants, for each step was higher than he was. As they fled, the ghouls paused only to turn and make rude gestures at the beast and possibly also at Bod. The beaststayed whereit was. It’s going to eat me, Bod thought bitterly. Smart, Bod. And he thought of his home in the graveyard, and now he could no longer remember why he had ever left. Monster dog or no monster dog, he had to get back home once more. There were people waiting for him. He pushed past the beast, jumped down to the next step four feet below, fell his height, landed on his ankle, which twisted underneath him, painfully, and he dropped, heavily, onto the rock. He could hear the beast running, jumping down towards him, and he tried to wriggle away, to pull himself up onto his feet, but his ankle was useless, now, numb and in pain, and before he could stop himself, he fell again. He fell off the step, away fromtherock wall, out into space, off the cliff-side, where he dropped—a nightmarish tumble down distances that Bod could not even imagine…. And as he fell, he was certain he heard a voice coming from the general direction of the grey beast. And it said, in Miss Lupescu’s voice, “Oh, Bod!” It was like every dream of falling he had ever had, a scared and frantic drop through space, as he headed towards the ground below. Bod felt as though his mind was only big enough for one huge thought, so, That big dog was actually Miss Lupescu, and, I’m going to hit the rock floor and splat, competed in his head for occupation. Something wrapped itself about him, falling at the same speed he was falling, and then there was the loud flapping of leathery wings and everything slowed. The ground no longer seemed to be heading towards himat thesamespeed. The wings flapped harder. They lifted slightly and now the only thought in Bod’s head was I’m flying!And he was. Heturned his head. Above him was a dark brown head, perfectly bald, with deep eyes that looked as if they were polished slabs of black glass. Bod made the screeching noise that means “Help,” in Night-Gaunt, and the night-gaunt smiled and made a deep hooting noise in return. Itseemed pleased. A swoop and a slow, and they touched down on the desert floor with a thump. Bod tried to stand up, and his ankle betrayed him once again, sent himstumbling down into thesand. The wind was high, and the sharp desert sand blew hard, stingingBod’s skin. The night-gaunt crouched beside him, its leathery wings folded on its back. Bod had grown up in a graveyard and was used to images of winged people, but the angels on the headstones looked nothing likethis. And now, bounding toward themacross the desert floor in the shadow of Ghûlheim, a huge grey beast, likean enormous dog. The dog spoke, inMiss Lupescu’s voice. It said, “This is the third time the nightgaunts have saved your life, Bod. The first was when you called for help, and they heard. They got the message to me, telling me where you were. The second was around the fire last night, when you were asleep: they were circling in the darkness, and heard a couple of the ghouls saying that you were ill-luck for them and that they should beat your brains in with a rock and put you somewhere they could find you again, when you were properly rotted down, and then they would eat you. The night-gaunts dealt with the matter silently. And nowthis.” “Miss Lupescu?” The great dog-like head lowered towards him, and for one mad, fear-filled moment, he thought she was going to take a bite out of him, but her tongue licked the side of his face, affectionately.“You hurt yourankle?” “Yes. Ican’tstand on it.” “Let’s get you onto my back,”said the huge grey beast that was Miss Lupescu. She said something in the night-gaunt’s screeching tongue and itcame over, held Bod up while he put his arms around Miss Lupescu’s neck. “Hold my fur,”she said. “Hold tight. Now, before we go, say…” and she made a high screeching noise. “What does itmean?” “Thank you. Or good-bye. Both.” Bod screeched as bestas he could, and the night-gaunt made an amused chuckle. Then it made a similar noise, and it spread its great leathery wings, and it ran into the desert wind, flapping hard, and the wind caught it and carried italoft, likea kitethat had begun to fly. “Now,” said the beast that was Miss Lupescu,“hold on tightly.”And she began to run. “Are we going to the wall of graves?” “To the ghoul-gates? No. Those are for ghouls. I am a Hound of God. I travel my own road, into Hell and out of it.” And it seemed to Bod as ifsheran even faster then. The huge moon rose and the smaller moldcolored moon and they were joined by a rubyred moon, and the greywolf ran ata steady lope beneath them across the desert of bones. She stopped by a broken clay building like an enormous beehive, built beside a small rill of water that came bubbling out of the desert rock, splashed down into a tiny pool and was gone again. The grey wolf put her head down and drank, and Bod scooped water up in his hands, drinking the water in a dozen tiny gulps. “This is the boundary,” said the grey wolf that was Miss Lupescu, and Bod looked up. The three moons had gone. Now he could see the Milky Way, seeitas he had never seen it before, a glimmering shroud across the arch of the sky. Theskywas filled with stars. “They’re beautiful,”said Bod. “When we get you home,” said Miss Lupescu, “I teach you the names of the stars and theirconstellations.” “I’d likethat,”admitted Bod. Bod clambered onto her huge, grey back once more and he buried his face in her fur and held on tightly, and it seemed onlymoments later that he was being carried—awkwardly, as a grown woman carries a six-year-old boy—across the graveyard, to the Owenses’ tomb. “He’s hurt his ankle,” Miss Lupescu was saying. “Poor little soul,” said Mistress Owens, taking the boy fromher, and cradling him in her capable, ifinsubstantialarms. “Ican’t say I didn’t worry, for I did. But he’s back now, and that’s allthatmatters.” And then he was perfectly comfortable, beneath the earth, in a good place, with his head on his own pillow, and a gentle, exhausted darkness took him. Bod’s left ankle was swollen and purple. Doctor Trefusis (1870–1936, May He Wake to Glory) inspected it and pronounced it merely sprained. Miss Lupescu returned from a journey to the chemist’s with a tight ankle bandage, and Josiah Worthington, Bart., who had been buried with his ebonywalking cane, insisted on lending it to Bod, who had too much fun leaning on the stick and pretending to be one hundred years old. Bod limped up the hill and retrieved a folded piece of paper frombeneath astone. The Hounds of God he read. It was printed in a purple ink, and was thefirst itemon alist. Those that men call Werewolves or Lycanthropescall themselves the Hounds of God, as they claim their transformation is a gift from their creator, and they repay the gift with their tenacity, for they will pursue an evildoer to thevery gates of Hell. Bod nodded. Not just evildoers, hethought. He read the rest of the list, committing it to memory as best he could, thenwent down to the chapel, where Miss Lupescu was waiting for himwith asmallmeat pieand a huge bag ofchips she had bought from the fish-and-chips shop at the bottom of the hill, and another pile of purpleinked duplicated lists. Thetwo ofthemshared thechips, and once or twice, Miss Lupescu even smiled. Silas came back at the the end of the month. He carried his black bag in his left hand and he held his right arm stiffly. But he was Silas, and Bod was happy to see him, and even happier when Silas gave him a present, a little model of the GoldenGate Bridgein San Francisco. It was almost midnight, and it was still not fully dark. The three of themsat at the top of the hill, with the lights of the city glimmering beneath them. “I trust that all went well in my absence,” said Silas. “I learned a lot,” said Bod, still holding his Bridge. He pointed up into the night sky. “That’s Orion the Hunter, up there, with his belt of three stars. That’s Taurus the Bull.” “Very good,”said Silas. “And you?” asked Bod. “Did you learn anything, while youwereaway?” “Oh yes,” said Silas, but he declined to elaborate. “I also,”said Miss Lupescu, primly. “I also learned things.” “Good,” said Silas. An owl hooted in the branches of an oak tree. “You know, I heard rumors, whileI wasaway,”said Silas, “that some weeks ago you both went somewhat further afield than I would have been able to follow. Normally, I would advise caution, but, unlike some, the ghoul-folk haveshortmemories.” Bod said, “It’s okay. Miss Lupescu looked after me. I was never in any danger.” Miss Lupescu looked at Bod, and her eyes shone, then shelooked at Silas. “There are so many things to know,” she said. “Perhaps I come back next year, in high summeralso, to teach the boy again.” Silas looked at Miss Lupescu,and heraised an eyebrowafraction. Then helooked at Bod. “I’d likethat,”said Bod. CHAPTER FOUR The Witch’s Headstone THERE WASA WITCH buried at the edge of the graveyard, it was common knowledge. Bod had been told to keep away from that corner of the world by Mrs. Owens as far back as he could remember. “Why?” heasked. “T’aint healthy for a living body,”said Mrs. Owens. “There’s damp down that end of things. It’s practically a marsh. You’llcatch your death.” Mr. Owens himself was more evasive and less imaginative. “It’s not a good place,” was all hesaid. The graveyard proper ended at the bottomof the west side of the hill, beneath the old apple tree, with a fence of rust-brown iron railings, each topped with a small, rusting spearhead, but there was a wasteland beyond that, a mass of nettles and weeds, of brambles and autumnal rubbish, and Bod, who was, on the whole, obedient, did not push between the railings, but he went down there and looked through. He knewhe wasn’t being told the wholestory, and it irritated him. Bod went back up the hill, to thelittlechapel near theentranceto the graveyard, and he waited until it got dark. As twilightedged fromgrey to purple there was a noise in the spire, like a fluttering of heavy velvet, and Silas left his resting place in the belfry and clambered headfirst down thespire. “What’s in thefarcorner ofthe graveyard?” asked Bod. “Past Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish,and his wives, Marion and Joan?” “Why do you ask?” said his guardian, brushing the dust from his black suit with ivory fingers. Bod shrugged.“Just wondered.” “It’s unconsecrated ground,” said Silas. “Do you knowwhat thatmeans?” “Not really,”said Bod. Silas walked across the path without disturbing a fallen leaf, and sat down on the bench beside Bod. “There are those,” he said, in his silken voice, “who believe that all land is sacred. That it is sacred before we come to it, and sacred after. But here, in your land, they blessed the churches and the ground they set aside to bury people in, to make it holy. But they left land unconsecrated besidethesacred ground, Potter’s Fields to bury the criminals and the suicides or those who were not ofthefaith.” “So the people buried in the ground on the other side ofthefenceare bad people?” Silas raised one perfect eyebrow. “Mm? Oh, not at all. Let’s see, it’s been a while since I’ve been down that way. But I don’t remember anyone particularly evil. Remember, in days gone by you could be hanged for stealing a shilling. And there are always people who find their lives have become so unsupportable they believe the best thing they could do would be to hasten their transition to another plane ofexistence.” “They kill themselves, you mean?” said Bod. He was about eight years old, wide-eyed and inquisitive,and he was notstupid. “Indeed.” “Does it work? Arethey happier dead?” “Sometimes. Mostly, no. It’s likethe people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. If you see what I mean.” “Sort of,”said Bod. Silas reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair. Bod said,“Whatabout the witch?” “Yes. Exactly,” said Silas. “Suicides, criminals, and witches. Those who died unshriven.” He stood up, a midnight shadow in thetwilight. “All this talking,” hesaid, “and I have noteven had my breakfast. While youwill belate for lessons.”In the twilight ofthe graveyard there was a silent implosion, a flutter of velvet darkness,and Silas was gone. The moon had begun to rise by the time Bod reached Mr. Pennyworth’s mausoleum, and Thomes Pennyworth (here he lyes in the certainty of the moft glorious refurrection) was already waiting, and was not in the best of moods. “You arelate,” hesaid. “Sorry, Mr. Pennyworth.” Pennyworth tutted. The previous week Mr. Pennyworth had been teaching Bod about Elements and Humors, and Bod had kept forgetting which was which. He was expecting a test, but instead Mr. Pennyworth said, “I think it is time to spend a few days on practicalmatters. Timeis passing,afterall.” “Is it?”asked Bod. “I am afraid so, young Master Owens. Now, howis your Fading?” Bod had hoped he would not be asked that question. “It’s all right,” he said. “I mean. You know.” “No, Master Owens. I do not know. Why do you not demonstratefor me?” Bod’s heart sank. He took a deep breath, and did his best, squinching up hiseyesand trying to fadeaway. Mr. Pennyworthwas not impressed. “Pah. That’s not the kind of thing. Not the kind of thing at all. Slipping and Fading, boy, the way of the dead. Slip through shadows. Fade fromawareness. Try again.” Bod tried harder. “You’re as plain as the nose on your face,” said Mr. Pennyworth. “And your nose is remarkably obvious. As is the rest of your face, youngman.Asare you. For thesake ofall that is holy, empty your mind. Now. You are an empty alleyway. You are a vacant doorway. You are nothing. Eyes will not see you. Minds will not hold you. Where you areis nothing and nobody.” Bod tried again. He closed his eyes and imagined himself fading into the stained stonework of the mausoleum wall, becoming a shadow on the night and nothing more. He sneezed. “Dreadful,” said Mr. Pennyworth, with a sigh. “Quite dreadful. I believe I shall have a word with your guardian about this.” He shook his head.“So. The humors. List them.” “Um. Sanguine. Choleric. Phlegmatic. And the other one. Um, Melancholic, I think.” And so it went, until it was time for Grammar and Composition with Miss Letitia Borrows, Spinster of this Parish (Who Did No Harm to No Man all the Dais of Her Life. Reader, Can You Say Lykewise? ). Bod liked Miss Borrows, and the coziness of her little crypt, and that she could all-too-easily be led off thesubject. “They say there’s a witch in uncons—unconsecrated ground,” hesaid. “Yes, dear. But you don’t want to go over there.” “Why not?” Miss Borrows smiled the guileless smile of the dead. “They aren’t our sort of people,” she said. “But it is the graveyard, isn’t it?I mean, I’mallowed to go thereifI want to?” “That,” said Miss Borrows, “would not be advisable.” Bod was obedient, but curious, and so, when lessons were done for the night, he walked past Harrison Westwood, Baker, and family’s memorial, a broken-armed angel, but did not climb down the hill to the Potter’s Field. Instead he walked up theside ofthe hillto wherea picnic some thirty years before had left its mark in the shape ofalargeappletree. There were some lessons that Bod had mastered. He had eaten a bellyful of unripe apples, sour and white-pipped, from the tree some years before, and had regretted it for days, his guts cramping and painful while Mrs. Owens lectured himon what not to eat. Now he always waited until the apples were ripe before eating them, and never ate more than two or three a night. He had finished the last of the apples the week before, but he liked the apple tree as a placeto think. He edged up the trunk, to his favorite place in the crook of two branches, and looked down at the Potter’s Field below him, a brambly patch ofweedsand unmown grass in the moonlight. He wondered whether the witch would be old and iron-toothed and travel in a house on chicken legs, or whether she would be thin and sharpnosed and carry a broomstick. Bod’s stomach growled and herealized that he was getting hungry. He wished he had not devoured all the apples on the tree. That he had left just one… He glanced up, and thought he saw something. He looked once, looked twice to be certain:an apple, red and ripe. Bod prided himself on his tree-climbing skills. He swung himself up, branch by branch, and imagined he was Silas, swarming smoothly up a sheer brick wall. The apple, the red of it almost black in the moonlight, hung just out of reach. Bod moved slowly forward along the branch, until he was just below the apple. Then he stretched up, and the tips of his fingers touched the perfectapple. He was never to tasteit. A snap, loud as a hunter’s gun, as the branch gave way beneath him. Aflash of pain woke him, sharp as ice, the color of slow thunder, down in the weeds that summer’s night. The ground beneath him seemed relatively soft, and oddly warm. He pushed a hand down and felt something like warmfur beneath him. He had landed on the grass-pile, where the graveyard’s groundskeeper threw the cuttings fromthe mower, and it had broken his fall. Still, there wasa pain in hischest, and his leg hurtas if he had landed on it firstand twisted it. Bod moaned. “Hush-a-you-hush-a-boy,” said a voice from behind him. “Where did you come from? Dropping like a thunderstone. What way is that to carry on?” “I was in theappletree,”said Bod. “Ah. Let me see your leg. Broken like the tree’s limb, I’ll be bound.” Cool fingers prodded his left leg. “Not broken. Twisted, yes, sprained perhaps. You have the Devil’s own luck, boy, falling into the compost. ’Tain’t the end of the world.” “Oh, good,”said Bod.“Hurts, though.” He turned his head, looked up and behind him. She was older than him, but nota grown-up, and she looked neither friendly nor unfriendly. Wary, mostly. She had a face that was intelligent and noteven alittle bit beautiful. “I’mBod,” hesaid. “Thelive boy?”sheasked. Bod nodded. “I thought you must be,” she said. “We’ve heard of you, even over here, in the Potter’s Field. What do they call you?” “Owens,” he said. “Nobody Owens. Bod, for short.” “How-de-do, youngMaster Bod.” Bod looked her up and down. She wore a plain white shift. Her hair was mousy and long, and there was something of the goblin in her face —a sideways hint of a smile that seemed to linger, no matter what the rest of her face was doing. “Were you a suicide?” he asked. “Did you stealashilling?” “Never stole nuffink,”shesaid, “Noteven a handkerchief. Anyway,” she said, pertly, “the suicides is all over there, on the other side of that hawthorn, and the gallows-birds are in the blackberry-patch, both of them. One was a coiner, t’other a highwayman, or so he says, although if you ask me I doubt he was more than acommon footpad and nightwalker.” “Ah,” said Bod. Then, suspicion forming, tentatively, he said, “They say a witch is buried here.” She nodded. “Drownded and burnded and buried here without as much as a stone to mark thespot.” “Youwere drowned and burned?” She settled down on the hill of grasscuttings beside him, and held his throbbing leg with her chilly hands. “They come to my little cottage at dawn, before I’mproper awake, and drags me out onto the Green. ‘You’re a witch!’ they shouts, fatand fresh-scrubbed all pink in the morning, like so many pigwiggins scrubbed clean for market day. One by onethey gets up beneath the sky and tells of milk gone sour and horses gone lame, and finally Mistress Jemima gets up, the fattest, pinkest, best-scrubbed of them all, and tells how as Solomon Porritt now cuts her dead and instead hangs around the washhouse like a wasp about a honeypot, and it’s all my magic, says she, that made himso and the poor young man must be bespelled. So they strap me to the cucking stooland forces it under the water of the duckpond, saying if I’ma witch I’ll neither drown norcare, but ifIamnota witch I’llfeel it. And Mistress Jemima’s father gives themeach a silver groat to hold the stool down under the foul green water for a long time, to see if I’d choke on it.” “And did you?” “Oh yes. Got a lungful ofwater. It done for me.” “Oh,”said Bod. “Then you weren’t a witch afterall.” The girlfixed himwith her beady ghost-eyes and smiled a lopsided smile. She still looked like a goblin, but now she looked like a pretty goblin, and Bod didn’t think she would have needed magic to attract Solomon Porritt, not with a smile like that. “What nonsense. Of course I was a witch. They learned that when they untied me from the cucking stool and stretched me on the Green, nine-parts dead and all covered with duckweed and stinking pond-muck. I rolled my eyes back in my head, and I cursed each and every one of themthere on the village Green that morning, that none ofthemwould ever resteasily in a grave. I was surprised at how easily it came, the cursing. Like dancing it was, when your feet pick up the steps of a new measure your ears have never heard and your head don’t know,and they dance it till dawn.” She stood, and twirled, and kicked, and her bare feet flashed in the moonlight. “That was how I cursed them, with my last gurgling pond-watery breath. And then I expired. They burned my body on the Green until I was nothing but blackened charcoal, and they popped me in a hole in the Potter’s Field without so much as a headstone to mark my name,”and it was only then that she paused, and seemed, for a moment, wistful. “Are any of them buried in the graveyard, then?”asked Bod. “Not a one,” said the girl, with a twinkle. “The Saturday after they drownded and toasted me, a carpet was delivered to Master Porringer, all the way fromLondon Town, and it was a fine carpet. But it turned out there was more in that carpet than strong wooland good weaving, for it carried the plague in its pattern, and by Monday five ofthemwere coughing blood, and their skins were goneas black as mine when they hauled me fromthe fire. Aweek later and it had takenmost of the village, and they threw the bodies all promiscuous in a plague pit they dug outside of thetown, that they filled in after.” “Waseveryonein the village killed?” She shrugged. “Everyone who watched me get drownded and burned. How’s your leg now?” “Better,” hesaid.“Thanks.” Bod stood up, slowly, and limped down from the grass-pile. He leaned against the iron railings. “So were you always a witch?” he asked.“I mean, before you cursed themall?” “As if it would take witchcraft,” she said with a sniff, “to get Solomon Porritt mooning round my cottage.” Which, Bod thought, but did not say, was notactually an answer to the question, notatall. “What’s your name?” heasked. “Got no headstone,”she said, turning down the corners of her mouth. “Might be anybody. Mightn’t I?” “But youmust havea name.” “Liza Hempstock, if you please,” she said tartly. Then shesaid,“It’s not thatmuch to ask, is it? Something to mark my grave. I’m just down there, see? With nothing but nettles to show where I rest.”And she looked so sad, just for a moment, that Bod wanted to hug her. And then it came to him, as he squeezed between the railings of the fence. He would find Liza Hempstock a headstone, with her name upon it. He would make her smile. He turned to wave good-bye as he began to clamber up the hill, butshe wasalready gone. There were broken lumps of other people’s stones and statues in the graveyard, but, Bod knew, that would have been entirely the wrong sort ofthing to bring to the grey-eyed witch in the Potter’s Field. It was going to take more than that. He decided not to tellanyone what he was planning, on the not entirely unreasonable basis that theywould havetold himnot to do it. Over the next few days his mind filled with plans, each more complicated and extravagant than thelast. Mr. Pennyworth despaired. “I do believe,” he announced, scratching his dustymustache, “that you are getting, ifanything, worse. You are not Fading. You are obvious, boy. You are difficult to miss. If you came to me in company with a purple lion, a green elephant, and a scarlet unicorn astride which was the King ofEngland in his RoyalRobes, I do believethat it is you and you alone that people would stare at, dismissing the othersas minor irrelevancies.” Bod simply stared at him, and said nothing. He was wondering whether there were special shops in the places where the living people gathered that sold only headstones, and ifso how he could go about finding one, and Fading was theleast of his problems. He took advantage of Miss Borrows’s willingness to be diverted from the subjects of Grammar and Composition to the subject of anything elseatall to ask herabout money—how exactly it worked, how one used it to get things one wanted. Bod had a number ofcoins he had found over the years (he had learned that the best place to find money was to go, afterwards, to wherever courting couples had used the grass of the graveyard as a place to cuddle and snuggle and kiss and roll about. He would often find metal coins on the ground, in the place where they had been) and he thought perhaps he could finally getsome usefromthem. “How much would a headstone be?” he asked Miss Borrows. “In my time,” she told him, “they were fifteen guineas. I do not know what they would betoday. More, I imagine. Much, muchmore.” Bod had two pounds and fifty-three pence. It would, he was quitecertain, not beenough. It had been four years,almost halfalifetime, since Bod had visited theIndigo Man’s tomb, but he still remembered the way. He climbed to the top ofthe hill, until he wasabovethe wholetown, aboveeven thetop oftheapple tree, above even the steeple of the little chapel, up where the Frobisher mausoleum stood like a rotten tooth. He slipped down into it, behind the coffin, and down and down and still further down, down to the tiny stone steps cut into the center of the hill, and those he descended until he reached the stone chamber. It was dark in that tomb, dark as a tin mine, but Bod saw as the dead see and the roomgave up its secrets to him. The Sleer was coiled around the wall of the barrow. He could feel it. It was as he remembered it, an invisible thing, all smoky tendrils and hate and greed. This time, however, he was notafraid ofit. FEAR US, whispered the Sleer. FOR WE GUARDTHINGSPRECIOUSANDNEVER-LOST. “I don’t fear you,” said Bod. “Remember? And I need to takesomething away fromhere.” NOTHINGEVERLEAVES,camethereply fromthe coiled thing in the darkness. THE KNIFE, THE BROOCH, THE GOBLET. THE SLEER GUARDS THEM INTHEDARKNESS. WEWAIT. “Pardonmeforasking,”said Bod, “but was this your grave?” MASTER SETS US HERE ON THE PLAIN TO GUARD, BURIES OUR SKULLS BENEATH THIS STONE, LEAVES US HERE KNOWING WHAT WE HAVE TO DO. WE GUARD THE TREASURES UNTIL MASTERCOMESBACK. “I expect that he’s forgotten allabout you,” pointed out Bod. “I’m sure he’s been dead himselfforages.” WEARETHESLEER. WEGUARD. Bod wondered just how long ago you had to go back beforethe deepest tomb insidethe hill was on a plain,and he knewitmust have been an extremely long time ago. He could feel the Sleer winding its waves of fear around him, like the tendrils of some carnivorous plant. He was beginning to feel cold, and slow, as if he had been bitten in the heart by some arctic viper and it was starting to pump its icy venomthrough his body. Hetook astep forward, so he was standing against the stone slab, and he reached down and closed his fingers around the coldness of the brooch. HISH! whispered the Sleer. WE GUARD THAT FORTHEMASTER. “He won’t mind,”said Bod. He took a step backward, walking toward the stone steps, avoiding the desiccated remains of people and animals on thefloor. The Sleer writhed angrily, twining around the tiny chamber like ghost-smoke. Then it slowed. IT COMES BACK, said the Sleer, in its tangled triple voice. ALWAYSCOMESBACK. Bod went up the stone steps inside the hill as fastas hecould.At one point heimagined that there was something coming after him, but when he broke out of the top, into the Frobisher mausoleum, and he could breathe the cool dawn air, nothingmoved or followed. Bod sat in the open air on the top of the hill and held the brooch. He thought it was all black, at first, but then the sun rose, and he could see that thestonein thecenter ofthe black metalwas a swirling red. It was the size of a robin’s egg, and Bod stared into the stone wondering if there were things moving in its heart, his eyes and soul deep in the crimson world. If Bod had been smaller he would have wanted to put it into his mouth. The stone was held in place by a black metalclasp, by something that looked like claws, with something else crawling around it. The something else looked almost snake-like, but it had too many heads. Bod wondered if that was what the Sleer looked like, in the daylight. He wandered down the hill, taking all the shortcuts he knew, through the ivy tangle that covered the Bartleby family vault (and inside, the sound of the Bartlebys grumbling and readying for sleep) and on and over and through the railingsand into the Potter’s Field. Hecalled “Liza! Liza!”and looked around. “Good morrow, young lummox,” said Liza’s voice. Bod could not see her, but there was an extra shadow beneath the hawthorn tree, and, as he approached it, the shadow resolved itselfinto something pearlescentand translucent in the early-morning light. Something girl-like. Something grey-eyed. “I should be decently sleeping,”she said. “What kind ofcarrying on is this?” “Your headstone,” he said. “I wanted to knowwhat youwant on it.” “My name,” she said. “It must have my name on it, with a big E, for Elizabeth, like the old queen that died when I was born, and a big Haitch, for Hempstock. More than that I care not, for I did never master my letters.” “Whatabout dates?”asked Bod. “Willyum the Conker ten sixty-six,” she sang, in the whisper of the dawn-wind in the hawthorn tree. “Abig E if you please. And a big Haitch.” “Did you haveajob?”asked Bod. “I mean, when youweren’t being a witch?” “I done laundry,” said the dead girl, and then the morning sunlight flooded the wasteland, and Bod wasalone. It was nine in the morning, when all the world is sleeping. Bod was determined to stay awake. He was, after all, on a mission. He was eight years old, and the world beyond the graveyard held no terrors for him. Clothes. He would need clothes. His usual dress, of a grey winding sheet, was, he knew, quite wrong. It was good in the graveyard, the same color as stone and as shadows. But if he was going to dare the world beyond the graveyard walls, he would need to blend in there. There were some clothes in the crypt beneath the ruined church, but Bod did not want to go down to the crypt, not even in daylight. While Bod was prepared to justify himself to Master and Mistress Owens, he was not about to explain himself to Silas; the very thought of those dark eyes angry, or worse still, disappointed, filled himwith shame. There wasa gardener’s hutat thefarend of the graveyard, a small green building that smelled like motor oil, and in which the old mower sat and rusted, unused, along with an assortment of ancient garden tools. The hut had been abandoned when the last gardener had retired, before Bod was born, and the task of keeping the graveyard had been shared between the council (who sent in a man to cut the grass and clean the paths, once a month from April to September) and the local volunteers in the Friends ofthe Graveyard. A huge padlock on the door protected the contents of the hut, but Bod had long ago discovered the loose wooden board in the back. Sometimes he would go to the gardener’s hut and sit, and think, when he wanted to be by himself. As long as he had been going to the hut there had been a brown workingman’s jacket hanging on the back of the door, forgotten or abandoned years before, along with a greenstained pair of gardening jeans. The jeans were much too big for him, but he rolled up the cuffs until his feet showed, then he made a belt out of brown garden-twine, and tied itaround his waist. There were boots in one corner, and he tried putting them on, but they were so big and encrusted with mud and concrete that he could barely shuffle in them, and if he took a step, the boots remained on the floor of the shed. He pushed the jacket out through the space in the loose board, squeezed himself out, then put it on. If he rolled up the sleeves, he decided, it worked quite well. It had big pockets, and he thrust his hands into them,and felt quitethe dandy. Bod walked down to the main gate of the graveyard, and looked out through the bars. A bus rattled past, in the street; there were cars there and noise and shops. Behind him, a cool green shade, overgrown with trees and ivy: home. His heart pounding, Bod walked out into the world. Abanazer Bolger had seen some odd types in his time; if you owned ashop likeAbanazer’s, you’d see themtoo. The shop, in the warren of streets in the Old Town—alittle bitantiques shop,alittle bit junk shop, a little bit pawnbroker’s (and not evenAbanazer himselfwas entirely certain which bit was which) brought odd types and strange people, some of them wanting to buy, some of them needing to sell. Abanazer Bolger traded over the counter, buying and selling, and he did a better trade behind the counter and in the back room, accepting objects that may not have been acquired entirely honestly, and then quietly shifting them on. His business was an iceberg. Only the dusty little shop was visible on the surface. The rest of it was underneath, and that was just howAbanazer Bolger wanted it. Abanazer Bolger had thick spectaclesand a permanent expression of mild distaste, as if he had just realized that the milk in his tea had been on theturn, and hecould not get thesour taste of it out of his mouth. The expression served himwell when people tried to sell him things. “Honestly,” he would tell them, sour-faced, “it’s not really worth anything at all. I’ll give you what I can, though, as it has sentimental value.” You were lucky to get anything like what you thought youwanted fromAbanazer Bolger. A business like Abanazer Bolger’s brought in strange people, but the boy who came in that morningwas one ofthestrangestAbanazercould remember in a lifetime ofcheating strange people out of their valuables. He looked to be about seven years old, and dressed in his grandfather’s clothes. Hesmelled likeashed. His hair was long and shaggy, and he seemed extremely grave. His hands were deep in the pockets ofa dusty brown jacket, but even with the hands out of sight, Abanazer could see that something was clutched extremely tightly—protectively—in the boy’s right hand. “Excuse me,”said the boy. “Aye-aye, Sonny-Jim,” said Abanazer Bolger warily. Kids, he thought. Either they’ve nicked something, or they’re trying to sell their toys. Either way, he usually said no. Buy stolen property from a kid, and next thing you knew you’d have an enraged adult accusing you of having given little Johnnie or Matilda a tenner for their wedding ring. More trouble than they was worth, kids. “I need something forafriend ofmine,”said the boy. “And I thought maybe you could buy something I’ve got.” “I don’t buy stufffromkids,”saidAbanazer Bolger flatly. Bod took his hand out of his pocketand put the brooch down on the grimy countertop. Bolger glanced down at it, then he looked at it. He removed his spectacles. He took an eyepiece from the countertop and he screwed it into his eye. He turned on a little light on the counter and examined the brooch through the eyeglass. “Snakestone?” hesaid, to himself, not to the boy. Then he took the eyepiece out, replaced his glasses, and fixed the boy with a sour and suspicious look. “Where did you get this?”Abanazer Bolger asked. Bod said,“Do youwant to buy it?” “You stole it. You’ve nicked this from a museumor somewhere, didn’t you?” “No,” said Bod flatly. “Are you going to buy it, or shall I go and find somebody who will?” Abanazer Bolger’s sour mood changed then. Suddenly he was all affability. He smiled broadly. “I’msorry,” he said. “It’s just you don’t see many pieces like this. Not in a shop like this. Not outside of a museum. But I would certainly like it. Tell you what. Why don’t we sit down over tea and biscuits—I’ve got a packet of chocolate chip cookies in the back room—and decide how much something like this is worth? Eh?” Bod was relieved that the man was finally being friendly. “I need enough to buy astone,” he said. “A headstone for a friend of mine. Well, she’s not really my friend. Just someone I know. I think she helped make my leg better, you see.” Abanazer Bolger, paying little attention to the boy’s prattle, led himbehind the counter, and opened the door to the storeroom, a windowless little space, every inch of which was crammed high with teetering cardboard boxes, each filled with junk. There was a safe in there, in the corner, a big old one. There wasa box filled with violins, an accumulation of stuffed dead animals, chairs withoutseats, booksand prints. There was a small desk beside the door, and Abanazer Bolger pulled up the only chair, and sat down, letting Bod stand. Abanazer rummaged in a drawer, inwhichBod could see a half-empty bottle of whisky, and pulled out an almost-finished packet ofchocolatechip cookies, and he offered one to the boy; he turned on the desk light, looked at the brooch again, the swirls of red and orange in the stone, and he examined the black metal band that encircled it, suppressing a little shiverat the expression on the heads of the snake-things. “This is old,” he said. “It’s”—priceless, he thought—“probably not really worth much, but you never know.” Bod’s face fell. Abanazer Bolger tried to look reassuring. “I just need to know that it’s not stolen, though, before I can give you a penny. Did you takeit fromyour mum’s dresser? Nick it froma museum?You can tellme. I’ll not get you into trouble. I just need to know.” Bod shook his head. He munched on his cookie. “Thenwhere did you get it?” Bod said nothing. Abanazer Bolger did not want to put down the brooch, but he pushed it across the desk to the boy. “If you can’t tell me,” he said, “you’d better take it back. There has to be trust on both sides, after all. Nice doing business with you. Sorry itcouldn’t go any further.” Bod looked worried. Then hesaid, “I found it in an old grave. But I can’t say where.” He stopped, because naked greed and excitement had replaced the friendliness on Abanazer Bolger’s face. “And there’s morelikethis there?” Bod said, “If you don’t want to buy it, I’ll find someoneelse. Thank you for the biscuit.” Bolger said, “You’re in a hurry, eh? Mum and dad waiting for you, Iexpect?” The boy shook his head, then wished he had nodded. “Nobody waiting. Good.”Abanazer Bolger closed his hands around the brooch. “Now, you tellmeexactlywhere you found this. Eh?” “I don’t remember,”said Bod. “Too late for that,” said Abanazer Bolger. “Suppose you have a little think for a bit about where it came from. Then, when you’ve thought, we’ll havealittlechat,and you’lltellme.” He got up and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He locked it with a large metal key. He opened his hand and looked at the brooch and smiled, hungrily. There was a ding from the bell above the shop door, to let him know someone had entered, and he looked up, guiltily, but there was no one there. The door was slightly ajar though, and Bolger pushed it shut, and then for good measure heturned around thesign in the window, so it said CLOSED. He pushed the bolt shut. Didn’t wantany busy-bodies turning up today. The autumn day had turned from sunny to grey, and a light patter of rain ran down the grubby shop window. Abanazer Bolger picked up the telephone fromthe counter and pushed at the buttons with fingers that barely shook. “Paydirt, Tom,” he said. “Get over here, soon as you can.” Bod realized that he was trapped when he heard the lock turn in the door. He pulled on the door, but it held fast. He felt stupid for having been lured inside, foolish for not trusting his first impulses, to get as far away fromthe sour-faced man as possible. He had broken all the rules of the graveyard, and everything had gone wrong. What would Silas say? Or the Owenses? He could feel himself beginning to panic, and he suppressed it, pushing the worry back down inside him. It would all be good. He knew that. Ofcourse, he needed to get out…. Heexamined theroomhe was trapped in. It was little morethan astoreroomwith a desk in it. The only entrance was the door. He opened the desk drawer, finding nothing but small pots of paint (used for brightening up antiques) and a paintbrush. He wondered if he would be able to throw paint in the man’s face, and blind him for long enough to escape. He opened thetop ofa pot of paintand dipped in his finger. “What’re you doin’?” asked a voice close to hisear. “Nothing,” said Bod, screwing the top on the paintpot, and dropping it into one of the jacket’senormous pockets. Liza Hempstock looked at him, unimpressed. “Why are you in here?”she asked. “And who’s old bag-of-lard out there?” “It’s his shop. I was trying to sell him something.” “Why?” “None of your beeswax.” She sniffed. “Well,” she said, “you should get on back to the graveyard.” “Ican’t. He’s locked mein.” “’Course you can. Just slip through the wall —” Heshook his head. “Ican’t. Ican only do it at home because they gave me the Freedom of the Graveyard when I was a baby.” He looked up at her, under the electric light. It was hard to see her properly, but Bod had spent his life talking to dead people. “Anyway, what are you doing here? What are you doing out from the graveyard? It’s daytime. And you’re not like Silas. You’re meant to stay in the graveyard.” She said, “There’s rules for those in graveyards, but not for those as was buried in unhallowed ground. Nobody tells me what to do, or where to go.” She glared at the door. “I don’t like that man,” she said. “I’m going to see what he’s doing.” A flicker, and Bod was alone in the room once more. He heard arumble of distant thunder. In the cluttered darkness of Bolger’s Antiquities, Abanazer Bolger looked up suspiciously, certain that someone was watching him, then realized he was being foolish. “The boy’s locked in the room,” he told himself. “The front door’s locked.” He was polishing the metal clasp surrounding the snakestone, as gently and as carefully as an archaeologist on a dig, taking off the black and revealing the glittering silver beneath it. He was beginning to regret calling Tom Hustings over, although Hustings was big and good for scaring people. He was also beginning to regret that he was going to have to sell the brooch, when he was done. It was special. The more it glittered, under the tiny light on his counter, the more he wanted it to be his,and only his. There was more where this came from, though. The boy would tell him. The boy would lead himto it. The boy… An idea struck him. He put down the brooch, reluctantly, and opened a drawer behind the counter, taking out a metal biscuit tin filled with envelopesand cardsand slips of paper. He reached in, and took out a card, only slightly larger than a business card. It was blackedged. There was no name oraddress printed on it, though. Only one word, handwritten in the center in an ink that had faded to brown:Jack. On the back of the card, in pencil, Abanazer Bolger had written instructions to himself, in his tiny, precise handwriting, as a reminder, although he would not have been likely to forget the use of the card, how to use it to summon the man Jack. No, not summon. Invite. You did notsummon peoplelike him. Aknocking on the outer door oftheshop. Bolger tossed the card down onto the counter, and walked over to the door, peering out into the wetafternoon. “Hurry up,” called Tom Hustings, “it’s miserable out here. Dismal. I’mgetting soaked.” Bolger unlocked the door and Tom Hustings pushed his way in, his raincoat and hair dripping. “What’s so important that you can’t talk about it over the phone, then?” “Our fortune,” said Abanazer Bolger, with his sour face.“That’s what.” Hustings took off his raincoatand hung it on the back oftheshopdoor.“What is it? Something good fell offthe back ofalorry?” “Treasure,” said Abanazer Bolger. “Two kinds.” He took his friend over to the counter, showed himthe brooch, under thelittlelight. “It’s old, isn’t it?” “From pagan times,” said Abanazer. “Before. From Druid times. Before the Romans came. It’s called a snakestone. Seen ’em in museums. I’ve never seenmetalwork likethat, or one so fine. Must have belonged to a king. The lad who found it says it come from a grave—think ofa barrowfilled with stufflikethis.” “Might be worth doing it legit,” said Hustings, thoughtfully. “Declare it as treasure trove. They have to pay us market value for it, and we could make them name it after us. The Hustings–Bolger Bequest.” “Bolger–Hustings,” said Abanazer, automatically. Then he said, “There’s a few peopleI knowof, people with realmoney, would pay more than market value, if they could hold it as you are”—for TomHustings was fingering the brooch, gently, like a man stroking a kitten —“and there’d be no questions asked.” He reached out his hand and, reluctantly, Tom Hustings passed himthe brooch. “You said two kinds of treasure,” said Hustings.“What’s t’other?” Abanazer Bolger picked up the blackedged card, held it out for his friend’s inspection. “Do you knowwhat this is?” His friend shook his head. Abanazer put the card down on the counter. “There’s a party is looking for another party.” “So?” “The way I heard it,”saidAbanazer Bolger, “the other party isa boy.” “There’s boys everywhere,” said Tom Hustings. “Running all around. Getting into trouble. I can’t abide them. So, there’s a party looking fora particular boy?” “This lad looks to be the right sort of age. He’s dressed—well, you’ll see how he’s dressed. And hefound this. Itcould be him.” “And ifit is him?” Abanazer Bolger picked up the card again, by theedge,and waved it back and forth, slowly, as if running the edge along an imaginary flame. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed…” he began. “…and here comes a chopper to chop off your head,” concluded Tom Hustings, thoughtfully. “But look you. If we call the man Jack, we lose the boy. And if we lose the boy, welosethetreasure.” And thetwo menwent back and forth on it, weighing the merits and disadvantages of reporting the boy or of collecting the treasure, which had grown in their minds to a huge underground cavern filled with precious things, and as they debated Abanazer pulled a bottle of sloe gin from beneath the counter and poured them both a generous tot, “to assist the cerebrations.” Liza was soon bored with their discussion, which went back and forth and around like a whirligig, getting nowhere, and so she went back into the storeroom, to find Bod standing in the middle of the room with his eyes tightly closed and his fists clenched and his face allscrewed up as if he had a toothache, almost purple fromholding his breath. “What you a-doin’ of now?” she asked, unimpressed. He opened his eyes and relaxed. “Trying to Fade,” hesaid. Lizasniffed.“Try again,”shesaid. He did, holding his breath even longer this time. “Stop that,”shetold him.“Or you’ll pop.” Bod took a deep breath and then sighed.“It doesn’t work,” he said. “Maybe I could hit himwith a rock, and just run for it.” There wasn’t a rock, so he picked up a colored glass paperweight, hefted it in his hand, wondering if he could throw it hard enough to stop Abanazer Bolger in his tracks. “There’s two of them out there now,” said Liza. “And if the one don’t get you, t’other one will. They say theywant to get you to show themwhere you got the brooch, and then dig up the grave and take the treasure.” She did not tell himabout the other discussions theywere having, nor about the black-edged card. She shook her head. “Why did you do something as stupid as this anyway? You know the rules about leaving the graveyard. Justasking for trouble, it was.” Bod felt very insignificant, and very foolish. “I wanted to get you a headstone,” he admitted, in a small voice. “And I thought it would cost more money. So I was going to sell him the brooch, to buy you one.” She didn’tsay anything. “Are you angry?” She shook her head. “It’s the first nice thing anyone’s done for me in five hundred years,”she said, with a hint ofa goblin smile. “Why would I be angry?” Then she said, “What do you do, when you try to Fade?” “What Mr. Pennyworth told me. ‘I am an empty doorway, I am a vacant alley, I am nothing. Eyes will not see me, glances slip over me.’ But it never works.” “It’s because you’realive,”said Liza, with a sniff. “There’s stuff as works for us, the dead, who have to fight to be noticed at the best of times, that won’t never work for you people.” She hugged herself tightly, moving her body back and forth, as ifshe was debating something. Then she said, “It’s because of me you got into this…. Come here, NobodyOwens.” He took a step towards her, in that tiny room, and she put hercold hand on his forehead. It felt likea wetsilk scarfagainst his skin. “Now,”she said. “Perhaps Ican do a good turn for you.” And with that, she began to mutter to herself, mumbling words that Bod could not make out. Then shesaid,clearand loud, “Be hole, be dust, be dream, be wind Be night, be dark, be wish, be mind, Now slip, now slide, now move unseen, Above, beneath, betwixt, between.” Something huge touched him, brushed himfrom head to feet, and he shivered. His hair prickled, and his skin was all gooseflesh. Something had changed. “What did you do?” he asked. “Just gived you a helping hand,”she said. “I may be dead, but I’m a dead witch, remember. And we don’t forget.” “But—” “Hush up,” she said. “They’re coming back.” The key rattled in the storeroom lock. “Now then, chummy,”said a voice Bod had not heard clearly before, “I’msure we’re all going to be great friends,” and with that Tom Hustings pushed open the door. Then he stood in the doorway looking around, looking puzzled. He was a big, big man, with foxy-red hair and a bottle-red nose. “Here. Abanazer? I thought you said he was in here?” “I did,”said Bolger, frombehind him. “Well, Ican’tsee hide nor hair of him.” Bolger’s face appeared behind the ruddy man’s and he peered into the room. “Hiding,” he said, staring straight at where Bod was standing. “No use hiding,” he announced, loudly. “I can see you there. Come on out.” The two men walked into the little room, and Bod stood stock still between them and thought ofMr. Pennyworth’s lessons. He did not react, he did not move. He let the men’s glances slidefromhimwithoutseeing him. “You’re going to wish you’d come out when Icalled,”said Bolger,and heshut the door. “Right,” hesaid to TomHustings. “You block the door, so he can’t get past.” And with that he walked around the room, peering behind things, and bending, awkwardly, to look beneath the desk. He walked straight past Bod and opened the cupboard. “Now I see you!” he shouted. “Come out!” Liza giggled. “What was that?” asked Tom Hustings, spinning round. “I didn’t hear nothing,” said Abanazer Bolger. Liza giggled again. Then she put her lips together and blew, making a noise that began as a whistling, and then sounded like a distant wind. The electric lights in the little roomflickered and buzzed, then theywent out. “Bloody fuses,” said Abanazer Bolger. “Come on. This isa waste oftime.” The key clicked in the lock, and Liza and Bod wereleftalonein theroom. “He’s got away,” said Abanazer Bolger. Bod could hear him now, through the door. “Room like that. There wasn’t anywhere he could have been hiding. We’d’veseen himif he was.” “The man Jack won’t likethat.” “Who’s going to tell him?” Apause. “Here. Tom Hustings. Where’s the brooch gone?” “Mm? That? Here. I was keeping itsafe.” “Keeping it safe? In your pocket? Funny place to be keeping it safe, if you ask me. More like you were planning to make off with it—like you was planing to keep my brooch for your own.” “Your brooch, Abanazer? Your brooch? Our brooch, youmean.” “Ours, indeed. I don’t remember you being here, when I got it fromthat boy.” “That boy that you couldn’t even keep safe for the man Jack, you mean? Can you imagine what he’ll do, when he findsyou had the boy he was looking for,and you let himgo?” “Probably not the same boy. Lots of boys in the world, what’re the odds it was the one he was looking for? Out the back door as soon as my back was turned, I’ll bet.” And then Abanazer Bolger said, in a high, wheedling voice, “Don’t you worry about the man Jack, Tom Hustings. I’msurethat it wasa different boy. My old mind playing tricks. And we’re almost out of sloe gin—how would you fancy a good Scotch? I’ve whisky in the back room. You just wait here a moment.” The storeroom door was unlocked, and Abanazer entered, holding a walking stick and a flashlight, looking even more sour of face than before. “If you’re still in here,” he said, in a sour mutter, “don’t even think of making a run for it. I’ve called the police on you, that’s what I’ve done.” A rummage in a drawer produced the half-filled bottle of whisky, and then a tiny black bottle. Abanazer poured several drops from the little bottle into the larger, then he pocketed the tiny bottle. “My brooch, and mine alone,” he muttered, and followed it with a barked, “Just coming, Tom!” He glared around the dark room, staring past Bod, then he left the storeroom, carrying the whisky in front of him. He locked the door behind him. “Here you go,” came Abanazer Bolger’s voice through the door. “Give us your glass then, Tom. Nice drop of Scotch, put hairs on your chest. Saywhen.” Silence. “Cheap muck. Aren’t you drinking?” “That sloe gin’s gone to my innards. Give it a minute for my stomach to settle…” Then, “Here—Tom! What have you done with my brooch?” “Your brooch is it now? Whoa—what did you…you put something in my drink, you little grub!” “What if I did? I could read on your face what youwas planning, TomHustings. Thief.” And then there was shouting, and several crashes, and loud bangs, as if heavy items of furniture were being overturned… …then silence. Liza said, “Quickly now. Let’s get you out of here.” “But the door’s locked.” He looked at her. “Is theresomething you can do?” “Me? I don’t have any magics will get you out ofalocked room, boy.” Bod crouched, and peered out through the keyhole. It was blocked; the key sat in the keyhole. Bod thought, then he smiled, momentarily, and it lit his face like the flash of a lightbulb. He pulled a crumpled sheet of newspaper from a packing case, flattened it out as best he could, then pushed it underneath the door, leaving only a corner on his side of the doorway. “What are you playing at?” asked Liza, impatiently. “I need something like a pencil. Only thinner…” hesaid. “Here we go.”And he took a thin paintbrush from the top of the desk, and pushed the brushless end into the lock, jiggled it and pushed some more. There was a muffled clunk as the key was pushed out, as it dropped fromthe lock onto the newspaper. Bod pulled the paper back under the door, nowwith the key sitting on it. Liza laughed, delighted. “That’s wit, young man,”shesaid.“That’s wisdom.” Bod put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open thestoreroomdoor. There were two men on the floor, in the middle of the crowded antiques shop. Furniture had indeed fallen; the place was a chaos of wrecked clocks and chairs, and in the midst of it the bulk of Tom Hustings lay, fallen on the smaller figure of Abanazer Bolger. Neither of themwas moving. “Arethey dead?”asked Bod. “No such luck,”said Liza. On the floor beside the men was a brooch of glittering silver; a crimson-orange-banded stone, held in place with claws and with snakeheads, and the expression on the snake-heads was one oftriumph and avariceand satisfaction. Bod dropped the brooch into his pocket, where it sat beside the heavy glass paperweight, the paintbrush,and thelittle pot of paint. “Takethis too,”said Liza. Bod looked at the black-edged card with the word Jack handwritten on one side. It disturbed him. There was something familiar about it, something that stirred old memories, something dangerous.“I don’t want it.” “You can’t leave it here with them,” said Liza.“Theywere going to useit to hurt you.” “I don’t want it,”said Bod. “It’s bad. Burn it.” “No!” Liza gasped. “Don’t do that. You mustn’t do that.” “Then I’ll giveit to Silas,”said Bod.And he put the little card into an envelope so he had to touch it as little as possible, and put the envelope into the inside pocket of his old gardening jacket, beside his heart. Two hundred miles away, the man Jack woke from his sleep, and sniffed the air. He walked downstairs. “What is it?”asked his grandmother, stirring the contents of a big iron pot on the stove. “What’s got into you now?” “I don’t know,” he said. “Something’s happening. Something…interesting.”And then he licked his lips. “Smells tasty,” he said. “Very tasty.” Lightning illuminated thecobbled street. Bod hurried through the rain through the Old Town, always heading up the hill toward the graveyard. The grey day had become an early night while he was inside the storeroom, and it came as no surprise to him when a familiar shadow swirled beneath the street lamps. Bod hesitated, and a flutter of night-black velvet resolved itselfinto a man-shape. Silas stood in front of him, arms folded. He strodeforward, impatiently. “Well?” hesaid. Bod said,“I’msorry, Silas.” “I’mdisappointed in you, Bod,” Silas said, and he shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you since I woke. You have the smell of trouble all around you. And you know you’re not allowed to go out here, into thelivingworld.” “I know. I’msorry.” There was rain on the boy’s face, running down liketears. “First of all, we need to get you back to safety.” Silas reached down, and enfolded the living child inside his cloak, and Bod felt the ground fallaway beneath him. “Silas,” hesaid. Silas did notanswer. “I was a bit scared,” he said. “But I knew you’d come and get me if it got too bad. And Liza was there. She helped alot.” “Liza?” Silas’s voice was sharp. “The witch. Fromthe Potter’s Field.” “And you say she helped you?” “Yes. She especially helped me with my Fading. I think Ican do it now.” Silas grunted. “You can tell me all about it whenwe’re home.”And Bod was quiet until they landed beside the chapel. They went inside, into the empty hall, as the rain redoubled, splashing up fromthe puddles thatcovered the ground. Bod produced the envelope containing the black-edged card. “Um,” he said. “I thought you should havethis. Well, Liza did, really.” Silas looked at it. Then he opened it, removed thecard, stared at it, turned it over, and read Abanazer Bolger’s penciled note to himself, in tiny handwriting, explaining the precise manner of use ofthecard. “Tellmeeverything,” hesaid. Bod told himeverything he could remember about the day. And at the end, Silas shook his head, slowly, thoughtfully. “AmI in trouble?”asked Bod. “Nobody Owens,” said Silas. “You are indeed in trouble. However, I believeI shallleave it to your parents to administer whatever discipline and reproach they believe to be needed. In the meantime, I need to dispose of this.” The black-edged card vanished inside the velvet cloak, and then, in the manner of his kind, Silas was gone. Bod pulled the jacket up over his head, and clambered up the slippery paths to the top of the hill, to the Frobisher mausoleum. He pulled aside Ephraim Pettyfer’s coffin, and he went down, and down,and stillfurther down. He replaced the brooch beside the goblet and the knife. “Here you go,” he said. “All polished up. Looking pretty.”IT COMES BACK, said the Sleer, with satisfaction in its smoke-tendril voice. IT ALWAYSCOMESBACK. It had been along night. Bod was walking, sleepily and a little gingerly, past the small tomb of the wonderfully named Miss Liberty Roach (What she spent is lost, what she gave remains with her always. Reader be Charitable), past the final resting place of Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish, and his wives, Marion and Joan, to the Potter’s Field. Mr. and Mrs. Owens had died several hundred years beforeit had been decided that beating children was wrong and Mr. Owens had, regretfully, that night, done what he saw as his duty, and Bod’s bottom stung like anything. Still, the look of worry on Mrs. Owens’s face had hurt Bod worse than any beating could have done. He reached the iron railings that bounded the Potter’s Field,and slipped between them. “Hullo?” he called. There was no answer. Not even an extra shadow in the hawthorn tree. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, too,” he said. Nothing. He had replaced the jeans in the gardener’s hut—he was more comfortable in just his grey winding sheet—but he had kept the jacket. He liked having the pockets. When he had gone to the shed to return the jeans, he had taken a small hand-scythe fromthe wall where it hung, and with it he attacked the nettle-patch in the Potter’s Field, sending the nettles flying, slashing and gutting them till there was nothing butstinging stubble on the ground. From his pocket he took the large glass paperweight, its insides a multitude of bright colors, along with the paint pot, and the paintbrush. He dipped the brush into the paint and carefully painted, in brown paint, on the surface ofthe paperweight, theletters… E.H and beneath themhe wrote… we don’t forget Bedtime, soon, and it would not be wisefor himto belateto bed for sometimeto come. He put the paperweight down on the ground that had once been a nettle-patch, placed it in the place that he estimated her head would have been, and pausing only to look at his handiwork for a moment, he went through the railings and made his way, rather less gingerly, back up the hill. “Not bad,” said a pert voice from the Potter’s Field, behind him.“Not bad atall.” But when he turned to look, there was no onethere. CHAPTER FIVE Danse Macabre SOMETHING WASGOINGON, Bod was certain of it. It was there in the crisp winter air, in the stars, in the wind, in the darkness. It was there in the rhythms ofthelong nightsand thefleeting days. Mistress Owens pushed him out of the Owenses’ little tomb. “Get along with you,” she said.“I’ve got business to attend to.” Bod looked at his mother. “But it’scold out there,” hesaid. “I should hope so,” she said, “it being winter. That’s as it should be. Now,” she said, more to herselfthan to Bod, “shoes. And look at this dress—it needs hemming. And cobwebs—there are cobwebs all over, for heaven’s sakes. You get along,” this to Bod once more. “I’ve plenty to be getting onwith, and I don’t need you underfoot.” And then she sang to herself, a little couplet Bod had never heard before. “Rich man, poor man,come away. Cometo dancethe Macabray.” “What’s that?” asked Bod, but it was the wrong thing to have said, for Mistress Owens looked dark asathunder-cloud, and Bod hurried out of the tomb before she could express her displeasure moreforcefully. It wascold in the graveyard, cold and dark, and the stars were already out. Bod passed Mother Slaughter in the ivy-covered Egyptian Walk, squinting at the greenery. “Your eyes are younger than mine, young man,”shesaid.“Can you see blossom?” “Blossom?Inwinter?” “Don’t you look at me with that face on, young man,” she said. “Things blossom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.” She huddled deeper into hercloak and bonnetand shesaid, “Timeto work and timeto play, Timeto dancethe Macabray. Eh, boy?” “I don’t know,” said Bod. “What’s the Macabray?” But Mother Slaughter had pushed into the ivy and was gonefromsight. “How odd,” said Bod, aloud. He sought warmth and company in the bustling Bartleby mausoleum, but the Bartleby family—seven generations of them—had no time for him that night. Theywerecleaning and tidying, all ofthem, from the oldest (d. 1831) to the youngest (d. 1690). Fortinbras Bartleby, ten years old when he had died (ofconsumption, he had told Bod, who had mistakenly believed for several years that Fortinbras had been eaten by lions or bears, and was extremely disappointed to learn it was merely a disease), nowapologized to Bod. “We cannot stop to play, Master Bod. For soon enough, tomorrow night comes. And how often can a man say that?” “Every night,” said Bod. “Tomorrow night alwayscomes.” “Not this one,”said Fortinbras. “Not once in a blue moon, ora month ofSundays.” “It’s not Guy Fawkes Night,”said Bod, “or Hallowe’en. It’s not Christmas or New Year’s Day.” Fortinbras smiled, a hugesmilethat filled his pie-shaped, freckly face with joy. “None ofthem,” he said. “This one’s special.” “What’s it called?” asked Bod. “What happens tomorrow?” “It’s the best day,” said Fortinbras, and Bod wascertain he would have continued but his grandmother, Louisa Bartleby (who was only twenty) called him over to her, and said something sharply in hisear. “Nothing,” said Fortinbras. Then to Bod, “Sorry. I have to work now.”And he took a rag and began to buffthe side of his dusty coffinwith it. “La, la, la, oomp,” he sang. “La la la, oomp.” And with each “oomp,” he would do a wild, whole-body flourishwith his rag. “Aren’t you going to sing thatsong?” “Whatsong?” “The oneeverybody’s singing?” “No time for that,” said Fortinbras. “It’s tomorrow, tomorrow,afterall.” “No time,” said Louisa, who had died in childbirth, giving birth to twins. “Be about your business.” And in her sweet,clear voice, shesang, “One and all will hear and stay Come and dancethe Macabray.” Bod walked down to the crumbling little church. He slipped between the stones, and into the crypt, where he sat and waited for Silas to return. He was cold, true, but the cold did not bother Bod, not really: the graveyard embraced him,and the dead do notmind thecold. His guardian returned in the small hours of the morning; he had alarge plastic bagwith him. “What’s in there?” “Clothes. For you. Try them on.” Silas produced a grey sweater the color of Bod’s winding sheet, a pair of jeans, underwear, and shoes—pale green sneakers. “Whatarethey for?” “You mean, apart from wearing? Well, firstly, I think you’re old enough—what are you, ten years old now?—and normal, living people clothes are wise. You’ll have to wear them one day, so why not pick up the habit right now? And they could also becamouflage.” “What’scamouflage?” “When something looks enough like something else that people watching don’t know what it is they’relooking at.” “Oh. I see. I think.”Bod put theclothes on. The shoelaces gave hima little trouble and Silas had to teach him how to tie them. It seemed remarkably complicated to Bod, and he had to tie and re-tie his laces several times before he had done it to Silas’s satisfaction. Only then did Bod dareto ask his question. “Silas. What’sa Macabray?” Silas’seyebrows raised and his head tipped to oneside.“Where did you hearabout that?” “Everyone in the graveyard is talking about it. I think it’s something that happens tomorrow night. What’sa Macabray?” “It’sa dance,“said Silas. “All must dance the Macabray,” said Bod, remembering. “Have you danced it? What kind of danceis it?” His guardian looked at him with eyes like black pools and said, “I do not know. I know many things, Bod, for I have been walking this earth at night for a very long time, but I do not knowwhat it is liketo dance the Macabray. You must be alive or youmust be dead to dance it—and Iamneither.” Bod shivered. He wanted to embrace his guardian, to hold himand tell him that he would never desert him, but the action was unthinkable. He could no more hug Silas than he could hold a moonbeam, not because his guardian was insubstantial, but because it would be wrong. There were people you could hug, and then there was Silas. His guardian inspected Bod thoughtfully, a boy in his new clothes. “You’ll do,” he said. “Now you look like you’ve lived outside the graveyard all your life.” Bod smiled proudly. Then thesmilestopped and he looked grave once again. He said, “But you’ll always be here, Silas, won’t you? And I won’tever haveto leave, ifI don’t want to?” “Everything in its season,”said Silas, and he said no morethat night. Bod woke early the next day, when the sun was a silver coin high in the grey winter sky. It was too easy to sleep through the hours of daylight, to spend all his winter in one long night and never see the sun, and so each night before he slept he would promise himself that he would wake in daylight,and leavethe Owenses’cozy tomb. There was a strange scent in the air, sharp and floral. Bod followed it up the hill to the Egyptian Walk, where the winter ivy hung in green tumbles, an evergreen tangle that hid the mock-Egyptian walls and statues and hieroglyphs. The perfume was heaviest there, and for a moment Bod wondered ifsnowmight havefallen, for there were white clusters on the greenery. Bod examined a cluster more closely. It was made of small five-petaled flowers, and he had just put his head in to sniff the perfume when he heard footstepscoming up the path. Bod Faded into the ivy, and watched. Three men and a woman, all alive, came up the path and into the Egyptian Walk. The woman had an ornatechain around her neck. “Is this it?”sheasked. “Yes, Mrs. Caraway,”said one of the men —chubby and white-haired and short of breath. Like each of the men, he carried a large, empty wicker basket. Sheseemed both vagueand puzzled. “Well, if you say so,”she said. “But I cannot say that I understand it.” She looked up at the flowers. “What do I do now?” The smallest of the men reached into his wicker basketand brought outatarnished pair of silver scissors. “The scissors, Lady Mayoress, “hesaid. She took the scissors from him and began to cut the clumps of blossom, and she and the three men started to fill the baskets with the flowers. “This is,” said Mrs. Caraway, the Lady Mayoress, after a little while, “perfectly ridiculous.” “It is,”said thefatman,“atradition.” “Perfectly ridiculous,” said Mrs. Caraway, but she continued to cut the white blossoms and drop them into the wicker baskets. When they had filled the first basket, she asked, “Isn’t that enough?” “We need to fill all four baskets,” said the smaller man, “and then distribute a flower to everyonein the Old Town.” “And what kind of tradition is that?” said Mrs. Caraway. “I asked the Lord Mayor before me, and hesaid he’d never heard ofit.” Then she said, “Do you get a feeling someone’s watching us?” “What?” said the third man, who had not spoken until now. He had a beard and a turban and two wicker baskets. “Ghosts, you mean? I do not believein ghosts.” “Not ghosts,” said Mrs. Caraway. “Just a feeling likesomeone’s looking.” Bod fought the urge to push further back into theivy. “It’s not surprising that the previous Lord Mayor did not know about this tradition,” said the chubby man, whose basket was almost full. “It’s the first time the winter blossoms have bloomed in eighty years.” The man with the beard and the turban, who did not believe in ghosts, was looking around himnervously. “Everyone in the Old Town gets a flower,” said the small man. “Man, woman, and child.” Then he said, slowly, as if he were trying to remember something he had learned a very long time ago, “One to leave and one to stay and all to dancethe Macabray.” Mrs. Caraway sniffed. “Stuff and nonsense,” she said, and kept on snipping the blossoms. Dusk fellearly in the afternoon, and it was night by half past four. Bod wandered the paths of the graveyard, looking for someone to talk to, but there was no one about. He walked down to the Potter’s Field to see if Liza Hempstock was about, but found no one there. He went back to the Owenses’ tomb, but found it also deserted: neither his father nor Mistress Owens was anywhereto beseen. Panic started then, a low-level panic. It was the first time in his ten years that Bod could remember feeling abandoned in the place he had always thought of as his home: he ran down the hillto the old chapel, where he waited for Silas. Silas did notcome. “Perhaps I missed him,” thought Bod, but he did not believe this. He walked up the hill to the very top, and looked out. The stars hung in thechilly sky, whilethe patterned lights ofthecity spread below him, streetlights and car headlights and things in motion. He walked slowly down fromthe hill until hereached the graveyard’s main gates,and hestopped there. Hecould hear music. Bod had listened to all kinds of music: the sweetchimes oftheice-creamvan, thesongs that played on workmen’s radios, the tunes that Claretty Jake played the dead on his dusty fiddle, but he had never heard anything likethis before:a series of deep swells, like the music at the beginning ofsomething, a prelude perhaps, or an overture. He slipped through the locked gates, walked down the hill,and into the Old Town. He passed the Lady Mayoress, standing on a corner, and as he watched, she reached out and pinned a little white flower to the lapel of a passing businessman. “I don’t make personal charitable donations,” said the man. “I leave that to the office.” “It’s not for charity,” said Mrs. Caraway. “It’salocaltradition.” “Ah,” he said, and he pushed his chest out, displaying the little white flower to the world, and walked off, proud as Punch. Ayoungwoman pushing a baby buggywas the next to go past. “Wossit for?”sheasked suspiciously, as the Mayoressapproached. “One for you, one for the little one,” said the Mayoress. She pinned the flower to the young woman’s winter coat. She stuck the flower for the baby to itscoat with tape. “But wossit for?”asked the youngwoman. “It’s an Old Town thing,” said the Lady Mayoress, vaguely.“Somesort oftradition.” Bod walked on. Everywhere he went he saw people wearing the white flowers. On the other street corners, he passed the men who had been with the Lady Mayoress, each man with a basket, handing out the white flowers. Not everyonetook aflower, butmost people did. The music was still playing: somewhere, at the edge of perception, solemn and strange. Bod cocked his head to one side, trying to locate where it was coming from, without success. It was in theairand allaround. It was playing in the flapping of flags and awnings, in the rumble of distant traffic, the click of heels on the dry paving stones… And there wasan oddness, thought Bod, as he watched the people heading home. Theywere walking in timeto the music. The man with the beard and the turban was almost out offlowers. Bod walked over to him. “Excuse me,”said Bod. The man started. “I did not see you,” he said,accusingly. “Sorry,”said Bod. “Can I have a flower as well?” The manwith theturban looked at Bod with suspicion.“Do you livearound here?” heasked. “Oh yes,”said Bod. The man passed Bod a white flower. Bod took it, then said, “Ow,” as something stabbed into the base of his thumb. “You pin it to your coat,” said the man. “Watch out for the pin.” A bead of crimson was coming up on Bod’s thumb. He sucked at it while the man pinned the flower to Bod’s sweater. “I’ve never seen you around here,” hetold Bod. “I live here, all right,” said Bod. “What are theflowers for?” “It was a tradition in the Old Town,” said the man, “before the city grew up around it. When the winter flowers bloomin the graveyard on the hill they are cut and given out to everybody, man or woman, young or old, rich or poor.” The music was louder now. Bod wondered if he could hear it better because he was wearing the flower—-he could make out a beat, like distant drums, and a skirling, hesitant melody that made himwant to pick up his heels and march in timeto thesound. Bod had never walked anywhere as a sightseer before. He had forgotten the prohibitions on leaving the graveyard, forgotten that tonight in the graveyard on the hill the dead were no longer in their places; all that he thought of was the Old Town, and he trotted through it down to the municipal gardens in front ofthe Old TownHall(whichwas nowa museumand tourist information center, the town hall itself having moved into much more imposing, if newer and duller, offices halfway across thecity). There were already people around, wandering the municipal gardens—now in midwinter, little more than a large grassy field with, here and there, some steps, a shrub, a statue. Bod listened to the music, entranced. There were people trickling into the square, in onesand twos, in families or alone. He had never seen so many living people at one time. There must have been hundreds of them, all of them breathing, each of them as alive as he was, each with a whiteflower. Is this what living people do? thought Bod, but he knew that it was not: that this, whatever it was, was special. The young woman he had seen earlier pushing a baby buggy stood beside him, holding her baby, swaying her head to the music. “How long does the music go on for?” Bod asked her, but she said nothing, just swayed and smiled. Bod did not think she smiled much normally. And only when he was certain that she had not heard him, that he had Faded, or was simply not someone she cared enough about to listen to, she said, “Blimmen ’eck. It’s like Christmases.” She said it like a woman in a dream, as if she was seeing herself from the outside. In the same not-really-there tone of voice, she said, “Puts me in mind of me Gran’s sister, Aunt Clara. The night before Christmas we’d go to her, after me Gran passed away, and she’d play music on her old piano, and she’d sing, sometimes, and we’d eat chocolates and nuts and I can’t remember any of the songs she sung. But that music, it’s like all of them songs playing at once.” The baby seemed asleep with its head on her shoulder, but even the baby was swaying its hands gently in timeto the music. And then the music stopped and there was silence in the square, a muffled silence, like the silence offalling snow, all noiseswallowed by the night and the bodies in the square, no one stamping or shuffling, scarcely even breathing. Aclock began to strikesomewherecloseat hand:thechimes ofmidnight,and they came. They walked down the hill in a slow procession, all stepping gravely, all in time, filling the road, five abreast. Bod knew themor knew most of them. In the first row, he recognized Mother Slaughter and Josiah Worthington, and the old earl who had been wounded in the Crusades and came home to die, and Doctor Trefusis, all of them looking solemn and important. There were gasps from the people in the square. Someone began to cry, saying, “Lord have mercy, it’s a judgment on us, that’s what it is!” Most of the people simply stared, as unsurprised as they would have been if this had happened in a dream. The dead walked on, rowon row, until they reached thesquare. Josiah Worthington walked up the steps until he reached Mrs. Caraway, the Lady Mayoress. He extended his arm and said, loud enough that the whole square could hear him, “Gracious lady, this I pray: Join me in the Macabray.” Mrs. Caraway hesitated. She glanced up at the man beside her for guidance: he wore a robe and pajamas and slippers, and he had a white flower pinned to the lapel of his robe. He smiled and nodded to Mrs. Caraway. “Ofcourse,” Mr. Caraway said. She reached out a hand. As her fingers touched Josiah Worthington’s, the music began once more. If the music Bod had heard until then was a prelude, it was a prelude no longer. This was the music they had all come to hear, a melody that plucked at their feetand fingers. They took hands, the living with the dead, and they began to dance. Bod saw Mother Slaughter dancing with the man in the turban, while the businessman was dancing with Louisa Bartleby. Mistress Owens smiled at Bod as she took the hand of the old newspaper seller, and Mr. Owens reached out and took the hand ofa small girl, without condescension, and she took his hand as ifshe had been waiting to dance with him her whole life. Then Bod stopped looking because someone’s hand closed around his, and the dance began. Liza Hempstock grinned at him. “This is fine,”shesaid,as they began to tread thesteps of the dancetogether. Then shesang, to thetune ofthe dance, “Step and turn, and walk and stay, Now we dancethe Macabray.” The music filled Bod’s head and chest with a fierce joy, and his feet moved as if they knew thestepsalready, had known themforever. He danced with Liza Hempstock, and then, when that measure ended, he found his hand taken by Fortinbras Bartleby, and he danced with Fortinbras, stepping past lines of dancers, lines that parted as they camethrough. Bod saw Abanazer Bolger dancing with Miss Borrows, his old former teacher. He saw theliving dancingwith the dead.And the one-onone dances became long lines of people stepping together in unison, walking and kicking (La-la-la- oomp! La-la-la-oomp!) a line dance that had been ancientathousand years before. Now he was in the line beside Liza Hempstock. He said, “Where does the music comefrom?” Sheshrugged. “Who’s making allthis happen?” “It always happens,” she told him. “The living may not remember, but we always do…” And she broke off,excited. “Look!” Bod had never seen a real horse before, only in the pages of picture books, but the white horsethatclopped down thestreet towards themwas nothing like the horses he had imagined. It was bigger, by far, with a long, serious face. There was a woman riding on the horse’s bare back, wearing a long grey dress that hung and gleamed beneath the December moon like cobwebs in the dew. She reached the square, and the horse stopped, and the woman in grey slipped off it easily and stood on the earth, facing themall, the living and the dead ofthem. Shecurtseyed. And, as one, they bowed or curtseyed in return,and the dance began anew. “Now the Lady on the Grey Leads us in the Macabray,” sang Liza Hempstock, before the whirl of the dance took her off and away from Bod. They stomped to the music, and stepped and spun and kicked, and the lady danced with them, stepping and spinning and kicking with enthusiasm. Even the white horseswayed its head and stepped and shifted to the music. The dance sped up, and the dancers with it. Bod was breathless, but he could not imagine the dance ever stopping: the Macabray, the dance of the living and the dead, the dance with Death. Bod was smiling,and everyone was smiling. He caught sight ofthe lady in the grey dress from time to time, as he spun and stomped his way across the municipal gardens. Everyone, thought Bod,everyone is dancing! He thought it, and as soon as he thought it herealized that he was mistaken. In the shadows by the Old Town Hall, a man was standing, dressed all in black. He was not dancing. He was watching them. Bod wondered if it was longing that he saw on Silas’s face, or sorrow, or something else, but his guardian’s face was unreadable. He called out, “Silas!” hoping to make his guardian cometo them, to join the dance, to have the fun they were having, but when he heard his name, Silas stepped back into the shadows and was lost to sight. “Last dance!” someone called, and the music skirled up into something stately and slow and final. Each of the dancers took a partner, the living with the dead, each to each. Bod reached out his hand and found himself touching fingers with, and gazing into the grey eyes of, the lady in thecobweb dress. Shesmiled at him. “Hello, Bod,”shesaid. “Hello,” he said, as he danced with her. “I don’t knowyour name.” “Namesaren’t really important,”shesaid. “I love your horse. He’s so big! I never knewhorsescould bethat big.” “Heis gentleenough to bear the mightiest of you away on his broad back, and strong enough for thesmallest of you as well.” “Can I ride him?”asked Bod. “One day,” she told him, and her cobweb skirts shimmered.“One day. Everybody does.” “Promise?” “I promise.” And with that, the dance was done. Bod bowed low to his dancing partner, and then, and only then, did he feelexhausted, feelas if he had been dancing for hour after hour. He could feel all his muscles aching and protesting. He was out of breath. A clock somewhere began to strike the hour, and Bod counted along with it. Twelve chimes. He wondered if they had been dancing for twelve hours or twenty-four or for no time at all. Hestraightened up, and looked around him. The dead had gone, and the Lady on the Grey. Only theliving remained,and theywere beginning to make their way home—leaving the town square sleepily, stiffly, like people who had awakened from a deep sleep, walking without trulywaking. The town square was covered with tiny white flowers. It looked as if there had been a wedding. Bod woke the next afternoon in the Owenses’ tomb feeling like he knew a huge secret, that he had done something important, and was burning to talk about it. When Mistress Owens got up, Bod said, “That wasamazing last night!” Mistress Owens said,“Oh yes?” “We danced,” said Bod. “All of us. Down in the Old Town.” “Did we indeed?” said Mistress Owens, with a snort. “Dancing is it? And you know you aren’tallowed down into thetown.” Bod knew better than even to try to talk to his mother when she was in this kind of mood. He slipped out of the tomb into the gathering dusk. He walked up the hill, to the black obelisk, and JosiahWorthington’s stone, wherethere was a naturalamphitheater, and he could look out at the Old Town and at the lights of the city around it. Josiah Worthington was standing beside him. Bod said, “You began the dance. With the Mayor. You danced with her.” Josiah Worthington looked at himand said nothing. “You did,”said Bod. Josiah Worthington said, “The dead and the living do not mingle, boy. We are no longer part of their world; they are no part of ours. If it happened that we danced the danse macabre with them, the dance of death, thenwe would not speak of it, and we certainly would not to speak ofit to theliving.” “But I’m one of you.” “Not yet, boy. Not foralifetime.” And Bod realized why he had danced as one of the living, and not as one of the crew that had walked down the hill, and he said only, “I see…I think.” He went down the hillat a run, a ten-yearold boy in a hurry, going so fast healmost tripped over Digby Poole (1785–1860, As I Am So Shall You Be), righting himself by effort of will, and charged down to the old chapel, scared he would miss Silas, that his guardianwould already be gone by thetime Bod got there. Bod sat down on the bench. There was a movement beside him, although he heard nothingmove, and his guardian said,“Good evening, Bod.” “You were there last night,” said Bod. “Don’t try and say you weren’t there or something becauseI knowyouwere.” “Yes,”said Silas. “I danced with her. With the lady on the white horse.” “Did you?” “You saw it! You watched us! The living and the dead! We were dancing. Why won’t anyonetalk about it?” “Because there are mysteries. Because there are things that people are forbidden to speak about. Because there are things they do not remember.” “But you’re speaking about it right now. We’retalking about the Macabray.” “I have not danced it,”said Silas. “You sawit, though.” Silas said only,“I don’t knowwhat I saw.” “I danced with the lady, Silas!” exclaimed Bod. His guardian looked almost heartbroken then, and Bod found himself scared, like a child who has woken asleeping panther. But all Silas said was, “This conversation is atan end.” Bod might have said something—there were a hundred things he wanted to say, unwise though it might have been to say them—when something distracted hisattention:arustling noise, soft and gentle, and a cold feather-touch as something brushed his face. All thoughts of dancingwere forgotten then, and his fear was replaced with delight and with awe. It was the third time in his life that he had seen it. “Look, Silas, it’s snowing!” he said, joy filling his chest and his head, leaving no roomfor anything else.“It’s really snow!” INTERLUDE The Convocation A SMALL SIGN IN THE hotel lobby announced that the Washington Room was taken that night by a private function, although there was no information as to what kind of function this might be. Truthfully, if you were to look at the inhabitants of the Washington Room that night, you would have no clearer idea of what was happening, although arapid glance would tell you that there were no women in there. Theywere all men, that much was clear, and they sat at round dinner tables, and they were finishing their dessert. There were about a hundred of them, all in sober black suits, but the suits were all they had in common. They had white hair or dark hair or fair hair or red hair or no hair at all. They had friendly faces or unfriendly, helpful or sullen, open or secretive, brutish or sensitive. The majority of them were pink-skinned, but there were blackskinned men and brown-skinned. They were European, African, Indian, Chinese, South American, Filipino, American. They all spoke English when they talked to each other, or to the waiters, but the accents were as diverse as the gentlemen. They came from all across Europe and fromall over the world. The men in black suits sat around their tables while up on a platform one of their number, a wide, cheery man dressed in a morning suit, as if he had just come from a wedding, was announcing Good Deeds Done. Children from poor places had been taken on exotic holidays. A bus had been bought to take people who needed it on excursions. The man Jack sat at the front center table, beside a dapper man with silver-white hair. They were waiting forcoffee. “Time’s a-ticking,” said the silver-haired man,“and we’re none of us getting any younger.” The man Jack said, “I’ve been thinking. That business in San Francisco four yearsago—” “Was unfortunate, but like the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, absolutely nothing to do with the case. You failed, Jack. You were meant to take care of themall. That included the baby. Especially the baby. Nearly only counts in horseshoesand hand-grenades.” Awaiter in a whitejacket poured coffeefor each of the men at the table:a small man with a pencil-thin black mustache, a tall blond man good-looking enough to be a film star or a model, and a dark-skinned manwith a huge head who glared out at the world like an angry bull. These menwere making a point of not listening to Jack’s conversation, and instead were paying attention to the speaker, even clapping fromtime to time. The silver-haired man added several heaped spoonfuls ofsugar to his coffee, stirred it briskly. “Ten years,” he said. “Time and tide wait for no man. The babe will soon be grown. And thenwhat?” “I still have time, Mister Dandy,” the man Jack began, but thesilver-haired man cut himoff, stabbing alarge pink finger in his direction. “You had time. Now, you just have a deadline. Now, you’ve got to get smart. We can’t cut you any slack, not any more. Sick of waiting, weare,everyman Jack of us.” The man Jack nodded, curtly. “I have leads to follow,” hesaid. The silver-haired man slurped his black coffee.“Really?” “Really. And I repeat, I think it’s connected with thetrouble we had in San Francisco.” “You’ve discussed this with the secretary?” Mr. Dandy indicated the man at the podium, who was, at that moment, telling them about hospital equipment bought in the previous year fromtheir generosity. (“Not one, not two, but three kidney machines,” he was saying. The men in the roomapplauded themselves and their generosity politely.) The man Jack nodded.“I’ve mentioned it.” “And?” “He’s not interested. He just wants results. He wants meto finish the business I started.” “We all do, sunshine,”said the silver-haired man. “The boy’s stillalive. And time is no longer our friend.” The other men at the table, who had pretended not to be listening, grunted and nodded theiragreement. “Like I say,” Mr. Dandy said, without emotion.“Time’sa-ticking.” CHAPTER SIX Nobody Owens’ School Days RAIN IN THE GRAVEYARD, and the world puddled into blurred reflections. Bod sat, concealed from anyone, living or dead, who might come looking for him, under the arch that separated the Egyptian Walk and the northwestern wilderness beyond it from the rest ofthe graveyard,and heread his book. “Damm’ee!” came a shout from down the path. “Damm’ee, sir, and blast your eyes! When I catch you—and find you I shall—I shall make you ruethe day youwere born!” Bod sighed and he lowered the book, and leaned out enough to see Thackeray Porringer (1720–1734, son of the above) come stamping up the slippery path. Thackeraywasa big boy—he had been fourteen when he died, following his initiation as an apprentice to a master house painter: he had been given eight copper pennies and told not to come back withouta half-a-gallon of red and white striped paint for painting barber’s poles. Thackeray had spent five hours being sent all over the town one slushy January morning, being laughed at in each establishment he visited and then sent on to the next; when he realized he had been made a fool of, he had taken an angry case of apoplexy, which carried him off within the week, and he died glaring furiously at the otherapprenticesand even at Mr. Horrobin, the master painter, who had undergone so much worse back when he was a ’prentice that he could scarcely see what all the fuss was about. So Thackeray Porringer had died in a fury, clutching his copy ofRobinson Crusoe which was, apart froma silver sixpence with the edges clipped and the clothes he had formerly been standing up in, all that he owned, and, at his mother’s request, he was buried with his book. Death had not improved Thackeray Porringer’s temper, and now he was shouting, “I know you’re here somewhere! Come out and take your punishment, you, you thief!” Bod closed the book. “I’m not a thief, Thackeray. I’m only borrowing it. I promise I’ll givethe book back when I’vefinished it.” Thackeray looked up, saw Bod nestled behind thestatue ofOsiris.“I told you not to!” Bod sighed. “But there are so few books here. It’s just up to a good bit anyway. He’s found a footprint. It’s not his. That means someoneelseis on theisland!” “It’s my book,” said Thackeray Porringer, obstinately.“Giveit back.” Bod was ready to argue or simply to negotiate, but he saw the hurt look on Thackeray’s face, and he relented. Bod clambered down the side ofthe arch, jumped the last few feet. He held out the book. “Here.” Thackeray took it gracelessly,and glared. “I could read it to you,” offered Bod. “I could do that.” “You could go and boil your fat head,”said Thackeray, and he swung a punch at Bod’s ear. It connected, and it stung, although judging fromthe look on Thackeray Porringer’s face, Bod realized itmust have hurt his fistas much as it hurt Bod. The bigger boy stomped off down the path, and Bod watched him go, ear hurting, eyes stinging. Then he walked though the rain back down the treacherous ivy-covered path. At one point he slipped and scraped his knee, tearing his jeans. There was a willow-grove beside the wall, and Bod almost ran into Miss Euphemia Horsfall and Tom Sands, who had been stepping out together for many years. Tomhad been buried so long ago that his stone was just a weathered rock, and he had lived and died during the Hundred Years War with France, while Miss Euphemia (1861–1883, She Sleeps, Aye, Yet She Sleeps with Angels) had been buried in Victorian times, after the graveyard had been expanded and extended and became, for some fifty years, a successful commercial enterprise, and she had a whole tomb to herself behind a black door in the Willow Walk. But the couple seemed to have no troubles with the difference in their historical periods. “You should slow down, young Bod,” said Tom.“You’ll do yourselfan injury.” “You already did,” said Miss Euphemia. “Oh dear, Bod. I have no doubt that your mother will have words with you about that. It’s notas if wecan easily repair those pantaloons.” “Um. Sorry,”said Bod. “And your guardian was looking for you,” added Tom. Bod looked up at the grey sky. “But it’s still daylight,” hesaid. “He’s up betimes,” said Tom, a word which, Bod knew, meant early, “and said to tell you he wanted you. Ifwesawyou.” Bod nodded. “There’s ripe hazel-nuts in the thicket just beyond the Littlejohns’ monument,” said Tom with asmile,as ifsoftening a blow. “Thank you,” said Bod. He ran on, pellmell, through the rain and down the winding path into the lower slopes of the graveyard, running until hereached the old chapel. The chapel door was open and Silas, who had love for neither the rain nor for the remnants of the daylight, was standing inside, in the shadows. “I heard you were looking for me,” said Bod. “Yes,”said Silas. Then, “It appears you’ve torn your trousers.” “I was running,”said Bod. “Um. I got into a bit ofa fight with Thackeray Porringer. I wanted to read Robinson Crusoe. It’s a book about a man on a boat—that’s a thing that goes in the sea, which is water like an enormous puddle—and how the ship is wrecked on an island, which is a place on the sea where you can stand, and —” Silas said, “It has been eleven years, Bod. Eleven years that you have beenwith us.” “Right,”said Bod.“If you say so.” Silas looked down at his charge. The boy was lean, and his mouse-colored hair had darkened slightlywith age. Insidethe old chapel, it wasallshadows. “I think,”said Silas, “it is time to talk about where you camefrom.” Bod breathed in deeply. He said, “It doesn’t have to be now. Not if you don’t want to.”He said it as easily as he could, but his heart was thudding in hischest. Silence. Only the patter of the rain and the wash of the water fromthe drainpipes. Asilence that stretched until Bod thought that he would break. Silas said,“You knowyou’re different. That you are alive. That we took you in—they took you in here—and that I agreed to be your guardian.” Bod said nothing. Silas continued, in his voice like velvet, “You had parents. An older sister. They were killed. I believethat youwereto have been killed as well, and that you were not was due to chance,and theintervention ofthe Owenses.” “And you,” said Bod, who had had that night described to him over the years by many people, some of whom had even been there. It had been a big night in the graveyard. Silas said, “Out there, the man who killed your family is, I believe, still looking for you, still intends to kill you.” Bod shrugged. “So?” he said. “It’s only death. I mean,all ofmy best friendsare dead.” “Yes.” Silas hesitated. “They are. And they are, for the most part, done with the world. You are not. You’re alive, Bod. Thatmeans you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything. If you change the world, the world will change. Potential. Once you’re dead, it’s gone. Over. You’ve made what you’ve made, dreamed your dream, written your name. You may be buried here, you may even walk. But that potentialis finished.” Bod thought about this. It seemed almost true, although he could think of exceptions—his parents adopting him, for example. But the dead and thelivingwere different, he knewthat,even if his sympathies were with the dead. “Whatabout you?” heasked Silas. “Whataboutme?” “Well, you aren’t alive. And you go around and do things.” “I,”said Silas, “ampreciselywhat Iam, and nothingmore. I am, as you say, not alive. But if I am ended, I shall simply cease to be. My kind are, or weare not. If you see what I mean.” “Not really.” Silas sighed. The rain was done and the cloudy gloaming had become true twilight. “Bod,” hesaid, “thereare many reasons why it is important that we keep you safe.” Bod said, “The person who hurt my family. The one who wants to kill me. You are certain that he’s still out there?”It was something he had been thinking about for a while now, and he knewwhat he wanted. “Yes. He’s still out there.” “Then,” said Bod, and said the unsayable, “I want to go to school.” Silas was imperturbable. The world could haveended, and he would not haveturned a hair. But now his mouth opened and his brow furrowed,and hesaid only, “What?” “I’ve learned a lot in this graveyard,” said Bod. “I can Fade and I can Haunt. I can open a ghoul-gate and I know the constellations. But there’s a world out there, with the sea in it, and islands, and shipwrecks and pigs. I mean, it’s filled with things I don’t know. And the teachers here have taught me lots of things, but I need more. IfI’mgoing to survive out there, one day.” Silas seemed unimpressed. “Out of the question. Here we can keep you safe. How could we keep you safe, out there? Outside, anything could happen.” “Yes,” agreed Bod. “That’s the potential thing you were talking about.” He fell silent. Then, “Someone killed my mother and my father and my sister.” “Yes. Someone did.” “Aman?” “Aman.” “Which means,” said Bod, “you’re asking the wrong question.” Silas raised an eyebrow.“Howso?” “Well,” said Bod. “If I go outside in the world, the question isn’t ‘who will keep me safe fromhim?’” “No?” “No. It’s ‘who will keep him safe from me?’” Twigs scratched against the high windows, as if they needed to be let in. Silas flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve with a fingernailas sharp as a blade. He said, “We will need to find you aschool.” No one noticed the boy, notat first. No oneeven noticed that they hadn’t noticed him. He sat halfway back in class. He didn’t answer much, not unless he was directly asked a question, and even then hisanswers wereshortand forgettable, colorless: hefaded, inmind and inmemory. “Do you think they’re religious, his family?” asked Mr. Kirby, in the teachers’staff room. He was marking essays. “Whosefamily?”asked Mrs. McKinnon. “Owens inEight B,”said Mr. Kirby. “Thetallspotty lad?” “I don’t think so. Sort ofmediumheight.” Mrs. McKinnon shrugged. “What about him?” “Handwrites everything,” said Mr. Kirby. “Lovely handwriting. What they used to call copperplate.” “And thatmakes himreligious because…?” “Hesays they don’t haveacomputer.” “And?” “He doesn’t havea phone.” “I don’t see why that makes himreligious,” said Mrs. McKinnon, who had taken up crocheting when they had banned smoking in the staffroom, and was sitting and crocheting a baby blanket for no onein particular. Mr. Kirby shrugged. “He’s a smart lad,” he said. “There’s just stuff he doesn’t know. And in History he’ll throw in little made-up details, stuff not in the books…” “What kind ofstuff?” Mr. Kirby finished marking Bod’s essay and put it down on the pile. Without something immediately in front of him the whole matter seemed vague and unimportant. “Stuff,” he said, and forgot about it. Just as he forgot to enter Bod’s name on the roll. Just as Bod’s name was not to befound on theschool databases. The boywas a model pupil, forgettable and easily forgotten, and he spent much of his spare time in the back of the English class where there were shelves of old paperbacks, and in the school library, a large roomfilled with booksand old armchairs, where he read stories as enthusiastically as somechildren ate. Even the other kids forgot about him. Not when he was sitting in front of them: they remembered himthen. But when that Owens kid was out ofsight he was out ofmind. They didn’t think about him. They didn’t need to. Ifsomeone asked all the kids in Eight B to close their eyes and list thetwenty-five boysand girls in theclass, that Owens kid wouldn’t have been on the list. His presence wasalmost ghostly. It was different if he was there, ofcourse. Nick Farthing was twelve, but he could pass—and did sometimes—for sixteen: a large boy with a crooked smile, and little imagination. He was practical, in a basic sort of way, an efficient shoplifter, and occasional thug who did not care about being liked as long as the other kids, all smaller, did what he said. Anyway, he had a friend. Her name was Maureen Quilling, but everyone called her Mo, and she was thin and had pale skin and pale yellow hair, watery blue eyes, and a sharp, inquisitive nose. Nick liked to shoplift, but Mo told him what to steal. Nick could hit and hurt and intimidate, but Mo pointed him at the people who needed to be intimidated. They were, as she told himsometimes,a perfect team. Theywere sitting in the corner of the library splitting their take of the year sevens’ pocket money. They had eight or nine of the elevenyear-olds trained to hand over their pocket money everyweek. “The Singh kid hasn’tcoughed up yet,”said Mo.“You’ll haveto find him.” “Yeah,”said Nick,“he’ll pay.” “What was it he nicked? ACD?” Nick nodded. “Just point out the error of his ways,” said Mo, who wanted to sound like the hard cases fromthetelevision. “Easy,”said Nick.“We’rea good team.” “Like Batman and Robin,”said Mo. “More like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde,” said somebody, who had been reading, unnoticed, in a window seat, and he got up and walked out oftheroom. Paul Singh was sitting on a windowsill by the changing rooms, his hands deep in his pockets, thinking dark thoughts. He took one hand out of his pocket, opened it, looked at the handful of pound coins, shook his head, closed his hand around thecoins once more. “Is that what Nick and Mo are waiting for?” somebody asked, and Paul jumped, scattering money all over thefloor. The other boy helped himpick thecoins up, handed them over. He was an older boy, and Paul thought he had seen himaround before, but he could not be certain. Paulsaid, “Are you with them? Nick and Mo?” The other boy shook his head. “Nope. I think that they are fairly repulsive.” He hesitated. Then he said, “Actually, I came to give you a bit ofadvice.” “Yeah?” “Don’t pay them.” “Easy for you to say.” “Becausethey aren’t blackmailingme?” The boy looked at Paul and Paul looked away,ashamed. “They hit you or threatened you until you shoplifted a CDfor them. Then they told you that unless you handed over your pocket money to them, they’d tell on you. What did they do, filmyou doing it?” Paul nodded. “Justsay no,”said the boy.“Don’t do it.” “They’ll killme. And they said…” “Tell them that you think the police and schoolauthorities could be a lot more interested in a couple of kids who are getting younger kids to steal for them and then forcing them to hand over their pocket money than they ever would be in one kid forced to steal a CD against his will. That if they touch you again, you’llmake the call to the police. And that you’ve written it all up, and ifanything happens to you, anything at all, if you get a black eye or anything, your friends will automatically send it to the schoolauthorities and the police.” Paulsaid,“But. Ican’t.” “Then you’ll pay them your pocket money for the rest of your time in this school. And you’ll stay scared ofthem.” Paul thought. “Why don’t I just tell the policeanyway?” heasked. “Can if you like.” “I’ll try it your way first,” Paul said. He smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was a smile, rightenough, his first in three weeks. So Paul Singh explained to Nick Farthing just how and why he wouldn’t be paying himany longer, and walked away while Nick Farthing just stood and didn’t say anything, clenching and unclenching his fists. And the next day another five eleven-year-olds found Nick Farthing in the playground, and told him they wanted their money back,allthe pocketmoney they’d handed over in the previous month, or they’d be going to the police, and now Nick Farthing was an extremely unhappy youngman. Mo said, “It was him. He started it. If it wasn’t for him…they’d never have thought of it on their own. He’s the one we have to teach a lesson. Then they’llall behave.” “Who?”said Nick. “The one who’s always reading. The one fromthelibrary. Bob Owens. Him.” Nick nodded slowly. Then he said, “Which oneis he?” “I’ll point himout to you,”said Mo. Bod was used to being ignored, to existing in the shadows. When glances naturally slip from you, you become very aware of eyes upon you, of glances in your direction, ofattention. And if you barely exist in people’s minds as another living person then being pointed to, being followed around…these things draw attention to themselves. They followed himout of the schooland up the road, past the corner newsagent, and across the railway bridge. He took his time, making certain that the two who were following him, a burly boy and afair, sharp-faced girl, did not lose him, then he walked into the tiny churchyard at theend oftheroad, a miniature graveyard behind the local church and he waited beside the tomb of Roderick Persson and his wife Amabella, and also his second wife, Portunia, (They Sleep to Wake Again). “You’re that kid,”said a girl’s voice. “Bob Owens. Well, you’re in really big trouble, Bob Owens.” “It’s Bod, actually,” said Bod, and he looked at them. “With a D. And you’re Jekyll and Hyde.” “It was you,” said the girl. “You got to the seventh formers.” “So we’re going to teach you a lesson,” said Nick Farthing,and hesmiled without humor. “I quitelikelessons,”said Bod. “If you paid more attention to yours, you wouldn’t have to blackmail younger kids for pocketmoney.” Nick’s brow crinkled. Then he said, “You’re dead, Owens.” Bod shook his head, and he gestured around him. “I’m not actually,” he said. “They are.” “Who are?”said Mo. “The people in this place,” said Bod. “Look. I brought you here to give you a choice —” “You didn’t bring us here,”said Nick. “You’re here,” said Bod. “I wanted you here. I came here. You followed me. Same thing.” Mo looked around nervously. “You’ve got friends here?”sheasked. Bod said, “You’re missing the point, I’m afraid. You two need to stop this. Stop behaving like other people don’t matter. Stop hurting people.” Mo grinned a sharp grin. “For heaven’s sake,”shesaid to Nick.“Hit him.” “I gave you a chance,” said Bod. Nick swung a vicious fist at Bod, who was no longer there,and Nick’s fistslammed into theside ofthe gravestone. “Where did he go?” said Mo. Nick was swearing and shaking his hand. She looked around the shadowy cemetery, puzzled. “He was here. You knowhe was.” Nick had little imagination, and he was not about to start thinking now. “Maybe he ran away,” hesaid. “He didn’t run,” said Mo. “He just wasn’t there anymore.” Mo had an imagination. The ideas were hers. It was twilight in a spooky churchyard, and the hairs on the back of her neck were prickling. “Something is really, really wrong,” said Mo. Then she said, in a higherpitched panicky voice, “We have to get out of here.” “I’m going to find that kid,” said Nick Farthing. “I’m going to beat the stuffing out of him.”Mo felt something unsettled in the pit of her stomach. The shadows seemed to move around them. “Nick,”said Mo,“I’mscared.” Fear is contagious. You can catch it. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to say that they’re scared for the fear to become real. Mo was terrified,and nowNick was too. Nick didn’t say anything. He just ran, and Mo ran close on his heels. The streetlights were coming on as they ran back towards the world, turning thetwilight into night, making theshadows into dark places in which anything could be happening. They ran until they reached Nick’s house, and they went inside and turned on all the lights, and Mo called her mother and demanded, half crying, to be picked up and driven the short distance to her own house, because she wasn’t walking homethat night. Bod had watched them run with satisfaction. “That was good, dear,” said someone behind him, a tallwoman in white. “Anice Fade, first. Then the Fear.” “Thank you,”said Bod. “I hadn’teven tried the Fear out on living people. I mean, I knew the theory, but. Well.” “It worked a treat,” she said, cheerfully. “I’mAmabella Persson.” “Bod. NobodyOwens.” “Thelive boy? From the big graveyard on the hill? Really?” “Um.” Bod hadn’t realized that anyone knew who he was beyond his own graveyard. Amabella was knocking on the side of the tomb. “Roddy? Portunia? Comeand see who’s here!” There were three of them there, then, and Amabella was introducing Bod and he was shaking handsand saying, “Charmed, Iamsure,” because he could greet people politely over nine hundred years ofchangingmanners. “Master Owens here was frightening some children who doubtless deserved it,” Amabella wasexplaining. “Good show,” said Roderick Persson. “Bounders guilty ofreprehensible behavior,eh?” “They were bullies,” said Bod. “Making kids hand over their pocket money. Stuff like that.” “A Frightening is certainly a good beginning,” said Portunia Persson, who was a stout woman, much older than Amabella. “And what have you planned ifit does not work?” “I hadn’t really thought—” Bod began, but Amabellainterrupted. “I should suggest that Dreamwalking might be the most efficient remedy. You can Dreamwalk,can you not?” “I’m not sure,” said Bod. “Mister Pennyworth showed me how, but I haven’t really —well, there’s things I only really know in theory,and—” Portunia Persson said, “Dreamwalking is all very well, but might I suggest a good Visitation? That’s the only language that these people understand.” “Oh,” said Amabella. “A Visitation? Portunia my dear, I don’t really think so–-” “No, you don’t. Luckily, one of us thinks.” “I have to be getting home,” said Bod, hastily.“They’ll be worrying aboutme.” “Of course,” said the Persson family, and “Lovely to meet you,”and “Avery good evening to you, young man.” Amabella Persson and Portunia Persson glared at each other. Roderick Persson said, “If you’ll forgive me asking, but your guardian. Heis well?” “Silas? Yes, he’s fine.” “Give him our regards. I’m afraid a small churchyard like this, well, we’re never going to meet an actual member of the Honour Guard. Still. It’s good to knowthat they’rethere.” “Good night,” said Bod, who had no idea what the manwas talking about, but filed it away for later.“I’lltell him.” He picked up his bag of schoolbooks, and he walked home, taking comfort in theshadows. Going to school with the living did not excuse Bod from his lessons with the dead. The nights were long, and sometimes Bod would apologize and crawl to bed exhausted before midnight. Mostly, hejust kept going. Mr. Pennyworth had little to complain of these days. Bod studied hard, and asked questions. Tonight Bod asked about Hauntings, getting more and more specific, which exasperated Mr. Pennyworth, who had never gonein for thatsort ofthing himself. “How exactly do I make a cold spot in the air?” he asked, and “I think I’ve got Fear down, but how do I take it up all the way to Terror?” and Mr. Pennyworth sighed and hurrumphed and did his best to explain, and it was gonefour in the morning beforetheywere done. Bod was tired at school the next day. The first class was History—a subject Bod mostly enjoyed, although he often had to resist the urge to say that it hadn’t happened like that, not according to people who had been there anyway —but this morning Bod was fighting to stay awake. He was doing all hecould do to concentrate on the lesson, so he was not paying attention to much else going on around him. He was thinking about King Charles the First, and about his parents, ofMr. and Mrs. Owensand ofthe other family, the one he could not remember, when there was a knock on the door. The class and Mr. Kirby all looked to see who was there (it was a year seven, who had been sent to borrow a textbook). And as they turned, Bod felt something stab in the back of his hand. He did notcry out. Hejust looked up. Nick Farthing grinned down at him, a sharpened pencil in his fist. “I’m not afraid of you,” whispered Nick Farthing. Bod looked at the back of his hand. A small drop of blood welled up where the point of the pencil had punctured it. Mo Quilling passed Bod in the corridor that afternoon, her eyes so wide he could see the whitesallaround them. “You’re weird,”she said. “You don’t have any friends.” “I didn’t come here for friends,” said Bod truthfully.“Icame hereto learn.” Mo’s nose twitched. “Do you know how weird that is?” She asked. “Nobody comes to school to learn. I mean, you come because you haveto.” Bod shrugged. “I’mnotafraid of you,”shesaid.“Whatever trick you did yesterday. You didn’tscare me.” “Okay,”said Bod, and he walked on down thecorridor. He wondered if he had made a mistake, getting involved. He had made a mis-step in judgment, that was forcertain. Mo and Nick had begun to talk about him, probably the year sevens had as well. Other kids were looking at him, pointing him out to each other. He was becoming a presence, rather than an absence, and that made him uncomfortable. Silas had warned himto keep a low profile, told himto go through school partly Faded, but everything was changing. He talked to his guardian that evening, told him the whole story. He was not expecting Silas’s reaction. “I cannot believe,” said Silas, “that you could have been so…so stupid. Everything I told you about remaining just this side of invisibility. And nowyou’ve becomethetalk oftheschool?” “Well, what did youwantmeto do?” “Not this,”said Silas.“It’s not likethe olden times. They can keep track of you, Bod. They can find you.” Silas’s unmoving exterior was like the hard crust of rock over molten lava. Bod knewhowangry Silas was only because he knew Silas. He seemed to be fighting his anger, controlling it. Bod swallowed. “Whatshould I do?” hesaid, simply. “Don’t go back,” said Silas. “This school business was an experiment. Let us simply acknowledgethat it was notasuccessful one.” Bod said nothing. Then he said, “It’s not just the learning stuff. It’s the other stuff. Do you know how nice it is to be in a room filled with peopleand forall ofthemto be breathing?” “It’s not something inwhich I’ve ever taken pleasure,”said Silas. “So. You don’t go back to schooltomorrow.” “I’mnot running away. Not from Mo or Nick or school. I’d leave herefirst.” “You will do as you are told, boy,” said Silas,a knot of velvetanger in the darkness. “Or what?” said Bod, his cheeks burning. “What would you do to keep me here? Killme?” And he turned on his heel and began to walk down the path that led to the gatesand out ofthe graveyard. Silas began to call the boy back, then he stopped,and stood therein the nightalone. At the best of times his face was unreadable. Now his face was a book written in a language long forgotten, in an alphabet unimagined. Silas wrapped the shadows around him like a blanket, and stared after the way the boy had gone,and did notmoveto follow. Nick Farthing was in his bed, asleep and dreaming of pirates on the sunny blue sea, when it all went wrong. One moment he was the captain of his own pirate ship—a happy place, crewed by obedient eleven-year-olds, except for the girls, who were all a year or two older than Nick and who looked especially pretty in their pirate costumes—and the next he was alone on the deck, and a huge, dark ship the size ofan oil tanker, with ragged black sails and a skull for a figurehead, was crashing through the stormtowards him. And then, in the way of dreams, he was standing on the black deck of the new ship, and someone was looking down at him. “You’re not afraid of me,” said the man standing over him. Nick looked up. He was scared, in his dream, scared of this dead-faced man in pirate costume, his hand on the hilt ofacutlass. “Do you think you’re a pirate, Nick?” asked his captor, and suddenly something about himseemed familiar to Nick. “You’rethat kid,” hesaid.“Bob Owens.” “I,”said his captor, “amNobody. And you need to change. Turn over a new leaf. Reform. Allthat. Or things will get very bad for you.” “Bad how?” “Bad in your head,” said the Pirate King, who was now only the boy from his class and they were in the school hall, not the deck of the pirate ship, although the storm had not abated and the floor of the hall pitched and rolled like a ship atsea. “This isa dream,”Nick said. “Of course it’s a dream,” said the other boy. “I would have to be some kind of monster to do this in reallife.” “What can you do to me in a dream?” asked Nick. He smiled. “I’m not afraid of you. You’ve still got my pencil in the back of your hand.” He pointed to the back of Bod’s hand, at the black mark the graphite point had made. “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to be like this,” said the other boy. He tipped his head on one side as if he was listening to something. “They’re hungry,” hesaid. “Whatare?”asked Nick. “The things in the cellar. Or belowdecks. Depends whether this is a school or a ship, doesn’t it?” Nick felt himself beginning to panic. “It isn’t…spiders…is it?” hesaid. “It might be,” said the other boy. “You’ll find out, won’t you?” Nick shook his head. “No,” hesaid.“Please no.” “Well,” said the other boy. “It’s all up to you, isn’t it? Change your ways or visit the cellar.” The noise got louder—a scuttling sort of a scuffling noise, and while Nick Farthing had no idea what it was, he was utterly, completely certain that whatever it would turn out to be would be the most scary terrible thing he had ever—would ever—encounter… He woke up screaming. Bod heard the scream, a shout of terror, and felt thesatisfaction ofajob well done. He was standing on the pavement outside Nick Farthing’s house, his face damp from the thick night mist. He was exhilarated and exhausted: he had felt barely in control of the Dreamwalk, had been all too aware that there was nothing else in the dream but Nick and himself, and thatallNick had been scared ofwas a noise. But Bod was satisfied. The other boywould hesitate beforetormenting smaller kids. And now? Bod put his hands in his pockets and began to walk, not certain where he was going. He would leavetheschool, hethought, justas he had left the graveyard. He would go somewhere no one knew him, and he would sit in a library all day and read books and listen to people breathing. He wondered if there were still deserted islands in the world, like the one on which Robinson Crusoe had been shipwrecked. Hecould go and live on one ofthose. Bod did not look up. If he had, he would have seen a pair of watery blue eyes watching himintently froma bedroomwindow. He stepped into an alley, feeling more comfortable out ofthelight. “Are you running away, then?”said a girl’s voice. Bod said nothing. “That’s the difference between the living and the dead, ennit?”said the voice. It was Liza Hempstock talking, Bod knew, although the witch-girl was nowhere to be seen. “The dead dun’t disappoint you. They’ve had their life, done what they’ve done. We dun’t change. The living, they always disappoint you, dun’t they? You meet a boy who’s all brave and noble, and he grows up to run away.” “That’s not fair!”said Bod. “The Nobody Owens I knew wouldn’t’ve run off from the graveyard without saying so much as a fare-thee-well to those who cared for him. You’ll break Mistress Owens’s heart.” Bod had not thought ofthat. Hesaid, “I had afight with Silas.” “So?” “He wants me to come back to the graveyard. To stop school. He thinks it’s too dangerous.” “Why? Between your talents and my bespellment, they’ll barely notice you.” “I was getting involved. There were these kids bullying other kids. I wanted themto stop. I drewattention to myself…” Liza could be seen now, a misty shape in thealleyway keeping pace withBod. “He’s out here, somewhere, and he wants you dead,” she said. “Him as killed your family. Us in the graveyard, we wants you to stay alive. We wants you to surprise us and disappoint us and impress us and amaze us. Come home, Bod.” “I think…I said things to Silas. He’ll be angry.” “If he didn’t care about you, you couldn’t upset him,”wasallshesaid. The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod’s feet, and the mists blurred theedges ofthe world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it,afewminutes before. “I did a Dreamwalk,” hesaid. “Howdid it go?” “Good,” hesaid.“Well,allright.” “You should tell Mr. Pennyworth. He’ll be pleased.” “You’reright,” hesaid.“I should.” Hereached theend ofthealley, and instead of turning right, as he had planned, and off into the world, he turned left, onto the High Street, the road that would take him back to Dunstan Road and the graveyard on the hill. “What?” said Liza Hempstock. “What you doin’?” “Going home,”said Bod.“Like you said.” There were shop-lights now. Bod could smell the hot grease from the chip shop on the corner. The paving stones glistened. “That’s good,” said Liza Hempstock, now only a voice once more. Then the voice said, “Run! Or Fade! Something’s wrong!” Bod was about to tell her that there was nothingwrong, thatshe was being foolish, when a large car with a light flashing on the top came veering across the road and pulled up in front of him. Two men got out from it. “Excuse me, young man,”said one of the men. “Police. Might Iask what you’re doing outso late?” “I didn’t know there was a law against it,” said Bod. The largest of the policemen opened the rear door of the car. “Is this the young man you saw, Miss?” hesaid. Mo Quilling got out of the car, and looked at Bod, and smiled. “That’s him,” she said. “He was in our back garden breaking things. And then heran away.” Shelooked Bod in theeye. “I saw you from my bedroom,” she said. “I think he’s the one who’s been breakingwindows.” “What’s your name?” asked the smaller policeman. He had a ginger mustache. “Nobody,”said Bod. Then, “Ow,” because the ginger policeman had taken Bod’s ear between finger and thumb, and had given it a hard squeeze. “Don’t give me that,” said the policeman. “Just answer the questions politely. Right?” Bod said nothing. “Where exactly do you live?” asked the policeman. Bod said nothing. He tried to Fade, but Fading—even when boosted by a witch—relies on people’s attention sliding away fromyou, and everybody’s attention—not to mention a large pair of official hands—was on himthen. Bod said, “You can’t arrest me for not telling youmy name oraddress.” “No,” said the policeman. “I can’t. But I can take you down to thestation until you give us the name ofa parent, guardian, responsibleadult, into whosecare wecan release you.” He put Bod into the back of the car, where Mo Quilling sat, with the smile on her face of a cat who has eaten all the canaries. “I saw you from my front window,” she said, quietly. “So I called the police.” “I wasn’t doing anything,” said Bod. “I wasn’t even in your garden. And why are they bringing you out to find me?” “Quiet back there!” said the large policeman. Everyone was quiet until the car pulled up in front ofa housethat had to be Mo’s. The large policeman opened the door for her, and she got out. “We’ll call you tomorrow, let your mom and dad know what we found,” said the large policeman. “Thanks, Uncle Tam,” said Mo, and she smiled.“Just doingmy duty.” They drove back through the town in silence, Bod trying to Fadeas best hecould, with no success. He felt sick and miserable. In one evening, he had had his first real argument with Silas, had attempted to run away fromhome, had failed to run away, and now failed to return home. Hecould not tellthe police where helived, or his name. He would spend therest of his lifein a police cell, or in a prison for kids. Did they have prison forkids? he didn’t know. “Excuse me? Do they have prisons for kids?” heasked the men in thefrontseat. “Gettingworried, now,are you?”said Mo’s uncle Tam. “I don’t blame you. You kids. Running wild. Some of you need locking up, I’ll tell you.” Bod wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. He glanced out of the car window. Something huge was flying through theair,abovethecarand to oneside, something darkerand bigger than the biggest bird. Something man-size that flickered and fluttered as it moved, like the strobing flight ofa bat. The ginger policeman said, “When we get to the station, best if you just give us your name, tell us who to call to come and get you, we can tell themwe gave you a bollocking, they can take you home. See? You cooperate, we have an easy night, less paperwork for everyone. We’re your friends.” “You’retoo easy on him. Anight in thecells isn’t that hard,” said the large policeman to his friend. Then he looked back at Bod, and said, “Unless it’s a busy night, and we have to put you inwith some ofthe drunks. Theycan be nasty.” Bod thought, He’s lying! and They’re doing this on purpose, the friendly one and thetough one… Then the police car turned a corner, and there was athump! Something big rode up onto the hood ofthe carand was knocked offinto the dark. A screech of brakes as the car stopped, and the ginger policeman began to swear under his breath. “He just ran out into the road!” he said. “You sawit!” “I’m not sure what I saw,” said the larger policeman.“You hitsomething, though.” They got out ofthecar, shonelightsaround. The ginger policeman said, “He was wearing black! You can’tseeit.” “He’s over here,” shouted the large policeman. The two men hurried over to the body on the ground, holding flashlights. Bod tried the door handles on the backseat. They did not work. And there was a metal grille between the back and the front. Even if he Faded, he was still stuck in the backseat of a policecar. He leaned over as far as he could, craning to try and see what had happened, what was on theroad. The ginger policeman was crouched beside a body, looking at it. The other, the large one, was standing aboveit, shining alight down into its face. Bod looked at the face ofthe fallen body—then he began to bang on the window, frantically, desperately. Thelarge policeman came over to thecar. “What?” hesaid, irritably. “You hitmy—my dad,”said Bod. “You’re kidding.” “It looks like him,” said Bod. “Can I look properly?” The large policeman’s shoulders slumped. “Oy! Simon, the kid says it’s his dad.” “You’ve got to be bloody kiddingme.” “I think he’s serious.” The large policeman opened the door,and Bod got out. Silas was sprawled on his back, on the ground, where the car had knocked him. He was deathly still. Bod’seyes prickled. He said, “Dad?” Then he said, “You killed him.”He wasn’t lying, hetold himself—not really. “I’ve called an ambulance,”said Simon, the ginger-mustached policeman. “It wasan accident,”said the other. Bod crouched by Silas, and he squeezed Silas’scold hand in his. Ifthey had already called an ambulance there was not much time. He said, “So that’s yourcareers over, then.” “It wasan accident—you saw!” “Hejuststepped out—” “What I saw,”said Bod, “is that you agreed to do a favor for your niece, and frighten a kid she’s been fighting with at school. So you arrested me without a warrant for being out late, and then when my dad runs out into the road to try and stop you or to find out what was going on, you intentionally ran himover.” “It wasan accident!”repeated Simon. “You’ve been fighting with Mo at school?” said Mo’s uncle Tam, but he didn’t sound convincing. “We’re both in Eight B at the Old Town School,”said Bod.“And you killed my dad.” Far off, hecould hear thesound ofsirens. “Simon,” said the large man, “we have to talk about this.” They walked over to the other side of the car, leaving Bod alone in the shadows with the fallen Silas. Bod could hear the two policemen talking heatedly—“Your bloody niece!” was used,and so was“Ifyou’d kept youreyes on the road!” Simon jabbed his finger into Tam’s chest… Bod whispered, “They aren’t looking. Now.”And he Faded. There was a swirl of deeper darkness, and the body on the ground was now standing beside him. Silas said, “I’ll take you home. Put your armsaround my neck.” Bod did, holding tightly to his guardian, and they plunged through the night, heading for the graveyard. “I’msorry,”said Bod. “I’msorry too,”said Silas. “Did it hurt?” asked Bod. “Letting the car hit you likethat?” “Yes,” said Silas. “You should thank your little witch-friend. She came and found me, told me youwere in trouble, and what kind oftrouble youwerein.” They landed in the graveyard. Bod looked at his home as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. He said, “What happened tonight was stupid, wasn’t it?I mean, I put thingsat risk.” “More things than you know, young NobodyOwens. Yes.” “You were right,” said Bod. “I won’t go back. Not to thatschool,and not likethat.” Maureen Quilling had had the worst week of her life:Nick Farthingwas no longer speaking to her; her uncle Tam had shouted at her about the Owens kid thing, then told her not to mention anything about thatevening ever to anyone, as he could lose his job, and he wouldn’t want to be in her shoes if that happened; her parents were furious with her; she felt betrayed by the world; even the year sevens weren’t scared of her any longer. It was rotten. She wanted to see that Owens kid, who she blamed for everything that had happened to her so far, writhing inmiserable agony. If he thought being arrested was bad…and then she would concoct elaborate revenge schemes in her head, complex and vicious. They were the only thing that made her feel better, and even they didn’t really help. If there was one job that gave Mo the creeps, it was cleaning up the science labs—putting away the Bunsen burners, making sure that all test tubes, petri dishes, unused filter papersand the like were returned to their places. She only had to do it, on a strict rotation system, once every two months, but it stood to reason that here, in the worst week of her life, she would bein thesciencelab. At least Mrs. Hawkins, who taught general sciences, was there, collecting papers, gathering things up at the end of the day. Having her there, having anybody there, wascomforting. “You’re doing a good job, Maureen,” said Mrs. Hawkins. Awhitesnakein ajar of preservativestared blindly down at them. Mo said,“Thanks.” “Aren’t there meant to be two of you?” asked Mrs. Hawkins. “I was supposed to be doing it with the Owens kid,” said Mo. “But he hasn’t been to schoolin days now.” Theteacher frowned. “Which one was he?” she asked, absently. “I don’t have himdown on my list.” “Bob Owens. Brownish hair, a bit too long. Didn’t talk much. He was the one who named all the bones of the skeleton in the quiz. Remember?” “Not really,”admitted Mrs. Hawkins. “You must remember! Nobody remembers him! NotevenMr. Kirby!” Mrs. Hawkins pushed the rest of the sheets of paper into her bag and said, “Well, I appreciate you doing it on your own, dear. Don’t forget to wipe down the working surfaces, before you go.”And she went, closing the door behind her. The science labs were old. There were long, dark wooden tables, with gas jets and taps and sinks built in to them, and there were dark wooden shelves upon which were displayed a selection of things in large bottles. The things that floated in the bottles were dead, had been dead for a long time. There was even a yellowed human skeleton in one corner of the room: Mo did not knowifit was real or not, but right nowit wascreeping her out. Every noise she made echoed, in that long room. She turned all of the overhead lights on, even thelight on the whiteboard, just to makethe place less scary. The room began to feel cold. She wished she could turn up the heat. She walked over to one of the large metal radiators and touched it. It was burning hot. But still, she was shivering. The room was empty and unsettling in its emptiness, and Mo felt as if she were not alone, as ifshe was beingwatched. Well, of course I’m being watched, she thought. A hundred dead things in jars are all looking at me, not to mention the skeleton. She glanced up at theshelves. That was when the dead things in the jars began to move. A snake with unseeing milky eyes uncoiled in its alcohol-filled jar. A faceless, spiny sea creature twisted and revolved in its liquid home. Akitten, dead for decades, showed its teeth and clawed the glass. Mo closed her eyes. This isn’t happening, she told herself. I’m imagining it. “I’m not frightened,”shesaid,aloud. “That’s good,” said someone, standing in the shadows, by the rear door. “It seriously sucks to befrightened.” She said, “None of the teachers even remember you.” “But you remember me,” said the boy, the architect ofall her misfortunes. She picked up a glass beaker and threw it at him, but her aim went wide and it smashed againsta wall. “How’s Nick?” asked Bod, as if nothing had happened. “You knowhowheis,”shesaid. “He won’t even talk to me. Just shuts up in class, goes home and does his homework. Probably building modelrailways.” “Good,” hesaid. “And you,”she said. “You haven’t been at school for a week. You’re in such trouble, Bob Owens. The police came in the other day. They werelooking for you.” “That reminds me…How’s your uncle Tam?”said Bod. Mo said nothing. “In some ways,” said Bod, “you’ve won. I’m leaving school. And in other ways, you haven’t. Have you ever been haunted, Maureen Quilling? Ever looked in the mirror wondering if the eyes looking back at you were yours? Ever sat in an empty room, and realized you were not alone?It’s not pleasant.” “You’re going to haunt me?” Her voice trembled. Bod said nothing at all. He just stared at her. In the far corner of the room, something crashed: her bag had slipped off the chair onto the floor and when she looked back, she was alonein theroom. Or, at least, there was nobody thatshecould seein there with her. Her way home was going to be very long and very dark. The boy and his guardian stood at the top of the hill, looking outat thelights ofthetown. “Does itstill hurt?”asked the boy. “Alittle,”said his guardian. “But I heal fast. I’llsoon beas good asever.” “Could it have killed you? Stepping out in front ofthatcar?” His guardian shook his head. “There are ways to kill people like me,” he said. “But they don’t involve cars. I am very old and very tough.” Bod said, “I was wrong, wasn’t I? The whole idea was to do it without anybody noticing. And then I had to get involved with the kids in the school, and the next thing you know, there’s police and all sorts of stuff. Because I was selfish.” Silas raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t selfish. You need to be among your own kind. Quite understandable. It’s just harder out therein the world of the living, and we cannot protect you out there as easily. I wanted to keep you perfectly safe,”said Silas. “But there is only one perfectly safe placefor your kind and youwill not reach it until all your adventures are over and none ofthemmatterany longer.” Bod rubbed his hand over the stone of Thomas R. Stout (1817–1851. Deeply regretted by all who knew him), feeling the mosscrumble beneath his fingers. “He’s still out there,” said Bod. “The man who killed my first family. I still need to learn about people. Are you going to stop me leaving the graveyard?” “No. That was a mistake and one that we have both learned from.” “Thenwhat?” “We should do our best to satisfy your interest in stories and books and the world. There are libraries. There are other ways. And there are many situations in which there might be other, living people around you, like the theater or thecinema.” “What’s that? Is it like football? I enjoyed watching themplay footballatschool.” “Football. Hmm. That’s usually a little early in the day for me,”said Silas. “But Miss Lupescu could take you to see a football match the next timeshe’s here.” “I’d likethat,”said Bod. They began to walk down the hill. Silas said, “We have both left too many tracks and traces in thelast fewweeks. They arestilllooking for you, you know.” “You said that before,”said Bod. “How do you know? And who are they? And what do theywant?” But Silas only shook his head, and would be drawn no further, and with that, for the time being, Bod had to besatisfied. CHAPTER SEVEN Every Man Jack SILAS HAD BEEN PREOCCUPIED for the previous several months. He had begun to leave the graveyard for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. Over Christmas, Miss Lupescu had come out for three weeks in his place, and Bod had shared her meals in her little flat in the Old Town. She had even taken himto a football match, as Silas had promised that she would, but she had gone back to the place she called “The Old Country” after squeezing Bod’s cheeks and calling himNimini, which had become her pet namefor him. Now Silas was gone, and Miss Lupescu also. Mr. and Mrs. Owens were sitting in Josiah Worthington’s tomb talking to Josiah Worthington. None ofthemwas happy. Josiah Worthington said, “You mean to say that he did not tell either of you where he was going or howthechild was to becared for?” When the Owenses shook their heads, JosiahWorthington said,“Well, whereis he?” Neither Owens wasableto answer. Master Owens said, “He’s never been gone for so long before. And he promised, when thechild cameto us, promised he would be here, or someone else would be here to help us care for him. He promised.” Mrs. Owens said, “I worry that something must have happened to him.” She seemed close to tears, and then her tears turned to anger, and shesaid, “This is too bad of him! Is there no way to find him, to call himback?” “None that I know,” said Josiah Worthington. “But I believe that he’s left money in thecrypt, for food for the boy.” “Money!” said Mrs. Owens. “What use is money?” “Bod will be needing money if he’s to go out there to buy food,” began Mr. Owens, but Mrs. Owens turned on him. “You’reallas bad aseach other!”shesaid. She left the Worthington tomb, then, and she went looking for her son, whom she found, as she expected to, at the top of the hill, staring out over thetown. “Penny for your thoughts,” said Mrs. Owens. “You don’t have a penny,” said Bod. He was fourteen, now,and taller than his mother. “I’ve got two in the coffin,” said Mrs. Owens. “Probably a bit green by now, but I’ve still got themrightenough.” “I was thinking about the world,”said Bod. “How do we even know that the person who killed my family is stillalive? That he’s out there?” “Silas says heis,”said Mrs. Owens. “But Silas doesn’t tell usanything else.” Mrs. Owens said, “He means only the best for you. You knowthat.” “Thanks,” said Bod, unimpressed. “So whereis he?” Mrs. Owens made no reply. Bod said, “You saw the manwho killed my family, didn’t you? On the day you adopted me.” Mrs. Owens nodded. “What was helike?” “Mostly, I had eyes for you. Let me see…he had dark hair, very dark. And I was frightened of him. He had a sharp face. Hungry and angry allat once, he was. Silas sawhimoff.” “Why didn’t Silas just kill him?” said Bod, fiercely.“Heshould havejust killed himthen.” Mrs. Owens touched the back of Bod’s hand with her cold fingers. She said, “He’s not a monster, Bod.” “If Silas had killed him back then, I would besafe now. Icould go anywhere.” “Silas knows more than you do about all this, more than any of us do. And Silas knows about life and death,”said Mrs. Owens. “It’s not thateasy.” Bod said, “What was his name? The man who killed them.” “He didn’tsay it. Not then.” Bod put his head on one side, and stared at her with eyes as grey as thunderclouds. “But you knowit, don’t you?” Mrs. Owens said, “There’s nothing you can do, Bod.” “There is. I can learn. I can learn everything I need to know, all I can. I learned about ghoul-gates. I learned to Dreamwalk. Miss Lupescu taught me how to watch the stars. Silas taught me silence. I can Haunt. I can Fade. I knowevery inch ofthis graveyard.” Mrs. Owens reached out a hand, touched her son’s shoulder. “One day,” she said…and then she hesitated. One day, she would not be able to touch him. One day, he would leave them. One day.And then shesaid, “Silas told me the manwho killed your familywascalled Jack.” Bod said nothing. Then he nodded. “Mother?” “What is it, son?” “WhenwillSilascome back?” The midnight wind was cold and it came fromthe north. Mrs. Owens was no longer angry. She feared for her son. Shesaid only, “I wish I knew, my darling boy, I wish I knew.” Scarlett Amber Perkins was fifteen, and, at that moment, sitting on the upper deck of the elderly bus, she wasa mass ofangry hate. She hated her parents for splitting up. She hated her mother for moving away from Scotland, hated her father because he didn’t seem to care that she had gone. She hated this town for being so different —nothing like Glasgow, whereshe had grown up —and she hated it because every now and again she would turn a corner and see something and the world would all become achingly, horribly familiar. She had lost it with her mother thatmorning. “At least in Glasgow I had friends!” Scarlett had said, and she wasn’t quite shouting and she wasn’t quite sobbing. “I’ll never see themagain!” All her mother had said in reply was, “At least you’re somewhere you’ve been before. I mean, welived here when youwerelittle.” “I don’t remember,”said Scarlett. “And it’s not like I still know anyone. Do you want me to find my old friends fromwhen I was five? Is that what youwant?” And her mother said, “Well, I’m not stopping you.” Scarlett had gone through the whole of the school day angry, and she was angry now. She hated her school and she hated the world, and right now she particularly hated the town bus service. Every day, when school was over, the 97 bus to the City Center would take her from her school gates all the way to the end of the street where her mother had rented a small flat. She had waited at the bus-stop on that gusty April day for almost halfan hour and no 97 buses had appeared, so when she saw a 121 bus withCity Center as its destination she had climbed aboard. But where her bus always turned right, this one turned left, into the Old Town, past the municipal gardens in the Old Town square, past the statue of Josiah Worthington, Bart., and then crept up a winding hill lined with high houses, as Scarlett’s heart sank and her anger was replaced withmisery. She walked downstairs, edged forward, eyed thesign telling her not to speak to the driver when the vehicle was in motion, and said, “Excuse me. I wanted to go to Acacia Avenue.” The driver, a large woman, her skin even darker than Scarlett’s said, “You should have got the 97, then.” “But this goes to the CityCenter.” “Eventually. But even when you get there, you’llstill need to get back.” The woman sighed. “Best thing you can do, get off here, walk back down the hill, there’s a bus-stop in front of the town hall. Fromthere, you can catch the number 4 or the 58, both of themwill take you most of the way to Acacia Avenue. You could get off by the sports center and walk up from there. You gotallthat?” “The 4 or the 58.” “I’ll let you off here.”It was a request stop on the side of the hill, just past a large pair of open iron gates, and it looked uninviting and dismal. Scarlett stood in the open doorway ofthe bus until the bus driver said, “Go on. Hop it.” She stepped down onto the pavement and the bus belched black smokeand roared away. The wind rattled the trees on the other side ofthe wall. Scarlett began to walk back down the hill —this was why she needed a mobile phone, she thought. If she was so much as five minutes late, her mother would freak, but she still wouldn’t buy Scarlett a phone of her own. Oh well. She would have to endure another shouting match. It wouldn’t bethefirstand it wouldn’t bethelast. By now she was level with the open gates. She glanced insideand… “That’s odd,”shesaid,aloud. There’s an expression, déja vu, that means that you feel like you’ve been somewhere before, that you’ve somehow already dreamed it or experienced it in your mind. Scarlett had experienced it—the knowledge that a teacher was just about to tell them that she’d been to Inverness on holiday, or that someone had dropped a spoon in just that way before. This was different. This wasn’t a feeling that she had been here before. This was therealthing. Scarlett walked through the open gates into the graveyard. Amagpie flew up as she walked in, a flash of black and white and iridescent green, and settled in the branches of a yew tree, watching her. Around that corner, she thought, is a church, with a bench in front of it, and she turned a corner to see a church—much smaller than the one in her head, a sinister blocky little Gothic building of grey stone, with a jutting spire. In front of it was a weathered wooden bench. She walked over, sat down on the bench, and swung her legsas ifshe was stillalittle girl. “Hullo. Um, hullo?” said a voice frombehind her. “Awful cheek of me, I know, but would you help me hold down this, er, just really need another pair of hands, if it’s not too much trouble.” Scarlett looked around, and saw a man in a fawn-colored raincoat squatting in front of a gravestone. He was holding a large sheet of paper which was blowing about in the wind. She hurried over to him. “You hold on to it here,” said the man. “One hand here, one hand there, that’s it. Frightful imposition, I know. Ridiculously grateful.” He had a biscuit tin next to him, and fromthe tin he pulled what looked like a crayon the size ofa smallcandle. He began rubbing it back and forth across the stone with easy, practiced movements. “There we go,” he said, cheerfully. “And here she comes…oops. A wiggly bit, down at the bottomhere, I think it’s meant to be ivy—the Victorians loved putting ivy on things, deeply symbolic you know…and there we are. You can let go now.” He stood up, ran one hand through his grey hair. “Ow. Needed to stand. Legs got a bit pinsand-needlesy,” he said. “So. What do you reckon to that?” The actual headstone was covered in green and yellow lichen, and so worn and faded as to almost be undecipherable, but the rubbing was clear.“Majella Godspeed, Spinster ofthis Parish, 1791–1870, Lost to All But Memory,” Scarlett read aloud. “And probably now lost even to that,”said the man. His hair was thinning, and he smiled hesitantly and blinked at her through small, round glasses whichmade himlook alittlelikeafriendly owl. A large raindrop splashed down on the paper, and the man hurriedly rolled it up and grabbed his tin box of crayons. Another handful ofraindrops, and Scarlett picked up the portfolio the man pointed to, propped up beside a nearby gravestone, and followed himinto the tiny porch of the church, where the rain could not touch them. “Thank you so much,” said the man. “I don’t think it’s really going to rainmuch. Weather forecast for thisafternoon said mostly sunny.” As if in reply, the wind gusted coldly and therain began to beat down in earnest. “I know what you’re thinking,” the gravestone-rubbingman said to Scarlett. “You do?”she said. She had been thinking, My mum willkill me. “You’re thinking, is this a church or a funeralchapel?And theanswer is, as faras Ican ascertain, that on this site there was indeed a small church, and the original graveyard would have been its churchyard. That’s as long ago as eight, perhaps nine hundred A. D. Rebuilt and extended several times in there. But there was a fire here in the 1820s and by that time it was already much too small for the area. People around here were using St. Dunstan’s in the village square as their parish church, so when they came to rebuild here, they made it a funeral chapel, keeping many of the original features— the stained glass windows in the far wallare said to be original…” “Actually,” said Scarlett, “I was thinking that my mumis going to kill me. I got the wrong busand Iamalready so late home…” “Good Lord, you poor thing,”said the man. “Look, I only live just down the road. You wait here—”And with that he thrust his portfolio, his tin of crayons, and his rolled-up sheet of paper into her handsand heset offatatrot down to the gates, his shoulders hunched against the driving rain. A couple of minutes later, Scarlett saw the lights ofacarand heard thesound ofacar horn. Scarlett ran down to the gates, where she could seethecar, an elderly greenMini. The man she had been talking to was sitting in the driver’s seat. He wound down his window. “Come on,” he said. “Where exactly am I taking you?” Scarlett stood there, the rain running down her neck. “I don’t take rides fromstrangers,”she said. “Quite right too,” said the man. “But one good turn deserves, and, um, all that. Here, put the stuff in the back before it gets soaked.” He pulled open the passenger door, and Scarlett leaned inside and put his graverubbing equipment down on the backseat as best she could. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you phone your mother—you can use my phone—and tell her my car’s number plate? You can do it frominsidethe car. You’re getting soaked out there.” Scarlett hesitated. Rain was beginning to plaster her hair down. It wascold. The man reached over and handed her his mobile phone. Scarlett looked at it. She realized she was more afraid of calling her mother than she was of getting into the car. Then she said, “I could callthe policetoo,couldn’t I?” “You certainly can, yes. Or you can walk home. Or you can just call your mother and ask her to comeand pick you up.” Scarlett got into the passenger seat and closed the door. She kept hold of the man’s phone. “Where do you live?”the man asked. “You really don’t have to. I mean, you could just take meto the bus stop…” “I’lltake you home. Address?” “102a Acacia Avenue. It’s off the main road,a wee bit past the big sportscenter…” “You are out of your way, aren’t you? Right. Let’s get you home.” He took off the handbrake, swung the car around, and drove down the hill. “Been living herelong?” hesaid. “Not really. We moved here just after Christmas. We lived here when I was five, though.” “Is thata brogueI detect in youraccent?” “We’ve been living in Scotland for ten years. There, I sounded like everyone else, and then I came down here, and now I stick out like a sore thumb.” She had wanted it to sound like a joke, but it was true, and she could hear itas she said it. Not funny, just bitter. The man drove to Acacia Avenue, parked in front of the house, then insisted on coming up to the front door with her. When the door was opened he said, “Frightfully sorry. I took the liberty of bringing your daughter back to you. Obviously, you taught her well, shouldn’t accept rides fromstrangers. But, well, it was raining, she took the wrong bus, wound up on the other side of town. Bit ofa mess allaround really. Say you can find it in your heart to forgive. Forgive her. And, um, me.” Scarlett expected her mother to shout at both of them, and was surprised and relieved when her mother only said, Well, you couldn’t be too careful these days, and was Mr. Um a teacher,and would helikeacup oftea? Mr. Um said his name was Frost, but she should call himJay, and Mrs. Perkins smiled and said he should call her Noona, and she’d put the kettle on. Over tea, Scarlett told her mother the story of her wrong bus adventure, and how she had found herselfat the graveyard, and how she met Mr. Frost by thelittlechurch… Mrs. Perkins dropped her teacup. They were sitting around the table in the kitchen, so the cup didn’t fall very far, and it didn’t break, just spilled tea. Mrs. Perkins apologized awkwardly, and went and got a cloth fromthesink to mop it up. Then she said, “The graveyard on the hill, in the Old Town? That one?” “I live over that way,” said Mr. Frost. “Been doing a lot of grave-rubbings. And you knowit’s technically a naturereserve?” Mrs. Perkins said, “I know,” thin-lipped. Then she said, “Thank you so much for giving Scarlett a ride home, Mr. Frost.” Each word might have been an ice cube. Then, “I think you should leave now.” “I say, that’s a bit much,” said Frost, amiably. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Was it something I said? The rubbings, they’re for a local history project, it’s notas ifI’m, you know, digging up bones oranything.” For a heartbeat, Scarlett thought that her mother was going to strike Mr. Frost, who just looked worried. But Mrs. Perkins shook her head and said, “Sorry, family history. Not your fault.” As if she was making a conscious effort, she said, brightly, “You know, Scarlett actually used to play in that graveyard when she was little. This is, oh, ten years ago. She had an imaginary friend, too. Alittle boy called Nobody.” A smile twitched at the corner of Mr. Frost’s lips.“Aghostie?” “No, I don’t think so. He just lived there. She even pointed out the tomb he lived in. So I suppose he was a ghost. Do you remember, love?” Scarlett shook her head. “I must have been afunny kid,”shesaid. “I’msurethat youwere nothing ofthe, um,” said Mr. Frost. “You are raising a fine girl here, Noona. Well, lovely cup of tea. Always a joy to make new friends. I’ll be toddling off now. Got to make myself a little dinner, then I’ve got a meeting ofthe LocalHistory Society.” “You’re making your own dinner?” said Mrs. Perkins. “Yes, making it. Well, defrosting it really. I’m also a master of the boil-in-the-bag. Eating for one. Living on my own. Bit of a crusty old bachelor. Actually, in the papers, that always means gay, doesn’t it? Not gay, just never met the right woman.”And for a moment, he looked rather sad. Mrs. Perkins, who hated to cook, announced that she always cooked too much food at the weekend, and as she ushered Mr. Frost out into the hall, Scarlett heard him agree that he would love to come round for dinner on Saturday night. When Mrs. Perkins came back from the front hall, all she said to Scarlett was, “I hope you’ve done your homework.” Scarlett was thinking about the afternoon’s events as she lay in bed that night listening to the sound of the cars grinding their way along the main road. She had been there, in that graveyard, when she was little. That was why everything had seemed so familiar. In her mind she imagined and she remembered, and somewhere in there she fell asleep, but in sleep she still walked the paths of the graveyard. It was night, but she could see everything as clearly as if it were day. She was on the side of a hill. There was a boy of about her own age standing with his back to her, looking at thelights ofthecity. Scarlettsaid,“Boy? What’re you doing?” He looked around, seemed to have trouble focusing. “Who said that?” and then, “Oh, I can see you, sort of. Are youDreamwalking?” “I think I’mdreaming,”sheagreed. “Not quite what I meant,” said the boy. “Hullo. I’mBod.” “I’mScarlett,”shesaid. Helooked at heragain, as if he were seeing her for thefirst time. “Ofcourse, you are! I knew you looked familiar. You were in the graveyard todaywith thatman, the one with the paper.” “Mr. Frost,”she said. “He’s really nice. He gave me a lift home.” Then she said, “Did you see us?” “Yeah. I keep an eye on most things that happen in the graveyard.” “What kind ofa nameis Bod?”sheasked. “It’s short for Nobody.” “Ofcourse!”said Scarlett. “That’s what this dreamisabout. You’re my imaginary friend, fromwhen I was little,all grown up.” He nodded. He was taller than she was. He wore grey, although she could not have described his clothes. His hair was too long, and she thought it had been some time since he had received a haircut. He said, “You were really brave. We went deep into the hill and we saw the Indigo Man. And we met the Sleer.” Something happened, then, in her head. A rushing and a tumbling, a whirl of darkness and a crash ofimages… “I remember,”said Scarlett. But she said it to the empty darkness of her bedroom, and heard nothing in reply but the low trundle of a distant lorry, making its way through the night. Bod had stores of food, the kind that lasted, cached in the crypt, and more in some of the chillier tombs and vaults and mausoleums. Silas had made sure of that. He had enough food to keep him going for a couple of months. Unless Silas or Miss Lupescu was there, he simply would not leavethe graveyard. He missed the world beyond the graveyard gates, but he knew it was not safe out there. Not yet. The graveyard, though, was his world and his domain, and he was proud of it and loved it as only a fourteen-year-old boy can love anything. And yet… In the graveyard, no one everchanged. The little children Bod had played with when he was smallwerestill littlechildren; Fortinbras Bartleby, who had once been his best friend, was nowfour or five years younger than Bod was, and they had less to talk about each time they saw each other; Thackeray Porringer was Bod’s heightand age, and seemed to be in much better temper with him; he would walk with Bod in the evenings, and tellstories of unfortunatethings that had happened to his friends. Normally the stories would end in the friends being hanged until they were dead for no offense of theirs and by mistake, although sometimes they were simply transported to the American Colonies and they didn’t haveto be hanged unless they came back. Liza Hempstock, who had been Bod’s friend for the last six years, was different in another way; she was less likely to be there for himwhen Bod went down to the nettle-patch to see her,and on therare occasions when she was, she would be short-tempered, argumentative, and often downright rude. Bod talked to Mr. Owens about this, and, after a few moments’ reflection, his father said, “It’s just women, I reckon. She liked you as a boy, probably isn’t sure who you are nowyou’re a young man. I used to play with one little girl down by the duck-pond every day until she turned about your age, and then she threw an apple at my head and did not say another word to me untilI was seventeen.” Mrs. Owens sniffed. “It was a pear I threw,”she said, tartly, “and I was talking to you again soon enough, for we danced a measure at your cousin Ned’s wedding, and that was but two daysafter your sixteenth birthday.” Mr. Owens said, “Ofcourse you are right, my dear.” He winked at Bod, to tell him that it was none of it serious. And then he mouthed “Seventeen,”to showthat, really, it was. Bod had allowed himself no friends among the living. That way, he had realized back during his short-lived schooldays, lay only trouble. Still, he had remembered Scarlett, had missed her for years after she went away, had long ago faced the fact he would never see her again. And now she had been here in his graveyard, and he had not known her… He was wandering deeper into the tangle of ivy and trees that made the graveyard’s northwest quadrant so dangerous. Signs advised visitors to keep out, but the signs were not needed. It was uninviting and creepy once you were past the ivy-tangle that marked the end of the Egyptian Walk and the black doors in the mock-Egyptian walls that led to people’s final resting places. In the northwest, nature had been reclaiming the graveyard for almost a hundred years, and the stones were tipped over, graves were forgotten or simply lost beneath the green ivy and the leaf-fall of fifty years. Paths were lost and impassable. Bod walked with care. He knew the area well,and he knewhowdangerous itcould be. When Bod was nine he had been exploring in just this part of the world when the soil had given way beneath him, tumbling himinto a hole almost twenty feet down. The grave had been dug deep, to accommodate many coffins, but there was no headstone and only one coffin, down at the bottom, containing a rather excitable medical gentleman named Carstairs who seemed thrilled byBod’sarrivaland insisted on examining Bod’s wrist (which Bod had twisted in the tumble, grabbing onto a root) before he could be persuaded to go and fetch help. Bod was making his way through the northwest quadrant, a sludge of fallen leaves, a tangle of ivy, where the foxes made their homes and fallen angels stared up blindly, because he had an urgeto talk to the Poet. Nehemiah Trot was the Poet’s name, and his gravestone, beneath the greenery, read: Here lies the mortalremains of NEHEMIAHTROT POET 1741–1774 SWANS SINGBEFORETHEYDIE Bod said, “Master Trot? Might I ask you foradvice?” Nehemiah Trot beamed, wanly. “Ofcourse, brave boy. The advice of poets is the cordiality of kings! How may I smear unction on your, no, not unction, howmay I give balmto your pain?” “I’m not actually in pain. I just—well, there’s a girlI used to know, and I wasn’t sure if I should find herand talk to her or ifI should just forgetabout it.” Nehemiah Trot drew himself up to his full height, which was less than Bod’s, raised both hands to his chest excitedly, and said, “Oh! You must go to herand implore her. Youmustcall her your Terpsichore, your Echo, your Clytemnestra. You must write poems for her, mighty odes—I shall help you write them—and thus—and only thus—shall youwin your truelove’s heart.” “I don’t actually need to win her heart. She’s not my true love,” said Bod. “Just someoneI’d liketo talk to.” “Of all the organs,” said Nehemiah Trot, “thetongueis the most remarkable. For we useit both to taste our sweet wine and bitter poison, thus also do we utter words both sweetand sour with thesametongue. Go to her! Talk to her!” “I shouldn’t.” “You should, sir! You must! I shall write about it, when the battle’s lostand won.” “But if I Unfade for one person, it makes it easier for other peopleto see me…” Nehemiah Trot said, “Ah, list to me, young Leander, young Hero, young Alexander. If you dare nothing, then when the day is over, nothing isall youwill have gained.” “Good point.” Bod was pleased with himself, and glad he had thought of asking the Poet for advice. Really, he thought, if you couldn’t trust a poet to of er sensible advice, who could you trust? Which reminded him… “Mister Trot?” said Bod. “Tell me about revenge.” “Dish best served cold,” said Nehemiah Trot. “Do not take revenge in the heat of the moment. Instead, wait until the hour is propitious. There was a Grub Street hack named O’Leary —an Irishman, I should add—who had the nerve, the confounded cheek to write of my first slim volume of poems, A Nosegay of Beauty Assembled for Gentlemen of Quality, that it was inferior doggerel of no worth whatsoever, and that the paper it was written on would have been better used as—no, I cannot say. Let us simply agreethat it wasa most vulgar statement.” “But you got your revenge on him?” asked Bod,curious. “On him and on his entire pestilent breed! Oh, I had my revenge, Master Owens, and it was a terrible one. I wrote, and had published, a letter, which I nailed to the doors of the public houses in London where such low scribbling folk were wont to frequent. And I explained that, given the fragility of the genius poetical, I would henceforthwrite not for them, but only for myself and posterity, and that I should, as long as I lived, publish no more poems—for them! Thus I left instructions that upon my death my poems were to be buried withme, unpublished, and that only when posterity realized my genius, realized that hundreds of my verses had been lost—lost! —only then was my coffin to be disinterred, only then could my poems be removed frommy cold dead hand, to finally be published to the approbation and delight ofall. It isaterriblething to beahead of your time.” “And after you died, they dug you up, and they printed the poems?” “Not yet, no. But thereis still plenty oftime. Posterity is vast.” “So…that was your revenge?” “Indeed. And a mightily powerful and cunning oneat that!” “Ye-es,”said Bod, unconvinced. “Best. Served. Cold,”said Nehemiah Trot, proudly. Bod left the northwest of the graveyard, returned through the Egyptian Walk to the more orderly paths and untangled ways, and as the dusk fell, he wandered back towards the old chapel—not because he hoped Silas had returned from his travels, but because he had spent his life visiting the chapelat dusk, and it felt good to have a rhythm. And anyway, he was hungry. Bod slipped through the crypt door, down into the crypt. He moved a cardboard box filled with curled and damp parish papersand took out a carton of orange juice, an apple, a box of bread sticks, and a block of cheese, and he ate while pondering how and whether he would seek out Scarlett—he would Dreamwalk, perhaps, sincethat was howshe had cometo him… He headed outside, was on his way to sit on the grey wooden bench, when he saw something and he hesitated. There was someone already there, sitting on his bench. She was reading a magazine. Bod Faded even more, became a part of the graveyard, no more important than a shadow oratwig. But she looked up. She looked straight at him,and shesaid,“Bod?Is that you?” He said nothing. Then he said, “Why can you see me?” “I almost couldn’t. At first I thought you were a shadow or something. But you look like you did in my dream. You sort of came into focus.” He walked over to the bench. He said, “Can you actually read that? Isn’t it too dark for you?” Scarlettclosed the magazine. She said, “It’s odd. You’d think it would be too dark, but I could read it fine, no problem.” “Are you…” He trailed off, uncertain of what he had wanted to ask her.“Are you here on your own?” She nodded. “I helped Mr. Frost do some grave-rubbings, after school. And then I told him I wanted to sit and think here, for a bit. When I’mdone here, I promised to go and have a cup of tea with himand he’ll runme home. He didn’t even ask why. Just said he loves sitting in graveyards too, and that he thinks they can be the most peaceful places in the world.” Then she said,“Can I hug you?” “Do youwant to?”said Bod. “Yes.” “Well then.” He thought for a moment. “I don’tmind if you do.” “My hands won’t go through you or anything? You’rereally there?” “You won’t go through me,” he told her, and shethrewherarmsaround himand squeezed him so tightly he could hardly breathe. He said, “That hurts.” Scarlett let go.“Sorry.” “No. It was nice. I mean. You just squeezed morethan I wasexpecting.” “I just wanted to know if youwere real. All these years I thought you were just something in my head. And then I sort of forgot about you. But I didn’t make you up, and you’re back, you’reinmy head,and you’rein the world too.” Bod smiled. He said, “You used to wear a sort ofacoat, it was orange,and whenever I saw that particular color orange, I’d think of you. I don’tsuppose you still havethecoat.” “No,” she said. “Not for a long time. It would bea wee bit too smallfor me now.” “Yes,”said Bod.“Ofcourse.” “I should go home,”said Scarlett.“I thought I could come up on the weekend, though.”And then, seeing the expression on Bod’s face, she said,“Today’s Wednesday.” “I’d likethat.” She turned to go. Then she said, “How will I find you, next time?” Bod said, “I’ll find you. Don’t worry. Just be on your own and I’llfind you.” She nodded,and was gone. Bod walked back into the graveyard and up the hill, until he reached the Frobisher mausoleum. He did not enter it. He climbed up theside ofthe building, using thethick ivy rootas a foothold, and he pulled himself up onto the stone roof, where he sat and thought looking out at the world of moving things beyond the graveyard, and he remembered the way that Scarlett had held himand how safe he had felt, if only for a moment, and how fine it would be to walk safely in the lands beyond the graveyard, and how good it was to be master of his own smallworld. Scarlett said that she didn’t want a cup of tea, thank you. Ora chocolate biscuit. Mr. Frost was concerned. “Honestly,” he told her, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Well, a graveyard, not a bad place to see one, if youwere going to, um, I had an aunt once who claimed her parrot was haunted. She was a scarlet macaw. The parrot. The aunt was an architect. Never knew the details.” “I’mfine,”said Scarlett. “It was just a long day.” “I’ll give you a lift home then. Any idea what this says? Been puzzling over it for half an hour.” He indicated a grave-rubbing on the little table, held flat by a jam jar in each corner. “Is that name Gladstone, do you think? Could be a relative of the prime minister. But I can’t make outanything else.” “’Fraid not,” said Scarlett. “But I’ll take another look when Icome out on Saturday.” “Is your mother likely to put in an appearance?” “She said she’d drop me off here in the morning. Then she has to go and get groceries for our dinner. She’scooking aroastchicken.” “Do you think,”asked Mr. Frost, hopefully, “therearelikely to beroast potatoes?” “Iexpectso, yes.” Mr. Frost looked delighted. Then he said, “I wouldn’t want to put her out of her way, I mean.” “She’s loving it,” said Scarlett, truthfully. “Thank you for givingmealift home.” “More than welcome,” said Mr. Frost. They walked together down the steps in Mr. Frost’s high narrow house, to the little entrance hallat the bottomofthestairs. In Krakow, on Wawel Hill, there are caves called the Dragon’s Den, named after a long dead dragon. These are the caves that the tourists know about. There are caves beneath those caves that the tourists do not know and do not ever get to visit. They go down a long way, and they areinhabited. Silas went first, followed by the grey hugeness of Miss Lupescu, padding quietly on four feet just behind him. Behind them was Kandar, a bandage-wrapped Assyrian mummy with powerful eagle-wings and eyes like rubies, who wascarrying asmall pig. There had originally been four of them, but they had lost Haroun in a cave far above, when theIfrit, as naturally overconfidentasareall ofits race, had stepped into a space bounded by three polished bronze mirrorsand had been swallowed up in a blaze of bronze light. Inmoments the Ifrit could only be seen in the mirrors, and no longer in reality. In the mirrors his fiery eyes were wide open, and his mouth was moving as if he was shouting at them to leave and beware, and then hefaded and was lost to them. Silas, who had no problems with mirrors, had covered one of themwith his coat, rendering thetrap useless. “So,”said Silas. “Now there are only three of us.” “And a pig,”said Kandar. “Why?” asked Miss Lupescu, with a wolftongue, throughwolfteeth.“Why the pig?” “It’s lucky,”said Kandar. Miss Lupescu growled, unconvinced. “Did Haroun have a pig?” asked Kandar, simply. “Hush,”said Silas. “They are coming. Fromthesound ofit, thereare many ofthem.” “Let themcome,”whispered Kandar. Miss Lupescu’s hackles were rising. She said nothing, but she was ready for them, and it was only by an effort of will that she did not throwback her head and howl. “It’s beautiful up this way,”said Scarlett. “Yes,”said Bod. “So, your family were all killed?” said Scarlett.“Doesanyone knowwho did it?” “No. Not that I know. My guardian only says that the man who did it is stillalive, and that he’lltellmetherest ofwhat he knows one day.” “One day?” “When I’mready.” “What’s he scared of? That you’d strap on your gun and ride out to wreak vengeance on the manwho killed your family?” Bod looked at her seriously. “Well, obviously,” he said. “Not a gun, though. But yes. Something likethat.” “You’rejoking.” Bod said nothing. His lips were tightpressed together. He shook his head. Then he said,“I’mnot joking.” It wasa brightand sunny Saturdaymorning. They were just past the entrance to the Egyptian Walk, out of the direct sunlight, under the pines and thesprawlingmonkey puzzletree. “Your guardian. Is hea dead person too?” Bod said,“I don’t talk about him.” Scarlett looked hurt.“Noteven to me?” “Noteven to you.” “Well,”shesaid.“Belikethat.” Bod said, “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”justas Scarlett said, “I promised Mr. Frost I wouldn’t betoo long. I’d better be getting back.” “Right,”said Bod, worried he had offended her, unsure what he should say to make anything better. He watched Scarlett head off on the winding path back to the chapel. A familiar female voice said, with derision, “Look at her! Miss high and mighty!” but there was no one to beseen. Bod, feeling awkward, walked back to the Egyptian Walk. Miss Lillibetand Miss Violet had let him store a cardboard box filled with old paperback books in their vault, and he wanted to find something to read. Scarlett helped Mr. Frost with his grave-rubbings until midday, when they stopped for lunch. He offered to buy her fish and chips as a thank-you, and they walked down to the fish and chip shop at the bottom of the road, and as they walked back up the hill they ate their steaming fish and chips, drenched in vinegar and glitteringwith salt, out of paper bags. Scarlett said, “If you wanted to find out about a murder, where would you look? I already tried theInternet.” “Um. Depends. What kind of murder are wetalking about?” “Something local, I think. About thirteen or fourteen years ago. A family was killed around here.” “Crikey,” said Mr. Frost. “This really happened?” “Oh yes. Are you allright?” “Not really. Bit too, well, bit of a wimp, really. Things like that, I mean, local true crime, you don’t like to think about it. Things like that, happening here. Not something I’d expect a girl of yourageto beinterested in.” “It’s not actually for me,”admitted Scarlett. “It’s forafriend.” Mr. Frost finished off the last of his fried cod. “The library, I suppose. If it’s not on the Internet, it’ll be in their newspaper files. What set you offafter this?” “Oh.” Scarlett wanted to lie as little as possible. She said, “A boy I know. He was asking about it.” “Definitely the library,” said Mr. Frost. “Murder. Brr. Gives metheshivers.” “Me too,” said Scarlett. “A bit.” Then, hopefully, “Could you maybe, possibly, drop me offat thelibrary, thisafternoon?” Mr. Frost bit a large chip in half, chewed it, and looked at the rest of the chip, disappointed. “They get cold so fast, don’t they, chips. One minute, you’re burning your mouth on them, the next you’re wondering how they cool off so quickly.” “I’m sorry,” said Scarlett. “I shouldn’t be asking for rideseverywhere—” “Not at all,” said Mr. Frost. “Just wondering how best to organize this afternoon, and whether or not your mother likes chocolates. Bottle of wine or chocolates? Not really sure. Bothmaybe?” “I can make my own way home from the library,”said Scarlett.“And sheloveschocolates. So do I.” “Chocolates it is, then,” said Mr. Frost, relieved. They had reached the middle oftherow of high, terraced houses on the hill, and the little green Mini parked outside. “Get in. I’ll run you over to thelibrary.” The library was a square building, all brick and stone, dating back to the beginning of the last century. Scarlett looked around, and then went up to the desk. The woman said,“Yes?” Scarlett said, “I wanted to see some old newspaperclippings.” “Is it for school?”said the woman. “It’s local history,” said Scarlett, nodding, proud thatshe hadn’tactually lied. “We’ve got the local paper on microfiche,” said the woman. She was large, and had silver hoops in her ears. Scarlett could feel her heart pounding in herchest;she wascertain shelooked guilty or suspicious, but the woman led her into a room with boxes that looked like computer screens, and showed her how to use them, to project a page of the newspaper at a time onto the screen. “One day we’ll have it all digitized,” said the woman. “Now, what dates are you after?” “About thirteen or fourteen years ago,”said Scarlett. “I can’t be more specific than that. I’ll knowit when I seeit.” The woman gave Scarlett a small box with five years’ worth of newspapers on microfilm in it.“Go wild,”shesaid. Scarlettassumed that the murder ofafamily would have been front page news but instead, when sheeventually found it, it wasalmost buried on page five. It had happened in October, thirteen years earlier. There was no color in the article, no description, just an understated list of events:Architect Ronald Dorian, 36, his wife, Carlotta, 34, a publisher, and their daughter, Misty, 7, were found dead at 33 Dunstan Road. Foul play is suspected. A police spokesman said that it was too early to comment at this stage in their investigations, but that significant leads are being followed. There was no mention of how the family died, and nothing said about a missing baby. In the weeks that followed, there was no follow-up, and the police did not ever comment, not that Scarlettcould see. But that was it. She wascertain: 33 Dunstan Road. She knew the house. She had been in there. She returned the box of microfilm to the front desk, thanked the librarian, and walked home in the April sunshine. Her mother was in the kitchen cooking—not entirely successfully, judging from the smell of burnt-bottom-of-thesaucepan that filled most of the flat. Scarlett retreated to her bedroom and opened the windows wide to let the burnt smell out, then she sat on her bed and madea phonecall. “Hello? Mr. Frost?” “Scarlett. Everything still all right for this evening? How’s your mother?” “Oh, it’s all under control,” said Scarlett, which was what her mother had said when she had asked. “Um, Mr. Frost, how long have you lived at your house?” “Howlong? About, well, four months now.” “Howdid you find it?” “Estateagents’window. It wasempty and I could afford it. Well, more or less. Well, I wanted something within walking distance of the graveyard,and this was perfect.” “Mister Frost.” Scarlett wondered how to say it, and then just said it. “About thirteen years ago, three people were murdered in your house. The Dorian family.” There was a silence at the other end of the phone. “Mister Frost? Are you there?” “Um. Still here, Scarlett. Sorry. Not thesort of thing you expect to hear. It’s an old house, I mean, you expect things to happen a long time ago. But not…well, what happened?” Scarlett wondered how much she could tell him. Shesaid, “There wasalittle piece on it in an old newspaper, it only gave the address and nothing else. I don’t know how they died or anything.” “Well. Good lord.” Mr. Frost sounded more intrigued by the news than Scarlett could have expected. “This, young Scarlett, is where we local historians come into our own. Leave it with me. I’ll find out everything I can and report back.” “Thank you,”said Scarlett, relieved. “Um. I assume this phone call is because if Noona thought there were murders going on in my home, even thirteen-year-old ones, you’d never be allowed to see me or the graveyard again. So, um, suppose I won’t mention it unless you do.” “Thank you, Mr. Frost!” “See you atseven. With chocolates.” Dinner was remarkably pleasant. The burnt smell had gone from the kitchen. The chicken was good, the salad was better, the roast potatoes were too crispy, but a delighted Mr. Frost had proclaimed that this was precisely the way he liked them, and had taken a second helping. The flowers were popular, the chocolates, which they had for dessert, were perfect, and Mr. Frost sat and talked then watched television with themuntilabout 10 P.M., when he said that he needed to get home. “Time, tide, and historical research wait for no man,” he said. He shook Noona’s hand with enthusiasm, winked at Scarlett conspiratorially, and was out the door. Scarlett tried to find Bod in her dreams that night; she thought of him as she went to sleep, imagined herself walking the graveyard looking for him, but when she did dream it was of wandering around Glasgow city center with her friends from her old school. They were hunting for a specific street, but all they found was a succession of dead ends, oneafteranother. Deep beneath the hill in Krakow, in the deepest vault beneath the caves they call the Dragon’s Den, Miss Lupescu stumbled and fell. Silas crouched beside her and cradled Miss Lupescu’s head in his hands. There was blood on her face,and some ofit was hers. “You must leave me,” she said. “Save the boy.” She was halfway now, halfway between grey wolf and woman, but her face was a woman’s face. “No,”said Silas.“I won’t leave you.” Behind him, Kandar cradled its piglet like a child might hold a doll. The mummy’s left wing was shattered, and it would never fly again, but its bearded face was implacable. “Theywillcome back, Silas,”Miss Lupescu whispered.“Too soon, thesunwillrise.” “Then,”said Silas, “we must dealwith thembeforethey areready to attack. Can you stand?” “Da. I amone of the Hounds ofGod,”said Miss Lupescu. “I will stand.” She lowered her face into the shadows, flexed her fingers. When she raised her head again, it was a wolf’s head. She put her front paws down on the rock, and, laboriously, pushed herself up into a standing position:a grey wolf bigger than a bear, her coat and muzzleflecked with blood. She threw back her head and howled a howl of fury and of challenge. Her lips curled back from her teeth and she lowered her head once more. “Now,” growled Miss Lupescu. “We end this.” Late on Sunday afternoon the telephone rang. Scarlett was sitting downstairs, laboriously copying faces from the manga she had been reading onto scrap paper. Her mother picked up the phone. “Funny, we were just talking about you,” said her mother, although they hadn’t been. “It was wonderful,” her mothercontinued. “I had the best time. Honestly, it was no trouble. The chocolates? They were perfect. Just perfect. I told Scarlett to tell you, any time you want a good dinner, you just let me know.” And then, “Scarlett? Yes, she’s here. I’ll put her on. Scarlett?” “I’m just here, Mum,” said Scarlett. “You don’t have to shout.” She took the phone. “Mister Frost?” “Scarlett?” He sounded excited. “The. Um. The thing we were talking about. The thing that happened inmy house. You can tell this friend of yours that I found out—um, listen, when you said ‘a friend of yours’ did youmean it in the sense of ‘we’re actually talking about you,’ or is there a real person, ifit’s nota personal question—” “I’ve gota realfriend who wants to know,” said Scarlett,amused. Her mother shot hera puzzled look. “Tell your friend that I did some digging—not literally, more like rummaging, well, a fair amount of actual looking around—and I think I might have unearthed some very real information. Stumbled over something hidden. Well, not something I think we should spread around…I, um. I found things out.” “Like what?”asked Scarlett. “Look…don’t think I’mmad. But, well, as far as I can tell, three people were killed. One of them—the baby, I think—wasn’t. It wasn’t a family ofthree, it wasa family offour. Only three of themdied. Tell himto come and see me, your friend. I’llfill himin.” “I’ll tell him,” said Scarlett. She put down the phone, her heart beating likeasnare. Bod walked down the narrowstonestairs for the first time in six years. His footsteps echoed in the chamber insidethe hill. He reached the bottom of the steps and waited for the Sleer to manifest. And he waited, and waited, but nothing appeared, nothing whispered, nothingmoved. He looked around the chamber, untroubled by the deep darkness, seeing it as the dead see. He walked over to thealtar stoneset in thefloor, wherethecup and the brooch and thestone knife sat. He reached down and touched the edge of the knife. It was sharper than he had expected, and it nicked theskin of his finger. IT IS THE TREASURE OF THE SLEER, whispered a triple voice, but it sounded smaller than heremembered, more hesitant. Bod said, “You’re the oldest thing here. I cameto talk to you. I wantadvice.” A pause. NOTHING COMES TO THE SLEER FOR ADVICE. THE SLEER GUARDS. THE SLEER WAITS. “I know. But Silas isn’t here. And I don’t knowwho elseto talk to.” Nothing was said. Just a silence in reply, thatechoed of dustand loneliness. “I don’t know what to do,” Bod said, honestly. “I think I can find out about who killed my family. Who wanted to kill me. It means leaving the graveyard, though.” The Sleer said nothing. Smoke-tendrils twined slowly around theinside ofthechamber. “I’m not frightened of dying,” said Bod. “It’s just, so many people I care for have spent so much time keeping me safe, teaching me, protectingme.” Again, silence. Then he said, “I have to do this on my own.” YES. “That’sall, then. Sorry I bothered you.” It whispered into Bod’s head, then, in a voice that was a sleek insinuating glide, THE SLEER WAS SET TO GUARD THE TREASURE UNTIL OURMASTERRETURNED. AREYOUOURMASTER? “No,”said Bod. And then, with a hopeful whine, WILL YOU BEOURMASTER? “I’mafraid not.” IF YOU WEREOURMASTER, WECOULD HOLD YOU IN OUR COILS FOREVER. IF YOU WERE OUR MASTER, WE WOULD KEEP YOU SAFE AND PROTECT YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME AND NEVER LET YOU ENDURE THE DANGERS OF THE WORLD. “Iamnot your master.” NO. Bod felt the Sleer writhing through his mind. It said, THEN FIND YOUR NAME. And his mind was empty, and the room was empty, and Bod wasalone. Bod walked back up the stairs carefully yet quickly. He had come to a decision and needed to act fast, while the decision still burned in his mind. Scarlett was waiting for him on the bench by thechapel.“Well?”shesaid. “I’ll do it. Come on,” he said, and side by side theywalked the path down to the graveyard gates. Number 33 was a tall house, spindly-thin, in the middle of a terraced row. It was red-brick and unmemorable. Bod looked at it uncertainly, wondering why it did not seem familiar, or special. It was only a house, likeany other. There was a small concreted space in front of it that wasn’t a garden, a green Mini parked on the street. The front door had once been painted a bright blue, but had been dimmed by timeand the sun. “Well?”said Scarlett. Bod knocked on the door. There was nothing, then a clatter of feet on the stairs frominside, and the door opened to reveal an entryway and stairs. Framed in the doorwaywas a bespectacled manwith receding grey hair, who blinked at them, then stuck out his hand at Bod, and smiled nervously, and said, “You must be Miss Perkins’s mysterious friend. Good to meet you.” “This is Bod,”said Scarlett. “Bob?” “Bod. With a D,”shesaid.“Bod, this is Mr. Frost.” Bod and Frost shook hands. “Kettle’s on,” said Mr. Frost. “What say we swap information overacuppa?” They followed himup thesteps to a kitchen, where he poured three mugs oftea, then led theminto a small sitting room. “The house just keeps going up,” he said. “The toilet’s on the next floor up, and my office, then bedrooms above that. Keeps you fit,allthestairs.” They sat on a large, extremely purple sofa (“It was already here when I came”), and they sipped their tea. Scarlett had worried that Mr. Frost would ask Bod lots of questions, but he didn’t. He just seemed excited, as if he had identified the lost gravestone of someone famous and desperately wanted to tell the world. He kept moving impatiently in his chair, as if he had something enormous to impart to themand not blurting it out immediatelywasa physicalstrain. Scarlettsaid,“So what did you find out?” Mr. Frost said, “Well, you were right. I mean, this was the house where those people were killed.And it…I think thecrime was…well, not exactly hushed up, but forgotten about, let go…by theauthorities.” “I don’t understand,” said Scarlett. “Murders don’t getswept under thecarpet.” “This one was,” said Frost. He drained his tea. “There are people out there who have influence. It’s the only explanation for that, and for what happened to the youngestchild…” “And what was that?”asked Bod. “He lived,” said Frost. “I’m sure of it. But there wasn’t a manhunt. A missing toddler normally would be national news. But they, um, theymust havesquashed itsomehow.” “Who arethey?”asked Bod. “The same people who had the family killed.” “Do you knowanymorethan that?” “Yes. Well, alittle…” Frost trailed off. “I’m sorry. I’m. Look. Givenwhat I found. It’s all too incredible.” Scarlett was starting to feel frustrated. “What was? What did you find?” Frost looked shamefaced. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Getting into keeping secrets. Not a good idea. Historians don’t bury things. We dig them up. Show people. Yes.” He stopped, hesitated, then hesaid, “I found aletter. Upstairs. It was hidden under a loose floorboard.” He turned to Bod. “Young man, would I be correct in assuming your, well, your interest in this business, this dreadful business, is personal?” Bod nodded. “I won’t ask any more,” said Mr. Frost, and he stood up. “Come on,” he said to Bod. “Not you, though,”to Scarlett, “not yet. I’llshow him. And if he says it’s all right, I’llshow you as well. Deal?” “Deal,”said Scarlett. “We won’t be long,” said Mr. Frost. “Come on, lad.” Bod stood up, darted a concerned look at Scarlett. “It’s okay,”she said, and smiled at him as reassuringly as she could. “I’ll wait here for you.” She watched their shadows as they walked out of the room and up the stairs. She felt nervous, butexpectant. She wondered what Bod would learn, and was happy that he would learn it first. It was his story,afterall. It was his right. Out on thestairs, Mr. Frost led the way. Bod looked around as he walked up toward the top of the house, but nothing seemed familiar. Itallseemed strange. “All the way to the very top,” said Mr. Frost. They went up another flight of stairs. He said, “I don’t—well, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but—um, you’re the boy, aren’t you?” Bod said nothing. “Here we are,” said Mr. Frost. He turned the key in the door at the top of the house, pushed it open,and theywent inside. The room was small, an attic room with a sloping ceiling. Thirteen years before, it had held acrib. It barely held the man and the boy. “Stroke of luck, really,” said Mr. Frost. “Under my own nose, so to speak.” He crouched down, pulled back the threadbare carpet. “So you know why my family were murdered?”asked Bod. Mr. Frost said, “It’s all in here.” He reached down to ashort length offloorboard and pushed at it until he wasableto lever it out. “This would have been the baby’s room,” said Mr. Frost. “I’ll show you the…you know, the only thingwe don’t knowis just who did it. Nothing at all. We don’t havethetiniestclue.” “We know he has dark hair,” said Bod, in the roomthat had once been his bedroom. “And we knowthat his nameis Jack.” Mr. Frost put his hand down into the empty space where the floorboard had been. “It’s been almost thirteen years,” he said. “And hair gets thin and goes gray, in thirteen years. But yes, that’s right. It’s Jack.” He straightened up. The hand that had been in the hole in the floor was holding a large, sharp knife. “Now,” said the man Jack. “Now, boy. Timeto finish this.” Bod stared at him. It was as if Mr. Frost had been a coat or a hat the man had been wearing, that he had now discarded. The affable exterior had gone. The light glinted on the man’s spectacles, and on the blade ofthe knife. A voice called up to them from further down the stairs—Scarlett’s. “Mr. Frost? There’s someone knocking at thefront door. Should I get it?” The man Jack only glanced away for a moment, but Bod knew that the moment was all he had, and he Faded, as completely, as utterly as hecould. The man Jack looked back to where Bod had been, then stared around the room, puzzlement and rage competing on his face. He took a step further into the room, his head swinging from side to side like an old tiger scenting prey. “You’re here somewhere,” growled the man Jack.“Ican smell you!” Behind him, the little door to the attic bedroom slammed closed, and as he swung around he heard the key turn in thelock. The man Jack raised his voice. “It buys you moments, but it won’t stop me, boy,” he called through the locked door. Then added, simply, “We have unfinished business, you and I.” Bod threw himself down the stairs, bouncing into the walls, almost tumbling headlong in his rush to reach Scarlett. “Scarlett!” he said, when he saw her. “It’s him! Come on!” “It’s who? Whatare you talking about?” “Him! Frost. He’s Jack. He tried to kill me!” A bang! from above as the man Jack kicked at the door. “But.” Scarlett tried to make sense of what she was hearing,“But he’s nice.” “No,” said Bod, grabbing her hand and pulling her down thestairs, into the hallway. “No, he’s not.” Scarlett pulled open thefront door. “Ah. Good evening, young lady,” said the man at the door, looking down at her. “We are looking for Mr. Frost. I believe this is his neck of the woods.” He had silver-white hair, and he smelled ofcologne. “Are you friends of his?”sheasked. “Oh yes,” said a smaller man, standing just behind. He had a small black mustache and was the only one ofthe men to weara hat. “Certainly are,”said athird, a younger man, hugeand Nordic blond. “Every man Jack of us,”said the last of the men, wideand bull-like, with a massive head. His skinwas brown. “He. Mr. Frost. He had to go out,” she said. “But his car’s here,” said the white-haired man, as the blond one said, “Who are you, anyway?” “He’safriend ofmymum’s,”said Scarlett. She could see Bod, now, on the other side ofthe group ofmen, gesturing frantically to her to leavethe men and followhim. She said, as breezily as she could, “He just popped out. Popped out for a newspaper. From thecorner shop down there.”And sheclosed the door behind her, stepped around the men and began to walk away. “Whereare you going?”asked the manwith the mustache. “I’ve got a bus to catch,”she said. Scarlett walked up the hill towards the bus-stop and the graveyard, and did not, resolutely did not, look back. Bod walked beside her. Even to Scarlett he seemed shadowy in the deepening dusk, like something that was almost not there, a shimmer of heat haze, askittery leafthat fora moment had seemed to bea boy. “Walk faster,” said Bod. “They’re all looking at you. But don’t run.” “Who arethey?”asked Scarlett, quietly. “I don’t know,”said Bod. “But they all felt weird. Like theyweren’t properly people. I want to go back and listen to them.” “Of course they’re people,” said Scarlett, and she walked up the hill as fast as she could without actually running, no longer certain that Bod was by her side. The four men stood at the door to number 33. “I don’t like this,” said the big man with the bull-neck. “You don’t like this, Mr. Tar?” said the white-haired man. “None of us like it. Allwrong. Everything’s goingwrong.” “Krakow’s gone. They aren’t answering. And after Melbourneand Vancouver…”said the man with the mustache. “For all we know, we fourareallthat’s left.” “Quiet, please, Mr. Ketch,”said the whitehaired man.“I’mthinking.” “Sorry, sir,”said Mr. Ketch, and he patted his mustache with one gloved finger, looked up the hilland down again, and whistled through his teeth. “I think…we should go after her,” said the bull-necked man, Mr. Tar. “I think you people should listen to me,” said the white-haired man. “I said quiet. And what I meant was, quiet.” “Sorry, Mr. Dandy,”said the blond man. Theywere quiet. In the silence, they could hear thumping soundscoming fromhigh insidethe house. “I’m going in,” said Mr. Dandy. “Mr. Tar, you’re with me. Nimble and Ketch, get that girl. Bring her back.” “Dead or alive?” asked Mr. Ketch, with a smug smile. “Alive, you moron,” said Mr. Dandy. “I want to knowwhatshe knows.” “Maybe she’s one of them,” said Mr. Tar. “The ones who done for us in Vancouver and Melbourneand—” “Get her,”said Mr. Dandy. “Get her now.” The blond man and the hat-and-mustache hurried up the hill. Mr. Dandy and Mr. Tar stood outside the door to number 33. “Forceit,”said Mr. Dandy. Mr. Tar put his shoulder against the door and began to lean his weight on it. “It’s reinforced,” hesaid.“Protected.” Mr. Dandy said, “Nothing one Jack can do that another can’t fix.” He pulled off his glove, put his hand against the door, muttered something in a language older than English. “Now try it,” he said. Tar leaned against the door, grunted and pushed. This time the lock gave and the door swung open. “Nicely done,”said Mr. Dandy. There was a crashing noise fromfar above them, up at thetop ofthe house. The man Jack met them halfway down the stairs. Mr. Dandy grinned at him, without any humor but with perfect teeth.“Hello, Jack Frost,” hesaid.“I thought you had the boy.” “I did,”said the man Jack.“He gotaway.” “Again?” Jack Dandy’s smile grew wider and chillier and even more perfect. “Once is a mistake, Jack. Twiceisa disaster.” “We’ll get him,” said the man Jack. “This ends tonight.” “It had better,”said Mr. Dandy. “He’ll be in the graveyard,” said the man Jack. Thethree men hurried down thestairs. The man Jack sniffed the air. He had the scent of the boy in his nostrils, a prickle at the nape of his neck. He felt like all this had happened years before. He paused, pulled on his long black coat, which had hung in the front hall, incongruous beside Mr. Frost’s tweed jacketand fawnmackintosh. The front door was open to the street, and the daylight had almost gone. This time the man Jack knew exactly which way to go. He did not pause, but simply walked out of the house, and hurried up the hilltowards the graveyard. The graveyard gates were closed when Scarlett reached them. Scarlett pulled at themdesperately, but the gates were padlocked for the night.And thenBod was beside her. “Do you knowwherethe key is?”sheasked. “We don’t have time,” said Bod. He pushed close to the metal bars. “Put your arms around me.” “Youwhat?” “Just put your arms around me and close youreyes.” Scarlett stared at Bod, as if daring him to try something, then she held him tightly and screwed hereyes shut.“Okay.” Bod leaned against the bars of the graveyard gates. They counted as part of the graveyard, and he hoped that his Freedomof the Graveyard might just, possibly, just this time, cover other people too. And then, like smoke, Bod slipped though the bars. “You can open youreyes,” hesaid. She did. “Howdid you do that?” “This is my home,” he said. “I can do things here.” The sound of shoes slapping against the pavement, and two men were on the other side ofthe gates, rattling them, pulling at them. “Hul-lo,” said Jack Ketch, with a twitch of his mustache, and he smiled at Scarlett through the bars like a rabbit with a secret. He had a black silk cord tied around his left forearm, and now he was tugging at it with his gloved right hand. He pulled it off his armand into his hand, testing it, running it from hand to hand as if he wasabout to makeacat’scradle.“Come on out, girlie. It’sallright. No one’s going to hurt you.” “We just need you to answer some questions,”said the big blond man, Mr. Nimble. “We’re on official business.”(He lied. There was nothing official about the Jacks of All Trades, although there had been Jacks in governments and in policeforcesand in other places besides.) “Run!” said Bod to Scarlett, pulling at her hand. Sheran. “Did you see that?” said the Jack they called Ketch. “What?” “I sawsomebodywith her. Aboy.” “The boy?”asked theJack called Nimble. “How would I know? Here. Give me a hand up.” The bigger man put his hands out, linked them to make a step, and Jack Ketch’s black-clad foot went into it. Lifted up, he scrambled onto the top of the gates and jumped down to the drive, landing on allfours likeafrog. He stood up, said, “Find another way in. I’mgoing after them.” And he sprinted off up the winding path that led into the graveyard. Scarlett said, “Just tell me what we’re doing.” Bod was walking fast through the twilit graveyard, but he was not running, not yet. “Howdo youmean?” “I think that manwanted to killme. Did you see howhe was playingwith that black cord?” “I’m sure he does. That man Jack—your Mister Frost—he was going to killme. He’s got a knife.” “He’s not my Mister Frost. Well, I suppose heis, sort of. Sorry. Whereare we going?” “First we put you somewhere safe. Then I dealwith them.” All around Bod, the inhabitants of the graveyard were waking and gathering, worried and alarmed. “Bod?” said Caius Pompeius. “What is happening?” “Bad people,”said Bod. “Can our lot keep an eye on them? Let me know where they are at alltimes. We haveto hide Scarlett. Any ideas?” “The chapel crypt?” said Thackeray Porringer. “First placethey’lllook.” “Who are you talking to?” asked Scarlett, staring at Bod as if he had gone mad. Caius Pompeius said,“Insidethe hill?” Bod thought. “Yes. Good call. Scarlett, do you remember the place where we found the Indigo Man?” “Kind of. A dark place. I remember there wasn’tanything to bescared of.” “I’mtaking you up there.” They hurried up the path. Scarlett could tell that Bod was talking to people as he went, but could only hear his side of the conversation. It was like hearing someone talk on a phone. Which reminded her… “My mum’s going to go spare,” she said. “I’mdead.” “No,”said Bod. “You’re not. Not yet. Not fora long time.” Then, to someone else, “Two of them, now. Together? Okay.” They reached the Frobisher mausoleum. “The entrance is behind the bottomcoffin on the left,” Bod said. “If you hear anyone coming and it’s not me, go straight down to the very bottom…do you haveanything to makelight?” “Yeah. Alittle LEDthing onmy keyring.” “Good.” He pulled open the door to the mausoleum. “And becareful. Don’t trip oranything.” “Whereare you going?”asked Scarlett. “This is my home,”said Bod. “I’mgoing to protect it.” Scarlett squeezed the LED keyring, and went down on her hands and knees. The space behind the coffin was tight, but she went though the hole into the hilland pulled the coffin back as best she could. In the dim LED light she could see stone steps. She stood upright, and, hand on the wall, walked down three steps, then stopped and sat, hoping that Bod knew what he was doing,and she waited. Bod said,“Wherearethey now?” His father said, “One fellow’s up by the Egyptian Walk, looking for you. His friend’s waiting down by the alley wall. Three others are on their way over, climbing up the alley wall on allthe big bins.” “I wish Silas was here. He’d make short work ofthem. Or Miss Lupescu.” “You don’t need them,” said Mr. Owens encouragingly. “Where’s Mum?” “Down by thealleywall.” “Tell her I’ve hidden Scarlett in the back of the Frobisher’s place.Ask her to keep an eye on her ifanything happens to me.” Bod ran through the darkened graveyard. The only way into the northwest part of the graveyard was through the Egyptian Walk. And to get there he would have to go past the little man with the black silk rope. A man who was looking for him,and who wanted himdead… He was Nobody Owens, he told himself. He was a part of the graveyard. He would be fine. He nearly missed the little man—the Jack called Ketch—as he hurried into the Egyptian Walk. The manwasalmost part oftheshadows. Bod breathed in, Faded as deeply as he could Fade, and moved past the man like dust blown on an evening breeze. He walked down the green-hung length of the Egyptian Walk, and then, with an effort of will, he became as obvious as he could, and kicked ata pebble. Hesawtheshadowby thearch detach itself and comeafter him,almostas silentas the dead. Bod pushed through the trailing ivy that blocked the Walk and into the northwest corner of the graveyard. He would have to time this just right, he knew. Too fast and the man would lose him, yet if he moved too slowly a black silk rope would wrap itself around his neck, taking his breathwith itand all his tomorrows. He pushed noisily through the tangle of ivy, disturbing one of the graveyard’s many foxes, which sprinted off into the undergrowth. It was a jungle here, of fallen headstones and headless statues, of trees and holly bushes, of slippery piles of half-rotted fallen leaves, but it was a jungle that Bod had explored since he had been old enough to walk and to wander. Now he was hurrying carefully, stepping from root-tangle of ivy to stone to earth, confident that this was his graveyard. He could feel the graveyard itself trying to hide him, to protect him, to make himvanish, and hefought it, worked to beseen. HesawNehemiahTrot,and hesitated. “Hola, young Bod!”called the poet. “I hear thatexcitement is the master ofthe hour, that you fling yourself through these dominions like a comet across the firmament. What’s the word, good Bod?” “Stand there,” said Bod. “Just where you are. Look back the way Icame. Tellme when he comesclose.” Bod skirted the ivy-covered Carstairs grave, and then he stood, panting as if out of breath, with his back to his pursuer. And he waited. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt likeasmallforever. (“He’s here, lad,” said Nehemiah Trot. “About twenty paces behind you.”) The Jack called Ketch saw the boy in front of him. He pulled his black silk cord tight between his hands. It had been stretched around many necks, over the years, and had been the end ofevery one of the people it had embraced. It was very soft and very strong and invisible to X-rays. Ketch’s mustache moved, but nothing else. He had his prey in his sight, and did not want to startle it. He began to advance, silent as a shadow. The boy straightened up. Jack Ketch darted forward, his polished black shoesalmostsoundless on theleaf-mold. (“Hecomes, lad!”called NehemiahTrot.) The boy turned around, and Jack Ketch madealeap towards him— And Mr. Ketch felt the world tumbling away beneath him. He grabbed at the world with one gloved hand, but tumbled down and down into the old grave, all of twenty feet, before crash-landing on Mr. Carstairs’s coffin, splintering the coffin-lid and his ankle at the same time. “That’s one,”said Bod, calmly, although he feltanything butcalm. “Elegantly accomplished,” said Nehemiah Trot. “I shall compose an Ode. Would you like to stay and listen?” “No time,”said Bod. “Where are the other men?” Euphemia Horsfallsaid, “Three of themare on thesouthwestern path, heading up the hill.” Tom Sands said, “And there’s another. Right now he’s just walking around the chapel. He’s the one who’s been all around the graveyard for the last month. But there’s something differentabout him.” Bod said, “Keep an eye on the man in with Mr. Carstairs—and please apologize to Mr. Carstairs for me…” He ducked under a pine-branch and loped around the hill, on the paths when it suited him, off the paths, jumping from monument to stone, when that was quicker. He passed the old apple tree. “There’s four of them, still,” said a tart female voice. “Four of them, and all killers. And the rest of themwon’t all ofthemfallinto open graves to oblige you.” “Hullo, Liza. I thought you were angry at me.” “I might be and I mightn’t,” she said, nothing more than a voice. “But I’mnot going to let themcut you up, nohow.” “Then trip them for me, trip them and confuse themand slow themdown. Can you do that?” “While you runs away again? Nobody Owens, why don’t you just Fade, and hide in your mam’s nice tomb, where they’ll never find you, and soon enough Silas will be back to take care ofthem—” “Maybe he willand maybe he won’t,”said Bod.“I’llmeet you by thelightning tree.” “I am still not talking to you,” said Liza Hempstock’s voice, proud as a peacock and pertasasparrow. “Actually, you are. I mean, we’re talking right now.” “Only during this emergency. After that, not a word.” Bod made for the lightning tree, an oak that had been burned by lightning twenty years ago and nowwas nothingmorethan a blackened limb clutching at thesky. He had an idea. It was not fully formed. It depended on whether he could remember Miss Lupescu’s lessons, remember everything he had seen and heard asachild. It was harder to find the grave than he had expected, even looking for it, but hefound it—an ugly grave tipped at an odd angle, its stone topped by a headless, waterstained angel that had the appearance of a gargantuan fungus. It was only when he touched it, and felt the chill, that he knewit forcertain. Hesat down on the grave, forced himselfto becomeentirely visible. “You’ve not Faded,” said Liza’s voice. “Anyonecould find you.” “Good,” said Bod. “I want them to find me.” “More know Jack Fool than Jack Fool knows,”said Liza. The moon was rising. It was huge now and low in the sky. Bod wondered if it would be overdoing it if he began to whistle. “Ican see him!” A man ran towards him, tripping and stumbling, two other men close behind. Bod was aware of the dead clustered around them, watching the scene, but he forced himself to ignore them. He made himself more comfortable on the ugly grave. He felt like the bait in atrap,and it was nota good feeling. The bull-like man was the first to reach the grave, followed closely by the manwith the white hair who had done all the talking, and the tall blond man. Bod stayed where he was. The man with the white hair said, “Ah. The elusive Dorian boy, I presume. Astonishing. There’s our Jack Frost hunting the whole world over, and here you are, just where he left you, thirteen yearsago.” Bod said,“Thatman killed my family.” “Indeed he did.” “Why?” “Does it matter? You’re never going to tell anyone.” “Then it’s no skin off your noseto tellme, is it?” The white-haired man barked a laugh. “Hah! Funny boy. What I want to know is, how have you lived in a graveyard for thirteen years withoutanyonecatchingwise?” “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.” The bull-necked man said, “You don’t talk to Mr. Dandy like that, little snot! I split you, I will—” The white-haired man took another step closer to the grave. “Hush, Jack Tar. All right. An answer foran answer. We—my friendsand I —are members of a fraternal organization, known as the Jacks of All Trades, or the Knaves, or by other names. We go back an extremely long way. We know…we remember things that most people have forgotten. The Old Knowledge.” Bod said, “Magic. You know a little magic.” The man nodded agreeably. “If youwant to call it that. But it is a very specific sort of magic. There’s a magic you take fromdeath. Something leaves the world, something elsecomes into it.” “You killed my family for—for what? For magic powers? That’s ridiculous.” “No. We killed you for protection. Long time ago, one of our people—this was back in Egypt, in pyramid days—he foresaw that one day, there would be a child born who would walk the borderland between the living and the dead. That if this child grew to adulthood it would mean the end of our order and all we stand for. We had peoplecasting nativities before London was a village, we had your family in our sights before New Amsterdam became New York. And we sent what we thought was the best and the sharpest and the most dangerous of all the Jacks to deal with you. To do it properly, so we could take all the bad Juju and make it work for us instead, and keep everything ticketyboo for another five thousand years. Only he didn’t.” Bod looked at thethree men. “So whereis he? Why isn’t he here?” The blond man said, “We can take care of you. He’s got a good nose on him, has our Jack Frost. He’s on the trail of your little girlfriend. Can’t leave any witnesses. Not to something like this.” Bod leaned forward, dug his hands into the wild weed-grass that grewon the unkempt grave. “Comeand getme,”wasallthat hesaid. The blond man grinned, the bull-necked man lunged, and—yes—even Mr. Dandy took severalsteps forward. Bod pushed his fingers as deeply as he could into the grass, and he pulled his lips back from his teeth, and he said three words in a language that was already ancient before the Indigo Manwas born. “Skagh!Thegh!Khavagah!” He opened the ghoul-gate. The grave swung up like a trapdoor. In the deep hole below the door Bod could see stars, a darkness filled with glimmering lights. The bull-man, Mr. Tar, at the edge of the hole, could not stop, and stumbled, surprised, into the darkness. Mr. Nimble jumped toward Bod, his arms extended, leaping over the hole. Bod watched as the man stopped in the air at the zenith of his spring, and hung there for a moment, before he was sucked through the ghoul-gate, down and down. Mr. Dandy stood at the edge of the ghoulgate, on a lip of stone and looked down into the darkness beneath. Then he raised his eyes to Bod,and thin-lipped, hesmiled. “I don’t know what you just did,”said Mr. Dandy.“But it didn’t work.”He pulled his gloved hand out of his pocket, holding a gun, pointed directly at Bod. “I should have just done this thirteen years ago,”said Mr. Dandy. “You can’t trust other people. If it’s important, you have to do it yourself.” A desert wind came up from the open ghoul-gate, hot and dry, with grit in it. Bod said, “There’s a desert down there. If you look for water, you should find some. There’s things to eat if you look hard, but don’t antagonize the night-gaunts. Avoid Ghûlheim. The ghouls might wipe your memories and make you into one of them, or they might wait until you’ve rotted down, and then eat you. Either way, you can do better.” The gun barrel did not waver. Mr. Dandy said,“Why are you tellingmethis?” Bod pointed across the graveyard. “Because of them,” he said, and as he said it, as Mr. Dandy glanced away, only for a moment, Bod Faded. Mr. Dandy’s eyes flickered away and back, but Bod was no longer by the broken statue. From deep in the hole something called, likethelonelywail ofa night bird. Mr. Dandy looked around, his forehead a slash, his body a mass of indecision and rage. “Where are you?” he growled. “The Deuce take you! Where are you?” He thought he heard a voice say, “Ghoulgates are made to be opened and then closed again. You can’t leave themopen. They want to close.” The lip of the hole shuddered and shook. Mr. Dandy had been in an earthquake once, years before, in Bangladesh. It felt like that: the earth juddered, and Mr. Dandy fell, would have fallen into the darkness, but he caught hold ofthe fallen headstone, threw his arms about it and locked on. He did not know what was beneath him, only that he had no wish to find out. The earth shook, and he felt the headstone begin to shift, beneath his weight. He looked up. The boy was there, looking down at himcuriously. “I’m going to let the gate close now,” he said. “I think if you keep holding onto that thing, it might close on you, and crush you, or it might just absorb you and make you into part of the gate. Don’t know. But I’mgiving you a chance, morethan you ever gave my family.” Aragged judder. Mr. Dandy looked up into the boy’s grey eyes, and heswore. Then he said, “You can’t ever escape us. We’re the Jacks of AllTrades. We’reeverywhere. It’s not over.” “It is for you,”said Bod. “The end of your people and all you stand for. Like your man in Egypt predicted. You didn’t kill me. You were everywhere. Now it’s all over.” Then Bod smiled. “That’s what Silas is doing, isn’t it? That’s where heis.” Mr. Dandy’s face confirmed everything that Bod had suspected. And what Mr. Dandy might have said to that, Bod would never know, because the man let go ofthe headstone and tumbled slowly down into the open ghoul-gate. Bod said, “Wegh Khârados.” The ghoul-gate was a grave once again, nothingmore. Something was tugging at his sleeve. Fortinbras Bartleby looked up at him. “Bod! The man by thechapel. He’s going up the hill.” The man Jack followed his nose. He had left the others, not least because the stink of Jack Dandy’s cologne made finding anything subtler impossible. He could not find the boy by scent. Not here. The boy smelled likethe graveyard. But the girlsmelled like her mother’s house, like the dab of perfume she had touched to her neck before school that morning. She smelled like a victimtoo, likefear-sweat, thoughtJack, like his quarry. And wherever she was, the boy would be too, sooner or later. His hand closed around the handle of his knifeand he walked up the hill. He wasalmostat the top of the hill when it occurred to him—a hunch he knew was a truth—that Jack Dandy and the rest of them were gone. Good, he thought. There’s always room at the top . The man Jack’s own rise through the Order had slowed and stopped after he had failed to killall ofthe Dorian family. It wasas if he had no longer been trusted. Now, soon,everythingwould change. At the top of the hill the man Jack lost the girl’s scent. He knewshe was near. He retraced his steps, almost casually, caught her perfume again about fifty feet away, beside a small mausoleum with a closed metal gateway. He pulled on the gate and it swung wide. Her scent was strong now. He could smell that she was afraid. He pulled down the coffins, one by one, from their shelves, and let themclatter onto the ground, shattering the old wood, spilling their contents onto the mausoleum floor. No, she was not hiding in any ofthose… Thenwhere? Heexamined the wall. Solid. He went down on his hands and knees, pulled the last coffin out and reached back. His hand found an opening… “Scarlett,” he called, trying to remember howhe would havecalled her name when he was Mr. Frost, but he could noteven find that part of himself any longer: he was the man Jack now, and that was all he was. On his hands and knees hecrawled through the holein the wall. When Scarlett heard the crashing noise from above she made her way, carefully, down thesteps, her left hand touching the wall, her right hand holding the little LED keyring, which cast just enough light to allow her to see where she was placing her feet. She made it to the bottomof the stone steps and edged back in the open chamber, her heart thumping. She was scared: scared of nice Mr. Frost and his scarier friends;scared ofthis roomand its memories; even, ifshe were honest, a little afraid of Bod. He was no longer a quiet boy with a mystery, a link to her childhood. He was something different, something not quite human. She thought, I wonder what Mum’s thinking right now. She’ll be phoning Mr. Frost’s house over and over to find out when I’m going to get back. She thought, If I get out of this alive, I’m going to force her to get me a phone. It’s ridiculous. I’m the only person in my year who doesn’t have her own phone, practically. Shethought, I miss my mum. She had not thought anyone human could move that silently through the dark, but a gloved hand closed upon her mouth, and a voice that was only barely recognizableas Mr. Frost’s said, without emotion, “Do anything clever—do anything at all—and I willcut your throat. Nod if you understand me.” Scarlett nodded. Bod saw the chaos on the floor of the Frobisher mausoleum, the fallen coffins with their contents scattered across over the aisle. There were many Frobishers and Frobyshers, and several Pettyfers, all in various states of upset and consternation. “Heisalready down there,”said Ephraim. “Thank you,” said Bod. He clambered through the hole into the inside of the hill, and he went down thestairs. Bod saw as the dead see: he saw the steps, and he saw the chamber at the bottom. And when he got halfway down the steps, he saw the man Jack holding Scarlett. He had her armtwisted up behind her back, and a large, wicked, boning-knifeat her neck. The man Jack looked up in the darkness. “Hello, boy,” hesaid. Bod said nothing. He concentrated on his Fade, took another step. “You think I can’t see you,” said the man Jack. “And you’reright. Ican’t. Not really. But I can smell your fear. And I can hear you move and hear you breathe. And now that I know about your clever vanishing trick, I can feel you. Say something now. Say it so I can hear it, or I start to cut little pieces out of the young lady. Do you understand me?” “Yes,” said Bod, his voice echoing in the chamber room.“I understand.” “Good,” said Jack. “Now, come here. Let’s havealittlechat.” Bod began to walk down the steps. He concentrated on the Fear, on raising the level of panic in the room, of making the Terror something tangible…. “Stop that,” said the man Jack. “Whatever it is you’re doing. Don’t do it.” Bod let it go. “You think,” said Jack, “that you can do your little magics on me? Do you know what I am, boy?” Bod said, “You’re a Jack. You killed my family. And you should have killed me.” Jack raised an eyebrow. He said, “I should have killed you?” “Oh yes. The old man said that if you let me grow to adulthood your Order would be destroyed. I did. You failed and you lost.” “My order goes back before Babylon. Nothing can harmit.” “They didn’t tell you, did they?” Bod was standing five paces from the man Jack. “Those four. They were the last of the Jacks. What was it…Krakow and Vancouver and Melbourne. All gone.” Scarlett said, “Please, Bod. Make him let go ofme.” “Don’t worry,” said Bod, with a calm he did not feel. Hesaid to Jack, “There’s no point in hurting her. There’s no point in killing me. Don’t you understand? There isn’t even an order of Jacks ofAllTrades. Notanymore.” Jack nodded thoughtfully. “If this is true,” said Jack,“and ifIamnowaJack-all-alone, then I havean excellent reason for killing you both.” Bod said nothing. “Pride,” said the man Jack. “Pride in my work. Pride in finishing what I began.”And then hesaid,“Whatare you doing?” Bod’s hair prickled. Hecould feelasmoketendril presence twining through the room. He said, “It’s not me. It’s the Sleer. It guards the treasurethat’s buried here.” “Don’t lie.” Scarlettsaid,“He’s not lying. It’s true.” Jack said, “True? Buried treasure? Don’t make me—” THE SLEER GUARDS THE TREASURE FOR THE MASTER. “Who said that?” asked the man Jack, looking around. “You heard it?”asked Bod, puzzled. “I heard it,”said Jack.“Yes.” Scarlettsaid,“I didn’t hearanything.” The man Jack said, “What is this place, boy? Whereare we?” Before Bod could speak, the Sleer’s voice spoke, echoing through the chamber, THIS IS THE PLACE OF THE TREASURE. THIS IS THE PLACE OF POWER. THIS IS WHERE THE SLEER GUARDS AND WAITSFORITSMASTERTORETURN. Bod said,“Jack?” The man Jack tilted his head on one side. He said, “It’s good to hear my name in your mouth, boy. If you’d used it before, I could have found you sooner.” “Jack. What was my real name? What did my family callme?” “Why should thatmatter to you now?” Bod said, “The Sleer told me to find my name. What was it?” Jack said, “Let me see. Was it Peter? Or Paul? Or Roderick—you look like a Roderick. Maybe you were a Stephen…” He was playing with the boy. “Youmight as well tellme. You’re going to kill me anyway,” said Bod. Jack shrugged and nodded in the darkness,as ifto say obviously. “I want you to let the girl go,” said Bod. “Let Scarlett go.” Jack peered into the darkness, then said, “That’san altar stone, isn’t it?” “I supposeso.” “And a knife? And acup? And a brooch?” He was smiling now, in the darkness. Bod could see it on his face:a strange, delighted smile that seemed out of place on that face, a smile of discovery and of understanding. Scarlett couldn’t see anything but a blackness that sometimes erupted in flashes inside her eyeballs, but she could hear the delight in Jack’s voice. The man Jack said, “So the Brotherhood is over and the Convocation is at an end. And yet, if there are no more Jacks ofAll Trades but me, what does it matter? There can be a new Brotherhood, more powerfulthan thelast.” POWER,echoed the Sleer. “This is perfect,”said the man Jack. “Look at us. We are in a place for which my people have hunted for thousands of years, with everything necessary for theceremonywaiting for us. It makes you believe in Providence, doesn’t it? Or in the massed prayers ofall the Jacks who have gone before us, that at our lowest ebb, we are given this.” Bod could feel the Sleer listening to Jack’s words, could feel a low susurrus of excitement building in thechamber. The man Jack said, “I am going to put out my hand, boy. Scarlett, my knife is still at your throat—do not try to run when I let go of you. Boy, youwill place the cup and the knife and the brooch inmy hand.” THETREASUREOF THESLEER, whispered the triple voice. IT ALWAYS COMES BACK. WE GUARD IT FORTHEMASTER. Bod bent down, took the objects from the altar stone, put themin Jack’s open gloved hand. Jack grinned. “Scarlett. Iamgoing to release you. When I take the knife away, I want you to lie, facedown, on the ground, with your hands behind your head. Move or try anything, and I will kill you painfully. Do you understand?” She gulped. Her mouth was dry, but she took one shaky step forward. Her right arm, which had been twisted up to the small of her back, was now numb, and she felt only pins and needles in her shoulder. She lay down, hercheek resting on the packed earth. We are dead, she thought, and it was not even tinged with emotion. It felt as if she were watching something happening to other people, a surreal drama that had turned into a game of Murder in the Dark. She heard the noise ofJack taking hold ofBod… Bod’s voicesaid,“Let her go.” The man Jack’s voice:“If you do everything I say, I won’t kill her. I won’teven hurt her.” “I don’t believe you. Shecan identify you.” “No.” Theadult voiceseemed certain. “She can’t.” And then it said, “Ten thousand years, and the knife is still sharp…” The admiration in the voice was palpable. “Boy. Go and kneel on thataltar stone. Hands behind your back. Now.” IT HASBEEN SO LONG, said the Sleer, but all Scarlett heard was a slithering noise, as if of enormouscoils winding around thechamber. But the man Jack heard. “You want to know your name, boy, before I spill your blood on thestone?” Bod felt the cold of the knife at his neck. And in that moment, Bod understood. Everything slowed. Everything came into focus. “I know my name,” he said. “I’m Nobody Owens. That’s who Iam.”And, kneeling on thecold altar stone, itallseemed very simple. “Sleer,” he said to the chamber. “Do you stillwanta master?” THE SLEER GUARDS THE TREASURE UNTIL THEMASTERRETURNS. “Well,”said Bod, “haven’t you finally found the master you’ve been looking for?” He could sense the Sleer writhing and expanding, hear a noise like the scratching of a thousand dead twigs, as if something huge and muscular were snaking its way around the inside of the chamber. And then, for the first time, Bod saw the Sleer. Afterwards, he was never able to describe what he had seen:something huge, yes; something with the body of an enormous snake, but with the head ofa what…? There were three of them: three heads, three necks. The faces were dead, as if someone had constructed dolls from parts of the corpses of humans and of animals. The faces were covered in purple patterns, tattooed in swirls of indigo, turning the dead faces into strange, expressive monstrous things. The faces of the Sleer nuzzled the air about Jack tentatively, as if they wanted to stroke or caress him. “What’s happening?” said Jack. “What is it? What does it do?” “It’s called the Sleer. It guards the place. It needsa master to tellit what to do,”said Bod. Jack hefted the flint knife in his hand. “Beautiful,” he said to himself. And then, “Of course. It’s been waiting for me. And yes. Obviously, I am its newmaster.” The Sleer encircled the interior of the chamber. MASTER? it said, like a dog who had waited patiently for too long. It said MASTER? again, as if testing the word to see how it tasted. And it tasted good, so it said one moretime, with asigh of delightand oflonging, MASTER… Jack looked down at Bod. “Thirteen years ago I missed you,and now, nowwearereunited. The end of one order. The beginning ofanother. Good-bye, boy.” With one hand he lowered the knifeto the boy’s throat. The other hand held the goblet. “Bod,” said Bod. “Not Boy. Bod.” He raised his voice. “Sleer,” he said. “What will you do with your newmaster?” The Sleer sighed. WE WILL PROTECT HIM UNTIL THE END OF TIME. THE SLEER WILL HOLD HIM IN ITS COILS FOREVER AND NEVER LET HIM ENDURETHEDANGERSOF THEWORLD. “Then protect him,”said Bod.“Now.” “I amyour master. You will obeyme,”said the man Jack. THE SLEER HAS WAITED SO LONG, said the triple voice of the Sleer, triumphantly. SO LONGA TIME. It began to loop its huge, lazy coils around the man Jack. The man Jack dropped the goblet. Now he had a knife in each hand—a flint knife, and a knife with a black bone handle—and he said, “Get back! Keep away fromme! Don’t get any closer!” He slashed out with the knife, as the Sleer twined about him, and in a huge crushing movement,engulfed the man Jack in itscoils. Bod ran over to Scarlett, and helped her up. “I want to see,” she said. “I want to see what’s happening.” She pulled out her LED light, and turned it on… What Scarlett saw was not what Bod saw. She did not see the Sleer, and that was a mercy. She saw the man Jack, though. She saw the fear on his face, which made himlook like Mr. Frost had once looked. In his terror he was once more the nice man who had driven her home. He was floating in the air, five, then ten feet above the ground, slashingwildly at the air with two knives, trying to stab something she could not see, in a display that was obviously having no effect. Mr. Frost, the man Jack, whoever he was, was forced away fromthem, pulled back until he was spread-eagled, arms and legs wide and flailing,against theside ofthechamber wall. It seemed to Scarlett that Mr. Frost was being forced through the wall, pulled into the rock, was being swallowed up by it. Now there was nothing visible but a face. He was shouting wildly, desperately, shouting at Bod to call the thing off, to save him, please, please…and then the man’s face was pulled through the wall, and the voice was silenced. Bod walked back to the altar stone. He picked up thestone knife, and the goblet, and the brooch, from the ground and he replaced themwhere they belonged. He left the black metal knife whereit fell. Scarlett said, “I thought you said the Sleer couldn’t hurt people. I thoughtall itcould do was frighten us.” “Yes,”said Bod. “But it wanted a master to protect. It told meso.” Scarlett said, “You mean you knew. You knew that would happen…” “Yes. I hoped it would.” He helped her up the steps and out into the chaos of the Frobisher mausoleum. “I’ll need to clean this all up,” said Bod, casually. Scarlett tried not to look at thethings on thefloor. They stepped out into the graveyard. Scarlett said, dully, once more, “You knew that would happen.” This time Bod said nothing. She looked at himas if unsure of what she was looking at. “So you knew. That the Sleer would take him. Was that why you hid me down there? Was it? What was I, then, bait?” Bod said, “It wasn’t like that.” Then he said, “We’re stillalive, aren’t we? And he won’t trouble usany longer.” Scarlett could feel the anger and the rage welling up inside her. The fear had gone, and now all she was left with was the need to lash out, to shout. She fought the urge. “And what about those other men? Did you killthemtoo?” “I didn’t killanyone.” “Thenwherearethey?” “One of them’s at the bottom of a deep grave, with a broken ankle. The other three are, well, they’realongway away.” “You didn’t killthem?” “Of course not.” Bod said, “This is my home. Why would I want them hanging around here for the rest of time?” Then, “Look, it’s okay. I dealt with them.” Scarlett took a step away from him. She said, “You aren’t a person. People don’t behave like you. You’re as bad as he was. You’re a monster.” Bod felt the blood drain fromhis face.After everything he had been through that night, after everything that had happened, this was somehow the hardest thing to take. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t likethat.” Scarlett began to back away fromBod. She took one step, two steps, and was about to flee, to turn and run madly, desperately away through the moonlit graveyard, when a tall man in black velvet put a hand on her arm, and said, “I am afraid you do Bod an injustice. But youwill undoubtedly be happier if you remember none of this. So let us walk together, you and I, and discuss what has happened to you over the last few days, and what it might be wise for you to remember, and what it might be better for you to forget.” Bod said, “Silas. You can’t. You can’t make her forgetme.” “It will be safest that way,” said Silas, simply.“For her, if not forall of us.” “Don’t—don’t I get a say in this?” asked Scarlett. Silas said nothing. Bod took a step towards Scarlett, said, “Look, it’s over. I know it was hard. But. We did it. You and me. We beat them.” Her head was shaking gently, as if she was denying everything she saw, everything she was experiencing. She looked up at Silas, and said only, “I want to go home. Please?” Silas nodded. He walked, with the girl, down the path that would eventually lead themboth out of the graveyard. Bod stared at Scarlett as she walked away, hoping that she would turn and look back, that she would smile or just look at him without fear in her eyes. But Scarlett did not turn. Shesimplywalked away. Bod went back into the mausoleum. He had to do something, so he began to pick up the fallen coffins, to remove the debris, and to replace the tangle of tumbled bones into the coffins, disappointed to discover that none of the many Frobishers and Frobyshers and Pettyfers gathered around to watch seemed to be quite certain whose bones belonged in which container. A man brought Scarlett home. Later, Scarlett’s mother could not remember quite what he had told her, although disappointingly, she had learned that that nice Jay Frost had unavoidably been forced to leavetown. The man talked with them, in the kitchen, about their livesand their dreams, and by theend of the conversation Scarlett’s mother had somehowdecided that theywould bereturning to Glasgow: Scarlett would be happy to be near her father,and to see her old friendsagain. Silas left the girl and her mother talking in the kitchen, discussing the challenges of moving back to Scotland, with Noona promising to buy Scarlett a phone of her own. They barely remembered that Silas had ever been there, whichwas the way heliked it. Silas returned to the graveyard and found Bod sitting in the amphitheater by the obelisk, his faceset. “Howis she?” “I took her memories,” said Silas. “They willreturn to Glasgow. She has friends there.” “Howcould youmake her forgetme?” Silas said, “People want to forget the impossible. Itmakes their world safer.” Bod said,“I liked her.” “I’msorry.” Bod tried to smile, but he could not find a smile inside himself. “The men…they spoke about trouble they were having in Krakow and Melbourne and Vancouver. That was you, wasn’t it?” “I was notalone,”said Silas. “Miss Lupescu?” said Bod. Then, seeing the expression on his guardian’s face, “Is she all right?” Silas shook his head, and for a moment his face was terrible for Bod to behold. “She fought bravely. Shefought for you, Bod.” Bod said, “The Sleer has the man Jack. Three of the others went through the ghoul-gate. There’s oneinjured but stillaliveat the bottomof the Carstairs grave.” Silas said, “He is the last of the Jacks. I will need to talk to him, then, beforesunrise.” The wind that blew across the graveyard was cold, but neither the man nor the boy seemed to feelit. Bod said,“She was scared ofme.” “Yes.” “But why? I saved her life. I’m not a bad person. And I’m just like her. I’m alive too.” Then hesaid,“Howdid Miss Lupescu fall?” “Bravely,” said Silas. “In battle. Protecting others.” Bod’s eyes were dark. “You could have brought her back here. Buried her here. Then I could havetalked to her.” Silas said,“That was notan option.” Bod felt his eyes stinging. He said, “She used to callme Nimini. No one willever callme thatagain.” Silas said, “Shall we go and get food for you?” “We?Youwant me to come with you? Out ofthe graveyard?” Silas said, “No one is trying to kill you. Not right now. There are a lot of things they are not going to be doing, not any longer. So, yes. What would you liketo eat?” Bod thought about saying that he wasn’t hungry, but that simply was not true. He felt a little sick, and a little lightheaded, and he was starving.“Pizza?” hesuggested. They walked through the graveyard, down to the gates. As Bod walked, he saw the inhabitants of the graveyard, but they let the boy and his guardian pass among them without a word. They onlywatched. Bod tried to thank them for their help, to call out his gratitude, but the dead said nothing. The lights of the pizza restaurant were bright, brighter than Bod was comfortable with. Heand Silas sat near the back, and Silas showed him how to use a menu, how to order food. (Silas ordered a glass of water and a smallsalad for himself, which he pushed around the bowl with his fork but neveractually put to his lips.) Bod ate his pizza with his fingers and enthusiasm. He did not ask questions. Silas would talk in his own time, or he would not. Silas said, “We had known ofthem…ofthe Jacks…for a long, long time, but we knew of themonly fromthe results of their activities. We suspected there was an organization behind it, but they hid too well. And then they came after you, and they killed your family. And, slowly, I wasableto followtheir trail.” “Is we you and Miss Lupescu?” asked Bod. “Usand others like us.” “The Honour Guard,”said Bod. “How did you hear about—?” said Silas. Then,“No matter. Little pitchers have big ears, as they say. Yes. The Honour Guard.” Silas picked up his glass of water. He put the water glass to his lips, moistened them, then put it down on the polished black tabletop. The surface of the tabletop was almost mirrored, and, had anyone cared to look, they might have observed that the tall man had no reflection. Bod said, “So. Now you’re done…done with allthis. Are you going to stay?” “I gave my word,” said Silas. “I am here until you are grown.” “I’mgrown,”said Bod. “No,”said Silas.“Almost. Not yet.” He put a ten-pound note down on the tabletop. “That girl,” said Bod. “Scarlett. Why was sheso scared ofme, Silas?” But Silas said nothing, and the question hung in the air as the man and the youth walked out of the bright pizza restaurant into the waiting darkness;and soon enough theywere swallowed by the night. CHAPTER EIGHT Leavings and Partings SOMETIMES HE COULD NO longer see the dead. It had begun a month or two previously, inApril or in May. At first it had only happened occasionally, but now it seemed to be happening moreand more. The world waschanging. Bod wandered over to the northwestern part of the graveyard, to the tangle of ivy that hung from a yew tree and half-blocked the far exit from the Egyptian Walk. He saw a red fox and a large black cat, with a white collar and paws, who sat conversing together in the middle of the path. At Bod’s approach they looked up, startled, then fled into the undergrowth, as if they had been caughtconspiring. Odd, he thought. He had known that fox since it had been a cub, and the cat had prowled through the graveyard for as long as Bod could remember. They knew him. If they were feeling friendly they even let himpet them. Bod started to slip through the ivy but he found his way blocked. He bent down, pushed the ivy out of the way and squeezed through. He walked down the path carefully, avoiding the ruts and holes until he reached the impressive stone that marked the final resting place of Alonso Tomás GarciaJones (1837–1905, Traveler Lay Down Thy Staf ). Bod had been coming down hereevery few days for several months:Alonso Jones had been all over the world, and he took great pleasure in telling Bod stories of his travels. He would begin by saying, “Nothing interesting has ever happened to me,” then would add, gloomily, “and I have told you all my tales,” and then his eyes would flash, and he would remark, “Except…did I ever tell you about…?” And whatever the next words were: “The time I had to escape fromMoscow?” or “The time I lost an Alaskan gold mine, worth a fortune?” or “The cattle stampede on the pampas?,” Bod would always shake his head and look expectant and soon enough his head would be swimming with tales of derring-do and high adventure, tales of beautiful maidens kissed, of evildoers shot with pistols or fought with swords, of bags of gold, of diamonds as big as the tip of your thumb, of lost cities and of vast mountains, of steam-trains and clipper ships, of pampas, oceans, deserts, tundra. Bod walked over to the pointed stone—tall, carved with upside-down torches,and he waited, but sawno one. Hecalled toAlonso Jones, even knocked on the side of the stone, but there was no response. Bod leaned down, to push his head into the grave and call his friend, but instead of his head slipping though the solid matter like a shadow passing through a deeper shadow, his head met the ground with a hard and painful thump. He called again, but saw nothing and no one, and, carefully, he made his way out of the tangle of greenery and of grey stonesand back to the path. Three magpies perched in a hawthorn treetook wing as he passed them. He did not seeanother soul until hereached the graveyard’s southwestern slope, where the familiar shape of Mother Slaughter, tiny in her high bonnet and her cloak, could be seen, walking between the gravestones, head bent, looking at wildflowers. “Here, boy!” she called. “There’s nasturshalums growing wild over here. Why don’t you pick some for me, and put themover bymy stone.” So Bod picked the red and yellow nasturtiums, and he carried themover to Mother Slaughter’s headstone, so cracked and worn and weathered thatallitsaid nowwas, LAUGH which had puzzled the local historians for over a hundred years. He put down the flowers in front ofthestone, respectfully. Mother Slaughter smiled at him. “You’re a good lad. I don’t know what we’ll do without you.” “Thank you,” said Bod. Then, “Where is everyone? You’re the first person I’ve seen tonight.” Mother Slaughter peered at him sharply. “What did you do to your forehead?”sheasked. “I bumped it, on Mr. Jones’s grave. It was solid. I…” But Mother Slaughter was pursing her lips and tilting her head. Bright old eyes scrutinized Bod frombeneath her bonnet. “I called you boy, didn’t I? But time passes in the blink of an eye, and it’s a young man you are now, isn’t it? How old are you?” “About fifteen, I think. Though I stillfeel the same as I always did,” Bod said, but Mother Slaughter interrupted, “And I stillfeels likeI done when I was a tiny slip of a thing, making daisy chains in the old pasture.You’realways you, and that don’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She sat down on her broken stone, and said, “I remember you the night you came here, boy. I says, ‘We can’t let the little fellow leave,’ and your mother agrees, and all of them starts argufying and what-not until the Lady on the Grey rides up. ‘People of the Graveyard,’ she says, ‘Listen to Mother Slaughter. Have you not got any charity in your bones?’ and then all of themagreed withme.” She trailed off, shook her little head, “There’s not much happens here to make one day unlike the next. The seasons change. The ivy grows. Stones fall over. But you coming here…well, I’mglad you did, that’sall.” She stood up and pulled a grubby piece of linen fromher sleeve, spat on it, and reached up as high as she could and scrubbed the blood fromBod’s forehead. “There, that ought to make you look presentable,” she said, severely. “Seeing as I don’t know when next I’ll see you, anyway. Keep safe.” Feeling discomfited in a way he could not remember having felt before, Bod made his way back to the Owenses’ tomb, and was pleased to see both of his parents waiting for himbeside it. As he got closer, his pleasure turned into concern:why did Mr.and Mrs. Owens stand like that, arranged on each side of the tomb like characters from a stained-glass window? He could not read their faces. His father took a step forward and said, “Evening, Bod. I trust you are keepingwell.” “Tolerablywell,”said Bod, whichwas what Mr. Owens always said to his friends when they asked himthesame question. Mr. Owens said, “Mistress Owens and I spent our lives wishing that we had a child. I do not believe that we could have ever had a better young man than you, Bod.” He looked up at his sonwith pride. Bod said, “Well, yes, thank you, but…”He turned to his mother, certain he could get her to tell him what was happening, but she was no longer there.“Where did she go?” “Oh. Yes.” Mr. Owens seemed ill at ease. “Ah, you know Betsy. There’s things, times. When, well, you don’t know what to say. You know?” “No,”said Bod. “I expect Silas is waiting for you,” said his father,and then he was gone. It was past midnight. Bod began to walk toward the old chapel. The tree that grew out of the gutter on the spire had fallen in the last storm, taking a handful of the slate-black roof tiles with it. Bod waited on the greywooden bench, but there was no sign ofSilas. The wind gusted. It was late on a summer’s night, when the twilight lasts forever, and it was warm, but still, Bod felt goose-pimples rising on hisarms. A voice by his ear said, “Say you’ll miss me, you lump-kin.” “Liza?”said Bod. He had not seen or heard fromthe witch-girlfor overa year—not since the night of the Jacks of All Trades. “Where have you been?” “Watching,”she said. “Does a lady have to telleverything she does?” “Watchingme?”asked Bod Liza’s voice, close to his ear, said, “Truly, life is wasted on the living, Nobody Owens. For one of us is too foolish to live, and it is not I. Say youwillmiss me.” “Where are you going?”asked Bod. Then, “OfcourseI willmiss you, wherever you go…” “Too stupid,” whispered Liza Hempstock’s voice, and he could feel the touch of her hand on his hand. “Too stupid to live.” The touch of her lips against his cheek, against the corner of his lips. She kissed him gently and he was too perplexed, too utterly wrong-footed, to know what to do. Her voice said, “I will miss you too. Always.” A breath of wind ruffled his hair, if it was not the touch of her hand, and then he was, he knew,alone on the bench. He got up. Bod walked over to the chapel door, lifted the stone beside the porch and pulled out the spare key, left there by a long-dead sexton. He unlocked the big wooden door without even testing to see if he could slip through it. It creaked open, protesting. The inside ofthe chapelwas dark, and Bod found himselfsquinting as hetried to see. “Comein, Bod.”It was Silas’s voice. “I can’t see anything,” said Bod. “It’s too dark.” “Already?” said Silas. He sighed. Bod heard a velvet rustle, then a match was struck, and it flamed, and was used to light two huge candles that sat on great carved wooden candlesticks at the back of the room. In the candlelight, Bod could see his guardian standing beside a large leather chest, of the kind they call a steamer trunk—big enough that a tall man could have curled up and slept inside it. Beside it was Silas’s black leather bag, which Bod had seen before, on a handful of occasions, but which hestillfound impressive. Thesteamer trunk was lined withwhiteness. Bod puta hand into theempty trunk, touched the silk lining, touched dried earth. “Is this where you sleep?” heasked. “When I am far from my house, yes,” said Silas. Bod was taken aback: Silas had been here as long as he could remember and before. “Isn’t this your home?” Silas shook his head. “My house is a long, long way from here,” said Silas. “That is, if it is still habitable. There have been problems in my native land, and I amfar fromcertain what I will find onmy return.” “You’re going back?” asked Bod. Things that had been immutable were changing. “You’re really leaving? But. You’re my guardian.” “I was your guardian. But you are old enough to guard yourself. I have other things to protect.” Silas closed the lid of the brown leather trunk, and began to do up the straps and the buckles. “Can’t I stay here?In the graveyard?” “Youmust not,”said Silas, more gently than Bod could remember him ever saying anything. “All the people here have had their lives, Bod, even if they were short ones. Now it’s your turn. You need to live.” “Can Icome with you?” Silas shook his head. “WillI see you again?” “Perhaps.” There was kindness in Silas’s voice, and something more. “And whether you see me or not, I have no doubt that I will see you.” He put the leather trunk against the wall, walked over to the door in the far corner. “Followme.” Bod walked behind Silas, followed him down the small spiral staircase to the crypt. “I took the liberty of packing a case for you,” Silasexplained,as they reached the bottom. On top ofthe box ofmildewed hymn books was a small leather suitcase, a miniature twin to Silas’s own. “Your possessions are all in there,” said Silas. Bod said, “Tell me about the Honour Guard, Silas. You’re in it. Miss Lupescu was. Who else? Are there a lot of you? What do you do?” “We don’t do enough,” said Silas. “And mostly, we guard the borderlands. We protect the borders ofthings.” “What kind of borders?” Silas said nothing. “You mean like stopping the man Jack and his people?” Silas said, “We do what we have to.” He sounded weary. “But you did the right thing. I mean, stopping the Jacks. They were terrible. They were monsters.” Silas took a step closer to Bod, which made the youth tilt back his head to look up at the tall man’s pale face. Silas said, “I have not always done the right thing. When I was younger…I did worse things than Jack. Worse than any of them. I was the monster, then, Bod, and worsethan anymonster.” It did noteven cross Bod’s mind to wonder if his guardian was lying or joking. He knew that he was being told the truth. He said, “But you aren’t thatany longer,are you?” Silas said, “People can change,” and then fellsilent. Bod wondered if his guardian—if Silas —was remembering. Then, “It was an honor to be your guardian, youngman.”His hand vanished inside his cloak, reappeared holding a battered old wallet.“This is for you. Takeit.” Bod took the wallet, but did not open it. “It contains money. Enough to give you a start in the world, but nothingmore.” Bod said, “I went to see Alonso Jones today but he wasn’t there, or if he was Icouldn’t see him. I wanted him to tell me about distant places he’d visited. Islands and porpoises and glaciers and mountains. Places where people dress and eat in the strangest ways.” Bod hesitated. Then, “Those places. They’re still there. I mean, there’s a whole world out there. Can I seeit? Can I go there?” Silas nodded. “There is a whole world out there, yes. You have a passport in the inner pocket of your suitcase. It’s made out in the name of Nobody Owens. And was not easy to obtain.” Bod said, “If I change mymind can I come back here?” And then he answered his own question. “IfIcome back, it will bea place, but it won’t be homeany longer.” Silas said, “Would you like me to walk you to thefront gate?” Bod shook his head. “Best if I do it on my own. Um. Silas. If you’reever in trouble, callme. I’llcomeand help.” “I,”said Silas,“do not get into trouble.” “No. I don’tsuppose you do. Butstill.” It was dark in the crypt, and it smelled of mildew and damp and old stones, and it seemed, for thefirst time, very small. Bod said, “I want to see life. I want to hold it in my hands. I want to leave a footprint on the sand of a desert island. I want to play football with people. I want,” hesaid, and then he paused and hethought.“I wanteverything.” “Good,”said Silas. Then he put up his hand as if he were brushing away the hair fromhiseyes —a most uncharacteristic gesture. He said, “If ever it transpires that I am in trouble, I shall indeed send for you.” “Even though you don’t get into trouble?” “As you say.” There was something at the edge of Silas’s lips that might have been a smile, and might have been regret, and might just have been a trick of theshadows. “Good-bye, then, Silas.” Bod held out his hand, as he had when he was a small boy, and Silas took it, in acold hand thecolor of old ivory, and shook it gravely. “Good-bye, NobodyOwens.” Bod picked up the little suitcase. He opened the door to let himself out of the crypt, walked back up the gentle slope to the path without looking back. It was wellafter the gates were locked. He wondered as he reached themif the gates would still let him walk through them, or if he would have to go back into the chapel to get a key, but when he got to the entrance he found the small pedestrian gate was unlocked and wide open, as if it was waiting for him, as if the graveyard itself was bidding himgood-bye. One pale, plump figure waited in front ofthe open gate, and she smiled up at himas he came towards her, and there were tears in her eyes in the moonlight. “Hullo, Mother,”said Bod. Mistress Owens rubbed her eyes with a knuckle, then dabbed at them with her apron, and she shook her head. “Do you know what you’re going to do now?”sheasked. “See the world,” said Bod. “Get into trouble. Get out of trouble again. Visit jungles and volcanoes and deserts and islands. And people. I want to meetan awfullot of people.” Mistress Owens made no immediate reply. She stared up at him, and then she began to sing asong that Bod remembered, asong she used to sing himwhen he wasatiny thing, asong that she had used to lull himto sleep when he was small. “Sleep mylittle babby-oh Sleep untilyou waken When you wakeyou’llseethe world If I’m not mistaken…” “You’re not,” whispered Bod. “And I shall.” “Kiss a lover Dance a measure, Find your name And buried treasure…” Then thelast lines ofthesong came back to Mistress Owens,and shesang themto her son. “Faceyour life Its pain, its pleasure, Leave no path untaken” “Leave no path untaken,”repeated Bod.“A difficultchallenge, but Ican trymy best.” He tried to put his arms around his mother then, as he had when he was a child, although he mightas well have been trying to hold mist, for he wasalone on the path. He took a step forward, through the gate that took himout of the graveyard. He thought a voice said, “I amso proud of you, my son,” but he might, perhaps, haveimagined it. The midsummer sky was already beginning to lighten in the east, and that was the way that Bod began to walk: down the hill, towards the living people,and thecity,and the dawn. There was a passport in his bag, money in his pocket. There wasasmile dancing on his lips, although it was a wary smile, for the world is a bigger place than a little graveyard on a hill; and there would be dangers in it and mysteries, new friends to make, old friends to rediscover, mistakes to be made and many paths to be walked before he would, finally, return to the graveyard or ride with the Lady on the broad back of her great grey stallion. But between now and then, there was Life; and Bod walked into it with hiseyesand his heart wide open. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS First, foremost, and forever: I owe an enormous debt, conscious and, I have no doubt, unconscious, to Rudyard Kipling and the two volumes of his remarkable work The Jungle Book. I read them as a child, excited and impressed, and I’ve read and reread themmany times since. If you are only familiar with the Disney cartoon, you should read thestories. My sonMichael inspired this book. He was only two years old, riding his little tricycle between gravestones in the summer, and I had a book in my head. Then it just took me twentysomething years to writeit. When I started writing the book (I started with Chapter Four), only my daughter Maddy’s request to know what happened next kept me writing beyond thefirstcouple of pages. Gardner Dozois and Jack Dann were the first people to publish “The Witch’s Headstone.” Professor Georgia Grilli talked about what this book was without having read it, and listening to her talk helped throwthethemes into focus. Kendra Stout was there when I sawthefirst ghoul gate, and was kind enough to walk through several graveyards with me. She was the first audience for the first chapters, and her love for Silas wasawesome. Artistand author AudreyNiffenegger isalso a graveyard guide, and she showed me around theivy-covered marvelthat is Highgate Cemetery West. A lot of what she told me crept into Chapters Six and Seven. Many friends read this book as it was being written, and all of themoffered wise suggestions —Dan Johnson, Gary K. Wolfe, John Crowley, Moby, Farah Mendlesohn, and Joe Sanders, among others. They spotted things I needed to fix. Still, I missed John M. Ford (1957–2006), who was my bestcritic ofall. Isabel Ford, Elise Howard, SarahOdedina, and Clarissa Hutton were the book’s editors on both sides of the Atlantic. They made me look good. Michael Conroy directed the audio-book version with aplomb. Mr. McKean and Mr. Riddell both drew wonderfully, and differently. Merrilee Heifetz is the best agent in the world, and Dorie Simmonds made it happen excellently in the UK. I wrote this book in many places: among other places, Jonathan and Jane’s Florida house, a cottage in Cornwall, a hotel room in New Orleans; and I failed to write in Tori’s house in Ireland because I had flu there instead. But she helped and inspired me, nonetheless. And as I finish these thanks, the only thing I’mcertain ofis that I have forgotten not just one very important person but dozens ofthem. Sorry. But thank you allanyway. —Neil Gaiman I said she’s gone but I’malive, I’malive I’mcoming in the graveyard to sing you to sleep now

The hitchhickers guide to the Galaxy

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun. Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-eight million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue-green planet whose ape-descended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea. This planet has—or rather had—a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy. And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches. Many were increasingly of the opinion that they’d all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans. And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small café in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything. Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost for ever. This is not her story. But it is the story of that terrible, stupid catastrophe and some of its consequences. It is also the story of a book, a book called The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy—not an Earth book, never published on Earth, and until the terrible catastrophe occurred, never seen or even heard of by any Earthman. Nevertheless, a wholly remarkable book. In fact, it was probably the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor—of which no Earth-man had ever heard either. Not only is it a wholly remarkable book, it is also a highly successful one—more popular than the Celestial Home Care Omnibus, better selling than Fifty-three More Things to Do in Zero Gravity, and more controversial than Oolon Colluphid’s trilogy of philosophical blockbusters, Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God’s Greatest Mistakes and Who Is This God Person Anyway? In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitchhiker’s Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects. First, it is slightly cheaper; and second, it has the words DON’T PANIC inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover. But the story of this terrible, stupid Thursday, the story of its extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these consequences are inextricably intertwined with this remarkable book begins very simply. It begins with a house. T Chapter 1 he house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked out over a broad spread of West Country farmland. Not a remarkable house by any means—it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye. The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, tall, dark-haired and never quite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too—most of his friends worked in advertising. On Wednesday night it had rained very heavily, the lane was wet and muddy, but the Thursday morning sun was bright and clear as it shone on Arthur Dent’s house for what was to be the last time. It hadn’t properly registered yet with Arthur that the council wanted to knock it down and build a bypass instead. At eight o’clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn’t feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash. Toothpaste on the brush—so. Scrub. Shaving mirror—pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent’s bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth. Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn. The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with. The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one. He stared at it. “Yellow,” he thought, and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed. Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. “Yellow,” he thought, and stomped on to the bedroom. He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He’d been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people’s faces. Something about a new bypass he’d just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he’d decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn’t have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out. God, what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. “Yellow,” he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with. Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path. Mr. L. Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based bipedal life form descended from an ape. More specifically he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council. Curiously enough, though he didn’t know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats. He was by no means a great warrior; in fact he was a nervous, worried man. Today he was particularly nervous and worried because something had gone seriously wrong with his job, which was to see that Arthur Dent’s house got cleared out of the way before the day was out. “Come off it, Mr. Dent,” he said, “you can’t win, you know. You can’t lie in front of the bulldozer indefinitely.” He tried to make his eyes blaze fiercely but they just wouldn’t do it. Arthur lay in the mud and squelched at him. “I’m game,” he said, “we’ll see who rusts first.” “I’m afraid you’re going to have to accept it,” said Mr. Prosser, gripping his fur hat and rolling it round the top of his head; “this bypass has got to be built and it’s going to be built!” “First I’ve heard of it,” said Arthur, “why’s it got to be built?” Mr. Prosser shook his finger at him for a bit, then stopped and put it away again. “What do you mean, why’s it got to be built?” he said. “It’s a bypass. You’ve got to build bypasses.” Bypasses are devices that allow some people to dash from point A to point B very fast while other people dash from point B to point A very fast. People living at point C, being a point directly in between, are often given to wonder what’s so great about point A that so many people from point B are so keen to get there, and what’s so great about point B that so many people from point A are so keen to get there. They often wish that people would just once and for all work out where the hell they wanted to be. Mr. Prosser wanted to be at point D. Point D wasn’t anywhere in particular, it was just any convenient point a very long way from points A, B and C. He would have a nice little cottage at point D, with axes over the door, and spend a pleasant amount of time at point E, which would be the nearest pub to point D. His wife of course wanted climbing roses, but he wanted axes. He didn’t know why—he just liked axes. He flushed hotly under the derisive grins of the bulldozer drivers. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, but it was equally uncomfortable on each. Obviously somebody had been appallingly incompetent and he hoped to God it wasn’t him. Mr. Prosser said, “You were quite entitled to make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time, you know.” “Appropriate time?” hooted Arthur. “Appropriate time? The first I knew about it was when a workman arrived at my home yesterday. I asked him if he’d come to clean the windows and he said no, he’d come to demolish the house. He didn’t tell me straight away of course. Oh no. First he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me.” “But Mr. Dent, the plans have been available in the local planning office for the last nine months.” “Oh yes, well, as soon as I heard I went straight round to see them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn’t exactly gone out of your way to call attention to them, had you? I mean, like actually telling anybody or anything.” “But the plans were on display …” “On display? I eventually had to go down to the cellar to find them.” “That’s the display department.” “With a flashlight.” “Ah, well, the lights had probably gone.” “So had the stairs.” “But look, you found the notice, didn’t you?” “Yes,” said Arthur, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’” A cloud passed overhead. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent as he lay propped up on his elbow in the cold mud. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent’s house. Mr. Prosser frowned at it. “It’s not as if it’s a particularly nice house,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I happen to like it.” “You’ll like the bypass.” “Oh, shut up,” said Arthur Dent. “Shut up and go away, and take your bloody bypass with you. You haven’t got a leg to stand on and you know it.” Mr. Prosser’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times while his mind was for a moment filled with inexplicable but terribly attractive visions of Arthur Dent’s house being consumed with fire and Arthur himself running screaming from the blazing ruin with at least three hefty spears protruding from his back. Mr. Prosser was often bothered with visions like these and they made him feel very nervous. He stuttered for a moment and then pulled himself together. “Mr. Dent,” he said. “Hello? Yes?” said Arthur. “Some factual information for you. Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you?” “How much?” said Arthur. “None at all,” said Mr. Prosser, and stormed nervously off wondering why his brain was filled with a thousand hairy horsemen all shouting at him. By a curious coincidence, “None at all” is exactly how much suspicion the ape-descendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not descended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he usually claimed. Arthur Dent had never, ever suspected this. This friend of his had first arrived on the planet Earth some fifteen Earth years previously, and he had worked hard to blend himself into Earth society—with, it must be said, some success. For instance, he had spent those fifteen years pretending to be an out-of-work actor, which was plausible enough. He had made one careless blunder though, because he had skimped a bit on his preparatory research. The information he had gathered had led him to choose the name “Ford Prefect” as being nicely inconspicuous. He was not conspicuously tall, his features were striking but not conspicuously handsome. His hair was wiry and gingerish and brushed backward from the temples. His skin seemed to be pulled backward from the nose. There was something very slightly odd about him, but it was difficult to say what it was. Perhaps it was that his eyes didn’t seem to blink often enough and when you talked to him for any length of time your eyes began involuntarily to water on his behalf. Perhaps it was that he smiled slightly too broadly and gave people the unnerving impression that he was about to go for their neck. He struck most of the friends he had made on Earth as an eccentric, but a harmless one—an unruly boozer with some oddish habits. For instance, he would often gate-crash university parties, get badly drunk and start making fun of any astrophysicists he could find till he got thrown out. Sometimes he would get seized with oddly distracted moods and stare into the sky as if hypnotized until someone asked him what he was doing. Then he would start guiltily for a moment, relax and grin. “Oh, just looking for flying saucers,” he would joke, and everyone would laugh and ask him what sort of flying saucers he was looking for. “Green ones!” he would reply with a wicked grin, laugh wildly for a moment and then suddenly lunge for the nearest bar and buy an enormous round of drinks. Evenings like this usually ended badly. Ford would get out of his skull on whisky, huddle in a corner with some girl and explain to her in slurred phrases that honestly the color of the flying saucers didn’t matter that much really. Thereafter, staggering semiparalytic down the night streets, he would often ask passing policemen if they knew the way to Betelgeuse. The policemen would usually say something like, “Don’t you think it’s about time you went off home, sir?” “I’m trying to, baby, I’m trying to,” is what Ford invariably replied on these occasions. In fact what he was really looking for when he stared distractedly into the sky was any kind of flying saucer at all. The reason he said green was that green was the traditional space livery of the Betelgeuse trading scouts. Ford Prefect was desperate that any flying saucer at all would arrive soon because fifteen years was a long time to get stranded anywhere, particularly somewhere as mind-bogglingly dull as the Earth. Ford wished that a flying saucer would arrive soon because he knew how to flag flying saucers down and get lifts from them. He knew how to see the Marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. In fact, Ford Prefect was a roving researcher for that wholly remarkable book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Human beings are great adapters, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur’s house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur’s accepted role to lie squelching in the mud making occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr. Prosser’s accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, or the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers’ accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage. The Earth moved slowly in its diurnal course. The sun was beginning to dry out the mud that Arthur lay in. A shadow moved across him again. “Hello, Arthur,” said the shadow. Arthur looked up and squinting into the sun was startled to see Ford Prefect standing above him. “Ford! Hello, how are you?” “Fine,” said Ford, “look, are you busy?” “Am I busy?” exclaimed Arthur. “Well, I’ve just got all these bulldozers and things to lie in front of because they’ll knock my house down if I don’t, but other than that … well, no, not especially, why?” They don’t have sarcasm on Betelgeuse, and Ford Prefect often failed to notice it unless he was concentrating. He said, “Good, is there anywhere we can talk?” “What?” said Arthur Dent. For a few seconds Ford seemed to ignore him, and stared fixedly into the sky like a rabbit trying to get run over by a car. Then suddenly he squatted down beside Arthur. “We’ve got to talk,” he said urgently. “Fine,” said Arthur, “talk.” “And drink,” said Ford. “It’s vitally important that we talk and drink. Now. We’ll go to the pub in the village.” He looked into the sky again, nervous, expectant. “Look, don’t you understand?” shouted Arthur. He pointed at Prosser. “That man wants to knock my house down!” Ford glanced at him, puzzled. “Well, he can do it while you’re away, can’t he?” he asked. “But I don’t want him to!” “Ah.” “Look, what’s the matter with you, Ford?” said Arthur. “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Listen to me—I’ve got to tell you the most important thing you’ve ever heard. I’ve got to tell you now, and I’ve got to tell you in the saloon bar of the Horse and Groom.” “But why?” “Because you’re going to need a very stiff drink.” Ford stared at Arthur, and Arthur was astonished to find his will beginning to weaken. He didn’t realize that this was because of an old drinking game that Ford learned to play in the hyper-space ports that served the madranite mining belts in the star system of Orion Beta. The game was not unlike the Earth game called Indian wrestling, and was played like this: Two contestants would sit either side of a table, with a glass in front of each of them. Between them would be placed a bottle of Janx Spirit (as immortalized in that ancient Orion mining song, “Oh, don’t give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/No, don’t you give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/For my head will fly, my tongue will lie, my eyes will fry and I may die/Won’t you pour me one more of that sinful Old Janx Spirit”). Each of the two contestants would then concentrate their will on the bottle and attempt to tip it and pour spirit into the glass of his opponent, who would then have to drink it. The bottle would then be refilled. The game would be played again. And again. Once you started to lose you would probably keep losing, because one of the effects of Janx Spirit is to depress telepsychic power. As soon as a predetermined quantity had been consumed, the final loser would have to perform a forfeit, which was usually obscenely biological. Ford Prefect usually played to lose. Ford stared at Arthur, who began to think that perhaps he did want to go to the Horse and Groom after all. “But what about my house …?” he asked plaintively. Ford looked across to Mr. Prosser, and suddenly a wicked thought struck him. “He wants to knock your house down?” “Yes, he wants to build …” “And he can’t because you’re lying in front of his bulldozer?” “Yes, and …” “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” said Ford. “Excuse me!” he shouted. Mr. Prosser (who was arguing with a spokesman for the bulldozer drivers about whether or not Arthur Dent constituted a mental health hazard, and how much they should get paid if he did) looked around. He was surprised and slightly alarmed to see that Arthur had company. “Yes? Hello?” he called. “Has Mr. Dent come to his senses yet?” “Can we for the moment,” called Ford, “assume that he hasn’t?” “Well?” sighed Mr. Prosser. “And can we also assume,” said Ford, “that he’s going to be staying here all day?” “So?” “So all your men are going to be standing around all day doing nothing?” “Could be, could be …” “Well, if you’re resigned to doing that anyway, you don’t actually need him to lie here all the time do you?” “What?” “You don’t,” said Ford patiently, “actually need him here.” Mr. Prosser thought about this. “Well, no, not as such …” he said, “not exactly need …” Prosser was worried. He thought that one of them wasn’t making a lot of sense. Ford said, “So if you would just like to take it as read that he’s actually here, then he and I could slip off down to the pub for half an hour. How does that sound?” Mr. Prosser thought it sounded perfectly potty. “That sounds perfectly reasonable …” he said in a reassuring tone of voice, wondering who he was trying to reassure. “And if you want to pop off for a quick one yourself later on,” said Ford, “we can always cover for you in return.” “Thank you very much,” said Mr. Prosser, who no longer knew how to play this at all, “thank you very much, yes, that’s very kind …” He frowned, then smiled, then tried to do both at once, failed, grasped hold of his fur hat and rolled it fitfully round the top of his head. He could only assume that he had just won. “So,” continued Ford Prefect, “if you would just like to come over here and lie down …” “What?” said Mr. Prosser. “Ah, I’m sorry,” said Ford, “perhaps I hadn’t made myself fully clear. Somebody’s got to lie in front of the bulldozers, haven’t they? Or there won’t be anything to stop them driving into Mr. Dent’s house, will there?” “What?” said Mr. Prosser again. “It’s very simple,” said Ford, “my client, Mr. Dent, says that he will stop lying here in the mud on the sole condition that you come and take over from him.” “What are you talking about?” said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet. “You want me,” said Prosser, spelling out this new thought to himself, “to come and lie there …” “Yes.” “In front of the bulldozer?” “Yes.” “Instead of Mr. Dent.” “Yes.” “In the mud.” “In, as you say, the mud.” As soon as Mr. Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders: this was more like the world as he knew it. He sighed. “In return for which you will take Mr. Dent with you down to the pub?” “That’s it,” said Ford, “that’s it exactly.” Mr. Prosser took a few nervous steps forward and stopped. “Promise?” he said. “Promise,” said Ford. He turned to Arthur. “Come on,” he said to him, “get up and let the man lie down.” Arthur stood up, feeling as if he was in a dream. Ford beckoned to Prosser, who sadly, awkwardly, sat down in the mud. He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it. The mud folded itself round his bottom and his arms and oozed into his shoes. Ford looked at him severely. “And no sneaky knocking Mr. Dent’s house down while he’s away, all right?” he said. “The mere thought,” growled Mr. Prosser, “hadn’t even begun to speculate,” he continued, settling himself back, “about the merest possibility of crossing my mind.” He saw the bulldozer drivers’ union representative approaching and let his head sink back and closed his eyes. He was trying to marshal his arguments for proving that he did not now constitute a mental health hazard himself. He was far from certain about this—his mind seemed to be full of noise, horses, smoke and the stench of blood. This always happened when he felt miserable or put upon, and he had never been able to explain it to himself. In a high dimension of which we know nothing, the mighty Khan bellowed with rage, but Mr. Prosser only trembled slightly and whimpered. He began to feel little pricks of water behind his eyelids. Bureaucratic cock-ups, angry men lying in mud, indecipherable strangers handing out inexplicable humiliation and an unidentified army of horsemen laughing at him in his head—what a day. What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn’t matter a pair of dingo’s kidneys whether Arthur’s house got knocked down or not now. Arthur remained very worried. “But can we trust him?” he said. “Myself I’d trust him to the end of the Earth,” said Ford. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “and how far’s that?” “About twelve minutes away,” said Ford, “come on, I need a drink.” H Chapter 2 ere’s what the Encyclopedia Galáctica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colorless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. It says that the effect of drinking a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick. The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterward. The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself. Take the juice from one bottle of the Ol’ Janx Spirit, it says. Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V— Oh, that Santraginean seawater, it says. Oh, those Santraginean fish! Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost). Allow four liters of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia. Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hyper-mint extract, redolent of all the heady odors of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle, sweet and mystic. Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink. Sprinkle Zamphuor. Add an olive. Drink … but … very carefully … The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica. “Six pints of bitter,” said Ford Prefect to the barman of the Horse and Groom. “And quickly please, the world’s about to end.” The barman of the Horse and Groom didn’t deserve this sort of treatment; he was a dignified old man. He pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked at Ford Prefect. Ford ignored him and stared out the window, so the barman looked instead at Arthur, who shrugged helplessly and said nothing. So the barman said, “Oh yes, sir? Nice weather for it,” and started pulling pints. He tried again. “Going to watch the match this afternoon then?” Ford glanced round at him. “No, no point,” he said, and looked back out the window. “What’s that, foregone conclusion then, you reckon, sir?” said the barman. “Arsenal without a chance?” “No no,” said Ford, “it’s just that the world’s about to end.” “Oh yes, sir, so you said,” said the barman, looking over his glasses this time at Arthur. “Lucky escape for Arsenal if it did.” Ford looked back at him, genuinely surprised. “No, not really,” he said. He frowned. The barman breathed in heavily. “There you are, sir, six pints,” he said. Arthur smiled at him wanly and shrugged again. He turned and smiled wanly at the rest of the pub just in case any of them had heard what was going on. None of them had, and none of them could understand what he was smiling at them for. A man sitting next to Ford at the bar looked at the two men, looked at the six pints, did a swift burst of mental arithmetic, arrived at an answer he liked and grinned a stupid hopeful grin at them. “Get off,” said Ford, “they’re ours,” giving him a look that would have made an Algolian Suntiger get on with what it was doing. Ford slapped a five-pound note on the bar. He said, “Keep the change.” “What, from a fiver? Thank you, sir.” “You’ve got ten minutes left to spend it.” The barman decided simply to walk away for a bit. “Ford,” said Arthur, “would you please tell me what the hell is going on?” “Drink up,” said Ford, “you’ve got three pints to get through.” “Three pints?” said Arthur. “At lunchtime?” The man next to Ford grinned and nodded happily. Ford ignored him. He said, “Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.” “Very deep,” said Arthur, “you should send that in to the Reader’s Digest. They’ve got a page for people like you.” “Drink up.” “Why three pints all of a sudden?” “Muscle relaxant, you’ll need it.” “Muscle relaxant?” “Muscle relaxant.” Arthur stared into his beer. “Did I do anything wrong today,” he said, “or has the world always been like this and I’ve been too wrapped up in myself to notice?” “All right,” said Ford, “I’ll try to explain. How long have we known each other?” “How long?” Arthur thought. “Er, about five years, maybe six,” he said. “Most of it seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.” “All right,” said Ford. “How would you react if I said that I’m not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?” Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way. “I don’t know,” he said, taking a pull of beer. “Why, do you think it’s the sort of thing you’re likely to say?” Ford gave up. It really wasn’t worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said, “Drink up.” He added, perfectly factually, “The world’s about to end.” Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business. “This must be Thursday,” said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. “I never could get the hang of Thursdays.” O Chapter 3 n this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere many miles above the surface of the planet; several somethings in fact, several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings, huge as office blocks, silent as birds. They soared with ease, basking in electromagnetic rays from the star Sol, biding their time, grouping, preparing. The planet beneath them was almost perfectly oblivious of their presence, which was just how they wanted it for the moment. The huge yellow something went unnoticed at Goon-hilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera and Jodrell Bank looked straight through them, which was a pity because it was exactly the sort of thing they’d been looking for all these years. The only place they registered at all was on a small black device called a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic which winked away quietly to itself. It nestled in the darkness inside a leather satchel which Ford Prefect habitually wore slung around his neck. The contents of Ford Prefect’s satchel were quite interesting in fact and would have made any Earth physicist’s eyes pop out of his head, which is why he always concealed them by keeping a couple of dogeared scripts for plays he pretended he was auditioning for stuffed in the top. Besides the SubEtha Sens-O-Matic and the scripts he had an Electronic Thumb—a short squat black rod, smooth and matt with a couple of flat switches and dials at one end; he also had a device that looked rather like a largish electronic calculator. This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million “pages” could be summoned at a moment’s notice. It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words DON’T PANIC printed on it in large friendly letters. The other reason was that this device was in fact that most remarkable of all books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor—The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. The reason why it was published in the form of a micro sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal book form, an interstellar hitchhiker would require several inconveniently large buildings to carry it around in. Beneath that in Ford Prefect’s satchel were a few ballpoints, a notepad and a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindbogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you —daft as a brush, but very very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough. More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: nonhitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet-weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have “lost.” What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with. Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.) Nestling quietly on top of the towel in Ford Prefect’s satchel, the SubEtha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly. Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out. At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea. “You got a towel with you?” said Ford suddenly to Arthur. Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him. “Why? What, no … should I have?” He had given up being surprised, there didn’t seem to be any point any longer. Ford clicked his tongue in irritation. “Drink up,” he urged. At that moment the dull sound of a rumbling crash from outside filtered through the low murmur of the pub, through the sound of the jukebox, through the sound of the man next to Ford hiccupping over the whisky Ford had eventually bought him. Arthur choked on his beer, leaped to his feet. “What’s that?” he yelped. “Don’t worry,” said Ford, “they haven’t started yet.” “Thank God for that,” said Arthur, and relaxed. “It’s probably just your house being knocked down,” said Ford, downing his last pint. “What?” shouted Arthur. Suddenly Ford’s spell was broken. Arthur looked wildly around him and ran to the window. “My God, they are! They’re knocking my house down. What the hell am I doing in the pub, Ford?” “It hardly makes any difference at this stage,” said Ford, “let them have their fun.” “Fun?” yelped Arthur. “Fun!” He quickly checked out the window again that they were talking about the same thing. “Damn their fun!” he hooted, and ran out of the pub furiously waving a nearly empty beer glass. He made no friends at all in the pub that lunchtime. “Stop, you vandals! You home wreckers!” bawled Arthur. “You half-crazed Visigoths, stop, will you!” Ford would have to go after him. Turning quickly to the barman he asked for four packets of peanuts. “There you are, sir,” said the barman, slapping the packets on the bar, “twenty-eight pence if you’d be so kind.” Ford was very kind—he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford. He suddenly shivered: he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn’t understand because no one on Earth had ever experienced it before. In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny subliminal signal. This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth. On Earth it is never possible to be farther than sixteen thousand miles from your birthplace, which really isn’t very far, so such signals are too minute to be noticed. Ford Prefect was at this moment under great stress, and he was born six hundred light-years away in the near vicinity of Betelgeuse. The barman reeled for a moment, hit by a shocking, incomprehensible sense of distance. He didn’t know what it meant, but he looked at Ford Prefect with a new sense of respect, almost awe. “Are you serious, sir?” he said in a small whisper which had the effect of silencing the pub. “You think the world’s going to end?” “Yes,” said Ford. “But, this afternoon.” Ford had recovered himself. He was at his flippest. “Yes,” he said gaily, “in less than two minutes I would estimate.” The barman couldn’t believe this conversation he was having, but he couldn’t believe the sensation he had just had either. “Isn’t there anything we can do about it then?” he said. “No, nothing,” said Ford, stuffing the peanuts into his pocket. Someone in the hushed bar suddenly laughed raucously at how stupid everyone had become. The man sitting next to Ford was a bit sozzled by now. His eyes weaved their way up to Ford. “I thought,” he said, “that if the world was going to end we were meant to lie down or put a paper bag over our head or something.” “If you like, yes,” said Ford. “That’s what they told us in the army,” said the man, and his eyes began the long trek back toward his whisky. “Will that help?” asked the barman. “No,” said Ford, and gave him a friendly smile. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ve got to go.” With a wave, he left. The pub was silent for a moment longer and then, embarrassingly enough, the man with the raucous laugh did it again. The girl he had dragged along to the pub with him had grown to loathe him dearly over the last hour, and it would probably have been a great satisfaction to her to know that in a minute and a half or so he would suddenly evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came she would be too busy evaporating herself to notice it. The barman cleared his throat. He heard himself say, “Last orders, please.” The huge yellow machines began to sink downward and to move faster. Ford knew they were there. This wasn’t the way he had wanted it. Running up the lane, Arthur had nearly reached his house. He didn’t notice how cold it had suddenly become, he didn’t notice the wind, he didn’t notice the sudden irrational squall of rain. He didn’t notice anything but the caterpillar bulldozers crawling over the rubble that had been his home. “You barbarians!” he yelled. “I’ll sue the council for every penny it’s got! I’ll have you hung, drawn and quartered! And whipped! And boiled … until … until … until you’ve had enough.” Ford was running after him very fast. Very very fast. “And then I will do it again!” yelled Arthur. “And when I’ve finished I will take all the little bits, and I will jump on them!” Arthur didn’t notice that the men were running from the bulldozers; he didn’t notice that Mr. Prosser was staring hectically into the sky. What Mr. Prosser had noticed was that huge yellow somethings were screaming through the clouds. Impossibly huge yellow somethings. “And I will carry on jumping on them,” yelled Arthur, still running, “until I get blisters, or I can think of anything even more unpleasant to do, and then …” Arthur tripped, and fell headlong, rolled and landed flat on his back. At last he noticed that something was going on. His finger shot upward. “What the hell’s that?” he shrieked. Whatever it was raced across the sky in its monstrous yellowness, tore the sky apart with mind-boggling noise and leaped off into the distance leaving the gaping air to shut behind it with a bang that drove your ears six feet into your skull. Another one followed and did exactly the same thing only louder. It’s difficult to say exactly what the people on the surface of the planet were doing now, because they didn’t really know what they were doing themselves. None of it made a lot of sense— running into houses, running out of houses, howling noiselessly at the noise. All around the world city streets exploded with people, cars skidded into each other as the noise fell on them and then rolled off like a tidal wave over hills and valleys, deserts and oceans, seeming to flatten everything it hit. Only one man stood and watched the sky, stood with terrible sadness in his eyes and rubber bungs in his ears. He knew exactly what was happening and had known ever since his Sub-Etha Sens-OMatic had started winking in the dead of night beside his pillow and wakened him with a start. It was what he had waited for all these years, but when he had deciphered the signal pattern sitting alone in his small dark room, a coldness had gripped him and squeezed his heart. Of all the races in all of the Galaxy who could have come and said a big hello to planet Earth, he thought, didn’t it just have to be the Vogons. Still, he knew what he had to do. As the Vogon craft screamed through the air high above him he opened his satchel. He threw away a copy of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream-coat, he threw away a copy of Godspell: he wouldn’t need them where he was going. Everything was ready, everything was prepared. He knew where his towel was. A sudden silence hit the Earth. If anything it was worse than the noise. For a while nothing happened. The great ships hung motionless in the sky, over every nation on Earth. Motionless they hung, huge, heavy, steady in the sky, a blasphemy against nature. Many people went straight into shock as their minds tried to encompass what they were looking at. The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don’t. And still nothing happened. Then there was a slight whisper, a sudden spacious whisper of open ambient sound. Every hi-fi set in the world, every radio, every television, every cassette recorder, every woofer, every tweeter, every mid-range driver in the world quietly turned itself on. Every tin can, every dustbin, every window, every car, every wineglass, every sheet of rusty metal became activated as an acoustically perfect sounding board. Before the Earth passed away it was going to be treated to the very ultimate in sound reproduction, the greatest public address system ever built. But there was no concert, no music, no fanfare, just a simple message. “People of Earth, your attention, please,” a voice said, and it was wonderful. Wonderful perfect quadraphonic sound with distortion levels so low as to make a brave man weep. “This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council,” the voice continued. “As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less than two of your Earth minutes. Thank you.” The PA died away. Uncomprehending terror settled on the watching people of Earth. The terror moved slowly through the gathered crowds as if they were iron filings on a sheet of board and a magnet was moving beneath them. Panic sprouted again, desperate fleeing panic, but there was nowhere to flee to. Observing this, the Vogons turned on their PA again. It said: “There’s no point in acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department in Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years, so you’ve had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it’s far too late to start making a fuss about it now.” The PA fell silent again and its echo drifted off across the land. The huge ships turned slowly in the sky with easy power. On the underside of each a hatchway opened, an empty black square. By this time somebody somewhere must have manned a radio transmitter, located a wavelength and broadcast a message back to the Vogon ships, to plead on behalf of the planet. Nobody ever heard what they said, they only heard the reply. The PA slammed back into life again. The voice was annoyed. It said: “What do you mean, you’ve never been to Alpha Centauri? For heaven’s sake, mankind, it’s only four light-years away, you know. I’m sorry, but if you can’t be bothered to take an interest in local affairs that’s your own lookout. “Energize the demolition beams.” Light poured out of the hatchways. “I don’t know,” said the voice on the PA, “apathetic bloody planet, I’ve no sympathy at all.” It cut off. There was a terrible ghastly silence. There was a terrible ghastly noise. There was a terrible ghastly silence. The Vogon Constructor Fleet coasted away into the inky starry void. F Chapter 4 ar away on the opposite spiral arm of the Galaxy, five hundred thousand light-years from the star Sol, Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, sped across the seas of Damogran; his ion drive delta boat winking and flashing in the Damogran sun. Damogran the hot; Damogran the remote; Damogran the almost totally unheard of. Damogran, secret home of the Heart of Gold. The boat sped on across the water. It would be some time before it reached its destination because Damogran is such an inconveniently arranged planet. It consists of nothing but middling to large desert islands separated by very pretty but annoyingly wide stretches of ocean. The boat sped on. Because of this topographical awkwardness Damogran has always remained a deserted planet. This is why the Imperial Galactic Government chose Damogran for the Heart of Gold project, because it was so deserted and the Heart of Gold project was so secret. The boat zipped and skipped across the sea, the sea that lay between the main islands of the only archipelago of any useful size on the whole planet. Zaphod Beeblebrox was on his way from the tiny spaceport on Easter Island (the name was an entirely meaningless coincidence—in Galacticspeke, easter means small, flat and lightbrown) to the Heart of Gold island, which by another meaningless coincidence was called France. One of the side effects of work on the Heart of Gold was a whole string of pretty meaningless coincidences. But it was not in any way a coincidence that today, the day of culmination of the project, the great day of unveiling, the day that the Heart of Gold was finally to be introduced to a marveling Galaxy, was also a great day of culmination for Zaphod Beeblebrox. It was for the sake of this day that he had first decided to run for the presidency, a decision that had sent shock waves of astonishment throughout the Imperial Galaxy. Zaphod Beeblebrox? President? Not the Zaphod Beeblebrox? Not the President? Many had seen it as clinching proof that the whole of known creation had finally gone bananas. Zaphod grinned and gave the boat an extra kick of speed. Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippie, good-timer, (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch. President? No one had gone bananas, not in that way at least. Only six people in the entire Galaxy understood the principle on which the Galaxy was governed, and they knew that once Zaphod Beeblebrox had announced his intention to run as President it was more or less a fait accompli: he was ideal presidency fodder. * What they completely failed to understand was why Zaphod was doing it. He banked sharply, shooting a wild wall of water at the sun. Today was the day; today was the day when they would realize what Zaphod had been up to. Today was what Zaphod Beeblebrox’s presidency was all about. Today was also his two-hundredth birthday, but that was just another meaningless coincidence. As he skipped his boat across the seas of Damogran he smiled quietly to himself about what a wonderful, exciting day it was going to be. He relaxed and spread his two arms lazily along the seat back. He steered with an extra arm he’d recently had fitted just beneath his right one to help improve his ski-boxing. “Hey,” he cooed to himself, “you’re a real cool boy you.” But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle. The island of France was about twenty miles long, five miles across the middle, sandy and crescent-shaped. In fact, it seemed to exist not so much as an island in its own right as simply a means of defining the sweep and curve of a huge bay. This impression was heightened by the fact that the inner coastline of the crescent consisted almost entirely of steep cliffs. From the top of the cliff the land sloped slowly down five miles to the opposite shore. On top of the cliffs stood a reception committee. It consisted in large part of the engineers and researchers who had built the Heart of Gold—mostly humanoid, but here and there were a few reptiloid atomineers, two or three green sylphlike maximegalacticians, an octopodic physucturalist or two and a Hooloovoo (a Hooloovoo is a superintelligent shade of the color blue). All except the Hooloovoo were resplendent in their multicolored ceremonial lab coats; the Hooloovoo had been temporarily refracted into a free-standing prism for the occasion. There was a mood of immense excitement thrilling through all of them. Together and between them they had gone to and beyond the furthest limits of physical laws, restructured the fundamental fabric of matter, strained, twisted and broken the laws of possibility and impossibility, but still the greatest excitement of all seemed to be to meet a man with an orange sash round his neck. (An orange sash was what the President of the Galaxy traditionally wore.) It might not even have made much difference to them if they’d known exactly how much power the President of the Galaxy actually wielded: none at all. Only six people in the Galaxy knew that the job of the Galactic President was not to wield power but to attract attention away from it. Zaphod Beeblebrox was amazingly good at his job. The crowd gasped, dazzled by sun and seamanship, as the presidential speedboat zipped round the headland into the bay. It flashed and shone as it came skating over the sea in wide skidding turns. In fact, it didn’t need to touch the water at all, because it was supported on a hazy cushion of ionized atoms, but just for effect it was fitted with thin finblades which could be lowered into the water. They slashed sheets of water hissing into the air, carved deep gashes in the sea which swayed crazily and sank back foaming in the boat’s wake as it careered across the bay. Zaphod loved effect: it was what he was best at. He twisted the wheel sharply, the boat skidded round in a wild scything skid beneath the cliff face and dropped to rest lightly on the rocking waves. Within seconds he ran out onto the deck and waved and grinned at over three billion people. The three billion people weren’t actually there, but they watched his every gesture through the eyes of a small robot tri-D camera which hovered obsequiously in the air nearby. The antics of the President always made amazingly popular tri-D: that’s what they were for. He grinned again. Three billion and six people didn’t know it, but today would be a bigger antic than anyone had bargained for. The robot camera homed in for a close-up on the more popular of his two heads and he waved again. He was roughly humanoid in appearance except for the extra head and third arm. His fair tousled hair stuck out in random directions, his blue eyes glinted with something completely unidentifiable, and his chins were almost always unshaven. A twenty-foot-high transparent globe floated next to his boat, rolling and bobbing, glistening in the brilliant sun. Inside it floated a wide semicircular sofa upholstered in glorious red leather: the more the globe bobbed and rolled, the more the sofa stayed perfectly still, steady as an upholstered rock. Again, all done for effect as much as anything. Zaphod stepped through the wall of the globe and relaxed on the sofa. He spread his two arms along the back and with the third brushed some dust off his knee. His heads looked about, smiling; he put his feet up. At any moment, he thought, he might scream. Water boiled up beneath the bubble, it seethed and spouted. The bubble surged into the air, bobbing and rolling on the water spout. Up, up it climbed, throwing stilts of light at the cliff. Up it surged on the jet, the water falling from beneath it, crashing back into the sea hundreds of feet below. Zaphod smiled, picturing himself. A thoroughly ridiculous form of transport, but a thoroughly beautiful one. At the top of the cliff the globe wavered for a moment, tipped onto a railed ramp, rolled down it to a small concave platform and riddled to a halt. To tremendous applause Zaphod Beeblebrox stepped out of the bubble, his orange sash blazing in the light. The President of the Galaxy had arrived. He waited for the applause to die down, then raised his hand in greeting. “Hi,” he said. A government spider sidled up to him and attempted to press a copy of his prepared speech into his hands. Pages three to seven of the original version were at the moment floating soggily on the Damogran Sea some five miles out from the bay. Pages one and two had been salvaged by a Damogran Frond Crested Eagle and had already become incorporated into an extraordinary new form of nest which the eagle had invented. It was constructed largely of papiermâché and it was virtually impossible for a newly hatched baby eagle to break out of it. The Damogran Frond Crested Eagle had heard of the notion of survival of the species but wanted no truck with it. Zaphod Beeblebrox would not be needing his set speech and he gently deflected the one being offered him by the spider. “Hi,” he said again. Everyone beamed at him, or at least, nearly everyone. He singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a girl that Zaphod had picked up recently while visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito. She was slim, darkish, humanoid, with long waves of black hair, a full mouth, an odd little knob of a nose and ridiculously brown eyes. With her red head scarf knotted in that particular way and her long flowing silky brown dress, she looked vaguely Arabic. Not that anyone there had ever heard of an Arab of course. The Arabs had very recently ceased to exist, and even when they had existed they were five hundred thousand light-years from Damogran. Trillian wasn’t anybody in particular, or so Zaphod claimed. She just went around with him rather a lot and told him what she thought of him. “Hi, honey,” he said to her. She flashed him a quick tight smile and looked away. Then she looked back for a moment and smiled more warmly—but by this time he was looking at something else. “Hi,” he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes. He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote. The next thing he said though was not a lot of use to them. One of the officials of the party had irritably decided that the President was clearly not in a mood to read the deliciously turned speech that had been written for him, and had flipped the switch on the remotecontrol device in his pocket. Away in front of them a huge white dome that bulged against the sky cracked down the middle, split and slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they’d built it that way. Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty meters long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mind-bogglingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wrenching device ever conceived, a device that made this star-ship unique in the history of the Galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named—the Heart of Gold. “Wow,” said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn’t much else he could say. He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press. “Wow.” The crowd turned their faces back toward him expectantly. He winked at Trillian, who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible show-off. “That is really amazing,” he said. “That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I’d like to steal it.” A marvelous presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the President grinned. As he grinned his heart screamed unbearably and he fingered the small Paralyso-Matic bomb that nestled quietly in his pocket. Finally he could bear it no more. He lifted his heads up to the sky, let out a wild whoop in major thirds, threw the bomb to the ground and ran forward through the sea of suddenly frozen beaming smiles. * President: full title President of the Imperial Galactic Government. The term Imperial is kept though it is now an anachronism. The hereditary Emperor is nearly dead and has been for many centuries. In the last moments of his dying coma he was locked in a stasis field which keeps him in a state of perpetual unchangingness. All his heirs are now long dead, and this means that without any drastic political upheaval, power has simply and effectively moved a rung or two down the ladder, and is now seen to be vested in a body that used to act simply as advisers to the Emperor—an elected governmental assembly headed by a President elected by that assembly. In fact it vests in no such place. The President in particular is very much a figurehead—he wields no real power whatsoever. He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage. For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character. His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it. On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had—he has already spent two of his ten presidential years in prison for fraud. Very very few people realize that the President and the Government have virtually no power at all, and of these few people only six know whence ultimate political power is wielded. Most of the others secretly believe that the ultimate decision-making process is handled by a computer. They couldn’t be more wrong. P Chapter 5 rostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons. His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead. His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of down to a thousand feet with no ill effects. Not that he ever went swimming of course. His busy schedule would not allow it. He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet’s virgin shores … when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution had simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake. They never evolved again: they should never have survived. The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thick-willed slug-brained stubbornness of these creatures. Evolution? they said to themselves, Who needs it?, and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the gross anatomical inconveniences with surgery. Meanwhile, the natural forces on the planet Vogsphere had been working overtime to make up for their earlier blunder. They brought forth scintillating jeweled scuttling crabs, which the Vogons ate, smashing their shells with iron mallets; tall aspiring trees of breathtaking slenderness and color which the Vogons cut down and burned the crabmeat with; elegant gazellelike creatures with silken coats and dewy eyes which the Vogons would catch and sit on. They were no use as transport because their backs would snap instantly, but the Vogons sat on them anyway. Thus the planet Vogsphere whiled away the unhappy millennia until the Vogons suddenly discovered the principles of interstellar travel. Within a few short Vog years every last Vogon had migrated to the Megabrantis cluster, the political hub of the Galaxy, and now formed the immensely powerful backbone of the Galactic Civil Service. They have attempted to acquire learning, they have attempted to acquire style and social graces, but in most respects the modern Vogon is little different from his primitive forebears. Every year they import twenty-seven thousand scintillating jeweled scuttling crabs from their native planet and while away a happy drunken night smashing them to bits with iron mallets. Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was a fairly typical Vogon in that he was thoroughly vile. Also, he did not like hitchhikers. Somewhere in a small dark cabin buried deep in the intestines of Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz’s flagship, a small match flared nervously. The owner of the match was not a Vogon, but he knew all about them and was right to be nervous. His name was Ford Prefect. * He looked about the cabin but could see very little; strange monstrous shadows loomed and leaped with the tiny flickering flame, but all was quiet. He breathed a silent thank you to the Dentrassis. The Dentrassis are an unruly tribe of gourmands, a wild but pleasant bunch whom the Vogons had recently taken to employing as catering staff on their long-haul fleets, on the strict understanding that they keep themselves very much to themselves. This suited the Dentrassis fine, because they loved Vogon money, which is one of the hardest currencies in space, but loathed the Vogons themselves. The only sort of Vogon a Dentrassi liked to see was an annoyed Vogon. It was because of this tiny piece of information that Ford Prefect was not now a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. He heard a slight groan. By the light of the match he saw a heavy shape moving slightly on the floor. Quickly he shook the match out, reached in his pocket, found what he was looking for and took it out. He ripped it open and shook it. He crouched on the floor. The shape moved again. Ford Prefect said, “I bought some peanuts.” Arthur Dent moved, and groaned again, muttering incoherently. “Here, have some,” urged Ford, shaking the packet again, “if you’ve never been through a matter transference beam before you’ve probably lost some salt and protein. The beer you had should have cushioned your system a bit.” “Whhhrrr …” said Arthur Dent. He opened his eyes. “It’s dark,” he said. “Yes,” said Ford Prefect, “it’s dark.” “No light,” said Arthur Dent. “Dark, no light.” One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious, as in It’s a nice day, or You’re very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right? At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior. If human beings don’t keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up. After a few months’ consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don’t keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working. After a while he abandoned this one as well as being obstructively cynical and decided he quite liked human beings after all, but he always remained desperately worried abut the terrible number of things they didn’t know about. “Yes,” he agreed with Arthur, “no light.” He helped Arthur to some peanuts. “How do you feel?” he asked him. “Like a military academy,” said Arthur, “bits of me keep on passing out.” Ford stared at him blankly in the darkness. “If I asked you where the hell we were,” said Arthur weakly, “would I regret it?” Ford stood up. “We’re safe,” he said. “Oh good,” said Arthur. “We’re in a small galley cabin,” said Ford, “in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet.” “Ah,” said Arthur, “this is obviously some strange usage of the word safe that I wasn’t previously aware of.” Ford struck another match to help him search for a light switch. Monstrous shadows leaped and loomed again. Arthur struggled to his feet and hugged himself apprehensively. Hideous alien shapes seemed to throng about him, the air was thick with musty smells which sidled into his lungs without identifying themselves, and a low irritating hum kept his brain from focusing. “How did we get here?” he asked, shivering slightly. “We hitched a lift,” said Ford. “Excuse me?” said Arthur. “Are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some green bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said, ‘Hi fellas, hop right in, I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout?’” “Well,” said Ford, “the Thumb’s an electronic sub-etha signaling device, the roundabout’s at Barnard’s Star six light-years away, but otherwise, that’s more or less right.” “And the bug-eyed monster?” “Is green, yes.” “Fine,” said Arthur, “when can I go home?” “You can’t,” said Ford Prefect, and found the light switch. “Shade your eyes …” he said, and turned it on. Even Ford was surprised. “Good grief,” said Arthur, “is this really the interior of a flying saucer?” Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz heaved his unpleasant green body round the control bridge. He always felt vaguely irritable after demolishing populated planets. He wished that someone would come and tell him that it was all wrong so that he could shout at them and feel better. He flopped as heavily as he could onto his control seat in the hope that it would break and give him something to be genuinely angry about, but it only gave a complaining sort of creak. “Go away!” he shouted at a young Vogon guard who entered the bridge at that moment. The guard vanished immediately, feeling rather relieved. He was glad it wouldn’t now be him who delivered the report they’d just received. The report was an official release which said that a wonderful new form of spaceship drive was at this moment being unveiled at a Government research base on Damogran which would henceforth make all hyperspatial express routes unnecessary. Another door slid open, but this time the Vogon captain didn’t shout because it was the door from the galley quarters where the Dentrassis prepared his meals. A meal would be most welcome. A huge furry creature bounded through the door with his lunch tray. It was grinning like a maniac. Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was delighted. He knew that when a Dentrassi looked that pleased with itself there was something going on somewhere on the ship that he could get very angry indeed about. Ford and Arthur stared around them. “Well, what do you think?” said Ford. “It’s a bit squalid, isn’t it?” Ford frowned at the grubby mattresses, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin. “Well, this is a working ship, you see,” said Ford. “These are the Dentrassis’ sleeping quarters.” “I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.” “Yes,” said Ford, “the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks; they let us on board.” “I’m confused,” said Arthur. “Here, have a look at this,” said Ford. He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel. Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself: in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Sqornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again. Ford handed the book to Arthur. “What is it?” asked Arthur. “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It’s a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That’s its job.” Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands. “I like the cover,” he said. “‘Don’t Panic.’ It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.” “I’ll show you how it works,” said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur, who was still holding it as if it were a two-week-dead lark, and pulled it out of its cover. “You press this button here, you see, and the screen lights up, giving you the index.” A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface. “You want to know about Vogons, so I entered that name so.” His fingers tapped some more keys. “And there we are.” The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen. Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still, quiet, measured voice. This is what the book said: “Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy—not actually evil, but bad-tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn’t even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters. “The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal. “On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you.” Arthur blinked at it. “What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?” “That’s the point, it’s out of date now,” said Ford, sliding the book back into its cover. “I’m doing the field research for the new revised edition, and one of the things I’ll have to do is include a bit about how the Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks, which gives us a rather useful little loophole.” A pained expression crossed Arthur’s face. “But who are the Dentrassis?” he said. “Great guys,” said Ford. “They’re the best cooks and the best drink mixers and they don’t give a wet slap about anything else. And they’ll always help hitchhikers aboard, partly because they like the company, but mostly because it annoys the Vogons. Which is exactly the sort of thing you need to know if you’re an impoverished hitchhiker trying to see the marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairian dollars a day. And that’s my job. Fun, isn’t it?” Arthur looked lost. “It’s amazing,” he said, and frowned at one of the other mattresses. “Unfortunately I got stuck on the Earth for rather longer than I intended,” said Ford. “I came for a week and got stuck for fifteen years.” “But how did you get there in the first place then?” “Easy, I got a lift with a teaser.” “A teaser?” “Yeah.” “Er, what is …” “A teaser? Teasers are usually rich kids with nothing to do. They cruise around looking for planets that haven’t made interstellar contact yet and buzz them.” “Buzz them?” Arthur began to feel that Ford was enjoying making life difficult for him. “Yeah,” said Ford, “they buzz them. They find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor unsuspecting soul whom no one’s ever going to believe and then strut up and down in front of him wearing silly antennas on their head and making beep beep noises. Rather childish really.” Ford leaned back on the mattress with his hands behind his head and looked infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Ford,” insisted Arthur, “I don’t know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here?” “Well, you know that,” said Ford. “I rescued you from the Earth.” “And what’s happened to the Earth?” “Ah. It’s been demolished.” “Has it,” said Arthur levelly. “Yes. It just boiled away into space.” “Look,” said Arthur, “I’m a bit upset about that.” Ford frowned to himself and seemed to roll the thought around his mind. “Yes, I can understand that,” he said at last. “Understand that!” shouted Arthur. “Understand that!” Ford sprang up. “Keep looking at the book!” he hissed urgently. “What?” “Don’t Panic.” “I’m not panicking!” “Yes, you are.” “All right, so I’m panicking, what else is there to do?” “You just come along with me and have a good time. The Galaxy’s a fun place. You’ll need to have this fish in your ear.” “I beg your pardon?” asked Arthur, rather politely he thought. Ford was holding up a small glass jar which quite clearly had a small yellow fish wriggling around in it. Arthur blinked at him. He wished there was something simple and recognizable he could grasp hold of. He would have felt safe if alongside the Dentrassis’ underwear, the piles of Sqornshellous mattresses and the man from Betelgeuse holding up a small yellow fish and offering to put it in his ear he had been able to see just a small packet of cornflakes. But he couldn’t, and he didn’t feel safe. Suddenly a violent noise leaped at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle while fighting off a pack of wolves. “Shush!” said Ford. “Listen, it might be important.” “Im … important?” “It’s the Vogon captain making an announcement on the tannoy.” “You mean that’s how the Vogons talk?” “Listen!” “But I can’t speak Vogon!” “You don’t need to. Just put this fish in your ear.” Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur’s ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of colored dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses. He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had somehow taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English. This is what he heard … * Ford Prefect’s original name is only pronounceable in an obscure Betel-geusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford’s father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford’s father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five, where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue. Because Ford never learned to say his original name, his father eventually died of shame, which is still a terminal disease in some parts of the Galaxy. The other kids at school nicknamed him Ix, which in the language of Betelgeuse Five translates as “boy who is not able satisfactorily to explain what a Hrung is, nor why it should choose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven.” H Chapter 6 owl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should have a good time. Message repeats. This is your captain speaking, so stop whatever you’re doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitchhikers aboard. Hello, wherever you are. I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn’t become captain of a Vogon constructor ship simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for a load of degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon as they find you I will put you off the ship. If you’re very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first. “Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for the journey to Barnard’s Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two-hour refit, and no one’s to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is canceled. I’ve just had an unhappy love affair, so I don’t see why anybody else should have a good time. Message ends.” The noise stopped. Arthur discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying curled up in a small ball on the floor with his arms wrapped round his head. He smiled weakly. “Charming man,” he said. “I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one …” “You wouldn’t need to,” said Ford. “They’ve got as much sex appeal as a road accident. No, don’t move,” he added as Arthur began to uncurl himself, “you’d better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It’s unpleasantly like being drunk.” “What’s so unpleasant about being drunk?” “You ask a glass of water.” Arthur thought about this. “Ford,” he said. “Yeah?” “What’s this fish doing in my ear?” “It’s translating for you. It’s a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like.” He tossed over The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a fetal ball to prepare himself for the jump. At that moment the bottom fell out of Arthur’s mind. His eyes turned inside out. His feet began to leak out of the top of his head. The room folded flat around him, spun around, shifted out of existence and left him sliding into his own navel. They were passing through hyperspace. “The Babel fish,” said The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy quietly, “is small, yellow and leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy received not from its own carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centers of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish. “Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a fina and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God. “The argument goes something like this: ‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’ “‘But,’ says Man, ‘the Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.’ “‘Oh dear,’ says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic. “‘Oh, that was easy,’ says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next pedestrian crossing. “Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo’s kidneys, but that didn’t stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book, Well That about Wraps It Up for God. “Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bloodier wars than anything else in the history of creation.” Arthur let out a low groan. He was horrified to discover that the kick through hyperspace hadn’t killed him. He was now six lightyears from the place that the Earth would have been if it still existed. The Earth. Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket two days before and felt a sudden stab—the supermarket was gone, everyone in it was gone. Nelson’s Column had gone! Nelson’s Column had gone and there would be no outcry, because there was no one left to make an outcry. From now on Nelson’s Column only existed in his mind. England only existed in his mind— his mind, stuck here in this dank smelly steel-lined spaceship. A wave of claustrophobia closed in on him. England no longer existed. He’d got that—somehow he’d got it. He tried again. America, he thought, has gone. He couldn’t grasp it. He decided to start smaller again. New York has gone. No reaction. He’d never seriously believed it existed anyway. The dollar, he thought, has sunk for ever. Slight tremor there. Every Bogart movie has been wiped, he said to himself, and that gave him a nasty knock. McDonald’s, he thought. There is no longer any such thing as a McDonald’s hamburger. He passed out. When he came round a second later he found he was sobbing for his mother. He jerked himself violently to his feet. “Ford!” Ford looked up from where he was sitting in a corner humming to himself. He always found the actual traveling-through-space part of space travel rather trying. “Yeah?” he said. “If you’re a researcher on this book thing and you were on Earth, you must have been gathering material on it.” “Well, I was able to extend the original entry a bit, yes.” “Let me see what it says in this edition then, I’ve got to see it.” “Yeah, okay.” He passed it over again. Arthur grabbed hold of it and tried to stop his hands shaking. He pressed the entry for the relevant page. The screen flashed and swirled and resolved into a page of print. Arthur stared at it. “It doesn’t have an entry!” he burst out. Ford looked over his shoulder. “Yes, it does,” he said, “down there, see at the bottom of the screen, just above Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6.” Arthur followed Ford’s finger, and saw where it was pointing. For a moment it still didn’t register, then his mind nearly blew up. “What? Harmless? Is that all it’s got to say? Harmless! One word!” Ford shrugged. “Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy, and only a limited amount of space in the book’s microprocessors,” he said, “and no one knew much about the Earth, of course.” “Well, for God’s sake, I hope you managed to rectify that a bit.” “Oh yes, well, I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it’s still an improvement.” “And what does it say now?” asked Arthur. “Mostly harmless,” admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough. “Mostly harmless!” shouted Arthur. “What was that noise?” hissed Ford. “It was me shouting,” shouted Arthur. “No! Shut up!” said Ford. “I think we’re in trouble.” “You think we’re in trouble!” Outside the door were the clear sounds of marching footsteps. “The Dentrassis?” whispered Arthur. “No, those are steel-tipped boots,” said Ford. There was a sharp ringing rap on the door. “Then who is it?” said Arthur. “Well,” said Ford, “if we’re lucky it’s just the Vogons come to throw us in to space.” “And if we’re unlucky?” “If we’re unlucky,” said Ford grimly, “the captain might be serious in his threat that he’s going to read us some of his poetry first….” V Chapter 7 ogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz smiled very slowly. This was done not so much for effect as because he was trying to remember the sequence of muscle movements. He had had a terribly therapeutic yell at his prisoners and was now feeling quite relaxed and ready for a little callousness. The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation chairs—strapped in. Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in. Their early attempts at composition had been part of a bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloody-mindedness. The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect’s brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment—imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers—all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet’s thought was lost. Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn’t liked anything that had happened so far and didn’t think things were likely to change. The Vogon began to read—a fetid little passage of his own devising. “Oh freddled gruntbuggly …” he began. Spasms wracked Ford’s body —this was worse than even he’d been prepared for. “? … thy micturations are to me/As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.” “Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!” went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth. “Groop I implore thee,” continued the merciless Vogon, “my foonting turlingdromes.” His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. “And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,/ Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don’t!” “Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!” cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp. Arthur lolled. “Now, Earthlings …” whirred the Vogon (he didn’t know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn’t have cared if he had), “I present you with a simple choice! Either die in the vacuum of space, or …” he paused for melodramatic effect, “tell me how good you thought my poem was!” He threw himself backward into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again. Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned. Arthur said brightly, “Actually I quite liked it.” Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him. The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing. “Oh good …” he whirred, in considerable astonishment. “Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.” Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this? “Yes, do continue …” invited the Vogon. “Oh … and, er … interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to counterpoint the … er … er …” he floundered. Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “… counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the … er …” He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again. “… humanity of the …” “Vogonity,” Ford hissed at him. “Ah yes, Vogonity—sorry—of the poet’s compassionate soul”— Arthur felt he was on the homestretch now—“which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other”—he was reaching a triumphant crescendo—“and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into … into … er …” (which suddenly gave out on him). Ford leaped in with the coup de grace: “Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.” The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no—too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon. “So what you’re saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said. He paused, “Is that right?” Ford laughed a nervous laugh. “Well, I mean, yes,” he said, “don’t we all, deep down, you know … er …” The Vogon stood up. “No, well, you’re completely wrong,” he said, “I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I’m going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!” “What?” shouted Ford. A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms. “You can’t throw us into space,” yelled Ford, “we’re trying to write a book.” “Resistance is useless!” shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he’d learned when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps. The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away. Arthur stared round him wildly. “I don’t want to die now!” he yelled. “I’ve still got a headache! I don’t want to go to heaven with a headache, I’d be all cross and wouldn’t enjoy it!” The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially toward his captain’s back, hoicked them both protesting out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again. He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses. “Hmmm,” he said, “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor …” He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile. “Death’s too good for them,” he said. The long steel-lined corridor echoed to the feeble struggles of the two humanoids clamped firmly under rubbery Vogon armpits. “This is great,” spluttered Arthur, “this is really terrific. Let go of me, you brute!” The Vogon guard dragged them on. “Don’t you worry,” said Ford, “I’ll think of something.” He didn’t sound hopeful. “Resistance is useless!” bellowed the guard. “Just don’t say things like that,” stammered Ford. “How can anyone maintain a positive mental attitude if you’re saying things like that?” “My God,” complained Arthur, “you’re talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven’t even had your planet demolished today. I woke up this morning and thought I’d have a nice relaxed day, do a bit of reading, brush the dog…. It’s now just after four in the afternoon and I’m already being thrown out of an alien spaceship six light-years from the smoking remains of the Earth!” He spluttered and gurgled as the Vogon tightened his grip. “All right,” said Ford, “just stop panicking!” “Who said anything about panicking?” snapped Arthur. “This is still just the culture shock. You wait till I’ve settled down into the situation and found my bearings. Then I’ll start panicking!” “Arthur, you’re getting hysterical. Shut up!” Ford tried desperately to think, but was interrupted by the guard shouting again. “Resistance is useless!” “And you can shut up as well!” snapped Ford. “Resistance is useless!” “Oh, give it a rest,” said Ford. He twisted his head till he was looking straight up into his captor’s face. A thought struck him. “Do you really enjoy this sort of thing?” he asked suddenly. The Vogon stopped dead and a look of immense stupidity seeped slowly over his face. “Enjoy?” he boomed. “What do you mean?” “What I mean,” said Ford, “is does it give you a full, satisfying life? Stomping around, shouting, pushing people out of spaceships …” The Vogon stared up at the low steel ceiling and his eyebrows almost rolled over each other. His mouth slacked. Finally he said, “Well, the hours are good….” “They’d have to be,” agreed Ford. Arthur twisted his head round to look at Ford. “Ford, what are you doing?” he asked in an amazed whisper. “Oh, just trying to take an interest in the world around me, okay?” he said. “So the hours are pretty good then?” he resumed. The Vogon stared down at him as sluggish thoughts moiled around in the murky depths. “Yeah,” he said, “but now you come to mention it, most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy. Except …” he thought again, which required looking at the ceiling, “except some of the shouting I quite like.” He filled his lungs and bellowed, “Resistance is …” “Sure, yes,” interrupted Ford hurriedly, “you’re good at that, I can tell. But if it’s mostly lousy,” he said, slowly giving the words time to reach their mark, “then why do you do it? What is it? The girls? The leather? The machismo? Or do you just find that coming to terms with the mindless tedium of it all presents an interesting challenge?” Arthur looked backward and forward between them in bafflement. “Er …” said the guard, “er … er … I dunno. I think I just sort of … do it really. My aunt said that spaceship guard was a good career for a young Vogon—you know, the uniform, the low-slung stun ray holster, the mindless tedium …” “There you are, Arthur,” said Ford with the air of someone reaching the conclusion of his argument, “you think you’ve got problems.” Arthur rather thought he had. Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn’t like the sound of being thrown into space very much. “Try and understand his problem,” insisted Ford. “Here he is, poor lad, his entire life’s work is stamping around, throwing people off spaceships …” “And shouting,” added the guard. “And shouting, sure,” said Ford, patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, “and he doesn’t even know why he’s doing it!” Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxiated to speak. Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard. “Well. Now you put it like that I suppose …” “Good lad!” encouraged Ford. “But all right,” went on the rumblings, “so what’s the alternative?” “Well,” said Ford, brightly but slowly, “stop doing it, of course! Tell them,” he went on, “you’re not going to do it any more.” He felt he ought to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much. “Eerrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm …” said the guard, “erm, well, that doesn’t sound that great to me.” Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away. “Now wait a minute,” he said, “that’s just the start, you see, there’s more to it than that, you see ….” But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock. He was obviously quite touched. “No, I think if it’s all the same to you,” he said, “I’d better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I’ve got to do.” It wasn’t all the same to Ford Prefect at all. “Come on now … but look!” he said, less slowly, less brightly. “Huhhhhggggggnnnnnnn …” said Arthur without any clear inflection. “But hang on,” pursued Ford, “there’s music and art and things to tell you about yet! Arrggghhh!” “Resistance is useless,” bellowed the guard, and then added, “You see, if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren’t usually many vacancies for nonshouting and nonpushing-people-about officers, so I think I’d better stick to what I know.” They had now reached the airlock—a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft. The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open. “But thanks for taking an interest,” said the Vogon guard. “Bye now.” He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within. Arthur lay panting for breath. Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway. “But listen,” he shouted to the guard, “there’s a whole world you don’t know anything about … here, how about this?” Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand— he hummed the first bar of Beethoven’s “Fifth.” “Da da da dum! Doesn’t that stir anything in you?” “No,” said the guard, “not really. But I’ll mention it to my aunt.” If he said anything further after that it was lost. The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost except the faint distant hum of the ship’s engines. They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about six feet in diameter and ten feet long. Ford looked round it, panting. “Potentially bright lad I thought,” he said, and slumped against the curved wall. Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen. He didn’t look up. He just lay panting. “We’re trapped now, aren’t we?” “Yes,” said Ford, “we’re trapped.” “Well, didn’t you think of anything? I thought you said you were going to think of something. Perhaps you thought of something and I didn’t notice.” “Oh yes, I thought of something,” panted Ford. Arthur looked up expectantly. “But unfortunately,” continued Ford, “it rather involved being on the other side of this airtight hatchway.” He kicked the hatch they’d just been thrown through. “But it was a good idea, was it?” “Oh yes, very neat.” “What was it?” “Well, I hadn’t worked out the details yet. Not much point now, is there?” “So … er, what happens next?” asked Arthur. “Oh, er, well, the hatchway in front of us will open automatically in a few moments and we will shoot out into deep space I expect and asphyxiate. If you take a lungful of air with you you can last for up to thirty seconds, of course …” said Ford. He stuck his hands behind his back, raised his eyebrows and started to hum an old Betelgeusian battle hymn. To Arthur’s eyes he suddenly looked very alien. “So this is it,” said Arthur, “we are going to die.” “Yes,” said Ford, “except … no! Wait a minute!” He suddenly lunged across the chamber at something behind Arthur’s line of vision. “What’s this switch?” he cried. “What? Where?” cried Arthur, twisting round. “No, I was only fooling,” said Ford, “we are going to die after all.” He slumped against the wall again and carried on the tune from where he left off. “You know,” said Arthur, “it’s at times like this, when I’m trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space, that I really wish I’d listened to what my mother told me when I was young.” “Why, what did she tell you?” “I don’t know, I didn’t listen.” “Oh.” Ford carried on humming. “This is terrific,” Arthur thought to himself, “Nelson’s Column has gone, McDonald’s has gone, all that’s left is me and the words Mostly harmless. Any second now all that will be left is Mostly harmless. And yesterday the planet seemed to be going so well.” A motor whirred. A slight hiss built into a deafening roar of rushing air as the outer hatchway opened onto an empty blackness studded with tiny, impossibly bright points of light. Ford and Arthur popped into outer space like corks from a toy gun. T Chapter 8 he Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book. It has been compiled and recompiled many times over many years and under many different editorships. It contains contributions from countless numbers of travelers and researchers. The introduction begins like this: “Space,” it says, “is big. Really big. You just won’t believe how vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it’s a long way down the road to the chemist, but that’s just peanuts to space. Listen …” and so on. (After a while the style settles down a bit and it begins to tell you things you really need to know, like the fact that the fabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulative erosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance between the amount you eat and the amount you excrete while on the planet is surgically removed from your body weight when you leave: so every time you go to the lavatory there it is vitally important to get a receipt.) To be fair though, when confronted by the sheer enormity of the distances between the stars, better minds than the one responsible for the Guide’s introduction have faltered. Some invite you to consider for a moment a peanut in Reading and a small walnut in Johannesburg, and other such dizzying concepts. The simple truth is that interstellar distances will not fit into the human imagination. Even light, which travels so fast that it takes most races thousands of years to realize that it travels at all, takes time to journey between the stars. It takes eight minutes to journey from the star Sol to the place where the Earth used to be, and four years more to arrive at Sol’s nearest stellar neighbor, Alpha Proxima. For light to reach the other side of the Galaxy, for it to reach Damogran, for instance, takes rather longer: five hundred thousand years. The record for hitchhiking this distance is just under five years, but you don’t get to see much on the way. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy says that if you hold a lungful of air you can survive in the total vacuum of space for about thirty seconds. However, it does go on to say that what with space being the mind-boggling size it is the chances of getting picked up by another ship within those thirty seconds are two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against. By a totally staggering coincidence, that is also the telephone number of an Islington flat where Arthur once went to a very good party and met a very nice girl whom he totally failed to get off with—she went off with a gate-crasher. Though the planet Earth, the Islington flat and the telephone have all now been demolished, it is comforting to reflect that they are all in some small way commemorated by the fact that twenty-nine seconds later Ford and Arthur were rescued. A Chapter 9 computer chattered to itself in alarm as it noticed an airlock open and close itself for no apparent reason. This was because reason was in fact out to lunch. A hole had just appeared in the Galaxy. It was exactly a nothingth of a second long, a nothingth of an inch wide, and quite a lot of millions of light-years from end to end. As it closed up, lots of paper hats and party balloons fell out of it and drifted off through the Universe. A team of seven three-foot-high market analysts fell out of it and died, partly of asphyxiation, partly of surprise. Two hundred and thirty-nine thousand lightly fried eggs fell out of it too, materializing in a large wobbly heap on the famine-struck land of Poghril in the Pansel system. The whole Poghril tribe had died out from famine except for one last man who died of cholesterol poisoning some weeks later. The nothingth of a second for which the hole existed reverberated backward and forward through time in a most improbable fashion. Somewhere in the deeply remote past it seriously traumatized a small random group of atoms drifting through the empty sterility of space and made them cling together in the most extraordinarily unlikely patterns. These patterns quickly learned to copy themselves (this was part of what was so extraordinary about the patterns) and went on to cause massive trouble on every planet they drifted on to. That was how life began in the Universe. Five wild Event Maelstroms swirled in vicious storms of unreason and spewed up a payment. On the pavement lay Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent gulping like half-spent fish. “There you are,” gasped Ford, scrabbling for a finger hold on the pavement as it raced through the Third Reach of the Unknown, “I told you I’d think of something.” “Oh sure,” said Arthur, “sure.” “Bright idea of mine,” said Ford, “to find a passing spaceship and get rescued by it.” The real Universe arched sickeningly away beneath them. Various pretend ones flitted silently by, like mountain goats. Primal light exploded, splattering space-time as with gobbets of Jell-O. Time blossomed, matter shrank away. The highest prime number coalesced quietly in a corner and hid itself away for ever. “Oh, come off it,” said Arthur, “the chances against it were astronomical.” “Don’t knock it, it worked,” said Ford. “What sort of ship are we in?” asked Arthur as the pit of eternity yawned beneath them. “I don’t know,” said Ford, “I haven’t opened my eyes yet.” “No, nor have I,” said Arthur. The Universe jumped, froze, quivered and splayed out in several unexpected directions. Arthur and Ford opened their eyes and looked about in considerable surprise. “Good God,” said Arthur, “it looks just like the sea front at Southend.” “Hell, I’m relieved to hear you say that,” said Ford. “Why?” “Because I thought I must be going mad.” “Perhaps you are. Perhaps you only thought I said it.” Ford thought about this. “Well, did you say it or didn’t you?” he asked. “I think so,” said Arthur. “Well, perhaps we’re both going mad.” “Yes,” said Arthur, “we’d be mad, all things considered, to think this was Southend.” “Well, do you think this is Southend?” “Oh yes.” “So do I.” “Therefore we must be mad.” “Nice day for it.” “Yes,” said a passing maniac. “Who was that?” asked Arthur. “Who—the man with the five heads and the elderberry bush full of kippers?” “Yes.” “I don’t know. Just someone.” “Ah.” They both sat on the pavement and watched with a certain unease as huge children bounced heavily along the sand and wild horses thundered through the sky taking fresh supplies of reinforced railings to the Uncertain Areas. “You know,” said Arthur with a slight cough, “if this is Southend, there’s something very odd about it….” “You mean the way the sea stays steady as a rock and the buildings keep washing up and down?” said Ford. “Yes, I thought that was odd too. In fact,” he continued as with a huge bang Southend split itself into six equal segments which danced and spun giddily round each other in lewd and licentious formations, “there is something altogether very strange going on.” Wild yowling noises of pipes and strings seared through the wind, hot doughnuts popped out of the road for ten pence each, horrid fish stormed out of the sky and Arthur and Ford decided to make a run for it. They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl’s voice. It sounded quite a sensible voice, but it just said, “Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling,” and that was all. Ford skidded down a beam of light and spun round trying to find a source for the voice but could see nothing he could seriously believe in. “What was that voice?” shouted Arthur. “I don’t know,” yelled Ford, “I don’t know. It sounded like a measurement of probability.” “Probability? What do you mean?” “Probability. You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against. It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against. That’s pretty improbable, you know.” A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warning. “But what does it mean?” cried Arthur. “What, the custard?” “No, the measurement of improbability!” “I don’t know. I don’t know at all. I think we’re on some kind of spaceship.” “I can only assume,” said Arthur, “that this is not the first-class compartment.” Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges. “Haaaauuurrgghhh …” said Arthur, as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. “Southend seems to be melting away … the stars are swirling … a dustbowl … my legs are drifting off into the sunset … my left arm’s come off too.” A frightening thought struck him. “Hell,” he said, “how am I going to operate my digital watch now?” He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford’s direction. “Ford,” he said, “you’re turning into a penguin. Stop it.” Again came the voice. “Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling.” Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle. “Hey, who are you?” he quacked. “Where are you? What’s going on and is there any way of stopping it?” “Please relax,” said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines, one of which is on fire, “you are perfectly safe.” “But that’s not the point!” raged Ford. “The point is that I am now a perfectly safe penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!” “It’s all right, I’ve got them back now,” said Arthur. “Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling,” said the voice. “Admittedly,” said Arthur, “they’re longer than I usually like them, but …” “Isn’t there anything,” squawked Ford in avian fury, “you feel you ought to be telling us?” The voice cleared its throat. A giant petit four lolloped off into the distance. “Welcome,” the voice said, “to the Starship Heart of Gold.” The voice continued. “Please do not be alarmed,” it said, “by anything you see or hear around you. You are bound to feel some initial ill effects as you have been rescued from certain death at an improbability level of two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand to one against— possibly much higher. We are now cruising at a level of two to the power of twenty-five thousand to one against and falling, and we will be restoring normality just as soon as we are sure what is normal anyway. Thank you. Two to the power of twenty thousand to one against and falling.” The voice cut out. Ford and Arthur were in a small luminous pink cubicle. Ford was wildly excited. “Arthur!” he said, “this is fantastic! We’ve been picked up by a ship powered by the Infinite Improbability Drive! This is incredible! I heard rumors about it before! They were all officially denied, but they must have done it! They’ve built the Improbability Drive! Arthur, this is … Arthur? What’s happening?” Arthur had jammed himself against the door to the cubicle, trying to hold it closed, but it was ill fitting. Tiny furry little hands were squeezing themselves through the cracks, their fingers were inkstained; tiny voices chattered insanely. Arthur looked up. “Ford!” he said, “there’s an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they’ve worked out.” T Chapter 10 he Infinite Improbability Drive is a wonderful new method of crossing vast interstellar distances in a mere nothingth of a second, without all that tedious mucking about in hyperspace. It was discovered by a lucky chance, and then developed into a governable form of propulsion by the Galactic Government’s research team on Damogran. This, briefly, is the story of its discovery. The principle of generating small amounts of finite improbability by simply hooking the logic circuits of a Bambleweeny 57 Sub-Meson Brain to an atomic vector plotter suspended in a strong Brownian Motion producer (say a nice hot cup of tea) were of course well understood—and such generators were often used to break the ice at parties by making all the molecules in the hostess’s undergarments leap simultaneously one foot to the left, in accordance with the Theory of Indeterminacy. Many respectable physicists said that they weren’t going to stand for this, partly because it was a debasement of science, but mostly because they didn’t get invited to those sorts of parties. Another thing they couldn’t stand was the perpetual failure they encountered in trying to construct a machine which could generate the infinite improbability field needed to flip a spaceship across the mind-paralyzing distances between the farthest stars, and in the end they grumpily announced that such a machine was virtually impossible. Then, one day, a student who had been left to sweep up the lab after a particularly unsuccessful party found himself reasoning this way: If, he thought to himself, such a machine is a virtual impossibility, then it must logically be a finite improbability. So all I have to do in order to make one is to work out exactly how improbable it is, feed that figure into the finite improbability generator, give it a fresh cup of really hot tea … and turn it on! He did this, and was rather startled to discover that he had managed to create the long-sought-after golden Infinite Improbability generator out of thin air. It startled him even more when just after he was awarded the Galactic Institute’s Prize for Extreme Cleverness he got lynched by a rampaging mob of respectable physicists who had finally realized that the one thing they really couldn’t stand was a smart-ass. T Chapter 11 he improbability-proof control cabin of the Heart of Gold looked like a perfectly conventional spaceship except that it was perfectly clean because it was so new. Some of the control seats hadn’t had the plastic wrapping taken off yet. The cabin was mostly white, oblong, and about the size of a smallish restaurant. In fact it wasn’t perfectly oblong: the two long walls were raked round in a slight parallel curve, and all the angles and corners of the cabin were contoured in excitingly chunky shapes. The truth of the matter is that it would have been a great deal simpler and more practical to build the cabin as an ordinary three-dimensional oblong room, but then the designers would have got miserable. As it was the cabin looked excitingly purposeful, with large video screens ranged over the control and guidance system panels on the concave wall, and long banks of computers set into the convex wall. In one corner a robot sat humped, its gleaming brushed steel head hanging loosely between its gleaming brushed steel knees. It too was fairly new, but though it was beautifully constructed and polished it somehow looked as if the various parts of its more or less humanoid body didn’t quite fit properly. In fact they fitted perfectly well, but something in its bearing suggested that they might have fitted better. Zaphod Beeblebrox paced nervously up and down the cabin, brushing his hands over pieces of gleaming equipment and giggling with excitement. Trillian sat hunched over a clump of instruments reading off figures. Her voice was carried round the tannoy system of the whole ship. “Five to one against and falling …” she said, “four to one against and falling … three to one … two … one … probability factor of one to one … we have normality, I repeat we have normality.” She turned her microphone off—then turned it back on— with a slight smile and continued: “Anything you still can’t cope with is therefore your own problem. Please relax. You will be sent for soon.” Zaphod burst out in annoyance, “Who are they, Trillian?” Trillian spun her seat round to face him and shrugged. “Just a couple of guys we seem to have picked up in open space,” she said. “Section ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha.” “Yeah, well, that’s a very sweet thought, Trillian,” complained Zaphod, “but do you really think it’s wise under the circumstances? I mean, here we are on the run and everything, we must have the police of half the Galaxy after us by now, and we stop to pick up hitchhikers. Okay, so ten out of ten for style, but minus several million for good thinking, yeah?” He tapped irritably at a control panel. Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important. Whatever Zaphod’s qualities of mind might include—dash, bravado, conceit— he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture. Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason he had had such a wild and successful life was that he never really understood the significance of anything he did. “Zaphod,” she said patiently, “they were floating unprotected in open space … you wouldn’t want them to have died, would you?” “Well, you know … no. Not as such, but …” “Not as such? Not die as such? But?” Trillian cocked her head on one side. “Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later.” “A second later and they would have been dead.” “Yeah, so if you’d taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away.” “You’d have been happy to let them die?” “Well, you know, not happy as such, but …” “Anyway,” said Trillian, turning back to the controls, “I didn’t pick them up.” “What do you mean? Who picked them up then?” “The ship did.” “Huh?” “The ship did. All by itself.” “Huh?” “While we were in Improbability Drive.” “But that’s incredible.” “No, Zaphod. Just very very improbable.” “Er, yeah.” “Look, Zaphod,” she said, patting his arm, “don’t worry about the aliens. They’re just a couple of guys, I expect. I’ll send the robot down to get them and bring them up here. Hey, Marvin!” In the corner, the robot’s head swung up sharply, but then wobbled about imperceptibly. It pulled itself up to its feet as if it was about five pounds heavier than it actually was, and made what an outside observer would have thought was a heroic effort to cross the room. It stopped in front of Trillian and seemed to stare through her left shoulder. “I think you ought to know I’m feeling very depressed,” it said. Its voice was low and hopeless. “Oh God,” muttered Zaphod, and slumped into a seat. “Well,” said Trillian in a bright compassionate tone, “here’s something to occupy you and keep your mind off things.” “It won’t work,” droned Marvin, “I have an exceptionally large mind.” “Marvin!” warned Trillian. “All right,” said Marvin, “what do you want me to do?” “Go down to number two entry bay and bring the two aliens up here under surveillance.” With a microsecond pause, and a finely calculated micromodulation of pitch and timbre—nothing you could actually take offense at—Marvin managed to convey his utter contempt and horror of all things human. “Just that?” he said. “Yes,” said Trillian firmly. “I won’t enjoy it,” said Marvin. Zaphod leaped out of his seat. “She’s not asking you to enjoy it,” he shouted, “just do it, will you?” “All right,” said Marvin, like the tolling of a great cracked bell, “I’ll do it.” “Good …” snapped Zaphod, “great … thank you …” Marvin turned and lifted his flat-topped triangular red eyes up toward him. “I’m not getting you down at all, am I?” he said pathetically. “No, no, Marvin,” lilted Trillian, “that’s just fine, really….” “I wouldn’t like to think I was getting you down.” “No, don’t worry about that,” the lilt continued, “you just act as comes naturally and everything will be just fine.” “You’re sure you don’t mind?” probed Marvin. “No, no, Marvin,” lilted Trillian, “that’s just fine, really … just part of life.” Marvin flashed her an electronic look. “Life,” said Marvin, “don’t talk to me about life.” He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin. With a satisfied hum and a click the door closed behind him. “I don’t think I can stand that robot much longer, Zaphod,” growled Trillian. The Encyclopedia Galactica defines a robot as a mechanical apparatus designed to do the work of a man. The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as “Your Plastic Pal Who’s Fun to Be With.” The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy defines the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who’ll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes,” with a footnote to the effect that the editors would welcome applications from anyone interested in taking over the post of robotics correspondent. Curiously enough, an edition of the Encyclopedia Galactica that had the good fortune to fall through a time warp from a thousand years in the future defined the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who were the first against the wall when the revolution came.” The pink cubicle had winked out of existence, the monkeys had sunk away to a better dimension. Ford and Arthur found themselves in the embarkation area of the ship. It was rather smart. “I think this ship’s brand new,” said Ford. “How can you tell?” asked Arthur. “Have you got some exotic device for measuring the age of metal?” “No, I just found this sales brochure lying on the floor. It’s a lot of ‘the Universe can be yours’ stuff. Ah! Look, I was right.” Ford jabbed at one of the pages and showed it to Arthur. “It says: ‘Sensational new breakthrough in Improbability Physics. As soon as the ship’s drive reaches Infinite Improbability it passes through every point in the Universe. Be the envy of other major governments.’ Wow, this is big league stuff.” Ford hunted excitedly through the technical specs of the ship, occasionally gasping with astonishment at what he read— clearly Galactic astrotechnology had moved ahead during the years of his exile. Arthur listened for a short while, but being unable to understand the vast majority of what Ford was saying, he began to let his mind wander, trailing his fingers along the edge of an incomprehensible computer bank. He reached out and pressed an invitingly large red button on a nearby panel. The panel lit up with the words Please do not press this button again. He shook himself. “Listen,” said Ford, who was still engrossed in the sales brochure, “they make a big thing of the ship’s cybernetics. ‘A new generation of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation robots and computers, with the new GPP feature.’” “GPP feature?” said Arthur. “What’s that?” “Oh, it says Genuine People Personalities.” “Oh,” said Arthur, “sounds ghastly.” A voice behind them said, “It is.” The voice was low and hopeless and accompanied by a slight clanking sound. They spun round and saw an abject steel man standing hunched in the doorway. “What?” they said. “Ghastly,” continued Marvin, “it all is. Absolutely ghastly. Just don’t even talk about it. Look at this door,” he said, stepping through it. The irony circuits cut in to his voice modulator as he mimicked the style of the sales brochure. “‘All the doors in this spaceship have a cheerful and sunny disposition. It is their pleasure to open for you, and their satisfaction to close again with the knowledge of a job well done.’” As the door closed behind them it became apparent that it did indeed have a satisfied sighlike quality to it. “Hummmmmmmyummmmmmm ah!” it said. Marvin regarded it with cold loathing while his logic circuits chattered with disgust and tinkered with the concept of directing physical violence against it. Further circuits cut in saying, Why bother? What’s the point? Nothing is worth getting involved in. Further circuits amused themselves by analyzing the molecular components of the door, and of the humanoids’ brain cells. For a quick encore they measured the level of hydrogen emissions in the surrounding cubic parsec of space and then shut down again in boredom. A spasm of despair shook the robot’s body as he turned. “Come on,” he droned, “I’ve been ordered to take you down to the bridge. Here I am, brain the size of a planet and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction? ’Cos I don’t.” He turned and walked back to the hated door. “Er, excuse me,” said Ford, following after him, “which government owns this ship?” Marvin ignored him. “You watch this door,” he muttered, “it’s about to open again. I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates.” With an ingratiating little whine the door slid open again and Marvin stomped through. “Come on,” he said. The others followed quickly and the door slid back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs. “Thank you the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation,” said Marvin, and trudged desolately up the gleaming curved corridor that stretched out before them. “Let’s build robots with Genuine People Personalities, they said. So they tried it out with me. I’m a personality prototype. You can tell, can’t you?” Ford and Arthur muttered embarrassed little disclaimers. “I hate that door,” continued Marvin. “I’m not getting you down at all, am I?” “Which government …” started Ford again. “No government owns it,” snapped the robot, “it’s been stolen.” “Stolen?” “Stolen?” mimicked Marvin. “Who by?” asked Ford. “Zaphod Beeblebrox.” Something extraordinary happened to Ford’s face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in midstride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to disentangle some dartoid muscles. “Zaphod Beeblebrox …?” he said weakly. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?” said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. “Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don’t know why I bother to say it, oh God, I’m so depressed. Here’s another of those self-satisfied doors. Life! Don’t talk to me about life.” “No one even mentioned it,” muttered Arthur irritably. “Ford, are you all right?” Ford stared at him. “Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?” he said. A Chapter 12 loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wave bands for news of himself. The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touch-sensitive— you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure, of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same program. Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music. “… and news reports brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the Galaxy around the clock,” squawked a voice, “and we’ll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere … and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys. And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone’s asking is … has the Big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Worst Dressed Sentient Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time … has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt …” The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said “Vell, Zaphod’s just zis guy, you know?” but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio’s on/off-sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian—she had thrown the pencil. “Hey,” he said, “what you do that for?” Trillian was tapping her finger on a screenful of figures. “I’ve just thought of something,” she said. “Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?” “You hear enough about yourself as it is.” “I’m very insecure. We know that.” “Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important.” “If there’s anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now.” Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed. “Listen,” she said, “we picked up those couple of guys …” “What couple of guys?” “The couple of guys we picked up.” “Oh yeah,” said Zaphod, “those couple of guys.” “We picked them up in Sector ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha.” “Yeah?” said Zaphod, and blinked. Trillian said quietly, “Does that mean anything to you?” “Mmmm,” said Zaphod, “ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha?” “Well?” said Trillian. “Er … what does the Z mean?” said Zaphod. “Which one?” “Any one.” One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn’t be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn’t understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid. He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so—but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He preferred people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it. She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way. “There,” she pointed, “right there.” “Hey … yeah!” said Zaphod. “Well?” she said. “Well what?” Parts of the inside of her head screamed at other parts of the inside of her head. She said, very calmly, “It’s the same sector you originally picked me up in.” He looked at her and then looked back at the screen. “Hey, yeah,” he said, “now that is wild. We should have zapped straight into the middle of the Horsehead Nebula. How did we come to be there? I mean, that’s nowhere.” She ignored this. “Improbability Drive,” she said patiently. “You explained it to me yourself. We pass through every point in the Universe, you know that.” “Yeah, but that’s one wild coincidence, isn’t it?” “Yes.” “Picking someone up at that point? Out of the whole of the Universe to choose from? That’s just too … I want to work this out. Computer!” The Sirius Cybernetics Shipboard Computer, which controlled and permeated every particle of the ship, switched into communication mode. “Hi there!” it said brightly and simultaneously spewed out a tiny ribbon of ticker tape just for the record. The ticker tape said, Hi there! “Oh God,” said Zaphod. He hadn’t worked with this computer for long but had already learned to loathe it. The computer continued, brash and cheery as if it were selling detergent. “I want you to know that whatever your problem, I am here to help you solve it.” “Yeah, yeah,” said Zaphod. “Look, I think I’ll just use a piece of paper.” “Sure thing,” said the computer, spilling out its message into a waste bin at the same time, “I understand. If you ever want …” “Shut up!” said Zaphod, and snatching up a pencil sat down next to Trillian at the console. “Okay, okay,” said the computer in a hurt tone of voice and closed down its speech channel again. Zaphod and Trillian pored over the figures that the Improbability flight-path scanner flashed silently up in front of them. “Can we work out,” said Zaphod, “from their point of view what the Improbability of their rescue was?” “Yes, that’s a constant,” said Trillian, “two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand, seven hundred and nine to one against.” “That’s high. They’re two lucky lucky guys.” “Yes.” “But relative to what we were doing when the ship picked them up …” Trillian punched up the figures. They showed two-to-the-power-ofInfinity-minus-one to one against (an irrational number that only has a conventional meaning in Improbability Physics). “It’s pretty low,” continued Zaphod with a slight whistle. “Yes,” agreed Trillian, and looked at him quizzically. “That’s one big whack of Improbability to be accounted for. Something pretty improbable has got to show up on the balance sheet if it’s all going to add up into a pretty sum.” Zaphod scribbled a few sums, crossed them out and threw the pencil away. “Bat’s dos, I can’t work it out.” “Well?” Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth. “Okay,” he said. “Computer!” The voice circuits sprang to life again. “Why, hello there!” they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). “All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer …” “Yeah, well, shut up and work something out for me.” “Sure thing,” chattered the computer, “you want a probability forecast based on …” “Improbability data, yeah.” “Okay,” the computer continued. “Here’s an interesting little notion. Did you realize that most people’s lives are governed by telephone numbers?” A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod’s faces and on to the other one. “Have you flipped?” he said. “No, but you will when I tell you that …” Trillian gasped. She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight-path screen. “Telephone number?” she said. “Did that thing say telephone number?” Numbers flashed up on the screen. The computer had paused politely, but now it continued. “What I was about to say was that …” “Don’t bother, please,” said Trillian. “Look, what is this?” said Zaphod. “I don’t know,” said Trillian, “but those aliens—they’re on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot. Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?” M Chapter 13 arvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning. “And then of course I’ve got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my lefthand side …” “No?” said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. “Really?” “Oh yes,” said Marvin, “I mean I’ve asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens.” “I can imagine.” Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. “Well well well,” he kept saying to himself, “Zaphod Beeblebrox …” Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand. “You know what’s happened now, of course?” “No, what?” said Arthur, who didn’t want to know. “We’ve arrived at another of those doors.” There was a sliding door let into the side of the corridor. Marvin eyed it suspiciously. “Well?” said Ford impatiently. “Do we go through?” “Do we go through?” mimicked Marvin. “Yes. This is the entrance to the bridge. I was told to take you to the bridge. Probably the highest demand that will be made on my intellectual capacities today, I shouldn’t wonder.” Slowly, with great loathing, he stepped toward the door, like a hunter stalking his prey. Suddenly it slid open. “Thank you,” it said, “for making a simple door very happy.” Deep in Marvin’s thorax gears ground. “Funny,” he intoned funereally, “how just when you think life can’t possibly get any worse it suddenly does.” He heaved himself through the door and left Ford and Arthur staring at each other and shrugging their shoulders. From inside they heard Marvin’s voice again. “I suppose you’ll want to see the aliens now,” he said. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I’m standing?” “Yeah, just show them in, would you, Marvin?” came another voice. Arthur looked at Ford and was astonished to see him laughing. “What’s …?” “Shhh,” said Ford, “come on in.” He stepped through into the bridge. Arthur followed him in nervously and was astonished to see a man lolling back in a chair with his feet on a control console picking the teeth in his right-hand head with his left hand. The right-hand head seemed to be thoroughly preoccupied with this task, but the left-hand one was grinning a broad, relaxed, nonchalant grin. The number of things that Arthur couldn’t believe he was seeing was fairly large. His jaw flopped about at a loose end for a while. The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, “Ford, hi, how are you? Glad you could drop in.” Ford was not going to be outcooled. “Zaphod,” he drawled, “great to see you, you’re looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you’ve stolen.” Arthur goggled at him. “You mean you know this guy?” he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod. “Know him!” exclaimed Ford, “he’s …” he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round. “Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent,” he said. “I saved him when his planet blew up.” “Oh sure,” said Zaphod, “hi, Arthur, glad you could make it.” His right-hand head looked round casually, said “hi” and went back to having its teeth picked. Ford carried on. “And Arthur,” he said, “this is my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeb …” “We’ve met,” said Arthur sharply. When you’re cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard-driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your hood in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his. “Er … what?” he said. “I said we’ve met.” Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply. “Hey … er, have we? Hey … er …” Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking. “What do you mean you’ve met?” he demanded. “This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five, you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon.” “I don’t care,” said Arthur coldly. “We’ve met, haven’t we, Zaphod Beeblebrox—or should I say … Phil?” “What!” shouted Ford. “You’ll have to remind me,” said Zaphod. “I’ve a terrible memory for species.” “It was at a party,” pursued Arthur. “Yeah, well, I doubt that,” said Zaphod. “Cool it, will you, Arthur!” demanded Ford. Arthur would not be deterred. “A party six months ago. On Earth … England …” Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile. “London,” insisted Arthur, “Islington.” “Oh,” said Zaphod with a guilty start, “that party.” This wasn’t fair on Ford at all. He looked backward and forward between Arthur and Zaphod. “What?” he said to Zaphod. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been on that miserable little planet as well, do you?” “No, of course not,” said Zaphod breezily. “Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere …” “But I was stuck there for fifteen years!” “Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” “But what were you doing there?” “Looking about, you know.” “He gate-crashed a party,” said Arthur, trembling with anger, “a fancy dress party …” “It would have to be, wouldn’t it?” said Ford. “At this party,” persisted Arthur, “was a girl … oh, well, look, it doesn’t matter now. The whole place has gone up in smoke anyway …” “I wish you’d stop sulking about that bloody planet,” said Ford. “Who was the lady?” “Oh, just somebody. Well all right, I wasn’t doing very well with her. I’d been trying all evening. Hell, she was something though. Beautiful, charming, devastatingly intelligent, at last I’d got her to myself for a bit and was plying her with a bit of talk when this friend of yours barges up and says, ‘Hey doll, is this guy boring you? Why don’t you talk to me instead? I’m from a different planet.’ I never saw her again.” “Zaphod?” exclaimed Ford. “Yes,” said Arthur, glaring at him and trying not to feel foolish. “He only had the two arms and the one head and he called himself Phil, but …” “But you must admit he did turn out to be from another planet,” said Trillian, wandering into sight at the other end of the bridge. She gave Arthur a pleasant smile which settled on him like a ton of bricks and then turned her attention to the ship’s controls again. There was silence for a few seconds, and then out of the scrambled mess of Arthur’s brain crawled some words. “Tricia McMillan?” he said. “What are you doing here?” “Same as you,” she said, “I hitched a lift. After all, with a degree in math and another in astrophysics what else was there to do? It was either that or the dole queue again on Monday.” “Infinity minus one,” chattered the computer. “Improbability sum now complete.” Zaphod looked about him, at Ford, at Arthur, and then at Trillian. “Trillian,” he said, “is this sort of thing going to happen every time we use the Improbability Drive?” “Very probably, I’m afraid,” she said. T Chapter 14 he Heart of Gold fled on silently through the night of space, now on conventional photon drive. Its crew of four were ill at ease knowing that they had been brought together not of their own volition or by simple coincidence, but by some curious perversion of physics—as if relationships between people were susceptible to the same laws that governed the relationships between atoms and molecules. As the ship’s artificial night closed in they were each grateful to retire to separate cabins and try to rationalize their thoughts. Trillian couldn’t sleep. She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth— two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring. She had expected never to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the news of the planet’s destruction. It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it. She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic tread-wheels till they occupied her whole attention. Suddenly she shook herself and went back on to the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship’s progress through the void. She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about. Zaphod couldn’t sleep. He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn’t let himself think about. For as long as he could remember he’d suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there. Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been reawakened by the sudden, inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn’t see. Ford couldn’t sleep. He was too excited about being back on the road again. Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope. Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his semicousin that he couldn’t put his finger on. The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of his leaving the post. Was there a reason behind it? There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomability into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which. Arthur slept: he was terribly tired. There was a tap at Zaphod’s door. It slid open. “Zaphod …?” “Yeah?” Trillian stood outlined in an oval of light. “I think we just found what you came to look for.” “Hey, yeah?” Ford gave up the attempt to sleep. In the corner of his cabin was a small computer screen and keyboard. He sat at it for a while and tried to compose a new entry for the Guide on the subject of Vogons but couldn’t think of anything vitriolic enough so he gave that up too, wrapped a robe round himself and went for a walk to the bridge. As he entered he was surprised to see two figures hunched excitedly over the instruments. “See? The ship’s about to move into orbit,” Trillian was saying. “There’s a planet out there. It’s at the exact coordinates you predicted.” Zaphod heard a noise and looked up. “Ford!” he hissed. “Hey, come and take a look at this.” Ford went and had a look at it. It was a series of figures flickering over a screen. “You recognize those Galactic coordinates?” said Zaphod. “No.” “I’ll give you a clue. Computer!” “Hi, gang!” enthused the computer. “This is getting real sociable, isn’t it?” “Shut up,” said Zaphod, “and show up the screens.” Light on the bridge sank. Pinpoints of light played across the consoles and reflected in four pairs of eyes that stared up at the external monitor screens. There was absolutely nothing on them. “Recognize that?” whispered Zaphod. Ford frowned. “Er, no,” he said. “What do you see?” “Nothing.” “Recognize it?” “What are you talking about?” “We’re in the Horsehead Nebula. One whole vast dark cloud.” “And I was meant to recognize that from a blank screen?” “Inside a dark nebula is the only place in the Galaxy you’d see a dark screen.” “Very good.” Zaphod laughed. He was clearly very excited about something, almost childishly so. “Hey, this is really terrific, this is just far too much!” “What’s so great about being stuck in a dust cloud?” said Ford. “What would you reckon to find here?” urged Zaphod. “Nothing.” “No stars? No planets?” “No.” “Computer!” shouted Zaphod, “rotate angle of vision through oneeighty degrees and don’t talk about it!” For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one—a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture—a red glare shading away into deep black, the night side of the planet. “I’ve found it!” cried Zaphod, thumping the console. “I’ve found it!” Ford stared at it in astonishment. “What is it?” he said. “That …” said Zaphod, “is the most improbable planet that ever existed.” F Chapter 15 (Excerpt from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, page 634784, section 5a. Entry: Magrathea) ar back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, life was wild, rich and largely tax free. Mighty starships plied their way between exotic suns, seeking adventure and reward among the furthest reaches of Galactic space. In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before—and thus was the Empire forged. Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor— at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they’d settled on. None of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn’t quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets—gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes—all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy’s richest men naturally came to expect. But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion hungry worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they labored into the night over smug little treatises on the value of a planned political economy. Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend. In these enlightened days, of course, no one believes a word of it. A Chapter 16 rthur awoke to the sound of argument and went to the bridge. Ford was waving his arms about. “You’re crazy, Zaphod,” he was saying, “Magrathea is a myth, a fairy story, it’s what parents tell their kids about at night if they want them to grow up to become economists, it’s …” “And that’s what we are currently in orbit about,” insisted Zaphod. “Look, I can’t help what you may personally be in orbit around,” said Ford, “but this ship …” “Computer!” shouted Zaphod. “Oh no …” “Hi there! This is Eddie, your shipboard computer, and I’m feeling just great, guys, and I know I’m just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any program you care to run through me.” Arthur looked inquiringly at Trillian. She motioned him to come on in but keep quiet. “Computer,” said Zaphod, “tell us what our present trajectory is.” “A real pleasure, feller,” it burbled; “we are currently in orbit at an altitude of three hundred miles around the legendary planet of Magrathea.” “Proving nothing,” said Ford. “I wouldn’t trust that computer to speak my weight.” “I can do that for you, sure,” enthused the computer, punching out more ticker tape. “I can even work out your personality problems to ten decimal places if it will help.” Trillian interrupted. “Zaphod,” she said, “any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet,” adding, “whatever it turns out to be.” “Hey, what do you mean by that? The planet’s where I predicted it would be, isn’t it?” “Yes, I know there’s a planet there. I’m not arguing with anyone, it’s just that I wouldn’t know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock. Dawn’s coming up if you want it.” “Okay, okay,” muttered Zaphod, “let’s at least give our eyes a good time. Computer!” “Hi there! What can I …” “Just shut up and give us a view of the planet again.” A dark featureless mass once more filled the screens—the planet rolling away beneath them. They watched for a moment in silence, but Zaphod was fidgety with excitement. “We are now traversing the night side …” he said in a hushed voice. The planet rolled on. “The surface of the planet is now three hundred miles beneath us …” he continued. He was trying to restore a sense of occasion to what he felt should have been a great moment. Magrathea! He was piqued by Ford’s skeptical reaction. Magrathea! “In a few seconds,” he continued, “we should see … there!” The moment carried itself. Even the most seasoned star tramp can’t help but shiver at the spectacular drama of a sunrise seen from space, but a binary sunrise is one of the marvels of the Galaxy. Out of the utter blackness stabbed a sudden point of blinding light. It crept up by slight degrees and spread sideways in a thin crescent blade, and within seconds two suns were visible, furnaces of light, searing the black edge of the horizon with white fire. Fierce shafts of color streaked through the thin atmosphere beneath them. “The fires of dawn …!” breathed Zaphod. “The twin suns of Soulianis and Rahm …!” “Or whatever,” said Ford quietly. “Soulianis and Rahm!” insisted Zaphod. The suns blazed into the pitch of space and a low ghostly music floated through the bridge: Marvin was humming ironically because he hated humans so much. As Ford gazed at the spectacle of light before them excitement burned inside him, but only the excitement of seeing a strange new planet; it was enough for him to see it as it was. It faintly irritated him that Zaphod had to impose some ludicrous fantasy onto the scene to make it work for him. All this Magrathea nonsense seemed juvenile. Isn’t it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too? All this Magrathea business seemed totally incomprehensible to Arthur. He edged up to Trillian and asked her what was going on. “I only know what Zaphod’s told me,” she whispered. “Apparently Magrathea is some kind of legend from way back which no one seriously believes in. Bit like Atlantis on Earth, except that the legends say the Magratheans used to manufacture planets.” Arthur blinked at the screens and felt he was missing something important. Suddenly he realized what it was. “Is there any tea on this spaceship?” he asked. More of the planet was unfolding beneath them as the Heart of Gold streaked along its orbital path. The suns now stood high in the black sky, the pyrotechnics of dawn were over, and the surface of the planet appeared bleak and forbidding in the common light of day— gray dusty and only dimly contoured. It looked dead and cold as a crypt. From time to time promising features would appear on the distant horizon—ravines, maybe mountains, maybe even cities—but as they approached the lines would soften and blur into anonymity and nothing would transpire. The planet’s surface was blurred by time, by the slow movement of the thin stagnant air that had crept across it for century upon century. Clearly, it was very very old. A moment of doubt came to Ford as he watched the gray landscape move beneath them. The immensity of time worried him, he could feel it as a presence. He cleared his throat. “Well, even supposing it is …” “It is,” said Zaphod. “Which it isn’t,” continued Ford. “What do you want with it anyway? There’s nothing there.” “Not on the surface,” said Zaphod. “All right, just supposing there’s something, I take it you’re not here for the sheer industrial archeology of it all. What are you after?” One of Zaphod’s heads looked away. The other one looked round to see what the first was looking at, but it wasn’t looking at anything very much. “Well,” said Zaphod airily, “it’s partly the curiosity, partly a sense of adventure, but mostly I think it’s the fame and the money….” Ford glanced at him sharply. He got a very strong impression that Zaphod hadn’t the faintest idea why he was there at all. “You know, I don’t like the look of that planet at all,” said Trillian, shivering. “Ah, take no notice,” said Zaphod; “with half the wealth of the former Galactic Empire stored on it somewhere it can afford to look frumpy.” Bullshit, thought Ford. Even supposing this was the home of some ancient civilization now gone to dust, even supposing a number of exceedingly unlikely things, there was no way that vast treasures of wealth were going to be stored there in any form that would still have meaning now. He shrugged. “I think it’s just a dead planet,” he said. “The suspense is killing me,” said Arthur testily. Stress and nervous tension are now serious social problems in all parts of the Galaxy, and it is in order that this situation should not be in any way exacerbated that the following facts will now be revealed in advance. The planet in question is in fact the legendary Magrathea. The deadly missile attack shortly to be launched by an ancient automatic defense system will result merely in the breakage of three coffee cups and a mouse cage, the bruising of somebody’s upper arm, and the untimely creation and sudden demise of a bowl of petunias and an innocent sperm whale. In order that some sense of mystery should still be preserved, no revelation will yet be made concerning whose upper arm sustains the bruise. This fact may safely be made the subject of suspense since it is of no significance whatsoever. A Chapter 17 fter a fairly shaky start to the day, Arthur’s mind was beginning to reassemble itself from the shell-shocked fragments the previous day had left him with. He had found a Nutri-Matic machine which had provided him with a plastic cup filled with a liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The way it functioned was very interesting. When the Drink button was pressed it made an instant but highly detailed examination of the subject’s taste buds, a spectroscopic analysis of the subject’s metabolism and then sent tiny experimental signals down the neural pathways to the taste centers of the subject’s brain to see what was likely to go down well. However, no one knew quite why it did this because it invariably delivered a cupful of liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The Nutri-Matic was designed and manufactured by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation whose complaints department now covers all the major landmasses of the first three planets in the Sirius Tau Star system. Arthur drank the liquid and found it reviving. He glanced up at the screens again and watched a few more hundred miles of barren grayness slide past. It suddenly occurred to him to ask a question that had been bothering him. “Is it safe?” he said. “Magrathea’s been dead for five million years,” said Zaphod; “of course it’s safe. Even the ghosts will have settled down and raised families by now.” At which point a strange and inexplicable sound thrilled suddenly through the bridge—a noise as of a distant fanfare; a hollow, reedy, insubstantial sound. It preceded a voice that was equally hollow, reedy and insubstantial. The voice said, “Greetings to you …” Someone from the dead planet was talking to them. “Computer!” shouted Zaphod. “Hi there!” “What the photon is it?” “Oh, just some five-million-year-old tape that’s being broadcast at us.” “A what? A recording?” “Shush!” said Ford. “It’s carrying on.” The voice was old, courteous, almost charming, but was underscored with quite unmistakable menace. “This is a recorded announcement,” it said, “as I’m afraid we’re all out at the moment. The commercial council of Magrathea thanks you for your esteemed visit …” (“A voice from ancient Magrathea!” shouted Zaphod. “Okay, okay,” said Ford.) “… but regrets,” continued the voice, “that the entire planet is temporarily closed for business. Thank you. If you would care to leave your name and the address of a planet where you can be contacted, kindly speak when you hear the tone.” A short buzz followed, then silence. “They want to get rid of us,” said Trillian nervously. “What do we do?” “It’s just a recording,” said Zaphod. “We keep going. Got that, computer?” “I got it,” said the computer and gave the ship an extra kick of speed. They waited. After a second or so came the fanfare once again, and then the voice. “We would like to assure you that as soon as our business is resumed announcements will be made in all fashionable magazines and color supplements, when our clients will once again be able to select from all that’s best in contemporary geography.” The menace in the voice took on a sharper edge. “Meanwhile, we thank our clients for their kind interest and would ask them to leave. Now.” Arthur looked round the nervous faces of his companions. “Well, I suppose we’d better be going then, hadn’t we?” he suggested. “Shhh!” said Zaphod. “There’s absolutely nothing to be worried about.” “Then why’s everyone so tense?” “They’re just interested!” shouted Zaphod. “Computer, start a descent into the atmosphere and prepare for landing.” This time the fanfare was quite perfunctory, the voice now distinctly cold. “It is most gratifying,” it said, “that your enthusiasm for our planet continues unabated, and so we would like to assure you that the guided missiles currently converging with your ship are part of a special service we extend to all of our most enthusiastic clients, and the fully armed nuclear warheads are of course merely a courtesy detail. We look forward to your custom in future lives…. Thank you.” The voice snapped off. “Oh,” said Trillian. “Er …” said Arthur. “Well?” said Ford. “Look,” said Zaphod, “will you get it into your heads? That’s just a recorded message. It’s millions of years old. It doesn’t apply to us, get it?” “What,” said Trillian quietly, “about the missiles?” “Missiles? Don’t make me laugh.” Ford tapped Zaphod on the shoulder and pointed at the rear screen. Clear in the distance behind them two silver darts were climbing through the atmosphere toward the ship. A quick change of magnification brought them into close focus—two massively real rockets thundering through the sky. The suddenness of it was shocking. “I think they’re going to have a very good try at applying to us,” said Ford. Zaphod stared at them in astonishment. “Hey, this is terrific!” he said. “Someone down there is trying to kill us!” “Terrific,” said Arthur. “But don’t you see what this means?” “Yes. We’re going to die.” “Yes, but apart from that.” “Apart from that?” “It means we must be on to something!” “How soon can we get off it?” Second by second the image of the missiles on the screen grew larger. They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head-on. “As a matter of interest,” said Trillian, “what are we going to do?” “Just keep cool,” said Zaphod. “Is that all?” shouted Arthur. “No, we’re also going to … er … take evasive action!” said Zaphod with a sudden access of panic. “Computer, what evasive action can we take?” “Er, none, I’m afraid, guys,” said the computer. “Or something,” said Zaphod, “… er …” he said. “There seems to be something jamming my guidance systems,” explained the computer brightly, “impact minus forty-five seconds. Please call me Eddie if it will help you to relax.” Zaphod tried to run in several equally decisive directions simultaneously. “Right!” he said. “Er … we’ve got to get manual control of this ship.” “Can you fly her?” asked Ford pleasantly. “No, can you?” “No.” “Trillian, can you?” “No.” “Fine,” said Zaphod, relaxing. “We’ll do it together.” “I can’t either,” said Arthur, who felt it was time he began to assert himself. “I’d guessed that,” said Zaphod. “Okay, computer, I want full manual control now.” “You got it,” said the computer. Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane: these controls had never been used before. Zaphod stared at them wildly. “Okay, Ford,” he said, “full retro thrust and ten degrees starboard. Or something …” “Good luck, guys,” chirped the computer, “impact minus thirty seconds….” Ford leaped to the controls—only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those. The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocket jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously. He released half of them and the ship spun round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight toward the oncoming missiles. Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them. For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move. Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever that formed part of the guidance system. The lever snapped off. The ship twisted sharply and rocketed upward. The crew were hurled violently back across the cabin. Ford’s copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy smashed into another section of the control console with the combined result that the Guide started to explain to anyone who cared to listen about the best ways of smuggling Antarean parakeet glands out of Antares (an Antarean parakeet gland stuck on a small stick is a revolting but much-soughtafter cocktail delicacy and very large sums of money are often paid for them by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots), and the ship suddenly dropped out of the sky like a stone. It was of course more or less at this moment that one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm. This should be emphasized because, as has already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship. The safety of the crew is absolutely assured. “Impact minus twenty seconds, guys …” said the computer. “Then turn the bloody engines back on!” bawled Zaphod. “Oh, sure thing, guys,” said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back toward the missiles again. The computer started to sing. “‘When you walk through the storm …’” it whined nasally, “‘hold your head up high …’” Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction. “‘And don’t … be afraid … of the dark!’” Eddie wailed. The ship, in flattening out, had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems. “‘At the end of the storm …’” crooned Eddie. The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered toward the ship. “‘is a golden sky …’” But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it. “And the sweet silver song of the lark.’… Revised impact time fifteen seconds, fellas…. ‘Walk on through the wind …’” The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back in pursuit. “This is it,” said Arthur, watching them. “We are now quite definitely going to die, aren’t we?” “I wish you’d stop saying that,” shouted Ford. “Well, we are, aren’t we?” “Yes.” “‘Walk on through the rain …’” sang Eddie. A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet. “Why doesn’t anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?” he said. “We could probably reach that.” “What are you, crazy?” said Zaphod. “Without proper programming anything could happen.” “Does that matter at this stage?” shouted Arthur. “‘Though your dreams be tossed and blown …’” sang Eddie. Arthur scrambled up on to one of the excitingly chunky pieces of molded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling. “‘Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart …’” “Does anyone know why Arthur can’t turn on the Improbability Drive?” shouted Trillian. “‘And you’ll never walk alone.’ … Impact minus five seconds, it’s been great knowing you guys, God bless…. ‘You’ll ne … ver … walk … alone!’” “I said,” yelled Trillian, “does anyone know …” The next thing that happened was a mind-mangling explosion of noise and light. A Chapter 18 nd the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior. It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue. In the center a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal. Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden. Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs. As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague forms of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments materialized instantly under your hands. Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data read-outs, though it was far from clear where they were reflected from. It was in fact sensationally beautiful. Relaxing in a wickerwork sun chair, Zaphod Beeblebrox said, “What the hell happened?” “Well, I was just saying,” said Arthur, lounging by a small fish pool, “there’s this Improbability Drive switch over here …” he waved at where it had been. There was a potted plant there now. “But where are we?” said Ford, who was sitting on the spiral staircase, a nicely chilled Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster in his hand. “Exactly where we were, I think …” said Trillian, as all about them the mirrors suddenly showed them an image of the blighted landscape of Magrathea, which still scooted along beneath them. Zaphod leaped out of his seat. “Then what’s happened to the missiles?” he said. A new and astounding image appeared in the mirrors. “They would appear,” said Ford doubtfully, “to have turned into a bowl of petunias and a very surprised-looking whale …” “At an Improbability factor,” cut in Eddie, who hadn’t changed a bit, “of eight million, seven hundred and sixty-seven thousand, one hundred and twenty-eight to one against.” Zaphod stared at Arthur. “Did you think of that, Earthman?” he demanded. “Well,” said Arthur, “all I did was …” “That’s very good thinking, you know. Turn on the Improbability Drive for a second without first activating the proofing screens. Hey, kid, you just saved our lives, you know that?” “Oh,” said Arthur, “well, it was nothing really ….” “Was it?” said Zaphod. “Oh well, forget it then. Okay, computer, take us in to land.” “But …” “I said forget it.” Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet. And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more. This is a complete record of its thought from the moment it began its life till the moment it ended it. Ah …! What’s happening? it thought. Er, excuse me, who am I? Hello? Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life? What do I mean by who am I? Calm down, get a grip now … oh! this is an interesting sensation, what is it? It’s a sort of … yawning, tingling sensation in my … my … well, I suppose I’d better start finding names for things if I want to make any headway in what for the sake of what I shall call an argument I shall call the world, so let’s call it my stomach. Good. Ooooh, it’s getting quite strong. And hey, what about this whistling roaring sound going past what I’m suddenly going to call my head? Perhaps I can call that … wind! Is that a good name? It’ll do … perhaps I can find a better name for it later when I’ve found out what it’s for. It must be something very important because there certainly seems to be a hell of a lot of it. Hey! What’s this thing? This … let’s call it a tail—yeah, tail. Hey! I can really thrash it about pretty good, can’t I? Wow! Wow! That feels great! Doesn’t seem to achieve very much but I’ll probably find out what it’s for later on. Now, have I built up any coherent picture of things yet? No. Never mind, hey, this is really exciting, so much to find out about, so much to look forward to, I’m quite dizzy with anticipation … Or is it the wind? There really is a lot of that now, isn’t there? And wow! Hey! What’s this thing suddenly coming toward me very fast? Very, very fast. So big and flat and round, it needs a big widesounding name like … ow … ound … round … ground! That’s it! That’s a good name—ground! I wonder if it will be friends with me? And the rest, after a sudden wet thud, was silence. Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias as it fell was Oh no, not again. Many people have speculated that if we knew exactly why the bowl of petunias had thought that we would know a lot more about the nature of the Universe than we do now. A Chapter 19 re we taking this robot with us?” said Ford, looking with distaste at Marvin, who was standing in an awkward hunched posture in the corner under a small palm tree. Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed. “Oh, the Paranoid Android,” he said. “Yeah, we’ll take him.” “But what are you supposed to do with a manically depressed robot?” “You think you’ve got problems,” said Marvin, as if he was addressing a newly occupied coffin, “what are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed robot? No, don’t bother to answer that, I’m fifty thousand times more intelligent than you and even I don’t know the answer. It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level.” Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin. “My white mice have escaped!” she said. An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod’s faces. “Nuts to your white mice,” he said. Trillian glared an upset glare at him, and disappeared again. It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second. “Good afternoon, boys.” The voice was oddly familiar, but oddly different. It had a matriarchal twang. It announced itself to the crew as they arrived at the airlock hatchway that would let them out on the planet surface. They looked at each other in puzzlement. “It’s the computer,” explained Zaphod. “I discovered it had an emergency back-up personality that I thought might work out better.” “Now this is going to be your first day out on a strange new planet,” continued Eddie’s new voice, “so I want you all wrapped up snug and warm, and no playing with any naughty bug-eyed monsters.” Zaphod tapped impatiently on the hatch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I think we might be better off with a slide rule.” “Right!” snapped the computer. “Who said that?” “Will you open up the exit hatch, please, computer?” said Zaphod, trying not to get angry. “Not until whoever said that owns up,” urged the computer, stamping a few synapses closed. “Oh God,” muttered Ford, slumped against a bulkhead. He started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentient life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans demonstrate their independence of computers. “Come on,” said Eddie sternly. “Computer …” began Zaphod. “I’m waiting,” interrupted Eddie. “I can wait all day if necessary….” “Computer …” said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, “if you don’t open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large ax, got that?” Eddie, shocked, paused and considered this. Ford carried on counting quietly. This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of going up to a human being and saying Blood … blood … blood … blood … Finally Eddie said quietly, “I can see this relationship is something we’re all going to have to work at,” and the hatchway opened. An icy wind ripped into them, they hugged themselves warmly and stepped down the ramp on to the barren dust of Magrathea. “It’ll all end in tears, I know it,” shouted Eddie after them, and closed the hatchway again. A few minutes later he opened and closed the hatchway again in response to a command that caught him entirely by surprise. F Chapter 20 ive figures wandered slowly over the blighted land. Bits of it were dullish gray, bits of it dullish brown, the rest of it rather less interesting to look at. It was like a dried-out marsh, now barren of all vegetation and covered with a layer of dust about an inch thick. It was very cold. Zaphod was clearly rather depressed about it. He stalked off by himself and was soon lost to sight behind a slight rise in the ground. The wind stung Arthur’s eyes and ears, and the stale thin air clasped his throat. However, the thing that was stung most was his mind. “It’s fantastic …” he said, and his own voice rattled his ears. Sound carried badly in this thin atmosphere. “Desolate hole, if you ask me,” said Ford. “I could have more fun in a cat litter.” He felt a mounting irritation. Of all the planets in all the star systems of all the Galaxy—many wild and exotic, seething with life—didn’t he just have to turn up at a dump like this after fifteen years of being a castaway? Not even a hot-dog stand in evidence. He stooped down and picked up a cold clod of earth, but there was nothing underneath it worth crossing thousands of light-years to look at. “No,” insisted Arthur, “don’t you understand, this is the first time I’ve actually stood on the surface of another planet … a whole alien world …! Pity it’s such a dump though.” Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned. She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them. She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving to them to come and join him. He seemed to be excited, but they couldn’t clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind. As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular—a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide. Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps. They stopped and looked at a piece. It was wet. It was rubbery. With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whale-meat. At the top of the crater’s lip they met Zaphod. “Look,” he said, pointing into the crater. In the center lay the exploded carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn’t lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot. The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian’s throat. “I suppose there’s no point in trying to bury it?” murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn’t. “Come,” said Zaphod, and started back down into the crater. “What, down there?” said Trillian with severe distaste. “Yeah,” said Zaphod, “come on, I’ve got something to show you.” “We can see it,” said Trillian. “Not that,” said Zaphod, “something else. Come on.” They all hesitated. “Come on,” insisted Zaphod, “I’ve found a way in.” “In?” said Arthur in horror. “Into the interior of the planet! An underground passage. The force of the whale’s impact cracked it open, and that’s where we have to go. Where no man has trod these five million years, into the very depths of time itself….” Marvin started his ironical humming again. Zaphod hit him and he shut up. With little shudders of disgust they all followed Zaphod down the incline into the crater, trying very hard to avoid looking at its unfortunate creator. “Life,” said Marvin dolefully, “loathe it or ignore it, you can’t like it.” The ground had caved in where the whale had hit it, revealing a network of galleries and passages, now largely obstructed by collapsed rubble and entrails. Zaphod had made a start clearing a way into one of them, but Marvin was able to do it rather faster. Dank air wafted out of its dark recesses, and as Zaphod shone a flashlight into it, little was visible in the dusty gloom. “According to the legends,” he said, “the Magratheans lived most of their lives underground.” “Why’s that?” said Arthur. “Did the surface become too polluted or overpopulated?” “No, I don’t think so,” said Zaphod. “I think they just didn’t like it very much.” “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” said Trillian, peering nervously into the darkness. “We’ve been attacked once already, you know.” “Look, kid, I promise you the live population of this planet is nil plus the four of us, so come on, let’s get on in there. Er, hey, Earthman …” “Arthur,” said Arthur. “Yeah, could you just sort of keep this robot with you and guard this end of the passageway. Okay?” “Guard?” said Arthur. “What from? You just said there’s no one here.” “Yeah, well, just for safety, okay?” said Zaphod. “Whose? Yours or mine?” “Good lad. Okay, here we go.” Zaphod scrambled down into the passage, followed by Trillian and Ford. “Well, I hope you all have a really miserable time,” complained Arthur. “Don’t worry,” Marvin assured him, “they will.” In a few seconds they had disappeared from view. Arthur stamped around in a huff, and then decided that a whale’s graveyard is not on the whole a good place to stamp around in. Marvin eyed him balefully for a moment, and then turned himself off. Zaphod marched quickly down the passageway, nervous as hell, but trying to hide it by striding purposefully. He flung the beam around. The walls were covered in dark tiles and were cold to the touch, the air thick with decay. “There, what did I tell you?” he said. “An inhabited planet. Magrathea,” and he strode on through the dirt and debris that littered the tile floors. Trillian was reminded unavoidably of the London Underground, though it was less thoroughly squalid. At intervals along the walls the tiles gave way to large mosaics— simple angular patterns in bright colors. Trillian stopped and studied one of them but could not interpret any sense in them. She called to Zaphod. “Hey, have you any idea what these strange symbols are?” “I think they’re just strange symbols of some kind,” said Zaphod, hardly glancing back. Trillian shrugged and hurried after him. From time to time a doorway led either to the left or right into smallish chambers which Ford discovered to be full of derelict computer equipment. He dragged Zaphod into one to have a look. Trillian followed. “Look,” said Ford, “you reckon this is Magrathea …” “Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and we heard the voice, right?” “Okay, so I’ve bought the fact that it’s Magrathea—for the moment. What you have so far said nothing about is how in the Galaxy you found it. You didn’t just look it up in a star atlas, that’s for sure.” “Research. Government archives. Detective work. Few lucky guesses. Easy.” “And then you stole the Heart of Gold to come and look for it with?” “I stole it to look for a lot of things.” “A lot of things?” said Ford in surprise. “Like what?” “I don’t know.” “What?” “I don’t know what I’m looking for.” “Why not?” “Because … because … I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn’t be able to look for them.” “What, are you crazy?” “It’s a possibility I haven’t ruled out yet,” said Zaphod quietly. “I only know as much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions. And its current conditions are not good.” For a long time nobody said anything as Ford gazed at Zaphod with a mind suddenly full of worry. “Listen, old friend, if you want to …” started Ford eventually. “No, wait … I’ll tell you something,” said Zaphod. “I freewheel a lot. I get an idea to do something, and, hey, why not, I do it. I reckon I’ll become President of the Galaxy, and it just happens, it’s easy. I decide to steal this ship. I decide to look for Magrathea, and it all just happens. Yeah, I work out how it can best be done, right, but it always works out. It’s like having a Galacticredit card which keeps on working though you never send off the checks. And then whenever I stop and think—why did I want to do something?—how did I work out how to do it?—I get a very strong desire just to stop thinking about it. Like I have now. It’s a big effort to talk about it.” Zaphod paused for a while. For a while there was silence. Then he frowned and said, “Last night I was worrying about this again. About the fact that part of my mind just didn’t seem to work properly. Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it. I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn’t use it. I wondered if there was a way I could check. “I went to the ship’s medical bay and plugged myself into the encephalographic screen. I went through every major screening test on both my heads—all the tests I had to go through under Government medical officers before my nomination for presidency could be properly ratified. They showed up nothing. Nothing unexpected at least. They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn’t have guessed. And no other anomalies. So I started inventing further tests, completely at random. Nothing. Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head. Still nothing. Finally I got silly, because I’d given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia. Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter. You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid? I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?” Ford nodded. “And there it was,” said Zaphod, “clear as day. A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them. Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatized those two lumps of cerebellum.” Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white. “Somebody did that to you?” whispered Ford. “Yeah.” “But have you any idea who? Or why?” “Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.” “You know? How do you know?” “Because they left their initials burned into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.” Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl. “Initials? Burned into your brain?” “Yeah.” “Well, what were they, for God’s sake?” Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment. Then he looked away. “Z.B.,” he said quietly. At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber. “I’ll tell you about it later,” choked Zaphod as all three passed out. O Chapter 21 n the surface of Magrathea Arthur wandered about moodily. Ford had thoughtfully left him his copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to while away the time with. He pushed a few buttons at random. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is a very unevenly edited book and contains many passages that simply seemed to its editors like a good idea at the time. One of these (the one Arthur now came across) supposedly relates the experiences of one Veet Voojagig, a quiet young student at the University of Maximegalon, who pursued a brilliant academic career studying ancient philology, transformational ethics and the wave harmonic theory of historical perception, and then, after a night of drinking Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters with Zaphod Beeblebrox, became increasingly obsessed with the problem of what had happened to all the ballpoints he’d bought over the past few years. There followed a long period of painstaking research during which he visited all the major centers of ballpoint loss throughout the Galaxy and eventually came up with a quaint little theory that quite caught the public imagination at the time. Somewhere in the cosmos, he said, along with all the planets inhabited by humanoids, reptiloids, fishoids, walking treeoids and superintelligent shades of the color blue, there was also a planet entirely given over to ballpoint life forms. And it was to this planet that unattended ballpoints would make their way, slipping away quietly through wormholes in space to a world where they knew they could enjoy a uniquely ballpointoid life-style, responding to highly ballpoint-oriented stimuli, and generally leading the ballpoint equivalent of the good life. And as theories go this was all very fine and pleasant until Veet Voojagig suddenly claimed to have found this planet, and to have worked there for a while driving a limousine for a family of cheap green retractables, whereupon he was taken away, locked up, wrote a book and was finally sent into tax exile, which is the usual fate reserved for those who are determined to make fools of themselves in public. When one day an expedition was sent to the spatial coordinates that Voojagig had claimed for this planet they discovered only a small asteroid inhabited by a solitary old man who claimed repeatedly that nothing was true, though he was later discovered to be lying. There did, however, remain the question of both the mysterious sixty thousand Altairian dollars paid yearly into his Brantisvogan bank account, and of course Zaphod Beeblebrox’s highly profitable secondhand ballpoint business. Arthur read this, and put the book down. The robot still sat there, completely inert. Arthur got up and walked to the top of the crater. He walked around the crater. He watched two suns set magnificently over Magrathea. He went back down into the crater. He woke the robot up because even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody. “Night’s falling,” he said. “Look, robot, the stars are coming out.” From the heart of a dark nebula it is possible to see very few stars, and only very faintly, but they were there to be seen. The robot obediently looked at them, then looked back. “I know,” he said. “Wretched, isn’t it?” “But that sunset! I’ve never seen anything like it in my wildest dreams … the two suns! It was like mountains of fire boiling into space.” “I’ve seen it,” said Marvin. “It’s rubbish.” “We only ever had the one sun at home,” persevered Arthur. “I came from a planet called Earth, you know.” “I know,” said Marvin, “you keep going on about it. It sounds awful.” “Ah no, it was a beautiful place.” “Did it have oceans?” “Oh yes,” said Arthur with a sigh, “great wide rolling blue oceans …” “Can’t bear oceans,” said Marvin. “Tell me,” inquired Arthur, “do you get on well with other robots?” “Hate them,” said Marvin. “Where are you going?” Arthur couldn’t bear any more. He had got up again. “I think I’ll just take another walk,” he said. “Don’t blame you,” said Marvin and counted five hundred and ninety-seven billion sheep before falling asleep again a second later. Arthur slapped his arms about himself to try and get his circulation a little more enthusiastic about its job. He trudged back up the wall of the crater. Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark. Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him. H Chapter 22 e was standing with his back to Arthur watching the very last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long gray robe. When he turned, his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn’t turn yet, not even to react to Arthur’s yelp of surprise. Eventually the last rays of the sun vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind—a small Hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it. The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed. “You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet,” he said. “Who … who are you?” stammered Arthur. The man looked away. Again a look of sadness seemed to cross his face. “My name is not important,” he said. He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn’t have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward. “I … er … you startled me …” he said, lamely. The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows. “Hmmm?” he said. “I said you startled me.” “Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you.” Arthur frowned at him. “But you shot at us! There were missiles …” he said. The man gazed into the pit of the crater. The slight glow from Marvin’s eyes cast very faint red shadows on the huge carcass of the whale. The man chuckled slightly. “An automatic system,” he said and gave a small sigh. “Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional potshot to relieve the monotony.” He looked gravely at Arthur and said, “I’m a great fan of science, you know.” “Oh … er, really?” said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man’s curious, kindly manner disconcerting. “Oh yes,” said the old man, and simply stopped talking again. “Ah,” said Arthur, “er …” He had an odd feeling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman’s husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again. “You seem ill at ease,” said the old man with polite concern. “Er, no … well, yes. Actually, you see, we weren’t really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something …” “Dead?” said the old man. “Good gracious me, no, we have but slept.” “Slept?” said Arthur incredulously. “Yes, through the economic recession, you see,” said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he was talking about or not. Arthur had to prompt him again. “Er, economic recession?” “Well, you see, five million years ago the Galactic economy collapsed, and seeing that custom-built planets are something of a luxury commodity, you see …” He paused and looked at Arthur. “You know we built planets, do you?” he asked solemnly. “Well, yes,” said Arthur, “I’d sort of gathered …” “Fascinating trade,” said the old man, and a wistful look came into his eyes, “doing the coastlines was always my favorite. Used to have endless fun doing the little bits in fjords … so anyway,” he said, trying to find his thread again, “the recession came and we decided it would save a lot of bother if we just slept through it. So we programmed the computers to revive us when it was all over.” The man stifled a very slight yawn and continued. “The computers were index-linked to the Galactic stock-market prices, you see, so that we’d all be revived when everybody else had rebuilt the economy enough to afford our rather expensive services.” Arthur, a regular Guardian reader, was deeply shocked at this. “That’s a pretty unpleasant way to behave, isn’t it?” “Is it?” asked the old man mildly. “I’m sorry, I’m a bit out of touch.” He pointed down into the crater. “Is that robot yours?” he said. “No,” came a thin metallic voice from the crater, “I’m mine.” “If you’d call it a robot,” muttered Arthur. “It’s more a sort of electronic sulking machine.” “Bring it,” said the old man. Arthur was quite surprised to hear a note of decision suddenly present in the old man’s voice. He called to Marvin, who crawled up the slope making a big show of being lame, which he wasn’t. “On second thoughts,” said the old man, “leave it here. You must come with me. Great things are afoot.” He turned toward his craft which, though no apparent signal had been given, now drifted quietly toward them through the dark. Arthur looked down at Marvin, who now made an equally big show of turning round laboriously and trudging off down into the crater again muttering sour nothings to himself. “Come,” called the old man, “come now or you will be late.” “Late?” said Arthur. “What for?” “What is your name, human?” “Dent. Arthur Dent,” said Arthur. “Late, as in the late Dentarthurdent,” said the old man, sternly. “It’s a sort of threat, you see.” Another wistful look came into his tired old eyes. “I’ve never been very good at them myself, but I’m told they can be very effective.” Arthur blinked at him. “What an extraordinary person,” he muttered to himself. “I beg your pardon?” said the old man. “Oh, nothing, I’m sorry,” said Arthur in embarrassment. “All right, where do we go?” “In my aircar,” said the old man, motioning Arthur to get into the craft which had settled silently next to them. “We are going deep into the bowels of the planet where even now our race is being revived from its five-million-year slumber. Magrathea awakes.” Arthur shivered involuntarily as he seated himself next to the old man. The strangeness of it, the silent bobbing movement of the craft as it soared into the night sky, quite unsettled him. He looked at the old man, his face illuminated by the dull glow of tiny lights on the instrument panel. “Excuse me,” he said to him, “what is your name, by the way?” “My name?” said the old man, and the same distant sadness came into his face again. He paused. “My name,” he said, “is Slartibartfast.” Arthur practically choked. “I beg your pardon?” he spluttered. “Slartibartfast,” repeated the old man quietly. “Slartibartfast?” The old man looked at him gravely. “I said it wasn’t important,” he said. The aircar sailed through the night. I Chapter 23 t is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much—the wheel, New York, wars and so on—while all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man—for precisely the same reasons. Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind to the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived. The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backward somersault through a hoop while whistling the “Star-Spangled Banner,” but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish. In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioral research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man. The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures’ plans. S Chapter 24 ilently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur’s companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that. Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were traveling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points. The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all. Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was traveling toward them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircar dipped sharply and headed downward in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened. They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own, relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour. He closed his eyes in terror. After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to a gentle halt. He opened his eyes again. They were still in the silver tunnel, threading and weaving their way through what appeared to be a crisscross warren of converging tunnels. When they finally stopped it was in a small chamber of curved steel. Several tunnels also had their termini here, and at the farther end of the chamber Arthur could see a large circle of dim irritating light. It was irritating because it played tricks with the eyes, it was impossible to focus on it properly or tell how near or far it was. Arthur guessed (quite wrongly) that it might be ultraviolet. Slartibartfast turned and regarded Arthur with his solemn old eyes. “Earthman,” he said, “we are now deep in the heart of Magrathea.” “How did you know I was an Earthman?” demanded Arthur. “These things will become clear to you,” said the old man gently, “at least,” he added with slight doubt in his voice, “clearer than they are at the moment.” He continued: “I should warn you that the chamber we are about to pass into does not literally exist within our planet. It is a little too … large. We are about to pass through a gateway into a vast tract of hyperspace. It may disturb you.” Arthur made nervous noises. Slartibartfast touched a button and added, not entirely reassuringly, “It scares the willies out of me. Hold tight.” The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like. It wasn’t infinity in fact. Infinity itself looks flat and uninteresting. Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity— distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless. The chamber into which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very very very big, so big that it gave the impression of infinity far better than infinity itself. Arthur’s senses bobbed and spun as, traveling at the immense speed he knew the aircar attained, they climbed slowly through the open air, leaving the gateway through which they had passed an invisible pinprick in the shimmering wall behind them. The wall. The wall defied the imagination—seduced it and defeated it. The wall was so paralyzingly vast and sheer that its top, bottom and sides passed away beyond the reach of sight. The mere shock of vertigo could kill a man. The wall appeared perfectly flat. It would take the finest lasermeasuring equipment to detect that as it climbed, apparently to infinity, as it dropped dizzily away, as it planed out to either side, it also curved. It met itself again thirteen light seconds away. In other words the wall formed the inside of a hollow sphere, a sphere over three million miles across and flooded with unimaginable light. “Welcome,” said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, traveling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly forward into the mind-boggling space, “welcome,” he said, “to our factory floor.” Arthur stared about him in a kind of wonderful horror. Ranged away before them, at distances he could neither judge nor even guess at, were a series of curious suspensions, delicate traceries of metal and light hung about shadowy spherical shapes that hung in the space. “This,” said Slartibartfast, “is where we make most of our planets, you see.” “You mean,” said Arthur, trying to form the words, “you mean you’re starting it all up again now?” “No no, good heavens, no,” exclaimed the old man, “no, the Galaxy isn’t nearly rich enough to support us yet. No, we’ve been awakened to perform just one extraordinary commission for very … special clients from another dimension. It may interest you … there in the distance in front of us.” Arthur followed the old man’s finger till he was able to pick out the floating structure he was pointing out. It was indeed the only one of the many structures that betrayed any sign of activity about it, though this was more a subliminal impression than anything one could put one’s finger on. At that moment, however, a flash of light arced through the structure and revealed in stark relief the patterns that were formed on the dark sphere within. Patterns that Arthur knew, rough blobby shapes that were as familiar to him as the shapes of words, part of the furniture of his mind. For a few seconds he sat in stunned silence as the images rushed around his mind and tried to find somewhere to settle down and make sense. Part of his brain told him that he knew perfectly well what he was looking at and what the shapes represented while another quite sensibly refused to countenance the idea and abdicated responsibility for any further thinking in that direction. The flash came again, and this time there could be no doubt. “The Earth …” whispered Arthur. “Well, the Earth Mark Two in fact,” said Slartibartfast cheerfully. “We’re making a copy from our original blueprints.” There was a pause. “Are you trying to tell me,” said Arthur, slowly and with control, “that you originally … made the Earth?” “Oh yes,” said Slartibartfast. “Did you ever go to a place … I think it was called Norway?” “No,” said Arthur, “no, I didn’t.” “Pity,” said Slartibartfast, “that was one of mine. Won an award, you know. Lovely crinkly edges. I was most upset to hear of its destruction.” “You were upset!” “Yes. Five minutes later and it wouldn’t have mattered so much. It was a quite shocking cock-up.” “Huh?” said Arthur. “The mice were furious.” “The mice were furious?” “Oh yes,” said the old man mildly. “Yes, well, so I expect were the dogs and cats and duckbilled platypuses, but …” “Ah, but they hadn’t paid for it, you see, had they?” “Look,” said Arthur, “would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?” For a while the aircar flew on in awkward silence. Then the old man tried patiently to explain. “Earthman, the planet you lived on was commissioned, paid for and run by mice. It was destroyed five minutes before the completion of the purpose for which it was built, and we’ve got to build another one.” Only one word was registering with Arthur. “Mice?” he said. “Indeed, Earthman.” “Look, sorry, are we talking about the little white furry things with the cheese fixation and women standing on tables screaming in early sixties sitcoms?” Slartibartfast coughed politely. “Earthman,” he said, “it is sometimes hard to follow your mode of speech. Remember I have been asleep inside this planet of Magrathea for five million years and know little of these early sixties sitcoms of which you speak. These creatures you call mice, you see, they are not quite as they appear. They are merely the protrusion into our dimension of vastly hyperintelligent pandimensional beings. The whole business with the cheese and the squeaking is just a front.” The old man paused, and with a sympathetic frown continued. “They’ve been experimenting on you, I’m afraid.” Arthur thought about this for a second, and then his face cleared. “Ah no,” he said, “I see the source of the misunderstanding now. No, look, you see what happened was that we used to do experiments on them. They were often used in behavioral research, Pavlov and all that sort of stuff. So what happened was that the mice would be set all sorts of tests, learning to ring bells, run round mazes and things so that the whole nature of the learning process could be examined. From our observations of their behavior we were able to learn all sorts of things about our own …” Arthur’s voice trailed off. “Such subtlety …” said Slartibartfast, “one has to admire it.” “What?” said Arthur. “How better to disguise their real natures, and how better to guide your thinking. Suddenly running down a maze the wrong way, eating the wrong bit of cheese, unexpectedly dropping dead of myxomatosis. If it’s finely calculated the cumulative effect is enormous.” He paused for effect. “You see, Earthman, they really are particularly clever hyperintelligent pandimensional beings. Your planet and people have formed the matrix of an organic computer running a ten-million-year research program…. Let me tell you the whole story. It’ll take a little time.” “Time,” said Arthur weakly, “is not currently one of my problems.” T Chapter 25 here are of course many problems connected with life, of which some of the most popular are Why are people born? Why do they die? Why do they want to spend so much of the intervening time wearing digital watches? Many many millions of years ago a race of hyperintelligent pandimensional beings (whose physical manifestation in their own pandimensional universe is not dissimilar to our own) got so fed up with the constant bickering about the meaning of life which used to interrupt their favorite pastime of Brockian Ultra Cricket (a curious game which involved suddenly hitting people for no readily apparent reason and then running away) that they decided to sit down and solve their problems once and for all. And to this end they built themselves a stupendous super computer which was so amazingly intelligent that even before its data banks had been connected up it had started from I think therefore I am and got as far as deducing the existence of rice pudding and income tax before anyone managed to turn it off. It was the size of a small city. Its main console was installed in a specially designed executive office, mounted on an enormous executive desk of finest ultramahogany topped with rich ultrared leather. The dark carpeting was discreetly sumptuous, exotic pot plants and tastefully engraved prints of the principal computer programmers and their families were deployed liberally about the room, and stately windows looked out upon a tree-lined public square. On the day of the Great On-Turning two soberly dressed programmers with briefcases arrived and were shown discreetly into the office. They were aware that this day they would represent their entire race in its greatest moment, but they conducted themselves calmly and quietly as they seated themselves deferentially before the desk, opened their briefcases and took out their leather-bound notebooks. Their names were Lunkwill and Fook. For a few moments they sat in respectful silence, then, after exchanging a quiet glance with Fook, Lunkwill leaned forward and touched a small black panel. The subtlest of hums indicated that the massive computer was now in total active mode. After a pause it spoke to them in a voice rich, resonant and deep. It said: “What is this great task for which I, Deep Thought, the second greatest computer in the Universe of Time and Space, have been called into existence?” Lunkwill and Fook glanced at each other in surprise. “Your task, O computer …” began Fook. “No, wait a minute, this isn’t right,” said Lunkwill, worried. “We distinctly designed this computer to be the greatest one ever and we’re not making do with second best. Deep Thought,” he addressed the computer, “are you not as we designed you to be, the greatest, most powerful computer in all time?” “I described myself as the second greatest,” intoned Deep Thought, “and such I am.” Another worried look passed between the two programmers. Lunkwill cleared his throat. “There must be some mistake,” he said, “are you not a greater computer than the Milliard Gargantubrain at Maximegalon which can count all the atoms in a star in a millisecond?” “The Milliard Gargantubrain?” said Deep Thought with unconcealed contempt. “A mere abacus—mention it not.” “And are you not,” said Fook, leaning anxiously forward, “a greater analyst than the Googleplex Star Thinker in the Seventh Galaxy of Light and Ingenuity which can calculate the trajectory of every single dust particle throughout a five-week Dangrabad Beta sand blizzard?” “A five-week sand blizzard?” said Deep Thought haughtily. “You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff.” The two programmers sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Lunkwill leaned forward again. “But are you not,” he said, “a more fiendish disputant than the Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler of Ciceronicus Twelve, the Magic and Indefatigable?” “The Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler,” said Deep Thought, thoroughly rolling the r’s, “could talk all four legs off an Arcturan Mega-Donkey—but only I could persuade it to go for a walk afterward.” “Then what,” asked Fook, “is the problem?” “There is no problem,” said Deep Thought with magnificent ringing tones. “I am simply the second greatest computer in the Universe of Space and Time.” “But the second?” insisted Lunkwill. “Why do you keep saying the second? You’re surely not thinking of the Multicorticoid Perspicutron Titan Muller, are you? Or the Pondermatic? Or the …” Contemptuous lights flashed across the computer’s console. “I spare not a single unit of thought on these cybernetic simpletons!” he boomed. “I speak of none but the computer that is to come after me!” Fook was losing patience. He pushed his notebook aside and muttered, “I think this is getting needlessly messianic.” “You know nothing of future time,” pronounced Deep Thought, “and yet in my teeming circuitry I can navigate the infinite delta streams of future probability and see that there must one day come a computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate, but which it will be my fate eventually to design.” Fook sighed heavily and glanced across to Lunkwill. “Can we get on and ask the question?” he said. Lunkwill motioned him to wait. “What computer is this of which you speak?” he asked. “I will speak of it no further in this present time,” said Deep Thought. “Now. Ask what else of me you will that I may function. Speak.” They shrugged at each other. Fook composed himself. “O Deep Thought computer,” he said, “the task we have designed you to perform is this. We want you to tell us …” he paused, “the Answer!” “The Answer?” said Deep Thought. “The Answer to what?” “Life!” urged Fook. “The Universe!” said Lunkwill. “Everything!” they said in chorus. Deep Thought paused for a moment’s reflection. “Tricky,” he said finally. “But can you do it?” Again, a significant pause. “Yes,” said Deep Thought, “I can do it.” “There is an answer?” said Fook with breathless excitement. “A simple answer?” added Lunkwill. “Yes,” said Deep Thought. “Life, the Universe and Everything. There is an answer. But,” he added, “I’ll have to think about it.” A sudden commotion destroyed the moment: the door flew open and two angry men wearing the coarse faded-blue robes and belts of the Cruxwan University burst into the room, thrusting aside the ineffectual flunkie who tried to bar their way. “We demand admission!” shouted the younger of the two men, elbowing a pretty young secretary in the throat. “Come on,” shouted the older one, “you can’t keep us out!” He pushed a junior programmer back through the door. “We demand that you can’t keep us out!” bawled the younger one, though he was now firmly inside the room and no further attempts were being made to stop him. “Who are you?” said Lunkwill, rising angrily from his seat. “What do you want?” “I am Majikthise!” announced the older one. “And I demand that I am Vroomfondel!” shouted the younger one. Majikthise turned on Vroomfondel. “It’s all right,” he explained angrily, “you don’t need to demand that.” “All right!” bawled Vroomfondel, banging on a nearby desk. “I am Vroomfondel, and that is not a demand, that is a solid fact! What we demand is solid facts!” “No, we don’t!” exclaimed Majikthise in irritation. “That is precisely what we don’t demand!” Scarcely pausing for breath, Vroomfondel shouted, “We don’t demand solid facts! What we demand is a total absence of solid facts. I demand that I may or may not be Vroomfondel!” “But who the devil are you?” exclaimed an outraged Fook. “We,” said Majikthise, “are Philosophers.” “Though we may not be,” said Vroomfondel, waving a warning finger at the programmers. “Yes, we are,” insisted Majikthise. “We are quite definitely here as representatives of the Amalgamated Union of Philosophers, Sages, Luminaries and Other Thinking Persons, and we want this machine off, and we want it off now!” “What’s the problem?” said Lunkwill. “I’ll tell you what the problem is, mate,” said Majikthise, “demarcation, that’s the problem!” “We demand,” yelled Vroomfondel, “that demarcation may or may not be the problem!” “You just let the machines get on with the adding up,” warned Majikthise, “and we’ll take care of the eternal verities, thank you very much. You want to check your legal position, you do, mate. Under law the Quest for Ultimate Truth is quite clearly the inalienable prerogative of your working thinkers. Any bloody machine goes and actually finds it and we’re straight out of a job, aren’t we? I mean, what’s the use of our sitting up half the night arguing that there may or may not be a God if this machine only goes and gives you his bleeding phone number the next morning?” “That’s right,” shouted Vroomfondel, “we demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty!” Suddenly a stentorian voice boomed across the room. “Might I make an observation at this point?” inquired Deep Thought. “We’ll go on strike!” yelled Vroomfondel. “That’s right!” agreed Majikthise. “You’ll have a national Philosophers’ strike on your hands!” The hum level in the room suddenly increased as several ancillary bass driver units, mounted in sedately carved and varnished cabinet speakers around the room, cut in to give Deep Thought’s voice a little more power. “All I wanted to say,” bellowed the computer, “is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything.” He paused and satisfied himself that he now had everyone’s attention, before continuing more quietly. “But the program will take me a little while to run.” Fook glanced impatiently at his watch. “How long?” he said. “Seven and a half million years,” said Deep Thought. Lunkwill and Fook blinked at each other. “Seven and a half million years!” they cried in chorus. “Yes,” declaimed Deep Thought, “I said I’d have to think about it, didn’t I? And it occurs to me that running a program like this is bound to create an enormous amount of popular publicity for the whole area of philosophy in general. Everyone’s going to have their own theories about what answer I’m eventually going to come up with, and who better to capitalize on that media market than you yourselves? So long as you can keep disagreeing with each other violently enough and maligning each other in the popular press, and so long as you have clever agents, you can keep yourselves on the gravy train for life. How does that sound?” The two philosophers gaped at him. “Bloody hell,” said Majikthise, “now that is what I call thinking. Here, Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?” “Dunno,” said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper; “think our brains must be too highly trained, Majikthise.” So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a life-style beyond their wildest dreams. Y Chapter 26 es, very salutary,” said Arthur, after Slartibartfast had related the salient points of this story to him, “but I don’t understand what all this has got to do with the Earth and mice and things.” “That is but the first half of the story, Earthman,” said the old man. “If you would care to discover what happened seven and a half million years later, on the great day of the Answer, allow me to invite you to my study where you can experience the events yourself on our Sens-O-Tape records. That is, unless you would care to take a quick stroll on the surface of New Earth. It’s only half completed, I’m afraid —we haven’t even finished burying the artificial dinosaur skeletons in the crust yet, then we have the Tertiary and Quaternary Periods of the Cenozoic Era to lay down, and …” “No, thank you,” said Arthur, “it wouldn’t be quite the same.” “No,” said Slartibartfast, “it won’t be,” and he turned the aircar round and headed back toward the mind-numbing wall. S Chapter 27 lartibartfast’s study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library. The old man frowned as they stepped in. “Terribly unfortunate,” he said, “a diode blew in one of the lifesupport computers. When we tried to revive our cleaning staff we discovered they’d been dead for nearly thirty thousand years. Who’s going to clear away the bodies, that’s what I want to know. Look, why don’t you sit yourself down over there and let me plug you in?” He gestured Arthur toward a chair which looked as if it had been made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus. “It was made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus,” explained the old man as he pottered about fishing bits of wire out from under tottering piles of paper and drawing instruments. “Here,” he said, “hold these,” and passed a couple of stripped wire ends to Arthur. The instant he took hold of them a bird flew straight through him. He was suspended in midair and totally invisible to himself. Beneath him was a pretty tree-lined city square, and all around it as far as the eye could see were white concrete buildings of airy spacious design but somewhat the worse for wear—many were cracked and stained with rain. Today, however, the sun was shining, a fresh breeze danced lightly through the trees, and the odd sensation that all the buildings were quietly humming was probably caused by the fact that the square and all the streets around it were thronged with cheerful excited people. Somewhere a band was playing, brightly colored flags were fluttering in the breeze and the spirit of carnival was in the air. Arthur felt extraordinarily lonely stuck up in the air above it all without so much as a body to his name, but before he had time to reflect on this a voice rang out across the square and called for everyone’s attention. A man standing on a brightly dressed dais before the building which clearly dominated the square was addressing the crowd over a tannoy “O people who wait in the shadow of Deep Thought!” he cried out. “Honored Descendants of Vroomfondel and Majikthise, the Greatest and Most Truly Interesting Pundits the Universe has ever known, the Time of Waiting is over!” Wild cheers broke out among the crowd. Flags, streamers and wolf whistles sailed through the air. The narrower streets looked rather like centipedes rolled over on their backs and frantically waving their legs in the air. “Seven and a half million years our race has waited for this Great and Hopefully Enlightening Day!” cried the cheerleader. “The Day of the Answer!” Hurrahs burst from the ecstatic crowd. “Never again,” cried the man, “never again will we wake up in the morning and think Who am I? What is my purpose in life? Does it really, cosmically speaking, matter if I don’t get up and go to work? For today we will finally learn once and for all the plain and simple answer to all these nagging little problems of Life, the Universe and Everything!” As the crowd erupted once again, Arthur found himself gliding through the air and down toward one of the large stately windows on the first floor of the building behind the dais from which the speaker was addressing the crowd. He experienced a moment’s panic as he sailed straight toward the window, which passed when a second or so later he found he had gone right through the solid glass without apparently touching it. No one in the room remarked on his peculiar arrival, which is hardly surprising as he wasn’t there. He began to realize that the whole experience was merely a recorded projection which knocked six-track seventy-millimeter into a cocked hat. The room was much as Slartibartfast had described it. In seven and a half million years it had been well looked after and cleaned regularly every century or so. The ultramahogany desk was worn at the edges, the carpet a little faded now, but the large computer terminal sat in sparkling glory on the desk’s leather top, as bright as if it had been constructed yesterday. Two severely dressed men sat respectfully before the terminal and waited. “The time is nearly upon us,” said one, and Arthur was surprised to see a word suddenly materialize in thin air just by the man’s neck. The word was LOONQUAWL, and it flashed a couple of times and then disappeared again. Before Arthur was able to assimilate this the other man spoke and the word PHOUCHG appeared by his neck. “Seventy-five thousand generations ago, our ancestors set this program in motion,” the second man said, “and in all that time we will be the first to hear the computer speak.” “An awesome prospect, Phouchg,” agreed the first man, and Arthur suddenly realized he was watching a recording with subtitles. “We are the ones who will hear,” said Phouchg, “the answer to the great question of Life …!” “The Universe …!” said Loonquawl. “And Everything …!” “Shhh,” said Loonquawl with a slight gesture, “I think Deep Thought is preparing to speak!” There was a moment’s expectant pause while panels slowly came to life on the front of the console. Lights flashed on and off experimentally and settled down into a businesslike pattern. A soft low hum came from the communication channel. “Good morning,” said Deep Thought at last. “Er … good morning, O Deep Thought,” said Loonquawl nervously, “do you have … er, that is …” “An answer for you?” interrupted Deep Thought majestically. “Yes. I have.” The two men shivered with expectancy. Their waiting had not been in vain. “There really is one?” breathed Phouchg. “There really is one,” confirmed Deep Thought. “To Everything? To the great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything?” “Yes.” Both of the men had been trained for this moment, their lives had been a preparation for it, they had been selected at birth as those who would witness the answer, but even so they found themselves gasping and squirming like excited children. “And you’re ready to give it to us?” urged Loonquawl. “I am.” “Now?” “Now,” said Deep Thought. They both licked their dry lips. “Though I don’t think,” added Deep Thought, “that you’re going to like it.” “Doesn’t matter!” said Phouchg. “We must know it! Now!” “Now?” inquired Deep Thought. “Yes! Now …” “All right,” said the computer, and settled into silence again. The two men fidgeted. The tension was unbearable. “You’re really not going to like it,” observed Deep Thought. “Tell us!” “All right,” said Deep Thought. “The Answer to the Great Question …” “Yes …!” “Of Life, the Universe and Everything …” said Deep Thought. “Yes …!” “Is …” said Deep Thought, and paused. “Yes …!” “Is …” “Yes …!!! …?” “Forty-two,” said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. I Chapter 28 t was a long long time before anyone spoke. Out of the corner of his eye Phouchg could see the sea of tense expectant faces down in the square outside. “We’re going to get lynched, aren’t we?” he whispered. “It was a tough assignment,” said Deep Thought mildly. “Forty-two!” yelled Loonquawl. “Is that all you’ve got to show for seven and a half million years’ work?” “I checked it very thoroughly,” said the computer, “and that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you’ve never actually known what the question is.” “But it was the Great Question! The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything,” howled Loonquawl. “Yes,” said Deep Thought with the air of one who suffers fools gladly, “but what actually is it?” A slow stupefied silence crept over the men as they stared at the computer and then at each other. “Well, you know, it’s just Everything … everything …” offered Phouchg weakly. “Exactly!” said Deep Thought. “So once you do know what the question actually is, you’ll know what the answer means.” “Oh, terrific,” muttered Phouchg, flinging aside his notebook and wiping away a tiny tear. “Look, all right, all right,” said Loonquawl, “can you just please tell us the question?” “The Ultimate Question?” “Yes!” “Of Life, the Universe and Everything?” “Yes!” Deep Thought pondered for a moment. “Tricky,” he said. “But can you do it?” cried Loonquawl. Deep Thought pondered this for another long moment. Finally: “No,” he said firmly. Both men collapsed onto their chairs in despair. “But I’ll tell you who can,” said Deep Thought. They both looked up sharply. “Who? Tell us!” Suddenly Arthur began to feel his apparently nonexistent scalp begin to crawl as he found himself moving slowly but inexorably forward toward the console, but it was only a dramatic zoom on the part of whoever had made the recording, he assumed. “I speak of none but the computer that is to come after me,” intoned Deep Thought, his voice regaining its accustomed declamatory tones. “A computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate—and yet I will design it for you. A computer that can calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer, a computer of such infinite and subtle complexity that organic life itself shall form part of its operational matrix. And you yourselves shall take on new forms and go down into the computer to navigate its ten-million-year program! Yes! I shall design this computer for you. And I shall name it also unto you. And it shall be called … the Earth.” Phouchg gaped at Deep Thought. “What a dull name,” he said, and great incisions appeared down the length of his body. Loonquawl too suddenly sustained horrific gashes from nowhere. The Computer console blotched and cracked, the walls flickered and crumbled and the room crashed upward into its own ceiling…. Slartibartfast was standing in front of Arthur holding the two wires. “End of the tape,” he explained. Z Chapter 29 aphod! Wake up!” “Mmmmmwwwwwerrrr?” “Hey, come on, wake up.” “Just let me stick to what I’m good at, yeah?” muttered Zaphod, and rolled away from the voice back to sleep. “Do you want me to kick you?” said Ford. “Would it give you a lot of pleasure?” said Zaphod, blearily. “No.” “Nor me. So what’s the point? Stop bugging me.” Zaphod curled himself up. “He got a double dose of the gas,” said Trillian, looking down at him, “two windpipes.” “And stop talking,” said Zaphod, “it’s hard enough trying to sleep anyway. What’s the matter with the ground? It’s all cold and hard.” “It’s gold,” said Ford. With an amazingly balletic movement Zaphod was standing and scanning the horizon, because that was how far the gold ground stretched in every direction, perfectly smooth and solid. It gleamed like … it’s impossible to say what it gleamed like because nothing in the Universe gleams in quite the same way that a planet made of solid gold does. “Who put all that there?” yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed. “Don’t get excited,” said Ford, “it’s only a catalog.” “A who?” “A catalog,” said Trillian, “an illusion.” “How can you say that?” cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground. He poked it and prodded it. It was very heavy and very slightly soft—he could mark it with his fingernail. It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold. “Trillian and I came round a while ago,” said Ford. “We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalog to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us. This is all Sens-O-Tape.” Zaphod stared at him bitterly. “Ah, shit,” he said, “you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else’s.” He sat down in a huff. “What’s that series of valleys over there?” he said. “Hallmark,” said Ford. “We had a look.” “We didn’t wake you earlier,” said Trillian. “The last planet was knee-deep in fish.” “Fish?” “Some people like the oddest things.” “And before that,” said Ford, “we had platinum. Bit dull. We thought you’d like to see this one though.” Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked. “Very pretty,” said Zaphod petulantly. In the sky a huge green catalog number appeared. It flickered and changed, and when they looked around again so had the land. As with one voice they all went, “Yuch.” The sea was purple. The beach they were on was composed of tiny yellow and green pebbles, presumably terribly precious stones. The mountains in the distance seemed soft and undulating with red peaks. Nearby stood a solid silver beach table with a frilly mauve parasol and silver tassles. In the sky a huge sign appeared, replacing the catalog number. It said, Whatever your tastes, Magrathea can cater for you. We are not proud. And five hundred entirely naked women dropped out of the sky on parachutes. In a moment the scene vanished and left them in a springtime meadow full of cows. “Ow!” said Zaphod. “My brains!” “You want to talk about it?” said Ford. “Yeah, okay,” said Zaphod, and all three sat down and ignored the scenes that came and went around them. “I figure this,” said Zaphod. “Whatever happened to my mind, I did it. And I did it in such a way that it wouldn’t be detected by the Government screening tests. And I wasn’t to know anything about it myself. Pretty crazy, right?” The other two nodded in agreement. “So I reckon, what’s so secret that I can’t let anybody know I know it, not the Galactic Government, not even myself? And the answer is I don’t know. Obviously. But I put a few things together and I can begin to guess. When did I decide to run for President? Shortly after the death of President Yooden Vranx. You remember Yooden, Ford?” “Yeah,” said Ford, “he was that guy we met when we were kids, the Arcturan captain. He was a gas. He gave us conkers when you bust your way into his megafreighter. Said you were the most amazing kid he’d ever met.” “What’s all this?” said Trillian. “Ancient history,” said Ford, “when we were kids together on Betelgeuse. The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Center and the outlying regions. The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them. There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defense shields known to Galactic science. They were real brutes of ships, and huge. In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun. “One day, young Zaphod here decides to raid one. On a tri-jet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid. I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey. I went along for the ride because I’d got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn’t want him coming back with fake evidence. So what happens? We get in his trijet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don’t know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers. A wilder thing I have not known. Lost me a year’s pocket money. For what? Conkers.” “The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx,” said Zaphod. “He gave us food, booze—stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy—lots of conkers, of course, and we had just the most incredible time. Then he teleported us back. Into the maximum security wing of the Betelgeuse state prison. He was a cool guy. Went on to become President of the Galaxy.” Zaphod paused. The scene around them was currently plunged into gloom. Dark mists swirled round them and elephantine shapes lurked indistinctly in the shadows. The air was occasionally rent with the sounds of illusory beings murdering other illusory beings. Presumably enough people must have liked this sort of thing to make it a paying proposition. “Ford,” said Zaphod quietly. “Yeah?” “Just before Yooden died he came to see me.” “What? You never told me.” “No.” “What did he say? What did he come to see you about?” “He told me about the Heart of Gold. It was his idea that I should steal it.” “His idea?” “Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and the only possible way of stealing it was to be at the launching ceremony.” Ford gaped at him in astonishment for a moment, and then roared with laughter. “Are you telling me,” he said, “that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?” “That’s it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls. “But why?” said Ford. “What’s so important about having it?” “Dunno,” said Zaphod. “I think if I’d consciously known what was so important about it and what I would need it for it would have showed up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away.” “So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?” “He was a hell of a talker.” “Yeah, but Zaphod, old mate, you want to look after yourself, you know.” Zaphod shrugged. “I mean, don’t you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?” asked Ford. Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his mind. “No,” he said at last, “I don’t seem to be letting myself into any of my secrets. Still,” he added on further reflection, “I can understand that. I wouldn’t trust myself further than I could spit a rat.” A moment later, the last planet in the catalog vanished from beneath them and the solid world resolved itself again. They were sitting in a plush waiting room full of glass-top tables and design awards. A tall Magrathean man was standing in front of them. “The mice will see you now,” he said. S Chapter 30 o there you have it,” said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a piece of paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn’t think of anywhere else to put it, so he put it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. “Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it.” “And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed,” added Arthur, not unbitterly “Yes,” said the old man, pausing to gaze hopelessly round the room. “Ten million years of planning and work gone just like that. Ten million years, Earthman, can you conceive of that kind of time span? A galactic civilization could grow from a single worm five times over in that time. Gone.” He paused. “Well, that’s bureaucracy for you,” he added. “You know,” said Arthur thoughtfully, “all this explains a lot of things. All through my life I’ve had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was.” “No,” said the old man, “that’s just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that.” “Everyone?” said Arthur. “Well, if everyone has that perhaps it means something! Perhaps somewhere outside the Universe we know …” “Maybe. Who cares?” said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited. “Perhaps I’m old and tired,” he continued, “but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied. Look at me: I design coastlines. I got an award for Norway.” He rummaged around in a pile of debris and pulled out a large Plexiglas block with his name on it and a model of Norway molded into it. “Where’s the sense in that?” he said. “None that I’ve been able to make out. I’ve been doing fjords all my life. For a fleeting moment they become fashionable and I get a major award.” He turned it over in his hands with a shrug and tossed it aside carelessly, but not so carelessly that it didn’t land on something soft. “In this replacement Earth we’re building they’ve given me Africa to do and of course I’m doing it with all fjords again because I happen to like them, and I’m old-fashioned enough to think that they give a lovely baroque feel to a continent. And they tell me it’s not equatorial enough. Equatorial!” He gave a hollow laugh. “What does it matter? Science has achieved some wonderful things, of course, but I’d far rather be happy than right any day.” “And are you?” “No. That’s where it all falls down, of course.” “Pity,” said Arthur with sympathy. “It sounded like quite a good life-style otherwise.” Somewhere on the wall a small white light flashed. “Come,” said Slartibartfast, “you are to meet the mice. Your arrival on the planet has caused considerable excitement. It has already been hailed, so I gather, as the third most improbable event in the history of the Universe.” “What were the first two?” “Oh, probably just coincidences,” said Slartibartfast carelessly. He opened the door and stood waiting for Arthur to follow. Arthur glanced around him once more, and then down at himself, at the sweaty disheveled clothes he had been lying in the mud in on Thursday morning. “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” he muttered to himself. “I beg your pardon?” asked the old man mildly. “Oh, nothing,” said Arthur, “only joking.” I Chapter 31 t is of course well known that careless talk costs lives, but the full scale of the problem is not always appreciated. For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said, “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my life-style,” a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle. The two opposing leaders were meeting for the last time. A dreadful silence fell across the conference table as the commander of the Vl’hurgs, resplendent in his black jeweled battle shorts, gazed levelly at the G’Gugvuntt leader squatting opposite him in a cloud of green sweet-smelling steam, and, with a million sleek and horribly beweaponed star cruisers poised to unleash electric death at his single word of command, challenged the vile creature to take back what it had said about his mother. The creature stirred in his sickly broiling vapor, and at that very moment the words I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle drifted across the conference table. Unfortunately, in the Vl’Hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries. Eventually, of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a few thousand years, it was realized that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy—now positively identified as the source of the offending remark. For thousands more years, the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across—which happened to be the Earth— where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog. Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it. “It’s just life,” they say. A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway. They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and Plexiglas awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered. “Arthur! You’re safe!” a voice cried. “Am I?” said Arthur, rather startled. “Oh, good.” The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces. “What happened to you?” demanded Arthur. “Well,” said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, “our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us. Here,” he said, hoicking out a lump of evil-smelling meat from a bowl, “have some Vegan Rhino’s cutlet. It’s delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing.” “Hosts?” said Arthur. “What hosts? I don’t see any …” A small voice said, “Welcome to lunch, Earth creature.” Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped. “Ugh!” he said. “There are mice on the table!” There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur. He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone. “Oh!” he said, with sudden realization. “Oh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite prepared for …” “Let me introduce you,” said Trillian. “Arthur, this is Benjy mouse.” “Hi,” said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky glasslike affair, and it moved forward slightly. “And this is Frankie mouse.” The other mouse said, “Pleased to meet you,” and did likewise. Arthur gaped. “But aren’t they …” “Yes,” said Trillian, “they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth.” She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug. “Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Mega-Donkey?” she said. Slartibartfast coughed politely. “Er, excuse me,” he said. “Yes, thank you, Slartibartfast,” said Benjy mouse sharply, “you may go.” “What? Oh … er, very well,” said the old man, slightly taken aback, “I’ll just go and get on with some of my fjords then.” “Ah, well, in fact that won’t be necessary,” said Frankie mouse. “It looks very much as if we won’t be needing the new Earth any longer.” He swiveled his pink little eyes. “Not now that we have found a native of the planet who was there seconds before it was destroyed.” “What?” cried Slartibartfast, aghast. “You can’t mean that! I’ve got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!” “Well, perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them,” said Frankie acidly. “Skiing holiday!” cried the old man. “Those glaciers are works of art! Elegantly sculpted contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!” “Thank You, Slartibartfast,” said Benjy firmly. “That will be all.” “Yes, sir,” said the old man coldly, “thank you very much. Well, goodbye, Earthman,” he said to Arthur, “hope the life-style comes together.” With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room. Arthur stared after him, not knowing what to say. “Now,” said Benjy mouse, “to business.” Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together. “To business!” they said. “I beg your pardon?” said Benjy. Ford looked round. “Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast,” he said. The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benjy moved forward to address Arthur. “Now, Earth creature,” he said, “the situation we have in effect is this. We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question.” “Why?” said Arthur sharply. “No—we already thought of that one,” said Frankie interrupting, “but it doesn’t fit the answer. Why? Forty-two … you see, it doesn’t work.” “No,” said Arthur, “I mean, why have you been doing it?” “Oh, I see,” said Frankie. “Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point— we’re sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benjy and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends.” “Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension,” put in Benjy. “Since when,” continued his murine colleague, “we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we’re very much inclined to take it.” “I would, wouldn’t you, Ford?” said Zaphod promptingly. “Oh yes,” said Ford, “jump at it, like a shot.” Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to. “But we’ve got to have product, you see,” said Frankie. “I mean, ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other.” Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur. “You see,” he said, “if they’re just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it’s Forty-two, then the show’s probably quite short. No follow-up, you see.” “We have to have something that sounds good,” said Benjy. “Something that sounds good?” exclaimed Arthur. “An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?” The mice bristled. “Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I’m afraid where you begin to suspect that if there’s any real truth, it’s that the entire multidimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise,” said Frankie. “But …” started Arthur, hopelessly. “Hey, will you get this, Earthman,” interrupted Zaphod. “You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?” “Er …” “So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer program,” said Ford, rather lucidly he thought. “Right?” said Zaphod. “Well,” said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn’t aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems. “In other words,” said Benjy, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, “there’s a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain—so we want to buy it off you.” “What, the question?” said Arthur. “Yes,” said Ford and Trillian. “For lots of money,” said Zaphod. “No, no,” said Frankie, “it’s the brain we want to buy.” “What!” “Well, who would miss it?” inquired Benjy. “I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically,” protested Ford. “Oh yes,” said Frankie, “but we’d have to get it out first. It’s got to be prepared.” “Treated,” said Benjy. “Diced.” “Thank you,” shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror. “It could always be replaced,” said Benjy reasonably, “if you think it’s important.” “Yes, an electronic brain,” said Frankie, “a simple one would suffice.” “A simple one!” wailed Arthur. “Yeah,” said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, “you’d just have to program it to say What? and I don’t understand and Where’s the tea? Who’d know the difference?” “What?” cried Arthur, backing away still farther. “See what I mean?” said Zaphod, and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment. “I’d notice the difference,” said Arthur. “No, you wouldn’t,” said Frankie mouse, “you’d be programmed not to.” Ford made for the door. “Look, I’m sorry, mice, old lads,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve got a deal.” “I rather think we have to have a deal,” said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing from their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air toward Arthur, who stumbled farther backward into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything. Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him toward the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was deadweight—he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping toward him. She screamed at him, but he just gaped. With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged. So—Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were. All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an ear-splitting din. E Chapter 32 mergency! Emergency!” blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea. “Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section 8A. Defense stations, defense stations!” The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass transports where they lay shattered on the floor. “Damnation,” muttered Frankie mouse, “all that fuss over two pounds of Earthling brain.” He scuttled round and about, his pink eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static. “The only thing we can do now,” said Benjy, crouching and stroking his whiskers in thought, “is to try and fake a question, invent one that will sound plausible.” “Difficult,” said Frankie. He thought. “How about What’s yellow and dangerous?” Benjy considered this for a moment. “No, no good,” he said. “Doesn’t fit the answer.” They sank into silence for a few seconds. “All right,” said Benjy. “What do you get if you multiply six by seven?” “No, no, too literal, too factual,” said Frankie, “wouldn’t sustain the punters’ interest.” Again they thought. Then Frankie said, “Here’s a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?” “Ah!” said Benjy. “Aha, now that does sound promising!” He rolled the phrase around a little. “Yes,” he said, “that’s excellent! Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all. How many roads must a man walk down? Forty-two. Excellent, excellent, that’ll fox ’em. Frankie, baby, we are made!” They performed a scampering dance in their excitement. Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards. Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly. “Which way you reckon, Zaphod?” said Ford. “At a wild guess, I’d say down here,” said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall. A voice on a bullhorn said, “Okay, Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We’ve got you covered.” “Cops!” hissed Zaphod, and spun around in a crouch. “You want to try a guess at all, Ford?” “Okay, this way,” said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks. At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armored and spacesuited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun. “We don’t want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!” shouted the figure. “Suits me fine!” shouted Zaphod back, and dived down a wide gap between two data process units. The others swerved in behind him. “There are two of them,” said Trillian. “We’re cornered.” They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall. They held their breath and waited. Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously. “Hey, they’re shooting at us,” said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball. “I thought they said they didn’t want to do that.” “Yeah, I thought they said that,” agreed Ford. Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment. “Hey,” he said, “I thought you said you didn’t want to shoot us!” and ducked again. They waited. After a moment a voice replied, “It isn’t easy being a cop!” “What did he say?” whispered Ford in astonishment. “He said it isn’t easy being a cop.” “Well, surely that’s his problem, isn’t it?” “I’d have thought so.” Ford shouted out, “Hey, listen! I think we’ve got enough problems of our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we’d all find it easier to cope!” Another pause, and then the bullhorn again. “Now see here, guy,” said the voice, “you’re not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we’re a couple of intelligent caring guys that you’d probably quite like if you met us socially! I don’t go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterward in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterward for hours to my girlfriend!” “And I write novels!” chimed in the other cop. “Though I haven’t had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I’m in a meeeean mood!” Ford’s eyes popped halfway out of their sockets. “Who are these guys?” he said. “Dunno,” said Zaphod, “I think I preferred it when they were shooting.” “So are you going to come quietly,” shouted one of the cops again, “or are you going to let us blast you out?” “Which would you prefer?” shouted Ford. A millisecond later the air about them started to fry again, as bolt after bolt of Kill-O-Zap hurled itself into the computer bank in front of them. The fusillade continued for several seconds at unbearable intensity. When it stopped, there were a few seconds of near-quietness as the echoes died away. “You still there?” called one of the cops. “Yes,” they called back. “We didn’t enjoy doing that at all,” shouted the other cop. “We could tell,” shouted Ford. “Now, listen to this, Beeblebrox, and you better listen good!” “Why?” shouted back Zaphod. “Because,” shouted the cop, “it’s going to be very intelligent, and quite interesting and humane! Now—either you all give yourselves up now and let us beat you up a bit, though not very much of course because we are firmly opposed to needless violence, or we blow up this entire planet and possibly one or two others we noticed on our way out here!” “But that’s crazy!” cried Trillian. “You wouldn’t do that!” “Oh yes, we would,” shouted the cop, “wouldn’t we?” he asked the other one. “Oh yes, we’d have to, no question,” the other one called back. “But why?” demanded Trillian. “Because there are some things you have to do even if you are an enlightened liberal cop who knows all about sensitivity and everything!” “I just don’t believe these guys,” muttered Ford, shaking his head. One cop shouted to the other, “Shall we shoot them again for a bit?” “Yeah, why not?” They let fly another electric barrage. The heat and noise was quite fantastic. Slowly, the computer bank was beginning to disintegrate. The front had almost all melted away, and thick rivulets of molten metal were winding their way back toward where they were squatting. They huddled farther back and waited for the end. B Chapter 33 ut the end never came, at least not then. Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterward was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds. The four stared at each other. “What happened?” said Arthur. “They stopped,” said Zaphod with a shrug. “Why?” “Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?” “No.” They waited. “Hello?” called out Ford. No answer. “That’s odd.” “Perhaps it’s a trap.” “They haven’t the wit.” “What were those thuds?” “Dunno.” They waited for a few more seconds. “Right,” said Ford, “I’m going to have a look.” He glanced round at the others. “Is no one going to say, No, you can’t possibly, let me go instead?” They all shook their heads. “Oh well,” he said, and stood up. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen. Ford peered through the thick smoke that was billowing out of the burning computer. Cautiously he stepped out into the open. Still nothing happened. Twenty yards away he could dimly see through the smoke the space-suited figure of one of the cops. He was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Twenty yards in the other direction lay the second man. No one else was anywhere to be seen. This struck Ford as being extremely odd. Slowly, nervously, he walked toward the first one. The body lay reassuringly still as he approached it, and continued to lie reassuringly still as he reached it and put his foot down on the Kill-OZap gun that still dangled from its limp fingers. He reached down and picked it up, meeting no resistance. The cop was quite clearly dead. A quick examination revealed him to be from Blagulon Kappa—he was a methane-breathing life form, dependent on his space suit for survival in the thin oxygen atmosphere of Magrathea. The tiny life-support system computer on his backpack appeared unexpectedly to have blown up. Ford poked around in it in considerable astonishment. These miniature suit computers usually had the full back-up of the main computer back on the ship, with which they were directly linked through the sub-etha. Such a system was fail-safe in all circumstances other than total feedback malfunction, which was unheard of. He hurried over to the other prone figure, and discovered that exactly the same impossible thing had happened to him, presumably simultaneously. He called the others over to look. They came, shared his astonishment, but not his curiosity. “Let’s get shot of this hole,” said Zaphod. “If whatever I’m supposed to be looking for is here, I don’t want it.” He grabbed the second KillO-Zap gun, blasted a perfectly harmless accounting computer and rushed out into the corridor, followed by the others. He very nearly blasted the hell out of an aircar that stood waiting for them a few yards away. The aircar was empty, but Arthur recognized it as belonging to Slartibartfast. It had a note from him pinned to part of its sparse instrument panel. The note had an arrow drawn on it, pointing at one of the controls. It said, This is probably the best button to press. T Chapter 34 he aircar rocketed them at speeds in excess of R17 through the steel tunnels that led out on to the appalling surface of the planet which was now in the grip of yet another drear morning twilight. Ghastly gray light congealed on the land. R is a velocity measure, defined as a reasonable speed of travel that is consistent with health, mental well-being and not being more than, say, five minutes late. It is therefore clearly an almost infinitely variable figure according to circumstances, since the first two factors vary not only with speed taken as an absolute, but also with awareness of the third factor. Unless handled with tranquillity this equation can result in considerable stress, ulcers and even death. R17 is not a fixed velocity, but it is clearly far too fast. The aircar flung itself through the air at R17 and above, deposited them next to the Heart of Gold which stood starkly on the frozen ground like a bleached bone, and then precipitately hurled itself back in the direction whence they had come, presumably on important business of its own. Shivering, the four of them stood and looked at the ship. Beside it stood another one. It was the Blagulon Kappa policecraft, a bulbous sharklike affair, slate-green in color and smothered with black stenciled letters of varying degrees of size and unfriendliness. The letters informed anyone who cared to read them as to where the ship was from, what section of the police it was assigned to, and where the power feeds should be connected. It seemed somehow unnaturally dark and silent, even for a ship whose two-man crew was at that moment lying asphyxiated in a smoke-filled chamber several miles beneath the ground. It is one of those curious things that is impossible to explain or define, but one can sense when a ship is completely dead. Ford could sense it and found it most mysterious—a ship and two policemen seemed to have gone spontaneously dead. In his experience the Universe simply didn’t work like that. The other three could sense it too, but they could sense the bitter cold even more and hurried back into the Heart of Gold suffering from an acute attack of no curiosity. Ford stayed, and went to examine the Blagulon ship. As he walked, he nearly tripped over an inert steel figure lying face down in the cold dust. “Marvin!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?” “Don’t feel you have to take any notice of me, please,” came a muffled drone. “But how are you, metalman?” said Ford. “Very depressed.” “What’s up?” “I don’t know,” said Marvin, “I’ve never been there.” “Why,” said Ford, squatting down beside him and shivering, “are you lying face down in the dust?” “It’s a very effective way of being wretched,” said Marvin. “Don’t pretend you want to talk to me, I know you hate me.” “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do, everybody does. It’s part of the shape of the Universe. I only have to talk to somebody and they begin to hate me. Even robots hate me. If you just ignore me I expect I shall probably go away.” He jacked himself up to his feet and stood resolutely facing the opposite direction. “That ship hated me,” he said dejectedly, indicating the policecraft. “That ship?” said Ford in sudden excitement. “What happened to it? Do you know?” “It hated me because I talked to it.” “You talked to it?” exclaimed Ford. “What do you mean you talked to it?” “Simple. I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed. I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it,” said Marvin. “And what happened?” pressed Ford. “It committed suicide,” said Marvin, and stalked off back to the Heart of Gold. T Chapter 35 hat night, as the Heart of Gold was busy putting a few light-years between itself and the Horsehead Nebula, Zaphod lounged under the small palm tree on the bridge trying to bang his brain into shape with massive Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters; Ford and Trillian sat in a corner discussing life and matters arising from it; and Arthur took to his bed to flip through Ford’s copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Since he was going to have to live in the place, he reasoned, he’d better start finding out something about it. He came across this entry. It said: “The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases. “For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?” He got no further before the ship’s intercom buzzed into life. “Hey, Earthman? You hungry, kid?” said Zaphod’s voice. “Er, well, yes, a little peckish, I suppose,” said Arthur. “Okay, baby, hold tight,” said Zaphod. “We’ll take in a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.” Afterword How it Came to Be: The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Feature Film by Robbie Stamp At 9:30 A.M. on 19 April 2004, “Shoorah, Shoorah” sung by Betty Wright blared out across an “Islington flat” built on Stage 7 at Elstree Film Studios in Hertfordshire. Under the eyes of the director, Garth Jennings, and the producer, Nick Goldsmith, who together make up the Hammer and Tongs production company, the first assistant director, Richard Whelan, shouted, “Action!” and finally, just over a quarter of a century since the first radio series was broadcast on Radio 4, a movie based on The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was under way. Arthur Dent, played by Martin Freeman, stood by himself reading a book, while more than forty actors in fancy dress started dancing. In the midst of the crowd, which included a sugar-pink mouse, a drunk cowboy and an Indian chief, the American actress Zooey Deschanel as Tricia McMillan could be seen bouncing up and down, dressed as Charles Darwin. Douglas Adams once famously described the process of making a film in Hollywood as like “trying to grill a steak by having a succession of people coming into the room and breathing on it.” Why indeed—despite the phenomenal international appeal of the Hitchhiker radio series, TV series and above all, the novels—had it taken over twenty-five years to get this movie made? It is a long story. This afterword to the film tie-in edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is not an exhaustive account of the two and a half decades it took a senior Hollywood executive to finally say, “Yes, let’s make the Hitchhiker’s movie.” As Ed Victor, Douglas’s personal friend and literary agent since 1981, has said, “Many, many people nibbled at it, took a taste and rejected it.” To tell the full tale of all those nibbles would need a book in its own right. But as one of the executive producers, I can tell the story of how the movie finally came to be made, based on conversations with many of the key people involved. I first met Douglas Adams in 1991 in his house in Islington, where he played Bach to me because there was a point he wanted to make about music and mathematics, and we talked about a television series on evolution he wanted to write and present. My overwhelming impression on that first meeting was of Douglas Adams’s powerful intellectual curiosity. We stayed in touch. He introduced me to sushi. We started a company together. * We saw a lot of movies and I was lucky that he became a friend as well as a colleague. Douglas and I continued to be good friends over the years and so it was not surprising that ten years later, when my father died, Douglas was one of the first people I called on returning home from the hospital. He had been compassionate and gently supportive when my father was ill, and we talked at length about the kind of man my father had been. After a while we strayed onto our normal topics of conversation, including new ideas Douglas was hatching, and—for the umpteenth time—talked about our frustrations over the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie, which was already well entrenched in Hollywood folklore for its seemingly endless stint in development hell. The very next day, Friday 11 May 2001, I received a call from Ed Victor and, sitting in my favourite chair in the kitchen, where I had spoken to Douglas just the evening before, I heard the news that he had died of a heart attack less than an hour before in his gym in Montecito, California. I remember my wife calling out in shock as she heard me talking to Ed but I just felt numb and spent the evening fielding and making calls to friends and colleagues. The outpouring of grief and affection for Douglas on the Web and in the press was a tribute to the enormous impact that Hitchhiker’s has had on people all over the world. Perhaps, sadly, Douglas’s tragically early death and the huge reaction it caused actually were the catalysts that finally got the movie-making process going. If so it is a very cruel irony. Ed Victor remarks on the frustration of trying to get the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie made, saying, “I was always trying to sell Hitchhiker’s. Douglas always, always wanted a film made of this. Four times I sold Hitchhiker’s and I’ve described not seeing the movie made for so many years as the single most substantial professional frustration of my life. This was something I’d always felt so sure about. I’d seen the mailbags. I just knew there was an audience out there. I sold it to Don Tafner for ABC to make a TV series. I sold it to Columbia and Ivan Reitman. We did a joint venture deal with Michael Nesmith and finally we sold it to Disney and even then it took seven years to get the movie into production.” My own relationship with Douglas doesn’t go back as far as Ed’s, but I have been involved in the film project since the negotiations to sell movie rights to Disney began in 1997 when, following the huge success of the first Men in Black film, it seemed that there was interest again in comedy and science fiction. Bob Bookman, Douglas’s film agent at the powerful Hollywood talent agency CAA (Creative Artists Agency), organized meetings for Douglas and me with a variety of potential producers. And as a result of those meetings two people really began to drive the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie project forward. Roger Birnbaum at independent producer Caravan Pictures (which evolved into Spyglass Entertainment) had the “muscle” and enthusiasm to get Disney on board, and via Michael Nesmith, Douglas’s friend and former business partner on the movie, we had been introduced to Peter Safran, Nick Reed and Jimmy Miller, who together at that stage represented Jay Roach, then a hot new director coming off the back of his surprise summer hit, Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery. Jay also had a strong relationship with Disney. Douglas and Jay struck up a warm creative relationship almost immediately and it looked like a winning triumvirate had been formed. Hitchhiker’s started as a radio series, became a famous novel “trilogy in five parts,” a stage play and a computer game and was at the time being turned into a “real” guide to the planet Earth by The Digital Village. The rights situation was thus highly complex and concluding a deal took an enormous amount of effort. Ken Kleinberg and Christine Cuddy became the attorneys for the negotiations with Disney. Even with their hard work, the enthusiasm and support of Roger Birnbaum and Jay Roach, and the teams at CAA, Ed Victor’s office and The Digital Village all working overtime, negotiations went on for almost eighteen months. The deal was finally done just before Christmas 1998, and stipulated that Douglas and I would be executive producers and that Douglas would write a new script. Douglas had been working on Hitchhiker movie scripts for many years and so, with input from Jay and Shauna Robertson, his business partner at the time, he was quickly able to produce a draft that was full of his extraordinary wit and intelligence; new ideas jostled for space with favourite scenes and characters from the books and the radio series. This early 1999 draft was good but the difficulties of striking the right balance between the episodic nature of Hitchhiker’s and a narrative drive that made sense had not truly been solved. Indeed this was the issue that had vexed draft after draft of the movie over the years and it continued to be a huge stumbling block. Jay remembers his collaboration with Douglas with great affection but also reflects on the problems they faced. “Even during the writing time and what became a hellishly frustrating development process, I don’t remember ever enjoying a collaboration more. The dinners and the long talks and his laughter. Even later, in the middle of saying ‘it’s not happening,’ we’d still be making jokes about the absurdity of it all. So the process was extremely pleasurable. It just didn’t get anywhere. There was a combination of things built into the struggle to get Hitchhiker’s made … there was always a mismatch between, on the one hand, people’s perception of it being a very high-budget sci-fi extravaganza with a lot of spectacle and, on the other, the recognition that it was smarter, more sophisticated, a little more English, a little more ironic than the big moneymaker comedies here in the United States, and those things didn’t synch up, so it was hard to tap into Disney’s needs.” On 19 April 1999, Douglas, frustrated with the pace of progress, sent a fax to David Vogel, then president of Production at Disney, suggesting a meeting. He wrote: “We seem to have gotten to a place where the problems appear to loom larger than the opportunities. I don’t know if I’m right in thinking this, but I only have silence to go on, which is always a poor source of information … the fact that we may have different perspectives should be a fertile source of debate and iterative problem solving. It’s not clear to me that a one-way traffic of written ‘notes’ interspersed with long dreadful silences is a good substitute for this…. Why don’t we meet and actually have a chat? I’ve appended a list of numbers you can reach me on. If you manage not to … I shall know you’re trying not to, very, very hard indeed.” With characteristic humour, he then provided dozens of contact numbers, including those for his own home and mobile, his nanny, his mother, his sister, his next-door neighbour (who he was “sure would take a message”), a couple of his favourite restaurants and even the number for Sainsbury’s, his local supermarket, where he was sure they would page him. It had the desired effect and shortly afterwards Douglas and I flew out to LA for a “summit” meeting. We talked for hours on that flight about what we both suspected was coming: Disney was going to suggest bringing in a new writer. Roger Birnbaum, who was at the meeting at Disney’s Studios in Bur-bank, remembers it well. “I knew it would be tricky. I wanted him to know how much we respected him. I admired him a lot and did not want to compromise the material but I also thought that after so many years of working on so many drafts, Douglas was getting bogged down.” Douglas was faced with an agonizing dilemma. The message was clear. Momentum, that most precious of Hollywood commodities, was slowing dangerously and if the movie was not to stall altogether— again—he was going to have to let another writer into the fold. Disney and Spyglass handled things with considerable tact and respect. In the meeting, David Vogel, a thoughtful man and a former Rabbinical scholar, likened Douglas to the designer of a cathedral, with the next step of the process being akin to hiring the master stone mason—not the man with the vision but a different kind of craftsman, concerned with making sure that the brilliance of the original conception had the right foundations. An experienced writer was hired and wrote a new draft, which was completed in autumn 1999. There was not much collaborative work possible with Douglas and although it was by no means a bad script, it didn’t really move the process forward. More ominously it coincided with a regime change at the studio. David Vogel and Joe Roth, who had been in charge when Disney bought the rights, both moved on. Nina Jacobson, now president of Buena Vista Pictures, responsible for developing scripts and overseeing film production for Walt Disney Pictures, was now in charge. Her biggest concern was budget level and at that stage she was not sure that the material as it was could break out of its fan base to create a movie Disney could get behind. Frustrated yet again, Douglas decided to write yet another draft and this he delivered in summer 2000. Disney were still not convinced, and in fact were increasingly unsure that this movie was for them. So, with their permission, the script was quietly sent to other studios. The project still had some very powerful supporters. Jay was by now an A-list comedy director and Roger Birnbaum and his partner Gary Barber at Spyglass were extremely influential. Nevertheless, all the studios and the key independents who were shown the new draft passed. One call in particular stands out in my mind as summing up everything that was so painful about this tantalizing period. Douglas phoned me from Santa Barbara while I was on a beach in Corsica with my family. He told me that Joe Roth, who was now at Revolution Studios, had passed. I remember the awful sinking feeling as I looked across to my family and saw my wife noticing the anxiety on my face. This call felt to me especially bad news as Joe was a close friend and colleague of Roger Birnbaum’s and had, behind the scenes, been very instrumental in bringing Hitchhiker’s to Disney when he was head of the studio. If he had no appetite for this, who would? Ed Victor also remembers this period all too well: “It fell into a black hole again. At one point we went to the bar next door to the office here, both ordered huge vodka martinis and Douglas said, ‘I estimate that I must have spent a total of five years of my professional life on this fucking film, Ed. Never let me do this again.’” But of course Douglas never did really let go of the hope that one day there would be a movie of Hitchhiker’s. In spring 2001, with the film still stalled, Jay Roach came to feel that after working on the movie for several years maybe he was simply not the right person to take things further, and very sadly and reluctantly he decided to bow out as director, although as producer he remained as committed as ever. Spyglass too were still determined to find a way forward. Jon Glickman, president of Spyglass Entertainment, and Derek Evans, who had first brought Hitchhiker’s to the attention of Roger Birnbaum when he joined Spyglass as a development executive, had been two of the staunchest supporters of the movie. * Jon remembers seeing the need for realism about the budget and returning to their first instinct, which had been to find a director on the way up, as indeed Jay had been when we first met him back in 1997. But it was a pretty dispiriting time. And then in May 2001 came the call to say that Douglas had died. In one week I flew out to California for Douglas’s funeral and home to England for my father’s. It was emotionally and physically exhausting. As friends gathered in the weeks and months after Douglas’s death, much of the talk was about the immense frustration Douglas had experienced over all the years of trying to make “the Movie.” It had almost become an obsession for him and sometime later I asked his widow, Jane Belson, whether, should it prove possible to somehow get the movie made, it would have her approval. She simply said yes, and made one comment in particular, that given the directing and producing team who finally brought the movie home was very prescient. “Get a young director, someone who didn’t grow up with Hitchhiker’s in its first flush of success. Remember that Douglas was only in his mid-twenties when he wrote Hitchhiker’s. Find somebody with a current energy, not trendy, but cool. Hitchhiker’s was cool when it first came out.” So I spoke to Roger Birnbaum again and as always he offered his support and continued enthusiasm. He remembers the call well. “After Douglas’s death we froze, and then it was a call from you, saying that the estate was still up for making the movie, that started us going again. We still loved the project and out of respect for Douglas were happy to try and get it made.” I also spoke to Jay Roach, whose support I knew would be essential. The project needed all the allies we could find and a film like Hitchhiker’s had to have “insider” support if it was to stand any chance of being made. Once he knew that Jane Belson wanted the movie made, his deep affection for Douglas meant that Jay also gladly stepped back into the ring as director. We all knew that without a new draft we would go nowhere; Hitchhiker’s could be in limbo for years. It was absolutely necessary to hire a new writer, and through Jennifer Perrini (Jay’s partner at his production company Everyman Pictures) at Jay’s company, Everyman Pictures, we were very lucky to find Karey Kirkpatrick. He tells the story of his involvement in his own self-interview (page 268). Karey was not a Hitchhiker fan—although he became one—but simply came to the screenplay as an experienced writer who could see where some of the problems lay. His starting point was Douglas’s final script, and I was able to make available a lot of material from the hard drive on Douglas’s Mac—earlier drafts, back stories and notes on solving problems. And so Karey and Jay, back in the director’s chair, set to work on a new “take,” establishing the basic direction in which the screenplay could now go. Several months later, on an early spring morning in 2002, a meeting was called at Roger Birnbaum’s house in Beverly Hills. There, with a log fire in the grate and smoked salmon and bagels on the table, Karey Kirkpatrick pitched the take that he and Jay had worked on to Nina Jacobson, Jay Roach, Jennifer Perrini, Roger Birnbaum, Jon Glickman and Derek Evans. This was the core group of people who could get this movie made. Karey began his pitch with an overview of how the narrative in the movie might work. He just read the “story so far” from the beginning of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, which summarized the events of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. Many races believe that it was created by some sort of god, though the Jatravartid people of Viltvodle VI believe that the entire Universe was in fact sneezed out of the nose of a being called the Great Green Arkleseizure. The Jatravartids, who live in perpetual fear of the time they call the Coming of the Great White Handkerchief, are small blue creatures with more than fifty arms each, who are therefore unique in being the only race in history to have invented the aerosol deodorant before the wheel. However, the Great Green Arkleseizure Theory is not widely accepted outside Viltvodle VI and so, the Universe being the puzzling place it is, other explanations are constantly being sought. For instance, a race of hyperintelligent pan-dimensional beings once built themselves a gigantic supercomputer called Deep Thought to calculate once and for all the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. For seven and a half million years, Deep Thought computed and calculated, and in the end announced that the answer was in fact Forty-two—and so another, even bigger, computer had to be built to find out what the actual question was. And this computer, which was called the Earth, was so large that it was frequently mistaken for a planet—especially by the strange apelike beings who roamed its surface, totally unaware that they were simply part of a gigantic computer program. And this is very odd, because without that fairly simple and obvious piece of knowledge, nothing that ever happened on the Earth could possibly make the slightest bit of sense. Sadly, however, just before the critical moment of readout, the Earth was unexpectedly demolished by the Vogons to make way—so they claimed—for a new hyperspace bypass, and so all hope of discovering a meaning for life was lost for ever. Or so it would seem. Two of these strange, apelike creatures survived. Arthur Dent escaped at the very last moment because an old friend of his, Ford Prefect, suddenly turned out to be from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he had hitherto claimed; and, more to the point, he knew how to hitch rides on flying saucers. Tricia McMillan—or Trillian—had skipped the planet six months earlier with Zaphod Beeblebrox, the then President of the Galaxy. Two survivors. They are all that remains of the greatest experiment ever conducted—to find the Ultimate Question and the Ultimate Answer of Life, the Universe and Everything. Nina proclaimed that she got that. We had a broad narrative shape: start with the destruction of Earth, and tell the story of the journey to Magrathea, the fabled planet-building planet. Much of the new material that is now in the movie is about the difficulty of getting to Magrathea and it is here that Douglas invented new plot devices and characters such as the fabulous “point of view” gun and Humma Kavula, the crazed missionary, who preaches about “the coming of the great white handkerchief.” The other key decision was that the movie would have Arthur as the central character and we would experience the galaxy from his point of view. It sounds very simple, but over the years various drafts had tried placing Zaphod or even the Vogons at the centre of the story; but perhaps feeling less of a creative need to reinvent than Douglas, Karey worked his way towards a narrative structure that worked. He has a very good ear for English humour—its irony and its wariness of sentiment—but also a very good grip on the Hollywood structural sensibility. Finally there was a sense that we were on the right track. But then barely had it sputtered into life again than the movie nearly faltered again. In the weeks following the “fireside pitch,” Disney, which had already spent considerable sums on rights acquisition and various drafts, balked at paying Karey’s rewrite fee and the whole thing looked like it might fall apart. But Roger Birnbaum and his partner Gary Barber saved the project: Spyglass demonstrated their absolute commitment to making the movie by paying for the rewrite themselves. Jon Glickman of Spyglass describes this crucial episode. “We had this meeting with Disney at which Nina Jacobson—who’s a big supporter of the movie now, but at the time still felt the thing was just too weird—said, ‘I’m not going to pay for Karey.’ Now Karey’s an expensive writer: he’d just had a big hit movie in Chicken Run and had written James and the Giant Peach and we were all in danger of the Hitchhiker movie just slipping away, yet again. I don’t know what got into Spyglass at that moment except that we loved the material so much. We’d lived with this for six years and I think a little bit of it for us was the emotional connection to Douglas. It was completely out of synch with how we normally do business. But we picked up the tab for Karey’s rewrite. This was extremely risky … we were just paying for the draft basically and thinking, ‘Hopefully Karey will figure this out.’ That’s just what Karey, working with Jay directing the rewrite, set out to achieve.” Bob Bookman, one of Hollywood’s most experienced agents, comments on the phenomenal commitment of so many people to Hitchhiker’s: “Movies are a collaborative medium, both getting them to the starting block and actually making them. There were so many people involved over so many years, you, Ed, Jay, Roger, several people you could look at and say ‘if they weren’t involved this wouldn’t have happened’ and yet the magic of it is that all these people hung in there to the point where we could launch it.” And the result was that in the late spring of 2002, Karey, continuing to work with Jay and with input from Spyglass and me, started to write. Whenever Karey hit a problem he went back to the radio series, to the books, to The Salmon of Doubt * , to the bits of Douglas’s hard drive that I had made available, for an insight into Douglas’s mind. He delivered his script just before Christmas that year. I came home late one evening and it was sitting in my e-mail. I sat and read it in one go with the hairs rising on the back of my neck. Here was a script that was utterly Hitchhiker in its sensibility but had now made the leap and felt like a movie, with a beginning, a middle and an end. Ed Victor recalls a conversation with Michael Nesmith about the critical importance to a movie of getting the right script. “Michael said, ‘If you are a producer of a film, you have a property, and what you are doing is bringing the studio head to the mouth of a dark cave and saying, “Inside that cave is a golden statue. Just give me 100 million dollars. † You will have that statue. Go in and get that statue.” Well, the studio chief doesn’t want to give you 100 million dollars so that he can go into the dark.’ And then Nesmith pauses and says, ‘The screenplay is a flashlight and with it you can point into the dark cave and just see the glint, the outlines of a statue. Then he gives you the 100 million dollars and goes in and sees if he can grab the statue …’ I thought that was a very clever metaphor. You had to see someone doing a script of Hitchhiker’s before you could get it as a movie, for all that it had proved its success in book or radio form.” Now we had a flashlight. In the new year, Jay could see that the project was accelerating, and with other movie commitments bearing down on him, decided that he should step aside as director for the last time although he remained on board as producer. So we needed to find a new director. Disappointing as this was, for the first time we did have a script. In all the long years of trying to make the movie it had always been the other way round— interested directors, but no script. Now there was a currency Hollywood understood and the script was biked around town. Jay knew Spike Jonze, director of Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, who had once been a leading music-video director, and sent the script to him. There was a general feeling that Spike, who had shown his touch with unusual material, would be a good choice to direct. He was a fan, read the script and liked it but was also committed to other projects. He did, however, play a crucial role in moving us on. He suggested Hammer and Tongs, Garth Jennings and Nick Goldsmith, a very creative and respected music video and commercials partnership, whose collaborations have included work for bands and performers such as REM, Blur, Fat Boy Slim and Ali G. Initially Hammer and Tongs told their agent Frank Wuliger not to bother even sending them the script. They were working on a movie project of their own and they feared that a Hitchhiker script emerging from Hollywood with no Douglas around to fight his corner would be likely to ruin something about which they both cared a great deal. But Frank played another small but vital part in keeping the momentum going: he sent the script anyway. It sat on a desk unread for a fortnight until Nick took it home. The next day, with customary understatement, he quietly suggested to Garth that he should take a look. Garth took it home and read almost all of it on the loo, emerging to tell his wife that it actually “wasn’t bad at all.” They could see what a great job Karey had done in letting Douglas’s genius breathe. As Nick and Garth were on my patch in London I was the first to meet them in person. On a fine spring morning, almost a year on from the log fire in Beverly Hills, I found them on their converted canal boat, ironically just ten minutes’ walk from Douglas’s house in Islington. After all those air miles and moving his family out to California to try and get the movie made, it was about to be “brought home” by a team who lived in England on Douglas’s doorstep. There were chocolate biscuits, a very friendly black dog called Mack and best of all the boat was a homage to the Apple computer. Douglas, as all of his fans know, was a huge Apple devotee—indeed he became an “Apple Master”—and somehow if Nick and Garth had worked in PC city I would probably have had to make my excuses and leave. But they didn’t and I didn’t. From the very first meeting it was clear to me that Nick and Garth had the awareness, the vision and the sense of fun to finally take the helm of the Hitchhiker’s movie. There was one early meeting that sums up that sense of fun and the phenomenal attention to detail that characterizes Nick and Garth. We had a video conference call with Jay, Spyglass and the team at Disney headed by Nina Jacobson. This was boardroom in LA to boardroom in London but Nick and Garth at our end had arranged for a little theatrical curtain, classic red with gold brocade, to be rigged up in front of the camera. When the team in LA arrived for the conference, there on their screen, instead of the normal view of a big desk in a nondescript room, were the closed curtains. When we were ready to begin, Garth, who had attached the curtain pull to his chair, gradually shifted backwards, and the curtains opened and the words “Don’t Panic” rose up on a little board. Nothing sums up Nick and Garth’s sense of playfulness, the line they have trod between freshness and fidelity, and their love of gadgets better than those curtains. It was also at this meeting that Nina made it clear that if we were going to make this movie, we were going to do it right. She was not going to go down in history as the executive who screwed up Hitchhiker’s. It had to be rooted in Douglas’s world-view but to work for Disney it had to reach out to a new audience too. Through the summer of 2003, Hammer and Tongs worked on the design, story and budget. A crucial part of finally moving into production was finding an approach which could be made to work at a budget level with which Disney were going to be comfortable. This was a challenge Nick and Garth relished. For them invention and problem-solving are worn as a badge of honour. In the autumn Roger Birnbaum decided that the pieces were now lined up. “We had a script, a director, a vision and a budget. Now was the time to find out if Disney were ready to play.” Under the terms of the agreement concluded when Spyglass had picked up Karey’s fee, Roger and Gary were now in control of the project and Disney had first right of refusal to be their financial or distribution partner. Nick and Garth flew out to LA and made their pitch to Nina. It was still by no means certain that Disney would go for it and Jay remembers calling Nina from his car on the Pacific Coast Highway and sensing that there was still some way to go before she was convinced. On 17 September Nina took the meeting and, as Jay had promised, was bowled over by the energy and vision that Nick and Garth had. The final step was a meeting with Nina’s immediate boss, Dick Cook, chairman of Walt Disney Studios. A kind and highly respected executive, Dick was the final person who needed convincing, and after an agonizing wait of several days Nick and Garth, the Spyglass team, Jay and Nina gathered in his office on Thursday 25 September 2003 at 4:00 P.M. LA time. Garth, who in a wonderful Hollywood phrase is “very good in the room,” launched into his pitch. Dick heard him out and quietly asked if he could have the movie ready for next summer. Garth heard this to mean was it “technically” feasible to have it ready for summer 2005 and simply said that that was possible. Dick and Nina had a few whispered words with each other. As everybody was leaving the meeting and Garth was gathering up the designs and story boards he had used during his pitch, Dick said to Garth that if there was anything he needed he should just be in touch. It took Nina following everybody out to the lift to point out that the movie had just been green-lit. Even for experienced Hollywood players such as Roger and Gary and Jay, a greenlit movie with no caveats on cast was unusual and as the doors closed on the lift the whole team literally screamed for joy. I received a call at about 1:00 A.M. my time in London from Nick, who simply said, “We’re making a movie.” Jay came on the phone and was almost in tears. For all those who had worked with Douglas all those years it was truly a bittersweet moment; he had longed to hear those words, longed to be in a meeting just like that where a senior Hollywood executive said, “Yes, let’s make the Hitchhiker’s movie.” Having greenlit the movie, Disney made two very important decisions. The first was to bring the project back in-house. Nina Jacobson’s faith in Nick and Garth and her excitement about the material in their hands made her determined to bring it centre stage at Disney in preparation for a major “live action” summer release. The second was perhaps even more important; having made a very bold creative choice in letting a first-time director and producer loose on a big-budget movie, Nina now also allowed Garth and Nick to hire the core creative team with whom they had worked in their music video and commercial career. The director of photography, Igor Jadue-Lillo, the production designer, Joel Collins, the second unit director, Dominic Leung, and the costume designer, Sammy Sheldon, were all key members of the Hammer and Tongs family. Indeed it was precisely because Garth and Nick had gathered around them a group of highly creative people with whom they had worked for many years that Nina felt confident in allowing them to simply “get on with it.” Spyglass remained as the movie’s producers and in late autumn 2003 we went into “pre-production,” the period in which the film is cast, scheduled and budgeted and the shooting script is prepared. The story of how the key cast was gathered together is best told in their own words in the interviews that follow, but one theme occurs again and again as they reflect on the experience of working with Garth and Nick—the enormous attention to detail that lies at the heart of their approach. From the outset Garth and Nick were determined that Hitchhiker’s should not be a totally “computergenerated” galaxy. Even the most cursory of looks at their body of work shows their love of puppetry, of props that work “in camera,” of real sets. Of course in a movie like Hitchhiker’s there were always going to be some spectacular computer graphics, but in the end the actors spent very little of their time acting opposite a tennis ball on a stick on a sound stage covered in blue or green cloth. Henson’s Creature Shop in Camden, London, was hired to create the Vogons and dozens of “real” creatures with whom the actors could interact. Over the sixteen-week shooting period at Elstree, Frogmore and Shepperton Studios, and on location in North Hertfordshire, Wales and central London, the production design team created a series of lovingly realized “real worlds” for the cast to inhabit. Probably the “holy of holies” for fans and cast alike was the Heart of Gold set. On the famous George Lucas sound stage at Elstree was built a fully realized interior for the ship. It was truly a thing of beauty: gleaming white curves, a magnificent control panel with the Improbability Drive button in the middle, a kitchen and even a bar area for the serving of Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters. And fittingly, on 11 May 2004, the third anniversary of Douglas’s death, it was on the set of the Heart of Gold that the whole cast and crew gathered for a minute’s silence to say thank you to Douglas. Jay Roach, who had his own moment’s silence in LA later that day, reflects: “It all started with Douglas and for all of us it has been about serving what was amazing about the radio plays and the books. The spirit of Douglas united all of us and none of us ever wanted to do anything that did not take it down a path that we hope he would have loved and that his fans will love. It needed to morph itself into this new channel but it didn’t need to be essentially anything other than it always was, this amazing prism that you could look at the world through and be inspired and uplifted by, and all of us knew that it would not work without that essence, and when we found Garth and Nick I genuinely thought that they would do a better job at letting that essence breathe than I would have done.” Roger Birnbaum too considers that “this has been one of those great adventures in my career. When it takes a long time to get a film off the ground, and then it works, it makes it so much more satisfying … everybody has been passionate about this project and has gone the extra mile. We’ve done it for Douglas’s spirit.” Over the long period of making a film there are many moments that stick in your mind. One such moment for me was when we were filming just outside Tredegar, South Wales, in a disused quarry (keeping alive a long and honourable tradition of British science fiction and quarries), and all day we had been jumping in and out of vans as the rain came in squalls, horizontally down the quarry. The producer from Henson’s Creature Shop was wrapped head to toe in Arctic-exploration gear she had borrowed from a friend, whilst in a splendid display of ruggedness some of the film crew remained in their shorts and Timberlands, no matter how cold it got. The rare periods of sunshine necessary for filming had been all too brief. But now in the gentle evening light I could see a very small man, standing all by himself in the middle of the quarry floor, trying to hold a large white head in place against the wind. I could also see the director, with his inexhaustible energy and enthusiasm, testing out a gadget that three of the lead actors were going to have to use the next day. By pushing a little button a paddle flicked up in front of him with alarming speed and stopped just short of his nose. Meanwhile a man in pyjamas and dressing gown, clutching a towel, passed the time of day with the president of the Galaxy. In the distance a Ferrari-red spacecraft, which had gouged out a fifty-metre trench when it had crash-landed, caught the sun on its tail fin. The date was 1 July 2004. We were filming the exterior shots for the planet Vogsphere and not for the first time I felt a surge of pride and excitement that after so many years we were actually making “the movie” of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It was something that Douglas had wanted so badly and as usual that pride was mixed straightaway with deep sadness that he was not there to share it with everybody. Many dozens of times during the pre-production and filming of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy I was asked things like, “Do you think Douglas would have approved of the design for the box for the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal?” or “Would he have enjoyed the use of a thirty-foot-high sculpt of his nose as the entrance to Humma Kavula’s temple?” My answer was pretty much the same each time: it’s hard to say on the specifics of the box or the nose (though I can hazard a guess that in both those cases the answer would have been yes), but what I do know is that he would have been delighted by the passion, attention to detail and sheer creative exuberance that everybody involved in the production has brought to making the movie. And there in that tableau in the quarry—with Warwick Davis’s stand-in, Gerald Staddon, * helping to line up Marvin the Paranoid Android’s next shot; Martin Freeman and Sam Rockwell, as Arthur Dent and Zaphod Beeblebrox respectively, making the most of some pretty trying conditions; Garth Jennings putting a prop through its paces; and the crew doggedly climbing in and out of cramped cars— was everything that I hope would have made Douglas proud. Robbie Stamp London, December 2004 * The Digital Village was designed as a multiple-media company and produced the Starship Titanic computer game and the h2g2.com website based on the Guide itself. The founders were Douglas, me, Richard Creasey (a senior TV executive), Ian Charles Stewart (an investment banker), Mary Glanville (also a TV executive), Richard Harris (a technical expert) and Ed Victor. * When the film finally came to be made, Jon Glickman and Derek Evans from Spyglass were producer and executive producer respectively. * The Salmon of Doubt—a collection of Douglas’s writings and the beginning of the last novel he was working on before he died, which would have been the third Dirk Gently book. † Do not assume that is the budget for the Hitchhiker’s movie! * Stand-ins replace the stars on set while the director of photography and director light up the next set and rehearse camera moves. The Cast For years, while the Hitchhiker’s movie was still in the pipeline, one of the favourite games for fans was to choose who they would cast in each role. Before he died Douglas Adams had this to say on the matter: “When it comes down to it, my principle is this—Arthur should be British. The rest of the cast should be decided purely on merit and not on nationality.” The cast that was chosen fulfilled this wish and it was an exciting and unusual collection of actors who came to work on the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy movie in 2004. The full cast is as follows: CAST LIST Zaphod Beeblebrox Sam Rockwell Ford Prefect Mos Def Trillian (Trisha McMillan) Zooey Deschanel Arthur Dent Martin Freeman Marvin Warwick Davis Slartibartfast Bill Nighy Questular Anna Chancellor Humma Kavula John Malkovich Lunkwill Jack Stanley Fook Dominique Jackson Prosser Steve Pemberton Barman Albie Woodington Gag Halfrunt Jason Schwartzman Ghostly Image Simon Jones Bulldozer Driver Mark Longhurst Pub Customer Su Elliott Technician Terry Bamber Reporter Kelly MacDonald VOICES The Guide Stephen Fry Marvin Alan Rickman Deep Thought Helen Mirren The Whale Bill Bailey Eddie the Shipboard Computer. Tom Lennon Kwaltz Ian McNeice Jeltz Richard Griffiths Vogons Mark Gatiss Reece Shearsmith Steve Pemberton During filming, Robbie Stamp was able to talk extensively with the main human-cast members about how they brought to life Douglas Adams’s iconic characters. In a series of conversations in trailers, on golf buggies, in between takes and over the odd beer, the stars talked about how well they had known Hitchhiker’s before they were cast and what working on the movie meant to them. Those interviews follow. Interview with Martin Freeman—Arthur Dent Credits include Shaun of the Dead, Love Actually, Ali G Indahouse and “Tim” in The Office. Robbie Stamp: Had you ever heard of Hitchhiker’s before you were approached about the movie? Martin Freeman: I certainly had heard of Hitchhiker’s. It was a bit of a favourite in my home growing up, not with me but with one of my brothers and my stepdad. I was very young when the series was on but I do remember watching that. I remember the books being in the house and kind of dipping and delving into those intermittently, but not reading the whole journey from start to end—but yes I was definitely, definitely aware of it, growing up. RS: And how did you get involved? MF: By being sent the script and reading the script, thinking I wasn’t right for it and then going to meet Garth and Nick and Dom. * I was more concerned with the fact that my girlfriend, Amanda, was on a double yellow line waiting for me. I thought, “I’m only going to be in there fifteen, twenty minutes.” But it was fifteen, twenty minutes before I even saw Garth because I’d been speaking to Nick and then Garth came and was very “Garthy” and really welcoming so we just chatted for another twenty, twenty-five minutes, then I went to do the reading. All the time I was thinking, “Christ, Amanda’s going to kill me,” so by the time we got in and read it I thought, “I’ve got to get out of here, I’m not even right for this! I’m not going to get it.” RS: Why did you think you weren’t right? MF: Because of my memories of the television series. I’m a very different actor to Simon Jones * and I think Simon Jones was Arthur Dent in my mind. And in a lot of people’s minds too— or if not Simon Jones then someone very like him, and that’s just not me. Anyway it transpired that they were very interested but had to see other people and had to work things out because I’m not a name and I always thought, “Why would anyone in Hollywood agree to me being the main part in a film?” Well, the main human, anyway. But after a bit of iffing and umming and other people passing and other people coming into the frame I was screen-tested again with Zooey † and that was that. RS: Your gut instinct that you weren’t right was the complete opposite of mine. From the moment I saw that first read I was convinced. While finding the essence of Hitchhiker’s we’ve all also been keen not to try and re-create what it was like twenty-five years ago. MF: Part of me would have thought you would go for a recreation of that, and if you didn’t go for that, that the approach would be ultra hip and trendy and cool, that you’d go for the exact opposite of past versions and get a nineteen-year-old kid to play Arthur Dent, and make it just really street or really urban, and I thought, “Well, I’m neither of those things.” That was why I thought at that original read, “I’ve got to get out. Amanda’s parked.” I think Garth picked up on that. We were very nice to each other and very friendly but I think he must have thought, “This guy just doesn’t care, and he’s not interested.” He was aware I was going to get told off, and I was told off! But it all worked out well. RS: Told off by …? MF: By Amanda, she did indeed remind me that I had said I was only going to be fifteen minutes but I’m really glad that people took a punt on me and I’m very appreciative of it, because I know there are loads of people who in terms of film sense should’ve been in the queue before me. RS: So how did you start? When you’re thinking, “Well, I’m not a Simon Jones but I have been asked to play Arthur Dent, and he means a lot to many people,” what starts going through your mind? MF: Just what I had done in the audition. I thought if they liked that enough to be very interested then that’s what I’m going to do. Just trying to infuse it with reality and not playing Arthur Dent as we think we know him. It requires a bit of playing up because it’s a light kind of comedy, but I didn’t want it to not matter and I didn’t want it to not mean anything. I had to approach him as if I’d never heard of Hitchhiker’s. Because it would be very boring for me and everybody else to try and just do an impression of something that was à la mode twenty-five years ago. If Arthur had been very upper-middle-class with an Uncle Bulgaria dressing gown, if everything had basically been Edwardian, then the contrast with people like Sam and Mos * and Zooey, who are all very contemporary current people and although they’re not playing Americans are playing space people with American accents, just would’ve been another one in the long line of movies where the Americans are hip and the Englishman is a bit dull. It’s just not very interesting anymore. Take the dressing gown. There were certain points that they had to hit, in terms of my costume especially, that had to be in the film. I wasn’t going to say, “Can I wear a tracksuit or a suit?” It was always going to be a dressing gown, slippers and pyjamas. It was just a question of what kind and to be honest I wasn’t going to have too many objections. Sammy † is a good designer; she knows what she wants, and Garth has got his finger in every single pie, how it looks, how it sounds, everything. He’s got fantastic people working for and with him. My job is to come in and act. If I’d been presented with something I hated I would’ve said no, but as long as Arthur looked contemporary and it didn’t look like a joke, like we were judging him before he even opened his mouth, that was OK by me. From a make-up and hair point of view I just didn’t want him to look like a real mummy’s boy because that’s another thing about lame English men, they’re boring. They’ve got plastered-down hair and look like they’ve been dressed by their spinster mothers, but as long as he looked like a normal person who lived in the normal world that was all I needed to know because then I could play him as a normal person. I just didn’t want to play a caricature. RS: Very early on in the story we see Arthur lying down in front of a bulldozer: this is a guy who’s got something to him. MF: He has, he has, and I think it would take an enormous amount of balls for him to lie there … because that doesn’t come easy to him. It doesn’t come easy to most people to lie down in front of a bulldozer, but he gets on with it. It’s funny because to be honest my own jury is still out on whether I’ve got Arthur. I’ll see when the film comes out, because you never really know when you’re doing something, but Christ the world is full of films with people whose instincts are telling them it’s great and it ends up being terrible. I don’t think the film will be anything like that. I think the film will be really good and I’ll be a really feasible Arthur Dent, but we’ll wait and see. RS: Did the responsibility weigh on you? MF: To be honest I’ve let other people worry about that because I was never a Hitchhiking anorak. I hope I was respectfully aware that it was a big deal for lots and lots of other people, but they’re not playing it, I am. You can’t take on that responsibility for them and again, because I’m not a rabid Hitchhiker’s fan, it wouldn’t be like playing John Lennon, someone who means more to me in my everyday life. Or playing Jesus Christ or just someone who really, really everybody knows, and you really know the story and you’d better get it right. This is just an interpretation of a screenplay based on a book and a radio series and I’ve got as much warrant to play it as anybody else. We’ll see if I do it well. I’m just trying my best. RS: What about the relationship with Trillian? We have worked hard to develop her character. MF: Absolutely, and I think it’s to really good effect. It doesn’t look like it’s tacked on in a Hollywood way. It still has the essence of the original material. And I think without it, it wouldn’t be as good, to be honest. RS: So the first meeting with Trillian, at the party at the Islington flat; what’s happening, why is there a connection made? MF: Arthur’s a fairly intelligent bloke and I think a connection is made because Arthur sees someone … well, he sees a woman who is not afraid to come dressed as an old man and who is still physically beautiful. Not only has she come as a scientist, she gets jokes and references, more so than he thinks anyone else would at that party. It’s not as if he’s exactly outgoing. He’s in no position to say these people are idiots. What does he know? He doesn’t speak to anybody. He’s a typical repressed person, who is able to judge everyone from the comfort of knowing that he’s not actually going to find out if he’s right because he’s too shy. But here’s a woman who’s showed an interest in him and what a woman she is, she’s come as fucking Darwin. She’s gorgeous and she’s funny, who wouldn’t want that? RS: He was there reading a book by himself. MF: Absolutely, absolutely and she crossed the room to be with him. He was looking at her but she crossed the room. So all this looks very good until this strange person comes along and nicks her. And once he meets up with her again on the Heart of Gold, he goes from being just sad that she’s disappeared to being really jealous that she went off with Zaphod. Not only did she go off with someone else but it’s someone else who’s the total opposite of Arthur, not only not human but just an idiot in Arthur’s eyes, all the things Arthur wouldn’t want to be and all the things that he kind of would want to be. He wouldn’t want to be a moron but he would want to be a bit cooler and he would want to be more confident with women, but he’s intelligent enough to know that he can consider Zaphod beneath him because he treats women like objects, which Arthur would never do. But he blows it with her because of everything—the world is against him, he’s literally lost his planet, he’s lost his girl to an absolute idiot and she’s not giving him any proper attention. I think it’s even worse when you’re in a situation where the object of your desire is being nice to you and liking you, but that’s not enough, they’ve got to hate you or love you; anything in between is really upsetting and Arthur finds that very, very difficult. And he knows he’s overstepped the mark and he goes through different things with Trillian, being dumbfounded by her and apologetic to her, but by the end they have reached an understanding. He’s seen the best in her and she has really seen the best in him because he’s finally become a bit of a hero. RS: One of the finest lines to tread in developing this whole thing into a movie was to develop Arthur without turning him in to a megasword-wielding space hero. MF: Exactly. I think you only need to see him do a bit and the bit is that he sort of becomes the leader of the group. He doesn’t become an action man by Hollywood standards, but by Arthur Dent’s standards he becomes more of an action man. You see him come into his own. As the film goes on he becomes more his own person and has more authority and more conviction about what he’s doing. I guess there’s a point where he realizes, “I don’t have a home anymore so whatever this is I’ve got now I better start living in it, not trying to get home wishing something hadn’t happened that did happen.” He’s actually starting to take a bit of control and maybe in a way he could only take control in space. He couldn’t have taken control in his Earth job. Talking it all through it is a surprising movie. There aren’t many movies like this about finding the personal and the ridiculous in the universal. It’s not a big epic space adventure. It’s full of really ridiculous aliens and stupid fucking creatures—well, not [John] Malkovich. Humma Kavula is genuinely scary but there aren’t many like that. The Vogons are ridiculous. You can see they’re preposterous and they kill people with poetry, for fuck’s sake! RS: And there’s bureaucracy in space and a lot of the things that we’ve got on Earth, just a bit larger. MF: Exactly, and with funny heads. It’s a very human alien movie. RS: Talking of human aliens, what about your relationship with Ford? MF: Ford is my guide, my Hitchhiker’s guide. I’m not a hitchhiker, I’m a hostage. Arthur would be nowhere without Ford. He’d still be on Earth. In fact he’d be dead but due to a debt that Ford feels he owes Arthur, he takes Arthur with him and tells Arthur everything about survival in space, about who the strange creatures are and about what happens on this planet and what happens on that spaceship. So Ford really looks after Arthur. RS: And he’s genuinely affectionate towards him, isn’t he? MF: He is, as affectionate as Ford can be. It’s still not very recognizable as human affection; it’s slightly odd, and that’s kind of cool because Arthur’s slightly odd and not a particularly gregarious lovey-dovey person. So in that way they’re quite well matched. To begin with, Arthur thinks Ford is just a strange human and when he finds out that he’s actually from somewhere else entirely I suppose it makes a bit more sense to him why Ford’s like he is, but Ford is also totally viable as just an eccentric human being. Arthur certainly hasn’t twigged that Ford’s an alien before he tells him. RS: Have there been particular moments that stand out for you? MF: Yes. The Heart of Gold set—it was huge and we all walked round and went, “Fucking hell, we’re in a space movie.” To be honest, without fail, all of the settings have been amazing. It was the attention to detail, that’s what’s really, really impressed me, the design detail and the prop details have blown my mind. To be honest there aren’t particular scenes I’ve enjoyed more; it’s more the settings because I like all the scenes and some of them are fascinating to play from an acting point of view but it’s not like you’re doing Chekhov, it’s not like, “Fuck me, I’ve got a heavy dialogue day today and I’ve got to talk about how I lost my mother.” On the other hand, there are things to deal with, like how you lost the Earth. Those are the bits I found really hard, where Arthur has to be broken that the Earth has gone. They’re hard to play because it’s about pitching it at the right level … you’re not doing a kitchen-sink drama but you also want to make it real, you want to make it real enough that it matters. It’s not a tragedy, it is a comedy but you’ve still got to invest emotion in it. I think you always have to care about the people in films or the fish in films or the Shrek in films, you know? If you don’t really believe Arthur gives a damn then why would you give a damn? RS: Arthur’s an iconic character and much of your challenge has been about how you bring depth and richness to him without overloading the whole thing. MF: Exactly, exactly. Yes, it’s very important to me because it mattered to my family and because it was a memory for me and because it’s become part of our popular culture over the last twentyfive years. It would have really angered me if it had been ruined, especially if it had been ruined by America. Maybe if I had been a mad fan maybe I couldn’t play Arthur. You’ve got a team of people, all of us doing our job. If everyone was a mad Hitchhiker’s fan, you’d have a terrible film because actually those people aren’t practitioners of what we’re doing. I really like food but I can’t cook it. So I hope people are going to trust us with it. It seems the more I hear the more they are kind of willing to … RS: They are, and I think the trust started with the script. What did you think of that when you first saw it? MF: I liked it, I liked it, and it works. Given that most of the films I’m asked to read I don’t go to the meetings for, there must have been something in it. And as I said before, when I met the boys, I liked them and they seemed to really care about it without being weird— care about bringing it to life as a movie rather than just living in their own little Hitchhiker’s world. And they just looked like people who could do it. Then when I saw their work I just thought how visually it was amazing and I wanted to be a part of it. And fortunately it has worked really well because Garth’s able to communicate with actors and not just his director of photography. Some people are not able to communicate with actors about what your character is doing but Garth is. A lot of people just look through their monitor and wish actors weren’t there. But Garth loves human beings as well as toys and puppets and all of that stuff. He’s aware that if you don’t believe in Arthur and Trillian and Ford and Zaphod their adventures don’t matter and nothing else in the film matters. It just becomes academic. Oh, it’s good effects or whatever, but who gives a damn because there’s nothing carrying you on. RS: And have you enjoyed working here? MF: Yes, I really have, I’ve had a fantastic time, it’s been the biggest most sustained thing I’ve done on the camera and obviously it could have gone any way, I could have had a terrible time or I could have had a great time, and fortunately I’ve had a great time. * Garth and Nick of Hammer and Tongs, and Dominic Leung, second unit director and the third founding partner. * Simon Jones played Arthur Dent in the original radio and television series. † Zooey Deschanel, who plays Tricia McMillan. * Sam Rockwell, who plays Zaphod Beeblebrox and Mos Def, who plays Ford Prefect. † Sammy Sheldon, costume designer. Interview with Sam Rockwell—Zaphod Beeblebrox Credits include Matchstick Men, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, The Green Mile and Galaxy Quest. Robbie Stamp: So how do you create a character as wild as Zaphod for the screen? Sam Rockwell: I started to do a Bill Clinton impersonation but that didn’t really work. It was a little too passive. Zaphod has to be more aggressive and so we went rock star, Freddie Mercury, Elvis, a little Brad Pitt. RS: But there’s still politician in there, isn’t there? SR: Definitely. It’s as if a rock star has become president of the Galaxy. I tend to get these parts where you really have to be somewhat theatrical and it’s a job requirement for Zaphod to be a bit big, a bit theatrical. He’s got to be iconic, I guess, and have a certain kind of charm and magnitude. The descriptions of Zaphod in the book really gave me everything. We stayed away from the TV series. We stayed with the book as the source. RS: What about Zaphod and sex? I remember the original Zaphod, Mark Wing-Davey, talking about that. SR: Zaphod is very sexy, I mean that’s the reason for the Freddie Mercury feel and the nail polish and the eyeliner. He has to be like Tim Curry in Rocky Horror Picture Show a little bit. He has to have that effect on people. You don’t know which way he goes; he might bend a little, sexually. RS: There’s a lot of species out there. SR: There’s a lot of species out there! Male or female, he’s kind of wild, he’s David Bowie, he’s Freddie Mercury, he’s Keith Richards, he’s rock and roll, he doesn’t care. He’s not linear, you know he colours outside of the lines with the crayons … RS: You’ve worked really hard on a lot of the physical attributes, things like the costume and the gun. SR: Yes, that’s right, that’s right. We’ve worked on the blond hair, the gun, the nail polish, the chain mail and the gold shirt. RS: That’s your idea? SR: Well, I liked it because I wanted a shiny spandex shirt and I said silver at first and then Sammy came up with the colour which made sense, Heart of Gold: gold! It’s given me a lot, that shirt. RS: How so? SR: Well, often, wardrobe, clothes will give you a character. The boots before we started were a lot heavier, like big cowboy boots, and I said, “No, listen, I need them streamlined. I need them to be light on his feet.” RS: So you could do the dances! SR: Yes, because I always seem to incorporate a little dancing in each character I do. With Zaphod, he had to be swift, he had to be dextrous. He’s a rock star, he’s got to move. RS: He does indeed move! Tell me about the gun. You practised really hard with the gun. SR: We had to make a smaller gun because the first gun didn’t have a trigger guard and you can’t spin without a trigger guard. So they put a trigger guard on, made it really streamlined, painted it a beautiful red and white, and they made this amazing holster, which is magnetic. That’s something that I’ve got to take back home. I need that gun! RS: One of the other things I want to ask you about is the walk. SR: I don’t do a lot of walking actually but I walk on Viltvodle VI and in the snow and I do a little walking and some running on Vogsphere. I like the character’s walk. [Sam gets up and does the walk.] Little bit of a strut. RS: But it’s friendly and confident and just “here I am.” SR: Yeah, he’s affable, but the bottom line is he’s a rock star. RS: So talk to me about the second head. SR: Yes, the second head is very confusing. I wanted to start doing a New York accent for the second head, like a retro thing, but it didn’t work. I wanted a real contrast and we have that now, but it’s not so much a vocal contrast or an accent, it’s more an emotional contrast between the two heads. One has just had too much sugar, basically. He’s ready to kick some ass—a lot of testosterone and just kind of angry. That’s what the second head is about. I like the stuff in Douglas Adams’s notes you gave me. He was thinking that he has a better memory than the first head, that’s great. RS: When Douglas wrote the book it was just a throwaway line, “we’ll just give the president of the Galaxy two heads,” and on the radio and in the book two heads is fine but on screen it’s a bit more of a challenge. I know it was one of the things that Douglas and Jay Roach talked about a great deal both from a character point of view— Douglas was keen to develop those possibilities—and also from a technical perspective. When Men in Black 2 came out, with a character with a second head on a stalk, we thought, “Well, there’s one method we can’t use.” SR: It was a throwaway line having the second head? RS: Yes, that’s right. SR: Because in the book he never really has the second head talking. RS: No, there’s certainly no serious distinction between the two heads. That’s why those notes that I gave you at the beginning were interesting because that’s Douglas thinking, “OK, for a movie what can we do with two heads?” SR: Yes, for the second head it’s a big riff. It is stream-ofconsciousness comedy. But I wanted everything to be rooted in the world Douglas created. So I have been referring back to the book a lot and the notes. Ad-libs are fine if they serve the story, propelling it forward, but if they’re arbitrary, if it’s just the actor playing and it doesn’t really help the movie, then don’t do them. RS: Within that world you had a lot of fun with dingoes! SR: That was fun, and the twelve seasons I got from you, I loved that one. I hope that makes it into the final cut there with the Japanese Groupie on Viltvodle; they were cute. RS: That was just a reference to Douglas’s favourite hotel in LA, the Four Seasons, where we did a lot of talking about the movie on our various trips there to try and move things on. How about Zaphod the politician? SR: If there’s a sequel I’d like to get deeper into some of the political aspects. We touched upon some Bill Clinton and George W. Bush and it is really funny, I think. RS: I would imagine people would enjoy the line that “You can’t be a president with a whole brain.” I can see that getting a real response in the current political climate. SR: You can’t be a president with a whole brain, that’s right, I actually say that. Yes, I didn’t even think of that. RS: Can you tell me how you came to be involved in the movie? SR: I met with Garth and Nick three times, twice before I got the part, and then after they offered it to me. I asked to meet with them the third time because I had no idea why they had cast me as Zaphod. Originally they were talking to me about Ford! First time, I met with them in New York before even reading the script. But I did quickly get hold of the DVD of the TV series and watched that. I remembered it from my childhood. I’d seen a little bit of it along with Doctor Who, so I just wanted a reminder of who Ford Prefect was and I went, “Oh, that’s Ford Prefect, OK, I know what to do,” and actually I liked him. I went in and I had an idea and it wasn’t quite right. What they needed was a much more streamlined leading man and I think that’s why Mos is so perfect. They talked about Ford as a researcher for the Guide being one of these camera guys who go into Iraq and I thought that was very interesting. At the second meeting, I wasn’t supposed to read. One of the fortunate things is, you get to a certain point in your career and you don’t have to read that much. But sometimes what I do, which is maybe kind of stupid, is volunteer to read, which they love of course because they’re probably getting all these guys who won’t even meet them, but I thought, “Let’s read this out loud and see how it feels.” They said, “Why don’t we read a little Ford,” and I said, “But listen, I haven’t prepared this, guys, this is cold,” and that was true, it was cold and so I read Ford and I did a kind of Southern accent thing and it was OK. They started laughing and I kissed Garth on the cheek or something and after I’d done, I said, “What about this Zaphod guy? He’s interesting so why don’t we read through some of that?” And I read some of Zaphod and it didn’t go well at all, the Ford reading was much better, actually. RS: What didn’t go well in the Zaphod reading? SR: I had not yet thought about Zaphod. All I remember was that Zaphod’s entrance was fantastic and I was picturing Jack Black doing the entrance and I thought, “Well, how would I do that entrance?” I knew just from skimming the script that Zaphod was a great part, really a great part. But I hadn’t read it thoroughly and so we let it go and I thought, “Well, I kind of blew it because I read Ford OK and I didn’t read Zaphod well at all.” So I said to them, “I was wondering if you guys could consider me for Zaphod. I may not be right, I may be more right for Ford but check out Galaxy Quest and check out The Green Mile, just skim those two films, because I think there are elements that might lend themselves towards Zaphod, they’re much more theatrical.” I didn’t hear anything for weeks and then I heard Mos was going to get cast as Ford. I was disappointed but I actually thought, “That’s a pretty good idea. I would cast him as Ford too,” and I’m not just saying that, that’s exactly what I thought. So I figured, “All right, well, that’s that.” A long time went by and then out of nowhere, out of fucking nowhere, I’m in London, filming Piccadilly Jim, and I get a message from both of my agents and my manager and they all want to talk to me at the same time and when that happens I know there’s something up. I get a conference call and I know it’s good news but I don’t know what the hell it is. Usually when you get a part you know a week before the offer comes in, somebody says, “It looks good on such and such, they’re probably going to offer it to you …” But there was none of that. All of a sudden they offered me this really nice salary, it was just one call, “You got the job and we got a great salary,” and this is it and I was like, “Wow, what are you talking about? It’s all done? Everything? Everything’s done?” And my team said, “Yup, great, congratulations,” but I haven’t even thought about this thing for a month and I don’t know if I even read the whole thing thoroughly and they said, “Are you crazy? You’ve got to do it!” and I said, “I’m exhausted, I’m working my ass off, let me read it thoroughly and then maybe I should meet with them in a week because I can’t read it until next Thursday.” I’m doing this big dance sequence in Piccadilly Jim. I was exhausted and I’m in the midst of this heavy love affair with my girlfriend and I need some time to think. So on my two days off, Thursday and Friday, I read it very thoroughly and thought, “I’ll go in and I’ll meet with these guys and I’ll see if they’re open to ideas.” I’d already met them of course but I was confused why they had cast me, I didn’t know. So Gina * said, “Why don’t you play it like that Elvis character you do?” I said, “No, I can’t do that, that’s silly, that’s like a sketch comedy thing,” but basically I went in with that broad idea and they went for it. There’s a tape of that meeting. Did they show it to you? RS: Yes. SR: Of us in the office? RS: Yep. SR: And we were just playing around, but I knew when Garth kept coming up with what I call these “actor ideas” that I had to do the movie. He’s a visual MTV director, who has inventive ideas that are coming from a character’s point of view, not a visual point of view. To me that was what was exciting and special about Garth and Nick. Usually directors, especially visual directors, do not cope with actor ideas. It’s very rare, it never happens really. The only time I’ve met it before was Dean Parisot on Galaxy Quest. He was really open to ideas. And then of course actors who direct, like George Clooney, are always good. I’d say George Clooney, Ridley Scott, Dean Parisot and Garth Jennings are the four top directors that I’ve ever worked with. RS: High praise indeed. SR: I think he’s really something. So I feel lucky to have been on the show. It’s been amazing. You’ve helped with all my stupid ad-libs and it was great working with Martin and Zooey and Mos. I feel like Mos and I came up with some stuff that wasn’t even in the original TV series or the movie script, the relationship between Ford and Zaphod. I think we created a whole new bond between those two characters that wouldn’t have existed. I mean there are so many places to go with Zaphod. Zaphod’s one of the best characters I’ve ever played. RS: Are there any moments where you’ve walked on the set that have stood out? SR: There are so many. I love Zaphod when he’s pleasing the crowd, the moment on the champagne bottle, swinging on the rope, just before he steals the Heart of Gold. Just before I went on I found some fudge on set and I just grabbed it and came on stage eating it while I was giving my speech and I just thought that was Zaphod, he just loves life. I think the best moments are when he is very charming and fun and Zaphod’s laugh seems to be the key to the character. I always make my characters more physical than they need to be, like that dance sequence, Garth really wanted me to do it. So we got on the Viltvodle set and he said, “This is where you’re going to do your dance, right?” And I said, “Yeah, sure, what kind of dance?” Because that wasn’t in the script at all. Garth said, “I think it would be great if you were being shot at and you did this operatic rock-concert dance.” It’s not like I was twisting his arm. He wanted me to do a dance because he knew I could dance. So they asked me what music I wanted and I went to it, several times! I felt really honoured to do it because it’s a great moment for Zaphod. RS: Garth has always been aware of the danger of slipping into classic action sci-fi moments, so when one of our heroes is under attack from space aliens and gunfire he thinks, “What can we do to give it a Hitchhiker twist?” And it’s of course classically Douglas, to give the audience just what they’re not expecting, but it works. You’ve done a lot of running around, haven’t you? Running up and down valleys in Wales … SR: Yes, yes—oh my God, the paddle scene, that was the most ridiculous thing I think I’ve ever done and it was a brand-new Douglas idea. First of all there was the weather. Most of us almost got hypothermia and I had layers and layers on in between takes. But faking the paddles hitting us in the face … it’s just the bare essentials of acting and really comes down to being a kid and playing cops and robbers and cowboys and Indians. That sequence in particular is about the bare essential, childlike state you’re in when you’re acting and that scene with Mos and Martin just pretending that there are wooden paddles hitting us in the face coming up from the ground could have been sci-fi acting at its best or at its worst. I remember seeing Jurassic Park and I had an argument with my friend, the acting in that movie was very good I thought. He said, “What are you talking about? That’s not acting, it’s like bullshit. It’s not acting.” I disagree, I think those actors really did well; you don’t know how hard it is to do that. That’s hard to do, pretending to be terrified of something that’s not really there. But acting with those guys was great, it really is an ensemble piece. Originally I thought Zaphod was strictly a supporting part. But when I really read the script thoroughly I realized it was a lot of screen time and it was going to be hard work and it was. We worked our asses off. * Gina Bellman. Interview with Mos Def—Ford Prefect Credits include The Woodsman, Monster’s Ball and The Italian Job. Mos is also a very talented hip-hop artist. Robbie Stamp: So tell me, had you ever heard of Hitchhiker’s before you were approached to be in the movie? Mos Def: Actually I had, although I had never read the book. It was just part of my consciousness. Maybe you’ve never heard the music of Miles Davis but you sure know the name, and Hitchhiker’s is one of those things that many people know well and many people don’t but everyone is familiar with it somehow. RS: How did you come to be cast? MD: I think that Suzie Figgis, the casting director, had seen me in Topdog/Underdog at the Royal Court in London and she suggested to Nick and Garth that they should meet with me when they were in New York. So we met and talked about the project and their perspective on what they wanted to see not just in this film but also in films in general. Their taste just hooked me. They’re unconventional. They have a great deal of imagination. They’ve done a video that I was a huge fan of, actually a couple of videos but I didn’t know that they had worked on them, Supergrass, “Keep on Moving,” and Blur, “Coffee and TV.” Hammer and Tongs just have great presentation. I liked everything about them, their energy, their enthusiasm and their sense of wonder. You could tell they were very serious but there was also joy. RS: That sense of wonder—it’s absolutely right. MD: And that’s really important to have as a director. I also think that Garth embodies the spirit of the book in a unique way because he’s very serious, very thoughtful and yet he’s not taking himself so seriously … he’s aware that this is a mammoth project, that it is very ambitious and he’s not daunted by any of it. He’s up for the task, which is very attractive to an actor. When he sent me the script I was really engaged from the first line— “It is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem.” It’s a great way to open a movie. Hitchhiker’s is high-minded and big and in the wrong hands it could be so ponderous, it could feel like the work of some smarty pants, but he makes it very, very human and approachable. He also allows space for perspectives and viewpoints other than his own, without discrediting them or ridiculing them, whilst being very steadfast in what his own perspective is. I was really taken aback by the way he dealt with the whole issue of religion, of God. It’s clearly individual but it leaves room for perspectives other than his own. It’s very rare to work on something with that sort of scope and feeling. RS: You were telling me that when you were cast kids came up to you to let you know how cool they thought it was that you were going to be in Hitchhiker’s. MD: People from all sorts of backgrounds, whenever I mention it, there’s only two or three responses: some people have no idea what it means, others go, “Oh, OK,” and then there are people that are just like, “What, that’s so cool!” They just love it. And I do, too. I really love the humour in it and I really love the sense of awe and wonder, that curiosity about the world around us, it’s kind of like the kid looking at the sky and just thinking, “What’s out there?” RS: I think you’re absolutely right, Douglas’s curiosity—his intellectual curiosity—was absolutely a defining characteristic. MD: It’s been very satisfying. I like things that have some element of risk, and with the time it’s taken to get this movie made, and the mix of ideas and humour, it’s going to make people pay attention. It’s extraordinary in the literal sense of the word, it’s extra and very ordinary. There’s this whole universe out there that has been created that is fantastic and mundane at once. RS: How did you set about finding the character of Ford? MD: It was really interesting because Ford has gears. He has a gear when he’s extremely intense and other gears where he’s totally carefree and almost away from it all; not disengaged but outside of things, taking it very relaxed. Before we started rehearsals I was thinking of him as much more aggressive or harsh, a Walter Winchell type of character, a journalist planning the story. There are elements of that and there are heroic Indiana Jones elements to his personality too but rather than make him be any one thing I tried to make him be the sharpest, to have the most honest response to all of his situations and his endeavours; I think that Ford is prepared for anything, the best or the worst, and he sort of embraces it. He accepts things as they are, he doesn’t really moan or judge. Another thing I like about Ford is that he’s very loyal to his friends; he’s very selfless in that way. He believes in the things that his friends want and wants to help them but it’s not sentimental. It’s like in the airlock when they are about to be thrown into space and Ford asks Arthur if he would like a hug … Martin’s reaction is funny so it manages to be a tender moment that doesn’t get cheapened by something didactic or predictable. RS: Douglas would have appreciated that. He would have been very wary of the sentimental button, so with a moment like that he would have wanted to twist it, give it an edge. Thinking about helping friends, you played the scene when you explain to Arthur about towels as if it genuinely mattered. MD: Yes, you’re going to need your towel. You have to have it, this is important; it’s a tough galaxy out there. RS: Talk a little bit more abut the relationship with Arthur, because I think I mentioned to you that one of the things that was in an earlier draft of the script, which sent some of the fans crazy, they didn’t like it at all, was a running joke whereby Ford was constantly trying to get rid of Arthur and Arthur kept on saving his life and he felt bound to save his life back. Maybe they didn’t like that because through all the books the friendship between Ford and Arthur is the most enduring relationship of all. MD: I like the friendship between them. Often when there are stories about other life forms coming to Earth, it’s a hostile attitude they have towards humans, whereas Ford has grown quite fond of the species for all their foibles. As far as Arthur himself is concerned I really like the scene on Magrathea where Ford consoles him, it’s almost tender. RS: Just explain to me what’s happening then. MD: Well, Zaphod finds this portal on Magrathea that he believes is going to take them to Deep Thought and Arthur is apprehensive. Ford is more calculating. He’s just assessing the situation and reckoning, “We can do this.” Arthur is just totally afraid. RS: It looks pretty scary. MD: It does. It’s the jumping-off place and I like the metaphor that that situation represents: when there’s an opportunity to go, go. You know, just go through to the other side because the doors do close. There are points in everyone’s life where you have to make a decision, good, bad or otherwise, and you got to just go for it. And Arthur makes his decision just a little too late. He needs to be pushed, to get him outside of himself and be a citizen of the universe. His anxiety and apprehension are internal. He’s not wearing them on his sleeve in some predictable way. I love what Martin is doing with his character, man. Arthur is faced with all these urgent situations in a beautiful, ludicrous galaxy and in the face of all that he just buckles down and jumps. Sometimes because he’s being dragged kicking and screaming … RS: Literally. MD: Yes, literally, but he makes the adjustments, he adapts. RS: And how’s it been, working with Martin? MD: He’s got a fantastic ease about himself as an actor that is really nice to work with. This is one of the best casts that I’ve worked with. RS: Tell me about your costume. MD: That was a really involved process because I wanted to do something that was traditional but also a little odd. He is from outer space, he is an alien but he does have to blend in. It was just subtle things—take a normal three-button sports coat, make it four and let’s give him a waistcoat. It’s all very purposeful. If it’s cold I’ve got a hat, utilitarian but also gentlemanly and straightforward. He’s a working man, so he’s got a suit and tie, and he’s very serious about his work, but not pompous about it. As a researcher he’s also totally prepared for head of state or president or a celebrity. He would command a certain level of respect from anyone who he met without seeming unapproachable. And I wanted comfortable shoes! RS: And what about the inside of the jacket, the colours? MD: Yeah, the orange, the orange and purple just appealed to me. RS: They’re your colours? MD: Yeah, I know. I asked Sammy to put purple wherever there could be purple. Wherever there was lining, wherever there was a flap, just small subtle things that she might not necessarily see on clothes from Earth, just small details, small details that could be avant-garde, but that also just blend. I was really, really pleased with the result. RS: So what’s Ford got in his satchel? MD: Well, the things Douglas described in the book and more. He’s got water, the Guide of course, peanuts, his towel, his camera, a pen, a pad, his glasses and his shades for moments where sunlight on a planet might be very intense and he needs to cover his eyes or for times when he wants to conceal his identity or assume a character. I love that the satchel has the space-age element; it’s this small thing that everything is in. I also love the design of the Guide itself. Just sort of simple, straightforward, elegant and streamlined, which I imagine is what it would have to be considering that he’s travelling from planet to planet. The idea is that Ford’s whole existence is portable and he is ready to go at a moment’s notice. He travels light and swift and efficiently, which certainly appealed to me. RS: Tell me about all the “stage” business you’ve developed with the towel. MD: Well, you want to make it interesting. You want to have it slung over your shoulder, try to make it where it’s as much a part of his wardrobe or his identity as anything else that’s on him. So he uses it as a weapon, he uses it as a napkin, he uses it to create warmth, he wraps it around his head. I think he has some sort of emotional connection with this towel that’s almost able to absorb danger or clean things up or provide comfort. But it’s all still real, believable somehow. It’s just a towel and we haven’t turned it into some kind of high-tech gadget. RS: And how’s it been, working with Sam’s energy? MD: Oh my God, Sam is actually a great marker for me in terms of my character. I came in to rehearsals thinking that Ford would be more pronounced in his strangeness. I didn’t want to make him to be this zany space guy but I did think that there would be things about him that were pronouncedly strange and I think there are still. But seeing Zaphod, I thought, “Oh, there’s somebody already doing that,” and I wanted to be able to provide a contrast. Ford is very matter-offact and Zaphod provides a good counterpoint for my character. Working with him just created a very clear place for what it is that Ford has to do in Arthur’s story and what his position is in the midst of all four of them. If you have two characters that are both doing zany in a movie it kind of gets silly. You see Ford at the beginning of the movie and kind of think he’s crazy but then you meet Zaphod and he almost makes Ford look like another version of Arthur. RS: He’s like a bridge, isn’t he? MD: Yes, Ford is definitely the bridge between Arthur and Zaphod and it’s really nice to have them on either side. RS: And what about Trillian? MD: Zooey’s a wonderful actress and is totally believable, her disaffection, her boredom, her intelligence and her sense for adventure are very clear. It’s a fantastic cast all round. It’s sometimes nerve-racking because it means a great deal to be in this movie and also the story is complex, very layered. I found myself every week, or every couple of days, discovering something new. Even in the closing stages there are new things that I’m discovering. Starting work on Magrathea was one of those moments. It’s the great lost planet and Ford didn’t believe that it was real and now he’s there, his feet are on the soil, or rather the ice, and after the first day on that set I went back to the book and there was the passage which gave me another clue to Ford’s relationship with Zaphod. “OK, so I’ve bought the fact that it’s Magrathea—for the moment. What you have so far said nothing about is how in the Galaxy you found it. You didn’t just look it up in a star atlas, that’s for sure.” “Research. Government archives. Detective work. Few lucky guesses. Easy.” “And then you stole the Heart of Gold to come and look for it with?” “I stole it to look for a lot of things.” “A lot of things?” said Ford in surprise.” Like what?” “I don’t know.” “What?” “I don’t know what I’m looking for.” “Why not?” “Because … because … I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn’t be able to look for them.” “What are you, crazy?” “It’s a possibility I haven’t ruled out yet,” said Zaphod quietly. “I only know as much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions. And its current conditions are not good.” MD: I love that Hitchhiker’s exists in this twilight of fantasy and reality, this inventiveness based in real situations and actors can play off that too. Like the scene when Zaphod and Ford meet up on the Heart of Gold. It’s just two old friends seeing each other for the first time in years, but we invented a little greeting ritual, which also gave Arthur something to play off. All the time though we were all trying to avoid any of those situations being cartoonish or caricatured. RS: I think it’s been important to take it “seriously,” to avoid those nods and winks to the audience which might pull the audience out of the worlds you are trying to create for them. MD: Straight ahead, but not too traditional. Garth was very keen on the performance element of all this and it’s definitely great to have worked on a science-fiction movie for the last three or four months and not have stood in front of a blue screen or had to act to an imaginary character. Our imaginations were activated by the presence of real things, except for the pad. RS: I think that’s one of the things that really gives this movie a heart and a charm that some science fiction doesn’t have. MD: Yes, people can detect that too and also it does something for you as an actor. It’s interesting because Garth has done a lot of things in this film that you would do in theatre, like the creation of real creatures and sets. The sense of place and environment is very defined and really strong. That’s great for us as actors and it’s also extremely important for the audience to sense that this is not some fabricated digital world. That it’s a world and a place that has been created not only by people’s minds but by their hands as well. RS: Talking about doing things for real, I was impressed with what you and Martin did this afternoon, that was quite a sight! MD: Ah, the escape hatch of the Vogon ship! Martin and I did that stunt ourselves and it was quite a long way to fall. I love that the role is so physical because it almost brings to mind Laurel and Hardy. I’m a Laurel and Hardy fan, as is Martin. I’m a big Chaplin fan, a Buster Keaton fan and there’s a lot of room to incorporate that sort of spirit and that is fun in a science-fiction setting. RS: How do you make your entrance? MD: On a shopping trolley full of beer and peanuts coming down a hill towards the bulldozers that Arthur’s lying in front of. It’s really quite an awesome entrance. As I was reading the script, I could see that Ford was going to be this very way-out sort of guy because when you see him on Earth he does literally look off his trolley. He’s excitable and jumping over the fence to Arthur’s house, but there’s also a very low-key matter-of-fact dimension to him, which makes him seem even dafter. There’s a sense of precision to him and having to do physical things, especially on this film, has required a certain sharpness from all of us. I know people always say, “I’m really excited about this movie.” But I’ve been working on Hitchhiker’s for the last eighteen weeks and I’m dying to see it. I feel the same way that I felt when I got here, which is totally enthused, really excited, very open and really pleased and assured that people are going to be floored by this. In a movie with special effects there is a lot you don’t get to see as an actor, but I can see from looking at the sets that everything is there for a reason and serves a purpose. In their intelligence and playfulness I think that Garth and Nick have captured the spirit of the book. You have been really helpful as well, because of your enthusiasm, and we’ve had loads of conversations just about Douglas and small things in the book. I know what it’s like to have love for a book and then to see a screen adaptation that doesn’t quite do it. I don’t think the readers mind it being different and new at all but they want the core of it and that’s why I have had the book on set with me every day and in between my naps I’m always dipping in! Ford can be played in so many different ways … tender, otherworldly. It’s an exciting character to embrace but it’s also a character you’ve got to keep your eye on and pay attention to. That’s the type of situation I try to put myself in as an actor and as a singer, where you really have to be paying attention and be involved. Not “put your back to the seat of the chair and relax” type of work. You should be on the edge of your seat, watching, having to stand up, sometimes getting on top of the seat and it’s been very much that experience for me and I’m really happy. Interview with Zooey Deschanel—Tricia McMillan Credits include Elf, All the Real Girls, Good Girl and Almost Famous. Robbie Stamp: So to begin, had you ever heard of Hitchhiker’s before you got involved? Zooey Deschanel: Yes, I read the first Hitchhiker’s when I was around eleven. There was like a little Hitchhiker’s fan club in my class at school. So I read the first one then and I liked it, but I hadn’t had a chance to revisit it until I found out that I was up for the movie. RS: How did you get involved? ZD: I knew about the project and was doing a film in New York when Nick and Garth came to meet me on the set. We had a lunch meeting together and I was very struck by their charm and creativity and their approach to the material. One of the first things that struck me was that even though it was a science-fiction movie, they saw the relationships between the characters as something very important, rather than thinking that the special effects were the most important thing. Garth mentioned Billy Wilder’s movie The Apartment, with Jack Lemmon, as the sort of movie that he liked and also Annie Hall, and those are two of my favourite movies. So right from the first I was intrigued because it seemed unusual to me that someone who was directing a film with a lot of special effects should take a lot of interest in the human relationships and realize that they were really what was going to ground it. RS: I am frequently asked why the movie was finally greenlit and I think there were a number of steps but I’m sure one of the key reasons that Nina Jacobson finally agreed to go ahead was that we had worked hard to create a real relationship between Trillian and Arthur. ZD: Yes, which is probably the main difference between Hitchhiker’s in its other incarnations and Hitchhiker’s the movie. I think that it’s going to work very well on the screen. The novel, the radio series and the TV series, they’re all totally different things. RS: Having this “humanity” in the midst of it lets the whole piece breathe more easily on screen. ZD: Yes, usually there aren’t that many intimate moments in largescale, large-budget, heavy special-effects movies. To have these human relationships juxtaposed with the massiveness of the universe is what makes the material funny. You have these people who are people and aliens who are strangely familiar in the errors they make and in their misconceptions of things and it makes the universe seem smaller and makes the intimate moments seem larger. Douglas seems to have had this core desire to point out that we’re smaller than we think we are, that a little humility on the part of the human species would go a long way. RS: In the other versions of Hitchhiker’s it is Trillian of all the characters who is the most underwritten, and we have developed her the furthest in the movie, so talk a little bit about finding her and her voice. ZD: From the table read * to now, Trillian has changed a lot, actually, because you always find your character as you do work with them in the film. You just see what works for you and with the other actors and within the context of the film. When we started out Trillian was a bit more passive and we’ve made her a little bit feistier, a little bit tougher. I think it works, especially to create a foil for Zaphod. The female audience will have somebody that they can relate to and root for because I think it definitely started out a little bit more maleorientated. Trillian is most stimulated by questioning things and by the intellectual, so I think she’s most happy when she’s reading the manual on the Heart of Gold; she’s just so excited to figure it out. I think that helps me with the physicality of my approach to Trillian. She’s a little nerdy, which is good, she’s bookish, and that’s great. I wanted to play a character that was strong and sexy and above all intelligent, and when she has to she’ll take on certain physical characteristics. When she has to take Zaphod prisoner for the sake of avoiding the Vogons she actually becomes quite tough. I think she’s also a little frustrated. It was slightly disappointing for her to go out into space and find people and species like the Vogons, that were just as much idiots as the people on Earth. RS: There are now a lot of moments where Trillian takes charge when the boys are faffing around. ZD: Yes, she is very smart, a person who is “to the point,” and I think that there are moments when she does start to grow a little weary of the bickering between the other characters and really does take charge. RS: She’s the one who works out the ship; she’s there with the manual. She gets it. ZD: Well, they wouldn’t be flying the Heart of Gold without Trillian. They all have their own specific things that they do and their own tasks within the story. Without Zaphod there we wouldn’t be on the Heart of Gold in the first place and his celebrity saves them a few times. Arthur is constantly questioning things and trying to find a way of relating to the girl he met at the party who bowled him over, vanished and turned up again in space. Ford Prefect is very much an observer who isn’t phased by too many things and his almost Zen bravery moves the story along. Trillian is very direct, a person-slashalien who really drives them to get to where they’re going. RS: Did you think at all about being a semi-alien? ZD: I think I am semi-alien myself. All my life, when I was in school, people said I was weird, so now it’s paying off! I think that’s why a lot of people relate to this story. Everyone feels part alien! RS: There’s a big thread on alt.fan. Douglas-adams, one of the key fan newsgroups, “Is Trillian human?” What are your thoughts? ZD: When she finds out that she is half alien she is quite happy about it. She’s got all these degrees and is so smart that probably the first time she’s ever been challenged is when she gets on the ship and has to face the controls and the manual. It’s pretty amazing and the designers had certainly come up with a lot of buttons and dials. The Improbability Drive poses a pretty big challenge to the laws of physics as we think we know them on Earth! That was the key for me in the beginning. It’s her intellect that explains why she does go with Zaphod Beeblebrox at the party. She has always had this nagging sense that Earth is too small for her really, and the only way to entertain herself is to go off on this crazy adventure and see what happens, because she’s certainly not being challenged on Earth. RS: As soon as she gets into space she gets her teeth into the experience in a way that Arthur really doesn’t want to … ZD: She’s led by her intellect, and she first has to see if she can challenge herself before she can really fall in love with anybody. RS: The scene where you meet Arthur is a seminal moment. He’s reading a book and you bounce up to him and say, “Who are you?” ZD: Yes, basically that’s like the start of a different genre of movie and then it gets cut short and really gets interesting, because there’s so much more beyond that familiar party scene of boy meets girl. But that “ordinary” beginning on Earth is so important for the rest of the film. It grounds it before things get pretty wild out in space and we have all these fantastic sets and planets. When it really hit me that this was something special was walking onto the Heart of Gold for the first time. Remember, I had read the books when I was at school and it was like all of a sudden rediscovering my youth. It was really a feeling that was completely overwhelming and I just was running around and jumping around and running up and down the stairs. It felt there was scope for the imagination and for the first time it really all came together for me that this whole film was a group of tightly knit people who all wanted to make the best film that we possibly could and I was just completely blown away by all the work that had been done. It’s just so inspiring for an actor to see everyone on the set caring so much about what they’re doing and I think that there was a tremendous sense of responsibility to the fans and to Douglas Adams and to his family, just to make a good movie and to make a movie that was really worthwhile, where we all put all our creativity and all our intelligence and all our hard work into it. RS: As you say, we’ve all felt a deep sense of responsibility for the fans and the family but an equally big responsibility to millions of people who aren’t yet fans. ZD: Our new fans! This is an intelligent comedy with a rare undercurrent of philosophical meaning and I think it’s a film that you could see over and over again and not get bored. Each time you see it, you will be able to see something new that even I, having worked on the film for four months, haven’t seen before or hadn’t remembered. It’s a movie that I cannot wait to see, and I say that in all sincerity. A lot of the time you’re curious about a film you do, but this one is really a special film and I think that there are a lot of people out there who are waiting for an intelligent comedy of this kind. It has a sort of political significance. I just mean you can compare it to a lot that’s going on in the world. Yes, it’s all aliens and it’s the universe but what’s really funny about it is that even on this grand scale things don’t change. There’s still bureaucracy, there are still rash decisions being made on the part of government, there’s still corruption, there are still all kinds of things that are frustrating. And I like the emphasis on the human ability to question all the time. Some of the message of the film is that you should cherish your ability to question things. We can question our government, we can question the things around us, we can question the people around us, and that’s a great thing. It’s interesting that Earth was created to come up with the ultimate question because we are so inclined to come up with questions. RS: I’d never put those two things together. The Earth is built, designed to answer the Ultimate Question and of course that was very much a part of Douglas’s character; he loved questions and had this great ability to provide a new perspective, to make you look at a problem from a different angle. I talked with Mos for a long time and what’s been fascinating is how interested both of you have been in the ideas. ZD: I was always interested in philosophy and I found it really interesting to read a novel that’s a comedy and a science-fiction novel but so chock-full of ideas. The thing that’s made it stick around is the philosophical core and the things that it says about the world and its beauty and its absurdity. That’s why it’s funny when you hear Jeltz on the loudspeaker talking to the people of Earth when it’s about to be blown up: “There’s no point in acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department on Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years, so you’ve had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it’s far too late to start making a fuss about it now.” I mean in the United States it’s just like going to the DMV and trying to renew your driver’s licence and the person behind the desk goes, “Oh you have to fill out that form, but you can only fill it out at home with a blue pen and only on a Thursday.” In our imaginations we tend to think of aliens as necessarily greater or smarter than us but to discover that they are actually being as petty as anything else is a really brilliant idea. RS: I was surprised by how physical the film was for you guys, and your Bugblatter Beast stunt was pretty impressive! ZD: I used to rock-climb when I was a kid and so I was pretty used to harnesses and that sort of thing. So I wasn’t nervous about it and I figured the best way to do it was to do it myself. It’s better to do a stunt yourself if you can do it but if it’s really dangerous you want to let a professional do it. RS: Has the movie been more physical than you thought it was going to be? There are quite a lot of bruises. ZD: I know, actually Jason * keeps laughing because I come home with a spectacular array of bruises. I got hit by a piece of “bullet” and I kept getting hit on the head by flying objects! RS: And then there was the shaking around in the Heart of Gold, when you were being chased by missiles. ZD: That was fun because we were throwing ourselves against things and it was definitely more physical than I ever imagined it. I thought that this was meant to be the intellectual sci-fi action film! But then again at the same time as the physical comedy we’re shouting philosophy at each other like on the Magrathea set, that was really funny, Martin yelling over that loud vacuum portal machine. RS: So what about Trillian’s relationship with Zaphod? Was there ever a physical attraction? ZD: I think she thinks he’s cute enough; Zaphod’s like a summer fling. RS: But they did have a fling when they got on the Heart of Gold? ZD: I want the audience to decide for themselves. Yes, I think she thinks he’s attractive but he’s not a lasting attraction. RS: Have you enjoyed working with the others? It’s a very unusual mixture. ZD: It really is, I think they did a great job of putting us all together. There’s a great moment in the ship when we have all just been tossed around during the missile attack and Arthur says, “Well, we can talk about normal till the cows come home,” and one by one the characters ask, “What’s normal?” “What’s home?” “What are cows?” I think that’s a really good line, philosophy, character and a joke all in one. RS: Very Hitchhiker’s. ZD: It’s really perfect for describing the relationship between all of them. Just thinking about that makes me aware how much fun I had working on this movie. * British actors call this the “read through”—the first time the whole cast gets together to simply read the script. * Jason Schwartzman, who plays Gag Halfrunt. Interview with Bill Nighy—Slartibartfast Credits include Love Actually, Magic Roundabout (the voice of Dylan) and Shaun of the Dead. Robbie Stamp: Did you know Hitchhiker’s? Bill Nighy: Yes, I was very familiar with Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. I read it when I was a youngish man as had everybody I knew on the block, because it was a huge book. I had enjoyed it enormously, laughed and appreciated it, and then subsequently— almost more satisfyingly—I bought it for my daughter, when she was about thirteen or fourteen. If you ever wanted to put something on a cover of Hitchhiker’s Guide, not that anybody should pay particular attention to me and my daughter, you could put “my daughter fell off her chair,” because she did … there was a bang behind me and I turned round in a slight panic thinking something terrible had happened. In fact what had happened was that she’d literally fallen off her chair laughing. The other thing which was very appealing and nice about that particular experience was that she found the book so beautiful, funny and kind of funky that she read me almost all of it in order for me to share it. And it was just such a treat to watch her face and see her reading enormous chunks. I bought them all then: The Restaurant at the End of the Universe and So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish. I think they are a remarkable achievement. I think he was a seriously, seriously gifted man and his books are more than just funny, they’re more than just sci-fi. He was a very, very intelligent man and these books are informed by that. I’m very, very glad that they’re in the world. RS: You are absolutely right; they’ve just got a very rare mixture of humour and intelligence. My daughter, age ten, has just discovered them and she loves them. I think that that bodes well for the movie and I really hope that we will hit a whole new generation of teenagers and that next summer we should be the funny, hip, cool movie to go and see. BN: Well, that’s what I thought when I read the script. I thought I just wanted to be in it because I love the whole thing. It’s very superior. The jokes are world-class. It is profoundly amusing and exciting and interesting and thought-provoking— all those little things he throws in like the definition of flying being throwing yourself at the ground and missing, things like that which just tickled me. I think the kids will go mad. RS: So how did you come to be involved? BN: First time I knew anything about this was when a mutual friend of Garth Jennings and me was getting married in Scotland. My friend said, “Oh and by the way he’s a director and I think he might want to talk to you about a job on Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” I nearly got a lift to the wedding with Garth, who I’d never met, but we didn’t travel together in the end. We didn’t even talk at the wedding. Maybe Garth thought it would be unethical! We probably held hands to Irish music before we ever discussed the project. I received the script shortly afterward and read it immediately and of all the things I’ve read, and there have been a few, there was absolutely no question in my mind. The minute I put the script down I phoned my agent and said if it was at all possible I would seriously like to be in this movie. I figure also from a practical point of view that it’ll be a hit, but who knows? Well, we all think it’s going to be a hit otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Then again, maybe we would actually. I think I probably would, I’d be here. But I do think it will travel and I think it’s got real appeal for everybody and it’s got everything, you know, because it operates on every level. The script is very clever, a very good representation of the book. It’s a great adventure, it’s a fascinating journey, a sweet love story and it’s a great resolution and as for an opening, you can’t do much better than blowing up the Earth in the first ten minutes. Most movies like this are about stopping that happening. So, yes, I read it and loved it. It was that simple, really. I made the phone call, then as is the way of these things lots of other things happened and we hadn’t done any kind of deal and then I remember doing a red carpet in Los Angeles where you had to speak to lots of different microphones and at the end the last question is always “What will you be doing next?” and you have to waffle because you don’t know anything or either you know some stuff but you can’t say anything and on the very last one I ran out of waffle and I said, “Well, I’m hoping to be in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” and it was the BBC and my agent phoned up the next day and said words to the effect of “What the flaming hell do you think you’re doing?” because we haven’t done any kind of deal. It ended up on the front page of the Independent newspaper. I wasn’t bothered at all. I said, “Well, you know I want to be in it,” so that was it. RS: And now we’re in Slartibartfast’s trailer! One of the things that’s intriguing I think is the physical look of Slarti, because we’ve really moved away from the archetype of man with the white beard. BN: The thing about beards in the movies, and I’m sure there are a million exceptions to what I’m about to say, is that often they make it slightly difficult for the audience, because you lose an area of expression, you can’t read the person’s face quite so clearly. That was mostly why we wanted to get away from the “old man of the west” look. A lot of the design I just went with because Sammy Sheldon and Garth Jennings had come up with a pretty good thing. I didn’t feel I needed to fiddle around much. The only thing that we all agreed on was that the beard was probably more obstructive than helpful and the sense of me being a kind of corporate man is just very witty, as are all the costumes. You’re not ever going to hit the image that popped into the reader’s mind the moment they heard about Slartibartfast or Ford Prefect or Arthur so you can only come up with one that you think works and that is amusing or clever that you feel confident in. RS: What about your characteristic little snort? It’s almost like a compressed laugh, it’s just such a lovely little intimate thing to do. BN: I don’t know if this is going to make any sense but it’s born of the slightly innocent quality that people sometimes have when they are unaware of themselves to a certain degree. They do make unlikely noises sometimes and it just seemed to fit. RS: One of the things I’ve liked most is watching everybody inhabit their characters. We’ve brought a level of humanity, which I think is quite rare out there in the Galaxy. BN: That’s a large part of the appeal for me and I think probably will be for newcomers to Hitchhiker’s as well as enthusiasts like me. You don’t get heroic behaviour all of the time from everybody. You get mundane human flaws and a kind of intimacy and a kind of colloquialness that you don’t associate with the genre. It probably is a kind of genre to itself almost. RS: Slarti has this nice mix of pride and diffidence. He’s happy to be able to talk to Arthur about his job. But there’s also a tension there because he is aware that the mice plan to try to take this rather nice Earthman’s brain and his job is to deliver him on a platter. BN: Yes, exactly, I don’t suppose he gets out much in terms of meeting folk from other places. The bloody Vogons, literally ten minutes later and he’d have been free and clear and they blow the bloody computer planet up. I love the idea that they needed a race who would do all the boring jobs in the galaxy so they built Vogsphere for the Vogons and some clever clogs put in this mechanism that prevented them from ever having an interesting idea by smacking them in the face with a paddle, which is a very witty reflection on what happens to people who have to do boring jobs. RS: The paddles were a brand-new idea that Douglas had for the film on a flight coming back from LA. He came into the office the next morning and read it out because he liked to gauge people’s reactions. The team who were lucky enough to hear it hot off the press were rolling around laughing. BN: Well, it’s fantastic and several million years of evolution have also turned the Vogons into relentless blighters who do the next thing it says in the manual, which is a funny reflection on bureaucracy generally. By way of contrast, I think Slarti’s just a benign figure, a nice man with a healthy compassion, who is proud of what he does. It’s like when people who make things, they show you around their workshop, their special-effects shed or model shop, and they don’t often get a lot of thanks for what they do but they are quietly proud. It’s a very sweet idea of Douglas’s, that the makers of the Earth are like this … I love the notion that there were men who planted the fields, who pumped the water into the oceans and painted the White Cliffs of Dover and Ayers Rock. In Douglas’s world that’s how you build Earth. It’s so touching, so funky and funny. RS: And the iconic Norwegian fjords are one of the things people remember best from the whole of Hitchhiker’s. Such a strange wonderful, idea, somebody winning an award for designing the fjords in Norway, it’s a classic moment. BN: Everyone I’ve spoken to recently, that’s what they recall. Most of them are my age and they haven’t read the book for twenty years or something and that’s the bit, even before I tell them who I’m playing, which they usually guess anyway, they say, “Fiddly bits” and “Norway” and “Didn’t he get an award?” And they remember that bit, everyone remembers that bit— they love it. RS: I suppose you’ve worked most with Martin? BN: Working with Martin is a joy. He is an extremely clever young comic and actor and effortless to deal with both performing and in between times, and when I heard that he’d been cast, I thought, “Tim from The Office, Arthur? Of course, of course.” He has every quality required for Arthur. He has a world-class comic touch. But apart from that he has that kind of appeal you need. He’s watchable. You need that because Arthur is receiving an incredible amount of information on behalf of the audience, so they have to experience it through him. You need somebody really very accomplished in order to be able to deliver that kind of performance. You don’t get to do all of the party tricks all the time, you have to just be the receptor. He makes it look easy but those central roles where you have to be the audience’s eyes and ears are famously difficult. RS: I agree. And as for your experience, what were the moments that stood out for you during filming? BN: Yesterday Martin and I were in our cart travelling through the Planet Factory Floor. It was rather good fun, with us trying to act with water cannons and wind machines operating at the same time. Grown men were feeding the water cannon with plastic cups of water, and then this enormously high-pressured cannon would shoot the spray towards us. The director was helping with the water and enjoying himself so enormously that he forgot to hold on to the cups, which got sucked up into the machine and all of a sudden there were plastic cups bouncing off Martin’s face! That was quite Hitchhikery, in my view, and summed up the fun and the energy that has gone into making this movie. Self-interview by Karey Kirkpatrick—Screenwriter Credits include The Little Vampire, Chicken Run and James and the Giant Peach. A version of this interview was originally written for and published on the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy movie web-log. Karey Kirkpatrick kindly gave his permission for the interview to be reproduced here and added some new questions for himself about the filming period. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy Interview with Myself I decided to interview myself because a) I think I’ll be harder on myself and know what sort of questions an interviewer might ask and b) no one has asked to interview me. And why should they? Who am I? Not Douglas Adams is the answer that concerns most people. So with this in mind let’s proceed. Here are some of the questions I imagine most fans of the book (and the radio series and the TV series and the Infocom game) are asking at this point. Who the hell are you and what gives you the right to muck around with this treasured piece of literature, you American Hollywood hack? Ah. Good one. Yes, I can see why a lot of people might be wondering this. So let’s see … My name’s Karey Kirkpatrick. You can Google or IMDb me to find my credits (incidentally, I’m a guy—not the female news anchor in Buffalo, NY). But the short answer is no one has the right to muck around with this treasured piece of literature. I didn’t seek it, it found me. The story goes something like this. Jay Roach was at one point attached to direct the film. He had worked with Douglas for many years on several different drafts of the screenplay, and after Douglas’s sudden and tragic death the project ground to a halt for several months. But Jay, along with Robbie Stamp (an executive producer on the film, long-time friend of Douglas’s and his partner in The Digital Village), felt an obligation to not let the project die, to honour Douglas’s memory, and one day while he was watching Chicken Run (with his sons? I don’t know. In my head, he watches it weekly) he thought, “Hey, that writer seemed to create a feature film that worked as a big studio movie while still keeping an existing and uniquely British sensibility.” (I was an avid Monty Python fan growing up, one of those guys who quoted Holy Grail to the annoyance of all my friends, except of course for those friends with whom I was quoting Monty Python.) So Jay sought me out. When my agent called and asked if I’d ever heard of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I said, “Yes, heard of it.” But let’s get the first horror out of the way immediately. I had never read the book or any Douglas Adams before I was told of this assignment. Now, some of you may have passed out at this point after shouting, “WHAT?!? BLASPHEMY!,” but I’ve come to believe this gave me a huge advantage in approaching the material. I had no preconceived notions in my head. When I was sent a draft of the script (which was the last draft Douglas worked on before his death) I got to read it as what it was: a blueprint for a movie. And without any knowledge of Babel fish and Ultimate Questions and Vogons, I was able to formulate an opinion of where it worked as a feature film and where it needed work. You should know that my first reaction—literally, my very first reaction after putting the script down—was, “I can’t write this, this guy’s a genius and I’m no genius.” I thought to myself, “There is no way I’m going to try to write words that blend seamlessly with this guy’s words.” It was my Wayne’s World “I’m not worthy” moment. I mean, really, this is a guy who wrote “‘… there is an art to flying,’ said Ford, ‘or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.’” I’m not sure I could ever write a line like that. But I wanted to meet Jay Roach. So I took the meeting to discuss the script thinking, “Maybe he’ll ask me to write Meet the Fockers” (yes, I can be that whorish). I gave Jay some of my thoughts, pointed out some structural and thematic concerns, and much to my surprise, he agreed with most of what I was saying. And when I told him of my “I’m not worthy” moment, he said, “I think you’re perfect for it and that attitude will probably help you.” And the more we talked about the project, the more excited I became. I mean, how can you not get excited talking about poetry as torture or nuclear missiles that turn into a sperm whale and a bowl of petunias? Assignments like this don’t come along every day. Actually they never come along. So after pitching my ideas to the Disney and Spyglass executives and Robbie, who was there on behalf of Douglas’s estate, I got the job and started writing in September of 2002. What gives you the right to decide what stays and what goes, you formulaic chicken-writing bastard? Hey, let’s keep it clean. My mother will probably read this. Keep in mind, I started with Douglas’s last draft, so I not only had the new ideas and concepts he had invented specifically for the screenplay (brilliant ideas, too—truly humbling), but also some evidence of what he was prepared to let go of (and in many cases, I thought he had been too hard on himself and put things back in). To familiarize myself with the material, I thought it best to go back and become acquainted with it in chronological order. It started as a radio play. So I was sent all of the radio plays on CD. I would listen to them in my car, and for those blissful fifteen to twenty hours was actually oblivious to the deeply loathed LA traffic. It was while listening to those radio plays that I first heard what was actually the opening to The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, which was a Guide entry that started “The story so far …” It goes on to summarize what happened in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and I realized that was what the script needed. That one summary expressed some ideas and themes more clearly than the screenplay did. And suddenly, it became clearer to me what the script was missing, and I suddenly had some hope that I might be able to fill in some of the missing pieces. Next, I read the book with pen and highlighter in hand, underlining passages that had been left out that I wanted to try to get back in and making notes on characters and themes that were present in the book but not really playing as well as they could in the screenplay. I was going to watch the TV show, but Jay suggested that I not do that, just so that I wouldn’t have any of those images in my head. The idea was to try to create something rather than re-create (so for that reason, I never watched it. Do you hear me, BBC? I NEVER WATCHED THE TV SERIES). I did, however, buy a book that had the scripts for the radio plays. * When I started writing, I had the novel on one side of my G4 laptop and the radio playscripts on the other side. They are both well worn. I was also given another invaluable piece of source material. Robbie Stamp, who became an integral ally in my writing process on this film as he was able to answer the “What would Douglas have wanted?” questions, forwarded to me electronic copies of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy files from Douglas’s hard drive; notes on his drafts, notes from him to the studio, random ideas and bits of dialogue exchanges, etc. Receiving this was a real thrill. I felt like Moses at the burning bush when I opened these files, a sort of “take the sandals off, you’re on holy ground” moment. It also gave me a peek into his process. There were unfinished scenes, character back stories and notes to himself on areas where he was having problems. I loved reading Douglas’s unedited musings and tried to put as many of them into the screenplay as I could. My goal in the writing was to be like an editor on a feature film. If an editor has done his job well, you don’t feel his or her presence. That was my aim here. I thought, if people read this script—especially people who knew Douglas or knew the material well—and can’t tell the difference between what I created and what Douglas did, then I will have succeeded. I was never trying to put my stamp on this material or bring my “voice” to it (whatever the hell that elusive thing is). I started reading his other works, reading biographies, watching documentaries (graciously sent to me by Joel Greengrass), and I found myself feeling an odd connection to the man I had never met. There were some eerie similarities between us: mutual love of Macs, wannabe rock guitarists, world-class procrastinators, avoidance a huge part of the writing process, love of satire, belief that nothing is so sacred it can’t be poked fun at— to name a few. The biggest difference, however, was that Douglas was an amazing conceptual thinker and I tend to be stronger with structure. This, as it turns out, was a stroke of good luck because many of the concepts were already there, they just needed a tighter structure in which to exist and thrive. So … what exactly did you change? More importantly, what did you think was worthy enough to add? That’s a hard question to answer because it depends on whether you are comparing the final shooting script to the book or to the screenplay that I inherited from Douglas. If you compare it to the screenplay, then the answer is that I added very little. One of the things I really admire about Douglas is that he was willing to keep The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy an organic evolving entity. While reading the various drafts and familiarizing myself with the history of Hitchhiker’s, I noticed that most of the incarnations seemed to contradict themselves. Douglas had a very refreshing lack of faithfulness to himself, so since The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was in a constant state of revision by its creator, I felt a certain amount of freedom to continue carrying that torch, mostly with the new concepts, characters and plot devices that Douglas had already created. Naturally, there were holes that needed to be filled so some new material and dialogue was required. But I was always going to the source material to find the right voice and tone. Was this a tough adaptation? Douglas had a famous quote about deadlines and how he loved the whooshing sound they made as they rushed past. One of my favourite quotes about writing is “I hate writing, I love having written.” This seems to be my mantra, and I have hated, loathed or dreaded writing just about every draft I’ve ever been involved with, mostly because writing is such a lonely and demoralizing process (with the exception of Chicken Run—I did have an unusually good time on that one). And people have said to me, “Wow, adapting Hitchhiker’s must have been hard.” But I can honestly say I have never enjoyed writing a script more. And it is all because I had such amazing source material (and collaborators). Whenever I would get the least bit hung up on something, I would simply open up one of the books and either find what I was looking for or find the spark of inspiration I needed to create something new. I loved writing this movie, love having written it, and am still loving the writing I am doing today. I finished my first draft just before Christmas 2002. It was 152 pages long. 152 pages!? What did you do next? I played dumb to the studio. “What? You think that’s long? Compared to Lord of the Rings it’s a short!” They weren’t buying it. So I started the painful process of cutting. And I didn’t want to cut any of it. Didn’t know what to cut. Sent it to a couple of writer friends and asked “What should I cut?” And they each said, “I understand your dilemma. IT’S ALL GOOD!” And it was. I give a huge chunk of the credit to Douglas, obviously, because I was mostly rearranging, tightening and enhancing his existing concepts. And the studio was very excited about the first draft. They felt I had created a structure that finally worked. It was just too long. First drafts for a screenwriter are usually the easiest because you don’t have any notes from the studio and there is nothing but hope and possibility ahead of you. And in this case, I didn’t have the blankpage problem because, as I mentioned, I had such excellent source material. But second drafts are tough and third drafts are the toughest, mostly because you now know what doesn’t work and your choices are becoming more and more limited. But I knew it was too long. And as Jay rightfully pointed out, you can’t have a two-and-a-half-hour comedy. So I got Draft 2 down to 122 pages. Maybe one day, after the movie comes out, they’ll let me post my first draft on the Web so I can say to all the fans who want to drag me to the nearest stake and set it ablaze, “See! I wanted this in the movie, too! But they wouldn’t let me put it in, I tell you! They wouldn’t let me!” It was during the trimming-down phase that I found myself facing what had been the dilemma that prevented The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy from becoming a feature film for the last twenty years, and this dilemma can be summed up in the words of an executive on the project (who shall remain nameless because … well, because I’m not that stupid). He said, “We aren’t going to make a $90 million cult film.” And I get that. I understand. If I had turned in a draft that could be made for $15 million, they would have more or less let us do what we wanted. But everyone knew the budget for this movie was going to be, at the very least, $50 million. And when that kind of money is on the line, those who are putting up the money tend to want a film that will appeal to as wide an audience as possible to ensure some return on their investment (and rightfully so). But it put me in the position of being the servant of two masters because on the one hand I desperately wanted to make sure that the integrity and distinctive sensibility of the book was being maintained, but on the other I wanted to be fiscally responsible to those signing my cheques. There is an intelligence at work in these books that I was trying to preserve. Douglas was a great satirist because he possessed a very real understanding of the incredibly heady concepts he was satirizing. In one interview he said that if they had had computers when he was in school and had taught computer science, that’s probably what he would have pursued. He also could have been a theoretical physicist; he was that knowledgeable on the subject. So it was important to me that that intelligence remains at the epicentre of the piece. It’s what I love about Python’s Life of Brian. That movie is just a hair’s breadth away from being viable theology. So the goal was to create something that had pace and narrative structure and an emotional storyline that an audience would care about and put all of that in the context of this very intellectual, irreverent, satirical world. Again, I found myself going back to Douglas’s drafts, which were much shorter than mine. He cut much more mercilessly than I did, so I felt I had some leeway there. Mostly I had to cut a few of the Guide entries with the assurance that they would end up on a DVD someday in the future. And what’s great about the Guide entries is that they are somewhat modular, so final decisions regarding them can be made after filming is complete and the movie is assembled. What did you do when Jay Roach decided not to direct and who the hell are those Hammer and Tongs guys? I’ll be honest. One of the main reasons I got into the project was to have a chance to work with Jay. Mutual friends had told me we had similar temperaments and sensibilities and that it would be a good match, and they were right. Jay was an invaluable collaborator on the outline and first two drafts. He put in a lot of time with me, and the script wouldn’t be the success it is without his involvement. So I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was feeling a bit gutted when he decided this wasn’t the best film to make his next. But what followed was an interesting process because several names were bandied about and I even met with one of them (and we’re talking A-list directors here). And the general sentiment from all of them was: “No, thank you, I don’t want to be known as the guy who screwed this one up.” And part of me understood and another part of me was saying, “Oh, God, does that mean I’m going to be known as the guy who screwed this up?” But Jay gave the script to Spike Jonze and Spike said he couldn’t do it but he knew the perfect guys and he suggested Hammer and Tongs. And when I got the call that I was to have a conference call with said Hammer and said Tong, I asked the question everyone seems to be asking—“Who are they and what have they done?” Needless to say, it wasn’t of much comfort to find out they had never directed a feature. And I didn’t get a chance to watch their commercial and music video reel before the call (because my DVD player wouldn’t play UK Region 2, but I digress), but when I heard that they wanted to talk to the writer before talking to anyone else, I thought, “Hey, these guys are either very cool or very naive. Don’t they know screenwriters are but a fly on the ass of this business?” Let me just say of my experience with Hammer and Tongs that not since working with Nick Park and Peter Lord at Aard-man have I worked with people with more creative spark and inspiration. Each conversation I had with either of them improved the script in some way. In retrospect, it feels like it was meant to be. I now can’t imagine this movie in anyone else’s hands. I didn’t think anything could inspire me on Hitchhiker’s more than the source material, and I am happy to say I was wrong. So in May of 2003, Nick Goldsmith and Garth Jennings came on board. I flew to London with Derek Evans from Spyglass to have three days of intense meetings at their office which, as it turned out, was a converted barge sitting in a river somewhere in Islington. They had “some ideas” for the third draft, and I’ll admit at the time I was very apprehensive and guarded. It’s always a bit of a nail-biting moment when directors come on board, especially ones from the world of commercials and music video. But their ideas were inspired and showed not only that they were incredible visual thinkers but also that they had a very strong sense of narrative structure. I left London with an outline and a feeling that the script would improve and the movie was in very good hands. To this day, however, I am embarrassed to say I still don’t know which one is Hammer and which one is Tongs. Quit being so vague! Give us specifics, damn it! What’s in the movie and what isn’t? Sorry to say, I will continue to be vague. I really don’t want this to turn into a “what Karey did versus what Douglas did” situation. By Douglas’s own admission, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is a story with a long beginning and then an ending. There isn’t much middle. And movies need a middle. So most of the new material comes in the middle. Douglas created much of it. I took what he did and enhanced, expanded and connected (much like a Wonderbra— and this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been compared to that miraculous contraption). More has been made of the Arthur–Trillian relationship and the Arthur–Trillian–Zaphod triangle. Douglas knew, as I know, that in order to make a feature film bankrolled by an American studio that is to play on the global stage there needs to be a certain amount of attention paid to character, character relationships and emotion. The trick here is doing that while staying true to the spirit of the book, which is what I hope we’ve done. It’s fine if there’s a bit of a love story, it just can’t be sentimental and sappy. But I think people, especially diehard Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy fans, will be happy to see that it is very much the same story as the radio play, the book and the TV series with all the well-known and beloved scenes, characters and concepts. Arthur, Ford, Trillian, Zaphod, Marvin, Eddie, Vogons, Slartibartfast, Deep Thought, Lunkwill & Fook, the mice, whales, petunias, dolphins, 42, even Gag Halfrunt, all present and accounted for. Do you consider yourself to be in the Mister Friggin’ Lucky Club? Yes. Definitely. This was a unique assignment for me because it became more than just a job. Actually, all of them are more than just a job because as one famous quote goes, “Writing is easy, you just open a vein and let it pour onto the page.” I always feel I do a bit of that on each project (yes, even Honey We Shrunk Ourselves—a small vein maybe, but a vein nonetheless). But this one was different. This became a quest: a quest to do the memory of Douglas Adams proud. And that has been the attitude of essentially every person who has joined this production (except for the accountants, who say they want to do the memory of Douglas’s accountants proud, but hey—whatever works). Never before have I been involved with a project where everyone seems to be aiming for a higher cause, which is great because it means egos get checked at the door. Each time the film enjoys some form of success along its way (getting a director, getting the green light, attaching cast, etc.) it is always bittersweet because we’re happy to see what was Douglas’s lifelong hope becoming a reality, but deeply saddened that he can’t be here to enjoy it with us. Before turning in our third draft to the studio, Garth, Nick, Robbie and I gave the script to Douglas’s wife, Jane, and then went over to her house (ironically a ten-minute walk from the Hammer and Tongs barge) for a chat and, of course, tea (this was England, after all, and whenever two or more people assemble in England, it is national law that tea must be served. I’m from Louisiana and we have a similar law that involves Dr Pepper and Cheetos). We were so relieved and delighted to hear that she was very happy with the script. She gave us some of her thoughts, but most importantly—her blessing. I think fans will be pleased and I trust new fans will be created in the summer of 2005. What is your favourite line from the book? Tough question. So many great ones. Many of my favourites from the book are actually in the prose, like Easter really meaning small, flat and light brown or the passage about Hooloovoos, which are super-intelligent shades of the colour blue. How did this guy think up this stuff? Amazing. I read lines like that and I am humbled and awed. Most of my favourite lines of dialogue, however, are said by the Voice of the Guide or the narrator. I love the passage about Vogon poetry and the Azgoths of Kria and how, during a recitation of a poem by Grunthos the Flatulent, four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. That just cracks me up every time I read it (and as of this date, it’s still in the movie). I also love the Babel fish entry and how it proves the non-existence of God and I love all the Oolon Colluphid titles (Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God’s Greatest Mistakes and Who Is This God Person, Anyway?). Mostly what I love are Douglas’s subtle word choices. He’s a wordsmith. There’s a line (I think this one is actually in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe) that talks about someone being “nibbled to death by an okapi.” I crack up every time I hear it. The word “nibbled” is the first thing that gets me, and the fact that it is an okapi doing the nibbling is just icing on the cake. In The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, there’s a passage about the Vl’hurgs and their commander being “resplendent in his black jewelled battle shorts.” Black jewelled battle shorts? Who thinks up this sort of thing? I love it. What was the hardest part about adapting the script? One day, I found myself addressing a note from the studio to “clarify the concept of the Infinite Improbability Drive.” As if it was something that actually existed and thus needed clarification. And sadder still, I tried to clarify it and soon discovered how little I knew about laws of probability. Actually, Garth and Nick and I spent an entire day sitting poolside at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles discussing the Infinite Improbability Drive and how to make more sense of it and better use of it as a plot-driving device. This was tough because what I always assumed about the IID was that it was basically a plot-contrivance machine. Writers are always struggling with contrived plots; the old “would this really happen?” problem. And I thought this was yet another stroke of brilliance from Douglas to create something that allows a finite probability to become an infinite improbability—all at the touch of a button. It’s a contrivance-justifier machine. Each time we tried to clarify the IID, we’d look through the script and say, “It’s in there, isn’t it?” By lunch, we moved from coffee to wine and the IID concept was gaining clarity. By late afternoon, when we moved from wine to more wine, we had deduced that we were, in fact, brilliant and that the script was flawless. So we decided to go with the “less is more” theory and left the script alone. And then we had more wine. What is the strangest note you received? Garth Jennings (Hammer? Tongs? Your guess is as good as mine) sent me a note once that said, “When Zaphod first comes out of the temple and is approached by well-wishers, the banana alien on the mole-horse needs to replace the multi-headed groupie.” You just don’t get notes like this every day. You’ve established you can write for chickens, but can you write for real people? We’ll see. Fortunately there aren’t many “real people” in this movie. Give it to us straight; is the movie in good hands? Yes. Very. From the top down. Everyone has been very supportive. From Nina Jacobson and Dick Cook at Disney to Roger Birnbaum and Gary Barber, Jon Glickman, Derek Evans and all the folks at Spyglass to Jay Roach (now producing) to Robbie to the directors to the crew —everyone is just really excited about how unique and wonderful this film can be. This is one of those rare films where everyone seems to be on the same page. Even the agents! From Douglas’s long-time agent in London, Ed Victor, to his film agent in LA, Bob Bookman, who has seen this film through many an incarnation. I recently saw Ed at a party and he said to me three simple words that made my day, actually made my last two years. “You nailed it.” I could see the relief in his eyes because people like him have been waiting a long, long time for this to finally come to fruition. Any last words? I’ve recently returned from London where I spent two weeks rehearsing with the actors and making last-minute script tweaks (they were so great, so accommodating and so very enthusiastic about the material). I had to return home just before shooting started but have been told the first week was a blazing success. I started knowing little about this wholly remarkable book and have become a devoted fan. In my dreams, everyone will be happy with it. I know this isn’t possible, but I feel really confident about the work we’re all doing. Most importantly, I think Douglas would be pleased. If he isn’t, may I be nibbled to death by an okapi. Amendment to Interview with Self So, Karey, now that filming on The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is complete, is there anything you’d like to add about your thoughts and experiences during production? Oh, I would love to, Karey. Thank you for asking. Actually, I can sum up my feelings about how the production went in three simple words. I wasn’t there. What?? Shocking!! A big-time Hollywood writer such as you wasn’t allowed on set??? Do I smell scandal? No, no, no. Nothing like that. Garth and Nick were happy to have me on set. And I was all set to come back to England mid-July, but my passport was refused by the British authorities. They said that since I have already been given some of the UK’s most valued titles to work with in motion pictures (James and the Giant Peach, Aardman, Thunderbirds and now Hitchhiker’s) they figured the best way to keep me from getting my American tainted hands on any more treasured material is to keep me off the island. So I stayed home and adapted Charlotte’s Web. But I have a contact in England who’s shipping me bootlegged copies of EastEnders. How did it feel when those actors wanted to change your lines? Alfred Hitchcock once said that actors are like cattle. To me, actors are more like the North American woodchuck. Perky, excellent climbers, good teeth. They’re also quite good with dialogue (I’m talking actors now, not woodchucks), so when an actor suggests a line change, I welcome it with open arms. Unless, of course, the line sucks. None of these actors suggested sucky line changes. Sam Rockwell seemed to want to add “all right” to every second line. And not as a question, more as a sort of nervous addendum. Example: “Let’s go to Magrathea. All right.” “Hit that drive button. All right.” Sort of an Elvis additive. And that worked out … all right. Martin Freeman kept saying, “You know, if Ricky Gervaise were here, he’d write the line like this”—and that just wasn’t necessary. So I told him Tim in the American version would probably be better than him. Mos kept wanting things to be more “poetic.” Curse you, Russel Simmons! Zooey told me I was really in touch with my feminine side and ever since I’ve been watching more football and have sold all my Bette Midler CDs. OK, honestly—the script got better the two weeks we worked on it together. They’re a great cast and they were all very collaborative. I hated that I had to leave. How many hours of rewrites did you have to do? Not many. The read-through revealed the script to be in pretty good shape. Most rewrites were done on the spot while we were working the various scenes. I did do one fun exercise. For all of the scenes between Arthur and Trillian, I wrote two different versions. In one I replaced the dialogue with the subtext dialogue. In another, I wrote (in dialogue form) exactly what the characters were thinking, which they spoke out loud before delivering their actual lines. It actually turned out to be very helpful. Isn’t that fascinating? I think it’s absolutely riveting. I asked Garth and Nick to include that on the DVD. Their response? “Hmm. Let us get back to you on that.” So I wrote out the subtext of their response and here it is. “Dream on, wanker.” So, how’s it looking now? I think—and I say this with all humility—that it may very well be one of the best films ever created. It is beautifully shot, masterfully directed and exquisitely acted. Then again, I haven’t actually seen it so I might not be the best person to ask. F.

The song of achilles

Chapter One MY FATHER WAS A KING AND THE SON OF KINGS. HE was a short man, as most of us were, and built like a bull, all shoulders. He married my mother when she was fourteen and sworn by the priestess to be fruitful. It was a good match: she was an only child, and her father’s fortune would go to her husband. He did not find out until the wedding that she was simple. Her father had been scrupulous about keeping her veiled until the ceremony, and my father had humored him. If she was ugly, there were always slave girls and serving boys. When at last they pulled off the veil, they say my mother smiled. That is how they knew she was quite stupid. Brides did not smile. When I was delivered, a boy, he plucked me from her arms and handed me to a nurse. In pity, the midwife gave my mother a pillow to hold instead of me. My mother hugged it. She did not seem to notice a change had been made. Quickly, I became a disappointment: small, slight. I was not fast. I was not strong. I could not sing. The best that could be said of me was that I was not sickly. The colds and cramps that seized my peers left me untouched. This only made my father suspicious. Was I a changeling, inhuman? He scowled at me, watching. My hand shook, feeling his gaze. And there was my mother, dribbling wine on herself. I AM FIVE when it is my father’s turn to host the games. Men gather from as far as Thessaly and Sparta, and our storehouses grow rich with their gold. A hundred servants work for twenty days beating out the racing track and clearing it of stones. My father is determined to have the finest games of his generation. I remember the runners best, nut-brown bodies slicked with oil, stretching on the track beneath the sun. They mix together, broadshouldered husbands, beardless youths and boys, their calves all thickly carved with muscle. The bull has been killed, sweating the last of its blood into dust and dark bronze bowls. It went quietly to its death, a good omen for the games to come. The runners are gathered before the dais where my father and I sit, surrounded by prizes we will give to the winners. There are golden mixing bowls for wine, beaten bronze tripods, ash-wood spears tipped with precious iron. But the real prize is in my hands: a wreath of dusty-green leaves, freshly clipped, rubbed to a shine by my thumb. My father has given it to me grudgingly. He reassures himself: all I have to do is hold it. The youngest boys are running first, and they wait, shuffling their feet in the sand for the nod from the priest. They’re in their first flush of growth, bones sharp and spindly, poking against taut skin. My eye catches on a light head among dozens of dark, tousled crowns. I lean forward to see. Hair lit like honey in the sun, and within it, glints of gold—the circlet of a prince. He is shorter than the others, and still plump with childhood in a way they are not. His hair is long and tied back with leather; it burns against the dark, bare skin of his back. His face, when he turns, is serious as a man’s. When the priest strikes the ground, he slips past the thickened bodies of the older boys. He moves easily, his heels flashing pink as licking tongues. He wins. I stare as my father lifts the garland from my lap and crowns him; the leaves seem almost black against the brightness of his hair. His father, Peleus, comes to claim him, smiling and proud. Peleus’ kingdom is smaller than ours, but his wife is rumored to be a goddess, and his people love him. My own father watches with envy. His wife is stupid and his son too slow to race in even the youngest group. He turns to me. “That is what a son should be.” My hands feel empty without the garland. I watch King Peleus embrace his son. I see the boy toss the garland in the air and catch it again. He is laughing, and his face is bright with victory. BEYOND THIS, I remember little more than scattered images from my life then: my father frowning on his throne, a cunning toy horse I loved, my mother on the beach, her eyes turned towards the Aegean. In this last memory, I am skipping stones for her, plink, plink, plink, across the skin of the sea. She seems to like the way the ripples look, dispersing back to glass. Or perhaps it is the sea itself she likes. At her temple a starburst of white gleams like bone, the scar from the time her father hit her with the hilt of a sword. Her toes poke up from the sand where she has buried them, and I am careful not to disturb them as I search for rocks. I choose one and fling it out, glad to be good at this. It is the only memory I have of my mother and so golden that I am almost sure I have made it up. After all, it was unlikely for my father to have allowed us to be alone together, his simple son and simpler wife. And where are we? I do not recognize the beach, the view of coastline. So much has passed since then. Chapter Two I WAS SUMMONED TO THE KING. I REMEMBER HATING THIS, the long walk up the endless throne room. At the front, I knelt on stone. Some kings chose to have rugs there for the knees of messengers who had long news to tell. My father preferred not to. “King Tyndareus’ daughter is finally ready for marriage,” he said. I knew the name. Tyndareus was king of Sparta and held huge tracts of the ripest southern lands, the kind my father coveted. I had heard of his daughter too, rumored to be the fairest woman in our countries. Her mother, Leda, was said to have been ravished by Zeus, the king of the gods himself, disguised as a swan. Nine months later, her womb yielded two sets of twins: Clytemnestra and Castor, children of her mortal husband; Helen and Polydeuces, the shining cygnets of the god. But gods were known to be notoriously poor parents; it was expected that Tyndareus would offer patrimony to all. I did not respond to my father’s news. Such things meant nothing to me. My father cleared his throat, loud in the silent chamber. “We would do well to have her in our family. You will go and put yourself forth as a suitor.” There was no one else in the hall, so my startled huff of breath was for his ears alone. But I knew better than to speak my discomfort. My father already knew all that I might say: that I was nine, unsightly, unpromising, uninterested. We left the next morning, our packs heavy with gifts and food for the journey. Soldiers escorted us, in their finest armor. I don’t remember much of the trip—it was overland, through countryside that left no impression. At the head of the column, my father dictated new orders to secretaries and messengers who rode off in every direction. I looked down at the leather reins, smoothed their nap with my thumb. I did not understand my place here. It was incomprehensible, as so much of what my father did was. My donkey swayed, and I swayed with him, glad for even this distraction. We were not the first suitors to arrive at Tyndareus’ citadel. The stables were full of horses and mules, busy with servants. My father seemed displeased with the ceremony afforded us: I saw him rub a hand over the stone of the hearth in our rooms, frowning. I had brought a toy from home, a horse whose legs could move. I lifted one hoof, then the other, imagined that I had ridden him instead of the donkey. A soldier took pity on me and lent me his dice. I clattered them against the floor until they showed all sixes in one throw. Finally, a day came in which my father ordered me bathed and brushed. He had me change my tunic, then change again. I obeyed, though I saw no difference between the purple with gold or crimson with gold. Neither hid my knobby knees. My father looked powerful and severe, his black beard slashing across his face. The gift that we were presenting to Tyndareus stood ready, a beaten-gold mixing bowl embossed with the story of the princess Danae. Zeus had wooed her in a shower of golden light, and she had borne him Perseus, Gorgon-slayer, second only to Heracles among our heroes. My father handed it to me. “Do not disgrace us,” he said. I heard the great hall before I saw it, the sound of hundreds of voices banging against stone walls, the clatter of goblets and armor. The servants had thrown open the windows to try to dampen the sound; they had hung tapestries, wealth indeed, on every wall. I had never seen so many men inside before. Not men, I corrected myself. Kings. We were called forward to council, seated on benches draped with cowhide. Servants faded backwards, to the shadows. My father’s fingers dug into my collar, warning me not to fidget. There was violence in that room, with so many princes and heroes and kings competing for a single prize, but we knew how to ape civilization. One by one they introduced themselves, these young men, showing off shining hair and neat waists and expensively dyed clothing. Many were the sons or grandsons of gods. All had a song or two, or more, written of their deeds. Tyndareus greeted each in turn, accepted their gifts in a pile at the center of the room. Invited each to speak and present his suit. My father was the oldest among them, except for the man who, when his turn came, named himself Philoctetes. “A comrade of Heracles,” the man beside us whispered, with an awe I understood. Heracles was the greatest of our heroes, and Philoctetes had been the closest of his companions, the only one still living. His hair was gray, and his thick fingers were all tendon, the sinewy dexterity that marked an archer. And indeed, a moment later he held up the largest bow I had ever seen, polished yew wood with a lionskin grip. “The bow of Heracles,” Philoctetes named it, “given to me at his death.” In our lands a bow was mocked as the weapon of cowards. But no one could say such a thing about this bow; the strength it would take to draw it humbled us all. The next man, his eyes painted like a woman’s, spoke his name. “Idomeneus, King of Crete.” He was lean, and his long hair fell to his waist when he stood. He offered rare iron, a double-headed ax. “The symbol of my people.” His movements reminded me of the dancers that my mother liked. And then Menelaus, son of Atreus, seated beside his hulking, bearlike brother Agamemnon. Menelaus’ hair was a startling red, the color of fireforged bronze. His body was strong, stocky with muscles, vital. The gift he gave was a rich one, beautifully dyed cloth. “Though the lady needs no adornment,” he added, smiling. This was a pretty bit of speech. I wished I had something as clever to say. I was the only one here under twenty, and I was not descended from a god. Perhaps Peleus’ blond-haired son would be equal to this, I thought. But his father had kept him at home. Man after man, and their names began to blur in my head. My attention wandered to the dais, where I noticed, for the first time, the three veiled women seated at Tyndareus’ side. I stared at the white cloth over their faces, as if I might be able to catch some glimpse of the woman behind it. My father wanted one of them for my wife. Three sets of hands, prettily adorned with bracelets, lay quiet in their laps. One of the women was taller than the other two. I thought I saw a stray dark curl peek from beneath the bottom of her veil. Helen is light haired, I remembered. So that one was not Helen. I had ceased to listen to the kings. “Welcome, Menoitius.” The speaking of my father’s name startled me. Tyndareus was looking at us. “I am sorry to hear of the death of your wife.” “My wife lives, Tyndareus. It is my son who comes today to wed your daughter.” There was a silence in which I knelt, dizzied by the spin of faces around me. “Your son is not yet a man.” Tyndareus’ voice seemed far away. I could detect nothing in it. “He need not be. I am man enough for both of us.” It was the sort of jest our people loved, bold and boasting. But no one laughed. “I see,” said Tyndareus. The stone floor dug into my skin, yet I did not move. I was used to kneeling. I had never before been glad of the practice in my father’s throne room. My father spoke again, in the silence. “Others have brought bronze and wine, oil and wool. I bring gold, and it is only a small portion of my stores.” I was aware of my hands on the beautiful bowl, touching the story’s figures: Zeus appearing from the streaming sunlight, the startled princess, their coupling. “My daughter and I are grateful that you have brought us such a worthy gift, though paltry to you.” A murmur, from the kings. There was humiliation here that my father did not seem to understand. My face flushed with it. “I would make Helen the queen of my palace. For my wife, as you know well, is not fit to rule. My wealth exceeds all of these young men, and my deeds speak for themselves.” “I thought the suitor was your son.” I looked up at the new voice. A man who had not spoken yet. He was the last in line, sitting at ease on the bench, his curling hair gleaming in the light of the fire. He had a jagged scar on one leg, a seam that stitched his dark brown flesh from heel to knee, wrapping around the muscles of the calf and burying itself in the shadow beneath his tunic. It looked like it had been a knife, I thought, or something like it, ripping upwards and leaving behind feathered edges, whose softness belied the violence that must have caused it. My father was angry. “Son of Laertes, I do not remember inviting you to speak.” The man smiled. “I was not invited. I interrupted. But you need not fear my interference. I have no vested interest in the matter. I speak only as an observer.” A small movement from the dais drew my eye. One of the veiled figures had stirred. “What does he mean?” My father was frowning. “If he is not here for Helen, then for what? Let him go back to his rocks and his goats.” The man’s eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing. Tyndareus was also mild. “If your son is to be a suitor, as you say, then let him present himself.” Even I knew it was my turn to speak. “I am Patroclus, son of Menoitius.” My voice sounded high, and scratchy with disuse. “I am here as a suitor for Helen. My father is a king and the son of kings.” I had no more to say. My father had not instructed me; he had not thought that Tyndareus would ask me to speak. I stood and carried the bowl to the pile of gifts, placed it where it would not topple. I turned and walked back to my bench. I had not disgraced myself with trembling or tripping, and my words had not been foolish. Still, my face burned with shame. I knew how I must look to these men. Oblivious, the line of suitors moved on. The man kneeling now was huge, half again as tall as my father, and broad besides. Behind him, two servants braced an enormous shield. It seemed to stand with him as part of his suit, reaching from his heels to his crown; no ordinary man could have carried it. And it was no decoration: scarred and hacked edges bore witness to the battles it had seen. Ajax, son of Telamon, this giant named himself. His speech was blunt and short, claiming his lineage from Zeus and offering his mighty size as proof of his great-grandfather’s continuing favor. His gift was a spear, supple wood beautifully cut. The fire-forged point gleamed in the light of the torches. At last it was the man with the scar’s turn. “Well, son of Laertes?” Tyndareus shifted in his seat to face him. “What does a disinterested observer have to say to these proceedings?” The man leaned back. “I would like to know how you are going to stop the losers from declaring war on you. Or on Helen’s lucky new husband. I see half a dozen men here ready to leap at each other’s throats.” “You seem amused.” The man shrugged. “I find the folly of men amusing.” “The son of Laertes scorns us!” This was the large man, Ajax, his clenched fist as big as my head. “Son of Telamon, never.” “Then what, Odysseus? Speak your mind, for once.” Tyndareus’ voice was as sharp as I’d heard it. Odysseus shrugged again. “This was a dangerous gamble, despite the treasure and renown you have won. Each of these men is worthy, and knows it. They will not be so easily put off.” “All this you have said to me in private.” My father stiffened beside me. Conspiracy. His was not the only angry face in the hall. “True. But now I offer you a solution.” He held up his hands, empty. “I have brought no gift and do not seek to woo Helen. I am a king, as has been said, of rocks and goats. In return for my solution, I seek from you the prize that I have already named.” “Give me your solution and you shall have it.” Again, that slight movement, from the dais. One woman’s hand had twitched against her companion’s dress. “Then here it is. I believe that we should let Helen choose.” Odysseus paused, to allow for the murmurs of disbelief; women did not have a say in such things. “No one may fault you, then. But she must choose now, at this very moment, so she will not be said to have taken council or instruction from you. And.” He held up a finger. “Before she chooses, every man here must swear an oath: to uphold Helen’s choice, and to defend her husband against all who would take her from him.” I felt the unrest in the room. An oath? And over such an unconventional matter as a woman choosing her husband. The men were suspicious. “Very well.” Tyndareus, his face unreadable, turned to the veiled women. “Helen, do you accept this proposal?” Her voice was low and lovely, carrying to every corner of the hall. “I do.” It was all she said, but I felt the shiver go through the men around me. Even as a child I felt it, and I marveled at the power of this woman who, though veiled, could electrify a room. Her skin, we suddenly remembered, was rumored to be gilded, her eyes dark and shining as the slick obsidian that we traded our olives for. At that moment she was worth all the prizes in the center of the hall, and more. She was worth our lives. Tyndareus nodded. “Then I decree that it is so. All those who wish to swear will do so, now.” I heard muttering, a few half-angry voices. But no man left. Helen’s voice, and the veil, gently fluttering with her breath, held us all captive. A swiftly summoned priest led a white goat to the altar. Here, inside, it was a more propitious choice than a bull, whose throat might splash unwholesomely upon the stone floor. The animal died easily, and the man mixed its dark blood with the cypress-ash from the fire. The bowl hissed, loud in the silent room. “You will be first.” Tyndareus pointed to Odysseus. Even a nine-year-old saw how fitting this was. Already Odysseus had shown himself too clever by half. Our ragged alliances prevailed only when no man was allowed to be too much more powerful than another. Around the room, I saw smirks and satisfaction among the kings; he would not be allowed to escape his own noose. Odysseus’ mouth quirked in a half-smile. “Of course. It is my pleasure.” But I guessed that it was not so. During the sacrifice I had watched him lean back into the shadows, as if he would be forgotten. He rose now, moved to the altar. “Now Helen”—Odysseus paused, his arm half-extended to the priest —“remember that I swear only in fellowship, not as a suitor. You would never forgive yourself if you were to choose me.” His words were teasing, and drew scattered laughter. We all knew it was not likely that one so luminous as Helen would choose the king of barren Ithaca. One by one the priest summoned us to the hearth, marking our wrists with blood and ash, binding as chains. I chanted the words of the oath back to him, my arm lifted for all to see. When the last man had returned to his place, Tyndareus rose. “Choose now, my daughter.” “Menelaus.” She spoke without hesitation, startling us all. We had expected suspense, indecision. I turned to the red-haired man, who stood, a huge grin cracking his face. In outsize joy, he clapped his silent brother on the back. Everywhere else was anger, disappointment, even grief. But no man reached for his sword; the blood had dried thick on our wrists. “So be it.” Tyndareus stood also. ”I am glad to welcome a second son of Atreus to my family. You shall have my Helen, even as your worthy brother once claimed my Clytemnestra.” He gestured to the tallest woman, as though she might stand. She did not move. Perhaps she had not heard. “What about the third girl?” This shout from a small man, beside the giant Ajax. “Your niece. Can I have her?” The men laughed, glad for an easing in the tension. “You’re too late, Teucer.” Odysseus spoke over the noise. “She’s promised to me.” I did not have the chance to hear more. My father’s hand seized my shoulder, pulling me angrily off the bench. “We are finished here.” We left that very night for home, and I climbed back on my donkey, thick with disappointment: I had not even been allowed to glimpse Helen’s fabled face. My father would never mention the trip again, and once home the events twisted strangely in my memory. The blood and the oath, the room full of kings: they seemed distant and pale, like something a bard had spun, rather than something I lived. Had I really knelt there before them? And what of the oath I had sworn? It seemed absurd even to think of it, foolish and improbable as a dream is by dinner. Chapter Three I STOOD IN THE FIELD. IN MY HANDS WERE TWO PAIRS OF dice, a gift. Not from my father, who’d never think of it. Not from my mother, who sometimes did not know me. I could not remember who had given them to me. A visiting king? A favor- currying noble? They were carved from ivory, inset with onyx, smooth under my thumb. It was late summer, and I was panting with my run from the palace. Since the day of the races I had been appointed a man to train me in all our athletic arts: boxing, sword-and-spear, discus. But I had escaped him, and glowed with the giddy lightness of solitude. It was the first time I had been alone in weeks. Then the boy appeared. His name was Clysonymus, and he was the son of a nobleman who was often at the palace. Older, larger, and unpleasantly fleshy. His eyes had caught the flash of the dice in my palm. He leered at me, held out his hand. “Let me see them.” “No.” I did not want his fingers on them, grubby and thick. And I was the prince, however small. Did I not even have this right? But these noble sons were used to me doing what they wished. They knew my father would not intervene. “I want them.” He didn’t bother to threaten me, yet. I hated him for it. I should be worth threatening. “No.” He stepped forward. “Let me have them.” “They’re mine.” I grew teeth. I snapped like the dogs who fight for our table scraps. He reached to take them, and I shoved him backwards. He stumbled, and I was glad. He would not get what was mine. “Hey!” He was angry. I was so small; I was rumored to be simple. If he backed down now, it would be a dishonor. He advanced on me, face red. Without meaning to, I stepped back. He smirked then. “Coward.” “I am no coward.” My voice rose, and my skin went hot. “Your father thinks you are.” His words were deliberate, as if he were savoring them. “I heard him tell my father so.” “He did not.” But I knew he had. The boy stepped closer. He lifted a fist. “Are you calling me a liar?” I knew that he would hit me now. He was just waiting for an excuse. I could imagine the way my father would have said it. Coward. I planted my hands on his chest and shoved, as hard as I could. Our land was one of grass and wheat. Tumbles should not hurt. I am making excuses. It was also a land of rocks. His head thudded dully against stone, and I saw the surprised pop of his eyes. The ground around him began to bleed. I stared, my throat closing in horror at what I had done. I had not seen the death of a human before. Yes, the bulls, and the goats, even the bloodless gasping of fish. And I had seen it in paintings, tapestries, the black figures burned onto our platters. But I had not seen this: the rattle of it, the choke and scrabble. The smell of the flux. I fled. Sometime later, they found me by the gnarled ankles of an olive tree. I was limp and pale, surrounded by my own vomit. The dice were gone, lost in my flight. My father stared down angrily at me, his lips drawn back to show his yellowing teeth. He gestured, and the servants lifted me and carried me inside. The boy’s family demanded immediate exile or death. They were powerful, and this was their eldest son. They might permit a king to burn their fields or rape their daughters, as long as payment was made. But you did not touch a man’s sons. For this, the nobles would riot. We all knew the rules; we clung to them to avoid the anarchy that was always a hairsbreadth away. Blood feud. The servants made the sign against evil. My father had spent his life scrabbling to keep his kingdom, and would not risk losing it over such a son as me, when heirs and the wombs that bore them were so easy to come by. So he agreed: I would be exiled, and fostered in another man’s kingdom. In exchange for my weight in gold, they would rear me to manhood. I would have no parents, no family name, no inheritance. In our day, death was preferable. But my father was a practical man. My weight in gold was less than the expense of the lavish funeral my death would have demanded. This was how I came to be ten, and an orphan. This is how I came to Phthia. TINY, GEMSTONE-SIZED PHTHIA was the smallest of our countries, set in a northern crook of land between the ridges of Mount Othrys and the sea. Its king, Peleus, was one of those men whom the gods love: not divine himself, but clever, brave, handsome, and excelling all his peers in piety. As a reward, our divinities offered him a sea-nymph for a wife. It was considered their highest honor. After all, what mortal would not want to bed a goddess and sire a son from her? Divine blood purified our muddy race, bred heroes from dust and clay. And this goddess brought a greater promise still: the Fates had foretold that her son would far surpass his father. Peleus’ line would be assured. But, like all the gods’ gifts, there was an edge to it; the goddess herself was unwilling. Everyone, even I, had heard the story of Thetis’ ravishment. The gods had led Peleus to the secret place where she liked to sit upon the beach. They had warned him not to waste time with overtures—she would never consent to marriage with a mortal. They warned him too of what would come once he had caught her: for the nymph Thetis was wily, like her father, Proteus, the slippery old man of the sea, and she knew how to make her skin flow into a thousand different shapes of fur and feather and flesh. And though beaks and claws and teeth and coils and stinging tails would flay him, still Peleus must not let her go. Peleus was a pious and obedient man and did all that the gods had instructed him to do. He waited for her to emerge from the slate-colored waves, hair black and long as a horse’s tail. Then he seized her, holding on despite her violent struggles, squeezing until they were both exhausted, breathless and sand-scraped. The blood from the wounds she had given him mixed with the smears of lost maidenhead on her thighs. Her resistance mattered no longer: a deflowering was as binding as marriage vows. The gods forced her to swear that she would stay with her mortal husband for at least a year, and she served her time on earth as the duty it was, silent, unresponsive, and sullen. Now when he clasped her, she did not bother to writhe and twist in protest. Instead she lay stiff and silent, damp and chilled as an old fish. Her reluctant womb bore only a single child. The hour her sentence was finished, she ran out of the house and dove back into the sea. She would return only to visit the boy, never for any other reason, and never for long. The rest of the time the child was raised by tutors and nurses and overseen by Phoinix, Peleus’ most trusted counselor. Did Peleus ever regret the gods’ gift to him? An ordinary wife would have counted herself lucky to find a husband with Peleus’ mildness, his smile-lined face. But for the sea-nymph Thetis nothing could ever eclipse the stain of his dirty, mortal mediocrity. I WAS LED through the palace by a servant whose name I had not caught. Perhaps he had not said it. The halls were smaller than at home, as if restrained by the modesty of the kingdom they governed. The walls and floors were local marble, whiter than was found in the south. My feet were dark against its pallor. I had nothing with me. My few belongings were being carried to my room, and the gold my father sent was on its way to the treasury. I had felt a strange panic as I was parted from it. It had been my companion for the weeks of travel, a reminder of my worth. I knew its contents by heart now: the five goblets with engraved stems, a heavy knobbed scepter, a beatengold necklace, two ornamental statues of birds, and a carved lyre, gilded at its tips. This last, I knew, was cheating. Wood was cheap and plentiful and heavy and took up space that should have been used for gold. Yet the lyre was so beautiful no one could object to it; it had been a piece of my mother’s dowry. As we rode, I would reach back into my saddlebags to stroke the polished wood. I guessed that I was being led to the throne room, where I would kneel and pour out my gratitude. But the servant stopped suddenly at a side door. King Peleus was absent, he told me, so I would present myself before his son instead. I was unnerved. This was not what I had prepared myself for, the dutiful words I’d practiced on donkeyback. Peleus’ son. I could still remember the dark wreath against his bright hair, the way his pink soles had flashed along the track. That is what a son should be. He was lying on his back on a wide, pillowed bench, balancing a lyre on his stomach. Idly, he plucked at it. He did not hear me enter, or he did not choose to look. This is how I first began to understand my place here. Until this moment I had been a prince, expected and announced. Now I was negligible. I took another step forward, scuffing my feet, and his head lolled to the side to regard me. In the five years since I had seen him, he had outgrown his babyish roundness. I gaped at the cold shock of his beauty, deep-green eyes, features fine as a girl’s. It struck from me a sudden, springing dislike. I had not changed so much, nor so well. He yawned, his eyes heavy-lidded. “What’s your name?” His kingdom was half, a quarter, an eighth the size of my father’s, and I had killed a boy and been exiled and still he did not know me. I ground my jaw shut and would not speak. He asked again, louder: “What’s your name?” My silence was excusable the first time; perhaps I had not heard him. Now it was not. “Patroclus.” It was the name my father had given me, hopefully but injudiciously, at my birth, and it tasted of bitterness on my tongue. “Honor of the father,” it meant. I waited for him to make a joke out of it, some witty jape about my disgrace. He did not. Perhaps, I thought, he is too stupid to. He rolled onto his side to face me. A stray lock of gold fell half into his eyes; he blew it away. “My name is Achilles.” I jerked my chin up, an inch, in bare acknowledgment. We regarded each other for a moment. Then he blinked and yawned again, his mouth cracked wide as a cat’s. “Welcome to Phthia.” I had been raised in a court and knew dismissal when I heard it. I DISCOVERED THAT AFTERNOON that I was not the only foster child of Peleus. The modest king turned out to be rich in cast-off sons. He had once been a runaway himself, it was rumored, and had a reputation for charity towards exiles. My bed was a pallet in a long barracks-style room, filled with other boys tussling and lounging. A servant showed me where my things had been put. A few boys lifted their heads, stared. I am sure one of them spoke to me, asked my name. I am sure I gave it. They returned to their games. No one important. I walked stiff-legged to my pallet and waited for dinner. We were summoned to eat at dusk by a bell, bronze struck from deep in the palace’s turnings. The boys dropped their games and tumbled out into the hallway. The complex was built like a rabbit warren, full of twisting corridors and sudden inner rooms. I nearly tripped over the heels of the boy in front of me, fearful of being left behind and lost. The room for meals was a long hall at the front of the palace, its windows opening onto Mount Othrys’ foothills. It was large enough to feed all of us, many times over; Peleus was a king who liked to host and entertain. We sat on its oakwood benches, at tables that were scratched from years of clattering plates. The food was simple but plentiful—salted fish, and thick bread served with herbed cheese. There was no flesh here, of goats or bulls. That was only for royalty, or festival days. Across the room I caught the flash of bright hair in lamplight. Achilles. He sat with a group of boys whose mouths were wide with laughter at something he’d said or done. That is what a prince should be. I stared down at my bread, its coarse grains that rubbed rough against my fingers. After supper we were allowed to do as we liked. Some boys were gathering in a corner for a game. “Do you want to play?” one asked. His hair still hung in childhood curls; he was younger than I was. “Play?” “Dice.” He opened his hand to show them, carved bone flecked with black dye. I started, stepped backwards. “No,” I said, too loudly. He blinked in surprise. “All right.” He shrugged, and was gone. That night I dreamed of the dead boy, his skull cracked like an egg against the ground. He has followed me. The blood spreads, dark as spilled wine. His eyes open, and his mouth begins to move. I clap my hands over my ears. The voices of the dead were said to have the power to make the living mad. I must not hear him speak. I woke in terror, hoping I had not screamed aloud. The pinpricks of stars outside the window were the only light; there was no moon I could see. My breathing was harsh in the silence, and the marsh-reed ticking of the mattress crackled softly beneath me, rubbing its thin fingers against my back. The presence of the other boys did not comfort me; our dead come for their vengeance regardless of witnesses. The stars turned, and somewhere the moon crept across the sky. When my eyes dragged closed again, he was waiting for me still, covered in blood, his face as pale as bone. Of course he was. No soul wished to be sent early to the endless gloom of our underworld. Exile might satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead. I woke sandy-eyed, my limbs heavy and dull. The other boys surged around me, dressing for breakfast, eager for the day. Word had spread quickly of my strangeness, and the younger boy did not approach me again, with dice or anything else. At breakfast, my fingers pushed bread between my lips, and my throat swallowed. Milk was poured for me. I drank it. Afterwards we were led into the dusty sun of the practice yards for training in spear and sword. Here is where I tasted the full truth of Peleus’ kindness: well trained and indebted, we would one day make him a fine army. I was given a spear, and a callused hand corrected my grip, then corrected it again. I threw and grazed the edge of the oak-tree target. The master blew out a breath and passed me a second spear. My eyes traveled over the other boys, searching for Peleus’ son. He was not there. I sighted once more at the oak, its bark pitted and cracked, oozing sap from punctures. I threw. The sun drove high, then higher still. My throat grew dry and hot, scratched with burning dust. When the masters released us, most of the boys fled to the beach, where small breezes still stirred. There they diced and raced, shouting jokes in the sharp, slanting dialects of the north. My eyes were heavy in my head, and my arm ached from the morning’s exertion. I sat beneath the scrubby shade of an olive tree to stare out over the ocean’s waves. No one spoke to me. I was easy to ignore. It was not so very different from home, really. THE NEXT DAY was the same, a morning of weary exercises, and then long afternoon hours alone. At night, the moon slivered smaller and smaller. I stared until I could see it even when I closed my eyes, the yellow curve bright against the dark of my eyelids. I hoped that it might keep the visions of the boy at bay. Our goddess of the moon is gifted with magic, with power over the dead. She could banish the dreams, if she wished. She did not. The boy came, night after night, with his staring eyes and splintered skull. Sometimes he turned and showed me the hole in his head, where the soft mass of his brain hung loose. Sometimes he reached for me. I would wake, choking on my horror, and stare at the darkness until dawn. Chapter Four MEALS IN THE VAULTED DINING HALL WERE MY ONLY relief. There the walls did not seem to press in on me so much, and the dust from the courtyard did not clog in my throat. The buzz of constant voices eased as mouths were stuffed full. I could sit with my food alone and breathe again. It was the only time I saw Achilles. His days were separate, princely, filled with duties we had no part of. But he took each meal with us, circulating among the tables. In the huge hall, his beauty shone like a flame, vital and bright, drawing my eye against my will. His mouth was a plump bow, his nose an aristocratic arrow. When he was seated, his limbs did not skew as mine did, but arranged themselves with perfect grace, as if for a sculptor. Perhaps most remarkable was his unself-consciousness. He did not preen or pout as other handsome children did. Indeed, he seemed utterly unaware of his effect on the boys around him. Though how he was, I could not imagine: they crowded him like dogs in their eagerness, tongues lolling. I watched all of this from my place at a corner table, bread crumpled in my fist. The keen edge of my envy was like flint, a spark away from fire. On one of these days he sat closer to me than usual; only a table distant. His dusty feet scuffed against the flagstones as he ate. They were not cracked and callused as mine were, but pink and sweetly brown beneath the dirt. Prince, I sneered inside my head. He turned, as if he had heard me. For a second our eyes held, and I felt a shock run through me. I jerked my gaze away, and busied myself with my bread. My cheeks were hot, and my skin prickled as if before a storm. When, at last, I ventured to look up again, he had turned back to his table and was speaking to the other boys. After that, I was craftier with my observation, kept my head down and my eyes ready to leap away. But he was craftier still. At least once a dinner he would turn and catch me before I could feign indifference. Those seconds, half seconds, that the line of our gaze connected, were the only moment in my day that I felt anything at all. The sudden swoop of my stomach, the coursing anger. I was like a fish eyeing the hook. IN THE FOURTH WEEK of my exile, I walked into the dining hall to find him at the table where I always sat. My table, as I had come to think of it, since few others chose to share it with me. Now, because of him, the benches were full of jostling boys. I froze, caught between flight and fury. Anger won. This was mine, and he would not push me from it, no matter how many boys he brought. I sat at the last empty space, my shoulders tensed as if for a fight. Across the table the boys postured and prattled, about a spear and a bird that had died on the beach and the spring races. I did not hear them. His presence was like a stone in my shoe, impossible to ignore. His skin was the color of just-pressed olive oil, and smooth as polished wood, without the scabs and blemishes that covered the rest of us. Dinner finished, and the plates were cleared. A harvest moon, full and orange, hung in the dusk beyond the dining room’s windows. Yet Achilles lingered. Absently, he pushed the hair from his eyes; it had grown longer over the weeks I had been here. He reached for a bowl on the table that held figs and gathered several in his hands. With a toss of his wrist, he flicked the figs into the air, one, two, three, juggling them so lightly that their delicate skins did not bruise. He added a fourth, then a fifth. The boys hooted and clapped. More, more! The fruits flew, colors blurring, so fast they seemed not to touch his hands, to tumble of their own accord. Juggling was a trick of low mummers and beggars, but he made it something else, a living pattern painted on the air, so beautiful even I could not pretend disinterest. His gaze, which had been following the circling fruit, flickered to mine. I did not have time to look away before he said, softly but distinctly, “Catch.” A fig leapt from the pattern in a graceful arc towards me. It fell into the cup of my palms, soft and slightly warm. I was aware of the boys cheering. One by one, Achilles caught the remaining fruits, returned them to the table with a performer’s flourish. Except for the last, which he ate, the dark flesh parting to pink seeds under his teeth. The fruit was perfectly ripe, the juice brimming. Without thinking, I brought the one he had thrown me to my lips. Its burst of grainy sweetness filled my mouth; the skin was downy on my tongue. I had loved figs, once. He stood, and the boys chorused their farewells. I thought he might look at me again. But he only turned and vanished back to his room on the other side of the palace. THE NEXT DAY Peleus returned to the palace and I was brought before him in his throne room, smoky and sharp from a yew-wood fire. Duly I knelt, saluted, received his famously charitable smile. “Patroclus,” I told him, when he asked. I was almost accustomed to it now, the bareness of my name, without my father’s behind it. Peleus nodded. He seemed old to me, bent over, but he was no more than fifty, my father’s age. He did not look like a man who could have conquered a goddess, or produced such a child as Achilles. “You are here because you killed a boy. You understand this?” This was the cruelty of adults. Do you understand? “Yes,” I told him. I could have told him more, of the dreams that left me bleary and bloodshot, the almost-screams that scraped my throat as I swallowed them down. The way the stars turned and turned through the night above my unsleeping eyes. “You are welcome here. You may still make a good man.” He meant it as comfort. LATER THAT DAY, perhaps from him, perhaps from a listening servant, the boys learned at last of the reason for my exile. I should have expected it. I had heard them gossip of others often enough; rumors were the only coin the boys had to trade in. Still, it took me by surprise to see the sudden change in them, the fear and fascination blooming on their faces as I passed. Now even the boldest of them would whisper a prayer if he brushed against me: bad luck could be caught, and the Erinyes, our hissing spirits of vengeance, were not always particular. The boys watched from a safe distance, enthralled. Will they drink his blood, do you think? Their whispers choked me, turned the food in my mouth to ash. I pushed away my plate and sought out corners and spare halls where I might sit undisturbed, except for the occasional passing servant. My narrow world narrowed further: to the cracks in the floor, the carved whorls in the stone walls. They rasped softly as I traced them with my fingertip. “I HEARD YOU WERE HERE.” A clear voice, like ice-melted streams. My head jerked up. I was in a storeroom, my knees against my chest, wedged between jars of thick-pressed olive oil. I had been dreaming myself a fish, silvered by sun as it leapt from the sea. The waves dissolved, became amphorae and grain sacks again. It was Achilles, standing over me. His face was serious, the green of his eyes steady as he regarded me. I prickled with guilt. I was not supposed to be there and I knew it. “I have been looking for you,” he said. The words were expressionless; they carried no hint of anything I could read. “You have not been going to morning drills.” My face went red. Behind the guilt, anger rose slow and dull. It was his right to chastise me, but I hated him for it. “How do you know? You aren’t there.” “The master noticed, and spoke to my father.” “And he sent you.” I wanted to make him feel ugly for his tale-bearing. “No, I came on my own.” Achilles’ voice was cool, but I saw his jaw tighten, just a little. “I overheard them speaking. I have come to see if you are ill.” I did not answer. He studied me a moment. “My father is considering punishment,” he said. We knew what this meant. Punishment was corporal, and usually public. A prince would never be whipped, but I was no longer a prince. “You are not ill,” he said. “No,” I answered, dully. “Then that will not serve as your excuse.” “What?” In my fear I could not follow him. “Your excuse for where you have been.” His voice was patient. “So you will not be punished. What will you say?” “I don’t know.” “You must say something.” His insistence sparked anger in me. “You are the prince,” I snapped. That surprised him. He tilted his head a little, like a curious bird. “So?” “So speak to your father, and say I was with you. He will excuse it.” I said this more confidently than I felt. If I had spoken to my father for another boy, he would have been whipped out of spite. But I was not Achilles. The slightest crease appeared between his eyes. “I do not like to lie,” he said. It was the sort of innocence other boys taunted out of you; even if you felt it, you did not say it. “Then take me with you to your lessons,” I said. “So it won’t be a lie.” His eyebrows lifted, and he regarded me. He was utterly still, the type of quiet that I had thought could not belong to humans, a stilling of everything but breath and pulse—like a deer, listening for the hunter’s bow. I found myself holding my breath. Then something shifted in his face. A decision. “Come,” he said. “Where?” I was wary; perhaps now I would be punished for suggesting deceit. “To my lyre lesson. So, as you say, it will not be a lie. After, we will speak with my father.” “Now?” “Yes. Why not?” He watched me, curious. Why not? When I stood to follow him, my limbs ached from so long seated on cool stone. My chest trilled with something I could not quite name. Escape, and danger, and hope all at once. WE WALKED IN SILENCE through the winding halls and came at length to a small room, holding only a large chest and stools for sitting. Achilles gestured to one and I went to it, leather pulled taut over a spare wooden frame. A musician’s chair. I had seen them only when bards came, infrequently, to play at my father’s fireside. Achilles opened the chest. He pulled a lyre from it and held it out to me. “I don’t play,” I told him. His forehead wrinkled at this. “Never?” Strangely, I found myself not wishing to disappoint him. “My father did not like music.” “So? Your father is not here.” I took the lyre. It was cool to the touch, and smooth. I slid my fingers over the strings, heard the humming almost-note; it was the lyre I had seen him with the first day I came. Achilles bent again into the trunk, pulled out a second instrument, and came to join me. He settled it on his knees. The wood was carved and golden and shone with careful keeping. It was my mother’s lyre, the one my father had sent as part of my price. Achilles plucked a string. The note rose warm and resonant, sweetly pure. My mother had always pulled her chair close to the bards when they came, so close my father would scowl and the servants would whisper. I remembered, suddenly, the dark gleam of her eyes in the firelight as she watched the bard’s hands. The look on her face was like thirst. Achilles plucked another string, and a note rang out, deeper than the other. His hand reached for a peg, turned it. That is my mother’s lyre, I almost said. The words were in my mouth, and behind them others crowded close. That is my lyre. But I did not speak. What would he say to such a statement? The lyre was his, now. I swallowed, my throat dry. “It is beautiful.” “My father gave it to me,” he said, carelessly. Only the way his fingers held it, so gently, stopped me from rising in rage. He did not notice. “You can hold it, if you like.” The wood would be smooth and known as my own skin. “No,” I said, through the ache in my chest. I will not cry in front of him. He started to say something. But at that moment the teacher entered, a man of indeterminate middle age. He had the callused hands of a musician and carried his own lyre, carved of dark walnut. “Who is this?” he asked. His voice was harsh and loud. A musician, but not a singer. “This is Patroclus,” Achilles said. “He does not play, but he will learn.” “Not on that instrument.” The man’s hand swooped down to pluck the lyre from my hands. Instinctively, my fingers tightened on it. It was not as beautiful as my mother’s lyre, but it was still a princely instrument. I did not want to give it up. I did not have to. Achilles had caught him by the wrist, midreach. “Yes, on that instrument if he likes.” The man was angry but said no more. Achilles released him and he sat, stiffly. “Begin,” he said. Achilles nodded and bent over the lyre. I did not have time to wonder about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all my thoughts were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a texture and weight like polished ivory. It buoyed and soothed at once. A few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyes as he played. They were fine as lyre strings themselves, and shone. He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me. “Now you.” I shook my head, full to spilling. I could not play now. Not ever, if I could listen to him instead. “You play,” I said. Achilles returned to his strings, and the music rose again. This time he sang also, weaving his own accompaniment with a clear, rich treble. His head fell back a little, exposing his throat, supple and fawn-skin soft. A small smile lifted the left corner of his mouth. Without meaning to I found myself leaning forward. When at last he ceased, my chest felt strangely hollowed. I watched him rise to replace the lyres, close the trunk. He bid farewell to the teacher, who turned and left. It took me a long moment before I came back to myself, to notice he was waiting for me. “We will go see my father now.” I did not quite trust myself to speak, so I nodded and followed him out of the room and up the twisting hallways to the king. Chapter Five ACHILLES STOPPED ME JUST INSIDE THE BRONZE-STUDDED doors of Peleus’ audience chamber. “Wait here,” he said. Peleus was seated on a high-backed chair at the room’s other end. An older man, one I had seen before with Peleus, stood near as if the two had been in conference. The fire smoked thickly, and the room felt hot and close. The walls were hung with deep-dyed tapestries and old weapons kept gleaming by servants. Achilles walked past them and knelt at his father’s feet. “Father, I come to ask your pardon.” “Oh?” Peleus lifted an eyebrow. “Speak then.” From where I stood his face looked cold and displeased. I was suddenly fearful. We had interrupted; Achilles had not even knocked. “I have taken Patroclus from his drills.” My name sounded strange on his lips; I almost did not recognize it. The old king’s brows drew together. “Who?” “Menoitiades,” Achilles said. Menoitius’ son. “Ah.” Peleus’ gaze followed the carpet back to where I stood, trying not to fidget. “Yes, the boy the arms-master wants to whip.” “Yes. But it is not his fault. I forgot to say I wished him for a companion.” Therapon was the word he used. A brother-in-arms sworn to a prince by blood oaths and love. In war, these men were his honor guard; in peace, his closest advisers. It was a place of highest esteem, another reason the boys swarmed Peleus’ son, showing off; they hoped to be chosen. Peleus’ eyes narrowed. “Come here, Patroclus.” The carpet was thick beneath my feet. I knelt a little behind Achilles. I could feel the king’s gaze on me. “For many years now, Achilles, I have urged companions on you and you have turned them away. Why this boy?” The question might have been my own. I had nothing to offer such a prince. Why, then, had he made a charity case of me? Peleus and I both waited for his answer. “He is surprising.” I looked up, frowning. If he thought so, he was the only one. “Surprising,” Peleus echoed. “Yes.” Achilles explained no further, though I hoped he would. Peleus rubbed his nose in thought. “The boy is an exile with a stain upon him. He will add no luster to your reputation.” “I do not need him to,” Achilles said. Not proudly or boastfully. Honestly. Peleus acknowledged this. “Yet other boys will be envious that you have chosen such a one. What will you tell them?” “I will tell them nothing.” The answer came with no hesitation, clear and crisp. “It is not for them to say what I will do.” I found my pulse beating thickly in my veins, fearing Peleus’ anger. It did not come. Father and son met each other’s gaze, and the faintest touch of amusement bloomed at the corner of Peleus’ mouth. “Stand up, both of you.” I did so, dizzily. “I pronounce your sentence. Achilles, you will give your apology to Amphidamas, and Patroclus will give his as well.” “Yes, Father.” “That is all.” He turned from us, back to his counselor, in dismissal. OUTSIDE AGAIN ACHILLES was brisk. “I will see you at dinner,” he said, and turned to go. An hour before I would have said I was glad to be rid of him; now, strangely, I felt stung. “Where are you going?” He stopped. “Drills.” “Alone?” “Yes. No one sees me fight.” The words came as if he were used to saying them. “Why?” He looked at me a long moment, as if weighing something. “My mother has forbidden it. Because of the prophecy.” “What prophecy?” I had not heard of this. “That I will be the best warrior of my generation.” It sounded like something a young child would claim, in make-believe. But he said it as simply as if he were giving his name. The question I wanted to ask was, And are you the best? Instead I stuttered out, “When was the prophecy given?” “When I was born. Just before. Eleithyia came and told it to my mother.” Eleithyia, goddess of childbirth, rumored to preside in person over the birth of half-gods. Those whose nativities were too important to be left to chance. I had forgotten. His mother is a goddess. “Is this known?” I was tentative, not wanting to press too far. “Some know of it, and some do not. But that is why I go alone.” But he didn’t go. He watched me. He seemed to be waiting. “Then I will see you at dinner,” I said at last. He nodded and left. HE WAS ALREADY SEATED when I arrived, wedged at my table amid the usual clatter of boys. I had half-expected him not to be; that I had dreamed the morning. As I sat, I met his eyes, quickly, almost guiltily, then looked away. My face was flushing, I was sure. My hands felt heavy and awkward as they reached for the food. I was aware of every swallow, every expression on my face. The meal was very good that night, roasted fish dressed with lemon and herbs, fresh cheese and bread, and he ate well. The boys were unconcerned by my presence. They had long ago ceased to see me. “Patroclus.” Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Patro-clus. Around us dinner was ending, the servants clearing the plates. I looked up, and the boys quieted, watching with interest. He did not usually address us by name. “Tonight you’re to sleep in my room,” he said. I was so shocked that my mouth would have hung open. But the boys were there, and I had been raised with a prince’s pride. “All right,” I said. “A servant will bring your things.” I could hear the thoughts of the staring boys as if they said them. Why him? Peleus had spoken true: he had often encouraged Achilles to choose his companions. But in all those years, Achilles showed no special interest in any of the boys, though he was polite to all, as befitted his upbringing. And now he had bestowed the long-awaited honor upon the most unlikely of us, small and ungrateful and probably cursed. He turned to go and I followed him, trying not to stumble, feeling the eyes of the table on my back. He led me past my old room and the chamber of state with its high-backed throne. Another turn, and we were in a portion of the palace I did not know, a wing that slanted down towards water. The walls were painted with bright patterns that bled to gray as his torch passed them. His room was so close to the sea that the air tasted of salt. There were no wall pictures here, only plain stone and a single soft rug. The furniture was simple but well made, carved from dark-grained wood I recognized as foreign. Off to one side I saw a thick pallet. He gestured to it. “That is for you.” “Oh.” Saying thank you did not seem the right response. “Are you tired?” he asked. “No.” He nodded, as if I had said something wise. “Me neither.” I nodded in turn. Each of us, warily polite, bobbing our head like birds. There was a silence. “Do you want to help me juggle?” “I don’t know how.” “You don’t have to know. I’ll show you.” I was regretting saying I was not tired. I did not want to make a fool of myself in front of him. But his face was hopeful, and I felt like a miser to refuse. “All right.” “How many can you hold?” “I don’t know.” “Show me your hand.” I did, palm out. He rested his own palm against it. I tried not to startle. His skin was soft and slightly sticky from dinner. The plump finger pads brushing mine were very warm. “About the same. It will be better to start with two, then. Take these.” He reached for six leather-covered balls, the type that mummers used. Obediently, I claimed two. “When I say, throw one to me.” Normally I would chafe at being bossed this way. But somehow the words did not sound like commands in his mouth. He began to juggle the remaining balls. “Now,” he said. I let the ball fly from my hand towards him, saw it pulled seamlessly into the circling blur. “Again,” he said. I threw another ball, and it joined the others. “You do that well,” he said. I looked up, quickly. Was he mocking me? But his face was sincere. “Catch.” A ball came back to me, just like the fig at dinner. My part took no great skill, but I enjoyed it anyway. We found ourselves smiling at the satisfaction of each smooth catch and throw. After some time he stopped, yawned. “It’s late,” he said. I was surprised to see the moon high outside the window; I had not noticed the minutes passing. I sat on the pallet and watched as he busied himself with the tasks of bed, washing his face with water from a wide-mouthed ewer, untying the bit of leather that bound his hair. The silence brought my uneasiness back. Why was I here? Achilles snuffed out the torch. “Good night,” he said. “Good night.” The word felt strange in my mouth, like another language. Time passed. In the moonlight, I could just make out the shape of his face, sculptor-perfect, across the room. His lips were parted slightly, an arm thrown carelessly above his head. He looked different in sleep, beautiful but cold as moonlight. I found myself wishing he would wake so that I might watch the life return. THE NEXT MORNING, after breakfast, I went back to the boys’ room, expecting to find my things returned. They were not, and I saw that my bed had been stripped of its linens. I checked again after lunch, and after spear practice and then again before bed, but my old place remained empty and unmade. So. Still. Warily, I made my way to his room, half-expecting a servant to stop me. None did. In the doorway of his room, I hesitated. He was within, lounging as I had seen him that first day, one leg dangling. “Hello,” he said. If he had shown any hesitation or surprise, I would have left, gone back and slept on the bare reeds rather than stay here. But he did not. There was only his easy tone and a sharp attention in his eyes. “Hello,” I answered, and went to take my place on the cot across the room. SLOWLY, I GREW USED TO IT; I no longer startled when he spoke, no longer waited for rebuke. I stopped expecting to be sent away. After dinner, my feet took me to his room out of habit, and I thought of the pallet where I lay as mine. At night I still dreamed of the dead boy. But when I woke, sweaty and terror-stricken, the moon would be bright on the water outside and I could hear the lick of the waves against the shore. In the dim light I saw his easy breathing, the drowsy tangle of his limbs. In spite of myself, my pulse slowed. There was a vividness to him, even at rest, that made death and spirits seem foolish. After a time, I found I could sleep again. Time after that, the dreams lessened and dropped away. I learned that he was not so dignified as he looked. Beneath his poise and stillness was another face, full of mischief and faceted like a gem, catching the light. He liked to play games against his own skill, catching things with his eyes closed, setting himself impossible leaps over beds and chairs. When he smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled like a leaf held to flame. He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyes. There was a glamour to him, even on waking, with his hair tousled and his face still muddled with sleep. Up close, his feet looked almost unearthly: the perfectly formed pads of the toes, the tendons that flickered like lyre strings. The heels were callused white over pink from going everywhere barefoot. His father made him rub them with oils that smelled of sandalwood and pomegranate. He began to tell me the stories of his day before we drifted off to sleep. At first I only listened, but after time my tongue loosened. I began to tell my own stories, first of the palace, and later small bits from before: the skipping stones, the wooden horse I had played with, the lyre from my mother’s dowry. “I am glad your father sent it with you,” he said. Soon our conversations spilled out of the night’s confinement. I surprised myself with how much there was to say, about everything, the beach and dinner and one boy or another. I stopped watching for ridicule, the scorpion’s tail hidden in his words. He said what he meant; he was puzzled if you did not. Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart? ONE AFTERNOON, as I went to leave him to his private drills he said, “Why don’t you come with me?” His voice was a little strained; if I had not thought it impossible, I might have said he was nervous. The air, which had grown comfortable between us, felt suddenly taut. “All right,” I said. It was the quiet hours of late afternoon; the palace slept out the heat and left us alone. We took the longest way, through the olive grove’s twisting path, to the house where the arms were kept. I stood in the doorway as he selected his practice weapons, a spear and a sword, slightly blunted at the tip. I reached for my own, then hesitated. “Should I—?” He shook his head. No. “I do not fight with others,” he told me. I followed him outside to the packed sand circle. “Never?” “No.” “Then how do you know that . . .” I trailed off as he took up a stance in the center, his spear in his hand, his sword at his waist. “That the prophecy is true? I guess I don’t.” Divine blood flows differently in each god-born child. Orpheus’ voice made the trees weep, Heracles could kill a man by clapping him on the back. Achilles’ miracle was his speed. His spear, as he began the first pass, moved faster than my eye could follow. It whirled, flashing forward, reversed, then flashed behind. The shaft seemed to flow in his hands, the dark gray point flickered like a snake’s tongue. His feet beat the ground like a dancer, never still. I could not move, watching. I almost did not breathe. His face was calm and blank, not tensed with effort. His movements were so precise I could almost see the men he fought, ten, twenty of them, advancing on all sides. He leapt, scything his spear, even as his other hand snatched the sword from its sheath. He swung out with them both, moving like liquid, like a fish through the waves. He stopped, suddenly. I could hear his breaths, only a little louder than usual, in the still afternoon air. “Who trained you?” I asked. I did not know what else to say. “My father, a little.” A little. I felt almost frightened. “No one else?” “No.” I stepped forward. “Fight me.” He made a sound almost like a laugh. “No. Of course not.” “Fight me.” I felt in a trance. He had been trained, a little, by his father. The rest was—what? Divine? This was more of the gods than I had ever seen in my life. He made it look beautiful, this sweating, hacking art of ours. I understood why his father did not let him fight in front of the others. How could any ordinary man take pride in his own skill when there was this in the world? “I don’t want to.” “I dare you.” “You don’t have any weapons.” “I’ll get them.” He knelt and laid his weapons in the dirt. His eyes met mine. “I will not. Do not ask me again.” “I will ask you again. You cannot forbid me.” I stepped forward, defiant. Something burned hot in me now, an impatience, a certainty. I would have this thing. He would give it to me. His face twisted and, almost, I thought I saw anger. This pleased me. I would goad him, if nothing else. He would fight me then. My nerves sang with the danger of it. But instead he walked away, his weapons abandoned in the dust. “Come back,” I said. Then louder: “Come back. Are you afraid?” That strange half-laugh again, his back still turned. “No, I am not afraid.” “You should be.” I meant it as a joke, an easing, but it did not sound that way in the still air that hung between us. His back stared at me, unmoving, unmovable. I will make him look at me, I thought. My legs swallowed up the five steps between us, and I crashed into his back. He stumbled forward, falling, and I clung to him. We landed, and I heard the quick huff of his breath as it was driven from him. But before I could speak, he was twisting around beneath me, had seized my wrists in his hands. I struggled, not sure what I had meant to do. But here was resistance, and that was something I could fight. “Let me go!” I yanked my wrists against his grip. “No.” In a swift motion, he rolled me beneath him, pinning me, his knees in my belly. I panted, angry but strangely satisfied. “I have never seen anyone fight the way you do,” I told him. Confession or accusation, or both. “You have not seen much.” I bridled, despite the mildness of his tone. “You know what I mean.” His eyes were unreadable. Over us both, the unripe olives rattled gently. “Maybe. What do you mean?” I twisted, hard, and he let go. We sat up, our tunics dusty and stuck to our backs. “I mean—” I broke off. There was an edge to me now, that familiar keenness of anger and envy, struck to life like flint. But the bitter words died even as I thought them. “There is no one like you,” I said, at last. He regarded me a moment, in silence. “So?” Something in the way he spoke it drained the last of my anger from me. I had minded, once. But who was I now, to begrudge such a thing? As if he heard me, he smiled, and his face was like the sun. Chapter Six OUR FRIENDSHIP CAME ALL AT ONCE AFTER THAT, LIKE spring floods from the mountains. Before, the boys and I had imagined that his days were filled with princely instruction, statecraft and spear. But I had long since learned the truth: other than his lyre lessons and his drills, he had no instruction. One day we might go swimming, another we might climb trees. We made up games for ourselves, of racing and tumbling. We would lie on the warm sand and say, “Guess what I’m thinking about.” The falcon we had seen from our window. The boy with the crooked front tooth. Dinner. And as we swam, or played, or talked, a feeling would come. It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright where they were dull. I had known contentment before, brief snatches of time in which I pursued solitary pleasure: skipping stones or dicing or dreaming. But in truth, it had been less a presence than an absence, a laying aside of dread: my father was not near, nor boys. I was not hungry, or tired, or sick. This feeling was different. I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt, my scalp prickling till I thought it might lift off my head. My tongue ran away from me, giddy with freedom. This and this and this, I said to him. I did not have to fear that I spoke too much. I did not have to worry that I was too slender or too slow. This and this and this! I taught him how to skip stones, and he taught me how to carve wood. I could feel every nerve in my body, every brush of air against my skin. He played my mother’s lyre, and I watched. When it was my turn to play, my fingers tangled in the strings and the teacher despaired of me. I did not care. “Play again,” I told him. And he played until I could barely see his fingers in the dark. I saw then how I had changed. I did not mind anymore that I lost when we raced and I lost when we swam out to the rocks and I lost when we tossed spears or skipped stones. For who can be ashamed to lose to such beauty? It was enough to watch him win, to see the soles of his feet flashing as they kicked up sand, or the rise and fall of his shoulders as he pulled through the salt. It was enough. IT WAS LATE SUMMER, over a year after my exile had begun, when at last I told him of how I had killed the boy. We were in the branches of the courtyard oak, hidden by the patchwork leaves. It was easier here somehow, off the ground, with the solid trunk at my back. He listened silently, and when I had finished, he asked: “Why did you not say that you were defending yourself?” It was like him to ask this, the thing I had not thought of before. “I don’t know.” “Or you could have lied. Said you found him already dead.” I stared at him, stunned by the simplicity of it. I could have lied. And then the revelation that followed: if I had lied, I would still be a prince. It was not murder that had exiled me, it was my lack of cunning. I understood, now, the disgust in my father’s eyes. His moron son, confessing all. I recalled how his jaw had hardened as I spoke. He does not deserve to be a king. “You would not have lied,” I said. “No,” he admitted. “What would you have done?” I asked. Achilles tapped a finger against the branch he sat on. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine it. The way the boy spoke to you.” He shrugged. “No one has ever tried to take something from me.” “Never?” I could not believe it. A life without such things seemed impossible. “Never.” He was silent a moment, thinking. “I don’t know,” he repeated, finally. “I think I would be angry.” He closed his eyes and rested his head back against a branch. The green oak leaves crowded around his hair, like a crown. I SAW KING PELEUS often now; we were called to councils sometimes, and dinners with visiting kings. I was allowed to sit at the table beside Achilles, even to speak if I wished. I did not wish; I was happy to be silent and watch the men around me. Skops, Peleus took to calling me. Owl, for my big eyes. He was good at this sort of affection, general and unbinding. After the men were gone, we would sit with him by the fire to hear the stories of his youth. The old man, now gray and faded, told us that he had once fought beside Heracles. When I said that I had seen Philoctetes, he smiled. “Yes, the bearer of Heracles’ great bow. Back then he was a spearman, and much the bravest of us.” This was like him too, these sorts of compliments. I understood, now, how his treasury had come to be so full of the gifts of treaty and alliance. Among our bragging, ranting heroes, Peleus was the exception: a man of modesty. We stayed to listen as the servants added one log, and then another, to the flames. It was halfway to dawn before he would send us back to our beds. THE ONLY PLACE I did not follow was to see his mother. He went late at night, or at dawn before the palace was awake, and returned flushed and smelling of the sea. When I asked about it, he told me freely, his voice strangely toneless. “It is always the same. She wants to know what I am doing and if I am well. She speaks to me of my reputation among men. At the end she asks if I will come with her.” I was rapt. “Where?” “The caves under the sea.” Where the sea-nymphs lived, so deep the sun did not penetrate. “Will you go?” He shook his head. “My father says I should not. He says no mortal who sees them comes back the same.” When he turned away, I made the peasant sign against evil. Gods avert. It frightened me a little to hear him speak of a thing so calmly. Gods and mortals never mixed happily in our stories. But she was his mother, I reassured myself, and he was half-god himself. In time his visits with her were just another strangeness about him that I became accustomed to, like the marvel of his feet or the inhuman deftness of his fingers. When I heard him climbing back through the window at dawn, I would mumble from my bed, “Is she well?” And he would answer. “Yes, she is well.” And he might add: “The fish are thick today” or “The bay is warm as a bath.” And then we would sleep again. ONE MORNING of my second spring, he came back from his visit with his mother later than usual; the sun was almost out of the water and the goatbells were clanging in the hills. “Is she well?” “She is well. She wants to meet you.” I felt a surge of fear, but stifled it. “Do you think I should?” I could not imagine what she would want with me. I knew her reputation for hating mortals. He did not meet my eyes; his fingers turned a stone he had found over and over. “There is no harm in it. Tomorrow night, she said.” I understood now that it was a command. The gods did not make requests. I knew him well enough to see that he was embarrassed. He was never so stiff with me. “Tomorrow?” He nodded. I did not want him to see my fear, though normally we kept nothing from each other. “Should I—should I bring a gift? Honeyed wine?” We poured it over the altars of the gods on festival days. It was one of our richest offerings. He shook his head. “She doesn’t like it.” The next night, when the household slept, I climbed out of our window. The moon was half full, bright enough for me to pick my way over the rocks without a torch. He had said that I was to stand in the surf and she would come. No, he had reassured me, you do not need to speak. She will know. The waves were warm, and thick with sand. I shifted, watched the small white crabs run through the surf. I was listening, thinking I might hear the splash of her feet as she approached. A breeze blew down the beach and, grateful, I closed my eyes to it. When I opened them again, she was standing before me. She was taller than I was, taller than any woman I had ever seen. Her black hair was loose down her back, and her skin shone luminous and impossibly pale, as if it drank light from the moon. She was so close I could smell her, seawater laced with dark brown honey. I did not breathe. I did not dare. “You are Patroclus.” I flinched at the sound of her voice, hoarse and rasping. I had expected chimes, not the grinding of rocks in the surf. “Yes, lady.” Distaste ran over her face. Her eyes were not like a human’s; they were black to their center and flecked with gold. I could not bring myself to meet them. “He will be a god,” she said. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. She leaned forward, and I half-thought she might touch me. But of course she did not. “Do you understand?” I could feel her breath on my cheek, not warm at all, but chilled like the depths of the sea. Do you understand? He had told me that she hated to be kept waiting. “Yes.” She leaned closer still, looming over me. Her mouth was a gash of red, like the torn-open stomach of a sacrifice, bloody and oracular. Behind it her teeth shone sharp and white as bone. “Good.” Carelessly, as if to herself, she added, “You will be dead soon enough.” She turned and dove into the sea, leaving no ripples behind her. I DID NOT GO straight back to the palace. I could not. I went to the olive grove instead, to sit among the twisting trunks and fallen fruits. It was far from the sea. I did not wish to smell the salt now. You will be dead soon enough. She had said it coldly, as a fact. She did not wish me for his companion, but I was not worth killing. To a goddess, the few decades of human life were barely even an inconvenience. And she wished him to be a god. She had spoken it so simply, as if it were obvious. A god. I could not imagine him so. Gods were cold and distant, far off as the moon, nothing like his bright eyes, the warm mischief of his smiles. Her desire was ambitious. It was a difficult thing, to make even a halfgod immortal. True, it had happened before, to Heracles and Orpheus and Orion. They sat in the sky now, presiding as constellations, feasting with the gods on ambrosia. But these men had been the sons of Zeus, their sinews strong with the purest ichor that flowed. Thetis was a lesser of the lesser gods, a sea-nymph only. In our stories these divinities had to work by wheedling and flattery, by favors won from stronger gods. They could not do much themselves. Except live, forever. “WHAT ARE YOU thinking about?” It was Achilles, come to find me. His voice was loud in the quiet grove, but I did not startle. I had half-expected him to come. I had wanted him to. “Nothing,” I said. It was untrue. I guess it always is. He sat down beside me, his feet bare and dusty. “Did she tell you that you would die soon?” I turned to look at him, startled. “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry,” he said. The wind blew the gray leaves above us, and somewhere I heard the soft pat of an olive fall. “She wants you to be a god,” I told him. “I know.” His face twisted with embarrassment, and in spite of itself my heart lightened. It was such a boyish response. And so human. Parents, everywhere. But the question still waited to be asked; I could do nothing until I knew the answer. “Do you want to be—” I paused, struggling, though I had promised myself I wouldn’t. I had sat in the grove, practicing this very question, as I waited for him to find me. “Do you want to be a god?” His eyes were dark in the half-light. I could not make out the gold flecks in the green. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t know what it means, or how it happens.” He looked down at his hands, clasping his knees. “I don’t want to leave here. When would it happen anyway? Soon?” I was at a loss. I knew nothing of how gods were made. I was mortal, only. He was frowning now, his voice louder. “And is there really a place like that? Olympus? She doesn’t even know how she will do it. She pretends she knows. She thinks if I become famous enough . . .” He trailed off. This at least I could follow. “Then the gods will take you voluntarily.” He nodded. But he had not answered my question. “Achilles.” He turned to me, his eyes still filled with frustration, with a sort of angry bewilderment. He was barely twelve. “Do you want to be a god?” It was easier this time. “Not yet,” he said. A tightness I had not known was there eased a little. I would not lose him yet. He cupped a hand against his chin; his features looked finer than usual, like carved marble. “I’d like to be a hero, though. I think I could do it. If the prophecy is true. If there’s a war. My mother says I am better even than Heracles was.” I did not know what to say to this. I did not know if it was motherly bias or fact. I did not care. Not yet. He was silent a moment. Then turned to me, suddenly. “Would you want to be a god?” There, among the moss and olives, it struck me as funny. I laughed and, a moment later, he did too. “I do not think that is likely,” I told him. I stood, put down a hand for him. He took it, pulled himself up. Our tunics were dusty, and my feet tingled slightly with drying sea salt. “There were figs in the kitchen. I saw them,” he said. We were only twelve, too young to brood. “I bet I can eat more than you.” “Race you!” I laughed. We ran. Chapter Seven THE NEXT SUMMER WE TURNED THIRTEEN, HIM FIRST, and then me. Our bodies began to stretch, pulling at our joints till they were aching and weak. In Peleus’ shining bronze mirror, I almost did not recognize myself—lanky and gaunt, stork legs and sharpening chin. Achilles was taller still, seeming to tower above me. Eventually we would be of a height, but he came to his maturity sooner, with a startling speed, primed perhaps by the divinity in his blood. The boys, too, were growing older. Regularly now we heard moans behind closed doors and saw shadows returning to their beds before dawn. In our countries, a man often took a wife before his beard was fully fledged. How much earlier, then, did he take a serving girl? It was expected; very few men came to their marriage beds without having done so. Those who did were unlucky indeed: too weak to compel, too ugly to charm, and too poor to pay. It was customary for a palace to have a full complement of nobly born women as servants for the mistress of the house. But Peleus had no wife in the palace, and so the women we saw were mostly slaves. They had been bought or taken in warfare, or bred from those who were. During the day they poured wine and scrubbed floors and kept the kitchen. At night they belonged to soldiers or foster boys, to visiting kings or Peleus himself. The swollen bellies that followed were not a thing of shame; they were profit: more slaves. These unions were not always rape; sometimes there was mutual satisfaction and even affection. At least that is what the men who spoke of them believed. It would have been easy, infinitely easy, for Achilles or me to have bedded one of these girls ourselves. At thirteen we were almost late to do so, especially him, as princes were known for their appetites. Instead, we watched in silence as the foster boys pulled girls onto their laps, or Peleus summoned the prettiest to his room after dinner. Once, I even heard the king offer her to his son. He answered, almost diffidently: I am tired tonight. Later, as we walked back to our room, he avoided my eyes. And I? I was shy and silent with all but Achilles; I could scarcely speak to the other boys, let alone a girl. As a comrade of the prince, I suppose I would not have had to speak; a gesture or a look would have been enough. But such a thing did not occur to me. The feelings that stirred in me at night seemed strangely distant from those serving girls with their lowered eyes and obedience. I watched a boy fumbling at a girl’s dress, the dull look on her face as she poured his wine. I did not wish for such a thing. ONE NIGHT WE had stayed late in Peleus’ chamber. Achilles was on the floor, an arm thrown beneath his head for a pillow. I sat more formally, in a chair. It was not just because of Peleus. I did not like the sprawling length of my new limbs. The old king’s eyes were half-closed. He was telling us a story. “Meleager was the finest warrior of his day, but also the proudest. He expected the best of everything, and because the people loved him, he received it.” My eyes drifted to Achilles. His fingers were stirring, just barely, in the air. He often did this when he was composing a new song. The story of Meleager, I guessed, as his father told it. “But one day the king of Calydon said, ‘Why must we give so much to Meleager? There are other worthy men in Calydon.’ ” Achilles shifted, and his tunic pulled tight across his chest. That day, I had overheard a serving girl whispering to her friend: “Do you think the prince looked at me, at dinner?” Her tone was one of hope. “Meleager heard the words of the king and was enraged.” This morning he had leapt onto my bed and pressed his nose against mine. “Good morning,” he’d said. I remembered the heat of him against my skin. “He said, ‘I will not fight for you any longer.’ And he went back to his house and sought comfort in the arms of his wife.” I felt a tug on my foot. It was Achilles, grinning at me from the floor. “Calydon had fierce enemies, and when they heard that Meleager would no longer fight for Calydon—” I pushed my foot towards him a little, provokingly. His fingers wrapped around my ankle. “They attacked. And the city of Calydon suffered terrible losses.” Achilles yanked, and I slid half out of the chair. I clung to the wooden frame so I would not be pulled onto the floor. “So the people went to Meleager, to beg him for his help. And— Achilles, are you listening?” “Yes, Father.” “You are not. You are tormenting our poor Skops.” I tried to look tormented. But all I felt was the coolness against my ankle, where his fingers had been, a moment before. “It is just as well, perhaps. I am getting tired. We will finish the story another evening.” We stood and wished the old man good night. But as we turned, he said, “Achilles, you might look for the light-haired girl, from the kitchen. She has been haunting doorways for you, I hear.” It was hard to know if it was the firelight that made his face look so changed. “Perhaps, Father. I am tired tonight.” Peleus chuckled, as if this were a joke. “I’m sure she could wake you up.” He waved us off. I had to trot, a little, to keep up with him as we walked back to our rooms. We washed our faces in silence, but there was an ache in me, like a rotten tooth. I could not let it be. “That girl—do you like her?” Achilles turned to face me from across the room. “Why? Do you?” “No, no.” I flushed. “That is not what I meant.” I had not felt so uncertain with him since the earliest days. “I mean, do you want—” He ran at me, pushed me backwards onto my cot. Leaned over me. “I’m sick of talking about her,” he said. The heat rose up my neck, wrapped fingers over my face. His hair fell around me, and I could smell nothing but him. The grain of his lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from mine. Then, just like that morning, he was gone. Up across the room, and pouring a last cup of water. His face was still, and calm. “Good night,” he said. AT NIGHT, IN BED, images come. They begin as dreams, trailing caresses in my sleep from which I start, trembling. I lie awake, and still they come, the flicker of firelight on a neck, the curve of a hipbone, drawing downwards. Hands, smooth and strong, reaching to touch me. I know those hands. But even here, behind the darkness of my eyelids, I cannot name the thing I hope for. During the days I grow restless, fidgety. But all my pacing, singing, running does not keep them at bay. They come, and will not be stopped. IT IS SUMMER, one of the first fine days. We are on the beach after lunch, our backs to a sloping piece of driftwood. The sun is high, and the air warm around us. Beside me, Achilles shifts, and his foot falls open against mine. It is cool, and chafed pink from the sand, soft from a winter indoors. He hums something, a piece of a song he had played earlier. I turn to look at him. His face is smooth, without the blotches and spots that have begun to afflict the other boys. His features are drawn with a firm hand; nothing awry or sloppy, nothing too large—all precise, cut with the sharpest of knives. And yet the effect itself is not sharp. He turns and finds me looking at him. “What?” he says. “Nothing.” I can smell him. The oils that he uses on his feet, pomegranate and sandalwood; the salt of clean sweat; the hyacinths we had walked through, their scent crushed against our ankles. Beneath it all is his own smell, the one I go to sleep with, the one I wake up to. I cannot describe it. It is sweet, but not just. It is strong but not too strong. Something like almond, but that still is not right. Sometimes, after we have wrestled, my own skin smells like it. He puts a hand down, to lean against. The muscles in his arms curve softly, appearing and disappearing as he moves. His eyes are deep green on mine. My pulse jumps, for no reason I can name. He has looked at me a thousand thousand times, but there is something different in this gaze, an intensity I do not know. My mouth is dry, and I can hear the sound of my throat as I swallow. He watches me. It seems that he is waiting. I shift, an infinitesimal movement, towards him. It is like the leap from a waterfall. I do not know, until then, what I am going to do. I lean forward and our lips land clumsily on each other. They are like the fat bodies of bees, soft and round and giddy with pollen. I can taste his mouth—hot and sweet with honey from dessert. My stomach trembles, and a warm drop of pleasure spreads beneath my skin. More. The strength of my desire, the speed with which it flowers, shocks me; I flinch and startle back from him. I have a moment, only a moment, to see his face framed in the afternoon light, his lips slightly parted, still halfforming a kiss. His eyes are wide with surprise. I am horrified. What have I done? But I do not have time to apologize. He stands and steps backwards. His face has closed over, impenetrable and distant, freezing the explanations in my mouth. He turns and races, the fastest boy in the world, up the beach and away. My side is cold with his absence. My skin feels tight, and my face, I know, is red and raw as a burn. Dear gods, I think, let him not hate me. I should have known better than to call upon the gods. WHEN I TURNED THE CORNER onto the garden path, she was there, sharp and knife-bright. A blue dress clung to her skin as if damp. Her dark eyes held mine, and her fingers, chill and unearthly pale, reached for me. My feet knocked against each other as she lifted me from the earth. “I have seen,” she hissed. The sound of waves breaking on stone. I could not speak. She held me by the throat. “He is leaving.” Her eyes were black now, dark as sea-wet rocks, and as jagged. “I should have sent him long ago. Do not try to follow.” I could not breathe now. But I did not struggle. That much, at least, I knew. She seemed to pause, and I thought she might speak again. She did not. Only opened her hand and released me, boneless, to the ground. A mother’s wishes. In our countries, they were not worth much. But she was a goddess, first and always. When I returned to the room, it was already dark. I found Achilles sitting on his bed, staring at his feet. His head lifted, almost hopefully, as I came to the doorway. I did not speak; his mother’s black eyes still burned in front of me, and the sight of his heels, flashing up the beach. Forgive me, it was a mistake. This is what I might have dared to say then, if it had not been for her. I came into the room, sat on my own bed. He shifted, his eyes flicking to mine. He did not resemble her the way that children normally look like a parent, a tilt of chin, the shape of an eye. It was something in his movements, in his luminous skin. Son of a goddess. What had I thought would happen? Even from where I sat I could smell the sea on him. “I’m supposed to leave tomorrow,” he said. It was almost an accusation. “Oh,” I said. My mouth felt swollen and numb, too thick to form words. “I’m going to be taught by Chiron.” He paused, then added. “He taught Heracles. And Perseus.” Not yet, he had said to me. But his mother had chosen differently. He stood and pulled off his tunic. It was hot, full summer, and we were accustomed to sleeping naked. The moon shone on his belly, smooth, muscled, downed with light brown hairs that darkened as they ran below his waist. I averted my eyes. The next morning, at dawn, he rose and dressed. I was awake; I had not slept. I watched him through the fringes of my eyelids, feigning sleep. From time to time he glanced at me; in the dim half-light his skin glowed gray and smooth as marble. He slung his bag over his shoulder and paused, a last time, at the door. I remember him there, outlined in the stone frame, his hair falling loose, still untidy from sleep. I closed my eyes, and a moment passed. When I opened them again, I was alone. Chapter Eight BY BREAKFAST, EVERYONE KNEW HE WAS GONE. THEIR glances and whispers followed me to the table, lingered as I reached for food. I chewed and swallowed, though the bread sat like a stone in my stomach. I yearned to be away from the palace; I wanted the air. I walked to the olive grove, the earth dry beneath my feet. I halfwondered if I was expected to join the boys, now that he was gone. I halfwondered if anyone would notice whether I did. I half-hoped they would. Whip me, I thought. I could smell the sea. It was everywhere, in my hair, in my clothes, in the sticky damp of my skin. Even here in the grove, amidst the must of leaves and earth, the unwholesome salty decay still found me. My stomach heaved a moment, and I leaned against the scabbed trunk of a tree. The rough bark pricked my forehead, steadying me. I must get away from this smell, I thought. I walked north, to the palace road, a dusty strip worn smooth by wagon wheels and horses’ hooves. A little beyond the palace yard it divided. One half ran south and west, through grass and rocks and low hills; that was the way I had come, three years ago. The other half twisted northwards, towards Mount Othrys and then beyond, to Mount Pelion. I traced it with my eyes. It skirted the wooded foothills for some time before disappearing within them. The sun bore down on me, hot and hard in the summer sky, as if it would drive me back to the palace. Yet I lingered. I had heard they were beautiful, our mountains—pears and cypress and streams of just-melted ice. It would be cool there and shaded. Far away from the diamond-bright beaches, and the flashing of the sea. I could leave. The thought was sudden, arresting. I had come to the road meaning only to escape the sea. But the path lay before me, and the mountains. And Achilles. My chest rose and fell rapidly, as if trying to keep pace with my thoughts. I had nothing that belonged to me, not a tunic, not a sandal; they were Peleus’ all. I do not need to pack, even. Only my mother’s lyre, kept in the wooden chest within the inner room, stayed me. I hesitated a moment, thinking I might try to go back, to take it with me. But it was already midday. I had only the afternoon to travel, before they would discover my absence— so I flattered myself—and send after me. I glanced back at the palace and saw no one. The guards were elsewhere. Now. It must be now. I ran. Away from the palace, down the path towards the woods, feet stinging as they slapped the heat-baked ground. As I ran, I promised myself that if I ever saw him again, I would keep my thoughts behind my eyes. I had learned, now, what it would cost me if I did not. The ache in my legs, the knifing heaves of my chest felt clean and good. I ran. Sweat slicked my skin, fell upon the earth beneath my feet. I grew dirty, then dirtier. Dust and broken bits of leaves clung to my legs. The world around me narrowed to the pounding of my feet and the next dusty yard of road. Finally, after an hour? Two? I could go no farther. I bent over in pain, the bright afternoon sun wavering to black, the rush of blood deafening in my ears. The path was heavily wooded now, on both sides, and Peleus’ palace was a long way behind me. To my right loomed Othrys, with Pelion just beyond it. I stared at its peak and tried to guess how much farther. Ten thousand paces? Fifteen? I began to walk. Hours passed. My muscles grew wobbly and weak, my feet jumbled together. The sun was well across the zenith now, hanging low in the western sky. I had four, perhaps five, hours until dark, and the peak was as far as ever. Suddenly, I understood: I would not reach Pelion by nightfall. I had no food, nor water, nor hope of shelter. I had nothing but the sandals on my feet and the soaked tunic on my back. I would not catch up to Achilles, I was sure of that now. He had left the road and his horse long ago, was now moving up the slopes on foot. A good tracker would have observed the woods beside the road, could have seen where the bracken was bent or torn, where a boy had made a path. But I was not a good tracker, and the scrub by the road looked all the same to me. My ears buzzed dully— with cicadas, with the shrill calls of birds, with the rasp of my own breath. There was an ache in my stomach, like hunger or despair. And then there was something else. The barest sound, just at the limit of hearing. But I caught it, and my skin, even in the heat, went cold. I knew that sound. It was the sound of stealth, of a man attempting silence. It had been just the smallest misstep, the giving way of a single leaf, but it had been enough. I strained to listen, fear jumping in my throat. Where had it come from? My eyes tracked the woods on either side. I dared not move; any sound would echo loudly up the slopes. I had not thought of dangers as I ran, but now my mind tumbled with them: soldiers, sent by Peleus or Thetis herself, white hands cold as sand on my throat. Or bandits. I knew that they waited by roads, and I remembered stories of boys taken and kept until they died of misuse. My fingers pinched themselves white as I tried to still all breath, all movement, to give nothing away. My gaze caught on a thick clutch of blooming yarrow that could hide me. Now. Go. There was movement from the woods at my side, and I jerked my head towards it. Too late. Something—someone—struck me from behind, throwing me forward. I landed heavily, facedown on the ground, with the person already on top of me. I closed my eyes and waited for a knife. There was nothing. Nothing but silence and the knees that pinned my back. A moment passed, and it came to me that the knees were not so very heavy and were placed so that their pressure did not hurt. “Patroclus.” Pa-tro-clus. I did not move. The knees lifted, and hands reached down to turn me, gently, over. Achilles was looking down at me. “I hoped that you would come,” he said. My stomach rolled, awash with nerves and relief at once. I drank him in, the bright hair, the soft curve of his lips upwards. My joy was so sharp I did not dare to breathe. I do not know what I might have said then. I’m sorry, perhaps. Or perhaps something more. I opened my mouth. “Is the boy hurt?” A deep voice spoke from behind us both. Achilles’ head turned. From where I was, beneath him, I could see only the legs of the man’s horse— chestnut, fetlocks dulled with dust. The voice again, measured and deliberate. “I am assuming, Achilles Pelides, that this is why you have not yet joined me on the mountain?” My mind groped towards understanding. Achilles had not gone to Chiron. He had waited, here. For me. “Greetings, Master Chiron, and my apologies. Yes, it is why I have not come.” He was using his prince’s voice. “I see.” I wished that Achilles would get up. I felt foolish here, on the ground beneath him. And I was also afraid. The man’s voice showed no anger, but it showed no kindness, either. It was clear and grave and dispassionate. “Stand up,” it said. Slowly, Achilles rose. I would have screamed then, if my throat had not closed over with fear. Instead I made a noise like a half-strangled yelp and scrambled backwards. The horse’s muscular legs ended in flesh, the equally muscular torso of a man. I stared—at that impossible suture of horse and human, where smooth skin became a gleaming brown coat. Beside me Achilles bowed his head. “Master Centaur,” he said. “I am sorry for the delay. I had to wait for my companion.” He knelt, his clean tunic in the dusty earth. “Please accept my apologies. I have long wished to be your student.” The man’s—centaur’s—face was serious as his voice. He was older, I saw, with a neatly trimmed black beard. He regarded Achilles a moment. “You do not need to kneel to me, Pelides. Though I appreciate the courtesy. And who is this companion that has kept us both waiting?” Achilles turned back to me and reached a hand down. Unsteadily, I took it and pulled myself up. “This is Patroclus.” There was a silence, and I knew it was my turn to speak. “My lord,” I said. And bowed. “I am not a lord, Patroclus Menoitiades.” My head jerked up at the sound of my father’s name. “I am a centaur, and a teacher of men. My name is Chiron.” I gulped and nodded. I did not dare to ask how he knew my name. His eyes surveyed me. “You are overtired, I think. You need water and food, both. It is a long way to my home on Pelion, too long for you to walk. So we must make other arrangements.” He turned then, and I tried not to gawk at the way his horse legs moved beneath him. “You will ride on my back,” the centaur said. “I do not usually offer such things on first acquaintance. But exceptions must be made.” He paused. “You have been taught to ride, I suppose?” We nodded, quickly. “That is unfortunate. Forget what you learned. I do not like to be squeezed by legs or tugged at. The one in front will hold on to my waist, the one behind will hold on to him. If you feel that you are going to fall, speak up.” Achilles and I exchanged a look, quickly. He stepped forward. “How should I— ?” “I will kneel.” His horse legs folded themselves into the dust. His back was broad and lightly sheened with sweat. “Take my arm for balance,” the centaur instructed. Achilles did, swinging his leg over and settling himself. It was my turn. At least I would not be in front, so close to that place where skin gave way to chestnut coat. Chiron offered me his arm, and I took it. It was muscled and large, thickly covered with black hair that was nothing like the color of his horse half. I seated myself, my legs stretched across that wide back, almost to discomfort. Chiron said, “I will stand now.” The motion was smooth, but still I grabbed for Achilles. Chiron was half as high again as a normal horse, and my feet dangled so far above the ground it made me dizzy. Achilles’ hands rested loosely on Chiron’s trunk. “You will fall, if you hold so lightly,” the centaur said. My fingers grew damp with sweat from clutching Achilles’ chest. I dared not relax them, even for a moment. The centaur’s gait was less symmetrical than a horse’s, and the ground was uneven. I slipped alarmingly upon the sweat-slick horsehair. There was no path I could see, but we were rising swiftly upwards through the trees, carried along by Chiron’s sure, unslowing steps. I winced every time a jounce caused my heels to kick into the centaur’s sides. As we went, Chiron pointed things out to us, in that same steady voice. There is Mount Othrys. The cypress trees are thicker here, on the north side, you can see. This stream feeds the Apidanos River that runs through Phthia’s lands. Achilles twisted back to look at me, grinning. We climbed higher still, and the centaur swished his great black tail, swatting flies for all of us. CHIRON STOPPED SUDDENLY, and I jerked forward into Achilles’ back. We were in a small break in the woods, a grove of sorts, half encircled by a rocky outcrop. We were not quite at the peak, but we were close, and the sky was blue and glowing above us. “We are here.” Chiron knelt, and we stepped off his back, a bit unsteadily. In front of us was a cave. But to call it that is to demean it, for it was not made of dark stone, but pale rose quartz. “Come,” the centaur said. We followed him through the entrance, high enough so that he did not need to stoop. We blinked, for it was shadowy inside, though lighter than it should have been, because of the crystal walls. At one end was a small spring that seemed to drain away inside the rock. On the walls hung things I did not recognize: strange bronze implements. Above us on the cave’s ceiling, lines and specks of dye shaped the constellations and the movements of the heavens. On carved shelves were dozens of small ceramic jars covered with slanted markings. Instruments hung in one corner, lyres and flutes, and next to them tools and cooking pots. There was a single human-sized bed, thick and padded with animal skins, made up for Achilles. I did not see where the centaur slept. Perhaps he did not. “Sit now,” he said. It was pleasantly cool inside, perfect after the sun, and I sank gratefully onto one of the cushions Chiron indicated. He went to the spring and filled cups, which he brought to us. The water was sweet and fresh. I drank as Chiron stood over me. “You will be sore and tired tomorrow,” he told me. “But it will be better if you eat.” He ladled out stew, thick with chunks of vegetables and meat, from a pot simmering over a small fire at the back of the cave. There were fruits, too, round red berries that he kept in a hollowed outcropping of rock. I ate quickly, surprised at how hungry I was. My eyes kept returning to Achilles, and I tingled with the giddy buoyancy of relief. I have escaped. With my new boldness, I pointed to some of the bronze tools on the wall. “What are those?” Chiron sat across from us, his horse-legs folded beneath him. “They are for surgery,” he told me. “Surgery?” It was not a word I knew. “Healing. I forget the barbarities of the low countries.” His voice was neutral and calm, factual. “Sometimes a limb must go. Those are for cutting, those for suturing. Often by removing some, we may save the rest.” He watched me staring at them, taking in the sharp, saw-toothed edges. “Do you wish to learn medicine?” I flushed. “I don’t know anything about it.” “You answer a different question than the one I asked.” “I’m sorry, Master Chiron.” I did not want to anger him. He will send me back. “There is no need to be sorry. Simply answer.” I stammered a little. “Yes. I would like to learn. It seems useful, does it not?” “It is very useful,” Chiron agreed. He turned to Achilles, who had been following the conversation. “And you, Pelides? Do you also think medicine is useful?” “Of course,” Achilles said. “Please do not call me Pelides. Here I am—I am just Achilles.” Something passed through Chiron’s dark eyes. A flicker that was almost amusement. “Very well. Do you see anything you wish to know of?” “Those.” Achilles was pointing to the musical instruments, the lyres and flutes and seven-stringed kithara. “Do you play?” Chiron’s gaze was steady. “I do.” “So do I,” said Achilles. “I have heard that you taught Heracles and Jason, thick-fingered though they were. Is it true?” “It is.” I felt a momentary unreality: he knew Heracles and Jason. Had known them as children. “I would like you to teach me.” Chiron’s stern face softened. “That is why you have been sent here. So that I may teach you what I know.” IN THE LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT, Chiron guided us through the ridges near the cave. He showed us where the mountain lions had their dens, and where the river was, slow and sun-warm, for us to swim. “You may bathe, if you like.” He was looking at me. I had forgotten how grimy I was, sweat-stained and dusty from the road. I ran a hand through my hair and felt the grit. “I will too,” Achilles said. He pulled off his tunic and, a moment after, I followed. The water was cool in the depths, but not unpleasantly so. From the bank Chiron taught still: “Those are loaches, do you see? And perch. That is a vimba, you will not find it farther south. You may know it by the upturned mouth and silver belly.” His words mingled with the sound of the river over its rocks, soothing any strangeness there might have been between Achilles and me. There was something in Chiron’s face, firm and calm and imbued with authority, that made us children again, with no world beyond this moment’s play and this night’s dinner. With him near us, it was hard to remember what might have happened on the day by the beach. Even our bodies felt smaller beside the centaur’s bulk. How had we thought we were grown? We emerged from the water sweet and clean, shaking our hair in the last of the sun. I knelt by the bank and used stones to scrub the dirt and sweat from my tunic. I would have to be naked until it dried, but so far did Chiron’s influence stretch that I thought nothing of it. We followed Chiron back to the cave, our wrung-dry tunics draped over our shoulders. He stopped occasionally, to point out the trails of hare and corncrakes and deer. He told us we would hunt for them, in days to come, and learn to track. We listened, questioning him eagerly. At Peleus’ palace there had been only the dour lyre-master for a teacher, or Peleus himself, half-drowsing as he spoke. We knew nothing of forestry or the other skills Chiron had spoken of. My mind went back to the implements on the cave’s wall, the herbs and tools of healing. Surgery was the word he had used. It was almost full dark when we reached the cave again. Chiron gave us easy tasks, gathering wood and kindling the fire in the clearing at the cave’s mouth. After it caught, we lingered by the flames, grateful for their steady warmth in the cooling air. Our bodies were pleasantly tired, heavy from our exertions, and our legs and feet tangled comfortably as we sat. We talked about where we’d go tomorrow, but lazily, our words fat and slow with contentment. Dinner was more stew, and a thin type of bread that Chiron cooked on bronze sheets over the fire. For dessert, berries with mountaingathered honey. As the fire dwindled, my eyes closed in half-dreaming. I was warm, and the ground beneath me was soft with moss and fallen leaves. I could not believe that only this morning I had woken in Peleus’ palace. This small clearing, the gleaming walls of the cave within, were more vivid than the pale white palace had ever been. Chiron’s voice, when it came, startled me. “I will tell you that your mother has sent a message, Achilles.” I felt the muscles of Achilles’ arm tense against me. I felt my own throat tighten. “Oh? What did she say?” His words were careful, neutral. “She said that should the exiled son of Menoitius follow you, I was to bar him from your presence.” I sat up, all drowsiness gone. Achilles’ voice swung carelessly in the dark. “Did she say why?” “She did not.” I closed my eyes. At least I would not be humiliated before Chiron, the tale of the day at the beach told. But it was bare comfort. Chiron continued, “I assume you knew of her feelings on the matter. I do not like to be deceived.” My face flushed, and I was glad of the darkness. The centaur’s voice sounded harder than it had before. I cleared my throat, rusty and suddenly dry. “I’m sorry,” I heard myself say. “It is not Achilles’ fault. I came on my own. He did not know that I would. I did not think—” I stopped myself. “I hoped she would not notice.” “That was foolish of you.” Chiron’s face was deep in shadow. “Chiron—” Achilles began, bravely. The centaur held up a hand. “As it happens, the message came this morning, before either of you arrived. So despite your foolishness, I was not deceived.” “You knew?” This was Achilles. I would never have spoken so boldly. “Then you have decided? You will disregard her message?” Chiron’s voice held a warning of displeasure. “She is a goddess, Achilles, and your mother besides. Do you think so little of her wishes?” “I honor her, Chiron. But she is wrong in this.” His hands were balled so tightly I could see the tendons, even in the low light. “And why is she wrong, Pelides?” I watched him through the darkness, my stomach clenching. I did not know what he might say. “She feels that—” He faltered a moment, and I almost did not breathe. “That he is a mortal and not a fit companion.” “Do you think he is?” Chiron asked. His voice gave no hint of the answer. “Yes.” My cheeks warmed. Achilles, his jaw jutting, had thrown the word back with no hesitation. “I see.” The centaur turned to me. “And you, Patroclus? You are worthy?” I swallowed. “I do not know if I am worthy. But I wish to stay.” I paused, swallowed again. “Please.” There was silence. Then Chiron said, “When I brought you both here, I had not decided yet what I would do. Thetis sees many faults, some that are and some that are not.” His voice was unreadable again. Hope and despair flared and died in me by turns. “She is also young and has the prejudices of her kind. I am older and flatter myself that I can read a man more clearly. I have no objection to Patroclus as your companion.” My body felt hollow in its relief, as if a storm had gone through. “She will not be pleased, but I have weathered the anger of gods before.” He paused. “And now it is late, and time for you to sleep.” “Thank you, Master Chiron.” Achilles’ voice, earnest and vigorous. We stood, but I hesitated. “I just want—” My fingers twitched towards Chiron. Achilles understood and disappeared into the cave. I turned to face the centaur. “I will leave, if there will be trouble.” There was a long silence, and I almost thought he had not heard me. At last, he said: “Do not let what you gained this day be so easily lost.” Then he bade me good night, and I turned to join Achilles in the cave. Chapter Nine THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE TO THE SOFT SOUNDS OF Chiron getting breakfast ready. The pallet was thick beneath me; I had slept well, and deeply. I stretched, startling a little when my limbs bumped against Achilles, still asleep beside me. I watched him a moment, rosy cheeks and steady breaths. Something tugged at me, just beneath my skin, but then Chiron lifted a hand in greeting from across the cave, and I lifted one shyly in return, and it was forgotten. That day, after we ate, we joined Chiron for his chores. It was easy, pleasurable work: collecting berries, catching fish for dinner, setting quail snares. The beginning of our studies, if it is possible to call them that. For Chiron liked to teach, not in set lessons, but in opportunities. When the goats that wandered the ridges took ill, we learned how to mix purgatives for their bad stomachs, and when they were well again, how to make a poultice that repelled their ticks. When I fell down a ravine, fracturing my arm and tearing open my knee, we learned how to set splints, clean wounds, and what herbs to give against infection. On a hunting trip, after we had accidentally flushed a corncrake from its nest, he taught us how to move silently and how to read the scuffles of tracks. And when we had found the animal, the best way to aim a bow or sling so that death was quick. If we were thirsty and had no waterskin, he would teach us about the plants whose roots carried beads of moisture. When a mountain-ash fell, we learned carpentry, splitting off the bark, sanding and shaping the wood that was left. I made an axe handle, and Achilles the shaft of a spear; Chiron said that soon we would learn to forge the blades for such things. Every evening and every morning we helped with meals, churning the thick goat’s milk for yogurt and cheese, gutting fish. It was work we had never been allowed to do before, as princes, and we fell upon it eagerly. Following Chiron’s instructions, we watched in amazement as butter formed before our eyes, at the way pheasant eggs sizzled and solidified on fire-warmed rocks. After a month, over breakfast, Chiron asked us what else we wished to learn. “Those.” I pointed to the instruments on the wall. For surgery, he had said. He took them down for us, one by one. “Careful. The blade is very sharp. It is for when there is rot in the flesh that must be cut. Press the skin around the wound, and you will hear a crackle.” Then he had us trace the bones in our own bodies, running a hand over the ridging vertebrae of each other’s backs. He pointed with his fingers, teaching the places beneath the skin where the organs lodged. “A wound in any of them will eventually be fatal. But death is quickest here.” His finger tapped the slight concavity of Achilles’ temple. A chill went through me to see it touched, that place where Achilles’ life was so slenderly protected. I was glad when we spoke of other things. At night we lay on the soft grass in front of the cave, and Chiron showed us the constellations, telling their stories— Andromeda, cowering before the sea monster’s jaws, and Perseus poised to rescue her; the immortal horse Pegasus, aloft on his wings, born from the severed neck of Medusa. He told us too of Heracles, his labors, and the madness that took him. In its grip he had not recognized his wife and children, and had killed them for enemies. Achilles asked, “How could he not recognize his wife?” “That is the nature of madness,” Chiron said. His voice sounded deeper than usual. He had known this man, I remembered. Had known the wife. “But why did the madness come?” “The gods wished to punish him,” Chiron answered. Achilles shook his head, impatiently. “But this was a greater punishment for her. It was not fair of them.” “There is no law that gods must be fair, Achilles,” Chiron said. “And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. Do you think?” “Perhaps,” Achilles admitted. I listened and did not speak. Achilles’ eyes were bright in the firelight, his face drawn sharply by the flickering shadows. I would know it in dark or disguise, I told myself. I would know it even in madness. “Come,” said Chiron. “Have I told you the legend of Aesclepius, and how he came to know the secrets of healing?” He had, but we wanted to hear it again, the story of how the hero, son of Apollo, had spared a snake’s life. The snake had licked his ears clean in gratitude, so that he might hear her whisper the secrets of herbs to him. “But you were the one who really taught him healing,” Achilles said. “I was.” “You do not mind that the snake gets all the credit?” Chiron’s teeth showed through his dark beard. A smile. “No, Achilles, I do not mind.” Later Achilles would play the lyre, as Chiron and I listened. My mother’s lyre. He had brought it with him. “I wish I had known,” I said the first day, when he had showed it to me. “I almost did not come, because I did not want to leave it.” He smiled. “Now I know how to make you follow me everywhere.” The sun sank below Pelion’s ridges, and we were happy. TIME PASSED QUICKLY on Mount Pelion, days slipping by in idyll. The mountain air was cold now in the mornings when we woke, and warmed only reluctantly in the thin sunlight that filtered through the dying leaves. Chiron gave us furs to wear, and hung animal skins from the cave’s entrance to keep the warmth in. During the days we collected wood for winter fires, or salted meat for preserving. The animals had not yet gone to their dens, but they would soon, Chiron said. In the mornings, we marveled at the frost-etched leaves. We knew of snow from bards and stories; we had never seen it. One morning, I woke to find Chiron gone. This was not unusual. He often rose before we did, to milk the goats or pick fruits for breakfast. I left the cave so that Achilles might sleep, and sat to wait for Chiron in the clearing. The ashes of last night’s fire were white and cold. I stirred them idly with a stick, listening to the woods around me. A quail muttered in the underbrush, and a mourning dove called. I heard the rustle of groundcover, from the wind or an animal’s careless weight. In a moment I would get more wood and rekindle the fire. The strangeness began as a prickling of my skin. First the quail went silent, then the dove. The leaves stilled, and the breeze died, and no animals moved in the brush. There was a quality to the silence like a held breath. Like the rabbit beneath the hawk’s shadow. I could feel my pulse striking my skin. Sometimes, I reminded myself, Chiron did small magics, tricks of divinity, like warming water or calming animals. “Chiron?” I called. My voice wavered, thinly. “Chiron?” “It is not Chiron.” I turned. Thetis stood at the edge of the clearing, her bone-white skin and black hair bright as slashes of lightning. The dress she wore clung close to her body and shimmered like fish-scale. My breath died in my throat. “You were not to be here,” she said. The scrape of jagged rocks against a ship’s hull. She stepped forward, and the grass seemed to wilt beneath her feet. She was a sea-nymph, and the things of earth did not love her. “I’m sorry,” I managed, my voice a dried leaf, rattling in my throat. “I warned you,” she said. The black of her eyes seemed to seep into me, fill my throat to choking. I could not have cried out if I’d dared to. A noise behind me, and then Chiron’s voice, loud in the quiet. “Greetings, Thetis.” Warmth surged back into my skin, and breath returned. I almost ran to him. But her gaze held me there, unwavering. I did not doubt she could reach me if she wished. “You are frightening the boy,” Chiron said. “He does not belong here,” she said. Her lips were red as newly spilled blood. Chiron’s hand landed firmly on my shoulder. “Patroclus,” he said. “You will return to the cave now. I will speak with you later.” I stood, unsteadily, and obeyed. “You have lived too long with mortals, Centaur,” I heard her say before the animal skins closed behind me. I sagged against the cave’s wall; my throat tasted brackish and raw. “Achilles,” I said. His eyes opened, and he was beside me before I could speak again. “Are you all right?” “Your mother is here,” I said. I saw the tightening of muscle beneath his skin. “She did not hurt you?” I shook my head. I did not add that I thought she wanted to. That she might have, if Chiron had not come. “I must go,” he said. The skins whispered against each other as they parted for him, then slipped shut again. I could not hear what was said in the clearing. Their voices were low, or perhaps they had gone to speak elsewhere. I waited, tracing spirals in the packed earth floor. I did not worry, any longer, for myself. Chiron meant to keep me, and he was older than she was, full grown when the gods still rocked in their cradles, when she had been only an egg in the womb of the sea. But there was something else, less easy to name. A loss, or lessening, that I feared her presence might bring. It was almost midday when they returned. My gaze went to Achilles’ face first, searching his eyes, the set of his mouth. I saw nothing but perhaps a touch of tiredness. He threw himself onto the pallet beside me. “I’m hungry,” he said. “As well you should be,” Chiron said. “It is much past lunch.” He was already preparing food for us, maneuvering in the cave’s space easily despite his bulk. Achilles turned to me. “It is all right,” he said. “She just wanted to speak to me. To see me.” “She will come to speak with him again,” Chiron said. And as if he knew what I thought, he added, “As is proper. She is his mother.” She is a goddess first, I thought. Yet as we ate, my fears eased. I had half-worried she might have told Chiron of the day by the beach, but he was no different towards either of us, and Achilles was the same as he always was. I went to bed, if not at peace, at least reassured. She came more often after that day, as Chiron had said she would. I learned to listen for it—a silence that dropped like a curtain— and knew to stay close to Chiron then, and the cave. The intrusion was not much, and I told myself I did not begrudge her. But I was always glad when she was gone again. WINTER CAME, and the river froze. Achilles and I ventured onto it, feet slipping. Later, we cut circles from it and dropped lines for fishing. It was the only fresh meat we had; the forests were empty of all but mice and the occasional marten. Snows came, as Chiron had promised they would. We lay on the ground and let the flakes cover us, blowing them with our breath till they melted. We had no boots, nor cloaks other than Chiron’s furs, and were glad of the cave’s warmth. Even Chiron donned a shaggy overshirt, sewed from what he said was bearskin. We counted the days after the first snowfall, marking them off with lines on a stone. “When you reach fifty,” Chiron said, “the river’s ice will begin to crack.” The morning of the fiftieth day we heard it, a strange sound, like a tree falling. A seam had split the frozen surface nearly from bank to bank. “Spring will come soon now,” Chiron said. It was not long after that the grass began to grow again, and the squirrels emerged lean and whip-thin from their burrows. We followed them, eating our breakfasts in the new-scrubbed spring air. It was on one of these mornings that Achilles asked Chiron if he would teach us to fight. I do not know what made him think of this then. A winter indoors, with not enough exercise perhaps, or the visit from his mother, the week before. Perhaps neither. Will you teach us to fight? There was a pause so brief I almost might have imagined it, before Chiron answered, “If you wish it, I will teach you.” Later that day, he took us to a clearing, high on a ridge. He had spearhafts and two practice swords for us, taken from storage in some corner of the cave. He asked us each to perform the drills that we knew. I did, slowly, the blocks and strikes and footwork I had learned in Phthia. To my side, just at the corner of my vision, Achilles’ limbs blurred and struck. Chiron had brought a bronze-banded staff, and he interposed it occasionally into our passes, probing with it, testing our reactions. It seemed to go on for a long time, and my arms grew sore with lifting and placing the point of the sword. At last Chiron called a stop. We drank deep from waterskins and lay back on the grass. My chest was heaving. Achilles’ was steady. Chiron was silent, standing in front of us. “Well, what do you think?” Achilles was eager, and I remembered that Chiron was only the fourth person to have ever seen him fight. I did not know what I expected the centaur to say. But it was not what followed. “There is nothing I can teach you. You know all that Heracles knew, and more. You are the greatest warrior of your generation, and all the generations before.” A flush stained Achilles’ cheeks. I could not tell if it was embarrassment or pleasure or both. “Men will hear of your skill, and they will wish for you to fight their wars.” He paused. “What will you answer?” “I do not know,” Achilles said. “That is an answer for now. It will not be good enough later,” Chiron said. There was a silence then, and I felt the tightness in the air around us. Achilles’ face, for the first time since we had come, looked pinched and solemn. “What about me?” I asked. Chiron’s dark eyes moved to rest on mine. “You will never gain fame from your fighting. Is this surprising to you?” His tone was matter-of-fact, and somehow that eased the sting of it. “No,” I said truthfully. “Yet it is not beyond you to be a competent soldier. Do you wish to learn this?” I thought of the boy’s dulled eyes, how quickly his blood had soaked the ground. I thought of Achilles, the greatest warrior of his generation. I thought of Thetis who would take him from me, if she could. “No,” I said. And that was the end of our lessons in soldiery. SPRING PASSED INTO SUMMER, and the woods grew warm and abundant, lush with game and fruit. Achilles turned fourteen, and messengers brought gifts for him from Peleus. It was strange to see them here, in their uniforms and palace colors. I watched their eyes, flickering over me, over Achilles, over Chiron most of all. Gossip was dear in the palace, and these men would be received like kings when they returned. I was glad to see them shoulder their empty trunks and be gone. The gifts were welcome—new lyre strings and fresh tunics, spun from the finest wool. There was a new bow as well, and arrows tipped with iron. We fingered their metal, the keen-edged points that would bring down our dinners in days to come. Some things were less useful—cloaks stiff with inlaid gold that would give the owner’s presence away at fifty paces, and a jewel-studded belt, too heavy to wear for anything practical. There was a horsecoat as well, thickly embroidered, meant to adorn the mount of a prince. “I hope that is not for me,” Chiron said, lifting an eyebrow. We tore it up for compresses and bandages and scrub cloths; the rough material was perfect for pulling up crusted dirt and food. That afternoon, we lay on the grass in front of the cave. “It has been almost a year since we came,” Achilles said. The breeze was cool against our skin. “It does not feel so long,” I answered. I was half-sleepy, my eyes lost in the tilting blue of the afternoon sky. “Do you miss the palace?” I thought of his father’s gifts, the servants and their gazes, the whispering gossip they would bring back to the palace. “No,” I said. “I don’t either,” he said. “I thought I might, but I don’t.” The days turned, and the months, and two years passed. Chapter Ten IT WAS SPRING, AND WE WERE FIFTEEN. THE WINTER ICE HAD lasted longer than usual, and we were glad to be outside once more, beneath the sun. Our tunics were discarded, and our skin prickled in the light breeze. I had not been so naked all winter; it had been too cold to take off our furs and cloaks, beyond quick washes in the hollowed-out rock that served as our bath. Achilles was stretching, rolling limbs that were stiff from too long indoors. We had spent the morning swimming and chasing game through the forest. My muscles felt wearily content, glad to be used again. I watched him. Other than the unsteady surface of the river, there were no mirrors on Mount Pelion, so I could only measure myself by the changes in Achilles. His limbs were still slender, but I could see the muscles in them now, rising and falling beneath his skin as he moved. His face, too, was firmer, and his shoulders broader than they had been. “You look older,” I said. He stopped, turned to me. “I do?” “Yes.” I nodded. “Do I?” “Come over here,” he said. I stood, walked to him. He regarded me a moment. “Yes,” he said. “How?” I wanted to know. “A lot?” “Your face is different,” he said. “Where?” He touched my jaw with his right hand, drew his fingertips along it. “Here. Your face is wider than it once was.” I reached up with my own hand, to see if I could feel this difference, but it was all the same to me, bone and skin. He took my hand and brought it down to my collarbone. “You are wider here also,” he said. “And this.” His finger touched, gently, the soft bulb that had emerged from my throat. I swallowed, and felt his fingertip ride against the motion. “Where else?” I asked. He pointed to the trail of fine, dark hair that ran down my chest and over my stomach. He paused, and my face grew warm. “That’s enough,” I said, more abruptly than I meant to. I sat again on the grass, and he resumed his stretches. I watched the breeze stir his hair; I watched the sun fall on his golden skin. I leaned back and let it fall on me as well. After some time, he stopped and came to sit beside me. We watched the grass, and the trees, and the nubs of new buds, just growing. His voice was remote, almost careless. “You would not be displeased, I think. With how you look now.” My face grew warm, again. But we spoke no more of it. WE WERE ALMOST SIXTEEN. Soon Peleus’ messengers would come with gifts; soon the berries would ripen, the fruits would blush and fall into our hands. Sixteen was our last year of childhood, the year before our fathers named us men, and we would begin to wear not just tunics but capes and chitons as well. A marriage would be arranged for Achilles, and I might take a wife, if I wished to. I thought again of the serving girls with their dull eyes. I remembered the snatches of conversation I had overheard from the boys, the talk of breasts and hips and coupling. She’s like cream, she’s that soft. Once her thighs are around you, you’ll forget your own name. The boys’ voices had been sharp with excitement, their color high. But when I tried to imagine what they spoke of, my mind slid away, like a fish who would not be caught. Other images came in their stead. The curve of a neck bent over a lyre, hair gleaming in firelight, hands with their flickering tendons. We were together all day, and I could not escape: the smell of the oils he used on his feet, the glimpses of skin as he dressed. I would wrench my gaze from him and remember the day on the beach, the coldness in his eyes and how he ran from me. And, always, I remembered his mother. I began to go off by myself, early in the mornings, when Achilles still slept, or in the afternoons, when he would practice his spear thrusts. I brought a flute with me, but rarely played it. Instead I would find a tree to lean against and breathe the sharp drift of cypress-scent, blown from the highest part of the mountain. Slowly, as if to escape my own notice, my hand would move to rest between my thighs. There was shame in this thing that I did, and a greater shame still in the thoughts that came with it. But it would be worse to think them inside the rose-quartz cave, with him beside me. It was difficult sometimes, after, to return to the cave. “Where were you?” he’d ask. “Just—” I’d say, and point vaguely. He’d nod. But I knew he saw the flush that colored my cheeks. THE SUMMER GREW HOTTER, and we sought the river’s shade, its water that threw off arcs of light as we splashed and dove. The rocks of the bottom were mossy and cool, rolling beneath my toes as I waded. We shouted, and frightened the fish, who fled to their muddy holes or quieter waters upstream. The rushing ice melt of spring was gone; I lay on my back and let the dozy current carry me. I liked the feel of the sun on my stomach and the cool depths of the river beneath me. Achilles floated beside me or swam against the slow tug of the river’s flow. When we tired of this, we would seize the low-hanging branches of the osiers and hoist ourselves half-out of the water. On this day we kicked at each other, our legs tangling, trying to dislodge the other, or perhaps climb onto their branch. On an impulse, I released my branch and seized him around his hanging torso. He let out an ooph of surprise. We struggled that way for a moment, laughing, my arms wrapped around him. Then there was a sharp cracking sound, and his branch gave way, plunging us into the river. The cool water closed over us, and still we wrestled, hands against slippery skin. When we surfaced, we were panting and eager. He leapt for me, bearing me down through the clear water. We grappled, emerged to gasp air, then sank again. At length, our lungs burning, our faces red from too long underwater, we dragged ourselves to the bank and lay there amidst the sedge-grass and marshy weeds. Our feet sank into the cool mud of the water’s edge. Water still streamed from his hair, and I watched it bead, tracing across his arms and the lines of his chest. ON THE MORNING of his sixteenth birthday I woke early. Chiron had showed me a tree on Pelion’s far slope that had figs just ripening, the first of the season. Achilles did not know of it, the centaur assured me. I watched them for days, their hard green knots swelling and darkening, growing gravid with seed. And now I would pick them for his breakfast. It wasn’t my only gift. I had found a seasoned piece of ash and began to fashion it secretly, carving off its soft layers. Over nearly two months a shape had emerged—a boy playing the lyre, head raised to the sky, mouth open, as if he were singing. I had it with me now, as I walked. The figs hung rich and heavy on the tree, their curved flesh pliant to my touch—two days later and they would be too ripe. I gathered them in a carved-wood bowl and bore them carefully back to the cave. Achilles was sitting in the clearing with Chiron, a new box from Peleus resting unopened at his feet. I saw the quick widening of his eyes as he took in the figs. He was on his feet, eagerly reaching into the bowl before I could even set it down beside him. We ate until we were stuffed, our fingers and chins sticky with sweetness. The box from Peleus held more tunics and lyre strings, and this time, for his sixteenth birthday, a cloak dyed with the expensive purple from the murex’s shell. It was the cape of a prince, of a future king, and I saw that it pleased him. It would look good on him, I knew, the purple seeming richer still beside the gold of his hair. Chiron, too, gave presents—a staff for hiking, and a new belt-knife. And last, I passed him the statue. He examined it, his fingertips moving over the small marks my knife had left behind. “It’s you,” I said, grinning foolishly. He looked up, and there was bright pleasure in his eyes. “I know,” he said. ONE EVENING, not long after, we stayed late beside the fire’s embers. Achilles had been gone for much of the afternoon—Thetis had come and kept him longer even than usual. Now he was playing my mother’s lyre. The music was quiet and bright as the stars over our heads. Next to me, I heard Chiron yawn, settle more deeply onto his folded legs. A moment later the lyre ceased, and Achilles’ voice came loud in the darkness. “Are you weary, Chiron?” “I am.” “Then we will leave you to your rest.” He was not usually so quick to go, nor to speak for me, but I was tired myself and did not object. He rose and bade Chiron good night, turning for the cave. I stretched, soaked up a few more moments of firelight, and followed. Inside the cave, Achilles was already in bed, his face damp from a wash at the spring. I washed too, the water cool across my forehead. He said, “You didn’t ask me about my mother’s visit yet.” I said, “How is she?” “She is well.” This was the answer he always gave. It was why I sometimes did not ask him. “Good.” I lifted a handful of water, to rinse the soap off my face. We made it from the oil of olives, and it still smelled faintly of them, rich and buttery. Achilles spoke again. “She says she cannot see us here.” I had not been expecting him to say more. “Hmmm?” “She cannot see us here. On Pelion.” There was something in his voice, a strain. I turned to him. “What do you mean?” His eyes studied the ceiling. “She says—I asked her if she watches us here.” His voice was high. “She says, she does not.” There was silence in the cave. Silence, but for the sound of the slowly draining water. “Oh,” I said. “I wished to tell you. Because—” He paused. “I thought you would wish to know. She—” He hesitated again. “She was not pleased that I asked her.” “She was not pleased,” I repeated. I felt dizzy, my mind turning and turning through his words. She cannot see us. I realized that I was standing half-frozen by the water basin, the towel still raised to my chin. I forced myself to put down the cloth, to move to the bed. There was a wildness in me, of hope and terror. I pulled back the covers and lay down on bedding already warm from his skin. His eyes were still fixed on the ceiling. “Are you—pleased with her answer?” I said, finally. “Yes,” he said. We lay there a moment, in that strained and living silence. Usually at night we would tell each other jokes or stories. The ceiling above us was painted with the stars, and if we grew tired of talking, we would point to them. “Orion,” I would say, following his finger. “The Pleiades.” But tonight there was nothing. I closed my eyes and waited, long minutes, until I guessed he was asleep. Then I turned to look at him. He was on his side, watching me. I had not heard him turn. I never hear him. He was utterly motionless, that stillness that was his alone. I breathed, and was aware of the bare stretch of dark pillow between us. He leaned forward. Our mouths opened under each other, and the warmth of his sweetened throat poured into mine. I could not think, could not do anything but drink him in, each breath as it came, the soft movements of his lips. It was a miracle. I was trembling, afraid to put him to flight. I did not know what to do, what he would like. I kissed his neck, the span of his chest, and tasted the salt. He seemed to swell beneath my touch, to ripen. He smelled like almonds and earth. He pressed against me, crushing my lips to wine. He went still as I took him in my hand, soft as the delicate velvet of petals. I knew Achilles’ golden skin and the curve of his neck, the crooks of his elbows. I knew how pleasure looked on him. Our bodies cupped each other like hands. The blankets had twisted around me. He shucked them from us both. The air over my skin was a shock, and I shivered. He was outlined against the painted stars; Polaris sat on his shoulder. His hand slipped over the quickened rise and fall of my belly’s breathing. He stroked me gently, as though smoothing finest cloth, and my hips lifted to his touch. I pulled him to me, and trembled and trembled. He was trembling, too. He sounded as though he had been running far and fast. I said his name, I think. It blew through me; I was hollow as a reed hung up for the wind to sound. There was no time that passed but our breaths. I found his hair between my fingers. There was a gathering inside me, a beat of blood against the movement of his hand. His face was pressed against me, but I tried to clutch him closer still. Do not stop, I said. He did not stop. The feeling gathered and gathered till a hoarse cry leapt from my throat, and the sharp flowering drove me, arching, against him. It was not enough. My hand reached, found the place of his pleasure. His eyes closed. There was a rhythm he liked, I could feel it, the catch of his breath, the yearning. My fingers were ceaseless, following each quickening gasp. His eyelids were the color of the dawn sky; he smelled like earth after rain. His mouth opened in an inarticulate cry, and we were pressed so close that I felt the spurt of his warmth against me. He shuddered, and we lay still. Slowly, like dusk-fall, I became aware of my sweat, the dampness of the covers, and the wetness that slid between our bellies. We separated, peeling away from each other, our faces puffy and half-bruised from kisses. The cave smelled hot and sweet, like fruit beneath the sun. Our eyes met, and we did not speak. Fear rose in me, sudden and sharp. This was the moment of truest peril, and I tensed, fearing his regret. He said, “I did not think—” And stopped. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to hear what he had not said. “What?” I asked him. If it is bad, let it be over quickly. “I did not think that we would ever—” He was hesitating over every word, and I could not blame him. “I did not think so either,” I said. “Are you sorry?” The words were quickly out of him, a single breath. “I am not,” I said. “I am not either.” There was silence then, and I did not care about the damp pallet or how sweaty I was. His eyes were unwavering, green flecked with gold. A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me. If I had had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth. As if he had heard me, he reached for my hand. I did not need to look; his fingers were etched into my memory, slender and petal-veined, strong and quick and never wrong. “Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I. THE NEXT MORNING I awoke light-headed, my body woozy with warmth and ease. After the tenderness had come more passion; we had been slower then, and lingering, a dreamy night that stretched on and on. Now, watching him stir beside me, his hand resting on my stomach, damp and curled as a flower at dawn, I was nervous again. I remembered in a rush the things I had said and done, the noises I had made. I feared that the spell was broken, that the light that crept through the cave’s entrance would turn it all to stone. But then he was awake, his lips forming a half-sleepy greeting, and his hand was already reaching for mine. We lay there, like that, until the cave was bright with morning, and Chiron called. We ate, then ran to the river to wash. I savored the miracle of being able to watch him openly, to enjoy the play of dappled light on his limbs, the curving of his back as he dove beneath the water. Later, we lay on the riverbank, learning the lines of each other’s bodies anew. This, and this and this. We were like gods at the dawning of the world, and our joy was so bright we could see nothing else but the other. IF CHIRON NOTICED a change, he did not speak of it. But I could not help worrying. “Do you think he will be angry?” We were by the olive grove on the north side of the mountain. The breezes were sweetest here, cool and clean as springwater. “I don’t think he will.” He reached for my collarbone, the line he liked to draw his finger down. “But he might. Surely he must know by now. Should we say something?” It was not the first time I had wondered this. We had discussed it often, eager with conspiracy. “If you like.” That is what he had said before. “You don’t think he will be angry?” He paused now, considering. I loved this about him. No matter how many times I had asked, he answered me as if it were the first time. “I don’t know.” His eyes met mine. “Does it matter? I would not stop.” His voice was warm with desire. I felt an answering flush across my skin. “But he could tell your father. He might be angry.” I said it almost desperately. Soon my skin would grow too warm, and I would no longer be able to think. “So what if he is?” The first time he had said something like this, I had been shocked. That his father might be angry and Achilles would still do as he wished—it was something I did not understand, could barely imagine. It was like a drug to hear him say it. I never tired of it. “What about your mother?” This was the trinity of my fears—Chiron, Peleus, and Thetis. He shrugged. “What could she do? Kidnap me?” She could kill me, I thought. But I did not say this. The breeze was too sweet, and the sun too warm for a thought like that to be spoken. He studied me a moment. “Do you care if they are angry?” Yes. I would be horrified to find Chiron upset with me. Disapproval had always burrowed deep in me; I could not shake it off as Achilles did. But I would not let it separate us, if it came to that. “No,” I told him. “Good,” he said. I reached down to stroke the wisps of hair at his temple. He closed his eyes. I watched his face, tipped up to meet the sun. There was a delicacy to his features that sometimes made him look younger than he was. His lips were flushed and full. His eyes opened. “Name one hero who was happy.” I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason’s children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus’ back. “You can’t.” He was sitting up now, leaning forward. “I can’t.” “I know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. “I swear it,” he echoed. We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned. “I feel like I could eat the world raw.” A trumpet blew, somewhere on the slopes beneath us. It was abrupt and ragged, as if sounded in warning. Before I could speak or move, he was on his feet, his dagger out, slapped up from the sheath on his thigh. It was only a hunting knife, but in his hands it would be enough. He stood poised, utterly still, listening with all of his half-god senses. I had a knife, too. Quietly, I reached for it and stood. He had placed himself between me and the sound. I did not know if I should go to him, stand beside him with my own weapon lifted. In the end, I did not. It had been a soldier’s trumpet, and battle, as Chiron had so bluntly said, was his gift, not mine. The trumpet sounded again. We heard the swish of underbrush, tangled by a pair of feet. One man. Perhaps he was lost, perhaps in danger. Achilles took a step towards the sound. As if in answer, the trumpet came again. Then a voice bawled up the mountain, “Prince Achilles!” We froze. “Achilles! I am here for Prince Achilles!” Birds burst from the trees, fleeing the clamor. “From your father,” I whispered. Only a royal herald would have known where to call for us. Achilles nodded, but seemed strangely reluctant to answer. I imagined how hard his pulse would be beating; he had been prepared to kill a moment ago. “We are here!” I shouted into the cupped palms of my hand. The noise stopped for a moment. “Where?” “Can you follow my voice?” He could, though poorly. It was some time before he stepped forward into the clearing. His face was scratched, and he had sweated through his palace tunic. He knelt with ill grace, resentfully. Achilles had lowered the knife, though I saw how tightly he still held it. “Yes?” His voice was cool. “Your father summons you. There is urgent business at home.” I felt myself go still, as still as Achilles had been a moment before. If I stayed still enough, perhaps we would not have to go. “What sort of business?” Achilles asked. The man had recovered himself, somewhat. He remembered he was speaking to a prince. “My lord, your pardon, I do not know all of it. Messengers came to Peleus from Mycenae with news. Your father plans to speak tonight to the people, and wishes you to be there. I have horses for you below.” There was a moment of silence. Almost, I thought Achilles would decline. But at last he said, “Patroclus and I will need to pack our things.” On the way back to the cave and Chiron, Achilles and I speculated about the news. Mycenae was far to our south, and its king was Agamemnon, who liked to call himself a lord of men. He was said to have the greatest army of all our kingdoms. “Whatever it is, we’ll only be gone for a night or two,” Achilles told me. I nodded, grateful to hear him say it. Just a few days. Chiron was waiting for us. “I heard the shouts,” the centaur said. Achilles and I, knowing him well, recognized the disapproval in his voice. He did not like the peace of his mountain disturbed. “My father has summoned me home,” Achilles said, “just for tonight. I expect I will be back soon.” “I see,” Chiron said. He seemed larger than usual, standing there, hooves dull against the bright grass, his chestnut-colored flanks lit by the sun. I wondered if he would be lonely without us. I had never seen him with another centaur. We asked him about them once, and his face had gone stiff. “Barbarians,” he’d said. We gathered our things. I had almost nothing to bring with me, some tunics, a flute. Achilles had only a few possessions more, his clothes, and some spearheads he had made, and the statue I had carved for him. We placed them in leather bags and went to say our farewells to Chiron. Achilles, always bolder, embraced the centaur, his arms encircling the place where the horse flank gave way to flesh. The messenger, waiting behind me, shifted. “Achilles,” Chiron said, “do you remember when I asked you what you would do when men wanted you to fight?” “Yes,” said Achilles. “You should consider your answer,” Chiron said. A chill went through me, but I did not have time to think on it. Chiron was turning to me. “Patroclus,” he said, a summons. I walked forward, and he placed his hand, large and warm as the sun, on my head. I breathed in the scent that was his alone, horse and sweat and herbs and forest. His voice was quiet. “You do not give things up so easily now as you once did,” he said. I did not know what to say to this, so I said, “Thank you.” A trace of smile. “Be well.” Then his hand was gone, leaving my head chilled in its absence. “We will be back soon,” Achilles said, again. Chiron’s eyes were dark in the slanting afternoon light. “I will look for you,” he said. We shouldered our bags and left the cave’s clearing. The sun was already past the meridian, and the messenger was impatient. We moved quickly down the hill and climbed on the horses that waited for us. A saddle felt strange after so many years on foot, and the horses unnerved me. I halfexpected them to speak, but of course they could not. I twisted in my seat to look back at Pelion. I hoped that I might be able to see the rose-quartz cave, or maybe Chiron himself. But we were too far. I turned to face the road and allowed myself to be led to Phthia. Chapter Eleven THE LAST BIT OF SUN WAS FLARING ON THE WESTERN horizon as we passed the boundary stone that marked the palace grounds. We heard the cry go up from the guards, and an answering trumpet. We crested the hill, and the palace lay before us; behind it brooded the sea. And there on the house’s threshold, sudden as lightning-strike, stood Thetis. Her hair shone black against the white marble of the palace. Her dress was dark, the color of an uneasy ocean, bruising purples mixed with churning grays. Somewhere beside her there were guards, and Peleus, too, but I did not look at them. I saw only her, and the curved knife’s blade of her jaw. “Your mother,” I whispered to Achilles. I could have sworn her eyes flashed over me as if she had heard. I swallowed and forced myself onward. She will not hurt me; Chiron has said she will not. It was strange to see her among mortals; she made all of them, guards and Peleus alike, look bleached and wan, though it was her skin that was pale as bone. She stood well away from them, spearing the sky with her unnatural height. The guards lowered their eyes in fear and deference. Achilles swung down from his horse, and I followed. Thetis drew him into an embrace, and I saw the guards shifting their feet. They were wondering what her skin felt like; they were glad they did not know. “Son of my womb, flesh of my flesh, Achilles,” she said. The words were not spoken loudly but they carried through the courtyard. “Be welcome home.” “Thank you, Mother,” Achilles said. He understood that she was claiming him. We all did. It was proper for a son to greet his father first; mothers came second, if at all. But she was a goddess. Peleus’ mouth had tightened, but he said nothing. When she released him, he went to his father. “Be welcome, son,” Peleus said. His voice sounded weak after his goddess-wife’s, and he looked older than he had been. Three years we had been away. “And be welcome also, Patroclus.” Everyone turned to me, and I managed a bow. I was aware of Thetis’ gaze, raking over me. It left my skin stinging, as if I had gone from the briar patch to the ocean. I was glad when Achilles spoke. “What is the news, Father?” Peleus eyed the guards. Speculation and rumor must be racing down every corridor. “I have not announced it, and I do not mean to until everyone is gathered. We were waiting on you. Come and let us begin.” We followed him into the palace. I wanted to speak to Achilles but did not dare to; Thetis walked right behind us. Servants skittered from her, huffing in surprise. The goddess. Her feet made no sound as they moved over the stone floors. THE GREAT DINING HALL was crammed full of tables and benches. Servants hurried by with platters of food or lugged mixing bowls brimming with wine. At the front of the room was a dais, raised. This is where Peleus would sit, beside his son and wife. Three places. My cheeks went red. What had I expected? Even amidst the noise of the preparations Achilles’ voice seemed loud. “Father, I do not see a place for Patroclus.” My blush went even deeper. “Achilles,” I began in a whisper. It does not matter, I wanted to say. I will sit with the men; it is all right. But he ignored me. “Patroclus is my sworn companion. His place is beside me.” Thetis’ eyes flickered. I could feel the heat in them. I saw the refusal on her lips. “Very well,” Peleus said. He gestured to a servant and a place was added for me, thankfully at the opposite side of the table from Thetis. Making myself as small as I could, I followed Achilles to our seats. “She’ll hate me now,” I said. “She already hates you,” he answered, with a flash of smile. This did not reassure me. “Why has she come?” I whispered. Only something truly important would have drawn her here from her caves in the sea. Her loathing for me was nothing to what I saw on her face when she looked at Peleus. He shook his head. “I do not know. It is strange. I have not seen them together since I was a boy.” I remembered Chiron’s parting words to Achilles: you should consider your answer. “Chiron thinks the news will be war.” Achilles frowned. “But there is always war in Mycenae. I do not see why we should have been called.” Peleus sat, and a herald blew three short blasts upon his trumpet. The signal for the meal to begin. Normally it took several minutes for the men to gather, dawdling on the practice fields, drawing out the last bit of whatever they were doing. But this time they came like a flood after the breaking of the winter’s ice. Quickly, the room was swollen with them, jostling for seats and gossiping. I heard the edge in their voices, a rising excitement. No one bothered to snap at a servant or kick aside a begging dog. There was nothing on their minds but the man from Mycenae and the news he had brought. Thetis was seated also. There was no plate for her, no knife: the gods lived on ambrosia and nectar, on the savor of our burnt offerings, and the wine we poured over their altars. Strangely, she was not so visible here, so blazing as she had been outside. The bulky, ordinary furniture seemed to diminish her, somehow. Peleus stood. The room quieted, out to the farthest benches. He lifted his cup. “I have received word from Mycenae, from the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus.” The final stirrings and murmurs ceased, utterly. Even the servants stopped. I did not breathe. Beneath the table, Achilles pressed his leg to mine. “There has been a crime.” He paused again, as if he were weighing what he would say. “The wife of Menelaus, Queen Helen, has been abducted from the palace in Sparta.” Helen! The hushed whisper of men to their neighbors. Since her marriage the tales of her beauty had grown still greater. Menelaus had built around her palace walls thick with double-layered rock; he had trained his soldiers for a decade to defend it. But, for all his care, she had been stolen. Who had done it? “Menelaus welcomed an embassy sent from King Priam of Troy. At its head was Priam’s son, the prince Paris, and it is he who is responsible. He stole the queen of Sparta from her bedchamber while the king slept.” A rumble of outrage. Only an Easterner would so dishonor the kindness of his host. Everyone knew how they dripped with perfume, were corrupt from soft living. A real hero would have taken her outright, with the strength of his sword. “Agamemnon and Mycenae appeal to the men of Hellas to sail to the kingdom of Priam for her rescue. Troy is rich and will be easily taken, they say. All who fight will come home wealthy and renowned.” This was well worded. Wealth and reputation were the things our people had always killed for. “They have asked me to send a delegation of men from Phthia, and I have agreed.” He waited for the murmuring to settle before adding, “Though I will not take any man who does not wish to go. And I will not lead the army myself.” “Who will lead it?” someone shouted. “That is not yet determined,” Peleus said. But I saw his eyes flicker to his son. No, I thought. My hand tightened on the edge of the chair. Not yet. Across from me Thetis’ face was cool and still, her eyes distant. She knew this was coming, I realized. She wants him to go. Chiron and the rose cave seemed impossibly far away; a childish idyll. I understood, suddenly, the weight of Chiron’s words: war was what the world would say Achilles was born for. That his hands and swift feet were fashioned for this alone—the cracking of Troy’s mighty walls. They would throw him among thousands of Trojan spears and watch with triumph as he stained his fair hands red. Peleus gestured to Phoinix, his oldest friend, at one of the first tables. “Lord Phoinix will note the names of all who wish to fight.” There was a movement at the benches, as men started to rise. But Peleus held up his hand. “There is more.” He lifted a piece of linen, dark with dense markings. “Before Helen’s betrothal to King Menelaus, she had many suitors. It seems these suitors swore an oath to protect her, whosoever might win her hand. Agamemnon and Menelaus now charge these men to fulfill their oath and bring her back to her rightful husband.” He handed the linen sheet to the herald. I stared. An oath. In my mind, the sudden image of a brazier, and the spill of blood from a white goat. A rich hall, filled with towering men. The herald lifted the list. The room seemed to tilt, and my eyes would not focus. He began to read. Antenor. Eurypylus. Machaon. I recognized many of the names; we all did. They were the heroes and kings of our time. But they were more to me than that. I had seen them, in a stone chamber heavy with fire-smoke. Agamemnon. A memory of a thick black beard; a brooding man with narrowed, watchful eyes. Odysseus. The scar that wrapped his calf, pink as gums. Ajax. Twice as large as any man in the room, with his huge shield behind him. Philoctetes, the bowman. Menoitiades. The herald paused a moment, and I heard the murmur: who? My father had not distinguished himself in the years since my exile. His fame had diminished; his name was forgotten. And those who did know him had never heard of a son. I sat frozen, afraid to move lest I give myself away. I am bound to this war. The herald cleared his throat. Idomeneus. Diomedes. “Is that you? You were there?” Achilles had turned back to face me. His voice was low, barely audible, but still I feared that someone might hear it. I nodded. My throat was too dry for words. I had thought only of Achilles’ danger, of how I would try to keep him here, if I could. I had not even considered myself. “Listen. It is not your name anymore. Say nothing. We will think what to do. We will ask Chiron.” Achilles never spoke like that, each word cutting off the next in haste. His urgency brought me back to myself, a little, and I took heart from his eyes on mine. I nodded again. The names kept coming, and memories came with them. Three women on a dais, and one of them Helen. A pile of treasure, and my father’s frown. The stone beneath my knees. I had thought I dreamt it. I had not. When the herald had finished, Peleus dismissed the men. They stood as one, benches scraping, eager to get to Phoinix to enlist. Peleus turned to us. “Come. I would speak further with you both.” I looked to Thetis, to see if she would come too, but she was gone. WE SAT BY PELEUS’ FIRESIDE; he had offered us wine, barely watered. Achilles refused it. I took a cup, but did not drink. The king was in his old chair, the one closest to the fire, with its cushions and high back. His eyes rested on Achilles. “I have called you home with the thought that you might wish to lead this army.” It was spoken. The fire popped; its wood was green. Achilles met his father’s gaze. “I have not finished yet with Chiron.” “You have stayed on Pelion longer than I did, than any hero before.” “That does not mean I must run to help the sons of Atreus every time they lose their wives.” I thought Peleus might smile at that, but he did not. “I do not doubt that Menelaus rages at the loss of his wife, but the messenger came from Agamemnon. He has watched Troy grow rich and ripe for years, and now thinks to pluck her. The taking of Troy is a feat worthy of our greatest heroes. There may be much honor to be won from sailing with him.” Achilles’ mouth tightened. “There will be other wars.” Peleus did not nod, exactly. But I saw him register the truth of it. “What of Patroclus, then? He is called to serve.” “He is no longer the son of Menoitius. He is not bound by the oath.” Pious Peleus raised an eyebrow. “There is some shuffling there.” “I do not think so.” Achilles lifted his chin. “The oath was undone when his father disowned him.” “I do not wish to go,” I said, softly. Peleus regarded us both for a moment. Then he said, “Such a thing is not for me to decide. I will leave it to you.” I felt the tension slide from me a little. He would not expose me. “Achilles, men are coming here to speak with you, kings sent by Agamemnon.” Outside the window, I heard the ocean’s steady whisper against the sand. I could smell the salt. “They will ask me to fight,” Achilles said. It was not a question. “They will.” “You wish me to give them audience.” “I do.” There was quiet again. Then Achilles said, “I will not dishonor them, or you. I will hear their reasons. But I say to you that I do not think they will convince me.” I saw that Peleus was surprised, a little, by his son’s certainty, but not displeased. “That is also not for me to decide,” he said mildly. The fire popped again, spitting out its sap. Achilles knelt, and Peleus placed one hand on his head. I was used to seeing Chiron do this, and Peleus’ hand looked withered by comparison, threaded with trembling veins. It was hard to remember, sometimes, that he had been a warrior, that he had walked with gods. ACHILLES’ ROOM was as we had left it, except for the cot, which had been removed in our absence. I was glad; it was an easy excuse, in case anyone asked why we shared a bed. We reached for each other, and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence. Later, Achilles pressed close for a final, drowsy whisper. “If you have to go, you know I will go with you.” We slept. Chapter Twelve I WOKE TO THE RED OF MY EYELIDS STRAINING OUT THE SUN. I was cold, my right shoulder exposed to the breezes of the window, the one that faced the sea. The space beside me on the bed was empty, but the pillow still held the shape of him, and the sheets smelled of us both. I had spent so many mornings alone in this room, as he visited his mother, I did not think it was strange to find him gone. My eyes closed, and I sank again into the trailing thoughts of dreams. Time passed, and the sun came hot over the windowsill. The birds were up, and the servants, and even the men. I heard their voices from the beach and the practice hall, the rattle and bang of chores. I sat up. His sandals were overturned beside the bed, forgotten. It was not unusual; he went barefoot most places. He had gone to breakfast, I guessed. He was letting me sleep. Half of me wanted to stay in the room until his return, but that was cowardice. I had a right to a place by his side now, and I would not let the eyes of the servants drive me away. I pulled on my tunic and left to find him. HE WAS NOT IN the great hall, busy with servants removing the same platters and bowls there had always been. He was not in Peleus’ council chamber, hung with purple tapestry and the weapons of former Phthian kings. And he was not in the room where we used to play the lyre. The trunk that had once kept our instruments sat forlorn in the room’s center. He was not outside, either, in the trees he and I had climbed. Or by the sea, on the jutting rocks where he waited for his mother. Nor on the practice field where men sweated through drills, clacking their wooden swords. I do not need to say that my panic swelled, that it became a live thing, slippery and deaf to reason. My steps grew hurried; the kitchen, the basement, the storerooms with their amphorae of oil and wine. And still I did not find him. It was midday when I sought out Peleus’ room. It was a sign of the size of my unease that I went at all: I had never spoken to the old man alone before. The guards outside stopped me when I tried to enter. The king was at rest, they said. He was alone and would see no one. “But is Achilles—” I gulped, trying not to make a spectacle of myself, to feed the curiosity I saw in their eyes. “Is the prince with him?” “He is alone,” one of them repeated. I went to Phoinix next, the old counselor who had looked after Achilles when he was a boy. I was almost choking with fear as I walked to his stateroom, a modest square chamber at the palace’s heart. He had clay tablets in front of him, and on them the men’s marks from the night before, angular and crisscrossing, pledging their arms to the war against Troy. “The prince Achilles—” I said. I spoke haltingly, my voice thick with panic. “I cannot find him.” He looked up with some surprise. He had not heard me come in the room; his hearing was poor, and his eyes when they met mine were rheumy and opaque with cataract. “Peleus did not tell you then.” His voice was soft. “No.” My tongue was like a stone in my mouth, so big I could barely speak around it. “I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “His mother has him. She took him last night as he was sleeping. They are gone, no one knows where.” Later I would see the red marks where my nails had dug through my palms. No one knows where. To Olympus perhaps, where I could never follow. To Africa, or India. To some village where I would not think to look. Phoinix’s gentle hands guided me back to my room. My mind twisted desperately from thought to thought. I would return to Chiron and seek counsel. I would walk the countryside, calling his name. She must have drugged him, or tricked him. He would not have gone willingly. As I huddled in our empty room, I imagined it: the goddess leaning over us, cold and white beside the warmth of our sleeping bodies. Her fingernails prick into his skin as she lifts him, her neck is silvery in the window’s moonlight. His body lolls on her shoulder, sleeping or spelled. She carries him from me as a soldier might carry a corpse. She is strong; it takes only one of her hands to keep him from falling. I did not wonder why she had taken him. I knew. She had wanted to separate us, the first chance she had, as soon as we were out of the mountains. I was angry at how foolish we had been. Of course she would do this; why had I thought we would be safe? That Chiron’s protection would extend here, where it never had before. She would take him to the caves of the sea and teach him contempt for mortals. She would feed him with the food of the gods and burn his human blood from his veins. She would shape him into a figure meant to be painted on vases, to be sung of in songs, to fight against Troy. I imagined him in black armor, a dark helmet that left him nothing but eyes, bronze greaves that covered his feet. He stands with a spear in each hand and does not know me. Time folded in on itself, closed over me, buried me. Outside my window, the moon moved through her shapes and came up full again. I slept little and ate less; grief pinned me to the bed like an anchor. It was only my pricking memory of Chiron that finally drove me forth. You do not give up so easily as you once did. I went to Peleus. I knelt before him on a wool rug, woven bright with purple. He started to speak, but I was too quick for him. One of my hands went to clasp his knees, the other reached upwards, to seize his chin with my hand. The pose of supplication. It was a gesture I had seen many times, but had never made myself. I was under his protection now; he was bound to treat me fairly, by the law of the gods. “Tell me where he is,” I said. He did not move. I could hear the muffled batter of his heart against his chest. I had not realized how intimate supplication was, how closely we would be pressed. His ribs were sharp beneath my cheek; the skin of his legs was soft and thin with age. “I do not know,” he said, and the words echoed down the chamber, stirring the guards. I felt their eyes on my back. Suppliants were rare in Phthia; Peleus was too good a king for such desperate measures. I pulled at his chin, tugging his face to mine. He did not resist. “I do not believe you,” I said. A moment passed. “Leave us,” he said. The words were for the guards. They shuffled their feet, but obeyed. We were alone. He leaned forward, down to my ear. He whispered, “Scyros.” A place, an island. Achilles. When I stood, my knees ached, as if I had been kneeling a long time. Perhaps I had. I do not know how many moments passed between us in that long hall of Phthian kings. Our eyes were level now, but he would not meet my gaze. He had answered me because he was a pious man, because I had asked him as a suppliant, because the gods demanded it. He would not have otherwise. There was a dullness in the air between us, and something heavy, like anger. “I will need money,” I told him. I do not know where these words came from. I had never spoken so before, to anyone. But I had nothing left to lose. “Speak to Phoinix. He will give it to you.” I nodded my head, barely. I should have done much more. I should have knelt again and thanked him, rubbed my forehead on his expensive rug. I didn’t. Peleus moved to stare out the open window; the sea was hidden by the house’s curve, but we could both hear it, the distant hiss of waves against sand. “You may go,” he told me. He meant it to be cold, I think, and dismissive; a displeased king to his subject. But all I heard was his weariness. I nodded once more and left. THE GOLD THAT Phoinix gave me would have carried me to Scyros and back twice over. The ship’s captain stared when I handed it to him. I saw his eyes flicking over it, weighing its worth, counting what it could buy him. “You will take me?” My eagerness displeased him. He did not like to see desperation in those who sought passage; haste and a free hand spoke of hidden crimes. But the gold was too much for him to object. He made a noise, grudging, of acceptance, and sent me to my berth. I had never been at sea before and was surprised at how slow it was. The boat was a big-bellied trader, making its lazy rounds of the islands, sharing the fleece, oil, and carved furniture of the mainland with the more isolated kingdoms. Every night we put in at a different port to refill our water pots and unload our stores. During the days I stood at the ship’s prow, watching the waves fall away from our black-tarred hull, waiting for the sight of land. At another time I would have been enchanted with it all: the names of the ship’s parts, halyard, mast, stern; the color of the water; the scrubbed-clean smell of the winds. But I barely noticed these things. I thought only of the small island flung out somewhere in front of me, and the fair-haired boy I hoped I would find there. THE BAY OF SCYROS was so small that I did not see it until we had swung around the rocky island’s southern rim and were almost upon it. Our ship narrowly squeezed between its extending arms, and the sailors leaned over the sides to watch the rocks slide by, holding their breath. Once we were inside, the water was utterly calm, and the men had to row us the rest of the way. The confines were difficult to maneuver; I did not envy the captain’s voyage out. “We are here,” he told me, sullenly. I was already walking for the gangway. The cliff face rose sharply in front of me. There was a path of steps carved into the rock, coiling up to the palace, and I took them. At their top were scrubby trees and goats, and the palace, modest and dull, made half from stone and half from wood. If it had not been the only building in sight, I might not have known it for the king’s home. I went to the door and entered. The hall was narrow and dim, the air dingy with the smell of old dinners. At the far end two thrones sat empty. A few guards idled at tables, dicing. They looked up. “Well?” one asked me. “I am here to see King Lycomedes,” I said. I lifted my chin, so they would know I was a man of some importance. I had worn the finest tunic I could find—one of Achilles’. “I’ll go,” another one said to his fellows. He dropped his dice with a clatter and slumped out of the hall. Peleus would never have allowed such disaffection; he kept his men well and expected much from them in return. Everything about the room seemed threadbare and gray. The man reappeared. “Come,” he said. I followed him, and my heart picked up. I had thought long about what I would say. I was ready. “In here.” He gestured to an open door, then turned to go back to his dice. I stepped through the doorway. Inside, seated before the wispy remains of a fire, sat a young woman. “I am the princess Deidameia,” she announced. Her voice was bright and almost childishly loud, startling after the dullness of the hall. She had a tipped-up nose and a sharp face, like a fox. She was pretty, and she knew it. I summoned my manners and bowed. “I am a stranger, come for a kindness from your father.” “Why not a kindness from me?” She smiled, tilting her head. She was surprisingly small; I guessed she would barely be up to my chest if she stood. “My father is old and ill. You may address your petition to me, and I will answer it.” She affected a regal pose, carefully positioned so the window lit her from behind. “I am looking for my friend.” “Oh?” Her eyebrow lifted. “And who is your friend?” “A young man,” I said, carefully. “I see. We do have some of those here.” Her tone was playful, full of itself. Her dark hair fell down her back in thick curls. She tossed her head a little, making it swing, and smiled at me again. “Perhaps you’d like to start with telling me your name?” “Chironides,” I said. Son of Chiron. She wrinkled her nose at the name’s strangeness. “Chironides. And?” “I am seeking a friend of mine, who would have arrived here perhaps a month ago. He is from Phthia.” Something flashed in her eyes, or maybe I imagined it did. “And why do you seek him?” she asked. I thought that her tone was not so light as it had been. “I have a message for him.” I wished very much that I had been led to the old and ill king, rather than her. Her face was like quicksilver, always racing to something new. She unsettled me. “Hmmm. A message.” She smiled coyly, tapped her chin with a painted fingertip. “A message for a friend. And why should I tell you if I know this young man or not?” “Because you are a powerful princess, and I am your humble suitor.” I knelt. This pleased her. “Well, perhaps I do know such a man, and perhaps I do not. I will have to think on it. You will stay for dinner and await my decision. If you are lucky, I may even dance for you, with my women.” She cocked her head, suddenly. “You have heard of Deidameia’s women?” “I am sorry to say that I have not.” She made a moue of displeasure. “All the kings send their daughters here for fostering. Everyone knows that but you.” I bowed my head, sorrowfully. “I have spent my time in the mountains and have not seen much of the world.” She frowned a little. Then flicked her hand at the door. “Till dinner, Chironides.” I spent the afternoon in the dusty courtyard grounds. The palace sat on the island’s highest point, held up against the blue of the sky, and the view was pretty, despite the shabbiness. As I sat, I tried to remember all that I had heard of Lycomedes. He was known to be kind enough, but a weak king, of limited resources. Euboia to the west and Ionia to the east had long eyed his lands; soon enough one of them would bring war, despite the inhospitable shoreline. If they heard a woman ruled here, it would be all the sooner. When the sun had set, I returned to the hall. Torches had been lit, but they only seemed to increase the gloom. Deidameia, a gold circlet gleaming in her hair, led an old man into the room. He was hunched over, and so draped with furs that I could not tell where his body began. She settled him on a throne and gestured grandly to a servant. I stood back, among the guards and a few other men whose function was not immediately apparent. Counselors? Cousins? They had the same worn appearance as everything else in the room. Only Deidameia seemed to escape it, with her blooming cheeks and glossy hair. A servant motioned to the cracked benches and tables, and I sat. The king and the princess did not join us; they remained on their thrones at the hall’s other end. Food arrived, hearty enough, but my eyes kept returning to the front of the room. I could not tell if I should make myself known. Had she forgotten me? But then she stood and turned her face towards our tables. “Stranger from Pelion,” she called, “you will never again be able to say that you have not heard of Deidameia’s women.” Another gesture, with a braceleted hand. A group of women entered, perhaps two dozen, speaking softly to each other, their hair covered and bound back in cloth. They stood in the empty central area that I saw now was a dancing circle. A few men took out flutes and drums, one a lyre. Deidameia did not seem to expect a response from me, or even to care if I had heard. She stepped down from the throne’s dais and went to the women, claiming one of the taller ones as a partner. The music began. The steps were intricate, and the girls moved through them featly. In spite of myself, I was impressed. Their dresses swirled, and jewelry swung around their wrists and ankles as they spun. They tossed their heads as they whirled, like high-spirited horses. Deidameia was the most beautiful, of course. With her golden crown and unbound hair, she drew the eye, flashing her wrists prettily in the air. Her face was flushed with pleasure, and as I watched her, I saw her brightness grow brighter still. She was beaming at her partner, almost flirting. Now she would duck her eyes at the woman, now step close as if to tease with her touch. Curious, I craned my head to see the woman she danced with, but the crowd of white dresses obscured her. The music trilled to an end, and the dancers finished. Deidameia led them forward in a line to receive our praise. Her partner stood beside her, head bowed. She curtsied with the rest and looked up. I made some sort of sound, the breath jumping in my throat. It was quiet, but it was enough. The girl’s eyes flickered to me. Several things happened at once then. Achilles—for it was Achilles— dropped Deidameia’s hand and flung himself joyously at me, knocking me backwards with the force of his embrace. Deidameia screamed “Pyrrha!” and burst into tears. Lycomedes, who was not so far sunk into dotage as his daughter had led me to believe, stood. “Pyrrha, what is the meaning of this?” I barely heard. Achilles and I clutched each other, almost incoherent with relief. “My mother,” he whispered, “my mother, she—” “Pyrrha!” Lycomedes’ voice carried the length of the hall, rising over his daughter’s noisy sobs. He was talking to Achilles, I realized. Pyrrha. Firehair. Achilles ignored him; Deidameia wailed louder. The king, showing a judiciousness that surprised me, threw his eye upon the rest of his court, women and men both. “Out,” he ordered. They obeyed reluctantly, trailing their glances behind them. “Now.” Lycomedes came forward, and I saw his face for the first time. His skin was yellowed, and his graying beard looked like dirty fleece; yet his eyes were sharp enough. “Who is this man, Pyrrha?” “No one!” Deidameia had seized Achilles’ arm, was tugging at it. At the same time, Achilles answered coolly, “My husband.” I closed my mouth quickly, so I did not gape like a fish. “He is not! That’s not true!” Deidameia’s voice rose high, startling the birds roosting in the rafters. A few feathers wafted down to the floor. She might have said more, but she was crying too hard to speak clearly. Lycomedes turned to me as if for refuge, man to man. “Sir, is this true?” Achilles was squeezing my fingers. “Yes,” I said. “No!” the princess shrieked. Achilles ignored her pulling at him, and gracefully inclined his head at Lycomedes. “My husband has come for me, and now I may leave your court. Thank you for your hospitality.” Achilles curtsied. I noted with an idle, dazed part of my mind that he did it remarkably well. Lycomedes held up a hand to prevent us. “We should consult your mother first. It was she who gave you to me to foster. Does she know of this husband?” “No!” Deidameia said again. “Daughter!” This was Lycomedes, frowning in a way that was not unlike his daughter’s habit. “Stop this scene. Release Pyrrha.” Her face was blotchy and swollen with tears, her chest heaving. “No!” She turned to Achilles. “You are lying! You have betrayed me! Monster! Apathes!” Heartless. Lycomedes froze. Achilles’ fingers tightened on mine. In our language, words come in different genders. She had used the masculine form. “What was that?” said Lycomedes, slowly. Deidameia’s face had gone pale, but she lifted her chin in defiance, and her voice did not waver. “He is a man,” she said. And then, “We are married.” “What!” Lycomedes clutched his throat. I could not speak. Achilles’ hand was the only thing that kept me to earth. “Do not do this,” Achilles said to her. “Please.” It seemed to enrage her. “I will do it!” She turned to her father. “You are a fool! I’m the only one who knew! I knew!” She struck her chest in emphasis. “And now I’ll tell everyone. Achilles!” She screamed as if she would force his name through the stout stone walls, up to the gods themselves. “Achilles! Achilles! I’ll tell everyone!” “You will not.” The words were cold and knife-sharp; they parted the princess’s shouts easily. I know that voice. I turned. Thetis stood in the doorway. Her face glowed, the white-blue of the flame’s center. Her eyes were black, gashed into her skin, and she stood taller than I had ever seen her. Her hair was as sleek as it always was, and her dress as beautiful, but there was something about her that seemed wild, as if an invisible wind whipped around her. She looked like a Fury, the demons that come for men’s blood. I felt my scalp trying to climb off my head; even Deidameia dropped into silence. We stood there a moment, facing her. Then Achilles reached up and tore the veil from his hair. He seized the neckline of his dress and ripped it down the front, exposing his chest beneath. The firelight played over his skin, warming it to gold. “No more, Mother,” he said. Something rippled beneath her features, a spasm of sorts. I was half afraid she would strike him down. But she only watched him with those restless black eyes. Achilles turned then, to Lycomedes. “My mother and I have deceived you, for which I offer my apologies. I am the prince Achilles, son of Peleus. She did not wish me to go to war and hid me here, as one of your foster daughters.” Lycomedes swallowed and did not speak. “We will leave now,” Achilles said gently. The words shook Deidameia from her trance. “No,” she said, voice rising again. “You cannot. Your mother said the words over us, and we are married. You are my husband.” Lycomedes’ breath rasped loudly in the chamber; his eyes were for Thetis alone. “Is this true?” he asked. “It is,” the goddess answered. Something fell from a long height in my chest. Achilles turned to me, as if he would speak. But his mother was faster. “You are bound to us now, King Lycomedes. You will continue to shelter Achilles here. You will say nothing of who he is. In return, your daughter will one day be able to claim a famous husband.” Her eyes went to a point above Deidameia’s head, then back. She added, “It is better than she would have done.” Lycomedes rubbed at his neck, as if he would smooth its wrinkles. “I have no choice,” he said. “As you know.” “What if I will not be silent?” Deidameia’s color was high. “You have ruined me, you and your son. I have lain with him, as you told me to, and my honor is gone. I will claim him now, before the court, as recompense.” I have lain with him. “You are a foolish girl,” Thetis said. Each word fell like an axe blade, sharp and severing. “Poor and ordinary, an expedient only. You do not deserve my son. You will keep your peace or I will keep it for you.” Deidameia stepped backwards, her eyes wide, her lips gone white. Her hands were trembling. She lifted one to her stomach and clutched the fabric of her dress there, as if to steady herself. Outside the palace, beyond the cliffs, we could hear huge waves breaking on the rocks, dashing the shoreline to pieces. “I am pregnant,” the princess whispered. I was watching Achilles when she said it, and I saw the horror on his face. Lycomedes made a noise of pain. My chest felt hollowed, and egg-shell thin. Enough. Perhaps I said it, perhaps I only thought it. I let go of Achilles’ hand and strode to the door. Thetis must have moved aside for me; I would have run into her if she had not. Alone, I stepped into the darkness. “WAIT!” ACHILLES SHOUTED. It took him longer to reach me than it should have, I noted with detachment. The dress must be tangling his legs. He caught up to me, seized my arm. “Let go,” I said. “Please, wait. Please, let me explain. I did not want to do it. My mother —” He was breathless, almost panting. I had never seen him so upset. “She led the girl to my room. She made me. I did not want to. My mother said—she said—” He was stumbling over his words. “She said that if I did as she said, she would tell you where I was.” What had Deidameia thought would happen, I wondered, when she had her women dance for me? Had she really thought I would not know him? I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world. “Patroclus.” He cupped my cheek with his hand. “Do you hear me? Please, say something.” I could not stop imagining her skin beside his, her swelling breasts and curving hips. I remembered the long days I grieved for him, my hands empty and idle, plucking the air like birds peck at dry earth. “Patroclus?” “You did it for nothing.” He flinched at the emptiness of my voice. But how else was I to sound? “What do you mean?” “Your mother did not tell me where you were. It was Peleus.” His face had gone pale, bled dry. “She did not tell you?” “No. Did you truly expect she would?” My voice cut harder than I meant it to. “Yes,” he whispered. There were a thousand things I might have said, to reproach him for his naïveté. He had always trusted too easily; he had had so little in his life to fear or suspect. In the days before our friendship, I had almost hated him for this, and some old spark of that flared in me, trying to relight. Anyone else would have known that Thetis acted for her own purposes only. How could he be so foolish? The angry words pricked in my mouth. But when I tried to speak them, I found I could not. His cheeks were flushed with shame, and the skin beneath his eyes was weary. His trust was a part of him, as much as his hands or his miraculous feet. And despite my hurt, I would not wish to see it gone, to see him as uneasy and fearful as the rest of us, for any price. He was watching me closely, reading my face over and over, like a priest searching the auguries for an answer. I could see the slight line in his forehead that meant utmost concentration. Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way. “Forgive me,” he said again. “I did not want it. It was not you. I did not —I did not like it.” Hearing it soothed the last of the jagged grief that had begun when Deidameia shouted his name. My throat was thick with the beginning of tears. “There is nothing to forgive,” I said. LATER THAT EVENING we returned to the palace. The great hall was dark, its fire burned to embers. Achilles had repaired his dress as best he could, but it still gaped to the waist; he held it closed in case we met a lingering guard. The voice came from the shadows, startling us. “You have returned.” The moonlight did not quite reach the thrones, but we saw the outline of a man there, thick with furs. His voice seemed deeper than it had before, heavier. “We have,” Achilles said. I could hear the slight hesitation before he answered. He had not expected to face the king again so soon. “Your mother is gone, I do not know where.” The king paused, as if awaiting a response. Achilles said nothing. “My daughter, your wife, is in her room crying. She hopes you will come to her.” I felt the flinch of Achilles’ guilt. His words came out stiffly; it was not a feeling he was used to. “It is unfortunate that she hopes for this.” “It is indeed,” Lycomedes said. We stood in silence a moment. Then Lycomedes drew a weary breath. “I suppose that you want a room for your friend?” “If you do not mind,” Achilles said, carefully. Lycomedes let out a soft laugh. “No, Prince Achilles, I do not mind.” There was another silence. I heard the king lift a goblet, drink, replace it on the table. “The child must have your name. You understand this?” This is what he had waited in the dark to say, beneath his furs, by the dying fire. “I understand it,” Achilles said quietly. “And you swear it?” There was a hairsbreadth of a pause. I pitied the old king. I was glad when Achilles said, “I swear it.” The old man made a sound like a sigh. But his words, when they came, were formal; he was a king again. “Good night to you both.” We bowed and left him. In the bowels of the palace, Achilles found a guard to show us to the guest quarters. The voice he used was high and fluting, his girl’s voice. I saw the guard’s eyes flicker over him, lingering on the torn edges of the dress, his disheveled hair. He grinned at me with all his teeth. “Right away, mistress,” he said. IN THE STORIES, the gods have the power to delay the moon’s course if they wish, to spin a single night the length of many. Such was this night, a bounty of hours that never ran dry. We drank deeply, thirsty for all that we had missed in the weeks we were separated. It was not until the sky began to blanch at last to gray that I remembered what he had said to Lycomedes in the hall. It had been forgotten amidst Deidameia’s pregnancy, his marriage, our reunion. “Your mother was trying to hide you from the war?” He nodded. “She does not want me to go to Troy.” “Why?” I had always thought she wanted him to fight. “I don’t know. She says I’m too young. Not yet, she says.” “And it was her idea—?” I gestured at the remnants of the dress. “Of course. I wouldn’t have done it myself.” He made a face and yanked at his hair, hanging still in its womanly curls. An irritant, but not a crippling shame, as it would have been to another boy. He did not fear ridicule; he had never known it. “Anyway, it is only until the army leaves.” My mind struggled with this. “So, truly, it was not because of me? That she took you?” “Deidameia was because of you, I think.” He stared at his hands a moment. “But the rest was the war.” Chapter Thirteen THE NEXT DAYS PASSED QUIETLY. WE TOOK MEALS IN our room and spent long hours away from the palace, exploring the island, seeking what shade there was beneath the scruffy trees. We had to be careful; Achilles could not be seen moving too quickly, climbing too skillfully, holding a spear. But we were not followed, and there were many places where he could safely let his disguise drop. On the far side of the island there was a deserted stretch of beach, rockfilled but twice the size of our running tracks. Achilles made a sound of delight when he saw it, and tore off his dress. I watched him race across it, as swiftly as if the beach had been flat. “Count for me,” he shouted, over his shoulder. I did, tapping against the sand to keep the time. “How many?” he called, from the beach’s end. “Thirteen,” I called back. “I’m just warming up,” he said. The next time it was eleven. The last time it was nine. He sat down next to me, barely winded, his cheeks flushed with joy. He had told me of his days as a woman, the long hours of enforced tedium, with only the dances for relief. Free now, he stretched his muscles like one of Pelion’s mountain cats, luxuriant in his own strength. In the evenings, though, we had to return to the great hall. Reluctant, Achilles would put on his dress and smooth back his hair. Often he bound it up in cloth, as he had that first night; golden hair was uncommon enough to be remarked upon by the sailors and merchants who passed through our harbor. If their tales found the ears of someone clever enough—I did not like to think of it. A table was set for us at the front of the hall near the thrones. We ate there, the four of us, Lycomedes, Deidameia, Achilles, and I. Sometimes we were joined by a counselor or two, sometimes not. These dinners were mostly silent; they were for form, to quell gossip and maintain the fiction of Achilles as my wife and the king’s ward. Deidameia’s eyes darted eagerly towards him, hoping he would look at her. But he never did. “Good evening,” he would say, in his proper girl’s voice, as we sat, but nothing more. His indifference was a palpable thing, and I saw her pretty face flinch through emotions of shame and hurt and anger. She kept looking to her father, as if she hoped he might intervene. But Lycomedes put bite after bite in his mouth and said nothing. Sometimes she saw me watching her; her face would grow hard then, and her eyes would narrow. She put a hand on her belly, possessively, as if to ward off some spell I might cast. Perhaps she thought I was mocking her, flourishing my triumph. Perhaps she thought I hated her. She did not know that I almost asked him, a hundred times, to be a little kinder to her. You do not have to humiliate her so thoroughly, I thought. But it was not kindness he lacked; it was interest. His gaze passed over her as if she were not there. Once she tried to speak to him, her voice trembling with hope. “Are you well, Pyrrha?” He continued eating, in his elegant swift bites. He and I had planned to take spears to the far side of the island after dinner and catch fish by moonlight. He was eager to be gone. I had to nudge him, beneath the table. “What is it?” he asked me. “The princess wants to know if you are well.” “Oh.” He glanced at her briefly, then back to me. “I am well,” he said. AS THE DAYS WORE ON, Achilles took to waking early, so that he might practice with spears before the sun rose high. We had hidden weapons in a distant grove, and he would exercise there before returning to womanhood in the palace. Sometimes he might visit his mother afterwards, sitting on one of Scyros’ jagged rocks, dangling his feet into the sea. It was one of these mornings, when Achilles was gone, that there was a loud rap on my door. “Yes?” I called. But the guards were already stepping inside. They were more formal than I had ever seen them, carrying spears and standing at attention. It was strange to see them without their dice. “You’re to come with us,” one of them said. “Why?” I was barely out of bed and still bleary with sleep. “The princess ordered it.” A guard took each of my arms and towed me to the door. When I stuttered a protest, the first guard leaned towards me, his eyes on mine. “It will be better if you go quietly.” He drew his thumb over his spearpoint in theatrical menace. I did not really think they would hurt me, but neither did I want to be dragged through the halls of the palace. “All right,” I said. THE NARROW CORRIDORS where they led me I had never visited before. They were the women’s quarters, twisting off from the main rooms, a beehive of narrow cells where Deidameia’s foster sisters slept and lived. I heard laughter from behind the doors, and the endless shush-shush of the shuttle. Achilles said that the sun did not come through the windows here, and there was no breeze. He had spent nearly two months in them; I could not imagine it. At last we came to a large door, cut from finer wood than the rest. The guard knocked on it, opened it, and pushed me through. I heard it close firmly behind me. Inside, Deidameia was seated primly on a leather-covered chair, regarding me. There was a table beside her, and a small stool at her feet; otherwise the room was empty. She must have planned this, I realized. She knew that Achilles was away. There was no place for me to sit, so I stood. The floor was cold stone, and my feet were bare. There was a second, smaller door; it led to her bedroom, I guessed. She watched me looking, her eyes bright as a bird’s. There was nothing clever to say, so I said something foolish. “You wanted to speak with me.” She sniffed a little, with contempt. “Yes, Patroclus. I wanted to speak with you.” I waited, but she said nothing more, only studied me, a finger tapping the arm of her chair. Her dress was looser than usual; she did not have it tied across the waist as she often did, to show her figure. Her hair was unbound and held back at the temples with carved ivory combs. She tilted her head and smiled at me. “You are not even handsome, that is the funny thing. You are quite ordinary.” She had her father’s way of pausing as if she expected a reply. I felt myself flushing. I must say something. I cleared my throat. She glared at me. “I have not given you leave to speak.” She held my gaze a moment, as if to make sure that I would not disobey, then continued. “I think it’s funny. Look at you.” She rose, and her quick steps ate up the space between us. “Your neck is short. Your chest is thin as a boy’s.” She gestured at me with disdainful fingers. “And your face.” She grimaced. “Hideous. My women quite agree. Even my father agrees.” Her pretty red lips parted to show her white teeth. It was the closest I had ever been to her. I could smell something sweet, like acanthus flower; close up, I could see that her hair was not just black, but shot through with shifting colors of rich brown. “Well? What do you say?” Her hands were on her hips. “You have not given me leave to speak,” I said. Anger flashed over her face. “Don’t be an idiot,” she spat at me. “I wasn’t—” She slapped me. Her hand was small but carried surprising force. It turned my head to the side roughly. The skin stung, and my lip throbbed sharply where she had caught it with a ring. I had not been struck like this since I was a child. Boys were not usually slapped, but a father might do it to show contempt. Mine had. It shocked me; I could not have spoken even if I had known what to say. She bared her teeth at me, as if daring me to strike her in return. When she saw I would not, her face twisted with triumph. “Coward. As craven as you are ugly. And half-moron besides, I hear. I do not understand it! It makes no sense that he should—” She stopped abruptly, and the corner of her mouth tugged down, as if caught by a fisherman’s hook. She turned her back to me and was silent. A moment passed. I could hear the sound of her breaths, drawn slowly, so I would not guess she was crying. I knew the trick. I had done it myself. “I hate you,” she said, but her voice was thick and there was no force in it. A sort of pity rose in me, cooling the heat of my cheeks. I remembered how hard a thing indifference was to bear. I heard her swallow, and her hand moved swiftly to her face, as if to wipe away tears. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “That should make you happy. My father wants me to begin my confinement early. He says it would bring shame upon me for the pregnancy to be seen, before it was known I was married.” Confinement. I heard the bitterness in her voice when she said it. Some small house, at the edge of Lycomedes’ land. She would not be able to dance or speak with companions there. She would be alone, with a servant and her growing belly. “I’m sorry,” I said. She did not answer. I watched the soft heaving of her back beneath the white gown. I took a step towards her, then stopped. I had thought to touch her, to smooth her hair in comfort. But it would not be comfort, from me. My hand fell back to my side. We stood there like that for some time, the sound of our breaths filling the chamber. When she turned, her face was ruddy from crying. “Achilles does not regard me.” Her voice trembled a little. “Even though I bear his child and am his wife. Do you—know why this is so?” It was a child’s question, like why the rain falls or why the sea’s motion never ceases. I felt older than her, though I was not. “I do not know,” I said softly. Her face twisted. “That’s a lie. You’re the reason. You will sail with him, and I will be left here.” I knew something of what it was to be alone. Of how another’s good fortune pricked like a goad. But there was nothing I could do. “I should go,” I said, as gently as I could. “No!” She moved quickly to block my way. Her words tumbled out. “You cannot. I will call the guards if you try. I will—I will say you attacked me.” Sorrow for her dragged at me, bearing me down. Even if she called them, even if they believed her, they could not help her. I was the companion of Achilles and invulnerable. My feelings must have shown on my face; she recoiled from me as if stung, and the heat sparked in her again. “You were angry that he married me, that he lay with me. You were jealous. You should be.” Her chin lifted, as it used to. “It was not just once.” It was twice. Achilles had told me. She thought that she had power to drive a wedge between us, but she had nothing. “I’m sorry,” I said again. I had nothing better to say. He did not love her; he never would. As if she heard my thought, her face crumpled. Her tears fell on the floor, turning the gray stone black, drop by drop. “Let me get your father,” I said. “Or one of your women.” She looked up at me. “Please—” she whispered. “Please do not leave.” She was shivering, like something just born. Always before, her hurts had been small, and there had been someone to offer her comfort. Now there was only this room, the bare walls and single chair, the closet of her grief. Almost unwillingly, I stepped towards her. She gave a small sigh, like a sleepy child, and drooped gratefully into the circle of my arms. Her tears bled through my tunic; I held the curves of her waist, felt the warm, soft skin of her arms. He had held her just like this, perhaps. But Achilles seemed a long way off; his brightness had no place in this dull, weary room. Her face, hot as if with fever, pressed against my chest. All I could see of her was the top of her head, the whorl and tangle of her shining dark hair, the pale scalp beneath. After a time, her sobs subsided, and she drew me closer. I felt her hands stroking my back, the length of her body pressing to mine. At first I did not understand. Then I did. “You do not want this,” I said. I made to step back, but she held me too tightly. “I do.” Her eyes had an intensity to them that almost frightened me. “Deidameia.” I tried to summon the voice I had used to make Peleus yield. “The guards are outside. You must not—” But she was calm now, and sure. “They will not disturb us.” I swallowed, my throat dry with panic. “Achilles will be looking for me.” She smiled sadly. “He will not look here.” She took my hand. “Come,” she said. And drew me through her bedroom’s door. Achilles had told me about their nights together when I asked. It had not been awkward for him to do so—nothing was forbidden between us. Her body, he said, was soft and small as a child’s. She had come to his cell at night with his mother and lain beside him on the bed. He had feared he would hurt her; it had been swift, and neither spoke. He floundered as he tried to describe the heavy, thick smell, the wetness between her legs. “Greasy,” he said, “like oil.” When I pressed him further, he shook his head. “I cannot remember, really. It was dark, and I could not see. I wanted it to be over.” He stroked my cheek. “I missed you.” The door closed behind us, and we were alone in a modest room. The walls were hung with tapestries, and the floor was thick with sheepskin rugs. There was a bed, pushed against the window, to catch the hint of breeze. She pulled her dress over her head, and dropped it on the floor. “Do you think I am beautiful?” she asked me. I was grateful for a simple answer. “Yes,” I said. Her body was small and delicately made, with just the barest rise of belly where the child grew. My eyes were drawn down to what I had never seen before, a small furred area, the dark hairs spreading lightly upwards. She saw me looking. Reaching for my hand she guided me to that place, which radiated heat like the embers of a fire. The skin that slipped against my fingers was warm and delicate, so fragile I was almost afraid I would tear it with my touch. My other hand reached up to stroke her cheek, to trace the softness beneath her eyes. The look in them was terrible to see: there was no hope or pleasure, only determination. Almost, I fled. But I could not bear to see her face broken open with more sorrow, more disappointment—another boy who could not give her what she wanted. So I allowed her hands, fumbling a little, to draw me to the bed, to guide me between her thighs, where tender skin parted, weeping slow warm drops. I felt resistance and would have drawn back, but she shook her head sharply. Her small face was tight with concentration, her jaw set as if against pain. It was a relief for us both when at last the skin eased, gave way. When I slipped into that sheathing warmth within her. I will not say I was not aroused. A slow climbing tension moved through me. It was a strange, drowsy feeling, so different from my sharp, sure desires for Achilles. She seemed hurt by this, my heavy-lidded repose. More indifference. And so I let myself move, made sounds of pleasure, pressed my chest against hers as if in passion, flattening her soft, small breasts beneath me. She was pleased then, suddenly fierce, pulling and pushing me harder and faster, her eyes lighting in triumph at the changes in my breath. And then, at the slow rising of tide inside me, her legs, light but firm, wrapped around my back, bucking me into her, drawing out the spasm of my pleasure. Afterwards we lay breathless, side by side but not touching. Her face was shadowed and distant, her posture strangely stiff. My mind was still muddied from climax, but I reached to hold her. I could offer her this, at least. But she drew away from me and stood, her eyes wary; the skin beneath them was dark as bruises. She turned to dress, and her round heart-shaped buttocks stared at me like a reproach. I did not understand what she had wanted; I only knew I had not given it. I stood and pulled on my tunic. I would have touched her, stroked her face, but her eyes warned me away, sharp and full. She held open the door. Hopelessly, I stepped over the threshold. “Wait.” Her voice sounded raw. I turned. “Tell him good-bye,” she said. And then closed the door, dark and thick between us. WHEN I FOUND ACHILLES again, I pressed myself to him in relief at the joy between us, at being released from her sadness and hurt. Later, I almost convinced myself it had not happened, that it had been a vivid dream, drawn from his descriptions and too much imagination. But that is not the truth. Chapter Fourteen DEIDAMEIA LEFT THE NEXT MORNING, AS SHE HAD SAID she would. “She is visiting an aunt,” Lycomedes told the court at breakfast, his voice flat. If there were questions, no one dared to ask them. She would be gone until the child was born, and Achilles could be named as father. The weeks that passed now felt curiously suspended. Achilles and I spent as much time as possible away from the palace, and our joy, so explosive at our reunion, had been replaced with impatience. We wanted to leave, to return to our lives on Pelion, or in Phthia. We felt furtive and guilty with the princess gone; the court’s eyes on us had sharpened, grown uncomfortable. Lycomedes frowned whenever he saw us. And then there was the war. Even here, in far-off, forgotten Scyros, news came of it. Helen’s former suitors had honored their vow, and Agamemnon’s army was rich with princely blood. It was said that he had done what no man before him could: united our fractious kingdoms with common cause. I remembered him—a grim-faced shadow, shaggy as a bear. To my nine-year-old self, his brother Menelaus had been much the more memorable of the two, with his red hair and merry voice. But Agamemnon was older, and his armies the larger; he would lead the expedition to Troy. It was morning, and late winter, though it did not seem it. So far south, the leaves did not fall and no frost pinched the morning air. We lingered in a rock cleft that looked over the span of horizon, watching idly for ships or the gray flash of dolphin back. We hurled pebbles from the cliff, leaning over to watch them skitter down the rock-face. We were high enough that we could not hear the sound of them breaking on the rocks below. “I wish I had your mother’s lyre,” he said. “Me too.” But it was in Phthia, left behind with everything else. We were silent a moment, remembering the sweetness of its strings. He leaned forward. “What is that?” I squinted. The sun sat differently on the horizon now that it was winter, seeming to slant into my eyes from every angle. “I cannot tell.” I stared at the haze where the sea vanished into the sky. There was a distant smudge that might have been a ship, or a trick of the sun on the water. “If it’s a ship, there will be news,” I said, with a familiar clutch in my stomach. Each time I feared word would come of a search for the last of Helen’s suitors, the oath-breaker. I was young then; it did not occur to me that no leader would wish it known that some had not obeyed his summons. “It is a ship, for certain,” Achilles said. The smudge was closer now; the ship must be moving very quickly. The bright colors of the sail resolved themselves moment by moment out of the sea’s blue-gray. “Not a trader,” Achilles commented. Trading ships used white sails only, practical and cheap; a man needed to be rich indeed to waste his dye on sailcloth. Agamemnon’s messengers had crimson and purple sails, symbols stolen from eastern royalty. This ship’s sails were yellow, whorled with patterns of black. “Do you know the design?” I asked. Achilles shook his head. We watched the ship skirt the narrow mouth of Scyros’ bay and beach itself on the sandy shore. A rough-cut stone anchor was heaved overboard, the gangway lowered. We were too far to see much of the men on its deck, beyond dark heads. We had stayed longer than we should have. Achilles stood and tucked his wind-loosened hair back beneath its kerchief. My hands busied themselves with the folds of his dress, settling them more gracefully across his shoulders, fastening the belts and laces; it was barely strange anymore to see him in it. When we were finished, Achilles bent towards me for a kiss. His lips on mine were soft, and stirred me. He caught the expression in my eyes and smiled. “Later,” he promised me, then turned and went back down the path to the palace. He would go to the women’s quarters and wait there, amidst the looms and the dresses, until the messenger was gone. The hairline cracks of a headache were beginning behind my eyes; I went to my bedroom, cool and dark, its shutters barring the midday sun, and slept. A knock woke me. A servant perhaps, or Lycomedes. My eyes still closed, I called, “Come in.” “It’s rather too late for that,” a voice answered. The tone was amused, dry as driftwood. I opened my eyes and sat up. A man stood inside the open door. He was sturdy and muscular, with a close-cropped philosopher’s beard, dark brown tinged with faintest red. He smiled at me, and I saw the lines where other smiles had been. It was an easy motion for him, swift and practiced. Something about it tugged at my memory. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.” His voice was pleasant, well modulated. “It’s all right,” I said, carefully. “I was hoping I might have a word with you. Do you mind if I sit?” He gestured towards a chair with a wide palm. The request was politely made; despite my unease, I could find no reason to refuse him. I nodded, and he drew the chair to him. His hands were callused and rough; they would not have looked out of place holding a plow, yet his manner bespoke nobility. To stall I stood and opened the shutters, hoping my brain would shake off its sleepy fog. I could think of no reason that any man would want a moment of my time. Unless he had come to claim me for my oath. I turned to face him. “Who are you?” I asked. The man laughed. “A good question. I’ve been terribly rude, barging into your room like this. I am one of the great king Agamemnon’s captains. I travel the islands and speak to promising young men, such as yourself”—he inclined his head towards me—“about joining our army against Troy. Have you heard of the war?” “I have heard of it,” I said. “Good.” He smiled and stretched his feet in front of him. The fading light fell on his legs, revealing a pink scar that seamed the brown flesh of his right calf from ankle to knee. A pink scar. My stomach dropped as if I leaned over Scyros’ highest cliff, with nothing beneath me but the long fall to the sea. He was older now, and larger, come into the full flush of his strength. Odysseus. He said something, but I did not hear it. I was back in Tyndareus’ hall, remembering his clever dark eyes that missed nothing. Did he know me? I stared at his face, but saw only a slightly puzzled expectation. He is waiting for an answer. I forced down my fear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I did not hear you. What?” “Are you interested? In joining us to fight?” “I don’t think you’d want me. I’m not a very good soldier.” His mouth twisted wryly. “It’s funny—no one seems to be, when I come calling.” His tone was light; it was a shared joke, not a reproach. “What’s your name?” I tried to sound as casual as he. “Chironides.” “Chironides,” he repeated. I watched him for disbelief, but saw none. The tension in my muscles ebbed a little. Of course he did not recognize me. I had changed much since I was nine. “Well, Chironides, Agamemnon promises gold and honor for all who fight for him. The campaign looks to be short; we will have you back home by next fall. I will be here for a few days, and I hope you will consider it.” He dropped his hands to his knees with finality, and stood. “That’s it?” I had expected persuasion and pressure, a long evening of it. He laughed, almost affectionately. “Yes, that’s it. I assume I will see you at dinner?” I nodded. He made as if to go, then stopped. “You know, it’s funny; I keep thinking I’ve seen you before.” “I doubt it,” I said quickly. “I don’t recognize you.” He studied me a moment, then shrugged, giving up. “I must be confusing you with another young man. You know what they say. The older you get, the less you remember.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Who’s your father? Perhaps it’s him I know.” “I am an exile.” He made a sympathetic face. “I’m sorry to hear it. Where were you from?” “The coast.” “North or south?” “South.” He shook his head ruefully. “I would have sworn you were from the north. Somewhere near Thessaly, say. Or Phthia. You have the same roundness to your vowels that they do.” I swallowed. In Phthia, the consonants were harder than elsewhere, and the vowels wider. It had sounded ugly to me, until I heard Achilles speak. I had not realized how much of it I had adopted. “I—did not know that,” I mumbled. My heart was beating very fast. If only he would leave. “Useless information is my curse, I’m afraid.” He was amused again, that slight smile. “Now don’t forget to come find me if you decide you want to join us. Or if you happen to know of any other likely young men I should speak to.” The door snicked shut behind him. THE DINNER BELL had rung and the corridors were busy with servants carrying platters and chairs. When I stepped into the hall, my visitor was already there, standing with Lycomedes and another man. “Chironides,” Lycomedes acknowledged my arrival. “This is Odysseus, ruler of Ithaca.” “Thank goodness for hosts,” Odysseus said. “I realized after I left that I never told you my name.” And I did not ask because I knew. It had been a mistake but was not irreparable. I widened my eyes. “You’re a king?” I dropped to a knee, in my best startled obeisance. “Actually, he’s only a prince,” a voice drawled. “I’m the one who’s a king.” I looked up to meet the third man’s eyes; they were a brown so light it was almost yellow, and keen. His beard was short and black, and it emphasized the slanting planes of his face. “This is Lord Diomedes, King of Argos,” Lycomedes said. “A comrade of Odysseus.” And another suitor of Helen’s, though I remembered no more than his name. “Lord.” I bowed to him. I did not have time to fear recognition—he had already turned away. “Well.” Lycomedes gestured to the table. “Shall we eat?” For dinner we were joined by several of Lycomedes’ counselors, and I was glad to vanish among them. Odysseus and Diomedes largely ignored us, absorbed in talk with the king. “And how is Ithaca?” Lycomedes asked politely. “Ithaca is well, thank you,” Odysseus answered. “I left my wife and son there, both in good health.” “Ask him about his wife,” Diomedes said. “He loves to talk about her. Have you heard how he met her? It’s his favorite story.” There was a goading edge to his voice, barely sheathed. The men around me stopped eating, to watch. Lycomedes looked between the two men, then ventured, “And how did you meet your wife, Prince of Ithaca?” If Odysseus felt the tension, he did not show it. “You are kind to ask. When Tyndareus sought a husband for Helen, suitors came from every kingdom. I’m sure you remember.” “I was married already,” Lycomedes said. “I did not go.” “Of course. And these were too young, I’m afraid.” He tossed a smile at me, then turned back to the king. “Of all these men, I was fortunate to arrive first. The king invited me to dine with the family: Helen; her sister, Clytemnestra; and their cousin Penelope.” “Invited,” Diomedes scoffed. “Is that what they call crawling through the bracken to spy upon them?” “I’m sure the prince of Ithaca would not do such a thing.” Lycomedes frowned. “Unfortunately I did just that, though I appreciate your faith in me.” He offered Lycomedes a genial smile. “It was Penelope who caught me, actually. Said she had been watching me for over an hour and thought she should step in before I hit the thornbush. Naturally, there was some awkwardness about it, but Tyndareus eventually came around and asked me to stay. In the course of dinner, I came to see that Penelope was twice as clever as her cousins and just as beautiful. So—” “As beautiful as Helen?” Diomedes interrupted. “Is that why she was twenty and unmarried?” Odysseus’ voice was mild. “I’m sure you would not ask a man to compare his wife unfavorably to another woman,” he said. Diomedes rolled his eyes and settled back to pick his teeth with the point of his knife. Odysseus returned to Lycomedes. “So, in the course of our conversation, when it became clear that the Lady Penelope favored me—” “Not for your looks, certainly,” Diomedes commented. “Certainly not,” Odysseus agreed. “She asked me what wedding present I would make to my bride. A wedding bed, I said, rather gallantly, of finest holm-oak. But this answer did not please her. ‘A wedding bed should not be made of dead, dry wood, but something green and living,’ she told me. ‘And what if I can make such a bed?’ I said. ‘Will you have me?’ And she said—” The king of Argos made a noise of disgust. “I’m sick to death of this tale about your marriage bed.” “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have suggested I tell it.” “And perhaps you should get some new stories, so I don’t fucking kill myself of boredom.” Lycomedes looked shocked; obscenity was for back rooms and practice fields, not state dinners. But Odysseus only shook his head sadly. “Truly, the men of Argos get more and more barbaric with each passing year. Lycomedes, let us show the king of Argos a bit of civilization. I was hoping for a glimpse of the famous dancers of your isle.” Lycomedes swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I had not thought—” He stopped himself, then began again, with the most kingly voice he could summon. “If you wish.” “We do.” This was Diomedes. “Well.” Lycomedes’ eyes darted between the two men. Thetis had ordered him to keep the women away from visitors, but to refuse would be suspicious. He cleared his throat, decided. “Well, let us call them, then.” He gestured sharply at a servant, who turned and ran from the hall. I kept my eyes on my plate, so they would not see the fear in my face. The women had been surprised by the summons and were still making small adjustments of clothes and hair as they entered the hall. Achilles was among them, his head carefully covered, his gaze modestly down. My eyes went anxiously to Odysseus and Diomedes, but neither even glanced at him. The girls took their places, and the music was struck. We watched as they began the complicated series of steps. It was beautiful, though lessened by Deidameia’s absence; she had been the best of them. “Which one is your daughter?” Diomedes asked. “She is not here, King of Argos. She is visiting family.” “Too bad,” Diomedes said. “I hoped it was that one.” He pointed to a girl on the end, small and dark; she did look something like Deidameia, and her ankles were particularly lovely, flashing beneath the whirling hem of her dress. Lycomedes cleared his throat. “Are you married, my lord?” Diomedes half-smiled. “For now.” His eyes never left the women. When the dance had finished, Odysseus stood, his voice raised for all to hear. “We are truly honored by your performance; not everyone can say that they have seen the dancers of Scyros. As tokens of our admiration we have brought gifts for you and your king.” A murmur of excitement. Luxuries did not come often to Scyros; no one here had the money to buy them. “You are too kind.” Lycomedes’ face was flushed with genuine pleasure; he had not expected this generosity. The servants brought trunks forth at Odysseus’ signal and began unloading them on the long tables. I saw the glitter of silver, the shine of glass and gems. All of us, men and women both, leaned towards them, eager to see. “Please, take what you would like,” Odysseus said. The girls moved swiftly to the tables, and I watched them fingering the bright trinkets: perfumes in delicate glass bottles stoppered with a bit of wax; mirrors with carved ivory for handles; bracelets of twisted gold; ribbons dyed deep in purples and reds. Among these were a few things I assumed were meant for Lycomedes and his counselors: leather-bound shields, carved spear hafts, and silvered swords with supple kidskin sheaths. Lycomedes’ eyes had caught on one of these, like a fish snagged by a line. Odysseus stood near, presiding benevolently. Achilles kept to the back, drifting slowly along the tables. He paused to dab some perfume on his slender wrists, stroke the smooth handle of a mirror. He lingered a moment over a pair of earrings, blue stones set in silver wire. A movement at the far end of the hall caught my eye. Diomedes had crossed the chamber and was speaking with one of his servants, who nodded and left through the large double doors. Whatever it was could not be important; Diomedes seemed half-asleep, his eyes heavy-lidded and bored. I looked back to Achilles. He was holding the earrings up to his ears now, turning them this way and that, pursing his lips, playing at girlishness. It amused him, and the corner of his mouth curved up. His eyes flicked around the hall, catching for a moment on my face. I could not help myself. I smiled. A trumpet blew, loud and panicked. It came from outside, a sustained note, followed by three short blasts: our signal for utmost, impending disaster. Lycomedes lurched to his feet, the guards’ heads jerked towards the door. Girls screamed and clung to each other, dropping their treasures to the ground in tinkles of breaking glass. All the girls but one. Before the final blast was finished, Achilles had swept up one of the silvered swords and flung off its kidskin sheath. The table blocked his path to the door; he leapt it in a blur, his other hand grabbing a spear from it as he passed. He landed, and the weapons were already lifted, held with a deadly poise that was like no girl, nor no man either. The greatest warrior of his generation. I yanked my gaze to Odysseus and Diomedes and was horrified to see them smiling. “Greetings, Prince Achilles,” Odysseus said. “We’ve been looking for you.” I stood helpless as the faces of Lycomedes’ court registered Odysseus’ words, turned towards Achilles, stared. For a moment Achilles did not move. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapons. “Lord Odysseus,” he said. His voice was remarkably calm. “Lord Diomedes.” He inclined his head politely, one prince to another. “I am honored to be the subject of so much effort.” It was a good answer, full of dignity and the slightest twist of mockery. It would be harder for them to humiliate him now. “I assume you wish to speak with me? Just a moment, and I will join you.” He placed the sword and spear carefully on the table. With steady fingers he untied the kerchief, drew it off. His hair, revealed, gleamed like polished bronze. The men and women of Lycomedes’ court whispered to one another in muted scandal; their eyes clung to his figure. “Perhaps this will help?” Odysseus had claimed a tunic from some bag or box. He tossed it to Achilles, who caught it. “Thank you,” Achilles said. The court watched, hypnotized, as he unfolded it, stripped to the waist, and drew it over himself. Odysseus turned to the front of the room. “Lycomedes, may we borrow a room of state, please? We have much to discuss with the prince of Phthia.” Lycomedes’ face was a frozen mask. I knew he was thinking of Thetis, and punishment. He did not answer. “Lycomedes.” Diomedes’ voice was sharp, cracking like a blow. “Yes,” Lycomedes croaked. I pitied him. I pitied all of us. “Yes. Just through there.” He pointed. Odysseus nodded. “Thank you.” He moved towards the door, confidently, as if never doubting but that Achilles would follow. “After you,” Diomedes smirked. Achilles hesitated, and his eyes went to me, just the barest glance. “Oh yes,” Odysseus called over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to bring Patroclus along, if you like. We have business with him, as well.” Chapter Fifteen THE ROOM HAD A FEW THREADBARE TAPESTRIES AND four chairs. I forced myself to sit straight against the stiff wood back, as a prince should. Achilles’ face was tight with emotion, and his neck flushed. “It was a trick,” he accused. Odysseus was unperturbed. “You were clever in hiding yourself; we had to be cleverer still in finding you.” Achilles lifted an eyebrow in princely hauteur. “Well? You’ve found me. What do you want?” “We want you to come to Troy,” Odysseus said. “And if I do not want to come?” “Then we make this known.” Diomedes lifted Achilles’ discarded dress. Achilles flushed as if he’d been struck. It was one thing to wear a dress out of necessity, another thing for the world to know of it. Our people reserved their ugliest names for men who acted like women; lives were lost over such insults. Odysseus held up a restraining hand. “We are all noble men here and it should not have to come to such measures. I hope we can offer you happier reasons to agree. Fame, for instance. You will win much of it, if you fight for us.” “There will be other wars.” “Not like this one,” said Diomedes. “This will be the greatest war of our people, remembered in legend and song for generations. You are a fool not to see it.” “I see nothing but a cuckolded husband and Agamemnon’s greed.” “Then you are blind. What is more heroic than to fight for the honor of the most beautiful woman in the world, against the mightiest city of the East? Perseus cannot say he did so much, nor Jason. Heracles would kill his wife again for a chance to come along. We will master Anatolia all the way to Araby. We will carve ourselves into stories for ages to come.” “I thought you said it would be an easy campaign, home by next fall,” I managed. I had to do something to stop the relentless roll of their words. “I lied.” Odysseus shrugged. “I have no idea how long it will be. Faster if we have you.” He looked at Achilles. His dark eyes pulled like the tide, however you swam against it. “The sons of Troy are known for their skill in battle, and their deaths will lift your name to the stars. If you miss it, you will miss your chance at immortality. You will stay behind, unknown. You will grow old, and older in obscurity.” Achilles frowned. “You cannot know that.” “Actually, I can.” He leaned back in his chair. “I am fortunate to have some knowledge of the gods.” He smiled as if at a memory of some divine mischief. “And the gods have seen fit to share with me a prophecy about you.” I should have known that Odysseus would not come with tawdry blackmail as his only coin. The stories named him polutropos, the man of many turnings. Fear stirred in me like ash. “What prophecy?” Achilles asked, slowly. “That if you do not come to Troy, your godhead will wither in you, unused. Your strength will diminish. At best, you will be like Lycomedes here, moldering on a forgotten island with only daughters to succeed him. Scyros will be conquered soon by a nearby state; you know this as well as I. They will not kill him; why should they? He can live out his years in some corner eating the bread they soften for him, senile and alone. When he dies, people will say, who?” The words filled the room, thinning the air until we could not breathe. Such a life was a horror. But Odysseus’ voice was relentless. “He is known now only because of how his story touches yours. If you go to Troy, your fame will be so great that a man will be written into eternal legend just for having passed a cup to you. You will be—” The doors blew open in a fury of flying splinters. Thetis stood in the doorway, hot as living flame. Her divinity swept over us all, singeing our eyes, blackening the broken edges of the door. I could feel it pulling at my bones, sucking at the blood in my veins as if it would drink me. I cowered, as men were made to do. Odysseus’ dark beard was dusted with fine debris from the door’s ruin. He stood. “Greetings, Thetis.” Her gaze went to him as a snake’s to her prey, and her skin glowed. The air around Odysseus seemed to tremble slightly, as if with heat or a breeze. Diomedes, on the ground, edged away. I closed my eyes, so I would not have to see the explosion. A silence, into which at last I opened my eyes. Odysseus stood unharmed. Thetis’ fists were strangling themselves white. It no longer burned to look at her. “The gray-eyed maiden has ever been kind to me,” Odysseus said, almost apologetically. “She knows why I am here; she blesses and guards my purpose.” It was as if I had missed a step of their conversation. I struggled now to follow. The gray-eyed maiden—goddess of war and its arts. She was said to prize cleverness above all. “Athena has no child to lose.” The words grated from Thetis’ throat, hung in the air. Odysseus did not try to answer, only turned to Achilles. “Ask her,” he said. “Ask your mother what she knows.” Achilles swallowed, loud in the silent chamber. He met his mother’s black eyes. “Is it true, what he says?” The last of her fire was gone; only marble remained. “It is true. But there is more, and worse that he has not said.” The words came tonelessly, as a statue would speak them. “If you go to Troy, you will never return. You will die a young man there.” Achilles’ face went pale. “It is certain?” This is what all mortals ask first, in disbelief, shock, fear. Is there no exception for me? “It is certain.” If he had looked at me then, I would have broken. I would have begun to weep and never stopped. But his eyes were fixed on his mother. “What should I do?” he whispered. The slightest tremor, over the still water of her face. “Do not ask me to choose,” she said. And vanished. I CANNOT REMEMBER what we said to the two men, how we left them, or how we came to our room. I remember his face, skin drawn tightly over his cheeks, the dulled pallor of his brow. His shoulders, usually so straight and fine, seemed fallen. Grief swelled inside me, choking me. His death. I felt as if I was dying just to think of it, plummeting through a blind, black sky. You must not go. I almost said it, a thousand times. Instead I held his hands fast between mine; they were cold, and very still. “I do not think I could bear it,” he said, at last. His eyes were closed, as if against horrors. I knew he spoke not of his death, but of the nightmare Odysseus had spun, the loss of his brilliance, the withering of his grace. I had seen the joy he took in his own skill, the roaring vitality that was always just beneath the surface. Who was he if not miraculous and radiant? Who was he if not destined for fame? “I would not care,” I said. The words scrabbled from my mouth. “Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together.” “I know,” he said quietly, but did not look at me. He knew, but it was not enough. The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him. I opened my mouth, but it was too late. “I will go,” he said. “I will go to Troy.” The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered green of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious Death would drink his blood, and grow young again. He was watching me, his eyes as deep as earth. “Will you come with me?” he asked. The never-ending ache of love and sorrow. Perhaps in some other life I could have refused, could have torn my hair and screamed, and made him face his choice alone. But not in this one. He would sail to Troy and I would follow, even into death. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.” Relief broke in his face, and he reached for me. I let him hold me, let him press us length to length so close that nothing might fit between us. Tears came, and fell. Above us, the constellations spun and the moon paced her weary course. We lay stricken and sleepless as the hours passed. WHEN DAWN CAME, he rose stiffly. “I must go tell my mother,” he said. He was pale, and his eyes were shadowed. He looked older already. Panic rose in me. Don’t go, I wanted to say. But he drew on a tunic and was gone. I lay back and tried not to think of the minutes passing. Just yesterday we had had a wealth of them. Now each was a drop of heartsblood lost. The room turned gray, then white. The bed felt cold without him, and too large. I heard no sounds, and the stillness frightened me. It is like a tomb. I rose and rubbed my limbs, slapped them awake, trying to ward off a rising hysteria. This is what it will be, every day, without him. I felt a wild-eyed tightness in my chest, like a scream. Every day, without him. I left the palace, desperate to shut out thought. I came to the cliffs, Scyros’ great rocks that beetled over the sea, and began to climb. The winds tugged at me, and the stones were slimy with spray, but the strain and danger steadied me. I arrowed upwards, towards the most treacherous peak, where before I would have been too fearful to go. My hands were cut almost to blood by jagged shards of rock. My feet left stains where they stepped. The pain was welcome, ordinary and clean. So easy to bear it was laughable. I reached the summit, a careless heap of boulders at the cliff’s edge, and stood. An idea had come to me as I climbed, fierce and reckless as I felt. “Thetis!” I screamed it into the snatching wind, my face towards the sea. “Thetis!” The sun was high now; their meeting had ended long ago. I drew a third breath. “Do not speak my name again.” I whirled to face her and lost my balance. The rocks jumbled under my feet, and the wind tore at me. I grabbed at an outcrop, steadied myself. I looked up. Her skin was paler even than usual, the first winter’s ice. Her lips were drawn back, to show her teeth. “You are a fool,” she said. “Get down. Your halfwit death will not save him.” I was not so fearless as I thought; I flinched from the malice in her face. But I forced myself to speak, to ask the thing I had to know of her. “How much longer will he live?” She made a noise in her throat, like the bark of a seal. It took me a moment to understand that it was laughter. “Why? Would you prepare yourself for it? Try to stop it?” Contempt spilled across her face. “Yes,” I answered. “If I can.” The sound again. “Please.” I knelt. “Please tell me.” Perhaps it was because I knelt. The sound ceased, and she considered me a moment. “Hector’s death will be first,” she said. “This is all I am given to know.” Hector. “Thank you,” I said. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice hissed like water poured on coals. “Do not presume to thank me. I have come for another reason.” I waited. Her face was white as splintered bone. “It will not be so easy as he thinks. The Fates promise fame, but how much? He will need to guard his honor carefully. He is too trusting. The men of Greece”—she spat the words—“are dogs over a bone. They will not simply give up preeminence to another. I will do what I can. And you.” Her eyes flickered over my long arms and skinny knees. “You will not disgrace him. Do you understand?” Do you understand? “Yes,” I said. And I did. His fame must be worth the life he paid for it. The faintest breath of air touched her dress’s hem, and I knew she was about to leave, to vanish back to the caves of the sea. Something made me bold. “Is Hector a skilled soldier?” “He is the best,” she answered. “But for my son.” Her gaze flickered to the right, where the cliff dropped away. “He is coming,” she said. ACHILLES CRESTED THE RISE and came to where I sat. He looked at my face and my bloodied skin. “I heard you talking,” he said. “It was your mother,” I said. He knelt and took my foot in his lap. Gently, he picked the fragments of rock from the wounds, brushing off dirt and chalky dust. He tore a strip from his tunic’s hem and pressed it tight to stanch the blood. My hand closed over his. “You must not kill Hector,” I said. He looked up, his beautiful face framed by the gold of his hair. “My mother told you the rest of the prophecy.” “She did.” “And you think that no one but me can kill Hector.” “Yes,” I said. “And you think to steal time from the Fates?” “Yes.” “Ah.” A sly smile spread across his face; he had always loved defiance. “Well, why should I kill him? He’s done nothing to me.” For the first time then, I felt a kind of hope. WE LEFT THAT AFTERNOON; there was no reason to linger. Ever dutiful to custom, Lycomedes came to bid us farewell. The three of us stood together stiffly; Odysseus and Diomedes had gone ahead to the ship. They would escort us back to Phthia, where Achilles would muster his own troops. There was one more thing to be done here, and I knew Achilles did not wish to do it. “Lycomedes, my mother has asked me to convey her desires to you.” The faintest tremor crossed the old man’s face, but he met his son-inlaw’s gaze. “It is about the child,” he said. “It is.” “And what does she wish?” the king asked, wearily. “She wishes to raise him herself. She—” Achilles faltered before the look on the old man’s face. “The child will be a boy, she says. When he is weaned, she will claim him.” Silence. Then Lycomedes closed his eyes. I knew he was thinking of his daughter, arms empty of both husband and child. “I wish you had never come,” he said. “I’m sorry,” Achilles said. “Leave me,” the old king whispered. We obeyed. THE SHIP WE SAILED ON was yare, tightly made and well manned. The crew moved with a competent fleetness, the ropes gleamed with new fibers, and the masts seemed fresh as living trees. The prow piece was a beauty, the finest I had ever seen: a woman, tall, with dark hair and eyes, her hands clasped in front of her as if in contemplation. She was beautiful, but quietly so—an elegant jaw, and upswept hair showing a slender neck. She had been lovingly painted, each darkness or lightness perfectly rendered. “You are admiring my wife, I see.” Odysseus joined us at the railing, leaning on muscular forearms. “She refused at first, wouldn’t let the artist near her. I had to have him follow her in secret. I think it turned out rather well, actually.” A marriage for love, rare as cedars from the East. It almost made me want to like him. But I had seen his smiles too often now. Politely, Achilles asked, “What is her name?” “Penelope,” he said. “Is the ship new?” I asked. If he wanted to speak of his wife, I wanted to speak of something else. “Very. Every last timber of it, from the best wood that Ithaca has.” He slapped the railing with his large palm, as one might the flank of a horse. “Bragging about your new ship again?” Diomedes had joined us. His hair was lashed back with a strip of leather, and it made his face look sharper even than usual. “I am.” Diomedes spat into the water. “The king of Argos is unusually eloquent today,” Odysseus commented. Achilles had not seen their game before, as I had. His eyes went back and forth between the two men. A small smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “Tell me,” Odysseus continued. “Do you think such quick wit comes from your father having eaten that man’s brains?” “What?” Achilles’ mouth hung open. “You don’t know the tale of Mighty Tydeus, king of Argos, eater of brains?” “I’ve heard of him. But not about the—brains.” “I was thinking of having the scene painted on our plates,” Diomedes said. In the hall, I had taken Diomedes for Odysseus’ dog. But there was a keenness that hummed between the two men, a pleasure in their sparring that could come only from equals. I remembered that Diomedes was rumored to be a favorite of Athena as well. Odysseus made a face. “Remind me not to dine in Argos any time soon.” Diomedes laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. The kings were inclined to talk and lingered by the rail with us. They passed stories back and forth: of other sea voyages, of wars, of contests won in games long past. Achilles was an eager audience, with question after question. “Where did you get this?” He was pointing to the scar on Odysseus’ leg. “Ah,” Odysseus rubbed his hands together. “That is a tale worth telling. Though I should speak to the captain first.” He gestured to the sun, hanging ripe and low over the horizon. “We’ll need to stop soon for camp.” “I’ll go.” Diomedes stood from where he leaned against the rail. “I’ve heard this one almost as many times as that sickening bed story.” “Your loss,” Odysseus called after him. “Don’t mind him. His wife’s a hellhound bitch, and that would sour anyone’s temper. Now, my wife—” “I swear.” Diomedes’ voice carried back up the length of the ship. “If you finish that sentence, I will throw you over the side and you can swim to Troy.” “See?” Odysseus shook his head. “Sour.” Achilles laughed, delighted by them both. He seemed to have forgiven their part in his unmasking, and all that came after. “Now what was I saying?” “The scar,” Achilles said, eagerly. “Yes, the scar. When I was thirteen—” I watched him hang on the other man’s words. He is too trusting. But I would not be the raven on his shoulder all the time, predicting gloom. The sun slid lower in the sky, and we drew close to the dark shadow of land where we would make camp. The ship found the harbor, and the sailors drew her up on the shore for the night. Supplies were unloaded—food and bedding and tents for the princes. We stood by the campsite that had been laid for us, a small fire and pavilion. “Is all well here?” Odysseus had come to stand with us. “Very well,” Achilles said. He smiled, his easy smile, his honest one. “Thank you.” Odysseus smiled in return, teeth white against his dark beard. “Excellent. One tent’s enough, I hope? I’ve heard that you prefer to share. Rooms and bedrolls both, they say.” Heat and shock rushed through my face. Beside me, I heard Achilles’ breath stop. “Come now, there’s no need for shame—it’s a common enough thing among boys.” He scratched his jaw, contemplated. “Though you’re not really boys any longer. How old are you?” “It’s not true,” I said. The blood in my face fired my voice. It rang loudly down the beach. Odysseus raised an eyebrow. “True is what men believe, and they believe this of you. But perhaps they are mistaken. If the rumor concerns you, then leave it behind when you sail to war.” Achilles’ voice was tight and angry. “It is no business of yours, Prince of Ithaca.” Odysseus held up his hands. “My apologies if I have offended. I merely came to wish you both good night and ensure that all was satisfactory. Prince Achilles. Patroclus.” He inclined his head and turned back to his own tent. Inside the tent there was quietness between us. I had wondered when this would come. As Odysseus said, many boys took each other for lovers. But such things were given up as they grew older, unless it was with slaves or hired boys. Our men liked conquest; they did not trust a man who was conquered himself. Do not disgrace him, the goddess had said. And this is some of what she had meant. “Perhaps he is right,” I said. Achilles’ head came up, frowning. “You do not think that.” “I do not mean—” I twisted my fingers. “I would still be with you. But I could sleep outside, so it would not be so obvious. I do not need to attend your councils. I—” “No. The Phthians will not care. And the others can talk all they like. I will still be Aristos Achaion.” Best of the Greeks. “Your honor could be darkened by it.” “Then it is darkened.” His jaw shot forward, stubborn. “They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this.” “But Odysseus—” His eyes, green as spring leaves, met mine. “Patroclus. I have given enough to them. I will not give them this.” After that, there was nothing more to say. THE NEXT DAY, with the southern wind caught in our sail, we found Odysseus by the prow. “Prince of Ithaca,” Achilles said. His voice was formal; there were none of the boyish smiles from the day before. “I wish to hear you speak of Agamemnon and the other kings. I would know the men I am to join, and the princes I am to fight.” “Very wise, Prince Achilles.” If Odysseus noticed a change, he did not comment on it. He led us to the benches at the base of the mast, below the big-bellied sail. “Now, where to begin?” Almost absently, he rubbed the scar on his leg. It was starker in daylight, hairless and puckered. “There is Menelaus, whose wife we go to retrieve. After Helen picked him for her husband— Patroclus can tell you about that—he became king of Sparta. He is known as a good man, fearless in battle and well liked in the world. Many kings have rallied to his cause, and not just those who are bound to their oaths.” “Such as?” Achilles asked. Odysseus counted them off on his large farmer’s hands. “Meriones, Idomeneus, Philoctetes, Ajax. Both Ajaxes, larger and lesser.” One was the man I remembered from Tyndareus’ hall, a huge man with a shield; the other I did not know. “Old King Nestor of Pylos will be there as well.” I’d heard the name—he had sailed with Jason in his youth, to find the Golden Fleece. He was long past his fighting days now, but brought his sons to war, and his counsel, too. Achilles’ face was intent, his eyes dark. “And the Trojans?” “Priam, of course. King of Troy. The man is said to have fifty sons, all raised with a sword in their hands.” “Fifty sons?” “And fifty daughters. He’s known to be pious and much loved by the gods. His sons are famous in their own right—Paris, of course, beloved of the goddess Aphrodite, and much noted for his beauty. Even the youngest, who’s barely ten, is supposed to be ferocious. Troilus, I think. They have a god-born cousin who fights for them, too. Aeneas, his name is, a child of Aphrodite herself.” “What about Hector?” Achilles’ eyes never left Odysseus. “Priam’s oldest son and heir, favorite of the god Apollo. Troy’s mightiest defender.” “What does he look like?” Odysseus shrugged. “I don’t know. They say he is large, but that is said of most heroes. You’ll meet him before I do, so you’ll have to tell me.” Achilles narrowed his eyes. “Why do you say that?” Odysseus made a wry face. “As I’m sure Diomedes will agree, I am a competent soldier but no more; my talents lie elsewhere. If I were to meet Hector in battle, I would not be bringing back news of him. You, of course, are a different matter. You will win the greatest fame from his death.” My skin went cold. “Perhaps I would, but I see no reason to kill him.” Achilles answered coolly. “He’s done nothing to me.” Odysseus chuckled, as if a joke had been made. “If every soldier killed only those who’d personally offended him, Pelides, we’d have no wars at all.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Though maybe it’s not such a bad idea. In that world, perhaps I’d be Aristos Achaion, instead of you.” Achilles did not answer. He had turned to look over the ship’s side at the waves beyond. The light fell upon his cheek, lit it to glowing. “You have told me nothing of Agamemnon,” he said. “Yes, our mighty king of Mycenae.” Odysseus leaned back again. “Proud scion of the house of Atreus. His great-grandfather Tantalus was a son of Zeus. Surely you’ve heard his story.” All knew of Tantalus’ eternal torment. To punish his contempt for their powers, the gods had thrown him into the deepest pit of the underworld. There they afflicted the king with perpetual thirst and hunger, while food and drink sat just out of his reach. “I’ve heard of him. But I never knew what his crime was,” Achilles said. “Well. In the days of King Tantalus, all our kingdoms were the same size, and the kings were at peace. But Tantalus grew dissatisfied with his portion, and began to take his neighbors’ lands by force. His holdings doubled, then doubled again, but still Tantalus was not satisfied. His success had made him proud, and having bested all men who came before him, he sought next to best the gods themselves. Not with weapons, for no man may match the gods in battle. But in trickery. He wished to prove that the gods do not know all, as they say they do. “So he called his son to him, Pelops, and asked him if he wanted to help his father. ‘Of course,’ Pelops said. His father smiled and drew his sword. With a single blow he slit his son’s throat clean across. He carved the body into careful pieces and spitted them over the fire.” My stomach heaved at the thought of the iron skewer through the boy’s dead flesh. “When the boy was cooked, Tantalus called to his father Zeus on Olympus. ‘Father!’ he said. ‘I have prepared a feast to honor you and all your kin. Hurry, for the meat is tender still, and fresh.’ The gods love such feasting and came quickly to Tantalus’ hall. But when they arrived, the smell of the cooking meat, normally so dear, seemed to choke them. At once Zeus knew what had been done. He seized Tantalus by the legs and threw him into Tartarus, to suffer his eternal punishment.” The sky was bright, and the wind brisk, but in the spell of Odysseus’ story I felt that we were by a fireside, with night pressing all around. “Zeus then drew the pieces of the boy back together and breathed a second life into him. Pelops, though only a boy, became king of Mycenae. He was a good king, distinguished in piety and wisdom, yet many miseries afflicted his reign. Some said that the gods had cursed Tantalus’ line, condemning them all to violence and disaster. Pelops’ sons, Atreus and Thyestes, were born with their grandfather’s ambition, and their crimes were dark and bloody, as his had been. A daughter raped by her father, a son cooked and eaten, all in their bitter rivalry for the throne. “It is only now, by the virtue of Agamemnon and Menelaus, that their family fortune has begun to change. The days of civil war are gone, and Mycenae prospers under Agamemnon’s upright rule. He has won just renown for his skill with a spear and the firmness of his leadership. We are fortunate to have him as our general.” I had thought Achilles was no longer listening. But he turned now, frowning. “We are each generals.” “Of course,” Odysseus agreed. “But we are all going to fight the same enemy, are we not? Two dozen generals on one battlefield will be chaos and defeat.” He offered a grin. “You know how well we all get along—we’d probably end up killing each other instead of the Trojans. Success in such a war as this comes only through men sewn to a single purpose, funneled to a single spear thrust rather than a thousand needle-pricks. You lead the Phthians, and I the Ithacans, but there must be someone who uses us each to our abilities”—he tipped a gracious hand towards Achilles —“however great they may be.” Achilles ignored the compliment. The setting sun cut shadows into his face; his eyes were flat and hard. “I come of my free will, Prince of Ithaca. I will take Agamemnon’s counsel, but not his orders. I would have you understand this.” Odysseus shook his head. “Gods save us from ourselves. Not even in battle yet, and already worrying over honors.” “I am not—” Odysseus waved a hand. “Believe me, Agamemnon understands your great worth to his cause. It was he who first wished you to come. You will be welcomed to our army with all the pomp you could desire.” It was not what Achilles had meant, exactly, but it was close enough. I was glad when the lookout shouted landfall up ahead. THAT EVENING, when we had set aside our dinners, Achilles lay back on the bed. “What do you think of these men we will meet?” “I don’t know.” “I am glad Diomedes is gone, at least.” “Me too.” We had let the king off at Euboia’s northern tip, to wait for his army from Argos. “I do not trust them.” “I suppose we will know soon enough what they are like,” he said. We were silent a moment, thinking of that. Outside, we could hear the beginnings of rain, soft, barely sounding on the tent roof. “Odysseus said it would storm tonight.” An Aegean storm, quickly here and quickly gone. Our boat was safely beached, and tomorrow would be clear again. Achilles was looking at me. “Your hair never quite lies flat here.” He touched my head, just behind my ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how I like it.” My scalp prickled where his fingers had been. “You haven’t,” I said. “I should have.” His hand drifted down to the vee at the base of my throat, drew softly across the pulse. “What about this? Have I told you what I think of this, just here?” “No,” I said. “This surely, then.” His hand moved across the muscles of my chest; my skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told you of this?” “That you have told me.” My breath caught a little as I spoke. “And what of this?” His hand lingered over my hips, drew down the line of my thigh. “Have I spoken of it?” “You have.” “And this? Surely, I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.” “You did not.” “There is this, too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.” I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said. LATER, ACHILLES SLEEPS next to me. Odysseus’ storm has come, and the coarse fabric of the tent wall trembles with its force. I hear the stinging slap, over and over, of waves reproaching the shore. He stirs and the air stirs with him, bearing the musk-sweet smell of his body. I think: This is what I will miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it. I think: How long do we have? Chapter Sixteen WE ARRIVED IN PHTHIA THE NEXT DAY. THE SUN WAS just over the meridian, and Achilles and I stood looking at the rail. “Do you see that?” “What?” As always, his eyes were sharper than mine. “The shore. It looks strange.” As we drew closer we saw why. It was thick with people, jostling impatiently, craning their necks towards us. And the sound: at first it seemed to come from the waves, or the ship as it cut them, a rushing roar. But it grew louder with each stroke of our oars, until we understood that it was voices, then words. Over and over, it came. Prince Achilles! Aristos Achaion! As our ship touched the beach, hundreds of hands threw themselves into the air, and hundreds of throats opened in a cheer. All other noises, the wood of the gangplank banging down on rock, the sailors’ commands, were lost to it. We stared, in shock. It was that moment, perhaps, that our lives changed. Not before in Scyros, nor before that still, on Pelion. But here, as we began to understand the grandness, now and always, that would follow him wherever he went. He had chosen to become a legend, and this was the beginning. He hesitated, and I touched my hand to his, where the crowd could not see it. “Go,” I urged him. “They are waiting for you.” Achilles stepped forward onto the gangplank, his arm lifted in greeting, and the crowd screamed itself hoarse. I half-feared they would swarm onto the ship, but soldiers pushed forward and lined the gangway, making a path straight through the crush. Achilles turned back to me, said something. I could not hear it, but I understood. Come with me. I nodded, and we began to walk. On either side of us, the crowd surged against the soldiers’ barrier. At the aisle’s end was Peleus, waiting for us. His face was wet, and he made no attempt to wipe aside the tears. He drew Achilles to him, held him long before he let him go. “Our prince has returned!” His voice was deeper than I remembered, resonant and carrying far, over the noise of the crowd. They quieted, to hear the words of their king. “Before you all I offer welcome to my most beloved son, sole heir to my kingdom. He will lead you to Troy in glory; he will return home in triumph.” Even there beneath the bright sun, I felt my skin go cold. He will not come home at all. But Peleus did not know this, yet. “He is a man grown, and god born. Aristos Achaion!” There was no time to think of it now. The soldiers were beating on their shields with their spears; the women screamed; the men howled. I caught sight of Achilles’ face; the look on it was stunned, but not displeased. He was standing differently, I noticed, shoulders back and legs braced. He looked older, somehow, taller even. He leaned over to say something in his father’s ear, but I could not hear what he said. A chariot was waiting; we stepped into it and watched the crowd stream behind us up the beach. Inside the palace, attendants and servants buzzed around us. We were given a moment to eat and drink what was pressed into our hands. Then we were led to the palace courtyard, where twenty-five hundred men waited for us. At our approach they lifted their square shields, shining like carapace, in salute to their new general. This, out of all of it, was perhaps the strangest: that he was their commander now. He would be expected to know them all, their names and armor and stories. He no longer belongs to me alone. If he was nervous, even I could not tell. I watched as he greeted them, spoke ringing words that made them stand up straighter. They grinned, loving every inch of their miraculous prince: his gleaming hair, his deadly hands, his nimble feet. They leaned towards him, like flowers to the sun, drinking in his luster. It was as Odysseus had said: he had light enough to make heroes of them all. WE WERE NEVER ALONE. Achilles was always needed for something— his eye on draft sheets and figures, his advice on food supplies and levy lists. Phoinix, his father’s old counselor, would be accompanying us, but there were still a thousand questions for Achilles to answer—how many? how much? who will be your captains? He did what he could, then announced, “I defer all the rest of such matters to the experience of Phoinix.” I heard a servant girl sigh behind me. Handsome and gracious, both. He knew that I had little to do here. His face, when he turned to me, was increasingly apologetic. He was always sure to place the tablets where I could see them too, to ask my opinion. But I did not make it easy for him, standing in the back, listless and silent. Even there, I could not escape. Through every window came the constant clatter of soldiers, bragging and drilling and sharpening their spears. The Myrmidons, they had begun calling themselves, ant-men, an old nickname of honor. Another thing Achilles had had to explain to me: the legend of Zeus creating the first Phthians from ants. I watched them marching, rank on cheerful rank. I saw them dreaming of the plunder they would bring home, and the triumph. There was no such dream for us. I began to slip away. I would find a reason to linger behind as the attendants ushered him forward: an itch, or a loose strap of my shoe. Oblivious, they hurried on, turned a corner, and left me suddenly, blessedly, alone. I took the twisting corridors I had learned so many years ago and came gratefully to our empty room. There I lay on the cool stone of the floor and closed my eyes. I could not stop imagining how it would end— spear-tip or swordpoint, or smashed by a chariot. The rushing, unending blood of his heart. One night in the second week, as we lay half-drowsing, I asked him: “How will you tell your father? About the prophecy?” The words were loud in the silence of midnight. For a moment he was still. Then he said, “I do not think I will.” “Never?” He shook his head, just the barest shadow. “There is nothing he can do. It would only bring him grief.” “What about your mother? Won’t she tell him?” “No,” he said. “It was one of the things I asked her to promise me, that last day on Scyros.” I frowned. He had not told me this before. “What were the other things?” I saw him hesitate. But we did not lie to each other; we never had. “I asked her to protect you,” he said. “After.” I stared at him, dry-mouthed. “What did she say?” Another silence. Then, so quietly I could imagine the dull red shame of his cheeks, he answered, “She said no.” Later, when he slept, and I lay wakeful and watching under the stars, I thought of this. Knowing that he had asked warmed me—it chased away some of the coldness of the days here in the palace, when he was wanted every moment and I was not. As for the goddess’s answer, I did not care. I would have no need of her. I did not plan to live after he was gone. SIX WEEKS PASSED—the six weeks that it took to organize soldiers, to equip a fleet, to pack up food and clothing to last the length of the war—a year perhaps, or two. Sieges were always long. Peleus insisted that Achilles take only the best. He paid for a small fortune in armor, more than six men would need. There were hammeredbronze breastplates, graven with lions and a rising phoenix, stiff leather greaves with gold bands, horsehair plumed helms, a silver-forged sword, dozens of spearheads, and two light-wheeled chariots. With this came a four-horse team, including the pair given to Peleus by the gods at his wedding. Xanthos and Balios, they were called: Golden and Dapple, and their eyes rolled white with impatience whenever they were not free to run. He gave us also a charioteer, a boy younger than we were, but sturdily built and said to be skilled with headstrong horses. Automedon, his name was. Finally, last of all: a long spear, ash sapling peeled of bark and polished until it glowed like gray flame. From Chiron, Peleus said, handing it to his son. We bent over it, our fingers trailing its surface as if to catch the centaur’s lingering presence. Such a fine gift would have taken weeks of Chiron’s deft shaping; he must have begun it almost the day that we left. Did he know, or only guess at Achilles’ destiny? As he lay alone in his rose-colored cave, had some glimmer of prophecy come to him? Perhaps he simply assumed: a bitterness of habit, of boy after boy trained for music and medicine, and unleashed for murder. Yet this beautiful spear had been fashioned not in bitterness, but love. Its shape would fit no one’s hand but Achilles’, and its heft could suit no one’s strength but his. And though the point was keen and deadly, the wood itself slipped under our fingers like the slender oiled strut of a lyre. AT LAST THE DAY for our departure came. Our ship was a beauty, finer even than Odysseus’—sleek and slim as a knifepoint, meant to cut the sea. It rode low in the water, heavy with stores of food and supplies. And that was only the flagship. Beside it, forty-nine others, a city of wood, rolled gently in the waters of Phthia’s harbor. Their bright prowpieces were a bestiary of animals and nymphs and creatures half in between, and their masts stood as tall as the trees they had been. At the front of each of these ships, one of our new-minted captains stood at attention, saluting as we walked up the ramp to our vessel. Achilles went first, his purple cloak stirring in the breeze from the sea, then Phoinix, and me with a new cloak of my own, holding the old man’s arm to steady his steps. The people cheered for us and for our soldiers, filing onto their own ships. All around us final promises were shouted: of glory, of the gold that would be stripped and brought home from Priam’s rich city. Peleus stood at the shore’s edge, one hand raised in farewell. True to his word, Achilles had not told him of the prophecy, merely hugged him tightly, as if to soak the old man into his skin. I had embraced him too, those thin, wiry limbs. I thought, This is what Achilles will feel like when he is old. And then I remembered: he will never be old. The ship’s boards were still sticky with new resin. We leaned over the railing to wave our last farewell, the sun-warm wood pressed against our bellies. The sailors heaved up the anchor, square and chalky with barnacles, and loosened the sails. Then they took their seats at the oars that fringed the boat like eyelashes, waiting for the count. The drums began to beat, and the oars lifted and fell, taking us to Troy. Chapter Seventeen BUT FIRST, TO AULIS. AULIS, A JUTTING FINGER OF LAND with enough shoreline to beach all our ships at once. Agamemnon had wanted his mighty force assembled in a single place before it sailed. A symbol perhaps: the visible power of Greece Offended. After five days churning through the rough waters of the Euboean coast, we came around the last hitch of the winding straight, and Aulis was there. It appeared all at once, as if a veil had been yanked off: shoreline thick with vessels in every size and color and shape, its beach covered in a shifting carpet of thousands upon thousands of men. Beyond them the canvas tops of tents stretched out to the horizon, bright pennants marking the kings’ pavilions. Our men strove at their oars, guiding us towards the last empty place on the crowded shore—big enough for our whole fleet. Anchors dropped from fifty sterns. Horns blew. The Myrmidons from the other ships were already wading ashore. They stood now at the water’s edge, surrounding us, white tunics billowing. At a signal we could not see they began to chant their prince’s name, twenty-five hundred men speaking as one. A-chil-les! All along the shore, heads turned—Spartans, Argives, Mycenaeans, and all the rest. The news went rippling through them, passing one to another. Achilles is here. As the sailors lowered the gangway we watched them gather, kings and conscripts both. I could not see the princely faces from the distance, but I recognized the pennants that their squires carried before them: the yellow banner of Odysseus, the blue of Diomedes, and then the brightest, the biggest—a lion on purple, the symbol of Agamemnon and Mycenae. Achilles looked to me, drew in a breath; the screaming crowd at Phthia was nothing compared to this. But he was ready. I saw it in the way he lifted his chest, in the fierce green of his eyes. He walked to the gangway and stood at its top. The Myrmidons kept up their shouts, and they were not alone now; others in the crowd had joined them. A broad-chested Myrmidon captain cupped his hands around his mouth. “Prince Achilles, son of King Peleus and the goddess Thetis. Aristos Achaion!” As if in answer, the air changed. Bright sunlight broke and poured over Achilles, went rolling down his hair and back and skin, turning him to gold. He seemed suddenly larger, and his tunic, wrinkled from travel, straightened until it shone white and clean as a sail. His hair caught the light like buoyant flame. Gasps amongst the men; new cheers burst forth. Thetis, I thought. It could be no one else. She was pulling his divinity forth, mantling it like cream on every inch of his skin. Helping her son make the most of his dearly bought fame. I could see the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He was enjoying it, licking the crowd’s worship off his lips. He did not know, he told me later, what was happening. But he did not question it; it did not seem strange to him. A pathway had been left open for him, straight through the crowd’s heart to where the kings gathered. Each arriving prince was to present himself before his peers and new commander; now it was Achilles’ turn. He strode down the plank and past the jostling ranks of men, stopping perhaps ten feet from the kings. I was a few paces farther behind. Agamemnon was waiting for us. His nose was curved and sharp like an eagle’s beak, and his eyes glittered with a greedy intelligence. He was solid and broad across his chest, firmly planted in his feet. He looked seasoned, but also worn—older than the forty years we knew him to be. At his right side, a place of honor, stood Odysseus and Diomedes. On his left was his brother, Menelaus— king of Sparta, cause of war. The vivid red hair that I remembered from Tyndareus’ hall was touched now with threading gray. Like his brother he was tall and square, his shoulders strong as a yoke-ox. His family’s dark eyes and curving nose seemed softer on him, more temperate. His face was smile-lined and handsome where his brother’s was not. The only other king that I could identify with any surety was Nestor—the old man, chin barely covered by a sparse white beard, eyes sharp in his agewhittled face. He was the oldest man living, it was rumored, the canny survivor of a thousand scandals and battles and coups. He ruled the sandy strip of Pylos, whose throne he still clutched stubbornly, disappointing dozens of sons who grew old and then older, even as he bred new ones from his famed and well-worn loins. It was two of these sons who held his arms steady now, shouldering other kings aside for a place at the front. As he watched us his mouth hung open, breath puffing his threadbare beard with excitement. He loved a commotion. Agamemnon stepped forward. He opened his hands in a gesture of welcome and stood regally expectant, waiting for the bows, obeisance, and oaths of loyalty he was owed. It was Achilles’ place to kneel and offer them. He did not kneel. He did not call out a greeting to the great king, or incline his head or offer a gift. He did nothing but stand straight, chin proudly lifted, before them all. Agamemnon’s jaw tightened; he looked silly like that, with his arms out, and he knew it. My gaze caught on Odysseus and Diomedes; their eyes were sending sharp messages. Around us the uneasy silence spread. Men exchanged glances. My hands clutched each other behind my back as I watched Achilles and the game he played. His face seemed cut from stone as he stared his warning at the king of Mycenae—You do not command me. The silence went on and on, painful and breathless, like a singer overreaching to finish a phrase. Then, just as Odysseus moved forward to intervene, Achilles spoke. “I am Achilles, son of Peleus, god-born, best of the Greeks,” he said. “I have come to bring you victory.” A second of startled silence, then the men roared their approval. Pride became us—heroes were never modest. Agamemnon’s eyes went flat. And then Odysseus was there, his hand hard on Achilles’ shoulder, wrinkling the fabric as his voice smoothed the air. “Agamemnon, Lord of Men, we have brought the prince Achilles to pledge his allegiance to you.” His look warned Achilles— it is not too late. But Achilles simply smiled and stepped forward so that Odysseus’ hand fell off him. “I come freely to offer my aid to your cause,” he said loudly. Then turning to the crowd around him, “I am honored to fight with so many noble warriors of our kingdoms.” Another cheer, loud and long, taking what felt like minutes to die. Finally, from the deep crag of his face, Agamemnon spoke, with patience that had been hard won, hard practiced. “Indeed, I have the finest army in the world. And I welcome you to it, young prince of Phthia.” His smile cut sharply. “It is a pity you were so slow to come.” There was implication here, but Achilles had no chance to answer. Agamemnon was already speaking again, his voice lifted over us all: “Men of Greece, we have delayed long enough. We leave for Troy tomorrow. Repair to your camps and make yourselves ready.” Then he turned with finality and strode up the beach. The kings of Agamemnon’s innermost circle followed him, dispersing back to their ships—Odysseus, Diomedes, Nestor, Menelaus, more. But others lingered to meet the new hero: Thessalian Eurypylus and Antilochus of Pylos, Meriones of Crete and the physician Podalerius. Men drawn here for glory or bound by their oath, from every far-flung crag of our countries. Many had been here for months, waiting as the rest of the army straggled together. After such tedium, they said, looking slyly at Achilles, they welcomed any harmless entertainment. Particularly at the expense of— “Prince Achilles,” interrupted Phoinix. “Please excuse my intrusion. I thought you would wish to know that your camp is being prepared.” His voice was stiff with disapproval; but here, in front of the others, he would not chide. “Thank you, worthy Phoinix,” Achilles said. “If you’ll pardon us—?” Yes, yes, of course they would. They’d come by later, or tomorrow. They’d bring their best wine and we’d broach it together. Achilles clasped hands with them, promised it would be so. IN CAMP, Myrmidons streamed around us hefting baggage and food, poles and canvas. A man in livery approached and bowed— one of Menelaus’ heralds. His king could not come in person, he regretted, but had sent the herald here in his place to welcome us. Achilles and I exchanged a glance. This was clever diplomacy— we had not made a friend in his brother, so Menelaus did not come himself. Yet, some welcome was due to the best of the Greeks. “A man who plays both sides of the fence,” I whispered to Achilles. “A man who cannot afford to offend me if he wants his wife returned,” he whispered back. Would we accept a tour? the herald asked. Yes, we said, in our best princely manner. We would. The main encampment was a dizzying chaos, a bedlam of motion— the constant fluttering of pennants, laundry on lines, tent walls, the hurrying bodies of thousands and thousands of men. Beyond this was the river, with its old watermark from when the armies had first arrived, a foot higher on the bank. Then the marketplace center, the agora, with its altar and makeshift podium. Last, the latrines—long, open ditches, busy with men. Wherever we went, we were observed. I watched Achilles closely, waiting to see if Thetis would again make his hair brighter or his muscles bigger. If she did, I did not notice; all the grace I saw then was his own: simple, unadorned, glorious. He waved to the men who stared at him; he smiled and greeted them as he passed. I heard the words, whispered from behind beards and broken teeth and callused hands: Aristos Achaion. Was he as Odysseus and Diomedes had promised? Did they believe those slender limbs could hold against an army of Trojans? Could a boy of sixteen really be our greatest warrior? And everywhere, as I watched the questions, I saw also the answers. Yes, they nodded to each other, yes, yes. Chapter Eighteen I WOKE THAT NIGHT GASPING. I WAS SWEAT-SOAKED, AND THE tent felt oppressively warm. Beside me Achilles slept, his skin as damp as mine. I stepped outside, eager for a breeze off the water. But here, too, the air was heavy and humid. It was quiet, strangely so. I heard no flapping of canvas, no jingle of an unsecured harness. Even the sea was silent, as if the waves had ceased to fall against the shore. Out beyond the breakers it was flat as a polished bronze mirror. There was no wind, I realized. That was the strangeness. The air that hung around me did not stir, even with the faintest whisper of current. I remember thinking: if it keeps up like this we won’t be able to sail tomorrow. I washed my face, glad of the water’s coolness, then returned to Achilles and restless, turning sleep. THE NEXT MORNING is the same. I wake in a pool of sweat, my skin puckered and parched. Gratefully I gulp the water that Automedon brings us. Achilles wakes, draws a hand over his soaked forehead. He frowns, goes outside, returns. “There is no wind.” I nod. “We will not leave today.” Our men are strong oarsmen, but even they cannot power a full day’s journey. We need the wind to take us to Troy. It does not come. Not that day, or that night, or the next day either. Agamemnon is forced to stand in the marketplace and announce further delay. As soon as the wind returns, we will leave, he promises us. But the wind does not return. We are hot all the time, and the air feels like the blasts off a fire, scorching our lungs. We had never noticed how scalding the sand could be, how scratchy our blankets. Tempers fray, and fights break out. Achilles and I spend all our time in the sea, seeking the meager comfort it offers. The days pass and our foreheads crease with worry. Two weeks with no wind is unnatural, yet Agamemnon does nothing. At last Achilles says, “I will speak to my mother.” I sit in the tent sweating and waiting while he summons her. When he returns, he says, “It is the gods.” But his mother will not—cannot—say who. We go to Agamemnon. The king’s skin is red with heat-rash, and he is angry all the time—at the wind, at his restless army, at anyone who will give him an excuse for it. Achilles says, “You know my mother is a goddess.” Agamemnon almost snarls his answer. Odysseus lays a restraining hand on his shoulder. “She says the weather is not natural. That it is a message from the gods.” Agamemnon is not pleased to hear it; he glowers and dismisses us. A month passes, a weary month of feverish sleep and sweltering days. Men’s faces are heavy with anger, but there are no more fights—it is too hot. They lie in the dark and hate each other. Another month. We are all, I think, going to go mad, suffocated by the weight of the motionless air. How much longer can this go on? It is terrible: the glaring sky that pins down our host, the choking heat we suck in with every breath. Even Achilles and I, alone in our tent with the hundred games we make for each other, feel winnowed and bare. When will it end? Finally, word comes. Agamemnon has spoken with the chief priest, Calchas. We know him—he is small, with a patchy brown beard. An ugly man, with a face sharp like a weasel and a habit of running a flickering tongue over his lips before he speaks. But most ugly of all are his eyes: blue, bright blue. When people see them, they flinch. Such things are freakish. He is lucky he was not killed at birth. Calchas believes it is the goddess Artemis we have offended, though he does not say why. He gives the usual prescription: an enormous sacrifice. Dutifully, the cattle are gathered, and the honey-wine mixed. At our next camp meeting, Agamemnon announces that he has invited his daughter to help preside over the rites. She is a priestess of Artemis, and the youngest woman ever to have been so anointed; perhaps she can soothe the raging goddess. Then we hear more—this daughter is being brought from Mycenae not just for the ceremony, but for marriage to one of the kings. Weddings are always propitious, pleasing to the gods; perhaps this too will help. Agamemnon summons Achilles and me to his tent. His face looks rumpled and swollen, the skin of a man who has not been sleeping. His nose is still red with rash. Beside him sits Odysseus, cool as ever. Agamemnon clears his throat. “Prince Achilles. I have called you here with a proposition. Perhaps you have heard that—” He stops, clears his throat again. “I have a daughter, Iphigenia. I would wish her to be your wife.” We stare. Achilles’ mouth opens, closes. Odysseus says, “Agamemnon offers you a great honor, Prince of Phthia.” Achilles stutters, a rare clumsiness. “Yes, and I thank him.” His eyes go to Odysseus, and I know that he is thinking: What of Deidameia? Achilles is already married, as Odysseus well knows. But the king of Ithaca nods, slight so that Agamemnon will not see. We are to pretend that the princess of Scyros does not exist. “I am honored that you would think of me,” Achilles says, hesitating still. His eyes flicker to me, in a question. Odysseus sees, as he sees everything. “Sadly, you will only have a night together before she must leave again. Though of course, much may happen in a night.” He smiles. No one else does. “It will be good, I believe, a wedding,” Agamemnon’s words come slowly. “Good for our families, good for the men.” He does not meet our gaze. Achilles is watching for my answer; he will say no if I wish it. Jealousy pricks, but faintly. It will only be a night, I think. It will win him status and sway, and make peace with Agamemnon. It will mean nothing. I nod, slight, as Odysseus had. Achilles offers his hand. “I accept, Agamemnon. I will be proud to name you father-in-law.” Agamemnon takes the younger man’s hand. I watch his eyes as he does —they are cold and almost sad. Later, I will remember this. He clears his throat, a third time. “Iphigenia,” he says, “is a good girl.” “I am sure she is,” Achilles says. “I will be honored to have her as my wife.” Agamemnon nods, a dismissal, and we turn to go. Iphigenia. A tripping name, the sound of goat hooves on rock, quick, lively, lovely. A FEW DAYS LATER, she arrived with a guard of stern Mycenaeans —older men, the ones not fit for war. As her chariot rattled over the stony road to our camp, soldiers came out to stare. It had been long now, since many of them had seen a woman. They feasted on the curve of her neck, a flash of ankle, her hands prettily smoothing the skirt of her bridal gown. Her brown eyes were lit with excitement; she was coming to marry the best of the Greeks. The wedding would take place in our makeshift marketplace, the square wooden platform with a raised altar behind it. The chariot drew closer, past the thronging, gathered men. Agamemnon stood on the dais, flanked by Odysseus and Diomedes; Calchas too was near. Achilles waited, as grooms do, at the dais’s side. Iphigenia stepped delicately out of her chariot and onto the raised wood floor. She was very young, not yet fourteen, caught between priestess poise and childlike eagerness. She threw her arms around her father’s neck, laced her hands through his hair. She whispered something to him and laughed. I could not see his face, but his hands on her slender shoulders seemed to tighten. Odysseus and Diomedes moved forward all smiles and bows, offering their greetings. Her responses were gracious, but impatient. Her eyes were already searching for the husband she had been promised. She found him easily, her gaze catching on his golden hair. She smiled at what she saw. At her look, Achilles stepped forward to meet her, standing now just at the platform’s edge. He could have touched her then, and I saw him start to, reach towards her tapered fingers, fine as sea-smoothed shells. Then the girl stumbled. I remember Achilles frowning. I remember him shift, to catch her. But she wasn’t falling. She was being dragged backwards, to the altar behind her. No one had seen Diomedes move, but his hand was on her now, huge against her slender collarbone, bearing her down to the stone surface. She was too shocked to struggle, to know even what was happening. Agamemnon yanked something from his belt. It flashed in the sun as he swung it. The knife’s edge fell onto her throat, and blood spurted over the altar, spilled down her dress. She choked, tried to speak, could not. Her body thrashed and writhed, but the hands of the king pinned her down. At last her struggles grew weaker, her kicking less; at last she lay still. Blood slicked Agamemnon’s hands. He spoke into the silence: “The goddess is appeased.” Who knows what might have happened then? The air was close with the iron-salt smell of her death. Human sacrifice was an abomination, driven from our lands long ago. And his own daughter. We were horrified and angry, and there was violence in us. Then, before we could move: something on our cheeks. We paused, unsure, and it came again. Soft and cool and smelling of the sea. A murmur went through the men. Wind. The wind has come. Jaws unclenched, and muscles loosened. The goddess is appeased. Achilles seemed frozen, fixed to his spot beside the dais. I took his arm and pulled him through the crowd towards our tent. His eyes were wild, and his face was spattered with her blood. I wet a cloth and tried to clean it away, but he caught my hand. “I could have stopped them,” he said. The skin of his face was very pale; his voice was hoarse. “I was close enough. I could have saved her.” I shook my head. “You could not have known.” He buried his face in his hands and did not speak. I held him and whispered all the bits of broken comfort I could find. AFTER HE HAD WASHED his stained hands and changed his bloodied clothes, Agamemnon called us all back to the marketplace. Artemis, he said, had been displeased with the bloodshed this huge army intended. She demanded payment for it, in advance, in kind. Cows were not enough. A virgin priestess was required, human blood for human blood; the leader’s eldest daughter would be best. Iphigenia had known, he said, had agreed to do it. Most men had not been close enough to see the startled panic in her eyes. Gratefully, they believed their general’s lie. They burned her that night on cypress wood, the tree of our darkest gods. Agamemnon broached a hundred casks of wine for celebration; we were leaving for Troy on the morning’s tide. Inside our tent Achilles fell into exhausted sleep, his head in my lap. I stroked his forehead, watching the trembles of his dreaming face. In the corner lay his bloodied groom’s tunic. Looking at it, at him, my chest felt hot and tight. It was the first death he had ever witnessed. I eased his head off my lap and stood. Outside, men sang and shouted, drunk and getting drunker. On the beach the pyre burned high, fed by the breeze. I strode past campfires, past lurching soldiers. I knew where I was going. There were guards outside his tent, but they were slumping, half-asleep. “Who are you?” one asked, starting up. I stepped past him and threw open the tent’s door. Odysseus turned. He had been standing at a small table, his finger to a map. There was a half-finished dinner plate beside it. “Welcome, Patroclus. It’s all right, I know him,” he added to the guard stuttering apologies behind me. He waited until the man was gone. “I thought you might come.” I made a noise of contempt. “You would say that whatever you thought.” He half-smiled. “Sit, if you like. I’m just finishing my dinner.” “You let them murder her.” I spat the words at him. He drew a chair to the table. “What makes you think I could have stopped them?” “You would have, if it had been your daughter.” I felt like my eyes were throwing off sparks. I wanted him burnt. “I don’t have a daughter.” He tore a piece of bread, sopped it into gravy. Ate. “Your wife then. What if it had been your wife?” He looked up at me. “What do you wish me to say? That I would not have done it?” “Yes.” “I would not have. But perhaps that is why Agamemnon is king of Mycenae, and I rule only Ithaca.” Too easily his answers came to him. His patience enraged me. “Her death is on your head.” A wry twist of his mouth. “You give me too much credit. I am a counselor only, Patroclus. Not a general.” “You lied to us.” “About the wedding? Yes. It was the only way Clytemnestra would let the girl come.” The mother, back in Argos. Questions rose in me, but I knew this trick of his. I would not let him divert me from my anger. My finger stabbed the air. “You dishonored him.” Achilles had not thought of this yet— he was too grieved with the girl’s death. But I had. They had tainted him with their deceit. Odysseus waved a hand. “The men have already forgotten he was part of it. They forgot it when the girl’s blood spilled.” “It is convenient for you to think so.” He poured himself a cup of wine, drank. “You are angry, and not without reason. But why come to me? I did not hold the knife, or the girl.” “There was blood,” I snarled. “All over him, his face. In his mouth. Do you know what it did to him?” “He grieves that he did not prevent it.” “Of course,” I snapped. “He could barely speak.” Odysseus shrugged. “He has a tender heart. An admirable quality, surely. If it helps his conscience, tell him I placed Diomedes where he was on purpose. So Achilles would see too late.” I hated him so much I could not speak. He leaned forward in his chair. “May I give you some advice? If you are truly his friend, you will help him leave this soft heart behind. He’s going to Troy to kill men, not rescue them.” His dark eyes held me like swiftrunning current. “He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature.” The words drove breath from me, left me stuttering. “He is not—” “But he is. The best the gods have ever made. And it is time he knew it, and you did too. If you hear nothing else I say, hear that. I do not say it in malice.” I was no match for him and his words that lodged like quills and would not be shaken loose. “You are wrong,” I said. He did not answer me, only watched me turn and flee from him in silence. Chapter Nineteen WE LEFT THE NEXT DAY, EARLY, WITH THE REST OF the fleet. From the stern of our ship, Aulis’s beach looked strangely bare. Only the gouges of the latrines and the ash-white ruins of the girl’s pyre were left to mark our passage. I had woken him this morning with Odysseus’ news—that he could not have seen Diomedes in time. He heard me out dully, his eyes bruised despite how long he had slept. Then he said, “She is dead, all the same.” Now he paced the deck behind me. I tried to point things out to him—the dolphins that ran beside us, the rain-swelled clouds on the horizon—but he was listless and only half-listening. Later I caught him standing alone, practicing drill-steps and sword-swings and frowning to himself. Each night we put in at a different port; our boats were not built for long journeys, for day after day of submersion. The only men we saw were our own Phthians, and Diomedes’ Argives. The fleet split so that each island would not be forced to give landfall to the entire army. I was sure it was no coincidence that the king of Argos was paired with us. Do they think we will run away? I did my best to ignore him, and he seemed content to leave us in peace. The islands looked all the same to me—high cliffs bleached white, pebbled beaches that scratched the underside of our ships with their chalky fingernails. They were frequently scrubby, brush struggling up beside olives and cypresses. Achilles barely noticed any of it. He bent over his armor, polishing it till it shone bright as flame. On the seventh day we came to Lemnos, just across from the Hellespont’s narrow mouth. It was lower than most of our islands, full of swamps and stagnant ponds choking with water lilies. We found a pool some distance from the camp and sat by it. Bugs shivered on its surface, and bulbous eyes peered from amidst the weeds. We were only two days from Troy. “What was it like when you killed that boy?” I looked up. His face was in shadow, the hair falling around his eyes. “Like?” I asked. He nodded, staring at the water, as if to read its depths. “What did it look like?” “It’s hard to describe.” He had taken me by surprise. I closed my eyes to conjure it. “The blood came quickly, I remember that. And I couldn’t believe how much there was. His head was split, and his brains showed a little.” I fought down the nausea that gripped me, even now. “I remember the sound his head made against the rock.” “Did he twitch? Like animals do?” “I did not stay long enough to watch.” He was silent a moment. “My father told me once to think of them like animals. The men I kill.” I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. He did not look up from his vigil over the water’s surface. “I do not think I can do it,” he said. Simply, as was his way. Odysseus’ words pressed in on me, weighed down my tongue. Good, I wanted to say. But what did I know? I did not have to win my immortality with war. I held my peace. “I cannot stop seeing it,” he said softly. “Her death.” I could not either; the gaudy spray of blood, the shock and pain in her eyes. “It will not always be like that,” I heard myself say. “She was a girl and innocent. These will be men that you fight, warriors who will kill you if you do not strike first.” He turned to look at me, his gaze intent. “But you will not fight, even if they strike at you. You hate it.” If it had been any other man, the words would have been an insult. “Because I don’t have the skill,” I said. “I don’t think that is the only reason,” he said. His eyes were green and brown as forest, and even in the dim light I could see the gold. “Perhaps not,” I said, at last. “But you will forgive me?” I reached for his hand and took it. “I have no need to forgive you. You cannot offend me.” They were rash words, but I said them with all the conviction of my heart. He looked down a moment at where our hands sat joined. Then his hand ripped itself from mine and blurred past me so swiftly I could not follow it. He stood, something limp and long as a piece of wet rope dangling from his fingers. My eyes stared at it, uncomprehending. “Hydros,” Achilles said. Water-snake. It was dun gray, and its flat head hung brokenly to the side. Its body still trembled a little, dying. Weakness sluiced through me. Chiron had made us memorize their homes and colors. Brown-gray, by water. Quick to anger. Deadly bite. “I did not even see it,” I managed. He threw the thing aside, to lie bluntnosed and brown among the weeds. He had broken its neck. “You did not have to,” he said. “I saw it.” HE WAS EASIER AFTER THAT, no longer pacing the deck and staring. But I knew that Iphigenia still weighed on him. On both of us. He took to carrying one of his spears with him always. He would toss it into the air and catch it, over and over again. Slowly, the fleet straggled back together. Some had gone the long way around, south by the island of Lesbos. Others, taking the most direct route, already waited near Sigeum, northwest of Troy. Still others had come as we did, along the Thracian coast. United again, we massed by Tenedos, the island just off of Troy’s wide beach. Shouting from ship to ship, we passed word of Agamemnon’s plan: the kings would take the front line, their men fanned out behind them. Maneuvering into place was chaos; there were three collisions, and everyone chipped oars on someone else’s hull. At last we were set, with Diomedes on our left and Meriones on our right. The drums began to beat and the line of ships thrust forward, stroke by stroke. Agamemnon had given the order to go slowly, to hold the line and keep pace as one. But our kings were green still at following another man’s orders, and each wanted the honor of being first to Troy. Sweat streamed from the faces of the rowers as their leaders lashed them on. We stood at the prow with Phoinix and Automedon, watching the shore draw closer. Idly, Achilles tossed and caught his spear. The oarsmen had begun to set their strokes by it, the steady, repetitive slap of wood against his palm. Closer, we started to see distinction on the shore: tall trees and mountains resolving out of the blurring green-brown land. We had edged ahead of Diomedes and were a whole ship length in front of Meriones. “There are men on the beach,” Achilles said. He squinted. “With weapons.” Before I could respond, a horn blew from somewhere in the fleet, and others answered it. The alarm. On the wind came the faint echo of shouts. We had thought we would surprise the Trojans, but they knew we were coming. They were waiting for us. All along the line, rowers jammed their oars into the water to slow our approach. The men on the beach were undoubtedly soldiers, all dressed in the dark crimson of the house of Priam. A chariot flew along their ranks, churning up sand. The man in it wore a horsehair helmet, and even from a distance we could see the strong lines of his body. He was large, yes, but not as large as Ajax or Menelaus. His power came from his carriage, his perfectly squared shoulders, the straight line of his back arrowing up to heaven. This was no slouchy prince of wine halls and debauchery, as Easterners were said to be. This was a man who moved like the gods were watching; every gesture he made was upright and correct. There was no one else it could be but Hector. He leapt from the chariot, shouting to his men. We saw spears hoisted and arrows nocked. We were still too far away for their bows, but the tide was dragging us in despite our oars, and the anchors were not catching. Shouts came down the line, in confusion. Agamemnon had no orders; hold position; do not make landfall. “We are almost in range of their arrows,” Achilles commented. He did not seem alarmed by it, though around us there was panic and the sound of feet pounding the deck. I stared at the shore coming closer. Hector was gone now, back up the beach to a different part of his army. But there was another man before us, a captain, in leather armor and a full helmet that covered all but his beard. He pulled back the string of his bow as the line of ships drew closer. It was not as big a weapon as Philoctetes’, but it was not far off. He sighted along the shaft and prepared to kill his first Greek. He never had the chance. I did not see Achilles move, but I heard it: the whistle of air, and his soft exhalation. The spear was out of his hand and flying across the water that separated our deck from the beach. It was a gesture only. No spearman could throw half so far as an arrow could fly. It would fall well short. It did not. Its black head pierced the bowman’s chest, drove him backwards and over. His arrow twanged harmlessly into the air, shot wild from nerveless fingers. He fell to the sand and did not rise. From the ships beside us, those who had seen, there were shouts and triumphant horns. The news flared along the line of Greek ships, in either direction: first blood was ours, spilt by the god-like prince of Phthia. Achilles’ face was still, almost peaceful. He did not look like a man who had performed a miracle. On the shore, the Trojans shook their weapons and shouted strange, harsh words. There was a group of them kneeling around the fallen man. Behind me I heard Phoinix whisper something to Automedon, who ran off. A moment later he reappeared with a handful of spears. Achilles took one without looking, hefted it, and threw. I watched him this time, the graceful curve of his arm, the lift of his chin. He did not pause, as most men did, to aim or sight. He knew where it would go. On the shore another man fell. We were close now, and arrows began to fly on both sides. Many hit the water, others stuck in masts and hulls. A few men cried out along our line; a few men fell along theirs. Achilles calmly took a shield from Automedon. “Stand behind me,” he said. I did. When an arrow came close, he brushed it aside with the shield. He took another spear. The soldiers grew wilder—their overeager arrows and spears littered the water. Somewhere down the line Protesilaus, Prince of Phylace, leapt laughing from the bow of his ship and began to swim to shore. Perhaps he was drunk; perhaps his blood was fired with hopes of glory; perhaps he wished to outdo the prince of Phthia. A spinning spear, from Hector himself, hit him, and the surf around him flushed red. He was the first of the Greeks to die. Our men slid down ropes, lifted huge shields to cover themselves from arrows, and began to stream to shore. The Trojans were well marshaled, but the beach offered no natural defense and we outnumbered them. At a command from Hector they seized their fallen comrades and relinquished the beach. Their point had been made: they would not be so easy to kill. Chapter Twenty WE GAINED THE BEACH, AND PULLED THE FIRST SHIPS onto the sand. Scouts were sent ahead to watch for further Trojan ambush, and guards were posted. Hot though it was, no one took off his armor. Quickly, while ships still clogged the harbor behind us, lots were drawn for the placement of each kingdom’s camp. The spot assigned to the Phthians was at the farthest end of the beach, away from where the marketplace would be, away from Troy and all the other kings. I spared a quick glance at Odysseus; it was he who had chosen the lots. His face was mild and inscrutable as always. “How do we know how far to go?” Achilles asked. He was shading his eyes and looking north. The beach seemed to stretch on forever. “When the sand ends,” Odysseus said. Achilles gestured our ships up the beach, and the Myrmidon captains began unsnarling themselves from the other fleet lines to follow. The sun beat down on us—it seemed brighter here, but perhaps that was only the whiteness of the sand. We walked until we came to a grassy rise springing from the beach. It was crescent-shaped, cradling our future camp at the side and back. At its top was a forest that spread east towards a glinting river. To the south, Troy was a smudge on the horizon. If the pick had been Odysseus’ design, we owed him our thanks—it was the best of the camps by far, offering green and shade and quiet. We left the Myrmidons under Phoinix’s direction and made our way back to the main camp. Every place we walked buzzed with the same activities: dragging ships onto the shore, setting tents, unloading supplies. There was a hectic energy to the men, a manic purpose. We were here, at last. Along the way we passed the camp of Achilles’ famous cousin, towering Ajax, king of the isle of Salamis. We had seen him from afar at Aulis and heard the rumors: he cracked the deck of the ship when he walked, he had borne a bull a mile on his back. We found him lifting huge bags out of his ship’s hold. His muscles looked large as boulders. “Son of Telamon,” Achilles said. The huge man turned. Slowly, he registered the unmistakable boy before him. His eyes narrowed, and then stiff politeness took over. “Pelides,” he said thickly. He put down his burden and offered a hand knobbed with calluses big as olives. I pitied Ajax, a little. He would be Aristos Achaion, if Achilles were not. Back in the main camp, we stood on the hill that marked the boundary between sand and grass, and regarded the thing we had come for. Troy. It was separated from us by a flat expanse of grass and framed by two wide, lazy rivers. Even so far away, its stone walls caught the sharp sun and gleamed. We fancied we could see the metallic glint of the famous Scaean gate, its brazen hinges said to be tall as a man. Later, I would see those walls up close, their sharp squared stones perfectly cut and fitted against each other, the work of the god Apollo, it was said. And I would wonder at them—at how, ever, the city could be taken. For they were too high for siege towers, and too strong for catapults, and no sane person would ever try to climb their sheer, divinely smoothed face. WHEN THE SUN HUNG LOW in the sky, Agamemnon called the first council meeting. A large tent had been set up and filled with a few rows of chairs in a ragged semicircle. At the front of the room sat Agamemnon and Menelaus, flanked by Odysseus and Diomedes. The kings came in and took their seats one by one. Trained from birth in hierarchy, the lesser kings took the lesser places, leaving the front rows for their more famous peers. Achilles, with no hesitation, took a seat in the first row and motioned me to sit beside him. I did so, waiting for someone to object, to ask for my removal. But then Ajax arrived with his bastard half-brother Teucer, and Idomeneus brought his squire and charioteer. Apparently the best were allowed their indulgences. Unlike those meetings we had heard complaints of at Aulis (pompous, pointless, endless), this was all business—latrines, food supplies, and strategy. The kings were divided between attack and diplomacy—should we not perhaps try to be civilized first? Surprisingly, Menelaus was the loudest voice in favor of a parley. “I will gladly go myself to treat with them,” he said. “It is my office.” “What have we come all this way for, if you intend to talk them into surrender?” Diomedes complained. “I could have stayed at home.” “We are not savages,” Menelaus said stubbornly. “Perhaps they will hear reason.” “But likely not. Why waste the time?” “Because, dear King of Argos, if war comes after some diplomacy or delay, we do not seem so much the villains.” This was Odysseus. “Which means the cities of Anatolia will not feel so much duty to come to Troy’s aid.” “You are for it then, Ithaca?” Agamemnon asked. Odysseus shrugged. “There are many ways to start a war. I always think raiding makes a good beginning. It accomplishes almost the same thing as diplomacy, but with greater profit.” “Yes! Raiding!” brayed Nestor. “We must have a show of strength before anything else!” Agamemnon rubbed his chin and swung his gaze over the room of kings. “I think Nestor and Odysseus are correct. Raids first. Then perhaps we will send an embassy. We begin tomorrow.” He needed to give no further instructions. Raiding was typical siege warfare—you would not attack the city, but the lands that surrounded it that supplied it with grain and meat. You would kill those who resisted, make serfs of those who did not. All their food went now to you, and you held their daughters and wives as hostages to their loyalty. Those who escaped would flee to the city for sanctuary. Quarters would quickly grow crowded and mutinous; disease would arise. Eventually, the gates would have to open—out of desperation, if not honor. I hoped that Achilles might object, declare that there was no glory in killing farmers. But he only nodded, as if this were his hundredth siege, as if he had done nothing but lead raids his whole life. “One final thing—if there is an attack, I do not want chaos. We must have lines, and companies.” Agamemnon shifted in his chair, seemed almost nervous. Well he might be; our kings were prickly, and this was the first distribution of honor: the place in the line. If there was a rebellion against his authority, now would be the time. The very thought of it seemed to anger him, and his voice grew rougher. This was a frequent fault of his: the more precarious his position, the more unlikable he became. “Menelaus and I will take the center, of course.” There was a faint ripple of discontent at that, but Odysseus spoke over it. “Very wise, King of Mycenae. Messengers will be able to find you easily.” “Exactly so.” Agamemnon nodded briskly, as if that had indeed been the reason. “To my brother’s left will be the prince of Phthia. And to my right, Odysseus. The wings will be Diomedes and Ajax.” All of these were the most dangerous positions, the places where the enemy would seek to flank or punch through. They were therefore the most important to hold at all costs, and the most prestigious. “The rest shall be determined by lot.” When the murmur had died, Agamemnon stood. “It is settled. We begin tomorrow. Raids, at sun-up.” The sun was just setting as we walked back up the beach to our camp. Achilles was well pleased. One of the greatest places of primacy was his, and without a fight. It was too soon for dinner, so we climbed the grassy hill that lay just beyond our camp, a thin thrust of land emerging from the woods. We stopped there a moment, surveying the new camp and the sea beyond. The dying light was in his hair, and his face was sweet with evening. A question had burned in me since the battle on the ships, but there had been no time before now to ask it. “Did you think of them as animals? As your father said?” He shook his head. “I did not think at all.” Over our heads the gulls screamed and wheeled. I tried to imagine him bloodied and murderous after his first raid tomorrow. “Are you frightened?” I asked. The first call of a nightingale in the trees at our backs. “No,” he answered. “This is what I was born for.” I WOKE NEXT MORNING to the sound of Trojan waves against the Trojan shore. Achilles still drowsed beside me, so I left the tent to let him sleep. Outside the sky was as cloudless as the day before: the sun bright and piercing, the sea throwing off great sheets of light. I sat and felt the drops of sweat prick and pool against my skin. In less than an hour the raid would begin. I had fallen asleep thinking of it; I had woken with it. We had discussed, already, that I would not go. Most of the men would not. This was a king’s raid, picked to grant first honors to the best warriors. It would be his first real kill. Yes, there had been the men on the shore, the previous day. But that had been a distant thing, with no blood that we could see. They had fallen almost comically, from too far away to see their faces or pain. Achilles emerged from the tent, already dressed. He sat beside me and ate the breakfast that was waiting for him. We said little. There were no words to speak to him of how I felt. Our world was one of blood, and the honor it won; only cowards did not fight. For a prince there was no choice. You warred and won, or warred and died. Even Chiron had sent him a spear. Phoinix was already up and marshaling the Myrmidons who would accompany him down by the water’s edge. It was their first fight, and they wanted their master’s voice. Achilles stood, and I watched as he strode towards them—the way the bronze buckles on his tunic threw off fire flashes, the way his dark purple cape brightened his hair to sun’s gold. He seemed so much the hero, I could barely remember that only the night before we had spit olive pits at each other, across the plate of cheeses that Phoinix had left for us. That we had howled with delight when he had landed one, wet and with bits of fruit still hanging from it, in my ear. He held up his spear as he spoke, and shook its gray tip, dark as stone or stormy water. I felt sorry for other kings who had to fight for their authority or wore it poorly, their gestures jagged and rough. With Achilles it was graceful as a blessing, and the men lifted their faces to it, as they would to a priest. After, he came to bid me farewell. He was life-size again and held his spear loosely, almost lazily. “Will you help me put the rest of my armor on?” I nodded and followed him into the cool of the tent, past the heavy cloth door that fell closed like a lamp blown out. I handed him bits of leather and metal as he gestured for them, coverings for his upper thighs, his arms, his belly. I watched him strap these things on, one by one, saw the stiff leather dig into his soft flesh, skin that only last night I had traced with my finger. My hand twitched towards him, longing to pull open the tight buckles, to release him. But I did not. The men were waiting. I handed him the last piece, his helmet, bristling with horsehair, and watched as he fitted it over his ears, leaving only a thin strip of his face open. He leaned towards me, framed by bronze, smelling of sweat and leather and metal. I closed my eyes, felt his lips on mine, the only part of him still soft. Then he was gone. Without him the tent seemed suddenly much smaller, close and smelling of the hides that hung on the walls. I lay on our bed and listened to his shouted orders, then the stamps and snorts of horses. Last of all, the creaking of his chariot wheels as they bore him off. At least I had no fears for his safety. As long as Hector lived he could not die. I closed my eyes and slept. I WOKE TO HIS NOSE on mine, pressing insistently against me as I struggled from the webbing of my dreams. He smelled sharp and strange, and for a moment I was almost revolted at this creature that clung to me and shoved its face against mine. But then he sat back on his heels and was Achilles again, his hair damp and darkened, as if all the morning’s sun had been poured out of it. It stuck to his face and ears, flattened and wet from the helmet. He was covered in blood, vivid splashes not yet dried to rust. My first thought was terror—that he was wounded, bleeding to death. “Where are you hurt?” I asked. My eyes raked him for the source of the blood. But the spatters seemed to come from nowhere. Slowly, my sleep-stupid brain understood. It was not his. “They could not get close enough to touch me,” he said. There was a sort of wondering triumph in his voice. “I did not know how easy it would be. Like nothing. You should have seen it. The men cheered me afterwards.” His words were almost dreamy. “I cannot miss. I wish you had seen.” “How many?” I asked. “Twelve.” Twelve men with nothing at all to do with Paris or Helen or any of us. “Farmers?” There was a bitterness to my voice that seemed to bring him back to himself. “They were armed,” he said, quickly. “I would not kill an unarmed man.” “How many will you kill tomorrow, do you think?” I asked. He heard the edge in my voice and looked away. The pain on his face struck me, and I was ashamed. Where was my promise that I would forgive him? I knew what his destiny was, and I had chosen to come to Troy anyway. It was too late for me to object simply because my conscience had begun to chafe. “I’m sorry,” I said. I asked him to tell me what it was like, all of it, as we had always spoken to each other. And he did, everything, how his first spear had pierced the hollow of a man’s cheek, carrying flesh with it as it came out the other side. How the second man had fallen struck through the chest, how the spear had caught against his ribcage when Achilles tried to retrieve it. The village had smelled terrible when they left it, muddy and metallic, with the flies already landing. I listened to every word, imagining it was a story only. As if it were dark figures on an urn he spoke of instead of men. AGAMEMNON POSTED GUARDS to watch Troy every hour of every day. We were all waiting for something—an attack, or an embassy, or a demonstration of power. But Troy kept her gates shut, and so the raids continued. I learned to sleep through the day so that I would not be tired when he returned; he always needed to talk then, to tell me down to the last detail about the faces and the wounds and the movements of men. And I wanted to be able to listen, to digest the bloody images, to paint them flat and unremarkable onto the vase of posterity. To release him from it and make him Achilles again. Chapter Twenty-One WITH THE RAIDS CAME THE DISTRIBUTION. THIS WAS a custom of ours, the awarding of prizes, the claiming of war spoils. Each man was allowed to keep what he personally won—armor that he stripped from a dead soldier, a jewel he tore from the widow’s neck. But the rest, ewers and rugs and vases, were carried to the dais and piled high for distribution. It was not so much about the worth of any object as about honor. The portion you were given was equal to your standing in the army. First allotment went usually to the army’s best soldier, but Agamemnon named himself first and Achilles second. I was surprised that Achilles only shrugged. “Everyone knows I am better. This only makes Agamemnon look greedy.” He was right, of course. And it made it all the sweeter when the men cheered for us, tottering beneath our pile of treasure, and not for Agamemnon. Only his own Mycenaeans applauded him. After Achilles came Ajax, then Diomedes and Menelaus, and then Odysseus and on and away until Cebriones was left with only wooden helmets and chipped goblets. Sometimes, though, if a man had done particularly well that day, the general might award him something particularly fine, before even the first man’s turn. Thus, even Cebriones was not without hope. IN THE THIRD WEEK, a girl stood on the dais amidst the swords and woven rugs and gold. She was beautiful, her skin a deep brown, her hair black and gleaming. High on her cheekbone was a spreading bruise where a knuckle had connected. In the twilight, her eyes seemed bruised as well, shadowed as if with Egyptian kohl. Her dress was torn at the shoulder and stained with blood. Her hands were bound. The men gathered eagerly. They knew what her presence meant— Agamemnon was giving us permission for camp followers, for spear-wives and bed slaves. Until now, the women had simply been forced in the fields and left. In your own tent was a much more convenient arrangement. Agamemnon mounted the dais, and I saw his eyes slide over the girl, a slight smile on his lips. He was known—all the house of Atreus was—for his appetites. I do not know what came over me then. But I seized Achilles’ arm and spoke into his ear. “Take her.” He turned to me, his eyes wide with surprise. “Take her as your prize. Before Agamemnon does. Please.” He hesitated, but only a second. “Men of Greece.” He stepped forward, still in the day’s armor, still smeared with blood. “Great King of Mycenae.” Agamemnon turned to face him, frowning. “Pelides?” “I would have this girl as my war-prize.” At the back of the dais Odysseus raised an eyebrow. The men around us murmured. His request was unusual, but not unreasonable; in any other army, first choice would have been his anyway. Irritation flashed in Agamemnon’s eyes. I saw the thoughts turn across his face: he did not like Achilles, yet it was not worth it, here, already, to be churlish. She was beautiful, but there would be other girls. “I grant your wish, Prince of Phthia. She is yours.” The crowd shouted its approval—they liked their commanders generous, their heroes bold and lusty. Her eyes had followed the exchange with bright intelligence. When she understood that she was to come with us, I saw her swallow, her gaze darting over Achilles. “I will leave my men here, for the rest of my belongings. The girl will come with me now.” Appreciative laughter and whistles from the men. The girl trembled all over, very slightly, like a rabbit checked by a hawk overhead. “Come,” Achilles commanded. We turned to go. Head down, she followed. BACK IN OUR CAMP, Achilles drew his knife, and her head jerked a little with fear. He was still bloody from the day’s battle; it had been her village he had plundered. “Let me,” I said. He handed me the knife and backed away, almost embarrassed. “I am going to free you,” I said. Up close I saw how dark her eyes were, brown as richest earth, and large in her almond-shaped face. Her gaze flickered from the blade to me. I thought of frightened dogs I had seen, backed small and sharp into corners. “No, no,” I said quickly. “We will not hurt you. I am going to free you.” She looked at us in horror. The gods knew what she thought I was saying. She was an Anatolian farm-girl, with no reason to have ever heard Greek before. I stepped forward to put a hand her arm, to reassure. She flinched as if expecting a blow. I saw the fear in her eyes, of rape and worse. I could not bear it. There was only one thing I could think of. I turned to Achilles and seized the front of his tunic. I kissed him. When I let go again, she was staring at us. Staring and staring. I gestured to her bonds and back to the knife. “All right?” She hesitated a moment. Then slowly offered her hands. ACHILLES LEFT TO SPEAK to Phoinix about procuring another tent. I took her to the grass-sided hill and had her sit while I made a compress for her bruised face. Gingerly, eyes downcast, she took it. I pointed to her leg—it was torn open, a long cut along her shin. “May I see?” I asked, gesturing. She made no response, but reluctantly let me take her leg, dress the wound, and tie it closed with bandages. She followed every movement of my hands and never met my gaze. After, I took her to her new-pitched tent. She seemed startled by it, almost afraid to enter. I threw open the flap and gestured— food, blankets, an ewer of water, and some clean cast-off clothes. Hesitating, she stepped inside, and I left her there, eyes wide, staring at it all. THE NEXT DAY Achilles went raiding again. I trailed around the camp, collecting driftwood, cooling my feet in the surf. All the time I was aware of the new tent in the camp’s corner. We had seen nothing of her yet; the flap was shut tight as Troy. A dozen times I almost went to call through the fabric. At last, at midday, I saw her in the doorway. She was watching me, halfhidden behind the folds. When she saw that I had noticed her, she turned quickly and went to leave. “Wait!” I said. She froze. The tunic she wore—one of mine—hung past her knees and made her look very young. How old was she? I did not even know. I walked up to her. “Hello.” She stared at me with those wide eyes. Her hair had been drawn back, revealing the delicate bones of her cheeks. She was very pretty. “Did you sleep well?” I do not know why I kept talking to her. I thought it might comfort her. I had once heard Chiron say that you talked to babies to soothe them. “Patroclus,” I said, pointing at myself. Her eyes flickered to me, then away. “Pa-tro-clus.” I repeated slowly. She did not answer, did not move; her fingers clutched the cloth of the tent flap. I felt ashamed then. I was frightening her. “I will leave you,” I said. I inclined my head and made to go. She spoke something, so low I could not hear it. I stopped. “What?” “Briseis,” she repeated. She was pointing to herself. “Briseis?” I said. She nodded, shyly. That was the beginning. IT TURNED OUT that she did know a little Greek. A few words that her father had picked up and taught her when he heard the army was coming. Mercy was one. Yes and please and what do you want? A father, teaching his daughter how to be a slave. During the days, the camp was nearly empty but for us. We would sit on the beach and halt through sentences with each other. I grew to understand her expressions first, the thoughtful quiet of her eyes, the flickering smiles she would hide behind her hand. We could not talk of much, in those early days, but I did not mind. There was a peace in sitting beside her, the waves rolling companionably over our feet. Almost, it reminded me of my mother, but Briseis’ eyes were bright with observation as hers had never been. Sometimes in the afternoons we would walk together around the camp, pointing to each thing she did not know the name of yet. Words piled on each other so quickly that soon we needed elaborate pantomimes. Cook dinner, have a bad dream. Even when my sketches were clumsy, Briseis understood and translated it into a series of gestures so precise that I could smell the meat cooking. I laughed often at her ingenuity, and she would grant me her secret smile. THE RAIDING CONTINUED. Every day Agamemnon would climb the dais amidst the day’s plunder and say, “No news.” No news meant no soldiers, no signals, no sounds from the city. It sat stubbornly on the horizon and made us wait. The men consoled themselves in other ways. After Briseis there was a girl or two on the dais nearly every day. They were all farm girls with callused hands and burnt noses, used to hard work in the sun. Agamemnon took his share, and the other kings as well. You saw them everywhere now, weaving between tents, slopping buckets of water onto their long wrinkled dresses—what they had happened to be wearing the day they were taken. They served fruit and cheese and olives, carved meat, and filled wine-cups. They polished armor, wedging the carapaces between their legs as they sat on the sand. Some of them even wove, spinning threads from tangled clots of sheepswool, animals we had stolen in our raids. At night they served in other ways, and I cringed at the cries that reached even our corner of the camp. I tried not to think of their burnt villages and dead fathers, but it was difficult to banish. The raids were stamped on every one of the girls’ faces, large smears of grief that kept their eyes as wobbling and sloppy as the buckets that swung into their legs. And bruises too, from fists or elbows, and sometimes perfect circles—spear butts, to the forehead or temple. I could barely watch these girls as they stumbled into camp to be parceled off. I sent Achilles out to ask for them, to seek as many as he could, and the men teased him about his voraciousness, his endless priapism. “Didn’t even know you liked girls,” Diomedes joked. Each new girl went first to Briseis, who would speak comfort to her in soft Anatolian. She would be allowed to bathe and be given new clothes, and then would join the others in the tent. We put up a new one, larger, to fit them all: eight, ten, eleven girls. Mostly it was Phoinix and I who spoke to them; Achilles stayed away. He knew that they had seen him killing their brothers and lovers and fathers. Some things could not be forgiven. Slowly, they grew less frightened. They spun, and talked in their own language, sharing the words they picked up from us— helpful words, like cheese, or water, or wool. They were not as quick as Briseis was, but they patched together enough that they could speak to us. It was Briseis’ idea for me to spend a few hours with them each day, teaching them. But the lessons were more difficult than I thought: the girls were wary, their eyes darting to each other; they were not sure what to make of my sudden appearance in their lives. It was Briseis again who eased their fears and let our lessons grow more elaborate, stepping in with a word of explanation or a clarifying gesture. Her Greek was quite good now, and more and more I simply deferred to her. She was a better teacher than I, and funnier too. Her mimes brought us all to laughter: a sleepy-eyed lizard, two dogs fighting. It was easy to stay with them long and late, until I heard the creaking of the chariot, and the distant banging of bronze, and returned to greet my Achilles. It was easy, in those moments, to forget that the war had not yet really begun. Chapter Twenty-Two AS TRIUMPHANT AS THE RAIDS WERE, THEY WERE ONLY raids. The men who died were farmers, tradesmen, from the vast network of villages that supported the mighty city—not soldiers. In councils Agamemnon’s jaw grew increasingly tight, and the men were restive: where was the fight we were promised? Close, Odysseus said. He pointed out the steady flood of refugees into Troy. The city must be near to bursting now. Hungry families would be spilling into the palace, makeshift tents would clog the city’s streets. It was only a matter of time, he told us. As if conjured by his prophecy, a flag of parley flew above Troy’s walls the very next morning. The soldier on watch raced down the beach to tell Agamemnon: King Priam was willing to receive an embassy. The camp was afire with the news. One way or another now, something would happen. They would return Helen, or we would get to fight for her properly, in the field. The council of kings sent Menelaus and Odysseus, the obvious choices. The two men left at first light on their high- stepping horses, brushed to a shine and jingling with ornament. We watched them cross the grass of Troy’s wide plain, then vanish into the blur of the dark gray walls. Achilles and I waited in our tents, wondering. Would they see Helen? Paris could hardly dare to keep her from her husband, and he could hardly dare to show her either. Menelaus had gone conspicuously unarmed; perhaps he did not trust himself. “Do you know why she chose him?” Achilles asked me. “Menelaus? No.” I remembered the king’s face in Tyndareus’ hall, glowing with health and good humor. He had been handsome, but not the handsomest man there. He had been powerful, but there were many men with more wealth and greater deeds to their name. “He brought a generous gift. And her sister was already married to his brother, maybe that was part of it.” Achilles considered this, arm folded behind his head. “Do you think she went with Paris willingly?” “I think if she did, she will not admit it to Menelaus.” “Mmm.” He tapped a finger against his chest, thinking. “She must have been willing, though. Menelaus’ palace is like a fortress. If she had struggled or cried out, someone would have heard. She knew he must come after her, for his honor if nothing else. And that Agamemnon would seize this opportunity and invoke the oath.” “I would not have known that.” “You are not married to Menelaus.” “So you think she did it on purpose? To cause the war?” This shocked me. “Maybe. She used to be known as the most beautiful woman in our kingdoms. Now they say she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” He put on his best singer’s falsetto. “A thousand ships have sailed for her.” A thousand was the number Agamemnon’s bards had started using; one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six didn’t fit well in a line of verse. “Maybe she really fell in love with Paris.” “Maybe she was bored. After ten years shut up in Sparta, I’d want to leave too.” “Maybe Aphrodite made her.” “Maybe they’ll bring her back with them.” We considered this. “I think Agamemnon would attack anyway.” “I think so too. They never even mention her anymore.” “Except in speeches to the men.” We were silent a moment. “So which of the suitors would you have picked?” I shoved him, and he laughed. THEY RETURNED AT NIGHTFALL, alone. Odysseus reported to the council, while Menelaus sat silent. King Priam had welcomed them warmly, feasted them in his hall. Then he had stood before them, flanked by Paris and Hector, with his other forty-eight sons arrayed behind. “We know why you have come,” he said. “But the lady herself does not wish to return, and has put herself under our protection. I have never refused a woman’s defense, and I will not begin now.” “Clever,” said Diomedes. “They have found a way around their guilt.” Odysseus continued, “I told them that if they were so resolved, there was no more to say.” Agamemnon rose, his voice ringing grandly. “Indeed there is not. We have tried diplomacy and been rebuffed. Our only honorable course is war. Tomorrow you go to win the glory you deserve, every last man of you.” There was more, but I did not hear it. Every last man. Fear sluiced through me. How could I not have thought of this? Of course I would be expected to fight. We were at war now, and all had to serve. Especially the closest companion of Aristos Achaion. That night I barely slept. The spears that leaned against the walls of our tent seemed impossibly tall, and my mind scrambled to remember a few lessons—how to heft them, how to duck. The Fates had said nothing about me—nothing about how long I would live. I woke Achilles, in panic. “I will be there,” he promised me. IN THE DARK just before dawn, Achilles helped me arm. Greaves, gauntlets, a leather cuirass and bronze breastplate over it. It all seemed more of a hindrance than protection, knocking against my chin when I walked, confining my arms, weighing me down. He assured me that I would get used to it. I did not believe him. Walking out of the tent into the morning’s sun I felt foolish, like someone trying on an older brother’s clothing. The Myrmidons were waiting, jostling each other with excitement. Together we began the long trip down the beach to the enormous, massing army. Already my breaths were shallow and swift. We could hear the army before we saw it; boasting, clattering weapons, blowing horns. Then the beach unkinked and revealed a bristling sea of men laid out in neat squares. Each was marked with a pennant that declared its king. Only one square was empty still: a place of primacy, reserved for Achilles and his Myrmidons. We marched forward and arrayed ourselves, Achilles out in front, then a line of captains to either side of me. Behind us, rank upon gleaming rank of proud Phthians. Before us was the wide flat plain of Troy, ending in the massive gates and towers of the city. At its base a roiling morass was ranged up against us, a blur of dark heads and polished shields that caught the sun and flashed. “Stay behind me,” Achilles turned to say. I nodded, and the helmet shook around my ears. Fear was twisting inside of me, a wobbling cup of panic that threatened each moment to spill. The greaves dug into the bones of my feet; my spear weighed down my arm. A trumpet blew and my chest heaved. Now. It was now. In a clanking, clattering mass, we lurched into a run. This is how we fought—a dead-run charge that met the enemy in the middle. With enough momentum you could shatter their ranks all at once. Our lines went quickly ragged as some outstripped others in their speed, glory-hungry, eager to be the first to kill a real Trojan. By halfway across the plain we were no longer in ranks, or even kingdoms. The Myrmidons had largely passed me, drifting in a cloud off to the left, and I mingled among Menelaus’ long-haired Spartans, all oiled and combed for battle. I ran, armor banging. My breath came thickly, and the ground shook with the pounding of feet, a rumbling roar growing louder. The dust kicked up by the charge was almost blinding. I could not see Achilles. I could not see the man beside me. I could do nothing but grip my shield and run. The front lines collided in an explosion of sound, a burst of spraying splinters and bronze and blood. A writhing mass of men and screams, sucking up rank after rank like Charybdis. I saw the mouths of men moving but could not hear them. There was only the crash of shields against shields, of bronze against shattering wood. A Spartan beside me dropped suddenly, transfixed through the chest by a spear. My head jerked around, looking for the man who had thrown it, but saw nothing but a jumble of bodies. I knelt by the Spartan to close his eyes, to say a quick prayer, then almost vomited when I saw that he was still alive, wheezing at me in beseeching terror. A crash next to me—I startled and saw Ajax using his giant shield like a club, smashing it into faces and bodies. In his wake, the wheels of a Trojan chariot creaked by, and a boy peered over the side, showing his teeth like a dog. Odysseus pounded past, running to capture its horses. The Spartan clutched at me, his blood pouring over my hands. The wound was too deep; there was nothing to be done. A dull relief when the light faded from his eyes at last. I closed them with gritty, trembling fingers. I staggered dizzily to my feet; the plain seemed to slew and pound like surf before me. My eyes would not focus; there was too much movement, flashes of sun and armor and skin. Achilles appeared from somewhere. He was blood-splattered and breathless, his face flushed, his spear smeared red up to the grip. He grinned at me, then turned and leapt into a clump of Trojans. The ground was strewn with bodies and bits of armor, with spear-shafts and chariot wheels, but he never stumbled, not once. He was the only thing on the battlefield that didn’t pitch feverishly, like the salt-slicked deck of a ship, until I was sick with it. I did not kill anyone, or even attempt to. At the end of the morning, hours and hours of nauseating chaos, my eyes were sun blind, and my hand ached with gripping my spear—though I had used it more often to lean on than threaten. My helmet was a boulder crushing my ears slowly into my skull. It felt like I had run for miles, though when I looked down I saw that my feet had beaten the same circle over and over again, flattening the same dry grass as if preparing a dancing field. Constant terror had siphoned and drained me, even though somehow I always seemed to be in a lull, a strange pocket of emptiness into which no men came, and I was never threatened. It was a measure of my dullness, my dizziness, that it took me until midafternoon to see that this was Achilles’ doing. His gaze was on me always, preternaturally sensing the moment when a soldier’s eyes widened at the easy target I presented. Before the man drew another breath, he would cut him down. He was a marvel, shaft after shaft flying from him, spears that he wrenched easily from broken bodies on the ground to toss at new targets. Again and again I saw his wrist twist, exposing its pale underside, those flute-like bones thrusting elegantly forward. My spear sagged forgotten to the ground as I watched. I could not even see the ugliness of the deaths anymore, the brains, the shattered bones that later I would wash from my skin and hair. All I saw was his beauty, his singing limbs, the quick flickering of his feet. DUSK CAME AT LAST and released us, limping and exhausted, back to our tents, dragging the wounded and dead. A good day, our kings said, clapping each other on the back. An auspicious beginning. Tomorrow we will do it again. We did it again, and again. A day of fighting became a week, then a month. Then two. It was a strange war. No territory was gained, no prisoners were taken. It was for honor only, man against man. With time, a mutual rhythm emerged: we fought a civilized seven days out of ten, with time off for festivals and funerals. No raids, no surprise attacks. The leaders, once buoyant with hopes of swift victory, grew resigned to a lengthy engagement. The armies were remarkably well matched, could tussle on the field day after day with no side discernibly stronger. This was due in part to the soldiers who poured in from all over Anatolia to help the Trojans and make their names. Our people were not the only ones greedy for glory. Achilles flourished. He went to battle giddily, grinning as he fought. It was not the killing that pleased him—he learned quickly that no single man was a match for him. Nor any two men, nor three. He took no joy in such easy butchery, and less than half as many fell to him as might have. What he lived for were the charges, a cohort of men thundering towards him. There, amidst twenty stabbing swords he could finally, truly fight. He gloried in his own strength, like a racehorse too long penned, allowed at last to run. With a fevered impossible grace he fought off ten, fifteen, twentyfive men. This, at last, is what I can really do. I did not have to go with him as often as I had feared. The longer the war dragged on, the less it seemed important to roust every Greek from his tent. I was not a prince, with honor at stake. I was not a soldier, bound to obedience, or a hero whose skill would be missed. I was an exile, a man with no status or rank. If Achilles saw fit to leave me behind, that was his business alone. My visits to the field faded to five days, then three, then once every week. Then only when Achilles asked me. This was not often. Most days he was content to go alone, to wade out and perform only for himself. But from time to time he would grow sick of the solitude and beg me to join him, to strap on the leather stiffened with sweat and blood and clamber over bodies with him. To bear witness to his miracles. Sometimes, as I watched him, I would catch sight of a square of ground where soldiers did not go. It would be near to Achilles, and if I stared at it, it would grow light, then lighter. At last it might reluctantly yield its secret: a woman, white as death, taller than the men who toiled around her. No matter how the blood sprayed, it did not fall on her pale-gray dress. Her bare feet did not seem to touch the earth. She did not help her son; she did not need to. Only watched, as I did, with her huge black eyes. I could not read the look on her face; it might have been pleasure, or grief, or nothing at all. Except for the time she turned and saw me. Her face twisted in disgust, and her lips pulled back from her teeth. She hissed like a snake, and vanished. In the field beside him, I steadied, got my sea legs. I was able to discern other soldiers whole, not just body parts, pierced flesh, bronze. I could even drift, sheltered in the harbor of Achilles’ protection, along the battle lines, seeking out the other kings. Closest to us was Agamemnon skilled-at-thespear, always behind the bulk of his well-ranked Mycenaeans. From such safety he would shout orders and hurl spears. It was true enough that he was skilled at it: he had to be to clear the heads of twenty men. Diomedes, unlike his commander, was fearless. He fought like a feral, savage animal, leaping forward, teeth bared, in quick strikes that did not so much puncture flesh as tear it. After, he would lean wolfishly over the body to strip it, tossing the bits of gold and bronze onto his chariot before moving on. Odysseus carried a light shield and faced his foes crouched like a bear, spear held low in his sun-browned hand. He would watch the other man with glittering eyes, tracking the flicker of his muscles for where and how the spear would come. When it had passed harmlessly by, he would run forward and spit him at close quarters, like a man spearing fish. His armor was always soaked with blood by the day’s end. I began to know the Trojans, too: Paris, loosing careless arrows from a speeding chariot. His face, even strapped and compressed by the helmet, was cruelly beautiful—bones fine as Achilles’ fingers. His slim hips lounged against the sides of his chariot in habitual hauteur, and his red cloak fell around him in rich folds. No wonder he was Aphrodite’s favorite: he seemed as vain as she. From far off, glimpsed only quickly through the corridors of shifting men, I saw Hector. He was always alone, strangely solitary in the space the other men gave him. He was capable and steady and thoughtful, every movement considered. His hands were large and work-roughened, and sometimes, as our army withdrew, we would see him washing the blood from them, so he could pray without pollution. A man who still loved the gods, even as his brothers and cousins fell because of them; who fought fiercely for his family rather than the fragile ice-crust of fame. Then the ranks would close, and he would be gone. I never tried to get closer to him, and neither did Achilles, who carefully turned from his glimpsed figure to face other Trojans, to wade off to other shoals. Afterwards, when Agamemnon would ask him when he would confront the prince of Troy, he would smile his most guileless, maddening smile. “What has Hector ever done to me?” Chapter Twenty-Three ONE FESTIVAL DAY, SOON AFTER OUR LANDING AT Troy, Achilles rose at dawn. “Where are you going?” I asked him. “My mother,” he said, then slipped through the tent flap before I could speak again. His mother. Some part of me had hoped, foolishly, that she would not follow us here. That her grief would keep her away, or the distance. But of course they did not. The shore of Anatolia was no more inconvenient than the shore of Greece. And her grief only made her visits longer. He would leave at dawn, and the sun would be nearly at its peak before he would return. I would wait, pacing and unsettled. What could she possibly have to say to him for so long? Some divine disaster, I feared. Some celestial dictate that would take him from me. Briseis came often to wait with me. “Do you want to walk up to the woods?” she would say. Just the low sweetness of her voice, the fact that she wished to comfort me, helped take me out of myself. And a trip with her to the woods always soothed me. She seemed to know all its secrets, just as Chiron had—where the mushrooms hid, and the rabbits had their burrows. She had even begun to teach me the native names of the plants and trees. When we were finished, we would sit on the ridge, looking over the camp, so I could watch for his return. On this day, she had picked a small basket of coriander; the fresh green-leaf smell was all around us. “I am sure he will be back soon,” she said. Her words were like new leather, still stiff and precise, not yet run together with use. When I did not answer, she asked, “Where does he stay so long?” Why shouldn’t she know? It wasn’t a secret. “His mother is a goddess,” I said. “A sea-nymph. He goes to see her.” I had expected her to be startled or frightened, but she only nodded. “I thought that he was—something. He does not—” She paused. “He does not move like a human.” I smiled then. “What does a human move like?” “Like you,” she said. “Clumsy, then.” She did not know the word. I demonstrated, thinking to make her laugh. But she shook her head, vehemently. “No. You are not like that. That is not what I meant.” I never heard what she meant, for at that moment Achilles crested the hill. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said. Briseis excused herself, and returned to her tent. Achilles threw himself down on the ground, hand behind his head. “I’m starving,” he said. “Here.” I gave him the rest of the cheese we had brought for lunch. He ate it, gratefully. “What did you talk about with your mother?” I was almost nervous to ask. Those hours with her were not forbidden to me, but they were always separate. His breath blew out, not quite a sigh. “She is worried about me,” he said. “Why?” I bristled at the thought of her fretting over him; that was mine to do. “She says that there is strangeness among the gods, that they are fighting with each other, taking sides in the war. She fears that the gods have promised me fame, but not how much.” This was a new worry I had not considered. But of course: our stories had many characters. Great Perseus or modest Peleus. Heracles or almostforgotten Hylas. Some had a whole epic, others just a verse. He sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I think she is afraid that someone else is going to kill Hector. Before me.” Another new fear. Achilles’ life suddenly cut shorter than it already was. “Who does she mean?” “I don’t know. Ajax has tried and failed. Diomedes, too. They are the best after me. There is no one else I can think of.” “What about Menelaus?” Achilles shook his head. “Never. He is brave and strong, but that is all. He would break against Hector like water on a rock. So. It is me, or no one.” “You will not do it.” I tried not to let it sound like begging. “No.” He was quiet a moment. “But I can see it. That’s the strange thing. Like in a dream. I can see myself throwing the spear, see him fall. I walk up to the body and stand over it.” Dread rose in my chest. I took a breath, forced it away. “And then what?” “That’s the strangest of all. I look down at his blood and know my death is coming. But in the dream I do not mind. What I feel, most of all, is relief.” “Do you think it can be prophecy?” The question seemed to make him self-conscious. He shook his head. “No. I think it is nothing at all. A daydream.” I forced my voice to match his in lightness. “I’m sure you’re right. After all, Hector hasn’t done anything to you.” He smiled then, as I had hoped he would. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard that.” DURING THE LONG HOURS of Achilles’ absence, I began to stray from our camp, seeking company, something to occupy myself. Thetis’ news had disturbed me; quarrels among the gods, Achilles’ mighty fame endangered. I did not know what to make of it, and my questions chased themselves around my head until I was half-crazy. I needed a distraction, something sensible and real. One of the men pointed me towards the white physicians’ tent. “If you’re looking for something to do, they always need help,” he said. I remembered Chiron’s patient hands, the instruments hung on rosequartz walls. I went. The tent’s interior was dim, the air dark and sweet and musky, heavy with the metallic scent of blood. In one corner was the physician Machaon, bearded, square-jawed, pragmatically bare-chested, an old tunic tied carelessly around his waist. He was darker than most Greeks, despite the time he spent inside, and his hair was cropped short, practical again, to keep it from his eyes. He bent now over a wounded man’s leg, his finger gently probing an embedded arrow point. On the other side of the tent his brother Podalerius finished strapping on his armor. He tossed an offhand word to Machaon before shouldering past me out the door. It was well known that he preferred the battlefield to the surgeon’s tent, though he served in both. Machaon did not look up as he spoke: “You can’t be very wounded if you can stand for so long.” “No,” I said. “I’m here—” I paused as the arrowhead came free in Machaon’s fingers, and the soldier groaned in relief. “Well?” His voice was business-like but not unkind. “Do you need help?” He made a noise I guessed was assent. “Sit down and hold the salves for me,” he said, without looking. I obeyed, gathering up the small bottles strewn on the floor, some rattling with herbs, some heavy with ointment. I sniffed them and remembered: garlic and honey salve against infection, poppy for sedation, and yarrow to make the blood clot. Dozens of herbs that brought the centaur’s patient fingers back to me, the sweet green smell of the rose- colored cave. I held out the ones he needed and watched his deft application— a pinch of sedative on the man’s upper lip for him to nose and nibble at, a swipe of salve to ward off infection, then dressings to pack and bind and cover. Machaon smoothed the last layer of creamy, scented beeswax over the man’s leg and looked up wearily. “Patroclus, yes? And you studied with Chiron? You are welcome here.” A clamor outside the tent, raised voices and cries of pain. He nodded towards it. “They’ve brought us another—you take him.” The soldiers, Nestor’s men, hoisted their comrade onto the empty pallet in the tent’s corner. He had been shot with an arrow, barbed at the tip, through the right shoulder. His face was foamy with sweat-scum, and he’d bitten his lip almost in half with trying not to scream. His breath came now in muffled, explosive pants, and his panicked eyes rolled and trembled. I resisted the urge to call for Machaon—busy with another man who had started to wail—and reached for a cloth to wipe his face. The arrow had pierced through the thickest part of his shoulder and was threaded half in and half out, like a terrible needle. I would have to break off the fletching and pull the end through him, without further tearing the flesh or leaving splinters that might fester. Quickly, I gave him the draught that Chiron had taught me: a mix of poppy and willow bark that made the patient light-headed and blunted to pain. He could not hold the cup, so I held it for him, lifting and cradling his head so he would not choke, feeling his sweat and foam and blood seep into my tunic. I tried to look reassuring, tried not to show the panic I was feeling. He was, I saw, only a year or so older than I. One of Nestor’s sons, Antilochus, a sweet-faced young man who doted on his father. “It will be all right,” I said, over and over, to myself or him I did not know. The problem was the arrow shaft; normally a doctor would snap off one end, before pulling it through. But there was not enough of it sticking out of his chest to do it without tearing the flesh further. I could not leave it, nor drag the fletching through the wound. What then? Behind me one of the soldiers who had brought him stood fidgeting in the doorway. I gestured to him over my shoulder. “A knife, quickly. Sharp as you can find.” I surprised myself with the brisk authority in my voice, the instant obedience it provoked. He returned with a short, finely honed blade meant for cutting meat, still rusty with dried blood. He cleaned it on his tunic before handing it to me. The boy’s face was slack now, his tongue flopping loose in his mouth. I leaned over him and held the arrow shaft, crushing the fletching into my damp palm. With my other hand, I began sawing, cutting through the wood a flake at a time, as lightly as possible, so as not to jar the boy’s shoulder. He snuffled and muttered, lost in the fog of the draught. I sawed and braced and sawed. My back ached, and I berated myself for leaving his head on my knees, for not choosing a better position. Finally the feathered end snapped off, leaving only one long splinter that the knife quickly cut through. At last. Then, just as difficult: to draw the shaft out the other side of his shoulder. In a moment of inspiration, I grabbed a salve for infection and carefully coated the wood, hoping it would ease the journey and ward off corruption. Then, a little at a time, I began to work the arrow through. After what felt like hours, the splintered end emerged, soaked with blood. With the last of my wits, I wrapped and packed the wound, binding it in a sort of sling across his chest. Later Podalerius would tell me that I was insane to have done what I did, to have cut so slowly, at such an angle—a good wrench, he said, and the end would have broken. Jarred wound and splinters inside be damned, there were other men who needed tending. But Machaon saw how well the shoulder healed, with no infection and little pain, and next time there was an arrow wound he called me over and passed me a sharp blade, looking at me expectantly. IT WAS A STRANGE TIME. Over us, every second, hung the terror of Achilles’ destiny, while the murmurs of war among the gods grew louder. But even I could not fill each minute with fear. I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it—in such a way did I learn to live beside the rushing torrent of his doom. The days passed, and he lived. The months passed, and I could go a whole day without looking over the precipice of his death. The miracle of a year, then two. The others seemed to feel a similar softening. Our camp began to form a sort of family, drawn together around the flames of the dinner fire. When the moon rose and the stars pricked through the sky’s darkness, we would all find our way there: Achilles and I, and old Phoinix, and then the women —originally only Briseis, but now a small clump of bobbing faces, reassured by the welcome she had received. And still one more— Automedon, the youngest of us, just seventeen. He was a quiet young man, and Achilles and I had watched his strength and deftness grow as he learned to drive Achilles’ difficult horses, to wheel around the battlefield with the necessary flourish. It was a pleasure for Achilles and me to host our own hearth, playing the adults we did not quite feel like, as we passed the meat and poured the wine. As the fire died down, we would wipe the juice of the meal from our faces and clamor for stories from Phoinix. He would lean forward in his chair to oblige. The firelight made the bones of his face look significant, Delphic, something that augurs might try to read. Briseis told stories too, strange and dreamlike—tales of enchantment, of gods spellbound by magic and mortals who blundered upon them unawares; the gods were strange, half man and half animal: rural deities, not the high gods that the city worshipped. They were beautiful, these tales, told in her low singsong voice. Sometimes they were funny too—her imitations of a Cyclops, or the snuffling of a lion seeking out a hidden man. Later, when we were alone, Achilles would repeat little snatches of them, lifting his voice, playing a few notes on the lyre. It was easy to see how such lovely things might become songs. And I was pleased, because I felt that he had seen her, had understood why I spent my days with her when he was gone. She was one of us now, I thought. A member of our circle, for life. IT WAS ON ONE OF THESE NIGHTS that Achilles asked her what she knew of Hector. She had been leaning back on her hands, the inner flush of her elbows warmed by the fire. But at his voice, she startled a little and sat up. He did not speak directly to her often, nor she to him. A remnant, perhaps, of what had happened in her village. “I do not know much,” she said. “I have never seen him, nor any of Priam’s family.” “But you have heard things.” Achilles was sitting forward now himself. “A little. I know more of his wife.” “Anything,” Achilles said. She nodded, cleared her throat softly as she often did before a story. “Her name is Andromache, and she is the only daughter of King Eetion of Cilicia. Hector is said to love her above all things. “He first saw her when he came to her father’s kingdom for tribute. She welcomed him, and entertained him at the feast that evening. At the night’s end, Hector asked her father for her hand.” “She must have been very beautiful.” “People say she is fair, but not the fairest girl Hector might have found. She is known for a sweet temper and gentle spirit. The country people love her because she often brings them food and clothes. She was pregnant, but I have not heard what became of the child.” “Where is Cilicia?” I asked. “It is to the south, along the coast, not far from here by horse.” “Near Lesbos,” Achilles said. Briseis nodded. Later, when all the rest had gone, he said, “We raided Cilicia. Did you know?” “No.” He nodded. “I remember that man, Eetion. He had eight sons. They tried to hold us off.” I could tell by the quietness of his voice. “You killed them.” An entire family, slaughtered. He caught the look on my face though I tried to hide it. But he did not lie to me, ever. “Yes.” I knew he killed men every day; he came home wet with their blood, stains he scrubbed from his skin before dinner. But there were moments, like now, when that knowledge overwhelmed me. When I would think of all the tears that he had made fall, in all the years that had passed. And now Andromache, too, and Hector grieved because of him. He seemed to sit across the world from me then, though he was so close I could feel the warmth rising from his skin. His hands were in his lap, spear-callused but beautiful still. No hands had ever been so gentle, or so deadly. Overhead, the stars were veiled. I could feel the air’s heaviness. There would be a storm tonight. The rain would be soaking, filling up the earth till she burst her seams. It would gush down from the mountaintops, gathering strength to sweep away what stood in its path: animals and houses and men. He is such a flood, I thought. His voice broke the silence of my thoughts. “I left one son alive,” he said. “The eighth son. So that their line would not die.” Strange that such a small kindness felt like grace. And yet, what other warrior would have done as much? Killing a whole family was something to boast of, a glorious deed that proved you powerful enough to wipe a name from the earth. This surviving son would have children; he would give them his family’s name and tell their story. They would be preserved, in memory if not in life. “I am glad,” I said, my heart full. The logs in the fire grew white with ash. “It is strange,” he said. “I have always said that Hector’s done nothing to offend me. But he cannot say the same, now.” Chapter Twenty-Four YEARS PASSED AND A SOLDIER, ONE OF AJAX’S, BEGAN TO complain about the war’s length. At first he was ignored; the man was hideously ugly and known to be a scoundrel. But he grew eloquent. Four years, he said, and nothing to show for it. Where is the treasure? Where is the woman? When will we leave? Ajax clouted him on the head, but the man would not be silenced. See how they treat us? Slowly, his discontent spread from one camp to the next. It had been a bad season, particularly wet, and miserable for fighting. Injuries abounded, rashes and mud-turned ankles and infections. The biting flies had settled so thickly over parts of the camp they looked like clouds of smoke. Sullen and scratching, men began to loiter around the agora. At first they did nothing but collect in small groups, whispering. Then the soldier who had begun it joined them, and their voices grew louder. Four years! How do we know she’s even in there? Has anyone seen her? Troy will never submit to us. We should all just stop fighting. When Agamemnon heard, he ordered them whipped. The next day there were twice as many; not a few were Mycenaeans. Agamemnon sent an armed force to disperse them. The men slunk off, then returned when the force was gone. In answer, Agamemnon ordered a phalanx to guard the agora all day. But this was frustrating duty—in full sun, where the flies were most numerous. By the end of the day, the phalanx was ragged from desertion and the number of mutineers had swollen. Agamemnon used spies to report on those who complained; these men were then seized and whipped. The next morning, several hundred men refused to fight. Some gave illness as an excuse, some gave no excuse at all. Word spread, and more men took suddenly ill. They threw their swords and shields onto the dais in a heap and blocked the agora. When Agamemnon tried to force his way through, they folded their arms and would not budge. Denied in his own agora, Agamemnon grew red in the face, then redder. His fingers went white on the scepter he held, stout wood banded with iron. When the man in front of him spat at his feet, Agamemnon lifted the scepter and brought it down sharply on his head. We all heard the crack of breaking bone. The man dropped. I do not think Agamemnon meant to hit him so hard. He seemed frozen, staring at the body at his feet, unable to move. Another man knelt to roll the body over; half the skull was caved in from the force of the blow. The news hissed through the men with a sound like a fire lighting. Many drew their knives. I heard Achilles murmur something; then he was gone from my side. Agamemnon’s face was filled with the growing realization of his mistake. He had recklessly left his loyal guards behind. He was surrounded now; help could not reach him even if it wanted to. I held my breath, sure I was about to see him die. “Men of Greece!” Startled faces turned to the shout. Achilles stood atop a pile of shields on the dais. He looked every inch the champion, beautiful and strong, his face serious. “You are angry,” he said. This caught their attention. They were angry. It was unusual for a general to admit that his troops might feel such a thing. “Speak your grievance,” he said. “We want to leave!” The voice came from the back of the crowd. “The war is hopeless!” “The general lied to us!” A surging murmur of agreement. “It has been four years!” This last was the angriest of all. I could not blame them. For me these four years had been an abundance, time that had been wrested from the hands of miserly fates. But for them it was a life stolen: from children and wives, from family and home. “It is your right to question such things,” Achilles said. “You feel misled; you were promised victory.” “Yes!” I caught a glimpse of Agamemnon’s face, curdled with anger. But he was stuck in the crowd, unable to free himself or speak without causing a scene. “Tell me,” Achilles said. “Do you think Aristos Achaion fights in hopeless wars?” The men did not answer. “Well?” “No,” someone said. Achilles nodded, gravely. “No. I do not, and I will swear so on any oath. I am here because I believe that we will win. I am staying until the end.” “That is fine for you.” A different voice. “But what of those who wish to go?” Agamemnon opened his mouth to answer. I could imagine what he might have said. No one leaves! Deserters will be executed! But he was lucky that Achilles was swifter. “You’re welcome to leave whenever you like.” “We are?” The voice was dubious. “Of course.” He paused, and offered his most guileless, friendly smile. “But I get your share of the treasure when we take Troy.” I felt the tension in the air ease, heard a few huffs of appreciative laughter. The prince Achilles spoke of treasure to be won, and where there was greed there was hope. Achilles saw the change in them. He said, “It is past time to take the field. The Trojans will start to think we are afraid.” He drew his flashing sword and held it in the air. “Who dares to show them otherwise?” There were shouts of agreement, followed by a general clanging as men reclaimed their armor, seized their spears. They hoisted the dead man and carried him off; everyone agreed that he had always been troublesome. Achilles leapt down from the dais and passed Agamemnon with a formal nod. The king of Mycenae said nothing. But I watched his eyes follow Achilles for a long time after that. IN THE AFTERMATH of the almost-rebellion, Odysseus devised a project to keep the men too busy for further unrest: a giant palisade, built around the entire camp. Ten miles, he wanted it to run, protecting our tents and our ships from the plain beyond. At its base would be a ditch, bristling with spikes. When Agamemnon announced the project, I was sure the men would know it for the ploy it was. In all the years of the war, the camp and ships had never been in danger, whatever reinforcements came. After all, who could get past Achilles? But then Diomedes stepped forward, praising the plan and frightening the men with visions of night raids and burning ships. This last was particularly effective—without the ships, we could not get home again. By the end of it, the men’s eyes were bright and eager. As they went cheerfully off to the woods with their hatchets and levels, Odysseus found the original troublecausing soldier—Thersites, his name was—and had him beaten quietly into unconsciousness. That was the end of mutinies at Troy. THINGS CHANGED AFTER THAT, whether because of the joint venture of the wall or the relief of violence averted. All of us, from the lowest foot soldier to the general himself, began to think of Troy as a sort of home. Our invasion became an occupation. Before now we had lived as scavengers off the land and the villages that we raided. Now we began to build, not just the wall, but the things of a town: a forge, and a pen for the cattle that we stole from the neighboring farms, even a potter’s shed. In this last, amateur artisans labored to replace the cracking ceramics we had brought with us, most of them leaking or broken from hard camp use. Everything we owned now was makeshift, scrounged, having lived at least two lives before as something else. Only the kings’ personal armors remained untouched, insignias polished and pure. The men too became less like dozens of different armies, and more like countrymen. These men, who had left Aulis as Cretans and Cypriots and Argives, now were simply Greeks—cast into the same pot by the otherness of the Trojans, sharing food and women and clothing and battle stories, their distinctions blurred away. Agamemnon’s boast of uniting Greece was not so idle after all. Even years later this camaraderie would remain, a fellow-feeling so uncharacteristic of our fiercely warring kingdoms. For a generation, there would be no wars among those of us who had fought at Troy. EVEN I WAS NOT EXEMPT. During this time—six, seven years in which I spent more and more hours in Machaon’s tent and fewer with Achilles in the field —I got to know the other men well. Everyone eventually made their way there, if only for smashed toes or ingrown nails. Even Automedon came, covering the bleeding remnants of a savaged boil with his hand. Men doted on their slave women and brought them to us with swollen bellies. We delivered their children in a steady, squalling stream, then fixed their hurts as they grew older. And it was not just the common soldiery: in time, I came to know the kings as well. Nestor with his throat syrup, honeyed and warmed, that he wanted at the end of a day; Menelaus and the opiate he took for his headaches; Ajax’s acid stomach. It moved me to see how much they trusted me, turned hopeful faces towards me for comfort; I grew to like them, no matter how difficult they were in council. I developed a reputation, a standing in the camp. I was asked for, known for my quick hands and how little pain I caused. Less and less often Podalerius took his turn in the tent—I was the one who was there when Machaon was not. I began to surprise Achilles, calling out to these men as we walked through the camp. I was always gratified at how they would raise a hand in return, point to a scar that had healed over well. After they were gone, Achilles would shake his head. “I don’t know how you remember them all. I swear they look the same to me.” I would laugh and point them out again. “That’s Sthenelus, Diomedes’ charioteer. And that’s Podarces, whose brother was the first to die, remember?” “There are too many of them,” he said. “It’s simpler if they just remember me.” THE FACES AROUND OUR HEARTH began to dwindle, as one woman after another quietly took a Myrmidon for her lover, and then husband. They no longer needed our fire; they had their own. We were glad. Laughter in the camp, and voices raised in pleasure at night, and even the swelling of bellies—Myrmidons grinning with satisfaction—were things that we welcomed, the golden stitch of their happiness like a fretted border around our own. After a time, only Briseis was left. She never took a lover, despite her beauty and the many Myrmidons who pursued her. Instead she grew into a kind of aunt—a woman with sweets and love potions and soft fabrics for the drying of eyes. This is how I think of us, when I remember our nights at Troy: Achilles and I beside each other, and Phoinix smiling, and Automedon stuttering through the punch lines of jokes, and Briseis with her secret eyes and quick, spilling laughter. I WOKE BEFORE DAWN and felt the first twinging cold of fall in the air. It was a festival day, the harvest of first-fruits to the god Apollo. Achilles was warm beside me, his naked body heavy with sleep. The tent was very dark, but I could just see the features of his face, the strong jaw and gentle curves of his eyes. I wanted to wake him and see those eyes open. A thousand thousand times I had seen it, but I never tired of it. My hand slid lightly over his chest, stroking the muscles beneath. We were both of us strong now, from days in the white tent and in the field; it shocked me sometimes to catch sight of myself. I looked like a man, broad as my father had been, though much leaner. He shivered beneath my hand, and I felt desire rise in me. I drew back the covers so that I might see all of him. I bent and pressed my mouth to him, in soft kisses that trailed down his stomach. Dawn stole through the tent flap. The room lightened. I saw the moment he woke and knew me. Our limbs slid against one another, on paths that we had traced so many times before, yet still were not old. Some time later, we rose and took our breakfast. We had thrown open the tent flap to let in the air; it ruffled pleasantly over our damp skin. Through the doorway we watched the crisscrossing of Myrmidons about their chores. We saw Automedon race down to the sea for a swim. We saw the sea itself, inviting and warm from a summer of sun. My hand sat familiarly on his knee. She did not come through the door. She was simply there, in the tent’s center, where a moment before there had been empty space. I gasped, and yanked my hand from where it rested on him. I knew it was foolish, even as I did it. She was a goddess; she could see us whenever she wished. “Mother,” he said, in greeting. “I have received a warning.” The words were snapped off, like an owl biting through a bone. The tent was dim, but Thetis’ skin burned cold and bright. I could see each slicing line of her face, each fold of her shimmering robe. It had been a long time since I had seen her so close, since Scyros. I had changed since then. I had gained strength and size, and a beard that grew if I did not shave it away. But she was the same. Of course she was. “Apollo is angry and looks for ways to move against the Greeks. You will sacrifice to him today?” “I will,” Achilles said. We always observed the festivals, dutifully slitting the throats and roasting the fat. “You must,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on Achilles; they did not seem to see me at all. “A hecatomb.” Our grandest offering, a hundred head of sheep or cattle. Only the richest and most powerful men could afford such an extravagance of piety. “Whatever the others do, do this. The gods have chosen sides, and you must not draw their anger.” It would take us most of the day to slaughter them all, and the camp would smell like a charnel house for a week. But Achilles nodded. “We will do it,” he promised. Her lips were pressed together, two red slashes like the edge of a wound. “There is more,” she said. Even without her gaze upon me, she frightened me. She brought the whole urgent universe wherever she went, portents and angry deities and a thousand looming perils. “What is it?” She hesitated, and fear knotted my throat. What could make a goddess pause was terrifying indeed. “A prophecy,” she said. “That the best of the Myrmidons will die before two more years have passed.” Achilles’ face was still; utterly still. “We have known it was coming,” he said. A curt shake of her head. “No. The prophecy says you will still be alive when it happens.” Achilles frowned. “What do you think it means?” “I do not know,” she said. Her eyes were very large; the black pools opened as if they would drink him, pull him back into her. “I fear a trick.” The Fates were well known for such riddles, unclear until the final piece had fallen. Then, bitterly clear. “Be watchful,” she said. “You must take care.” “I will,” he said. She had not seemed to know I was there, but now her eyes found me, and her nose wrinkled, as if at a rising stench. She looked back to him. “He is not worthy of you,” she said. “He has never been.” “We disagree on this,” Achilles answered. He said it as if he had said it many times before. Probably he had. She made a low noise of contempt, then vanished. Achilles turned to me. “She is afraid.” “I know,” I said. I cleared my throat, trying to release the clot of dread that had formed there. “Who is the best of the Myrmidons, do you think? If I am excluded.” I cast my mind through our captains. I thought of Automedon, who had become Achilles’ valuable second on the battlefield. But I would not call him best. “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you think it means my father?” he asked. Peleus, home in Phthia, who had fought with Heracles and Perseus. A legend in his own time for piety and courage, even if not in times to come. “Maybe,” I admitted. We were silent a moment. Then he said, “I suppose we will know soon enough.” “It is not you,” I said. “At least there is that.” That afternoon we performed the sacrifice his mother had commanded. The Myrmidons built the altar fires high, and I held bowls for the blood while Achilles cut throat after throat. We burned the rich thigh-pieces with barley and pomegranate, poured our best wine over the coals. Apollo is angry, she had said. One of our most powerful gods, with his arrows that could stop a man’s heart, swift as rays of sun. I was not known for my piety, but that day I praised Apollo with an intensity that could have rivaled Peleus himself. And whoever the best of the Myrmidons was, I sent the gods a prayer for him as well. BRISEIS ASKED ME to teach her medicine and promised in return a knowledge of the area’s herbs, indispensable to Machaon’s dwindling supply. I agreed, and passed many contented days with her in the forest, parting low-hanging branches, reaching underneath rotting logs for mushrooms as delicate and soft as the ear of a baby. Sometimes on those days her hand would accidentally brush mine, and she would look up and smile, water drops hanging from her ears and hair like pearls. Her long skirt was tied practically around her knees, revealing feet that were sturdy and sure. One of these days we had stopped for lunch. We feasted on clothwrapped bread and cheese, strips of dried meat, and water scooped with our hands from the stream. It was spring, and we were surrounded by the profusion of Anatolian fertility. For three weeks the earth would paint herself in every color, burst every bud, unfurl each rioting petal. Then, the wild flush of her excitement spent, she would settle down to the steady work of summer. It was my favorite time of year. I should have seen it coming. Perhaps you will think me stupid that I did not. I was telling her a story—something about Chiron, I think—and she was listening, her eyes dark like the earth on which we sat. I finished, and she was quiet. This was nothing unusual; she was often quiet. We were sitting close to each other, heads together as if in conspiracy. I could smell the fruit she had eaten; I could smell the rose oils she pressed for the other girls, still staining her fingers. She was so dear to me, I thought. Her serious face and clever eyes. I imagined her as a girl, scraped with tree-climbing, skinny limbs flying as she ran. I wished that I had known her then, that she had been with me at my father’s house, had skipped stones with my mother. Almost, I could imagine her there, hovering just at the edge of my remembrance. Her lips touched mine. I was so surprised I did not move. Her mouth was soft and a little hesitant. Her eyes were sweetly closed. Of habit, of its own accord, my mouth parted. A moment passed like this, the ground beneath us, the breeze sifting flower scents. Then she drew back, eyes down, waiting for judgment. My pulse sounded in my ears, but it was not as Achilles made it sound. It was something more like surprise, and fear that I would hurt her. I put my hand to hers. She knew, then. She felt it in the way I took her hand, the way my gaze rested on her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. I shook my head, but could not think of what more to say. Her shoulders crept up, like folded wings. “I know that you love him,” she said, hesitating a little before each word. “I know. But I thought that— some men have wives and lovers both.” Her face looked very small, and so sad that I could not be silent. “Briseis,” I said. “If I ever wished to take a wife, it would be you.” “But you do not wish to take a wife.” “No,” I said, as gently as I could. She nodded, and her eyes dropped again. I could hear her slow breaths, the faint tremor in her chest. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you not ever want children?” she asked. The question surprised me. I still felt half a child myself, though most my age were parents several times over. “I don’t think I would be much of a parent,” I said. “I do not believe that,” she said. “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?” I asked it casually, but it seemed to strike deep, and she hesitated. “Maybe,” she said. And then I understood, too late, what she had really been asking me. I flushed, embarrassed at my thoughtlessness. And humbled, too. I opened my mouth to say something. To thank her, perhaps. But she was already standing, brushing off her dress. “Shall we go?” There was nothing to do but rise and join her. THAT NIGHT I could not stop thinking of it: Briseis’ and my child. I saw stumbling legs, and dark hair and the mother’s big eyes. I saw us by the fire, Briseis and I, and the baby, playing with some bit of wood I had carved. Yet there was an emptiness to the scene, an ache of absence. Where was Achilles? Dead? Or had he never existed? I could not live in such a life. But Briseis had not asked me to. She had offered me all of it, herself and the child and Achilles, too. I shifted to face Achilles. “Did you ever think of having children?” I asked. His eyes were closed, but he was not sleeping. “I have a child,” he answered. It shocked me anew each time I remembered it. His child with Deidameia. A boy, Thetis had told him, called Neoptolemus. New War. Nicknamed Pyrrhus, for his fiery red hair. It disturbed me to think of him— a piece of Achilles wandering through the world. “Does he look like you?” I had asked Achilles once. Achilles had shrugged. “I didn’t ask.” “Do you wish you could see him?” Achilles shook his head. “It is best that my mother raise him. He will be better with her.” I did not agree, but this was not the time to say so. I waited a moment, for him to ask me if I wished to have a child. But he did not, and his breathing grew more even. He always fell asleep before I did. “Achilles?” “Mmm?” “Do you like Briseis?” He frowned, his eyes still closed. “Like her?” “Enjoy her,” I said. “You know.” His eyes opened, more alert than I had expected. “What does this have to do with children?” “Nothing.” But I was obviously lying. “Does she wish to have a child?” “Maybe,” I said. “With me?” he said. “No,” I said. “That is good,” he said, eyelids drooping once more. Moments passed, and I was sure he was asleep. But then he said, “With you. She wants to have a child with you.” My silence was his answer. He sat up, the blanket falling from his chest. “Is she pregnant?” he asked. There was a tautness to his voice I had not heard before. “No,” I said. His eyes dug into mine, sifting them for answers. “Do you want to?” he asked. I saw the struggle on his face. Jealousy was strange to him, a foreign thing. He was hurt, but did not know how to speak of it. I felt cruel, suddenly, for bringing it up. “No,” I said. “I don’t think so. No.” “If you wanted it, it would be all right.” Each word was carefully placed; he was trying to be fair. I thought of the dark-haired child again. I thought of Achilles. “It is all right now,” I said. The relief on his face filled me with sweetness. THINGS WERE STRANGE for some time after that. Briseis would have avoided me, but I called on her as I used to, and we went for our walks as we always had. We talked of camp gossip and medicine. She did not mention wives, and I was careful not to mention children. I still saw the softness in her eyes when she looked at me. I did my best to return it as I could. Chapter Twenty-Five ONE DAY IN THE NINTH YEAR, A GIRL MOUNTED THE dais. There was a bruise on her cheek, spreading like spilled wine down the side of her face. Ribbons fluttered from her hair—ceremonial fillets that marked her as servant to a god. A priest’s daughter, I heard someone say. Achilles and I exchanged a glance. She was beautiful, despite her terror: large hazel eyes set in a round face, soft chestnut hair loose around her ears, a slender girlish frame. As we watched, her eyes filled, dark pools that brimmed their banks, spilling down her cheeks, falling from her chin to the ground. She did not wipe them away. Her hands were tied behind her back. As the men gathered, her eyes lifted, seeking the sky in mute prayer. I nudged Achilles, and he nodded; but before he could claim her, Agamemnon stepped forward. He rested one hand on her slight, bowed shoulder. “This is Chryseis,” he said. “And I take her for myself.” Then he pulled her from the dais, leading her roughly to his tent. I saw the priest Calchas frowning, his mouth half-open as if he might object. But then he closed it, and Odysseus finished the distribution. IT WAS BARELY A MONTH after that the girl’s father came, walking down the beach with a staff of gold-studded wood, threaded with garlands. He wore his beard long in the style of Anatolian priests, his hair unbound but decorated with bits of ribbon to match his staff. His robe was banded with red and gold, loose with fabric that billowed and flapped around his legs. Behind him, silent underpriests strained to heft the weight of huge wooden chests. He did not slow for their faltering steps but strode relentlessly onwards. The small procession moved past the tents of Ajax, and Diomedes, and Nestor—closest to the agora—and then onto the dais itself. By the time Achilles and I had heard, and run, weaving around slower soldiers, he had planted himself there, staff strong. When Agamemnon and Menelaus mounted the dais to approach him, he did not acknowledge them, only stood there proud before his treasure and the heaving chests of his underlings. Agamemnon glowered at the presumption, but held his tongue. Finally, when enough soldiers had gathered, drawn from every corner by breathless rumor, he turned to survey them all, his eyes moving across the crowd, taking in kings and common. Landing, at last, on the twin sons of Atreus who stood before him. He spoke in a voice resonant and grave, made for leading prayers. He gave his name, Chryses, and identified himself, staff raised, as a high priest of Apollo. Then he pointed to the chests, open now to show gold and gems and bronze catching the sun. “None of this tells us why you have come, Priest Chryses.” Menelaus’ voice was even, but with an edge of impatience. Trojans did not climb the dais of the Greek kings and make speeches. “I have come to ransom my daughter, Chryseis,” he said. “Taken unlawfully by the Greek army from our temple. A slight girl, and young, with fillets in her hair.” The Greeks muttered. Suppliants seeking ransom knelt and begged, they did not speak like kings giving sentence in court. Yet he was a high priest, not used to bending to anyone but his god, and allowances could be made. The gold he offered was generous, twice what the girl was worth, and a priest’s favor was never something to scorn. That word, unlawful, had been sharp as a drawn sword, but we could not say that he was wrong to use it. Even Diomedes and Odysseus were nodding, and Menelaus drew a breath as if to speak. But Agamemnon stepped forward, broad as a bear, his neck muscles twisting in anger. “Is this how a man begs? You are lucky I do not kill you where you stand. I am this army’s commander,” he spat. “And you have no leave to speak before my men. Here is your answer: no. There will be no ransom. She is my prize, and I will not give her up now or ever. Not for this trash, or any other you can bring.” His fingers clenched, only inches from the priest’s throat. “You will depart now, and let me not ever catch you in my camps again, priest, or even your garlands will not save you.” Chryses’ jaw was clamped down on itself, though whether from fear or biting back a reply we could not tell. His eyes burned with bitterness. Sharply, without a word, he turned and stepped from the dais and strode back up the beach. Behind him trailed his underpriests with their clinking boxes of treasure. Even after Agamemnon left and the men had exploded into gossip around me, I watched the shamed priest’s distant, retreating figure. Those at the end of the beach said that he was crying out and shaking his staff at the sky. That night, slipping among us like a snake, quick and silent and flickering, the plague began. WHEN WE WOKE the next morning, we saw the mules drooping against their fences, breaths shallow and bubbling with yellow mucus, eyes rolling. Then by midday it was the dogs—whining and snapping at the air, tongues foaming a red-tinged scum. By the late afternoon, every one of these beasts was dead, or dying, shuddering on the ground in pools of bloody vomit. Machaon and I, and Achilles too, burned them as fast as they fell, ridding the camp of their bile-soaked bodies, their bones that rattled as we tossed them onto the pyres. When we went back to the camp that night, Achilles and I scrubbed ourselves in the harsh salt of the sea, and then with clean water from the stream in the forest. We did not use the Simois or the Scamander, the big meandering Trojan rivers that the other men washed in and drank from. In bed, later, we speculated in hushed whispers, unable to help but listen for the hitch in our own breath, the gathering of mucus in our throats. But we heard nothing except our voices repeating the remedies Chiron had taught us like murmured prayers. THE NEXT MORNING it was the men. Dozens pierced with illness, crumpling where they stood, their eyes bulging and wet, lips cracking open and bleeding fine red threads down their chins. Machaon and Achilles and Podalerius and I, and even, eventually, Briseis, ran to drag away each newly dropped man—downed as suddenly as if by a spear or arrow. At the edge of the camp a field of sick men bloomed. Ten and twenty and then fifty of them, shuddering, calling for water, tearing off their clothes for respite from the fire they claimed raged in them. Finally, in the later hours, their skin broke apart, macerating like holes in a worn blanket, shredding to pus and pulpy blood. At last their violent trembling ceased, and they lay puddling in the swamp of their final torrent: the dark emptying of their bowels, clotted with blood. Achilles and I built pyre after pyre, burning every scrap of wood we could find. Finally we abandoned dignity and ritual for necessity, throwing onto each fire not one, but a heap of bodies. We did not even have time to stand watch over them as their flesh and bone mingled and melted together. Eventually most of the kings joined us—Menelaus first, then Ajax, who split whole trees with a single stroke, fuel for fire after fire. As we worked, Diomedes went among the men and discovered the few who still lay concealed in their tents, shaking with fever and vomit, hidden by their friends who did not want, yet, to send them to the death grounds. Agamemnon did not leave his tent. Another day then, and another, and every company, every king, had lost dozens of soldiers. Although strangely, Achilles and I noted, our hands pulling closed eyelid after eyelid, none of them were kings. Only minor nobles and foot soldiers. None of them were women; this too we noticed. Our eyes found each other’s, full of suspicions that grew as men dropped suddenly with a cry, hands clutching their chests where the plague had struck them like the quick shaft of an arrow. IT WAS THE NINTH NIGHT of this—of corpses, and burning, and our faces streaked with pus. We stood in our tent gasping with exhaustion, stripping off the tunics we had worn, throwing them aside for the fire. Our suspicions tumbled out, confirmed in a thousand ways, that this was not a natural plague, not the creeping spread of haphazard disease. It was something else, sudden and cataclysmic as the snuffing of Aulis’ winds. A god’s displeasure. We remembered Chryses and his righteous outrage at Agamemnon’s blasphemy, his disregard for the codes of war and fair ransom. And we remembered, too, which god he served. The divinity of light and medicine and plague. Achilles slipped out of the tent when the moon was high. He came back some time later, smelling of the sea. “What does she say?” I asked, sitting up in bed. “She says we are right.” ON THE TENTH DAY of the plague, with the Myrmidons at our backs, we strode up the beach to the agora. Achilles mounted the dais and cupped his hands to help his voice carry. Shouting over the roar of pyres and the weeping of women and the groans of the dying, he called for every man in camp to gather. Slowly, fearfully, men staggered forward, blinking in the sun. They looked pale and hunted, fearful of the plague arrows that sank in chests like stones into water, spreading their rot as ripples in a pond. Achilles watched them come, armor buckled around him, sword strapped to his side, his hair gleaming like water poured over bright bronze. It was not forbidden for someone other than the general to call a meeting, but it had never been done in our ten years at Troy. Agamemnon shouldered through the crowd with his Mycenaeans to mount the dais. “What is this?” he demanded. Achilles greeted him politely. “I have gathered the men to speak of the plague. Do I have your leave to address them?” Agamemnon’s shoulders were hunched forward with shame-sprung rage; he should have called this meeting himself long ago, and he knew it. He could hardly rebuke Achilles for doing it now, especially not with the men watching. The contrast between the two had never seemed more sharp: Achilles relaxed and in control, with an ease that denied the funeral pyres and sunken cheeks; Agamemnon with his face tight as a miser’s fist, louring over us all. Achilles waited until the men had assembled, kings and common both. Then he stepped forward and smiled. “Kings,” he said, “Lords, Men of the Greek Kingdoms, how can we fight a war when we are dying of plague? It’s time—past time—that we learn what we have done to deserve a god’s anger.” Swift whispers and murmurs; men had suspected the gods. Was not all great evil and good sent from their hands? But to hear Achilles say so openly was a relief. His mother was a goddess, and he would know. Agamemnon’s lips were pulled back to show his teeth. He stood too close to Achilles, as if he would crowd him off the dais. Achilles did not seem to notice. “We have a priest here, among us, a man close to the gods. Should we not ask him to speak?” A hopeful ripple of assent went through the men. I could hear the creaking of metal, Agamemnon’s grip on his own wrist, the slow strangle of his buckled gauntlet. Achilles turned to the king. “Is this not what you recommended to me, Agamemnon?” Agamemnon’s eyes narrowed. He did not trust generosity; he did not trust anything. He stared at Achilles a moment, waiting for the trap. At last, ungratefully, he said, “Yes. I did.” He gestured roughly to his Mycenaeans. “Bring me Calchas.” They towed the priest forward, out of the crowd. He was uglier than ever, with his beard that never quite filled in, his hair scraggly and rank with sour sweat. He had a habit of darting his tongue across cracked lips before he spoke. “High King and Prince Achilles, you catch me unprepared. I did not think that—” Those freakish blue eyes flickered between the two men. “That is, I did not expect I would be asked to speak here before so many.” His voice wheedled and ducked, like a weasel escaping the nest. “Speak,” Agamemnon commanded. Calchas seemed at a loss; his tongue swiped his lips again and again. Achilles’ clear voice prompted him. “You have done sacrifices surely? You have prayed?” “I—have, of course I have. But . . .” The priest’s voice trembled. “I am afraid that what I say might anger someone here. Someone who is powerful and does not forget insult easily.” Achilles squatted to reach a hand out to the grimed shoulder of the flinching priest, clasping it genially. “Calchas, we are dying. This is not the time for such fears. What man among us would hold your words against you? I would not, even if you named me as the cause. Would any of you?” He looked at the men before him. They shook their heads. “You see? No sane man would ever harm a priest.” Agamemnon’s neck went taut as ship ropes. I was suddenly aware of how strange it was to see him standing alone. Always his brother or Odysseus or Diomedes was near him. But those men waited on the side, with the rest of the princes. Calchas cleared his throat. “The auguries have shown that it is the god Apollo who is angry.” Apollo. The name went through the host like wind in summer wheat. Calchas’ eyes flickered to Agamemnon, then back to Achilles. He swallowed. “He is offended, it seems, so the omens say, at the treatment of his dedicated servant. Chryses.” Agamemnon’s shoulders were rigid. Calchas stumbled on. “To appease him, the girl Chryseis must be returned without ransom, and High King Agamemnon must offer prayers and sacrifices.” He stopped, his last word gulped down suddenly, as if he had run out of air. Agamemnon’s face had broken into dark red blotches of shock. It seemed like the greatest arrogance or stupidity not to have guessed he might be at fault, but he had not. The silence was so profound I felt I could hear the grains of sand falling against each other at our feet. “Thank you, Calchas,” Agamemnon said, his voice splintering the air. “Thank you for always bringing good news. Last time it was my daughter. Kill her, you said, because you have angered the goddess. Now you seek to humiliate me before my army.” He wheeled on the men, his face twisted in rage. “Am I not your general? And do I not see you fed and clothed and honored? And are my Mycenaeans not the largest part of this army? The girl is mine, given to me as a prize, and I will not give her up. Have you forgotten who I am?” He paused, as if he hoped the men might shout No! No! But none did. “King Agamemnon.” Achilles stepped forward. His voice was easy, almost amused. “I don’t think anyone has forgotten that you are leader of this host. But you do not seem to remember that we are kings in our own right, or princes, or heads of our families. We are allies, not slaves.” A few men nodded; more would have liked to. “Now, while we die, you complain about the loss of a girl you should have ransomed long ago. You say nothing of the lives you have taken, or the plague you have started.” Agamemnon made an inarticulate noise, his face purple with rage. Achilles held up a hand. “I do not mean to dishonor you. I only wish to end the plague. Send the girl to her father and be done.” Agamemnon’s cheeks were creased with fury. “I understand you, Achilles. You think because you’re the son of a sea-nymph you have the right to play high prince wherever you go. You have never learned your place among men.” Achilles opened his mouth to answer. “You will be silent,” Agamemnon said, words lashing like a whip. “You will not speak another word or you will be sorry.” “Or I will be sorry?” Achilles’ face was very still. The words were quiet, but distinctly audible. “I do not think, High King, that you can afford to say such things to me.” “Do you threaten me?” Agamemnon shouted. “Did you not hear him threaten me?” “It is not a threat. What is your army without me?” Agamemnon’s face was clotted with malice. “You have always thought too much of yourself,” he sneered. “We should have left you where we found you, hiding behind your mother’s skirts. In a skirt yourself.” The men frowned in confusion, whispered to each other. Achilles’ hands were fisted at his sides; he hung on to his composure, barely. “You say this to turn attention away from yourself. If I had not called this council, how long would you have let your men die? Can you answer that?” Agamemnon was already roaring over him. “When all of these brave men came to Aulis, they knelt to offer me their loyalty. All of them but you. I think we have indulged your arrogance long enough. It is time, past time”—he mimicked Achilles—“that you swore the oath.” “I do not need to prove myself to you. To any of you.” Achilles’ voice was cold, his chin lifted in disdain. “I am here of my own free will, and you are lucky that it is so. I am not the one who should kneel.” It was too far. I felt the men shift around me. Agamemnon seized upon it, like a bird bolting a fish. “Do you hear his pride?” He turned to Achilles. “You will not kneel?” Achilles’ face was like stone. “I will not.” “Then you are a traitor to this army, and will be punished like one. Your war prizes are hostage, placed in my care until you offer your obedience and submission. Let us start with that girl. Briseis, is her name? She will do as penance for the girl you have forced me to return.” The air died in my lungs. “She is mine,” Achilles said. Each word fell sharp, like a butcher cutting meat. “Given to me by all the Greeks. You cannot take her. If you try, your life is forfeit. Think on that, King, before you bring harm to yourself.” Agamemnon’s answer came quickly. He could never back down in front of a crowd. Never. “I do not fear you. I will have her.” He turned to his Mycenaeans. “Bring the girl.” Around me were the shocked faces of kings. Briseis was a war prize, a living embodiment of Achilles’ honor. In taking her, Agamemnon denied Achilles the full measure of his worth. The men muttered, and I hoped they might object. But no one spoke. Because he was turned, Agamemnon did not see Achilles’ hand go to his sword. My breath caught. I knew that he was capable of this, a single thrust through Agamemnon’s cowardly heart. I saw the struggle on his face. I still do not know why he stopped himself; perhaps he wanted greater punishment for the king than death. “Agamemnon,” he said. I flinched from the roughness of his voice. The king turned, and Achilles drove a finger into his chest. The high king could not stop the huff of surprise. “Your words today have caused your own death, and the death of your men. I will fight for you no longer. Without me, your army will fall. Hector will grind you to bones and bloody dust, and I will watch it and laugh. You will come, crying for mercy, but I will give none. They will all die, Agamemnon, for what you have done here.” He spat, a huge wet smack between Agamemnon’s feet. And then he was before me, and past me, and I was dizzied as I turned to follow him, feeling the Myrmidons behind me—hundreds of men shouldering their way through the crowd, storming off to their tents. POWERFUL STRIDES TOOK HIM swiftly up the beach. His anger was incandescent, a fire under his skin. His muscles were pulled so taut I was afraid to touch him, fearing they would snap like bowstrings. He did not stop once we reached the camp. He did not turn and speak to the men. He seized the extra tent flap covering our door and ripped it free as he passed. His mouth was twisted, ugly and tight as I had ever seen it. His eyes were wild. “I will kill him,” he swore. “I will kill him.” He grabbed a spear and broke it in half with an explosion of wood. The pieces fell to the floor. “I almost did it there,” he said. “I should have done it. How dare he?” He flung a ewer aside, and it shattered against a chair. “The cowards! You saw how they bit their lips and did not dare to speak. I hope he takes all their prizes. I hope he swallows them one by one.” A voice, tentative, outside. “Achilles?” “Come in,” Achilles snarled. Automedon was breathless and stuttering. “I am sorry to disturb you. Phoinix told me to stay, so I could listen and tell you what happened.” “And?” Achilles demanded. Automedon flinched. “Agamemnon asked why Hector still lived. He said that they do not need you. That perhaps you are not— what you say you are.” Another spear shaft shattered in Achilles’ fingers. Automedon swallowed. “They are coming, now, for Briseis.” Achilles had his back to me; I could not see his face. “Leave us,” he told his charioteer. Automedon backed away, and we were alone. They were coming for Briseis. I stood, my hands balled. I felt strong, unbending, like my feet pierced through the earth to the other side of the world. “We must do something,” I said. “We can hide her. In the woods or—” “He will pay, now,” Achilles said. There was fierce triumph in his voice. “Let him come for her. He has doomed himself.” “What do you mean?” “I must speak to my mother.” He started from the tent. I seized his arm. “We don’t have time. They will have taken her by the time you are back. We must do something now!” He turned. His eyes looked strange, the pupils huge and dark, swallowing his face. He seemed to be looking a long way off. “What are you talking about?” I stared at him. “Briseis.” He stared back. I could not follow the flicker of emotion in his eyes. “I can do nothing for her,” he said at last. “If Agamemnon chooses this path, he must bear the consequences.” A feeling, as if I were falling into ocean depths, weighted with stones. “You are not going to let him take her.” He turned away; he would not look at me. “It is his choice. I told him what would happen if he did.” “You know what he will do to her.” “It is his choice,” he repeated. “He would deprive me of my honor? He would punish me? I will let him.” His eyes were lit with an inner fire. “You will not help her?” “There is nothing I can do,” he said with finality. A tilting vertigo, as if I were drunk. I could not speak, or think. I had never been angry with him before; I did not know how. “She is one of us. How can you just let him take her? Where is your honor? How can you let him defile her?” And then, suddenly, I understood. Nausea seized me. I turned to the door. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was scraped and savage. “I have to warn her. She has a right to know what you have chosen.” I STAND OUTSIDE her tent. It is small, brown with hides, set back. “Briseis,” I hear myself say. “Come in!” Her voice is warm and pleased. We have had no time to speak during the plague, beyond necessities. Inside, she is seated on a stool, mortar and pestle in her lap. The air smells sharply of nutmeg. She is smiling. I feel wrung dry with grief. How can I tell her what I know? “I—” I try to speak, stop. She sees my face, and her smile vanishes. Swiftly, she is on her feet and by my side. “What is it?” She presses the cool skin of her wrist to my forehead. “Are you ill? Is Achilles all right?” I am sick with shame. But there is no space for my self-pity. They are coming. “Something has happened,” I say. My tongue thickens in my mouth; my words do not come out straight. “Achilles went today to speak to the men. The plague is Apollo’s.” “We thought so.” She nods, her hand resting gently on mine, in comfort. I almost cannot go on. “Agamemnon did not—he was angry. He and Achilles quarreled. Agamemnon wants to punish him.” “Punish him? How?” Now she sees something in my eyes. Her face goes quiet, pulling into itself. Bracing. “What is it?” “He is sending men. For you.” I see the flare of panic, though she tries to hide it. Her fingers tighten on mine. “What will happen?” My shame is caustic, searing every nerve. It is like a nightmare; I expect, each moment, to wake to relief. But there is no waking. It is true. He will not help. “He—” I cannot say more. It is enough. She knows. Her right hand clutches at her dress, chapped and raw from the rough work of the past nine days. I force out stuttering words meant to be a comfort, of how we will get her back, and how it will be all right. Lies, all of it. We both know what will happen to her in Agamemnon’s tent. Achilles knows, too, and sends her anyway. My mind is filled with cataclysm and apocalypse: I wish for earthquakes, eruptions, flood. Only that seems large enough to hold all of my rage and grief. I want the world overturned like a bowl of eggs, smashed at my feet. A trumpet blows outside. Her hand goes to her cheek, swipes away tears. “Go,” she whispers. “Please.” Chapter Twenty-Six IN THE DISTANCE TWO MEN ARE WALKING TOWARDS US UP the long stretch of beach, wearing the bright purple of Agamemnon’s camp, stamped with the symbol of heralds. I know them—Talthybius and Eurybates, Agamemnon’s chief messengers, honored as men of discretion close to the high king’s ear. Hate knots my throat. I want them dead. They are close now, passing the glaring Myrmidon guards, who rattle their armor threateningly. They stop ten paces from us—enough, perhaps they think, to be able to escape Achilles if he were to lose his temper. I indulge myself in vicious images: Achilles leaping up to snap their necks, leaving them limp as dead rabbits in a hunter’s hand. They stutter out a greeting, feet shifting, eyes down. Then: “We have come to take custody of the girl.” Achilles answers them—cold and bitter, but wryly so, his anger banked and shielded. He is giving a show, I know, of grace, of tolerance, and my teeth clench at the calmness in his tone. He likes this image of himself, the wronged young man, stoically accepting the theft of his prize, a martyrdom for the whole camp to see. I hear my name and see them looking at me. I am to get Briseis. She is waiting for me. Her hands are empty; she is taking nothing with her. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. She does not say it is all right; it is not. She leans forward, and I can smell the warm sweetness of her breath. Her lips graze mine. Then she steps past me and is gone. Talthybius takes one side of her, Eurybates the other. Their fingers press, not gently, into the skin of her arm. They tow her forward, eager to be away from us. She is forced to move, or fall. Her head turns back to look at us, and I want to break at the desperate hope in her eyes. I stare at him, will him to look up, to change his mind. He does not. They are out of our camp now, moving quickly. After a moment I can barely distinguish them from the other dark figures that move against the sand—eating and walking and gossiping intently about their feuding kings. Anger sweeps through me like brushfire. “How can you let her go?” I ask, my teeth hard against one another. His face is blank and barren, like another language, impenetrable. He says, “I must speak with my mother.” “Go then,” I snarl. I watch him leave. My stomach feels burned to cinders; my palms ache where my nails have cut into them. I do not know this man, I think. He is no one I have ever seen before. My rage towards him is hot as blood. I will never forgive him. I imagine tearing down our tent, smashing the lyre, stabbing myself in the stomach and bleeding to death. I want to see his face broken with grief and regret. I want to shatter the cold mask of stone that has slipped down over the boy I knew. He has given her to Agamemnon knowing what will happen. Now he expects that I will wait here, impotent and obedient. I have nothing to offer Agamemnon for her safety. I cannot bribe him, and I cannot beg him. The king of Mycenae has waited too long for this triumph. He will not let her go. I think of a wolf, guarding its bone. There were such wolves on Pelion, who would hunt men if they were hungry enough. “If one of them is stalking you,” Chiron said, “you must give it something it wants more than you.” There is only one thing that Agamemnon wants more than Briseis. I yank the knife from my belt. I have never liked blood, but there is no help for that, now. THE GUARDS SEE me belatedly and are too surprised to lift their weapons. One has the presence of mind to seize me, but I dig my nails into his arm, and he lets go. Their faces are slow and stupid with shock. Am I not just Achilles’ pet rabbit? If I were a warrior, they would fight me, but I am not. By the time they think they should restrain me, I am inside the tent. The first thing I see is Briseis. Her hands have been tied, and she is shrinking in a corner. Agamemnon stands with his back to the entrance, speaking to her. He turns, scowling at the interruption. But when he sees me, his face goes slick with triumph. I have come to beg, he thinks. I am here to plead for mercy, as Achilles’ ambassador. Or perhaps I will rage impotently, for his entertainment. I lift the knife, and Agamemnon’s eyes widen. His hand goes to the knife at his own belt, and his mouth opens to call the guards. He does not have time to speak. I slash the knife down at my left wrist. It scores the skin but does not bite deep enough. I slash again, and this time I find the vein. Blood spurts in the enclosed space. I hear Briseis’ noise of horror. Agamemnon’s face is spattered with drops. “I swear that the news I bring is truth,” I say. “I swear it on my blood.” Agamemnon is taken aback. The blood and the oath stay his hand; he has always been superstitious. “Well,” he says curtly, trying for dignity, “speak your news then.” I can feel the blood draining down my wrist, but I do not move to stanch it. “You are in the gravest danger,” I say. He sneers. “Are you threatening me? Is this why he has sent you?” “No. He has not sent me at all.” His eyes narrow, and I see his mind working, fitting tiles into the picture. “Surely you come with his blessing.” “No,” I say. He is listening, now. “He knows what you intend towards the girl,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Briseis following our conversation, but I do not dare to look at her directly. My wrist throbs dully, and I can feel the warm blood filling my hand, then emptying again. I drop the knife and press my thumb onto the vein to slow the steady draining of my heart. “And?” “Do you not wonder why he did not prevent you from taking her?” My voice is disdainful. “He could have killed your men, and all your army. Do you not think he could have held you off?” Agamemnon’s face is red. But I do not allow him to speak. “He let you take her. He knows you will not resist bedding her, and this will be your downfall. She is his, won through fair service. The men will turn on you if you violate her, and the gods as well.” I speak slowly, deliberately, and the words land like arrows, each in its target. It is true what I say, though he has been too blinded by pride and lust to see it. She is in Agamemnon’s custody, but she is Achilles’ prize still. To violate her is a violation of Achilles himself, the gravest insult to his honor. Achilles could kill him for it, and even Menelaus would call it fair. “You are at your power’s limit even in taking her. The men allowed it because he was too proud, but they will not allow more.” We obey our kings, but only within reason. If Aristos Achaion’s prize is not safe, none of ours are. Such a king will not be allowed to rule for long. Agamemnon has not thought of any of this. The realizations come like waves, drowning him. Desperate, he says, “My counselors have said nothing of this.” “Perhaps they do not know what you intend. Or perhaps it serves their own purposes.” I pause to let him consider this. “Who will rule if you fall?” He knows the answer. Odysseus, and Diomedes, together, with Menelaus as figurehead. He begins to understand, at last, the size of the gift I have brought him. He has not come so far by being a fool. “You betray him by warning me.” It is true. Achilles has given Agamemnon a sword to fall upon, and I have stayed his hand. The words are thick and bitter. “I do.” “Why?” he asks. “Because he is wrong,” I say. My throat feels raw and broken, as though I have drunk sand and salt. Agamemnon considers me. I am known for my honesty, for my kindheartedness. There is no reason to disbelieve me. He smiles. “You have done well,” he says. “You show yourself loyal to your true master.” He pauses, savoring this, storing it up. “Does he know what you have done?” “Not yet,” I say. “Ah.” His eyes half-close, imagining it. I watch the bolt of his triumph sliding home. He is a connoisseur of pain. There is nothing that could cause Achilles greater anguish than this: being betrayed to his worst enemy by the man he holds closest to his heart. “If he will come and kneel for pardon, I swear I will release her. It is only his own pride that keeps his honor from him, not I. Tell him.” I do not answer. I stand, and walk to Briseis. I cut the rope that binds her. Her eyes are full; she knows what this has cost me. “Your wrist,” she whispers. I cannot answer her. My head is a confusion of triumph and despair. The sand of the tent is red with my blood. “Treat her well,” I say. I turn and leave. She will be all right now, I tell myself. He is feasting fat on the gift I have given him. I tear a strip from my tunic to bind my wrist. I am dizzy, though I do not know if it is with loss of blood or what I have done. Slowly, I begin the long walk back up the beach. HE IS STANDING OUTSIDE the tent when I return. His tunic is damp from where he knelt in the sea. His face is wrapped closed, but there is a weariness to its edges, like fraying cloth; it matches mine. “Where have you been?” “In the camp.” I am not ready yet, to tell him. “How is your mother?” “She is well. You are bleeding.” The bandage has soaked through. “I know,” I say. “Let me look at it.” I follow him obediently into the tent. He takes my arm and unwraps the cloth. He brings water to rinse the wound clean and packs it with crushed yarrow and honey. “A knife?” he asks. “Yes.” We know the storm is coming; we are waiting as long as we can. He binds the wound with clean bandages. He brings me watered wine, and food as well. I can tell by his face that I look ill and pale. “Will you tell me who hurt you?” I imagine saying, You. But that is nothing more than childishness. “I did it to myself.” “Why?” “For an oath.” There is no waiting any longer. I look at him, full in the face. “I went to Agamemnon. I told him of your plan.” “My plan?” His words are flat, almost detached. “To let him rape Briseis, so that you might revenge yourself on him.” Saying it out loud is more shocking than I thought it would be. He rises, half-turning so I cannot see his face. I read his shoulders instead, their set, the tension of his neck. “So you warned him?” “I did.” “You know if he had done it, I could have killed him.” That same flat tone. “Or exiled him. Forced him from the throne. The men would have honored me like a god.” “I know,” I say. There is a silence, a dangerous one. I keep waiting for him to turn on me. To scream, or strike out. And he does turn, to face me, at last. “Her safety for my honor. Are you happy with your trade?” “There is no honor in betraying your friends.” “It is strange,” he says, “that you would speak against betrayal.” There is more pain in those words, almost, than I can bear. I force myself to think of Briseis. “It was the only way.” “You chose her,” he says. “Over me.” “Over your pride.” The word I use is hubris. Our word for arrogance that scrapes the stars, for violence and towering rage as ugly as the gods. His fists tighten. Now, perhaps, the attack will come. “My life is my reputation,” he says. His breath sounds ragged. “It is all I have. I will not live much longer. Memory is all I can hope for.” He swallows, thickly. “You know this. And would you let Agamemnon destroy it? Would you help him take it from me?” “I would not,” I say. “But I would have the memory be worthy of the man. I would have you be yourself, not some tyrant remembered for his cruelty. There are other ways to make Agamemnon pay. We will do it. I will help you, I swear. But not like this. No fame is worth what you did today.” He turns away again and is silent. I stare at his unspeaking back. I memorize each fold in his tunic, each bit of drying salt and sand stuck to his skin. When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn’t know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won’t light. “It is done then? She is safe? She must be. You would not have come back, otherwise.” “Yes. She is safe.” A tired breath. “You are a better man than I.” The beginning of hope. We have given each other wounds, but they are not mortal. Briseis will not be harmed and Achilles will remember himself and my wrist will heal. There will be a moment after this, and another after that. “No,” I say. I stand and walk to him. I put my hand to the warmth of his skin. “It is not true. You left yourself today. And now you are returned.” His shoulders rise and fall on a long breath. “Do not say that,” he says, “until you have heard the rest of what I have done.” Chapter Twenty-Seven THERE ARE THREE SMALL STONES ON THE RUGS OF OUR tent, kicked in by our feet or crept in on their own. I pick them up. They are something to hold on to. His weariness has faded as he speaks. “ . . . I will fight for him no longer. At every turn he seeks to rob me of my rightful glory. To cast me into shadow and doubt. He cannot bear another man to be honored over him. But he will learn. I will show him the worth of his army without Aristos Achaion.” I do not speak. I can see the temper rising in him. It is like watching a storm come, when there is no shelter. “The Greeks will fall without me to defend them. He will be forced to beg, or die.” I remember how he looked when he went to see his mother. Wild, fevered, hard as granite. I imagine him kneeling before her, weeping with rage, beating his fists on the jagged sea rocks. They have insulted him, he says to her. They have dishonored him. They have ruined his immortal reputation. She listens, her fingers pulling absently on her long white throat, supple as a seal, and begins to nod. She has an idea, a god’s idea, full of vengeance and wrath. She tells him, and his weeping stops. “He will do it?” Achilles asks, in wonder. He means Zeus, king of the gods, whose head is wreathed in clouds, whose hands can hold the thunderbolt itself. “He will do it,” Thetis says. “He is in my debt.” Zeus, the great balancer, will let go his scales. He will make the Greeks lose and lose and lose, until they are crushed against the sea, anchors and ropes tangling their feet, masts and prows splintering on their backs. And then they will see who they must beg for. Thetis leans forward and kisses her son, a bright starfish of red, high on his cheek. Then she turns and is gone, slipped into the water like a stone, sinking to the bottom. I let the pebbles tumble to the ground from my fingers, where they lie, haphazard or purposeful, an augury or an accident. If Chiron were here, he could read them, tell us our fortunes. But he is not here. “What if he will not beg?” I ask. “Then he will die. They will all die. I will not fight until he does.” His chin juts, bracing for reproach. I am worn out. My arm hurts where I cut it, and my skin feels coated with unwholesome sweat. I do not answer. “Did you hear what I said?” “I heard,” I say. “Greeks will die.” Chiron had said once that nations were the most foolish of mortal inventions. “No man is worth more than another, wherever he is from.” “But what if he is your friend?” Achilles had asked him, feet kicked up on the wall of the rose-quartz cave. “Or your brother? Should you treat him the same as a stranger?” “You ask a question that philosophers argue over,” Chiron had said. “He is worth more to you, perhaps. But the stranger is someone else’s friend and brother. So which life is more important?” We had been silent. We were fourteen, and these things were too hard for us. Now that we are twenty-seven, they still feel too hard. He is half of my soul, as the poets say. He will be dead soon, and his honor is all that will remain. It is his child, his dearest self. Should I reproach him for it? I have saved Briseis. I cannot save them all. I know, now, how I would answer Chiron. I would say: there is no answer. Whichever you choose, you are wrong. LATER THAT EVENING I go back to Agamemnon’s camp. As I walk, I feel the eyes on me, curious and pitying. They look behind me, to see if Achilles is following. He is not. When I told him where I was going, it seemed to cast him back into the shadows. “Tell her I am sorry,” he said, his eyes down. I did not answer. Is he sorry because he has a better vengeance now? One that will strike down not just Agamemnon, but his whole ungrateful army? I do not let myself dwell on this thought. He is sorry. It is enough. “Come in,” she says, her voice strange. She is wearing a gold-threaded dress and a necklace of lapis lazuli. On her wrists are bracelets of engraved silver. She clinks when she stands, as though she’s wearing armor. She’s embarrassed, I can see that. But we do not have time to speak, because Agamemnon himself is bulging through the narrow slit behind me. “Do you see how well I keep her?” he says. “The whole camp will see in what esteem I hold Achilles. He only has to apologize, and I will heap the honors on him that he deserves. Truly it is unfortunate that one so young has so much pride.” The smug look on his face makes me angry. But what did I expect? I have done this. Her safety for his honor. “This is a credit to you, mighty king,” I say. “Tell Achilles,” Agamemnon continues. “Tell him how well I treat her. You may come any time you like, to see her.” He offers an unpleasant smile, then stands, watching us. He has no intention of leaving. I turn to Briseis. I have learned a few pieces of her language, and I use them now. “You are all right truly?” “I am,” she replies, in the sharp singsong of Anatolian. “How long will it be?” “I don’t know,” I say. And I don’t. How much heat does it take for iron to grow soft enough to bend? I lean forward and gently kiss her cheek. “I will be back again soon,” I say in Greek. She nods. Agamemnon eyes me as I leave. I hear him say, “What did he say to you?” I hear her answer, “He admired my dress.” THE NEXT MORNING, all the other kings march off with their armies to fight the Trojans; the army of Phthia does not follow. Achilles and I linger long over breakfast. Why should we not? There is nothing else for us to do. We may swim, if we like, or play at draughts or spend all day racing. We have not been at such utter leisure since Pelion. Yet it does not feel like leisure. It feels like a held breath, like an eagle poised before the dive. My shoulders hunch, and I cannot stop myself from looking down the empty beach. We are waiting to see what the gods will do. We do not have to wait long. Chapter Twenty-Eight THAT NIGHT, PHOINIX COMES LIMPING UP THE SHORE with news of a duel. As the armies rallied in the morning, Paris had strutted along the Trojan line, golden armor flashing. He offered a challenge: single combat, winner takes Helen. The Greeks bellowed their approval. Which of them did not want to leave that day? To wager Helen on a single fight and settle it once and for all? And Paris looked an easy target, shining and slight, slim-hipped as an unwed girl. But it was Menelaus, Phoinix said, who came forward, roaring acceptance at the chance to regain his honor and his beautiful wife in one. The duel begins with spears and moves quickly to swords. Paris is swifter than Menelaus had anticipated, no fighter but fast on his feet. At last the Trojan prince missteps, and Menelaus seizes him by his long horsehair crest and drags him down to the earth. Paris’ feet kick helplessly, his fingers scrabble at the choking chin-strap. Then, suddenly, the helmet comes free in Menelaus’ hand and Paris is gone. Where the Trojan prince sprawled there is only dusty ground. The armies squint and whisper: Where is he? Menelaus squints with them, and so does not see the arrow, loosed from a ibex-horn bow along the Trojan line, flying towards him. It punches through his leather armor and buries itself in his stomach. Blood pours down his legs and puddles at his feet. It is mostly a surface wound, but the Greeks do not know that yet. They scream and rush the Trojan ranks, enraged at the betrayal. A bloody melee begins. “But what happened to Paris?” I ask. Phoinix shakes his head. “I do not know.” THE TWO SIDES FOUGHT on through the afternoon until another trumpet blew. It was Hector, offering a second truce, a second duel to make right the dishonor of Paris’ disappearance and the shooting of the arrow. He presented himself in his brother’s place, to any man who dared answer. Menelaus, Phoinix says, would have stepped forward again, but Agamemnon prevented him. He did not want to see his brother die against the strongest of the Trojans. The Greeks drew lots for who would fight with Hector. I imagine their tension, the silence before the helmet is shaken and the lot jumps out. Odysseus bends to the dusty earth to retrieve it. Ajax. There is collective relief: he is the only man who has a chance against the Trojan prince. The only man, that is, who fights today. So Ajax and Hector fight, heaving stones at each other, and spears that shatter shields, until night falls and the heralds call an end. It is strangely civilized: the two armies part in peace, Hector and Ajax shaking hands as equals. The soldiers whisper—it would not have ended so if Achilles were here. Discharged of his news, Phoinix gets wearily to his feet and limps on the arm of Automedon back to his tent. Achilles turns to me. He is breathing quickly, the tips of his ears pinking with excitement. He seizes my hand and crows to me of the day’s events, of how his name was on everyone’s lips, of the power of his absence, big as a Cyclops, walking heavily amongst the soldiers. The excitement of the day has flared through him, like flame in dry grass. For the first time, he dreams of killing: the stroke of glory, his inevitable spear through Hector’s heart. My skin prickles to hear him say so. “Do you see?” he says. “It is the beginning!” I cannot escape the feeling that, below the surface, something is breaking. THERE IS A TRUMPET the next morning at dawn. We rise, and climb the hill to see an army of horsemen riding for Troy from the East. Their horses are large and move with unnatural speed, drawing light-wheeled chariots behind them. At their head sits a huge man, larger even than Ajax. He wears his black hair long, like the Spartans do, oiled and swinging down his back. He carries a standard in the shape of a horse’s head. Phoinix has joined us. “The Lycians,” he says. They are Anatolians, long allies of Troy. It has been a source of much wonder that they have not yet come to join the war. But now, as if summoned by Zeus himself, they are here. “Who is that?” Achilles points to the giant, their leader. “Sarpedon. A son of Zeus.” The sun gleams off the man’s shoulders, sweat-slick from the ride; his skin is dark gold. The gates open, and the Trojans pour out to meet their allies. Hector and Sarpedon clasp hands, then lead their troops into the field. The Lycian weapons are strange: saw-toothed javelins and things that look like giant fishhooks, for ripping into flesh. All that day we hear their battle cries and the pounding hooves of their cavalry. There is a steady stream of Greek wounded into Machaon’s tent. Phoinix goes to the evening’s council, the only member of our camp not in disgrace. When he returns, he looks sharply at Achilles. “Idomeneus is wounded, and the Lycians broke the left flank. Sarpedon and Hector will crush us between them.” Achilles does not notice Phoinix’s disapproval. He turns to me in triumph. “Do you hear that?” “I hear it,” I say. A day passes, and another. Rumors come thick as biting flies: tales of the Trojan army driving forward, unstoppable and bold in Achilles’ absence. Of frantic councils, where our kings argue over desperate strategy: night raids, spies, ambushes. And then more, Hector ablaze in battle, burning through Greeks like a brush fire, and every day more dead than the day before. Finally: panicked runners, bringing news of retreats and wounds among the kings. Achilles fingers this gossip, turning it this way and that. “It will not be long now,” he says. The funeral pyres burn through the night, their greasy smoke smeared across the moon. I try not to think how every one is a man I know. Knew. ACHILLES IS PLAYING the lyre when they arrive. There are three of them— Phoinix first, and behind him Odysseus and Ajax. I am sitting beside Achilles as they come; farther off is Automedon, carving the meat for supper. Achilles’ head is lifted as he sings, his voice clear and sweet. I straighten, and my hand leaves his foot where it has been resting. The trio approach us and stand on the other side of the fire, waiting for Achilles to finish. He puts down his lyre and rises. “Welcome. You will stay for dinner, I hope?” He clasps their hands warmly, smiling through their stiffness. I know why they have come. “I must see to the meal,” I mumble. I feel Odysseus’ eyes on my back as I go. The strips of lamb drip and sear on the brazier’s grill. Through the haze of smoke I watch them, seated around the fire as if they are friends. I cannot hear their words, but Achilles is smiling still, pushing past their grimness, pretending he does not see it. Then he calls for me, and I cannot stall any longer. Dutifully I bring the platters and take my seat beside him. He is making desultory conversation of battles and helmets. While he talks he serves the meal, a fussing host who gives seconds to everyone and thirds to Ajax. They eat and let him talk. When they are finished, they wipe their mouths and put aside their plates. Everyone seems to know it is time. It is Odysseus, of course, who begins. He talks first of things, casual words that he drops into our laps, one at a time. A list really. Twelve swift horses, and seven bronze tripods, and seven pretty girls, ten bars of gold, twenty cauldrons, and more—bowls, and goblets, and armor, and at last, the final gem held before us: Briseis’ return. He smiles and spreads his hands with a guileless shrug I recognize from Scyros, from Aulis, and now from Troy. Then a second list, almost as long as the first: the endless names of Greek dead. Achilles’ jaw grows hard as Odysseus draws forth tablet after tablet, crammed to the margin with marks. Ajax looks down at his hands, scabbed from the splintering of shields and spears. Then Odysseus tells us news that we do not know yet, that the Trojans are less than a thousand paces from our wall, encamped on newly won plain we could not take back before dusk. Would we like proof? We can probably see their watch-fires from the hill just beyond our camp. They will attack at dawn. There is silence, a long moment of it, before Achilles speaks. “No,” he says, shoving back treasure and guilt. His honor is not such a trifle that it can be returned in a night embassy, in a handful huddled around a campfire. It was taken before the entire host, witnessed by every last man. The king of Ithaca pokes the fire that sits between them. “She has not been harmed, you know. Briseis. God knows where Agamemnon found the restraint, but she is well kept and whole. She, and your honor, wait only for you to reclaim them.” “You make it sound as if I have abandoned my honor,” Achilles says, his voice tart as raw wine. “Is that what you spin? Are you Agamemnon’s spider, catching flies with that tale?” “Very poetic,” Odysseus says. “But tomorrow will not be a bard’s song. Tomorrow, the Trojans will break through the wall and burn the ships. Will you stand by and do nothing?” “That depends on Agamemnon. If he makes right the wrong he has done me, I will chase the Trojans to Persia, if you like.” “Tell me,” Odysseus asks, “why is Hector not dead?” He holds up a hand. “I do not seek an answer, I merely repeat what all the men wish to know. In the last ten years, you could have killed him a thousand times over. Yet you have not. It makes a man wonder.” His tone tells us that he does not wonder. That he knows of the prophecy. I am glad that there is only Ajax with him, who will not understand the exchange. “You have eked out ten more years of life, and I am glad for you. But the rest of us—” His mouth twists. “The rest of us are forced to wait for your leisure. You are holding us here, Achilles. You were given a choice and you chose. You must live by it now.” We stare at him. But he is not finished yet. “You have made a fair run of blocking fate’s path. But you cannot do it forever. The gods will not let you.” He pauses, to let us hear each word of what he says. “The thread will run smooth, whether you choose it or not. I tell you as a friend, it is better to seek it on your own terms, to make it go at your pace, than theirs.” “That is what I am doing.” “Very well,” Odysseus says. “I have said what I came to say.” Achilles stands. “Then it is time for you to leave.” “Not yet.” It is Phoinix. “I, too, have something I wish to say.” Slowly, caught between his pride and his respect for the old man, Achilles sits. Phoenix begins. “When you were a boy, Achilles, your father gave you to me to raise. Your mother was long gone, and I was the only nurse you would have, cutting your meat and teaching you myself. Now you are a man, and still I strive to watch over you, to keep you safe, from spear, and sword, and folly.” My eyes lift to Achilles, and I see that he is tensed, wary. I understand what he fears—being played upon by the gentleness of this old man, being convinced by his words to give something up. Worse, a sudden doubt—that perhaps, if Phoinix agrees with these men, he is wrong. The old man holds up a hand, as if to stop the spin of such thoughts. “Whatever you do, I will stand with you, as I always have. But before you decide your course, there is a story you should hear.” He does not give Achilles time to object. “In the days of your father’s father, there was a young hero Meleager, whose town of Calydon was besieged by a fierce people called the Curetes.” I know this story, I think. I heard Peleus tell it, long ago, while Achilles grinned at me from the shadows. There was no blood on his hands then, and no death sentence on his head. Another life. “In the beginning the Curetes were losing, worn down by Meleager’s skill in war,” Phoinix continues. “Then one day there was an insult, a slight to his honor by his own people, and Meleager refused to fight any further on his city’s behalf. The people offered him gifts and apologies, but he would not hear them. He stormed off to his room to lie with his wife, Cleopatra, and be comforted.” When he speaks her name, Phoinix’s eyes flicker to me. “At last, when her city was falling and her friends dying, Cleopatra could bear it no longer. She went to beg her husband to fight again. He loved her above all things and so agreed, and won a mighty victory for his people. But though he had saved them, he came too late. Too many lives had been lost to his pride. And so they gave him no gratitude, no gifts. Only their hatred for not having spared them sooner.” In the silence, I can hear Phoinix’s breaths, labored with the exertion of speaking so long. I do not dare to speak or move; I am afraid that someone will see the thought that is plain on my face. It was not honor that made Meleager fight, or his friends, or victory, or revenge, or even his own life. It was Cleopatra, on her knees before him, her face streaked with tears. Here is Phoinix’s craft: Cleopatra, Patroclus. Her name built from the same pieces as mine, only reversed. If Achilles noticed, he does not show it. His voice is gentle for the old man’s sake, but still he refuses. Not until Agamemnon gives back the honor he has taken from me. Even in the darkness I can see that Odysseus is not surprised. I can almost hear his report to the others, his hands spread in regret: I tried. If Achilles had agreed, all to the good. If he did not, his refusal in the face of prizes and apologies would only seem like madness, like fury or unreasonable pride. They will hate him, just as they hated Meleager. My chest tightens in panic, in a quick desire to kneel before him and beg. But I do not. For like Phoinix I am declared already, decided. I am no longer to guide the course, merely to be carried, into darkness and beyond, with only Achilles’ hands at the helm. Ajax does not have Odysseus’ equanimity—he glares, his face carved with anger. It has cost him much to be here, to beg for his own demotion. With Achilles not fighting, he is Aristos Achaion. When they are gone, I stand and give my arm to Phoinix. He is tired tonight, I can see, and his steps are slow. By the time I leave him—old bones sighing onto his pallet—and return to our tent, Achilles is already asleep. I am disappointed. I had hoped, perhaps, for conversation, for two bodies in one bed, for reassurance that the Achilles I saw at dinner was not the only one. But I do not rouse him; I slip from the tent and leave him to dream. I CROUCH IN LOOSE SAND, in the shadow of a small tent. “Briseis?” I call softly. There is a silence, then I hear: “Patroclus?” “Yes.” She tugs up the side of the tent and pulls me quickly inside. Her face is pinched with fear. “It is too dangerous for you to be here. Agamemnon is in a rage. He will kill you.” Her words are a rushing whisper. “Because Achilles refused the embassy?” I whisper back. She nods, and in a swift motion snuffs out the tent’s small lamp. “Agamemnon comes often to look in on me. You are not safe here.” In the darkness I cannot see the worry on her face, but her voice is filled with it. “You must go.” “I will be quick. I have to speak with you.” “Then we must hide you. He comes without warning.” “Where?” The tent is small, bare of everything but pallet, pillows and blankets, and a few clothes. “The bed.” She piles cushions around me and heaps blankets. She lies down beside me, pulling the cover over us both. I am surrounded by her scent, familiar and warm. I press my mouth to her ear, speaking barely louder than a breath. “Odysseus says that tomorrow the Trojans will break the wall and storm the camp. We must find a place to hide you. Among the Myrmidons or in the forest.” I feel her cheek moving against mine as she shakes her head. “I cannot. That is the first place he will look. It will only make more trouble. I will be all right here.” “But what if they take the camp?” “I will surrender to Aeneas, Hector’s cousin, if I can. He is known to be a pious man, and his father lived as a shepherd for a time near my village. If I cannot, I will find Hector or any of the sons of Priam.” I am shaking my head. “It is too dangerous. You must not expose yourself.” “I do not think they will hurt me. I am one of them, after all.” I feel suddenly foolish. The Trojans are liberators to her, not invaders. “Of course,” I say quickly. “You will be free, then. You will want to be with your—” “Briseis!” The tent flap is drawn backwards, and Agamemnon stands in the doorway. “Yes?” She sits up, careful to keep the blanket over me. “Were you speaking?” “Praying, my lord.” “Lying down?” Through the thick weave of wool I can see the glow of torchlight. His voice is loud, as if he is standing beside us. I will myself not to move. She will be punished if I am caught here. “It is how my mother taught me, my lord. Is it not right?” “You should have been taught better by now. Did not the godling correct you?” “No, my lord.” “I offered you back to him tonight, but he did not want you.” I can hear the ugly twist in his words. “If he keeps saying no, perhaps I will claim you for myself.” My fists clench. But Briseis only says, “Yes, my lord.” I hear the fall of cloth, and the light disappears. I do not move, nor breathe until Briseis returns beneath the covers. “You cannot stay here,” I say. “It is all right. He only threatens. He likes to see me afraid.” The matter-of-factness in her tone horrifies me. How can I leave her to this, the leering, and lonely tent, and bracelets thick as manacles? But if I stay, she is in greater danger. “I must go,” I say. “Wait.” She touches my arm. “The men—” She hesitates. “They are angry with Achilles. They blame him for their losses. Agamemnon sends his people among them to stir up talk. They have almost forgotten about the plague. The longer he does not fight, the more they will hate him.” It is my worst fear, Phoinix’s story come to life. “Will he not fight?” “Not until Agamemnon apologizes.” She bites her lip. “The Trojans, too. There is no one that they fear more, or hate more. They will kill him if they can tomorrow, and all who are dear to him. You must be careful.” “He will protect me.” “I know he will,” she says, “as long as he lives. But even Achilles may not be able to fight Hector and Sarpedon both.” She hesitates again. “If the camp falls, I will claim you as my husband. It may help some. You must not speak of what you were to him, though. It will be a death sentence.” Her hand has tightened on my arm. “Promise me.” “Briseis,” I say, “if he is dead, I will not be far behind.” She presses my hand to her cheek. “Then promise me something else,” she says. “Promise me that whatever happens, you will not leave Troy without me. I know that you cannot—” She breaks off. “I would rather live as your sister than remain here.” “That is nothing that you have to bind me to,” I say. “I would not leave you, if you wished to come. It grieved me beyond measure to think of the war ending tomorrow, and never seeing you again.” The smile is thick in her throat. “I am glad.” I do not say that I do not think I will ever leave Troy. I draw her to me, fill my arms with her. She lays her head upon my chest. For a moment we do not think of Agamemnon and danger and dying Greeks. There is only her small hand on my stomach, and the softness of her cheek as I stroke it. It is strange how well she fits there. How easily I touch my lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little, nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. I would marry her, and we would have a child. Perhaps if I had never known Achilles. “I should go,” I say. She draws down the blanket, releasing me into the air. She cups my face in her hands. “Be careful tomorrow,” she says. “Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons.” She places her fingers to my lips, stopping my objection. “It is truth,” she says. “Let it stand, for once.” Then she leads me to the side of her tent, helps me slip beneath the canvas. The last thing I feel is her hand, squeezing mine in farewell. THAT NIGHT I LIE IN BED beside Achilles. His face is innocent, sleepsmoothed and sweetly boyish. I love to see it. This is his truest self, earnest and guileless, full of mischief but without malice. He is lost in Agamemnon and Odysseus’ wily double meanings, their lies and games of power. They have confounded him, tied him to a stake and baited him. I stroke the soft skin of his forehead. I would untie him if I could. If he would let me. Chapter Twenty-Nine WE WAKE TO SHOUTS AND THUNDER, A STORM THAT has burst from the blue of the sky. There is no rain, only the gray air, crackling and dry, and jagged streaks that strike like the clap of giant hands. We hurry to the tent door to look out. Smoke, acrid and dark, is drifting up the beach towards us, carrying the smell of lightning-detonated earth. The attack has begun, and Zeus is keeping his bargain, punctuating the Trojans’ advance with celestial encouragement. We feel a pounding, deep in the ground—a charge of chariots, perhaps, led by huge Sarpedon. Achilles’ hand grips mine, his face stilled. This is the first time in ten years that the Trojans have ever threatened the gate, have ever pushed so far across the plain. If they break through the wall, they will burn the ships— our only way of getting home, the only thing that makes us an army instead of refugees. This is the moment that Achilles and his mother have summoned: the Greeks, routed and desperate, without him. The sudden, incontrovertible proof of his worth. But when will it be enough? When will he intervene? “Never,” he says, when I ask him. “Never until Agamemnon begs my forgiveness or Hector himself walks into my camp and threatens what is dear to me. I have sworn I will not.” “What if Agamemnon is dead?” “Bring me his body, and I will fight.” His face is carved and unmovable, like the statue of a stern god. “Do you not fear that the men will hate you?” “They should hate Agamemnon. It is his pride that kills them.” And yours. But I know the look on his face, the dark recklessness of his eyes. He will not yield. He does not know how. I have lived eighteen years with him, and he has never backed down, never lost. What will happen if he is forced to? I am afraid for him, and for me, and for all of us. We dress and eat, and Achilles speaks bravely of the future. He talks of tomorrow, when perhaps we will swim, or scramble up the bare trunks of sticky cypresses, or watch for the hatching of the sea-turtle eggs, even now incubating beneath the sun-warmed sand. But my mind keeps slipping from his words, dragged downwards by the seeping gray of the sky, by the sand chilled and pallid as a corpse, and the distant, dying shrieks of men whom I know. How many more by day’s end? I watch him staring over the ocean. It is unnaturally still, as if Thetis is holding her breath. His eyes are dark and dilated by the dim overcast of the morning. The flame of his hair licks against his forehead. “Who is that?” he asks, suddenly. Down the beach, a distant figure is being carried on a stretcher to the white tent. Someone important; there is a crowd around him. I seize on the excuse for motion, distraction. “I will go see.” Outside the remove of our camp, the sounds of battle grow louder: piercing screams of horses impaled on the stakes of the trench, the desperate shouts of the commanders, the clangor of metal on metal. Podalerius shoulders past me into the white tent. The air is thick with the smell of herbs and blood, fear and sweat. Nestor looms up at me from my right, his hand clamping around my shoulder, chilling through my tunic. He screeches, “We are lost! The wall is breaking!” Behind him Machaon lies panting on a pallet, his leg a spreading pool of blood from the ragged prick of an arrow. Podalerius is bent over him, already working. Machaon sees me. “Patroclus,” he says, gasping a little. I go to him. “Will you be all right?” “Cannot tell yet. I think—” He breaks off, his eyes squeezed shut. “Do not talk to him,” Podalerius says, sharply. His hands are covered in his brother’s blood. Nestor’s voice rushes onward, listing woe after woe: the wall splintering, and the ships in danger, and so many wounded kings—Diomedes, Agamemnon, Odysseus, strewn about the camp like crumpled tunics. Machaon’s eyes open. “Can you not speak to Achilles?” he says, hoarsely. “Please. For all of us.” “Yes! Phthia must come to our aid, or we are lost!” Nestor’s fingers dig into my flesh, and my face is damp with the panicked spray of his lips. My eyes close. I am remembering Phoinix’s story, the image of the Calydonians kneeling before Cleopatra, covering her hands and feet with their tears. In my imagination she does not look at them, only lends them her hands as if perhaps they were cloths to wipe their streaming eyes. She is watching her husband Meleager for his answer, the set of his mouth that tells her what she must say: “No.” I yank myself from the old man’s clinging fingers. I am desperate to escape the sour smell of fear that has settled like ash over everything. I turn from Machaon’s pain-twisted face and the old man’s outstretched hands and flee from the tent. As I step outside there is a terrible cracking, like a ship’s hull tearing apart, like a giant tree smashing to earth. The wall. Screams follow, of triumph and terror. All around me are men carrying fallen comrades, limping on makeshift crutches, or crawling through the sand, dragging broken limbs behind them. I know them—their torsos full of scars my ointments have packed and sealed. Their flesh that my fingers have cleaned of iron and bronze and blood. Their faces that have joked, thanked, grimaced as I worked over them. Now these men are ruined again, pulpy with blood and split bone. Because of him. Because of me. Ahead of me, a young man struggles to stand on an arrow-pierced leg. Eurypylus, prince of Thessaly. I do not stop to think. I wind my arm under his shoulder and carry him to his tent. He is half-delirious with pain, but he knows me. “Patroclus,” he manages. I kneel before him, his leg in my hands. “Eurypylus,” I say. “Can you speak?” “Fucking Paris,” he says. “My leg.” The flesh is swollen and torn. I seize my dagger and begin to work. He grits his teeth. “I don’t know who I hate more, the Trojans or Achilles. Sarpedon tore the wall apart with his bare hands. Ajax held them off as long as he could. They’re here now,” he says, panting. “In the camp.” My chest clutches in panic at his words, and I fight the urge to bolt. I try to focus on what is before me: easing the arrow point from his leg, binding the wound. “Hurry,” he says, the word slurring. “I have to go back. They’ll burn the ships.” “You cannot go out again,” I say. “You have lost too much blood.” “No,” he says. But his head slumps backwards; he is on the edge of unconsciousness. He will live, or not, by the will of the gods. I have done all I can. I take a breath and step outside. Two ships are on fire, the long fingers of their masts lit by Trojan torches. Pressed against the hulls is a crush of men, screaming, desperate, leaping to the decks to beat at the flames. The only one I can recognize is Ajax, legs widespread on Agamemnon’s prow, a massive shadow outlined against the sky. He ignores the fire, his spear stabbing downwards at the Trojan hands that swarm like feeding fish. As I stand there, frozen and staring, I see a sudden hand, reaching above the melee to grip the sharp nose of a ship. And then the arm beneath it, sure and strong and dark, and the head, and the wide-shouldered torso breaks to air like dolphin-back from the boiling men beneath. And now Hector’s whole brown body twists alone before the blankness of sea and sky, hung between air and earth. His face is smoothed, at peace, his eyes lifted—a man in prayer, a man seeking god. He hangs there a moment, the muscles in his arm knotted and flexed, his armor lifting on his shoulders, showing hip bones like the carved cornice of a temple. Then his other hand swings a bright torch towards the ship’s wooden deck. It is well thrown, landing amid old, rotting ropes and fallen sail. The flames catch immediately, skittering along the rope, then kindling the wood beneath. Hector smiles. And why should he not? He is winning. Ajax screams in frustration—at another ship in flames, at the men that leap in panic from the charring decks, at Hector slithering out of reach, vanishing back into the crowd below. His strength is all that keeps the men from utterly breaking. And then a spear point flashes up from beneath, silver as fish-scale in sunlight. It flickers, almost too fast to see, and suddenly Ajax’s thigh blooms bright-red. I have worked long enough in Machaon’s tent to know that it has sliced through muscle. His knees waver a moment, buckling slowly. He falls. Chapter Thirty ACHILLES WATCHED ME APPROACH, RUNNING SO HARD my breaths carried the taste of blood onto my tongue. I wept, my chest shaking, my throat rubbed raw. He would be hated now. No one would remember his glory, or his honesty, or his beauty; all his gold would be turned to ashes and ruin. “What has happened?” he asked. His brow was drawn deep in concern. Did he truly not know? “They are dying,” I choked out. “All of them. The Trojans are in the camp; they are burning the ships. Ajax is wounded, there is no one left but you to save them.” His face had gone cold as I spoke. “If they are dying, it is Agamemnon’s fault. I told him what would happen if he took my honor.” “Last night he offered—” He made a noise in his throat. “He offered nothing. Some tripods, some armor. Nothing to make right his insult, or to admit his wrong. I have saved him time and again, his army, his life.” His voice was thick with barely restrained anger. “Odysseus may lick his boots, and Diomedes, and all the rest, but I will not.” “He is a disgrace.” I clutched at him, like a child. “I know it, and all the men know it too. You must forget him. It is as you said; he will doom himself. But do not blame them for his fault. Do not let them die, because of his madness. They have loved you, and honored you.” “Honored me? Not one of them stood with me against Agamemnon. Not one of them spoke for me.” The bitterness in his tone shocked me. “They stood by and let him insult me. As if he were right! I toiled for them for ten years, and their repayment is to discard me.” His eyes had gone dark and distant. “They have made their choice. I shed no tears for them.” From down the beach the crack of a mast falling. The smoke was thicker now. More ships on fire. More men dead. They would be cursing him, damning him to the darkest chains of our underworld. “They were foolish, yes, but they are still our people!” “The Myrmidons are our people. The rest can save themselves.” He would have walked away, but I held him to me. “You are destroying yourself. You will not be loved for this, you will be hated, and cursed. Please, if you—” “Patroclus.” The word was sharp, as he had never spoken it. His eyes bore down on me, his voice like the judge’s sentence. “I will not do this. Do not ask again.” I stared at him, straight as a spear stabbing the sky. I could not find the words that would reach him. Perhaps there were none. The gray sand, the gray sky, and my mouth, parched and bare. It felt like the end of all things. He would not fight. The men would die, and his honor with it. No mitigation, no mercy. Yet, still, my mind scrabbled in its corners, desperate, hoping to find the thing that might soften him. I knelt, and pressed his hands to my face. My cheeks flowed with tears unending, like water over dark rock. “For me then,” I said. “Save them for me. I know what I am asking of you. But I ask it. For me.” He looked down at me, and I saw the pull my words had on him, the struggle in his eyes. He swallowed. “Anything else,” he said. “Anything. But not this. I cannot.” I looked at the stone of his beautiful face, and despaired. “If you love me —” “No!” His face was stiff with tension. “I cannot! If I yield, Agamemnon can dishonor me whenever he wishes. The kings will not respect me, nor the men!” He was breathless, as though he had run far. “Do you think I wish them all to die? But I cannot. I cannot! I will not let him take this from me!” “Then do something else. Send the Myrmidons at least. Send me in your place. Put me in your armor, and I will lead the Myrmidons. They will think it is you.” The words shocked us both. They seemed to come through me, not from me, as though spoken straight from a god’s mouth. Yet I seized on them, as a drowning man. “Do you see? You will not have to break your oath, yet the Greeks will be saved.” He stared at me. “But you cannot fight,” he said. “I will not have to! They are so frightened of you, if I show myself, they will run.” “No,” he said. “It is too dangerous.” “Please.” I gripped him. “It isn’t. I will be all right. I won’t go near them. Automedon will be with me, and the rest of the Myrmidons. If you cannot fight, you cannot. But save them this way. Let me do this. You said you would grant me anything else.” “But—” I did not let him answer. “Think! Agamemnon will know you defy him still, but the men will love you. There is no fame greater than this—you will prove to them all that your phantom is more powerful than Agamemnon’s whole army.” He was listening. “It will be your mighty name that saves them, not your spear arm. They will laugh at Agamemnon’s weakness, then. Do you see?” I watched his eyes, saw the reluctance giving way, inch by inch. He was imagining it, the Trojans fleeing from his armor, outflanking Agamemnon. The men, falling at his feet in gratitude. He held up his hand. “Swear to me,” he said. “Swear to me that if you go, you will not fight them. You will stay with Automedon in the chariot and let the Myrmidons go in front of you.” “Yes.” I pressed my hand to his. “Of course. I am not mad. To frighten them, that is all.” I was drenched and giddy. I had found a way through the endless corridors of his pride and fury. I would save the men; I would save him from himself. “You will let me?” He hesitated another moment, his green eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, he nodded. ACHILLES KNELT, buckling me in, his fingers so swift that I could not follow them, only feel the quick, pulling cinches of tightening belts. Bit by bit, he assembled me: the bronze breastplate and greaves, tight against my skin, the leather underskirt. As he worked, he instructed me in a voice that was low and quick and constant. I must not fight, I must not leave Automedon, nor the other Myrmidons. I was to stay in the chariot and flee at the first sign of danger; I could chase the Trojans back to Troy but not try to fight them there. And most of all, most of all, I must stay away from the walls of the city and the archers that perched there, ready to pick off Greeks who came too close. “It will not be like before,” he said. “When I am there.” “I know.” I shifted my shoulders. The armor was stiff and heavy and unyielding. “I feel like Daphne,” I told him, barked up in her new laurel skin. He did not laugh, only handed me two spears, points polished and gleaming. I took them, the blood beginning to rush in my ears. He was speaking again, more advice, but I did not hear it. I was listening to the drumbeat of my own impatient heart. “Hurry,” I remember saying. Last, the helmet to cover my dark hair. He turned a polished bronze mirror towards me. I stared at myself in armor I knew as well as my own hands, the crest on the helmet, the silvered sword hanging from the waist, the baldric of hammered gold. All of it unmistakable, and instantly recognizable. Only my eyes felt like my own, larger and darker than his. He kissed me, catching me up in a soft, opened warmth that breathed sweetness into my throat. Then he took my hand and we went outside to the Myrmidons. They were lined up, armored and suddenly fearsome, their layers of metal flashing like the bright wings of cicadas. Achilles led me to the chariot already yoked to its three-horse team—don’t leave the chariot, don’t throw your spears—and I understood that he was afraid that I would give myself away if I actually fought. “I will be all right,” I told him. And turned my back, to fit myself into the chariot, to settle my spears and set my feet. Behind me, he spoke a moment to the Myrmidons, waving a hand over his shoulder at the smoking decks of ships, the black ash that swarmed upwards to the sky, and the roiling mass of bodies that tussled at their hulls. “Bring him back to me,” he told them. They nodded and clattered their spears on their shields in approval. Automedon stepped in front of me, taking the reins. We all knew why the chariot was necessary. If I ran down the beach, my steps would never be mistaken for his. The horses snorted and blew, feeling their charioteer behind them. The wheels gave a little lurch, and I staggered, my spears rattling. “Balance them,” he told me. “It will be easier.” Everyone waited as I awkwardly transferred one spear to my left hand, swiping my helmet askew as I did so. I reached up to fix it. “I will be fine,” I told him. Myself. “Are you ready?” Automedon asked. I took a last look at Achilles, standing by the side of the chariot, almost forlorn. I reached for his hand, and he gripped it. “Be careful,” he said. “I will.” There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that. He let go of my hand. I turned back to Automedon. “I’m ready,” I told him. The chariot began to roll, Automedon guiding it towards the packed sand nearer the surf. I felt when we reached it, the wheels catching, the car smoothing out. We turned towards the ships, picking up speed. I felt the wind snatch at my crest, and I knew that the horsehair was streaming behind me. I lifted my spears. Automedon crouched down low so that I would be seen first. Sand flew from our churning wheels, and the Myrmidons clattered behind us. My breaths had begun to come in gasps, and I gripped the spear-shafts till my fingers hurt. We flew past the empty tents of Idomeneus and Diomedes, around the beach’s curve. And, finally, the first clumps of men. Their faces blurred by, but I heard their shouts of recognition and sudden joy. “Achilles! It is Achilles!” I felt a fierce and flooding relief. It is working. Now, two hundred paces away, rushing towards me, were the ships and the armies, heads turning at the noise of our wheels and the Myrmidon feet beating in unison against the sand. I took a breath and squared my shoulders inside the grip of my—his—armor. And then, head tilted back, spear raised, feet braced against the sides of the chariot, praying that we would not hit a bump that would throw me, I screamed, a wild frenzied sound that shook my whole body. A thousand faces, Trojan and Greek, turned to me in frozen shock and joy. With a crash, we were among them. I screamed again, his name boiling up out of my throat, and heard an answering cry from the embattled Greeks, an animal howl of hope. The Trojans began to break apart before me, scrambling backwards with gratifying terror. I bared my teeth in triumph, blood flooding my veins, the fierceness of my pleasure as I saw them run. But the Trojans were brave men, and not all of them ran. My hand lifted, hefting my spear in threat. Perhaps it was the armor, molding me. Perhaps it was the years of watching him. But the position my shoulder found was not the old wobbling awkwardness. It was higher, stronger, a perfect balance. And then, before I could think about what I did, I threw—a long straight spiral into the breast of a Trojan. The torch that he had been waving at Idomeneus’ ship slipped and guttered in the sand as his body pitched backwards. If he bled, if his skull split to show his brain, I did not see it. Dead, I thought. Automedon’s mouth was moving, his eyes wide. Achilles does not want you to fight, I guessed he was saying. But already my other spear hefted itself into my hand. I can do this. The horses veered again, and men scattered from our path. That feeling again, of pure balance, of the world poised and waiting. My eye caught on a Trojan, and I threw, feeling the swipe of wood against my thumb. He fell, pierced through the thigh in a blow I knew had shattered bone. Two. All around me men screamed Achilles’ name. I gripped Automedon’s shoulder. “Another spear.” He hesitated a moment, then pulled on the reins, slowing so I could lean over the side of the rattling chariot to claim one stuck in a body. The shaft seemed to leap into my hand. My eyes were already searching for the next face. The Greeks began to rally—Menelaus killing a man beside me, one of Nestor’s sons banging his spear against my chariot as if for luck before he threw at a Trojan prince’s head. Desperately, the Trojans scrambled for their chariots, in full retreat. Hector ran among them, crying out for order. He gained his chariot, began to lead the men to the gate, and then over the narrow causeway that bridged the trench, and onto the plain beyond. “Go! Follow them!” Automedon’s face was full of reluctance, but he obeyed, turning the horses in pursuit. I grabbed more spears from bodies— half-dragging a few corpses behind me before I could jerk the points free—and chased the Trojan chariots now choking the door. I saw their drivers looking back fearfully, frantically, at Achilles reborn phoenix-like from his sulking rage. Not all the horses were as nimble as Hector’s, and many panicked chariots skidded off the causeway to founder in the trench, leaving their drivers to flee on foot. We followed, Achilles’ godlike horses racing with their legs outflung into the palm of the air. I might have stopped then, with the Trojans scattering back to their city. But there was a line of rallied Greeks behind me screaming my name. His name. I did not stop. I pointed, and Automedon swept the horses out in an arc, lashing them onward. We passed the fleeing Trojans and curved around to meet them as they ran. My spears aimed, and aimed again, splitting open bellies and throats, lungs and hearts. I am relentless, unerring, skirting buckles and bronze to tear flesh that spills red like the jagged puncture of a wineskin. From my days in the white tent I know every frailty they have. It is so easy. From the roiling melee bursts a chariot. The driver is huge, his long hair flying behind as he lashes his horses to foam and froth. His dark eyes are fixed on me, his mouth twisted in rage. His armor fits him like the skin fits the seal. It is Sarpedon. His arm lifts, to aim his spear at my heart. Automedon screams something, yanks at the reins. There is a breath of wind over my shoulder. The spear’s sharp point buries itself in the ground behind me. Sarpedon shouts, curse or challenge I do not know. I heft my spear, as if in a dream. This is the man who has killed so many Greeks. It was his hands that tore open the gate. “No!” Automedon catches at my arm. With his other hand he lashes the horses, and we tear up the field. Sarpedon turns his chariot, angling it away, and for a moment I think he has given up. Then he angles in again and lifts his spear. The world explodes. The chariot bucks into the air, and the horses scream. I am thrown onto the grass, and my head smacks the ground. My helmet falls forward into my eyes, and I shove it back. I see our horses, tangled in each other; one has fallen, pierced with a spear. I do not see Automedon. From afar Sarpedon comes, his chariot driving relentlessly towards me. There is no time to flee; I stand to meet him. I lift my spear, gripping it as though it is a snake I will strangle. I imagine how Achilles would do it, feet planted to earth, back muscles twisting. He would see a gap in that impenetrable armor, or he would make one. But I am not Achilles. What I see is something else, my only chance. They are almost upon me. I cast the spear. It hits his belly, where the armor plate is thick. But the ground is uneven, and I have thrown it with all of my strength. It does not pierce him, but it knocks him back a single step. It is enough. His weight tilts the chariot, and he tumbles from it. The horses plunge past me and leave him behind, motionless on the ground. I clutch my sword-hilt, terrified that he will rise and kill me; then I see the unnatural, broken angle of his neck. I have killed a son of Zeus, but it is not enough. They must think it is Achilles who has done it. The dust has already settled on Sarpedon’s long hair, like pollen on the underside of a bee. I retrieve my spear and stab it down with all my strength into his chest. The blood spurts, but weakly. There is no heartbeat to push it forward. When I pull the spear out, it dislodges slowly, like a bulb from cracking earth. That is what they will think has killed him. I hear the shouts, men swarming towards me, in chariots and on foot. Lycians, who see the blood of their king on my spear. Automedon’s hand seizes my shoulder, and he drags me onto the chariot. He has cut the dead horse free, righted the wheels. He is gasping, white with fear. “We must go.” Automedon gives the eager horses their head, and we race across the fields from the pursuing Lycians. There is a wild, iron taste in my mouth. I do not even notice how close I have come to death. My head buzzes with a red savagery, blooming like the blood from Sarpedon’s chest. In our escape, Automedon has driven us close to Troy. The walls loom up at me, huge cut stones, supposedly settled by the hands of gods, and the gates, giant and black with old bronze. Achilles had warned me to beware of archers on the towers, but the charge and rout has happened so quickly, no one has returned yet. Troy is utterly unguarded. A child could take it now. The thought of Troy’s fall pierces me with vicious pleasure. They deserve to lose their city. It is their fault, all of it. We have lost ten years, and so many men, and Achilles will die, because of them. No more. I leap from the chariot and run to the walls. My fingers find slight hollows in the stone, like blind eye-sockets. Climb. My feet seek infinitesimal chips in the god-cut rocks. I am not graceful, but scrabbling, my hands clawing against the stone before they cling. Yet I am climbing. I will crack their uncrackable city, and capture Helen, the precious gold yolk within. I imagine dragging her out under my arm, dumping her before Menelaus. Done. No more men will have to die for her vanity. Patroclus. A voice like music, above me. I look up to see a man leaning on the walls as if sunning, dark hair to his shoulders, a quiver and bow slung casually around his torso. Startled, I slip a little, my knees scraping the rock. He is piercingly beautiful, smooth skin and a finely cut face that glows with something more than human. Black eyes. Apollo. He smiles, as if this was all he had wanted, my recognition. Then he reaches down, his arm impossibly spanning the long distance between my clinging form and his feet. I close my eyes and feel only this: a finger, hooking the back of my armor, plucking me off and dropping me below. I land heavily, my armor clattering. My mind blurs a little from the impact, from the frustration of finding the ground so suddenly beneath me. I thought I was climbing. But there is the wall before me, stubbornly unclimbed. I set my jaw and begin again; I will not let it defeat me. I am delirious, fevered with my dream of Helen captive in my arms. The stones are like dark waters that flow ceaselessly over something I have dropped, that I want back. I forget about the god, why I have fallen, why my feet stick in the same crevices I have already climbed. Perhaps this is all I do, I think, demented—climb walls and fall from them. And this time when I look up, the god is not smiling. Fingers scoop the fabric of my tunic and hold me, dangling. Then let me fall. MY HEAD CRACKS the ground again, leaving me stunned and breathless. Around me a blurring crowd of faces gathers. Have they come to help me? And then I feel: the prickling chill of air against my sweat-dampened forehead, the loosening of my dark hair, freed at last. My helmet. I see it beside me, overturned like an empty snail shell. My armor, too, has been shaken loose, all those straps that Achilles had tied, undone by the god. It falls from me, scattering the earth, the remnants of my split, spilt shell. The frozen silence is broken by the hoarse, angry screams of Trojans. My mind startles to life: I am unarmed and alone, and they know I am only Patroclus. Run. I lunge to my feet. A spear flashes out, just a breath too slow. It grazes the skin of my calf, marks it with a line of red. I twist away from a reaching hand, panic loose and banging in my chest. Through the haze of terror I see a man leveling a spear at my face. Somehow I am quick enough, and it passes over me, ruffling my hair like a lover’s breath. A spear stabs towards my knees, meant to trip me. I leap it, shocked I am not dead already. I have never been so fast in all my life. The spear that I do not see comes from behind. It pierces the skin of my back, breaks again to air beneath my ribs. I stumble, driven forward by the blow’s force, by the shock of tearing pain and the burning numbness in my belly. I feel a tug, and the spear point is gone. The blood gushes hot on my chilled skin. I think I scream. The Trojan faces waver, and I fall. My blood runs through my fingers and onto the grass. The crowd parts, and I see a man walking towards me. He seems to come from a great distance, to descend, somehow, as if I lay in the bottom of a deep ravine. I know him. Hip bones like the cornice of a temple, his brow furrowed and stern. He does not look at the men who surround him; he walks as if he were alone on the battlefield. He is coming to kill me. Hector. My breaths are shallow gasps that feel like new wounds tearing. Remembrance drums in me, like the pulse-beat of blood in my ears. He cannot kill me. He must not. Achilles will not let him live if he does. And Hector must live, always; he must never die, not even when he is old, not even when he is so withered that his bones slide beneath his skin like loose rocks in a stream. He must live, because his life, I think as I scrape backwards over the grass, is the final dam before Achilles’ own blood will flow. Desperately, I turn to the men around me and scrabble at their knees. Please, I croak. Please. But they will not look; they are watching their prince, Priam’s eldest son, and his inexorable steps towards me. My head jerks back, and I see that he is close now, his spear raised. The only sound I hear is my own heaving lungs, air pumped into my chest and pushed from it. Hector’s spear lifts over me, tipping like a pitcher. And then it falls, a spill of bright silver, towards me. No. My hands flurry in the air like startled birds, trying to halt the spear’s relentless movement towards my belly. But I am weak as a baby against Hector’s strength, and my palms give way, unspooling in ribbons of red. The spearhead submerges in a sear of pain so great that my breath stops, a boil of agony that bursts over my whole stomach. My head drops back against the ground, and the last image I see is of Hector, leaning seriously over me, twisting his spear inside me as if he is stirring a pot. The last thing I think is: Achilles. Chapter Thirty-One ACHILLES STANDS ON THE RIDGE WATCHING THE DARK shapes of battle moving across the field of Troy. He cannot make out faces or individual forms. The charge towards Troy looks like the tide coming in; the glint of swords and armor is fish-scale beneath the sun. The Greeks are routing the Trojans, as Patroclus had said. Soon he will return, and Agamemnon will kneel. They will be happy again. But he cannot feel it. There is a numbness in him. The writhing field is like a gorgon’s face, turning him slowly to stone. The snakes twist and twist before him, gathering into a dark knot at the base of Troy. A king has fallen, or a prince, and they are fighting for the body. Who? He shields his eyes, but no more is revealed. Patroclus will be able to tell him. HE SEES THE THING IN PIECES. Men, coming down the beach towards the camp. Odysseus, limping beside the other kings. Menelaus has something in his arms. A grass-stained foot hangs loose. Locks of tousled hair have slipped from the makeshift shroud. The numbness now is merciful. A last few moments of it. Then, the fall. He snatches for his sword to slash his throat. It is only when his hand comes up empty that he remembers: he gave the sword to me. Then Antilochus is seizing his wrists, and the men are all talking. All he can see is the bloodstained cloth. With a roar he throws Antilochus from him, knocks down Menelaus. He falls on the body. The knowledge rushes up in him, choking off breath. A scream comes, tearing its way out. And then another, and another. He seizes his hair in his hands and yanks it from his head. Golden strands fall onto the bloody corpse. Patroclus, he says, Patroclus. Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment. BRISEIS RUNS TOWARDS US, face contorted. She bends over the body, her lovely dark eyes spilling water warm as summer rain. She covers her face with her hands and wails. Achilles does not look at her. He does not even see her. He stands. “Who did this?” His voice is a terrible thing, cracked and broken. “Hector,” Menelaus says. Achilles seizes his giant ash spear, and tries to tear free from the arms that hold him. Odysseus grabs his shoulders. “Tomorrow,” he says. “He has gone inside the city. Tomorrow. Listen to me, Pelides. Tomorrow you can kill him. I swear it. Now you must eat, and rest.” ACHILLES WEEPS. He cradles me, and will not eat, nor speak a word other than my name. I see his face as if through water, as a fish sees the sun. His tears fall, but I cannot wipe them away. This is my element now, the halflife of the unburied spirit. His mother comes. I hear her, the sound of waves breaking on shore. If I disgusted her when I was alive, it is worse to find my corpse in her son’s arms. “He is dead,” she says, in her flat voice. “Hector is dead,” he says. “Tomorrow.” “You have no armor.” “I do not need any.” His teeth show; it is an effort to speak. She reaches, pale and cool, to take his hands from me. “He did it to himself,” she says. “Do not touch me!” She draws back, watching him cradle me in his arms. “I will bring you armor,” she says. IT GOES LIKE THIS, on and on, the tent flap opening, the tentative face. Phoinix, or Automedon, or Machaon. At last Odysseus. “Agamemnon has come to see you, and return the girl.” Achilles does not say, She has already returned. Perhaps he does not know. The two men face each other in the flickering firelight. Agamemnon clears his throat. “It is time to forget the division between us. I come to bring you the girl, Achilles, unharmed and well.” He pauses, as if expecting a rush of gratitude. There is only silence. “Truly, a god must have snatched our wits from us to set us so at odds. But that is over now, and we are allies once more.” This last is said loudly, for the benefit of the watching men. Achilles does not respond. He is imagining killing Hector. It is all that keeps him standing. Agamemnon hesitates. “Prince Achilles, I hear you will fight tomorrow?” “Yes.” The suddenness of his answer startles them. “Very good, that is very good.” Agamemnon waits another moment. “And you will fight after that, also?” “If you wish,” Achilles answers. “I do not care. I will be dead soon.” The watching men exchange glances. Agamemnon recovers. “Well. We are settled then.” He turns to go, stops. “I was sorry to hear of Patroclus’ death. He fought bravely today. Did you hear he killed Sarpedon?” Achilles’ eyes lift. They are bloodshot and dead. “I wish he had let you all die.” Agamemnon is too shocked to answer. Odysseus steps into the silence. “We will leave you to mourn, Prince Achilles.” BRISEIS IS KNEELING by my body. She has brought water and cloth, and washes the blood and dirt from my skin. Her hands are gentle, as though she washes a baby, not a dead thing. Achilles opens the tent, and their eyes meet over my body. “Get away from him,” he says. “I am almost finished. He does not deserve to lie in filth.” “I would not have your hands on him.” Her eyes are sharp with tears. “Do you think you are the only one who loved him?” “Get out. Get out!” “You care more for him in death than in life.” Her voice is bitter with grief. “How could you have let him go? You knew he could not fight!” Achilles screams, and shatters a serving bowl. “Get out!” Briseis does not flinch. “Kill me. It will not bring him back. He was worth ten of you. Ten! And you sent him to his death!” The sound that comes from him is hardly human. “I tried to stop him! I told him not to leave the beach!” “You are the one who made him go.” Briseis steps towards him. “He fought to save you, and your darling reputation. Because he could not bear to see you suffer!” Achilles buries his face in his hands. But she does not relent. “You have never deserved him. I do not know why he ever loved you. You care only for yourself!” Achilles’ gaze lifts to meet hers. She is afraid, but does not draw back. “I hope that Hector kills you.” The breath rasps in his throat. “Do you think I do not hope the same?” he asks. HE WEEPS as he lifts me onto our bed. My corpse sags; it is warm in the tent, and the smell will come soon. He does not seem to care. He holds me all night long, pressing my cold hands to his mouth. At dawn, his mother returns with a shield and sword and breastplate, newly minted from still-warm bronze. She watches him arm and does not try to speak to him. HE DOES NOT WAIT for the Myrmidons, or Automedon. He runs up the beach, past the Greeks who have come out to see. They grab their arms and follow. They do not want to miss it. “Hector!” he screams. “Hector!” He tears through the advancing Trojan ranks, shattering chests and faces, marking them with the meteor of his fury. He is gone before their bodies hit the ground. The grass, thinned from ten years of warfare, drinks the rich blood of princes and kings. Yet Hector eludes him, weaving through the chariots and men with the luck of the gods. No one calls it cowardice that he runs. He will not live if he is caught. He is wearing Achilles’ own armor, the unmistakable phoenix breastplate taken from beside my corpse. The men stare as the two pass: it looks, almost, as if Achilles is chasing himself. Chest heaving, Hector races towards Troy’s wide river, the Scamander. Its water glints a creamy gold, dyed by the stones in its riverbed, the yellow rock for which Troy is known. The waters are not golden now, but a muddied, churning red, choked with corpses and armor. Hector lunges into the waves and swims, arms cutting through the helmets and rolling bodies. He gains the other shore; Achilles leaps to follow. A figure rises from the river to bar his way. Filthy water sluices off the muscles of his shoulders, pours from his black beard. He is taller than the tallest mortal, and swollen with strength like creeks in spring. He loves Troy and its people. In summer, they pour wine for him as a sacrifice, and drop garlands to float upon his waters. Most pious of all is Hector, prince of Troy. Achilles’ face is spattered with blood. “You will not keep me from him.” The river god Scamander lifts a thick staff, large as a small tree-trunk. He does not need a blade; one strike with this would break bones, snap a neck. Achilles has only a sword. His spears are gone, buried in bodies. “Is it worth your life?” the god says. No. Please. But I have no voice to speak. Achilles steps into the river and lifts his sword. With hands as large as a man’s torso, the river god swings his staff. Achilles ducks and then rolls forward over the returning whistle of a second swing. He gains his feet and strikes, whipping towards the god’s unprotected chest. Easily, almost casually, the god twists away. The sword’s point passes harmlessly, as it has never done before. The god attacks. His swings force Achilles backwards over the debris lining the river. He uses his staff like a hammer; wide arcs of spray leap from where it smashes against the river’s surface. Achilles must spring away each time. The waters do not seem to drag at him as they might at another man. Achilles’ sword flashes faster than thought, but he cannot touch the god. Scamander catches every blow with his mighty staff, forcing him to be faster and then faster still. The god is old, old as the first melting of ice from the mountains, and he is wily. He has known every fight that was ever fought on these plains, and there is nothing new to him. Achilles begins to slow, worn out from the strain of holding back the god’s strength with only a thin edge of metal. Chips of wood fly as the weapons meet, but the staff is thick as one of Scamander’s legs; there is no hope that it will break. The god has begun to smile at how often now the man seeks to duck rather than meet his blows. Inexorably, he bears down. Achilles’ face is contorted with effort and focus. He is fighting at the edge, the very edge of his power. He is not, after all, a god. I see him gathering himself, preparing one final, desperate attack. He begins the pass, sword blurring towards the god’s head. For a fraction of a second, Scamander must lean back to avoid it. That is the moment Achilles needs. I see his muscles tense for that last, single thrust; he leaps. For the first time in all his life, he is not fast enough. The god catches the blow, and throws it violently aside. Achilles stumbles. It is so slight, just the smallest lurch off-balance, that I almost do not see it. But the god does. He lunges forward, vicious and victorious, in the pause, the small hitch of time that the stumble has made. The wood swings down in a killing arc. He should have known better; I should have known. Those feet never stumbled, not once, in all the time I knew them. If a mistake had come, it would not be there, from the delicate bones and curving arches. Achilles has baited his hook with human failure, and the god has leapt for it. As Scamander lunges, there is the opening, and Achilles’ sword streaks towards it. A gash flowers in the god’s side, and the river runs gold once more, stained with the ichor that spills from its master. Scamander will not die. But he must limp away now, weakened and weary, to the mountains and the source of his waters, to stanch the wound and regain his strength. He sinks into his river and is gone. Achilles’ face is sweat-streaked, his breaths harsh. But he does not pause. “Hector!” he screams. And the hunt begins again. Somewhere, the gods whisper: He has beaten one of us. What will happen if he attacks the city? Troy is not meant to fall yet. And I think: do not fear for Troy. It is only Hector that he wants. Hector, and Hector alone. When Hector is dead, he will stop. THERE IS A GROVE at the base of Troy’s high walls, home to a sacred, twisting laurel. It is there that Hector, at last, stops running. Beneath its branches, the two men face each other. One of them is dark, his feet like roots driving deep into soil. He wears a golden breastplate and helmet, burnished greaves. It fit me well enough, but he is bigger than I, broader. At his throat the metal gapes away from his skin. The other man’s face is twisted almost beyond recognition. His clothes are still damp from his fight in the river. He lifts his ashen spear. No, I beg him. It is his own death he holds, his own blood that will spill. He does not hear me. Hector’s eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, “Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.” Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.” His spearpoint flies in a dark whirlwind, bright as the evening-star, to catch the hollow at Hector’s throat. ACHILLES RETURNS to the tent, where my body waits. He is red and red and rust-red, up to his elbows, his knees, his neck, as if he has swum in the vast dark chambers of a heart and emerged, just now, still dripping. He is dragging Hector’s body behind him, pierced through its heels with a leather thong. The neat beard is matted with dirt, the face black with bloody dust. He has been pulling it behind his chariot as the horses run. The kings of Greece are waiting for him. “You have triumphed today, Achilles,” Agamemnon says. “Bathe and rest yourself, and then we shall feast in your honor.” “I will have no feast.” He pushes through them, dragging Hector after. “HOKUMOROS,” HIS MOTHER CALLS him in her softest voice. Swift-fated. “Will you not eat?” “You know I will not.” She touches her hand to his cheek, as if to wipe away blood. He flinches. “Stop,” he says. Her face goes blank for a second, so quickly he does not see. When she speaks, her voice is hard. “It is time to return Hector’s body to his family for burial. You have killed him and taken your vengeance. It is enough.” “It will never be enough,” he says. FOR THE FIRST TIME since my death, he falls into a fitful, trembling sleep. Achilles. I cannot bear to see you grieving. His limbs twitch and shudder. Give us both peace. Burn me and bury me. I will wait for you among the shades. I will— But already he is waking. “Patroclus! Wait! I am here!” He shakes the body beside him. When I do not answer, he weeps again. HE RISES AT DAWN to drag Hector’s body around the walls of the city for all of Troy to see. He does it again at midday, and again at evening. He does not see the Greeks begin to avert their eyes from him. He does not see the lips thinning in disapproval as he passes. How long can this go on? Thetis is waiting for him in the tent, tall and straight as a flame. “What do you want?” He drops Hector’s body by the door. Her cheeks have spots of color, like blood spilled on marble. “You must stop this. Apollo is angry. He seeks vengeance upon you.” “Let him.” He kneels, smooths back the hair on my forehead. I am wrapped in blankets, to muffle the smell. “Achilles.” She strides to him, seizes his chin. “Listen to me. You go too far in this. I will not be able to protect you from him.” He jerks his head from her and bares his teeth. “I do not need you to.” Her skin is whiter than I have ever seen it. “Do not be a fool. It is only my power that—” “What does it matter?” He cuts her off, snarling. “He is dead. Can your power bring him back?” “No,” she says. “Nothing can.” He stands. “Do you think I cannot see your rejoicing? I know how you hated him. You have always hated him! If you had not gone to Zeus, he would be alive!” “He is a mortal,” she says. “And mortals die.” “I am a mortal!” he screams. “What good is godhead, if it cannot do this? What good are you?” “I know you are mortal,” she says. She places each cold word as a tile in a mosaic. “I know it better than anyone. I left you too long on Pelion. It has ruined you.” She gestures, a flick, at his torn clothing, his tear-stained face. “This is not my son.” His chest heaves. “Then who is it, Mother? Am I not famous enough? I killed Hector. And who else? Send them before me. I will kill them all!” Her face twists. “You act like a child. At twelve Pyrrhus is more of a man than you.” “Pyrrhus.” The word is a gasp. “He will come, and Troy will fall. The city cannot be taken without him, the Fates say.” Her face glows. Achilles stares. “You would bring him here?” “He is the next Aristos Achaion.” “I am not dead yet.” “You may as well be.” The words are a lash. “Do you know what I have borne to make you great? And now you would destroy it for this?” She points at my festering body, her face tight with disgust. “I am done. There is no more I can do to save you.” Her black eyes seem to contract, like dying stars. “I am glad that he is dead,” she says. It is the last thing she will ever say to him. Chapter Thirty-Two IN THE DEEPEST REACHES OF NIGHT, WHEN EVEN THE WILD dogs drowse and the owls are quiet, an old man comes to our tent. He is filthy, his clothing torn, his hair smeared with ashes and dirt. His robes are wet from swimming the river. Yet his eyes, when he speaks, are clear. “I have come for my son,” he says. The king of Troy moves across the room to kneel at Achilles’ feet. He bows his white head. “Will you hear a father’s prayer, mighty Prince of Phthia, Best of the Greeks?” Achilles stares down at the man’s shoulders as if in a trance. They are trembling with age, stooped with the burdens of grief. This man bore fifty sons and has lost all but a handful. “I will hear you,” he says. “The blessings of the gods upon your kindness,” Priam says. His hands are cool on Achilles’ burning skin. “I have come far this night in hope.” A shudder, involuntary, passes through him; the night’s chill and the wet clothes. “I am sorry to appear so meanly before you.” The words seem to wake Achilles a little. “Do not kneel,” he says. “Let me bring you food and drink.” He offers his hand, and helps the old king to his feet. He gives him a dry cloak and the soft cushions that Phoinix likes best, and pours wine. Beside Priam’s furrowed skin and slow steps he seems suddenly very young. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Priam says. His accent is strong, and he speaks slowly, but his Greek is good. “I have heard you are a noble man, and it is on your nobility that I throw myself. We are enemies, yet you have never been known as cruel. I beg you to return my son’s body for burial, so his soul does not wander lost.” As he speaks, he is careful not to let himself look at the shadow facedown in the corner. Achilles is staring into the cupped darkness of his hands. “You show courage to come here alone,” he says. “How did you get into the camp?” “I was guided by the grace of the gods.” Achilles looks up at him. “How did you know I would not kill you?” “I did not know,” says Priam. There is silence. The food and wine sit before them, but neither eats, nor drinks. I can see Achilles’ ribs through his tunic. Priam’s eyes find the other body, mine, lying on the bed. He hesitates a moment. “That is—your friend?” “Philtatos,” Achilles says, sharply. Most beloved.“Best of men, and slaughtered by your son.” “I am sorry for your loss,” Priam says. “And sorry that it was my son who took him from you. Yet I beg you to have mercy. In grief, men must help each other, though they are enemies.” “What if I will not?” His words have gone stiff. “Then you will not.” There is silence a moment. “I could kill you still,” Achilles says. Achilles. “I know.” The king’s voice is quiet, unafraid. “But it is worth my life, if there is a chance my son’s soul may be at rest.” Achilles’ eyes fill; he looks away so the old man will not see. Priam’s voice is gentle. “It is right to seek peace for the dead. You and I both know there is no peace for those who live after.” “No,” Achilles whispers. Nothing moves in the tent; time does not seem to pass. Then Achilles stands. “It is close to dawn, and I do not want you to be in danger as you travel home. I will have my servants prepare your son’s body.” WHEN THEY ARE GONE, he slumps next to me, his face against my belly. My skin grows slippery under the steady fall of his tears. The next day he carries me to the pyre. Briseis and the Myrmidons watch as he places me on the wood and strikes the flint. The flames surround me, and I feel myself slipping further from life, thinning to only the faintest shiver in the air. I yearn for the darkness and silence of the underworld, where I can rest. He collects my ashes himself, though this is a woman’s duty. He puts them in a golden urn, the finest in our camp, and turns to the watching Greeks. “When I am dead, I charge you to mingle our ashes and bury us together.” HECTOR AND SARPEDON are dead, but other heroes come to take their place. Anatolia is rich with allies and those making common cause against invaders. First is Memnon, the son of rosy-fingered dawn, king of Aethiopia. A large man, dark and crowned, striding forward with an army of soldiers as dark as he, a burnished black. He stands, grinning expectantly. He has come for one man, and one man alone. That man comes to meet him armed with only a spear. His breastplate is carelessly buckled, his once-bright hair hangs lank and unwashed. Memnon laughs. This will be easy. When he crumples, folded around a long ashen shaft, the smile is shaken from his face. Wearily, Achilles retrieves his spear. Next come the horsewomen, breasts exposed, their skin glistening like oiled wood. Their hair is bound back, their arms are full of spears and bristling arrows. Curved shields hang from their saddles, crescent-shaped, as if coined from the moon. At their front is a single figure on a chestnut horse, hair loose, Anatolian eyes dark and curving and fierce—chips of stone that move restlessly over the army before her. Penthesilea. She wears a cape, and it is this that undoes her—that allows her to be pulled, limbs light and poised as a cat, from her horse. She tumbles with easy grace, and one of her hands flashes for the spear tied to her saddle. She crouches in the dirt, bracing it. A face looms over her, grim, darkened, dulled. It wears no armor at all anymore, exposing all its skin to points and punctures. It is turned now, in hope, in wistfulness, towards her. She stabs, and Achilles’ body dodges the deadly point, impossibly lithe, endlessly agile. Always, its muscles betray it, seeking life instead of the peace that spears bring. She thrusts again, and he leaps over the point, drawn up like a frog, body light and loose. He makes a sound of grief. He had hoped, because she has killed so many. Because from her horse she seemed so like him, so quick and graceful, so relentless. But she is not. A single thrust crushes her to the ground, leaves her chest torn up like a field beneath the plow. Her women scream in anger, in grief, at his retreating, bowed, shoulders. Last of all is a young boy, Troilus. They have kept him behind the wall as their security—the youngest son of Priam, the one they want to survive. It is his brother’s death that has pulled him from the walls. He is brave and foolish and will not listen. I see him wrenching from the restraining hands of his older brothers, and leaping into his chariot. He flies headlong, like a loosed greyhound, seeking vengeance. The spear-butt catches against his chest, just starting to widen with manhood. He falls, still holding the reins, and the frightened horses bolt, dragging him behind. His trailing spear-tip clicks against the stones, writing in the dust with its bronze fingernail. At last he frees himself and stands, his legs, his back, scraped and crusted. He faces the older man who looms in front of him, the shadow that haunts the battlefield, the grisly face that wearily kills man after man. I see that he does not stand a chance, his bright eyes, his bravely lifted chin. The point catches the soft bulb of his throat, and liquid spills like ink, its color bled away by the dusk around me. The boy falls. WITHIN THE WALLS OF TROY, a bow is strung quickly by rushing hands. An arrow is selected, and princely feet hurry up stairs to a tower that tilts over a battlefield of dead and dying. Where a god is waiting. It is easy for Paris to find his target. The man moves slowly, like a lion grown wounded and sick, but his gold hair is unmistakable. Paris nocks his arrow. “Where do I aim? I heard he was invulnerable. Except for—” “He is a man,” Apollo says. “Not a god. Shoot him and he will die.” Paris aims. The god touches his finger to the arrow’s fletching. Then he breathes, a puff of air—as if to send dandelions flying, to push toy boats over water. And the arrow flies, straight and silent, in a curving, downward arc towards Achilles’ back. Achilles hears the faint hum of its passage a second before it strikes. He turns his head a little, as if to watch it come. He closes his eyes and feels its point push through his skin, parting thick muscle, worming its way past the interlacing fingers of his ribs. There, at last, is his heart. Blood spills between shoulder blades, dark and slick as oil. Achilles smiles as his face strikes the earth. Chapter Thirty-Three THE SEA-NYMPHS COME FOR THE BODY, TRAILING THEIR seafoam robes behind them. They wash him with rose oil and nectar, and weave flowers through his golden hair. The Myrmidons build him a pyre, and he is placed on it. The nymphs weep as the flames consume him. His beautiful body lost to bones and gray ash. But many do not weep. Briseis, who stands watching until the last embers have gone out. Thetis, her spine straight, black hair loose and snaky in the wind. The men, kings and common. They gather at a distance, afraid of the eerie keening of the nymphs and Thetis’ thunderbolt eyes. Closest to tears is Ajax, leg bandaged and healing. But perhaps he is just thinking of his own long-awaited promotion. The pyre burns itself out. If the ashes are not gathered soon, they will be lost to the winds, but Thetis, whose office it is, does not move. At last, Odysseus is sent to speak with her. He kneels. “Goddess, we would know your will. Shall we collect the ashes?” She turns to look at him. Perhaps there is grief in her eyes; perhaps not. It is impossible to say. “Collect them. Bury them. I have done all I will do.” He inclines his head. “Great Thetis, your son wished that his ashes be placed—” “I know what he wished. Do as you please. It is not my concern.” SERVANT GIRLS ARE SENT to collect the ashes; they carry them to the golden urn where I rest. Will I feel his ashes as they fall against mine? I think of the snowflakes on Pelion, cold on our red cheeks. The yearning for him is like hunger, hollowing me. Somewhere his soul waits, but it is nowhere I can reach. Bury us, and mark our names above. Let us be free. His ashes settle among mine, and I feel nothing. AGAMEMNON CALLS a council to discuss the tomb they will build. “We should put it on the field where he fell,” Nestor says. Machaon shakes his head. “It will be more central on the beach, by the agora.” “That’s the last thing we want. Tripping over it every day,” Diomedes says. “On the hill, I think. The ridge by their camp,” Odysseus says. Wherever, wherever, wherever. “I have come to take my father’s place.” The clear voice cuts across the room. The heads of the kings twist towards the tent flap. A boy stands framed in the tent’s doorway. His hair is bright red, the color of the fire’s crust; he is beautiful, but coldly so, a winter’s morning. Only the dullest would not know which father he means. It is stamped on every line of his face, so close it tears at me. Just his chin is different, angling sharply down to a point as his mother’s did. “I am the son of Achilles,” he announces. The kings are staring. Most did not even know Achilles had a child. Only Odysseus has the wits to speak. “May we know the name of Achilles’ son?” “My name is Neoptolemus. Called Pyrrhus.” Fire. But there is nothing of flame about him, beyond his hair. “Where is my father’s seat?” Idomeneus has taken it. He rises. “Here.” Pyrrhus’ eyes rake over the Cretan king. “I pardon your presumption. You did not know I was coming.” He sits. “Lord of Mycenae, Lord of Sparta.” The slightest incline of his head. “I offer myself to your army.” Agamemnon’s face is caught between disbelief and displeasure. He had thought he was done with Achilles. And the boy’s affect is strange, unnerving. “You do not seem old enough.” Twelve. He is twelve. “I have lived with the gods beneath the sea,” he says. “I have drunk their nectar and feasted on ambrosia. I come now to win the war for you. The Fates have said that Troy will not fall without me.” “What?” Agamemnon is aghast. “If it is so, we are indeed glad to have you,” Menelaus says. “We were talking of your father’s tomb, and where to build it.” “On the hill,” Odysseus says. Menelaus nods. “A fitting place for them.” “Them?” There is a slight pause. “Your father and his companion. Patroclus.” “And why should this man be buried beside Aristos Achaion?” The air is thick. They are all waiting to hear Menelaus’ answer. “It was your father’s wish, Prince Neoptolemus, that their ashes be placed together. We cannot bury one without the other.” Pyrrhus lifts his sharp chin. “A slave has no place in his master’s tomb. If the ashes are together, it cannot be undone, but I will not allow my father’s fame to be diminished. The monument is for him, alone.” Do not let it be so. Do not leave me here without him. The kings exchange glances. “Very well,” Agamemnon says. “It shall be as you say.” I am air and thought and can do nothing. THE GREATER THE MONUMENT, the greater the man. The stone the Greeks quarry for his grave is huge and white, stretching up to the sky. ACHILLES, it reads. It will stand for him, and speak to all who pass: he lived and died, and lives again in memory. PYRRHUS’ BANNERS bear the emblem of Scyros, his mother’s land, not Phthia. His soldiers, too, are from Scyros. Dutifully, Automedon lines up the Myrmidons and the women in welcome. They watch him make his way up the shore, his gleaming, new-minted troops, his red-gold hair like a flame against the blue of the sky. “I am the son of Achilles,” he tells them. “I claim you as my inheritance and birthright. Your loyalty is mine now.” His eyes fix upon a woman who stands, eyes down, her hands folded. He goes to her and lifts her chin in his hand. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Briseis.” “I’ve heard of you,” he says. “You were the reason my father stopped fighting.” That night he sends his guards for her. They hold her arms as they walk her to the tent. Her head is bowed in submission, and she does not struggle. The tent flap opens, and she is pushed through. Pyrrhus lounges in a chair, one leg dangling carelessly off the side. Achilles might have sat that way once. But his eyes were never like that, empty as the endless depths of black ocean, filled with nothing but the bloodless bodies of fish. She kneels. “My lord.” “My father broke with the army for you. You must have been a good bedslave.” Briseis’ eyes are at their darkest and most veiled. “You honor me, my lord, to say so. But I do not believe it was for me he refused to fight.” “Why then? In your slave’s opinion?” A precise eyebrow lifts. It is terrifying to watch him speak to her. He is like a snake; you do not know where he will strike. “I was a war prize, and Agamemnon dishonored him in taking me. That is all.” “Were you not his bed-slave?” “No, my lord.” “Enough.” His voice is sharp. “Do not lie to me again. You are the best woman in the camp. You were his.” Her shoulders have crept up a little. “I would not have you think better of me than I deserve. I was never so fortunate.” “Why? What is wrong with you?” She hesitates. “My lord, have you heard of the man who is buried with your father?” His face goes flat. “Of course I have not heard of him. He is no one.” “Yet your father loved him well, and honored him. He would be well pleased to know they were buried together. He had no need of me.” Pyrrhus stares at her. “My lord—” “Silence.” The word cracks over her like a lash. “I will teach you what it means to lie to Aristos Achaion.” He stands. “Come here.” He is only twelve, but he does not look it. He has the body of a man. Her eyes are wide. “My lord, I am sorry I have displeased you. You may ask anyone, Phoinix or Automedon. They will say I am not lying.” “I have given you an order.” She stands, her hands fumbling in the folds of her dress. Run, I whisper. Do not go to him. But she goes. “My lord, what would you have of me?” He steps to her, eyes glittering. “Whatever I want.” I cannot see where the blade comes from. It is in her hand, and then it is swinging down on him. But she has never killed a man before. She does not know how hard you need to drive it, nor with what conviction. And he is quick, twisting away already. The blade splits the skin, scoring it in a jagged line, but does not sink. He smacks her viciously to the ground. She throws the knife at his face and runs. She erupts from the tent, past the too-slow hands of the guards, down the beach and into the sea. Behind her is Pyrrhus, tunic gashed open, bleeding across his stomach. He stands beside the bewildered guards and calmly takes a spear from one of their hands. “Throw it,” a guard urges. For she is past the breakers now. “A moment,” Pyrrhus murmurs. Her limbs lift into the gray waves like the steady beats of wings. She has always been the strongest swimmer of the three of us. She used to swear she’d gone to Tenedos once, two hours by boat. I feel wild triumph as she pulls farther and farther from shore. The only man whose spear could have reached her is dead. She is free. The only man but that man’s son. The spear flies from the top of the beach, soundless and precise. Its point hits her back like a stone tossed onto a floating leaf. The gulp of black water swallows her whole. Phoinix sends a man out, a diver, to look for her body, but he does not find it. Maybe her gods are kinder than ours, and she will find rest. I would give my life again to make it so. THE PROPHECY TOLD TRULY. Now that Pyrrhus has come, Troy falls. He does not do it alone, of course. There is the horse, and Odysseus’ plan, and a whole army besides. But he is the one who kills Priam. He is the one who hunts down Hector’s wife, Andromache, hiding in a cellar with her son. He plucks the child from her arms and dashes his head against the stone of the walls, so hard the skull shatters like a rotted fruit. Even Agamemnon blanched when he heard. The bones of the city are cracked and sucked dry. The Greek kings stuff their holds with its gold columns and princesses. Quicker than I could have imagined possible they pack the camp, all the tents rolled and stowed, the food killed and stored. The beach is stripped clean, like a well-picked carcass. I haunt their dreams. Do not leave, I beg them. Not until you have given me peace. But if anyone hears, they do not answer. Pyrrhus wishes a final sacrifice for his father the evening before they sail. The kings gather by the tomb, and Pyrrhus presides, with his royal prisoners at his heels, Andromache and Queen Hecuba and the young princess Polyxena. He trails them everywhere he goes now, in perpetual triumph. Calchas leads a white heifer to the tomb’s base. But when he reaches for the knife, Pyrrhus stops him. “A single heifer. Is this all? The same you would do for any man? My father was Aristos Achaion. He was the best of you, and his son has proven better still. Yet you stint us?” Pyrrhus’ hand closes on the shapeless, blowing dress of the princess Polyxena and yanks her towards the altar. “This is what my father’s soul deserves.” He will not. He dare not. As if in answer, Pyrrhus smiles. “Achilles is pleased,” he says, and tears open her throat. I can taste it still, the gush of salt and iron. It seeped into the grass where we are buried, and choked me. The dead are supposed to crave blood, but not like this. Not like this. THE GREEKS LEAVE TOMORROW, and I am desperate. Odysseus. He sleeps lightly, eyelids fluttering. Odysseus. Listen to me. He twitches. Even in sleep he is not at rest. When you came to him for help, I answered you. Will you not answer me now? You know what he was to me. You saw, before you brought us here. Our peace is on your head. “MY APOLOGIES for bothering you so late, Prince Pyrrhus.” He offers his easiest smile. “I do not sleep,” Pyrrhus says. “How convenient. No wonder you get so much more done than the rest of us.” Pyrrhus watches him with narrowed eyes; he cannot tell if he is being mocked. “Wine?” Odysseus holds up a skin. “I suppose.” Pyrrhus jerks his chin at two goblets. “Leave us,” he says to Andromache. While she gathers her clothes, Odysseus pours. “Well. You must be pleased with all you have done here. Hero by thirteen? Not many men can say so.” “No other men.” The voice is cold. “What do you want?” “I’m afraid I have been prompted by a rare stirring of guilt.” “Oh?” “We sail tomorrow, and leave many Greek dead behind us. All of them are properly buried, with a name to mark their memory. All but one. I am not a pious man, but I do not like to think of souls wandering among the living. I like to take my ease unmolested by restless spirits.” Pyrrhus listens, his lips drawn back in faint, habitual distaste. “I cannot say I was your father’s friend, nor he mine. But I admired his skill and valued him as a soldier. And in ten years, you get to know a man, even if you don’t wish to. So I can tell you now that I do not believe he would want Patroclus to be forgotten.” Pyrrhus stiffens. “Did he say so?” “He asked that their ashes be placed together, he asked that they be buried as one. In the spirit of this, I think we can say he wished it.” For the first time, I am grateful for his cleverness. “I am his son. I am the one who says what his spirit wishes for.” “Which is why I came to you. I have no stake in this. I am only an honest man, who likes to see right done.” “Is it right that my father’s fame should be diminished? Tainted by a commoner?” “Patroclus was no commoner. He was born a prince and exiled. He served bravely in our army, and many men admired him. He killed Sarpedon, second only to Hector.” “In my father’s armor. With my father’s fame. He has none of his own.” Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another.” He spread his broad hands. “We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?” He smiles. “Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.” “I doubt it.” Odysseus shrugs. “We cannot say. We are men only, a brief flare of the torch. Those to come may raise us or lower us as they please. Patroclus may be such as will rise in the future.” “He is not.” “Then it would be a good deed. A deed of charity and piety. To honor your father, and let a dead man rest.” “He is a blot on my father’s honor, and a blot on mine. I will not allow it. Take your sour wine and go.” Pyrrhus’ words are sharp as breaking sticks. Odysseus stands but does not go. “Do you have a wife?” he asks. “Of course not.” “I have a wife. I have not seen her for ten years. I do not know if she is dead, or if I will die before I can return to her.” I had thought, always, that his wife was a joke, a fiction. But his voice is not mild now. Each word comes slowly, as if it must be brought from a great depth. “My consolation is that we will be together in the underworld. That we will meet again there, if not in this life. I would not wish to be there without her.” “My father had no such wife,” Pyrrhus says. Odysseus looks at the young man’s implacable face. “I have done my best,” he says. “Let it be remembered I tried.” I remember. THE GREEKS SAIL, and take my hope with them. I cannot follow. I am tied to this earth where my ashes lie. I curl myself around the stone obelisk of his tomb. Perhaps it is cool to the touch; perhaps warm. I cannot tell. A C H I L L E S, it says, and nothing more. He has gone to the underworld, and I am here. PEOPLE COME TO SEE his grave. Some hang back, as if they are afraid his ghost will rise and challenge them. Others stand at the base to look at the scenes of his life carved on the stone. They are a little hastily done, but clear enough. Achilles killing Memnon, killing Hector, killing Penthesilea. Nothing but death. This is how Pyrrhus’ tomb might look. Is this how he will be remembered? Thetis comes. I watch her, withering the grass where she stands. I have not felt such hatred for her in a long time. She made Pyrrhus, and loved him more than Achilles. She is looking at the scenes on the tomb, death after death. She reaches, as if she will touch them. I cannot bear it. Thetis, I say. Her hand jerks back. She vanishes. Later she returns. Thetis. She does not react. Only stands, looking at her son’s tomb. I am buried here. In your son’s grave. She says nothing. Does nothing. She does not hear. Every day she comes. She sits at the tomb’s base, and it seems that I can feel her cold through the earth, the slight searing smell of salt. I cannot make her leave, but I can hate her. You said that Chiron ruined him. You are a goddess, and cold, and know nothing. You are the one who ruined him. Look at how he will be remembered now. Killing Hector, killing Troilus. For things he did cruelly in his grief. Her face is like stone itself. It does not move. The days rise and fall. Perhaps such things pass for virtue among the gods. But how is there glory in taking a life? We die so easily. Would you make him another Pyrrhus? Let the stories of him be something more. “What more?” she says. For once I am not afraid. What else can she do to me? Returning Hector’s body to Priam, I say. That should be remembered. She is silent for a long time. “And?” His skill with the lyre. His beautiful voice. She seems to be waiting. The girls. He took them so that they would not suffer at another king’s hands. “That was your doing.” Why are you not with Pyrrhus? Something flickers in her eyes. “He is dead.” I am fiercely glad. How? It is a command, almost. “He was killed by Agamemnon’s son.” For what? She does not answer for some time. “He stole his bride and ravished her.” “Whatever I want,” he said to Briseis. Was this the son you preferred to Achilles? Her mouth tightens. “Have you no more memories?” I am made of memories. “Speak, then.” I ALMOST REFUSE. But the ache for him is stronger than my anger. I want to speak of something not dead or divine. I want him to live. At first it is strange. I am used to keeping him from her, to hoarding him for myself. But the memories well up like springwater, faster than I can hold them back. They do not come as words, but like dreams, rising as scent from the rain-wet earth. This, I say. This and this. The way his hair looked in summer sun. His face when he ran. His eyes, solemn as an owl at lessons. This and this and this. So many moments of happiness, crowding forward. She closes her eyes. The skin over them is the color of sand in winter. She listens, and she too remembers. She remembers standing on a beach, hair black and long as a horse’s tail. Slate-gray waves smash against rocks. Then a mortal’s hands, brutal and bruising on her polished skin. The sand scraping her raw, and the tearing inside. The gods, after, tying her to him. She remembers feeling the child within her, luminous in the dark of her womb. She repeats to herself the prophecy that the three old women spoke to her: your son will be greater than his father. The other gods had recoiled to hear it. They knew what powerful sons do to their fathers—Zeus’ thunderbolts still smell of singed flesh and patricide. They gave her to a mortal, trying to shackle the child’s power. Dilute him with humanity, diminish him. She rests her hand on her stomach, feels him swimming within. It is her blood that will make him strong. But not strong enough. I am a mortal! he screams at her, his face blotchy and sodden and dull. WHY DO YOU not go to him? “I cannot.” The pain in her voice is like something tearing. “I cannot go beneath the earth.” The underworld, with its cavernous gloom and fluttering souls, where only the dead may walk. “This is all that is left,” she says, her eyes still fixed on the monument. An eternity of stone. I conjure the boy I knew. Achilles, grinning as the figs blur in his hands. His green eyes laughing into mine. Catch, he says. Achilles, outlined against the sky, hanging from a branch over the river. The thick warmth of his sleepy breath against my ear. If you have to go, I will go with you. My fears forgotten in the golden harbor of his arms. The memories come, and come. She listens, staring into the grain of the stone. We are all there, goddess and mortal and the boy who was both. THE SUN IS SETTING over the sea, spilling its colors on the water’s surface. She is beside me, silent in the blurry, creeping dusk. Her face is as unmarked as the first day I saw her. Her arms are crossed over her chest, as if to hold some thought to herself. I have told her all. I have spared nothing, of any of us. We watch the light sink into the grave of the western sky. “I could not make him a god,” she says. Her jagged voice, rich with grief. But you made him. She does not answer me for a long time, only sits, eyes shining with the last of the dying light. “I have done it,” she says. At first I do not understand. But then I see the tomb, and the marks she has made on the stone. ACHILLES, it reads. And beside it, PATROCLUS. “Go,” she says. “He waits for you.” IN THE DARKNESS, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun. Character Glossary Gods and Immortals APHRODITE. The goddess of love and beauty, the mother of Aeneas, and a champion of the Trojans. She particularly favored Paris, and in Book 3 of the Iliad she intervened to save him from Menelaus. APOLLO. The god of light and music, and a champion of the Trojans. He was responsible for sending the plague down upon the Greek army in Book 1 of the Iliad, and was instrumental in the deaths of both Achilles and Patroclus. ARTEMIS. The twin sister of Apollo and the goddess of the hunt, the moon, and virginity. Angry about the bloodshed the Trojan War would cause, she stopped the winds from blowing, stranding the Greek fleet at Aulis. After the sacrifice of Iphigenia, she was appeased and the winds returned. ATHENA. The powerful goddess of wisdom, weaving, and war arts. She was a fierce supporter of her beloved Greeks against the Trojans and a particular guardian of the wily Odysseus. She appears often in both the Iliad and the Odyssey. CHIRON. The only “good” centaur, known as a teacher of the heroes Jason, Aesculapius, and Achilles, as well as the inventor of medicine and surgery. HERA. The queen of the gods and the sister-wife of Zeus. Like Athena, she championed the Greeks and hated the Trojans. In Vergil’s Aeneid, she is the principal antagonist, constantly harassing the Trojan hero Aeneas after Troy has fallen. SCAMANDER. The god of the river Scamander near Troy and another champion of the Trojans. His famous battle with Achilles is told in Book 22 of the Iliad. THETIS. A sea-nymph and shape-changer, and the mother of Achilles. The fates had prophesied that Thetis’ son would be greater than his father, which frightened the god Zeus (who had previously desired her). He made sure to marry Thetis to a mortal, in order to limit the power of her son. In postHomeric versions of the story she tries a number of ways to make Achilles immortal, including dipping him by his ankle in the river Styx and holding him in a fire to burn away his mortality. ZEUS. The king of the gods and the father of many famous heroes, including Heracles and Perseus. Mortals ACHILLES. The son of the king Peleus and the sea-nymph Thetis, he was the greatest warrior of his generation, as well as the most beautiful. The Iliad calls him “swift-footed” and also praises his singing voice. He was raised by the kindly centaur Chiron and took the exiled prince Patroclus as his constant companion. As a teenager, he was famously offered a choice: a long life and obscurity or a short life and fame. He chose fame and sailed to Troy along with the other Greeks. However, in the ninth year of the war he quarreled with Agamemnon and refused to fight any longer, returning to battle only when his beloved Patroclus was killed by Hector. In a rage, he slew the great Trojan warrior and dragged his body around the walls of Troy in vengeance. He was eventually killed by the Trojan prince Paris, with the assistance of the god Apollo. Achilles’ most famous myth—his fatally vulnerable heel—is actually a very late story. In the Iliad and Odyssey Achilles isn’t invincible, just extraordinarily gifted in battle. But in the years after Homer, myths began popping up to explain and elaborate upon Achilles’ seeming invincibility. In one popular version, the goddess Thetis dips Achilles in the river Styx to try to make him immortal; it works, everywhere but the place on his heel where she holds him. Since the Iliad and Odyssey were my primary sources of inspiration, and since their interpretation seemed more realistic, I chose to follow the older tradition. AENEAS. The son of the goddess Aphrodite and the mortal Anchises, the Trojan noble Aeneas was renowned for his piety. He fought bravely in the Trojan War but is best known for his adventures afterwards. As Vergil tells in the Aeneid, Aeneas escaped the fall of Troy and led a group of survivors to Italy, where he married a native princess and founded the Roman people. AGAMEMNON. The brother of Menelaus, Agamemnon ruled Mycenae, the largest kingdom in Greece, and served as the over-general of the Greek expedition to Troy. During the war he often quarreled with Achilles, who refused to acknowledge Agamemnon’s right to command him. Upon Agamemnon’s return home after the war, he was murdered by his wife, Clytemnestra. Aeschylus depicts this incident and its aftermath in his famous tragic cycle the Oresteia. AJAX. The king of Salamis and a descendent of Zeus, who was known for his enormous size and strength. He was the second greatest Greek warrior after Achilles, and memorably stood against the Trojans’ attack on the Greek camp when Achilles refused to fight. However, after Achilles’ death, when Agamemnon chose to honor Odysseus as the most valuable member of the Greek army, Ajax went mad with grief and rage, and killed himself. His story is movingly told in Sophocles’ tragedy Ajax. ANDROMACHE. Born a princess of Cilicia, near Troy, she became the loyal and loving wife of Hector. She hated Achilles, who had killed her family in a raid. During the sack of Troy, she was taken captive by Pyrrhus and carried back to Greece. After Pyrrhus’ death, she and Helenus, Hector’s brother, founded the city of Buthrotum, which they built to resemble the lost Troy. Vergil tells their story in Book 3 of the Aeneid. AUTOMEDON. Achilles’ charioteer, skilled at handling his divine, headstrong horses. After Achilles’ death, he served his son Pyrrhus. BRISEIS. Taken captive by the Greeks in their raids on the Trojan countryside, Briseis was given as a war-prize to Achilles. When Achilles defied him, Agamemnon confiscated her as a punishment. She was returned after Patroclus’ death, and in Book 19 of the Iliad, she and the other women of the camp mourn over his body. CALCHAS. A priest who advised the Greeks, encouraging Agamemnon to sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia and to return the captive slave-girl Chryseis to her father. CHRYSES AND CHRYSEIS. Chryses was an Anatolian priest of Apollo. His daughter, Chryseis, was taken as a slave by Agamemnon. When Chryses came to retrieve her, offering a generous ransom, Agamemnon refused, then insulted him. Enraged, Chryses called upon his god Apollo to send a plague to punish the Greek army. When Achilles publicly urged Agamemnon to return Chryseis to her father, Agamemnon erupted, precipitating their dramatic rift. DEIDAMEIA. The daughter of King Lycomedes and the princess of the island kingdom of Scyros. To keep him from the war, Thetis dressed Achilles as a girl and hid him among Deidameia’s ladies-in-waiting. Deidameia discovered the trick and secretly married Achilles, conceiving the child Pyrrhus. DIOMEDES. The king of Argos. Known for both his guile and his strength, Diomedes was one of the most valued warriors in the Greek army. Like Odysseus, he was a favorite of the goddess Athena, who in Book 5 of the Iliad grants him supernatural strength in battle. HECTOR. The oldest son of Priam and the crown prince of Troy, Hector was known for his strength, nobility, and love of family. In Book 6 of the Iliad, Homer shows us a touching scene between Hector; his wife, Andromache; and their young son, Astyanax. He was killed by Achilles in the final year of the war. HELEN. The legendary most beautiful woman in the world, Helen was a princess of Sparta, the daughter of the queen Leda and the god Zeus (in the form of a swan). Many men sought her hand in marriage, each swearing an oath to uphold her union with whoever prevailed. She was given to Menelaus, but later ran away with the Trojan prince Paris, setting in motion the Trojan War. After the war, she returned home with Menelaus to Sparta. HERACLES. The son of Zeus and the most famous of Greek heroes. Known for his tremendous strength, Heracles was forced to perform twelve labors as penance to the goddess Hera, who hated him for being the product of one of Zeus’ affairs. He died long before the Trojan War began. IDOMENEUS. The king of Crete and grandson of King Minos, of Minotaur fame. IPHIGENIA. The daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, promised in marriage to Achilles and brought to Aulis to appease the goddess Artemis. Her sacrifice made the winds blow again, so that the Greek fleet could sail to Troy. Her story is told in Euripides’ tragedy Iphigenia at Aulis. LYCOMEDES. The king of Scyros and the father of Deidameia. He unknowingly sheltered Achilles disguised as a girl in his court. MENELAUS. The brother of Agamemnon and, after his marriage to Helen, the king of Sparta. When Helen was kidnapped by Paris, he invoked the oath sworn by all of her suitors and, with his brother, led an army to retrieve her. In Book 3 of the Iliad he dueled with Paris for possession of Helen, and was winning before the goddess Aphrodite intervened on Paris’ behalf. After the war, he and Helen returned to Sparta. NESTOR. The aged king of Pylos and the former companion of Heracles. He was too old to fight in the Trojan War but served as an important counselor to Agamemnon. ODYSSEUS. The wily prince of Ithaca, beloved by the goddess Athena. He proposed the famous oath requiring all of Helen’s suitors to swear a vow to uphold her marriage. As his reward, he claimed her clever cousin Penelope as his wife. During the Trojan War, he was one of Agamemnon’s chief advisers, and later devised the trick of the Trojan horse. His voyage home, which lasted ten years, is the subject of Homer’s Odyssey, which includes the famous tales of his encounters with the Cyclops, the witch Circe, Scylla and Charybdis, and the Sirens. Eventually Odysseus returned to Ithaca, where he was welcomed by his wife, Penelope, and grown son, Telemachus. PARIS. The son of Priam who became the judge of the famous “beauty contest” between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, with the golden apple as a prize. Each goddess tried to bribe him: Hera with power, Athena with wisdom, and Aphrodite with the most beautiful woman in the world. He awarded the prize to Aphrodite, and she in turn helped him spirit Helen away from her husband, Menelaus, thus starting the Trojan War. Paris was known for his skill with a bow and, with Apollo’s help, killed the mighty Achilles. PATROCLUS. The son of King Menoitius. Exiled from his home for accidentally killing another boy, Patroclus found shelter in Peleus’ court, where he was fostered with Achilles. He is a secondary character in the Iliad, but his fateful decision to try to save the Greeks by dressing in Achilles’ armor sets in motion the final act of the story. When Patroclus is killed by Hector, Achilles is devastated and takes brutal vengeance upon the Trojans. PELEUS. The king of Phthia and the father of Achilles by the sea-nymph Thetis. The story of Peleus overpowering the shape-changing Thetis in a wrestling match was a popular one in antiquity. PHOINIX. A longtime friend and counselor of Peleus, who went with Achilles to Troy as his adviser. In Book 9 of the Iliad, Phoinix spoke of having cared for Achilles when he was a baby, and vainly tried to persuade him to yield and help the Greeks. POLYXENA. The Trojan princess whom Pyrrhus sacrificed at his father’s tomb, before leaving Troy for the voyage home. PRIAM. The elderly king of Troy, who was renowned for his piety and his many children. In Book 24 of the Iliad, he bravely made his way into Achilles’ tent to beg for his son Hector’s body. During the sack of Troy, he was killed by Achilles’ son, Pyrrhus. PYRRHUS. Formally named Neoptolemus but called “Pyrrhus” for his fiery hair, he was the son of Achilles and the princess Deidameia. He joined the war after his father’s death, participating in the trick of the Trojan horse and brutally murdering the old king of Troy, Priam. In Book 2 of the Aeneid, Vergil tells the story of Pyrrhus’ role in the sack of Troy.

The sunset of our world

´ SUNSET OF OUR WORLD Nikolai Klassen´ s last Memoire By Erik Merkel Copyright © 2023 Erik Merkel Coverdesign von: Erik Merkel Illustration von: Erik Merkel Alle Rechte vorbehalten Wefelshohlerstr.5 58511 lüdenscheid ISBN: 978-1-4461-7197-4 Druck: epubli – ein Service der neopubli GmbH, Berlin As I trudged through the knee-deep snow, my boots crunching on the frozen ground, the world around me lay in tranquil whiteness. The sun, still a distant friend back then, painted the landscape in shades of soft pastels as it hung low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the snow-covered plains of Kazakhstan. The chill in the air was biting, a reminder that winter here was no joke, with snow drifts often exceeding three meters. My breath formed wispy clouds in the frigid morning air, and I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck, trying to keep the cold at bay. The village, a collection of modest homes and the occasional small shop, lay nestled in the embrace of the frozen steppe. The buildings, their roofs laden with heavy blankets of snow, looked like something out of a storybook, quaint and picturesque. Approaching the school, I couldn't help but notice the old oak tree that stood sentinel in the courtyard, its gnarled branches covered in frost. The school's red brick façade, though unremarkable in the grand scheme of things, had seen generations of students pass through its doors. It was a place of both learning and hardship for me. As I drew nearer, the faint strains of music reached my ears. It was the school's radio, playing a cheerful tune that stood in stark contrast to the harsh winter morning. The song's melody, accompanied by the distant laughter of my peers, was a bittersweet reminder of the world we knew before it all unravelled. I could see the other students gathering, their breath forming misty plumes as they chatted and played in the snow. Some carried backpacks slung over their shoulders, while others engaged in playful snowball fights. They seemed so carefree, oblivious to the impending cataclysm that would soon change our lives forever. I approached the school's entrance, a wooden door weathered by years of harsh winters and relentless winds. As I pulled it open and stepped inside, the warmth of the building enveloped me, a stark contrast to the icy world outside. The hallway bustled with activity as students hurried to their classrooms, the sounds of footsteps echoing off the linoleum floor. I couldn't help but wonder what the future held. Little did I know that by this time tomorrow, the world as we knew it would be a distant memory, and the sun that now hung low in the sky would become our greatest enemy. But on that cold December morning, life went on as usual, and for a brief moment, I was just a teenager walking to school, lost in the melodies of a fading world. The school day unfolded like many others before it, a mixture of routine and the relentless spectre of bullying that haunted me. My classmates, as always, wasted no time in targeting me for their cruel taunts and jibes. To them, I was an easy target, an outsider who never quite fit in. My friends, few but fiercely loyal, offered a refuge from the storm. Among them was Amir, a fellow bookworm who shared my love for the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky. Amir was a quiet soul, his kindness shining through the timid smile he often wore. Together, we found solace in the pages of Dostoevsky's novels, discussing the complexities of human nature and the struggles of the characters who felt as lost as we did in this world. Then there was Lana, a girl with a fiery spirit and a sharp wit. Lana had a talent for seeing through people's facades, and she was never one to shy away from defending her friends. With her by my side, I felt a bit braver, a bit more capable of weathering the daily storms that raged in our school. As the day progressed, we moved from one class to another, absorbing the lessons our teachers imparted. The Kazakh school system demanded discipline and hard work, but it was a welcome distraction from the harsh realities outside these walls. I clung to my copy of Dostoevsky's 'Crime and Punishment' like a lifeline, finding solace in the troubled mind of Raskolnikov, a character who grappled with guilt and redemption in a world that often felt unforgiving. The novel's yellowed pages were dog-eared and worn from countless readings, a testament to the comfort it provided. Lunchtime was both a respite and a battlefield. In the school cafeteria, I sat with Amir and Lana, our small circle a sanctuary from the cruel stares and whispers that followed me like shadows. We talked about our dreams, our hopes for a better future, and the world beyond the snow-covered plains of Kazakhstan. After lunch, as the winter sun hung low in the sky, we attended our last classes of the day. The classroom was a sea of faces, some familiar and others indifferent to my existence. The teacher's words were a distant murmur as my mind drifted back to the world of Dostoevsky, where characters grappled with the weight of their actions. As the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, Amir, Lana, and I gathered our belongings. We made plans to meet at our secret spot, a small grove of trees on the outskirts of the village. It was a place where we could escape the prying eyes of our tormentors, if only for a little while. But as we stepped outside, the world had changed. The sky, once a canvas of muted pastels, had transformed into a fiery spectacle. The sun, our constant companion, had grown larger and more menacing, casting an eerie red glow across the landscape. Its heat was palpable, even in the midst of winter. Amid the chaos and confusion that erupted among the students and teachers, I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of foreboding. The world as we knew it was unravelling before our eyes, and no amount of Dostoevsky's wisdom could prepare us for what lay ahead. As we made our way to our secret grove, Amir, Lana, and I held tight to each other, our friendship a source of strength in these uncertain times. The sun, now a harbinger of destruction, loomed ominously in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out and touch our very souls. Little did we know that by this time tomorrow, the world would be a different place, and the bonds of friendship that had sustained us would be put to the ultimate test. But for now, in the dying light of a world on the brink of catastrophe, we clung to each other, our hearts filled with both fear and hope. We reached our secret grove on the outskirts of the village, a place where the tall trees provided some much-needed shade from the scorching sun. The air was thick with tension, and the red hue of the sky cast an eerie glow on everything around us. It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something we couldn't yet comprehend. Amir, Lana, and I spread out a blanket on the ground and sat down, our faces reflecting a mix of unease and curiosity. We talked about the strange events of the day, trying to make sense of the sun's ominous transformation. Lana, ever the realist, suggested that we should listen to the news or talk to our parents to find out what was happening. But deep down, I had a sinking feeling that this was something beyond our understanding. We decided to stay put for a while longer, seeking solace in each other's company. Amir took out his worn copy of 'The Brothers Karamazov,' another Dostoevsky masterpiece, and began to read aloud. The words flowed like a river of introspection and philosophy, transporting us to a world far removed from the chaos unfolding around us. As Amir read, Lana and I listened intently, our minds temporarily freed from the weight of impending doom. We lost ourselves in the complexities of Dostoevsky's characters, finding comfort in their struggles and searching for meaning in their journeys. Hours passed in this way, with the sun descending toward the horizon, casting long, dark shadows. It was a day unlike any other, a day when the bonds of friendship felt stronger than ever. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, we knew it was time to go home. We folded up the blanket and made our way back to the village, the sky now a deep crimson that seemed to reflect the turmoil within our hearts. We parted ways with heavy hearts, promising to meet again tomorrow, unsure of what that day would bring. Little did we know that tomorrow would mark the beginning of the end. The walk back home through the deep snow was a quiet one. The sun had now dipped below the horizon, and the world was bathed in a cold, ethereal light. Our footsteps left deep impressions in the snow, a reminder of our passage through the winter landscape. Amir, Lana, and I parted ways at the edge of the village, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The red-tinted sky cast an eerie glow over the village, making it seem both beautiful and foreboding. I arrived home to a cozy little house nestled in the heart of the village. It was a modest dwelling, but it was filled with warmth and the comforting aroma of home-cooked meals. I lived here with my grandmother, my mother, and my two sisters, Ira and Olga. Grandmother, a stern but loving presence in our lives, was always at home, tending to the fields that surrounded our house. She often complained about my sisters, who, in her eyes, were too lazy and inattentive to their duties. Ira, the youngest, was usually glued to her phone, seemingly oblivious to the chores that needed to be done. Olga, the elder of the two, preferred spending time at her friends' houses, leaving much of the household work to Grandmother and me. Today was different, though. Mother had a rare day off from her job at the village bakery. She usually worked long hours there, kneading dough and baking bread to support our family, and the whole village with bread. Tomorrow, she & grandma were planning to visit her sister and some friends out of town. As I entered our warm and welcoming home, the aroma of freshly cooked Manti, my favourite meal, greeted me. Grandmother had spent hours preparing the dumplings, filling them with a Savory mixture of minced meat and spices. The table was set, and the dimly lit room felt like a haven from the strangeness that had taken hold of the world. 'Ah, Nikolai, you're home,' Grandmother exclaimed as I entered. Her voice was a mix of relief and annoyance, a constant companion in our household. 'You're just in time for dinner. Sit down, sit down.' Ira and Olga, who had been lazing around in their respective corners of the room, finally stirred at the prospect of a meal. They joined us at the table, and we all sat down together, a rare moment of family unity. The Manti, steaming hot and perfectly cooked, were a testament to Grandmother's culinary skills. As we dug into our meal, the Flavours filled our mouths, and for a brief moment, we forgot about the impending catastrophe that loomed outside. Grandmother, ever the matriarch, couldn't resist the opportunity to voice her grievances. 'Nikolai, you should talk to your sisters,' she chided between bites. 'They spend all their time on their phones or with their friends. No sense of responsibility at all.' Ira rolled her eyes and mumbled something under her breath, a not-so-subtle sign of teenage rebellion. Olga, who was more diplomatic, shot me an apologetic look before returning to her plate. I glanced at Mother, who had been unusually quiet. Her face held a mix of worry and determination. It was clear that she had something important to share with us, something that weighed heavily on her mind. As we finished our meal, the room fell into a contemplative silence. The red glow of the setting sun outside seemed to seep into the room, casting long shadows on the walls. Tomorrow, as Mother would reveal, our lives would change in ways we couldn't have imagined. But for now, we were a family gathered around the dinner table, united by the simple pleasure of a home-cooked meal and the love that bound us together. After our hearty meal of Manti, the evening settled into a familiar routine. Ira retreated to her room, her phone once again claiming her attention, while Olga decided to visit her friends, leaving Grandmother and me alone in the cozy living room. Grandmother, who always seemed to have boundless energy, continued her usual tasks. She began sorting through seeds for the next planting season, her fingers deftly moving through the pile as she separated the good from the bad. Her muttering about the laziness of my sisters never ceased, but it was a comfortingly familiar background noise. I helped with the chores, fetching water from the well and tending to the fire in the wood-burning stove. The crackling of the firewood and the warmth it radiated were a welcome contrast to the chilling world outside our walls. As the hours passed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of unease about the events of the day. The sun's transformation weighed heavily on my mind, and the impending departure of my mother for her trip out of town added to my growing sense of foreboding. Mother had retreated to her bedroom, presumably to rest before her journey. Her room, with its simple furnishings and a small window that framed a view of the snow-covered fields, held an air of melancholy. I knew she had something important to discuss with us, and I hoped for a moment of quiet reflection before the storm. In the living room, Grandmother's grumbling continued, interspersed with stories of her youth, tales of hardships endured, and triumphs celebrated. Her stories were a testament to the resilience of our people, a reminder of the strength that ran through our veins. The evening grew darker, and the world outside our windows became an inky void. The red glow of the sun had long faded, replaced by a moonless sky. It was a night unlike any other, a night when the world held its breath in anticipation of an unknown fate. As I settled into my room, the thoughts of the day's events and the impending conversation with Mother swirled in my mind. I couldn't shake the feeling that our lives were on the precipice of something monumental, something that would test the bonds of our family and the strength of our spirits. But for now, in the quiet of our home, I lay in my bed, listening to the familiar sounds of my family moving about, their presence a comforting reminder of the love and connection that bound us together. Tomorrow, as Mother & Babushka would go on Their journey, our family would face a new chapter in our story, one filled with uncertainty and challenges we could never have imagined. The day started like any other. Mama and Babushka had left early in the morning, embarking on their journey to another city far away. It was a trip Mama had been planning for a while, a chance to visit her sister and friends, and she had promised to tell us something important when she returned. The four of us kids—Olga, Ira, and I—gathered around the kitchen table for breakfast. Olga, ever the responsible one, was already dressed for work at the village bakery. She gave us a quick smile before heading out the door, leaving the rest of us to finish our meal. As we ate, Mama's absence hung in the air like a silent question. We knew she had left to visit her sister, but there was something unspoken, something important she had yet to reveal to us. Babushka, who usually stayed home to tend to the fields, had gone with her on this trip. After breakfast, Ira and I got ready for school. We bundled up in our warmest coats, scarves, and mittens, preparing for the freezing cold that awaited us outside. The snow had piled up even higher since yesterday, and the world was a pristine canvas of white. We set out on our walk to school, the familiar path lined with snow-covered trees and frozen fields stretching out as far as the eye could see. But as we walked, an unease settled over me, a sense that something was not quite right. Ira and I walked side by side, sharing a pair of headphones as we listened to music on my old portable player. The music, a blend of melodies and lyrics, provided a welcome distraction from the growing tension in the air. We didn't talk much, both lost in our thoughts, but the simple act of sharing the headphones felt like a silent bond between us. As we neared the halfway point to school, Ira turned to me, her eyes reflecting the same unease I felt. 'Nikolai,' she said softly, her voice barely audible over the music, 'Do you ever get the feeling that something bad is going to happen?' I paused the music and looked at her, a lump forming in my throat. 'Ira, I've been feeling the same way all morning,' I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. 'It's like there's something in the air, something we can't quite grasp.' Ira nodded, her brow furrowed with worry. We walked in silence for a while, the weight of our unspoken fears pressing down on us. The snow underfoot seemed to muffle our footsteps, creating an eerie hush in the winter landscape. As we continued our journey to school, the weather began to change. The cold, crisp air of the past few weeks gave way to an unseasonable warmth. The snow around us started to melt, creating slushy puddles that made our walk more challenging. The sun, still hanging low in the sky, seemed brighter and hotter than usual. It cast an intense, almost feverish glow over the world, turning the pristine white of the snow into a glistening, blinding canvas. The contrast between the fiery sun and the frigid landscape was disconcerting, like a riddle we couldn't solve. Ira and I shared worried glances, our thoughts mirroring each other's. Something was definitely wrong, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the feeling of impending doom that hung in the air. With heavy hearts and a sense of foreboding, we resumed our walk to school, each step taking us further into the unknown. The world around us had changed, and as we separated at our respective schools, I couldn't help but wonder what the rest of the day would bring. My walk to school continued, the unease growing with each step. The sun, now an oppressive presence in the sky, seemed to be watching over us with an intensity that bordered on malevolent. The snow, no longer pristine but a slushy mess underfoot, made the journey more arduous. The village school, a modest two-story building of weathered bricks, came into view as I trudged through the increasingly challenging terrain. Its windows, frosted from the cold, offered a glimpse of the world inside, a world of routine lessons and familiar faces. As I entered the schoolyard, the usual hustle and bustle greeted me. Students of all ages, bundled up against the unseasonable warmth, chatted and laughed, their breath forming misty clouds in the air. Teachers stood at their posts, ready to usher us into another day of learning. Ira and I walked together until we reached the point where our paths diverged. She attended a different school, one for younger students, and our separation marked the start of our individual journeys into the world of education. We said our goodbyes, a sense of unease lingering between us, and I watched as she disappeared into the crowd of children heading towards her school. Then, I continued on my way, the weight of my backpack filled with books and notebooks reminding me of the responsibilities that awaited me inside the school's walls. The school's interior was a contrast to the frigid world outside. Warm air enveloped me as I entered the building, and the muffled sounds of chatter and laughter filled the hallway. I joined the flow of students making their way to their respective classrooms, the routine of the morning providing a semblance of normalcy. The day began with my usual subjects—mathematics, literature, and science. The lessons were a mix of routine and distraction, my thoughts drifting back to the strangeness of the world beyond the classroom windows. The sun's relentless intensity had not abated, and the warmth in the school building only added to my discomfort. In mathematics, the numbers on the chalkboard seemed to blur together as I struggled to concentrate. The teacher's voice, normally a comforting backdrop to my thoughts, became a distant drone as my mind wandered. In literature, our teacher delved into the works of Russian writers, their words a familiar refuge in a world that felt increasingly alien. Dostoevsky's characters and their moral dilemmas seemed more relevant than ever, their struggles mirroring the uncertainties of our own lives. As the morning passed, I couldn't help but notice the restlessness among my classmates. The usual energy of youth had been replaced by a sense of disquiet, a shared awareness that something was amiss. During lunchtime, as I sat with my friends Amir and Lana, the topic of conversation naturally gravitated toward the bizarre weather and the sun's unsettling transformation. Amir, the voice of reason, suggested that we should listen to the news or try to find out more information about what was happening. Lana, always quick-witted and observant, shared her own observations. 'Have you noticed how hot it's getting?' she asked, wiping sweat from her brow. 'This is supposed to be winter, but it feels like we're in the middle of a scorching summer.' I nodded in agreement, the oppressive heat weighing on me. The cafeteria, usually a place of lively chatter and laughter, felt stifling, and I couldn't shake the feeling that our world was slipping further into chaos. The afternoon classes passed in a blur, my attention divided between the lessons and the growing unease in the air. The sun, now a fiery orb in the sky, cast long shadows that stretched across the classroom floor. The once-familiar world outside had transformed into an alien landscape, and the whispers of my classmates hinted at a shared fear of the unknown. As the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, I gathered my belongings and made my way out of the building. The sun, now beginning its descent, cast a fiery glow over the village, painting the world in shades of red and orange. As I stepped outside, I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread. The world had changed, and the events of the day had left me with more questions than answers. I knew that something momentous was unfolding, something that would reshape our lives in ways we couldn't yet comprehend. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest as I walked out of school, the surreal and unsettling events of the day looming over me like a storm cloud. The once-familiar landscape of the village now felt like a foreign territory, bathed in the eerie, crimson glow of the sun. As I stepped outside, the world around me was in chaos. Students and teachers rushed out of the school building, their expressions a mix of fear and confusion. The ground shook beneath my feet, and a deafening roar filled the air. I turned my gaze upward, and what I saw defied all reason. Two aircraft, colossal in size, were hurtling toward each other in a deadly collision course. The sky, once a canvas of fiery red, now became the backdrop for a horrific spectacle. I watched in paralyzed horror as the two planes collided with a cataclysmic explosion of flames and debris. One of the aircraft was obliterated instantly, reduced to a fiery rain of wreckage that rained down upon the village. The other, though damaged, continued on a perilous trajectory, its descent taking it in the direction of Ira's school. Time seemed to slow as I sprinted toward Ira's school, my heart racing, and my mind filled with a frantic urgency. The shockwave from the explosion reverberated through the air, sending shockwaves of terror through my body. The world around me blurred as I ran, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. I fumbled for my phone, desperate to call for help or to reach Ira. But as I tried to dial, the phone remained eerily silent, its screen dark and unresponsive. Panic surged within me as I realized that communication had been severed, leaving me alone with my fear and uncertainty. I reached Ira's school in record time, the sight before me a devastating tableau of destruction. The enormous plane had crashed directly into the building, reducing it to a smouldering heap of rubble and flames. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning debris. I called out for Ira, my voice choked with dread, but there was no response. The world had become a nightmare, a surreal landscape where the rules of reality no longer applied. I stumbled through the wreckage, searching for any sign of my sister, praying that she had somehow escaped the catastrophe. The scene was one of unimaginable devastation. The once-familiar school building was unrecognizable, its structure reduced to twisted metal and charred remains. Flames danced hungrily, devouring what was left, and the smoke made it difficult to see or breathe. I heard cries for help, the desperate voices of students and teachers trapped amidst the wreckage. I rushed toward the sound, my hands trembling as I tried to lift debris and clear a path. The heat was suffocating, and the acrid smoke made my eyes water, but I pressed on, my determination fuelled by the need to find Ira. Amidst the chaos, I spotted a group of survivors huddled together, their faces etched with terror and shock. I approached them, asking if they had seen my sister, but their responses were a chorus of confusion. They had witnessed the crash but were too preoccupied with their own survival to notice individual faces. I continued my search, moving through the wreckage with a sense of desperation. Every moment felt like an eternity as I called out for Ira, my voice growing hoarse from the effort. The enormity of the disaster was overwhelming, and I struggled to process the scale of destruction. As I moved deeper into the ruins, I came across a scene that filled me with dread. The wreckage of the plane had embedded itself into the school's structure, creating a nightmarish tangle of metal and flames. It was in this nightmarish tableau that I saw a glimpse of hope—a hand, small and delicate, reaching out from beneath a pile of debris. My heart leaped as I rushed forward, frantically digging through the wreckage. My hands trembled as I moved aside charred beams and twisted metal, my mind filled with a singular, desperate focus—finding my sister. Finally, I saw her, bloodied, and battered but miraculously alive. Ira's eyes, wide with fear, met mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. I reached for her, my hands trembling as I pulled her from the wreckage and into my arms. Tears welled in both our eyes as we clung to each other, the enormity of the moment crashing over us. Ira was safe, miraculously so, and the relief I felt was overwhelming. The world around us was still a scene of chaos and destruction, but in that moment, all that mattered was that we were together. We joined the group of survivors, offering what little comfort and assistance we could. The authorities, firefighters, and emergency responders arrived, their presence a glimmer of hope in the midst of the devastation. The hours that followed were a blur of rescue efforts and chaos. The injured were attended to, and the search for any remaining survivors continued. The enormity of the tragedy was incomprehensible, and the village that had once been our home now lay in ruins. Ira and I, along with our friends Amir and Lana, made our way to the village bakery after the catastrophic events at our schools. The air was still thick with the acrid scent of smoke, and the sky was painted in hues of red and orange from the sun's bizarre transformation. Despite the destruction that surrounded us, the village remained eerily quiet, devoid of the usual sounds of life. As we walked, the warmth of the sun persisted, even though winter should have held its grip on the land. The snow, while still present, had begun to melt in the unseasonable heat, forming slushy puddles at our feet. We couldn't help but comment on the strangeness of it all. 'It's like summer came early,' Amir mused, wiping sweat from his brow. 'But something's not right. Why aren't there any cars on the road?' Lana nodded in agreement, her gaze scanning the empty streets. 'And where are the sirens? Shouldn't there be emergency vehicles rushing to the scene of the plane crash?' The absence of any signs of normalcy only added to our unease. The world outside the bakery seemed empty and desolate, a stark contrast to the bustling village we had known. It was as if the entire world had fallen silent, gripped by an eerie stillness. As we approached the bakery, the sense of foreboding grew stronger. The usually inviting aroma of freshly baked bread that wafted from the shop was conspicuously absent. The windows, once filled with the golden glow of warmth and camaraderie, were now dark and foreboding. We hesitated at the entrance, a shared sense of trepidation binding us together. Something was terribly wrong, and the fear that had been gnawing at the edges of our minds threatened to consume us. Ira, ever the brave one, pushed open the door, and we stepped inside. The bakery, which had always been a hub of activity, was now eerily empty. The shelves that once held rows of freshly baked bread were bare, and the ovens, which had always burned brightly, were cold and lifeless. We stood there in the empty bakery, a feeling of dread settling over us. The warmth of the sun, the empty streets, and the absence of any communication or signs of life left us with more questions than answers. It was as if the world had been plunged into a nightmarish silence, and we were left to navigate its treacherous terrain alone. 'Olga!' I called out into the seemingly empty bakery. There was no response but the eerie echo of my own voice bouncing off the walls. A sense of dread gnawed at me as I shouted her name once more, 'Olga!' Then, from somewhere deep within the bakery, a faint voice responded, 'Who's there?' Relief washed over me as I recognized Olga's voice. I followed the sound through the dimly lit bakery, my footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. The modern lights, usually bright and inviting, were dead, leaving us to navigate in the gloom. As I ventured further into the bakery, I came upon an unexpected sight. In the midst of the darkness, I found Olga sitting across from a fireplace that hadn't been in use since Soviet times. The dim light of the flickering flames danced across her face, casting shadows that seemed to emphasize the gravity of the situation. Beside her sat her friend, their faces marked by exhaustion and concern. They wore aprons dusted with flour, a stark contrast to the usual pristine appearance of the bakery's staff. Olga's expression shifted from surprise to relief as she saw me. 'Nikolai!' she exclaimed, rising from her seat. Her friend, equally relieved, joined her in standing. 'We've been here all day.' Olga explained that they had spent the entire day kneading dough because the mixers had stopped working. The modern ovens, which relied on electricity, had also ceased functioning. It was only thanks to Babushka and Mama's teachings about the old wood-powered ovens that they had managed to bake any bread at all. Now, in the dim light of the fire, they sat patiently, waiting for the bread to finish baking. The realization hit me that in the midst of chaos, it was Olga's determination and resourcefulness that had kept the bakery running. 'We can't let the village go without food, even when there's no power,' Olga said with unwavering resolve. 'Someone has to feed our community.' I explained everything that had happened— the plane crash, the bizarre weather, the absence of communication, and our desperate search for her. Olga listened in disbelief, her eyes widening as the gravity of the situation sank in. The three of us sat by the fireplace, sharing our experiences and fears. The warmth of the fire provided a semblance of comfort in a world that had grown cold and unpredictable. The bakery, once a place of daily routine, had become a refuge in the midst of uncertainty. As we waited for the bread to finish baking, our thoughts turned to the future. The world outside was in turmoil, and we were faced with the daunting task of not only surviving but also unravelling the mysteries that had plunged our village into darkness. Together, as a family and with the support of friends like Amir and Lana, we would face whatever challenges lay ahead, determined to find answers, and restore a sense of normalcy to our shattered world. As we sat by the fireplace, waiting for the bread to finish baking, I couldn't help but wonder why Amir and Lana were still with us. They should have been home by now, with parents worrying about their whereabouts. I turned to Lana and asked, „Lana, shouldn't you be home? Don't your parents wonder where you are?' Lana sighed, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames. 'My parents are on vacation in Costa Rica,' she replied softly. 'They left a few days ago, and I was supposed to stay with my aunt. But when all of this happened today, I couldn't get in touch with her. I have no way of reaching her, and I didn't want to be alone.' Amir chimed in, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. 'I don't have parents,' he admitted. 'I live in a children's home here in the village. The staff there is probably worried about all of us, but I couldn't leave my friends in a time like this.' Olga nodded in understanding. 'We're in this together now,' she said, her determination unwavering. 'We'll figure out a way to contact your aunt, Lana, and we'll make sure you're safe, Amir. For now, we need to stick together and look out for each other.' The realization that our little group was a makeshift family, bound by circumstances beyond our control, settled upon us. We were all navigating this uncertain and treacherous terrain together, and there was a sense of comfort in knowing that we weren't alone in facing the challenges that lay ahead. As we continued to wait for the bread, our conversation turned to our plans for the immediate future. We needed to find a way to contact the outside world, to let someone know that we were alive and well. Our families, whether they were on vacation or waiting for us at home, needed to know that we were safe. But the world outside had become an enigma, a place of silence and uncertainty. The usual means of communication were no longer available to us. We needed to find answers, to uncover the truth behind the strange events that had unfolded. In the dim light of the fire, our resolve grew stronger. Together, as a makeshift family of siblings and friends, we would face the challenges that lay ahead. We would explore the mysteries of our transformed world and seek to restore a sense of normalcy to our lives. The bread, finally finished baking, was a symbol of our determination and resilience. We shared a simple meal by the fireside, savouring the warmth of the moment and the knowledge that we were not alone in our journey into the unknown. After our meal by the fireside, we knew we had to find a way to get home and reunite with our family members. The village, shrouded in an eerie silence, still held the remnants of the chaos that had unfolded earlier in the day. The sun, casting an unnaturally warm glow, hung low on the horizon as evening approached. Amir, Lana, and I decided to set out together to check on our respective homes. As we stepped outside the bakery, the air was still heavy with the scent of smoke and the bizarre warmth of the sun persisted. The village remained eerily quiet, with no signs of life or movement. Our first destination was Amir's children's home, which was a short walk from the bakery. As we approached the familiar building, Amir's steps quickened with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. He pushed open the door and called out to the staff members who cared for him and his fellow residents. Inside, we found the children's home in disarray. The staff, overwhelmed by the events of the day, had been unable to maintain their usual routines. Amir's friends from the home gathered around him, relieved to see him safe. The staff members explained that they had been trying to contact the authorities and find out more about the situation but had been met with silence. Amir shared our plan to check on Lana's aunt and then my family's home. The staff members agreed that it was the best course of action, and they promised to continue their efforts to restore order to the children's home. With Amir's friends from the children's home now under our care, we set out to find Lana's aunt. The journey took us through the deserted streets, the eerie silence broken only by the sound of our footsteps. The sun, still casting its bizarre glow, created long shadows that stretched across our path. As we reached Lana's aunt's house, we were met with a similar scene of abandonment. The door was unlocked, and we cautiously entered, calling out for Lana's aunt. There was no response, only the echo of our voices in the empty house. Lana tried to contact her aunt on her phone, but like our earlier attempts, it remained unresponsive. It was as if all forms of communication had been severed, leaving us isolated in a world that had fallen into silence. We left a note for Lana's aunt, explaining where we were headed and assuring her that Lana was safe. With heavy hearts, we continued our journey toward my family's home. The familiar path, now shrouded in an unsettling stillness, led us through the snow-covered fields and toward the village outskirts. As we approached my family's home, a sense of apprehension gnawed at me. I had no way of knowing if my mother and sisters had returned from their trip or if they were still in the city. The sight of our house, bathed in the warm glow of the unusual sunset, was both comforting and unnerving. We entered the house cautiously, calling out for my family members. There was no response, only the echo of our voices in the empty rooms. I felt a growing sense of dread as I realized that my family was not there. I checked the kitchen, where my mother often spent her evenings baking. The room was untouched, the ingredients for her famous manti still on the counter, waiting to be prepared. It was as if time had stood still in our absence. We searched every room of the house, but there was no sign of my family. The weight of uncertainty settled upon us, and I couldn't help but fear the worst. Had they been caught up in the chaos of the day? Were they safe somewhere, waiting for our return? As we gathered in the living room, the realization sank in that we were now a group of young friends, alone in a world that had grown increasingly mysterious and dangerous. Our homes were empty, and our families were missing. The questions outnumbered the answers, and our journey into the unknown was far from over. Olga would join us later, as she still had a few hours of selling bread at the bakery. With the day waning and the village enveloped in an unnatural warmth, we knew we had to come up with a plan, a way to navigate the uncertainties of our transformed world and uncover the truth behind the inexplicable events that had unfolded. We sat on the couch in my family's empty living room, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on us. Amir, Lana, Ira, and I huddled together, our faces reflecting a mixture of fear, confusion, and determination. The sun, still casting its eerie glow, painted the room in shades of red and orange. 'What could have caused all of this?' Lana mused, her voice filled with a sense of disbelief. 'The planes crashing, the strange weather, the silence—none of it makes any sense.' Amir nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. 'I've heard of things like this happening in other parts of the world, where entire cities lose power and communication. But why here? And why now?' Ira's gaze was fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace, her expression troubled. 'We need to consider all possibilities. It could be a natural disaster or some kind of attack. But we don't have any information to go on.' I couldn't shake the feeling that we were in the midst of something unprecedented and dangerous. 'Whatever it is,' I said, my voice barely above a whisper, 'we need to find out. We can't just sit here and wait for answers to come to us.' With a collective sense of determination, we began to piece together what we knew. The plane crash had been the catalyst for the chaos that followed. The EMP, as we tentatively called it, had disrupted all forms of communication and power, plunging our village into silence. Amir, who had a keen interest in technology, explained that an EMP, or Electromagnetic Pulse, had the potential to disrupt electrical systems and communication networks on a massive scale. It could explain why our phones and all other electronic devices had stopped working. 'But who would do something like this?' Lana asked, her voice tinged with frustration. 'And why target our village? It doesn't make sense.' We brainstormed possible scenarios, from a rogue nation launching an attack to a catastrophic solar event. Each theory brought its own set of questions and uncertainties. Ira, always the pragmatist, brought up the issue of survival. 'We need to think about our immediate needs. Food, water, and shelter. If this situation persists, we'll have to rely on our resources.' Amir nodded in agreement. 'We should gather supplies and secure our homes. Who knows how long this will last?' As we discussed our plans for the immediate future, a sense of unity and purpose began to emerge. We realized that we were in this together, bound by circumstances beyond our control. Our families were missing, and our village was in turmoil, but we had each other. With a shared sense of determination, we decided to gather supplies from our homes and the bakery. We would stockpile food, water, and other essentials in case the situation continued to deteriorate. It was a grim task, but it gave us a sense of purpose in the face of uncertainty. As the evening wore on, and the sun dipped below the horizon, we continued to discuss our situation. Theories and questions filled the air, and the weight of the unknown pressed upon us. But in the midst of the chaos, we found strength in our friendship and our shared resolve to uncover the truth behind the EMP and find our missing family members. “Who would attack an small town like ours? And why?” Amir askes, Amir's question hung in the air as we pondered the mystery of the EMP that had plunged our village into chaos. Who would target a small town like ours, and for what reason? It was a question that had no easy answers. Just then, the door to the living room swung open, and Olga entered, her face marked by exhaustion from a long day at the bakery. She stated, 'It's December, but the sun really feels like it's burning.' I jumped up from the couch, a sudden realization hitting me like a bolt of lightning. 'It's the sun!' I exclaimed, my voice filled with urgency. Everyone in the room turned to me, their expressions a mixture of confusion and curiosity. I could see the question in their eyes, as if I had just uttered something inexplicable. I rushed into my room, Amir following closely behind. I knew I needed to find something in my collection of books that would help me explain my sudden revelation. Amir watched as I frantically searched through the shelves, pulling out books on astronomy, physics, and the sun's behaviour. I finally located a dusty old tome that I had inherited from my grandfather, a book that delved into the mysteries of celestial phenomena. I flipped through the pages, my heart pounding with excitement and trepidation. 'Amir,' I said, my voice trembling, 'I think I know what's happening. It's the sun, but not in the way we think.' Amir leaned closer, his eyes scanning the pages of the book. 'What do you mean, Nikolai? Explain.' I pointed to a passage that described solar phenomena, specifically the behaviour of stars like our sun as they neared the end of their life cycles. 'This book talks about how stars can go through dramatic changes as they age. Sometimes, they expand and become what's known as a red giant.' Amir's brow furrowed in understanding. 'So, you're saying that the sun has...expanded?' I nodded. 'Yes, and that could explain the unusual warmth we've been experiencing, the bizarre weather, and even the EMP. When a star like our sun goes through these changes, it can emit intense bursts of energy, including electromagnetic radiation.' Amir's eyes widened as he connected the dots. 'An electromagnetic pulse,' he whispered. 'But why would the sun do this now?' I flipped through the book, searching for more information. 'It's a natural process, but it usually happens over billions of years. Something must have triggered it to occur suddenly. It could be a rare celestial event or some other unknown factor.' We stood there, the weight of our revelation sinking in. The sun, the very source of life on our planet, had become our greatest threat. The implications were staggering, and we realized that we were facing a crisis of astronomical proportions. We had more questions than answers, but at least we had a lead, a possible explanation for the events that had unfolded. Now, armed with this newfound knowledge, we would need to find a way to survive in a world where the sun itself had become our adversary. As we shared our discovery with Olga, Lana, and Ira, the room buzzed with a sense of urgency and purpose. We were determined to uncover the truth behind the sun's transformation, to find our missing family members, and to face the challenges that lay ahead, no matter how astronomical they might be. With our newfound understanding that the sun's unusual behaviour might be at the heart of the crisis, I knew that we needed more information to fully grasp the extent of the situation. My thoughts turned to the old Soviet radio that Babushka had kept in our family for years. It was the kind that ran on batteries and had been tucked away in the basement for as long as I could remember. I turned to Olga and asked, 'Olga, do you know where Babushka's Soviet radio is? You didn't throw it away, did you?' Olga furrowed her brow in thought. 'Which one are you talking about? We have a few radios lying around.' I specified, 'The one that uses batteries, the old Soviet one. It's in the basement, I think.' Olga nodded, understanding my request. She headed into the kitchen, where a small trapdoor in the floor led to the basement. We all waited in anticipation, knowing that the basement was a place filled with relics from the past, including the radio that might hold answers to our questions. As Olga descended into the darkness of the basement, I realized that we would need a source of light to navigate the space. I turned to the group and asked, 'Does anyone have something like a torch or a flashlight? It's dark down there, and we'll need to see if we're going to find that radio. Lana reached into her bag and pulled out a small flashlight, its beam of light cutting through the darkness. We all nodded in gratitude, and Ira turned it on, illuminating the trapdoor and the narrow staircase that led into the basement. Olga's voice drifted up from below. 'I've found it,' she called out, her tone a mix of relief and excitement. 'It's right here.' We carefully made our way down the stairs, following the beam of the flashlight as it revealed the contents of the basement. It was a space filled with memories and remnants of the past—old furniture, dusty boxes, and forgotten items that had been stored away for generations. As we reached the bottom of the stairs, Olga handed me the Soviet radio. It was a relic of a bygone era, with its retro design and the familiar Cyrillic markings. The fact that it ran on batteries gave us hope that it might still function despite the EMP's disruption of electrical systems. I took the radio in my hands, a sense of anticipation building. With trembling fingers, I turned the dial and powered it on. The crackling sound of static filled the room, and we held our breath, waiting to see if we could pick up any signals in the midst of the electromagnetic interference that had engulfed our world. The dial moved slowly, and as we listened intently, we began to hear faint voices and snippets of broadcasts. It was a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a connection to the outside world that we had lost. Olga adjusted the dial further, searching for a stronger signal. The voices became clearer, and we could hear snippets of news reports and emergency broadcasts. The world beyond our village was in turmoil, and we were about to learn just how dire the situation had become. As the radio crackled to life, we gathered around, our hearts heavy with the knowledge that our journey into the unknown had only just begun. The radio, a relic of the past, would now become our window to the world and a source of vital information as we navigated the challenges and mysteries of our transformed reality. Then we heard it…. I Repeat Emergency Worldwide Radio Broadcast - Mayday Static crackles as the broadcast begins, followed by a solemn, authoritative voice. Attention, citizens of Earth. This is an international emergency broadcast. We regret to inform you that a cataclysmic event is unfolding as we speak. The sun, our life-giving star, is in the process of self-destruction. Earlier today, it emitted an unprecedented electromagnetic pulse (EMP) that has effectively rendered all modern technology inoperable. The situation is dire, and we have little time left. Science has foreseen this event, but the exact timing was beyond our predictions. The sun, the celestial body that has nurtured life on Earth for billions of years, is now on the brink of a catastrophic explosion that will consume our world, our galaxy, and everything within it. In this moment of crisis, we urge you to prioritize what truly matters. Cherish the time you have left. Gather with your loved ones, your friends, your neighbours. Share stories, laughter, and tears. Hold each other close and let love be your guide in these final moments. It could be today, or it could be a matter of days, but the end is inevitable. Our institutions, our disputes, our worries—none of them matter anymore. It's time to find solace in the connections we've forged, the moments we've shared, and the love that has defined us as humanity. Look to the sky, for it is there that our story ends, not in despair, but in unity and love. Reach out to those you care for, and together, let us make these final moments on Earth a testament to the beauty of our shared existence. May love, compassion, and the bonds of humanity light your path in these trying times. The broadcast ends, fading into Static crackles as the broadcast begins again. As the broadcast concluded, the room was filled with a heavy silence. We exchanged sombre glances, the weight of the message sinking in. Olga, breaking the silence, stated, 'So it's true. Nikolai was right.' I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. The reality of our situation was undeniable. The world as we knew it was coming to an end, not in despair, but in a shared acknowledgment of our humanity and the love that bound us. We were facing an unprecedented catastrophe, and there was little time left. The sun, the very source of life on Earth, was on the brink of a catastrophic explosion that would consume our world and everything within it. In that moment, we realized that our journey into the unknown had taken a profound turn. We were no longer just trying to survive; we were trying to make the most of the precious time we had left, to find meaning and connection in the face of the inevitable. As the sun continued to cast its eerie glow outside, we knew that our world had changed forever. The challenges ahead were immense, but we were determined to face them together, to let love, compassion, and the bonds of humanity light our path in these trying times. As Amir, Lana, and Ira began to talk and tears welled up in their eyes, the weight of our situation pressed upon us. The reality of the impending catastrophe was sinking in, and the uncertainty of our future was overwhelming. I turned to Olga, who had just suggested that we eat something and take some time to process all that we had learned. It was a practical and necessary suggestion in the midst of our emotional turmoil. 'So first, we eat something,' I agreed, my voice calm but my heart heavy. 'And we need to process all of this. Tomorrow, we'll make a plan for how we proceed further.' Olga nodded in agreement and turned to head into the kitchen. I followed her, the soft glow of the flashlight guiding our way. As we entered the kitchen, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the old gas-powered stove that had been a fixture in our home for over four decades. Babushka had always sworn by Soviet technology, and her faith in the durability of this stove had proven well-founded. It was a relic from a bygone era, but it still worked flawlessly, unaffected by the EMP that had rendered modern appliances useless. I set to work preparing a simple meal, drawing from the supplies we had gathered earlier. It was a meal of comfort, a reminder of the familiar routines of our past lives. As I cooked, the aroma of the food filled the kitchen, a small but welcome comfort in the midst of uncertainty. In the living room, Lana, Amir, and Ira had taken their seats in silence. Their faces were etched with a mixture of fear, sadness, and disbelief. I knew that we all needed time to process the enormity of the situation, to come to terms with the fact that our world was on the brink of destruction. As Olga and I worked together in the kitchen, the soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of plates and utensils filled the air. It was a reminder that even in the face of impending catastrophe, the bonds of friendship and family remained steadfast. After a while, Olga and I returned to the living room, carrying plates of food. We set them on the coffee table, and as we all gathered around, there was a palpable sense of unity. We were in this together, facing the unknown as a makeshift family of siblings and friends. The meal was simple but comforting—warm soup, bread, and a few vegetables. We ate in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. It was a meal that provided sustenance not only for our bodies but also for our souls, a reminder of the shared moments of normalcy that we cherished. As we finished eating, the weight of our conversation from earlier still hung in the air. Amir, Lana, and Ira began to speak again, their voices trembling with emotion. 'What are we going to do?' Lana asked, her eyes searching for answers. I took a deep breath and met Olga's gaze. 'We'll figure it out together,' I replied. 'For now, let's rest and gather our strength. Tomorrow, we'll face the challenges that lie ahead with a plan and a shared determination.' With that, we cleared the dishes and made our way to the bedrooms, finding whatever comfort we could in the embrace of sleep. The night was long, filled with restless dreams and the haunting reality of our world's impending demise. But as we lay there in the darkness, I knew that the bonds of friendship and family would carry us through the trials that lay ahead. In the face of uncertainty, we were not alone, and together, we would find a way to navigate the unknown and make the most of the time we had left. The evening had stretched on, and the old analogue clock on the wall stubbornly marked the passage of time. It was already 11 PM, and the exhaustion of the day's emotional rollercoaster was beginning to take its toll. Amir and Lana had been sitting on the couch in the living room, their faces etched with weariness. Ira, who had been sitting in the dimly lit room with them, spoke up. 'It's getting late, and we've all had a long day. We should get some rest.' Amir nodded in agreement, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. 'She's right. We need to conserve our energy for whatever lies ahead.' Lana, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, looked at me and hesitated before speaking. 'Nikolai, can I sleep with you?' I blinked in surprise at her request. I had initially planned for Amir and Lana to sleep in the living room, where there was more space. But Lana's question caught me off guard. Ira seemed equally taken aback. 'Lana, why would you want to sleep with Nikolai? There's plenty of room out here.' Lana glanced at Ira, her expression conflicted. 'I just... I feel safer with him. Please, Ira.' Ira looked at me, her eyes seeking an answer. I was torn. On one hand, I understood Lana's need for comfort and security in the midst of the chaos surrounding us. On the other hand, I didn't want to cause any unnecessary tension or discomfort among our group. After a quick internal debate, I relented. 'Alright, Lana. You can sleep in my room. We'll make room for you.' Ira let out a huff of frustration but didn't protest further. Amir, who had been silent during the exchange, simply nodded, too tired to voice an opinion. As I closed the door to my room behind us, Lana turned to me with a grateful smile. 'Thank you, Nikolai. I just... I needed to be close to someone I trust.' I returned her smile, understanding the need for comfort in these uncertain times. 'I understand, Lana. We'll look out for each other.' Lana's eyes softened, and before I could react, she leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was a soft, fleeting kiss, filled with a mix of gratitude, longing, and fear. My heart raced, and for a moment, I was taken aback by the unexpected gesture. Lana pulled away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 'I'm sorry, Nikolai. I didn't mean to...' I placed a finger on her lips to silence her. 'It's okay, Lana,' I whispered, my own feelings a jumble of confusion and warmth. 'We're in this together, and we'll find comfort where we can.' With that, we settled into my room, Amir and Ira in the living room. The old clock on the wall continued to tick away the minutes, a reminder of the passage of time in our ever-changing world. As I lay in bed with Lana beside me, the events of the day replayed in my mind. The sun's transformation, the emergency broadcast, and the looming catastrophe were all too real. But in that moment, as Lana nestled closer, seeking solace and comfort, I found a glimmer of hope in the midst of the darkness. We were a group of friends and siblings, facing the unknown together. In our shared vulnerability and fear, we had found a connection that transcended the chaos of the world outside. And as we drifted into sleep, I held onto that connection, knowing that it was our greatest source of strength in the uncertain days that lay ahead. As I lay in bed, my thoughts drifting into the introspective realm between wakefulness and sleep, Lana suddenly pulled me out of my reverie. It happened so abruptly that I felt a jolt of surprise. She turned over to face me, her eyes locked onto mine with a sense of urgency. 'Nikolai,' she began, her voice trembling with emotion, „I wanted to tell you this on your birthday, but now... I don't know if we'll live until then.' Her words hung in the air, laden with unspoken feelings. I watched her, my heart pounding, as the weight of what she was about to say settled over us. 'I love you,' Lana confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. 'More than any friend.' For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Lana's declaration hung between us like a delicate thread, a declaration of emotions that had long been buried beneath the surface. I swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to respond. In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded us, Lana's confession was a beacon of raw, unfiltered truth. 'Lana,' I finally managed to say, my voice filled with a mix of gratitude and tenderness, 'I love you too.' Without another word, we embraced each other, our bodies drawn together by an unspoken understanding of the depth of our feelings. It was a hug that spoke volumes, a connection forged in the crucible of a world on the brink of destruction. As we held each other, our breathing gradually slowed, and the tension that had built between us began to dissipate. In that moment, it was as if the outside world had faded away, leaving only the two of us, sharing our love and vulnerability in the face of the unknown. Eventually, we both drifted into sleep, still wrapped in each other's arms. The old analogue clock on the wall continued to mark the passage of time, but in the cocoon of our shared embrace, we found solace and strength. We were a group of friends and siblings, facing an uncertain future together, but in the intimacy of that moment, Lana and I had discovered a love that would serve as our anchor in the turbulent waters ahead. The morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow in my room as I stirred awake. Lana lay beside me, her presence a comforting reminder of the night before. We had shared our feelings in a moment of vulnerability, and it had deepened the connection between us. I gently disentangled myself from Lana's embrace, careful not to wake her, and made my way to the kitchen where Olga was already busy preparing breakfast. The fragrant aroma of freshly brewed tea and the sizzling sound of eggs greeted me. Olga looked up from the stove and offered me a warm smile. 'Good morning, Nikolai. It's almost your birthday, you know.' I nodded, the weight of the impending celebration tinged with sadness. 'Yes, it is. But what I really want is to see Mama and Babushka again.' Olga's expression softened, understanding the depth of my longing. 'We all do, Nikolai. We'll do everything we can to find them.' We both fell silent for a moment, lost in our own thoughts. The uncertainty of our situation weighed heavily on us, but there was also a glimmer of hope, a determination to reunite with our family. As we finished breakfast, we gathered around the table, a sense of purpose in the air. The overnight disappearance of the snow had not gone unnoticed. It was as if the world itself was undergoing a transformation, mirroring the upheaval in our lives. I cleared my throat, breaking the silence. 'We need a plan,' I began. 'We have to get to Pavlodar, where Mama's sister lives. If there's any chance of finding them, it's there.' Amir nodded in agreement. 'Pavlodar is a major city. There might be more information and resources available there.' Lana, her eyes still bearing the traces of last night's emotions, spoke up. 'But how do we get there? None of the car’s work, and it's too far to walk.' Ira, who had been listening quietly, offered a suggestion. 'We could try to find bicycles. They don't rely on electricity, and they could get us to Pavlodar faster than walking.' The idea had merit, and we all nodded in agreement. Bicycles would be our means of transportation, a way to navigate the unpredictable terrain that lay between us and Pavlodar. As we sat around the breakfast table, our plan to find bicycles seemed promising, but there was a sudden interruption in the midst of our discussion. I couldn't help but remember the old car that had been stored away in the barn for years. It was a relic from the 1970s, a vehicle that barely relied on modern technologies or electricity. I interrupted the conversation, my voice filled with a mix of excitement and hope. 'Wait a minute, everyone. Doesn't Grandma have that old car in the barn? It's from the 1970s, and it doesn't rely on any modern technologies. Olga, you know how to drive, right?” Olga nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. 'Yes, I do. I've seen Babushka tinker with that car countless times. It's a simple, sturdy vehicle, and I think it might still work.' The idea of the old car sparked a renewed sense of hope in the room. We decided to go outside to the barn to inspect the vehicle, hopeful that it would provide us with a means of transportation to Pavlodar. However, as we stepped outside into the bright December sunlight, we were met with a startling reality. The sun, which had been a constant presence in the sky since the EMP event, burned hot on our skin. It was an unusual and uncomfortable sensation, as if the very atmosphere had been altered by the sun's erratic behaviour. Despite the cold December date, the sun's intensity made it clear that we couldn't simply walk to the barn without protection. It was a sobering reminder of the unpredictable changes that had occurred in the world. We quickly retreated back inside the house, seeking refuge from the scorching sun. Our initial excitement about the car in the barn was dampened by the harsh reality that we couldn't venture outside without a plan to protect ourselves from the sun's heat and radiation. Ira, always resourceful, suggested, 'We should find something to cover ourselves, like blankets or old clothes. If we can shield ourselves from the sun, we might be able to reach the barn safely.' Amir, Lana, Olga, and I all nodded in agreement. We began searching the house for anything that could serve as makeshift protection from the sun's intense rays. Old blankets, curtains, and clothing were gathered, and we fashioned them into makeshift shawls, head coverings, and sun-blocking layers. Once we were properly shielded, we ventured outside again, our makeshift protection providing some relief from the sun's oppressive heat. We made our way to the barn, our hopes riding on the old car that had been hidden away for decades. As we approached the barn, a sense of anticipation hung in the air. The old wooden doors creaked open, revealing the vintage car that had been preserved within. It was a relic from a different era, its faded paint and weathered exterior a testament to the passage of time. Olga approached the car, her fingers running over its surface. 'I remember Babushka talking about this car. She used to take it out for drives in the countryside.' Amir, who had a knack for mechanics, inspected the car's engine. 'It looks like it's in decent condition. The engine is simple, and it might just work.' With cautious optimism, we decided to attempt starting the car. Olga took the driver's seat, her hands trembling slightly as she inserted the key into the ignition. With a turn of the key, the engine roared to life with surprising ease, the sound of its vintage motor filling the air. We exchanged looks of disbelief and relief. It seemed that we had found our means of transportation to Pavlodar. The old car, a relic from a bygone era, had come to life in a world where modern technology had failed. 'Come on, let's go for a ride,' Olga said with a determined smile, her excitement palpable. We all eagerly hopped into the old black Volga, a relic from a different era. The car had a timeless charm, even in its weathered condition. The Volga was a classic Soviet sedan, known for its robustness and durability. Its black exterior had faded with time, and the chrome accents showed signs of rust, but it still retained an air of old-world elegance. The leather seats, though cracked and worn, were surprisingly comfortable, and the smell of aged leather filled the car's interior. As we settled into the car, I couldn't help but admire the vintage dashboard, complete with a simple radio and a few analogue gauges. The steering wheel had a well-worn feel to it, a testament to the countless miles it had traversed in its lifetime. Ira, always curious, broke the silence. 'Where are we going, Olga?' Olga's grip on the steering wheel tightened as she navigated the car out of the barn and onto the gravel road. 'We're heading to Nadja 's shop down the street,' she replied. 'The drive to Pavlodar will take hours, and we need resources—food, water, and anything else we can find to help us on our journey.' The old Volga rumbled to life, its engine purring with a sense of purpose. We were a determined group, setting out into the unknown, and the car seemed to share in our determination. However, our excitement was short-lived. As Olga drove the car a short distance from the barn, it suddenly sputtered and came to a halt. The engine fell silent, and the car's headlights dimmed. 'Blyat,' Olga muttered in frustration. 'We're out of gas!' The realization hit us like a cold wave. We had a means of transportation, but we had overlooked the fact that the car would need fuel to get us to our destination. It was a stark reminder that even the most well-laid plans could be derailed by the unforgiving realities of our changed world. We exchanged glances, a mixture of frustration and resignation washing over us. Our journey had hit its first major obstacle, and we would need to find a solution quickly if we were to continue our quest to reach Pavlodar and reunite with our family. As the realization that we were out of gas settled in, we found ourselves in a state of frustration and uncertainty. The old Volga sat immobile on the gravel road, its engine silent and its potential as a means of transportation suddenly stymied. We had a long road ahead of us to reach Pavlodar, and without fuel, our journey was at a standstill. Amir, ever the pragmatist, was the first to speak up. 'We need to find gas, plain and simple. The question is, where do we even begin looking in a world where nothing seems to work anymore?' Ira, always quick with questions, chimed in. 'Do we even have containers to carry the gas if we find it? And where do we find gas in the first place?' Olga, who had been behind the wheel when the car stopped, sighed in frustration. 'We do have some empty canisters back in the barn, but finding gas is going to be a challenge. Gas stations won't work without electricity, and siphoning gas from other vehicles could be risky.' Lana, her expression a mix of concern and determination, added, 'We can't stay here for long. The sun is getting hotter, and we need to keep moving. But without gas, our options are limited.' I weighed in with a sense of urgency. 'We have to think creatively. Maybe we can find an old gas station that still has some reserves, or perhaps there's a hidden stash of fuel somewhere. We can't give up on the car just yet.' The discussion continued, our voices overlapping with ideas and concerns. We considered various possibilities, from searching abandoned gas stations to even attempting to extract fuel from old vehicles, a risky endeavour given the volatility of gasoline. But each idea seemed to come with its own set of challenges and uncertainties. The world had changed dramatically, and the rules we once knew no longer applied. It was as if we were navigating uncharted territory, and the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. As the discussion went on, it became clear that finding gas was just one piece of the puzzle. We needed to consider the logistics of transporting it safely, the risks involved in scavenging in a world without law and order, and the timing of our actions given the intensifying heat of the sun. Despite our collective intelligence and determination, we couldn't come to a conclusive plan of action. The magnitude of the task ahead weighed on us, and the uncertainty of our situation left us feeling vulnerable and exposed. Amir interrupts everyone, “guys the cars on the street, they don’t work anymore, right?”, everyone nods, “So if they don’t work, and nobody is using them, then why not just take their Gas? We would only need like a long tube to get it out.” Amir's interruption hung in the air, his words carrying a glimmer of hope. We had been grappling with the challenge of finding gas in a world where modern infrastructure had collapsed, and Amir's suggestion offered a potential solution. Ira was the first to respond, her expression thoughtful. 'Amir, it's a good idea in theory, but it's not without risks. What if we get caught by someone who's protective of their fuel? People can be unpredictable in times like these.' Amir nodded, acknowledging the concerns. 'You're right, Ira. We'll need to be cautious and resourceful if we decide to go down this route. But if we can find a way to extract fuel safely, it could solve our problem.' Olga chimed in, 'We should also consider the logistics of transporting the fuel back here. We don't want to risk spillage or accidents.' Lana, ever the realist, added, 'And we need to act quickly. The longer we stay here, the more the sun's heat intensifies.' I took a moment to reflect on the discussion. Amir's suggestion had opened up a potential avenue for us to acquire the much-needed gas for the car, but it was not without its challenges and uncertainties. In a world where the rules had changed, every decision we made had consequences. 'Let's consider all the options,' I suggested. 'We need to assess the risks and benefits of each approach carefully. Our goal is to get the car running again so we can go on our journey to Pavlodar.' 'Fuck it, let's do it,' Olga declared with a determined look in her eyes. Her words were like a rallying cry, and we all nodded in agreement. It was time to take action, to find a way to get the car running again so we could continue our journey. We followed Olga back inside the house, where we had prepared makeshift coverings to protect ourselves from the scorching sun. The oppressive heat outside made every moment crucial, and we were motivated by the urgency of our situation. Olga disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a few old milk barrels. It was clear that she had a plan in mind. We gathered around her, eager to hear the details. 'Now we only need an inner tube,' Olga mused aloud, her gaze sweeping the room as if searching for inspiration. Ira, always resourceful, spoke up. 'Grandma always uses that hose in the garden and fields. Nikolai, can you help me retrieve it? We can trim it up into a few long pieces for the tubing.' I nodded in agreement. 'Of course, Ira. Let's go get that hose.' Together, Ira and I made our way to the garden where Grandma had tended to her plants and crops. The sun beat down on us, a constant reminder of the urgency of our mission. We found the hose tucked away in a corner, half-buried in the dirt. With effort, we managed to dislodge it from the ground and carry it back to the house. It was a cumbersome task, made all the more challenging by the unrelenting heat, but our determination fuelled our efforts. As we returned to the house with the hose in tow, we could see Olga and the others preparing for the next steps of our plan. The old milk barrels were laid out, and we knew that the time had come to extract the precious fuel that would breathe life back into the old Volga. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a harsh and unforgiving light over our actions. But we were a group bound by love and resilience, and as we embarked on this risky endeavour to secure the car's fuel, we did so with a sense of purpose and determination. Olga stood at the kitchen table, her focus unwavering as she skilfully cut the hose into several pieces. Her hands moved with precision, and the atmosphere in the room was charged with a sense of purpose. 'So, everyone gets a barrel and a tube,' Olga explained, her voice firm and determined. 'You put it inside the car's gas tank and suck on it until the petrol starts to flow. Then, just let it flow into the barrel. But remember, it's hot out there, and the petrol can evaporate quickly, so make sure to close the lid of the barrel tightly after you're done. Any questions?' We exchanged glances, absorbing Olga's instructions. The plan was simple yet carried inherent risks. We understood that the urgency of our situation demanded action, and this was a task we needed to complete to get the car running. Lana spoke up, her voice reflecting the gravity of the situation. 'We need to be careful and efficient. We don't want to waste any fuel or draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.' Amir nodded in agreement. 'And we should work in pairs, just in case. Safety first.' Olga's expression was resolute as she looked at each of us. 'Exactly. Safety first. We have a chance to get this car running, and we can't afford to mess it up.' With a shared sense of determination, we set to work. We gathered the barrels and tubes, each of us taking on the responsibility of extracting fuel from the stranded cars in the street. The sun beat down on us relentlessly, a constant reminder of the world outside, but we were resolute in our mission. As we ventured outside to begin the risky process of siphoning fuel, we were driven by the hope of reuniting with our family in Pavlodar. The world had changed, but our bond and resilience remained unshaken. We were a group of friends and siblings, facing the unknown together, and we were determined to overcome the challenges that lay ahead. As we stepped out into the unforgiving heat of the day, the urgency of our mission weighed heavily on our shoulders. Armed with our makeshift tools—a tube and an old milk barrel—we divided into pairs, each group assigned to siphon fuel from the stranded cars scattered along the street. Amir, for some reason, was determined to work alone. Lana and I made our way to the nearest car. It was an old sedan, its once sleek exterior now battered and faded from years of neglect. The sun's intensity bore down on us as we approached the vehicle. Lana held the milk barrel, and I held the tube, both of us keenly aware of the risks and challenges ahead. 'Remember, Lana,' I said, my voice tinged with urgency. 'We need to be careful and quick. The longer we're out here, the more the sun's heat becomes unbearable.' Lana nodded, her determination matching my own. We carefully opened the car's gas tank, and I inserted the tube, ready to begin siphoning the precious fuel. We had practiced the procedure in the safety of the house, but now the real test awaited us. I placed my lips around the tube and began to suck gently, the taste of gasoline filling my mouth. It was an odd sensation, but the knowledge that we needed this fuel to continue our journey drove me forward. After a few moments, the flow of fuel began, and I directed it into the milk barrel held by Lana. The process was slow, and the sun's relentless heat bore down on us as we worked. Lana watched the fuel level in the barrel rise, her eyes focused and determined. We knew that every drop of petrol we collected was precious. Meanwhile, Olga and Ira worked in unison on another car further down the street. Olga was meticulous in her actions, ensuring that the procedure went smoothly. Ira, always eager to contribute, helped by holding the barrel steady. Amir, however, had insisted on working alone. He approached a pickup truck a little way down from us, a look of determination on his face. We could see him insert the tube into the gas tank and begin to suck, attempting to siphon the fuel. But as Lana and I continued our slow but steady progress, we couldn't help but notice that something was amiss with Amir's efforts. He seemed to be struggling, and his body language conveyed frustration. I exchanged a worried glance with Lana. 'Something doesn't seem right with Amir,' I whispered. 'He might be having trouble with the siphoning process.' Lana nodded, equally concerned. We continued our work, but our attention was divided. Amir's situation troubled us, and we knew that any mistake in this process could have dire consequences. As we siphoned fuel from the old sedan, our minds raced with questions about Amir. Had he encountered difficulties? Was he in need of assistance? The sun's relentless heat only added to our growing unease. After what felt like an eternity, we managed to fill the milk barrel with petrol. The process had been slow and gruelling, but we knew that we had accomplished an essential task. Carefully, we capped the barrel, ensuring that not a drop of fuel would be lost to evaporation. With our mission complete, Lana and I turned our attention back to Amir, concern etched across our faces. We could see him struggling with the tube, his frustration evident in his body language. It was clear that something had gone wrong. Lana took the lead, her voice filled with worry as she called out to him. 'Amir, do you need help? Are you okay?' Amir looked up, his face flushed from the heat and frustration. 'I can't get this damn thing to work,' he admitted, his voice strained. Lana and I rushed over to him, determined to assist our friend. We could see that he had made a mess of things, and the fuel from the pickup truck was spilled on the ground, a precious resource wasted. Ira and Olga, having completed their task, joined us as well. Together, we assessed the situation and tried to salvage what we could. But the spilled gasoline and the frustration on Amir's face were stark reminders of the challenges we faced in this unpredictable world. As we worked to clean up the spilled fuel and comforted Amir, the sun continued its relentless assault on us. We were a group bound by love and resilience, but we were also learning the hard way that every action we took in this changed world had consequences, and mistakes could be costly. With the spilled fuel creating a mess and Amir clearly frustrated, we realized that continuing our efforts under the scorching sun was not only unproductive but also potentially dangerous. The heat was relentless, and we couldn't afford to waste any more time or resources. Lana and I, along with Olga and Ira, rushed to Amir's side to help him clean up the spilled gasoline. We knew that every drop of fuel was precious, and seeing it wasted was disheartening. As we worked to contain the spill and ensure that no more fuel was lost, the intensity of the sun bore down on us, making our efforts all the more challenging. The world outside had become a hostile and unforgiving place, and our actions were governed by a sense of urgency and the need to adapt to our changed circumstances. Finally, with the spill cleaned up as best as we could manage, we retreated indoors, seeking refuge from the scorching heat. The sensation of being in the shade and out of the sun's direct rays was a welcome relief, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief. I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked around at my friends and sisters. We were gathered in the living room, and it was clear that a sense of exhaustion and frustration hung in the air. We had the fuel we needed, but our efforts had been marred by difficulties and setbacks. 'Phew, now we have the fuel and the car,' I said, trying to inject a note of optimism into the room. 'But we need a plan.' My words hung in the air, and I could see that my friends and sisters were eager to hear what I had in mind. We had accomplished a crucial step by securing the fuel, but the challenges we faced on our journey to Pavlodar were far from over. I continued, my voice steady and determined. 'We know the car works, and we have the fuel. Our next step is to plan our route and make sure we have enough supplies to get us to Pavlodar. We can't afford to make any mistakes from here on out.' As I spoke, I could see a renewed sense of purpose in the eyes of my companions. We were a group bound by love and resilience, and even in the face of adversity, our determination to reunite with our family in Pavlodar remained unwavering. But the road ahead was still uncertain, and our journey through this changed world was filled with challenges and unknowns. It was up to us to forge a path forward, relying on our resourcefulness and the bonds of friendship and family to guide us through the uncertain days that lay ahead. We gathered around the kitchen table, the list of needs being our lifeline in this unpredictable world. The room was bathed in the soft, warm light filtering through the curtains, a stark contrast to the harsh sun outside. With the fuel secured and the car waiting, it was essential to plan meticulously for our journey to Pavlodar. I took a deep breath, my gaze shifting to each of my companions as we began to compile the list of necessities. We knew that every item we included had to serve a practical purpose; there was no room for luxuries or excess baggage. Ira, always practical and detail-oriented, spoke up first. 'We need food and water, enough to sustain us for the journey. We can't rely on finding supplies along the way, given the state of the world.' Lana, equally focused, added, 'We should also have a first-aid kit. You never know when it might come in handy, especially in a world without immediate medical assistance.” Olga, with her knack for planning, chimed in, 'Blankets and warm clothing. Nights can get cold, and we need to stay warm while we sleep in the car.' Amir, having learned the importance of preparation, stated, 'A map. We can't rely on GPS anymore, and we need to have a clear route to Pavlodar.' I nodded in agreement with each suggestion. 'We should also take any useful tools we can find—like a flashlight, a Swiss Army knife, and a few spare parts for the car in case it breaks down.' With each item added to the list, a sense of purpose and determination settled over us. We understood that our journey would be fraught with challenges, and having the essentials would be our lifeline. As we continued to compile the list, we did so with a sense of pragmatism, knowing that every item we included had to serve a practical purpose in our journey through this changed world. When we finally had a comprehensive list of our real needs—food, water, first-aid supplies, blankets and warm clothing, a map, useful tools, and spare parts for the car—we shared a collective sense of accomplishment. We were ready to face the unknown, armed with our determination, resourcefulness, and a clear plan of action. The road ahead was uncertain, but we were a group bound by love and resilience. With our list of needs in hand, we were prepared to embark on the next leg of our journey to Pavlodar, where the hope of reuniting with our family kept us moving forward, even in the face of an unpredictable and unforgiving world. With our list of essential needs in hand, we set out on a mission to gather supplies for our journey to Pavlodar. The world outside was unrecognizable, a stark departure from the life we had once known. But we were driven by the unbreakable bonds of family and friendship and a determination to reunite with our loved ones. Our first stop was the local grocery store. We knew that securing food and water was paramount, as these provisions would sustain us on the long and arduous journey ahead. As we entered the store, the sight that greeted us was both eerie and unsettling. The shelves, once stocked with a vast array of goods, stood bare and empty. It was a stark reminder of the scarcity that had gripped the world since the sun's catastrophic eruption. We scoured the store for any remaining supplies, gathering non-perishable food items and bottled water wherever we could find them. Our efforts were a testament to our resourcefulness. We understood that the world had changed, and the comforts of the past were no longer available. We had to adapt to this new reality and make do with what we could find. Next, we ventured to the local pharmacy. The absence of modern medical facilities and assistance meant that having a well-stocked first-aid kit was crucial. We gathered bandages, antiseptics, pain relievers, and other medical essentials, carefully assembling a kit that could address common injuries and ailments. As we moved from one location to another, we encountered a world in disarray. Abandoned cars littered the streets, their once-pristine exteriors now faded and damaged. Buildings stood empty and silent, a stark contrast to the bustling life that had once defined our town. Blankets and warm clothing became our next priority. With the unpredictable nature of the world outside, we needed to ensure that we could stay warm during the cold nights. We visited homes, searching for usable blankets and clothing, gathering what we could to provide warmth and comfort during our journey. The acquisition of a map proved to be a challenge. Modern technology had become obsolete, and finding a paper map was no easy task. After searching through numerous abandoned buildings and offices, we stumbled upon an old, dusty map of the region. It was a valuable find, a tangible guide that would help us navigate the unfamiliar terrain. Useful tools, like flashlights and a Swiss Army knife, were also gathered during our scavenging efforts. These items would prove invaluable in various situations, helping us adapt to the unpredictable challenges that lay ahead. Lastly, we sought out tools for the car. The old Volga had served us well, but it was not immune to breakdowns. We scoured abandoned auto repair shops and garages, collecting spare tires & tools, to ensure that our vehicle remained operational. Throughout our mission to gather supplies, we faced not only the physical challenges of navigating a world in disarray but also the emotional toll of witnessing the profound changes that had befallen our town and our lives. The once-familiar streets now held a sense of desolation, a stark reminder of the world's vulnerability. But we pressed forward, driven by the hope of reuniting with our family in Pavlodar. The world outside was uncertain and unforgiving, but we were a group bound by love and resilience. With our supplies secured, we were one step closer to embarking on the next leg of our journey through this changed world, where each day brought new challenges and the promise of reconnection with our loved ones. Returning home after our exhaustive scavenging mission, we found ourselves once again in the cozy embrace of our kitchen. The soft, warm light from the single bulb overhead illuminated the room, casting familiar shadows on the well-worn furniture and faded wallpaper. Olga and I set to work preparing a quick meal. The old gas-powered stove from the 1980s stood as a reliable testament to Soviet engineering, its blue flames dancing beneath the pot we placed atop it. The smell of cooking wafted through the kitchen, a comforting aroma that filled the air. I watched as Olga expertly diced vegetables, her movements efficient and practiced. There was a sense of routine in the familiar sounds of chopping and sizzling, a reassuring reminder of the life we had known before the world had changed. As we cooked, our thoughts were focused on the journey that lay ahead. The map we had found earlier lay on the kitchen table, its aged paper filled with intricate lines and symbols that represented the unfamiliar terrain we would traverse. Our supplies were carefully organized, each item serving a vital purpose in our quest to reach Pavlodar. Once the meal was ready, we gathered around the table. The dish, simple yet hearty, served as a reminder that in this new world, even the most basic of meals was a precious commodity. We ate in silence, each bite a testament to our resilience and determination. It was during this meal that Olga made the announcement. Her voice was steady, her gaze unwavering as she addressed our group. 'In two hours, we'll be leaving for Pavlodar,' she stated. 'The journey will be long, with stretches of road that may be challenging. We should prepare ourselves for a drive that could take anywhere from 12 to 17 hours, depending on the conditions.' The weight of her words settled over us. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with potential obstacles and challenges. But our desire to reunite with our family in Pavlodar was a powerful driving force, one that eclipsed any doubts or fears. Olga continued, 'Before we leave, we should all get as much rest as possible. A long drive awaits us, and we'll need to be alert and ready for whatever we may encounter along the way.' With the meal finished, we began to make our final preparations for the journey. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the world outside into darkness. The clock on the wall ticked away, counting down the minutes until our departure. As we readied ourselves for the long ride to Pavlodar, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation mixed with apprehension. The world had changed in ways we could never have imagined, and the road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. But we were a group bound by love and resilience, and together, we were determined to face whatever challenges lay ahead on our journey through this changed world. In those precious two hours before our departure, Lana and I retreated to my room. The dim light from the small bedside lamp cast a warm, intimate glow over the room, creating a sense of sanctuary amid the chaos of the outside world. We both understood the gravity of our situation and the uncertainty that lay ahead on our journey to Pavlodar. It was in these quiet moments, cocooned in each other's arms, that we sought solace and comfort in one another. As we cuddled, our bodies close and our hearts even closer, there was an unspoken understanding between us. The world outside was unforgiving, and the future was uncertain. In these moments, our connection felt like a lifeline, a source of strength and reassurance in the face of the unknown. Our breaths synchronized as we held each other, our fingers tracing gentle patterns on each other's skin. The outside world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of us, bound by a love that transcended the chaos and challenges that surrounded us. In the quiet of my room, with the soft hum of the old analogue clock on the wall serving as a gentle reminder of the passing time, Lana and I found solace in each other's presence. It was a moment of intimacy and vulnerability, a reflection of our shared journey through this changed world. As we cuddled, our whispered words of love and encouragement filled the air. There was no need for elaborate expressions or grand gestures; our connection was defined by the simple act of being there for each other in a world that had grown increasingly complex and unpredictable. In those two hours, as we held each other close, our love served as a reminder of the enduring power of human connection. The road ahead was uncertain, but we faced it with the knowledge that we were not alone, that our bond was a source of strength that would carry us through the challenges and uncertainties of our journey to Pavlodar. Lana and I reluctantly tore ourselves away from the intimate cocoon of my room. We understood that there were important matters to attend to, including the pressing need to locate my mother and grandmother. The world outside was unpredictable, and our family's safety was paramount. As we stepped out into the living room, we were met with a lively chorus of voices. Amir's enthusiastic greeting filled the room, and Olga's teasing remark about being 'lovebirds' elicited a blush from both Lana and me. Amir's words carried a hint of playfulness as he exclaimed, 'Hey, you two lovebirds! We've been waiting for you!' Olga chimed in, her tone equally light-hearted, 'Yep, we've been waiting for you two for almost 45 minutes. We already built a plan on how we get to Pavlodar, with all the stops we need to make.' As Olga unfolded the map and spread it out on the table, she began to detail the route we would take from Polovnikovka to Pavlodar. Her finger traced the intricate lines and symbols on the aged paper, revealing a series of stops that would mark our journey through this changed world. 'Our first stop,' Olga explained, 'will be in Semei. It's about a four-hour drive from here, and we should be able to find some additional supplies there. It's a relatively large city, so we might have a better chance of locating your mother and grandmother.' I nodded in agreement, grateful for Olga's pragmatic approach to our journey. We had to consider every opportunity to reunite with our family, and Semei seemed like a promising starting point. Olga continued, her finger moving along the map, 'Our next stop will be in Ayagoz, which is roughly halfway between here and Pavlodar. It's a smaller town, but it's on our route, and we can check for any signs of Mama and Babushka there.' The stops she outlined were strategic, designed to maximize our chances of finding our loved ones while also ensuring that we had the necessary supplies and rest along the way. Lana and I listened intently, absorbing every detail of Olga's plan. The world outside had become a labyrinth of uncertainty, and Olga's guidance provided a sense of direction and purpose. With our route mapped out and a clear plan in place, we knew that our journey to Pavlodar would be fraught with challenges. But we were a group bound by love and resilience, and we faced the unknown with determination and hope, fuelled by the unwavering belief that our family was out there, waiting to be reunited with us in this changed world. The moment had arrived. Our preparations were complete, our route was planned, and we were ready to embark on our journey from Polovnikovka to Pavlodar. As we stepped outside and approached the old Volga, a sense of anticipation and excitement filled the air. The car, a black Soviet-era Volga from the 1970s, stood as a relic of a bygone era. Its once-shiny exterior had faded and weathered with time, but it remained a sturdy and dependable vehicle, unaffected by the EMP that had rendered modern technology useless. We gathered around the car, each of us taking our designated positions. Olga, our driver and navigator, sat behind the wheel, her hands steady on the cracked leather steering wheel. Ira took the front passenger seat, her youthful energy and enthusiasm a welcome addition to our group. In the backseat, Lana and I settled in, the old, worn upholstery comforting in its familiarity. Amir, with his tall frame, sat beside us, his backpack filled with supplies nestled at his feet. In the trunk, we had stashed our scavenged provisions and the spare parts for the car, ensuring that everything was packed securely. The first two hours of our journey were a whirlwind of activity and emotion. As Olga turned the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life, a testament to the resilience of the old Volga. The sense of adventure and uncertainty hung in the air, mingling with the anticipation of what lay ahead. We had found an old cassette of the Soviet-era band 'Kino,' a legendary group whose music had endured the test of time. As Olga inserted the cassette into the car's tape player, the familiar strains of music filled the vehicle, a haunting melody that transcended the decades. The music served as a backdrop to our conversations, laughter, and occasional bouts of silence. In those first two hours, our world inside the car was a cacophony of voices, sharing stories, hopes, and dreams. Amir, always the conversationalist, regaled us with tales of his childhood, sharing anecdotes that drew laughter and camaraderie. Ira, the youngest among us, offered a youthful perspective on the world, her curiosity and optimism a source of inspiration. Lana and I, sitting close in the backseat, shared whispered conversations that were both intimate and reassuring. We spoke of our dreams for the future, of the family we hoped to reunite with in Pavlodar, and of the unbreakable bond that had brought us together in this changed world. Through it all, the music of 'Kino' played on, its haunting lyrics and melodies serving as a reminder of the enduring power of art and culture, even in the face of cataclysmic change. As we drove through the changing landscape, the world outside the car's windows was a testament to the unpredictability of our journey. Abandoned cars lined the streets, empty buildings stood as silent witnesses to the world's upheaval, and the once-familiar landmarks of our town became distant memories. The first two hours of our ride passed quickly, a whirlwind of emotions and conversations. We were a group bound by love and resilience, facing the unknown together. And as the music played on and the miles stretched out before us, we knew that our journey was just beginning, with the promise of reuniting with our family in Pavlodar serving as our guiding star in this changed world. As we continued our journey from Polovnikovka to Pavlodar, the road ahead was far from smooth. Our path was fraught with challenges, and we encountered obstacles that tested our resilience and determination. The first hurdle we faced was a roadblock caused by an abandoned vehicle. The driver must have abandoned it in haste, as it sat haphazardly in the middle of the road, blocking our way forward. Olga expertly navigated the old Volga around the obstacle, her steady hand on the wheel guiding us safely past. Our progress was slow, as we encountered more abandoned vehicles along the way. The streets were littered with cars left behind by their owners, a testament to the chaos that had gripped the world since the sun's catastrophic eruption. We had to carefully weave our way through the maze of obstacles, a task that required both patience and teamwork. During one particularly challenging stretch of road, we encountered a fallen tree that blocked our path. It was a formidable barrier, its massive branches sprawled across the road like a natural barricade. With no other option, we knew we had to clear the way if we were to continue our journey. Amir, always resourceful, retrieved a chainsaw from our supplies in the trunk. With the engine of the old Volga turned off to conserve fuel, he revved up the chainsaw and, with determined effort, began to cut through the fallen tree. It was hard work, but we all pitched in, taking turns to relieve Amir as he tirelessly sawed through the thick branches. After what felt like hours, we finally succeeded in clearing the road. The fallen tree was no longer an insurmountable obstacle, and we could continue our journey. Our teamwork and determination had paid off, a testament to our ability to overcome challenges together. As we pressed on, we encountered another issue. The old Volga, though reliable, was not immune to breakdowns. We had prepared with spare parts and tools, but the car's engine began to sputter and lose power. Olga skilfully guided the vehicle to the side of the road, and we all piled out to assess the situation. Amir, with his knowledge of mechanics, took the lead in diagnosing the problem. It turned out to be a minor issue with the fuel line, a problem that could be fixed with the spare parts we had brought along. Working together, we replaced the faulty component, and with a sense of relief, the old Volga roared back to life. Throughout these challenges, our bond as a group grew stronger. We faced each obstacle with determination and resourcefulness, relying on our individual skills and the collective strength of our group. The world outside was unpredictable, but together, we were a formidable team, capable of overcoming whatever challenges lay in our path. As we continued our journey through this changed world, we knew that more challenges awaited us. But with our unwavering determination and the unbreakable bonds of family and friendship, we were ready to face whatever the road ahead had in store for us. As we approached the first larger city on our journey, which we had marked as our initial stop, the sombre reality of the world outside became all too apparent. The once-thriving urban landscape had been transformed into a haunting tableau of destruction and chaos. Our progress through the city was slow and deliberate. Abandoned vehicles littered the streets, a grim testament to the hasty retreat of their owners when the sun's eruption had plunged the world into turmoil. Olga skilfully navigated the old Volga around each obstacle, her steady hand on the wheel guiding us through the maze of abandoned cars. The city that had once bustled with life now lay in eerie silence. It was as if time had frozen in place, leaving behind a landscape that looked like the aftermath of a disaster. Cars lay charred and smouldering, their flames long extinguished but their shells still bearing the scars of the fire. Shops had been ransacked, their windows shattered, and their contents looted, leaving empty storefronts that served as a stark reminder of the desperation that had gripped the city's inhabitants. Houses, once homes to families, stood as hollow shells, their walls blackened by the flames that had consumed them. It was a haunting sight, a stark reminder of the fragility of human civilization in the face of a cataclysmic event. Despite the devastation that surrounded us, the city remained eerily quiet. There were no signs of life, no sounds of people going about their daily routines. It was as if the world had been abandoned, its inhabitants scattered to the winds in the wake of the sun's eruption. Our journey through the city was a sobering experience. We drove in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts, contemplating the gravity of the situation. The world outside had changed in ways we could never have imagined, and the sight of the city's ruins served as a stark reminder of the challenges we faced on our quest to reunite with our family. As we continued to make our way through the city, we couldn't help but wonder about the fate of its inhabitants. Had they found safety elsewhere? Or had they succumbed to the chaos and destruction that had swept through the streets? The answers remained elusive, lost in the silence and desolation of the city. Despite the grimness of our surroundings, our determination to press forward remained unshaken. We knew that our journey to Pavlodar was filled with uncertainty and danger, but our bond as a group, our shared love and resilience, provided us with the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead in this changed world. As we slowly made our way through the desolate city, the eerie silence was broken by a sudden and unexpected event. Out of nowhere, a man appeared, his figure shrouded in terror and desperation. His clothes appeared charred, as if he had been caught in a fire, and his face bore the anguish of someone who had witnessed unimaginable horrors. The man approached our car, his frantic movements catching our attention. He pounded on the window next to me, his screams muffled by the glass. His eyes were wide with fear, and his words came out in a frenzied rush. 'We are not stopping here,' Olga declared firmly, her voice laced with determination. She understood the dangers of the situation, and her priority was our safety. I nodded in agreement, my heart pounding in my chest. It was clear that something terrible had transpired in this city, and the man's appearance and behaviour only added to the sense of foreboding that hung in the air. We couldn't afford to take unnecessary risks, especially when our ultimate goal was to reach Pavlodar and reunite with our family. Olga pressed her foot on the gas pedal, and the old Volga surged forward, leaving the anguished man behind. As we continued to drive through the city, the memory of that haunting encounter lingered in our minds, a stark reminder of the dangers that lurked in this changed world. The decision to keep moving, to not stop in the midst of the city's desolation, was a difficult one, but it was a choice made out of necessity. We knew that our journey was fraught with uncertainties and dangers, and our priority was to ensure the safety of our group as we pressed forward towards our destination. As we left the haunting scene behind in the city, our journey continued along the winding road, which led us further away from our familiar surroundings and deeper into the unknown. The sun hung in the sky like a fiery sentinel, its oppressive heat a constant reminder of the cataclysmic event that had altered the world. The landscape beyond the city's limits was no less bleak. Abandoned farms, their fields overgrown with weeds, stood as monuments to the sudden and catastrophic shift in the world's equilibrium. The signs of human civilization were gradually replaced by the relentless advance of nature, as if the Earth itself was reclaiming what had been taken from it. Our journey was punctuated by periodic stops, each one filled with a sense of both hope and trepidation. In the city of Semei, our first planned stop, we searched for supplies in the deserted shops and markets. The shelves had been stripped bare, and we were met with disappointment as we realized that finding provisions would be a constant challenge. Despite the scarcity of resources, we remained resolute. Our bond as a group grew stronger with each obstacle we faced, and our determination to reach Pavlodar and reunite with our family never wavered. The city of Ayagoz, our next stop, offered little in the way of clues regarding the fate of our loved ones. We scoured the area for any signs or information that might lead us to my mother and grandmother, but the city's silence offered no answers. Our journey through the changing landscape was marked by a profound sense of isolation. The world outside had become a vast, lonely expanse, and our group was one of the few pockets of humanity left. We relied on each other for support and companionship, our shared experiences forging a bond that transcended the chaos of the world. As we continued our journey, the landscape shifted once more. The sprawling urban canters gave way to open expanses of wilderness, punctuated by the occasional small village. These villages, while quieter and less chaotic than the cities, were still marked by signs of abandonment and desolation. In one such village, we encountered a group of survivors who had banded together for mutual support. Their stories were a mirror of our own – families torn apart, loved ones lost, and a relentless struggle for survival. We shared what information we had about the sun's eruption and the state of the world, providing a glimmer of connection in a world that had become increasingly disconnected. Our journey was far from over, and the road ahead remained uncertain. But with each passing mile, we grew more determined to reach Pavlodar, where we hoped to find my mother and grandmother, and where our family could be reunited in this profoundly changed world. Arriving in the small city of Ekibastuz marked the end of a gruelling journey that had taken us through the ever-changing landscape of this transformed world. The clock in the old Volga's dashboard read 5 a.m., and exhaustion weighed heavily upon us after thirteen hours on the road. Initially, Ekibastuz appeared to be like the other cities we had passed through—quiet and eerily deserted. With a sense of cautious optimism, we decided to take a brief break, stretch our legs, and explore the surroundings in search of any signs of life or supplies. As we ventured into the city's streets, the eerie silence that had become all too familiar surrounded us. Abandoned vehicles lined the roads, their owners having long since fled or disappeared. Buildings stood as silent sentinels, their windows shattered, and their doors ajar. The quietude was so profound that it was almost unsettling, and an unspoken tension hung in the air. We treaded carefully, aware that in this new world, danger could manifest in unexpected ways. Amir, ever the explorer, had wandered off on his own to investigate a building that seemed to have once been a small convenience store. He hoped to find any remaining supplies that might sustain us on our journey. Lana and I strolled along a quiet residential street, our footsteps echoing in the silence. The sun, a relentless presence in the sky, had begun to cast its first rays on the city, lending an eerie glow to the deserted buildings. Suddenly, the tranquillity was shattered by a cacophonous noise that echoed through the streets. It was a deep, guttural roar that reverberated in the stillness, sending a shiver down our spines. We exchanged wide-eyed glances, our hearts pounding as we tried to discern the source of the ominous sound. From around a corner, a nightmarish sight emerged—an enormous creature, its appearance like something out of a science fiction nightmare. It was a mutated monstrosity, with scales that glinted like obsidian and eyes that burned with an unnatural, malevolent light. Its massive jaws opened wide, emitting the terrifying roar that had torn through the city's silence. The creature was unlike anything we had ever seen or imagined. It moved with a predatory grace, its clawed limbs propelling it forward with alarming speed. Its mere presence instilled terror, and we realized that our lives were in immediate danger. Panicked, we ran back towards the old Volga, our frantic footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Amir, who had ventured into the convenience store, emerged just in time to see the monstrous creature pursuing us. We piled into the car, our hearts pounding with fear and adrenaline. Olga, our steadfast driver, started the engine, and the old Volga roared to life. With the creature closing in, she floored the accelerator, and we sped away from Ekibastuz, leaving behind the nightmarish threat that had lurked within its quiet streets. Our hearts raced as we left the city behind, the memory of the monstrous creature etched into our minds. We knew that the road ahead held more challenges and uncertainties, but we were determined to press forward, to reunite with our family, and to navigate this profoundly changed world together. After narrowly escaping the monstrous creature in the city of Ekibastuz, our group was left in a state of shock and disbelief. We had huddled together in the old Volga, hearts still racing, as we put distance between ourselves and the nightmare we had encountered. As the city's quiet streets faded into the rearview mirror, the gravity of what we had just experienced began to sink in. We couldn't help but wonder about the nature of the creature, the mutated beast that had pursued us with such malevolence. Amir, always the voice of reason, was the first to break the silence that hung over us like a shroud. His voice trembled with a mix of fear and curiosity as he spoke. 'What...what was that thing? I've never seen anything like it.' Lana, who had clung to me during our frantic escape, nodded in agreement. Her eyes were wide, and her voice was filled with awe and terror. 'It was like something out of a nightmare. I can't believe we saw something like that.' Olga, her hands steady on the wheel as she navigated the winding road, chimed in. 'I don't know what it was, but we're lucky to be alive. Whatever it is, we need to stay as far away from it as possible.' Ira, who had been quiet throughout the ordeal, finally found her voice. 'Do you think there are more of those...things out there? What if they're all over the place?' The questions hung in the air, unanswered and unsettling. We had no way of knowing the true nature of the creature or whether there were others like it. The world outside had become a place of mysteries and dangers beyond our comprehension. As we continued to drive, the sense of shock gradually gave way to relief. We had escaped with our lives, and that fact was something to be grateful for. We were a group of friends and siblings, facing the unknown together, and in our shared vulnerability and fear, we had found a connection that transcended the chaos of the world outside. Amir broke the tension with a small smile. 'Well, one thing's for sure, we make a pretty good team. We've got each other's backs.' Lana nodded, her expression softening. 'Yeah, we do. And we're going to get through this together.' Olga, ever the protector of our group, spoke with determination. 'Our priority is to stay safe and find your mother and grandmother. We'll face whatever challenges come our way, just like we did back there.' Ira, her fear beginning to ebb, added her own words of reassurance. 'We're stronger together. We'll figure out what's happening in this world, and we'll find our family.' As we drove further away from Ekibastuz, the memory of the monstrous creature began to fade into the background. What remained was a profound sense of unity and determination. We had faced a terrifying unknown together and emerged from it with our bond intact, ready to confront whatever challenges lay ahead in this profoundly changed world. The rhythmic hum of the old Volga's engine filled the car's interior as the steady drone of the road stretched on. Inside the car, my sister Ira had claimed the passenger seat, her eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Amir had dozed off on the other side, his head gently leaning against the window, lost in dreams of a world that once was. In the backseat, Lana rested in my lap, her head nestled against my shoulder as we sat in a tight, protective embrace. She had drifted off to sleep, her breathing calm and steady, finding solace in the warmth of our shared closeness. Only Olga and I remained awake in the quiet cocoon of the car. The soft glow of the dashboard illuminated our faces in dim shades of orange, casting a gentle, ethereal light on our tired expressions. I glanced at Olga, her eyes focused on the road ahead, her hands steady on the wheel. She had been our unwavering protector throughout this journey, guiding us through the challenges and dangers that had arisen. I leaned in closer to her, my voice a whisper in the stillness of the car. 'Olga, do you ever wonder what this world has become? What caused all of this?' Olga's gaze briefly met mine, her eyes reflecting a mixture of weariness and determination. 'All the time, Nikolai. But right now, our priority is to find your mom and Babushka. Once we're all together again, maybe we'll start to make sense of it all.' I nodded in agreement, the weight of our mission heavy on my shoulders. We shared a silent understanding of the daunting journey that lay ahead and the uncertainty that awaited us. As the miles rolled on beneath the tires of the old Volga, Olga and I settled into a companionable silence. We knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but in the darkness of the night, under the vast expanse of the starlit sky, we found solace in each other's presence, ready to face whatever lay ahead in this altered world. The miles had rolled by in a continuous stream of asphalt and uncertainty, and as the old Volga continued to eat up the distance, a sense of anticipation hung in the air. The world outside the car remained shrouded in darkness, with only the faintest hint of pre-dawn light on the horizon. Olga and I had been the only ones awake, our silent vigil over the road finally disrupted by a sight that filled us with a mixture of hope and trepidation—a street sign that read '55 km - Pavlodar.' I turned to Olga, my voice low but filled with excitement. 'Olga, look, it's a sign for Pavlodar. We're getting close.' Her eyes, which had been fixed on the road ahead, shifted to the sign, and a small smile touched her lips. 'That's right, Nikolai. We're making progress.' The gentle rumble of the car's engine seemed to grow louder in the wake of our discovery, and I could feel the anticipation building within me. Pavlodar was the destination we had been striving towards, the place where we hoped to find my mother and grandmother, and the prospect of reunion filled me with a mix of joy and anxiety. As if sensing the shift in our energy, the rest of our group began to stir. Lana, who had been nestled in my lap, shifted slightly, and blinked her eyes open. Amir and Ira, awakened by the subtle change in atmosphere, started to rouse from their slumber in the backseat. Lana stretched and yawned, her eyes blinking in the dim light. 'What's going on?' she asked, her voice filled with drowsy curiosity. Amir, rubbing his eyes, chimed in. 'Yeah, why'd we stop?' Ira, still groggy from sleep, sat up and glanced around. 'Are we there?' I turned to Olga and nodded. 'We're not there yet, but we're getting close. Look at the sign—it says we're only 55 kilometres away from Pavlodar.' The news seemed to have an electrifying effect on our small group. Excitement rippled through our little makeshift family, and the weariness that had settled over us during our long journey began to lift. Amir leaned forward, peering at the sign through the windshield. 'That's not too far. We'll be there soon.' Lana, her eyes wide with anticipation, gave a small, hopeful smile. 'I can't wait to see your mom and grandma, Nikolai.' Ira, her fatigue giving way to a renewed sense of purpose, nodded in agreement. 'Yeah, it's been so long.” Olga, ever the pragmatic one, reminded us of the road ahead. 'Let's not get too ahead of ourselves. We still have some kilometres to cover, and we don't know what we'll find when we get there.' As the car continued its journey toward Pavlodar, our conversation shifted to what we might encounter in the city. The unknown loomed large in our minds, but the prospect of reuniting with family drove us forward, filling us with determination. With each passing kilometre, the sense of anticipation grew stronger, and the horizon of Pavlodar drew nearer. We knew that our journey was far from over, but in that moment, as the old Volga carried us ever closer to our destination, the possibility of reunion and the hope of a brighter future propelled us forward through the darkened expanse of this profoundly changed world. As the old Volga continued to eat up the kilometres on the road to Pavlodar, the city's outskirts began to give way to the more densely populated areas. The pre-dawn light had grown stronger, casting a pale glow over the landscape, and we could see the city's silhouette taking shape on the horizon. Pavlodar, a city that had once thrived in the heart of Kazakhstan, now loomed before us like a shadow of its former self. The city's buildings, once vibrant and bustling with life, now stood as silent and hollow reminders of a world that had been forever altered. The streets, which had once been filled with the sounds of traffic and the bustle of daily life, were eerily quiet. Abandoned cars lined the roads, their owners having long since vanished or fled. Storefronts that had once displayed goods and services now stood boarded up and desolate. As we drove closer to the city's centre, we passed by a park that had once been a hub of activity, with children playing and families picnicking. Now, it lay in a state of disrepair, overgrown with weeds, its playground equipment rusted and unused. The heart of Pavlodar, where the city's administrative and commercial buildings stood, appeared to have fared no better. The once-grand structures now showed signs of neglect, with shattered windows and graffiti marking their facades. Despite the desolation that surrounded us, a glimmer of hope burned within me. I knew that somewhere within this city, my mother and grandmother might still be alive, waiting for our reunion. Olga's voice broke the silence in the car as she spoke, her tone tinged with a mixture of sadness and determination. 'This isn't the city I remember, but it's still Pavlodar. We need to be cautious as we search for your family.' I nodded in agreement, my eyes scanning the streets for any signs of life or movement. 'You're right, Olga. We don't know what we'll find here, but we have to try.' Amir, Lana, and Ira, who had been gazing out of the car's windows in silence, exchanged glances filled with uncertainty. The sight of the city's decayed state weighed heavily on all of us, a stark reminder of the world we now inhabited. As we continued to drive deeper into Pavlodar, the city's silence became even more profound, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead loomed large in our minds. But we were a group of friends and siblings, bound together by our shared determination and hope. With each passing kilometre, we drew closer to the possibility of reunion and the answers that might lie within this city's quiet, crumbling streets. As we neared the centre of Pavlodar, Olga's voice broke through the sombre atmosphere inside the old Volga. 'We'll have to walk from here,' she announced, her tone resolute. 'We've barely got any gas left, and we can't risk running out before we find your family. Leave everything in the car. We'll need to hide it so that nobody even tries to take it.' Her words made sense. The car was a valuable asset in this world where transportation had become a precious commodity, and we couldn't afford to lose it. We pulled over to the side of the road, and one by one, we began to remove our belongings from the car, leaving only the essentials. Amir, Lana, and Ira helped carry some of the items away from the car, while Olga and I focused on hiding it from prying eyes. The task was challenging, as we needed to make the car inconspicuous enough to deter any potential thieves. We gathered materials from the surrounding area—a tarp, some branches, and debris from abandoned buildings. Working quickly and silently, we covered the car with the tarp and piled the branches and debris around it, creating the illusion of an abandoned vehicle. From a distance, it would look like just another forgotten relic of the past. Once we were satisfied with our makeshift camouflage, we stepped back to assess our work. The car was hidden well enough that it would hopefully go unnoticed by anyone passing by. The only things we had taken with us were the essentials—food, water, blankets, and a few makeshift weapons for protection. Our group huddled together, ready to embark on the next phase of our journey. The weight of our mission hung heavy in the air as we looked at the car one last time, a symbol of the life we had left behind. But in this new world, survival, and the hope of reuniting with family took precedence over everything else. With determination in our hearts, we set out on foot into the heart of Pavlodar, the city that held the key to our reunion and the answers to the mysteries of this changed world. Each step we took was a testament to our resilience, our bond, and our shared determination to face whatever challenges lay ahead. As we walked through the quiet, desolate streets of Pavlodar, our small group maintained a sense of cautious optimism. The city, though changed and eerily silent, still held the promise of reunion with my family. Lana was the one who finally broached the topic that had been on all of our minds. She looked at Olga, her expression a mix of hope and uncertainty. 'Olga, do you remember where Aunt Nadja lives? It's been a while since we visited her.' Olga paused for a moment, her brow furrowed as she tried to recall the details of our Aunt Nadja's residence. 'It's been a few years,' she began slowly. 'But I think I remember the general area. She lived in a modest apartment building not too far from the city centre. We'll have to rely on my memory to get us there.' Amir chimed in, his voice reflecting the urgency of our situation. 'We don't have much time or resources to spare. If we can find Aunt Nadja's place quickly, it'll be a huge relief.' I nodded in agreement, knowing that every minute counted. 'Let's trust Olga's memory and follow her lead. With luck, we'll reach Aunt Nadja's place and find some answers.' Ira, who had been quiet up to this point, spoke up with a hint of worry in her voice. 'What if she's not there? What if she left the city like so many others?' Olga reassured her, placing a comforting hand on Ira's shoulder. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, we have to stay focused and keep moving forward.' With our destination and purpose clear in our minds, we continued to walk through the city, following Olga's memory as our guide. The path ahead was uncertain, but the hope of reuniting with my mother and grandmother pushed us onward, one step at a time. Our journey through the silent streets of Pavlodar continued as we followed Olga's memory toward the apartment building where Aunt Nadja lived. The city's once-familiar landmarks had become eerie in their abandonment, and the streets seemed to stretch endlessly before us. The cold, overcast sky above seemed to mirror the uncertainty that hung over our mission. Each step brought us closer to the apartment building, and my heart raced with a mix of hope and apprehension. As we arrived at the building, its façade showed signs of neglect, with cracked concrete and faded paint. The mailboxes, clustered near the entrance, bore the names of the building's residents. Our collective breaths held as we scanned the names, searching for the familiar 'Nadja Aronovna Klassen.' Finally, Olga's eyes widened with recognition as she pointed to a name on one of the mailboxes. 'There it is,' she whispered, her voice barely audible. 'Nadja Aronovna Klassen.' Our hearts lifted with newfound hope. We had reached our destination, and the prospect of finding my mother and grandmother felt more tangible than ever. However, the elevator, like so many other modern conveniences, lay dormant. We sighed in unison, realizing that we had no choice but to climb the stairs. The building had seen better days, and the stairwell was dimly lit, with flickering overhead lights that added to the sense of unease. Step by step, we ascended the flights of stairs, the creaking of old wood and the distant sound of our own breaths serving as the only soundtrack to our journey. The anticipation weighed heavily on us as we reached the floor where Aunt Nadja 's apartment was located. Standing before the door marked with her name, I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. I knocked, the sound echoing through the hallway, but there was no immediate response from within. We exchanged anxious glances, the gravity of the moment sinking in. After everything we had endured, this was the culmination of our journey—a simple knock on a door that held the possibility of reunion or heartbreak. I knocked on the door once more, firmer this time, and we waited in tense anticipation, hoping for a response from within. As we stood in front of the door, our hearts pounding with anticipation, a voice from behind the door broke the silence. It was a voice that held a hint of caution, yet there was a glimmer of hope in its tone. 'Who's there?' the voice called out. My throat felt dry as I replied, my voice quivering with a mixture of relief and anxiety. 'It's Nikolai... and family. We've come a long way.' There was a brief pause, during which I held my breath, waiting for a response. The seconds felt like an eternity, and then we heard the sound of multiple locks being turned, followed by the creaking of the door as it slowly swung open. Standing before us was a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties, her eyes wide with surprise and disbelief. She had greying hair and wore a worn, threadbare dress. But what struck me most was the familiarity in her features—she bore a striking resemblance to my mother. The woman's eyes welled up with tears as she spoke, her voice quivering with emotion. 'Nikolai... is that really you?' Tears filled my own eyes as I nodded, unable to find my voice. 'Yes, Aunt Nadja, it's me. We've been searching for you.' Aunt Nadja 's eyes shifted to the others behind me, taking in the sight of Amir, Lana, Ira, and Olga. She stepped back, opening the door wider, a mixture of joy and disbelief written across her face. 'Come in, all of you,' she said, her voice filled with warmth. 'I can't believe you're here.' We entered Aunt Nadja 's apartment, a small and modest space that felt like a haven amidst the chaos of the outside world. The room was dimly lit, and the furnishings were simple, but there was a sense of home that enveloped us. As we gathered in the living room, Aunt Nadja embraced each of us, tears of relief and happiness streaming down her cheeks. She looked at me with a mother's love and spoke softly, 'Your mother and grandmother... they're here. They're safe.' The weight that had been pressing on my chest for so long lifted, and I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. We had found family in this changed world, and the hope of reuniting with my mother and grandmother now felt more real than ever. Amir & Lana introduced themselves to Aunt Nadja, and she welcomed each of them with a warm embrace. We gathered around the small table, and Aunt Nadja offered us what little she had—a few snacks and a pot of tea. The simple act of sharing a meal together felt like a celebration of our reunion. As we sat there, Aunt Nadja shared her own story of survival in the wake of the sun's destructive fury. She had been living in Pavlodar when the EMP struck, and like many others, she had initially struggled to come to terms with the loss of modern technology and the chaos that had ensued. But she had adapted, relying on the knowledge passed down from our family's traditions. 'We've been fortunate,' Aunt Nadja said, her eyes filled with gratitude. 'We have each other, and we've managed to find a way to survive. Your mother and grandmother have been a great help.' I couldn't help but ask the question that had been burning in my mind since we had arrived. 'Where are they, Aunt Nadja? Can we see them?' Aunt Nadja smiled, her eyes twinkling with affection. 'Of course, Nikolai. They're in the next room.' With bated breath and a mixture of emotions, we followed Aunt Nadja into the adjoining room. There, sitting together on a worn-out but comfortable sofa, were my mother and grandmother. My mother, her face etched with both worry and relief, rushed toward me and embraced me tightly. Tears streamed down her face as she held me, and I could feel her trembling with emotion. 'Nikolai, my dear boy,' she whispered, her voice choked with tears. 'You're here. You're safe.' I held onto her, unable to find words to express the overwhelming joy of being reunited with my mother. She smelled of the familiar scent that had comforted me throughout my childhood, and it was as if I had come home. My grandmother, her eyes filled with a quiet wisdom, looked at me and smiled. Her presence exuded a sense of strength and resilience that had sustained our family through the ages. She reached out her hand, and I took it, feeling a connection that transcended words. Amir, Lana, Ira, and Olga greeted my mother and grandmother with equal warmth and relief. The room was filled with laughter and tears, a symphony of emotions that celebrated our long-awaited reunion. In that moment, surrounded by the love of family and friends, I knew that no matter the challenges that lay ahead in this changed world, we had found the most precious treasure of all—each other. As we sat in Aunt Nadja's small apartment, I felt a deep sense of connection with my mother and grandmother, as well as with Amir, Lana, Ira, and Olga. It was a moment of reunion and reflection, and I knew it was time to share our journey and the grim reality we had faced. Taking a deep breath, I turned to my mother and grandmother. 'Mama, Babushka, there's so much we need to tell you. The world as we knew it has changed, and it's not for the better.' My mother, her eyes filled with concern, nodded for me to continue. I recounted our journey, starting from the day of the EMP when our world had been plunged into chaos. I spoke of the sun's ominous transformation, the collapse of modern society, and the challenges we had faced on our way to Pavlodar. My mother and grandmother listened intently, their faces reflecting a mixture of shock and disbelief. As I reached the part where I shared the grim realization that the sun's expansion meant our world would come to an end, my grandmother interrupted me. 'Even in these dire circumstances, Nikolai, we should celebrate your birthday tomorrow. It's a testament to the love and resilience of our family.' Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at my grandmother, touched by her unwavering spirit. 'Babushka, all I wanted for my birthday was to see you and Mama again.' My mother placed a hand on my shoulder, her voice filled with love and reassurance. 'Nikolai, you have given us the greatest gift by finding us in this changed world. Tomorrow, we will celebrate not just your birthday but the enduring bond of our family.' It was a poignant moment, a reminder that even in the face of the inevitable, our family's love and unity remained unbroken. In that small, dimly lit room, we found solace in each other's presence, cherishing the moments we had and the love that had brought us together once more. The day unfolded with a bittersweet blend of emotions as we prepared to celebrate my birthday in the midst of our uncertain reality. Aunt Nadja, my mother, and my grandmother worked together to prepare a simple yet heartfelt meal, while Amir, Lana, Ira, Olga, and I shared stories and laughter. As we gathered around the small dining table, the room was filled with warmth and camaraderie. The meal consisted of traditional dishes prepared with love, and we savoured each bite as if it were a taste of normalcy in a world turned upside down. Conversation flowed freely, and we spoke about the past, our hopes for the future, and the bonds that had brought us together. My mother and grandmother shared stories from their experiences during the early days of the EMP, offering insights into how they had managed to adapt and survive. Ira, who had always been the one to lighten the mood, cracked jokes that made us all laugh, if only momentarily dispelling the heaviness that hung in the air. Lana's presence brought comfort, and Amir's unwavering support was a source of strength for all of us. Amidst the laughter and camaraderie, there was also a sense of sorrow. We were acutely aware of the inevitable fate that awaited us as the sun continued its ominous transformation. The world outside remained shrouded in uncertainty, and our future was filled with unanswered questions. After our meal, we gathered in the living room, where Aunt Nadja had set up a makeshift birthday cake made from simple ingredients. As I blew out the candles, I made a silent wish, not for myself, but for the safety and well-being of my newfound family and the love that had brought us together. Throughout the day, my mother and grandmother shared their wisdom and practical knowledge of survival in a world without modern technology. They taught us valuable skills that would be essential in the days ahead, such as preserving food, finding clean water sources, and navigating the changing climate. As the day drew to a close, we gathered in a circle, holding hands, and my mother led us in a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. It was a moment of reflection and unity, a reminder that even in the face of adversity, our family's love and resilience would carry us forward. In the dimly lit living room of Aunt Nadja's apartment in Pavlodar, we gathered in a circle, our hands joined in a bond of unity and support. The soft glow of a single candle illuminated our faces, casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was a solemn moment, a pause in the midst of our uncertain journey, to express our gratitude and seek solace in the face of an uncertain future. My mother, with a voice filled with a deep sense of reverence and sincerity, led us in a heartfelt prayer. Her words carried the weight of our collective hopes and fears, and they resonated in the quiet room, reaching deep into our souls. 'We come together, dear Creator,' she began, her voice steady and unwavering, 'to offer our gratitude for the gift of each other's presence in this challenging time. We thank you for the love that binds us as family and friends, and for the strength that has carried us through the trials of this new world.' She continued, her words flowing like a gentle stream, 'We ask for your guidance and protection as we navigate the path ahead. Grant us the wisdom to make the right choices, the courage to face the unknown, and the compassion to support one another in times of need.' My mother's prayer was a reflection of our collective hopes and fears, a plea for guidance and strength in the face of the looming cataclysm. It was a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, there was a glimmer of light, a source of hope that we could hold onto. As the prayer concluded, we bowed our heads in silent reflection, each of us finding solace in our own way. The flickering candle continued to cast its warm glow upon us, a symbol of the enduring spirit of humanity in the face of adversity. In that moment of unity and prayer, we found comfort and reassurance, knowing that we were not alone in our journey and that our bonds of love and resilience would carry us forward, one step at a time. After the heartfelt prayer that had brought us closer together in that dimly lit living room, we sat in a moment of shared silence. The flickering candle on the small table before us seemed to dance with the weight of our thoughts and emotions. My mother, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and concern, spoke softly, breaking the stillness. 'We may not have all the answers, but as long as we have each other, we have hope. In the face of the unknown, our greatest strength is our unity.' Her words resonated with all of us, a reminder that our family, forged through love and shared experiences, was a source of solace in these tumultuous times. Amir, Lana, Ira, Olga, and I exchanged glances, understanding that our journey had brought us not only to each other but also to the profound realization that our bonds were the most valuable treasures we possessed. As the evening deepened and the candle's glow continued to illuminate the room, we began to prepare for the night. Aunt Nadja, my mother, and my grandmother offered to share their sleeping spaces with us, ensuring that we would rest comfortably. Ira, always quick to adapt and find solutions, took on the task of finding blankets and makeshift bedding. Amir and Lana helped rearrange the furniture to create sleeping areas, while Olga and I assisted in making everyone as comfortable as possible. With each small act of kindness and cooperation, it became clear that our shared journey had not only brought us together but had also strengthened the bonds of trust and friendship among us. We were no longer just a group of individuals trying to survive; we were a family, united by a common purpose and an unwavering commitment to one another. As we settled into our makeshift sleeping spaces, the room filled with the soft sounds of our breathing and the comforting presence of one another. The weight of the world outside seemed to momentarily lift, replaced by a sense of security, and belonging that only our family could provide. In the face of the unknown, we had found a haven of love and support, and it was in the warmth of that connection that we drifted into sleep, ready to face whatever challenges the next day would bring, together. I awoke with a start, my heart racing as I realized that the apartment was eerily quiet and empty. Panic gripped me as I sat up, scanning the room for any sign of my family and friends. 'Amir? Lana? Ira? Olga?' I called out, my voice trembling with anxiety. There was no response, only the echoing silence that seemed to envelop me. My mind raced as I tried to make sense of the situation. Had they left without me? Had something happened during the night? Fear gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, threatening to overwhelm me. I stumbled out of the makeshift sleeping area and hurriedly checked each room in the apartment, my footsteps echoing in the empty space. Aunt Nadja's apartment, once filled with our laughter and camaraderie, now felt desolate and cold. As I moved from room to room, my heart sank further with each empty space I encountered. There was no sign of my family and friends, no note or message to explain their absence. It was as if they had vanished into thin air. I rushed to the window and peered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of them returning from an early morning errand. But the street below was empty, the city of Pavlodar shrouded in an eerie silence. Tears welled up in my eyes as I grappled with the overwhelming sense of loss and abandonment. I felt a deep sense of despair, unsure of where to turn or what had become of the people who had become my lifeline in this new and unforgiving world. Questions raced through my mind. Had something terrible happened during the night? Were they in danger? Or had they left to seek safety on their own, believing it was the best course of action? With a heavy heart, I realized that I was once again alone in a world that had become increasingly unpredictable and unforgiving. The sense of vulnerability washed over me, but I knew that I had to gather my strength and find out what had happened to my family and friends. I entered the kitchen, my eyes still moist from the anxiety and fear of moments before. But what I saw there left me utterly stunned and overwhelmed with emotion. Standing around the small, weathered kitchen table were my family and friends, their faces lit up with smiles, their eyes filled with warmth and love. A handmade 'Happy Birthday' garland, fashioned from paper and adorned with vibrant colours, stretched across the room, hanging in the air as if to bridge the gap between my past and my uncertain future. Amir, Lana, Ira, Olga, Aunt Nadja, my mother, and Babushka stood together, their hands gripping the garland as if it were a symbol of the bonds that held us all. The soft, flickering glow of candles scattered around the room cast a warm and inviting light, dispelling the earlier sense of emptiness. 'Happy Birthday, Nikolai!' they chorused, their voices filled with genuine joy and affection. Tears welled up in my eyes once again, but this time they were tears of overwhelming gratitude and relief. I couldn't find the words to express how deeply moved I was by their gesture. In the midst of a world that had crumbled around us, they had come together to celebrate a simple birthday, a reminder of the enduring power of love and connection. As I approached the table, they began to sing a heartfelt rendition of 'Happy Birthday,' their voices harmonizing in a beautiful and touching melody. The room seemed to come alive with their shared joy and celebration. The table was adorned with a makeshift birthday cake, created from basic ingredients, but it was a symbol of the love and effort they had put into making this day special for me. Plates of food, prepared with care and attention, filled the table, inviting me to partake in this moment of unity and happiness. I couldn't help but smile, my heart swelling with love for each of them. In that small, humble kitchen, surrounded by the people who had become my family, I felt a profound sense of belonging and gratitude. We spent the morning sharing stories, laughter, and the simple pleasure of being together. It was a birthday celebration unlike any other, a testament to the strength of our bonds and the resilience of the human spirit. As I blew out the candles on the makeshift cake, I made a silent wish, not just for myself, but for all of us—to find safety, to navigate the challenges that lay ahead, and to hold onto the love and unity that had brought us through the darkest of times. In that moment, I knew that no matter what the future held, as long as we faced it together, we would find the strength to endure and the hope to carry on. After our heartfelt birthday celebration in the small, candlelit kitchen of Aunt Nadja's apartment, the day continued to unfold in a warm and comforting manner. We all gathered around the table, sharing a meal that had been prepared with love and care. The makeshift birthday cake was served, and we savoured each bite as a symbol of our unity and resilience. Amid the chatter and laughter that filled the room, we talked about the days ahead, the challenges we might face, and the uncertainty of our journey. It was clear that our bond had grown even stronger in the face of adversity, and we were determined to support each other no matter what lay ahead. As the hours passed, the conversation naturally turned to the question of whether we should return to our small village or stay in Pavlodar. The decision was not an easy one, as each option came with its own set of risks and uncertainties. Lana, always practical and thoughtful, voiced her concerns. 'Going back home might be safer in some ways. We know the area, and we have family and friends there. But we also know that things have changed, and we can't be sure what we'll find.' Amir, ever the optimist, chimed in. 'Staying here might give us access to more resources and information. We could try to find a group of survivors or join a community. But it's a big city, and it might not be any safer than our village.' Ira, usually quiet but insightful, offered her perspective. 'No matter where we go, we should stick together. Our strength is in our unity. And we can't forget that we have each other.' Olga, the practical one, added her thoughts. 'We need to make a plan, carefully consider our options, and be prepared for whatever we decide. And we should celebrate today, as Nikolai's birthday, as a reminder of the love and connection that sustain us.' My mother and Aunt Nadja, the voices of wisdom and experience, emphasized the importance of family and unity in times of crisis. They spoke of the resilience of our ancestors, who had faced challenges of their own, and the values they had passed down to us. After much discussion and contemplation, we reached a consensus. Tomorrow evening, we would embark on the journey back to our small village, where we had our roots and where our hearts truly belonged. But today, this day of celebration and togetherness, would be dedicated to honouring the bonds that had brought us through the darkest of times. As we made this decision, I felt a profound sense of gratitude for the people around me. In the face of an uncertain future, our commitment to one another was unwavering. And on this special day, we celebrated not only my birthday but also the enduring strength of family and the resilience of the human spirit. The hours passed, and the day of celebration gradually transitioned into the quiet of the night. We had enjoyed a meal together, shared stories and laughter, and basked in the warmth of our togetherness. The memory of my birthday celebration would forever be etched in my heart as a testament to the strength of family and the power of love. As night descended upon Pavlodar, I found myself lying in the makeshift sleeping area, surrounded by my family and friends. Lana had fallen asleep on one side of me, her rhythmic breathing a comforting lullaby. Amir and Ira were on the other side, their peaceful expressions a testament to the bonds we shared. But despite the exhaustion that weighed on my body, sleep remained elusive. The events of the past days, the uncertainty of our journey, and the profound changes in the world outside weighed heavily on my mind. I stared up at the ceiling, my thoughts a whirlwind of emotions and questions. How had our world come to this? What had caused the catastrophic events that had brought about the end of life as we knew it? And what lay ahead for us as we ventured back to our village? The apartment was quiet, illuminated only by the faint glow of a single candle that had been left burning in the corner of the room. Its flickering light cast dancing shadows on the walls, a reminder of the fragility of our existence. I could hear the soft and steady breathing of my loved ones, a comforting sound that should have lulled me to sleep. But my mind was restless, racing with thoughts of what the future might hold. I shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the makeshift bed. Lana stirred beside me, her hand finding mine and intertwining our fingers. Her touch was a soothing balm, a reminder that I was not alone in my wakefulness. As I lay there, my mind began to drift, reflecting on the journey we had embarked upon. Each step had been fraught with challenges and uncertainty, but we had faced them together, united by a shared purpose and an unwavering commitment to one another. The world outside may have crumbled, but within the walls of this small apartment, I had found a haven of love and support. In the darkness, I whispered words of gratitude to the universe for the people who had become my family, for their unwavering presence in my life. Outside, the city of Pavlodar was cloaked in silence, a stark contrast to the bustling metropolis it had once been. The streets that had once teemed with life were now empty, the remnants of a world that had been forever changed. I closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would eventually claim me. But as I lay there, surrounded by the quiet of the night and the love of those who mattered most, I couldn't help but wonder what new challenges awaited us on the journey back to our village, and how our bonds would continue to shape our destiny in this ever-changing world. As the hours ticked by, I continued to toss and turn, unable to find the solace of sleep. The weight of the world outside, the uncertainty of our journey, and the ever-present sense of foreboding hung over me like a heavy shroud. With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that sleep was an elusive companion. Frustrated and restless, I decided to leave the makeshift sleeping area and make my way to the balcony of Aunt Nadja's apartment. The night air was cool, and the moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the city of Pavlodar. I stood there, leaning against the railing, gazing out at the silent cityscape below. The once-vibrant streets were now eerily empty, a testament to the profound changes that had swept through our world. It was as if the very essence of life had been drained from the city. After a few minutes of solitude, I felt a gentle hand touch my shoulder. Startled, I turned to see Olga standing beside me, her expression mirroring my own restlessness. We exchanged a silent acknowledgment before she spoke, her voice soft in the stillness of the night. 'I couldn't sleep either,' she admitted, her eyes reflecting the same uncertainty that weighed on my heart. I nodded in understanding, my gaze returning to the moonlit city. 'Something just doesn't feel right,' I confessed, struggling to put into words the unease that had settled in my chest. Olga leaned on the balcony's railing, her eyes scanning the quiet streets below. 'I know what you mean,' she said quietly. 'It's as if the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something... something we can't quite grasp.' We fell into a contemplative silence, the night air around us filled with unspoken questions and fears. The bond between us, forged through shared experiences and hardships, allowed us to communicate without words, to understand each other's thoughts and emotions without the need for explanation. 'I can't help but worry about what lies ahead,' I finally admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper. 'Our journey back home... the unknown that awaits us.' Olga placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, her touch grounding and comforting. 'We've faced challenges before, Nikolai,' she said, her gaze unwavering. 'And we've always come through together. Our strength lies in our unity, in the love and support we offer each other.' I nodded, drawing strength from her words and the presence of the friend who had become like family. 'You're right,' I said, my voice steadier. 'No matter what the future holds, we'll face it together. We always have, and we always will. As we stood there on the balcony, our shared resolve and the unbreakable bond of friendship and family served as a beacon of hope in the face of the unknown. The night continued its quiet vigil over the sleeping city, but within the confines of that small balcony, two souls found solace in each other's company, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them in the days to come. The balcony, once a solitary refuge, soon became a gathering place for all of us. One by one, they joined Olga and me, drawn by the shared restlessness that had kept us awake through the night. First to come was Lana, her presence a balm to my troubled soul. She wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace, as if to convey all the words left unsaid. I held her close, finding solace in the warmth of her hug, knowing that we were together in this uncertain world. Amir followed, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and determination. He stepped out onto the balcony and nodded at us, his silent acknowledgment a testament to the unspoken bond that united us. Then, one after another, they came. First, it was Mama, her eyes reflecting a mother's concern for her child. She kissed my forehead and whispered words of love and reassurance that eased the anxiety in my heart. Babushka followed, her presence a grounding force in our lives. She wore her weathered smile, a silent reminder of the strength and resilience that had been passed down through generations. And finally, the Klassen family and our friends joined us on the balcony. Amir, Ira, Lana, Olga, and I stood side by side with Aunt Nadja, Uncle Pavel, and their children. The bonds of friendship and family had brought us all together, forging a connection that transcended the chaos of the world outside. Conversations flowed freely in the quiet of the early morning. We shared stories of the past, moments of laughter, and even the occasional tear. Our voices filled the air, a symphony of hope and togetherness that resonated in the stillness of the city. Aunt Nadja, with her boundless energy, regaled us with tales of her adventurous youth, a stark contrast to the current state of the world. Uncle Pavel, ever the optimist, offered words of wisdom and encouragement, reminding us that even in the darkest of times, there was a path forward. The children, too young to fully grasp the magnitude of the situation, played among themselves, their laughter a reminder of the resilience of youth. They served as a source of light in the midst of uncertainty, a testament to the enduring spirit of the human heart. As the morning sun began to cast its warm embrace over the city, I looked around at the faces that had become my family. We were a diverse group, brought together by chance and circumstance, and yet, in this moment, we were united by something far more profound—a shared sense of purpose and a love that knew no boundaries. I took a deep breath, allowing the collective strength of our bonds to wash over me. The world outside may have been marred by chaos and uncertainty, but within the confines of that small balcony, we had found a haven of love and support. In the face of the unknown, we had each other. And as we stood together, ready to face whatever challenges the future held, I knew that we were bound by an unbreakable thread of hope and resilience that would guide us through the days to come. As the morning sun continued its ascent, casting a pale and melancholic light across the city of Pavlodar, silence enveloped us like a heavy shroud. We stood on the balcony, not in celebration, but in quiet acceptance of the inevitable. Amir, Lana, Ira, Olga, and I remained, our voices silenced by the weight of our impending fate. We watched as the sun, once a symbol of hope and warmth, ascended the sky, but there was no joy in its light today. In that moment of quiet reflection, we knew that our journey had led us here, to the end of all things. We had traversed a world in turmoil, witnessed the collapse of society, and now, we stood together as witnesses to the final act. There were no words to express the depth of our sadness, no solace to be found in platitudes or prayers. We had faced the unknown with courage, but in the end, we were powerless against the relentless forces of nature. And as the sun reached its zenith, a cataclysmic event unfolded before us. The ground trembled beneath our feet, and buildings swayed as if in mourning. The earth itself seemed to groan in anguish, and there was nowhere to hide from the impending catastrophe. With a deafening roar, the very ground beneath us gave way, and the city of Pavlodar crumbled into ruins. The sky, once a canvas of serene beauty, darkened as a relentless inferno erupted from the depths of the earth. Fire consumed everything in its path, and the world was bathed in an incandescent blaze. The sun, once a symbol of life, transformed into a merciless furnace, scorching the earth with unrelenting heat. The air itself ignited, and we watched as the world we had known dissolved into ashes. In those final moments, there was no time for words, no opportunity for a heartfelt conversation. We clung to one another, not in hope, but in shared despair. Our world, our city, our dreams—all were reduced to nothingness. As the remnants of our existence drifted into the cosmic void, there was no solace to be found. Only the haunting emptiness of a world erased from existence. Now We find ourselves as cosmic dust, gracefully dancing through the cosmos..

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle

1 An Important Warning Not every thirteen-year-old girl is accused of murder, brought to trial, and found guilty. But I was just such a girl, and my story is worth relating even if it did happen years ago. Be warned, however, this is no Story of a Bad Boy, no What Katy Did. If strong ideas and action offend you, read no more. Find another companion to share your idle hours. For my part I intend to tell the truth as / lived it. But before I begin relating what happened, you must know something about me as I was in the year 1832--when these events transpired. At the time my name was Charlotte Doyle. And though I have kept the name, I am not--for reasons you will soon discover--the same Charlotte Doyle. How shall I describe the person I once was? At the age of thirteen I was very much a girl, having not yet begun to take the shape, much less the heart, of a woman. Still, my family dressed me as a young woman, bonnet covering my beautiful hair, full skirts, high button shoes, and, you may be sure, white gloves. I certainly wanted to be a lady. It was not just my ambition; it was my destiny. 2 I embraced it wholly, gladly, with not an untoward thought of anything else. In other words, I think that at the time of these events I was not anything more or less than what I appeared to be: an acceptable, ordinary girl of parents in good standing. Though American born, I spent the years between my sixth and thirteenth birthdays in England. My father, who engaged in the manufacture of cotton goods, functioned as an agent for an American business there. But in the early spring of 1832, he received an advancement and was summoned home. My father, an ardent believer in regularity and order, decided it would be better if I finished out my school term rather than break it off midyear. My mother--whom I never knew to disagree with him-- accepted my father's decision. I would follow my parents, as well as my younger brother and sister, to our true home, which was in Providence, Rhode Island. Lest you think that my parents' judgment was rash in allowing me to travel without them, I will show you how reasonable, even logical, their decision was. First, they felt that by my remaining a boarder at the Barrington School for Better Girls (Miss Weed, eminent and most proper headmistress) I would lose no school time. Second, I would be crossing the Atlantic--a trip that could last anywhere from one to two months-- during the summer, when no formal education took place. Third, I was to make my voyage upon a ship owned and operated by my father's firm. 3 Fourth, the captain of this ship had acquired a reputation--so my father informed me--for quick and profitable Atlantic crossings. Then there was this: two families known to my parents had also booked passage on the ship. The adults had promised to function as my guardians. Having been told only that these families included children (three lovely girls and a charming boy) I had looked forward to meeting them more than anything else. So when you consider that I had but dim memories of making the crossing to England when I was six, you will understand that I saw the forthcoming voyage as all a lark. A large, beautiful boat! Jolly sailors! No school to think about! Companions of my own age! One more point. I was given a volume of blank pages--how typical of my father!--and instructed to keep a daily journal of my voyage across the ocean so that the writing of it should prove of educational value to me. Indeed, my father warned me that not only would he read the journal and comment upon it, but he would pay particular attention to spelling-- not my strongest suit. Keeping that journal then is what enables me to relate now in perfect detail everything that transpired during that fateful voyage across the Atlantic Ocean in the summer of 1832. 4 [Blank Page] 5 Part One 6 [Blank Page] 7 Chapter 1 Just before dusk in the late afternoon of June 16, 1832, I found myself walking along the crowded docks of Liverpool, England, following a man by the name of Grummage. Though a business associate of my father, Mr. Grummage was, like my father, a gentleman. It was he my father delegated to make the final arrangements for my passage to America. He was also to meet me when I came down from school on the coach, then see me safely stowed aboard the ship that my father had previously selected. Mr. Grummage was dressed in a black frock coat with a stove pipe hat that added to his considerable height. His somber, sallow face registered no emotion. His eyes might have been those of a dead fish. Miss Doyle? he said as I stepped from the Liverpool coach. Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Grummage? I am. Pleased to meet you, I said, dipping a curtsy. Quite, he returned. Now, Miss Doyle, if you would be so good as to indicate which is your trunk, I have a man here to carry it. Next, please oblige me by following, and everything shall be as it is meant to be. 8 Might I say good-bye to my chaperon? Is that necessary? She's been very kind. Make haste then. In a flutter of nervousness I identified my trunk, threw my arms about Miss Emerson (my sweet companion for the trip down), and bid her a tearful farewell. Then I rushed after Mr. Grummage, who had already begun to move on. A rough-looking porter, laboring behind, carried my trunk upon his back. Our little parade reached dockside in good order. There I became instantly agog at the mass of ships that lay before us, masts and spars thick as the bristles on a brush. Everywhere I looked I saw mountains of rare goods piled high. Bales of silk and tobacco! Chests of tea! A parrot! A monkey! Oh yes, the smell of the sea was intoxicating to one who knew little more than the smell of the trim cut lawns and the fields of the Harrington School. Then too, the surging crowds of workers, sailors, and merchants--all rough-hewn, brawny men--created an exotic late afternoon hubbub. All in all it was a most delicious chaos, which, while mildly menacing, was no less exciting because of that. Indeed, in some vague way I had the feeling that it was all there for me. Mr. Grummage, sir, I called over the din. What is the name of the ship I'm to sail on? Mr. Grummage paused briefly to look at me as though surprised I was there, to say nothing of asking a question. Then from one of his pockets he drew a screw of paper. Squinting at it he pronounced, The Seahawk.'' 9 Is she British or American? American. A merchant ship? To be sure. How many masts? I don't know. Will the other families already be on board? I should think so, he answered, exasperation in his voice. For your information, Miss Doyle, I received word that departure was being put off, but when I checked with the captain directly he informed me that there must have been some misunderstanding. The ship is scheduled to leave with the first tide tomorrow morning. So there can be no delay. To prove the point he turned to move again. I, however, unable to quell my excited curiosity, managed to slip in one more question. Mr. Grummage, sir, what is the captain's name? Mr. Grummage stopped again, frowning in an irritated fashion, but all the same consulted his paper. Captain Jaggery, he announced and once more turned to go. Here! the porter exclaimed suddenly. He had come up close and overheard our talk. Both Mr. Grummage and I looked about. Did you say Captain Jaggery?'' the porter demanded. Are you addressing me? Mr. Grummage inquired, making it perfectly clear that if so, the porter had committed a serious breach of decorum. I was, the man said, talking over my head. And I'm asking if I heard right when you said we was going to a ship mastered by a certain Captain Jaggery. 10 He spoke the name Jaggery as if it were something positively loathsome. I was not addressing you, Mr. Grummage informed the man. But I hears you all the same, the porter went on, and so saying, he swung my trunk down upon the dock with such a ferocious crack that I feared it would snap in two. I don't intend to take one more step toward anything to do with a Mr. Jaggery. Not for double gold. Not one more step. See here, Mr. Grummage cried with indignation. You undertook ... Never mind what I undertook, the man retorted. It's worth more to me to avoid that man than to close with your coin. And without other word he marched off. Stop! I say, stop! Mr. Grummage called. It was in vain. The porter had gone, and quickly at that. Mr. Grummage and I looked at each other. I hardly knew what to make of it. Nor, clearly, did he. Yet he did what he had to do: he surveyed the area in search of a replacement. There! You man! he cried to the first who passed by, a huge laboring fellow in a smock. Here's a shilling if you can carry this young lady's trunk! The man paused, looked at Mr. Grummage, at me, at the trunk. That? he asked disdainfully. I'll be happy to add a second shilling, I volunteered, thinking that a low offer was the problem. Miss Doyle, Mr. Grummage snapped. Let me handle this. Two shillings, the workman said quickly. One, Mr. Grummage countered. 11 Two, the workman repeated and held his hand out to Mr. Grummage, who gave him but one coin. Then the man turned and extended his hand to me. Hastily, I began to extract a coin from my reticule. Miss Doyle! Mr. Grummage objected. I did promise, I whispered and dropped the coin into the man's upturned palm. Right you are, miss, said the porter with a tip of his hat. May the whole world follow your fashion. This commendation of my principles of moral goodness brought a blush of pleasure that I could hardly suppress. As for Mr. Grummage, he made a point of clearing his throat to indicate disapproval. Now then, the porter asked, where does the young lady require this? Never mind where! Mr. Grummage snapped. Along the docks here. I'll tell you when we arrive. The money pocketed, the man lumbered over to my trunk, swung it to his shoulder with astonishing ease--considering the trunk's weight and size--and said, Lead on. Mr. Grummage, wasting no more time, and perhaps fearful of the consequence of more talk, started off again. After guiding us through a maze of docks and quays, he came to a stop. With a half turn he announced, There she sits, and gestured to a ship moored to the slip before us. I had hardly looked where he pointed when I heard a thump behind. Startled, I turned and saw that the new man--the one we'd just engaged--had taken one look at the Seahawk, set down my trunk in haste, and, like the first, run off without any word of explanation at all. 12 Mr. Grummage barely glanced over his shoulder at the hastily departing worker. In exasperation he said, Miss Doyle, you will wait for me here. And with rapid strides he took himself up the gangplank and onto the Seahawk where he disappeared from my view. I stood my place, more than ever wanting to get aboard and meet the delightful children who would be my traveling companions. But as I waited on the dock for something like half an hour-- -all but unmoving in the waning light of day--I could only gaze upon the ship. To say that I was unduly alarmed when I examined the Seahawk would be nonsense. I had not the remotest superstitious notion of what was to come. Nothing of the kind. No, the Seahawk was a ship like countless others I had seen before or for that matter have seen since. Oh, perhaps she was smaller and older than I had anticipated, but nothing else. Moored to the dock, she rode the swell easily. Her standard rigging, tarred black for protection against the salt sea, rose above me, dark ladders to an increasingly dark sky, and indeed, her royal yard seemed lost in the lowering night. [Footnote: *I shall of necessity use certain words during my account that might not be readily familiar--such as rigging, royal yard, or reefed. They were not words I knew when I first came to the ship, but rather terms I learned in the course of my voyage. Since many people today have no such knowledge, I have included a diagram of the Seahawk in the appendix at the end of this account. You may consult it from time to time so as to better understand what I refer to. The diagram will, as well, spare me unnecessary explanations and speed my narrative. Regarding time aboard a ship, a fuller explanation may also be found in the appendix.] 13 * Her sails, tied up, that is, reefed, looked like sleeves of new-fallen snow on lofty trees. Briefly, the Seahawk was what is known as a brig, a two-masted ship (with a snow mast behind the main), perhaps some seven hundred tons in weight, 107 feet stem to bow, 130 feet deck to mainmast cap. She was built, perhaps, in the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century. Her hull was painted black, her bulwarks white, these being the ordinary colors. Her two masts, raked slightly back, were square-rigged. She had a bowsprit too, one that stood out from her bow like a unicorn's horn. Indeed, the one unique aspect of this ship was a carved figurehead of a pale white seahawk beneath the bowsprit. Its wings were thrust back against the bow; its head extended forward, beak wide-open, red tongue protruding as if screaming. In the shadowy light that twisted and distorted its features I was struck by the notion that this figure looked more like an angry, avenging angel than a docile bird. The dockside was deserted and growing darker. I felt like taking myself up the gangplank in search of Mr. Grummage. But, alas, my good manners prevailed. I remained where I was, standing in a dreamlike state, thinking I know not what. But gradually--like a telescope being focused--I began to realize I was watching something clinging to one of the mooring ropes on the ship's stem. It reminded me of a picture I once had seen of a sloth, an animal that hangs upside down upon jungle vines. But this--I gradually perceived--was a man. He appeared to be shimmying himself from the dock up to the Seahawk. Even as I realized what I was seeing, he boarded the ship and was gone. 14 I had no time to absorb that vision before I heard angry voices. Turning, I saw Mr. Grummage appear at the topgallant rail, engaged in an argument with someone I could not see. My gentleman repeatedly looked down at me, and, so I thought, gesticulated in my direction as if I were the subject of a heated discussion. At last Mr. Grummage came down to the dock. As he drew near I saw that his face was flushed, with an angry eye that alarmed me. Is something amiss? I asked in a whisper. Not at all! he snapped. All is as planned. You have been expected. The ship's cargo is loaded. The captain is ready to sail. But . . . He trailed off, looked back at the ship, then turned again to me. It's just that . . . You see, those two families, the ones you would be traveling with, your companions . . . they have not arrived. But they will, I said, trying to compose myself. That's not entirely certain, Mr. Grummage allowed. The second mate informs me that one family sent word that they could not reach Liverpool in time. The other family has a seriously ill child. There is concern that she should not be moved. Again Mr. Grummage glanced over his shoulder at the Sea-hawk as if, in some fashion, these events were the ship's fault. Turning back to me, he continued. As it stands, Captain Jaggery will accept no delay of departure. Quite proper. He has his orders. But Mr. Grummage, sir, I asked in dismay, what shall I do? Do? Miss Doyle, your father left orders that you were to travel on this ship at this time. 15 I've very specific, written orders in that regard. He left no money to arrange otherwise. As for myself, he said, I'm off for Scotland tonight on pressing business. But surely, I cried, frustrated by the way Mr. Grummage was talking as much as by his news, surely I mustn't travel alone! Miss Doyle, he returned, being upon a ship with the full complement of captain and crew could hardly be construed as traveling alone. But ... but that would be all men, Mr. Grummage! And ... I am a girl. It would be wrong! I cried, in absolute confidence that I was echoing the beliefs of my beloved parents. Mr. Grummage drew himself up. Miss Doyle, he said loftily, in my world, judgments as to rights and wrongs are left to my Creator, not to children. Now, be so good as to board the Seahawk. At once! 16 Chapter 2 With Mr. Grummage leading the way I stepped finally, hesitantly, upon the deck of the Seahawk. A man was waiting for us. He was a small man--most seafaring men are small--barely taller than I and dressed in a frayed green jacket over a white shirt that was none too clean. His complexion was weathered dark, his chin ill-shaven. His mouth was unsmiling. His fingers fidgeted and his feet shuffled. His darting, unfocused eyes, set deep in a narrow ferret like face, gave the impression of one who is constantly on watch for threats that might appear from any quarter at any moment. Miss Doyle, Mr. Grummage intoned by way of introduction, both Captain Jaggery and the first mate are ashore. May I present the second mate, Mr. Keetch. Miss Doyle, this Mr. Keetch said to me, speaking in an unnecessarily loud voice, since Captain Jaggery isn't aboard I've no choice but to stand in his place. But it's my strong opinion, miss, that you should take another ship for your passage to America. 17 And I, Mr. Grummage cut in before I could respond, can allow of no such thing! This was hardly the welcome I had expected. But Mr. Grummage, I said, I'm sure my father would not want me to be traveling without-- Mr. Grummage silenced my objections with an upraised hand. Miss Doyle, he said, my orders were clear and allow for no other construction. I met you. I brought you here. I had you placed under the protection of this man, who, in the momentary absence of Captain Jaggery and the first mate, fulfilled his obligation by signing a receipt for you. To prove his point Mr. Grummage waved a piece of paper at me. I might have been a bale of cotton. Therefore, Miss Doyle, he rushed on, nothing remains save to wish you a most pleasant voyage to America. Putting action to words he tipped his hat, and before I could utter a syllable he strode down the gangplank toward the shore. But Mr. Grummage! I called desperately. Whether Mr. Grummage heard me, or chose not to hear me, he continued to stride along the dock without so much as a backward glance. I was never to see him again. A slight shuffling sound made me turn about. Beneath a lantern on the forecastle deck I saw a few wretched sailors hunched in apelike postures pounding oakum between the decking planks. Without doubt they had heard everything. Now they threw hostile glances over their shoulders in my direction. I felt a touch at my elbow. Starting, I turned again and saw Mr. Keetch. He seemed more nervous than ever. 18 Begging your pardon, Miss Doyle, he said in his awkward way, there's nothing to be done now, is there? I'd best show you your cabin. At that point I remembered my trunk of clothing, as if that collection of outward fashion--still ashore-- had more claim to me than the ship. And since it was there, so should I be. My trunk . . .I murmured, making a half turn toward the dock. Not to worry, miss. We'll fetch it for you, Mr. Keetch said, cutting off my last excuse for retreat. Indeed, he held out a lantern, indicating an entry way in the wall of the quarterdeck that appeared to lead below. What could I do? All my life I had been trained to obey, educated to accept. I could hardly change in a moment. Please lead me, I mumbled, as near to fainting as one could be without actually succumbing. Very good, miss, he said, leading me across the deck and down a short flight of steps. I found myself in a narrow, dark passageway with a low ceiling. The steerage, as this area is called, was hardly more than six feet wide and perhaps thirty feet in length. In the dimness I could make out a door on each side, one door at the far end. Like a massive tree rising right out of the floor and up through the ceiling was the mainmast. There was also a small table attached to the center of the flooring. No chairs. The whole area was frightfully confining, offering no sense of comfort that I could see. And a stench of rot permeated the air. This way, I heard Mr. Keetch say again. He had opened a door on my left. Your cabin, miss. 19 The one contracted for. A gesture invited me to enter. I gasped. The cabin was but six feet in length. Four feet wide. Four and a half feet high. I, none too tall, could only stoop to see in. Regular passengers pay a whole six pounds for this, miss, Mr. Keetch advised me, his voice much softer. I forced myself to take a step into the cabin. Against the opposite wall I could make out a narrow shelf, partly framed by boarding. When I noticed something that looked like a pillow and a blanket, I realized it was meant to be a bed. Then, when Mr. Keetch held up the light, I saw something crawl over it. What's that? I cried. Roach, miss. Every ship has 'em. As for the rest of the furnishings, there were none save a small built-in chest in the bulkhead wall, the door of which dropped down and served as a desktop. There was nothing else. No porthole. No chair. Not so much as a single piece of polite ornamentation. It was ugly, unnatural, and, as I stooped there, impossible. In a panic I turned toward Mr. Keetch, wanting to utter some new protest. Alas, he had gone-- and had shut the door behind him as though to close the spring on a trap. How long I remained hunched in that tiny, dark hole, I am not sure. What aroused me was a knock on the door. Startled, I gasped, Come in. 20 The door opened. Standing there was a shockingly decrepit old sailor, a tattered tar-covered hat all but crushed in his gnarled and trembling hands. His clothing was poor, his manner cringing. Yes? I managed to say. Miss, your trunk is here. I looked beyond the door to the trunk's bulky outline. I saw at once how absurd it would be to even attempt bringing it into my space. The sailor understood. She's too big, isn't she? he said. I think so, I stammered. Best put it in top cargo, he offered. Right below. You can always fetch things there, miss. Yes, top cargo, I echoed without knowing what I was saying. Very good, miss, the man said, and then pulled his forelock as a signal of obedience and compliance to a suggestion that he himself had made. But instead of going he just stood there. Yes? I asked miserably. Begging your pardon, miss, the man murmured, his look more hangdog than ever. Barlow's the name and though it's not my business or place to tell you, miss, some of the others here, Jack Tars like myself, have deputized me to say that you shouldn't be on this ship. Not alone as you are. Not this ship. Not this voyage, miss. What do you mean? I said, frightened anew. Why would they say that? You're being here will lead to no good, miss. No good at all. You'd be better off far from the Seahawk.'' Though all my being agreed with him, my training--that it was wrong for a man of his low station to presume to advise me of anything--rose to the surface. I drew myself up. Mr. Barlow, I said stiffly, it's my father who has arranged it all. 21 Very good, miss, he said, pulling at his forelock again. I've but done my duty, which is what I'm deputized to do. And before I could speak further he scurried off. I wanted to run after him, to cry, Yes, for God's sake, get me off! But, again, there was nothing in me that allowed for such behavior. Indeed, I was left with a despairing resolve never to leave the cabin until we reached America. Steadfastly I shut my door. But by doing so I made the space completely dark, and I quickly moved to keep it ajar. I was exhausted and desired greatly to sit down. But there was no place to sit! My next thought was to lie down. Trying to put notions of vermin out of mind, I made a move toward my bed but discovered that it was too high for me to reach easily in my skirts. Then suddenly I realized I must relieve myself! But where was I to go? I had not the slightest idea! If you will be kind enough to recollect that during my life I had never once--not for a moment-- been without the support, the guidance, the protection of my elders, you will accept my words as being without exaggeration when I tell you that at that moment I was certain I had been placed in a coffin. My coffin. It's hardly to be wondered, then, that I burst into tears of vexation, crying with fear, rage, and humiliation. I was still stooped over, crying, when yet another knock came on my cabin door. 22 Attempting to stifle my tears I turned about to see an old black man who, in the light of the little lantern he was holding, looked like the very imp of death in search of souls. His clothing, what I could see of it, was even more decrepit than the previous sailor's, which is to say, mostly rags and tatters. His arms and legs were as thin as marlinspikes. His face, as wrinkled as a crumpled napkin, was flecked with the stubble of white beard. His tightly curled hair was thin. His lips were slack. Half his teeth were missing. When he smiled---for that is what I assumed he was attempting--he offered only a scattering of stumps. But his eyes seemed to glow with curiosity and were all the more menacing because of it. Yes? I managed to say. At your service, Miss Doyle. The man spoke with a surprisingly soft, sweet voice. And wondering if you might not like a bit of tea. I have my own special store, and I'm prepared to offer some. It was the last thing I expected to hear. That's very kind of you, I stammered in surprise. Could you bring it here? The old man shook his head gently. If Miss Doyle desires tea--captain's orders--she must come to the galley. Galley? Kitchen to you, miss. Who are you? I demanded faintly. Zachariah, he returned. Cook, surgeon, carpenter, and preacher to man and ship. And, he added, all those things to you too, miss, in that complete order if comes the doleful need. Now then, shall you have tea? In fact, the thought of tea was extraordinarily comforting, a reminder that the world I knew had not entirely vanished. I couldn't resist. Very well, I said, Would you lead me to the . . . galley? 23 Most assuredly, was the old man's reply. Stepping away from the door, he held his lantern high. I made my way out. We proceeded to walk along the passageway to the right, then up the short flight of steps to the waist of the ship--that low deck area between fore- and quarterdeck. Here and there lanterns glowed; masts, spars, and rigging vaguely sketched the dim outlines of the net in which I felt caught. I shuddered. The man called Zachariah led me down another flight of steps into what appeared to be a fairly large area. In the dimness I could make out piles of sails, as well as extra rigging--all chaotic and unspeakably filthy. Then, off to one side, I saw a small room. The old man went to it, started to enter, but paused and pointed to a small adjacent door that I had not noticed. The head, miss. The what? Privy. My cheeks burned. Even so, never have I felt-- secretly--so grateful. Without a word I rushed to use it. In moments I returned. Zachariah was waiting patiently. Without further ado he went into the galley. I followed with trepidation, stopping at the threshold to look about. From the light of his flickering lantern I could see that it was a small kitchen complete with cabinets, wood stove, even a table and a little stool. The space, though small, had considerable neatness, with utensils set in special niches and corners. 24 Knives placed just so. An equal number of spoons and forks. Tumblers, pots, cups, pans. All that was needed. The old man went right to the stove where a teapot was already on, hot enough to be issuing steam. He pulled a cup from a niche, filled it with fragrant tea, and offered it. At the same time he gestured me to the stool. Nothing, however, could have compelled me to enter further. Though stiff and weary I preferred to stand where I was. Even so, I tasted the tea and was much comforted. As I drank Zachariah looked at me. It may well be, he said softly, that Miss Doyle will have use for a friend. Finding the suggestion--from him--unpleasant, I chose to ignore it. I can assure you, he said with a slight smile, Zachariah can be a fine friend. And I can assure you, I returned, that the captain will have made arrangements for my social needs. Ah, but you and I have much in common. I don't think so. But we do. Miss Doyle is so young! I am so old! Surely there is something similar in that. And you, the sole girl, and I, the one black, are special on this ship. In short, we begin with two things in common, enough to begin a friendship. I looked elsewhere. I don't need a friend, I said. One always needs a final friend. Final friend? Someone to sew the hammock, he returned. I do not understand you. 25 When a sailor dies on voyage, miss, he goes to his resting place in the sea with his hammock sewn about him by a friend. I swallowed my tea hastily, handed the cup back, and made a move to go. Miss Doyle, please, he said softly, taking the cup but holding me with his eyes, I have something else to offer. No more tea, thank you. No, miss. It is this. He held out a knife. With a scream I jumped back. No, no! Miss Doyle. Don't misunderstand! I only wish to give you the knife as protection--in case you need it. He placed a wooden sheath on the blade and held it out. The knife was, as I came to understand, what's called a dirk, a small dagger like blade hardly more than six inches in length from its white scrimshaw handle, where a star design was cut, to its needle-sharp point. Horrified, I was capable only of shaking my head. Miss Doyle doesn't know what might happen, he urged, as though suggesting it might rain on a picnic and he was offering head covering. I know nothing about knives, I whispered. A ship sails with any wind she finds, he whispered. Take it, miss. Place it where it may be reached. So saying, he took my hand and closed my fingers over the dirk. Cringing, I kept it. Yes, he said with a smile, patting my fingers. Now Miss Doyle may return to her cabin. Do you know the way? I'm not certain ... 26 I will guide you. He left me at my door. Once inside I hurriedly stowed the dirk under the thin mattress (resolving never to look at it again) and somehow struggled into my bed. There, fully dressed, I sought rest, fitfully dozing only to be awakened by a banging sound: my cabin door swinging back and forth- --rusty hinges rasping--with the gentle sway of the ship. Then I heard, The only one I could get to come, sir, is the Doyle girl. And with them looking on, I had to put on a bit of a show about wanting to keep her off. Quite all right, Mr. Keetch. If there has to be only one, she's the trump. With her as witness, they'll not dare to move. I'm well satisfied. Thank you, sir. The voices trailed away. For a while I tried to grasp what I'd heard, but I gave it up as incomprehensible. Then, for what seemed forever, I lay listening as the Seahawk, tossed by the ceaseless swell, heaved and groaned like a sleeper beset by evil dreams. At last I slept--only to have the ship's dreams become my own. 27 Chapter 3 I awoke the next morning in my narrow bed--fully clothed--and a stark truth came to me. I was where no proper young lady should be. I needed only to close my eyes again to hear my father use those very words. But as I lay there, feeling the same tossing motion I'd felt when falling asleep--I took it to be that of a ship moored to the dock--I recollected Mr. Gram-mage saying that the Seahawk was due to leave by the morning's first tide. It was not too late. I would ask to be put ashore, and in some fashion--I hardly cared how--I'd make my way back to the Barrington School. There, with Miss Weed, I would be safe. She would make the necessary decisions. Having composed my mind I sat up with some energy only to strike my head upon the low ceiling. Chastened, I got myself to the cabin floor. Now I discovered that my legs had become so weak, so rubbery, I all but sank to my knees. Still, my desperation was such that nothing could stop me. Holding on to now one part of the wall, now another, I made my way out of the cabin into the dim, close steerage and up the steps to the waist of the ship, only to receive the shock of my life. 28 Everywhere I looked great canvas sails of gray, from mainsail to main royal, from flying jib to trysail, were bellied out. Beyond the sails stretched the sky itself, as blue as a baby's bluest eyes, while the greenish sea, crowned with lacy caps of foaming white, rushed by with unrelenting speed. The Sea-hawk had gone to sea. We must have left Liverpool hours before! As this realization took hold, the Seahawk, almost as if wishing to offer final proof, pitched and rolled. Nausea choked me. My head pounded. Weaker than ever, I turned around in search of support. For a fleeting but horrible second I had the notion that I was alone on board. Then I realized that I was being watched with crude curiosity. Standing on the quarterdeck was a red-faced man whose slight stoop and powerful broad shoulders conspired to give the impression of perpetual suspicion, an effect heightened by dark, deep-set eyes partially obscured by craggy eyebrows. Sir ... I called weakly. Where are we? We're coasting down the Irish Sea, Miss Doyle, replied the man, his voice raspy, I ... I ... I shouldn't be here, I managed. But the man, seemingly indifferent to my words, only turned and with a slab of a hand reached for a bell set up at the head of the quarterdeck in a kind of gallows. He pulled the clapper three times. Even as I tried to keep myself from sinking to the deck, nine men suddenly appeared in the ship's waist, from above as well as below, fore as well as aft. All wore the distinctive sailor's garb of canvas britches and shirts. 29 A few had boots, while some had no shoes at all. One or two wore tar-covered hats, others caps of red cloth. Two had beards. One man had long hair and a ring in his left ear. Their faces were dark from sun and tar. They were, in all, as sorry a group of men as I had ever seen: glum in expression, defeated in posture, with no character in any eye save sullenness. They were like men recruited from the doormat of Hell. I did recognize the sailor who had given me the warning the night before. But he paid no attention to me. And when I looked for the man who called himself Zachariah, I finally found him peering out from beneath the forecastle deck, no more concerned with me than the others. They were all looking elsewhere. I shifted to follow their gaze. The broad-shouldered man had been joined by another. Just to see him made my heart leap joyously with recognition and relief. From his fine coat, from his tall beaver hat, from his glossy black boots, from his clean, chiseled countenance, from the dignified way he carried himself, I knew at once--without having to be told--that this must be Captain Jaggery. And he--I saw it in a glance--was a gentleman, the kind of man I was used to. A man to be trusted. In short, a man to whom I could talk and upon whom I could rely. But before I composed myself to approach, Captain Jaggery turned to the man who had rung the bell and I heard him say, Mr. Hollybrass, we are short one. Mr. Hollybrass--I was soon to discover that he was the first mate--looked scornfully at the assembled men below. 30 Then he said, The second mate did the best he could, sir. No one else could be got to sign articles. Not for anything. The captain frowned. Then he said, The others will have to take up the slack. I'll not have any less. Have the men give their names. Hollybrass nodded curtly, then took a step forward and addressed the assembled crew. Give your names, he barked. One by one the sailors shuffled forward a step, lifted their heads, doffed their caps, and spoke their names, but slumped into broken postures again once they returned to the line. Dillingham. Grimes. Morgan. Barlow. Foley. Ewing. Fisk. Johnson. Zachariah. When they had done, Hollybrass said, Your crew, Captain Jaggery. At first the captain said nothing. He merely studied the men with a look of contempt, an attitude that, because I shared it, made me respect him even more. Who is the second mate? I heard him ask. Mr. Keetch, sir. He's at the wheel. Ah, yes, the captain returned, Mr. Keetch. I might have guessed. He studied the line of sailors, smiled sardonically, and said, But where, then, is Mr. Cranick? Sir? Hollybrass said, clearly puzzled. 31 Cranick. I don't know the name, sir. Now there's an unlooked-for blessing, the captain said, his manners nonetheless courtly. All this was said loudly enough for the crew---and me--to hear. Captain Jaggery now took a step forward. Well, then, he said in a clear, firm voice, it's a pleasure to see you all again. I take it kindly that you've signed on with me. Indeed, I suspect we know each other well enough so each understands what's due the other. That makes it easy. His confident tone was tonic to me. I felt myself gain strength. I have no desire to speak to any of you again, the captain continued. Mr. Hollybrass here, as first mate, shall be my voice. So too, Mr. Keetch as second mate. Separation makes for an honest crew. An honest crew makes a fair voyage. A fair voyage brings a profit, and profit, my good gentlemen, doth turn the world. But, Jaggery continued, his voice rising with the wind, I give warning. He leaned forward over the rail much as I'd seen teachers lean toward unruly students. If you give me less--one finger less--than the particulars of the articles you have signed, I shall take my due. Make no mistake, I will. You know I mean what I say, don't you? No, we shall have no democracy here. No parliaments. No congressmen. There's but one master on this ship, and that is me. So saying he turned to his first mate. Mr. Hollybrass. Sir? 32 An extra issue of rum as a gesture of good will toward a pleasant, quick passage. Let it be understood that I know the old saying: no ship sails the same sea twice. Very good, sir. You may dismiss them, the captain said. Dismissed, echoed the first mate. For a moment no one moved. The captain continued to look steadily at the men, then slowly, but with great deliberation, he turned his back upon them. Dismissed, Hollybrass said again. After the crew had gone he murmured some words to Captain Jaggery, the two shook hands, and the first mate went below. Now the captain was alone on the quarterdeck. Glancing upward at the sails from time to time, he began to pace back and forth in almost leisurely fashion, hands clasped behind his back, a study in deep thought. I, meanwhile, still clung to the rail, braced against the heaving ship. But I had new hope. I had not been abandoned. My perception of Captain Jaggery made me certain that my world was regained. Summoning such strength and courage as was left me, I mounted the steps to the quarterdeck. When I reached the top the captain was moving away from me. Grateful for the momentary reprieve, I stood where I was, fighting the nausea I felt, gathering all my womanly arts so as to present myself in the most agreeable fashion, making sure my hair, my best asset, fell just so-- despite the breeze--to my lower back. At last he turned. For a moment his severe eyes rested on me and then ... he smiled. It was such a kind, good-natured smile that my heart nearly melted. I felt I would--I think I did--shed tears of gratitude. 33 Ah, he said with unimpeachable refinement, Miss Doyle, our young lady passenger. He lifted his tall hat in formal salutation. Captain Andrew Jaggery at your service. He bowed. I took a wobbly step in his direction, and despite my weakness tried to curtsy. Please, sir, I whispered in my most modest, ladylike way, my father would not want me here on this ship and in this company. I must go back to Liverpool. To Miss Weed. Captain Jaggery smiled brilliantly, then laughed-- a beguiling, manly laugh. Return to Liverpool, Miss Doyle? he said. Out of the question. Time, as they say, is money. And nowhere is this truer than on board a ship. We are well off and we shall continue on. God willing, we shall touch no land but welcome ports. I am sorry you have such rude company. I know you are used to better. It could not be helped. But in a month, no more than two, we shall have you safe in Providence, no worse off but for a little salt in that pretty hair of yours. In the meanwhile, I promise that when you're well--for I can see by your pallor that you have a touch of seasickness--I'll have you in my quarters for tea. We shall be friends, you and I. Sir, I shouldn't be here. Miss Doyle, you have my word on it. No harm shall come your way. Besides, it's said a pretty child--a pretty woman--keeps the crew in a civilized state, and this crew can do with some of that. I feel so ill, sir, I said. 34 That's only to be expected, Miss Doyle. In a few days it will pass. Now, you will excuse me. Duty calls. Turning, he made his way to the stem where the second mate stood at the wheel. Checked by his courteous but complete dismissal of my request, and feeling even weaker than before, I somehow made my way back to my cabin. I did manage to crawl into the bed. And once there I must have fallen into some kind of swoon. In any case I remained there, too ill, too weak to do anything, certain I'd never rise again. Now and again I would feel a rough-skinned but gentle hand beneath my head. I would open my eyes, and there was Zachariah's ancient black face close by, murmuring soft, comforting sounds, spooning warm gruel or tea into my mouth--I didn't know which--as if I were some baby. Indeed, I was a baby. And from time to time the face of Captain Jaggery loomed large too, a welcome and tender gift of sympathy. Indeed, I believed it was the sight of him more than anything else that sustained me. For I suffered real and terrible stomach pains, and dreadful headaches. Even my dreams were haunted by ghastly visions. So real were they that once I started up and found Zachariah's dirk in my hand. I must have plucked it from beneath my mattress and was brandishing it against some imagined evil. ... I heard a sound. I looked across the cabin. A rat was sitting on my journal, nibbling at its spine. Horrified, I flung the dirk at it, then buried my head in the coverlet, burst into tears, and cried myself to sleep again. This bad time passed. At length I was able to sleep in peace. How long I slept I am not sure. But then at last I truly awoke. 35 Chapter 4 When I awakened that time--to the sound of four bells--I had no idea whether I had slept one day or seven. I knew only that I was hungry. I sensed my own filthiness too. And I had an almost desperate desire for fresh air. I lowered myself to the cabin floor and was pleased to find that my legs would--after a fashion-- hold. But then, as I moved toward the door, my foot stepped on something. I almost fell. Bending down to investigate I realized I'd stepped on the dirk. When I recalled the circumstances as to why I'd thrown it, I resolved to return the dagger immediately. So it was with dirk in hand that I left my cabin and went up the ladder and onto the deck, fully expecting to see the same brilliant scene of sky, sails, and sea that had greeted me when I had ventured on deck the first time. It was not to be so. Though the Seahawk heaved and rolled, creaked and groaned, her sails hung limply. The sky was different too; low, with a heavy dampness that instantly wet my face, though I felt nothing so distinct as rain. As for the sea, it was almost the same color as the sky, a 36 menacing claylike gray. And yet, it was in constant motion, its surface heaving rhythmically like the chest of some vast, discomforted sleeper. I looked about. A few of the sailors were working ropes or scouring decks with heavy holystones. Their sullen silence, their dirty clothing, was hardly a reassuring sight. Then I realized that one of them--Dillingham was his name--was staring right at me. He was a bearded, bald, and barrel-chested man, with great knuckled fists and a perpetually sulky frown. Suddenly, I saw that it was not so much me he was looking at but the blade I held in my hand. Turning abruptly, I tried to hide the dirk in the folds of my skirt. When I stole a glance over my shoulder I noted that Dillingham had gone off. All the same the incident reminded me I had come on deck to give the knife back to Zachariah. Concerned mostly that the other sailors not see what I held, I hastily made my way to the galley. Fortunately, Zachariah was there. Standing at the bulkhead, I mumbled, Good morning. The old man turned from his pots. Ah! Miss Doyle, he cried. I am glad to see you. And most pleased too that you've found your--what sailors call--sea legs. Mr. Zachariah, I said, weak and breathless, but holding out the dirk. Take this back. I don't want it. It was as if he had not heard me. Would Miss Doyle wish some tea? I continued to offer the dirk. Mr. Zachariah, please ... Come, he said, do as they do in big houses. Enter, drink, and eat. When one recovers one's legs, there's still a stomach to contend with. Then, perhaps, I'll talk with Miss Doyle about my gift. 37 I was not sure what to do. It was the smell of food that decided me. I am very hungry. Immediately he reached into a tin chest and brought out what looked like a flat lump of hard dough. Would Miss Doyle like this? he asked as if offering a fine delicacy. My nose wrinkled. What is it? Hardtack. Sailor's bread. Come, Miss Doyle, sit. As loathsome as the food appeared, hunger dictated. I stepped forward, settled myself on the stool, and took the hardened cake. Meanwhile, I put the dirk in my dress pocket. As I ate--not an easy task, for the biscuit was rock hard and close to tasteless--he busied himself in getting tea. How long have I been ill? I asked. On toward four days now. After a moment I said, I wish to thank you for your kindness during that time. He turned and beamed. Zachariah and Miss Doyle--together.'' Fearing he was taking liberties, I changed the subject. Is it possible, I asked, to go where my trunk is? I need to get some fresh clothes as well as my reading. For that, he said, you will need to apply to Mr. Hollybrass. He offered me the tea. I took the cup and began to sip at it. After a moment, I said, Mr. Zachariah, when I finish my tea I intend to leave the dirk. The old man studied me. Miss Doyle--his hand touched his heart--believe me. There may be a need. 38 What kind of need? I said, dismayed. A ship, Miss Doyle ... is a nation of its own. Mr. Zachariah ... The nations of the earth, Miss Doyle, they have kings, and emperors ... And presidents, I added, loyal American that I was. Yes, and presidents. But when a ship is upon the sea, there's but one who rules. As God is to his people, as king to his nation, as father to his family, so is captain to his crew. Sheriff. Judge and jury. He is all. All? I said. Aye, he said solemnly, and hangman too if it comes to that. Now, Miss Doyle, if ever a man was master of his ship, it's our Captain Jaggery. I saw you upon the deck that first day. Did you not mark his words? I drew myself up. Mr. Zachariah, I said, the captain is a fine man. Do you think so? I know so. For a moment Zachariah merely gazed at me with a look of curiosity. Then he turned away and busied himself with his pots. Mr. Zachariah, why do I need the dirk? When he paused in his work, I sensed he was trying to make up his mind. After a moment he turned back to me. Miss Doyle, he said, listen. Even as he spoke he stole a quick glance out the door, crept forward, and lowered his voice. 39 One year ago, Miss Doyle, on this same ship, Seahawk, one poor sailor came under the captain's ire, the captain's judgment, the captain's rage. Mr. Zachariah, I don't wish to hear personal-- Miss Doyle has asked, he said, cutting me off, now she must listen. That poor jack went by the name of Mr. Cranick. Cranick? I said. Didn't the captain ask Mr. Hollybrass about him? Ah, you do listen. What about him? I asked, already sorry I had pressed for this explanation. Mr. Cranick did not tie a knot to Captain Jaggery's particular pleasure. The captain punished Mr. Cranick. Punished him hard. I'm sure this . . . Mr. Cranick deserved it. Zachariah cocked his head to one side. Miss Doyle, do you believe in justice? I am an American, Mr. Zachariah. Ah! Justice for all? For those who deserve it. Captain Jaggery said Mr. Cranick's laboring arm was his by rights. Miss Doyle, Mr. Cranick has but one arm now. He was that much beaten by Captain Jaggery, who, as he said himself, took the arm. I was first surgeon, then carpenter to Mr. Cranick. Appalled, I jumped off the stool. I don't believe you! I exclaimed. Justice is poorly served when you speak ill of your betters. It was a phrase I had heard my father use many times. Whether you believe me or not, Miss Doyle, it is tree, he said, moving to block me from the exit. It was my turn to offer him my back. 40 Now, that crew, he continued all the same, each and every jack of them---once ashore-- petitioned the admiralty courts against the captain. It was no use, Miss Doyle. No use. Jaggery had his way. All he needed to say was that Cranick refused a lawful order and he received not one word of censure. It's a sad commonplace. I've yet to see a master charged. Ah, Zachariah pressed on, but the captain must sail again. Sailing is his life. He has his reputation for fast crossings to keep up, speeds that bring ripe profits. But to sail, even Jaggery needs a crew ... Mr. Zachariah, I must beg you to refrain-- But Andrew Jaggery could find not one other jack to sign with the Seahawk. They were all warned away. As soon as he said that my mind went to the Liverpool dock men who fled, the one upon hearing the captain's name, the other upon seeing the Seahawk. But the next moment I turned and said, But Mr. Zachariah, what about these men? On this ship? Yes. Miss Doyle, I only said other men were kept away. Suddenly I began to understand. Are these his former crew? I asked. His eyes were hard upon me now, frightening me. On the Seahawk? I demanded. He nodded. Only Mr. Hollybrass is new. Then he added, And Mr. Cranick could not sign. I stared at him for a moment and by sheer force of will said, If Captain Jaggery was so cruel, why should they have signed on again? Zachariah leaned close to me. Revenge, he whispered. 41 Revenge? I echoed weakly. The old man nodded. Because of all this I gave you that dirk. Automatically my hand touched it in my pocket. They--he lowered his voice even as he indicated the deck with a movement of his head--know your father's name. They know the captain works for him. They assume you'll stand ... Mr. Zachariah, I cut in with the only voice I had--a faint whisper--I have nothing but respect for the captain. Exactly. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then Zachariah asked, Where have you kept this dirk I gave you? Under my mattress. Miss Doyle, I beg of you--keep it there still. At that very instant we were startled by a noise. We looked around. It was Mr. Hollybrass, peering at us from behind his shaggy brows like some spy, his frown indicative of his displeasure in seeing us closeted so. Miss Doyle, the first mate said. Compliments of Captain Jaggery. And would you be kind enough to join him in his quarters for tea? 42 Chapter 5 Never had I met with such impertinence! That this Zachariah, my inferior, a cook, should tell such a slanderous tale of violence and cruelty regarding Captain Jaggery to me--as though it were a confidence--was deeply mortifying. I would not, could not believe it! You can imagine then my relief at being rescued by Mr. Hollybrass, With head held high and fingers smoothing dress and hair as best I could, I hurriedly followed the first mate from the galley to the captain's cabin--at the far end of the steerage--under the everwatchful eyes of the crew. More than once I touched the dirk that lay in my pocket. I was resolved to give it to the captain. Whether or not I should tell the captain what I'd just heard was a more delicate question. To confess that I'd even been spoken to in such an offending fashion would have made me feel acutely uncomfortable. But not to speak of it would smack of complicity. Before I could make up my mind, Mr. Hollybrass had knocked upon the captain's door, and upon hearing an Enter! he opened it. I stepped forward. 43 Every other place I'd seen aboard the Seahawk had a rough, crude look, with not the slightest hint of style or culture about them. The captain's cabin was a world apart. It extended the full width of the Seahawk. And I found I could stand up in it with room to spare. The walls were richly paneled and hung with miniatures and pretty pastoral prints of dear England. On the back wall--the stem of the ship--there was a row of windows, below which stood a handsome stuffed sofa. A high bed was built into the port side. A desk with neatly stacked charts and nautical instruments in velvet boxes faced it on the starboard wall. Next to the desk was an iron cabinet that I took to be a safe, not unlike my father's. In one comer I spied a chessboard, pieces at the ready. Finally, a table, with a few chairs about it, had been laid with a silver service for tea. Had there been no creak and groan of timbers, no rattle of rigging and chain, no hiss of waves, I might have been excused for forgetting that we were at sea. To complete this elegant picture, Captain Jaggery sat upon one of a pair of armchairs in fine full dress, an open book on his knee. It was, in fact, the Bible. When I came in he rose to his feet and made an elegant bow. Could anything be in greater contrast to my meeting with Zachariah? I was charmed. Miss Doyle, he said, how kind of you to visit. Wishing to present myself in the best possible fashion, I moved forward with one hand out. He took it graciously. Then he turned to the first mate. Mr. Hollybrass, he said briskly, that will be all. Mr. Hollybrass presented a salute and retired. 44 Miss Doyle, Captain Jaggery continued with a gracious smile even as he carefully closed and put down his Bible, would you be good enough to sit. He held the other upholstered seat out for me. Thank you, I said, thrilled to be treated in this ladylike fashion. You seem surprised, he said, to find such fine things in my cabin. I blushed that he should discover me so. It is very nice, I admitted. How gracious of you to appreciate it, he said soothingly. It's not often I have a person of cultivation--like you--aboard my ship to notice. I fear a crew such as mine has little liking for good taste or, alas, order. It offends them. But then, you and I-- people of our class--we understand the better things of life, don't we? Again I blushed, this time with pleasure. May I, he said, offer you some tea? I was awash with tea, but was not about to refuse him. Some biscuits? He offered a tin of Scottish thins. I took one and nibbled daintily. Crisp and buttery. Delicious. A ship like the Seahawk, he went on, is not designed for comfort, but for commerce, for making money. Still, I do the best I can. He poured a cup of tea for himself. I was informed, he said, resuming his seat, that you had recovered, and was so glad to hear it. May I urge you, Miss Doyle, to promenade in the fresh air as much as possible. You will soon be as healthy--healthier--than you ever were. Thank you, sir. 45 It is regrettable that those other two families could not join us. They would have made your voyage that much more pleasant. Mine too. Yes, sir. He smiled. Do you know, I have a daughter. Do you? He got up, removed a little picture from a wall, and held it up for me to see. It was the face of a dear little child, her eyes large, her mouth sweet. Victoria is her name. She's only five. Someday I hope to have her and her mother on board with me. But for the moment the child is too delicate. She's very lovely, sir, I said, reaching for the picture. He drew it back as if unable to part with it even for a moment. If I may take the liberty of saying so, Miss Doyle, you and she could be charming sisters. I do miss her.'' His eyes lingered on the picture in a most affecting way. Then he placed it carefully back on the wall, never for a moment taking his eyes from the child's face. He turned about. Are you comfortable in your cabin? he asked. Oh, yes, sir, I assured him. A bit cramped no doubt. Only a little. Miss Doyle, I offer you the freedom of the ship. As for your meals, you may join me whenever you choose. I don't think you will find the crew to your liking, of course, but there will be no harm in being friendly to them. The truth is, you will do them a world of good. It's kind of you to say, sir, I replied, appreciating the compliment. He was watching me with an earnestness I found irresistible. 46 Talk to them, Miss Doyle, he urged. Show them a little softness. Read to them from your moral books. Preach the gospel if you have a mind. Listen to their tales. I promise, they will fill your pretty head with the most fantastical notions. I'm sure, sir, I said, thinking back to all Zachariah had told me. The captain's behavior at tea was proof enough--for me--of his true goodness. I gather, he continued, that Mr. Zachariah has already befriended you. I drew myself up. He's been a bit presumptuous. These sailors ... the captain said lazily. They have no natural tenderness. They must be instructed. He studied me a while. How old are you Miss Doyle? Thirteen, sir. And your father, I understand, is an officer of the company that owns this ship. Yes, sir. He smiled. Then, you see, I have even more reason to make sure your time with us is as comfortable as possible. I shall want a good report from you. Oh, sir, I exclaimed enthusiastically, I'm sure I'll not be stinting in my praise. You seem so-- Yes? You remind me of my father, I said, blushing yet again. High praise, which I hope to deserve! he cried with such obvious pleasure that I could not help but be gratified. Then he set down his teacup and leaned forward. Miss Doyle, forgive my rough tongue, but, since we are to be friends--we are already friends, are we not? I would very much like that, sir. 47 And you said I remind you of your esteemed father. You do, sir. Then may I be frank with you? If you wish, sir, I returned, flattered anew. A ship, Miss Doyle, I will be the first to admit, is not the most wholesome place for a refined young lady like yourself. And a captain has not the easiest of tasks, considering the nature of the crew he must command. They are godless men, I fear. Sailors often are. There will be moments, he continued, when I will appear harsh to you. Believe me, if I could with kindness encourage the men to achieve their tasks I would do it. Alas, I would gain no respect. They don't understand kindness. Instead, they see it as weakness. Instead, they demand a strong hand, a touch of the whip, like dumb beasts who require a little bullying. I must do what is best for the ship, the company--which is to say your father--and for them. I am a punctilious man, Miss Doyle. Without order there is chaos. Chaos on shipboard is sailing without a rudder. As for danger . . . He gestured toward the iron safe. Do you see that cabinet? I nodded. A rack of muskets. All loaded. But locked, the key secured. You have my word, Miss Doyle, there are no other guns aboard but mine. I'm very glad, sir, I replied with a shiver. And so you and I, Miss Doyle, shall understand one another, shall we not? Oh, yes, sir. I'm sure, sir. 48 You do my heart good! he cried. And you have permission to come to me if you are troubled in any way, Miss Doyle. If something frightens you, or . . . if perhaps, you become . . . how shall I say . . . apprehensive. If you hear rumors among the men . . . This crew, like all crews, grumbles and complains. You go to school? he asked suddenly. I nodded. And though you love it, and love your mistresses, I'm sure even you and your companions have critical things to say. I'm afraid so. It's much the same here, Miss Doyle. All friends, but ... a few grumbles too. In fact I shall ask you to help me. You can be my eyes and ears among the men, Miss Doyle. May I depend on you for that? I'll try sir. If ever you see something like this ... From the Bible he withdrew a paper. On it was a drawing of two circles, one within the other and with what looked like signatures in the space between. I looked at it blankly. 49 A round robin, he said. The men sign it this way so no name shall appear on top, or bottom. How typical of them not to accept responsibility for their own wayward actions. It's a kind of pact. I don't understand. Miss Doyle, those who sign such a thing--a round robin--mean to make dangerous trouble. For me. And you. If ever you see one about the ship you must tell me immediately. It might save our lives. Well, he said briskly, changing his dark tone as he put the paper away, I believe you and I shall be fast friends. Oh, yes sir, I assured him. He drank the last of his tea. Now, is there anything I can do for you? My trunk was put away, sir. I should like to remove some clothing from it, and my reading. Do you wish the trunk up? he asked. My room is too small, sir. I thought I could go to it. I shall have one of the men lead you there. Thank you, sir. Anything else? Yes, sir. What is it. I drew the dirk from my pocket. He started. Where did you get that? he asked severely. I don't know if I should say, sir. His face had grown stem. Miss Doyle, was it from one of my crew? What flashed through my mind was Zachariah's kindness that first night I came aboard. In truth, I didn't care for the black man; he had been, most unpleasantly forward. 49 50 But the severity that had crept into the captain's eyes as he asked his question gave me pause. I did not wish to bring trouble to Zachariah. No doubt he meant well. Miss Doyle, the Captain said firmly, you must tell me. Mr. Grummage, sir, I blurted out. I don't know the man. The gentleman who brought me to the Seahawk, sir, A business associate of my father's. From Liverpool? I think so, sir. A gentleman. Quite! he said and, seeming to relax, he reached for the dirk. I gave it to him. He tested its point. A true blade, he exclaimed. Then to my surprise--he offered it back. If it gives you a sense of security, put it . . . under your mattress. I had it there, sir. I don't want it. I think you had better. Why? I asked faintly. In hopes you never need it, he replied. Now, I insist. I returned the dirk to my dress pocket but resolved to fling it into the ocean at the first opportunity. Captain Jaggery laughed pleasantly, and then asked me questions about family and school that quickly helped me regain a sense of ease and comfort. I was speaking of Miss Weed when five bells struck. The captain stood. Forgive me, he said. I must return to the deck. Let me find someone to go with you to your trunk. Do you know exactly where it was stowed? I shook my head. A Mr. Barlow had charge of it, I explained. 51 Come then, he said. I'll get him to accompany you. At the open door he paused, and with a flourish, extended his arm. Glowing with pleasure, I took it and the two of us swept out of his cabin. 52 Chapter 6 Never mind that my dress--having been worn for four days---was creased and misshapen, my white gloves a sodden gray. Never mind that my fine hair must have been hanging like a horse's tail, in almost complete disarray. With all eyes upon us as we crossed the ship's waist to the bowsprit and figurehead, I felt like a princess being led to her throne. Not even the same lowering mist I'd observed when I first came from my cabin could dampen my soaring spirits. Captain Jaggery was a brilliant sun and I, a Juno moon, basked in reflected glory. Captain Jaggery, sir, I said, this ship seems to be moving very slowly. You observe correctly, he replied, ever the perfect gentleman. But if you look up there, he pointed beyond the mainmast, you'll notice some movement. The cloud cover should be breaking soon and then we'll gain. There, you see, he exclaimed, the sun is struggling to shine through. As if by command a thin yellow disk began to appear where he pointed, though it soon faded again behind clotted clouds. 53 From the forecastle deck we crossed to the quarterdeck and then to the helm. Foley, a lean, bearded man, was at the wheel. Mr. Keetch, as unsmiling as ever, stood by his side. The wheel itself was massive, with hand spikes for easier gripping. When the captain and I approached, the two men stole fleeting glances in our direction but said nothing. Captain Jaggery released my arm and gazed up at the sails. At length he said, Mr. Keetch. The second mate turned to him. Yes, sir. I believe, the captain said, we shall soon have a blow. Mr. Keetch seemed surprised. Do you think so, sir? I hardly would have said so otherwise, now would I, Mr. Keetch? The man darted a glance at me as if I held the answer. All he said however was, I suppose not, sir. Thank you, Mr. Keetch. Now, I want to take advantage of it. Tighten all braces, and be ready with the jigger gaff. Aye, aye, sir. And bring the studding sails to hand. We may want them to make up for lost time. Aye, aye, sir. After another glance at me, Mr. Keetch marched quickly across the quarterdeck and at the rail bellowed, All hands'! All hands! Within moments the entire crew assembled on deck. Topgallant and royal yardmen in the tops! he cried. 54 The next moment the crew scrambled into the shrouds and standing rigging, high amidst the masts and spars. Even as they ascended Mr. Keetch began to sing out a litany of commands-- Man topgallant mast ropes! Haul taut! Sway and unfid!--that had men hauling on running lines and tackle until the desired sails were shifted and set. It was a grand show, but if the ship moved any faster for it, I didn't sense a change. The captain now turned to Foley. One point south, he said. One point south, Foley echoed and shifted the wheel counterclockwise with both hands. Steady on, the captain said. Steady on, Foley repeated. Now it was Mr. Hollybrass who approached the helm. The moment he did so Captain Jaggery hailed him. Mr. Hollybrass! Sir! As convenient, Mr. Hollybrass, send Mr. Barlow to Miss Doyle. She needs to learn where her trunk was stowed. Yes, sir. Miss Doyle, the captain said to me, please be so good as to follow Mr. Hollybrass. I have enjoyed our conversation and look forward to many more. Then and there--beneath the eyes of all the crew--he took up my hand, bowed over it, and touched his lips to my fingers. I fairly glowed with pride. Finally I followed--perhaps floated is a better word--after Mr. Hollybrass. Barely concealing a look of disdain for the captain's farewell to me, he made his way across the quarterdeck and stood at the rail overlooking the ship's waist. 55 There he studied the men while they continued to adjust the rigging, now and again barking a command to work one rope or another. Mr. Barlow, he called out at last. Here, sir! came a response from on high. Some sixty feet above I saw the man. Get you down! Mr. Hollybrass cried. Despite his decrepit appearance, Barlow was as dexterous as a monkey. He clambered across the foreyard upon which he had been perched, reached the mast, then the rigging, and on this narrow thread of rope he seemed to actually ran until he dropped upon the deck with little or no sound. Aye, aye, sir, he said, no more out of breath than I--or rather less than I, for to see him at such heights moving at such speeds had taken my breath away. Mr. Barlow, Hollybrass said. Miss Doyle needs her trunk. I understand you know where it is. I put it in top steerage, sir. Be so good as to lead her to it. Yes, sir. Barlow had not yet looked my way. Now, with a shy nod, and a touch to his forelock, he did so. I understood I was to follow. The normal entry to the cargo areas is through the hatchway located in the center of the ship's waist. Since that was lashed down for the voyage, Barlow led me another way, to a ladder beneath the mates' mess table--in steerage--just opposite my cabin door. After setting aside the candle he'd brought along, he scrambled under the mess table, then pulled open a winged hatch door that was built flush into the floor. 56 Once he had his candle lit, I saw him twist about and drop partway down the hole. If you please, miss, he beckoned. Distasteful though it was, I had little choice in the matter. I crawled on hands and knees, backed into the hole, and climbed down twelve rungs--a distance of about eight or nine feet. Here, miss, Barlow said at my side, next to the ladder. You don't want to go down to the hold. I looked beneath me and saw that the ladder continued into what appeared to be a black pit. More cargo, he explained laconically. Rats and roaches too. And a foul bilge. That's where the brig is. Brig? The ship's jail. A jail on a ship? Captain Jaggery wouldn't sail without, miss. I shuddered in disgust. Barlow held out one of his hard, gnarled hands. Reluctantly I took it and did a little jump to the top cargo deck. Only then did I look about. It was a great, wood-ribbed cavern I had come to, which--because Barlow's candlelight reached only so far--melted into blackness fore and aft. I recall being struck by the notion that I was-- Jonah-like-- in the belly of a whale. The air was heavy, with the pervasive stench of rot that made me gag. What's that? I asked, pointing to a cylinder from which pipes ran, and to which handles were attached. The pump, he said. In case we take on sea. In all directions I saw the kinds of bales, barrels, and boxes I had seen upon the Liverpool docks. 57 The sight was not romantic now. These goods were piled higgledy-piggledy one atop the other, braced and restrained here and there by ropes and wedges, but mostly held in place by their own bulk. The whole reminded me of a great tumble of toy blocks jammed into a box. There's more below, Barlow said, observing me look about. But your trunk's over there. Sure enough, I saw it up along the alleyway created by two stacks of cargo. Would you open it, please, I requested. Barlow undid the hasps and flung open the top. There lay my clothing, wrapped in tissue paper and laid out beautifully. The school maids had done a fine job. A sigh escaped my lips at this glimpse of another world. I can't take everything, I said. Well, miss, Barlow said, now that you know where it is, you could fetch things on your own. That's true, I said, and, kneeling, began to lift the layers carefully. After a while Barlow said, If it pleases, miss, might I have a word? You see I'm very busy Mr. Barlow, I murmured. For a moment the sailor said nothing, though I was conscious of his nervous presence behind me. Miss, he said unexpectedly, you know I spoke out when you first arrived. I have tried to forget it, Mr. Barlow, I said with some severity. You shouldn't, miss. You shouldn't. His earnest, pleading tone made me pause. What do you mean? Just now, miss, the captain put us on display. 58 All that hauling and pulling. It was to no account. Mocking us-- Mr. Barlow! I interrupted. It's true, miss. He's abusing us. And you. Mark my words. No good will come of it. I pressed my hands to my ears. After a moment the man said, All right, miss. I'll leave you with the candle. You won't go into the hold now, will you? I shall be fine, Mr. Barlow, I declared. Please leave me. So engrossed was I in my explorations of my trunk that I ceased paying him any attention. Only vaguely did I hear him retreat and ascend the ladder. But when I was sure he was gone I did turn about. He had set the candle on the floor near where the ladder led further into the hold. Though the flame flickered in a draft, I was satisfied it would bum a while. I turned back to my trunk. As I knelt there, making the difficult but delicious choice between this petticoat and that-- searching too for a book suitable for reading to the crew as the captain had suggested--the sensation crept upon me that there was something else hovering about, a presence, if you will, something I could not define. At first I tried to ignore the feeling. But no matter how much I tried it could not be denied. Of course it was not exactly quiet down below. No place on a ship is. There were the everlasting creaks and groans. I could hear the sloshing of the bilge water in the hold, and the rustling of all I preferred not to put a name to--such as the rats Barlow had mentioned. But within moments I was absolutely certain-- though how I knew I cannot tell--that it was a person who was watching me. 59 As this realization took hold, I froze in terror. Then slowly I lifted my head and stared before me over the lid of the trunk. As far as I could see, no one was there. My eyes swept to the right. No one. To the left. Again, nothing. There was but one other place to look, behind. Just the thought brought a prickle to the back of my neck until, with sudden panic, I whirled impulsively about. There, jutting up from the hole through which the hold might be reached, was a grinning head, its eyes fixed right on me. I shrieked. The next moment the candle went out and I was plunged into utter darkness. 60 Chapter 7 I was too frightened to cry out again. Instead I remained absolutely still, crouching in pitch blackness while the wash of ship sounds eddied about me, sounds now intensified by the frantic knocking of my heart. Then I recollected that Zachariah's dirk was still with me. With a shaking hand I reached into the pocket where I'd put it, took it out, and removed its wooden sheath which slipped through my clumsy fingers and clattered noisily to the floor. Is someone there? I called, my voice thin, wavering. No answer. After what seemed forever I repeated, more boldly than before, Is someone there? Still nothing happened. Not the smallest breath of response. Not the slightest stir. Gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the creaking darkness. I could make out the ladder descending from the deck, a square of dim light above. From that point I could follow the line of the ladder down to where it plunged into the hold below. At that spot, at the edge of the hole, I could see the head more distinctly. 61 Its eyes were glinting wickedly, its lips contorted into a grim, satanic smirk. Horrified, I nonetheless stared back. And the longer I did so the more it dawned on me that the head had not in fact moved--not at all. The features, I saw, remained unnaturally fixed. Finally, I found the courage to edge aside my fear and lean forward-- the merest trifle--to try and make out who--or what--was there. With the dirk held awkwardly before me I began to crawl forward. The closer I inched the more distorted and grotesque grew the head's features. It appeared to be positively inhuman. When I drew within two feet of it I stopped and waited. Still the head did not move, did not blink an eye. It seemed as if it were dead. With trembling fingers I reached out and managed to brush the thing, just lightly enough to sense that it was hard--like a skull. At first I cringed, but then puzzlement began to replace fear. I touched the head more forcibly. This time it rolled to one side, as though twisting down upon a shoulder yet all the while glaring hideously at me. I pulled back. By then I had drawn close enough so that, accustomed to the dark, my eyes could make out the head more or less distinctly. I realized that this humanlike face was a grotesque carving cut into some large, brown nut. Emboldened, I felt for it again, trying to grasp it. That time the head quivered, teetered over the edge of the hold, then dropped. I heard it crash, roll about, then cease to make any sound at all. 62 Tom between annoyance for what I had done and relief not to be in any danger, I put the dirk back into my pocket--I never did find the sheath--retrieved the candle and started climbing the ladder. Halfway up I remembered my clothing, the reason for my being below in the first instance. For a moment I hung midpoint wondering if I should go back and fetch some of what I needed. Insisting to myself that there was nothing to worry about, I groped my way back to the trunk, feeling for and taking up what I had previously laid out. Then I turned, half expecting to see the head again-- but of course I did not--and rung by rung, squeezing clothing and books under my arm, climbed to the top of the ladder. After closing the hatch's double doors, I crawled out from beneath the table and retreated hastily to my cabin. There I changed my clothes, and soon felt quite calm again. I was able to reflect on all that had just happened. The first question was, what exactly had I seen? A grotesque carving, I told myself, though I had to admit I couldn't be sure. Even if it was a carving, could a carving reasonably put out a candle? Surely that must have been done by a human hand. My thoughts fastened upon Barlow. On further reflection, however, I was quite convinced that--other than the candle--Barlow had been empty-handed. Yes, I was certain of it. Besides, though I hardly knew the man, he seemed too submissive, too beaten about, to be capable of such a malicious trick. After all, it was he who had warned me twice about possible trouble. But--if it had not been Barlow, there must have been a second person, someone to place the head where I'd seen it. 63 Once I put my mind to that possibility, I realized with a start that, yes, I had seen two faces. The first one--I was mortally certain--had been a human's, belonging to the person who snuffed out the candle and who then, under cover of dark, set up the carving to deceive and frighten me. Though I prided myself on my ability to remember sights and sounds, I was unable to make a match at all between that face and any man I had seen among the crew. Someone new? That was impossible. We were at sea. Visitors did not stop to call! Very well then, I reasoned the person in the hold had to be someone I'd simply not recognized. After all, my sighting was the quickest of glimpses. But if I could not identify who it was then the next question became: why had he shown himself? Why indeed? To frighten me! I had no doubt about that. Well then, to what end? To make me think that what I'd seen was not real? I recalled Barlow's words: perhaps I was being warned. But why, I wondered, should anyone want to warn me? True, I had been told not to board the ship. And Zachariah's words concerning the crew and their desire to be revenged on Captain Jaggery for his so-called cruelty were unnerving--even if I did not believe them. Then too, I reminded myself of the captain's own warning that the black man was given to exaggeration. There were too many puzzles. Too many complexities. Unable to fathom the mystery I ended up scolding myself, convinced that I was making something out of nothing. This then was my conclusion: it was I who had not seen properly. The candle--I decided--must have been blown out by a sudden current of air. 64 As for the carving, no doubt it had been there all along. I simply had not noticed it. Thus I forced myself to believe that I had acted the part of a foolish schoolgirl too apt to make the worst of strange surroundings. And so I found a way to set aside my worries and fears. There now, I said aloud, the proof is this: has anything bad really happened? To this I was forced to say: discomfort, well yes; but ill treatment? No, not really. Still, I wondered if I should inform Captain Jaggery. Had he not just asked me to tell him of anything untoward? Had I not agreed? Upon careful reflection, I decided to remain silent. If I were to go to the captain with such a tale he-would think me a sorry, troublesome child. That was the last thing I desired. Such thoughts led me to consider my most pleasant talk during tea with him. He had left me in quite a different frame of mind than Zachariah had. Captain Jaggery and Mr. Zachariah! Such unlike men! And yet, quite suddenly I was struck by the thought that each of them, in his own way, was courting me. Courting me! I could not help but smile. Well no, not courting in the real sense. But surely courting me for friendship. What a queer notion! But I must confess, it filled me with smug pleasure. I resolved to stay on the good side of both men. No harm there, I told myself. Quite the contrary. It was the safest course. I would be everybody's friend, though--need I say?--infinitely more partial to the captain. 65 With my morning's adventures so resolved, I--for the first time since my arrival on the Seahawk- -felt good! But I was hungry. After all, I still had not really eaten for several days. Neither Zachariah's hardtack nor the captain's biscuits had been very nourishing. Just the thought made my stomach growl. I decided to return to the cook and request a decent meal. But before I went, I had one more task to perform. At the moment it seemed trifling enough, though momentous it proved to be. I took up the dirk that had caused me so much anxiety and-- since it had no sheath--wrapped it in one of my own handkerchiefs and placed it again in my pocket, determined to fling all into the ocean. At that fateful moment, however, I paused, recollecting that both Captain Jaggery and Zachariah had urged me to keep the weapon. What if each chanced to ask of it again? Here I reminded myself that a few moments before--when I'd been frightened--I had found a need of it, or at least I thought I'd needed it to defend myself. Finally, with the notion of pleasing both captain and cook, I returned the knife--still wrapped in my handkerchief--to its hiding place under my mattress. As far as I was concerned, it could stay there and be forgotten. Alas, such would not be the case. 66 Chapter 8 Having made up my mind to forget what had happened, I passed the next seven days in comparative tranquility. By the end of the week I grew so firm in my footing that I hardly noticed the pitch and roll of the ship, nor minded the ever-present damp. During this same time the weather held. No storms came our way. Though days were not always bright and clear, we ran before a steady wind that graced our helm and ruffled our hair. With every sail bent we were making good progress, or so Captain Jaggery assured me. In my ignorance I even stood above the figurehead in hopes of seeing land. Naturally, all I saw was an empty, unchanging, and boundless sea. One day seemed much like another: At the end of the morning watch, sometime toward six bells, I would wake. Now I had been taught that at the start of each day I should present myself as a proper young gentlewoman to my parents, or, when at school, to the headmistress. On shipboard it was only natural that the captain should be the one I wished to please. But it must be said that preparing to appear on deck was not easy. 67 My day began with a search--usually successful--for fleas. Afterward came a brushing of my hair for a full twenty minutes (I did the same at night). Finally, I parted it carefully, wanting it smoothly drawn--anything to keep it from its natural and to me obnoxious wildness. Then I dressed. Unfortunately my starched clothing had gone everlastingly limp and became increasingly soiled. Hardly a button remained in place. Though I tried not to touch anything, those white gloves of mine had turned the color of slate. So dirty did I become that I resolved that one of my four dresses would be saved--neat and clean- - for my disembarkation in Providence. It was a great comfort to me to know I would not shame my family. If I wanted to wash things--and I did try--I had to do it myself, something I'd never been required to do before. Moreover, to do washing on ship meant hauling a bucket of seawater up to the deck. Fortunately, the captain was willing to order the men to lift water for me on demand. Breakfast was set out in steerage, at the mates' mess. Served by Zachariah, it consisted of badly watered coffee and hard bread with a dab of molasses, though as days passed, the molasses grew foul. Dinner at midday was the same. Supper was boiled salted meats, rice, beans, and again bad coffee. Twice a week we might have duff, the seaman's delight: boiled flour and raisins. In the evenings I retired to my room to write the particulars of the day in my journal, after which I walked out to gaze at the stars. So many, many stars! And then to bed. 68 Sundays were remarkable only in that religious observances were briefly held. The captain kindly allowed me to read a biblical passage to the men before he offered reminders of their duty to ship and God. Sundays were also the one day of the week on which the men shaved--if at all-- and washed their clothes, sometimes. With no chores to perform I spent the bulk of my day in idleness. I could wander at will from galley to forecastle deck, mates' mess to wheel, but, try as I might not to show it, I was sorely bored. It should be no surprise that the high point of my day was tea with the captain. It was a cherished reminder of the world as I knew it. He always showed interest in what I had to say, in particular my observations of the crew. So flattered was I by his attentions that I took pains to search for things to tell him and then prattled away. Unfortunately tea lasted only from one bell to the next, a mere half an hour. Too soon I had to return to the less congenial world of the crew. I did take care--at first--to keep my distance from them, believing it not proper for me to mingle. My one friendly gesture was to read uplifting selections to them from my books. As the days wore on, however, it was increasingly difficult to refrain from some degree of intimacy. I could not help it. I've always been social by nature. In any case I concluded that I was simply doing what the captain had suggested, in fact, kept urging--that is, keeping a lookout for any act or word that hinted of criticism or hostility. Though I desired to make it clear that the crew and I were on different levels, I found myself spending more and more time in their company. 69 In truth, I had endless questions to ask as to what this was and what was that. They in turn found in me a naive but eager recipient for their answers. Then there were their yams. I hardly knew nor cared which were true and which were not. Tales of castaways on Pacific atolls never failed to move me. Solemn accounts of angels and ghosts appearing miraculously in the rigging were, by turns, thrilling and terrifying. I learned the men's language, their ways, their dreams. Above all, I cherished the notion that my contact with the crew improved them. As to what it did to me--I hardly guessed. At first standoffish and suspicious, the crew began to accept me. I actually became something of a ship's boy, increasingly willing--and able--to run their minor errands. Of course there were places on the Seahawk where I did not venture. Though I returned several times to my trunk, and was not frightened again, I fore bore exploring the hold. Barlow's words-- and my experience--were sufficient to scare me off. The other place I shunned was the crew's quarters, the forecastle area before the mast. That I understood to be off-limits. But as I grew more comfortable, as the crew grew more comfortable with me, I mingled more often with them on deck. In time I even tried my hand and climbed--granted neither very high nor very far-- into the rigging. As might be expected I fastened particular attentions upon Zachariah. He had the most time to spend with me and had sought to be kind, of course, from the beginning. Being black, he was the butt of much cruel humor, which aroused my sympathy. 70 At the same time, despite the crew's verbal abuse, he was a great favorite, reputed to be a fine cook. Indeed his good opinion of me gained me--in the crew's world--the license to be liked. Zachariah was the eldest of the crew, and his life had been naught but sailing. When young, he had shipped as a common sailor, and he swore he'd been able to climb from deck to truck--top of the mainmast--in twenty seconds! But all in all, as he himself freely told me, he was much the worse for his labor, and therefore grateful for his cook's position which paid better than a common tar. For he was aging rapidly, and though he claimed no more than fifty years of age I thought him much older. He had saved nothing of his wages. His knowledge--as far as I could tell--was limited to ship and sea. He knew not how to read, nor to write more than his mark. He knew little of true Christian religion. Indeed, as he confessed, he was much distressed as to the state of his soul and took comfort (as did others) in my reading aloud from the Bible, which they believed had the power to compel truth. In particular, it was the story of Jonah that had a hold on them. Since Zachariah never mentioned the dirk, nor again spoke discourteously of the captain, I took it as an indication that he knew I would not condone such talk. This meant that our conversations were increasingly free and easy. It was he, more than anyone else, who encouraged me to engage with the crew. 71 Miss Doyle has been kind to me, he said to me one morning, but if she's to go scampering about she'll need, for modesty and safety's sake, something better than skirts. So saying he presented me with a pair of canvas trousers and blouse, a kind of miniature of what the crew wore--garments he himself had made. While I thanked him kindly, in fact I took the gift as a warning that I had been forgetting my station. I told him--rather stiffly, I fear--that I thought it not proper for me, a girl--a lady--to wear such apparel. But, so as not to offend too deeply, I took the blouse and trousers to my cabin. Later on, I admit--I tried the garments on, finding them surprisingly comfortable until, shocked, I remembered myself. Hurriedly, I took them off, resolving not to stoop so low again. I resolved more. I determined to keep to my quarters and then and there spent two hours composing an essay in my blank book on the subject of proper behavior for young women. When I emerged for tea with Captain Jaggery, I begged permission to read him some of what I had written. So unstinting was he in his praise, that I gained a double pleasure. For in his commendation I was certain I had won my father's approval too-- so much were their characters alike. The captain spent his days in punctilious attention to the ship, pacing off the quarterdeck from wheel to rail, from rail to wheel, ever alert to some disorder to correct. If his eyes were not upon the sails, they were upon the ropes and spars. If not upon those, they rested on the decking. It was just as he had warned me: the crew was prone to laxness. But--since he had the responsibility of the ship, not they--he was forced, with constant surveillance and commands, to bring discipline to their work. 72 Things I never would have thought important he could find at grievous fault. From tarnish upon a rail to limp sails and ragged spars, whether it was rigging to be overhauled or new tar to be applied, blocks, tackle, shrouds, each and all were forever in want of repair. Decks had to be holystoned, caulked, and scrubbed anew, the bow scraped and scraped again, the figurehead repainted. In short, under his keen eye everything was kept in perfect order. For this all hands would be called sometimes more than twice a watch. I heard the calls even at night. Indeed, so mindful was the captain's sense of responsibility toward the ship (my father's firm, as he was wont to remind me) that no man on watch was ever allowed to do nothing, but was kept at work. You are not paid to be idle, the captain often declared, and he, setting an example, was never slack in his duty. Even at our teas, he was vigilant-- again, so like my father--and patiently examined me as to what I had seen, heard, or even thought--always ready with quick and wise correction. He was not so patient with the first and second mates, to whom he gave all his orders, depending upon whose watch it was. These men, Mr. Holly-brass and Mr. Keetch, were as different from the captain as from each other. Mr. Keetch when summoned would scuttle quickly to his side, nervous, agitated, that look of fear forever about him, and absorb the captain's barked orders with a cringing servility. 73 Mr. Hollybrass, the first mate, would approach slowly, seeming to take his own silent soundings about the captain's demands. He might lift his shaggy eyebrows as if to object, but I never heard him actually contradict the captain in words. Indeed the captain would only repeat his commands, and then Mr. Hollybrass would obey. Have Mr. Dillingham redo the futtock shrouds, he'd say. Or, Get Mr. Foley to set the fore gaff topsail proper. Or again, Have Mr. Morgan set that main clew garnet to rights. The men of the crew, hardly finished with one task, would have to set about another, though they did so with dark looks and not-so-silent oaths. The captain, gentleman that he was, appeared to take no notice. But more than once I watched him call upon Mr. Hollybrass--or less often Mr. Keetch-- to punish a man for some slackness or slowness I could not detect. If provoked sufficiently, the captain might resort to a push or a slap with his own open hand. And, much to my surprise, I saw him strike Morgan--a short, stocky, squinty-eyed monkey of a man--with a belaying pin, one of the heavy wood dowels used to secure a rigging rope to the pin rail. In dismay, I averted my eyes. The fellow was tardy about reefing a sail, the captain said, and went on to catalog further likely threats: Confinement in the brig. Salary docking. No meals. Lashings. Duckings in the cold sea or even keelhauling, which, as I learned, meant pulling a man from one side of the ship to the other--under water. Miss Doyle, he might say when we took our daily tea, you see them for yourself. Are they not the dirtiest, laziest dogs? 74 Yes, sir, I'd reply softly, though I felt increasingly uncomfortable because I could sense resentment growing among the crew. And was ever a Christian more provoked than I? No, sir. Now, he would always ask, what have you observed? Dutifully, I would report everything I'd seen and heard, the dodges from work, the clenched fists, the muttered oaths of defiance that I had tried hard not to hear. When I'd done he always said the same. Before we hove home, Miss Doyle, I shall break them to my will. Each and every one. One afternoon the wind ceased. And for days after the Seahawk was becalmed. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced. Not only did the breeze vanish and the heat rise, but the sea lay like something dead. Air became thick, positively wringing wet, searing to the lungs. Fleas and roaches seemed to crawl out from every timber. The ship, festering in her own malodorous breath, moaned and groaned. Five times during those days Captain Jaggery ordered the jolly boats lowered. With Mr. Hollybrass in command of one, Mr. Keetch the other, they towed the Seahawk in search of wind. It was useless. No wind was to be found. Then the captain, abruptly accepting the ship's windless fate, set the men to work harder than ever, as though the doldrums had been prearranged in order that he might refit and burnish the Seahawk as though new-made. Sweet are the uses of adversity, he instructed me. 75 The complaints of the crew grew louder. The oaths became, by perceptible degrees, darker yet. When I reported all this to the captain he frowned and shook his head. No one ranks for creative genius like a sailor shirking work. The crew is tired, I murmured, trying to suggest in a hesitant, vague way that even I could see that the men were fatigued and in need of rest. Miss Doyle, he said with a sudden hard laugh, even while urging a second sweet biscuit upon me, you have my word. They shall wake up when we run into storm. How right he was. But the storm was---at first-- man-made. 76 Chapter 9 For three more days we drifted upon the glassy sea. The helplessness of it, I could tell, drove Captain Jaggery nearly to distraction. Though the sun grew fiercer, he kept sending the men out in jolly boats to tow the Seahawk for two hours at a time in search of wind. He found only more to complain about. And then it happened. It was late afternoon, eighteen days into our voyage. The first dog watch. I was on the forecastle deck with Ewing. Ewing was a young, blond Scot-- handsome, I thought--with a shocking tattoo of a mermaid upon his arm. That and his Aberdeen sweetheart, about whom he loved to talk, fascinated me. I rather fancied sweetheart and mermaid were one. At the time he was sitting cross-legged, quite exhausted. That morning the captain had ordered him to spend the day in the highest reaches of the yards, putting new tar on the stays. The sun was brutal. The tar was sticky. Now an old canvas jacket lay in his lap, and with trembling fingers he was attempting to patch it, using needle and awl. 77 While he labored I read to him from one of my favorite books, Blind Barbara Ann: A Tale of Loving Poverty. He was listening intently when his needle snapped in two. He swore, hastily apologized for cursing in my presence, then cast about for a new needle. When he couldn't find one, he murmured something about having to get another from his box in the forecastle and made to heave himself up. Knowing how tired he was, I asked, Can I get it for you? It would be a particular kindness, Miss Doyle, he answered, my legs being terrible stiff today. Where should I look? I asked. Beneath my hammock, in the topmost part of my chest, he said. In the forecastle. Will someone be able to point it out? I should think so, he said. Without much thought other than that I wished to do the man a kindness, I turned and hurried away. I had scampered down the forecastle entryway before pausing to think. The forecastle was one of the few areas I had not been in before--the one place on the Seahawk that the sailors called their own. Not even Captain Jaggery ventured there. No one had ever said I was not to go. But I assumed I would not be welcome. With this reservation in mind I hurried to the galley in hopes of finding Zachariah. I would ask him to fetch the needle. The galley, however, was deserted. Since I did not wish to disappoint Ewing, I decided I must go and fetch the needle myself. Timidly, I approached the forecastle door. 78 As I did I heard muted voices from within. Indeed, it was only because they were vague and indistinct that I found myself straining to listen. And what I heard was this: ... I say I'll be the one to give the word and none other. It had better be soon. Jaggery's pushing us hard. How many names do we have? There's seven that's put down their mark. But there's others inclined. What about Johnson? It doesn't look right. He's not got the spirit. It won't do. He needs to be with us or not. No halfway. And I don't like that girl always spying. Her being here isn't anyone's fault. We tried. You remind yourself--we kept those other passengers off. I heard these words---spoken by at least four voices--but I did not at the moment fully grasp their meaning. Understanding would come later. Instead I was caught up in embarrassment that I should be eavesdropping where I hardly belonged. It was not a very ladylike thing to do. Yet I was--in part--the subject of their conversation. And the errand was still to be done. Wanting to do what I'd promised, I knocked upon the door. Sudden silence. Then, Who's there! Miss Doyle, please. Another pause. What do you want? came a demand. It's for Mr. Ewing, I returned. He's sent me for a needle. There was some muttering, swearing, then, All right. A moment. 79 I heard rustling, the sound of people moving. Then the door was pushed open. Fisk looked out. He was a very large man, lantern-jawed, his fists clenched more often than not as though perpetually prepared to brawl. What do you say? he demanded. Mr. Ewing wants a needle from his chest, I said meekly. He glowered. Come along then, he said, waving me in. I stepped forward and looked about. The only light came from the open door, just enough for me to see that the low ceiling was festooned with dirty garments. I was accosted by a heavy stench of sweat and filth. Scraps of cheap pictures--some of a scandalous nature--were nailed here and there to the walls in aimless fashion. Cups, shoes, belaying pins, all lay jumbled in heaps. In the center of the floor was a trunk on which sat a crude checkerboard, itself partly covered with a sheet of paper. Along the walls hammocks were slung, but so low I could not see the faces of those in them. What I did see were the arms and legs of three men. They seemed to be asleep, though I knew that could not be true. I had heard more than one voice. Mr. Ewing's chest is there, Fisk said, gesturing to a comer with a thumb. He lumbered back to his hammock, sat in it and, though he said no more, watched me suspiciously. The small wooden chest was tucked under one of the empty hammocks. Apprehensively, I knelt, briefly turning to Fisk to make sure that this chest was indeed Ewing's. He grunted an affirmation. Then I turned back, drew the small trunk forward, and flipped open the top. 80 The first thing that met my eyes was a pistol. The sight of it was so startling that all I could do was stare. One thought filled my mind: Captain Jaggery had told me--bragged to me--that there were no firearms anywhere on board but in his cabinet. My eyes shifted. I saw a piece of cork into which some needles were stuck. I pulled one out, and hastily shut the chest in hopes that no one else had seen what I had. Then I came to my feet, and turned to leave. Fisk was looking hard at me. I forced myself to return his gaze, hoping I was not revealing anything of my feelings. Then I started out, but in my haste stumbled into the trunk in the center of the area. The sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. Apologetic, I stooped to gather it and in a glance saw that on the paper two circles had been drawn, one inside the other. And there appeared to be names and marks written between the lines. The instant I saw it I knew what it was. A round robin. Clumsily, I pushed the paper away, murmured a Thank you, then fled. I was trembling when I left the forecastle. To make matters worse, the first person I saw was the second mate, Mr. Keetch, who was passing on his way to the galley. I stopped short, with what was, no doubt, a guilty cast to my face. Fortunately, he paid no attention to me, giving me hardly a look beyond his normal, nervous frown. Then he continued on. But though he was gone I simply stood there not knowing what to think or do. Unconsciously I clasped my hand, jabbing my palm with the needle. 81 Ever faithful to my sense of duty--even in that moment of crisis--I hurried to Ewing and gave the needle to him. Here, miss, he said, scrutinizing my face as he took it, have you taken ill? No, thank you, I whispered, attempting to avoid his look. I am fine. I fled hastily back to my cabin and secured the door behind me. Once alone I climbed atop my bed and flung myself down, then gave myself over entirely to the question of what I should do. You will understand that there was no doubt in my mind regarding what I had seen. There had been a pistol. There had been a round robin. With the warnings given to me by Captain Jaggery-- and ever-mindful of the possibilities revealed to me by Zachariah--I had little doubt about the meaning of my discoveries. The crew was preparing a rebellion. Regaining some degree of calmness I thought over who it was that had been in the forecastle. To begin with there was Fisk. He was part of Mr. Keetch's watch, so it was reasonable to assume that the other members of his watch were with him. There were, I knew, four men in that watch: Ewing, Morgan, Foley, and of course Fisk himself. But as I reviewed these names my feelings of puzzlement grew. What I had observed did not make sense. Then I grasped it. I had seen Fisk. It was he who had opened the forecastle door. And Ewing was on the forecastle deck. But when I stepped inside there had been three hammocks occupied with men. In short, I had seen a total of five men off watch. Assuming the other hammocks indeed held members of the watch, who then was the fifth man? 82 Could it have been Mr. Keetch himself? No. I had seen him just outside the forecastle when I emerged. Nor could it have been someone who was on duty. The captain would never have tolerated that. Who then was that fifth man? I began to wonder if I'd not been mistaken about the number, reminding myself that a hammock full of clothing would have looked much the same as one occupied by a man. But the more I recollected what I'd seen--the weight of the hammocks, the dangling arms and legs--the more convinced I grew that I'd indeed seen four men. Suddenly--like the crack of a wind-whipped sail-- I recalled my dim vision when waiting to board the Seahawk the night of my arrival: of a man hauling himself up ropes to the ship. Of course! A stowaway! But where could such a man have hidden himself? No sooner did I ask myself that than I remembered the face which had so frightened me in the top cargo when I'd gone for my clothing. It had been a face that I'd not recognized. Indeed, it was just that lack of recognition that convinced me I'd imagined it. In fact--I now realized--I must have seen the stowaway! No wonder I did not recognize him! He had been hiding in the hold, which explained Barlow's dire words about the place, as well as the grinning carving. The man sought to scare me from the place! But having arrived at that conclusion I asked myself this: what was I to do with my discovery? To ask the question was to have the answer: Captain Jaggery. It was to him I owed my allegiance--by custom--by habit--by law. To him I must speak. 83 And the truth was, in addition to everything else, I was now consumed by guilt--and terror--that I had not told him before of the incident in the top cargo. So it was that by the time I had come full course in my thinking, I knew I mustn't wait a moment longer. I needed to get to Captain Jaggery. Recollecting the time--three bells of the second dog watch--I knew that the captain would most likely be found by the helm. Nervously, I emerged from my cabin and went onto the deck in search of him. The first man I saw was Morgan, leaning against the starboard rail. He was a gangly, long-limbed, muscular fellow, with a fierce mustache and long hair. As he was one of Mr. Keetch's watch--not currently on duty--he should have been among those in a forecastle hammock when I'd been there. I say he should have been because I had not seen his face. His presence was only a surmise. But there he was, on deck. Brought to a dead stop I gazed dumbly at him; he in return gazed right at me. Surely, I thought, he was there to observe me. For that long moment we stood looking at one another. I saw no emotion on his face, but what he did next left me with little doubt as to his real intentions. He lifted a hand, extended a stiletto like forefinger, and drew it across his own neck as if cutting it. A spasm of horror shot through me. He was--in the crudest way--warning me about what might happen to me if I took my discovery to the captain. For a moment more I remained rooted to the spot. Then I turned to lean upon the portside topgallant rail and stared out over the ocean, trying to recover my breath. 84 When I had sufficiently steadied my nerves I turned back cautiously. Morgan was gone. But he had achieved his purpose. I was twice as frightened as I'd been when first I stepped upon the Seahawk. Anxiously, I glanced about to see if I was being watched by anyone else. Sure enough, now it was Foley whom I spied atop the forecastle. He was busily splicing a rope. At least that's what he seemed to be doing. The instant I saw him, he looked up and pinioned me with a gaze of blatant scrutiny. Then, quickly, he shifted his eyes away. He too was spying on me. Completely unnerved, I retreated to my cabin and bolted the door. The warnings had an effect quite opposite to what was doubtless intended. More terrified than ever, I now felt that the only person who could help me was Captain Jaggery. But so fearful was I of going on deck in search of him, I decided to wait in his cabin till he returned, certain that the crew would not dare to pursue me there. Cautiously I pulled the door open again, poked my head out, and when I saw--to my relief--no one was nearby, I rushed to the captain's door and out of a habit of politeness, knocked. To my indescribable relief I heard, Come in. I flung the door open. Captain Jaggery was looking over some charts. Mr. Hollybrass was at his side. The captain turned about. Miss Doyle, he said politely. Is there something I can do for you? Please, sir--I was finding it difficult to breathe-- I should like a private word. He looked at me quizzically. I had not come to him in agitation before. Is it important? I think so, sir . . . 85 Perhaps it can wait until ... No doubt it was the distraught expression on my face; he changed his mind. Come in and shut the door, he said, his manner becoming alert. Mr. Hollybrass made a move to go. The captain reached out to restrain him. Do you have any objections to Mr. Hollybrass being here? he asked. I don't know sir. Very well. He shall stay. There's no one I trust more. Now then, Miss Doyle, step forward and say what's troubling you. I nodded, but could only gulp like a fish out of water. Miss Doyle, if you have something of importance to tell me, speak it. I lifted my eyes. The captain was studying me with great intensity. In a flash I recollected a time when my much-loved brother broke a rare vase, and I, out of a high sense of duty told on him despite what I knew would be my father's certain fury. I was fetching a needle for Mr. Ewing, I got out. A needle, he returned, somewhat deflated. Then he asked, Where did you find it? In the forecastle. The forecastle, he echoed, trying to prime my tongue. Is it your habit to frequent that place, Miss Doyle? Never before, sir. What happened when you went there? I saw ... I saw a pistol. Did you! I nodded. Where exactly? 86 I glanced around. Mr. Hollybrass's normally red face had gone to the pallor of wet salt, whereas the captain was suddenly flushed with excitement. Must I say, sir? Of course you must, Miss Doyle. Where did you see the pistol? In . . . Mr. Ewing's . . . chest, sir. Mr. Ewing's chest, the captain repeated, exchanging a glance with the first mate as if to affirm something. Then the captain turned back to me. Anything else? I bit my lip. There is more, isn't there? he said. Yes, sir. Out with it! I saw a . . .I could not speak. A what Miss Doyle? A . . . round robin. Now it was the captain who gasped. A round robin! he exclaimed. Are you quite sure? Just as you showed me, sir. I'm certain of it. Describe it. I did. And there were names written in, were there? And marks. Yes, sir. How many? I'm not certain. Perhaps five. Six. Six! the captain shouted with a darting glance at Mr. Hollybrass. A wonder it's not nine! Could you see whose names they were? No, sir. I'm not certain I believe you, he snapped. 87 It's true! I cried and to prove my honesty I hurriedly gave him an account of my experiences in the top cargo as well as my conclusion that the ship carried a stowaway. By the time I was done he was seething. Why the devil did you not tell me before? he demanded. I didn't trust my own senses, sir. After all I have done for . . . ! He failed to finish the sentence. Instead, he growled, So be it, and said no more before turning from me and pacing away, leaving both Mr. Hollybrass and me to watch. Mr. Hollybrass, he said finally. Sir . . . Call all hands. Sir, what do you intend to do? I intend to crush this mutiny before it starts. 88 Chapter 10 Captain Jaggery strode across the room and from the wall removed the portrait of his daughter. Affixed to its back was a key. With this he unlocked the gun safe, and in a moment he and Mr. Hollybrass were by the door, ready. The captain held two muskets and had two pistols tucked into his belt. Mr. Hollybrass was similarly armed. Terrified by the response my words had caused, I simply stood where I'd been. The captain would have none of that. Miss Doyle, you are to come with us. But . . . ! Do as I tell you! he shouted. There's no time for delay! He flung one of his muskets to Mr. Hollybrass who miraculously caught it, then grabbed me by an arm and pulled me after him. We ran out along the steerage into the waist of the ship, then quickly mounted to the quarterdeck. Only then did the captain let me go. He now grasped the bell clapper and began to pull wildly, as though announcing a fire, while shouting, All hands! All hands! 89 That done, he held his hand out to Mr. Hollybrass, who returned the extra musket to him. I looked about not knowing what to expect, save that I truly feared for my life. Then I realized that the ship appeared to be completely unmanned. Not a sailor was to be seen anywhere, aloft or on deck. The sails hung like dead cloth, the wheel was abandoned, the rigging rattled with eerie irrelevance. The Seahawk was adrift. The first person to appear below us was Mr. Keetch. Within seconds of the bell sounding he came bolting from below, took one look at the captain and Mr. Hollybrass armed above him and stopped short, then turned as if expecting to see others. He was alone. Mr. Keetch! the captain cried out to him. Where do you stand? The second mate turned back to the captain, a look of panicky confusion upon his face. But before he could respond or act on the captain's question the rest of the crew burst from beneath the forecastle deck with wild, blood-curdling yells. The crew's first appearance was fierce enough, though almost grotesquely comical, the nine of them looking like so many beggars. When I'd seen them on the day we went to sea they seemed unkempt. Now they looked destitute, their clothing torn and dirty, their faces unshaved, their expressions contorted with fear and fury. Of the nine only Zachariah was not armed. The rest were. Some carried pistols. I recall two having swords. Dillingham had an ancient cutlass in hand, Barlow a knife. 90 Hardly had they flown out upon the deck than they perceived the captain standing on the quarterdeck, one musket pointing directly at them, the other leaning against the rail within easy reach. They stopped frozen. If they had rushed forward, they might have overwhelmed the three of us. But it was now Captain Jaggery--and the muskets--that held them in check. With a start I realized there was a tenth man standing below us. He was muscular and stocky, with a red kerchief tied around his neck and a sword in his hand. As I looked at him in astonishment I saw that he had but one arm. I recalled Zachariah's tale of the sailor the captain had so severely punished--the man whose arm was so beaten it had to be amputated. Standing before us was Cranick himself! It was his face I had seen in the top cargo! The stowaway! I gasped. Captain Jaggery stepped swiftly to the rail and spoke. Ah, it is Mr. Cranick! he said boldly, holding his musket aimed directly at the man's burly chest. I wondered where you'd gone. Not to hell as I'd hoped--but here. May I, he went on with heavy sarcasm, be the last to welcome you aboard the Seahawk.'' The man took a shuffled step forward. He was clearly the crew's leader. Mr. Jaggery, he began- - pointedly declining to say Captain--I said we would be revenged upon you, did I not? I heard your usual brag, Mr. Cranick, if that's what you mean, the captain replied, but I paid no more mind to it then than I do now. 91 At that Cranick lifted his one hand and, still managing to hold the sword, savagely pulled a paper from where it had been tucked into his trousers. He held the paper up. Mr. Jaggery, he called, his voice ragged, we've got a round robin here, which declares you unfit to be captain of the Seahawk.'' There were murmurs of agreement from behind him. And what do you intend to do with it, Mr. Cranick? the captain retorted. I should think even you, in your mongrel ignorance, would know the days of piracy are long gone. Or do you have that much desire to bring back the practice of hanging in chains, of letting men rot so that crows might peck upon their putrid eyes? No piracy for us, Mr. Jaggery, Cranick replied with a vigorous shake of his head. Only justice. We could not get it on land. We shall have it at sea. Justice, say you! Under whose authority? the captain demanded. All of us! Our authority! Cranick cried and made a half turn to the men behind him. There were murmurs and nods of approval. And what kind of justice do you offer? the captain asked. Nothing precisely legal, I presume. We demand you stand before us in a trial of your peers, Cranick answered. Trial! Peers! the captain cried mockingly. I see nothing but ruffians and villains, the scum of the sea! Then we proclaim ourselves your peers, Cranick cried. With that he flung down the paper and took another step forward. You can have anyone you want defend you, he persisted. Have that girl, if you like. 92 She seems to be your eyes and ears. Let her be your mouth too. It was at that exact moment that Captain Jaggery fired his musket. The roar was stupendous. The ball struck Cranick square m the chest. With a cry of pain and mortal shock he dropped his sword and stumbled backward into the crowd. They were too stunned to catch him, but instead leaped back so that Cranick fell to the deck with a sickening thud. He began to groan and thrash about in dreadful agony, blood pulsing from his chest and mouth in ghastly gushes. I screamed. Mr. Hollybrass moaned. In horror, the crew retreated further. Captain Jaggery hastily dropped his spent musket, picked up the second, and aimed it into their midst. Who shall be next! he screamed at them. To a man, they looked up with burning, terrified eyes. Let Cranick lie there! the captain continued to shout. Anyone who moves forward shall receive the same! The crew began to edge further away. Leave your guns and swords, the captain shouted. Quickly now! I'll fire upon the first who doesn't. Pistols, swords, and knives dropped in a clatter. Mr. Hollybrass! Collect them! The first mate scurried down the steps and, while glancing upward, began to gather the weapons. It was clear he feared the captain more than the crew. Their round robin too! the captain called to him. 93 Too shocked to speak, I could only watch and feel enormous pain. Cranick had stopped moving. The only sign of life in him were the small pink bubbles of blood that frothed upon his lips. It was then that I saw Zachariah slip from the frozen tableau and move toward the fallen man. He held his hands before him, waist high, palms up, as if to prove he carried no weapon. He kept his eyes on the captain. Let him be, Mr. Zachariah, the captain barked. He's a stowaway. He has no claim to any care. The old man paused. As a man, he said in a voice wonderfully calm midst the chaos, he claims our mercy. The captain lifted his musket. No, he said firmly. Zachariah looked at him, then at Cranick. I may have imagined it but I believe he may even have looked at me. In any case he continued on with slow, deliberate steps toward the fallen man. I watched, terrified but fascinated, certain that the angry captain would shoot. I saw his finger on the trigger tighten, but then ... he relaxed. Zachariah knelt by Cranick and put his hand to the man's wrist. He let it fall. Mr. Cranick is no more, he announced. The stillness that followed these words was broken only by the soft, sudden flutter of a sail, the tinkling toll of a chain. Get him over, the captain said finally. No one moved. Mr. Zachariah, the captain repeated with impatience. Get him over. 94 Once again Zachariah held out his open hands. Begging the captain's pardon, he said. Even a poor sinner such as he should have his Christian service. Mr. Hollybrass, the captain barked. The first mate, having unloaded the crew's pistols, had returned to the quarterdeck. Sir? he said. I want that dog's carcass thrown over. Cannot Mr. Zachariah say a few words-- Mr. Hollybrass, do as you're ordered! The man looked from the captain to the crew. Aye, aye, sir, he said softly. Then slowly, as if a great weight had been cast upon him, he descended to the deck. Taking hold of the fallen man by his one arm, he began to drag him toward the rail. In his wake he left a trail of blood. Mr. Zachariah! the captain thundered. Open the gate. Zachariah gazed at the captain. Slowly he shook his head. For a moment the two merely looked at one another. Then the captain turned to me. Miss Doyle, open the gate. 1 stared at him in shocked disbelief. Miss Doyle! he now screamed in a livid rage. Sir . . . I stammered. Open the gate! I . . . can't . , . Abruptly, the captain himself marched down the steps, pistols in hand. When he approached the railing he tucked one gun under his arm and quickly unlatched the gate so that it stood gaping above the sea. Mr. Hollybrass, he snapped. 95 Mr. Hollybrass, sweat running down his hot, red face, pulled the body close but then he paused and offered a look of appeal to Captain Jaggery. The captain spat at Cranick's body. Over! he insisted. The first mate pushed the body through the gate opening. There was a splash. My stomach turned. I saw some of the sailors wince. The captain spoke again. Mr. Cranick was not a part of this ship, he said. His coming and going have nothing to do with us. They shall not even be entered in the log. Beyond all that you should know you are a very poor set of curs. It took only this girl--he nodded up to me--to unmask you. Sullen eyes turned toward me. Ashamed, I looked away, trying to stifle my tears. As for the rest, the captain continued, I ask only that one of you--your second in command if you have one--come forward and take his punishment. Then the voyage shall go on as before. Who shall it be? When no one spoke, the captain turned to me. Miss Doyle, as our lady, I'll give you the privilege. Which one of these men shall you choose? I gazed at him in horrified astonishment. Yes, you! Since it was you who uncovered this despicable plot, I give you the honor of ending it. Whom shall you pick to set an example? I could only shake my head. Come, come. Not so shy. You must have some favorite. 96 Please, sir, I whispered. I gazed down on the crew, looking now like so many broken animals. I don't want ... If you are too soft, I shall choose. Captain Jaggery ... I attempted to plead. He contemplated the men. Then he said, Mr. Zachariah, step forward. 97 Chapter 11 Zachariah did not so much step forward as those about him shrank away. He stood there as alone as if he'd been marooned upon a Pacific isle, Though he did not lift his eyes he seemed nonetheless to sense his abandonment. Small, wrinkled man that he was, he appeared to have grown smaller. Mr. Zachariah, the captain said. Do you have anything to say? Zachariah remained silent. You had best speak for yourself, the captain taunted. I doubt your friends will say a word in your defense. They are all cowards. He paused as if waiting for someone to challenge him. When no one spoke, he nodded and said, So much for your shipmates, Mr. Zachariah. So much for your round robin. Now, sir, I ask you again, have you anything to say on your own behalf? At first Zachariah stared dead ahead; then he shifted his gaze slightly. I was certain he was looking right at me now. 98 I tried to turn away but couldn't. Instead, I stood gazing at him, eyes flooded with tears. Zachariah began to speak. I ... I have . . . been a sailor for more than forty years, he said slowly. There . . . have been hard captains and easy ones. But you, sir, have . . . have been the worst. No, I'll not regret rising against you, he continued in his halting way. I can only wish I'd acted sooner. I forgive the girl. You used her. She did not know better. I forgive my mates too. They know where Captain Jaggery takes command . . . no . . . god signs on. A pretty speech, the captain said scornfully. And as much a confession as anything I have ever heard. You may all note it in case anyone bothers to ask questions, though I shouldn't think anyone will care. He looked contemptuously over the rest of the crew. Zs there any jack among you that will second this black man's slanders? No one spoke. Come now! he baited them. Who will be bold enough to say that Captain Andrew Jaggery is the worst master he's ever served. Speak up! I'll double the pay of the man who says yea! Though the glitter of hatred in their eyes was palpable enough, no one dared give voice to it. The captain had them that much cowed. Very well, he said. Mr. Holly brass, string Mr. Zachariah up. The first mate hesitated. Mr. Hollybrass! Aye, aye, sir, the man mumbled. With a kind of shuffle he approached Zachariah, but then stood before the old man as if nerving himself. Finally he reached out. Zachariah stepped back but it was of no avail. 99 The first mate caught him by the arm and led him back up the steps. As I looked on, aware only that something terrible was about to happen, Mr. Hollybrass set Zachariah against the outer rail and stripped him of his jacket. The skin of the old man's chest hung loose and wrinkled like a ragged burlap bag. Mr. Hollybrass turned Zachariah so that he faced into the shrouds, then climbed up into these shrouds and with a piece of rope bound his hands, pulling him so that the old man was all but hanging from his wrists, just supporting himself on the tips of his bare toes. Zachariah uttered no sound. I turned to look at Captain Jaggery. Only then did I see that he had a whip in his hands, its four strands twitching like the tail of an angry cat. Where he got it I don't know. Feeling ill, I made to leave the deck. Miss Doyle! the captain cried out. You will remain. I stopped dead. You are needed as witness, he informed me. Now the captain held the whip out to his first mate. Mr. Hollybrass, he said, he's to have fifty lashes. Again Hollybrass hesitated, eyebrows arched in question. Captain, he said, fifty lashes seem-- Fifty, the captain insisted. Start! Hollybrass grasped the whip. As he took his time squaring away behind Zachariah, I could see his hand flex nervously, his temples pulse. Quickly! the captain demanded. 100 Hollybrass lifted his arm and cocked it. Once more he paused, took a deep breath, until, with what appeared to be the merest flick of his wrist, the whip shot forward; its tails hissed through the air and spat against Zachariah's back. The moment they touched the old man's skin four red welts appeared. I felt I would faint. With strength, Mr. Hollybrass, the captain urged. With strength Hollybrass cocked his arm. Again the wrist twisted. The whip struck. Zachariah's body gave a jerk. Four new red welt lines crossed the first. Captain Jaggery! I cried out suddenly, as much surprised as anyone that I was doing so. The captain, startled, turned to look at me. Please, sir, I pleaded. You mustn't. For a moment the captain said nothing. His face had become very white. Why mustn't I? he asked. It's . . . it's not . . . fair, I stammered. Fair? he echoed, his voice thick with derision. Fair? These men meant to murder me and no doubt you, Miss Doyle, and you talk of fair! If it's fairness you want, I could quote you chapter and line of the admiralty codes that say I'd serve justice best by shooting the cur. Please, sir, I said, tears running down my cheeks. I shouldn't have told you. I didn't know. I'm sure Mr. Zachariah meant no harm. I'm sure he didn't. No harm, Miss Doyle? The captain held up the round robin. Surely they teach you better logic than that in school. But I had no idea that ... 101 Of course you had an idea! the captain snapped, his voice rising so all could hear. You came to me in shock and terror to inform me about what you'd seen. How right you were to do so. And right is what we do here. Proper order will be maintained. He swung about. Mr. Hollybrass, you have given but two lashes. If you can do no better you'd best stand aside for someone who has the gumption. Sighing, but summoning up his strength, Hollybrass struck once more. Zachariah was no longer standing on his toes. He was simply hanging. Again the whip lashed. That time the old man moaned. I could bear it no longer. In a surge of tears and agonized guilt, I hurled myself at Hollybrass, who, hardly expecting an attack, twisted, then tumbled to the deck. I fell with him. In the scramble I managed to snatch hold of the whip handle and leap to my feet. I was trying to throw it overboard. But Captain Jaggery was too quick. With a snarl he grabbed hold of me. Frantic, I slipped out of his grasp and stood facing him, panting, weeping, gripping the whip handle hard. You mustn't, I kept saying, You mustn't! Give me that! the captain cried, advancing upon me again, his face blazing. Give it! You mustn't, I kept repeating, You mustn't! He took another step toward me. I'd wedged myself against the outward rail. In a gesture of defense I pulled up my arm, and so doing flicked the whip through the air, inflicting a cut across the captain's face. For an instant a red welt marked him from his left cheek to his right ear. Blood began to ooze. 102 I stood utterly astonished by what I'd done. The captain remained motionless too, his face transfigured by surprise and pain. Slowly he lifted a hand to his cheek, touched it delicately, then examined his fingertips. When he saw they were bloody he swore a savage oath, jumped forward and tore the whip from my hand, whirled about and began beating Zachariah with such fury as I had never seen. Finally, spent, he flung the whip down and marched from the deck. Mr. Hollybrass, his face ashen, swallowed hard and murmured, All hands resume your stations. Groaning, he bent to gather up the guns and other weapons and followed after the captain. For a moment no one did or said anything. Perhaps they had not heard the first mate. It was Fisk who broke the spell. Cut him down! I heard him cry. Ewing hurried forward and climbed into the shrouds. In moments Zachariah's scarred and bloodied body dropped to the deck. Keetch knelt over the fallen man while the others, standing in a close circle, looked down in terrible silence. I could see nothing of what was happening. Instead I waited alone, trembling, trying to absorb all that I had seen and done. But as I watched from outside their circle I felt myself grow sicker and sicker until, clutching my stomach I turned and vomited into the sea. Shaken, weak with tears, I looked back to the sailors. They had picked Zachariah up and were carrying him toward the forecastle. I had been left alone. 103 Chapter 12 Sobbing in absolute misery, I threw myself onto my bed. I wept for Zachariah, for Cranick, even for Captain Jaggery. But most of all I wept for myself. There was no way to avoid the truth that all the horror I'd witnessed had been brought about by me. As the ghastly scenes repeated themselves in my mind, I realized too that there was no way of denying what the captain had done. Captain Jaggery, my friend, my guardian--my father's employee--had been unspeakably cruel. Not only had he killed Cranick--who was, I knew, threatening him--he had clearly meant to kill Zachariah for no reason other than that he was helpless! He singled him out because he was the oldest and weakest. Or was it because he was black? Or was it, I asked myself suddenly, because he was my friend? Just the thought made me shiver convulsively. Tears of regret and guilt redoubled. My weeping lasted for the better part of an hour. Aside from reliving the fearsome events, I was trying desperately to decide what to do. As I grasped the situation, the crew would have nothing but loathing for me who had so betrayed them. 104 And they were right. After their kindliness and acceptance I had betrayed them. And Captain Jaggery? Without intending to hadn't I done him a great wrong when I'd cut his face-- albeit unintentionally--with the whip? Could he, would he, forgive me? Beyond all else I had been educated to the belief that when I was wrong--and how often had my patient father found me at fault--it was my responsibility-- mine alone--to admit my fault and make amends. Gradually then, I came to believe that no matter how distasteful, I must beg the captain's forgiveness. And the sooner I did so, the better. With this in mind I rose up, brushed my hair, washed my face, smoothed my dress, rubbed my shoes. Then, as ready as I could ever hope to be under the circumstances, I went to his cabin door and knocked timidly. There was no answer. Again I knocked, perhaps a little more boldly. This time I heard, Who is it? Charlotte Doyle, sir. My words were met by an ominous silence. But after a while he said, What do you want? Please, sir. I beg you let me speak with you. When silence was again the response, I nearly accepted defeat and went away. But at last I heard steps within. Then came the word Enter. I opened the door and looked in. Captain Jaggery was standing with his back to me. I remained at the threshold waiting for him to invite me to proceed further. He neither moved nor spoke. Sir? I tried. 105 What? I ... I did not mean ... You did not mean what! I did not mean to . . . interfere, I managed to say, now meekly advancing toward him. I was so frightened ... I didn't know ... I had no intention ... When the captain maintained his silence I faltered. But gathering up my strength again, I stammered, And when I had the whip ... Suddenly I realized he was about to turn. My words died on my lips. He did turn. And I saw him. The welt I'd made across his face was a red open wound. But it was his eyes that made me shudder. They expressed nothing so much as implacable hatred. And it was all directed at me. Sir ... I tried, I did not mean . . . Do you know what you have done? he said, his voice a hiss. Sir . . . Do you know! he now roared. My tears began to flow anew. I didn't mean to, sir, I pleaded. I didn't. Believe me. You insulted me before my crew as no man should ever be insulted. But . . . Insulted by a sniffling, self-centered, ugly, contemptible girl, he spat out, who deserves a horsewhipping! I sank to my knees, hands in prayer like supplication. Let them take care of you, he snarled. In any way they want. I withdraw my protection. Do you understand? I want nothing to do with you. Nothing! 106 Sir . . . And don't you dare presume to come to my cabin again, he shouted. Ever! I began to weep uncontrollably. Get out! he raged. Get out! He made a move toward me. In great fright I jumped up--tearing the hem of my dress--and fled back to my cabin. But if the truth be known--and I swore when I began to set down this tale that I would tell only the truth-- even at that moment all my thoughts were of finding some way to appease the captain and regain his favor. If I could have found a way to gain his forgiveness--no matter what it took--I would have seized the opportunity. This time I did not cry. I was too numb, too much in a state of shock. Instead, I simply stood immobile--rather like the moment when I'd first cast eyes upon the Seahawk--trying confusedly to think out what I could do. I tried, desperately, to imagine what my father, even what my mother or Miss Weed, might want me to do, but I could find no answer. In search of a solution I finally stepped in dread out of the cabin and made my way to the deck. I told myself that what I wanted, needed, was fresh air. In fact, I was motivated by a need to know how the crew would receive me. The ship was still adrift. No wind had caught our sails. The decks once more appeared deserted. My first thought was that the crew had fled! All I heard was the soft flutter of canvas, the clinking of chain, the heaving of boat timbers. It was as if the engines of the world itself had ground to a halt. 107 But when I looked to the quarterdeck I did see the crew. Heads bowed, they were standing together quietly. Then I heard the deep voice of Fisk, though exactly what he was saying I could not at first make out. Hollybrass, I saw, was standing somewhat apart from the men, his dark eyes watching intently. There was a pistol in his hand but in no way was he interfering with them. Timidly, I climbed the steps to the quarterdeck for a better look. Now I realized that the crew was clustered around something--it looked to be a sack--that lay upon the deck. On closer examination I realized it was a canvas hammock such as the men slept in. This one was twisted around itself and had an odd, bulky shape. No one took notice of me as I stood by the forward rail. Gradually I perceived that Fisk was saying a prayer. In a flash I understood: the hammock was wrapped about a body. And that body had to be Zachariah's. He had died of the beating. I had come upon his funeral. The men were about to commit his body to the sea. Fisk's prayer was not a long one, but he delivered it slowly, and what I heard of it was laced with bitterness, a calling on God to avenge them as they, poor sailors, could not avenge themselves. When Fisk had done, Ewing, Mr. Keetch, Grimes, and Johnson bent over and picked the hammock up. Hardly straining at the weight they bore, they advanced to the starboard railing, and then, emitting a kind of grunt in unison, they heaved their burden over. Seconds later there was a splash followed by murmurs of amen . . . amen. I shuddered. 108 Fisk said a final short prayer. At last they all turned about--and saw me. I was unable to move. They were staring at me with what I could only take as loathing. I . . . I am sorry, was the best I could stammer. No one replied. The words drifted into the air and died. I didn't realize . . .I started to say, but could not finish. Tears were streaming from my eyes. I bowed my head and began to sob. Then I heard, Miss Doyle ... I continued to cry. Miss Doyle, came the words again. I forced myself to look up. It was Fisk, his countenance more fierce than usual. Go to the captain, he said brusquely. He is your friend. He's not! I got out between my sniffling. I want nothing to do with him! I hate him! Fisk lifted a fist, but let it drop with weariness. And I want to help you, I offered. To show how sorry I am. They merely stared. Please ... I looked from him to the others. I saw no softening. Brokenhearted, I groped my way down to my cabin, pausing only to look upon the captain's closed door. Once alone I again gave way to hot tears. Not only did I feel completely isolated, but something worse; I was certain that all the terrible events of the day--the death of two men!--had been caused by me. Though I could find a reason for Cranick's death, I could hardly blame anyone but myself for the murder of Zachariah! 109 It was I--despite clear warnings--who had refused to see Captain Jaggery as the villainous man he was, I who had fired his terrible wrath by reporting to him Ewing's pistol, the round robin, and the stowaway. Yet my new found knowledge brought me no help with my need to do something, I was still in my bed--it might have been an hour--when I heard the ship's bell begin to clang. Then came a cry from Mr. Hollybrass. All hands! All hands! I sat up and listened. My first thought was that perhaps a wind had risen, that this was a call to trim the ship. Yet I heard none of the welcome sounds-- the breaking waves, the hum of wind in the sails-- that would have come with a weather change. Then I thought that some new fearfulness was upon us. Alarmed--but unable to keep myself from curiosity--I slipped from my bed and cautiously opened my door. Once again I heard the bell clanging, and the cry, *All hands! All hands! Increasingly apprehensive, I stole into the steerage, then poked my head out so I could see the deck. The crew stood in the waist of the ship, looking up. I crept forward. Captain Jaggery was clutching the quarterdeck rail so tightly his knuckles were white. The welt across his face had turned crimson. It caused me pain just to see it. Mr. Hollybrass was by his side. ... meant what I said, I heard the captain say. Through your own folly you've lost Zachariah, he continued. Not that he did much work. Not that any of you do. 110 Mr. Fisk will assume Zachariah's duties in the galley. As for Mr. Keetch, since he seems to prefer serving you rather than me ... I place him in the forecastle where he will be more comfortable. The position of second mate, thus vacated, I give to Mr. Johnson. He, at least, had the dog's wit not to sign your round robin. Mr. Johnson's position on his watch . . . you all will be responsible for that. I don't care how you do it, but each watch shall be filled with a full complement of four plus mate. These words--the last of which I did not understand--were met at first by stony silence. It was a moment or two later that Morgan stepped forward. Request permission to speak, sir. I think I had never before heard his voice. The captain turned slightly, glowered at the man, but nodded. Captain Jaggery, sir, Morgan called out. Nowhere is it written that a captain can require a man to work more than one watch. Only in an emergency. The captain gazed at Morgan for a moment. Then he said, Very well Mr. Morgan, then I do say it: this is an emergency. If these orders cause inconvenience, blame it on your darling Mr. Cranick. Or the impertinence of Mr. Zachariah. And if you still have so much pity on these fools, you can work the extra shift yourself. So saying, he turned to Mr. Hollybrass. Set the second watch to scrape the bow until a wind comes up. Dismiss the rest, he barked. Mr. Hollybrass turned to the crew, and repeated the captain's commands. Without a word, the men backed off, some shuffling to the bow to work, the others ducking below into the forecastle. 111 All that remained on deck was the stain of Cranick's blood. Uncertainly, I made my way to the galley. Fisk was already there, his great bulk filling the small space as Zachariah never had. I stood just beyond the entry way hoping he would notice me. When he didn't I whispered, Mr. Fisk ... He turned but offered nothing more than a hostile glare. What did the captain mean? I asked, my voice small. Fisk continued to stare bleakly at me. Tell me, I pleaded. I have to know. The crew was short to begin with, he said. Now he's insulted me. Advanced Johnson. Dumped Keetch. All in all it leaves us shorter than before. The captain intends to work us till we drop. Can I . . . can I help in any way? 7ow? Fisk said with incredulous scorn. He turned away. Mr. Fisk, you must believe me. I want to help. You are the lady passenger, Miss Doyle. The informer. My tears began to fall again. I had no idea . . . Now angry, he swung about. I find Miss Doyle mistaken. You did have an idea. You had it from Zachariah. I know you did. He told us he tried to convince you. 'Oh, Miss Doyle believes in honor,' he'd say. 'She's the very soul of justice!' Fisk spat on the floor. Honor! What you mean to say, Miss Doyle, is that you didn't choose to heed his words because Zachariah was an old black who lacked the captain's graces! I bowed my head. 112 Can you cook? he growled. Reef sails? Turn the wheel? I think not, miss. So you'd do best keeping the place you have. When you reach Providence you can walk off free and, I warrant, you'll think no more on us. That's not true! Go to the captain, Miss Doyle. He's your darling master.'' Mr. Fisk, I begged, my voice as small as my pride, the captain will have nothing to do with me. No, he'll not forgive you so soon. Beware your friend, Miss Doyle, beware him! I didn't mean-- He cut me off abruptly. Gentlefolk like you never mean, Miss Doyle. But what you do . . . I could not bear it anymore. I retreated to my cabin. Once again I gave myself up to guilt and remorse. That night I remained in my cabin. I couldn't eat. Now and again I slept, but never for long. There were times I fell on my knees to pray for forgiveness. But it was from the crew as much as God that I sought pardon. If only I could make restitution, if only I could convince the men that I accepted my responsibility. Close to dawn an idea began to form, at first only an echo of something Fisk had said. But the mere thought of it was appalling and I kept pushing it away. Yet again and again it flooded back, overwhelming all other notions. At last I heaved myself off the bed, and from under it brought out the canvas seaman's garments Zachariah had made for me. Some roaches skittered away. 113 I held the wrinkled clothing up and looked at its crude shape, its mean design. The feel of the crude cloth made me falter. I closed my eyes. My heart was beating painfully as if I were in some great danger. No, I could not. It was too awful. Yet I told myself I must accept my responsibility so as to prove to those men that it had been my head that was wrong, not my heart. Slowly, fearfully, I made myself take off my shoes, my stockings, my apron, at last my dress and linen. With fumbling, nervous hands I put on the seaman's clothing. The trousers and shirt felt stiff, heavy, like some skin not my own. My bare toes curled upon the wooden floor. I stood some while to question my heart. Zachariah's words to Fisk, that I was the very soul of justice echoed within me. I stepped out of my cabin and crept through the steerage. It was dawn. To the distant east, I could see the thinnest edge of sun. All else remained dark. I moved to the galley, praying I would meet no one before I reached it. For once my prayers were answered. I was not noticed. And Fisk was working at the stove. I paused at the doorway. Mr. Fisk, I whispered. He straightened up, turned, saw me. I had, at least, the satisfaction of his surprise. I've come, I managed to say, to be one of the crew. 114 [Blank Page] 115 Part Two 116 [Blank Page] 117 Chapter 13 For a second time I stood in the forecastle. The room was as dark and mean as when I'd first seen it. Now, however, I stood as a petitioner in sailor's garb. A glum Fisk was at my side. It hadn't been easy to convince him I was in earnest about becoming one of the crew. Even when he begrudged a willingness to believe in my sincerity he warned that agreement from the rest of the men would be improbable. He insisted I lay the matter before them immediately. So it was that three men from Mr. Holly brass's watch, Grimes, Dillingham, and Foley, were the next to hear my plea. As Fisk had foretold, they were contemplating me and my proposal with very little evidence of favor. I do mean it, I said, finding boldness with repetition, I want to be the replacement for Mr. Johnson. You're a girl, Dillingham spat out contemptuously. A pretty girl, Foley put in. It was not meant as a compliment. Takes more than canvas britches to hide that. 118 And a gentlewoman, was Grimes's addition, as though that was the final evidence of my essential uselessness. I want to show that I stand with you, I pleaded. That I made a mistake. A mistake? Foley snapped. Two able-bodied men have died! Besides, Dillingham agreed, you'll bring more trouble than good. You can teach me, I offered. God's fist, Grimes cried. She thinks this a school! And the captain, Foley asked. What he say? He wants nothing to do with me, I replied. That's what he says. But you were his darling girl, Miss Doyle. We takes you in and he'll want you back again. Where will that put us? So it went, round and round. While the men made objections, while I struggled to answer them, Fisk said nothing. Though I tried to keep my head up, my eyes steady, it was not easy. They looked at me as if I were some loathsome thing. At the same time, the more objections they made, the more determined I was to prove myself. See here, Miss Doyle, Dillingham concluded, it's no simple matter. Understand, you sign on to the articles, so to speak, and you are on. No bolting to safe harbors at the first blow or when an ill word is Hung your way. You're a hand or you're not a hand, and it won't go easy, that's all that can ever be promised. I know, I said. 119 Hold out your hands, he demanded. Fisk nudged me. I held them out, palms up. Foley peered over them. Like bloody cream, he said with disgust. Touch mine! he insisted, and extended his. Gingerly, I touched one of them. His skin was like rough leather. That's the hands you'd get, miss. Like an animal. Is that what you want? I don't care, I said stoutly. Finally it was Dillingham who said, And are you willing to take your place in the rigging too? Fair weather or foul? That made me pause. Fisk caught the hesitation. Answer, he prompted. Yes, I said boldly. They exchanged glances. Then Foley asked, What do the others think? Fisk shook his head and sighed. No doubt they'll speak the same. Suddenly Grimes said, Here's what I say: let her climb to the royal yard. If she does it and comes down whole, and still is willing to serve, then I say let her sign and be bloody damned like the rest of us. And do whatever she's called on to do! No less! With no more than grunts the men seemed to agree among themselves. They turned toward me. Now what does Miss Doyle say? Grimes demanded. I swallowed hard, but all the same I gave yet another Yes. Foley came to his feet. All right then. I'll go caucus the others. Out he went. 120 Fisk and I retreated to the galley while I waited for word. During that time he questioned me regarding my determination. Miss Doyle, he pressed, you have agreed to climb to the top of the royal yard. Do you know that's the highest sail on the main mast? One hundred and thirty feet up. You can reach it only two ways. You can shimmy up the mast itself. Or you can climb the shrouds, using the ratlines for your ladder. I nodded as if I fully grasped what he was saying. The truth was I didn't even wish to listen. I just wanted to get past the test. And Miss Doyle, he went on, if you slip and fall you'll be lucky to drop into the sea and drown quickly. No mortal could pluck you out fast enough to save you. Do you understand that? I swallowed hard but nodded. Yes. Because if you're not lucky you'll crash to the deck. Fall that way and you'll either maim or kill yourself by breaking your neck. Still certain? Yes, I repeated, though somewhat more softly. I'll give you this, he said with a took that seemed a mix of admiration and contempt, Zachariah was right. You're as steady a girl as ever I've met. Foley soon returned. We're agreed, he announced. Not a one stands in favor of your signing on, Miss Doyle. Not with what you are. We're all agreed to that. But if you climb as high as the royal yard and make it down whole, and if you still want to sign on, you can come as equal. You'll get no more from us, Miss Doyle, but no less either. Fisk looked at me for my answer. I understand, I said. 121 All right then, Foley said. The captain's still in his cabin and not likely to come out till five bells. You can do it now. Now? I quailed. Now before never. So it was that the four men escorted me onto the deck. There I found that the rest of the crew had already gathered. Having fully committed myself, I was overwhelmed by my audacity. The masts had always seemed tall, of course, but never so tall as they did at that moment. When I reached the deck and looked up my courage all but crumbled. My stomach turned. My legs grew weak. Not that it mattered. Fisk escorted me to the mast as though I were being led to die at the stake. He seemed as grim as I. To grasp fully what I'd undertaken to do, know again that the height of the mainmast towered one hundred and thirty feet from the deck. This mast was, in fact, three great rounded lengths of wood, trees, in truth, affixed one to the end of the other. Further, it supported four levels of sails, each of which bore a different name. In order, bottom to top, these were called the main yard, topsail, topgallant, and finally royal yard. My task was to climb to the top of the royal yard. And come down. In one piece. If I succeeded I'd gain the opportunity of making the climb fifty times a day. As if reading my terrified thoughts Fisk inquired gravely, How will you go, Miss Doyle? Up the mast or on the ratlines? 122 Once again I looked up. I could not possibly climb the mast directly. The stays and shrouds with their ratlines would serve me better. Ratlines, I replied softly. Then up you go. I will confess it, at that moment my nerves failed. I found myself unable to move. With thudding heart I looked frantically around. The members of the crew, arranged in a crescent, were standing like death's own jury. It was Barlow who called out, A blessing goes with you, Miss Doyle. To which Ewing added, And this advice, Miss Doyle. Keep your eyes steady on the ropes. Don't you look down. Or up. For the first time I sensed that some of them at least wanted me to succeed. The realization gave me courage. With halting steps and shallow breath, I approached the rail only to pause when I reached it. I could hear a small inner voice crying, Don't! Don't! But it was also then that I heard Dillingham snicker, She'll not have the stomach. I reached up, grasped the lowest deadeye, and hauled myself atop the rail. That much I had done before. Now, I maneuvered to the outside so that I would be leaning into the rigging and could even rest on it. Once again I looked at the crew, down at them, I should say. They were staring up with blank expressions. Recollecting Ewing's advice, I shifted my eyes and focused them on the ropes before me. 123 Then, reaching as high as I could into one of the middle shrouds, and grabbing a ratline, I began to climb. The ratlines were set about sixteen inches one above the other, so that the steps I had to take were wide for me. I needed to pull as much with arms as climb with legs. But line by line I did go up, as if ascending an enormous ladder. After I had risen some seventeen feet I realized I'd made a great mistake. The rigging stood in sets, each going to a different level of the mast. I could have taken one that stretched directly to the top. Instead, I had chosen a line which went only to the first trestletree, to the top of the lower mast. For a moment I considered backing down and starting afresh. I stole a quick glance below. The crew's faces were turned up toward me. I understood that they would take the smallest movement down as retreat. I had to continue. And so I did. Now I was climbing inside the lank gray-white sails, ascending, as it were, into a bank of dead clouds. Beyond the sails lay the sea, slate-gray and ever rolling. Though the water looked calm, I could feel the slow pitch and roll it caused in the ship. I realized suddenly how much harder this climb would be if the wind were blowing and we were well underway. The mere thought made the palms of my hands grow damp. Up I continued till I reached the main yard. Here I snatched another glance at the sea, and was startled to see how much bigger it had grown. Indeed, the more I saw of it the more there was. In contrast, the Seahawk struck me as having suddenly grown smaller. The more I saw of her, the less she was! 124 I glanced aloft. To climb higher I now had to edge myself out upon the trestletree and then once again move up the next set of ratlines as I'd done before. But at twice the height! Wrapping one arm around the mast--even up here it was too big to reach around completely--I grasped one of the stays and edged out. At the same moment the ship dipped, the world seemed to twist and tilt down. My stomach lurched. My heart pounded. My head swam. In spite of myself I closed my eyes. I all but slipped, saving myself only by a sudden grasp of a line before the ship yawed the opposite way. I felt sicker yet. With ever-waning strength I clung on for dearest life. Now the full folly of what I was attempting burst upon me with grotesque reality. It had been not only stupid, but suicidal. I would never come down alive! And yet I had to climb. This was my restitution. When the ship was steady again, I grasped the furthest rigging, first with one hand, then the other, and dragged myself higher. I was heading for the topsail, fifteen feet further up. Pressing myself as close as possible into the rigging, I continued to strain upward, squeezing the ropes so tightly my hands cramped. I even tried curling my toes about the ratlines. At last I reached the topsail spar, but discovered it was impossible to rest there. The only place to pause was three times higher than the distance I'd just come, at the trestletree just below the topgallant spar. By now every muscle in my body ached. My head felt light, my heart an anvil. My hands were on fire, the soles of my feet raw. 125 Time and again I was forced to halt, pressing my face against the rigging with eyes closed. Then, in spite of what I'd been warned not to do, I opened them and peered down. The Seahawk was like a wooden toy. The sea looked greater still. I made myself glance up. Oh, so far to go! How I forced myself to move I am not sure. But the thought of backing down now was just as frightening. Knowing only that I could not stay still, I crept upward, ratline by ratline, taking what seemed to be forever with each rise until I finally reached the level just below the topgallant spar. A seasoned sailor would have needed two minutes to reach this point. I had needed thirty! Though I felt the constant roll of the ship, I had to rest there. What seemed like little movement on deck became, up high, wild swings and turns through treacherous air. I gagged, forced my stomach down, drew breath, and looked out. Though I didn't think it possible, the ocean appeared to have grown greater yet. And when I looked down, the upturned faces of the crew appeared like so many tiny bugs. There were twenty-five or so more feet to climb. Once again I grasped the rigging and hauled myself up. This final climb was torture. With every upward pull the swaying of the ship seemed to increase. Even when not moving myself, I was flying through the air in wild, wide gyrations. The horizon kept shifting, tilting, dropping. I was increasingly dizzy, nauseous, terrified, certain that with every next moment I would slip and fall to death. 126 I paused again and again, my eyes on the rigging inches from my face, gasping and praying as I had never prayed before. My one hope was that, nearer to heaven now, I could make my desperation heard! Inch by inch I continued up. Half an inch! Quarter inches! But then at last with trembling fingers, I touched the spar of the royal yard. I had reached the top. Once there I endeavored to rest again. But there the metronome motion of the mast was at its most extreme, the Seahawk turning, tossing, swaying as if trying to shake me off--like a dog throwing droplets of water from its back. And when I looked beyond I saw a sea that was infinity itself, ready, eager to swallow me whole. I had to get back down. As hard as it was to climb up, it was, to my horror, harder returning. On the ascent I could see where I was going. Edging down I had to grope blindly with my feet. Sometimes I tried to look. But when I did the sight of the void below was so sickening, I was forced to close my eyes. Each groping step downward was a nightmare. Most times my foot found only air. Then, as if to mock my terror, a small breeze at last sprang up. Sails began to fill and snap, puffing in and out, at times smothering me. The tossing of the ship grew-- if that were possible--more extreme. Down I crept, past the topgallant where I paused briefly on the trestletree, then down along the longest stretch, toward the mainyard. It was there I fell. I was searching with my left foot for the next ratline. When I found a hold and started to put my weight upon it, my foot, slipping on the slick tar surface, shot forward. The suddenness of it made me lose my grip. 127 I tumbled backward, but in such a way that my legs became entangled in the lines. There I hung, head downward. I screamed, tried to grab something. But I couldn't. I clutched madly at nothing, till my hand brushed against a dangling rope. I grabbed for it, missed, and grabbed again. Using all my strength, I levered myself up and, wrapping my arms into the lines, made a veritable knot of myself, mast, and rigging. Oh, how I wept! my entire body shaking and trembling as though it would break apart. When my breathing became somewhat normal, I managed to untangle first one arm, then my legs. I was free. I continued down. By the time I reached the main-yard I was numb and whimpering again, tears coursing from my eyes. I moved to the shrouds I'd climbed, and edged myself past the lowest of the sails. As I emerged from under it, the crew gave out a great Huzzah! Oh, how my heart swelled with exaltation! Finally, when I'd reached close to the very end, Barlow stepped forward, beaming, his arms uplifted. Jump! he called. Jump! But now, determined to do it all myself, I shook my head. Indeed, in the end I dropped down on my own two India-rubber legs--and tumbled to the deck. No sooner did I land than the crew gave me another Huzzah! With joyous heart I staggered to my feet. Only then did I see Captain Jaggery push through the knot of men and come to stand before me. 128 Chapter 14 There I stood. Behind me the semicircle of the crew seemed to recoil from the man and from Mr. Hollybrass, who appeared not far behind. Miss Doyle, the captain said with barely suppressed fury. What is the meaning of this? I stood mute. How could I explain to him? Besides, there were no words left within me. I had gone through too many transformations of mood and spirit within the last twenty-four hours. When I remained silent he demanded, Why are you dressed in this scandalous fashion? Answer me! The angrier he became, the darker grew the color of the welt on his face. Who gave you permission to climb into the rigging? I backed up a step and said, I . . .I have joined the crew. Unable to comprehend my words Captain Jaggery remained staling fixedly at me. Then gradually he did understand. His face flushed red. His fists clenched. Miss Doyle, he said between gritted teeth, you will go to your cabin, remove these obscene garments and put on your proper dress. You are causing a disruption. I will not allow it. 129 But when I continued to stand there--unmoving, making no response--he suddenly shouted, Did you not hear me? Get to your cabin! I won't, I blurted out. I'm no longer a passenger, I'm with them. So saying, I stepped back until I sensed the men around me. The captain glared at the crew. And you, he sneered. I suppose you'd have her? The response of the men was silence. The captain seemed unsure what to do. Mr. Hollybrass! he barked finally. Waiting your orders, sir. The captain flushed again. He shifted his attention back to me. Your father, Miss Doyle, he declared, . . . he would not allow this. I think I know my father--an officer in the company who owns this ship, and your employer--- better than you, I said. He would approve of my reasons. The captain's uncertainty grew. At last he replied, Very well, Miss Doyle, if you do not assume your proper attire this instant, if you insist upon playing these games, you shall not be given the opportunity to change your mind. If crew you are, crew you shall remain. I promise, I shall drive you as I choose. I don't care what you do! I threw back at him. The captain turned to the first mate. Mr. Holly-brass, remove Miss Doyle's belongings from her cabin. Let her take her place in the forecastle with the crew. Put her down as Mister Doyle and list Miss Doyle in the log as lost. From this point on I expect to see that he works with the rest. With that, he disappeared into the steerage. 130 No sooner had he done so than the crew--though not Mr. Hollybrass--let out another raucous cheer! In just such a fashion did I become a full-fledged crew member of the Seahawk. Whatever grievous errors I had made before--in thwarting the mutiny led by Cranick and in causing the resulting cruelty toward Zachariah--the sailors appeared to accept my change of heart and position without reservation. They saw my desire to become a crew member not only as atonement, but as a stinging rebuff to Captain Jaggery. Once I had showed myself willing to do what they did--by climbing the rigging--once they saw me stand up to Jaggery, an intense apprenticeship commenced. And for it the crewmen became my teachers. They helped me, worked with me, guided me past the mortal dangers that lurked in every task. In this they were far more patient with all my repeated errors than those teachers at the Barrington School for Better Girls when there was nothing to learn but penmanship, spelling, and the ancient authors of morality. You may believe me too when I say that I shirked no work. Even if I'd wanted to, it was clear from the start that shirking would not be allowed. I pounded oakum into the deck. I scraped the hull. I stood watch as dawn blessed the sea and as the moon cut the midnight sky. I tossed the line to measure the depths of the sea. I took my turn at the wheel. I swabbed the deck and tarred the rigging, spliced ropes and tied knots. My mess was shared with the crew. And I went aloft. Indeed, that first journey to the top of the mainmast was but the prelude to many daily climbs. Of course, after that first there were always others who went along with me. 131 High above the sea, my crew-mates taught me to work with one hand--the other must hold on--to dangle over spars, to reef sails, to edge along the walk ropes. So I came to work every sail, at every hour of the day. As for the captain, he was as good as his word. No, better than his word. He continued to drive his crew without mercy, and since I was now a part of it, he drove them, and me in particular, harder than before. But try as he might he could find no cause for complaint. I would not let him. My knowledge of physical labor had been all but nil, of course; hardly a wonder then that from the moment I joined the crew I was in pain. I ached as if my body had been racked. My skin turned pink, then red, then brown. The flesh upon my hands broke first into oozing, running sores, then metamorphosed into a new rough hide--all as promised. And when my watch was done I flung myself into my hammock and slept the sleep of righteousness--though never more than four hours and more often less. A word must be said about where and how I slept. It will be remembered that the captain denied me my cabin, insisting that I take my place in the forecastle with the men. No doubt he thought to humiliate me and force me to return to my former place. The men caucused that first day, and in a meeting that concluded with a sacred oath, bade me take my place along with them, swearing to give me the utmost privacy they could provide. They would be my brothers. I was no longer to be called Miss Doyle, but Charlotte. I was given a hammock placed in a comer. Around this a piece of torn sail was tacked up as a kind of curtain. 132 The space was private for me, and kept that way. True, I heard--and learned--their rough language. I confess too that in my newfound freedom I brandished a few bold terms of my own--to the amusement of the men at first. But after a while, it became rather second nature to me, and to them. I say this not to brag, but to suggest the complete absorption I felt in my new life. I came to feel a sense of exhilaration in it such as I had never felt before. Thus it was that after a fortnight, I found myself atop the foremast, hugging the topgallant spar, my bare brown feet nimbly balancing on the foot ropes. It was seven bells of the second dog watch, just before dusk. The wind was out of the northwest. Our sails were taut. Our studding sails were set. Below, the ship's bow--as though pulled by her winged figurehead--plunged repeatedly, stirring froth and foam. This rocking movement seemed effortless to me now, as if, like the ship's namesake, we were flying. Not far off our starboard bow, dolphins chased the waves, flyers themselves. My hair, uncombed for days, blew free in the salty air. My face, dark with weather, was creased with smile. I was squinting westward into the swollen face of a blood-red sun, which cast a shimmering golden road upon the sea; from where I perched it seemed we were sailing on that road in a dream. And there I was, joyous, new-made, liberated from a prison I'd thought was my proper place! The only shadow on my happiness was Captain Jaggery. He came on deck infrequently, and when he did he was enveloped in the murkiest gloom. 133 Rarely did he speak to anyone but the mates--Mr. Hollybrass and Mister Johnson now--and only then to give orders or rebukes. Naturally, the captain was the principal subject of endless scuttlebutt in the forecastle during offwatch times. Ewing claimed there was tension between the captain and the first mate, because Mr. Hollybrass didn't approve of Jaggery's ways. Don't you believe it, said Keetch, who, if anything, had grown more tense since his demotion. Hollybrass is glove to Jaggery's hand. Fisk insisted Jaggery's keeping below so much was only a case of his wanting to hide the welt on his face, of hiding himself in shame. It was Grimes who swore he was pressing us to make a crossing in good time and so prove he'd done no wrong. But it was Foley who said that I was the cause of the captain's every move. What do you mean? I demanded. I've seen him, Foley insisted. Studied him. He doesn't come out unless it's your watch. One eye keeps the ship in trim. But the other-- What? I said, sensing already that he was right. He's always watching you, Foley said, looking around at the others for confirmation. And there's nothing but hatred in his eye. The others nodded in agreement. But why? I asked. He's waiting, wanting you to make a mistake, Morgan put in, taking a deep pull on his pipe, then filling the forecastle with its acrid smoke. What kind of mistake? I asked. Something he can use against you. 134 Something to set him right. Look here, Charlotte, you boxed him in. I did? It was that first moment you joined us. You mentioned your father, didn't you? Said he'd approve of what you've done. He would. He believes in justice. Be that as it may, Jaggery didn't know what to do. He gave way. Not a thing he likes, you know. So now I say he's waiting for a mistake on your part to set himself back up. I don't intend to make a mistake, I stated proudly. Fisk spat upon the floor. Neither does he. It came to pass as Morgan promised. To a person on land the sight of a ship's sails, bleached by sun, stretched by wind, is the very image of airy lightness. In fact, a sail is made of very heavy canvas. When one gets tangled on a spar it must be pulled loose quickly or it can tear or burst, and in so doing, pull down rigging, spars, even a mast. A sail out of control can flick like a wild whip and send a full-grown sailor into a senseless spin. It often happens. Now the flying jib is set-at the furthest point of the bowsprit--at the very tip of it. When you consider that the bow of a speeding ship on a high sea forever rises and falls, you will perceive that a broken jib can dip into the sea itself. Such is the water's force and the driving of the ship, that the bowsprit itself can be caused to snap. Thus the sailor who seeks to repair a tangled jib must contend not only with a heavy, flailing sail, but the powerful, rushing sea only a few feet-- sometimes closer--below him. 135 One afternoon--two days after our forecastle talk and during my watch--the flying jib became entangled in just the way I have described. As soon as he saw it, Captain Jaggery cried, 'Mister Doyle! Fix the bowsprit! In his haste to call on me, he spoke directly, not through one of his mates. Before I could respond, Grimes leaped forward, calling, I'll do it, sir! Grimes was one of the bearded ones, quick to flare, quick to forget. The call was for Mr. Doyle, returned the Captain. Does he refuse? No, sir, I said and hurried to the knighthead from which the bowsprit thrust forward. Grimes hurried along with me, offering hasty instructions in my ear, as well as urging a splicing knife upon me. I took it and put it in a pocket. Charlotte, do you see that line out there? he asked, pointing to the twisted line at the far end of the bowsprit that had snarled the jib. I nodded. Don't monkey with the sail itself. All you need do is cut the rope. The sail will free itself and we've got others. Mind, you'll need to cut sharp, then swing down under the bowsprit in one quick jump, or the sail will toss you in. Understand? Again I nodded. Time yourself proper. If the ship plunges, the sea will up and grab you. So cocky had I become that I leaped to the head rail with little thought or worry, then set my foot upon the bowsprit itself. I saw that I needed to walk out along this bowsprit some twenty feet-- not too difficult a task, I thought, because the back rope was something I could cling to. 136 As I had by now learned to do, I started off by keeping my eyes on the bowsprit and my bare feet, inching step by step along it. The hiss of the water rushing below was pronounced, the bowsprit itself wet and slippery with foam. No matter. What took me by surprise was the bowsprit's wild bobbing. Halfway along I glanced back. For the first time since I'd boarded the ship, I saw the figurehead clearly, the pale white seahawk with wings thrust back against the bow, its head extended forward, beak open wide in a scream. As the bow dipped, this open beak dropped and dropped again into the sea, coming up each time with foam streaming like a rabid dog. So startled was I by the frightful vision that for a moment I froze until a sudden plunge of the ship almost tumbled me seaward. I reached the crucial point soon enough, but only by curling my toes tight upon the bowsprit, and holding fast onto the back rope line with one hand was I able to free the other to take Grimes's splicing knife from my pocket. I leaned forward and began to cut. The tightness of the tangled line helped. The knife cut freely. Too much so. The last remaining strands snapped with a crack, the sail boomed out, flicking away at my cutting hand--and the knife went flying into the sea. Even as I lunged for it the bowsprit plunged. I slipped and started to fall. By merest chance I made a successful grab at the bowsprit itself, which left me hanging, feet dangling, only a few feet above the rushing sea. 137 As the Seahawk plunged and plunged again, I was dunked to my waist, to my chest. I tried to swing myself up to hook my feet over, but I could not. The sea kept snatching at me, trying to pull me down while I dangled there kicking wildly, uselessly. Twice my head went under. Blinded, I swallowed water, choked. Then I saw that only by timing my leg swings to the upward thrust of the ship could I save myself. The ship heaved skyward. With all my might I swung my legs up and wrapped them about the bowsprit, but again the Seahawk plunged. Into the tearing sea I went, clutching the spar. Then up. This time I used the momentum to swing over, so I was now atop the bowsprit, straddling it, then lying on it. Someone must have called to the man at the helm. The ship shifted course. Found easier water. Slowed. Ceased to plunge so. Gasping for breath, spitting sea water, I was able to pull myself along the bowsprit and finally, by stepping on the wooden bird's furious head, climbed over the rail. Grimes was there to help me onto the deck and give me an enthusiastic hug of approval. The captain, of course, watched me stony-faced. Mister Doyle, he barked. Come here! Though greatly shaken, I had no time to be frightened. I had done the task and knew I'd done it. I hurried to the quarterdeck. When I ask you to do a job, the captain said, it's you I ask, and not another. You've caused us to change course, to lose time! And before I could respond, he struck me across the face with the back of his hand, then turned and walked away. My reaction was quick. Coward! I screamed at him. Fraud! 138 He spun about, and began to stride back toward me, his scarred face contorted in rage. But I, in a rage myself, wouldn't give way. I can't wait till Providence! I shouted at him. I'll go right to the courts! You won't be captain long! You'll be seen by everyone as the cruel despot you are! And I spat upon the deck by his boots. My words made him turn as pale as a ghost--a ghost with murder in his eye. But then, abruptly, he gained control of himself and, as he'd done on previous occasions, whirled about and left the deck. I turned away, feeling triumphant. Much of the crew had seen it all. But there were no more hurrahs. The moment passed. Nothing more was said, save by Grimes, who insisted that I take lessons in the handling of a knife, carrying it, using it, even throwing it. On my firs? watch off he had me practice on the deck for three hours. Two more days passed without incident. In that time, however, the sky turned a perpetual gray. The air thickened with moisture. Winds rose and fell in what I thought was a peculiar pattern. Toward the end of the second day when Barlow and I were scraping down the capstan, I saw a branch on the waves. A red bird was perched on the branch. Look! I cried with delight, pointing to the bird. Does that mean we're close to land? Barlow hauled himself up to take a look. He shook his head. That bird's from the Caribbean. One thousand miles off. I've seen them there. Blood bird, they call them. What's it doing here? After a moment he said, Storm driven. 139 I looked at him in surprise. What kind of storm would blow a bird that far? I asked, wide-eyed. Hurricane. What's a hurricane? The worst storm of all. Can't we sail around? Barlow again glanced at the helm, the sails and then at the sky above. He frowned. I heard Mr. Hollybrass and Jaggery arguing about it. To my understanding, he said, I don't think the captain wants to avoid it. Why not? It's what Grimes has been saying. The captain's trying to move fast. If he sets us right at the hurricane's edge, it'll blow us home like a pound of shot in a two-pound cannon. 'What if he doesn't get it right? Two pounds of shot in a one-pound cannon. 140 Chapter 15 Two bells into the morning of our forty-fifth day, the storm struck. All hands! All hands! Even as the cry came, the Seahawk pitched and yawed violently. Whether I got out of my hammock on my own, or was tossed by the wrenching motion of the ship, to this day I do not know. But I woke to find myself sprawling on the floor, the curtain torn asunder, the forecastle in wildest confusion. Above my head the lantern swung grotesquely, the men's possessions skittered about like billiard balls, trunks rolled helter-skelter. The watch was scrambling up. As the ship plunged, and plunged again, the cry, All hands! All hands! came repeatedly, more urgent than I'd ever heard it. Hurricane! I heard as well. There was a frantic dash out of the forecastle and to the deck. I followed too, trying to pull on my jacket as I ran against the violent pitching of the ship. 141 Though long past dawn, the sky was still dark. A heavy rain, flung wildly by wind that screamed and moaned like an army in mortal agony, beat upon the deck in rhythms only a mad drummer could concoct. The sea hurled towering wall upon towering wall of foaming fury over us. One such tossed me like some drop of dew across the deck where I--fortunately-- crashed against a wall. As I lay stunned and bruised, gasping for breath, I caught sight of Mr. Hollybrass and Captain Jaggery in the midst of a furious dispute. ... no profit to be found at the bottom of the sea! I heard the first mate cry above the storm. Mr. Hollybrass, we sail through! the captain returned, breaking away to shout, All hands aloft! All hands aloft! I could hardly believe my ears. To go up into the rigging in this! But when I looked skyward I could see the reason why. Under the brutal force of the wind, many of the sails had pulled free from their running ropes and were now tearing and snapping out of control, pulling themselves into wild whips. All hands aloft! All hands aloft! came the cry again. It was pleading, desperate. I could see the men--bent far over to buck wind and rain--struggling toward the shrouds. I pulled myself to my feet, only to be knocked down by still another wave. Again I staggered up, grasping a rope, managing to hold on with the strength of my two hands. Now I was able to stand--but just barely. Slowly I made my way toward the forward mast. When I reached it--it seemed to take forever--Captain Jaggery was already there, trying frantically to lash down ropes and rigging. What shall I do? I shouted to his back. Shouting was the only way I could make myself heard. 142 Cut away the foreyard before it pulls the mast down! he yelled back. I'm not certain he realized it was me. Do you have a knife? he called. No! Even as he reached into a back pocket, he turned. When he saw it was me, he hesitated. A knife! I cried. He handed one to me. Where? I called. Didn't you hear me? he cried, gesticulating wildly. Cut that sail away! I looked up. I could not see far into the sheets of rain. The Seahawk's wild pitching had set the mast to shaking as if it had the palsy. Only the foreyard was visible, and the sail was blowing from it almost into the shape of a balloon. Suddenly the sail collapsed into itself, then filled again. It would burst soon or fly off with the mast. Up, damn you! Up! Hurry! Captain Jaggery screamed. I reached into the rigging but stopped, realizing I couldn't climb and hold the knife. With the blade between my teeth I again grasped the rigging, and using both hands I began to climb. Though I was in fact climbing into the air, I felt as though I were swimming against a rising river tide. But more than rain or waves it was the screaming wind that tore at me. I could hardly make out where I was going. To make matters worse my wet and heavy hair, like a horse's tail, kept whipping across my face. I might have been blindfolded. Desperate, I wrapped my legs and one arm about the ropes. With my one free arm I pulled my hair around, grasped it with the hand entwined in the ropes, and pulled it taut. I took the knife and hacked. 143 With a shake of my head my thirteen year's growth of hair fell away. Feeling much lighter, I bit down onto the blade again and once more began to climb. Every upward inch was a struggle, as though I were forcing myself between the fingers of God's angry fist. And it was not just the elements that attacked. Below me--when I dared to look--the deck blurred into a confusing mass of water, foam, decking, and now and again a struggling man. I was certain the Seahawk would flounder, that we were doomed to drown. I told myself not to look, to concentrate on what I had to do. Up I went. The rain hissed. Thunder boomed. Lightning cracked. Human cries came too, shouts that rose up through the maelstrom, words I couldn't catch. But what they betokened was terror. As I crept further up the mast the sail billowed out and away from me. The next moment the wind shifted and the great canvas collapsed, smashing its full wet weight against me, as though with a conscious mind to knock me from the rigging. Desperately, I clung to the ropes with legs and arms. Then out the sail snapped. The ensuing vacuum all but sucked me off. God knows how, but I held on and continued up. I heard, threaded through the wailing wind, a ghastly, shrieking sound, then a tremendous splintering of wood. Could it, I wondered, be my mast? Was I about to be hurled into the waves? I dared not stop and think. But the mast held. Hand over hand, foot after foot, I struggled upward. I was certain we were all about to die, whether above the waves or beneath them, it hardly seemed to matter. 144 All I wanted was to reach that sail, as if by doing so I could rise above the chaos. To cut that sail free was my only purpose. I would not, could not, think of anything else. Sometimes I paused just to hang on, to gasp for breath, to remind myself I lived. But then, once again, I continued up. It felt like hours. It probably took minutes. At last I reached my goal. The foreyard is one of the biggest sails, one of a sailing ship's true engines. But even though it worked hard for the ship under normal circumstances, in this storm it strained against her as if trying to uproot the mast from the deck. Despite the roaring wind that beat about me, I could hear the creaking of the mast, could see it bend like a great bow. What I needed to do--had to do--was cut that sail free and release the terrible strain upon the mast. Fearful of wasting any time I simply straddled the spar to which the sail's top edge was lashed and backed out toward its end, hacking away at each piece of rope as I came upon it. Fortunately, the lines were so taut, and the blade so sharp, I hardly had to cut. The moment I touched a rope with the knife's edge, strands flew apart as if exploding. With each rope I cut the sail blew out more freely, flapping in such frenzy it began to shred into tiny strands that I could no longer distinguish from the streaking rain. Bit by bit I moved along, cutting as I went, until I reached the spar's furthest end. There I had to make another decision: should I cut the lines that held the spar itself? What would happen if I did so? If I did not? I looked about in the vain hope that another of the crew might be near. 145 To my surprise I did see the shadowy form of someone above, but who he was I couldn't tell. In any case, he was climbing further up the mast than I! I decided not to cut more lines. Someone else could do so if that's what needed to be done. My job was to cut away the rest of the sail, which meant going back the way I'd come and proceeding out along the spar toward the opposite end. The spar, however--with its lopsided weight, and me at one end--was swinging and lurching about so wildly I feared it might break free and drop with me on it. I had to get back to the mast. But the foot ropes were gone; in my wild hacking I'd cut them free too. I would have to drag myself along. With the knife again clamped between my teeth, arms tightly locked around the spar, I flung myself down and tried to slide forward. But at the next lurch of the spar, my legs slipped away. The knife fell from my mouth. In a small part of a second I was now dangling, legs down, facing away from the mast, about to drop into the wildest scene imaginable. I had no choice. I now had to clamber--hand over hand and backward--toward the mast. But as much as I tried for speed I could move only in tiny increments. The wind and rain--as well as the tossing motion of the ship--kept impeding me. I was dangling in the hurricane winds, twisting. Over my shoulder I could see that the mast was not far out of reach. But then my arms began to cramp. Help! I screamed. Help me! One hand lost its grip. Four feet from the mast I tried to swing myself back in the vain hope of grasping the mast with my legs. 146 The attempt only weakened my hold more. I was certain I was going to drop. Help! I screamed into the wind. Suddenly, a figure appeared on the spar. Charlotte! I heard. Take my hand! And indeed, a hand was thrust toward my face. I reached for it frantically, grabbed it, clung to it, as it clung to me, its fingers encircling my wrist in an iron grip. For a moment I was hanging by that one hand. Then I was yanked upward onto the spar so I could get my legs around it and locked. Gasping for breath, I glanced up at the figure who was now scrambling away. It was Zachariah. For one brief moment I was certain I had died and he was an angel. But I hardly had time for thought. For just above me, I heard a great wrenching explosion. I looked up to see that the foreyard had ripped away. As the sail spun off in the wind I caught a glimpse of its gray mass twisting and turning into oblivion like a tormented soul cast down to Hell. I spun back around. The man I thought to be Zachariah had vanished. But even as I gazed in wonder, the Seahawk, free from the sail's pull and weight, heeled violently. To my horror I saw the ocean rush up toward me. We were capsizing. But then suddenly, the ship shivered and righted herself. Gasping for breath I clawed my way forward until I reached the mast, which I hugged as though it were life itself. Without the knife there was nothing more I could do aloft. In any case the sail I had been sent to free was gone. I began to descend, slipping more than I climbed. I jumped the last few feet onto the deck. I don't know if the storm had somewhat abated or I'd just grown used to it. 147 There were still strong winds and the rain beat upon us as before. But the fury of the hurricane somehow softened. I looked about. Spars, some entangled with sails, lay in heaps. Railings were splintered. Dangling ropes flapped about. Then I saw some of the men on the quarterdeck working frantically with axes. I hurried to join them. Only then did I realize the mainmast was gone. All that remained was a jagged stump. I thought of the shriek I'd heard. Looking toward the stem, I saw Fisk slumped over the wheel. His great arms were spread wide, his hands clutching the wheel spokes. He could not have stayed upright had he not been lashed into place. I joined the men. Beneath the continual if now somewhat slackened downpour we all pulled at the great mound of downed spars and sails. Those that were dragging overboard, we cut loose and let go. Those we could move we flung into the waist. And then, quite suddenly--as if Heaven itself had triumphed over darkness--the rain ceased. The sea subsided into a roiling calm. Even the sun began to shine. And when I looked up I saw--to my astonishment--a blue sky. It's over! I said breathlessly. Mr. Johnson shook his head. Nothing like! he warned. It's the eye of the storm. There'll only be a pause. And it'll be back in twenty minutes going the other way. But, God willing, if we can clear the deck we may be able to ride it out! I looked up at our remaining mast. Only the topgallant was left. The other sails had been cut loose. Working frantically we reached the bottom of the pile. 148 It was Foley who pulled away the last torn sail. There, beneath it, lay Mr. Hollybrass, face down. A knife was stuck in his back, plunged so deeply only the scrimshaw handle could be seen. I recognized the design of a star. This was the dirk Zachariah had given me. The sight of the dead Mr. Hollybrass--for it was certain that such was the case--left us all dumbfounded. But after all we'd been through in the storm it's hardly to be wondered that we made no response. We were too drained. Too numb. What is it? came a voice. We turned to see Captain Jaggery. He was looking much like the rest of us, wild and disheveled. We stepped aside. No one said a word. He came forward. For a moment he too did nothing but stare at the body. Then he knelt and touched the man's face, the back of his neck. For a moment he hesitated, then pulled Mr. Holly-brass's arm from where it lay twisted under his body. The dead man clutched something in his hand. The captain managed to pry the fingers open, and plucked away what Mr. Hollybrass had been holding. He held it up. It was my handkerchief. The captain now used that handkerchief to grasp the handle of the knife and pull it from the dead man's back. He stood up. He was looking directly at me. At last he turned toward the sky. It was darkening again. And the sea had begun to heave in growing swells. We shall have fifteen more minutes before the storm returns, he announced. I want this body removed and placed in the steerage. 149 In the available time the rest of you clear the deck. Mr. Johnson's watch shall man the pumps first. Two from Mr. Hollybrass's watch will hold the wheel and the rest can stay in the forecastle. I will call the rotation. Now, quickly! The captain's orders were carried out in silence. Dillingham and Grimes took Mr. Hollybrass's body below. The rest of us roamed the decks alone or in pairs, flinging broken bits of mast, sail, and spar into the sea, or trying to tie down what was possible to save by lashing it on deck. I followed along, doing what I could, my mind a jumble. Not a word was spoken regarding Mr. Hollybrass or his death. As extraordinary as the event was, there was no time, no mind to consider it. As predicted, the storm struck within the quarter hour and with as much fury as before. But the Sea-hawk, with one mast and but a single sail hung, was more fit to ride it out. I rushed to the top cargo, where the pumps were. They were simple suction pumps, each capable of being worked by as few as two. But four we were, Grimes, Keetch, Mr. Johnson, and myself, who heaved the handles in the cold, wet, and lurching darkness, as though our lives depended upon it-- which they did. Again the Seahawk became a mere toy to the elements. Wind shrieked and howled; more than once water poured over us from above, or the ship heeled to the gunwales, bringing hearts to mouths. For the merest second we would balance on the brink of capsizing while we pumped with greater will than ever. 150 It was as if that rhythmic action was the true beating of our own hearts--as if, were we to stop for more than a moment, the heart of the ship might cease all beating too. To work meant to live. And work we did for upwards of three hours. Then we were released. I was sent to the forecastle to rest along with Morgan, Barlow, and Fisk. Morgan searched for his tobacco pouch, but most personal belongings were flung about and broken, and those still whole were soaking wet. He swore in frustration. Be glad you're breathing air, lad, Fisk said wearily. Chilled to the bone, exhausted, I tumbled into a hammock and tried to sleep. But I'd hardly closed my eyes before I was called out again. Now I was to stand to the wheel. The captain was there--to his credit he remained at the helm throughout the storm--calling upon us to attempt this adjustment, or that, anything to keep our stem toward the wind. Barlow, my partner, did most of the work. Great strength was wanted just to hold the wheel steady. Whatever strength I had was fast ebbing. I was frozen, miserable. It did not matter. From duty at the wheel I returned to the pumps. From the pumps to the forecastle. Thence again to the wheel. Round and again, perhaps three times in all. I lost count. At last--some seventeen hours after we'd first been called out--the storm abated. I was allowed to return to my hammock where, spent and shivering, I closed my eyes. On the edge of sleep I suddenly recalled the visitation of Zachariah and the demise of Mr. Hollybrass. 151 This thought of the dead served to remind me that I was still alive. And that consolation eased my body and calmed my mind. Within seconds I slept the sleep of the dead who wait--with perfect equanimity--upon the final judgment. 152 Chapter 16 It was fourteen hours before I woke. If I'd known that much time had passed I'd have realized something was amiss. No matter what the circumstances, it's irregular for any member of a crew to be allowed to sleep so long. For the moment, however, I remained in my hammock, blithely assuming it was simply not yet time for my normal watch. The canvas curtain had been restrung and was drawn closed ... but that was the type of kindness Barlow or Ewing would have done. The familiar sounds of the running ship comforted me. And the truth is, despite the fact that my shirt and trousers were still damp, my body one great ache, I was enjoying my rest, thanking God and Zachariah I was alive. Suddenly I sat up. But Zachariah died! I had seen him beaten to death, committed to the sea. Was it his ghost then who had saved me? I remembered thinking of an angel. Had I hallucinated the moment? Made a story of it for myself? It was like the kind of forecastle yam I'd heard the sailors tell so often. I had not believed them. Not then. 153 And yet--what was I to think other than that a miracle had transpired? That--I told myself--was absurd. But I had not imagined it. I remembered the man's iron grip. Someone had helped me. Someone other than Zachariah. It had to be. But who? I reached from my hammock and drew back the canvas curtain. I was alone. Puzzled, I got up quickly and ran from the forecastle onto the deck. What I saw was as perfect a sky as any deepwater sailor could wish. The sun was warm, the breeze, out of the west, strong and even. And the deck was in good order, as if the storm had been but a dream. Even the foremast and bowsprit were fully rigged, their sails taut. Only the jagged stump of the mainmast--on the quarterdeck--stood testimony to the last twenty-four hours. How much the men had accomplished while I slept! I felt forgotten. There was Barlow. There was Morgan. Foley. It was my watch to be on duty. But why hadn't I been called? Then I realized that both watches were on deck. When I saw Ewing and Keetch working near at hand I went to them. Ewing, I called. Keetch. Both men turned about. Instead of giving me his regular, casual greeting, Morning to you, lass! Ewing stopped his work and gaped at me with a frown that signaled ... I knew not what. It gave me sudden pause. I glanced at Keetch, whose pinched face bore his familiar rabbit look of fear. But like Ewing, he said nothing. Why wasn't I called? I asked. Called? Ewing echoed dumbly. My watch. 154 They offered no explanation. Answer me! Ewing sighed. Charlotte, we were told not to. Told? Who told you? It's not for us to say, miss ... Keetch whispered. You're not to call me miss! I cried out in exasperation. Are you going to tell me or not? Ewing looked at me reluctantly. It's . . . Holly-brass. His . . . murder. I had put that completely out of my mind. What's that to do with not calling me? I demanded, drawing closer. Ewing sprang up and backed away--as if frightened. I turned to Keetch but he seemed suddenly absorbed in his work. Something else has happened, hasn't it? I said, more and more apprehensive. What is it? It's the captain, miss ... Keetch began. Charlotte! I broke in angrily. Keetch drew a hand across his mouth as if to stop it. What has happened? I persisted. Are you going to tell me or not? Is it some secret? Ewing licked his lips. Keetch seemed to be avoiding my eyes. But it was he who said, The captain told us, when we was committing Hollybrass to the sea, that--now his darting eyes flicked toward me, then away--it was you . . . that . . . murdered him. My breath all but failed. Me? I managed to get out. Aye, you. 155 Who could believe such a thing? I exclaimed. How? Why? To avenge Zachariah's death, Ewing whispered. I stood there, open-mouthed. But Zachariah ... I began, not even sure what I was about to say. The former second mate looked around at me, his eyes narrowed. What about Zachariah? he asked, standing up. He's dead, I said lamely. He's all of that, Ewing agreed. Keetch began to move away quickly, Ewing started to follow. I grabbed his arm. Ewing, I said. Do you think I did it? He shook his arm free. Captain says that dirk was yours. Ewing ... I left that dirk in my old cabin. That's what captain said you'd say. I took in his meaning. You believe him, don't you? He studied his hand. And the others? I wanted to know. You'll have to ask them. Deeply shaken, I started for the galley in search of Fisk but changed my mind. It was Captain Jaggery I had to see. I turned and headed for his cabin. But before I had taken five steps I was confronted by the captain himself coming to the quarterdeck. I stopped in surprise. The man before me was not the same Captain Andrew Jaggery I'd seen on the quarterdeck the first day we sailed. True, he still wore his fine clothes, but the jacket was soiled and showed any number of rips. A cuff was frayed, a button gone. Small points perhaps, but not for a man of his fastidiousness. 156 And the whip mark, though no longer so pronounced, had become a thin white line--like a persistent, painful memory. Miss Doyle, the captain proclaimed for all to hear, I charge you in the willful murder of Mr. Hollybrass. I turned to appeal to the crew--only recently my comrades--who stood looking on. I did not do it, I said. Have no fear Miss Doyle. You shall have a jury of your peers. And a speedy trial. It's a lie, I said. Mr. Barlow, the captain called, never for a moment turning his cold eyes from me. Barlow shuffled forward. Take the prisoner to the brig, the captain said, offering up a key that Barlow took. Miss Doyle, your trial for murder will commence at the first bell of the first dog watch today. Come along, miss, Barlow whispered. I shrank back. Easy, Charlotte, he went on, I'll not do you harm. His words reassured me somewhat. But no other words of comfort came. The central hatch cover was slid back. Barlow beckoned me to it and under the eyes of all he followed me down the ladder. We passed by the top cargo--where Barlow lit a lantern--then groped our way into the hold, the bottom of the ship. I had avoided even thinking of the place since the incident of the false head. As far as I could see--which was not very far--it was like some long-forgotten, tunneled dwelling faced with great wood timbers and rough planking grown corrupt with green slime. 157 The area was crammed with barrels and cases, among which only a narrow passageway of planking had been left. Barlow led me forward as the blackened bilge lapped below. The stench was loathsome. A few feet ahead I saw the brig, not so much a room as a cage of iron bars with a gate for a door. I could make out a stool for sitting. A pan for slops. Nothing more. Had Cranick, poor man, been its last inhabitant? Barlow unlocked the rusty padlock on the gate. It took a yanking to free it. You'll want to go in, he said. I hesitated. You'll leave the light, won't you? I asked. Barlow shook his head. If it tumbled we'd have afire. But it will be completely dark. He shrugged. I stepped inside. Barlow closed the gate and locked it. For a moment I just stood helplessly, watching him move away. Suddenly frightened, I called, Barlow! He paused to peer back over a shoulder. Do you think I killed Mr. Hollybrass? He considered for a moment. I don't know, Charlotte, he said wearily. You must think someone did, I cried, wanting to hold him there as much as I wanted answers. I don't know as I allow myself to think, he offered and made hastily for the ladder. Utterly discouraged, I remained standing in the dark. All about me I heard the hollow groans of the ship, the cargo creaking, water dripping and sloshing, rustling, a sudden squeaking of rats. 158 Nearly sick with fright I felt about for the stool. I sank down upon it, reminding myself I wouldn't have to stay there for long. Captain Jaggery had promised a trial for that very day. But what kind of trial? Zachariah's words filled my head, that a captain is sheriff, judge, jury . . . and hangman too. Shivering, I bent over and hugged myself to my knees. Without the crew on my side I would be hard put to prove my innocence. I knew that. Yet they seemed to have turned against me. Of all misfortunes that was the most hurtful to bear. I shifted the stool so I could lean back against the rear bars of the brig, then closed my eyes against the dark. I ran my fingers through my hair but the gesture only reminded me I'd hacked it short. For a brief moment I caught a distant vision of myself as I had been before the Seahawk, before this tumultuous voyage. Was it days or years that had passed since? I was speculating thus when I heard a different kind of noise. At first I ignored it. But when it came again, a slow, hesitant sound, almost like a human step, I opened my eyes wide and stared into the dark. Was this too my imagination? The sound drew closer. My heart began to pound. Who's there! I called out. After a moment I heard, Charlotte? Is that you? I leaped to my feet. Who is it? I cried. By way of answer the shuffling drew closer, then suddenly stopped. Now I was certain I heard labored breathing. A spark burst forth. Then a tiny light. Before me loomed the ancient head of Zachariah. 159 Chapter 17 His face appeared to be floating in air. Terrified, I could only stare into his hollow and unseeing eyes, for so they seemed in the flickering light. Is that you Charlotte? came a voice. His voice. What are you? I managed to ask. The head drew closer. Don't you know me? the voice said. I stammered, Are you . . . real?'''' Charlotte, don't you see me? came the voice, more insistent than before. Now the light--it was a small candle--was held up and I could see more of him. The very image of Zachariah--but sadly altered too. In life he had never appeared strong or large. In death he'd become shriveled, gray-bearded. What do you want? I demanded, shrinking back into the furthest comer of the brig. To help you, the voice said. But you died, I whispered. I saw your funeral. They wrapped you in your hammock and dropped you into the sea. A soft laugh. His laugh. Close to death surely, Charlotte, but not altogether dead. Come, touch me. See for yourself. 160 Cautiously, I moved forward, reached out, and touched his hand. Real flesh. And warmth. And the hammock? I wondered in astonishment. He laughed again. A full hammock to be sure, but empty of me. It's an old sailor's trick. No doubt if I'd remained in Jaggery's hands I would have died. Have you been in the hold all along? Ever since. I could only stare. Keetch brings me food and water every day, he continued. The food's not as good as I would have prepared, but enough to keep me alive. Look here, Charlotte, if poor Cranick could hide, why not Zachariah? It was Keetch's notion. Why wasn't I told? It was decided not to tell you. Why? You forget, Charlotte--you informed upon us. That was then, Zachariah, I said, my face burning. True enough. And I have been told about you, young soul of justice. There's much to be admired. I salute you. I wanted to fill your place. He smiled. Didn't I once say how much we were alike? A prophecy! But you're not regretting I'm alive, are you? No, of course not. But if I hadn't caught sight of you during the storm would I ever have seen you? I cannot say. The captain might have discovered you then. Why did you come up? 161 What would be the point of staying here and perishing when I could have been of help? You saved me from falling. One shipmate helps another. But what about Captain Jaggery? I asked. Does he know you're here? Now, Charlotte, do you think if he believed me alive he'd allow me here for even a moment? Do you? I suppose not, I admitted. There you are. That's all the proof I need that he doesn't know. The hope is this, he went on. When the Seahawk reaches Providence--not very long from now, I understand--you shall see, Jaggery will keep the crew on board, not wanting them to talk to anyone. But I'll be able to get off. And when I do I'll go to the authorities to expose him for what he is. Now what do you think? Even as I grasped the plan I felt a pang of embarrassment that compelled me to turn away. What's the matter? The pain in my heart made it impossible for me to speak. Tell me, he coaxed. Zachariah ... What? You're ... a black man. That I am. But this state of Rhode Island where we're going, it has no more slaves. He suddenly checked himself. Or am I wrong? A black man, Zachariah, a common sailor, testifying against a white officer ... I didn't have the heart to finish. 162 Ah, but Charlotte, didn't you once tell me it was your father who's part of the company that owns the Seahawk? You did. The plan is to go to him. You'll give me a good character, won't you? And if he's like you, there's nothing to fear. A tremor of unease passed through me. I wasn't sure what to say. I stole a glance at him. What about Cranick? I asked. Did he die? Truly? More's the pity, he said with a shake of his head and a lapse into silence. Then he looked up. Now then, he said, I have talked too much of myself. I saw Barlow bring you here, and lock you in. Did you mock Jaggery again? I was taken aback. Didn't anyone tell you? Tell me what? Zachariah . . . Mr. Hollybrass was murdered. Murdered! he cried. When? During the storm. I wasn't told. Why not? I cannot imagine. He grew thoughtful, and even glanced toward the ladder. Then, abruptly, he turned back to me and said, But what's that to do with you? Zachariah, it's the reason I'm here. The captain has accused me. You? Again he seemed surprised. I nodded. But surely, Charlotte, you did nothing of the kind. He looked around. Or did you? No. Then there's no more to be said. I shook my head. Zachariah, I went on, the crew seems to side with Jaggery, to think it was me. 163 I cannot believe that, he exclaimed. Zachariah, it's true. He gazed at me in perplexity. Now it is my turn to ask--why? The murder was done with the dirk you gave me. What proof is that? Someone must have taken it from your things in the forecastle. Zachariah, when I moved to the forecastle I left it in my cabin. Then of course you have nothing to do with it. They don't believe I left it there. Charlotte, you are not given to lies, he said. When you first saw me, Zachariah, did you think that I would ever go before the mast? No . . . Or climb into the rigging during a storm? Not at all. Well then? Why shouldn't I have murdered Mr. Hollybrass as well? I'm sure that's the way they're thinking. My words silenced him for a few moments. His face clouded. But instead of commenting, he stood up. I have a store of food and water here. I'll get some. Securing the candle to a plank, he moved into the darkness. I watched him go, puzzled and troubled by his reaction to what I'd said. While he had appeared genuinely surprised, it seemed impossible that he hadn't been told. And indeed, as he vanished into the gloom, a ghastly notion began to fill my head. Perhaps it was Zachariah who had killed Mr. Hollybrass! 164 No doubt he would have killed the captain, given the chance. As for the first mate . . . Had Zachariah done it to strike fear into Captain Jaggery? The very idea was loathsome to me. And yet . . . My racing mind began to construct an entire conspiracy. The crew, knowing Zachariah was alive, might have guessed--perhaps knew for a certainty--that he had done the crime, but would not acknowledge it. Now, with the captain accusing me, they were being asked to choose between me and Zachariah, their old comrade. A decision on their part to defend him would be understandable, and would go far to explain why they'd abandoned me. But before I could puzzle out my thoughts, Zachariah returned with a jug of water and a hardtack loaf. Mealy as the bread was, I was glad to have it. Do you wish to be free of there? he asked, nodding toward my cage. It's locked. A sailor knows his ship, he said slyly. Reaching toward the back of the brig, he pulled two bars out from what I now realized were rotten sockets. Come along, he said, but be ready to bolt in if anyone comes. I did so, and we sat side by side, our backs against a barrel in the flickering candlelight. Zachariah, I said, the captain has said he'd bring me to trial. Do you think he means it? That's his right. And if he does hold a trial, what will happen? He'll be judge and jury and find you guilty. And then ... ? I asked. When Zachariah didn't answer I said, Tell me. I cannot believe he'd go so far . . . As to hang me? 165 His silence was answer enough. For a while we both remained silent. Zachariah, I said, I need to know: did anyone else besides me see you during the storm? I exchanged words. With whom? Does it make a difference? Maybe. He considered. Fisk, he said after a moment. And Keetch. Then it's likely the entire crew knew you came up. It's possible, he said with a sudden frown. Had he read my mind? Zachariah, I said softly, it's bound to be one of your mates who killed Hollybrass. Charlotte, he said with a sigh, that's true. Every one of them might have a good reason. But, look here, once we discover who it is we can decide what to do. I kept glancing sidelong at him, trying to read his mind, more and more convinced that it was he who was the murderer. Still, I lacked the courage to ask. Tell me all you know, he said. I related what little I could, from the discovery of Mr. Hollybrass's body to Captain Jaggery's accusation. My words made him even more thoughtful. Charlotte, he said finally. That dirk. Did you tell anyone else you had it? I cast my mind back. Shortly after you gave the blade to me, I recalled, I wanted to give it back. Remember? Zachariah, when you refused to take it, I offered it to the captain. 166 He turned around sharply. But why? I was afraid of it. And you. Still? No. But then I was. Did you tell him where you got it? I shook my head. It's not like him to let the matter go at that. He must have demanded an answer. He did. And? I made one up. Did he believe it? I thought so. What followed? He said I should keep it. Place it under my mattress. And ... did you? Yes. Did anyone else know you had it? I thought hard. Dillingham! What about him? When I was going to give it back to you, I was holding it in my hand. Dillingham saw it. I know he did. And if he told others, Zachariah mused out loud, then there's not a soul aboard who could not know of it. The moment he said it I knew he was right. And I remembered something else. Zachariah also told me to put it under my mattress. I glanced around and caught him stealing a sidelong look at me. Zachariah, I didn't kill Hollybrass. I was aloft when it happened. And when I went aloft, it was the captain who gave me a knife to use. I didn't even have one. 167 What happened to that one he gave you? Host it. He grunted. Neither yes nor no. Once more I could taste my accusation of him on my tongue. Even as I thought it the candle gutted and went out. The darkness seemed to swallow my ability to talk. But Zachariah talked, a sudden and surprising torrent, dark tales about each member of the crew. Every jack of them, he claimed, had run afoul of the law at some time or other. Not mere snitch thieves or cutpurses either; some were true felons. More compelling than what he said was what he did not say. The more Zachariah talked the more convinced I was that his rambling chatter was meant to keep us from the crucial question-- who killed Mr. Hollybrass? And the more that question was avoided, the more certain I was that it was he. But how could I accuse him? The captain would have to know that he was alive, and that knowledge would mean Zachariah's certain death! Also, it would mean the end of the crew's plan--which required Zachariah--for bringing Captain Jaggery to justice. No wonder I couldn't ask him the question. I did not want to know! A noise startled me. I felt Zachariah's hand on my arm. A warning. A shaft of light dropped into the darkness. I could see that the cargo hatch on deck had been pulled open. In moments we heard someone on the ladder. I scurried back into the brig. Zachariah hastened to close the bars. 168 Then he retrieved his water jug and disappeared from my side. I did not know where. I looked toward the ladder and saw Captain Jaggery descending slowly. He carried a lantern and had a pistol tucked into his belt. When he reached the foot of the ladder he paused and looked about, as if making an inspection of the hold. Finally he approached the brig. There he lifted the lantern and scrutinized me as if I were some thing. It was a look filled with a hatred such as I had never seen before--or since--its clear, precise intensity given greater force by his state of personal disorder, his unkempt hair, his dirty face, the trembling muscle along his jaw. At last he said, Miss Doyle, to have murdered a shipmate--an officer--is a capital offense. The penalty for such an act is death by hanging. Let me assure you, a trial is not required, the evidence being altogether clear. I have the right to sentence you without trial. But I insist that you have your 'fairness.' It shall not be me who judges you. I'm not such a fool as that. No, the judgment will be made by those whom you have taken as your equals, your shipmates. So saying he undid the padlock on the brig and pulled the gate open. So be it, Miss Doyle. Your trial commences. 169 Chapter 18 When I emerged on deck from the dark hold, the very perfection of the day--bright sun, dazzling blue sky, clouds both full and white--made me shade my eyes. And though the Seahawk pitched and rolled gently upon the softest of seas, I felt as though my legs would give way under me. For when I was able to look about I saw that the captain had arranged a kind of courtroom. In the ship's waist, on the starboard side, he had assembled the crew in two rows, some sitting on the deck, the rest standing behind the front rank. Before them--atop the central cargo hatch--a chair had been placed. The captain hurried me past the crew--none of whom would look me in the eye--and instructed me to sit in the chair, saying it would serve as the prisoner's dock. Now he took his place in one of his fine cabin chairs. It had been set up high behind the quarterdeck rail, a rail that he pounded sharply with the butt of his pistol. I proclaim this court to be in session in strict accordance with the law, he said. 170 Considering the overwhelming evidence against the accused, it needn't be held at all. But as I have told Miss Doyle, she will enjoy the benefit of my generosity. So saying he now took up his Bible, and though he had just seated himself, rose abruptly and brought it down to the crew. It was Fisk he approached first. Place your hand upon this, he demanded. Fisk did as he was ordered, but, clearly unnerved, touched the book as one might a hot plate. Do you, Mr. Fisk, the captain intoned, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God? Fisk hesitated. He glanced quickly at me. Do you? Captain Jaggery pressed. Yes, Fisk replied finally in a hollow whisper. Satisfied, the captain went on to the next man, then the next, until he had sworn in the entire crew. From the solemnity that showed upon their faces, from their nervous fidgets and downcast eyes, it was clear to me that the men were mightily unsettled by the oath they had been made to take. They could not take the Bible lightly. But I was certain each of them believed--as I did--that the murder was done by Zachariah, whom they themselves had conspired to hide in the hold. It was to him they would remain steadfast, not me. They would tell the truth, but in such a way as to protect Zachariah. How could I disagree? Once Captain Jaggery had sworn in the crew, he approached me. I too laid my hand on his Bible. I too promised to tell the truth even as I knew I would not speak it completely. 171 The swearing done the captain returned to his chair and again banged his pistol on the rail. Will the accused stand, he said. I stood. Before this court, he continued, I, Andrew Jaggery, by my rightful authority as master of the Seahawk, charge you, Charlotte Doyle, with the unnatural murder of Samuel Hollybrass, late of Portsmouth, England, first mate on the Seahawk. Miss Doyle, how plead you? Captain Jaggery ... I tried to protest. How plead you Miss Doyle? he repeated sternly. I did not do it. Then you plead innocent. Yes, innocent. Miss Doyle, he asked, with what I could have sworn was a slight smile about his lips, do you desire to withdraw your claim to being a member of this crew? That is to say, do you wish to hide behind your father's name, and thus avoid judgment by these men? I turned slightly so as to consider the crew. They were gazing at me intently but offered nothing to help. Though I sensed a trap in the question, I was loath to abandon my trust in the men just when I most needed them. Miss Doyle, do you wish to be judged by these men or not? I trust them, I said finally. Do you wish to charge someone else with the act of murder? No, I said. 172 Let it thus be understood, Jaggery declared, that the accused insists she be judged by this court, and further, charges no one else with this crime. So saying, he pulled a log book onto his lap, and with pen in hand, wrote down my words. When done, he looked up. Miss Doyle, do you agree that someone murdered Mr. Hollybrass? Yes. Someone on the Seahawk? It has to be. Exactly. Someone on this ship. And at the moment you are the only one accused. You have accused me. But given the opportunity, Miss Doyle, you accused no one else. It was clear this was a major point with him. All I could reply was, Yes. The captain made a note in his book, then shifted his attention to the crew. Is there any man here who is willing to defend this prisoner? I turned to the men whom I'd begun to call friends. Ewing. Barlow. Fisk. Not one of them would look at me. No one? the captain asked mockingly. No one. Very well, the captain went on. Miss Doyle, you will have to defend yourself. They are frightened of you, I said. They won't speak because-- Miss Doyle, he interrupted, is it not my right, my responsibility, as master of this ship, to determine who used the knife and for what reasons? Yes, but--- Again he cut in. Have I asked for anything but the truth? No . . . And a murder was committed by someone on this ship. 173 That is not open to question. But have you so much as hinted it was someone else? No, but-- Miss Doyle, although none of these men wishes to defend you they have all sworn to speak the truth. Can you ask for anything more than that? Again I said nothing. Very well. We shall begin. He leaned back in his chair, log book still in his lap, pen in hand, pistol at the ready. We have agreed that Mr. Hollybrass was murdered. Is there anyone here who believes he was killed by other than this weapon? He held up the dirk. No one spoke. The captain continued. Let us now determine its ownership. Miss Doyle, he asked, do you recognize this knife? Captain Jaggery, I left it . . . Miss Doyle, he said again. Do you recognize this knife? Captain Jaggery ... Was this the blade that killed Mr. Hollybrass? he repeated. Yes. Very well then, he said. I shall ask once more. Do you recognize this knife?''' I do, I said reluctantly. Tell us about it. Zachariah gave it to me. Mr. Zachariah? he said, pretending to be surprised. Yes. And I showed it to you a few days into the voyage. 174 But when you showed it to me, he quickly put in, and I asked who gave it to you, what did you say? I said nothing. You told me that a certain Mr. Grummage of Liverpool gave it to you. Am I correct? Captain Jaggery ... Answer the question. Yes or no? Yes. Are you saying now that you lied? Yes or no? Yes, I said, appealing to the crew, but only because I didn't wish to bring harm upon Zachariah. Whatever your excuses, Miss Doyle, you admit you lied to me. Yes, I was forced to say. And you said I should keep the knife. Indeed I told you that. And you did keep it, didn't you? Yes, I said sullenly, sensing he was getting the best of me. He turned to the crew. Did any of you see this girl with this knife in hand at any time? The men shifted uneasily. Come now, gentlemen! the captain barked. This is a court of law. All of you are required to speak the truth. You swore upon the Bible to do so. I'll ask again, did any of you see this girl with this knife? The crew appeared to be looking every way but at the captain. Then I noticed Dillingham rub the back of his neck. The captain saw it too. Mr. Dillingham, he called out sharply. Do you have something to say? Step forward, sir. 175 Dillingham came forward awkwardly. What have you to say? I saw her with the knife, sir. When? Shortly after we set sail. Thank you, Mr. Dillingham. I applaud your forthrightness. Now then, did anyone else see her with the knife. Mr. Ewing? Ewing said as much as Dillingham. When pressed, so did Foley. So did Mr. Johnson. The captain was now leaning over the rail, clearly enjoying himself. Did anyone not see her with the knife? he said dryly. No one spoke. I wish, he said, to state how unnatural it is for a girl to carry a knife. You have no reason to say unnatural, I objected. You even gave me one! Did I? Yes. During the storm. Why did I? To cut away the rigging. To be sure, that was an emergency. By what reason did you have a knife when there was no emergency?'' To defend myself. Defend yourself? Against whom? Against what? Fearful of his traps, I was not sure what to say. Against what? he pressed. Did anyone threaten you? Any of these men? No, not them. Who then? Come, speak up. You. How so? 176 You struck me. Miss Doyle, I do strike members of the crew. It is a common enough practice. He turned to the men. Have any of you ever known a captain who has not, from time to time, struck a member of the crew? Come now, speak up if you have! No one spoke. The captain turned back to me. But do they turn upon me with a knife? Is that what you are suggesting, Miss Doyle? That members of a crew have the right to assault their captain with a weapon? He had confused me again. Besides, he added, You had that knife on the first day of this voyage. Did you think I would strike you then? No. I believed you were a gentleman. So, Miss Doyle, you had the knife before you met me, did you not? Yes, I admitted. The captain smiled with obvious satisfaction. The knife, then, is clearly yours. And you were seen with it. You admit to all this. He turned to the crew. Have any one of you seen a knife in her hand other than during the first few days of this voyage? Step forward if you have. It was Grimes who did so. Ah, Mr. Grimes. You have something to say. Begging your pardon, sir, I saw her. In what circumstances? I was teaching her to use a knife. Teaching her to use a knife? the captain repeated portentously. Yes, sir. When? 177 Before the storm. And did she learn? Yes, sir. Was she good at it? Aye. Uncommon good. Mr. Grimes, I ask you, did you ever hear of another girl who desired to learn the use of a knife? Grimes hesitated. Answer. No, sir. Do you not think it's unnatural? Sir, I don't know as if . . . Agree or disagree? He bobbed his head apologetically. Agree. Unnatural again! the captain proclaimed. Mr. Hollybrass was murdered during the hurricane. Did anyone see this girl on the deck during the storm? He looked to the crew. Anyone? There were a few murmurs of Yes. Mr. Barlow, I think you say yes. What was Miss Doyle doing? She was with the crew, sir. Doing her part like we all was. And good work too. Doing her part like we all was, the captain echoed in a mocking tone. Mr. Barlow, you are not young. In all your years have you ever seen, ever heard of a girl who took up crew's work? No sir, I never did. So, then, is it not unusual? I suppose. You suppose. Might you say, unnatural? That's not fair! I cried out. Unusual and unnatural are not the same! Miss Doyle, have you an objection? 178 There was nothing unnatural in what I did! I insisted. Miss Doyle, let me then put the question to you. Have you ever heard of a girl joining a crew? I felt caught. Have you? No. So even you admit to that. Yes, but-- The captain turned to the crew. Is there anyone here who has ever heard of a girl doing what this Miss Doyle has done? No one spoke. So what we have here is a girl who admits she owns the weapon that murdered Mr. Hollybrass. A girl who lied about where she got it. A girl who was taught to use a blade, and learned to use it, as Mr. Grimes would have it, 'uncommon' well. A girl who, all agree, is unnatural in every way she acts. Gentlemen, do we not, as natural men, need to take heed? Is it not our duty, our obligation, to protect the natural order of the world? Once more he turned to me. Miss Doyle, he said, Mr. Zachariah was a friend of yours. The best of friends. What happened to him? He was flogged, I murmured. And? For the last time I appealed mutely to the crew. They were all looking steadily at me now. I asked you a question, Miss Doyle. What happened to Mr. Zachariah? . . .he died, I said softly. Flogged to death. Who flogged him? 179 You did, unmercifully. Anyone else? Mr. Hollybrass. Mr. Hollybrass. Why was Mr. Zachariah being flogged? There was no reason. No reason? Did he not take part in a mutiny? He had every right to . . . A right to mutiny? Yes. You yourself, Miss Doyle--in great fear, if I remember--informed me that a mutiny was about to occur. Mr. Zachariah was one of the participants. Yet you think it unfair to flog him? You wanted to kill him. So you were angry at me? I looked into his glinting eyes. Yes, I declared, deservedly so. And at Mr. Hollybrass? After a moment I again said, Yes. Mr. Zachariah was a particular friend of yours, was he not, Miss Doyle? Yes. A black man. He was my friend! So you resented his being given the punishment he deserved. It was not deserved. Is murder an unnatural act, Miss Doyle? Yes. Is the way you dress unnatural? Not for the work I do . . . What work is that? As member of the crew. 180 Is being a crew member not unnatural for a girl? Unusual, I insisted. Not unnatural. Your hair? I could not work with it long! Work? I am one of this crew. Unnatural, he said. Unusual, said I. So we have in you, Miss Doyle, the captain pressed on, an unnatural girl, dressing in unnatural ways, doing unnatural things, owning the very knife that killed Mr. Hollybrass. And Mr. Hollybrass was the man you disliked for flogging your particular black friend-- You make it seem all wrong when it isn't! I cried out. He turned to the crew. Does anyone wish to make a statement on this girl's behalf? No one spoke. Miss Doyle, he said, Do you wish to say anything? My father-- Miss Doyle, the captain cried out, when we began I offered you the opportunity of claiming the protection of your father. You refused it then! Miserable, I could only bow my head. He turned to the crew. Does anyone wish to make a statement on this girl's behalf? No one spoke. Miss Doyle, he said. Do you wish to say anything?'' Miserable, I could only shake my head. Very well. I must declare a verdict. 181 He stood. As master of the Seahawk, it is my judgment that this unnatural girl, this Charlotte Doyle, is guilty of the crime of murdering Samuel Hollybrass. For a final time he turned to the crew. Is there anyone who wishes to speak against this verdict? No one spoke. Miss Doyle, he said to me, have you anything to say on your behalf now? I did not do it! Miss Doyle, the facts have spoken otherwise. I wish to inform you that the penalty for such a crime is to be hanged by the neck from the yardarm. Within twenty-four hours you shall be hanged until you are dead. So saying, he brought down his pistol hard upon the rail. The trial was over. 182 Chapter 19 Without another word Captain Jaggery led me back to the hold and locked me in the brig. I turned from him, but I believe he stood there, considering me for a while by the gloomy light of his lamp. Then he left. I heard his retreating footfalls and the creak of the ladder, saw the light gradually fade away until the hold grew completely dark again. At last I slumped onto the stool. And though it was dark I closed my eyes. Startled by a sound I looked up. Zachariah, a candle in his hand, was standing before me. Silently, he circled the brig and pulled out the bars. I crept from my cage and we sat down close together, backs once more against a barrel, the little candle before us. I told him all that had happened. He remained silent, nodding now and again. By the time I was done I was weeping copiously. Zachariah let me sob. He waited for my last sniffle, then asked, How much time does he give you? Twenty-four hours, I murmured. Charlotte, he said softly, he'll not see it through. 183 He does what he says he'll do, I said bitterly. You said as much yourself. And he has the whole crew agreeing with his judgment. He was that careful. Punctilious, I spat out, remembering the word the captain had used to describe himself. I don't know the word. Everything in order. Aye, that's him. Zachariah rubbed the stubble around his chin. And did no one stand up for you? he asked. No one. He shook his head. It's that I don't understand. I looked up. Don't you? For the first time I felt my anger turn toward him. Why? Had they not become your friends? I have no friends. You must not say that, Charlotte. Didn't I tell you right from the beginning: you and me-- together. I shook my head at the memory. What's this? he said, trying to laugh my response away. Not friends? Zachariah, I burst out, I am going to be hanged! He made a gesture of dismissal. You won't. How can you be so sure! I won't let him. You? You'd have to show yourself. What of your plan to go to the authorities? I'll give it up. After all that's happened? Yes. I don't believe you! Charlotte, why should you say that? 184 When I kept silent he said, Come now, Charlotte, something else is preying upon your thoughts. Something bitter. You must have it out. Don't tell me what I must and must not do! I cried. That's for Jaggery. Forgive me. This old black man humbly requests you tell him what's beset your mind. Zachariah I blurted out, you haven't told me the truth. He turned to look hard at me. You must explain yourself. I retreated to the brig. He pulled himself closer, pressing his face to the bars. Charlotte! he insisted. Now I am truly begging. Tell me what you mean. Zachariah, I said, tearful again, I know who killed Mr. Hollybrass. Then why don't you speak it out so I can hear? he said sharply. I'm waiting for him to say it himself, I threw back. He sighed. There's an old seaman's saying, Miss Doyle: the Devil will tie any knot, save the hangman's noose. That Jack does for himself. Your silence is foolish. I beg of you, who do you think it is? I pressed my lips tight. Miss Doyle, he said, if you want to save your life you will tell me. I am trying to help you, but I cannot manage it without your thoughts. You have some choices, Miss Doyle. Shall I make them clear? Do you prefer to dangle from a yardarm by your neck? Or do you wish to walk free? What do you want, Miss Doyle? 185 To live. He sighed. Then speak. Mr. Zachariah, I said with increasing weariness, I already told you, I want the man to come forward himself. Most unlikely. Apparently, I said with even greater bitterness. Something in my voice must have alerted him. He scrutinized me shrewdly. Miss Doyle, why are you calling me Mister Zachariah? For the same reason you are calling me Miss Doyle. He cocked his head to one side. I could feel his gaze upon me. For a moment I had the courage to return it, but quickly glanced away. He said, Charlotte . . . you have grown suspicious of me. Am I correct? I nodded. Look at me. I did. He sighed again. Is it truly possible you think I murdered Mr. Hollybrass? After a moment I admitted, Yes. And why? Zachariah, I cried out, you were there on deck. You had every reason to want him dead. And since I'd told you, you knew where I'd left the dirk. I suppose you would have preferred to kill the captain, but thought the first mate would do. And no one would know, would they? Least of all Jaggery. I'm certain it's what the rest of the crew believes, I rushed on. And that's why they wouldn't speak for me! It's to protect you, Zachariah, just as they've done all along. I can hardly blame them! 186 I sank onto the floor, sobbing. For quite a time Zachariah didn't speak. And the longer he remained silent the more certain I was that I'd uttered the truth. Charlotte, he said at last, if you believed all that, why did you not say so before? Because you're the only one--you told me so yourself, and I believe you--the only one who can get off the Seahawk when we reach Providence and go to the authorities about Captain Jaggery! And that's why you said nothing? Yes. It does you honor, he said very quietly. I don't care about honor, I declared. I'd much rather live! But the least you could do is be honest with me. He hesitated, then said, Charlotte, you do not have it correct. I don't suppose I know everything ... Charlotte, he said with the utmost solemnity, I did not kill Mr. Hollybrass. I eyed him suspiciously. Charlotte, he continued, we shall either live by believing one another, or, by not believing, die. I want to believe you, I told him. I do. I sank back down on the stool. For a long while neither of us spoke. There seemed nothing to say. Then, in despair, I said, Zachariah, sometimes I think Jaggery has worked all this out so you and I should blame one another. But you said he doesn't know you are alive. He started. Repeat what you said. What? The last thing. 187 About his not knowing you're alive? Yes. He moved from the brig then and sat down, his mood completely changed. After a while he murmured, Charlotte! What? When I was on the deck during the storm--Jaggery saw me. His words sank in slowly. Zachariah, are you telling me that the captain knows you are alive and has done nothing! Yes. When did he see you? I demanded. As I say, during the storm. I was on deck, trying to reach the mainmast. Before or after you helped me? He thought a moment. Before. Yes, I was bent into the wind, doubled over, when I heard voices arguing. I couldn't make them out at first, then I saw Captain Jaggery and Mr. Hollybrass. It was they who were arguing. Furiously. I heard Mr. Hollybrass accuse the captain of deliberately taking the Seahawk into the storm. Jaggery was enraged. I thought he was about to strike the man. Then the first mate took himself off while the captain turned toward me. At first he didn't recognize me. Only swore ... as I did. But then-- What did he do? Nothing. Just stared in a wild sort of way. Mind, the storm was growing worse. But before he could do or say anything I headed for the foremast where I chanced to be where you needed me. Didn't you wonder when after the storm he did nothing? 188 Charlotte, you yourself told me that when I helped you on the mast you thought me a ghost, an angel perhaps. Think of Jaggery. If ever a man had guilty deeds locked in his thoughts, deeds enough to raise the dead from seven seas, he would be the one. When--after the storm--he did nothing, I decided that was exactly what he thought: that I was an apparition. His leaving me here was proof enough. How else to explain it? And therefore I was safe. I gazed at him through the bars, trying to grasp the full import of what he was saying. Zachariah ... I said slowly, trying to sort out my tumbling thoughts, during the trial he made a point of asking me what happened to you. And you answered . . . ? To make sure he didn't know, I said that you had died. But Zachariah, if he did know you to be alive, he might also guess we all knew it. And might think--exactly as I did--that you killed Mr. Holly-brass. But he wouldn't say. So as to condemn you. Only with me gone, could he turn on you. He could not do it the other way around, for fear of my going to the authorities--as I threatened to do. Do you think he knows who really killed Mr. Hollybrass? He might. But who? Zachariah grew thoughtful. To kill a hand, during such a storm, when everyone is desperately needed, takes a kind of . . . madness, he said finally. Well then, I said. Who does that leave? We looked at one another. And knew. 189 The captain, I said. It must have been he who killed Mr. Hollybrass. Charlotte, Zachariah protested, Mr. Hollybrass was Jaggery's only friend ... Yes, people would think them friends. No one would believe it could be Captain Jaggery. But you told me they had never sailed together before. And I never saw much friendship between them. Did you? No . . . You said they argued, I continued. I saw some of that too. In the storm, you even thought Captain Jaggery lifted a hand to strike him after Mr. Hollybrass made an accusation. Of deliberately sailing into the storm. Is that a serious charge? The owners would be greatly alarmed. But to kill him . . . Zachariah, he sees you. He knows you're alive. The crew, he realizes, must know it too. I'm a threat to him. So are you. And now, here's Mr. Hollybrass, another threat. But, let him murder Mr. Hollybrass and everyone will think you did the crime. But then, he accuses you, Zachariah said. And see how much he's managed!'! cried. Zachariah stared into the dark. Then slowly he said, The crew keeps silent to protect me, even as he hangs you. To which I added, And once I am gone, Zachariah, then . . . he'll deal with you. Zachariah grew thoughtful. Finally I heard him whisper, May the gods protect us . . . The excitement of our discovery ebbed. We sat in silence. In time the candle went out. 190 What, I asked ruefully, can we do about any of this? Charlotte, we must force him to confess. He's too powerful. True, you'll not get any man to confess when he holds a gun and you've got none. What do you mean? Charlotte, see what happened when we rose against him before. You've been in his quarters, haven't you? You must have seen that iron safe of his that's full of muskets. You're not likely to get into that. No one knows where he keeps the key. I reached over and plucked at his arm. Zachariah, I said, I know where he keeps it. 191 Chapter 20 I scrambled from the brig and very quickly told Zachariah what had happened when I brought the information about the round robin to Captain Jaggery, how he removed a key from behind the portrait of his daughter and with it opened up the gun safe. Zachariah grunted. I never thought to look there. Did you look? To be sure. If we could have secured that key-- and the guns--we would have taken him before. And I can promise you, it's still true. I felt a surge of excitement. Is there anyone who goes into his cabin now? I asked. I don't know, Zachariah said. But you could go. Me? You know exactly where it is, don't you? But I'm supposed to be here! Exactly. Zachariah, I cried. That would be insane. What if he caught me? He could do no worse than he intends to do. 192 I saw the gruesome logic in that. But even if I did get the key, then what? If Jaggery had no muskets, the men could be rallied again. What if the crew gets their hands on the guns? What will they do? I couldn't answer to that, he admitted. I don't want any more death, I said. Get the key to me, Charlotte. The rest will follow. The enormity of the idea frightened me. Why shouldn't you get it to begin with? I wanted to know. If it's me he catches, Charlotte, he'll be free to get rid of both of us. If it should happen that you fail, it would still leave me a chance to try and act. Try? Charlotte, it's all I can promise. I considered his reasons. Then I said, Zachariah, you told me that the crew has been coming down to bring you food. Yes. I won't do anything until you tell them that it wasn't you who killed Hollybrass. Nor me. And that we're certain it was Captain Jaggery himself. It will make it much safer for me to make the attempt. I see your point. When do they come? When they can. Zachariah, I reminded him. He's only given me twenty-four hours. Get back there then, he said, motioning to the brig and pulling himself up. I'll try to find someone. 193 I retreated into the cage. He adjusted the bars, and left a new candle within easy reach--as well as a tinder box. I heard him move away through the darkness until I lost sense of where he was. There was this about the dark: It freed me from time and space. Cut off as I was, I could retreat into thoughts about all that had happened since my arrival at Liverpool with that odd Mr. Grummage. It seemed a million years ago, yet no time at all. I couldn't help but feel some pride in what I'd accomplished. Perhaps it was Zachariah's reference to my father, but for the first time in a long while I began to think of my true home, in Providence, Rhode Island. Though I'd only the vaguest memories of the house itself (I had left it when I was six), thoughts of my mother, my father, my brother and sister, were all very strong and clear. With a start--for it is a curious fact that I had not truly considered my family for a time--I began to contemplate an accounting to them of all that had happened--if I lived. With great vividness I pictured myself relating my adventure, while they, grouped about, listened in rapt, adoring attention, astonished yet proud of me. At the mere anticipation, my heart swelled with pride. I was still basking in these dreams when I heard the sounds of someone approaching. Not knowing who it might be, I pushed myself to the back of the brig and waited. But then I heard: Charlotte! It was Zachariah's voice. Give us light, he called in a whisper. I scrambled forward, found the tinder box, and in moments had the candle lit. There was Zachariah. And with him was Keetch. 194 From the first moment I had seen Keetch--as I came aboard the Seahawk--I'd never cared for him. He was too nervous, uncertain. To see that he was the one Zachariah had brought was not the greatest comfort. Miss Doyle, Keetch said when he drew close, peering about in his agitated way, I'm pleased to see you. And I you, I made myself reply. What followed then was a strange council of war. Zachariah made it clear at the start that neither he nor I had murdered Mr. Hollybrass. But who did then? Keetch asked, truly alarmed. Captain Jaggery, I said quickly. Why . . . what do you mean? he demanded. We offered our reasons. Keetch listened intently, only occasionally looking up with startled eyes at me or Zachariah, yet nodding to it all. Murder his own mate, he murmured at the end with a shake of his head. Do you have any doubts? Zachariah asked. None about you, Keetch told him. And me? I asked. He seemed hesitant to speak. As I see it, I said, the men didn't want to help me during the trial because you thought it was Zachariah who killed Mr. Hollybrass. True enough, Keetch said. We talked about just that. I'll admit, I was one who said we owed more to Zachariah here than to you. Understand, he said, where old loyalties lie. I assured him that I did and insisted I laid no blame. 195 As you know, Keetch continued, I wasn't one of those who took to you in any partial way, not like Zachariah here. I'll confess too, I never wanted you aboard. You'll remember, I told you so when first you came. I nodded. But you've proved me wrong more than once, he concluded. So if my word means anything, you can now be sure no man will support your honor more than I. That said, he held out his hand to me. I was relieved at Keetch's acceptance. Perhaps, I thought, I'd wronged him. So then and there, he and I shook hands like old sailors. I felt a great weight drop from my soul. The news Keetch brought was crucial, that we were--by the captain's reckoning--a few days' sail from Providence. Hanging me was therefore of the utmost urgency--which explained the captain's twenty-four hours. Keetch readily agreed with Zachariah that if we could manage to keep the captain from his guns, never mind securing them for ourselves, another rising could be staged. He would vouch for that. But, he warned, he keeps those guns locked up and the key to himself. I know where he hides it, I said. He looked around in surprise. Where? I told him. And would you try to get them? Yes. Keetch whistled softly. Most times he keeps to his cabin, he said. All you need do is find some way to get him and hold him on deck, Zachariah said. 196 I'll be here and ready when you have, I put in. Once you've detained him, I can secure the key to the gun cabinet. It shouldn't take her but a moment, Keetch, Zachariah pressed. Keetch studied his hands for a long while. It might be possible. He glanced upward. What about the others? You're going to have to spread the word that it was the captain who murdered Mr. Hollybrass, not me, Zachariah told him. Not her either. Keetch nodded. They're going to want to know what happens to that key once she's got it, he said. I looked to Zachariah. She'll give it to me, he said. I'll be in top cargo, waiting for it. And when I've got it that will be the time for you and me-- he nudged Keetch with an elbow--to lead another rising. Once again we waited on Keetch. The way he fidgeted it was easy to see that he was nervous about the plan. But that was natural. I was nervous too. Finally he said, It would be the only way. Except it better not fail. Zachariah turned to me. There you are, he said. We'll do it! On all this we shook hands, and I was soon, once again, alone in darkness. It's odd perhaps, but I was not frightened. I assumed we could succeed with our plan. Oh, what a power of faith in justice had I then! A few days from Providence ... I smiled. I would return to the life I led with my family, but now in America, where, so I had been long taught to believe, greater freedom held sway. 197 I sat for the better part of an hour thinking, not of what was about to happen, but of happy days ahead. . . . I heard a sound. I started up, peering into the darkness. Zachariah, quite breathless, appeared before me, Charlotte, he called. It's time! I crawled out from the brig. Zachariah had found a small lamp, one well-hooded. This way, he whispered before I could ask him anything. We moved down the hold toward the central cargo bay and its ladder. I looked up. It was quite dark above. What time is it? I suddenly asked. Two bells into the mid watch. By shore, reckoning that meant it would be one o'clock at night! Couldn't we do it by daylight? Charlotte, you're scheduled to be hanged at dawn. My stomach rolled. My legs grew shaky. Zachariah put his hand on my arm as if he himself had caught my fear. You'll do well, he said. He closed down the lantern's hood to a mere slit and led the way up the ladder. I followed until we reached the top cargo. Once there, Zachariah signaled me toward the rear ladder. It would put me directly into the steerage before the captain's cabin. Where will the captain be? I whispered. Keetch sent word that he's got him at the helm, Zachariah explained, his voice low. He's managed to jam the wheel somehow, and called the captain for instruction. Roused him from his bed. How long will I have? 198 Take no more time than you need, was his reply. And the rest of the crew? Word on that too. They all know, and are waiting. Go on now. I'll watch for you here. I looked at him. Charlotte, it's this or the royal yard. I crept aloft and soon was standing alone in the empty steerage, listening. The steady wash of waves, the bobbing and swaying of the ship, the creak and groan of timbers, all told me the Seahawk was plowing toward home in a brisk wind. By chance the door to my old cabin was open. As it swung to and fro it banged irregularly, rusty hinges rasping. When had I heard that sound before? What came into my mind was my first night aboard the ship, when I lay upon my bed feeling so abandoned! How frightened I'd been then! How little was there then to fear! I even remembered the voices I'd heard outside my door at that time. Who had spoken? I wondered, as though to keep myself from moving forward now. What was said? Nervously, I glanced back over a shoulder through the steerage portal. While I could not see much, the soft glow that lay upon the deck told me that it must be a full or nearly full moon. I was glad of that. It meant there would be some light to see by inside the captain's cabin. Yet, inexplicably, I remained standing there, wasting precious time, listening to my old door bang and creak, trying to rid myself of the fear that lay like heavy ballast in the pit of my stomach: a notion that I had neglected to consider something about the voices I had heard that first night. 199 The suspicion became rather like an invisible rope that restrained me. Try though I might I could not find how to unbind it. A random plunge of the ship roused me to my business. Making sure the little lantern was well shielded, I moved to the door, put my hand to the handle, and pushed. It gave with ease. The room lay open before me. Dimly I could make out its fine furnishings--even the chessboard with its pieces--exactly as I recollected them from my first visit. I lifted the lantern. There, seated at the table was Captain Jaggery. His eyes were upon me. Miss Doyle, he said, how kind of you to visit. Do please step in. 200 Chapter 21 He was waiting for me. All I could do was stare at him in disbelief. Miss Doyle, the captain said. Would you be good enough to sit. He rose and held an upholstered seat out for me. As the Seahawk rolled, the door behind me slammed shut. The sudden noise startled me from my daze. You knew I was coming, I whispered, finding it impossible to raise my voice. Of course. How? There was a slight smile on his lips. Then he said, Mr. Keetch. Keetch? I echoed lamely. Exactly. Who, from the start, kept me well informed about the crew; how they kept other sailors from signing on, how they threatened passengers so they would not sail. He informed me about Cranick. About Zachariah. Yes, Miss Doyle, I know your friend is alive and has been hiding in the hold. I'm delighted that he keeps out of the way. No charge of murder shall be put to me, shall it? 201 More to the point I know about what you are doing in my cabin now. It is the business of a ship's master, Miss Doyle, to know his ship and his crew. To keep everything in order. I told you that before. Apparently it still surprises. I stood unmoving. Won't you sit? he asked. What do you mean to do with me? I asked. You've had your trial. Was it not fair? I did not kill Mr. Hollybrass. Was the trial fair, Miss Doyle? It was you who killed him, I burst out. He remained silent for a long while. Then at last, he said, Do you know why I despise you, Miss Doyle? It was said evenly, without emotion. Do you? No, I admitted. The world of a ship, Miss Doyle, is a world not without quarrels, he began, sometimes bitter quarrels. But it is, Miss Doyle, a world that does work according to its own order. Now when a voyage commences, all understand the rightful balance between commander and commanded. I can deal with the sailors, and they with me. I need them to run the Seahawk. Just as they need me to command her. So we live by a rough understanding, they and I. When this voyage began I had high hopes you would help me keep the crew in order with your ladylike ways. But you, Miss Doyle, you interfered with that order. You presumed to meddle where you had no right. Look at the way you acted! The way you've dressed! It doesn't matter that you are different, Miss Doyle. Don't flatter yourself. 202 The difficulty is that your difference encourages them to question their places. And mine. The order of things. Miss Doyle, you ask me what I intend to do. I intend to-- You killed Hollybrass, didn't you? I now demanded. I did. Why? He threatened me, the captain said with a shake of his head. And in the midst of that storm. It was intolerable. And then you decided to put the blame on me, I pressed. To keep me from going to the authorities and telling them the truth about you. Who shall be blamed for this disastrous voyage? he asked. It cannot be me, can it? No, it must be someone from the outside. The unnatural one. To preserve order, Miss Doyle, sacrifices must always be made. You. Am I a sacrifice? I demanded. In all honesty, I wished you had broken your own neck falling from the rigging or on the bowsprit. You did not. As it stands we should reach Providence in a few days. It is crucial that when we make landfall I be firmly established as master. Mr. Hollybrass had to die. No one could possibly believe I would do such a thing. So, yes, since you are unnatural--proclaimed so, I hasten to remind you, by all--you shall be held responsible. Thus is our world set right again. I still hadn't moved. Ignoring me now, he proceeded to light some candles. A soft yellow glow filled the room. Look, he said. 203 Puzzled, I gazed about the cabin. I saw now what I had not seen before in the light of the moon. In the candlelight I could see that much of the furniture was cracked. Many legs had splints. Upholstery was water stained. Frames on the walls hung crookedly. Some had pictures missing. Maps and papers on the table were wrinkled or sadly torn. The tea service on the table was dented and tarnished, but arranged and presented as whole. The chess pieces were, I now realized, no more than salt and pepper shakers, broken cups, bent candlesticks. I looked at him again. He was gazing at me as if nothing had happened. It was the storm that destroyed much of it, he said. I have spent considerable time in setting the room to rights. Have I not done well? Order, Miss Doyle, order is all. Take away the light and . . .He leaned over and blew the candles out. You see--it's hard to notice the difference. Everything appears in order. You're . . . mad, I said, finally able to respond to the man. On the contrary, Miss Doyle, I am the soul of reason. And to prove my reasonableness I'm going to give you some choices. You came to my cabin, Miss Doyle, to steal the key to the guns. Is that not so? I didn't know what to say. You don't have to admit to it. I know it's so. Mr. Keetch has informed me about everything. Even as he spoke he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a key. Here is the key you wanted, he said, tossing it so that it landed by my feet. 204 Take it up, Miss Doyle, he said. Go to the cabinet. Take out any one of the muskets. All are loaded. I will sit here. You may carry out the plan you and Zachariah concocted. You must know that I will be murdered. But Miss Doyle, do not doubt for an instant that the world will learn your part in this. Do you think these sailors will keep quiet? No. Open that cabinet and you let out scandal. Horror. Ruination. Not just you. Your family. Your father. His firm. So before you do that, consider another choice. He walked to the far corner of his cabin and picked up what looked like a bundle of clothing. He dumped it at my feet. I saw by the light of my lantern that it was the garments I had set aside weeks ago--a lifetime ago, it seemed---for my disembarkation. White dress. Stockings. Shoes. Gloves. Bonnet. All in perfect order. Put these back on, Miss Doyle, he said. Resume your place and station. Publicly renounce your ways, beg me for mercy before the crew, and I--you have my word--I will grant it. All will be restored to its proper balance. Like my cabin furnishings. A little dented and torn perhaps, but in the diminished light no one need know. All reputations saved. Of course, there is a third choice. You had your trial. A verdict was reached. You could accept that verdict and be hanged. I'll even invent a story for your family. Some . . . sickness. An accident. The hurricane. So yes, the hanging is one of your choices. Now what shall it be? He clasped his hands, sat again in his chair and waited. Out on the deck three bells rang. What if I don't accept any of them? 205 He hesitated. Miss Doyle, I thought I made it clear. There are no other choices. You're wrong, I said. And so saying, I turned and rushed out of his cabin, along the steerage and into the waist of the ship. There was, as I had guessed, a full moon. It sat high in a sky of darkest blue, amidst shadowy scudding clouds. The sails on the forward mast were full, and fluttered with the tension of the wind. The sea hissed about the bow as the Seahawk rushed ahead. In a line upon the forecastle deck the crew had gathered and were looking down at me. When I turned to look at the quarterdeck I saw Keetch there, not far from the splintered stump of the mainmast. Near him was Zachariah, his hands bound before him. It took but a moment for me to realize that our entire conspiracy had been overthrown and turned against us. I stepped forward. Behind me I heard Captain Jaggery at his door. I took a quick look; he had a pistol in his hand. As he emerged I moved hastily across the deck. For a moment all stood still as if each were waiting for the other to move first. It was Captain Jaggery who broke the silence. There stands your shipmate, he proclaimed shrilly to the crew. She crept into my cabin and would have murdered me in ray sleep if I'd not awakened and managed to wrest away this pistol. Not enough to have murdered Mr. Hollybrass! She would have murdered me. I tell you, she would murder you all! 206 It was Zachariah there, the captain continued to rant, hiding, pretending injury to keep from work, who let her out and set her on this murderous plot. She had her trial. She had her verdict, to which you all agreed. Only just now I gave her yet another way to release herself from the punishment of hanging. I begged her to put on her proper dress, and told her I would find the heart to forgive. This she refused. He's lying! I called out. He's trying to save himself. He's the one who killed Hollybrass. He's admitted it. She's the one who lies! the captain cried, pointing his pistol now at me, now toward the crew, which made them visibly flinch. The truth is she wants to take over the ship. Yes, she does. Would you stand for that? Do you wish to put into port and have this girl spread the slander that she, a girl, took command of this ship, took over each and every one of you and told you what to do? A girl! Would you ever be able to hold your heads up in any port in any part of the world? Think of the shame of that! I had begun to edge toward the steps to the forecastle deck, thinking the men there would stand behind me. But as I approached none moved forward. I stopped. You mustn't believe him! I begged them. Don't be afraid of her, Captain Jaggery cried. Look at her. She's nothing but an unnatural girl, a girl trying to act like a man. Trying to be a man. She can only harm you by living. Let her have her punishment. I started up the forecastle steps. The men began to back away. Horrified, I paused. I sought out Barlow. 207 Ewing. Grimes. Fisk. Each in turn seemed to shrink from my look. I turned back. Captain Jaggery fingered the pistol in his hand. Take her! he commanded. But that far they would not go. And the captain who saw this as soon as I now began to advance toward me himself. I backed away from him until I was atop the forecastle deck. The line of crew had split, some to either side. Help me! I appealed to them again. But though they were deaf to Captain Jaggery they were equally deaf to me. The captain, in careful pursuit, now slowly mounted the steps to the forecastle. I retreated into the bow, past the capstan, on a line with the cathead. He kept coming. Against the moon, he seemed to be a faceless shadow, a shadow broken only by the dagger like glitter of the pistol that caught the light of the moon. My heart hammered so I could hardly breathe. I looked for a way to escape but found none. The bow seemed to dance under my feet. Frantically I looked behind me; there was little space now between me and the sea. Still the captain closed in. I scrambled back high into the fore-peak. He stopped, braced his legs wide, extended his arm and pistol. I could see his hand tighten. The bow plunged. The deck bucked. He fired all the same. The shot went wide and in a rage he flung the pistol at me. I stumbled backward, tripped. He made a lunge at me, but I, reacting with more panic than reason, scrambled down onto the bowsprit itself, grabbing at the back rope to keep from falling. 208 Clinging desperately to the rope--for the ship plunged madly again--I kept edging further out on the bowsprit, all the while looking back at Captain Jaggery. In the next moment he scrambled after me. I pushed past the trembling sails. Below, the sea rose and fell. Vaguely, I sensed that the crew had rushed forward to watch what was happening. There was no more back rope to hold to. And the captain continued to inch forward, intent on pushing me off. There were only a few feet between us. With a snarl he lunged at me with both hands. Even as he did the Seahawk plunged. In that instant Captain Jaggery lost his footing. His arms flew wide. But he was teetering off balance and began to fall. One hand reached desperately out to me. With an instinctive gesture I jumped toward him. For a brief moment our fingers linked and held. Then the ship plunged again and he tumbled into the waves. The ship seemed to rear up. For one brief interval Captain Jaggery rose from the sea, his arm gripped in the foaming beak of the figurehead. Then, as if tossing him off, the Seahawk leaped, and Captain Jaggery dropped into the roaring foam and passed beneath the ship, not to be seen again. Weak, trembling, soaking wet, I made my way back along the bowsprit until I could climb into the forepeak. The crew parted before me, no one saying a word. I stopped and turned, Give me a knife, I said. Grimes took one from his pocket. I hurried across the deck to where Zachariah still stood. Keetch had fled his side. I cut the rope that bound Zachariah and then embraced him as he did me. 209 Finally he walked to the quarterdeck rail. As if summoned, the crew gathered below. Shipmates, Zachariah cried. It's needful that we have a captain. Not Keetch, for he was an informer and should be in the brig. But Miss Doyle here has done what we could not do. Let her be captain now. 210 Chapter 22 Captain in name perhaps, but not in practice. I was too aware of all I had yet to learn for that. Besides, as Zachariah would acknowledge later, the fact that I was the daughter of an officer in the company that owned the Seahawk was no small factor in my formal elevation. It would preserve the niceties. But, though I was entered into the log as captain-- I wrote it there myself-- it was Zachariah who took true command. I insisted, and no one objected. The crew chose their mates--Fisk and Barlow--and assembled themselves into two watches, and managed well enough. Johnson was more than happy to return to the forecastle. Regarding Captain Jaggery, the log read simply. At the crew's urging I wrote that our noble captain had kept his post at the wheel during the hurricane, only to be swept away in the storm's final hour. Mr. Hollybrass was afforded the same heroic death. I have been skeptical of accounts of deceased heroes ever since. Though Fisk and Barlow insisted I move into the captain's quarters, I continued to work watch and watch as before. 211 In between I wrote furiously in my journal, wishing to set down everything. It was as if only by reliving the events in my own words could I believe what had happened. Within twenty-four hours of Captain Jaggery's death, Morgan threw the line, pulled up a plug of black sand, tasted of it, and announced, Block Island. We would reach Providence--assuming the wind held--in no more than forty-eight hours. Indeed, twelve hours later, the mainland was sighted, a thin undulating ribbon of green-gray between sea and sky. There was much rejoicing among the crew about this and their grand expectations once they were ashore. As for me, I found myself suddenly plunged into instant, and to me, inexplicable melancholia. What ails our Captain Doyle? Zachariah asked, using the term he had taken to teasing me with. He'd discovered me up at the fore-peak, morosely watching the sea and the coast toward which we were drawing ever closer. I shook my head. It's not many a lass, he reminded me, who boards a ship as passenger and eases into port as captain. Zachariah, I said, what shall become of me? Why, now, I shouldn't worry. You've told me your family is wealthy. A good life awaits you. And Charlotte, you've gained the firm friendship of many a jack here, not to speak of memories the young rarely have. It has been a voyage to remember. Where is your home? I asked suddenly. The east coast of Africa. Were you ever a slave? 212 Not I, he said proudly. And did you want to become a sailor? That question he didn't answer right away. But when he did, he spoke in a less jovial tone. I ran away from home, he said. Why? I was young. The world was big. My home was small. Did you ever go back? He shook his head. Never longed to? Oh yes, often. But I didn't know if I would be welcome. Or what I would find. Do you remember, Charlotte, what I first told you when you came aboard? That you, a girl, and I, an old black man, were unique to the sea? Yes. The greater fact is, he said, I am unique everywhere. And I? Who can say now? he answered. I can only tell you this, Charlotte. A sailor chooses the wind that takes the ship from a safe port. Ah, yes, but once you're abroad, as you have seen, winds have a mind of their own. Be careful, Charlotte, careful of the wind you choose. Zachariah, I asked, won't anyone--in Providence--ask what happened? The thing we'll do, he replied, is remind the owners that we managed to bring the Seahawk into port with their cargo intact. True, we lost captain and first mate, but they died, don't you see, doing their duty. Won't Keetch talk? 213 Too grateful that we spared his life. Beside, Jaggery had some hold on him. Blackmail. So Keetch is free of that too. Cranick? Never on board. I promise you Charlotte, he concluded, the owners will be sorrowful for all the loss, but their tears won't be water enough to float a hat. Almost two months after we left Liverpool, we entered Narraganset Bay and slowly beat our way up to Providence. And on the morning of August 17, 1832, we warped into the India docks. When I realized that we were going to dock I went to my cabin and excitedly dressed myself in the clothes I had kept for the occasion: bonnet over my mangled hair. Full if somewhat ragged skirts. Shoes rather less than intact. Gloves more gray than white. To my surprise I felt so much pinched and confined I found it difficult to breathe. I glanced at my trunk where I had secreted my sailor's garb as a tattered memento. For a moment I considered changing back to that, but quickly reminded myself that it must-- from then on--remain a memento. As the ropes secured us, I looked upon the dock and--with a beating heart--saw my family among the waiting throng. There were my father and mother, brother and sister, all searching up for me. They were as I remembered them, prim, overdressed despite the dreadful summer heat. My mother was in a full skirt the color of dark green with a maroon shawl about her shoulders and a bonnet covering most of her severely parted hair. My father, the very image of a man of property, was frock-coated, vested, top- hatted, his muttonchops a gray bristle. 214 My brother and sister were but little miniatures of them. Truly, I was glad to see them. And yet, I found that I struggled to hold back tears. Farewells to the crew were all too brief, carefully restrained. The real good-byes had been spoken the night before. Tears from Barlow, a gruff hug from Fisk, kisses to my cheeks from Ewing--You're my mermaid now, lass, he whispered--an offer (with a sly grin) of a splicing knife from Grimes--refused--a round of ram toasted by Foley, topped out with three Huzzahs! from all. Then came the final midnight watch with Zachariah--during which time he held my hand and I, unable to speak, struggled to keep my tumbling emotions within. Now I marched down the gangway into the careful embrace of both my parents. Even my brother, Albert, and sister, Evelina, offered little more than sigh like kisses that barely breathed upon my face. We settled into the family carriage. Why is Charlotte's dress so tattered? Evelina asked. It was a difficult voyage, dearest, my mother answered for me. And her gloves are so dirty, Albert chimed in. Albert! Papa reproved him. But then, after we'd gone on apace in silence, my mother said, Charlotte, your face is so very brown. The sun was hot, Mama. I would have thought you'd stay in your cabin, she chided, reading edifying tracts. Only the clip-clop of the horses could be heard. I looked past the brim of my bonnet. 215 I found my father's eyes hard upon me as if plumbing secrets. I cast down my eyes. A difficult voyage, my dear? he asked at last. You were dismasted. There was a terrible storm, Papa, I said, appealing to him with my eyes. Even Fisk ... the sailors called it one of the worst they'd ever experienced. We lost the captain. And the first mate. God in his mercy ... I heard Mama whisper. Well, yes, I'm sure, my father offered. But one must be careful about the words we choose, Charlotte. It's well-known that sailors have an unhealthy tendency toward exaggeration. I look forward to reading a more sober account in your journal. You did keep it as you were bidden, did you not? Yes, Papa. My heart sank. I had completely forgotten he would want to see what I'd written. I'm greatly desirous of reading it. He wagged a finger at me playfully. But mind, I shall be on the lookout for spelling mistakes! Then, thank heavens, Albert and Evelina insisted upon telling me about our fine house on Benevolent Street. It was bigger than I remembered. Great columns graced the doorway. Huge draped windows-- like owl eyes--faced the street. Its full two stories put me in mind of an English fortress. Then we were safely inside, standing in the large foyer before the grand stairway. It seemed immense to me. And dark. Cut off--after so many days-- from sun and air. With my father looking on, Mama gently removed my bonnet. When she saw my mangled hair, she gasped. 216 Charlotte, she whispered. What happened? Lice, I heard myself saying. One of the few explanations I'd rehearsed. She gasped again and before I could restrain her, took up my hands in pity. Poor girl, she whispered. Such awfulness. Even as she stood there, holding my hands, a strange look passed across her face. Slowly she turned my hands over, gazed at the palms, then touched them with her fingertips. And your hands? she asked in horror. They are so . . . hard. I ... I had to do my own washing, Mama. Dear Charlotte, I am so frightfully sorry. Mother, Papa suddenly said, perhaps we should move on to our breakfast together. He offered me his arm. I took it gratefully. We walked into the dining room. The table was laid with white cloth, fine china-plate and silver. Breaking from father I started to sit. Let your mother sit first, my dear, I heard him murmur. As we began to eat, my father said, Am I to understand, Charlotte, as the shipping agent informed me, that those other families, the ones who had promised to be with you during the voyage, never fulfilled their pledge. No, Papa, I answered. They never came to the ship. How dreadfully lonely for you, my mother said, shaking her head sadly. Two months with no one to talk to! Evelina exclaimed. Of course I talked, silly. 217 But--to whom? Albert asked in puzzlement. The men. The sailors. The men, Charlotte? my mother said with a frown. Well, you see . . . You mean the captain, do you not Charlotte? my father suggested. Oh, no, not just him, Papa. You see, a ship is so small ... Suddenly my father interjected, We seem to be lacking butter. I'll get it! I said, pushing back my chair. Charlotte, sit! my father barked. He turned to the maid who was waiting nearby. Mary, butter. The maid curtsied and went out. When I turned back around I found my sister staring at me. What is it? I asked. I just thought of what you look like! Evelina said. What? She wrinkled her nose. An Indian! Albert laughed. Children! my father cried. With much effort Albert and Evelina sat still. Charlotte, I heard my mother ask, how did you pass your time? Mama, you have no idea how much work there is on . . . My father abruptly took out his watch. It's much later than I thought, he said. Evelina and Albert have their lesson in the nursery. Miss Van Rogoff, their tutor, will be waiting. Children. 218 Now struggling to suppress their giggles, Albert and Evelina rose from their seats. You may go now, my father said to them. Once they had gone, the room became very quiet. My mother was looking at me as if I were a stranger. My father's gaze was his most severe. The sailors were very kind to me, I offered. I could hardly be expected ... You must be fatigued, he cut in. I think some rest would do you some good. I'm very awake Papa. I mean, I've grown used to very little sleep, and ... Charlotte, he insisted, you are tired and wish to go to your room. But-- Charlotte, you mustn't contradict your father, my mother whispered. I rose from my seat. I don't know where my room is, I said. Mary, my father called. Ask Bridget to come in. Mary appeared in a moment with another maid, a girl not very much older than I. Bridget, my father said, take Miss Charlotte to her room. Help her with her bathing and change of clothes. Yes, sir. Bridget led the way. My room was on the right side of the house on the second floor. Its windows faced the rear garden where a trellis of roses were in radiant bloom. I stood at the windows, gazing down on the earth and flowers and told myself again and again, This is home. This is home. I heard a sound behind me. 219 A man--yet another servant, I assumed--brought in my trunk and opened it. Then he left. I went back to staring out the window. If you please, miss, I heard Bridget say, your father said I was to bathe and dress you. Bridget, my name is not miss. It's Charlotte. I'll not be wanting to take the liberty, miss. I turned to face her. Even if I want you to? I don't think the master would approve, miss. But if/ asked you . . . Not wishing to be impertinent, miss, Bridget said in a barely audible voice, but it's master who pays my wages. I looked into her eyes. Bridget looked down. I felt a pain gather about my heart. There was a soft knock on the door. Shall I answer it, miss? Bridget whispered. Yes, please, I said with great weariness. Bridget opened the door to the other maid, Mary. Mary entered and curtsied. Miss, she said to me, master asks that Bridget take and destroy all your old clothing, miss. He also requests that I bring your journal down to him, miss. I looked at the two of them, the timidity of their postures, the unwillingness to engage me with then-eyes. Mary, I said. That is your name, isn't it? Yes, miss. Would you call me Charlotte if I asked you to? Be my friend? Mary stole a nervous glance at Bridget. Would you? I shouldn't think so, miss. But . . . why? I pleaded. 220 Master wouldn't have it, miss. I should be dismissed. I could not reply. Then, after a moment Mary said, I'll be happy to take the journal down now, miss. Shall I fetch it, miss? Bridget asked me. I went to the trunk, found the book, and gave it to Mary. She curtsied and without another word-- and still avoiding my look--stepped soundlessly from the room, shutting the door behind her. I went back to the window. Shall I assume that all the clothes in the trunk, miss, are old? Bridget asked finally. What will happen to them? Give them to the poor, I should think, miss. Mistress is very kind that way. There is one thing I must preserve, I had the wits to tell her. Hurriedly I removed my sailor's clothing. Are those to be kept, miss? Bridget asked in puzzlement. I wish to show them to my parents, I lied. Very good, miss. My trunk was unpacked. I bathed. How strange that was! The filth fairly floated off. I dressed, helped--or rather interfered with despite my protestations--by Bridget. But instead of going downstairs I dismissed her, then sat on my bed, marveling at its softness. In truth, I was trying to compose myself. I was afraid to go downstairs. A call, I knew, would come soon enough. But, as I sat there a memory came of my first moments upon the Seahawk. How alone I felt then. How alone I was now! Oh, Zachariah, I whispered to myself. 221 Where are you? Why don't you come for me! It was my father's call that came--but not before two hours had passed. Mary returned with a request that I go directly to the parlor. With a madly beating heart I started down the broad, carpeted stairs, my hand caressing the highly polished balustrade. Before the massive doors to the room I paused and drew breath. Then I knocked. Come in, I heard my father say. I entered. My mother was seated in a chair; my father was by her side, standing with his legs slightly apart, as if bracing himself. A hand gripped one of his jacket lapels. The other hand rested protectively on Mama's shoulder. She stared down at the carpet. Charlotte, my father said, please shut the door behind you. I did so. Now come stand before us. Yes, Papa. I advanced to the place indicated by my father's pointed finger. Only then did I notice that the room--even for an August midday--was uncommonly warm. I glanced toward the fireplace and was startled to see a blaze there. It took me another moment to realize that my journal was being consumed by flames. I made a move toward it. Stop! my father cried. Let it bum. But . . . To ash! I turned to them in disbelief. Charlotte, my father began, I have read your journal carefully. I have read some of it--not all-- to your mother. 222 I could say any number of things, but in fact will say only a few. When I have done we shall not speak of any of this again. Is that understood? But . . . Is it understood, Charlotte! Yes, Papa. When I sent you to the Barrington School for Better Girls, I had been, I believed, reliably informed that it would provide you with an education consistent with your station in life, to say nothing of your expectations and ours for you. I was deceived. Somehow your teachers there filled your mind with the unfortunate capacity to invent the most outlandish, not to say unnatural tales. Papa! I tried to cut in. Silence/ he roared. I closed my mouth. What you have written is rubbish of the worst taste. Stuff for penny dreadfuls! Beneath contempt. Justice, Charlotte, is poorly served when you speak ill of your betters such as poor Captain Jaggery. More to the point, Charlotte, your spelling is an absolute disgrace. Never have I seen such abominations. And the grammar ... It is beyond belief. An American tutor, miss, shall instill a little order in your mind. But the spelling, Charlotte, the spelling ... Papa . . . That is all we have to say on the subject, Charlotte. All we shall ever say! You may return to your room and you will wait there until you are summoned again. I turned to go. Charlotte! 223 I stopped but did not turn. You are forbidden---forbidden--to talk about your voyage to your brother and sister. My wait to be called was a long one. The simple truth is I was not allowed to leave my room. All meals were brought by Mary on a tray. I was permitted no callers, not even Albert or Evelina. She's seriously ill, people were told. And no matter how much I tried, Bridget, the one person I saw with any regularity, would not yield to my efforts of friendship. From my mother I received little comfort but many tears. From my father, a vast quantity of books that he deemed suitable for my reclamation. Not a word, not a question, to console me. But I did not read. Instead I used the books, the blank pages, the margins, even the mostly empty title pages, to set down secretly what had happened during the voyage. It was my way of fixing ail the details in my mind forever. One week had passed in this fashion when I thought to ask Bridget for a newspaper. I'll have to request it of master, she replied. Bridget, I told her, for every day you bring a newspaper without informing my father I shall give you a gift. Bridget gazed at me. After a momentary search of my vanity table I selected a pearl-headed hairpin and held it up. Like this, I said. She complied with my request. Within a week I found what I was searching for under the listing of Departures for Europe. 224 Brig Seahawk, to sail on September the ninth, by the morning's tide. Captain Roderick Fisk, master. For the next few days I made such a show of concentrating hard on my books that I was finally permitted to have my evening meals with the family downstairs. On September the eighth--surely one of the longest days I can remember--I informed everyone at the table that I wished to be excused to continue the reading that was so occupying me. What are you studying, my dear? my mother asked nervously. Dr. Dillard's essay on patience, Mama. How very gratifying, she said. Later that evening I was informed that my father wished me to come to his study. I went down and knocked on his door. Enter! he called. He was sitting in his reading chair, an open book before him. He looked up, closed his book, and drew me forward with a gentle gesture of his hand. You are making progress, Charlotte, he said. I wish to commend you. I do. Thank you, Papa. You are young, Charlotte, he told me. The young are capable of absorbing many shocks and still maintaining an . . . He searched for the proper words. An orderly life? I offered. He smiled the first smile I had seen in a long while. Yes, exactly, Charlotte. Orderly. 225 You give me much hope. You and I now understand each other perfectly. Good night, my dear girl. Good night. He took up his book again. Good night, Papa. I bathed. I let Bridget supervise my going to bed. By two o'clock in the morning all was perfectly still. I slipped out of bed and from the bottom drawer of my bureau took from beneath my paper-layered frocks the sailor's clothes that Zachariah had made me. I changed into them. I opened the window to my room. It was child's play for me to climb down the trellis. I almost laughed! Within half an hour I was on the India docks, standing before the Seahawk, dark except for a lantern fore and aft. A new mainmast had been stepped. As I watched from the shadow of some bales of goods, I saw someone on watch, pacing the quarterdeck. At one point he proceeded to the bell and rang out the time, four bells. Each clang sent shivers up and down my spine. Boldly now, I walked up the gangplank. Who is that? came a challenge. I said nothing. Who is that? came the demand again. Now I was certain of the voice. Zachariah? I called, my voice choked. Charlotte! I've decided to come home. By morning's tide--and a southwest wind--the Seahawk sailed away. As it did I was clinging to the topgallant spar below a billowing royal yard. Something 226 Zachariah told me filled my mind and excited my heart: A sailor, he said, chooses the wind that takes the ship from safe port . . . but winds have a mind of their own. 227 Appendix 228 229 230 Ship's Time On sailing ships crews were divided into teams so as to share all work. These teams were, called watches. On the Seahawk, Mr. Hollybrass had the command of one watch, Mr. Keetch--then Mr. Johnson, as second mate--took charge of the second. The day was broken up into time periods--also called watches--as follows: Midwatch ran from midnight to 4:00 AM; morning watch ran from 4:00 AM to 8:00 AM; forenoon watch ran from 8:00 AM to 12:00 noon; afternoon watch ran from 12:00 noon to 4:00 PM; first dog watch ran from 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM; second dog watch ran from 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM; night watch ran from 8:00 pm to midnight. A typical day would have a sailor working alternate watches, a system called watch and watch, in this fashion: 231 Off during midwatch: midnight to 4:00 AM; work morning watch: 4:00 AM To 8:00 AM; off forenoon watch 8:00 AM to 12:00 noon; work afternoon watch: 12:00 noon to 4:00 PM; off first dog watch: 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM; work second dog watch: 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM; off night watch: from 8:00 PM to midnight. This meant that on the following day the sailor's schedule would be: Work during midwatch: midnight to 4:00 AM; off morning watch: 4:00 AM to 8:00 am; work forenoon watch: 8:00 AM to 12:00 noon; off afternoon watch: 12:00 noon to 4:00 PM; work first dog watch: 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM; off second dog watch: 6:00 PM to 8:00 PM; work night watch: 8:00 pm to midnight. And so on. . . This pattern of watch and watch meant that no sailor ever had more than four hours sleep at a time. Of course if there was need, such as a general resetting or overhaul of the sails--or a storm- -all hands could be called, and they would report even if it was not their watch. To keep track of time, the mates rang the ship's bell every half hour. They did it this way: 1 bell meant the first half hour after the watch began; 2 bells meant the second half hour; 3 bells meant the third half hour; 4 bells meant the fourth half hour; 5 bells meant the fifth half hour; 6 bells meant the sixth half hour; 7 bells meant the seventh half hour; 232 8 bells meant the eighth half hour and the end of the watch. For example, if two bells rang out during the first dog watch, it would be, by land reckoning, 5:00 PM.

The Wide Window

A Series of Unfortunate Events 3- The Wide Window ASeriesofUnfortunateEvents A Series of Unfortunate Events Book the Third The Wide Window Lemony Snicket For BeatriceI would much prefer it if you were alive and well. C H A P T E R One If you didn’t know much about the Baudelaire orphans, and you saw them sitting on their suitcases at Damocles Dock, you might think that they were bound for an exciting adventure. After all, the three children had just disembarked from the Fickle Ferry, which had driven them across Lake Lachrymose to live with their Aunt Josephine, and in most cases such a situation would lead to thrillingly good times. But of course you would be dead wrong. For although Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire were about to experience events that would be both exciting and memorable, they would not be exciting and memorable like having your fortune told or going to a rodeo. Their adventure would be exciting and memorable like being chased by a werewolf through a field of thorny bushes at midnight with nobody around to help you. If you are interested in reading a story filled with thrillingly good times, I am sorry to inform you that you are most certainly reading the wrong book, because the Baudelaires experience very few good times over the course of their gloomy and miserable lives. It is a terrible thing, their misfortune, so terrible that I can scarcely bring myself to write about it. So if you do not want to read a story of tragedy and sadness, this is your very last chance to put this book down, because the misery of the Baudelaire orphans begins in the very next paragraph. “Look what I have for you,” Mr. Poe said, grinning from ear to ear and holding out a small paper bag. “Peppermints!” Mr. Poe was a banker who had been placed in charge of handling the affairs of the Baudelaire orphans after their parents died. Mr. Poe was kindhearted, but it is not enough in this world to be kindhearted, particularly if you are responsible for keeping children out of danger. Mr. Poe had known the three children since they were born, and could never remember that they were allergic to peppermints. “Thank you, Mr. Poe,” Violet said, and took the paper bag and peered inside. Like most fourteen-year-olds, Violet was too well mannered to mention that if she ate a peppermint she would break out in hives, a phrase which here means “be covered in red, itchy rashes for a few hours.” Besides, she was too occupied with inventing thoughts to pay much attention to Mr. Poe. Anyone who knew Violet would know that when her hair was tied up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes, the way it was now, her thoughts were filled with wheels, gears, levers, and other necessary things for inventions. At this particular moment she was thinking of how she could improve the engine of the Fickle Ferry so it wouldn’t belch smoke into the gray sky. “That’s very kind of you,” said Klaus, the middle Baudelaire child, smiling at Mr. Poe and thinking that if he had even one lick of a peppermint, his tongue would swell up and he would scarcely be able to speak. Klaus took his glasses off and wished that Mr. Poe had bought him a book or a newspaper instead. Klaus was a voracious reader, and when he had learned about his allergy at a birthday party when he was eight, he had immediately read all his parents’ books about allergies. Even four years later he could recite the chemical formulas that caused his tongue to swell up. “Toi!” Sunny shrieked. The youngest Baudelaire was only an infant, and like many infants, she spoke mostly in words that were tricky to understand. By “Toi!” she probably meant “I have never eaten a peppermint because I suspect that I, like my siblings, am allergic to them,” but it was hard to tell. She may also have meant “I wish I could bite a peppermint, because I like to bite things with my four sharp teeth, but I don’t want to risk an allergic reaction.” “You can eat them on your cab ride to Mrs. Anwhistle’s house,” Mr. Poe said, coughing into his white handkerchief. Mr. Poe always seemed to have a cold and the Baudelaire orphans were accustomed to receiving information from him between bouts of hacking and wheezing. “She apologizes for not meeting you at the dock, but she says she’s frightened of it.” “Why would she be frightened of a dock?” Klaus asked, looking around at the wooden piers and sailboats. “She’s frightened of anything to do with Lake Lachrymose ,” Mr. Poe said, “but she didn’t say why. Perhaps it has to do with her husband’s death. Your Aunt Josephine-she’s not really your aunt, of course; she’s your second cousin’s sister-in-law, but asked that you call her Aunt Josephine-your Aunt Josephine lost her husband recently, and it may be possible that he drowned or died in a boat accident. It didn’t seem polite to ask how she became a dowager. Well, let’s put you in a taxi.” “What does that word mean?” Violet asked. Mr. Poe looked at Violet and raised his eyebrows. “I’m surprised at you, Violet,” he said. “A girl of your age should know that a taxi is a car which will drive you someplace for a fee. Now, let’s gather your luggage and walk to the curb.” “‘Dowager,’” Klaus whispered to Violet, “is a fancy word for ‘widow.’” “Thank you,” she whispered back, picking up her suitcase in one hand and Sunny in the other. Mr. Poe was waving his handkerchief in the air to signal a taxi to stop, and in no time at all the cabdriver piled all of the Baudelaire suitcases into the trunk and Mr. Poe piled the Baudelaire children into the back seat. “I will say good-bye to you here,” Mr. Poe said. “The banking day has already begun, and I’m afraid if I go with you out to Aunt Josephine’s I will never get anything done. Please give her my best wishes, and tell her that I will keep in touch regularly.” Mr. Poe paused for a moment to cough into his handkerchief before continuing. “Now, your Aunt Josephine is a bit nervous about having three children in her house, but I assured her that you three were very well behaved. Make sure you mind your manners, and, as always, you can call or fax me at the bank if there’s any sort of problem. Although I don’t imagine anything will go wrong this time.” When Mr. Poe said “this time,” he looked at the children meaningfully as if it were their fault that poor Uncle Monty was dead. But the Baudelaires were too nervous about meeting their new caretaker to say anything more to Mr. Poe except “So long.” “So long,” Violet said, putting the bag of peppermints in her pocket. “So long,” Klaus said, taking one last look at Damocles Dock. “Frul!” Sunny shrieked, chewing on her seat belt buckle. “So long,” Mr. Poe replied, “and good luck to you. I will think of the Baudelaires as often as I can.” Mr. Poe gave some money to the taxi driver and waved good-bye to the three children as the cab pulled away from the dock and onto a gray, cobblestoned street. There was a small grocery store with barrels of limes and beets out front. There was a clothing store called Look! It Fits!, which appeared to be undergoing renovations. There was a terriblelooking restaurant called the Anxious Clown, with neon lights and balloons in the window. But mostly, there were many stores and shops that were all closed up, with boards or metal gratings over the windows and doors. “The town doesn’t seem very crowded,” Klaus remarked. “I was hoping we might make some new friends here.” “It’s the off-season,” the cabdriver said. He was a skinny man with a skinny cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and as he talked to the children he looked at them through the rear-view mirror. “The town of Lake Lachrymose is a resort, and when the nice weather comes it’s as crowded as can be. But around now, things here are as dead as the cat I ran over this morning. To make new friends, you’ll have to wait until the weather gets a little better. Speaking of which, Hurricane Herman is expected to arrive in town in a week or so. You better make sure you have enough food up there in the house.” “A hurricane on a lake?” Klaus asked. “I thought hurricanes only occurred near the ocean.” “A body of water as big as Lake Lachrymose ,” the driver said, “can have anything occur on it. To tell you the truth, I’d be a little nervous about living on top of this hill. Once the storm hits, it’ll be very difficult to drive all the way down into town.” Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked out the window and saw what the driver meant by “all the way down.” The taxi had turned one last corner and arrived at the scraggly top of a tall, tall hill, and the children could see the town far, far below them, the cobblestone road curling around the buildings like a tiny gray snake, and the small square of Damocles Dock with specks of people bustling around it. And out beyond the dock was the inky blob of Lake Lachrymose , huge and dark as if a monster were standing over the three orphans, casting a giant shadow below them. For a few moments the children stared into the lake as if hypnotized by this enormous stain on the landscape. “The lake is so enormous,” Klaus said, “and it looks so deep. I can almost understand why Aunt Josephine is afraid of it.” “The lady who lives up here,” the cabdriver asked, “is afraid of the lake?” “That’s what we’ve been told,” Violet said. The cabdriver shook his head and brought the cab to a halt. “I don’t know how she can stand it, then.” “What do you mean?” Violet asked. “You mean you’ve never been to this house?” he asked. “No, never,” Klaus replied. “We’ve never even met our Aunt Josephine before.” “Well, if your Aunt Josephine is afraid of the water,” the cabdriver said, “I can’t believe she lives here in this house.” “What are you talking about?” Klaus asked. “Well, take a look,” the driver answered, and got out of the cab. The Baudelaires took a look. At first, the three youngsters saw only a small boxy square with a peeling white door, and it looked as if the house was scarcely bigger than the taxi which had taken them to it. But as they piled out of the car and drew closer, they saw that this small square was the only part of the house that was on top of the hill. The rest of it-a large pile of boxy squares, all stuck together like ice cubes-hung over the side, attached to the hill by long metal stilts that looked like spider legs. As the three orphans peered down at their new home, it seemed as if the entire house were holding on to the hill for dear life. The taxi driver took their suitcases out of the trunk, set them in front of the peeling white door, and drove down the hill with a toot! of his horn for a good-bye. There was a soft squeak as the peeling white door opened, and from behind the door appeared a pale woman with her white hair piled high on top of her head in a bun. “Hello,” she said, smiling thinly. “I’m your Aunt Josephine.” “Hello,” Violet said, cautiously, and stepped forward to meet her new guardian. Klaus stepped forward behind her, and Sunny crawled forward behind him, but all three Baudelaires were walking carefully, as if their weight would send the house toppling down from its perch. The orphans couldn’t help wondering how a woman who was so afraid of Lake Lachrymose could live in a house that felt like it was about to fall into its depths. everything in it, from the welcome mat-which, Aunt Josephine explained, could cause someone to trip and break their neck-to the sofa in the living room, which she said could fall over at any time and crush them flat. “This is the telephone,” Aunt Josephine said, gesturing to the telephone. “It should only be used in emergencies, because there is a danger of electrocution.” “Actually,” Klaus said, “I’ve read quite a bit about electricity. I’m pretty sure that the telephone is perfectly safe.” Aunt Josephine’s hands fluttered to her white hair as if something had jumped onto her head. “You can’t believe everything you read,” she pointed out. “I’ve built a telephone from scratch,” Violet said. “If you’d like, I could take the telephone apart and show you how it works. That might make you feel better.” “I don’t think so,” Aunt Josephine said, frowning. “Delmo!” Sunny offered, which probably meant something along the lines of “If you wish, I will bite the telephone to show you that it’s harmless.” “Delmo?” Aunt Josephine asked, bending over to pick up a piece of lint from the faded flowery carpet. “What do you mean by ‘delmo’? I consider myself an expert on the English language, and I have no idea what the word ‘delmo’ means. Is she speaking some other language?” “Sunny doesn’t speak fluently yet, I’m afraid,” Klaus said, picking his little sister up. “Just baby talk, mostly.” “Grun!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something like “I object to your calling it baby talk!” “Well, I will have to teach her proper English,” Aunt Josephine said stiffly. “I’m sure you all need some brushing up on your grammar, actually. Grammar is the greatest joy in life, don’t you find?” The three siblings looked at one another. Violet was more likely to say that inventing things was the greatest joy in life, Klaus thought reading was, and Sunny of course took no greater pleasure than in biting things. The Baudelaires thought of grammar-all those rules about how to write and speak the English language-the way they thought of banana bread: fine, but nothing to make a fuss about. Still, it seemed rude to contradict Aunt Josephine. “Yes,” Violet said finally. “We’ve always loved grammar.” Aunt Josephine nodded, and gave the Baudelaires a small smile. “Well, I’ll show you to your room and continue the rest of the tour after dinner. When you open this door, just push on the wood here. Never use the doorknob. I’m always afraid that it will shatter into a million pieces and that one of them will hit my eye.” The Baudelaires were beginning to think that they would not be allowed to touch a single object in the whole house, but they smiled at Aunt Josephine, pushed on the wood, and opened the door to reveal a large, well-lit room with blank white walls and a plain blue carpet on the floor. Inside were two good-sized beds and one good-sized crib, obviously for Sunny, each covered in a plain blue bedspread, and at the foot of each bed was a large trunk, for storing things. At the other end of the room was a large closet for everyone’s clothes, a small window for looking out, and a medium-sized pile of tin cans for no apparent purpose. “I’m sorry that all three of you have to share a room,” Aunt Josephine said, “but this house isn’t very big. I tried to provide you with everything you would need, and I do hope you will be comfortable.” “I’m sure we will,” Violet said, carrying her suitcase into the room. “Thank you very much, Aunt Josephine.” “In each of your trunks,” Aunt Josephine said, “there is a present.” Presents? The Baudelaires had not received presents for a long, long time. Smiling, Aunt Josephine walked to the first trunk and opened it. “For Violet,” she said, “there is a lovely new doll with plenty of outfits for it to wear.” Aunt Josephine reached inside and pulled out a plastic doll with a tiny mouth and wide, staring eyes. “Isn’t she adorable? Her name is Pretty Penny.” “Oh, thank you,” said Violet, who at fourteen was too old for dolls and had never particularly liked dolls anyway. Forcing a smile on her face, she took Pretty Penny from Aunt Josephine and patted it on its little plastic head. “And for Klaus,” Aunt Josephine said, “there is a model train set.” She opened the second trunk and pulled out a tiny train car. “You can set up the tracks in that empty corner of the room.” “What fun,” said Klaus, trying to look excited. Klaus had never liked model trains, as they were a lot of work to put together and when you were done all you had was something that went around and around in endless circles. “And for little Sunny,” Aunt Josephine said, reaching into the smallest trunk, which sat at the foot of the crib, “here is a rattle. See, Sunny, it makes a little noise.” Sunny smiled at Aunt Josephine, showing all four of her sharp teeth, but her older siblings knew that Sunny despised rattles and the irritating sounds they made when you shook them. Sunny had been given a rattle when she was very small, and it was the only thing she was not sorry to lose in the enormous fire that had destroyed the Baudelaire home. “It is so generous of you,” Violet said, “to give us all of these things.” She was too polite to add that they weren’t things they particularly liked. “Well, I am very happy to have you here,” Aunt Josephine said. “I love grammar so much. I’m excited to be able to share my love of grammar with three nice children like yourselves. Well, I’ll give you a few minutes to settle in and then we’ll have some dinner. See you soon.” “Aunt Josephine,” Klaus asked, “what are these cans for?” “Those cans? For burglars, naturally,” Aunt Josephine said, patting the bun of hair on top of her head. “You must be as frightened of burglars as I am. So every night, simply place these tin cans right by the door, so that when burglars come in, they’ll trip over the cans and you’ll wake up.” “But what will we do then, when we’re awake in a room with an angry burglar?” Violet asked. “I would prefer to sleep through a burglary.” Aunt Josephine’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Angry burglars?” she repeated. “Angry burglars? Why are you talking about angry burglars? Are you trying to make us all even more frightened than we already are?” “Of course not,” Violet stuttered, not pointing out that Aunt Josephine was the one who had brought up the subject. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” “Well, we’ll say no more about it,” Aunt Josephine said, looking nervously at the tin cans as if a burglar were tripping on them at that very minute. “I’ll see you at the dinner table in a few minutes.” Their new guardian shut the door, and the Baudelaire orphans listened to her footsteps padding down the hallway before they spoke. “Sunny can have Pretty Penny,” Violet said, handing the doll to her sister. “The plastic is hard enough for chewing, I think.” “And you can have the model trains, Violet,” Klaus said. “Maybe you can take apart the engines and invent something.” “But that leaves you with a rattle,” Violet said. “That doesn’t seem fair.” “Schu!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something along the lines of “It’s been a long time since anything in our lives has felt fair.” The Baudelaires looked at one another with bitter smiles. Sunny was right. It wasn’t fair that their parents had been taken away from them. It wasn’t fair that the evil and revolting Count Olaf was pursuing them wherever they went, caring for nothing but their fortune. It wasn’t fair that they moved from relative to relative, with terrible things happening at each of their new homes, as if the Baudelaires were riding on some horrible bus that stopped only at stations of unfairness and misery. And, of course, it certainly wasn’t fair that Klaus only had a rattle to play with in his new home. “Aunt Josephine obviously worked very hard to prepare this room for us,” Violet said sadly. “She seems to be a good-hearted person. We shouldn’t complain, even to ourselves.” “You’re right,” Klaus said, picking up his rattle and giving it a halfhearted little shake. “We shouldn’t complain.” “Twee!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “Both of you are right. We shouldn’t complain.” Klaus walked over to the window and looked out at the darkening landscape. The sun was beginning to set over the inky depths of Lake Lachrymose , and a cold evening wind was beginning to blow. Even from the other side of the glass Klaus could feel a small chill. “I want to complain, anyway,” he said. “Soup’s on!” Aunt Josephine called from the kitchen. “Please come to dinner!” Violet put her hand on Klaus’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze of comfort, and without another word the three Baudelaires headed back down the hallway and into the dining room. Aunt Josephine had set the table for four, providing a large cushion for Sunny and another pile of tin cans in the corner of the room, just in case burglars tried to steal their dinner. “Normally, of course,” Aunt Josephine said, “‘soup’s on’ is an idiomatic expression that has nothing to do with soup. It simply means that dinner is ready. In this case, however, I’ve actually made soup.” “Oh good,” Violet said. “There’s nothing like hot soup on a chilly evening.” “Actually, it’s not hot soup,” Aunt Josephine said. “I never cook anything hot because I’m afraid of turning the stove on. It might burst into flames. I’ve made chilled cucumber soup for dinner.” The Baudelaires looked at one another and tried to hide their dismay. As you probably know , chilled cucumber soup is a delicacy that is best enjoyed on a very hot day. I myself once enjoyed it in Egypt while visiting a friend of mine who works as a snake charmer. When it is well prepared, chilled cucumber soup has a delicious, minty taste, cool and refreshing as if you are drinking something as well as eating it. But on a cold day, in a drafty room, chilled cucumber soup is about as welcome as a swarm of wasps at a bat mitzvah. In dead silence, the three children sat down at the table with their Aunt Josephine and did their best to force down the cold, slimy concoction. The only sound was of Sunny’s four teeth chattering on her soup spoon as she ate her frigid dinner. As I’m sure you know, when no one is speaking at the dinner table, the meal seems to take hours, so it felt like much, much later when Aunt Josephine broke the silence. “My dear husband and I never had children,” she said, “because we were afraid to. But I do want you to know that I’m very happy that you’re here. I am often very lonely up on this hill by myself, and when Mr. Poe wrote to me about your troubles I didn’t want you to be as lonely as I was when I lost my dear Ike.” “Was Ike your husband?” Violet asked. Aunt Josephine smiled, but she didn’t look at Violet, as if she were talking more to herself than to the Baudelaires. “Yes,” she said, in a faraway voice, “he was my husband, but he was much more than that. He was my best friend, my partner in grammar, and the only person I knew who could whistle with crackers in his mouth.” “Our mother could do that,” Klaus said, smiling. “Her specialty was Mozart’s fourteenth symphony.” “Ike’s was Beethoven’s fourth quartet,” Aunt Josephine replied. “Apparently it’s a family characteristic.” “I’m sorry we never got to meet him,” Violet said. “He sounds wonderful.” “He was wonderful,” Aunt Josephine said, stirring her soup and blowing on it even though it was ice cold. “I was so sad when he died. I felt like I’d lost the two most special things in my life.” “Two?” Violet asked. “What do you mean?” “I lost Ike,” Aunt Josephine said, “and I lost Lake Lachrymose . I mean, I didn’t really lose it, of course. It’s still down in the valley. But I grew up on its shores. I used to swim in it every day. I knew which beaches were sandy and which were rocky. I knew all the islands in the middle of its waters and all the caves alongside its shore. Lake Lachrymose felt like a friend to me. But when it took poor Ike away from me I was too afraid to go near it anymore. I stopped swimming in it. I never went to the beach again. I even put away all my books about it. The only way I can bear to look at it is from the Wide Window in the library.” “Library?” Klaus asked, brightening. “You have a library?” “Of course,” Aunt Josephine said. “Where else could I keep all my books on grammar? If you’ve all finished with your soup, I’ll show you the library.” “I couldn’t eat another bite,” Violet said truthfully. “Irm!” Sunny shrieked in agreement. “No, no, Sunny,” Aunt Josephine said. “‘Irm’ is not grammatically correct. You mean to say, ‘I have also finished my supper.’” “Irm,” Sunny insisted. “My goodness, you do need grammar lessons,” Aunt Josephine said. “All the more reason to go to the library. Come, children.” Leaving behind their half-full soup bowls, the Baudelaires followed Aunt Josephine down the hallway, taking care not to touch any of the doorknobs they passed. At the end of the hallway, Aunt Josephine stopped and opened an ordinary-looking door, but when the children stepped through the door they arrived in a room that was anything but ordinary. The library was neither square nor rectangular, like most rooms, but curved in the shape of an oval. One wall of the oval was devoted to books-rows and rows and rows of them, and every single one of them was about grammar. There was an encyclopedia of nouns placed in a series of simple wooden bookshelves, curved to fit the wall. There were very thick books on the history of verbs, lined up in metal bookshelves that were polished to a bright shine. And there were cabinets made of glass, with adjective manuals placed inside them as if they were for sale in a store instead of in someone’s house. In the middle of the room were some comfortable-looking chairs, each with its own footstool so one could stretch out one’s legs while reading. But it was the other wall of the oval, at the far end of the room, that drew the children’s attention. From floor to ceiling, the wall was a window, just one enormous curved pane of glass, and beyond the glass was a spectacular view of Lake Lachrymose . When the children stepped forward to take a closer look, they felt as if they were flying high above the dark lake instead of merely looking out on it. “This is the only way I can stand to look at the lake,” Aunt Josephine said in a quiet voice. “From far away. If I get much closer I remember my last picnic on the beach with my darling Ike. I warned him to wait an hour after eating before he went into the lake, but he only waited fortyfive minutes. He thought that was enough.” “Did he get cramps?” Klaus asked. “That’s what’s supposed to happen if you don’t wait an hour before you swim.” “That’s one reason,” Aunt Josephine said, “but in Lake Lachrymose , there’s another one. If you don’t wait an hour after eating, the Lachrymose Leeches will smell food on you, and attack.” “Leeches?” Violet asked. “Leeches,” Klaus explained, “are a bit like worms. They are blind and live in bodies of water, and in order to feed, they attach themselves to you and suck your blood.” Violet shuddered. “How horrible.” “Swoh!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something along the lines of “Why in the world would you go swimming in a lake full of leeches?” “The Lachrymose Leeches,” Aunt Josephine said, “are quite different from regular leeches. They each have six rows of very sharp teeth, and one very sharp nose-they can smell even the smallest bit of food from far, far away. The Lachrymose Leeches are usually quite harmless, preying only on small fish. But if they smell food on a human they will swarm around him and-and …” Tears came to Aunt Josephine’s eyes, and she took out a pale pink handkerchief and dabbed them away. “I apologize, children. It is not grammatically correct to end a sentence with the word ‘and’, but I get so upset when I think about Ike that I cannot talk about his death.” “We’re sorry we brought it up,” Klaus said quickly. “We didn’t mean to upset you.” “That’s all right,” Aunt Josephine said, blowing her nose. “It’s just that I prefer to think of Ike in other ways. Ike always loved the sunshine, and I like to imagine that wherever he is now, it’s as sunny as can be. Of course, nobody knows what happens to you after you die, but it’s nice to think of my husband someplace very, very hot, don’t you think?” “Yes I do,” Violet said. “It is very nice.” She swallowed. She wanted to say something else to Aunt Josephine, but when you have only known someone for a few hours it is difficult to know what they would like to hear. “Aunt Josephine,” she said timidly, “have you thought of moving someplace else? Perhaps if you lived somewhere far from Lake Lachrymose , you might feel better.” “We’d go with you,” Klaus piped up. “Oh, I could never sell this house,” Aunt Josephine said. “I’m terrified of realtors.” The three Baudelaire youngsters looked at one another surreptitiously, a word which here means “while Aunt Josephine wasn’t looking.” None of them had ever heard of a person who was frightened of realtors. There are two kinds of fears: rational and irrational-or, in simpler terms, fears that make sense and fears that don’t. For instance, the Baudelaire orphans have a fear of Count Olaf, which makes perfect sense, because he is an evil man who wants to destroy them. But if they were afraid of lemon meringue pie, this would be an irrational fear, because lemon meringue pie is delicious and has never hurt a soul. Being afraid of a monster under the bed is perfectly rational, because there may in fact be a monster under your bed at any time, ready to eat you all up, but a fear of realtors is an irrational fear. Realtors, as I’m sure you know, are people who assist in the buying and selling of houses. Besides occasionally wearing an ugly yellow coat, the worst a realtor can do to you is show you a house that you find ugly, and so it is completely irrational to be terrified of them. As Violet, Klaus, and Sunny looked down at the dark lake and thought about their new lives with Aunt Josephine, they experienced a fear themselves, and even a worldwide expert on fear would have difficulty saying whether this was a rational fear or an irrational fear. The Baudelaires’ fear was that misfortune would soon befall them. On one hand, this was an irrational fear, because Aunt Josephine seemed like a good person, and Count Olaf was nowhere to be seen. But on the other hand, the Baudelaires had experienced so many terrible things that it seemed rational to think that another catastrophe was just around the corner. There is a way of looking at life called “keeping things in perspective.” This simply means “making yourself feel better by comparing the things that are happening to you right now against other things that have happened at a different time, or to different people.” For instance, if you were upset about an ugly pimple on the end of your nose, you might try to feel better by keeping your pimple in perspective. You might compare your pimple situation to that of someone who was being eaten by a bear, and when you looked in the mirror at your ugly pimple, you could say to yourself, “Well, at least I’m not being eaten by a bear.” You can see at once why keeping things in perspective rarely works very well, because it is hard to concentrate on somebody else being eaten by a bear when you are staring at your own ugly pimple. So it was with the Baudelaire orphans in the days that followed. In the morning, when the children joined Aunt Josephine for a breakfast of orange juice and untoasted bread, Violet thought to herself, “Well, at least we’re not being forced to cook for Count Olaf’s disgusting theater troupe.” In the afternoon, when Aunt Josephine would take them to the library and teach them all about grammar, Klaus thought to himself, “Well, at least Count Olaf isn’t about to whisk us away to Peru .” And in the evening, when the children joined Aunt Josephine for a dinner of orange juice and untoasted bread, Sunny thought to herself, “Zax!” which meant something along the lines of “Well, at least there isn’t a sign of Count Olaf anywhere.” But no matter how much the three siblings compared their life with Aunt Josephine to the miserable things that had happened to them before, they couldn’t help but be dissatisfied with their circumstances. In her free time, Violet would dismantle the gears and switches from the model train set, hoping to invent something that could prepare hot food without frightening Aunt Josephine, but she couldn’t help wishing that Aunt Josephine would simply turn on the stove. Klaus would sit in one of the chairs in the library with his feet on a footstool, reading about grammar until the sun went down, but when he looked out at the gloomy lake he couldn’t help wishing that they were still living with Uncle Monty and all of his reptiles. And Sunny would take time out from her schedule and bite the head of Pretty Penny, but she couldn’t help wishing that their parents were still alive and that she and her siblings were safe and sound in the Baudelaire home. Aunt Josephine did not like to leave the house very much, because there were so many things outside that frightened her, but one day the children told her what the cabdriver had said about Hurricane Herman approaching, and she agreed to take them into town in order to buy groceries. Aunt Josephine was afraid to drive in automobiles, because the doors might get stuck, leaving her trapped inside, so they walked the long way down the hill. By the time the Baudelaires reached the market their legs were sore from the walk. “Are you sure that you won’t let us cook for you?” Violet asked, as Aunt Josephine reached into the barrel of limes. “When we lived with Count Olaf, we learned how to make puttanesca sauce. It was quite easy and perfectly safe.” Aunt Josephine shook her head. “It is my responsibility as your caretaker to cook for you, and I am eager to try this recipe for cold lime stew. Count Olaf certainly does sound evil. Imagine forcing children to stand near a stove!” “He was very cruel to us,” Klaus agreed, not adding that being forced to cook had been the least of their problems when they lived with Count Olaf. “Sometimes I still have nightmares about the terrible tattoo on his ankle. It always scared me.” Aunt Josephine frowned, and patted her bun. “I’m afraid you made a grammatical mistake, Klaus,” she said sternly. “When you said, ‘It always scared me,’ you sounded as if you meant that his ankle always scared you, but you meant his tattoo. So you should have said, ‘The tattoo always scared me.’ Do you understand?” “Yes, I understand,” Klaus said, sighing. “Thank you for pointing that out, Aunt Josephine.” “Niku!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “It wasn’t very nice to point out Klaus’s grammatical mistake when he was talking about something that upset him.” “No, no, Sunny,” Aunt Josephine said firmly, looking up from her shopping list. “‘Niku’ isn’t a word. Remember what we said about using correct English. Now, Violet, would you please get some cucumbers? I thought I would make chilled cucumber soup again sometime next week.” Violet groaned inwardly, a phrase which here means “said nothing but felt disappointed at the prospect of another chilly dinner,” but she smiled at Aunt Josephine and headed down an aisle of the market in search of cucumbers. She looked wistfully at all the delicious food on the shelves that required turning on the stove in order to prepare it. Violet hoped that someday she could cook a nice hot meal for Aunt Josephine and her siblings using the invention she was working on with the model train engine. For a few moments she was so lost in her inventing thoughts that she didn’t look where she was going until she walked right into someone. “Excuse m-” Violet started to say, but when she looked up she couldn’t finish her sentence. There stood a tall, thin man with a blue sailor hat on his head and a black eye patch covering his left eye. He was smiling eagerly down at her as if she were a brightly wrapped birthday present that he couldn’t wait to rip open. His fingers were long and bony, and he was leaning awkwardly to one side, a bit like Aunt Josephine’s house dangling over the hill. When Violet looked down, she saw why: There was a thick stump of wood where his left leg should have been, and like most people with peg legs, this man was leaning on his good leg, which caused him to tilt. But even though Violet had never seen anyone with a peg leg before, this was not why she couldn’t finish her sentence. The reason why had to do with something she had seen before-the bright, bright shine in the man’s one eye, and above it, just one long eyebrow. When someone is in disguise, and the disguise is not very good, one can describe it as a transparent disguise. This does not mean that the person is wearing plastic wrap or glass or anything else transparent. It merely means that people can see through his disguise-that is, the disguise doesn’t fool them for a minute. Violet wasn’t fooled for even a second as she stood staring at the man she’d walked into. She knew at once it was Count Olaf. “Violet, what are you doing in this aisle?” Aunt Josephine said, walking up behind her. “This aisle contains food that needs to be heated, and you know-” When she saw Count Olaf she stopped speaking, and for a second Violet thought that Aunt Josephine had recognized him, too. But then Aunt Josephine smiled, and Violet’s hopes were dashed, a word which here means “shattered.” “Hello,” Count Olaf said, smiling at Aunt Josephine. “I was just apologizing for running into your sister here.” Aunt Josephine’s face grew bright red, seeming even brighter under her white hair. “Oh, no,” she said, as Klaus and Sunny came down the aisle to see what all the fuss was about. “Violet is not my sister, sir. I am her legal guardian.” Count Olaf clapped one hand to his face as if Aunt Josephine had just told him she was the tooth fairy. “I cannot believe it,” he said. “Madam, you don’t look nearly old enough to be anyone’s guardian.” Aunt Josephine blushed again. “Well, sir, I have lived by the lake my whole life, and some people have told me that it keeps me looking youthful.” “I would be happy to have the acquaintance of a local personage,” Count Olaf said, tipping his blue sailor hat and using a silly word which here means “person.” “I am new to this town, and beginning a new business, so I am eager to make new acquaintances. Allow me to introduce myself.” “Klaus and I are happy to introduce you,” Violet said, with more bravery than I would have had when faced with meeting Count Olaf again. “Aunt Josephine, this is Count-” “No, no, Violet,” Aunt Josephine interrupted. “Watch your grammar. You should have said ‘Klaus and I will be happy to introduce you,’ because you haven’t introduced us yet.” “But-” Violet started to say. “Now, Veronica,” Count Olaf said, his one eye shining brightly as he looked down at her. “Your guardian is right. And before you make any other mistakes, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Captain Sham, and I have a new business renting sailboats out on Damocles Dock. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Miss-?” “I am Josephine Anwhistle,” Aunt Josephine said. “And these are Violet, Klaus, and little Sunny Baudelaire.” “Little Sunny,” Captain Sham repeated, sounding as if he were eating Sunny rather than greeting her. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. Perhaps someday I can take you out on the lake for a little boat ride.” “Ging!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “I would rather eat dirt.” “We’re not going anywhere with you,” Klaus said. Aunt Josephine blushed again, and looked sharply at the three children. “The children seem to have forgotten their manners as well as their grammar,” she said. “Please apologize to Captain Sham at once.” “He’s not Captain Sham,” Violet said impatiently. “He’s Count Olaf.” Aunt Josephine gasped, and looked from the anxious faces of the Baudelaires to the calm face of Captain Sham. He had a grin on his face, but his smile had slipped a notch, a phrase which here means “grown less confident as he waited to see if Aunt Josephine realized he was really Count Olaf in disguise.” Aunt Josephine looked him over from head to toe, and then frowned. “Mr. Poe told me to be on the watch for Count Olaf,” she said finally, “but he did also say that you children tended to see him everywhere.” “We see him everywhere,” Klaus said tiredly, “because he is everywhere.” “Who is this Count Omar person?” Captain Sham asked. “Count Olaf” Aunt Josephine said, “is a terrible man who-” “-is standing right in front of us,” Violet finished. “I don’t care what he calls himself. He has the same shiny eyes, the same single eyebrow-” “But plenty of people have those characteristics,” Aunt Josephine said. “Why, my mother-in-law had not only one eyebrow, but also only one ear.” “The tattoo!” Klaus said. “Look for the tattoo! Count Olaf has a tattoo of an eye on his left ankle.” Captain Sham sighed, and, with difficulty, lifted his peg leg so everyone could get a clear look at it. It was made of dark wood that was polished to shine as brightly as his eye, and attached to his left knee with a curved metal hinge. “But I don’t even have a left ankle,” he said, in a whiny voice. “It was all chewed away by the Lachrymose Leeches.” Aunt Josephine’s eyes welled up, and she placed a hand on Captain Sham’s shoulder. “Oh, you poor man,” she said, and the children knew at once that they were doomed. “Did you hear what Captain Sham said?” she asked them. Violet tried one more time, knowing it would probably be futile, a word which here means “filled with futility.” “He’s not Captain Sham,” she said. “He’s-” “You don’t think he would allow the Lachrymose Leeches to chew off his leg,” Aunt Josephine said, “just to play a prank on you? Tell us, Captain Sham. Tell us how it happened.” “Well, I was sitting on my boat, just a few weeks ago,” Captain Sham said. “I was eating some pasta with puttanesca sauce, and I spilled some on my leg. Before I knew it, the leeches were attacking.” “That’s just how it happened with my husband,” Aunt Josephine said, biting her lip. The Baudelaires, all three of them, clenched their fists in frustration. They knew that Captain Sham’s story about the puttanesca sauce was as phony as his name, but they couldn’t prove it. “Here,” Captain Sham said, pulling a small card out of his pocket and handing it to Aunt Josephine. “Take my business card, and next time you’re in town perhaps we could enjoy a cup of tea.” “That sounds delightful,” Aunt Josephine said, reading his card. ‘“Captain Sham’s Sailboats. Every boat has it’s own sail.’ Oh, Captain, you have made a very serious grammatical error here.” “What?” Captain Sham said, raising his eyebrow. “This card says ‘it’s,’ with an apostrophe. I-T-apostrophe-S always means ‘it is.’ You don’t mean to say ‘Every boat has it is own sail.’ You mean simply I-T-S, ‘belonging to it.’ It’s a very common mistake, Captain Sham, but a dreadful one.” Captain Sham’s face darkened, and it looked for a minute like he was going to raise his peg leg again and kick Aunt Josephine with all his might. But then he smiled and his face cleared. “Thank you for pointing that out,” he said finally. “You’re welcome,” Aunt Josephine said. “Come, children, it’s time to pay for our groceries. I hope to see you soon, Captain Sham.” Captain Sham smiled and waved good-bye, but the Baudelaires watched as his smile turned to a sneer as soon as Aunt Josephine had turned her back. He had fooled her, and there was nothing the Baudelaires could do about it. They spent the rest of the afternoon trudging back up the hill carrying their groceries, but the heaviness of cucumbers and limes was nothing compared to the heaviness in the orphans’ hearts. All the way up the hill, Aunt Josephine talked about Captain Sham and what a nice man he was and how much she hoped they would see him again, while the children knew he was really Count Olaf and a terrible man and hoped they would never see him for the rest of their lives. There is an expression that, I am sad to say, is appropriate for this part of the story. The expression is “falling for something hook, line, and sinker,” and it comes from the world of fishing. The hook, the line, and the sinker are all parts of a fishing rod, and they work together to lure fish out of the ocean to their doom. If somebody is falling for something hook, line, and sinker, they are believing a bunch of lies and may find themselves doomed as a result. Aunt Josephine was falling for Captain Sham’s lies hook, line, and sinker, but it was Violet, Klaus, and Sunny who were feeling doomed. As they walked up the hill in silence, the children looked down at Lake Lachrymose and felt the chill of doom fall over their hearts. It made the three siblings feel cold and lost, as if they were not simply looking at the shadowy lake, but had been dropped into the middle of its depths. mouth . “He must be very lonely, moving to a new town and losing a leg. Maybe we could have him over for dinner.” “We keep trying to tell you, Aunt Josephine,” Violet said, pushing the stew around on her plate so it would look like she’d eaten more than she actually had. “He’s not Captain Sham. He’s Count Olaf in disguise.” “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Aunt Josephine said. “Mr. Poe told me that Count Olaf had a tattoo on his left ankle and one eyebrow over his eyes. Captain Sham doesn’t have a left ankle and only has one eye. I can’t believe you would dare to disagree with a man who has eye problems.” “I have eye problems,” Klaus said, pointing to his glasses, “and you’re disagreeing with me.” “I will thank you not to be impertinent,” Aunt Josephine said, using a word which here means “pointing out that I’m wrong, which annoys me.” “It is very annoying. You will have to accept, once and for all, that Captain Sham is not Count Olaf.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the business card. “Look at his card. Does it say Count Olaf? No. It says Captain Sham. The card does have a serious grammatical error on it, but it is nevertheless proof that Captain Sham is who he says he is.” Aunt Josephine put the business card down on the dinner table, and the Baudelaires looked at it and sighed. Business cards, of course, are not proof of anything. Anyone can go to a print shop and have cards made that say anything they like. The king of Denmark can order business cards that say he sells golf balls. Your dentist can order business cards that say she is your grandmother. In order to escape from the castle of an enemy of mine, I once had cards printed that said I was an admiral in the French navy. Just because something is typed-whether it is typed on a business card or typed in a newspaper or bookthis does not mean that it is true. The three siblings were well aware of this simple fact but could not find the words to convince Aunt Josephine. So they merely looked at Aunt Josephine, sighed, and silently pretended to eat their stew. It was so quiet in the dining room that everyone jumped-Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and even Aunt Josephine-when the telephone rang. “My goodness!” Aunt Josephine said. “What should we do?” “Minka!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant something like “Answer it, of course!” Aunt Josephine stood up from the table, but didn’t move even as the phone rang a second time. “It might be important,” she said, “but I don’t know if it’s worth the risk of electrocution.” “If it makes you feel more comfortable,” Violet said, wiping her mouth with her napkin, “I will answer the phone.” Violet stood up and walked to the phone in time to answer it on the third ring. “Hello?” she asked. “Is this Mrs. Anwhistle?” a wheezy voice asked. “No,” Violet replied. “This is Violet Baudelaire. May I help you?” A Series of Unfortunate Events 3- The Wide Window “Put the old woman on the phone, orphan,” the voice said, and Violet froze, realizing it was Captain Sham. Quickly, she stole a glance at Aunt Josephine, who was now watching Violet nervously. “I’m sorry,” Violet said into the phone. “You must have the wrong number.” “Don’t play with me, you wretched girl-” Captain Sham started to say, but Violet hung up the phone, her heart pounding, and turned to Aunt Josephine. “Someone was asking for the Hopalong Dancing School ,” she said, lying quickly. “I told them they had the wrong number.” “What a brave girl you are,” Aunt Josephine murmured. “Picking up the phone like that.” “It’s actually very safe,” Violet said. “Haven’t you ever answered the phone, Aunt Josephine?” Klaus asked. “Ike almost always answered it,” Aunt Josephine said, “and he used a special glove for safety. But now that I’ve seen you answer it, maybe I’ll give it a try next time somebody calls.” The phone rang, and Aunt Josephine jumped again. “Goodness,” she said, “I didn’t think it would ring again so soon. What an adventurous evening!” Violet stared at the phone, knowing it was Captain Sham calling back. “Would you like me to answer it again?” she asked. “No, no,” Aunt Josephine said, walking toward the small ringing phone as if it were a big barking dog. “I said I’d try it, and I will.” She took a deep breath, reached out a nervous hand, and picked up the phone. “Hello?” she said. “Yes, this is she. Oh, hello, Captain Sham. How lovely to hear your voice.” Aunt Josephine listened for a moment, and then blushed bright red. “Well, that’s very nice of you to say, Captain Sham, but-what? Oh, all right. That’s very nice of you to say, Julio. What? What? Oh, what a lovely idea. But please hold on one moment.” Aunt Josephine held a hand over the receiver and faced the three children. “Violet, Klaus, Sunny, please go to your room,” she said. “Captain Sham-I mean Julio, he asked me to call him by his first name-is planning a surprise for you children, and he wants to discuss it with me.” “We don’t want a surprise,” Klaus said. “Of course you do,” Aunt Josephine said. “Now run along so I can discuss it without your eavesdropping.” “We’re not eavesdropping,” Violet said, “but I think it would be better if we stayed here.” “Perhaps you are confused about the meaning of the word ‘eavesdropping,’” Aunt Josephine said. “It means ‘listening in.’ If you stay here, you will be eavesdropping. Please go to your room.” “We know what eavesdropping means,” Klaus said, but he followed his sisters down the hallway to their room. Once inside, they looked at one another in silent frustration. Violet put aside pieces of the toy caboose that she had planned to examine that evening to make room on her bed for the three of them to lie beside one another and frown at the ceiling. “I thought we’d be safe here,” Violet said glumly. “I thought that anybody who was frightened of realtors would never be friendly to Count Olaf, no matter how he was disguised.” “Do you think that he actually let leeches chew off his leg,” Klaus wondered, shuddering, “just to hide his tattoo?” “Choin!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “That seems a little drastic, even for Count Olaf.” “I agree with Sunny,” Violet said. “I think he told that tale about leeches just to make Aunt Josephine feel sorry for him.” “And it sure worked,” Klaus said, sighing. “After he told her that sob story, she fell for his disguise hook, line, and sinker.” “At least she isn’t as trusting as Uncle Monty,” Violet pointed out. “He let Count Olaf move right into the house.” “At least then we could keep an eye on him,” Klaus replied. “Ober!” Sunny remarked, which meant something along the lines of “Although we still didn’t save Uncle Monty.” “What do you think he’s up to this time?” Violet asked. “Maybe he plans to take us out in one of his boats and drown us in the lake.” “Maybe he wants to push this whole house off the mountain,” Klaus said, “and blame it on Hurricane Herman.” “Haftu!” Sunny said glumly, which probably meant something like “Maybe he wants to put the Lachrymose Leeches in our beds.” “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Violet said. “All these maybes won’t get us anywhere.” “We could call Mr. Poe and tell him Count Olaf is here,” Klaus said. “Maybe he could come and fetch us.” “That’s the biggest maybe of them all,” Violet said. “It’s always impossible to convince Mr. Poe of anything, and Aunt Josephine doesn’t believe us even though she saw Count Olaf with her own eyes.” “She doesn’t even think she saw Count Olaf,” Klaus agreed sadly. “She thinks she saw Captain Sham.” Sunny nibbled halfheartedly on Pretty Penny’s head and muttered “Poch!” which probably meant “You mean Julio.” “Then I don’t see what we can do,” Klaus said, “except keep our eyes and ears open.” “Doma,” Sunny agreed. “You’re both right,” Violet said. “We’ll just have to keep a very careful watch.” The Baudelaire orphans nodded solemnly, but the cold pit in their stomachs had not gone away. They all felt that keeping watch wasn’t really much of a plan for defending themselves from Captain Sham, and as it grew later and later it worried them more and more. Violet tied her hair up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes, as if she were inventing something, but she thought and thought for hours and hours and was unable to invent another plan. Klaus stared at the ceiling with the utmost concentration, as if something very interesting were written on it, but nothing helpful occurred to him as the hour grew later and later. And Sunny bit Pretty Penny’s head over and over, but no matter how long she bit it she couldn’t think of anything to ease the Baudelaires’ worries. I have a friend named Gina-Sue who is socialist, and Gina-Sue has a favorite saying: “You can’t lock up the barn after the horses are gone.” It means simply that sometimes even the best of plans will occur to you when it is too late. This, I’m sorry to say, is the case with the Baudelaire orphans and their plan to keep a close watch on Captain Sham, for after hours and hours of worrying they heard an enormous crash of shattering glass, and knew at once that keeping watch hadn’t been a good enough plan. “What was that noise?” Violet said, getting up off the bed. “It sounded like breaking glass,” Klaus said worriedly, walking toward the bedroom door. “Vestu!” Sunny shrieked, but her siblings did not have time to figure out what she meant as they all hurried down the hallway. “Aunt Josephine! Aunt Josephine!” Violet called, but there was no answer. She peered up and down the hallway, but everything was quiet. “Aunt Josephine!” she called again. Violet led the way as the three orphans ran into the dining room, but their guardian wasn’t there either. The candles on the table were still lit, casting a flickering glow on the business card and the bowls of cold lime stew. “Aunt Josephine!” Violet called again, and the children ran back out to the hallway and toward the door of the library. As she ran, Violet couldn’t help but remember how she and her siblings had called Uncle Monty’s name, early one morning, just before discovering the tragedy that had befallen him. “Aunt Josephine!” she called. “Aunt Josephine!” She couldn’t help but remember all the times she had woken up in the middle of the night, calling out the names of her parents as she dreamed, as she so often did, of the terrible fire that had claimed their lives. “Aunt Josephine!” she said, reaching the library door. Violet was afraid that she was calling out Aunt Josephine’s name when her aunt could no longer hear it. “Look,” Klaus said, and pointed to the door. A piece of paper, folded in half, was attached to the wood with a thumbtack. Klaus pried the paper loose and unfolded it. “What is it?” Violet asked, and Sunny craned her little neck to see. “It’s a note,” Klaus said, and read it out loud: Violet, Klaus, and Sunny - By the time you read this note, my life will be at it’s end. My heart is as cold as ike and I find life inbearable. I know your children may not understand the sad life of a dowadger, or what would have leaded me to this desperate akt, but please know that I am much happier this way. As my last will and testament, I leave you three in the care of Captain Sham, a kind and honorable men. Please think of me kindly even though I’d done this terrible thing. -Your Aunt Josephine “Oh no,” Klaus said quietly when he was finished reading. He turned the piece of paper over and over as if he had read it incorrectly, as if it said something different. “Oh no,” he said again, so faintly that it was as if he didn’t even know he was speaking out loud. Without a word Violet opened the door to the library, and the Baudelaires took a step inside and found themselves shivering. The room was freezing cold, and after one glance the orphans knew why. The Wide Window had shattered. Except for a few shards that still stuck to the window frame, the enormous pane of glass was gone, leaving a vacant hole that looked out into the still blackness of the night. The cold night air rushed through the hole, rattling the bookshelves and making the children shiver up against one another, but despite the cold the orphans walked carefully to the empty space where the window had been, and looked down. The night was so black that it seemed as if there was absolutely nothing beyond the window. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny stood there for a moment and remembered the fear they had felt, just a few days ago, when they were standing in this very same spot. They knew now that their fear had been rational. Huddling together, looking down into the blackness, the Baudelaires knew that their plan to keep a careful watch had come too late. They had locked the barn door, but poor Aunt Josephine was already gone. C H A P T E R Five Violet, Klaus, and Sunny - By the time you read this note, my life will be at it’s end. My heart is as cold as ike and I find life inbearable. I know your children may not understand the sad life of a dowadger, or what would have leaded me to this desperate akt, but please know that I am much happier this way. As my last will and testament, I leave you three in the care of Captain Sham, a kind and honorable men. Please think of me kindly even though I’d done this terrible thing. -Your Aunt Josephine “Stop it!” Violet cried. “Stop reading it out loud, Klaus! We already know what it says.” “I just can’t believe it,” Klaus said, turning the paper around for the umpteenth time. The Baudelaire orphans were sitting glumly around the dining-room table with the cold lime stew in bowls and dread in their hearts. Violet had called Mr. Poe and told him what had happened, and the Baudelaires, too anxious to sleep, had stayed up the whole night waiting for him to arrive on the first Fickle Ferry of the day. The candles were almost completely burned down, and Klaus had to lean forward to read Josephine’s note. “There’s something funny about this note, but I can’t put my finger on it.” “How can you say such a thing?” Violet asked. “Aunt Josephine has thrown herself out of the window. There’s nothing funny about it at all.” “Not funny as in a funny joke,” Klaus said. “Funny as in a funny smell. Why, in the very first sentence she says ‘my life will be at it’s end.’” “And now it is,” Violet said, shuddering. “That’s not what I mean,” Klaus said impatiently. “She uses it’s, I-T apostrophe-S, which always means ‘it is.’ But you wouldn’t say ‘my life will be at it is end.’ She means I-T-S, ‘belonging to it.’” He picked up Captain Sham’s business card, which was still lying on the table. “Remember when she saw this card?’Every boat has it’s own sail.’ She said it was a serious grammatical error.” “Who cares about grammatical errors,” Violet asked, “when Aunt Josephine has jumped out the window?” “But Aunt Josephine would have cared,” Klaus pointed out. “That’s what she cared about most: grammar. Remember, she said it was the greatest joy in life.” “Well, it wasn’t enough,” Violet said sadly. “No matter how much she liked grammar, it says she found her life unbearable.” “But that’s another error in the note,” Klaus said. “It doesn’t say unbearable, with a U. It says inbearable, with an I.” “You are being unbearable, with a U,” Violet cried. “And you are being stupid, with an S,” Klaus snapped. “Aget!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “Please stop fighting!” Violet and Klaus looked at their baby sister and then at one another. Oftentimes, when people are miserable, they will want to make other people miserable, too. But it never helps. “I’m sorry, Klaus,” Violet said meekly. “You’re not unbearable. Our situation is unbearable.” “I know,” Klaus said miserably. “I’m sorry, too. You’re not stupid, Violet. You’re very clever. In fact, I hope you’re clever enough to get us out of this situation. Aunt Josephine has jumped out the window and left us in the care of Captain Sham, and I don’t know what we can do about it.” “Well, Mr. Poe is on his way,” Violet said. “He said on the phone that he would be here first thing in the morning, so we don’t have long to wait. Maybe Mr. Poe can be of some help.” “I guess so,” Klaus said, but he and his sisters looked at one another and sighed. They knew that the chances of Mr. Poe being of much help were rather slim. When the Baudelaires lived with Count Olaf, Mr. Poe was not helpful when the children told him about Count Olaf’s cruelty. When the Baudelaires lived with Uncle Monty, Mr. Poe was not helpful when the children told him about Count Olaf’s treachery. It seemed clear that Mr. Poe would not be of any help in this situation, either. One of the candles burned out in a small puff of smoke, and the children sank down lower in their chairs. You probably know of a plant called the Venus flytrap, which grows in the tropics. The top of the plant is shaped like an open mouth, with tooth like spines around the edges. When a fly, attracted by the smell of the flower, lands on the Venus flytrap, the mouth of the plant begins to close, trapping the fly. The terrified fly buzzes around the closed mouth of the plant, but there is nothing it can do, and the plant slowly, slowly, dissolves the fly into nothing. As the darkness of the house closed in around them, the Baudelaire youngsters felt like the fly in this situation. It was as if the disastrous fire that took the lives of their parents had been the beginning of a trap, and they hadn’t even known it. They buzzed from place to place-Count Olaf’s house in the city, Uncle Monty’s home in the country, and now, Aunt Josephine’s house overlooking the lake-but their own misfortune always closed around them, tighter and tighter, and it seemed to the three siblings that before too long they would dissolve away to nothing. “We could rip up the note,” Klaus said finally. “Then Mr. Poe wouldn’t know about Aunt Josephine’s wishes, and we wouldn’t end up with Captain Sham.” “But I already told Mr. Poe that Aunt Josephine left a note,” Violet said. “Well, we could do a forgery,” Klaus said, using a word which here means “write something yourself and pretend somebody else wrote it.” “We’ll write everything she wrote, but we’ll leave out the part about Captain Sham.” “Aha!” Sunny shrieked. This word was a favorite of Sunny’s, and unlike most of her words, it needed no translation. What Sunny meant was “Aha!”, an expression of discovery. “Of course!” Violet cried. “That’s what Captain Sham did! He wrote this letter, not Aunt Josephine!” Behind his glasses, Klaus’s eyes lit up. “That explains it’s!” “That explains inbearable !” Violet said. “Leep!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “Captain Sham threw Aunt Josephine out the window and then wrote this note to hide his crime.” “What a terrible thing to do,” Klaus said, shuddering as he thought of Aunt Josephine falling into the lake she feared so much. “Imagine the terrible things he will do to us,” Violet said, “if we don’t expose his crime. I can’t wait until Mr. Poe gets here so we can tell him what happened.” With perfect timing, the doorbell rang, and the Baudelaires hurried to answer it. Violet led her siblings down the hallway, looking wistfully at the radiator as she remembered how afraid of it Aunt Josephine was. Klaus followed closely behind, touching each doorknob gently in memory of Aunt Josephine’s warnings about them shattering into pieces. And when they reached the door, Sunny looked mournfully at the welcome mat that Aunt Josephine thought could cause someone to break their neck. Aunt Josephine had been so careful to avoid anything that she thought might harm her, but harm had still come her way. Violet opened the peeling white door, and there stood Mr. Poe in the gloomy light of dawn. “Mr. Poe,” Violet said. She intended to tell him immediately of their forgery theory, but as soon as she saw him, standing in the doorway with a white handkerchief in one hand and a black briefcase in the other, her words stuck in her throat. Tears are curious things, for like earthquakes or puppet shows they can occur at any time, without any warning and without any good reason. “Mr. Poe,” Violet said again, and without any warning she and her siblings burst into tears. Violet cried, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and Klaus cried, the tears making his glasses slip down his nose, and Sunny cried, her open mouth revealing her four teeth. Mr. Poe put down his briefcase and put away his handkerchief. He was not very good at comforting people, but he put his arms around the children the best he could, and murmured “There, there,” which is a phrase some people murmur to comfort other people despite the fact that it doesn’t really mean anything. Mr. Poe couldn’t think of anything else to say that might have comforted the Baudelaire orphans, but I wish now that I had the power to go back in time and speak to these three sobbing children. If I could, I could tell the Baudelaires that like earthquakes and puppet shows, their tears were occurring not only without warning but without good reason. The youngsters were crying, of course, because they thought Aunt Josephine was dead, and I wish I had the power to go back and tell them that they were wrong. But of course, I cannot. I am not on top of the hill, overlooking Lake Lachrymose , on that gloomy morning. I am sitting in my room, in the middle of the night, writing down this story and looking out my window at the graveyard behind my home. I cannot tell the Baudelaire orphans that they are wrong, but I can tell you, as the orphans cry in Mr. Poe’s arms, that Aunt Josephine is not dead. Not yet. Mr. Poe frowned, sat down at the table, and took out his handkerchief. “Forgery?” he repeated. The Baudelaire orphans had shown him the shattered window in the library. They had shown him the note that had been thumb-tacked to the door. And they had shown him the business card with the grammatical mistake on it. “Forgery is a very serious charge,” he said sternly, and blew his nose. “Not as serious as murder,” Klaus pointed out. “And that’s what Captain Sham did. He murdered Aunt Josephine and forged a note.” “But why would this Captain Sham person,” Mr. Poe asked, “go to all this trouble just to place you under his care?” “We’ve already told you,” Violet said, trying to hide her impatience. “Captain Sham is really Count Olaf in disguise.” “These are very serious accusations,” Mr. Poe said firmly. “I understand that the three of you have had some terrible experiences, and I hope you’re not letting your imagination get the best of you. Remember when you lived with Uncle Monty? You were convinced that his assistant, Stephano, was really Count Olaf in disguise.” “But Stephano was Count Olaf in disguise,” Klaus exclaimed. “That’s not the point,” Mr. Poe said. “The point is that you can’t jump to conclusions. If you really think this note is a forgery, then we have to stop talking about disguises and do an investigation. Somewhere in this house, I’m sure we can find something that your Aunt Josephine has written. We can compare the handwriting and see if this note matches up.” The Baudelaire orphans looked at one another. “Of course,” Klaus said. “If the note we found on the library door doesn’t match Aunt Josephine’s handwriting, then it was obviously written by somebody else. We didn’t think of that.” Mr. Poe smiled. “You see? You are very intelligent children, but even the most intelligent people in the world often need the help of a banker. Now, where can we find a sample of Aunt Josephine’s handwriting?” “In the kitchen,” Violet said promptly. “She left her shopping list in the kitchen when we got home from the market.” “Chuni!” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “Let’s go to the kitchen and get it,” and that’s exactly what they did. Aunt Josephine’s kitchen was very small and had a large white sheet covering the stove and the oven-for safety, Aunt Josephine had explained, during her tour. There was a countertop where she prepared the food, a refrigerator where she stored the food, and a sink where she washed away the food nobody had eaten. To one side of the countertop was a small piece of paper on which Aunt Josephine had made her list, and Violet crossed the kitchen to retrieve it. Mr. Poe turned on the lights, and Violet held the shopping list up to the note to see if they matched. There are men and women who are experts in the field of handwriting analysis. They are called graphologists, and they attend graph logical schools in order to get their degree in graphology. You might think that this situation would call for a graphologist, but there are times when an expert’s opinion is unnecessary. For instance, if a friend of yours brought you her pet dog, and said she was concerned because it wasn’t laying eggs, you would not have to be a veterinarian to tell her that dogs do not lay eggs and so there was nothing to worry about. Yes, there are some questions that are so simple that anyone can answer them, and Mr. Poe and the Baudelaire orphans instantly knew the answer to the question “Does the handwriting on the shopping list match the handwriting on the note?” The answer was yes. When Aunt Josephine had written “Vinegar” on the shopping list, she had curved the tips of the V into tiny spirals-the same spirals that decorated the tips of the V in “Violet,” on the note. When she had written “Cucumbers” on the shopping list, the Cs were slightly squiggly, like earthworms, and the same earthworms appeared in the words “cold” and “Captain Sham” on the note. When Aunt Josephine had written “Limes” on the shopping list, the i was dotted with an oval rather than a circle, just as it was in “my life will be at it’s end.” There was no doubt that Aunt Josephine had written on both the pieces of paper that Mr. Poe and the Baudelaires were examining. “I don’t think there’s any doubt that Aunt Josephine wrote on both these pieces of paper,” Mr. Poe said. “But-” Violet began. “There are no buts about it,” Mr. Poe said. “Look at the curvy Vs. Look at the squiggly C’s. Look at the oval dots over the I’s. I’m no graphologist, but I can certainly tell that these were written by the same person.” “You’re right,” Klaus said miserably. “I know that Captain Sham is behind this somehow, but Aunt Josephine definitely wrote this note.” “And that,” Mr. Poe said, “makes it a legal document.” “Does that mean we have to live with Captain Sham?” Violet asked, her heart sinking. “I’m afraid so,” Mr. Poe replied. “Someone’s last will and testament is an official statement of the wishes of the deceased. You were placed in Aunt Josephine’s care, so she had the right to assign you to a new caretaker before she leaped out the window. It is very shocking, certainly, but it is entirely legal.” “We won’t go live with him,” Klaus said fiercely. “He’s the worst person on earth.” “He’ll do something terrible, I know it,” Violet said. “All he’s after is the Baudelaire fortune.” “Gind!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something like “Please don’t make us live with this evil man.” “I know you don’t like this Captain Sham person,” Mr. Poe said, “but there’s not much I can do about it. I’m afraid the law says that that’s where you’ll go.” “We’ll run away,” Klaus said. “You will do nothing of the kind,” Mr. Poe said sternly. “Your parents entrusted me to see that you would be cared for properly. You want to honor your parents’ wishes, don’t you?” “Well, yes,” Violet said, “but-” “Then please don’t make a fuss,” Mr. Poe said. “Think of what your poor mother and father would say if they knew you were threatening to run away from your guardian.” The Baudelaire parents, of course, would have been horrified to learn that their children were to be in the care of Captain Sham, but before the children could say this to Mr. Poe, he had moved on to other matters. “Now, I think the easiest thing to do would be to meet with Captain Sham and go over some details. Where is his business card? I’ll phone him now.” “On the table, in the dining room,” Klaus said glumly, and Mr. Poe left the kitchen to make the call. The Baudelaires looked at Aunt Josephine’s shopping list and the suicide note. “I just can’t believe it,” Violet said. “I was sure we were on the right track with the forgery idea.” “Me too,” Klaus said. “Captain Sham has done something here-I know he has-but he’s been even sneakier than usual.” “We’d better be smarter than usual, then,” Violet replied, “because we’ve got to convince Mr. Poe before it’s too late.” “Well, Mr. Poe said he had to go over some details,” Klaus said. “Perhaps that will take a long time.” “I got ahold of Captain Sham,” Mr. Poe said, coming back into the kitchen. “He was shocked to hear of Aunt Josephine’s death but overjoyed at the prospect of raising you children. We’re meeting him in a half hour for lunch at a restaurant in town, and after lunch we’ll go over the details of your adoption. By tonight you should be staying in his house. I’m sure you’re relieved that this can be sorted out so quickly.” Violet and Sunny stared at Mr. Poe, too dismayed to speak. Klaus was silent too, but he was staring hard at something else. He was staring at Aunt Josephine’s note. His eyes were focused in concentration behind his glasses as he stared and stared at it, without blinking. Mr. Poe took his white handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it at great length and with great gusto, a word which here means “in a way which produced a great deal of phlegm.” But none of the Baudelaires said a word. “Well,” Mr. Poe said finally, “I will call for a taxicab. There’s no use walking down that enormous hill. You children comb your hair and put your coats on. It’s very windy out and it’s getting cold. I think a storm might be approaching.” Mr. Poe left to make his phone call, and the Baudelaires trudged to their room. Rather than comb their hair, however, Sunny and Violet immediately turned to Klaus. “What?” Violet asked him. “What what?” Klaus answered. “Don’t give me that what what,” Violet answered. “You’ve figured something out, that’s what what. I know you have. You were rereading Aunt Josephine’s note for the umpteenth time, but you had an expression as if you had just figured something out. Now, what is it?” “I’m not sure,” Klaus said, looking over the note one more time. “I might have begun figuring something out. Something that could help us. But I need more time.” “But we don’t have any time!” Violet cried. “We’re going to have lunch with Captain Sham right now!” “Then we’re going to have to make some more time, somehow,” Klaus said determinedly. “Come on, children!” Mr. Poe called from the hallway. “The cab will be here any minute! Get your coats and let’s go!” Violet sighed, but went to the closet and took out all three Baudelaire coats. She handed Klaus his coat, and buttoned Sunny into her coat as she talked to her brother. “How can we make more time?” Violet asked. “You’re the inventor,” Klaus answered, buttoning his coat. “But you can’t invent things like time,” Violet said. “You can invent things like automatic popcorn poppers. You can invent things like steam-powered window washers. But you can’t invent more time.” Violet was so certain she couldn’t invent more time that she didn’t even put her hair up in a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes. She merely gave Klaus a look of frustration and confusion, and started to put on her coat. But as she did up the buttons she realized she didn’t even need to put her hair up in a ribbon, because the answer was right there with her. C H A P T E R Seven “Hello, I’m Larry, your waiter,” said Larry, the Baudelaire orphans’ waiter. He was a short, skinny man in a goofy clown costume with a name tag pinned to his chest that read LARRY . “Welcome to the Anxious Clown restaurant- where everybody has a good time, whether they like it or not. I can see we have a whole family lunching together today, so allow me to recommend the Extra Fun Special Family Appetizer. It’s a bunch of things fried up together and served with a sauce.” “What a wonderful idea,” Captain Sham said, smiling in a way that showed all of his yellow teeth. “An Extra Fun Special Family Appetizer for an extra fun special familymine” “I’ll just have water, thank you,” Violet said. “Same with me,” Klaus said. “And a glass of ice cubes for my baby sister, please.” “I’ll have a cup of coffee with nondairy creamer,” Mr. Poe said. “Oh, no, Mr. Poe,” Captain Sham said. “Let’s share a nice big bottle of red wine.” “No, thank you, Captain Sham,” Mr. Poe said. “I don’t like to drink during banking hours.” “But this is a celebratory lunch,” Captain Sham exclaimed. “We should drink a toast to my three new children. It’s not every day that a man becomes a father.” “Please, Captain,” Mr. Poe said. “It is heartening to see that you are glad to raise the Baudelaires, but you must understand that the children are rather upset about their Aunt Josephine.” There is a lizard called the chameleon that, as you probably know, can change color instantly to blend into its surroundings. Besides being slimy and cold-blooded, Captain Sham resembled the chameleon in that he was chameleonic, a word means “able to blend in with any situation.” Since Mr. Poe and the Baudelaires had arrived at the Anxious Clown, Captain Sham had been unable to conceal his excitement at having the children almost in his clutches. But now that Mr. Poe had pointed out that the occasion actually called for sadness, Captain Sham instantly began to speak in a mournful voice. “I am upset, too,” he said, brushing a tear away from beneath his eye patch. “Josephine was one of my oldest and dearest friends.” “You met her yesterday”’ Klaus said, “in the grocery store.” “It does only seem like yesterday,” Captain Sham said, “but it was really years ago. She and I met in cooking school. We were oven partners in the Advanced Baking Course.” “You weren’t even partners” Violet said, disgusted at Captain Sham’s lies. “Aunt Josephine was desperately afraid of turning on the oven. She never would have attended cooking school.” “We soon became friends,” Captain Sham said, going on with his story as if no one had interrupted, “and one day she said to me, ‘if I ever adopt some orphans and then meet an untimely death, promise me you will raise them for me.’ I told her I would, but of course I never thought I would have to keep my promise.” “That’s a very sad story,” Larry said, and everyone turned to see that their waiter was still standing over them. “I didn’t realize this was a sad occasion. In that case, allow me to recommend the Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers. The pickles, mustard, and ketchup make a little smiley face on top of the burger, which is guaranteed to get you smiling, too.” “That sounds like a good idea,” Captain Sham said. “Bring us all Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers, Larry.” “They’ll be here in a jiffy,” the waiter promised, and at last he was gone. “Yes, yes,” Mr. Poe said, “but after we’ve finished our cheeseburgers, Captain Sham, there are some important papers for you to sign. I have them in my briefcase, and after lunch we’ll look them over.” “And then the children will be mine?” Captain Sham asked. “Well, you will be caring for them, yes,” Mr. Poe said. “Of course, the Baudelaire fortune will still be under my supervision, until Violet comes of age.” “What fortune?” Captain Sham asked, his eyebrow curling. “I don’t know anything about a fortune.” “Duna!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “Of course you do!” “The Baudelaire parents,” Mr. Poe explained, “left an enormous fortune behind, and the children inherit it when Violet comes of age.” “Well, I have no interest in a fortune,” Captain Sham said. “I have my sailboats. I wouldn’t touch a penny of it.” “Well, that’s good,” Mr. Poe said, “because you can’t touch a penny of it.” “We’ll see,” Captain Sham said. “What?” Mr. Poe asked. “Here are your Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers!” Larry sang out, appearing at their table with a tray full of greasy-looking food. “Enjoy your meal.” Like most restaurants filled with neon lights and balloons, the Anxious Clown served terrible food. But the three orphans had not eaten all day, and had not eaten anything warm for a long time, so even though they were sad and anxious they found themselves with quite an appetite. After a few minutes without conversation, Mr. Poe began to tell a very dull story about something that had happened at the bank. Mr. Poe was so busy talking, Klaus and Sunny were so busy pretending to be interested, and Captain Sham was so busy wolfing down his meal, that nobody noticed what Violet was up to. When Violet had put on her coat to go out into the wind and cold, she had felt the lump of something in her pocket. The lump was the bag of peppermints that Mr. Poe had given the Baudelaires the day they had arrived at Lake Lachrymose , and it had given her an idea. As Mr. Poe droned on and on, she carefully, carefully, took the bag of peppermints out of her coat pocket and opened it. To her dismay, they were the kind of peppermints that are each wrapped up in a little bit of cellophane. Placing her hands underneath the table, she unwrapped three peppermints, using the utmost-the word “utmost,” when it is used here, means “most”- care not to make any of those crinkling noises that come from unwrapping candy and are so annoying in movie theaters. At last, she had three bare peppermints sitting on the napkin in her lap. Without drawing attention to herself, she put one on Klaus’s lap and one on Sunny’s. When her younger siblings felt something appear in their laps and looked down and saw the peppermints, they at first thought the eldest Baudelaire orphan had lost her mind. But after a moment, they understood. If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats. But Violet, Klaus, and Sunny all knew that this was an emergency. They needed time alone to figure out Captain Sham’s plan, and how to stop it, and although causing allergic reactions is a rather drastic way of getting time by yourself, it was the only thing they could think of. So while neither of the adults at the table were watching, all three children put the peppermints into their mouths and waited. The Baudelaire allergies are famous for being quick-acting, so the orphans did not have long to wait. In a few minutes, Violet began to break out in red, itchy hives, Klaus’s tongue started to swell up, and Sunny, who of course had never eaten a peppermint, broke out in hives and had her tongue swell up. Mr. Poe finally finished telling his story and then noticed the orphans’ condition. “Why, children,” he said, “you look terrible! Violet, you have red patches on your skin. Klaus, your tongue is hanging out of your mouth. Sunny, both things are happening to you.” “There must be something in this food that we’re allergic to,” Violet said. “My goodness,” Mr. Poe said, watching a hive on Violet’s arm grow to the size of a hardboiled egg. “Just take deep breaths,” Captain Sham said, scarcely looking up from his cheeseburger. “I feel terrible,” Violet said, and Sunny began to wail. “I think we should go home and lie down, Mr. Poe.” “Just lean back in your seat,” Captain Sham said sharply. “There’s no reason to leave when we’re in the middle of lunch.” “Why, Captain Sham,” Mr. Poe said, “the children are quite ill. Violet is right. Come now, I’ll pay the bill and we’ll take the children home.” “No, no,” Violet said quickly. “We’ll get a taxi. You two stay here and take care of all the details.” Captain Sham gave Violet a sharp look. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you all alone,” he said in a dark voice. “Well, there is a lot of paperwork to go over,” Mr. Poe said. He glanced at his meal, and the Baudelaires could see he was not too eager to leave the restaurant and care for sick children. “We wouldn’t be leaving them alone for long.” “Our allergies are fairly mild,” Violet said truthfully, scratching at one of her hives. She stood up and led her swollen-tongued siblings toward the front door. “We’ll just lie down for an hour or two while you have a relaxing lunch. When you have signed all the papers, Captain Sham, you can just come and retrieve us.” Captain Sham’s one visible eye grew as shiny as Violet had ever seen it. “I’ll do that,” he replied. “I’ll come and retrieve you very, very soon.” “Good-bye, children,” Mr. Poe said. “I hope you feel better soon. You know, Captain Sham, there is someone at my bank who has terrible allergies. Why, I remember one time …” “Leaving so soon?” Larry asked the three children as they buttoned up their coats. Outside, the wind was blowing harder, and it had started to drizzle as Hurricane Herman got closer and closer to Lake Lachrymose . But even so, the three children were eager to leave the Anxious Clown, and not just because the garish restaurant-the word “garish” here means “filled with balloons, neon lights, and obnoxious waiters”-was filled with balloons, neon lights, and obnoxious waiters. The Baudelaires knew that they had invented just a little bit of time for themselves, and they had to use every second of it. C H A P T E R Eight When someone’s tongue swells up due to an allergic reaction, it is often difficult to understand what they are saying. “Bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh,” Klaus said, as the three children got out of the taxi and headed toward the peeling white door of Aunt Josephine’s house. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Violet said, scratching at a hive on her neck that was the exact shape of the state of Minnesota . “Bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh,” Klaus repeated, or perhaps he was saying something else; I haven’t the faintest idea. “Never mind, never mind,” Violet said, opening the door and ushering her siblings inside. “Now you have the time that you need to figure out whatever it is that you’re figuring out.” “Bluh bluh bluh,” Klaus bluhed. “I still can’t understand you,” Violet said. She took Sunny’s coat off, and then her own, and dropped them both on the floor. Normally, of course, one should hang up one’s coat on a hook or in a closet, but itchy hives are very irritating and tend to make one abandon such matters. “I’m going to assume, Klaus, that you said something in agreement. Now, unless you need us to help you, I’m going to give Sunny and myself a baking soda bath to help our hives.” “Bluh!” Sunny shrieked. She meant to shriek “Gans!” which meant something along the lines of “Good, because my hives are driving me crazy!” “Bluh,” Klaus said, nodding vigorously, and he began hurrying down the hallway. Klaus had not taken off his coat, but it wasn’t because of his own irritating allergic condition. It was because he was going someplace cold. When Klaus opened the door of the library, he was surprised at how much had changed. The wind from the approaching hurricane had blown away the last of the window, and the rain had soaked some of Aunt Josephine’s comfortable chairs, leaving dark, spreading stains. A few books had fallen from their shelves and blown over to the window, where water had swollen them. There are few sights sadder than a ruined book, but Klaus had no time to be sad. He knew Captain Sham would come and retrieve the Baudelaires as soon as he could, so he had to get right to work. First he took Aunt Josephine’s note out of his pocket and placed it on the table, weighing it down with books so it wouldn’t blow away in the wind. Then he crossed quickly to the shelves and began to scan the spines of the books, looking for titles. He chose three: Basic Rules of Grammar and Punctuation, Handbook for Advanced Apostrophe Use, and The Correct Spelling of Every English Word That Ever, Ever Existed. Each of the books was as thick as a watermelon, and Klaus staggered under the weight of carrying all three. With a loud thump he dropped them on the table. “Bluh bluh bluh, bluh bluh bluh bluh,” he mumbled to himself, and found a pen and got to work. A library is normally a very good place to work in the afternoon, but not if its window has been smashed and there is a hurricane approaching. The wind blew colder and colder, and it rained harder and harder, and the room became more and more unpleasant. But Klaus took no notice of this. He opened all of the books and took copious-the word “copious” here means “lots of-notes, stopping every so often to draw a circle around some part of what Aunt Josephine had written. It began to thunder outside, and with each roll of thunder the entire house shook, but Klaus kept flipping pages and writing things down. Then, as lightning began to flash outside, he stopped, and stared at the note for a long time, frowning intently. Finally, he wrote two words at the bottom of Aunt Josephine’s note, concentrating so hard as he did so that when Violet and Sunny entered the library and called out his name he nearly jumped out of his chair. “Bluh surprised bluh!” he shrieked, his heart pounding and his tongue a bit less swollen. “I’m sorry,” Violet said. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.” “Bluh bluh take a baking soda bluh?” he asked. “No,” Violet replied. “We couldn’t take a baking soda bath. Aunt Josephine doesn’t have any baking soda, because she never turns on the oven to bake. We just took a regular bath. But that doesn’t matter, Klaus. What have you been doing, in this freezing room? Why have you drawn circles all over Aunt Josephine’s note?” “Bluhdying grammar,” he replied, gesturing to the books. “Bluh?” Sunny shrieked, which probably meant “gluh?” which meant something along the lines of “Why are you wasting valuable time studying grammar?” “Bluhcause,” Klaus explained impatiently, “I think bluh Josephine left us a message in bluh note.” “She was miserable, and she threw herself out the window,” Violet said, shivering in the wind. “What other message could there be?” “There are too many grammatical mistakes in the bluh,” Klaus said. “Aunt Josephine loved grammar, and she’d never make that many mistakes unless she had a bluh reason. So that’s what I’ve been doing bluh-counting up the grammatical mistakes.” “Bluh,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of “Please continue, Klaus.” Klaus wiped a few raindrops off his glasses and looked down at his notes. “Well, we already know that bluh first sentence uses the wrong ‘its.’ I think that was to get our attention. But look at the second bluhtence. ‘My heart is as cold as Ike and I find life inbearable.’” “But the correct word is unbearable,” Violet said. “You told us that already.” “Bluh I think there’s more,” Klaus said. ‘“My heart is as cold as Ike’ doesn’t sound right to me. Remember, Aunt Josephine told us bluh liked to think of her husband someplace very hot.” “That’s true,” Violet said, remembering. “She said it right here in this very room. She said Ike liked the sunshine and so she imagined him someplace sunny.” “So I think Aunt Bluhsephine meant ‘cold as ice”’ Klaus said. “Okay, so we have ice and unbearable. So far this doesn’t mean anything to me,” Violet said. “Me neither,” Klaus said. “But look at bluh next part. ‘I know your children may not understand the sad life of a dowadger.’ We don’t have any children.” “That’s true,” Violet said. “I’m not planning to have children until I am considerably older.” “So why would Aunt Josephine say ‘your children’? I think she meant ‘you children.’ And I looked up ‘dowadger’ in The Correct Spelling of Every English Word That Ever, Ever Existed.’” “Why?” Violet asked. “You already know it’s a fancy word for widow.” “It is a bluhncy word for widow,” Klaus replied, “but it’s spelled D-O-W-A-G-E-R. Aunt Josephine added an extra D.” “Cold as ice” Violet said, counting on her fingers, “unbearable, you children, and an extra D in dowager. That’s not much of a message, Klaus.” “Let me finish,” Klaus said. “I discovered even more grammbluhtical mistakes. When she wrote, ‘or what would have leaded me to this desperate akt,’ she meant ‘what would have led me,’ and the word ‘act,’ of course, is spelled with a C.” “Coik!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Thinking about all this is making me dizzy!” “Me too, Sunny,” Violet said, lifting her sister up so she could sit on the table. “But let him finish.” “There are just bluh more,” Klaus said, holding up two fingers. “One, she calls Captain Sham ‘a kind and honorable men,’ when she should have said ‘a kind and honorable man.’ And in the last sentence, Aunt Josephine wrote ‘Please think of me kindly even though I’d done this terrible thing,’ but according to the Handbook for Advanced Apostrophe Use, she should have written ‘even though I’ve done this terrible thing.’” “But so what?” Violet asked. “What do all these mistakes mean?” Klaus smiled, and showed his sisters the two words he had written on the bottom of the note. “Curdled Cave,” he read out loud. “Curdled veek ?’ Sunny asked, which meant ”Curdled what?” “Curdled Cave,” Klaus repeated. “If you take all the letters involved in the grammatical mistakes, that’s what it spells. Look: C for ice instead of Ike. U for unbearable instead of inbearable. The extra R in your children instead of you children, and the extra D in dowager. L-ED for led instead of leaded. C for act instead of akt. A for man instead of men. And V-E for I’ve instead of I’d. That spells CURDLED CAVE. Don’t you see? Aunt Josephine knew she was making grammatical errors, and she knew we’d spot them. She was leaving us a message, and the message is Curdled-” A Series of Unfortunate Events 3- The Wide Window A great gust of wind interrupted Klaus as it came through the shattered window and shook the library as if it were maracas, a word which describes rattling percussion instruments used in Latin American music. Everything rattled wildly around the library as the wind flew through it. Chairs and footstools flipped over and fell to the floor with their legs in the air. The bookshelves rattled so hard that some of the heaviest books in Aunt Josephine’s collection spun off into puddles of rainwater on the floor. And the Baudelaire orphans were jerked violently to the ground as a streak of lightning flashed across the darkening sky. “Let’s get out of here!” Violet shouted over the noise of the thunder, and grabbed her siblings by the hand. The wind was blowing so hard that the Baudelaires felt as if they were climbing an enormous hill instead of walking to the door of the library. The orphans were quite out of breath by the time they shut the library door behind them and stood shivering in the hallway. “Poor Aunt Josephine,” Violet said. “Her library is wrecked.” “But I need to go back in there,” Klaus said, holding up the note. “We just found out what Aunt Josephine means by Curdled Cave , and we need a library to find out more.” “Not that library,” Violet pointed out. “All that library had were books on grammar. We need her books on Lake Lachrymose .” “Why?” Klaus asked. “Because I’ll bet you anything that’s where Curdled Cave is,” Violet said, “in Lake Lachrymose . Remember she said she knew every island in its waters and every cave on its shore? I bet Curdled Cave is one of those caves.” “But why would her secret message be about some cave?” Klaus asked. “You’ve been so busy figuring out the message,” Violet said, “that you don’t understand what it means. Aunt Josephine isn’t dead. She just wants people to think she’s dead. But she wanted to tell us that she was hiding. We have to find her books on Lake Lachrymose and find out where Curdled Cave is.” “But first we have to know where the books are,” Klaus said. “She told us she hid them away, remember?” Sunny shrieked something in agreement, but her siblings couldn’t hear her over a burst of thunder. “Let’s see,” Violet said. “Where would you hide something if you didn’t want to look at it?” The Baudelaire orphans were quiet as they thought of places they had hidden things they did not want to look at, back when they had lived with their parents in the Baudelaire home. Violet thought of an automatic harmonica she had invented that had made such horrible noises that she had hidden it so she didn’t have to think of her failure. Klaus thought of a book on the Franco- Prussian War that was so difficult that he had hidden it so as not to be reminded that he wasn’t old enough to read it. And Sunny thought of a piece of stone that was too hard for even her sharpest tooth, and how she had hidden it so her jaw would no longer ache from her many attempts at conquering it. And all three Baudelaire orphans thought of the hiding place they had chosen. “Underneath the bed,” Violet said. “Underneath the bed,” Klaus agreed. “Seeka yit,” Sunny agreed, and without another word the three children ran down the hallway to Aunt Josephine’s room. Normally it is not polite to go into somebody’s room without knocking, but you can make an exception if the person is dead, or pretending to be dead, and the Baudelaires went right inside. Aunt Josephine’s room was similar to the orphans’, with a navy-blue bedspread on the bed and a pile of tin cans in the corner. There was a small window looking out onto the rain-soaked hill, and a pile of new grammar books by the side of the bed that Aunt Josephine had not started reading, and, I’m sad to say, would never read. But the only part of the room that interested the children was underneath the bed, and the three of them knelt down to look there. Aunt Josephine, apparently, had plenty of things she did not want to look at anymore. Underneath the bed there were pots and pans, which she didn’t want to look at because they reminded her of the stove. There were ugly socks somebody had given her as a gift that were too ugly for human eyes. And the Baudelaires were sad to see a framed photograph of a kind-looking man with a handful of crackers in one hand and his lips pursed as if he were whistling. It was Ike, and the Baudelaires knew that she had placed his photograph there because she was too sad to look at it. But behind one of the biggest pots was a stack of books, and the orphans immediately reached for it. “The Tides of Lake Lachrymose,” Violet said, reading the title of the top book. “That won’t help.” “The Bottom of Lake Lachrymose ,” Klaus said, reading the next one. “That’s not useful.” “Lachrymose Trout,” Violet read. “The History of the Damocles Dock Region, ” Klaus read. “Ivan Lachrymose -Lake Explorer,” Violet read. “How Water Is Made,” Klaus read. “A Lachrymose Atlas,” Violet said. “Atlas? That’s perfect!” Klaus cried. “An atlas is a book of maps!” There was a flash of lightning outside the window, and it began to rain harder, making a sound on the roof like somebody was dropping marbles on it. Without another word the Baudelaires opened the atlas and began flipping pages. They saw map after map of the lake, but they couldn’t find Curdled Cave. “This book is four hundred seventy-eight pages long,” Klaus exclaimed, looking at the last page of the atlas. “It’ll take forever to find Curdled Cave .” “We don’t have forever,” Violet said. “Captain Sham is probably on his way here now. Use the index in the back. Look under ‘Curdled.’” Klaus flipped to the index, which I’m sure you know is an alphabetical list of each thing a book contains and what page it’s on. Klaus ran his finger down the list of the C words, muttering out loud to himself. “Carp Cove, Chartreuse Island, Cloudy Cliffs, Condiment Bay , Curdled Cave-here it is! Curdled Cave, page one hundred four.” Quickly Klaus flipped to the correct page and looked at the detailed map. “Curdled Cave, Curdled Cave , where is it?” “There it is!” Violet pointed a finger at the tiny spot on the map marked Curdled Cave . “Directly across from Damocles Dock and just west of the Lavender Lighthouse. Let’s go.” “Go?” Klaus said. “How will we get across the lake?” “The Fickle Ferry will take us,” Violet said, pointing at a dotted line on the map. “Look, the ferry goes right to the Lavender Lighthouse, and we can walk from there.” “We’re going to walk to Damocles Dock, in all this rain?” Klaus asked. “We don’t have any choice,” Violet answered. “We have to prove that Aunt Josephine is still alive, or else Captain Sham gets us.” “I just hope she is still-” Klaus started to say, but he stopped himself and pointed out the window. “Look!” Violet and Sunny looked. The window in Aunt Josephine’s bedroom looked out onto the hill, and the orphans could see one of the spidery metal stilts that kept Aunt Josephine’s house from falling into the lake. But they could also see that this stilt had been badly damaged by the howling storm. There was a large black burn mark, undoubtedly from lightning, and the wind had bent the stilt into an uneasy curve. As the storm raged around them, the orphans watched the stilt struggle to stay attached. “Tafca!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “We have to get out of here right now!” “Sunny’s right,” Violet said. “Grab the atlas and let’s go.” Klaus grabbed A Lachrymose Atlas, not wanting to think what would be happening if they were still leafing through the book and had not looked up at the window. As the youngsters stood up, the wind rose to a feverish pitch, a phrase which here means “it shook the house and sent all three orphans toppling to the floor.” Violet fell against one of the bedposts and banged her knee. Klaus fell against the cold radiator and banged his foot. And Sunny fell into the pile of tin cans and banged everything. The whole room seemed to lurch slightly to one side as the orphans staggered back to their feet. “Come on!” Violet screamed, and grabbed Sunny. The orphans scurried out to the hallway and toward the front door. A piece of the ceiling had come off, and rainwater was steadily pouring onto the carpet, splattering the orphans as they ran underneath it. The house gave another lurch, and the children toppled to the floor again. Aunt Josephine’s house was starting to slip off the hill. “Come on!” Violet screamed again, and the orphans stumbled up the tilted hallway to the door, slipping in puddles and on their own frightened feet. Klaus was the first to reach the front door, and yanked it open as the house gave another lurch, followed by a horrible, horrible crunching sound. “Come on!” Violet screamed again, and the Baudelaires crawled out of the door and onto the hill, huddling together in the freezing rain. They were cold. They were frightened. But they had escaped. I have seen many amazing things in my long and troubled life history. I have seen a series of corridors built entirely out of human skulls. I have seen a volcano erupt and send a wall of lava crawling toward a small village. I have seen a woman I loved picked up by an enormous eagle and flown to its high mountain nest. But I still cannot imagine what it was like to watch Aunt Josephine’s house topple into Lake Lachrymose . My own research tells me that the children watched in mute amazement as the peeling white door slammed shut and began to crumple, as you might crumple a piece of paper into a ball. I have been told that the children hugged each other even more tightly as they heard the rough and earsplitting noise of their home breaking loose from the side of the hill. But I cannot tell you how it felt to watch the whole building fall down, down, down, and hit the dark and stormy waters of the lake below. mailperson wants to stay inside and enjoy a cup of cocoa, he or she has to bundle up and go outside and deliver your mail anyway. The United States Postal Service does not think that icy storms should interfere with its duties. The Baudelaire orphans were distressed to learn that the Fickle Ferry had no such policy. Violet, Klaus, and Sunny had made their way down the hill with much difficulty. The storm was rising, and the children could tell that the wind and the rain wanted nothing more than to grab them and throw them into the raging waters of Lake Lachrymose . Violet and Sunny hadn’t had the time to grab their coats as they escaped the house, so all three children took turns wearing Klaus’s coat as they stumbled along the flooding road. Once or twice a car drove by, and the Baudelaires had to scurry into the muddy bushes and hide, in case Captain Sham was coming to retrieve them. When they finally reached Damocles Dock, their teeth were chattering and their feet were so cold they could scarcely feel their toes, and the sight of the CLOSED sign in the window of the Fickle Ferry ticket booth was just about more than they could stand. “It’s closed” Klaus cried, his voice rising with despair and in order to be heard over Hurricane Herman. “How will we get to Curdled Cave now?” “We’ll have to wait until it opens,” Violet replied. “But it won’t open until the storm is past,” Klaus pointed out, “and by then Captain Sham will find us and take us far away. We have to get to Aunt Josephine as soon as possible.” “I don’t know how we can,” Violet said, shivering. “The atlas says that the cave is all the way across the lake, and we can’t swim all that way in this weather.” “Entro!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “And we don’t have enough time to walk around the lake, either.” “There must be other boats on this lake,” Klaus said, “besides the ferry. Motorboats, or fishing boats, or-” He trailed off, and his eyes met those of his sisters. All three orphans were thinking the same thing. “Or sailboats” Violet finished for him. “Captain Sham’s Sailboat Rentals. He said it was right on Damocles Dock.” The Baudelaires stood under the awning of the ticket booth and looked down at the far end of the deserted dock, where they could see a metal gate that was very tall and had glistening spikes on the top of it. Hanging over the metal gate was a sign with some words they couldn’t read, and next to the sign there was a small shack, scarcely visible in the rain, with a flickering light in the window. The children looked at it with dread in their hearts. Walking into Captain Sham’s Sailboat Rentals in order to find Aunt Josephine would feel like walking into a lion’s den in order to escape from a lion. “We can’t go there,” Klaus said. “We have to,” Violet said. “We know Captain Sham isn’t there, because he’s either on his way to Aunt Josephine’s house or still at the Anxious Clown.” “But whoever is there,” Klaus said, pointing to the flickering light, “won’t let us rent a sailboat.” “They won’t know we’re the Baudelaires,” Violet replied. “We’ll tell whoever it is that we’re the Jones children and that we want to go for a sail.” “In the middle of a hurricane?” Klaus replied. “They won’t believe that.” “They’ll have to,” Violet said resolutely, a word which here means “as if she believed it, even though she wasn’t so sure,” and she led her siblings toward the shack. Klaus clasped the atlas close to his chest, and Sunny, whose turn it was for Klaus’s coat, clutched it around herself, and soon the Baudelaires were shivering underneath the sign that read: CAPTAIN SHAM’S SAILBOAT RENTALS-EVERY BOAT HAS IT’S OWN SAIL. But the tall metal gate was locked up tight, and the Baudelaires paused there, anxious about going inside the shack. “Let’s take a look,” Klaus whispered, pointing to a window, but it was too high for him or Sunny to use. Standing on tiptoe, Violet peered into the window of the shack and with one glance she knew there was no way they could rent a sailboat. The shack was very small, with only room for a small desk and a single lightbulb, which was giving off the flickering light. But at the desk, asleep in a chair, was a person so massive that it looked like an enormous blob was in the shack, snoring away with a bottle of beer in one hand and a ring of keys in the other. As the person snored, the bottle shook, the keys jangled, and the door of the shack creaked open an inch or two, but although those noises were quite spooky, they weren’t what frightened Violet. What frightened Violet was that you couldn’t tell if this person was a man or a woman. There aren’t very many people like that in the world, and Violet knew which one this was. Perhaps you have forgotten about Count Olaf’s evil comrades, but the Baudelaires had seen them in the flesh-lots of flesh, in this comrade’s case-and remembered all of them in gruesome detail. These people were rude, and they were sneaky, and they did whatever Count Olaf-or in this case, Captain Sham-told them to do, and the orphans never knew when they would turn up. And now, one had turned up right there in the shack, dangerous, treacherous, and snoring. Violet’s face must have shown her disappointment, because as soon as she took a look Klaus asked, “What’s wrong? I mean, besides Hurricane Herman, and Aunt Josephine faking her own death, and Captain Sham coming after us and everything.” “One of Count Olaf’s comrades is in the shack,” Violet said. “Which one?” Klaus asked. “The one who looks like neither a man nor a woman,” Violet replied. Klaus shuddered. “That’s the scariest one.” “I disagree,” Violet said. “I think the bald one is scariest.” “Vass!” Sunny whispered, which probably meant “Let’s discuss this at another time.” “Did he or she see you?” Klaus asked. “No,” Violet said. “He or she is asleep. But he or she is holding a ring of keys. We’ll need them, I bet, to unlock the gate and get a sailboat.” “You mean we’re going to steal a sailboat?” Klaus asked. “We have no choice,” Violet said. Stealing, of course, is a crime, and a very impolite thing to do. But like most impolite things, it is excusable under certain circumstances. Stealing is not excusable if, for instance, you are in a museum and you decide that a certain painting would look better in your house, and you simply grab the painting and take it there. But if you were very, very hungry, and you had no way of obtaining money, it might be excusable to grab the painting, take it to your house, and eat it. “We have to get to Curdled Cave as quickly as possible,” Violet continued, “and the only way we can do it is to steal a sailboat.” “I know that,” Klaus said, “but how are we going to get the keys?” “I don’t know,” Violet admitted. “The door of the shack is creaky, and I’m afraid if we open it any wider we’ll wake him or her up.” “You could crawl through the window,” Klaus said, “by standing on my shoulders. Sunny could keep watch.” “Where is Sunny?” Violet asked nervously. Violet and Klaus looked down at the ground and saw Klaus’s coat sitting alone in a little heap. They looked down the dock but only saw the Fickle Ferry ticket booth and the foamy waters of the lake, darkening in the gloom of the late afternoon. “She’s gone!” Klaus cried, but Violet put a finger to her lips and stood on tiptoe to look in the window again. Sunny was crawling through the open door of the shack, flattening her little body enough so as not to open the door any wider. “She’s inside,” Violet murmured. “In the shack?” Klaus said in a horrified gasp. “Oh no. We have to stop her.” “She’s crawling very slowly toward that person,” Violet said, afraid even to blink. “We promised our parents we’d take care of her,” Klaus said. “We can’t let her do this.” “She’s reaching toward the key ring,” Violet said breathlessly. “She’s gently prying it loose from the person’s hand.” “Don’t tell me any more,” Klaus said, as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. “No, do tell me. What is happening?” “She has the keys,” Violet said. “She’s putting them in her mouth to hold them. She’s crawling back toward the door. She’s flattening herself and crawling through.” “She’s made it,” Klaus said in amazement. Sunny came crawling triumphantly toward the orphans, the keys in her mouth. “Violet, she made it,” Klaus said, giving Sunny a hug as a huge boom! of thunder echoed across the sky. Violet smiled down at Sunny, but stopped smiling when she looked back into the shack. The thunder had awoken Count Olaf’s comrade, and Violet watched in dismay as the person looked at its empty hand where the key ring had been, and then down on the floor where Sunny had left little crawl-prints of rainwater, and then up to the window and right into Violet’s eyes. “She’s awake!” Violet shrieked. “He’s awake! It’s awake! Hurry, Klaus, open the gate and I’ll try to distract it.” Without another word, Klaus took the key ring from Sunny’s mouth and hurried to the tall metal gate. There were three keys on the ring- a skinny one, a thick one, and one with teeth as jagged as the glistening spikes hanging over the children. He put the atlas down on the ground and began to try the skinny key in the lock, just as Count Olaf’s comrade came lumbering out of the shack. Her heart in her throat, Violet stood in front of the creature and gave it a fake smile. “Good afternoon,” she said, not knowing whether to add “sir” or “madam.” “I seem to have gotten lost on this dock. Could you tell me the way to the Fickle Ferry?” Count Olaf’s comrade did not answer, but kept shuffling toward the orphans. The skinny key fit into the lock but didn’t budge, and Klaus tried the thick one. “I’m sorry,” Violet said, “I didn’t hear you. Could you tell me-” Without a word the mountainous person grabbed Violet by the hair, and with one swing of its arm lifted her up over its smelly shoulder the way you might carry a backpack. Klaus couldn’t get the thick key to fit in the lock and tried the jagged one, just as the person scooped up Sunny with its other hand and held her up, the way you might hold an ice cream cone. “Klaus!” Violet screamed. “Klaus!” The jagged key wouldn’t fit in the lock, either. Klaus, in frustration, shook and shook the metal gate. Violet was kicking the creature from behind, and Sunny was biting its wrist, but the person was so Brobdingnagian-a word which here means “unbelievably husky”-that the children were causing it minimal pain, a phrase which here means “no pain at all.” Count Olaf’s comrade lumbered toward Klaus, holding the other two orphans in its grasp. In desperation, Klaus tried the skinny key again in the lock, and to his surprise and relief it turned and the tall metal gate swung open. Just a few feet away were six sailboats tied to the end of the dock with thick rope-sailboats that could take them to Aunt Josephine. But Klaus was too late. He felt something grab the back of his shirt, and he was lifted up in the air. Something slimy began running down his back, and Klaus realized with horror that the person was holding him in his or her mouth. “Put me down!” Klaus screamed. “Put me down!” “Put me down!” Violet yelled. “Put me down!” “Poda rish!” Sunny shrieked. “Poda rish!” But the lumbering creature had no concern for the wishes of the Baudelaire orphans. With great sloppy steps it turned itself around and began to carry the youngsters back toward the shack. The children heard the gloppy sound of its chubby feet sloshing through the rain, gumsh , gumsh, gumsh, gumsh. But then, instead of a gumsh , there was a skittlewat as the person stepped on Aunt Josephine’s atlas, which slipped from under its feet. Count Olaf’s comrade waved its arms to keep its balance, dropping Violet and Sunny, and then fell to the ground, opening its mouth in surprise and dropping Klaus. The orphans, being in reasonably good physical shape, got to their feet much more quickly than this despicable creature, and ran through the open gate to the nearest sailboat. The creature struggled to right itself and chase them, but Sunny had already bitten the rope that tied the boat to the dock. By the time the creature reached the spiky metal gate, the orphans were already on the stormy waters of Lake Lachrymose . In the dim light of the late afternoon, Klaus wiped the grime of the creature’s foot off the cover of the atlas, and began to read it. Aunt Josephine’s book of maps had saved them once, in showing them the location of Curdled Cave , and now it had saved them again. please allow me to give you a piece of advice, even though I don’t know anything about you. The piece of advice is as follows: If you ever need to get to Curdled Cave in a hurry, do not, under any circumstances, steal a boat and attempt to sail across Lake Lachrymose during a hurricane, because it is very dangerous and the chances of your survival are practically zero. You should especially not do this if, like the Baudelaire orphans, you have only a vague idea of how to work a sailboat. Count Olaf’s comrade, standing at the dock and waving a chubby fist in the air, grew smaller and smaller as the wind carried the sailboat away from Damocles Dock. As Hurricane Herman raged over them, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny examined the sailboat they had just stolen. It was fairly small, with wooden seats and bright orange life jackets for five people. On top of the mast, which is a word meaning “the tall wooden post found in the middle of boats,” was a grimy white sail controlled by a series of ropes, and on the floor was a pair of wooden oars in case there was no wind. In the back, there was a sort of wooden lever with a handle for moving it this way and that, and under one of the seats was a shiny metal bucket for bailing out any water in case of a leak. There was also a long pole with a fishing net at the end of it, a small fishing rod with a sharp hook and a rusty spying glass, which is a sort of telescope used for navigating. The three siblings struggled into their life vests as the stormy waves of Lake Lachrymose took them farther and farther away from the shore. “I read a book about working a sailboat,” Klaus shouted over the noise of the hurricane. “We have to use the sail to catch the wind. Then it will push us where we want to go.” “And this lever is called a tiller,” Violet shouted. “I remember it from studying some naval blueprints. The tiller controls the rudder, which is below the water, steering the ship. Sunny, sit in back and work the tiller. Klaus, hold the atlas so we can tell where we’re going, and I’ll try to work the sail. I think if I pull on this rope, I can control the sail.” Klaus turned the damp pages of the atlas to page 104. “That way,” he called, pointing to the right. “The sun is setting over there, so that must be west.” Sunny scurried to the back of the sailboat and put her tiny hands on the tiller just as a wave hit the boat and sprayed her with foam. “Karg tern!” she called, which meant something along the lines of “I’m going to move the tiller this way, in order to steer the boat according to Klaus’s recommendation.” The rain whipped around them, and the wind howled, and a small wave splashed over the side, but to the orphans’ amazement, the sailboat moved in the exact direction they wanted it to go. If you had come across the three Baudelaires at this moment, you would have thought their lives were filled with joy and happiness, because even though they were exhausted, damp, and in very great danger, they began to laugh in their triumph. They were so relieved that something had finally gone right that they laughed as if they were at the circus instead of in the middle of a lake, in the middle of a hurricane, in the middle of trouble. As the storm wore itself out splashing waves over the sailboat and flashing lightning over their heads, the Baudelaires sailed the tiny boat across the vast and dark lake. Violet pulled ropes this way and that to catch the wind, which kept changing direction as wind tends to do. Klaus kept a close eye on the atlas and made sure they weren’t heading off course to the Wicked Whirlpool or the Rancorous Rocks. And Sunny kept the boat level by turning the tiller whenever Violet signaled. And just when the evening turned to night, and it was too dark to read the atlas, the Baudelaires saw a blinking light of pale purple. The orphans had always thought lavender was a rather sickly color, but for the first time in their lives they were glad to see it. It meant that the sailboat was approaching the Lavender Lighthouse, and soon they’d be at Curdled Cave . The storm finally broke-the word “broke” here means “ended,” rather than “shattered” or “lost all its money”-and the clouds parted to reveal an almost-full moon. The children shivered in their soaking clothes and stared out at the calming waves of the lake, watching the swirls of its inky depths. “Lake Lachrymose is actually very pretty,” Klaus said thoughtfully. “I never noticed it before.” “Cind,” Sunny agreed, adjusting the tiller slightly. “I guess we never noticed it because of Aunt Josephine,” Violet said. “We got used to looking at the lake through her eyes.” She picked up the spying glass and squinted into it, and she was just able to see the shore. “I think I can see the lighthouse over there. There’s a dark hole in the cliff right next to it. It must be the mouth of Curdled Cave .” Sure enough, as the sailboat drew closer and closer, the children could just make out the Lavender Lighthouse and the mouth of the nearby cave, but when they looked into its depths, they could see no sign of Aunt Josephine, or of anything else for that matter. Rocks began to scrape the bottom of the boat, which meant they were in very shallow water, and Violet jumped out to drag the sailboat onto the craggy shore. Klaus and Sunny stepped out of the boat and took off their life jackets. Then they stood at the mouth of Curdled Cave and paused nervously. In front of the cave there was a sign saying it was for sale, and the orphans could not imagine who would want to buy such a phantasmagoricalthe word “phantasmagorical” here means “all the creepy, scary words you can think of put together”-place. The mouth of the cave had jagged rocks all over it like teeth in the mouth of a shark. Just beyond the entrance the youngsters could see strange white rock formations, all melted and twisted together so they looked like moldy milk. The floor of the cave was as pale and dusty as if it were made of chalk. But it was not these sights that made the children pause. It was the sound coming out of the cave. It was a high-pitched, wavering wail, a hopeless and lost sound, as strange and as eerie as Curdled Cave itself. “What is that sound?” Violet asked nervously. “Just the wind, probably,” Klaus replied. “I read somewhere that when wind passes through small spaces, like caves, it can make weird noises. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” The orphans did not move. The sound did not stop. “I’m afraid of it, anyway,” Violet said. “Me too,” Klaus said. “Geni,” Sunny said, and began to crawl into the mouth of the cave. She probably meant something along the lines of “We didn’t sail a stolen sailboat across Lake Lachrymose in the middle of Hurricane Herman just to stand nervously at the mouth of a cave,” and her siblings had to agree with her and follow her inside. The wailing was louder as it echoed off the walls and rock formations, and the Baudelaires could tell it wasn’t the wind. It was Aunt Josephine, sitting in a corner of the cave and sobbing with her head in her hands. She was crying so hard that she hadn’t even noticed the Baudelaires come into the cave. “Aunt Josephine,” Klaus said hesitantly, “we’re here.” Aunt Josephine looked up, and the children could see that her face was wet from tears and chalky from the cave. “You figured it out,” she said, wiping her eyes and standing up. “I knew you could figure it out,” she said, and took each of the Baudelaires in her arms. She looked at Violet, and then at Klaus, and then at Sunny, and the orphans looked at her and found themselves with tears in their own eyes as they greeted their guardian. It was as if they had not quite believed that Aunt Josephine’s death was fake until they had seen her alive with their own eyes. “I knew you were clever children,” Aunt Josephine said. “I knew you would read my message.” “Klaus really did it,” Violet said. “But Violet knew how to work the sailboat,” Klaus said. “Without Violet we never would have arrived here.” “And Sunny stole the keys,” Violet said, “and worked the tiller.” “Well, I’m glad you all made it here,” Aunt Josephine said. “Let me just catch my breath and I’ll help you bring in your things.” The children looked at one another. “What things?” Violet asked. “Why, your luggage of course,” Aunt Josephine replied. “And I hope you brought some food, because the supplies I brought are almost gone.” “We didn’t bring any food,” Klaus said. “No food?” Aunt Josephine said. “How in the world are you going to live with me in this cave if you didn’t bring any food?” “We didn’t come here to live with you,” Violet said. Aunt Josephine’s hands flew to her head and she rearranged her bun nervously. “Then why are you here?” she asked. “Stim!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Because we were worried about you!” “‘Stim’ is not a sentence, Sunny,” Aunt Josephine said sternly. “Perhaps one of your older siblings could explain in correct English why you’re here.” “Because Captain Sham almost had us in his clutches!” Violet cried. “Everyone thought you were dead, and you wrote in your will and testament that we should be placed in the care of Captain Sham.” “But he forced me to do that,” Aunt Josephine whined. “That night, when he called me on the phone, he told me he was really Count Olaf. He said I had to write out a will saying you children would be left in his care. He said if I didn’t write what he said, he would drown me in the lake. I was so frightened that I agreed immediately.” “Why didn’t you call the police?” Violet asked. “Why didn’t you call Mr. Poe? Why didn’t you call somebody who could have helped?” “You know why,” Aunt Josephine said crossly. “I’m afraid of using the phone. Why, I was just getting used to answering it. I’m nowhere near ready to use the numbered buttons. But in any case, I didn’t need to call anybody. I threw a footstool through the window and then sneaked out of the house. I left you the note so that you would know I wasn’t really dead, but I hid my message so that Captain Sham wouldn’t know I had escaped from him.” “Why didn’t you take us with you? Why did you leave us all alone by ourselves? Why didn’t you protect us from Captain Sham?” Klaus asked. “It is not grammatically correct,” Aunt Josephine said, “to say ‘leave us all alone by ourselves.’ You can say ‘leave us all alone,’ or ‘leave us by ourselves,’ but not both. Do you understand?” The Baudelaires looked at one another in sadness and anger. They understood. They understood that Aunt Josephine was more concerned with grammatical mistakes than with saving the lives of the three children. They understood that she was so wrapped up in her own fears that she had not given a thought to what might have happened to them. They understood that Aunt Josephine had been a terrible guardian, in leaving the children all by themselves in great danger. They understood and they wished more than ever that their parents, who never would have run away and left them alone, had not been killed in that terrible fire which had begun all the misfortune in the Baudelaire lives. “Well, enough grammar lessons for today,” Aunt Josephine said. “I’m happy to see you, and you are welcome to share this cave with me. I don’t think Captain Sham will ever find us here.” “We’re not staying here” Violet said impatiently.”We’re sailing back to town, and we’re taking you with us.” “No way, Jose,” Aunt Josephine said, using an expression which means “No way” and has nothing to do with Jose, whoever he is. “I’m too frightened of Captain Sham to face him. After all he’s done to you I would think that you would be frightened of him, too.” “We are frightened of him,” Klaus said, “but if we prove that he’s really Count Olaf he will go to jail. You are the proof. If you tell Mr. Poe what happened, then Count Olaf will be locked away and we will be safe.” “You can tell him, if you want to,” Aunt Josephine said. “I’m staying here.” “He won’t believe us unless you come with us and prove that you’re alive,” Violet said. “No, no, no,” Aunt Josephine said. “I’m too afraid.” Violet took a deep breath and faced her frightened guardian. “We’re all afraid,” she said firmly. “We were afraid when we met Captain Sham in the grocery store. We were afraid when we thought that you had jumped out the window. We were afraid to give ourselves allergic reactions, and we were afraid to steal a sailboat and we were afraid to make our way across this lake in the middle of a hurricane. But that didn’t stop us.” Aunt Josephine’s eyes filled up with tears. “I can’t help it that you’re braver than I,” she said. “I’m not sailing across that lake. I’m not making any phone calls. I’m going to stay right here for the rest of my life, and nothing you can say will change my mind.” Klaus stepped forward and played his trump card, a phrase which means “said something very convincing, which he had saved for the end of the argument.” “Curdled Cave,” he said, “is for sale.” “So what?” Aunt Josephine said. “That means,” Klaus said, “that before long certain people will come to look at it. And some of those people”-he paused here dramatically-“will be realtors.” Aunt Josephine’s mouth hung open, and the orphans watched her pale throat swallow in fear. “Okay,” she said finally, looking around the cave anxiously as if a realtor were already hiding in the shadows. “I’ll go.” wearing two life jackets instead of one, and every few seconds she cried “Oh no,” even though nothing frightening was happening. “Oh no,” Aunt Josephine said, “and I mean it this time.” “What’s wrong, Aunt Josephine?” Violet said tiredly. The sailboat had reached the approximate middle of the lake. The water was still fairly calm, and the lighthouse still glowed, a pinpoint of pale purple light. There seemed to be no cause for alarm. “We’re about to enter the territory of the Lachrymose Leeches,” Aunt Josephine said. “I’m sure we’ll pass through safely,” Klaus said, peering through the spying glass to see if Damocles Dock was visible yet. “You told us that the leeches were harmless and only preyed on small fish.” “Unless you’ve eaten recently,” Aunt Josephine said. “But it’s been hours since we’ve eaten,” Violet said soothingly. “The last thing we ate were peppermints at the Anxious Clown. That was in the afternoon, and now it’s the middle of the night.” Aunt Josephine looked down, and moved away from the side of the boat. “But I ate a banana,” she whispered, “just before you arrived.” “Oh no,” Violet said. Sunny stopped moving the tiller and looked worriedly into the water. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Klaus said. “Leeches are very small animals. If we were in the water, we might have reason to fear, but I don’t think they’d attack a sailboat. Plus, Hurricane Herman may have frightened them away from their territory. I bet the Lachrymose Leeches won’t even show up.” Klaus thought he was done speaking for the moment, but in the moment that followed he added one more sentence. The sentence was “Speak of the Devil,” and it is an expression that you use when you are talking about something only to have it occur. For instance, if you were at a picnic and said, “I hope it doesn’t snow,” and at that very minute a blizzard began, you could say, “Speak of the Devil” before gathering up your blanket and potato salad and driving away to a good restaurant. But in the case of the Baudelaire orphans, I’m sure you can guess what happened to prompt Klaus to use this expression. “Speak of the Devil,” Klaus said, looking into the waters of the lake. Out of the swirling blackness came skinny, rising shapes, barely visible in the moonlight. The shapes were scarcely longer than a finger, and at first it looked as if someone were swimming in the lake and drumming their fingers on the surface of the water. But most people have only ten fingers, and in the few minutes that followed there were hundreds of these tiny shapes, wriggling hungrily from all sides toward the sailboat. The Lachrymose Leeches made a quiet, whispering sound on the water as they swam, as if the Baudelaire orphans were surrounded by people murmuring terrible secrets. The children watched in silence as the swarm approached the boat, each leech knocking lightly against the wood. Their tiny leech-mouths puckered in disappointment as they tried to taste the sailboat. Leeches are blind, but they aren’t stupid, and the Lachrymose Leeches knew that they were not eating a banana. “You see?” Klaus said nervously, as the tapping of leech-mouths continued. “We’re perfectly safe.” “Yes,” Violet said. She wasn’t sure they were perfectly safe, not at all, but it seemed best to tell Aunt Josephine they were perfectly safe. “We’re perfectly safe,” she said. The tapping sound continued, getting a little rougher and louder. Frustration is an interesting emotional state, because it tends to bring out the worst in whoever is frustrated. Frustrated babies tend to throw food and make a mess. Frustrated citizens tend to execute kings and queens and make a democracy. And frustrated moths tend to bang up against lightbulbs and make light fixtures all dusty. But unlike babies, citizens, and moths, leeches are quite unpleasant to begin with. Now that the Lachrymose Leeches were getting frustrated, everyone on board the sailboat was quite anxious to see what would happen when frustration brought out the worst in leeches. For a while, the small creatures tried and tried to eat the wood, but their tiny teeth didn’t really do anything but make an unpleasant knocking sound. But then, all at once, the leeches knocked off, and the Baudelaires watched them wriggle away from the sailboat. “They’re leaving,” Klaus said hopefully, but they weren’t leaving. When the leeches had reached a considerable distance, they suddenly swiveled their tiny bodies around and came rushing back to the boat. With a loud thwack! the leeches all hit the boat more or less at once, and the sailboat rocked precariously, a word which here means “in a way which almost threw Aunt Josephine and the Baudelaire youngsters to their doom.” The four passengers were rocked to and fro and almost fell into the waters of the lake, where the leeches were wriggling away again to prepare for another attack. “Yadec!” Sunny shrieked and pointed at the side of the boat. Yadec, of course, is not grammatically correct English, but even Aunt Josephine understood that the youngest Baudelaire meant “Look at the crack in the boat that the leeches have made!” The crack was a tiny one, about as long as a pencil and about as wide as a human hair, and it was curved downward so it looked as if the sailboat were frowning at them. If the leeches kept hitting the side of the boat, the frown would only get wider. “We have to sail much faster,” Klaus said, “or this boat will be in pieces in no time.” “But sailing relies on the wind,” Violet pointed out. “We can’t make the wind go faster.” “I’m frightened!” Aunt Josephine cried. “Please don’t throw me overboard!” “Nobody’s going to throw you overboard,” Violet said impatiently, although I’m sorry to tell you that Violet was wrong about that. “Take an oar, Aunt Josephine. Klaus, take the other one. If we use the sail, the tiller, and the oars we should move more quickly.” Thwack! The Lachrymose Leeches hit the side of the boat, widening the crack in the side and rocking the boat again. One of the leeches was thrown over the side in the impact, and twisted this way and that on the floor of the boat, gnashing its tiny teeth as it looked for food. Grimacing, Klaus walked cautiously over to it and tried to kick the leech overboard, but it clung onto his shoe and began gnawing through the leather. With a cry of disgust, Klaus shook his leg, and the leech fell to the floor of the sailboat again, stretching its tiny neck and opening and shutting its mouth. Violet grabbed the long pole with the net at the end of it, scooped up the leech, and tossed it overboard. Thwack! The crack widened enough that a bit of water began to dribble through, making a small puddle on the sailboat’s floor. “Sunny,” Violet said, “keep an eye on that puddle. When it gets bigger, use the bucket to throw it back in the lake.” “Mofee!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “I certainly will.” There was the whispering sound as the leeches swam away to ram the boat again. Klaus and Aunt Josephine began rowing as hard as they could, while Violet adjusted the sail and kept the net in her hand for any more leeches who got on board. Thwack! Thwack! There were two loud noises now, one on the side of the boat and one on the bottom, which cracked immediately. The leeches had divided up into two teams, which is good news for playing kickball but bad news if you are being attacked. Aunt Josephine gave a shriek of terror. Water was now leaking into the sailboat in two spots, and Sunny abandoned the tiller to bail the water back out. Klaus stopped rowing, and held the oar up without a word. It had several small bite marks in it-the work of the Lachrymose Leeches. “Rowing isn’t going to work,” he reported to Violet solemnly. “If we row any more these oars will be completely eaten.” Violet watched Sunny crawl around with the bucket full of water. “Rowing won’t help us, anyway,” she said. “This boat is sinking. We need help.” Klaus looked around at the dark and still waters, empty except for the sailboat and swarms of leeches. “Where can we get help in the middle of a lake?” he asked. “We’re going to have to signal for help,” Violet said, and reached into her pocket and took out a ribbon. Handing Klaus the fishing net, she used the ribbon to tie her hair up, keeping it out of her eyes. Klaus and Sunny watched her, knowing that she only tied her hair up this way when she was thinking of an invention, and right now they needed an invention quite desperately. “That’s right,” Aunt Josephine said to Violet, “close your eyes. That’s what I do when I’m afraid, and it always makes me feel better to block out the fear.” “She’s not blocking out anything,” Klaus said crossly. “She’s concentrating.” Klaus was right. Violet concentrated as hard as she could, racking her brain for a good way to signal for help. She thought of fire alarms. With flashing lights and loud sirens, fire alarms were an excellent way to signal for assistance. Although the Baudelaire orphans, of course, sadly knew that sometimes the fire engines arrived too late to save people’s lives, a fire alarm was still a good invention, and Violet tried to think of a way she could imitate it using the materials around her. She needed to make a loud sound, to get somebody’s attention. And she needed to make a bright light, so that person would know where they were. Thwack! Thwack! The two teams of leeches hit the boat again, and there was a splash as more water came pouring into the sailboat. Sunny started to fill the bucket with water, but Violet reached forward and took it from Sunny’s hands. “Bero?” Sunny shrieked, which meant “Are you crazy?” but Violet had no time to answer “No, as a matter of fact I’m not.” So she merely said “No,” and, holding the bucket in one hand, began to climb up the mast. It is difficult enough to climb up the mast of a boat, but it is triple the difficulty if the boat is being rocked by a bunch of hungry leeches, so allow me to advise you that this is another thing that you should under no circumstances try to do. But Violet Baudelaire was a wunderkind, a German word which here means “someone who is able to quickly climb masts on boats being attacked by leeches,” and soon she was on the top of the swaying mast of the boat. She took the bucket and hung it by its handle on the tip of the mast so it swung this way and that, the way a bell might do in a bell tower. “I don’t mean to interrupt you,” Klaus called, scooping up a furious leech in the net and tossing it as far as he could, “but this boat is really sinking. Please hurry.” Violet hurried. Hurriedly, she grabbed ahold of a corner of the sail and, taking a deep breath to prepare herself, jumped back down to the floor of the boat. Just as she had hoped, the sail ripped as she hurtled to the ground, slowing her down and leaving her with a large piece of torn cloth. By now the sailboat had quite a lot of water in it, and Violet splashed over to Aunt Josephine, avoiding the many leeches that Klaus was tossing out of the boat as quickly as he could. “I need your oar,” Violet said, wadding the piece of sail up into a ball, “and your hairnet.” “You can have the oar,” Aunt Josephine said, handing it over. “But I need my hairnet. It keeps my bun in place.” A Series of Unfortunate Events 3- The Wide Window “Give her the hairnet!” Klaus cried, hopping up on one of the seats as a leech tried to bite his knee. “But I’m scared of having hair in my face,” Aunt Josephine whined, just as another pair of thwack!s hit the boat. “I don’t have time to argue with you!” Violet cried. “I’m trying to save each of our lives! Give me your hairnet right now!” “The expression,” Aunt Josephine said, “is saving all of our lives, not each of our lives” but Violet had heard enough. Splashing forward and avoiding a pair of wriggling leeches, the eldest Baudelaire reached forward and grabbed Aunt Josephine’s hairnet off of her head. She wrapped the crumpled part of the sail in the hairnet, and then grabbed the fishing pole and attached the messy ball of cloth to the fishhook. It looked like she was about to go fishing for some kind of fish that liked sailboats and hair accessories for food. Thwack! Thwack! The sailboat tilted to one side and then to the other. The leeches had almost smashed their way through the side. Violet took the oar and began to rub it up and down the side of the boat as fast and as hard as she could. “What are you doing?” Klaus asked, catching three leeches in one swoop of his net. “I’m trying to create friction,” Violet said. “If I rub two pieces of wood enough, I’ll create friction. Friction creates sparks. When I get a spark, I’ll set the cloth and hairnet on fire and use it as a signal.” “You want to set a fire?” Klaus cried. “But a fire will mean more danger.” “Not if I wave the fire over my head, using the fishing pole,” Violet said. “I’ll do that, and hit the bucket like a bell, and that should create enough of a signal to fetch us some help.” She rubbed and rubbed the oar against the side of the boat, but no sparks appeared. The sad truth was that the wood was too wet from Hurricane Herman and from Lake Lachrymose to create enough friction to start a fire. It was a good idea, but Violet realized, as she rubbed and rubbed without any result, that it was the wrong idea. Thwack! Thwack! Violet looked around at Aunt Josephine and her terrified siblings and felt hope leak out of her heart as quickly as water was leaking into the boat. “It’s not working,” Violet said miserably, and felt tears fall down her cheeks. She thought of the promise she made to her parents, shortly before they were killed, that she would always take care of her younger siblings. The leeches swarmed around the sinking boat, and Violet feared that she had not lived up to her promise. “It’s not working,” she said again, and dropped the oar in despair. “We need a fire, but I can’t invent one.” “It’s okay,” Klaus said, even though of course it was not. “We’ll think of something.” “Tintet,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of “Don’t cry. You tried your best,” but Violet cried anyway. It is very easy to say that the important thing is to try your best, but if you are in real trouble the most important thing is not trying your best, but getting to safety. The boat rocked back and forth, and water poured through the cracks, and Violet cried because it looked like they would never get to safety. Her shoulders shaking with sobs, she held the spying glass up to her eye to see if, by any chance, there was a boat nearby, or if the tide had happened to carry the sailboat to shore, but all she could see was the moonlight reflecting on the rippling waters of the lake. And this was a lucky thing. Because as soon as Violet saw the flickering reflection, she remembered the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light. The scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light are very confusing, and quite frankly I can’t make head or tail of them, even when my friend Dr. Lorenz explains them to me. But they made perfect sense to Violet. Instantly, she thought of a story her father had told her, long ago, when she was just beginning to be interested in science. When her father was a boy, he’d had a dreadful cousin who liked to burn ants, starting a fire by focusing the light of the sun with her magnifying glass. Burning ants, of course, is an abhorrent hobby-the word “abhorrent” here means “what Count Olaf used to do when he was about your age”-but remembering the story made Violet see that she could use the lens of the spying glass to focus the light of the moon and make a fire. Without wasting another moment, she grabbed the spying glass and removed the lens, and then, looking up at the moon, tilted the lens at an angle she hastily computed in her head. The moonlight passed through the lens and was concentrated into a long, thin band of light, like a glowing thread leading right to the piece of sail, held in a ball by Aunt Josephine’s hairnet. In a moment the thread had become a small flame. “It’s miraculous!” Klaus cried, as the flame took hold. “It’s unbelievable!” Aunt Josephine cried. “Fonti!” Sunny shrieked. “It’s the scientific principles of the convergence and refraction of light!” Violet cried, wiping her eyes. Stepping carefully to avoid onboard leeches and so as not to put out the fire, she moved to the front of the boat. With one hand, she took the oar and rang the bucket, making a loud sound to get somebody’s attention. With the other hand, she held the fishing rod up high, making a bright light so the person would know where they were. Violet looked up at her homemade signaling device that had finally caught fire, all because of a silly story her father had told her. Her father’s ant-burning cousin sounded like a dreadful person, but if she had suddenly appeared on the sailboat Violet would have given her a big grateful hug. As it turned out, however, this signal was a mixed blessing, a phrase which means “something half good and half bad.” Somebody saw the signal almost immediately, somebody who was already sailing in the lake, and who headed toward the Baudelaires in an instant. Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and even Aunt Josephine all grinned as they saw another boat sail into view. They were being rescued, and that was the good half. But their smiles began to fade as the boat drew closer and they saw who was sailing it. Aunt Josephine and the orphans saw the wooden peg leg, and the navy-blue sailor cap, and the eye patch, and they knew who was coming to their aid. It was Captain Sham, of course, and he was probably the worst half in the world. thing ,“ Aunt Josephine said sourly. ”But these children came and got me.” Captain Sham smiled. He had expertly steered his sailboat so it was alongside the one the Baudelaires had stolen, and Aunt Josephine and the children had stepped over the swarming leeches to come aboard. With a gurgly whoosh! their own sailboat was overwhelmed with water and quickly sank into the depths of the lake. The Lachrymose Leeches swarmed around the sinking sailboat, gnashing their tiny teeth. “Aren’t you going to say thank you, orphans?” Captain Sham asked, pointing to the swirling place in the lake where their sailboat had been. “If it weren’t for me, all of you would be divided up into the stomachs of those leeches.” “If it weren’t for you,” Violet said fiercely, “we wouldn’t be in Lake Lachrymose to begin with.” “You can blame that on the old woman,” he said, pointing to Aunt Josephine. “Faking your own death was pretty clever, but not clever enough. The Baudelaire fortune-and, unfortunately, the brats who come with it-now belong to me.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Klaus said. “We don’t belong to you and we never will. Once we tell Mr. Poe what happened he will send you to jail.” “Is that so?” Captain Sham said, turning the sailboat around and sailing toward Damocles Dock. His one visible eye was shining brightly as if he were telling a joke. “Mr. Poe will send me to jail, eh? Why, Mr. Poe is putting finishing touches on your adoption papers this very moment. In a few hours, you orphans will be Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Sham.” “Neihab!” Sunny shrieked, which meant “I’m Sunny Baudelaire, and I will always be Sunny Baudelaire unless I decide for myself to legally change my name!” “When we explain that you forced Aunt Josephine to write that note,” Violet said, “Mr. Poe will rip up those adoption papers into a thousand pieces.” “Mr. Poe won’t believe you,” Captain Sham said, chuckling. “Why should he believe three runaway pipsqueaks who go around stealing boats?” “Because we’re telling the truth!” Klaus cried. “Truth, schmuth,” Captain Sham said. If you don’t care about something, one way to demonstrate your feelings is to say the word and then repeat the word with the letters S-CH-M replacing the real first letters. Somebody who didn’t care about dentists, for instance, could say “Dentists, schmentists.” But only a despicable person like Captain Sham wouldn’t care about the truth. “Truth, schmuth,” he said again. “I think Mr. Poe is more likely to believe the owner of a respectable sailboat rental place, who went out in the middle of a hurricane to rescue three ungrateful boat thieves.” “We only stole the boat,” Violet said, “to retrieve Aunt Josephine from her hiding place so she could tell everyone about your terrible plan.” “But nobody will believe the old woman, either,” Captain Sham said impatiently. “Nobody believes a dead woman.” “Are you blind in both eyes?” Klaus asked. “Aunt Josephine isn’t dead!” Captain Sham smiled again, and looked out at the lake. Just a few yards away the water was rippling as the Lachrymose Leeches swam toward Captain Sham’s sailboat. After searching every inch of the Baudelaires’ boat and failing to find any food, the leeches had realized they had been tricked and were once again following the scent of banana still lingering on Aunt Josephine. “She’s not dead yet” Captain Sham said, in a terrible voice, and took a step toward her. “Oh no,” she said. Her eyes were wide with fear. “Don’t throw me overboard,” she pleaded. “Please!” “You’re not going to reveal my plan to Mr. Poe,” Captain Sham said, taking another step toward the terrified woman, “because you will be joining your beloved Ike at the bottom of the lake.” “No she won’t,” Violet said, grabbing a rope. “I will steer us to shore before you can do anything about it.” “I’ll help,” Klaus said, running to the back and grabbing the tiller. “Igal!” Sunny shrieked, which meant something along the lines of “And I’ll guard Aunt Josephine.” She crawled in front of the Baude-laires’ guardian and bared her teeth at Captain Sham. “I promise not to say anything to Mr. Poe!” Aunt Josephine said desperately. “I’ll go someplace and hide away, and never show my face! You can tell him I’m dead! You can have the fortune! You can have the children! Just don’t throw me to the leeches!” The Baudelaires looked at their guardian in horror. “You’re supposed to be caring for us,” Violet told Aunt Josephine in astonishment, “not putting us up for grabs!” Captain Sham paused, and seemed to consider Aunt Josephine’s offer. “You have a point,” he said. “I don’t necessarily have to kill you. People just have to think that you’re dead.” “I’ll change my name!” Aunt Josephine said. “I’ll dye my hair! I’ll wear colored contact lenses! And I’ll go very, very far away! Nobody will ever hear from me!” “But what about us, Aunt Josephine?” Klaus asked in horror. “What about us?” “Be quiet, orphan,” Captain Sham snapped. The Lachrymose Leeches reached the sailboat and began tapping on the wooden side. “The adults are talking. Now, old woman, I wish I could believe you. But you hadn’t been a very trustworthy person.” “Haven’t been,” Aunt Josephine corrected, wiping a tear from her eye. “What?” Captain Sham asked. “You made a grammatical error,” Aunt Josephine said. “You said ‘But you hadn’t been a very trustworthy person,’ but you should have said, ‘you haven’t been a very trustworthy person.’” Captain Sham’s one shiny eye blinked, and his mouth curled up in a terrible smile. “Thank you for pointing that out,” he said, and took one last step toward Aunt Josephine. Sunny growled at him, and he looked down and in one swift gesture moved his peg leg and knocked Sunny to the other end of his boat. “Let me make sure I completely understand the grammatical lesson,” he said to the Baudelaires’ trembling guardian, as if nothing had happened. “You wouldn’t say ‘Josephine Anwhistle had been thrown overboard to the leeches,’ because that would be incorrect. But if you said ‘Josephine Anwhistle has been thrown overboard to the leeches,’ that would be all right with you.” “Yes,” Aunt Josephine said. “I mean no. I mean-” But Aunt Josephine never got to say what she meant. Captain Sham faced her and, using both hands, pushed her over the side of the boat. With a little gasp and a big splash she fell into the waters of Lake Lachrymose . “Aunt Josephine!” Violet cried. “Aunt Josephine!” Klaus leaned over the side of the boat and stretched his hand out as far as he could. Thanks to her two life jackets, Aunt Josephine was floating on top of the water, waving her hands in the air as the leeches swam toward her. But Captain Sham was already pulling at the ropes of the sail, and Klaus couldn’t reach her. “You fiend!” he shouted at Captain Sham. “You evil fiend!” “That’s no way to talk to your father,” Captain Sham said calmly. Violet tried to tug a rope out of Captain Sham’s hand. “Move the sailboat back!” she shouted. “Turn the boat around!” “Not a chance,” he replied smoothly. “Wave good-bye to the old woman, orphans. You’ll never see her again.” Klaus leaned over as far as he could. “Don’t worry, Aunt Josephine!” he called, but his voice revealed that he was very worried himself. The boat was already quite a ways from Aunt Josephine, and the orphans could only see the white of her hands as she waved them over the dark water. “She has a chance,” Violet said quietly to Klaus as they sailed toward the dock. “She has those life jackets, and she’s a strong swimmer.” “That’s true,” Klaus said, his voice shaky and sad. “She’s lived by the lake her whole life. Maybe she knows of an escape route.” “Legru,” Sunny said quietly, which meant “All we can do is hope.” The three orphans huddled together, shivering in cold and fear, as Captain Sham sailed the boat by himself. They didn’t dare do anything but hope. Their feelings for Aunt Josephine were all a tumble in their minds. The Baudelaires had not really enjoyed most of their time with her not because she cooked horrible cold meals, or chose presents for them that they didn’t like, or always corrected the children’s grammar, but because she was so afraid of everything that she made it impossible to really enjoy anything at all. And the worst of it was, Aunt Josephine’s fear had made her a bad guardian. A guardian is supposed to stay with children and keep them safe, but Aunt Josephine had run away at the first sign of danger. A guardian is supposed to help children in times of trouble, but Aunt Josephine practically had to be dragged out of the Curdled Cave when they needed her. And a guardian is supposed to protect children from danger, but Aunt Josephine had offered the orphans to Captain Sham in exchange for her own safety. But despite all of Aunt Josephine’s faults, the orphans still cared about her. She had taught them many things, even if most of them were boring. She had provided a home, even if it was cold and unable to withstand hurricanes. And the children knew that Aunt Josephine, like the Baudelaires themselves, had experienced some terrible things in her life. So as their guardian faded from view and the lights of Damocles Dock approached closer and closer, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny did not think “Josephine, schmosephine.” They thought “We hope Aunt Josephine is safe.” Captain Sham sailed the boat right up to the shore and tied it expertly to the dock. “Come along, little idiots,” he said, and led the Baudelaires to the tall metal gate with the glistening spikes on top, where Mr. Poe was waiting with his handkerchief in his hand and a look of relief on his face. Next to Mr. Poe was the Brobdingnagian creature, who gazed at them with a triumphant expression on his or her face. “You’re safe!” Mr. Poe said. “Thank goodness! We were so worried about you! When Captain Sham and I reached the An whistle home and saw that it had fallen into the sea, we thought you were done for!” “It is lucky my associate told me that they had stolen a sailboat,” Captain Sham told Mr. Poe. “The boat was nearly destroyed by Hurricane Herman, and by a swarm of leeches. I rescued them just in time.” “He did not!” Violet shouted. “He threw Aunt Josephine into the lake! We have to go and rescue her!” “The children are upset and confused,” Captain Sham said, his eye shining. “As their father, I think they need a good night’s sleep.” “He’s not our father!” Klaus shouted. “He’s Count Olaf, and he’s a murderer! Please, Mr. Poe, alert the police! We have to save Aunt Josephine!” “Oh, dear,” Mr. Poe said, coughing into his handkerchief. “You certainly are confused, Klaus. Aunt Josephine is dead, remember? She threw herself out the window.” “No, no,” Violet said. “Her suicide note had a secret message in it. Klaus decoded the note and it said ‘Curdled Cave .’ Actually, it said ‘apostrophe Curdled Cave ,’ but the apostrophe was just to get our attention.” “You’re not making any sense,” Mr. Poe said. “What cave? What apostrophe?” “Klaus,” Violet said, “show Mr. Poe the note.” “You can show it to him in the morning,” Captain Sham said, in a falsely soothing tone. “You need a good night’s sleep. My associate will take you to my apartment while I stay here and finish the adoption paperwork with Mr. Poe.” “But-” Klaus said. “But nothing,” Captain Sham said. “You’re very distraught, which means ‘upset.’” “I know what it means,” Klaus said. “Please listen to us,” Violet begged Mr. Poe. “It’s a matter of life or death. Please just take a look at the note.” “You can show it to him,” Captain Sham said, his voice rising in anger, “in the morning. Now please follow my associate to my minivan and go straight to bed.” “Hold on a minute, Captain Sham,” Mr. Poe said. “If it upsets the children so much, I’ll take a look at the note. It will only take a moment.” “Thank you,” Klaus said in relief, and reached into his pocket for the note. But as soon as hereached inside his face fell in disappointment, and I’m sure you can guess why. If you place a piece of paper in your pocket, and then soak yourself in a hurricane, the piece of paper, no matter how important it is, will turn into a soggy mess. Klaus pulled a damp lump out of his pocket, and the orphans looked at the remains of Aunt Josephine’s note. You could scarcely tell that it had been a piece of paper, let alone read the note or the secret it contained. “This was the note,” Klaus said, holding it out to Mr. Poe. “You’ll just have to take our word for it that Aunt Josephine was still alive.” “And she might still be alive!” Violet cried. “Please, Mr. Poe, send someone to rescue her!” “Oh my, children,” Mr. Poe said. “You’re so sad and worried. But you don’t have to worry anymore. I have always promised to provide for you, and I think Captain Sham will do an excellent job of raising you. He has a steady business and doesn’t seem likely to throw himself out of a window. And it’s obvious he cares for you very much-why, he went out alone, in the middle of a hurricane, to search for you.” “The only thing he cares about,” Klaus said bitterly, “is our fortune.” “Why, that’s not true,” Captain Sham said. “I don’t want a penny of your fortune. Except, of course, to pay for the sailboat you stole and wrecked.” Mr. Poe frowned, and coughed into his handkerchief. “Well, that’s a surprising request,” he said, “but I suppose that can be arranged. Now, children, please go to your new home while I make the final arrangements with Captain Sham. Perhaps we’ll have time for breakfast tomorrow before I head back to the city.” “Please, ” Violet cried. “Please, won’t you listen to us?” “Please” Klaus cried. “Please, won’t you believe us?” Sunny did not say anything. Sunny had not said anything for a long time, and if her siblings hadn’t been so busy trying to reason with Mr. Poe, they would have noticed that she wasn’t even looking up to watch everyone talking. During this whole conversation, Sunny was looking straight ahead, and if you are a baby this means looking at people’s legs. The leg she was looking at was Captain Sham’s. She wasn’t looking at his right leg, which was perfectly normal, but at his peg leg. She was looking at the stump of dark polished wood, attached to his left knee with a curved metal hinge, and concentrating very hard. It may surprise you to learn that at this moment, Sunny resembled the famous Greek conqueror Alexander the Great. Alexander the Great lived more than two thousand years ago, and his last name was not actually “The Great.” “The Great” was something that he forced people to call him, by bringing a bunch of soldiers into their land and proclaiming himself king. Besides invading other people’s countries and forcing them to do whatever he said, Alexander the Great was famous for something called the Gordian Knot. The Gordian Knot was a fancy knot tied in a piece of rope by a king named Gordius. Gordius said that if Alexander could untie it, he could rule the whole kingdom. But Alexander, who was too busy conquering places to learn how to untie knots, simply drew his sword and cut the Gordian Knot in two. This was cheating, of course, but Alexander had too many soldiers for Gordius to argue, and soon everybody in Gordium had to bow down to You-Know-Who the Great. Ever since then, a difficult problem can be called a Gordian Knot, and if you solve the problem in a simple way- even if the way is rude-you are cutting the Gordian Knot. The problem the Baudelaire orphans were experiencing could certainly be called a Gordian Knot, because it looked impossible to solve. The problem, of course, was that Captain Sham’s despicable plan was about to succeed, and the way to solve it was to convince Mr. Poe of what was really going on. But with Aunt Josephine thrown in the lake, and her note a ruined lump of wet paper, Violet and Klaus were unable to convince Mr. Poe of anything. Sunny, however, stared at Captain Sham’s peg leg and thought of a simple, if rude, way of solving the problem. As all the taller people argued and paid no attention to Sunny, the littlest Baudelaire crawled as close as she could to the peg leg, opened her mouth and bit down as hard as she could. Luckily for the Baudelaires, Sunny’s teeth were as sharp as the sword of Alexander the Great, and Captain Sham’s peg leg split right in half with a crack! that made everybody look down. As I’m sure you’ve guessed, the peg leg was fake, and it split open to reveal Captain Sham’s real leg, pale and sweaty from knee to toes. But it was neither the knee nor the toes that interested everyone. It was the ankle. For there on the pale and sweaty skin of Captain Sham was the solution to their problem. By biting the peg leg, Sunny had cut the Gordian Knot, for as the wooden pieces of fake peg leg fell to the floor of Damocles Dock, everyone could see a tattoo of an eye. of his one shiny eye, he twisted his face to make it look as astonished as Mr. Poe’s. “My leg!” Count Olaf cried, in a voice of false joy. “My leg has grown back! It’s amazing! It’s wonderful! It’s a medical miracle!” “Oh come now,” Mr. Poe said, folding his arms. “That won’t work. Even a child can see that your peg leg was false.” “A child did see it,” Violet whispered to Klaus. “Three children, in fact.” “Well, maybe the peg leg was false,” Count Olaf admitted, and took a step backward. “But I’ve never seen this tattoo in my life.” “Oh come now,” Mr. Poe said again. “That won’t work, either. You tried to hide the tattoo with the peg leg, but now we can see that you are really Count Olaf.” “Well, maybe the tattoo is mine,” Count Olaf admitted, and took another step backward. “But I’m not this Count Olaf person. I’m Captain Sham. See, I have a business card here that says so.” “Oh come now,” Mr. Poe said yet again. “That won’t work. Anyone can go to a print shop and have cards made that say anything they like.” “Well, maybe I’m not Captain Sham,” Count Olaf admitted, “but the children still belong to me. Josephine said that they did.” “Oh come now,” Mr. Poe said for the fourth and final time. “That won’t work. Aunt Josephine left the children to Captain Sham, not to Count Olaf. And you are Count Olaf, not Captain Sham. So it is once again up to me to decide who will care for the Baudelaires. I will send these three youngsters somewhere else, and I will send you to jail. You have performed your evil deeds for the last time, Olaf. You tried to steal the Baudelaire fortune by marrying Violet. You tried to steal the Baudelaire fortune by murdering Uncle Monty.” “And this,” Count Olaf growled, “was my greatest plan yet.” He reached up and tore off his eyepatch-which was fake, of course, like his peg leg-and stared at the Baudelaires with both of his shiny eyes. “I don’t like to brag- actually, why should I lie to you fools anymore?-I love to brag, and forcing that stupid old woman to write that note was really something to brag about. What a ninny Josephine was!” “She was not a ninny!” Klaus cried. “She was kind and sweet!” “Sweet?” Count Olaf repeated, with a horrible smile. “Well, at this very moment the Lachrymose Leeches are probably finding her very sweet indeed. She might be the sweetest breakfast they ever ate.” Mr. Poe frowned, and coughed into his white handkerchief. “That’s enough of your revolting talk, Olaf,” he said sternly. “We’ve caught you now, and there’s no way you’ll be getting away. The Lake Lachrymose Police Department will be happy to capture a known criminal wanted for fraud, murder, and the endangerment of children.” “And arson,” Count Olaf piped up. “I said that’s enough” Mr. Poe growled. Count Olaf, the Baudelaire orphans, and even the massive creature looked surprised that Mr. Poe had spoken so sternly. “You have preyed upon these children for the last time, and I am making absolutely sure that you are handed over to the proper authorities. Disguising yourself won’t work. Telling lies won’t work. In fact there’s nothing at all you can do about your situation.” “Really?” Count Olaf said, and his filthy lips curved up in a smile. “I can think of something that I can do.” “And what,” said Mr. Poe, “is that?” Count Olaf looked at each one of the Baudelaire orphans, giving each one a smile as if the children were tiny chocolates he was saving to eat for later. Then he smiled at the massive creature, and then, slowly, he smiled at Mr. Poe. “I can run,” he said, and ran. Count Olaf ran, with the massive creature lumbering behind him, in the direction of the heavy metal gate. “Get back here!” Mr. Poe shouted. “Get back here in the name of the law! Get back here in the name of justice and righteousness! Get back here in the name of Mulctuary Money Management!” “We can’t just shout at them!” Violet shouted. “Come on! We have to chase them!” “I’m not going to allow children to chase after a man like that,” Mr. Poe said, and called out again, “Stop, I say! Stop right there!” “We can’t let them escape!” Klaus cried. “Come on, Violet! Come on, Sunny!” “No, no, this is no job for children,” Mr. Poe said. “Wait here with your sisters, Klaus. I’ll retrieve them. They won’t get away from Mr. Poe. You, there! Stop!” “But we can’t wait here!” Violet cried. “We have to get into a sailboat and look for Aunt Josephine! She may still be alive!” “You Baudelaire children are under my care,” Mr. Poe said firmly. “I’m not going to let small children sail around unaccompanied.” “But if we hadn’t sailed unaccompanied,” Klaus pointed out, “we’d be in Count Olaf’s clutches by now!” “That’s not the point,” Mr. Poe said, and began to walk quickly toward Count Olaf and the creature. “The point is-” But the children didn’t hear the point over the loud slam! of the tall metal gate. The creature had slammed it shut just as Mr. Poe had reached it. “Stop immediately!” Mr. Poe ordered, calling through the gate. “Come back here, you unpleasant person!” He tried to open the tall gate and found it locked. “It’s locked!” he cried to the children. “Where is the key? We must find the key!” The Baudelaires rushed to the gate but stopped as they heard a jingling sound. “I have the key,” said Count Olaf’s voice, from the other side of the gate. “But don’t worry. I’ll see you soon, orphans. Very soon.” “Open this gate immediately!” Mr. Poe shouted, but of course nobody opened the gate. He shook it and shook it, but the spiky metal gate never opened. Mr. Poe hurried to a phone booth and called the police, but the children knew that by the time help arrived Count Olaf would be long gone. Utterly exhausted and more than utterly miserable, the Baudelaire orphans sank to the ground, sitting glumly in the very same spot where we found them at the beginning of this story. In the first chapter, you will remember, the Baudelaires were sitting on their suitcases, hoping that their lives were about to get a little bit better, and I wish I could tell you, here at the end of the story, that it was so. I wish I could write that Count Olaf was captured as he tried to flee, or that Aunt Josephine came swimming up to Damocles Dock, having miraculously escaped from the Lachrymose Leeches. But it was not so. As the children sat on the damp ground, Count Olaf was already halfway across the lake and would soon be on board a train, disguised as a rabbi to fool the police, and I’m sorry to tell you that he was already concocting another scheme to steal the Baudelaire fortune. And we can never know exactly what was happening to Aunt Josephine as the children sat on the dock, unable to help her, but I will say that eventually-about the time when the Baudelaire orphans were forced to attend a miserable boarding school-two fishermen found both of Aunt Josephine’s life jackets, all in tatters and floating alone in the murky waters of Lake Lachrymose. In most stories, as you know, the villain would be defeated, there would be a happy ending, and everybody would go home knowing the moral of the story. But in the case of the Baudelaires everything was wrong. Count Olaf, the villain, had not succeeded with his evil plan, but he certainly hadn’t been defeated, either. You certainly couldn’t say that there was a happy ending. And the Baudelaires could not go home knowing the moral of the story, for the simple reason that they could not go home at all. Not only had Aunt Josephine’s house fallen into the lake, but the Baudelaires’ real home-the house where they had lived with their parents-was just a pile of ashes in a vacant lot, and they couldn’t go back there no matter how much they wanted to. But even if they could go home it would be difficult for me to tell you what the moral of the story is. In some stories, it’s easy. The moral of “The Three Bears,” for instance, is “Never break into someone else’s house.” The moral of “Snow White” is “Never eat apples.” The moral of World War One is “Never assassinate Archduke Ferdinand.” But Violet, Klaus, and Sunny sat on the dock and watched the sun come up over Lake Lachrymose and wondered exactly what the moral was of their time with Aunt Josephine. The expression “It dawned on them,” which I am about to use, does not have anything to do with the sunlight spreading out over Damocles Dock. “It dawned on them” simply means “They figured something out,” and as the Baudelaire orphans sat and watched the dock fill with people as the business of the day began, they figured out something that was very important to them. It dawned on them that unlike Aunt Josephine, who had lived up in that house, sad and alone, the three children had one another for comfort and support over the course of their miserable lives. And while this did not make them feel entirely safe, or entirely happy, it made them feel appreciative. “Thank you, Klaus,” Violet said appreciatively, “for figuring out that note. And thank you, Sunny, for stealing the keys to the sailboat. If it weren’t for the two of you we would now be in Count Olaf’s clutches.” “Thank you, Violet,” Klaus said appreciatively, “for thinking of the peppermints to gain us some time. And thank you, Sunny, for biting the peg leg just at the right moment. If it weren’t for the two of you, we would now be doomed.” “Pilums,” Sunny said appreciatively, and her siblings understood at once that she was thanking Violet for inventing the signaling device, and thanking Klaus for reading the atlas and guiding them to Curdled Cave . They leaned up against one another appreciatively, and small smiles appeared on their damp and anxious faces. They had each other. I’m not sure that “The Baudelaires had each other” is the moral of this story, but to the three siblings it was enough. To have each other in the midst of their unfortunate lives felt like having a sailboat in the middle of a hurricane, and to the Baudelaire orphans this felt very fortunate indeed. To My Kind Editor, I am writing to you from the Paltryville Town Hall , where I have convinced the mayor to allow me inside the eye-shaped office of Dr. Orwell in order to further investigate what happened to the Baudelaire orphans while they were living in the area. Next Friday, a black jeep will be in the northwest corner of the parking lot of the Orion Observatory. Break into it. In the glove compartment, you should find my description of this frightening chapter in the Baudelaires’ lives, entitled THE MISERABLE MILL, as well as some information on hypnosis, a surgical mask, and sixty-eight sticks of gum. I have also included the blueprint of the pincher machine, which I believe Mr. Helquist will find useful for his illustrations. Remember, you are my last hope that the tales of the Baudelaire orphans can finally be told to the general public. With all due respect, Lemony Snicket

To kill a Mockingbird

Chapter 1 When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt. When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up the Alabama, and where would we be if he hadn’t? We were far too old to settle an argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right. Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley’s strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having forgotten his teacher’s dictum on the possession of human chattels, bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to an impressive age and died rich. It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon’s homestead, Finch’s Landing, and make their living from cotton. The place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everything required to sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing, supplied by river-boats from Mobile. Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between the North and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of everything but their land, yet the tradition of living on the land remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when my father, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger brother went to Boston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was the Finch who remained at the Landing: she married a taciturn man who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river wondering if his trot-lines were full. When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and began his practice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus’s office in the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus had urged them to accept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb’s leading blacksmith in a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a mare, were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-itcoming-to-him was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an occasion that was probably the beginning of my father’s profound distaste for the practice of criminal law. During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy more than anything; for several years thereafter he invested his earnings in his brother’s education. John Hale Finch was ten years younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at a time when cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started, Atticus derived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he was Maycomb County born and bred; he knew his people, they knew him, and because of Simon Finch’s industry, Atticus was related by blood or marriage to nearly every family in the town. Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer’s day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum. People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County. But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear itself. We lived on the main residential street in town— Atticus, Jem and I, plus Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment. Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones; she was nearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and twice as hard. She was always ordering me out of the kitchen, asking me why I couldn’t behave as well as Jem when she knew he was older, and calling me home when I wasn’t ready to come. Our battles were epic and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always took her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had felt her tyrannical presence as long as I could remember. Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was a Graham from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to the state legislature. He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen years his junior. Jem was the product of their first year of marriage; four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died from a sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did not miss her, but I think Jem did. He remembered her clearly, and sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh at length, then go off and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, I knew better than to bother him. When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime boundaries (within calling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house two doors to the north of us, and the Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never tempted to break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell. That was the summer Dill came to us. Early one morning as we were beginning our day’s play in the back yard, Jem and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford’s collard patch. We went to the wire fence to see if there was a puppy— Miss Rachel’s rat terrier was expecting— instead we found someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn’t much higher than the collards. We stared at him until he spoke: “Hey.” “Hey yourself,” said Jem pleasantly. “I’m Charles Baker Harris,” he said. “I can read.” “So what?” I said. “I just thought you’d like to know I can read. You got anything needs readin‘ I can do it…” “How old are you,” asked Jem, “four-and-a-half?” “Goin‘ on seven.” “Shoot no wonder, then,” said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. “Scout yonder’s been readin‘ ever since she was born, and she ain’t even started to school yet. You look right puny for goin’ on seven.” “I’m little but I’m old,” he said. Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. “Why don’t you come over, Charles Baker Harris?” he said. “Lord, what a name.” “‘s not any funnier’n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name’s Jeremy Atticus Finch.” Jem scowled. “I’m big enough to fit mine,” he said. “Your name’s longer’n you are. Bet it’s a foot longer.” “Folks call me Dill,” said Dill, struggling under the fence. “Do better if you go over it instead of under it,” I said. “Where’d you come from?” Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with his aunt, Miss Rachel, and would be spending every summer in Maycomb from now on. His family was from Maycomb County originally, his mother worked for a photographer in Meridian, had entered his picture in a Beautiful Child contest and won five dollars. She gave the money to Dill, who went to the picture show twenty times on it. “Don’t have any picture shows here, except Jesus ones in the courthouse sometimes,” said Jem. “Ever see anything good?” Dill had seen Dracula, a revelation that moved Jem to eye him with the beginning of respect. “Tell it to us,” he said. Dill was a curiosity. He wore blue linen shorts that buttoned to his shirt, his hair was snow white and stuck to his head like duckfluff; he was a year my senior but I towered over him. As he told us the old tale his blue eyes would lighten and darken; his laugh was sudden and happy; he habitually pulled at a cowlick in the center of his forehead. When Dill reduced Dracula to dust, and Jem said the show sounded better than the book, I asked Dill where his father was: “You ain’t said anything about him.” “I haven’t got one.” “Is he dead?” “No…” “Then if he’s not dead you’ve got one, haven’t you?” Dill blushed and Jem told me to hush, a sure sign that Dill had been studied and found acceptable. Thereafter the summer passed in routine contentment. Routine contentment was: improving our treehouse that rested between giant twin chinaberry trees in the back yard, fussing, running through our list of dramas based on the works of Oliver Optic, Victor Appleton, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. In this matter we were lucky to have Dill. He played the character parts formerly thrust upon me— the ape in Tarzan, Mr. Crabtree in The Rover Boys, Mr. Damon in Tom Swift. Thus we came to know Dill as a pocket Merlin, whose head teemed with eccentric plans, strange longings, and quaint fancies. But by the end of August our repertoire was vapid from countless reproductions, and it was then that Dill gave us the idea of making Boo Radley come out. The Radley Place fascinated Dill. In spite of our warnings and explanations it drew him as the moon draws water, but drew him no nearer than the light-pole on the corner, a safe distance from the Radley gate. There he would stand, his arm around the fat pole, staring and wondering. The Radley Place jutted into a sharp curve beyond our house. Walking south, one faced its porch; the sidewalk turned and ran beside the lot. The house was low, was once white with a deep front porch and green shutters, but had long ago darkened to the color of the slate-gray yard around it. Rain-rotted shingles drooped over the eaves of the veranda; oak trees kept the sun away. The remains of a picket drunkenly guarded the front yard— a “swept” yard that was never swept— where johnson grass and rabbit-tobacco grew in abundance. Inside the house lived a malevolent phantom. People said he existed, but Jem and I had never seen him. People said he went out at night when the moon was down, and peeped in windows. When people’s azaleas froze in a cold snap, it was because he had breathed on them. Any stealthy small crimes committed in Maycomb were his work. Once the town was terrorized by a series of morbid nocturnal events: people’s chickens and household pets were found mutilated; although the culprit was Crazy Addie, who eventually drowned himself in Barker’s Eddy, people still looked at the Radley Place, unwilling to discard their initial suspicions. A Negro would not pass the Radley Place at night, he would cut across to the sidewalk opposite and whistle as he walked. The Maycomb school grounds adjoined the back of the Radley lot; from the Radley chickenyard tall pecan trees shook their fruit into the schoolyard, but the nuts lay untouched by the children: Radley pecans would kill you. A baseball hit into the Radley yard was a lost ball and no questions asked. The misery of that house began many years before Jem and I were born. The Radleys, welcome anywhere in town, kept to themselves, a predilection unforgivable in Maycomb. They did not go to church, Maycomb’s principal recreation, but worshiped at home; Mrs. Radley seldom if ever crossed the street for a mid-morning coffee break with her neighbors, and certainly never joined a missionary circle. Mr. Radley walked to town at eleven-thirty every morning and came back promptly at twelve, sometimes carrying a brown paper bag that the neighborhood assumed contained the family groceries. I never knew how old Mr. Radley made his living— Jem said he “bought cotton,” a polite term for doing nothing—but Mr. Radley and his wife had lived there with their two sons as long as anybody could remember. The shutters and doors of the Radley house were closed on Sundays, another thing alien to Maycomb’s ways: closed doors meant illness and cold weather only. Of all days Sunday was the day for formal afternoon visiting: ladies wore corsets, men wore coats, children wore shoes. But to climb the Radley front steps and call, “He-y,” of a Sunday afternoon was something their neighbors never did. The Radley house had no screen doors. I once asked Atticus if it ever had any; Atticus said yes, but before I was born. According to neighborhood legend, when the younger Radley boy was in his teens he became acquainted with some of the Cunninghams from Old Sarum, an enormous and confusing tribe domiciled in the northern part of the county, and they formed the nearest thing to a gang ever seen in Maycomb. They did little, but enough to be discussed by the town and publicly warned from three pulpits: they hung around the barbershop; they rode the bus to Abbottsville on Sundays and went to the picture show; they attended dances at the county’s riverside gambling hell, the Dew-Drop Inn & Fishing Camp; they experimented with stumphole whiskey. Nobody in Maycomb had nerve enough to tell Mr. Radley that his boy was in with the wrong crowd. One night, in an excessive spurt of high spirits, the boys backed around the square in a borrowed flivver, resisted arrest by Maycomb’s ancient beadle, Mr. Conner, and locked him in the courthouse outhouse. The town decided something had to be done; Mr. Conner said he knew who each and every one of them was, and he was bound and determined they wouldn’t get away with it, so the boys came before the probate judge on charges of disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, assault and battery, and using abusive and profane language in the presence and hearing of a female. The judge asked Mr. Conner why he included the last charge; Mr. Conner said they cussed so loud he was sure every lady in Maycomb heard them. The judge decided to send the boys to the state industrial school, where boys were sometimes sent for no other reason than to provide them with food and decent shelter: it was no prison and it was no disgrace. Mr. Radley thought it was. If the judge released Arthur, Mr. Radley would see to it that Arthur gave no further trouble. Knowing that Mr. Radley’s word was his bond, the judge was glad to do so. The other boys attended the industrial school and received the best secondary education to be had in the state; one of them eventually worked his way through engineering school at Auburn. The doors of the Radley house were closed on weekdays as well as Sundays, and Mr. Radley’s boy was not seen again for fifteen years. But there came a day, barely within Jem’s memory, when Boo Radley was heard from and was seen by several people, but not by Jem. He said Atticus never talked much about the Radleys: when Jem would question him Atticus’s only answer was for him to mind his own business and let the Radleys mind theirs, they had a right to; but when it happened Jem said Atticus shook his head and said, “Mm, mm, mm.” So Jem received most of his information from Miss Stephanie Crawford, a neighborhood scold, who said she knew the whole thing. According to Miss Stephanie, Boo was sitting in the livingroom cutting some items from The Maycomb Tribune to paste in his scrapbook. His father entered the room. As Mr. Radley passed by, Boo drove the scissors into his parent’s leg, pulled them out, wiped them on his pants, and resumed his activities. Mrs. Radley ran screaming into the street that Arthur was killing them all, but when the sheriff arrived he found Boo still sitting in the livingroom, cutting up the Tribune. He was thirty-three years old then. Miss Stephanie said old Mr. Radley said no Radley was going to any asylum, when it was suggested that a season in Tuscaloosa might be helpful to Boo. Boo wasn’t crazy, he was high-strung at times. It was all right to shut him up, Mr. Radley conceded, but insisted that Boo not be charged with anything: he was not a criminal. The sheriff hadn’t the heart to put him in jail alongside Negroes, so Boo was locked in the courthouse basement. Boo’s transition from the basement to back home was nebulous in Jem’s memory. Miss Stephanie Crawford said some of the town council told Mr. Radley that if he didn’t take Boo back, Boo would die of mold from the damp. Besides, Boo could not live forever on the bounty of the county. Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight, but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Atticus said no, it wasn’t that sort of thing, that there were other ways of making people into ghosts. My memory came alive to see Mrs. Radley occasionally open the front door, walk to the edge of the porch, and pour water on her cannas. But every day Jem and I would see Mr. Radley walking to and from town. He was a thin leathery man with colorless eyes, so colorless they did not reflect light. His cheekbones were sharp and his mouth was wide, with a thin upper lip and a full lower lip. Miss Stephanie Crawford said he was so upright he took the word of God as his only law, and we believed her, because Mr. Radley’s posture was ramrod straight. He never spoke to us. When he passed we would look at the ground and say, “Good morning, sir,” and he would cough in reply. Mr. Radley’s elder son lived in Pensacola; he came home at Christmas, and he was one of the few persons we ever saw enter or leave the place. From the day Mr. Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died. But there came a day when Atticus told us he’d wear us out if we made any noise in the yard and commissioned Calpurnia to serve in his absence if she heard a sound out of us. Mr. Radley was dying. He took his time about it. Wooden sawhorses blocked the road at each end of the Radley lot, straw was put down on the sidewalk, traffic was diverted to the back street. Dr. Reynolds parked his car in front of our house and walked to the Radley’s every time he called. Jem and I crept around the yard for days. At last the sawhorses were taken away, and we stood watching from the front porch when Mr. Radley made his final journey past our house. “There goes the meanest man ever God blew breath into,” murmured Calpurnia, and she spat meditatively into the yard. We looked at her in surprise, for Calpurnia rarely commented on the ways of white people. The neighborhood thought when Mr. Radley went under Boo would come out, but it had another think coming: Boo’s elder brother returned from Pensacola and took Mr. Radley’s place. The only difference between him and his father was their ages. Jem said Mr. Nathan Radley “bought cotton,” too. Mr. Nathan would speak to us, however, when we said good morning, and sometimes we saw him coming from town with a magazine in his hand. The more we told Dill about the Radleys, the more he wanted to know, the longer he would stand hugging the light-pole on the corner, the more he would wonder. “Wonder what he does in there,” he would murmur. “Looks like he’d just stick his head out the door.” Jem said, “He goes out, all right, when it’s pitch dark. Miss Stephanie Crawford said she woke up in the middle of the night one time and saw him looking straight through the window at her… said his head was like a skull lookin‘ at her. Ain’t you ever waked up at night and heard him, Dill? He walks like this-” Jem slid his feet through the gravel. “Why do you think Miss Rachel locks up so tight at night? I’ve seen his tracks in our back yard many a mornin’, and one night I heard him scratching on the back screen, but he was gone time Atticus got there.” “Wonder what he looks like?” said Dill. Jem gave a reasonable description of Boo: Boo was about six-and-a-half feet tall, judging from his tracks; he dined on raw squirrels and any cats he could catch, that’s why his hands were bloodstained—if you ate an animal raw, you could never wash the blood off. There was a long jagged scar that ran across his face; what teeth he had were yellow and rotten; his eyes popped, and he drooled most of the time. “Let’s try to make him come out,” said Dill. “I’d like to see what he looks like.” Jem said if Dill wanted to get himself killed, all he had to do was go up and knock on the front door. Our first raid came to pass only because Dill bet Jem The Gray Ghost against two Tom Swifts that Jem wouldn’t get any farther than the Radley gate. In all his life, Jem had never declined a dare. Jem thought about it for three days. I suppose he loved honor more than his head, for Dill wore him down easily: “You’re scared,” Dill said, the first day. “Ain’t scared, just respectful,” Jem said. The next day Dill said, “You’re too scared even to put your big toe in the front yard.” Jem said he reckoned he wasn’t, he’d passed the Radley Place every school day of his life. “Always runnin‘,” I said. But Dill got him the third day, when he told Jem that folks in Meridian certainly weren’t as afraid as the folks in Maycomb, that he’d never seen such scary folks as the ones in Maycomb. This was enough to make Jem march to the corner, where he stopped and leaned against the light-pole, watching the gate hanging crazily on its homemade hinge. “I hope you’ve got it through your head that he’ll kill us each and every one, Dill Harris,” said Jem, when we joined him. “Don’t blame me when he gouges your eyes out. You started it, remember.” “You’re still scared,” murmured Dill patiently. Jem wanted Dill to know once and for all that he wasn’t scared of anything: “It’s just that I can’t think of a way to make him come out without him gettin‘ us.” Besides, Jem had his little sister to think of. When he said that, I knew he was afraid. Jem had his little sister to think of the time I dared him to jump off the top of the house: “If I got killed, what’d become of you?” he asked. Then he jumped, landed unhurt, and his sense of responsibility left him until confronted by the Radley Place. “You gonna run out on a dare?” asked Dill. “If you are, then-” “Dill, you have to think about these things,” Jem said. “Lemme think a minute… it’s sort of like making a turtle come out…” “How’s that?” asked Dill. “Strike a match under him.” I told Jem if he set fire to the Radley house I was going to tell Atticus on him. Dill said striking a match under a turtle was hateful. “Ain’t hateful, just persuades him—‘s not like you’d chunk him in the fire,” Jem growled. “How do you know a match don’t hurt him?” “Turtles can’t feel, stupid,” said Jem. “Were you ever a turtle, huh?” “My stars, Dill! Now lemme think… reckon we can rock him…” Jem stood in thought so long that Dill made a mild concession: “I won’t say you ran out on a dare an‘ I’ll swap you The Gray Ghost if you just go up and touch the house.” Jem brightened. “Touch the house, that all?” Dill nodded. “Sure that’s all, now? I don’t want you hollerin‘ something different the minute I get back.” “Yeah, that’s all,” said Dill. “He’ll probably come out after you when he sees you in the yard, then Scout’n‘ me’ll jump on him and hold him down till we can tell him we ain’t gonna hurt him.” We left the corner, crossed the side street that ran in front of the Radley house, and stopped at the gate. “Well go on,” said Dill, “Scout and me’s right behind you.” “I’m going,” said Jem, “don’t hurry me.” He walked to the corner of the lot, then back again, studying the simple terrain as if deciding how best to effect an entry, frowning and scratching his head. Then I sneered at him. Jem threw open the gate and sped to the side of the house, slapped it with his palm and ran back past us, not waiting to see if his foray was successful. Dill and I followed on his heels. Safely on our porch, panting and out of breath, we looked back. The old house was the same, droopy and sick, but as we stared down the street we thought we saw an inside shutter move. Flick. A tiny, almost invisible movement, and the house was still. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 2 Dill left us early in September, to return to Meridian. We saw him off on the five o’clock bus and I was miserable without him until it occurred to me that I would be starting to school in a week. I never looked forward more to anything in my life. Hours of wintertime had found me in the treehouse, looking over at the schoolyard, spying on multitudes of children through a two-power telescope Jem had given me, learning their games, following Jem’s red jacket through wriggling circles of blind man’s buff, secretly sharing their misfortunes and minor victories. I longed to join them. Jem condescended to take me to school the first day, a job usually done by one’s parents, but Atticus had said Jem would be delighted to show me where my room was. I think some money changed hands in this transaction, for as we trotted around the corner past the Radley Place I heard an unfamiliar jingle in Jem’s pockets. When we slowed to a walk at the edge of the schoolyard, Jem was careful to explain that during school hours I was not to bother him, I was not to approach him with requests to enact a chapter of Tarzan and the Ant Men, to embarrass him with references to his private life, or tag along behind him at recess and noon. I was to stick with the first grade and he would stick with the fifth. In short, I was to leave him alone. “You mean we can’t play any more?” I asked. “We’ll do like we always do at home,” he said, “but you’ll see—school’s different.” It certainly was. Before the first morning was over, Miss Caroline Fisher, our teacher, hauled me up to the front of the room and patted the palm of my hand with a ruler, then made me stand in the corner until noon. Miss Caroline was no more than twenty-one. She had bright auburn hair, pink cheeks, and wore crimson fingernail polish. She also wore high-heeled pumps and a red-and-white-striped dress. She looked and smelled like a peppermint drop. She boarded across the street one door down from us in Miss Maudie Atkinson’s upstairs front room, and when Miss Maudie introduced us to her, Jem was in a haze for days. Miss Caroline printed her name on the blackboard and said, “This says I am Miss Caroline Fisher. I am from North Alabama, from Winston County.” The class murmured apprehensively, should she prove to harbor her share of the peculiarities indigenous to that region. (When Alabama seceded from the Union on January 11, 1861, Winston County seceded from Alabama, and every child in Maycomb County knew it.) North Alabama was full of Liquor Interests, Big Mules, steel companies, Republicans, professors, and other persons of no background. Miss Caroline began the day by reading us a story about cats. The cats had long conversations with one another, they wore cunning little clothes and lived in a warm house beneath a kitchen stove. By the time Mrs. Cat called the drugstore for an order of chocolate malted mice the class was wriggling like a bucketful of catawba worms. Miss Caroline seemed unaware that the ragged, denim-shirted and floursack-skirted first grade, most of whom had chopped cotton and fed hogs from the time they were able to walk, were immune to imaginative literature. Miss Caroline came to the end of the story and said, “Oh, my, wasn’t that nice?” Then she went to the blackboard and printed the alphabet in enormous square capitals, turned to the class and asked, “Does anybody know what these are?” Everybody did; most of the first grade had failed it last year. I suppose she chose me because she knew my name; as I read the alphabet a faint line appeared between her eyebrows, and after making me read most of My First Reader and the stock-market quotations from The Mobile Register aloud, she discovered that I was literate and looked at me with more than faint distaste. Miss Caroline told me to tell my father not to teach me any more, it would interfere with my reading. “Teach me?” I said in surprise. “He hasn’t taught me anything, Miss Caroline. Atticus ain’t got time to teach me anything,” I added, when Miss Caroline smiled and shook her head. “Why, he’s so tired at night he just sits in the livingroom and reads.” “If he didn’t teach you, who did?” Miss Caroline asked good-naturedly. “Somebody did. You weren’t born reading The Mobile Register.” “Jem says I was. He read in a book where I was a Bullfinch instead of a Finch. Jem says my name’s really Jean Louise Bullfinch, that I got swapped when I was born and I’m really a-” Miss Caroline apparently thought I was lying. “Let’s not let our imaginations run away with us, dear,” she said. “Now you tell your father not to teach you any more. It’s best to begin reading with a fresh mind. You tell him I’ll take over from here and try to undo the damage-” “Ma’am?” “Your father does not know how to teach. You can have a seat now.” I mumbled that I was sorry and retired meditating upon my crime. I never deliberately learned to read, but somehow I had been wallowing illicitly in the daily papers. In the long hours of church—was it then I learned? I could not remember not being able to read hymns. Now that I was compelled to think about it, reading was something that just came to me, as learning to fasten the seat of my union suit without looking around, or achieving two bows from a snarl of shoelaces. I could not remember when the lines above Atticus’s moving finger separated into words, but I had stared at them all the evenings in my memory, listening to the news of the day, Bills to Be Enacted into Laws, the diaries of Lorenzo Dow—anything Atticus happened to be reading when I crawled into his lap every night. Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. I knew I had annoyed Miss Caroline, so I let well enough alone and stared out the window until recess when Jem cut me from the covey of first-graders in the schoolyard. He asked how I was getting along. I told him. “If I didn’t have to stay I’d leave. Jem, that damn lady says Atticus’s been teaching me to read and for him to stop it-” “Don’t worry, Scout,” Jem comforted me. “Our teacher says Miss Caroline’s introducing a new way of teaching. She learned about it in college. It’ll be in all the grades soon. You don’t have to learn much out of books that way—it’s like if you wanta learn about cows, you go milk one, see?” “Yeah Jem, but I don’t wanta study cows, I-” “Sure you do. You hafta know about cows, they’re a big part of life in Maycomb County.” I contented myself with asking Jem if he’d lost his mind. “I’m just trying to tell you the new way they’re teachin‘ the first grade, stubborn. It’s the Dewey Decimal System.” Having never questioned Jem’s pronouncements, I saw no reason to begin now. The Dewey Decimal System consisted, in part, of Miss Caroline waving cards at us on which were printed “the,” “cat,” “rat,” “man,” and “you.” No comment seemed to be expected of us, and the class received these impressionistic revelations in silence. I was bored, so I began a letter to Dill. Miss Caroline caught me writing and told me to tell my father to stop teaching me. “Besides,” she said. “We don’t write in the first grade, we print. You won’t learn to write until you’re in the third grade.” Calpurnia was to blame for this. It kept me from driving her crazy on rainy days, I guess. She would set me a writing task by scrawling the alphabet firmly across the top of a tablet, then copying out a chapter of the Bible beneath. If I reproduced her penmanship satisfactorily, she rewarded me with an open-faced sandwich of bread and butter and sugar. In Calpurnia’s teaching, there was no sentimentality: I seldom pleased her and she seldom rewarded me. “Everybody who goes home to lunch hold up your hands,” said Miss Caroline, breaking into my new grudge against Calpurnia. The town children did so, and she looked us over. “Everybody who brings his lunch put it on top of his desk.” Molasses buckets appeared from nowhere, and the ceiling danced with metallic light. Miss Caroline walked up and down the rows peering and poking into lunch containers, nodding if the contents pleased her, frowning a little at others. She stopped at Walter Cunningham’s desk. “Where’s yours?” she asked. Walter Cunningham’s face told everybody in the first grade he had hookworms. His absence of shoes told us how he got them. People caught hookworms going barefooted in barnyards and hog wallows. If Walter had owned any shoes he would have worn them the first day of school and then discarded them until midwinter. He did have on a clean shirt and neatly mended overalls. “Did you forget your lunch this morning?” asked Miss Caroline. Walter looked straight ahead. I saw a muscle jump in his skinny jaw. “Did you forget it this morning?” asked Miss Caroline. Walter’s jaw twitched again. “Yeb’m,” he finally mumbled. Miss Caroline went to her desk and opened her purse. “Here’s a quarter,” she said to Walter. “Go and eat downtown today. You can pay me back tomorrow.” Walter shook his head. “Nome thank you ma’am,” he drawled softly. Impatience crept into Miss Caroline’s voice: “Here Walter, come get it.” Walter shook his head again. When Walter shook his head a third time someone whispered, “Go on and tell her, Scout.” I turned around and saw most of the town people and the entire bus delegation looking at me. Miss Caroline and I had conferred twice already, and they were looking at me in the innocent assurance that familiarity breeds understanding. I rose graciously on Walter’s behalf: “Ah—Miss Caroline?” “What is it, Jean Louise?” “Miss Caroline, he’s a Cunningham.” I sat back down. “What, Jean Louise?” I thought I had made things sufficiently clear. It was clear enough to the rest of us: Walter Cunningham was sitting there lying his head off. He didn’t forget his lunch, he didn’t have any. He had none today nor would he have any tomorrow or the next day. He had probably never seen three quarters together at the same time in his life. I tried again: “Walter’s one of the Cunninghams, Miss Caroline.” “I beg your pardon, Jean Louise?” “That’s okay, ma’am, you’ll get to know all the county folks after a while. The Cunninghams never took anything they can’t pay back—no church baskets and no scrip stamps. They never took anything off of anybody, they get along on what they have. They don’t have much, but they get along on it.” My special knowledge of the Cunningham tribe—one branch, that is—was gained from events of last winter. Walter’s father was one of Atticus’s clients. After a dreary conversation in our livingroom one night about his entailment, before Mr. Cunningham left he said, “Mr. Finch, I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to pay you.” “Let that be the least of your worries, Walter,” Atticus said. When I asked Jem what entailment was, and Jem described it as a condition of having your tail in a crack, I asked Atticus if Mr. Cunningham would ever pay us. “Not in money,” Atticus said, “but before the year’s out I’ll have been paid. You watch.” We watched. One morning Jem and I found a load of stovewood in the back yard. Later, a sack of hickory nuts appeared on the back steps. With Christmas came a crate of smilax and holly. That spring when we found a crokersack full of turnip greens, Atticus said Mr. Cunningham had more than paid him. “Why does he pay you like that?” I asked. “Because that’s the only way he can pay me. He has no money.” “Are we poor, Atticus?” Atticus nodded. “We are indeed.” Jem’s nose wrinkled. “Are we as poor as the Cunninghams?” “Not exactly. The Cunninghams are country folks, farmers, and the crash hit them hardest.” Atticus said professional people were poor because the farmers were poor. As Maycomb County was farm country, nickels and dimes were hard to come by for doctors and dentists and lawyers. Entailment was only a part of Mr. Cunningham’s vexations. The acres not entailed were mortgaged to the hilt, and the little cash he made went to interest. If he held his mouth right, Mr. Cunningham could get a WPA job, but his land would go to ruin if he left it, and he was willing to go hungry to keep his land and vote as he pleased. Mr. Cunningham, said Atticus, came from a set breed of men. As the Cunninghams had no money to pay a lawyer, they simply paid us with what they had. “Did you know,” said Atticus, “that Dr. Reynolds works the same way? He charges some folks a bushel of potatoes for delivery of a baby. Miss Scout, if you give me your attention I’ll tell you what entailment is. Jem’s definitions are very nearly accurate sometimes.” If I could have explained these things to Miss Caroline, I would have saved myself some inconvenience and Miss Caroline subsequent mortification, but it was beyond my ability to explain things as well as Atticus, so I said, “You’re shamin‘ him, Miss Caroline. Walter hasn’t got a quarter at home to bring you, and you can’t use any stovewood.” Miss Caroline stood stock still, then grabbed me by the collar and hauled me back to her desk. “Jean Louise, I’ve had about enough of you this morning,” she said. “You’re starting off on the wrong foot in every way, my dear. Hold out your hand.” I thought she was going to spit in it, which was the only reason anybody in Maycomb held out his hand: it was a time-honored method of sealing oral contracts. Wondering what bargain we had made, I turned to the class for an answer, but the class looked back at me in puzzlement. Miss Caroline picked up her ruler, gave me half a dozen quick little pats, then told me to stand in the corner. A storm of laughter broke loose when it finally occurred to the class that Miss Caroline had whipped me. When Miss Caroline threatened it with a similar fate the first grade exploded again, becoming cold sober only when the shadow of Miss Blount fell over them. Miss Blount, a native Maycombian as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of the Decimal System, appeared at the door hands on hips and announced: “If I hear another sound from this room I’ll burn up everybody in it. Miss Caroline, the sixth grade cannot concentrate on the pyramids for all this racket!” My sojourn in the corner was a short one. Saved by the bell, Miss Caroline watched the class file out for lunch. As I was the last to leave, I saw her sink down into her chair and bury her head in her arms. Had her conduct been more friendly toward me, I would have felt sorry for her. She was a pretty little thing. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 3 Catching Walter Cunningham in the schoolyard gave me some pleasure, but when I was rubbing his nose in the dirt Jem came by and told me to stop. “You’re bigger’n he is,” he said. “He’s as old as you, nearly,” I said. “He made me start off on the wrong foot.” “Let him go, Scout. Why?” “He didn’t have any lunch,” I said, and explained my involvement in Walter’s dietary affairs. Walter had picked himself up and was standing quietly listening to Jem and me. His fists were half cocked, as if expecting an onslaught from both of us. I stomped at him to chase him away, but Jem put out his hand and stopped me. He examined Walter with an air of speculation. “Your daddy Mr. Walter Cunningham from Old Sarum?” he asked, and Walter nodded. Walter looked as if he had been raised on fish food: his eyes, as blue as Dill Harris’s, were red-rimmed and watery. There was no color in his face except at the tip of his nose, which was moistly pink. He fingered the straps of his overalls, nervously picking at the metal hooks. Jem suddenly grinned at him. “Come on home to dinner with us, Walter,” he said. “We’d be glad to have you.” Walter’s face brightened, then darkened. Jem said, “Our daddy’s a friend of your daddy’s. Scout here, she’s crazy—she won’t fight you any more.” “I wouldn’t be too certain of that,” I said. Jem’s free dispensation of my pledge irked me, but precious noontime minutes were ticking away. “Yeah Walter, I won’t jump on you again. Don’t you like butterbeans? Our Cal’s a real good cook.” Walter stood where he was, biting his lip. Jem and I gave up, and we were nearly to the Radley Place when Walter called, “Hey, I’m comin‘!” When Walter caught up with us, Jem made pleasant conversation with him. “A hain’t lives there,” he said cordially, pointing to the Radley house. “Ever hear about him, Walter?” “Reckon I have,” said Walter. “Almost died first year I come to school and et them pecans—folks say he pizened ‘em and put ’em over on the school side of the fence.” Jem seemed to have little fear of Boo Radley now that Walter and I walked beside him. Indeed, Jem grew boastful: “I went all the way up to the house once,” he said to Walter. “Anybody who went up to the house once oughta not to still run every time he passes it,” I said to the clouds above. “And who’s runnin‘, Miss Priss?” “You are, when ain’t anybody with you.” By the time we reached our front steps Walter had forgotten he was a Cunningham. Jem ran to the kitchen and asked Calpurnia to set an extra plate, we had company. Atticus greeted Walter and began a discussion about crops neither Jem nor I could follow. “Reason I can’t pass the first grade, Mr. Finch, is I’ve had to stay out ever‘ spring an’ help Papa with the choppin‘, but there’s another’n at the house now that’s field size.” “Did you pay a bushel of potatoes for him?” I asked, but Atticus shook his head at me. While Walter piled food on his plate, he and Atticus talked together like two men, to the wonderment of Jem and me. Atticus was expounding upon farm problems when Walter interrupted to ask if there was any molasses in the house. Atticus summoned Calpurnia, who returned bearing the syrup pitcher. She stood waiting for Walter to help himself. Walter poured syrup on his vegetables and meat with a generous hand. He would probably have poured it into his milk glass had I not asked what the sam hill he was doing. The silver saucer clattered when he replaced the pitcher, and he quickly put his hands in his lap. Then he ducked his head. Atticus shook his head at me again. “But he’s gone and drowned his dinner in syrup,” I protested. “He’s poured it all over-” It was then that Calpurnia requested my presence in the kitchen. She was furious, and when she was furious Calpurnia’s grammar became erratic. When in tranquility, her grammar was as good as anybody’s in Maycomb. Atticus said Calpurnia had more education than most colored folks. When she squinted down at me the tiny lines around her eyes deepened. “There’s some folks who don’t eat like us,” she whispered fiercely, “but you ain’t called on to contradict ‘em at the table when they don’t. That boy’s yo’ comp’ny and if he wants to eat up the table cloth you let him, you hear?” “He ain’t company, Cal, he’s just a Cunningham-” “Hush your mouth! Don’t matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house’s yo‘ comp’ny, and don’t you let me catch you remarkin’ on their ways like you was so high and mighty! Yo‘ folks might be better’n the Cunninghams but it don’t count for nothin’ the way you’re disgracin‘ ’em—if you can’t act fit to eat at the table you can just set here and eat in the kitchen!” Calpurnia sent me through the swinging door to the diningroom with a stinging smack. I retrieved my plate and finished dinner in the kitchen, thankful, though, that I was spared the humiliation of facing them again. I told Calpurnia to just wait, I’d fix her: one of these days when she wasn’t looking I’d go off and drown myself in Barker’s Eddy and then she’d be sorry. Besides, I added, she’d already gotten me in trouble once today: she had taught me to write and it was all her fault. “Hush your fussin‘,” she said. Jem and Walter returned to school ahead of me: staying behind to advise Atticus of Calpurnia’s iniquities was worth a solitary sprint past the Radley Place. “She likes Jem better’n she likes me, anyway,” I concluded, and suggested that Atticus lose no time in packing her off. “Have you ever considered that Jem doesn’t worry her half as much?” Atticus’s voice was flinty. “I’ve no intention of getting rid of her, now or ever. We couldn’t operate a single day without Cal, have you ever thought of that? You think about how much Cal does for you, and you mind her, you hear?” I returned to school and hated Calpurnia steadily until a sudden shriek shattered my resentments. I looked up to see Miss Caroline standing in the middle of the room, sheer horror flooding her face. Apparently she had revived enough to persevere in her profession. “It’s alive!” she screamed. The male population of the class rushed as one to her assistance. Lord, I thought, she’s scared of a mouse. Little Chuck Little, whose patience with all living things was phenomenal, said, “Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us where he went, quick! D.C.-” he turned to a boy behind him—“D.C., shut the door and we’ll catch him. Quick, ma’am, where’d he go?” Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger not at the floor nor at a desk, but to a hulking individual unknown to me. Little Chuck’s face contracted and he said gently, “You mean him, ma’am? Yessum, he’s alive. Did he scare you some way?” Miss Caroline said desperately, “I was just walking by when it crawled out of his hair… just crawled out of his hair-” Little Chuck grinned broadly. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie, ma’am. Ain’t you ever seen one? Now don’t you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and teach us some more.” Little Chuck Little was another member of the population who didn’t know where his next meal was coming from, but he was a born gentleman. He put his hand under her elbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. “Now don’t you fret, ma’am,” he said. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie. I’ll just fetch you some cool water.” The cootie’s host showed not the faintest interest in the furor he had wrought. He searched the scalp above his forehead, located his guest and pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid fascination. Little Chuck brought water in a paper cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally she found her voice. “What is your name, son?” she asked softly. The boy blinked. “Who, me?” Miss Caroline nodded. “Burris Ewell.” Miss Caroline inspected her roll-book. “I have a Ewell here, but I don’t have a first name… would you spell your first name for me?” “Don’t know how. They call me Burris’t home.” “Well, Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “I think we’d better excuse you for the rest of the afternoon. I want you to go home and wash your hair.” From her desk she produced a thick volume, leafed through its pages and read for a moment. “A good home remedy for—Burris, I want you to go home and wash your hair with lye soap. When you’ve done that, treat your scalp with kerosene.” “What fer, missus?” “To get rid of the—er, cooties. You see, Burris, the other children might catch them, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” The boy stood up. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen. His neck was dark gray, the backs of his hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black deep into the quick. He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean space on his face. No one had noticed him, probably, because Miss Caroline and I had entertained the class most of the morning. “And Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “please bathe yourself before you come back tomorrow.” The boy laughed rudely. “You ain’t sendin‘ me home, missus. I was on the verge of leavin’—I done done my time for this year.” Miss Caroline looked puzzled. “What do you mean by that?” The boy did not answer. He gave a short contemptuous snort. One of the elderly members of the class answered her: “He’s one of the Ewells, ma’am,” and I wondered if this explanation would be as unsuccessful as my attempt. But Miss Caroline seemed willing to listen. “Whole school’s full of ‘em. They come first day every year and then leave. The truant lady gets ’em here ‘cause she threatens ’em with the sheriff, but she’s give up tryin‘ to hold ’em. She reckons she’s carried out the law just gettin‘ their names on the roll and runnin’ ‘em here the first day. You’re supposed to mark ’em absent the rest of the year…” “But what about their parents?” asked Miss Caroline, in genuine concern. “Ain’t got no mother,” was the answer, “and their paw’s right contentious.” Burris Ewell was flattered by the recital. “Been comin‘ to the first day o’ the first grade fer three year now,” he said expansively. “Reckon if I’m smart this year they’ll promote me to the second…” Miss Caroline said, “Sit back down, please, Burris,” and the moment she said it I knew she had made a serious mistake. The boy’s condescension flashed to anger. “You try and make me, missus.” Little Chuck Little got to his feet. “Let him go, ma’am,” he said. “He’s a mean one, a hard-down mean one. He’s liable to start somethin‘, and there’s some little folks here.” He was among the most diminutive of men, but when Burris Ewell turned toward him, Little Chuck’s right hand went to his pocket. “Watch your step, Burris,” he said. “I’d soon’s kill you as look at you. Now go home.” Burris seemed to be afraid of a child half his height, and Miss Caroline took advantage of his indecision: “Burris, go home. If you don’t I’ll call the principal,” she said. “I’ll have to report this, anyway.” The boy snorted and slouched leisurely to the door. Safely out of range, he turned and shouted: “Report and be damned to ye! Ain’t no snot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c’n make me do nothin‘! You ain’t makin’ me go nowhere, missus. You just remember that, you ain’t makin‘ me go nowhere!” He waited until he was sure she was crying, then he shuffled out of the building. Soon we were clustered around her desk, trying in our various ways to comfort her. He was a real mean one… below the belt… you ain’t called on to teach folks like that… them ain’t Maycomb’s ways, Miss Caroline, not really… now don’t you fret, ma’am. Miss Caroline, why don’t you read us a story? That cat thing was real fine this mornin‘… Miss Caroline smiled, blew her nose, said, “Thank you, darlings,” dispersed us, opened a book and mystified the first grade with a long narrative about a toadfrog that lived in a hall. When I passed the Radley Place for the fourth time that day—twice at a full gallop —my gloom had deepened to match the house. If the remainder of the school year were as fraught with drama as the first day, perhaps it would be mildly entertaining, but the prospect of spending nine months refraining from reading and writing made me think of running away. By late afternoon most of my traveling plans were complete; when Jem and I raced each other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming home from work, I didn’t give him much of a race. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment we saw him round the post office corner in the distance. Atticus seemed to have forgotten my noontime fall from grace; he was full of questions about school. My replies were monosyllabic and he did not press me. Perhaps Calpurnia sensed that my day had been a grim one: she let me watch her fix supper. “Shut your eyes and open your mouth and I’ll give you a surprise,” she said. It was not often that she made crackling bread, she said she never had time, but with both of us at school today had been an easy one for her. She knew I loved crackling bread. “I missed you today,” she said. “The house got so lonesome ‘long about two o’clock I had to turn on the radio.” “Why? Jem’n me ain’t ever in the house unless it’s rainin‘.” “I know,” she said, “But one of you’s always in callin‘ distance. I wonder how much of the day I spend just callin’ after you. Well,” she said, getting up from the kitchen chair, “it’s enough time to make a pan of cracklin‘ bread, I reckon. You run along now and let me get supper on the table.” Calpurnia bent down and kissed me. I ran along, wondering what had come over her. She had wanted to make up with me, that was it. She had always been too hard on me, she had at last seen the error of her fractious ways, she was sorry and too stubborn to say so. I was weary from the day’s crimes. After supper, Atticus sat down with the paper and called, “Scout, ready to read?” The Lord sent me more than I could bear, and I went to the front porch. Atticus followed me. “Something wrong, Scout?” I told Atticus I didn’t feel very well and didn’t think I’d go to school any more if it was all right with him. Atticus sat down in the swing and crossed his legs. His fingers wandered to his watchpocket; he said that was the only way he could think. He waited in amiable silence, and I sought to reinforce my position: “You never went to school and you do all right, so I’ll just stay home too. You can teach me like Granddaddy taught you ‘n’ Uncle Jack.” “No I can’t,” said Atticus. “I have to make a living. Besides, they’d put me in jail if I kept you at home—dose of magnesia for you tonight and school tomorrow.” “I’m feeling all right, really.” “Thought so. Now what’s the matter?” Bit by bit, I told him the day’s misfortunes. “-and she said you taught me all wrong, so we can’t ever read any more, ever. Please don’t send me back, please sir.” Atticus stood up and walked to the end of the porch. When he completed his examination of the wisteria vine he strolled back to me. “First of all,” he said, “if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view-” “Sir?” “-until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” Atticus said I had learned many things today, and Miss Caroline had learned several things herself. She had learned not to hand something to a Cunningham, for one thing, but if Walter and I had put ourselves in her shoes we’d have seen it was an honest mistake on her part. We could not expect her to learn all Maycomb’s ways in one day, and we could not hold her responsible when she knew no better. “I’ll be dogged,” I said. “I didn’t know no better than not to read to her, and she held me responsible—listen Atticus, I don’t have to go to school!” I was bursting with a sudden thought. “Burris Ewell, remember? He just goes to school the first day. The truant lady reckons she’s carried out the law when she gets his name on the roll-” “You can’t do that, Scout,” Atticus said. “Sometimes it’s better to bend the law a little in special cases. In your case, the law remains rigid. So to school you must go.” “I don’t see why I have to when he doesn’t.” “Then listen.” Atticus said the Ewells had been the disgrace of Maycomb for three generations. None of them had done an honest day’s work in his recollection. He said that some Christmas, when he was getting rid of the tree, he would take me with him and show me where and how they lived. They were people, but they lived like animals. “They can go to school any time they want to, when they show the faintest symptom of wanting an education,” said Atticus. “There are ways of keeping them in school by force, but it’s silly to force people like the Ewells into a new environment-” “If I didn’t go to school tomorrow, you’d force me to.” “Let us leave it at this,” said Atticus dryly. “You, Miss Scout Finch, are of the common folk. You must obey the law.” He said that the Ewells were members of an exclusive society made up of Ewells. In certain circumstances the common folk judiciously allowed them certain privileges by the simple method of becoming blind to some of the Ewells’ activities. They didn’t have to go to school, for one thing. Another thing, Mr. Bob Ewell, Burris’s father, was permitted to hunt and trap out of season. “Atticus, that’s bad,” I said. In Maycomb County, hunting out of season was a misdemeanor at law, a capital felony in the eyes of the populace. “It’s against the law, all right,” said my father, “and it’s certainly bad, but when a man spends his relief checks on green whiskey his children have a way of crying from hunger pains. I don’t know of any landowner around here who begrudges those children any game their father can hit.” “Mr. Ewell shouldn’t do that-” “Of course he shouldn’t, but he’ll never change his ways. Are you going to take out your disapproval on his children?” “No sir,” I murmured, and made a final stand: “But if I keep on goin‘ to school, we can’t ever read any more…” “That’s really bothering you, isn’t it?” “Yes sir.” When Atticus looked down at me I saw the expression on his face that always made me expect something. “Do you know what a compromise is?” he asked. “Bending the law?” “No, an agreement reached by mutual concessions. It works this way,” he said. “If you’ll concede the necessity of going to school, we’ll go on reading every night just as we always have. Is it a bargain?” “Yes sir!” “We’ll consider it sealed without the usual formality,” Atticus said, when he saw me preparing to spit. As I opened the front screen door Atticus said, “By the way, Scout, you’d better not say anything at school about our agreement.” “Why not?” “I’m afraid our activities would be received with considerable disapprobation by the more learned authorities.” Jem and I were accustomed to our father’s last-will-and-testament diction, and we were at all times free to interrupt Atticus for a translation when it was beyond our understanding. “Huh, sir?” “I never went to school,” he said, “but I have a feeling that if you tell Miss Caroline we read every night she’ll get after me, and I wouldn’t want her after me.” Atticus kept us in fits that evening, gravely reading columns of print about a man who sat on a flagpole for no discernible reason, which was reason enough for Jem to spend the following Saturday aloft in the treehouse. Jem sat from after breakfast until sunset and would have remained overnight had not Atticus severed his supply lines. I had spent most of the day climbing up and down, running errands for him, providing him with literature, nourishment and water, and was carrying him blankets for the night when Atticus said if I paid no attention to him, Jem would come down. Atticus was right. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 4 The remainder of my schooldays were no more auspicious than the first. Indeed, they were an endless Project that slowly evolved into a Unit, in which miles of construction paper and wax crayon were expended by the State of Alabama in its well-meaning but fruitless efforts to teach me Group Dynamics. What Jem called the Dewey Decimal System was school-wide by the end of my first year, so I had no chance to compare it with other teaching techniques. I could only look around me: Atticus and my uncle, who went to school at home, knew everything—at least, what one didn’t know the other did. Furthermore, I couldn’t help noticing that my father had served for years in the state legislature, elected each time without opposition, innocent of the adjustments my teachers thought essential to the development of Good Citizenship. Jem, educated on a half-Decimal halfDuncecap basis, seemed to function effectively alone or in a group, but Jem was a poor example: no tutorial system devised by man could have stopped him from getting at books. As for me, I knew nothing except what I gathered from Time magazine and reading everything I could lay hands on at home, but as I inched sluggishly along the treadmill of the Maycomb County school system, I could not help receiving the impression that I was being cheated out of something. Out of what I knew not, yet I did not believe that twelve years of unrelieved boredom was exactly what the state had in mind for me. As the year passed, released from school thirty minutes before Jem, who had to stay until three o’clock, I ran by the Radley Place as fast as I could, not stopping until I reached the safety of our front porch. One afternoon as I raced by, something caught my eye and caught it in such a way that I took a deep breath, a long look around, and went back. Two live oaks stood at the edge of the Radley lot; their roots reached out into the side-road and made it bumpy. Something about one of the trees attracted my attention. Some tinfoil was sticking in a knot-hole just above my eye level, winking at me in the afternoon sun. I stood on tiptoe, hastily looked around once more, reached into the hole, and withdrew two pieces of chewing gum minus their outer wrappers. My first impulse was to get it into my mouth as quickly as possible, but I remembered where I was. I ran home, and on our front porch I examined my loot. The gum looked fresh. I sniffed it and it smelled all right. I licked it and waited for a while. When I did not die I crammed it into my mouth: Wrigley’s DoubleMint. When Jem came home he asked me where I got such a wad. I told him I found it. “Don’t eat things you find, Scout.” “This wasn’t on the ground, it was in a tree.” Jem growled. “Well it was,” I said. “It was sticking in that tree yonder, the one comin‘ from school.” “Spit it out right now!” I spat it out. The tang was fading, anyway. “I’ve been chewin‘ it all afternoon and I ain’t dead yet, not even sick.” Jem stamped his foot. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to even touch the trees over there? You’ll get killed if you do!” “You touched the house once!” “That was different! You go gargle—right now, you hear me?” “Ain’t neither, it’ll take the taste outa my mouth.” “You don’t ‘n’ I’ll tell Calpurnia on you!” Rather than risk a tangle with Calpurnia, I did as Jem told me. For some reason, my first year of school had wrought a great change in our relationship: Calpurnia’s tyranny, unfairness, and meddling in my business had faded to gentle grumblings of general disapproval. On my part, I went to much trouble, sometimes, not to provoke her. Summer was on the way; Jem and I awaited it with impatience. Summer was our best season: it was sleeping on the back screened porch in cots, or trying to sleep in the treehouse; summer was everything good to eat; it was a thousand colors in a parched landscape; but most of all, summer was Dill. The authorities released us early the last day of school, and Jem and I walked home together. “Reckon old Dill’ll be coming home tomorrow,” I said. “Probably day after,” said Jem. “Mis’sippi turns ‘em loose a day later.” As we came to the live oaks at the Radley Place I raised my finger to point for the hundredth time to the knot-hole where I had found the chewing gum, trying to make Jem believe I had found it there, and found myself pointing at another piece of tinfoil. “I see it, Scout! I see it-” Jem looked around, reached up, and gingerly pocketed a tiny shiny package. We ran home, and on the front porch we looked at a small box patchworked with bits of tinfoil collected from chewing-gum wrappers. It was the kind of box wedding rings came in, purple velvet with a minute catch. Jem flicked open the tiny catch. Inside were two scrubbed and polished pennies, one on top of the other. Jem examined them. “Indian-heads,” he said. “Nineteen-six and Scout, one of em’s nineteen-hundred. These are real old.” “Nineteen-hundred,” I echoed. “Say-” “Hush a minute, I’m thinkin‘.” “Jem, you reckon that’s somebody’s hidin‘ place?” “Naw, don’t anybody much but us pass by there, unless it’s some grown person’s-” “Grown folks don’t have hidin‘ places. You reckon we ought to keep ’em, Jem?” “I don’t know what we could do, Scout. Who’d we give ‘em back to? I know for a fact don’t anybody go by there—Cecil goes by the back street an’ all the way around by town to get home.” Cecil Jacobs, who lived at the far end of our street next door to the post office, walked a total of one mile per school day to avoid the Radley Place and old Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. Mrs. Dubose lived two doors up the street from us; neighborhood opinion was unanimous that Mrs. Dubose was the meanest old woman who ever lived. Jem wouldn’t go by her place without Atticus beside him. “What you reckon we oughta do, Jem?” Finders were keepers unless title was proven. Plucking an occasional camellia, getting a squirt of hot milk from Miss Maudie Atkinson’s cow on a summer day, helping ourselves to someone’s scuppernongs was part of our ethical culture, but money was different. “Tell you what,” said Jem. “We’ll keep ‘em till school starts, then go around and ask everybody if they’re theirs. They’re some bus child’s, maybe—he was too taken up with gettin’ outa school today an‘ forgot ’em. These are somebody’s, I know that. See how they’ve been slicked up? They’ve been saved.” “Yeah, but why should somebody wanta put away chewing gum like that? You know it doesn’t last.” “I don’t know, Scout. But these are important to somebody…” “How’s that, Jem…?” “Well, Indian-heads—well, they come from the Indians. They’re real strong magic, they make you have good luck. Not like fried chicken when you’re not lookin‘ for it, but things like long life ’n‘ good health, ’n‘ passin’ six-weeks tests… these are real valuable to somebody. I’m gonna put em in my trunk.” Before Jem went to his room, he looked for a long time at the Radley Place. He seemed to be thinking again. Two days later Dill arrived in a blaze of glory: he had ridden the train by himself from Meridian to Maycomb Junction (a courtesy title—Maycomb Junction was in Abbott County) where he had been met by Miss Rachel in Maycomb’s one taxi; he had eaten dinner in the diner, he had seen two twins hitched together get off the train in Bay St. Louis and stuck to his story regardless of threats. He had discarded the abominable blue shorts that were buttoned to his shirts and wore real short pants with a belt; he was somewhat heavier, no taller, and said he had seen his father. Dill’s father was taller than ours, he had a black beard (pointed), and was president of the L & N Railroad. “I helped the engineer for a while,” said Dill, yawning. “In a pig’s ear you did, Dill. Hush,” said Jem. “What’ll we play today?” “Tom and Sam and Dick,” said Dill. “Let’s go in the front yard.” Dill wanted the Rover Boys because there were three respectable parts. He was clearly tired of being our character man. “I’m tired of those,” I said. I was tired of playing Tom Rover, who suddenly lost his memory in the middle of a picture show and was out of the script until the end, when he was found in Alaska. “Make us up one, Jem,” I said. “I’m tired of makin‘ ’em up.” Our first days of freedom, and we were tired. I wondered what the summer would bring. We had strolled to the front yard, where Dill stood looking down the street at the dreary face of the Radley Place. “I—smell—death,” he said. “I do, I mean it,” he said, when I told him to shut up. “You mean when somebody’s dyin‘ you can smell it?” “No, I mean I can smell somebody an‘ tell if they’re gonna die. An old lady taught me how.” Dill leaned over and sniffed me. “Jean—Louise—Finch, you are going to die in three days.” “Dill if you don’t hush I’ll knock you bowlegged. I mean it, now-” “Yawl hush,” growled Jem, “you act like you believe in Hot Steams.” “You act like you don’t,” I said. “What’s a Hot Steam?” asked Dill. “Haven’t you ever walked along a lonesome road at night and passed by a hot place?” Jem asked Dill. “A Hot Steam’s somebody who can’t get to heaven, just wallows around on lonesome roads an‘ if you walk through him, when you die you’ll be one too, an’ you’ll go around at night suckin‘ people’s breath-” “How can you keep from passing through one?” “You can’t,” said Jem. “Sometimes they stretch all the way across the road, but if you hafta go through one you say, ‘Angel-bright, life-in-death; get off the road, don’t suck my breath.’ That keeps ‘em from wrapping around you-” “Don’t you believe a word he says, Dill,” I said. “Calpurnia says that’s niggertalk.” Jem scowled darkly at me, but said, “Well, are we gonna play anything or not?” “Let’s roll in the tire,” I suggested. Jem sighed. “You know I’m too big.” “You c’n push.” I ran to the back yard and pulled an old car tire from under the house. I slapped it up to the front yard. “I’m first,” I said. Dill said he ought to be first, he just got here. Jem arbitrated, awarded me first push with an extra time for Dill, and I folded myself inside the tire. Until it happened I did not realize that Jem was offended by my contradicting him on Hot Steams, and that he was patiently awaiting an opportunity to reward me. He did, by pushing the tire down the sidewalk with all the force in his body. Ground, sky and houses melted into a mad palette, my ears throbbed, I was suffocating. I could not put out my hands to stop, they were wedged between my chest and knees. I could only hope that Jem would outrun the tire and me, or that I would be stopped by a bump in the sidewalk. I heard him behind me, chasing and shouting. The tire bumped on gravel, skeetered across the road, crashed into a barrier and popped me like a cork onto pavement. Dizzy and nauseated, I lay on the cement and shook my head still, pounded my ears to silence, and heard Jem’s voice: “Scout, get away from there, come on!” I raised my head and stared at the Radley Place steps in front of me. I froze. “Come on, Scout, don’t just lie there!” Jem was screaming. “Get up, can’tcha?” I got to my feet, trembling as I thawed. “Get the tire!” Jem hollered. “Bring it with you! Ain’t you got any sense at all?” When I was able to navigate, I ran back to them as fast as my shaking knees would carry me. “Why didn’t you bring it?” Jem yelled. “Why don’t you get it?” I screamed. Jem was silent. “Go on, it ain’t far inside the gate. Why, you even touched the house once, remember?” Jem looked at me furiously, could not decline, ran down the sidewalk, treaded water at the gate, then dashed in and retrieved the tire. “See there?” Jem was scowling triumphantly. “Nothin‘ to it. I swear, Scout, sometimes you act so much like a girl it’s mortifyin’.” There was more to it than he knew, but I decided not to tell him. Calpurnia appeared in the front door and yelled, “Lemonade time! You all get in outa that hot sun ‘fore you fry alive!” Lemonade in the middle of the morning was a summertime ritual. Calpurnia set a pitcher and three glasses on the porch, then went about her business. Being out of Jem’s good graces did not worry me especially. Lemonade would restore his good humor. Jem gulped down his second glassful and slapped his chest. “I know what we are going to play,” he announced. “Something new, something different.” “What?” asked Dill. “Boo Radley.” Jem’s head at times was transparent: he had thought that up to make me understand he wasn’t afraid of Radleys in any shape or form, to contrast his own fearless heroism with my cowardice. “Boo Radley? How?” asked Dill. Jem said, “Scout, you can be Mrs. Radley-” “I declare if I will. I don’t think-” “‘Smatter?” said Dill. “Still scared?” “He can get out at night when we’re all asleep…” I said. Jem hissed. “Scout, how’s he gonna know what we’re doin‘? Besides, I don’t think he’s still there. He died years ago and they stuffed him up the chimney.” Dill said, “Jem, you and me can play and Scout can watch if she’s scared.” I was fairly sure Boo Radley was inside that house, but I couldn’t prove it, and felt it best to keep my mouth shut or I would be accused of believing in Hot Steams, phenomena I was immune to in the daytime. Jem parceled out our roles: I was Mrs. Radley, and all I had to do was come out and sweep the porch. Dill was old Mr. Radley: he walked up and down the sidewalk and coughed when Jem spoke to him. Jem, naturally, was Boo: he went under the front steps and shrieked and howled from time to time. As the summer progressed, so did our game. We polished and perfected it, added dialogue and plot until we had manufactured a small play upon which we rang changes every day. Dill was a villain’s villain: he could get into any character part assigned him, and appear tall if height was part of the devilry required. He was as good as his worst performance; his worst performance was Gothic. I reluctantly played assorted ladies who entered the script. I never thought it as much fun as Tarzan, and I played that summer with more than vague anxiety despite Jem’s assurances that Boo Radley was dead and nothing would get me, with him and Calpurnia there in the daytime and Atticus home at night. Jem was a born hero. It was a melancholy little drama, woven from bits and scraps of gossip and neighborhood legend: Mrs. Radley had been beautiful until she married Mr. Radley and lost all her money. She also lost most of her teeth, her hair, and her right forefinger (Dill’s contribution. Boo bit it off one night when he couldn’t find any cats and squirrels to eat.); she sat in the livingroom and cried most of the time, while Boo slowly whittled away all the furniture in the house. The three of us were the boys who got into trouble; I was the probate judge, for a change; Dill led Jem away and crammed him beneath the steps, poking him with the brushbroom. Jem would reappear as needed in the shapes of the sheriff, assorted townsfolk, and Miss Stephanie Crawford, who had more to say about the Radleys than anybody in Maycomb. When it was time to play Boo’s big scene, Jem would sneak into the house, steal the scissors from the sewing-machine drawer when Calpurnia’s back was turned, then sit in the swing and cut up newspapers. Dill would walk by, cough at Jem, and Jem would fake a plunge into Dill’s thigh. From where I stood it looked real. When Mr. Nathan Radley passed us on his daily trip to town, we would stand still and silent until he was out of sight, then wonder what he would do to us if he suspected. Our activities halted when any of the neighbors appeared, and once I saw Miss Maudie Atkinson staring across the street at us, her hedge clippers poised in midair. One day we were so busily playing Chapter XXV, Book II of One Man’s Family, we did not see Atticus standing on the sidewalk looking at us, slapping a rolled magazine against his knee. The sun said twelve noon. “What are you all playing?” he asked. “Nothing,” said Jem. Jem’s evasion told me our game was a secret, so I kept quiet. “What are you doing with those scissors, then? Why are you tearing up that newspaper? If it’s today’s I’ll tan you.” “Nothing.” “Nothing what?” said Atticus. “Nothing, sir.” “Give me those scissors,” Atticus said. “They’re no things to play with. Does this by any chance have anything to do with the Radleys?” “No sir,” said Jem, reddening. “I hope it doesn’t,” he said shortly, and went inside the house. “Je-m…” “Shut up! He’s gone in the livingroom, he can hear us in there.” Safely in the yard, Dill asked Jem if we could play any more. “I don’t know. Atticus didn’t say we couldn’t-” “Jem,” I said, “I think Atticus knows it anyway.” “No he don’t. If he did he’d say he did.” I was not so sure, but Jem told me I was being a girl, that girls always imagined things, that’s why other people hated them so, and if I started behaving like one I could just go off and find some to play with. “All right, you just keep it up then,” I said. “You’ll find out.” Atticus’s arrival was the second reason I wanted to quit the game. The first reason happened the day I rolled into the Radley front yard. Through all the head- shaking, quelling of nausea and Jem-yelling, I had heard another sound, so low I could not have heard it from the sidewalk. Someone inside the house was laughing. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 5 My nagging got the better of Jem eventually, as I knew it would, and to my relief we slowed down the game for a while. He still maintained, however, that Atticus hadn’t said we couldn’t, therefore we could; and if Atticus ever said we couldn’t, Jem had thought of a way around it: he would simply change the names of the characters and then we couldn’t be accused of playing anything. Dill was in hearty agreement with this plan of action. Dill was becoming something of a trial anyway, following Jem about. He had asked me earlier in the summer to marry him, then he promptly forgot about it. He staked me out, marked as his property, said I was the only girl he would ever love, then he neglected me. I beat him up twice but it did no good, he only grew closer to Jem. They spent days together in the treehouse plotting and planning, calling me only when they needed a third party. But I kept aloof from their more foolhardy schemes for a while, and on pain of being called a girl, I spent most of the remaining twilights that summer sitting with Miss Maudie Atkinson on her front porch. Jem and I had always enjoyed the free run of Miss Maudie’s yard if we kept out of her azaleas, but our contact with her was not clearly defined. Until Jem and Dill excluded me from their plans, she was only another lady in the neighborhood, but a relatively benign presence. Our tacit treaty with Miss Maudie was that we could play on her lawn, eat her scuppernongs if we didn’t jump on the arbor, and explore her vast back lot, terms so generous we seldom spoke to her, so careful were we to preserve the delicate balance of our relationship, but Jem and Dill drove me closer to her with their behavior. Miss Maudie hated her house: time spent indoors was time wasted. She was a widow, a chameleon lady who worked in her flower beds in an old straw hat and men’s coveralls, but after her five o’clock bath she would appear on the porch and reign over the street in magisterial beauty. She loved everything that grew in God’s earth, even the weeds. With one exception. If she found a blade of nut grass in her yard it was like the Second Battle of the Marne: she swooped down upon it with a tin tub and subjected it to blasts from beneath with a poisonous substance she said was so powerful it’d kill us all if we didn’t stand out of the way. “Why can’t you just pull it up?” I asked, after witnessing a prolonged campaign against a blade not three inches high. “Pull it up, child, pull it up?” She picked up the limp sprout and squeezed her thumb up its tiny stalk. Microscopic grains oozed out. “Why, one sprig of nut grass can ruin a whole yard. Look here. When it comes fall this dries up and the wind blows it all over Maycomb County!” Miss Maudie’s face likened such an occurrence unto an Old Testament pestilence. Her speech was crisp for a Maycomb County inhabitant. She called us by all our names, and when she grinned she revealed two minute gold prongs clipped to her eyeteeth. When I admired them and hoped I would have some eventually, she said, “Look here.” With a click of her tongue she thrust out her bridgework, a gesture of cordiality that cemented our friendship. Miss Maudie’s benevolence extended to Jem and Dill, whenever they paused in their pursuits: we reaped the benefits of a talent Miss Maudie had hitherto kept hidden from us. She made the best cakes in the neighborhood. When she was admitted into our confidence, every time she baked she made a big cake and three little ones, and she would call across the street: “Jem Finch, Scout Finch, Charles Baker Harris, come here!” Our promptness was always rewarded. In summertime, twilights are long and peaceful. Often as not, Miss Maudie and I would sit silently on her porch, watching the sky go from yellow to pink as the sun went down, watching flights of martins sweep low over the neighborhood and disappear behind the schoolhouse rooftops. “Miss Maudie,” I said one evening, “do you think Boo Radley’s still alive?” “His name’s Arthur and he’s alive,” she said. She was rocking slowly in her big oak chair. “Do you smell my mimosa? It’s like angels’ breath this evening.” “Yessum. How do you know?” “Know what, child?” “That B—Mr. Arthur’s still alive?” “What a morbid question. But I suppose it’s a morbid subject. I know he’s alive, Jean Louise, because I haven’t seen him carried out yet.” “Maybe he died and they stuffed him up the chimney.” “Where did you get such a notion?” “That’s what Jem said he thought they did.” “S-ss-ss. He gets more like Jack Finch every day.” Miss Maudie had known Uncle Jack Finch, Atticus’s brother, since they were children. Nearly the same age, they had grown up together at Finch’s Landing. Miss Maudie was the daughter of a neighboring landowner, Dr. Frank Buford. Dr. Buford’s profession was medicine and his obsession was anything that grew in the ground, so he stayed poor. Uncle Jack Finch confined his passion for digging to his window boxes in Nashville and stayed rich. We saw Uncle Jack every Christmas, and every Christmas he yelled across the street for Miss Maudie to come marry him. Miss Maudie would yell back, “Call a little louder, Jack Finch, and they’ll hear you at the post office, I haven’t heard you yet!” Jem and I thought this a strange way to ask for a lady’s hand in marriage, but then Uncle Jack was rather strange. He said he was trying to get Miss Maudie’s goat, that he had been trying unsuccessfully for forty years, that he was the last person in the world Miss Maudie would think about marrying but the first person she thought about teasing, and the best defense to her was spirited offense, all of which we understood clearly. “Arthur Radley just stays in the house, that’s all,” said Miss Maudie. “Wouldn’t you stay in the house if you didn’t want to come out?” “Yessum, but I’d wanta come out. Why doesn’t he?” Miss Maudie’s eyes narrowed. “You know that story as well as I do.” “I never heard why, though. Nobody ever told me why.” Miss Maudie settled her bridgework. “You know old Mr. Radley was a footwashing Baptist-” “That’s what you are, ain’t it?” “My shell’s not that hard, child. I’m just a Baptist.” “Don’t you all believe in foot-washing?” “We do. At home in the bathtub.” “But we can’t have communion with you all-” Apparently deciding that it was easier to define primitive baptistry than closed communion, Miss Maudie said: “Foot-washers believe anything that’s pleasure is a sin. Did you know some of ‘em came out of the woods one Saturday and passed by this place and told me me and my flowers were going to hell?” “Your flowers, too?” “Yes ma’am. They’d burn right with me. They thought I spent too much time in God’s outdoors and not enough time inside the house reading the Bible.” My confidence in pulpit Gospel lessened at the vision of Miss Maudie stewing forever in various Protestant hells. True enough, she had an acid tongue in her head, and she did not go about the neighborhood doing good, as did Miss Stephanie Crawford. But while no one with a grain of sense trusted Miss Stephanie, Jem and I had considerable faith in Miss Maudie. She had never told on us, had never played cat-and-mouse with us, she was not at all interested in our private lives. She was our friend. How so reasonable a creature could live in peril of everlasting torment was incomprehensible. “That ain’t right, Miss Maudie. You’re the best lady I know.” Miss Maudie grinned. “Thank you ma’am. Thing is, foot-washers think women are a sin by definition. They take the Bible literally, you know.” “Is that why Mr. Arthur stays in the house, to keep away from women?” “I’ve no idea.” “It doesn’t make sense to me. Looks like if Mr. Arthur was hankerin‘ after heaven he’d come out on the porch at least. Atticus says God’s loving folks like you love yourself-” Miss Maudie stopped rocking, and her voice hardened. “You are too young to understand it,” she said, “but sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whiskey bottle in the hand of—oh, of your father.” I was shocked. “Atticus doesn’t drink whiskey,” I said. “He never drunk a drop in his life—nome, yes he did. He said he drank some one time and didn’t like it.” Miss Maudie laughed. “Wasn’t talking about your father,” she said. “What I meant was, if Atticus Finch drank until he was drunk he wouldn’t be as hard as some men are at their best. There are just some kind of men who—who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results.” “Do you think they’re true, all those things they say about B—Mr. Arthur?” “What things?” I told her. “That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford,” said Miss Maudie grimly. “Stephanie Crawford even told me once she woke up in the middle of the night and found him looking in the window at her. I said what did you do, Stephanie, move over in the bed and make room for him? That shut her up a while.” I was sure it did. Miss Maudie’s voice was enough to shut anybody up. “No, child,” she said, “that is a sad house. I remember Arthur Radley when he was a boy. He always spoke nicely to me, no matter what folks said he did. Spoke as nicely as he knew how.” “You reckon he’s crazy?” Miss Maudie shook her head. “If he’s not he should be by now. The things that happen to people we never really know. What happens in houses behind closed doors, what secrets-” “Atticus don’t ever do anything to Jem and me in the house that he don’t do in the yard,” I said, feeling it my duty to defend my parent. “Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn’t even thinking about your father, but now that I am I’ll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How’d you like some fresh poundcake to take home?” I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. “Will not. This yard’s as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right to play in it as you have.” Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: “If you stay you’ve got to do what we tell you,” Dill warned. “We-ll,” I said, “who’s so high and mighty all of a sudden?” “If you don’t say you’ll do what we tell you, we ain’t gonna tell you anything,” Dill continued. “You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?” Jem said placidly, “We are going to give a note to Boo Radley.” “Just how?” I was trying to fight down the automatic terror rising in me. It was all right for Miss Maudie to talk—she was old and snug on her porch. It was different for us. Jem was merely going to put the note on the end of a fishing pole and stick it through the shutters. If anyone came along, Dill would ring the bell. Dill raised his right hand. In it was my mother’s silver dinner-bell. “I’m goin‘ around to the side of the house,” said Jem. “We looked yesterday from across the street, and there’s a shutter loose. Think maybe I can make it stick on the window sill, at least.” “Jem-” “Now you’re in it and you can’t get out of it, you’ll just stay in it, Miss Priss!” “Okay, okay, but I don’t wanta watch. Jem, somebody was-” “Yes you will, you’ll watch the back end of the lot and Dill’s gonna watch the front of the house an‘ up the street, an’ if anybody comes he’ll ring the bell. That clear?” “All right then. What’d you write him?” Dill said, “We’re askin‘ him real politely to come out sometimes, and tell us what he does in there—we said we wouldn’t hurt him and we’d buy him an ice cream.” “You all’ve gone crazy, he’ll kill us!” Dill said, “It’s my idea. I figure if he’d come out and sit a spell with us he might feel better.” “How do you know he don’t feel good?” “Well how’d you feel if you’d been shut up for a hundred years with nothin‘ but cats to eat? I bet he’s got a beard down to here-” “Like your daddy’s?” “He ain’t got a beard, he-” Dill stopped, as if trying to remember. “Uh huh, caughtcha,” I said. “You said ‘fore you were off the train good your daddy had a black beard-” “If it’s all the same to you he shaved it off last summer! Yeah, an‘ I’ve got the letter to prove it—he sent me two dollars, too!” “Keep on—I reckon he even sent you a mounted police uniform! That’n never showed up, did it? You just keep on tellin‘ ’em, son-” Dill Harris could tell the biggest ones I ever heard. Among other things, he had been up in a mail plane seventeen times, he had been to Nova Scotia, he had seen an elephant, and his granddaddy was Brigadier General Joe Wheeler and left him his sword. “You all hush,” said Jem. He scuttled beneath the house and came out with a yellow bamboo pole. “Reckon this is long enough to reach from the sidewalk?” “Anybody who’s brave enough to go up and touch the house hadn’t oughta use a fishin‘ pole,” I said. “Why don’t you just knock the front door down?” “This—is—different,” said Jem, “how many times do I have to tell you that?” Dill took a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Jem. The three of us walked cautiously toward the old house. Dill remained at the light-pole on the front corner of the lot, and Jem and I edged down the sidewalk parallel to the side of the house. I walked beyond Jem and stood where I could see around the curve. “All clear,” I said. “Not a soul in sight.” Jem looked up the sidewalk to Dill, who nodded. Jem attached the note to the end of the fishing pole, let the pole out across the yard and pushed it toward the window he had selected. The pole lacked several inches of being long enough, and Jem leaned over as far as he could. I watched him making jabbing motions for so long, I abandoned my post and went to him. “Can’t get it off the pole,” he muttered, “or if I got it off I can’t make it stay. G’on back down the street, Scout.” I returned and gazed around the curve at the empty road. Occasionally I looked back at Jem, who was patiently trying to place the note on the window sill. It would flutter to the ground and Jem would jab it up, until I thought if Boo Radley ever received it he wouldn’t be able to read it. I was looking down the street when the dinner-bell rang. Shoulder up, I reeled around to face Boo Radley and his bloody fangs; instead, I saw Dill ringing the bell with all his might in Atticus’s face. Jem looked so awful I didn’t have the heart to tell him I told him so. He trudged along, dragging the pole behind him on the sidewalk. Atticus said, “Stop ringing that bell.” Dill grabbed the clapper; in the silence that followed, I wished he’d start ringing it again. Atticus pushed his hat to the back of his head and put his hands on his hips. “Jem,” he said, “what were you doing?” “Nothin‘, sir.” “I don’t want any of that. Tell me.” “I was—we were just tryin‘ to give somethin’ to Mr. Radley.” “What were you trying to give him?” “Just a letter.” “Let me see it.” Jem held out a filthy piece of paper. Atticus took it and tried to read it. “Why do you want Mr. Radley to come out?” Dill said, “We thought he might enjoy us…” and dried up when Atticus looked at him. “Son,” he said to Jem, “I’m going to tell you something and tell you one time: stop tormenting that man. That goes for the other two of you.” What Mr. Radley did was his own business. If he wanted to come out, he would. If he wanted to stay inside his own house he had the right to stay inside free from the attentions of inquisitive children, which was a mild term for the likes of us. How would we like it if Atticus barged in on us without knocking, when we were in our rooms at night? We were, in effect, doing the same thing to Mr. Radley. What Mr. Radley did might seem peculiar to us, but it did not seem peculiar to him. Furthermore, had it never occurred to us that the civil way to communicate with another being was by the front door instead of a side window? Lastly, we were to stay away from that house until we were invited there, we were not to play an asinine game he had seen us playing or make fun of anybody on this street or in this town- “We weren’t makin‘ fun of him, we weren’t laughin’ at him,” said Jem, “we were just-” “So that was what you were doing, wasn’t it?” “Makin‘ fun of him?” “No,” said Atticus, “putting his life’s history on display for the edification of the neighborhood.” Jem seemed to swell a little. “I didn’t say we were doin‘ that, I didn’t say it!” Atticus grinned dryly. “You just told me,” he said. “You stop this nonsense right now, every one of you.” Jem gaped at him. “You want to be a lawyer, don’t you?” Our father’s mouth was suspiciously firm, as if he were trying to hold it in line. Jem decided there was no point in quibbling, and was silent. When Atticus went inside the house to retrieve a file he had forgotten to take to work that morning, Jem finally realized that he had been done in by the oldest lawyer’s trick on record. He waited a respectful distance from the front steps, watched Atticus leave the house and walk toward town. When Atticus was out of earshot Jem yelled after him: “I thought I wanted to be a lawyer but I ain’t so sure now!” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 6 “Yes,” said our father, when Jem asked him if we could go over and sit by Miss Rachel’s fishpool with Dill, as this was his last night in Maycomb. “Tell him so long for me, and we’ll see him next summer.” We leaped over the low wall that separated Miss Rachel’s yard from our driveway. Jem whistled bob-white and Dill answered in the darkness. “Not a breath blowing,” said Jem. “Looka yonder.” He pointed to the east. A gigantic moon was rising behind Miss Maudie’s pecan trees. “That makes it seem hotter,” he said. “Cross in it tonight?” asked Dill, not looking up. He was constructing a cigarette from newspaper and string. “No, just the lady. Don’t light that thing, Dill, you’ll stink up this whole end of town.” There was a lady in the moon in Maycomb. She sat at a dresser combing her hair. “We’re gonna miss you, boy,” I said. “Reckon we better watch for Mr. Avery?” Mr. Avery boarded across the street from Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose’s house. Besides making change in the collection plate every Sunday, Mr. Avery sat on the porch every night until nine o’clock and sneezed. One evening we were privileged to witness a performance by him which seemed to have been his positively last, for he never did it again so long as we watched. Jem and I were leaving Miss Rachel’s front steps one night when Dill stopped us: “Golly, looka yonder.” He pointed across the street. At first we saw nothing but a kudzu-covered front porch, but a closer inspection revealed an arc of water descending from the leaves and splashing in the yellow circle of the street light, some ten feet from source to earth, it seemed to us. Jem said Mr. Avery misfigured, Dill said he must drink a gallon a day, and the ensuing contest to determine relative distances and respective prowess only made me feel left out again, as I was untalented in this area. Dill stretched, yawned, and said altogether too casually. “I know what, let’s go for a walk.” He sounded fishy to me. Nobody in Maycomb just went for a walk. “Where to, Dill?” Dill jerked his head in a southerly direction. Jem said, “Okay.” When I protested, he said sweetly, “You don’t have to come along, Angel May.” “You don’t have to go. Remember-” Jem was not one to dwell on past defeats: it seemed the only message he got from Atticus was insight into the art of cross examination. “Scout, we ain’t gonna do anything, we’re just goin‘ to the street light and back.” We strolled silently down the sidewalk, listening to porch swings creaking with the weight of the neighborhood, listening to the soft night-murmurs of the grown people on our street. Occasionally we heard Miss Stephanie Crawford laugh. “Well?” said Dill. “Okay,” said Jem. “Why don’t you go on home, Scout?” “What are you gonna do?” Dill and Jem were simply going to peep in the window with the loose shutter to see if they could get a look at Boo Radley, and if I didn’t want to go with them I could go straight home and keep my fat flopping mouth shut, that was all. “But what in the sam holy hill did you wait till tonight?” Because nobody could see them at night, because Atticus would be so deep in a book he wouldn’t hear the Kingdom coming, because if Boo Radley killed them they’d miss school instead of vacation, and because it was easier to see inside a dark house in the dark than in the daytime, did I understand? “Jem, please—” “Scout, I’m tellin‘ you for the last time, shut your trap or go home—I declare to the Lord you’re gettin’ more like a girl every day!” With that, I had no option but to join them. We thought it was better to go under the high wire fence at the rear of the Radley lot, we stood less chance of being seen. The fence enclosed a large garden and a narrow wooden outhouse. Jem held up the bottom wire and motioned Dill under it. I followed, and held up the wire for Jem. It was a tight squeeze for him. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “Don’t get in a row of collards whatever you do, they’ll wake the dead.” With this thought in mind, I made perhaps one step per minute. I moved faster when I saw Jem far ahead beckoning in the moonlight. We came to the gate that divided the garden from the back yard. Jem touched it. The gate squeaked. “Spit on it,” whispered Dill. “You’ve got us in a box, Jem,” I muttered. “We can’t get out of here so easy.” “Sh-h. Spit on it, Scout.” We spat ourselves dry, and Jem opened the gate slowly, lifting it aside and resting it on the fence. We were in the back yard. The back of the Radley house was less inviting than the front: a ramshackle porch ran the width of the house; there were two doors and two dark windows between the doors. Instead of a column, a rough two-by-four supported one end of the roof. An old Franklin stove sat in a corner of the porch; above it a hat-rack mirror caught the moon and shone eerily. “Ar-r,” said Jem softly, lifting his foot. “‘Smatter?” “Chickens,” he breathed. That we would be obliged to dodge the unseen from all directions was confirmed when Dill ahead of us spelled G-o-d in a whisper. We crept to the side of the house, around to the window with the hanging shutter. The sill was several inches taller than Jem. “Give you a hand up,” he muttered to Dill. “Wait, though.” Jem grabbed his left wrist and my right wrist, I grabbed my left wrist and Jem’s right wrist, we crouched, and Dill sat on our saddle. We raised him and he caught the window sill. “Hurry,” Jem whispered, “we can’t last much longer.” Dill punched my shoulder, and we lowered him to the ground. “What’d you see?” “Nothing. Curtains. There’s a little teeny light way off somewhere, though.” “Let’s get away from here,” breathed Jem. “Let’s go ‘round in back again. Sh-h,” he warned me, as I was about to protest. “Let’s try the back window.” “Dill, no,” I said. Dill stopped and let Jem go ahead. When Jem put his foot on the bottom step, the step squeaked. He stood still, then tried his weight by degrees. The step was silent. Jem skipped two steps, put his foot on the porch, heaved himself to it, and teetered a long moment. He regained his balance and dropped to his knees. He crawled to the window, raised his head and looked in. Then I saw the shadow. It was the shadow of a man with a hat on. At first I thought it was a tree, but there was no wind blowing, and tree-trunks never walked. The back porch was bathed in moonlight, and the shadow, crisp as toast, moved across the porch toward Jem. Dill saw it next. He put his hands to his face. When it crossed Jem, Jem saw it. He put his arms over his head and went rigid. The shadow stopped about a foot beyond Jem. Its arm came out from its side, dropped, and was still. Then it turned and moved back across Jem, walked along the porch and off the side of the house, returning as it had come. Jem leaped off the porch and galloped toward us. He flung open the gate, danced Dill and me through, and shooed us between two rows of swishing collards. Halfway through the collards I tripped; as I tripped the roar of a shotgun shattered the neighborhood. Dill and Jem dived beside me. Jem’s breath came in sobs: “Fence by the schoolyard!—hurry, Scout!” Jem held the bottom wire; Dill and I rolled through and were halfway to the shelter of the schoolyard’s solitary oak when we sensed that Jem was not with us. We ran back and found him struggling in the fence, kicking his pants off to get loose. He ran to the oak tree in his shorts. Safely behind it, we gave way to numbness, but Jem’s mind was racing: “We gotta get home, they’ll miss us.” We ran across the schoolyard, crawled under the fence to Deer’s Pasture behind our house, climbed our back fence and were at the back steps before Jem would let us pause to rest. Respiration normal, the three of us strolled as casually as we could to the front yard. We looked down the street and saw a circle of neighbors at the Radley front gate. “We better go down there,” said Jem. “They’ll think it’s funny if we don’t show up.” Mr. Nathan Radley was standing inside his gate, a shotgun broken across his arm. Atticus was standing beside Miss Maudie and Miss Stephanie Crawford. Miss Rachel and Mr. Avery were near by. None of them saw us come up. We eased in beside Miss Maudie, who looked around. “Where were you all, didn’t you hear the commotion?” “What happened?” asked Jem. “Mr. Radley shot at a Negro in his collard patch.” “Oh. Did he hit him?” “No,” said Miss Stephanie. “Shot in the air. Scared him pale, though. Says if anybody sees a white nigger around, that’s the one. Says he’s got the other barrel waitin‘ for the next sound he hears in that patch, an’ next time he won’t aim high, be it dog, nigger, or—Jem Finch!” “Ma’am?” asked Jem. Atticus spoke. “Where’re your pants, son?” “Pants, sir?” “Pants.” It was no use. In his shorts before God and everybody. I sighed. “Ah—Mr. Finch?” In the glare from the streetlight, I could see Dill hatching one: his eyes widened, his fat cherub face grew rounder. “What is it, Dill?” asked Atticus. “Ah—I won ‘em from him,” he said vaguely. “Won them? How?” Dill’s hand sought the back of his head. He brought it forward and across his forehead. “We were playin‘ strip poker up yonder by the fishpool,” he said. Jem and I relaxed. The neighbors seemed satisfied: they all stiffened. But what was strip poker? We had no chance to find out: Miss Rachel went off like the town fire siren: “Doo-o Jee-sus, Dill Harris! Gamblin‘ by my fishpool? I’ll strip-poker you, sir!” Atticus saved Dill from immediate dismemberment. “Just a minute, Miss Rachel,” he said. “I’ve never heard of ‘em doing that before. Were you all playing cards?” Jem fielded Dill’s fly with his eyes shut: “No sir, just with matches.” I admired my brother. Matches were dangerous, but cards were fatal. “Jem, Scout,” said Atticus, “I don’t want to hear of poker in any form again. Go by Dill’s and get your pants, Jem. Settle it yourselves.” “Don’t worry, Dill,” said Jem, as we trotted up the sidewalk, “she ain’t gonna get you. He’ll talk her out of it. That was fast thinkin‘, son. Listen… you hear?” We stopped, and heard Atticus’s voice:“…not serious… they all go through it, Miss Rachel…” Dill was comforted, but Jem and I weren’t. There was the problem of Jem showing up some pants in the morning. “‘d give you some of mine,” said Dill, as we came to Miss Rachel’s steps. Jem said he couldn’t get in them, but thanks anyway. We said good-bye, and Dill went inside the house. He evidently remembered he was engaged to me, for he ran back out and kissed me swiftly in front of Jem. “Yawl write, hear?” he bawled after us. Had Jem’s pants been safely on him, we would not have slept much anyway. Every night-sound I heard from my cot on the back porch was magnified threefold; every scratch of feet on gravel was Boo Radley seeking revenge, every passing Negro laughing in the night was Boo Radley loose and after us; insects splashing against the screen were Boo Radley’s insane fingers picking the wire to pieces; the chinaberry trees were malignant, hovering, alive. I lingered between sleep and wakefulness until I heard Jem murmur. “Sleep, Little Three-Eyes?” “Are you crazy?” “Sh-h. Atticus’s light’s out.” In the waning moonlight I saw Jem swing his feet to the floor. “I’m goin‘ after ’em,” he said. I sat upright. “You can’t. I won’t let you.” He was struggling into his shirt. “I’ve got to.” “You do an‘ I’ll wake up Atticus.” “You do and I’ll kill you.” I pulled him down beside me on the cot. I tried to reason with him. “Mr. Nathan’s gonna find ‘em in the morning, Jem. He knows you lost ’em. When he shows ‘em to Atticus it’ll be pretty bad, that’s all there is to it. Go’n back to bed.” “That’s what I know,” said Jem. “That’s why I’m goin‘ after ’em.” I began to feel sick. Going back to that place by himself—I remembered Miss Stephanie: Mr. Nathan had the other barrel waiting for the next sound he heard, be it nigger, dog… Jem knew that better than I. I was desperate: “Look, it ain’t worth it, Jem. A lickin‘ hurts but it doesn’t last. You’ll get your head shot off, Jem. Please…” He blew out his breath patiently. “I—it’s like this, Scout,” he muttered. “Atticus ain’t ever whipped me since I can remember. I wanta keep it that way.” This was a thought. It seemed that Atticus threatened us every other day. “You mean he’s never caught you at anything.” “Maybe so, but—I just wanta keep it that way, Scout. We shouldn’a done that tonight, Scout.” It was then, I suppose, that Jem and I first began to part company. Sometimes I did not understand him, but my periods of bewilderment were short-lived. This was beyond me. “Please,” I pleaded, “can’tcha just think about it for a minute— by yourself on that place—” “Shut up!” “It’s not like he’d never speak to you again or somethin‘… I’m gonna wake him up, Jem, I swear I am—” Jem grabbed my pajama collar and wrenched it tight. “Then I’m goin‘ with you —” I choked. “No you ain’t, you’ll just make noise.” It was no use. I unlatched the back door and held it while he crept down the steps. It must have been two o’clock. The moon was setting and the lattice-work shadows were fading into fuzzy nothingness. Jem’s white shirt-tail dipped and bobbed like a small ghost dancing away to escape the coming morning. A faint breeze stirred and cooled the sweat running down my sides. He went the back way, through Deer’s Pasture, across the schoolyard and around to the fence, I thought—at least that was the way he was headed. It would take longer, so it was not time to worry yet. I waited until it was time to worry and listened for Mr. Radley’s shotgun. Then I thought I heard the back fence squeak. It was wishful thinking. Then I heard Atticus cough. I held my breath. Sometimes when we made a midnight pilgrimage to the bathroom we would find him reading. He said he often woke up during the night, checked on us, and read himself back to sleep. I waited for his light to go on, straining my eyes to see it flood the hall. It stayed off, and I breathed again. The night-crawlers had retired, but ripe chinaberries drummed on the roof when the wind stirred, and the darkness was desolate with the barking of distant dogs. There he was, returning to me. His white shirt bobbed over the back fence and slowly grew larger. He came up the back steps, latched the door behind him, and sat on his cot. Wordlessly, he held up his pants. He lay down, and for a while I heard his cot trembling. Soon he was still. I did not hear him stir again. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 7 Jem stayed moody and silent for a week. As Atticus had once advised me to do, I tried to climb into Jem’s skin and walk around in it: if I had gone alone to the Radley Place at two in the morning, my funeral would have been held the next afternoon. So I left Jem alone and tried not to bother him. School started. The second grade was as bad as the first, only worse—they still flashed cards at you and wouldn’t let you read or write. Miss Caroline’s progress next door could be estimated by the frequency of laughter; however, the usual crew had flunked the first grade again, and were helpful in keeping order. The only thing good about the second grade was that this year I had to stay as late as Jem, and we usually walked home together at three o’clock. One afternoon when we were crossing the schoolyard toward home, Jem suddenly said: “There’s something I didn’t tell you.” As this was his first complete sentence in several days, I encouraged him: “About what?” “About that night.” “You’ve never told me anything about that night,” I said. Jem waved my words away as if fanning gnats. He was silent for a while, then he said, “When I went back for my breeches—they were all in a tangle when I was gettin‘ out of ’em, I couldn’t get ‘em loose. When I went back—” Jem took a deep breath. “When I went back, they were folded across the fence… like they were expectin’ me.” “Across—” “And something else—” Jem’s voice was flat. “Show you when we get home. They’d been sewed up. Not like a lady sewed ‘em, like somethin’ I’d try to do. All crooked. It’s almost like—” “—somebody knew you were comin‘ back for ’em.” Jem shuddered. “Like somebody was readin‘ my mind… like somebody could tell what I was gonna do. Can’t anybody tell what I’m gonna do lest they know me, can they, Scout?” Jem’s question was an appeal. I reassured him: “Can’t anybody tell what you’re gonna do lest they live in the house with you, and even I can’t tell sometimes.” We were walking past our tree. In its knot-hole rested a ball of gray twine. “Don’t take it, Jem,” I said. “This is somebody’s hidin‘ place.” “I don’t think so, Scout.” “Yes it is. Somebody like Walter Cunningham comes down here every recess and hides his things—and we come along and take ‘em away from him. Listen, let’s leave it and wait a couple of days. If it ain’t gone then, we’ll take it, okay?” “Okay, you might be right,” said Jem. “It must be some little kid’s place—hides his things from the bigger folks. You know it’s only when school’s in that we’ve found things.” “Yeah,” I said, “but we never go by here in the summertime.” We went home. Next morning the twine was where we had left it. When it was still there on the third day, Jem pocketed it. From then on, we considered everything we found in the knot-hole our property. - The second grade was grim, but Jem assured me that the older I got the better school would be, that he started off the same way, and it was not until one reached the sixth grade that one learned anything of value. The sixth grade seemed to please him from the beginning: he went through a brief Egyptian Period that baffled me—he tried to walk flat a great deal, sticking one arm in front of him and one in back of him, putting one foot behind the other. He declared Egyptians walked that way; I said if they did I didn’t see how they got anything done, but Jem said they accomplished more than the Americans ever did, they invented toilet paper and perpetual embalming, and asked where would we be today if they hadn’t? Atticus told me to delete the adjectives and I’d have the facts. There are no clearly defined seasons in South Alabama; summer drifts into autumn, and autumn is sometimes never followed by winter, but turns to a daysold spring that melts into summer again. That fall was a long one, hardly cool enough for a light jacket. Jem and I were trotting in our orbit one mild October afternoon when our knot-hole stopped us again. Something white was inside this time. Jem let me do the honors: I pulled out two small images carved in soap. One was the figure of a boy, the other wore a crude dress. Before I remembered that there was no such thing as hoo-dooing, I shrieked and threw them down. Jem snatched them up. “What’s the matter with you?” he yelled. He rubbed the figures free of red dust. “These are good,” he said. “I’ve never seen any these good.” He held them down to me. They were almost perfect miniatures of two children. The boy had on shorts, and a shock of soapy hair fell to his eyebrows. I looked up at Jem. A point of straight brown hair kicked downwards from his part. I had never noticed it before. Jem looked from the girl-doll to me. The girl-doll wore bangs. So did I. “These are us,” he said. “Who did ‘em, you reckon?” “Who do we know around here who whittles?” he asked. “Mr. Avery.” “Mr. Avery just does like this. I mean carves.” Mr. Avery averaged a stick of stovewood per week; he honed it down to a toothpick and chewed it. “There’s old Miss Stephanie Crawford’s sweetheart,” I said. “He carves all right, but he lives down the country. When would he ever pay any attention to us?” “Maybe he sits on the porch and looks at us instead of Miss Stephanie. If I was him, I would.” Jem stared at me so long I asked what was the matter, but got Nothing, Scout for an answer. When we went home, Jem put the dolls in his trunk. Less than two weeks later we found a whole package of chewing gum, which we enjoyed, the fact that everything on the Radley Place was poison having slipped Jem’s memory. The following week the knot-hole yielded a tarnished medal. Jem showed it to Atticus, who said it was a spelling medal, that before we were born the Maycomb County schools had spelling contests and awarded medals to the winners. Atticus said someone must have lost it, and had we asked around? Jem camel-kicked me when I tried to say where we had found it. Jem asked Atticus if he remembered anybody who ever won one, and Atticus said no. Our biggest prize appeared four days later. It was a pocket watch that wouldn’t run, on a chain with an aluminum knife. “You reckon it’s white gold, Jem?” “Don’t know. I’ll show it to Atticus.” Atticus said it would probably be worth ten dollars, knife, chain and all, if it were new. “Did you swap with somebody at school?” he asked. “Oh, no sir!” Jem pulled out his grandfather’s watch that Atticus let him carry once a week if Jem were careful with it. On the days he carried the watch, Jem walked on eggs. “Atticus, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather have this one instead. Maybe I can fix it.” When the new wore off his grandfather’s watch, and carrying it became a day’s burdensome task, Jem no longer felt the necessity of ascertaining the hour every five minutes. He did a fair job, only one spring and two tiny pieces left over, but the watch would not run. “Oh-h,” he sighed, “it’ll never go. Scout—?” “Huh?” “You reckon we oughta write a letter to whoever’s leaving us these things?” “That’d be right nice, Jem, we can thank ‘em—what’s wrong?” Jem was holding his ears, shaking his head from side to side. “I don’t get it, I just don’t get it—I don’t know why, Scout…” He looked toward the livingroom. “I’ve gotta good mind to tell Atticus—no, I reckon not.” “I’ll tell him for you.” “No, don’t do that, Scout. Scout?” “Wha-t?” He had been on the verge of telling me something all evening; his face would brighten and he would lean toward me, then he would change his mind. He changed it again. “Oh, nothin‘.” “Here, let’s write a letter.” I pushed a tablet and pencil under his nose. “Okay. Dear Mister…” “How do you know it’s a man? I bet it’s Miss Maudie—been bettin‘ that for a long time.” “Ar-r, Miss Maudie can’t chew gum—” Jem broke into a grin. “You know, she can talk real pretty sometimes. One time I asked her to have a chew and she said no thanks, that—chewing gum cleaved to her palate and rendered her speechless,” said Jem carefully. “Doesn’t that sound nice?” “Yeah, she can say nice things sometimes. She wouldn’t have a watch and chain anyway.” “Dear sir,” said Jem. “We appreciate the—no, we appreciate everything which you have put into the tree for us. Yours very truly, Jeremy Atticus Finch.” “He won’t know who you are if you sign it like that, Jem.” Jem erased his name and wrote, “Jem Finch.” I signed, “Jean Louise Finch (Scout),” beneath it. Jem put the note in an envelope. Next morning on the way to school he ran ahead of me and stopped at the tree. Jem was facing me when he looked up, and I saw him go stark white. “Scout!” I ran to him. Someone had filled our knot-hole with cement. “Don’t you cry, now, Scout… don’t cry now, don’t you worry-” he muttered at me all the way to school. When we went home for dinner Jem bolted his food, ran to the porch and stood on the steps. I followed him. “Hasn’t passed by yet,” he said. Next day Jem repeated his vigil and was rewarded. “Hidy do, Mr. Nathan,” he said. “Morning Jem, Scout,” said Mr. Radley, as he went by. “Mr. Radley,” said Jem. Mr. Radley turned around. “Mr. Radley, ah—did you put cement in that hole in that tree down yonder?” “Yes,” he said. “I filled it up.” “Why’d you do it, sir?” “Tree’s dying. You plug ‘em with cement when they’re sick. You ought to know that, Jem.” Jem said nothing more about it until late afternoon. When we passed our tree he gave it a meditative pat on its cement, and remained deep in thought. He seemed to be working himself into a bad humor, so I kept my distance. As usual, we met Atticus coming home from work that evening. When we were at our steps Jem said, “Atticus, look down yonder at that tree, please sir.” “What tree, son?” “The one on the corner of the Radley lot comin‘ from school.” “Yes?” “Is that tree dyin‘?” “Why no, son, I don’t think so. Look at the leaves, they’re all green and full, no brown patches anywhere—” “It ain’t even sick?” “That tree’s as healthy as you are, Jem. Why?” “Mr. Nathan Radley said it was dyin‘.” “Well maybe it is. I’m sure Mr. Radley knows more about his trees than we do.” Atticus left us on the porch. Jem leaned on a pillar, rubbing his shoulders against it. “Do you itch, Jem?” I asked as politely as I could. He did not answer. “Come on in, Jem,” I said. “After while.” He stood there until nightfall, and I waited for him. When we went in the house I saw he had been crying; his face was dirty in the right places, but I thought it odd that I had not heard him. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 8 For reasons unfathomable to the most experienced prophets in Maycomb County, autumn turned to winter that year. We had two weeks of the coldest weather since 1885, Atticus said. Mr. Avery said it was written on the Rosetta Stone that when children disobeyed their parents, smoked cigarettes and made war on each other, the seasons would change: Jem and I were burdened with the guilt of contributing to the aberrations of nature, thereby causing unhappiness to our neighbors and discomfort to ourselves. Old Mrs. Radley died that winter, but her death caused hardly a ripple—the neighborhood seldom saw her, except when she watered her cannas. Jem and I decided that Boo had got her at last, but when Atticus returned from the Radley house he said she died of natural causes, to our disappointment. “Ask him,” Jem whispered. “You ask him, you’re the oldest.” “That’s why you oughta ask him.” “Atticus,” I said, “did you see Mr. Arthur?” Atticus looked sternly around his newspaper at me: “I did not.” Jem restrained me from further questions. He said Atticus was still touchous about us and the Radleys and it wouldn’t do to push him any. Jem had a notion that Atticus thought our activities that night last summer were not solely confined to strip poker. Jem had no firm basis for his ideas, he said it was merely a twitch. Next morning I awoke, looked out the window and nearly died of fright. My screams brought Atticus from his bathroom half-shaven. “The world’s endin‘, Atticus! Please do something—!” I dragged him to the window and pointed. “No it’s not,” he said. “It’s snowing.” Jem asked Atticus would it keep up. Jem had never seen snow either, but he knew what it was. Atticus said he didn’t know any more about snow than Jem did. “I think, though, if it’s watery like that, it’ll turn to rain.” The telephone rang and Atticus left the breakfast table to answer it. “That was Eula May,” he said when he returned. “I quote—‘As it has not snowed in Maycomb County since 1885, there will be no school today.’” Eula May was Maycomb’s leading telephone operator. She was entrusted with issuing public announcements, wedding invitations, setting off the fire siren, and giving first-aid instructions when Dr. Reynolds was away. When Atticus finally called us to order and bade us look at our plates instead of out the windows, Jem asked, “How do you make a snowman?” “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Atticus. “I don’t want you all to be disappointed, but I doubt if there’ll be enough snow for a snowball, even.” Calpurnia came in and said she thought it was sticking. When we ran to the back yard, it was covered with a feeble layer of soggy snow. “We shouldn’t walk about in it,” said Jem. “Look, every step you take’s wasting it.” I looked back at my mushy footprints. Jem said if we waited until it snowed some more we could scrape it all up for a snowman. I stuck out my tongue and caught a fat flake. It burned. “Jem, it’s hot!” “No it ain’t, it’s so cold it burns. Now don’t eat it, Scout, you’re wasting it. Let it come down.” “But I want to walk in it.” “I know what, we can go walk over at Miss Maudie’s.” Jem hopped across the front yard. I followed in his tracks. When we were on the sidewalk in front of Miss Maudie’s, Mr. Avery accosted us. He had a pink face and a big stomach below his belt. “See what you’ve done?” he said. “Hasn’t snowed in Maycomb since Appomattox. It’s bad children like you makes the seasons change.” I wondered if Mr. Avery knew how hopefully we had watched last summer for him to repeat his performance, and reflected that if this was our reward, there was something to say for sin. I did not wonder where Mr. Avery gathered his meteorological statistics: they came straight from the Rosetta Stone. “Jem Finch, you Jem Finch!” “Miss Maudie’s callin‘ you, Jem.” “You all stay in the middle of the yard. There’s some thrift buried under the snow near the porch. Don’t step on it!” “Yessum!” called Jem. “It’s beautiful, ain’t it, Miss Maudie?” “Beautiful my hind foot! If it freezes tonight it’ll carry off all my azaleas!” Miss Maudie’s old sunhat glistened with snow crystals. She was bending over some small bushes, wrapping them in burlap bags. Jem asked her what she was doing that for. “Keep ‘em warm,” she said. “How can flowers keep warm? They don’t circulate.” “I cannot answer that question, Jem Finch. All I know is if it freezes tonight these plants’ll freeze, so you cover ‘em up. Is that clear?” “Yessum. Miss Maudie?” “What, sir?” “Could Scout and me borrow some of your snow?” “Heavens alive, take it all! There’s an old peach basket under the house, haul it off in that.” Miss Maudie’s eyes narrowed. “Jem Finch, what are you going to do with my snow?” “You’ll see,” said Jem, and we transferred as much snow as we could from Miss Maudie’s yard to ours, a slushy operation. “What are we gonna do, Jem?” I asked. “You’ll see,” he said. “Now get the basket and haul all the snow you can rake up from the back yard to the front. Walk back in your tracks, though,” he cautioned. “Are we gonna have a snow baby, Jem?” “No, a real snowman. Gotta work hard, now.” Jem ran to the back yard, produced the garden hoe and began digging quickly behind the woodpile, placing any worms he found to one side. He went in the house, returned with the laundry hamper, filled it with earth and carried it to the front yard. When we had five baskets of earth and two baskets of snow, Jem said we were ready to begin. “Don’t you think this is kind of a mess?” I asked. “Looks messy now, but it won’t later,” he said. Jem scooped up an armful of dirt, patted it into a mound on which he added another load, and another until he had constructed a torso. “Jem, I ain’t ever heard of a nigger snowman,” I said. “He won’t be black long,” he grunted. Jem procured some peachtree switches from the back yard, plaited them, and bent them into bones to be covered with dirt. “He looks like Stephanie Crawford with her hands on her hips,” I said. “Fat in the middle and little-bitty arms.” “I’ll make ‘em bigger.” Jem sloshed water over the mud man and added more dirt. He looked thoughtfully at it for a moment, then he molded a big stomach below the figure’s waistline. Jem glanced at me, his eyes twinkling: “Mr. Avery’s sort of shaped like a snowman, ain’t he?” Jem scooped up some snow and began plastering it on. He permitted me to cover only the back, saving the public parts for himself. Gradually Mr. Avery turned white. Using bits of wood for eyes, nose, mouth, and buttons, Jem succeeded in making Mr. Avery look cross. A stick of stovewood completed the picture. Jem stepped back and viewed his creation. “It’s lovely, Jem,” I said. “Looks almost like he’d talk to you.” “It is, ain’t it?” he said shyly. We could not wait for Atticus to come home for dinner, but called and said we had a big surprise for him. He seemed surprised when he saw most of the back yard in the front yard, but he said we had done a jim-dandy job. “I didn’t know how you were going to do it,” he said to Jem, “but from now on I’ll never worry about what’ll become of you, son, you’ll always have an idea.” Jem’s ears reddened from Atticus’s compliment, but he looked up sharply when he saw Atticus stepping back. Atticus squinted at the snowman a while. He grinned, then laughed. “Son, I can’t tell what you’re going to be—an engineer, a lawyer, or a portrait painter. You’ve perpetrated a near libel here in the front yard. We’ve got to disguise this fellow.” Atticus suggested that Jem hone down his creation’s front a little, swap a broom for the stovewood, and put an apron on him. Jem explained that if he did, the snowman would become muddy and cease to be a snowman. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you do something,” said Atticus. “You can’t go around making caricatures of the neighbors.” “Ain’t a characterture,” said Jem. “It looks just like him.” “Mr. Avery might not think so.” “I know what!” said Jem. He raced across the street, disappeared into Miss Maudie’s back yard and returned triumphant. He stuck her sunhat on the snowman’s head and jammed her hedge-clippers into the crook of his arm. Atticus said that would be fine. Miss Maudie opened her front door and came out on the porch. She looked across the street at us. Suddenly she grinned. “Jem Finch,” she called. “You devil, bring me back my hat, sir!” Jem looked up at Atticus, who shook his head. “She’s just fussing,” he said. “She’s really impressed with your—accomplishments.” Atticus strolled over to Miss Maudie’s sidewalk, where they engaged in an armwaving conversation, the only phrase of which I caught was “…erected an absolute morphodite in that yard! Atticus, you’ll never raise ‘em!” The snow stopped in the afternoon, the temperature dropped, and by nightfall Mr. Avery’s direst predictions came true: Calpurnia kept every fireplace in the house blazing, but we were cold. When Atticus came home that evening he said we were in for it, and asked Calpurnia if she wanted to stay with us for the night. Calpurnia glanced up at the high ceilings and long windows and said she thought she’d be warmer at her house. Atticus drove her home in the car. Before I went to sleep Atticus put more coal on the fire in my room. He said the thermometer registered sixteen, that it was the coldest night in his memory, and that our snowman outside was frozen solid. Minutes later, it seemed, I was awakened by someone shaking me. Atticus’s overcoat was spread across me. “Is it morning already?” “Baby, get up.” Atticus was holding out my bathrobe and coat. “Put your robe on first,” he said. Jem was standing beside Atticus, groggy and tousled. He was holding his overcoat closed at the neck, his other hand was jammed into his pocket. He looked strangely overweight. “Hurry, hon,” said Atticus. “Here’re your shoes and socks.” Stupidly, I put them on. “Is it morning?” “No, it’s a little after one. Hurry now.” That something was wrong finally got through to me. “What’s the matter?” By then he did not have to tell me. Just as the birds know where to go when it rains, I knew when there was trouble in our street. Soft taffeta-like sounds and muffled scurrying sounds filled me with helpless dread. “Whose is it?” “Miss Maudie’s, hon,” said Atticus gently. At the front door, we saw fire spewing from Miss Maudie’s diningroom windows. As if to confirm what we saw, the town fire siren wailed up the scale to a treble pitch and remained there, screaming. “It’s gone, ain’t it?” moaned Jem. “I expect so,” said Atticus. “Now listen, both of you. Go down and stand in front of the Radley Place. Keep out of the way, do you hear? See which way the wind’s blowing?” “Oh,” said Jem. “Atticus, reckon we oughta start moving the furniture out?” “Not yet, son. Do as I tell you. Run now. Take care of Scout, you hear? Don’t let her out of your sight.” With a push, Atticus started us toward the Radley front gate. We stood watching the street fill with men and cars while fire silently devoured Miss Maudie’s house. “Why don’t they hurry, why don’t they hurry…” muttered Jem. We saw why. The old fire truck, killed by the cold, was being pushed from town by a crowd of men. When the men attached its hose to a hydrant, the hose burst and water shot up, tinkling down on the pavement. “Oh-h Lord, Jem…” Jem put his arm around me. “Hush, Scout,” he said. “It ain’t time to worry yet. I’ll let you know when.” The men of Maycomb, in all degrees of dress and undress, took furniture from Miss Maudie’s house to a yard across the street. I saw Atticus carrying Miss Maudie’s heavy oak rocking chair, and thought it sensible of him to save what she valued most. Sometimes we heard shouts. Then Mr. Avery’s face appeared in an upstairs window. He pushed a mattress out the window into the street and threw down furniture until men shouted, “Come down from there, Dick! The stairs are going! Get outta there, Mr. Avery!” Mr. Avery began climbing through the window. “Scout, he’s stuck…” breathed Jem. “Oh God…” Mr. Avery was wedged tightly. I buried my head under Jem’s arm and didn’t look again until Jem cried, “He’s got loose, Scout! He’s all right!” I looked up to see Mr. Avery cross the upstairs porch. He swung his legs over the railing and was sliding down a pillar when he slipped. He fell, yelled, and hit Miss Maudie’s shrubbery. Suddenly I noticed that the men were backing away from Miss Maudie’s house, moving down the street toward us. They were no longer carrying furniture. The fire was well into the second floor and had eaten its way to the roof: window frames were black against a vivid orange center. “Jem, it looks like a pumpkin—” “Scout, look!” Smoke was rolling off our house and Miss Rachel’s house like fog off a riverbank, and men were pulling hoses toward them. Behind us, the fire truck from Abbottsville screamed around the curve and stopped in front of our house. “That book…” I said. “What?” said Jem. “That Tom Swift book, it ain’t mine, it’s Dill’s…” “Don’t worry, Scout, it ain’t time to worry yet,” said Jem. He pointed. “Looka yonder.” In a group of neighbors, Atticus was standing with his hands in his overcoat pockets. He might have been watching a football game. Miss Maudie was beside him. “See there, he’s not worried yet,” said Jem. “Why ain’t he on top of one of the houses?” “He’s too old, he’d break his neck.” “You think we oughta make him get our stuff out?” “Let’s don’t pester him, he’ll know when it’s time,” said Jem. The Abbottsville fire truck began pumping water on our house; a man on the roof pointed to places that needed it most. I watched our Absolute Morphodite go black and crumble; Miss Maudie’s sunhat settled on top of the heap. I could not see her hedge-clippers. In the heat between our house, Miss Rachel’s and Miss Maudie’s, the men had long ago shed coats and bathrobes. They worked in pajama tops and nightshirts stuffed into their pants, but I became aware that I was slowly freezing where I stood. Jem tried to keep me warm, but his arm was not enough. I pulled free of it and clutched my shoulders. By dancing a little, I could feel my feet. Another fire truck appeared and stopped in front of Miss Stephanie Crawford’s. There was no hydrant for another hose, and the men tried to soak her house with hand extinguishers. Miss Maudie’s tin roof quelled the flames. Roaring, the house collapsed; fire gushed everywhere, followed by a flurry of blankets from men on top of the adjacent houses, beating out sparks and burning chunks of wood. It was dawn before the men began to leave, first one by one, then in groups. They pushed the Maycomb fire truck back to town, the Abbottsville truck departed, the third one remained. We found out next day it had come from Clark’s Ferry, sixty miles away. Jem and I slid across the street. Miss Maudie was staring at the smoking black hole in her yard, and Atticus shook his head to tell us she did not want to talk. He led us home, holding onto our shoulders to cross the icy street. He said Miss Maudie would stay with Miss Stephanie for the time being. “Anybody want some hot chocolate?” he asked. I shuddered when Atticus started a fire in the kitchen stove. As we drank our cocoa I noticed Atticus looking at me, first with curiosity, then with sternness. “I thought I told you and Jem to stay put,” he said. “Why, we did. We stayed—” “Then whose blanket is that?” “Blanket?” “Yes ma’am, blanket. It isn’t ours.” I looked down and found myself clutching a brown woolen blanket I was wearing around my shoulders, squaw-fashion. “Atticus, I don’t know, sir… I—” I turned to Jem for an answer, but Jem was even more bewildered than I. He said he didn’t know how it got there, we did exactly as Atticus had told us, we stood down by the Radley gate away from everybody, we didn’t move an inch—Jem stopped. “Mr. Nathan was at the fire,” he babbled, “I saw him, I saw him, he was tuggin‘ that mattress—Atticus, I swear…” “That’s all right, son.” Atticus grinned slowly. “Looks like all of Maycomb was out tonight, in one way or another. Jem, there’s some wrapping paper in the pantry, I think. Go get it and we’ll—” “Atticus, no sir!” Jem seemed to have lost his mind. He began pouring out our secrets right and left in total disregard for my safety if not for his own, omitting nothing, knot-hole, pants and all. “…Mr. Nathan put cement in that tree, Atticus, an‘ he did it to stop us findin’ things—he’s crazy, I reckon, like they say, but Atticus, I swear to God he ain’t ever harmed us, he ain’t ever hurt us, he coulda cut my throat from ear to ear that night but he tried to mend my pants instead… he ain’t ever hurt us, Atticus—” Atticus said, “Whoa, son,” so gently that I was greatly heartened. It was obvious that he had not followed a word Jem said, for all Atticus said was, “You’re right. We’d better keep this and the blanket to ourselves. Someday, maybe, Scout can thank him for covering her up.” “Thank who?” I asked. “Boo Radley. You were so busy looking at the fire you didn’t know it when he put the blanket around you.” My stomach turned to water and I nearly threw up when Jem held out the blanket and crept toward me. “He sneaked out of the house—turn ‘round—sneaked up, an’ went like this!” Atticus said dryly, “Do not let this inspire you to further glory, Jeremy.” Jem scowled, “I ain’t gonna do anything to him,” but I watched the spark of fresh adventure leave his eyes. “Just think, Scout,” he said, “if you’d just turned around, you’da seen him.” Calpurnia woke us at noon. Atticus had said we need not go to school that day, we’d learn nothing after no sleep. Calpurnia said for us to try and clean up the front yard. Miss Maudie’s sunhat was suspended in a thin layer of ice, like a fly in amber, and we had to dig under the dirt for her hedge-clippers. We found her in her back yard, gazing at her frozen charred azaleas. “We’re bringing back your things, Miss Maudie,” said Jem. “We’re awful sorry.” Miss Maudie looked around, and the shadow of her old grin crossed her face. “Always wanted a smaller house, Jem Finch. Gives me more yard. Just think, I’ll have more room for my azaleas now!” “You ain’t grievin‘, Miss Maudie?” I asked, surprised. Atticus said her house was nearly all she had. “Grieving, child? Why, I hated that old cow barn. Thought of settin‘ fire to it a hundred times myself, except they’d lock me up.” “But—” “Don’t you worry about me, Jean Louise Finch. There are ways of doing things you don’t know about. Why, I’ll build me a little house and take me a couple of roomers and—gracious, I’ll have the finest yard in Alabama. Those Bellingraths’ll look plain puny when I get started!” Jem and I looked at each other. “How’d it catch, Miss Maudie?” he asked. “I don’t know, Jem. Probably the flue in the kitchen. I kept a fire in there last night for my potted plants. Hear you had some unexpected company last night, Miss Jean Louise.” “How’d you know?” “Atticus told me on his way to town this morning. Tell you the truth, I’d like to’ve been with you. And I’d‘ve had sense enough to turn around, too.” Miss Maudie puzzled me. With most of her possessions gone and her beloved yard a shambles, she still took a lively and cordial interest in Jem’s and my affairs. She must have seen my perplexity. She said, “Only thing I worried about last night was all the danger and commotion it caused. This whole neighborhood could have gone up. Mr. Avery’ll be in bed for a week—he’s right stove up. He’s too old to do things like that and I told him so. Soon as I can get my hands clean and when Stephanie Crawford’s not looking, I’ll make him a Lane cake. That Stephanie’s been after my recipe for thirty years, and if she thinks I’ll give it to her just because I’m staying with her she’s got another think coming.” I reflected that if Miss Maudie broke down and gave it to her, Miss Stephanie couldn’t follow it anyway. Miss Maudie had once let me see it: among other things, the recipe called for one large cup of sugar. It was a still day. The air was so cold and clear we heard the courthouse clock clank, rattle and strain before it struck the hour. Miss Maudie’s nose was a color I had never seen before, and I inquired about it. “I’ve been out here since six o’clock,” she said. “Should be frozen by now.” She held up her hands. A network of tiny lines crisscrossed her palms, brown with dirt and dried blood. “You’ve ruined ‘em,” said Jem. “Why don’t you get a colored man?” There was no note of sacrifice in his voice when he added, “Or Scout’n’me, we can help you.” Miss Maudie said, “Thank you sir, but you’ve got a job of your own over there.” She pointed to our yard. “You mean the Morphodite?” I asked. “Shoot, we can rake him up in a jiffy.” Miss Maudie stared down at me, her lips moving silently. Suddenly she put her hands to her head and whooped. When we left her, she was still chuckling. Jem said he didn’t know what was the matter with her—that was just Miss Maudie. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 9 “You can just take that back, boy!” This order, given by me to Cecil Jacobs, was the beginning of a rather thin time for Jem and me. My fists were clenched and I was ready to let fly. Atticus had promised me he would wear me out if he ever heard of me fighting any more; I was far too old and too big for such childish things, and the sooner I learned to hold in, the better off everybody would be. I soon forgot. Cecil Jacobs made me forget. He had announced in the schoolyard the day before that Scout Finch’s daddy defended niggers. I denied it, but told Jem. “What’d he mean sayin‘ that?” I asked. “Nothing,” Jem said. “Ask Atticus, he’ll tell you.” “Do you defend niggers, Atticus?” I asked him that evening. “Of course I do. Don’t say nigger, Scout. That’s common.” “‘s what everybody at school says.” “From now on it’ll be everybody less one—” “Well if you don’t want me to grow up talkin‘ that way, why do you send me to school?” My father looked at me mildly, amusement in his eyes. Despite our compromise, my campaign to avoid school had continued in one form or another since my first day’s dose of it: the beginning of last September had brought on sinking spells, dizziness, and mild gastric complaints. I went so far as to pay a nickel for the privilege of rubbing my head against the head of Miss Rachel’s cook’s son, who was afflicted with a tremendous ringworm. It didn’t take. But I was worrying another bone. “Do all lawyers defend n-Negroes, Atticus?” “Of course they do, Scout.” “Then why did Cecil say you defended niggers? He made it sound like you were runnin‘ a still.” Atticus sighed. “I’m simply defending a Negro—his name’s Tom Robinson. He lives in that little settlement beyond the town dump. He’s a member of Calpurnia’s church, and Cal knows his family well. She says they’re clean-living folks. Scout, you aren’t old enough to understand some things yet, but there’s been some high talk around town to the effect that I shouldn’t do much about defending this man. It’s a peculiar case—it won’t come to trial until summer session. John Taylor was kind enough to give us a postponement…” “If you shouldn’t be defendin‘ him, then why are you doin’ it?” “For a number of reasons,” said Atticus. “The main one is, if I didn’t I couldn’t hold up my head in town, I couldn’t represent this county in the legislature, I couldn’t even tell you or Jem not to do something again.” “You mean if you didn’t defend that man, Jem and me wouldn’t have to mind you any more?” “That’s about right.” “Why?” “Because I could never ask you to mind me again. Scout, simply by the nature of the work, every lawyer gets at least one case in his lifetime that affects him personally. This one’s mine, I guess. You might hear some ugly talk about it at school, but do one thing for me if you will: you just hold your head high and keep those fists down. No matter what anybody says to you, don’t you let ‘em get your goat. Try fighting with your head for a change… it’s a good one, even if it does resist learning.” “Atticus, are we going to win it?” “No, honey.” “Then why—” “Simply because we were licked a hundred years before we started is no reason for us not to try to win,” Atticus said. “You sound like Cousin Ike Finch,” I said. Cousin Ike Finch was Maycomb County’s sole surviving Confederate veteran. He wore a General Hood type beard of which he was inordinately vain. At least once a year Atticus, Jem and I called on him, and I would have to kiss him. It was horrible. Jem and I would listen respectfully to Atticus and Cousin Ike rehash the war. “Tell you, Atticus,” Cousin Ike would say, “the Missouri Compromise was what licked us, but if I had to go through it agin I’d walk every step of the way there an‘ every step back jist like I did before an’ furthermore we’d whip ‘em this time… now in 1864, when Stonewall Jackson came around by—I beg your pardon, young folks. Ol’ Blue Light was in heaven then, God rest his saintly brow…” “Come here, Scout,” said Atticus. I crawled into his lap and tucked my head under his chin. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. “It’s different this time,” he said. “This time we aren’t fighting the Yankees, we’re fighting our friends. But remember this, no matter how bitter things get, they’re still our friends and this is still our home.” With this in mind, I faced Cecil Jacobs in the schoolyard next day: “You gonna take that back, boy?” “You gotta make me first!” he yelled. “My folks said your daddy was a disgrace an‘ that nigger oughta hang from the water-tank!” I drew a bead on him, remembered what Atticus had said, then dropped my fists and walked away, “Scout’s a cow—ward!” ringing in my ears. It was the first time I ever walked away from a fight. Somehow, if I fought Cecil I would let Atticus down. Atticus so rarely asked Jem and me to do something for him, I could take being called a coward for him. I felt extremely noble for having remembered, and remained noble for three weeks. Then Christmas came and disaster struck. Jem and I viewed Christmas with mixed feelings. The good side was the tree and Uncle Jack Finch. Every Christmas Eve day we met Uncle Jack at Maycomb Junction, and he would spend a week with us. A flip of the coin revealed the uncompromising lineaments of Aunt Alexandra and Francis. I suppose I should include Uncle Jimmy, Aunt Alexandra’s husband, but as he never spoke a word to me in my life except to say, “Get off the fence,” once, I never saw any reason to take notice of him. Neither did Aunt Alexandra. Long ago, in a burst of friendliness, Aunty and Uncle Jimmy produced a son named Henry, who left home as soon as was humanly possible, married, and produced Francis. Henry and his wife deposited Francis at his grandparents’ every Christmas, then pursued their own pleasures. No amount of sighing could induce Atticus to let us spend Christmas day at home. We went to Finch’s Landing every Christmas in my memory. The fact that Aunty was a good cook was some compensation for being forced to spend a religious holiday with Francis Hancock. He was a year older than I, and I avoided him on principle: he enjoyed everything I disapproved of, and disliked my ingenuous diversions. Aunt Alexandra was Atticus’s sister, but when Jem told me about changelings and siblings, I decided that she had been swapped at birth, that my grandparents had perhaps received a Crawford instead of a Finch. Had I ever harbored the mystical notions about mountains that seem to obsess lawyers and judges, Aunt Alexandra would have been analogous to Mount Everest: throughout my early life, she was cold and there. When Uncle Jack jumped down from the train Christmas Eve day, we had to wait for the porter to hand him two long packages. Jem and I always thought it funny when Uncle Jack pecked Atticus on the cheek; they were the only two men we ever saw kiss each other. Uncle Jack shook hands with Jem and swung me high, but not high enough: Uncle Jack was a head shorter than Atticus; the baby of the family, he was younger than Aunt Alexandra. He and Aunty looked alike, but Uncle Jack made better use of his face: we were never wary of his sharp nose and chin. He was one of the few men of science who never terrified me, probably because he never behaved like a doctor. Whenever he performed a minor service for Jem and me, as removing a splinter from a foot, he would tell us exactly what he was going to do, give us an estimation of how much it would hurt, and explain the use of any tongs he employed. One Christmas I lurked in corners nursing a twisted splinter in my foot, permitting no one to come near me. When Uncle Jack caught me, he kept me laughing about a preacher who hated going to church so much that every day he stood at his gate in his dressing-gown, smoking a hookah and delivering five-minute sermons to any passers-by who desired spiritual comfort. I interrupted to make Uncle Jack let me know when he would pull it out, but he held up a bloody splinter in a pair of tweezers and said he yanked it while I was laughing, that was what was known as relativity. “What’s in those packages?” I asked him, pointing to the long thin parcels the porter had given him. “None of your business,” he said. Jem said, “How’s Rose Aylmer?” Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat. She was a beautiful yellow female Uncle Jack said was one of the few women he could stand permanently. He reached into his coat pocket and brought out some snapshots. We admired them. “She’s gettin‘ fat,” I said. “I should think so. She eats all the leftover fingers and ears from the hospital.” “Aw, that’s a damn story,” I said. “I beg your pardon?” Atticus said, “Don’t pay any attention to her, Jack. She’s trying you out. Cal says she’s been cussing fluently for a week, now.” Uncle Jack raised his eyebrows and said nothing. I was proceeding on the dim theory, aside from the innate attractiveness of such words, that if Atticus discovered I had picked them up at school he wouldn’t make me go. But at supper that evening when I asked him to pass the damn ham, please, Uncle Jack pointed at me. “See me afterwards, young lady,” he said. When supper was over, Uncle Jack went to the livingroom and sat down. He slapped his thighs for me to come sit on his lap. I liked to smell him: he was like a bottle of alcohol and something pleasantly sweet. He pushed back my bangs and looked at me. “You’re more like Atticus than your mother,” he said. “You’re also growing out of your pants a little.” “I reckon they fit all right.” “You like words like damn and hell now, don’t you?” I said I reckoned so. “Well I don’t,” said Uncle Jack, “not unless there’s extreme provocation connected with ‘em. I’ll be here a week, and I don’t want to hear any words like that while I’m here. Scout, you’ll get in trouble if you go around saying things like that. You want to grow up to be a lady, don’t you?” I said not particularly. “Of course you do. Now let’s get to the tree.” We decorated the tree until bedtime, and that night I dreamed of the two long packages for Jem and me. Next morning Jem and I dived for them: they were from Atticus, who had written Uncle Jack to get them for us, and they were what we had asked for. “Don’t point them in the house,” said Atticus, when Jem aimed at a picture on the wall. “You’ll have to teach ‘em to shoot,” said Uncle Jack. “That’s your job,” said Atticus. “I merely bowed to the inevitable.” It took Atticus’s courtroom voice to drag us away from the tree. He declined to let us take our air rifles to the Landing (I had already begun to think of shooting Francis) and said if we made one false move he’d take them away from us for good. Finch’s Landing consisted of three hundred and sixty-six steps down a high bluff and ending in a jetty. Farther down stream, beyond the bluff, were traces of an old cotton landing, where Finch Negroes had loaded bales and produce, unloaded blocks of ice, flour and sugar, farm equipment, and feminine apparel. A two-rut road ran from the riverside and vanished among dark trees. At the end of the road was a two-storied white house with porches circling it upstairs and downstairs. In his old age, our ancestor Simon Finch had built it to please his nagging wife; but with the porches all resemblance to ordinary houses of its era ended. The internal arrangements of the Finch house were indicative of Simon’s guilelessness and the absolute trust with which he regarded his offspring. There were six bedrooms upstairs, four for the eight female children, one for Welcome Finch, the sole son, and one for visiting relatives. Simple enough; but the daughters’ rooms could be reached only by one staircase, Welcome’s room and the guestroom only by another. The Daughters’ Staircase was in the groundfloor bedroom of their parents, so Simon always knew the hours of his daughters’ nocturnal comings and goings. There was a kitchen separate from the rest of the house, tacked onto it by a wooden catwalk; in the back yard was a rusty bell on a pole, used to summon field hands or as a distress signal; a widow’s walk was on the roof, but no widows walked there—from it, Simon oversaw his overseer, watched the river-boats, and gazed into the lives of surrounding landholders. There went with the house the usual legend about the Yankees: one Finch female, recently engaged, donned her complete trousseau to save it from raiders in the neighborhood; she became stuck in the door to the Daughters’ Staircase but was doused with water and finally pushed through. When we arrived at the Landing, Aunt Alexandra kissed Uncle Jack, Francis kissed Uncle Jack, Uncle Jimmy shook hands silently with Uncle Jack, Jem and I gave our presents to Francis, who gave us a present. Jem felt his age and gravitated to the adults, leaving me to entertain our cousin. Francis was eight and slicked back his hair. “What’d you get for Christmas?” I asked politely. “Just what I asked for,” he said. Francis had requested a pair of knee-pants, a red leather booksack, five shirts and an untied bow tie. “That’s nice,” I lied. “Jem and me got air rifles, and Jem got a chemistry set—” “A toy one, I reckon.” “No, a real one. He’s gonna make me some invisible ink, and I’m gonna write to Dill in it.” Francis asked what was the use of that. “Well, can’t you just see his face when he gets a letter from me with nothing in it? It’ll drive him nuts.” Talking to Francis gave me the sensation of settling slowly to the bottom of the ocean. He was the most boring child I ever met. As he lived in Mobile, he could not inform on me to school authorities, but he managed to tell everything he knew to Aunt Alexandra, who in turn unburdened herself to Atticus, who either forgot it or gave me hell, whichever struck his fancy. But the only time I ever heard Atticus speak sharply to anyone was when I once heard him say, “Sister, I do the best I can with them!” It had something to do with my going around in overalls. Aunt Alexandra was fanatical on the subject of my attire. I could not possibly hope to be a lady if I wore breeches; when I said I could do nothing in a dress, she said I wasn’t supposed to be doing things that required pants. Aunt Alexandra’s vision of my deportment involved playing with small stoves, tea sets, and wearing the Add-A-Pearl necklace she gave me when I was born; furthermore, I should be a ray of sunshine in my father’s lonely life. I suggested that one could be a ray of sunshine in pants just as well, but Aunty said that one had to behave like a sunbeam, that I was born good but had grown progressively worse every year. She hurt my feelings and set my teeth permanently on edge, but when I asked Atticus about it, he said there were already enough sunbeams in the family and to go on about my business, he didn’t mind me much the way I was. At Christmas dinner, I sat at the little table in the diningroom; Jem and Francis sat with the adults at the dining table. Aunty had continued to isolate me long after Jem and Francis graduated to the big table. I often wondered what she thought I’d do, get up and throw something? I sometimes thought of asking her if she would let me sit at the big table with the rest of them just once, I would prove to her how civilized I could be; after all, I ate at home every day with no major mishaps. When I begged Atticus to use his influence, he said he had none—we were guests, and we sat where she told us to sit. He also said Aunt Alexandra didn’t understand girls much, she’d never had one. But her cooking made up for everything: three kinds of meat, summer vegetables from her pantry shelves; peach pickles, two kinds of cake and ambrosia constituted a modest Christmas dinner. Afterwards, the adults made for the livingroom and sat around in a dazed condition. Jem lay on the floor, and I went to the back yard. “Put on your coat,” said Atticus dreamily, so I didn’t hear him. Francis sat beside me on the back steps. “That was the best yet,” I said. “Grandma’s a wonderful cook,” said Francis. “She’s gonna teach me how.” “Boys don’t cook.” I giggled at the thought of Jem in an apron. “Grandma says all men should learn to cook, that men oughta be careful with their wives and wait on ‘em when they don’t feel good,” said my cousin. “I don’t want Dill waitin‘ on me,” I said. “I’d rather wait on him.” “Dill?” “Yeah. Don’t say anything about it yet, but we’re gonna get married as soon as we’re big enough. He asked me last summer.” Francis hooted. “What’s the matter with him?” I asked. “Ain’t anything the matter with him.” “You mean that little runt Grandma says stays with Miss Rachel every summer?” “That’s exactly who I mean.” “I know all about him,” said Francis. “What about him?” “Grandma says he hasn’t got a home—” “Has too, he lives in Meridian.” “—he just gets passed around from relative to relative, and Miss Rachel keeps him every summer.” “Francis, that’s not so!” Francis grinned at me. “You’re mighty dumb sometimes, Jean Louise. Guess you don’t know any better, though.” “What do you mean?” “If Uncle Atticus lets you run around with stray dogs, that’s his own business, like Grandma says, so it ain’t your fault. I guess it ain’t your fault if Uncle Atticus is a nigger-lover besides, but I’m here to tell you it certainly does mortify the rest of the family—” “Francis, what the hell do you mean?” “Just what I said. Grandma says it’s bad enough he lets you all run wild, but now he’s turned out a nigger-lover we’ll never be able to walk the streets of Maycomb agin. He’s ruinin‘ the family, that’s what he’s doin’.” Francis rose and sprinted down the catwalk to the old kitchen. At a safe distance he called, “He’s nothin‘ but a nigger-lover!” “He is not!” I roared. “I don’t know what you’re talkin‘ about, but you better cut it out this red hot minute!” I leaped off the steps and ran down the catwalk. It was easy to collar Francis. I said take it back quick. Francis jerked loose and sped into the old kitchen. “Nigger-lover!” he yelled. When stalking one’s prey, it is best to take one’s time. Say nothing, and as sure as eggs he will become curious and emerge. Francis appeared at the kitchen door. “You still mad, Jean Louise?” he asked tentatively. “Nothing to speak of,” I said. Francis came out on the catwalk. “You gonna take it back, Fra—ancis?” But I was too quick on the draw. Francis shot back into the kitchen, so I retired to the steps. I could wait patiently. I had sat there perhaps five minutes when I heard Aunt Alexandra speak: “Where’s Francis?” “He’s out yonder in the kitchen.” “He knows he’s not supposed to play in there.” Francis came to the door and yelled, “Grandma, she’s got me in here and she won’t let me out!” “What is all this, Jean Louise?” I looked up at Aunt Alexandra. “I haven’t got him in there, Aunty, I ain’t holdin‘ him.” “Yes she is,” shouted Francis, “she won’t let me out!” “Have you all been fussing?” “Jean Louise got mad at me, Grandma,” called Francis. “Francis, come out of there! Jean Louise, if I hear another word out of you I’ll tell your father. Did I hear you say hell a while ago?” “Nome.” “I thought I did. I’d better not hear it again.” Aunt Alexandra was a back-porch listener. The moment she was out of sight Francis came out head up and grinning. “Don’t you fool with me,” he said. He jumped into the yard and kept his distance, kicking tufts of grass, turning around occasionally to smile at me. Jem appeared on the porch, looked at us, and went away. Francis climbed the mimosa tree, came down, put his hands in his pockets and strolled around the yard. “Hah!” he said. I asked him who he thought he was, Uncle Jack? Francis said he reckoned I got told, for me to just sit there and leave him alone. “I ain’t botherin‘ you,” I said. Francis looked at me carefully, concluded that I had been sufficiently subdued, and crooned softly, “Nigger-lover…” This time, I split my knuckle to the bone on his front teeth. My left impaired, I sailed in with my right, but not for long. Uncle Jack pinned my arms to my sides and said, “Stand still!” Aunt Alexandra ministered to Francis, wiping his tears away with her handkerchief, rubbing his hair, patting his cheek. Atticus, Jem, and Uncle Jimmy had come to the back porch when Francis started yelling. “Who started this?” said Uncle Jack. Francis and I pointed at each other. “Grandma,” he bawled, “she called me a whore-lady and jumped on me!” “Is that true, Scout?” said Uncle Jack. “I reckon so.” When Uncle Jack looked down at me, his features were like Aunt Alexandra’s. “You know I told you you’d get in trouble if you used words like that? I told you, didn’t I?” “Yes sir, but—” “Well, you’re in trouble now. Stay there.” I was debating whether to stand there or run, and tarried in indecision a moment too long: I turned to flee but Uncle Jack was quicker. I found myself suddenly looking at a tiny ant struggling with a bread crumb in the grass. “I’ll never speak to you again as long as I live! I hate you an‘ despise you an’ hope you die tomorrow!” A statement that seemed to encourage Uncle Jack, more than anything. I ran to Atticus for comfort, but he said I had it coming and it was high time we went home. I climbed into the back seat of the car without saying good-bye to anyone, and at home I ran to my room and slammed the door. Jem tried to say something nice, but I wouldn’t let him. When I surveyed the damage there were only seven or eight red marks, and I was reflecting upon relativity when someone knocked on the door. I asked who it was; Uncle Jack answered. “Go away!” Uncle Jack said if I talked like that he’d lick me again, so I was quiet. When he entered the room I retreated to a corner and turned my back on him. “Scout,” he said, “do you still hate me?” “Go on, please sir.” “Why, I didn’t think you’d hold it against me,” he said. “I’m disappointed in you —you had that coming and you know it.” “Didn’t either.” “Honey, you can’t go around calling people—” “You ain’t fair,” I said, “you ain’t fair.” Uncle Jack’s eyebrows went up. “Not fair? How not?” “You’re real nice, Uncle Jack, an‘ I reckon I love you even after what you did, but you don’t understand children much.” Uncle Jack put his hands on his hips and looked down at me. “And why do I not understand children, Miss Jean Louise? Such conduct as yours required little understanding. It was obstreperous, disorderly and abusive—” “You gonna give me a chance to tell you? I don’t mean to sass you, I’m just tryin‘ to tell you.” Uncle Jack sat down on the bed. His eyebrows came together, and he peered up at me from under them. “Proceed,” he said. I took a deep breath. “Well, in the first place you never stopped to gimme a chance to tell you my side of it—you just lit right into me. When Jem an‘ I fuss Atticus doesn’t ever just listen to Jem’s side of it, he hears mine too, an’ in the second place you told me never to use words like that except in ex-extreme provocation, and Francis provocated me enough to knock his block off—” Uncle Jack scratched his head. “What was your side of it, Scout?” “Francis called Atticus somethin‘, an’ I wasn’t about to take it off him.” “What did Francis call him?” “A nigger-lover. I ain’t very sure what it means, but the way Francis said it—tell you one thing right now, Uncle Jack, I’ll be—I swear before God if I’ll sit there and let him say somethin‘ about Atticus.” “He called Atticus that?” “Yes sir, he did, an‘ a lot more. Said Atticus’d be the ruination of the family an’ he let Jem an me run wild…” From the look on Uncle Jack’s face, I thought I was in for it again. When he said, “We’ll see about this,” I knew Francis was in for it. “I’ve a good mind to go out there tonight.” “Please sir, just let it go. Please.” “I’ve no intention of letting it go,” he said. “Alexandra should know about this. The idea of—wait’ll I get my hands on that boy…” “Uncle Jack, please promise me somethin‘, please sir. Promise you won’t tell Atticus about this. He—he asked me one time not to let anything I heard about him make me mad, an’ I’d ruther him think we were fightin‘ about somethin’ else instead. Please promise…” “But I don’t like Francis getting away with something like that—” “He didn’t. You reckon you could tie up my hand? It’s still bleedin‘ some.” “Of course I will, baby. I know of no hand I would be more delighted to tie up. Will you come this way?” Uncle Jack gallantly bowed me to the bathroom. While he cleaned and bandaged my knuckles, he entertained me with a tale about a funny nearsighted old gentleman who had a cat named Hodge, and who counted all the cracks in the sidewalk when he went to town. “There now,” he said. “You’ll have a very unladylike scar on your wedding-ring finger.” “Thank you sir. Uncle Jack?” “Ma’am?” “What’s a whore-lady?” Uncle Jack plunged into another long tale about an old Prime Minister who sat in the House of Commons and blew feathers in the air and tried to keep them there when all about him men were losing their heads. I guess he was trying to answer my question, but he made no sense whatsoever. Later, when I was supposed to be in bed, I went down the hall for a drink of water and heard Atticus and Uncle Jack in the livingroom: “I shall never marry, Atticus.” “Why?” “I might have children.” Atticus said, “You’ve a lot to learn, Jack.” “I know. Your daughter gave me my first lessons this afternoon. She said I didn’t understand children much and told me why. She was quite right. Atticus, she told me how I should have treated her—oh dear, I’m so sorry I romped on her.” Atticus chuckled. “She earned it, so don’t feel too remorseful.” I waited, on tenterhooks, for Uncle Jack to tell Atticus my side of it. But he didn’t. He simply murmured, “Her use of bathroom invective leaves nothing to the imagination. But she doesn’t know the meaning of half she says—she asked me what a whore-lady was…” “Did you tell her?” “No, I told her about Lord Melbourne.” “Jack! When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness’ sake. But don’t make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker than adults, and evasion simply muddles ‘em. No,” my father mused, “you had the right answer this afternoon, but the wrong reasons. Bad language is a stage all children go through, and it dies with time when they learn they’re not attracting attention with it. Hotheadedness isn’t. Scout’s got to learn to keep her head and learn soon, with what’s in store for her these next few months. She’s coming along, though. Jem’s getting older and she follows his example a good bit now. All she needs is assistance sometimes.” “Atticus, you’ve never laid a hand on her.” “I admit that. So far I’ve been able to get by with threats. Jack, she minds me as well as she can. Doesn’t come up to scratch half the time, but she tries.” “That’s not the answer,” said Uncle Jack. “No, the answer is she knows I know she tries. That’s what makes the difference. What bothers me is that she and Jem will have to absorb some ugly things pretty soon. I’m not worried about Jem keeping his head, but Scout’d just as soon jump on someone as look at him if her pride’s at stake…” I waited for Uncle Jack to break his promise. He still didn’t. “Atticus, how bad is this going to be? You haven’t had too much chance to discuss it.” “It couldn’t be worse, Jack. The only thing we’ve got is a black man’s word against the Ewells‘. The evidence boils down to you-did—I-didn’t. The jury couldn’t possibly be expected to take Tom Robinson’s word against the Ewells’— are you acquainted with the Ewells?” Uncle Jack said yes, he remembered them. He described them to Atticus, but Atticus said, “You’re a generation off. The present ones are the same, though.” “What are you going to do, then?” “Before I’m through, I intend to jar the jury a bit—I think we’ll have a reasonable chance on appeal, though. I really can’t tell at this stage, Jack. You know, I’d hoped to get through life without a case of this kind, but John Taylor pointed at me and said, ‘You’re It.’” “Let this cup pass from you, eh?” “Right. But do you think I could face my children otherwise? You know what’s going to happen as well as I do, Jack, and I hope and pray I can get Jem and Scout through it without bitterness, and most of all, without catching Maycomb’s usual disease. Why reasonable people go stark raving mad when anything involving a Negro comes up, is something I don’t pretend to understand… I just hope that Jem and Scout come to me for their answers instead of listening to the town. I hope they trust me enough… Jean Louise?” My scalp jumped. I stuck my head around the corner. “Sir?” “Go to bed.” I scurried to my room and went to bed. Uncle Jack was a prince of a fellow not to let me down. But I never figured out how Atticus knew I was listening, and it was not until many years later that I realized he wanted me to hear every word he said. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 10 Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, “My father—” Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, “I’m too old for that, son.” Our father didn’t do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-truck for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone. Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye. He did not do the things our schoolmates’ fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the livingroom and read. With these attributes, however, he would not remain as inconspicuous as we wished him to: that year, the school buzzed with talk about him defending Tom Robinson, none of which was complimentary. After my bout with Cecil Jacobs when I committed myself to a policy of cowardice, word got around that Scout Finch wouldn’t fight any more, her daddy wouldn’t let her. This was not entirely correct: I wouldn’t fight publicly for Atticus, but the family was private ground. I would fight anyone from a third cousin upwards tooth and nail. Francis Hancock, for example, knew that. When he gave us our air-rifles Atticus wouldn’t teach us to shoot. Uncle Jack instructed us in the rudiments thereof; he said Atticus wasn’t interested in guns. Atticus said to Jem one day, “I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the back yard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. “Your father’s right,” she said. “Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.” “Miss Maudie, this is an old neighborhood, ain’t it?” “Been here longer than the town.” “Nome, I mean the folks on our street are all old. Jem and me’s the only children around here. Mrs. Dubose is close on to a hundred and Miss Rachel’s old and so are you and Atticus.” “I don’t call fifty very old,” said Miss Maudie tartly. “Not being wheeled around yet, am I? Neither’s your father. But I must say Providence was kind enough to burn down that old mausoleum of mine, I’m too old to keep it up—maybe you’re right, Jean Louise, this is a settled neighborhood. You’ve never been around young folks much, have you?” “Yessum, at school.” “I mean young grown-ups. You’re lucky, you know. You and Jem have the benefit of your father’s age. If your father was thirty you’d find life quite different.” “I sure would. Atticus can’t do anything…” “You’d be surprised,” said Miss Maudie. “There’s life in him yet.” “What can he do?” “Well, he can make somebody’s will so airtight can’t anybody meddle with it.” “Shoot…” “Well, did you know he’s the best checker-player in this town? Why, down at the Landing when we were coming up, Atticus Finch could beat everybody on both sides of the river.” “Good Lord, Miss Maudie, Jem and me beat him all the time.” “It’s about time you found out it’s because he lets you. Did you know he can play a Jew’s Harp?” This modest accomplishment served to make me even more ashamed of him. “Well…” she said. “Well, what, Miss Maudie?” “Well nothing. Nothing—it seems with all that you’d be proud of him. Can’t everybody play a Jew’s Harp. Now keep out of the way of the carpenters. You’d better go home, I’ll be in my azaleas and can’t watch you. Plank might hit you.” I went to the back yard and found Jem plugging away at a tin can, which seemed stupid with all the bluejays around. I returned to the front yard and busied myself for two hours erecting a complicated breastworks at the side of the porch, consisting of a tire, an orange crate, the laundry hamper, the porch chairs, and a small U.S. flag Jem gave me from a popcorn box. When Atticus came home to dinner he found me crouched down aiming across the street. “What are you shooting at?” “Miss Maudie’s rear end.” Atticus turned and saw my generous target bending over her bushes. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and crossed the street. “Maudie,” he called, “I thought I’d better warn you. You’re in considerable peril.” Miss Maudie straightened up and looked toward me. She said, “Atticus, you are a devil from hell.” When Atticus returned he told me to break camp. “Don’t you ever let me catch you pointing that gun at anybody again,” he said. I wished my father was a devil from hell. I sounded out Calpurnia on the subject. “Mr. Finch? Why, he can do lots of things.” “Like what?” I asked. Calpurnia scratched her head. “Well, I don’t rightly know,” she said. Jem underlined it when he asked Atticus if he was going out for the Methodists and Atticus said he’d break his neck if he did, he was just too old for that sort of thing. The Methodists were trying to pay off their church mortgage, and had challenged the Baptists to a game of touch football. Everybody in town’s father was playing, it seemed, except Atticus. Jem said he didn’t even want to go, but he was unable to resist football in any form, and he stood gloomily on the sidelines with Atticus and me watching Cecil Jacobs’s father make touchdowns for the Baptists. One Saturday Jem and I decided to go exploring with our air-rifles to see if we could find a rabbit or a squirrel. We had gone about five hundred yards beyond the Radley Place when I noticed Jem squinting at something down the street. He had turned his head to one side and was looking out of the corners of his eyes. “Whatcha looking at?” “That old dog down yonder,” he said. “That’s old Tim Johnson, ain’t it?” “Yeah.” Tim Johnson was the property of Mr. Harry Johnson who drove the Mobile bus and lived on the southern edge of town. Tim was a liver-colored bird dog, the pet of Maycomb. “What’s he doing?” “I don’t know, Scout. We better go home.” “Aw Jem, it’s February.” “I don’t care, I’m gonna tell Cal.” We raced home and ran to the kitchen. “Cal,” said Jem, “can you come down the sidewalk a minute?” “What for, Jem? I can’t come down the sidewalk every time you want me.” “There’s somethin‘ wrong with an old dog down yonder.” Calpurnia sighed. “I can’t wrap up any dog’s foot now. There’s some gauze in the bathroom, go get it and do it yourself.” Jem shook his head. “He’s sick, Cal. Something’s wrong with him.” “What’s he doin‘, trying to catch his tail?” “No, he’s doin‘ like this.” Jem gulped like a goldfish, hunched his shoulders and twitched his torso. “He’s goin‘ like that, only not like he means to.” “Are you telling me a story, Jem Finch?” Calpurnia’s voice hardened. “No Cal, I swear I’m not.” “Was he runnin‘?” “No, he’s just moseyin‘ along, so slow you can’t hardly tell it. He’s comin’ this way.” Calpurnia rinsed her hands and followed Jem into the yard. “I don’t see any dog,” she said. She followed us beyond the Radley Place and looked where Jem pointed. Tim Johnson was not much more than a speck in the distance, but he was closer to us. He walked erratically, as if his right legs were shorter than his left legs. He reminded me of a car stuck in a sandbed. “He’s gone lopsided,” said Jem. Calpurnia stared, then grabbed us by the shoulders and ran us home. She shut the wood door behind us, went to the telephone and shouted, “Gimme Mr. Finch’s office!” “Mr. Finch!” she shouted. “This is Cal. I swear to God there’s a mad dog down the street a piece—he’s comin‘ this way, yes sir, he’s—Mr. Finch, I declare he is —old Tim Johnson, yes sir… yessir… yes—” She hung up and shook her head when we tried to ask her what Atticus had said. She rattled the telephone hook and said, “Miss Eula May—now ma’am, I’m through talkin‘ to Mr. Finch, please don’t connect me no more—listen, Miss Eula May, can you call Miss Rachel and Miss Stephanie Crawford and whoever’s got a phone on this street and tell ’em a mad dog’s comin‘? Please ma’am!” Calpurnia listened. “I know it’s February, Miss Eula May, but I know a mad dog when I see one. Please ma’am hurry!” Calpurnia asked Jem, “Radleys got a phone?” Jem looked in the book and said no. “They won’t come out anyway, Cal.” “I don’t care, I’m gonna tell ‘em.” She ran to the front porch, Jem and I at her heels. “You stay in that house!” she yelled. Calpurnia’s message had been received by the neighborhood. Every wood door within our range of vision was closed tight. We saw no trace of Tim Johnson. We watched Calpurnia running toward the Radley Place, holding her skirt and apron above her knees. She went up to the front steps and banged on the door. She got no answer, and she shouted, “Mr. Nathan, Mr. Arthur, mad dog’s comin‘! Mad dog’s comin’!” “She’s supposed to go around in back,” I said. Jem shook his head. “Don’t make any difference now,” he said. Calpurnia pounded on the door in vain. No one acknowledged her warning; no one seemed to have heard it. As Calpurnia sprinted to the back porch a black Ford swung into the driveway. Atticus and Mr. Heck Tate got out. Mr. Heck Tate was the sheriff of Maycomb County. He was as tall as Atticus, but thinner. He was long-nosed, wore boots with shiny metal eye-holes, boot pants and a lumber jacket. His belt had a row of bullets sticking in it. He carried a heavy rifle. When he and Atticus reached the porch, Jem opened the door. “Stay inside, son,” said Atticus. “Where is he, Cal?” “He oughta be here by now,” said Calpurnia, pointing down the street. “Not runnin‘, is he?” asked Mr. Tate. “Naw sir, he’s in the twitchin‘ stage, Mr. Heck.” “Should we go after him, Heck?” asked Atticus. “We better wait, Mr. Finch. They usually go in a straight line, but you never can tell. He might follow the curve—hope he does or he’ll go straight in the Radley back yard. Let’s wait a minute.” “Don’t think he’ll get in the Radley yard,” said Atticus. “Fence’ll stop him. He’ll probably follow the road…” I thought mad dogs foamed at the mouth, galloped, leaped and lunged at throats, and I thought they did it in August. Had Tim Johnson behaved thus, I would have been less frightened. Nothing is more deadly than a deserted, waiting street. The trees were still, the mockingbirds were silent, the carpenters at Miss Maudie’s house had vanished. I heard Mr. Tate sniff, then blow his nose. I saw him shift his gun to the crook of his arm. I saw Miss Stephanie Crawford’s face framed in the glass window of her front door. Miss Maudie appeared and stood beside her. Atticus put his foot on the rung of a chair and rubbed his hand slowly down the side of his thigh. “There he is,” he said softly. Tim Johnson came into sight, walking dazedly in the inner rim of the curve parallel to the Radley house. “Look at him,” whispered Jem. “Mr. Heck said they walked in a straight line. He can’t even stay in the road.” “He looks more sick than anything,” I said. “Let anything get in front of him and he’ll come straight at it.” Mr. Tate put his hand to his forehead and leaned forward. “He’s got it all right, Mr. Finch.” Tim Johnson was advancing at a snail’s pace, but he was not playing or sniffing at foliage: he seemed dedicated to one course and motivated by an invisible force that was inching him toward us. We could see him shiver like a horse shedding flies; his jaw opened and shut; he was alist, but he was being pulled gradually toward us. “He’s lookin‘ for a place to die,” said Jem. Mr. Tate turned around. “He’s far from dead, Jem, he hasn’t got started yet.” Tim Johnson reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radley gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty. Atticus said, “He’s within range, Heck. You better get him before he goes down the side street—Lord knows who’s around the corner. Go inside, Cal.” Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms. “Take him, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted. “Don’t waste time, Heck,” said Atticus. “Go on.” “Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job.” Atticus shook his head vehemently: “Don’t just stand there, Heck! He won’t wait all day for you—” “For God’s sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you’ll go straight into the Radley house! I can’t shoot that well and you know it!” “I haven’t shot a gun in thirty years—” Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. “I’d feel mighty comfortable if you did now,” he said. In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl. When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmured, “Sweet Jesus help him,” and put her hands to her cheeks. Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard. In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid. With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus’s hand yanked a balltipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder. The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn’t know what hit him. Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. “You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch,” he called. “Always was,” answered Atticus. “If I had my ‘druthers I’d take a shotgun.” He stooped and picked up his glasses, ground the broken lenses to powder under his heel, and went to Mr. Tate and stood looking down at Tim Johnson. Doors opened one by one, and the neighborhood slowly came alive. Miss Maudie walked down the steps with Miss Stephanie Crawford. Jem was paralyzed. I pinched him to get him moving, but when Atticus saw us coming he called, “Stay where you are.” When Mr. Tate and Atticus returned to the yard, Mr. Tate was smiling. “I’ll have Zeebo collect him,” he said. “You haven’t forgot much, Mr. Finch. They say it never leaves you.” Atticus was silent. “Atticus?” said Jem. “Yes?” “Nothin‘.” “I saw that, One-Shot Finch!” Atticus wheeled around and faced Miss Maudie. They looked at one another without saying anything, and Atticus got into the sheriff’s car. “Come here,” he said to Jem. “Don’t you go near that dog, you understand? Don’t go near him, he’s just as dangerous dead as alive.” “Yes sir,” said Jem. “Atticus—” “What, son?” “Nothing.” “What’s the matter with you, boy, can’t you talk?” said Mr. Tate, grinning at Jem. “Didn’t you know your daddy’s—” “Hush, Heck,” said Atticus, “let’s go back to town.” When they drove away, Jem and I went to Miss Stephanie’s front steps. We sat waiting for Zeebo to arrive in the garbage truck. Jem sat in numb confusion, and Miss Stephanie said, “Uh, uh, uh, who’da thought of a mad dog in February? Maybe he wadn’t mad, maybe he was just crazy. I’d hate to see Harry Johnson’s face when he gets in from the Mobile run and finds Atticus Finch’s shot his dog. Bet he was just full of fleas from somewhere—” Miss Maudie said Miss Stephanie’d be singing a different tune if Tim Johnson was still coming up the street, that they’d find out soon enough, they’d send his head to Montgomery. Jem became vaguely articulate: “‘d you see him, Scout? ’d you see him just standin‘ there?… ’n‘ all of a sudden he just relaxed all over, an’ it looked like that gun was a part of him… an‘ he did it so quick, like… I hafta aim for ten minutes ’fore I can hit somethin‘…” Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. “Well now, Miss Jean Louise,” she said, “still think your father can’t do anything? Still ashamed of him?” “Nome,” I said meekly. “Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew’s Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time.” “Dead shot…” echoed Jem. “That’s what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you’ll change your tune now. The very idea, didn’t you know his nickname was Ol‘ One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he’d complain about wasting ammunition.” “He never said anything about that,” Jem muttered. “Never said anything about it, did he?” “No ma’am.” “Wonder why he never goes huntin‘ now,” I said. “Maybe I can tell you,” said Miss Maudie. “If your father’s anything, he’s civilized in his heart. Marksmanship’s a gift of God, a talent—oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin’s different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn’t shoot till he had to, and he had to today.” “Looks like he’d be proud of it,” I said. “People in their right minds never take pride in their talents,” said Miss Maudie. We saw Zeebo drive up. He took a pitchfork from the back of the garbage truck and gingerly lifted Tim Johnson. He pitched the dog onto the truck, then poured something from a gallon jug on and around the spot where Tim fell. “Don’t yawl come over here for a while,” he called. When we went home I told Jem we’d really have something to talk about at school on Monday. Jem turned on me. “Don’t say anything about it, Scout,” he said. “What? I certainly am. Ain’t everybody’s daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County.” Jem said, “I reckon if he’d wanted us to know it, he’da told us. If he was proud of it, he’da told us.” “Maybe it just slipped his mind,” I said. “Naw, Scout, it’s something you wouldn’t understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t do anything—I wouldn’t care if he couldn’t do a blessed thing.” Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: “Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 11 When we were small, Jem and I confined our activities to the southern neighborhood, but when I was well into the second grade at school and tormenting Boo Radley became passe, the business section of Maycomb drew us frequently up the street past the real property of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. It was impossible to go to town without passing her house unless we wished to walk a mile out of the way. Previous minor encounters with her left me with no desire for more, but Jem said I had to grow up some time. Mrs. Dubose lived alone except for a Negro girl in constant attendance, two doors up the street from us in a house with steep front steps and a dog-trot hall. She was very old; she spent most of each day in bed and the rest of it in a wheelchair. It was rumored that she kept a CSA pistol concealed among her numerous shawls and wraps. Jem and I hated her. If she was on the porch when we passed, we would be raked by her wrathful gaze, subjected to ruthless interrogation regarding our behavior, and given a melancholy prediction on what we would amount to when we grew up, which was always nothing. We had long ago given up the idea of walking past her house on the opposite side of the street; that only made her raise her voice and let the whole neighborhood in on it. We could do nothing to please her. If I said as sunnily as I could, “Hey, Mrs. Dubose,” I would receive for an answer, “Don’t you say hey to me, you ugly girl! You say good afternoon, Mrs. Dubose!” She was vicious. Once she heard Jem refer to our father as “Atticus” and her reaction was apoplectic. Besides being the sassiest, most disrespectful mutts who ever passed her way, we were told that it was quite a pity our father had not remarried after our mother’s death. A lovelier lady than our mother never lived, she said, and it was heartbreaking the way Atticus Finch let her children run wild. I did not remember our mother, but Jem did—he would tell me about her sometimes—and he went livid when Mrs. Dubose shot us this message. Jem, having survived Boo Radley, a mad dog and other terrors, had concluded that it was cowardly to stop at Miss Rachel’s front steps and wait, and had decreed that we must run as far as the post office corner each evening to meet Atticus coming from work. Countless evenings Atticus would find Jem furious at something Mrs. Dubose had said when we went by. “Easy does it, son,” Atticus would say. “She’s an old lady and she’s ill. You just hold your head high and be a gentleman. Whatever she says to you, it’s your job not to let her make you mad.” Jem would say she must not be very sick, she hollered so. When the three of us came to her house, Atticus would sweep off his hat, wave gallantly to her and say, “Good evening, Mrs. Dubose! You look like a picture this evening.” I never heard Atticus say like a picture of what. He would tell her the courthouse news, and would say he hoped with all his heart she’d have a good day tomorrow. He would return his hat to his head, swing me to his shoulders in her very presence, and we would go home in the twilight. It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived. The day after Jem’s twelfth birthday his money was burning up his pockets, so we headed for town in the early afternoon. Jem thought he had enough to buy a miniature steam engine for himself and a twirling baton for me. I had long had my eye on that baton: it was at V. J. Elmore’s, it was bedecked with sequins and tinsel, it cost seventeen cents. It was then my burning ambition to grow up and twirl with the Maycomb County High School band. Having developed my talent to where I could throw up a stick and almost catch it coming down, I had caused Calpurnia to deny me entrance to the house every time she saw me with a stick in my hand. I felt that I could overcome this defect with a real baton, and I thought it generous of Jem to buy one for me. Mrs. Dubose was stationed on her porch when we went by. “Where are you two going at this time of day?” she shouted. “Playing hooky, I suppose. I’ll just call up the principal and tell him!” She put her hands on the wheels of her chair and executed a perfect right face. “Aw, it’s Saturday, Mrs. Dubose,” said Jem. “Makes no difference if it’s Saturday,” she said obscurely. “I wonder if your father knows where you are?” “Mrs. Dubose, we’ve been goin‘ to town by ourselves since we were this high.” Jem placed his hand palm down about two feet above the sidewalk. “Don’t you lie to me!” she yelled. “Jeremy Finch, Maudie Atkinson told me you broke down her scuppernong arbor this morning. She’s going to tell your father and then you’ll wish you never saw the light of day! If you aren’t sent to the reform school before next week, my name’s not Dubose!” Jem, who hadn’t been near Miss Maudie’s scuppernong arbor since last summer, and who knew Miss Maudie wouldn’t tell Atticus if he had, issued a general denial. “Don’t you contradict me!” Mrs. Dubose bawled. “And you—” she pointed an arthritic finger at me—“what are you doing in those overalls? You should be in a dress and camisole, young lady! You’ll grow up waiting on tables if somebody doesn’t change your ways—a Finch waiting on tables at the O.K. Café—hah!” I was terrified. The O.K. Café was a dim organization on the north side of the square. I grabbed Jem’s hand but he shook me loose. “Come on, Scout,” he whispered. “Don’t pay any attention to her, just hold your head high and be a gentleman.” But Mrs. Dubose held us: “Not only a Finch waiting on tables but one in the courthouse lawing for niggers!” Jem stiffened. Mrs. Dubose’s shot had gone home and she knew it: “Yes indeed, what has this world come to when a Finch goes against his raising? I’ll tell you!” She put her hand to her mouth. When she drew it away, it trailed a long silver thread of saliva. “Your father’s no better than the niggers and trash he works for!” Jem was scarlet. I pulled at his sleeve, and we were followed up the sidewalk by a philippic on our family’s moral degeneration, the major premise of which was that half the Finches were in the asylum anyway, but if our mother were living we would not have come to such a state. I wasn’t sure what Jem resented most, but I took umbrage at Mrs. Dubose’s assessment of the family’s mental hygiene. I had become almost accustomed to hearing insults aimed at Atticus. But this was the first one coming from an adult. Except for her remarks about Atticus, Mrs. Dubose’s attack was only routine. There was a hint of summer in the air—in the shadows it was cool, but the sun was warm, which meant good times coming: no school and Dill. Jem bought his steam engine and we went by Elmore’s for my baton. Jem took no pleasure in his acquisition; he jammed it in his pocket and walked silently beside me toward home. On the way home I nearly hit Mr. Link Deas, who said, “Look out now, Scout!” when I missed a toss, and when we approached Mrs. Dubose’s house my baton was grimy from having picked it up out of the dirt so many times. She was not on the porch. In later years, I sometimes wondered exactly what made Jem do it, what made him break the bonds of “You just be a gentleman, son,” and the phase of selfconscious rectitude he had recently entered. Jem had probably stood as much guff about Atticus lawing for niggers as had I, and I took it for granted that he kept his temper—he had a naturally tranquil disposition and a slow fuse. At the time, however, I thought the only explanation for what he did was that for a few minutes he simply went mad. What Jem did was something I’d do as a matter of course had I not been under Atticus’s interdict, which I assumed included not fighting horrible old ladies. We had just come to her gate when Jem snatched my baton and ran flailing wildly up the steps into Mrs. Dubose’s front yard, forgetting everything Atticus had said, forgetting that she packed a pistol under her shawls, forgetting that if Mrs. Dubose missed, her girl Jessie probably wouldn’t. He did not begin to calm down until he had cut the tops off every camellia bush Mrs. Dubose owned, until the ground was littered with green buds and leaves. He bent my baton against his knee, snapped it in two and threw it down. By that time I was shrieking. Jem yanked my hair, said he didn’t care, he’d do it again if he got a chance, and if I didn’t shut up he’d pull every hair out of my head. I didn’t shut up and he kicked me. I lost my balance and fell on my face. Jem picked me up roughly but looked like he was sorry. There was nothing to say. We did not choose to meet Atticus coming home that evening. We skulked around the kitchen until Calpurnia threw us out. By some voo-doo system Calpurnia seemed to know all about it. She was a less than satisfactory source of palliation, but she did give Jem a hot biscuit-and-butter which he tore in half and shared with me. It tasted like cotton. We went to the livingroom. I picked up a football magazine, found a picture of Dixie Howell, showed it to Jem and said, “This looks like you.” That was the nicest thing I could think to say to him, but it was no help. He sat by the windows, hunched down in a rocking chair, scowling, waiting. Daylight faded. Two geological ages later, we heard the soles of Atticus’s shoes scrape the front steps. The screen door slammed, there was a pause—Atticus was at the hat rack in the hall—and we heard him call, “Jem!” His voice was like the winter wind. Atticus switched on the ceiling light in the livingroom and found us there, frozen still. He carried my baton in one hand; its filthy yellow tassel trailed on the rug. He held out his other hand; it contained fat camellia buds. “Jem,” he said, “are you responsible for this?” “Yes sir.” “Why’d you do it?” Jem said softly, “She said you lawed for niggers and trash.” “You did this because she said that?” Jem’s lips moved, but his, “Yes sir,” was inaudible. “Son, I have no doubt that you’ve been annoyed by your contemporaries about me lawing for niggers, as you say, but to do something like this to a sick old lady is inexcusable. I strongly advise you to go down and have a talk with Mrs. Dubose,” said Atticus. “Come straight home afterward.” Jem did not move. “Go on, I said.” I followed Jem out of the livingroom. “Come back here,” Atticus said to me. I came back. Atticus picked up the Mobile Press and sat down in the rocking chair Jem had vacated. For the life of me, I did not understand how he could sit there in cold blood and read a newspaper when his only son stood an excellent chance of being murdered with a Confederate Army relic. Of course Jem antagonized me sometimes until I could kill him, but when it came down to it he was all I had. Atticus did not seem to realize this, or if he did he didn’t care. I hated him for that, but when you are in trouble you become easily tired: soon I was hiding in his lap and his arms were around me. “You’re mighty big to be rocked,” he said. “You don’t care what happens to him,” I said. “You just send him on to get shot at when all he was doin‘ was standin’ up for you.” Atticus pushed my head under his chin. “It’s not time to worry yet,” he said. “I never thought Jem’d be the one to lose his head over this—thought I’d have more trouble with you.” I said I didn’t see why we had to keep our heads anyway, that nobody I knew at school had to keep his head about anything. “Scout,” said Atticus, “when summer comes you’ll have to keep your head about far worse things… it’s not fair for you and Jem, I know that, but sometimes we have to make the best of things, and the way we conduct ourselves when the chips are down—well, all I can say is, when you and Jem are grown, maybe you’ll look back on this with some compassion and some feeling that I didn’t let you down. This case, Tom Robinson’s case, is something that goes to the essence of a man’s conscience—Scout, I couldn’t go to church and worship God if I didn’t try to help that man.” “Atticus, you must be wrong…” “How’s that?” “Well, most folks seem to think they’re right and you’re wrong…” “They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for their opinions,” said Atticus, “but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.” When Jem returned, he found me still in Atticus’s lap, “Well, son?” said Atticus. He set me on my feet, and I made a secret reconnaissance of Jem. He seemed to be all in one piece, but he had a queer look on his face. Perhaps she had given him a dose of calomel. “I cleaned it up for her and said I was sorry, but I ain’t, and that I’d work on ‘em ever Saturday and try to make ’em grow back out.” “There was no point in saying you were sorry if you aren’t,” said Atticus. “Jem, she’s old and ill. You can’t hold her responsible for what she says and does. Of course, I’d rather she’d have said it to me than to either of you, but we can’t always have our ‘druthers.” Jem seemed fascinated by a rose in the carpet. “Atticus,” he said, “she wants me to read to her.” “Read to her?” “Yes sir. She wants me to come every afternoon after school and Saturdays and read to her out loud for two hours. Atticus, do I have to?” “Certainly.” “But she wants me to do it for a month.” “Then you’ll do it for a month.” Jem planted his big toe delicately in the center of the rose and pressed it in. Finally he said, “Atticus, it’s all right on the sidewalk but inside it’s—it’s all dark and creepy. There’s shadows and things on the ceiling…” Atticus smiled grimly. “That should appeal to your imagination. Just pretend you’re inside the Radley house.” The following Monday afternoon Jem and I climbed the steep front steps to Mrs. Dubose’s house and padded down the open hallway. Jem, armed with Ivanhoe and full of superior knowledge, knocked at the second door on the left. “Mrs. Dubose?” he called. Jessie opened the wood door and unlatched the screen door. “Is that you, Jem Finch?” she said. “You got your sister with you. I don’t know—” “Let ‘em both in, Jessie,” said Mrs. Dubose. Jessie admitted us and went off to the kitchen. An oppressive odor met us when we crossed the threshold, an odor I had met many times in rain-rotted gray houses where there are coal-oil lamps, water dippers, and unbleached domestic sheets. It always made me afraid, expectant, watchful. In the corner of the room was a brass bed, and in the bed was Mrs. Dubose. I wondered if Jem’s activities had put her there, and for a moment I felt sorry for her. She was lying under a pile of quilts and looked almost friendly. There was a marble-topped washstand by her bed; on it were a glass with a teaspoon in it, a red ear syringe, a box of absorbent cotton, and a steel alarm clock standing on three tiny legs. “So you brought that dirty little sister of yours, did you?” was her greeting. Jem said quietly, “My sister ain’t dirty and I ain’t scared of you,” although I noticed his knees shaking. I was expecting a tirade, but all she said was, “You may commence reading, Jeremy.” Jem sat down in a cane-bottom chair and opened Ivanhoe. I pulled up another one and sat beside him. “Come closer,” said Mrs. Dubose. “Come to the side of the bed.” We moved our chairs forward. This was the nearest I had ever been to her, and the thing I wanted most to do was move my chair back again. She was horrible. Her face was the color of a dirty pillowcase, and the corners of her mouth glistened with wet, which inched like a glacier down the deep grooves enclosing her chin. Old-age liver spots dotted her cheeks, and her pale eyes had black pinpoint pupils. Her hands were knobby, and the cuticles were grown up over her fingernails. Her bottom plate was not in, and her upper lip protruded; from time to time she would draw her nether lip to her upper plate and carry her chin with it. This made the wet move faster. I didn’t look any more than I had to. Jem reopened Ivanhoe and began reading. I tried to keep up with him, but he read too fast. When Jem came to a word he didn’t know, he skipped it, but Mrs. Dubose would catch him and make him spell it out. Jem read for perhaps twenty minutes, during which time I looked at the soot-stained mantelpiece, out the window, anywhere to keep from looking at her. As he read along, I noticed that Mrs. Dubose’s corrections grew fewer and farther between, that Jem had even left one sentence dangling in mid-air. She was not listening. I looked toward the bed. Something had happened to her. She lay on her back, with the quilts up to her chin. Only her head and shoulders were visible. Her head moved slowly from side to side. From time to time she would open her mouth wide, and I could see her tongue undulate faintly. Cords of saliva would collect on her lips; she would draw them in, then open her mouth again. Her mouth seemed to have a private existence of its own. It worked separate and apart from the rest of her, out and in, like a clam hole at low tide. Occasionally it would say, “Pt,” like some viscous substance coming to a boil. I pulled Jem’s sleeve. He looked at me, then at the bed. Her head made its regular sweep toward us, and Jem said, “Mrs. Dubose, are you all right?” She did not hear him. The alarm clock went off and scared us stiff. A minute later, nerves still tingling, Jem and I were on the sidewalk headed for home. We did not run away, Jessie sent us: before the clock wound down she was in the room pushing Jem and me out of it. “Shoo,” she said, “you all go home.” Jem hesitated at the door. “It’s time for her medicine,” Jessie said. As the door swung shut behind us I saw Jessie walking quickly toward Mrs. Dubose’s bed. It was only three forty-five when we got home, so Jem and I drop-kicked in the back yard until it was time to meet Atticus. Atticus had two yellow pencils for me and a football magazine for Jem, which I suppose was a silent reward for our first day’s session with Mrs. Dubose. Jem told him what happened. “Did she frighten you?” asked Atticus. “No sir,” said Jem, “but she’s so nasty. She has fits or somethin‘. She spits a lot.” “She can’t help that. When people are sick they don’t look nice sometimes.” “She scared me,” I said. Atticus looked at me over his glasses. “You don’t have to go with Jem, you know.” The next afternoon at Mrs. Dubose’s was the same as the first, and so was the next, until gradually a pattern emerged: everything would begin normally—that is, Mrs. Dubose would hound Jem for a while on her favorite subjects, her camellias and our father’s nigger-loving propensities; she would grow increasingly silent, then go away from us. The alarm clock would ring, Jessie would shoo us out, and the rest of the day was ours. “Atticus,” I said one evening, “what exactly is a nigger-lover?” Atticus’s face was grave. “Has somebody been calling you that?” “No sir, Mrs. Dubose calls you that. She warms up every afternoon calling you that. Francis called me that last Christmas, that’s where I first heard it.” “Is that the reason you jumped on him?” asked Atticus. “Yes sir…” “Then why are you asking me what it means?” I tried to explain to Atticus that it wasn’t so much what Francis said that had infuriated me as the way he had said it. “It was like he’d said snot-nose or somethin‘.” “Scout,” said Atticus, “nigger-lover is just one of those terms that don’t mean anything—like snot-nose. It’s hard to explain—ignorant, trashy people use it when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody.” “You aren’t really a nigger-lover, then, are you?” “I certainly am. I do my best to love everybody… I’m hard put, sometimes— baby, it’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you. So don’t let Mrs. Dubose get you down. She has enough troubles of her own.” One afternoon a month later Jem was ploughing his way through Sir Walter Scout, as Jem called him, and Mrs. Dubose was correcting him at every turn, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in!” she screamed. Atticus came in. He went to the bed and took Mrs. Dubose’s hand. “I was coming from the office and didn’t see the children,” he said. “I thought they might still be here.” Mrs. Dubose smiled at him. For the life of me I could not figure out how she could bring herself to speak to him when she seemed to hate him so. “Do you know what time it is, Atticus?” she said. “Exactly fourteen minutes past five. The alarm clock’s set for five-thirty. I want you to know that.” It suddenly came to me that each day we had been staying a little longer at Mrs. Dubose’s, that the alarm clock went off a few minutes later every day, and that she was well into one of her fits by the time it sounded. Today she had antagonized Jem for nearly two hours with no intention of having a fit, and I felt hopelessly trapped. The alarm clock was the signal for our release; if one day it did not ring, what would we do? “I have a feeling that Jem’s reading days are numbered,” said Atticus. “Only a week longer, I think,” she said, “just to make sure…” Jem rose. “But—” Atticus put out his hand and Jem was silent. On the way home, Jem said he had to do it just for a month and the month was up and it wasn’t fair. “Just one more week, son,” said Atticus. “No,” said Jem. “Yes,” said Atticus. The following week found us back at Mrs. Dubose’s. The alarm clock had ceased sounding, but Mrs. Dubose would release us with, “That’ll do,” so late in the afternoon Atticus would be home reading the paper when we returned. Although her fits had passed off, she was in every other way her old self: when Sir Walter Scott became involved in lengthy descriptions of moats and castles, Mrs. Dubose would become bored and pick on us: “Jeremy Finch, I told you you’d live to regret tearing up my camellias. You regret it now, don’t you?” Jem would say he certainly did. “Thought you could kill my Snow-on-the-Mountain, did you? Well, Jessie says the top’s growing back out. Next time you’ll know how to do it right, won’t you? You’ll pull it up by the roots, won’t you?” Jem would say he certainly would. “Don’t you mutter at me, boy! You hold up your head and say yes ma’am. Don’t guess you feel like holding it up, though, with your father what he is.” Jem’s chin would come up, and he would gaze at Mrs. Dubose with a face devoid of resentment. Through the weeks he had cultivated an expression of polite and detached interest, which he would present to her in answer to her most blood- curdling inventions. At last the day came. When Mrs. Dubose said, “That’ll do,” one afternoon, she added, “And that’s all. Good-day to you.” It was over. We bounded down the sidewalk on a spree of sheer relief, leaping and howling. That spring was a good one: the days grew longer and gave us more playing time. Jem’s mind was occupied mostly with the vital statistics of every college football player in the nation. Every night Atticus would read us the sports pages of the newspapers. Alabama might go to the Rose Bowl again this year, judging from its prospects, not one of whose names we could pronounce. Atticus was in the middle of Windy Seaton’s column one evening when the telephone rang. He answered it, then went to the hat rack in the hall. “I’m going down to Mrs. Dubose’s for a while,” he said. “I won’t be long.” But Atticus stayed away until long past my bedtime. When he returned he was carrying a candy box. Atticus sat down in the livingroom and put the box on the floor beside his chair. “What’d she want?” asked Jem. We had not seen Mrs. Dubose for over a month. She was never on the porch any more when we passed. “She’s dead, son,” said Atticus. “She died a few minutes ago.” “Oh,” said Jem. “Well.” “Well is right,” said Atticus. “She’s not suffering any more. She was sick for a long time. Son, didn’t you know what her fits were?” Jem shook his head. “Mrs. Dubose was a morphine addict,” said Atticus. “She took it as a pain-killer for years. The doctor put her on it. She’d have spent the rest of her life on it and died without so much agony, but she was too contrary—” “Sir?” said Jem. Atticus said, “Just before your escapade she called me to make her will. Dr. Reynolds told her she had only a few months left. Her business affairs were in perfect order but she said, ‘There’s still one thing out of order.’” “What was that?” Jem was perplexed. “She said she was going to leave this world beholden to nothing and nobody. Jem, when you’re sick as she was, it’s all right to take anything to make it easier, but it wasn’t all right for her. She said she meant to break herself of it before she died, and that’s what she did.” Jem said, “You mean that’s what her fits were?” “Yes, that’s what they were. Most of the time you were reading to her I doubt if she heard a word you said. Her whole mind and body were concentrated on that alarm clock. If you hadn’t fallen into her hands, I’d have made you go read to her anyway. It may have been some distraction. There was another reason—” “Did she die free?” asked Jem. “As the mountain air,” said Atticus. “She was conscious to the last, almost. Conscious,” he smiled, “and cantankerous. She still disapproved heartily of my doings, and said I’d probably spend the rest of my life bailing you out of jail. She had Jessie fix you this box—” Atticus reached down and picked up the candy box. He handed it to Jem. Jem opened the box. Inside, surrounded by wads of damp cotton, was a white, waxy, perfect camellia. It was a Snow-on-the-Mountain. Jem’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Old hell-devil, old hell-devil!” he screamed, flinging it down. “Why can’t she leave me alone?” In a flash Atticus was up and standing over him. Jem buried his face in Atticus’s shirt front. “Sh-h,” he said. “I think that was her way of telling you—everything’s all right now, Jem, everything’s all right. You know, she was a great lady.” “A lady?” Jem raised his head. His face was scarlet. “After all those things she said about you, a lady?” “She was. She had her own views about things, a lot different from mine, maybe… son, I told you that if you hadn’t lost your head I’d have made you go read to her. I wanted you to see something about her—I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her. According to her views, she died beholden to nothing and nobody. She was the bravest person I ever knew.” Jem picked up the candy box and threw it in the fire. He picked up the camellia, and when I went off to bed I saw him fingering the wide petals. Atticus was reading the paper. PART TWO Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 12 Jem was twelve. He was difficult to live with, inconsistent, moody. His appetite was appalling, and he told me so many times to stop pestering him I consulted Atticus: “Reckon he’s got a tapeworm?” Atticus said no, Jem was growing. I must be patient with him and disturb him as little as possible. This change in Jem had come about in a matter of weeks. Mrs. Dubose was not cold in her grave—Jem had seemed grateful enough for my company when he went to read to her. Overnight, it seemed, Jem had acquired an alien set of values and was trying to impose them on me: several times he went so far as to tell me what to do. After one altercation when Jem hollered, “It’s time you started bein‘ a girl and acting right!” I burst into tears and fled to Calpurnia. “Don’t you fret too much over Mister Jem—” she began. “Mister Jem?” “Yeah, he’s just about Mister Jem now.” “He ain’t that old,” I said. “All he needs is somebody to beat him up, and I ain’t big enough.” “Baby,” said Calpurnia, “I just can’t help it if Mister Jem’s growin‘ up. He’s gonna want to be off to himself a lot now, doin’ whatever boys do, so you just come right on in the kitchen when you feel lonesome. We’ll find lots of things to do in here.” The beginning of that summer boded well: Jem could do as he pleased; Calpurnia would do until Dill came. She seemed glad to see me when I appeared in the kitchen, and by watching her I began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl. But summer came and Dill was not there. I received a letter and a snapshot from him. The letter said he had a new father whose picture was enclosed, and he would have to stay in Meridian because they planned to build a fishing boat. His father was a lawyer like Atticus, only much younger. Dill’s new father had a pleasant face, which made me glad Dill had captured him, but I was crushed. Dill concluded by saying he would love me forever and not to worry, he would come get me and marry me as soon as he got enough money together, so please write. The fact that I had a permanent fiancé was little compensation for his absence: I had never thought about it, but summer was Dill by the fishpool smoking string, Dill’s eyes alive with complicated plans to make Boo Radley emerge; summer was the swiftness with which Dill would reach up and kiss me when Jem was not looking, the longings we sometimes felt each other feel. With him, life was routine; without him, life was unbearable. I stayed miserable for two days. As if that were not enough, the state legislature was called into emergency session and Atticus left us for two weeks. The Governor was eager to scrape a few barnacles off the ship of state; there were sit-down strikes in Birmingham; bread lines in the cities grew longer, people in the country grew poorer. But these were events remote from the world of Jem and me. We were surprised one morning to see a cartoon in the Montgomery Advertiser above the caption, “Maycomb’s Finch.” It showed Atticus barefooted and in short pants, chained to a desk: he was diligently writing on a slate while some frivolouslooking girls yelled, “Yoo-hoo!” at him. “That’s a compliment,” explained Jem. “He spends his time doin‘ things that wouldn’t get done if nobody did ’em.” “Huh?” In addition to Jem’s newly developed characteristics, he had acquired a maddening air of wisdom. “Oh, Scout, it’s like reorganizing the tax systems of the counties and things. That kind of thing’s pretty dry to most men.” “How do you know?” “Oh, go on and leave me alone. I’m readin‘ the paper.” Jem got his wish. I departed for the kitchen. While she was shelling peas, Calpurnia suddenly said, “What am I gonna do about you all’s church this Sunday?” “Nothing, I reckon. Atticus left us collection.” Calpurnia’s eyes narrowed and I could tell what was going through her mind. “Cal,” I said, “you know we’ll behave. We haven’t done anything in church in years.” Calpurnia evidently remembered a rainy Sunday when we were both fatherless and teacherless. Left to its own devices, the class tied Eunice Ann Simpson to a chair and placed her in the furnace room. We forgot her, trooped upstairs to church, and were listening quietly to the sermon when a dreadful banging issued from the radiator pipes, persisting until someone investigated and brought forth Eunice Ann saying she didn’t want to play Shadrach any more—Jem Finch said she wouldn’t get burnt if she had enough faith, but it was hot down there. “Besides, Cal, this isn’t the first time Atticus has left us,” I protested. “Yeah, but he makes certain your teacher’s gonna be there. I didn’t hear him say this time—reckon he forgot it.” Calpurnia scratched her head. Suddenly she smiled. “How’d you and Mister Jem like to come to church with me tomorrow?” “Really?” “How ‘bout it?” grinned Calpurnia. If Calpurnia had ever bathed me roughly before, it was nothing compared to her supervision of that Saturday night’s routine. She made me soap all over twice, drew fresh water in the tub for each rinse; she stuck my head in the basin and washed it with Octagon soap and castile. She had trusted Jem for years, but that night she invaded his privacy and provoked an outburst: “Can’t anybody take a bath in this house without the whole family lookin‘?” Next morning she began earlier than usual, to “go over our clothes.” When Calpurnia stayed overnight with us she slept on a folding cot in the kitchen; that morning it was covered with our Sunday habiliments. She had put so much starch in my dress it came up like a tent when I sat down. She made me wear a petticoat and she wrapped a pink sash tightly around my waist. She went over my patentleather shoes with a cold biscuit until she saw her face in them. “It’s like we were goin‘ to Mardi Gras,” said Jem. “What’s all this for, Cal?” “I don’t want anybody sayin‘ I don’t look after my children,” she muttered. “Mister Jem, you absolutely can’t wear that tie with that suit. It’s green.” “‘smatter with that?” “Suit’s blue. Can’t you tell?” “Hee hee,” I howled, “Jem’s color blind.” His face flushed angrily, but Calpurnia said, “Now you all quit that. You’re gonna go to First Purchase with smiles on your faces.” First Purchase African M.E. Church was in the Quarters outside the southern town limits, across the old sawmill tracks. It was an ancient paint-peeled frame building, the only church in Maycomb with a steeple and bell, called First Purchase because it was paid for from the first earnings of freed slaves. Negroes worshiped in it on Sundays and white men gambled in it on weekdays. The churchyard was brick-hard clay, as was the cemetery beside it. If someone died during a dry spell, the body was covered with chunks of ice until rain softened the earth. A few graves in the cemetery were marked with crumbling tombstones; newer ones were outlined with brightly colored glass and broken Coca-Cola bottles. Lightning rods guarding some graves denoted dead who rested uneasily; stumps of burned-out candles stood at the heads of infant graves. It was a happy cemetery. The warm bittersweet smell of clean Negro welcomed us as we entered the churchyard—Hearts of Love hairdressing mingled with asafoetida, snuff, Hoyt’s Cologne, Brown’s Mule, peppermint, and lilac talcum. When they saw Jem and me with Calpurnia, the men stepped back and took off their hats; the women crossed their arms at their waists, weekday gestures of respectful attention. They parted and made a small pathway to the church door for us. Calpurnia walked between Jem and me, responding to the greetings of her brightly clad neighbors. “What you up to, Miss Cal?” said a voice behind us. Calpurnia’s hands went to our shoulders and we stopped and looked around: standing in the path behind us was a tall Negro woman. Her weight was on one leg; she rested her left elbow in the curve of her hip, pointing at us with upturned palm. She was bullet-headed with strange almond-shaped eyes, straight nose, and an Indian-bow mouth. She seemed seven feet high. I felt Calpurnia’s hand dig into my shoulder. “What you want, Lula?” she asked, in tones I had never heard her use. She spoke quietly, contemptuously. “I wants to know why you bringin‘ white chillun to nigger church.” “They’s my comp’ny,” said Calpurnia. Again I thought her voice strange: she was talking like the rest of them. “Yeah, an‘ I reckon you’s comp’ny at the Finch house durin’ the week.” A murmur ran through the crowd. “Don’t you fret,” Calpurnia whispered to me, but the roses on her hat trembled indignantly. When Lula came up the pathway toward us Calpurnia said, “Stop right there, nigger.” Lula stopped, but she said, “You ain’t got no business bringin‘ white chillun here —they got their church, we got our’n. It is our church, ain’t it, Miss Cal?” Calpurnia said, “It’s the same God, ain’t it?” Jem said, “Let’s go home, Cal, they don’t want us here—” I agreed: they did not want us here. I sensed, rather than saw, that we were being advanced upon. They seemed to be drawing closer to us, but when I looked up at Calpurnia there was amusement in her eyes. When I looked down the pathway again, Lula was gone. In her place was a solid mass of colored people. One of them stepped from the crowd. It was Zeebo, the garbage collector. “Mister Jem,” he said, “we’re mighty glad to have you all here. Don’t pay no ‘tention to Lula, she’s contentious because Reverend Sykes threatened to church her. She’s a troublemaker from way back, got fancy ideas an’ haughty ways—we’re mighty glad to have you all.” With that, Calpurnia led us to the church door where we were greeted by Reverend Sykes, who led us to the front pew. First Purchase was unceiled and unpainted within. Along its walls unlighted kerosene lamps hung on brass brackets; pine benches served as pews. Behind the rough oak pulpit a faded pink silk banner proclaimed God Is Love, the church’s only decoration except a rotogravure print of Hunt’s The Light of the World. There was no sign of piano, organ, hymn-books, church programs—the familiar ecclesiastical impedimenta we saw every Sunday. It was dim inside, with a damp coolness slowly dispelled by the gathering congregation. At each seat was a cheap cardboard fan bearing a garish Garden of Gethsemane, courtesy Tyndal’s Hardware Co. (You-Name-It-We-Sell-It). Calpurnia motioned Jem and me to the end of the row and placed herself between us. She fished in her purse, drew out her handkerchief, and untied the hard wad of change in its corner. She gave a dime to me and a dime to Jem. “We’ve got ours,” he whispered. “You keep it,” Calpurnia said, “you’re my company.” Jem’s face showed brief indecision on the ethics of withholding his own dime, but his innate courtesy won and he shifted his dime to his pocket. I did likewise with no qualms. “Cal,” I whispered, “where are the hymn-books?” “We don’t have any,” she said. “Well how—?” “Sh-h,” she said. Reverend Sykes was standing behind the pulpit staring the congregation to silence. He was a short, stocky man in a black suit, black tie, white shirt, and a gold watch-chain that glinted in the light from the frosted windows. He said, “Brethren and sisters, we are particularly glad to have company with us this morning. Mister and Miss Finch. You all know their father. Before I begin I will read some announcements.” Reverend Sykes shuffled some papers, chose one and held it at arm’s length. “The Missionary Society meets in the home of Sister Annette Reeves next Tuesday. Bring your sewing.” He read from another paper. “You all know of Brother Tom Robinson’s trouble. He has been a faithful member of First Purchase since he was a boy. The collection taken up today and for the next three Sundays will go to Helen—his wife, to help her out at home.” I punched Jem. “That’s the Tom Atticus’s de—” “Sh-h!” I turned to Calpurnia but was hushed before I opened my mouth. Subdued, I fixed my attention upon Reverend Sykes, who seemed to be waiting for me to settle down. “Will the music superintendent lead us in the first hymn,” he said. Zeebo rose from his pew and walked down the center aisle, stopping in front of us and facing the congregation. He was carrying a battered hymn-book. He opened it and said, “We’ll sing number two seventy-three.” This was too much for me. “How’re we gonna sing it if there ain’t any hymnbooks?” Calpurnia smiled. “Hush baby,” she whispered, “you’ll see in a minute.” Zeebo cleared his throat and read in a voice like the rumble of distant artillery: “There’s a land beyond the river.” Miraculously on pitch, a hundred voices sang out Zeebo’s words. The last syllable, held to a husky hum, was followed by Zeebo saying, “That we call the sweet forever.” Music again swelled around us; the last note lingered and Zeebo met it with the next line: “And we only reach that shore by faith’s decree.” The congregation hesitated, Zeebo repeated the line carefully, and it was sung. At the chorus Zeebo closed the book, a signal for the congregation to proceed without his help. On the dying notes of “Jubilee,” Zeebo said, “In that far-off sweet forever, just beyond the shining river.” Line for line, voices followed in simple harmony until the hymn ended in a melancholy murmur. I looked at Jem, who was looking at Zeebo from the corners of his eyes. I didn’t believe it either, but we had both heard it. Reverend Sykes then called on the Lord to bless the sick and the suffering, a procedure no different from our church practice, except Reverend Sykes directed the Deity’s attention to several specific cases. His sermon was a forthright denunciation of sin, an austere declaration of the motto on the wall behind him: he warned his flock against the evils of heady brews, gambling, and strange women. Bootleggers caused enough trouble in the Quarters, but women were worse. Again, as I had often met it in my own church, I was confronted with the Impurity of Women doctrine that seemed to preoccupy all clergymen. Jem and I had heard the same sermon Sunday after Sunday, with only one exception. Reverend Sykes used his pulpit more freely to express his views on individual lapses from grace: Jim Hardy had been absent from church for five Sundays and he wasn’t sick; Constance Jackson had better watch her ways—she was in grave danger for quarreling with her neighbors; she had erected the only spite fence in the history of the Quarters. Reverend Sykes closed his sermon. He stood beside a table in front of the pulpit and requested the morning offering, a proceeding that was strange to Jem and me. One by one, the congregation came forward and dropped nickels and dimes into a black enameled coffee can. Jem and I followed suit, and received a soft, “Thank you, thank you,” as our dimes clinked. To our amazement, Reverend Sykes emptied the can onto the table and raked the coins into his hand. He straightened up and said, “This is not enough, we must have ten dollars.” The congregation stirred. “You all know what it’s for—Helen can’t leave those children to work while Tom’s in jail. If everybody gives one more dime, we’ll have it—” Reverend Sykes waved his hand and called to someone in the back of the church. “Alec, shut the doors. Nobody leaves here till we have ten dollars.” Calpurnia scratched in her handbag and brought forth a battered leather coin purse. “Naw Cal,” Jem whispered, when she handed him a shiny quarter, “we can put ours in. Gimme your dime, Scout.” The church was becoming stuffy, and it occurred to me that Reverend Sykes intended to sweat the amount due out of his flock. Fans crackled, feet shuffled, tobacco-chewers were in agony. Reverend Sykes startled me by saying sternly, “Carlow Richardson, I haven’t seen you up this aisle yet.” A thin man in khaki pants came up the aisle and deposited a coin. The congregation murmured approval. Reverend Sykes then said, “I want all of you with no children to make a sacrifice and give one more dime apiece. Then we’ll have it.” Slowly, painfully, the ten dollars was collected. The door was opened, and the gust of warm air revived us. Zeebo lined On Jordan’s Stormy Banks, and church was over. I wanted to stay and explore, but Calpurnia propelled me up the aisle ahead of her. At the church door, while she paused to talk with Zeebo and his family, Jem and I chatted with Reverend Sykes. I was bursting with questions, but decided I would wait and let Calpurnia answer them. “We were ‘specially glad to have you all here,” said Reverend Sykes. “This church has no better friend than your daddy.” My curiosity burst: “Why were you all takin‘ up collection for Tom Robinson’s wife?” “Didn’t you hear why?” asked Reverend Sykes. “Helen’s got three little’uns and she can’t go out to work—” “Why can’t she take ‘em with her, Reverend?” I asked. It was customary for field Negroes with tiny children to deposit them in whatever shade there was while their parents worked—usually the babies sat in the shade between two rows of cotton. Those unable to sit were strapped papoose-style on their mothers’ backs, or resided in extra cotton bags. Reverend Sykes hesitated. “To tell you the truth, Miss Jean Louise, Helen’s finding it hard to get work these days… when it’s picking time, I think Mr. Link Deas’ll take her.” “Why not, Reverend?” Before he could answer, I felt Calpurnia’s hand on my shoulder. At its pressure I said, “We thank you for lettin‘ us come.” Jem echoed me, and we made our way homeward. “Cal, I know Tom Robinson’s in jail an‘ he’s done somethin’ awful, but why won’t folks hire Helen?” I asked. Calpurnia, in her navy voile dress and tub of a hat, walked between Jem and me. “It’s because of what folks say Tom’s done,” she said. “Folks aren’t anxious to— to have anything to do with any of his family.” “Just what did he do, Cal?” Calpurnia sighed. “Old Mr. Bob Ewell accused him of rapin‘ his girl an’ had him arrested an‘ put in jail—” “Mr. Ewell?” My memory stirred. “Does he have anything to do with those Ewells that come every first day of school an‘ then go home? Why, Atticus said they were absolute trash—I never heard Atticus talk about folks the way he talked about the Ewells. He said-” “Yeah, those are the ones.” “Well, if everybody in Maycomb knows what kind of folks the Ewells are they’d be glad to hire Helen… what’s rape, Cal?” “It’s somethin‘ you’ll have to ask Mr. Finch about,” she said. “He can explain it better than I can. You all hungry? The Reverend took a long time unwindin’ this morning, he’s not usually so tedious.” “He’s just like our preacher,” said Jem, “but why do you all sing hymns that way?” “Linin‘?” she asked. “Is that what it is?” “Yeah, it’s called linin‘. They’ve done it that way as long as I can remember.” Jem said it looked like they could save the collection money for a year and get some hymn-books. Calpurnia laughed. “Wouldn’t do any good,” she said. “They can’t read.” “Can’t read?” I asked. “All those folks?” “That’s right,” Calpurnia nodded. “Can’t but about four folks in First Purchase read… I’m one of ‘em.” “Where’d you go to school, Cal?” asked Jem. “Nowhere. Let’s see now, who taught me my letters? It was Miss Maudie Atkinson’s aunt, old Miss Buford—” “Are you that old?” “I’m older than Mr. Finch, even.” Calpurnia grinned. “Not sure how much, though. We started rememberin‘ one time, trying to figure out how old I was—I can remember back just a few years more’n he can, so I’m not much older, when you take off the fact that men can’t remember as well as women.” “What’s your birthday, Cal?” “I just have it on Christmas, it’s easier to remember that way—I don’t have a real birthday.” “But Cal,” Jem protested, “you don’t look even near as old as Atticus.” “Colored folks don’t show their ages so fast,” she said. “Maybe because they can’t read. Cal, did you teach Zeebo?” “Yeah, Mister Jem. There wasn’t a school even when he was a boy. I made him learn, though.” Zeebo was Calpurnia’s eldest son. If I had ever thought about it, I would have known that Calpurnia was of mature years—Zeebo had half-grown children—but then I had never thought about it. “Did you teach him out of a primer, like us?” I asked. “No, I made him get a page of the Bible every day, and there was a book Miss Buford taught me out of—bet you don’t know where I got it,” she said. We didn’t know. Calpurnia said, “Your Granddaddy Finch gave it to me.” “Were you from the Landing?” Jem asked. “You never told us that.” “I certainly am, Mister Jem. Grew up down there between the Buford Place and the Landin‘. I’ve spent all my days workin’ for the Finches or the Bufords, an‘ I moved to Maycomb when your daddy and your mamma married.” “What was the book, Cal?” I asked. “Blackstone’s Commentaries.” Jem was thunderstruck. “You mean you taught Zeebo outa that?” “Why yes sir, Mister Jem.” Calpurnia timidly put her fingers to her mouth. “They were the only books I had. Your grandaddy said Mr. Blackstone wrote fine English—” “That’s why you don’t talk like the rest of ‘em,” said Jem. “The rest of who?” “Rest of the colored folks. Cal, but you talked like they did in church…” That Calpurnia led a modest double life never dawned on me. The idea that she had a separate existence outside our household was a novel one, to say nothing of her having command of two languages. “Cal,” I asked, “why do you talk niggertalk to the—to your folks when you know it’s not right?” “Well, in the first place I’m black—” “That doesn’t mean you hafta talk that way when you know better,” said Jem. Calpurnia tilted her hat and scratched her head, then pressed her hat down carefully over her ears. “It’s right hard to say,” she said. “Suppose you and Scout talked colored-folks’ talk at home it’d be out of place, wouldn’t it? Now what if I talked white-folks’ talk at church, and with my neighbors? They’d think I was puttin‘ on airs to beat Moses.” “But Cal, you know better,” I said. “It’s not necessary to tell all you know. It’s not ladylike—in the second place, folks don’t like to have somebody around knowin‘ more than they do. It aggravates ’em. You’re not gonna change any of them by talkin‘ right, they’ve got to want to learn themselves, and when they don’t want to learn there’s nothing you can do but keep your mouth shut or talk their language.” “Cal, can I come to see you sometimes?” She looked down at me. “See me, honey? You see me every day.” “Out to your house,” I said. “Sometimes after work? Atticus can get me.” “Any time you want to,” she said. “We’d be glad to have you.” We were on the sidewalk by the Radley Place. “Look on the porch yonder,” Jem said. I looked over to the Radley Place, expecting to see its phantom occupant sunning himself in the swing. The swing was empty. “I mean our porch,” said Jem. I looked down the street. Enarmored, upright, uncompromising, Aunt Alexandra was sitting in a rocking chair exactly as if she had sat there every day of her life. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 13 “Put my bag in the front bedroom, Calpurnia,” was the first thing Aunt Alexandra said. “Jean Louise, stop scratching your head,” was the second thing she said. Calpurnia picked up Aunty’s heavy suitcase and opened the door. “I’ll take it,” said Jem, and took it. I heard the suitcase hit the bedroom floor with a thump. The sound had a dull permanence about it. “Have you come for a visit, Aunty?” I asked. Aunt Alexandra’s visits from the Landing were rare, and she traveled in state. She owned a bright green square Buick and a black chauffeur, both kept in an unhealthy state of tidiness, but today they were nowhere to be seen. “Didn’t your father tell you?” she asked. Jem and I shook our heads. “Probably he forgot. He’s not in yet, is he?” “Nome, he doesn’t usually get back till late afternoon,” said Jem. “Well, your father and I decided it was time I came to stay with you for a while.” “For a while” in Maycomb meant anything from three days to thirty years. Jem and I exchanged glances. “Jem’s growing up now and you are too,” she said to me. “We decided that it would be best for you to have some feminine influence. It won’t be many years, Jean Louise, before you become interested in clothes and boys—” I could have made several answers to this: Cal’s a girl, it would be many years before I would be interested in boys, I would never be interested in clothes… but I kept quiet. “What about Uncle Jimmy?” asked Jem. “Is he comin‘, too?” “Oh no, he’s staying at the Landing. He’ll keep the place going.” The moment I said, “Won’t you miss him?” I realized that this was not a tactful question. Uncle Jimmy present or Uncle Jimmy absent made not much difference, he never said anything. Aunt Alexandra ignored my question. I could think of nothing else to say to her. In fact I could never think of anything to say to her, and I sat thinking of past painful conversations between us: How are you, Jean Louise? Fine, thank you ma’am, how are you? Very well, thank you, what have you been doing with yourself? Nothin‘. Don’t you do anything? Nome. Certainly you have friends? Yessum. Well what do you all do? Nothin’. It was plain that Aunty thought me dull in the extreme, because I once heard her tell Atticus that I was sluggish. There was a story behind all this, but I had no desire to extract it from her then. Today was Sunday, and Aunt Alexandra was positively irritable on the Lord’s Day. I guess it was her Sunday corset. She was not fat, but solid, and she chose protective garments that drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist, flared out her rear, and managed to suggest that Aunt Alexandra’s was once an hour-glass figure. From any angle, it was formidable. The remainder of the afternoon went by in the gentle gloom that descends when relatives appear, but was dispelled when we heard a car turn in the driveway. It was Atticus, home from Montgomery. Jem, forgetting his dignity, ran with me to meet him. Jem seized his briefcase and bag, I jumped into his arms, felt his vague dry kiss and said, “‘d you bring me a book? ’d you know Aunty’s here?” Atticus answered both questions in the affirmative. “How’d you like for her to come live with us?” I said I would like it very much, which was a lie, but one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can’t do anything about them. “We felt it was time you children needed—well, it’s like this, Scout,” Atticus said. “Your aunt’s doing me a favor as well as you all. I can’t stay here all day with you, and the summer’s going to be a hot one.” “Yes sir,” I said, not understanding a word he said. I had an idea, however, that Aunt Alexandra’s appearance on the scene was not so much Atticus’s doing as hers. Aunty had a way of declaring What Is Best For The Family, and I suppose her coming to live with us was in that category. Maycomb welcomed her. Miss Maudie Atkinson baked a Lane cake so loaded with shinny it made me tight; Miss Stephanie Crawford had long visits with Aunt Alexandra, consisting mostly of Miss Stephanie shaking her head and saying, “Uh, uh, uh.” Miss Rachel next door had Aunty over for coffee in the afternoons, and Mr. Nathan Radley went so far as to come up in the front yard and say he was glad to see her. When she settled in with us and life resumed its daily pace, Aunt Alexandra seemed as if she had always lived with us. Her Missionary Society refreshments added to her reputation as a hostess (she did not permit Calpurnia to make the delicacies required to sustain the Society through long reports on Rice Christians); she joined and became Secretary of the Maycomb Amanuensis Club. To all parties present and participating in the life of the county, Aunt Alexandra was one of the last of her kind: she had river-boat, boarding-school manners; let any moral come along and she would uphold it; she was born in the objective case; she was an incurable gossip. When Aunt Alexandra went to school, self-doubt could not be found in any textbook, so she knew not its meaning. She was never bored, and given the slightest chance she would exercise her royal prerogative: she would arrange, advise, caution, and warn. She never let a chance escape her to point out the shortcomings of other tribal groups to the greater glory of our own, a habit that amused Jem rather than annoyed him: “Aunty better watch how she talks—scratch most folks in Maycomb and they’re kin to us.” Aunt Alexandra, in underlining the moral of young Sam Merriweather’s suicide, said it was caused by a morbid streak in the family. Let a sixteen-year-old girl giggle in the choir and Aunty would say, “It just goes to show you, all the Penfield women are flighty.” Everybody in Maycomb, it seemed, had a Streak: a Drinking Streak, a Gambling Streak, a Mean Streak, a Funny Streak. Once, when Aunty assured us that Miss Stephanie Crawford’s tendency to mind other people’s business was hereditary, Atticus said, “Sister, when you stop to think about it, our generation’s practically the first in the Finch family not to marry its cousins. Would you say the Finches have an Incestuous Streak?” Aunty said no, that’s where we got our small hands and feet. I never understood her preoccupation with heredity. Somewhere, I had received the impression that Fine Folks were people who did the best they could with the sense they had, but Aunt Alexandra was of the opinion, obliquely expressed, that the longer a family had been squatting on one patch of land the finer it was. “That makes the Ewells fine folks, then,” said Jem. The tribe of which Burris Ewell and his brethren consisted had lived on the same plot of earth behind the Maycomb dump, and had thrived on county welfare money for three generations. Aunt Alexandra’s theory had something behind it, though. Maycomb was an ancient town. It was twenty miles east of Finch’s Landing, awkwardly inland for such an old town. But Maycomb would have been closer to the river had it not been for the nimble-wittedness of one Sinkfield, who in the dawn of history operated an inn where two pig-trails met, the only tavern in the territory. Sinkfield, no patriot, served and supplied ammunition to Indians and settlers alike, neither knowing or caring whether he was a part of the Alabama Territory or the Creek Nation so long as business was good. Business was excellent when Governor William Wyatt Bibb, with a view to promoting the newly created county’s domestic tranquility, dispatched a team of surveyors to locate its exact center and there establish its seat of government. The surveyors, Sinkfield’s guests, told their host that he was in the territorial confines of Maycomb County, and showed him the probable spot where the county seat would be built. Had not Sinkfield made a bold stroke to preserve his holdings, Maycomb would have sat in the middle of Winston Swamp, a place totally devoid of interest. Instead, Maycomb grew and sprawled out from its hub, Sinkfield’s Tavern, because Sinkfield reduced his guests to myopic drunkenness one evening, induced them to bring forward their maps and charts, lop off a little here, add a bit there, and adjust the center of the county to meet his requirements. He sent them packing next day armed with their charts and five quarts of shinny in their saddlebags— two apiece and one for the Governor. Because its primary reason for existence was government, Maycomb was spared the grubbiness that distinguished most Alabama towns its size. In the beginning its buildings were solid, its courthouse proud, its streets graciously wide. Maycomb’s proportion of professional people ran high: one went there to have his teeth pulled, his wagon fixed, his heart listened to, his money deposited, his soul saved, his mules vetted. But the ultimate wisdom of Sinkfield’s maneuver is open to question. He placed the young town too far away from the only kind of public transportation in those days—river-boat—and it took a man from the north end of the county two days to travel to Maycomb for store-bought goods. As a result the town remained the same size for a hundred years, an island in a patchwork sea of cottonfields and timberland. Although Maycomb was ignored during the War Between the States, Reconstruction rule and economic ruin forced the town to grow. It grew inward. New people so rarely settled there, the same families married the same families until the members of the community looked faintly alike. Occasionally someone would return from Montgomery or Mobile with an outsider, but the result caused only a ripple in the quiet stream of family resemblance. Things were more or less the same during my early years. There was indeed a caste system in Maycomb, but to my mind it worked this way: the older citizens, the present generation of people who had lived side by side for years and years, were utterly predictable to one another: they took for granted attitudes, character shadings, even gestures, as having been repeated in each generation and refined by time. Thus the dicta No Crawford Minds His Own Business, Every Third Merriweather Is Morbid, The Truth Is Not in the Delafields, All the Bufords Walk Like That, were simply guides to daily living: never take a check from a Delafield without a discreet call to the bank; Miss Maudie Atkinson’s shoulder stoops because she was a Buford; if Mrs. Grace Merriweather sips gin out of Lydia E. Pinkham bottles it’s nothing unusual—her mother did the same. Aunt Alexandra fitted into the world of Maycomb like a hand into a glove, but never into the world of Jem and me. I so often wondered how she could be Atticus’s and Uncle Jack’s sister that I revived half-remembered tales of changelings and mandrake roots that Jem had spun long ago. These were abstract speculations for the first month of her stay, as she had little to say to Jem or me, and we saw her only at mealtimes and at night before we went to bed. It was summer and we were outdoors. Of course some afternoons when I would run inside for a drink of water, I would find the livingroom overrun with Maycomb ladies, sipping, whispering, fanning, and I would be called: “Jean Louise, come speak to these ladies.” When I appeared in the doorway, Aunty would look as if she regretted her request; I was usually mud-splashed or covered with sand. “Speak to your Cousin Lily,” she said one afternoon, when she had trapped me in the hall. “Who?” I said. “Your Cousin Lily Brooke,” said Aunt Alexandra. “She our cousin? I didn’t know that.” Aunt Alexandra managed to smile in a way that conveyed a gentle apology to Cousin Lily and firm disapproval to me. When Cousin Lily Brooke left I knew I was in for it. It was a sad thing that my father had neglected to tell me about the Finch Family, or to install any pride into his children. She summoned Jem, who sat warily on the sofa beside me. She left the room and returned with a purple-covered book on which Meditations of Joshua S. St. Clair was stamped in gold. “Your cousin wrote this,” said Aunt Alexandra. “He was a beautiful character.” Jem examined the small volume. “Is this the Cousin Joshua who was locked up for so long?” Aunt Alexandra said, “How did you know that?” “Why, Atticus said he went round the bend at the University. Said he tried to shoot the president. Said Cousin Joshua said he wasn’t anything but a sewerinspector and tried to shoot him with an old flintlock pistol, only it just blew up in his hand. Atticus said it cost the family five hundred dollars to get him out of that one—” Aunt Alexandra was standing stiff as a stork. “That’s all,” she said. “We’ll see about this.” Before bedtime I was in Jem’s room trying to borrow a book, when Atticus knocked and entered. He sat on the side of Jem’s bed, looked at us soberly, then he grinned. “ Er—h’rm,“ he said. He was beginning to preface some things he said with a throaty noise, and I thought he must at last be getting old, but he looked the same. ”I don’t exactly know how to say this,“ he began. “Well, just say it,” said Jem. “Have we done something?” Our father was actually fidgeting. “No, I just want to explain to you that—your Aunt Alexandra asked me… son, you know you’re a Finch, don’t you?” “That’s what I’ve been told.” Jem looked out of the corners of his eyes. His voice rose uncontrollably, “Atticus, what’s the matter?” Atticus crossed his knees and folded his arms. “I’m trying to tell you the facts of life.” Jem’s disgust deepened. “I know all that stuff,” he said. Atticus suddenly grew serious. In his lawyer’s voice, without a shade of inflection, he said: “Your aunt has asked me to try and impress upon you and Jean Louise that you are not from run-of-the-mill people, that you are the product of several generations’ gentle breeding—” Atticus paused, watching me locate an elusive redbug on my leg. “Gentle breeding,” he continued, when I had found and scratched it, “and that you should try to live up to your name—” Atticus persevered in spite of us: “She asked me to tell you you must try to behave like the little lady and gentleman that you are. She wants to talk to you about the family and what it’s meant to Maycomb County through the years, so you’ll have some idea of who you are, so you might be moved to behave accordingly,” he concluded at a gallop. Stunned, Jem and I looked at each other, then at Atticus, whose collar seemed to worry him. We did not speak to him. Presently I picked up a comb from Jem’s dresser and ran its teeth along the edge. “Stop that noise,” Atticus said. His curtness stung me. The comb was midway in its journey, and I banged it down. For no reason I felt myself beginning to cry, but I could not stop. This was not my father. My father never thought these thoughts. My father never spoke so. Aunt Alexandra had put him up to this, somehow. Through my tears I saw Jem standing in a similar pool of isolation, his head cocked to one side. There was nowhere to go, but I turned to go and met Atticus’s vest front. I buried my head in it and listened to the small internal noises that went on behind the light blue cloth: his watch ticking, the faint crackle of his starched shirt, the soft sound of his breathing. “Your stomach’s growling,” I said. “I know it,” he said. “You better take some soda.” “I will,” he said. “Atticus, is all this behavin‘ an’ stuff gonna make things different? I mean are you —?” I felt his hand on the back of my head. “Don’t you worry about anything,” he said. “It’s not time to worry.” When I heard that, I knew he had come back to us. The blood in my legs began to flow again, and I raised my head. “You really want us to do all that? I can’t remember everything Finches are supposed to do…” “I don’t want you to remember it. Forget it.” He went to the door and out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He nearly slammed it, but caught himself at the last minute and closed it softly. As Jem and I stared, the door opened again and Atticus peered around. His eyebrows were raised, his glasses had slipped. “Get more like Cousin Joshua every day, don’t I? Do you think I’ll end up costing the family five hundred dollars?” I know now what he was trying to do, but Atticus was only a man. It takes a woman to do that kind of work. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 14 Although we heard no more about the Finch family from Aunt Alexandra, we heard plenty from the town. On Saturdays, armed with our nickels, when Jem permitted me to accompany him (he was now positively allergic to my presence when in public), we would squirm our way through sweating sidewalk crowds and sometimes hear, “There’s his chillun,” or, “Yonder’s some Finches.” Turning to face our accusers, we would see only a couple of farmers studying the enema bags in the Mayco Drugstore window. Or two dumpy countrywomen in straw hats sitting in a Hoover cart. “They c’n go loose and rape up the countryside for all of ‘em who run this county care,” was one obscure observation we met head on from a skinny gentleman when he passed us. Which reminded me that I had a question to ask Atticus. “What’s rape?” I asked him that night. Atticus looked around from behind his paper. He was in his chair by the window. As we grew older, Jem and I thought it generous to allow Atticus thirty minutes to himself after supper. He sighed, and said rape was carnal knowledge of a female by force and without consent. “Well if that’s all it is why did Calpurnia dry me up when I asked her what it was?” Atticus looked pensive. “What’s that again?” “Well, I asked Calpurnia comin‘ from church that day what it was and she said ask you but I forgot to and now I’m askin’ you.” His paper was now in his lap. “Again, please,” he said. I told him in detail about our trip to church with Calpurnia. Atticus seemed to enjoy it, but Aunt Alexandra, who was sitting in a corner quietly sewing, put down her embroidery and stared at us. “You all were coming back from Calpurnia’s church that Sunday?” Jem said, “Yessum, she took us.” I remembered something. “Yessum, and she promised me I could come out to her house some afternoon. Atticus. I’ll go next Sunday if it’s all right, can I? Cal said she’d come get me if you were off in the car.” “You may not.” Aunt Alexandra said it. I wheeled around, startled, then turned back to Atticus in time to catch his swift glance at her, but it was too late. I said, “I didn’t ask you!” For a big man, Atticus could get up and down from a chair faster than anyone I ever knew. He was on his feet. “Apologize to your aunt,” he said. “I didn’t ask her, I asked you—” Atticus turned his head and pinned me to the wall with his good eye. His voice was deadly: “First, apologize to your aunt.” “I’m sorry, Aunty,” I muttered. “Now then,” he said. “Let’s get this clear: you do as Calpurnia tells you, you do as I tell you, and as long as your aunt’s in this house, you will do as she tells you. Understand?” I understood, pondered a while, and concluded that the only way I could retire with a shred of dignity was to go to the bathroom, where I stayed long enough to make them think I had to go. Returning, I lingered in the hall to hear a fierce discussion going on in the livingroom. Through the door I could see Jem on the sofa with a football magazine in front of his face, his head turning as if its pages contained a live tennis match. “…you’ve got to do something about her,” Aunty was saying. “You’ve let things go on too long, Atticus, too long.” “I don’t see any harm in letting her go out there. Cal’d look after her there as well as she does here.” Who was the “her” they were talking about? My heart sank: me. I felt the starched walls of a pink cotton penitentiary closing in on me, and for the second time in my life I thought of running away. Immediately. “Atticus, it’s all right to be soft-hearted, you’re an easy man, but you have a daughter to think of. A daughter who’s growing up.” “That’s what I am thinking of.” “And don’t try to get around it. You’ve got to face it sooner or later and it might as well be tonight. We don’t need her now.” Atticus’s voice was even: “Alexandra, Calpurnia’s not leaving this house until she wants to. You may think otherwise, but I couldn’t have got along without her all these years. She’s a faithful member of this family and you’ll simply have to accept things the way they are. Besides, sister, I don’t want you working your head off for us—you’ve no reason to do that. We still need Cal as much as we ever did.” “But Atticus—” “Besides, I don’t think the children’ve suffered one bit from her having brought them up. If anything, she’s been harder on them in some ways than a mother would have been… she’s never let them get away with anything, she’s never indulged them the way most colored nurses do. She tried to bring them up according to her lights, and Cal’s lights are pretty good—and another thing, the children love her.” I breathed again. It wasn’t me, it was only Calpurnia they were talking about. Revived, I entered the livingroom. Atticus had retreated behind his newspaper and Aunt Alexandra was worrying her embroidery. Punk, punk, punk, her needle broke the taut circle. She stopped, and pulled the cloth tighter: punk-punk-punk. She was furious. Jem got up and padded across the rug. He motioned me to follow. He led me to his room and closed the door. His face was grave. “They’ve been fussing, Scout.” Jem and I fussed a great deal these days, but I had never heard of or seen anyone quarrel with Atticus. It was not a comfortable sight. “Scout, try not to antagonize Aunty, hear?” Atticus’s remarks were still rankling, which made me miss the request in Jem’s question. My feathers rose again. “You tryin‘ to tell me what to do?” “Naw, it’s—he’s got a lot on his mind now, without us worrying him.” “Like what?” Atticus didn’t appear to have anything especially on his mind. “It’s this Tom Robinson case that’s worryin‘ him to death—” I said Atticus didn’t worry about anything. Besides, the case never bothered us except about once a week and then it didn’t last. “That’s because you can’t hold something in your mind but a little while,” said Jem. “It’s different with grown folks, we—” His maddening superiority was unbearable these days. He didn’t want to do anything but read and go off by himself. Still, everything he read he passed along to me, but with this difference: formerly, because he thought I’d like it; now, for my edification and instruction. “Jee crawling hova, Jem! Who do you think you are?” “Now I mean it, Scout, you antagonize Aunty and I’ll—I’ll spank you.” With that, I was gone. “You damn morphodite, I’ll kill you!” He was sitting on the bed, and it was easy to grab his front hair and land one on his mouth. He slapped me and I tried another left, but a punch in the stomach sent me sprawling on the floor. It nearly knocked the breath out of me, but it didn’t matter because I knew he was fighting, he was fighting me back. We were still equals. “Ain’t so high and mighty now, are you!” I screamed, sailing in again. He was still on the bed and I couldn’t get a firm stance, so I threw myself at him as hard as I could, hitting, pulling, pinching, gouging. What had begun as a fist-fight became a brawl. We were still struggling when Atticus separated us. “That’s all,” he said. “Both of you go to bed right now.” “Taah!” I said at Jem. He was being sent to bed at my bedtime. “Who started it?” asked Atticus, in resignation. “Jem did. He was tryin‘ to tell me what to do. I don’t have to mind him now, do I?” Atticus smiled. “Let’s leave it at this: you mind Jem whenever he can make you. Fair enough?” Aunt Alexandra was present but silent, and when she went down the hall with Atticus we heard her say, “…just one of the things I’ve been telling you about,” a phrase that united us again. Ours were adjoining rooms; as I shut the door between them Jem said, “Night, Scout.” “Night,” I murmured, picking my way across the room to turn on the light. As I passed the bed I stepped on something warm, resilient, and rather smooth. It was not quite like hard rubber, and I had the sensation that it was alive. I also heard it move. I switched on the light and looked at the floor by the bed. Whatever I had stepped on was gone. I tapped on Jem’s door. “What,” he said. “How does a snake feel?” “Sort of rough. Cold. Dusty. Why?” “I think there’s one under my bed. Can you come look?” “Are you bein‘ funny?” Jem opened the door. He was in his pajama bottoms. I noticed not without satisfaction that the mark of my knuckles was still on his mouth. When he saw I meant what I said, he said, “If you think I’m gonna put my face down to a snake you’ve got another think comin’. Hold on a minute.” He went to the kitchen and fetched the broom. “You better get up on the bed,” he said. “You reckon it’s really one?” I asked. This was an occasion. Our houses had no cellars; they were built on stone blocks a few feet above the ground, and the entry of reptiles was not unknown but was not commonplace. Miss Rachel Haverford’s excuse for a glass of neat whiskey every morning was that she never got over the fright of finding a rattler coiled in her bedroom closet, on her washing, when she went to hang up her negligee. Jem made a tentative swipe under the bed. I looked over the foot to see if a snake would come out. None did. Jem made a deeper swipe. “Do snakes grunt?” “It ain’t a snake,” Jem said. “It’s somebody.” Suddenly a filthy brown package shot from under the bed. Jem raised the broom and missed Dill’s head by an inch when it appeared. “God Almighty.” Jem’s voice was reverent. We watched Dill emerge by degrees. He was a tight fit. He stood up and eased his shoulders, turned his feet in their ankle sockets, rubbed the back of his neck. His circulation restored, he said, “Hey.” Jem petitioned God again. I was speechless. “I’m ‘bout to perish,” said Dill. “Got anything to eat?” In a dream, I went to the kitchen. I brought him back some milk and half a pan of corn bread left over from supper. Dill devoured it, chewing with his front teeth, as was his custom. I finally found my voice. “How’d you get here?” By an involved route. Refreshed by food, Dill recited this narrative: having been bound in chains and left to die in the basement (there were basements in Meridian) by his new father, who disliked him, and secretly kept alive on raw field peas by a passing farmer who heard his cries for help (the good man poked a bushel pod by pod through the ventilator), Dill worked himself free by pulling the chains from the wall. Still in wrist manacles, he wandered two miles out of Meridian where he discovered a small animal show and was immediately engaged to wash the camel. He traveled with the show all over Mississippi until his infallible sense of direction told him he was in Abbott County, Alabama, just across the river from Maycomb. He walked the rest of the way. “How’d you get here?” asked Jem. He had taken thirteen dollars from his mother’s purse, caught the nine o’clock from Meridian and got off at Maycomb Junction. He had walked ten or eleven of the fourteen miles to Maycomb, off the highway in the scrub bushes lest the authorities be seeking him, and had ridden the remainder of the way clinging to the backboard of a cotton wagon. He had been under the bed for two hours, he thought; he had heard us in the diningroom, and the clink of forks on plates nearly drove him crazy. He thought Jem and I would never go to bed; he had considered emerging and helping me beat Jem, as Jem had grown far taller, but he knew Mr. Finch would break it up soon, so he thought it best to stay where he was. He was worn out, dirty beyond belief, and home. “They must not know you’re here,” said Jem. “We’d know if they were lookin‘ for you…” “Think they’re still searchin‘ all the picture shows in Meridian.” Dill grinned. “You oughta let your mother know where you are,” said Jem. “You oughta let her know you’re here…” Dill’s eyes flickered at Jem, and Jem looked at the floor. Then he rose and broke the remaining code of our childhood. He went out of the room and down the hall. “Atticus,” his voice was distant, “can you come here a minute, sir?” Beneath its sweat-streaked dirt Dill’s face went white. I felt sick. Atticus was in the doorway. He came to the middle of the room and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking down at Dill. I finally found my voice: “It’s okay, Dill. When he wants you to know somethin‘, he tells you.” Dill looked at me. “I mean it’s all right,” I said. “You know he wouldn’t bother you, you know you ain’t scared of Atticus.” “I’m not scared…” Dill muttered. “Just hungry, I’ll bet.” Atticus’s voice had its usual pleasant dryness. “Scout, we can do better than a pan of cold corn bread, can’t we? You fill this fellow up and when I get back we’ll see what we can see.” “Mr. Finch, don’t tell Aunt Rachel, don’t make me go back, please sir! I’ll run off again—!” “Whoa, son,” said Atticus. “Nobody’s about to make you go anywhere but to bed pretty soon. I’m just going over to tell Miss Rachel you’re here and ask her if you could spend the night with us—you’d like that, wouldn’t you? And for goodness’ sake put some of the county back where it belongs, the soil erosion’s bad enough as it is.” Dill stared at my father’s retreating figure. “He’s tryin‘ to be funny,” I said. “He means take a bath. See there, I told you he wouldn’t bother you.” Jem was standing in a corner of the room, looking like the traitor he was. “Dill, I had to tell him,” he said. “You can’t run three hundred miles off without your mother knowin‘.” We left him without a word. Dill ate, and ate, and ate. He hadn’t eaten since last night. He used all his money for a ticket, boarded the train as he had done many times, coolly chatted with the conductor, to whom Dill was a familiar sight, but he had not the nerve to invoke the rule on small children traveling a distance alone if you’ve lost your money the conductor will lend you enough for dinner and your father will pay him back at the end of the line. Dill made his way through the leftovers and was reaching for a can of pork and beans in the pantry when Miss Rachel’s Do-oo Je-sus went off in the hall. He shivered like a rabbit. He bore with fortitude her Wait Till I Get You Home, Your Folks Are Out of Their Minds Worryin‘, was quite calm during That’s All the Harris in You Coming Out, smiled at her Reckon You Can Stay One Night, and returned the hug at long last bestowed upon him. Atticus pushed up his glasses and rubbed his face. “Your father’s tired,” said Aunt Alexandra, her first words in hours, it seemed. She had been there, but I suppose struck dumb most of the time. “You children get to bed now.” We left them in the diningroom, Atticus still mopping his face. “From rape to riot to runaways,” we heard him chuckle. “I wonder what the next two hours will bring.” Since things appeared to have worked out pretty well, Dill and I decided to be civil to Jem. Besides, Dill had to sleep with him so we might as well speak to him. I put on my pajamas, read for a while and found myself suddenly unable to keep my eyes open. Dill and Jem were quiet; when I turned off my reading lamp there was no strip of light under the door to Jem’s room. I must have slept a long time, for when I was punched awake the room was dim with the light of the setting moon. “Move over, Scout.” “He thought he had to,” I mumbled. “Don’t stay mad with him.” Dill got in bed beside me. “I ain’t,” he said. “I just wanted to sleep with you. Are you waked up?” By this time I was, but lazily so. “Why’d you do it?” No answer. “I said why’d you run off? Was he really hateful like you said?” “Naw…” “Didn’t you all build that boat like you wrote you were gonna?” “He just said we would. We never did.” I raised up on my elbow, facing Dill’s outline. “It’s no reason to run off. They don’t get around to doin‘ what they say they’re gonna do half the time…” “That wasn’t it, he—they just wasn’t interested in me.” This was the weirdest reason for flight I had ever heard. “How come?” “Well, they stayed gone all the time, and when they were home, even, they’d get off in a room by themselves.” “What’d they do in there?” “Nothin‘, just sittin’ and readin‘—but they didn’t want me with ’em.” I pushed the pillow to the headboard and sat up. “You know something? I was fixin‘ to run off tonight because there they all were. You don’t want ’em around you all the time, Dill—” Dill breathed his patient breath, a half-sigh. “—good night, Atticus’s gone all day and sometimes half the night and off in the legislature and I don’t know what—you don’t want ‘em around all the time, Dill, you couldn’t do anything if they were.” “That’s not it.” As Dill explained, I found myself wondering what life would be if Jem were different, even from what he was now; what I would do if Atticus did not feel the necessity of my presence, help and advice. Why, he couldn’t get along a day without me. Even Calpurnia couldn’t get along unless I was there. They needed me. “Dill, you ain’t telling me right—your folks couldn’t do without you. They must be just mean to you. Tell you what to do about that—” Dill’s voice went on steadily in the darkness: “The thing is, what I’m tryin‘ to say is—they do get on a lot better without me, I can’t help them any. They ain’t mean. They buy me everything I want, but it’s now—you’ve-got-it-go-play-with-it. You’ve got a roomful of things. I-got-you-that-book-so-go-read-it.” Dill tried to deepen his voice. “You’re not a boy. Boys get out and play baseball with other boys, they don’t hang around the house worryin’ their folks.” Dill’s voice was his own again: “Oh, they ain’t mean. They kiss you and hug you good night and good mornin‘ and good-bye and tell you they love you—Scout, let’s get us a baby.” “Where?” There was a man Dill had heard of who had a boat that he rowed across to a foggy island where all these babies were; you could order one— “That’s a lie. Aunty said God drops ‘em down the chimney. At least that’s what I think she said.” For once, Aunty’s diction had not been too clear. “Well that ain’t so. You get babies from each other. But there’s this man, too—he has all these babies just waitin‘ to wake up, he breathes life into ’em…” Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself to sleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose the faded image of a gray house with sad brown doors. “Dill?” “Mm?” “Why do you reckon Boo Radley’s never run off?” Dill sighed a long sigh and turned away from me. “Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere to run off to…” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 15 After many telephone calls, much pleading on behalf of the defendant, and a long forgiving letter from his mother, it was decided that Dill could stay. We had a week of peace together. After that, little, it seemed. A nightmare was upon us. It began one evening after supper. Dill was over; Aunt Alexandra was in her chair in the corner, Atticus was in his; Jem and I were on the floor reading. It had been a placid week: I had minded Aunty; Jem had outgrown the treehouse, but helped Dill and me construct a new rope ladder for it; Dill had hit upon a foolproof plan to make Boo Radley come out at no cost to ourselves (place a trail of lemon drops from the back door to the front yard and he’d follow it, like an ant). There was a knock on the front door, Jem answered it and said it was Mr. Heck Tate. “Well, ask him to come in,” said Atticus. “I already did. There’s some men outside in the yard, they want you to come out.” In Maycomb, grown men stood outside in the front yard for only two reasons: death and politics. I wondered who had died. Jem and I went to the front door, but Atticus called, “Go back in the house.” Jem turned out the livingroom lights and pressed his nose to a window screen. Aunt Alexandra protested. “Just for a second, Aunty, let’s see who it is,” he said. Dill and I took another window. A crowd of men was standing around Atticus. They all seemed to be talking at once. “…movin‘ him to the county jail tomorrow,” Mr. Tate was saying, “I don’t look for any trouble, but I can’t guarantee there won’t be any…” “Don’t be foolish, Heck,” Atticus said. “This is Maycomb.” “…said I was just uneasy.” “Heck, we’ve gotten one postponement of this case just to make sure there’s nothing to be uneasy about. This is Saturday,” Atticus said. “Trial’ll probably be Monday. You can keep him one night, can’t you? I don’t think anybody in Maycomb’ll begrudge me a client, with times this hard.” There was a murmur of glee that died suddenly when Mr. Link Deas said, “Nobody around here’s up to anything, it’s that Old Sarum bunch I’m worried about… can’t you get a—what is it, Heck?” “Change of venue,” said Mr. Tate. “Not much point in that, now is it?” Atticus said something inaudible. I turned to Jem, who waved me to silence. “—besides,” Atticus was saying, “you’re not scared of that crowd, are you?” “…know how they do when they get shinnied up.” “They don’t usually drink on Sunday, they go to church most of the day…” Atticus said. “This is a special occasion, though…” someone said. They murmured and buzzed until Aunty said if Jem didn’t turn on the livingroom lights he would disgrace the family. Jem didn’t hear her. “—don’t see why you touched it in the first place,” Mr. Link Deas was saying. “You’ve got everything to lose from this, Atticus. I mean everything.” “Do you really think so?” This was Atticus’s dangerous question. “Do you really think you want to move there, Scout?” Bam, bam, bam, and the checkerboard was swept clean of my men. “Do you really think that, son? Then read this.” Jem would struggle the rest of an evening through the speeches of Henry W. Grady. “Link, that boy might go to the chair, but he’s not going till the truth’s told.” Atticus’s voice was even. “And you know what the truth is.” There was a murmur among the group of men, made more ominous when Atticus moved back to the bottom front step and the men drew nearer to him. Suddenly Jem screamed, “Atticus, the telephone’s ringing!” The men jumped a little and scattered; they were people we saw every day: merchants, in-town farmers; Dr. Reynolds was there; so was Mr. Avery. “Well, answer it, son,” called Atticus. Laughter broke them up. When Atticus switched on the overhead light in the livingroom he found Jem at the window, pale except for the vivid mark of the screen on his nose. “Why on earth are you all sitting in the dark?” he asked. Jem watched him go to his chair and pick up the evening paper. I sometimes think Atticus subjected every crisis of his life to tranquil evaluation behind The Mobile Register, The Birmingham News and The Montgomery Advertiser. “They were after you, weren’t they?” Jem went to him. “They wanted to get you, didn’t they?” Atticus lowered the paper and gazed at Jem. “What have you been reading?” he asked. Then he said gently, “No son, those were our friends.” “It wasn’t a—a gang?” Jem was looking from the corners of his eyes. Atticus tried to stifle a smile but didn’t make it. “No, we don’t have mobs and that nonsense in Maycomb. I’ve never heard of a gang in Maycomb.” “Ku Klux got after some Catholics one time.” “Never heard of any Catholics in Maycomb either,” said Atticus, “you’re confusing that with something else. Way back about nineteen-twenty there was a Klan, but it was a political organization more than anything. Besides, they couldn’t find anybody to scare. They paraded by Mr. Sam Levy’s house one night, but Sam just stood on his porch and told ‘em things had come to a pretty pass, he’d sold ’em the very sheets on their backs. Sam made ‘em so ashamed of themselves they went away.” The Levy family met all criteria for being Fine Folks: they did the best they could with the sense they had, and they had been living on the same plot of ground in Maycomb for five generations. “The Ku Klux’s gone,” said Atticus. “It’ll never come back.” I walked home with Dill and returned in time to overhear Atticus saying to Aunty, “…in favor of Southern womanhood as much as anybody, but not for preserving polite fiction at the expense of human life,” a pronouncement that made me suspect they had been fussing again. I sought Jem and found him in his room, on the bed deep in thought. “Have they been at it?” I asked. “Sort of. She won’t let him alone about Tom Robinson. She almost said Atticus was disgracin‘ the family. Scout… I’m scared.” “Scared’a what?” “Scared about Atticus. Somebody might hurt him.” Jem preferred to remain mysterious; all he would say to my questions was go on and leave him alone. Next day was Sunday. In the interval between Sunday School and Church when the congregation stretched its legs, I saw Atticus standing in the yard with another knot of men. Mr. Heck Tate was present, and I wondered if he had seen the light. He never went to church. Even Mr. Underwood was there. Mr. Underwood had no use for any organization but The Maycomb Tribune, of which he was the sole owner, editor, and printer. His days were spent at his linotype, where he refreshed himself occasionally from an ever-present gallon jug of cherry wine. He rarely gathered news; people brought it to him. It was said that he made up every edition of The Maycomb Tribune out of his own head and wrote it down on the linotype. This was believable. Something must have been up to haul Mr. Underwood out. I caught Atticus coming in the door, and he said that they’d moved Tom Robinson to the Maycomb jail. He also said, more to himself than to me, that if they’d kept him there in the first place there wouldn’t have been any fuss. I watched him take his seat on the third row from the front, and I heard him rumble, “Nearer my God to thee,” some notes behind the rest of us. He never sat with Aunty, Jem and me. He liked to be by himself in church. The fake peace that prevailed on Sundays was made more irritating by Aunt Alexandra’s presence. Atticus would flee to his office directly after dinner, where if we sometimes looked in on him, we would find him sitting back in his swivel chair reading. Aunt Alexandra composed herself for a two-hour nap and dared us to make any noise in the yard, the neighborhood was resting. Jem in his old age had taken to his room with a stack of football magazines. So Dill and I spent our Sundays creeping around in Deer’s Pasture. Shooting on Sundays was prohibited, so Dill and I kicked Jem’s football around the pasture for a while, which was no fun. Dill asked if I’d like to have a poke at Boo Radley. I said I didn’t think it’d be nice to bother him, and spent the rest of the afternoon filling Dill in on last winter’s events. He was considerably impressed. We parted at suppertime, and after our meal Jem and I were settling down to a routine evening, when Atticus did something that interested us: he came into the livingroom carrying a long electrical extension cord. There was a light bulb on the end. “I’m going out for a while,” he said. “You folks’ll be in bed when I come back, so I’ll say good night now.” With that, he put his hat on and went out the back door. “He’s takin‘ the car,” said Jem. Our father had a few peculiarities: one was, he never ate desserts; another was that he liked to walk. As far back as I could remember, there was always a Chevrolet in excellent condition in the carhouse, and Atticus put many miles on it in business trips, but in Maycomb he walked to and from his office four times a day, covering about two miles. He said his only exercise was walking. In Maycomb, if one went for a walk with no definite purpose in mind, it was correct to believe one’s mind incapable of definite purpose. Later on, I bade my aunt and brother good night and was well into a book when I heard Jem rattling around in his room. His go-to-bed noises were so familiar to me that I knocked on his door: “Why ain’t you going to bed?” “I’m goin‘ downtown for a while.” He was changing his pants. “Why? It’s almost ten o’clock, Jem.” He knew it, but he was going anyway. “Then I’m goin‘ with you. If you say no you’re not, I’m goin’ anyway, hear?” Jem saw that he would have to fight me to keep me home, and I suppose he thought a fight would antagonize Aunty, so he gave in with little grace. I dressed quickly. We waited until Aunty’s light went out, and we walked quietly down the back steps. There was no moon tonight. “Dill’ll wanta come,” I whispered. “So he will,” said Jem gloomily. We leaped over the driveway wall, cut through Miss Rachel’s side yard and went to Dill’s window. Jem whistled bob-white. Dill’s face appeared at the screen, disappeared, and five minutes later he unhooked the screen and crawled out. An old campaigner, he did not speak until we were on the sidewalk. “What’s up?” “Jem’s got the look-arounds,” an affliction Calpurnia said all boys caught at his age. “I’ve just got this feeling,” Jem said, “just this feeling.” We went by Mrs. Dubose’s house, standing empty and shuttered, her camellias grown up in weeds and johnson grass. There were eight more houses to the post office corner. The south side of the square was deserted. Giant monkey-puzzle bushes bristled on each corner, and between them an iron hitching rail glistened under the street lights. A light shone in the county toilet, otherwise that side of the courthouse was dark. A larger square of stores surrounded the courthouse square; dim lights burned from deep within them. Atticus’s office was in the courthouse when he began his law practice, but after several years of it he moved to quieter quarters in the Maycomb Bank building. When we rounded the corner of the square, we saw the car parked in front of the bank. “He’s in there,” said Jem. But he wasn’t. His office was reached by a long hallway. Looking down the hall, we should have seen Atticus Finch, Attorney-at-Law in small sober letters against the light from behind his door. It was dark. Jem peered in the bank door to make sure. He turned the knob. The door was locked. “Let’s go up the street. Maybe he’s visitin‘ Mr. Underwood.” Mr. Underwood not only ran The Maycomb Tribune office, he lived in it. That is, above it. He covered the courthouse and jailhouse news simply by looking out his upstairs window. The office building was on the northwest corner of the square, and to reach it we had to pass the jail. The Maycomb jail was the most venerable and hideous of the county’s buildings. Atticus said it was like something Cousin Joshua St. Clair might have designed. It was certainly someone’s dream. Starkly out of place in a town of square-faced stores and steep-roofed houses, the Maycomb jail was a miniature Gothic joke one cell wide and two cells high, complete with tiny battlements and flying buttresses. Its fantasy was heightened by its red brick facade and the thick steel bars at its ecclesiastical windows. It stood on no lonely hill, but was wedged between Tyndal’s Hardware Store and The Maycomb Tribune office. The jail was Maycomb’s only conversation piece: its detractors said it looked like a Victorian privy; its supporters said it gave the town a good solid respectable look, and no stranger would ever suspect that it was full of niggers. As we walked up the sidewalk, we saw a solitary light burning in the distance. “That’s funny,” said Jem, “jail doesn’t have an outside light.” “Looks like it’s over the door,” said Dill. A long extension cord ran between the bars of a second-floor window and down the side of the building. In the light from its bare bulb, Atticus was sitting propped against the front door. He was sitting in one of his office chairs, and he was reading, oblivious of the nightbugs dancing over his head. I made to run, but Jem caught me. “Don’t go to him,” he said, “he might not like it. He’s all right, let’s go home. I just wanted to see where he was.” We were taking a short cut across the square when four dusty cars came in from the Meridian highway, moving slowly in a line. They went around the square, passed the bank building, and stopped in front of the jail. Nobody got out. We saw Atticus look up from his newspaper. He closed it, folded it deliberately, dropped it in his lap, and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He seemed to be expecting them. “Come on,” whispered Jem. We streaked across the square, across the street, until we were in the shelter of the Jitney Jungle door. Jem peeked up the sidewalk. “We can get closer,” he said. We ran to Tyndal’s Hardware door—near enough, at the same time discreet. In ones and twos, men got out of the cars. Shadows became substance as lights revealed solid shapes moving toward the jail door. Atticus remained where he was. The men hid him from view. “He in there, Mr. Finch?” a man said. “He is,” we heard Atticus answer, “and he’s asleep. Don’t wake him up.” In obedience to my father, there followed what I later realized was a sickeningly comic aspect of an unfunny situation: the men talked in near-whispers. “You know what we want,” another man said. “Get aside from the door, Mr. Finch.” “You can turn around and go home again, Walter,” Atticus said pleasantly. “Heck Tate’s around somewhere.” “The hell he is,” said another man. “Heck’s bunch’s so deep in the woods they won’t get out till mornin‘.” “Indeed? Why so?” “Called ‘em off on a snipe hunt,” was the succinct answer. “Didn’t you think a’that, Mr. Finch?” “Thought about it, but didn’t believe it. Well then,” my father’s voice was still the same, “that changes things, doesn’t it?” “It do,” another deep voice said. Its owner was a shadow. “Do you really think so?” This was the second time I heard Atticus ask that question in two days, and it meant somebody’s man would get jumped. This was too good to miss. I broke away from Jem and ran as fast as I could to Atticus. Jem shrieked and tried to catch me, but I had a lead on him and Dill. I pushed my way through dark smelly bodies and burst into the circle of light. “H-ey, Atticus!” I thought he would have a fine surprise, but his face killed my joy. A flash of plain fear was going out of his eyes, but returned when Dill and Jem wriggled into the light. There was a smell of stale whiskey and pigpen about, and when I glanced around I discovered that these men were strangers. They were not the people I saw last night. Hot embarrassment shot through me: I had leaped triumphantly into a ring of people I had never seen before. Atticus got up from his chair, but he was moving slowly, like an old man. He put the newspaper down very carefully, adjusting its creases with lingering fingers. They were trembling a little. “Go home, Jem,” he said. “Take Scout and Dill home.” We were accustomed to prompt, if not always cheerful acquiescence to Atticus’s instructions, but from the way he stood Jem was not thinking of budging. “Go home, I said.” Jem shook his head. As Atticus’s fists went to his hips, so did Jem’s, and as they faced each other I could see little resemblance between them: Jem’s soft brown hair and eyes, his oval face and snug-fitting ears were our mother’s, contrasting oddly with Atticus’s graying black hair and square-cut features, but they were somehow alike. Mutual defiance made them alike. “Son, I said go home.” Jem shook his head. “I’ll send him home,” a burly man said, and grabbed Jem roughly by the collar. He yanked Jem nearly off his feet. “Don’t you touch him!” I kicked the man swiftly. Barefooted, I was surprised to see him fall back in real pain. I intended to kick his shin, but aimed too high. “That’ll do, Scout.” Atticus put his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t kick folks. No —” he said, as I was pleading justification. “Ain’t nobody gonna do Jem that way,” I said. “All right, Mr. Finch, get ‘em outa here,” someone growled. “You got fifteen seconds to get ’em outa here.” In the midst of this strange assembly, Atticus stood trying to make Jem mind him. “I ain’t going,” was his steady answer to Atticus’s threats, requests, and finally, “Please Jem, take them home.” I was getting a bit tired of that, but felt Jem had his own reasons for doing as he did, in view of his prospects once Atticus did get him home. I looked around the crowd. It was a summer’s night, but the men were dressed, most of them, in overalls and denim shirts buttoned up to the collars. I thought they must be coldnatured, as their sleeves were unrolled and buttoned at the cuffs. Some wore hats pulled firmly down over their ears. They were sullen-looking, sleepy-eyed men who seemed unused to late hours. I sought once more for a familiar face, and at the center of the semi-circle I found one. “Hey, Mr. Cunningham.” The man did not hear me, it seemed. “Hey, Mr. Cunningham. How’s your entailment gettin‘ along?” Mr. Walter Cunningham’s legal affairs were well known to me; Atticus had once described them at length. The big man blinked and hooked his thumbs in his overall straps. He seemed uncomfortable; he cleared his throat and looked away. My friendly overture had fallen flat. Mr. Cunningham wore no hat, and the top half of his forehead was white in contrast to his sunscorched face, which led me to believe that he wore one most days. He shifted his feet, clad in heavy work shoes. “Don’t you remember me, Mr. Cunningham? I’m Jean Louise Finch. You brought us some hickory nuts one time, remember?” I began to sense the futility one feels when unacknowledged by a chance acquaintance. “I go to school with Walter,” I began again. “He’s your boy, ain’t he? Ain’t he, sir?” Mr. Cunningham was moved to a faint nod. He did know me, after all. “He’s in my grade,” I said, “and he does right well. He’s a good boy,” I added, “a real nice boy. We brought him home for dinner one time. Maybe he told you about me, I beat him up one time but he was real nice about it. Tell him hey for me, won’t you?” Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they were interested in, not about what you were interested in. Mr. Cunningham displayed no interest in his son, so I tackled his entailment once more in a last-ditch effort to make him feel at home. “Entailments are bad,” I was advising him, when I slowly awoke to the fact that I was addressing the entire aggregation. The men were all looking at me, some had their mouths half-open. Atticus had stopped poking at Jem: they were standing together beside Dill. Their attention amounted to fascination. Atticus’s mouth, even, was half-open, an attitude he had once described as uncouth. Our eyes met and he shut it. “Well, Atticus, I was just sayin‘ to Mr. Cunningham that entailments are bad an’ all that, but you said not to worry, it takes a long time sometimes… that you all’d ride it out together…” I was slowly drying up, wondering what idiocy I had committed. Entailments seemed all right enough for livingroom talk. I began to feel sweat gathering at the edges of my hair; I could stand anything but a bunch of people looking at me. They were quite still. “What’s the matter?” I asked. Atticus said nothing. I looked around and up at Mr. Cunningham, whose face was equally impassive. Then he did a peculiar thing. He squatted down and took me by both shoulders. “I’ll tell him you said hey, little lady,” he said. Then he straightened up and waved a big paw. “Let’s clear out,” he called. “Let’s get going, boys.” As they had come, in ones and twos the men shuffled back to their ramshackle cars. Doors slammed, engines coughed, and they were gone. I turned to Atticus, but Atticus had gone to the jail and was leaning against it with his face to the wall. I went to him and pulled his sleeve. “Can we go home now?” He nodded, produced his handkerchief, gave his face a going-over and blew his nose violently. “Mr. Finch?” A soft husky voice came from the darkness above: “They gone?” Atticus stepped back and looked up. “They’ve gone,” he said. “Get some sleep, Tom. They won’t bother you any more.” From a different direction, another voice cut crisply through the night: “You’re damn tootin‘ they won’t. Had you covered all the time, Atticus.” Mr. Underwood and a double-barreled shotgun were leaning out his window above The Maycomb Tribune office. It was long past my bedtime and I was growing quite tired; it seemed that Atticus and Mr. Underwood would talk for the rest of the night, Mr. Underwood out the window and Atticus up at him. Finally Atticus returned, switched off the light above the jail door, and picked up his chair. “Can I carry it for you, Mr. Finch?” asked Dill. He had not said a word the whole time. “Why, thank you, son.” Walking toward the office, Dill and I fell into step behind Atticus and Jem. Dill was encumbered by the chair, and his pace was slower. Atticus and Jem were well ahead of us, and I assumed that Atticus was giving him hell for not going home, but I was wrong. As they passed under a streetlight, Atticus reached out and massaged Jem’s hair, his one gesture of affection. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 16 Jem heard me. He thrust his head around the connecting door. As he came to my bed Atticus’s light flashed on. We stayed where we were until it went off; we heard him turn over, and we waited until he was still again. Jem took me to his room and put me in bed beside him. “Try to go to sleep,” he said, “It’ll be all over after tomorrow, maybe.” We had come in quietly, so as not to wake Aunty. Atticus killed the engine in the driveway and coasted to the carhouse; we went in the back door and to our rooms without a word. I was very tired, and was drifting into sleep when the memory of Atticus calmly folding his newspaper and pushing back his hat became Atticus standing in the middle of an empty waiting street, pushing up his glasses. The full meaning of the night’s events hit me and I began crying. Jem was awfully nice about it: for once he didn’t remind me that people nearly nine years old didn’t do things like that. Everybody’s appetite was delicate this morning, except Jem’s: he ate his way through three eggs. Atticus watched in frank admiration; Aunt Alexandra sipped coffee and radiated waves of disapproval. Children who slipped out at night were a disgrace to the family. Atticus said he was right glad his disgraces had come along, but Aunty said, “Nonsense, Mr. Underwood was there all the time.” “You know, it’s a funny thing about Braxton,” said Atticus. “He despises Negroes, won’t have one near him.” Local opinion held Mr. Underwood to be an intense, profane little man, whose father in a fey fit of humor christened Braxton Bragg, a name Mr. Underwood had done his best to live down. Atticus said naming people after Confederate generals made slow steady drinkers. Calpurnia was serving Aunt Alexandra more coffee, and she shook her head at what I thought was a pleading winning look. “You’re still too little,” she said. “I’ll tell you when you ain’t.” I said it might help my stomach. “All right,” she said, and got a cup from the sideboard. She poured one tablespoonful of coffee into it and filled the cup to the brim with milk. I thanked her by sticking out my tongue at it, and looked up to catch Aunty’s warning frown. But she was frowning at Atticus. She waited until Calpurnia was in the kitchen, then she said, “Don’t talk like that in front of them.” “Talk like what in front of whom?” he asked. “Like that in front of Calpurnia. You said Braxton Underwood despises Negroes right in front of her.” “Well, I’m sure Cal knows it. Everybody in Maycomb knows it.” I was beginning to notice a subtle change in my father these days, that came out when he talked with Aunt Alexandra. It was a quiet digging in, never outright irritation. There was a faint starchiness in his voice when he said, “Anything fit to say at the table’s fit to say in front of Calpurnia. She knows what she means to this family.” “I don’t think it’s a good habit, Atticus. It encourages them. You know how they talk among themselves. Every thing that happens in this town’s out to the Quarters before sundown.” My father put down his knife. “I don’t know of any law that says they can’t talk. Maybe if we didn’t give them so much to talk about they’d be quiet. Why don’t you drink your coffee, Scout?” I was playing in it with the spoon. “I thought Mr. Cunningham was a friend of ours. You told me a long time ago he was.” “He still is.” “But last night he wanted to hurt you.” Atticus placed his fork beside his knife and pushed his plate aside. “Mr. Cunningham’s basically a good man,” he said, “he just has his blind spots along with the rest of us.” Jem spoke. “Don’t call that a blind spot. He’da killed you last night when he first went there. “ “He might have hurt me a little,” Atticus conceded, “but son, you’ll understand folks a little better when you’re older. A mob’s always made up of people, no matter what. Mr. Cunningham was part of a mob last night, but he was still a man. Every mob in every little Southern town is always made up of people you know— doesn’t say much for them, does it?” “I’ll say not,” said Jem. “So it took an eight-year-old child to bring ‘em to their senses, didn’t it?” said Atticus. “That proves something—that a gang of wild animals can be stopped, simply because they’re still human. Hmp, maybe we need a police force of children… you children last night made Walter Cunningham stand in my shoes for a minute. That was enough.” Well, I hoped Jem would understand folks a little better when he was older; I wouldn’t. “First day Walter comes back to school’ll be his last,” I affirmed. “You will not touch him,” Atticus said flatly. “I don’t want either of you bearing a grudge about this thing, no matter what happens.” “You see, don’t you,” said Aunt Alexandra, “what comes of things like this. Don’t say I haven’t told you.” Atticus said he’d never say that, pushed out his chair and got up. “There’s a day ahead, so excuse me. Jem, I don’t want you and Scout downtown today, please.” As Atticus departed, Dill came bounding down the hall into the diningroom. “It’s all over town this morning,” he announced, “all about how we held off a hundred folks with our bare hands…” Aunt Alexandra stared him to silence. “It was not a hundred folks,” she said, “and nobody held anybody off. It was just a nest of those Cunninghams, drunk and disorderly.” “Aw, Aunty, that’s just Dill’s way,” said Jem. He signaled us to follow him. “You all stay in the yard today,” she said, as we made our way to the front porch. It was like Saturday. People from the south end of the county passed our house in a leisurely but steady stream. Mr. Dolphus Raymond lurched by on his thoroughbred. “Don’t see how he stays in the saddle,” murmured Jem. “How c’n you stand to get drunk ‘fore eight in the morning?” A wagonload of ladies rattled past us. They wore cotton sunbonnets and dresses with long sleeves. A bearded man in a wool hat drove them. “Yonder’s some Mennonites,” Jem said to Dill. “They don’t have buttons.” They lived deep in the woods, did most of their trading across the river, and rarely came to Maycomb. Dill was interested. “They’ve all got blue eyes,” Jem explained, “and the men can’t shave after they marry. Their wives like for ‘em to tickle ’em with their beards.” Mr. X Billups rode by on a mule and waved to us. “He’s a funny man,” said Jem. “X’s his name, not his initial. He was in court one time and they asked him his name. He said X Billups. Clerk asked him to spell it and he said X. Asked him again and he said X. They kept at it till he wrote X on a sheet of paper and held it up for everybody to see. They asked him where he got his name and he said that’s the way his folks signed him up when he was born.” As the county went by us, Jem gave Dill the histories and general attitudes of the more prominent figures: Mr. Tensaw Jones voted the straight Prohibition ticket; Miss Emily Davis dipped snuff in private; Mr. Byron Waller could play the violin; Mr. Jake Slade was cutting his third set of teeth. A wagonload of unusually stern-faced citizens appeared. When they pointed to Miss Maudie Atkinson’s yard, ablaze with summer flowers, Miss Maudie herself came out on the porch. There was an odd thing about Miss Maudie—on her porch she was too far away for us to see her features clearly, but we could always catch her mood by the way she stood. She was now standing arms akimbo, her shoulders drooping a little, her head cocked to one side, her glasses winking in the sunlight. We knew she wore a grin of the uttermost wickedness. The driver of the wagon slowed down his mules, and a shrill-voiced woman called out: “He that cometh in vanity departeth in darkness!” Miss Maudie answered: “A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance!” I guess that the foot-washers thought that the Devil was quoting Scripture for his own purposes, as the driver speeded his mules. Why they objected to Miss Maudie’s yard was a mystery, heightened in my mind because for someone who spent all the daylight hours outdoors, Miss Maudie’s command of Scripture was formidable. “You goin‘ to court this morning?” asked Jem. We had strolled over. “I am not,” she said. “I have no business with the court this morning.” “Aren’t you goin‘ down to watch?” asked Dill. “I am not. ‘t’s morbid, watching a poor devil on trial for his life. Look at all those folks, it’s like a Roman carnival.” “They hafta try him in public, Miss Maudie,” I said. “Wouldn’t be right if they didn’t.” “I’m quite aware of that,” she said. “Just because it’s public, I don’t have to go, do I?” Miss Stephanie Crawford came by. She wore a hat and gloves. “Um, um, um,” she said. “Look at all those folks—you’d think William Jennings Bryan was speakin‘.” “And where are you going, Stephanie?” inquired Miss Maudie. “To the Jitney Jungle.” Miss Maudie said she’d never seen Miss Stephanie go to the Jitney Jungle in a hat in her life. “Well,” said Miss Stephanie, “I thought I might just look in at the courthouse, to see what Atticus’s up to.” “Better be careful he doesn’t hand you a subpoena.” We asked Miss Maudie to elucidate: she said Miss Stephanie seemed to know so much about the case she might as well be called on to testify. We held off until noon, when Atticus came home to dinner and said they’d spent the morning picking the jury. After dinner, we stopped by for Dill and went to town. It was a gala occasion. There was no room at the public hitching rail for another animal, mules and wagons were parked under every available tree. The courthouse square was covered with picnic parties sitting on newspapers, washing down biscuit and syrup with warm milk from fruit jars. Some people were gnawing on cold chicken and cold fried pork chops. The more affluent chased their food with drugstore Coca-Cola in bulb-shaped soda glasses. Greasy-faced children popped-the-whip through the crowd, and babies lunched at their mothers’ breasts. In a far corner of the square, the Negroes sat quietly in the sun, dining on sardines, crackers, and the more vivid flavors of Nehi Cola. Mr. Dolphus Raymond sat with them. “Jem,” said Dill, “he’s drinkin‘ out of a sack.” Mr. Dolphus Raymond seemed to be so doing: two yellow drugstore straws ran from his mouth to the depths of a brown paper bag. “Ain’t ever seen anybody do that,” murmured Dill. “How does he keep what’s in it in it?” Jem giggled. “He’s got a Co-Cola bottle full of whiskey in there. That’s so’s not to upset the ladies. You’ll see him sip it all afternoon, he’ll step out for a while and fill it back up.” “Why’s he sittin‘ with the colored folks?” “Always does. He likes ‘em better’n he likes us, I reckon. Lives by himself way down near the county line. He’s got a colored woman and all sorts of mixed chillun. Show you some of ’em if we see ‘em.” “He doesn’t look like trash,” said Dill. “He’s not, he owns all one side of the riverbank down there, and he’s from a real old family to boot.” “Then why does he do like that?” “That’s just his way,” said Jem. “They say he never got over his weddin‘. He was supposed to marry one of the—the Spencer ladies, I think. They were gonna have a huge weddin’, but they didn’t—after the rehearsal the bride went upstairs and blew her head off. Shotgun. She pulled the trigger with her toes.” “Did they ever know why?” “No,” said Jem, “nobody ever knew quite why but Mr. Dolphus. They said it was because she found out about his colored woman, he reckoned he could keep her and get married too. He’s been sorta drunk ever since. You know, though, he’s real good to those chillun—” “Jem,” I asked, “what’s a mixed child?” “Half white, half colored. You’ve seen ‘em, Scout. You know that red-kinkyheaded one that delivers for the drugstore. He’s half white. They’re real sad.” “Sad, how come?” “They don’t belong anywhere. Colored folks won’t have ‘em because they’re half white; white folks won’t have ’em cause they’re colored, so they’re just inbetweens, don’t belong anywhere. But Mr. Dolphus, now, they say he’s shipped two of his up north. They don’t mind ‘em up north. Yonder’s one of ’em.” A small boy clutching a Negro woman’s hand walked toward us. He looked all Negro to me: he was rich chocolate with flaring nostrils and beautiful teeth. Sometimes he would skip happily, and the Negro woman tugged his hand to make him stop. Jem waited until they passed us. “That’s one of the little ones,” he said. “How can you tell?” asked Dill. “He looked black to me.” “You can’t sometimes, not unless you know who they are. But he’s half Raymond, all right.” “But how can you tell?” I asked. “I told you, Scout, you just hafta know who they are.” “Well how do you know we ain’t Negroes?” “Uncle Jack Finch says we really don’t know. He says as far as he can trace back the Finches we ain’t, but for all he knows we mighta come straight out of Ethiopia durin‘ the Old Testament.” “Well if we came out durin‘ the Old Testament it’s too long ago to matter.” “That’s what I thought,” said Jem, “but around here once you have a drop of Negro blood, that makes you all black. Hey, look—” Some invisible signal had made the lunchers on the square rise and scatter bits of newspaper, cellophane, and wrapping paper. Children came to mothers, babies were cradled on hips as men in sweat-stained hats collected their families and herded them through the courthouse doors. In the far corner of the square the Negroes and Mr. Dolphus Raymond stood up and dusted their breeches. There were few women and children among them, which seemed to dispel the holiday mood. They waited patiently at the doors behind the white families. “Let’s go in,” said Dill. “Naw, we better wait till they get in, Atticus might not like it if he sees us,” said Jem. The Maycomb County courthouse was faintly reminiscent of Arlington in one respect: the concrete pillars supporting its south roof were too heavy for their light burden. The pillars were all that remained standing when the original courthouse burned in 1856. Another courthouse was built around them. It is better to say, built in spite of them. But for the south porch, the Maycomb County courthouse was early Victorian, presenting an unoffensive vista when seen from the north. From the other side, however, Greek revival columns clashed with a big nineteenth-century clock tower housing a rusty unreliable instrument, a view indicating a people determined to preserve every physical scrap of the past. To reach the courtroom, on the second floor, one passed sundry sunless county cubbyholes: the tax assessor, the tax collector, the county clerk, the county solicitor, the circuit clerk, the judge of probate lived in cool dim hutches that smelled of decaying record books mingled with old damp cement and stale urine. It was necessary to turn on the lights in the daytime; there was always a film of dust on the rough floorboards. The inhabitants of these offices were creatures of their environment: little gray-faced men, they seemed untouched by wind or sun. We knew there was a crowd, but we had not bargained for the multitudes in the first-floor hallway. I got separated from Jem and Dill, but made my way toward the wall by the stairwell, knowing Jem would come for me eventually. I found myself in the middle of the Idlers’ Club and made myself as unobtrusive as possible. This was a group of white-shirted, khaki-trousered, suspendered old men who had spent their lives doing nothing and passed their twilight days doing same on pine benches under the live oaks on the square. Attentive critics of courthouse business, Atticus said they knew as much law as the Chief Justice, from long years of observation. Normally, they were the court’s only spectators, and today they seemed resentful of the interruption of their comfortable routine. When they spoke, their voices sounded casually important. The conversation was about my father. “…thinks he knows what he’s doing,” one said. “Oh-h now, I wouldn’t say that,” said another. “Atticus Finch’s a deep reader, a mighty deep reader.” “He reads all right, that’s all he does.” The club snickered. “Lemme tell you somethin‘ now, Billy,” a third said, “you know the court appointed him to defend this nigger.” “Yeah, but Atticus aims to defend him. That’s what I don’t like about it.” This was news, news that put a different light on things: Atticus had to, whether he wanted to or not. I thought it odd that he hadn’t said anything to us about it— we could have used it many times in defending him and ourselves. He had to, that’s why he was doing it, equaled fewer fights and less fussing. But did that explain the town’s attitude? The court appointed Atticus to defend him. Atticus aimed to defend him. That’s what they didn’t like about it. It was confusing. The Negroes, having waited for the white people to go upstairs, began to come in. “Whoa now, just a minute,” said a club member, holding up his walking stick. “Just don’t start up them there stairs yet awhile.” The club began its stiff-jointed climb and ran into Dill and Jem on their way down looking for me. They squeezed past and Jem called, “Scout, come on, there ain’t a seat left. We’ll hafta stand up.” “Looka there, now.” he said irritably, as the black people surged upstairs. The old men ahead of them would take most of the standing room. We were out of luck and it was my fault, Jem informed me. We stood miserably by the wall. “Can’t you all get in?” Reverend Sykes was looking down at us, black hat in hand. “Hey, Reverend,” said Jem. “Naw, Scout here messed us up.” “Well, let’s see what we can do.” Reverend Sykes edged his way upstairs. In a few moments he was back. “There’s not a seat downstairs. Do you all reckon it’ll be all right if you all came to the balcony with me?” “Gosh yes,” said Jem. Happily, we sped ahead of Reverend Sykes to the courtroom floor. There, we went up a covered staircase and waited at the door. Reverend Sykes came puffing behind us, and steered us gently through the black people in the balcony. Four Negroes rose and gave us their front-row seats. The Colored balcony ran along three walls of the courtroom like a second-story veranda, and from it we could see everything. The jury sat to the left, under long windows. Sunburned, lanky, they seemed to be all farmers, but this was natural: townfolk rarely sat on juries, they were either struck or excused. One or two of the jury looked vaguely like dressed-up Cunninghams. At this stage they sat straight and alert. The circuit solicitor and another man, Atticus and Tom Robinson sat at tables with their backs to us. There was a brown book and some yellow tablets on the solicitor’s table; Atticus’s was bare. Just inside the railing that divided the spectators from the court, the witnesses sat on cowhide-bottomed chairs. Their backs were to us. Judge Taylor was on the bench, looking like a sleepy old shark, his pilot fish writing rapidly below in front of him. Judge Taylor looked like most judges I had ever seen: amiable, white-haired, slightly ruddy-faced, he was a man who ran his court with an alarming informality—he sometimes propped his feet up, he often cleaned his fingernails with his pocket knife. In long equity hearings, especially after dinner, he gave the impression of dozing, an impression dispelled forever when a lawyer once deliberately pushed a pile of books to the floor in a desperate effort to wake him up. Without opening his eyes, Judge Taylor murmured, “Mr. Whitley, do that again and it’ll cost you one hundred dollars.” He was a man learned in the law, and although he seemed to take his job casually, in reality he kept a firm grip on any proceedings that came before him. Only once was Judge Taylor ever seen at a dead standstill in open court, and the Cunninghams stopped him. Old Sarum, their stamping grounds, was populated by two families separate and apart in the beginning, but unfortunately bearing the same name. The Cunninghams married the Coninghams until the spelling of the names was academic—academic until a Cunningham disputed a Coningham over land titles and took to the law. During a controversy of this character, Jeems Cunningham testified that his mother spelled it Cunningham on deeds and things, but she was really a Coningham, she was an uncertain speller, a seldom reader, and was given to looking far away sometimes when she sat on the front gallery in the evening. After nine hours of listening to the eccentricities of Old Sarum’s inhabitants, Judge Taylor threw the case out of court. When asked upon what grounds, Judge Taylor said, “Champertous connivance,” and declared he hoped to God the litigants were satisfied by each having had their public say. They were. That was all they had wanted in the first place. Judge Taylor had one interesting habit. He permitted smoking in his courtroom but did not himself indulge: sometimes, if one was lucky, one had the privilege of watching him put a long dry cigar into his mouth and munch it slowly up. Bit by bit the dead cigar would disappear, to reappear some hours later as a flat slick mess, its essence extracted and mingling with Judge Taylor’s digestive juices. I once asked Atticus how Mrs. Taylor stood to kiss him, but Atticus said they didn’t kiss much. The witness stand was to the right of Judge Taylor, and when we got to our seats Mr. Heck Tate was already on it. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 17 “Jem,” I said, “are those the Ewells sittin‘ down yonder?” “Hush,” said Jem, “Mr. Heck Tate’s testifyin‘.” Mr. Tate had dressed for the occasion. He wore an ordinary business suit, which made him look somehow like every other man: gone were his high boots, lumber jacket, and bullet-studded belt. From that moment he ceased to terrify me. He was sitting forward in the witness chair, his hands clasped between his knees, listening attentively to the circuit solicitor. The solicitor, a Mr. Gilmer, was not well known to us. He was from Abbottsville; we saw him only when court convened, and that rarely, for court was of no special interest to Jem and me. A balding, smooth-faced man, he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. Although his back was to us, we knew he had a slight cast in one of his eyes which he used to his advantage: he seemed to be looking at a person when he was actually doing nothing of the kind, thus he was hell on juries and witnesses. The jury, thinking themselves under close scrutiny, paid attention; so did the witnesses, thinking likewise. “…in your own words, Mr. Tate,” Mr. Gilmer was saying. “Well,” said Mr. Tate, touching his glasses and speaking to his knees, “I was called—” “Could you say it to the jury, Mr. Tate? Thank you. Who called you?” Mr. Tate said, “I was fetched by Bob—by Mr. Bob Ewell yonder, one night—” “What night, sir?” Mr. Tate said, “It was the night of November twenty-first. I was just leaving my office to go home when B—Mr. Ewell came in, very excited he was, and said get out to his house quick, some nigger’d raped his girl.” “Did you go?” “Certainly. Got in the car and went out as fast as I could.” “And what did you find?” “Found her lying on the floor in the middle of the front room, one on the right as you go in. She was pretty well beat up, but I heaved her to her feet and she washed her face in a bucket in the corner and said she was all right. I asked her who hurt her and she said it was Tom Robinson—” Judge Taylor, who had been concentrating on his fingernails, looked up as if he were expecting an objection, but Atticus was quiet. “—asked her if he beat her like that, she said yes he had. Asked her if he took advantage of her and she said yes he did. So I went down to Robinson’s house and brought him back. She identified him as the one, so I took him in. That’s all there was to it.” “Thank you,” said Mr. Gilmer. Judge Taylor said, “Any questions, Atticus?” “Yes,” said my father. He was sitting behind his table; his chair was skewed to one side, his legs were crossed and one arm was resting on the back of his chair. “Did you call a doctor, Sheriff? Did anybody call a doctor?” asked Atticus. “No sir,” said Mr. Tate. “Didn’t call a doctor?” “No sir,” repeated Mr. Tate. “Why not?” There was an edge to Atticus’s voice. “Well I can tell you why I didn’t. It wasn’t necessary, Mr. Finch. She was mighty banged up. Something sho‘ happened, it was obvious.” “But you didn’t call a doctor? While you were there did anyone send for one, fetch one, carry her to one?” “No sir—” Judge Taylor broke in. “He’s answered the question three times, Atticus. He didn’t call a doctor.” Atticus said, “I just wanted to make sure, Judge,” and the judge smiled. Jem’s hand, which was resting on the balcony rail, tightened around it. He drew in his breath suddenly. Glancing below, I saw no corresponding reaction, and wondered if Jem was trying to be dramatic. Dill was watching peacefully, and so was Reverend Sykes beside him. “What is it?” I whispered, and got a terse, “Sh-h!” “Sheriff,” Atticus was saying, “you say she was mighty banged up. In what way?” “Well—” “Just describe her injuries, Heck.” “Well, she was beaten around the head. There was already bruises comin‘ on her arms, and it happened about thirty minutes before—” “How do you know?” Mr. Tate grinned. “Sorry, that’s what they said. Anyway, she was pretty bruised up when I got there, and she had a black eye comin‘.” “Which eye?” Mr. Tate blinked and ran his hands through his hair. “Let’s see,” he said softly, then he looked at Atticus as if he considered the question childish. “Can’t you remember?” Atticus asked. Mr. Tate pointed to an invisible person five inches in front of him and said, “Her left.” “Wait a minute, Sheriff,” said Atticus. “Was it her left facing you or her left looking the same way you were?” Mr. Tate said, “Oh yes, that’d make it her right. It was her right eye, Mr. Finch. I remember now, she was bunged up on that side of her face…” Mr. Tate blinked again, as if something had suddenly been made plain to him. Then he turned his head and looked around at Tom Robinson. As if by instinct, Tom Robinson raised his head. Something had been made plain to Atticus also, and it brought him to his feet. “Sheriff, please repeat what you said.” “It was her right eye, I said.” “No…” Atticus walked to the court reporter’s desk and bent down to the furiously scribbling hand. It stopped, flipped back the shorthand pad, and the court reporter said, “‘Mr. Finch. I remember now she was bunged up on that side of the face.’” Atticus looked up at Mr. Tate. “Which side again, Heck?” “The right side, Mr. Finch, but she had more bruises—you wanta hear about ‘em?” Atticus seemed to be bordering on another question, but he thought better of it and said, “Yes, what were her other injuries?” As Mr. Tate answered, Atticus turned and looked at Tom Robinson as if to say this was something they hadn’t bargained for. “…her arms were bruised, and she showed me her neck. There were definite finger marks on her gullet—” “All around her throat? At the back of her neck?” “I’d say they were all around, Mr. Finch.” “You would?” “Yes sir, she had a small throat, anybody could’a reached around it with—” “Just answer the question yes or no, please, Sheriff,” said Atticus dryly, and Mr. Tate fell silent. Atticus sat down and nodded to the circuit solicitor, who shook his head at the judge, who nodded to Mr. Tate, who rose stiffly and stepped down from the witness stand. Below us, heads turned, feet scraped the floor, babies were shifted to shoulders, and a few children scampered out of the courtroom. The Negroes behind us whispered softly among themselves; Dill was asking Reverend Sykes what it was all about, but Reverend Sykes said he didn’t know. So far, things were utterly dull: nobody had thundered, there were no arguments between opposing counsel, there was no drama; a grave disappointment to all present, it seemed. Atticus was proceeding amiably, as if he were involved in a title dispute. With his infinite capacity for calming turbulent seas, he could make a rape case as dry as a sermon. Gone was the terror in my mind of stale whiskey and barnyard smells, of sleepyeyed sullen men, of a husky voice calling in the night, “Mr. Finch? They gone?” Our nightmare had gone with daylight, everything would come out all right. All the spectators were as relaxed as Judge Taylor, except Jem. His mouth was twisted into a purposeful half-grin, and his eyes happy about, and he said something about corroborating evidence, which made me sure he was showing off. “…Robert E. Lee Ewell!” In answer to the clerk’s booming voice, a little bantam cock of a man rose and strutted to the stand, the back of his neck reddening at the sound of his name. When he turned around to take the oath, we saw that his face was as red as his neck. We also saw no resemblance to his namesake. A shock of wispy newwashed hair stood up from his forehead; his nose was thin, pointed, and shiny; he had no chin to speak of—it seemed to be part of his crepey neck. “—so help me God,” he crowed. Every town the size of Maycomb had families like the Ewells. No economic fluctuations changed their status—people like the Ewells lived as guests of the county in prosperity as well as in the depths of a depression. No truant officers could keep their numerous offspring in school; no public health officer could free them from congenital defects, various worms, and the diseases indigenous to filthy surroundings. Maycomb’s Ewells lived behind the town garbage dump in what was once a Negro cabin. The cabin’s plank walls were supplemented with sheets of corrugated iron, its roof shingled with tin cans hammered flat, so only its general shape suggested its original design: square, with four tiny rooms opening onto a shotgun hall, the cabin rested uneasily upon four irregular lumps of limestone. Its windows were merely open spaces in the walls, which in the summertime were covered with greasy strips of cheesecloth to keep out the varmints that feasted on Maycomb’s refuse. The varmints had a lean time of it, for the Ewells gave the dump a thorough gleaning every day, and the fruits of their industry (those that were not eaten) made the plot of ground around the cabin look like the playhouse of an insane child: what passed for a fence was bits of tree-limbs, broomsticks and tool shafts, all tipped with rusty hammer-heads, snaggle-toothed rake heads, shovels, axes and grubbing hoes, held on with pieces of barbed wire. Enclosed by this barricade was a dirty yard containing the remains of a Model-T Ford (on blocks), a discarded dentist’s chair, an ancient icebox, plus lesser items: old shoes, worn-out table radios, picture frames, and fruit jars, under which scrawny orange chickens pecked hopefully. One corner of the yard, though, bewildered Maycomb. Against the fence, in a line, were six chipped-enamel slop jars holding brilliant red geraniums, cared for as tenderly as if they belonged to Miss Maudie Atkinson, had Miss Maudie deigned to permit a geranium on her premises. People said they were Mayella Ewell’s. Nobody was quite sure how many children were on the place. Some people said six, others said nine; there were always several dirty-faced ones at the windows when anyone passed by. Nobody had occasion to pass by except at Christmas, when the churches delivered baskets, and when the mayor of Maycomb asked us to please help the garbage collector by dumping our own trees and trash. Atticus took us with him last Christmas when he complied with the mayor’s request. A dirt road ran from the highway past the dump, down to a small Negro settlement some five hundred yards beyond the Ewells‘. It was necessary either to back out to the highway or go the full length of the road and turn around; most people turned around in the Negroes’ front yards. In the frosty December dusk, their cabins looked neat and snug with pale blue smoke rising from the chimneys and doorways glowing amber from the fires inside. There were delicious smells about: chicken, bacon frying crisp as the twilight air. Jem and I detected squirrel cooking, but it took an old countryman like Atticus to identify possum and rabbit, aromas that vanished when we rode back past the Ewell residence. All the little man on the witness stand had that made him any better than his nearest neighbors was, that if scrubbed with lye soap in very hot water, his skin was white. “Mr. Robert Ewell?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “That’s m’name, cap’n,” said the witness. Mr. Gilmer’s back stiffened a little, and I felt sorry for him. Perhaps I’d better explain something now. I’ve heard that lawyers’ children, on seeing their parents in court in the heat of argument, get the wrong idea: they think opposing counsel to be the personal enemies of their parents, they suffer agonies, and are surprised to see them often go out arm-in-arm with their tormenters during the first recess. This was not true of Jem and me. We acquired no traumas from watching our father win or lose. I’m sorry that I can’t provide any drama in this respect; if I did, it would not be true. We could tell, however, when debate became more acrimonious than professional, but this was from watching lawyers other than our father. I never heard Atticus raise his voice in my life, except to a deaf witness. Mr. Gilmer was doing his job, as Atticus was doing his. Besides, Mr. Ewell was Mr. Gilmer’s witness, and he had no business being rude to him of all people. “Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?” was the next question. “Well, if I ain’t I can’t do nothing about it now, her ma’s dead,” was the answer. Judge Taylor stirred. He turned slowly in his swivel chair and looked benignly at the witness. “Are you the father of Mayella Ewell?” he asked, in a way that made the laughter below us stop suddenly. “Yes sir,” Mr. Ewell said meekly. Judge Taylor went on in tones of good will: “This the first time you’ve ever been in court? I don’t recall ever seeing you here.” At the witness’s affirmative nod he continued, “Well, let’s get something straight. There will be no more audibly obscene speculations on any subject from anybody in this courtroom as long as I’m sitting here. Do you understand?” Mr. Ewell nodded, but I don’t think he did. Judge Taylor sighed and said, “All right, Mr. Gilmer?” “Thank you, sir. Mr. Ewell, would you tell us in your own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first, please?” Jem grinned and pushed his hair back. Just-in-your-own words was Mr. Gilmer’s trademark. We often wondered who else’s words Mr. Gilmer was afraid his witness might employ. “Well, the night of November twenty-one I was comin‘ in from the woods with a load o’kindlin’ and just as I got to the fence I heard Mayella screamin‘ like a stuck hog inside the house—” Here Judge Taylor glanced sharply at the witness and must have decided his speculations devoid of evil intent, for he subsided sleepily. “What time was it, Mr. Ewell?” “Just ‘fore sundown. Well, I was sayin’ Mayella was screamin‘ fit to beat Jesus —” another glance from the bench silenced Mr. Ewell. “Yes? She was screaming?” said Mr. Gilmer. Mr. Ewell looked confusedly at the judge. “Well, Mayella was raisin‘ this holy racket so I dropped m’load and run as fast as I could but I run into th’ fence, but when I got distangled I run up to th‘ window and I seen—” Mr. Ewell’s face grew scarlet. He stood up and pointed his finger at Tom Robinson. “—I seen that black nigger yonder ruttin’ on my Mayella!” So serene was Judge Taylor’s court, that he had few occasions to use his gavel, but he hammered fully five minutes. Atticus was on his feet at the bench saying something to him, Mr. Heck Tate as first officer of the county stood in the middle aisle quelling the packed courtroom. Behind us, there was an angry muffled groan from the colored people. Reverend Sykes leaned across Dill and me, pulling at Jem’s elbow. “Mr. Jem,” he said, “you better take Miss Jean Louise home. Mr. Jem, you hear me?” Jem turned his head. “Scout, go home. Dill, you’n‘Scout go home.” “You gotta make me first,” I said, remembering Atticus’s blessed dictum. Jem scowled furiously at me, then said to Reverend Sykes, “I think it’s okay, Reverend, she doesn’t understand it.” I was mortally offended. “I most certainly do, I c’n understand anything you can.” “Aw hush. She doesn’t understand it, Reverend, she ain’t nine yet.” Reverend Sykes’s black eyes were anxious. “Mr. Finch know you all are here? This ain’t fit for Miss Jean Louise or you boys either.” Jem shook his head. “He can’t see us this far away. It’s all right, Reverend.” I knew Jem would win, because I knew nothing could make him leave now. Dill and I were safe, for a while: Atticus could see us from where he was, if he looked. As Judge Taylor banged his gavel, Mr. Ewell was sitting smugly in the witness chair, surveying his handiwork. With one phrase he had turned happy picknickers into a sulky, tense, murmuring crowd, being slowly hypnotized by gavel taps lessening in intensity until the only sound in the courtroom was a dim pink-pinkpink: the judge might have been rapping the bench with a pencil. In possession of his court once more, Judge Taylor leaned back in his chair. He looked suddenly weary; his age was showing, and I thought about what Atticus had said—he and Mrs. Taylor didn’t kiss much—he must have been nearly seventy. “There has been a request,” Judge Taylor said, “that this courtroom be cleared of spectators, or at least of women and children, a request that will be denied for the time being. People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for, and they have the right to subject their children to it, but I can assure you of one thing: you will receive what you see and hear in silence or you will leave this courtroom, but you won’t leave it until the whole boiling of you come before me on contempt charges. Mr. Ewell, you will keep your testimony within the confines of Christian English usage, if that is possible. Proceed, Mr. Gilmer.” Mr. Ewell reminded me of a deaf-mute. I was sure he had never heard the words Judge Taylor directed at him—his mouth struggled silently with them—but their import registered on his face. Smugness faded from it, replaced by a dogged earnestness that fooled Judge Taylor not at all: as long as Mr. Ewell was on the stand, the judge kept his eyes on him, as if daring him to make a false move. Mr. Gilmer and Atticus exchanged glances. Atticus was sitting down again, his fist rested on his cheek and we could not see his face. Mr. Gilmer looked rather desperate. A question from Judge Taylor made him relax: “Mr. Ewell, did you see the defendant having sexual intercourse with your daughter?” “Yes, I did.” The spectators were quiet, but the defendant said something. Atticus whispered to him, and Tom Robinson was silent. “You say you were at the window?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Yes sir.” “How far is it from the ground?” “‘bout three foot.” “Did you have a clear view of the room?” “Yes sir.” “How did the room look?” “Well, it was all slung about, like there was a fight.” “What did you do when you saw the defendant?” “Well, I run around the house to get in, but he run out the front door just ahead of me. I sawed who he was, all right. I was too distracted about Mayella to run after’im. I run in the house and she was lyin‘ on the floor squallin’—” “Then what did you do?” “Why, I run for Tate quick as I could. I knowed who it was, all right, lived down yonder in that nigger-nest, passed the house every day. Jedge, I’ve asked this county for fifteen years to clean out that nest down yonder, they’re dangerous to live around ‘sides devaluin’ my property—” “Thank you, Mr. Ewell,” said Mr. Gilmer hurriedly. The witness made a hasty descent from the stand and ran smack into Atticus, who had risen to question him. Judge Taylor permitted the court to laugh. “Just a minute, sir,” said Atticus genially. “Could I ask you a question or two?” Mr. Ewell backed up into the witness chair, settled himself, and regarded Atticus with haughty suspicion, an expression common to Maycomb County witnesses when confronted by opposing counsel. “Mr. Ewell,” Atticus began, “folks were doing a lot of running that night. Let’s see, you say you ran to the house, you ran to the window, you ran inside, you ran to Mayella, you ran for Mr. Tate. Did you, during all this running, run for a doctor?” “Wadn’t no need to. I seen what happened.” “But there’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Atticus. “Weren’t you concerned with Mayella’s condition?” “I most positively was,” said Mr. Ewell. “I seen who done it.” “No, I mean her physical condition. Did you not think the nature of her injuries warranted immediate medical attention?” “What?” “Didn’t you think she should have had a doctor, immediately?” The witness said he never thought of it, he had never called a doctor to any of his’n in his life, and if he had it would have cost him five dollars. “That all?” he asked. “Not quite,” said Atticus casually. “Mr. Ewell, you heard the sheriff’s testimony, didn’t you?” “How’s that?” “You were in the courtroom when Mr. Heck Tate was on the stand, weren’t you? You heard everything he said, didn’t you?” Mr. Ewell considered the matter carefully, and seemed to decide that the question was safe. “Yes,” he said. “Do you agree with his description of Mayella’s injuries?” “How’s that?” Atticus looked around at Mr. Gilmer and smiled. Mr. Ewell seemed determined not to give the defense the time of day. “Mr. Tate testified that her right eye was blackened, that she was beaten around the—” “Oh yeah,” said the witness. “I hold with everything Tate said.” “You do?” asked Atticus mildly. “I just want to make sure.” He went to the court reporter, said something, and the reporter entertained us for some minutes by reading Mr. Tate’s testimony as if it were stock-market quotations: “…which eye her left oh yes that’d make it her right it was her right eye Mr. Finch I remember now she was bunged.” He flipped the page. “Up on that side of the face Sheriff please repeat what you said it was her right eye I said—” “Thank you, Bert,” said Atticus. “You heard it again, Mr. Ewell. Do you have anything to add to it? Do you agree with the sheriff?” “I holds with Tate. Her eye was blacked and she was mighty beat up.” The little man seemed to have forgotten his previous humiliation from the bench. It was becoming evident that he thought Atticus an easy match. He seemed to grow ruddy again; his chest swelled, and once more he was a red little rooster. I thought he’d burst his shirt at Atticus’s next question: “Mr. Ewell, can you read and write?” Mr. Gilmer interrupted. “Objection,” he said. “Can’t see what witness’s literacy has to do with the case, irrelevant’n‘immaterial.” Judge Taylor was about to speak but Atticus said, “Judge, if you’ll allow the question plus another one you’ll soon see.” “All right, let’s see,” said Judge Taylor, “but make sure we see, Atticus. Overruled.” Mr. Gilmer seemed as curious as the rest of us as to what bearing the state of Mr. Ewell’s education had on the case. “I’ll repeat the question,” said Atticus. “Can you read and write?” “I most positively can.” “Will you write your name and show us?” “I most positively will. How do you think I sign my relief checks?” Mr. Ewell was endearing himself to his fellow citizens. The whispers and chuckles below us probably had to do with what a card he was. I was becoming nervous. Atticus seemed to know what he was doing—but it seemed to me that he’d gone frog-sticking without a light. Never, never, never, on cross-examination ask a witness a question you don’t already know the answer to, was a tenet I absorbed with my baby-food. Do it, and you’ll often get an answer you don’t want, an answer that might wreck your case. Atticus was reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out an envelope, then reached into his vest pocket and unclipped his fountain pen. He moved leisurely, and had turned so that he was in full view of the jury. He unscrewed the fountain-pen cap and placed it gently on his table. He shook the pen a little, then handed it with the envelope to the witness. “Would you write your name for us?” he asked. “Clearly now, so the jury can see you do it.” Mr. Ewell wrote on the back of the envelope and looked up complacently to see Judge Taylor staring at him as if he were some fragrant gardenia in full bloom on the witness stand, to see Mr. Gilmer half-sitting, half-standing at his table. The jury was watching him, one man was leaning forward with his hands over the railing. “What’s so interestin‘?” he asked. “You’re left-handed, Mr. Ewell,” said Judge Taylor. Mr. Ewell turned angrily to the judge and said he didn’t see what his being left-handed had to do with it, that he was a Christ-fearing man and Atticus Finch was taking advantage of him. Tricking lawyers like Atticus Finch took advantage of him all the time with their tricking ways. He had told them what happened, he’d say it again and again— which he did. Nothing Atticus asked him after that shook his story, that he’d looked through the window, then ran the nigger off, then ran for the sheriff. Atticus finally dismissed him. Mr. Gilmer asked him one more question. “About your writing with your left hand, are you ambidextrous, Mr. Ewell?” “I most positively am not, I can use one hand good as the other. One hand good as the other,” he added, glaring at the defense table. Jem seemed to be having a quiet fit. He was pounding the balcony rail softly, and once he whispered, “We’ve got him.” I didn’t think so: Atticus was trying to show, it seemed to me, that Mr. Ewell could have beaten up Mayella. That much I could follow. If her right eye was blacked and she was beaten mostly on the right side of the face, it would tend to show that a left-handed person did it. Sherlock Holmes and Jem Finch would agree. But Tom Robinson could easily be left-handed, too. Like Mr. Heck Tate, I imagined a person facing me, went through a swift mental pantomime, and concluded that he might have held her with his right hand and pounded her with his left. I looked down at him. His back was to us, but I could see his broad shoulders and bull-thick neck. He could easily have done it. I thought Jem was counting his chickens. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 18 But someone was booming again. “Mayella Violet Ewell—!” A young girl walked to the witness stand. As she raised her hand and swore that the evidence she gave would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help her God, she seemed somehow fragile-looking, but when she sat facing us in the witness chair she became what she was, a thick-bodied girl accustomed to strenuous labor. In Maycomb County, it was easy to tell when someone bathed regularly, as opposed to yearly lavations: Mr. Ewell had a scalded look; as if an overnight soaking had deprived him of protective layers of dirt, his skin appeared to be sensitive to the elements. Mayella looked as if she tried to keep clean, and I was reminded of the row of red geraniums in the Ewell yard. Mr. Gilmer asked Mayella to tell the jury in her own words what happened on the evening of November twenty-first of last year, just in her own words, please. Mayella sat silently. “Where were you at dusk on that evening?” began Mr. Gilmer patiently. “On the porch.” “Which porch?” “Ain’t but one, the front porch.” “What were you doing on the porch?” “Nothin‘.” Judge Taylor said, “Just tell us what happened. You can do that, can’t you?” Mayella stared at him and burst into tears. She covered her mouth with her hands and sobbed. Judge Taylor let her cry for a while, then he said, “That’s enough now. Don’t be ‘fraid of anybody here, as long as you tell the truth. All this is strange to you, I know, but you’ve nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to fear. What are you scared of?” Mayella said something behind her hands. “What was that?” asked the judge. “Him,” she sobbed, pointing at Atticus. “Mr. Finch?” She nodded vigorously, saying, “Don’t want him doin‘ me like he done Papa, tryin’ to make him out lefthanded…” Judge Taylor scratched his thick white hair. It was plain that he had never been confronted with a problem of this kind. “How old are you?” he asked. “Nineteen-and-a-half,” Mayella said. Judge Taylor cleared his throat and tried unsuccessfully to speak in soothing tones. “Mr. Finch has no idea of scaring you,” he growled, “and if he did, I’m here to stop him. That’s one thing I’m sitting up here for. Now you’re a big girl, so you just sit up straight and tell the—tell us what happened to you. You can do that, can’t you?” I whispered to Jem, “Has she got good sense?” Jem was squinting down at the witness stand. “Can’t tell yet,” he said. “She’s got enough sense to get the judge sorry for her, but she might be just—oh, I don’t know.” Mollified, Mayella gave Atticus a final terrified glance and said to Mr. Gilmer, “Well sir, I was on the porch and—and he came along and, you see, there was this old chiffarobe in the yard Papa’d brought in to chop up for kindlin‘—Papa told me to do it while he was off in the woods but I wadn’t feelin’ strong enough then, so he came by-” “Who is ‘he’?” Mayella pointed to Tom Robinson. “I’ll have to ask you to be more specific, please,” said Mr. Gilmer. “The reporter can’t put down gestures very well.” “That’n yonder,” she said. “Robinson.” “Then what happened?” “I said come here, nigger, and bust up this chiffarobe for me, I gotta nickel for you. He coulda done it easy enough, he could. So he come in the yard an‘ I went in the house to get him the nickel and I turned around an ’fore I knew it he was on me. Just run up behind me, he did. He got me round the neck, cussin‘ me an’ sayin‘ dirt—I fought’n’hollered, but he had me round the neck. He hit me agin an‘ agin—” Mr. Gilmer waited for Mayella to collect herself: she had twisted her handkerchief into a sweaty rope; when she opened it to wipe her face it was a mass of creases from her hot hands. She waited for Mr. Gilmer to ask another question, but when he didn’t, she said, “-he chunked me on the floor an‘ choked me’n took advantage of me.” “Did you scream?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Did you scream and fight back?” “Reckon I did, hollered for all I was worth, kicked and hollered loud as I could.” “Then what happened?” “I don’t remember too good, but next thing I knew Papa was in the room a’standing over me hollerin‘ who done it, who done it? Then I sorta fainted an’ the next thing I knew Mr. Tate was pullin‘ me up offa the floor and leadin’ me to the water bucket.” Apparently Mayella’s recital had given her confidence, but it was not her father’s brash kind: there was something stealthy about hers, like a steady-eyed cat with a twitchy tail. “You say you fought him off as hard as you could? Fought him tooth and nail?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “I positively did,” Mayella echoed her father. “You are positive that he took full advantage of you?” Mayella’s face contorted, and I was afraid that she would cry again. Instead, she said, “He done what he was after.” Mr. Gilmer called attention to the hot day by wiping his head with his hand. “That’s all for the time being,” he said pleasantly, “but you stay there. I expect big bad Mr. Finch has some questions to ask you.” “State will not prejudice the witness against counsel for the defense,” murmured Judge Taylor primly, “at least not at this time.” Atticus got up grinning but instead of walking to the witness stand, he opened his coat and hooked his thumbs in his vest, then he walked slowly across the room to the windows. He looked out, but didn’t seem especially interested in what he saw, then he turned and strolled back to the witness stand. From long years of experience, I could tell he was trying to come to a decision about something. “Miss Mayella,” he said, smiling, “I won’t try to scare you for a while, not yet. Let’s just get acquainted. How old are you?” “Said I was nineteen, said it to the judge yonder.” Mayella jerked her head resentfully at the bench. “So you did, so you did, ma’am. You’ll have to bear with me, Miss Mayella, I’m getting along and can’t remember as well as I used to. I might ask you things you’ve already said before, but you’ll give me an answer, won’t you? Good.” I could see nothing in Mayella’s expression to justify Atticus’s assumption that he had secured her wholehearted cooperation. She was looking at him furiously. “Won’t answer a word you say long as you keep on mockin‘ me,” she said. “Ma’am?” asked Atticus, startled. “Long’s you keep on makin‘ fun o’me.” Judge Taylor said, “Mr. Finch is not making fun of you. What’s the matter with you?” Mayella looked from under lowered eyelids at Atticus, but she said to the judge: “Long’s he keeps on callin‘ me ma’am an sayin’ Miss Mayella. I don’t hafta take his sass, I ain’t called upon to take it.” Atticus resumed his stroll to the windows and let Judge Taylor handle this one. Judge Taylor was not the kind of figure that ever evoked pity, but I did feel a pang for him as he tried to explain. “That’s just Mr. Finch’s way,” he told Mayella. “We’ve done business in this court for years and years, and Mr. Finch is always courteous to everybody. He’s not trying to mock you, he’s trying to be polite. That’s just his way.” The judge leaned back. “Atticus, let’s get on with these proceedings, and let the record show that the witness has not been sassed, her views to the contrary.” I wondered if anybody had ever called her “ma’am,” or “Miss Mayella” in her life; probably not, as she took offense to routine courtesy. What on earth was her life like? I soon found out. “You say you’re nineteen,” Atticus resumed. “How many sisters and brothers have you?” He walked from the windows back to the stand. “Seb’m,” she said, and I wondered if they were all like the specimen I had seen the first day I started to school. “You the eldest? The oldest?” “Yes.” “How long has your mother been dead?” “Don’t know—long time.” “Did you ever go to school?” “Read’n‘write good as Papa yonder.” Mayella sounded like a Mr. Jingle in a book I had been reading. “How long did you go to school?” “Two year—three year—dunno.” Slowly but surely I began to see the pattern of Atticus’s questions: from questions that Mr. Gilmer did not deem sufficiently irrelevant or immaterial to object to, Atticus was quietly building up before the jury a picture of the Ewells’ home life. The jury learned the following things: their relief check was far from enough to feed the family, and there was strong suspicion that Papa drank it up anyway—he sometimes went off in the swamp for days and came home sick; the weather was seldom cold enough to require shoes, but when it was, you could make dandy ones from strips of old tires; the family hauled its water in buckets from a spring that ran out at one end of the dump—they kept the surrounding area clear of trash —and it was everybody for himself as far as keeping clean went: if you wanted to wash you hauled your own water; the younger children had perpetual colds and suffered from chronic ground-itch; there was a lady who came around sometimes and asked Mayella why she didn’t stay in school—she wrote down the answer; with two members of the family reading and writing, there was no need for the rest of them to learn—Papa needed them at home. “Miss Mayella,” said Atticus, in spite of himself, “a nineteen-year-old girl like you must have friends. Who are your friends?” The witness frowned as if puzzled. “Friends?” “Yes, don’t you know anyone near your age, or older, or younger? Boys and girls? Just ordinary friends?” Mayella’s hostility, which had subsided to grudging neutrality, flared again. “You makin‘ fun o’me agin, Mr. Finch?” Atticus let her question answer his . “Do you love your father, Miss Mayella?” was his next. “Love him, whatcha mean?” “I mean, is he good to you, is he easy to get along with?” “He does tollable, ‘cept when—” “Except when?” Mayella looked at her father, who was sitting with his chair tipped against the railing. He sat up straight and waited for her to answer. “Except when nothin‘,” said Mayella. “I said he does tollable.” Mr. Ewell leaned back again. “Except when he’s drinking?” asked Atticus so gently that Mayella nodded. “Does he ever go after you?” “How you mean?” “When he’s—riled, has he ever beaten you?” Mayella looked around, down at the court reporter, up at the judge. “Answer the question, Miss Mayella,” said Judge Taylor. “My paw’s never touched a hair o’my head in my life,” she declared firmly. “He never touched me.” Atticus’s glasses had slipped a little, and he pushed them up on his nose. “We’ve had a good visit, Miss Mayella, and now I guess we’d better get to the case. You say you asked Tom Robinson to come chop up a—what was it?” “A chiffarobe, a old dresser full of drawers on one side.” “Was Tom Robinson well known to you?” “Whaddya mean?” “I mean did you know who he was, where he lived?” Mayella nodded. “I knowed who he was, he passed the house every day.” “Was this the first time you asked him to come inside the fence?” Mayella jumped slightly at the question. Atticus was making his slow pilgrimage to the windows, as he had been doing: he would ask a question, then look out, waiting for an answer. He did not see her involuntary jump, but it seemed to me that he knew she had moved. He turned around and raised his eyebrows. “Was—” he began again. “Yes it was.” “Didn’t you ever ask him to come inside the fence before?” She was prepared now. “I did not, I certainly did not.” “One did not’s enough,” said Atticus serenely. “You never asked him to do odd jobs for you before?” “I mighta,” conceded Mayella. “There was several niggers around.” “Can you remember any other occasions?” “No.” “All right, now to what happened. You said Tom Robinson was behind you in the room when you turned around, that right?” “Yes.” “You said he ‘got you around the neck cussing and saying dirt’—is that right?” “‘t’s right.” Atticus’s memory had suddenly become accurate. “You say ‘he caught me and choked me and took advantage of me’—is that right?” “That’s what I said.” “Do you remember him beating you about the face?” The witness hesitated. “You seem sure enough that he choked you. All this time you were fighting back, remember? You ‘kicked and hollered as loud as you could.’ Do you remember him beating you about the face?” Mayella was silent. She seemed to be trying to get something clear to herself. I thought for a moment she was doing Mr. Heck Tate’s and my trick of pretending there was a person in front of us. She glanced at Mr. Gilmer. “It’s an easy question, Miss Mayella, so I’ll try again. Do you remember him beating you about the face?” Atticus’s voice had lost its comfortableness; he was speaking in his arid, detached professional voice. “Do you remember him beating you about the face?” “No, I don’t recollect if he hit me. I mean yes I do, he hit me.” “Was your last sentence your answer?” “Huh? Yes, he hit—I just don’t remember, I just don’t remember… it all happened so quick.” Judge Taylor looked sternly at Mayella. “Don’t you cry, young woman—” he began, but Atticus said, “Let her cry if she wants to, Judge. We’ve got all the time in the world.” Mayella sniffed wrathfully and looked at Atticus. “I’ll answer any question you got—get me up here an‘ mock me, will you? I’ll answer any question you got—” “That’s fine,” said Atticus. “There’re only a few more. Miss Mayella, not to be tedious, you’ve testified that the defendant hit you, grabbed you around the neck, choked you, and took advantage of you. I want you to be sure you have the right man. Will you identify the man who raped you?” “I will, that’s him right yonder.” Atticus turned to the defendant. “Tom, stand up. Let Miss Mayella have a good long look at you. Is this the man, Miss Mayella?” Tom Robinson’s powerful shoulders rippled under his thin shirt. He rose to his feet and stood with his right hand on the back of his chair. He looked oddly off balance, but it was not from the way he was standing. His left arm was fully twelve inches shorter than his right, and hung dead at his side. It ended in a small shriveled hand, and from as far away as the balcony I could see that it was no use to him. “Scout,” breathed Jem. “Scout, look! Reverend, he’s crippled!” Reverend Sykes leaned across me and whispered to Jem. “He got it caught in a cotton gin, caught it in Mr. Dolphus Raymond’s cotton gin when he was a boy… like to bled to death… tore all the muscles loose from his bones—” Atticus said, “Is this the man who raped you?” “It most certainly is.” Atticus’s next question was one word long. “How?” Mayella was raging. “I don’t know how he done it, but he done it—I said it all happened so fast I—” “Now let’s consider this calmly—” began Atticus, but Mr. Gilmer interrupted with an objection: he was not irrelevant or immaterial, but Atticus was browbeating the witness. Judge Taylor laughed outright. “Oh sit down, Horace, he’s doing nothing of the sort. If anything, the witness’s browbeating Atticus.” Judge Taylor was the only person in the courtroom who laughed. Even the babies were still, and I suddenly wondered if they had been smothered at their mothers’ breasts. “Now,” said Atticus, “Miss Mayella, you’ve testified that the defendant choked and beat you—you didn’t say that he sneaked up behind you and knocked you cold, but you turned around and there he was—” Atticus was back behind his table, and he emphasized his words by tapping his knuckles on it. “—do you wish to reconsider any of your testimony?” “You want me to say something that didn’t happen?” “No ma’am, I want you to say something that did happen. Tell us once more, please, what happened?” “I told’ja what happened.” “You testified that you turned around and there he was. He choked you then?” “Yes.” “Then he released your throat and hit you?” “I said he did.” “He blacked your left eye with his right fist?” “I ducked and it—it glanced, that’s what it did. I ducked and it glanced off.” Mayella had finally seen the light. “You’re becoming suddenly clear on this point. A while ago you couldn’t remember too well, could you?” “I said he hit me.” “All right. He choked you, he hit you, then he raped you, that right?” “It most certainly is.” “You’re a strong girl, what were you doing all the time, just standing there?” “I told’ja I hollered’n‘kicked’n’fought—” Atticus reached up and took off his glasses, turned his good right eye to the witness, and rained questions on her. Judge Taylor said, “One question at a time, Atticus. Give the witness a chance to answer.” “All right, why didn’t you run?” “I tried…” “Tried to? What kept you from it?” “I—he slung me down. That’s what he did, he slung me down’n got on top of me.” “You were screaming all this time?” “I certainly was.” “Then why didn’t the other children hear you? Where were they? At the dump?” “Where were they?” No answer. “Why didn’t your screams make them come running? The dump’s closer than the woods, isn’t it?” No answer. “Or didn’t you scream until you saw your father in the window? You didn’t think to scream until then, did you?” No answer. “Did you scream first at your father instead of at Tom Robinson? Was that it?” No answer. “Who beat you up? Tom Robinson or your father?” No answer. “What did your father see in the window, the crime of rape or the best defense to it? Why don’t you tell the truth, child, didn’t Bob Ewell beat you up?” When Atticus turned away from Mayella he looked like his stomach hurt, but Mayella’s face was a mixture of terror and fury. Atticus sat down wearily and polished his glasses with his handkerchief. Suddenly Mayella became articulate. “I got somethin‘ to say,” she said. Atticus raised his head. “Do you want to tell us what happened?” But she did not hear the compassion in his invitation. “I got somethin‘ to say an’ then I ain’t gonna say no more. That nigger yonder took advantage of me an‘ if you fine fancy gentlemen don’t wanta do nothin’ about it then you’re all yellow stinkin‘ cowards, stinkin’ cowards, the lot of you. Your fancy airs don’t come to nothin‘—your ma’amin’ and Miss Mayellerin‘ don’t come to nothin’, Mr. Finch —” Then she burst into real tears. Her shoulders shook with angry sobs. She was as good as her word. She answered no more questions, even when Mr. Gilmer tried to get her back on the track. I guess if she hadn’t been so poor and ignorant, Judge Taylor would have put her under the jail for the contempt she had shown everybody in the courtroom. Somehow, Atticus had hit her hard in a way that was not clear to me, but it gave him no pleasure to do so. He sat with his head down, and I never saw anybody glare at anyone with the hatred Mayella showed when she left the stand and walked by Atticus’s table. When Mr. Gilmer told Judge Taylor that the state rested, Judge Taylor said, “It’s time we all did. We’ll take ten minutes.” Atticus and Mr. Gilmer met in front of the bench and whispered, then they left the courtroom by a door behind the witness stand, which was a signal for us all to stretch. I discovered that I had been sitting on the edge of the long bench, and I was somewhat numb. Jem got up and yawned, Dill did likewise, and Reverend Sykes wiped his face on his hat. The temperature was an easy ninety, he said. Mr. Braxton Underwood, who had been sitting quietly in a chair reserved for the Press, soaking up testimony with his sponge of a brain, allowed his bitter eyes to rove over the colored balcony, and they met mine. He gave a snort and looked away. “Jem,” I said, “Mr. Underwood’s seen us.” “That’s okay. He won’t tell Atticus, he’ll just put it on the social side of the Tribune.” Jem turned back to Dill, explaining, I suppose, the finer points of the trial to him, but I wondered what they were. There had been no lengthy debates between Atticus and Mr. Gilmer on any points; Mr. Gilmer seemed to be prosecuting almost reluctantly; witnesses had been led by the nose as asses are, with few objections. But Atticus had once told us that in Judge Taylor’s court any lawyer who was a strict constructionist on evidence usually wound up receiving strict instructions from the bench. He distilled this for me to mean that Judge Taylor might look lazy and operate in his sleep, but he was seldom reversed, and that was the proof of the pudding. Atticus said he was a good judge. Presently Judge Taylor returned and climbed into his swivel chair. He took a cigar from his vest pocket and examined it thoughtfully. I punched Dill. Having passed the judge’s inspection, the cigar suffered a vicious bite. “We come down sometimes to watch him,” I explained. “It’s gonna take him the rest of the afternoon, now. You watch.” Unaware of public scrutiny from above, Judge Taylor disposed of the severed end by propelling it expertly to his lips and saying, “Fhluck!” He hit a spittoon so squarely we could hear it slosh. “Bet he was hell with a spitball,” murmured Dill. As a rule, a recess meant a general exodus, but today people weren’t moving. Even the Idlers who had failed to shame younger men from their seats had remained standing along the walls. I guess Mr. Heck Tate had reserved the county toilet for court officials. Atticus and Mr. Gilmer returned, and Judge Taylor looked at his watch. “It’s gettin‘ on to four,” he said, which was intriguing, as the courthouse clock must have struck the hour at least twice. I had not heard it or felt its vibrations. “Shall we try to wind up this afternoon?” asked Judge Taylor. “How ‘bout it, Atticus?” “I think we can,” said Atticus. “How many witnesses you got?” “One.” “Well, call him.” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 19 Thomas Robinson reached around, ran his fingers under his left arm and lifted it. He guided his arm to the Bible and his rubber-like left hand sought contact with the black binding. As he raised his right hand, the useless one slipped off the Bible and hit the clerk’s table. He was trying again when Judge Taylor growled, “That’ll do, Tom.” Tom took the oath and stepped into the witness chair. Atticus very quickly induced him to tell us: Tom was twenty-five years of age; he was married with three children; he had been in trouble with the law before: he once received thirty days for disorderly conduct. “It must have been disorderly,” said Atticus. “What did it consist of?” “Got in a fight with another man, he tried to cut me.” “Did he succeed?” “Yes suh, a little, not enough to hurt. You see, I—” Tom moved his left shoulder. “Yes,” said Atticus. “You were both convicted?” “Yes suh, I had to serve ‘cause I couldn’t pay the fine. Other fellow paid his’n.” Dill leaned across me and asked Jem what Atticus was doing. Jem said Atticus was showing the jury that Tom had nothing to hide. “Were you acquainted with Mayella Violet Ewell?” asked Atticus. “Yes suh, I had to pass her place goin‘ to and from the field every day.” “Whose field?” “I picks for Mr. Link Deas.” “Were you picking cotton in November?” “No suh, I works in his yard fall an‘ wintertime. I works pretty steady for him all year round, he’s got a lot of pecan trees’n things.” “You say you had to pass the Ewell place to get to and from work. Is there any other way to go?” “No suh, none’s I know of.” “Tom, did she ever speak to you?” “Why, yes suh, I’d tip m’hat when I’d go by, and one day she asked me to come inside the fence and bust up a chiffarobe for her.” “When did she ask you to chop up the—the chiffarobe?” “Mr. Finch, it was way last spring. I remember it because it was choppin‘ time and I had my hoe with me. I said I didn’t have nothin’ but this hoe, but she said she had a hatchet. She give me the hatchet and I broke up the chiffarobe. She said, ‘I reckon I’ll hafta give you a nickel, won’t I?’ an‘ I said, ’No ma’am, there ain’t no charge.‘ Then I went home. Mr. Finch, that was way last spring, way over a year ago.” “Did you ever go on the place again?” “Yes suh.” “When?” “Well, I went lots of times.” Judge Taylor instinctively reached for his gavel, but let his hand fall. The murmur below us died without his help. “Under what circumstances?” “Please, suh?” “Why did you go inside the fence lots of times?” Tom Robinson’s forehead relaxed. “She’d call me in, suh. Seemed like every time I passed by yonder she’d have some little somethin‘ for me to do—choppin’ kindlin‘, totin’ water for her. She watered them red flowers every day—” “Were you paid for your services?” “No suh, not after she offered me a nickel the first time. I was glad to do it, Mr. Ewell didn’t seem to help her none, and neither did the chillun, and I knowed she didn’t have no nickels to spare.” “Where were the other children?” “They was always around, all over the place. They’d watch me work, some of ‘em, some of ’em’d set in the window.” “Would Miss Mayella talk to you?” “Yes sir, she talked to me.” As Tom Robinson gave his testimony, it came to me that Mayella Ewell must have been the loneliest person in the world. She was even lonelier than Boo Radley, who had not been out of the house in twenty-five years. When Atticus asked had she any friends, she seemed not to know what he meant, then she thought he was making fun of her. She was as sad, I thought, as what Jem called a mixed child: white people wouldn’t have anything to do with her because she lived among pigs; Negroes wouldn’t have anything to do with her because she was white. She couldn’t live like Mr. Dolphus Raymond, who preferred the company of Negroes, because she didn’t own a riverbank and she wasn’t from a fine old family. Nobody said, “That’s just their way,” about the Ewells. Maycomb gave them Christmas baskets, welfare money, and the back of its hand. Tom Robinson was probably the only person who was ever decent to her. But she said he took advantage of her, and when she stood up she looked at him as if he were dirt beneath her feet. “Did you ever,” Atticus interrupted my meditations, “at any time, go on the Ewell property—did you ever set foot on the Ewell property without an express invitation from one of them?” “No suh, Mr. Finch, I never did. I wouldn’t do that, suh.” Atticus sometimes said that one way to tell whether a witness was lying or telling the truth was to listen rather than watch: I applied his test—Tom denied it three times in one breath, but quietly, with no hint of whining in his voice, and I found myself believing him in spite of his protesting too much. He seemed to be a respectable Negro, and a respectable Negro would never go up into somebody’s yard of his own volition. “Tom, what happened to you on the evening of November twenty-first of last year?” Below us, the spectators drew a collective breath and leaned forward. Behind us, the Negroes did the same. Tom was a black-velvet Negro, not shiny, but soft black velvet. The whites of his eyes shone in his face, and when he spoke we saw flashes of his teeth. If he had been whole, he would have been a fine specimen of a man. “Mr. Finch,” he said, “I was goin‘ home as usual that evenin’, an‘ when I passed the Ewell place Miss Mayella were on the porch, like she said she were. It seemed real quiet like, an’ I didn’t quite know why. I was studyin‘ why, just passin’ by, when she says for me to come there and help her a minute. Well, I went inside the fence an‘ looked around for some kindlin’ to work on, but I didn’t see none, and she says, ‘Naw, I got somethin’ for you to do in the house. Th‘ old door’s off its hinges an’ fall’s comin‘ on pretty fast.’ I said you got a screwdriver, Miss Mayella? She said she sho‘ had. Well, I went up the steps an’ she motioned me to come inside, and I went in the front room an‘ looked at the door. I said Miss Mayella, this door look all right. I pulled it back’n forth and those hinges was all right. Then she shet the door in my face. Mr. Finch, I was wonderin’ why it was so quiet like, an‘ it come to me that there weren’t a chile on the place, not a one of ’em, and I said Miss Mayella, where the chillun?” Tom’s black velvet skin had begun to shine, and he ran his hand over his face. “I say where the chillun?” he continued, “an‘ she says—she was laughin’, sort of —she says they all gone to town to get ice creams. She says, ‘took me a slap year to save seb’m nickels, but I done it. They all gone to town.’” Tom’s discomfort was not from the humidity. “What did you say then, Tom?” asked Atticus. “I said somethin‘ like, why Miss Mayella, that’s right smart o’you to treat ’em. An‘ she said, ’You think so?‘ I don’t think she understood what I was thinkin’—I meant it was smart of her to save like that, an‘ nice of her to treat em.” “I understand you, Tom. Go on,” said Atticus. “Well, I said I best be goin‘, I couldn’t do nothin’ for her, an‘ she says oh yes I could, an’ I ask her what, and she says to just step on that chair yonder an‘ git that box down from on top of the chiffarobe.” “Not the same chiffarobe you busted up?” asked Atticus. The witness smiled. “Naw suh, another one. Most as tall as the room. So I done what she told me, an‘ I was just reachin’ when the next thing I knows she—she’d grabbed me round the legs, grabbed me round th‘ legs, Mr. Finch. She scared me so bad I hopped down an’ turned the chair over—that was the only thing, only furniture, ‘sturbed in that room, Mr. Finch, when I left it. I swear ’fore God.” “What happened after you turned the chair over?” Tom Robinson had come to a dead stop. He glanced at Atticus, then at the jury, then at Mr. Underwood sitting across the room. “Tom, you’re sworn to tell the whole truth. Will you tell it?” Tom ran his hand nervously over his mouth. “What happened after that?” “Answer the question,” said Judge Taylor. One-third of his cigar had vanished. “Mr. Finch, I got down offa that chair an‘ turned around an’ she sorta jumped on me.” “Jumped on you? Violently?” “No suh, she—she hugged me. She hugged me round the waist.” This time Judge Taylor’s gavel came down with a bang, and as it did the overhead lights went on in the courtroom. Darkness had not come, but the afternoon sun had left the windows. Judge Taylor quickly restored order. “Then what did she do?” The witness swallowed hard. “She reached up an‘ kissed me ’side of th‘ face. She says she never kissed a grown man before an’ she might as well kiss a nigger. She says what her papa do to her don’t count. She says, ‘Kiss me back, nigger.’ I say Miss Mayella lemme outa here an‘ tried to run but she got her back to the door an’ I’da had to push her. I didn’t wanta harm her, Mr. Finch, an‘ I say lemme pass, but just when I say it Mr. Ewell yonder hollered through th’ window.” “What did he say?” Tom Robinson swallowed again, and his eyes widened. “Somethin‘ not fittin’ to say—not fittin‘ for these folks’n chillun to hear—” “What did he say, Tom? You must tell the jury what he said.” Tom Robinson shut his eyes tight. “He says you goddamn whore, I’ll kill ya.” “Then what happened?” “Mr. Finch, I was runnin‘ so fast I didn’t know what happened.” “Tom, did you rape Mayella Ewell?” “I did not, suh.” “Did you harm her in any way?” “I did not, suh.” “Did you resist her advances?” “Mr. Finch, I tried. I tried to ‘thout bein’ ugly to her. I didn’t wanta be ugly, I didn’t wanta push her or nothin‘.” It occurred to me that in their own way, Tom Robinson’s manners were as good as Atticus’s. Until my father explained it to me later, I did not understand the subtlety of Tom’s predicament: he would not have dared strike a white woman under any circumstances and expect to live long, so he took the first opportunity to run—a sure sign of guilt. “Tom, go back once more to Mr. Ewell,” said Atticus. “Did he say anything to you?” “Not anything, suh. He mighta said somethin‘, but I weren’t there—” “That’ll do,” Atticus cut in sharply. “What you did hear, who was he talking to?” “Mr. Finch, he were talkin‘ and lookin’ at Miss Mayella.” “Then you ran?” “I sho‘ did, suh.” “Why did you run?” “I was scared, suh.” “Why were you scared?” “Mr. Finch, if you was a nigger like me, you’d be scared, too.” Atticus sat down. Mr. Gilmer was making his way to the witness stand, but before he got there Mr. Link Deas rose from the audience and announced: “I just want the whole lot of you to know one thing right now. That boy’s worked for me eight years an‘ I ain’t had a speck o’trouble outa him. Not a speck.” “Shut your mouth, sir!” Judge Taylor was wide awake and roaring. He was also pink in the face. His speech was miraculously unimpaired by his cigar. “Link Deas,” he yelled, “if you have anything you want to say you can say it under oath and at the proper time, but until then you get out of this room, you hear me? Get out of this room, sir, you hear me? I’ll be damned if I’ll listen to this case again!” Judge Taylor looked daggers at Atticus, as if daring him to speak, but Atticus had ducked his head and was laughing into his lap. I remembered something he had said about Judge Taylor’s ex cathedra remarks sometimes exceeding his duty, but that few lawyers ever did anything about them. I looked at Jem, but Jem shook his head. “It ain’t like one of the jurymen got up and started talking,” he said. “I think it’d be different then. Mr. Link was just disturbin‘ the peace or something.” Judge Taylor told the reporter to expunge anything he happened to have written down after Mr. Finch if you were a nigger like me you’d be scared too, and told the jury to disregard the interruption. He looked suspiciously down the middle aisle and waited, I suppose, for Mr. Link Deas to effect total departure. Then he said, “Go ahead, Mr. Gilmer.” “You were given thirty days once for disorderly conduct, Robinson?” asked Mr. Gilmer. “Yes suh.” “What’d the nigger look like when you got through with him?” “He beat me, Mr. Gilmer.” “Yes, but you were convicted, weren’t you?” Atticus raised his head. “It was a misdemeanor and it’s in the record, Judge.” I thought he sounded tired. “Witness’ll answer, though,” said Judge Taylor, just as wearily. “Yes suh, I got thirty days.” I knew that Mr. Gilmer would sincerely tell the jury that anyone who was convicted of disorderly conduct could easily have had it in his heart to take advantage of Mayella Ewell, that was the only reason he cared. Reasons like that helped. “Robinson, you’re pretty good at busting up chiffarobes and kindling with one hand, aren’t you?” “Yes, suh, I reckon so.” “Strong enough to choke the breath out of a woman and sling her to the floor?” “I never done that, suh.” “But you are strong enough to?” “I reckon so, suh.” “Had your eye on her a long time, hadn’t you, boy?” “No suh, I never looked at her.” “Then you were mighty polite to do all that chopping and hauling for her, weren’t you, boy?” “I was just tryin‘ to help her out, suh.” “That was mighty generous of you, you had chores at home after your regular work, didn’t you?” “Yes suh.” “Why didn’t you do them instead of Miss Ewell’s?” “I done ‘em both, suh.” “You must have been pretty busy. Why?” “Why what, suh?” “Why were you so anxious to do that woman’s chores?” Tom Robinson hesitated, searching for an answer. “Looked like she didn’t have nobody to help her, like I says—” “With Mr. Ewell and seven children on the place, boy?” “Well, I says it looked like they never help her none—” “You did all this chopping and work from sheer goodness, boy?” “Tried to help her, I says.” Mr. Gilmer smiled grimly at the jury. “You’re a mighty good fellow, it seems— did all this for not one penny?” “Yes, suh. I felt right sorry for her, she seemed to try more’n the rest of ‘em—” “You felt sorry for her, you felt sorry for he?” Mr. Gilmer seemed ready to rise to the ceiling. The witness realized his mistake and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. But the damage was done. Below us, nobody liked Tom Robinson’s answer. Mr. Gilmer paused a long time to let it sink in. “Now you went by the house as usual, last November twenty-first,” he said, “and she asked you to come in and bust up a chiffarobe?” “No suh.” “Do you deny that you went by the house?” “No suh—she said she had somethin‘ for me to do inside the house—” “She says she asked you to bust up a chiffarobe, is that right?” “No suh, it ain’t.” “Then you say she’s lying, boy?” Atticus was on his feet, but Tom Robinson didn’t need him. “I don’t say she’s lyin‘, Mr. Gilmer, I say she’s mistaken in her mind.” To the next ten questions, as Mr. Gilmer reviewed Mayella’s version of events, the witness’s steady answer was that she was mistaken in her mind. “Didn’t Mr. Ewell run you off the place, boy?” “No suh, I don’t think he did.” “Don’t think, what do you mean?” “I mean I didn’t stay long enough for him to run me off.” “You’re very candid about this, why did you run so fast?” “I says I was scared, suh.” “If you had a clear conscience, why were you scared?” “Like I says before, it weren’t safe for any nigger to be in a—fix like that.” “But you weren’t in a fix—you testified that you were resisting Miss Ewell. Were you so scared that she’d hurt you, you ran, a big buck like you?” “No suh, I’s scared I’d be in court, just like I am now.” “Scared of arrest, scared you’d have to face up to what you did?” “No suh, scared I’d hafta face up to what I didn’t do.” “Are you being impudent to me, boy?” “No suh, I didn’t go to be.” This was as much as I heard of Mr. Gilmer’s cross-examination, because Jem made me take Dill out. For some reason Dill had started crying and couldn’t stop; quietly at first, then his sobs were heard by several people in the balcony. Jem said if I didn’t go with him he’d make me, and Reverend Sykes said I’d better go, so I went. Dill had seemed to be all right that day, nothing wrong with him, but I guessed he hadn’t fully recovered from running away. “Ain’t you feeling good?” I asked, when we reached the bottom of the stairs. Dill tried to pull himself together as we ran down the south steps. Mr. Link Deas was a lonely figure on the top step. “Anything happenin‘, Scout?” he asked as we went by. “No sir,” I answered over my shoulder. “Dill here, he’s sick.” “Come on out under the trees,” I said. “Heat got you, I expect.” We chose the fattest live oak and we sat under it. “It was just him I couldn’t stand,” Dill said. “Who, Tom?” “That old Mr. Gilmer doin‘ him thataway, talking so hateful to him—” “Dill, that’s his job. Why, if we didn’t have prosecutors—well, we couldn’t have defense attorneys, I reckon.” Dill exhaled patiently. “I know all that, Scout. It was the way he said it made me sick, plain sick.” “He’s supposed to act that way, Dill, he was cross—” “He didn’t act that way when—” “Dill, those were his own witnesses.” “Well, Mr. Finch didn’t act that way to Mayella and old man Ewell when he crossexamined them. The way that man called him ‘boy’ all the time an‘ sneered at him, an’ looked around at the jury every time he answered—” “Well, Dill, after all he’s just a Negro.” “I don’t care one speck. It ain’t right, somehow it ain’t right to do ‘em that way. Hasn’t anybody got any business talkin’ like that—it just makes me sick.” “That’s just Mr. Gilmer’s way, Dill, he does ‘em all that way. You’ve never seen him get good’n down on one yet. Why, when—well, today Mr. Gilmer seemed to me like he wasn’t half trying. They do ’em all that way, most lawyers, I mean.” “Mr. Finch doesn’t.” “He’s not an example, Dill, he’s—” I was trying to grope in my memory for a sharp phrase of Miss Maudie Atkinson’s. I had it: “He’s the same in the courtroom as he is on the public streets.” “That’s not what I mean,” said Dill. “I know what you mean, boy,” said a voice behind us. We thought it came from the tree-trunk, but it belonged to Mr. Dolphus Raymond. He peered around the trunk at us. “You aren’t thin-hided, it just makes you sick, doesn’t it?” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 20 “Come on round here, son, I got something that’ll settle your stomach.” As Mr. Dolphus Raymond was an evil man I accepted his invitation reluctantly, but I followed Dill. Somehow, I didn’t think Atticus would like it if we became friendly with Mr. Raymond, and I knew Aunt Alexandra wouldn’t. “Here,” he said, offering Dill his paper sack with straws in it. “Take a good sip, it’ll quieten you.” Dill sucked on the straws, smiled, and pulled at length. “Hee hee,” said Mr. Raymond, evidently taking delight in corrupting a child. “Dill, you watch out, now,” I warned. Dill released the straws and grinned. “Scout, it’s nothing but Coca-Cola.” Mr. Raymond sat up against the tree-trunk. He had been lying on the grass. “You little folks won’t tell on me now, will you? It’d ruin my reputation if you did.” “You mean all you drink in that sack’s Coca-Cola? Just plain Coca-Cola?” “Yes ma’am,” Mr. Raymond nodded. I liked his smell: it was of leather, horses, cottonseed. He wore the only English riding boots I had ever seen. “That’s all I drink, most of the time.” “Then you just pretend you’re half—? I beg your pardon, sir,” I caught myself. “I didn’t mean to be—” Mr. Raymond chuckled, not at all offended, and I tried to frame a discreet question: “Why do you do like you do?” “Wh—oh yes, you mean why do I pretend? Well, it’s very simple,” he said. “Some folks don’t—like the way I live. Now I could say the hell with ‘em, I don’t care if they don’t like it. I do say I don’t care if they don’t like it, right enough— but I don’t say the hell with ’em, see?” Dill and I said, “No sir.” “I try to give ‘em a reason, you see. It helps folks if they can latch onto a reason. When I come to town, which is seldom, if I weave a little and drink out of this sack, folks can say Dolphus Raymond’s in the clutches of whiskey—that’s why he won’t change his ways. He can’t help himself, that’s why he lives the way he does.” “That ain’t honest, Mr. Raymond, making yourself out badder’n you are already —” “It ain’t honest but it’s mighty helpful to folks. Secretly, Miss Finch, I’m not much of a drinker, but you see they could never, never understand that I live like I do because that’s the way I want to live.” I had a feeling that I shouldn’t be here listening to this sinful man who had mixed children and didn’t care who knew it, but he was fascinating. I had never encountered a being who deliberately perpetrated fraud against himself. But why had he entrusted us with his deepest secret? I asked him why. “Because you’re children and you can understand it,” he said, “and because I heard that one—” He jerked his head at Dill: “Things haven’t caught up with that one’s instinct yet. Let him get a little older and he won’t get sick and cry. Maybe things’ll strike him as being—not quite right, say, but he won’t cry, not when he gets a few years on him.” “Cry about what, Mr. Raymond?” Dill’s maleness was beginning to assert itself. “Cry about the simple hell people give other people—without even thinking. Cry about the hell white people give colored folks, without even stopping to think that they’re people, too.” “Atticus says cheatin‘ a colored man is ten times worse than cheatin’ a white man,” I muttered. “Says it’s the worst thing you can do.” Mr. Raymond said, “I don’t reckon it’s—Miss Jean Louise, you don’t know your pa’s not a run-of-the-mill man, it’ll take a few years for that to sink in—you haven’t seen enough of the world yet. You haven’t even seen this town, but all you gotta do is step back inside the courthouse.” Which reminded me that we were missing nearly all of Mr. Gilmer’s crossexamination. I looked at the sun, and it was dropping fast behind the store-tops on the west side of the square. Between two fires, I could not decide which I wanted to jump into: Mr. Raymond or the 5th Judicial Circuit Court. “C’mon, Dill,” I said. “You all right, now?” “Yeah. Glad t’ve metcha, Mr. Raymond, and thanks for the drink, it was mighty settlin‘.” We raced back to the courthouse, up the steps, up two flights of stairs, and edged our way along the balcony rail. Reverend Sykes had saved our seats. The courtroom was still, and again I wondered where the babies were. Judge Taylor’s cigar was a brown speck in the center of his mouth; Mr. Gilmer was writing on one of the yellow pads on his table, trying to outdo the court reporter, whose hand was jerking rapidly. “Shoot,” I muttered, “we missed it.” Atticus was halfway through his speech to the jury. He had evidently pulled some papers from his briefcase that rested beside his chair, because they were on his table. Tom Robinson was toying with them. “…absence of any corroborative evidence, this man was indicted on a capital charge and is now on trial for his life…” I punched Jem. “How long’s he been at it?” “He’s just gone over the evidence,” Jem whispered, “and we’re gonna win, Scout. I don’t see how we can’t. He’s been at it ‘bout five minutes. He made it as plain and easy as—well, as I’da explained it to you. You could’ve understood it, even.” “Did Mr. Gilmer—?” “Sh-h. Nothing new, just the usual. Hush now.” We looked down again. Atticus was speaking easily, with the kind of detachment he used when he dictated a letter. He walked slowly up and down in front of the jury, and the jury seemed to be attentive: their heads were up, and they followed Atticus’s route with what seemed to be appreciation. I guess it was because Atticus wasn’t a thunderer. Atticus paused, then he did something he didn’t ordinarily do. He unhitched his watch and chain and placed them on the table, saying, “With the court’s permission—” Judge Taylor nodded, and then Atticus did something I never saw him do before or since, in public or in private: he unbuttoned his vest, unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and took off his coat. He never loosened a scrap of his clothing until he undressed at bedtime, and to Jem and me, this was the equivalent of him standing before us stark naked. We exchanged horrified glances. Atticus put his hands in his pockets, and as he returned to the jury, I saw his gold collar button and the tips of his pen and pencil winking in the light. “Gentlemen,” he said. Jem and I again looked at each other: Atticus might have said, “Scout.” His voice had lost its aridity, its detachment, and he was talking to the jury as if they were folks on the post office corner. “Gentlemen,” he was saying, “I shall be brief, but I would like to use my remaining time with you to remind you that this case is not a difficult one, it requires no minute sifting of complicated facts, but it does require you to be sure beyond all reasonable doubt as to the guilt of the defendant. To begin with, this case should never have come to trial. This case is as simple as black and white. “The state has not produced one iota of medical evidence to the effect that the crime Tom Robinson is charged with ever took place. It has relied instead upon the testimony of two witnesses whose evidence has not only been called into serious question on cross-examination, but has been flatly contradicted by the defendant. The defendant is not guilty, but somebody in this courtroom is. “I have nothing but pity in my heart for the chief witness for the state, but my pity does not extend so far as to her putting a man’s life at stake, which she has done in an effort to get rid of her own guilt. “I say guilt, gentlemen, because it was guilt that motivated her. She has committed no crime, she has merely broken a rigid and time-honored code of our society, a code so severe that whoever breaks it is hounded from our midst as unfit to live with. She is the victim of cruel poverty and ignorance, but I cannot pity her: she is white. She knew full well the enormity of her offense, but because her desires were stronger than the code she was breaking, she persisted in breaking it. She persisted, and her subsequent reaction is something that all of us have known at one time or another. She did something every child has done—she tried to put the evidence of her offense away from her. But in this case she was no child hiding stolen contraband: she struck out at her victim—of necessity she must put him away from her—he must be removed from her presence, from this world. She must destroy the evidence of her offense. “What was the evidence of her offense? Tom Robinson, a human being. She must put Tom Robinson away from her. Tom Robinson was her daily reminder of what she did. What did she do? She tempted a Negro. “She was white, and she tempted a Negro. She did something that in our society is unspeakable: she kissed a black man. Not an old Uncle, but a strong young Negro man. No code mattered to her before she broke it, but it came crashing down on her afterwards. “Her father saw it, and the defendant has testified as to his remarks. What did her father do? We don’t know, but there is circumstantial evidence to indicate that Mayella Ewell was beaten savagely by someone who led almost exclusively with his left. We do know in part what Mr. Ewell did: he did what any God-fearing, persevering, respectable white man would do under the circumstances—he swore out a warrant, no doubt signing it with his left hand, and Tom Robinson now sits before you, having taken the oath with the only good hand he possesses—his right hand. “And so a quiet, respectable, humble Negro who had the unmitigated temerity to ‘feel sorry’ for a white woman has had to put his word against two white people’s. I need not remind you of their appearance and conduct on the stand— you saw them for yourselves. The witnesses for the state, with the exception of the sheriff of Maycomb County, have presented themselves to you gentlemen, to this court, in the cynical confidence that their testimony would not be doubted, confident that you gentlemen would go along with them on the assumption—the evil assumption—that all Negroes lie, that all Negroes are basically immoral beings, that all Negro men are not to be trusted around our women, an assumption one associates with minds of their caliber. “Which, gentlemen, we know is in itself a lie as black as Tom Robinson’s skin, a lie I do not have to point out to you. You know the truth, and the truth is this: some Negroes lie, some Negroes are immoral, some Negro men are not to be trusted around women—black or white. But this is a truth that applies to the human race and to no particular race of men. There is not a person in this courtroom who has never told a lie, who has never done an immoral thing, and there is no man living who has never looked upon a woman without desire.” Atticus paused and took out his handkerchief. Then he took off his glasses and wiped them, and we saw another “first”: we had never seen him sweat—he was one of those men whose faces never perspired, but now it was shining tan. “One more thing, gentlemen, before I quit. Thomas Jefferson once said that all men are created equal, a phrase that the Yankees and the distaff side of the Executive branch in Washington are fond of hurling at us. There is a tendency in this year of grace, 1935, for certain people to use this phrase out of context, to satisfy all conditions. The most ridiculous example I can think of is that the people who run public education promote the stupid and idle along with the industrious—because all men are created equal, educators will gravely tell you, the children left behind suffer terrible feelings of inferiority. We know all men are not created equal in the sense some people would have us believe—some people are smarter than others, some people have more opportunity because they’re born with it, some men make more money than others, some ladies make better cakes than others—some people are born gifted beyond the normal scope of most men. “But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal—there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court. It can be the Supreme Court of the United States or the humblest J.P. court in the land, or this honorable court which you serve. Our courts have their faults, as does any human institution, but in this country our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts all men are created equal. “I’m no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and in the jury system—that is no ideal to me, it is a living, working reality. Gentlemen, a court is no better than each man of you sitting before me on this jury. A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up. I am confident that you gentlemen will review without passion the evidence you have heard, come to a decision, and restore this defendant to his family. In the name of God, do your duty.” Atticus’s voice had dropped, and as he turned away from the jury he said something I did not catch. He said it more to himself than to the court. I punched Jem. “What’d he say?” “‘In the name of God, believe him,’ I think that’s what he said.” Dill suddenly reached over me and tugged at Jem. “Looka yonder!” We followed his finger with sinking hearts. Calpurnia was making her way up the middle aisle, walking straight toward Atticus. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 21 She stopped shyly at the railing and waited to get Judge Taylor’s attention. She was in a fresh apron and she carried an envelope in her hand. Judge Taylor saw her and said, “It’s Calpurnia, isn’t it?” “Yes sir,” she said. “Could I just pass this note to Mr. Finch, please sir? It hasn’t got anything to do with—with the trial.” Judge Taylor nodded and Atticus took the envelope from Calpurnia. He opened it, read its contents and said, “Judge, I—this note is from my sister. She says my children are missing, haven’t turned up since noon… I… could you—” “I know where they are, Atticus.” Mr. Underwood spoke up. “They’re right up yonder in the colored balcony—been there since precisely one-eighteen P.M.” Our father turned around and looked up. “Jem, come down from there,” he called. Then he said something to the Judge we didn’t hear. We climbed across Reverend Sykes and made our way to the staircase. Atticus and Calpurnia met us downstairs. Calpurnia looked peeved, but Atticus looked exhausted. Jem was jumping in excitement. “We’ve won, haven’t we?” “I’ve no idea,” said Atticus shortly. “You’ve been here all afternoon? Go home with Calpurnia and get your supper—and stay home.” “Aw, Atticus, let us come back,” pleaded Jem. “Please let us hear the verdict, please sir.” “The jury might be out and back in a minute, we don’t know—” but we could tell Atticus was relenting. “Well, you’ve heard it all, so you might as well hear the rest. Tell you what, you all can come back when you’ve eaten your supper—eat slowly, now, you won’t miss anything important—and if the jury’s still out, you can wait with us. But I expect it’ll be over before you get back.” “You think they’ll acquit him that fast?” asked Jem. Atticus opened his mouth to answer, but shut it and left us. I prayed that Reverend Sykes would save our seats for us, but stopped praying when I remembered that people got up and left in droves when the jury was out— tonight, they’d overrun the drugstore, the O.K. Café and the hotel, that is, unless they had brought their suppers too. Calpurnia marched us home: “—skin every one of you alive, the very idea, you children listenin‘ to all that! Mister Jem, don’t you know better’n to take your little sister to that trial? Miss Alexandra’ll absolutely have a stroke of paralysis when she finds out! Ain’t fittin’ for children to hear…” The streetlights were on, and we glimpsed Calpurnia’s indignant profile as we passed beneath them. “Mister Jem, I thought you was gettin‘ some kinda head on your shoulders—the very idea, she’s your little sister! The very idea, sir! You oughta be perfectly ashamed of yourself—ain’t you got any sense at all?” I was exhilarated. So many things had happened so fast I felt it would take years to sort them out, and now here was Calpurnia giving her precious Jem down the country—what new marvels would the evening bring? Jem was chuckling. “Don’t you want to hear about it, Cal?” “Hush your mouth, sir! When you oughta be hangin‘ your head in shame you go along laughin’—” Calpurnia revived a series of rusty threats that moved Jem to little remorse, and she sailed up the front steps with her classic, “If Mr. Finch don’t wear you out, I will—get in that house, sir!” Jem went in grinning, and Calpurnia nodded tacit consent to having Dill in to supper. “You all call Miss Rachel right now and tell her where you are,” she told him. “She’s run distracted lookin‘ for you—you watch out she don’t ship you back to Meridian first thing in the mornin’.” Aunt Alexandra met us and nearly fainted when Calpurnia told her where we were. I guess it hurt her when we told her Atticus said we could go back, because she didn’t say a word during supper. She just rearranged food on her plate, looking at it sadly while Calpurnia served Jem, Dill and me with a vengeance. Calpurnia poured milk, dished out potato salad and ham, muttering, “‘shamed of yourselves,” in varying degrees of intensity. “Now you all eat slow,” was her final command. Reverend Sykes had saved our places. We were surprised to find that we had been gone nearly an hour, and were equally surprised to find the courtroom exactly as we had left it, with minor changes: the jury box was empty, the defendant was gone; Judge Taylor had been gone, but he reappeared as we were seating ourselves. “Nobody’s moved, hardly,” said Jem. “They moved around some when the jury went out,” said Reverend Sykes. “The menfolk down there got the womenfolk their suppers, and they fed their babies.” “How long have they been out?” asked Jem. “‘bout thirty minutes. Mr. Finch and Mr. Gilmer did some more talkin’, and Judge Taylor charged the jury.” “How was he?” asked Jem. “What say? Oh, he did right well. I ain’t complainin‘ one bit—he was mighty fairminded. He sorta said if you believe this, then you’ll have to return one verdict, but if you believe this, you’ll have to return another one. I thought he was leanin’ a little to our side—” Reverend Sykes scratched his head. Jem smiled. “He’s not supposed to lean, Reverend, but don’t fret, we’ve won it,” he said wisely. “Don’t see how any jury could convict on what we heard—” “Now don’t you be so confident, Mr. Jem, I ain’t ever seen any jury decide in favor of a colored man over a white man…” But Jem took exception to Reverend Sykes, and we were subjected to a lengthy review of the evidence with Jem’s ideas on the law regarding rape: it wasn’t rape if she let you, but she had to be eighteen—in Alabama, that is—and Mayella was nineteen. Apparently you had to kick and holler, you had to be overpowered and stomped on, preferably knocked stone cold. If you were under eighteen, you didn’t have to go through all this. “Mr. Jem,” Reverend Sykes demurred, “this ain’t a polite thing for little ladies to hear…” “Aw, she doesn’t know what we’re talkin‘ about,” said Jem. “Scout, this is too old for you, ain’t it?” “It most certainly is not, I know every word you’re saying.” Perhaps I was too convincing, because Jem hushed and never discussed the subject again. “What time is it, Reverend?” he asked. “Gettin‘ on toward eight.” I looked down and saw Atticus strolling around with his hands in his pockets: he made a tour of the windows, then walked by the railing over to the jury box. He looked in it, inspected Judge Taylor on his throne, then went back to where he started. I caught his eye and waved to him. He acknowledged my salute with a nod, and resumed his tour. Mr. Gilmer was standing at the windows talking to Mr. Underwood. Bert, the court reporter, was chain-smoking: he sat back with his feet on the table. But the officers of the court, the ones present—Atticus, Mr. Gilmer, Judge Taylor sound asleep, and Bert, were the only ones whose behavior seemed normal. I had never seen a packed courtroom so still. Sometimes a baby would cry out fretfully, and a child would scurry out, but the grown people sat as if they were in church. In the balcony, the Negroes sat and stood around us with biblical patience. The old courthouse clock suffered its preliminary strain and struck the hour, eight deafening bongs that shook our bones. When it bonged eleven times I was past feeling: tired from fighting sleep, I allowed myself a short nap against Reverend Sykes’s comfortable arm and shoulder. I jerked awake and made an honest effort to remain so, by looking down and concentrating on the heads below: there were sixteen bald ones, fourteen men that could pass for redheads, forty heads varying between brown and black, and— I remembered something Jem had once explained to me when he went through a brief period of psychical research: he said if enough people—a stadium full, maybe—were to concentrate on one thing, such as setting a tree afire in the woods, that the tree would ignite of its own accord. I toyed with the idea of asking everyone below to concentrate on setting Tom Robinson free, but thought if they were as tired as I, it wouldn’t work. Dill was sound asleep, his head on Jem’s shoulder, and Jem was quiet. “Ain’t it a long time?” I asked him. “Sure is, Scout,” he said happily. “Well, from the way you put it, it’d just take five minutes.” Jem raised his eyebrows. “There are things you don’t understand,” he said, and I was too weary to argue. But I must have been reasonably awake, or I would not have received the impression that was creeping into me. It was not unlike one I had last winter, and I shivered, though the night was hot. The feeling grew until the atmosphere in the courtroom was exactly the same as a cold February morning, when the mockingbirds were still, and the carpenters had stopped hammering on Miss Maudie’s new house, and every wood door in the neighborhood was shut as tight as the doors of the Radley Place. A deserted, waiting, empty street, and the courtroom was packed with people. A steaming summer night was no different from a winter morning. Mr. Heck Tate, who had entered the courtroom and was talking to Atticus, might have been wearing his high boots and lumber jacket. Atticus had stopped his tranquil journey and had put his foot onto the bottom rung of a chair; as he listened to what Mr. Tate was saying, he ran his hand slowly up and down his thigh. I expected Mr. Tate to say any minute, “Take him, Mr. Finch…” But Mr. Tate said, “This court will come to order,” in a voice that rang with authority, and the heads below us jerked up. Mr. Tate left the room and returned with Tom Robinson. He steered Tom to his place beside Atticus, and stood there. Judge Taylor had roused himself to sudden alertness and was sitting up straight, looking at the empty jury box. What happened after that had a dreamlike quality: in a dream I saw the jury return, moving like underwater swimmers, and Judge Taylor’s voice came from far away and was tiny. I saw something only a lawyer’s child could be expected to see, could be expected to watch for, and it was like watching Atticus walk into the street, raise a rifle to his shoulder and pull the trigger, but watching all the time knowing that the gun was empty. A jury never looks at a defendant it has convicted, and when this jury came in, not one of them looked at Tom Robinson. The foreman handed a piece of paper to Mr. Tate who handed it to the clerk who handed it to the judge… I shut my eyes. Judge Taylor was polling the jury: “Guilty… guilty… guilty… guilty…” I peeked at Jem: his hands were white from gripping the balcony rail, and his shoulders jerked as if each “guilty” was a separate stab between them. Judge Taylor was saying something. His gavel was in his fist, but he wasn’t using it. Dimly, I saw Atticus pushing papers from the table into his briefcase. He snapped it shut, went to the court reporter and said something, nodded to Mr. Gilmer, and then went to Tom Robinson and whispered something to him. Atticus put his hand on Tom’s shoulder as he whispered. Atticus took his coat off the back of his chair and pulled it over his shoulder. Then he left the courtroom, but not by his usual exit. He must have wanted to go home the short way, because he walked quickly down the middle aisle toward the south exit. I followed the top of his head as he made his way to the door. He did not look up. Someone was punching me, but I was reluctant to take my eyes from the people below us, and from the image of Atticus’s lonely walk down the aisle. “Miss Jean Louise?” I looked around. They were standing. All around us and in the balcony on the opposite wall, the Negroes were getting to their feet. Reverend Sykes’s voice was as distant as Judge Taylor’s: “Miss Jean Louise, stand up. Your father’s passin‘.” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 22 It was Jem’s turn to cry. His face was streaked with angry tears as we made our way through the cheerful crowd. “It ain’t right,” he muttered, all the way to the corner of the square where we found Atticus waiting. Atticus was standing under the street light looking as though nothing had happened: his vest was buttoned, his collar and tie were neatly in place, his watch-chain glistened, he was his impassive self again. “It ain’t right, Atticus,” said Jem. “No son, it’s not right.” We walked home. Aunt Alexandra was waiting up. She was in her dressing gown, and I could have sworn she had on her corset underneath it. “I’m sorry, brother,” she murmured. Having never heard her call Atticus “brother” before, I stole a glance at Jem, but he was not listening. He would look up at Atticus, then down at the floor, and I wondered if he thought Atticus somehow responsible for Tom Robinson’s conviction. “Is he all right?” Aunty asked, indicating Jem. “He’ll be so presently,” said Atticus. “It was a little too strong for him.” Our father sighed. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “If I don’t wake up in the morning, don’t call me.” “I didn’t think it wise in the first place to let them—” “This is their home, sister,” said Atticus. “We’ve made it this way for them, they might as well learn to cope with it.” “But they don’t have to go to the courthouse and wallow in it—” “It’s just as much Maycomb County as missionary teas.” “Atticus—” Aunt Alexandra’s eyes were anxious. “You are the last person I thought would turn bitter over this.” “I’m not bitter, just tired. I’m going to bed.” “Atticus—” said Jem bleakly. He turned in the doorway. “What, son?” “How could they do it, how could they?” “I don’t know, but they did it. They’ve done it before and they did it tonight and they’ll do it again and when they do it—seems that only children weep. Good night.” But things are always better in the morning. Atticus rose at his usual ungodly hour and was in the livingroom behind the Mobile Register when we stumbled in. Jem’s morning face posed the question his sleepy lips struggled to ask. “It’s not time to worry yet,” Atticus reassured him, as we went to the diningroom. “We’re not through yet. There’ll be an appeal, you can count on that. Gracious alive, Cal, what’s all this?” He was staring at his breakfast plate. Calpurnia said, “Tom Robinson’s daddy sent you along this chicken this morning. I fixed it.” “You tell him I’m proud to get it—bet they don’t have chicken for breakfast at the White House. What are these?” “Rolls,” said Calpurnia. “Estelle down at the hotel sent ‘em.” Atticus looked up at her, puzzled, and she said, “You better step out here and see what’s in the kitchen, Mr. Finch.” We followed him. The kitchen table was loaded with enough food to bury the family: hunks of salt pork, tomatoes, beans, even scuppernongs. Atticus grinned when he found a jar of pickled pigs’ knuckles. “Reckon Aunty’ll let me eat these in the diningroom?” Calpurnia said, “This was all ‘round the back steps when I got here this morning. They—they ’preciate what you did, Mr. Finch. They—they aren’t oversteppin‘ themselves, are they?” Atticus’s eyes filled with tears. He did not speak for a moment. “Tell them I’m very grateful,” he said. “Tell them—tell them they must never do this again. Times are too hard…” He left the kitchen, went in the diningroom and excused himself to Aunt Alexandra, put on his hat and went to town. We heard Dill’s step in the hall, so Calpurnia left Atticus’s uneaten breakfast on the table. Between rabbit-bites Dill told us of Miss Rachel’s reaction to last night, which was: if a man like Atticus Finch wants to butt his head against a stone wall it’s his head. “I’da got her told,” growled Dill, gnawing a chicken leg, “but she didn’t look much like tellin‘ this morning. Said she was up half the night wonderin’ where I was, said she’da had the sheriff after me but he was at the hearing.” “Dill, you’ve got to stop goin‘ off without tellin’ her,” said Jem. “It just aggravates her.” Dill sighed patiently. “I told her till I was blue in the face where I was goin‘— she’s just seein’ too many snakes in the closet. Bet that woman drinks a pint for breakfast every morning—know she drinks two glasses full. Seen her.” “Don’t talk like that, Dill,” said Aunt Alexandra. “It’s not becoming to a child. It’s —cynical.” “I ain’t cynical, Miss Alexandra. Tellin‘ the truth’s not cynical, is it?” “The way you tell it, it is.” Jem’s eyes flashed at her, but he said to Dill, “Let’s go. You can take that runner with you.” When we went to the front porch, Miss Stephanie Crawford was busy telling it to Miss Maudie Atkinson and Mr. Avery. They looked around at us and went on talking. Jem made a feral noise in his throat. I wished for a weapon. “I hate grown folks lookin‘ at you,” said Dill. “Makes you feel like you’ve done something.” Miss Maudie yelled for Jem Finch to come there. Jem groaned and heaved himself up from the swing. “We’ll go with you,” Dill said. Miss Stephanie’s nose quivered with curiosity. She wanted to know who all gave us permission to go to court—she didn’t see us but it was all over town this morning that we were in the Colored balcony. Did Atticus put us up there as a sort of—? Wasn’t it right close up there with all those—? Did Scout understand all the —? Didn’t it make us mad to see our daddy beat? “Hush, Stephanie.” Miss Maudie’s diction was deadly. “I’ve not got all the morning to pass on the porch—Jem Finch, I called to find out if you and your colleagues can eat some cake. Got up at five to make it, so you better say yes. Excuse us, Stephanie. Good morning, Mr. Avery.” There was a big cake and two little ones on Miss Maudie’s kitchen table. There should have been three little ones. It was not like Miss Maudie to forget Dill, and we must have shown it. But we understood when she cut from the big cake and gave the slice to Jem. As we ate, we sensed that this was Miss Maudie’s way of saying that as far as she was concerned, nothing had changed. She sat quietly in a kitchen chair, watching us. Suddenly she spoke: “Don’t fret, Jem. Things are never as bad as they seem.” Indoors, when Miss Maudie wanted to say something lengthy she spread her fingers on her knees and settled her bridgework. This she did, and we waited. “I simply want to tell you that there are some men in this world who were born to do our unpleasant jobs for us. Your father’s one of them.” “Oh,” said Jem. “Well.” “Don’t you oh well me, sir,” Miss Maudie replied, recognizing Jem’s fatalistic noises, “you are not old enough to appreciate what I said.” Jem was staring at his half-eaten cake. “It’s like bein‘ a caterpillar in a cocoon, that’s what it is,” he said. “Like somethin’ asleep wrapped up in a warm place. I always thought Maycomb folks were the best folks in the world, least that’s what they seemed like.” “We’re the safest folks in the world,” said Miss Maudie. “We’re so rarely called on to be Christians, but when we are, we’ve got men like Atticus to go for us.” Jem grinned ruefully. “Wish the rest of the county thought that.” “You’d be surprised how many of us do.” “Who?” Jem’s voice rose. “Who in this town did one thing to help Tom Robinson, just who?” “His colored friends for one thing, and people like us. People like Judge Taylor. People like Mr. Heck Tate. Stop eating and start thinking, Jem. Did it ever strike you that Judge Taylor naming Atticus to defend that boy was no accident? That Judge Taylor might have had his reasons for naming him?” This was a thought. Court-appointed defenses were usually given to Maxwell Green, Maycomb’s latest addition to the bar, who needed the experience. Maxwell Green should have had Tom Robinson’s case. “You think about that,” Miss Maudie was saying. “It was no accident. I was sittin‘ there on the porch last night, waiting. I waited and waited to see you all come down the sidewalk, and as I waited I thought, Atticus Finch won’t win, he can’t win, but he’s the only man in these parts who can keep a jury out so long in a case like that. And I thought to myself, well, we’re making a step—it’s just a babystep, but it’s a step.” “‘t’s all right to talk like that—can’t any Christian judges an’ lawyers make up for heathen juries,” Jem muttered. “Soon’s I get grown—” “That’s something you’ll have to take up with your father,” Miss Maudie said. We went down Miss Maudie’s cool new steps into the sunshine and found Mr. Avery and Miss Stephanie Crawford still at it. They had moved down the sidewalk and were standing in front of Miss Stephanie’s house. Miss Rachel was walking toward them. “I think I’ll be a clown when I get grown,” said Dill. Jem and I stopped in our tracks. “Yes sir, a clown,” he said. “There ain’t one thing in this world I can do about folks except laugh, so I’m gonna join the circus and laugh my head off.” “You got it backwards, Dill,” said Jem. “Clowns are sad, it’s folks that laugh at them.” “Well I’m gonna be a new kind of clown. I’m gonna stand in the middle of the ring and laugh at the folks. Just looka yonder,” he pointed. “Every one of ‘em oughta be ridin’ broomsticks. Aunt Rachel already does.” Miss Stephanie and Miss Rachel were waving wildly at us, in a way that did not give the lie to Dill’s observation. “Oh gosh,” breathed Jem. “I reckon it’d be ugly not to see ‘em.” Something was wrong. Mr. Avery was red in the face from a sneezing spell and nearly blew us off the sidewalk when we came up. Miss Stephanie was trembling with excitement, and Miss Rachel caught Dill’s shoulder. “You get on in the back yard and stay there,” she said. “There’s danger a’comin‘.” “‘s matter?” I asked. “Ain’t you heard yet? It’s all over town—” At that moment Aunt Alexandra came to the door and called us, but she was too late. It was Miss Stephanie’s pleasure to tell us: this morning Mr. Bob Ewell stopped Atticus on the post office corner, spat in his face, and told him he’d get him if it took the rest of his life. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 23 “I wish Bob Ewell wouldn’t chew tobacco,” was all Atticus said about it. According to Miss Stephanie Crawford, however, Atticus was leaving the post office when Mr. Ewell approached him, cursed him, spat on him, and threatened to kill him. Miss Stephanie (who, by the time she had told it twice was there and had seen it all—passing by from the Jitney Jungle, she was)—Miss Stephanie said Atticus didn’t bat an eye, just took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and stood there and let Mr. Ewell call him names wild horses could not bring her to repeat. Mr. Ewell was a veteran of an obscure war; that plus Atticus’s peaceful reaction probably prompted him to inquire, “Too proud to fight, you nigger-lovin‘ bastard?” Miss Stephanie said Atticus said, “No, too old,” put his hands in his pockets and strolled on. Miss Stephanie said you had to hand it to Atticus Finch, he could be right dry sometimes. Jem and I didn’t think it entertaining. “After all, though,” I said, “he was the deadest shot in the county one time. He could—” “You know he wouldn’t carry a gun, Scout. He ain’t even got one—” said Jem. “You know he didn’t even have one down at the jail that night. He told me havin‘ a gun around’s an invitation to somebody to shoot you.” “This is different,” I said. “We can ask him to borrow one.” We did, and he said, “Nonsense.” Dill was of the opinion that an appeal to Atticus’s better nature might work: after all, we would starve if Mr. Ewell killed him, besides be raised exclusively by Aunt Alexandra, and we all knew the first thing she’d do before Atticus was under the ground good would be to fire Calpurnia. Jem said it might work if I cried and flung a fit, being young and a girl. That didn’t work either. But when he noticed us dragging around the neighborhood, not eating, taking little interest in our normal pursuits, Atticus discovered how deeply frightened we were. He tempted Jem with a new football magazine one night; when he saw Jem flip the pages and toss it aside, he said, “What’s bothering you, son?” Jem came to the point: “Mr. Ewell.” “What has happened?” “Nothing’s happened. We’re scared for you, and we think you oughta do something about him.” Atticus smiled wryly. “Do what? Put him under a peace bond?” “When a man says he’s gonna get you, looks like he means it.” “He meant it when he said it,” said Atticus. “Jem, see if you can stand in Bob Ewell’s shoes a minute. I destroyed his last shred of credibility at that trial, if he had any to begin with. The man had to have some kind of comeback, his kind always does. So if spitting in my face and threatening me saved Mayella Ewell one extra beating, that’s something I’ll gladly take. He had to take it out on somebody and I’d rather it be me than that houseful of children out there. You understand?” Jem nodded. Aunt Alexandra entered the room as Atticus was saying, “We don’t have anything to fear from Bob Ewell, he got it all out of his system that morning.” “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Atticus,” she said. “His kind’d do anything to pay off a grudge. You know how those people are.” “What on earth could Ewell do to me, sister?” “Something furtive,” Aunt Alexandra said. “You may count on that.” “Nobody has much chance to be furtive in Maycomb,” Atticus answered. After that, we were not afraid. Summer was melting away, and we made the most of it. Atticus assured us that nothing would happen to Tom Robinson until the higher court reviewed his case, and that Tom had a good chance of going free, or at least of having a new trial. He was at Enfield Prison Farm, seventy miles away in Chester County. I asked Atticus if Tom’s wife and children were allowed to visit him, but Atticus said no. “If he loses his appeal,” I asked one evening, “what’ll happen to him?” “He’ll go to the chair,” said Atticus, “unless the Governor commutes his sentence. Not time to worry yet, Scout. We’ve got a good chance.” Jem was sprawled on the sofa reading Popular Mechanics. He looked up. “It ain’t right. He didn’t kill anybody even if he was guilty. He didn’t take anybody’s life.” “You know rape’s a capital offense in Alabama,” said Atticus. “Yessir, but the jury didn’t have to give him death—if they wanted to they could’ve gave him twenty years.” “Given,” said Atticus. “Tom Robinson’s a colored man, Jem. No jury in this part of the world’s going to say, ‘We think you’re guilty, but not very,’ on a charge like that. It was either a straight acquittal or nothing.” Jem was shaking his head. “I know it’s not right, but I can’t figure out what’s wrong—maybe rape shouldn’t be a capital offense…” Atticus dropped his newspaper beside his chair. He said he didn’t have any quarrel with the rape statute, none what ever, but he did have deep misgivings when the state asked for and the jury gave a death penalty on purely circumstantial evidence. He glanced at me, saw I was listening, and made it easier. “—I mean, before a man is sentenced to death for murder, say, there should be one or two eye-witnesses. Some one should be able to say, ‘Yes, I was there and saw him pull the trigger.’” “But lots of folks have been hung—hanged—on circumstantial evidence,” said Jem. “I know, and lots of ‘em probably deserved it, too—but in the absence of eyewitnesses there’s always a doubt, some times only the shadow of a doubt. The law says ’reasonable doubt,‘ but I think a defendant’s entitled to the shadow of a doubt. There’s always the possibility, no matter how improbable, that he’s innocent.” “Then it all goes back to the jury, then. We oughta do away with juries.” Jem was adamant. Atticus tried hard not to smile but couldn’t help it. “You’re rather hard on us, son. I think maybe there might be a better way. Change the law. Change it so that only judges have the power of fixing the penalty in capital cases.” “Then go up to Montgomery and change the law.” “You’d be surprised how hard that’d be. I won’t live to see the law changed, and if you live to see it you’ll be an old man.” This was not good enough for Jem. “No sir, they oughta do away with juries. He wasn’t guilty in the first place and they said he was.” “If you had been on that jury, son, and eleven other boys like you, Tom would be a free man,” said Atticus. “So far nothing in your life has interfered with your reasoning process. Those are twelve reasonable men in everyday life, Tom’s jury, but you saw something come between them and reason. You saw the same thing that night in front of the jail. When that crew went away, they didn’t go as reasonable men, they went because we were there. There’s something in our world that makes men lose their heads—they couldn’t be fair if they tried. In our courts, when it’s a white man’s word against a black man’s, the white man always wins. They’re ugly, but those are the facts of life.” “Doesn’t make it right,” said Jem stolidly. He beat his fist softly on his knee. “You just can’t convict a man on evidence like that—you can’t.” “You couldn’t, but they could and did. The older you grow the more of it you’ll see. The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box. As you grow older, you’ll see white men cheat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something and don’t you forget it— whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash.” Atticus was speaking so quietly his last word crashed on our ears. I looked up, and his face was vehement. “There’s nothing more sickening to me than a lowgrade white man who’ll take advantage of a Negro’s ignorance. Don’t fool yourselves—it’s all adding up and one of these days we’re going to pay the bill for it. I hope it’s not in you children’s time.” Jem was scratching his head. Suddenly his eyes widened. “Atticus,” he said, “why don’t people like us and Miss Maudie ever sit on juries? You never see anybody from Maycomb on a jury—they all come from out in the woods.” Atticus leaned back in his rocking-chair. For some reason he looked pleased with Jem. “I was wondering when that’d occur to you,” he said. “There are lots of reasons. For one thing, Miss Maudie can’t serve on a jury because she’s a woman —” “You mean women in Alabama can’t—?” I was indignant. “I do. I guess it’s to protect our frail ladies from sordid cases like Tom’s. Besides,” Atticus grinned, “I doubt if we’d ever get a complete case tried—the ladies’d be interrupting to ask questions.” Jem and I laughed. Miss Maudie on a jury would be impressive. I thought of old Mrs. Dubose in her wheelchair—“Stop that rapping, John Taylor, I want to ask this man something.” Perhaps our forefathers were wise. Atticus was saying, “With people like us—that’s our share of the bill. We generally get the juries we deserve. Our stout Maycomb citizens aren’t interested, in the first place. In the second place, they’re afraid. Then, they’re—” “Afraid, why?” asked Jem. “Well, what if—say, Mr. Link Deas had to decide the amount of damages to award, say, Miss Maudie, when Miss Rachel ran over her with a car. Link wouldn’t like the thought of losing either lady’s business at his store, would he? So he tells Judge Taylor that he can’t serve on the jury because he doesn’t have anybody to keep store for him while he’s gone. So Judge Taylor excuses him. Sometimes he excuses him wrathfully.” “What’d make him think either one of ‘em’d stop trading with him?” I asked. Jem said, “Miss Rachel would, Miss Maudie wouldn’t. But a jury’s vote’s secret, Atticus.” Our father chuckled. “You’ve many more miles to go, son. A jury’s vote’s supposed to be secret. Serving on a jury forces a man to make up his mind and declare himself about something. Men don’t like to do that. Sometimes it’s unpleasant.” “Tom’s jury sho‘ made up its mind in a hurry,” Jem muttered. Atticus’s fingers went to his watchpocket. “No it didn’t,” he said, more to himself than to us. “That was the one thing that made me think, well, this may be the shadow of a beginning. That jury took a few hours. An inevitable verdict, maybe, but usually it takes ‘em just a few minutes. This time—” he broke off and looked at us. “You might like to know that there was one fellow who took considerable wearing down—in the beginning he was rarin’ for an outright acquittal.” “Who?” Jem was astonished. Atticus’s eyes twinkled. “It’s not for me to say, but I’ll tell you this much. He was one of your Old Sarum friends…” “One of the Cunninghams?” Jem yelped. “One of—I didn’t recognize any of ‘em… you’re jokin’.” He looked at Atticus from the corners of his eyes. “One of their connections. On a hunch, I didn’t strike him. Just on a hunch. Could’ve, but I didn’t.” “Golly Moses,” Jem said reverently. “One minute they’re tryin‘ to kill him and the next they’re tryin’ to turn him loose… I’ll never understand those folks as long as I live.” Atticus said you just had to know ‘em. He said the Cunninghams hadn’t taken anything from or off of anybody since they migrated to the New World. He said the other thing about them was, once you earned their respect they were for you tooth and nail. Atticus said he had a feeling, nothing more than a suspicion, that they left the jail that night with considerable respect for the Finches. Then too, he said, it took a thunderbolt plus another Cunningham to make one of them change his mind. “If we’d had two of that crowd, we’d’ve had a hung jury.” Jem said slowly, “You mean you actually put on the jury a man who wanted to kill you the night before? How could you take such a risk, Atticus, how could you?” “When you analyze it, there was little risk. There’s no difference between one man who’s going to convict and another man who’s going to convict, is there? There’s a faint difference between a man who’s going to convict and a man who’s a little disturbed in his mind, isn’t there? He was the only uncertainty on the whole list.” “What kin was that man to Mr. Walter Cunningham?” I asked. Atticus rose, stretched and yawned. It was not even our bedtime, but we knew he wanted a chance to read his newspaper. He picked it up, folded it, and tapped my head. “Let’s see now,” he droned to himself. “I’ve got it. Double first cousin.” “How can that be?” “Two sisters married two brothers. That’s all I’ll tell you—you figure it out.” I tortured myself and decided that if I married Jem and Dill had a sister whom he married our children would be double first cousins. “Gee minetti, Jem,” I said, when Atticus had gone, “they’re funny folks. ‘d you hear that, Aunty?” Aunt Alexandra was hooking a rug and not watching us, but she was listening. She sat in her chair with her workbasket beside it, her rug spread across her lap. Why ladies hooked woolen rugs on boiling nights never became clear to me. “I heard it,” she said. I remembered the distant disastrous occasion when I rushed to young Walter Cunningham’s defense. Now I was glad I’d done it. “Soon’s school starts I’m gonna ask Walter home to dinner,” I planned, having forgotten my private resolve to beat him up the next time I saw him. “He can stay over sometimes after school, too. Atticus could drive him back to Old Sarum. Maybe he could spend the night with us sometime, okay, Jem?” “We’ll see about that,” Aunt Alexandra said, a declaration that with her was always a threat, never a promise. Surprised, I turned to her. “Why not, Aunty? They’re good folks.” She looked at me over her sewing glasses. “Jean Louise, there is no doubt in my mind that they’re good folks. But they’re not our kind of folks.” Jem says, “She means they’re yappy, Scout.” “What’s a yap?” “Aw, tacky. They like fiddlin‘ and things like that.” “Well I do too—” “Don’t be silly, Jean Louise,” said Aunt Alexandra. “The thing is, you can scrub Walter Cunningham till he shines, you can put him in shoes and a new suit, but he’ll never be like Jem. Besides, there’s a drinking streak in that family a mile wide. Finch women aren’t interested in that sort of people.” “Aun-ty,” said Jem, “she ain’t nine yet.” “She may as well learn it now.” Aunt Alexandra had spoken. I was reminded vividly of the last time she had put her foot down. I never knew why. It was when I was absorbed with plans to visit Calpurnia’s house—I was curious, interested; I wanted to be her “company,” to see how she lived, who her friends were. I might as well have wanted to see the other side of the moon. This time the tactics were different, but Aunt Alexandra’s aim was the same. Perhaps this was why she had come to live with us—to help us choose our friends. I would hold her off as long as I could: “If they’re good folks, then why can’t I be nice to Walter?” “I didn’t say not to be nice to him. You should be friendly and polite to him, you should be gracious to everybody, dear. But you don’t have to invite him home.” “What if he was kin to us, Aunty?” “The fact is that he is not kin to us, but if he were, my answer would be the same.” “Aunty,” Jem spoke up, “Atticus says you can choose your friends but you sho‘ can’t choose your family, an’ they’re still kin to you no matter whether you acknowledge ‘em or not, and it makes you look right silly when you don’t.” “That’s your father all over again,” said Aunt Alexandra, “and I still say that Jean Louise will not invite Walter Cunningham to this house. If he were her double first cousin once removed he would still not be received in this house unless he comes to see Atticus on business. Now that is that.” She had said Indeed Not, but this time she would give her reasons: “But I want to play with Walter, Aunty, why can’t I?” She took off her glasses and stared at me. “I’ll tell you why,” she said. “Because— he—is—trash, that’s why you can’t play with him. I’ll not have you around him, picking up his habits and learning Lord-knows-what. You’re enough of a problem to your father as it is.” I don’t know what I would have done, but Jem stopped me. He caught me by the shoulders, put his arm around me, and led me sobbing in fury to his bedroom. Atticus heard us and poked his head around the door. “‘s all right, sir,” Jem said gruffly, “’s not anything.” Atticus went away. “Have a chew, Scout.” Jem dug into his pocket and extracted a Tootsie Roll. It took a few minutes to work the candy into a comfortable wad inside my jaw. Jem was rearranging the objects on his dresser. His hair stuck up behind and down in front, and I wondered if it would ever look like a man’s—maybe if he shaved it off and started over, his hair would grow back neatly in place. His eyebrows were becoming heavier, and I noticed a new slimness about his body. He was growing taller. When he looked around, he must have thought I would start crying again, for he said, “Show you something if you won’t tell anybody.” I said what. He unbuttoned his shirt, grinning shyly. “Well what?” “Well can’t you see it?” “Well no.” “Well it’s hair.” “Where?” “There. Right there.” He had been a comfort to me, so I said it looked lovely, but I didn’t see anything. “It’s real nice, Jem.” “Under my arms, too,” he said. “Goin‘ out for football next year. Scout, don’t let Aunty aggravate you.” It seemed only yesterday that he was telling me not to aggravate Aunty. “You know she’s not used to girls,” said Jem, “leastways, not girls like you. She’s trying to make you a lady. Can’t you take up sewin‘ or somethin’?” “Hell no. She doesn’t like me, that’s all there is to it, and I don’t care. It was her callin‘ Walter Cunningham trash that got me goin’, Jem, not what she said about being a problem to Atticus. We got that all straight one time, I asked him if I was a problem and he said not much of one, at most one that he could always figure out, and not to worry my head a second about botherin‘ him. Naw, it was Walter— that boy’s not trash, Jem. He ain’t like the Ewells.” Jem kicked off his shoes and swung his feet to the bed. He propped himself against a pillow and switched on the reading light. “You know something, Scout? I’ve got it all figured out, now. I’ve thought about it a lot lately and I’ve got it figured out. There’s four kinds of folks in the world. There’s the ordinary kind like us and the neighbors, there’s the kind like the Cunninghams out in the woods, the kind like the Ewells down at the dump, and the Negroes.” “What about the Chinese, and the Cajuns down yonder in Baldwin County?” “I mean in Maycomb County. The thing about it is, our kind of folks don’t like the Cunninghams, the Cunninghams don’t like the Ewells, and the Ewells hate and despise the colored folks.” I told Jem if that was so, then why didn’t Tom’s jury, made up of folks like the Cunninghams, acquit Tom to spite the Ewells?“ Jem waved my question away as being infantile. “You know,” he said, “I’ve seen Atticus pat his foot when there’s fiddlin‘ on the radio, and he loves pot liquor better’n any man I ever saw—” “Then that makes us like the Cunninghams,” I said. “I can’t see why Aunty—” “No, lemme finish—it does, but we’re still different somehow. Atticus said one time the reason Aunty’s so hipped on the family is because all we’ve got’s background and not a dime to our names.” “Well Jem, I don’t know—Atticus told me one time that most of this Old Family stuff’s foolishness because everybody’s family’s just as old as everybody else’s. I said did that include the colored folks and Englishmen and he said yes.” “Background doesn’t mean Old Family,” said Jem. “I think it’s how long your family’s been readin‘ and writin’. Scout, I’ve studied this real hard and that’s the only reason I can think of. Somewhere along when the Finches were in Egypt one of ‘em must have learned a hieroglyphic or two and he taught his boy.” Jem laughed. “Imagine Aunty being proud her great-grandaddy could read an’ write— ladies pick funny things to be proud of.” “Well I’m glad he could, or who’da taught Atticus and them, and if Atticus couldn’t read, you and me’d be in a fix. I don’t think that’s what background is, Jem.” “Well then, how do you explain why the Cunninghams are different? Mr. Walter can hardly sign his name, I’ve seen him. We’ve just been readin‘ and writin’ longer’n they have.” “No, everybody’s gotta learn, nobody’s born knowin‘. That Walter’s as smart as he can be, he just gets held back sometimes because he has to stay out and help his daddy. Nothin’s wrong with him. Naw, Jem, I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.” Jem turned around and punched his pillow. When he settled back his face was cloudy. He was going into one of his declines, and I grew wary. His brows came together; his mouth became a thin line. He was silent for a while. “That’s what I thought, too,” he said at last, “when I was your age. If there’s just one kind of folks, why can’t they get along with each other? If they’re all alike, why do they go out of their way to despise each other? Scout, I think I’m beginning to understand something. I think I’m beginning to understand why Boo Radley’s stayed shut up in the house all this time… it’s because he wants to stay inside.” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 24 Calpurnia wore her stiffest starched apron. She carried a tray of charlotte. She backed up to the swinging door and pressed gently. I admired the ease and grace with which she handled heavy loads of dainty things. So did Aunt Alexandra, I guess, because she had let Calpurnia serve today. August was on the brink of September. Dill would be leaving for Meridian tomorrow; today he was off with Jem at Barker’s Eddy. Jem had discovered with angry amazement that nobody had ever bothered to teach Dill how to swim, a skill Jem considered necessary as walking. They had spent two afternoons at the creek, they said they were going in naked and I couldn’t come, so I divided the lonely hours between Calpurnia and Miss Maudie. Today Aunt Alexandra and her missionary circle were fighting the good fight all over the house. From the kitchen, I heard Mrs. Grace Merriweather giving a report in the livingroom on the squalid lives of the Mrunas, it sounded like to me. They put the women out in huts when their time came, whatever that was; they had no sense of family—I knew that’d distress Aunty—they subjected children to terrible ordeals when they were thirteen; they were crawling with yaws and earworms, they chewed up and spat out the bark of a tree into a communal pot and then got drunk on it. Immediately thereafter, the ladies adjourned for refreshments. I didn’t know whether to go into the diningroom or stay out. Aunt Alexandra told me to join them for refreshments; it was not necessary that I attend the business part of the meeting, she said it’d bore me. I was wearing my pink Sunday dress, shoes, and a petticoat, and reflected that if I spilled anything Calpurnia would have to wash my dress again for tomorrow. This had been a busy day for her. I decided to stay out. “Can I help you, Cal?” I asked, wishing to be of some service. Calpurnia paused in the doorway. “You be still as a mouse in that corner,” she said, “an‘ you can help me load up the trays when I come back.” The gentle hum of ladies’ voices grew louder as she opened the door: “Why, Alexandra, I never saw such charlotte… just lovely… I never can get my crust like this, never can… who’d‘ve thought of little dewberry tarts… Calpurnia?… who’da thought it… anybody tell you that the preacher’s wife’s… nooo, well she is, and that other one not walkin’ yet…” They became quiet, and I knew they had all been served. Calpurnia returned and put my mother’s heavy silver pitcher on a tray. “This coffee pitcher’s a curiosity,” she murmured, “they don’t make ‘em these days.” “Can I carry it in?” “If you be careful and don’t drop it. Set it down at the end of the table by Miss Alexandra. Down there by the cups’n things. She’s gonna pour.” I tried pressing my behind against the door as Calpurnia had done, but the door didn’t budge. Grinning, she held it open for me. “Careful now, it’s heavy. Don’t look at it and you won’t spill it.” My journey was successful: Aunt Alexandra smiled brilliantly. “Stay with us, Jean Louise,” she said. This was a part of her campaign to teach me to be a lady. It was customary for every circle hostess to invite her neighbors in for refreshments, be they Baptists or Presbyterians, which accounted for the presence of Miss Rachel (sober as a judge), Miss Maudie and Miss Stephanie Crawford. Rather nervous, I took a seat beside Miss Maudie and wondered why ladies put on their hats to go across the street. Ladies in bunches always filled me with vague apprehension and a firm desire to be elsewhere, but this feeling was what Aunt Alexandra called being “spoiled.” The ladies were cool in fragile pastel prints: most of them were heavily powdered but unrouged; the only lipstick in the room was Tangee Natural. Cutex Natural sparkled on their fingernails, but some of the younger ladies wore Rose. They smelled heavenly. I sat quietly, having conquered my hands by tightly gripping the arms of the chair, and waited for someone to speak to me. Miss Maudie’s gold bridgework twinkled. “You’re mighty dressed up, Miss Jean Louise,” she said, “Where are your britches today?” “Under my dress.” I hadn’t meant to be funny, but the ladies laughed. My cheeks grew hot as I realized my mistake, but Miss Maudie looked gravely down at me. She never laughed at me unless I meant to be funny. In the sudden silence that followed, Miss Stephanie Crawford called from across the room, “Whatcha going to be when you grow up, Jean Louise? A lawyer?” “Nome, I hadn’t thought about it…” I answered, grateful that Miss Stephanie was kind enough to change the subject. Hurriedly I began choosing my vocation. Nurse? Aviator? “Well…” “Why shoot, I thought you wanted to be a lawyer, you’ve already commenced going to court.” The ladies laughed again. “That Stephanie’s a card,” somebody said. Miss Stephanie was encouraged to pursue the subject: “Don’t you want to grow up to be a lawyer?” Miss Maudie’s hand touched mine and I answered mildly enough, “Nome, just a lady.” Miss Stephanie eyed me suspiciously, decided that I meant no impertinence, and contented herself with, “Well, you won’t get very far until you start wearing dresses more often.” Miss Maudie’s hand closed tightly on mine, and I said nothing. Its warmth was enough. Mrs. Grace Merriweather sat on my left, and I felt it would be polite to talk to her. Mr. Merriweather, a faithful Methodist under duress, apparently saw nothing personal in singing, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me…” It was the general opinion of Maycomb, however, that Mrs. Merriweather had sobered him up and made a reasonably useful citizen of him. For certainly Mrs. Merriweather was the most devout lady in Maycomb. I searched for a topic of interest to her. “What did you all study this afternoon?” I asked. “Oh child, those poor Mrunas,” she said, and was off. Few other questions would be necessary. Mrs. Merriweather’s large brown eyes always filled with tears when she considered the oppressed. “Living in that jungle with nobody but J. Grimes Everett,” she said. “Not a white person’ll go near ‘em but that saintly J. Grimes Everett.” Mrs. Merriweather played her voice like an organ; every word she said received its full measure: “The poverty… the darkness… the immorality—nobody but J. Grimes Everett knows. You know, when the church gave me that trip to the camp grounds J. Grimes Everett said to me—” “Was he there, ma’am? I thought—” “Home on leave. J. Grimes Everett said to me, he said, ‘Mrs. Merriweather, you have no conception, no conception of what we are fighting over there.’ That’s what he said to me.” “Yes ma’am.” “I said to him, ‘Mr. Everett,’ I said, ‘the ladies of the Maycomb Alabama Methodist Episcopal Church South are behind you one hundred percent.’ That’s what I said to him. And you know, right then and there I made a pledge in my heart. I said to myself, when I go home I’m going to give a course on the Mrunas and bring J. Grimes Everett’s message to Maycomb and that’s just what I’m doing.” “Yes ma’am.” When Mrs. Merriweather shook her head, her black curls jiggled. “Jean Louise,” she said, “you are a fortunate girl. You live in a Christian home with Christian folks in a Christian town. Out there in J. Grimes Everett’s land there’s nothing but sin and squalor.” “Yes ma’am.” “Sin and squalor—what was that, Gertrude?” Mrs. Merriweather turned on her chimes for the lady sitting beside her. “Oh that. Well, I always say forgive and forget, forgive and forget. Thing that church ought to do is help her lead a Christian life for those children from here on out. Some of the men ought to go out there and tell that preacher to encourage her.” “Excuse me, Mrs. Merriweather,” I interrupted, “are you all talking about Mayella Ewell?” “May—? No, child. That darky’s wife. Tom’s wife, Tom—” “Robinson, ma’am.” Mrs. Merriweather turned back to her neighbor. “There’s one thing I truly believe, Gertrude,” she continued, “but some people just don’t see it my way. If we just let them know we forgive ‘em, that we’ve forgotten it, then this whole thing’ll blow over.” “Ah—Mrs. Merriweather,” I interrupted once more, “what’ll blow over?” Again, she turned to me. Mrs. Merriweather was one of those childless adults who find it necessary to assume a different tone of voice when speaking to children. “Nothing, Jean Louise,” she said, in stately largo, “the cooks and field hands are just dissatisfied, but they’re settling down now—they grumbled all next day after that trial.” Mrs. Merriweather faced Mrs. Farrow: “Gertrude, I tell you there’s nothing more distracting than a sulky darky. Their mouths go down to here. Just ruins your day to have one of ‘em in the kitchen. You know what I said to my Sophy, Gertrude? I said, ’Sophy,‘ I said, ’you simply are not being a Christian today. Jesus Christ never went around grumbling and complaining,‘ and you know, it did her good. She took her eyes off that floor and said, ’Nome, Miz Merriweather, Jesus never went around grumblin‘.’ I tell you, Gertrude, you never ought to let an opportunity go by to witness for the Lord.” I was reminded of the ancient little organ in the chapel at Finch’s Landing. When I was very small, and if I had been very good during the day, Atticus would let me pump its bellows while he picked out a tune with one finger. The last note would linger as long as there was air to sustain it. Mrs. Merriweather had run out of air, I judged, and was replenishing her supply while Mrs. Farrow composed herself to speak. Mrs. Farrow was a splendidly built woman with pale eyes and narrow feet. She had a fresh permanent wave, and her hair was a mass of tight gray ringlets. She was the second most devout lady in Maycomb. She had a curious habit of prefacing everything she said with a soft sibilant sound. “S-s-s Grace,” she said, “it’s just like I was telling Brother Hutson the other day. ‘S-s-s Brother Hutson,’ I said, ‘looks like we’re fighting a losing battle, a losing battle.’ I said, ‘S-s-s it doesn’t matter to ’em one bit. We can educate ‘em till we’re blue in the face, we can try till we drop to make Christians out of ’em, but there’s no lady safe in her bed these nights.‘ He said to me, ’Mrs. Farrow, I don’t know what we’re coming to down here.‘ S-s-s I told him that was certainly a fact.” Mrs. Merriweather nodded wisely. Her voice soared over the clink of coffee cups and the soft bovine sounds of the ladies munching their dainties. “Gertrude,” she said, “I tell you there are some good but misguided people in this town. Good, but misguided. Folks in this town who think they’re doing right, I mean. Now far be it from me to say who, but some of ‘em in this town thought they were doing the right thing a while back, but all they did was stir ’em up. That’s all they did. Might’ve looked like the right thing to do at the time, I’m sure I don’t know, I’m not read in that field, but sulky… dissatisfied… I tell you if my Sophy’d kept it up another day I’d have let her go. It’s never entered that wool of hers that the only reason I keep her is because this depression’s on and she needs her dollar and a quarter every week she can get it.” “His food doesn’t stick going down, does it?” Miss Maudie said it. Two tight lines had appeared at the corners of her mouth. She had been sitting silently beside me, her coffee cup balanced on one knee. I had lost the thread of conversation long ago, when they quit talking about Tom Robinson’s wife, and had contented myself with thinking of Finch’s Landing and the river. Aunt Alexandra had got it backwards: the business part of the meeting was blood-curdling, the social hour was dreary. “Maudie, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Merriweather. “I’m sure you do,” Miss Maudie said shortly. She said no more. When Miss Maudie was angry her brevity was icy. Something had made her deeply angry, and her gray eyes were as cold as her voice. Mrs. Merriweather reddened, glanced at me, and looked away. I could not see Mrs. Farrow. Aunt Alexandra got up from the table and swiftly passed more refreshments, neatly engaging Mrs. Merriweather and Mrs. Gates in brisk conversation. When she had them well on the road with Mrs. Perkins, Aunt Alexandra stepped back. She gave Miss Maudie a look of pure gratitude, and I wondered at the world of women. Miss Maudie and Aunt Alexandra had never been especially close, and here was Aunty silently thanking her for something. For what, I knew not. I was content to learn that Aunt Alexandra could be pierced sufficiently to feel gratitude for help given. There was no doubt about it, I must soon enter this world, where on its surface fragrant ladies rocked slowly, fanned gently, and drank cool water. But I was more at home in my father’s world. People like Mr. Heck Tate did not trap you with innocent questions to make fun of you; even Jem was not highly critical unless you said something stupid. Ladies seemed to live in faint horror of men, seemed unwilling to approve wholeheartedly of them. But I liked them. There was something about them, no matter how much they cussed and drank and gambled and chewed; no matter how undelectable they were, there was something about them that I instinctively liked… they weren’t— “Hypocrites, Mrs. Perkins, born hypocrites,” Mrs. Merriweather was saying. “At least we don’t have that sin on our shoulders down here. People up there set ‘em free, but you don’t see ’em settin‘ at the table with ’em. At least we don’t have the deceit to say to ‘em yes you’re as good as we are but stay away from us. Down here we just say you live your way and we’ll live ours. I think that woman, that Mrs. Roosevelt’s lost her mind—just plain lost her mind coming down to Birmingham and tryin’ to sit with ‘em. If I was the Mayor of Birmingham I’d—” Well, neither of us was the Mayor of Birmingham, but I wished I was the Governor of Alabama for one day: I’d let Tom Robinson go so quick the Missionary Society wouldn’t have time to catch its breath. Calpurnia was telling Miss Rachel’s cook the other day how bad Tom was taking things and she didn’t stop talking when I came into the kitchen. She said there wasn’t a thing Atticus could do to make being shut up easier for him, that the last thing he said to Atticus before they took him down to the prison camp was, “Good-bye, Mr. Finch, there ain’t nothin‘ you can do now, so there ain’t no use tryin’.” Calpurnia said Atticus told her that the day they took Tom to prison he just gave up hope. She said Atticus tried to explain things to him, and that he must do his best not to lose hope because Atticus was doing his best to get him free. Miss Rachel’s cook asked Calpurnia why didn’t Atticus just say yes, you’ll go free, and leave it at that —seemed like that’d be a big comfort to Tom. Calpurnia said, “Because you ain’t familiar with the law. First thing you learn when you’re in a lawin‘ family is that there ain’t any definite answers to anything. Mr. Finch couldn’t say somethin’s so when he doesn’t know for sure it’s so.” The front door slammed and I heard Atticus’s footsteps in the hall. Automatically I wondered what time it was. Not nearly time for him to be home, and on Missionary Society days he usually stayed downtown until black dark. He stopped in the doorway. His hat was in his hand, and his face was white. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said. “Go right ahead with your meeting, don’t let me disturb you. Alexandra, could you come to the kitchen a minute? I want to borrow Calpurnia for a while.” He didn’t go through the diningroom, but went down the back hallway and entered the kitchen from the rear door. Aunt Alexandra and I met him. The diningroom door opened again and Miss Maudie joined us. Calpurnia had half risen from her chair. “Cal,” Atticus said, “I want you to go with me out to Helen Robinson’s house—” “What’s the matter?” Aunt Alexandra asked, alarmed by the look on my father’s face. “Tom’s dead.” Aunt Alexandra put her hands to her mouth. “They shot him,” said Atticus. “He was running. It was during their exercise period. They said he just broke into a blind raving charge at the fence and started climbing over. Right in front of them—” “Didn’t they try to stop him? Didn’t they give him any warning?” Aunt Alexandra’s voice shook. “Oh yes, the guards called to him to stop. They fired a few shots in the air, then to kill. They got him just as he went over the fence. They said if he’d had two good arms he’d have made it, he was moving that fast. Seventeen bullet holes in him. They didn’t have to shoot him that much. Cal, I want you to come out with me and help me tell Helen.” “Yes sir,” she murmured, fumbling at her apron. Miss Maudie went to Calpurnia and untied it. “This is the last straw, Atticus,” Aunt Alexandra said. “Depends on how you look at it,” he said. “What was one Negro, more or less, among two hundred of ‘em? He wasn’t Tom to them, he was an escaping prisoner.” Atticus leaned against the refrigerator, pushed up his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “We had such a good chance,” he said. “I told him what I thought, but I couldn’t in truth say that we had more than a good chance. I guess Tom was tired of white men’s chances and preferred to take his own. Ready, Cal?” “Yessir, Mr. Finch.” “Then let’s go.” Aunt Alexandra sat down in Calpurnia’s chair and put her hands to her face. She sat quite still; she was so quiet I wondered if she would faint. I heard Miss Maudie breathing as if she had just climbed the steps, and in the diningroom the ladies chattered happily. I thought Aunt Alexandra was crying, but when she took her hands away from her face, she was not. She looked weary. She spoke, and her voice was flat. “I can’t say I approve of everything he does, Maudie, but he’s my brother, and I just want to know when this will ever end.” Her voice rose: “It tears him to pieces. He doesn’t show it much, but it tears him to pieces. I’ve seen him when— what else do they want from him, Maudie, what else?” “What does who want, Alexandra?” Miss Maudie asked. “I mean this town. They’re perfectly willing to let him do what they’re too afraid to do themselves—it might lose ‘em a nickel. They’re perfectly willing to let him wreck his health doing what they’re afraid to do, they’re—” “Be quiet, they’ll hear you,” said Miss Maudie. “Have you ever thought of it this way, Alexandra? Whether Maycomb knows it or not, we’re paying the highest tribute we can pay a man. We trust him to do right. It’s that simple.” “Who?” Aunt Alexandra never knew she was echoing her twelve-year-old nephew. “The handful of people in this town who say that fair play is not marked White Only; the handful of people who say a fair trial is for everybody, not just us; the handful of people with enough humility to think, when they look at a Negro, there but for the Lord’s kindness am l.” Miss Maudie’s old crispness was returning: “The handful of people in this town with background, that’s who they are.” Had I been attentive, I would have had another scrap to add to Jem’s definition of background, but I found myself shaking and couldn’t stop. I had seen Enfield Prison Farm, and Atticus had pointed out the exercise yard to me. It was the size of a football field. “Stop that shaking,” commanded Miss Maudie, and I stopped. “Get up, Alexandra, we’ve left ‘em long enough.” Aunt Alexandra rose and smoothed the various whalebone ridges along her hips. She took her handkerchief from her belt and wiped her nose. She patted her hair and said, “Do I show it?” “Not a sign,” said Miss Maudie. “Are you together again, Jean Louise?” “Yes ma’am.” “Then let’s join the ladies,” she said grimly. Their voices swelled when Miss Maudie opened the door to the diningroom. Aunt Alexandra was ahead of me, and I saw her head go up as she went through the door. “Oh, Mrs. Perkins,” she said, “you need some more coffee. Let me get it.” “Calpurnia’s on an errand for a few minutes, Grace,” said Miss Maudie. “Let me pass you some more of those dewberry tarts. ‘dyou hear what that cousin of mine did the other day, the one who likes to go fishing?…” And so they went, down the row of laughing women, around the diningroom, refilling coffee cups, dishing out goodies as though their only regret was the temporary domestic disaster of losing Calpurnia. The gentle hum began again. “Yes sir, Mrs. Perkins, that J. Grimes Everett is a martyred saint, he… needed to get married so they ran… to the beauty parlor every Saturday afternoon… soon as the sun goes down. He goes to bed with the… chickens, a crate full of sick chickens, Fred says that’s what started it all. Fred says…” Aunt Alexandra looked across the room at me and smiled. She looked at a tray of cookies on the table and nodded at them. I carefully picked up the tray and watched myself walk to Mrs. Merriweather. With my best company manners, I asked her if she would have some. After all, if Aunty could be a lady at a time like this, so could I. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 25 “Don’t do that, Scout. Set him out on the back steps.” “Jem, are you crazy?…” “I said set him out on the back steps.” Sighing, I scooped up the small creature, placed him on the bottom step and went back to my cot. September had come, but not a trace of cool weather with it, and we were still sleeping on the back screen porch. Lightning bugs were still about, the night crawlers and flying insects that beat against the screen the summer long had not gone wherever they go when autumn comes. A roly-poly had found his way inside the house; I reasoned that the tiny varmint had crawled up the steps and under the door. I was putting my book on the floor beside my cot when I saw him. The creatures are no more than an inch long, and when you touch them they roll themselves into a tight gray ball. I lay on my stomach, reached down and poked him. He rolled up. Then, feeling safe, I suppose, he slowly unrolled. He traveled a few inches on his hundred legs and I touched him again. He rolled up. Feeling sleepy, I decided to end things. My hand was going down on him when Jem spoke. Jem was scowling. It was probably a part of the stage he was going through, and I wished he would hurry up and get through it. He was certainly never cruel to animals, but I had never known his charity to embrace the insect world. “Why couldn’t I mash him?” I asked. “Because they don’t bother you,” Jem answered in the darkness. He had turned out his reading light. “Reckon you’re at the stage now where you don’t kill flies and mosquitoes now, I reckon,” I said. “Lemme know when you change your mind. Tell you one thing, though, I ain’t gonna sit around and not scratch a redbug.” “Aw dry up,” he answered drowsily. Jem was the one who was getting more like a girl every day, not I. Comfortable, I lay on my back and waited for sleep, and while waiting I thought of Dill. He had left us the first of the month with firm assurances that he would return the minute school was out—he guessed his folks had got the general idea that he liked to spend his summers in Maycomb. Miss Rachel took us with them in the taxi to Maycomb Junction, and Dill waved to us from the train window until he was out of sight. He was not out of mind: I missed him. The last two days of his time with us, Jem had taught him to swim— Taught him to swim. I was wide awake, remembering what Dill had told me. Barker’s Eddy is at the end of a dirt road off the Meridian highway about a mile from town. It is easy to catch a ride down the highway on a cotton wagon or from a passing motorist, and the short walk to the creek is easy, but the prospect of walking all the way back home at dusk, when the traffic is light, is tiresome, and swimmers are careful not to stay too late. According to Dill, he and Jem had just come to the highway when they saw Atticus driving toward them. He looked like he had not seen them, so they both waved. Atticus finally slowed down; when they caught up with him he said, “You’d better catch a ride back. I won’t be going home for a while.” Calpurnia was in the back seat. Jem protested, then pleaded, and Atticus said, “All right, you can come with us if you stay in the car.” On the way to Tom Robinson’s, Atticus told them what had happened. They turned off the highway, rode slowly by the dump and past the Ewell residence, down the narrow lane to the Negro cabins. Dill said a crowd of black children were playing marbles in Tom’s front yard. Atticus parked the car and got out. Calpurnia followed him through the front gate. Dill heard him ask one of the children, “Where’s your mother, Sam?” and heard Sam say, “She down at Sis Stevens’s, Mr. Finch. Want me run fetch her?” Dill said Atticus looked uncertain, then he said yes, and Sam scampered off. “Go on with your game, boys,” Atticus said to the children. A little girl came to the cabin door and stood looking at Atticus. Dill said her hair was a wad of tiny stiff pigtails, each ending in a bright bow. She grinned from ear to ear and walked toward our father, but she was too small to navigate the steps. Dill said Atticus went to her, took off his hat, and offered her his finger. She grabbed it and he eased her down the steps. Then he gave her to Calpurnia. Sam was trotting behind his mother when they came up. Dill said Helen said, “‘evenin’, Mr. Finch, won’t you have a seat?” But she didn’t say any more. Neither did Atticus. “Scout,” said Dill, “she just fell down in the dirt. Just fell down in the dirt, like a giant with a big foot just came along and stepped on her. Just ump—” Dill’s fat foot hit the ground. “Like you’d step on an ant.” Dill said Calpurnia and Atticus lifted Helen to her feet and half carried, half walked her to the cabin. They stayed inside a long time, and Atticus came out alone. When they drove back by the dump, some of the Ewells hollered at them, but Dill didn’t catch what they said. Maycomb was interested by the news of Tom’s death for perhaps two days; two days was enough for the information to spread through the county. “Did you hear about?… No? Well, they say he was runnin‘ fit to beat lightnin’…” To Maycomb, Tom’s death was typical. Typical of a nigger to cut and run. Typical of a nigger’s mentality to have no plan, no thought for the future, just run blind first chance he saw. Funny thing, Atticus Finch might’ve got him off scot free, but wait—? Hell no. You know how they are. Easy come, easy go. Just shows you, that Robinson boy was legally married, they say he kept himself clean, went to church and all that, but when it comes down to the line the veneer’s mighty thin. Nigger always comes out in ‘em. A few more details, enabling the listener to repeat his version in turn, then nothing to talk about until The Maycomb Tribune appeared the following Thursday. There was a brief obituary in the Colored News, but there was also an editorial. Mr. B. B. Underwood was at his most bitter, and he couldn’t have cared less who canceled advertising and subscriptions. (But Maycomb didn’t play that way: Mr. Underwood could holler till he sweated and write whatever he wanted to, he’d still get his advertising and subscriptions. If he wanted to make a fool of himself in his paper that was his business.) Mr. Underwood didn’t talk about miscarriages of justice, he was writing so children could understand. Mr. Underwood simply figured it was a sin to kill cripples, be they standing, sitting, or escaping. He likened Tom’s death to the senseless slaughter of songbirds by hunters and children, and Maycomb thought he was trying to write an editorial poetical enough to be reprinted in The Montgomery Advertiser. How could this be so, I wondered, as I read Mr. Underwood’s editorial. Senseless killing—Tom had been given due process of law to the day of his death; he had been tried openly and convicted by twelve good men and true; my father had fought for him all the way. Then Mr. Underwood’s meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men’s hearts Atticus had no case. Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella Ewell opened her mouth and screamed. The name Ewell gave me a queasy feeling. Maycomb had lost no time in getting Mr. Ewell’s views on Tom’s demise and passing them along through that English Channel of gossip, Miss Stephanie Crawford. Miss Stephanie told Aunt Alexandra in Jem’s presence (“Oh foot, he’s old enough to listen.”) that Mr. Ewell said it made one down and about two more to go. Jem told me not to be afraid, Mr. Ewell was more hot gas than anything. Jem also told me that if I breathed a word to Atticus, if in any way I let Atticus know I knew, Jem would personally never speak to me again. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 26 School started, and so did our daily trips past the Radley Place. Jem was in the seventh grade and went to high school, beyond the grammar-school building; I was now in the third grade, and our routines were so different I only walked to school with Jem in the mornings and saw him at mealtimes. He went out for football, but was too slender and too young yet to do anything but carry the team water buckets. This he did with enthusiasm; most afternoons he was seldom home before dark. The Radley Place had ceased to terrify me, but it was no less gloomy, no less chilly under its great oaks, and no less uninviting. Mr. Nathan Radley could still be seen on a clear day, walking to and from town; we knew Boo was there, for the same old reason—nobody’d seen him carried out yet. I sometimes felt a twinge of remorse, when passing by the old place, at ever having taken part in what must have been sheer torment to Arthur Radley—what reasonable recluse wants children peeping through his shutters, delivering greetings on the end of a fishingpole, wandering in his collards at night? And yet I remembered. Two Indian-head pennies, chewing gum, soap dolls, a rusty medal, a broken watch and chain. Jem must have put them away somewhere. I stopped and looked at the tree one afternoon: the trunk was swelling around its cement patch. The patch itself was turning yellow. We had almost seen him a couple of times, a good enough score for anybody. But I still looked for him each time I went by. Maybe someday we would see him. I imagined how it would be: when it happened, he’d just be sitting in the swing when I came along. “Hidy do, Mr. Arthur,” I would say, as if I had said it every afternoon of my life. “Evening, Jean Louise,” he would say, as if he had said it every afternoon of my life, “right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it?” “Yes sir, right pretty,” I would say, and go on. It was only a fantasy. We would never see him. He probably did go out when the moon was down and gaze upon Miss Stephanie Crawford. I’d have picked somebody else to look at, but that was his business. He would never gaze at us. “You aren’t starting that again, are you?” said Atticus one night, when I expressed a stray desire just to have one good look at Boo Radley before I died. “If you are, I’ll tell you right now: stop it. I’m too old to go chasing you off the Radley property. Besides, it’s dangerous. You might get shot. You know Mr. Nathan shoots at every shadow he sees, even shadows that leave size-four bare footprints. You were lucky not to be killed.” I hushed then and there. At the same time I marveled at Atticus. This was the first he had let us know he knew a lot more about something than we thought he knew. And it had happened years ago. No, only last summer—no, summer before last, when… time was playing tricks on me. I must remember to ask Jem. So many things had happened to us, Boo Radley was the least of our fears. Atticus said he didn’t see how anything else could happen, that things had a way of settling down, and after enough time passed people would forget that Tom Robinson’s existence was ever brought to their attention. Perhaps Atticus was right, but the events of the summer hung over us like smoke in a closed room. The adults in Maycomb never discussed the case with Jem and me; it seemed that they discussed it with their children, and their attitude must have been that neither of us could help having Atticus for a parent, so their children must be nice to us in spite of him. The children would never have thought that up for themselves: had our classmates been left to their own devices, Jem and I would have had several swift, satisfying fist-fights apiece and ended the matter for good. As it was, we were compelled to hold our heads high and be, respectively, a gentleman and a lady. In a way, it was like the era of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose, without all her yelling. There was one odd thing, though, that I never understood: in spite of Atticus’s shortcomings as a parent, people were content to re-elect him to the state legislature that year, as usual, without opposition. I came to the conclusion that people were just peculiar, I withdrew from them, and never thought about them until I was forced to. I was forced to one day in school. Once a week, we had a Current Events period. Each child was supposed to clip an item from a newspaper, absorb its contents, and reveal them to the class. This practice allegedly overcame a variety of evils: standing in front of his fellows encouraged good posture and gave a child poise; delivering a short talk made him word-conscious; learning his current event strengthened his memory; being singled out made him more than ever anxious to return to the Group. The idea was profound, but as usual, in Maycomb it didn’t work very well. In the first place, few rural children had access to newspapers, so the burden of Current Events was borne by the town children, convincing the bus children more deeply that the town children got all the attention anyway. The rural children who could, usually brought clippings from what they called The Grit Paper, a publication spurious in the eyes of Miss Gates, our teacher. Why she frowned when a child recited from The Grit Paper I never knew, but in some way it was associated with liking fiddling, eating syrupy biscuits for lunch, being a holy-roller, singing Sweetly Sings the Donkey and pronouncing it dunkey, all of which the state paid teachers to discourage. Even so, not many of the children knew what a Current Event was. Little Chuck Little, a hundred years old in his knowledge of cows and their habits, was halfway through an Uncle Natchell story when Miss Gates stopped him: “Charles, that is not a current event. That is an advertisement.” Cecil Jacobs knew what one was, though. When his turn came, he went to the front of the room and began, “Old Hitler—” “Adolf Hitler, Cecil,” said Miss Gates. “One never begins with Old anybody.” “Yes ma’am,” he said. “Old Adolf Hitler has been prosecutin‘ the—” “Persecuting Cecil…” “Nome, Miss Gates, it says here—well anyway, old Adolf Hitler has been after the Jews and he’s puttin‘ ’em in prisons and he’s taking away all their property and he won’t let any of ‘em out of the country and he’s washin’ all the feebleminded and—” “Washing the feeble-minded?” “Yes ma’am, Miss Gates, I reckon they don’t have sense enough to wash themselves, I don’t reckon an idiot could keep hisself clean. Well anyway, Hitler’s started a program to round up all the half-Jews too and he wants to register ‘em in case they might wanta cause him any trouble and I think this is a bad thing and that’s my current event.” “Very good, Cecil,” said Miss Gates. Puffing, Cecil returned to his seat. A hand went up in the back of the room. “How can he do that?” “Who do what?” asked Miss Gates patiently. “I mean how can Hitler just put a lot of folks in a pen like that, looks like the govamint’d stop him,” said the owner of the hand. “Hitler is the government,” said Miss Gates, and seizing an opportunity to make education dynamic, she went to the blackboard. She printed DEMOCRACY in large letters. “Democracy,” she said. “Does anybody have a definition?” “Us,” somebody said. I raised my hand, remembering an old campaign slogan Atticus had once told me about. “What do you think it means, Jean Louise?” “‘Equal rights for all, special privileges for none,’” I quoted. “Very good, Jean Louise, very good,” Miss Gates smiled. In front of DEMOCRACY, she printed WE ARE A. “Now class, say it all together, ‘We are a democracy.’” We said it. Then Miss Gates said, “That’s the difference between America and Germany. We are a democracy and Germany is a dictatorship. Dictator-ship,” she said. “Over here we don’t believe in persecuting anybody. Persecution comes from people who are prejudiced. Prejudice,” she enunciated carefully. “There are no better people in the world than the Jews, and why Hitler doesn’t think so is a mystery to me.” An inquiring soul in the middle of the room said, “Why don’t they like the Jews, you reckon, Miss Gates?” “I don’t know, Henry. They contribute to every society they live in, and most of all, they are a deeply religious people. Hitler’s trying to do away with religion, so maybe he doesn’t like them for that reason.” Cecil spoke up. “Well I don’t know for certain,” he said, “they’re supposed to change money or somethin‘, but that ain’t no cause to persecute ’em. They’re white, ain’t they?” Miss Gates said, “When you get to high school, Cecil, you’ll learn that the Jews have been persecuted since the beginning of history, even driven out of their own country. It’s one of the most terrible stories in history. Time for arithmetic, children.” As I had never liked arithmetic, I spent the period looking out the window. The only time I ever saw Atticus scowl was when Elmer Davis would give us the latest on Hitler. Atticus would snap off the radio and say, “Hmp!” I asked him once why he was impatient with Hitler and Atticus said, “Because he’s a maniac.” This would not do, I mused, as the class proceeded with its sums. One maniac and millions of German folks. Looked to me like they’d shut Hitler in a pen instead of letting him shut them up. There was something else wrong—I would ask my father about it. I did, and he said he could not possibly answer my question because he didn’t know the answer. “But it’s okay to hate Hitler?” “It is not,” he said. “It’s not okay to hate anybody.” “Atticus,” I said, “there’s somethin‘ I don’t understand. Miss Gates said it was awful, Hitler doin’ like he does, she got real red in the face about it—” “I should think she would.” “But—” “Yes?” “Nothing, sir.” I went away, not sure that I could explain to Atticus what was on my mind, not sure that I could clarify what was only a feeling. Perhaps Jem could provide the answer. Jem understood school things better than Atticus. Jem was worn out from a day’s water-carrying. There were at least twelve banana peels on the floor by his bed, surrounding an empty milk bottle. “Whatcha stuffin‘ for?” I asked. “Coach says if I can gain twenty-five pounds by year after next I can play,” he said. “This is the quickest way.” “If you don’t throw it all up. Jem,” I said, “I wanta ask you somethin‘.” “Shoot.” He put down his book and stretched his legs. “Miss Gates is a nice lady, ain’t she?” “Why sure,” said Jem. “I liked her when I was in her room.” “She hates Hitler a lot…” “What’s wrong with that?” “Well, she went on today about how bad it was him treatin‘ the Jews like that. Jem, it’s not right to persecute anybody, is it? I mean have mean thoughts about anybody, even, is it?” “Gracious no, Scout. What’s eatin‘ you?” “Well, coming out of the courthouse that night Miss Gates was—she was goin‘ down the steps in front of us, you musta not seen her—she was talking with Miss Stephanie Crawford. I heard her say it’s time somebody taught ’em a lesson, they were gettin‘ way above themselves, an’ the next thing they think they can do is marry us. Jem, how can you hate Hitler so bad an‘ then turn around and be ugly about folks right at home—” Jem was suddenly furious. He leaped off the bed, grabbed me by the collar and shook me. “I never wanta hear about that courthouse again, ever, ever, you hear me? You hear me? Don’t you ever say one word to me about it again, you hear? Now go on!” I was too surprised to cry. I crept from Jem’s room and shut the door softly, lest undue noise set him off again. Suddenly tired, I wanted Atticus. He was in the livingroom, and I went to him and tried to get in his lap. Atticus smiled. “You’re getting so big now, I’ll just have to hold a part of you.” He held me close. “Scout,” he said softly, “don’t let Jem get you down. He’s having a rough time these days. I heard you back there.” Atticus said that Jem was trying hard to forget something, but what he was really doing was storing it away for a while, until enough time passed. Then he would be able to think about it and sort things out. When he was able to think about it, Jem would be himself again. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 27 Things did settle down, after a fashion, as Atticus said they would. By the middle of October, only two small things out of the ordinary happened to two Maycomb citizens. No, there were three things, and they did not directly concern us—the Finches—but in a way they did. The first thing was that Mr. Bob Ewell acquired and lost a job in a matter of days and probably made himself unique in the annals of the nineteen-thirties: he was the only man I ever heard of who was fired from the WPA for laziness. I suppose his brief burst of fame brought on a briefer burst of industry, but his job lasted only as long as his notoriety: Mr. Ewell found himself as forgotten as Tom Robinson. Thereafter, he resumed his regular weekly appearances at the welfare office for his check, and received it with no grace amid obscure mutterings that the bastards who thought they ran this town wouldn’t permit an honest man to make a living. Ruth Jones, the welfare lady, said Mr. Ewell openly accused Atticus of getting his job. She was upset enough to walk down to Atticus’s office and tell him about it. Atticus told Miss Ruth not to fret, that if Bob Ewell wanted to discuss Atticus’s “getting” his job, he knew the way to the office. The second thing happened to Judge Taylor. Judge Taylor was not a Sunday-night churchgoer: Mrs. Taylor was. Judge Taylor savored his Sunday night hour alone in his big house, and churchtime found him holed up in his study reading the writings of Bob Taylor (no kin, but the judge would have been proud to claim it). One Sunday night, lost in fruity metaphors and florid diction, Judge Taylor’s attention was wrenched from the page by an irritating scratching noise. “Hush,” he said to Ann Taylor, his fat nondescript dog. Then he realized he was speaking to an empty room; the scratching noise was coming from the rear of the house. Judge Taylor clumped to the back porch to let Ann out and found the screen door swinging open. A shadow on the corner of the house caught his eye, and that was all he saw of his visitor. Mrs. Taylor came home from church to find her husband in his chair, lost in the writings of Bob Taylor, with a shotgun across his lap. The third thing happened to Helen Robinson, Tom’s widow. If Mr. Ewell was as forgotten as Tom Robinson, Tom Robinson was as forgotten as Boo Radley. But Tom was not forgotten by his employer, Mr. Link Deas. Mr. Link Deas made a job for Helen. He didn’t really need her, but he said he felt right bad about the way things turned out. I never knew who took care of her children while Helen was away. Calpurnia said it was hard on Helen, because she had to walk nearly a mile out of her way to avoid the Ewells, who, according to Helen, “chunked at her” the first time she tried to use the public road. Mr. Link Deas eventually received the impression that Helen was coming to work each morning from the wrong direction, and dragged the reason out of her. “Just let it be, Mr. Link, please suh,” Helen begged. “The hell I will,” said Mr. Link. He told her to come by his store that afternoon before she left. She did, and Mr. Link closed his store, put his hat firmly on his head, and walked Helen home. He walked her the short way, by the Ewells‘. On his way back, Mr. Link stopped at the crazy gate. “Ewell?” he called. “I say Ewell!” The windows, normally packed with children, were empty. “I know every last one of you’s in there a-layin‘ on the floor! Now hear me, Bob Ewell: if I hear one more peep outa my girl Helen about not bein’ able to walk this road I’ll have you in jail before sundown!” Mr. Link spat in the dust and walked home. Helen went to work next morning and used the public road. Nobody chunked at her, but when she was a few yards beyond the Ewell house, she looked around and saw Mr. Ewell walking behind her. She turned and walked on, and Mr. Ewell kept the same distance behind her until she reached Mr. Link Deas’s house. All the way to the house, Helen said, she heard a soft voice behind her, crooning foul words. Thoroughly frightened, she telephoned Mr. Link at his store, which was not too far from his house. As Mr. Link came out of his store he saw Mr. Ewell leaning on the fence. Mr. Ewell said, “Don’t you look at me, Link Deas, like I was dirt. I ain’t jumped your—” “First thing you can do, Ewell, is get your stinkin‘ carcass off my property. You’re leanin’ on it an‘ I can’t afford fresh paint for it. Second thing you can do is stay away from my cook or I’ll have you up for assault—” “I ain’t touched her, Link Deas, and ain’t about to go with no nigger!” “You don’t have to touch her, all you have to do is make her afraid, an‘ if assault ain’t enough to keep you locked up awhile, I’ll get you in on the Ladies’ Law, so get outa my sight! If you don’t think I mean it, just bother that girl again!” Mr. Ewell evidently thought he meant it, for Helen reported no further trouble. “I don’t like it, Atticus, I don’t like it at all,” was Aunt Alexandra’s assessment of these events. “That man seems to have a permanent running grudge against everybody connected with that case. I know how that kind are about paying off grudges, but I don’t understand why he should harbor one—he had his way in court, didn’t he?” “I think I understand,” said Atticus. “It might be because he knows in his heart that very few people in Maycomb really believed his and Mayella’s yarns. He thought he’d be a hero, but all he got for his pain was… was, okay, we’ll convict this Negro but get back to your dump. He’s had his fling with about everybody now, so he ought to be satisfied. He’ll settle down when the weather changes.” “But why should he try to burgle John Taylor’s house? He obviously didn’t know John was home or he wouldn’t‘ve tried. Only lights John shows on Sunday nights are on the front porch and back in his den…” “You don’t know if Bob Ewell cut that screen, you don’t know who did it,” said Atticus. “But I can guess. I proved him a liar but John made him look like a fool. All the time Ewell was on the stand I couldn’t dare look at John and keep a straight face. John looked at him as if he were a three-legged chicken or a square egg. Don’t tell me judges don’t try to prejudice juries,” Atticus chuckled. By the end of October, our lives had become the familiar routine of school, play, study. Jem seemed to have put out of his mind whatever it was he wanted to forget, and our classmates mercifully let us forget our father’s eccentricities. Cecil Jacobs asked me one time if Atticus was a Radical. When I asked Atticus, Atticus was so amused I was rather annoyed, but he said he wasn’t laughing at me. He said, “You tell Cecil I’m about as radical as Cotton Tom Heflin.” Aunt Alexandra was thriving. Miss Maudie must have silenced the whole missionary society at one blow, for Aunty again ruled that roost. Her refreshments grew even more delicious. I learned more about the poor Mrunas’ social life from listening to Mrs. Merriweather: they had so little sense of family that the whole tribe was one big family. A child had as many fathers as there were men in the community, as many mothers as there were women. J. Grimes Everett was doing his utmost to change this state of affairs, and desperately needed our prayers. Maycomb was itself again. Precisely the same as last year and the year before that, with only two minor changes. Firstly, people had removed from their store windows and automobiles the stickers that said NRA—WE DO OUR PART. I asked Atticus why, and he said it was because the National Recovery Act was dead. I asked who killed it: he said nine old men. The second change in Maycomb since last year was not one of national significance. Until then, Halloween in Maycomb was a completely unorganized affair. Each child did what he wanted to do, with assistance from other children if there was anything to be moved, such as placing a light buggy on top of the livery stable. But parents thought things went too far last year, when the peace of Miss Tutti and Miss Frutti was shattered. Misses Tutti and Frutti Barber were maiden ladies, sisters, who lived together in the only Maycomb residence boasting a cellar. The Barber ladies were rumored to be Republicans, having migrated from Clanton, Alabama, in 1911. Their ways were strange to us, and why they wanted a cellar nobody knew, but they wanted one and they dug one, and they spent the rest of their lives chasing generations of children out of it. Misses Tutti and Frutti (their names were Sarah and Frances), aside from their Yankee ways, were both deaf. Miss Tutti denied it and lived in a world of silence, but Miss Frutti, not about to miss anything, employed an ear trumpet so enormous that Jem declared it was a loudspeaker from one of those dog Victrolas. With these facts in mind and Halloween at hand, some wicked children had waited until the Misses Barber were thoroughly asleep, slipped into their livingroom (nobody but the Radleys locked up at night), stealthily made away with every stick of furniture therein, and hid it in the cellar. I deny having taken part in such a thing. “I heard ‘em!” was the cry that awoke the Misses Barber’s neighbors at dawn next morning. “Heard ’em drive a truck up to the door! Stomped around like horses. They’re in New Orleans by now!” Miss Tutti was sure those traveling fur sellers who came through town two days ago had purloined their furniture. “Da-rk they were,” she said. “Syrians.” Mr. Heck Tate was summoned. He surveyed the area and said he thought it was a local job. Miss Frutti said she’d know a Maycomb voice anywhere, and there were no Maycomb voices in that parlor last night—rolling their r’s all over her premises, they were. Nothing less than the bloodhounds must be used to locate their furniture, Miss Tutti insisted, so Mr. Tate was obliged to go ten miles out the road, round up the county hounds, and put them on the trail. Mr. Tate started them off at the Misses Barber’s front steps, but all they did was run around to the back of the house and howl at the cellar door. When Mr. Tate set them in motion three times, he finally guessed the truth. By noontime that day, there was not a barefooted child to be seen in Maycomb and nobody took off his shoes until the hounds were returned. So the Maycomb ladies said things would be different this year. The high-school auditorium would be open, there would be a pageant for the grown-ups; applebobbing, taffy-pulling, pinning the tail on the donkey for the children. There would also be a prize of twenty-five cents for the best Halloween costume, created by the wearer. Jem and I both groaned. Not that we’d ever done anything, it was the principle of the thing. Jem considered himself too old for Halloween anyway; he said he wouldn’t be caught anywhere near the high school at something like that. Oh well, I thought, Atticus would take me. I soon learned, however, that my services would be required on stage that evening. Mrs. Grace Merriweather had composed an original pageant entitled Maycomb County: Ad Astra Per Aspera, and I was to be a ham. She thought it would be adorable if some of the children were costumed to represent the county’s agricultural products: Cecil Jacobs would be dressed up to look like a cow; Agnes Boone would make a lovely butterbean, another child would be a peanut, and on down the line until Mrs. Merriweather’s imagination and the supply of children were exhausted. Our only duties, as far as I could gather from our two rehearsals, were to enter from stage left as Mrs. Merriweather (not only the author, but the narrator) identified us. When she called out, “Pork,” that was my cue. Then the assembled company would sing, “Maycomb County, Maycomb County, we will aye be true to thee,” as the grand finale, and Mrs. Merriweather would mount the stage with the state flag. My costume was not much of a problem. Mrs. Crenshaw, the local seamstress, had as much imagination as Mrs. Merriweather. Mrs. Crenshaw took some chicken wire and bent it into the shape of a cured ham. This she covered with brown cloth, and painted it to resemble the original. I could duck under and someone would pull the contraption down over my head. It came almost to my knees. Mrs. Crenshaw thoughtfully left two peepholes for me. She did a fine job. Jem said I looked exactly like a ham with legs. There were several discomforts, though: it was hot, it was a close fit; if my nose itched I couldn’t scratch, and once inside I could not get out of it alone. When Halloween came, I assumed that the whole family would be present to watch me perform, but I was disappointed. Atticus said as tactfully as he could that he just didn’t think he could stand a pageant tonight, he was all in. He had been in Montgomery for a week and had come home late that afternoon. He thought Jem might escort me if I asked him. Aunt Alexandra said she just had to get to bed early, she’d been decorating the stage all afternoon and was worn out—she stopped short in the middle of her sentence. She closed her mouth, then opened it to say something, but no words came. “‘s matter, Aunty?” I asked. “Oh nothing, nothing,” she said, “somebody just walked over my grave.” She put away from her whatever it was that gave her a pinprick of apprehension, and suggested that I give the family a preview in the livingroom. So Jem squeezed me into my costume, stood at the livingroom door, called out “Po-ork,” exactly as Mrs. Merriweather would have done, and I marched in. Atticus and Aunt Alexandra were delighted. I repeated my part for Calpurnia in the kitchen and she said I was wonderful. I wanted to go across the street to show Miss Maudie, but Jem said she’d probably be at the pageant anyway. After that, it didn’t matter whether they went or not. Jem said he would take me. Thus began our longest journey together. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 28 The weather was unusually warm for the last day of October. We didn’t even need jackets. The wind was growing stronger, and Jem said it might be raining before we got home. There was no moon. The street light on the corner cast sharp shadows on the Radley house. I heard Jem laugh softly. “Bet nobody bothers them tonight,” he said. Jem was carrying my ham costume, rather awkwardly, as it was hard to hold. I thought it gallant of him to do so. “It is a scary place though, ain’t it?” I said. “Boo doesn’t mean anybody any harm, but I’m right glad you’re along.” “You know Atticus wouldn’t let you go to the schoolhouse by yourself,” Jem said. “Don’t see why, it’s just around the corner and across the yard.” “That yard’s a mighty long place for little girls to cross at night,” Jem teased. “Ain’t you scared of haints?” We laughed. Haints, Hot Steams, incantations, secret signs, had vanished with our years as mist with sunrise. “What was that old thing,” Jem said, “Angel bright, life-in-death; get off the road, don’t suck my breath.” “Cut it out, now,” I said. We were in front of the Radley Place. Jem said, “Boo must not be at home. Listen.” High above us in the darkness a solitary mocker poured out his repertoire in blissful unawareness of whose tree he sat in, plunging from the shrill kee, kee of the sunflower bird to the irascible qua-ack of a bluejay, to the sad lament of Poor Will, Poor Will, Poor Will. We turned the corner and I tripped on a root growing in the road. Jem tried to help me, but all he did was drop my costume in the dust. I didn’t fall, though, and soon we were on our way again. We turned off the road and entered the schoolyard. It was pitch black. “How do you know where we’re at, Jem?” I asked, when we had gone a few steps. “I can tell we’re under the big oak because we’re passin‘ through a cool spot. Careful now, and don’t fall again.” We had slowed to a cautious gait, and were feeling our way forward so as not to bump into the tree. The tree was a single and ancient oak; two children could not reach around its trunk and touch hands. It was far away from teachers, their spies, and curious neighbors: it was near the Radley lot, but the Radleys were not curious. A small patch of earth beneath its branches was packed hard from many fights and furtive crap games. The lights in the high school auditorium were blazing in the distance, but they blinded us, if anything. “Don’t look ahead, Scout,” Jem said. “Look at the ground and you won’t fall.” “You should have brought the flashlight, Jem.” “Didn’t know it was this dark. Didn’t look like it’d be this dark earlier in the evening. So cloudy, that’s why. It’ll hold off a while, though.” Someone leaped at us. “God almighty!” Jem yelled. A circle of light burst in our faces, and Cecil Jacobs jumped in glee behind it. “Haa-a, gotcha!” he shrieked. “Thought you’d be comin‘ along this way!” “What are you doin‘ way out here by yourself, boy? Ain’t you scared of Boo Radley?” Cecil had ridden safely to the auditorium with his parents, hadn’t seen us, then had ventured down this far because he knew good and well we’d be coming along. He thought Mr. Finch’d be with us, though. “Shucks, ain’t much but around the corner,” said Jem. “Who’s scared to go around the corner?” We had to admit that Cecil was pretty good, though. He had given us a fright, and he could tell it all over the schoolhouse, that was his privilege. “Say,” I said, “ain’t you a cow tonight? Where’s your costume?” “It’s up behind the stage,” he said. “Mrs. Merriweather says the pageant ain’t comin‘ on for a while. You can put yours back of the stage by mine, Scout, and we can go with the rest of ’em.” This was an excellent idea, Jem thought. He also thought it a good thing that Cecil and I would be together. This way, Jem would be left to go with people his own age. When we reached the auditorium, the whole town was there except Atticus and the ladies worn out from decorating, and the usual outcasts and shut-ins. Most of the county, it seemed, was there: the hall was teeming with slicked-up country people. The high school building had a wide downstairs hallway; people milled around booths that had been installed along each side. “Oh Jem. I forgot my money,” I sighed, when I saw them. “Atticus didn’t,” Jem said. “Here’s thirty cents, you can do six things. See you later on.” “Okay,” I said, quite content with thirty cents and Cecil. I went with Cecil down to the front of the auditorium, through a door on one side, and backstage. I got rid of my ham costume and departed in a hurry, for Mrs. Merriweather was standing at a lectern in front of the first row of seats making last-minute, frenzied changes in the script. “How much money you got?” I asked Cecil. Cecil had thirty cents, too, which made us even. We squandered our first nickels on the House of Horrors, which scared us not at all; we entered the black seventh-grade room and were led around by the temporary ghoul in residence and were made to touch several objects alleged to be component parts of a human being. “Here’s his eyes,” we were told when we touched two peeled grapes on a saucer. “Here’s his heart,” which felt like raw liver. “These are his innards,” and our hands were thrust into a plate of cold spaghetti. Cecil and I visited several booths. We each bought a sack of Mrs. Judge Taylor’s homemade divinity. I wanted to bob for apples, but Cecil said it wasn’t sanitary. His mother said he might catch something from everybody’s heads having been in the same tub. “Ain’t anything around town now to catch,” I protested. But Cecil said his mother said it was unsanitary to eat after folks. I later asked Aunt Alexandra about this, and she said people who held such views were usually climbers. We were about to purchase a blob of taffy when Mrs. Merriweather’s runners appeared and told us to go backstage, it was time to get ready. The auditorium was filling with people; the Maycomb County High School band had assembled in front below the stage; the stage footlights were on and the red velvet curtain rippled and billowed from the scurrying going on behind it. Backstage, Cecil and I found the narrow hallway teeming with people: adults in homemade three-corner hats, Confederate caps, Spanish-American War hats, and World War helmets. Children dressed as various agricultural enterprises crowded around the one small window. “Somebody’s mashed my costume,” I wailed in dismay. Mrs. Merriweather galloped to me, reshaped the chicken wire, and thrust me inside. “You all right in there, Scout?” asked Cecil. “You sound so far off, like you was on the other side of a hill.” “You don’t sound any nearer,” I said. The band played the national anthem, and we heard the audience rise. Then the bass drum sounded. Mrs. Merriweather, stationed behind her lectern beside the band, said: “Maycomb County Ad Astra Per Aspera.” The bass drum boomed again. “That means,” said Mrs. Merriweather, translating for the rustic elements, “from the mud to the stars.” She added, unnecessarily, it seemed to me, “A pageant.” “Reckon they wouldn’t know what it was if she didn’t tell ‘em,” whispered Cecil, who was immediately shushed. “The whole town knows it,” I breathed. “But the country folks’ve come in,” Cecil said. “Be quiet back there,” a man’s voice ordered, and we were silent. The bass drum went boom with every sentence Mrs. Merriweather uttered. She chanted mournfully about Maycomb County being older than the state, that it was a part of the Mississippi and Alabama Territories, that the first white man to set foot in the virgin forests was the Probate Judge’s great-grandfather five times removed, who was never heard of again. Then came the fearless Colonel Maycomb, for whom the county was named. Andrew Jackson appointed him to a position of authority, and Colonel Maycomb’s misplaced self-confidence and slender sense of direction brought disaster to all who rode with him in the Creek Indian Wars. Colonel Maycomb persevered in his efforts to make the region safe for democracy, but his first campaign was his last. His orders, relayed to him by a friendly Indian runner, were to move south. After consulting a tree to ascertain from its lichen which way was south, and taking no lip from the subordinates who ventured to correct him, Colonel Maycomb set out on a purposeful journey to rout the enemy and entangled his troops so far northwest in the forest primeval that they were eventually rescued by settlers moving inland. Mrs. Merriweather gave a thirty-minute description of Colonel Maycomb’s exploits. I discovered that if I bent my knees I could tuck them under my costume and more or less sit. I sat down, listened to Mrs. Merriweather’s drone and the bass drum’s boom and was soon fast asleep. They said later that Mrs. Merriweather was putting her all into the grand finale, that she had crooned, “Po-ork,” with a confidence born of pine trees and butterbeans entering on cue. She waited a few seconds, then called, “Po-ork?” When nothing materialized, she yelled, “Pork!” I must have heard her in my sleep, or the band playing Dixie woke me, but it was when Mrs. Merriweather triumphantly mounted the stage with the state flag that I chose to make my entrance. Chose is incorrect: I thought I’d better catch up with the rest of them. They told me later that Judge Taylor went out behind the auditorium and stood there slapping his knees so hard Mrs. Taylor brought him a glass of water and one of his pills. Mrs. Merriweather seemed to have a hit, everybody was cheering so, but she caught me backstage and told me I had ruined her pageant. She made me feel awful, but when Jem came to fetch me he was sympathetic. He said he couldn’t see my costume much from where he was sitting. How he could tell I was feeling bad under my costume I don’t know, but he said I did all right, I just came in a little late, that was all. Jem was becoming almost as good as Atticus at making you feel right when things went wrong. Almost—not even Jem could make me go through that crowd, and he consented to wait backstage with me until the audience left. “You wanta take it off, Scout?” he asked. “Naw, I’ll just keep it on,” I said. I could hide my mortification under it. “You all want a ride home?” someone asked. “No sir, thank you,” I heard Jem say. “It’s just a little walk.” “Be careful of haints,” the voice said. “Better still, tell the haints to be careful of Scout.” “There aren’t many folks left now,” Jem told me. “Let’s go.” We went through the auditorium to the hallway, then down the steps. It was still black dark. The remaining cars were parked on the other side of the building, and their headlights were little help. “If some of ‘em were goin’ in our direction we could see better,” said Jem. “Here Scout, let me hold onto your—hock. You might lose your balance.” “I can see all right.” “Yeah, but you might lose your balance.” I felt a slight pressure on my head, and assumed that Jem had grabbed that end of the ham. “You got me?” “Uh huh.” We began crossing the black schoolyard, straining to see our feet. “Jem,” I said, “I forgot my shoes, they’re back behind the stage.” “Well let’s go get ‘em.” But as we turned around the auditorium lights went off. “You can get ’em tomorrow,” he said. “But tomorrow’s Sunday,” I protested, as Jem turned me homeward. “You can get the Janitor to let you in… Scout?” “Hm?” “Nothing.” Jem hadn’t started that in a long time. I wondered what he was thinking. He’d tell me when he wanted to, probably when we got home. I felt his fingers press the top of my costume, too hard, it seemed. I shook my head. “Jem, you don’t hafta —” “Hush a minute, Scout,” he said, pinching me. We walked along silently. “Minute’s up,” I said. “Whatcha thinkin‘ about?” I turned to look at him, but his outline was barely visible. “Thought I heard something,” he said. “Stop a minute.” We stopped. “Hear anything?” he asked. “No.” We had not gone five paces before he made me stop again. “Jem, are you tryin‘ to scare me? You know I’m too old—” “Be quiet,” he said, and I knew he was not joking. The night was still. I could hear his breath coming easily beside me. Occasionally there was a sudden breeze that hit my bare legs, but it was all that remained of a promised windy night. This was the stillness before a thunderstorm. We listened. “Heard an old dog just then,” I said. “It’s not that,” Jem answered. “I hear it when we’re walkin‘ along, but when we stop I don’t hear it.” “You hear my costume rustlin‘. Aw, it’s just Halloween got you…” I said it more to convince myself than Jem, for sure enough, as we began walking, I heard what he was talking about. It was not my costume. “It’s just old Cecil,” said Jem presently. “He won’t get us again. Let’s don’t let him think we’re hurrying.” We slowed to a crawl. I asked Jem how Cecil could follow us in this dark, looked to me like he’d bump into us from behind. “I can see you, Scout,” Jem said. “How? I can’t see you.” “Your fat streaks are showin‘. Mrs. Crenshaw painted ’em with some of that shiny stuff so they’d show up under the footlights. I can see you pretty well, an‘ I expect Cecil can see you well enough to keep his distance.” I would show Cecil that we knew he was behind us and we were ready for him. “Cecil Jacobs is a big wet he-en!” I yelled suddenly, turning around. We stopped. There was no acknowledgement save he-en bouncing off the distant schoolhouse wall. “I’ll get him,” said Jem. “He-y!” Hay-e-hay-e-hay-ey, answered the schoolhouse wall. It was unlike Cecil to hold out for so long; once he pulled a joke he’d repeat it time and again. We should have been leapt at already. Jem signaled for me to stop again. He said softly, “Scout, can you take that thing off?” “I think so, but I ain’t got anything on under it much.” “I’ve got your dress here.” “I can’t get it on in the dark.” “Okay,” he said, “never mind.” “Jem, are you afraid?” “No. Think we’re almost to the tree now. Few yards from that, an‘ we’ll be to the road. We can see the street light then.” Jem was talking in an unhurried, flat toneless voice. I wondered how long he would try to keep the Cecil myth going. “You reckon we oughta sing, Jem?” “No. Be real quiet again, Scout.” We had not increased our pace. Jem knew as well as I that it was difficult to walk fast without stumping a toe, tripping on stones, and other inconveniences, and I was barefooted. Maybe it was the wind rustling the trees. But there wasn’t any wind and there weren’t any trees except the big oak. Our company shuffled and dragged his feet, as if wearing heavy shoes. Whoever it was wore thick cotton pants; what I thought were trees rustling was the soft swish of cotton on cotton, wheek, wheek, with every step. I felt the sand go cold under my feet and I knew we were near the big oak. Jem pressed my head. We stopped and listened. Shuffle-foot had not stopped with us this time. His trousers swished softly and steadily. Then they stopped. He was running, running toward us with no child’s steps. “Run, Scout! Run! Run!” Jem screamed. I took one giant step and found myself reeling: my arms useless, in the dark, I could not keep my balance. “Jem, Jem, help me, Jem!” Something crushed the chicken wire around me. Metal ripped on metal and I fell to the ground and rolled as far as I could, floundering to escape my wire prison. From somewhere near by came scuffling, kicking sounds, sounds of shoes and flesh scraping dirt and roots. Someone rolled against me and I felt Jem. He was up like lightning and pulling me with him but, though my head and shoulders were free, I was so entangled we didn’t get very far. We were nearly to the road when I felt Jem’s hand leave me, felt him jerk backwards to the ground. More scuffling, and there came a dull crunching sound and Jem screamed. I ran in the direction of Jem’s scream and sank into a flabby male stomach. Its owner said, “Uff!” and tried to catch my arms, but they were tightly pinioned. His stomach was soft but his arms were like steel. He slowly squeezed the breath out of me. I could not move. Suddenly he was jerked backwards and flung on the ground, almost carrying me with him. I thought, Jem’s up. One’s mind works very slowly at times. Stunned, I stood there dumbly. The scuffling noises were dying; someone wheezed and the night was still again. Still but for a man breathing heavily, breathing heavily and staggering. I thought he went to the tree and leaned against it. He coughed violently, a sobbing, boneshaking cough. “Jem?” There was no answer but the man’s heavy breathing. “Jem?” Jem didn’t answer. The man began moving around, as if searching for something. I heard him groan and pull something heavy along the ground. It was slowly coming to me that there were now four people under the tree. “Atticus…?” The man was walking heavily and unsteadily toward the road. I went to where I thought he had been and felt frantically along the ground, reaching out with my toes. Presently I touched someone. “Jem?” My toes touched trousers, a belt buckle, buttons, something I could not identify, a collar, and a face. A prickly stubble on the face told me it was not Jem’s. I smelled stale whiskey. I made my way along in what I thought was the direction of the road. I was not sure, because I had been turned around so many times. But I found it and looked down to the street light. A man was passing under it. The man was walking with the staccato steps of someone carrying a load too heavy for him. He was going around the corner. He was carrying Jem. Jem’s arm was dangling crazily in front of him. By the time I reached the corner the man was crossing our front yard. Light from our front door framed Atticus for an instant; he ran down the steps, and together, he and the man took Jem inside. I was at the front door when they were going down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was running to meet me. “Call Dr. Reynolds!” Atticus’s voice came sharply from Jem’s room. “Where’s Scout?” “Here she is,” Aunt Alexandra called, pulling me along with her to the telephone. She tugged at me anxiously. “I’m all right, Aunty,” I said, “you better call.” She pulled the receiver from the hook and said, “Eula May, get Dr. Reynolds, quick!” “Agnes, is your father home? Oh God, where is he? Please tell him to come over here as soon as he comes in. Please, it’s urgent!” There was no need for Aunt Alexandra to identify herself, people in Maycomb knew each other’s voices. Atticus came out of Jem’s room. The moment Aunt Alexandra broke the connection, Atticus took the receiver from her. He rattled the hook, then said, “Eula May, get me the sheriff, please.” “Heck? Atticus Finch. Someone’s been after my children. Jem’s hurt. Between here and the schoolhouse. I can’t leave my boy. Run out there for me, please, and see if he’s still around. Doubt if you’ll find him now, but I’d like to see him if you do. Got to go now. Thanks, Heck.” “Atticus, is Jem dead?” “No, Scout. Look after her, sister,” he called, as he went down the hall. Aunt Alexandra’s fingers trembled as she unwound the crushed fabric and wire from around me. “Are you all right, darling?” she asked over and over as she worked me free. It was a relief to be out. My arms were beginning to tingle, and they were red with small hexagonal marks. I rubbed them, and they felt better. “Aunty, is Jem dead?” “No—no, darling, he’s unconscious. We won’t know how badly he’s hurt until Dr. Reynolds gets here. Jean Louise, what happened?” “I don’t know.” She left it at that. She brought me something to put on, and had I thought about it then, I would have never let her forget it: in her distraction, Aunty brought me my overalls. “Put these on, darling,” she said, handing me the garments she most despised. She rushed back to Jem’s room, then came to me in the hall. She patted me vaguely, and went back to Jem’s room. A car stopped in front of the house. I knew Dr. Reynolds’s step almost as well as my father’s. He had brought Jem and me into the world, had led us through every childhood disease known to man including the time Jem fell out of the treehouse, and he had never lost our friendship. Dr. Reynolds said if we had been boil-prone things would have been different, but we doubted it. He came in the door and said, “Good Lord.” He walked toward me, said, “You’re still standing,” and changed his course. He knew every room in the house. He also knew that if I was in bad shape, so was Jem. After ten forevers Dr. Reynolds returned. “Is Jem dead?” I asked. “Far from it,” he said, squatting down to me. “He’s got a bump on the head just like yours, and a broken arm. Scout, look that way—no, don’t turn your head, roll your eyes. Now look over yonder. He’s got a bad break, so far as I can tell now it’s in the elbow. Like somebody tried to wring his arm off… Now look at me.” “Then he’s not dead?” “No-o!” Dr. Reynolds got to his feet. “We can’t do much tonight,” he said, “except try to make him as comfortable as we can. We’ll have to X-ray his arm— looks like he’ll be wearing his arm ‘way out by his side for a while. Don’t worry, though, he’ll be as good as new. Boys his age bounce.” While he was talking, Dr. Reynolds had been looking keenly at me, lightly fingering the bump that was coming on my forehead. “You don’t feel broke anywhere, do you?” Dr. Reynolds’s small joke made me smile. “Then you don’t think he’s dead, then?” He put on his hat. “Now I may be wrong, of course, but I think he’s very alive. Shows all the symptoms of it. Go have a look at him, and when I come back we’ll get together and decide.” Dr. Reynolds’s step was young and brisk. Mr. Heck Tate’s was not. His heavy boots punished the porch and he opened the door awkwardly, but he said the same thing Dr. Reynolds said when he came in. “You all right, Scout?” he added. “Yes sir, I’m goin‘ in to see Jem. Atticus’n’them’s in there.” “I’ll go with you,” said Mr. Tate. Aunt Alexandra had shaded Jem’s reading light with a towel, and his room was dim. Jem was lying on his back. There was an ugly mark along one side of his face. His left arm lay out from his body; his elbow was bent slightly, but in the wrong direction. Jem was frowning. “Jem…?” Atticus spoke. “He can’t hear you, Scout, he’s out like a light. He was coming around, but Dr. Reynolds put him out again.” “Yes sir.” I retreated. Jem’s room was large and square. Aunt Alexandra was sitting in a rocking-chair by the fireplace. The man who brought Jem in was standing in a corner, leaning against the wall. He was some countryman I did not know. He had probably been at the pageant, and was in the vicinity when it happened. He must have heard our screams and come running. Atticus was standing by Jem’s bed. Mr. Heck Tate stood in the doorway. His hat was in his hand, and a flashlight bulged from his pants pocket. He was in his working clothes. “Come in, Heck,” said Atticus. “Did you find anything? I can’t conceive of anyone low-down enough to do a thing like this, but I hope you found him.” Mr. Tate sniffed. He glanced sharply at the man in the corner, nodded to him, then looked around the room—at Jem, at Aunt Alexandra, then at Atticus. “Sit down, Mr. Finch,” he said pleasantly. Atticus said, “Let’s all sit down. Have that chair, Heck. I’ll get another one from the livingroom.” Mr. Tate sat in Jem’s desk chair. He waited until Atticus returned and settled himself. I wondered why Atticus had not brought a chair for the man in the corner, but Atticus knew the ways of country people far better than I. Some of his rural clients would park their long-eared steeds under the chinaberry trees in the back yard, and Atticus would often keep appointments on the back steps. This one was probably more comfortable where he was. “Mr. Finch,” said Mr. Tate, “tell you what I found. I found a little girl’s dress— it’s out there in my car. That your dress, Scout?” “Yes sir, if it’s a pink one with smockin‘,” I said. Mr. Tate was behaving as if he were on the witness stand. He liked to tell things his own way, untrammeled by state or defense, and sometimes it took him a while. “I found some funny-looking pieces of muddy-colored cloth—” “That’s m’costume, Mr. Tate.” Mr. Tate ran his hands down his thighs. He rubbed his left arm and investigated Jem’s mantelpiece, then he seemed to be interested in the fireplace. His fingers sought his long nose. “What is it, Heck?” said Atticus. Mr. Tate found his neck and rubbed it. “Bob Ewell’s lyin‘ on the ground under that tree down yonder with a kitchen knife stuck up under his ribs. He’s dead, Mr. Finch.” Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 29 Aunt Alexandra got up and reached for the mantelpiece. Mr. Tate rose, but she declined assistance. For once in his life, Atticus’s instinctive courtesy failed him: he sat where he was. Somehow, I could think of nothing but Mr. Bob Ewell saying he’d get Atticus if it took him the rest of his life. Mr. Ewell almost got him, and it was the last thing he did. “Are you sure?” Atticus said bleakly. “He’s dead all right,” said Mr. Tate. “He’s good and dead. He won’t hurt these children again.” “I didn’t mean that.” Atticus seemed to be talking in his sleep. His age was beginning to show, his one sign of inner turmoil, the strong line of his jaw melted a little, one became aware of telltale creases forming under his ears, one noticed not his jet-black hair but the gray patches growing at his temples. “Hadn’t we better go to the livingroom?” Aunt Alexandra said at last. “If you don’t mind,” said Mr. Tate, “I’d rather us stay in here if it won’t hurt Jem any. I want to have a look at his injuries while Scout… tells us about it.” “Is it all right if I leave?” she asked. “I’m just one person too many in here. I’ll be in my room if you want me, Atticus.” Aunt Alexandra went to the door, but she stopped and turned. “Atticus, I had a feeling about this tonight—I—this is my fault,” she began. “I should have—” Mr. Tate held up his hand. “You go ahead, Miss Alexandra, I know it’s been a shock to you. And don’t you fret yourself about anything—why, if we followed our feelings all the time we’d be like cats chasin‘ their tails. Miss Scout, see if you can tell us what happened, while it’s still fresh in your mind. You think you can? Did you see him following you?” I went to Atticus and felt his arms go around me. I buried my head in his lap. “We started home. I said Jem, I’ve forgot m’shoes. Soon’s we started back for ‘em the lights went out. Jem said I could get ’em tomorrow…” “Scout, raise up so Mr. Tate can hear you,” Atticus said. I crawled into his lap. “Then Jem said hush a minute. I thought he was thinkin‘—he always wants you to hush so he can think—then he said he heard somethin’. We thought it was Cecil.” “Cecil?” “Cecil Jacobs. He scared us once tonight, an‘ we thought it was him again. He had on a sheet. They gave a quarter for the best costume, I don’t know who won it —” “Where were you when you thought it was Cecil?” “Just a little piece from the schoolhouse. I yelled somethin‘ at him—” “You yelled, what?” “Cecil Jacobs is a big fat hen, I think. We didn’t hear nothin‘—then Jem yelled hello or somethin’ loud enough to wake the dead—” “Just a minute, Scout,” said Mr. Tate. “Mr. Finch, did you hear them?” Atticus said he didn’t. He had the radio on. Aunt Alexandra had hers going in her bedroom. He remembered because she told him to turn his down a bit so she could hear hers. Atticus smiled. “I always play a radio too loud.” “I wonder if the neighbors heard anything…” said Mr. Tate. “I doubt it, Heck. Most of them listen to their radios or go to bed with the chickens. Maudie Atkinson may have been up, but I doubt it.” “Go ahead, Scout,” Mr. Tate said. “Well, after Jem yelled we walked on. Mr. Tate, I was shut up in my costume but I could hear it myself, then. Footsteps, I mean. They walked when we walked and stopped when we stopped. Jem said he could see me because Mrs. Crenshaw put some kind of shiny paint on my costume. I was a ham.” “How’s that?” asked Mr. Tate, startled. Atticus described my role to Mr. Tate, plus the construction of my garment. “You should have seen her when she came in,” he said, “it was crushed to a pulp.” Mr. Tate rubbed his chin. “I wondered why he had those marks on him, His sleeves were perforated with little holes. There were one or two little puncture marks on his arms to match the holes. Let me see that thing if you will, sir.” Atticus fetched the remains of my costume. Mr. Tate turned it over and bent it around to get an idea of its former shape. “This thing probably saved her life,” he said. “Look.” He pointed with a long forefinger. A shiny clean line stood out on the dull wire. “Bob Ewell meant business,” Mr. Tate muttered. “He was out of his mind,” said Atticus. “Don’t like to contradict you, Mr. Finch—wasn’t crazy, mean as hell. Low-down skunk with enough liquor in him to make him brave enough to kill children. He’d never have met you face to face.” Atticus shook his head. “I can’t conceive of a man who’d—” “Mr. Finch, there’s just some kind of men you have to shoot before you can say hidy to ‘em. Even then, they ain’t worth the bullet it takes to shoot ’em. Ewell ‘as one of ’em.” Atticus said, “I thought he got it all out of him the day he threatened me. Even if he hadn’t, I thought he’d come after me.” “He had guts enough to pester a poor colored woman, he had guts enough to pester Judge Taylor when he thought the house was empty, so do you think he’da met you to your face in daylight?” Mr. Tate sighed. “We’d better get on. Scout, you heard him behind you—” “Yes sir. When we got under the tree—” “How’d you know you were under the tree, you couldn’t see thunder out there.” “I was barefooted, and Jem says the ground’s always cooler under a tree.” “We’ll have to make him a deputy, go ahead.” “Then all of a sudden somethin‘ grabbed me an’ mashed my costume… think I ducked on the ground… heard a tusslin‘ under the tree sort of… they were bammin’ against the trunk, sounded like. Jem found me and started pullin‘ me toward the road. Some—Mr. Ewell yanked him down, I reckon. They tussled some more and then there was this funny noise—Jem hollered…” I stopped. That was Jem’s arm. “Anyway, Jem hollered and I didn’t hear him any more an‘ the next thing—Mr. Ewell was tryin’ to squeeze me to death, I reckon… then somebody yanked Mr. Ewell down. Jem must have got up, I guess. That’s all I know…” “And then?” Mr. Tate was looking at me sharply. “Somebody was staggerin‘ around and pantin’ and—coughing fit to die. I thought it was Jem at first, but it didn’t sound like him, so I went lookin‘ for Jem on the ground. I thought Atticus had come to help us and had got wore out—” “Who was it?” “Why there he is, Mr. Tate, he can tell you his name.” As I said it, I half pointed to the man in the corner, but brought my arm down quickly lest Atticus reprimand me for pointing. It was impolite to point. He was still leaning against the wall. He had been leaning against the wall when I came into the room, his arms folded across his chest. As I pointed he brought his arms down and pressed the palms of his hands against the wall. They were white hands, sickly white hands that had never seen the sun, so white they stood out garishly against the dull cream wall in the dim light of Jem’s room. I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants; my eyes traveled up his thin frame to his torn denim shirt. His face was as white as his hands, but for a shadow on his jutting chin. His cheeks were thin to hollowness; his mouth was wide; there were shallow, almost delicate indentations at his temples, and his gray eyes were so colorless I thought he was blind. His hair was dead and thin, almost feathery on top of his head. When I pointed to him his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy sweat streaks on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange small spasm shook him, as if he heard fingernails scrape slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor’s image blurred with my sudden tears. “Hey, Boo,” I said. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 30 “Mr. Arthur, honey,” said Atticus, gently correcting me. “Jean Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.” If Atticus could blandly introduce me to Boo Radley at a time like this, well—that was Atticus. Boo saw me run instinctively to the bed where Jem was sleeping, for the same shy smile crept across his face. Hot with embarrassment, I tried to cover up by covering Jem up. “Ah-ah, don’t touch him,” Atticus said. Mr. Heck Tate sat looking intently at Boo through his horn-rimmed glasses. He was about to speak when Dr. Reynolds came down the hall. “Everybody out,” he said, as he came in the door. “Evenin‘, Arthur, didn’t notice you the first time I was here.” Dr. Reynolds’s voice was as breezy as his step, as though he had said it every evening of his life, an announcement that astounded me even more than being in the same room with Boo Radley. Of course… even Boo Radley got sick sometimes, I thought. But on the other hand I wasn’t sure. Dr. Reynolds was carrying a big package wrapped in newspaper. He put it down on Jem’s desk and took off his coat. “You’re quite satisfied he’s alive, now? Tell you how I knew. When I tried to examine him he kicked me. Had to put him out good and proper to touch him. So scat,” he said to me. “Er—” said Atticus, glancing at Boo. “Heck, let’s go out on the front porch. There are plenty of chairs out there, and it’s still warm enough.” I wondered why Atticus was inviting us to the front porch instead of the livingroom, then I understood. The livingroom lights were awfully strong. We filed out, first Mr. Tate—Atticus was waiting at the door for him to go ahead of him. Then he changed his mind and followed Mr. Tate. People have a habit of doing everyday things even under the oddest conditions. I was no exception: “Come along, Mr. Arthur,” I heard myself saying, “you don’t know the house real well. I’ll just take you to the porch, sir.” He looked down at me and nodded. I led him through the hall and past the livingroom. “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Arthur? This rocking-chair’s nice and comfortable.” My small fantasy about him was alive again: he would be sitting on the porch… right pretty spell we’re having, isn’t it, Mr. Arthur? Yes, a right pretty spell. Feeling slightly unreal, I led him to the chair farthest from Atticus and Mr. Tate. It was in deep shadow. Boo would feel more comfortable in the dark. Atticus was sitting in the swing, and Mr. Tate was in a chair next to him. The light from the livingroom windows was strong on them. I sat beside Boo. “Well, Heck,” Atticus was saying, “I guess the thing to do—good Lord, I’m losing my memory…” Atticus pushed up his glasses and pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Jem’s not quite thirteen… no, he’s already thirteen—I can’t remember. Anyway, it’ll come before county court—” “What will, Mr. Finch?” Mr. Tate uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Of course it was clear-cut self defense, but I’ll have to go to the office and hunt up—” “Mr. Finch, do you think Jem killed Bob Ewell? Do you think that?” “You heard what Scout said, there’s no doubt about it. She said Jem got up and yanked him off her—he probably got hold of Ewell’s knife somehow in the dark… we’ll find out tomorrow.” “Mis-ter Finch, hold on,” said Mr. Tate. “Jem never stabbed Bob Ewell.” Atticus was silent for a moment. He looked at Mr. Tate as if he appreciated what he said. But Atticus shook his head. “Heck, it’s mighty kind of you and I know you’re doing it from that good heart of yours, but don’t start anything like that.” Mr. Tate got up and went to the edge of the porch. He spat into the shrubbery, then thrust his hands into his hip pockets and faced Atticus. “Like what?” he said. “I’m sorry if I spoke sharply, Heck,” Atticus said simply, “but nobody’s hushing this up. I don’t live that way.” “Nobody’s gonna hush anything up, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate’s voice was quiet, but his boots were planted so solidly on the porch floorboards it seemed that they grew there. A curious contest, the nature of which eluded me, was developing between my father and the sheriff. It was Atticus’s turn to get up and go to the edge of the porch. He said, “H’rm,” and spat dryly into the yard. He put his hands in his pockets and faced Mr. Tate. “Heck, you haven’t said it, but I know what you’re thinking. Thank you for it. Jean Louise—” he turned to me. “You said Jem yanked Mr. Ewell off you?” “Yes sir, that’s what I thought… I—” “See there, Heck? Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t want my boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I don’t want him growing up with a whisper about him, I don’t want anybody saying, ‘Jem Finch… his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.’ Sooner we get this over with the better.” “Mr. Finch,” Mr. Tate said stolidly, “Bob Ewell fell on his knife. He killed himself.” Atticus walked to the corner of the porch. He looked at the wisteria vine. In his own way, I thought, each was as stubborn as the other. I wondered who would give in first. Atticus’s stubbornness was quiet and rarely evident, but in some ways he was as set as the Cunninghams. Mr. Tate’s was unschooled and blunt, but it was equal to my father’s. “Heck,” Atticus’s back was turned. “If this thing’s hushed up it’ll be a simple denial to Jem of the way I’ve tried to raise him. Sometimes I think I’m a total failure as a parent, but I’m all they’ve got. Before Jem looks at anyone else he looks at me, and I’ve tried to live so I can look squarely back at him… if I connived at something like this, frankly I couldn’t meet his eye, and the day I can’t do that I’ll know I’ve lost him. I don’t want to lose him and Scout, because they’re all I’ve got.” “Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate was still planted to the floorboards. “Bob Ewell fell on his knife. I can prove it.” Atticus wheeled around. His hands dug into his pockets. “Heck, can’t you even try to see it my way? You’ve got children of your own, but I’m older than you. When mine are grown I’ll be an old man if I’m still around, but right now I’m—if they don’t trust me they won’t trust anybody. Jem and Scout know what happened. If they hear of me saying downtown something different happened— Heck, I won’t have them any more. I can’t live one way in town and another way in my home.” Mr. Tate rocked on his heels and said patiently, “He’d flung Jem down, he stumbled over a root under that tree and—look, I can show you.” Mr. Tate reached in his side pocket and withdrew a long switchblade knife. As he did so, Dr. Reynolds came to the door. “The son—deceased’s under that tree, doctor, just inside the schoolyard. Got a flashlight? Better have this one.” “I can ease around and turn my car lights on,” said Dr. Reynolds, but he took Mr. Tate’s flashlight. “Jem’s all right. He won’t wake up tonight, I hope, so don’t worry. That the knife that killed him, Heck?” “No sir, still in him. Looked like a kitchen knife from the handle. Ken oughta be there with the hearse by now, doctor, ‘night.” Mr. Tate flicked open the knife. “It was like this,” he said. He held the knife and pretended to stumble; as he leaned forward his left arm went down in front of him. “See there? Stabbed himself through that soft stuff between his ribs. His whole weight drove it in.” Mr. Tate closed the knife and jammed it back in his pocket. “Scout is eight years old,” he said. “She was too scared to know exactly what went on.” “You’d be surprised,” Atticus said grimly. “I’m not sayin‘ she made it up, I’m sayin’ she was too scared to know exactly what happened. It was mighty dark out there, black as ink. ‘d take somebody mighty used to the dark to make a competent witness…” “I won’t have it,” Atticus said softly. “God damn it, I’m not thinking of Jem!” Mr. Tate’s boot hit the floorboards so hard the lights in Miss Maudie’s bedroom went on. Miss Stephanie Crawford’s lights went on. Atticus and Mr. Tate looked across the street, then at each other. They waited. When Mr. Tate spoke again his voice was barely audible. “Mr. Finch, I hate to fight you when you’re like this. You’ve been under a strain tonight no man should ever have to go through. Why you ain’t in the bed from it I don’t know, but I do know that for once you haven’t been able to put two and two together, and we’ve got to settle this tonight because tomorrow’ll be too late. Bob Ewell’s got a kitchen knife in his craw.” Mr. Tate added that Atticus wasn’t going to stand there and maintain that any boy Jem’s size with a busted arm had fight enough left in him to tackle and kill a grown man in the pitch dark. “Heck,” said Atticus abruptly, “that was a switchblade you were waving. Where’d you get it?” “Took it off a drunk man,” Mr. Tate answered coolly. I was trying to remember. Mr. Ewell was on me… then he went down… Jem must have gotten up. At least I thought… “Heck?” “I said I took it off a drunk man downtown tonight. Ewell probably found that kitchen knife in the dump somewhere. Honed it down and bided his time… just bided his time.” Atticus made his way to the swing and sat down. His hands dangled limply between his knees. He was looking at the floor. He had moved with the same slowness that night in front of the jail, when I thought it took him forever to fold his newspaper and toss it in his chair. Mr. Tate clumped softly around the porch. “It ain’t your decision, Mr. Finch, it’s all mine. It’s my decision and my responsibility. For once, if you don’t see it my way, there’s not much you can do about it. If you wanta try, I’ll call you a liar to your face. Your boy never stabbed Bob Ewell,” he said slowly, “didn’t come near a mile of it and now you know it. All he wanted to do was get him and his sister safely home.” Mr. Tate stopped pacing. He stopped in front of Atticus, and his back was to us. “I’m not a very good man, sir, but I am sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life an‘ I’m goin’ on forty-three years old. Know everything that’s happened here since before I was born. There’s a black boy dead for no reason, and the man responsible for it’s dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.” Mr. Tate went to the swing and picked up his hat. It was lying beside Atticus. Mr. Tate pushed back his hair and put his hat on. “I never heard tell that it’s against the law for a citizen to do his utmost to prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly what he did, but maybe you’ll say it’s my duty to tell the town all about it and not hush it up. Know what’d happen then? All the ladies in Maycomb includin‘ my wife’d be knocking on his door bringing angel food cakes. To my way of thinkin’, Mr. Finch, taking the one man who’s done you and this town a great service an‘ draggin’ him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that’s a sin. It’s a sin and I’m not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man, it’d be different. But not this man, Mr. Finch.” Mr. Tate was trying to dig a hole in the floor with the toe of his boot. He pulled his nose, then he massaged his left arm. “I may not be much, Mr. Finch, but I’m still sheriff of Maycomb County and Bob Ewell fell on his knife. Good night, sir.” Mr. Tate stamped off the porch and strode across the front yard. His car door slammed and he drove away. Atticus sat looking at the floor for a long time. Finally he raised his head. “Scout,” he said, “Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?” Atticus looked like he needed cheering up. I ran to him and hugged him and kissed him with all my might. “Yes sir, I understand,” I reassured him. “Mr. Tate was right.” Atticus disengaged himself and looked at me. “What do you mean?” “Well, it’d be sort of like shootin‘ a mockingbird, wouldn’t it?” Atticus put his face in my hair and rubbed it. When he got up and walked across the porch into the shadows, his youthful step had returned. Before he went inside the house, he stopped in front of Boo Radley. “Thank you for my children, Arthur,” he said. Contents - Prev / Next Chapter 31 When Boo Radley shuffled to his feet, light from the livingroom windows glistened on his forehead. Every move he made was uncertain, as if he were not sure his hands and feet could make proper contact with the things he touched. He coughed his dreadful raling cough, and was so shaken he had to sit down again. His hand searched for his hip pocket, and he pulled out a handkerchief. He coughed into it, then he wiped his forehead. Having been so accustomed to his absence, I found it incredible that he had been sitting beside me all this time, present. He had not made a sound. Once more, he got to his feet. He turned to me and nodded toward the front door. “You’d like to say good night to Jem, wouldn’t you, Mr. Arthur? Come right in.” I led him down the hall. Aunt Alexandra was sitting by Jem’s bed. “Come in, Arthur,” she said. “He’s still asleep. Dr. Reynolds gave him a heavy sedative. Jean Louise, is your father in the livingroom?” “Yes ma’am, I think so.” “I’ll just go speak to him a minute. Dr. Reynolds left some…” her voice trailed away. Boo had drifted to a corner of the room, where he stood with his chin up, peering from a distance at Jem. I took him by the hand, a hand surprisingly warm for its whiteness. I tugged him a little, and he allowed me to lead him to Jem’s bed. Dr. Reynolds had made a tent-like arrangement over Jem’s arm, to keep the cover off, I guess, and Boo leaned forward and looked over it. An expression of timid curiosity was on his face, as though he had never seen a boy before. His mouth was slightly open, and he looked at Jem from head to foot. Boo’s hand came up, but he let it drop to his side. “You can pet him, Mr. Arthur, he’s asleep. You couldn’t if he was awake, though, he wouldn’t let you…” I found myself explaining. “Go ahead.” Boo’s hand hovered over Jem’s head. “Go on, sir, he’s asleep.” His hand came down lightly on Jem’s hair. I was beginning to learn his body English. His hand tightened on mine and he indicated that he wanted to leave. I led him to the front porch, where his uneasy steps halted. He was still holding my hand and he gave no sign of letting me go. “Will you take me home?” He almost whispered it, in the voice of a child afraid of the dark. I put my foot on the top step and stopped. I would lead him through our house, but I would never lead him home. “Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here, like that. That’s right, sir.” I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. He had to stoop a little to accommodate me, but if Miss Stephanie Crawford was watching from her upstairs window, she would see Arthur Radley escorting me down the sidewalk, as any gentleman would do. We came to the street light on the corner, and I wondered how many times Dill had stood there hugging the fat pole, watching, waiting, hoping. I wondered how many times Jem and I had made this journey, but I entered the Radley front gate for the second time in my life. Boo and I walked up the steps to the porch. His fingers found the front doorknob. He gently released my hand, opened the door, went inside, and shut the door behind him. I never saw him again. Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of good-luck pennies, and our lives. But neighbors give in return. We never put back into the tree what we took out of it: we had given him nothing, and it made me sad. I turned to go home. Street lights winked down the street all the way to town. I had never seen our neighborhood from this angle. There were Miss Maudie’s, Miss Stephanie’s—there was our house, I could see the porch swing—Miss Rachel’s house was beyond us, plainly visible. I could even see Mrs. Dubose’s. I looked behind me. To the left of the brown door was a long shuttered window. I walked to it, stood in front of it, and turned around. In daylight, I thought, you could see to the postoffice corner. Daylight… in my mind, the night faded. It was daytime and the neighborhood was busy. Miss Stephanie Crawford crossed the street to tell the latest to Miss Rachel. Miss Maudie bent over her azaleas. It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk toward a man approaching in the distance. The man waved, and the children raced each other to him. It was still summertime, and the children came closer. A boy trudged down the sidewalk dragging a fishingpole behind him. A man stood waiting with his hands on his hips. Summertime, and his children played in the front yard with their friend, enacting a strange little drama of their own invention. It was fall, and his children fought on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Dubose’s. The boy helped his sister to her feet, and they made their way home. Fall, and his children trotted to and fro around the corner, the day’s woes and triumphs on their faces. They stopped at an oak tree, delighted, puzzled, apprehensive. Winter, and his children shivered at the front gate, silhouetted against a blazing house. Winter, and a man walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog. Summer, and he watched his children’s heart break. Autumn again, and Boo’s children needed him. Atticus was right. One time he said you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. Just standing on the Radley porch was enough. The street lights were fuzzy from the fine rain that was falling. As I made my way home, I felt very old, but when I looked at the tip of my nose I could see fine misty beads, but looking cross-eyed made me dizzy so I quit. As I made my way home, I thought what a thing to tell Jem tomorrow. He’d be so mad he missed it he wouldn’t speak to me for days. As I made my way home, I thought Jem and I would get grown but there wasn’t much else left for us to learn, except possibly algebra. I ran up the steps and into the house. Aunt Alexandra had gone to bed, and Atticus’s room was dark. I would see if Jem might be reviving. Atticus was in Jem’s room, sitting by his bed. He was reading a book. “Is Jem awake yet?” “Sleeping peacefully. He won’t be awake until morning.” “Oh. Are you sittin‘ up with him?” “Just for an hour or so. Go to bed, Scout. You’ve had a long day.” “Well, I think I’ll stay with you for a while.” “Suit yourself,” said Atticus. It must have been after midnight, and I was puzzled by his amiable acquiescence. He was shrewder than I, however: the moment I sat down I began to feel sleepy. “Whatcha readin‘?” I asked. Atticus turned the book over. “Something of Jem’s. Called The Gray Ghost.” I was suddenly awake. “Why’d you get that one?” “Honey, I don’t know. Just picked it up. One of the few things I haven’t read,” he said pointedly. “Read it out loud, please, Atticus. It’s real scary.” “No,” he said. “You’ve had enough scaring for a while. This is too—” “Atticus, I wasn’t scared.” He raised his eyebrows, and I protested: “Leastways not till I started telling Mr. Tate about it. Jem wasn’t scared. Asked him and he said he wasn’t. Besides, nothin’s real scary except in books.” Atticus opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. He took his thumb from the middle of the book and turned back to the first page. I moved over and leaned my head against his knee. “H’rm,” he said. “The Gray Ghost, by Seckatary Hawkins. Chapter One…” I willed myself to stay awake, but the rain was so soft and the room was so warm and his voice was so deep and his knee was so snug that I slept. Seconds later, it seemed, his shoe was gently nudging my ribs. He lifted me to my feet and walked me to my room. “Heard every word you said,” I muttered. “… wasn’t sleep at all, ‘s about a ship an’ Three-Fingered Fred ‘n’ Stoner’s Boy…” He unhooked my overalls, leaned me against him, and pulled them off. He held me up with one hand and reached for my pajamas with the other. “Yeah, an‘ they all thought it was Stoner’s Boy messin’ up their clubhouse an‘ throwin’ ink all over it an‘…” He guided me to the bed and sat me down. He lifted my legs and put me under the cover. “An‘ they chased him ’n‘ never could catch him ’cause they didn’t know what he looked like, an‘ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any of those things… Atticus, he was real nice…” His hands were under my chin, pulling up the cover, tucking it around me. “Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.” He turned out the light and went into Jem’s room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.

Ward Rpunds

Dedicated to those who find light in the dark. To those dancing on a sinking ship. To a happier year. MY PATIENT’S Welcome to Ward Rounds. Inside this folder, you'll find six patient files that have left a lasting impression on me. They're not in exact order, but they're arranged to reveal the full impact of their stories. Throughout these files, you'll find some notes I've added for clarity and insights. Sorry for the doodles here and there; they help me remember key moments and people These seven files were chosen for a specific reason: they trace a path through the shadows, leading up to the ultimate tragedy that forever altered a life. Proceed with caution. It was a damp and dreary November day when I arrived at Pennhurst to see my new patient. The heavy rain had soaked everything in sight, including the stone façade of the sprawling institution that stood stoically atop a hill surrounded by dense forest. As I entered the gates, the security guards saluted me and opened the gate to welcome me inside. As always, they seemed to be deeply suspicious of my intentions, which was never helped by my black jeans and leather jacket draped over my shoulder. Still, I kept a calm face as I made my way through the narrow pathways towards my destination. The main entrance consisted of two massive doors that looked like something from a horror movie. When they swung open, I could see past the rain and darkness beyond them to an enormous lobby with dozens of security cameras fixed at every angle, along with armed guards patrolling the area. 'Welcome to Pennhurst Asylum, Doctor Michael Knight,' said one of the guards as he saluted me. 'I hope you are ready for a long day here.' 'I'm sure I am,' I replied in monotone, looking around at the large lobby and its rows of doors leading into different wings. 'Follow us,' said the guard. He led me towards one of the rooms on the right side of the building, which happened to be where I was supposed to be staying during my visit. As I walked through the door, the first thing that caught my attention was a large window facing eastwards in front of me. I could see trees and hills stretching far into the distance beyond it, as well as rows upon rows of cells that seemed to stretch endlessly on either side. I glanced at the guard standing behind me who looked visibly nervous and uncomfortable. 'The first thing you should do is speak with your patient,' said the guard, pointing towards one of the doors on my left. 'He will be waiting for you.' I nodded in agreement, took a deep breath, and headed down the hallway towards that door. As I approached it, I could hear faint voices coming from within it, which grew louder with each step I took closer to it. 'Hello?' I called out as I opened the door and stepped inside. A moment later, one of my patients greeted me with a smile and a wave of his hand. 'Welcome to my cell, Doctor Knight.' My patient was John Doe, a young man in his twenties who appeared to be quite ill. He sat at the edge of his bed as I entered, looking pale and listless. His long brown hair hung down to cover most of his face, with only a pair of dark sunglasses showing from behind it. 'Hello John,' said I as I walked towards him. 'I'm glad you're feeling better.' 'Yes sir,' he replied in a low voice. 'I feel much better now.' I sat down next to him and took a deep breath before asking the question that I had been meaning to ask for years. 'John, do you recall anything about your past? Any events or circumstances that led up to your actions?' He stared at me in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Suddenly, his face began to contort with a look of intense anguish. He covered his mouth with his hand and stared down into the ground as if he were trying to avoid my gaze. After a moment, he looked up and spoke again. 'I remember everything,' he said. 'I remember what happened that day at school. I remember the teacher's words when he told us to leave the classroom. I remember the hallway and the stairs leading down into the basement.' He continued to speak in a quiet, monotone voice. 'I remember going into the basement and seeing all of those bodies on the floor. I remember how I started laughing as they fell one after another. I remember feeling like I was losing my mind. I had no idea what I was doing but I couldn't stop myself from running back up to that hallway where we left our things.' I nodded in understanding. 'When you found the bodies, did you ever consider calling security?' His face darkened slightly as he continued speaking. 'Yes, but I didn't want to risk being caught. I needed time to think about what had happened.' He looked at me with a distorted smile on his face. 'I was mad. I was angry at myself for letting those kids die in front of me. I wanted revenge for what they had done to me that day and the years before that. I decided to keep going back as many times as possible because there were so many people involved in it.' He paused momentarily before continuing. 'But then, one day, something changed inside me and I realized what I had been doing all those years ago.' I glanced down at my feet as he spoke. 'I'm sorry,' I said as his words left my lips without any hesitation or reservation. He looked up at me with a look of shock on his face before turning back towards the ground again. 'No one should ever have to experience what you experienced that day.' He continued speaking in a quiet, monotone voice. 'I feel like I'm losing my mind. Why did it have to happen?' He paused again. 'Why are people so cruel? How can I make them stop hurting me?' 'John,' I said as he spoke. 'There is nothing wrong with you.' He glanced up at me and smiled weakly. 'I know that, but I still want answers.' 'You're right,' I replied in a quiet voice. 'Let's meet for lunch today to discuss this further.' He nodded and stood up from his bed. As he walked towards the door, he turned around to face me again. 'I hope we can be friends,' he said with another weak smile on his face. 'Yes, of course,' I replied before closing the door behind him. I felt a strong sense of satisfaction and relief as he exited his cell. I walked towards the lobby to find the guard who had let me in earlier and was still waiting patiently nearby. 'Can you take us to lunch?' He nodded. 'Where do you want to go?' I asked. He looked around at the rows of cells before pointing towards a corner across from where I had just exited. 'There's an Italian restaurant over there if you like that kind of food.' I nodded in agreement and we headed towards it together. The restaurant consisted of a large dining area with tables spread out throughout, along with a kitchen and bar in the middle. We sat down at one of the tables near the window facing eastwards, which provided us with a view of the trees and hills beyond. It was an almost idyllic setting for what we were about to discuss. 'I'm sorry,' I said as he spoke. 'It's not your fault that this happened.' He looked up at me with a look of pain in his eyes. 'No one should ever have to experience what you did that day.' He continued speaking in a quiet, monotone voice. 'I feel like I'm losing my mind. Why did it have to happen? How can I make them stop hurting me?' I glanced down at my feet as he spoke. 'No one should ever have to experience what you experienced that day.' He continued speaking in a quiet, monotone voice. 'I feel like I'm losing my mind. Why did it have to happen? How can I make them stop hurting me?' His words were the same as mine but spoken with different meaning behind them. He was asking me for help in making his own past come to an end, while I was simply telling him that he shouldn't be blamed for what had happened and that he needed to find peace within himself. It was a difficult task to perform, considering how much pain and anguish he had been experiencing over the years. We sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. 'I need your help, Doctor Knight.' He continued speaking with a look of deep sadness in his eyes. 'I'm here if you want me to be,' I replied in a quiet voice. He looked up at me and smiled weakly. 'Can you meet me tomorrow?' 'Of course,' I said without hesitation or reservation. The next day, we met once again in the lobby of Pennhurst Asylum. John was there waiting for us with a small suitcase in hand. He sat down on a bench to our left and pulled out a notebook from his pocket. He began speaking as if he were giving a speech or delivering a monologue. 'I'm John, but I also used the name James in those years.' He continued speaking without any pause or hesitation. 'I feel like I'm losing my mind. Why did it have to happen? How can I make them stop hurting me?' He glanced up at me with a look of anguish in his eyes before continuing his speech. 'The first time I killed someone was when I was five years old and there were no parents around for us.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I remember my sister telling me about the bully who would beat her up because she was black. I told my friend how we could stop him from hurting people like us. We planned it out together and executed it like clockwork.' He paused momentarily before continuing his speech again. 'When I was in middle school, I remember having a crush on this girl who would always look down at me as if she were mocking me.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I started to feel like I needed to control my emotions so that they wouldn't get out of hand. But then one day I went back home and saw my parents arguing and yelling at each other.' He looked up at me with a look of anguish in his eyes before continuing his speech again. 'I started feeling like I was losing control over myself. That's when I started to feel angry and depressed all the time. It wasn't until high school that my anger finally exploded and I started beating people up.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I remember how I used to get beat up by this bully who would always mock me for being black. I wanted revenge so I decided to go after him with a knife.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I stabbed him and then he started screaming like a crazy person. It was hard to watch because he made me feel guilty about what I had done.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. He glanced up at me with a look of anguish in his eyes before continuing his speech again. 'When I got home, I found out that my sister had been raped by this guy who used to bully us. That's when things started going downhill.' 'That's why you were sent here, John?' I asked as he spoke. He looked up at me with a look of relief on his face. 'Yes,' he replied in a quiet voice. He glanced back towards the windows and sighed heavily. 'I remember how angry I used to be when someone would hurt my sister. When they'd get injured or die, I wanted them to feel what I felt like.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'That's why you killed all those people?' I asked him again as he spoke. He nodded slowly and then continued speaking. 'When I killed the first person, it didn't feel right. It was supposed to be this girl who used to bully me but she wasn't there.' He paused momentarily before continuing his speech yet again. 'The next day I went out looking for a new target. I found her and beat her up like they always did to me.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I remember the first time I killed someone with my own hands.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. He glanced up at me with a look of sadness in his eyes before continuing his speech again. 'The next day, I found this girl who was about to be beaten up by a group of boys. They were going to beat her for no reason and I saw them doing it.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'When I got there, they started screaming at me because they thought I was one of the victims that they were beating up earlier that day.' He paused momentarily before continuing his speech once again. 'I didn't say anything but I just walked over and punched everyone of them in the face until they stopped.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'The last time I killed someone with my own hands was when this bully beat me up for no reason and then he started yelling at me because I had beaten him up earlier that day. It was hard to watch how these people used their power over other people like me.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. He glanced up at me with a look of deep anguish before continuing his speech yet again. 'I remember how much anger and rage I felt towards the world when I went back home after I beat this bully up. My parents started yelling at me saying things like 'why do you hurt other people?' I tried to explain but they wouldn't listen.' 'That's why you killed so many people?' I asked him in a quiet voice as he spoke. He nodded slowly and continued speaking again without hesitation or reservation. 'Yes, it was always easy for me to kill because when I got angry at someone for hurting me they usually got hurt back.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I remember how much anger and rage I felt towards the world after I killed this bully up. When I went home, my parents started yelling at me saying things like 'why do you hurt other people?' I tried to explain but they wouldn't listen.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'That's when I decided to go to prison.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'When I was in prison, I started having dreams about how I could take revenge on the people who hurt me over the years. It was like a fantasy where I would kill them all and then wake up feeling relieved.' He glanced up at me with a look of sadness before continuing his speech yet again. 'When I got out of prison, I found out that my sister had been raped by this guy who used to bully us.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'That's why you were sent here?' I asked him once again as he spoke. He nodded slowly and then continued speaking without hesitation or reservation. 'Yes, it was supposed to be this girl who used to bully me but she wasn't there.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. He paused momentarily before continuing his speech once more. 'When I killed the first person, it didn't feel right. It was supposed to be this girl that used to bully me but he wasn't there.' he continued speaking in a quiet voice... 'The next day I went out looking for a new target. I found her and beat her up like they always did to me.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'I remember how angry I used to be when someone would hurt my sister. When they'd get injured or die, I wanted them to feel what I felt like.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'That's why you killed all those people?' I asked him again as he spoke. He nodded slowly and then continued his speech yet again. 'The next day I found this girl who was about to be beaten up by a group of boys. They were going to beat her for no reason and I saw them doing it.' 'When I got there, they started screaming at me because they thought I was one of the victims that they were beating up earlier that day. It was hard to watch how these people used their power over other people like me.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. He glanced up at me with a look of deep anguish before continuing his speech yet again. 'The last time I killed someone with my own hands was when this bully beat me up for no reason and then he started yelling at me because I had beaten him up earlier that day. It was hard to watch how these people used their power over other people like me.' He paused momentarily before continuing his speech once again. 'I remember how much anger and rage I felt towards the world when I went back home after I beat this bully up. My parents started yelling at me saying things like 'why do you hurt other people?' I tried to explain but they wouldn't listen.' 'That's why you killed so many people?' I asked him in a quiet voice as he spoke. He nodded slowly and continued speaking again without hesitation or reservation. 'Yes, it was always easy for me to kill because when I got angry at someone for hurting me they usually got hurt back.' He glanced up at me with a look of deep anguish before continuing his speech yet again. 'I remember how much anger and rage I felt towards the world after I killed this bully up. When I went home, my parents started yelling at me saying things like 'why do you hurt other people?' I tried to explain but they wouldn't listen, my parents kicked me out cuz they just wouldn't listen to me' I could feel his anger building up in his voice, he is getting louder. 'That's when I decided to go to prison.' He continued speaking in a quiet voice. 'When I was in prison, I started having dreams about how I could take revenge on the people who hurt me over the years. It was like a fantasy where I would kill them all and then wake up feeling relieved.' 'That's why you were sent here?' I asked him once again as he spoke. He nodded slowly. And he stopped talking, 'Tell me more about your parents', but he didnt answer, he stared deep into my eyes, a shiver going down my spine. 'GUARD Get him out of here', the door opened with a loud electrical buzz, two guards came inside, put handcuffs on him an lead him away. he was in jail for a while but they let him go when he had done his time. He started going around looking for new targets. He found this girl who used to bully him, beat her up and killed her. He found out that his sister had been raped by one of the men involved so he killed them all. He got back home and saw his parents yelling at him about hurting other people, and when they refused to listen to him they kicked him out. He decided to go back to prison and he started having dreams of revenge against the people who hurt him in the past. He was released from jail, but this time there were no guards waiting for him. The authorities let him go free after serving his sentence, so he went around looking for new targets again... I need to find out what really happened and why, I need to know more about his family history, how did his parents treat him? I am going to find out everything, even if it means going a bit too far. 'Noah is it possible to cancel all my appointments without any paperwork or explanation?' 'No problem' he replied with a smile as though it's no big deal at all. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, the way he was staring at me while telling his story, as if he wanted to make sure I understood what he was saying, and to make me feel the same way that he does... I wonder how he feels towards the world, is it anger or hate? I want to find out. It's not the first time I've surreptitiously taken someone's file home, but every time still sends an adrenaline rush through me. The thrill of holding someone else's private life in my hands, using it to unravel mysteries and possibly save lives—it's both intoxicating and daunting. Today, however, was different. The risks were higher, the stakes even more profound. John Doe's file, tucked away securely in my briefcase, held revelations that shook me to the core. The details of his upbringing, particularly his mother's involvement in occult practices and the documented instances of abuse, were far more severe than I had anticipated encountering in my career. As I sat at my desk, the weight of the file pressing against my thigh, my mind raced with questions. How could such darkness thrive within the walls of Pennhurst Asylum? What had driven Mrs. Doe to inflict such torment on her own child? These questions gnawed at me, demanding answers that lay buried in the past, waiting to be unearthed. I had canceled all appointments, cleared my schedule with the help of Noah, my trusted assistant, who understood the gravity of this investigation without me needing to explain. My focus was singular: delve into John Doe's family history, particularly his mother's, to expose the roots of his current state. Leaving Pennhurst behind for a 'vacation' was a necessary ruse. Two days spent in John's hometown, discreetly asking questions, had led me to Mrs. Doe's doorstep—an imposing Victorian relic at the edge of town, shadowed by overgrown hedges and an air of eerie stillness. I don't want any regrets. It's not the first time I've ventured deep into the heart of Pennsylvania's rural landscapes, but Hollow Creek was a departure from the ordinary. Tucked away from main roads and shrouded in an enigmatic aura, this isolated community beckoned with whispers of untold secrets, an ideal backdrop for the unsettling mysteries surrounding John Doe. Fueled by a growing conviction in his innocence, I found myself embarking on a journey that would test both my resolve and beliefs. Leaving Pennhurst Asylum behind, I made my way through the rain-drenched parking lot towards my 1969 Cadillac New Yorker. The car, a testament to timeless craftsmanship, stood proud under the soft glow of the streetlights. Its midnight blue bodywork gleamed with a lustrous sheen, accentuated by chrome accents that caught the light in elegant reflections. The whitewall tires, meticulously maintained, whispered against the wet asphalt as I opened the door to its plush interior. Inside, the aroma of aged leather mingled with traces of polished wood and faint hints of gasoline—a nostalgic blend that transported me to a bygone era of road trips and midnight drives. The dashboard, adorned with classic analog gauges and intricate controls, radiated a sense of vintage charm. Behind the steering wheel, I felt a familiar comfort, a connection to a vehicle that had become more than mere transportation—it was a trusted companion on countless journeys, both literal and metaphorical. Driving through the night, the winding roads of Pennsylvania unfurled before me, flanked by towering trees whose branches danced in the wind like specters from another time. Raindrops splattered against the windshield, creating a rhythmic percussion that matched the cadence of my thoughts. Hollow Creek awaited—a place where reality blurred with folklore, where the past whispered through the creaking timbers of weathered buildings. Eventually, I arrived at my sanctuary —a sprawling villa nestled amidst the dense Pennsylvania woods. This architectural marvel, ahead of its time, blended modernity with a sense of seclusion, offering me solace and privacy away from the prying eyes of the world. The rain-soaked gravel crunched under my feet as I approached the villa's imposing façade. Its sleek lines and expansive glass windows reflected the ambient moonlight, casting ethereal patterns across the meticulously landscaped gardens. The entrance, framed by towering columns, greeted me with a sense of grandeur that belied the tranquility within. Inside, the villa unfolded into a spacious foyer adorned with contemporary art and minimalist décor—a reflection of my penchant for both aesthetics and functionality. Polished marble floors gleamed under soft, ambient lighting, leading towards a living area where plush furnishings invited relaxation and contemplation. Bookshelves lined one wall, housing a curated collection of psychology texts, criminology analyses, and obscure volumes on the occult—an eclectic mix that mirrored my professional interests and personal curiosities. The scent of freshly cut cedar mingled with the crackling fire in the marble fireplace, infusing the air with warmth and comfort. In a study adjacent to the living area, I searched meticulously for an old Nikon FM2 camera—a relic from my youth and a cherished gift from my first love. The study, equipped with state-of-the-art technology discreetly integrated into its classic design, served as both a workspace and a sanctuary for intellectual pursuits. Finally, I found the camera nestled in a leather-bound case on a shelf, its matte black body a testament to enduring craftsmanship. I carefully placed it in my bag, a silent vow to capture any discoveries I might unearth in Hollow Creek. Maxwell, my golden retriever and loyal companion, greeted me with boundless enthusiasm as I packed essentials into a sleek travel suitcase. Named after my first love, his golden fur shimmered in the soft glow of the villa's lighting, his eyes reflecting unwavering loyalty and understanding. 'Hey, Max,' I said softly, kneeling to ruffle his fur. 'I won't be gone long. Just a few days.' Maxwell wagged his tail in response, sensing the gravity of my mission as if attuned to the weight of the secrets I sought to uncover. I ensured he had enough food and water before bidding him a reluctant goodbye, his gaze following me with a mix of trust and longing as I locked the villa's doors behind me. Outside, the rain had eased into a gentle drizzle, enveloping Hollow Creek in a misty embrace as I embarked on the final leg of my journey. The engine of my 1969 Cadillac New Yorker hummed softly as I navigated winding roads leading deeper into the heart of the secluded village, anticipation building within me—a determination to unearth truths that lay hidden beneath Hollow Creek's tranquil surface. As I embarked on the journey towards Hollow Creek, the rain-soaked countryside unfolded before me, accompanied by the melancholic strains of a song blaring from the radio. It was a tune from the early 1980s, repetitive and seemingly ubiquitous on every station. Its lyrics, filled with longing and nostalgia, clashed with my mood, already frayed from the weight of impending revelations. 'Another night, another lonely street, I walk alone, can't find my beat,' the singer crooned through the speakers, each word grating on my nerves like sandpaper. The song's incessant presence felt like an unwelcome companion, echoing through the car despite my repeated attempts to silence it. With a frustrated jab, I switched channels, hoping for respite from the monotony. Static crackled briefly before another station's voice cut through, announcing traffic updates and weather forecasts in a matter-of-fact tone. As I prepared to switch again, a faded road sign caught my eye: 'Hollow Creek, 200 m left.' night descended upon Hollow Creek, I turned left at the road sign marking the village's entrance. The winding road led me deeper into the heart of this secluded community until I found a suitable spot near the woods to park and rest. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my shoulders, prompting me to turn off the Cadillac's engine and recline the seat for a brief respite. The air outside was thick with an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. I closed my eyes, hoping to find solace in sleep despite the unsettling aura that enveloped Hollow Creek. Moments passed in silence until a sharp knock on the driver's side window jolted me awake. Startled, I peered through the glass but saw no one standing beside the car. Another knock, this time from the passenger side, sent a chill down my spine. 'Anyone there?' I called out, my voice tinged with unease. Silence greeted me in response, amplifying the sense of isolation that hung in the air like a shroud. 'Whoever this is, leave me alone. I'm armed,' I declared, my hand instinctively reaching for the revolver tucked into the glove compartment. The night seemed to hold its breath as I strained to discern any movement beyond the shadows. Then, a voice—a whisper carried on the wind, so faint yet unmistakable. 'Investigating the past, are we?' My heart skipped a beat. The voice, neither distinctly male nor female, echoed with an otherworldly resonance that sent shivers down my spine. I turned, searching for the source, but saw only darkness pressing in from all sides. 'Turn around,' the voice urged, its tone laden with a cryptic warning. 'The past is not good. It will haunt you till your end.' I hesitated, torn between rational skepticism and a primal urge to heed the ominous advice. The air grew colder, and a sense of unseen presence enveloped the car like a suffocating mist. Swallowing hard, I fumbled for the car keys and swiftly ignited the engine, casting a wide-eyed glance around me. The night seemed to hold its breath as I maneuvered the Cadillac back onto the road, the encounter with the mysterious voice lingering like a specter in my mind. As I drove deeper into Hollow Creek, the quaint village now cloaked in shadows, I couldn't shake the feeling that something ancient and malevolent stirred within its depths. The secrets of John Doe's past, intertwined with the dark history of this enigmatic place, beckoned me closer even as my instincts screamed to turn back. Ahead, the Victorian mansions loomed like a sentinel against the night sky, its windows dark and inscrutable. With each passing moment, Hollow Creek revealed itself as a labyrinth of secrets, where reality blurred with the whispers of the past and the line between truth and legend grew ever more tenuous. Gathering my resolve, I steeled myself for the confrontation ahead. Whatever awaited me within Mrs. Doe's domain, I was determined to uncover the truth—no matter the cost. The night held its secrets close, but I was prepared to venture deeper into its embrace, ready to confront the darkness that awaited in the heart of Hollow Creek. I found another secluded spot off the main road, deeper into Hollow Creek, where I could rest and gather my thoughts. The rain had tapered off to a drizzle, leaving the night damp and heavy with an unsettling quiet. I reclined the seat once more, attempting to ease my fatigue, but sleep eluded me. The encounter with the mysterious voice lingered like a bitter aftertaste, refusing to fade. I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped me, the sense that unseen eyes watched from the shadows. Every creak of the old Cadillac, every rustle of leaves outside, amplified my anxiety. My fingers traced the familiar contours of the revolver in my glove compartment, a futile reassurance against the unknown. 'Fuck,' I muttered under my breath, frustration mounting. 'Can't close my eyes, can't let my guard down.' The darkness pressed in around me, suffocating and dense. The isolation of Hollow Creek weighed heavily on my mind, a place where secrets whispered through time like ghosts in the mist. How had I allowed myself to be drawn into this web of mysteries and malevolent histories? I glanced at the road sign in the dim moonlight, its weathered surface barely visible. Hollow Creek, a name that now carried a weight of foreboding, beckoned me deeper into its enigmatic embrace. The quaint village, with its Victorian mansions and hidden scars, held secrets that threatened to unravel my resolve. My thoughts drifted to John Doe, the patient whose file held the key to unraveling this tangled web. What had brought him to Pennhurst Asylum? What darkness lurked in his past, intertwined with the shadows of Hollow Creek? I needed answers, but each step deeper into this night-shrouded village felt like descending further into a labyrinth without an exit. I rubbed my temples, trying to dispel the lingering shock and doubt. 'Where have I brought myself again?' I muttered, the words swallowed by the silence of the night. The dogged determination that had propelled me here mingled now with a gnawing sense of dread. Yet, despite my unease, a stubborn resolve took hold. I couldn't afford to turn back, not now. The truth awaited, buried beneath layers of history and whispered legends. With a deep breath, I straightened in my seat, eyes scanning the darkened landscape beyond the car. 'I'll face whatever comes,' I murmured, more to convince myself than anyone else. In the stillness that followed, the night seemed to hold its breath once more, as if awaiting my next move. Hollow Creek, with its secrets and shadows, lay ahead, a silent sentinel guarding the mysteries that awaited in the heart of the village. As the morning sun cast its golden rays over Hollow Creek, I navigated through the bustling marketplace, hoping to glean some insight into the enigmatic history of the Doe family. The locals moved about their daily routines, their expressions guarded yet curious as I approached them one by one. My first conversation was with an elderly woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper memory. She sat at a small stall selling handcrafted quilts, her weathered hands meticulously arranging colorful fabrics. 'Morning,' I greeted warmly, trying to ease into the delicate topic. 'Lovely day, isn't it?' She glanced up at me with keen eyes, sizing me up before responding. 'Lovely day indeed, though some things are best left in the shadows.' Undeterred, I pressed on. 'I'm here to learn about the history of Hollow Creek. Specifically, I'm interested in the Doe family. Do you remember them?' Her lips pursed, a silent debate waging behind her steady gaze. 'Doe family,' she finally muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. 'Troubled souls, they were. Kept to themselves mostly. Rumors, you know, about things not quite right.' 'What kind of rumors?' I probed gently, leaning in closer as if drawn into a conspiratorial whisper. She hesitated, her fingers pausing their work on the quilt. 'Whispers of strange occurrences, they say. Mrs. Doe, she had a way with the… otherworldly, if you catch my drift. People saw things, heard things when she was around.' 'Things?' I echoed, my curiosity piqued despite the vague nature of her words. 'Things best left unspoken,' she replied cryptically, resuming her task with renewed focus. Moving on, I approached a retired schoolteacher known for his love of local history and propensity for storytelling. He stood beside a display of hand-carved wooden figurines, his gaze distant yet perceptive. 'Good morning,' I greeted warmly, hoping to engage him in conversation. 'I'm curious about the history of Hollow Creek. Particularly, what can you tell me about the Doe family?' He adjusted his glasses, a thoughtful expression crossing his features. 'Ah, the Does,' he mused, as if dredging up memories long buried. 'Quiet folks, kept to themselves mostly. But trouble brewed beneath the surface.' 'Trouble?' I prodded, leaning in as if to catch every whispered detail. He nodded slowly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. 'Whispers of curses and hexes, they say. Strange happenings that defied explanation. Some claimed Mrs. Doe practiced… things beyond our understanding.' My heart quickened at his words, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to form a chilling picture. 'Did anyone ever… see anything?' I asked cautiously, fearing what answer might come. His eyes flickered with uncertainty. 'Seen? Maybe not with the eyes, but felt. Cold drafts, odd shadows. And poor John… They said he saw things, heard voices. Drove him near mad, they say.' The revelations sent a shiver down my spine, the weight of Hollow Creek's secrets pressing in from all sides. I thanked him and moved on, seeking out others who might shed light on the elusive history of the Doe family. Conversation after conversation yielded similar fragments of unsettling tales—of whispered incantations on moonlit nights, of inexplicable deaths and disappearances, of a family marked by tragedy and rumored malevolence. Each account added another layer to the murky tapestry of Hollow Creek's past, leaving me more bewildered than enlightened. Hours slipped away in the marketplace, the sun climbing higher in the sky as I struggled to separate fact from folklore. With each story, the mystery deepened, and the truth seemed to slip further from my grasp. But still, nothing that helped me, nothing tangible. As I prepared to leave the marketplace, defeated by the elusiveness of concrete information, a figure brushed past me with a quick, purposeful stride. In the brief contact, they slipped a small piece of paper into my hand before disappearing into the throng of villagers. Startled, I glanced down at the paper, its message simple yet cryptic: '12 Midnight. Old Mill Road.' The invitation—or was it a warning?—stirred a whirlwind of emotions within me, mingling curiosity with apprehension. Gripping the paper tightly, I resolved to follow its lead. Whatever awaited me at the appointed time and place, I knew it held the key to unraveling the dark secrets that haunted Hollow Creek and the troubled legacy of the Doe family. I followed the winding roads in search of Old Mill Road. The directions on the cryptic note had led me to the outskirts of the village, where the landscape grew increasingly sparse and desolate. Finally, I spotted a weathered road sign half-buried in overgrown foliage. Its once-bold lettering now faded and barely legible, it read: 'Old Mill Road.' Intrigued and somewhat apprehensive, I turned onto the narrow path, expecting to find an old mill or some semblance of a forgotten structure. Yet, as the road stretched on, there was no sign of any mill, old or otherwise. Instead, it led me to a clearing dominated by a weathered iron gate and crumbling stone walls—Hollow Creek's cemetery. My heart sank as I realized the mistake or perhaps the deliberate misdirection. The graveyard seemed abandoned, its tombstones weather-beaten and leaning at odd angles. Shadows lengthened ominously as dusk settled over the silent graves. Glancing at my watch, I noted it was still a good two hours until midnight—the appointed time. Uncertain whether to stay or leave, I parked the Cadillac in a secluded spot nearby. The minutes ticked by slowly as darkness descended, accompanied only by the distant calls of nocturnal creatures and the rustling of leaves in the evening breeze. Despite my growing unease, I resolved to wait, gripping the note tightly in my hand, its inked message burning with unanswered questions. Every creak and whisper of the wind seemed amplified in the silence of the cemetery. I remained vigilant, eyes scanning the surroundings for any movement or sign of life. The gravestones stood as silent sentinels, guardians of secrets buried deep within the earth. As the hour approached midnight, a chill settled over the graveyard, sending a shiver down my spine. The weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, mingling with the musty scent of decay and the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. I dared not break the silence, fearing to disturb whatever presence might be watching from the shadows. Time seemed suspended, each second stretching into an eternity of uncertainty. And so, under the watchful gaze of the moon and stars, I waited—ready to confront whatever awaited me in the heart of Hollow Creek's haunted graveyard. As midnight approached, I sat vigil in the quiet of the graveyard, my senses alert despite the fatigue that weighed heavily upon me. The air grew colder with each passing minute, the moonlight casting eerie shadows across the moss-covered tombstones. The solitude of the cemetery enveloped me, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The minutes stretched into hours, marked by the slow march of time and the relentless pull of exhaustion. Despite my best efforts to remain awake and vigilant, the neglected sleep of the previous night began to assert its dominion. My eyelids grew heavy, resisting the urge to close as weariness settled deep into my bones. With a reluctant surrender to fatigue, I reclined the seat of the Cadillac, intending only to rest my eyes briefly. The soft leather cradled me as I sank into an uneasy slumber, the chill of the night seeping through the car's windows. Dreams flickered at the edge of consciousness, fleeting and fragmented. Images of shadowy figures and whispered voices danced behind closed eyelids, blending with the stillness of the graveyard. Time lost its meaning in the hazy realm between wakefulness and sleep. The graveyard remained a silent witness to my restless repose, the gravestones standing sentinel under the moonlit sky. Hours passed unnoticed in the realm of dreams, As the cold sensation of metal against my waist jolted me awake, I was immediately aware of a presence beside me in the Cadillac. Instinctively, my hand reached for the revolver tucked into my waistband, only to find it already drawn and pointed directly at me. A figure loomed in the dim moonlight filtering through the car window, their features obscured by shadows. The revolver, my own weapon, gleamed ominously in their grasp, its barrel steady and unwavering. Fear clenched my heart as I froze, every nerve on edge, unable to speak or move. The gravity of the situation hung heavy in the air, amplified by the eerie silence that enveloped us in the graveyard. 'You weren't supposed to sleep,' a voice whispered, low and tinged with an unsettling calmness. It was a voice I didn't recognize, neither distinctly male nor female, carrying a weight of authority that sent a chill down my spine. My mind raced with questions, but my voice failed me. Who was this intruder? How had they found me? And most pressing of all, what did they want? The figure leaned closer, their breath ghosting against my ear as they spoke again, their tone betraying no emotion. 'You seek answers that should remain buried,' they murmured, their words hanging in the air like a spectral warning. Unable to tear my gaze away from the glint of the revolver's barrel, I swallowed hard, my throat dry with fear and adrenaline. The revolver pressed against my side, a silent reminder of the danger I now faced. 'Why?' I managed to choke out, my voice barely a whisper in the oppressive silence of the graveyard. The figure hesitated, their grip tightening imperceptibly on the weapon. 'Curiosity is a dangerous thing,' they replied cryptically. 'Some truths are better left undiscovered.' As the cold sensation of metal against my waist jolted me awake, I was immediately aware of a presence beside me in the Cadillac. Instinctively, my hand reached for the revolver tucked into my waistband, only to find it already drawn and pointed directly at me. A figure loomed in the dim moonlight filtering through the car window, their features obscured by shadows. The revolver, my own weapon, gleamed ominously in their grasp, its barrel steady and unwavering. Fear clenched my heart as I froze, every nerve on edge, unable to speak or move. The gravity of the situation hung heavy in the air, amplified by the eerie silence that enveloped us in the graveyard. 'You weren't supposed to sleep,' a voice whispered, low and tinged with an unsettling calmness. It was a voice I didn't recognize, neither distinctly male nor female, carrying a weight of authority that sent a chill down my spine. My mind raced with questions, but my voice failed me. Who was this intruder? How had they found me? And most pressing of all, what did they want? The figure leaned closer, their breath ghosting against my ear as they spoke again, their tone betraying no emotion. 'You seek answers that should remain buried,' they murmured, their words hanging in the air like a spectral warning. Unable to tear my gaze away from the glint of the revolver's barrel, I swallowed hard, my throat dry with fear and adrenaline. The revolver pressed against my side, a silent reminder of the danger I now faced. 'Why?' I managed to choke out, my voice barely a whisper in the oppressive silence of the graveyard. The figure hesitated, their grip tightening imperceptibly on the weapon. 'Curiosity is a dangerous thing,' they replied cryptically. 'Some truths are better left undiscovered.' 'Why do you want to know so much about the Doe family?' the figure demanded, the question carrying an edge of suspicion. 'I need to understand John Doe,' I said, my voice trembling but resolute. 'He’s my patient. I believe there's more to his story, something buried in his past.' 'John?' The figure exhaled sharply, a trace of emotion finally piercing their cold exterior. 'FUCK,' they muttered under their breath, tossing the revolver into the back of the car. 'I'm sorry for threatening you with that. Do I get another chance for a proper introduction?' The moonlight shifted, casting enough light for me to see the figure more clearly. He stepped back, allowing me to sit up and face him. His face, now visible, was lined with years of hardship, yet his eyes held a glimmer of something familiar. 'I'm David,' he said, extending a wary hand. 'David Doe. John's father.' Shock and confusion warred within me. 'You're... his father? But how? Everyone thought you were dead.' David nodded grimly. 'I had to disappear. Jane... she tried to cast something over me, something dark. I managed to play dead and escape, but I've been hiding ever since. Living in the shadows here, on the village's graveyard.' 'Why didn't you come forward? Why didn't you try to help John?' My questions tumbled out, driven by a mixture of anger and empathy. 'I was afraid,' David admitted, his voice breaking. 'Afraid of what Jane had become, of what she might do if she knew I was alive. And when someone started asking about my family, I thought it was her, or someone connected to her. That's why I approached you tonight.' I took a deep breath, trying to process the revelation. 'So you’ve been watching over John from a distance?' 'As much as I could,' David said, his shoulders slumping. 'But it was never enough. I failed him.' The gravity of David’s confession weighed heavily in the air. This man, who had once been a husband and father, was now a shadow of his former self, haunted by the past and the family he had left behind. 'I don't know if I can trust you,' I admitted, my voice softening. 'But if you have information that can help John, I need to hear it.' David nodded, his expression resolute. 'I’ll tell you everything I know. But not here. It’s not safe. Follow me.' As David led me deeper into the graveyard, my mind churned with questions. The truth about John Doe's past was beginning to unfold, and with it, the promise of understanding the darkness that had consumed his life. David led me through the graveyard, the path winding between gravestones and gnarled trees until we reached a small, dilapidated shed tucked away in a corner. The structure looked as if it had been cobbled together from salvaged wood and scraps, but it was sturdy enough to withstand the elements and provide a semblance of shelter. David pushed open the creaky door, revealing a surprisingly well-kept interior. It was modest, with a cot in one corner, a small table and chairs, and shelves lined with canned goods and other necessities. A small stove occupied one corner, and a kettle sat on top, steaming gently. 'Tea?' David asked, his voice softer now, almost gentle. 'Yeah, sure. I didn't drink or eat much today,' I replied, feeling the weariness of the past days settling over me like a heavy blanket. David busied himself with the tea, and I took a seat at the table, my mind racing with questions and revelations. After a few minutes, he placed a steaming mug in front of me and took a seat opposite. We sipped our tea in silence for a moment, the warmth seeping into my bones and easing some of the tension. Finally, David broke the silence. 'I don't even know where to start,' he admitted, his gaze distant. 'Tell me everything,' I urged. 'We need to piece this together if we're going to help John.' David nodded slowly, gathering his thoughts. 'Jane and I met in Hollow Creek. It was a quiet place, perfect for raising a family. Or so I thought. At first, everything was normal. But then, Jane started changing. She became obsessed with the occult, convinced she had powers, that she could control things, people. It was like she was someone else entirely.' I listened intently, the pieces of John’s story starting to form a clearer picture. 'What kind of things did she do?' 'At first, it was small stuff. She’d hold séances, read tarot cards. But then it escalated. She started talking about curses and spells. She claimed to see things, hear voices. It frightened John. It frightened me too. But she was my wife. I thought I could help her, save her from whatever had taken hold of her.' David’s hands trembled slightly as he spoke, the memories clearly painful. 'One night, she tried to cast a spell on me. I don’t know what she thought she was doing, but it felt real. I played along, pretended it worked, then ran. I knew if I stayed, she’d do something worse.' 'What about John?' I asked, my heart aching for the boy who had been left behind. 'I wanted to take him with me,' David said, his voice breaking. 'But she wouldn’t let him go. She kept him close, convinced he was part of her power. I thought about going back, but the fear… it paralyzed me. I failed him.' I reached out, placing a hand on David’s arm. 'You did what you thought was right. You survived. Now we need to help John. I think... I think Jane’s power over him is psychological. She believes she’s a witch, but it’s all in her mind. If we can break that hold she has on him…' David shook his head vehemently. 'It’s too dangerous. She’s unstable. You don’t know what she’s capable of.' 'I have to try,' I insisted. 'John is my patient. He’s counting on me. We need to confront her, make her see the truth.' David’s eyes were filled with fear and regret. 'You don’t understand. She can be… persuasive. She gets inside your head. I don’t want you to end up like me, running and hiding.' 'But we have to do something,' I countered. 'We can’t just leave John to suffer. If we work together, we can find a way.' David was silent for a long time, the weight of his experiences evident in his haunted gaze. Finally, he sighed deeply. 'Alright. But we need a plan. We can’t just walk in there unprepared.' 'We’ll find a way,' I said firmly, hoping to instill some confidence in him. 'But first, I need to know everything. What exactly did Jane do to make you so afraid? What did John see and hear?' David took a deep breath, then began to recount the dark history of the Doe family, each detail more harrowing than the last. He spoke of Jane’s erratic behavior, the strange rituals she performed, the way she manipulated those around her, making them believe in her supposed powers. He described the fear that permeated their home, the cold drafts and odd shadows, and the voices John claimed to hear, voices that drove him to the brink of madness. As David spoke, I shared what I knew of John’s current state, his fragmented memories, his outbursts of violence, and his desperate need for help. We exchanged every detail, hoping to piece together a coherent picture of the past that could guide us in our efforts to save him. Hours passed as we talked, the tea growing cold and the shadows lengthening outside. Despite the daunting nature of the task ahead, a sense of determination began to take root. We had to confront Jane, to break her hold over John and unravel the web of fear and manipulation that had ensnared them both. Finally, as the night deepened, David’s resolve seemed to strengthen. 'If we’re going to do this, we need to be careful. She’s dangerous, even if it’s all in her head. But if we can get through to her, maybe we can save John. Maybe we can save us all.' David and I spent hours formulating our plan. It was simple but the only way I could convince David to take the risk. Armed with my revolver and David’s insistence on carrying a shotgun, we prepared to confront Jane in her secluded haven. David would stay outside, close enough to intervene if things went sideways, but distant enough to avoid Jane’s manipulative reach. Jane's home lay deep in the woods, a 20-minute drive through increasingly foreboding terrain. The further we ventured, the stranger the landscape became. Ragged dolls hung from tree branches, crude spears protruded from the ground, and bizarre symbols painted on rocks loomed in the headlights. It felt like driving into a twisted, nightmarish version of a children's fairy tale. Finally, we reached the house—a vivid yellow mansion that stood out starkly against the somber woods. It was as if someone had plucked a city townhouse and dropped it into the wilderness. The contrast was jarring, the house's pristine exterior a stark juxtaposition to the wild, eerie forest surrounding it. 'Remember, stay close but out of sight,' I instructed David. 'If things go wrong, come in fast.' David nodded, his face pale but resolute. 'Be careful,' he warned, his voice barely more than a whisper. I approached the door, every step feeling heavier with the weight of the task ahead. I knocked, and after a few moments, the door creaked open. Jane stood before me, her eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. She looked every bit the part she believed herself to be—clad in flowing robes, her hair wild, eyes burning with an intense, almost fanatical light. 'Who are you?' she asked, her voice sharp. 'I'm a friend of John's,' I replied, forcing a smile. 'I heard you could help me contact a dead family member. My mother... I need to speak to her.' Jane's eyes narrowed, searching my face for any sign of deception. After a tense moment, she stepped aside, allowing me to enter. The interior of the house was as surreal as the exterior—elegant furnishings clashed with strange artifacts and occult symbols, creating an atmosphere of eerie incongruity. 'Follow me,' Jane commanded, leading me to a room draped in heavy curtains, lit only by flickering candles. The air was thick with incense, the scent cloying and oppressive. As Jane began her ritual, chanting softly and swaying with an unsettling rhythm, I took the opportunity to snap a few photos with the old camera David had given me. Each click of the shutter felt like a step closer to the truth, a small act of defiance against Jane's delusions. When Jane finally closed her eyes and reached out her hands, claiming to channel the spirit of my 'dead' mother, I knew it was time. 'Mother,' she intoned, her voice dripping with theatrical intensity, 'speak to your child.' In that moment, I moved swiftly, pulling the handcuffs from my pocket. Before Jane could react, I clasped them around her wrists, securing her to the heavy wooden chair she sat in. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and fury. 'What are you doing?' she screamed, struggling against the restraints. 'I'm sorry, Jane,' I said firmly, 'but this has to stop. Your son needs help, and so do you.' Jane thrashed against the cuffs, her face contorting with rage. 'You don't understand! I have power! I can—' 'No,' I interrupted, my voice steady. 'You don't have power, Jane. It's all in your head. We're here to help you, to help John.' As Jane continued to struggle, I signaled David to come in. When he didn’t appear, I shouted his name again. Still no answer. My heart sank. 'Stay here,' I commanded Jane, though her restraints ensured she couldn't move. I rushed outside, the cool night air hitting my face as I searched for David. My flashlight beam danced over the ground until it landed on a figure lying in the garden. My heart raced as I approached, the dim light revealing David lying before a wooden cross, tears streaming down his face. He looked up at me, anguish etched into his features. 'She put this here for me,' he choked out, his voice breaking. 'She made me dig my own grave.' I was stunned, but there was no time to process it. I turned back toward the house, my mind racing with what to do next. As I reached the porch, a sudden blow struck the back of my head. Pain exploded in my skull, and everything went black. The last thing I saw was Jane, standing over me with a shovel, her eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of triumph. I awoke to the suffocating darkness of a confined space, my hands and feet bound tightly. Panic clawed at my chest as I struggled to get my bearings. I tried to calm myself, taking deep breaths and reminding myself that I was a trained psychiatrist. My mind raced to assess the situation, diagnose the madness that had ensnared me. Blinking against the darkness, I felt around with my bound hands, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The rough wooden walls and the dank, musty smell suggested a basement or a cellar. I strained to listen, catching faint murmurs from above. Suddenly, a sliver of light pierced the darkness as a door creaked open. Footsteps descended, and I squinted against the harsh light of a flashlight. My heart sank as I recognized David's silhouette. He wasn't tied up or incapacitated—he stood tall and unrestrained, holding a shotgun. 'David...?' My voice was hoarse, laced with confusion and betrayal. 'Why?' David stepped closer, his expression twisted with a manic intensity. 'It was never about saving John,' he said, his voice cold and detached. 'It was about completing the plan. You were the perfect pawn.' Before I could process his words, Jane's figure appeared behind him. Her eyes gleamed with a sick, fanatical light as she cradled a worn, leather-bound book. 'It's Mother's Day, you know,' she cooed, her voice dripping with unhinged affection. 'A mother should always be with her baby.' Realization dawned, sending a chill down my spine. This was no mere coincidence; it was a carefully orchestrated trap. David and Jane were complicit in a twisted game, their delusions feeding off each other. Jane's belief in her supernatural powers had been nurtured by David's own mental illness, creating a toxic symbiosis that had ensnared their son—and now me. 'John is the Antichrist,' David declared, his eyes wild. 'We need to break him, to save him. And you... you know how to get to him.' The terror in my chest threatened to overwhelm me, but I forced myself to remain calm. 'John isn't the Antichrist,' I said slowly, my voice steady despite the fear. 'He's just a boy, confused and manipulated by your madness.' David's expression darkened, and he stepped closer, pressing the cold barrel of the shotgun against my temple. 'You will tell us how to bring John back,' he hissed, 'or you will suffer.' The next hours blurred into a nightmare of pain and fear. They took turns torturing me—David with his brutal physicality, Jane with her erratic, almost childlike cruelty. Each blow, each cut, was punctuated by their demands for information. 'Tell us how to break him,' David growled, his fist connecting with my ribs. 'Tell us how to bring the Antichrist home,' Jane whispered, her fingers digging into a fresh wound. Despite the agony, my mind kept working, diagnosing the pathology behind their actions. Jane was a classic case of delusional disorder, her beliefs in her own supernatural abilities exacerbated by isolation and David's influence. David, on the other hand, displayed clear signs of paranoid schizophrenia, his delusions of grandeur and persecution blending seamlessly with Jane's fantasies. Their monologues revealed the twisted history that had led them to this point. Jane had always been mentally fragile, her delusions initially harmless. But David, with his own distorted perceptions of reality, had fed into her beliefs, nurturing her delusions and turning them into a shared psychosis. Together, they had created a narrative where their son was the Antichrist, and they were his unwitting guardians. I tried to reason with them, to use my skills as a psychiatrist to break through their delusions. 'Jane, David, listen to me,' I gasped through the pain. 'John is not what you think he is. He's just a boy, a victim of your illness. You need help.' But my words fell on deaf ears. They were too far gone, their minds too deeply enmeshed in their shared madness. Each attempt to reach them was met with renewed brutality. 'It's Mother's Day,' Jane sang again, her voice taking on a singsong quality. 'A mother should always be with her baby.' David's grip tightened on the shotgun, and he leaned in close, his breath hot against my face. 'You will give us what we want,' he whispered, his voice trembling with uncontained rage. 'Or you will die here.' The cold reality of my situation sank in. They were beyond reason, beyond help. My only chance of survival was to find a way out, to escape their clutches and expose the horrors that had consumed Hollow Creek. As the hours dragged on, their visits became sporadic, giving me brief moments of respite. I used these moments to gather my strength, to plan my escape. The cellar was dark and cramped, but I felt a small window near the ceiling. If I could just reach it... But before I could put my plan into action, they returned, their faces twisted with frustration and fury. Jane's eyes gleamed with a manic intensity as she held up a photo—one of the ones I had taken during her 'ritual.' 'You think you can outsmart us?' she shrieked, her voice high and brittle. 'You think you can escape?' David's grip on the shotgun tightened, and he advanced on me, his face contorted with rage. 'You will tell us how to break John,' he spat, 'or I will end you right here.' In that moment, I realized the depths of their madness. They would stop at nothing to achieve their twisted goals. My mind raced, searching for a way to turn their delusions against them, to find a crack in their shared psychosis that I could exploit. 'Alright,' I said, my voice shaking but resolute. 'I'll tell you how to break John.' David's eyes lit up with a sick satisfaction, and he stepped back, giving me room to speak. Jane leaned in, her face eager with anticipation. 'But first,' I continued, stalling for time, 'you need to understand the truth about John. The truth about why he acts the way he does.' Their expressions flickered with confusion and suspicion, but they were too desperate to question me. I had their attention, and I needed to use it wisely. 'John's behavior is a result of your actions,' I explained, my voice calm and measured. 'He's been traumatized, manipulated by your delusions. To break him, you need to confront your own madness, to see the reality of what you've done.' David's grip on the shotgun wavered, and Jane's face twisted with uncertainty. I pressed on, using their hesitation to my advantage. 'Look at each other,' I urged. 'See the truth. You're not fighting against an Antichrist; you're fighting against your own minds. The only way to free John is to free yourselves.' For a moment, hope flickered in my chest. Maybe, just maybe, I had reached them. But then David's face darkened with fury, and he raised the shotgun again. 'Lies,' he snarled. 'All lies. You're trying to trick us.' Before I could react, he swung the butt of the shotgun at my head. Pain exploded in my skull, and everything went black. The last thing I heard was Jane's voice, high and frenzied. 'It's Mother's Day. A mother should always be with her baby.' Darkness swallowed me whole. I awoke to the taste of blood and a throbbing pain in my head. My hands and feet were still bound, but I was alive. I had to get out of here. Every second I stayed, the more likely it became that David and Jane would finish what they had started. As I lay there, trying to gather my thoughts, the door to the cellar creaked open again. Footsteps echoed down the stairs, and I braced myself for another round of torment. But this time, it was Jane who entered, her eyes wild with an unhinged mixture of fear and determination. 'It's Mother's Day,' she whispered again, cradling her book of spells. 'A mother should always be with her baby.' My mind raced, searching for a way to use her delusions to my advantage. I needed to create a fissure in the symbiotic madness she shared with David. 'Jane,' I said, my voice barely a croak. 'You love John, don't you? You want to protect him.' Her eyes flickered with confusion and a hint of vulnerability. 'Of course,' she replied, her voice wavering. 'Then listen to me,' I urged, using every ounce of my psychiatric training to find the right words. 'David... David is the one hurting John. He's the one manipulating you. If you want to save John, you need to stop David.' Jane's expression twisted with uncertainty. 'No, you're lying,' she murmured, but there was doubt in her voice. 'Think about it, Jane,' I pressed. 'Why would a loving father put his family through this? Why would he hurt John and you? He's using your love for John to control you.' Her grip on the book loosened, and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of clarity in her eyes. But before I could push further, David's voice thundered down the stairs. 'Jane! What are you doing?' Jane's eyes widened in fear, and she turned to face David as he stormed down the stairs, shotgun in hand. His face was a mask of rage and suspicion. 'I was just... talking,' she stammered. David's eyes narrowed, and he raised the shotgun, aiming it at my head. 'Enough of this,' he growled. 'It's time to end it.' In that split second, I knew it was now or never. With a surge of adrenaline, I twisted my body and kicked out with all my might, knocking the shotgun out of David's hands. It clattered to the floor, and I scrambled to my feet, using the momentum to tackle David. We crashed to the ground, and David struggled for control. His strength was fueled by his madness, but desperation gave me an edge. I managed to get my hands on the shotgun and swung it with all my strength, striking David across the head. The room in David's brain was painted a deep shade of red, as the sound of the shotgun echoed through the room. Panting, I turned to Jane, who stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock. 'Jane,' I said, my voice urgent but gentle. 'It's over. You don't have to be afraid anymore. Come with me, and we'll find John together.' She looked at me, her expression torn between fear and a desperate need for hope. Slowly, she nodded, dropping the book and stepping toward me. I quickly untied my bonds and grabbed Jane's arm, leading her up the stairs and out of the cellar. The fresh air hit us like a wave of relief, but there was no time to savor it. I pulled out my phone and dialed the police, calling the ones from my city whom I trusted. I gave them our location and a brief, urgent summary of the situation. 'We need help,' I told them. 'I've got Jane Doe with me, and David... David is down. We need backup, now.' 'Stay put,' the dispatcher replied. 'Help is on the way.' We waited in tense silence, the weight of the night's horrors pressing down on us. Jane clung to me, her eyes darting around the darkened woods as if expecting David to rise from the dead and continue his torment. Minutes felt like hours, but eventually, the sound of approaching sirens broke through the night. Flashing blue and red lights illuminated the scene, and I waved down the first police car that arrived. Officers swarmed the area, securing David's lifeless body and ensuring our safety. As they took our statements, I kept a protective arm around Jane, who trembled with a mixture of fear and relief. 'It's going to be okay,' I murmured to her. 'You're safe now.' She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. 'Thank you,' she whispered, her voice breaking. 'Thank you for saving us.' I nodded, but inside, I knew the real work had just begun. Jane's journey to recovery would be long and difficult, but she had taken the first step. And as for John, I vowed to help him find his way back from the darkness that had consumed his family. As the police escorted us away from the nightmarish scene, I took one last look at the yellow farmhouse, its facade eerily out of place in the dense woods. It was a reminder of the twisted reality that had unfolded there—a reality born of delusion and manipulation, now finally brought to light After the ordeal in Hollow Creek, I drove back home in a daze, the events of the night replaying in my mind like a haunting filmstrip. The adrenaline that had sustained me through the confrontation with David and Jane began to ebb, leaving me physically and emotionally drained. The familiar route back seemed surreal, the dark roads and towering trees now tinged with the lingering shadows of the night's horrors. Arriving at my house, I parked the Cadillac in the driveway and sat for a moment, gathering myself before stepping out into the cool night air. Maxwell, my loyal companion, greeted me with an enthusiastic wag of his tail as I entered the house. His presence brought a small measure of comfort, a reminder of the normalcy that awaited me inside. I flicked on the lights, casting away the remnants of darkness that clung to my thoughts. The familiar surroundings of my home provided a grounding reassurance after the chaos of Hollow Creek. I shed my damp, blood-stained clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the physical and emotional residue of the night's events. Clean and composed, I dressed in fresh clothes and made my way to the asylum where I worked. Noah, my colleague and friend, greeted me with a mixture of relief and concern. 'Thank heavens you're alright,' Noah exclaimed, his normally composed demeanor momentarily cracking with emotion. 'We were worried sick.' 'I'm okay, Noah,' I assured him with a tired smile. 'It was touch and go for a moment, but I made it out.' Inside the asylum, amidst the sterile corridors and echoing footsteps, I found Jane and John under the watchful care of the staff. Jane, still fragile and haunted by her ordeal, looked up as I approached, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and lingering fear. 'Jane,' I said softly, taking a seat across from her. 'This is Noah, he's here to help us.' Noah nodded warmly, extending a reassuring hand to Jane. 'Hello, Jane. We're going to take good care of you.' Over the next few days, I immersed myself in therapy sessions with Jane and John, each session a delicate journey through the labyrinth of their shattered psyches. Jane sat across from me in the dimly lit therapy room, her hands clasped tightly together as if seeking refuge from the memories that haunted her. Her eyes, once bright and spirited, now held a haunted quality, reflecting the trauma of years spent under David's malevolent influence. Our sessions began tentatively, with Jane hesitant to revisit the horrors of Hollow Creek. I approached her with gentle encouragement, offering a safe space for her to explore her emotions and confront the painful truths buried deep within her psyche. 'Tell me about your earliest memories with David,' I prompted gently, knowing that unraveling the tangled web of manipulation would require patience and empathy. Jane's voice trembled slightly as she recounted the early days of her marriage, once filled with hope and love, now tainted by the insidious presence of David. She spoke of his charisma and charm, how he had swept her off her feet with promises of a life filled with love and happiness. But beneath the surface, there had always been a darkness, a shadow that grew larger with each passing year. 'He made me believe I had powers,' Jane confessed, her words laced with disbelief and shame. 'I thought I could communicate with spirits, cast protective spells. He convinced me that I was special, chosen for a higher purpose.' As Jane recounted the rituals and beliefs David had instilled in her, I listened intently, observing the subtle shifts in her demeanor and body language. It became clear that David had preyed upon Jane's vulnerability, exploiting her insecurities and manipulating her beliefs to maintain control over her and their son, John. In subsequent sessions, we delved deeper into Jane's experiences, exploring the moments of clarity when doubts about David's claims had surfaced, only to be suppressed by his relentless gaslighting and psychological coercion. Together, we unraveled the layers of deception that had obscured Jane's perception of reality, paving the way for her to reclaim her autonomy and sense of self-worth. For John, our sessions were focused on helping him make sense of the tumultuous events that had upended his young life. His trust shattered by the revelation of his father's true nature, John struggled to reconcile the loving image he had held of David with the reality of his manipulative and abusive behavior. 'He made me believe I was cursed,' John admitted quietly during one session, his gaze fixed on the floor. 'That there was something dark inside me, something dangerous.' I reassured John with a steady voice, guiding him through exercises aimed at challenging David's toxic narrative and fostering a positive self-image. Together, we explored John's talents and interests outside of his father's influence, building a foundation of self-esteem and resilience. Throughout our sessions, Noah, my trusted colleague, provided invaluable support, offering insights and therapeutic techniques that complemented my approach. Together, we created a cohesive treatment plan tailored to Jane and John's unique needs, ensuring a holistic approach to their healing journey. As the weeks passed, I witnessed Jane and John undergo a profound transformation. Jane shed the shackles of David's manipulation, embracing her newfound freedom with a quiet determination. John, too, grew stronger with each session, his youthful resilience proving to be a beacon of hope amid the darkness of their shared past. In our final session together, Jane and John sat side by side, their expressions marked by a mixture of relief and gratitude. They had come a long way since the nightmarish days in Hollow Creek, their bond as mother and son strengthened by their shared journey of healing and growth. 'You've both shown incredible courage,' I said softly, a sense of fulfilment washing over me as I witnessed their progress. 'Remember, healing is a journey, and you're not alone.' As Jane and John prepared to leave the asylum, their steps were lighter, their hearts freer. They would continue their lives with renewed hope and resilience, equipped with the tools and insights gained from our sessions together. For me, their journey had reaffirmed my commitment to the healing profession. The scars of Hollow Creek would fade with time, replaced by the resilience and strength that Jane and John had discovered within themselves. 'I have this guy coming into my office today. I don't know anything about him yet. His patient file says nothing. 'Steven! Were you able to find out anything about this kid?'” I shouted to my assistant as I hurriedly straightened the papers on my desk. The clock showed 9:55 AM, and my appointment was due in five minutes. Steven hurried into my office, a slight flush on his face from rushing. 'Sorry, Dr. Merkel. I tried reaching out to the referral source, but they didn't provide much detail. All we have is his name—Michael Knight—and his age, sixteen.' I nodded, trying to quell the curiosity gnawing at me. Sixteen was a pivotal age, a time when the adolescent mind teetered between childhood innocence and the complexities of adulthood. 'Thanks, Steven. That's better than nothing. Please let me know if you manage to find anything else before he arrives.' Steven nodded and left the office with a quick, 'Will do.' I glanced at the clock again—9:57 AM. I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for the session ahead. As a therapist, I'd seen my fair share of troubled teens, each with their unique stories and struggles. Michael Knight would be no different, I reminded myself. At exactly 10:00 AM, there was a tentative knock on my door. 'Come in,' I called out, my voice projecting a calmness I didn't entirely feel. The door opened, and in walked Michael Knight—a tall, lanky teenager with tousled brown hair and eyes that darted nervously around the room. Behind him, a woman followed, presumably his mother. Her face was etched with worry, and her hands clutched her purse tightly. 'Hi, Michael. I'm Dr. Erik Merkel,' I greeted warmly, extending my hand across the desk. 'Please, have a seat. And you must be Mrs. Knight?' She nodded, offering a strained smile. 'Yes, I'm Linda Knight. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.' 'Of course, Mrs. Knight. Please, both of you, have a seat.' They settled into the chairs opposite my desk, Michael's posture tense and withdrawn. Linda sat with a slight lean forward, as if ready to spring into action at any moment. 'I understand this might feel a bit nerve-wracking, coming to see a therapist,' I started gently, giving them a reassuring smile. 'Let's take it slow. How are you both feeling today?' Linda glanced at her son before responding. 'I'm... worried. Michael hasn't been himself lately. He's withdrawn, doesn't talk much, and I found... I found these.' She reached into her purse and pulled out a small bundle of cloth, unwrapping it to reveal a few blood-stained tissues. My Heart sank at the sight. Self-harm was a serious indication of internal turmoil. I nodded empathetically. 'I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Knight. Thank you for sharing this with me. Michael, would you like to tell me what's been going on?' Michael shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. 'I don't know. I've been feeling... off, I guess. My mom thinks I'm depressed or something.' 'Depression is something we can explore together,' I offered gently. 'It's important for me to understand what's been going on in your life lately. Anything in particular that's been bothering you?' He sighed, his gaze fixed on the floor. 'I... I don't know where to start.' 'That's okay,' I reassured him. 'We can start wherever feels right for you. Take your time.' Michael glanced up at me briefly before looking away again. 'Can I... can I trust you?' His question struck a chord within me, a reminder of the delicate trust that needed to be nurtured between therapist and patient. 'Absolutely, Michael. Anything you say here is confidential. You can trust me.' He nodded slowly, as if coming to a decision. 'There's this... person,' he muttered. 'They hurt me.' A chill ran down my spine. The introduction of another figure could point to several possibilities—Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), or even an abusive relationship. I needed to tread carefully. 'Can you tell me more about this person?' I asked softly. Michael shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. 'I don't want to talk about it.' Linda reached over to touch his arm, but he flinched away, a reaction that didn't go unnoticed. I made a mental note to explore the dynamics of their relationship further. 'That's okay, Michael,' I said gently. 'We don't have to talk about it right now. But I'm here to help you, and we can take things one step at a time. Is that alright?' He nodded reluctantly. Turning to Linda, I offered a reassuring smile. 'Mrs. Knight, it might be helpful if you could give us a few minutes alone. Sometimes it's easier for young people to open up without their parents present.' She hesitated but then nodded. 'Of course, Dr. Merkel. I'll be right outside if you need me.' Once she had left, I turned my full attention to Michael. 'Michael, I want you to know that you're safe here. Nothing you say will leave this room. Can you tell me a bit more about how you've been feeling?' He took a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as if under a great weight. 'I feel... scared. All the time. And angry. I don't know why.' I couldn't help but reflect on the possible diagnoses. Dissociative Identity Disorder was a distinct possibility, especially if Michael felt as though another personality was influencing his actions. PTSD could also manifest with intrusive thoughts and a feeling of being out of control. Something seemed off, and I needed more information to make a clear diagnosis, but it was evident that Michael was dealing with something complex and deeply rooted. 'Michael, what you're describing sounds very challenging. It sounds like this person in your head is causing you a lot of distress. Do they have a name?' He looked up at me, eyes wide with fear. 'They call themselves Max.' Max. An alter ego, perhaps? Or a manifestation of his trauma? I needed more information, but it was clear that Michael was struggling with something significant. 'Thank you for telling me, Michael. It's important that we understand who Max is and why he's appearing now. We'll work together to figure this out, okay?' He nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 'Okay.' As the session neared its end, I wanted to ensure Michael felt supported and understood. 'You've done great today, Michael. I know it wasn't easy to talk about these things, but it's an important first step. Next time, I think it would be helpful if you came in alone. It might make it easier for you to share more about what you're experiencing. Is that okay with you?' He hesitated for a moment before nodding. 'Yeah, I can do that.' 'Good. We'll take it one step at a time. You're not alone in this, Michael. We'll figure it out together.' I stood up and walked him to the door where his mother was waiting. 'Mrs. Knight, thank you for your patience. Michael did very well today. We'll be scheduling another session, and I'd like him to come in alone next time. It can sometimes help young people open up more freely.' Linda looked relieved. 'Of course, Dr. Merkel. Whatever you think is best.' As they left, I couldn't help but feel a mix of concern and determination. Michael was facing a battle within himself, one that reminded me of my own struggles as a teenager. I was committed to helping him find the strength and clarity he needed, just as Dr. Merkel had done for me years ago. After Michael and his mother left my office, an unsettling feeling lingered in the back of my mind. There was something about Michael's case that felt different, more urgent, and enigmatic. The mention of Max, this other 'person' in his head, was particularly alarming. Dissociative Identity Disorder was a rare and complex condition, and I needed to gather more information to understand what was really happening with Michael. As much as I wanted to dive deeper into his history right away, I knew I'd have to wait. Patient confidentiality and ethical guidelines meant that I couldn't just start investigating his past without his consent. For now, I had to be patient and hope that Michael would open up more in our next session. The rest of my day dragged on, filled with two uneventful sessions that did little to distract me from my thoughts about Michael. The first was with Mrs. Henderson, an elderly woman who came in weekly to discuss her minor grievances with her neighbors and the local grocery store. Her complaints were predictable and routine, lacking the emotional depth or urgency that typically demanded my full attention. I listened patiently, offering the same practical advice I always did, but my mind kept drifting back to Michael. The second session was with Tom, a middle-aged man struggling with work-related stress. While his issues were valid, our conversations had become repetitive over the months, revolving around the same office politics and minor disputes. Today was no different, and I found myself going through the motions, providing the same coping strategies and stress management techniques we had discussed countless times before. By the time the last session ended, I felt mentally exhausted, not from the work itself but from the weight of the unanswered questions Michael's case had stirred within me. I knew I needed to be fully present for my patients, but today, my thoughts were elsewhere. As I locked up my office for the night, the silence only amplified my lingering curiosity. Who was Max? What kind of trauma had Michael experienced to create such a vivid and disturbing alter ego? The pieces of the puzzle were scattered, and I was eager to start putting them together. That night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts kept circling back to Michael. I replayed our conversation in my mind, analyzing every word and gesture for clues. The fear in his eyes when he mentioned Max was genuine and haunting. It was clear that Michael was battling something far more sinister than typical adolescent angst. The darkness of my bedroom seemed to mirror the mystery surrounding Michael's case. I knew that the next steps would be crucial in gaining his trust and uncovering the truth. As sleep finally began to overtake me, one thought remained clear in my mind: Tomorrow morning, Michael would be back, and I would be ready to help him navigate the shadows that plagued his mind. Who is Max? The question echoed in my mind as I drifted off, knowing that the answers were out there, waiting to be discovered. I woke up two hours before my alarm, the remnants of a restless sleep clinging to me like cobwebs. It was still dark outside, and the house was eerily quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. My thoughts immediately drifted to Michael and the cryptic mention of Max. The unresolved questions gnawed at me, and I knew I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep. Deciding to make the most of the early start, I slipped out of bed and padded to the kitchen. I put the kettle on for tea, choosing a blend of Earl Grey that had always been my favorite. As the water heated, I prepared a simple breakfast of toast with jam and scrambled eggs. Tea in hand, I stepped outside onto the patio. My house, a charming Victorian with white trim and large bay windows, was nestled in a quiet suburban neighborhood. The morning air was crisp, and the first light of dawn was just beginning to streak the sky with shades of pink and orange. The garden, meticulously maintained, was a riot of blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. It was a sanctuary, a stark contrast to the turmoil I often encountered in my office. I settled into a wicker chair and opened the book I had been reading, 'Jaws' by Peter Benchley. It was a gripping tale, but today, my mind wandered, unable to fully immerse in the story. The thought of how to approach today's session with Michael occupied my mind. I needed to create a safe and trusting environment where he felt comfortable enough to share more about Max and the mysterious turmoil he was experiencing. The clock on the wall struck 7:00 AM, jolting me from my thoughts. I closed the book, took a final sip of my now lukewarm tea, and headed back inside to get ready. I dressed in my usual professional attire, choosing a navy blue suit that exuded both confidence and approachability. I got into my car, a sleek, black 1967 Mustang that I cherished. The engine roared to life, and I set off towards my office, the quiet suburban streets slowly waking up around me. The drive was peaceful, giving me more time to mentally prepare for the day ahead. Arriving at my office building thirty minutes early, I was surprised to see Michael already waiting outside. He stood there, shifting nervously from foot to foot, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked worried, stressed. The early morning light cast long shadows, and the quiet street made his presence feel even more poignant. Parking the car, I took a deep breath and stepped out, ready to begin what I hoped would be a breakthrough session with Michael. I stepped out of my Mustang, the engine still purring softly as I closed the door behind me. 'Hey, buddy,' I called out to Michael, a smile on my face. 'You're here early. Want to go inside and get a head start?' 'Sure,' he answered, his voice subdued and different from yesterday. There was an air of apprehension about him, a tension that seemed to cling to him like a shadow. As we walked towards the office door, I made some small talk to ease the atmosphere. 'So, it's just you and me today,' I said, unlocking the door. 'My assistant, Steven, doesn't work on Saturdays. It's nice to have the place to ourselves for a change.' Michael nodded, his eyes darting around the quiet, empty office as we stepped inside. The familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeted us, along with the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The office, with its warm earth tones and cozy furnishings, was designed to be a welcoming space—a sanctuary for those seeking solace and understanding. I gestured for Michael to take a seat on the couch, a comfortable piece of furniture positioned near the large window that let in the morning light. He sat down, but his posture was still tense, his body rigid as if bracing for impact. 'Can I get you anything? Water, maybe some tea?' I offered, trying to put him at ease. 'No, thank you,' he replied, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I settled into my chair opposite him, giving him space but also ensuring he felt my presence. 'Alright, Michael,' I began, my tone gentle and encouraging. 'We can take things at your pace today. There's no rush.' He nodded again, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before darting away. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock, the calmness of the office contrasting with the turmoil I sensed within him. 'Yesterday, we talked a bit about what brought you here,' I said, easing into the conversation. 'And you mentioned Max. Can you tell me more about him?' Michael's gaze flickered, a flash of something—fear, perhaps—crossing his face. He hesitated, his lips parting as if to speak, but then he closed his mouth again, swallowing hard. It was clear that opening up was going to be a slow process. 'It's okay if you're not ready,' I reassured him. 'We can talk about anything you feel comfortable with. What's important is that you're here and that we're talking.' He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. 'Max... he's not real,' Michael finally said, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded, absorbing his words. 'Not real, you say. Tell me more about that. When do you see him?' Michael shifted on the couch, his hands tightening into fists. 'Sometimes. Mostly when things are bad. He... he hurts me.' I leaned forward slightly, maintaining eye contact. 'Michael, when you say Max hurts you, do you mean physically?' He nodded, a shiver running through him. 'Yes. But no one else can see him. They think I'm making it up.' I frowned, pondering the implications. Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID)? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)? There were numerous possibilities, each requiring careful consideration. 'Thank you for sharing that with me, Michael,' I said softly. 'I want you to know that I believe you, and we're going to work through this together. Next time, though, I'd like you to come in alone. It's important that we have a space where you can feel completely open to talk about anything.' He looked at me, uncertainty in his eyes, but he nodded. 'Okay.' 'Good,' I said, smiling gently. 'For now, let's take things one step at a time. We'll figure this out together.' The head start gave us enough time today to establish a foundation of trust and understanding. Michael seemed slightly more at ease by the end of our session, and I felt a sense of cautious optimism about our future sessions. As Michael stood up, he hesitated for a moment before lifting his shirt slightly. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the bloody wounds burned into his skin, red and raw. It became painfully clear why he had been so tense. 'Max did these,' he said, his voice a mixture of shame and fear. 'When?' I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady. 'After training yesterday,' he replied, his eyes downcast. I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to react emotionally. I needed to stay calm for his sake. 'Michael, I need to make a call.' His eyes widened in panic, filling with tears. 'Please don't tell anyone. They'll think I'm crazy.' My heart ached at the desperation in his voice. 'I'm not telling anyone,' I assured him softly. 'But I need to call a fellow doctor. He will treat these wounds. We need to take care of you.' Michael hesitated, his fear palpable. 'Okay...' he whispered, his voice trembling. I reached out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him directly in the eyes. 'Michael, I want you to know that I believe you. And I'm here to help you. No one is going to think you're crazy. You're not alone in this.' His tears spilled over, running down his cheeks. 'I'm so scared,' he admitted, his voice breaking. 'I know,' I said, my own voice thick with emotion. 'But we're going to get through this together. You're safe here, and I'm going to make sure you get the help you need.' He nodded, his small, frail frame shaking with silent sobs. I stood up and went to my desk, picking up the phone to call my trusted colleague, Dr. Evans, a compassionate and skilled physician. 'Hello, Dr. Evans? It's Erik Merkel. I have a patient here who needs immediate medical attention. Can you come to my office right away?' I glanced back at Michael, who was still standing, his shirt clutched in his hands. 'Thank you, I appreciate it.' I hung up the phone and walked back to Michael. 'Dr. Evans will be here soon. He's very good at what he does, and he'll take care of you.' Michael nodded again, his tears slowly subsiding. 'Thank you,' he whispered. 'You don't have to thank me,' I said gently. 'It's my job to help you, and I promise I will do everything I can to make sure you're safe and well.' As Michael stood up, he hesitated for a moment before lifting his shirt slightly. My breath caught in my throat as I saw the bloody wounds burned into his skin, red and raw. It became painfully clear why he had been so tense. 'Max did these,' he said, his voice a mixture of shame and fear. 'When?' I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady. 'After training yesterday,' he replied, his eyes downcast. I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to react emotionally. I needed to stay calm for his sake. 'Michael, I need to make a call.' His eyes widened in panic, filling with tears. 'Please don't tell anyone. They'll think I'm crazy.' My heart ached at the desperation in his voice. 'I'm not telling anyone,' I assured him softly. 'But I need to call a fellow doctor. He will treat these wounds. We need to take care of you.' Michael hesitated, his fear palpable. 'Okay...' he whispered, his voice trembling. I reached out and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, looking him directly in the eyes. 'Michael, I want you to know that I believe you. And I'm here to help you. No one is going to think you're crazy. You're not alone in this.' His tears spilled over, running down his cheeks. 'I'm so scared,' he admitted, his voice breaking. 'I know,' I said, my own voice thick with emotion. 'But we're going to get through this together. You're safe here, and I'm going to make sure you get the help you need.' He nodded, his small, frail frame shaking with silent sobs. I stood up and went to my desk, picking up the phone to call my trusted colleague, Dr. Evans, a compassionate and skilled physician. We sat down together, the weight of the moment heavy between us. The silence was broken only by the sound of Michael's occasional sniffles and the ticking of the clock on the wall. I broke the ice, gently probing, 'Did Max do something else to you?' Michael hesitated, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. It was clear he still didn't fully trust me. I needed to bridge that gap, to become someone he could rely on. Making a decision that could potentially risk my license, I wrapped an arm around him. If anyone found out, I could face severe repercussions, but right now, Michael's well-being was all that mattered. To my relief, Michael didn't pull away. Instead, he rested his head on my shoulder, his body trembling with the weight of his emotions. 'Will you tell my mother?' he asked, his voice barely a whisper. 'No, Michael, I won't,' I assured him softly. 'Everything that you say in this room always stays here.' 'But what if my mom asks?' he pressed, his fear palpable. 'I don't care,' I said firmly. 'She is not my patient... uh, I mean, friend. You are.' Michael seemed to relax a fraction, the tension easing from his shoulders. 'Well, Max did...' he started, but then abruptly stopped, looking down at himself, his face a mask of anguish and confusion. I couldn't believe it. Who was this Max? What kind of power did he hold over Michael? 'Where do you...' I began to ask, trying to understand the depth of his torment, but I was interrupted by the door opening. Dr. Evans, an old college friend of mine, entered the room. His presence was a stark contrast to the emotional storm brewing within these walls. Tall and composed, with a reassuring demeanor, he took in the scene with a quick, assessing glance. 'Erik, what's going on?' he asked, his voice calm but laced with concern. 'Dr. Evans,' I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil within me, 'Michael needs your help. He has some injuries that need immediate attention.' Dr. Evans moved closer, his eyes softening as he looked at Michael. 'Hello, Michael. I'm Dr. Evans. I'm here to help you, okay?' Michael nodded, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. 'Can I take a look at your injuries?' Dr. Evans asked gently. Michael hesitated but then lifted his shirt again, revealing the angry, raw wounds. Dr. Evans' face remained professionally neutral, but I could see the flicker of horror in his eyes. He inspected the wounds carefully, his fingers gently probing the edges. 'Thank you for showing me, Michael,' Dr. Evans said softly. 'These wounds need to be treated to prevent infection. You're very brave.' As Dr. Evans began to treat Michael's wounds, I sat beside them, my mind racing. The emotional weight of the moment was suffocating. The horror of Michael's situation was palpable, and the room felt colder, darker. 'Michael,' I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady, 'can you tell Dr. Evans and me more about Max? It's important we understand everything so we can help you.' Michael glanced at me, then at Dr. Evans, his eyes filled with a deep, haunting sadness. 'I only want to tell you,' he whispered, clutching my sleeve tightly. Dr. Evans finished treating the wounds in silence, respecting Michael's wish to speak only to me. Before leaving, he leaned in close, whispering into my ear, 'There are burns, probably done by someone. See the bruises? Be careful with this one, Erik.' I nodded, acknowledging his words. As Dr. Evans left the room, I turned my full attention back to Michael. 'You're safe here, Michael. You can tell me anything.' Michael's eyes filled with tears again, and he rested his head back on my shoulder, seeking comfort in the simple act of human connection. As I held him, I knew that this was just the beginning. The battle for a better life. I dared to ask again, my voice gentle but insistent, 'Who is Max? Where do you know him from?' Michael hesitated before answering, 'Well, Max, actually Maxwell, is on my volleyball team. We play for the church. He's also in my choir.' 'And when does he hurt you?' I pressed, trying to keep my tone steady. 'After I look at him. After the training, or the choir,' Michael replied, his voice trembling. 'I have this book, but only Max can open it.' My mind raced. 'What do you mean only Max can open it? Where is it?' 'Where nobody can find it,' he said, his demeanor shifting. He seemed completely different now, a sudden change that unsettled me. Speculating internally, I considered the possibility of abuse. The wounds, the fear, the secrecy—it all pointed towards something sinister. But why? What was the full extent of this torment? Michael pulled away from my embrace, standing up abruptly. 'I have to go now. It's training in an hour. I can't let them—Max—wait.' 'Okay, see you on Monday,' I said, trying to mask my concern with a calm demeanor. As he left, I felt a wave of frustration and worry wash over me. Michael's situation was far more complex and dire than I had initially thought. The mention of a mysterious book that only Max could open added another layer of confusion. I grabbed my coat and hurried outside, heading to my car. I needed to follow Michael, to see for myself where he went and what he did. I kept a good distance, making sure not to be seen as I tailed him through the quiet streets of the suburban neighborhood. Michael walked with a purposeful stride, his destination clear in his mind. I followed him through the town, the morning light growing stronger as the sun climbed higher. After a few blocks, he turned down a street that led towards the church. He entered the church grounds, a large and imposing building with stained glass windows and a tall steeple. The church was a central part of the community, a place where people gathered for worship and social activities. Michael made his way to the side entrance, presumably heading towards the choir practice room. Parking my car a short distance away, I watched as he disappeared inside. The church grounds were quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of voices and the occasional chirp of birds. I knew I needed to tread carefully. Following him inside could raise suspicion, but I had to know what was happening. I decided to wait outside for a bit, observing the comings and goings. After a few minutes, I noticed other kids arriving, some carrying choir books, others with volleyball gear slung over their shoulders. It seemed like a regular Saturday morning practice session, but knowing what Michael had shared, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. After ensuring that Michael was safely inside and not going anywhere else, I debated my next move. Should I confront Maxwell? Should I try to find this mysterious book? The options raced through my mind as I pondered the best course of action. The minutes ticked by, and I finally decided to make my way towards the church. I needed to see for myself what was happening inside. Keeping a low profile, I approached the side entrance Michael had used and quietly slipped inside, my heart pounding in my chest as I navigated the dimly lit hallways. I cautiously entered the church, my footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit hallway. The distant sound of choir boys singing reverberated through the ancient stone corridors, creating an atmosphere both solemn and eerie. My senses were on high alert, every nerve tingling with anticipation and apprehension. I had followed Michael down into the basement, his hurried steps echoing faintly ahead of me. His movements were purposeful, as if he had navigated these narrow passages countless times before. The flickering candlelight illuminated the way, casting dancing shadows that played tricks on my eyes. As I reached the small room where Michael had disappeared, I peered through a crack in the door, careful to remain unnoticed. Inside, Michael sat on the cold stone floor, his expression intense as he clutched a small leather-bound book in his hands. Candles flickered around him, casting eerie shadows on the ancient walls. He seemed absorbed in the book, his brow furrowed in concentration. I strained to see what was written on the pages, but the distance and the dim light obscured the details. The atmosphere in the room was charged with an inexplicable tension, a palpable sense of secrecy and fear. Minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity as I waited for Michael to finish whatever ritual or contemplation he was engaged in. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional soft shuffle of his movements. Finally, the room fell into complete darkness as Michael stood up and left. I fumbled for my lighter, hands trembling as I struggled to find it in the darkness. With a flicker of flame, I managed to ignite it and used the dim light to search for a candle nearby. The small flame cast a feeble glow over the room, revealing the book lying abandoned in a corner. I approached it cautiously, my heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and dread. Opening it, polaroids spilled out onto the floor, each one more unsettling than the last. One photo showed Michael and another boy, smiling and relaxed as they posed together. Another captured them singing in the choir, their faces radiant with joy. But it was the photo that had slipped under a chair that caught my eye—a picture of Michael and Max kissing passionately. The words on each page of the book repeated: 'Max. I'm not human.' It made no sense, but as I pieced together the fragments of Michael's life, a chilling realization dawned on me. This book was more than just a collection of photos— —it was a portal into Michael's fractured psyche, a manifestation of his inner turmoil. This revelation struck me with the force of a revelation. The repeated mention of Max and the cryptic phrase 'I'm not human' hinted at something deeper, something psychological. Could Michael be struggling with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder? Swiftly, I gathered the polaroids and carefully placed them back into the book, closing it with trembling hands. I slipped it into the inner pocket of my coat, my mind racing with questions and theories. What did these images mean to Michael? Who was Max, and why did he hold such power over him? As I turned to leave, my foot bumped against something on the floor. Looking down, I saw drops of fresh blood—a stark reminder of the violence that lurked beneath the surface of Michael's seemingly ordinary life. Panic surged through me. I should have intervened sooner, should have protected him from whatever horrors he faced. I rushed through the corridors of the church, my breath coming in short gasps, desperate to escape the suffocating grip of the building. But as I reached the heavy wooden doors, I realized they were locked. They had closed silently behind me, trapping me inside with my thoughts and fears. Collapsing onto the cold stone floor of the church hall, I felt a mix of exhaustion and defeat wash over me. The echoes of hymns and footsteps filled the air, a haunting symphony that mirrored the secrets and darkness hidden within these ancient walls. I sat there, my mind spinning with the weight of what I had witnessed, the need to help Michael burning fiercely within me. The night stretched on, the church around me cloaked in silence, as I grappled with the daunting task of unraveling the mysteries of Michael's fractured reality. I sat in the cold, dark church hall, the flickering candle casting wavering shadows around me. The warmth it offered was feeble against the chill that permeated the air, seeping through the ancient stone walls. My mind raced with the events of the evening, the haunting images from the small leather-bound book still fresh in my memory. Carefully, I pulled out the book again, the soft leather cool against my fingertips. The polaroids spilled out once more, their edges worn and frayed from years of handling. Most of them depicted Maxwell in various mundane settings—a day at the beach, laughing with friends, posing for a family photo. Yet, two photos stood out amidst the others. One was marred by dried blood, stark against Maxwell's youthful smile as he stood bare-chested at the water's edge. The other, a seemingly innocent snapshot of Michael kissing Maxwell on the cheek, held a tension that belied its surface appearance. Maxwell's expression was one of discomfort, his eyes averted, a subtle rejection captured in the frozen moment. As I turned to the pages of the book, my heart sank with each repetition of the phrase, 'Max, I'm not human.' It was a refrain that echoed through Michael's torment, a testament to the inner conflict tearing him apart. But the last page was different. My breath caught as I read Michael's agonized confession: 'Max, I get excited about you. I think I like you, a lot. I think I even love you. But it's wrong. I'm not human. I want to kiss you, but that's wrong. Mom says it's wrong, says it's not human, not natural. God will send me to hell if I love you. But I want to. I don't want to get excited about you. I don't want to go to hell.' The words seared into my consciousness, each sentence dripping with anguish and self-loathing. Michael's struggle with his sexuality, compounded by societal condemnation and religious guilt, was laid bare on the page before me. It was a heartbreaking revelation of a young man torn between his feelings and the oppressive beliefs forced upon him. In that moment, I felt the weight of Michael's pain and confusion. The church around me seemed to close in, its ancient walls suffused with centuries of judgment and intolerance. How many others had suffered in silence within these confines, their identities suppressed and their desires condemned? The candle flickered, casting elongated shadows that danced along the cold stone floor. I closed the book gently, holding it against my chest as if to shield Michael's vulnerable words from the harsh world outside. In the dim light, I made a silent vow to protect him, to guide him through the darkness that threatened to consume him. But as I sat there, the realization dawned on me that I was trapped not only by physical barriers but by the enormity of the challenge ahead. Michael's journey towards self-acceptance and healing would be fraught with obstacles, not the least of which was the pervasive stigma against his very identity. I glanced at the drops of blood on the floor, a stark reminder of the violence that could erupt from fear and prejudice. The world outside these walls was unforgiving, and yet here, in this sacred space, I felt a glimmer of hope. It was a hope born from understanding and compassion, a belief that love, in all its forms, could transcend the darkness. With a sigh, I extinguished the candle, leaving the church in silence once more. The book remained tucked safely inside my coat. I awoke abruptly to the harsh light of a flashlight shining in my face. Startled, I blinked against the sudden brightness, struggling to orient myself in the dimly lit church hallway. The janitor stood before me, his weathered face etched with a mix of curiosity and irritation. 'I saw a light. What the hell are you doing here? It's 2 AM,' he grumbled, his voice gruff and unyielding. 'I got locked up in here. I was with the choir. If there was a thing like portable phones, I would have called somebody. Thanks for getting me out of here,' I explained, trying to sound composed despite the circumstances. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment, then grunted. 'You're welcome. Now get out of my church.' With that terse exchange, he turned and strode away, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. I followed closely behind, my footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridors. The church seemed eerily quiet now, devoid of the earlier presence of the choir and the hushed whispers of candles. As we reached the heavy wooden doors, the janitor unlocked them with a decisive click. The cool night air rushed in, carrying a scent of damp earth and distant city sounds. I stepped outside, feeling a wave of relief wash over me at the sight of my Mustang parked nearby. 'Thank you again,' I called out, my voice carrying a note of gratitude into the night. The janitor nodded curtly, his expression unreadable in the shadowed porch light. Without another word, he retreated back into the church, leaving me to gather my thoughts and reflect on the tumultuous events of the evening. The familiar sight of my vintage Mustang awaited, its silhouette stark against the night. Sliding into the driver's seat, I paused for a moment, gathering my thoughts. The engine rumbled to life as I navigated the quiet streets, the solitude allowing introspection to seep in. Memories of the evening's events replayed in my mind like scenes from a haunting film—Michael's haunted eyes, the cryptic book, and the desperate confession of forbidden love. The road ahead was deserted, the occasional headlights of passing cars momentarily breaking the darkness. Each turn of the wheel brought me closer to home, yet my thoughts remained anchored to the church, to Michael, and to the burden of his truth. The night seemed endless as I drove, the quiet hum of the engine a steady companion. The streets blurred into a monotonous landscape, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. I found solace in the rhythmic motion of driving, a semblance of control in a world fraught with uncertainty. Arriving home, the comforting sight of my Victorian house greeted me, its windows glowing faintly against the darkness. I parked the car with a sigh of relief, the weight of the evening's revelations still heavy upon my shoulders. Climbing the steps to my front door, I unlocked it with a sense of weariness mingled with determination. Inside, the warmth enveloped me like a familiar embrace. I kicked off my shoes and hung up my coat, the leather-bound book still nestled safely inside. The quiet of the house echoed with memories of the day's turmoil, a stark contrast to the serene facade it presented. In the dim light of the hallway, I paused, reflecting on the fragile threads that bound us all together—Michael's pain, the complexities of identity, and the unyielding struggle for acceptance. Tomorrow's session loomed ahead, a pivotal moment in Michael's journey towards healing and understanding. With a weary sigh, I retired to my study, the soft glow of lamplight casting a warm pool of illumination. I settled into my favorite armchair, a stack of unread books waiting patiently on the side table. Yet tonight, my thoughts drifted not to literature but to the enigma of Michael's existence, to the courage it took to confront his truth in the face of adversity. As the night wore on, sleep eluded me, my mind restless with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. The weight of responsibility lay heavy upon me, a silent vow to stand steadfast in the face of Michael's turmoil. And so, as the first light of dawn began to filter through the curtains, I found myself still awake, the flickering candle of hope burning within me. For in the quiet solitude of my study, amidst the pages of Michael's story yet to be told. The quiet solitude of my home, amid the faint flicker of candlelight, I reflected on the enigma that was Michael and the fragile complexities of human suffering. The day had been mundane, yet Michael's plight had left an indelible mark, stirring a mix of empathy, concern, and a determination to uncover the truth hidden within his troubled heart. Monday arrived with a heavy sense of anticipation and dread. The morning was a blur as I went through the motions, barely tasting the toast and scrambled eggs I forced down. The newspaper headlines were a jumble of meaningless words, my mind too preoccupied with thoughts of Michael and the risks I was about to take. As noon approached, the tension in my office was palpable. I instructed Steven to close the office door shut as soon as Michael arrived. My anxiety spiked with each passing minute as Michael ran late. 'Cancel the appointment after Michael,' I told Steven, my voice tight with urgency. 'We'll need the extra time.' When Michael finally arrived, his face was a mask of tension, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. The atmosphere was electric with unspoken fears. We sat down on the couch, the silence between us heavy and oppressive. 'Michael, today I want to try something with you,' I began, my voice trembling despite my effort to stay calm. The plan was fraught with risk, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. 'What is it?' Michael asked, his worry evident. 'First, I just have a few questions,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady. 'Did you ever have a girlfriend?' 'Well, no,' he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I didn't find any girl that I was interested in yet.' His eyes flickered with panic, and I knew he was lying. 'What about a boyfriend?' I pressed, my eyes locked on his. The reaction was immediate and explosive. 'Who told you?!' Michael shouted, his face contorted with fear and anger. He bolted for the door, but Steven had already locked it. 'Michael or Max, whatever your name is, Steven only opens the door when *I* tell him,' I said, my heart racing. The gravity of what I was doing hit me like a tidal wave. This could cost me my license, my career, even my freedom. 'I need to leave!' he screamed, his panic reaching a fever pitch. 'No, Michael, please sit down. We need to talk,' I pleaded, my voice shaking. But he didn't listen. He ran to my desk, his movements frantic and desperate. I realized with a jolt of terror that he was heading for the windows. 'Michael, no!' I shouted, lunging towards him. He was already trying to open the window when I grabbed him, pulling him into a tight embrace to stop him. He struggled against me, his body trembling with fear and rage. 'Shhh, come sit down. I'm not your enemy, we need to talk about this, to help you,' I whispered urgently, guiding him back to the couch. My hands were shaking as I closed the windows and locked them with a key, which I then pocketed. Michael's rage didn't abate, but at least he was sitting down again. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wild with confusion and fear. I could feel my own heart pounding, the adrenaline coursing through me. 'Michael, or Max, I understand that you're scared and confused. I just want to help you,' I said softly, my voice trembling with emotion. 'You're not alone in this. We can figure it out together, but you need to trust me.' He looked at me, his eyes filled with tears, a mixture of anger, fear, and desperation. For a moment, I thought he might bolt again, but he stayed put, his body tense and coiled like a spring. 'Please, Michael. We need to talk about what's happening to you. I promise, I'm here to help,' I whispered, hoping to reach through the chaos and find the boy who was crying out for help. The tension in the room was palpable as I sat back down, my heart still racing from the struggle. Michael’s body was rigid, his eyes darting around the room, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His rage simmered just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any moment. 'Michael,' I began gently, my voice trembling but determined. 'Can you tell me more about Max? What does he do that makes you so afraid?' Michael glared at me, his hands clenching into fists. 'Why do you keep asking about Max? I told you, he's just a guy from my volleyball team.' I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm and composed. 'I know it’s difficult, but I need to understand everything to help you. Does Max hurt you, Michael?' His eyes flashed with anger, and he stood up abruptly. 'You don't understand anything! Max is my friend, but he... he...' His voice broke, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the fear and confusion beneath his rage. But then his expression hardened again, and he turned away from me, pacing the room like a caged animal. 'Michael, please, sit down,' I urged, my own voice shaking. 'We need to talk about this. You're not alone.' He stopped pacing and turned to face me, his eyes blazing. 'I'm not crazy! I don’t need to be here!' 'You're not crazy, Michael. You're going through something incredibly difficult, and it's okay to ask for help,' I said softly, standing up to approach him cautiously. Michael backed away, his fists still clenched. 'I don’t need your help. I just need to get out of here!' His desperation was heartbreaking, and I knew I had to reach him somehow. 'Michael, I care about you. I want to help you through this. Can you tell me why you feel like you’re not human?' He froze at my words, his eyes widening. 'Who told you that?' he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief. 'No one told me, Michael. I read it in the book you have. The one only Max can open,' I replied, my heart pounding in my chest. Michael's expression shifted, and I saw the turmoil and pain etched in his face. 'I... I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to feel like this,' he said, his voice breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes, and for a moment, the anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by a profound sadness. I took a step closer, my hand outstretched. 'It's okay to feel scared and confused, Michael. It's okay to be angry. But you don’t have to go through this alone. I'm here for you,' I said softly. He looked at me, his eyes filled with tears, his body trembling. 'I don't know what to do,' he whispered, his voice barely audible. 'Let’s start by talking. Just talk to me, Michael. Tell me what you're feeling,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But the rage returned, fierce and sudden. 'I can't! You wouldn’t understand!' he shouted, turning away from me again. 'Try me,' I replied, my voice firm. 'I’m here to listen. Whatever it is, we’ll face it together.' Michael stood there, his back to me, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I could see the battle waging within him, the struggle between the fear, anger, and desperate need for connection. Finally, he turned around, his face streaked with tears, and took a hesitant step towards me. 'I don't want to be like this,' he whispered again, his voice filled with anguish. 'I know, Michael. And I’m going to do everything I can to help you,' I said softly, meeting his gaze with as much reassurance as I could muster. He nodded slowly, his anger still simmering but tempered by a flicker of hope. 'Okay,' he whispered, his voice barely audible. 'Okay,' I echoed, taking a deep breath. This was just the beginning, but it was a start. And together, we would find a way through the darkness. I took a deep breath and pulled out the picture of Michael and Max together. Holding it gently, I approached Michael, my heart pounding with a mixture of anxiety and determination. 'Michael,' I began softly, 'everything is fine. I already knew. Please, don't go crazy again. It's fine, completely normal to love someone. But why do you think it's not normal? Why don't you want to love?' Michael's eyes widened as he looked at the picture. He took it from my hand and stared at it, as if seeing it for the first time. 'Where did you get this?' he asked, his voice trembling. 'You know where,' I replied gently, watching his reaction closely. The tears welled up in his eyes, spilling over and cascading down his cheeks. It was as if the emotional dam had finally broken, releasing a torrent of pent-up feelings. What a fucking rollercoaster of emotions. I moved closer and laid my arm around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. He rested his head on my shoulder, a sense of déjà vu washing over me. 'Shhh, it's okay,' I murmured softly. 'Tell me everything. I'm listening.' Michael took a deep, shuddering breath and began to speak, his voice fragile but determined. 'Max and I... we've known each other since we were kids. We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, and joined the same church. He was always there, you know? My best friend. We did everything together.' He paused, his eyes distant as he recalled the memories. 'We joined the volleyball team and the choir together. It was like we were inseparable. But then things started to change. I started to feel... different. I didn't understand it at first. I just knew that I felt something more for Max, something deeper than friendship.' I listened intently, my heart aching for the young man beside me. Michael's voice trembled as he continued. 'I was so scared. I didn't want to feel that way. My mom always said that loving another boy was wrong, that it was unnatural. She said God would send people like that to hell. It terrified me.' Tears streamed down his face as he spoke, his words laden with pain and confusion. 'I tried to ignore it, to push those feelings away. But the more I tried, the stronger they became. I couldn't help it. I fell in love with Max. But I couldn't tell anyone. I was afraid they'd hate me, just like my mom said.' He paused, taking a moment to collect himself. 'Max never knew. I never told him. I was too scared. But then, one day, he kissed me. It was just on the cheek, but it felt like everything changed in that moment. I wanted so badly to kiss him back, but I was terrified. I thought if I did, it would make everything real, and then I'd really be doomed.' Michael's sobs grew heavier, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. I held him tightly, providing the support he so desperately needed. 'I kept pushing him away, trying to act like everything was normal. But inside, I was falling apart. Max noticed. He asked me what was wrong, but I couldn't tell him. I couldn't risk losing him, too.' He clung to me, his voice barely a whisper now. 'Then I started seeing Max everywhere, even when he wasn't there. He'd tell me things, horrible things. That I wasn't human, that I didn't deserve to love him. It got worse and worse. I thought I was losing my mind.' I nodded, understanding dawning on me. 'Michael, those voices, those things you see—it's not Max. It's a part of you that's been hurt, that's scared. It's a part of you that believes what your mom said. But it's not true. You're human, and you deserve to love and be loved.' Michael looked up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and despair. 'Do you really think so?' 'I know so,' I replied firmly. 'And we're going to work through this together. You don't have to be afraid anymore. You have the right to love, and no one can take that away from you.' For the first time, I saw a flicker of relief in Michael's eyes. The road ahead would be long and challenging, but together, we would face it. Michael's journey towards self-acceptance had begun, and I was honored to walk it with him. I held Michael in a comforting embrace, feeling his trembling form slowly start to calm down. An idea struck me, a potentially dangerous but necessary step to help him confront his inner turmoil. 'Michael,' I said softly, 'the book you told me about. I found it.' He jumped away from me, his eyes wide with terror. 'I think it's the trigger to all this—to you seeing Max, to you hurting yourself. I want you to burn it.' His eyes filled with fear as I stretched out a lighter and placed the book onto the couch table. 'Here, burn it,' I said firmly. 'I can't,' he whispered, his voice quivering with dread. 'DO IT,' I commanded, my voice rising for the first time with a patient. The shock of my outburst seemed to jolt him into action. Michael took the lighter, but tears welled up in his eyes once more. 'Can I at least have the photos?' he asked, his voice small and trembling. 'Of course,' I replied gently. He carefully extracted the photos from the book, his eyes reflecting a mixture of relief and fear. What was going on inside him was a battle I could only imagine. He laid the book back on the table, opened it in half, and with a trembling hand, lit a page. The flame caught quickly, consuming the paper and spreading to the rest of the book. We sat in silence, watching the book burn. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room, an odd tranquility settling over us as the flames devoured the pages. It was a literal bonfire on my couch table, and I could feel the heat radiating from it. Suddenly, the door burst open. Steven rushed in with a bowl of water. 'SOMETHING'S BURNING!' he yelled, and before I could stop him, he threw the water onto the flaming book. Michael and I were left sitting there, drenched and staring at the smoldering remains of the book. To my surprise, Michael started to laugh—a sound of pure, unburdened joy that filled the room. 'Steven, that was part of the session,' I said, trying to keep my own laughter in check. 'Oh, sorry,' Steven replied, looking sheepish as he stood with the empty bowl. 'It's okay,' I said, a small smirk forming on my lips. Michael's laughter was infectious, and I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope. Michael looked at me, his eyes bright and clear for the first time since he had entered my office. The weight of his secrets seemed to lift, and in its place, a tentative happiness emerged. I felt a sense of triumph, knowing that we had broken through a significant barrier together. 'Thank you,' Michael said softly, still smiling. 'I feel... I feel lighter.' 'That's good, Michael,' I replied, feeling a surge of relief. 'We're making progress.' The fire might have been extinguished, but the warmth of the moment lingered. For the first time, I saw a future for Michael free from the shadows that had haunted him for so long. It was a small victory, but it was a start, and I was determined to help him continue down this path toward healing and self-acceptance. 'Steven, leave us alone, please,' I said firmly. Steven nodded, his face a mask of concern, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. I turned back to Michael, who was now staring at the floor, his hands clenched into tight fists on his lap. His entire body radiated tension. 'Okay, Michael, I have one more thing to ask. Does your mother know?' The question hit him like a sledgehammer. His head snapped up, eyes wide with fear and shock. He started to panic, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. I could see the terror rising in him, threatening to consume him. [Note to myself- -> teach him meditation someday], I thought, already planning ways to help him manage these overwhelming emotions. 'Breathe, Michael, breathe,' I instructed gently, trying to calm him down. He stood up abruptly, his body stiff with fear, as if ready to bolt again. 'Michael, if you run away from problems, they won't get any better.' With a hard sigh and trembling breath, he sat down again. His whole body seemed to deflate as he finally began to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Well...' His voice trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. I stretched out my arms, inviting him to seek comfort. 'Come here,' I said gently. He leaned into me, his body shaking with sobs as he sought solace in the embrace. 'I tried to tell her,' he began, his voice cracking with emotion. 'But she beat me up. She started praying to God, telling me I'm going to hell.' 'Michael, she's wrong,' I said firmly, trying to infuse my voice with as much conviction as possible. 'But she is my mother,' he protested, his voice filled with a mix of loyalty, confusion, and despair. It was heartbreaking to see him still defending her, despite the abuse he had suffered. Typical of child abuse, I thought, feeling a surge of anger and protectiveness. The abused child still defending the abuser. 'No, Michael. She is your mother, yes, but she is as human as you are. We all make mistakes. Even if you love her, it doesn't make it better. Love towards her doesn't erase the hurt.' 'You think?' he asked, his eyes filled with uncertainty and a desperate need for reassurance. 'No,' I replied, my voice steady and unwavering. 'I know. That's a fact. No mother should treat her child like this.' 'But maybe...' His voice trailed off, filled with doubt and internal conflict. 'NO MAYBES,' I interrupted, my voice firm but compassionate. 'Okay?' 'Okay,' he said, his voice small and vulnerable. 'I want you to never lose faith in yourself. Be yourself no matter what others say.' 'But it's unnatural,' he whispered, the words heavy with years of internalized shame and fear. I could see the battle raging within him, the struggle to reconcile his identity with the beliefs that had been forced upon him. 'Michael, it is natural. All species of animals have gay pairs. And if God made us all, then He made you fall in love with Max.' A flicker of understanding crossed his face. For the first time, I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 'I guess you're right,' he said, his voice soft but more assured than before. It was a small victory, but a significant one. 'You are not alone in this, Michael. We will work through it together,' I assured him, my voice filled with determination. He nodded, a small, tentative smile forming on his lips. 'Thank you,' he said softly, the gratitude in his voice palpable. The weight of his mother's words still lingered, casting a shadow over his newfound hope. But I could see the beginnings of a change, the first steps towards self-acceptance and healing. This was just the beginning of a long journey, but I was determined to help him every step of the way. Michael deserved to live a life free from fear and shame, and I would do everything in my power to ensure that he did. As Michael sat back, a little more relaxed, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of responsibility. His journey was now intertwined with mine, and I was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. We sat in silence for a moment, the air filled with unspoken understanding and a shared resolve to move forward. For the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope for Michael's future. The road ahead would be difficult, but together, we would navigate it, step by step, towards a place of acceptance and peace. 'So, buddy, I have an idea,' I said, trying to keep the momentum going. 'Let's call your mom.' Michael's reaction was immediate and intense. 'NO! WHY?!!' he exclaimed, his face contorting with fear. 'I want to talk to her. Maybe she will listen to me,' I explained calmly. 'But if she doesn't, she's gonna beat me up, or even kill me,' he said, his voice trembling with dread. I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to reassure him. 'Michael, what about this—if she doesn't listen, you can move into my house. I have enough space for everyone, and I'm alone after all.' His eyes filled with tears again, but this time, there was a flicker of hope. 'But I want to live with my mother. I love her.' 'Do you really love her, or do you not want her to be alone?' I asked gently, hoping to make him reflect on his feelings. He looked down, his face a mask of contemplation. 'Hmm... you know what, fuck it. Let's do it.' I smiled, feeling a surge of hope. 'Steven, come back here,' I called out, my voice steady. Steven returned, a look of concern still etched on his face. 'Can you bring us some tea and call Michael's mother? We need to talk to her. And come sit with us,' I instructed. Steven nodded and quickly set about his tasks. Michael and I sat quietly, the weight of what we were about to do hanging heavily in the air. The moments stretched on, each second feeling like an eternity. Finally, Steven returned with a tray of tea and set it down on the table. 'Thank you, Steven,' I said, appreciating his calm efficiency. He picked up the phone and dialed Michael's mother's number. The tension in the room was palpable as we waited for her to answer. 'Hello, Mrs. Knight? This is Dr. Merkel. I'm with Michael, and we need to talk to you. Can you come over to the office, please?' Steven spoke clearly, his voice betraying no emotion. There was a pause, and then Steven handed me the phone. 'She wants to speak to you,' he said quietly. 'Mrs. Knight, this is Dr. Merkel. I would like to discuss some important matters about Michael. It's crucial for his well-being that we talk. Can you come to the office?' There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, she replied, her voice cold and distant. 'Fine. I'll be there in 20 minutes.' I hung up the phone and turned to Michael. 'She's coming. Remember, whatever happens, we're in this together.' Michael nodded, his face a mix of fear and determination. 'Okay.' We sat in silence, sipping our tea, each of us lost in our thoughts. Steven sat with us, his presence a steadying influence. We were preparing for a difficult confrontation, one that would hopefully bring some clarity and resolution to Michael's troubled life. After what felt like an eternity, there was a knock on the door. Steven stood up and opened it, revealing Linda Knight. Her face was stern, her eyes narrowing as she looked at me and then at Michael. 'Come in, Mrs. Knight. Please have a seat,' I said, gesturing to the chair next to Michael. She sat down, her posture rigid and defensive. 'What is this about, Dr. Merkel?' 'Thank you for coming, Mrs. Knight. We're here to talk about Michael and his well-being. He has been going through a very difficult time, and it's important that we address some issues together,' I began, keeping my voice calm and steady. Linda's eyes were hard as she glared at her son. 'What has he been telling you?' 'Michael has shared some very personal and painful experiences,' I replied, choosing my words carefully. 'It's clear that he is struggling with his feelings and needs support and understanding.' 'Feelings?' she scoffed. 'What kind of feelings?' 'Mrs. Knight, Michael is dealing with his identity and the way he feels about Max,' I said, trying to remain as neutral as possible. Her eyes flashed with anger. 'Is this about that nonsense again? I told him to stop with those lies!' 'These are not lies, Mrs. Knight,' I said firmly. 'These are real feelings that Michael is experiencing, and they are causing him a great deal of pain. It's crucial that we approach this with compassion and support.' Linda shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. 'I won't have this in my house. It's against everything we believe.' 'Beliefs can sometimes be challenged by the reality of our loved ones' experiences,' I said gently. 'Michael needs to know that he is loved and accepted for who he is.' She looked at Michael, her expression hardening. 'Michael, is this really how you feel?' Michael looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. 'Yes, Mom. This is who I am. I need you to understand and accept me.' The room fell silent, the weight of Michael's words hanging in the air. I could sense the tension mounting with every passing second, the fragile peace we had managed to achieve hanging by a thread. Linda Knight's hands trembled in her lap as she struggled to reconcile her love for her son with the beliefs that had governed her life. Michael, on the other hand, sat with a mixture of hope and apprehension, praying for acceptance but bracing for rejection. 'Mom, please,' Michael pleaded, his voice trembling with emotion. 'I need you to understand.' Linda looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and defiance. 'Michael, this is not right. You know what I believe...' 'Mrs. Knight,' I interjected gently, trying to defuse the tension, 'Michael is your son. He needs your love and support now more than ever.' She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. 'But this... I can't...' Michael's face fell, his shoulders slumping in resignation. 'I thought... I thought maybe...' Suddenly, without warning, Linda's expression hardened. In a flash of anger and fear, she lunged towards Michael, her hand raised as if to strike him. Shocked, I leaped forward, grabbing her arm firmly to stop her. 'Mrs. Knight, please,' I urged, my voice urgent and firm. 'Violence is not the answer.' Steven, sensing the escalating chaos, hurried into the room. 'Dr. Merkel, what's happening?' I glanced at him, my eyes pleading for assistance. 'Steven, help me get Michael out of here. Quickly.' With a nod of understanding, Steven moved swiftly to Michael's side, gently guiding him away from his mother's reach. Michael was visibly shaken, his eyes wide with fear and hurt. 'Linda,' I said firmly, my grip still on her arm, 'this is not how we resolve things. Please, calm down.' She struggled against my hold, her eyes blazing with anger and frustration. 'Let me go! He needs to understand...' 'Michael,' I called out, my voice steady despite the chaos around us, 'let's go. We need to leave.' Michael nodded silently, tears streaming down his cheeks. Together with Steven's help, we managed to lead him out of the office and towards my car parked outside. Linda's voice echoed behind us, pleading and desperate, but I knew we needed to go. As we drove away from my office, Michael was silent, lost in his own thoughts. I glanced at him occasionally, my heart aching for the turmoil he was experiencing. Finally, he spoke, his voice raw with emotion. 'Thank you, Dr. Merkel,' he said quietly, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the car window. 'You're welcome, Michael,' I replied softly. 'We'll figure this out together.' We drove in silence for a while, the weight of the day's events heavy upon us. Eventually, I broke the silence. 'Michael, do you have everything you need at home?' I asked gently, knowing the answer but needing to confirm. He shook his head slowly, a defeated expression on his face. 'No... I... I didn't think this would happen...' 'Let's go back to your place,' I suggested, my mind racing with plans to ensure Michael's safety and comfort. 'We'll gather your things, and you can stay with me for now.' Michael nodded wordlessly, his gratitude palpable in the air between us. As we neared his home, I could see his tension easing slightly, replaced by a cautious hope. Together, we entered his house, packing his belongings swiftly but carefully. Linda was nowhere to be seen, and I felt a pang of concern for her as well, despite the tumultuous events. Once Michael's essentials were packed, we left the house quietly, the weight of uncertainty lingering in the air. I glanced at Michael beside me, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his thoughts undoubtedly consumed by the upheaval of leaving his home. 'We'll make sure you're safe, Michael,' I reassured him, my voice firm with conviction. 'You're not alone in this.' He nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. 'Thank you, Dr. Merkel. I don't know what I'd do without your help.' 'We'll get through this together,' I said, offering him a reassuring smile. 'One step at a time.' As we drove away from his neighborhood, the sunset painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, I couldn't help but feel a sense of hope amidst the chaos. Michael had taken a brave step towards his truth, and I was honored to walk beside him on his journey to acceptance and self-discovery. After ensuring Steven was briefed on his task at the church, I drove Michael to my home, a serene oasis nestled in a quiet neighborhood. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the tree-lined streets as we arrived. I could sense Michael's apprehension and exhaustion, but also a glimmer of relief as we approached the house. 'Here we are, Michael,' I said gently as I parked the car in the driveway. 'Welcome to your temporary home.' Michael nodded silently, his gaze sweeping over the quaint facade of the house. I unlocked the front door and ushered him inside, leading him through the cozy entryway into the living room. Soft light filtered through the curtains, casting a comforting ambiance. 'Let me show you around,' I offered, gesturing for Michael to follow me. I guided him through the living room, pointing out the comfortable seating area and the shelves lined with books and photographs. 'This is the living room,' I explained, 'where you can relax and unwind. And over here,' I continued, leading him down a short hallway, 'is the kitchen, where I'll be making us dinner shortly.' Michael nodded again, taking in his surroundings with a mixture of curiosity and weariness. As we passed by a staircase, I paused and looked at him warmly. 'Upstairs is where you'll find your room. Let's go take a look.' I led Michael upstairs to a cozy guest bedroom, tastefully decorated with a comfortable bed, a small desk, and a dresser. Soft, neutral tones and a large window overlooking the backyard gave the room a tranquil feel. 'This will be your room,' I said, turning to him with a reassuring smile. 'Make yourself at home. There's a bathroom right next door, stocked with everything you might need.' Michael stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space tentatively. 'Thank you, Dr. Merkel,' he murmured, his voice tinged with gratitude and uncertainty. 'You're welcome, Michael,' I replied warmly. 'Take your time to settle in. I'll be downstairs making dinner. If you need anything, just let me know.' He nodded, and I left him to unpack and get acquainted with his new surroundings. Descending to the kitchen, I began preparing a simple meal, the comforting routine helping to ground me amidst the day's tumultuous events. Soon, the savory aroma of food filled the kitchen, mingling with the soft sounds of classical music playing in the background. I set the table thoughtfully, ensuring everything was in place for a peaceful meal together. 'Michael, dinner's ready,' I called upstairs after a while, pausing to allow him time to finish unpacking. He appeared at the top of the staircase, his demeanor slightly lighter than before. 'Thank you, Dr. Merkel,' he said as he joined me at the table. We shared a quiet meal together, the conversation light and supportive. As we ate, I could see Michael gradually relaxing, the weight of the day's events easing off his shoulders. After dinner, I encouraged Michael to get some rest, assuring him that we would talk more in the morning. 'Your room is your sanctuary now,' I told him as we finished clearing the table. 'Take the time you need to settle in.' 'Thank you,' he replied softly, a small smile playing on his lips. As he headed upstairs, I lingered in the kitchen for a moment, reflecting on the whirlwind of emotions and decisions that had brought us here. Despite the challenges ahead, I felt a sense of purpose and determination to support Michael through this pivotal moment in his life. 'Welcome home, Michael,' I whispered to myself, hoping that in this safe haven, he would find the peace and acceptance he deserved.As I immersed myself in the culinary dance of preparing a gourmet pasta dish with a rich, creamy mushroom sauce, the kitchen filled with the tantalizing aromas of garlic, basil, and freshly grated Parmesan. Michael’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, and his quiet admiration of the house brought a genuine smile to my face. 'You know, Erik,' he began tentatively, 'this house feels warm. I never thought I'd feel this safe anywhere again.' 'You're always welcome here, Michael,' I assured him warmly. 'It's not just a house; it's our sanctuary.' His eyes lit up with a mix of gratitude and relief. 'Thank you,' he said softly, sincerity lacing each word. 'Can I help you with anything?' Michael asked, eager to be useful. I chuckled softly, handing him a cutting board and a bundle of fresh vegetables. 'Sure. How about you chop these mushrooms for me?' Michael nodded eagerly, his focus turning to the rhythmic slicing of mushrooms. As we worked side by side, the kitchen hummed with the comforting sounds of cooking—a simmering sauce, the gentle sizzle of vegetables in a pan, and the occasional clink of utensils. Time seemed to slow as we cooked together, the tension of recent days melting away with each shared task. Michael’s skills in the kitchen surprised me; he handled the knife with confidence, his movements precise yet fluid. It was more than just cooking; it was therapy, a silent understanding passing between us as we prepared a meal that symbolized healing and hope. About half an hour into our culinary endeavor, the doorbell chimed melodically. 'Michael, could you get the door?' I asked, glancing over at him from the stove. He nodded, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before padding across the tiled floor to the front door. Through the open kitchen-living room layout, I observed him open the door, and there stood Maxwell, a bouquet of striking blue roses in hand. A wave of emotions washed over me as I witnessed Maxwell and Michael share a heartfelt embrace. It was a moment of reconciliation and renewal, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the power of love to conquer adversity. Maxwell’s presence added an undeniable warmth to our home that evening. We gathered around the dining table, the flickering candles casting a soft glow over our faces as we enjoyed the meal we had prepared with care. Laughter and conversation flowed effortlessly, stories and anecdotes weaving a tapestry of shared experiences. Through the course of the evening, I got to know Maxwell better—a compassionate and understanding soul who supported Michael unconditionally. His gentle demeanor and genuine interest in Michael's well-being spoke volumes about the depth of their connection. Steven, who had quietly orchestrated Maxwell's surprise visit, joined in the laughter and camaraderie. His presence added an element of light-heartedness to the evening, a reminder that amidst life's challenges, moments of joy and togetherness were precious. After the meal, I insisted on driving Steven home, leaving Michael and Maxwell to enjoy each other’s company in the comforting embrace of our home. As I bid them goodnight and watched them share a tender glance before disappearing inside, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of optimism for their future. Returning home, I settled into the quiet stillness of the night. The kitchen, now a tranquil sanctuary, held echoes of laughter and the lingering aroma of a shared meal. Standing by the sink, I gazed out at the starlit sky, feeling a profound sense of gratitude and peace. Reflecting on the tumultuous journey that had brought us here, I realized that sometimes, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, there were moments of profound clarity. This was not just the end of a challenging chapter in Michael’s life—it was the beginning of a new narrative filled with hope, acceptance, and love. In that moment, I knew that our shared experiences had forged a bond that transcended the traditional roles of therapist and patient. We had journeyed through darkness together, emerging into the light with newfound strength and resilience. As I finally retired to bed, I whispered a silent prayer for Michael and Maxwell, wishing them a future filled with happiness and peace. Only moments later, I realized with a wry smile that I had very thin walls. z A knock on my office door interrupted the quiet morning. Before I could respond, the door creaked open and Dr. Harper’s sharp, calculating eyes peeked inside. Dr. Harper was a woman whose very presence seemed to suck the warmth from any room. She held a reputation for her brutal methods, disguised as a fervent dedication to her work. 'I need your help with some patients of mine,' she said without preamble, her voice as cold as her demeanor. 'I don’t want to catch their lesbianism and need a man beside me. The folder is on your desk. Next session is at six. See you.' She vanished as quickly as she had appeared, leaving the door ajar. With a heavy sigh, I turned my gaze to the folder she had unceremoniously dumped on my desk. The names on the file—Emily Turner and Rachel Greene—immediately caught my attention. As I flipped through the pages, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of unease. Harper’s notes were filled with her usual rhetoric about sin and perversion, cloaked in medical terminology that barely hid her disdain. Emily and Rachel had been admitted under the recommendation of their families, eager to 'correct' what they saw as deviant behaviour. Pennhurst Asylum, with its archaic practices and outdated views, seemed like a haven for such misguided notions. My role, ostensibly, was to assist Harper, but my true intent was to find a way to help Emily and Rachel survive her treatment. The humid summer air clung to my skin as I prepared for the session. Noah, my ever-reliable assistant, noticed my discomfort. 'Is everything alright, Dr. Knight?' he asked, concern evident in his voice. I managed a weak smile. 'We have a difficult session ahead, Noah. Dr. Harper’s methods... they’re not easy to stomach.' Noah nodded, his expression grim. 'We’ll get through it, sir. We always do.' Noah was the only person in Pennhurst who knew about my own struggles, my own truth. He was my confidant, the one person I trusted completely. He understood the fine line I walked every day, trying to help my patients without revealing too much about myself. With that, we made our way to the treatment room. The air was thick with tension as we prepared for the session. Harper was already there, her icy gaze fixed on the door as Emily and Rachel were brought in. The two young women looked terrified, clutching each other's hands for support. 'Separate them,' Harper ordered as soon as they entered. Her voice brooked no argument. Noah and I gently but firmly pulled them apart, seating them in the chairs Harper had prepared. Emily’s eyes met mine, filled with fear and desperation. I gave her a small nod, hoping to convey some semblance of reassurance. 'Today, we begin with electric shock therapy,' Harper announced, a twisted smile playing on her lips. 'We need to break their attachment to each other. It’s the only way.' As Harper prepared the equipment, I moved closer to Emily. 'This is just a test,' I whispered. 'Stay strong. We’ll get through this.' Emily nodded, though her eyes were filled with tears. Rachel, seated next to her, was trembling visibly. Harper attached the electrodes with a precision that spoke of too much practice. With a flick of the switch, the first jolt hit Emily. She convulsed, a cry of pain escaping her lips. My heart ached at the sight, but I had to maintain my composure. Next, it was Rachel’s turn. Her reaction was the same, her body writhing as the electricity coursed through her. Harper watched with a disturbing satisfaction. 'This is just the beginning,' she said. 'We’ll continue until they understand.' As I watched the suffering of Emily and Rachel, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was complicit in their torture. Harper’s methods were barbaric, and the institution’s acceptance of such practices was a testament to its own corruption. I knew I had to find a way to help these girls, to show them that there was hope beyond the walls of Pennhurst. That night, as I reviewed the notes from the session, a plan began to form in my mind. Harper’s arrogance was her weakness. If I could find a way to undermine her methods, to protect Emily and Rachel without raising suspicion, there might be a chance to save them. The next day, I approached Noah with my plan. 'We need to find a way to protect them,' I said. 'Harper can’t know, but we have to do something.' Noah nodded. 'What do you have in mind, Dr. Knight?' 'We’ll follow her orders, but we’ll ensure the treatments are less severe. Adjust the equipment, dilute the chemicals—anything to reduce their suffering.' Noah agreed, and together we set about subtly sabotaging Harper’s instruments. It was a delicate balance, maintaining the appearance of compliance while doing everything in our power to shield Emily and Rachel from the worst of Harper’s cruelty. Our efforts seemed to be working. The next session, though still painful, was not as devastating as the first. Emily and Rachel, though weakened, showed signs of resilience. Harper, blinded by her own hubris, did not notice the changes we had made. In a rare moment alone with the girls, I offered them words of encouragement. 'Stay strong. This won’t last forever.' Emily’s eyes, though filled with tears, held a spark of hope. 'Thank you,' she whispered. Rachel, her voice barely audible, added, 'We’ll keep fighting.' Harper, frustrated by the lack of immediate results, decided to escalate her methods. 'We’ll try something different,' she announced. 'A steam bath. The heat will purify them.' I felt a chill run down my spine. Harper’s idea of a steam bath was anything but therapeutic. She intended to use it as a form of torture, cranking up the heat to unbearable levels. 'Noah,' I whispered as we prepared the room. 'We need to be extra careful. This could be dangerous.' 'I know, Dr. Knight,' Noah replied, his face pale. 'I’ll do my best.' As Emily and Rachel were led to the steam room, I felt a sense of dread I couldn’t shake. Harper’s instructions were deliberately vague, designed to cause maximum discomfort. Once inside, the heat began to rise quickly. I monitored their vitals, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of distress. Emily and Rachel clung to each other, their faces flushed and sweating. Harper watched from the observation window, a cruel smile on her lips. The heat continued to rise, and I knew we were reaching a critical point. 'Harper, we need to stop this,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady. 'Why?' she asked, her eyes narrowing. 'Are you one of them? Are you trying to help these demons?' Her words hit me like a physical blow. I knew there was nothing I could do without exposing myself, without ending up in that steam room alongside them. I had to put myself before my patients this time, and it made me sick. The temperature soared, and Emily and Rachel began to struggle. Their breathing became labored, their skin reddened and blistering. I could see the panic in their eyes. 'Harper, this is enough!' I shouted, but she ignored me. I rushed to the controls, desperately trying to lower the temperature. Noah was at my side, helping me adjust the settings. But it was too late. The heat had reached a deadly level. Emily and Rachel collapsed, their bodies unable to withstand the torture. Harper, finally realizing the gravity of the situation, looked horrified. 'No!' I screamed, rushing into the steam room. Noah followed, and together we carried the girls out. Their skin was seared, their breathing shallow. Despite our best efforts, Emily and Rachel did not survive the night. The burns were too severe, their bodies too fragile. Harper, faced with the consequences of her actions, was placed on administrative leave. But that was little comfort to me. As I stood by their lifeless bodies, I felt a profound sense of failure. I had tried to protect them, but it wasn’t enough. Their love, so pure and strong, had been snuffed out by hate and ignorance. Returning to my office, I found a note on my desk. It was from Emily, written before the final session. 'Dr. Knight, thank you for trying to help us. We know you did everything you could. Please don’t blame yourself. Love will always find a way, even if it’s not in this life. – Emily and Rachel.' I read the note over and over, the words blurring through my tears. In that moment, I realized that their love, though it had been destroyed by the cruelty of others, had left an indelible mark on my heart. As I finally retired to bed, I whispered a silent prayer for Emily and Rachel, wishing them a peace they had been denied in life. Only moments later, I realized I had really thin walls. I sat at my desk, the morning sun casting warm rays through the blinds, dappling the walls with patterns of light and shadow. Noah, usually punctual and efficient, was conspicuously absent. Despite my best efforts to focus on the day's tasks—a mix of patient calls, appointments, and paperwork—I couldn't shake the growing unease gnawing at me. Noah had been with me for years, an invaluable assistant whose reliability and dedication were unmatched. His absence was unusual and unsettling, prompting a series of unanswered questions that buzzed in my mind like persistent mosquitoes. As the morning wore on and the clock ticked past appointment times, I found myself glancing repeatedly at the door, half-expecting Noah to burst in with an apology and an explanation. But each passing moment only deepened my concern. Around noon, just as I was preparing to step out for my next scheduled appointment, the door creaked open. A nurse entered, her expression a mixture of solemnity and concern. She held a patient file in her hands, which she extended towards me with a tentative gesture. 'Dr. Knight, here's a new patient for you,' she said softly. I took the file, my fingers tracing the embossed name on the cover: 'Noah Parker.' The sight of Noah's name struck me with an almost physical force. He was here, not as my trusted assistant, but as a patient—a victim of circumstances beyond his control. My heart sank as I opened the file, a wave of emotions crashing over me. 'Patient Noah Parker; Birthday 24.04.1963; Attending Physician: Dr. Michael Knight; Brought to Pennhurst Asylum because of homosexual disorder.' The words blurred for a moment as my mind struggled to process their meaning. Pennhurst Asylum, infamous for its draconian practices in dealing with individuals deemed mentally ill due to their sexual orientation. Noah, my friend, my confidant, now trapped within these walls, subjected to the cruelties of an ignorant and intolerant system. Anger surged within me, mingling with a deep-seated fear for Noah's well-being. What horrors had he already endured? What would they subject him to next? In that moment, a resolve hardened within me. I couldn't allow this injustice to stand. Noah deserved better than this. With a steadying breath, I closed the file, my mind racing with plans to protect him, to find a way to help him escape this nightmare. But first, I needed to understand more. I needed to see Noah, to talk to him, to assess his condition firsthand. And above all, I needed to find a way to navigate the treacherous waters of Pennhurst Asylum and ensure Noah's safety, even if it meant confronting the formidable Dr. Harper and her misguided methods head-on. I left my office, the familiar corridors of Pennhurst Asylum greeted me with their dreary ambiance. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow on scuffed linoleum floors. The air smelled of disinfectant mixed with a faint undercurrent of despair—a scent that seemed to permeate every inch of the institution. Passing by offices and consultation rooms, I exchanged nods with colleagues and nurses who wore expressions etched with weariness and empathy. They knew the challenges we faced in this archaic place, where progress came at a glacial pace and compassion often struggled against institutional constraints. As I hurried towards my next appointment, a mother and her daughter caught my eye. They stood outside a consultation room, the mother's face etched with concern and the daughter fidgeting nervously with her hands. 'Dr. Knight,' the mother greeted me with a tentative smile, her voice tinged with anxiety. 'We've been waiting for quite some time.' 'I apologize for the delay,' I said sincerely, pausing to convey my regret. 'There's been an urgent development that requires my immediate attention. I understand you've waited a long time for this appointment.' The daughter, a young woman with a weariness that belied her age, nodded silently, her eyes flickering with a mixture of hope and resignation. 'I can't leave you empty-handed,' I said softly, reaching for a small jar on my desk filled with mints. Next to it lay a prescription bottle that appeared to contain antidepressants. 'Take these,' I offered, placing the jar gently into the daughter's hands. 'They'll help keep things calm until our session. Sometimes, believing in the little things can make a big difference.' The mother's eyes softened with gratitude as she accepted my gesture. 'Thank you, Dr. Knight,' she murmured, her voice wavering with unspoken emotion. 'We'll see you on Friday then.' 'Yes, Friday evening,' I confirmed, offering a reassuring smile. 'Until then, take care of each other.' With a nod of farewell, I turned away, carrying with me the weight of their hopes and the burdens of my responsibilities. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly as I made my way deeper into the asylum, towards the closed-off section reserved for patients deemed too volatile or 'contagious' in their afflictions. As I walked, the absurdity of labeling love, especially same-sex love, as contagious gnawed at my thoughts. Anger simmered beneath the surface, fueled by years of witnessing injustices perpetuated under the guise of medical treatment. I knew Noah's presence in this forbidden wing was a consequence of this misguided ideology, a tragic reflection of society's fear and prejudice. Finally, I arrived at Noah's designated cell—a stark reminder of his confinement and the perilous situation he faced. Through the small, barred window, I glimpsed Noah's silhouette, waiting in silent resignation for my arrival. My heart ached as I faced the reality of his situation. Turning to the guard stationed nearby, I mustered a professional tone despite the turmoil inside me. 'This patient needs to be escorted to my office for his first session,' I stated firmly. The guard looked at me skeptically. 'Dr. Knight, are you sure? He's been categorized as high-risk due to his...condition.' 'Yes, I'm sure,' I replied, maintaining my composure. 'It's crucial for his treatment that we begin immediately. I'll take full responsibility.' After a moment of hesitation, the guard nodded and moved to unlock Noah's cell. As the door creaked open, I caught a glimpse of Noah's expression—a mix of fear, confusion, and a flicker of hope. I turned away to conceal my own anguish and steeled myself for the task ahead. As we walked back to my office, Noah was flanked by guards, and my mind raced with plans to navigate this delicate situation. I had to find a way to help him, to protect him from the inhumane treatments that awaited him if I failed. Noah's presence as a patient, rather than my assistant, was a bitter reminder of the cruelty of our world. But it also strengthened my resolve. I had to find a way to save him, just as Dr. Merkel had once saved me. This time, it was my turn to be the lifeline. The guards escorted Noah into my office, their grips firm on his arms. They sat him down in the chair opposite my desk, but remained standing beside him, their presence a reminder of the institution's harsh authority. 'You can wait outside,' I instructed, my tone leaving no room for argument. 'But—' one of the guards started, his voice filled with concern. 'I'm the leading superior therapist here. I know what I am doing. I lead this department. I will call you if I need you,' I responded, my words sharp and decisive. The other guard interjected, 'But he's—' 'NO BUTS,' I snapped, my voice rising with uncharacteristic anger. 'Wait outside or you can leave this building.' Noah's eyes widened in shock. He had never seen me this angry, never witnessed this side of me. The guards exchanged uncertain glances, but my authority was clear. Reluctantly, they stepped back and exited the room, closing the door behind them. For a moment, the room was silent, the tension hanging thick in the air. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions. Noah sat across from me, his eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and confusion. This wasn't how I wanted our reunion to be, but the circumstances left me no choice. 'Dr. Knight,' Noah finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly. 'What's happening? Why am I here?' I looked at him, the gravity of the situation settling heavily on my shoulders. 'Noah,' I began, my voice softening, 'I'm going to do everything I can to help you. But first, we need to talk. Tell me, what happened?' Noah swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on me. 'They raided the party,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 'They took all of us... for being gay.' A mix of anger and sadness surged through me. This was more than just a professional duty; it was personal. 'Noah, I'm so sorry,' I said, my heart aching for him. 'I promise you, we will get through this together.' 'But what about my friends?' Noah asked, his voice breaking. I shook my head, the weight of the reality heavy in my heart. 'I cannot help them, Noah. They all got Harper and Bernard. They won't survive, not really. But why did you never tell me? You know everything about me, and never told me.' Noah's eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, ashamed. 'I'm sorry, Erik. I didn't know how. To be honest, you were the reason why I recognized that I feel attracted to boys,' he admitted, his voice growing quieter and softer with each word. As he spoke, he leaned closer, and before I could react, he placed a gentle kiss on my lips. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The kiss was tender, filled with a mixture of fear and longing. I pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. 'Noah, we are going to get through this,' I promised, my voice firm and resolute. I hugged him tightly, feeling his trembling body against mine. 'Come, let's sit down. We need to think this through,' I said, guiding him to the couch. Inspired by my childhood therapist, I was the only one in the entire asylum with a couch in my office, a small haven of comfort in this bleak place. Noah sat down, looking vulnerable and lost. I sat beside him, taking his hand in mine. 'First, we need to figure out a plan,' I said, trying to keep my voice steady. 'We need to make sure Harper and Bernard don't get their hands on you.' Noah nodded, his grip on my hand tightening. 'Erik, I'm scared,' he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. 'I know, Noah. I am too,' I admitted, my own fear bubbling to the surface. 'But we have to stay strong. We have to find a way out of this.' We sat there in silence for a moment, the gravity of the situation pressing down on us. I knew the road ahead would be difficult, but I also knew I couldn't let Noah suffer. He was more than just an assistant to me; he was someone I cared deeply about. 'Noah, I need you to trust me,' I said, looking into his eyes. 'Whatever happens, we will face it together.' Noah nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. 'I trust you, Erik. I always have.' As we sat on the couch, planning our next move, I felt a renewed sense of determination. This place, this asylum, was meant to break people. But I wouldn't let it break Noah. Not as long as I had the strength to fight. 'Okey, Noah, you need to understand, this is the end of normal life,' I said, my voice steady but filled with urgency. 'I know,' Noah replied, his eyes wide with fear and determination. 'We will need to leave. I'll get my car ready tonight. I'm going to get you out of here,' I continued. 'But what about you, Erik? I love you. I don't want to lose you!' Noah's voice cracked with emotion. 'If they find out, they are going to lock me up too. I am leaving with you,' I said, my resolve firm. Noah's eyes began to fill with tears. He leaned in and kissed me, a mix of desperation and love in that moment. 'You really are going to leave everything behind? Pennhurst? You are leading this department. You always wanted to help people. It was your dream.' 'Yes, you are right. But I also want to live, without hiding,' I replied, feeling the weight of my decision. 'But we... we are illegal. We are considered illegal,' Noah whispered, the reality of our situation sinking in. 'Not everywhere. I’ll let you decide: Scotland or Colombia. You tell me tomorrow,' I said, giving him a choice, a glimpse of hope. The room fell silent for a moment, thick with unspoken fears and dreams. Then, the door abruptly opened. Dr. Harper stood there, her presence a cold, harsh reality. 'I'm going to assist you with THIS patient. Shock therapy at 6,' Dr. Harper announced, her tone imperious. 'No,' I replied firmly. 'What do you mean, no? You know my therapy is the most reliable method,' she snapped back. 'I don’t care. Your methods are cruel, and you said the right thing: you ASSIST. Let MY patient rest. The first shock therapy session will be at 10 tomorrow morning,' I stated, my authority clear. 'Don't be too soft on him, just because you know him,' Dr. Harper warned, her eyes narrowing. 'It seems like I didn’t know him. I could kill him right now,' I replied, my voice tinged with sarcasm and hidden rage. 'Okay, see you tomorrow,' she said, her tone dismissive as she turned and left the room. The door closed, and silence settled over us once again. I looked at Noah, my heart aching for him and for the dangerous path we had to take. But I knew one thing for certain: we would face it together. 'Does shock therapy hurt?' Noah asked, his voice trembling with fear. 'Yes, Noah, it hurts like hell. But if everything goes according to plan, you won't have to go through it,' I replied, trying to reassure him with a gentle touch on his arm. 'So, what do we do now?' he asked, his eyes searching mine for answers. 'I would say you sit tight in your room while I get home and prepare everything for tomorrow. Is your address still the same?' I asked. 'Yes, it is,' he confirmed, nodding slightly. 'Good,' I said, my mind already racing with the steps we needed to take. I called out, 'SECURITY!' The door opened, and two guards stepped in. 'Get this patient back into his cell. Don't let ANYONE near him,' I instructed, my tone leaving no room for argument. 'Got it, Doc,' one of the guards replied, nodding as they escorted Noah out of my office. As the door closed behind them, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the monumental task ahead. Noah's life depended on my actions, and I had to make sure everything went perfectly. I grabbed my coat and left the office, my mind focused on the plan to get Noah out of this hellhole and to safety. 'Fuck, what has Noah got himself into!' I muttered to myself, pacing back and forth in my office. I felt the weight of the situation pressing down on me. Noah, my trusted assistant and dear friend, was now a patient in this damned asylum. It was surreal, and the shock of it all left me reeling. I rarely drank, but this... this was an occasion. I needed something to steady my nerves, something to drown out the swirling chaos in my mind. I poured myself a generous measure of whiskey, the amber liquid glistening under the dim office light. I took a long sip, feeling the burn as it slid down my throat, offering a temporary reprieve from the anxiety clawing at my insides. Noah. What a mess. He was my right hand, my confidant, and now he was trapped in this hellish place. His face when the guards had dragged him away haunted me, a mix of fear and desperate hope that I would somehow make this right. I couldn't let him down. But what could I do? Running away was a risk, a huge risk. I could lose everything I had worked for, my career, my life... but Noah. Noah was worth it. He had always been worth it. I thought back to the moment I realized Noah was more than just my assistant. His laughter, his kindness, his unwavering support... and now, to see him broken and terrified, labeled as diseased because of who he loved. It made my blood boil. And Dr. Harper. That woman was the embodiment of everything I despised about this institution. Her so-called 'therapy' was nothing but torture, a barbaric practice masquerading as treatment. She reveled in her god complex, believing she could 'cure' people by breaking them. It was sickening. I hated her. I hated her smug face, her condescending tone, the way she looked down on everyone who didn't share her twisted views. And now she had her sights set on Noah. The thought of her putting him through shock therapy, of him writhing in pain, was unbearable. I took another sip of whiskey, trying to drown out the image. I had to save him. I had to find a way to get him out of here. The plan was risky, but it was the only chance we had. I would prepare everything tonight, get my car ready, and tomorrow, we would make our escape. We couldn't stay here any longer. The asylum was a death trap, and Harper was its executioner. Scotland or Columbia? I wasn't sure which would be safer, but it was Noah's choice. Anywhere but here would be a better place to live, to be free. I thought of the life we could have, away from the hatred and the fear. It was a dream, a fragile hope, but it was all we had. I drained the glass, the alcohol doing little to numb the turmoil inside me. I needed to focus, to think clearly. Time was running out. Noah was counting on me, and I couldn't fail him. I wouldn't fail him. With a determined sigh, I set the glass down and began to make my plans. There was no turning back now. For Noah, for us, I had to see this through. After the tense confrontation with the guards and the unsettling revelation of Noah's predicament, I made my way down to the parking lot, feeling the weight of the world pressing on my shoulders. My beloved Cadillac, a sleek black beauty, gleamed in the sunlight. It was my sanctuary, a place where I could find some semblance of peace amidst the chaos of my life. I slid into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of leather and the purr of the engine offering a momentary comfort. I drove home, the earliest I'd left work in years. Normally, Noah and I would stay late, working tirelessly to help our patients, to genuinely make a difference. Not like Harper, whose methods were nothing short of barbaric. But now, everything was about to change. As I navigated through the winding forest roads leading to my villa, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow. The birds were singing, the trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the beauty of nature surrounded me. It was a stark contrast to the turmoil in my heart. When I arrived home, Maxwell greeted me with his usual enthusiasm, tail wagging and eyes bright. I knelt down to ruffle his fur, a tear rolling down my face. 'Hey, buddy,' I whispered, my voice choked with emotion. Maxwell was more than a pet; he was a friend, a source of unconditional love. But now, I wasn't sure if I could take him with me. The thought of leaving him behind tore at my heart. Deciding I needed a moment to clear my head, I took Maxwell for a walk through the woods. The fresh air and the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot offered a brief respite from my worries. As we walked, I tried to focus on the simple pleasure of being outdoors, but my mind kept drifting back to Noah and the daunting task ahead. Returning home, I knew I couldn't waste any more time. I had to start packing. I gathered my documents, a few changes of clothes, and several patient files that I couldn't bear to leave behind. Each file represented a life, a story, and I felt a deep responsibility to protect them. In the garage, I opened the door to reveal my hidden treasure: an old Land Rover Series 1, white and pristine. I had restored it myself, making sure it ran like new. It was my escape plan, a vehicle prepared for this very moment. I knew that one day I might have to run, whether from the government or a maniacal patient. I had always hoped it wouldn't come to this, but here I was, on the brink of fleeing everything I knew. As I continued packing, my mind raced with thoughts of the journey ahead. Would we make it out safely? Would Noah and I find a place where we could be free, where we could live without fear? The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside. I had to stay focused. Noah was counting on me, and I couldn't afford to let him down. I moved methodically, ensuring I had everything we might need. Clothes, documents, a stash of emergency cash, and a few sentimental items. The weight of what I was about to do pressed heavily on me, but I steeled myself. This was the only way. I had to protect Noah, and in doing so, perhaps I could finally find some measure of peace for myself. After packing the essentials, I headed down to the basement, my footsteps echoing in the quiet house. The air grew cooler as I descended, the scent of earth and concrete filling my nostrils. I moved through the shadows, the dim light casting eerie shapes on the walls. I was searching for something, something that would be crucial for the plan ahead. My hands grazed over old boxes, dusty shelves, and forgotten relics from my past. In the far corner, hidden behind a stack of old medical journals, I found it: a sturdy crossbar. It felt heavy and solid in my hands, a tool that would be necessary for what I had to do next. I placed it on the nearby table and continued searching. My fingers brushed against a familiar texture, and I pulled out a dark leather coat, its weight comforting and its smell reminiscent of old adventures. Next to it lay a mask, simple yet effective for concealing my identity. With the crossbar in one hand and my disguise in the other, I went back upstairs and into the garage. The Land Rover gleamed under the dim garage light, a stark contrast to the sleek lines of the Cadillac. I chose the Land Rover to avoid recognition in the city, its rugged exterior perfect for blending into the urban landscape. I navigated the city streets, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows as I drove towards Noah's apartment. The address was ingrained in my memory, although I had only been there once before. Each turn and intersection brought me closer, the weight of my mission pressing heavily on my chest. I arrived at the destination, a nondescript building at 112 Greenway Street. Parking a little distance away to avoid drawing attention, I made my way towards the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest. The building was quiet, the residents likely oblivious to the chaos about to unfold. Noah's flat was on the third level. I ascended the stairs quickly but quietly, the crossbar hidden beneath my coat. Reaching his door, I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. I tried the handle first, but it was locked, as I expected. With a determined exhale, I took out the crossbar and wedged it into the doorframe. The sound of metal against wood reverberated through the hallway, but I pushed on. It took a few tries, my muscles straining with the effort, but finally, the door gave way, crashing open with a loud bang. I stood there for a moment, catching my breath, the adrenaline surging through my veins. The apartment was dark and quiet, shadows dancing in the corners. I stepped inside, the weight of my mission hanging heavily in the air. Noah's safety depended on me, and I couldn't afford to fail. I closed the door behind me as quietly as possible, ensuring the latch didn't make any noise. The apartment was eerily silent, only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the stillness. I flipped on the lights, the sudden brightness illuminating the small living space. I moved quickly, scanning the room for anything that could be useful. I started with the living room, picking up a few framed pictures from the mantle. One showed Noah and a group of friends, their faces beaming with happiness. Another picture, the only one of us together from our vacation, stirred memories that made my heart ache. I tucked them into my bag, knowing Noah would want these mementos. Next, I searched for his passport. I checked the usual places first—the drawer of his nightstand, the top shelf of his closet, under his mattress. Each spot turned up nothing but frustration. I turned to his desk, rifling through papers and pulling out every drawer. Still, no passport. Determined not to leave without it, I methodically went through every nook and cranny. I checked behind picture frames, inside books, even the pockets of his jackets hanging in the closet. It felt like I had turned over the entire room when finally, in the most unlikely place—the sugar canister in the kitchen—I found it. Relief washed over me as I slipped the passport into the inner pocket of my coat. I was just about to turn off the lights and leave when the door swung open violently. A policeman burst in, his gun drawn. 'HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!' he shouted. Startled, I dropped the bag and raised my hands in the air. The officer quickly turned on the lights, illuminating the disarray I had created. He approached me cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he put handcuffs on my wrists. 'Who do we have here?' he muttered, yanking the mask off my face. Recognition dawned on his features. 'Oh, Michael, what are you doing here?' My mind raced. Think, Michael, think! 'I came here because of a patient,' I stammered. The officer, whom I now recognized as Officer Cooper, looked sceptical. 'Well, I don't see any patients anywhere.' 'He... he's contagious,' I blurted out, grasping for a believable lie. 'He's gay, and I'm searching for any clues about who he might have gotten it from.' Officer Cooper's scepticism didn't fade. 'Michael, I still have to write you up for this. You will have to come to the station with me.' I sighed, trying to appear cooperative. 'Okay, I understand, but Officer Cooper, can you take these fucking handcuffs off me?' Cooper hesitated for a moment, then sighed. 'Fine, but you better not try anything.' He unlocked the handcuffs, the cold metal sliding off my wrists. Officer Cooper re-holstered his gun and gave me a stern look. 'Alright, Michael, let's go. I'll escort you to my car.' His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. I nodded, rubbing my wrists where the handcuffs had left red marks. 'Thank you, Officer Cooper.' He gestured for me to go ahead, and I walked slowly toward the door, my mind racing with thoughts of what might happen next. As I stepped out into the hallway, the dim lighting cast long shadows on the walls, adding to the sense of foreboding. Cooper followed closely, his presence a constant reminder of the precarious situation I was in. We took the stairs down to the ground floor, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. The air was heavy with tension, and I couldn't help but glance back at Cooper, who remained silent but vigilant. When we reached the bottom, he motioned for me to continue toward the exit. Outside, the night air was crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the stuffy apartment. Cooper's patrol car was parked a few feet away, its lights off. He walked around to the driver's side while I stood by the passenger door, feeling a mix of anxiety and resignation. As Cooper unlocked the doors with a click, he gave me a stern look. 'Get in,' he instructed, opening the passenger door for me. I slid into the seat, the leather cold against my skin. Cooper shut the door behind me and moved around to the driver's side, sliding in and starting the engine with a low rumble. The car pulled away from the curb, and we drove in silence for a few minutes. The city lights blurred past us, casting fleeting glows inside the car. My mind raced, trying to figure out how to salvage the situation. Cooper finally broke the silence. 'Michael, you know this doesn't look good. Breaking into a patient's apartment? That's a serious offense.' 'I know, Cooper,' I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. 'But you have to believe me. I was only trying to help. Noah... he's in a bad situation.' Cooper sighed, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. 'You better have a damn good explanation when we get to the station. This isn't like you.' I nodded, feeling a lump in my throat. 'I just need a chance to explain.' We continued driving, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. As we neared the police station, I glanced at Cooper, his expression unreadable. The station loomed ahead, a stark building illuminated by harsh floodlights. The car rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, and Cooper turned off the engine. He looked at me, a mixture of concern and duty in his eyes. 'Let's go inside. We'll sort this out.' I stepped out of the car, my legs feeling unsteady. Cooper guided me toward the entrance, his hand on my shoulder. The station doors opened with a mechanical hum, and we stepped inside, the harsh fluorescent lights making me squint. Inside, the station was bustling with activity. Officers moved about, dealing with various tasks, and the low murmur of conversations filled the air. Cooper led me to a small room off to the side, motioning for me to sit at a table. 'Wait here,' he said, his voice softening slightly. 'I'll get someone to take your statement.' I nodded, sinking into the chair. My mind was still racing, but I knew I had to stay calm and think clearly. This was my chance to explain everything and find a way to protect Noah. As I waited, the room's quietness contrasted sharply with the chaos outside. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. This was just the beginning, but I had to believe that I could find a way out, for both Noah and myself. I sat in the small, dimly lit room for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only 15 or 20 minutes. The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above was the only sound, heightening my anxiety. I kept my hands on the table, trying to steady my nerves, rehearsing the story I needed to sell. Finally, the door creaked open, and Officer Anderson walked in. He was a burly man with a graying mustache, someone I'd worked closely with on several challenging cases, including Jane and John. He had a reputation for being tough but fair. 'Michael,' Anderson said, his voice a mix of exasperation and curiosity. 'What did you do now? A murder? A satanist ritual? Or maybe a maniac on the loose? What’s it this time?' I forced a relieved smile. 'Oh, Anderson, I'm glad it's you. I was in the flat of a patient. I need to know a bit more about him.' Anderson raised an eyebrow and sat down across from me, folding his arms. 'Alright, spill it. What were you doing in his flat, and why didn't you go through the proper channels?' I took a deep breath, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. 'Listen, Anderson, this patient... Noah Parker, he’s a homosexual. I got a tip-off that there's a whole ring of them, and they’re spreading their perversion. You know how dangerous that is, don’t you? It’s not just about one person; it's about stopping this sickness from spreading.' Anderson’s eyes narrowed slightly, scepticism evident. 'And you thought breaking into his place would help with that? You're a doctor, not a cop.' I nodded, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. 'I know it sounds extreme, but desperate times call for desperate measures. These people are corrupting the very fabric of our society. I have to find every single one of them and stop them. For the good of everyone.' Anderson leaned back, scratching his chin. 'You’re serious about this, aren’t you?' 'Absolutely,' I replied, my expression intense. 'I’ve seen what it does to people, the moral decay it brings. If I don’t get to the bottom of this, who will? Harper and Bernard will only make things worse with their barbaric methods.' Anderson sighed, clearly torn. 'Alright, Michael, but you know this isn’t exactly by the book. I can’t keep bailing you out every time you decide to go rogue.' 'I understand, and I appreciate it. But you have to trust me on this. I’m doing what’s necessary. I gathered some things from his flat that might help us trace others in this... ring.' He stood up, shaking his head slightly. 'Fine, I’ll let you off this time. But you owe me, Michael. And next time, follow protocol.' Relief washed over me as he unlocked the door and handed me the bag with the things I’d taken from Noah’s flat. 'Thank you, Anderson. You won’t regret this.' 'I hope not,' he muttered, holding the door open for me. 'Now get out of here before I change my mind.' I walked out of the station, my mind racing with the implications of what had just happened. The act I’d put on had been convincing enough to get me out of there, but the real challenge was yet to come. I had to save Noah, get him out of this hellhole, and find a way for both of us to escape to safety. As I stepped into the night, clutching the bag tightly, I knew that the clock was ticking. Every second counted, and I couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes. As I stepped out of the station, the night air hit me like a wall of icy needles. The streetlights cast long, eerie shadows on the pavement, and the distant hum of the city felt more like a distant echo in my mind. I had a 15-minute walk back to Noah's flat, and each step felt heavier than the last. The reality of the situation began to sink in, and a monologue started to form in my head. What have you gotten yourself into, Michael? Breaking into Noah’s flat, lying to the police, planning an escape that could end both your careers and lives. It all seemed so reckless, so unlike you. But what choice did I have? Noah needed me, and in a way, I needed him too. I kept walking, my thoughts swirling in a chaotic dance. Dr. Harper and Bernard... I hated them. Their so-called 'therapies' were nothing short of torture, and now they had their sights set on Noah. I couldn’t let them get to him. The thought of Noah strapped to a chair, enduring electroshock therapy, made my blood boil. It was barbaric, inhuman. How could anyone believe this was helping? Noah. My assistant, my confidant, my friend. The only person who knew my deepest secret and never judged me for it. And now, he was at the mercy of those monsters. The image of his face, scared and vulnerable, flashed in my mind. I had to be strong for him, to save him. But could I really leave everything behind? Pennhurst, my patients, my career. It was my dream to help people, to make a difference. But what good was that dream if I had to live a lie? I thought about the villa in the woods, the tranquillity it brought me. The birds singing, the fresh scent of nature, the feeling of being alive. Maxwell, my loyal companion, always there to greet me with unwavering affection. Could I take him with me? Would he even understand? A tear rolled down my cheek as I thought about leaving him behind. But this wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about Noah, about love, about living a life without fear. I reached Noah’s flat, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I climbed into my white Land Rover, the vehicle I had painstakingly restored. It was more than just a car; it was a symbol of my readiness for this moment, for escape. The engine roared to life, a comforting sound amidst the chaos. As I drove through the dark streets, my mind was set. We would leave tonight, and we would find a place where we could be free. Scotland or Columbia, it didn’t matter. As long as we were together, as long as we could live without hiding, it would be worth it. I looked at the bag beside me, filled with Noah’s belongings and a few precious items. It was a small part of our old lives that we could take with us into the unknown. The road ahead was uncertain and dangerous, but I was ready. For Noah, for myself, for a chance at a life where we didn’t have to hide. This was the beginning of our journey, and I would see it through, no matter the cost. I pulled into the driveway of my villa, the familiar sight of the house momentarily easing my troubled mind. Maxwell bounded up to me, his tail wagging furiously. I bent down, scratching behind his ears. 'Hey buddy,' I whispered, fighting back another tear. Would I have to leave him behind? The thought was too painful to bear. I walked inside, the house feeling eerily silent. There was so much to do, but only two major tasks left before I could leave. I went to the living room and took a long, deep breath, gathering my resolve. First, the crossbar. I retrieved it from the bag, feeling its weight in my hands. This tool had seen better days, but it would serve its purpose tonight. Stepping out into the cool night air, I made my way to the shed. The wooden door creaked as I opened it, and I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light. Inside, the familiar scent of sawdust and old tools greeted me. I walked to the corner where I knew the loose floor tiles were. Kneeling down, I pried up two of the wooden tiles with the crossbar, revealing a small hidden compartment beneath. There it was, just as I had left it years ago. Bundles of cash and small gold bars, carefully wrapped and hidden for a day I hoped would never come. But that day was here, and I needed this stash to secure our future. I carefully took everything out, placing the bundles of money and gold into a large sports bag. The weight was substantial, a physical reminder of the lengths I had gone to prepare for this moment. With the bag secured, I headed back to the Land Rover. I opened the trunk and removed the spare tire, carefully placing the bag in the hidden compartment beneath it. It fit perfectly, just as I had planned. I replaced the tire and closed the trunk, satisfied that our escape funds were well hidden. Next, I needed to prepare for Maxwell. I went back into the house, filling a couple of water bottles and grabbing some food for both of us. I also packed a few of Maxwell's favorite toys and a blanket. If we were going on the run, I wanted to make sure he was as comfortable as possible. Returning to the Land Rover, I placed everything in the trunk. My documents, a few changes of clothes, and the patient files I couldn’t bear to leave behind were already packed. Maxwell’s things went in next, along with the essential 'doomsday' money. The car was ready, but I still had a few loose ends to tie up inside the house. I walked through each room, making sure everything was in order. The house felt more like a memory now, a place that had once been a sanctuary but was now just a stepping stone to our uncertain future. I turned off the lights and locked the doors, knowing I might never return. Maxwell looked at me with curious eyes as I approached the Land Rover. 'Come on, buddy,' I said, opening the passenger door. He jumped in, settling into his spot with an air of excitement, as if sensing the adventure ahead. I took one last look at the house before climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine purred to life, and with a deep breath, I pulled out of the driveway, leaving behind the life I had known. I got behind the wheel again, the weight of what I was about to do pressing heavily on my shoulders. Maxwell settled comfortably on the passenger seat, his presence a small comfort amidst the chaos that had become my life. The drive to the lake was quiet, the dark night enveloping us as we made our way through the winding roads. The lake came into view after about twenty minutes. I pulled into the familiar fishbarn, where Noah and I had gone fishing together once. The memories of that peaceful day contrasted sharply with the urgency of the present moment. I parked the Land Rover inside the barn, making sure it was well hidden. This place was secluded, a perfect spot to stash the car until we could make our escape. 'Stay here, buddy,' I whispered to Maxwell, giving him a final pat. Leaving him behind was heart-wrenching, but I couldn't risk him getting hurt. I made sure he had enough water and food, knowing I'd be back for him as soon as it was safe. From the barn, I retrieved an old bicycle I had stored there. It was a relic from my past, a piece of simpler times. I mounted the bike, hoping it would serve me well on the journey back home. ^ The path through the forest was dark and silent, only the sound of my breathing and the occasional rustle of leaves breaking the stillness. I pedalled hard, each turn of the wheel bringing me closer to home. The forest seemed to close in around me, the shadows playing tricks on my mind. Suddenly, I hit something hard, and before I knew it, I was tumbling over the handlebars. I landed hard on the ground, pain shooting through my knee. 'Fuck!' I hissed, looking down to see blood oozing from a nasty scrape. I tried to stand, but my knee protested violently. The bicycle lay on the ground, the front wheel twisted and useless. A root had been sticking out of the concrete path, the culprit of my fall. I dragged myself to my feet, the pain in my knee making every step agony. I cursed under my breath, frustration boiling over. This was not how things were supposed to go. I looked around, the forest seeming more ominous now. The bike was a lost cause, but I had to keep moving. Using the crossbar as a makeshift cane, I limped down the path. Each step was a reminder of how precarious our situation was. I had to get back home, had to finish preparing for our escape. Noah was counting on me. The pain was relentless, but I pushed through it, driven by the knowledge that our future depended on it. After what felt like an eternity, I finally emerged from the forest onto the main road. My house was still a distance away, but at least I was out of the woods. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the night was eerily quiet. I continued my painful journey, each step bringing me closer to home, to Noah, and to the uncertain future that awaited us. I hobbled along the road, the cold air biting at my exposed skin, making my knee throb even more painfully. Each step sent jolts of agony shooting up my leg, but I had to keep going. Stopping wasn’t an option. Noah was counting on me, and I couldn't let him down. As I limped, my mind raced, thoughts swirling in a chaotic storm. 'What have you gotten yourself into, Michael?' I muttered to myself, the sound of my own voice somewhat comforting in the silent night. 'Why did you ever think this would be easy? You're a psychiatrist, not some kind of hero in a spy novel.' I glanced up at the sky, stars twinkling coldly above me. They seemed so distant, so removed from the mess my life had become. I used to look at those stars with wonder, dreaming about the future, about all the people I could help. Now, they just seemed to mock me, shining brightly while I stumbled through the darkness. 'How did it come to this?' I asked the stars, knowing they wouldn't answer. 'How did I go from helping people to running away in the dead of night, planning an escape like a common criminal?' The answer was Noah. Sweet, kind Noah who had been caught up in this madness just because he dared to be himself. When I first met him, I saw a bit of myself in him—a young man struggling to navigate a world that didn't understand him. Over time, he had become more than just an assistant. He was a confidant, a friend, and eventually, something more. 'Why didn't you tell me, Noah?' I whispered, the pain in my knee overshadowed by the ache in my heart. 'Why did you keep it to yourself? We could have faced this together.' I thought back to the day we met. Noah had been so eager to help, so full of life and hope. He reminded me of myself when I first started working at the asylum, before the harsh realities of the place began to wear me down. Back then, I believed I could change the world, or at least make a small part of it better. But the asylum, with its dark corners and darker secrets, had a way of crushing even the strongest spirits. 'Maybe I was naive,' I admitted. 'Thinking I could make a difference in a place like that. But you, Noah, you brought that hope back. You made me believe it was possible again.' I pushed forward, gritting my teeth against the pain. The road seemed to stretch on forever, each step a reminder of the distance I still had to cover. My mind drifted back to Dr. Harper, and anger flared in my chest. 'Harper,' I spat, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. 'She's a monster, hiding behind her degrees and her so-called treatments. Shock therapy, conversion therapy—she's not helping anyone. She's just torturing them.' I remembered the look in her eyes earlier, the cold, calculating gaze of someone who enjoyed the power she wielded over her patients. She didn't see them as people. To her, they were problems to be fixed, anomalies to be corrected. She didn't care about the pain she caused, about the lives she ruined. 'She's the real problem,' I growled. 'People like her, with their god complexes, thinking they know what's best for everyone. They don't understand. They don't care.' I glanced around, the trees on either side of the road standing like silent sentinels. The woods had always been a place of solace for me, a refuge from the chaos of the asylum. Now, they seemed to close in on me, the darkness pressing down, suffocating. 'And what about you, Michael?' I asked myself. 'What are you doing? You're no better, running away instead of standing up and fighting. But what choice do you have?' The answer was none. If I stayed, if I tried to fight from within, they would find out. They would discover my secret, and then I would be the one in a cell, subjected to Harper's cruel methods. I couldn't help anyone from inside those walls. 'Leaving is the only option,' I reminded myself. 'For Noah's sake, for my sake. We need to get out of here, start fresh somewhere far away from this madness.' But where? I had given Noah the choice between Scotland and Colombia, both far enough to offer some semblance of safety. Scotland, with its rugged landscapes and remote villages, seemed like a place we could disappear. Colombia, on the other hand, offered warmth and a vibrant culture, but also the risk of instability. 'Maybe Scotland,' I mused. 'Quiet, remote, a place to heal. We could start over, find a small community where no one knows us, where we can just be ourselves.' My thoughts drifted to the practicalities. The money and gold I had hidden away would help us get started, but it wouldn't last forever. I would need to find work, something to support us. But what could I do? My credentials would be useless there, and I couldn't exactly advertise my past. 'Maybe a small clinic,' I thought. 'Something under the radar, where I can still help people without drawing too much attention.' The pain in my knee flared up again, and I stumbled, catching myself just in time. The road stretched on, my house still a distant goal. 'Focus, Michael,' I urged myself. 'Just keep going. One step at a time.' Memories of my childhood therapist came to mind, the one who had helped me through my own struggles. He had a small office, a couch where I would sit and pour out my heart. He listened, he understood, and he never judged. I wanted to be that kind of therapist, the kind who made a real difference. 'Maybe I can be,' I whispered. 'Somewhere else, away from all this.' I thought about the people I had helped at the asylum, the ones who had managed to find some measure of peace despite the oppressive environment. Jane, who had suffered so much but still found a way to smile. John, who had been through hell and back, but was still standing. And now, Noah, who had given me a reason to fight again. 'We'll get through this,' I promised. 'Together.' The forest began to thin, the lights of my house coming into view. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with apprehension. There was still so much to do, so many risks to take. But for Noah, for us, it was worth it. 'You can do this, Michael,' I told myself. 'You've come this far. You can see it through.' I thought about the future, about what it would be like to live without fear, without the constant threat of discovery. To wake up each morning knowing that I could be myself, that Noah could be himself. It was a dream worth fighting for, worth sacrificing for. 'We'll find a way,' I vowed. 'We'll make it work. No matter what.' The pain in my knee was a constant reminder of the obstacles ahead, but it also fueled my determination. Every step brought me closer to home, closer to the life I wanted to build with Noah. 'We'll be okay,' I said, more to myself than to anyone else. 'We'll make it.' As I reached my house, I felt a surge of hope. The road ahead was still fraught with danger, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like we had a chance. A chance to escape, to start over, to live freely. 'Just a little further,' I whispered, stepping through the door. 'Just a little further.' I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment. The house was silent, the only sound my ragged breathing. Maxwell padded over, looking up at me with concern in his eyes. I knelt down, giving him a reassuring pat. 'We're almost there, buddy,' I said. 'Almost there.' The journey was far from over, but for the first time, I felt like we might actually make it. I stood up, my resolve hardening. There was still work to be done, still plans to make. But together, Noah and I could face whatever came our way. 'We'll be okay,' I repeated, the words a mantra, a promise. 'We'll be okay.' With that, I began the final preparations, ready to face whatever the future held. For Noah, for myself, for the chance to live freely. We would get through this. Together. Hours had passed, each minute dragging on like an eternity. My knee throbbed with each step, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain was a constant reminder of the reality I faced, but it also fuelled my anger and frustration. 'WHY THE HOLY FUCK ISN'T THERE ANY CARS ON THIS FUCKING ROAD?!' I shouted into the darkness, my voice echoing back at me. 'WHY CAN'T THEY JUST RUN ME OVER AND SOLVE THE PROBLEM?!' The road was empty, silent except for the sound of my footsteps and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. The stars above were no longer comforting; they felt like distant observers, indifferent to my suffering. I stumbled forward, my vision blurring from exhaustion and pain. Just when I thought I couldn't take another step, a familiar sight appeared in the distance. My mailbox, with the number 24 emblazoned in bright green letters, stood like a beacon of hope. 'Finally,' I muttered, my voice hoarse. 'Just a few more meters.' Each step felt like a monumental effort, but I pushed on, the sight of my home giving me the strength to continue. Maxwell, my faithful companion, would be waiting. And soon, Noah and I would be on our way to freedom. I reached the driveway, the gravel crunching underfoot. My house, a sanctuary hidden away in the woods, loomed before me, its dark silhouette outlined against the sky. It was a place of peace, of safety. Tonight, it felt like the last bastion against the chaos that threatened to consume us. I limped inside, Maxwell at my side, and closed the door behind me. The house was silent, but it felt alive with the promise of a new beginning. I sank into a chair, my body protesting every movement, and allowed myself a moment to rest. The journey had been long, but it wasn't over. Not yet. There were still final preparations to be made, plans to set in motion. But for now, I was home. And that was enough. 'Just a little further,' I whispered to myself, closing my eyes for a brief moment. 'Just a little further.' With renewed determination, I rose from the chair and set about completing the last steps of my plan. We would get through this. Together. And we would find our way to a place where we could be free. I woke up with a start, the emptiness beside me a stark reminder that Maxwell wasn't here to wake me as usual. Panic surged through me as I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 'FUCK!' It was already 8:30. Noah's 'treatment' had started thirty minutes ago. Fear gripped me. Harper could have done anything to him. I scrambled out of bed, my knee protesting with every movement. I dressed quickly, my hands shaking with urgency. Just in case, I grabbed my revolver, an old Belgian Nagant I had found in the woods and meticulously restored. I loaded it with the matching rounds, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The pain in my leg was a constant throb, but I couldn't let it slow me down. I limped to the car, thankful for its automatic transmission. My good foot could handle the driving. I started the engine, the familiar roar a small comfort in the chaos. As I drove, my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. I had to get to Noah before Harper did something irreversible. The memories of the previous night flashed before my eyes. Maxwell, the Land Rover, the fishbarn—everything we had planned meticulously. But now, all those plans seemed fragile, teetering on the edge of collapse. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to steady my breathing. The road blurred before me, my mind focused on one thing: getting to Noah. I couldn't let Harper have her way. Not with Noah. Not with the one person who meant more to me than anything else. The pain in my leg intensified with each mile, but I pushed through it, my determination unwavering. The asylum came into view, a grim fortress that held both hope and despair. I parked the car hastily, ignoring the stabbing pain in my knee as I got out. I moved as quickly as I could, my limp more pronounced but my resolve stronger than ever. I had to get to Noah. I had to save him. And I wouldn't let anyone stand in my way. The entrance to the asylum loomed ahead, and I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what lay ahead. This was it. The moment of truth. I pushed open the door and stepped inside, ready to face whatever awaited me. I stormed into the asylum, anger boiling inside me. Every cheerful greeting from my colleagues only fueled my rage. They had no idea what was at stake, what Harper was about to do. The pain in my leg seemed to heighten my senses, making every sound, every sight, more vivid. Finally, I reached the room. Harper stood there, a smug expression on her face, holding the controller for the shock chair where Noah was strapped in. My heart pounded as I saw Noah, his eyes filled with fear but still alert. Harper hadn't started yet. 'What happened to your leg, Michael?' Harper asked, her tone mocking. Something snapped inside me. I couldn't take her condescension, her cruelty. Without thinking, I reached for the Nagant, its cold weight familiar in my hand. 'What happened to your face?' I retorted. In one fluid motion, I pulled out the revolver and fired. The room exploded in chaos as the bullet hit Harper squarely in the face. Blood and bits of flesh splattered across the room, painting the walls with the remnants of her so-called 'brain.' Harper's body crumpled to the floor, her expression frozen in shock and pain. I stood there, the revolver still smoking in my hand, the acrid smell of gunpowder mixing with the metallic scent of blood. The guards and nurses nearby froze, their eyes wide with horror. I quickly holstered the Nagant and rushed to Noah, who looked at me with a mixture of relief and shock. I began to untie him from the chair, my hands moving swiftly despite the adrenaline coursing through me. 'We have to go, now,' I said, my voice urgent but steady. Noah nodded, his movements still sluggish from the fear and tension. As soon as he was free, we bolted for the door, leaving the grisly scene behind us. The hallway was empty, the usual hustle and bustle of the asylum momentarily absent. We moved quickly, my mind racing with the next steps. We had to get out of the building, to the Land Rover hidden by the lake. Maxwell was there, waiting for us. As we made our way through the asylum, I couldn't help but think about what we'd just done. The consequences would be severe, but I couldn't let Harper hurt Noah. Not now, not ever. We burst through the front doors and into the parking lot. I winced with every step, but I didn't slow down. Noah matched my pace, his eyes wide with determination. We reached the car, and I fumbled with the keys for a moment before starting the engine. The Land Rover roared to life, and we sped away from the asylum, leaving the chaos and bloodshed behind us. As we drove, I glanced at Noah. He looked back at me, his expression a mix of gratitude and fear. 'We're going to be okay,' I said, more to reassure myself than him. 'We're going to get through this.' Noah nodded, his hand finding mine and squeezing it gently. For the first time in what felt like forever, a glimmer of hope flickered in my heart. We were free, and we were together. As I sped through the winding woods, urgency pulsating through every fiber of my being, the Cadillac New Yorker’s engine roared with strained determination. Noah sat beside me, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. 'Noah, open the glovebox and take the keys,' I barked, my voice sharp with urgency. 'What do you mean if something happens?' Noah's voice trembled as he fumbled with the latch. 'NOAH, NOT NOW! TAKE THE FUCKING KEYS!' I yelled, the weight of what I had just done settling heavily on my chest. 'I just killed Harper; the cops are behind us!' Noah's hands shook as he finally retrieved the keys, his eyes darting between me and the road ahead. I pushed the Cadillac faster, my foot pressing harder on the pedal, desperate to put as much distance between us and the asylum as possible. But then it happened—without warning, a sudden impact from the side sent the Cadillac careening off course. The world tilted violently as the vehicle flipped over, metal screeching against the unforgiving ground. My beloved Cadillac New Yorker, a symbol of freedom now twisted and broken in the chaos. Pain shot through me as the car rolled, and amidst the chaos, I managed to choke out, 'Noah, run!' Everything went black then, the world reduced to a deafening silence punctuated only by the distant wail of sirens and the crackling of flames. In those final moments of consciousness, rage and helplessness surged through me—a primal scream of defiance against the forces that sought to crush us. The darkness enveloped me, carrying me away from the turmoil, leaving me to wonder if Noah had heard my last desperate plea. Text PRISON FILES Dr. Micheal Knight It's been a few days since I could get my hands on some paper, and it’s not even lined. I don’t remember much about how I got here; I woke up after my car was hit, in a prison hospital. I fucking killed Harper. I don’t know what it did, why I did that. Is it all the anger that I’ve collected throughout the years? I don’t know. Yesterday, they moved me into my cell. My sentencing is in a few days, and I’m afraid. Pennsylvania still has the death penalty. I’m afraid to die. Or maybe it’s for the best. Maybe after all, I am the monster. Maybe I caused all this. The cell is small, with barely enough room to pace. And I still have a roommate, a very special one, to be exact. He will make my life in here miserable. I never thought I would see this guy again. My first love, my first enemy: Maxwell. When they moved me into my cell, the sight of Maxwell sitting there nearly knocked the wind out of me. He looked up, his eyes narrowing as recognition flickered across his face. It had been years since we last saw each other, but the pain and bitterness in his gaze told me he hadn’t forgotten or forgiven. 'Well, if it isn’t Dr. Knight,' Maxwell sneered, standing up and crossing his arms. 'Didn’t think I’d see you in here. Finally caught up with you, huh?' I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure. 'Maxwell,' I replied, keeping my voice steady. 'I didn’t expect to see you either.' 'Didn’t expect it? After all you did? Or didn’t do?' His voice was laced with sarcasm and anger. 'You ruined my life, Michael.' I lay on my bunk, staring up at the ceiling, thoughts swirled in my mind. Harper’s face, the moment I pulled the trigger, the blood splattering everywhere—it played over and over like a nightmare I couldn’t escape. What had driven me to that point? Was it the years of frustration and helplessness? The countless patients I had watched suffer under Harper’s brutal methods? And Noah. Sweet, innocent Noah. What would happen to him now? Did he make it out? Was he safe? I had promised to protect him, to get him out of that hellhole. But instead, I had ended up here, a prisoner myself. I lay on my bunk, staring up at the ceiling, thoughts swirled in my mind. Harper’s face, the moment I pulled the trigger, the blood splattering everywhere—it played over and over like a nightmare I couldn’t escape. What had driven me to that point? Was it the years of frustration and helplessness? The countless patients I had watched suffer under Harper’s brutal methods? And Noah. Sweet, innocent Noah. What would happen to him now? Did he make it out? Was he safe? I had promised to protect him, to get him out of that hellhole. But instead, I had ended up here, a prisoner myself. Maxwell’s presence was a constant reminder of my failures. He had been so full of life, so vibrant. And I had watched as the system ground him down, piece by piece. And now, he was here, just as broken as the rest of us. I had to find a way to survive this. For Noah. For the patients I had left behind. I couldn’t let Harper’s legacy be the end of me. I had to fight. But how? In the dark, a plan began to form. Noah was out there, somewhere. If he was safe, he would find a way to help me, or wouldn’t he? Maybe he hates me, just like everyone else. I had to believe that. I had to hold on to that hope. And in the meantime, I had to navigate this prison, find allies, and stay alive. DON’T DIE MICHEAL Maxwell might hate me, but he was smart and resourceful. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince him to help me. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was my only chance. The clock was ticking. My sentencing was looming. But I wasn’t going to give up. Not yet. I owed it to Noah, to Maxwell, to every patient, every friend, every college I had ever let down, to fight until the very end. As I drifted into a restless sleep, I vowed to myself that I would find a way out of this. Some how, Segway, I would make Things right. The first night in the cell was a blur of restless thoughts and broken sleep. I had just drifted into a fitful slumber when I felt a weight pressing down on me. My eyes flew open to darkness, my breath strangled by a pillow. Maxwell's knees pinned my arms, rendering me immobile. Panic surged through me as I struggled to free myself, managing to roll over and throw him off balance. Suddenly, the aggression vanished. Maxwell’s arms wrapped around me, and he began to sob. I lay there, stunned, as Maxwell's cries echoed in the small cell. His grip on me was desperate, clinging like a man drowning. Slowly, I raised my hands to pat his back, a gesture of comfort I hadn't used in years. 'Maxwell,' I whispered, my voice hoarse. 'What's going on?' He didn’t respond immediately, his sobs intensifying. I waited, letting him exhaust his grief. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. 'Sorry,' he muttered, avoiding my gaze. 'I just... It all came back, you know?' 'What did, Maxwell? Talk to me.' Maxwell took a deep breath, his eyes red and swollen. 'You were the first person who ever gave a damn about me, Michael. And then, when you couldn’t save me, I felt so betrayed. I’ve been carrying that around for years. Seeing you here... it brought everything back.' I nodded, understanding his pain. 'I know I let you down, Maxwell. The system failed you, and I was part of that system. But I never stopped caring about you.' He sniffled, looking away. 'It’s hard to believe that when you’re the one locked up.' 'I know,' I said softly. 'But I’m here now, and I want to make things right.' Maxwell was silent for a long time, his expression a mix of anger and sorrow. 'How can you make things right now, Michael? We’re both stuck in this hellhole.' 'I can’t change the past,' I admitted. 'But I can be here for you now. We’re in this together. We need to stick together if we want to survive.' He looked at me, searching my face for any sign of deceit. 'Why should I trust you?' 'Because we don’t have a choice,' I replied honestly. 'We’re both fighting the same battle. We can either be enemies and tear each other down, or we can be allies and try to find a way out of this mess.' Maxwell seemed to consider my words, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. 'Do you really think we can get out of here?' 'I don’t know,' I said, not wanting to give him false hope. 'But I do know that we stand a better chance together than apart.' He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. 'Alright, Michael. I’ll give you a chance. But if you screw me over again...' 'I won’t,' I promised. 'I swear.' We sat in silence for a while, the weight of our shared history hanging heavy in the air. 'How did you end up here, Maxwell?' I asked, breaking the silence. He let out a bitter laugh. 'Bad decisions. Bad luck. Same as everyone else in this place. But mostly, I just gave up. After everything, I didn’t see the point in fighting anymore.' I reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. 'There’s always a reason to fight, Maxwell. We just have to find it.' He looked at me, a hint of the old Maxwell shining through his eyes. 'You really believe that?' 'I have to,' I said simply. 'Otherwise, what’s the point?' Maxwell sighed, nodding. 'Alright. I’ll try. For now.' We spent the rest of the night talking, slowly rebuilding the trust that had been shattered years ago. Maxwell shared stories of his time in prison, the people he had met, the dangers he had faced. I listened, offering support and understanding where I could. As dawn broke, we had a tentative plan. We would keep our heads down, stay out of trouble, and look for any opportunities to escape. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start. Maxwell and I weren’t friends yet, but we were no longer enemies. We had a common goal, a shared desire for freedom. And in this place, that was enough. I lay back down on my bunk, exhaustion finally overtaking me, I felt a glimmer of hope. We had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, I believed that maybe, just maybe, we could make it out of here. Even here, I can't stop helping. I will never stop giving everything, just to help someone. The next few days passed in a blur of monotonous routine, interrupted only by brief moments of tension and fleeting connections. The stark reality of prison life set in, and any hope of escaping seemed more distant than ever. Yet, amidst the uncertainty and despair, I found myself growing closer to Maxwell, our bond strengthening with each passing day. Our mornings started early, with the harsh clang of metal bars and the gruff voices of guards signaling the beginning of another day. Breakfast in the communal hall was a rushed affair, the food tasteless and barely edible. We sat together, speaking in low tones, sharing fragments of our lives before prison. Maxwell opened up about his family, his dreams, and the mistakes that led him here. I listened intently, offering empathy and understanding. 'Do you ever think about what you would do if you got out of here?' Maxwell asked one morning, his voice barely above a whisper. 'Every day,' I replied, taking a sip of the lukewarm coffee. 'But it's hard to see a way out.' Maxwell nodded, his eyes reflecting the same hopelessness I felt. 'I used to dream about getting back into music, maybe starting a band. But now... I don't know.' 'Don't give up on that dream,' I urged him. 'We might be stuck here, but we can still plan for a future outside these walls.' The work assignments were grueling, designed to break both body and spirit. Maxwell and I often found ourselves assigned to the laundry room, the oppressive heat and the relentless noise of machines making it difficult to think. Yet, it was during these moments that we found solace in each other's company, sharing stories and forging a deeper connection. One afternoon, as we folded endless piles of uniforms, Maxwell turned to me. 'You remember the time we went to that concert? The one with the terrible opening act?' I chuckled, the memory bringing a rare smile to my face. 'How could I forget? You were so excited about the main band, but that opening act was a disaster.' Maxwell laughed, a genuine, heartfelt sound that seemed out of place in the grim surroundings. 'Yeah, but it was still one of the best nights of my life. Just being there with you, it felt like we were invincible.' 'Those were good times,' I agreed, feeling a pang of nostalgia. 'We can have those again, Maxwell. We just have to believe.' The evenings were quieter, with the prisoners retreating to their cells. Maxwell and I would sit on our bunks, talking late into the night. He spoke about his passions, his regrets, and his fears. I shared my own struggles, the guilt that weighed heavily on my conscience, and my determination to make amends. One night, as the dim light flickered above us, Maxwell reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. 'Michael, I never told you this, but you were the first person who made me feel like I mattered. Even after everything that happened, I never forgot that.' His words touched me deeply, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose. 'Maxwell, I failed you before, but I won't fail you again. We will find a way out of here, together.' Despite our growing bond, the reality of our situation was never far from our minds. The guards watched us closely, and the threat of Dr. Harper's cruel methods loomed over us. I knew that we needed a plan, but every attempt to devise one seemed futile. The walls of the prison were impenetrable, the security tight, and the risks too great. One afternoon, as we sat in the yard, Maxwell turned to me with a thoughtful expression. 'Michael, do you think we could trust anyone here? Maybe find someone who could help us?' I shook my head, wary of the dangers of trusting the wrong person. 'It's too risky. We can't afford to be betrayed.' Maxwell sighed, leaning back against the wall. 'I know. It's just... I can't stand the thought of being stuck here forever.' 'Neither can I,' I admitted. 'But we have to be smart about this. We need to gather information, find weak points, and bide our time.' The days blurred together, each one a struggle to maintain hope in the face of despair. Yet, through it all, my bond with Maxwell grew stronger. We became each other's lifeline, finding strength and comfort in our shared experiences. One evening, as we sat on our bunks, I turned to Maxwell with a determined look. 'Maxwell, even here, I can't stop helping. I will never stop giving everything, just to help someone. We will find a way out of this place, I promise you that.' Maxwell looked at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. 'I believe you, Michael. I believe in us.' With that, we settled into an uneasy sleep, our minds filled with plans and possibilities. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: we were in this together, and we would fight for our freedom with every ounce of strength we had. Tomorrow is my sentencing. The thought gnaws at me, an insidious presence that refuses to be ignored. I can’t concentrate. Fear coils tightly around my chest, making it hard to breathe. Every attempt to sleep is met with failure; my mind races, replaying the events that led me here, each mistake, each failure, magnified in the darkness. I lie in the cramped cell, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me. My sentencing. The words echo in my mind, a grim reminder of what’s to come. Pennsylvania still has the death penalty. The possibility of it being my fate chills me to the bone. I’m afraid. Afraid of dying, of leaving this world having done more harm than good. Why did I kill Harper? The question torments me, the answer eluding me in the murky depths of my conscience. Was it years of accumulated rage, a lifetime of watching people suffer under the guise of help? Or was it something darker, something I can’t bear to acknowledge? Noah. Sweet Noah. Did I fail him too? The memory of his innocent face, the trust in his eyes, haunts me. I promised to protect him, to get him out. Instead, I ended up here, a prisoner of my own actions. The thought of him out there, alone and vulnerable, tears at my heart. Maxwell stirs in his bunk, a constant reminder of the lives I’ve touched and ruined. I glance over at him, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. He’s been a surprising source of strength, a connection to my past, but also a reminder of my failures. Tears well up, unbidden. The floodgates open, and I begin to sob, the sound harsh and ragged in the stillness of the cell. The enormity of my mistakes crashes over me, a relentless tide of guilt and regret. I curl into myself, the tears flowing freely now, soaking my pillow. Maxwell shifts again, then I feel his presence beside me. His hand rests on my shoulder, a comforting weight. 'Michael,' he whispers, his voice soft and filled with concern. I can’t stop crying. The dam has burst, and years of suppressed emotions pour out. 'I’m scared, Maxwell,' I manage to choke out between sobs. 'I’m so scared.' Maxwell pulls me into a hug, his arms encircling me protectively. 'I know, Michael. I know.' 'I don’t want to die,' I admit, the words raw and painful. 'I don’t want to leave like this, with everything unresolved. I wanted to help people, to make a difference, but all I’ve done is cause more pain.' Maxwell’s grip tightens. 'You’ve helped me, Michael. And you can help more people. You’re not done yet. We’re not done yet.' His words are a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of despair. I cling to him, finding solace in the connection we share. 'But what if it’s too late? What if tomorrow...?' 'Don’t think about tomorrow,' Maxwell interrupts gently. 'Just focus on now. We’re here, together. We’ll face whatever comes together.' I nod, unable to find the strength to speak. Maxwell’s presence, his unwavering support, brings a measure of comfort. We sit there, holding each other, drawing strength from the bond we’ve forged in this bleak place. Eventually, the tears subside, leaving me drained but calmer. 'Thank you,' I whisper, my voice hoarse. Maxwell smiles faintly. 'We’re in this together, Michael. Always.' I lean back, still held in his embrace, and close my eyes. Sleep is elusive, but with Maxwell beside me, the fear feels a little more bearable. The future is uncertain, but in this moment, I’m not alone. And that gives me a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. The day has come. I wake up feeling something I haven’t felt in years—needed, loved. The last time I felt this way was in these exact arms, over eight years ago. Maxwell's warmth and steady breathing lull me into a momentary sense of peace, but it is short-lived. The cell door buzzes. 'EY lovebirds, wake up. Hands against the walls, arms on your back!' the guard barks. The harshness of his voice snaps me back to reality. Maxwell and I do as we're told. The cold steel of the handcuff’s bites into my wrists as they secure them behind my back. The sense of dread that had been simmering beneath the surface now roars to life. We are escorted out of the cell, the stark fluorescent lights casting long shadows on the walls. Each step echoes ominously in the sterile hallway. The guards are stoic, their faces impassive as they lead us to an armoured bus waiting outside. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine. They sit me down inside the bus, the interior cold and unwelcoming. No windows, no way to see where I'm going. Just four walls closing in around me. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of the uncertainty that lies ahead. Maxwell is left behind, his absence a gaping void in this moment of fear. The bus starts moving, and the vibration through the metal floor only adds to my anxiety. The lack of windows makes it impossible to gauge our direction, leaving me with a growing sense of disorientation. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional creak of the bus as it navigates the road. I feel dizzy. The confined space, the unknown destination, the looming threat of my sentencing—all combine into a maelstrom of fear and confusion. I try to focus on my breathing, but it's shallow and rapid, barely enough to keep the panic at bay. What will happen to me? The question circles in my mind like a vulture, picking away at my sanity. The prospect of facing the judge, of hearing my fate, is almost too much to bear. My thoughts drift to Noah—did he make it out? Is he safe? And what about Maxwell, sitting just a few feet away but feeling miles apart in this moment of isolation? The bus jerks suddenly, and I’m thrown against the restraints, my shoulder slamming into the hard metal seat. Pain radiates through my body, a sharp reminder of my vulnerability. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sensation, trying to find some semblance of calm amidst the chaos. Memories flood back—Harper’s face as I pulled the trigger, the shock and horror in her eyes, the splatter of blood. My hands shake involuntarily, the phantom sensation of the revolver’s weight lingering in my grip. Why did I do it? Was it anger, desperation, or something more primal, more uncontrollable? A low, guttural moan escapes my lips, a sound of pure anguish. The guards remain unmoved, their presence a constant, oppressive reminder of my captivity. My head throbs with the intensity of my thoughts, each one more suffocating than the last. What will happen if they sentence me to death? The question hangs heavy in the air. The thought of the electric chair, the lethal injection—it makes my stomach churn. I try to push the image away, but it clings to me, a shadow that refuses to dissipate. My sense of time becomes distorted, the rhythmic clanking of the bus’s engine the only measure of its passage. The fear gnaws at me, relentless, consuming. I try to think of anything else—of better times, of moments of joy—but the looming reality crushes those thoughts, leaving me adrift in a sea of despair. Finally, the bus begins to slow. The change in momentum is a jolt to my system, my body tensing in anticipation. Where are we? What awaits us at the end of this journey? The questions swirl, unanswered and unanswerable, as the bus comes to a stop. The silence is deafening. The guards move to open the door, their movements slow and deliberate. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever comes next. This is it. The moment of reckoning. As I’m led off the bus, the dizziness intensifies, my vision swimming. I struggle to stay upright, my legs weak beneath me. The cold air hits me like a slap, a stark contrast to the stuffy interior of the bus. The world outside is blurred, indistinct, but I can feel the weight of eyes upon me, judging, condemning. My fate is sealed. The fear is a living thing, clawing at my insides, but I can’t let it win. I must hold on to the hope that somehow, someway, I can make it through this. For Noah, for Maxwell, and for the chance to make amends. The journey isn’t over yet. The bus stops abruptly, jolting me back to the harsh reality of my situation. The big armoured doors at the end swing open with a groan, revealing a stark, empty courtroom. The guards roughly lead me out of the bus and into the cavernous space. My heart pounds in my chest, a steady drumbeat of dread. In one corner of the room, there's a cell, cold and uninviting. It's a public viewing, designed to expose every excruciating detail of my downfall. I can feel the weight of invisible eyes on me, even though the seats are empty—for now. Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom creak open, and someone steps inside. My breath catches in my throat as I recognize him. John. A former patient. The one who had nearly gone on a rampage at his school. He walks in slowly, deliberately, and as he enters, he raises his index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. The message is clear: I should say nothing, do nothing. My mind races with possibilities. Why is he here? Does he just want to witness my downfall? Or is there a chance he might stand by my side? The question hangs in the air, unanswered and heavy with implications. The guards push me toward the cell, and the door clangs shut behind me. I grip the cold bars, my eyes fixed on John, trying to decipher his intentions. The tension is palpable, and for a moment, time stands still. The courtroom fills gradually, the empty seats taken by spectators with a morbid curiosity. I sit in the cell, my hands gripping the cold metal bars. I watch as the judge enters, a stern figure in black robes, followed by the prosecutor, a smug-looking man with sharp features. The defence attorney assigned to me, a dishevelled man who looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, takes his place. 'All rise,' the bailiff intones, and the room stands as the judge takes her seat. 'Be seated,' she commands, and the trial begins. The prosecutor stands, clearing his throat. 'Your Honor, members of the jury, today we are here to prosecute Michael Knight, who has committed a heinous act of murder against Dr. Harper.' The prosecutor's voice is steady and confident, each word a nail in my coffin. He recounts the events, the details of Harper’s death, the brutality of it. He presents evidence—photos of the crime scene, the bloodied room, the weapon. He calls witnesses—colleagues who attest to my temper, guards who testify to the chaos after the murder. Each testimony feels like a stone added to the weight already pressing down on my chest. When the defence attorney stands, his voice lacks conviction. 'Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the defendant...well, he has been a dedicated therapist, committed to helping others. His actions, though inexcusable, were the result of immense pressure and a breakdown.' The defence is weak, almost as if he’s given up before starting. He calls no witnesses, presents no substantial evidence in my favour. I sit silently, my mind a storm of thoughts and regrets. I barely hear the proceedings, lost in my own turmoil. Then it’s my turn. The judge looks at me, her eyes cold. 'Michael Knight, you have heard the charges against you. How do you plead?' I stand, the chains around my wrists clinking ominously. 'I did it,' I say, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. There is a murmur in the courtroom, a ripple of reactions. The judge silences it with a stern look. 'Very well,' she says. 'You have admitted to the crime. The court will now deliberate on the sentence.' The jury is out for what feels like an eternity. I sit back down, the cell door closed but not locked. I stare at the floor, at the cracks in the tiles, at anything but the people around me. Finally, the jury returns, and the foreman stands. 'We, the jury, find the defendant, Michael Knight, guilty of murder.' The judge nods, her face devoid of emotion. 'Michael Knight, you have been found guilty of murder. Considering the severity of your crime and the evidence presented, this court sentences you to death.' The words hit me like a physical blow. I stand there, numb, as the room reacts around me. The spectators murmur, the prosecutor looks satisfied, and the defense attorney looks relieved it’s over. As the guards come to take me back, I glance toward John. He’s still there, watching, his expression unreadable. His presence is a mystery, one I can’t afford to unravel right now. It’s over. The guards led me out, and as they opened my cell, a shot rang out. I looked back, and John was gone. He had shot the officer leading me out, leaving the officer's body lying next to me. The courtroom door swung open, and two fully armoured figures stormed in, armed to the teeth. In seconds, they had shot all the cops in the room. 'Micheal, John, let's go! We don't have time,' one of them shouted. They cut my chains and handed me a gun. They led us out through the same entrance I had come in. As we reached the gate, another armoured bus arrived, and they were escorting Maxwell out. Without hesitation, I shot all three officers around him, headshots dropping them instantly. 'Maxwell, come with us!' I yelled. He didn’t wait a moment, sprinting towards us. We all ran, and right behind the gate was my Land Rover Series 1, its white paint gleaming in the sun. We piled inside, Maxwell the dog greeted us all with a bark. The two armoured figures sat in the front, while Maxwell (human) and John crammed into the back seat. The armoured figures pulled off their masks—it was Jane and Noah. Noah drove like a madman, the police sirens blaring behind us. 'Who the fuck is this guy?' Noah shouted over the roar of the engine, glancing at Maxwell. 'Why are we taking him with us?' 'Long story, I'll tell you later! Just get these cops off our backs first!' I yelled back, clutching the seat as Noah swerved to avoid a roadblock. Noah pushed the Land Rover to its limits, dodging and weaving through traffic. The roar of the engine and the blare of sirens filled the air, creating a cacophony of noise that only heightened the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Jane fired out the window, taking out the tires of pursuing vehicles, causing chaos in our wake. 'We're heading for the woods!' Noah shouted, his eyes darting between the road and the rearview mirror. Maxwell (dog) was panting heavily, sensing the tension. I reached down to calm him, my mind racing with thoughts. The reality of our situation was hitting hard. Why had John come back? What had driven Jane and Noah to risk everything for me? The answers were secondary to the immediate need to survive. 'Hang on!' Noah yelled, swerving sharply to avoid another obstacle. The Land Rover jolted, sending us all lurching to the side. 'Where the hell are we going?' John asked, his voice tense. 'Safehouse, just hold on!' Noah replied, his focus unbroken. Maxwell (human) was silent, his expression unreadable. The chaos of our escape was almost surreal. Buildings blurred past us, people scattered, and sirens wailed. The Land Rover roared as Noah expertly navigated the treacherous streets. 'We need to lose them before we hit the woods,' Jane said, reloading her weapon. The weight of the situation was sinking in. Every second counted, and the bonds that had brought us together were being tested in ways we couldn't yet comprehend. As Noah swerved through the city, the hope of making it out alive flickered within me. Finally, the cityscape began to give way to trees and open fields. The road became rougher, less maintained, and Noah pushed the Land Rover even harder. 'We're almost there!' he called out, his voice steady despite the circumstances. The thought of what lay ahead was daunting, but for now, all that mattered was getting to the safehouse. After what felt like an eternity, Noah pulled the Land Rover into a hidden trail, the dense foliage swallowing us up. The cacophony of the chase faded behind us, replaced by the eerie silence of the woods. We sat in the vehicle, catching our breath. 'Everyone okay?' Noah asked, turning to look at us. 'Yeah,' I replied, feeling a mix of relief and exhaustion. 'We need to move quickly,' Jane said. 'This trail won't hide us for long.' Maxwell (human) nodded, his face a mask of determination. John was still tense, but there was a glimmer of gratitude in his eyes. As we sat there, the reality of our escape began to sink in. We had made it this far, but the journey ahead was uncertain. 'We did it,' Jane said softly, breaking the silence. Noah expertly navigates the Land Rover down a narrow, overgrown trail that leads to an isolated safehouse deep in the woods. The dense foliage conceals our refuge from prying eyes, providing a temporary sanctuary from the chaos we left behind in the city. Once we arrive, Noah parks the Land Rover behind a thick grove of trees, carefully camouflaging it with branches and leaves. The vehicle disappears into the natural surroundings, ensuring it won't attract unwanted attention. Jane and John exchange a silent nod of understanding before they slip away into the forest, disappearing like ghosts into the wilderness. Their departure leaves a palpable sense of gratitude and relief, knowing they risked everything to ensure our escape. As we sprinted deeper into the woods, following Noah's lead, questions and relief mingled in my mind. Jane's terse remark broke the silence, 'I thought you were finished.' Noah didn't break stride as he replied, 'Not yet. We're leaving now.' His confidence bolstered us as we navigated the dense foliage until we reached a forest clearing. There it stood, a near identical 1969 Cadillac New Yorker. 'How?' I managed to ask, still catching my breath. 'I knew how much you loved that car,' Noah said, a small smile touching his lips. 'So, I got us another one. Everything you prepared is in the trunk. Let's get moving.' We squeezed into the car, the confines a bit tight but the relief of being together overshadowed any discomfort. Noah took the driver's seat, his posture determined as he began to outline his plan. 'We need to find someone who can get us new passports, new identities,' Noah explained, his voice steady despite the urgency of our situation. 'There's a guy I know, he's a bit... unconventional, but he's the best at what he does. He can help us get to Scotland, where homosexuality is legal and off the radar of the Americans.' Jane and John nodded in agreement, the gravity of our escape settling over us. Maxwell (human) remained quiet but attentive, a silent observer to our planning. 'Let's do it,' Jane said, her voice firm. As Noah navigated the winding roads, the hum of the Cadillac New Yorker served as a backdrop to the conversation that began to unfold between him and Maxwell. I sat in the back, listening, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Noah glanced at Maxwell, breaking the silence. 'So, Maxwell, what’s your story? How did you end up back in Michael’s life?' Maxwell shifted in his seat, clearly trying to find the right words. 'Well, it's a long story. Michael and I... we have a history. We were close once, very close. Life pulled us apart, but I guess fate had other plans.' 'Close how?' Noah asked, his tone curious but not confrontational. Maxwell sighed, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. 'We were together, Noah. In every sense of the word. He was my first love. We were young and naive, thinking the world wouldn't catch up to us. But it did. We were separated, and I... well, I made a lot of mistakes.' I could see Noah’s grip on the steering wheel tighten, but he kept his voice steady. 'And now?' 'And now,' Maxwell continued, 'I owe Michael my life. He saved me when I had no one else. When I was at my lowest, he risked everything for me. It’s a debt I can never repay.' Noah nodded slowly, processing Maxwell’s words. 'Michael's always been like that. Always putting others first, even if it means risking his own life.' Maxwell looked over at Noah, a hint of admiration in his eyes. 'Seems like he found someone who understands him. That’s good to know.' There was a moment of silence, the air thick with unspoken feelings. I wondered why they were getting along so well. Shouldn’t there be more tension? More jealousy? But instead, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding between them. 'So, what do you plan to do once we get to Scotland?' Noah asked, breaking the silence again. Maxwell shrugged. 'I honestly don't know. Start fresh, I guess. Try to find some semblance of peace.' Noah nodded. 'Same here. It’s a chance for all of us to start over. To live without fear.' Maxwell glanced back at me, his eyes softening. 'Michael, you've always been the glue that held things together. I think... I think we can make it, as long as we stick together.' I gave a small nod, unable to find the right words. Emotions churned within me—relief, fear, hope, and an odd sense of peace. As I listened to them talk, I realized that maybe, just maybe, this unexpected alliance could work. They didn’t have to hate each other. In fact, their mutual respect for what each had done for me might just be the thing that kept us all alive. We left Pennsylvania behind and drove through the winding forest roads until we reached a small warehouse nestled in the woods. The Cadillac New Yorker came to a stop, and we stepped out, the dense canopy above casting shadows on the ground. Noah led the way, pushing open the door to the warehouse. We followed him inside, the scent of dust and oil filling the air. Our story ends here. But your life just started. The moral of my story? no matter how far you run, your demons always find a way to catch up but remember this: every good deed, every act of kindness, will return to you, often shrouded in darkness and blood, twisting the knife in ways you never expected.

White Nights

WHITE NIGHTS FIRST NIGHT It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more frequently into your heart!... Speaking of capricious and illhumoured people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who 'every one' was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year. They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other, especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed each other with a look of interest. I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say: 'Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to have a new storey in May,' or, 'How are you? I am being redecorated to-morrow;' or, 'I was almost burnt down and had such a fright,' and so on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a plaintive, 'They are painting me yellow!' The villains! The barbarians! They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire. So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all Petersburg. I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days before I guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in the street—this one had gone and that one had gone, and what had become of the other?—and at home I did not feel like myself either. For two evenings I was puzzling my brains to think what was amiss in my corner; why I felt so uncomfortable in it. And in perplexity I scanned my grimy green walls, my ceiling covered with a spider's web, the growth of which Matrona has so successfully encouraged. I looked over all my furniture, examined every chair, wondering whether the trouble lay there (for if one chair is not standing in the same position as it stood the day before, I am not myself). I looked at the window, but it was all in vain ... I was not a bit the better for it! I even bethought me to send for Matrona, and was giving her some fatherly admonitions in regard to the spider's web and sluttishness in general; but she simply stared at me in amazement and went away without saying a word, so that the spider's web is comfortably hanging in its place to this day. I only at last this morning realized what was wrong. Aie! Why, they are giving me the slip and making off to their summer villas! Forgive the triviality of the expression, but I am in no mood for fine language ... for everything that had been in Petersburg had gone or was going away for the holidays; for every respectable gentleman of dignified appearance who took a cab was at once transformed, in my eyes, into a respectable head of a household who after his daily duties were over, was making his way to the bosom of his family, to the summer villa; for all the passers-by had now quite a peculiar air which seemed to say to every one they met: 'We are only here for the moment, gentlemen, and in another two hours we shall be going off to the summer villa.' If a window opened after delicate fingers, white as snow, had tapped upon the pane, and the head of a pretty girl was thrust out, calling to a street-seller with pots of flowers—at once on the spot I fancied that those flowers were being bought not simply in order to enjoy the flowers and the spring in stuffy town lodgings, but because they would all be very soon moving into the country and could take the flowers with them. What is more, I made such progress in my new peculiar sort of investigation that I could distinguish correctly from the mere air of each in what summer villa he was living. The inhabitants of Kamenny and Aptekarsky Islands or of the Peterhof Road were marked by the studied elegance of their manner, their fashionable summer suits, and the fine carriages in which they drove to town. Visitors to Pargolovo and places further away impressed one at first sight by their reasonable and dignified air; the tripper to Krestovsky Island could be recognized by his look of irrepressible gaiety. If I chanced to meet a long procession of waggoners walking lazily with the reins in their hands beside waggons loaded with regular mountains of furniture, tables, chairs, ottomans and sofas and domestic utensils of all sorts, frequently with a decrepit cook sitting on the top of it all, guarding her master's property as though it were the apple of her eye; or if I saw boats heavily loaded with household goods crawling along the Neva or Fontanka to the Black River or the Islands—the waggons and the boats were multiplied tenfold, a hundredfold, in my eyes. I fancied that everything was astir and moving, everything was going in regular caravans to the summer villas. It seemed as though Petersburg threatened to become a wilderness, so that at last I felt ashamed, mortified and sad that I had nowhere to go for the holidays and no reason to go away. I was ready to go away with every waggon, to drive off with every gentleman of respectable appearance who took a cab; but no one—absolutely no one—invited me; it seemed they had forgotten me, as though really I were a stranger to them! I took long walks, succeeding, as I usually did, in quite forgetting where I was, when I suddenly found myself at the city gates. Instantly I felt lighthearted, and I passed the barrier and walked between cultivated fields and meadows, unconscious of fatigue, and feeling only all over as though a burden were falling off my soul. All the passers-by gave me such friendly looks that they seemed almost greeting me, they all seemed so pleased at something. They were all smoking cigars, every one of them. And I felt pleased as I never had before. It was as though I had suddenly found myself in Italy—so strong was the effect of nature upon a half-sick townsman like me, almost stifling between city walls. There is something inexpressibly touching in nature round Petersburg, when at the approach of spring she puts forth all her might, all the powers bestowed on her by Heaven, when she breaks into leaf, decks herself out and spangles herself with flowers.... Somehow I cannot help being reminded of a frail, consumptive girl, at whom one sometimes looks with compassion, sometimes with sympathetic love, whom sometimes one simply does not notice; though suddenly in one instant she becomes, as though by chance, inexplicably lovely and exquisite, and, impressed and intoxicated, one cannot help asking oneself what power made those sad, pensive eyes flash with such fire? What summoned the blood to those pale, wan cheeks? What bathed with passion those soft features? What set that bosom heaving? What so suddenly called strength, life and beauty into the poor girl's face, making it gleam with such a smile, kindle with such bright, sparkling laughter? You look round, you seek for some one, you conjecture.... But the moment passes, and next day you meet, maybe, the same pensive and preoccupied look as before, the same pale face, the same meek and timid movements, and even signs of remorse, traces of a mortal anguish and regret for the fleeting distraction.... And you grieve that the momentary beauty has faded so soon never to return, that it flashed upon you so treacherously, so vainly, grieve because you had not even time to love her.... And yet my night was better than my day! This was how it happened. I came back to the town very late, and it had struck ten as I was going towards my lodgings. My way lay along the canal embankment, where at that hour you never meet a soul. It is true that I live in a very remote part of the town. I walked along singing, for when I am happy I am always humming to myself like every happy man who has no friend or acquaintance with whom to share his joy. Suddenly I had a most unexpected adventure. Leaning on the canal railing stood a woman with her elbows on the rail, she was apparently looking with great attention at the muddy water of the canal. She was wearing a very charming yellow hat and a jaunty little black mantle. 'She's a girl, and I am sure she is dark,' I thought. She did not seem to hear my footsteps, and did not even stir when I passed by with bated breath and loudly throbbing heart. 'Strange,' I thought; 'she must be deeply absorbed in something,' and all at once I stopped as though petrified. I heard a muffled sob. Yes! I was not mistaken, the girl was crying, and a minute later I heard sob after sob. Good Heavens! My heart sank. And timid as I was with women, yet this was such a moment!... I turned, took a step towards her, and should certainly have pronounced the word 'Madam!' if I had not known that that exclamation has been uttered a thousand times in every Russian society novel. It was only that reflection stopped me. But while I was seeking for a word, the girl came to herself, looked round, started, cast down her eyes and slipped by me along the embankment. I at once followed her; but she, divining this, left the embankment, crossed the road and walked along the pavement. I dared not cross the street after her. My heart was fluttering like a captured bird. All at once a chance came to my aid. Along the same side of the pavement there suddenly came into sight, not far from the girl, a gentleman in evening dress, of dignified years, though by no means of dignified carriage; he was staggering and cautiously leaning against the wall. The girl flew straight as an arrow, with the timid haste one sees in all girls who do not want any one to volunteer to accompany them home at night, and no doubt the staggering gentleman would not have pursued her, if my good luck had not prompted him. Suddenly, without a word to any one, the gentleman set off and flew full speed in pursuit of my unknown lady. She was racing like the wind, but the staggering gentleman was overtaking—overtook her. The girl uttered a shriek, and ... I bless my luck for the excellent knotted stick, which happened on that occasion to be in my right hand. In a flash I was on the other side of the street; in a flash the obtrusive gentleman had taken in the position, had grasped the irresistible argument, fallen back without a word, and only when we were very far away protested against my action in rather vigorous language. But his words hardly reached us. 'Give me your arm,' I said to the girl. 'And he won't dare to annoy us further.' She took my arm without a word, still trembling with excitement and terror. Oh, obtrusive gentleman! How I blessed you at that moment! I stole a glance at her, she was very charming and dark—I had guessed right. On her black eyelashes there still glistened a tear—from her recent terror or her former grief—I don't know. But there was already a gleam of a smile on her lips. She too stole a glance at me, faintly blushed and looked down. 'There, you see; why did you drive me away? If I had been here, nothing would have happened....' 'But I did not know you; I thought that you too....' 'Why, do you know me now?' 'A little! Here, for instance, why are you trembling?' 'Oh, you are right at the first guess!' I answered, delighted that my girl had intelligence; that is never out of place in company with beauty. 'Yes, from the first glance you have guessed the sort of man you have to do with. Precisely; I am shy with women, I am agitated, I don't deny it, as much so as you were a minute ago when that gentleman alarmed you. I am in some alarm now. It's like a dream, and I never guessed even in my sleep that I should ever talk with any woman.' 'What? Really?...' 'Yes; if my arm trembles, it is because it has never been held by a pretty little hand like yours. I am a complete stranger to women; that is, I have never been used to them. You see, I am alone.... I don't even know how to talk to them. Here, I don't know now whether I have not said something silly to you! Tell me frankly; I assure you beforehand that I am not quick to take offence?...' 'No, nothing, nothing, quite the contrary. And if you insist on my speaking frankly, I will tell you that women like such timidity; and if you want to know more, I like it too, and I won't drive you away till I get home.' 'You will make me,' I said, breathless with delight, 'lose my timidity, and then farewell to all my chances....' 'Chances! What chances—of what? That's not so nice.' 'I beg your pardon, I am sorry, it was a slip of the tongue; but how can you expect one at such a moment to have no desire....' 'To be liked, eh?' 'Well, yes; but do, for goodness' sake, be kind. Think what I am! Here, I am twenty-six and I have never seen any one. How can I speak well, tactfully, and to the point? It will seem better to you when I have told you everything openly.... I don't know how to be silent when my heart is speaking. Well, never mind.... Believe me, not one woman, never, never! No acquaintance of any sort! And I do nothing but dream every day that at last I shall meet some one. Oh, if only you knew how often I have been in love in that way....' 'How? With whom?...' 'Why, with no one, with an ideal, with the one I dream of in my sleep. I make up regular romances in my dreams. Ah, you don't know me! It's true, of course, I have met two or three women, but what sort of women were they? They were all landladies, that.... But I shall make you laugh if I tell you that I have several times thought of speaking, just simply speaking, to some aristocratic lady in the street, when she is alone, I need hardly say; speaking to her, of course, timidly, respectfully, passionately; telling her that I am perishing in solitude, begging her not to send me away; saying that I have no chance of making the acquaintance of any woman; impressing upon her that it is a positive duty for a woman not to repulse so timid a prayer from such a luckless man as me. That, in fact, all I ask is, that she should say two or three sisterly words with sympathy, should not repulse me at first sight; should take me on trust and listen to what I say; should laugh at me if she likes, encourage me, say two words to me, only two words, even though we never meet again afterwards!... But you are laughing; however, that is why I am telling you....' 'Don't be vexed; I am only laughing at your being your own enemy, and if you had tried you would have succeeded, perhaps, even though it had been in the street; the simpler the better.... No kind-hearted woman, unless she were stupid or, still more, vexed about something at the moment, could bring herself to send you away without those two words which you ask for so timidly.... But what am I saying? Of course she would take you for a madman. I was judging by myself; I know a good deal about other people's lives.' 'Oh, thank you,' I cried; 'you don't know what you have done for me now!' 'I am glad! I am glad! But tell me how did you find out that I was the sort of woman with whom ... well, whom you think worthy ... of attention and friendship ... in fact, not a landlady as you say? What made you decide to come up to me?' 'What made me?... But you were alone; that gentleman was too insolent; it's night. You must admit that it was a duty....' 'No, no; I mean before, on the other side—you know you meant to come up to me.' 'On the other side? Really I don't know how to answer; I am afraid to.... Do you know I have been happy to-day? I walked along singing; I went out into the country; I have never had such happy moments. You ... perhaps it was my fancy.... Forgive me for referring to it; I fancied you were crying, and I ... could not bear to hear it ... it made my heart ache.... Oh, my goodness! Surely I might be troubled about you? Surely there was no harm in feeling brotherly compassion for you.... I beg your pardon, I said compassion.... Well, in short, surely you would not be offended at my involuntary impulse to go up to you?...' 'Stop, that's enough, don't talk of it,' said the girl, looking down, and pressing my hand. 'It's my fault for having spoken of it; but I am glad I was not mistaken in you.... But here I am home; I must go down this turning, it's two steps from here.... Good-bye, thank you!...' 'Surely ... surely you don't mean ... that we shall never see each other again?... Surely this is not to be the end?' 'You see,' said the girl, laughing, 'at first you only wanted two words, and now.... However, I won't say anything ... perhaps we shall meet....' 'I shall come here to-morrow,' I said. 'Oh, forgive me, I am already making demands....' 'Yes, you are not very patient ... you are almost insisting.' 'Listen, listen!' I interrupted her. 'Forgive me if I tell you something else.... I tell you what, I can't help coming here to-morrow, I am a dreamer; I have so little real life that I look upon such moments as this now, as so rare, that I cannot help going over such moments again in my dreams. I shall be dreaming of you all night, a whole week, a whole year. I shall certainly come here to-morrow, just here to this place, just at the same hour, and I shall be happy remembering today. This place is dear to me already. I have already two or three such places in Petersburg. I once shed tears over memories ... like you.... Who knows, perhaps you were weeping ten minutes ago over some memory.... But, forgive me, I have forgotten myself again; perhaps you have once been particularly happy here....' 'Very good,' said the girl, 'perhaps I will come here to-morrow, too, at ten o'clock. I see that I can't forbid you.... The fact is, I have to be here; don't imagine that I am making an appointment with you; I tell you beforehand that I have to be here on my own account. But ... well, I tell you straight out, I don't mind if you do come. To begin with, something unpleasant might happen as it did to-day, but never mind that.... In short, I should simply like to see you ... to say two words to you. Only, mind, you must not think the worse of me now! Don't think I make appointments so lightly.... I shouldn't make it except that.... But let that be my secret! Only a compact beforehand....' 'A compact! Speak, tell me, tell me all beforehand; I agree to anything, I am ready for anything,' I cried delighted. 'I answer for myself, I will be obedient, respectful ... you know me....' 'It's just because I do know you that I ask you to come to-morrow,' said the girl, laughing. 'I know you perfectly. But mind you will come on the condition, in the first place (only be good, do what I ask—you see, I speak frankly), you won't fall in love with me.... That's impossible, I assure you. I am ready for friendship; here's my hand.... But you mustn't fall in love with me, I beg you!' 'I swear,' I cried, gripping her hand.... 'Hush, don't swear, I know you are ready to flare up like gunpowder. Don't think ill of me for saying so. If only you knew.... I, too, have no one to whom I can say a word, whose advice I can ask. Of course, one does not look for an adviser in the street; but you are an exception. I know you as though we had been friends for twenty years.... You won't deceive me, will you?...' 'You will see ... the only thing is, I don't know how I am going to survive the next twenty-four hours.' 'Sleep soundly. Good-night, and remember that I have trusted you already. But you exclaimed so nicely just now, 'Surely one can't be held responsible for every feeling, even for brotherly sympathy!' Do you know, that was so nicely said, that the idea struck me at once, that I might confide in you?' 'For God's sake do; but about what? What is it?' 'Wait till to-morrow. Meanwhile, let that be a secret. So much the better for you; it will give it a faint flavour of romance. Perhaps I will tell you to-morrow, and perhaps not.... I will talk to you a little more beforehand; we will get to know each other better....' 'Oh yes, I will tell you all about myself to-morrow! But what has happened? It is as though a miracle had befallen me.... My God, where am I? Come, tell me aren't you glad that you were not angry and did not drive me away at the first moment, as any other woman would have done? In two minutes you have made me happy for ever. Yes, happy; who knows, perhaps, you have reconciled me with myself, solved my doubts!... Perhaps such moments come upon me.... But there I will tell you all about it to-morrow, you shall know everything, everything....' 'Very well, I consent; you shall begin....' 'Agreed.' 'Good-bye till to-morrow!' 'Till to-morrow!' And we parted. I walked about all night; I could not make up my mind to go home. I was so happy.... To-morrow! SECOND NIGHT 'Well, so you have survived!' she said, pressing both my hands. 'I've been here for the last two hours; you don't know what a state I have been in all day.' 'I know, I know. But to business. Do you know why I have come? Not to talk nonsense, as I did yesterday. I tell you what, we must behave more sensibly in future. I thought a great deal about it last night.' 'In what way—in what must we be more sensible? I am ready for my part; but, really, nothing more sensible has happened to me in my life than this, now.' 'Really? In the first place, I beg you not to squeeze my hands so; secondly, I must tell you that I spent a long time thinking about you and feeling doubtful today.' 'And how did it end?' 'How did it end? The upshot of it is that we must begin all over again, because the conclusion I reached to-day was that I don't know you at all; that I behaved like a baby last night, like a little girl; and, of course, the fact of it is, that it's my soft heart that is to blame—that is, I sang my own praises, as one always does in the end when one analyses one's conduct. And therefore to correct my mistake, I've made up my mind to find out all about you minutely. But as I have no one from whom I can find out anything, you must tell me everything fully yourself. Well, what sort of man are you? Come, make haste—begin—tell me your whole history.' 'My history!' I cried in alarm. 'My history! But who has told you I have a history? I have no history....' 'Then how have you lived, if you have no history?' she interrupted, laughing. 'Absolutely without any history! I have lived, as they say, keeping myself to myself, that is, utterly alone—alone, entirely alone. Do you know what it means to be alone?' 'But how alone? Do you mean you never saw any one?' 'Oh no, I see people, of course; but still I am alone.' 'Why, do you never talk to any one?' 'Strictly speaking, with no one.' 'Who are you then? Explain yourself! Stay, I guess: most likely, like me you have a grandmother. She is blind and will never let me go anywhere, so that I have almost forgotten how to talk; and when I played some pranks two years ago, and she saw there was no holding me in, she called me up and pinned my dress to hers, and ever since we sit like that for days together; she knits a stocking, though she's blind, and I sit beside her, sew or read aloud to her—it's such a queer habit, here for two years I've been pinned to her....' 'Good Heavens! what misery! But no, I haven't a grandmother like that.' 'Well, if you haven't why do you sit at home?...' 'Listen, do you want to know the sort of man I am?' 'Yes, yes!' 'In the strict sense of the word?' 'In the very strictest sense of the word.' 'Very well, I am a type!' 'Type, type! What sort of type?' cried the girl, laughing, as though she had not had a chance of laughing for a whole year. 'Yes, it's very amusing talking to you. Look, here's a seat, let us sit down. No one is passing here, no one will hear us, and—begin your history. For it's no good your telling me, I know you have a history; only you are concealing it. To begin with, what is a type?' 'A type? A type is an original, it's an absurd person!' I said, infected by her childish laughter. 'It's a character. Listen; do you know what is meant by a dreamer?' 'A dreamer! Indeed I should think I do know. I am a dreamer myself. Sometimes, as I sit by grandmother, all sorts of things come into my head. Why, when one begins dreaming one lets one's fancy run away with one—why, I marry a Chinese Prince!... Though sometimes it is a good thing to dream! But, goodness knows! Especially when one has something to think of apart from dreams,' added the girl, this time rather seriously. 'Excellent! If you have been married to a Chinese Emperor, you will quite understand me. Come, listen.... But one minute, I don't know your name yet.' 'At last! You have been in no hurry to think of it!' 'Oh, my goodness! It never entered my head, I felt quite happy as it was....' 'My name is Nastenka.' 'Nastenka! And nothing else?' 'Nothing else! Why, is not that enough for you, you insatiable person?' 'Not enough? On the contrary, it's a great deal, a very great deal, Nastenka; you kind girl, if you are Nastenka for me from the first.' 'Quite so! Well?' 'Well, listen, Nastenka, now for this absurd history.' I sat down beside her, assumed a pedantically serious attitude, and began as though reading from a manuscript:— 'There are, Nastenka, though you may not know it, strange nooks in Petersburg. It seems as though the same sun as shines for all Petersburg people does not peep into those spots, but some other different new one, bespoken expressly for those nooks, and it throws a different light on everything. In these corners, dear Nastenka, quite a different life is lived, quite unlike the life that is surging round us, but such as perhaps exists in some unknown realm, not among us in our serious, over-serious, time. Well, that life is a mixture of something purely fantastic, fervently ideal, with something (alas! Nastenka) dingily prosaic and ordinary, not to say incredibly vulgar.' 'Foo! Good Heavens! What a preface! What do I hear?' 'Listen, Nastenka. (It seems to me I shall never be tired of calling you Nastenka.) Let me tell you that in these corners live strange people—dreamers. The dreamer—if you want an exact definition—is not a human being, but a creature of an intermediate sort. For the most part he settles in some inaccessible corner, as though hiding from the light of day; once he slips into his corner, he grows to it like a snail, or, anyway, he is in that respect very much like that remarkable creature, which is an animal and a house both at once, and is called a tortoise. Why do you suppose he is so fond of his four walls, which are invariably painted green, grimy, dismal and reeking unpardonably of tobacco smoke? Why is it that when this absurd gentleman is visited by one of his few acquaintances (and he ends by getting rid of all his friends), why does this absurd person meet him with such embarrassment, changing countenance and overcome with confusion, as though he had only just committed some crime within his four walls; as though he had been forging counterfeit notes, or as though he were writing verses to be sent to a journal with an anonymous letter, in which he states that the real poet is dead, and that his friend thinks it his sacred duty to publish his things? Why, tell me, Nastenka, why is it conversation is not easy between the two friends? Why is there no laughter? Why does no lively word fly from the tongue of the perplexed newcomer, who at other times may be very fond of laughter, lively words, conversation about the fair sex, and other cheerful subjects? And why does this friend, probably a new friend and on his first visit—for there will hardly be a second, and the friend will never come again—why is the friend himself so confused, so tongue-tied, in spite of his wit (if he has any), as he looks at the downcast face of his host, who in his turn becomes utterly helpless and at his wits' end after gigantic but fruitless efforts to smooth things over and enliven the conversation, to show his knowledge of polite society, to talk, too, of the fair sex, and by such humble endeavour, to please the poor man, who like a fish out of water has mistakenly come to visit him? Why does the gentleman, all at once remembering some very necessary business which never existed, suddenly seize his hat and hurriedly make off, snatching away his hand from the warm grip of his host, who was trying his utmost to show his regret and retrieve the lost position? Why does the friend chuckle as he goes out of the door, and swear never to come and see this queer creature again, though the queer creature is really a very good fellow, and at the same time he cannot refuse his imagination the little diversion of comparing the queer fellow's countenance during their conversation with the expression of an unhappy kitten treacherously captured, roughly handled, frightened and subjected to all sorts of indignities by children, till, utterly crestfallen, it hides away from them under a chair in the dark, and there must needs at its leisure bristle up, spit, and wash its insulted face with both paws, and long afterwards look angrily at life and nature, and even at the bits saved from the master's dinner for it by the sympathetic housekeeper?' 'Listen,' interrupted Nastenka, who had listened to me all the time in amazement, opening her eyes and her little mouth. 'Listen; I don't know in the least why it happened and why you ask me such absurd questions; all I know is, that this adventure must have happened word for word to you.' 'Doubtless,' I answered, with the gravest face. 'Well, since there is no doubt about it, go on,' said Nastenka, 'because I want very much to know how it will end.' 'You want to know, Nastenka, what our hero, that is I—for the hero of the whole business was my humble self—did in his corner? You want to know why I lost my head and was upset for the whole day by the unexpected visit of a friend? You want to know why I was so startled, why I blushed when the door of my room was opened, why I was not able to entertain my visitor, and why I was crushed under the weight of my own hospitality?' 'Why, yes, yes,' answered Nastenka, 'that's the point. Listen. You describe it all splendidly, but couldn't you perhaps describe it a little less splendidly? You talk as though you were reading it out of a book.' 'Nastenka,' I answered in a stern and dignified voice, hardly able to keep from laughing, 'dear Nastenka, I know I describe splendidly, but, excuse me, I don't know how else to do it. At this moment, dear Nastenka, at this moment I am like the spirit of King Solomon when, after lying a thousand years under seven seals in his urn, those seven seals were at last taken off. At this moment, Nastenka, when we have met at last after such a long separation—for I have known you for ages, Nastenka, because I have been looking for some one for ages, and that is a sign that it was you I was looking for, and it was ordained that we should meet now—at this moment a thousand valves have opened in my head, and I must let myself flow in a river of words, or I shall choke. And so I beg you not to interrupt me, Nastenka, but listen humbly and obediently, or I will be silent.' 'No, no, no! Not at all. Go on! I won't say a word!' 'I will continue. There is, my friend Nastenka, one hour in my day which I like extremely. That is the hour when almost all business, work and duties are over, and every one is hurrying home to dinner, to lie down, to rest, and on the way all are cogitating on other more cheerful subjects relating to their evenings, their nights, and all the rest of their free time. At that hour our hero—for allow me, Nastenka, to tell my story in the third person, for one feels awfully ashamed to tell it in the first person—and so at that hour our hero, who had his work too, was pacing along after the others. But a strange feeling of pleasure set his pale, rather crumpled-looking face working. He looked not with indifference on the evening glow which was slowly fading on the cold Petersburg sky. When I say he looked, I am lying: he did not look at it, but saw it as it were without realizing, as though tired or preoccupied with some other more interesting subject, so that he could scarcely spare a glance for anything about him. He was pleased because till next day he was released from business irksome to him, and happy as a schoolboy let out from the class-room to his games and mischief. Take a look at him, Nastenka; you will see at once that joyful emotion has already had an effect on his weak nerves and morbidly excited fancy. You see he is thinking of something.... Of dinner, do you imagine? Of the evening? What is he looking at like that? Is it at that gentleman of dignified appearance who is bowing so picturesquely to the lady who rolls by in a carriage drawn by prancing horses? No, Nastenka; what are all those trivialities to him now! He is rich now with his own individual life; he has suddenly become rich, and it is not for nothing that the fading sunset sheds its farewell gleams so gaily before him, and calls forth a swarm of impressions from his warmed heart. Now he hardly notices the road, on which the tiniest details at other times would strike him. Now 'the Goddess of Fancy' (if you have read Zhukovsky, dear Nastenka) has already with fantastic hand spun her golden warp and begun weaving upon it patterns of marvellous magic life—and who knows, maybe, her fantastic hand has borne him to the seventh crystal heaven far from the excellent granite pavement on which he was walking his way? Try stopping him now, ask him suddenly where he is standing now, through what streets he is going—he will, probably remember nothing, neither where he is going nor where he is standing now, and flushing with vexation he will certainly tell some lie to save appearances. That is why he starts, almost cries out, and looks round with horror when a respectable old lady stops him politely in the middle of the pavement and asks her way. Frowning with vexation he strides on, scarcely noticing that more than one passer-by smiles and turns round to look after him, and that a little girl, moving out of his way in alarm, laughs aloud, gazing open-eyed at his broad meditative smile and gesticulations. But fancy catches up in its playful flight the old woman, the curious passers-by, and the laughing child, and the peasants spending their nights in their barges on Fontanka (our hero, let us suppose, is walking along the canal-side at that moment), and capriciously weaves every one and everything into the canvas like a fly in a spider's web. And it is only after the queer fellow has returned to his comfortable den with fresh stores for his mind to work on, has sat down and finished his dinner, that he comes to himself, when Matrona who waits upon him—always thoughtful and depressed—clears the table and gives him his pipe; he comes to himself then and recalls with surprise that he has dined, though he has absolutely no notion how it has happened. It has grown dark in the room; his soul is sad and empty; the whole kingdom of fancies drops to pieces about him, drops to pieces without a trace, without a sound, floats away like a dream, and he cannot himself remember what he was dreaming. But a vague sensation faintly stirs his heart and sets it aching, some new desire temptingly tickles and excites his fancy, and imperceptibly evokes a swarm of fresh phantoms. Stillness reigns in the little room; imagination is fostered by solitude and idleness; it is faintly smouldering, faintly simmering, like the water with which old Matrona is making her coffee as she moves quietly about in the kitchen close by. Now it breaks out spasmodically; and the book, picked up aimlessly and at random, drops from my dreamer's hand before he has reached the third page. His imagination is again stirred and at work, and again a new world, a new fascinating life opens vistas before him. A fresh dream—fresh happiness! A fresh rush of delicate, voluptuous poison! What is real life to him! To his corrupted eyes we live, you and I, Nastenka, so torpidly, slowly, insipidly; in his eyes we are all so dissatisfied with our fate, so exhausted by our life! And, truly, see how at first sight everything is cold, morose, as though ill-humoured among us.... Poor things! thinks our dreamer. And it is no wonder that he thinks it! Look at these magic phantasms, which so enchantingly, so whimsically, so carelessly and freely group before him in such a magic, animated picture, in which the most prominent figure in the foreground is of course himself, our dreamer, in his precious person. See what varied adventures, what an endless swarm of ecstatic dreams. You ask, perhaps, what he is dreaming of. Why ask that?—why, of everything ... of the lot of the poet, first unrecognized, then crowned with laurels; of friendship with Hoffmann, St. Bartholomew's Night, of Diana Vernon, of playing the hero at the taking of Kazan by Ivan Vassilyevitch, of Clara Mowbray, of Effie Deans, of the council of the prelates and Huss before them, of the rising of the dead in 'Robert the Devil' (do you remember the music, it smells of the churchyard!), of Minna and Brenda, of the battle of Berezina, of the reading of a poem at Countess V. D.'s, of Danton, of Cleopatra ei suoi amanti, of a little house in Kolomna, of a little home of one's own and beside one a dear creature who listens to one on a winter's evening, opening her little mouth and eyes as you are listening to me now, my angel.... No, Nastenka, what is there, what is there for him, voluptuous sluggard, in this life, for which you and I have such a longing? He thinks that this is a poor pitiful life, not foreseeing that for him too, maybe, sometime the mournful hour may strike, when for one day of that pitiful life he would give all his years of phantasy, and would give them not only for joy and for happiness, but without caring to make distinctions in that hour of sadness, remorse and unchecked grief. But so far that threatening has not arrived—he desires nothing, because he is superior to all desire, because he has everything, because he is satiated, because he is the artist of his own life, and creates it for himself every hour to suit his latest whim. And you know this fantastic world of fairyland is so easily, so naturally created! As though it were not a delusion! Indeed, he is ready to believe at some moments that all this life is not suggested by feeling, is not mirage, not a delusion of the imagination, but that it is concrete, real, substantial! Why is it, Nastenka, why is it at such moments one holds one's breath? Why, by what sorcery, through what incomprehensible caprice, is the pulse quickened, does a tear start from the dreamer's eye, while his pale moist cheeks glow, while his whole being is suffused with an inexpressible sense of consolation? Why is it that whole sleepless nights pass like a flash in inexhaustible gladness and happiness, and when the dawn gleams rosy at the window and daybreak floods the gloomy room with uncertain, fantastic light, as in Petersburg, our dreamer, worn out and exhausted, flings himself on his bed and drops asleep with thrills of delight in his morbidly overwrought spirit, and with a weary sweet ache in his heart? Yes, Nastenka, one deceives oneself and unconsciously believes that real true passion is stirring one's soul; one unconsciously believes that there is something living, tangible in one's immaterial dreams! And is it delusion? Here love, for instance, is bound up with all its fathomless joy, all its torturing agonies in his bosom.... Only look at him, and you will be convinced! Would you believe, looking at him, dear Nastenka, that he has never known her whom he loves in his ecstatic dreams? Can it be that he has only seen her in seductive visions, and that this passion has been nothing but a dream? Surely they must have spent years hand in hand together—alone the two of them, casting off all the world and each uniting his or her life with the other's? Surely when the hour of parting came she must have lain sobbing and grieving on his bosom, heedless of the tempest raging under the sullen sky, heedless of the wind which snatches and bears away the tears from her black eyelashes? Can all of that have been a dream—and that garden, dejected, forsaken, run wild, with its little moss-grown paths, solitary, gloomy, where they used to walk so happily together, where they hoped, grieved, loved, loved each other so long, 'so long and so fondly?' And that queer ancestral house where she spent so many years lonely and sad with her morose old husband, always silent and splenetic, who frightened them, while timid as children they hid their love from each other? What torments they suffered, what agonies of terror, how innocent, how pure was their love, and how (I need hardly say, Nastenka) malicious people were! And, good Heavens! surely he met her afterwards, far from their native shores, under alien skies, in the hot south in the divinely eternal city, in the dazzling splendour of the ball to the crash of music, in a palazzo (it must be in a palazzo), drowned in a sea of lights, on the balcony, wreathed in myrtle and roses, where, recognizing him, she hurriedly removes her mask and whispering, 'I am free,' flings herself trembling into his arms, and with a cry of rapture, clinging to one another, in one instant they forget their sorrow and their parting and all their agonies, and the gloomy house and the old man and the dismal garden in that distant land, and the seat on which with a last passionate kiss she tore herself away from his arms numb with anguish and despair.... Oh, Nastenka, you must admit that one would start, betray confusion, and blush like a schoolboy who has just stuffed in his pocket an apple stolen from a neighbour's garden, when your uninvited visitor, some stalwart, lanky fellow, a festive soul fond of a joke, opens your door and shouts out as though nothing were happening: 'My dear boy, I have this minute come from Pavlovsk.' My goodness! the old count is dead, unutterable happiness is close at hand—and people arrive from Pavlovsk!' Finishing my pathetic appeal, I paused pathetically. I remembered that I had an intense desire to force myself to laugh, for I was already feeling that a malignant demon was stirring within me, that there was a lump in my throat, that my chin was beginning to twitch, and that my eyes were growing more and more moist. I expected Nastenka, who listened to me opening her clever eyes, would break into her childish, irrepressible laugh; and I was already regretting that I had gone so far, that I had unnecessarily described what had long been simmering in my heart, about which I could speak as though from a written account of it, because I had long ago passed judgment on myself and now could not resist reading it, making my confession, without expecting to be understood; but to my surprise she was silent, waiting a little, then she faintly pressed my hand and with timid sympathy asked— 'Surely you haven't lived like that all your life?' 'All my life, Nastenka,' I answered; 'all my life, and it seems to me I shall go on so to the end.' 'No, that won't do,' she said uneasily, 'that must not be; and so, maybe, I shall spend all my life beside grandmother. Do you know, it is not at all good to live like that?' 'I know, Nastenka, I know!' I cried, unable to restrain my feelings longer. 'And I realize now, more than ever, that I have lost all my best years! And now I know it and feel it more painfully from recognizing that God has sent me you, my good angel, to tell me that and show it. Now that I sit beside you and talk to you it is strange for me to think of the future, for in the future—there is loneliness again, again this musty, useless life; and what shall I have to dream of when I have been so happy in reality beside you! Oh, may you be blessed, dear girl, for not having repulsed me at first, for enabling me to say that for two evenings, at least, I have lived.' 'Oh, no, no!' cried Nastenka and tears glistened in her eyes. 'No, it mustn't be so any more; we must not part like that! what are two evenings?' 'Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! Do you know how far you have reconciled me to myself? Do you know now that I shall not think so ill of myself, as I have at some moments? Do you know that, maybe, I shall leave off grieving over the crime and sin of my life? for such a life is a crime and a sin. And do not imagine that I have been exaggerating anything—for goodness' sake don't think that, Nastenka: for at times such misery comes over me, such misery.... Because it begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life, because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch, all instinct for the actual, the real; because at last I have cursed myself; because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety, which are awful! Meanwhile, you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you; you hear, you see, men living in reality; you see that life for them is not forbidden, that their life does not float away like a dream, like a vision; that their life is being eternally renewed, eternally youthful, and not one hour of it is the same as another; while fancy is so spiritless, monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared, the slave of shadows, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun, and overcasts with depression the true Petersburg heart so devoted to the sun— and what is fancy in depression! One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise, because one is growing into manhood, outgrowing one's old ideals: they are being shattered into fragments, into dust; if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else! And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams, as though seeking a spark among the embers, to fan them into flame, to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire, and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet, that touched his heart, that set his blood boiling, drew tears from his eyes, and so luxuriously deceived him! Do you know, Nastenka, the point I have reached? Do you know that I am forced now to celebrate the anniversary of my own sensations, the anniversary of that which was once so sweet, which never existed in reality—for this anniversary is kept in memory of those same foolish, shadowy dreams—and to do this because those foolish dreams are no more, because I have nothing to earn them with; you know even dreams do not come for nothing! Do you know that I love now to recall and visit at certain dates the places where I was once happy in my own way? I love to build up my present in harmony with the irrevocable past, and I often wander like a shadow, aimless, sad and dejected, about the streets and crooked lanes of Petersburg. What memories they are! To remember, for instance, that here just a year ago, just at this time, at this hour, on this pavement, I wandered just as lonely, just as dejected as to-day. And one remembers that then one's dreams were sad, and though the past was no better one feels as though it had somehow been better, and that life was more peaceful, that one was free from the black thoughts that haunt one now; that one was free from the gnawing of conscience—the gloomy, sullen gnawing which now gives me no rest by day or by night. And one asks oneself where are one's dreams. And one shakes one's head and says how rapidly the years fly by! And again one asks oneself what has one done with one's years. Where have you buried your best days? Have you lived or not? Look, one says to oneself, look how cold the world is growing. Some more years will pass, and after them will come gloomy solitude; then will come old age trembling on its crutch, and after it misery and desolation. Your fantastic world will grow pale, your dreams will fade and die and will fall like the yellow leaves from the trees.... Oh, Nastenka! you know it will be sad to be left alone, utterly alone, and to have not even anything to regret —nothing, absolutely nothing ... for all that you have lost, all that, all was nothing, stupid, simple nullity, there has been nothing but dreams!' 'Come, don't work on my feelings any more,' said Nastenka, wiping away a tear which was trickling down her cheek. 'Now it's over! Now we shall be two together. Now, whatever happens to me, we will never part. Listen; I am a simple girl, I have not had much education, though grandmother did get a teacher for me, but truly I understand you, for all that you have described I have been through myself, when grandmother pinned me to her dress. Of course, I should not have described it so well as you have; I am not educated,' she added timidly, for she was still feeling a sort of respect for my pathetic eloquence and lofty style; 'but I am very glad that you have been quite open with me. Now I know you thoroughly, all of you. And do you know what? I want to tell you my history too, all without concealment, and after that you must give me advice. You are a very clever man; will you promise to give me advice?' 'Ah, Nastenka,' I cried, 'though I have never given advice, still less sensible advice, yet I see now that if we always go on like this that it will be very sensible, and that each of us will give the other a great deal of sensible advice! Well, my pretty Nastenka, what sort of advice do you want? Tell me frankly; at this moment I am so gay and happy, so bold and sensible, that it won't be difficult for me to find words.' 'No, no!' Nastenka interrupted, laughing. 'I don't only want sensible advice, I want warm brotherly advice, as though you had been fond of me all your life!' 'Agreed, Nastenka, agreed!' I cried delighted; 'and if I had been fond of you for twenty years, I couldn't have been fonder of you than I am now.' 'Your hand,' said Nastenka. 'Here it is,' said I, giving her my hand. 'And so let us begin my history!' NASTENKA'S HISTORY 'Half my story you know already—that is, you know that I have an old grandmother....' 'If the other half is as brief as that ...' I interrupted, laughing. 'Be quiet and listen. First of all you must agree not to interrupt me, or else, perhaps I shall get in a muddle! Come, listen quietly. 'I have an old grandmother. I came into her hands when I was quite a little girl, for my father and mother are dead. It must be supposed that grandmother was once richer, for now she recalls better days. She taught me French, and then got a teacher for me. When I was fifteen (and now I am seventeen) we gave up having lessons. It was at that time that I got into mischief; what I did I won't tell you; it's enough to say that it wasn't very important. But grandmother called me to her one morning and said that as she was blind she could not look after me; she took a pin and pinned my dress to hers, and said that we should sit like that for the rest of our lives if, of course, I did not become a better girl. In fact, at first it was impossible to get away from her: I had to work, to read and to study all beside grandmother. I tried to deceive her once, and persuaded Fekla to sit in my place. Fekla is our charwoman, she is deaf. Fekla sat there instead of me; grandmother was asleep in her armchair at the time, and I went off to see a friend close by. Well, it ended in trouble. Grandmother woke up while I was out, and asked some questions; she thought I was still sitting quietly in my place. Fekla saw that grandmother was asking her something, but could not tell what it was; she wondered what to do, undid the pin and ran away....' At this point Nastenka stopped and began laughing. I laughed with her. She left off at once. 'I tell you what, don't you laugh at grandmother. I laugh because it's funny.... What can I do, since grandmother is like that; but yet I am fond of her in a way. Oh, well, I did catch it that time. I had to sit down in my place at once, and after that I was not allowed to stir. 'Oh, I forgot to tell you that our house belongs to us, that is to grandmother; it is a little wooden house with three windows as old as grandmother herself, with a little upper storey; well, there moved into our upper storey a new lodger.' 'Then you had an old lodger,' I observed casually. 'Yes, of course,' answered Nastenka, 'and one who knew how to hold his tongue better than you do. In fact, he hardly ever used his tongue at all. He was a dumb, blind, lame, dried-up little old man, so that at last he could not go on living, he died; so then we had to find a new lodger, for we could not live without a lodger—the rent, together with grandmother's pension, is almost all we have. But the new lodger, as luck would have it, was a young man, a stranger not of these parts. As he did not haggle over the rent, grandmother accepted him, and only afterwards she asked me: 'Tell me, Nastenka, what is our lodger like— is he young or old?' I did not want to lie, so I told grandmother that he wasn't exactly young and that he wasn't old. ''And is he pleasant looking?' asked grandmother. 'Again I did not want to tell a lie: 'Yes, he is pleasant looking, grandmother,' I said. And grandmother said: 'Oh, what a nuisance, what a nuisance! I tell you this, grandchild, that you may not be looking after him. What times these are! Why a paltry lodger like this, and he must be pleasant looking too; it was very different in the old days!'' 'Grandmother was always regretting the old days—she was younger in old days, and the sun was warmer in old days, and cream did not turn so sour in old days —it was always the old days! I would sit still and hold my tongue and think to myself: why did grandmother suggest it to me? Why did she ask whether the lodger was young and good-looking? But that was all, I just thought it, began counting my stitches again, went on knitting my stocking, and forgot all about it. 'Well, one morning the lodger came in to see us; he asked about a promise to paper his rooms. One thing led to another. Grandmother was talkative, and she said: 'Go, Nastenka, into my bedroom and bring me my reckoner.' I jumped up at once; I blushed all over, I don't know why, and forgot I was sitting pinned to grandmother; instead of quietly undoing the pin, so that the lodger should not see —I jumped so that grandmother's chair moved. When I saw that the lodger knew all about me now, I blushed, stood still as though I had been shot, and suddenly began to cry—I felt so ashamed and miserable at that minute, that I didn't know where to look! Grandmother called out, 'What are you waiting for?' and I went on worse than ever. When the lodger saw, saw that I was ashamed on his account, he bowed and went away at once! 'After that I felt ready to die at the least sound in the passage. 'It's the lodger,' I kept thinking; I stealthily undid the pin in case. But it always turned out not to be, he never came. A fortnight passed; the lodger sent word through Fyokla that he had a great number of French books, and that they were all good books that I might read, so would not grandmother like me to read them that I might not be dull? Grandmother agreed with gratitude, but kept asking if they were moral books, for if the books were immoral it would be out of the question, one would learn evil from them.' ''And what should I learn, grandmother? What is there written in them?' ''Ah,' she said, 'what's described in them, is how young men seduce virtuous girls; how, on the excuse that they want to marry them, they carry them off from their parents' houses; how afterwards they leave these unhappy girls to their fate, and they perish in the most pitiful way. I read a great many books,' said grandmother, 'and it is all so well described that one sits up all night and reads them on the sly. So mind you don't read them, Nastenka,' said she. 'What books has he sent?' ''They are all Walter Scott's novels, grandmother.' ''Walter Scott's novels! But stay, isn't there some trick about it? Look, hasn't he stuck a love-letter among them?' ''No, grandmother,' I said, 'there isn't a love-letter.' ''But look under the binding; they sometimes stuff it under the bindings, the rascals!' ''No, grandmother, there is nothing under the binding.' ''Well, that's all right.' 'So we began reading Walter Scott, and in a month or so we had read almost half. Then he sent us more and more. He sent us Pushkin, too; so that at last I could not get on without a book and left off dreaming of how fine it would be to marry a Chinese Prince. 'That's how things were when I chanced one day to meet our lodger on the stairs. Grandmother had sent me to fetch something. He stopped, I blushed and he blushed; he laughed, though, said good-morning to me, asked after grandmother, and said, 'Well, have you read the books?' I answered that I had. 'Which did you like best?' he asked. I said, 'Ivanhoe, and Pushkin best of all,' and so our talk ended for that time. 'A week later I met him again on the stairs. That time grandmother had not sent me, I wanted to get something for myself. It was past two, and the lodger used to come home at that time. 'Good-afternoon,' said he. I said good-afternoon, too. ''Aren't you dull,' he said, 'sitting all day with your grandmother?' 'When he asked that, I blushed, I don't know why; I felt ashamed, and again I felt offended—I suppose because other people had begun to ask me about that. I wanted to go away without answering, but I hadn't the strength. ''Listen,' he said, 'you are a good girl. Excuse my speaking to you like that, but I assure you that I wish for your welfare quite as much as your grandmother. Have you no friends that you could go and visit?' 'I told him I hadn't any, that I had had no friend but Mashenka, and she had gone away to Pskov. ''Listen,' he said, 'would you like to go to the theatre with me?' ''To the theatre. What about grandmother?' ''But you must go without your grandmother's knowing it,' he said. ''No,' I said, 'I don't want to deceive grandmother. Good-bye.' ''Well, good-bye,' he answered, and said nothing more. 'Only after dinner he came to see us; sat a long time talking to grandmother; asked her whether she ever went out anywhere, whether she had acquaintances, and suddenly said: 'I have taken a box at the opera for this evening; they are giving The Barber of Seville. My friends meant to go, but afterwards refused, so the ticket is left on my hands.' 'The Barber of Seville,' cried grandmother; 'why, the same they used to act in old days?' ''Yes, it's the same barber,' he said, and glanced at me. I saw what it meant and turned crimson, and my heart began throbbing with suspense. ''To be sure, I know it,' said grandmother; 'why, I took the part of Rosina myself in old days, at a private performance!' ''So wouldn't you like to go to-day?' said the lodger. 'Or my ticket will be wasted.' ''By all means let us go,' said grandmother; why shouldn't we? And my Nastenka here has never been to the theatre.' 'My goodness, what joy! We got ready at once, put on our best clothes, and set off. Though grandmother was blind, still she wanted to hear the music; besides, she is a kind old soul, what she cared most for was to amuse me, we should never have gone of ourselves. 'What my impressions of The Barber of Seville were I won't tell you; but all that evening our lodger looked at me so nicely, talked so nicely, that I saw at once that he had meant to test me in the morning when he proposed that I should go with him alone. Well, it was joy! I went to bed so proud, so gay, my heart beat so that I was a little feverish, and all night I was raving about The Barber of Seville. 'I expected that he would come and see us more and more often after that, but it wasn't so at all. He almost entirely gave up coming. He would just come in about once a month, and then only to invite us to the theatre. We went twice again. Only I wasn't at all pleased with that; I saw that he was simply sorry for me because I was so hardly treated by grandmother, and that was all. As time went on, I grew more and more restless, I couldn't sit still, I couldn't read, I couldn't work; sometimes I laughed and did something to annoy grandmother, at another time I would cry. At last I grew thin and was very nearly ill. The opera season was over, and our lodger had quite given up coming to see us; whenever we met —always on the same staircase, of course—he would bow so silently, so gravely, as though he did not want to speak, and go down to the front door, while I went on standing in the middle of the stairs, as red as a cherry, for all the blood rushed to my head at the sight of him. 'Now the end is near. Just a year ago, in May, the lodger came to us and said to grandmother that he had finished his business here, and that he must go back to Moscow for a year. When I heard that, I sank into a chair half dead; grandmother did not notice anything; and having informed us that he should be leaving us, he bowed and went away. 'What was I to do? I thought and thought and fretted and fretted, and at last I made up my mind. Next day he was to go away, and I made up my mind to end it all that evening when grandmother went to bed. And so it happened. I made up all my clothes in a parcel—all the linen I needed—and with the parcel in my hand, more dead than alive, went upstairs to our lodger. I believe I must have stayed an hour on the staircase. When I opened his door he cried out as he looked at me. He thought I was a ghost, and rushed to give me some water, for I could hardly stand up. My heart beat so violently that my head ached, and I did not know what I was doing. When I recovered I began by laying my parcel on his bed, sat down beside it, hid my face in my hands and went into floods of tears. I think he understood it all at once, and looked at me so sadly that my heart was torn. ''Listen,' he began, 'listen, Nastenka, I can't do anything; I am a poor man, for I have nothing, not even a decent berth. How could we live, if I were to marry you?' 'We talked a long time; but at last I got quite frantic, I said I could not go on living with grandmother, that I should run away from her, that I did not want to be pinned to her, and that I would go to Moscow if he liked, because I could not live without him. Shame and pride and love were all clamouring in me at once, and I fell on the bed almost in convulsions, I was so afraid of a refusal. 'He sat for some minutes in silence, then got up, came up to me and took me by the hand. ''Listen, my dear good Nastenka, listen; I swear to you that if I am ever in a position to marry, you shall make my happiness. I assure you that now you are the only one who could make me happy. Listen, I am going to Moscow and shall be there just a year; I hope to establish my position. When I come back, if you still love me, I swear that we will be happy. Now it is impossible, I am not able, I have not the right to promise anything. Well, I repeat, if it is not within a year it will certainly be some time; that is, of course, if you do not prefer any one else, for I cannot and dare not bind you by any sort of promise.' 'That was what he said to me, and next day he went away. We agreed together not to say a word to grandmother: that was his wish. Well, my history is nearly finished now. Just a year has past. He has arrived; he has been here three days, and, and 'And what?' I cried, impatient to hear the end. 'And up to now has not shown himself!' answered Nastenka, as though screwing up all her courage. 'There's no sign or sound of him.' Here she stopped, paused for a minute, bent her head, and covering her face with her hands broke into such sobs that it sent a pang to my heart to hear them. I had not in the least expected such a dénouement. 'Nastenka,' I began timidly in an ingratiating voice, 'Nastenka! For goodness' sake don't cry! How do you know? Perhaps he is not here yet....' 'He is, he is,' Nastenka repeated. 'He is here, and I know it. We made an agreement at the time, that evening, before he went away: when we said all that I have told you, and had come to an understanding, then we came out here for a walk on this embankment. It was ten o'clock; we sat on this seat. I was not crying then; it was sweet to me to hear what he said.... And he said that he would come to us directly he arrived, and if I did not refuse him, then we would tell grandmother about it all. Now he is here, I know it, and yet he does not come!' And again she burst into tears. 'Good God, can I do nothing to help you in your sorrow?' I cried jumping up from the seat in utter despair. 'Tell me, Nastenka, wouldn't it be possible for me to go to him?' 'Would that be possible?' she asked suddenly, raising her head. 'No, of course not,' I said pulling myself up; 'but I tell you what, write a letter.' 'No, that's impossible, I can't do that,' she answered with decision, bending her head and not looking at me. 'How impossible—why is it impossible?' I went on, clinging to my idea. 'But, Nastenka, it depends what sort of letter; there are letters and letters and.... Ah, Nastenka, I am right; trust to me, trust to me, I will not give you bad advice. It can all be arranged! You took the first step—why not now?' 'I can't. I can't! It would seem as though I were forcing myself on him....' 'Ah, my good little Nastenka,' I said, hardly able to conceal a smile; 'no, no, you have a right to, in fact, because he made you a promise. Besides, I can see from everything that he is a man of delicate feeling; that he behaved very well,' I went on, more and more carried away by the logic of my own arguments and convictions. 'How did he behave? He bound himself by a promise: he said that if he married at all he would marry no one but you; he gave you full liberty to refuse him at once.... Under such circumstances you may take the first step; you have the right; you are in the privileged position—if, for instance, you wanted to free him from his promise....' 'Listen; how would you write?' 'Write what?' 'This letter.' 'I tell you how I would write: 'Dear Sir.'...' 'Must I really begin like that, 'Dear Sir'?' 'You certainly must! Though, after all, I don't know, I imagine....' 'Well, well, what next?' ''Dear Sir,—I must apologize for——' But, no, there's no need to apologize; the fact itself justifies everything. Write simply:— ''I am writing to you. Forgive me my impatience; but I have been happy for a whole year in hope; am I to blame for being unable to endure a day of doubt now? Now that you have come, perhaps you have changed your mind. If so, this letter is to tell you that I do not repine, nor blame you. I do not blame you because I have no power over your heart, such is my fate! ''You are an honourable man. You will not smile or be vexed at these impatient lines. Remember they are written by a poor girl; that she is alone; that she has no one to direct her, no one to advise her, and that she herself could never control her heart. But forgive me that a doubt has stolen—if only for one instant—into my heart. You are not capable of insulting, even in thought, her who so loved and so loves you.'' 'Yes, yes; that's exactly what I was thinking!' cried Nastenka, and her eyes beamed with delight. 'Oh, you have solved my difficulties: God has sent you to me! Thank you, thank you!' 'What for? What for? For God's sending me?' I answered, looking delighted at her joyful little face. 'Why, yes; for that too.' 'Ah, Nastenka! Why, one thanks some people for being alive at the same time with one; I thank you for having met me, for my being able to remember you all my life!' 'Well, enough, enough! But now I tell you what, listen: we made an agreement then that as soon as he arrived he would let me know, by leaving a letter with some good simple people of my acquaintance who know nothing about it; or, if it were impossible to write a letter to me, for a letter does not always tell everything, he would be here at ten o'clock on the day he arrived, where we had arranged to meet. I know he has arrived already; but now it's the third day, and there's no sign of him and no letter. It's impossible for me to get away from grandmother in the morning. Give my letter to-morrow to those kind people I spoke to you about: they will send it on to him, and if there is an answer you bring it to-morrow at ten o'clock.' 'But the letter, the letter! You see, you must write the letter first! So perhaps it must all be the day after to-morrow.' 'The letter ...' said Nastenka, a little confused, 'the letter ... but....' But she did not finish. At first she turned her little face away from me, flushed like a rose, and suddenly I felt in my hand a letter which had evidently been written long before, all ready and sealed up. A familiar sweet and charming reminiscence floated through my mind. 'R, o—Ro; s, i—si; n, a—na,' I began. 'Rosina!' we both hummed together; I almost embracing her with delight, while she blushed as only she could blush, and laughed through the tears which gleamed like pearls on her black eyelashes. 'Come, enough, enough! Good-bye now,' she said speaking rapidly. 'Here is the letter, here is the address to which you are to take it. Good-bye, till we meet again! Till to-morrow!' She pressed both my hands warmly, nodded her head, and flew like an arrow down her side street. I stood still for a long time following her with my eyes. 'Till to-morrow! till to-morrow!' was ringing in my ears as she vanished from my sight. THIRD NIGHT To-day was a gloomy, rainy day without a glimmer of sunlight, like the old age before me. I am oppressed by such strange thoughts, such gloomy sensations; questions still so obscure to me are crowding into my brain—and I seem to have neither power nor will to settle them. It's not for me to settle all this! To-day we shall not meet. Yesterday, when we said good-bye, the clouds began gathering over the sky and a mist rose. I said that to-morrow it would be a bad day; she made no answer, she did not want to speak against her wishes; for her that day was bright and clear, not one cloud should obscure her happiness. 'If it rains we shall not see each other,' she said, 'I shall not come.' I thought that she would not notice to-day's rain, and yet she has not come. Yesterday was our third interview, our third white night.... But how fine joy and happiness makes any one! How brimming over with love the heart is! One seems longing to pour out one's whole heart; one wants everything to be gay, everything to be laughing. And how infectious that joy is! There was such a softness in her words, such a kindly feeling in her heart towards me yesterday.... How solicitous and friendly she was; how tenderly she tried to give me courage! Oh, the coquetry of happiness! While I ... I took it all for the genuine thing, I thought that she.... But, my God, how could I have thought it? How could I have been so blind, when everything had been taken by another already, when nothing was mine; when, in fact, her very tenderness to me, her anxiety, her love ... yes, love for me, was nothing else but joy at the thought of seeing another man so soon, desire to include me, too, in her happiness?... When he did not come, when we waited in vain, she frowned, she grew timid and discouraged. Her movements, her words, were no longer so light, so playful, so gay; and, strange to say, she redoubled her attentiveness to me, as though instinctively desiring to lavish on me what she desired for herself so anxiously, if her wishes were not accomplished. My Nastenka was so downcast, so dismayed, that I think she realized at last that I loved her, and was sorry for my poor love. So when we are unhappy we feel the unhappiness of others more; feeling is not destroyed but concentrated.... I went to meet her with a full heart, and was all impatience. I had no presentiment that I should feel as I do now, that it would not all end happily. She was beaming with pleasure; she was expecting an answer. The answer was himself. He was to come, to run at her call. She arrived a whole hour before I did. At first she giggled at everything, laughed at every word I said. I began talking, but relapsed into silence. 'Do you know why I am so glad,' she said, 'so glad to look at you?—why I like you so much to-day?' 'Well?' I asked, and my heart began throbbing. 'I like you because you have not fallen in love with me. You know that some men in your place would have been pestering and worrying me, would have been sighing and miserable, while you are so nice!' Then she wrung my hand so hard that I almost cried out. She laughed. 'Goodness, what a friend you are!' she began gravely a minute later. 'God sent you to me. What would have happened to me if you had not been with me now? How disinterested you are! How truly you care for me! When I am married we will be great friends, more than brother and sister; I shall care almost as I do for him....' I felt horribly sad at that moment, yet something like laughter was stirring in my soul. 'You are very much upset,' I said; 'you are frightened; you think he won't come.' 'Oh dear!' she answered; 'if I were less happy, I believe I should cry at your lack of faith, at your reproaches. However, you have made me think and have given me a lot to think about; but I shall think later, and now I will own that you are right. Yes, I am somehow not myself; I am all suspense, and feel everything as it were too lightly. But hush! that's enough about feelings....' At that moment we heard footsteps, and in the darkness we saw a figure coming towards us. We both started; she almost cried out; I dropped her hand and made a movement as though to walk away. But we were mistaken, it was not he. 'What are you afraid of? Why did you let go of my hand?' she said, giving it to me again. 'Come, what is it? We will meet him together; I want him to see how fond we are of each other.' 'How fond we are of each other!' I cried. ('Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka,' I thought, 'how much you have told me in that saying! Such fondness at certain moments makes the heart cold and the soul heavy. Your hand is cold, mine burns like fire. How blind you are, Nastenka!... Oh, how unbearable a happy person is sometimes! But I could not be angry with you!') At last my heart was too full. 'Listen, Nastenka!' I cried. 'Do you know how it has been with me all day.' 'Why, how, how? Tell me quickly! Why have you said nothing all this time?' 'To begin with, Nastenka, when I had carried out all your commissions, given the letter, gone to see your good friends, then ... then I went home and went to bed.' 'Is that all?' she interrupted, laughing. 'Yes, almost all,' I answered restraining myself, for foolish tears were already starting into my eyes. 'I woke an hour before our appointment, and yet, as it were, I had not been asleep. I don't know what happened to me. I came to tell you all about it, feeling as though time were standing still, feeling as though one sensation, one feeling must remain with me from that time for ever; feeling as though one minute must go on for all eternity, and as though all life had come to a standstill for me.... When I woke up it seemed as though some musical motive long familiar, heard somewhere in the past, forgotten and voluptuously sweet, had come back to me now. It seemed to me that it had been clamouring at my heart all my life, and only now....' 'Oh my goodness, my goodness,' Nastenka interrupted, 'what does all that mean? I don't understand a word.' 'Ah, Nastenka, I wanted somehow to convey to you that strange impression....' I began in a plaintive voice, in which there still lay hid a hope, though a very faint one. 'Leave off. Hush!' she said, and in one instant the sly puss had guessed. Suddenly she became extraordinarily talkative, gay, mischievous; she took my arm, laughed, wanted me to laugh too, and every confused word I uttered evoked from her prolonged ringing laughter.... I began to feel angry, she had suddenly begun flirting. 'Do you know,' she began, 'I feel a little vexed that you are not in love with me? There's no understanding human nature! But all the same, Mr. Unapproachable, you cannot blame me for being so simple; I tell you everything, everything, whatever foolish thought comes into my head.' 'Listen! That's eleven, I believe,' I said as the slow chime of a bell rang out from a distant tower. She suddenly stopped, left off laughing and began to count. 'Yes, it's eleven,' she said at last in a timid, uncertain voice. I regretted at once that I had frightened her, making her count the strokes, and I cursed myself for my spiteful impulse; I felt sorry for her, and did not know how to atone for what I had done. I began comforting her, seeking for reasons for his not coming, advancing various arguments, proofs. No one could have been easier to deceive than she was at that moment; and, indeed, any one at such a moment listens gladly to any consolation, whatever it may be, and is overjoyed if a shadow of excuse can be found. 'And indeed it's an absurd thing,' I began, warming to my task and admiring the extraordinary clearness of my argument, 'why, he could not have come; you have muddled and confused me, Nastenka, so that I too, have lost count of the time.... Only think: he can scarcely have received the letter; suppose he is not able to come, suppose he is going to answer the letter, could not come before tomorrow. I will go for it as soon as it's light to-morrow and let you know at once. Consider, there are thousands of possibilities; perhaps he was not at home when the letter came, and may not have read it even now! Anything may happen, you know.' 'Yes, yes!' said Nastenka. 'I did not think of that. Of course anything may happen?' she went on in a tone that offered no opposition, though some other far-away thought could be heard like a vexatious discord in it. 'I tell you what you must do,' she said, 'you go as early as possible to-morrow morning, and if you get anything let me know at once. You know where I live, don't you?' And she began repeating her address to me. Then she suddenly became so tender, so solicitous with me. She seemed to listen attentively to what I told her; but when I asked her some question she was silent, was confused, and turned her head away. I looked into her eyes—yes, she was crying. 'How can you? How can you? Oh, what a baby you are! what childishness!... Come, come!' She tried to smile, to calm herself, but her chin was quivering and her bosom was still heaving. 'I was thinking about you,' she said after a minute's silence. 'You are so kind that I should be a stone if I did not feel it. Do you know what has occurred to me now? I was comparing you two. Why isn't he you? Why isn't he like you? He is not as good as you, though I love him more than you.' I made no answer. She seemed to expect me to say something. 'Of course, it may be that I don't understand him fully yet. You know I was always as it were afraid of him; he was always so grave, as it were so proud. Of course I know it's only that he seems like that, I know there is more tenderness in his heart than in mine.... I remember how he looked at me when I went in to him —do you remember?—with my bundle; but yet I respect him too much, and doesn't that show that we are not equals?' 'No, Nastenka, no,' I answered, 'it shows that you love him more than anything in the world, and far more than yourself.' 'Yes, supposing that is so,' answered Nastenka naïvely. 'But do you know what strikes me now? Only I am not talking about him now, but speaking generally; all this came into my mind some time ago. Tell me, how is it that we can't all be like brothers together? Why is it that even the best of men always seem to hide something from other people and to keep something back? Why not say straight out what is in one's heart, when one knows that one is not speaking idly? As it is every one seems harsher than he really is, as though all were afraid of doing injustice to their feelings, by being too quick to express them.' 'Oh, Nastenka, what you say is true; but there are many reasons for that,' I broke in suppressing my own feelings at that moment more than ever. 'No, no!' she answered with deep feeling. 'Here you, for instance, are not like other people! I really don't know how to tell you what I feel; but it seems to me that you, for instance ... at the present moment ... it seems to me that you are sacrificing something for me,' she added timidly, with a fleeting glance at me. 'Forgive me for saying so, I am a simple girl you know. I have seen very little of life, and I really sometimes don't know how to say things,' she added in a voice that quivered with some hidden feeling, while she tried to smile; 'but I only wanted to tell you that I am grateful, that I feel it all too.... Oh, may God give you happiness for it! What you told me about your dreamer is quite untrue now —that is, I mean, it's not true of you. You are recovering, you are quite a different man from what you described. If you ever fall in love with some one, God give you happiness with her! I won't wish anything for her, for she will be happy with you. I know, I am a woman myself, so you must believe me when I tell you so.' She ceased speaking, and pressed my hand warmly. I too could not speak without emotion. Some minutes passed. 'Yes, it's clear he won't come to-night,' she said at last raising her head. 'It's late.' 'He will come to-morrow,' I said in the most firm and convincing tone. 'Yes,' she added with no sign of her former depression. 'I see for myself now that he could not come till to-morrow. Well, good-bye, till to-morrow. If it rains perhaps I shall not come. But the day after to-morrow, I shall come. I shall come for certain, whatever happens; be sure to be here, I want to see you, I will tell you everything.' And then when we parted she gave me her hand and said, looking at me candidly: 'We shall always be together, shan't we?' Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! If only you knew how lonely I am now! As soon as it struck nine o'clock I could not stay indoors, but put on my things, and went out in spite of the weather. I was there, sitting on our seat. I went to her street, but I felt ashamed, and turned back without looking at their windows, when I was two steps from her door. I went home more depressed than I had ever been before. What a damp, dreary day! If it had been fine I should have walked about all night.... But to-morrow, to-morrow! To-morrow she will tell me everything. The letter has not come to-day, however. But that was to be expected. They are together by now.... FOURTH NIGHT My God, how it has all ended! What it has all ended in! I arrived at nine o'clock. She was already there. I noticed her a good way off; she was standing as she had been that first time, with her elbows on the railing, and she did not hear me coming up to her. 'Nastenka!' I called to her, suppressing my agitation with an effort. She turned to me quickly. 'Well?' she said. 'Well? Make haste!' I looked at her in perplexity. 'Well, where is the letter? Have you brought the letter?' she repeated clutching at the railing. 'No, there is no letter,' I said at last. 'Hasn't he been to you yet?' She turned fearfully pale and looked at me for a long time without moving. I had shattered her last hope. 'Well, God be with him,' she said at last in a breaking voice; 'God be with him if he leaves me like that.' She dropped her eyes, then tried to look at me and could not. For several minutes she was struggling with her emotion. All at once she turned away, leaning her elbows against the railing and burst into tears. 'Oh don't, don't!' I began; but looking at her I had not the heart to go on, and what was I to say to her? 'Don't try and comfort me,' she said; 'don't talk about him; don't tell me that he will come, that he has not cast me off so cruelly and so inhumanly as he has. What for—what for? Can there have been something in my letter, that unlucky letter?' At that point sobs stifled her voice; my heart was torn as I looked at her. 'Oh, how inhumanly cruel it is!' she began again. 'And not a line, not a line! He might at least have written that he does not want me, that he rejects me—but not a line for three days! How easy it is for him to wound, to insult a poor, defenceless girl, whose only fault is that she loves him! Oh, what I've suffered during these three days! Oh, dear! When I think that I was the first to go to him, that I humbled myself before him, cried, that I begged of him a little love!... and after that! Listen,' she said, turning to me, and her black eyes flashed, 'it isn't so! It can't be so; it isn't natural. Either you are mistaken or I; perhaps he has not received the letter? Perhaps he still knows nothing about it? How could any one —judge for yourself, tell me, for goodness' sake explain it to me, I can't understand it—how could any one behave with such barbarous coarseness as he has behaved to me? Not one word! Why, the lowest creature on earth is treated more compassionately. Perhaps he has heard something, perhaps some one has told him something about me,' she cried, turning to me inquiringly: 'What do you think?' 'Listen, Nastenka, I shall go to him to-morrow in your name.' 'Yes?' 'I will question him about everything; I will tell him everything.' 'Yes, yes?' 'You write a letter. Don't say no, Nastenka, don't say no! I will make him respect your action, he shall hear all about it, and if——' 'No, my friend, no,' she interrupted. 'Enough! Not another word, not another line from me—enough! I don't know him; I don't love him any more. I will ... forget him.' She could not go on. 'Calm yourself, calm yourself! Sit here, Nastenka,' I said, making her sit down on the seat. 'I am calm. Don't trouble. It's nothing! It's only tears, they will soon dry. Why, do you imagine I shall do away with myself, that I shall throw myself into the river?' My heart was full: I tried to speak, but I could not. 'Listen,' she said taking my hand. 'Tell me: you wouldn't have behaved like this, would you? You would not have abandoned a girl who had come to you of herself, you would not have thrown into her face a shameless taunt at her weak foolish heart? You would have taken care of her? You would have realized that she was alone, that she did not know how to look after herself, that she could not guard herself from loving you, that it was not her fault, not her fault—that she had done nothing.... Oh dear, oh dear!' 'Nastenka!' I cried at last, unable to control my emotion. 'Nastenka, you torture me! You wound my heart, you are killing me, Nastenka! I cannot be silent! I must speak at last, give utterance to what is surging in my heart!' As I said this I got up from the seat. She took my hand and looked at me in surprise. 'What is the matter with you?' she said at last. 'Listen,' I said resolutely. 'Listen to me, Nastenka! What I am going to say to you now is all nonsense, all impossible, all stupid! I know that this can never be, but I cannot be silent. For the sake of what you are suffering now, I beg you beforehand to forgive me!' 'What is it? What is it?' she said drying her tears and looking at me intently, while a strange curiosity gleamed in her astonished eyes. 'What is the matter?' 'It's impossible, but I love you, Nastenka! There it is! Now everything is told,' I said with a wave of my hand. 'Now you will see whether you can go on talking to me as you did just now, whether you can listen to what I am going to say to you.'... 'Well, what then?' Nastenka interrupted me. 'What of it? I knew you loved me long ago, only I always thought that you simply liked me very much.... Oh dear, oh dear!' 'At first it was simply liking, Nastenka, but now, now! I am just in the same position as you were when you went to him with your bundle. In a worse position than you, Nastenka, because he cared for no one else as you do.' 'What are you saying to me! I don't understand you in the least. But tell me, what's this for; I don't mean what for, but why are you ... so suddenly.... Oh dear, I am talking nonsense! But you....' And Nastenka broke off in confusion. Her cheeks flamed; she dropped her eyes. 'What's to be done, Nastenka, what am I to do? I am to blame. I have abused your.... But no, no, I am not to blame, Nastenka; I feel that, I know that, because my heart tells me I am right, for I cannot hurt you in any way, I cannot wound you! I was your friend, but I am still your friend, I have betrayed no trust. Here my tears are falling, Nastenka. Let them flow, let them flow—they don't hurt anybody. They will dry, Nastenka.' 'Sit down, sit down,' she said, making me sit down on the seat. 'Oh, my God!' 'No, Nastenka, I won't sit down; I cannot stay here any longer, you cannot see me again; I will tell you everything and go away. I only want to say that you would never have found out that I loved you. I should have kept my secret. I would not have worried you at such a moment with my egoism. No! But I could not resist it now; you spoke of it yourself, it is your fault, your fault and not mine. You cannot drive me away from you.'... 'No, no, I don't drive you away, no!' said Nastenka, concealing her confusion as best she could, poor child. 'You don't drive me away? No! But I meant to run from you myself. I will go away, but first I will tell you all, for when you were crying here I could not sit unmoved, when you wept, when you were in torture at being—at being—I will speak of it, Nastenka—at being forsaken, at your love being repulsed, I felt that in my heart there was so much love for you, Nastenka, so much love! And it seemed so bitter that I could not help you with my love, that my heart was breaking and I ... I could not be silent, I had to speak, Nastenka, I had to speak!' 'Yes, yes! tell me, talk to me,' said Nastenka with an indescribable gesture. 'Perhaps you think it strange that I talk to you like this, but ... speak! I will tell you afterwards! I will tell you everything.' 'You are sorry for me, Nastenka, you are simply sorry for me, my dear little friend! What's done can't be mended. What is said cannot be taken back. Isn't that so? Well, now you know. That's the starting-point. Very well. Now it's all right, only listen. When you were sitting crying I thought to myself (oh, let me tell you what I was thinking!), I thought, that (of course it cannot be, Nastenka), I thought that you ... I thought that you somehow ... quite apart from me, had ceased to love him. Then—I thought that yesterday and the day before yesterday, Nastenka—then I would—I certainly would—have succeeded in making you love me; you know, you said yourself, Nastenka, that you almost loved me. Well, what next? Well, that's nearly all I wanted to tell you; all that is left to say is how it would be if you loved me, only that, nothing more! Listen, my friend—for any way you are my friend—I am, of course, a poor, humble man, of no great consequence; but that's not the point (I don't seem to be able to say what I mean, Nastenka, I am so confused), only I would love you, I would love you so, that even if you still loved him, even if you went on loving the man I don't know, you would never feel that my love was a burden to you. You would only feel every minute that at your side was beating a grateful, grateful heart, a warm heart ready for your sake.... Oh Nastenka, Nastenka! What have you done to me?' 'Don't cry; I don't want you to cry,' said Nastenka getting up quickly from the seat. 'Come along, get up, come with me, don't cry, don't cry,' she said, drying her tears with her handkerchief; 'let us go now; maybe I will tell you something.... If he has forsaken me now, if he has forgotten me, though I still love him (I do not want to deceive you) ... but listen, answer me. If I were to love you, for instance, that is, if I only.... Oh my friend, my friend! To think, to think how I wounded you, when I laughed at your love, when I praised you for not falling in love with me. Oh dear! How was it I did not foresee this, how was it I did not foresee this, how could I have been so stupid? But.... Well, I have made up my mind, I will tell you.' 'Look here, Nastenka, do you know what? I'll go away, that's what I'll do. I am simply tormenting you. Here you are remorseful for having laughed at me, and I won't have you ... in addition to your sorrow.... Of course it is my fault, Nastenka, but good-bye!' 'Stay, listen to me: can you wait?' 'What for? How?' 'I love him; but I shall get over it, I must get over it, I cannot fail to get over it; I am getting over it, I feel that.... Who knows? Perhaps it will all end to-day, for I hate him, for he has been laughing at me, while you have been weeping here with me, for you have not repulsed me as he has, for you love me while he has never loved me, for in fact, I love you myself.... Yes, I love you! I love you as you love me; I have told you so before, you heard it yourself—I love you because you are better than he is, because you are nobler than he is, because, because he——' The poor girl's emotion was so violent that she could not say more; she laid her head upon my shoulder, then upon my bosom, and wept bitterly. I comforted her, I persuaded her, but she could not stop crying; she kept pressing my hand, and saying between her sobs: 'Wait, wait, it will be over in a minute! I want to tell you ... you mustn't think that these tears—it's nothing, it's weakness, wait till it's over.'... At last she left off crying, dried her eyes and we walked on again. I wanted to speak, but she still begged me to wait. We were silent.... At last she plucked up courage and began to speak. 'It's like this,' she began in a weak and quivering voice, in which, however, there was a note that pierced my heart with a sweet pang; 'don't think that I am so light and inconstant, don't think that I can forget and change so quickly. I have loved him for a whole year, and I swear by God that I have never, never, even in thought, been unfaithful to him.... He has despised me, he has been laughing at me—God forgive him! But he has insulted me and wounded my heart. I ... I do not love him, for I can only love what is magnanimous, what understands me, what is generous; for I am like that myself and he is not worthy of me—well, that's enough of him. He has done better than if he had deceived my expectations later, and shown me later what he was.... Well, it's over! But who knows, my dear friend,' she went on pressing my hand, 'who knows, perhaps my whole love was a mistaken feeling, a delusion—perhaps it began in mischief, in nonsense, because I was kept so strictly by grandmother? Perhaps I ought to love another man, not him, a different man, who would have pity on me and ... and.... But don't let us say any more about that,' Nastenka broke off, breathless with emotion, 'I only wanted to tell you ... I wanted to tell you that if, although I love him (no, did love him), if, in spite of this you still say.... If you feel that your love is so great that it may at last drive from my heart my old feeling—if you will have pity on me—if you do not want to leave me alone to my fate, without hope, without consolation—if you are ready to love me always as you do now— I swear to you that gratitude ... that my love will be at last worthy of your love.... Will you take my hand?' 'Nastenka!' I cried breathless with sobs. 'Nastenka, oh Nastenka!' 'Enough, enough! Well, now it's quite enough,' she said, hardly able to control herself. 'Well, now all has been said, hasn't it! Hasn't it? You are happy—I am happy too. Not another word about it, wait; spare me ... talk of something else, for God's sake.' 'Yes, Nastenka, yes! Enough about that, now I am happy. I—— Yes, Nastenka, yes, let us talk of other things, let us make haste and talk. Yes! I am ready.' And we did not know what to say: we laughed, we wept, we said thousands of things meaningless and incoherent; at one moment we walked along the pavement, then suddenly turned back and crossed the road; then we stopped and went back again to the embankment; we were like children. 'I am living alone now, Nastenka,' I began, 'but to-morrow! Of course you know, Nastenka, I am poor, I have only got twelve hundred roubles, but that doesn't matter.' 'Of course not, and granny has her pension, so she will be no burden. We must take granny.' 'Of course we must take granny. But there's Matrona.' 'Yes, and we've got Fyokla too!' 'Matrona is a good woman, but she has one fault: she has no imagination, Nastenka, absolutely none; but that doesn't matter.' 'That's all right—they can live together; only you must move to us to-morrow.' 'To you? How so? All right, I am ready.' 'Yes, hire a room from us. We have a top floor, it's empty. We had an old lady lodging there, but she has gone away; and I know granny would like to have a young man. I said to her, 'Why a young man?' And she said, 'Oh, because I am old; only don't you fancy, Nastenka, that I want him as a husband for you.' So I guessed it was with that idea.' 'Oh, Nastenka!' And we both laughed. 'Come, that's enough, that's enough. But where do you live? I've forgotten.' 'Over that way, near X bridge, Barannikov's Buildings.' 'It's that big house?' 'Yes, that big house.' 'Oh, I know, a nice house; only you know you had better give it up and come to us as soon as possible.' 'To-morrow, Nastenka, to-morrow; I owe a little for my rent there but that doesn't matter. I shall soon get my salary.' 'And do you know I will perhaps give lessons; I will learn something myself and then give lessons.' 'Capital! And I shall soon get a bonus.' 'So by to-morrow you will be my lodger.' 'And we will go to The Barber of Seville, for they are soon going to give it again.' 'Yes, we'll go,' said Nastenka, 'but better see something else and not The Barber of Seville.' 'Very well, something else. Of course that will be better, I did not think——' As we talked like this we walked along in a sort of delirium, a sort of intoxication, as though we did not know what was happening to us. At one moment we stopped and talked for a long time at the same place; then we went on again, and goodness knows where we went; and again tears and again laughter. All of a sudden Nastenka would want to go home, and I would not dare to detain her but would want to see her to the house; we set off, and in a quarter of an hour found ourselves at the embankment by our seat. Then she would sigh, and tears would come into her eyes again; I would turn chill with dismay.... But she would press my hand and force me to walk, to talk, to chatter as before. 'It's time I was home at last; I think it must be very late,' Nastenka said at last. 'We must give over being childish.' 'Yes, Nastenka, only I shan't sleep to-night; I am not going home.' 'I don't think I shall sleep either; only see me home.' 'I should think so!' 'Only this time we really must get to the house.' 'We must, we must.' 'Honour bright? For you know one must go home some time!' 'Honour bright,' I answered laughing. 'Well, come along!' 'Come along! Look at the sky, Nastenka. Look! To-morrow it will be a lovely day; what a blue sky, what a moon! Look; that yellow cloud is covering it now, look, look! No, it has passed by. Look, look!' But Nastenka did not look at the cloud; she stood mute as though turned to stone; a minute later she huddled timidly close up to me. Her hand trembled in my hand; I looked at her. She pressed still more closely to me. At that moment a young man passed by us. He suddenly stopped, looked at us intently, and then again took a few steps on. My heart began throbbing. 'Who is it, Nastenka?' I said in an undertone. 'It's he,' she answered in a whisper, huddling up to me, still more closely, still more tremulously.... I could hardly stand on my feet. 'Nastenka, Nastenka! It's you!' I heard a voice behind us and at the same moment the young man took several steps towards us. My God, how she cried out! How she started! How she tore herself out of my arms and rushed to meet him! I stood and looked at them, utterly crushed. But she had hardly given him her hand, had hardly flung herself into his arms, when she turned to me again, was beside me again in a flash, and before I knew where I was she threw both arms round my neck and gave me a warm, tender kiss. Then, without saying a word to me, she rushed back to him again, took his hand, and drew him after her. I stood a long time looking after them. At last the two vanished from my sight. MORNING My night ended with the morning. It was a wet day. The rain was falling and beating disconsolately upon my window pane; it was dark in the room and grey outside. My head ached and I was giddy; fever was stealing over my limbs. 'There's a letter for you, sir; the postman brought it,' Matrona said stooping over me. 'A letter? From whom?' I cried jumping up from my chair. 'I don't know, sir, better look—maybe it is written there whom it is from.' I broke the seal. It was from her! * * * * * 'Oh, forgive me, forgive me! I beg you on my knees to forgive me! I deceived you and myself. It was a dream, a mirage.... My heart aches for you to-day; forgive me, forgive me! 'Don't blame me, for I have not changed to you in the least. I told you that I would love you, I love you now, I more than love you. Oh, my God! If only I could love you both at once! Oh, if only you were he!' ['Oh, if only he were you,' echoed in my mind. I remembered your words, Nastenka!] 'God knows what I would do for you now! I know that you are sad and dreary. I have wounded you, but you know when one loves a wrong is soon forgotten. And you love me. 'Thank you, yes, thank you for that love! For it will live in my memory like a sweet dream which lingers long after awakening; for I shall remember for ever that instant when you opened your heart to me like a brother and so generously accepted the gift of my shattered heart to care for it, nurse it, and heal it.... If you forgive me, the memory of you will be exalted by a feeling of everlasting gratitude which will never be effaced from my soul.... I will treasure that memory: I will be true to it, I will not betray it, I will not betray my heart: it is too constant. It returned so quickly yesterday to him to whom it has always belonged. 'We shall meet, you will come to us, you will not leave us, you will be for ever a friend, a brother to me. And when you see me you will give me your hand ... yes? You will give it to me, you have forgiven me, haven't you? You love me as before? 'Oh, love me, do not forsake me, because I love you so at this moment, because I am worthy of your love, because I will deserve it ... my dear! Next week I am to be married to him. He has come back in love, he has never forgotten me. You will not be angry at my writing about him. But I want to come and see you with him; you will like him, won't you? 'Forgive me, remember and love your 'NASTENKA.' * * * * * I read that letter over and over again for a long time; tears gushed to my eyes. At last it fell from my hands and I hid my face. 'Dearie! I say, dearie——' Matrona began. 'What is it, Matrona?' 'I have taken all the cobwebs off the ceiling; you can have a wedding or give a party.' I looked at Matrona. She was still a hearty, youngish old woman, but I don't know why all at once I suddenly pictured her with lustreless eyes, a wrinkled face, bent, decrepit.... I don't know why I suddenly pictured my room grown old like Matrona. The walls and the floors looked discoloured, everything seemed dingy; the spiders' webs were thicker than ever. I don't know why, but when I looked out of the window it seemed to me that the house opposite had grown old and dingy too, that the stucco on the columns was peeling off and crumbling, that the cornices were cracked and blackened, and that the walls, of a vivid deep yellow, were patchy. Either the sunbeams suddenly peeping out from the clouds for a moment were hidden again behind a veil of rain, and everything had grown dingy again before my eyes; or perhaps the whole vista of my future flashed before me so sad and forbidding, and I saw myself just as I was now, fifteen years hence, older, in the same room, just as solitary, with the same Matrona grown no cleverer for those fifteen years. But to imagine that I should bear you a grudge, Nastenka! That I should cast a dark cloud over your serene, untroubled happiness; that by my bitter reproaches I should cause distress to your heart, should poison it with secret remorse and should force it to throb with anguish at the moment of bliss; that I should crush a single one of those tender blossoms which you have twined in your dark tresses when you go with him to the altar.... Oh never, never! May your sky be clear, may your sweet smile be bright and untroubled, and may you be blessed for that moment of blissful happiness which you gave to another, lonely and grateful heart! My God, a whole moment of happiness! Is that too little for the whole of a man's life? NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND [1] A NOVEL PART I UNDERGROUND I I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot 'pay out' the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than any one that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well—let it get worse! [1] The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled 'Underground,' this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life.—AUTHOR'S NOTE. I have been going on like that for a long time—twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost always did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people—of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way. I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, how they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness for something? I am sure you are fancying that.... However, I assure you I do not care if you are.... It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything: neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty years is a whole life-time; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly. I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty!... Stay, let me take breath.... You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who am I—then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old countrywoman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away. But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure? Answer: Of himself. Well, so I will talk about myself. II I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness—a real thorough-going illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It would have been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness by which all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I bet you think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger over them? Though, after all, every one does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than any one. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is 'good and beautiful,' as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that.... Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was 'good and beautiful,' the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last—into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into. And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was all in accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acute consciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result of those laws, and that consequently one was not only unable to change but could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as the result of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being a scoundrel; as though that were any consolation to the scoundrel once he has come to realize that he actually is a scoundrel. But enough.... Ech, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have I explained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I will explain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I have taken up my pen.... I, for instance, have a great deal of amour propre. I am as suspicious and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. But upon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened to be slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively glad of it. I say, in earnest, that I should probably have been able to discover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment—the enjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the most intense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped in the face—why then the consciousness of being rubbed into a pulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at it which way one will, it still turns out that I was always the most to blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, to blame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws of nature. In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than any of the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myself cleverer than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes, would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At any rate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and never could look people straight in the face.) To blame, finally, because even if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had more suffering from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainly have never been able to do anything from being magnanimous—neither to forgive, for my assailant would perhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannot forgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it were owing to the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally, even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired on the contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not have revenged myself on any one for anything because I should certainly never have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been able to. Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particular I want to say a few words. III With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen—that is, the 'direct' persons and men of action—are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something tranquillizing, morally soothing, final —maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.) Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et cætera, et cætera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la vérité. The base and nasty desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastily in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la vérité. For through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years together it will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito, without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years and.... But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognized and yet partly doubtful hopelessness of one's position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determined for ever and repented of again a minute later—that the savour of that strange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of it. 'Possibly,' you will add on your own account with a grin, 'people will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the face,' and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set your minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me what you may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another word on that subject of such extreme interest to you. I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certain circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, though this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible they subside at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow creatures, and that this conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and duties and all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it. 'Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on.' Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the fact that twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by battering my head against it if I really have not the strength to knock it down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it is a stone wall and I have not the strength. As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really did contain some word of conciliation, simply because it is as true as twice two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better it is to understand it all, to recognize it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable, logical combinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache. IV 'Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next,' you cry, with a laugh. 'Well? Even in toothache there is enjoyment,' I answer. I had toothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, of course, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they are not candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy is the whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression in those moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would not moan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Those moans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain, which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legal system of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, but from which you suffer all the same while she does not. They express the consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that you have pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possible Vagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if some one wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he does not, they will go on aching another three months; and that finally if you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is left you for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat your wall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothing more. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers on the part of some one unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reaches the highest degree of voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, listen sometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth century suffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack, when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day, that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as any coarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and European civilization, a man who is 'divorced from the soil and the national elements,' as they express it now-a-days. His moans become nasty, disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And of course he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of good with his moans; he knows better than any one that he is only lacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing; he knows that even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, and his whole family, listen to him with loathing, do not put a ha'porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he might moan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, and that he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, from malignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it is that there lies a voluptuous pleasure. As though he would say: 'I am worrying you, I am lacerating your hearts, I am keeping every one in the house awake. Well, stay awake then, you, too, feel every minute that I have toothache. I am not a hero to you now, as I tried to seem before, but simply a nasty person, an impostor. Well, so be it, then! I am very glad that you see through me. It is nasty for you to hear my despicable moans: well, let it be nasty; here I will let you have a nastier flourish in a minute....' You do not understand even now, gentlemen? No, it seems our development and our consciousness must go further to understand all the intricacies of this pleasure. You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all? V Come, can a man who attempts to find enjoyment in the very feeling of his own degradation possibly have a spark of respect for himself? I am not saying this now from any mawkish kind of remorse. And, indeed, I could never endure saying, 'Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again,' not because I am incapable of saying that—on the contrary, perhaps just because I have been too capable of it, and in what a way, too! As though of design I used to get into trouble in cases when I was not to blame in any way. That was the nastiest part of it. At the same time I was genuinely touched and penitent, I used to shed tears and, of course, deceived myself, though I was not acting in the least and there was a sick feeling in my heart at the time.... For that one could not blame even the laws of nature, though the laws of nature have continually all my life offended me more than anything. It is loathsome to remember it all, but it was loathsome even then. Of course, a minute or so later I would realize wrathfully that it was all a lie, a revolting lie, an affected lie, that is, all this penitence, this emotion, these vows of reform. You will ask why did I worry myself with such antics: answer, because it was very dull to sit with one's hands folded, and so one began cutting capers. That is really it. Observe yourselves more carefully, gentlemen, then you will understand that it is so. I invented adventures for myself and made up a life, so as at least to live in some way. How many times it has happened to me—well, for instance, to take offence simply on purpose, for nothing; and one knows oneself, of course, that one is offended at nothing, that one is putting it on, but yet one brings oneself, at last to the point of being really offended. All my life I have had an impulse to play such pranks, so that in the end I could not control it in myself. Another time, twice, in fact, I tried hard to be in love. I suffered, too, gentlemen, I assure you. In the depth of my heart there was no faith in my suffering, only a faint stir of mockery, but yet I did suffer, and in the real, orthodox way; I was jealous, beside myself ... and it was all from ennui, gentlemen, all from ennui; inertia overcame me. You know the direct, legitimate fruit of consciousness is inertia, that is, conscious sitting-with-the-hands-folded. I have referred to this already. I repeat, I repeat with emphasis: all 'direct' persons and men of action are active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that? I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediate and secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuade themselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they have found an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds are at ease and you know that is the chief thing. To begin to act, you know, you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace of doubt left in it. Why, how am I, for example to set my mind at rest? Where are the primary causes on which I am to build? Where are my foundations? Where am I to get them from? I exercise myself in reflection, and consequently with me every primary cause at once draws after itself another still more primary, and so on to infinity. That is just the essence of every sort of consciousness and reflection. It must be a case of the laws of nature again. What is the result of it in the end? Why, just the same. Remember I spoke just now of vengeance. (I am sure you did not take it in.) I said that a man revenges himself because he sees justice in it. Therefore he has found a primary cause, that is, justice. And so he is at rest on all sides, and consequently he carries out his revenge calmly and successfully, being persuaded that he is doing a just and honest thing. But I see no justice in it, I find no sort of virtue in it either, and consequently if I attempt to revenge myself, it is only out of spite. Spite, of course, might overcome everything, all my doubts, and so might serve quite successfully in place of a primary cause, precisely because it is not a cause. But what is to be done if I have not even spite (I began with that just now, you know)? In consequence again of those accursed laws of consciousness, anger in me is subject to chemical disintegration. You look into it, the object flies off into air, your reasons evaporate, the criminal is not to be found, the wrong becomes not a wrong but a phantom, something like the toothache, for which no one is to blame, and consequently there is only the same outlet left again—that is, to beat the wall as hard as you can. So you give it up with a wave of the hand because you have not found a fundamental cause. And try letting yourself be carried away by your feelings, blindly, without reflection, without a primary cause, repelling consciousness at least for a time; hate or love, if only not to sit with your hands folded. The day after to-morrow, at the latest, you will begin despising yourself for having knowingly deceived yourself. Result: a soapbubble and inertia. Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps I consider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I have been able neither to begin nor to finish anything. Granted I am a babbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is to be done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man is babble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve? VI Oh, if I had done nothing simply from laziness! Heavens, how I should have respected myself, then. I should have respected myself because I should at least have been capable of being lazy; there would at least have been one quality, as it were, positive in me, in which I could have believed myself. Question: What is he? Answer: A sluggard; how very pleasant it would have been to hear that of oneself! It would mean that I was positively defined, it would mean that there was something to say about me. 'Sluggard'—why, it is a calling and vocation, it is a career. Do not jest, it is so. I should then be a member of the best club by right, and should find my occupation in continually respecting myself. I knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a connoisseur of Lafitte. He considered this as his positive virtue, and never doubted himself. He died, not simply with a tranquil, but with a triumphant, conscience, and he was quite right, too. Then I should have chosen a career for myself, I should have been a sluggard and a glutton, not a simple one, but, for instance, one with sympathies for everything good and beautiful. How do you like that? I have long had visions of it. That 'good and beautiful' weighs heavily on my mind at forty. But that is at forty; then—oh, then it would have been different! I should have found for myself a form of activity in keeping with it, to be precise, drinking to the health of everything 'good and beautiful.' I should have snatched at every opportunity to drop a tear into my glass and then to drain it to all that is 'good and beautiful.' I should then have turned everything into the good and the beautiful; in the nastiest, unquestionable trash, I should have sought out the good and the beautiful. I should have exuded tears like a wet sponge. An artist, for instance, paints a picture worthy of Gay. At once I drink to the health of the artist who painted the picture worthy of Gay, because I love all that is 'good and beautiful.' An author has written As you will: at once I drink to the health of 'any one you will' because I love all that is 'good and beautiful.' I should claim respect for doing so. I should persecute any one who would not show me respect. I should live at ease, I should die with dignity, why, it is charming, perfectly charming! And what a good round belly I should have grown, what a treble chin I should have established, what a ruby nose I should have coloured for myself, so that every one would have said, looking at me: 'Here is an asset! Here is something real and solid!' And, say what you like, it is very agreeable to hear such remarks about oneself in this negative age. VII But these are all golden dreams. Oh, tell me, who was it first announced, who was it first proclaimed, that man only does nasty things because he does not know his own interests; and that if he were enlightened, if his eyes were opened to his real normal interests, man would at once cease to do nasty things, would at once become good and noble because, being enlightened and understanding his real advantage, he would see his own advantage in the good and nothing else, and we all know that not one man can, consciously, act against his own interests, consequently, so to say, through necessity, he would begin doing good? Oh, the babe! Oh, the pure, innocent child! Why, in the first place, when in all these thousands of years has there been a time when man has acted only from his own interest? What is to be done with the millions of facts that bear witness that men, consciously, that is fully understanding their real interests, have left them in the background and have rushed headlong on another path, to meet peril and danger, compelled to this course by nobody and by nothing, but, as it were, simply disliking the beaten track, and have obstinately, wilfully, struck out another difficult, absurd way, seeking it almost in the darkness. So, I suppose, this obstinacy and perversity were pleasanter to them than any advantage.... Advantage! What is advantage? And will you take it upon yourself to define with perfect accuracy in what the advantage of man consists? And what if it so happens that a man's advantage, sometimes, not only may, but even must, consist in his desiring in certain cases what is harmful to himself and not advantageous? And if so, if there can be such a case, the whole principle falls into dust. What do you think—are there such cases? You laugh; laugh away, gentlemen, but only answer me: have man's advantages been reckoned up with perfect certainty? Are there not some which not only have not been included but cannot possibly be included under any classification? You see, you gentlemen have, to the best of my knowledge, taken your whole register of human advantages from the averages of statistical figures and politico-economical formulas. Your advantages are prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace—and so on, and so on. So that the man who should, for instance, go openly and knowingly in opposition to all that list would, to your thinking, and indeed mine, too, of course, be an obscurantist or an absolute madman: would not he? But, you know, this is what is surprising: why does it so happen that all these statisticians, sages and lovers of humanity, when they reckon up human advantages invariably leave out one? They don't even take it into their reckoning in the form in which it should be taken, and the whole reckoning depends upon that. It would be no great matter, they would simply have to take it, this advantage, and add it to the list. But the trouble is, that this strange advantage does not fall under any classification and is not in place in any list. I have a friend for instance.... Ech! gentlemen, but of course he is your friend, too; and indeed there is no one, no one, to whom he is not a friend! When he prepares for any undertaking this gentleman immediately explains to you, elegantly and clearly, exactly how he must act in accordance with the laws of reason and truth. What is more, he will talk to you with excitement and passion of the true normal interests of man; with irony he will upbraid the shortsighted fools who do not understand their own interests, nor the true significance of virtue; and, within a quarter of an hour, without any sudden outside provocation, but simply through something inside him which is stronger than all his interests, he will go off on quite a different tack—that is, act in direct opposition to what he has just been saying about himself, in opposition to the laws of reason, in opposition to his own advantage, in fact in opposition to everything.... I warn you that my friend is a compound personality, and therefore it is difficult to blame him as an individual. The fact is, gentlemen, it seems there must really exist something that is dearer to almost every man than his greatest advantages, or (not to be illogical) there is a most advantageous advantage (the very one omitted of which we spoke just now) which is more important and more advantageous than all other advantages, for the sake of which a man if necessary is ready to act in opposition to all laws; that is, in opposition to reason, honour, peace, prosperity—in fact, in opposition to all those excellent and useful things if only he can attain that fundamental, most advantageous advantage which is dearer to him than all. 'Yes, but it's advantage all the same' you will retort. But excuse me, I'll make the point clear, and it is not a case of playing upon words. What matters is, that this advantage is remarkable from the very fact that it breaks down all our classifications, and continually shatters every system constructed by lovers of mankind for the benefit of mankind. In fact, it upsets everything. But before I mention this advantage to you, I want to compromise myself personally, and therefore I boldly declare that all these fine systems, all these theories for explaining to mankind their real normal interests, in order that inevitably striving to pursue these interests they may at once become good and noble—are, in my opinion, so far, mere logical exercises! Yes, logical exercises. Why, to maintain this theory of the regeneration of mankind by means of the pursuit of his own advantage is to my mind almost the same thing as ... as to affirm, for instance, following Buckle, that through civilization mankind becomes softer, and consequently less bloodthirsty and less fitted for warfare. Logically it does seem to follow from his arguments. But man has such a predilection for systems and abstract deductions that he is ready to distort the truth intentionally, he is ready to deny the evidence of his senses only to justify his logic. I take this example because it is the most glaring instance of it. Only look about you: blood is being spilt in streams, and in the merriest way, as though it were champagne. Take the whole of the nineteenth century in which Buckle lived. Take Napoleon—the Great and also the present one. Take North America—the eternal union. Take the farce of Schleswig-Holstein.... And what is it that civilization softens in us? The only gain of civilization for mankind is the greater capacity for variety of sensations—and absolutely nothing more. And through the development of this many-sidedness man may come to finding enjoyment in bloodshed. In fact, this has already happened to him. Have you noticed that it is the most civilized gentlemen who have been the subtlest slaughterers, to whom the Attilas and Stenka Razins could not hold a candle, and if they are not so conspicuous as the Attilas and Stenka Razins it is simply because they are so often met with, are so ordinary and have become so familiar to us. In any case civilization has made mankind if not more bloodthirsty, at least more vilely, more loathsomely bloodthirsty. In old days he saw justice in bloodshed and with his conscience at peace exterminated those he thought proper. Now we do think bloodshed abominable and yet we engage in this abomination, and with more energy than ever. Which is worse? Decide that for yourselves. They say that Cleopatra (excuse an instance from Roman history) was fond of sticking gold pins into her slave-girls' breasts and derived gratification from their screams and writhings. You will say that that was in the comparatively barbarous times; that these are barbarous times too, because also, comparatively speaking, pins are stuck in even now; that though man has now learned to see more clearly than in barbarous ages, he is still far from having learnt to act as reason and science would dictate. But yet you are fully convinced that he will be sure to learn when he gets rid of certain old bad habits, and when common sense and science have completely re-educated human nature and turned it in a normal direction. You are confident that then man will cease from intentional error and will, so to say, be compelled not to want to set his will against his normal interests. That is not all; then, you say, science itself will teach man (though to my mind it's a superfluous luxury) that he never has really had any caprice or will of his own, and that he himself is something of the nature of a piano-key or the stop of an organ, and that there are, besides, things called the laws of nature; so that everything he does is not done by his willing it, but is done of itself, by the laws of nature. Consequently we have only to discover these laws of nature, and man will no longer have to answer for his actions and life will become exceedingly easy for him. All human actions will then, of course, be tabulated according to these laws, mathematically, like tables of logarithms up to 108,000, and entered in an index; or, better still, there would be published certain edifying works of the nature of encyclopædic lexicons, in which everything will be so clearly calculated and explained that there will be no more incidents or adventures in the world. Then—this is all what you say—new economic relations will be established, all ready-made and worked out with mathematical exactitude, so that every possible question will vanish in the twinkling of an eye, simply because every possible answer to it will be provided. Then the 'Palace of Crystal' will be built. Then.... In fact, those will be halcyon days. Of course there is no guaranteeing (this is my comment) that it will not be, for instance, frightfully dull then (for what will one have to do when everything will be calculated and tabulated?), but on the other hand everything will be extraordinarily rational. Of course boredom may lead you to anything. It is boredom sets one sticking golden pins into people, but all that would not matter. What is bad (this is my comment again) is that I dare say people will be thankful for the gold pins then. Man is stupid, you know, phenomenally stupid; or rather he is not at all stupid, but he is so ungrateful that you could not find another like him in all creation. I, for instance, would not be in the least surprised if all of a sudden, à propos of nothing, in the midst of general prosperity a gentleman with an ignoble, or rather with a reactionary and ironical, countenance were to arise and, putting his arms akimbo, say to us all: 'I say, gentlemen, hadn't we better kick over the whole show and scatter rationalism to the winds, simply to send these logarithms to the devil, and to enable us to live once more at our own sweet foolish will!' That again would not matter; but what is annoying is that he would be sure to find followers—such is the nature of man. And all that for the most foolish reason, which, one would think, was hardly worth mentioning: that is, that man everywhere and at all times, whoever he may be, has preferred to act as he chose and not in the least as his reason and advantage dictated. And one may choose what is contrary to one's own interests, and sometimes one positively ought (that is my idea). One's own free unfettered choice, one's own caprice, however wild it may be, one's own fancy worked up at times to frenzy—is that very 'most advantageous advantage' which we have overlooked, which comes under no classification and against which all systems and theories are continually being shattered to atoms. And how do these wiseacres know that man wants a normal, a virtuous choice? What has made them conceive that man must want a rationally advantageous choice? What man wants is simply independent choice, whatever that independence may cost and wherever it may lead. And choice, of course, the devil only knows what choice.... VIII 'Ha! ha! ha! But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality, say what you like,' you will interpose with a chuckle. 'Science has succeeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and what is called freedom of will is nothing else than——' Stay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself. I confess, I was rather frightened. I was just going to say that the devil only knows what choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing, but I remembered the teaching of science ... and pulled myself up. And here you have begun upon it. Indeed, if there really is some day discovered a formula for all our desires and caprices—that is, an explanation of what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they develop, what they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on, that is a real mathematical formula—then, most likely, man will at once cease to feel desire, indeed, he will be certain to. For who would want to choose by rule? Besides, he will at once be transformed from a human being into an organ-stop or something of the sort; for what is a man without desires, without free will and without choice, if not a stop in an organ? What do you think? Let us reckon the chances—can such a thing happen or not? 'H'm!' you decide. 'Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view of our advantage. We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a supposed advantage. But when all that is explained and worked out on paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and senseless to suppose that some laws of nature man will never understand), then certainly so-called desires will no longer exist. For if a desire should come into conflict with reason we shall then reason and not desire, because it will be impossible retaining our reason to be senseless in our desires, and in that way knowingly act against reason and desire to injure ourselves. And as all choice and reasoning can be really calculated—because there will some day be discovered the laws of our so-called free will—so, joking apart, there may one day be something like a table constructed of them, so that we really shall choose in accordance with it. If, for instance, some day they calculate and prove to me that I made a long nose at some one because I could not help making a long nose at him and that I had to do it in that particular way, what freedom is left me, especially if I am a learned man and have taken my degree somewhere? Then I should be able to calculate my whole life for thirty years beforehand. In short, if this could be arranged there would be nothing left for us to do; anyway, we should have to understand that. And, in fact, we ought unwearyingly to repeat to ourselves that at such and such a time and in such and such circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have got to take her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if we really aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even ... to the chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort too, or else it will be accepted without our consent....' Yes, but here I come to a stop! Gentlemen, you must excuse me for being overphilosophical; it's the result of forty years underground! Allow me to indulge my fancy. You see, gentlemen, reason is an excellent thing, there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but reason and satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will is a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply extracting square roots. Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my capacity for life. What does reason know? Reason only knows what it has succeeded in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn; this is a poor comfort, but why not say so frankly?) and human nature acts as a whole, with everything that is in it, consciously or unconsciously, and, even if it goes wrong, it lives. I suspect, gentlemen, that you are looking at me with compassion; you tell me again that an enlightened and developed man, such, in short, as the future man will be, cannot consciously desire anything disadvantageous to himself, that that can be proved mathematically. I thoroughly agree, it can—by mathematics. But I repeat for the hundredth time, there is one case, one only, when man may consciously, purposely, desire what is injurious to himself, what is stupid, very stupid—simply in order to have the right to desire for himself even what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to desire only what is sensible. Of course, this very stupid thing, this caprice of ours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us than anything else on earth, especially in certain cases. And in particular it may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it does us obvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our reason concerning our advantage— for in any circumstances it preserves for us what is most precious and most important—that is, our personality, our individuality. Some, you see, maintain that this really is the most precious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it chooses, be in agreement with reason; and especially if this be not abused but kept within bounds. It is profitable and sometimes even praiseworthy. But very often, and even most often, choice is utterly and stubbornly opposed to reason ... and ... and ... do you know that that, too, is profitable, sometimes even praiseworthy? Gentlemen, let us suppose that man is not stupid. (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose that, if only from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then who is wise?) But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful! Phenomenally ungrateful. In fact, I believe that the best definition of man is the ungrateful biped. But that is not all, that is not his worst defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity, perpetual—from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period. Moral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long been accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than moral obliquity. Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the history of mankind. What will you see? Is it a grand spectacle? Grand, if you like. Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's worth something. With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that some say that it is the work of man's hands, while others maintain that it has been created by nature herself. Is it manycoloured? May be it is many-coloured, too: if one takes the dress uniforms, military and civilian, of all peoples in all ages—that alone is worth something, and if you take the undress uniforms you will never get to the end of it; no historian would be equal to the job. Is it monotonous? May be it's monotonous too: it's fighting and fighting; they are fighting now, they fought first and they fought last—you will admit, that it is almost too monotonous. In short, one may say anything about the history of the world—anything that might enter the most disordered imagination. The only thing one can't say is that it's rational. The very word sticks in one's throat. And, indeed, this is the odd thing that is continually happening: there are continually turning up in life moral and rational persons, sages and lovers of humanity who make it their object to live all their lives as morally and rationally as possible, to be, so to speak, a light to their neighbours simply in order to show them that it is possible to live morally and rationally in this world. And yet we all know that those very people sooner or later have been false to themselves, playing some queer trick, often a most unseemly one. Now I ask you: what can be expected of man since he is a being endowed with such strange qualities? Shower upon him every earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some nasty trick. He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic element. It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself—as though that were so necessary—that men still are men and not the keys of a piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar. And that is not all: even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if this were proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then he would not become reasonable, but would purposely do something perverse out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point. And if he does not find means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will contrive sufferings of all sorts, only to gain his point! He will launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), may be by his curse alone he will attain his object—that is, convince himself that he is a man and not a piano-key! If you say that all this, too, can be calculated and tabulated—chaos and darkness and curses, so that the mere possibility of calculating it all beforehand would stop it all, and reason would reassert itself, then man would purposely go mad in order to be rid of reason and gain his point! I believe in it, I answer for it, for the whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano-key! It may be at the cost of his skin, it may be by cannibalism! And this being so, can one help being tempted to rejoice that it has not yet come off, and that desire still depends on something we don't know? You will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one is touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my will should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own normal interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic. Good Heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to tabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make four? Twice two makes four without my will. As if free will meant that! IX Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not brilliant, but you know one can't take everything as a joke. I am, perhaps, jesting against the grain. Gentlemen, I am tormented by questions; answer them for me. You, for instance, want to cure men of their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also that it is desirable, to reform man in that way? And what leads you to the conclusion that man's inclinations need reforming? In short, how do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man? And to go to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that not to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the conclusions of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous for man and must always be a law for mankind? So far, you know, this is only your supposition. It may be the law of logic, but not the law of humanity. You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad? Allow me to defend myself. I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal, predestined to strive consciously for an object and to engage in engineering— that is, incessantly and eternally to make new roads, wherever they may lead. But the reason why he wants sometimes to go off at a tangent may just be that he is predestined to make the road, and perhaps, too, that however stupid the 'direct' practical man may be, the thought sometimes will occur to him that the road almost always does lead somewhere, and that the destination it leads to is less important than the process of making it, and that the chief thing is to save the well-conducted child from despising engineering, and so giving way to the fatal idleness, which, as we all know, is the mother of all the vices. Man likes to make roads and to create, that is a fact beyond dispute. But why has he such a passionate love for destruction and chaos also? Tell me that! But on that point I want to say a couple of words myself. May it not be that he loves chaos and destruction (there can be no disputing that he does sometimes love it) because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his object and completing the edifice he is constructing? Who knows, perhaps he only loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love with it at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does not want to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use of les animaux domestiques—such as the ants, the sheep, and so on. Now the ants have quite a different taste. They have a marvellous edifice of that pattern which endures for ever—the ant-heap. With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the ant-heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to their perseverance and good sense. But man is a frivolous and incongruous creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the process of the game, not the end of it. And who knows (there is no saying with certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other words, in life itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must always be expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four, and such positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death. Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical certainty, and I am afraid of it now. Granted that man does nothing but seek that mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it, he dreads, I assure you. He feels that when he has found it there will be nothing for him to look for. When workmen have finished their work they do at least receive their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to the police-station—and there is occupation for a week. But where can man go? Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when he has attained such objects. He loves the process of attaining, but does not quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very absurd. In fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind of jest in it all. But yet mathematical certainty is, after all, something insufferable. Twice two makes four seems to me simply a piece of insolence. Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting. I admit that twice two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too. And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the normal and the positive—in other words, only what is conducive to welfare—is for the advantage of man? Is not reason in error as regards advantage? Does not man, perhaps, love something besides well-being? Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering? Perhaps suffering is just as great a benefit to him as well-being? Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a fact. There is no need to appeal to universal history to prove that; only ask yourself, if you are a man and have lived at all. As far as my personal opinion is concerned, to care only for well-being seems to me positively ill-bred. Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very pleasant, too, to smash things. I hold no brief for suffering nor for well-being either. I am standing for ... my caprice, and for its being guaranteed to me when necessary. Suffering would be out of place in vaudevilles, for instance; I know that. In the 'Palace of Crystal' it is unthinkable; suffering means doubt, negation, and what would be the good of a 'palace of crystal' if there could be any doubt about it? And yet I think man will never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Why, suffering is the sole origin of consciousness. Though I did lay it down at the beginning that consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man, yet I know man prizes it and would not give it up for any satisfaction. Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes four. Once you have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to understand. There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five senses and plunge into contemplation. While if you stick to consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up. Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing. X You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed—a palace at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a long nose on the sly. And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this edifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one cannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly. You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into it to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a palace out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry. You laugh and say that in such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion. Yes, I answer, if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain. But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not the only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live in a mansion. That is my choice, my desire. You will only eradicate it when you have changed my preference. Well, do change it, allure me with something else, give me another ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a hen-house for a mansion. The palace of crystal may be an idle dream, it may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and that I have invented it only through my own stupidity, through the old-fashioned irrational habits of my generation. But what does it matter to me that it is inconsistent? That makes no difference since it exists in my desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist. Perhaps you are laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any mockery rather than pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry. I know, anyway, that I will not be put off with a compromise, with a recurring zero, simply because it is consistent with the laws of nature and actually exists. I will not accept as the crown of my desires a block of buildings with tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand years, and perhaps with a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you. You will say, perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble; but in that case I can give you the same answer. We are discussing things seriously; but if you won't deign to give me your attention, I will drop your acquaintance. I can retreat into my underground hole. But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were withered off than bring one brick to such a building! Don't remind me that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason that one cannot put out one's tongue at it. I did not say because I am so fond of putting my tongue out. Perhaps the thing I resented was, that of all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not put out one's tongue. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off out of gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose all desire to put it out. It is not my fault that things cannot be so arranged, and that one must be satisfied with model flats. Then why am I made with such desires? Can I have been constructed simply in order to come to the conclusion that all my construction is a cheat? Can this be my whole purpose? I do not believe it. But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to be kept on a curb. Though we may sit forty years underground without speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we talk and talk and talk.... XI The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so hurrah for underground! Though I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my bile, yet I should not care to be in his place such as he is now (though I shall not cease envying him). No, no; anyway the underground life is more advantageous. There, at any rate, one can.... Oh, but even now I am lying! I am lying because I know myself that it is not underground that is better, but something different, quite different, for which I am thirsting, but which I cannot find! Damn underground! I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you, gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written that I really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler. 'Then why have you written all this?' you will say to me. 'I ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to do and then come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have reached! How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?' 'Isn't that shameful, isn't that humiliating?' you will say, perhaps, wagging your heads contemptuously. 'You thirst for life and try to settle the problems of life by a logical tangle. And how persistent, how insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in! You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent things and are in continual alarm and apologizing for them. You declare that you are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at the same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us. You know that your witticisms are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity, but you have no modesty; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence. You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive you are, how you insist and grimace! Lies, lies, lies!' Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and it has taken a literary form.... But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all this and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call you 'gentlemen,' why do I address you as though you really were my readers? Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor given to other people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for that, and I don't see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred to me and I want to realize it at all costs. Let me explain. Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to every one, but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember some of my early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and not take fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis, that Heine says that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility, and that man is bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even intentionally lied, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity. But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the public. I write only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form—I shall never have readers. I have made this plain already.... I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down as I remember them. But here, perhaps, some one will catch at the word and ask me: if you really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with yourself—and on paper too—that is, that you won't attempt any system or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on, and so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologize? Well, there it is, I answer. There is a whole psychology in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write. There are perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper? Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticize myself and improve my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing. To-day, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a distant past. It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and has remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of. And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should get rid of it. Why not try? Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well, here is a chance for me, anyway. Snow is falling to-day, yellow and dingy. It fell yesterday, too, and a few days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that incident which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story à propos of the falling snow. PART II À PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW When from dark error's subjugation My words of passionate exhortation Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free; And writhing prone in thine affliction Thou didst recall with malediction The vice that had encompassed thee: And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting By recollection's torturing flame, Thou didst reveal the hideous setting Of thy life's current ere I came: When suddenly I saw thee sicken, And weeping, hide thine anguished face, Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken, At memories of foul disgrace. NEKRASSOV (translated by Juliet Soskice). I At that time I was only twenty-four. My life was even then gloomy, ill-regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage. I made friends with no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at any one, and I was perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a queer fellow, but even looked upon me—I always fancied this—with a sort of loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except me fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerks had a most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively villainous. I believe I should not have dared to look at any one with such an unsightly countenance. Another had such a very dirty old uniform that there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet not one of these gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness—either about their clothes or their countenance or their character in any way. Neither of them ever imagined that they were looked at with repulsion; if they had imagined it they would not have minded—so long as their superiors did not look at them in that way. It is clear to me now that, owing to my unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to every one. I hated my face, for instance: I thought it disgusting, and even suspected that there was something base in my expression, and so every day when I turned up at the office I tried to behave as independently as possible, and to assume a lofty expression, so that I might not be suspected of being abject. 'My face may be ugly,' I thought, 'but let it be lofty, expressive, and, above all, extremely intelligent.' But I was positively and painfully certain that it was impossible for my countenance ever to express those qualities. And what was worst of all, I thought it actually stupid looking, and I would have been quite satisfied if I could have looked intelligent. In fact, I would even have put up with looking base if, at the same time, my face could have been thought strikingly intelligent. Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them. In fact, it happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself. It somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising them and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments. But whether I despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes almost every time I met any one. I even made experiments whether I could face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my eyes. This worried me to distraction. I had a sickly dread, too, of being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the conventional in everything external. I loved to fall into the common rut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity in myself. But how could I live up to it? I was morbidly sensitive, as a man of our age should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made and constructed to that very end. And not only at the present time owing to some casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is bound to be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent people all over the earth. If any one of them happens to be valiant about something, he need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he would show the white feather just the same before something else. That is how it invariably and inevitably ends. Only donkeys and mules are valiant, and they only till they are pushed up to the wall. It is not worth while to pay attention to them for they really are of no consequence. Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no one like me and I was unlike any one else. 'I am alone and they are every one,' I thought —and pondered. From that it is evident that I was still a youngster. The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to go to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill. But all at once, à propos of nothing, there would come a phase of scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would reproach myself with being romantic. At one time I was unwilling to speak to any one, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been affected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question even now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions.... But here let me make a digression. We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish transcendental 'romantics'—German, and still more French—on whom nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they are is due to our 'realistic' journalists and critics of that day, always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our 'romantics' are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of this word 'romantic'—an old-fashioned and much respected word which has done good service and is familiar to all). The characteristics of our romantic are to understand everything, to see everything and to see it often incomparably more clearly than our most realistic minds see it; to refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve 'the good and the beautiful' inviolate within them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of 'the good and the beautiful.' Our 'romantic' is a man of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure you.... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there—by preference in Weimar or the Black Forest. I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it. Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather go out of his mind—a thing, however, which very rarely happens—than take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as 'the King of Spain' if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin, fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable 'romantics' attain later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their manysidedness is remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most contradictory sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those days, and I am of the same opinion now. That is why there are so many 'broad natures' among us who never lose their ideal even in the depths of degradation; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant thieves and knaves, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and are extraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is only among us that the most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I use the term 'rascals' affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the public generally can only ejaculate in amazement. Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am joking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary, and you are convinced that I really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression. I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations. That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone. In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of course, was a great help— exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability. I had hysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said all this to justify myself.... But, no! I am lying. I did want to justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not. And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse. Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognized. I visited various obscure haunts. One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted, but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman thrown out of window— and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern and into the billiardroom. 'Perhaps,' I thought, 'I'll have a fight, too, and they'll throw me out of window.' I was not drunk—but what is one to do—depression will drive a man to such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not even equal to being thrown out of window and I went away without having my fight. An officer put me in my place from the first moment. I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up the way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a word— without a warning or explanation—moved me from where I was standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me. I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me without noticing me. Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel—a more decent, a more literary one, so to speak. I had been treated like a fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat. I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in my eyes—but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was cowardice made me slink away from the officer: I never have been a coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be in a hurry to laugh—I assure you I can explain it all. Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly procedure in any case—and they looked upon the duel altogether as something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot. I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded vanity. I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid of was that every one present, from the insolent marker down to the lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in literary language. For of the point of honour—not of honour, but of the point of honour (point d'honneur)—one cannot speak among us except in literary language. You can't allude to the 'point of honour' in ordinary language. I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, but would certainly prod me in the back with his knee, kick me round the billiard table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of the window. Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognized me, I imagine not; I judge from certain signs. But I—I stared at him with spite and hatred and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries about this officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one day I heard some one shout his surname in the street as I was following him at a distance, as though I were tied to him—and so I learnt his surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey, whether he lived alone or with others, and so on—in fact, everything one could learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never tried my hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire on this officer in the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. I wrote the novel with relish. I did unmask his villainy, I even exaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easily be recognized, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the Otetchestvenniya Zapiski. But at that time such attacks were not the fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me. Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming letter to him, imploring him to apologize to me, and hinting rather plainly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the officer had had the least understanding of the good and the beautiful he would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me his friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have got on together! 'He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I could have improved his mind with my culture, and, well ... my ideas, and all sorts of things might have happened.' Only fancy, this was two years after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a ridiculous anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity of my letter in disguising and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him. Cold shivers run down my back when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it. And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four o'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual, intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this world, a nasty, disgusting fly—more intelligent, more highly developed, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course—but a fly that was continually making way for every one, insulted and injured by every one. Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I don't know. I felt simply drawn there at every possible opportunity. Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I spoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on holidays. He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of high rank, and he, too, wriggled between them like an eel; but people, like me, or even better dressed like me, he simply walked over; he made straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space before him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my resentment watching him and ... always resentfully made way for him. It exasperated me that even in the street I could not be on an even footing with him. 'Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?' I kept asking myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the morning. 'Why is it you and not he? There's no regulation about it; there's no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually is when refined people meet: he moves halfway and you move half-way; you pass with mutual respect.' But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not even notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright idea dawned upon me! 'What,' I thought, 'if I meet him and don't move on one side? What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up against him? How would that be?' This audacious idea took such a hold on me that it gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly, and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture more vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible. 'Of course I shall not really push him,' I thought, already more good-natured in my joy. 'I will simply not turn aside, will run up against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other—just as much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as he pushes against me.' At last I made up my mind completely. But my preparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carried out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I had to think of my get-up. 'In case of emergency, if, for instance, there were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of the most recherché: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all the literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires respect and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of society.' With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought at Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black gloves seemed to me both more dignified and bon ton than the lemon-coloured ones which I had contemplated at first. 'The colour is too gaudy, it looks as though one were trying to be conspicuous,' and I did not take the lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt, with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me back. The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it was wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of vulgarity. I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a beaver one like an officer's. For this purpose I began visiting the Gostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap German beaver. Though these German beavers soon grow shabby and look wretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it for one occasion. I asked the price; even so, it was too expensive. After thinking it over thoroughly I decided to sell my raccoon collar. The rest of the money—a considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow from Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming person, though grave and judicious. He never lent money to any one, but I had, on entering the service, been specially recommended to him by an important personage who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried. To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I did not sleep for two or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at that time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else a sudden throbbing, throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was surprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did after all lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorization to take from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me. In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It would never have done to act off-hand, at random; the plan had to be carried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after many efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I made every preparation, I was quite determined —it seemed as though we should run into one another directly—and before I knew what I was doing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without noticing me. I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me determination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended in my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very last instant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me. He very calmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball. That night I was ill again, feverish and delirious. And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with that object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I would abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I unexpectedly made up my mind—I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt, shoulder to shoulder, against one another! I did not budge an inch and passed him on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am convinced of that. I am convinced of that to this day! Of course, I got the worst of it—he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged for everything. I was delighted. I was triumphant and sang Italian arias. Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three days later; if you have read my first chapter you can guess that for yourself. The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now for fourteen years. What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking over? II But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick afterwards. It was followed by remorse—I tried to drive it away: I felt too sick. By degrees, however, I grew used to that too. I grew used to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring it. But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything—that was to find refuge in 'the good and the beautiful,' in dreams, of course. I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on end, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those moments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation of his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great coat. I suddenly became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if he had called on me. I could not even picture him before me then. What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself with them—it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with them. Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with them. Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of dissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and transports. There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope, love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable activity—beneficent, good, and, above all, ready made (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all ready for me) —would rise up before me—and I should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud—there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and so he might defile himself. It is worth noting that these attacks of the 'good and the beautiful' visited me even during the period of dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom. They came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently present to serve as an appetizing sauce. That sauce was made up of contradictions and sufferings, of agonizing inward analysis and all these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance to my dissipation—in fact, completely answered the purpose of an appetizing sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. And I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it. What could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the street? No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all. And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times in those dreams of mine! in those 'flights into the good and the beautiful;' though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied to anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that one did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality; that would have been superfluous. Everything, however, passed satisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of art, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely stolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. I, for instance, was triumphant over every one; every one, of course, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to recognize my superiority, and I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and immediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed before all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not merely shameful, but had in them much that was 'good and beautiful,' something in the Manfred style. Every one would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and hungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against the obscurantists. Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would be declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the shores of the Lake of Como, the Lake of Como being for that purpose transferred to the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on—as though you did not know all about it? You will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible? Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no means badly composed.... It did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right—it really is vulgar and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than that is my making this remark now. But that's enough, or there will be no end to it: each step will be more contemptible than the last.... I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my life, and wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one human being, actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch, however, on Tuesday—his at-home day; so I had always to time my passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday. This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupified, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind. I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows indeed in Petersburg, but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them in the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years of penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as I got out into the world. There were two or three left to whom I nodded in the street. One of them was Simonov, who had been in no way distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty. I don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid. I had at one time spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not lasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over. He was evidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy, always afraid that I might take up the same tone again. I suspected that he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him, not being quite certain of it. And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of Simonov. Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him. But as it always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely, to put myself into a false position, I went in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov. III I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice of my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years. Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common fly. I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all hated me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack of success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low, going about badly dressed and so on—which seemed to them a sign of my incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt. Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they were saying. They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good certificate, as he had powerful interest. During his last year at school he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all of us were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar in the extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even in his swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham notions of honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled before Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he had been favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I hated the abrupt selfconfident tone of his voice, his admiration of his own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the ''forties.' I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and boasted of the duels he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I, invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his droit de seigneur, and that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and double the tax on them, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he was lively and impudent, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that my victory was not really complete: the laugh was on his side. He got the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice, jestingly, casually. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other rumours—of his successes in the service. By then he had taken to cutting me in the street, and I suspected that he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a personage as insignificant as me. I saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and twirling about, ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient General. In three years he had gone off considerably, though he was still rather handsome and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty he would be corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him for those three years, though privately they did not consider themselves on an equal footing with him, I am convinced of that. Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianized German—a little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always deriding every one, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the lower forms—a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most sensitive feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a wretched little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of Zverkov who made up to the latter from interested motives, and often borrowed money from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a person in no way remarkable—a tall young fellow, in the army, with a cold face, fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every sort, and was only capable of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of distant relation of Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him a certain importance among us. He always thought me of no consequence whatever; his behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was tolerable. 'Well, with seven roubles each,' said Trudolyubov, 'twenty-one roubles between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner. Zverkov, of course, won't pay.' 'Of course not, since we are inviting him,' Simonov decided. 'Can you imagine,' Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations, 'can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne.' 'Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?' observed Trudolyubov, taking notice only of the half dozen. 'So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at the Hôtel de Paris at five o'clock to-morrow,' Simonov, who had been asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally. 'How twenty-one roubles?' I asked in some agitation, with a show of being offended; 'if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but twenty-eight roubles.' It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly would be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at once and would look at me with respect. 'Do you want to join, too?' Simonov observed, with no appearance of pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and through. It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly. 'Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I must own I feel hurt that you have left me out,' I said, boiling over again. 'And where were we to find you?' Ferfitchkin put in roughly. 'You never were on good terms with Zverkov,' Trudolyubov added, frowning. But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up. 'It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that,' I retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had happened. 'Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I have not always been on good terms with him.' 'Oh, there's no making you out ... with these refinements,' Trudolyubov jeered. 'We'll put your name down,' Simonov decided, addressing me. 'To-morrow at five o'clock at the Hôtel de Paris.' 'What about the money?' Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating me to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed. 'That will do,' said Trudolyubov, getting up. 'If he wants to come so much, let him.' 'But it's a private thing, between us friends,' Ferfitchkin said crossly, as he, too, picked up his hat. 'It's not an official gathering.' 'We do not want at all, perhaps....' They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went out, Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left tête-à-tête, was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly. He did not sit down and did not ask me to. 'H'm ... yes ... to-morrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I just ask so as to know,' he muttered in embarrassment. I flushed crimson, and as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles for ages—which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though I had not paid it. 'You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came here.... I am very much vexed that I have forgotten....' 'All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay to-morrow after the dinner. I simply wanted to know.... Please don't....' He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked he began to stamp with his heels. 'Am I keeping you?' I asked, after two minutes of silence. 'Oh!' he said, starting, 'that is—to be truthful—yes. I have to go and see some one ... not far from here,' he added in an apologetic voice, somewhat abashed. 'My goodness, why didn't you say so?' I cried, seizing my cap, with an astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have expected of myself. 'It's close by ... not two paces away,' Simonov repeated, accompanying me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all. 'So five o'clock, punctually, to-morrow,' he called down the stairs after me. He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury. 'What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them?' I wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, 'for a scoundrel, a pig like that Zverkov! Of course, I had better not go; of course, I must just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any way. I'll send Simonov a note by tomorrow's post....' But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go, that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go. And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant, Apollon, for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him—he had to keep himself. Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time. However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages. That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening I had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant relations, upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing since—they sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by their reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage distrust at every one. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts; I could not give in to them with the ignoble readiness with which they gave in to one another. I hated them from the first, and shut myself away from every one in timid, wounded and disproportionate pride. Their coarseness revolted me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my clumsy figure; and yet what stupid faces they had themselves. In our school the boys' faces seemed in a special way to degenerate and grow stupider. How many finelooking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive. Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by the pettiness of their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their games, their conversations. They had no understanding of such essential things, they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects, that I could not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not wounded vanity that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust upon me your hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that 'I was only a dreamer,' while they even then had an understanding of life. They understood nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that that was what made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the most obvious, striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity and even at that time were accustomed to respect success. Everything that was just, but oppressed and looked down upon, they laughed at heartlessly and shamefully. They took rank for intelligence; even at sixteen they were already talking about a snug berth. Of course, a great deal of it was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with which they had always been surrounded in their childhood and boyhood. They were monstrously depraved. Of course a great deal of that, too, was superficial and an assumption of cynicism; of course there were glimpses of youth and freshness even in their depravity; but even that freshness was not attractive, and showed itself in a certain rakishness. I hated them horribly, though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They repaid me in the same way, and did not conceal their aversion for me. But by then I did not desire their affection: on the contrary I continually longed for their humiliation. To escape from their derision I purposely began to make all the progress I could with my studies and forced my way to the very top. This impressed them. Moreover, they all began by degrees to grasp that I had already read books none of them could read, and understood things (not forming part of our school curriculum) of which they had not even heard. They took a savage and sarcastic view of it, but were morally impressed, especially as the teachers began to notice me on those grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility remained, and cold and strained relations became permanent between us. In the end I could not put up with it: with years a craving for society, for friends, developed in me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with some of my schoolfellows; but somehow or other my intimacy with them was always strained and soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate affection; I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul; but when he devoted himself to me entirely I began to hate him immediately and repulsed him—as though all I needed him for was to win a victory over him, to subjugate him and nothing else. But I could not subjugate all of them; my friend was not at all like them either, he was, in fact, a rare exception. The first thing I did on leaving school was to give up the special job for which I had been destined so as to break all ties, to curse my past and shake the dust from off my feet.... And goodness knows why, after all that, I should go trudging off to Simonov's! Early next morning I roused myself and jumped out of bed with excitement, as though it were all about to happen at once. But I believed that some radical change in my life was coming, and would inevitably come that day. Owing to its rarity, perhaps, any external event, however trivial, always made me feel as though some radical change in my life were at hand. I went to the office, however, as usual, but sneaked away home two hours earlier to get ready. The great thing, I thought, is not to be the first to arrive, or they will think I am overjoyed at coming. But there were thousands of such great points to consider, and they all agitated and overwhelmed me. I polished my boots a second time with my own hands; nothing in the world would have induced Apollon to clean them twice a day, as he considered that it was more than his duties required of him. I stole the brushes to clean them from the passage, being careful he should not detect it, for fear of his contempt. Then I minutely examined my clothes and thought that everything looked old, worn and threadbare. I had let myself get too slovenly. My uniform, perhaps, was tidy, but I could not go out to dinner in my uniform. The worst of it was that on the knee of my trousers was a big yellow stain. I had a foreboding that that stain would deprive me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I knew, too, that it was very poor to think so. 'But this is no time for thinking: now I am in for the real thing,' I thought, and my heart sank. I knew, too, perfectly well even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating the facts. But how could I help it? I could not control myself and was already shaking with fever. With despair I pictured to myself how coldly and disdainfully that 'scoundrel' Zverkov would meet me; with what dull-witted, invincible contempt the blockhead Trudolyubov would look at me; with what impudent rudeness the insect Ferfitchkin would snigger at me in order to curry favour with Zverkov; how completely Simonov would take it all in, and how he would despise me for the abjectness of my vanity and lack of spirit—and, worst of all, how paltry, unliterary, commonplace it would all be. Of course, the best thing would be not to go at all. But that was most impossible of all: if I feel impelled to do anything, I seem to be pitchforked into it. I should have jeered at myself ever afterwards: 'So you funked it, you funked it, you funked the real thing!' On the contrary, I passionately longed to show all that 'rabble' that I was by no means such a spiritless creature as I seemed to myself. What is more, even in the acutest paroxysm of this cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the upper hand, of dominating them, carrying them away, making them like me—if only for my 'elevation of thought and unmistakable wit.' They would abandon Zverkov, he would sit on one side, silent and ashamed, while I should crush him. Then, perhaps, we would be reconciled and drink to our everlasting friendship; but what was most bitter and most humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and for certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did not really want to crush, to subdue, to attract them, and that I did not care a straw really for the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how I prayed for the day to pass quickly! In unutterable anguish I went to the window, opened the movable pane and looked out into the troubled darkness of the thickly falling wet snow. At last my wretched little clock hissed out five. I seized my hat and trying not to look at Apollon, who had been all day expecting his month's wages, but in his foolishness was unwilling to be the first to speak about it, I slipt between him and the door and jumping into a high-class sledge, on which I spent my last half rouble, I drove up in grand style to the Hôtel de Paris. IV I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive. But it was not a question of being the first to arrive. Not only were they not there, but I had difficulty in finding our room. The table was not laid even. What did it mean? After a good many questions I elicited from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for five, but for six o'clock. This was confirmed at the buffet too. I felt really ashamed to go on questioning them. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. If they changed the dinner hour they ought at least to have let me know —that is what the post is for, and not to have put me in an absurd position in my own eyes and ... and even before the waiters. I sat down; the servant began laying the table; I felt even more humiliated when he was present. Towards six o'clock they brought in candles, though there were lamps burning in the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them in at once when I arrived. In the next room two gloomy, angry-looking persons were eating their dinners in silence at two different tables. There was a great deal of noise, even shouting, in a room further away; one could hear the laughter of a crowd of people, and nasty little shrieks in French: there were ladies at the dinner. It was sickening, in fact. I rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much so that when they did arrive all together punctually at six I was overjoyed to see them, as though they were my deliverers, and even forgot that it was incumbent upon me to show resentment. Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading spirit. He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather jaunty bend from the waist. He shook hands with me in a friendly, but not over-friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like that of a General, as though in giving me his hand he were warding off something. I had imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would at once break into his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making his insipid jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing for them ever since the previous day, but I had not expected such condescension, such high-official courtesy. So, then, he felt himself ineffably superior to me in every respect! If he only meant to insult me by that high-official tone, it would not matter, I thought —I could pay him back for it one way or another. But what if, in reality, without the least desire to be offensive, that sheepshead had a notion in earnest that he was superior to me and could only look at me in a patronizing way? The very supposition made me gasp. 'I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us,' he began, lisping and drawling, which was something new. 'You and I seem to have seen nothing of one another. You fight shy of us. You shouldn't. We are not such terrible people as you think. Well, anyway, I am glad to renew our acquaintance.' And he turned carelessly to put down his hat on the window. 'Have you been waiting long?' Trudolyubov inquired. 'I arrived at five o'clock as you told me yesterday,' I answered aloud, with an irritability that threatened an explosion. 'Didn't you let him know that we had changed the hour?' said Trudolyubov to Simonov. 'No, I didn't. I forgot,' the latter replied, with no sign of regret, and without even apologizing to me he went off to order the hors d'œuvres. 'So you've been here a whole hour? Oh, poor fellow!' Zverkov cried ironically, for to his notions this was bound to be extremely funny. That rascal Ferfitchkin followed with his nasty little snigger like a puppy yapping. My position struck him, too, as exquisitely ludicrous and embarrassing. 'It isn't funny at all!' I cried to Ferfitchkin, more and more irritated. 'It wasn't my fault, but other people's. They neglected to let me know. It was ... it was ... it was simply absurd.' 'It's not only absurd, but something else as well,' muttered Trudolyubov, naïvely taking my part. 'You are not hard enough upon it. It was simply rudeness— unintentional, of course. And how could Simonov ... h'm!' 'If a trick like that had been played on me,' observed Ferfitchkin, 'I should....' 'But you should have ordered something for yourself,' Zverkov interrupted, 'or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us.' 'You will allow that I might have done that without your permission,' I rapped out. 'If I waited, it was....' 'Let us sit down, gentlemen,' cried Simonov, coming in. 'Everything is ready; I can answer for the champagne; it is capitally frozen.... You see, I did not know your address, where was I to look for you?' he suddenly turned to me, but again he seemed to avoid looking at me. Evidently he had something against me. It must have been what happened yesterday. All sat down; I did the same. It was a round table. Trudolyubov was on my left, Simonov on my right. Zverkov was sitting opposite, Ferfitchkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov. 'Tell me, are you ... in a government office?' Zverkov went on attending to me. Seeing that I was embarrassed he seriously thought that he ought to be friendly to me, and, so to speak, cheer me up. 'Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head?' I thought, in a fury. In my novel surroundings I was unnaturally ready to be irritated. 'In the N—— office,' I answered jerkily, with my eyes on my plate. 'And ha-ave you a go-od berth? I say, what ma-a-de you leave your original job?' 'What ma-a-de me was that I wanted to leave my original job,' I drawled more than he, hardly able to control myself. Ferfitchkin went off into a guffaw. Simonov looked at me ironically. Trudolyubov left off eating and began looking at me with curiosity. Zverkov winced, but he tried not to notice it. 'And the remuneration?' 'What remuneration?' 'I mean, your sa-a-lary?' 'Why are you cross-examining me?' However, I told him at once what my salary was. I turned horribly red. 'It is not very handsome,' Zverkov observed majestically. 'Yes, you can't afford to dine at cafés on that,' Ferfitchkin added insolently. 'To my thinking it's very poor,' Trudolyubov observed gravely. 'And how thin you have grown! How you have changed!' added Zverkov, with a shade of venom in his voice, scanning me and my attire with a sort of insolent compassion. 'Oh, spare his blushes,' cried Ferfitchkin, sniggering. 'My dear sir, allow me to tell you I am not blushing,' I broke out at last; 'do you hear? I am dining here, at this café, at my own expense, not at other people's— note that, Mr. Ferfitchkin.' 'Wha-at? Isn't every one here dining at his own expense? You would seem to be....' Ferfitchkin flew out at me, turning as red as a lobster, and looking me in the face with fury. 'Tha-at,' I answered, feeling I had gone too far, 'and I imagine it would be better to talk of something more intelligent.' 'You intend to show off your intelligence, I suppose?' 'Don't disturb yourself, that would be quite out of place here.' 'Why are you clacking away like that, my good sir, eh? Have you gone out of your wits in your office?' 'Enough, gentlemen, enough!' Zverkov cried, authoritatively. 'How stupid it is!' muttered Simonov. 'It really is stupid. We have met here, a company of friends, for a farewell dinner to a comrade and you carry on an altercation,' said Trudolyubov, rudely addressing himself to me alone. 'You invited yourself to join us, so don't disturb the general harmony.' 'Enough, enough!' cried Zverkov. 'Give over, gentlemen, it's out of place. Better let me tell you how I nearly got married the day before yesterday....' And then followed a burlesque narrative of how this gentleman had almost been married two days before. There was not a word about the marriage, however, but the story was adorned with generals, colonels and kammer-junkers, while Zverkov almost took the lead among them. It was greeted with approving laughter; Ferfitchkin positively squealed. No one paid any attention to me, and I sat crushed and humiliated. 'Good Heavens, these are not the people for me!' I thought. 'And what a fool I have made of myself before them! I let Ferfitchkin go too far, though. The brutes imagine they are doing me an honour in letting me sit down with them. They don't understand that it's an honour to them and not to me! I've grown thinner! My clothes! Oh, damn my trousers! Zverkov noticed the yellow stain on the knee as soon as he came in.... But what's the use! I must get up at once, this very minute, take my hat and simply go without a word ... with contempt! And tomorrow I can send a challenge. The scoundrels! As though I cared about the seven roubles. They may think.... Damn it! I don't care about the seven roubles. I'll go this minute!' Of course I remained. I drank sherry and Lafitte by the glassful in my discomfiture. Being unaccustomed to it, I was quickly affected. My annoyance increased as the wine went to my head. I longed all at once to insult them all in a most flagrant manner and then go away. To seize the moment and show what I could do, so that they would say, 'He's clever, though he is absurd,' and ... and ... in fact, damn them all! I scanned them all insolently with my drowsy eyes. But they seemed to have forgotten me altogether. They were noisy, vociferous, cheerful. Zverkov was talking all the time. I began listening. Zverkov was talking of some exuberant lady whom he had at last led on to declaring her love (of course, he was lying like a horse), and how he had been helped in this affair by an intimate friend of his, a Prince Kolya, an officer in the hussars, who had three thousand serfs. 'And yet this Kolya, who has three thousand serfs, has not put in an appearance here to-night to see you off,' I cut in suddenly. For a minute every one was silent. 'You are drunk already.' Trudolyubov deigned to notice me at last, glancing contemptuously in my direction. Zverkov, without a word, examined me as though I were an insect. I dropped my eyes. Simonov made haste to fill up the glasses with champagne. Trudolyubov raised his glass, as did every one else but me. 'Your health and good luck on the journey!' he cried to Zverkov. 'To old times, to our future, hurrah!' They all tossed off their glasses, and crowded round Zverkov to kiss him. I did not move; my full glass stood untouched before me. 'Why, aren't you going to drink it?' roared Trudolyubov, losing patience and turning menacingly to me. 'I want to make a speech separately, on my own account ... and then I'll drink it, Mr. Trudolyubov.' 'Spiteful brute!' muttered Simonov. I drew myself up in my chair and feverishly seized my glass, prepared for something extraordinary, though I did not know myself precisely what I was going to say. 'Silence!' cried Ferfitchkin. 'Now for a display of wit!' Zverkov waited very gravely, knowing what was coming. 'Mr. Lieutenant Zverkov,' I began, 'let me tell you that I hate phrases, phrasemongers and men in corsets ... that's the first point, and there is a second one to follow it.' There was a general stir. 'The second point is: I hate ribaldry and ribald talkers. Especially ribald talkers! The third point: I love justice, truth and honesty.' I went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to shiver with horror myself and had no idea how I came to be talking like this. 'I love thought, Monsieur Zverkov; I love true comradeship, on an equal footing and not.... H'm ... I love.... But, however, why not? I will drink your health, too, Mr. Zverkov. Seduce the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies of the fatherland and ... and ... to your health, Monsieur Zverkov!' Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed to me and said: 'I am very much obliged to you.' He was frightfully offended and turned pale. 'Damn the fellow!' roared Trudolyubov, bringing his fist down on the table. 'Well, he wants a punch in the face for that,' squealed Ferfitchkin. 'We ought to turn him out,' muttered Simonov. 'Not a word, gentlemen, not a movement!' cried Zverkov solemnly, checking the general indignation. 'I thank you all, but I can show him for myself how much value I attach to his words.' 'Mr. Ferfitchkin, you will give me satisfaction to-morrow for your words just now!' I said aloud, turning with dignity to Ferfitchkin. 'A duel, you mean? Certainly,' he answered. But probably I was so ridiculous as I challenged him and it was so out of keeping with my appearance that everyone, including Ferfitchkin, was prostrate with laughter. 'Yes, let him alone, of course! He is quite drunk,' Trudolyubov said with disgust. 'I shall never forgive myself for letting him join us,' Simonov muttered again. 'Now is the time to throw a bottle at their heads,' I thought to myself. I picked up the bottle ... and filled my glass.... 'No, I'd better sit on to the end,' I went on thinking; 'you would be pleased, my friends if I went away. Nothing will induce me to go. I'll go on sitting here and drinking to the end, on purpose, as a sign that I don't think you of the slightest consequence. I will go on sitting and drinking, because this is a public-house and I paid my entrance money. I'll sit here and drink, for I look upon you as so many pawns, as inanimate pawns. I'll sit here and drink ... and sing if I want to, yes, sing, for I have the right to ... to sing.... H'm!' But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them. I assumed most unconcerned attitudes and waited with impatience for them to speak first. But alas, they did not address me! And oh, how I wished, how I wished at that moment to be reconciled to them! It struck eight, at last nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov stretched himself on a lounge and put one foot on a round table. Wine was brought there. He did, as a fact, order three bottles on his own account. I, of course, was not invited to join them. They all sat round him on the sofa. They listened to him, almost with reverence. It was evident that they were fond of him. 'What for? What for?' I wondered. From time to time they were moved to drunken enthusiasm and kissed each other. They talked of the Caucasus, of the nature of true passion, of snug berths in the service, of the income of an hussar called Podharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and rejoiced in the largeness of it, of the extraordinary grace and beauty of a Princess D., whom none of them had ever seen; then it came to Shakespeare's being immortal. I smiled contemptuously and walked up and down the other side of the room, opposite the sofa, from the table to the stove and back again. I tried my very utmost to show them that I could do without them, and yet I purposely made a noise with my boots, thumping with my heels. But it was all in vain. They paid no attention. I had the patience to walk up and down in front of them from eight o'clock till eleven, in the same place, from the table to the stove and back again. 'I walk up and down to please myself and no one can prevent me.' The waiter who came into the room stopped, from time to time, to look at me. I was somewhat giddy from turning round so often; at moments it seemed to me that I was in delirium. During those three hours I was three times soaked with sweat and dry again. At times, with an intense, acute pang I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years would pass, and that even in forty years I would remember with loathing and humiliation those filthiest, most ludicrous, and most awful moments of my life. No one could have gone out of his way to degrade himself more shamelessly, and I fully realized it, fully, and yet I went on pacing up and down from the table to the stove. 'Oh, if you only knew what thoughts and feelings I am capable of, how cultured I am!' I thought at moments, mentally addressing the sofa on which my enemies were sitting. But my enemies behaved as though I were not in the room. Once—only once—they turned towards me, just when Zverkov was talking about Shakespeare, and I suddenly gave a contemptuous laugh. I laughed in such an affected and disgusting way that they all at once broke off their conversation, and silently and gravely for two minutes watched me walking up and down from the table to the stove, taking no notice of them. But nothing came of it: they said nothing, and two minutes later they ceased to notice me again. It struck eleven. 'Friends,' cried Zverkov getting up from the sofa, 'let us all be off now, there!' 'Of course, of course,' the others assented. I turned sharply to Zverkov. I was so harassed, so exhausted, that I would have cut my throat to put an end to it. I was in a fever; my hair, soaked with perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples. 'Zverkov, I beg your pardon,' I said abruptly and resolutely. 'Ferfitchkin, yours too, and every one's, every one's: I have insulted you all!' 'Aha! A duel is not in your line, old man,' Ferfitchkin hissed venomously. It sent a sharp pang to my heart. 'No, it's not the duel I am afraid of, Ferfitchkin! I am ready to fight you tomorrow, after we are reconciled. I insist upon it, in fact, and you cannot refuse. I want to show you that I am not afraid of a duel. You shall fire first and I shall fire into the air.' 'He is comforting himself,' said Simonov. 'He's simply raving,' said Trudolyubov. 'But let us pass. Why are you barring our way? What do you want?' Zverkov answered disdainfully. They were all flushed; their eyes were bright: they had been drinking heavily. 'I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but....' 'Insulted? You insulted me? Understand, sir, that you never, under any circumstances, could possibly insult me.' 'And that's enough for you. Out of the way!' concluded Trudolyubov. 'Olympia is mine, friends, that's agreed!' cried Zverkov. 'We won't dispute your right, we won't dispute your right,' the others answered, laughing. I stood as though spat upon. The party went noisily out of the room. Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov remained behind for a moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him. 'Simonov! give me six roubles!' I said, with desperate resolution. He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes. He, too, was drunk. 'You don't mean you are coming with us?' 'Yes.' 'I've no money,' he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out of the room. I clutched at his overcoat. It was a nightmare. 'Simonov, I saw you had money. Why do you refuse me? Am I a scoundrel? Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I am asking! My whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!' Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me. 'Take it, if you have no sense of shame!' he pronounced pitilessly, and ran to overtake them. I was left for a moment alone. Disorder, the remains of dinner, a broken wineglass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and delirium in my brain, an agonizing misery in my heart and finally the waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking inquisitively into my face. 'I am going there!' I cried. 'Either they shall all go down on their knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the face!' V 'So this is it, this is it at last—contact with real life,' I muttered as I ran headlong downstairs. 'This is very different from the Pope's leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake Como!' 'You are a scoundrel,' a thought flashed through my mind, 'if you laugh at this now.' 'No matter!' I cried, answering myself. 'Now everything is lost!' There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference—I knew where they had gone. At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were warm, snow. It was hot and steamy. The little shaggy piebald horse was also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well. I made a rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my foot to get into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me six roubles seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a sack. 'No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that,' I cried. 'But I will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night. Start!' We set off. There was a perfect whirl in my head. 'They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship. That is a mirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical—that's another ball on Lake Como. And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face! It is my duty to. And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap in the face. Hurry up!' The driver tugged at the reins. 'As soon as I go in I'll give it him. Ought I before giving him the slap to say a few words by way of preface? No. I'll simply go in and give it him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with Olympia on the sofa. That damned Olympia! She laughed at my looks on one occasion and refused me. I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's ears! No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room. Maybe they will all begin beating me and will kick me out. That's most likely, indeed. No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the initiative will be mine; and by the laws of honour that is everything: he will be branded and cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by nothing but a duel. He will be forced to fight. And let them beat me now. Let them, the ungrateful wretches! Trudolyubov will beat me hardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin will be sure to catch hold sideways and tug at my hair. But no matter, no matter! That's what I am going for. The blockheads will be forced at last to see the tragedy of it all! When they drag me to the door I shall call out to them that in reality they are not worth my little finger. Get on, driver, get on!' I cried to the driver. He started and flicked his whip, I shouted so savagely. 'We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing. I've done with the office. Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now. But where can I get pistols? Nonsense! I'll get my salary in advance and buy them. And powder, and bullets? That's the second's business. And how can it all be done by daybreak? And where am I to get a second? I have no friends. Nonsense!' I cried, lashing myself up more and more. 'It's of no consequence! the first person I meet in the street is bound to be my second, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water. The most eccentric things may happen. Even if I were to ask the director himself to be my second to-morrow, he would be bound to consent, if only from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret! Anton Antonitch....' The fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my plan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to my imagination than it could be to any one on earth. But.... 'Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!' 'Ugh, sir!' said the son of toil. Cold shivers suddenly ran down me. Wouldn't it be better ... to go straight home? My God, my God! Why did I invite myself to this dinner yesterday? But no, it's impossible. And my walking up and down for three hours from the table to the stove? No, they, they and no one else must pay for my walking up and down! They must wipe out this dishonour! Drive on! And what if they give me into custody? They won't dare! They'll be afraid of the scandal. And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he refuses to fight a duel? He is sure to; but in that case I'll show them ... I will turn up at the posting station when he is setting off to-morrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he gets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him. 'See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!' He may hit me on the head and they may belabour me from behind. I will shout to the assembled multitude: 'Look at this young puppy who is driving off to captivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!' Of course, after that everything will be over! The office will have vanished off the face of the earth. I shall be arrested, I shall be tried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to Siberia. Never mind! In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I will trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags. I shall find him in some provincial town. He will be married and happy. He will have a grown-up daughter.... I shall say to him: 'Look, monster, at my hollow cheeks and my rags! I've lost everything—my career, my happiness, art, science, the woman I loved, and all through you. Here are pistols. I have come to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive you. Then I shall fire into the air and he will hear nothing more of me....' I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at that moment that all this was out of Pushkin's Silvio and Lermontov's Masquerade. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow in the middle of the street. The driver gazed at me, sighing and astonished. What was I to do? I could not go on there—it was evidently stupid, and I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as though.... Heavens, how could I leave things! And after such insults! 'No!' I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again. 'It is ordained! It is fate! Drive on, drive on!' And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the neck. 'What are you up to? What are you hitting me for?' the peasant shouted, but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking. The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless of it. I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the slap, and felt with horror that it was going to happen now, at once, and that no force could stop it. The deserted street lamps gleamed sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral. The snow drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted there. I did not wrap myself up—all was lost, anyway. At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak, particularly in my legs and my knees. The door was opened quickly as though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions. It was one of those 'millinery establishments' which were abolished by the police a good time ago. By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had an introduction, one might visit it for other purposes. I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room, where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement: there was no one there. 'Where are they?' I asked somebody. But by now, of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a stupid smile, the 'madam' herself, who had seen me before. A minute later a door opened and another person came in. Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not realize my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and goodnatured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her. She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall, strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her. I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair. 'No matter, I am glad of it,' I thought; 'I am glad that I shall seem repulsive to her; I like that.' VI ... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though oppressed by something, as though some one were strangling it. After an unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it were unexpectedly rapid, chime—as though some one were suddenly jumping forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep but lying half conscious. It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room, cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burning on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time. In a few minutes there would be complete darkness. I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to me in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down. My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me, rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw beside me two wide open eyes scrutinizing me curiously and persistently. The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly remote; it weighed upon me. A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes, beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact, considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realized vividly the hideous idea—revolting as a spider—of vice, which, without love, grossly and shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation. For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last I felt uncomfortable. 'What is your name?' I asked abruptly, to put an end to it. 'Liza,' she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from graciously, and she turned her eyes away. I was silent. 'What weather! The snow ... it's disgusting!' I said, almost to myself, putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the ceiling. She made no answer. This was horrible. 'Have you always lived in Petersburg?' I asked a minute later, almost angrily, turning my head slightly towards her. 'No.' 'Where do you come from?' 'From Riga,' she answered reluctantly. 'Are you a German?' 'No, Russian.' 'Have you been here long?' 'Where?' 'In this house?' 'A fortnight.' She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could no longer distinguish her face. 'Have you a father and mother?' 'Yes ... no ... I have.' 'Where are they?' 'There ... in Riga.' 'What are they?' 'Oh, nothing.' 'Nothing? Why, what class are they?' 'Tradespeople.' 'Have you always lived with them?' 'Yes.' 'How old are you?' 'Twenty.' 'Why did you leave them?' 'Oh, for no reason.' That answer meant 'Let me alone; I feel sick, sad.' We were silent. God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was hurrying to the office. 'I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it,' I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but as it were by accident. 'A coffin?' 'Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar.' 'From a cellar?' 'Not from a cellar, but from a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ... from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round.... Egg-shells, litter ... a stench. It was loathsome.' Silence. 'A nasty day to be buried,' I began, simply to avoid being silent. 'Nasty, in what way?' 'The snow, the wet.' (I yawned.) 'It makes no difference,' she said suddenly, after a brief silence. 'No, it's horrid.' (I yawned again.) 'The gravediggers must have sworn at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the grave.' 'Why water in the grave?' she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before. I suddenly began to feel provoked. 'Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can't dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery.' 'Why?' 'Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So they bury them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times.' (I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had only heard stories of it.) 'Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?' 'But why should I die?' she answered, as though defending herself. 'Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption.' 'A wench would have died in hospital....' (She knows all about it already: she said 'wench,' not 'girl.') 'She was in debt to her madam,' I retorted, more and more provoked by the discussion; 'and went on earning money for her up to the end, though she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her. They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to her memory.' A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound silence. She did not stir. 'And is it better to die in a hospital?' 'Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?' she added irritably. 'If not now, a little later.' 'Why a little later?' 'Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price. But after another year of this life you will be very different—you will go off.' 'In a year?' 'Anyway, in a year you will be worth less,' I continued malignantly. 'You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year later—to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and caught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over an illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid of it. And so you would die.' 'Oh, well, then I shall die,' she answered, quite vindictively, and she made a quick movement. 'But one is sorry.' 'Sorry for whom?' 'Sorry for life.' Silence. 'Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?' 'What's that to you?' 'Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It's nothing to me. Why are you so cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me? It's simply that I felt sorry.' 'Sorry for whom?' 'Sorry for you.' 'No need,' she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint movement. That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she.... 'Why, do you think that you are on the right path?' 'I don't think anything.' 'That's what's wrong, that you don't think. Realize it while there is still time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking; you might love, be married, be happy....' 'Not all married women are happy,' she snapped out in the rude abrupt tone she had used at first. 'Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here. Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even without happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one lives. But here what is there but ... foulness. Phew!' I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner. Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before me. 'Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps, worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though,' I hastened, however, to say in self-defence. 'Besides, a man is no example for a woman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am not any one's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. I shake it off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to: you will be more and more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage. I know it. I won't speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand, but tell me: no doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see,' I added, though she made no answer, but only listened in silence, entirely absorbed, 'that's a bondage for you! You will never buy your freedom. They will see to that. It's like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides ... perhaps I, too, am just as unlucky—how do you know—and wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know, men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come, tell me, what is there good here? Here you and I ... came together ... just now and did not say one word to one another all the time, and it was only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving? Is that how one human being should meet another? It's hideous, that's what it is!' 'Yes!' she assented sharply and hurriedly. I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this 'Yes.' So the same thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? 'Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!' I thought, almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn a young soul like that! It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most. She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinizing me. How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep breathing. 'Why have you come here?' I asked her, with a note of authority already in my voice. 'Oh, I don't know.' 'But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm and free; you have a home of your own.' 'But what if it's worse than this?' 'I must take the right tone,' flashed through my mind. 'I may not get far with sentimentality.' But it was only a momentary thought. I swear she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling. 'Who denies it!' I hastened to answer. 'Anything may happen. I am convinced that some one has wronged you, and that you are more sinned against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it's not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination....' 'A girl like me?' she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it. Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps it was a good thing.... She was silent. 'See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. However bad it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love of you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and perhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling.' I waited again. 'Perhaps she doesn't understand,' I thought, 'and, indeed, it is absurd—it's moralizing.' 'If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my daughter more than my sons, really,' I began indirectly, as though talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I blushed. 'Why so?' she asked. Ah! so she was listening! 'I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands, her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced at parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her. He was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy to every one else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should never let my daughters marry.' 'What next?' she said, with a faint smile. 'I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss any one else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It's painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course every father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from that.' 'Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them honourably.' Ah, so that was it! 'Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there is neither love nor God,' I retorted warmly, 'and where there is no love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true, but I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your own family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky. H'm! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty.' 'And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest people live happily.' 'H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it. And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If you marry you will find out for yourself. But think of the first years of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing. In those early days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that, thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women who are jealous. If he went off anywhere—I knew one such woman, she couldn't restrain herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she suffers, but she loves—it's all through love. And how sweet it is to make it up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive him! And they are both so happy all at once—as though they had met anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh. And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens. That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy. They will love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them; that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know—a little rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched, seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as though it were fearfully funny and falls to sucking again. Or it will bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look, I am biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three together, husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one blames others!' 'It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you,' I thought to myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed crimson. 'What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I do then?' That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence continued. I almost nudged her. 'Why are you——' she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty. 'What?' I asked, with tender curiosity. 'Why, you....' 'What?' 'Why, you ... speak somehow like a book,' she said, and again there was a note of irony in her voice. That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting. I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of me. 'Wait a bit!' I thought. VII 'Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart.... Is it possible, is it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with any one. Can you seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here.... Though let me tell you this about it—about your present life, I mean; here though you are young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you! One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman but he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love—why, a man would be ready to give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools, they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did! Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with him? He laughs at you and robs you—that is all his love amounts to! You are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too. Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow— though maybe he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely upon your youth—all that flies by express train here, you know. You will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her, robbed her. And don't expect any one to take your part: the others, your companions, will attack you, too, to win her favour, for all are in slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome, and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here; you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke, to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much, and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises, her face was powdered, but she had a black eye, blood was trickling from her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and dishevelled—what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to die soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman just now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take you, but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is a queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself. And that just suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you, for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they will reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over dying. However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse: 'Whenever are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep with your moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have heard such things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the filthiest corner in the cellar—in the damp and darkness; what will your thoughts be, lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will lay you out, with grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no one will sigh for you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may be; they will buy a coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor woman to-day, and celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave sleet, filth, wet snow—no need to put themselves out for you—'Let her down, Vanuha; it's just like her luck—even here, she is head-foremost, the hussy. Shorten the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.' 'All right, is it? Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature, after all! But, never mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't care to waste much time quarrelling over you. They will scatter the wet blue clay as quick as they can and go off to the tavern ... and there your memory on earth will end; other women have children to go to their graves, fathers, husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh, nor remembrance; no one in the whole world will ever come to you, your name will vanish from the face of the earth—as though you had never existed, never been born at all! Nothing but filth and mud, however you knock at your coffin lid at night, when the dead arise, however you cry: 'Let me out, kind people, to live in the light of day! My life was no life at all; my life has been thrown away like a dish-clout; it was drunk away in the tavern at the Haymarket; let me out, kind people, to live in the world again.'' And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in my throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay, and bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart. I had reason to be troubled. I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and rending her heart, and—and the more I was convinced of it, the more eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as possible. It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it was not merely sport.... I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I could not speak except 'like a book.' But that did not trouble me: I knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness might be an assistance. But now, having attained my effect, I was suddenly panic-stricken. Never before had I witnessed such despair! She was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed closer into the pillow: she did not want any one here, not a living soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers into her dishevelled hair seemed rigid with the effort of restraint, holding her breath and clenching her teeth. I began saying something, begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare; and all at once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began fumbling in the dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go. It was dark: though I tried my best I could not finish dressing quickly. Suddenly I felt a box of matches and a candlestick with a whole candle in it. As soon as the room was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in bed, and with a contorted face, with a half insane smile, looked at me almost senselessly. I sat down beside her and took her hands; she came to herself, made an impulsive movement towards me, would have caught hold of me, but did not dare, and slowly bowed her head before me. 'Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear,' I began, but she squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the wrong thing and stopped. 'This is my address, Liza, come to me.' 'I will come,' she answered resolutely, her head still bowed. 'But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again.' I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled herself in it to her chin. As she did this she gave another sickly smile, blushed and looked at me strangely. I felt wretched; I was in haste to get away—to disappear. 'Wait a minute,' she said suddenly, in the passage just at the doorway, stopping me with her hand on my overcoat. She put down the candle in hot haste and ran off; evidently she had thought of something or wanted to show me something. As she ran away she flushed, her eyes shone, and there was a smile on her lips— what was the meaning of it? Against my will I waited: she came back a minute later with an expression that seemed to ask forgiveness for something. In fact, it was not the same face, not the same look as the evening before: sullen, mistrustful and obstinate. Her eyes now were imploring, soft, and at the same time trustful, caressing, timid. The expression with which children look at people they are very fond of, of whom they are asking a favour. Her eyes were a light hazel, they were lovely eyes, full of life, and capable of expressing love as well as sullen hatred. Making no explanation, as though I, as a sort of higher being, must understand everything without explanations, she held out a piece of paper to me. Her whole face was positively beaming at that instant with naïve, almost childish, triumph. I unfolded it. It was a letter to her from a medical student or some one of that sort—a very high-flown and flowery, but extremely respectful, love-letter. I don't recall the words now, but I remember well that through the high-flown phrases there was apparent a genuine feeling, which cannot be feigned. When I had finished reading it I met her glowing, questioning, and childishly impatient eyes fixed upon me. She fastened her eyes upon my face and waited impatiently for what I should say. In a few words, hurriedly, but with a sort of joy and pride, she explained to me that she had been to a dance somewhere in a private house, a family of 'very nice people, who knew nothing, absolutely nothing, for she had only come here so lately and it had all happened ... and she hadn't made up her mind to stay and was certainly going away as soon as she had paid her debt ... and at that party there had been the student who had danced with her all the evening. He had talked to her, and it turned out that he had known her in old days at Riga when he was a child, they had played together, but a very long time ago—and he knew her parents, but about this he knew nothing, nothing whatever, and had no suspicion! And the day after the dance (three days ago) he had sent her that letter through the friend with whom she had gone to the party ... and ... well, that was all.' She dropped her shining eyes with a sort of bashfulness as she finished. The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure, and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully. No doubt that letter was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing. But none the less, I am certain that she would keep it all her life as a precious treasure, as her pride and justification, and now at such a minute she had thought of that letter and brought it with naïve pride to raise herself in my eyes that I might see, that I, too, might think well of her. I said nothing, pressed her hand and went out. I so longed to get away.... I walked all the way home, in spite of the fact that the melting snow was still falling in heavy flakes. I was exhausted, shattered, in bewilderment. But behind the bewilderment the truth was already gleaming. The loathsome truth. VIII It was some time, however, before I consented to recognize that truth. Waking up in the morning after some hours of heavy, leaden sleep, and immediately realizing all that had happened on the previous day, I was positively amazed at my last night's sentimentality with Liza, at all those 'outcries of horror and pity.' 'To think of having such an attack of womanish hysteria, pah!' I concluded. And what did I thrust my address upon her for? What if she comes? Let her come, though; it doesn't matter.... But obviously, that was not now the chief and the most important matter: I had to make haste and at all costs save my reputation in the eyes of Zverkov and Simonov as quickly as possible; that was the chief business. And I was so taken up that morning that I actually forgot all about Liza. First of all I had at once to repay what I had borrowed the day before from Simonov. I resolved on a desperate measure: to borrow fifteen roubles straight off from Anton Antonitch. As luck would have it he was in the best of humours that morning, and gave it to me at once, on the first asking. I was so delighted at this that, as I signed the I O U with a swaggering air, I told him casually that the night before 'I had been keeping it up with some friends at the Hôtel de Paris; we were giving a farewell party to a comrade, in fact, I might say a friend of my childhood, and you know—a desperate rake, fearfully spoilt—of course, he belongs to a good family, and has considerable means, a brilliant career; he is witty, charming, a regular Lovelace, you understand; we drank an extra 'halfdozen' and....' And it went off all right; all this was uttered very easily, unconstrainedly and complacently. On reaching home I promptly wrote to Simonov. To this hour I am lost in admiration when I recall the truly gentlemanly, goodhumoured, candid tone of my letter. With tact and good-breeding, and, above all, entirely without superfluous words, I blamed myself for all that had happened. I defended myself, 'if I really may be allowed to defend myself,' by alleging that being utterly unaccustomed to wine, I had been intoxicated with the first glass, which I said, I had drunk before they arrived, while I was waiting for them at the Hôtel de Paris between five and six o'clock. I begged Simonov's pardon especially; I asked him to convey my explanations to all the others, especially to Zverkov, whom 'I seemed to remember as though in a dream' I had insulted. I added that I would have called upon all of them myself, but my head ached, and besides I had not the face to. I was particularly pleased with a certain lightness, almost carelessness (strictly within the bounds of politeness, however), which was apparent in my style, and better than any possible arguments, gave them at once to understand that I took rather an independent view of 'all that unpleasantness last night;' that I was by no means so utterly crushed as you, my friends, probably imagine; but on the contrary, looked upon it as a gentleman serenely respecting himself should look upon it. 'On a young hero's past no censure is cast!' 'There is actually an aristocratic playfulness about it!' I thought admiringly, as I read over the letter. And it's all because I am an intellectual and cultivated man! Another man in my place would not have known how to extricate himself, but here I have got out of it and am as jolly as ever again, and all because I am 'a cultivated and educated man of our day.' And, indeed, perhaps, everything was due to the wine yesterday. H'm! ... no, it was not the wine. I did not drink anything at all between five and six when I was waiting for them. I had lied to Simonov; I had lied shamelessly; and indeed I wasn't ashamed now.... Hang it all though, the great thing was that I was rid of it. I put six roubles in the letter, sealed it up, and asked Apollon to take it to Simonov. When he learned that there was money in the letter, Apollon became more respectful and agreed to take it. Towards evening I went out for a walk. My head was still aching and giddy after yesterday. But as evening came on and the twilight grew denser, my impressions and, following them, my thoughts, grew more and more different and confused. Something was not dead within me, in the depths of my heart and conscience it would not die, and it showed itself in acute depression. For the most part I jostled my way through the most crowded business streets, along Myeshtchansky Street, along Sadovy Street and in Yusupov Garden. I always liked particularly sauntering along these streets in the dusk, just when there were crowds of working people of all sorts going home from their daily work, with faces looking cross with anxiety. What I liked was just that cheap bustle, that bare prose. On this occasion the jostling of the streets irritated me more than ever. I could not make out what was wrong with me, I could not find the clue, something seemed rising up continually in my soul, painfully, and refusing to be appeased. I returned home completely upset, it was just as though some crime were lying on my conscience. The thought that Liza was coming worried me continually. It seemed queer to me that of all my recollections of yesterday this tormented me, as it were, especially, as it were, quite separately. Everything else I had quite succeeded in forgetting by the evening; I dismissed it all and was still perfectly satisfied with my letter to Simonov. But on this point I was not satisfied at all. It was as though I were worried only by Liza. 'What if she comes,' I thought incessantly, 'well, it doesn't matter, let her come! H'm! it's horrid that she should see, for instance, how I live. Yesterday I seemed such a hero to her, while now, h'm! It's horrid, though, that I have let myself go so, the room looks like a beggar's. And I brought myself to go out to dinner in such a suit! And my American leather sofa with the stuffing sticking out. And my dressing-gown, which will not cover me, such tatters, and she will see all this and she will see Apollon. That beast is certain to insult her. He will fasten upon her in order to be rude to me. And I, of course, shall be panic-stricken as usual, I shall begin bowing and scraping before her and pulling my dressing-gown round me, I shall begin smiling, telling lies. Oh, the beastliness! And it isn't the beastliness of it that matters most! There is something more important, more loathsome, viler! Yes, viler! And to put on that dishonest lying mask again!'... When I reached that thought I fired up all at once. 'Why dishonest? How dishonest? I was speaking sincerely last night. I remember there was real feeling in me, too. What I wanted was to excite an honourable feeling in her.... Her crying was a good thing, it will have a good effect.' Yet I could not feel at ease. All that evening, even when I had come back home, even after nine o'clock, when I calculated that Liza could not possibly come, she still haunted me, and what was worse, she came back to my mind always in the same position. One moment out of all that had happened last night stood vividly before my imagination; the moment when I struck a match and saw her pale, distorted face, with its look of torture. And what a pitiful, what an unnatural, what a distorted smile she had at that moment! But I did not know then, that fifteen years later I should still in my imagination see Liza, always with the pitiful, distorted, inappropriate smile which was on her face at that minute. Next day I was ready again to look upon it all as nonsense, due to over-excited nerves, and, above all, as exaggerated. I was always conscious of that weak point of mine, and sometimes very much afraid of it. 'I exaggerate everything, that is where I go wrong,' I repeated to myself every hour. But, however, 'Liza will very likely come all the same,' was the refrain with which all my reflections ended. I was so uneasy that I sometimes flew into a fury: 'She'll come, she is certain to come!' I cried, running about the room, 'if not to-day, she will come to-morrow; she'll find me out! The damnable romanticism of these pure hearts! Oh, the vileness—oh, the silliness—oh, the stupidity of these 'wretched sentimental souls!' Why, how fail to understand? How could one fail to understand?...' But at this point I stopped short, and in great confusion, indeed. And how few, how few words, I thought, in passing, were needed; how little of the idyllic (and affectedly, bookishly, artificially idyllic too) had sufficed to turn a whole human life at once according to my will. That's virginity, to be sure! Freshness of soil! At times a thought occurred to me, to go to her, 'to tell her all,' and beg her not to come to me. But this thought stirred such wrath in me that I believed I should have crushed that 'damned' Liza if she had chanced to be near me at the time. I should have insulted her, have spat at her, have turned her out, have struck her! One day passed, however, another and another; she did not come and I began to grow calmer. I felt particularly bold and cheerful after nine o'clock, I even sometimes began dreaming, and rather sweetly: I, for instance, became the salvation of Liza, simply through her coming to me and my talking to her.... I develop her, educate her. Finally, I notice that she loves me, loves me passionately. I pretend not to understand (I don't know, however, why I pretend, just for effect, perhaps). At last all confusion, transfigured, trembling and sobbing, she flings herself at my feet and says that I am her saviour, and that she loves me better than anything in the world. I am amazed, but.... 'Liza,' I say, 'can you imagine that I have not noticed your love, I saw it all, I divined it, but I did not dare to approach you first, because I had an influence over you and was afraid that you would force yourself, from gratitude, to respond to my love, would try to rouse in your heart a feeling which was perhaps absent, and I did not wish that ... because it would be tyranny ... it would be indelicate (in short, I launch off at that point into European, inexplicably lofty subtleties à la George Sand), but now, now you are mine, you are my creation, you are pure, you are good, you are my noble wife. 'Into my house come bold and free, Its rightful mistress there to be.'' Then we begin living together, go abroad and so on, and so on. In fact, in the end it seemed vulgar to me myself, and I began putting out my tongue at myself. Besides, they won't let her out, 'the hussy!' I thought. They don't let them go out very readily, especially in the evening (for some reason I fancied she would come in the evening, and at seven o'clock precisely). Though she did say she was not altogether a slave there yet, and had certain rights; so, h'm! Damn it all, she will come, she is sure to come! It was a good thing, in fact, that Apollon distracted my attention at that time by his rudeness. He drove me beyond all patience! He was the bane of my life, the curse laid upon me by Providence. We had been squabbling continually for years, and I hated him. My God, how I hated him! I believe I had never hated any one in my life as I hated him, especially at some moments. He was an elderly, dignified man, who worked part of his time as a tailor. But for some unknown reason he despised me beyond all measure, and looked down upon me insufferably. Though, indeed, he looked down upon every one. Simply to glance at that flaxen, smoothly brushed head, at the tuft of hair he combed up on his forehead and oiled with sunflower oil, at that dignified mouth, compressed into the shape of the letter V, made one feel one was confronting a man who never doubted of himself. He was a pedant, to the most extreme point, the greatest pedant I had met on earth, and with that had a vanity only befitting Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with every button on his coat, every nail on his fingers —absolutely in love with them, and he looked it! In his behaviour to me he was a perfect tyrant, he spoke very little to me, and if he chanced to glance at me he gave me a firm, majestically self-confident and invariably ironical look that drove me sometimes to fury. He did his work with the air of doing me the greatest favour. Though he did scarcely anything for me, and did not, indeed, consider himself bound to do anything. There could be no doubt that he looked upon me as the greatest fool on earth, and that 'he did not get rid of me' was simply that he could get wages from me every month. He consented to do nothing for me for seven roubles a month. Many sins should be forgiven me for what I suffered from him. My hatred reached such a point that sometimes his very step almost threw me into convulsions. What I loathed particularly was his lisp. His tongue must have been a little too long or something of that sort, for he continually lisped, and seemed to be very proud of it, imagining that it greatly added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured tone, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He maddened me particularly when he read aloud the psalms to himself behind his partition. Many a battle I waged over that reading! But he was awfully fond of reading aloud in the evenings, in a slow, even, sing-song voice, as though over the dead. It is interesting that that is how he has ended: he hires himself out to read the psalms over the dead, and at the same time he kills rats and makes blacking. But at that time I could not get rid of him, it was as though he were chemically combined with my existence. Besides, nothing would have induced him to consent to leave me. I could not live in furnished lodgings: my lodging was my private solitude, my shell, my cave, in which I concealed myself from all mankind, and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of that flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away. To be two or three days behind with his wages, for instance, was impossible. He would have made such a fuss, I should not have known where to hide my head. But I was so exasperated with every one during those days, that I made up my mind for some reason and with some object to punish Apollon and not to pay him for a fortnight the wages that were owing him. I had for a long time—for the last two years—been intending to do this, simply in order to teach him not to give himself airs with me, and to show him that if I liked I could withhold his wages. I purposed to say nothing to him about it, and was purposely silent indeed, in order to score off his pride and force him to be the first to speak of his wages. Then I would take the seven roubles out of a drawer, show him I have the money put aside on purpose, but that I won't, I won't, I simply won't pay him his wages, I won't just because that is 'what I wish,' because 'I am master, and it is for me to decide,' because he has been disrespectful, because he has been rude; but if he were to ask respectfully I might be softened and give it to him, otherwise he might wait another fortnight, another three weeks, a whole month.... But angry as I was, yet he got the better of me. I could not hold out for four days. He began as he always did begin in such cases, for there had been such cases already, there had been attempts (and it may be observed I knew all this beforehand, I knew his nasty tactics by heart). He would begin by fixing upon me an exceedingly severe stare, keeping it up for several minutes at a time, particularly on meeting me or seeing me out of the house. If I held out and pretended not to notice these stares, he would, still in silence, proceed to further tortures. All at once, à propos of nothing, he would walk softly and smoothly into my room, when I was pacing up and down or reading, stand at the door, one hand behind his back and one foot behind the other, and fix upon me a stare more than severe, utterly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him what he wanted, he would make me no answer, but continue staring at me persistently for some seconds, then, with a peculiar compression of his lips and a most significant air, deliberately turn round and deliberately go back to his room. Two hours later he would come out again and again present himself before me in the same way. It had happened that in my fury I did not even ask him what he wanted, but simply raised my head sharply and imperiously and began staring back at him. So we stared at one another for two minutes; at last he turned with deliberation and dignity and went back again for two hours. If I were still not brought to reason by all this, but persisted in my revolt, he would suddenly begin sighing while he looked at me, long, deep sighs as though measuring by them the depths of my moral degradation, and, of course, it ended at last by his triumphing completely: I raged and shouted, but still was forced to do what he wanted. This time the usual staring manœuvres had scarcely begun when I lost my temper and flew at him in a fury. I was irritated beyond endurance apart from him. 'Stay,' I cried, in a frenzy, as he was slowly and silently turning, with one hand behind his back, to go to his room, 'stay! Come back, come back, I tell you!' and I must have bawled so unnaturally, that he turned round and even looked at me with some wonder. However, he persisted in saying nothing, and that infuriated me. 'How dare you come and look at me like that without being sent for? Answer!' After looking at me calmly for half a minute, he began turning round again. 'Stay!' I roared, running up to him, 'don't stir! There. Answer, now: what did you come in to look at?' 'If you have any order to give me it's my duty to carry it out,' he answered, after another silent pause, with a slow, measured lisp, raising his eyebrows and calmly twisting his head from one side to another, all this with exasperating composure. 'That's not what I am asking you about, you torturer!' I shouted, turning crimson with anger. 'I'll tell you why you came here myself: you see, I don't give you your wages, you are so proud you don't want to bow down and ask for it, and so you come to punish me with your stupid stares, to worry me and you have no sus...pic...ion how stupid it is—stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!'... He would have turned round again without a word, but I seized him. 'Listen,' I shouted to him. 'Here's the money, do you see, here it is' (I took it out of the table drawer); 'here's the seven roubles complete, but you are not going to have it, you ... are ... not ... going ... to ... have it until you come respectfully with bowed head to beg my pardon. Do you hear?' 'That cannot be,' he answered, with the most unnatural self-confidence. 'It shall be so,' I said, 'I give you my word of honour, it shall be!' 'And there's nothing for me to beg your pardon for,' he went on, as though he had not noticed my exclamations at all. 'Why, besides, you called me a 'torturer,' for which I can summon you at the police-station at any time for insulting behaviour.' 'Go, summon me,' I roared, 'go at once, this very minute, this very second! You are a torturer all the same! a torturer!' But he merely looked at me, then turned, and regardless of my loud calls to him, he walked to his room with an even step and without looking round. 'If it had not been for Liza nothing of this would have happened,' I decided inwardly. Then, after waiting a minute, I went myself behind his screen with a dignified and solemn air, though my heart was beating slowly and violently. 'Apollon,' I said quietly and emphatically, though I was breathless, 'go at once without a minute's delay and fetch the police-officer.' He had meanwhile settled himself at his table, put on his spectacles and taken up some sewing. But, hearing my order, he burst into a guffaw. 'At once, go this minute! Go on, or else you can't imagine what will happen.' 'You are certainly out of your mind,' he observed, without even raising his head, lisping as deliberately as ever and threading his needle. 'Whoever heard of a man sending for the police against himself? And as for being frightened—you are upsetting yourself about nothing, for nothing will come of it.' 'Go!' I shrieked, clutching him by the shoulder. I felt I should strike him in a minute. But I did not notice the door from the passage softly and slowly open at that instant and a figure come in, stop short, and begin staring at us in perplexity. I glanced, nearly swooned with shame, and rushed back to my room. There, clutching at my hair with both hands, I leaned my head against the wall and stood motionless in that position. Two minutes later I heard Apollon's deliberate footsteps. 'There is some woman asking for you,' he said, looking at me with peculiar severity. Then he stood aside and let in Liza. He would not go away, but stared at us sarcastically. 'Go away, go away,' I commanded in desperation. At that moment my clock began whirring and wheezing and struck seven. IX 'Into my house come bold and free, Its rightful mistress there to be.' I stood before her crushed, crestfallen, revoltingly confused, and I believe I smiled as I did my utmost to wrap myself in the skirts of my ragged wadded dressing-gown—exactly as I had imagined the scene not long before in a fit of depression. After standing over us for a couple of minutes Apollon went away, but that did not make me more at ease. What made it worse was that she, too, was overwhelmed with confusion, more so, in fact, than I should have expected. At the sight of me, of course. 'Sit down,' I said mechanically, moving a chair up to the table, and I sat down on the sofa. She obediently sat down at once and gazed at me open-eyed, evidently expecting something from me at once. This naïveté of expectation drove me to fury, but I restrained myself. She ought to have tried not to notice, as though everything had been as usual, while instead of that, she ... and I dimly felt that I should make her pay dearly for all this. 'You have found me in a strange position, Liza,' I began, stammering and knowing that this was the wrong way to begin. 'No, no, don't imagine anything,' I cried, seeing that she had suddenly flushed. 'I am not ashamed of my poverty.... On the contrary I look with pride on my poverty. I am poor but honourable.... One can be poor and honourable,' I muttered. 'However ... would you like tea?'... 'No,' she was beginning. 'Wait a minute.' I leapt up and ran to Apollon. I had to get out of the room somehow. 'Apollon,' I whispered in feverish haste, flinging down before him the seven roubles which had remained all the time in my clenched fist, 'here are your wages, you see I give them to you; but for that you must come to my rescue: bring me tea and a dozen rusks from the restaurant. If you won't go, you'll make me a miserable man! You don't know what this woman is.... This is—everything! You may be imagining something.... But you don't know what that woman is!'... Apollon, who had already sat down to his work and put on his spectacles again, at first glanced askance at the money without speaking or putting down his needle; then, without paying the slightest attention to me or making any answer he went on busying himself with his needle, which he had not yet threaded. I waited before him for three minutes with my arms crossed à la Napoléon. My temples were moist with sweat. I was pale, I felt it. But, thank God, he must have been moved to pity, looking at me. Having threaded his needle he deliberately got up from his seat, deliberately moved back his chair, deliberately took off his spectacles, deliberately counted the money, and finally asking me over his shoulder: 'Shall I get a whole portion?' deliberately walked out of the room. As I was going back to Liza, the thought occurred to me on the way: shouldn't I run away just as I was in my dressing-gown, no matter where, and then let happen what would. I sat down again. She looked at me uneasily. For some minutes we were silent. 'I will kill him,' I shouted suddenly, striking the table with my fist so that the ink spurted out of the inkstand. 'What are you saying!' she cried, starting. 'I will kill him! kill him!' I shrieked, suddenly striking the table in absolute frenzy, and at the same time fully understanding how stupid it was to be in such a frenzy. 'You don't know, Liza, what that torturer is to me. He is my torturer.... He has gone now to fetch some rusks; he....' And suddenly I burst into tears. It was an hysterical attack. How ashamed I felt in the midst of my sobs; but still I could not restrain them. She was frightened. 'What is the matter? What is wrong?' she cried, fussing about me. 'Water, give me water, over there!' I muttered in a faint voice, though I was inwardly conscious that I could have got on very well without water and without muttering in a faint voice. But I was, what is called, putting it on, to save appearances, though the attack was a genuine one. She gave me water, looking at me in bewilderment. At that moment Apollon brought in the tea. It suddenly seemed to me that this commonplace, prosaic tea was horribly undignified and paltry after all that had happened, and I blushed crimson. Liza looked at Apollon with positive alarm. He went out without a glance at either of us. 'Liza, do you despise me?' I asked, looking at her fixedly, trembling with impatience to know what she was thinking. She was confused, and did not know what to answer. 'Drink your tea,' I said to her angrily. I was angry with myself, but, of course, it was she who would have to pay for it. A horrible spite against her suddenly surged up in my heart; I believe I could have killed her. To revenge myself on her I swore inwardly not to say a word to her all the time. 'She is the cause of it all,' I thought. Our silence lasted for five minutes. The tea stood on the table; we did not touch it. I had got to the point of purposely refraining from beginning in order to embarrass her further; it was awkward for her to begin alone. Several times she glanced at me with mournful perplexity. I was obstinately silent. I was, of course, myself the chief sufferer, because I was fully conscious of the disgusting meanness of my spiteful stupidity, and yet at the same time I could not restrain myself. 'I want to ... get away ... from there altogether,' she began, to break the silence in some way, but, poor girl, that was just what she ought not to have spoken about at such a stupid moment to a man so stupid as I was. My heart positively ached with pity for her tactless and unnecessary straightforwardness. But something hideous at once stifled all compassion in me; it even provoked me to greater venom. I did not care what happened. Another five minutes passed. 'Perhaps I am in your way,' she began timidly, hardly audibly, and was getting up. But as soon as I saw this first impulse of wounded dignity I positively trembled with spite, and at once burst out. 'Why have you come to me, tell me that, please?' I began, gasping for breath and regardless of logical connection in my words. I longed to have it all out at once, at one burst; I did not even trouble how to begin. 'Why have you come? Answer, answer,' I cried, hardly knowing what I was doing. 'I'll tell you, my good girl, why you have come. You've come because I talked sentimental stuff to you then. So now you are soft as butter and longing for fine sentiments again. So you may as well know that I was laughing at you then. And I am laughing at you now. Why are you shuddering? Yes, I was laughing at you! I had been insulted just before, at dinner, by the fellows who came that evening before me. I came to you, meaning to thrash one of them, an officer; but I didn't succeed, I didn't find him; I had to avenge the insult on some one to get back my own again; you turned up, I vented my spleen on you and laughed at you. I had been humiliated, so I wanted to humiliate; I had been treated like a rag, so I wanted to show my power.... That's what it was, and you imagined I had come there on purpose to save you. Yes? You imagined that? You imagined that?' I knew that she would perhaps be muddled and not take it all in exactly, but I knew, too, that she would grasp the gist of it, very well indeed. And so, indeed, she did. She turned white as a handkerchief, tried to say something, and her lips worked painfully; but she sank on a chair as though she had been felled by an axe. And all the time afterwards she listened to me with her lips parted and her eyes wide open, shuddering with awful terror. The cynicism, the cynicism of my words overwhelmed her.... 'Save you!' I went on, jumping up from my chair and running up and down the room before her. 'Save you from what? But perhaps I am worse than you myself. Why didn't you throw it in my teeth when I was giving you that sermon: 'But what did you come here yourself for? was it to read us a sermon?' Power, power was what I wanted then, sport was what I wanted, I wanted to wring out your tears, your humiliation, your hysteria—that was what I wanted then! Of course, I couldn't keep it up then, because I am a wretched creature, I was frightened, and, the devil knows why, gave you my address in my folly. Afterwards, before I got home, I was cursing and swearing at you because of that address, I hated you already because of the lies I had told you. Because I only like playing with words, only dreaming, but, do you know, what I really want is that you should all go to hell. That is what I want. I want peace; yes, I'd sell the whole world for a farthing, straight off, so long as I was left in peace. Is the world to go to pot, or am I to go without my tea? I say that the world may go to pot for me so long as I always get my tea. Did you know that, or not? Well, anyway, I know that I am a blackguard, a scoundrel, an egoist, a sluggard. Here I have been shuddering for the last three days at the thought of your coming. And do you know what has worried me particularly for these three days? That I posed as such a hero to you, and now you would see me in a wretched torn dressinggown, beggarly, loathsome. I told you just now that I was not ashamed of my poverty; so you may as well know that I am ashamed of it; I am more ashamed of it than of anything, more afraid of it than of being found out if I were a thief, because I am as vain as though I had been skinned and the very air blowing on me hurt. Surely by now you must realize that I shall never forgive you for having found me in this wretched dressing-gown, just as I was flying at Apollon like a spiteful cur. The saviour, the former hero, was flying like a mangy, unkempt sheep-dog at his lackey, and the lackey was jeering at him! And I shall never forgive you for the tears I could not help shedding before you just now, like some silly woman put to shame! And for what I am confessing to you now, I shall never forgive you either! Yes—you must answer for it all because you turned up like this, because I am a blackguard, because I am the nastiest, stupidest, absurdest and most envious of all the worms on earth, who are not a bit better than I am, but, the devil knows why, are never put to confusion; while I shall always be insulted by every louse, that is my doom! And what is it to me that you don't understand a word of this! And what do I care, what do I care about you, and whether you go to ruin there or not? Do you understand? How I shall hate you now after saying this, for having been here and listening. Why, it's not once in a lifetime a man speaks out like this, and then it is in hysterics!... What more do you want? Why do you still stand confronting me, after all this? Why are you worrying me? Why don't you go?' But at this point a strange thing happened. I was so accustomed to think and imagine everything from books, and to picture everything in the world to myself just as I had made it up in my dreams beforehand, that I could not all at once take in this strange circumstance. What happened was this: Liza, insulted and crushed by me, understood a great deal more than I imagined. She understood from all this what a woman understands first of all, if she feels genuine love, that is, that I was myself unhappy. The frightened and wounded expression on her face was followed first by a look of sorrowful perplexity. When I began calling myself a scoundrel and a blackguard and my tears flowed (the tirade was accompanied throughout by tears) her whole face worked convulsively. She was on the point of getting up and stopping me; when I finished she took no notice of my shouting: 'Why are you here, why don't you go away?' but realized only that it must have been very bitter to me to say all this. Besides, she was so crushed, poor girl; she considered herself infinitely beneath me; how could she feel anger or resentment? She suddenly leapt up from her chair with an irresistible impulse and held out her hands, yearning towards me, though still timid and not daring to stir.... At this point there was a revulsion in my heart, too. Then she suddenly rushed to me, threw her arms round me and burst into tears. I, too, could not restrain myself, and sobbed as I never had before. 'They won't let me.... I can't be good!' I managed to articulate; then I went to the sofa, fell on it face downwards, and sobbed on it for a quarter of an hour in genuine hysterics. She came close to me, put her arms round me and stayed motionless in that position. But the trouble was that the hysterics could not go on for ever, and (I am writing the loathsome truth) lying face downwards on the sofa with my face thrust into my nasty leather pillow, I began by degrees to be aware of a far-away, involuntary but irresistible feeling that it would be awkward now for me to raise my head and look Liza straight in the face. Why was I ashamed? I don't know, but I was ashamed. The thought, too, came into my overwrought brain that our parts now were completely changed, that she was now the heroine, while I was just such a crushed and humiliated creature as she had been before me that night—four days before.... And all this came into my mind during the minutes I was lying on my face on the sofa. My God! surely I was not envious of her then. I don't know, to this day I cannot decide, and at the time, of course, I was still less able to understand what I was feeling than now. I cannot get on without domineering and tyrannizing over some one, but ... there is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to reason. I conquered myself, however, and raised my head; I had to do so sooner or later ... and I am convinced to this day that it was just because I was ashamed to look at her that another feeling was suddenly kindled and flamed up in my heart ... a feeling of mastery and possession. My eyes gleamed with passion, and I gripped her hands tightly. How I hated her and how I was drawn to her at that minute! The one feeling intensified the other. It was almost like an act of vengeance. At first there was a look of amazement, even of terror on her face, but only for one instant. She warmly and rapturously embraced me. X A quarter of an hour later I was rushing up and down the room in frenzied impatience, from minute to minute I went up to the screen and peeped through the crack at Liza. She was sitting on the ground with her head leaning against the bed, and must have been crying. But she did not go away, and that irritated me. This time she understood it all. I had insulted her finally, but ... there's no need to describe it. She realized that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge, a fresh humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred was added now a personal hatred, born of envy.... Though I do not maintain positively that she understood all this distinctly; but she certainly did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what was worse, incapable of loving her. I know I shall be told that this is incredible—but it is incredible to be as spiteful and stupid as I was; it may be added that it was strange I should not love her, or at any rate, appreciate her love. Why is it strange? In the first place, by then I was incapable of love, for I repeat, with me loving meant tyrannizing and showing my moral superiority. I have never in my life been able to imagine any other sort of love, and have nowadays come to the point of sometimes thinking that love really consists in the right—freely given by the beloved object—to tyrannize over her. Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with 'real life,' as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame for having come to me to hear 'fine sentiments'; and did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form. I did not hate her so much, however, when I was running about the room and peeping through the crack in the screen. I was only insufferably oppressed by her being here. I wanted her to disappear. I wanted 'peace,' to be left alone in my underground world. Real life oppressed me with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe. But several minutes passed and she still remained, without stirring, as though she were unconscious. I had the shamelessness to tap softly at the screen as though to remind her.... She started, sprang up, and flew to seek her kerchief, her hat, her coat, as though making her escape from me.... Two minutes later she came from behind the screen and looked with heavy eyes at me. I gave a spiteful grin, which was forced, however, to keep up appearances, and I turned away from her eyes. 'Good-bye,' she said, going towards the door. I ran up to her, seized her hand, opened it, thrust something in it and closed it again. Then I turned at once and dashed away in haste to the other corner of the room to avoid seeing, anyway.... I did mean a moment since to tell a lie—to write that I did this accidentally, not knowing what I was doing through foolishness, through losing my head. But I don't want to lie, and so I will say straight out that I opened her hand and put the money in it ... from spite. It came into my head to do this while I was running up and down the room and she was sitting behind the screen. But this I can say for certain: though I did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the heart, but came from my evil brain. This cruelty was so affected, so purposely made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books, that I could not even keep it up a minute—first I dashed away to avoid seeing her, and then in shame and despair rushed after Liza. I opened the door in the passage and began listening. 'Liza! Liza!' I cried on the stairs, but in a low voice, not boldly. There was no answer, but I fancied I heard her footsteps, lower down on the stairs. 'Liza!' I cried, more loudly. No answer. But at that minute I heard the stiff outer glass door open heavily with a creak and slam violently, the sound echoed up the stairs. She had gone. I went back to my room in hesitation. I felt horribly oppressed. I stood still at the table, beside the chair on which she had sat and looked aimlessly before me. A minute passed, suddenly I started; straight before me on the table I saw.... In short, I saw a crumpled blue five-rouble note, the one I had thrust into her hand a minute before. It was the same note; it could be no other, there was no other in the flat. So she had managed to fling it from her hand on the table at the moment when I had dashed into the further corner. Well! I might have expected that she would do that. Might I have expected it? No, I was such an egoist, I was so lacking in respect for my fellow-creatures that I could not even imagine she would do so. I could not endure it. A minute later I flew like a madman to dress, flinging on what I could at random and ran headlong after her. She could not have got two hundred paces away when I ran out into the street. It was a still night and the snow was coming down in masses and falling almost perpendicularly, covering the pavement and the empty street as though with a pillow. There was no one in the street, no sound was to be heard. The street lamps gave a disconsolate and useless glimmer. I ran two hundred paces to the cross-roads and stopped short. Where had she gone? And why was I running after her? Why? To fall down before her, to sob with remorse, to kiss her feet, to entreat her forgiveness! I longed for that, my whole breast was being rent to pieces, and never, never shall I recall that minute with indifference. But—what for? I thought. Should I not begin to hate her, perhaps, even to-morrow, just because I had kissed her feet to-day? Should I give her happiness? Had I not recognized that day, for the hundredth time, what I was worth? Should I not torture her? I stood in the snow, gazing into the troubled darkness and pondered this. 'And will it not be better?' I mused fantastically, afterwards at home, stifling the living pang of my heart with fantastic dreams. 'Will it not be better that she should keep the resentment of the insult for ever? Resentment—why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and painful consciousness! To-morrow I should have defiled her soul and have exhausted her heart, while now the feeling of insult will never die in her heart, and however loathsome the filth awaiting her— the feeling of insult will elevate and purify her ... by hatred ... h'm! ... perhaps, too, by forgiveness.... Will all that make things easier for her though?...' And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which is better —cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better? So I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead with the pain in my soul. Never had I endured such suffering and remorse, yet could there have been the faintest doubt when I ran out from my lodging that I should turn back half-way? I never met Liza again and I have heard nothing of her. I will add, too, that I remained for a long time afterwards pleased with the phrase about the benefit from resentment and hatred in spite of the fact that I almost fell ill from misery. * * * * * Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory. I have many evil memories now, but ... hadn't I better end my 'Notes' here? I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I have felt ashamed all the time I've been writing this story; so it's hardly literature so much as a corrective punishment. Why, to tell long stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally rotting in my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through divorce from real life, and rankling spite in my underground world, would certainly not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the traits for an anti-hero are expressly gathered together here, and what matters most, it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don't know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity, relax the control and we ... yes, I assure you ... we should be begging to be under control again at once. I know that you will very likely be angry with me for that, and will begin shouting and stamping. Speak for yourself, you will say, and for your miseries in your underground holes, and don't dare to say all of us—excuse me, gentlemen, I am not justifying myself with that 'all of us.' As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry half-way, and what's more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you. Look into it more carefully! Why, we don't even know what living means now, what it is, and what it is called? Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men—men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalized man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea. But enough; I don't want to write more from 'Underground.' [The notes of this paradoxalist do not end here, however. He could not refrain from going on with them, but it seems to us that we may stop here.] A FAINT HEART A STORY Under the same roof in the same flat on the same fourth storey lived two young men, colleagues in the service, Arkady Ivanovitch Nefedevitch and Vasya Shumkov.... The author of course, feels the necessity of explaining to the reader why one is given his full title, while the other's name is abbreviated, if only that such a mode of expression may not be regarded as unseemly and rather familiar. But, to do so, it would first be necessary to explain and describe the rank and years and calling and duty in the service, and even, indeed, the characters of the persons concerned; and since there are so many writers who begin in that way, the author of the proposed story, solely in order to be unlike them (that is, some people will perhaps say, entirely on account of his boundless vanity), decides to begin straightaway with action. Having completed this introduction, he begins. Towards six o'clock on New Year's Eve Shumkov returned home. Arkady Ivanovitch, who was lying on the bed, woke up and looked at his friend with half-closed eyes. He saw that Vasya had on his very best trousers and a very clean shirt front. That, of course, struck him. 'Where had Vasya to go like that? And he had not dined at home either!' Meanwhile, Shumkov had lighted a candle, and Arkady Ivanovitch guessed immediately that his friend was intending to wake him accidentally. Vasya did, in fact, clear his throat twice, walked twice up and down the room, and at last, quite accidentally, let the pipe, which he had begun filling in the corner by the stove, slip out of his hands. Arkady Ivanovitch laughed to himself. 'Vasya, give over pretending!' he said. 'Arkasha, you are not asleep?' 'I really cannot say for certain; it seems to me I am not.' 'Oh, Arkasha! How are you, dear boy? Well, brother! Well, brother!... You don't know what I have to tell you!' 'I certainly don't know; come here.' As though expecting this, Vasya went up to him at once, not at all anticipating, however, treachery from Arkady Ivanovitch. The other seized him very adroitly by the arms, turned him over, held him down, and began, as it is called, 'strangling' his victim, and apparently this proceeding afforded the lighthearted Arkady Ivanovitch great satisfaction. 'Caught!' he cried. 'Caught!' 'Arkasha, Arkasha, what are you about? Let me go. For goodness sake, let me go, I shall crumple my dress coat!' 'As though that mattered! What do you want with a dress coat? Why were you so confiding as to put yourself in my hands? Tell me, where have you been? Where have you dined?' 'Arkasha, for goodness sake, let me go!' 'Where have you dined?' 'Why, it's about that I want to tell you.' 'Tell away, then.' 'But first let me go.' 'Not a bit of it, I won't let you go till you tell me!' 'Arkasha! Arkasha! But do you understand, I can't—it is utterly impossible!' cried Vasya, helplessly wriggling out of his friend's powerful clutches, 'you know there are subjects!' 'How—subjects?'... 'Why, subjects that you can't talk about in such a position without losing your dignity; it's utterly impossible; it would make it ridiculous, and this is not a ridiculous matter, it is important.' 'Here, he's going in for being important! That's a new idea! You tell me so as to make me laugh, that's how you must tell me; I don't want anything important; or else you are no true friend of mine. Do you call yourself a friend? Eh?' 'Arkasha, I really can't!' 'Well, I don't want to hear....' 'Well, Arkasha!' began Vasya, lying across the bed and doing his utmost to put all the dignity possible into his words. 'Arkasha! If you like, I will tell you; only....' 'Well, what?...' 'Well, I am engaged to be married!' Without uttering another word Arkady Ivanovitch took Vasya up in his arms like a baby, though the latter was by no means short, but rather long and thin, and began dexterously carrying him up and down the room, pretending that he was hushing him to sleep. 'I'll put you in your swaddling clothes, Master Bridegroom,' he kept saying. But seeing that Vasya lay in his arms, not stirring or uttering a word, he thought better of it at once, and reflecting that the joke had gone too far, set him down in the middle of the room and kissed him on the cheek in the most genuine and friendly way. 'Vasya, you are not angry?' 'Arkasha, listen....' 'Come, it's New Year's Eve.' 'Oh, I'm all right; but why are you such a madman, such a scatterbrain? How many times I have told you: Arkasha, it's really not funny, not funny at all!' 'Oh, well, you are not angry?' 'Oh, I'm all right; am I ever angry with any one! But you have wounded me, do you understand?' 'But how have I wounded you? In what way?' 'I come to you as to a friend, with a full heart, to pour out my soul to you, to tell you of my happiness....' 'What happiness? Why don't you speak?...' 'Oh, well, I am going to get married!' Vasya answered with vexation, for he really was a little exasperated. 'You! You are going to get married! So you really mean it?' Arkasha cried at the top of his voice. 'No, no ... but what's this? He talks like this and his tears are flowing.... Vasya, my little Vasya, don't, my little son! Is it true, really?' And Arkady Ivanovitch flew to hug him again. 'Well, do you see, how it is now?' said Vasya. 'You are kind, of course, you are a friend, I know that. I come to you with such joy, such rapture, and all of a sudden I have to disclose all the joy of my heart, all my rapture struggling across the bed, in an undignified way.... You understand, Arkasha,' Vasya went on, half laughing. 'You see, it made it seem comic: and in a sense I did not belong to myself at that minute. I could not let this be slighted.... What's more, if you had asked me her name, I swear, I would sooner you killed me than have answered you.' 'But, Vasya, why did you not speak! You should have told me all about it sooner and I would not have played the fool!' cried Arkady Ivanovitch in genuine despair. 'Come, that's enough, that's enough! Of course, that's how it is.... You know what it all comes from—from my having a good heart. What vexes me is, that I could not tell you as I wanted to, making you glad and happy, telling you nicely and initiating you into my secret properly.... Really, Arkasha, I love you so much that I believe if it were not for you I shouldn't be getting married, and, in fact, I shouldn't be living in this world at all!' Arkady Ivanovitch, who was excessively sentimental, cried and laughed at once as he listened to Vasya. Vasya did the same. Both flew to embrace one another again and forgot the past. 'How is it—how is it? Tell me all about it, Vasya! I am astonished, excuse me, brother, but I am utterly astonished; it's a perfect thunderbolt, by Jove! Nonsense, nonsense, brother, you have made it up, you've really made it up, you are telling fibs!' cried Arkady Ivanovitch, and he actually looked into Vasya's face with genuine uncertainty, but seeing in it the radiant confirmation of a positive intention of being married as soon as possible, threw himself on the bed and began rolling from side to side in ecstasy till the walls shook. 'Vasya, sit here,' he said at last, sitting down on the bed. 'I really don't know, brother, where to begin!' They looked at one another in joyful excitement. 'Who is she, Vasya?' 'The Artemyevs!...' Vasya pronounced, in a voice weak with emotion. 'No?' 'Well, I did buzz into your ears about them at first, and then I shut up, and you noticed nothing. Ah, Arkasha, if you knew how hard it was to keep it from you; but I was afraid, afraid to speak! I thought it would all go wrong, and you know I was in love, Arkasha! My God! my God! You see this was the trouble,' he began, pausing continually from agitation, 'she had a suitor a year ago, but he was suddenly ordered somewhere; I knew him—he was a fellow, bless him! Well, he did not write at all, he simply vanished. They waited and waited, wondering what it meant.... Four months ago he suddenly came back married, and has never set foot within their doors! It was coarse—shabby! And they had no one to stand up for them. She cried and cried, poor girl, and I fell in love with her ... indeed, I had been in love with her long before, all the time! I began comforting her, and was always going there.... Well, and I really don't know how it has all come about, only she came to love me; a week ago I could not restrain myself, I cried, I sobbed, and told her everything—well, that I love her— everything, in fact!... 'I am ready to love you, too, Vassily Petrovitch, only I am a poor girl, don't make a mock of me; I don't dare to love any one.' Well, brother, you understand! You understand?... On that we got engaged on the spot. I kept thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking, I said to her, 'How are we to tell your mother?' She said, 'It will be hard, wait a little; she's afraid, and now maybe she would not let you have me; she keeps crying, too.' Without telling her I blurted it out to her mother to-day. Lizanka fell on her knees before her, I did the same ... well, she gave us her blessing. Arkasha, Arkasha! My dear fellow! We will live together. No, I won't part from you for anything.' 'Vasya, look at you as I may, I can't believe it. I don't believe it, I swear. I keep feeling as though.... Listen, how can you be engaged to be married?... How is it I didn't know, eh? Do you know, Vasya, I will confess it to you now. I was thinking of getting married myself; but now since you are going to be married, it is just as good! Be happy, be happy!...' 'Brother, I feel so lighthearted now, there is such sweetness in my soul ...' said Vasya, getting up and pacing about the room excitedly. 'Don't you feel the same? We shall be poor, of course, but we shall be happy; and you know it is not a wild fancy; our happiness is not a fairy tale; we shall be happy in reality!...' 'Vasya, Vasya, listen!' 'What?' said Vasya, standing before Arkady Ivanovitch. 'The idea occurs to me; I am really afraid to say it to you.... Forgive me, and settle my doubts. What are you going to live on? You know I am delighted that you are going to be married, of course, I am delighted, and I don't know what to do with myself, but—what are you going to live on? Eh?' 'Oh, good Heavens! What a fellow you are, Arkasha!' said Vasya, looking at Nefedevitch in profound astonishment. 'What do you mean? Even her old mother, even she did not think of that for two minutes when I put it all clearly before her. You had better ask what they are living on! They have five hundred roubles a year between the three of them: the pension, which is all they have, since the father died. She and her old mother and her little brother, whose schooling is paid for out of that income too—that is how they live! It's you and I are the capitalists! Some good years it works out to as much as seven hundred for me.' 'I say, Vasya, excuse me; I really ... you know I ... I am only thinking how to prevent things going wrong. How do you mean, seven hundred? It's only three hundred....' 'Three hundred!... And Yulian Mastakovitch? Have you forgotten him?' 'Yulian Mastakovitch? But you know that's uncertain, brother; that's not the same thing as three hundred roubles of secure salary, where every rouble is a friend you can trust. Yulian Mastakovitch, of course, he's a great man, in fact, I respect him, I understand him, though he is so far above us; and, by Jove, I love him, because he likes you and gives you something for your work, though he might not pay you, but simply order a clerk to work for him—but you will agree, Vasya.... Let me tell you, too, I am not talking nonsense. I admit in all Petersburg you won't find a handwriting like your handwriting, I am ready to allow that to you,' Nefedevitch concluded, not without enthusiasm. 'But, God forbid! you may displease him all at once, you may not satisfy him, your work with him may stop, he may take another clerk—all sorts of things may happen, in fact! You know, Yulian Mastakovitch may be here to-day and gone to-morrow....' 'Well, Arkasha, the ceiling might fall on our heads this minute.' 'Oh, of course, of course, I mean nothing.' 'But listen, hear what I have got to say—you know, I don't see how he can part with me.... No, hear what I have to say! hear what I have to say! You see, I perform all my duties punctually; you know how kind he is, you know, Arkasha, he gave me fifty roubles in silver to-day!' 'Did he really, Vasya? A bonus for you?' 'Bonus, indeed, it was out of his own pocket. He said: 'Why, you have had no money for five months, brother, take some if you want it; thank you, I am satisfied with you.'... Yes, really! 'Yes, you don't work for me for nothing,' said he. He did, indeed, that's what he said. It brought tears into my eyes, Arkasha. Good Heavens, yes!' 'I say, Vasya, have you finished copying those papers?...' 'No.... I haven't finished them yet.' 'Vas...ya! My angel! What have you been doing?' 'Listen, Arkasha, it doesn't matter, they are not wanted for another two days, I have time enough....' 'How is it you have not done them?' 'That's all right, that's all right. You look so horror-stricken that you turn me inside out and make my heart ache! You are always going on at me like this! He's for ever crying out: Oh, oh, oh!!! Only consider, what does it matter? Why, I shall finish it, of course I shall finish it....' 'What if you don't finish it?' cried Arkady, jumping up, 'and he has made you a present to-day! And you going to be married.... Tut, tut, tut!...' 'It's all right, it's all right,' cried Shumkov, 'I shall sit down directly, I shall sit down this minute.' 'How did you come to leave it, Vasya?' 'Oh, Arkasha! How could I sit down to work! Have I been in a fit state? Why, even at the office I could scarcely sit still, I could scarcely bear the beating of my heart.... Oh! oh! Now I shall work all night, and I shall work all to-morrow night, and the night after, too—and I shall finish it.' 'Is there a great deal left?' 'Don't hinder me, for goodness' sake, don't hinder me; hold your tongue.' Arkady Ivanovitch went on tip-toe to the bed and sat down, then suddenly wanted to get up, but was obliged to sit down again, remembering that he might interrupt him, though he could not sit still for excitement: it was evident that the news had thoroughly upset him, and the first thrill of delight had not yet passed off. He glanced at Shumkov; the latter glanced at him, smiled, and shook his finger at him, then, frowning severely (as though all his energy and the success of his work depended upon it), fixed his eyes on the papers. It seemed that he, too, could not yet master his emotion; he kept changing his pen, fidgeting in his chair, re-arranging things, and setting to work again, but his hand trembled and refused to move. 'Arkasha, I've talked to them about you,' he cried suddenly, as though he had just remembered it. 'Yes,' cried Arkasha, 'I was just wanting to ask you that. Well?' 'Well, I'll tell you everything afterwards. Of course, it is my own fault, but it quite went out of my head that I didn't mean to say anything till I had written four pages, but I thought of you and of them. I really can't write, brother, I keep thinking about you....' Vasya smiled. A silence followed. 'Phew! What a horrid pen,' cried Shumkov, flinging it on the table in vexation. He took another. 'Vasya! listen! one word....' 'Well, make haste, and for the last time.' 'Have you a great deal left to do?' 'Ah, brother!' Vasya frowned, as though there could be nothing more terrible and murderous in the whole world than such a question. 'A lot, a fearful lot.' 'Do you know, I have an idea——' 'What?' 'Oh, never mind, never mind; go on writing.' 'Why, what? what?' 'It's past six, Vasya.' Here Nefedevitch smiled and winked slyly at Vasya, though with a certain timidity, not knowing how Vasya would take it. 'Well, what is it?' said Vasya, throwing down his pen, looking him straight in the face and actually turning pale with excitement. 'Do you know what?' 'For goodness sake, what is it?' 'I tell you what, you are excited, you won't get much done.... Stop, stop, stop! I have it, I have it—listen,' said Nefedevitch, jumping up from the bed in delight, preventing Vasya from speaking and doing his utmost to ward off all objections; 'first of all you must get calm, you must pull yourself together, mustn't you?' 'Arkasha, Arkasha!' cried Vasya, jumping up from his chair, 'I will work all night, I will, really.' 'Of course, of course, you won't go to bed till morning.' 'I won't go to bed, I won't go to bed at all.' 'No, that won't do, that won't do: you must sleep, go to bed at five. I will call you at eight. To-morrow is a holiday; you can sit and scribble away all day long.... Then the night and—but have you a great deal left to do?' 'Yes, look, look!' Vasya, quivering with excitement and suspense, showed the manuscript: 'Look!' 'I say, brother, that's not much.' 'My dear fellow, there's some more of it,' said Vasya, looking very timidly at Nefedevitch, as though the decision whether he was to go or not depended upon the latter. 'How much?' 'Two signatures.' 'Well, what's that? Come, I tell you what. We shall have time to finish it, by Jove, we shall!' 'Arkasha!' 'Vasya, listen! To-night, on New Year's Eve, every one is at home with his family. You and I are the only ones without a home or relations.... Oh, Vasya!' Nefedevitch clutched Vasya and hugged him in his leonine arms. 'Arkasha, it's settled.' 'Vasya, boy, I only wanted to say this. You see, Vasya—listen, bandy-legs, listen!...' Arkady stopped, with his mouth open, because he could not speak for delight. Vasya held him by the shoulders, gazed into his face and moved his lips, as though he wanted to speak for him. 'Well,' he brought out at last. 'Introduce me to them to-day.' 'Arkady, let us go to tea there. I tell you what, I tell you what. We won't even stay to see in the New Year, we'll come away earlier,' cried Vasya, with genuine inspiration. 'That is, we'll go for two hours, neither more nor less....' 'And then separation till I have finished....' 'Vasya, boy!' 'Arkady!' Three minutes later Arkady was dressed in his best. Vasya did nothing but brush himself, because he had been in such haste to work that he had not changed his trousers. They hurried out into the street, each more pleased than the other. Their way lay from the Petersburg Side to Kolomna. Arkady Ivanovitch stepped out boldly and vigorously, so that from his walk alone one could see how glad he was at the good fortune of his friend, who was more and more radiant with happiness. Vasya trotted along with shorter steps, though his deportment was none the less dignified. Arkady Ivanovitch, in fact, had never seen him before to such advantage. At that moment he actually felt more respect for him, and Vasya's physical defect, of which the reader is not yet aware (Vasya was slightly deformed), which always called forth a feeling of loving sympathy in Arkady Ivanovitch's kind heart, contributed to the deep tenderness the latter felt for him at this moment, a tenderness of which Vasya was in every way worthy. Arkady Ivanovitch felt ready to weep with happiness, but he restrained himself. 'Where are you going, where are you going, Vasya? It is nearer this way,' he cried, seeing that Vasya was making in the direction of Voznesenky. 'Hold your tongue, Arkasha.' 'It really is nearer, Vasya.' 'Do you know what, Arkasha?' Vasya began mysteriously, in a voice quivering with joy, 'I tell you what, I want to take Lizanka a little present.' 'What sort of present?' 'At the corner here, brother, is Madame Leroux's, a wonderful shop.' 'Well.' 'A cap, my dear, a cap; I saw such a charming little cap to-day. I inquired, I was told it was the façon Manon Lescaut—a delightful thing. Cherry-coloured ribbons, and if it is not dear ... Arkasha, even if it is dear....' 'I think you are superior to any of the poets, Vasya. Come along.' They ran along, and two minutes later went into the shop. They were met by a black-eyed Frenchwoman with curls, who, from the first glance at her customers, became as joyous and happy as they, even happier, if one may say so. Vasya was ready to kiss Madame Leroux in his delight.... 'Arkasha,' he said in an undertone, casting a casual glance at all the grand and beautiful things on little wooden stands on the huge table, 'lovely things! What's that? What's this? This one, for instance, this little sweet, do you see?' Vasya whispered, pointing to a charming cap further away, which was not the one he meant to buy, because he had already from afar descried and fixed his eyes upon the real, famous one, standing at the other end. He looked at it in such a way that one might have supposed some one was going to steal it, or as though the cap itself might take wings and fly into the air just to prevent Vasya from obtaining it. 'Look,' said Arkady Ivanovitch, pointing to one, 'I think that's better.' 'Well, Arkasha, that does you credit; I begin to respect you for your taste,' said Vasya, resorting to cunning with Arkasha in the tenderness of his heart, 'your cap is charming, but come this way.' 'Where is there a better one, brother?' 'Look; this way.' 'That,' said Arkady, doubtfully. But when Vasya, incapable of restraining himself any longer, took it from the stand from which it seemed to fly spontaneously, as though delighted at falling at last into the hands of so good a customer, and they heard the rustle of its ribbons, ruches and lace, an unexpected cry of delight broke from the powerful chest of Arkady Ivanovitch. Even Madame Leroux, while maintaining her incontestable dignity and pre-eminence in matters of taste, and remaining mute from condescension, rewarded Vasya with a smile of complete approbation, everything in her glance, gesture and smile saying at once: 'Yes, you have chosen rightly, and are worthy of the happiness which awaits you.' 'It has been dangling its charms in coy seclusion,' cried Vasya, transferring his tender feelings to the charming cap. 'You have been hiding on purpose, you sly little pet!' And he kissed it, that is the air surrounding it, for he was afraid to touch his treasure. 'Retiring as true worth and virtue,' Arkady added enthusiastically, quoting humorously from a comic paper he had read that morning. 'Well, Vasya?' 'Hurrah, Arkasha! You are witty to-day. I predict you will make a sensation, as women say. Madame Leroux, Madame Leroux!' 'What is your pleasure?' 'Dear Madame Leroux.' Madame Leroux looked at Arkady Ivanovitch and smiled condescendingly. 'You wouldn't believe how I adore you at this moment.... Allow me to give you a kiss....' And Vasya kissed the shopkeeper. She certainly at that moment needed all her dignity to maintain her position with such a madcap. But I contend that the innate, spontaneous courtesy and grace with which Madame Leroux received Vasya's enthusiasm, was equally befitting. She forgave him, and how tactfully, how graciously, she knew how to behave in the circumstances. How could she have been angry with Vasya? 'Madame Leroux, how much?' 'Five roubles in silver,' she answered, straightening herself with a new smile. 'And this one, Madame Leroux?' said Arkady Ivanovitch, pointing to his choice. 'That one is eight roubles.' 'There, you see—there, you see! Come, Madame Leroux, tell me which is nicer, more graceful, more charming, which of them suits you best?' 'The second is richer, but your choice c'est plus coquet.' 'Then we will take it.' Madame Leroux took a sheet of very delicate paper, pinned it up, and the paper with the cap wrapped in it seemed even lighter than the paper alone. Vasya took it carefully, almost holding his breath, bowed to Madame Leroux, said something else very polite to her and left the shop. 'I am a lady's man, I was born to be a lady's man,' said Vasya, laughing a little noiseless, nervous laugh and dodging the passers-by, whom he suspected of designs for crushing his precious cap. 'Listen, Arkady, brother,' he began a minute later, and there was a note of triumph, of infinite affection in his voice. 'Arkady, I am so happy, I am so happy!' 'Vasya! how glad I am, dear boy!' 'No, Arkasha, no. I know that there is no limit to your affection for me; but you cannot be feeling one-hundredth part of what I am feeling at this moment. My heart is so full, so full! Arkasha, I am not worthy of such happiness. I feel that, I am conscious of it. Why has it come to me?' he said, his voice full of stifled sobs. 'What have I done to deserve it? Tell me. Look what lots of people, what lots of tears, what sorrow, what work-a-day life without a holiday, while I, I am loved by a girl like that, I.... But you will see her yourself immediately, you will appreciate her noble heart. I was born in a humble station, now I have a grade in the service and an independent income—my salary. I was born with a physical defect, I am a little deformed. See, she loves me as I am. Yulian Mastakovitch was so kind, so attentive, so gracious to-day; he does not often talk to me; he came up to me: 'Well, how goes it, Vasya' (yes, really, he called me Vasya), 'are you going to have a good time for the holiday, eh?' he laughed. ''Well, the fact is, Your Excellency, I have work to do,' but then I plucked up courage and said: 'and maybe I shall have a good time, too, Your Excellency.' I really said it. He gave me the money, on the spot, then he said a couple of words more to me. Tears came into my eyes, brother, I actually cried, and he, too, seemed touched, he patted me on the shoulder, and said: 'Feel always, Vasya, as you feel this now.'' Vasya paused for an instant. Arkady Ivanovitch turned away, and he, too, wiped away a tear with his fist. 'And, and ...' Vasya went on, 'I have never spoken to you of this, Arkady.... Arkady, you make me so happy with your affection, without you I could not live, —no, no, don't say anything, Arkady, let me squeeze your hand, let me ... tha...ank ... you....' Again Vasya could not finish. Arkady Ivanovitch longed to throw himself on Vasya's neck, but as they were crossing the road and heard almost in their ears a shrill: 'Hi! there!' they ran frightened and excited to the pavement. Arkady Ivanovitch was positively relieved. He set down Vasya's outburst of gratitude to the exceptional circumstances of the moment. He was vexed. He felt that he had done so little for Vasya hitherto. He felt actually ashamed of himself when Vasya began thanking him for so little. But they had all their lives before them, and Arkady Ivanovitch breathed more freely. The Artemyevs had quite given up expecting them. The proof of it was that they had already sat down to tea! And the old, it seems, are sometimes more clear- sighted than the young, even when the young are so exceptional. Lizanka had very earnestly maintained, 'He isn't coming, he isn't coming, Mamma; I feel in my heart he is not coming;' while her mother on the contrary declared 'that she had a feeling that he would certainly come, that he would not stay away, that he would run round, that he could have no office work now, on New Year's Eve.' Even as Lizanka opened the door she did not in the least expect to see them, and greeted them breathlessly, with her heart throbbing like a captured bird's, flushing and turning as red as a cherry, a fruit which she wonderfully resembled. Good Heavens, what a surprise it was! What a joyful 'Oh!' broke from her lips. 'Deceiver! My darling!' she cried, throwing her arms round Vasya's neck. But imagine her amazement, her sudden confusion: just behind Vasya, as though trying to hide behind his back, stood Arkady Ivanovitch, a trifle out of countenance. It must be admitted that he was awkward in the company of women, very awkward indeed, in fact on one occasion something occurred ... but of that later. You must put yourself in his place, however. There was nothing to laugh at; he was standing in the entry, in his goloshes and overcoat, and in a cap with flaps over the ears, which he would have hastened to pull off, but he had, all twisted round in a hideous way, a yellow knitted scarf, which, to make things worse, was knotted at the back. He had to disentangle all this, to take it off as quickly as possible, to show himself to more advantage, for there is no one who does not prefer to show himself to advantage. And then Vasya, vexatious insufferable Vasya, of course always the same dear kind Vasya, but now insufferable, ruthless Vasya. 'Here,' he shouted, 'Lizanka, I have brought you my Arkady? What do you think of him? He is my best friend, embrace him, kiss him, Lizanka, give him a kiss in advance; afterwards—you will know him better —you can take it back again.' Well, what, I ask you, was Arkady Ivanovitch to do? And he had only untwisted half of the scarf so far. I really am sometimes ashamed of Vasya's excess of enthusiasm; it is, of course, the sign of a good heart, but ... it's awkward, not nice! At last both went in.... The mother was unutterably delighted to make Arkady Ivanovitch's acquaintance, 'she had heard so much about him, she had....' But she did not finish. A joyful 'Oh!' ringing musically through the room interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. Good Heavens! Lizanka was standing before the cap which had suddenly been unfolded before her gaze; she clasped her hands with the utmost simplicity, smiling such a smile.... Oh, Heavens! why had not Madame Leroux an even lovelier cap? Oh, Heavens! but where could you find a lovelier cap? It was quite first-rate. Where could you get a better one? I mean it seriously. This ingratitude on the part of lovers moves me, in fact, to indignation and even wounds me a little. Why, look at it for yourself, reader, look, what could be more beautiful than this little love of a cap? Come, look at it.... But, no, no, my strictures are uncalled for; they had by now all agreed with me; it had been a momentary aberration; the blindness, the delirium of feeling; I am ready to forgive them.... But then you must look.... You must excuse me, kind reader, I am still talking about the cap: made of tulle, light as a feather, a broad cherry-coloured ribbon covered with lace passing between the tulle and the ruche, and at the back two wide long ribbons—they would fall down a little below the nape of the neck.... All that the cap needed was to be tilted a little to the back of the head; come, look at it; I ask you, after that ... but I see you are not looking ... you think it does not matter. You are looking in a different direction.... You are looking at two big tears, big as pearls, that rose in two jet black eyes, quivered for one instant on the eyelashes, and then dropped on the ethereal tulle of which Madame Leroux's artistic masterpiece was composed.... And again I feel vexed, those two tears were scarcely a tribute to the cap.... No, to my mind, such a gift should be given in cool blood, as only then can its full worth be appreciated. I am, I confess, dear reader, entirely on the side of the cap. They sat down—Vasya with Lizanka and the old mother with Arkady Ivanovitch; they began to talk, and Arkady Ivanovitch did himself credit, I am glad to say that for him. One would hardly, indeed, have expected it of him. After a couple of words about Vasya he most successfully turned the conversation to Yulian Mastakovitch, his patron. And he talked so cleverly, so cleverly that the subject was not exhausted for an hour. You ought to have seen with what dexterity, what tact, Arkady Ivanovitch touched upon certain peculiarities of Yulian Mastakovitch which directly or indirectly affected Vasya. The mother was fascinated, genuinely fascinated; she admitted it herself; she purposely called Vasya aside, and said to him that his friend was a most excellent and charming young man, and, what was of most account, such a serious, steady young man. Vasya almost laughed aloud with delight. He remembered how the serious Arkady had tumbled him on his bed for a quarter of an hour. Then the mother signed to Vasya to follow her quietly and cautiously into the next room. It must be admitted that she treated Lizanka rather unfairly: she behaved treacherously to her daughter, in the fullness of her heart, of course, and showed Vasya on the sly the present Lizanka was preparing to give him for the New Year. It was a paper-case, embroidered in beads and gold in a very choice design: on one side was depicted a stag, absolutely lifelike, running swiftly, and so well done! On the other side was the portrait of a celebrated General, also an excellent likeness. I cannot describe Vasya's raptures. Meanwhile, time was not being wasted in the parlour. Lizanka went straight up to Arkady Ivanovitch. She took his hand, she thanked him for something, and Arkady Ivanovitch gathered that she was referring to her precious Vasya. Lizanka was, indeed, deeply touched: she had heard that Arkady Ivanovitch was such a true friend of her betrothed, so loved him, so watched over him, guiding him at every step with helpful advice, that she, Lizanka, could hardly help thanking him, could not refrain from feeling grateful, and hoping that Arkady Ivanovitch might like her, if only half as well as Vasya. Then she began questioning him as to whether Vasya was careful of his health, expressed some apprehensions in regard to his marked impulsiveness of character, and his lack of knowledge of men and practical life; she said that she would in time watch over him religiously, that she would take care of and cherish his lot, and finally, she hoped that Arkady Ivanovitch would not leave them, but would live with them. 'We three shall live like one,' she cried, with extremely naïve enthusiasm. But it was time to go. They tried, of course, to keep them, but Vasya answered point blank that it was impossible. Arkady Ivanovitch said the same. The reason was, of course, inquired into, and it came out at once that there was work to be done entrusted to Vasya by Yulian Mastakovitch, urgent, necessary, dreadful work, which must be handed in on the morning of the next day but one, and that it was not only unfinished, but had been completely laid aside. The mamma sighed when she heard of this, while Lizanka was positively scared, and hurried Vasya off in alarm. The last kiss lost nothing from this haste; though brief and hurried it was only the more warm and ardent. At last they parted and the two friends set off home. Both began at once confiding to each other their impressions as soon as they found themselves in the street. And could they help it? Indeed, Arkady Ivanovitch was in love, desperately in love, with Lizanka. And to whom could he better confide his feelings than to Vasya, the happy man himself. And so he did; he was not bashful, but confessed everything at once to Vasya. Vasya laughed heartily and was immensely delighted, and even observed that this was all that was needed to make them greater friends than ever. 'You have guessed my feelings, Vasya,' said Arkady Ivanovitch. 'Yes, I love her as I love you; she will be my good angel as well as yours, for the radiance of your happiness will be shed on me, too, and I can bask in its warmth. She will keep house for me too, Vasya; my happiness will be in her hands. Let her keep house for me as she will for you. Yes, friendship for you is friendship for her; you are not separable for me now, only I shall have two beings like you instead of one....' Arkady paused in the fullness of his feelings, while Vasya was shaken to the depths of his being by his friend's words. The fact is, he had never expected anything of the sort from Arkady. Arkady Ivanovitch was not very great at talking as a rule, he was not fond of dreaming, either; now he gave way to the liveliest, freshest, rainbowtinted day-dreams. 'How I will protect and cherish you both,' he began again. 'To begin with, Vasya, I will be godfather to all your children, every one of them; and secondly, Vasya, we must bestir ourselves about the future. We must buy furniture, and take a lodging so that you and she and I can each have a little room to ourselves. Do you know, Vasya, I'll run about to-morrow and look at the notices, on the gates! Three ... no, two rooms, we should not need more. I really believe, Vasya, I talked nonsense this morning, there will be money enough; why, as soon as I glanced into her eyes I calculated at once that there would be enough to live on. It will all be for her. Oh, how we will work! Now, Vasya, we might venture up to twenty-five roubles for rent. A lodging is everything, brother. Nice rooms ... and at once a man is cheerful, and his dreams are of the brightest hues. And, besides, Lizanka will keep the purse for both of us: not a farthing will be wasted. Do you suppose I would go to a restaurant? What do you take me for? Not on any account. And then we shall get a bonus and reward, for we shall be zealous in the service—oh! how we shall work, like oxen toiling in the fields.... Only fancy,' and Arkady Ivanovitch's voice was faint with pleasure, 'all at once and quite unexpected, twenty-five or thirty roubles.... Whenever there's an extra, there'll be a cap or a scarf or a pair of little stockings. She must knit me a scarf; look what a horrid one I've got, the nasty yellow thing, it did me a bad turn to-day! And you wore a nice one, Vasya, to introduce me while I had my head in a halter.... Though never mind that now. And look here, I undertake all the silver. I am bound to give you some little present,—that will be an honour, that will flatter my vanity.... My bonuses won't fail me, surely; you don't suppose they would give them to Skorohodov? No fear, they won't be landed in that person's pocket. I'll buy you silver spoons, brother, good knives—not silver knives, but thoroughly good ones; and a waistcoat, that is a waistcoat for myself. I shall be best man, of course. Only now, brother, you must keep at it, you must keep at it. I shall stand over you with a stick, brother, to-day and to-morrow and all night; I shall worry you to work. Finish, make haste and finish, brother. And then again to spend the evening, and then again both of us happy; we will go in for loto. We will spend the evening there—oh, it's jolly! Oh, the devil! How, vexing it is I can't help you. I should like to take it and write it all for you.... Why is it our handwriting is not alike?' 'Yes,' answered Vasya. 'Yes, I must make haste. I think it must be eleven o'clock; we must make haste.... To work!' And saying this, Vasya, who had been all the time alternately smiling and trying to interrupt with some enthusiastic rejoinder the flow of his friend's feelings, and had, in short, been showing the most cordial response, suddenly subsided, sank into silence, and almost ran along the street. It seemed as though some burdensome idea had suddenly chilled his feverish head; he seemed all at once dispirited. Arkady Ivanovitch felt quite uneasy; he scarcely got an answer to his hurried questions from Vasya, who confined himself to a word or two, sometimes an irrelevant exclamation. 'Why, what is the matter with you, Vasya?' he cried at last, hardly able to keep up with him. 'Can you really be so uneasy?' 'Oh, brother, that's enough chatter!' Vasya answered, with vexation. 'Don't be depressed, Vasya—come, come,' Arkady interposed. 'Why, I have known you write much more in a shorter time! What's the matter? You've simply a talent for it! You can write quickly in an emergency; they are not going to lithograph your copy. You've plenty of time!... The only thing is that you are excited now, and preoccupied, and the work won't go so easily.' Vasya made no reply, or muttered something to himself, and they both ran home in genuine anxiety. Vasya sat down to the papers at once. Arkady Ivanovitch was quiet and silent; he noiselessly undressed and went to bed, keeping his eyes fixed on Vasya.... A sort of panic came over him.... 'What is the matter with him?' he thought to himself, looking at Vasya's face that grew whiter and whiter, at his feverish eyes, at the anxiety that was betrayed in every movement he made, 'why, his hand is shaking ... what a stupid! Why did I not advise him to sleep for a couple of hours, till he had slept off his nervous excitement, any way.' Vasya had just finished a page, he raised his eyes, glanced casually at Arkady and at once, looking down, took up his pen again. 'Listen, Vasya,' Arkady Ivanovitch began suddenly, 'wouldn't it be best to sleep a little now? Look, you are in a regular fever.' Vasya glanced at Arkady with vexation, almost with anger, and made no answer. 'Listen, Vasya, you'll make yourself ill.' Vasya at once changed his mind. 'How would it be to have tea, Arkady?' he said. 'How so? Why?' 'It will do me good. I am not sleepy, I'm not going to bed! I am going on writing. But now I should like to rest and have a cup of tea, and the worst moment will be over.' 'First-rate, brother Vasya, delightful! Just so. I was wanting to propose it myself. And I can't think why it did not occur to me to do so. But I say, Mavra won't get up, she won't wake for anything....' 'True.' 'That's no matter, though,' cried Arkady Ivanovitch, leaping out of bed. 'I will set the samovar myself. It won't be the first time....' Arkady Ivanovitch ran to the kitchen and set to work to get the samovar; Vasya meanwhile went on writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, moreover, dressed and ran out to the baker's, so that Vasya might have something to sustain him for the night. A quarter of an hour later the samovar was on the table. They began drinking tea, but conversation flagged. Vasya still seemed preoccupied. 'To-morrow,' he said at last, as though he had just thought of it, 'I shall have to take my congratulations for the New Year....' 'You need not go at all.' 'Oh yes, brother, I must,' said Vasya. 'Why, I will sign the visitors' book for you everywhere.... How can you? You work to-morrow. You must work to-night, till five o'clock in the morning, as I said, and then get to bed. Or else you will be good for nothing to-morrow. I'll wake you at eight o'clock, punctually.' 'But will it be all right, your signing for me?' said Vasya, half assenting. 'Why, what could be better? Everyone does it.' 'I am really afraid.' 'Why, why?' 'It's all right, you know, with other people, but Yulian Mastakovitch ... he has been so kind to me, you know, Arkasha, and when he notices it's not my own signature——' 'Notices! why, what a fellow you are, really, Vasya! How could he notice?... Come, you know I can imitate your signature awfully well, and make just the same flourish to it, upon my word I can. What nonsense! Who would notice?' Vasya, made no reply, but emptied his glass hurriedly.... Then he shook his head doubtfully. 'Vasya, dear boy! Ah, if only we succeed! Vasya, what's the matter with you, you quite frighten me! Do you know, Vasya, I am not going to bed now, I am not going to sleep! Show me, have you a great deal left?' Vasya gave Arkady such a look that his heart sank, and his tongue failed him. 'Vasya, what is the matter? What are you thinking? Why do you look like that?' 'Arkady, I really must go to-morrow to wish Yulian Mastakovitch a happy New Year.' 'Well, go then!' said Arkady, gazing at him open-eyed, in uneasy expectation. 'I say, Vasya, do write faster; I am advising you for your good, I really am! How often Yulian Mastakovitch himself has said that what he likes particularly about your writing is its legibility. Why, it is all that Skoroplehin cares for, that writing should be good and distinct like a copy, so as afterwards to pocket the paper and take it home for his children to copy; he can't buy copybooks, the blockhead! Yulian Mastakovitch is always saying, always insisting: 'Legible, legible, legible!'... What is the matter? Vasya, I really don't know how to talk to you ... it quite frightens me ... you crush me with your depression.' 'It's all right, it's all right,' said Vasya, and he fell back in his chair as though fainting. Arkady was alarmed. 'Will you have some water? Vasya! Vasya!' 'Don't, don't,' said Vasya, pressing his hand. 'I am all right, I only feel sad, I can't tell why. Better talk of something else; let me forget it.' 'Calm yourself, for goodness' sake, calm yourself, Vasya. You will finish it all right, on my honour, you will. And even if you don't finish, what will it matter? You talk as though it were a crime!' 'Arkady,' said Vasya, looking at his friend with such meaning that Arkady was quite frightened, for Vasya had never been so agitated before.... 'If I were alone, as I used to be.... No! I don't mean that. I keep wanting to tell you as a friend, to confide in you.... But why worry you, though?... You see, Arkady, to some much is given, others do a little thing as I do. Well, if gratitude, appreciation, is expected of you ... and you can't give it?' 'Vasya, I don't understand you in the least.' 'I have never been ungrateful,' Vasya went on softly, as though speaking to himself, 'but if I am incapable of expressing all I feel, it seems as though ... it seems, Arkady, as though I am really ungrateful, and that's killing me.' 'What next, what next! As though gratitude meant nothing more than your finishing that copy in time? Just think what you are saying, Vasya? Is that the whole expression of gratitude?' Vasya sank into silence at once, and looked open-eyed at Arkady, as though his unexpected argument had settled all his doubts. He even smiled, but the same melancholy expression came back to his face at once. Arkady, taking this smile as a sign that all his uneasiness was over, and the look that succeeded it as an indication that he was determined to do better, was greatly relieved. 'Well, brother Arkasha, you will wake up,' said Vasya, 'keep an eye on me; if I fall asleep it will be dreadful. I'll set to work now.... Arkasha?' 'What?' 'Oh, it's nothing, I only ... I meant....' Vasya settled himself, and said no more, Arkady got into bed. Neither of them said one word about their friends, the Artemyevs. Perhaps both of them felt that they had been a little to blame, and that they ought not to have gone for their jaunt when they did. Arkady soon fell asleep, still worried about Vasya. To his own surprise he woke up exactly at eight o'clock in the morning. Vasya was asleep in his chair with the pen in his hand, pale and exhausted; the candle had burnt out. Mavra was busy getting the samovar ready in the kitchen. 'Vasya, Vasya!' Arkady cried in alarm, 'when did you fall asleep?' Vasya opened his eyes and jumped up from his chair. 'Oh!' he cried, 'I must have fallen asleep....' He flew to the papers—everything was right; all were in order; there was not a blot of ink, nor spot of grease from the candle on them. 'I think I must have fallen asleep about six o'clock,' said Vasya. 'How cold it is in the night! Let us have tea, and I will go on again....' 'Do you feel better?' 'Yes, yes, I'm all right, I'm all right now.' 'A happy New Year to you, brother Vasya.' 'And to you too, brother, the same to you, dear boy.' They embraced each other. Vasya's chin was quivering and his eyes were moist. Arkady Ivanovitch was silent, he felt sad. They drank their tea hastily. 'Arkady, I've made up my mind, I am going myself to Yulian Mastakovitch.' 'Why, he wouldn't notice——' 'But my conscience feels ill at ease, brother.' 'But you know it's for his sake you are sitting here; it's for his sake you are wearing yourself out.' 'Enough!' 'Do you know what, brother, I'll go round and see....' 'Whom?' asked Vasya. 'The Artemyevs. I'll take them your good wishes for the New Year as well as mine.' 'My dear fellow! Well, I'll stay here; and I see it's a good idea of yours; I shall be working here, I shan't waste my time. Wait one minute, I'll write a note.' 'Yes, do brother, do, there's plenty of time. I've still to wash and shave and to brush my best coat. Well, Vasya, we are going to be contented and happy. Embrace me, Vasya.' 'Ah, if only we may, brother....' 'Does Mr. Shumkov live here?' they heard a child's voice on the stairs. 'Yes, my dear, yes,' said Mavra, showing the visitor in. 'What's that? What is it?' cried Vasya, leaping up from the table and rushing to the entry, 'Petinka, you?' 'Good morning, I have the honour to wish you a happy New Year, Vassily Petrovitch,' said a pretty boy of ten years old with curly black hair. 'Sister sends you her love, and so does Mamma, and Sister told me to give you a kiss for her.' Vasya caught the messenger up in the air and printed a long, enthusiastic kiss on his lips, which were very much like Lizanka's. 'Kiss him, Arkady,' he said handing Petya to him, and without touching the ground the boy was transferred to Arkady Ivanovitch's powerful and eager arms. 'Will you have some breakfast, dear?' 'Thank-you, very much. We have had it already, we got up early to-day, the others have gone to church. Sister was two hours curling my hair, and pomading it, washing me and mending my trousers, for I tore them yesterday, playing with Sashka in the street, we were snowballing.' 'Well, well, well!' 'So she dressed me up to come and see you, and then pomaded my head and then gave me a regular kissing. She said: 'Go to Vasya, wish him a happy New Year, and ask whether they are happy, whether they had a good night, and ...' to ask something else,—oh yes! whether you had finished the work you spoke of yesterday ... when you were there. Oh, I've got it all written down,' said the boy, reading from a slip of paper which he took out of his pocket. 'Yes, they were uneasy.' 'It will be finished! It will be! Tell her that it will be. I shall finish it, on my word of honour!' 'And something else.... Oh yes, I forgot. Sister sent a little note and a present, and I was forgetting it!...' 'My goodness! Oh, you little darling! Where is it? where is it? That's it, oh! Look, brother, see what she writes. The dar—ling, the precious! You know I saw there yesterday a paper-case for me; it's not finished, so she says, 'I am sending you a lock of my hair, and the other will come later.' Look, brother, look!' And overwhelmed with rapture he showed Arkady Ivanovitch a curl of luxuriant, jet-black hair; then he kissed it fervently and put it in his breast pocket, nearest his heart. 'Vasya, I shall get you a locket for that curl,' Arkady Ivanovitch said resolutely at last. 'And we are going to have hot veal, and to-morrow brains. Mamma wants to make cakes ... but we are not going to have millet porridge,' said the boy, after a moment's thought, to wind up his budget of interesting items. 'Oh! what a pretty boy,' cried Arkady Ivanovitch. 'Vasya, you are the happiest of mortals.' The boy finished his tea, took from Vasya a note, a thousand kisses, and went out happy and frolicsome as before. 'Well, brother,' began Arkady Ivanovitch, highly delighted, 'you see how splendid it all is; you see. Everything is going well, don't be downcast, don't be uneasy. Go ahead! Get it done, Vasya, get it done. I'll be home at two o'clock. I'll go round to them, and then to Yulian Mastakovitch.' 'Well, good-bye, brother; good-bye.... Oh! if only.... Very good, you go, very good,' said Vasya, 'then I really won't go to Yulian Mastakovitch.' 'Good-bye.' 'Stay, brother, stay, tell them ... well, whatever you think fit. Kiss her ... and give me a full account of everything afterwards.' 'Come, come—of course, I know all about it. This happiness has upset you. The suddenness of it all; you've not been yourself since yesterday. You have not got over the excitement of yesterday. Well, it's settled. Now try and get over it, Vasya. Good-bye, good-bye!' At last the friends parted. All the morning Arkady Ivanovitch was preoccupied, and could think of nothing but Vasya. He knew his weak, highly nervous character. 'Yes, this happiness has upset him, I was right there,' he said to himself. 'Upon my word, he has made me quite depressed, too, that man will make a tragedy of anything! What a feverish creature! Oh, I must save him! I must save him!' said Arkady, not noticing that he himself was exaggerating into something serious a slight trouble, in reality quite trivial. Only at eleven o'clock he reached the porter's lodge of Yulian Mastakovitch's house, to add his modest name to the long list of illustrious persons who had written their names on a sheet of blotted and scribbled paper in the porter's lodge. What was his surprise when he saw just above his own the signature of Vasya Shumkov! It amazed him. 'What's the matter with him?' he thought. Arkady Ivanovitch, who had just been so buoyant with hope, came out feeling upset. There was certainly going to be trouble, but how? And in what form? He reached the Artemyevs with gloomy forebodings; he seemed absent-minded from the first, and after talking a little with Lizanka went away with tears in his eyes; he was really anxious about Vasya. He went home running, and on the Neva came full tilt upon Vasya himself. The latter, too, was uneasy. 'Where are you going?' cried Arkady Ivanovitch. Vasya stopped as though he had been caught in a crime. 'Oh, it's nothing, brother, I wanted to go for a walk.' 'You could not stand it, and have been to the Artemyevs? Oh, Vasya, Vasya! Why did you go to Yulian Mastakovitch?' Vasya did not answer, but then with a wave of his hand, he said: 'Arkady, I don't know what is the matter with me. I....' 'Come, come, Vasya. I know what it is. Calm yourself. You've been excited, and overwrought ever since yesterday. Only think, it's not much to bear. Everybody's fond of you, everybody's ready to do anything for you; your work is getting on all right; you will get it done, you will certainly get it done. I know that you have been imagining something, you have had apprehensions about something....' 'No, it's all right, it's all right....' 'Do you remember, Vasya, do you remember it was the same with you once before; do you remember, when you got your promotion, in your joy and thankfulness you were so zealous that you spoilt all your work for a week? It is just the same with you now.' 'Yes, yes, Arkady; but now it is different, it is not that at all.' 'How is it different? And very likely the work is not urgent at all, while you are killing yourself....' 'It's nothing, it's nothing. I am all right, it's nothing. Well, come along!' 'Why, are you going home, and not to them?' 'Yes, brother, how could I have the face to turn up there?... I have changed my mind. It was only that I could not stay on alone without you; now you are coming back with me I'll sit down to write again. Let us go!' They walked along and for some time were silent. Vasya was in haste. 'Why don't you ask me about them?' said Arkady Ivanovitch. 'Oh, yes! Well, Arkasha, what about them?' 'Vasya, you are not like yourself.' 'Oh, I am all right, I am all right. Tell me everything, Arkasha,' said Vasya, in an imploring voice, as though to avoid further explanations. Arkady Ivanovitch sighed. He felt utterly at a loss, looking at Vasya. His account of their friends roused Vasya. He even grew talkative. They had dinner together. Lizanka's mother had filled Arkady Ivanovitch's pockets with little cakes, and eating them the friends grew more cheerful. After dinner Vasya promised to take a nap, so as to sit up all night. He did, in fact, lie down. In the morning, some one whom it was impossible to refuse had invited Arkady Ivanovitch to tea. The friends parted. Arkady promised to come back as soon as he could, by eight o'clock if possible. The three hours of separation seemed to him like three years. At last he got away and rushed back to Vasya. When he went into the room, he found it in darkness. Vasya was not at home. He asked Mavra. Mavra said that he had been writing all the time, and had not slept at all, then he had paced up and down the room, and after that, an hour before, he had run out, saying he would be back in half-an-hour; 'and when, says he, Arkady Ivanovitch comes in, tell him, old woman, says he,' Mavra told him in conclusion, 'that I have gone out for a walk,' and he repeated the order three or four times. 'He is at the Artemyevs,' thought Arkady Ivanovitch, and he shook his head. A minute later he jumped up with renewed hope. 'He has simply finished,' he thought, 'that's all it is; he couldn't wait, but ran off there. But, no! he would have waited for me.... Let's have a peep what he has there.' He lighted a candle, and ran to Vasya's writing-table: the work had made progress and it looked as though there were not much left to do. Arkady Ivanovitch was about to investigate further, when Vasya himself walked in.... 'Oh, you are here?' he cried, with a start of dismay. Arkady Ivanovitch was silent. He was afraid to question Vasya. The latter dropped his eyes and remained silent too, as he began sorting the papers. At last their eyes met. The look in Vasya's was so beseeching, imploring, and broken, that Arkady shuddered when he saw it. His heart quivered and was full. 'Vasya, my dear boy, what is it? What's wrong?' he cried, rushing to him and squeezing him in his arms. 'Explain to me, I don't understand you, and your depression. What is the matter with you, my poor, tormented boy? What is it? Tell me all about it, without hiding anything. It can't be only this——' Vasya held him tight and could say nothing. He could scarcely breathe. 'Don't, Vasya, don't! Well, if you don't finish it, what then? I don't understand you; tell me your trouble. You see it is for your sake I.... Oh dear! oh dear!' he said, walking up and down the room and clutching at everything he came across, as though seeking at once some remedy for Vasya. 'I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch instead of you to-morrow. I will ask him—entreat him—to let you have another day. I will explain it all to him, anything, if it worries you so....' 'God forbid!' cried Vasya, and turned as white as the wall. He could scarcely stand on his feet. 'Vasya! Vasya!' Vasya pulled himself together. His lips were quivering; he tried to say something, but could only convulsively squeeze Arkady's hand in silence. His hand was cold. Arkady stood facing him, full of anxious and miserable suspense. Vasya raised his eyes again. 'Vasya, God bless you, Vasya! You wring my heart, my dear boy, my friend.' Tears gushed from Vasya's eyes; he flung himself on Arkady's bosom. 'I have deceived you, Arkady,' he said. 'I have deceived you. Forgive me, forgive me! I have been faithless to your friendship....' 'What is it, Vasya? What is the matter?' asked Arkady, in real alarm. 'Look!' And with a gesture of despair Vasya tossed out of the drawer on to the table six thick manuscripts, similar to the one he had copied. 'What's this?' 'What I have to get through by the day after to-morrow. I haven't done a quarter! Don't ask me, don't ask me how it has happened,' Vasya went on, speaking at once of what was distressing him so terribly. 'Arkady, dear friend, I don't know myself what came over me. I feel as though I were coming out of a dream. I have wasted three weeks doing nothing. I kept ... I ... kept going to see her.... My heart was aching, I was tormented by ... the uncertainty ... I could not write. I did not even think about it. Only now, when happiness is at hand for me, I have come to my senses.' 'Vasya,' began Arkady Ivanovitch resolutely, 'Vasya, I will save you. I understand it all. It's a serious matter; I will save you. Listen! listen to me: I will go to Yulian Mastakovitch to-morrow.... Don't shake your head; no, listen! I will tell him exactly how it has all been; let me do that ... I will explain to him.... I will go into everything. I will tell him how crushed you are, how you are worrying yourself.' 'Do you know that you are killing me now?' Vasya brought out, turning cold with horror. Arkady Ivanovitch turned pale, but at once controlling himself, laughed. 'Is that all? Is that all?' he said. 'Upon my word, Vasya, upon my word! Aren't you ashamed? Come, listen! I see that I am grieving you. You see I understand you; I know what is passing in your heart. Why, we have been living together for five years, thank God! You are such a kind, soft-hearted fellow, but weak, unpardonably weak. Why, even Lizaveta Mikalovna has noticed it. And you are a dreamer, and that's a bad thing, too; you may go from bad to worse, brother. I tell you, I know what you want! You would like Yulian Mastakovitch, for instance, to be beside himself and, maybe, to give a ball, too, from joy, because you are going to get married.... Stop, stop! you are frowning. You see that at one word from me you are offended on Yulian Mastakovitch's account. I'll let him alone. You know I respect him just as much as you do. But argue as you may, you can't prevent my thinking that you would like there to be no one unhappy in the whole world when you are getting married.... Yes, brother, you must admit that you would like me, for instance, your best friend, to come in for a fortune of a hundred thousand all of a sudden, you would like all the enemies in the world to be suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, reconciled, so that in their joy they might all embrace one another in the middle of the street, and then, perhaps, come here to call on you. Vasya, my dear boy, I am not laughing; it is true; you've said as much to me long ago, in different ways. Because you are happy, you want every one, absolutely every one, to become happy at once. It hurts you and troubles you to be happy alone. And so you want at once to do your utmost to be worthy of that happiness, and maybe to do some great deed to satisfy your conscience. Oh! I understand how ready you are to distress yourself for having suddenly been remiss just where you ought to have shown your zeal, your capacity ... well, maybe your gratitude, as you say. It is very bitter for you to think that Yulian Mastakovitch may frown and even be angry when he sees that you have not justified the expectations he had of you. It hurts you to think that you may hear reproaches from the man you look upon as your benefactor—and at such a moment! when your heart is full of joy and you don't know on whom to lavish your gratitude.... Isn't that true? It is, isn't it?' Arkady Ivanovitch, whose voice was trembling, paused, and drew a deep breath. Vasya looked affectionately at his friend. A smile passed over his lips. His face even lighted up, as though with a gleam of hope. 'Well, listen, then,' Arkady Ivanovitch began again, growing more hopeful, 'there's no necessity that you should forfeit Yulian Mastakovitch's favour.... Is there, dear boy? Is there any question of it? And since it is so,' said Arkady, jumping up, 'I shall sacrifice myself for you. I am going to-morrow to Yulian Mastakovitch, and don't oppose me. You magnify your failure to a crime, Vasya. Yulian Mastakovitch is magnanimous and merciful, and, what is more, he is not like you. He will listen to you and me, and get us out of our trouble, brother Vasya. Well, are you calmer?' Vasya pressed his friend's hands with tears in his eyes. 'Hush, hush, Arkady,' he said, 'the thing is settled. I haven't finished, so very well; if I haven't finished, I haven't finished, and there's no need for you to go. I will tell him all about it, I will go myself. I am calmer now, I am perfectly calm; only you mustn't go.... But listen....' 'Vasya, my dear boy,' Arkady Ivanovitch cried joyfully, 'I judged from what you said. I am glad that you have thought better of things and have recovered yourself. But whatever may befall you, whatever happens, I am with you, remember that. I see that it worries you to think of my speaking to Yulian Mastakovitch—and I won't say a word, not a word, you shall tell him yourself. You see, you shall go to-morrow.... Oh no, you had better not go, you'll go on writing here, you see, and I'll find out about this work, whether it is very urgent or not, whether it must be done by the time or not, and if you don't finish it in time what will come of it. Then I will run back to you. Do you see, do you see! There is still hope; suppose the work is not urgent—it may be all right. Yulian Mastakovitch may not remember, then all is saved.' Vasya shook his head doubtfully. But his grateful eyes never left his friend's face. 'Come, that's enough, I am so weak, so tired,' he said, sighing. 'I don't want to think about it. Let us talk of something else. I won't write either now; do you know I'll only finish two short pages just to get to the end of a passage. Listen ... I have long wanted to ask you, how is it you know me so well?' Tears dropped from Vasya's eyes on Arkady's hand. 'If you knew, Vasya, how fond I am of you, you would not ask that—yes!' 'Yes, yes, Arkady, I don't know that, because I don't know why you are so fond of me. Yes, Arkady, do you know, even your love has been killing me? Do you know, ever so many times, particularly when I am thinking of you in bed (for I always think of you when I am falling asleep), I shed tears, and my heart throbs at the thought ... at the thought.... Well, at the thought that you are so fond of me, while I can do nothing to relieve my heart, can do nothing to repay you.' 'You see, Vasya, you see what a fellow you are! Why, how upset you are now,' said Arkady, whose heart ached at that moment and who remembered the scene in the street the day before. 'Nonsense, you want me to be calm, but I never have been so calm and happy! Do you know.... Listen, I want to tell you all about it, but I am afraid of wounding you.... You keep scolding me and being vexed; and I am afraid.... See how I am trembling now, I don't know why. You see, this is what I want to say. I feel as though I had never known myself before—yes! Yes, I only began to understand other people too, yesterday. I did not feel or appreciate things fully, brother. My heart ... was hard.... Listen how has it happened, that I have never done good to any one, any one in the world, because I couldn't—I am not even pleasant to look at.... But everybody does me good! You, to begin with: do you suppose I don't see that? Only I said nothing; only I said nothing.' 'Hush, Vasya!' 'Oh, Arkasha! ... it's all right,' Vasya interrupted, hardly able to articulate for tears. 'I talked to you yesterday about Yulian Mastakovitch. And you know yourself how stern and severe he is, even you have come in for a reprimand from him; yet he deigned to jest with me yesterday, to show his affection, and kindheartedness, which he prudently conceals from every one....' 'Come, Vasya, that only shows you deserve your good fortune.' 'Oh, Arkasha! How I longed to finish all this.... No, I shall ruin my good luck! I feel that! Oh no, not through that,' Vasya added, seeing that Arkady glanced at the heap of urgent work lying on the table, 'that's nothing, that's only paper covered with writing ... it's nonsense! That matter's settled.... I went to see them to-day, Arkasha; I did not go in. I felt depressed and sad. I simply stood at the door. She was playing the piano, I listened. You see, Arkady,' he went on, dropping his voice, 'I did not dare to go in.' 'I say, Vasya—what is the matter with you? You look at one so strangely.' 'Oh, it's nothing, I feel a little sick; my legs are trembling; it's because I sat up last night. Yes! Everything looks green before my eyes. It's here, here——' He pointed to his heart. He fainted. When he came to himself Arkady tried to take forcible measures. He tried to compel him to go to bed. Nothing would induce Vasya to consent. He shed tears, wrung his hands, wanted to write, was absolutely set on finishing his two pages. To avoid exciting him Arkady let him sit down to the work. 'Do you know,' said Vasya, as he settled himself in his place, 'an idea has occurred to me? There is hope.' He smiled to Arkady, and his pale face lighted up with a gleam of hope. 'I will take him what is done the day after to-morrow. About the rest I will tell a lie. I will say it has been burnt, that it has been sopped in water, that I have lost it.... That, in fact, I have not finished it; I cannot lie. I will explain, do you know, what? I'll explain to him all about it. I will tell him how it was that I could not. I'll tell him about my love; he has got married himself just lately, he'll understand me. I will do it all, of course, respectfully, quietly; he will see my tears and be touched by them....' 'Yes, of course, you must go, you must go and explain to him.... But there's no need of tears! Tears for what? Really, Vasya, you quite scare me.' 'Yes, I'll go, I'll go. But now let me write, let me write, Arkasha. I am not interfering with any one, let me write!' Arkady flung himself on the bed. He had no confidence in Vasya, no confidence at all. 'Vasya was capable of anything, but to ask forgiveness for what? how? That was not the point. The point was, that Vasya had not carried out his obligations, that Vasya felt guilty in his own eyes, felt that he was ungrateful to destiny, that Vasya was crushed, overwhelmed by happiness and thought himself unworthy of it; that, in fact, he was simply trying to find an excuse to go off his head on that point, and that he had not recovered from the unexpectedness of what had happened the day before; that's what it is,' thought Arkady Ivanovitch. 'I must save him. I must reconcile him to himself. He will be his own ruin.' He thought and thought, and resolved to go at once next day to Yulian Mastakovitch, and to tell him all about it. Vasya was sitting writing. Arkady Ivanovitch, worn out, lay down to think things over again, and only woke at daybreak. 'Damnation! Again!' he cried, looking at Vasya; the latter was still sitting writing. Arkady rushed up to him, seized him and forcibly put him to bed. Vasya was smiling: his eyes were closing with sleep. He could hardly speak. 'I wanted to go to bed,' he said. 'Do you know, Arkady, I have an idea; I shall finish. I made my pen go faster! I could not have sat at it any longer; wake me at eight o'clock.' Without finishing his sentence, he dropped asleep and slept like the dead. 'Mavra,' said Arkady Ivanovitch to Mavra, who came in with the tea, 'he asked to be waked in an hour. Don't wake him on any account! Let him sleep ten hours, if he can. Do you understand?' 'I understand, sir.' 'Don't get the dinner, don't bring in the wood, don't make a noise or it will be the worse for you. If he asks for me, tell him I have gone to the office—do you understand?' 'I understand, bless you, sir; let him sleep and welcome! I am glad my gentlemen should sleep well, and I take good care of their things. And about that cup that was broken, and you blamed me, your honour, it wasn't me, it was poor pussy broke it, I ought to have kept an eye on her. 'S-sh, you confounded thing,' I said.' 'Hush, be quiet, be quiet!' Arkady Ivanovitch followed Mavra out into the kitchen, asked for the key and locked her up there. Then he went to the office. On the way he considered how he could present himself before Yulian Mastakovitch, and whether it would be appropriate and not impertinent. He went into the office timidly, and timidly inquired whether His Excellency were there; receiving the answer that he was not and would not be, Arkady Ivanovitch instantly thought of going to his flat, but reflected very prudently that if Yulian Mastakovitch had not come to the office he would certainly be busy at home. He remained. The hours seemed to him endless. Indirectly he inquired about the work entrusted to Shumkov, but no one knew anything about this. All that was known was that Yulian Mastakovitch did employ him on special jobs, but what they were—no one could say. At last it struck three o'clock, and Arkady Ivanovitch rushed out, eager to get home. In the vestibule he was met by a clerk, who told him that Vassily Petrovitch Shumkov had come about one o'clock and asked, the clerk added, 'whether you were here, and whether Yulian Mastakovitch had been here.' Hearing this Arkady Ivanovitch took a sledge and hastened home beside himself with alarm. Shumkov was at home. He was walking about the room in violent excitement. Glancing at Arkady Ivanovitch, he immediately controlled himself, reflected, and hastened to conceal his emotion. He sat down to his papers without a word. He seemed to avoid his friend's questions, seemed to be bothered by them, to be pondering to himself on some plan, and deciding to conceal his decision, because he could not reckon further on his friend's affection. This struck Arkady, and his heart ached with a poignant and oppressive pain. He sat on the bed and began turning over the leaves of some book, the only one he had in his possession, keeping his eye on poor Vasya. But Vasya remained obstinately silent, writing, and not raising his head. So passed several hours, and Arkady's misery reached an extreme point. At last, at eleven o'clock, Vasya lifted his head and looked with a fixed, vacant stare at Arkady. Arkady waited. Two or three minutes passed; Vasya did not speak. 'Vasya!' cried Arkady. Vasya made no answer. 'Vasya!' he repeated, jumping up from the bed, 'Vasya, what is the matter with you? What is it?' he cried, running up to him. Vasya raised his eyes and again looked at him with the same vacant, fixed stare. 'He's in a trance!' thought Arkady, trembling all over with fear. He seized a bottle of water, raised Vasya, poured some water on his head, moistened his temples, rubbed his hands in his own—and Vasya came to himself. 'Vasya, Vasya!' cried Arkady, unable to restrain his tears. 'Vasya, save yourself, rouse yourself, rouse yourself!...' He could say no more, but held him tight in his arms. A look as of some oppressive sensation passed over Vasya's face; he rubbed his forehead and clutched at his head, as though he were afraid it would burst. 'I don't know what is the matter with me,' he added, at last. 'I feel torn to pieces. Come, it's all right, it's all right! Give over, Arkady; don't grieve,' he repeated, looking at him with sad, exhausted eyes. 'Why be so anxious? Come!' 'You, you comforting me!' cried Arkady, whose heart was torn. 'Vasya,' he said at last, 'lie down and have a little nap, won't you? Don't wear yourself out for nothing! You'll set to work better afterwards.' 'Yes, yes,' said Vasya, 'by all means, I'll lie down, very good. Yes! you see I meant to finish, but now I've changed my mind, yes....' And Arkady led him to the bed. 'Listen, Vasya,' he said firmly, 'we must settle this matter finally. Tell me what were you thinking about?' 'Oh!' said Vasya, with a flourish of his weak hand turning over on the other side. 'Come, Vasya, come, make up your mind. I don't want to hurt you. I can't be silent any longer. You won't sleep till you've made up your mind, I know.' 'As you like, as you like,' Vasya repeated enigmatically. 'He will give in,' thought Arkady Ivanovitch. 'Attend to me, Vasya,' he said, 'remember what I say, and I will save you tomorrow; to-morrow I will decide your fate! What am I saying, your fate? You have so frightened me, Vasya, that I am using your own words. Fate, indeed! It's simply nonsense, rubbish! You don't want to lose Yulian Mastakovitch's favour —affection, if you like. No! And you won't lose it, you will see. I——' Arkady Ivanovitch would have said more, but Vasya interrupted him. He sat up in bed, put both arms round Arkady Ivanovitch's neck and kissed him. 'Enough,' he said in a weak voice, 'enough! Say no more about that!' And again he turned his face to the wall. 'My goodness!' thought Arkady, 'my goodness! What is the matter with him? He is utterly lost. What has he in his mind! He will be his own undoing.' Arkady looked at him in despair. 'If he were to fall ill,' thought Arkady, 'perhaps it would be better. His trouble would pass off with illness, and that might be the best way of settling the whole business. But what nonsense I am talking. Oh, my God!' Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be asleep. Arkady Ivanovitch was relieved. 'A good sign,' he thought. He made up his mind to sit beside him all night. But Vasya was restless; he kept twitching and tossing about on the bed, and opening his eyes for an instant. At last exhaustion got the upper hand, he slept like the dead. It was about two o'clock in the morning, Arkady Ivanovitch began to doze in the chair with his elbow on the table! He had a strange and agitated dream. He kept fancying that he was not asleep, and that Vasya was still lying on the bed. But strange to say, he fancied that Vasya was pretending, that he was deceiving him, that he was getting up, stealthily watching him out of the corner of his eye, and was stealing up to the writing table. Arkady felt a scalding pain at his heart; he felt vexed and sad and oppressed to see Vasya not trusting him, hiding and concealing himself from him. He tried to catch hold of him, to call out, to carry him to the bed. Then Vasya kept shrieking in his arms, and he laid on the bed a lifeless corpse. He opened his eyes and woke up; Vasya was sitting before him at the table, writing. Hardly able to believe his senses, Arkady glanced at the bed; Vasya was not there. Arkady jumped up in a panic, still under the influence of his dream. Vasya did not stir; he went on writing. All at once Arkady noticed with horror that Vasya was moving a dry pen over the paper, was turning over perfectly blank pages, and hurrying, hurrying to fill up the paper as though he were doing his work in a most thorough and efficient way. 'No, this is not a trance,' thought Arkady Ivanovitch, and he trembled all over. 'Vasya, Vasya, speak to me,' he cried, clutching him by the shoulder. But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen over the paper. 'At last I have made the pen go faster,' he said, without looking up at Arkady. Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen. A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in thought, he let his head sink on his breast. 'Vasya, Vasya!' cried Arkady in despair. 'Vasya!' A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes, and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered something. 'What, what is it?' cried Arkady, bending down to him. 'What for, why are they doing it to me?' whispered Vasya. 'What for? What have I done?' 'Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it?' cried Arkady, wringing his hands in despair. 'Why are they sending me for a soldier?' said Vasya, looking his friend straight in the face. 'Why is it? What have I done?' Arkady's hair stood on end with horror; he refused to believe his ears. He stood over him, half dead. A minute later he pulled himself together. 'It's nothing, it's only for the minute,' he said to himself, with pale face and blue, quivering lips, and he hastened to put on his outdoor things. He meant to run straight for a doctor. All at once Vasya called to him. Arkady rushed to him and clasped him in his arms like a mother whose child is being torn from her. 'Arkady, Arkady, don't tell any one! Don't tell any one, do you hear? It is my trouble, I must bear it alone.' 'What is it—what is it? Rouse yourself, Vasya, rouse yourself!' Vasya sighed, and slow tears trickled down his cheeks. 'Why kill her? How is she to blame?' he muttered in an agonized, heartrending voice. 'The sin is mine, the sin is mine!' He was silent for a moment. 'Farewell, my love! Farewell, my love!' he whispered, shaking his luckless head. Arkady started, pulled himself together and would have rushed for the doctor. 'Let us go, it is time,' cried Vasya, carried away by Arkady's last movement. 'Let us go, brother, let us go; I am ready. You lead the way.' He paused and looked at Arkady with a downcast and mistrustful face. 'Vasya, for goodness' sake, don't follow me! Wait for me here. I will come back to you directly, directly,' said Arkady Ivanovitch, losing his head and snatching up his cap to run for a doctor. Vasya sat down at once, he was quiet and docile; but there was a gleam of some desperate resolution in his eye. Arkady turned back, snatched up from the table an open penknife, looked at the poor fellow for the last time, and ran out of the flat. It was eight o'clock. It had been broad daylight for some time in the room. He found no one. He was running about for a full hour. All the doctors whose addresses he had got from the house porter when he inquired of the latter whether there were no doctor living in the building, had gone out, either to their work or on their private affairs. There was one who saw patients. This one questioned at length and in detail the servant who announced that Nefedevitch had called, asking him who it was, from whom he came, what was the matter, and concluded by saying that he could not go, that he had a great deal to do, and that patients of that kind ought to be taken to a hospital. Then Arkady, exhausted, agitated, and utterly taken aback by this turn of affairs, cursed all the doctors on earth, and rushed home in the utmost alarm about Vasya. He ran into the flat. Mavra, as though there were nothing the matter, went on scrubbing the floor, breaking up wood and preparing to light the stove. He went into the room; there was no trace of Vasya, he had gone out. 'Which way? Where? Where will the poor fellow be off to?' thought Arkady, frozen with terror. He began questioning Mavra. She knew nothing, had neither seen nor heard him go out, God bless him! Nefedevitch rushed off to the Artemyevs'. It occurred to him for some reason that he must be there. It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived. They did not expect him, knew nothing and had heard nothing. He stood before them frightened, distressed, and asked where was Vasya? The mother's legs gave way under her; she sank back on the sofa. Lizanka, trembling with alarm, began asking what had happened. What could he say? Arkady Ivanovitch got out of it as best he could, invented some tale which of course was not believed, and fled, leaving them distressed and anxious. He flew to his department that he might not be too late there, and he let them know that steps might be taken at once. On the way it occurred to him that Vasya would be at Yulian Mastakovitch's. That was more likely than anything: Arkady had thought of that first of all, even before the Artemyevs'. As he drove by His Excellency's door, he thought of stopping, but at once told the driver to go straight on. He made up his mind to try and find out whether anything had happened at the office, and if he were not there to go to His Excellency, ostensibly to report on Vasya. Some one must be informed of it. As soon as he got into the waiting-room he was surrounded by fellow-clerks, for the most part young men of his own standing in the service. With one voice they began asking him what had happened to Vasya? At the same time they all told him that Vasya had gone out of his mind, and thought that he was to be sent for a soldier as a punishment for having neglected his work. Arkady Ivanovitch, answering them in all directions, or rather avoiding giving a direct answer to any one, rushed into the inner room. On the way he learned that Vasya was in Yulian Mastakovitch's private room, that every one had been there and that Esper Ivanovitch had gone in there too. He was stopped on the way. One of the senior clerks asked him who he was and what he wanted? Without distinguishing the person he said something about Vasya and went straight into the room. He heard Yulian Mastakovitch's voice from within. 'Where are you going?' some one asked him at the very door. Arkady Ivanovitch was almost in despair; he was on the point of turning back, but through the open door he saw his poor Vasya. He pushed the door and squeezed his way into the room. Every one seemed to be in confusion and perplexity, because Yulian Mastakovitch was apparently much chagrined. All the more important personages were standing about him talking, and coming to no decision. At a little distance stood Vasya. Arkady's heart sank when he looked at him. Vasya was standing, pale, with his head up, stiffly erect, like a recruit before a new officer, with his feet together and his hands held rigidly at his sides. He was looking Yulian Mastakovitch straight in the face. Arkady was noticed at once, and some one who knew that they lodged together mentioned the fact to His Excellency. Arkady was led up to him. He tried to make some answer to the questions put to him, glanced at Yulian Mastakovitch and seeing on his face a look of genuine compassion, began trembling and sobbing like a child. He even did more, he snatched His Excellency's hand and held it to his eyes, wetting it with his tears, so that Yulian Mastakovitch was obliged to draw it hastily away, and waving it in the air, said, 'Come, my dear fellow, come! I see you have a good heart.' Arkady sobbed and turned an imploring look on every one. It seemed to him that they were all brothers of his dear Vasya, that they were all worried and weeping about him. 'How, how has it happened? how has it happened?' asked Yulian Mastakovitch. 'What has sent him out of his mind?' 'Gra—gra—gratitude!' was all Arkady Ivanovitch could articulate. Every one heard his answer with amazement, and it seemed strange and incredible to every one that a man could go out of his mind from gratitude. Arkady explained as best he could. 'Good Heavens! what a pity!' said Yulian Mastakovitch at last. 'And the work entrusted to him was not important, and not urgent in the least. It was not worth while for a man to kill himself over it! Well, take him away!'... At this point Yulian Mastakovitch turned to Arkady Ivanovitch again, and began questioning him once more. 'He begs,' he said, pointing to Vasya, 'that some girl should not be told of this. Who is she—his betrothed, I suppose?' Arkady began to explain. Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be thinking of something, as though he were straining his memory to the utmost to recall some important, necessary matter, which was particularly wanted at this moment. From time to time he looked round with a distressed face, as though hoping some one would remind him of what he had forgotten. He fastened his eyes on Arkady. All of a sudden there was a gleam of hope in his eyes; he moved with the left leg forward, took three steps as smartly as he could, clicking with his right boot as soldiers do when they move forward at the call from their officer. Every one was waiting to see what would happen. 'I have a physical defect and am small and weak, and I am not fit for military service, Your Excellency,' he said abruptly. At that every one in the room felt a pang at his heart, and firm as was Yulian Mastakovitch's character, tears trickled from his eyes. 'Take him away,' he said, with a wave of his hands. 'Present!' said Vasya in an undertone; he wheeled round to the left and marched out of the room. All who were interested in his fate followed him out. Arkady pushed his way out behind the others. They made Vasya sit down in the waitingroom till the carriage came which had been ordered to take him to the hospital. He sat down in silence and seemed in great anxiety. He nodded to any one he recognized as though saying good-bye. He looked round towards the door every minute, and prepared himself to set off when he should be told it was time. People crowded in a close circle round him; they were all shaking their heads and lamenting. Many of them were much impressed by his story, which had suddenly become known. Some discussed his illness, while others expressed their pity and high opinion of Vasya, saying that he was such a quiet, modest young man, that he had been so promising; people described what efforts he had made to learn, how eager he was for knowledge, how he had worked to educate himself. 'He had risen by his own efforts from a humble position,' some one observed. They spoke with emotion of His Excellency's affection for him. Some of them fell to explaining why Vasya was possessed by the idea that he was being sent for a soldier, because he had not finished his work. They said that the poor fellow had so lately belonged to the class liable for military service and had only received his first grade through the good offices of Yulian Mastakovitch, who had had the cleverness to discover his talent, his docility, and the rare mildness of his disposition. In fact, there was a great number of views and theories. A very short fellow-clerk of Vasya's was conspicuous as being particularly distressed. He was not very young, probably about thirty. He was pale as a sheet, trembling all over and smiling queerly, perhaps because any scandalous affair or terrible scene both frightens, and at the same time somewhat rejoices the outside spectator. He kept running round the circle that surrounded Vasya, and as he was so short, stood on tiptoe and caught at the button of every one—that is, of those with whom he felt entitled to take such a liberty—and kept saying that he knew how it had all happened, that it was not so simple, but a very important matter, that it couldn't be left without further inquiry; then stood on tiptoe again, whispered in some one's ear, nodded his head again two or three times, and ran round again. At last everything was over. The porter made his appearance, and an attendant from the hospital went up to Vasya and told him it was time to start. Vasya jumped up in a flutter and went with them, looking about him. He was looking about for some one. 'Vasya, Vasya!' cried Arkady Ivanovitch, sobbing. Vasya stopped, and Arkady squeezed his way up to him. They flung themselves into each other's arms in a last bitter embrace. It was sad to see them. What monstrous calamity was wringing the tears from their eyes! What were they weeping for? What was their trouble? Why did they not understand one another? 'Here, here, take it! Take care of it,' said Shumkov, thrusting a paper of some kind into Arkady's hand. 'They will take it away from me. Bring it me later on; bring it ... take care of it....' Vasya could not finish, they called to him. He ran hurriedly downstairs, nodding to every one, saying good-bye to every one. There was despair in his face. At last he was put in the carriage and taken away. Arkady made haste to open the paper: it was Liza's curl of black hair, from which Vasya had never parted. Hot tears gushed from Arkady's eyes: oh, poor Liza! When office hours were over, he went to the Artemyevs'. There is no need to describe what happened there! Even Petya, little Petya, though he could not quite understand what had happened to dear Vasya, went into a corner, hid his face in his little hands, and sobbed in the fullness of his childish heart. It was quite dusk when Arkady returned home. When he reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood-red glow of sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon.... Night lay over the city, and the wide plain of the Neva, swollen with frozen snow, was shining in the last gleams of the sun with myriads of sparks of gleaming hoar frost. There was a frost of twenty degrees. A cloud of frozen steam hung about the overdriven horses and the hurrying people. The condensed atmosphere quivered at the slightest sound, and from all the roofs on both sides of the river, columns of smoke rose up like giants and floated across the cold sky, intertwining and untwining as they went, so that it seemed new buildings were rising up above the old, a new town was taking shape in the air.... It seemed as if all that world, with all its inhabitants, strong and weak, with all their habitations, the refuges of the poor, or the gilded palaces for the comfort of the powerful of this world was at that twilight hour like a fantastic vision of fairy-land, like a dream which in its turn would vanish and pass away like vapour into the dark blue sky. A strange thought came to poor Vasya's forlorn friend. He started, and his heart seemed at that instant flooded with a hot rush of blood kindled by a powerful, overwhelming sensation he had never known before. He seemed only now to understand all the trouble, and to know why his poor Vasya had gone out of his mind, unable to bear his happiness. His lips twitched, his eyes lighted up, he turned pale, and as it were had a clear vision into something new. He became gloomy and depressed, and lost all his gaiety. His old lodging grew hateful to him—he took a new room. He did not care to visit the Artemyevs, and indeed he could not. Two years later he met Lizanka in church. She was by then married; beside her walked a wet nurse with a tiny baby. They greeted each other, and for a long time avoided all mention of the past. Liza said that, thank God, she was happy, that she was not badly off, that her husband was a kind man and that she was fond of him.... But suddenly in the middle of a sentence her eyes filled with tears, her voice failed, she turned away, and bowed down to the church pavement to hide her grief. A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING A STORY The other day I saw a wedding ... but no, I had better tell you about the Christmas tree. The wedding was nice, I liked it very much; but the other incident was better. I don't know how it was that, looking at that wedding, I thought of that Christmas tree. This was what happened. Just five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a children's party. The giver of the party was a well-known and business-like personage, with connections, with a large circle of acquaintances, and a good many schemes on hand, so that it may be supposed that this party was an excuse for getting the parents together and discussing various interesting matters in an innocent, casual way. I was an outsider; I had no interesting matter to contribute, and so I spent the evening rather independently. There was another gentleman present who was, I fancied, of no special rank or family, and who, like me, had simply turned up at this family festivity. He was the first to catch my eye. He was a tall, lanky man, very grave and very correctly dressed. But one could see that he was in no mood for merrymaking and family festivity; whenever he withdrew into a corner he left off smiling and knitted his bushy black brows. He had not a single acquaintance in the party except his host. One could see that he was fearfully bored, but that he was valiantly keeping up the part of a man perfectly happy and enjoying himself. I learned afterwards that this was a gentleman from the provinces, who had a critical and perplexing piece of business in Petersburg, who had brought a letter of introduction to our host, for whom our host was, by no means con amore, using his interest, and whom he had invited, out of civility, to his children's party. He did not play cards, cigars were not offered him, every one avoided entering into conversation with him, most likely recognizing the bird from its feathers; and so my gentleman was forced to sit the whole evening stroking his whiskers simply to have something to do with his hands. His whiskers were certainly very fine. But he stroked them so zealously that, looking at him, one might have supposed that the whiskers were created first and the gentleman only attached to them in order to stroke them. In addition to this individual who assisted in this way at our host's family festivity (he had five fat, well-fed boys), I was attracted, too, by another gentleman. But he was quite of a different sort. He was a personage. He was called Yulian Mastakovitch. From the first glance one could see that he was an honoured guest, and stood in the same relation to our host as our host stood in relation to the gentleman who was stroking his whiskers. Our host and hostess said no end of polite things to him, waited on him hand and foot, pressed him to drink, flattered him, brought their visitors up to be introduced to him, but did not take him to be introduced to any one else. I noticed that tears glistened in our host's eyes when he remarked about the party that he had rarely spent an evening so agreeably. I felt as it were frightened in the presence of such a personage, and so, after admiring the children, I went away into a little parlour, which was quite empty, and sat down in an arbour of flowers which filled up almost half the room. The children were all incredibly sweet, and resolutely refused to model themselves on the 'grown-ups,' regardless of all the admonitions of their governesses and mammas. They stripped the Christmas tree to the last sweetmeat in the twinkling of an eye, and had succeeded in breaking half the playthings before they knew what was destined for which. Particularly charming was a black-eyed, curly-headed boy, who kept trying to shoot me with his wooden gun. But my attention was still more attracted by his sister, a girl of eleven, quiet, dreamy, pale, with big, prominent, dreamy eyes, exquisite as a little Cupid. The children hurt her feelings in some way, and so she came away from them to the same empty parlour in which I was sitting, and played with her doll in the corner. The visitors respectfully pointed out her father, a wealthy contractor, and some one whispered that three hundred thousand roubles were already set aside for her dowry. I turned round to glance at the group who were interested in such a circumstance, and my eye fell on Yulian Mastakovitch, who, with his hands behind his back and his head on one side, was listening with the greatest attention to these gentlemen's idle gossip. Afterwards I could not help admiring the discrimination of the host and hostess in the distribution of the children's presents. The little girl, who had already a portion of three hundred thousand roubles, received the costliest doll. Then followed presents diminishing in value in accordance with the rank of the parents of these happy children; finally, the child of lowest degree, a thin, freckled, red-haired little boy of ten, got nothing but a book of stories about the marvels of nature and tears of devotion, etc., without pictures or even woodcuts. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the children of the house, an oppressed and scared little boy. He was dressed in a short jacket of inferior nankin. After receiving his book he walked round the other toys for a long time; he longed to play with the other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already felt and understood his position. I love watching children. Their first independent approaches to life are extremely interesting. I noticed that the red-haired boy was so fascinated by the costly toys of the other children, especially by a theatre in which he certainly longed to take some part, that he made up his mind to sacrifice his dignity. He smiled and began playing with the other children, he gave away his apple to a fat-faced little boy who had a mass of goodies tied up in a pocket-handkerchief already, and even brought himself to carry another boy on his back, simply not to be turned away from the theatre, but an insolent youth gave him a heavy thump a minute later. The child did not dare to cry. Then the governess, his mother, made her appearance, and told him not to interfere with the other children's playing. The boy went away to the same room in which was the little girl. She let him join her, and the two set to work very eagerly dressing the expensive doll. I had been sitting more than half an hour in the ivy arbour, listening to the little prattle of the red-haired boy and the beauty with the dowry of three hundred thousand, who was nursing her doll, when Yulian Mastakovitch suddenly walked into the room. He had taken advantage of the general commotion following a quarrel among the children to step out of the drawing-room. I had noticed him a moment before talking very cordially to the future heiress's papa, whose acquaintance he had just made, of the superiority of one branch of the service over another. Now he stood in hesitation and seemed to be reckoning something on his fingers. 'Three hundred ... three hundred,' he was whispering. 'Eleven ... twelve ... thirteen,' and so on. 'Sixteen—five years! Supposing it is at four per cent.—five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty ... well, in five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes!... But he won't stick to four per cent., the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five hundred, let us say, five hundred at least ... that's certain; well, say a little more for frills. H'm!...' His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child, not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm. 'What are you doing here, sweet child?' he asked in a whisper, looking round and patting the girl's cheek. 'We are playing.' 'Ah! With him?' Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. 'You had better go into the drawing-room, my dear,' he said to him. The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little girl. 'And what is this you've got—a dolly, dear child?' he asked. 'Yes, a dolly,' answered the child, frowning, and a little shy. 'A dolly ... and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of?' 'I don't know ...' the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head. 'It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to your playmates, boy,' said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not want to be separated. 'And do you know why they gave you that doll?' asked Yulian Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone. 'I don't know.' 'Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week.' At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with emotion and impatience— 'And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa and mamma?' Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss 'the dear little girl,' but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest. 'Go away, go away from here, go away!' he said to the boy. 'Go into the drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates!' 'No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away,' said the little girl. 'Leave him alone, leave him alone,' she said, almost crying. Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and, slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle. Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening the redhaired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run in his terror. 'Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to your playmates!' The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man, paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps—who knows?—his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees. Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which he was holding in his hand by one end. Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view, he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by himself. 'Here, this is the boy,' he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, 'for whom I had the honour to solicit your influence.' 'Ah!' said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself. 'The son of my children's governess,' said our host, in a tone of a petitioner, 'a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and therefore ... and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible ...' 'Oh, no, no!' Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; 'no, excuse me, Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far more claim than he.... I am very sorry, very sorry....' 'What a pity,' said our host. 'He is a quiet, well-behaved boy.' 'A great rascal, as I notice,' answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a nervous twist of his lip. 'Get along, boy; why are you standing there? Go to your playmates,' he said, addressing the child. At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face. Yulian Mastakovitch turned away at once, and in a voice calculated to reach my ear, asked who was that strange young man? They whispered together and walked out of the room. I saw Yulian Mastakovitch afterwards shaking his head incredulously as our host talked to him. After laughing to my heart's content I returned to the drawing-room. There the great man, surrounded by fathers and mothers of families, including the host and hostess, was saying something very warmly to a lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the hand the little girl with whom Yulian Mastakovitch had had the scene in the parlour a little while before. Now he was launching into praises and raptures over the beauty, the talents, the grace and the charming manners of the charming child. He was unmistakably making up to the mamma. The mother listened to him almost with tears of delight. The father's lips were smiling. Our host was delighted at the general satisfaction. All the guests, in fact, were sympathetically gratified; even the children's games were checked that they might not hinder the conversation: the whole atmosphere was saturated with reverence. I heard afterwards the mamma of the interesting child, deeply touched, beg Yulian Mastakovitch, in carefully chosen phrases, to do her the special honour of bestowing upon them the precious gift of his acquaintance, and heard with what unaffected delight Yulian Mastakovitch accepted the invitation, and how afterwards the guests, dispersing in different directions, moving away with the greatest propriety, poured out to one another the most touchingly flattering comments upon the contractor, his wife, his little girl, and, above all, upon Yulian Mastakovitch. 'Is that gentleman married?' I asked, almost aloud, of one of my acquaintances, who was standing nearest to Yulian Mastakovitch. Yulian Mastakovitch flung a searching and vindictive glance at me. 'No!' answered my acquaintance, chagrined to the bottom of his heart by the awkwardness of which I had intentionally been guilty.... * * * * * I passed lately by a certain church; I was struck by the crowd of people in carriages. I heard people talking of the wedding. It was a cloudy day, it was beginning to sleet. I made my way through the crowd at the door and saw the bridegroom. He was a sleek, well-fed, round, paunchy man, very gorgeously dressed up. He was running fussily about, giving orders. At last the news passed through the crowd that the bride was coming. I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvellous beauty, who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naïve, fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy. People were saying that she was only just sixteen. Glancing attentively at the bridegroom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovitch, whom I had not seen for five years. I looked at her. My God! I began to squeeze my way as quickly as I could out of the church. I heard people saying in the crowd that the bride was an heiress, that she had a dowry of five hundred thousand ... and a trousseau worth ever so much. 'It was a good stroke of business, though!' I thought as I made my way into the street. POLZUNKOV A STORY I began to scrutinize the man closely. Even in his exterior there was something so peculiar that it compelled one, however far away one's thoughts might be, to fix one's eyes upon him and go off into the most irrepressible roar of laughter. That is what happened to me. I must observe that the little man's eyes were so mobile, or perhaps he was so sensitive to the magnetism of every eye fixed upon him, that he almost by instinct guessed that he was being observed, turned at once to the observer and anxiously analysed his expression. His continual mobility, his turning and twisting, made him look strikingly like a dancing doll. It was strange! He seemed afraid of jeers, in spite of the fact that he was almost getting his living by being a buffoon for all the world, and exposed himself to every buffet in a moral sense and even in a physical one, judging from the company he was in. Voluntary buffoons are not even to be pitied. But I noticed at once that this strange creature, this ridiculous man, was by no means a buffoon by profession. There was still something gentlemanly in him. His very uneasiness, his continual apprehensiveness about himself, were actually a testimony in his favour. It seemed to me that his desire to be obliging was due more to kindness of heart than to mercenary considerations. He readily allowed them to laugh their loudest at him and in the most unseemly way, to his face, but at the same time—and I am ready to take my oath on it—his heart ached and was sore at the thought that his listeners were so caddishly brutal as to be capable of laughing, not at anything said or done, but at him, at his whole being, at his heart, at his head, at his appearance, at his whole body, flesh and blood. I am convinced that he felt at that moment all the foolishness of his position; but the protest died away in his heart at once, though it invariably sprang up again in the most heroic way. I am convinced that all this was due to nothing else but a kind heart, and not to fear of the inconvenience of being kicked out and being unable to borrow money from some one. This gentleman was for ever borrowing money, that is, he asked for alms in that form, when after playing the fool and entertaining them at his expense he felt in a certain sense entitled to borrow money from them. But, good heavens! what a business the borrowing was! And with what a countenance he asked for the loan! I could not have imagined that on such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of that little man room could be found, at one and the same time, for so many different grimaces, for such strange, variously characteristic shades of feeling, such absolutely killing expressions. Everything was there—shame and an assumption of insolence, and vexation at the sudden flushing of his face, and anger and fear of failure, and entreaty to be forgiven for having dared to pester, and a sense of his own dignity, and a still greater sense of his own abjectness—all this passed over his face like lightning. For six whole years he had struggled along in God's world in this way, and so far had been unable to take up a fitting attitude at the interesting moment of borrowing money! I need not say that he never could grow callous and completely abject. His heart was too sensitive, too passionate! I will say more, indeed: in my opinion, he was one of the most honest and honourable men in the world, but with a little weakness: of being ready to do anything abject at any one's bidding, good-naturedly and disinterestedly, simply to oblige a fellowcreature. In short, he was what is called 'a rag' in the fullest sense of the word. The most absurd thing was, that he was dressed like any one else, neither worse nor better, tidily, even with a certain elaborateness, and actually had pretentions to respectability and personal dignity. This external equality and internal inequality, his uneasiness about himself and at the same time his continual selfdepreciation—all this was strikingly incongruous and provocative of laughter and pity. If he had been convinced in his heart (and in spite of his experience it did happen to him at moments to believe this) that his audience were the most good-natured people in the world, who were simply laughing at something amusing, and not at the sacrifice of his personal dignity, he would most readily have taken off his coat, put it on wrong side outwards, and have walked about the streets in that attire for the diversion of others and his own gratification. But equality he could never anyhow attain. Another trait: the queer fellow was proud, and even, by fits and starts, when it was not too risky, generous. It was worth seeing and hearing how he could sometimes, not sparing himself, consequently with pluck, almost with heroism, dispose of one of his patrons who had infuriated him to madness. But that was at moments.... In short, he was a martyr in the fullest sense of the word, but the most useless and consequently the most comic martyr. There was a general discussion going on among the guests. All at once I saw our queer friend jump upon his chair, and call out at the top of his voice, anxious for the exclusive attention of the company. 'Listen,' the master of the house whispered to me. 'He sometimes tells the most curious stories.... Does he interest you?' I nodded and squeezed myself into the group. The sight of a well-dressed gentleman jumping upon his chair and shouting at the top of his voice did, in fact, draw the attention of all. Many who did not know the queer fellow looked at one another in perplexity, the others roared with laughter. 'I knew Fedosey Nikolaitch. I ought to know Fedosey Nikolaitch better than any one!' cried the queer fellow from his elevation. 'Gentlemen, allow me to tell you something. I can tell you a good story about Fedosey Nikolaitch! I know a story —exquisite!' 'Tell it, Osip Mihalitch, tell it.' 'Tell it.' 'Listen.' 'Listen, listen.' 'I begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story....' 'Very good, very good.' 'It's a comic story.' 'Very good, excellent, splendid. Get on!' 'It is an episode in the private life of your humble....' 'But why do you trouble yourself to announce that it's comic?' 'And even somewhat tragic!' 'Eh???!' 'In short, the story which it will afford you all pleasure to hear me now relate, gentlemen—the story, in consequence of which I have come into company so interesting and profitable....' 'No puns!' 'This story.' 'In short the story—make haste and finish the introduction. The story, which has its value,' a fair-haired young man with moustaches pronounced in a husky voice, dropping his hand into his coat pocket and, as though by chance, pulling out a purse instead of his handkerchief. 'The story, my dear sirs, after which I should like to see many of you in my place. And, finally, the story, in consequence of which I have not married.' 'Married! A wife! Polzunkov tried to get married!!' 'I confess I should like to see Madame Polzunkov.' 'Allow me to inquire the name of the would-be Madame Polzunkov,' piped a youth, making his way up to the storyteller. 'And so for the first chapter, gentlemen. It was just six years ago, in spring, the thirty-first of March—note the date, gentlemen—on the eve....' 'Of the first of April!' cried a young man with ringlets. 'You are extraordinarily quick at guessing. It was evening. Twilight was gathering over the district town of N., the moon was about to float out ... everything in proper style, in fact. And so in the very late twilight I, too, floated out of my poor lodging on the sly—after taking leave of my restricted granny, now dead. Excuse me, gentlemen, for making use of such a fashionable expression, which I heard for the last time from Nikolay Nikolaitch. But my granny was indeed restricted: she was blind, dumb, deaf, stupid—everything you please.... I confess I was in a tremor, I was prepared for great deeds; my heart was beating like a kitten's when some bony hand clutches it by the scruff of the neck.' 'Excuse me, Monsieur Polzunkov.' 'What do you want?' 'Tell it more simply; don't over-exert yourself, please!' 'All right,' said Osip Mihalitch, a little taken aback. 'I went into the house of Fedosey Nikolaitch (the house that he had bought). Fedosey Nikolaitch, as you know, is not a mere colleague, but the full-blown head of a department. I was announced, and was at once shown into the study. I can see it now; the room was dark, almost dark, but candles were not brought. Behold, Fedosey Nikolaitch walks in. There he and I were left in the darkness....' 'Whatever happened to you?' asked an officer. 'What do you suppose?' asked Polzunkov, turning promptly, with a convulsively working face, to the young man with ringlets. 'Well, gentlemen, a strange circumstance occurred, though indeed there was nothing strange in it: it was what is called an everyday affair—I simply took out of my pocket a roll of paper ... and he a roll of paper.' 'Paper notes?' 'Paper notes; and we exchanged.' 'I don't mind betting that there's a flavour of bribery about it,' observed a respectably dressed, closely cropped young gentleman. 'Bribery!' Polzunkov caught him up. ''Oh, may I be a Liberal, Such as many I have seen!' If you, too, when it is your lot to serve in the provinces, do not warm your hands at your country's hearth.... For as an author said: 'Even the smoke of our native land is sweet to us.' She is our Mother, gentlemen, our Mother Russia; we are her babes, and so we suck her!' There was a roar of laughter. 'Only would you believe it, gentlemen, I have never taken bribes?' said Polzunkov, looking round at the whole company distrustfully. A prolonged burst of Homeric laughter drowned Polzunkov's words in guffaws. 'It really is so, gentlemen....' But here he stopped, still looking round at every one with a strange expression of face; perhaps—who knows?—at that moment the thought came into his mind that he was more honest than many of all that honourable company.... Anyway, the serious expression of his face did not pass away till the general merriment was quite over. 'And so,' Polzunkov began again when all was still, 'though I never did take bribes, yet that time I transgressed; I put in my pocket a bribe ... from a bribetaker ... that is, there were certain papers in my hands which, if I had cared to send to a certain person, it would have gone ill with Fedosey Nikolaitch.' 'So then he bought them from you?' 'He did.' 'Did he give much?' 'He gave as much as many a man nowadays would sell his conscience for complete, with all its variations ... if only he could get anything for it. But I felt as though I were scalded when I put the money in my pocket. I really don't understand what always comes over me, gentlemen—but I was more dead than alive, my lips twitched and my legs trembled; well, I was to blame, to blame, entirely to blame. I was utterly conscience-stricken; I was ready to beg Fedosey Nikolaitch's forgiveness.' 'Well, what did he do—did he forgive you?' 'But I didn't ask his forgiveness.... I only mean that that is how I felt. Then I have a sensitive heart, you know. I saw he was looking me straight in the face. 'Have you no fear of God, Osip Mihailitch?' said he. Well, what could I do? From a feeling of propriety I put my head on one side and I flung up my hands. 'In what way,' said I, 'have I no fear of God, Fedosey Nikolaitch?' But I just said that from a feeling of propriety.... I was ready to sink into the earth. 'After being so long a friend of our family, after being, I may say, like a son—and who knows what Heaven had in store for us, Osip Mihailitch?—and all of a sudden to inform against me—to think of that now!... What am I to think of mankind after that, Osip Mihailitch?' Yes, gentlemen, he did read me a lecture! 'Come,' he said, 'you tell me what I am to think of mankind after that, Osip Mihailitch.' 'What is he to think?' I thought; and do you know, there was a lump in my throat, and my voice was quivering, and knowing my hateful weakness, I snatched up my hat. 'Where are you off to, Osip Mihailitch? Surely on the eve of such a day you cannot bear malice against me? What wrong have I done you?...' 'Fedosey Nikolaitch,' I said, 'Fedosey Nikolaitch....' In fact, I melted, gentlemen, I melted like a sugar-stick. And the roll of notes that was lying in my pocket, that, too, seemed screaming out: 'You ungrateful brigand, you accursed thief!' It seemed to weigh a hundredweight ... (if only it had weighed a hundredweight!).... 'I see,' says Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'I see your penitence ... you know to-morrow....' 'St. Mary of Egypt's day....' 'Well, don't weep,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'that's enough: you've erred, and you are penitent! Come along! Maybe I may succeed in bringing you back again into the true path,' says he ... 'maybe, my modest Penates' (yes,'Penates,' I remember he used that expression, the rascal) 'will warm,' says he, 'your harden ... I will not say hardened, but erring heart....' He took me by the arm, gentlemen, and led me to his family circle. A cold shiver ran down my back; I shuddered! I thought with what eyes shall I present myself— you must know, gentlemen ... eh, what shall I say?—a delicate position had arisen here.' 'Not Madame Polzunkov?' 'Marya Fedosyevna, only she was not destined, you know, to bear the name you have given her; she did not attain that honour. Fedosey Nikolaitch was right, you see, when he said that I was almost looked upon as a son in the house; it had been so, indeed, six months before, when a certain retired junker called Mihailo Maximitch Dvigailov, was still living. But by God's will he died, and he put off settling his affairs till death settled his business for him.' 'Ough!' 'Well, never mind, gentlemen, forgive me, it was a slip of the tongue. It's a bad pun, but it doesn't matter it's being bad—what happened was far worse, when I was left, so to say, with nothing in prospect but a bullet through the brain, for that junker, though he would not admit me into his house (he lived in grand style, for he had always known how to feather his nest), yet perhaps correctly he believed me to be his son.' 'Aha!' 'Yes, that was how it was! So they began to cold-shoulder me at Fedosey Nikolaitch's. I noticed things, I kept quiet; but all at once, unluckily for me (or perhaps luckily!), a cavalry officer galloped into our little town like snow on our head. His business—buying horses for the army—was light and active, in cavalry style, but he settled himself solidly at Fedosey Nikolaitch's, as though he were laying siege to it! I approached the subject in a roundabout way, as my nasty habit is; I said one thing and another, asking him what I had done to be treated so, saying that I was almost like a son to him, and when might I expect him to behave more like a father.... Well, he began answering me. And when he begins to speak you are in for a regular epic in twelve cantos, and all you can do is to listen, lick your lips and throw up your hands in delight. And not a ha'p'orth of sense, at least there's no making out the sense. You stand puzzled like a fool— he puts you in a fog, he twists about like an eel and wriggles away from you. It's a special gift, a real gift—it's enough to frighten people even if it is no concern of theirs. I tried one thing and another, and went hither and thither. I took the lady songs and presented her with sweets and thought of witty things to say to her. I tried sighing and groaning. 'My heart aches,' I said, 'it aches from love.' And I went in for tears and secret explanations. Man is foolish, you know.... I never reminded myself that I was thirty ... not a bit of it! I tried all my arts. It was no go. It was a failure, and I gained nothing but jeers and gibes. I was indignant, I was choking with anger. I slunk off and would not set foot in the house. I thought and thought and made up my mind to denounce him. Well, of course, it was a shabby thing—I meant to give away a friend, I confess. I had heaps of material and splendid material—a grand case. It brought me fifteen hundred roubles when I changed it and my report on it for bank notes!' 'Ah, so that was the bribe!' 'Yes, sir, that was the bribe—and it was a bribe-taker who had to pay it—and I didn't do wrong, I can assure you! Well, now I will go on: he drew me, if you will kindly remember, more dead than alive into the room where they were having tea. They all met me, seeming as it were offended, that is, not exactly offended, but hurt—so hurt that it was simply.... They seemed shattered, absolutely shattered, and at the same time there was a look of becoming dignity on their faces, a gravity in their expression, something fatherly, parental ... the prodigal son had come back to them—that's what it had come to! They made me sit down to tea, but there was no need to do that: I felt as though a samovar was toiling in my bosom and my feet were like ice. I was humbled, I was cowed. Marya Fominishna, his wife, addressed me familiarly from the first word. ''How is it you have grown so thin, my boy?' ''I've not been very well, Marya Fominishna,' I said. My wretched voice shook. 'And then quite suddenly—she must have been waiting for a chance to get a dig at me, the old snake—she said— ''I suppose your conscience felt ill at ease, Osip Mihalitch, my dear! Our fatherly hospitality was a reproach to you! You have been punished for the tears I have shed.' 'Yes, upon my word, she really said that—she had the conscience to say it. Why, that was nothing to her, she was a terror! She did nothing but sit there and pour out tea. But if you were in the market, my darling, I thought you'd shout louder than any fishwife there.... That's the kind of woman she was. And then, to my undoing, the daughter, Marya Fedosyevna, came in, in all her innocence, a little pale and her eyes red as though she had been weeping. I was bowled over on the spot like a fool. But it turned out afterwards that the tears were a tribute to the cavalry officer. He had made tracks for home and taken his hook for good and all; for you know it was high time for him to be off—I may as well mention the fact here; not that his leave was up precisely, but you see.... It was only later that the loving parents grasped the position and had found out all that had happened.... What could they do? They hushed their trouble up—an addition to the family! 'Well, I could not help it—as soon as I looked at her I was done for; I stole a glance at my hat, I wanted to get up and make off. But there was no chance of that, they took away my hat.... I must confess, I did think of getting off without it. 'Well!' I thought—but no, they latched the doors. There followed friendly jokes, winking, little airs and graces. I was overcome with embarrassment, said something stupid, talked nonsense, about love. My charmer sat down to the piano and with an air of wounded feeling sang the song about the hussar who leaned upon the sword—that finished me off! ''Well,' said Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'all is forgotten, come to my arms!' 'I fell just as I was, with my face on his waistcoat. ''My benefactor! You are a father to me!' said I. And I shed floods of hot tears. Lord, have mercy on us, what a to-do there was! He cried, his good lady cried, Mashenka cried ... there was a flaxen-headed creature there, she cried too.... That wasn't enough: the younger children crept out of all the corners (the Lord had filled their quiver full) and they howled too.... Such tears, such emotion, such joy! They found their prodigal, it was like a soldier's return to his home. Then followed refreshments, we played forfeits, and 'I have a pain'—'Where is it?'—'In my heart'—'Who gave it you?' My charmer blushed. The old man and I had some punch—they won me over and did for me completely. 'I returned to my grandmother with my head in a whirl. I was laughing all the way home; for full two hours I paced up and down our little room. I waked up my old granny and told her of my happiness. ''But did he give you any money, the brigand?' ''He did, granny, he did, my dear—luck has come to us all of a heap: we've only to open our hand and take it.' 'I waked up Sofron. ''Sofron,' I said, 'take off my boots.' 'Sofron pulled off my boots. ''Come, Sofron, congratulate me now, give me a kiss! I am going to get married, my lad, I am going to get married. You can get jolly drunk to-morrow, you can have a spree, my dear soul—your master is getting married.' 'My heart was full of jokes and laughter. I was beginning to drop off to sleep, but something made me get up again. I sat in thought: to-morrow is the first of April, a bright and playful day—what should I do? And I thought of something. Why, gentlemen, I got out of bed, lighted a candle, and sat down to the writingtable just as I was. I was in a fever of excitement, quite carried away—you know, gentlemen, what it is when a man is quite carried away? I wallowed joyfully in the mud, my dear friends. You see what I am like; they take something from you, and you give them something else as well and say, 'Take that, too.' They strike you on the cheek and in your joy you offer them your whole back. Then they try to lure you like a dog with a bun, and you embrace them with your foolish paws and fall to kissing them with all your heart and soul. Why, see what I am doing now, gentlemen! You are laughing and whispering—I see it! After I have told you all my story you will begin to turn me into ridicule, you will begin to attack me, but yet I go on talking and talking and talking! And who tells me to? Who drives me to do it? Who is standing behind my back whispering to me, 'Speak, speak and tell them'? And yet I do talk, I go on telling you, I try to please you as though you were my brothers, all my dearest friends.... Ech!' The laughter which had sprung up by degrees on all sides completely drowned at last the voice of the speaker, who really seemed worked up into a sort of ecstasy. He paused, for several minutes his eyes strayed about the company, then suddenly, as though carried away by a whirlwind, he waved his hand, burst out laughing himself, as though he really found his position amusing, and fell to telling his story again. 'I scarcely slept all night, gentlemen. I was scribbling all night: you see, I thought of a trick. Ech, gentlemen, the very thought of it makes me ashamed. It wouldn't have been so bad if it all had been done at night—I might have been drunk, blundered, been silly and talked nonsense—but not a bit of it! I woke up in the morning as soon as it was light, I hadn't slept more than an hour or two, and was in the same mind. I dressed, I washed, I curled and pomaded my hair, put on my new dress coat and went straight off to spend the holiday with Fedosey Nikolaitch, and I kept the joke I had written in my hat. He met me again with open arms, and invited me again to his fatherly waistcoat. But I assumed an air of dignity. I had the joke I thought of the night before in my mind. I drew a step back. ''No, Fedosey Nikolaitch, but will you please read this letter,' and I gave it him together with my daily report. And do you know what was in it? Why, 'for such and such reasons the aforesaid Osip Mihalitch asks to be discharged,' and under my petition I signed my full rank! Just think what a notion! Good Lord, it was the cleverest thing I could think of! As to-day was the first of April, I was pretending, for the sake of a joke, that my resentment was not over, that I had changed my mind in the night and was grumpy, and more offended than ever, as though to say, 'My dear benefactor, I don't want to know you nor your daughter either. I put the money in my pocket yesterday, so I am secure—so here's my petition for a transfer to be discharged. I don't care to serve under such a chief as Fedosey Nikolaitch. I want to go into a different office and then, maybe, I'll inform.' I pretended to be a regular scoundrel, I wanted to frighten them. And a nice way of frightening them, wasn't it? A pretty thing, gentlemen, wasn't it? You see, my heart had grown tender towards them since the day before, so I thought I would have a little joke at the family—I would tease the fatherly heart of Fedosey Nikolaitch. 'As soon as he took my letter and opened it, I saw his whole countenance change. ''What's the meaning of this, Osip Mihalitch?' 'And like a little fool I said— ''The first of April! Many happy returns of the day, Fedosey Nikolaitch!' just like a silly school-boy who hides behind his grandmother's arm-chair and then shouts 'oof' into her ear suddenly at the top of his voice, meaning to frighten her. Yes ... yes, I feel quite ashamed to talk about it, gentlemen! No, I won't tell you.' 'Nonsense! What happened then?' 'Nonsense, nonsense! Tell us! Yes, do,' rose on all sides. 'There was an outcry and a hullabaloo, my dear friends! Such exclamations of surprise! And 'you mischievous fellow, you naughty man,' and what a fright I had given them—and all so sweet that I felt ashamed and wondered how such a holy place could be profaned by a sinner like me. ''Well, my dear boy,' piped the mamma, 'you gave me such a fright that my legs are all of a tremble still, I can hardly stand on my feet! I ran to Masha as though I were crazy: 'Mashenka,' I said, 'what will become of us! See how your friend has turned out!' and I was unjust to you, my dear boy. You must forgive an old woman like me, I was taken in! Well, I thought, when he got home last night, he got home late, he began thinking and perhaps he fancied that we sent for him on purpose, yesterday, that we wanted to get hold of him. I turned cold at the thought! Give over, Mashenka, don't go on winking at me—Osip Mihalitch isn't a stranger! I am your mother, I am not likely to say any harm! Thank God, I am not twenty, but turned forty-five.' 'Well, gentlemen, I almost flopped at her feet on the spot. Again there were tears, again there were kisses. Jokes began. Fedosey Nikolaitch, too, thought he would make April fools of us. He told us the fiery bird had flown up with a letter in her diamond beak! He tried to take us in, too—didn't we laugh? weren't we touched? Foo! I feel ashamed to talk about it. 'Well, my good friends, the end is not far off now. One day passed, two, three, a week; I was regularly engaged to her. I should think so! The wedding rings were ordered, the day was fixed, only they did not want to make it public for a time— they wanted to wait for the Inspector's visit to be over. I was all impatience for the Inspector's arrival—my happiness depended upon him. I was in a hurry to get his visit over. And in the excitement and rejoicing Fedosey Nikolaitch threw all the work upon me: writing up the accounts, making up the reports, checking the books, balancing the totals. I found things in terrible disorder—everything had been neglected, there were muddles and irregularities everywhere. Well, I thought, I must do my best for my father-in-law! And he was ailing all the time, he was taken ill, it appears; he seemed to get worse day by day. And, indeed, I grew as thin as a rake myself, I was afraid I would break down. However, I finished the work grandly. I got things straight for him in time. 'Suddenly they sent a messenger for me. I ran headlong—what could it be? I saw my Fedosey Nikolaitch, his head bandaged up in a vinegar compress, frowning, sighing, and moaning. ''My dear boy, my son,' he said, 'if I die, to whom shall I leave you, my darlings?' 'His wife trailed in with all his children; Mashenka was in tears and I blubbered, too. ''Oh no,' he said. 'God will be merciful, He will not visit my transgressions on you.' 'Then he dismissed them all, told me to shut the door after them, and we were left alone, tête-à-tête. ''I have a favour to ask of you.' ''What favour?' ''Well, my dear boy, there is no rest for me even on my deathbed. I am in want.' ''How so?' I positively flushed crimson, I could hardly speak. ''Why, I had to pay some of my own money into the Treasury. I grudge nothing for the public weal, my boy! I don't grudge my life. Don't you imagine any ill. I am sad to think that slanderers have blackened my name to you.... You were mistaken, my hair has gone white from grief. The Inspector is coming down upon us and Matveyev is seven thousand roubles short, and I shall have to answer for it.... Who else? It will be visited upon me, my boy: where were my eyes? And how can we get it from Matveyev? He has had trouble enough already: why should I bring the poor fellow to ruin?' ''Holy saints!' I thought, 'what a just man! What a heart!' ''And I don't want to take my daughter's money, which has been set aside for her dowry: that sum is sacred. I have money of my own, it's true, but I have lent it all to friends—how is one to collect it all in a minute?' 'I simply fell on my knees before him. 'My benefactor!' I cried, 'I've wronged you, I have injured you; it was slanderers who wrote against you; don't break my heart, take back your money!' 'He looked at me and there were tears in his eyes. 'That was just what I expected from you, my son. Get up! I forgave you at the time for the sake of my daughter's tears—now my heart forgives you freely! You have healed my wounds. I bless you for all time!' 'Well, when he blessed me, gentlemen, I scurried home as soon as I could. I got the money: ''Here, father, here's the money. I've only spent fifty roubles.' ''Well, that's all right,' he said. 'But now every trifle may count; the time is short, write a report dated some days ago that you were short of money and had taken fifty roubles on account. I'll tell the authorities you had it in advance.' 'Well, gentlemen, what do you think? I did write that report, too!' 'Well, what then? What happened? How did it end?' 'As soon as I had written the report, gentlemen, this is how it ended. The next day, in the early morning, an envelope with a government seal arrived. I looked at it and what had I got? The sack! That is, instructions to hand over my work, to deliver the accounts—and to go about my business!' 'How so?' 'That's just what I cried at the top of my voice, 'How so?' Gentlemen, there was a ringing in my ears. I thought there was no special reason for it—but no, the Inspector had arrived in the town. My heart sank. 'It's not for nothing,' I thought. And just as I was I rushed off to Fedosey Nikolaitch. ''How is this?' I said. ''What do you mean?' he said. ''Why, I am dismissed.' ''Dismissed? how?' ''Why, look at this!' ''Well, what of it?' ''Why, but I didn't ask for it!' ''Yes, you did—you sent in your papers on the first of—April.' (I had never taken that letter back!) ''Fedosey Nikolaitch! I can't believe my ears, I can't believe my eyes! Is this you?' ''It is me, why?' ''My God!' ''I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry that you made up your mind to retire from the service so early. A young man ought to be in the service, and you've begun to be a little light-headed of late. And as for your character, set your mind at rest: I'll see to that! Your behaviour has always been so exemplary!' ''But that was a little joke, Fedosey Nikolaitch! I didn't mean it, I just gave you the letter for your fatherly ... that's all.' ''That's all? A queer joke, sir! Does one jest with documents like that? Why, you are sometimes sent to Siberia for such jokes. Now, good-bye. I am busy. We have the Inspector here—the duties of the service before everything; you can kick up your heels, but we have to sit here at work. But I'll get you a character ——Oh, another thing: I've just bought a house from Matveyev. We are moving in in a day or two. So I expect I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you at our new residence. Bon voyage!' 'I ran home. ''We are lost, granny!' 'She wailed, poor dear, and then I saw the page from Fedosey Nikolaitch's running up with a note and a bird-cage, and in the cage there was a starling. In the fullness of my heart I had given her the starling. And in the note there were the words: 'April 1st,' and nothing more. What do you think of that, gentlemen?' 'What happened then? What happened then?' 'What then! I met Fedosey Nikolaitch once, I meant to tell him to his face he was a scoundrel.' 'Well?' 'But somehow I couldn't bring myself to it, gentlemen.' A LITTLE HERO A STORY At that time I was nearly eleven, I had been sent in July to spend the holiday in a village near Moscow with a relation of mine called T., whose house was full of guests, fifty, or perhaps more.... I don't remember, I didn't count. The house was full of noise and gaiety. It seemed as though it were a continual holiday, which would never end. It seemed as though our host had taken a vow to squander all his vast fortune as rapidly as possible, and he did indeed succeed, not long ago, in justifying this surmise, that is, in making a clean sweep of it all to the last stick. Fresh visitors used to drive up every minute. Moscow was close by, in sight, so that those who drove away only made room for others, and the everlasting holiday went on its course. Festivities succeeded one another, and there was no end in sight to the entertainments. There were riding parties about the environs; excursions to the forest or the river; picnics, dinners in the open air; suppers on the great terrace of the house, bordered with three rows of gorgeous flowers that flooded with their fragrance the fresh night air, and illuminated the brilliant lights which made our ladies, who were almost every one of them pretty at all times, seem still more charming, with their faces excited by the impressions of the day, with their sparkling eyes, with their interchange of spritely conversation, their peals of ringing laughter; dancing, music, singing; if the sky were overcast tableaux vivants, charades, proverbs were arranged, private theatricals were got up. There were good talkers, story-tellers, wits. Certain persons were prominent in the foreground. Of course backbiting and slander ran their course, as without them the world could not get on, and millions of persons would perish of boredom, like flies. But as I was at that time eleven I was absorbed by very different interests, and either failed to observe these people, or if I noticed anything, did not see it all. It was only afterwards that some things came back to my mind. My childish eyes could only see the brilliant side of the picture, and the general animation, splendour, and bustle—all that, seen and heard for the first time, made such an impression upon me that for the first few days, I was completely bewildered and my little head was in a whirl. I keep speaking of my age, and of course I was a child, nothing more than a child. Many of these lovely ladies petted me without dreaming of considering my age. But strange to say, a sensation which I did not myself understand already had possession of me; something was already whispering in my heart, of which till then it had had no knowledge, no conception, and for some reason it began all at once to burn and throb, and often my face glowed with a sudden flush. At times I felt as it were abashed, and even resentful of the various privileges of my childish years. At other times a sort of wonder overwhelmed me, and I would go off into some corner where I could sit unseen, as though to take breath and remember something—something which it seemed to me I had remembered perfectly till then, and now had suddenly forgotten, something without which I could not show myself anywhere, and could not exist at all. At last it seemed to me as though I were hiding something from every one. But nothing would have induced me to speak of it to any one, because, small boy that I was, I was ready to weep with shame. Soon in the midst of the vortex around me I was conscious of a certain loneliness. There were other children, but all were either much older or younger than I; besides, I was in no mood for them. Of course nothing would have happened to me if I had not been in an exceptional position. In the eyes of those charming ladies I was still the little unformed creature whom they at once liked to pet, and with whom they could play as though he were a little doll. One of them particularly, a fascinating, fair woman, with very thick luxuriant hair, such as I had never seen before and probably shall never see again, seemed to have taken a vow never to leave me in peace. I was confused, while she was amused by the laughter which she continually provoked from all around us by her wild, giddy pranks with me, and this apparently gave her immense enjoyment. At school among her schoolfellows she was probably nicknamed the Tease. She was wonderfully good-looking, and there was something in her beauty which drew one's eyes from the first moment. And certainly she had nothing in common with the ordinary modest little fair girls, white as down and soft as white mice, or pastors' daughters. She was not very tall, and was rather plump, but had soft, delicate, exquisitely cut features. There was something quick as lightning in her face, and indeed she was like fire all over, light, swift, alive. Her big open eyes seemed to flash sparks; they glittered like diamonds, and I would never exchange such blue sparkling eyes for any black ones, were they blacker than any Andalusian orb. And, indeed, my blonde was fully a match for the famous brunette whose praises were sung by a great and well-known poet, who, in a superb poem, vowed by all Castille that he was ready to break his bones to be permitted only to touch the mantle of his divinity with the tip of his finger. Add to that, that my charmer was the merriest in the world, the wildest giggler, playful as a child, although she had been married for the last five years. There was a continual laugh upon her lips, fresh as the morning rose that, with the first ray of sunshine, opens its fragrant crimson bud with the cool dewdrops still hanging heavy upon it. I remember that the day after my arrival private theatricals were being got up. The drawing-room was, as they say, packed to overflowing; there was not a seat empty, and as I was somehow late I had to enjoy the performance standing. But the amusing play attracted me to move forwarder and forwarder, and unconsciously I made my way to the first row, where I stood at last leaning my elbows on the back of an armchair, in which a lady was sitting. It was my blonde divinity, but we had not yet made acquaintance. And I gazed, as it happened, at her marvellous, fascinating shoulders, plump and white as milk, though it did not matter to me in the least whether I stared at a woman's exquisite shoulders or at the cap with flaming ribbons that covered the grey locks of a venerable lady in the front row. Near my blonde divinity sat a spinster lady not in her first youth, one of those who, as I chanced to observe later, always take refuge in the immediate neighbourhood of young and pretty women, selecting such as are not fond of cold-shouldering young men. But that is not the point, only this lady, noting my fixed gaze, bent down to her neighbour and with a simper whispered something in her ear. The blonde lady turned at once, and I remember that her glowing eyes so flashed upon me in the half dark, that, not prepared to meet them, I started as though I were scalded. The beauty smiled. 'Do you like what they are acting?' she asked, looking into my face with a shy and mocking expression. 'Yes,' I answered, still gazing at her with a sort of wonder that evidently pleased her. 'But why are you standing? You'll get tired. Can't you find a seat?' 'That's just it, I can't,' I answered, more occupied with my grievance than with the beauty's sparkling eyes, and rejoicing in earnest at having found a kind heart to whom I could confide my troubles. 'I have looked everywhere, but all the chairs are taken,' I added, as though complaining to her that all the chairs were taken. 'Come here,' she said briskly, quick to act on every decision, and, indeed, on every mad idea that flashed on her giddy brain, 'come here, and sit on my knee.' 'On your knee,' I repeated, taken aback. I have mentioned already that I had begun to resent the privileges of childhood and to be ashamed of them in earnest. This lady, as though in derision, had gone ever so much further than the others. Moreover, I had always been a shy and bashful boy, and of late had begun to be particularly shy with women. 'Why yes, on my knee. Why don't you want to sit on my knee?' she persisted, beginning to laugh more and more, so that at last she was simply giggling, goodness knows at what, perhaps at her freak, or perhaps at my confusion. But that was just what she wanted. I flushed, and in my confusion looked round trying to find where to escape; but seeing my intention she managed to catch hold of my hand to prevent me from going away, and pulling it towards her, suddenly, quite unexpectedly, to my intense astonishment, squeezed it in her mischievous warm fingers, and began to pinch my fingers till they hurt so much that I had to do my very utmost not to cry out, and in my effort to control myself made the most absurd grimaces. I was, besides, moved to the greatest amazement, perplexity, and even horror, at the discovery that there were ladies so absurd and spiteful as to talk nonsense to boys, and even pinch their fingers, for no earthly reason and before everybody. Probably my unhappy face reflected my bewilderment, for the mischievous creature laughed in my face, as though she were crazy, and meantime she was pinching my fingers more and more vigorously. She was highly delighted in playing such a mischievous prank and completely mystifying and embarrassing a poor boy. My position was desperate. In the first place I was hot with shame, because almost every one near had turned round to look at us, some in wonder, others with laughter, grasping at once that the beauty was up to some mischief. I dreadfully wanted to scream, too, for she was wringing my fingers with positive fury just because I didn't scream; while I, like a Spartan, made up my mind to endure the agony, afraid by crying out of causing a general fuss, which was more than I could face. In utter despair I began at last struggling with her, trying with all my might to pull away my hand, but my persecutor was much stronger than I was. At last I could bear it no longer, and uttered a shriek—that was all she was waiting for! Instantly she let me go, and turned away as though nothing had happened, as though it was not she who had played the trick but some one else, exactly like some schoolboy who, as soon as the master's back is turned, plays some trick on some one near him, pinches some small weak boy, gives him a flip, a kick, or a nudge with his elbows, and instantly turns again, buries himself in his book and begins repeating his lesson, and so makes a fool of the infuriated teacher who flies down like a hawk at the noise. But luckily for me the general attention was distracted at the moment by the masterly acting of our host, who was playing the chief part in the performance, some comedy of Scribe's. Every one began to applaud; under cover of the noise I stole away and hurried to the furthest end of the room, from which, concealed behind a column, I looked with horror towards the place where the treacherous beauty was sitting. She was still laughing, holding her handkerchief to her lips. And for a long time she was continually turning round, looking for me in every direction, probably regretting that our silly tussle was so soon over, and hatching some other trick to play on me. That was the beginning of our acquaintance, and from that evening she would never let me alone. She persecuted me without consideration or conscience, she became my tyrant and tormentor. The whole absurdity of her jokes with me lay in the fact that she pretended to be head over ears in love with me, and teased me before every one. Of course for a wild creature as I was all this was so tiresome and vexatious that it almost reduced me to tears, and I was sometimes put in such a difficult position that I was on the point of fighting with my treacherous admirer. My naïve confusion, my desperate distress, seemed to egg her on to persecute me more; she knew no mercy, while I did not know how to get away from her. The laughter which always accompanied us, and which she knew so well how to excite, roused her to fresh pranks. But at last people began to think that she went a little too far in her jests. And, indeed, as I remember now, she did take outrageous liberties with a child such as I was. But that was her character; she was a spoilt child in every respect. I heard afterwards that her husband, a very short, very fat, and very red-faced man, very rich and apparently very much occupied with business, spoilt her more than any one. Always busy and flying round, he could not stay two hours in one place. Every day he drove into Moscow, sometimes twice in the day, and always, as he declared himself, on business. It would be hard to find a livelier and more goodnatured face than his facetious but always well-bred countenance. He not only loved his wife to the point of weakness, softness: he simply worshipped her like an idol. He did not restrain her in anything. She had masses of friends, male and female. In the first place, almost everybody liked her; and secondly, the feather-headed creature was not herself over particular in the choice of her friends, though there was a much more serious foundation to her character than might be supposed from what I have just said about her. But of all her friends she liked best of all one young lady, a distant relation, who was also of our party now. There existed between them a tender and subtle affection, one of those attachments which sometimes spring up at the meeting of two dispositions often the very opposite of each other, of which one is deeper, purer and more austere, while the other, with lofty humility, and generous self-criticism, lovingly gives way to the other, conscious of the friend's superiority and cherishing the friendship as a happiness. Then begins that tender and noble subtlety in the relations of such characters, love and infinite indulgence on the one side, on the other love and respect—a respect approaching awe, approaching anxiety as to the impression made on the friend so highly prized, and an eager, jealous desire to get closer and closer to that friend's heart in every step in life. These two friends were of the same age, but there was an immense difference between them in everything—in looks, to begin with. Madame M. was also very handsome, but there was something special in her beauty that strikingly distinguished her from the crowd of pretty women; there was something in her face that at once drew the affection of all to her, or rather, which aroused a generous and lofty feeling of kindliness in every one who met her. There are such happy faces. At her side everyone grew as it were better, freer, more cordial; and yet her big mournful eyes, full of fire and vigour, had a timid and anxious look, as though every minute dreading something antagonistic and menacing, and this strange timidity at times cast so mournful a shade over her mild, gentle features which recalled the serene faces of Italian Madonnas, that looking at her one soon became oneself sad, as though for some trouble of one's own. The pale, thin face, in which, through the irreproachable beauty of the pure, regular lines and the mournful severity of some mute hidden grief, there often flitted the clear looks of early childhood, telling of trustful years and perhaps simple-hearted happiness in the recent past, the gentle but diffident, hesitating smile, all aroused such unaccountable sympathy for her that every heart was unconsciously stirred with a sweet and warm anxiety that powerfully interceded on her behalf even at a distance, and made even strangers feel akin to her. But the lovely creature seemed silent and reserved, though no one could have been more attentive and loving if any one needed sympathy. There are women who are like sisters of mercy in life. Nothing can be hidden from them, nothing, at least, that is a sore or wound of the heart. Any one who is suffering may go boldly and hopefully to them without fear of being a burden, for few men know the infinite patience of love, compassion and forgiveness that may be found in some women's hearts. Perfect treasures of sympathy, consolation and hope are laid up in these pure hearts, so often full of suffering of their own—for a heart which loves much grieves much—though their wounds are carefully hidden from the curious eye, for deep sadness is most often mute and concealed. They are not dismayed by the depth of the wound, nor by its foulness and its stench; any one who comes to them is deserving of help; they are, as it were, born for heroism.... Mme. M. was tall, supple and graceful, but rather thin. All her movements seemed somehow irregular, at times slow, smooth, and even dignified, at times childishly hasty; and yet, at the same time, there was a sort of timid humility in her gestures, something tremulous and defenceless, though it neither desired nor asked for protection. I have mentioned already that the outrageous teasing of the treacherous fair lady abashed me, flabbergasted me, and wounded me to the quick. But there was for that another secret, strange and foolish reason, which I concealed, at which I shuddered as at a skeleton. At the very thought of it, brooding, utterly alone and overwhelmed, in some dark mysterious corner to which the inquisitorial mocking eye of the blue-eyed rogue could not penetrate, I almost gasped with confusion, shame and fear—in short, I was in love; that perhaps is nonsense, that could hardly have been. But why was it, of all the faces surrounding me, only her face caught my attention? Why was it that it was only she whom I cared to follow with my eyes, though I certainly had no inclination in those days to watch ladies and seek their acquaintance? This happened most frequently on the evenings when we were all kept indoors by bad weather, and when, lonely, hiding in some corner of the big drawing-room, I stared about me aimlessly, unable to find anything to do, for except my teasing ladies, few people ever addressed me, and I was insufferably bored on such evenings. Then I stared at the people round me, listened to the conversation, of which I often did not understand one word, and at that time the mild eyes, the gentle smile and lovely face of Mme. M. (for she was the object of my passion) for some reason caught my fascinated attention; and the strange vague, but unutterably sweet impression remained with me. Often for hours together I could not tear myself away from her; I studied every gesture, every movement she made, listened to every vibration of her rich, silvery, but rather muffled voice; but strange to say, as the result of all my observations, I felt, mixed with a sweet and timid impression, a feeling of intense curiosity. It seemed as though I were on the verge of some mystery. Nothing distressed me so much as being mocked at in the presence of Mme. M. This mockery and humorous persecution, as I thought, humiliated me. And when there was a general burst of laughter at my expense, in which Mme. M. sometimes could not help joining, in despair, beside myself with misery, I used to tear myself from my tormentor and run away upstairs, where I remained in solitude the rest of the day, not daring to show my face in the drawing-room. I did not yet, however, understand my shame nor my agitation; the whole process went on in me unconsciously. I had hardly said two words to Mme. M., and indeed I should not have dared to. But one evening after an unbearable day I turned back from an expedition with the rest of the company. I was horribly tired and made my way home across the garden. On a seat in a secluded avenue I saw Mme. M. She was sitting quite alone, as though she had purposely chosen this solitary spot, her head was drooping and she was mechanically twisting her handkerchief. She was so lost in thought that she did not hear me till I reached her. Noticing me, she got up quickly from her seat, turned round, and I saw her hurriedly wipe her eyes with her handkerchief. She was crying. Drying her eyes, she smiled to me and walked back with me to the house. I don't remember what we talked about; but she frequently sent me off on one pretext or another, to pick a flower, or to see who was riding in the next avenue. And when I walked away from her, she at once put her handkerchief to her eyes again and wiped away rebellious tears, which would persist in rising again and again from her heart and dropping from her poor eyes. I realized that I was very much in her way when she sent me off so often, and, indeed, she saw herself that I noticed it all, but yet could not control herself, and that made my heart ache more and more for her. I raged at myself at that moment and was almost in despair; cursed myself for my awkwardness and lack of resource, and at the same time did not know how to leave her tactfully, without betraying that I had noticed her distress, but walked beside her in mournful bewilderment, almost in alarm, utterly at a loss and unable to find a single word to keep up our scanty conversation. This meeting made such an impression on me that I stealthily watched Mme. M. the whole evening with eager curiosity, and never took my eyes off her. But it happened that she twice caught me unawares watching her, and on the second occasion, noticing me, she gave me a smile. It was the only time she smiled that evening. The look of sadness had not left her face, which was now very pale. She spent the whole evening talking to an ill-natured and quarrelsome old lady, whom nobody liked owing to her spying and backbiting habits, but of whom every one was afraid, and consequently every one felt obliged to be polite to her.... At ten o'clock Mme. M.'s husband arrived. Till that moment I watched her very attentively, never taking my eyes off her mournful face; now at the unexpected entrance of her husband I saw her start, and her pale face turned suddenly as white as a handkerchief. It was so noticeable that other people observed it. I overheard a fragmentary conversation from which I guessed that Mme. M. was not quite happy; they said her husband was as jealous as an Arab, not from love, but from vanity. He was before all things a European, a modern man, who sampled the newest ideas and prided himself upon them. In appearance he was a tall, dark-haired, particularly thick-set man, with European whiskers, with a selfsatisfied, red face, with teeth white as sugar, and with an irreproachably gentlemanly deportment. He was called a clever man. Such is the name given in certain circles to a peculiar species of mankind which grows fat at other people's expense, which does absolutely nothing and has no desire to do anything, and whose heart has turned into a lump of fat from everlasting slothfulness and idleness. You continually hear from such men that there is nothing they can do owing to certain very complicated and hostile circumstances, which 'thwart their genius,' and that it was 'sad to see the waste of their talents.' This is a fine phrase of theirs, their mot d'ordre, their watchword, a phrase which these wellfed, fat friends of ours bring out at every minute, so that it has long ago bored us as an arrant Tartuffism, an empty form of words. Some, however, of these amusing creatures, who cannot succeed in finding anything to do—though, indeed, they never seek it—try to make every one believe that they have not a lump of fat for a heart, but on the contrary, something very deep, though what precisely the greatest surgeon would hardly venture to decide—from civility, of course. These gentlemen make their way in the world through the fact that all their instincts are bent in the direction of coarse sneering, short-sighted censure and immense conceit. Since they have nothing else to do but note and emphasize the mistakes and weaknesses of others, and as they have precisely as much good feeling as an oyster, it is not difficult for them with such powers of self- preservation to get on with people fairly successfully. They pride themselves extremely upon that. They are, for instance, as good as persuaded that almost the whole world owes them something; that it is theirs, like an oyster which they keep in reserve; that all are fools except themselves; that every one is like an orange or a sponge, which they will squeeze as soon as they want the juice; that they are the masters everywhere, and that all this acceptable state of affairs is solely due to the fact that they are people of so much intellect and character. In their measureless conceit they do not admit any defects in themselves, they are like that species of practical rogues, innate Tartuffes and Falstaffs, who are such thorough rogues that at last they have come to believe that that is as it should be, that is, that they should spend their lives in knavishness; they have so often assured every one that they are honest men, that they have come to believe that they are honest men, and that their roguery is honesty. They are never capable of inner judgment before their conscience, of generous self-criticism; for some things they are too fat. Their own priceless personality, their Baal and Moloch, their magnificent ego is always in their foreground everywhere. All nature, the whole world for them is no more than a splendid mirror created for the little god to admire himself continually in it, and to see no one and nothing behind himself; so it is not strange that he sees everything in the world in such a hideous light. He has a phrase in readiness for everything and—the acme of ingenuity on his part—the most fashionable phrase. It is just these people, indeed, who help to make the fashion, proclaiming at every cross-road an idea in which they scent success. A fine nose is just what they have for sniffing a fashionable phrase and making it their own before other people get hold of it, so that it seems to have originated with them. They have a particular store of phrases for proclaiming their profound sympathy for humanity, for defining what is the most correct and rational form of philanthropy, and continually attacking romanticism, in other words, everything fine and true, each atom of which is more precious than all their mollusc tribe. But they are too coarse to recognize the truth in an indirect, roundabout and unfinished form, and they reject everything that is immature, still fermenting and unstable. The well-nourished man has spent all his life in merry-making, with everything provided, has done nothing himself and does not know how hard every sort of work is, and so woe betide you if you jar upon his fat feelings by any sort of roughness; he'll never forgive you for that, he will always remember it and will gladly avenge it. The long and short of it is, that my hero is neither more nor less than a gigantic, incredibly swollen bag, full of sentences, fashionable phrases, and labels of all sorts and kinds. M. M., however, had a speciality and was a very remarkable man; he was a wit, good talker and story-teller, and there was always a circle round him in every drawing-room. That evening he was particularly successful in making an impression. He took possession of the conversation; he was in his best form, gay, pleased at something, and he compelled the attention of all; but Mme. M. looked all the time as though she were ill; her face was so sad that I fancied every minute that tears would begin quivering on her long eyelashes. All this, as I have said, impressed me extremely and made me wonder. I went away with a feeling of strange curiosity, and dreamed all night of M. M., though till then I had rarely had dreams. Next day, early in the morning, I was summoned to a rehearsal of some tableaux vivants in which I had to take part. The tableaux vivants, theatricals, and afterwards a dance were all fixed for the same evening, five days later—the birthday of our host's younger daughter. To this entertainment, which was almost improvised, another hundred guests were invited from Moscow and from surrounding villas, so that there was a great deal of fuss, bustle and commotion. The rehearsal, or rather review of the costumes, was fixed so early in the morning because our manager, a well-known artist, a friend of our host's, who had consented through affection for him to undertake the arrangement of the tableaux and the training of us for them, was in haste now to get to Moscow to purchase properties and to make final preparations for the fête, as there was no time to lose. I took part in one tableau with Mme. M. It was a scene from mediæval life and was called 'The Lady of the Castle and Her Page.' I felt unutterably confused on meeting Mme. M. at the rehearsal. I kept feeling that she would at once read in my eyes all the reflections, the doubts, the surmises, that had arisen in my mind since the previous day. I fancied, too, that I was, as it were, to blame in regard to her, for having come upon her tears the day before and hindered her grieving, so that she could hardly help looking at me askance, as an unpleasant witness and unforgiven sharer of her secret. But, thank goodness, it went off without any great trouble; I was simply not noticed. I think she had no thoughts to spare for me or for the rehearsal; she was absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was evident that she was worried by some great anxiety. As soon as my part was over I ran away to change my clothes, and ten minutes later came out on the verandah into the garden. Almost at the same time Mme. M. came out by another door, and immediately afterwards coming towards us appeared her self-satisfied husband, who was returning from the garden, after just escorting into it quite a crowd of ladies and there handing them over to a competent cavaliere servente. The meeting of the husband and wife was evidently unexpected. Mme. M., I don't know why, grew suddenly confused, and a faint trace of vexation was betrayed in her impatient movement. The husband, who had been carelessly whistling an air and with an air of profundity stroking his whiskers, now, on meeting his wife, frowned and scrutinized her, as I remember now, with a markedly inquisitorial stare. 'You are going into the garden?' he asked, noticing the parasol and book in her hand. 'No, into the copse,' she said, with a slight flush. 'Alone?' 'With him,' said Mme. M., pointing to me. 'I always go a walk alone in the morning,' she added, speaking in an uncertain, hesitating voice, as people do when they tell their first lie. 'H'm ... and I have just taken the whole party there. They have all met there together in the flower arbour to see N. off. He is going away, you know.... Something has gone wrong in Odessa. Your cousin' (he meant the fair beauty) 'is laughing and crying at the same time; there is no making her out. She says, though, that you are angry with N. about something and so wouldn't go and see him off. Nonsense, of course?' 'She's laughing,' said Mme. M., coming down the verandah steps. 'So this is your daily cavaliere servente,' added M. M., with a wry smile, turning his lorgnette upon me. 'Page!' I cried, angered by the lorgnette and the jeer; and laughing straight in his face I jumped down the three steps of the verandah at one bound. 'A pleasant walk,' muttered M. M., and went on his way. Of course, I immediately joined Mme. M. as soon as she indicated me to her husband, and looked as though she had invited me to do so an hour before, and as though I had been accompanying her on her walks every morning for the last month. But I could not make out why she was so confused, so embarrassed, and what was in her mind when she brought herself to have recourse to her little lie? Why had she not simply said that she was going alone? I did not know how to look at her, but overwhelmed with wonder I began by degrees very naïvely peeping into her face; but just as an hour before at the rehearsal she did not notice either my looks or my mute question. The same anxiety, only more intense and more distinct, was apparent in her face, in her agitation, in her walk. She was in haste, and walked more and more quickly and kept looking uneasily down every avenue, down every path in the wood that led in the direction of the garden. And I, too, was expecting something. Suddenly there was the sound of horses' hoofs behind us. It was the whole party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback escorting N., the gentleman who was so suddenly deserting us. Among the ladies was my fair tormentor, of whom M. M. had told us that she was in tears. But characteristically she was laughing like a child, and was galloping briskly on a splendid bay horse. On reaching us N. took off his hat, but did not stop, nor say one word to Mme. M. Soon all the cavalcade disappeared from our sight. I glanced at Mme. M. and almost cried out in wonder; she was standing as white as a handkerchief and big tears were gushing from her eyes. By chance our eyes met: Mme. M. suddenly flushed and turned away for an instant, and a distinct look of uneasiness and vexation flitted across her face. I was in the way, worse even than last time, that was clearer than day, but how was I to get away? And, as though guessing my difficulty, Mme. M. opened the book which she had in her hand, and colouring and evidently trying not to look at me she said, as though she had only suddenly realized it— 'Ah! It is the second part. I've made a mistake; please bring me the first.' I could not but understand. My part was over, and I could not have been more directly dismissed. I ran off with her book and did not come back. The first part lay undisturbed on the table that morning.... But I was not myself; in my heart there was a sort of haunting terror. I did my utmost not to meet Mme. M. But I looked with wild curiosity at the self-satisfied person of M. M., as though there must be something special about him now. I don't understand what was the meaning of my absurd curiosity. I only remember that I was strangely perplexed by all that I had chanced to see that morning. But the day was only just beginning and it was fruitful in events for me. Dinner was very early that day. An expedition to a neighbouring hamlet to see a village festival that was taking place there had been fixed for the evening, and so it was necessary to be in time to get ready. I had been dreaming for the last three days of this excursion, anticipating all sorts of delights. Almost all the company gathered together on the verandah for coffee. I cautiously followed the others and concealed myself behind the third row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and yet I was very anxious not to be seen by Mme. M. But as luck would have it I was not far from my fair tormentor. Something miraculous and incredible was happening to her that day; she looked twice as handsome. I don't know how and why this happens, but such miracles are by no means rare with women. There was with us at this moment a new guest, a tall, pale-faced young man, the official admirer of our fair beauty, who had just arrived from Moscow as though on purpose to replace N., of whom rumour said that he was desperately in love with the same lady. As for the newly arrived guest, he had for a long time past been on the same terms as Benedick with Beatrice, in Shakespeare's Much Ado about Nothing. In short, the fair beauty was in her very best form that day. Her chatter and her jests were so full of grace, so trustfully naïve, so innocently careless, she was persuaded of the general enthusiasm with such graceful selfconfidence that she really was all the time the centre of peculiar adoration. A throng of surprised and admiring listeners was continually round her, and she had never been so fascinating. Every word she uttered was marvellous and seductive, was caught up and handed round in the circle, and not one word, one jest, one sally was lost. I fancy no one had expected from her such taste, such brilliance, such wit. Her best qualities were, as a rule, buried under the most harum-scarum wilfulness, the most schoolboyish pranks, almost verging on buffoonery; they were rarely noticed, and, when they were, were hardly believed in, so that now her extraordinary brilliancy was accompanied by an eager whisper of amazement among all. There was, however, one peculiar and rather delicate circumstance, judging at least by the part in it played by Mme. M.'s husband, which contributed to her success. The madcap ventured—and I must add to the satisfaction of almost every one or, at any rate, to the satisfaction of all the young people—to make a furious attack upon him, owing to many causes, probably of great consequence in her eyes. She carried on with him a regular cross-fire of witticisms, of mocking and sarcastic sallies, of that most illusive and treacherous kind that, smoothly wrapped up on the surface, hit the mark without giving the victim anything to lay hold of, and exhaust him in fruitless efforts to repel the attack, reducing him to fury and comic despair. I don't know for certain, but I fancy the whole proceeding was not improvised but premeditated. This desperate duel had begun earlier, at dinner. I call it desperate because M. M. was not quick to surrender. He had to call upon all his presence of mind, all his sharp wit and rare resourcefulness not to be completely covered with ignominy. The conflict was accompanied by the continual and irrepressible laughter of all who witnessed and took part in it. That day was for him very different from the day before. It was noticeable that Mme. M. several times did her utmost to stop her indiscreet friend, who was certainly trying to depict the jealous husband in the most grotesque and absurd guise, in the guise of 'a bluebeard' it must be supposed, judging from all probabilities, from what has remained in my memory and finally from the part which I myself was destined to play in the affair. I was drawn into it in a most absurd manner, quite unexpectedly. And as ill-luck would have it at that moment I was standing where I could be seen, suspecting no evil and actually forgetting the precautions I had so long practised. Suddenly I was brought into the foreground as a sworn foe and natural rival of M. M., as desperately in love with his wife, of which my persecutress vowed and swore that she had proofs, saying that only that morning she had seen in the copse.... But before she had time to finish I broke in at the most desperate minute. That minute was so diabolically calculated, was so treacherously prepared to lead up to its finale, its ludicrous dénouement, and was brought out with such killing humour that a perfect outburst of irrepressible mirth saluted this last sally. And though even at the time I guessed that mine was not the most unpleasant part in the performance, yet I was so confused, so irritated and alarmed that, full of misery and despair, gasping with shame and tears, I dashed through two rows of chairs, stepped forward, and addressing my tormentor, cried, in a voice broken with tears and indignation: 'Aren't you ashamed ... aloud ... before all the ladies ... to tell such a wicked ... lie?... Like a small child ... before all these men.... What will they say?... A big girl like you ... and married!...' But I could not go on, there was a deafening roar of applause. My outburst created a perfect furore. My naïve gesture, my tears, and especially the fact that I seemed to be defending M. M., all this provoked such fiendish laughter, that even now I cannot help laughing at the mere recollection of it. I was overcome with confusion, senseless with horror and, burning with shame, hiding my face in my hands rushed away, knocked a tray out of the hands of a footman who was coming in at the door, and flew upstairs to my own room. I pulled out the key, which was on the outside of the door, and locked myself in. I did well, for there was a hue and cry after me. Before a minute had passed my door was besieged by a mob of the prettiest ladies. I heard their ringing laughter, their incessant chatter, their trilling voices; they were all twittering at once, like swallows. All of them, every one of them, begged and besought me to open the door, if only for a moment; swore that no harm should come to me, only that they wanted to smother me with kisses. But ... what could be more horrible than this novel threat? I simply burned with shame the other side of the door, hiding my face in the pillows and did not open, did not even respond. The ladies kept up their knocking for a long time, but I was deaf and obdurate as only a boy of eleven could be. But what could I do now? Everything was laid bare, everything had been exposed, everything I had so jealously guarded and concealed!... Everlasting disgrace and shame had fallen on me! But it is true that I could not myself have said why I was frightened and what I wanted to hide; yet I was frightened of something and had trembled like a leaf at the thought of that something's being discovered. Only till that minute I had not known what it was: whether it was good or bad, splendid or shameful, praiseworthy or reprehensible? Now in my distress, in the misery that had been forced upon me, I learned that it was absurd and shameful. Instinctively I felt at the same time that this verdict was false, inhuman, and coarse; but I was crushed, annihilated; consciousness seemed checked in me and thrown into confusion; I could not stand up against that verdict, nor criticize it properly. I was befogged; I only felt that my heart had been inhumanly and shamelessly wounded, and was brimming over with impotent tears. I was irritated; but I was boiling with indignation and hate such as I had never felt before, for it was the first time in my life that I had known real sorrow, insult, and injury—and it was truly that, without any exaggeration. The first untried, unformed feeling had been so coarsely handled in me, a child. The first fragrant, virginal modesty had been so soon exposed and insulted, and the first and perhaps very real and æsthetic impression had been so outraged. Of course there was much my persecutors did not know and did not divine in my sufferings. One circumstance, which I had not succeeded in analysing till then, of which I had been as it were afraid, partly entered into it. I went on lying on my bed in despair and misery, hiding my face in my pillow, and I was alternately feverish and shivery. I was tormented by two questions: first, what had the wretched fair beauty seen, and, in fact, what could she have seen that morning in the copse between Mme. M. and me? And secondly, how could I now look Mme. M. in the face without dying on the spot of shame and despair? An extraordinary noise in the yard roused me at last from the state of semiconsciousness into which I had fallen. I got up and went to the window. The whole yard was packed with carriages, saddle-horses, and bustling servants. It seemed that they were all setting off; some of the gentlemen had already mounted their horses, others were taking their places in the carriages.... Then I remembered the expedition to the village fête, and little by little an uneasiness came over me; I began anxiously looking for my pony in the yard; but there was no pony there, so they must have forgotten me. I could not restrain myself, and rushed headlong downstairs, thinking no more of unpleasant meetings or my recent ignominy.... Terrible news awaited me. There was neither a horse nor seat in any of the carriages to spare for me; everything had been arranged, all the seats were taken, and I was forced to give place to others. Overwhelmed by this fresh blow, I stood on the steps and looked mournfully at the long rows of coaches, carriages, and chaises, in which there was not the tiniest corner left for me, and at the smartly dressed ladies, whose horses were restlessly curvetting. One of the gentlemen was late. They were only waiting for his arrival to set off. His horse was standing at the door, champing the bit, pawing the earth with his hoofs, and at every moment starting and rearing. Two stable-boys were carefully holding him by the bridle, and every one else apprehensively stood at a respectful distance from him. A most vexatious circumstance had occurred, which prevented my going. In addition to the fact that new visitors had arrived, filling up all the seats, two of the horses had fallen ill, one of them being my pony. But I was not the only person to suffer: it appeared that there was no horse for our new visitor, the palefaced young man of whom I have spoken already. To get over this difficulty our host had been obliged to have recourse to the extreme step of offering his fiery unbroken stallion, adding, to satisfy his conscience, that it was impossible to ride him, and that they had long intended to sell the beast for its vicious character, if only a purchaser could be found. But, in spite of his warning, the visitor declared that he was a good horseman, and in any case ready to mount anything rather than not go. Our host said no more, but now I fancied that a sly and ambiguous smile was straying on his lips. He waited for the gentleman who had spoken so well of his own horsemanship, and stood, without mounting his horse, impatiently rubbing his hands and continually glancing towards the door; some similar feeling seemed shared by the two stable-boys, who were holding the stallion, almost breathless with pride at seeing themselves before the whole company in charge of a horse which might any minute kill a man for no reason whatever. Something akin to their master's sly smile gleamed, too, in their eyes, which were round with expectation, and fixed upon the door from which the bold visitor was to appear. The horse himself, too, behaved as though he were in league with our host and the stableboys. He bore himself proudly and haughtily, as though he felt that he were being watched by several dozen curious eyes and were glorying in his evil reputation exactly as some incorrigible rogue might glory in his criminal exploits. He seemed to be defying the bold man who would venture to curb his independence. That bold man did at last make his appearance. Conscience-stricken at having kept every one waiting, hurriedly drawing on his gloves, he came forward without looking at anything, ran down the steps, and only raised his eyes as he stretched out his hand to seize the mane of the waiting horse. But he was at once disconcerted by his frantic rearing and a warning scream from the frightened spectators. The young man stepped back and looked in perplexity at the vicious horse, which was quivering all over, snorting with anger, and rolling his bloodshot eyes ferociously, continually rearing on his hind legs and flinging up his fore legs as though he meant to bolt into the air and carry the two stable-boys with him. For a minute the young man stood completely nonplussed; then, flushing slightly with some embarrassment, he raised his eyes and looked at the frightened ladies. 'A very fine horse!' he said, as though to himself, 'and to my thinking it ought to be a great pleasure to ride him; but ... but do you know, I think I won't go?' he concluded, turning to our host with the broad, good-natured smile which so suited his kind and clever face. 'Yet I consider you are an excellent horseman, I assure you,' answered the owner of the unapproachable horse, delighted, and he warmly and even gratefully pressed the young man's hand, 'just because from the first moment you saw the sort of brute you had to deal with,' he added with dignity. 'Would you believe me, though I have served twenty-three years in the hussars, yet I've had the pleasure of being laid on the ground three times, thanks to that beast, that is, as often as I mounted the useless animal. Tancred, my boy, there's no one here fit for you! Your rider, it seems, must be some Ilya Muromets, and he must be sitting quiet now in the village of Kapatcharovo, waiting for your teeth to fall out. Come, take him away, he has frightened people enough. It was a waste of time to bring him out,' he cried, rubbing his hands complacently. It must be observed that Tancred was no sort of use to his master and simply ate corn for nothing; moreover, the old hussar had lost his reputation for a knowledge of horseflesh by paying a fabulous sum for the worthless beast, which he had purchased only for his beauty ... yet he was delighted now that Tancred had kept up his reputation, had disposed of another rider, and so had drawn closer on himself fresh senseless laurels. 'So you are not going?' cried the blonde beauty, who was particularly anxious that her cavaliere servente should be in attendance on this occasion. 'Surely you are not frightened?' 'Upon my word I am,' answered the young man. 'Are you in earnest?' 'Why, do you want me to break my neck?' 'Then make haste and get on my horse; don't be afraid, it is very quiet. We won't delay them, they can change the saddles in a minute! I'll try to take yours. Surely Tancred can't always be so unruly.' No sooner said than done, the madcap leaped out of the saddle and was standing before us as she finished the last sentence. 'You don't know Tancred, if you think he will allow your wretched side-saddle to be put on him! Besides, I would not let you break your neck, it would be a pity!' said our host, at that moment of inward gratification affecting, as his habit was, a studied brusqueness and even coarseness of speech which he thought in keeping with a jolly good fellow and an old soldier, and which he imagined to be particularly attractive to the ladies. This was one of his favourite fancies, his favourite whim, with which we were all familiar. 'Well, cry-baby, wouldn't you like to have a try? You wanted so much to go?' said the valiant horsewoman, noticing me and pointing tauntingly at Tancred, because I had been so imprudent as to catch her eye, and she would not let me go without a biting word, that she might not have dismounted from her horse absolutely for nothing. 'I expect you are not such a—— We all know you are a hero and would be ashamed to be afraid; especially when you will be looked at, you fine page,' she added, with a fleeting glance at Mme. M., whose carriage was the nearest to the entrance. A rush of hatred and vengeance had flooded my heart, when the fair Amazon had approached us with the intention of mounting Tancred.... But I cannot describe what I felt at this unexpected challenge from the madcap. Everything was dark before my eyes when I saw her glance at Mme. M. For an instant an idea flashed through my mind ... but it was only a moment, less than a moment, like a flash of gunpowder; perhaps it was the last straw, and I suddenly now was moved to rage as my spirit rose, so that I longed to put all my enemies to utter confusion, and to revenge myself on all of them and before everyone, by showing the sort of person I was. Or whether by some miracle, some prompting from mediæval history, of which I had known nothing till then, sent whirling through my giddy brain, images of tournaments, paladins, heroes, lovely ladies, the clash of swords, shouts and the applause of the crowd, and amidst those shouts the timid cry of a frightened heart, which moves the proud soul more sweetly than victory and fame—I don't know whether all this romantic nonsense was in my head at the time, or whether, more likely, only the first dawning of the inevitable nonsense that was in store for me in the future, anyway, I felt that my hour had come. My heart leaped and shuddered, and I don't remember how, at one bound, I was down the steps and beside Tancred. 'You think I am afraid?' I cried, boldly and proudly, in such a fever that I could hardly see, breathless with excitement, and flushing till the tears scalded my cheeks. 'Well, you shall see!' And clutching at Tancred's mane I put my foot in the stirrup before they had time to make a movement to stop me; but at that instant Tancred reared, jerked his head, and with a mighty bound forward wrenched himself out of the hands of the petrified stable-boys, and dashed off like a hurricane, while every one cried out in horror. Goodness knows how I got my other leg over the horse while it was in full gallop; I can't imagine, either, how I did not lose hold of the reins. Tancred bore me beyond the trellis gate, turned sharply to the right and flew along beside the fence regardless of the road. Only at that moment I heard behind me a shout from fifty voices, and that shout was echoed in my swooning heart with such a feeling of pride and pleasure that I shall never forget that mad moment of my boyhood. All the blood rushed to my head, bewildering me and overpowering my fears. I was beside myself. There certainly was, as I remember it now, something of the knight-errant about the exploit. My knightly exploits, however, were all over in an instant or it would have gone badly with the knight. And, indeed, I do not know how I escaped as it was. I did know how to ride, I had been taught. But my pony was more like a sheep than a riding horse. No doubt I should have been thrown off Tancred if he had had time to throw me, but after galloping fifty paces he suddenly took fright at a huge stone which lay across the road and bolted back. He turned sharply, galloping at full speed, so that it is a puzzle to me even now that I was not sent spinning out of the saddle and flying like a ball for twenty feet, that I was not dashed to pieces, and that Tancred did not dislocate his leg by such a sudden turn. He rushed back to the gate, tossing his head furiously, bounding from side to side as though drunk with rage, flinging his legs at random in the air, and at every leap trying to shake me off his back as though a tiger had leaped on him and were thrusting its teeth and claws into his back. In another instant I should have flown off; I was falling; but several gentlemen flew to my rescue. Two of them intercepted the way into the open country, two others galloped up, closing in upon Tancred so that their horses' sides almost crushed my legs, and both of them caught him by the bridle. A few seconds later we were back at the steps. They lifted me down from the horse, pale and scarcely breathing. I was shaking like a blade of grass in the wind; it was the same with Tancred, who was standing, his hoofs as it were thrust into the earth and his whole body thrown back, puffing his fiery breath from red and streaming nostrils, twitching and quivering all over, seeming overwhelmed with wounded pride and anger at a child's being so bold with impunity. All around me I heard cries of bewilderment, surprise, and alarm. At that moment my straying eyes caught those of Mme. M., who looked pale and agitated, and—I can never forget that moment—in one instant my face was flooded with colour, glowed and burned like fire; I don't know what happened to me, but confused and frightened by my own feelings I timidly dropped my eyes to the ground. But my glance was noticed, it was caught, it was stolen from me. All eyes turned on Mme. M., and finding herself unawares the centre of attention, she, too, flushed like a child from some naïve and involuntary feeling and made an unsuccessful effort to cover her confusion by laughing.... All this, of course, was very absurd-looking from outside, but at that moment an extremely naïve and unexpected circumstance saved me from being laughed at by every one, and gave a special colour to the whole adventure. The lovely persecutor who was the instigator of the whole escapade, and who till then had been my irreconcileable foe, suddenly rushed up to embrace and kiss me. She had hardly been able to believe her eyes when she saw me dare to accept her challenge, and pick up the gauntlet she had flung at me by glancing at Mme. M. She had almost died of terror and self-reproach when I had flown off on Tancred; now, when it was all over, and particularly when she caught the glance at Mme. M., my confusion and my sudden flush of colour, when the romantic strain in her frivolous little head had given a new secret, unspoken significance to the moment—she was moved to such enthusiasm over my 'knightliness,' that touched, joyful and proud of me, she rushed up and pressed me to her bosom. She lifted the most naïve, stern-looking little face, on which there quivered and gleamed two little crystal tears, and gazing at the crowd that thronged about her said in a grave, earnest voice, such as they had never heard her use before, pointing to me: 'Mais c'est très sérieux, messieurs, ne riez pas!' She did not notice that all were standing, as though fascinated, admiring her bright enthusiasm. Her swift, unexpected action, her earnest little face, the simplehearted naïveté, the unexpected feeling betrayed by the tears that welled in her invariably laughter-loving eyes, were such a surprise that every one stood before her as though electrified by her expression, her rapid, fiery words and gestures. It seemed as though no one could take his eyes off her for fear of missing that rare moment in her enthusiastic face. Even our host flushed crimson as a tulip, and people declared that they heard him confess afterwards that 'to his shame' he had been in love for a whole minute with his charming guest. Well, of course, after this I was a knight, a hero. 'De Lorge! Toggenburg!' was heard in the crowd. There was a sound of applause. 'Hurrah for the rising generation!' added the host. 'But he is coming with us, he certainly must come with us,' said the beauty; 'we will find him a place, we must find him a place. He shall sit beside me, on my knee ... but no, no! That's a mistake!...' she corrected herself, laughing, unable to restrain her mirth at our first encounter. But as she laughed she stroked my hand tenderly, doing all she could to soften me, that I might not be offended. 'Of course, of course,' several voices chimed in; 'he must go, he has won his place.' The matter was settled in a trice. The same old maid who had brought about my acquaintance with the blonde beauty was at once besieged with entreaties from all the younger people to remain at home and let me have her seat. She was forced to consent, to her intense vexation, with a smile and a stealthy hiss of anger. Her protectress, who was her usual refuge, my former foe and new friend, called to her as she galloped off on her spirited horse, laughing like a child, that she envied her and would have been glad to stay at home herself, for it was just going to rain and we should all get soaked. And she was right in predicting rain. A regular downpour came on within an hour and the expedition was done for. We had to take shelter for some hours in the huts of the village, and had to return home between nine and ten in the evening in the damp mist that followed the rain. I began to be a little feverish. At the minute when I was starting, Mme. M. came up to me and expressed surprise that my neck was uncovered and that I had nothing on over my jacket. I answered that I had not had time to get my coat. She took out a pin and pinned up the turned down collar of my shirt, took off her own neck a crimson gauze kerchief, and put it round my neck that I might not get a sore throat. She did this so hurriedly that I had not time even to thank her. But when we got home I found her in the little drawing-room with the blonde beauty and the pale-faced young man who had gained glory for horsemanship that day by refusing to ride Tancred. I went up to thank her and give back the scarf. But now, after all my adventures, I felt somehow ashamed. I wanted to make haste and get upstairs, there at my leisure to reflect and consider. I was brimming over with impressions. As I gave back the kerchief I blushed up to my ears, as usual. 'I bet he would like to keep the kerchief,' said the young man laughing. 'One can see that he is sorry to part with your scarf.' 'That's it, that's it!' the fair lady put in. 'What a boy! Oh!' she said, shaking her head with obvious vexation, but she stopped in time at a grave glance from Mme. M., who did not want to carry the jest too far. I made haste to get away. 'Well, you are a boy,' said the madcap, overtaking me in the next room and affectionately taking me by both hands, 'why, you should have simply not returned the kerchief if you wanted so much to have it. You should have said you put it down somewhere, and that would have been the end of it. What a simpleton! Couldn't even do that! What a funny boy!' And she tapped me on the chin with her finger, laughing at my having flushed as red as a poppy. 'I am your friend now, you know; am I not? Our enmity is over, isn't it? Yes or no?' I laughed and pressed her fingers without a word. 'Oh, why are you so ... why are you so pale and shivering? Have you caught a chill?' 'Yes, I don't feel well.' 'Ah, poor fellow! That's the result of over-excitement. Do you know what? You had better go to bed without sitting up for supper, and you will be all right in the morning. Come along.' She took me upstairs, and there was no end to the care she lavished on me. Leaving me to undress she ran downstairs, got me some tea, and brought it up herself when I was in bed. She brought me up a warm quilt as well. I was much impressed and touched by all the care and attention lavished on me; or perhaps I was affected by the whole day, the expedition and feverishness. As I said goodnight to her I hugged her warmly, as though she were my dearest and nearest friend, and in my exhausted state all the emotions of the day came back to me in a rush; I almost shed tears as I nestled to her bosom. She noticed my overwrought condition, and I believe my madcap herself was a little touched. 'You are a very good boy,' she said, looking at me with gentle eyes, 'please don't be angry with me. You won't, will you?' In fact, we became the warmest and truest of friends. It was rather early when I woke up, but the sun was already flooding the whole room with brilliant light. I jumped out of bed feeling perfectly well and strong, as though I had had no fever the day before; indeed, I felt now unutterably joyful. I recalled the previous day and felt that I would have given any happiness if I could at that minute have embraced my new friend, the fair-haired beauty, again, as I had the night before; but it was very early and every one was still asleep. Hurriedly dressing I went out into the garden and from there into the copse. I made my way where the leaves were thickest, where the fragrance of the trees was more resinous, and where the sun peeped in most gaily, rejoicing that it could penetrate the dense darkness of the foliage. It was a lovely morning. Going on further and further, before I was aware of it I had reached the further end of the copse and came out on the river Moskva. It flowed at the bottom of the hill two hundred paces below. On the opposite bank of the river they were mowing. I watched whole rows of sharp scythes gleam all together in the sunlight at every swing of the mower and then vanish again like little fiery snakes going into hiding; I watched the cut grass flying on one side in dense rich swathes and being laid in long straight lines. I don't know how long I spent in contemplation. At last I was roused from my reverie by hearing a horse snorting and impatiently pawing the ground twenty paces from me, in the track which ran from the high road to the manor house. I don't know whether I heard this horse as soon as the rider rode up and stopped there, or whether the sound had long been in my ears without rousing me from my dreaming. Moved by curiosity I went into the copse, and before I had gone many steps I caught the sound of voices speaking rapidly, though in subdued tones. I went up closer, carefully parting the branches of the bushes that edged the path, and at once sprang back in amazement. I caught a glimpse of a familiar white dress and a soft feminine voice resounded like music in my heart. It was Mme. M. She was standing beside a man on horseback who, stooping down from the saddle, was hurriedly talking to her, and to my amazement I recognized him as N., the young man who had gone away the morning before and over whose departure M. M. had been so busy. But people had said at the time that he was going far away to somewhere in the South of Russia, and so I was very much surprised at seeing him with us again so early, and alone with Mme. M. She was moved and agitated as I had never seen her before, and tears were glistening on her cheeks. The young man was holding her hand and stooping down to kiss it. I had come upon them at the moment of parting. They seemed to be in haste. At last he took out of his pocket a sealed envelope, gave it to Mme. M., put one arm round her, still not dismounting, and gave her a long, fervent kiss. A minute later he lashed his horse and flew past me like an arrow. Mme. M. looked after him for some moments, then pensively and disconsolately turned homewards. But after going a few steps along the track she seemed suddenly to recollect herself, hurriedly parted the bushes and walked on through the copse. I followed her, surprised and perplexed by all that I had seen. My heart was beating violently, as though from terror. I was, as it were, benumbed and befogged; my ideas were shattered and turned upside down; but I remember I was, for some reason, very sad. I got glimpses from time to time through the green foliage of her white dress before me: I followed her mechanically, never losing sight of her, though I trembled at the thought that she might notice me. At last she came out on the little path that led to the house. After waiting half a minute I, too, emerged from the bushes; but what was my amazement when I saw lying on the red sand of the path a sealed packet, which I recognized, from the first glance, as the one that had been given to Mme. M. ten minutes before. I picked it up. On both sides the paper was blank, there was no address on it. The envelope was not large, but it was fat and heavy, as though there were three or more sheets of notepaper in it. What was the meaning of this envelope? No doubt it would explain the whole mystery. Perhaps in it there was said all that N. had scarcely hoped to express in their brief, hurried interview. He had not even dismounted.... Whether he had been in haste or whether he had been afraid of being false to himself at the hour of parting—God only knows.... I stopped, without coming out on the path, threw the envelope in the most conspicuous place on it, and kept my eyes upon it, supposing that Mme. M. would notice the loss and come back and look for it. But after waiting four minutes I could stand it no longer, I picked up my find again, put it in my pocket, and set off to overtake Mme. M. I came upon her in the big avenue in the garden. She was walking straight towards the house with a swift and hurried step, though she was lost in thought, and her eyes were on the ground. I did not know what to do. Go up to her, give it her? That would be as good as saying that I knew everything, that I had seen it all. I should betray myself at the first word. And how should I look, at her? How would she look at me. I kept expecting that she would discover her loss and return on her tracks. Then I could, unnoticed, have flung the envelope on the path and she would have found it. But no! We were approaching the house; she had already been noticed.... As ill-luck would have it every one had got up very early that day, because, after the unsuccessful expedition of the evening before, they had arranged something new, of which I had heard nothing. All were preparing to set off, and were having breakfast in the verandah. I waited for ten minutes, that I might not be seen with Mme. M., and making a circuit of the garden approached the house from the other side a long time after her. She was walking up and down the verandah with her arms folded, looking pale and agitated, and was obviously trying her utmost to suppress the agonizing, despairing misery which could be plainly discerned in her eyes, her walk, her every movement. Sometimes she went down the verandah steps and walked a few paces among the flower-beds in the direction of the garden; her eyes were impatiently, greedily, even incautiously, seeking something on the sand of the path and on the floor of the verandah. There could be no doubt she had discovered her loss and imagined she had dropped the letter somewhere here, near the house—yes, that must be so, she was convinced of it. Some one noticed that she was pale and agitated, and others made the same remark. She was besieged with questions about her health and condolences. She had to laugh, to jest, to appear lively. From time to time she looked at her husband, who was standing at the end of the terrace talking to two ladies, and the poor woman was overcome by the same shudder, the same embarrassment, as on the day of his first arrival. Thrusting my hand into my pocket and holding the letter tight in it, I stood at a little distance from them all, praying to fate that Mme. M. should notice me. I longed to cheer her up, to relieve her anxiety if only by a glance; to say a word to her on the sly. But when she did chance to look at me I dropped my eyes. I saw her distress and I was not mistaken. To this day I don't know her secret. I know nothing but what I saw and what I have just described. The intrigue was not such, perhaps, as one might suppose at the first glance. Perhaps that kiss was the kiss of farewell, perhaps it was the last slight reward for the sacrifice made to her peace and honour. N. was going away, he was leaving her, perhaps for ever. Even that letter I was holding in my hand—who can tell what it contained! How can one judge? and who can condemn? And yet there is no doubt that the sudden discovery of her secret would have been terrible—would have been a fatal blow for her. I still remember her face at that minute, it could not have shown more suffering. To feel, to know, to be convinced, to expect, as though it were one's execution, that in a quarter of an hour, in a minute perhaps, all might be discovered, the letter might be found by some one, picked up; there was no address on it, it might be opened, and then.... What then? What torture could be worse than what was awaiting her? She moved about among those who would be her judges. In another minute their smiling flattering faces would be menacing and merciless. She would read mockery, malice and icy contempt on those faces, and then her life would be plunged in everlasting darkness, with no dawn to follow.... Yes, I did not understand it then as I understand it now. I could only have vague suspicions and misgivings, and a heart-ache at the thought of her danger, which I could not fully understand. But whatever lay hidden in her secret, much was expiated, if expiation were needed, by those moments of anguish of which I was witness and which I shall never forget. But then came a cheerful summons to set off; immediately every one was bustling about gaily; laughter and lively chatter were heard on all sides. Within two minutes the verandah was deserted. Mme. M. declined to join the party, acknowledging at last that she was not well. But, thank God, all the others set off, every one was in haste, and there was no time to worry her with commiseration, inquiries, and advice. A few remained at home. Her husband said a few words to her; she answered that she would be all right directly, that he need not be uneasy, that there was no occasion for her to lie down, that she would go into the garden, alone ... with me ... here she glanced at me. Nothing could be more fortunate! I flushed with pleasure, with delight; a minute later we were on the way. She walked along the same avenues and paths by which she had returned from the copse, instinctively remembering the way she had come, gazing before her with her eyes fixed on the ground, looking about intently without answering me, possibly forgetting that I was walking beside her. But when we had already reached the place where I had picked up the letter, and the path ended, Mme. M. suddenly stopped, and in a voice faint and weak with misery said that she felt worse, and that she would go home. But when she reached the garden fence she stopped again and thought a minute; a smile of despair came on her lips, and utterly worn out and exhausted, resigned, and making up her mind to the worst, she turned without a word and retraced her steps, even forgetting to tell me of her intention. My heart was torn with sympathy, and I did not know what to do. We went, or rather I led her, to the place from which an hour before I had heard the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, close to a shady elm tree, was a seat hewn out of one huge stone, about which grew ivy, wild jasmine, and dogrose; the whole wood was dotted with little bridges, arbours, grottoes, and similar surprises. Mme. M. sat down on the bench and glanced unconsciously at the marvellous view that lay open before us. A minute later she opened her book, and fixed her eyes upon it without reading, without turning the pages, almost unconscious of what she was doing. It was about half-past nine. The sun was already high and was floating gloriously in the deep, dark blue sky, as though melting away in its own light. The mowers were by now far away; they were scarcely visible from our side of the river; endless ridges of mown grass crept after them in unbroken succession, and from time to time the faintly stirring breeze wafted their fragrance to us. The never ceasing concert of those who 'sow not, neither do they reap' and are free as the air they cleave with their sportive wings was all about us. It seemed as though at that moment every flower, every blade of grass was exhaling the aroma of sacrifice, was saying to its Creator, 'Father, I am blessed and happy.' I glanced at the poor woman, who alone was like one dead amidst all this joyous life; two big tears hung motionless on her lashes, wrung from her heart by bitter grief. It was in my power to relieve and console this poor, fainting heart, only I did not know how to approach the subject, how to take the first step. I was in agonies. A hundred times I was on the point of going up to her, but every time my face glowed like fire. Suddenly a bright idea dawned upon me. I had found a way of doing it; I revived. 'Would you like me to pick you a nosegay?' I said, in such a joyful voice that Mme M. immediately raised her head and looked at me intently. 'Yes, do,' she said at last in a weak voice, with a faint smile, at once dropping her eyes on the book again. 'Or soon they will be mowing the grass here and there will be no flowers,' I cried, eagerly setting to work. I had soon picked my nosegay, a poor, simple one, I should have been ashamed to take it indoors; but how light my heart was as I picked the flowers and tied them up! The dog-rose and the wild jasmine I picked closer to the seat, I knew that not far off there was a field of rye, not yet ripe. I ran there for cornflowers; I mixed them with tall ears of rye, picking out the finest and most golden. Close by I came upon a perfect nest of forget-me-nots, and my nosegay was almost complete. Farther away in the meadow there were dark-blue campanulas and wild pinks, and I ran down to the very edge of the river to get yellow waterlilies. At last, making my way back, and going for an instant into the wood to get some bright green fan-shaped leaves of the maple to put round the nosegay, I happened to come across a whole family of pansies, close to which, luckily for me, the fragrant scent of violets betrayed the little flower hiding in the thick lush grass and still glistening with drops of dew. The nosegay was complete. I bound it round with fine long grass which twisted into a rope, and I carefully lay the letter in the centre, hiding it with the flowers, but in such a way that it could be very easily noticed if the slightest attention were bestowed upon my nosegay. I carried it to Mme. M. On the way it seemed to me that the letter was lying too much in view: I hid it a little more. As I got nearer I thrust it still further in the flowers; and finally, when I was on the spot, I suddenly poked it so deeply into the centre of the nosegay that it could not be noticed at all from outside. My cheeks were positively flaming. I wanted to hide my face in my hands and run away at once, but she glanced at my flowers as though she had completely forgotten that I had gathered them. Mechanically, almost without looking, she held out her hand and took my present; but at once laid it on the seat as though I had handed it to her for that purpose and dropped her eyes to her book again, seeming lost in thought. I was ready to cry at this mischance. 'If only my nosegay were close to her,' I thought; 'if only she had not forgotten it!' I lay down on the grass not far off, put my right arm under my head, and closed my eyes as though I were overcome by drowsiness. But I waited, keeping my eyes fixed on her. Ten minutes passed, it seemed to me that she was getting paler and paler ... fortunately a blessed chance came to my aid. This was a big, golden bee, brought by a kindly breeze, luckily for me. It first buzzed over my head, and then flew up to Mme. M. She waved it off once or twice, but the bee grew more and more persistent. At last Mme. M. snatched up my nosegay and waved it before my face. At that instant the letter dropped out from among the flowers and fell straight upon the open book. I started. For some time Mme. M., mute with amazement, stared first at the letter and then at the flowers which she was holding in her hands, and she seemed unable to believe her eyes. All at once she flushed, started, and glanced at me. But I caught her movement and I shut my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. Nothing would have induced me to look her straight in the face at that moment. My heart was throbbing and leaping like a bird in the grasp of some village boy. I don't remember how long I lay with my eyes shut, two or three minutes. At last I ventured to open them. Mme. M. was greedily reading the letter, and from her glowing cheeks, her sparkling, tearful eyes, her bright face, every feature of which was quivering with joyful emotion, I guessed that there was happiness in the letter and all her misery was dispersed like smoke. An agonizing, sweet feeling gnawed at my heart, it was hard for me to go on pretending.... I shall never forget that minute! Suddenly, a long way off, we heard voices— 'Mme. M.! Natalie! Natalie!' Mme. M. did not answer, but she got up quickly from the seat, came up to me and bent over me. I felt that she was looking straight into my face. My eyelashes quivered, but I controlled myself and did not open my eyes. I tried to breathe more evenly and quietly, but my heart smothered me with its violent throbbing. Her burning breath scorched my cheeks; she bent close down to my face as though trying to make sure. At last a kiss and tears fell on my hand, the one which was lying on my breast. 'Natalie! Natalie! where are you,' we heard again, this time quite close. 'Coming,' said Mme. M., in her mellow, silvery voice, which was so choked and quivering with tears and so subdued that no one but I could hear that, 'Coming!' But at that instant my heart at last betrayed me and seemed to send all my blood rushing to my face. At that instant a swift, burning kiss scalded my lips. I uttered a faint cry. I opened my eyes, but at once the same gauze kerchief fell upon them, as though she meant to screen me from the sun. An instant later she was gone. I heard nothing but the sound of rapidly retreating steps. I was alone.... I pulled off her kerchief and kissed it, beside myself with rapture; for some moments I was almost frantic.... Hardly able to breathe, leaning on my elbow on the grass, I stared unconsciously before me at the surrounding slopes, streaked with cornfields, at the river that flowed twisting and winding far away, as far as the eye could see, between fresh hills and villages that gleamed like dots all over the sunlit distance—at the dark-blue, hardly visible forests, which seemed as though smoking at the edge of the burning sky, and a sweet stillness inspired by the triumphant peacefulness of the picture gradually brought calm to my troubled heart. I felt more at ease and breathed more freely, but my whole soul was full of a dumb, sweet yearning, as though a veil had been drawn from my eyes as though at a foretaste of something. My frightened heart, faintly quivering with expectation, was groping timidly and joyfully towards some conjecture ... and all at once my bosom heaved, began aching as though something had pierced it, and tears, sweet tears, gushed from my eyes. I hid my face in my hands, and quivering like a blade of grass, gave myself up to the first consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first vague glimpse of my nature. My childhood was over from that moment. * * * * * When two hours later I returned home I did not find Mme. M. Through some sudden chance she had gone back to Moscow with her husband. I never saw her again. MR. PROHARTCHIN A STORY In the darkest and humblest corner of Ustinya Fyodorovna's flat lived Semyon Ivanovitch Prohartchin, a well-meaning elderly man, who did not drink. Since Mr. Prohartchin was of a very humble grade in the service, and received a salary strictly proportionate to his official capacity, Ustinya Fyodorovna could not get more than five roubles a month from him for his lodging. Some people said that she had her own reasons for accepting him as a lodger; but, be that as it may, as though in despite of all his detractors, Mr. Prohartchin actually became her favourite, in an honourable and virtuous sense, of course. It must be observed that Ustinya Fyodorovna, a very respectable woman, who had a special partiality for meat and coffee, and found it difficult to keep the fasts, let rooms to several other boarders who paid twice as much as Semyon Ivanovitch, yet not being quiet lodgers, but on the contrary all of them 'spiteful scoffers' at her feminine ways and her forlorn helplessness, stood very low in her good opinion, so that if it had not been for the rent they paid, she would not have cared to let them stay, nor indeed to see them in her flat at all. Semyon Ivanovitch had become her favourite from the day when a retired, or, perhaps more correctly speaking, discharged clerk, with a weakness for strong drink, was carried to his last resting-place in Volkovo. Though this gentleman had only one eye, having had the other knocked out owing, in his own words, to his valiant behaviour; and only one leg, the other having been broken in the same way owing to his valour; yet he had succeeded in winning all the kindly feeling of which Ustinya Fyodorovna was capable, and took the fullest advantage of it, and would probably have gone on for years living as her devoted satellite and toady if he had not finally drunk himself to death in the most pitiable way. All this had happened at Peski, where Ustinya Fyodorovna only had three lodgers, of whom, when she moved into a new flat and set up on a larger scale, letting to about a dozen new boarders, Mr. Prohartchin was the only one who remained. Whether Mr. Prohartchin had certain incorrigible defects, or whether his companions were, every one of them, to blame, there seemed to be misunderstandings on both sides from the first. We must observe here that all Ustinya Fyodorovna's new lodgers without exception got on together like brothers; some of them were in the same office; each one of them by turns lost all his money to the others at faro, preference and bixe; they all liked in a merry hour to enjoy what they called the fizzing moments of life in a crowd together; they were fond, too, at times of discussing lofty subjects, and though in the end things rarely passed off without a dispute, yet as all prejudices were banished from the whole party the general harmony was not in the least disturbed thereby. The most remarkable among the lodgers were Mark Ivanovitch, an intelligent and well-read man; then Oplevaniev; then Prepolovenko, also a nice and modest person; then there was a certain Zinovy Prokofyevitch, whose object in life was to get into aristocratic society; then there was Okeanov, the copying clerk, who had in his time almost wrested the distinction of prime favourite from Semyon Ivanovitch; then another copying clerk called Sudbin; the plebeian Kantarev; there were others too. But to all these people Semyon Ivanovitch was, as it were, not one of themselves. No one wished him harm, of course, for all had from the very first done Prohartchin justice, and had decided in Mark Ivanovitch's words that he, Prohartchin, was a good and harmless fellow, though by no means a man of the world, trustworthy, and not a flatterer, who had, of course, his failings; but that if he were sometimes unhappy it was due to nothing else but lack of imagination. What is more, Mr. Prohartchin, though deprived in this way of imagination, could never have made a particularly favourable impression from his figure or manners (upon which scoffers are fond of fastening), yet his figure did not put people against him. Mark Ivanovitch, who was an intelligent person, formally undertook Semyon Ivanovitch's defence, and declared in rather happy and flowery language that Prohartchin was an elderly and respectable man, who had long, long ago passed the age of romance. And so, if Semyon Ivanovitch did not know how to get on with people, it must have been entirely his own fault. The first thing they noticed was the unmistakable parsimony and niggardliness of Semyon Ivanovitch. That was at once observed and noted, for Semyon Ivanovitch would never lend any one his teapot, even for a moment; and that was the more unjust as he himself hardly ever drank tea, but when he wanted anything drank, as a rule, rather a pleasant decoction of wild flowers and certain medicinal herbs, of which he always had a considerable store. His meals, too, were quite different from the other lodgers'. He never, for instance, permitted himself to partake of the whole dinner, provided daily by Ustinya Fyodorovna for the other boarders. The dinner cost half a rouble; Semyon Ivanovitch paid only twenty-five kopecks in copper, and never exceeded it, and so took either a plate of soup with pie, or a plate of beef; most frequently he ate neither soup nor beef, but he partook in moderation of white bread with onion, curd, salted cucumber, or something similar, which was a great deal cheaper, and he would only go back to his half rouble dinner when he could stand it no longer.... Here the biographer confesses that nothing would have induced him to allude to such realistic and low details, positively shocking and offensive to some lovers of the heroic style, if it were not that these details exhibit one peculiarity, one characteristic, in the hero of this story; for Mr. Prohartchin was by no means so poor as to be unable to have regular and sufficient meals, though he sometimes made out that he was. But he acted as he did regardless of obloquy and people's prejudices, simply to satisfy his strange whims, and from frugality and excessive carefulness: all this, however, will be much clearer later on. But we will beware of boring the reader with the description of all Semyon Ivanovitch's whims, and will omit, for instance, the curious and very amusing description of his attire; and, in fact, if it were not for Ustinya Fyodorovna's own reference to it we should hardly have alluded even to the fact that Semyon Ivanovitch never could make up his mind to send his linen to the wash, or if he ever did so it was so rarely that in the intervals one might have completely forgotten the existence of linen on Semyon Ivanovitch. From the landlady's evidence it appeared that 'Semyon Ivanovitch, bless his soul, poor lamb, for twenty years had been tucked away in his corner, without caring what folks thought, for all the days of his life on earth he was a stranger to socks, handkerchiefs, and all such things,' and what is more, Ustinya Fyodorovna had seen with her own eyes, thanks to the decrepitude of the screen, that the poor dear man sometimes had had nothing to cover his bare skin. Such were the rumours in circulation after Semyon Ivanovitch's death. But in his lifetime (and this was one of the most frequent occasions of dissension) he could not endure it if any one, even somebody on friendly terms with him, poked his inquisitive nose uninvited into his corner, even through an aperture in the decrepit screen. He was a taciturn man difficult to deal with and prone to ill health. He did not like people to give him advice, he did not care for people who put themselves forward either, and if any one jeered at him or gave him advice unasked, he would fall foul of him at once, put him to shame, and settle his business. 'You are a puppy, you are a featherhead, you are not one to give advice, so there—you mind your own business, sir. You'd better count the stitches in your own socks, sir, so there!' Semyon Ivanovitch was a plain man, and never used the formal mode of address to any one. He could not bear it either when some one who knew his little ways would begin from pure sport pestering him with questions, such as what he had in his little trunk.... Semyon Ivanovitch had one little trunk. It stood under his bed, and was guarded like the apple of his eye; and though every one knew that there was nothing in it except old rags, two or three pairs of damaged boots and all sorts of rubbish, yet Mr. Prohartchin prized his property very highly, and they used even to hear him at one time express dissatisfaction with his old, but still sound, lock, and talk of getting a new one of a special German pattern with a secret spring and various complications. When on one occasion Zinovy Prokofyevitch, carried away by the thoughtlessness of youth, gave expression to the very coarse and unseemly idea, that Semyon Ivanovitch was probably hiding and treasuring something in his box to leave to his descendants, every one who happened to be by was stupefied at the extraordinary effects of Zinovy Prokofyevitch's sally. At first Mr. Prohartchin could not find suitable terms for such a crude and coarse idea. For a long time words dropped from his lips quite incoherently, and it was only after a while they made out that Semyon Ivanovitch was reproaching Zinovy Prokofyevitch for some shabby action in the remote past; then they realized that Semyon Ivanovitch was predicting that Zinovy Prokofyevitch would never get into aristocratic society, and that the tailor to whom he owed a bill for his suits would beat him—would certainly beat him— because the puppy had not paid him for so long; and finally, 'You puppy, you,' Semyon Ivanovitch added, 'here you want to get into the hussars, but you won't, I tell you, you'll make a fool of yourself. And I tell you what, you puppy, when your superiors know all about it they will take and make you a copying clerk; so that will be the end of it! Do you hear, puppy?' Then Semyon Ivanovitch subsided, but after lying down for five hours, to the intense astonishment of every one he seemed to have reached a decision, and began suddenly reproaching and abusing the young man again, at first to himself and afterwards addressing Zinovy Prokofyevitch. But the matter did not end there, and in the evening, when Mark Ivanovitch and Prepolovenko made tea and asked Okeanov to drink it with them, Semyon Ivanovitch got up from his bed, purposely joined them, subscribing his fifteen or twenty kopecks, and on the pretext of a sudden desire for a cup of tea began at great length going into the subject, and explaining that he was a poor man, nothing but a poor man, and that a poor man like him had nothing to save. Mr. Prohartchin confessed that he was a poor man on this occasion, he said, simply because the subject had come up; that the day before yesterday he had meant to borrow a rouble from that impudent fellow, but now he should not borrow it for fear the puppy should brag, that that was the fact of the matter, and that his salary was such that one could not buy enough to eat, and that finally, a poor man, as you see, he sent his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles every month, that if he did not send his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles every month his sister-in-law would die, and if his sister-in-law, who was dependent on him, were dead, he, Semyon Ivanovitch, would long ago have bought himself a new suit.... And Semyon Ivanovitch went on talking in this way at great length about being a poor man, about his sister-in-law and about roubles, and kept repeating the same thing over and over again to impress it on his audience till he got into a regular muddle and relapsed into silence. Only three days later, when they had all forgotten about him, and no one was thinking of attacking him, he added something in conclusion to the effect that when Zinovy Prokofyevitch went into the hussars the impudent fellow would have his leg cut off in the war, and then he would come with a wooden leg and say; 'Semyon Ivanovitch, kind friend, give me something to eat!' and then Semyon Ivanovitch would not give him something to eat, and would not look at the insolent fellow; and that's how it would be, and he could just make the best of it. All this naturally seemed very curious and at the same time fearfully amusing. Without much reflection, all the lodgers joined together for further investigation, and simply from curiosity determined to make a final onslaught on Semyon Ivanovitch en masse. And as Mr. Prohartchin, too, had of late—that is, ever since he had begun living in the same flat with them—been very fond of finding out everything about them and asking inquisitive questions, probably for private reasons of his own, relations sprang up between the opposed parties without any preparation or effort on either side, as it were by chance and of itself. To get into relations Semyon Ivanovitch always had in reserve his peculiar, rather sly, and very ingenuous manœuvre, of which the reader has learned something already. He would get off his bed about tea-time, and if he saw the others gathered together in a group to make tea he would go up to them like a quiet, sensible, and friendly person, hand over his twenty kopecks, as he was entitled to do, and announce that he wished to join them. Then the young men would wink at one another, and so indicating that they were in league together against Semyon Ivanovitch, would begin a conversation, at first strictly proper and decorous. Then one of the wittier of the party would, à propos of nothing, fall to telling them news consisting most usually of entirely false and quite incredible details. He would say, for instance, that some one had heard His Excellency that day telling Demid Vassilyevitch that in his opinion married clerks were more trustworthy than unmarried, and more suitable for promotion; for they were steady, and that their capacities were considerably improved by marriage, and that therefore he—that is, the speaker—in order to improve and be better fitted for promotion, was doing his utmost to enter the bonds of matrimony as soon as possible with a certain Fevronya Prokofyevna. Or he would say that it had more than once been remarked about certain of his colleagues that they were entirely devoid of social graces and of well-bred, agreeable manners, and consequently unable to please ladies in good society, and that, therefore, to eradicate this defect it would be suitable to deduct something from their salary, and with the sum so obtained, to hire a hall, where they could learn to dance, acquire the outward signs of gentlemanliness and good-breeding, courtesy, respect for their seniors, strength of will, a good and grateful heart and various agreeable qualities. Or he would say that it was being arranged that some of the clerks, beginning with the most elderly, were to be put through an examination in all sorts of subjects to raise their standard of culture, and in that way, the speaker would add, all sorts of things would come to light, and certain gentlemen would have to lay their cards on the table—in short, thousands of similar very absurd rumours were discussed. To keep it up, every one believed the story at once, showed interest in it, asked questions, applied it to themselves; and some of them, assuming a despondent air, began shaking their heads and asking every one's advice, saying what were they to do if they were to come under it? It need hardly be said that a man far less credulous and simple-hearted than Mr. Prohartchin would have been puzzled and carried away by a rumour so unanimously believed. Moreover, from all appearances, it might be safely concluded that Semyon Ivanovitch was exceedingly stupid and slow to grasp any new unusual idea, and that when he heard anything new, he had always first, as it were, to chew it over and digest it, to find out the meaning, and struggling with it in bewilderment, at last perhaps to overcome it, though even then in a quite special manner peculiar to himself alone.... In this way curious and hitherto unexpected qualities began to show themselves in Semyon Ivanovitch.... Talk and tittle-tattle followed, and by devious ways it all reached the office at last, with additions. What increased the sensation was the fact that Mr. Prohartchin, who had looked almost exactly the same from time immemorial, suddenly, à propos of nothing, wore quite a different countenance. His face was uneasy, his eyes were timid and had a scared and rather suspicious expression. He took to walking softly, starting and listening, and to put the finishing touch to his new characteristics developed a passion for investigating the truth. He carried his love of truth at last to such a pitch as to venture, on two occasions, to inquire of Demid Vassilyevitch himself concerning the credibility of the strange rumours that reached him daily by dozens, and if we say nothing here of the consequence of the action of Semyon Ivanovitch, it is for no other reason but a sensitive regard for his reputation. It was in this way people came to consider him as misanthropic and regardless of the proprieties. Then they began to discover that there was a great deal that was fantastical about him, and in this they were not altogether mistaken, for it was observed on more than one occasion that Semyon Ivanovitch completely forgot himself, and sitting in his seat with his mouth open and his pen in the air, as though frozen or petrified, looked more like the shadow of a rational being than that rational being itself. It sometimes happened that some innocently gaping gentleman, on suddenly catching his straying, lustreless, questioning eyes, was scared and all of a tremor, and at once inserted into some important document either a smudge or some quite inappropriate word. The impropriety of Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour embarrassed and annoyed all really well-bred people.... At last no one could feel any doubt of the eccentricity of Semyon Ivanovitch's mind, when one fine morning the rumour was all over the office that Mr. Prohartchin had actually frightened Demid Vassilyevitch himself, for, meeting him in the corridor, Semyon Ivanovitch had been so strange and peculiar that he had forced his superior to beat a retreat.... The news of Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour reached him himself at last. Hearing of it he got up at once, made his way carefully between the chairs and tables, reached the entry, took down his overcoat with his own hand, put it on, went out, and disappeared for an indefinite period. Whether he was led into this by alarm or some other impulse we cannot say, but no trace was seen of him for a time either at home or at the office.... We will not attribute Semyon Ivanovitch's fate simply to his eccentricity, yet we must observe to the reader that our hero was a very retiring man, unaccustomed to society, and had, until he made the acquaintance of the new lodgers, lived in complete unbroken solitude, and had been marked by his quietness and even a certain mysteriousness; for he had spent all the time that he lodged at Peski lying on his bed behind the screen, without talking or having any sort of relations with any one. Both his old fellow-lodgers lived exactly as he did: they, too were, somehow mysterious people and spent fifteen years lying behind their screens. The happy, drowsy hours and days trailed by, one after the other, in patriarchal stagnation, and as everything around them went its way in the same happy fashion, neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor Ustinya Fyodorovna could remember exactly when fate had brought them together. 'It may be ten years, it may be twenty, it may be even twenty-five altogether,' she would say at times to her new lodgers, 'since he settled with me, poor dear man, bless his heart!' And so it was very natural that the hero of our story, being so unaccustomed to society was disagreeably surprised when, a year before, he, a respectable and modest man, had found himself, suddenly in the midst of a noisy and boisterous crew, consisting of a dozen young fellows, his colleagues at the office, and his new house-mates. The disappearance of Semyon Ivanovitch made no little stir in the lodgings. One thing was that he was the favourite; another, that his passport, which had been in the landlady's keeping, appeared to have been accidentally mislaid. Ustinya Fyodorovna raised a howl, as was her invariable habit on all critical occasions. She spent two days in abusing and upbraiding the lodgers. She wailed that they had chased away her lodger like a chicken, and all those spiteful scoffers had been the ruin of him; and on the third day she sent them all out to hunt for the fugitive and at all costs to bring him back, dead or alive. Towards evening Sudbin first came back with the news that traces had been discovered, that he had himself seen the runaway in Tolkutchy Market and other places, had followed and stood close to him, but had not dared to speak to him; he had been near him in a crowd watching a house on fire in Crooked Lane. Half an hour later Okeanov and Kantarev came in and confirmed Sudbin's story, word for word; they, too, had stood near, had followed him quite close, had stood not more than ten paces from him, but they also had not ventured to speak to him, but both observed that Semyon Ivanovitch was walking with a drunken cadger. The other lodgers were all back and together at last, and after listening attentively they made up their minds that Prohartchin could not be far off and would not be long in returning; but they said that they had all known beforehand that he was about with a drunken cadger. This drunken cadger was a thoroughly bad lot, insolent and cringing, and it seemed evident that he had got round Semyon Ivanovitch in some way. He had turned up just a week before Semyon Ivanovitch's disappearance in company with Remnev, had spent a little time in the flat telling them that he had suffered in the cause of justice, that he had formerly been in the service in the provinces, that an inspector had come down on them, that he and his associates had somehow suffered in a good cause, that he had come to Petersburg and fallen at the feet of Porfiry Grigoryevitch, that he had been got, by interest, into a department; but through the cruel persecution of fate he had been discharged from there too, and that afterwards through reorganization the office itself had ceased to exist, and that he had not been included in the new revised staff of clerks owing as much to direct incapacity for official work as to capacity for something else quite irrelevant—all this mixed up with his passion for justice and of course the trickery of his enemies. After finishing his story, in the course of which Mr. Zimoveykin more than once kissed his sullen and unshaven friend Remnev, he bowed down to all in the room in turn, not forgetting Avdotya the servant, called them all his benefactors, and explained that he was an undeserving, troublesome, mean, insolent and stupid man, and that good people must not be hard on his pitiful plight and simplicity. After begging for their kind protection Mr. Zimoveykin showed his livelier side, grew very cheerful, kissed Ustinya Fyodorovna's hands, in spite of her modest protests that her hand was coarse and not like a lady's; and towards evening promised to show the company his talent in a remarkable character dance. But next day his visit ended in a lamentable dénouement. Either because there had been too much character in the character-dance, or because he had, in Ustinya Fyodorovna's own words, somehow 'insulted her and treated her as no lady, though she was on friendly terms with Yaroslav Ilyitch himself, and if she liked might long ago have been an officer's wife,' Zimoveykin had to steer for home next day. He went away, came back again, was again turned out with ignominy, then wormed his way into Semyon Ivanovitch's good graces, robbed him incidentally of his new breeches, and now it appeared he had led Semyon Ivanovitch astray. As soon as the landlady knew that Semyon Ivanovitch was alive and well, and that there was no need to hunt for his passport, she promptly left off grieving and was pacified. Meanwhile some of the lodgers determined to give the runaway a triumphal reception; they broke the bolt and moved away the screen from Mr. Prohartchin's bed, rumpled up the bed a little, took the famous box, put it at the foot of the bed; and on the bed laid the sister-in-law, that is, a dummy made up of an old kerchief, a cap and a mantle of the landlady's, such an exact counterfeit of a sister-in-law that it might have been mistaken for one. Having finished their work they waited for Semyon Ivanovitch to return, meaning to tell him that his sister-in-law had arrived from the country and was there behind his screen, poor thing! But they waited and waited. Already, while they waited, Mark Ivanovitch had staked and lost half a month's salary to Prepolovenko and Kantarev; already Okeanov's nose had grown red and swollen playing 'flips on the nose' and 'three cards;' already Avdotya the servant had almost had her sleep out and had twice been on the point of getting up to fetch the wood and light the stove, and Zinovy Prokofyevitch, who kept running out every minute to see whether Semyon Ivanovitch were coming, was wet to the skin; but there was no sign of any one yet—neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor the drunken cadger. At last every one went to bed, leaving the sister-in-law behind the screen in readiness for any emergency; and it was not till four o'clock that a knock was heard at the gate, but when it did come it was so loud that it quite made up to the expectant lodgers for all the wearisome trouble they had been through. It was he—he himself—Semyon Ivanovitch, Mr. Prohartchin, but in such a condition that they all cried out in dismay, and no one thought about the sister-in-law. The lost man was unconscious. He was brought in, or more correctly carried in, by a sopping and tattered night-cabman. To the landlady's question where the poor dear man had got so groggy, the cabman answered: 'Why, he is not drunk and has not had a drop, that I can tell you, for sure; but seemingly a faintness has come over him, or some sort of a fit, or maybe he's been knocked down by a blow.' They began examining him, propping the culprit against the stove to do so more conveniently, and saw that it really was not a case of drunkenness, nor had he had a blow, but that something else was wrong, for Semyon Ivanovitch could not utter a word, but seemed twitching in a sort of convulsion, and only blinked, fixing his eyes in bewilderment first on one and then on another of the spectators, who were all attired in night array. Then they began questioning the cabman, asking where he had got him from. 'Why, from folks out Kolomna way,' he answered. 'Deuce knows what they are, not exactly gentry, but merry, rollicking gentlemen; so he was like this when they gave him to me; whether they had been fighting, or whether he was in some sort of a fit, goodness knows what it was; but they were nice, jolly gentlemen!' Semyon Ivanovitch was taken, lifted high on the shoulders of two or three sturdy fellows, and carried to his bed. When Semyon Ivanovitch on being put in bed felt the sister-in-law, and put his feet on his sacred box, he cried out at the top of his voice, squatted up almost on his heels, and trembling and shaking all over, with his hands and his body he cleared a space as far as he could in his bed, while gazing with a tremulous but strangely resolute look at those present, he seemed as it were to protest that he would sooner die than give up the hundredth part of his poor belongings to any one.... Semyon Ivanovitch lay for two or three days closely barricaded by the screen, and so cut off from all the world and all its vain anxieties. Next morning, of course, every one had forgotten about him; time, meanwhile, flew by as usual, hour followed hour and day followed day. The sick man's heavy, feverish brain was plunged in something between sleep and delirium; but he lay quietly and did not moan or complain; on the contrary he kept still and silent and controlled himself, lying low in his bed, just as the hare lies close to the earth when it hears the hunter. At times a long depressing stillness prevailed in the flat, a sign that the lodgers had all gone to the office, and Semyon Ivanovitch, waking up, could relieve his depression by listening to the bustle in the kitchen, where the landlady was busy close by; or to the regular flop of Avdotya's down-trodden slippers as, sighing and moaning, she cleared away, rubbed and polished, tidying all the rooms in the flat. Whole hours passed by in that way, drowsy, languid, sleepy, wearisome, like the water that dripped with a regular sound from the locker into the basin in the kitchen. At last the lodgers would arrive, one by one or in groups, and Semyon Ivanovitch could very conveniently hear them abusing the weather, saying they were hungry, making a noise, smoking, quarrelling, and making friends, playing cards, and clattering the cups as they got ready for tea. Semyon Ivanovitch mechanically made an effort to get up and join them, as he had a right to do at tea; but he at once sank back into drowsiness, and dreamed that he had been sitting a long time at the tea-table, having tea with them and talking, and that Zinovy Prokofyevitch had already seized the opportunity to introduce into the conversation some scheme concerning sisters-in-law and the moral relation of various worthy people to them. At this point Semyon Ivanovitch was in haste to defend himself and reply. But the mighty formula that flew from every tongue—'It has more than once been observed'—cut short all his objections, and Semyon Ivanovitch could do nothing better than begin dreaming again that to-day was the first of the month and that he was receiving money in his office. Undoing the paper round it on the stairs, he looked about him quickly, and made haste as fast as he could to subtract half of the lawful wages he had received and conceal it in his boot. Then on the spot, on the stairs, quite regardless of the fact that he was in bed and asleep, he made up his mind when he reached home to give his landlady what was due for board and lodging; then to buy certain necessities, and to show any one it might concern, as it were casually and unintentionally, that some of his salary had been deducted, that now he had nothing left to send his sister-in-law; then to speak with commiseration of his sister-in-law, to say a great deal about her the next day and the day after, and ten days later to say something casually again about her poverty, that his companions might not forget. Making this determination he observed that Andrey Efimovitch, that everlastingly silent, bald little man who sat in the office three rooms from where Semyon Ivanovitch sat, and hadn't said a word to him for twenty years, was standing on the stairs, that he, too, was counting his silver roubles, and shaking his head, he said to him: 'Money!' 'If there's no money there will be no porridge,' he added grimly as he went down the stairs, and just at the door he ended: 'And I have seven children, sir.' Then the little bald man, probably equally unconscious that he was acting as a phantom and not as a substantial reality, held up his hand about thirty inches from the floor, and waving it vertically, muttered that the eldest was going to school, then glancing with indignation at Semyon Ivanovitch, as though it were Mr. Prohartchin's fault that he was the father of seven, pulled his old hat down over his eyes, and with a whisk of his overcoat he turned to the left and disappeared. Semyon Ivanovitch was quite frightened, and though he was fully convinced of his own innocence in regard to the unpleasant accumulation of seven under one roof, yet it seemed to appear that in fact no one else was to blame but Semyon Ivanovitch. Panicstricken he set off running, for it seemed to him that the bald gentleman had turned back, was running after him, and meant to search him and take away all his salary, insisting upon the indisputable number seven, and resolutely denying any possible claim of any sort of sisters-in-law upon Semyon Ivanovitch. Prohartchin ran and ran, gasping for breath.... Beside him was running, too, an immense number of people, and all of them were jingling their money in the tailpockets of their skimpy little dress-coats; at last every one ran up, there was the noise of fire engines, and whole masses of people carried him almost on their shoulders up to that same house on fire which he had watched last time in company with the drunken cadger. The drunken cadger—alias Mr. Zimoveykin —was there now, too, he met Semyon Ivanovitch, made a fearful fuss, took him by the arm, and led him into the thickest part of the crowd. Just as then in reality, all about them was the noise and uproar of an immense crowd of people, flooding the whole of Fontanka Embankment between the two bridges, as well as all the surrounding streets and alleys; just as then, Semyon Ivanovitch, in company with the drunken cadger, was carried along behind a fence, where they were squeezed as though in pincers in a huge timber-yard full of spectators who had gathered from the street, from Tolkutchy Market and from all the surrounding houses, taverns, and restaurants. Semyon Ivanovitch saw all this and felt as he had done at the time; in the whirl of fever and delirium all sorts of strange figures began flitting before him. He remembered some of them. One of them was a gentleman who had impressed every one extremely, a man seven feet high, with whiskers half a yard long, who had been standing behind Semyon Ivanovitch's back during the fire, and had given him encouragement from behind, when our hero had felt something like ecstasy and had stamped as though intending thereby to applaud the gallant work of the firemen, from which he had an excellent view from his elevated position. Another was the sturdy lad from whom our hero had received a shove by way of a lift on to another fence, when he had been disposed to climb over it, possibly to save some one. He had a glimpse, too, of the figure of the old man with a sickly face, in an old wadded dressing-gown, tied round the waist, who had made his appearance before the fire in a little shop buying sugar and tobacco for his lodger, and who now, with a milk-can and a quart pot in his hands, made his way through the crowd to the house in which his wife and daughter were burning together with thirteen and a half roubles in the corner under the bed. But most distinct of all was the poor, sinful woman of whom he had dreamed more than once during his illness—she stood before him now as she had done then, in wretched bark shoes and rags, with a crutch and a wicker-basket on her back. She was shouting more loudly than the firemen or the crowd, waving her crutch and her arms, saying that her own children had turned her out and that she had lost two coppers in consequence. The children and the coppers, the coppers and the children, were mingled together in an utterly incomprehensible muddle, from which every one withdrew baffled, after vain efforts to understand. But the woman would not desist, she kept wailing, shouting, and waving her arms, seeming to pay no attention either to the fire up to which she had been carried by the crowd from the street or to the people about her, or to the misfortune of strangers, or even to the sparks and red-hot embers which were beginning to fall in showers on the crowd standing near. At last Mr. Prohartchin felt that a feeling of terror was coming upon him; for he saw clearly that all this was not, so to say, an accident, and that he would not get off scot-free. And, indeed, upon the woodstack, close to him, was a peasant, in a torn smock that hung loose about him, with his hair and beard singed, and he began stirring up all the people against Semyon Ivanovitch. The crowd pressed closer and closer, the peasant shouted, and foaming at the mouth with horror, Mr. Prohartchin suddenly realized that this peasant was a cabman whom he had cheated five years before in the most inhuman way, slipping away from him without paying through a side gate and jerking up his heels as he ran as though he were barefoot on hot bricks. In despair Mr. Prohartchin tried to speak, to scream, but his voice failed him. He felt that the infuriated crowd was twining round him like a many-coloured snake, strangling him, crushing him. He made an incredible effort and awoke. Then he saw that he was on fire, that all his corner was on fire, that his screen was on fire, that the whole flat was on fire, together with Ustinya Fyodorovna and all her lodgers, that his bed was burning, his pillow, his quilt, his box, and last of all, his precious mattress. Semyon Ivanovitch jumped up, clutched at the mattress and ran dragging it after him. But in the landlady's room into which, regardless of decorum, our hero ran just as he was, barefoot and in his shirt, he was seized, held tight, and triumphantly carried back behind the screen, which meanwhile was not on fire—it seemed that it was rather Semyon Ivanovitch's head that was on fire—and was put back to bed. It was just as some tattered, unshaven, illhumoured organ-grinder puts away in his travelling box the Punch who has been making an upset, drubbing all the other puppets, selling his soul to the devil, and who at last ends his existence, till the next performance, in the same box with the devil, the negroes, the Pierrot, and Mademoiselle Katerina with her fortunate lover, the captain. Immediately every one, old and young, surrounded Semyon Ivanovitch, standing in a row round his bed and fastening eyes full of expectation on the invalid. Meantime he had come to himself, but from shame or some other feeling, began pulling up the quilt over him, apparently wishing to hide himself under it from the attention of his sympathetic friends. At last Mark Ivanovitch was the first to break silence, and as a sensible man he began saying in a very friendly way that Semyon Ivanovitch must keep calm, that it was too bad and a shame to be ill, that only little children behaved like that, that he must get well and go to the office. Mark Ivanovitch ended by a little joke, saying that no regular salary had yet been fixed for invalids, and as he knew for a fact that their grade would be very low in the service, to his thinking anyway, their calling or condition did not promise great and substantial advantages. In fact, it was evident that they were all taking genuine interest in Semyon Ivanovitch's fate and were very sympathetic. But with incomprehensible rudeness, Semyon Ivanovitch persisted in lying in bed in silence, and obstinately pulling the quilt higher and higher over his head. Mark Ivanovitch, however, would not be gainsaid, and restraining his feelings, said something very honeyed to Semyon Ivanovitch again, knowing that that was how he ought to treat a sick man. But Semyon Ivanovitch would not feel this: on the contrary he muttered something between his teeth with the most distrustful air, and suddenly began glancing askance from right to left in a hostile way, as though he would have reduced his sympathetic friends to ashes with his eyes. It was no use letting it stop there. Mark Ivanovitch lost patience, and seeing that the man was offended and completely exasperated, and had simply made up his mind to be obstinate, told him straight out, without any softening suavity, that it was time to get up, that it was no use lying there, that shouting day and night about houses on fire, sisters-in-law, drunken cadgers, locks, boxes and goodness knows what, was all stupid, improper, and degrading, for if Semyon Ivanovitch did not want to sleep himself he should not hinder other people, and please would he bear it in mind. This speech produced its effects, for Semyon Ivanovitch, turning promptly to the orator, articulated firmly, though in a hoarse voice, 'You hold your tongue, puppy! You idle speaker, you foul-mouthed man! Do you hear, young dandy? Are you a prince, eh? Do you understand what I say?' Hearing such insults, Mark Ivanovitch fired up, but realizing that he had to deal with a sick man, magnanimously overcame his resentment and tried to shame him out of his humour, but was cut short in that too; for Semyon Ivanovitch observed at once that he would not allow people to play with him for all that Mark Ivanovitch wrote poetry. Then followed a silence of two minutes; at last recovering from his amazement Mark Ivanovitch, plainly, clearly, in well-chosen language, but with firmness, declared that Semyon Ivanovitch ought to understand that he was among gentlemen, and 'you ought to understand, sir, how to behave with gentlemen.' Mark Ivanovitch could on occasion speak effectively and liked to impress his hearers, but, probably from the habit of years of silence, Semyon Ivanovitch talked and acted somewhat abruptly; and, moreover, when he did on occasion begin a long sentence, as he got further into it every word seemed to lead to another word, that other word to a third word, that third to a fourth and so on, so that his mouth seemed brimming over; he began stuttering, and the crowding words took to flying out in picturesque disorder. That was why Semyon Ivanovitch, who was a sensible man, sometimes talked terrible nonsense. 'You are lying,' he said now. 'You booby, you loose fellow! You'll come to want— you'll go begging, you seditious fellow, you—you loafer. Take that, you poet!' 'Why, you are still raving, aren't you, Semyon Ivanovitch?' 'I tell you what,' answered Semyon Ivanovitch, 'fools rave, drunkards rave, dogs rave, but a wise man acts sensibly. I tell you, you don't know your own business, you loafer, you educated gentleman, you learned book! Here, you'll get on fire and not notice your head's burning off. What do you think of that?' 'Why ... you mean.... How do you mean, burn my head off, Semyon Ivanovitch?' Mark Ivanovitch said no more, for every one saw clearly that Semyon Ivanovitch was not yet in his sober senses, but delirious. But the landlady could not resist remarking at this point that the house in Crooked Lane had been burnt owing to a bald wench; that there was a bald- headed wench living there, that she had lighted a candle and set fire to the lumber room; but nothing would happen in her place, and everything would be all right in the flats. 'But look here, Semyon Ivanovitch,' cried Zinovy Prokofyevitch, losing patience and interrupting the landlady, 'you old fogey, you old crock, you silly fellow—are they making jokes with you now about your sister-in-law or examinations in dancing? Is that it? Is that what you think?' 'Now, I tell you what,' answered our hero, sitting up in bed and making a last effort in a paroxysm of fury with his sympathetic friends. 'Who's the fool? You are the fool, a dog is a fool, you joking gentleman. But I am not going to make jokes to please you, sir; do you hear, puppy? I am not your servant, sir.' Semyon Ivanovitch would have said something more, but he fell back in bed helpless. His sympathetic friends were left gaping in perplexity, for they understood now what was wrong with Semyon Ivanovitch and did not know how to begin. Suddenly the kitchen door creaked and opened, and the drunken cadger —alias Mr. Zimoveykin—timidly thrust in his head, cautiously sniffing round the place as his habit was. It seemed as though he had been expected, every one waved to him at once to come quickly, and Zimoveykin, highly delighted, with the utmost readiness and haste jostled his way to Semyon Ivanovitch's bedside. It was evident that Zimoveykin had spent the whole night in vigil and in great exertions of some sort. The right side of his face was plastered up; his swollen eyelids were wet from his running eyes, his coat and all his clothes were torn, while the whole left side of his attire was bespattered with something extremely nasty, possibly mud from a puddle. Under his arm was somebody's violin, which he had been taking somewhere to sell. Apparently they had not made a mistake in summoning him to their assistance, for seeing the position of affairs, he addressed the delinquent at once, and with the air of a man who knows what he is about and feels that he has the upper hand, said: 'What are you thinking about? Get up, Senka. What are you doing, a clever chap like you? Be sensible, or I shall pull you out of bed if you are obstreperous. Don't be obstreperous!' This brief but forcible speech surprised them all; still more were they surprised when they noticed that Semyon Ivanovitch, hearing all this and seeing this person before him, was so flustered and reduced to such confusion and dismay that he could scarcely mutter through his teeth in a whisper the inevitable protest. 'Go away, you wretch,' he said. 'You are a wretched creature—you are a thief! Do you hear? Do you understand? You are a great swell, my fine gentleman, you regular swell.' 'No, my boy,' Zimoveykin answered emphatically, retaining all his presence of mind, 'you're wrong there, you wise fellow, you regular Prohartchin,' Zimoveykin went on, parodying Semyon Ivanovitch and looking round gleefully. 'Don't be obstreperous! Behave yourself, Senka, behave yourself, or I'll give you away, I'll tell them all about it, my lad, do you understand?' Apparently Semyon Ivanovitch did understand, for he started when he heard the conclusion of the speech, and began looking rapidly about him with an utterly desperate air. Satisfied with the effect, Mr. Zimoveykin would have continued, but Mark Ivanovitch checked his zeal, and waiting till Semyon Ivanovitch was still and almost calm again began judiciously impressing on the uneasy invalid at great length that, 'to harbour ideas such as he now had in his head was, first, useless, and secondly, not only useless, but harmful; and, in fact, not so much harmful as positively immoral; and the cause of it all was that Semyon Ivanovitch was not only a bad example, but led them all into temptation.' Every one expected satisfactory results from this speech. Moreover by now Semyon Ivanovitch was quite quiet and replied in measured terms. A quiet discussion followed. They appealed to him in a friendly way, inquiring what he was so frightened of. Semyon Ivanovitch answered, but his answers were irrelevant. They answered him, he answered them. There were one or two more observations on both sides and then every one rushed into discussion, for suddenly such a strange and amazing subject cropped up, that they did not know how to express themselves. The argument at last led to impatience, impatience led to shouting, and shouting even to tears; and Mark Ivanovitch went away at last foaming at the mouth and declaring that he had never known such a blockhead. Oplevaniev spat in disgust, Okeanov was frightened, Zinovy Prokofyevitch became tearful, while Ustinya Fyodorovna positively howled, wailing that her lodger was leaving them and had gone off his head, that he would die, poor dear man, without a passport and without telling any one, while she was a lone, lorn woman and that she would be dragged from pillar to post. In fact, they all saw clearly at last that the seed they had sown had yielded a hundred-fold, that the soil had been too productive, and that in their company, Semyon Ivanovitch had succeeded in overstraining his wits completely and in the most irrevocable manner. Every one subsided into silence, for though they saw that Semyon Ivanovitch was frightened, the sympathetic friends were frightened too. 'What?' cried Mark Ivanovitch; 'but what are you afraid of? What have you gone off your head about? Who's thinking about you, my good sir? Have you the right to be afraid? Who are you? What are you? Nothing, sir. A round nought, sir, that is what you are. What are you making a fuss about? A woman has been run over in the street, so are you going to be run over? Some drunkard did not take care of his pocket, but is that any reason why your coat-tails should be cut off? A house is burnt down, so your head is to be burnt off, is it? Is that it, sir, is that it?' 'You ... you ... you stupid!' muttered Semyon Ivanovitch, 'if your nose were cut off you would eat it up with a bit of bread and not notice it.' 'I may be a dandy,' shouted Mark Ivanovitch, not listening; 'I may be a regular dandy, but I have not to pass an examination to get married—to learn dancing; the ground is firm under me, sir. Why, my good man, haven't you room enough? Is the floor giving way under your feet, or what?' 'Well, they won't ask you, will they? They'll shut one up and that will be the end of it?' 'The end of it? That's what's up? What's your idea now, eh?' 'Why, they kicked out the drunken cadger.' 'Yes; but you see that was a drunkard, and you are a man, and so am I.' 'Yes, I am a man. It's there all right one day and then it's gone.' 'Gone! But what do you mean by it?' 'Why, the office! The off—off—ice!' 'Yes, you blessed man, but of course the office is wanted and necessary.' 'It is wanted, I tell you; it's wanted to-day and it's wanted to-morrow, but the day after to-morrow it will not be wanted. You have heard what happened?' 'Why, but they'll pay you your salary for the year, you doubting Thomas, you man of little faith. They'll put you into another job on account of your age.' 'Salary? But what if I have spent my salary, if thieves come and take my money? And I have a sister-in-law, do you hear? A sister-in-law! You battering-ram....' 'A sister-in-law! You are a man....' 'Yes, I am; I am a man. But you are a well-read gentleman and a fool, do you hear?—you battering-ram—you regular battering-ram! That's what you are! I am not talking about your jokes; but there are jobs such that all of a sudden they are done away with. And Demid—do you hear?—Demid Vassilyevitch says that the post will be done away with....' 'Ah, bless you, with your Demid! You sinner, why, you know....' 'In a twinkling of an eye you'll be left without a post, then you'll just have to make the best of it.' 'Why, you are simply raving, or clean off your head! Tell us plainly, what have you done? Own up if you have done something wrong! It's no use being ashamed! Are you off your head, my good man, eh?' 'He's off his head! He's gone off his head!' they all cried, and wrung their hands in despair, while the landlady threw both her arms round Mark Ivanovitch for fear he should tear Semyon Ivanovitch to pieces. 'You heathen, you heathenish soul, you wise man!' Zimoveykin besought him. 'Senka, you are not a man to take offence, you are a polite, prepossessing man. You are simple, you are good ... do you hear? It all comes from your goodness. Here I am a ruffian and a fool, I am a beggar; but good people haven't abandoned me, no fear; you see they treat me with respect, I thank them and the landlady. Here, you see, I bow down to the ground to them; here, see, see, I am paying what is due to you, landlady!' At this point Zimoveykin swung off with pedantic dignity a low bow right down to the ground. After that Semyon Ivanovitch would have gone on talking; but this time they would not let him, they all intervened, began entreating him, assuring him, comforting him, and succeeded in making Semyon Ivanovitch thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last, in a faint voice, he asked leave to explain himself. 'Very well, then,' he said, 'I am prepossessing, I am quiet, I am good, faithful and devoted; to the last drop of my blood you know ... do you hear, you puppy, you swell? ... granted the job is going on, but you see I am poor. And what if they take it? do you hear, you swell? Hold your tongue and try to understand! They'll take it and that's all about it ... it's going on, brother, and then not going on ... do you understand? And I shall go begging my bread, do you hear?' 'Senka,' Zimoveykin bawled frantically, drowning the general hubbub with his voice. 'You are seditious! I'll inform against you! What are you saying? Who are you? Are you a rebel, you sheep's head? A rowdy, stupid man they would turn off without a character. But what are you?' 'Well, that's just it.' 'What?' 'Well, there it is.' 'How do you mean?' 'Why, I am free, he's free, and here one lies and thinks....' 'What?' 'What if they say I'm seditious?' 'Se—di—tious? Senka, you seditious!' 'Stay,' cried Mr. Prohartchin, waving his hand and interrupting the rising uproar, 'that's not what I mean. Try to understand, only try to understand, you sheep. I am law-abiding. I am law-abiding to-day, I am law-abiding to-morrow, and then all of a sudden they kick me out and call me seditious.' 'What are you saying?' Mark Ivanovitch thundered at last, jumping up from the chair on which he had sat down to rest, running up to the bed and in a frenzy shaking with vexation and fury. 'What do you mean? You sheep! You've nothing to call your own. Why, are you the only person in the world? Was the world made for you, do you suppose? Are you a Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Tell me, are you a Napoleon?' But Mr. Prohartchin did not answer this question. Not because he was overcome with shame at being a Napoleon, and was afraid of taking upon himself such a responsibility—no, he was incapable of disputing further, or saying anything.... His illness had reached a crisis. Tiny teardrops gushed suddenly from his glittering, feverish, grey eyes. He hid his burning head in his bony hands that were wasted by illness, sat up in bed, and sobbing, began to say that he was quite poor, that he was a simple, unlucky man, that he was foolish and unlearned, he begged kind folks to forgive him, to take care of him, to protect him, to give him food and drink, not to leave him in want, and goodness knows what else Semyon Ivanovitch said. As he uttered this appeal he looked about him in wild terror, as though he were expecting the ceiling to fall or the floor to give way. Every one felt his heart soften and move to pity as he looked at the poor fellow. The landlady, sobbing and wailing like a peasant woman at her forlorn condition, laid the invalid back in bed with her own hands. Mark Ivanovitch, seeing the uselessness of touching upon the memory of Napoleon, instantly relapsed into kindliness and came to her assistance. The others, in order to do something, suggested raspberry tea, saying that it always did good at once and that the invalid would like it very much; but Zimoveykin contradicted them all, saying there was nothing better than a good dose of camomile or something of the sort. As for Zinovy Prokofyevitch, having a good heart, he sobbed and shed tears in his remorse, for having frightened Semyon Ivanovitch with all sorts of absurdities, and gathering from the invalid's last words that he was quite poor and needing assistance, he proceeded to get up a subscription for him, confining it for a time to the tenants of the flat. Every one was sighing and moaning, every one felt sorry and grieved, and yet all wondered how it was a man could be so completely panic-stricken. And what was he frightened about? It would have been all very well if he had had a good post, had had a wife, a lot of children; it would have been excusable if he were being hauled up before the court on some charge or other; but he was a man utterly insignificant, with nothing but a trunk and a German lock; he had been lying more than twenty years behind his screen, saying nothing, knowing nothing of the world nor of trouble, saving his halfpence, and now at a frivolous, idle word the man had actually gone off his head, was utterly panic-stricken at the thought he might have a hard time of it.... And it never occurred to him that every one has a hard time of it! 'If he would only take that into consideration,' Okeanov said afterwards, 'that we all have a hard time, then the man would have kept his head, would have given up his antics and would have put up with things, one way or another.' All day long nothing was talked of but Semyon Ivanovitch. They went up to him, inquired after him, tried to comfort him; but by the evening he was beyond that. The poor fellow began to be delirious, feverish. He sank into unconsciousness, so that they almost thought of sending for a doctor; the lodgers all agreed together and undertook to watch over Semyon Ivanovitch and soothe him by turns through the night, and if anything happened to wake all the rest immediately. With the object of keeping awake, they sat down to cards, setting beside the invalid his friend, the drunken cadger, who had spent the whole day in the flat and had asked leave to stay the night. As the game was played on credit and was not at all interesting they soon got bored. They gave up the game, then got into an argument about something, then began to be loud and noisy, finally dispersed to their various corners, went on for a long time angrily shouting and wrangling, and as all of them felt suddenly ill-humoured they no longer cared to sit up, so went to sleep. Soon it was as still in the flat as in an empty cellar, and it was the more like one because it was horribly cold. The last to fall asleep was Okeanov. 'And it was between sleeping and waking,' as he said afterwards, 'I fancied just before morning two men kept talking close by me.' Okeanov said that he recognized Zimoveykin, and that Zimoveykin began waking his old friend Remnev just beside him, that they talked for a long time in a whisper; then Zimoveykin went away and could be heard trying to unlock the door into the kitchen. The key, the landlady declared afterwards, was lying under her pillow and was lost that night. Finally—Okeanov testified—he had fancied he had heard them go behind the screen to the invalid and light a candle there, 'and I know nothing more,' he said, 'I fell asleep, and woke up,' as everybody else did, when every one in the flat jumped out of bed at the sound behind the screen of a shriek that would have roused the dead, and it seemed to many of them that a candle went out at that moment. A great hubbub arose, every one's heart stood still; they rushed pell-mell at the shriek, but at that moment there was a scuffle, with shouting, swearing, and fighting. They struck a light and saw that Zimoveykin and Remnev were fighting together, that they were swearing and abusing one another, and as they turned the light on them, one of them shouted: 'It's not me, it's this ruffian,' and the other who was Zimoveykin, was shouting: 'Don't touch me, I've done nothing! I'll take my oath any minute!' Both of them looked hardly like human beings; but for the first minute they had no attention to spare for them; the invalid was not where he had been behind the screen. They immediately parted the combatants and dragged them away, and saw that Mr. Prohartchin was lying under the bed; he must, while completely unconscious, have dragged the quilt and pillow after him so that there was nothing left on the bedstead but the bare mattress, old and greasy (he never had sheets). They pulled Semyon Ivanovitch out, stretched him on the mattress, but soon realized that there was no need to make trouble over him, that he was completely done for; his arms were stiff, and he seemed all to pieces. They stood over him, he still faintly shuddered and trembled all over, made an effort to do something with his arms, could not utter a word, but blinked his eyes as they say heads do when still warm and bleeding, after being just chopped off by the executioner. At last the body grew more and more still; the last faint convulsions died away. Mr. Prohartchin had set off with his good deeds and his sins. Whether Semyon Ivanovitch had been frightened by something, whether he had had a dream, as Remnev maintained afterwards, or there had been some other mischief—nobody knew; all that can be said is, that if the head clerk had made his appearance at that moment in the flat and had announced that Semyon Ivanovitch was dismissed for sedition, insubordination, and drunkenness; if some old draggletailed beggar woman had come in at the door, calling herself Semyon Ivanovitch's sister-in-law; or if Semyon Ivanovitch had just received two hundred roubles as a reward; or if the house had caught fire and Semyon Ivanovitch's head had been really burning—he would in all probability not have deigned to stir a finger in any of these eventualities. While the first stupefaction was passing over, while all present were regaining their powers of speech, were working themselves up into a fever of excitement, shouting and flying to conjectures and suppositions; while Ustinya Fyodorovna was pulling the box from under his bed, was rummaging in a fluster under the mattress and even in Semyon Ivanovitch's boots; while they cross-questioned Remnev and Zimoveykin, Okeanov, who had hitherto been the quietest, humblest, and least original of the lodgers, suddenly plucked up all his presence of mind and displayed all his latent talents, by taking up his hat and under cover of the general uproar slipping out of the flat. And just when the horrors of disorder and anarchy had reached their height in the agitated flat, till then so tranquil, the door opened and suddenly there descended upon them, like snow upon their heads, a personage of gentlemanly appearance, with a severe and displeased-looking face, behind him Yaroslav Ilyitch, behind Yaroslav Ilyitch his subordinates and the functionaries whose duty it is to be present on such occasions, and behind them all, much embarrassed, Mr. Okeanov. The severe-looking personage of gentlemanly appearance went straight up to Semyon Ivanovitch, examined him, made a wry face, shrugged his shoulders and announced what everybody knew, that is, that the dead man was dead, only adding that the same thing had happened a day or two ago to a gentleman of consequence, highly respected, who had died suddenly in his sleep. Then the personage of gentlemanly, but displeased-looking, appearance walked away saying that they had troubled him for nothing, and took himself off. His place was at once filled (while Remnev and Zimoveykin were handed over to the custody of the proper functionaries), by Yaroslav Ilyitch, who questioned some one, adroitly took possession of the box, which the landlady was already trying to open, put the boots back in their proper place, observing that they were all in holes and no use, asked for the pillow to be put back, called up Okeanov, asked for the key of the box which was found in the pocket of the drunken cadger, and solemnly, in the presence of the proper officials, unlocked Semyon Ivanovitch's property. Everything was displayed: two rags, a pair of socks, half a handkerchief, an old hat, several buttons, some old soles, and the uppers of a pair of boots, that is, all sorts of odds and ends, scraps, rubbish, trash, which had a stale smell. The only thing of any value was the German lock. They called up Okeanov and cross-questioned him sternly; but Okeanov was ready to take his oath. They asked for the pillow, they examined it; it was extremely dirty, but in other respects it was like all other pillows. They attacked the mattress, they were about to lift it up, but stopped for a moment's consideration, when suddenly and quite unexpectedly something heavy fell with a clink on the floor. They bent down and saw on the floor a screw of paper and in the screw some dozen roubles. 'A-hey!' said Yaroslav Ilyitch, pointing to a slit in the mattress from which hair and stuffing were sticking out. They examined the slit and found that it had only just been made with a knife and was half a yard in length; they thrust hands into the gap and pulled out a kitchen knife, probably hurriedly thrust in there after slitting the mattress. Before Yaroslav Ilyitch had time to pull the knife out of the slit and to say 'A-hey!' again, another screw of money fell out, and after it, one at a time, two half roubles, a quarter rouble, then some small change, and an old-fashioned, solid five-kopeck piece—all this was seized upon. At this point it was realized that it would not be amiss to cut up the whole mattress with scissors. They asked for scissors. Meanwhile, the guttering candle lighted up a scene that would have been extremely curious to a spectator. About a dozen lodgers were grouped round the bed in the most picturesque costumes, all unbrushed, unshaven, unwashed, sleepy-looking, just as they had gone to bed. Some were quite pale, while others had drops of sweat upon their brows: some were shuddering, while others looked feverish. The landlady, utterly stupefied, was standing quietly with her hands folded waiting for Yaroslav Ilyitch's good pleasure. From the stove above, the heads of Avdotya, the servant, and the landlady's favourite cat looked down with frightened curiosity. The torn and broken screen lay cast on the floor, the open box displayed its uninviting contents, the quilt and pillow lay tossed at random, covered with fluff from the mattress, and on the three-legged wooden table gleamed the steadily growing heap of silver and other coins. Only Semyon Ivanovitch preserved his composure, lying calmly on the bed and seeming to have no foreboding of his ruin. When the scissors had been brought and Yaroslav Ilyitch's assistant, wishing to be of service, shook the mattress rather impatiently to ease it from under the back of its owner, Semyon Ivanovitch with his habitual civility made room a little, rolling on his side with his back to the searchers; then at a second shake he turned on his face, finally gave way still further, and as the last slat in the bedstead was missing, he suddenly and quite unexpectedly plunged head downward, leaving in view only two bony, thin, blue legs, which stuck upwards like two branches of a charred tree. As this was the second time that morning that Mr. Prohartchin had poked his head under his bed it at once aroused suspicion, and some of the lodgers, headed by Zinovy Prokofyevitch, crept under it, with the intention of seeing whether there were something hidden there too. But they knocked their heads together for nothing, and as Yaroslav Ilyitch shouted to them, bidding them release Semyon Ivanovitch at once from his unpleasant position, two of the more sensible seized each a leg, dragged the unsuspected capitalist into the light of day and laid him across the bed. Meanwhile the hair and flock were flying about, the heap of silver grew—and, my goodness, what a lot there was!... Noble silver roubles, stout solid rouble and a half pieces, pretty half rouble coins, plebeian quarter roubles, twenty kopeck pieces, even the unpromising old crone's small fry of ten and five kopeck silver pieces—all done up in separate bits of paper in the most methodical and systematic way; there were curiosities also, two counters of some sort, one napoléon d'or, one very rare coin of some unknown kind.... Some of the roubles were of the greatest antiquity, they were rubbed and hacked coins of Elizabeth, German kreutzers, coins of Peter, of Catherine; there were, for instance, old fifteen-kopeck pieces, now very rare, pierced for wearing as earrings, all much worn, yet with the requisite number of dots ... there was even copper, but all of that was green and tarnished.... They found one red note, but no more. At last, when the dissection was quite over and the mattress case had been shaken more than once without a clink, they piled all the money on the table and set to work to count it. At the first glance one might well have been deceived and have estimated it at a million, it was such an immense heap. But it was not a million, though it did turn out to be a very considerable sum—exactly 2497 roubles and a half—so that if Zinovy Prokofyevitch's subscription had been raised the day before there would perhaps have been just 2500 roubles. They took the money, they put a seal on the dead man's box, they listened to the landlady's complaints, and informed her when and where she ought to lodge information in regard to the dead man's little debt to her. A receipt was taken from the proper person. At that point hints were dropped in regard to the sister-in-law; but being persuaded that in a certain sense the sister-in-law was a myth, that is, a product of the defective imagination with which they had more than once reproached Semyon Ivanovitch—they abandoned the idea as useless, mischievous and disadvantageous to the good name of Mr. Prohartchin, and so the matter ended. When the first shock was over, when the lodgers had recovered themselves and realized the sort of person their late companion had been, they all subsided, relapsed into silence and began looking distrustfully at one another. Some seemed to take Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour very much to heart, and even to feel affronted by it. What a fortune! So the man had saved up like this! Not losing his composure, Mark Ivanovitch proceeded to explain why Semyon Ivanovitch had been so suddenly panic-stricken; but they did not listen to him. Zinovy Prokofyevitch was very thoughtful, Okeanov had had a little to drink, the others seemed rather crestfallen, while a little man called Kantarev, with a nose like a sparrow's beak, left the flat that evening after very carefully packing up and cording all his boxes and bags, and coldly explaining to the curious that times were hard and that the terms here were beyond his means. The landlady wailed without ceasing, lamenting for Semyon Ivanovitch, and cursing him for having taken advantage of her lone, lorn state. Mark Ivanovitch was asked why the dead man had not taken his money to the bank. 'He was too simple, my good soul, he hadn't enough imagination,' answered Mark Ivanovitch. 'Yes, and you have been too simple, too, my good woman,' Okeanov put in. 'For twenty years the man kept himself close here in your flat, and here he's been knocked down by a feather—while you went on cooking cabbage-soup and had no time to notice it.... Ah-ah, my good woman!' 'Oh, the poor dear,' the landlady went on, 'what need of a bank! If he'd brought me his pile and said to me: 'Take it, Ustinyushka, poor dear, here is all I have, keep and board me in my helplessness, so long as I am on earth,' then, by the holy ikon I would have fed him, I would have given him drink, I would have looked after him. Ah, the sinner! ah, the deceiver! He deceived me, he cheated me, a poor lone woman!' They went up to the bed again. Semyon Ivanovitch was lying properly now, dressed in his best, though, indeed, it was his only suit, hiding his rigid chin behind a cravat which was tied rather awkwardly, washed, brushed, but not quite shaven, because there was no razor in the flat; the only one, which had belonged to Zinovy Prokofyevitch, had lost its edge a year ago and had been very profitably sold at Tolkutchy Market; the others used to go to the barber's. They had not yet had time to clear up the disorder. The broken screen lay as before, and exposing Semyon Ivanovitch's seclusion, seemed like an emblem of the fact that death tears away the veil from all our secrets, our shifty dodges and intrigues. The stuffing from the mattress lay about in heaps. The whole room, suddenly so still, might well have been compared by a poet to the ruined nest of a swallow, broken down and torn to pieces by the storm, the nestlings and their mother killed, and their warm little bed of fluff, feather and flock scattered about them.... Semyon Ivanovitch, however, looked more like a conceited, thievish old cock-sparrow. He kept quite quiet now, seemed to be lying low, as though he were not guilty, as though he had had nothing to do with the shameless, conscienceless, and unseemly duping and deception of all these good people. He did not heed now the sobs and wailing of his bereaved and wounded landlady. On the contrary, like a wary, callous capitalist, anxious not to waste a minute in idleness even in the coffin, he seemed to be wrapped up in some speculative calculation. There was a look of deep reflection in his face, while his lips were drawn together with a significant air, of which Semyon Ivanovitch during his lifetime had not been suspected of being capable. He seemed, as it were, to have grown shrewder, his right eye was, as it were, slyly screwed up. Semyon Ivanovitch seemed wanting to say something, to make some very important communication and explanation and without loss of time, because things were complicated and there was not a minute to lose.... And it seemed as though they could hear him. 'What is it? Give over, do you hear, you stupid woman? Don't whine! Go to bed and sleep it off, my good woman, do you hear? I am dead; there's no need of a fuss now. What's the use of it, really? It's nice to lie here.... Though I don't mean that, do you hear? You are a fine lady, you are a regular fine lady. Understand that; here I am dead now, but look here, what if—that is, perhaps it can't be so— but I say what if I'm not dead, what if I get up, do you hear? What would happen then?'